Peter and Elizabeth walked hand in hand through Central Park, stopping every so often to admire the earth shatteringly blue sky and listen to the sound of bird song. They reached a bench and sat down side by side. Peter unzipped his briefcase and drew out a bag of homemade sandwiches.

"And would my lady prefer the delectable chocolate spread sandwich, or the old classic: the renowned, Peter Burke Special, peanut butter and jelly?" He proffered the bag with a flourish and Elizabeth giggled at his attempt to emulate a posh, snobby drawl.

"I'll take the PB and J, my lord husband," she simpered, reaching into the bag and plucking the sandwich from atop a mound of others. "I've always admired your sandwich making prowess."

"I'll take that as a compliment." Peter dug out a Nutella sandwich from the brown paper bag and bit into it with a groan of pleasure. "God, I was starving. You know, we should do this more often."

"What? Eat calorific sandwiches made with condiments?"

"Peanut butter isn't a condiment; mustard is a condiment!" Peter exclaimed through a mouthful of Nutella, butter and bread. He gestured vaguely all around them, encompassing the entire park with his sweeping hand,

"We should do this more often. Go out for lunch, take a stroll in the park, have a chat. It feels like I never see you anymore." Elizabeth shrugged.

"You're working, I'm working, we're looking after a teenager… it's hard, hon."

"That's no excuse." He took his hand in hers. "Just because we're parents now doesn't mean we're not entitled to a life. How about we go out to dinner tomorrow, just you and me?" She grinned at the thought, though her eyes were hesitant.

"What about Neal?" Peter chuckled at the question.

"He's nearly sixteen years old! He can look after himself for a couple of hours – hell, he's been looking after himself for years! Brightest kid I know."

"He had a party last week." She toyed with a lock of her hair, chewing her sandwich. "Are you sure we can trust him alone?"

"Yes." Peter answered instantly. "I trust Neal. I really do. Plus, I think he deserves a bit of a break. He's been so… quiet lately, ever since he went back to school. Have you noticed?" This wasn't the first time he and El had talked about Neal's progress at school. Peter knew that something was wrong, but Neal refused to talk about it. Whenever he asked what was up or whether he was enjoying school, Neal would skilfully divert the conversation away, like a batter whacking away a ball. One time, when Peter had asked him if he was being bullied, Neal had stormed upstairs to his bedroom and slammed the door so hard the walls had trembled. Peter had a pretty good idea about what was going on. And he wasn't going to rest until he had put a stop to it and Neal was happy again.

"I'm worried about Neal," he said quietly, "I think he's being bullied. He needs some time to relax, really chill out." Perhaps he would allow Neal to have Sara over whilst he and El went out. That was bound to put a smile on his face. "Come on El, let's go out to that nice place you like. What's it called? The Champignon Bleu?" Her eyes softened.

"It's a date."

"Love you, hon." Their actions almost in complete synchronisation, Peter and Elizabeth put down their sandwiches. They leaned in closer, eyes closed, lips slightly parted…

Peter's phone beeped loudly in his pocket.

"Holy moly!" They leapt apart. El bit into her sandwich, head angled away, whilst Peter frantically started patting his chest, searching for the still-beeping phone in his coat. He found it after a good thirty seconds of searching and yanked it out into the open.

"This is Burke."

There was silence whilst he listened to the voice on the other end of the line. The conversation didn't last very long. After a few minutes of intent listening, Peter hung up, his face ashen, breathing ragged. El twisted towards him.

"What is it, hon? Who was that?"

"I'm… I'm sorry." He looked shaken. His voice trembled even more than his hands. With a visible effort, Peter swallowed hard before looking at his wife. "The evening's off."

"What happened?" She demanded. There was no way that she was going to accept that as an answer. Peter took a deep breath. Then he said in a small, strangled voice,

"Keller escaped from prison."

"There you go. All better."

"Thanks." Neal smiled at the dimpled nurse before reaching a hand up to touch his face. Alex's nails had cut his skin – she'd always been rather talented when it came to slapping people. If there was such a thing as a slapping Olympics… his thoughts trailed off as he examined himself in the mirror. Already the skin under his eyes was turning purple, and with the three, long gashes on his face covered by a plaster, he looked downright scary. But he was examining more than just his image in that moment – Neal was examining the problem Alex had presented to him. She had left more than just bruises when she had stormed out of the history lesson after hitting him in front of the entire class. She had left him with a moral dilemma, a quandary that must be solved, a pretty little problem for him to unravel. Give me Datum 815. Give me the microchip. Neal sighed heavily, scuffing his Nikes (which he wore in direct violation of the school rules) against the tacky floor of the medical room.

Everything in his life boiled down to the microchip. His freedom, his future, Peter's future… And now this. Alex's life in exchange for that thrice-cursed, God-damned microchip. He needed the chip, the government needed the chip, Peter needed the chip… and now Alex needed it too. The stupid thing was attracting way too much attention – he should have guessed that something like this would have happened.

He had known that it was a bad idea to steal the chip in the first place – he'd had the sinking, prickly feeling that something was wrong hours before the raid – but Mozzie had persuaded him to go through with the theft anyway. Despite his feeling that it was all going to go badly, he had, for whatever reason, taken the plunge. Maybe it was because the plan they had concocted all those years ago to steal the microchip had involved framing Keller for the theft. It hadn't worked, exactly, but it didn't matter. Following the kidnapping, Keller was away for good. As long as he was behind bars, it didn't matter how he got there: whether he was there because Neal framed him for the theft of Datum 815 or because he was a kidnapper, Neal didn't really mind.

Neal thanked the nurse again before exiting the medical room and making his slow, meandering way back to class. He needed time to think. With Alex involved, there were now three people who needed the microchip. One of those people was himself. He wished that he was noble enough to stop being selfish and give the chip to Alex or Peter, but the truth was that he couldn't let it go. He wasn't big enough to relinquish the chip that was the one thing he could use to earn more freedom. Though the FBI had threatened to send him to prison in six months' time regardless of whether or not he gave up the microchip, he was beginning to have doubts that they would actually follow through with that. If he played his cards right, he suspected that he could use Datum 815 as a bargaining chip and win himself more freedom. It was too sweet an opportunity for him to throw away. He couldn't part with the microchip, not when there was a chance it could save him prison time.

Neal strode through the empty corridors, feeling dead inside. What he had just concluded was an awful, terrible, evil thing to think – he was seriously considering putting his freedom in front of Alex's life. But… it was a dangerous game they played. Alex had known the risks. And it had been him who had stolen the microchip. He was the one who had risked everything to get the damn thing – it was his by right. He could do whatever he wanted with it, and he didn't have to give it up for anyone.

Thoughts reeling so fast and in so many different directions it made him sick, Neal forced himself to focus on other matters. He could return to this dilemma later. Right now there was still the problem of the bullying to solve. Neal felt himself relax slightly as he contemplated the new puzzle. This one was so much simpler, so much easier to solve than the other one. He already had a plan in motion.

Neal looked over his shoulder to check that he was really alone in the corridor (he was – everyone else was in class), then ducked his head and pushed through a set of double doors. He was in the teacher's hallway, a set of rooms that was off limit to students. Though people often used this corridor as an illegal shortcut between lessons, it was quite a serious offence to be caught trespassing in this area – especially since he was meant to be in history. Neal knew that he had to be careful here. The hallway was patrolled by teaching assistants and administrative workers, the snobbiest and most self-righteous of all staff. The last thing he needed was to be caught snooping. He took a breath, oddly nervous, then straightened his tie and walked down the corridor as fast and as soundlessly as he could. He made it to the staffroom without incident. Neal paused in front of the door, listening intently. When he was sure that the room was empty, he turned the handle and entered the forbidden place. The dragon's den.

He was just in time. As soon as Neal closed the door quietly behind him, he heard the click-clack, click-clack of high heeled shoes against the plasticky floor. There was no time to react, no time to think. Neal dived behind a threadbare sofa just as the door creaked open and the headteacher burst into the room. She was a tall lady with dark, wavy hair and was one of those people that always seemed to be frowning. She was a formidable enemy if provoked. Neal pressed himself against the sofa, praying that she couldn't see him. If she found him hiding in the staffroom…. He didn't even want to know what would happen.

The head tottered over to the small kitchenette in the corner of the room and made herself a cup of tea. Then she walked over to where Neal crouched behind the sofa. Please, please, please… Neal alternated between begging with a cosmic force and cursing under his breath… please, please, please don't let her sit on the sofa…

She sat down on the sofa, mere millimetres away from where he lay behind it. The rickety frame sagged beneath her weight. Neal didn't dare even breathe. Out of all the situations he had ever been in, this had to be one of the strangest. Hiding from his headteacher in the staffroom, quailing at the thought of discovery, with sweaty palms and gritted teeth. He stayed shock-still as the head noisily guzzled her drink, scratched the corners of her nose, texted a message the size of a dictionary and played several rounds of Flappy Bird. From what Neal could hear from behind the sofa, she wasn't very good at it. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she got up and dumped her mug in the sink, before click-clacking her way towards the door. Neal exhaled – a barely controlled, rushing breath of relief. The head froze with her hand on the doorknob. Her eyes narrowed, flickering over the room. Neal stayed very, very still. Then the headteacher sneezed explosively (making him jump with fright) and marched out of the room.

Phew. It was the only thought that could enter his mind in his stunned state. Phew. That was damn close. Too close. Too damn close… his heart was still pounding frantically, threatening to erupt from his chest. If she had stayed a fraction of a second longer, if she hadn't sneezed… he would have been discovered.

Very slowly, Neal stood up; feeling like the shock had done a number on him. He felt dizzy and tired with left over adrenaline. He shook his head, trying to get rid of the residual energy and focus. He had come here for a reason.

Blinking like an owl, Neal walked over to the edge of the staffroom and stood on a coffee table. He stretched his arms up into the air, reaching with his fingers, searching for the ceiling panel… There. He snatched the panel down. Sellotaped to the bottom of it was a dictaphone. He had placed it there two days ago, right in the middle of the staffroom, where the teachers gathered to talk and gossip and discuss their teacher-secrets. He had it all on tape. Smiling somewhat triumphantly, Neal pocketed the dictaphone and fled from the room, slowing to a controlled, leisurely gait when he was free from the forbidden staff corridor. He had all the information he needed.

If he was going to solve the bullying problem, he was going to have to stop relying on others to do it for him. Mr Harris had proven himself to be useless. Neal was starting to doubt if the teacher with his five step plans and maths challenges was even qualified to cope with a bullying situation like this one. A Maths Challenge – as if that would ever work. Neal had already stolen the prize money from the competition and added it into his own, personal bank account. Nice of Mr Harris to mention that there was a decent bit of cash just lying around in Maths Challenge headquarters. It had taken Neal and Mozzie half an hour to track down the cash online and fifteen minutes to steal it once they had broken into the HQ pretending to be editors for the school paper. Peter had been neglecting to give him pocket money lately. 10K was just what he needed to tide himself over financially.

Neal smiled, patting the bulge of the tape in his pocket. This was the solution, not some silly plan or maths challenge. The tape contained all sorts of sensitive information. He was going to sell it to the student body. In a world of locked doors, the man with the key is king… and Neal was now in possession of a hell of a lot of knowledge. If he spread this information, he would become more popular than in his wildest dreams. The bullying would stop. He would be king of the school. Neal grinned ghoulishly at the thought and started making his way up the stairs to the top floor classrooms. He had been gone long enough. It was time for him to return to history.

But just before his foot hit the bottom step, something caught his eye. A spot of colour in the otherwise drab landscape outside the window. Something blue. Flashing. Neal swore and ran to the window to get a closer look. There was a police car outside. And another. And another. His blood ran cold in his veins. Neal swayed, placing a hand against the wall to steady himself. They had found him. They knew about the theft of the maths challenge money. The entire building was surrounded by cops.

Déjà vu, was all Neal could think before he was running, running as fast as he could, running like the wind.

Hey everyone, hope you enjoyed this chapter! Thanks for all the reviews and comments, especially those regarding the use of Americanisms. I found them very helpful! Would love to hear your thoughts on this chapter! Have a nice weekend :)