It didn't seem like it took very long for three more days to fly by. April was beginning to turn into spring, a time to kiss the cold goodbye. Warm breezes swept in the bar when the door opened to tease its inhabitants with tantalizing scents of beginning floral growths, and walking to the bar was ever the more pleasurable with the sun beating down on my hair and making it warm to the touch. Even the loser drunks of the city seemed to be taking a break today, and I was able to enjoy my walk to work this morning without even a barest tint of discomfort.

All in all, my mood was as high as a kite – well, at least as high as the bar ceiling, which is somewhere around twelve to fifteen feet high. I'd taken to swinging by my current guardians' abandoned residence every afternoon, checking the mailbox in case I happened to find mail from the government regarding my testimony against Martin Davis's murderer, but so far, nothing had come up.

On that note, I hadn't been in contact with anyone from the Jeffersonian since the banquet about seventy-two hours ago. Admittedly, it hadn't been as depressing as I expected. I didn't like people, but I didn't mind a party. Yes, I know those two contradict, but I like having a lot of stimuli. It distracts me from more pressing matters. Mostly I'd been able to relax and be alone, drinking sparkling cider in the corner. As long as I talked to people and waved away some reporters (What? The news says they were threatened? Psht, that didn't happen. Christ, they'll make up anything to get attention), I could mostly stay by myself. Plus they had free gourmet food, which was quite a change from the microwave-made Kraft macaroni I'd had planned. True, Dr. Goodman had ended up introducing me to a few of his friends, and that wasn't my favorite pastime, but it was better than being thrown to the dogs. Well, paparazzi. Aren't they the same thing? Dr. Goodman made sure that they knew I didn't want to be touched, as he must have told them that trying to shake my hand would result in an ICU doctor shaking their head in sadness – or something along those lines.

I was being a waitress today, enjoying myself despite the bustling bar. It helped we had a few of our employees back. Being understaffed hadn't been bad before, because we'd not been busy, but now that it was warming up and final exams were coming, teachers were coming down with their friends to get intoxicated (and, quite possibly, incarcerated). Our fourteen year old, a midget with long, sandy hair named Drake, was serving food while I, the oldest responsible employee, was tasked with the duty of alcohol, which kept me busy enough to not be bored, but gave me enough leeway to not have to hurry.

I held a round, stainless steel tray against my waist with one hand and a bottle of scotch in the other, having just refilled someone's glass. My hair was tied up in a high ponytail, neatly brushed, and I had a thin layer of lip gloss on. Screw Andy for making telling me to wear 'a little something extra to make us some more cash.' I think in all actuality he was trying to say, 'don't wear the sweatshirt,' but to hell if that's going to happen. "What can I get for you today? You can ask me for alcohol and it'll be over in a max of three minutes, or I can go get our waiter for you to relay a meal order. It's all the same to me."

The person looked up from their phone and gave me a sly smile at my dumbfounded expression. "Can I order a Holly Kirkland to go?"

I nearly dropped the scotch bottle. Grinning up at me from mascara-attacked lashes was the forensic artist, Angela Montenegro. "Shush!" I yelped, moving quickly to hide her from view of Andy's office. "What are you doing here? Can you fight off an entire gang?" I demanded, keeping my voice hushed, but at the same time not bothering to hide my panic.

I had no doubt Angela could take care of herself in the heart of the city. She was used to that. But she was dressed in expensive, nice, designer clothing and her looks weren't lacking. She was beautiful and had money, so she had a stable job and a good life, in a place where no one there would have that. Plus, she worked with feds. The lowlifes here wouldn't make the distinction between federal officers and Angela, and if they weren't in a good mood, well… Angela would be taken on and I highly doubted she could fight the same way I could. She put herself in danger by coming here alone.

"No," Angela said, giving me a weird look. I nearly face planted on the table. She had no clue how stupid an idea it had been to come here without a weapon.

I looked around, reaching a hand up to my ponytail and smoothed it down against my neck, taking a long, long breath. "Okay. Why would you want 'a Holly Kirkland to go?'" No use making a big scene of it. I wouldn't be surprised if some of those dangers were in here right now.

Angela sighed, shaking her head at my apparent cluelessness. "There is a club tonight that I found specifically so that I could drag you with Bren and I, because it is eighteen and up, and you only need ID if you want alcohol."

"Angela, I'd not eighteen or up."

"You could pass for eighteen or up."

"I have no federal identification."

"Are you planning on getting alcohol?"

"Uh, no, not particularly."

"Then you won't need identification."

"Okay. Fair enough."

"So you'll come?" Angela asked hopefully, lifting her purse very slightly like that was what she'd come for.

I looked back at the bar. Drake didn't seem to notice anything off about my current customer. "Look, I really have to work. I've only done about a third of what I should have in the past three weeks because of these cases, and I'm lucky enough to have the FBI excuse that for me."

Angela tilted her head at me, her expression the picture of ultimate seriousness. "Come on. Sweetie, you're seventeen. You work hard. You work in a lousy bar or you catch murderers, and both of those entitle you to a trip to a club."

"Even if I'm not allowed to be there."

"Now you're getting it!"

I looked up at the ceiling, chewing at my lip. One more night with Angela and Brennan couldn't hurt anyone… and… I didn't have work tonight… I looked down at Angela, letting go of my lip and giving her a solid look that could not be argued with. "I have to leave by two a.m.," I told her seriously.

Angela smiled triumphantly, standing up from the booth and giving me a very satisfied look. "Then I'll pick you up here when you get off."

"Nine p.m., then."

Angela picked me up in her car. It was a little, shining silver ride that stood out like black on white in this neighborhood, but I glanced around to make sure no one was eyeing us violently before getting in the passenger's side.

I was relieved when we got to the Jeffersonian. Angela passed through the lab very business-like and led me straight to Brennan's office, where the anthropologist was rushing around, collecting papers and trying to reorganize her workspace. As we went in, Brennan's eyes flashed to us and she rushed from the front of her desk around to her computer, where she clicked on her email icon and started to create a new message.

"Come on, honey," Angela started, lifting up Brennan's nice, warm, fuzzy coat from the couch in invitation.

Brennan didn't look up from the computer to the jacket, instead, squinting against the monitor's glow and not blinking. "I'm just finishing up a few emails. My publisher wants to schedule a book tour. I'm just confirming dates."

"That can wait, sweetie," Angela said, fondly sighing.

Brennan seemed not to share the same opinion. The hard-working scientist let Angela's dismissal of the emails go and instead stood up, leaving the browser open as she bustled past Angela and I to go straight back to the coffee table, where a large stack of papers with post-its, edits in pen, and paperclips were piled on top of each other. She picked up the first paper clipped bundle and read the first page. "There's a student that needs help identifying the cause of a fracture on a lateral epicondyle."

Angela raised an eyebrow with an otherwise perfect poker face. "T.G.I.F.. Have you heard of that?" Angela made a little dancing sway with her hips and waved her arms up in the air above her head.

"Yeah, it's some kind of acronym," Brennan said vaguely, not very interested. I half couldn't believe she knew the phrase "lateral epicondyle" and didn't know what T.G.I.F. stood for. "But my inbox is full." Brennan tried to go back to her computer. I had to admire her persistence when Angela was so obviously determined.

Angela shook her head, giving me an exasperated look to vent her frustration. "We both know that's not true."

Deterred once more, Brennan left the computer for a second time and went back to the next bundle of papers. "There's a… TV show that needs research, not that they listen to it…"

"We're going," Angela announced, snatching the papers away from Brennan and flopping them haphazardly back on the stack. She even went so far as to begin to push Brennan's lab coat off of her shoulders.

Brennan turned around so Angela could pull the jacket off of her, but she cast a longing look at a human skull resting on a cushion designed for the purpose. It was sitting on its own little corner of the coffee table, giving off an eerie feeling as it smiled creepily. "I really should catalog that skull. It's in the museum exhibit on the French Revolution."

Angela hummed to tell Brennan that not only did she know, she also didn't really care. "Yeah. Pepé le Pew is more important than booze and boys." Angela tossed the authoress's lab coat over on the couch, where it folded over itself limply, selecting the warmer, fuzz-lined coat to take its place.

Brennan let Angela herd her out of the office and I followed obediently. Angela would probably scold my ear off if I tried to ditch or talk my way out of it, now. Brennan looked behind her again as Angela gently pushed. "I don't think that's his name."

"It was a literature/media joke," I explained to Brennan with a shrug. "Angela knows that the chances that the skull's identity is that of a Pepé le Pew is very small, if not nil. I'd say she mostly said it to bother you."

"Well if I weren't as tired, I would be able to honestly say that she had succeeded."

The emcee was having the time of his life in the musty, brightly-lit, crowded club. "Alright, everybody! We're going to keep in crankin' here tonight! Tonight the Basement Club brings you the number one deejay around town, Deejay Rules!" Well, it sounded like he was saying 'Rules,' but, being well-acquainted with stupidity from this part of town, the deejay's name was probably spelled R-U-L-Z or R-U-L-S or something silly like that. There was also the possibility that Rules was the deejay's real name, but I didn't think that that was very likely.

The club definitely wasn't the best (I mean, hey, the security guards outside let a seventeen year old in without asking for identification), but it was stereotypical. Alcohol, young adults, some women dressed like prostitutes and a few men looking out of place by wearing Hawaiian shirts. Several older men were sitting at the bar and enjoying ogling the younger women on the dance floor, shamelessly staring. Brennan and Angela had dragged me to the bar and ordered a low-alcohol martini and a whiskey, respectively. Angela was not willing to let go of her time to get hung over, but Brennan seemed to keep in mind that someone had to drive, and I didn't have a license, even if I did know how. The dance floor was so crowded I couldn't see the actual floor, instead seeing tacky neon colors mixed in with darker hues. Silver light spun from an old disco ball that had been scratched several places at one time or another.

"It feels good, doesn't it?" Angela asked Brennan happily, speaking very loudly over the hip-hop deejays and civilian masses. Her eyes were taking longer than normal to focus on one thing at a time, but other than that it was hard to tell she was on her way to getting tipsy. She could hold her liquor pretty well. "Being with people who are alive?"

Brennan nodded excitedly over her glass. "It's very stimulating, I have to admit!"

Angela looked back down at the drink in her hand, grinning enthusiastically. "We are so gonna tear it up tonight!"

Brennan frowned slightly, probably wondering whether or not Angela meant that literally. "That's slang, right?" She asked me.

"Right," I confirmed, practically yelling over the loud volume. "She means we're going to have a lot of fun."

Brennan looked down at her clothes. Angela had made us drop by her apartment complex and then forced Brennan to go upstairs to her apartment and find 'suitable club clothes.' Brennan had come back wearing skinny jeans (which I never would have thought would be in her closet) and two-inch heeled boots with a spaghetti-strap cotton grey top and a black cord necklace with a green pendant. "Is my costume alright?"

Angela sighed at her friend's hopelessness. "Sweetie, it's not a costume. It's a cute outfit. And yes, it looks perfect."

"I know, it's very – it's very warm in here!" Brennan agreed, 'understanding.'

Angela rolled her eyes. "No, because it looks great!" She clinked her alcohol back onto the bar top and grabbed Brennan by the arm, giving her only a few seconds to put her drink down. Angela sent me a mildly threatening look and I sighed, sliding off my seat and following Angela as she pulled Brennan through the crowd on the dance floor. "We are so getting checked out!" Angela exclaimed, winking.

"Those poor men have no clue what they're getting themselves into," I muttered. Either they were ogling a carefree, live-in-the-moment artist who was cool but admittedly a lot to handle, or an anthropologist with highly lacking social skills. Not that either of those is a bad thing, but I bet it's just a shocker to find out that your hot date is more interested in engaging you in a conversation of the anthropological meanings of certain gestures than sleeping with you.

Brennan turned her head, trying to see everywhere. "I love this music!" She had to shout to be heard now that we were in the heart of the noise.

Angela smiled, all daydream-like. "Deejay Rules, he is so hot." She let the music get the better of her and started rocking, putting her hands up and dancing.

"It's so tribal," Brennan mused, still looking around.

I flinched. "Don't say 'tribal,' Dr. Brennan." Saying that with these sorts of people? Not a good idea.

"Why?" She asked, honestly confused, but then it dawned on her. "Oh, because of all the black people?" Eyes started to turn to us when they heard the words Brennan was carelessly throwing out. I felt like many of them were quickly turning hostile.

Angela seemed to have the same feeling. "Sweetie, just for tonight, have fun. Stop dissecting and take part."

"African-Americans aren't the only ones with tribal heritage," she said, starting to sway to the music. I stood still, not feeling like dancing now that so many threatening gazes were being sent our way.

A woman with black skin and large, bushy black hair put her hands on her wide hips, shoving her way past a couple of people to get to Brennan. "You say we're natives of some tribe?" She demanded loudly, getting even more people watching. I started sucking on the inside of my cheek nervously.

Brennan blinked. "Anthropologically speaking, we're all members of tribes."

A second woman, dressed in a red shirt, rather standoffishly pushed her way to the first's side. "You better shut your mouth!" She warned.

More and more people began to gather around and Angela and Brennan both stopped dancing as they became the center of some very negative attention. Brennan tried to back off, but there really wasn't anywhere she could go, so she held up her hands, trying to make peace. "I just meant that hip-hop mirrors the direct visceral connection you see in tribal communication."

"What?" A drunken man asked, angry mostly just because he probably couldn't see straight, let alone understand what Brennan had said.

"After the Cartesians split in the seventeenth century," Brennan began to elaborate, mistaking the man's question for something different entirely. "We separated our mind from our bodies the numinous from the animalistic."

"You calling me an animal, fool?" The first woman asked, taking an intimidating step forwards.

Another woman waved her hand in the air. "No, fool. She's using Descartes' philosophy to say she's down with the music."

Until this point, I'd been mostly ignored, since I hadn't really said anything. But, sensing a possible scene about to occur, I took a step in front of Brennan and Angela and spread my arms in front of them, taking slow steps back and trying to get them against the wall. It was a primitive instinct to get against another surface so that I couldn't be attacked from behind, but it had served me well so far. I clenched my hands into fists and glared around at the people going after us with hostility.

Although I didn't like it, in this environment and surrounded by these people, it was a bad idea to not try to be submissive unless attacked. "We don't mean any offense," I said, inclining my chin to the three women and gathering crowd. "We'll be going." It was just plain stupid to stay after this.

"You'll be staying right here to explain yourselves!" The first woman declared, stomping her foot for emphasis. I tensed; if anyone else agreed with her, then mob mentality might kick in, and it would be hard to leave without a fight.

"We were just saying we liked the music." Although I hadn't said anything, saying 'we' instead of 'she' would make it seem like I'd been involved, which might make them more inclined to take on myself instead of Brennan. While I had no doubt Brennan could take care of herself, as far as I knew, she wasn't armed, and some of the people around here play dirty. I'm not the only one around that carries concealed weaponry.

"No, you weren't saying nothing," the second woman growled at me. I chanced a look behind me; the wall was only a few feet away from the people I was trying to protect. I turned back to the women. "They was. Get outta my way."

Her intent to be violent to Brennan was blatantly obvious, and the women behind her were nodding. I was sure I could take them on myself, but if other people got angry, there was no way in hell I'd be able to fight an entire club of people and still manage to protect two others. So I resorted to returning threats with violence.

I reached into my pocket and withdrew the Swiss army knife, the blade snapping open. It was sharp and glinted in the disco's shining light. Several people took steps back, but several also pushed forward, enraged at the threat I posed. I pushed Angela and Brennan up against the wall and maneuvered to extend the knife at everyone surrounding us. I wasn't afraid to be violent if the situation called for it.

A man (who was probably drunk) stepped through the others' ranks and to me, grabbing my upper arm with enough force to leave a bruise. "You shouldn't have done that, bitch!" I whirled on him, hitting the side of his face with the flat of the blade. It left a shallow cut and a future headache, but it was enough to stun him. His grip loosened and I pushed my foot between his, taking the hand not holding the knife and pushing his wrist behind his back and then kicking to the side. The man fell over onto the ground.

Another man (wow, another drunk), spitting, flew at me. I grabbed his wrist before he got to me and his momentum made him keep going. His wrist snapped, dislocating, and he howled in pain. I spun, forcefully pulling him with me and then releasing him. He sailed into the wall, which snapped and broke.

The angry voices and yells stopped as the plaster broke open. The huge gap in the wall was the origin of a white fog which covered everyone in a ten-foot diameter, myself, Brennan, and Angela included. I breathed in shallowly, not sure what it was. Nothing happened, but it was a semi-sweet smell and I kind of wanted more. I recognized the scent and didn't bother to control my breathing anymore. Dear Lord, who hides methamphetamine in a club wall?! Well, at least I'll be high enough to laugh about this later.

The crowd erupted in nonsensical gibberish again, this time with a few screams. As the disturbed powder began to clear itself out of the air, the man I'd slung into the wall screamed and ran backwards, falling down in his haste to get away from the wall. A grey, powder-dusted form was leaning against the back of the external panels. His long black hair was ratty and matted, his skin sickly pale and had a shine. His clothes were rotting away and his eyes were sunken and looked like they'd been covered with thick cream. Ew.

"No way!" I exclaimed, moving to get a better look. "Bloody hell! It's a modern mummy!" Oh, yeah. Did I mention it was a corpse?

Booth sighed again as Special Agent First insisted on following himself and Tessa into the club, which had been evacuated by first responders to the nine-one-one call. "Are you sure they can handle this?" First asked for the second time, reluctant to take Booth's word for it.

Booth sighed, glaring up at the agent. "No one in our lab knows the first thing about dealing with a mummy. I'd have to call her in anyway, and the other would end up being requested by the squints, if the last weeks are anything to go by."

"She assaulted two agents who were trying to tape off the body, and she had a knife," First explained with a raised eyebrow, highly doubting the sanity of the person in question. He pointed over at Booth's former ward, who had her arms crossed and was shouting at a CSI to stay away from the remains. Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes were dilated. Her hair was lighter than normal due to a thin dusting of white powder.

"They were trying to compromise the remains," Bones defended Holly, hearing the accusatory tone First used.

First rolled his eyes to Booth. "A cloud of meth covered the dance floor." He pointed with one hand at Brennan and with the other at Holly. "I think they've inhaled quite a lot."

Booth smiled despite the situation. "Are you three high?" He asked. He'd been surprised enough that Angela had convinced both Bones and Holly to go to a club with her, but they got high, too?

Angela was leaning against the wall, out of the way of the crime scene team. She sighed and rubbed her forehead, tired and with a headache. "Only by accident, so it doesn't count."

Holly left the agents that she was having a fit at abruptly, turning her attention back to Booth and his girlfriend. She crossed the space between them with fast, small steps, swaying slightly on her feet when she came to a stop. "Why'd you bring Tessa?" She asked, lacking the usual inhibitions she held to crossing personal boundaries. "This doesn't seem like such a good idea for a date."

Tessa was straightforward, although she seemed mildly interested in meeting Holly after having to tolerate Booth watching over her for two weeks. "We were out to dinner when he got your call." She seemed distracted as she peered into Holly's wide, inquisitive eyes. "Your pupils are the size of saucers," she said uneasily.

Brennan left Booth and Tessa to run over to another officer. "Wait, get away from the remains!"

Booth, amused, shook his head. "Bones, simmer down!"

Two men walked around the crime scene tape. "How long is this going to take?" The first asked Booth impatiently. They were both African-American with short dark hair. They both wore suits, although the first's wasn't as nice.

Booth glared at them. This was a crime scene with a dead body, and they were impatient half an hour into the investigation? "Who the hell wants to know?"

The second man, holding a cane, tapped it on the ground in front of the first one's feet. "I'm sorry. He works for me. I'm Randall Hall. I run this place."

"You run this place, Mr. Hall?" Booth repeated suspiciously. "Interesting, you know, because we found some drugs on-"

"Found them," Holly repeated from behind him, nodding in complete seriousness. "We found them."

Booth watched her for a minute before shaking himself out of it. I can't really blame her for acting weirdly, she's high on meth. "Alright, we found some drugs on the dead guy. We're going to want to know where they came from, why he had them-"

"Why," Holly nodded, embellishing her repetition of Booth's words by crossing her arms and trying to look tough. Stumbling and with red cheeks and wide, glazed eyes, she wasn't getting near the effect she usually was.

Booth gave Holly a look for her to stop before continuing. "…Why he had them. Any idea who he is?" Booth pointed off to the side at the mummy in the wall.

"Any-" Holly started, but Booth patiently looked back at her and gave her a calm 'really?' look. Holly stopped in the middle of her sentence and turned away, letting Booth get the message across on his own.

Hall was smug and arrogant when he replied flippantly. "The guy barely looks human. What makes you think I'd recognize him?"

Booth shook his head, tired, and turned around to see Brennan leaning over the mummified corpse, interestedly observing with utter fascination. "Bones, how does something like that happen?"

Bones didn't even bother correcting him on the nickname. She casually grabbed the arm of an officer who was getting too close to the remains for her liking and twisted it behind his back. Nothing strange there. "Well, the Egyptians would give the body a cedar oil enema and then rinse it with wine and cover it with salt, but I don't think that's what happened here."

Booth laughed. "Bones, you are totally wasted!"

Bones turned away from the mummy, presumably to form a coherent response to his comment, but saw Zach coming to the scene. Her eyes lit up and she ran over to him, rushing at him like a freight train and grabbing his arm, leading him eagerly to the mummy. The intern let himself be pulled along, uncertain, and a little nervous to pull away.

"Zach! Zach!" Holly bounced on her heels and pointed frantically at the cadaver while Brennan pulled him to it. "Come here!" Brennan put her hands on Zach's shoulders and started steering him directly to the mummy while Holly excitedly continued. The presence of more people she was in favor of enthused her. "Isn't this awesome?"

Zach sent wary looks to each of the oddly-behaving women. "What's going on?"

Booth covered his face with his hand for a moment. "Let's just say they inhaled."

"See how perfectly dried and preserved the skin is?" Brennan asked happily, pointing at the corpse. "You don't find something like this every day. Hey Tessa, have you seen it?" Tessa didn't reply, uncomfortably trying to ignore the question.

Angela rocked back and forth unsteadily. "It's so hard to believe that you two would be a couple," she slurred, pointing between Booth and Tessa repeatedly. "I mean, cop and lawyer. It's very touching!"

Tessa sighed. "I'm going to get a cab."

Booth groaned. "Oh, no. Okay, hold on-" He handed her a ten dollar bill for taxi fare. "Sorry, sorry. I apologize. Here," he took her hand. "I'm going to make it up to you, I promise. Okay? Ice cream later?" He offered. "Take care."

Tessa nodded, smiling slightly at him. "I'll talk to you later."

"Talk to you later," Booth called as she retreated. When he looked back, Angela, Bones, and Holly were all giving him silly grins.

"Aww!" They all exclaimed simultaneously.

Booth glowered. "Can we just stick to the business here?" He asked, sulkily. Holly nodded in disappointed acceptance. "Thank you." He turned back to the club's manager. "I'm going to need a list of your employees. We'll run it through the system and see if any one of them have a drug conviction. Bones, how long before you can ID him?"

Brennan clapped her hands. "Well, I'm not at all tired, so I'm sure I can stay up all night and work!" She declared, her demeanor hyperactive. "Holly, do you want to come?"

"Yes please!" The teen chirped happily.