05:30, 12 Hours post poisoning. HR 85/NSR, SPO2 100%, RR 20.

None of them had slept much, least of all Mac. They'd gotten pizza from the all-nght place around the corner from the hotel, and basically waited until it was time to head out to the train.

Now, an hour and a half into the train ride, Riley and Jack were both asleep in their seats. Mac was the only one who couldn't, but that was fine. There wasn't much he could do on the train, and he liked the quiet anyway.

He'd started not feeling well a few minutes after the train had begun its early morning rumble toward the LA train station. To be honest, it had taken him a while to sell it to himself that is was the poison and not the lack of sleep or just that he was sitting backwards in a train that was making him feel crappy. He'd walked back and forth to the bathroom a couple of times, but hadn't been able to vomit. Admittedly, the general grossness was better than he thought he would feel at this point, but it still wasn't welcome.

The sun was coming up and he tried to distract himself a little with the sunrise. A long golden-orange streak at the base of the horizon, gently growing brighter and wider until the actual sun was visible as a half-circle, then a circle. Mac let his eyes close briefly, then opened them again. Trying to distract himself wasn't helping. The only thing that had come of it was a directionless sense of urgency. He needed to be doing something, or this would be the last sunrise he saw, the last time he would see his friends sleeping on public transit, the last time he would-

He stopped himself. That was absurd and defeatist and overall not helpful. He needed to sleep, to recoup, and then to science the heck out of the problem until he figured out how to save himself.

The nausea was getting worse. He got up, a little unsteady in the rocking train car. Almost everyone on the train was sleeping or else more interested in their electronic devices, which was also okay with him. He was thankful Jack and Riley had fallen asleep. If he could have another hour or so where he didn't have to detail his symptoms to them, he would be happy.

The bathroom was open. He locked the door and sat on the toilet, looking at his reflection in the small, warped mirror over the sink. He looked exhausted and pale, his face a little greasy from his lack of shower. His stomach growled. He leaned his head forward onto the cool plastic wall of the compartment.

He enjoyed the coolness for several minutes until the train hit a seam in the track and his shoulder jostled forward into the edge of the tiny sink. He snapped his eyes open at the sudden pain- more than he was expecting. He stood up unsteadily, frowning. His reflection looked back at him, confused and uncomfortable. If this whole thing could just stop happening, that'd be great.

But it was happening, and he would just have to deal. He pulled his jacket off and hung it on the tiny hook on the folding door. He washed his face and hands, ran some water through his hair. He felt a little better.

Then something caught his eye. At first he thought he must have leaned against something yesterday, or that there was something on the floor he'd laid on when he thought the syringe contained a drug. There was something dark sticking out just under his shirt, on his skin. Mac pulled the sleeve of his shirt up at looked in confusion at a large bruise. Not new, not from a few seconds ago. This was something that had happened yesterday, but…

He hadn't gotten in any fights yesterday. The only place he would expect there to be a bruise was on his thigh from the dart, and he didn't feel ambitious enough to look there now. The bruise was just big enough to be concerning, roughly in the shape of a partial handprint. And he had no idea how it had gotten there except… maybe ghost?

"Mac, you in there?" Jack's voice came through the door. Mac pulled his shirt sleeve down instinctively and grabbed his jacket.

"Just a minute." He said.

"You've been in there for like 20 minutes, you okay buddy?"

"I'm good, I'll be out in a second." He flushed the toilet to make it seem like he was actually doing something legit instead of just standing there looking at himself in the mirror. He pulled the door open to Jack's concerned face.

"You look like crap, Mac." Mac frowned.

"Thanks, Jack, I feel like it."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"You were asleep."

"So what's wrong?" Jack asked, a little irritation in his voice. "And tell me everything, Mac, okay? We need to know what's going on, even if you want to be brave, which is stupid, by the way." Mac raised and eyebrow.

"I feel like I'm going to puke and I have a weird bruise." He said, trying to shrug it off as something less than anxiety inducing.

"That's me on a lot of Saturday mornings." Jack said.

"Yeah, well, there's a reason I don't drink, Jack." And a reason, he thought, why he didn't like talking about being sick. People got concerned, then joked to cover that concern, and he didn't really feel up to indulging that humor. He didn't care that that was no kind of retort. He was tired, and stressed, and just wanted to get something over with. What that was, though, he had no clue.

Matilda Webber walked quickly down the long hallways of LA's Supermax. She was getting tired of these visits. There was never any variety- always the same hallways to the same cell to the same sneering face. It was no different today, except that she was slightly angrier than usual.

The guard swiped his ID badge at the door, allowing her entry to the blank interrogation room. Across the bolted-down table, Murdoc sat chained to his seat. He leaned forward as Matty approached and climbed on to the chair across from him.

"Matilda!" Murdoc started jovially. "To what do I owe the pleasure- its been, how long? Almost a week hasn't it?"

"Cut the crap, Murdoc."

"Touchy." Murdoc scolded playfully. "How's the team? Bozer still in hospital?"

"I'm not here to trade pleasantries."

"Then what, my dear, do you want?" Murdoc said, settling back into the seat as far as his restraints would allow.

"I think you know." Matty prompted. Murdoc smiled, pretending to be thoughtful.

"I would guess it has to do with MacGyver."

"It does."

Murdoc leaned forward again as though he were about to share a secret. "No comment." He whispered gleefully.

"I know one more murder charge doesn't matter much to you in the grand scheme of your multiple life sentences, Murdoc, but in here, all alone, you must be itching to tell someone what possible reason you have to go back on your threat to kill MacGyver in person."

"I already told you that, Matilda. In writing, I believe." Murdoc said. "Come back with some interesting questions next time."

"See, I don't think it would be enough for me." Matty said, changing her tone. "You must have a lot of plans for getting out of here, Murdoc. Why would you sacrifice feeling MacGyver's final heartbeat, hearing the breath leave his chest for the last time." She leaned in closer to him, drawing it out. "He's your arch nemesis, Murdoc. Why would you waste his death on a job interview." Murdoc looked almost uncomfortable.

"Don't mock me, Matilda." He said. "Its not about witnessing MacGyver's death. Knowing it was my plan, carried out to my exacting specifications. That, my dear, is what makes his death my work." He paused, as though considering how much he wanted to tell her before continuing. "I planned the bait, the trap, the exact specifications of the poison. How it would feel in his veins, how fast it works." He stopped again, and stared straight into her eyes. "Do you know why rat poison doesn't kill rats quickly, Matilda?" Matilda shook her head.

"Enlighten me."

"Because they're smart. Not unlike our intrepid agent MacGyver." Murdoc explained. "If you poison a rat, and it dies, its friends will learn not to frequent the same trap. Meanwhile, if you poison a rat, and it dies days later, its friends won't be able to connect the poison to the source."

"Should I be worried about my other agents, Murdoc?" Matty asked.

"Oh no, Matilda. I just like the story." Murdoc assured her. "It's the poetry of it. Plus, this way I get to plan his thoughts to the letter, the moment. For example, what time is it, Matilda?"

Matty looked at her watch. "0735." She said, unsure she actually wanted to hear what was about to come out of the psychopath's mouth.

"Right now, he's realizing the poison is real, and that its killing him, but slowly. He's wondering about all the horrible symptoms his death will contain." Murdoc detailed gleefully. Matty looked unconvinced. "But there is a ray of hope to him still. Right now he's sure he'll figure it out. That's MacGyver for us, right? His faith in science is so strong."

"What kind of poison could outsmart such a dedicated scientist?" Matty asked, her eyes as full of mock wonder as she could make them.

"That, Matilda, is something even I don't know." He said. "It pained me to leave that part to chance, but I know my weaknesses. I brag."

"Come now, Murdoc."

"I'm serious. Like I said, I detailed the specifications of the poison. Not the poison itself. I would have liked to make it, alas, but I had to leave that honor to my chemist."

"Just so you couldn't tell me the poison?"

"Or the antidote, if there was one." Murdoc said. "Don't look so disappointed, Matilda. You're watching art."

"I'd be happier if I knew who the chemist was."

"Hmmm" Murdoc said. "That doesn't exactly serve my interests, does it?"