A/N: Thank you for the warm welcome back and hopefully there are some new people along for the ride! I still don't own Skins, but onward we roll...

The reception area was far warmer than that which preceded her first attempt at interviewing for a new job that week; nevertheless, the more traditionally decorated room failed to quell Katie's nerves. She paced back and forth outside the conference room, trying—and occasionally failing—to stop herself from playing with her perfectly done hair. Her purse and a large folio rested innocently on the settee along the near wall. She twisted the designer watch on her wrist back and forth, worrying her lip. Without a shadow of a doubt, Naomi's impulsive decision that morning still loomed large in her thoughts: the after-effects of attempting to drink away her guilt intertwined with the emotional tea time heart-to-heart with her sister lingered like pesky tendrils of fog obscuring her focus.

"Ms. Fitch?"

She whirled, eyes wide. "Yes?"

The middle-aged human resources director of the small defense contractor smiled reassuringly. "We're ready for you."

Katie returned the smile and plucked her things from the cream-colored cushions, securing them in her left hand as she extended her right. "Katie Fitch. Thank you for seeing me so late in the day."

"Please, love, don't mention it—you come highly recommended, after all," said the woman in a motherly tone as they shook hands. She ushered Katie into the conference room and closed the door behind them. "Please take a seat."

Katie glanced around the room and chose to introduce herself to each member of the group seated around the table before following her directive. Four smiles and handshakes later, she smoothed her suit, situated her folio in front of her, and took the proffered seat.

"Now, Ms. Fitch, you've been working for Minister Campbell's campaign for the last several months."

"That's correct," she replied succinctly. Except I kind of quit on her informally last night, didn't I? Katie wasn't keen on using the word regret to describe her rash outburst at her boss the previous afternoon; however, when Naomi did return from God knows where, Katie fully intended on smoothing out that transition and that conversation. But still...she had made it abundantly clear to Naomi on multiple occasions that she was actively pursuing a job in the private sector once more—while simultaneously reassuring her that the primary focus needed to be completing the hearings. But Katie knew those could drag out for months. Naomi couldn't possibly expect her to keep her career on hold the entire time, could she? And they were suspended at present, as point of fact! Katie smiled fakely. "After Ms. Campbell's successful reelection bid, she retained me in a capacity as her personal press secretary and co-director of her home office here in Bristol."

"Your involvement with the terrible events at our competitor last spring is well documented, Ms. Fitch, both for your role in helping to uncover the corruption at its core as well as your victimization. How do you feel those events have affected your outlook on defense contracting and returning to this field?"

The eldest Fitch swallowed and paused. What the actual fuck...Katie pursed her lips and slowly opened her folio, collecting her thoughts. She couldn't very well just say 'Uh, not sure,' and hope they moved on: by the serious expressions surrounding her, this was a crucial question on all their minds. And they didn't wait long to unload it on her, did they? It was a fair question, she supposed. In no way did they intend on subverting her assumptions that the company was on the level, but that's where her thoughts flew. What if they had equally disturbing practices off the books? What if she was once more going to be an unwitting pawn in the under-the-table dealings that left families shattered the world over, ruined the hopes and dreams of children and their parents alike as brutal warlords and despots acquired the weaponry and technology these companies produced? It may not be Tony or Cook this time, but there were always rogues out there, weren't there—just another maniac or misguided person believing that the only way to combat violence was a brutal and awe-inspiring act of their own? The difference this time, however, was that they'd have no personal connection to her. Here, Katie would be equally expendable. Here, she could be the one with a hood over her head as they used her as an example on national television...

Katie felt her heart rate quicken perceptibly as thoughts of techs in jumpsuits and sunglasses toting guns ran rampant in her mind, smashing in through the winds like some twisted special operations squad and pouring in through the door. In her imagination, they bashed the head of one of her interviewers into the table and dragged him forcibly out of the room; yet another was simply shot in her seat. The kind older woman that greeted her initially was thrown to the ground as they threatened her and yelled at Katie simultaneously.

"Ms. Fitch?"

Katie's eyes snapped open and she gasped, looking around the silent conference room, horrified. Sweat was dripping down her jaw and the temperature in the conference room felt like it was approaching Saharan levels of discomfort. Katie smiled shakily. "Could you repeat the question?"

"Are you sure you're alright, miss? You look extremely bothered by something. Maybe it's best we reschedule this for another time..."

"No! No," Katie breathed deeply after her startled exclamation. She extended a shaking hand to the glass of water resting on the table for her use during the interview and downed it all in one go. She licked her lips and smoothed her hair. "I'm quite alright; sorry, just a lot on my mind at the moment. What was the question?"

Under the table, her foot continued to tap up and down up and down up and down up and down swiftly as she continued the interview on autopilot, answers to questions spilling out stilted and brief, with none of the forethought and depth she actually possessed showing forth until they graciously thanked her and the middle-aged woman who initially welcomed her stood to usher her out with promises of a follow-up in the near future as to whether they wanted to speak to her again.

As she left, however, Katie could practically hear their pens scratching her name from their list as quickly as her heels could carry her to the elevators.

What a mess...

They'd left Bioče behind without incident as the conductor wandered away down the passenger car, checking people's tickets and passports. Naomi squirmed in her window seat as the train picked up speed slowly, the imposing crags and rocks of the mountains outside starting to flash by outside the dirty windows. She discreetly patted under her seat with one foot to reassure herself that no one had swiped her ruck and glanced between the seats up and down the car.

"Naomi, if they're still following us, they're not going to just get up and leave us alone because you keep sneaking peeks for them. The more suspicious you look, the more their fears are confirmed," advised Patterson as he swiped another page of his periodical away and continued the article currently occupying his attention.

"You think they're on the train for sure then? I didn't see them get out of that car."

"Naomi, just...breathe, okay?" Vic gestured blindly out the window. "Enjoy the view. It'll be a couple hours yet."

The woman sighed and turned her attention back to the mountains looming oppressively just metres from the single line of train tracks serpentining through the rocks at their foundation. Mountains—timeless, sturdy, immobile, stubborn. She blinked at the admonishing voice in her head and slipped her mobile out. The small icon indicating a dearth of service blinked back as it tried to roam for a signal in the wilderness of Montenegro. Texting Emily simmered on the front burner; she felt miserable for how their conversation that morning concluded. It was for the best after the absolutely horrendous week through which she, Katie, and Emily endured. Nevertheless, just because she and Vic were so close to turning this whole ordeal on its ear and putting Ross on the defensive for once, Naomi couldn't elude the whispers that hinted the cost of doing so may have been irreparable. Would Emily trust her again after this? Would they trust each other?

So many secrets. Naomi could parade them across the stage from wing to wing: Emily's actions to falsify police records regarding the Sophia Moore incident and her decision not to inform either her sister or her fiancée of those actions; Naomi's own initial lies and deceits so long ago about an open day tryst; Matthew Moore's silent anger boiling over; Emily and Cook's intersection the previous year, which laid the groundwork for his ultimate betrayal of his employer after SSI; their mutual efforts to shroud Cook's escape and whereabouts from the public; Emily's duplicitous efforts to investigate not only Moore, but Tony Stonem's involvement as well; Naomi's retaliation that placed her here, in a cracked leather train seat bound north for Belgrade in a mountain range she couldn't pronounce if her life depended upon it. The web was ever-widening and here she was at its furthest reaches, halfway across a continent from the woman she loved.

Naomi worried her lip and squeezed her eyes shut. How did things come to this?

Light blossomed unexpectedly through the windows of the passenger car and Naomi opened her eyes with a startled gasp. "Vic!"

She pestered him to look up and he gasped just as she had: without warning, the tracks emerged from tracks in the shadows of mountains and now trundled across a spindle of concrete and steel 200 meters above a little river, the blue waters of which were visible only in miniscule doses far beneath them. The geometric lattice work supporting the sides of the Mala Rijeka Viaduct passed outside the windows, casting patterns on the towering mountains all around the gorge.

"It's beautiful," she whispered.

"Mmmm. The highest railway bridge in Europe," supplied Vic as he gawked. A tremor ran through the train. His awe-inspired gaping turned to concern. "Did you feel that?"

"Yeah; hey, look!" Naomi pointed at the tessellated triangles of the bridge sides. "We're slowing down."

The train shook once more, this time forcibly enough that several other passengers shouted in surprise as they were jolted from their seats. Vic whirled, glancing up and down the aisle of the car. As he did so, Naomi pressed her face to the grimy glass, unsuccessfully attempting to peer along the side of the train towards the engines at the front.

"Naomi?" Vic asked as he continued to peer intently up and down the aisle. "Naomi?"

"I can't see anything wrong..." she muttered, not paying attention to his increasingly urgent attempts to get her attention.

"Naomi!"

BANG.

Naomi spun around as several screams echoed through the train car. "That didn't sound like a mechanical problem."

"Gunshots usually don't," Vic replied tersely. He turned back to her, looking past her at the narrow window. "Does it open?"

"What're you talking about?"

"We have to get off this train right now, Naomi," he insisted as another pair of gunshots reverberated from a car behind them. A security guard was slowly moving through their car, one hand on his pistol, the other stretched out to reassure passengers and ask them to remain in their seats. He was speaking a harsh-sounding language with which Naomi was not familiar. Vic glanced at him, then back to the window. "Does it open?"

Naomi hurriedly got up on her knees on the old seat, stretching to reach the latches on the window as the guard choked out a warning in surprise. She flicked the small latches from one side to the other and began struggling to slide the window up along its tracks. It moved a few centimeters and stuck. "It...won't...open the whole way."

Vic leaned over and added his strength to the effort, lifting from the bottom of the window with a groan. He grunted and readjusted his grip: the window started to slide open more smoothly as they both worked at it—Vic was spun around and he found the security guard gesturing emphatically for them to stop.

"If we don't get the people out of this car, we could all die," he said desperately. The guard frowned.

"Terrorist?"

Vic shook his head. "No! I'm not a terrorist!" Another gunshot in the distance emphasized his point. He pointed along the car. "Those are terrorists."

The guard drew his pistol and gestured for Patterson and the other passengers to crouch down on the floor. "Stay."

"Everyone! Could you please get down?" Vic attempted to address the group in a level tone as the guard moved carefully towards the sliding doors between train cars. Naomi gasped, heaving at the window as forcibly as she was able, opening it slowly. The guard was maybe five rows from the back of the car—and she could hear the clamor and fearful cries rising in the car as Vic continued to get everyone's attention.

"Oi! You lot!" She shouted, turning slightly and looking back and forth. She pointed towards the front of the car. "Get over there, and for Christ's sake, make sure the children aren't exposed." There was a momentary pause throughout the car as people looked up at her in surprise. "Well? Move!"

The passenger car became a flurry of activity as mothers shepherded their young ones away from the back of the car and barricaded themselves behind seats and luggage. Vic added his strength to hers, pressing the window up just enough that Naomi thought she might be able to wriggle out with a hair's breadth to spare.

"Right, that'll have to do," Vic gasped, wiping a hand across his brow. He looked over his shoulder at the security guard: three rows to the end of the car left. He turned back to Naomi. "Out you go."

"What? Absolutely not! We're not splitting up!"

"They're here for us, Naomi; you know they are. I'll slow them down, buy you enough time."

"Time to do what?"

"To escape. Get to the mountains and take cover. Someone will have radioed for help already." He looked back along the car: two rows to go. "Now, go!"

Naomi furrowed her brow and followed his gaze. "Don't be a hero, Vic."

"Never; that's always been your job, MP."

She rolled her eyes and he chuckled as she slipped one leg out the window, then the other, wriggling her torso over the sill and down the side of the train. She clung to the inside of the car with her elbows, looking up and down the viaduct, toes dangling above the gravel strewn under the railroad ties. Satisfied there were no gunmen outside with her, Naomi let go and fell the few centimeters to the ground with a gasp of surprise. She landed in a heap; her rucksack followed, hurriedly tossed out the window just before Vic could slam it shut.

No sooner had he done so, the security guard reached the door to the next car. Before he could extend his hand, the door slid open and a pistol erupted from the other car, the force of the bullets jolting his body in spasms like some sort of gruesome puppet. Vic dropped to his knee, seeking shelter behind the seats, fists clenching and unclenching as he waited for the gunmen to step into the car.

Naomi heard the gunshots and scrambled to her feet, noting subliminally that each train car was a different color (hers a splotchy blue, the next a dreary grey, and so on randomly), running as quickly as she could for the front of the train—and making it all of a car and a half before guilt wracked her and she stopped. "Vic..." Heart pounding, she turned, slipped between two cars to the opposite side of the tracks, and ran back towards her original car.

Patterson waited. He tried to press himself to the floor of the train car, counting the sets of combat boots gathering next to the dead security guard. One boot rose and nudged the body lightly. He swallowed and rose back to a crouch as the attackers slowly moved through the car.

"Nobody else has to die," called one of the gunmen. Patterson frowned. The voice sounded vaguely familiar. "We're looking for two British nationals. Member of Parliament Naomi Campbell...and her travelling companion. One Mister Vic..."

He rose slowly before the gunman could finish his goading solicitation. "...Patterson. Right here waiting for you."

The terrorist's impassive gaze turned slowly to appraise him, his pistol swinging correspondingly. The two gunmen with him eased past their leader to continue scouring the train car. "So you are. Where's Campbell?"

Naomi slowed, pressing her back to the side of the peeling blue passenger car as she inched along underneath the windows opposite of where she made her hasty escape. She reached the back of the car and crept up the step to the small conjoining spot between cars, peeking through the narrow gap where the door wasn't completely closed. She frowned, trying to focus on what was going on inside the car. She couldn't make out the identity of the nearest attacker or what he was saying, but Vic was clearly visible, hands above his head as one of the gunmen stopped even with her friend. Then, turning slowly, the profile of the gunman came into view and she clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp as she recognized Benton Baze, his rigid jaw and angry brow apparent through the small crack of the door.

Patterson said something to Baze, who shrugged...and pulled the trigger.

Naomi screamed as Vic doubled over, clutching at his stomach, and slid down the window to the floor of the train car out of view. She choked back a sob, realizing that Baze heard her scream, and scrambled down to the track. She slipped on the gravel and planted a hand, pushing herself back upright and sprinting towards the end of the trestle beyond the last three passenger cars. The mountains at the far end of the viaduct seemed to get farther and farther the faster she ran and her lungs burned.

Risking a glance over her shoulder, Naomi saw the other two gunmen stumble down from the train and clock her location, shouting to each other and running in her footsteps. One more passenger car left, then it was an open stretch of track to the mountains beyond where she could lose her pursuers. Adrenaline coursed through her system, the throbbing pain of sprinting without warming up built in her legs and she drove her arms back and forth like pistons, forcing herself to keep up her pace. Naomi gritted her teeth, chanting to herself to not look down at the perilous fate awaiting her should she trip and be unable to catch herself.

She broke the cover of the last train car and Naomi put her head down, urging her body to keep running just a little farther—and without warning she was sprawling across the tracks, tumbling, scraping her forearm and ripping her trousers across the knee. Naomi looked over her shoulder as she tried to regain her footing; Baze was picking himself up from where he'd hurled his considerable mass off the step on the last passenger car and intercepted her escape. Naomi made it to her feet and resumed her flight, pain shooting up her leg each time she planted.

"Gotcha!" she heard Baze's labored shout come from far closer than expected and the wind was knocked out of her as he tackled her to the ground. She twisted violently, swinging her elbows and hurling pebbles into his face. He grunted and backhanded her across the face, his knees squeezing her midsection as he established a controlling position over her and brought the butt of his pistol down on her temple.

He reared back on his haunches, wiping an arm across his brow as the other two gunmen approached at a trot. He stood and regarded the unconscious woman at his feet for a moment before snatching up her rucksack and handing it to one of his thugs along with two sets of zip ties. "Make sure she doesn't go anywhere." He turned to the other as he reloaded his pistol. "We've got a train to finish."