Ten

"Here. Take a seat. Try and relax."

Detective Booth – August, as he had insisted on her calling him – prompted Emma to take a seat on a small, brown couch. He had guided her into a small room to the back of the second floor of the police station, far away from the loud hustle and bustle of the bullpen below. It was a welcoming room and one, she deduced, in which they collected witness statements. She tried to follow August's instructions; she did take a seat on the couch but relaxing was out of the question. She perched herself on the edge of the couch, leaning forward, ready to go at any given moment. She remained rigid, on high alert, plagued by the knowledge of what remained at large out there, searching for her, on its mission to kill her.

The door to the small room creaked open. Emma's head snapped to it immediately, her eyes wide and her body braced for a fight, not prepared to make its mission easy for it. It was not the machine at the door, but two men. She spotted the detective badges which both newcomers wore and forced herself to relax slightly, making her tense shoulders drop. She didn't want to appear jumpy. The last thing she needed were all three detectives believing she was a damsel in distress. In most situations she knew exactly how to handle herself; she believed she handled the stalking situation pretty damn well, if she did say so herself. But with all Jones' talk about futuristic robot – no, cyborg assassins, she had to admit that she was completely thrown. She had never taught herself how to respond to such a situation, a fault certainly not of her own for who would have thought machines from the future would invade her world?

"Emma, these are my colleagues, Jefferson, and Robin," August introduced her to the two newcomers, indicating to each one in turn; Jefferson gave her a curt nod, whilst Robin sent her a friendly, reassuring smile. "They are also working on the case."

Robin took a step forward and handed her a bottle of water which she accepted out of nothing more than politeness. She wasn't interested in having a drink, not of water at least. She wouldn't have passed up on anything alcoholic, given the circumstances. She knew getting hold of alcohol in a police station was unlikely so she simply held the plastic water bottle in her hands as she carefully assessed the two newcomers. Jefferson was an entirely new face, but she recognised Robin from the conclusion of the car chase. He had been the officer to arrest Jones and drive him away from the scene in the back of his cop car. For someone who had no doubt heard Jones' side of the story – he didn't strike her as a man to act on his right to remain silent – Robin looked remarkably calm. It made sense, of course. There was no way Robin, or the other detectives, would believe Jones' story. She hadn't believed it to start with; not until she'd seen it.

The machine.

After seeing it shake off six shots to the chest and get tossed through the air like a ragdoll yet maintain persistent in its mission, there was very little room to deny Jones' explanation. Yet she still had, refusing to believe the evidence right in front of her eyes. His impossible knowledge had been the final nail to cement the horrific realisation that the world he described was the one which they would all soon face for themselves.

The police force, however, hadn't seen the machine up close and the likelihood of Jones having undeniable future knowledge of any of the detectives to win them over in the same manner was very low. The detectives were going to think he was crazy; they probably already thought he was.

Jones' earlier words were all she could think about; it's a ruthless killing machine programmed for one thing. To kill you. It has no conscience, no mercy, no pity, and it will not stop until you are dead.

As much as she would like to feel as if it were all over, safe in the confines of the police station, surrounded by cops, she couldn't. She had witnessed first-hand the minimal impact the bullets had on the machine. As much as she hated having to rely on other people, she knew that, if she and the officers were to stand any chance when that thing tracked her down, they would need Jones; they would need his expertise.

"Where's Jones?" she questioned, looking between all three detectives, not at all caring who gave her the answer so long as she got it.

"He's in our custody," it was August who answered her, "he can't hurt you now."

"He wouldn't hurt me," she told them adamantly. "I know he wouldn't."

"Miss Swan," Robin spoke up, his tone urgent but gentle. "We have a lot of reason to believe that Jones is mentally unstable and due to that his actions are entirely unpredictable. We can't afford to take the risk."

"He told you about the machine," Emma stated simply.

She knew that much already. She hadn't known Jones for very long at all, but she did know him well enough to know he wasn't afraid to spurt out a load of unbelievable information about the machines. To him, it wasn't unbelievable. To him, they were a fact of life; it was all he had ever known. Whilst he had been aware that he sounded crazy to her, she doubted it quite sunk in just how ridiculously insane it made him come across.

"The machine sent back from the future to kill you," Robin confirmed with a nod, a hint of scepticism in his voice. "Just like Jones is also from the future."

"And here to save me," Emma added the key part that Robin had skipped over.

"Because without you, humanity gets wiped out," Robin finished the recap, the faint scepticism remaining in his tone.

"Even if it weren't true, he wouldn't hurt me if he believes he's here to save me, would he?" Emma reasoned, trying to get them onside, trying to get to Jones.

"Even if it weren't true," Jefferson spoke up for the first time, picking up on her choice of wording. "Does a part of you believe this crazy tale he's spun for you, Miss Swan?"

"I didn't," Emma spoke decisively, determined to make it clear that she didn't believe every single man that approached her with the claim that she was of grand importance to humanity's future. "But then I saw it for myself. It took six shots to the chest and got right back up."

"There's a perfectly reasonable explanation for that, Miss Swan," Jefferson responded, droning his words, almost sounding bored. "It doesn't mean that we're facing an oncoming invasion of robots."

"What Jefferson is trying to say," August hastily spoke up, going for a more sympathetic approach, and shooting a glaring look in his colleague's direction, "is that the perp was wearing a bullet proof vest."

Except he wasn't. She'd seen the wounds, the blood dripping from the bullet holes. The detectives appeared set on that explanation, however, so she folded her arms and tried a different approach.

"That doesn't explain the way it shook off being flung through the air by a cop car as if it were nothing," Emma challenged.

"That one's simple too," Jefferson spoke up immediately, keen to prove it all to be nonsense. "Drugs."

As much as they tried to convince her otherwise, Emma remained firm in her belief. She didn't buy the drugs explanation, didn't even consider it for a second. She had looked the thing straight in its cold, blue eyes as it had towered above her in the bar, gun pointed at her head, moments from pulling the trigger. They had not been the frantic eyes of a man on something, but the detached heartless ones of an empty machine. Nevertheless, it had quickly proven pointless to attempt to convince the detectives of the unlikely truth, so she once again moved on to a different approach. Know when you're losing, adapt accordingly; it had worked for her over the entire course of her life.

"Either way, there's a man out there who wants to kill me," Emma reminded them. "Jones wants to protect me, so let him help."

"Or perhaps Jones is the one who is putting your life in danger in the first place," Jefferson stated shortly. "Did you ever consider that, Miss Swan?"

Emma stared at him, taken aback by his tone and the almost accusatory way in which he had spoken. It was as if he had forgotten that she was the innocent one in the entire situation; the victim, not the suspect. It was late. She knew that Jefferson had probably worked a long day already and most likely wanted to tie the entire case up in a neat little bow and go home. She was not prepared to make it easy for him to do that, not with the extent what hung in the balance.

She stood her ground, "In what world does that make sense?"

"The real one, Miss Swan," Jefferson shot back. "I'll remind you that earlier today you had a phone call conversation with Detective Booth in which you reported that a man matching Jones' description, right down the lack of a left hand, was stalking you."

"That was a misunderstanding," Emma contended.

"I think not," Jefferson maintained. "I think your gut was right the first time. You've got good instincts, Miss Swan, I suggest you stick with them. Jones orchestrated this entire thing. He hired a guy to kill some people – people that happen to have the same name as you – just so that he could get close to you, to play the hero, to gain your trust."

"I'm not a fool," Emma protested.

"I'm not saying you are. I certainly don't blame you for getting lured in," Jefferson told her and maybe he really did mean it, but she felt patronised which only irritated her. "The guy's good looking, I bet he's a sweet talker too, a real charmer. That's how they get you. But the bottom line is he's an obsessive and you're his obsession which makes him a danger to you."

"Okay, Jefferson," August opted to intervene, "That's little more than your own working theory with very little proof currently to back it up. Perhaps we should just stick to the facts we currently have at hand?"

"You want facts? Let me guess, at the point when we arrested him, he was attempting to drive you back to your place? He suggested you pack a few things before getting out of town?" Jefferson theorised.

He spoke so matter-of-factly that Emma almost found herself getting drawn into his idea of events, very nearly believing that it had been the plan, until she reminded herself that Jones had been dead set on putting as much distance between themselves and the machine as possible. Making a detour to her place was most certainly too much of a risk for Jones to have even considered it.

Jefferson continued before she had a chance to correct him, "See, it's all part of his plan. He'd get you to your place, you'd discover your best friend had been killed and it would only push you closer to him-"

"Jefferson!" August snapped.

"Lily?" Emma gaped as she processed what he had said, her stomach dropping, nausea overcoming her. "Lily's dead?"

"I'm sorry," August confirmed apologetically. "This wasn't how you were supposed to find out."

Jefferson sheepishly moved closer to August and lowered his voice, but Emma still caught his words, "I thought you'd already told her."

"When?" August exclaimed.

As the detectives did their best to quietly argue amongst themselves, Emma sunk back into the couch, hoping it would gobble her up or that she would soon wake up in her own bed to discover the entire ordeal to have been a horrific nightmare. None of it felt real but she knew, deep down, it was.

Lily had been the closest friend she had ever had, the closest thing to a sister she had ever experienced. Lily had been the first, and only, person she had ever met to truly understand her. They got each other when nobody else did, helped perhaps from going through similar experiences in life, both abandoned by the ones who should have loved them most. Yet Lily had ultimately left her, just as everyone always did. It was like she was cursed to be alone forever. One way or another, they would all leave her. She still remained surprised that Ingrid had remained in her life for so long, but Lily was a reality check; it would only be a matter of time before something pushed her former foster mother away.

She groaned, running her hands over her face. When she looked up again, Jefferson had moved closer to her. His hushed argument with August was over and his expression was softer than before, a sheepish grimace crossing his face when her eyes locked with his.

"I'm sorry, Emma. I didn't intend to be so insensitive," he apologised.

She stood up and shrugged, pushing the feelings away. There was too much at stake to turn into an emotional wreck, not that she would ever have allowed herself to. She had to remain focused on staying alive. It was too late for Lily, and her heart ached for her, but Emma had to do what she had always been good at and look after herself.

"It's fine," Emma spoke dismissively. "Death happens."

"Perhaps we could get someone for you to speak to? A professional?" Robin spoke, his tone full of a sympathy that Emma really didn't want; all sympathy did was remind her of what had happened, what she had lost.

Reminders were a distraction.

"I'm good. I'm used to it. I know how to deal with it by now," Emma promptly turned down the offer. "I'd rather focus on the matter at hand. On Jones."

Emma knew from experience that she coped better without grief; that it was easier for her to move on, to adjust to how things were going to be, if she chose not to linger on the past and how things once were. She didn't want sympathy, she didn't want to think about it, she just wanted to stay busy and distracted. She was prepared to ensure that they allowed her to do so.

August and Robin looked at each other, both unsure and seemingly communicating non-verbally through a chain of different facial expressions. She didn't know them well enough to translate to a degree of understanding. Jefferson, meanwhile, moved to the door and pulled it open.

"If you say so, Miss Swan. Come with me," Jefferson stated as he stood in the open doorway.

Whilst she hadn't agreed with much of Jefferson's statements or actions since meeting him, she was most appreciative of the way he accepted her wishes without argument. She wasn't, however, too fond about the lack of information he provided as to his intentions. She remained fixed in place.

"Why?" she asked.

"You want to focus on Jones," Jefferson replied simply and gave a small, encouraging nod for her to join him. "Let me show you who he really is."

Killian's fingers drummed impatiently against the cold, metal table he was chained to, and had been for quite some time. He had no idea how long he had been confined for, but it felt like forever. Every breath, every second, was one closer to the Huntsman locating Emma. Every second which passed, whilst he was trapped in the bloody room, was a second closer to failing his mission. The ticking of the non-existent clock was forever present in his mind. He couldn't fail Hope. She had trusted him with her mother's life, her own life, and the fate of the entire world.

He had been so sure, so confident that he would succeed. The thought that he may fail hadn't even crossed his mind when he had demanded he be the one who was sent back. He had allowed himself to get caught up in the dream of playing hero. He was anything but. Humanity's impending doom proved that much.

The man across the table, who had introduced himself as Dr Hopper, a psychiatrist – he had called himself, whatever that meant – was increasingly testing his patience. He had claimed to be there to help, gotten Killian's hopes up that he would remove the chains, and yet proceeded to do nothing but ask questions which sent them round in circles.

"How about we talk more about this notion of time travel?" Hopper prompted. "When were you born? Is there a younger version of you out there?"

Killian stifled a frustrated groan at yet more questions. He rubbed his brow tiredly. None of Hopper's questions were relevant. None of them helped Emma, who was running out of time with each pointless question posed to him. The conversation with the psychiatrist was proving to be getting him no closer to Emma. He refused to be a part of it anymore.

"I think I've answered enough questions," Killian made a stand. "I want to see Emma."

Hopper sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes shifting towards a mirror on the wall to Killian's right.

"Co-operation goes a long way in this place," Hopper told him. "You answer my questions and then I'll see if I can get you some time with Emma."

It wasn't ideal at all. He was backed in a corner, tied in chains, time running out, with little option other than to do what they wanted in hope that they stayed true to their word.

Killian sighed, gritting his teeth, before reluctantly providing the sought-after information, its relevance to the psychiatrist lost on him, "I never saw the world as it is in this time. Nor did I see the war that destroys it. I was born after it, in the year two-thousand-and-seven."

"And what year did you and this machine come back from?" Hopper asked.

"Two-thousand-and-twenty-nine," Killian answered simple, his plan to stick to short, quick responses to get the stupid question and answer session over and done with.

"And how does time travel work?" Hopper questioned.

"No bloody clue," Killian spoke honestly, shrugging as he leaned back in the uncomfortable chair. "The machines built it. It's the first time either side used it. It was new technology."

"Was?" Hopper picked up on his wording.

"The orders were to blow the device to pieces the second I travelled through," Killian expanded. "Like I said, it's technology the machines built. It's unknown. It could have caused even more problems. Not enough was known of the risks."

"Then how do you get back?" Hopper asked.

"I don't," Killian stated. "It's a one-way thing. There's no going back. There's nothing more coming through. This is all it is, just me and the machine."

"And where are your weapons?" Hopper's questions just kept on going, no end in sight. "If the Resistance were able to win the war, you must have had weapons capable of stopping these supposedly unstoppable machines. Why haven't you bought them with you? Why resort to stealing police weapons?"

"The weapons would never have made it here," Killian answered. "Look, mate, I don't understand the science side of things, that part is all on Mills and his unit, but he said something about anything other than living organisms passing through would blow the entire thing to hell."

"The machine-"

"Is cased in living tissue," Killian cut him off bluntly, doing his best to speed the whole process up. "It's proper skin, grown so to aid it's infiltration, and therefore allowing it to pass through."

"Why you?" Hopper inquired suddenly.

Killian frowned, surprised by the change of topic, "What?"

"Why did you come back?" Hopper reworded.

"We've been through this already," Killian growled, frustrations rising, "I'm here to protect Emma Swan!"

"Anyone could have come back and protected Emma," Hopper argued his point. "Why you?"

As far as Killian was concerned, the answer to that particular question was none of Hopper's business. It was personal and not something Killian intended to share with any old person. In fact, he didn't intend to share it with anyone; he'd withstand torture if it came to it. His personal interests were not relevant to the mission, and he couldn't afford to let his own desires jeopardise it. Emma Swan's destiny was historic and one he had no part in, one he couldn't interfere with. Maybe things could have been different, had they not been born worlds apart, decades between them, but he could not allow himself the luxury of dwelling on what-ifs. What-ifs were a dangerous distraction and did nothing to change reality. Protecting Emma Swan was his mission and, in order to succeed, it could be his only intent.

"Look, mate," Killian continued, "time is ticking away. All we're doing here is wasting it. I have to see Emma Swan."

"All in due time," Hopper responded nonchalantly.

The lack of urgency was really doing Killian's head in and he was increasingly fighting the rising temptation to bang his head repeatedly against the metal table. General Swan hadn't been kidding when she had told him they'd learned to avoid the police; that they had too many questions, that they were too slow. He wished he could afford such luxury as slow.

"How many times do I have to say it? There is no time!" Killian exploded. "You don't get it, do you? The Huntsman won't rest until it completes its mission. It won't stop until it tracks her down and kills her. Don't you see? It's coming right here! Any minute now! It will blast through this entire building, killing anyone standing in its way!"

"There are at least fifty officers in this building. Emma is safe," Hopper responded.

"That's fifty officers, dead. By some miracle, you take what I say seriously and call in back-up, that's just more people dead!" Killian shot at him. "Emma needs to get off grid. It's her only shot."

"I believe it would be best if you allow the officers to ensure Emma's safety," Hopper told him. "You have larger concerns."

"She's my only concern," Killian maintained.

Hopper sighed, "They've got you on theft of police equipment, discharging a firearm in public, dangerous driving, and suspicion of murder. I suggest you start thinking a little bit more about yourself."

Hopper stood up, the legs of his chair screeching against the hard floor. Killian watched him as he carefully tucked it back under the table, lifting it off the floor so to avoid a repeat of the screeching noise.

"Where are you going?" Killian questioned as he watched him move towards the door. "You can't leave! I need to see Emma! I did what you wanted! I answered your questions! We had a deal! Let me see her! Let me see Emma Swan!"

His pleas fell on deaf ears as Hopper ignored him, exiting the room and allowing the door to fall shut behind him with a heavy thud. With no assurances of seeing Emma, Killian slammed his fist against the metal table.

"You're all bloody idiots! The lot of you!" Killian yelled, screaming at the top of his voice, determined that someone, anyone, everyone, would hear him. "I'm risking my life here! I'm the best chance you've got. In my time, we won! The machines were destroyed! I didn't have to come back here! For the first time in my life, I could have stopped fighting, to hell with the lot of you! Dead men! That's what you are. You're all dead men walking, do you hear me? You're all dead!"

Emma stood in the observation room, her arms folded, absent-mindedly chewing on her lip as she watched Jones lose it on the other side of the mirror. It was an entirely new side to him, unfolding right before her. Even when she had believed he was crazy, when he was pleading with her to believe him, there had been a calmness and an assertiveness about him. This new side of him seemed broken. As loud as he shouted, as much as he aggressively banged on the table, Emma could tell, from the faintest of straining in his voice, that it was not done out of anger but mere desperation. He had been fighting a losing battle before the cops had interfered, their involvement only made things worse. She had been unable to do anything but watch as Jones was hit with this realisation with every new question that Doctor Hopper had sent his way. With every question, he had seemed to lose another little bit of hope.

For the first time since staring down the barrel of a gun back at The Rabbit Hole bar, Emma felt scared. Perhaps it was the adrenaline, or perhaps it was that the reality of her situation was only recently catching up to her but, for the entirety of the car chase, she hadn't felt scared. Even when Jones had convinced her that everything he said was true, making her believe in such a bleak and gloomy future for herself and the rest of humanity, she hadn't once felt scared. She'd felt secure, determined to show the machine just what it was messing with, and to become the woman that Jones spoke so highly of. She may not have believed he was talking about her but that didn't stop her from wanting to be that person for him. She didn't want to be a disappointment.

As she watched Jones slump down in his chair, she knew that she had to do something. She wondered what her future self would do; how the Emma Swan known to the world as the 'Savior' would get herself out of the predicament. Somehow, both she and Jones had to get out of the station. Jones had said it himself; it was only a matter of time before the Huntsman tracked her down. He had said minutes. She felt like a sitting duck, and she wasn't going to let herself get caught without a fight.

She turned to Robin, the detective closest to her, but also one she believed that her request would get more luck with. He seemed friendly and approachable enough, from the little that she'd seen.

"Let me see him," Emma requested as politely as she could. "Let me talk to him."

Jones was desperate to see her, to speak with her. He had requested it so many times during Doctor Hopper's interview, had even tried bargaining at one point. She knew that he probably just wanted to see that she was safe but it was a nice feeling to be wanted; to be wanted by him. She really hoped that part of the reason he wanted to see her so badly was because he had worked out an escape route for them. She couldn't see one – not without taking on about fifty officers – but she could hope that he had spotted something she had missed. He had specialist training after all, a lifetime of experience. She was just going to have to learn as she went along.

Robin sucked air in through his teeth and his eyes shifted towards August and Jefferson, the two other detectives both deep into a discussion. Robin looked unsure, hesitant, like he wanted to check with a colleague before providing a definite answer.

"I don't think that's the wisest of ideas," Robin answered her apologetically.

"You don't think what is the wisest of ideas?" Jefferson invited himself into the conversation.

Emma sighed. Like Jefferson was going to agree to her request.

"She wants to talk to Jones," Robin filled his colleague in.

Jefferson frowned and turned to look right at Emma, staring at her as if she had grown at extra head. She held a steady stare in return; she knew what she wanted, and she was going to make sure that she got it.

"That's right," she confirmed confidently.

"No," Jefferson shook his head, speaking decisively in a way which just screamed at her that it was not up for discussion. "Not a chance."

"What's the problem?" Emma protested, not one to take no as an option, "I want to talk to him, he wants to talk to me. Can't two consenting adults have a conversation?"

Jefferson let out a chuckle and shot a glance in Robin's direction, as if to say I can't believe this. Emma certainly didn't appreciate the reaction of the man's attitude in general. She'd worked him out already; he was the kind of man to think he knew everything, who believed he was right about everything, and that he couldn't possibly be wrong. The way he had been so sure about his theory when she knew he had no evidence to connect Jones with the machine had made that much clear. There was no chance of getting Jefferson on side, he was never going to believe, but she didn't need him to. All she needed was for him – or even August or Robin, someone – to let her speak to Jones. It didn't seem such an unreasonable request.

"Miss Swan," Jefferson started and with just two simple words, Emma could already hear the patronisation in his voice. He pointed to Jones in the other room. "That man-"

He was cut off by the sound of the door opening and closing, making Emma and all three detectives aware of a new presence in the room. They all turned to the door at once, four sets of eyes falling upon Doctor Hopper who shifted uncomfortably upon immediately finding himself to be the centre of attention.

"Doctor Hopper, just in time," Jefferson welcomed him, beckoning the psychiatrist further into the room, "Please, share with us your assessment of Jones."

"I must stress that this is just a preliminary assessment, given the short amount of time that I've spent with Mr Jones," Doctor Hopper was very eager to stress such a matter.

"Just tell us," Jefferson spoke impatiently, eager to get to the point, "The man's crazy."

"Actually, I try to avoid the word crazy. I think it can be very damaging," Doctor Hopper corrected him. "But I do believe there's a lot to unpack with Mr Jones. It's fascinating. There are delusions of grandeur, there's paranoid delusions and there's persecutory delusions. He certainly doesn't appear to hold much regard to his personal wellbeing. It's very apparent that his mind has fixated on one particular obsession."

With that statement, Emma suddenly knew how Doctor Hopper had felt upon entering the room for she suddenly felt all four sets of eyes on her. She resisted the urge to look away, instead looking at each of them in turn, keeping her expression calm and unreadable. She couldn't let any of them onto the fact that she disagreed with the entirety of the psychiatrist's assessment. She didn't need him accusing her of being delusional too, a word which was just a fancy way of saying 'crazy' as far as she was concerned.

"That would be you, Miss Swan," Doctor Hopper clarified, as if none of them had followed where he was going with that point.

"Yes, I'm aware," she maintained her polite tone.

"You don't appear to be too concerned by that fact," Doctor Hopper observed.

"Not at all," Emma agreed with that assessment. "He believes he needs to protect me. I know he wouldn't hurt me. There is, however, another man out there who is intent on harming me. Perhaps Jones has some knowledge on this man that we could use. Perhaps that's why he's so desperate to speak to me, to warn me directly so he can feel like he has played his part in protecting me."

"Doctor Hopper, in your professional opinion, do you believe it is safe for Miss Swan to enter the same room as Jones?" Jefferson posed the question.

Emma's gaze shifted immediately to the psychiatrist, her eyes locking with his for the slightest of a second before he very quickly dropped his gaze to the notepad in his hands. He didn't look at her, his answer clearly fixed in his mind.

"No," came the answer Emma had expected. "The size and intricacy of his delusions combined with his tendency for violent and reckless behaviour leads me to the conclusion that it's not safe for Miss Swan, certainly not until he has received some psychiatric treatment."

"Oh, that's ridiculous! He had plenty of opportunities to hurt me earlier, if he really wanted to," Emma argued immediately. "Look, you heard him. He wants to talk to me. Maybe I can get some useful intel for you."

Emma looked to August, pleading to him with her eyes. He was softer than Jefferson, kinder, and she knew he was the type to think things through, to look at cases from different angles, and to try and see perspectives of others. If she could get anyone to agree with her, it would be him.

"It could work," August proposed.

At last! The entire world wasn't against her. At least something was going her way on a day where everything was falling apart.

"No," Jefferson stuck to his guns; he just had to ruin it. "Doctor Hopper is one of the top experts in his field. If he deems it be unsafe, then it's unsafe."

With that definitive statement, Jefferson made a move for the door taking big, purposeful steps. He looked to be on a mission of his own, one he didn't appear to have any intention of sharing with his own colleagues.

"Where are you going?" Robin questioned him.

Jefferson stopped, his hand hovering over the door handle he had been moments away from using. He dropped his hand back to his side and turned to face the four inhabitants of the room.

"Miss Swan believes that Jones has knowledge on the man responsible for the murder of her friends and the two Emma Swans," Jefferson recapped. "I'm going to get it out of him."

Killian still couldn't do anything. His movements remained restricted by the chains, his shouts ignored, and his warnings believed to be little more than the crazy ramblings of a madman. By the time they believed him, it would be too late. He was stressed. He could do nothing but wait; wait for the dreaded sounds of flying bullets and screams of death which were all but inevitable. The Huntsman had to be looming upon them. He'd tried to warn everyone; it was only a matter of time. He'd expected it to be ploughing through the station already. Any moment. It would all end. He'd fail.

He'd never envisioned his mission playing out the way it had.

When he had volunteered for the mission, he certainly hadn't expected it to be easy. Taking down a top of the range Dark-Knight infiltration machine whilst restricted to the primitive weapons of the old world was never going to be easy. He hadn't been prepared for it to be quite as hard as it turned out to be, however. He had not expected all the obstacles of the old world; there were too many people, too much traffic, too much noise, too many questions. It was all too much. When the elders had told him of the old world, they had always talked with such admiration which created an image of paradise in his mind. The world he found himself in was nothing of the sort.

Even the small room he had ended up restrained and isolated within was too much. He had initially likened it to home, to his quarters in the Resistance, but he'd quickly learned that it was nothing of the sort. His quarters were an escape, as close to quiet and peaceful he could get. The small room, whilst empty, was not quiet. There was a droning whirring noise, constant and irregular, unpredictable in its frequency and volume, making it impossible to block out. There were regular uncomfortable blasts of cold air, the origin of which were completely unknown to him. The room was windowless, there was no direct route to the outside world – severely hindering any formation of escape plans – so the origin of the air remained a mystery. The large mirror on the wall was too perfect, too reflective and lacking even the slightest of cracks or damage. Even the uncomfortable metal chairs were too much, too silver, too bright – the surface almost reflective, he could make out the features of his own face in it – and missing the familiar brown tinge of home.

He wanted out of the room. He wanted fresh air, not whatever the cold blasts were – it certainly wasn't fresh. He'd spent many days and many nights cooped up underground without fresh air and yet he never felt as suffocated as he did in that room.

He had never believed in miracles. He had never believed in wishes being granted. The sight of the door opening was the closest he had ever felt to believing in both. He held his breath as he stared at the opening door, hoping to catch the slightest of glimpses of long blonde hair to confirm that finally, finally they had listened to his requests and fetched Emma for him.

Disappointment stung.

There was no long blond hair, just short brown hair. Emma Swan did not appear in the doorway, instead it was a man, yet another officer, judging from the badge he wore. Killian dropped his head as he accepted his failure. There was no getting out. It was over. He closed his eyes, tight.

Memories flashed before his eyes, painful memories; ones long pushed away by grief and guilt suddenly rushing back to the surface.

A man with long, unkempt greyed hair under a battered old top hat, wild blue eyes staring straight at him, a crazed smile plastered over his face. Surrounded by death and blood, the end in sight, and yet he was an image of hope and optimism.

"You can do it. You, Killian Jones, are the key. You can change our fate! You can save her! You can save my daughter!"

Killian snapped his eyes open. He lifted his head. He did a double take at the detective entering the room.

"It's you!"

The madman. The Mad Hatter.