Part Eight - Deeper Down the Rabbit Hole

Unknown Location
Unknown Time

As a spy, you were vigorously trained to deal with a wide range of external threats– combat, pursuit, capture, interrogation, and even torture. The training was designed to expose you to as many situations as possible so that when you encountered them in the real world, you were ready. There were, however, situations you simply couldn't prepare for no matter how thorough your training was, because no amount of experience or training could help when the threat came from inside your own mind.

When Michael was taken back out of his loud, too-bright, too-hot torture chamber for the fourth time – or it could have been the third or the fifth, he had lost track – he didn't put up any struggle. He didn't even have any strength left to walk, even with the two beefy, armed guards holding him up with their grips on his shoulders and elbows. He just hung limp between them and didn't make a sound when they dragged him out to the lounge to drop him back on that hated couch.

He hardly noticed when the man retook his arm to inject the hallucinogenic serum. He just stared dully at the needle point sinking into a barely pulsing vein in his inner elbow, not really caring whether it was the second, third or fourth shot.

"Relax," he said, and when Michael didn't react, he tapped him on the cheek, breaking him out of his stupor. "Breathe."

Michael inhaled, grimacing at the way his chest and ribs hurt when they expanded. He let his breath out slowly, wondering why his insides were starting to feel like fire.

"There." The man said, "Just let it wash over you."

Michael breathed in again and held the air in for a moment before letting it all out again. The fire in his veins felt a little less agonising with each passing inhale and exhale. So he kept breathing and tried not to worry too much about why his arms and legs felt so heavy, and numb.

"One of the reasons you are here is because your career is marked with an extraordinary degree of loyalty," the man said, smiling down at him. Michael stared at him and wondered why he could suddenly smell cigarette smoke when no one was smoking in the lounge.

"Loyalty to the agency, loyalty to your fellow operatives and loyalty to your friends," the man continued with an air of praise. "That is a good thing–"

The hallucination hit him without warning. Suddenly, he was twelve again, and he was herding a little Nate out of the back door in a hurry. He almost tripped and fell on his face on the last step in his haste to get his brother out of the house.

"Frank, stop it," he heard his mother yelling in a shrill voice, "You're drunk. Just calm down!"

"Nate," Michael said urgently. He wasn't sure whether it was he or the younger version of him that was talking to Nate, and he couldn't really seem to care about the distinction just then. "Go next door, now."

"Why?" Nate whined.

"Just go." he urged, giving him a little shove.

"What about you?" Nate stared up at him with big, round, fear-filled eyes. The sight made Michael want to cry.

"I'll be fine," he said, biting back a sob. "Now go."

"Get outta my way, bitch!" Their Dad roared, and soon the sound of flesh hitting flesh followed, just as Nate jumped over their mother's flower bed to get to Mrs. Reynold's house.

"...but it's also a problem," the man's voice broke through just as Michael turned back to go inside. "Old loyalties die hard. And I need to know that you've left yours behind. Your friends are as loyal to you as you are to them. We also need to find out if you're still loyal to your old company, because where you go, your friends tend to follow."

"They've moved on." Michael said automatically, staring at the way his father grabbed his mother by the back of her neck through the kitchen window, "I'm on the run now, and I'm all alone."

"That's an easy thing to say." the man said, unconvinced. "'Cause I know how hard it can be to cut ties. Especially when you've been in the game as long as you have. Otherwise, there's no reason for your friends to show up in Red Bay where you supposedly died, looking for clues."

Michael blinked. For a precious moment of respite, the hallucination faded to make space for the man's face to become a little clearer in his vision.

"Red Bay?" Michael asked softly.

"Serenity Resort in Red Bay, Bahamas," the man replied, shrugging. "That was where you permanently left the attention of everyone who was hunting you."

Michael thought back, slogging through his scrambled mind to find the memory. "The conference room… the gas," he murmured with effort, when a few hazy images did their best to recreate a fuzzy version of the events, "Everyone died… My friends, why were they there?"

"Trying to reconcile with what they saw on the news? Trying to find closure?" The man speculated. "Either way, they have shown their willingness to care for you and look for you when you claim otherwise. As I said, the loyalty you share goes both ways."

"I have no sympathy for Randall Burke," Michael said, deciding to follow the minuscule part of him that urged him fearfully not to let the man focus on his friends. For some reason, it was important.

"He got me in this mess," he continued, his voice hoarse and every word requiring a lot of effort. "But Sonya – she, uh, she reminded me of something I had forgotten…reminded me what it was like to live with a p-purpose again. For that I–I'm grateful to her, and I owe her for saving my life–" he then looked up and did his best to lock his gaze with the man before him, "And I trusted her to lead me to you."

"You need something, something to hold on to that is meaningful," the man picked up when he trailed off. "You were right to trust Sonya, because we can give you that. Loyalty and need, however, aren't the same thing. You don't know our cause. You can't blindly dedicate yourself to something that quickly. Not yet, anyway."

"What do I have to do?" Michael sighed, feeling very tired, and very defeated.

"Michael, if you're a part of something else, then you need to tell me. Now."

"Michael!"

The growl of his drunken and enraged father reached him a moment before the hallucination of his home slammed back to him. He was in his room, trying to glue together the front bumper of a model Charger.

"Michael! Where the hell are you? Michael!"

"Michael?" The man's voice was a soft caress next to his ear against his father's roar. "I know it's hard. Just trust me. It is better for both of us if you just tell me now."

"Michael!" his Dad burst through the door with another growl, "Michael! Damn it, look at me when I am talking to you, son!"

The slap caught him off guard, and he dropped the toy on the floor.

"Dad?" he said, holding his face. It felt like fire after the backhanded blow. "You can't be here."

"Why? 'Cause I'm dead?" He saw the second blow coming, but he was entirely unable to block it, or even brace for it when it landed on his face with even more force than the first one. "You can't get rid of me that easily, Michael."

"Michael! You're holding on to something." The man insisted. Michael licked his lips and tasted blood. "What is it? It's just me."

"I don't–"

"Just tell him." His father's hands clamped around his shoulders with enough force to leave bruises, "Go on, tell him what you care about the most. It sure as hell ain't your family! You never gave a damn about me or your mother or Nate–"

"No." Michael let out a feeble protest and tried to wriggle out of the painful hold. He couldn't.

"So what is it, Michael?" his Dad shook him, and he felt like his brain was rattling inside his skull. "Come on, I want to hear you say it out loud!"

"I am not doing this."

"You're not doing what?" The man wouldn't leave him alone. He was persistent. "What are you resisting?"

"You dedicated your entire life to that agency." his Dad started yelling, his spit flying everywhere, "That goddamn agency! And now it is time to come clean!"

"No!" Michael yelled back even as his head snapped back painfully with another blow to his jaw.

"Hey! You will listen to your father!" His dad shook him again, once, before pulling him out of the chair. "You wanna play tough with me now? 'Cause I don't mind pounding the truth out of you."

The next blow caught him in the gut. Michael folded in on himself and fell to his knees with a muffled groan.

"You left home for the CIA," his father accused, catching him with a punch to the face that sent him fully to the ground, "And you got your own brother killed for the CIA. You lost your goddamned friends and the woman you love for the CIA. You left your worthless life for the CIA. And now you're sure as hell gonna give them credit for it!"

He ended his rant with a kick to his gut, causing Michael to curl around himself in a miserable ball and bite back a whimper.

"Michael, talk to me," from his left, the man placed his hand on his shoulder.

"Stop!" Michael said, his voice a barely audible whisper.

"So tell them, Michael!" his Dad glared down at him, "You tell him!"

"Don't do this!" Michael groaned, "Stop!"

"This all stops when you start talking." Michael didn't know if it was his father or the man. But the kick he felt at the back of his spine was definitely his Dad.

"Michael…"

Someone was calling and someone was screaming. It was all starting to blur because the punches and kicks that were raining down on him were too much to handle. A sort of blackness was fast approaching from all around, and Michael did the only thing he could to escape all of it – by lunging forward to embrace it with both hands.

His Dad and the man were still roaring at him when he finally, blessedly passed out.

-0-

"What did you tell him?"

Michael woke up with a jerk and stared uncomprehendingly at Sonya's face hovering very close to his own.

"Michael, what did you tell him?" She shook him by the shoulders when he stayed unresponsive.

"What?" He blinked, wondering why she looked so worried.

"Before you passed out…" Sonya said urgently, "Before they threw you in here. You said something. What did you tell him?"

A cold dread of fear bloomed in his gut, and Michael felt a jolt of adrenaline running through his system, clearing his foggy, drugged mind a little.

"I don't know." he gasped. "I don't remember."

"Whatever it is, it's bad," Sonya exclaimed. "He knows, Michael. He knows you betrayed us. He's going to kill you. We have to go."

That sounded bad. He didn't put up a fight when she pulled him to his feet and followed her like a drunkard to the best of his ability when she dragged him out of the white padded cell to the hallway outside.

"We have to keep moving." she snapped when he leaned against a brick wall and tried to enjoy the cool, smooth feeling on his too-warm face. "It won't be long before somebody realises that you're missing."

She took a few steps forward to check if the way was clear. Michael stayed where he was, gladly letting the wall take his weight.

"I can't walk," he said weakly when Sonya grabbed his arm to lead him out. "I can't make it."

"You can and you will," Sonya said and started to drag him anyway despite his protest. "Otherwise, we're both dead."

"Why are you risking your life for me?" Michael mumbled as he followed her unsteadily, struggling to follow her blurry form on a pair of legs that felt like jelly. "Again?"

"I don't know, Michael," she said without stopping or turning back. "There's something about you. I can't let you die just yet, now come on."

They made it out of what looked like an abandoned mansion into an overgrown backyard. A few more stumbling yards took them deeper into the thicket grown around the property. Sonya ran ahead of him, calling him to catch up, and he saw her coming to a stop near a tarp-covered boat. Beyond it, he thought he could see the ocean.

"Michael, come on!" she waved at him when she saw he was leaning against a tree, unable to continue. At her urging, Michael let go of his crutch, only to fall flat on his face to the ground.

"Is that it?"

When he opened his eyes, he was back in his old room. His father had him by the hair, forcing him to look up at him. "You've got nothing else to say to your father?"

"No, sir," Michael mumbled.

"What's that?" the grip on his hair tightened painfully with his father's growl, "Speak up. I can't hear you."

"No, sir!" he yelled.

The vision before him rippled and blurred. Michael found himself staring at his younger version, somehow split into two as if they were mirror images of one another.

"What did you tell him?" he asked himself.

"I didn't tell him anything." the twelve-year-old with a split lip and a black eye glared at him as if he had insulted him. "I never tell him anything."

"Michael, come on."

He came back to himself when he felt Sonya yanking him up by the shoulders again.

"Let's go. Come on."

Michael let her help him up because he couldn't manage it by himself. But, once he was on his feet, he knew that running was the last thing he wanted to do. There was no need.

"I'm not leaving," he said, swaying from side to side.

"What are you talking about?" Sonya glared at him, her eyes wide with fear. "You need to help me with the boat–"

"I have to go back." Michael declared. He hadn't been that sure of anything in a long while.

"You can't go back." Sonya threw her hands up in the air, exasperated. "He'll kill you. Michael, please, you're not thinking–"

"Sonya, listen to me. I'm sorry." He said and turned around. He could hear the sounds of men running. He started putting one stumbling foot in front of the other towards those rapidly approaching sounds. "I'm sorry."

"Michael–"

Whatever Sonya was about to say got cut off the next moment because they were surrounded by ten armed men by then.

"Stop right there." One of them barked at Michael. "On your knees."

Michael raised his hands in surrender and did as he was told. He heard Sonya being grabbed by another guard behind him.

It was a short walk to where the man was waiting in the foyer of his mansion. The guard who had him pushed him forward, and Michael ended up on the floor on his side.

"Oh, Michael." the man said, looking down at Michael with his head cocked to the side, his eyes full of pity. "I didn't want to do this. You are an impressive operative. You lied to me. You betrayed me."

He extended a hand and one of his guards placed a Glock in his open palm.

Michael rolled to his knees, and with what felt like monumental effort, got to his feet. Once he was sure he could stand without falling on his face again, he locked his gaze with the man, ignoring the barrel of the gun pointing at his face.

"You won't pull that trigger," he smiled.

The man raised an eyebrow at him. Michael wasn't sure if he saw a glint of amusement in his eyes, or if it was another one of his hallucinations.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I'm here." Michael said, mustering as much confidence he could, "I have no reason to run. And I have nothing to hide."

"Wish I could believe you." The man said and clicked the safety off.

"Oh, you can," Michael said, ignoring the gun.

For the first time in a long time, he knew he had the upper hand, and that was a good feeling. He knew that he'd held out, and made it through the brutal interrogation without giving out the one secret that mattered. And he knew this was the final test he had to pass in order to accomplish the mission.

"You can question me, drug me, torture me," he said, ignoring the way his entire body was starting to wrack with shakes. The adrenaline was leaving his system, and he was going into shock. But that didn't matter. "It won't matter. Because I know who I am."

"A man who has no secrets can trust himself," the man said and stared at him for a long moment before turning the safety back on with a slow, deliberate movement. "I'm glad you're that kind of man."

"I told you," Sonya said, grinning. "This one's a keeper."

Michael took the hand that was offered with his trembling one, and shook it with all the strength he had left.

"Michael… I'm James." the man said, smiling warmly. "Welcome to the family."

Westen Residence
Miami

Fiona pulled into the driveway and got out of the car with Madeline. Charlie was at kindergarten and Madeline had invited Fiona to spend the day at her house. She had noticed Fiona's burning need to move, to do something…anything to get her mind off things. Madeline had decided rounding up all her friends for a round of poker was the best way to keep her distracted.

The others weren't scheduled to show up for a few hours yet. Madeline thought it was best that Fiona helped her make the margaritas and the sandwiches they needed for the game night.

Fiona noticed the slightly open door to her house before Madeline did.

"Maddie, wait," she said, stopping the older woman from walking any further. "The door's ajar. Get behind me."

She pulled out her handgun from her handbag and took the lead. It was a bad day for breaking and entering, and it was a bad choice of house. Fiona was in the mood to shoot someone before asking questions.

She entered the house slowly, and ran a visual sweep, clearing the lounge, the kitchen and the sunroom. Charlie's room, which used to be Nate's old room, was to her immediate left, and a quick visual scan revealed that it was empty. Maddie's bedroom door was fully open, and so was the door inside that led to the bathroom. She cleared them quickly before approaching the guest room that was down the hallway, the one that had its door only half open.

"Open the door all the way in at my signal and get behind the wall," she whispered the instructions and advanced slowly. Maddie followed closely behind, hovering over her shoulder.

At Fiona's nod, she did as instructed, leaving Fiona to enter first, leading with her gun.

For a strange, uncomprehending moment, Fiona froze, unable to reconcile what she was seeing.

"Oh, my God!"

It was Maddie's sudden, loud exclamation that broke her from her stupor, and caused her to put the gun down to close the distance to the bed that was now occupied. Maddie reached him before she could and lifted a trembling hand to touch her son's face softly.

"Michael." Fiona felt her voice waver as she sat on the edge of the bed, placing her own unsteady hand on his neck to feel his pulse.

"Is he?" Maddie's voice broke with a sob.

"Yeah," Fiona swallowed thickly. "There's a pulse. Weak and thready, but there." She couldn't believe that he was actually here, as real as real could be, warm and breathing, and alive. It didn't matter how he got there, from where, or that he was unconscious. All that mattered was he was there.

"Oh, Jesus!" Maddie murmured again, drawing Fiona's attention from Michael's face to the arm that Maddie was holding. "What's this?"

His right forearm was wrapped in a clean, white bandage, and Fiona had no idea what kind of an injury was underneath it. On his left inner elbow, there was an ugly, dark bruise she had only seen on addicts. She ran a finger softly over the mark, and grimaced.

"He was drugged," she said, drawing another gasp from Maddie. "Let me call Sam."

Sam picked up the phone on the second ring.

"Hello."

"Sam, it's Fiona," she said, refusing to turn her gaze away from Michael's unmoving form even for a second, "No time to explain, but I need you and Jesse back here now. Get to Maddie's house as soon as possible."

"Fi, What happened?"

"We just found Michael," she said, uncaring at the way her voice shook when saying his name.

"Jesus, how?"

"Don't know, Sam! When we came home, he was already here."

"How is he?"

"Unconscious, drugged. I don't know what kind," she said, "We're going to need a doctor."

She hoped Pearce was listening in on the call, and that she would find a doctor to fly back to Miami with Sam and Jesse. Fiona had no idea if Maddie's house was bugged, which they easily could have done while depositing Michael. But clearing the house could wait until Sam and Jesse returned. For now, she was going nowhere from her perch at the edge of the bed, and she had no intention of letting go of the cold, clammy hand caught firmly in her grip until Michael woke up.

-0-

The rental pulled in behind Fiona's car three hours after the call Sam had received from her, telling him that they had found Michael. Maddie opened the door on the first knock. The look in her watery eyes alone was enough for Sam to realise that his best friend might not be doing so well.

"How is he?" He asked as he followed her in with Jesse, Pearce and the physician she had managed to pull out from the investigative team that had been dispatched to look into the mess in Red Bay.

"Still hasn't moved an inch," Maddie reported softly, "Fiona is with him."

"This is Ben," Sam said, pointing at the white-haired man in his early fifties. He had been introduced to them by Pearce as Dr. Benjamin Sotto from the CDC. He figured it was best to keep things short and vague in case the place was bugged. "And Dani, his wife. They're friends of Elsa's."

Maddie's gaze swept over them with a polite nod before settling on Sam again. She was wise enough not to call out on Pearce's presence.

"I have to go to get Charlie," she said, glancing back towards the hallway that led to her guest room. "Sam, please…"

Sam nodded at the doctor and the agent to proceed to where Michael was before turning to Maddie. She was clutching onto her handbag in a desperate grip as if it was the only thing helping her to keep it together.

"It'll be okay, Maddie." He said, willing his words to be true.

She nodded and glanced back one more time before reluctantly taking her leave.

"I'll sweep the house before anything else," Jesse volunteered and pulled out one of the new CIA-issued toys they had piled into a duffel bag before they had left the Bahamas. He then went off to start a thorough scan to look for any surveillance devices.

"His heart rate's been slow and fluctuating between fifty-five and seventy–"

Sam heard Fiona updating the doctor before he stepped into the room. Pearce stood in the corner at the foot of the bed, leaning against a wall with one hand over the lower part of her face, as if she had a hard time believing what she was seeing. An agitated, pale-faced Fiona sat on the wooden bedside table. The lamp that had sat on it before was now on the floor, out of the way.

Michael was on the bed, flat on his back. He had a black t-shirt and a pair of black pants on, instead of what they had seen him disappear in. Apart from the mostly healed cut on his forehead, the bandages covering most of his right arm and the massive, dark bruise on his left inner elbow, there were no other visible injuries. But the grey, sickly pallor to his skin and the layer of sweat on his forehead, neck and armpits were enough indications that whatever damage he was still suffering from was internal.

It was much better than seeing him in his death throes on live television. But, it was still a hard thing for Sam to witness his best friend lying on a bed unmoving and barely breathing, seemingly dead to the world.

"How long has he been unconscious?" Benjamin had a stethoscope on, checking Michael's pulse with a frown.

"Don't know," Fiona murmured, "We found him like this, so probably more than three hours."

"I need to draw some samples to send to the lab," the doctor said and started to unravel the top half of the bandages on Michael's right arm.

"What the hell is that?" Sam hissed when he caught a glimpse of a dark, black stain on the bandage.

"Is that a tattoo?" Pearce asked at the same time, leaning forward to get a good look.

"Just a number written with tattoo ink," the doctor said, unravelling the entire bandage to reveal the eight-digit number on his forearm. "Not an actual tattoo."

"Another bank account?" Sam frowned, glancing between Fiona and Pearce.

"Guess he's in business then," Fiona said, rubbing a hand across her forehead. "They sure went through a lot of trouble to make that happen."

"And until Mike wakes up and tells us all about it, we only know half of it," Sam said.

-0-

Fiona perched on the Adirondack chair in Madeline's backyard and stared into the distance, her open bottle of beer forgotten on the ground next to her feet. Sam was sitting on the last step down from the porch, a mug of coffee in his hand instead of a beer, which was more than enough indication of his own mounting agitation. Jesse grabbed a cold one from the fridge, stepped out of the back door to find space next to Sam on the same step, and opened the cap with a soft click that drew both their attention.

"The kitchen, dining room and the guest bedroom were bugged to hell and back," he reported when Sam raised an eyebrow at him. "The place is clean now."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Swept the entire house and the garage, twice."

While there weren't any cameras, there were several listening devices carefully spliced into the outlets, circuits and batteries in the areas he mentioned. It was a neat, professional job, and Jesse knew he would have had a hard time finding them all if it wasn't for the nifty gadget Pearce had let him hang onto for the moment.

"Did you take care of it?"

"Yup," Jesse replied, showing him the thoroughly destroyed remnants of the bugs Michael's captors had planted before leaving. "This should send the message sufficiently enough that we don't appreciate this blatant invasion of his privacy."

"Good," said Sam "Now, if the doc could work some magic to wake the sleeping beauty–"

That seemed to draw Fiona out of her thoughts to join their conversation. "Sure would like to know when that's going to be." She scoffed.

The back door opened again to let Pearce out before she closed it behind her. She stepped off of the porch to sit on the edge of the small, round table that was next to Fiona's chair.

"Where's the doc?"

"Checking on Michael," Pearce replied to Jesse's inquiry.

"Any news?"

"The report on his blood work isn't good," Pearce said, her expression twisting into a grimace, "Apart from the chemicals, the synthetic drug and the hallucinogenic, he still has traces of foreign pathogens left in his system. According to the analysis, what they used to kill those people back in Red Bay was a chimaera of a sort – two deadly viruses of unknown properties fused together–"

"In other words, a lab-grown nastiness," Sam said, "A bioweapon."

"Yeah, a never-before-seen-or-heard-of variety. Sotto's worried that all that strain on his system might lead to serious side effects."

"Such as?"

The door opened again, this time letting the doctor out to join them.

"Well, let's ask him," Pearce nodded at him, "How's Michael?"

"I'm not happy with his heart rate," said the doctor. "It hasn't stabilised as much as I'd like. If this continues, the cardiac arrhythmia is going to lead to a stroke or a seizure, which then puts him at risk of internal organ failure. We can't deal with that kind of serious condition here with what I have."

"Is there anything that you can do?"

Jesse didn't like the way the man avoided Pearce's gaze and started to rub his forehead, visibly hesitant about whatever he wanted to say.

"What aren't you telling us?" He asked.

At Pearce's nod, the doctor started to speak in a quiet voice. "Flushing his system as quickly and aggressively as possible might improve his condition. The only snag to that plan is the few options we can use are still at the final stages of approval, although two types of those synthetic solutions have been in use with the company for over a year."

That sounded like a drug that was never going to enter circulation for public consumption. The CIA and other intelligence agencies were known to fund research programmes in the bio sciences, which was why there were so many truth serums, hallucinogens and mind-altering drugs popping up throughout the world. Jesse just wasn't sure how he felt about watching their friend getting pumped full of more drugs, in addition to the crap he already had in him. Glancing to his side, he could see Sam was also uncomfortable with the notion. Fiona looked downright outraged at the suggestion.

But, since it was also true that none of them had a medical degree to understand what was really happening, they had to trust Sotto knew what he was talking about.

"Is that your professional recommendation?" Pearce inquired, "Can you guarantee that would work without making him worse?"

"I'd say so," Sotto said, not sounding as confident as Jesse would have liked, "The trials have shown a 97% success rate so far. But, I cannot guarantee a definite outcome here, especially because of the traces of the chimaera already in his system. They might react differently to a whole new set of agents. Unfortunately, We have no way of knowing because we don't have enough data on that strain to predict its behaviour."

"Can we just think this through for a second?" Fiona said, "What if this is some kind of a test? What if we're supposed to let the drug work out of his system on its own? These people went through a lot of trouble to put him in the spotlight, wipe him out and then drug him to oblivion before dropping him at home, right in our laps. They know us. They know we wouldn't take him to a hospital and they know what kind of access we'd have when it comes to medical attention for Michael. This was a calculated move, and they wouldn't have done what they did just to see Michael die on us."

"She's got a point." Jesse agreed.

"If they are testing to see if Michael is deep undercover, introducing a classified drug might be the wrong move here," Pearce added thoughtfully.

"I'll give him twelve more hours," Sotto said. "If his system doesn't clear up within that time frame, I'm going to have to make the call. Otherwise, I won't take responsibility for what happens."

Westen Residence
Miami

The Next Day

Waking up was starting to become quite a harrowing experience. If this irritating trend were to continue, either he would have to stop going to sleep or stop getting back up altogether. His mind was still sluggish, and there were no coherent memories as to why he was feeling so tired and worn out even before opening his eyes. There was sort of a dull ache emanating from everywhere on his body, which made him want nothing more than to go under again and stay there until all those awful sensations disappeared.

Unfortunately, it wasn't possible. Something had woken him up, had urged him to surface and pay attention. It could have been the distant sound of the chirping birds or even the touch of warmth he could feel on the side of his face from the sunshine streaming through closed curtains. It could also have been the faint sounds of music and chatter of people, which he was reasonably sure was coming from a television.

Something about it all, even the scent of toast and coffee in the air, was maddeningly familiar, and trying to place it in his fatigued mind was taking way too much effort he didn't really have strength for.

Wait.

Was that the voice of his mother?

The jolt of recognition hit him with such force he jerked up on the bed, knocking over an empty glass that was on the table next to his elbow to the carpeted floor with a muted thud.

I'm home…the realisation dawned when his blurry vision focused on the familiar wallpaper of his mother's guest room. He had absolutely no idea how that had happened.

Before he had time to wonder, however, the door to the room opened to reveal his pale-faced mother standing just outside. She looked exhausted, and if the dark circles around her eyes were any indication, she hadn't been sleeping.

"Mom–" He tried, and his voice got stuck in his dry throat, making him wince.

"Oh, honey," she strode into the room, and poured some water into the glass he hadn't knocked over and handed it to him with a shaky hand.

"Thanks," he said, and closed his eyes with a sigh, enjoying the cool sensation of water that he could feel all the way down to his gut. He opened his eyes again when he felt the mattress dip as his mother sat on the edge next to his knee.

"Ma, you okay?" He didn't like the look she had in her eyes as she regarded him.

"Yeah, Michael, I'm fine," she scoffed, much more like herself, "I'm more worried about you. How are you feeling?"

Michael considered. Apart from his body's insistence that he had been run over by a truck a few times, and a headache that seemed to have settled permanently inside his skull, he was almost all there.

"I've had better days," he said truthfully, "What happened? How did I get here?"

"Fiona and I found you passed out on the bed two days ago when we came back from dropping Charlie off–"

That wasn't good. He held up a hand reflexively to stop her from speaking further. If James' people had accessed the house, they could very well have left eyes and ears.

"Ma–"

"All taken care of, Michael," she said, correctly guessing what had him concerned. "Jesse said we can talk freely."

"Oh, okay," he sighed, relieved that his friends seemed to have swept the house and gotten rid of the bugs.

"When Sam and Jesse got back, they brought your agent friend and a doctor along with them," his mother continued, "He said you were drugged."

"Yeah," said Michael, and tried to hide a wince when a few of those memories back at James' abandoned mansion floated to the forefront of his mind. "It wasn't fun."

His mother stared at him, her hand wrapped around his knee in a desperate grip and her eyes rapidly welling up with tears.

"Ma, what's wrong?"

"Michael, it was horrible," she choked out, "You died!"

"No, no, ma, I didn't, obviously," he said quickly, covering her hand with his own, feeling terribly guilty about what they had been forced to witness, "That was just an extreme way to get the authorities hunting me to back off. These people are insane in their own special way. I told you not to believe anything you saw on the TV–"

"That was a special kind of hell too, Michael," she murmured, "But that's not what I was talking about. Around ten hours ago, you had a seizure, your heart stopped–"

"Ah," he blinked. He hadn't realised that. "That explains why I feel like someone took a baseball bat to my ribs," he muttered, absently rubbing his chest with his free hand.

"The CIA doctor wanted to give you an experimental drug," she continued, "But Fiona and the others were against it since those people returned you to us, and they knew we couldn't get our hands on things like that on short notice. So they all agreed to wait and see. An hour later, you stopped breathing–"

He hated the way her voice broke at the end. He couldn't understand why James thought it was a great idea to drop him at home in his condition. Maybe it was another test of his to make sure that he really wasn't a double agent. Either way, Michael resolved to have a word with him the next time he saw him.

The number on his right arm said that he would be checking in in the near future.

"I had a lot of crap in my system, Mom," He murmured apologetically, "I'm sorry you had to see that."

"Anyway, Dr Sotto, that's his name, I think, managed to restart your heart," she said, patting his leg in a way that felt like she was trying to convince herself that he was actually there, "And later, when your reports came back, he said you were over the worst of it. It was bad, Michael."

"It's over now, Ma."

"These people… why did they do this to you?"

"What day is it?"

"Thursday, the 22nd," His mother replied, frowning at his seemingly random question.

"Well, that makes it eight days then," he muttered to himself before gazing up at her again. "They took me to an old mansion on an island. Could have been here, even – I don't know – and interrogated me. They tried to get inside my head. They wanted me to tell them everything."

Her eyes widened at his frank admission. "You held out?" she whispered.

"Barely." he admitted, unable to chase away the painful reminders of that terrible experience from flooding his mind, "The drugs they gave me - made me see things. I remembered moments I wanted to forget, the faces of people…"

She moved closer, and he felt her running a hand through his hair. It was then he realised that he had closed his eyes.

"Is that why you look so lost?" She asked, her voice quiet.

"I saw Dad."

She grimaced. "I can imagine how hard that must have been."

"Seeing him wasn't the hard part, Ma." He said, feeling at a loss on how to deal with that unwanted reality, "It was realising he was the only reason I survived."