Rae: Finally, another chapter up! Cause, y'know, it's only taken me like 6 years... *glares at university work* Doesn't help when said work gives you writer's block either.

Anyway, onto the story! Hope you enjoy, much luffles, distractions from Byron and Thane and general nommings to my beta!

Adam checked his phone again for about the twentieth time in the space of half an hour, flipping it open and becoming just a little more worried when there was still nothing there. Byron gave him an exasperated look from across the table where they were sat together doing work and waved the end of his pen at him in a 'tsk tsk' manner.

"Dude, I know the graveyard shift's a snooze-fest and all, but honestly, checkin' your phone every two minutes ain't gonna make it go any faster." Adam didn't look up at the comms officer, choosing instead to scrunch up a ball of empty lined paper and toss it at his companion. Byron dodged it easily with a chuckle, but sobered up again fairly quickly. "Seriously man, chill. You're gettin' more and more worked up every time you open that damn thing. Do it again and I'm taking it off ya."

The brunette sighed, finally lifting his gaze to Byron's. "I'm waiting for Jazz to contact me."

"Y'know," said the red-head, putting his pen down on top of his paperwork and leaning back in his seat, raising an eyebrow, "a week ago you wanted nothin' to do with Jasper Miles. Now you're more worried about him than the entire station put together. Granted we ain't all that big, but my point still stands. What happened?"

"I..." Adam faltered, considering. "I guess I found I needed someone to help fill what Kyle left behind."

Byron snorted. "Shyeah, no kidding. We've been tryin' to tell ya that ever since you lost him. Has Jazz managed to get it through that stubborn head of yours yet that ya weren't to blame in the slightest?"

Adam smiled softly then, just a small quirk of the lips. "Yeah, I think so. He can rest now."

"Good." Byron was about to go back to his work when he paused abruptly while picking up his pen and cocked his head to one side. "Hey man, didja hear that?"

Adam too fell into a listening stance, not saying anything, and tried to catch what Byron was talking about. He was just getting ready to shake his head and ask what it was that the comms officer had heard when something sounded from outside down the corridor. Like someone was moving around. "Janitor, perhaps?"

"Naw, he went home a while ago." Byron stood up slowly, foisting his gun from where it was sat next to him on the table and moving to the door. Adam snatched up his own and followed him. The red-haired man silently signed '3, 2, 1' to the detective and then opened the door, swinging to point his weapon down one end of the corridor while Adam took the other. Another sound, louder this time, came from Byron's end, and Adam came back around to face that way, cursing when he found the comms officer was already well down the hallway. A quick jog brought him to the officer's back, and Byron made a motion round the corner before counting down from three again with his fingers. They both swifted around to face whoever was intruding, and made surprised noises at who they found tugging at a wrapping bandage winding its way around his hand.

Jazz didn't look at either of them, just grunted as he pulled some more at the loose end with his teeth, trying to tie it up. Adam silently holstered his weapon and moved forwards, taking Jazz's hand and carefully finishing off the strapping. Even then the saboteur didn't look at him, just murmured a resigned-sounding 'thanks' and hugged the appendage to his chest. Adam's breath caught slightly in worry, and he gripped Jazz's shoulders trying to get him to look up.

"Jazz, what happened? What did you do?"

"M'fist had an argument with a wall," was the sour reply. "Th'wall won."

"And why were ya pickin' fights with walls?" Byron moved to Jazz's right side, placing a comforting hand on that arm as the two of them guided Jasper back to the meeting room they'd commandeered for their shared work space. The dreadlocked man merely shook his head vaguely, apparently pre-occupied in thought. He was pushed to sit down on one of the chairs when they got there, and Byron disappeared to get him a warm cup of something to drink. Adam clasped Jazz's hands in his own, and finally golden eyes raised to meet his.

"Jazz, what's wrong?"

"They're testin' meh," he replied quietly, tightening his grip around Adam's fingers. "I dunno when; could b' tomorrow, could b' a week from now. I think if I pass, 'm in."

"Well that's good! The best news we've had for a couple days."

Jazz grimaced. "It ain't fer meh. Prowler, 'm afraid o' what they'll have meh do in th'test. I've let enough o' Foxtrot through t'pass scrutiny, but if they ask meh t'kill anyone -" Jazz cut himself off suddenly with a soft choking noise, and Adam immediately understood. He gathered the unresisting form in front him into a hug, felt hands cling to the back of his shirt like they'd never let go. "I dunno if I could control it this time," he whispered hesitantly, as though speaking it out loud would make his fears true.

"You can and you will," said Adam firmly, drawing away and making Jazz look him in the eyes. "You're stronger than that. You threw Foxtrot away once, you can do it again."

"But I -"

"But you didn't have me then. You do now." Adam pressed a chaste kiss to Jazz's lips. "You'll come back to me, won't you?"

Jasper didn't say anything for several seconds, Adam's words jolting something inside of him. He... wanted him back? Was he really asking that? The answer was so obvious, but the fact it was coming from the person Jazz found himself caring about more than anyone else and the person he'd convinced himself would never want a man like him threw him for a loop.

"Always," Jazz finally affirmed, dragging the heel of his hand across his eyes and touching the detective's cheek with the other. "But why?"

"Why what?" Adam looked surprised.

"Why would yeh want meh back? Prowler, 'm a killer. I ain't atoned fer what I did back then, I've never fergiven mehself. I don' deserve yeh, I don' deserve anythin' I have."

"Don't say that," was the sharp rebutt. "Don't ever say that."

"But it's true!" Jazz didn't look up when Byron came back in and placed a hot chocolate next to him, knowing full well that Jazz didn't drink coffee. Besides, from the looks of things coffee was the last thing the African-American needed. "I don' care I snapped outta it 'n turned m'life around; that ain't enough t'make meh pay fer takin' th'life o' someone's kid, someone's parent, someone's siblin'. If anythin' it's rubbin' it in their faces! Th'one who took their livelihoods away from 'em is now helpin' 'em? That ain't atonement, that's mockery 'n ironic t'boot."

"Do you feel remorse?" asked Byron quietly, unflinching when Jazz swiftly nailed him with an annoyed glare.

"O' course I do! There ain't a day goes past I wish I could take it all back, start again. There ain't a mornin' I don' wake up 'n wish it were all a bad dream, that it had never happened."

"Then that's the first big step to forgiving yourself." The red-haired man put his head to one side. "Look Jazz, you'll never be able to take back what ya did, but note the past tense; it's history, it's over. Done with. You are a completely different person now, savin' a life in a heartbeat instead of takin' one. The only one who hasn't forgiven you is yourself. You gotta stop beatin' yourself up."

"Easy fer yeh t'say," Jazz snapped back. "It ain't about fergiveness! 'M a joke of a hypocrite. 'M sendin' people t'jail fer murder, rape, espionage, y'name it, 'n here's meh sittin' pretty havin' murdered God knows how many people 'n tortured a load o' 'em beforehand without havin' had any jail time whatsoever. Where's th'fairness in that?" By the time the saboteur was finished his voice had raised nearly to a shout, a simmering self-loathing bubbled barely contained under the surface. "By all rights I should b' dead! Th'death penalty is fer people like meh, that's why it exists!"

"Oh Jazz..." Adam ran his fingers down Jazz's jawline, holding him still when the African-American tried to flinch away. "You did atone." A snort of disbelief and an aversion of golden eyes was his next response. "Jazz, how many people did you kill? And how many people have you saved since? Touched their lives in a positive way?" The eyes warily came back to his. "I know I'm one of them. I'm willing to bet anything that you have helped more people than you ever harmed. I mean, you'd already started pulling yourself back together when that gang runner took you in after you'd been shot." Adam's fingers ghosted over where the scars were hidden underneath a black tank top. "Either you have atoned or you're well on your way to it. Whichever it is, don't ever think otherwise."

"Yeh should b' arrestin' meh, not tryin' t'make meh feel better," grumbled Jazz, making Byron chuckle.

"Statute of limitations," the red-head said simply.

"Thought there wasn't one fer murder." Jazz looked confused, and Adam shook his head.

"Michigan's the only state that has it. You're well past it, therefore we can't do anything. Besides," the detective added, "I swear you've done more self-recrimination and punishment than jail time could ever put you through."

That got a small giggle from the saboteur, and Adam relaxed a little and smiled softly. Byron stood up and ruffled at Jazz's dreadlocks, citing a squawk of protest from the man, and disappeared saying he had some more inventory to do. Adam watched him go with a raised eyebrow; he knew full well the comms officer wasn't in charge of inventory, and he sure as heck didn't have anything to do for it. The puzzle was quickly forgotten when the man still sat in front of him launched himself at the detective, wrapped toned arms around his neck and kissed him almost desperately. Adam returned it automatically, one hand tangling itself in long dark dreads and the other encircling Jazz's waist, bringing him closer. When their lips broke apart Jazz buried his face into Adam's shoulder, and the detective just held him, embraced him.

"Thank yeh," came the quiet words from the saboteur in Adam's lap, muffled somewhere in his shoulder.

"For what?" The brunette tightened his arms, feeling Jazz relax just a little bit more.

"Everythin'. An' puttin' meh back on track. I jus'... I needed t' hear that."

"Anytime." Adam pushed Jazz gently back enough he could brush another kiss against those full lips that had now lost most of their tension. Jazz barely bit back a noise when he noted how much care and trust radiated from the blue orbs that gazed steadily at him. His heart contracted sharply, almost painfully, in his chest, and he knew that if he didn't break this soon he'd be saying things he'd rather not have thrown out into the open. He grinned, a vague one compared to his usual blinding ones, but a genuine grin nonetheless, and started to get up. Adam let him, waiting until the dreadlocked man was off his legs before he moved gracefully to his own feet. He picked up the forgotten hot chocolate and pressed into Jazz's slightly startled hands. "Drink that, you'll feel better."

Jasper took a sip of it, pleasantly surprised to find it was still hot, and let the heat spread through his body, relaxing him as best it could. He offlined his visor for a moment, enjoying the moment to himself inside his own thoughts. He sorted through them, calming his mind and going over what Byron and Adam had just told him. It made sense, but his brain was still trying to refuse the belief he'd made up for anything. He growled internally at himself and shoved that away, beginning the process of replacing it with the desire to do more to help. If he could bring Russell down then he could save so many people, put so many others away.

And then, he thought, what about the ones he was determined to catch? If he could turn himself completely around then couldn't they? He could aid them in doing just that, could help them get more out of life than what they had. Looking back on himself made Jazz realize that he, actually, had nothing the entire time he was Foxtrot. The fear of others and sought-after thrills were only temporary highs to him, like drugs he'd managed to wean himself off. He had so much more to his life now, more substance and an ostensibly permanent tendril of happiness that weaved its way through his very core. He could teach others to find that for themselves. Those thoughts settled more of the turmoil in his head, and he unwound just a little bit more. He took another sip of his hot chocolate and onlined his visor to find Adam smiling softly at him, which the saboteur returned whole-heartedly.

"Prowler, I'm gonna jet. If I get caught round here..." He trailed off, waving vaguely, and Adam nodded. He cupped Jazz's cheek in one hand.

"Stay safe," he said firmly, placing a kiss carefully on the other's forehead. "And keep me posted."

"I'll do m'best." There was a flash of a wide grin, the feel of a small caress on his shoulder, and then Jazz vanished seemingly into thin air. Adam was left standing next to the meeting table, one hand moving to rest on it for support as he leaned on it and a slight smile gracing his lips. His eyes were kept trained on the wall opposite him even as Byron came back in.

"Y'get it all sorted?"

"You knew." It wasn't a question on Adam's part, nor did his gaze shift.

"Kinda. I guessed, I didn't know. Besides, I woulda given ya space anyway; you're his partner, not me." Byron plopped himself neatly onto the table, dangling his legs off the side of it and kicking them slowly. "What is he to you, man?"

There was silence for a couple minutes, making Byron wonder if he'd over-stepped the line with that question, before a quiet answer was given. "Everything."

Jazz unlocked his door and switched off the alarm with a sigh. He actually felt lighter, like a weight he hadn't realized he'd been carrying had been mostly removed. He could still feel the darkness somewhere in the recesses of his psyche, and he suspected it would be there for the rest of his life, but he now felt like he could push back Foxtrot as easily as he could his office chair from his desk. However, Foxtrot was still needed and thus he would have to stay for now.

The saboteur rummaged through the fridge for some leftovers and threw a bolognese in the microwave, flopping down in a chair as he waited for it heat up. There was still the puzzle of how to pull off a kill without actually killing anyone, and he drummed his fingers idly on the table's wooden top as he thought about it. The 'ping' of the microwave to tell him his dinner was ready brought him out of his musings only briefly, and he went straight back to them as soon as he armed himself with a fork and sat down with the food.

It was about an hour later while digging through some old encyclopaedias and books he had in his bedroom that he recalled something Ryan told him about once a few years ago while he was still in the trials for his visor. Wade had carried a small animal into the lab - a little possum, if he remembered right - and set it down nearby. It wasn't moving and didn't look to be breathing, and Jazz asked why he was bringing in a dead animal to examine. Wade had thrown him a wide grin and stated that it wasn't dead at all. Rather, it was imitating death so closely that observers and examiners could come to no other conclusion. It was known as thanatomimesis; possums, apparently, were especially good at it which is where the phrase 'playing possum' came from.

Jasper closed his current encyclopaedia slowly and thoughtfully on his desk, resting one hand its cover while the other held a finger delicately to his chin. He had time tomorrow, perhaps he could go see Ryan about anything that could be used to induce the thanatomimesis before meeting up with the twins and Samuel again. His conscience would be clean then about making "kills". Or, cleaner, anyway. After all, Foxtrot had no reason to trust Russell or his men, insistence on using his own rounds and weaponry wouldn't seem all that far-fetched.

That decided, the African-American put all the books he'd got out back into their storage box and kicked it carelessly under his desk. He'd put them away when he actually had time. Jasper stretched, feeling the bones in his spine crack in protest, and then fell backwards onto his bed with a satisfied sigh. He was going to need some rest, tomorrow promised to be full of surprises.

Jasper screeched into the research lab car park with all the skill of a racing driver, snagging the nearest space before a rather startled Ford driver could even think about taking it. He revved the engine once before killing it, and then hopped out in time to catch the Ford owner's annoyed glare aimed at him. Jazz grinned unrepentantly and locked his Porsche before jogging to the main building entrance. He was greeted by a couple of the lab assistants and a doctor, who were thrown a hasty 'hi' back as he wend his way down the corridors until he reached Ryan's workroom. It didn't sound like anyone was in, but his knuckles rapped sharply on the door as he called out, "Rai! I need your help!"

There was a scuffling, muffled cursing and then the door swung open as a frustrated-looking Ryan ushered him inside. Jazz raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything. Instead he hopped up onto one of the examination tables, waiting for the surgeon to finish what he was doing so his focus could be placed solely on the African-American. It took around ten minutes before Ryan finally came back through to the main work area, hands in pockets and blue eyes demanding, questioning.

"Why are you here, Jazz? I don't have you scheduled."

"I know. I was hopin' yeh could work sommat out fer meh. Or Wade or Perce. I don' care who."

"Work out what?" Ryan leaned against another examination berth, arms coming up and folding across his chest as one eyebrow arched invitingly.

"D'yeh remember when Wade brought that possum in here a few years ago, 'n I asked him why he was examinin' dead animals, 'n he told meh it wasn't dead jus' pretendin'?" A grunt of assent followed alongside a snort. "Is there anyway t' induce that thanatomimetic state?"

"Induce it? You mean, force it?"

"Yeah." Jazz waved his hands around in the air vaguely. "If they ask meh t'kill, I can hardly refuse. They're expectin' th'merciless slaughterhouse I was in LA."

"However," interrupted Ryan, catching on, "if you can make it look like you've killed someone without actually having done so..."

The saboteur nodded firmly. "Exactly. I can become an apparent murderer without resortin' t'th'real thing."

"You might very well be onto something. Good thinking, lieutenant." The surgeon promptly turned around and turned on the private PA system that linked him to Wade. Or Wade's lab, at least. "Jack, get your ass here. Stat!" He cut the connection and pursed his lips. "I don't think inducing the death imitation is going to be the difficult part," he said thoughtfully, as though he was speaking more to himself than Jasper. "I think it's going to be making sure that the effects are only temporary."

"Can yeh make an antidote or sommat?" suggested the lieutenant, leaning back on his hands and crossing his legs. "I can mayb' slip it t' 'em later."

"It's possible. We're going to have to see what we can make the inducer out of first of all." Both heads turned to the door as it hissed open to reveal the rather haggard form of Wade Jackson. Ryan glared at the scientist. "Wade, when did you last get any sleep?"

"That bad, huh?" ventured Wade, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. "Busted."

"You look like shit," snorted the medic bluntly, earning a snicker out of Jazz. "As soon as we're done here you better get some rest or so help me I am going to tranquilize you for the next three days." Ryan waved a needle threateningly in the scientist's direction.

"I will I will," Wade waved his hands hastily in front of him in a dissuading gesture. "Now, what's so - oh hey Jazz - important?"

"Thanatomimesis."

"I'm afraid to ask," sighed Wade. "But I'll bite. What about it?"

"Temporary induction of it, that's what. Any way to do it?"

Wade opened his mouth to say something and then snapped his jaw shut again, pondering. "Not off the top of my head," he said at last. "Leave it with me though, Percy and I can work on. How soon do you need it?"

"As soon as yeh can," answered Jazz. "Preferably b'fore m'entry test t' Russell's roughpack. An' no, I dunno when it is," he added as he saw the question on Wade's face.

"Make things as difficult as possible, why don't you?" muttered the scientist. "Alright, it's a priority project." Wade left the room murmuring to himself and tapping his palm, already working on ideas and theories. Ryan shook his head as soon as his friend left.

"I swear, that man..."

"Can yeh gimme a ring when yeh get some progress or news or sommat?" asked Jasper, sliding gracefully down off the examination table and digging his car keys out. Ryan nodded and picked up a clipboard and pen, handing it over to the dreadlocked man.

"As long as I can get the number of your burn phone. Lord knows you won't be using your own."

Jazz scribbled his number onto the paper attached to the clipboard and handed both it and the pen back to the surgeon, and then with a 'good-bye' and 'thank you' he vanished out of the door, leaving it to hiss quietly closed behind him and Ryan to frown slightly in concern.

Morgan was silent for a couple of minutes as he clasped his hands behind his back, interlacing his fingers delicately. He wasn't facing the three men standing behind his desk, but he did address them when he spoke.

"Foxtrot will need a much bigger test than our other recruits. He vanishes off the grid just as I start to close in on him, we hear nothing of Foxtrot for years and then suddenly he reappears out of nowhere wanting into my service? I'm not sure I buy it. He's going to have to prove himself."

"That can be arranged." Thane's deeper, calmer tones sounded as Spencer snorted derisively.

"Well I don't like it at all," the second in command declared emphatically. "I don't know why we're even considering him, especially after Los Angeles."

"It's because of Los Angeles that I'm considering him," snapped Morgan, finally turning to face his lead trine with a scowl. "I need some of his ruthlessness in my organization, unlike the pathetic excuses I'm forced to work with now."

"Then why are your hands never dirtied, oh wise and glorious leader?" asked Spencer sarcastically, and Warren hissed at him to 'shut the fuck up' while Thane rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, waiting for the fireworks.

They weren't long in coming.

Morgan's scowl turned murderous, and before any of them could react he had Spencer pinned against the wall of his office with one hand wrapped dangerously around his neck while the other pressed its knuckles into the younger man's abdomen, a warning should he try and escape. Spencer scrabbled futilely at the hand grasping his neck. "You listen and listen well you glitching, rusty son of a bitch," seethed the crime lord. "I am keeping our face with the public. The police are the ones trying to bring me down, and they haven't succeeded because of my abilities to run this organization and hide what we really do. The public see us as a company whose profits go to charities and otherwise helping them, they suspect nothing. I remain the face of this company, I keep the feds from finding anything, I clean up the messes you bastards leave behind. Without me you'd be in jail - or worse - right now." Morgan let Spencer go with disdain, watching him fall to the floor coughing and massaging his throat. "Don't forget it."

Thane eyed his downed commander, silent for a minute, and then he spoke up. "My Lord?"

"What?" Morgan's gaze shifted swiftly to the dark-haired man.

"We have a drug shipment due into the docks in four days' time. However, the only dock they could get moored in is heavily guarded, and they can't unload the shipment themselves without being caught. We need to take care of the security." The assault specialist paused, tilting his head to one side. "I believe that is as good a chance as any for the infamous Foxtrot to prove himself to us."

"And risk a double-cross?" Morgan raised an eyebrow, but Thane shook his head.

"I highly doubt that. Foxtrot is a loner, even when he called himself a gang-runner. He does things of his own accord, has no allegiance to anyone but himself. He has no interest in money, he's only in it for the kicks. I don't think we need to worry about being double-crossed; the thrill of bloodshed should be more than sufficient for him."

The crime lord walked slowly back to his desk, mulling Thane's words over in his head. The loss of the shipment would mean a rather large set-back putting heavy pressure on his shoulders, but on the other hand...

"Do it," he said finally. "But I'm holding you," he pointed at the tactician, "responsible, understand? Anything happens, it's your head."

Thane bowed said body part respectfully, recognizing the dismissal, and turned swiftly and left. Warren looked unsure as to whether to stay or follow Thane out, but the decision was made for him when Morgan added in a not-so-gentle tone that they get out as well. He scuttled after Spencer, who swept from the room in a haughty, almost regal, manner.

Russell sat down in his chair and waited for a few more moments, enjoying the peace and quiet, before reaching out for his phone and dialling Samuel. The information specialist answered with his usual monotone greeting.

"I'm sending you the details of Foxtrot's test," said Morgan, getting straight to the point. "When are you meeting with him again?"

'Tonight. The Broken Palm.'

"Do not give him the information. Not yet. Wait until the day actually arrives. That way he can't tell anyone who could potentially pose a threat about the shipment. And Samuel?"

'Yes my Lord?'

"I want to know more about where he's been hiding and what he's been doing. Dig up as much as you can about him."

'Affirmative.' The dial tone sounded, indicating the blue-haired man had hung up, and Morgan growled slightly. Foxtrot had better be worth all this trouble. He stared down at his hands, curling them into fists and then uncurling them slowly. Well, they'd just have to see, wouldn't they?

Rae: Jazz seems to be having a lot of epiphanys...

For the record, Michigan doesn't actually have a statute of limitations for murder. Whatcha think? x