The next morning marked the second day after Thompson's failed 'destroy the evidence' plan. It was fairly early when I woke up to someone lightly jostling my shoulders. I scowled and tried to stay asleep until I realized it meant someone was in my room. I sat up with a jolt, circulatory system struggling to keep up and my head enduring a huge ache. All the same, I lashed out with my fist, but my wrist, which was sort of slow due to my state of only half-awareness, was caught by a strong hand.

"Whoa, whoa. Settle, kid," a familiar voice calmed.

I shook my head, blinked, and looked up. Booth's hand still held my wrist in place until he saw that I was more aware of my surroundings. I relaxed. Booth wasn't a sign of danger anymore. "Booth," I greeted in confusion. "What are you doing?" I looked to the alarm clock the hotel provided. "It's seven. Didn't you tell me yesterday to get my rest?"

"Thought I would invite you to the newest case," Booth said casually, shoving his fists in his pockets. "But if you'd rather sleep than investigate another murder case…"

I shoved the blankets off of me and tossed my legs over the side of the bed, not quite getting out but not letting myself fall back into unconsciousness. "I'm interested," I stopped him. "But I was only investigating the Eller case." I was honestly confused; the director didn't like me and I hadn't been too much of an asset to the Jeffersonian. I'd asked Angela to make some calculations and identified a motive, but that was pretty much it. The most memorable thing I'd done was shoot a man, and that wasn't something to really be proud of. They were the best forensic analysts in the country – possibly the world, even – and I was a rebellious teen from the slum part of the city. Besides, the FBI is only eligible for applications of the age twenty-one or older, only a few cases exempt.

"Yeah, well, the squints wanted you back with them again. They missed you, although they'd never say it in such normal terms," Booth said lamely, wrinkling his nose at their social behaviors. I rolled my eyes.

"I have a hard time believing that Dr. Brennan and her colleagues actually desire to work in cooperation with a kid who's not even gone to college."

"Yeah, and I had a hard time believing that they even knew how to enjoy being around people that aren't dead. We're both surprised today."

I slid off of the bed. I would take his word for it, and if he was lying, then I guess I'd find out. "And if you're working the case, I guess that's my loophole into it, as well?"

Booth clicked his tongue and pointed at me. "Ten out of ten."

A small smile tried to fight its way onto my face. Finally I gave a slight laugh. "Alright. Give me thirty minutes and I'll be ready to go to the crime scene."

Wow. The second homicide case in my life that I'm actually investigating! With the Jeffersonian Institution, no less!

I dressed casually. I didn't have any professional clothes, so I'd have to hope that it didn't really matter. My seatbelt was clicked in place across my chest, keeping me against the back of the seat in Booth's FBI SUV passenger side. "You're famous, Holly," he said good-naturedly, taking a hand away from the steering wheel temporarily to wave at a newspaper on the dashboard. "The media got hold of the story."

"You seem to like me a lot more than you did when we met less than a week ago," I observed critically, but I picked up the newspaper tentatively.

"Well, you're not a murderer and you're a good kid," Booth said gruffly, not wanting to get sentimental and sweet. I could relate. I think if I ever had to do that, I'd kill myself with a two-by-four. "You were pretty useful in the Eller case."

"Please," I sighed, looking down at the newspaper. "You and Dr. Brennan did all the work. I just gave opinions, pissed people off, and shot a guy. Hardly impressive." My eyes widened when I found the front page. A picture of myself talking to Brennan that night at the Senator's house was on the cover, taken most likely by one of the photographers that had leaked through security before being escorted off the property. I was deep in a nervous conversation with the anthropologist. In the picture, my features seemed harsh; I was scowling, so it was probably right after we'd been shoved out of the way of the crime scene search team. My hair had lost some of the usual volume through the day full of car rides and warm buildings, and was mostly straight, my bangs brushed to one side and my hair falling over my shoulders. My arms were crossed derisively and even in the colorless photograph, my eyes were sharp. A caption labeled us as best-selling author, Temperance Brennan {Ph.D} conversing with a formerly-unknown young woman outside the Senator's house reinforcing the follow-up of a search warrant.

The headline was bolded and the rest of the text was pretty large. This story had been a big hit with the editors, that much was clear.

FEDERAL Bureau of Investigation working in cooperation with Jeffersonian Scientists – and a seventeen-year-old kid?

First-hand reports all collaborate and say that award-winning author Dr. Temperance Brennan (a forensic anthropologist from the Jeffersonian Institution's Medico-Legal Laboratory) and the Federal Bureau of Investigation are now collaborating with a strange teenager that no one has seen before on a high-profile investigation of the murder of young Miss Cleo Eller, Senator Bethlehem's former intern. Are the FBI so desperate that they enlist the official expertise of children now?

Sources have identified the mysterious third party between the collaborating FBI Special Agent Seeley Booth and leading forensic anthropologist Dr. Temperance Brennan as a seventeen-year old by the name of Holly Elena Emily Anya Kirkland, a resident of D.C.'s darker corners. Officially taken in under suspicions of murder only days prior, Holly has been cleared of all charges and is now under the protection of FBI Agent Booth. It seems she is also granted access to the case declaring unofficial war on the United States Senator.

One would think the girl would be off the case as soon as the FBI is done with her, but further investigation also shows that she was partaking in friendly allegiances with the other residents of the Jeffersonian Institution's forensic science unit. Is she some sort of prodigy to be exempt from the balanced rules?

Well, whether or not she is, Holly certainly deserves a huge pat on the back for her actions. With Dr. Brennan, she uncovered the real murderer of Senate intern Cleo Eller, daughter to a Major from the first Gulf War. Senate Bethlehem's aid, Ken Thompson, murdered Eller by stabbing her multiple times, smashing her head against the floor of his aquarium room, and dumped her body in the pond at Arlington. Upon confronting Thompson during his attempt to desecrate any convicting evidence of his crimes, Holly saved herself and Dr. Brennan by taking quick action. When Thompson attempted to douse his home with gasoline and burn both women alive, Holly broke a display case on the nearby wall and shot Thompson with his own weapon. Thompson's injury was deliberately non-fatal. The FBI have deemed that no charges will be pressed on Holly as she acted defensively, and her unprecedented entry into Thompson's home was taken on account of her collaboration with the FBI.

Who is the seventeen-year old? Not remotely famous or notorious whatsoever, her sudden appearance into the ranks of the crime-solving scene have mystified our sources. What makes her valuable to the leading crime-solving team of the Jeffersonian, and why does the FBI approve of her involvement? Is it her intelligence? Quick thinking? Strength? Or does she have internal connections in the bureau? Dear readers, we have taken it upon ourselves to find out.

I groaned, tossing the paper down back onto the dashboard. "Fantastic," I griped. "Now the whole world wants to know who I am."

"Here's what you do if any reporters get to you; answer what you like, and say 'no comment' to what you don't. If they keep harassing you, tell them to go through the FBI. Don't make a scene with them or it'll egg them on further," Booth advised.

I gaped in dismay. "You expect them to get to me?"

"I expect them to try."

We were quiet for the rest of the ride to the scene. When we found a parking spot, Booth told me the wonderful details of this one. It was a bomber, possibly terrorism, in a public place. An SUV had been blown up with someone inside it, and there were a lot of people injured, a few dead. It was in a normally nice part of town, the SUV just to the side of a little café with an outdoor seating area with umbrellas perched over the tables. I think that café might have to up their prices to compensate for their lack of customers. It wasn't until we got close to the sight that I saw the media being pushed back to government officials. Someone pointed me out, their green eyes widening in recognition, and I groaned, abhorred, as pictures started flashing and the indistinct roar of several people talking at once became louder. I covered my face with my hands. "Oh, no…"

As we got closer, pushing through the throng and into the scene, someone stuck a microphone in my face. "Is it true that you're only seventeen?"

"Is it true that you really think people care more about me than they do a bomb attack?" I shot back, temper flaring. "Get the goddamn microphone out of my face."

"Will you confirm that you shot Ken Thompson, the Senator's aid, in his own home?"

"I'll confirm that you can go through public affairs to find information rather than harassing me."

As the number of pauses increased, so did the proverbial steam coming out of my ears. A woman with long brown hair stopped me. "Can I have a moment of your time to discuss your-"

I glared and interrupted her, getting increasingly violent. "You can have my fist in your face if you don't f*** off and leave me alone!"

Booth grabbed my shoulders and steered me directly through to the crime scene tape and held it up for me. I ducked under, relieved to be away from the mass of the media outlets seeking coverage. "Bones!" Booth shouted to Dr. Brennan, who was talking to Angela with confusion etched over her features. Angela stood next to her, looking around in mild interest and not paying too much attention. "Bones! Over here!"

Brennan spotted us and tapped Angela, pointing us out. They came over to us, Brennan rather frustrated. "Where have you been?" She demanded of Booth. "You said you would meet us on the corner!"

"I had to stop to get your junior squint for you-"

"Hey!"

"And there's a lot going on, in case you haven't noticed," Booth said crossly, motioning back behind us. He looked to the approaching security guard. "These girls are with me. Dr. Temperance Brennan, Angela Montenegro from the Jeffersonian; Holly Kirkland, my charge by the FBI."

"I need ID," the guard informed him.

Booth tried to wave away the guard but realized that wouldn't work. "Check the RI5 list, Homeland Security. They're the forensic anthropologist, artist, and ward of the FBI."

The guard flipped up one of the numerous pages in the clipboard and his eyes scanned over the contents before nodding shortly.

"They're clear."

"Thanks," Booth said, not at all sounding grateful. "C'mon," he beckoned us.

"Hi Angela," I said conversationally to the artist. "Did you all at the Jeffersonian really ask for Booth to invite me?"

"We sure did," she said with a smile and a nod. "Why? Did you not want to be here?" Her smile was quickly replaced by a concerned frown.

"No," I hastily reassured her. "I was just really surprised."

"Hon, you're a legend in the city, in case you haven't noticed." Angela pointed out wryly, motioning to the flashing cameras directed at me and not the scene.

I cringed. "Yeah, well, I hope I'm just a one-hit wonder."

Angela shook her head, smiling at my attitude, before wrinkling her nose in disgust. "Oh, God. What's that smell?"

I looked to the ground, heaving a sigh. "Barbeque…" I answered lowly.

"Burnt flesh," Brennan promptly answered from ahead of us. She turned to Booth again. This time I listened. "Are there a lot of injuries?"

"Four known dead, fifteen injured," Booth recited.

Corpses of the deceased were laid under dark blue tarps. Even though they themselves weren't visible, it wasn't magic to guess what was under them. Angela turned a sickly color as she forced herself to look away, her eyes gaining a haunted quality.

"Details, whatever you have," Brennan demanded.

"Not much," Booth said regretfully. "Witnesses said they saw a middle Eastern man, mid-thirties, pull up to the café, and the car just blew. The vehicle is registered to a Hamid Masruk, head of the American-Arab friendship league."

I gasped in surprise, earning the attention of my three… colleagues. I would have smiled myself silly at that thought, but the magnitude of the situation was horrifying. "Consultant for Arabian relations?" I confirmed, a sinking feeling pooling in my stomach. Please say no.

An agent in Homeland Security gave me a short nod under a glare from Booth, answering to me reluctantly. "If you know who it is, why do you need me?" Brennan questioned, snapping on a pair of latex gloves and taking a steady step closer to the blown-up van.

"Because we're hoping we're wrong," the same agent told her gravely. "Masruk is a White House consultant for Arab relations, as the girl said. Had lunch with the President just last week."

Booth jerked his thumb at the agent as a means of a lousy introduction. "Agent Gibson from Homeland Security. Dr. Temperance Brennan, Angela Montenegro, and Holly Kirkland." Booth pointed to all of us in turn as he said out names. "If Masruk was involved in a terrorist attack, then we have a humongous national security problem."

"Not to mention a very humiliated president," Gibson added with a deep scowl. "The press is already running with this."

I fixed him with a cold look. "I should think you'd be more concerned with the president's life and health than his pride. I believe I speak for myself and Dr. Brennan when I say that if you expect our findings to be altered-"

"Look," Gibson sneered at me shortly. "Not at all. But maybe it's not Masruk. We need to be sure. I'm not entirely sure why you're here."

"She's here at my request," Brennan inputted sharply.

Gibson sent me a warning look with his eyes that I raised my eyebrows at. Nevertheless, Brennan could easily refuse to assist them in this project and so he had to respect her wishes to some extents, so he didn't continue his verbal assault that meant nothing to anyone except himself. He nodded his head to her in respect. "Booth says you're the best."

Brennan ignored Gibson, calling to Booth over her shoulder while she looked but didn't touch the remnants of the man and the car. "I need surgical gloves and masks for the retrieval team. Sterile medical bags, and vegetable oil."

"Vegetable oil?" The former sniper echoed skeptically.

I nodded. It made sense to me. "The oil will loosen the seared body parts stuck to the metal. It's not much different than cleaning up after a barbeque."

Booth made a face, probably not liking the image in front of him now being associated with 'Barbeque Saturday'. "It's okay," he stopped me. "I'll trust you on that."

Zach approached Brennan's side, coming practically from out of nowhere. A camera hung around his neck, quite possibly the same one that he'd used when he took pictures of Cleo Eller after she'd been removed from the pond. "Should I photograph the scene?"

"Focus on a thirty meter radius from the blast," Brennan consented. She seemed deeply aggrieved, even slightly out of character. What seemed particularly unusual to me is that she actually asked Booth if it was okay to retrieve something that she saw.

Booth sauntered over to her. "You know, it's okay to be upset."

Brennan shook her head, her lips tight. "I wish this is the worst thing I'd seen," she confided darkly, lifting up what looked like a foot from the driver's side of the SUV. It was mutilated and blackened, the skin seared and cooked. Angela stood to the side, obediently holding open a dark red retrieval evidence bag.

Angela swallowed thickly as Brenna held up the body part to the sunlight, trying to determine what it was. The forensic artist tore her gaze away from her friend and passed the retrieval bag off to Booth, looking down at the ground and sounding uncharacteristically subdued. "You know… uh…. I don't think I can…" she gave up on trying to convey her meaning and walked in another direction. "Sorry."

I nodded to Angela empathetically, showing that I understood. I don't know why it didn't bother me. Maybe I was used to horror; maybe it had something to do with my mentality; maybe I had a mental disorder. Maybe it was something else. But while I knew it was horrible, I didn't feel the same level of abhorrence as Angela obviously did.

I wasn't sure whether feeling it or not was worse.

Brennan seemed to decide she'd need her equipment to decipher the few clues offered to her by the exploded flesh and started to move to put it in the bag, but she caught Booth fidgeting and avoiding looking at the severed piece of human while he held out the bag. She sighed in mild irritation. "Well, if you can't either…"

"No, I'm cool," Booth protested unconvincingly.

Brennan bought it. "Zach, I need two more evidence bags!"

The Medico-Legal lab was busy due to everyone being so worried that this was terrorism. If it was, then security was really bad, and the president could easily be assassinated. Due to the hectic buzz, the Jeffersonian was taking out the big guns and enlisting everyone possible to assist them in identifying the man from the SUV and reconstructing the bomb. These little facts could tell whether or not Hamid Masruk was a terrorist or not and if he was still out there. Due to the need for speed, Brennan gave me latex gloves and is letting me look over the burnt corpse with her and the other forensic scientists.

"Facial epidermis and the fingertips are completely decimated," I reported, trying and failing to make a sense from the cooked, burned, and blackened mass of bone and sinew. "There's no way identity is coming from the flesh. It's pretty much all carbon."

"We are missing the lower left leg and the lumbar spine," Zach told Brennan, looking up from his bone count.

"Here's the C2 and the right ischium," Brennan pointed to the bones she was referencing. I picked them up and moved them back onto the exam table along with the rest of the remains in anatomical order.

Zach sighed in frustration. "Smoky here had access to the president." I had to quickly stifle a snicker at the nickname. At least it was fitting. "Why would he attack a café?"

"Smoky?" Brennan asked. She understood what he was referring to, but she didn't seem to get the humor behind it.

"It's how I deal with stress," Zach said, raising his shoulders slightly in his own defense.

Hodgins walked over to the microscope on a desk by the rails, sliding a Petri dish into focus of the lenses. "Targeting everyday places causes panic. People stay home, the economy is crippled," Hodgins patiently explained to his friend. "It's Terrorism 101."

I nodded, looking up to Zach. "If this was a case of terrorism, then we're lucky it's not worse," I stated grimly. "A really awful but effective terrorism strategy is to wreak havoc in a public place, one filled with civilians. Then you have the EMTs – ambulances, police – all in one place, where another wave hits, wiping out first responders. It terrifies the citizens. The economy fails, businesses go under, and the government is scared to issue responders to reports."

As I looked down to identify another bone, I felt eyes on me. I rolled my eyes but didn't look back up. "Criminal Minds season three finale. Really good. It continued into the first episode of season four. Twist ending."

"Take samples from the clothes," Brennan replied, back on topic now that she had her unspoken question answered and she had a reasonable answer to go with it. "See whatever you can find. Traces of cologne, laundry detergent, anything that we can link to Masruk's home."

Hodgins grasped a pair of thin tweezers and stepped closer to the body, holding a microscope Petri container in one hand to place particulates. He clicked the ends of the tweezers together. "I'll also grab any particulates that I can use to identify the type of bomb."

"Isn't that the FBI's job?" Zach asked, but he stepped away from the table subserviently to give Hodgins room to move about for a moment to gather particulates.

Hodgins scoffed like this was hilarious. "What, you trust the FBI?" When Zach gave him a look, not understanding Hodgins' obvious contempt, the entomologist rolled his eyes. "You realize those guys are going to suppress whatever they need to to cover their asses."

"I found a portion of the clavicle," Zach announced, setting the aforementioned bone onto the exam table in its anatomically-correct place.

"Are you even listening?" Hodgins demanded, irked.

"No."

"They have a separate division, you know. That way their hands are always clean. In 1970-"

"Jack!" Brennan interrupted, giving Hodgins a long, hard look. "We're trying to work."

Hodgins looked a bit put out. "Don't worry, dude," I said nonchalantly, standing up straight again and rolling my shoulders to get the kinks out. "We all have quirks. Conspiracy is yours; no big deal."

"Says the seventeen year old in a forensics and FBI team," Hodgins shot back good-naturedly. He didn't notice as Booth came to the center platform. The alarm would have gone off (Brennan had to swipe her ID card for it to let me up), but a guard entered in the code so the FBI agent was able to come up behind Hodgins without the entomologist knowing. "Someone seems really defensive about the FBI lately," Hodgins said conspiratorially to me, obviously talking about Brennan. I cringed almost indiscernibly, realizing what Hodgins was aiming at. "You realize that Booth is just another government stooge, right?"

"This has nothing to do with Booth," Brennan answered firmly.

Booth scowled. "You know," Hodgins jumped and spun around to see Booth, then took a few quick steps to another part of the platform. "I don't enjoy having squints on my team any more than you like me on yours, but you know we're supposed to be working together. Okay?"

Hodgins rolled his eyes, quickly getting over being spooked by the so-called 'government stooge'. "Sure. So what do we do, group hug?"

"I'd rather not," I said seriously, making a face and looking back down at the exam table. Smoky was coming together nicely, although I doubt he'd say the same if he saw himself as an array of bones and smoked meat.

Booth ignored Hodgins' witty comment and my remark. "Agent Gibson here will be overseeing things for Homeland Security," he announced, making a sweeping gesture with his hand to the officer from earlier. Taking the cue, Gibson stepped up the platform, the guard entering another key code so the alarm didn't beep.

"I'll try not to be in the way," he told us humbly. "I'll keep the kid out of your hair, too."

"Firstly," I said, a little irate. "I'm not in the way. I'm assisting them, and your comments on my age and skill levels, or lack thereof, is really starting to make me mad, and I have anger management issues. Secondly," I added with a more patient tone, looking to Brennan. "It was an expression."

"We don't need to be overseen," Brennan stated defiantly.

Booth inhaled deeply, shrugging his shoulders. "That's really not your call, Bones. How soon can we get the DNA match?"

"That'll take days," Brennan estimated, shaking her head. "I can get a match much sooner than that. I have all we need."

Gibson pointed at the exam table with an expression of unease. "You're going to be able to ID him from that?"

Zach and I exchanged a look, and the intern turned to tensely tell the agent, "Asking stuff like that is in the way."

Brennan addressed Zach and I as she stripped the exam gloves off of her hands. "Remove any flesh and particulates you can, and then macerate them, Zach. Holly, work with what you can without violating the basic guidelines and do as Zach requests." She stepped down off the platform, Booth following unsurely. She sent an annoyed look at Gibson as she passed by on the ground level. "If that's alright with you?"

Gibson nodded, taken aback by her mild hostility. He leaned his hands on the examination table, bracing himself against his own weight. I jumped; any particulates on him could hinder the investigation if they got mixed up with what was already on the bomb victim, seeing as he wasn't wearing gloves. I reached over and shoved his hands off of the table suddenly. "Don't touch the table," I warned. His hands went up slightly, skeptical, and his hands approached the table again. "Don't touch the table," I repeated with more vehemence, giving him a sharp glare.

Hodgins clapped him hard on the arm. "Do as she says and don't touch the table," he instructed. "We're very territorial about our table," he added as a joke. …We? Our?

Thirty minutes later found me assisting Zach in setting the remains gently in a little terrarium. I was actually looking forward to this a little. I'd always been a bit of an adrenaline junkie; the feel-good vibes had an attractive effect, and so I never minded being a little scared or antsy after the fact. So being near the creepy bugs that Zach was planning to feed the victim to was disturbing (bugs weren't my forte), but I'd live with it. The things I just really can't seem to get over are snakes, spiders, and slugs. I mean… ew. I've never liked reptiles or arachnids, but if I see one, I freak out. For example: once I saw a common gardener snake slithering through my sink. The plumbing in my part of town meets legal standards, but it's not excellent. That's why I have a tap filter on my sink faucet. Anyway, I freaked out and ran outside, screaming all the way, and then called animal control. I was shivering five minutes later. Another example; one time I saw a spider on a park bench. I screamed and a senior citizen had to come over and kill it with her newspaper for me to calm down. I've never gone to that park again. As for slugs, that's more since I was ten. I think they're just disturbing, gross little pests. I'm a bit better about my reactions now, but they're still not at all calm and composed.

"All the trace evidence has been stripped," Zach told me, mistaking my reasons for chewing on my latex glove-free fingernails. It's a bad habit when I'm nervous, but the lab doesn't allow chewing gum during examinations and animal-related tasks. "Hodgins scavenged as much as he could."

I nodded, not bothering to correct him on why I was demonstrating nervous tics. "Okay then. Let's get started."

Zach lifted up a huge clear glass jar of crawling beetles. I shivered. It was funny; woman's skeleton drenched in water with the skull bludgeoned? Piece of cake. Man's body cooked and blasted apart by a bomb? No problem. A jar of insects? Ew. I took comfort in knowing that Gibson, who was keeping an eye on Zach and I while we worked, was showing more disgust than I was.

Zach tipped the jar upside down, tapping lightly on the bottom. He watched with a content smile as they spilled and fell out of the jar, like other people his age would smile at a puppy or a litter of kitties. Oh, God… Zach sees the beetles as his pets. That's both disturbing and cute. They fell into the terrarium and onto Smoky's seared flesh with the sound of sand hitting the floor of an hourglass, but much louder, like little marbles hitting the bottom of a glass jar. They were tiny little things, but they squirmed and went straight to work, finding a place to snack.

"What the hell are those?" Gibson demanded, rearing up in abhorred disbelief. He probably thought we desecrated evidence.

"Dermestes Maculatus," Zach said, getting down onto his knees to watch the beetles work through the side of the terrarium.

"Flesh-eating beetles," I translated. "It's how the Jeffersonian cleans the flesh off of burn victims. Isolate the bones and we can be more accurate on the general details, as well as identify any particular injuries or health conditions that could link to a person's profile. And you're getting in the way again."

Gibson's phone rang and he answered it on the second buzz, holding it up to his ear. It was an expensive phone, the likes of which I'd never be able to afford. Hell, I didn't even have a mobile phone! The only one I had was a lousy landline service that couldn't leave my place and had to be wired up at all times.

"Gibson. Yes sir… Yes, sir." Gibson took the phone away from his ear and spoke, not addressing Zach or I in particular. "The President wants to know how long the ID is going to take."

"YO, MR. PRESIDENT!" I shouted suddenly, sure that the person on the other end of the line would have heard me. I smirked. I can now say I talked to the president of the United States of America. Triumphant, I tilted my head towards Zach's pets. "Why don't you ask them?"

Sahar Masruk, Hamid Masruk's wife, and Hamid's brother Farid were being held in the interrogation room for questioning. Sahar was exceptionally beautiful. I've never met anyone who had anything nice to say about the appearance of Arabian women, calling them gypsies or making fun of them for dressing like princesses. Thank you, Disney. Then again, it might have to do with the part of town I live in. Myself, I see no reason to be so rude. Arabians are still humans and the only reason they're classed differently than Americans is because of their culture and the negative connotation coming with being from the Middle-Eastern part of the world. Sahar could easily be a model. Her complexion was dark and fair and her eyes were charcoal. She didn't wear much makeup, unlike some people who felt makeup a necessity to bring out their nicer features. Sahar's hair was long and inky black, and somehow she managed to keep it tame and untangled, even though she was pacing around and didn't have it tied up in any way. She wore a dark orange top and beige slacks, looking like a normal person who was stressed out.

Hamid wasn't much different. The major variable was that he was kind of a guy. His pants were slacks like Sahar's and he wore a sweater vest over a navy blue long-sleeved shirt. His hair was a lighter black but his eyes were roughly the same color as his sister-in-law's. The other notable main difference was his face. Not that I'm being rude or anything, but there were unusual scars on both sides of his face, like he'd been dragged along a concrete road by a taxi for a few hours and then it hadn't healed right. I think it might be a genetic disease.

"You've made a mistake," Sahar said rather decisively, shaking her head. Her black hair swished over her paling cheeks.

"My brother was no terrorist," Farid denied the other implication. We'd just told them that we found a body in Hamid Masruk's SUV and we have no positive identity, but that it's likely Hamid. Of course, this included telling them about the bomb (not that they haven't heard that already). Sahar was outright denying it. Farid, however, seemed to have an easier time accepting the news of his brother's likely death, instead defending his brother's honor. "He hated those people. You can read his speeches. Talk to anyone!"

"We're not making any accusations," Booth said evenly, leaning back in his chair next to me. He was letting me assist him in the interrogations; I was proud of this. It meant he believed I knew what I was doing, or at least that I could be trusted.

"It's all over the news," Farid told us desperately, wanting us to do something about it. "It's all anyone is talking about." His words were very slightly clipped, the result of English not being his natural language. I imagine anyone who heard me speak a foreign language would detect something along the same lines.

"We cannot control the media, Mr. Masruk," I said, pushing the limits of my patience. "If we could, they wouldn't even be covering the bombing."

"How about your men?" Sahar demanded, lifting her chin to us in a challenge. "They've searched our house. They've talked to our friends."

"Until we can positively identify the body in the explosion, we must conduct a thorough investigation," Booth said adroitly.

"So identify the body," Sahar said like she thought it was that simple. "The longer you wait… do you know what it is like for us?"

"Mrs. Masruk, it's not as simple as you seem to think it is," I said, trying to figure out a way to tell her what we were facing tactfully. "The explosion severely damaged the remains. The body was fragmented. I do know what it's like to not know what happened, or whether or not your family is dead or alive." My current foster guardians, who had disappeared, hadn't had any contact with me since they drove away. I didn't bother myself with them, but lying about it was immoral, and for all intents and purposes, this was a purely professional confession to get Sahar to pose submissive to the FBI. "I understand how difficult it is for you not to know and yet to deal with the consequences. My coworkers-" I couldn't help but smile slightly at this. I had to say it to include myself or Sahar might alienate me, but it was still nice to say. "-And I are working as quickly as we can to get the information we need. That's why I requested for you to bring his history. Where he grew up, injuries from his youth, and medical records can all assist us in identifying the body sooner."

Sahar calmed herself, swallowed dryly, and sat down in her chair again, withdrawing a thick manila envelope from her large purse. She set it on the table and slid it across the tabletop to me. "Of course. I brought you what you asked for."

"Thank you," I said, bowing my neck briefly in respect. My interaction with Sahar and Farid was helped by my knowledge of their culture, I could tell.

Sahar choked, tears that had been fighting to break free finally managing to spill down her face. "We lived just like you." No, you didn't. You lived better than I did, but I get the point. "We came to this country because we love it. We are Americans. It can't be Hamid. It can't. My husband was not a terrorist."

When I got back to the Jeffersonian, Zach and Hodgins were debating over what the bomb could have been made of. Hodgins kept the computer screen angled at them and away from Gibson, who was looking frustrated. "I'm back," I announced needlessly. "How's it going?"

Zach held up some printed documents for a moment before setting them down, displaying he'd run the scans. He doesn't need to show me. My opinion doesn't technically matter. "I have his detergent brand, cologne, and shampoo. He died a well-groomed man."

"I'm sure he'll be able to rest in peace now that the world is aware he had good personal hygiene," I commented wryly. "Dr. Brennan, Mrs. Masruk brought the files. Is there anywhere we can go over it?"

Brennan looked up and started stripping the gloves off of her hands. The latex crackled as the rubber gave away to the pull. "We can use my office," she told me. "Are the bones done yet?"

"Miss Kirkland?" Gibson asked. I pretended not to hear him out of spite.

Zach nodded. "I'll go check on the beetles."

Brennan nodded to her grad student and came down the platform steps to me, pointing out the way to her office. She led in front of me and I followed. Gibson chased after us, irked. "Miss Kirkland, whatever you have there-"

I lifted up the envelope and lazily waved it around over my shoulder. "It's some paper, that's it. Just paper with printer ink stamped onto it. I'm sure if you really want to lay your eyes on some, the White House can easily produce the same thing."

Brennan and I were sitting across from each other. Brennan was leaning against the sofa in her office, hunching over the pictures and papers around her floor. I was a few feet away but directly in front of her, my back arched and on my knees, looking around. Although the papers seemed scattered, Brennan and I understood the organization of which they held as we'd laid them out.

"Hard at work?" I jumped. Angela was standing at the doorway, her eyes narrowed curiously. She took a few steps over to the side of the couch so she could see the papers spread across the floor of the office. "There's a shocker."

"I just saw his wife," I explained to the artist. "She gave me Masruk's medical records and photographs. He was ill. They were testing for lupus, which would explain his face." I gestured to a picture of Masruk's smiling torso with Sahar's. His face had the same disfigurement as his brother's. "It must have been painful," I added with a sigh. I think I knew that it was only a matter of time before the last five days started catching up with me, but I didn't see it coming. It blindsided me; I didn't realize the empathy was creeping up on me. I shook my head shortly, trying to brush it off. THE Dr. Temperance Brennan didn't ask for my assistance just for empathy.

Angela shifted, her skirt rustling as her weight shifted from foot-to-foot. "Look," she started uncertainly. "Bren, I… I know that you needed help out there. At the crime scene. And I wanted to, but…"

Brennan hefted herself off of the floor and backed up onto the couch, flopping down against the cushions. I looked over at the clock on the wall. Brennan and I had been sorting papers and going through possible factors of identification for almost two hours. "It's okay," Brennan said with a shrug to show she really didn't mind. "You see it. I don't anymore. I don't even know what's worse."

Angela joined Brennan on the couch. "You holding up okay?" She asked, looking over to me. I'd been slowly standing up and getting some paperclips, so I could clip the information together so we wouldn't have to go through it and do the same thing again. I wanted to pack the stuff up and go; I felt like I was intruding on their very personal conversation.

I sighed, unsure how to answer. I didn't want to lie; it was making me a little sad. Angela seemed sincere, so she obviously was worried about my feelings. On the other hand, it was something that I'd get over, and I was exercising the chance of my lifetime. Shouldn't I be excited and enthusiastic rather than tired and disappointed with the lack of results? I decided on honesty. Angela was a kind person and she would probably know if I was lying, anyway. "His wife doesn't believe it was him," I sighed. "I have to give her an ID."

"Whatever I can do," Angela vowed. "And about this weekend…"

"Angela, I don't know," Brennan said, obviously having been invited to something over the weekend.

"Oh, come on."

"I don't know."

"Holly, I know this great club," Angela said, gearing her efforts at me. "They play Trip Hop and Trance."

"I'm not certain what either of those are, beyond music styles," I told her.

"It doesn't matter," Angela insisted. "We'll all go together. We'll grab Booth."

"No," Brennan said quickly.

"I think he likes you," Angela stated, smiling impishly at Brennan. "God, if I were you, I'd buy a ticket on that ride."

I shuddered. "Ew. Seventeen year old kid in the room."

Brennan pointed over to her desk, where plastic storage boxes of bones were just able to be seen through the near-opaque containers. "Look, I'm going to be very busy this weekend. Even after this case, I have those."

"Remains from World War One," Angela said with a disgruntled sigh.

"That's what the institution pays me for," Brennan said insistently. "I've got hundreds of these waiting."

"And they can't wait one more weekend?" Angela protested, on the fence between persuading and whining.

"They've got relatives. They've waited long enough."

Angela rolled her eyes. "You know, it's not that scary, Brennan. You have a few drinks, move to the music." She gasped like this would be a miracle. "You might even smile!"

She was interrupted by a light rapping on the open door. I looked up to see Zach, standing patiently and waiting for his boss's attention. "The bones are clean," he stated.

Brennan stood up, reluctant to leave the comfy furniture and the comforts of her best friend. "I've got to run. You hang around. I may need you."

The skeleton was laid in anatomical order in the bone room, where some equipment such as microscopes and magnifiers were set up and already wired to a monitor. Brennan, Zach, and I were back on the latex glove bandwagon, except Brennan was holding up a voice recorder to her mouth so that she could officially report her findings. "Comparing remains to details provided of Hamid Masruk, age 37, of Afghani origin," she intoned. She slowly walked down the length of the exam table while Zach and I stood at its front, waiting for her instructions. "Texture of pubic synthesis indicates age of bone consistent with Masruk, as is height."

Zach raised his hand. Brennan nodded to him, pointing the recorder in his direction. "Complexity of the cranial vault sutures matches the statistical probability of age and descent," Zach stated.

"Good," Brennan approved.

"Too bad we can't tell why he did it," Angela sighed longingly. "Isn't that what we all really want to know?"

"Permission to hypothesize," I asked. Brennan nodded, so I continued. "We've all been under the assumption that if this is Masruk, then he acted of his own free will, and he was a terrorist, and he planted the bomb. Is it at all possible that this is Masruk and he was actually the victim?"

Brennan nodded, taking this into consideration, and Angela looked surprised no one had thought of this earlier. "Maybe," Brennan ceded. "Uneven growth patterns in the vertebrae indicate malnourishment as a child."

"Consistent with the diet where Masruk was from," I promptly added.

"There's probably more evidence on the calvarium?" Zach phrased his statement as a question, looking to Brennan for confirmation of his theory.

"Why don't you reconstruct the skull and check it out?" The anthropologist offered with a neutral expression.

Zach smiled and nodded. "My first cranial reconstruction," he stated with pride, smiling down at the exam table. I shook my head slightly. Most guys got excited about cars. Zach's enthusiasm for his career was not only endearing, but it was also refreshing. Most people thought about work as a chore; it was always nice to meet or hear about someone who actually enjoyed it and took pride in their skills.

Brennan nodded, satisfied with herself. She slowly walked back up the length of the exam table, where the pieces of the empty cranium stared up at her, the mandible detached and a few centimeters ahead of it. "Dr. Brennan, the fractures evident on the bottom of the feet are consistent with methods of torture in Afghanistan," I said quietly. Brennan needed to know, if she didn't already, but it was pretty horrible to think of a man being tortured in one country, coming to another for freedom and diplomacy, and then being blown up. "It's consistent with Masruk's history."

Brennan nodded, the same haunted look in her eyes that I was sure had flashed through mine. "I am convinced we have a statistical match." She released the button on the audio feed, turning the recording device off."

"So Masruk is the bomber," Gibson clarified. Was he not listening at all?

"Or the victim of a bomb attack," I edited his sentence.

"What about the skull?" Gibson asked in skeptical confusion. "You're having a kid reconstruct it."

Brennan seemed as irritated by Gibson as I was. She lifted up a file folder of Masruk's history from a table. "This is an educational institute. He wants to learn. Is that okay with you?" She asked curtly, giving the impression that she didn't really care whether or not it was okay with him. "For forensic ID, we have all we need. Now I would like to get this data to Booth as soon as I can."

"I'll take it," Gibson offered.

Brennan shook her head in disagreement. "I don't think so," she said firmly. "I work with Booth. That's my deal."

"Dr. Brennan, I have jurisdiction," Gibson started to argue.

Brennan tilted her head coyly. "Then why don't I destroy my notes and let you guarantee the identity of the remains?" Common sense telling her that, no, Gibson would not like that over her handing them straight to Booth, Brennan walked confidently out of the room, her ponytail swishing on her neck.

"It's best to just ride it out, like an earthquake," Angela advised the Homeland Security officer wisely.