Hey, it's a new chapter! Things are moving along in more than one arena.

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.

- o – o -

Chapter four: Buy Yourself Another Day

Orwell paced around her office, chewing on a pencil as she studied the latest print-outs from the ARK police database. As usual, there was a white door hanging out in the corner of her eye. The hacker ignored it in favor of the print-outs and a brewing pot of coffee. If Vince was coming over, she'd need to make more. A lot more.

Maybe, she mused, there was some justification for buying one of the twenty-gallon coffee brewers she'd seen in Vince's favorite diner. Between the two of them, they could drink nearly fifteen pots of coffee. All-night vigilante work and blogging (or hacking) lent itself to some serious caffeine addictions.

She sighed, flopping down on the beaten up blue sofa shoved against one wall. The massive screen in front of her was showing another press conference, hosted by her beloved father. Orwell half-wondered if Anarchy's drinking game—the one that had apparently led to him getting his stomach pumped—had some merit. It might make the smarm worth it…

"Orwell?"

The blogger looked up from the read-out she was perusing. Vince had finally arrived. "Upstairs, Vince!" she called. The den she'd turned into her office and main workspace was on the second level of her current hideout. It was the only room that had escaped the touch of white paint, as of yet.

"Hey Orwell," Vince said, head poking up through the stairwell. He climbed up the few remaining stairs, looking annoyed with the spiral staircase, as usual. "What's the latest news?"

Orwell shrugged. "Fleming is still covering his tracks and making no moves," she replied, attention back on the screen. "And there's no leads that have been discovered, as of yet…" Vince sighed, dropping onto a blue armchair that matched Orwell's sofa.

"This is just peachy," Vince said. He looked at the coffeepot, which was finished. He poured coffee for both of them while Orwell went over the latest news. "Remind me again why I should keep him alive."

"Vince, home," Orwell said, shooting him a dark look. Vince rolled his eyes and took a sip of his coffee.

"Patrol right now is pretty much useless," Vince said. He was now perched on one of the many computer chairs. "Everyone is damn quiet, even Johnny the Bull." He and Orwell shared a look over that one. Johnny the Bull was well-known for his tendency to run at the mouth. Why no one had tried to kill him yet still remained a mystery.

"Great…" Orwell was lost in thought again, chewing on the end of her pencil. The reason was apparent to Vince when he finally looked over her shoulder to see what she'd been reading. It was a summary of the victims—all of them had been ARK soldiers, which was no surprise. Judging by the notes in the margins, she'd been trying to connect the dots. So far, no dice.

"Is anyone else missing yet?" Vince asked, pulling the pencil out of Orwell's hand. If she wasn't careful, she'd probably chew it in half. Orwell looked up at him, surprised. Obviously, the thought hadn't occurred to her.

"I'll start checking the mainframes," she said, darting across the room to her bank of computers.

- o – o -

Two hours later, the duo had gone through three pots of coffee and more data than Vince had thought could legally exist. He and Orwell had nothing to show for their time—even a slim clue as to identity or motives. If Orwell couldn't find anything, her mood tended to deteriorate. It was the first time in nearly five years that her extensive network of informants had failed her.

"This is insane."

Vince looked up from his perusal of another folder. "What's insane?" Vince asked, spitting out a sliver of wood. His pencil was now thoroughly chewed to pieces. The vigilante wondered what was wrong, to make Orwell call something insane.

"I can't find a single damn thing," Orwell snapped, looking as though she was about to throw her computer through the nearest window. "I'm this close to calling the brat pack for help!" She illustrated her point by holding her thumb and pointer finger a few centimeters apart.

"Who's the brat pack?" Vince asked.

"Don't ask," Orwell replied. "Their leader is a guy named Anarchy. If I'm good, he's phenomenal. And insane…" She muttered the last bit under her breath, as if she didn't want Vince to hear it. He did.

"Why don't you want to call them in?"

"Because I've got an issue with Anarchy," Orwell muttered distractedly. She sighed and typed something on her keyboard. The projector changed the image from a spreadsheet Orwell had been compiling data on to another website. In layout, it was similar to the hacker's blog. That was where it ended.

Where Orwell favored muted colors and the all-seeing eye in the background, this man… Anarchy favored bold colors that clashed, and his site seemed designed specifically to cause seizures. The only thing that wasn't epilepsy-inducing was the legend "United States of Anarchy" at the top of the page. It was dark blue and in a normal font.

Vince studied the page, and was instantly reminded of a graffiti artist. The kid had been caught painting neon pink anarchy symbols on PCPD cars. No one had ever figured out why, because his lawyer had gotten him out half an hour later.

"Should I ask?" Vince asked, watching the legend scroll off the page. It was replaced by what he assumed was the same phrase in brick red Cyrillic script.

"Anarchy, you'd better have a good reason for this."

Vince looked up at Orwell. She was talking to someone via a webcam, and did not look happy about it. The man on the other end looked rather pleased with himself. He had wild pink braids pulled back in a ponytail—just another difference between him and his more sedate counterpart, Orwell.

—Well, I wanted to join the party, sweetie— Anarchy replied, leaning back in his chair. —So I put the details up on a post. Big deal. Are you mad that I invited myself in?—

"You're going to make this a bigger issue than it needs to be," Orwell growled, fingers curling up in annoyance. Vince edged away as quietly as possible. Help was good—hell, at this point it'd be great, but not at the expense of his partner's tentative sanity. (She still wasn't doing so good after the Lich, but the challenge seemed to have invigorated her.)

—How else am I going to fulfill my community service hours?— Anarchy asked, another impish grin in place. —Alright, all jokes aside, I do want to help. You're going to need more help than the guy hanging around with you. The brat pack's already working on the problem.— Anarchy smiled, and Orwell huffed in annoyance.

"Fine. I accept the offer." She turned to Vince. "Cape, we've got it. You might want to think about patrolling for the time being. The last thing we need is a double dose of anarchy." She shot a dark look at her pink-haired compatriot as she said that. Vince wisely departed.

There was no need to get caught up in a hacker-on-hacker fight.

- o – o -

If anyone was unhappy about her impending date with Jack, it was probably Trip. Dana would have suspected Sawyer would have had the most problems with it—he seemed to have taken to following her around while Trip was in school. Admittedly, the security man was mellowing out rather quickly, but he was still security.

No, it had to be Trip. Dana sighed as she watched her son glower at her from his spot on the living room couch. He'd taken the news that she was going on a date badly. No matter how many times she tried to explain that she was just going out for a cup of coffee with an old friend, he still refused to believe her.

"Trip, I'm going out," Dana said. She pulled her coat on, shooting him a look. "You'd better have your homework done," she added. Mrs. Blander, who'd come upstairs with Gerry, had assured her she'd make sure both of them had dinner and got their homework done. Gerry, at least, only had some projects for his Boy Scout troop to finish. Trip needed to catch up on his homework.

"You're still replacing dad," Trip muttered sullenly. Dana sighed and kissed his forehead.

"Jack is just an old friend," Dana said. She looked at Sawyer. "Anyone calls, let the phone ring. No one is home." The man looked at her, eyebrows raised. The public defender rolled her eyes, smiling. "Alright. I'm off." She gave Trip one last kiss on the forehead before she left, praying that everything would be fine.

Jack was waiting downstairs for her, wearing jeans and a sports jacket. The casual wear was surprisingly good-looking on him, Dana decided as she took his arm.

"Hello Dana," Jack said, kissing her hand as he led her outside. "I feel underdressed," he added, looking at Dana's attire. "Something I should ask about?"

Dana grinned. "I'll tell you about work over coffee." She looked back up at the apartment as she left with Jack, and was sure she saw Trip glowering at them from his window. Dana sighed.

This was never going to get easy, was it?

- o – o -

Philips jerked awake from whatever nightmare he'd been having, thrashing wildly. The last thing he could really remember was agreeing to help Doctor Samuels fix the tire on his damn car. After that, there was a seriously disturbing blank spot in his memory and… Ow, headache, Philips thought, wincing in pain. Gotta get some damn Tylenol.

As his thoughts cleared up, the security officer began to notice some extremely worrisome things. Well, the ones that he could focus on, anyways. One: All of his clothes, including his boxers and socks, were missing. Two: He was tied to the bed he was lying on, and it seemed like the fucker who'd abducted him was using his handcuffs to keep his hands out of the way. (Kia preferred using his ties. And he could tell this nut was using his handcuffs because of the sizeable dent in the left cuff. The edge was sharp enough to draw blood if it got closed too tight.) Three: He was blindfolded and gagged.

Four: Whoever had abducted him didn't know or didn't care that he was allergic to adhesive. His allergies were acting up in the worst way, and he could feel an asthma attack coming on. He began thrashing around with renewed vigor, trying to free himself from any of his bonds so he could rip the duct tape off his mouth before it killed him. He howled into the gag, praying that someone—anyone—heard him before he suffocated to death.

Suffocation was not the way he wanted to die.

By the time Philips stopped struggling, his wrists and ankles were bloody, and he could barely breathe. The blindfold over his eyes was soaked with tears and clinging damply to his face. He could just barely hear the door opening over his wheezing and muffled gasps for any sort of air. His lungs felt like they were on fire, and his chest was heaving like he'd just run a marathon. What little light Philips could see through the blindfold and his swollen eyelids was turning gray.

A few seconds later, the security officer was gagging and coughing, trying to relieve the stress on his lungs as he breathed in massive lungfuls of air. Whoever had abducted him had ripped the tape off his mouth. His lips were numb, but the irritant was gone. He felt a small prick in his bicep and began breathing easier a minute later.

An EpiPen, Philips thought with no small amount of relief. Thank God.

"Good evening Jacob," someone said. Philips froze as the familiarity in the man's voice registered. "We're going to be spending a lot of time together."

Philips began struggling again as something was shoved into his mouth. Before he could spit the newest gag out, a sickly-sweet smelling cloth was pressed over his nose and mouth. He had to wonder if Kia would realize he'd become the serial killer's next victim…or if anyone would ever figure out who the man was.

He blacked out a few seconds later.

- o – o -

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