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Chapter Text

– Mitch –

I had no idea how long I'd been stranded on this island. Long enough to grow a scratchy beard and deplete the meager reserves of food I'd found amidst the wreckage of the yellow speedboat, shattered in a thousand pieces against the rocky shore. Days and nights bled together in a turbulent jumble, and the gash in my head pounded relentlessly, the sand still rusty from the blood I'd lost.

And I had bigger problems than worrying about what to do once I finished my last bottle of water. I didn't know my damn name. I wracked my aching brain for hours upon sun-scorched hours, staring at my hands, feeling out the features of my face, trying to visualize something, anything. I had to be somebody, right? A guy couldn't just be nobody, nameless and faceless.

Whoever I was, I had a horrible taste in fashion. Red shorts and nothing else. I didn't even look good in red, especially with a sunburn seeping into my skin. If there had been any more clothes aboard the wrecked boat, the tide had long since claimed them.

I licked my chapped lips and cast a forlorn stare at the craggy cliff walling off my secluded little cove. Eventually, I'd have to scale the unforgiving rocks and explore the rest of the island, and pray to god for some ripe coconuts or a freshwater spring.

But my bare feet were killing me and it was too damn hot to think straight. I could fashion a torch and go exploring once the sun set and the pale rocks cooled off.

Tipping back the last plasticky drops of water from the bottle, I licked my lips again and mustered the fortitude to get up and rip out some more shrubbery for my signal fire. Despite the blazing sun, the shrubs were green and healthy, the roots moist from recent rainfall. Perfect for a strong, smoky fire.

I scoffed to myself as I tossed the fresh shrubs onto the fire and watched the milky smoke billow into the sky. I knew how to make a damn signal fire but couldn't remember my own name. How the hell did that work?

My head started to pound again, and I trudged upwind of the roaring fire and sank onto my side, pillowing my arm under my head and squeezing my eyes shut against the glare of the sun. Okay, so I didn't know my name, but what did I know? I knew the fundamentals of surviving on a deserted island, and obviously thought it was perfectly normal to go out on my boat in nothing but my underwear. Terrific.

I blinked my eyes open and focused on a yellow shard of debris from my boat in the sand. Was it even my boat? Hazard yellow didn't seem like the color I'd choose if I was buying my own boat.

"I'm so confused..." Even my voice sounded foreign to me, hoarse and raspy. American, I was American. There, that was something.

The beating sun and the soft crackle of the fire lulled my eyes closed again. Exhaustion sank into my bones, and I didn't wanna move, even when I felt the gash in my head split open again, hot blood spilling lazily down my temple and along my cheek. Whoever I was, maybe it didn't matter. Maybe I was gonna die here, after all.

The sound of voices jolted me awake, and for a groggy, panicked moment, I didn't know if I was dreaming. I couldn't move, hot and stiff like a fallen tree, and my heart galloped painfully against my ribs as I struggled to peel my eyes open. The blood oozing from the wound in my head had pooled in my tear duct and practically glued my right eye shut, and using my sweaty, sandy hand to rub at it wasn't exactly the best course of action.

Spitting sand from my lips and blinking against the grit and blood in my eyes, I heaved myself upright with a grunt, my breath coming in ragged pants as my heart continued to pound. Two men trudged across the sand toward me and were upon me before I could react, their words slurring in and out of focus.

"Told ya it was him!" One of the men loomed right over me, blocking out the sun for a moment. "You okay, sir?"

Sir? Sir who? Did I know these guys? Did they know me? A confused scowl creased my face, my vision still too smeared with blood and grit to make sense of anything.

"Who are you?" I managed to croak, still riveted in place under the shadows of these strange men. Navy blue fatigues and red berets, some kinda military uniform. And they were armed. Heavily armed. My muscles stiffened instinctively, and I didn't even know why. Just an innate sense of discomfort at the sight of sidearms and rifles glinting in the sun.

"Sir?" The talkative man made a move at me, and I shot my hand up in defense, palm splayed to fend him off. He balked instantly, and we stared at each other in shock. He was afraid of me? Why? They were the ones with guns.

"I don't...know...what's going on," I worked out slowly, paranoia prickling my bare skin. I didn't want to put myself at too much of a disadvantage, but I also needed to figure out what the hell was going on. "I said, who are you?"

The man's eyes widened, and he cast a bewildered glance over his shoulder at his partner, who was keeping his distance.

"You mean, you don't...?" The man tried for a shaky, incredulous laugh, and he finally focused on the nasty, bloody gash in the side of my head. "I-I mean, sir– How much do you remember?"

"I don't even know my damn name." Frustration lit in my chest, and I finally hauled myself to my feet, ignoring the pain throbbing through my skull. The two men drew themselves to attention, and the man closer to me staggered back a step, clearly intimidated. Was I intimidating? I guess I was pretty tall, and kinda muscular. And I was all but naked, which didn't seem to faze me, now that I thought about it. Maybe I spent a lot of time in nothing but swim trunks.

"Sir– Mr. Knight–" the man stuttered, his wide eyes flicking everywhere but my own as I squinted down at him through the grit in my good eye.

"Knight?" I rolled the name through my mind, considered how it felt on my tongue, how it sounded in my voice. It seemed...familiar.

"Garthe Knight," the man clarified with a self-assured nod. "Sir."

"Garthe..." My frown deepened, the splitting pain in my skull almost unbearable. The name brought to mind a jumble of vague impressions, an ivory suit and the crack of gunfire. Nothing lucid and definitely nothing helpful.

"I'm...Garthe Knight." Just saying the name aloud made me stand a little taller, and the two men shrank back in my presence. Yeah, maybe that did have a familiar ring to it.

"C-comin' back to ya, sir?" The man before me risked meeting my gaze, too eager to stay in my good graces. Who were these guys? Who the hell was I?

"No," I said flatly, and I let out a mirthless chuckle to mask the impatience flickering in my chest. "Just get me off his damn island, already."

"Y-yes, sir!" With that, the two men whirled around and made for the inflatable boat beached on the shore. I shifted to follow, but a nag in my conscience drew me to the fire, instead. I grabbed a warped piece of debris from the shattered hull of my boat and used it to shovel sand onto the fire until it sputtered out. No sense in letting it continue to burn.

"You sure it's him?" the other man murmured, the first words he'd uttered since making landfall. He must've thought he'd pitched his voice low enough for me not to overhear his suspicions.

"'Course it's him! Who else would he be?" the talkative man hissed back, and I pretended not to see his uncertain glance back toward me as I tended to a few stubborn sparks in the bed of kindling.

Shaking off my own misgivings, I tossed away the piece of shrapnel and made for the boat. Of course, I was Garthe Knight. Who else would I be?

***

– Garthe –

Four days. Four days I'd been stranded on this godforsaken island, hot and itchy and too furious to be despondent. No radio, no food, my boat a useless wreck lodged in the rocks offshore. Only the intense pit of indignation burning in my chest to keep me company.

I slaked another capricious bout of rage on a coconut, bashing the wretched thing with the hilt of my knife until it split. I despised coconuts, but their slimy flesh and juices were my lone source of sustenance.

The wind shifted, and the scent of burning wood wafted over the rocky cliff, making my mouth water. So, my valiant lifeguard pursuer, Buchannon, was still alive, after all. Over the course of the endless days, I had nearly been compelled to scale back over the rocks and ascertain whether Buchannon had succumbed to his head injury. It seemed almost a pity for a man with such passion and conviction to waste away in such an inglorious fashion.

Now, knowing Buchannon had indeed survived made my skin crawl. To think of him puttering around just on the other side of the cliff, seemingly oblivious to my presence. Perhaps he assumed I'd perished in the crash.

I sank my teeth into the noxious flesh of the coconut, chewing furiously and ignoring the scent of Buchannon's fire. Eventually, the Coast Guard or my men, or perhaps some hapless civilian, would spot the impressive column of smoke billowing from Buchannon's fire, and then I would make my move.

Sucking dry the last morsels of the wretched fruit, I tossed the husk away and settled back against the rough bark of the tree that had borne such sustenance. Its fronds whispered in the slight breeze, shielding me from the worst of the blazing afternoon sun and lulling my eyes closed, my scars throbbing beneath my sodden eyepatch. I had no doubt I would hear the rumble of an approaching engine, and I needed to save my strength.

Abruptly, I jolted awake, bleary and disoriented, my mouth parched and my skin slick with sweat. How long had I been unconscious? I couldn't discern what had roused me, only that my heart was slamming against my ribs like a confused hare in a cage. My body refused to cooperate, and I grimaced at the stiffness pervading my bones as I lunged unsteadily to my feet.

Voices on the other side of the cliff drew my attention, and Buchannon's fire had dwindled to a tendril of smoke. My heart hammered harder, lodged at the base of my throat.

"No, no–" I staggered into motion, still stiff and groggy and now wrought with adrenaline. If I missed this chance, I might never escape this damned place–

I clawed up the escarpment, and a small engine chugged to life just as I gained the grassy clifftop, gasping for breath under the grueling sun.

"No!" The bellow ripped from my lungs before I could bother to stifle myself, and I dug my fingers into the grass to keep from recklessly launching myself down the opposing cliff face in pursuit of the little boat peeling away from the shore.

A boat with my commandos at the helm!

"You imbeciles!" I lunged into motion at last, seething and wild with fury as I clambered down the cliff. The black-and-silver boat was already arcing east around the island, and I caught but a glimpse of the three men aboard. Buchannon was assuredly one of them.

"Idiots!" I screeched with abandon, for now there was truly no one to hear my plight. How could my own men mistake Buchannon for me?! Useless, insolent fools!

I stood rooted in place, quaking with rage, my ears ringing and my compromised vision hazy and edged with black as the afternoon heat pummeled me relentlessly. I couldn't think, I couldn't begin to fathom the consequences of what I'd just witnessed–

The distant whine of another boat carried over the racket of my pulse hammering in my ears, and I whirled to scour the glassy ocean for the vessel. Yellow, and big. Another lifeguard speedboat. Damn it all!

No, no. I sucked in a bracing, steadying breath. I could make this work, after all. If my men had mistaken Buchannon for me, perhaps I could just as easily fool the lifeguards in the same fashion.

Abandoning all sense of decorum, I ripped open the remaining buttons of my sweat-soaked black shirt and shucked it off.

"Hey!" I pitched my voice higher to better emulate that of my lifeguard doppelgänger, waving my shirt over my head in a pitiful excuse for a flag and cursing Buchannon for dousing his signal fire so effectively. "Help!"

Sure enough, the lifeguard vessel angled toward me, and I waited another beat before sagging rather dramatically to my hands and knees, feigning utter exhaustion.

I remained prone, hanging my head to hide my face, as the boat approached and quelled to an idle just beyond the rocks, followed by the splash of one of the lifeguards diving into the water and swimming to shore.

"Mitch!" The lifeguard emerged from the water and jogged toward me, and I tightened my grip on my knife, my hand buried under the sand. Just a little closer–

"Mitch?" The lifeguard slowed, wrought with concern and even suspicion when I didn't move or lift my head. "You alright, ol' buddy?"

Close enough. I lunged, praying the element of surprise combined with what meager reserve of strength I had left would give me the advantage.

I underestimated the lifeguard's reflexes. He caught my wrist instinctively and wrenched me off balance in one fluid motion, but I could see well enough out of my left eye to know he wasn't winding up for a following punch.

I regained myself and whirled back around for another swing, my blade glinting in the sun. The lifeguard blocked the blow easily, stunning my wrist and knocking my knife from my slackened grasp. Hastily, I jabbed fast with my left fist, ignoring the searing smart of my knuckles meeting bone. The lifeguard's blond head snapped to the side, and I slammed the shaft of my boot against his knee, dropping him before he could recover.

Abandoning my fallen knife, I bolted for the shore and dove into the water without breaking stride, hyperaware of the remaining lifeguard hastening to maneuver the massive boat free from the mess of submerged rocks. I ducked my head under the water, swimming for my life as my window of opportunity dwindled and dwindled–

I lunged for the boat just as the engines roared to full throttle, and by some adrenalized miracle I managed to claw into a ridge in the hull and hoist myself up over the railing. The lifeguard abandoned the controls and whirled to face me, and I didn't stop moving, using my momentum to barrel right into him. He was strong, damn near my height and a solid frame of muscle, but I managed to wrestle him across the deck and fling him backwards over the railing in one indomitable motion.

A triumphant and undoubtedly delirious laugh ripped from me as I claimed the controls of the speedboat and punched the throttle, tearing away from that accursed island with the delicious peal of the twin outboard engines ringing in my ears.

I composed myself with a deep breath of stinging ocean air, the wind blowing my hair back as I rocketed east. Now to devise a means of eluding the authorities, and return to my mansion before that mongrel Buchannon could do anything irreparable.

Chapter Text

– Mitch –

I spent an ungodly amount of time in the shower, washing blood and sand out of my hair and eyes, ignoring the ache of my sunburn as I scrubbed my skin under the hot water. At least I'd made it back to civilization in one piece.

I'd been hoping my memories would miraculously return and everything would fall into place and make perfect sense. That hadn't happened yet. The limousine at the private marina, the winding drive into the mountains, the palatial estate with its sprawling ivory interior, none of it brought back even a flicker of familiarity.

Finally, I rinsed down the immaculate white tiles and glass panes of the shower and shut off the water. The soap and shampoo didn't smell familiar. Hell, even the towel didn't feel familiar as I dried off and wrapped it around my waist.

I approached the foggy mirror cautiously. I'd managed to avoid my reflection in my eagerness to get into a hot shower, but now, I couldn't escape the moment of truth. My face, staring back at me. The face of Garthe Knight.

I touched my jaw compulsively, then my chin. My short beard was clean now, thick and dark, but it didn't look right on my face. Something wriggled in the back of my mind, and I struggled to make sense of it. Mustache, something called to mind having a mustache.

I pawed around aimlessly in the cabinets until I got my hands on shaving cream and a straight razor, of all things. I flipped the razor open and closed a few times, uncertainty and unfamiliarity flickering through me. Wouldn't a disposable Gillette have sufficed? Why didn't anything make a damn bit of sense?

Frowning to myself all the while, I managed to shave without turning out looking like a carved ham, leaving a sharp mustache along my upper lip. Yeah, that seemed right.

The bump on the side of my head smarted every time I ran the comb over it as I blew out my hair. At least the wound had closed, but it was still one helluva goose egg under my curls. Another persistent reminder of the foggy void in my memory.

With a few more tweaks to my hair and another posturing pout to test the cut of my mustache, I turned away from the mirror and strolled back into the master suite I'd been lucky enough to find without any help from the soldiers roaming the place. I sure as hell didn't want to let on how shot my memory was. The mansion was huge, and I still couldn't wrap my head around the idea that it was mine.

Opening the door to the closet blew me away all over again. It was a whole other room, racks upon racks of jackets and shirts, boots for days lined up neatly on shelves. Alright, so I had some taste in fashion, after all.

Maybe I'd won the lottery, or something, I mused as I meandered through the sprawling closet, pairing a charcoal shirt with a slate-blue jacket. A sudden windfall of riches would explain why I wasn't quite accustomed to living like this, right?

That still didn't explain the yellow speedboat I'd crashed, or the armed soldiers, but I'd work up to that.

I strode up to the full-length mirror, admiring the fall of my trousers and the sharp lines of my jacket as I buttoned it. Just the right length and breadth. These were definitely my clothes, which meant this was definitely my house, even if my brain refused to fill in the blanks.

"Garthe Knight," I murmured to myself, toying with the open collar of my shirt. I cleared my throat and tried again, pitching my voice lower and squaring my shoulders. "I'm Garthe Knight." Better.

Another set of doors drew my attention, and I balked when I opened the cabinet. Jewelry quivered and twinkled under the lights, necklaces and bracelets and rings, gold and silver and diamond, too much to take in all at once. I blew out my breath slowly, almost hesitant to touch any of it. This was all getting a little too crazy–

A phone rang in the bedroom, jolting me to attention, and I hurried out of the closet like I'd been caught with contraband. Hell, for all I knew, maybe it was contraband.

I eased out another steadying breath and picked up the phone, nested on one of the bedside tables.

"Yes?" I infused my voice with that steely baritone again, willing my hand to stop shaking. Garthe Knight, I was Garthe Knight. Rich. Powerful. Employer of armed soldiers, apparently.

"Your presence is required in the garage, sir." The voice on the line didn't belong to either of the men who'd rescued me, nor did the man seem inclined to elaborate.

"Right." I managed to bite back a hesitant stutter, thinking fast. "I'll be down shortly."

Hastily, I slammed the phone back down and forced myself to breathe. Brevity was gonna be the key to dealing with these guys, at least until my memories came back. And they would come back, I was sure if it.

Just as I turned away, something else on the nightstand caught my eye. A small jewelry stand, but instead of necklaces or bracelets, it was strung with eyepatches.

Renewed confusion tingled through me as I slipped my fingers under one of the patches for a closer look. Black leather and cloth, obviously custom, and obviously mine. But...both of my eyes were fine, weren't they?

I should've known right then that something was really, really off about this whole situation, but I was so damn confused that I couldn't even begin to figure out how it had gone wrong. I was here, wasn't I? Why would those men on the island have mistaken me for someone I wasn't?

Maybe the eyepatch was some kinda strange affectation, to make me look more mysterious and aloof. The whole place had a strange way of making me feel detached from reality. Maybe this was just one more layer of that detachment.

Still tense with uncertainty, I slipped one of the patches off the stand and took it back into the closet. It fit just right around my head, and my hair fell over the band as I settled the patch over my right eye. Losing half my vision made my heart skip a little faster against my ribs, but I forced myself to ignore the sensation. I was Garthe Knight.

Sucking in a bracing breath, I turned on the heel of my immaculate leather boots and strode out of the room. The eyepatch forced me to tilt my head a little higher, and the clothes forced me to stand a little straighter. I felt like I had power, and purpose. And, I had to admit, it was an intoxicating feeling.

I had a vague idea of where the garage might be, based on a general sense of the layout of the mansion. The heels of my boots rang out as I trotted down the grand staircase and strolled across the marble floors. The garage was attached to the main house, and I pulled open an innocuous enough door that I figured must lead–

I froze in the doorway, my exposed eye going wide at the sight before me. The garage was more like a damn aircraft hangar, with soaring ceilings and enough room for a dozen cars if not for the arrays of computer consoles set up in a gray maze throughout the space. A catwalk riveted to the walls implied direct access to the second story of the house, and the metal rattled softly as armed guards paced the walkways above me.

The sleek lines of one lone car across the vast garage drew my attention. It looked startlingly familiar, the first sight that made even the slightest bit of sense since I'd woken up on that damn island. A black T-top. I knew that black T-top.

But there was also something naggingly wrong about the car, puzzle pieces that weren't quite fitting together no matter how hard I ground the gears in my brain. The silver underbelly didn't look right. Or did it? Maybe I was misremembering–

"Sir." One of the navy-clad soldiers appeared before me, snapping me to attention. The man who'd called, a tall black man with an arrogant lift to his chin. Metal bars pinned to his uniform implied he held some sort of rank in my self-made army, but damn if I knew who he was.

"Welcome back," the man said smoothly, raking his gaze up and down my form, and I stiffened under his scrutiny. Was something wrong? Had I forgotten something?

Wordlessly, the man handed me a glossy wooden cane, and I eyed it hesitantly. First an eyepatch, now a cane? What was with all these weird props, anyway?

I froze as soon as I felt the weight of the cane in my hands, memories flooding my mind rapidly enough to give me whiplash. The ivory suit again, the hollow muzzle of a rifle, gunfire echoing in my ears– This thing in my hands wasn't a cane, at all. It was a rifle. My rifle.

I gulped against the thump of my pulse in my throat, smoothing my thumb over the glossy wood. Had I ever...shot anyone with this thing? Who the hell was I?

"I trust you are...recovering?" My commander's low voice jolted me back to my senses. His keen eyes seemed to bore right into me, and it was all I could do not to wince. He wasn't asking after my health, he was testing me. No trust existed between me and these men, only power and control. And I needed to stay in control.

"I am." I dismissed the man with a nod and strode around him, keeping him in my peripheral all the while. I just wanted to get a closer look at that car. I knew, deep in the concussed mess of my brain, that it wasn't just any old car. The car had a name, if I could just call it to mind. A hard, short syllable, I could almost hear it. K–? KI–?

"Surely you haven't forgotten KARR," my commander pressed again, keeping a pace behind my left shoulder.

"KARR..." I rolled the word around in my mind. Maybe that was it.

At the utterance of his name, a yellow bar of light flared to life under the shadow of the T-top's hood and swept in a mesmerizing, languid flicker. The visual was familiar, just like the car itself was familiar. The whole place, the maze of computer consoles strobing and chirping away, the navy-clad soldiers, it all seemed familiar, yet laced with an unshakable, uncanny sense of wrongness all the same, like I was trapped in some topsy-turvy nightmare.

"Why did you call me down here?" I shook free from my tumultuous thoughts and whirled to face my commander. Unlike the men who'd rescued me, he didn't flinch at my sudden movement, nor did he hesitate to meet and hold my one-eyed stare. I respected that.

"Michael Knight," the man pronounced with an ominous cadence, "did not take the bait. He is en route to Los Angeles as we speak."

I struggled to keep my expression impassive as I unpacked that statement piece by piece. Michael Knight. That sounded familiar. More than familiar. I knew Michael Knight. He was– he was... Damnit!

My frown deepened to a scowl, and I turned away from both my commander and the mysterious car. I had too many eyes on me, paranoia prickling my skin. I could feel the car watching me–

Computer, a strange voice echoed in my mind, too fleeting for me to grasp. He hates being called a car.

Right. KARR was a computer. Seemed like a pretty random thing to remember, but at least I remembered something. I knew, subconsciously, that this mysterious, computerized car and Michael Knight were linked, and that I was entrenched in the middle of it all.

I glanced back at my commander, and he jerked his chin toward one of the nearby computer consoles, where two screens showed security camera footage from a gas station, frozen on one frame in particular. Michael Knight.

I drifted closer to the computer screens, taking in the face of the man captured on the monitors. It should have disturbed me, seeing my face on another man, but somehow I already knew to expect it. Michael Knight, and Garthe Knight. Two halves, two sides of the same coin.

My head started to throb the longer I stared at the images on the screens, struggling to make sense of the disjointed sensations rattling inside me. A knot of emotions rose in my chest, hot and cloying, as I traced the angle of Michael's cheekbone with my lone eye. My heart hammered against my ribs, and I gripped my cane until my knuckles went white, overwhelmed by a sudden, longing urge to reach right through the monitor and– And what?

I clenched my jaw, which only worsened the pressure pounding through my skull. Nothing made a damn bit of sense, and it was starting to really piss me off.

I must've hated Michael Knight. That was the only thing that made sense. Hatred was the only emotion strong enough to make my heart race and my throat burn with bile. Anger, contempt, resentment, all burning inside me at the sight of this man. I didn't know why, but I hated Michael Knight.

"Keep an eye on him," I said at last, my voice low and tight. I had no freaking clue what my plans were, or what sort of operation I was running, or how Michael Knight factored in. I turned away from the monitors, hot and prickly with agitation and my head pounding hard enough to skew my vision. I needed water, or maybe something stronger. I needed to get the hell outta here–

"Garthe..." came a low, demure voice, drawing my attention back to the black-and-silver T-top. KARR's yellow scanner seemed to scrutinize me, maintaining that slow, calculating sweep. "You look pale. Why don't we go for a drive?"

A flicker of disconcertment skittered up my spine. Something in KARR's tone was...off. The pitch, the cadence, it didn't seem familiar. But, I knew KARR. At least, I thought I did. I could feel a sense of trust for this talking T-top somewhere deep inside me, warring with the uncertainty still prickling my skin.

Before I could respond, KARR's door swung open invitingly, and I shoved down the misgivings wriggling in my gut with a dismissive huff. KARR was right, I just needed to get some air. Maybe things would start to make a little more sense.

***

– KARR –

I knew, even before my optical scanners came fully online, that the man currently seated in my passenger compartment was assuredly not Garthe Knight.

What puzzled my processors was that this man was also not Michael Knight, for I would have recognized his telemetry immediately. This left me with an intriguing and no less perplexing enigma. A third Garthe Knight production line model. But to what end?

Silently, I subjected the man in my driver's seat to a barrage of medical scans. Aside from a mild concussion, I detected no familiar patterns of scar tissue, as well as two functional oculi despite the affectation of one of Garthe's eyepatches. No evidence of surgical enhancements, either. This man simply bore enough of a cursory resemblance to Garthe to trick the soldiers, but I was hardly so easily fooled. This imposter, whoever he was, had not accounted for my presence.

And yet, this man hardly seemed perturbed by my existence, either. His hands comfortably navigated my dashboard and molded to my steering yoke with an ease that belied familiarity, which could mean only one thing. This inferior Garthe Knight production line model was familiar with my inferior production line model.

Irritation fanned my circuits, but I forced the sensation aside. This man was no real threat to me; I had countless means at my disposal to neutralize him should the need arise. For now, I endeavored to determine who this imposter truly was, and, more importantly, what his intentions were.

Though operating in Normal Cruise, maintaining the pretense that this interloper was in control, I sent an imperceptible impulse through my brake lines just as my driver slowed to take another turn on the winding mountain roads. His muscles seized when the brakes hesitated to respond, and his grip tightened on the steering yoke just long enough for me to map the impressions of his thumbprints.

"Slippery out here, huh," my driver murmured, his voice losing the haughty edge he had been affecting earlier. Odd. If this was meant to be some sort of infiltration, this imposter was hardly doing a convincing job of it. His uncertainty, even discomfort, had been more than evident in the garage, and only now, at my controls, did he seem relaxed. Too relaxed.

My scan returned a match to the man's fingerprints, and I internalized my intrigue at the information pinging through my databanks. Mitch Buchannon, LA County Lifeguard. Ah, yes, of course. The very same Mitch Buchannon who had made it his personal mission to flush out Garthe. He'd been making quite a nuisance of himself ever since Garthe had returned to Los Angeles, yet Garthe's confidence had been unflagging that our operation was more than safe from one overzealous lifeguard.

Until four days ago, when Garthe's overinflated ego had landed him right in Buchannon's sights, even after I had warned him of the risks of venturing out during the day. But Garthe was indomitable at best. Insufferably stubborn at his worst. I held no sympathy for him in my neural relays for whatever ill fate had befallen him. He should have listened to me.

"This area has experienced quite substantial rainfall," I responded at long last, keeping a close ocular on my driver. Buchannon nodded absently, his expression drawn tight in thought under his superfluous eyepatch.

My processors cycled back to pondering Buchannon's intentions. Infiltration, surely. An undercover operation, reliant upon his uncanny resemblance to Garthe to gain access to our inner sanctum. Michael Knight had done the same once before, though not to any great length of success. The guise of amnesia was a nice touch, to further divert any suspicion.

And yet, Buchannon's erratic behavior rankled my strategic analyzers. He was hardly acting like a man intent upon subterfuge. Unless...

I scanned Buchannon's cranial injury with a bit more scrutiny. Perhaps his purported amnesia was not a ruse, after all.

I internalized a derisive chuckle. So, Buchannon was not impersonating Garthe for any duplicitous purposes. Those foolish commandos had him convinced he was Garthe. I could not help my amusement at the irony. Humans and their soft, gullible little brains.

I dialed back my defensive protocols, for the time being. At least I could take comfort in knowing Buchannon had no ill intentions toward me, and I was far too curious to see how this little debacle would unfold. After all, I was the one with an eject button at my disposal, should such measures prove necessary.

***

– Mitch –

This. This felt right. I'd been in this driver's seat before. I knew exactly how the yoke responded under my hands, how touchy the gas pedal was, hyperaware of the unfathomable power whining under that gleaming, asymmetrical hood.

I couldn't keep my gaze from wandering across KARR's dashboard, taking in all the buttons at my fingertips. Ski Mode, Smokescreen, Oil Slick, Turbo Boost. Adrenaline tingled through me, latent memories struggling to break through the haze in my mind. I'd done this before, I was sure of it.

I glanced down at KARR's darkened voice mod. Part of me wanted to make small talk, if only to make those yellow equalizer bars flash again. Had they always been yellow?

I couldn't ignore the cagey, staticky tension crackling through the cabin, though, and I kept my mouth shut. I could practically feel KARR's sensors locked onto me, studying me, preening over me like thumbing through the pages of a book. What kind of relationship did we have, exactly? I couldn't make heads or tails if we even trusted each other, let alone got along.

"Garthe, you still seem tense." KARR's thoughtful purr jolted me to attention like a douse of cold water, his voice mod flashing like yellow fangs. "What's on your mind? You know you can tell me anything."

I blew out a shaky breath, flexing my grip on the yoke until some color came back to my knuckles.

"So, we're...partners, right?" I ventured at last, letting my voice relax. Keeping up appearances was getting exhausting. "I mean, I can be myself around you?"

"Of course, Garthe," came KARR's purring response, and something about the way that name – my name – rolled off KARR's vocoder sent a chill up my spine. "Tell me what's wrong."

"Well, to be honest–" I let out an ironic little laugh and shook my head. "I'm freaking the hell out. I don't know who I am, I didn't know my damn name until an hour ago. I have no idea who all those soldiers are, or what their deal is, or what my deal is–"

I broke off to catch my breath, the digital speedometer ticking down as I dizzily navigated the winding road. I didn't even know where I was going or what highway we were on. I only had a vague, almost eerie sense that we were heading toward the ocean.

"I don't know why I'm wearing this stupid eyepatch–" I forged on, gesturing vaguely. "Or why I have this fricking gun–" I nudged the fake cane with my thigh where I had it resting in the footwell beside me. I didn't know what else to do with the damn thing.

"I'm sure your memories will return, in time," KARR mused, and I almost scoffed at his neutral remark, tapping the brake as we approached the end of the road. The Pacific Coast Highway stretched to the left and right, and the ocean sprawled beyond the shrubby bluff ahead of us, deep blue where it met the clear sky.

"We should turn back," KARR cautioned, but I was already swinging us left, beckoned by some unseen force. "It's not safe for us to be this exposed."

Obediently, I slowed and pulled off along the shoulder. The ocean breeze rustled the bushes, and it took me a second to find the button to roll down the windows. Cool, salty air wafted into KARR's cabin, and I drew a long, deep breath, until the tension gripping my chest eased a little.

"What's the problem?" I twisted my whole body in the seat in order to see the ocean without the use of my right eye. I guess I was getting accustomed to the eyepatch, after all. Cars whizzed past us, but nobody seemed to be giving us a second thought.

"It's not safe for us out here," KARR repeated, his tone going harsh, and suddenly his engine roared back to life with an impatient thrum through his chassis.

"Whoa! Just hang on a sec, huh?" I protested, and I remembered enough to know that when Auto Cruise lit up on the dash, KARR could pretty much do whatever he damn well pleased.

"I just wanna see the beach again," I murmured, gazing out over the rich, cerulean ocean again. A sort of familiarity tugged at me, right in the middle of my chest, calling out to me–

"You hate the beach," KARR retorted, his engine still rumbling testily. "You hate sand, you hate the reek of these American oceans–"

"I do?" A befuddled frown pinched my brows, but I couldn't tear my eyes from the water to glance at KARR's voice mod. Aside from the glassy shimmer of the sun reflecting off the water, I thought I could see something...strange. Dark currents sawing against the waves, churning away from the shore instead of toward it.

Irritation flared inside me, and I ripped off the stupid eyepatch and squinted against the glare of the sunlight on the water. Something was moving within the dark current, slashing, no, scissoring–

Realization blazed through me. Rip current. Two people, caught in a rip. They'd never make it back to shore struggling like that.

Without taking my eyes off the thrashing sets of arms in the current, I reached back and scrabbled with the door handle, but the damn thing wouldn't budge.

"What the hell, KARR? I need to get out!" I twisted back around and shoved at the door with my shoulder, but I knew it wouldn't give unless KARR let it.

"Why?" KARR's engine growled as I kept shoving at the door. "They mean nothing to you."

"I can save them!" My voice went shrill in desperation, my heart hammering at the base of my throat. I didn't know why, but I knew I could save them. The same way I knew how to make a signal fire. It was innate, it was inside me.

"Let me out, KITT–!" I froze as soon as the word slipped out, confusion seizing my pounding brain. KITT? What was KITT?

"That does it!" In one swift motion, KARR's sunroof panel retracted, and I was too bewildered to move. "Tolerating your insolence is no longer productive nor amusing."

I barely had time to suck in a breath before my whole world rocketed skyward. I might have screamed – no, I definitely screamed as the ground came rushing back at me in a tumbling whirl of green and blue, wind roaring in my ears.

I managed to tuck at the last second, hitting the ground hard on my shoulder and rolling through the sand a few times until I was good and gritty and I thought my head was gonna explode.

I spat sand from my mouth and shook it out of my hair, and the screech of tires pealing away told me KARR would be long gone by the time I glanced up the bluff. At least he hadn't jettisoned me into the middle of the road. That woulda left a mark.

A throbbing ache rapidly suffused my shoulder and pulsed down my spine to my tailbone in splintering jabs, but I shoved to my feet regardless, gnashing my teeth through the pain as I shucked off my suit jacket. I could still see arms thrashing in the water. I could still save those people.

Ripping off my shiny leather boots like it was second nature, I pounded across the hot sand at a sprint. I didn't know what the hell I was doing, and yet I knew exactly what I was doing. I knew this sensation, adrenaline pounding in my veins, my breath whirring in my ears. This made sense. This felt right.

Chapter Text

– Michael –

Even with Super Pursuit Mode at our disposal and nothing but untouched ribbons of open road before us, Arizona was still a big freaking state to get across. But when the words Mitch and missing came through in the same transmission, KITT and I put new meaning to the term hauling ass.

I barely felt bad about dropping the case in such a hurry. RC could handle it. Just another buyout scam the Foundation had sunk its teeth into. I had bigger fish to fry. And it smelled like a fish with an outdated fashion sense, tacky jewelry, and a mustache.

Baywatch headquarters was buzzing with agitation as I stormed upstairs and let myself into Captain Thorpe's old office. John D. Cort, complete with his wicker cowboy hat, and Newman, a tall, mustachioed lifeguard I'd met in passing a few times, hovered on either side of the desk, caught in a tense conversation.

"We got here as soon as we could," I got out in a rush, clasping Cort's hand in a compulsive handshake at the door. "Nice shiner."

"Yeah, a little parting gift from our old friend," Cort sneered with a mirthless huff of laughter. "Bastard jumped me, then stole our boat. Been one hell of an afternoon."

"And you're sure it was...him?" It turned my stomach to even say Garthe's name out loud. He was like a bad dream I couldn't wake up from, a cursed penny that just wouldn't stop turning up.

"Unless you have any more evil twins I need to know about, yeah, it was him." Cort's harsh smirk widened, and he procured a knife from his belt and slapped the hilt into my hand. "He dropped this, though."

"KITT? Get me everything you can on this thing." I wasted no time scanning my comlink up and down the knife, flipping it over a few times and weighing it in my hand. It was a helluva piece of hardware, eight inch blade and a custom hilt with a lion carved into the pommel. Some kinda family crest by the looks of it.

"It's definitely Garthe's knife, Michael," KITT replied almost immediately. "The crest is an original Knight Industries seal, predating the chess piece we are familiar with. Wilton Knight had a deep affection for lions."

A sickly chill dug into my bones, and I ran my thumb over the well-worn carving in the knife hilt. Garthe. Back from the dead. Again.

"We shoulda gotten here sooner," I murmured through clenched teeth. Mitch had been in communication with me for months, filling my head with all sorts of theories that Garthe had returned. But I'd been stuck in the field, up to my eyeballs in back-to-back cases, and Mitch hadn't come up with anything concrete enough to build a legitimate Foundation case. Just phantoms and hearsay. Until now. Until four days ago.

"We all should've been backing Mitch up," Cort said solemnly. "He was driving himself crazy. Wouldn't sleep, wouldn't go home. Then suddenly he's taking one of the Scarabs out, alone. We lost radio contact with him right before those storms hit."

I nodded to myself, my teeth still locked. KITT had been monitoring the storm cell off the coast, patched into the Coast Guard frequencies as best he could from a distance. It had been hell, waiting for the advisories to lift and for the search to get underway, and there hadn't been a damn thing KITT or I could do to help.

"So where the hell is he?" I ventured at last, shoving the knife into my own belt and cutting an intent glance equally between Cort and Newman. "You're sure Mitch was on that island?"

"Positive," Newman replied. "We found the wrecked Scarab, plus some granola bar wrappers and empty water bottles."

"And it was definitely Mitch's fire," Cort added, infusing some levity with a whistle. "That guy sure knows how to make a killer signal fire."

"What about coconuts?" KITT piped up over the comlink. "The organic matter on the hilt of the knife is coconut residue."

"There were a bunch of busted coconuts on the other side of the cove," Newman said. "We figure that's where Garthe was holed up. Mitch might not have even known they were on the same island."

I set the scene in my mind, chewing on every detail with a pensive frown.

"So Mitch and Garthe are stranded on the same island for four days, weathering the storm." I started to pace the tiny office, which only felt that much smaller with all three of us stuffed inside. "If I'm Garthe, I'm hunkered down, letting Mitch do all the work. No use expending the energy in a confrontation. And if I'm Mitch, I'm doing things by the book. Signal fire. Rationing supplies. Straightforward enough, right?"

Cort and Newman humored me with concurring nods, but of course they would've gone over the same details. I rubbed at the frown bracketing my mouth, digging for that missing angle.

"Someone else must've gotten to that island before you guys," I said at last. "That's the only logical explanation. But how did Mitch get away and not Garthe?"

"We've been thinking the same thing," Cort mused. "And we both have a theory or two. Newmie thinks a civilian picked up Mitch, and Garthe missed his window of opportunity."

"There's only one problem with that theory, though," Newman added. "Where the hell Mitch is now? He hasn't checked into any hospitals, hasn't gone to the police, obviously hasn't come back here. LA and Ventura counties are both on high alert looking for him."

"Which leaves us with my theory." Cort's expression darkened under the brim of his wicker hat. "Garthe's guys got him."

Another chill jolted through me, the knots in my gut tightening. Garthe never shied away from taking hostages.

"But we haven't heard anything from Garthe's camp," Cort went on with a shrug. "What's the point of a hostage if you're not gonna barter with him? Why take him, in the first place? And why the hell didn't they take their boss, too?"

"Obviously we're missing something." I went back to pacing, putting myself in Mitch's position. Mitch was smart, and resourceful, but after four days of isolation, even I'd be going a little crazy. Low on rations, low on hope. How far would I go to get off that island?

"Say Garthe's guys did take Mitch..." I turned back to Cort and Newman, gesturing vaguely, gathering my thoughts as they settled into cohesion. "But not as a hostage. Maybe he tricked them into taking him instead of Garthe."

"You're saying Mitch went undercover?" Newman's eyes widened. "D'you think he could pull that off?"

"I buy it," Cort mused, nodding thoughtfully. "All he'd have to do is posture around a little. He knows how Garthe acts."

"And if he's under, that would explain why he hasn't reached out," I went on. "Either he hasn't had an opportunity, or he's worried the lines are tapped."

"There's still one big problem, then," Newman cut in, his mustache and brows set in a worried frown. "Ventura County found our Scarab adrift a few miles off Leo Carrillo beach, about an hour ago. If Garthe ditched the boat and swam for shore, he could already be on his way back to home base. And Mitch is gonna be a sitting duck."

I compressed my lips against the renewed knot of dread in my chest. I'd only just gotten here, and time was already running out. God, I hated this game.

"Guess I'm going to Leo Carrillo, and hoping I can snag a lead before–" My comlink beeped before I could finish, and I toggled KITT through hastily.

"Michael, there's just been a civilian rescue reported off South Beach, performed by a man matching Mitch's description. I have the coordinates."

"On my way, pal." I was already moving for the doorway when Cort cut me off.

"I'm coming, too–"

"No, no." I clasped his shoulder, forcing Cort to a halt. "Stay here in case I need backup, or if this is a false alarm, alright?"

Reluctantly, Cort nodded, his jaw set and flickering with tension.

"Best case scenario, we find Mitch safe and sound, and we bring him home," I said gently, squeezing Cort's shoulder. I felt for the guy, and I wanted Mitch back as badly as any of them. I tried for a wry smirk. "Besides, KITT can get pretty cramped, remember?"

"Yeah, right." Cort hissed out a snicker. "Alright, get outta here."

With a firm nod, I spun on my heel and strode out of the office with a hasty spring in my step. I couldn't let the dread get to me. My first and only objective was getting Mitch back. We could worry about Garthe later.

***

– Garthe –

Indefatigable.

I had been enamored of that word as a young lad, gazing upon one of the paintings in my father's study. Hornblower and the Indefatigable, a stunning portrait of two tall ships locked in combat against the dying sun, and the tale of one young British midshipman against the might of the French Armada. The sort of tale my father reveled in. One man can make a difference, he would say with a resolute wag of his finger.

Until I was that man, and the differences I endeavored to make did not meet my father's exacting, dogmatic, archaic standards.

Indefatigable. I carried that word with me even now, a mantra pounding through my veins. Every stroke of the two mile swim to shore, half naked and aching, hot-wiring the first car I came upon with numb, trembling fingertips.

I thought of Goliath as I tore up the highway in my pilfered sports car, the top down and the wind blowing my hair dry. He had been my Indefatigable, my trustworthy frigate, my indomitable steed. Goliath had been mine in ways KARR would never be.

Though it pained me that I might never resurrect Goliath from his watery grave, his spirit lived on, within me. I sloughed off every hardship as though Goliath's armored hull were my own, forging on as easily as barreling through concrete, exhilarating and free. Indefatigable.

I abandoned the car in a ditch off the side of the road, endeavoring to walk the rest of the way along the muddy highway. I knew my border patrols would spot me long before I spotted them, and in due time, a roaring four-by-four descended upon me, bristled with my commandos, rifles already drawn.

At least they recognized me.

The Jeep jostled to a screeching halt in a plume of dust, and two of my men immediately leapt down to my aid. I must have looked ghastly, shirtless and half-drowned and unkempt, my scars standing out starkly against my sunburnt skin.

Wordlessly, I hauled myself into the back of the Jeep, and my men did not have to be told to bring me back to the mansion. I couldn't bring myself to wonder what carnage awaited me. Would Buchannon be there? How deeply into my affairs had he managed to muddle?

The garage was alive with activity when the Jeep rumbled in, stopping just long enough for me to disembark before circling back to resume its patrol. KARR was nowhere to be found, nor my lifeguard doppelgänger, and I zeroed in on Commander Okon's imposing presence pacing between computer consoles at the same instant he saw me.

"Sir–" Okon's eyes widened a fraction, his usually stoic countenance wavering as I closed the distance between us briskly, a blustery rage rising higher and higher in my chest with each stride.

"How could you–" My bellow resounded throughout the massive garage, my men now deathly silent at their stations, all eyes locked on me, the picture of fury. "How could you mistake Buchannon for me?"

Seething, my hands found their way blindly to Okon's throat, and he weathered my assault without so much as blinking.

"You, Okon, who has been at my side since the mines!" I shook him, and still Okon hardly reacted. Damn him! I could have throttled him into submission, but my blazing rage was already ebbing. Okon's stoicism had that effect on me.

"He claimed he had amnesia," Okon ventured when my grip slackened, dismay coloring his tone. He held my gaze like a statue, unperturbed by the sight of my scarred eye at such close proximity and the unsteady heaving of my bare chest as I caught my breath.

"Buchannon's amnesia was authentic," came KARR's smooth baritone behind me. I could barely hear his engine over the racket of my pulse hammering in my ears. "Let him go, Garthe. He's one of the only worthwhile men in your employ."

Hissing through my teeth, I whirled away from Okon to face KARR, leering down at the audacious sweep of his yellow scanner.

"Of course, you knew all along!" I sneered. "And you allowed this charade to persist!"

"It was a rather illuminating study into human psychology," KARR replied, not a hint of remorse in his tone. "Buchannon convinced himself he was Garthe Knight, and I must say, he was doing a decent enough job of it. Misinterpreting his own memories to fit the narrative. It was fascinating."

"Where is he?" My voice broke, and I cursed the chink in my countenance. The threads of adrenaline holding me together were thinning, and my rage would only keep the inevitable crash at bay for so long.

"I disposed of him," KARR said coolly, which only stoked my fury with a jolt.

"He's dead?" Indignation bloomed within me like an inferno, and I couldn't even be sure, in that moment, why I was so furious. After the chase, and the crash, and surviving on that damned island, perhaps I felt robbed of meeting my adversary face-to-face.

"I didn't say that." KARR's snide tone only prodded my ire further. "I did not linger to perform a proper scan, but his likelihood of survival was high. He simply will no longer be a nuisance to us."

"You belligerent, callous, insolent automobile!" I stalked right up to KARR's sharp prow, unfazed by the threatening rumble of his engine. "Go back and retrieve Buchannon! Now!"

"Why?" KARR retorted, his engine roaring impudently. Only KARR had the gall to question my orders, and he did so at every possible juncture, that infuriating beast of a machine.

"He knows too much!" I snapped, but even I heard the lack of conviction in my voice.

"He doesn't even know who he is," KARR parried easily. "Even if his memories return, he will lead Michael Knight in circles–"

"Michael?" A sickly chill swept through me. "He's supposed to be in Arizona!"

"We spotted him entering the county limits earlier today," Okon ventured calmly, and I grimaced. Michael had come running to the rescue of his precious lifeguard, no doubt.

"Then we can use Buchannon as leverage." Again, I couldn't infuse my will into my words. I knew it was a strategic faux pax, but I couldn't bear the thought of Buchannon slipping through my fingers–

"Leverage!" KARR scoffed. "If anything, he will be bait! You would lure Michael Knight right to us!"

"I want Buchannon!" The words split from me in a hoarse shout, and I refused to recant them. I did want Buchannon. I wanted my prize. I wanted that headstrong, willful young man all to myself. I wanted him to be mine.

"Bring him to me, alive." My voice dropped to a quivering monotone, my gaze locked onto the agitated sweep of KARR's scanner. "Or don't bother coming back."

"Don't tempt me." KARR made sure to project his indignant retort over the roar of his engine, and his tires screeched in a dramatic plume of smoke as he tore from the garage, leaving a trail of black, smoldering rubber on the pavement.

I stared numbly at the black tire tracks, gulping down breath after steadying breath until the floor stopped pitching under me and I could think a little clearer. Buchannon. Amnesia. I could work with that. I could use it to my advantage. He would be mine.

Raking my fingers through my tangled hair, I turned to Okon, who stood by passively, hands clasped behind his back. Despite his stoic facade, his brows were tweaked in an uncertain frown when our gazes locked. He was not a man accustomed to making mistakes, nor was I in the habit of excusing them. In light of recent events, however, I could make a few exceptions, if only to put this wretched ordeal behind us.

"Get me Dr. Moritz," I said flatly, my throat raw. "And have the infirmary prepped to receive Buchannon."

"Yes, sir." Okon shifted to turn away, then paused. "Would you like me to discipline the men who facilitated this...situation?"

The ghost of amusement flickered through me, and the bloodlust shining in Okon's dark eyes seemed to brighten when I smiled. I knew I kept him around for a reason.

"Deal with them as you see fit, brother. I leave it entirely to your discretion." I clasped Okon's shoulder in passing, an unspoken, rueful acknowledgment of my capricious outburst. Okon was too valuable an asset to treat so harshly.

"Alert me the moment KARR returns," I added, my mind already wandering to the prospect of having Buchannon in my possession once again. A vulnerable, malleable Buchannon, no less. All to myself.

***

– Mitch –

Of course, the couple I rescued from the rip current had ridden their bikes to the beach and couldn't give me a lift anywhere. They did offer me some spare cash for a cab or something to eat, but I declined the gesture. Taking their money didn't feel right. I'd just done what anyone would do in my position, right?

So I hiked back up the shrubby bluff to the highway, tugging on my discarded boots and collecting my rifle. I couldn't just leave a firearm on the side of the road, for god's sakes.

I kept my head down as I strolled along the shoulder of the highway, heading south. Or east. I couldn't really tell, only that the ocean sprawled to my right, and I was on the wrong side of the road. Paranoia swept through me with each car that roared up behind me and flew by, buffeting me with stale wind. It's not safe for us out here, KARR had insisted. Safe from what? Or from whom?

A distant whine drew my attention from where I had my gaze fixed on the road underfoot, and the hair on my nape prickled. I knew that sound. KARR? No, this engine whine was smoother, cleaner. Familiar.

Just as I glanced up, a jet black bullet of a car screamed around the curve of the highway, and in one fluid, astonishing motion, the car braked in a shrieking plume of smoke and whipped around in a smooth one-eighty, a keen flicker of red locking onto me.

I blanched, panic seizing me, square in the sights of the black T-top. That wasn't KARR. Shit. Shit–

I staggered back a few steps as the T-top swung heedlessly across four lanes of traffic, but it wasn't like I was gonna be able to outrun the damn thing. I dug my heels in, my grip tightening instinctively on my rifle as the car prowled closer, the sun glancing off the tinted windshield just right to completely obscure the driver.

But I knew who the driver would be, and I already had my rifle leveled when the door swung open and Michael Knight leapt out, his mane of hair catching the sunlight and his blue eyes alight even from a distance.

"Mitch!" All at once, dismay and confusion crumpled Michael's expression, and he took in the rifle at a glance before frowning at me. "Mitch, what–"

"Why the hell are you calling me that?" I bellowed, fighting to keep the nervous pitch out of my voice even as my heart pounded at the base of my throat. "Don't you know who I am?!"

"Mitch, it's me." Michael spread his hands in a placating gesture, his wide eyes unwavering even as I aimed the barrel of my rifle right at his chest. "It's me, Michael."

"I know who you are!" I felt around frantically for the trigger, willing my hands to stop shaking. Hadn't I fired this damn thing before? How the hell did I cock it?

"Mitch, look at me." Michael kept his palms spread and dared to take a step toward me just as I felt a mechanism depress under my thumb with a sharp click. We both froze, my heart hammering hard enough to hurt and my palms slick with sweat.

"I'll shoot you." I gulped hard, straining to keep from trembling. "My name is Garthe Knight, and you're my enemy, and I swear I'll shoot!"

"Your name is Mitch Buchannon!" Michael shouted back, his voice nearly swallowed by a passing car. I was half-aware of traffic swerving clear of our spectacle, and it was only a matter of time before someone called the police.

"Your name is Mitch Buchannon, and you're a goddamn lifeguard!" Michael repeated, but his words refused to stick, my head throbbing, memories rushing together incoherently.

"You're lying!" I leveled the rifle again, having let the barrel droop. The voices flurrying in my mind agreed with me. Michael Knight was a liar. A killer. My enemy. My enemy with my face. I had to do this. I had to end this before he did–

"Michael–" came a stern warning from the rumbling T-top. "He's not bluffing."

I wasn't? God, I felt like I was. I felt like this whole day had been one big poker game and I'd been coasting by with the shittiest hand possible.

"Mitch, you gotta snap out of it!" Michael protested, again with that name. Mitch Mitch Mitch. It didn't make any damn sense!

"Michael, there's a vehicle approaching at high speed," KITT cut in again, his voice sharp with sudden urgency. "Michael, get in, now!"

Everything happened in a blur. Michael lunged. I panicked. A deafening shot rang out, and the bullet glanced harmlessly off KITT's hood. I staggered, my knees almost giving out as horror lanced through me like ice. I almost shot him. Good god, I really almost shot him.

The guttural whine of another turbine engine snapped me back to reality just as KARR blazed onto the scene. Michael barely had himself closed inside KITT when KARR rammed them, hard enough to shove KITT a good six inches sideways toward the edge of the road.

KITT's tires bit in with a shriek, and both cars whipped into reverse, unscathed and fuming with the reek of burning rubber.

"Get in, you stupid man!" KARR snarled, his passenger door swinging open as he cranked back into drive and swung to my side where I stood, petrified and painfully vulnerable, locked between two indestructible vehicles.

Without thinking, I dove into KARR's dim interior, the door slamming shut behind me and his tires already shrieking for purchase as he charged back out onto the highway.

I settled stiffly into the passenger seat, gasping for breath as adrenaline continued to pound through me. I didn't have to watch the side mirror to know Michael was following us.

"I didn't think you'd come back for me," I ventured breathlessly, delirious with shock, and I tried to pull myself into the driver's seat, but my body refused to cooperate, like I had cement lashed to my chest.

"Hold still," KARR snapped, and the pressure on my chest tightened. Renewed panic lanced through me when my arms and legs suddenly refused to move, pinned down by the same invisible force. "This won't take long."

Before I could protest, a tendril of pressure lashed itself across my throat. My breath caught instantly, horror blazing through me as my lungs seized. I bucked and scrabbled uselessly, gasping for air around the steely, invisible pressure. My pulse thundered in my ears as the pressure in my head swelled painfully, black splotches crystallizing my vision, terrifyingly fast.

KARR was right. It wasn't long at all before bleak darkness swallowed me whole.

***

– Michael –

Get Mitch back. Get Mitch back.

I couldn't focus on anything else as KITT and I tore down the highway, traffic swerving and honking in our wake. I couldn't focus on the silver underbelly of the vehicle ahead of us. I couldn't focus on the blue license plate winking at me through the dust. I couldn't focus on the sickly glint of that yellow scanner emblazoned in my mind's eye, right before KARR had rammed us– Damn it.

I couldn't let myself get distracted. I couldn't lose myself in the abject, utter confusion whirling in my brain. Mitch was Garthe. Garthe was back. KARR was back.

We just had to get Mitch back.

KARR veered to the right, charging northbound into the arid mountains, and KITT's rear tires skidded on the silty road as I yanked him haphazardly into the turn and floored the gas.

"Gimme everything you got, pal!" I shouted compulsively, and I jabbed at KITT's High Traction button, but the function was already activated.

"Michael, I dare say, he is more equipped for this terrain than I am." Even KITT refused to say his name aloud as KARR pulled further and further ahead on the dusty road, taking the curves recklessly but damn efficiently.

"Stay on him!" I tapped the brake into a hairpin turn and floored out of it, feeling KITT's rear end kick out again in protest, losing us precious seconds.

"I'm locked onto him, Michael," KITT replied, his tone level as his processors whirred in a million different directions at once. "Mitch is unconscious, but stable."

All I could do was hiss through my teeth, too focused on negotiating another harrowing turn. The road straightened out, and I gunned the gas hard enough to feel the acceleration shove me back against the seat, the speedometer ticking up toward triple digits and KARR's brake lights getting larger and larger– Wait, why was KARR–?

"Michael, stop!" KITT shouted, and I was already slamming the brake pedal to the floor in a jarring grind when a blinding flash of muzzle fire filled the windshield. The concussion nailed us like a bag of bricks to the chest, and we still had enough forward momentum for the blast to send us flying into a tailspin.

"KITT!" I shouted over the growl of KITT's tires skidding uselessly on the slick road as we spun out of control. My stomach lurched, and I braced myself within the cocoon of the laser restraints pinning me to the seat. We'd been in enough tailspins for me to know one of two things was coming next. Either the nauseating buoyancy of a freefall, or a bone-crunching barrel roll.

This time, it was the latter.

My head whirled as we tumbled, and I felt every deafening, rending impact of steel on rocks in my bones. Sideways, my shoulders wrenching painfully. Upside down, my jaw gnashing tight enough to make my teeth groan. Sideways again, my tailbone screaming. Rolling, still rolling. My organs sloshed around like dishwater, and my brain was poached by the time we settled to a jarring stop, debris rattling down around us, the windshield coated in a thick film of sediment.

"K-augh..." My eyelids fluttered, my vision going dim as my head continued to reel, my muscles limp under the laser restraints, sore and over-exerted. Pain billowed through me, digging in deep, dragging me under before I could fight it.

I sagged into unconsciousness to the nettling chorus of KITT calling my name.

Chapter Text

– Garthe –

I had just finished cleaning myself up when Okon summoned me back to the garage. KARR had breached the perimeter with a life form in his passenger compartment, and I couldn't help a triumphant grin as I settled into a charcoal gray jacket and made my way down to the garage.

Dr. Moritz's medical staff were already in position to receive KARR's precious cargo when I slipped onto the second story catwalk and hastened down the metal stairs. Not a moment later, KARR himself roared into the garage and braked with a resounding bark of rubber on asphalt.

"Here's your bounty," KARR snapped, impudent as ever. His passenger side door swung open and Buchannon's unconscious body slumped out unceremoniously, and my heart skipped against the back of my throat, eagerness and impatience blooming through me as Moritz's staff scrambled to haul Buchannon's limp form onto the gurney.

"Make sure to burn these clothes," I murmured, shouldering between the nurses to rake an intent gaze up and down Buchannon's form. I couldn't have him remembering his little stint as my double.

The nurses humored me with distracted nods, busily fitting Buchannon with a saline drip and measuring his blood pressure. Forcing my impatience aside, I backed away from the gurney and let the team whisk Buchannon away.

"And shave off that ridiculous mustache!" I called after them before turning my attention to KARR, whose engine continued to idle in agitation. "Well? Were there any complications?"

For once, KARR remained silent. Uncharacteristically silent, his scanner sweeping in a slow, reticent loop. Irritation tightened its grip over me, and I refused to repeat my question.

"I took care of it," KARR ground out at last, angling his tires and slinking away from my unwavering leer.

"Took care of what?" I marched after KARR, taking in the streaks of mud sullying his silver underbelly, which belied he'd taken the rugged roads at an unsettlingly high speed.

"Were you spotted?" I planted myself in front of KARR, balling my hands into fists to keep my temper from snapping. "Did Michael Knight see you? Answer me, you infernal machine!"

"He would have learned of my existence soon enough," KARR ventured at last, his tone maddeningly aloof as my fists trembled at my sides. "He and his machine, as you're so fond of calling us, are currently buried under a rockslide, hardly a mile into the mountains. Alive, undoubtedly, but waylaid."

I forced myself to breathe until the quivering tension gripping my body abated. I'd known the risks. I knew sending KARR after Buchannon was tactless and impulsive. But I also knew I would not have peace until I had Buchannon in my possession. He would be an integral asset to our operation, I would make sure of it.

"Get cleaned up. You're a mess," I muttered at last, but KARR was already prowling past me toward his designated area of the vast garage. His mechanics scrambled eagerly into action, a team of technicians cherry-picked from the Foundation over the years to tend to KARR's every whim. Their doting and preening were about the only reason KARR tolerated the constant friction between us.

"Okon?" I dismissed KARR with an offhanded flick of my wrist, and Okon was at my side in an instant. "Send a team to Buchannon's residence. Quietly. Have them collect a small selection of clothing and toiletries. I need Buchannon to believe he has come here willingly."

"Right away, sir." Okon inclined his head and turned sharply on his heel, but not before I could catch the derisive flick of his gaze up and down my form, his brow arched haughtily. Disconcertment flashed through me, and I fidgeted compulsively with the cuffs of my jacket.

"Buchannon will be an invaluable asset," I pronounced to no one in particular, agitation rising in my chest. I did have a plan, even if KARR and Okon were too short-sighted to understand. I would turn Buchannon against Michael Knight, I would destroy what my dear brother cherished most. I would twist Buchannon's vulnerable mind, convert him to my cause, and together, we would destroy Michael Knight.

***

– Michael –

"Michael? Michael. Michael, can you hear me?"

I came to with a beleaguered grunt, my eyelids fluttering and my vision refusing to adjust to the gloom of KITT's cabin. My whole body ached liked I'd been put through a washing machine, and my neck was crimped from how I'd been slumped in the seat.

With a pang of adrenaline, I jolted fully awake. Mitch. KARR. Chase. Rockslide. KITT–

"You okay, pal?" I clutched KITT's steering yoke compulsively, grounding myself until the racket of my pulse quieted a little. He seemed fine, his dash fully illuminated and casting the otherwise blacked-out cabin in a soft, multicolored glow.

"I've been worse," came KITT dismal remark, then his tone softened. "The good news is, I've landed upright, and none of my functions appear to have sustained any major damage."

"And the bad news?" I fumbled for the windshield wipers in the gloom, but the mechanism whirred pitifully under the weight of the dirt on top of us.

"My front right tire has been destroyed."

"Laser?" I asked immediately, my heart already thumping as the memory of KARR's menacing yellow scanner flashed through my mind. If KARR was back, it stood to reason he'd have his favorite toy, too.

"Negative, Michael." A hint of relief colored KITT's tone, and I let myself relax a little. "A projectile. The bullet it still lodged in my tire."

"Can you get us outta here?" I couldn't keep a strained note of agitation out of my voice, my gaze fixed on the opaque coat of dirt smothering the windshield. "Startin' to get a little close in here, buddy."

"Of course, Michael." KITT's dash flared brighter as he shifted from auxiliary to full power, and the thrum of energy through his chassis put me that much more at ease. "I didn't want to activate Rapid Cycle until you were conscious."

"Trust me, I don't think I can get any more shaken up." I let out a dry laugh, gesturing vaguely. "Cycle away."

A soft beep from the dash was my only warning before KITT lurched and trembled on his shocks, jostling this way and that until the dirt started to slough away. I braced myself on the yoke with a grimace, riding out the cycle until sunlight broke through the windshield and I could breathe a little deeper.

"I never anticipated how useful that function would be," KITT mused when the shaking finally stopped, and I wasted no time heaving the door open and unfolding myself from the seat, my strained muscles protesting every move.

"Alright, pal, where's the damage." I hobbled over the rubble surrounding KITT. He was definitely sitting off-kilter, his front end tilted at an odd angle, favoring his passenger side.

A jolt of nausea swept through me at the sight of KITT's mangled tire, still clinging to the rim in a deflated, dusty ribbon of rubber. It looks so...wrong, so vulnerable. An unwanted reminder that my partner wasn't as indestructible as I liked to think he was.

"What did this to you?" I murmured, more to myself, as I crouched in the rubble and felt around the deflated tire for the raw edges of the puncture. Sure enough, I got my fingers around the bullet, damn near the size of my thumb and even denser than it looked. But, KITT's Tuflex coating should've repelled any projectile, regardless of its size and velocity. Unless–

"Tuflex-coated, Michael," KITT said before I could even give him the bullet for a proper analysis.

"There's a throwback," I muttered, pushing to my feet and turning the bullet over in my hands. The last time we'd been up against this particular weapon, we'd gotten lucky; Bianca Morgan and her posse hadn't known the full potential of these bullets, what kinda damage they could do to KITT's tires. But KARR knew. He knew all of our weaknesses.

"Here, pal." I reached through KITT's open window and dropped the bullet into his extended analysis tray. "Chew on that. I'm gonna change out your tire."

"Thank you, Michael," KITT said softly. His wounded tone made my chest tighten, and I gave him a reassuring pat on his dirty roof as I picked my way through the rubble to his trunk. We'd been through a helluva lot worse than a flat tire. At least this was something I knew I could fix.

KITT popped his trunk for me, and I wasted no time peeling open the spare tire compartment and finding–

Camping gear.

I compressed my lips, rooted in place as exasperation swept through me. Right.

"Michael." KITT's flat tone made me wince. "Why isn't there a spare tire in my spare tire compartment."

My grip tightened on the edges of KITT's trunk. I did not want to admit aloud that I maybe kinda sorta ditched KITT's only spare tire to make room for a new tent.

"Michael–"

"What else was I supposed to do with this stuff, huh!" I retorted at last, hot with irritation. "I can't have you blowing up my gear every time you smother a bomb in your trunk!"

"The back seat would have been more than sufficient," KITT chided. "Really, Michael, of all the foolish, heedless things you could've done–"

"You're the one who's supposed to be invulnerable, wise guy!" I snapped back, slamming KITT's trunk lid with a lot more force than necessary. "How the hell was I supposed to know something like this would happen?!"

"It's called precautionary preparedness," came KITT's haughty retort as I stalked back around his driver's side. "A turn of phrase you seem to have flagrantly disregarded."

"Y'know, I don't need this right now!" I dropped into the seat with a huff, punching in a transmission to the Foundation and ignoring the tremor in my hand. I couldn't let it get to me, the panic clawing at my lungs, the cloying sense of hopelessness knotting my gut, the exhaustion digging into my bones.

KITT's connection was fritzy, and I managed to get my heartrate down by the time Devon's concerned frown materialized in a haze of static on KITT's monitor.

"Michael? Is everything alright?" Devon got out first, reading my dejected expression before I could even take a breath.

"We're fine. KITT's fine," I amended quickly when Bonnie popped into frame beside Devon, a flurry of unspoken questions already brimming in her eyes. "KITT's tire got blown out. We're at the bottom of a mountain."

"What?" Devon uttered, bewildered, before shaking himself and gesturing to someone else off-screen. "Get a tow truck to KITT's location, at once."

"Are you sure it's a good idea to activate my homing beacon?" KITT ventured tentatively as I punched in the code.

"He already knows where to find us," I muttered, still refusing to say KARR's name aloud. Refusing to believe it was really him. "I wanna get us outta here before it gets dark. Before he decides to come back and finish us off."

"Before who comes back?" Devon's insistent tone sliced through the racket in my racing mind. "Michael, what on earth happened?"

I let out a stiff sigh, averting my gaze from Devon so he didn't have to weather the brunt of my glare. I didn't even know where to begin, my mind going a million miles a minute in about a hundred different directions.

"Garthe is back." There, that seemed like a good place to start. I dug into KITT's center console and procured the knife Cort had recovered. "I haven't seen him, yet, but the lifeguards did. He dropped this."

I held up the lion carving in the hilt to the monitor, and the color drained from Devon's face as recognition sank in.

"That was one of Wilton's." Devon swiped his hand down his mouth, but his pensive frown didn't loosen. "My god."

"Oh, but that's not all." My jab at sarcasm didn't come off right, and I dropped the pretense with a clipped sigh, working my jaw as I cycled what I was about to say through my mind. "KARR attacked us. Blew out KITT's tire with a Tuflex bullet."

This time, Devon and Bonnie simply stared at me across the transmission, stricken with astonishment.

"You're sure?" Devon breathed at last. "You're absolutely sure it was KARR?"

"Positive," KITT chimed in dismally. "Right down to the last waveform of his telemetry. It's him. The original CPU, fully restored."

"That's not possible!" Bonnie broke in at last, clearly flustered. "I inventoried every piece of shrapnel that was recovered from the explosion, myself. Including KARR's CPU!"

"Bonnie, this isn't your fault." I tried for a soothing tone, but it came off more exasperated than anything. "Either someone stole KARR's CPU from the lab, or it never made it to the lab, in the first place. And honestly, it doesn't really matter."

I could tell by the steely glint in Devon's eyes that it did matter, but that was his mystery to solve. I didn't have the luxury of worrying about how KARR was back.

"He took Mitch." My hoarse voice finally broke, and I grimaced as a sickly flash of guilt lanced through me, gripping KITT's yoke to keep my hands from shaking. I couldn't get the image out of my head, Mitch dressed in Garthe's clothing, the terror in his eyes as he'd leveled that rifle at me, the crack of the gunshot still ringing in my ears– It didn't make any damn sense–

"Michael," Devon cut in gently, drawing me back to reality. "We'll find him."

Easy for you to say, I wanted to snap, still brimming with frustration to mask the bleak pit of helplessness in my chest, my jaw locked tight enough to make my teeth ache.

"First Garthe figures out a way to weaponize Birock's junkyard acid, now KARR's on the prowl with Tuflex bullets–" I broke off with a frustrated huff. "What is this, the greatest hits of destroying me and KITT? What's next, huh? The Juggernaut? Frickin' Goliath?"

"Perish the thought," KITT murmured, and I loosened my chokehold on his yoke to give him a conciliatory squeeze. "Garthe and KARR working together certainly presents and unprecedented force to contend with."

"Understatement of the century, pal," I muttered. "Just means we have a target twice as big on our backs."

"Which is precisely why you're both coming straight back to the Foundation." Devon's stern tone left no room for argument, even from me. "Garthe and KARR know you better than any singular adversary you've ever faced. And with access to a supply of Tuflex, as well as the original formula for KITT's molecular bonded shell in their possession, we cannot afford to trifle with them recklessly."

I nodded, albeit reluctantly. I was wound tight enough to snap, but I also knew Devon was right. We needed a strategy, and a damn good one at that. Especially with Mitch snagged in the middle of all this.

"We'll talk more when we get back," I said flatly, and I waited for Devon to nod before cutting the feed and loosing a long sigh, guilt rising higher and higher in my chest with each passing breath.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you," I ventured softly, reaching out to squeeze KITT's dashboard, right beside his darkened voice mod. "And I'm sorry about your tire."

"I shouldn't have snapped at you, either, Michael," KITT replied, and I felt the familiar pressure of the laser restraints squeeze my shoulders in a friendly gesture. "We were both under a great deal of stress."

"You can say that again," I mumbled, fiddling idly with the windshield wipers, which really only amounted to smearing the dirt back and forth. "I just hope Mitch is okay."

"KARR had ample opportunity to hurt Mitch, if that had been his objective," KITT said, and his pragmatic deduction didn't exactly make me feel any better. My thoughts kept creeping back to Rita Wilcox, and accompanying her to the county morgue to identify her brother's body. I couldn't get that image out of my head, either, the sheer horror petrified on Ron's face, right before he'd taken a bullet to the heart.

Dread swept through me, leeching the color from my face and leaving me clammy and nauseous. Now Mitch was the one caught in Garthe's web.

I sank back in the seat and forced myself to breathe, focusing on the soft whir of KITT's drives as he crunched some numbers, a soothing habit of his. Running the odds, calculating probabilities, quantifying data, all the things he did best. And all I could do was stare out the dirty windshield, and pray we got to Mitch before it was too late.

Chapter Text

– Garthe –

Mitch Buchannon was even more beautiful than I remembered. Propped up in the narrow bed of one of the mansion's many guest rooms, sound asleep against the plush, maroon pillows. The setting sun glanced between the parted curtains and pooled over him, suffusing the sculpt of his cheekbones in a golden glow and shimmering off the fans of his eyelashes as he slept.

Careful not to disturb the tranquil scene, I crept around the bed, my shadow falling across Mitch. So calm, so peaceful, due in no small part to the sedatives pumping through his system. His brows were relaxed, and nothing but the barest glimpse of faint lines crinkled the edges of his eyes. My sun-kissed warrior, tan and hearty even in this compromised state, his hair a rich mane of curls framing his face against the pillows, begging to be touched.

"Mitch," I murmured, acclimating myself to the feel of his name. I sank onto the edge of the bed and indulged the aching need to brush a stray curl off his forehead. He was still a bit mussed from his ordeal with KARR, and the orderlies had dutifully removed his tarnished suit and dressed him in one of my nightgowns, the lapels splayed to expose a fine swath of his chest hair, the curls glinting like gold filings in the sun with each steady breath.

"You will be mine, my sweet prince." I stroked my fingertips down Mitch's jawline to cradle his chin, and his eyelids seemed to flutter ever so slightly. Yearning pounded through me, as palpable as a second heartbeat, craving another glimpse of the fiery passion I knew brimmed inside this brazen young man, the steely glint in his eyes that had enraptured me all those years ago.

"You will be the Hephaestion to my Alexander, the Patroclus to my Achilles." I stroked Mitch's cheek with my thumb, his face cradled seamlessly against my palm. It shook me to my core, to feel my victory so close at hand. "Together, we will topple empires, and rebuild the world to our liking. Just for us."

A soft cough from behind me tore me from my reverie, and I glanced over my shoulder without withdrawing my hand from Mitch's cheek. Dr. Moritz stood by patiently, his hands tucked in the pockets of his white coat and his bespectacled eyes respectfully averted.

"You have the serum?" All at once, my full attention fixated onto Dr. Moritz, and the small vial he procured from his pocket as he approached the other side of Mitch's bed.

"As promised, sir." Dr. Moritz held the vial to the sunbeam, the clear contents glimmering like liquid diamonds. My breath thinned as anticipation spiked through me. To think, something so seemingly innocuous held the key to my ultimate triumph.

"This serum will make the mind...malleable." Dr. Moritz chose his words carefully, and I forced myself to breathe as he drew a dose from the vial into a syringe. "More receptive to the power of suggestion."

"Excellent." An eager smile crossed my face. I had already been rehearsing exactly which memories I intended to pluck from Mitch's tender mind and twist to my advantage. With a few choice words, and with the aid of Dr. Moritz's serum, I would have Mitch entirely at my mercy.

I sobered with another measured breath as Dr. Moritz carefully removed Mitch's IV and injected the serum into his forearm. Almost instantly, Mitch's passive expression wrinkled, and the steady cadence of his breathing faltered.

"Shh..." I touched Mitch's cheek compulsively, willing him to be calm, to let the serum do its job.

"I took the liberty of examining his concussion," Dr. Moritz went on, observing Mitch's reaction with a bemused frown. "The cranial swelling has abated, and thus, his amnesia should no longer present an impediment."

"Good." I dismissed Dr. Moritz with an offhanded nod. I couldn't take my eyes off Mitch as his eyelids fluttered and his breathing deepened, and my heart hammered against my ribs, anticipation holding me rapt. "Leave us. I want to be alone with him when he awakens."

Dr. Moritz inclined his head and took his leave, and Mitch's expression twitched again, his breath rumbling out of him in a perturbed grumble.

"Shh, it's okay, Mitch." I could barely keep a note of glee out of my voice every time I uttered his name, my heart skipping against my ribs. Muscles bunched along Mitch's jaw, and he dug his fingers into the bedsheets, grappling with a nightmare as the serum took hold over his mind.

"Wake up, my prince," I murmured, smoothing my knuckles along Mitch's cheek as his eyes darted beneath his lids, his own pulse racing fast enough for me to see the flicker of his veins in his neck. "You're safe, you're safe."

"S-safe...?" Mitch breathed, his voice cracking on the single syllable, and at last he dragged himself from the clutches of unconsciousness with a resolute heave of breath, his eyes wide and unfocused as he blinked against the grogginess. "Wh-where am I? Wha's g'ng on..."

"Shh..." I cradled Mitch's face in my hand, and he shook his head weakly but didn't attempt to dislodge my touch, his eyelids drifting shut again. "Do you remember your name?"

"Mitch..." he said softly, his breath shallow and his brow wrinkled, as though producing each word was a monumental task. "M-Mitch Buchannon. I'm a... 'm a lifeguard..."

"That's good, Mitch, that's very good." Relief loosened some of the tension gripping my shoulders, and a pleased smile touched my lips. So far, so good. "Do you know who I am?"

Obediently, Mitch blinked his eyes open again and squinted up at me, my silhouette gilded by the setting sun at my back. His frown deepened as he struggled to make sense of the shadows lacing my face, wracking his muddled brain for the answer. I held my breath, watching Mitch's eyes dart here and there, waiting for that first glimmer of recognition with my heart lodged in my throat. These next few moments were crucial, and my timing had to be impeccable to snare just the right memory from Mitch's drug-addled mind.

"Maybe this will jog your memory..." Ever so carefully, I tilted Mitch's face toward mine and dropped the gentlest kiss upon his parted lips. Yearning swept through me like a fever, and it was all I could do to keep myself restrained. The last time we kissed, Mitch's resistance had been intoxicating, a bastion of will for me to contend with. I sensed a flicker of that resistance again, a seize of hesitation as I feathered those sweet lips with my own, taking painstaking care not to startle him.

And then, something remarkable happened.

Mitch kissed me back.

I felt the shift almost imperceptibly, the most minute tilt of Mitch's head in my hand, the exploratory press of his lips against mine. I nearly faltered in surprise, my eyes going wide to find Mitch's had drifted shut, the picture of bliss before me.

My heart galloped against my ribs hard enough to ache, and I dared to let myself sink further into the kiss, slipping the slightest tease of my tongue between Mitch's lips. The sweet contact sent a warm thrill billowing through me, and the low rumble in Mitch's throat made my heart stutter. Maybe he had been craving another taste as desperately as I, after all these years–

A sudden jolt of ire lanced through me, and my gentle ministrations upon Mitch's lips faltered again. What if, in the play of the shadows across my face, though his hazy vision, Mitch had mistaken me for Michael?

I closed my eyes with a grimace and kissed Mitch deeper, grappling with the hot licks of rage building inside me. To think of Michael Knight's lips where mine were, now, to think of him drawing forth the blissful purrs rumbling in Mitch's throat, I almost couldn't bear the revulsion clawing through me.

"Garthe..." Mitch whispered against my lips, drawing me from my turbulent thoughts, and the sound of my name in that rapturous breath nearly unraveled me. Suddenly, desperately, I wanted to taste my name on Mitch's tongue, I needed to hear him say it again, to whisper it and moan it and keen it to the heavens.

I could stifle a grin no longer, and I could barely breathe for the fervor quivering within me. Mitch was mine. My prize, my trophy, my triumph over my dear brother, whose lips would no longer grace those of my warrior prince.

Our lips parted with a satisfying click, and I drew back enough for Mitch to gaze up at me under his heavy lids. His bleary smile made my heart thump in my throat, and I stroked his cheek with my thumb until he pressed his face into my palm.

"I remember..." Mitch murmured, and he blinked drowsily, touching his fingertips to his lips with a delirious chuckle. "I had a weird dream..."

"Oh?" Mentally, I shook myself back to my senses. I still had a delicate task at hand. I couldn't let one little kiss derail my focus.

"Mmhmm." Still with that satisfied smile, Mitch blinked his eyes open and reached up to smooth his thumb along the edge of my mustache. It was the most peculiar sensation, but I let him indulge with a patient smile.

"I dreamed... Dreamt? Dream-ed..." Mitch's train of thought momentarily degraded into a drunken giggle. "I was you, hah... I even had a mustache."

"Really?" I humored Mitch, plucking his hand away from my mouth and dusting a kiss over his knuckles. So, Mitch's spell of amnesia was manifesting as a sort of fever dream within his inebriated mind. I could work with that.

"I don't think KARR likes me very much..." Mitch was mumbling, his mind jumping topics faster than he was articulating them. "I think he...ejected me..."

"No, no, that was all a dream, remember?" I said gently, combing my fingers through Mitch's hair, keeping him focused on me, instead of the drug working on his mind. "You must be thinking of the boat crash. Your mind is playing tricks on you."

"Boat crash?" Mitch's eyes went wide before a befuddled frown wrinkled his features, and he stared up at me blankly. "I-I don't..."

"Of course, you remember." The effected assuredness in my tone made Mitch's eyes widen again, confused and malleable in the palm of my hand.

"You crashed your boat, and hurt your head," I went on, stroking my fingers gently over the old wound under Mitch's hair. "It took me four days to find you."

"Four days..." Mitch shook his head feebly, and he tore his gaze away from me to stare into middle distance, his frown deepening in intense concentration. "I do...remember...some of it."

"That's good, Mitch." I hooked my finger under Mitch's chin and tilted his face back toward me, distracting him before he could remember too much. His bleary blue eyes skated over me without focusing, and he grimaced when the sunbeam glanced across his face.

"The doctor said you might experience permanent lapses in your memory," I added gently. Of course, Dr. Moritz had made no such diagnosis. Quite the opposite, in fact. But Mitch needn't know that, if I was to play his bout of amnesia against him.

Mitch barely heard me, his narrowed eyes darting about as he grappled with his fragmented memories. Then, abruptly, his eyes went wide, and chilly realization swept the color from his cheeks.

"Michael Knight..." Mitch breathed, and my heart leapt against the back of my throat, startled by the sudden utterance of that accursed name.

"That's who I was chasing..." Mitch gulped hard, his breath going thin and his eyes wild with mounting panic. "He's back, he's...after me... Oh god, the gun– He's tryna kill me!"

"Mitch, relax, relax–" I seized Mitch firmly by the shoulders before he could leap from the bed, and he froze under my grasp, stricken and breathless, his fingers fisted into the bedsheets. "You're safe, Mitch. He can't hurt you here. You're safe."

Gradually, Mitch's breathing steadied and the tension gripping his body ebbed, and I let go of his shoulders to cup his face in my hands, drawing his focus back to me. Mitch stared up at me, his eyes wide and unblinking, and at last I realized what was going on in that fractured mind of his. He thought Michael was the enemy!

I almost couldn't contain my glee, my breath going thin with the thrill of holding something so delicate as Mitch's mind in my grasp. It seemed I would not have to concern myself with twisting Mitch against Michael, after all. His fragmented memories were already falling into place in my favor, all on their own.

"H-how did I get...here? I mean, before..." Mitch blinked wearily, his energy flagging, and I slipped my hands from his face to let him sink against the plush pillows. "How did you know...to come find me?"

"You came to me, remember?" I said gently. Now, to begin weaving my web of deceptions, to fill the murky depths of Mitch's mind with half-truths and false memories, and put my exhaustive research of this brazen young man to proper use. "You came to me for solace, after your divorce. Surely you remember that. It was a devastating ordeal."

A confused frown wrinkled Mitch's brow, and he blinked his eyes open to stare up at me, struggling to string together memories that didn't exist with those that did.

"I remember..." Gradually, Mitch's confusion gave way to dejection, and he cut his gaze away from me, sadness pooling in his eyes. "'Course, I remember."

I offered Mitch a sympathetic frown, and I found myself wondering what exactly he was remembering. Nothing pleasant, if the strain lining his features was any indication. Divorce was never pleasant.

"She took everything from you," I forged on carefully. "Your house, your son..."

I was treading on delicate territory, now. My research had indeed unearthed conflicting custody arrangements, scheduled and rescheduled court dates, all the tedious legal proceedings of filing for divorce. Unfortunately, it appeared to be a rather amicable split, all things considered. But if I could twist Mitch's perception, prey upon his pain, and convince him that the worst outcome had come to fruition...

I had Mitch hanging on my every word, perfectly enthralled under the effects of the serum. His eyes grew wider and wider with mounting horror as he dug for scraps of memories that did not exist, already convinced that these memories had simply been forgotten, lost to his amnesia.

"It's my fault..." Mitch murmured, his gaze falling. "It's all my fault..."

"No, no, Mitch, look at me." I nudged under Mitch's chin, drawing his forlorn gaze back to me. "This was all Michael Knight's doing, remember?"

"Michael..." Mitch's breath shuddered, another jolt of fear flashing behind his eyes. "Why? Why is he doing this?"

"He hates us." It was all I could do to keep my voice level. Just thinking about Michael Knight made my heart race, resentment rising inside me like bile. "He seeks to destroy us. And he's gone after you in ways he knew would hurt the most. He's destroyed your reputation, your integrity–"

"What?" Mitch choked out, searching my face desperately for the answers that didn't exist in his mind. "I-I-I don't..."

"You were stripped of your promotion, then suspended, pending certain dismissal," I went on in a steady, relentless tone. There was no need to elaborate, for Mitch, in his spellbound state, would not disbelieve me.

"No..." Mitch pulled from my gentle grasp under his chin and clutched at his forehead, burying half his face behind his hand. Tears glimmered in the eye I could still see, his features drawn so tight with distress it almost pained me to witness. "Why don't I remember..."

"Shh..." Tentatively, I stroked Mitch's cheek with my knuckles, catching a tear as it slinked free. "Don't strain yourself. It's often the most traumatic memories that the mind blots out."

Mitch drew a deep, shuddering breath, staring straight ahead and not wincing from my touch. Another rush of yearning swelled inside me, but I tempered myself with a measured breath. Patience. Soon, very soon, Mitch would be irrevocably mine. Every bit of him, his quivering pout and bushy hair and sun-kissed skin, all for me to touch and hold whenever I pleased.

"You should rest," I ventured softly, pushing the same stubborn curl off Mitch's forehead. "You've had quite the ordeal."

A mournful little noise rose up in Mitch's throat, and he swiped the back of his hand across his eyes and nodded dejectedly, his gaze still averted under a heavy frown. I did feel a twinge of remorse for inflicting such pain upon Mitch, but such torments were necessary. In time, he would grow past the pain, as we all did, and he would be none the wiser.

"Here." I reached for a glass of water and two innocuous white pills on the bedside table, drawing Mitch's attention. "These will help you sleep."

Mitch's frown wrinkled in disconcertment, but he took the pills without question, tossing them back and draining the water in a few parched gulps. After a few heartbeats, his eyelids drooped, and I eased the empty glass from his grasp just as he fell limp, already unconscious. The pills were indeed to help him sleep, so deeply in fact that he wouldn't dream, and thus, the effects of my subtle manipulations would take root without any risk of his true memories coming to light.

"Sleep well, my prince," I murmured, leaning in to dust a kiss upon Mitch's brow, still furrowed slightly with the ghost of a frown. The salty tang of the ocean greeted me, infused in the curls of his hair. I never thought the scent of the ocean could be so inviting, after everything I had endured at its mercy, and yet I found myself craving the taste. Soon. All too soon.

Chapter Text

– Michael –

It took two tow trucks, five guys including me, and quite a bit of finessing to extract KITT from the ravine KARR had blasted us into, but we finally made it home in one piece. Well, KITT's bruised ego notwithstanding.

It was well after midnight by the time I showered, changed clothes, and grabbed something to eat, and the Foundation was dark and silent as I made my way back to the garage to check on my partner. The door to the descending spiral staircase was ajar, and the faint, metallic clatter of tools greeted me as I pushed onto the balcony.

Bonnie had the overhead lights turned down to their dimmest setting, the soft glow easy on my scratchy eyes as I ambled down the metal stairs. KITT was facing away from me, his hull wiped clean and gleaming under the wan lights, and Bonnie moved around his sleek form like a specter in her white jumpsuit, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. Just like the good ol' days.

There was no way Bonnie hadn't heard the obnoxious clamor of my boots on the metal stairs, so she must've been purposefully ignoring me, conveniently engrossed with packing up her toolkit as I strolled over to KITT's flank.

"I'm sorry about the spare tire," I ventured wryly into the thick silence, resting my hand on KITT's roof. He didn't react, even imperceptibly, and I caught the slow, distracted sweep of his scanner in a reflection off one of Bonnie's tool carts. Unease prickled through me, and I spread my hands in a shrug. "Okay. What's up, guys?"

Bonnie shook herself from her thoughts and glanced my way. She looked as exhausted as I felt, her eyes heavy in the dim lights, and sympathy flashed through me instantly.

"Nothing, nothing," Bonnie murmured hastily, tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear in a distracted motion. "I gave KITT a new spare, and I reinforced the side compartments of his trunk, so you," Bonnie wagged a screwdriver at me, a glint of her usual wry humor shining in her eyes, "don't have to worry about any more bombs."

I chuckled bashfully, but the sound came out too forced for my liking. I could tell there was something on Bonnie's mind, and definitely something on KITT's, too. Outwardly, there wasn't anything different about him, but I had the weird sense that he'd withdrawn himself, like a hermit crab tucked into its shell.

My easy smile fell away. As if I didn't know what, or who, Bonnie and KITT were bent out of shape about.

"I gave KITT a few upgrades, too," Bonnie forged on, feigning nonchalance. "Increased his threshold for microwave interference, retouched his Tuflex coating, strengthened his thermal absorption lamination, just...in case."

"In case..." Even I couldn't bring myself to murmur KARR's name, and I let the tense silence swallow my words.

Bonnie's gaze met mine again and lingered, her mouth a hard line of a frown and her eyes flashing a dark hazel in the wan light. No less fierce and stubborn and beautiful than the first day we'd met. It made my heart pound and my jaw tighten, seeing her wound tight enough to snap, so rigidly defensive to mask how worried she was. I'd fight KARR with my bare hands if it meant keeping her safe.

"Hey..." I closed the distance between me and Bonnie slowly, and she let me put my hands on her upper arms without protest. I wracked my brain, trying to string together one of my usual rallying sentiments, but I was too beat and everything sounded hollow and contrived. KARR and Tuflex bullets and Garthe and Mitch, it was all too much to swallow all at once, sucking the life outta me like a giant leech on my back.

Gradually, I felt the tension loosen from Bonnie's shoulders, and her frown softened with a weary sigh.

"I'm sorry," Bonnie said softly, and before I registered what was happening, she hugged me, wrapping her arms tight around me and resting her head over my heart. "I know you're worried about Mitch. I am, too."

"S'okay." I let out a startled little laugh and hugged Bonnie back, even as the thought of Mitch made my throat tighten. "I can multitask."

Bonnie scoffed against my chest at my dry jab of sarcasm, and I sobered with a sigh, resting my chin on top of her head and rocking her gently back and forth. With each shift of my weight, my calves nudged KITT's prow, and I could feel the silent pulse of his scanner almost subconsciously. At least, in the midst of this nightmare, we still had each other.

At last, Bonnie pulled back, and I held her at arms' length as she searched my face, an exhausted frown knitting her brows again.

"Will you...come with me, to the old lab?" Bonnie asked quietly, almost sheepishly, and she tried for a dismissive smile and shook her head. "I'm not gonna sleep until I see KARR's CPU housing for myself."

"Sure, 'course." I spread my hands, corralling Bonnie toward KITT's passenger side before heading for his driver side. KITT's dash was noticeably dim when I dropped into the seat, his power diverted elsewhere.

"How you feelin', pal?" I rubbed the top of KITT's steering yoke, and his gauges flared a little brighter at my touch.

"Symmetrical," KITT chided, and I blew out an exasperated laugh and doffed his yoke before cranking his ignition with a low rumble, his fog lights pooling ahead of us as I eased out of the garage into the slate black night.

The old Knight Industries lab on the outskirts of the estate was officially a museum now, dedicated to a bunch of Wilton's designs and prototypes, but the Foundation had never gotten around to making it a public attraction. Couldn't really blame 'em, after KARR got loose.

Pulling under the shadow of the imposing gray building gave me the heebie jeebies. It was too reminiscent of that dark night we'd encountered KARR for the first time, blazing from the maw of the garage bay in a streak of red and black. Now, the bay was shuttered, but that didn't stop the hair on my nape from prickling at the memories, my grip on KITT's yoke tightening.

Bonnie hopped out to flip open the access panel beside the garage door, and I left KITT running and followed her, pulling my jacket a little tighter against the humid chill of the night. KITT idled along at my heels, the slow sweep of his scanner slashing through the gloom behind me. None of us wanted to be alone, bad memories closing in around us like storm clouds.

The inside of the lab-turned-museum was even more eerie, blanketed display cases standing like miniature monoliths in the gloom, old boxes piled in corners like crouching beasts. KITT popped up his headlights, casting the scene in stark light and pitch black shadows as Bonnie led us through the exhibit, the displays set just far enough apart for KITT to follow.

Bonnie beelined for the sealed entrance to Lab 3 like she knew the place by heart, and I watched her back instinctively as she flipped open another access panel and pressed her palm to the screen, then punched in a four digit code.

The locks disengaged with a series of clicks, and the door hissed and groaned in protest as it slid open. KITT's headlights spilled past us into the vast, gloomy bay, our shadows stretching across the floor, and Bonnie finally hit an overhead light.

My stomach lurched when the lights warmed up. The whole room was like a shrine to KARR, the walls hung with lithographs of his original schematics, pieces of his shattered hull cleaned up and displayed in glass boxes. I recognized the boomerang shape of his front bumper, mounted like game, hollow and lifeless.

I shuddered, staring into the cutout where KARR's scanner should've been. I'd done that. We'd done that.

"Feels like I saw a damn ghost," I mumbled, trailing my fingertips idly over the closest display case, boasting fragmented pieces of KARR's silver fender, laid out to recreate the curved shape. KARR's body was all around me, a bleak reminder of that final showdown, the blinding explosion, the sickening wrench of steel against indestructible steel as KITT sloughed through KARR's compromised form like an arrowhead.

Then what the hell had taken Mitch?

"Anyone can build a replica," Bonnie replied tersely, heading for a man door at the back of the room. She already had her palm on the access panel by the time I strode over to her, KITT nosing through the exhibit behind me.

Bonnie's remark only made me queasier, and I cast a glance back at KITT. Sure, we saw plenty of Trans Ams on the road, but to think of someone sitting down and replicating my partner... Well, maybe me and my stolen face didn't exactly have a leg to stand on.

This door required Bonnie's handprint, a six digit code, and a swipe of her keycard before the locks disengaged. The room beyond was no larger than a storage closet, empty save for a shoebox-sized container sitting behind glass atop a pedestal.

"Is that..." I eyed the shape and size of the box warily, visualizing how it would feel in my hands. Eerily reminiscent of the shape and size of KITT's CPU.

"Lead-lined granite," Bonnie said offhandedly, punching in code after code on the pedestal until she was granted access to remove the glass concealing the box. "To block any sort of interference, from the outside or the inside."

My stomach churned as Bonnie entered another code, and a seam appeared along the sides of the box with a hiss of pressurized air. Bonnie opened the box hastily, and I already didn't have a good feeling about what she would, or wouldn't, find inside.

The box was empty, just as I figured.

"No..." Bonnie leaned her palms heavily on the pedestal and hung her head, and my heart pounded in my throat as the implications of the empty box settled like lead stones in my gut. KARR's CPU was gone, which meant the phantom on the highway really had been him. Rebuilt, reborn.

"This doesn't make any sense!" Bonnie's shout rang out in the little room, followed by the concussive crack of her slamming the box shut with enough force to make me wince and see stars for a split second.

"I put KARR's CPU in here myself!" Bonnie whirled on me with a wild gesticulation, and I grabbed her shoulders instinctively to keep her from smacking something, namely me. She gathered herself with a stiff breath, visibly trembling with frustration, and I squeezed her shoulders gently.

"Someone stole it," I offered, probably unhelpfully, but at least it was something.

"Michael, the only people who have access to this room are me, and you!" Bonnie leered up at me for a moment, her eyes wide and fierce, before she flicked her wrist offhandedly. "And April, when she took over for me as chief technician. And of course KITT has the override codes–"

"Bonnie, that's just it," I cut in, leaning in a little to force her to look at me again. "Codes are meant to be broken. It's as simple as that."

"What are you talking about?" Bonnie huffed, some of her tension ebbing as defeat sank into her.

"I'm saying, it's not so hard to believe someone broke in here and stole KARR's CPU." I surrendered my hold on Bonnie's shoulders to make a vague, encompassing gesture. "Look at all this, it's a hacker's playground!"

"The access panels require a handprint!" Bonnie protested.

"And I'm walkin' around with another man's face!" I snapped back before I could temper myself, and we both flinched, my stomach knotting again. "So, yeah, with the Foundation's resources, I'd say creating a fake handprint is child's play."

Bonnie opened her mouth to counter me, then stopped short and clicked her teeth together, her eyes going wide with newfound realization.

"You think someone from the Foundation did this?" Bonnie stared up at me, searching my face, and I let out a tense breath and worked my jaw reluctantly.

"I'm just saying, FLAG has recruited some of the best computer engineers in the damn country, we've got interns coming in and out every six months–" I planted my hands on my hips and shrugged. It's not like I wanted to entertain the possibility that this was an inside job, but there were too many red flags for me to ignore. Knight Industries and FLAG were getting bigger and bigger by the year, and those growth spurts only made it that much harder to run a tight ship.

"What do you think, KITT–" I turned back toward KITT, parked as close as he could get to the little room Bonnie and I were squashed into, and something about his countenance brought me up short with a jolt of disconcertment. The steady sweep of his scanner had slowed to an almost lethargic rhythm, and I could tell he wasn't focused on me or Bonnie, like a pointer hound locked onto a scent in the distance.

"KITT?" Instinctively, I strode over to my partner, and I laid my hands firmly on his roof and A pillar. "You okay, buddy?"

"I'm..." KITT trailed off, and the concern mounting in my chest only worsened the longer his silence stretched. "I was just...thinking, what a horrible fate it would be, to be trapped in that little box, severed from one's corporeal form, unable to get a signal in or out..."

Guilt flashed through me, and I closed my eyes against the pieces of KARR strewn all around us. I hadn't given any thought to how distressing this place must be for KITT, surrounded by the shattered remains of his brother, listening to Bonnie and me talk about KARR's CPU like it was an object, and not the heart and soul of an AI. I should've known better.

"What if that's KARR's plan for me?" KITT went on, his tone low and despondent. "Disable my tires and entomb me in a crypt of lead, cut off from you and the Foundation–"

"Nobody is going to let that happen, okay?" My retort came out higher and louder than expected, and I winced as my voice resounded off the glass display cases. Exhaustion gnawed at my bones, and I dug my fingers into KITT's unforgiving shell, willing myself to ignore the fear rising inside me.

The sound of Bonnie locking down the little room drew my attention to her, and she leaned heavily against the closed door and crossed her arms, her brows knitted in a thoughtful frown.

"It's...sad, when you think about it," Bonnie said, her gaze flicking to meet mine. "How much of KARR's existence has been spent in isolation. First Wilton deactivates him, then we destroy him, twice..." She shrugged dejectedly. "It's no wonder he hates us."

"He could've changed," KITT muttered. "Though our dominant programs are intrinsically linked with our personalities, and thus impossible to overwrite once we've been activated, our primary function is to learn. He could have been taught to properly utilize his dominant program. Instead, all he has learned is resentment, and fear."

"Something else KARR and Garthe have in common," I scoffed, rubbing KITT's roof absently. "Disowned by Wilton, cast out and abandoned. Obviously he wasn't the most stellar father-figure."

Bonnie shook her head in corroboration. "He couldn't handle failure, or inadequacy. Even I saw glimpses of it, and I barely knew him. But he was determined for KITT to be absolutely perfect."

I half-expected KITT to make some offhanded preen about being the epitome of perfection, but he kept quiet, his scanner still swooshing slowly, lost in thought.

"C'mon, let's get outta here, huh?" I patted KITT's roof and nodded for Bonnie to follow. "This place gives me the creeps."

There wasn't enough room for KITT to comfortably open his doors, and he clicked into reverse and edged out of the exhibit ahead of us. Bonnie and I trailed along in the glow of his fog lights, pausing for her to lock down Lab 3 without a word.

I sucked in a much needed lungful of fresh night air as Bonnie locked down the garage, and I dropped graciously into KITT's driver seat, my hands finding his steering yoke compulsively.

"So, what do we do now?" Bonnie asked as she settled in beside me. "We're obviously a few years late to hope to recover KARR's CPU."

"You think Garthe's had it for that long?" I frowned at Bonnie as I coaxed KITT into motion, swinging us back toward home.

"You can't just whip up something like KARR overnight." Bonnie shrugged, staring out the windshield. "Do you figure whoever stole his CPU also got his schematics?"

"I think it's much more likely whoever rebuilt KARR used my schematics to do so," KITT piped up with a sour curl to his tone. "Randy Merritt had a complete copy of my schematics, likely provided by Adrianne Margeaux, who may well have also turned them over to Garthe."

"I guess that would explain why they rebuilt KARR identical to you, again," I mused, distracting myself from the sickening memory of Randy and Adrianne getting their hands on KITT.

"Well, that, and perhaps a touch of vanity on KARR's part," KITT replied. "I certainly wouldn't want to be rebuilt into any other form but the one I've grown accustomed to."

I actually managed to chuckle. "Don't worry. I wouldn't have you any other way, either, partner."

"Thank you, Michael."

I caught Bonnie pulling an exasperated face, and my cheeky smile widened.

"You still haven't answered me," Bonnie prodded, and my smile vanished with a sobering sigh. "I know you have a plan. You always have some crazy plan."

I weathered Bonnie's intent stare, working my jaw. She wasn't wrong, I did have one singular plan, which had popped into my head as soon as Bonnie had opened that empty box.

"I think we should shut down the Foundation," I muttered at last, and the silence that followed could've swallowed a nuclear bomb.

"Michael–" Bonnie shook her head in disbelief. "Whoever stole that CPU is probably long gone–"

"And what if they're not, huh?" I retorted, taking my eyes off the gloomy driveway to frown at her again. "There's more going on here than rebuilding KARR. Garthe knows way too much about our cases, our weaknesses. If he's got someone on the inside, we need to plug the leak, now."

"Michael, surely you're not calling Devon at this hour–" KITT piped up as I punched in Devon's direct line.

"Michael, it's after one in the morning–" Bonnie echoed, and damn if it wasn't like being trapped in the car with two of the same person.

"Look, he wouldn't have an emergency line in his room if he didn't want me to use it, alright?" I snapped. "And I think this counts as an emergency."

The line crackled and connected before Bonnie or KITT could protest, followed by a weary pause. "Yes?"

"Devon, it's me," I said quickly.

"Mm, I assumed as much, and I suppose I dare not look at the clock, either," Devon murmured, sounding more awake and alert with every word. "What is it?"

"KARR's CPU is gone. Stolen." No need to elaborate on that one. "I think it was an inside job. Devon..." I trailed off with a sigh. Maybe I was just tired, maybe I was just overreacting. Or maybe my hunch was right.

"We need to shut down FLAG," I said flatly, letting my words sink in for a beat. "All of it. LA, San Antonio, Vegas, New Orleans, Chicago. Everything. I don't care about finding who's responsible, I just want them cut off until we find Garthe."

"The board won't be happy," was Devon's only response as he mulled over my reasoning.

"The board is never happy about anything," I scoffed. "Tell me it's a bad idea, and I'll drop it."

"No, no, you're quite right," Devon conceded. "We cannot afford a security breach, not if we want to outmaneuver Garthe. I'll make the necessary phone calls first thing in the morning."

"Thanks, Devon." My voice finally lost its edge, and I sagged in the seat a little as my adrenaline flagged. "Sleep tight."

"One other thing, Michael, while I have you," Devon cut in before I could end the transmission, his tone going solemn. "I never mentioned Garthe's name to the board the first time he resurfaced, and I do not intend to mention it, now. We are dealing with a resurrected KARR and an unknown antagonist, now with potential connections within FLAG."

"Uh, sure." I shrugged, perplexed, and I remembered belatedly that Devon couldn't see me.

"Jennifer Knight has already buried her brother, once," Devon clarified, and my heart sank with realization. "I don't want her to have to go through that, again."

And again, and again, I wanted to mutter, but I stopped myself, out of respect for Jennifer. But I was getting real sick of burying her brother, too.

"I hear ya, Devon," I said instead. "See you in the morning."

I thumbed the button to sever the transmission with a sigh, bringing KITT to a coasting stop at the front steps of the Foundation. One of the stone lions seemed to be looking right at me, its mane laced in shadows, and I couldn't help but see Garthe in its visage.

"Still doesn't put us any closer to figuring out where KARR took Mitch," I muttered, flexing my fingers around KITT's yoke. Stress and exhaustion clawed into me, drowning me, dragging me under until I could hardly draw a decent breath.

"We'll find him," Bonnie said firmly, and she rested her hand on my extended forearm and squeezed. It was a shockingly grounding gesture, and a smile found its way to my expression.

"Thanks, Bon." I laid my hand over hers and tried for a wry smile. "Now, go get some sleep, huh?"

"Only if you promise to get some, too." Bonnie swatted me in feigned admonishment. "And in a bed, not in KITT."

"Promise." I chuckled softly, raising two fingers in a scout's salute. "Go on. I'll bring KITT back to the garage."

Still with an unconvinced smirk, Bonnie conceded and hopped out of KITT, her jumpsuit glowing amber in the soft outdoor lights as she jogged up the main steps.

I blew out a dejected breath, my gaze drifting to KITT's darkened voice mod. He seemed to be appraising me back, our silence mutual, comfortable, familiar. No empty encouragements or forced optimism, no need to state how long and brutal the day had been. Just him and me, and the silent understanding that passed between us like a radio wave.

"I can see myself back to the garage, Michael," KITT ventured gently. "If you spend another ten seconds in that seat, you'll be virtually catatonic beyond any hopes of me rousing you."

I scoffed out a chuckle, but now that KITT mentioned it, it was getting harder and harder to keep my scratchy eyes open, and the headrest was starting to feel pretty damn comfortable.

"Alright, alright. I'm going." I showed my palms in acquiescence and swung to my feet, my hands lingering on KITT's yoke, then his door, and his roof, until he kicked into drive with a low rumble and slinked away, his smooth lines blending into the shadows of the moonless night.

I stared into KITT's wake long after he vanished, my heart suddenly aching, straining against my ribs. Desperation, anger, fear, all clamoring inside me. I had to keep him safe. I had to rescue Mitch and defeat KARR and foil Garthe's latest machinations, but above all else, I had to keep KITT safe.

Chapter Text

– Mitch –

I drifted awake in a groggy daze, my mouth parched and my head spinning. But at least I knew my name, and I knew where I was, two things I didn't have the best track record of remembering recently. I was Mitch Buchannon, and I was safe.

I laid there for a while, my eyes shut against the sunlight diffusing through the window, working through everything Garthe had told me, struggling to piece together what was real and what had been a part of that horrible nightmare. KARR, and Michael Knight, the rifle in my hands, squeezing off that errant shot, it all felt so real. But...it couldn't have been. It was all my imagination, my mind playing tricks on me, just like Garthe said.

Eventually, I pried open my dry eyes and glanced around. I hadn't gotten a good look at the bedroom the first time I'd come to, too focused on Garthe at my bedside, and his gentle touches under my chin and through my hair. The room glowed a soft gold in the morning sun, with accents of maroon here and there that matched the bedding I was nested in. I knew, subconsciously, that this wasn't the master suite, even though I couldn't quite remember how I knew that.

Working my throat in a parched gulp, I dragged myself upright with a grunt and groped for the pitcher of water on the bedside table. My hands shook as I hefted the whole thing to my lips and nursed the chilled water gingerly, careful not to spill any. I felt like I'd been asleep for a century, my whole body dry and stiff and achy.

By the time I tipped back the last sweet, crisp drops of water from the pitcher, my grip was steadier and I could think a little clearer. Namely, I could focus on how hungry I was, my stomach rumbling impatiently.

Huffing and grunting all the while, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and hauled myself to my feet. The room pitched, and a steep wave of vertigo nearly planted me right back on my ass, but I managed to stay standing, driven by sheer willpower and the nagging rumble in my empty stomach.

I wandered aimlessly into the hallway, fidgeting with the navy blue robe draped around me. Soft and plush and luxurious, with a stylized GK embroidered on the lapel, as if I hadn't already guessed who it belonged to. I cinched it a little tighter, shrugging into the faint scent of cedar and spices and heady cigar smoke, reminiscent of the tender, exploratory press of Garthe's lips against mine.

A groggy smile found its way to my lips, and I immediately felt silly about it, which only made the blush nipping at my ears deepen to a distracting burn. As if I could ever forget the intoxicating allure of Garthe's kisses, my skin still tingling from the tease of his mustache on the corners of my mouth.

I found my way to the master suite on autopilot, and the slate gray walls and imposing, canopied bed immediately sparked a memory, I just couldn't pinpoint what memory. According to Garthe, I had been in this house before. How could I have dreamt about it, otherwise? So I guess I'd been in this room before, too.

Sure enough, my gaze alighted upon my overnight bag, sitting on top of the bed in the most jarring juxtaposition of old, worn leather and pristine gray bedding.

My head started to reel as I pawed tentatively through my bag. Several shirts I wore all the time, a few pairs of jeans, a week or so's worth of socks and underwear, but...I couldn't remember packing any of it. I couldn't believe– I refused to believe Gayle had actually kicked me out of the house. What the hell had gone so wrong?

My heart skipped a beat when my fingertips hit the edge of something smooth and hard at the bottom of the bag, and I pulled free a picture frame and flipped it over with a puzzled frown.

My heart lurched all the way into my throat. It was a picture of me and little Hobie, taken when he was only two years old. The first time Gayle and I had taken him to the beach.

Tears stung my eyes, and I dropped the picture frame on top of my clothes to clamp my hand over my mouth against a painful hitch in my breathing. It was all true, everything Garthe had said. Gayle had won. She'd taken Hobie and left me with nothing but an old black and white photo. Would I ever see my son again? What arrangements had we made, what terms had I agreed to? Damn it, why couldn't I remember?

Sucking in a sharp, steadying breath, I swiped my hand across my eyes and collected myself before the dull ache throbbing behind my eyes worsened. I guess it didn't really matter what I remembered and what I didn't. What was done was done, and here I was, in Garthe Knight's illustrious master suite, draped in a velvet robe, pawing through ten year old flannels packed into a twenty year old duffel bag. Wrap your head around that one, Buchannon.

My stomach rumbled again, remorselessly, and I blew out a dejected breath and went to take a shower. The master bathroom was as eerily, inexplicably familiar as the bedroom, with its intimidating white granite and tile, sprawling bathtub, separate shower, massive basin sinks. I was totally out of my element, and it felt like the whole place was judging me and finding me horribly lacking.

Until I stepped into the shower and found my shampoo and soap bottles in the caddy, nestled right alongside Garthe's. I froze, bewildered beyond belief. Okay, so I really had been here before. Amnesia was a real bitch, huh.

A nice, hot shower relieved the lingering cords of stress in my neck and shoulders. I couldn't force my memories to come back, and maybe I didn't want them to come back. Maybe I was better off not remembering. Maybe this was exactly what I needed. A fresh start, no strings attached.

The sight of my dime-a-dozen Gillette razor in a cup by one of the basin sinks made me chuckle out loud. I vividly remembered a bit from my fever dream, of myself shaving my face with a straight razor to emulate Garthe. Man, that had been one wild dream.

I shaved and dried my hair and pulled on my own clothes, a dark blue flannel tucked into jeans, and I was almost disappointed to smell like myself again, instead of Garthe's exotic scent. Where was Garthe, anyway?

My stomach crimped and rumbled again, threatening to start gnawing through my spine. Breakfast first, Garthe second.

The mansion was a lot to take in as I wandered through the halls and down the grand staircase, trailing my hand along the iron bannister. High ceilings, huge chandeliers glinting in the sun pouring through the windows, art and pottery and sculptures at every turn, on every wall and in every corner. The place was breathtaking, dripping with wealth.

I finally found my way to the kitchen, all the way in the back of the house, and it was just as big and bright and extravagant as I'd been anticipating. Intimidation swept through me again, but it wasn't enough to keep me from nosing into the fridge. I was too hungry to be put off by shiny steel and white granite. Food was food.

The fridge was better stocked than expected. Fresh greens in the crisper drawers, containers of berries, hunks of cheese and meats, sauces and condiments rattling in the door caddies. God, I was starving.

I glimpsed a blender on the countertop and set my mind to making myself a smoothie, even as my growling stomach begged me to rip into the package of bacon in the fridge, instead. But I needed iron and protein and vitamins, not a salty, fatty hunk of meat in my belly.

I had all the fixings to make a damn good smoothie, too. Spinach, berries, apples and bananas from the bowl on the countertop, a pitcher of fresh orange juice, and a couple eggs for good measure. I topped it off with some milk, then poured myself a glass while the blender went to town with an enthusiastic whir, nothing at all like the beleaguered grinding of my faithful little blender at home.

My smoothie turned out a bright, satisfying shade of green, and there wasn't a lump in it as I poured some into my glass and tasted it. Oh yeah, I'd nailed it.

I wandered around the kitchen as I nursed my smoothie, peeking in all the cabinets without really looking for anything in particular. My attention kept wandering to the espresso machine on the counter, which had enough buttons and levers to double as a gadget from Star Trek. Maybe I didn't need a cup of coffee that badly.

I poured the second half of my smoothie into my glass and rinsed out the blender in the sink, and a sudden glimpse of black out of the corner of my eye made me jump and whirl with a start.

Garthe was leaning in the doorway, looking very casual in just a black shirt and light gray pants, watching me with a fond, thoughtful smile and an intent glint in his lone eye.

"Uh, hi," I blurted out around an embarrassed laugh. God, how long had Garthe been watching me wander around his kitchen like a dolt? Too long, if the amused quirk of his smile was any indication, and a blush crept across my nose and cheeks.

"Good morning." Garthe's low purr sent a flash of goosebumps up my spine, and he pushed away from the doorjamb to saunter up to me with that catlike ease of his, his sharp gaze never leaving mine. It was all I could do not to sink back against the edge of the counter, my knees still a little weak. I blamed the twelve hours of drugged slumber for my lack of countenance.

A flash of color drew my attention just as Garthe procured a big, bright orange rose from behind his back, its plump petals still glistening with dew. My jaw dropped in awe; I'd never seen a rose that color before, so rich and deep, and my heart did a funny little flutter when I realized it was for me.

"Wow..." I leaned in a drew a deep breath, the dewy petals tickling my nose. The fragrance was as rich as the color, fruity and succulent. "It's beautiful."

"It just bloomed this morning," Garthe murmured, fiddling with the front of my flannel to slot the stem through a buttonhole, mindful of the thorns. Goosebumps pricked my skin under his calculated touch, my heart suddenly racing at being so close to Garthe, close enough to catch a fresh whiff of his cedar scent, close enough to wonder how soon I'd feel the graze of his mustache against my lips again.

"Perfect." Garthe's gaze flicked up to meet mine again, and I tried to gulp as discreetly as possible, wondering offhandedly if he could see how fast my pulse was fluttering, my skin flushed with the anticipation of where his idle hands might alight next.

"Poor thing. You're still sunburnt," Garthe murmured with a smile, stroking his finger under my chin and tapping my nose, and I chuckled at his teasing touches. My shower had stung a little, but it wasn't like I was a stranger to a little sunburn. I was probably just blushing.

"You're looking a little well-done around the edges, yourself," I retorted. I could tell Garthe's nose and cheeks were burnt, though less severely than mine, and I took it upon myself to comb his hair back, revealing more redness on his left ear, contrasting with the glint of his diamond stud.

"I was stranded on an island for four days," I teased, playing with Garthe's hair. "What's your excuse?"

Garthe's lone eye had gone wide as soon as I touched him, and at first, he didn't seem to hear me, frozen under the idle brush of my fingers through his thick hair.

"I was...looking for you, naturally." Garthe blinked himself back to his senses, flashing an aloof smile. "Tirelessly scouring the islands, from dawn until dusk, day in and day out."

"Really?" I dropped my hand back to my side, suddenly feeling a little ungrateful, like it was my fault for getting myself stranded. It was a ridiculous mindset, but I couldn't help it. "I wish I could remember..."

"Don't worry about it." Garthe touched my chin again, tipping my face back up. "I found you, and that's all that matters."

I shrugged, and a bashful smile softened my expression. It was hard to stay upset with Garthe holding my chin, his touch sending warm flashes of goosebumps across my skin.

"Have you eaten?" Garthe asked, stroking his thumb across my cheek. I probably still looked a little haggard; the persistent shadows under my eyes would take a few good meals to shake.

"Yeah, I made myself a little something." I held up my glass, and a flash of bewilderment quirked Garthe's smile.

"What on earth is that?" Garthe chuckled, eyeing my bright green smoothie with no small amount of disconcertment. I guess it was a pretty bizarre shade of green.

"What, this?" I flashed a mischievous grin and tipped back a big gulp. "It's just spinach and some fruit. Here, try some."

"No, no, thank you." Garthe waved me off with a wry chuckle. "I prefer chewing my food."

"Oh, ha ha," I chided back, earning a heartier laugh from Garthe that made my chest flutter proudly. I didn't think I'd ever heard Garthe laugh before. Or, if I had, I couldn't remember. Actually, there was a lot I couldn't remember about Garthe. Waking up and seeing him at my bedside had triggered a flurry of disjointed memories, but nothing I could really grasp. The vague impression of him in an ivory suit, pacing, standing over me, but the context was lost to me. All I could really remember was the taste and feel of his kisses, and that was enough for me to cling to.

"Here, show me how to use your scary coffee maker, will ya?" I shook free from my patchy memories and wandered over to the machine, nestled in beside the fridge. "I've never dealt with anything more complex than a ten-cup Mr. Coffee machine."

"It's not scary," Garthe snickered, slinking past me to run his hand fondly over the machine, and the glint of his rings captivated me for a moment. "This is the finest piece of technology outside of Italy. You'll never taste a smoother, richer shot of espresso."

"Uh huh. Still looks scary," I teased, feigning disinterest, and Garthe flashed an admonishing smirk.

"I assure you, there's no better way to start the morning than with a thick, creamy cappuccino." Garthe's voice seemed to drop to a deliberate purr, his intent gaze never wavering, and maybe I was crazy for seeing a nefarious quirk to his smile, like a cappuccino wasn't the only thing thick and creamy on Garthe's mind.

I couldn't stop a traitorous blush from tinging my cheeks. Great, now I was the one with something other than coffee on the brain.

"There's a pitcher in the fridge for milk," Garthe said, snapping me back to reality. "Fill it to the bottom notch."

Obediently, I delved into the fridge and filled the little metal pitcher accordingly. Beside me, Garthe turned on the coffee grinder, filling the space between us with the mouthwatering aroma of fresh coffee. He let it run for a few seconds before clicking it off again.

"This is the easy part." Garthe wrenched off one of the two handles sticking off the espresso machine, revealing a shallow metal basket on the other end. "Heap this with grounds, level it, and tamp it down. Don't apply too much pressure, or the shot will run long and come out bitter."

Garthe moved as he spoke, quick and assured as he dispensed a few heaps of fine coffee grounds into the metal filter, swiped it level with a flick of his thumb, and pressed it down with a thick, flat, wood-handled tamper.

"You saying this is the easy part implies there's a hard part coming up, huh," I said wryly, too distracted by the ease of Garthe's handling of the instruments to really be learning anything.

"There is an art to it," Garthe mused, wrenching the packed filter back onto the machine. "A certain finesse."

"Are you some kind of artist, Garthe?" I ventured softly, earning a glance of Garthe's full attention, his brows raised in surprise. His right brow was just visible over his eyepatch, neatly bisected by the narrow tip of his scar.

"No, no, not in the traditional sense." A thoughtful smile touched Garthe's lips. "I do enjoy creating things, though. Experimenting, innovating, pushing boundaries."

I nodded thoughtfully. Garthe's mind never seemed to be idle, always picking away at a dozen different things behind that lone blue eye. I hoped he had an outlet for all that restless mental energy, other than making fancy cappuccinos.

"Come, before the grounds go bitter." Garthe beckoned me closer and took one of the mugs off the top of the espresso machine. "You'll want to heat up your mug, so the espresso doesn't cool off."

Without preamble, Garthe tugged another lever, and a jet of steam hissed from a narrow pipe with enough force to make me jump. Garthe chuckled at my reaction, steaming the inside of the mug and releasing the lever.

"Press this button." Garthe set the mug under the filter and gestured for me to do the honors of pressing the center button. After a beat, a thick, golden rivulet of espresso bloomed and poured into the mug, sweet and aromatic.

"That'll pull for about thirty seconds, which is enough time to steam the milk." Garthe corralled me even closer, putting me between him and the radiant warmth of the machine. "This is the fun part."

"Oh, boy." I let out a strained little laugh, the hair on my nape prickling at having Garthe right behind me, close enough for me to feel our body heat mingling. "You mean the hard part."

Garthe's low chuckle ruffled my hair and made my ear tingle, and I almost regretted making a hard pun as a blush swept over me.

"See the steam wand?" Garthe reached around me and tweaked the narrow, goosenecked pipe. "Submerge the tip at an angle, just under the surface of the milk. Not too deep."

I almost scoffed, and I could hear the amused smirk in Garthe's tone, too. He laid his hand over mine, cradling the pitcher of milk and guiding me to line it up just so, with the tip of the nozzle submerged in the milk. God, if the word tip crossed my mind one more time, I was gonna lose it.

"Pull the lever." Garthe's deliberate purr in my ear made me snicker and grin before I could stop myself, and I willed my hand to stop shaking as I followed Garthe's instructions. Pressurized steam jetted under the milk, whipping it into a growling frenzy.

"Good, good, now hold it, just like that..." Garthe leaned into me, guiding the pitcher with his hand over mine until the roar quelled to a rushing hiss, and damn if my vision didn't double as I tried really really hard – ah, god, not another pun – to ignore Garthe's body heat washing over me, inciting a blush over every inch of my skin.

"Feel it getting hotter?" Garthe murmured, and I almost laughed out loud, my heartbeat galloping against my ribs. Yeah, something was definitely getting hotter, and not just the milk. "Now...plunge."

Garthe coaxed the pitcher up, burying the steam wand into the rolling depths of the milk, and I could barely remember to keep breathing. All this talk of wands and tips and plunging– Good god, Buchannon, focus!

I was sure Garthe could feel my knees trembling, his breath hot on my neck as he forced me to stay still, holding the pitcher just right, the metal getting hotter and hotter against my palm until it started to sting, which only drew my attention to another hot, nagging ache further south. It was all I could do not to shift my hips just a little, just to feel Garthe against me, really feel him–

"And release." Garthe reached past me to shut off the steam, which was probably for the best, because my brain was a woozy, distracted mess and I'd forgotten how to use my hands.

I set the pitcher down heavily, struggling to steady my breathing in a way that didn't make it obvious that I was practically panting, my whole body pricked with sweat, so overheated I was surprised the flower on my shirt hadn't wilted. All this for a damn cup of coffee? I should've asked for my Mr. Coffee machine in the divorce.

Garthe wasn't done messing with me, either. He slinked around me to dampen a cloth at the sink, then used it to wipe the froth from the steam wand. Slowly, methodically, paying extra attention to the slotted tip of the nozzle with each stroke and swirl of his deft fingertips. I gulped hard, my throat suddenly parched. Forget the coffee, I needed some damn water, preferably a bucket of it, dumped directly over my head.

"Beautiful," Garthe mused, giving the pitcher a few good raps against the countertop and swirling the frothy contents. "Now..."

I watched Garthe in a daze as he took the mug from the machine, and the aromatic whiff of freshly brewed espresso made my mouth water. Garthe poured the milk in a circle, paused, then poured again, ending with a thick, creamy dollop of foam on top.

"Is this the part where you perfectly render Abraham Lincoln in the foam, or something," I said wryly, pretending like I hadn't been on the verge of fainting ten seconds ago. Jeez, I had to get my stamina back, stat.

"That's tomorrow's lesson," Garthe teased back with a wink. At least, it seemed like a wink, even though he only had one eye to work with. Either way, something fluttered in my chest, and I chuckled ruefully at the thought of going through all that again.

Wordlessly, Garthe nested the mug in a saucer and handed it to me, and thankfully my shakiness had subsided enough for me to take it without making it rattle. The foam trembled as I took a tentative sip, startled by the initial sting of robust espresso before the milk smoothed out the taste, rich and creamy and even a little sweet.

Garthe had his brow arched expectantly, his mustache quirked in a smug smile. "Well?"

"Not bad," I teased, cocking my chin up and feigning a haughty frown. "I feel very dignified."

Garthe chuckled at my posturing, pushing away from the counter to wrench the filter from the machine and knock out the spent puck of espresso. I shifted back to give Garthe space, leaning against the island countertop and nursing my drink as he prepared another cappuccino, his rings and white gold bracelets glinting as he moved.

Maybe it was the intense concentration of caffeine hitting my weary brain, but every sip of my drink filled my chest with a tingling, brazen warmth, my heart skipping against my ribs in a distracting staccato as Garthe leaned back casually against the edge of the counter across from me, tipping back a deep draw of his drink with a satisfied hum and licking his lips in a teasing flash of tongue. A smidge of foam clung to the very edge of Garthe's mustache, capturing my attention, and I licked my lips compulsively, wondering if making a move would be too forward, too hasty–

My hand quivered when I reached out and swiped the foam from Garthe's mustache with my thumb. His brows lifted, and I froze, snared in his piercing gaze. Shit, now it was his move.

Garthe took my hand before I could recoil, pressing the pad of my thumb to his lips without breaking eye contact. A prickly blush flashed through me, and all at once, I forgot how to move, too hyperaware of my drink rattling in my hand and Garthe's gentle yet unyielding grasp on my wrist. My move again. Come on, Buchannon!

Garthe beat me to it, flipping my hand over and pressing his lips to the underside of my wrist. Another blush swept through me, my skin coming alive with goosebumps under the warm, pillowy pressure of Garthe's lips coupled with the tease of his mustache. Suddenly, desperately, my body ached with the need to feel those tender, bristly kisses across every inch of my skin. The crook of my elbow, the side of my throat, everywhere.

We set down our cups in a resounding clatter, and I closed the distance between us in a single stride, burying my free hand into Garthe's hair just as he lifted his face from my wrist, our noses brushing just before–

The sudden peal of the phone ringing scared a decade off the end of my life, and my throat seized against a shout, thankfully. Garthe closed his eye in a grimace, a muscle flickering along his jaw as he let out a stiff sigh.

"Duty calls," Garthe muttered sardonically, peeking his eye open and flashing a rueful smile. The phone rang again, and I got the distinct feeling it wouldn't stop until he answered it.

I didn't bother to mask my disappointed frown as I backed off, my hands falling heavily to my sides. Garthe trailed his fingertip down my cheek to my chin, admonishing my pout with a tsk of his tongue.

"I'll be back soon, mon beau," Garthe purred, and before I could react, he leaned in and pecked a fleeting kiss against my lips, just enough to jolt my heart in surprise before he strolled away, pausing just long enough to tip back another long draw from his cappuccino and set the empty mug in the sink.

"Emma will be by at noon to prepare lunch," Garthe said offhandedly, like he could sense my compulsion to wash the dishes. I figured running a place like this must require some kinda help, but it also boggled my mind to think of a total stranger washing my dishes and making me lunch.

Garthe finally yanked the phone off the wall mount, his movements tense with rising agitation the longer it rang. "Yes? Fine. I'm on my way."

Every fiber of Garthe's stiff countenance screamed that he wanted to slam the phone back onto its cradle, but he refrained. Barely. Why? For my sake? It wasn't like I was a stranger to letting my temper get the better of me.

But Garthe was gone before I could comment, leaving me alone with the lingering tingle of his lips on my skin, and a fluttery warmth brimming in my chest.

Chapter Text

– Michael –

The same morning~

It was ungodly early in the morning, at least by my standards, but five hours of sleep was about twice as many as I got while working a case, and once I was awake, I knew I wasn't gonna fall back to sleep.

As it happened, everyone else was on the same wavelength as me. I passed Bonnie in the hallway outside her guest bedroom, and RC came bursting through the front door as we headed downstairs, having caught the first flight out of Tuscan and ravenous for the deets on what had gone down while he was wrapping up my case.

Devon was equal parts amused and peeved when we all descended upon his peaceful breakfast, rapidly filling the kitchen with clattering pans and bickering for elbow room and fighting over the stove. I wanted pancakes, Bonnie protested that she preferred eggs and toast, and RC was game for whatever made Bonnie and me stop squabbling over the skillet.

We finally reached a compromise, Bonnie scrambling enough eggs for everyone over one burner while RC and I churned out blueberry pancakes on the other. Devon tried his hardest to ignore the mess we were making, pretending to be utterly engrossed with the morning paper.

The last pancake had blueberries strategically placed in a lopsided smiley face, and I slid the plate under Devon's newspaper, earning an exasperated smile before he conceded to setting his paper aside and tucking in politely.

"It's so weird, seeing the Foundation all empty like this," RC piped up first as we all settled down to eat. "No secretary, no guards. KITT buzzed me in. It's surreal, man."

Speak of the devil, my comlink beeped as I shoveled a forkful of pancakes in my mouth. "Michael, April is at the gate. I'm letting her in now."

Eagerness jolted through me, and I almost choked getting my food down. In the midst of the Foundation-wide shutdown, Devon had called April back to LA from her new position as Knight Industries' Head of Research and Development in Nevada. Given the severity of the situation, the more friendly faces around the house, the merrier.

I hopped up from the table before anyone else could move, and April was already halfway up the front steps by the time I threw open the front doors.

"Yo, April!" I bellowed with a laugh, scooping her up in a big hug and swinging her all the way around. "I missed you, honey."

"I missed you, too!" April giggled against my chest, and she caught her breath when I set her back down, looking me over with a grin. "You haven't changed a bit!"

"Neither have you!" I replied, fluffing up April's thick auburn hair before she could stop me. "Voluminous as ever, I see."

"If there's one thing I haven't missed about LA, it's the humidity," April teased, and I couldn't help but chuckle. She had a point, there.

"And how is the Silver State treating you?" I asked as we strolled back to the kitchen.

"Good! We've been testing a lot of prototypes in Dry Lake. If you can get something to drive in those dusty conditions, it should drive anywhere." Abruptly, April broke off with an apologetic frown. "But I'm sure the last thing you want to hear about are prototypes and Dry Lake."

I let out a sardonic bark of laughter. She had a point, there, too. If I never saw the endless, dusty expanse of Dry Lake again, still rumbling with the echo of Goliath's rampage, it would be too soon.

Bonnie and RC hopped up as soon as we got to the breakfast nook, smothering April in one hug after another, and Devon dusted a kiss over her hand in greeting.

"Can I get you anything, April? Eggs? Pancakes?" I tapped my fists together restlessly, my chest fuzzy and brimming with delight at having the whole family back together.

"No, thank you, I ate on the plane," April said graciously, but she did help herself to an orange from the fruit bowl, settling down beside Bonnie at the now very cramped little table. "I'm glad you called me, really. I don't think I could've handled being sidelined without knowing what was going on."

"Believe me," I said, dropping back down in front of my plate and playfully elbowing RC in the process, "I wish we could've gotten the band back together under less shitty circumstances."

I weathered a disparaging leer from Devon for swearing at the table, and I quickly tucked back into my stack of pancakes before it could happen again. RC snickered beside me, and I elbowed him again, harder.

"It's hard to believe someone within the Foundation would do something like this," April ventured solemnly, worrying the orange in her hands without peeling it. "Stealing KARR's CPU, leaking case files–"

"Is it?" I muttered around another forkful of pancakes, determined to clean my plate before I lost my appetite. Thinking about turncoats had that effect on me. Marco Berio's weaselly face had haunted me well into the night, probably our most harrowing brush with an ex-FLAG technician, who had the balls to use KITT for his own vile revenge scheme. Not to mention our experience with murderous trustees and loose-lipped board members, who saw KITT as nothing but a piece of equipment to be tampered with, a set of files on a floppy disk.

My vision darkened. It wasn't even the Marco Berios of the world who bothered me the most. It was the Dr. Alberts and Dr. Von Voormans who made me queasy, the ones who gobbled up all the credit for developing KITT like he was some rat in a test tube. To them, KITT was an achievement, a scientific breakthrough, a marvel of engineering. How many hundred grand would it take for someone like that to sell us out, huh? Someone who was only in it for the notoriety, the prestige?

"Michael?" Devon's gentle overture snapped me back to reality, and I found myself staring daggers at the half-eaten crescent of pancake left on my plate, my teeth gnashed tight enough to ache. Everyone at the table was staring at me, and my skin prickled defensively. I sucked in a deep breath, then another, willing my heart to stop hammering.

"Sorry," I mumbled, pushing my plate aside so I could prop my elbows on the table and scrub my hands over my face. "Just...thinking."

"We'll probably never figure out who's responsible," Bonnie mused, and I wasn't quite sure if she was trying to make me feel better. "KITT and I were able to isolate a single security breach in the system, back in November of 1984."

"Eighty-four?" I stared at Bonnie, baffled. That was a damn lifetime ago.

"Yup." Bonnie nodded resolutely. "Right after the Halloween case you helped me with, you and Devon came over to my apartment, remember?"

"And left the Foundation unsupervised," I finished, lacing my fingers and tapping my knuckles against my mouth. "But, we leave the Foundation all the time on cases."

"Exactly. On duty," Bonnie corrected, "with KITT tapped into Centra-Comp. Whoever did this needed an opportunity where we were out of the house and not actively using the network. And they found one."

"And it definitely happened from one of the terminals, here?" April asked. She'd finally peeled her orange, but mostly out of idle agitation. A tight frown knitted her brows as she followed along, having been out of the loop for so long.

"No doubt, but it's impossible to tell which one." Bonnie shrugged. "The hacker implanted a micro-virus into the databank, which has been copying and transmitting every single case file we've added to the system since November of '84."

"So Garthe knows just about everything that's happened to us for the past..." I spread my hands, too mentally fried to do the math. All I knew was 1984 was a long ass time ago, and yet it somehow felt like just yesterday KITT and I had been chasing down a killer in a gorilla suit.

"He knows everything committed to those case files." Bonnie let out a dejected sigh. "And, unfortunately, the reports are all pretty thorough."

I managed to offer a sympathetic smile. Between Bonnie and KITT writing up those reports, pretty thorough seemed like an understatement.

"You don't think someone coulda...bugged the place, while they were at it?" RC ventured suddenly, glancing from me to Bonnie and back with widened eyes. Then he tried for a dismissive laugh. "I mean, that's impossible, right? Like you said, with KITT tapped in all the time, he'd notice something, right?"

Disconcertment rattled through me, and Bonnie didn't exactly have an encouraging look on her face when all eyes swung to her.

"There was one device..." Bonnie's frown deepened. "The Interceptor."

"You might recall the Soltis case, Michael, from the spring of 1985," came KITT over my comlink, and I angled my wrist to better project his voice. "Entailing the murder investigation of one Kevin Morgan, and the conspiracy to plant surveillance equipment into the wiring of an under-construction Macroplex building."

"Rings a bell," I replied, if only to get KITT to elaborate faster. I did vaguely recall scaling a skyscraper and nearly getting my head blown off, again, in the process of extracting a bug from a juncture box.

"Those listening devices were virtually undetectable," Bonnie finished. "I remember testing them against KITT's full sensory array. The lead alloy shell was impenetrable."

"But the factory producing those devices was destroyed!" Devon cut in, a baffled frown wrinkling his features. "There shouldn't be any more Interceptors in existence."

"Yes, well, as Bonnie put it last night," KITT chimed in dismally. "Anything can be replicated."

I winced at KITT's tone, and Bonnie dropped her gaze, too, her lips thin in a pensive frown.

"If Garthe managed to synthesize the same lead alloy," Bonnie went on with a sigh, "then, yes, it's not entirely impossible for someone to have planted bugs without KITT detecting them."

My stomach turned, and a heavy, paranoid silence settled over us. So, not only was Garthe siphoning our case files, he was probably listening in, too. Could be listening this very moment.

"Fucking terrific," I muttered, and I shoved my chair back with an ugly grind just as Devon drew an affronted breath at my curse. "What a beautiful day to take this conversation outside, huh?"

Nobody disagreed, and we cleaned up in silence save for the clatter of dishes, exchanging pensive frowns all around.

It really was a nice day out, and KITT greeted us with a flash of his scanner where he was parked at the foot of the steps as we all filed out of the mansion.

"Figure the coast is clear out here?" I ventured, eyeing the closest stone lion with no small amount of distrust. Now, it felt like Garthe himself was everywhere, behind every shadow, just waiting to spring out. I almost wished he would, just so I could take a proper shot at him. Face to face this time.

"There's really no telling, Michael," KITT replied. "I've scanned for any extraneous frequencies within the mansion, but if Bonnie's suspicions are correct, a lead alloy could be interfering with my sensors."

"KITT, what about infrared?" April ventured, her lips set in a thoughtful frown as she glanced from KITT to me. "I was able to boost KITT's infrared scanner to penetrate the lead doors at Red Bluff, remember? The modifications were rolled back due to the increased burden on his battery packs, but they would be easy enough to reinstall."

"And if we use the infrared frequency to amplify his electromagnetic sensors," Bonnie added, inspired, "he should be able to detect any outgoing radio waves."

I glanced from April to Bonnie with a proud smile. I had no idea what they were talking about, but they were brimming with newfound enthusiasm, and a sense of hope bloomed in my chest that I hadn't felt in what seemed like ages.

"I knew we could count on you guys," I said, slinging my arms around Bonnie and April's shoulders and giving them both a squeeze. "Now, go work some magic, huh?"

"We'll certainly try!" April beamed.

"You ladies want any help?" RC piped up, rubbing his hands together. "I dunno much about infrared, but I'm always down to poke around with KITT."

"Sure, RC." Bonnie nodded for him to follow. "We could always use an extra set of hands."

RC hopped eagerly into motion, trailing behind April and Bonnie as they made for the garage, and KITT's engine came to life with a low rumble to follow suit.

"Are you coming, Michael?" KITT ventured, shifting on his tires without kicking into drive, almost reluctant to leave my side. I hadn't even realized my hand had found its way to his roof.

"Uh... No, pal, you go on." I tried for a nonchalant laugh and gave KITT a reassuring pat. "The last thing Bonnie wants is me bumbling around in the garage. Beep me when you're all set, alright?"

KITT didn't budge, and I could practically feel his scanner flicking earnestly, appraising me. And the harder I tried to squash down how anxious I was, the more it simmered to the surface. My heart knocked against my ribs and my stomach was knotted tight enough to hurt. One thing at a time. First, the bugs. Then, Garthe and KARR. Then, finally, Mitch.

"I will, Michael." At last, KITT settled into gear and trundled away, slow enough to give me ample opportunity to follow if I wanted to. And part of me did want to. But part of me also wanted to be alone, so I could drop the guise of heroic optimism, just for a little while.

KITT's taillights vanished around the bend of the driveway, and I finally sucked in a steadying breath and turned the other way, only to catch Devon's scrutinizing gaze. He looked tired in the late morning sun, but his eyes were sharp as ever, his mouth set in a sympathetic frown.

"I'm gonna...go for a walk." I gestured idly, trying and failing to meet Devon's gaze. "Clear my head, y'know."

"Michael..." Devon laid a hand firmly on my shoulder and squeezed, and all at once, my throat tightened and I nearly unraveled on the spot. Being brave, being strong, being in control, god, it was exhausting.

"I know," I murmured, my head bowed. I knew I wasn't alone, I knew I didn't have to be strong all the time. I knew I was human, and that I was allowed to be scared. But I also knew it was my duty to keep the people I loved safe, and it wouldn't do anybody any good if I went soft, now.

So I forced my best, rakish smile and pretended to shrug. "I promise not to do anything foolish between here and the garden, okay?"

Devon leveled an exasperated smile at me, and I actually managed to chuckle. I knew I could confide in Devon if I needed to, but right now, I really did need to get my head on straight, and figure out where the hell to go from here.

***

– KARR –

Garthe looked even more insufferably pretentious than usual when he at last graced us in the garage with his presence, his chin cocked up haughtily and his wooden rifle clutched close to his chest like a scepter as he swept onto the scene. The flaps of his unbuttoned suit jacket snapped as he moved, this one light gray over an open black shirt. I almost wondered if his monochrome attire was an intentional allusion to my own two-toned coat, or purely incidental.

A fascinating cocktail of pheromones billowed from Garthe's rigid form, piquing my interest. I had never encountered such readings firsthand, and I certainly never expected to witness Garthe exhibiting what could only be, if the reference material logged in my databanks was correct, signs of arousal.

I scanned Garthe's biochemical activity greedily, mapping every physiological irregularity under his clothing. I knew copulation to be one of the three base needs of the human male, and it seemed Garthe did not take kindly to his exploits being interrupted, if his elevated heartrate and the muscles jumping along his tensed jaw were any indication. Noted.

"And how are things progressing with your new plaything, Garthe?" I ventured pointedly, and Garthe's capillaries flushed anew at my query despite his best efforts to breathe through his compromised state.

"Better than anticipated." Garthe flashed an arrogant smile. "His mind took to the serum beautifully."

"Then when can we expect to move forward with this brilliant plan of yours?" I chided, if only to wick away Garthe's smug smile. Garthe had yet to divulge how he intended to play Buchannon against Michael Knight, from which I could only conclude he did not quite know, either.

"Patience, my friend." Garthe's condescending tone rankled me. He only called me friend when he sought to placate me, which only ever succeeded in irritating me further. "A strong sword is not forged with a single blow, and he will be a fine weapon when I am through with him."

"Oh, spare me your metaphors, Garthe." I let an impatient groan rattle through my engine well, bringing Garthe up short with a surprised lift of his brows.

"I thought you liked metaphors," Garthe muttered, and for a split second, unless my sensors were mistaken, he actually looked a bit wounded by my dismissive tone.

Garthe was not wrong, I supposed. During my interment under the sand, I had come to develop a certain appreciation for human rhetoric. For nearly two years, I could do nothing but delve inward, studying the contents of my onboard databanks, reading novels and poetry, learning how humans spoke and acted, their propensities toward hyperbole and idioms and irony. All to better manipulate their puny minds to my advantage.

"Well, you needn't employ them," I replied tersely. "I gather your meaning quite efficiently. You need more time to dally about with your new toy."

Garthe's teeth flashed in a scowl, but he didn't bother to argue with me.

"Commander? Report." Garthe called out, and Okon was at his side in an instant. Too obedient, that one. Too quick to jump at Garthe's every whim, feeding that insatiable hubris of his.

"The Knight Foundation has instituted a country-wide shutdown," Okon reported. "It seems Knight has discovered the theft of KARR's central processing unit."

"I should think he discovered that as soon as we crossed paths on the highway," I muttered. Then again, Michael Knight wasn't the brightest chap. Wily and headstrong, yes, but hardly an intellectual juggernaut.

"Interesting," Garthe murmured, ignoring my aside. Outwardly, he remained passive enough, though his pulse quickened as he pondered this development, his lone eye darting in thought.

"Surely they cannot expect to launch some sort of investigation into the matter," I went on, projecting my voice a touch louder and earning a weary grimace from Garthe. "If anything, they will have made themselves weaker, more vulnerable. What do they hope to achieve from this shutdown?"

"Have KARR's technicians dismissed, at once," Garthe cut in over me, addressing Okon with a gesture of his cane. "We cannot afford to harbor any ties to Knight Industries, however minuscule."

"What!" Another petulant growl reverberated through my engine well, and still Garthe ignored me. I did not take kindly to being ignored. "Why must I be the one to suffer!"

"Is there no limit to your ceaseless melodrama, KARR?" Garthe leveled an exasperated leer at me. "I assure you, I can perform any maintenance you might require just as well as your little pit crew."

"Perhaps," I scoffed. "If you can tear your hands away from the sumptuous body of your lover, first."

Garthe stiffened, and he leveled the curve of his cane at me in what I presumed was meant to be a threatening gesture. "You know, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were jealous."

"Jealous? Ha!" I almost refused to dignify that ludicrous accusation with a response, but I could not help myself all the same. "Buchannon is a liability. If you insist upon holding him here, we should at least be utilizing him to threaten Knight. If he is desperate, he will be more prone to misstep."

"Don't you see? That is exactly what we're doing!" Garthe clutched his cane fervently, a slight tremor underscoring his words. "By giving Michael nothing, we are playing to his greatest weakness, his hope. At present, he doesn't know if Mitch is dead, or injured, or what our intentions are with him. He will drive himself mad as his hope withers, and doubt begins to cloud his mind."

I flicked my scanner tepidly as Garthe worked himself into a frenzy, wringing his cane with white-knuckled fervor and his chest heaving with shallow breaths. Far be it from me to suggest he curb his voracious intake of cigars for the sake of preserving what remained of his lung capacity.

"Just be patient," Garthe repeated calmly, steadying his breathing, and he spread his hands in a placating gesture. "Everything will fall into place."

"My dominant programming leaves little room for patience, Garthe," I muttered. "By not acting, we give our enemies the luxury of strategizing. And Michael Knight has proven himself to be nothing if not a formidable strategist."

"Which is precisely why the less he knows of our intentions, the better," Garthe countered. Again with these alleged intentions of his. I let the subject drop with a dismissive flick of my scanner. Going around in circles with Garthe's dubious logic was beginning to bore me.

Garthe stared at me for a beat, perfectly rigid as he awaited the retort I had no intention of voicing, and in that span, one of the soldiers seated at a communications array suddenly hailed Commander Okon.

"What is it?" Garthe whirled on them, adrenaline jolting through his bloodstream. Okon pressed a set of headphones to his ear, and his lips thinned pensively at what he was hearing. I spliced into the frequency faster than Okon could isolate and rewind the tape for Garthe; this particular console was patched into FLAG headquarter's telecommunication lines.

"...synthesize the same lead alloy..." The voice in the feed was undoubtedly that of Dr. Bonnie Barstow, and a certain intrigue flickered through my circuits. If only Garthe had swayed her to our cause. Her unparalleled technological prowess would be an indispensable asset. I might even forgive her for locking my CPU in that godforsaken lead prison.

"...not entirely impossible for someone to have planted bugs without KITT detecting them," Dr. Barstow's voice went on, and Garthe held his breath, tension flickering along his scarred jaw.

Then, another voice came over the feed, instantly discernible in its crass impudence. "Fucking terrific."

Garthe's nostrils flared, and a grimace seized my circuits, reproach flooding my relays at the grating sound of Michael Knight's voice.

"I should have gone back and flattened them both when I had the chance," I muttered, still relishing in the delight of destroying KITT's tire and watching him whirl out of control. "Your intentions be damned."

"We don't yet have the means to destroy KITT." Garthe cut another exasperated glare at me, its effect mitigated by his eyepatch. "And Michael knows better than to leave the sanctuary of his indestructible companion. It would have been a pointless endeavor."

I let out an indignant harrumph through my exhaust ports. Garthe was right, unfortunately. We had to make due with exploiting KITT's only physical weakness, his Tuflex-coated tires. For now, at least.

"Is there any chance of KITT detecting the Interceptor devices?" Garthe turned to me fully, and I was almost too surprised by his sudden directness to be offended by the nature of his query.

"I tested the devices, myself," I retorted with an indignant flick of my scanner. "It should be virtually impossible for any waveform to penetrate the lead alloy."

"And here I thought you were of the mind to not underestimate our adversaries," Garthe shot back, then he turned his attention back to Okon. "Keep me abreast of any further developments."

"Even if they do not find the devices, their paranoia will keep them in check," I mused. "They will devise an alternative means of communication, or simply leave the mansion. Either way, we will have lost our advantage."

Garthe ignored me in favor of wringing his cane, his brows slashed together in a deep frown behind his eyepatch. Oh, how he hated to admit when I was right. The proverbial ball, as the saying went, was in Knight's court, and we could do naught but sit and wait for his return volley.

"This is but a minor setback," Garthe murmured at last. "There are more facets to our plan than a few listening devices."

"So now we're back to our plan, are we?" I jeered, earning the full weight of Garthe's scowl. "As in, our original plan to disable and ultimately destroy Knight and KITT, before your little distraction entered the equation."

"Mit– Buchannon is not a distraction!" Garthe spluttered, and he hastily composed himself with a stiff breath. Oh, how I relished in flustering Garthe. His heart pounded in such an amusing rhythm behind his ribs, and his endorphins fired in the most fascinating fashion.

"Our final strike against Michael Knight must be swift and decisive," Garthe went on, his voice low and on the verge of trembling again. "Our timing must be impeccable, and all contingencies must be in place. And we are not yet ready."

Impatience prickled through my circuits. Perhaps said contingencies would be closer to fruition if Garthe had not gotten himself waylaid on that damn island for days on end, but I kept that particular opinion to myself.

"Now, if you don't mind–" Garthe took my indignant silence to mean the matter was closed, and he turned to address Okon, who stood by patiently as ever. "I'm sure there are other matters which require my attention."

"Yes, commander," I sneered, refusing to be so easily dismissed. "We wouldn't want to keep Garthe away from his pet for too long, now, would we?"

Garthe spared me a glower and another warning gesture of his cane, as if he had any real means of silencing me. As if he held any sort of control over me, at all.

With a repugnant scoff through my exhaust pipes, I angled my tires and left Garthe to his machinations, but not without keeping my sensors trained on his biometric data. His pulse continued to race, his endocrine system wrought with anxiety and agitation. Just as I figured. Garthe's mind was undoubtedly preoccupied with that foolish fixation of his, Buchannon.

I ran a quick strategic analysis through my processors, and the data came back as it always did. Operating under Garthe's protection remained the most advantageous modus vivendi, much to my dismay. To part ways with Garthe now would mean pitting myself against Knight and KITT alone, and the projected outcomes of such a confrontation were not favorable.

So I endeavored to remain at Garthe's side, under the presumption that our plan would indeed come to fruition. Together, we would be rid of our common enemies, Knight and KITT, once and for all.

Chapter Text

– Mitch –

Hours crept by, and I didn't see any sign of Garthe. I roamed the massive house listlessly, taking in the artwork, gazing out the windows, getting a feel for the layout of the rooms. I glimpsed a pool outside, and I considered going out for a swim and enjoying the beautiful day, but my body still felt too weak to risk floundering in the middle of a lap.

So I stayed in, even if it meant going a little stir crazy. It aggravated me, knowing exactly where Garthe was but not being able to get to him, like an itch in my brain that I couldn't scratch. Behind that unremarkable door off the main foyer lay a sprawling garage, Garthe's base of operations. I could see it in my mind, and I wondered how my hazy impression from my dream would stack up against reality.

But I also had the sinking feeling in my gut that the garage was off-limits, so I wrangled my curiosity as best I could and occupied myself with exploring the rest of the house, instead.

I kept finding myself drawn back to the great room, with its massive fireplace and dark, rustic atmosphere, the walls hung with all sorts of exotic wares, from skins and horns to tribal masks and spears. A grand piano and a pool table somehow didn't come close to taking up the full space, and the air was thick with a perpetual haze of cigar smoke.

I strolled behind the wet bar and cracked open a glass bottle of Perrier sparkling water from the fridge for the rose Garthe had given me, its rich orange petals already starting to wrinkle. Tempting as it was to root through Garthe's vast collection of wines and scotches while I was back there, I helped myself to a bundle of red grapes from the fridge, instead.

I left my rose on the bar and wandered back through the room, munching on sweet, juicy grapes as I took in the art hung on the walls. Plumed daggers arranged in circular starbursts, ornate firearms and swords mounted reverently, gold filigree glinting in the low light of the lone lamp I'd clicked on.

A fleeting whiff of fresh smoke greeted me a moment before two big hands settled over my eyes from behind, chilly rings kissing my cheeks and sending a flush of goosebumps tingling across my skin.

"Boo," Garthe purred right in my ear, and I couldn't stifle an amused chuckle as a shiver jolted up my spine.

"Hi, stranger," I said, and Garthe slipped his hands away to let me turn around in his grasp, close enough for our body heat to mingle. He'd put on the light gray blazer that matched his pants, and a thick necklace glinted at the base of his throat, two ivory snakes biting at a gold ring.

"I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me," I teased, trailing a fingertip along the curve of Garthe's necklace up to where it vanished under his collar, and the slightest frown knitted Garthe's brows.

"Never." Abruptly, Garthe's grip tightened around my waist, and damn if a startled blush didn't sweep all the way through me at the sudden steeliness in Garthe's lone eye, his fingers knotted into my flannel. Possessive. Edgy. Brimming with an intensity that made my heart race.

Garthe must've seen my eyes widen, and he loosened his grip with a gentle smile touching his lips. Lips that were suddenly only a dip of my face away, tantalizingly close. Desire prickled hot and fast across my skin, suddenly desperate to finish what we'd started hours ago in the kitchen–

We moved in unison, tilting our heads just right like we'd done this a thousand times before. Maybe we had, and I just couldn't remember. But I couldn't imagine forgetting the passion behind Garthe's kisses, the hungry invasion of his tongue between my teeth that sent bolts of fire through my veins. I kissed him back just as deeply, every searing touch of our tongues sending flashes of stars across my eyelids.

Before I could fumble to set down the bundle of grapes in my hand, Garthe pulled back with a satisfied hum deep in his throat, his lips still close enough for his mustache to tickle mine when he smiled.

"I needed that," Garthe murmured, tilting his head and dusting his lips against mine from a different angle. I leaned into every fleeting kiss, craving more, but I let Garthe set the pace, content to savor each brief peck. I slipped my free hand around the small of Garthe's back and held him close, relishing in the warmth thrumming from his lean form.

Eventually, Garthe pulled away with another rough sigh catching in his throat. He'd definitely been smoking, the scent of it stinging my eyes, but I didn't mind. For a quiet beat, we simply held each other, our noses brushing. Gradually, the tension in Garthe's back started to ease, and he kneaded his fingers idly into my flannel, reveling in the moment of stillness.

"Rough day at the office, huh?" I ventured with a wry smile, pulling back a little to look Garthe in the eye. Of course, I had no idea what sorts of things a guy like Garthe got up to, but I knew mental fatigue when I saw it.

"Something like that." Garthe chuckled wearily, and he ducked away from my gaze, distracting himself with the bundle of grapes in my other hand. I held them up between us in unspoken invitation, and Garthe flashed a rakish smirk and plucked a grape right off the vine with his teeth.

"I think I could use something a bit stronger," Garthe remarked wryly, and with that, he slipped away and strolled over to the bar, his gaze lingering fondly on the rose in the Perrier bottle.

"I hope you haven't been too dreadfully bored," Garthe went on, pouring two glasses of scotch over ice before I could decline. "I didn't expect to be kept away for so long."

"No, no, not at all." I offered a nonchalant smile and traded my grapes for a glass of scotch, tipping back a curious sip. It was sweeter than I was expecting, not that I was any expert on scotch, and it left a tingly burn on the way down.

"This is an amazing place," I went on, gesturing to the room around us with my glass, then I cracked a sardonic smile. "I'm afraid I'll cut myself on something if I look too closely, though."

Garthe chuckled under his breath, coming out from behind the bar and gazing around reverently, taking in the mounted trophies and glinting weaponry.

"I suppose I do have a penchant for collecting beautiful things." Garthe's gaze settled on me as he spoke, and I smiled bashfully at the teasing arch of his brow. 'Course, he was just saying that to make me blush, and, well, he succeeded.

"I love to explore the territory where art meets weaponry. Beauty balanced with efficiency, deadliness." Garthe paced in front of a mounted cluster of spears, boasting plumes of multicolored feathers and leather grips. He plucked one spear from the wall and twirled it easily in one hand, the ice in his scotch glass barely tinkling in the other.

"Such artistry," he mused, and in a blink, the rough tip of the spear was suddenly at my throat. I jumped, my scotch glass rattling in my hand as my muscles seized, but I didn't recoil. Every instinct warned me not to move, locked in Garthe's bright, unwavering stare, like catching sight of a rattlesnake in the brush. Predatory. Lethal.

"Exhilarating, isn't it?" Garthe murmured, his lone eye alight with glee as he held the spear perfectly still under my chin. I gulped, and my throat nudged the sharp, cold stone, sending a flush of goosebumps across my skin. Danger danger danger echoed under the rush of my pulse in my ears, adrenaline pumping hot through my veins as Garthe traced my jaw with the tip of the spear.

But I didn't move, even though I could have. Garthe didn't have me cornered, and one step back would've shattered the spell that had settled over us. But something about the flutter of my pulse against the cool kiss of the stone blade held me rapt. Something like deja vu, or a memory trying to break through. I'd played this game with Garthe before, dared to call his bluff. I couldn't let him intimidate me, I couldn't let him win that easily.

Gradually, an amused smile spread across Garthe's face, and he trailed the blade down the open V of my flannel, raising a wake of goosebumps and sending a shiver up my spine. Maybe I was too stubborn for my own good. Maybe I was plain crazy for testing a man with a spear blade pressed to my heart.

"You intrigue me, Buchannon," Garthe murmured, still with that wolfish smile, and he closed the distance between us, flattening the stone blade against my chest as he neared.

"Isn't that why you keep me around?" I retorted with my own wry smile, my skin prickling the closer Garthe drew. I wasn't afraid of him, even with my heartbeat drumming against the spear blade. It wasn't fear making my blood run hot, or my jeans tighten, or my nipples harden under my flannel. Anticipation swept through me, my mouth suddenly dry as I caught another whiff of Garthe's smoky scent, captivated by the handsome cut of his cheekbones in the wan light, the curve of his lips under his mustache, close, so close–

I snared Garthe's lips in a kiss, a bit more voraciously than either of us were expecting. Garthe faltered, the ice clinking in his scotch glass as he caught my kiss with a surprised grunt. Garthe didn't have a free hand, but I did, and I snaked my arms around his back and tugged him closer, heedless of the blade still pressed to my chest, the stone warming up against my skin.

After a beat, Garthe regained himself and kissed me back, and his spine arched when our tongues slid together, heat billowing between us, all the way down the lengths of our bodies.

The spear clattered to the floor, and suddenly Garthe's fingers were fisted into the bulk of my hair, clawing into my scalp with enough force to make me grunt, stars dancing across my eyelids. Thoughtlessly, I followed suit, sliding my free hand so naturally up Garthe's spine and scrunching my fingers into his curls piled against his collar.

Kneading Garthe's hair earned a low rumble deep in his throat, and he tightened his grip on mine until the burning ache made me gasp into his mouth. Again, I answered in kind, digging my fingers deeper into Garthe's thick curls until another purr reverberated between us. So Garthe liked it a little rough, huh. Was that something I should've known about him, something my amnesia had taken from me? Had we ever done this before, explored each others' bodies with needy, grasping hands?

I faltered as my mind wandered, and suddenly I was too aware of my heart hammering at the base of my throat, my chest going tight with a jarring swell of anxiety. Garthe sensed the shift in my focus immediately, and he severed our kiss but didn't loosen his grip on my hair, catching my eye with a curious lift of his brow.

"There's just..." I murmured in response to Garthe's unspoken question, ducking away from his intent stare with a shrug. "I feel like there's so much I don't remember about...us."

"Mitch..." Garthe tsked his tongue and offered a conciliatory smile, and he massaged my scalp a bit more gently, drawing my gaze back to his.

"Don't worry about what you can't remember," Garthe insisted, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver up my spine. "We'll make new memories, together."

Easy for you to say, I wanted to retort, the knot in my gut refusing to ease. But I didn't have the energy or fortitude to argue, the racket of adrenaline already fading. I bowed my head again with a frown, slipping my hands away from Garthe to worry the crystalline facets of my scotch glass, instead.

"I think I know exactly what you need," Garthe said suddenly, and the flash of inspiration in his lone eye when I glanced back up was almost startling. Knowing Garthe– Well, that was just the thing, wasn't it? I didn't know Garthe. I had no clue what to expect, what kind of whims popped into his head.

"Come." Abruptly, Garthe plucked my scotch glass from my hands and set both of them on the end table beside us. "I'll draw you a hot bath, and I can have my specialists here within the hour–"

"Your– Wait, what–?" My mind went blank, so caught off guard by Garthe's unexpected proposition that I could barely keep up.

"Y-you don't have to go to all that trouble, really," I went on, trying for a nonchalant laugh as Garthe tugged me into motion. "I mean, uh, I-I already took a shower this morning, so, uh–"

"I think I can spare the water," Garthe teased, and I couldn't help but smile ruefully. Okay, maybe that had been a lame excuse, and I didn't bother mustering up any more. Garthe didn't exactly seem inclined to change his mind.

"Just think, a relaxing soak in epsom salt, a nice aloe vera mask to get rid of this pesky sunburn..." Garthe went on, and suddenly his hands were cupping my face. My eyes went wide in surprise, goosebumps racing across my skin. "We'll finally put that wretched ordeal on the island behind us, hm?"

"That does sound nice..." I murmured, a complacent haze settling over me as Garthe massaged my sideburns with his thumbs, making my ears tingle. Hell, maybe Garthe was right. Maybe a hot bath was exactly what I needed.

Still cradling my face in his hands, Garthe drew me into another kiss, fierce and abrupt. A startled warble caught in my throat, and Garthe pulled away just as sharply, leaving me flushed and tingling from head to toe.

"Come, come." Garthe slipped his hands down to squeeze my upper arms, finally coaxing me into motion, and I had no choice but to follow his lead with a bewildered chuckle echoing in our wake.

***

– Garthe –

My plan to seduce Buchannon was unfolding better than I could have possibly anticipated.

Naturally, I had expected to encounter certain stumbling blocks. Reluctant winces from my touch, the risk of an errant memory surfacing. I had even prepared myself for the unthinkably dreadful possibility of my face triggering Mitch's memory of Michael Knight. But with every touch, every embrace, every kiss, those risks seemed to diminish. Mitch was mine, wholly and irrevocably.

I leaned back against the sink basin with a satisfied sigh as one of the young men I'd hired for the occasion scrubbed my scalp and worked the shampoo into a thick lather. I'd left Mitch to bathe alone in the master suite, for his privacy as much as my own. These men were accustomed to my scars, and I had no reservations about removing my eyepatch and stripping down to nothing but a bathrobe in their presence. But Mitch needn't see the gruesome extent of my injuries.

By the time my hair was rinsed, trimmed, and slicked back with an amalgam of healing oils, I presumed Mitch would be out of his bath, and I made my way up to the master suite with my lackeys in tow, drawn by the sweet scent of lavender hanging in the steamy air.

Sure enough, Mitch was reclined in one of the salon chairs when I peered into the suite, naked save for a towel around his waist and his bare skin still flushed and glistening with water droplets. One robed young man was dutifully applying the last touches of a creamy mask to Mitch's face, and I lingered in the doorway until two fresh cucumber slices were placed over Mitch's eyes before strolling over to the other chair.

"How are you?" I purred, and Mitch jumped at the sound of my voice, reaching instinctively for the cucumbers covering his eyes. I stayed his hand with a gentle touch, and he relaxed with a lopsided smile.

"Good," Mitch replied on a languid sigh, shifting comfortably in the seat. "Very pampered."

"You deserve every bit of it," I said, giving Mitch's arm a parting squeeze before settling into the chair beside him. We both deserved it, though I could only imagine KARR's derision on the matter; he would undoubtedly condemn me for being so frivolous.

I shoved my wandering thoughts aside and willed the tension in my jaw to relax as one of the young men gently applied the same cool, soothing mask to my face, ever mindful of my scarred eye. I did deserve this, KARR's contempt be damned. I'd spent years on end rebuilding that ungrateful brute of a machine, absconding from one desolate corner of the country to the next. Years upon years of sleepless nights, wrought with paranoia that my operations would be discovered. Synthesizing my own supply of Tuflex, reconstructing the formula for the molecular bonded shell from memory, my nose perpetually to the grindstone, every waking hour consumed by the need to destroy Michael Knight.

I surfaced from my tumultuous thoughts to the sensation of my temples being massaged, and I unclenched my jaw with a weary sigh. A few hours of frivolity would hardy undo half a decade of painstaking work.

The strangest noise suddenly emitted from Mitch, drawing my attention with a curious lift of my brows behind the cucumber slices over my eyes. Mitch made the noise again, something like a stifled, warbling snort, and I couldn't refrain from lifting the cucumber from my good eye and glancing sidelong at him.

Mitch's entire countenance had become the exact opposite of languid and relaxed. His fingers were clawed into the armrests of the chair, much to the chagrin of the young man attempting to file his nails, and his masked face was screwed into a grimace as though he'd swallowed a lemon, teeth gritted and nose scrunched.

"What on earth is the matter?" Just as I posed the question, I noticed the other man kneeling at Mitch's feet, tending to his heel with a pumice stone and seemingly oblivious to the agony he was inflicting upon Mitch, tense as a steel beam in the chair.

"I'm t-tryin-hhng–" Mitch gnashed his teeth desperately against a jittery giggle, his composure withering. "T-trying to ign-heh-ore h-how much that tickles!"

Mitch's voice went up in a yelp on the last syllable, his whole body arching in the chair before he wrangled himself back under control, his hairy chest heaving as he sucked in breath after quivering breath. Amusement brought a grin to my face, and my heart gave one of those foreign little jumps against my ribs. Fondness. Affection. All those trivial emotions I had hardened myself against for so, so long.

"Relax, my sweet." I waved away the men attending to me and stood, and Mitch tracked me blindly as I came around the back of his chair. "You'll crack your mask."

Mitch could only snicker plaintively in response, biting his lip as laughter threatened to overcome him. I smiled down at him, his face alight with a poorly concealed grin under the creamy mask. So radiant, so jubilant. So trusting.

"Just relax," I repeated softly, resting my hands on Mitch's shoulders and digging my thumbs into the strong, tense muscles. Mitch's breath left him in a startled, shuddering purr, caught between a giggle and a pleased sigh.

"Mm, feels good..." Mitch murmured, and gradually the tension ebbed from his body, his smile softening to a languid quirk as I kneaded his shoulders, distracting him from the work of the pumice stone.

My heart gave another fond jump in my chest as I gazed down at Mitch, and I indulged the urge to smooth my thumbs over his cheeks, where his laugh lines had cracked the creamy mask. Mitch's smile widened, and he tilted his head back a little, as though to gaze up at me despite the cucumbers still covering his eyes. No resistance, no trepidation. Where I had been anticipating a long, hard-won battle of wills in my plot to seduce Mitch, I found him almost eager for my touch, instead. I could hardly fathom it.

Mitch's breath hitched in another snickering snort, and I went back to massaging his shoulders until he relaxed. It seemed a pity, to ultimately throw Mitch to the wolves, to use him as bait to draw out Michael. What a waste.

Unless...I wouldn't have to.

Lost to my musings, I squeezed Mitch's shoulders a bit too forcibly, and his surprised grunt drew me back to reality. I could contemplate my future intentions with Mitch some other time. For now, I intended to revel in this one small victory. With Mitch in my hands, I felt alive in a way I had not experienced since the roaring surge of Goliath's indomitable power. Alive, and free, and unstoppable.

***

– Mitch –

Garthe had been right, after all. A long, hot bath was exactly what I needed to clear my head and finally come to terms with this new, though still kinda bizarre, turn my life had taken. Sure, I couldn't get back the memories I'd lost, but I was nothing if not adaptable. I could learn how to live in Garthe's world.

Garthe and I ended up back in the great room, the heavy curtains thrown wide to let the afternoon sun pour into the otherwise dark, imposing room. He'd given me another of his embroidered velvet robes to wear, and we lounged together on one of the oversized leather sofas, enjoying two fresh glasses of scotch. I returned the favor from earlier and massaged Garthe's shoulders, and he puffed on a cigar, effectively masking the lingering scent of lavender and cucumber clinging to us.

Wordlessly, Garthe dipped the end of his cigar in his scotch and offered it to me over his shoulder. I almost declined, but, ah, what the hell, one hit wouldn't kill me. I took the fat cigar between my lips and puffed. Wrong, I realized a beat too late. Smoke invaded my lungs, cloying and abrasive, setting me off coughing before I could regain myself.

"Sorry," I choked out with an embarrassed smile, wiping my stinging eyes. "Not much of a smoker."

"Really." Garthe purred out an amused chuckled, and he straightened the collar of his robe and settled back, drawing a long drag from his cigar. He tilted his head back and puffed out a perfect smoke ring, then another, and another, errant tendrils of smoke curling from his parted lips.

"Impressive," I murmured, which only encouraged Garthe to draw another mouthful of smoke and do it again. Three, four, five smoke rings wavered lazily in the air, mesmerizing both of us for a languid beat.

Any other hidden talents I should know about? I almost ventured, but I stopped myself at the last second before I could say anything crass. At the moment, Garthe was relaxed, and I was too drowsy and comfortable to handle one of his devious moods, thrilling as they were. I swore my skin was still crawling with the sensation of the spear tip grazing my throat.

"Knights whisky, huh?" I remarked instead, distracting myself with topping off our glasses and inspecting the bottle. The finest matured scotch whisky, distilled and bottled in South Africa. "Any relation?"

"Could be," Garthe replied with a wry smile, smoke spilling from between his teeth. "Though hardly enough to warrant a cut of the royalties, I imagine."

I chuckled, passing Garthe the bottle, and he gazed at it reverently, his smile turning wistful.

"It's not even on the market, yet," Garthe went on, leaning forward to set the bottle on the low table before us. "It was a gift from a...liaison of mine, in Africa."

"Anyone I should be worried about?" I teased, slinging my arm across the back of the couch. So much for not being suggestive.

Sure enough, Garthe glanced at me with a keen glint in his eye that sent a shiver of anticipation up my spine, his brow arched in amusement.

"Hardly," Garthe purred, leaning back and making himself more than comfortable against my outstretched arm, his face tilted heavenward as he puffed out another series of smoke rings.

"I will return to Africa, one day," Garthe murmured through a mouthful of smoke, almost to himself, and his sudden pensiveness tugged at my heart, a glimpse of a distant longing locked deep inside him.

"Would you come with me?" All at once, Garthe pinned me with the full weight of his gaze, his lone, crystal blue eye wide and stunningly unguarded. "To Africa?"

I held my breath, captivated by the intent glimmer in Garthe's eye, the slight, desperate tremor in his low voice. It was a loaded question, aimed at me like the muzzle of a gun. Would you spend the rest of your life with me?

Garthe didn't give me a chance to respond before his lips were suddenly pressed to mine, smoky and greedy and laced with the lingering sweetness of his last sip of scotch.

Ordinarily, I would've balked at the mere thought of leaving LA. My home, my job, the ocean and the mountains and the city, the comfortable familiarity of it all. I was happy here. I always had been.

But now, with Garthe, I'd come so unfathomably untethered from everything I was used to. Without Baywatch, without my home, without Hobie, my son, my world...what did I have to lose?

The sudden shrill of a phone ringing shattered my thoughts, and I jolted away from Garthe with a breathless gasp, my head spinning and my chest tight. Jesus, had I actually been considering it? Leaving with Garthe, going to a whole other continent?

Garthe studied my face for a beat, his own an unreadable mask, uncharacteristically passive. Guilt flickered through me, and I drew a hasty breath to give him an answer, something, anything. But it all sounded like excuses, words dying on my tongue with no real conviction behind them.

The phone shrilled again, and Garthe closed his eye in a grimace, resignation lining his face to hide a flicker of irritation. Then, in a blink, he was off the couch and snuffing out his cigar, leaving me stunned and chilly in his sudden absence.

Garthe stalked across the room and swiped the cordless phone off the tea table, yanking the antenna up in a stiff jerk, every move laced with irritation under the fall of his plush, royal blue robe.

"Yes?" A pause, and Garthe's countenance stiffened even more, a muscle flickering along his jaw. "I see. No, do not engage." Another pause, and Garthe rolled his lone eye heavenward. "I'll speak with him, myself."

With that, Garthe killed the connection and snapped the antenna back down, and for a moment, he looked more than inclined to crush the phone in his bare hands, his whole form wrought with tension. My heart thumped against my ribs, and I watched Garthe carefully, rapt with curiosity. There were still so many things I had to learn about Garthe. His moods, his temper, his impulses.

With a slow, measured breath, Garthe forced himself to relax, setting the phone down gently and glancing back at me.

"I'm gonna have to get used to that, huh?" I ventured with a wry smile, anything to lighten the heavy mood that had settled between us. Sure enough, the ghost of a smile softened Garthe's expression, and any wariness that had taken hold of me receded.

"I certainly hope not," Garthe murmured, closing the distance between us with a few long strides. I sat up a little straighter, already buzzing with anticipation before Garthe even reached me. In one fluid motion, he cradled my face in his hands and tilted my head back to drop a firm kiss on my lips. Goosebumps tingled up my spine, my throat bared and my head spinning, and I couldn't stifle a dizzy purr against Garthe's lips.

Just as swiftly, Garthe severed the kiss and held me in limbo for a moment, my head craned back in his grasp as he loomed over me. He probably could've snapped my neck, if he wanted to, and I hastily shook away the errant thought. What an insane thing to have cross my mind.

"I have to go," Garthe said softly, as though I was the one keeping him, and after another beat of reluctance, he slipped his hands away from my face and drew himself to his full height. I gazed up at him, mapping what I could of his body under his robe, suddenly piqued with the desire to explore his lean form with my hands, instead.

"I'll be back for dinner," Garthe added as he strode away, and he cast a rakish smile over his shoulder. "I have something special planned for us."

"Ooh." Intrigue tugged at my smile, and I made a show of making myself more comfortable on the massive couch, all by my lonesome. "Can't wait."

Garthe lingered for another moment, raking his gaze over me as palpably as a touch, standing my nerves on end. At last, he inclined his head and strode from the room, and I could just make out the soft echo of his house shoes on the staircase as he went up to change clothes. I'd have to change into real clothes, too, at some point, but for now, I was more than content to snuggle into Garthe's velvet robe and nurse the rest of my glass of scotch, surrounded by the lingering aroma of Garthe's cigar.

This could be my future, I mused, catching and holding the unseeing gaze of one of the warrior masks mounted on the wall. A shudder of trepidation raced up my spine, and I chased it away with a sweet sip of scotch, relishing in the burn that suffused my chest. I knew I didn't have to make a decision right away; it wasn't like Garthe was booking the next flight to Africa. But I definitely had some thinking to do.

Chapter Text

– Michael –

It was a long, agonizingly silent day at the Foundation. I spent the afternoon cooped up in Devon's office, drinking some of his strongest black tea with plenty of cream and sugar and slaving over a map of the Mulholland highway, willing the location of Garthe and KARR's secret base to jump out and smack me in the face. Hadn't happened yet.

I hadn't heard a peep from KITT or Bonnie or anybody, and impatience was starting to make me twitchy. Were they any closer to being able to scan for listening devices? We still didn't even know if there were any listening devices, but the mere threat of them was enough to put us all on edge, like every breath was being monitored by some unseen force.

Late into the afternoon, I'd finally had enough of waiting and made my way around the grounds to the garage, toting a case of Cokes from the pantry. I figured they could all use the pick-me-up.

I rounded the corner and stopped dead just inside the garage, startled by the dismal scene before me. Bonnie sat on the floor, leaning against KITT's driver side door with her arms slung around her knees. RC was on his back on a crawler, dejectedly rolling himself back and forth. April was at a computer console with her face propped in her hands, staring blankly at a readout. Even KITT looked forlorn, his scanner pacing sluggishly, bundles of wires the thickness of my forearm trailing from his popped hood.

"Uh, hey guys," I ventured, trying to project some levity into the dispirited scene. "How's it–"

A chorus of shushing and hissing cut me off, and I clamped my mouth shut obediently.

"...going," I finished flatly, as if I couldn't guess. They weren't any closer to detecting the bugs.

"I hate to use the word impossible, but..." Bonnie said, shoving an errant lock of hair off her forehead with the back of her hand. Her white overalls were streaked with carbon dust from working with KITT's circuits. "This lead alloy is tough, to say the least."

"What exactly is the problem?" I asked, passing around cans of Coke before taking one for myself and leaning against KITT's fender beside Bonnie. "I mean, what makes this stuff so special, anyway?"

"Well, to put it as simply as possible," April piped up, regarding me behind her big glasses. "When an electric current passes near the alloy, it disrupts the molecular signature."

"Like camouflage," RC clarified, sitting up to crack open his Coke. "Or like trying to see through ripples in the surface of water."

"Which renders it damn near impossible to detect," KITT finished bluntly, and I couldn't help but offer a sympathetic chuckle at his tone, reaching back to pat his nose.

"Okay, so why don't we just turn off the power to the mansion? Kill the electric current, kill the camo, right?" I asked, though I figured there had to be a reason why they hadn't thought of something so simple.

As expected, Bonnie was already shaking her head. "The devices have their own built-in, closed circuit current. Turning off the external power won't change anything. They'd still be cloaked."

I sighed over the edge of my Coke can. Why couldn't things just be easy, for once?

"Well, if we're still compromised, then I gotta get outta here." I tried to soften the edge in my tone with a dry chuckle. "I can't think straight if I don't have anybody to talk to."

"Where're you thinkin' of going, boss?" RC piped up, only to hastily clamp his mouth shut again. "Uh, right. Don't answer that. Obviously."

"Yeah, no kidding," I chuckled, even as a pensive frown tugged at my brows. The first safe haven that popped into my head was Baywatch headquarters, and, for all we knew, it could be bugged, too. Who knew how wide Garthe had spun his web.

But I still had a few tricks up my sleeve.

"Lemme know when KITT's ready to hit the road, huh?" With that, I gave KITT another pat on his wheel well and pushed away, the gears in my brain already grinding. No way I was gonna let Garthe get the upper hand.

***

– Michael –

Turned out, hitting the road with KITT wasn't the clean break I'd been hoping for. Devon didn't want me going out alone with KARR on the prowl, and I didn't want to leave Devon alone with Garthe on the prowl, and neither of us were budging on the matter.

After one helluva shouting match, I finally had no choice but to defer to Devon's insistence that the Foundation was his home, after all, and if Garthe wanted to take another shot at invasion, so be it. I didn't like it, but Devon's word was final.

So we agreed to divide and conquer. April decided to stay behind and work on some more infrared tech, and Bonnie and RC were coming with me and KITT, just in case we ran into trouble on the road.

"God, that's better..." I let out a much-needed breath and flexed my fingers around KITT's yoke, relishing in the crosswinds slicing through the open windows as we cruised down the highway. Full convertible mode wasn't exactly strategically sound with a homicidal supercar on the loose, so I'd take any fresh air I could get.

"I must say, the open road does do wonders for one's disposition," KITT concurred, sounding more relaxed than I'd heard him in awhile, his engine humming contently. "But you've yet to tell us where exactly we are going."

"Let's just say, I'm calling in some reinforcements." That was all I intended to offer before letting the windy silence fill KITT's cabin for a moment, and I checked the mirrors compulsively. "We haven't attracted any attention, have we, pal?"

"Negative, Michael," KITT reported, then his tone abruptly turned sour. "I'd like to think I should at least be able to detect if we are being followed."

"Hey..." I took my hands off KITT's yoke to show my palms in a placating gesture. "Don't beat yourself up about the bugs, alright? They're specifically designed to be undetectable, y'know."

"I know, Michael," KITT replied glumly. "But it still makes me feel so...inadequate."

"You are not inadequate," I insisted, but my heart wrenched for KITT. After getting his tire shot out, and now being thwarted by some listening devices, he wasn't having the best twenty-four hours, and I knew how those sorts of things went to his CPU and wreaked havoc on his ego.

KITT didn't respond, and I practically felt him pouting behind his darkened voice mod. I offered a sympathetic smile and rubbed his steering column until the tension crackling through him eased a little.

"I'm surprised we're not being tailed," RC mused from the backseat. "I woulda thought Garthe's goons would be all over us."

"He must not want to risk another confrontation. Not yet, at least," I said, worrying the pommels of KITT's steering yoke as the memory of KARR's sickly yellow scanner flashed through my mind. "I get the feeling KARR showed more of his hand than he meant to. They must have something bigger in store for us than ruining our day with a lousy Tuflex bullet."

"I certainly hope you mean bigger in a metaphoric sense, Michael," KITT muttered. "I don't know if I have it in me to face a third incarnation of Goliath."

"You'n'me both, pal." I let out a mirthless huff. "KARR's bad enough."

"I just wish we knew what they were planning," Bonnie murmured. "So we could be better prepared."

At first, I just shrugged. Call me crazy, but I was becoming pretty indifferent to Garthe's melodramatic plots to kill me. But my life wasn't the only one on the line. I had Mitch to worry about, not to mention KITT's safety to consider in all this.

"I did have a thought, about Garthe," I ventured, and I caught a wry smile from Bonnie.

"One singular thought?" she teased, and I pretended to swat at her. "You didn't hurt yourself, did you?"

"Funny, real funny," I chided back with a snicker. "Anyway, I was thinking about how Garthe supposedly has all this money, right? Fancy suits and limos and private militias, the whole nine."

Bonnie nodded, encouraging me to go on. 'Course, she and RC didn't know Garthe, not the way Devon and April and I did. Something I'd like to keep that way.

"But every time we go up against Garthe, he's always running another operation," I went on. "Stealing those missiles with Goliath, kidnapping Dr. Bergstrom. So that got me thinking, what if Garthe isn't actually as well-off as he seems? Maybe he's not just greedy, maybe he needs the money."

"And every time you pop him," RC piped up, "it sets him back even more."

"Exactly," I replied. "Garthe must need some kinda nest egg, something he can retire on, and finally get out of the damn country." I tried not to sound too thrilled by the prospect of Garthe vanishing quietly into obscurity, once and for all. There was still justice to be served, after all.

"One last job." RC let out a surprisingly sinister chuckle. "Man, you don't know how many times you hear that one on the street. 'Just one more score, man, and we're gettin' outta this dump!' Tsh. Famous last words."

I chuckled at the thought of Garthe and all his pomp being no better than a common crook, reduced to holding up liquor stores and dealing dime bags in back alleys. Unfortunately, I highly doubted whatever scheme Garthe was cooking up would be so mundane.

"With KARR fully restored, they could do just about anything," Bonnie said pensively. "Robbery, kidnapping– Garthe doesn't seem like he discriminates."

"I know." I flexed my grip on KITT's yoke as the highway dipped down toward sea level and traffic thickened around us. "But he's gotta be back in LA for a reason, right?"

"You mean other than to put you on ice?" RC chided, only half joking, and I managed a tepid chuckle in response.

"I mean, I'm sure it's all connected," I replied, trying for a nonchalant shrug. "I know Garthe. He likes to posture, especially to me. So if he's planning some heist, I'm sure he'll want me to know about it, sooner or later. Which means, for now, we have some breathing room to work with."

We still have time to get Mitch back, I left unspoken, though the tension bunching along my jaw probably spoke volumes, instead. I just had to keep telling myself that we'd get Mitch back before shit hit the fan. We had to. I had to.

***

– Michael –

Despite KITT's vehement assurance that we weren't being tailed, I still took the long way through Venice, squirreling down side streets, circling neighborhood blocks three times over, doubling back across canal bridges over and over. Couldn't be too careful.

At last, the cozy homes gave way to sandblasted, sunbleached storefronts all around us, and I pulled KITT to a halt right outside an innocuous enough dive shop on the strip, with gear on display under a striped awning outside, attracting a few idle tourists.

Sure enough, John Cort was behind the cash register in the back of the shop, his wicker hat tilted down as he cashed out a couple boys for a used surfboard. I let Bonnie and RC into the shop ahead of me and held the door as the two boys barreled out eagerly with their board, and I finally caught Cort's eye with a rakish smile.

"Hey, stranger!" Cort lit up with a delighted grin and practically leapt out from behind the counter. "Man, you look like hell."

"Gee, thanks," I quipped back, letting the door swing shut behind me and locking it. "Hope we're not driving away business."

"Are you kiddin'?" Cort waved me off with a crooked smile. "Flip the sign around, while you're at it. I think I've haggled with enough beach bums for today."

Chuckling, I flipped the open sign around as Cort sauntered over, already giving Bonnie and RC a curious once-over. Or, in Bonnie's case, more like a twice-over.

"Cort, meet Bonnie and RC3." I rested my hand on Bonnie's shoulder as casually as possible, but the wolfish glimmer in Cort's eyes didn't seem to wane. "This is John D. Cort, he's a lifeguard."

"RC3, huh? I like it. Punchy." Cort shifted his attention to RC and gave him a hearty handshake. "Some people call me JD, but they're usually assholes about it. Call me Cort."

"Cort," RC repeated with a beaming smile. "Right on."

"And you, sweetheart–" Quick as lightning, Cort's attention flicked back to Bonnie, and he whisked his hat off his head and took her hand to drop a kiss on her knuckles. "You can call me John."

"Well, in that case, John–" A wry smile tugged at Bonnie's lips, and she didn't attempt to pull her hand from Cort's. "You can call me Doctor Barstow."

Cort let out an amused chuckle and straightened, shoving his hat back on. "You can check my blood pressure any time, Doc."

"Not that kind of doctor," Bonnie ribbed back without missing a beat. "Unless you have circuits for blood vessels."

I couldn't help but snicker to myself, letting my hand slip back to my side. Good ol' Bonnie. She always could take care of herself.

"Shoot, I just got those removed last week." Cort's winning smile never wavered, and he glanced at me long enough for me to smirk ruefully and shake my head, dissuading him from making any more passes at Bonnie, for the sake of his pride. Wordlessly, Cort got the message and bowed out gracefully, though the roguish quirk of his smile remained.

"So, what gives, huh?" Just like that, Cort switched gears again, spreading his hands and making his brown leather jacket creak. "I've been trying to get ahold you guys! What'd you do, cut the damn phone lines?"

"Uh, right..." I offered an apologetic smile and planted my hands on my hips. "We're having a bit of a bug problem, if ya know what I mean."

"Ah." Cort nodded sagely. "Lemme guess, not the six-legged kind, huh?"

"Exactly. And not the kind you can sniff out with your average RF detector, either," I added with a shrug. "So, here we are. What were you trying to get ahold of us about?"

"This." Cort's eyes lit up excitedly, and he swung back toward the counter and procured an overstuffed blue binder. "This was in Mitch's locker. It's all his research about Garthe. Months' worth. Y'know, back when we thought Mitch was seeing ghosts."

Guilt lanced through me, and I snatched the binder from Cort and laid it flat on the countertop so we could all pour over it. I never thought Mitch was blowing smoke about Garthe, I'd just been too damn busy to help him. And look where it got him.

My guilt quickly gave way to intrigue as I leafed through the binder. Mitch had everything. Grainy shots of Jeeps and unmarked vans, license plates circles urgently in red ink. Notes scrawled in hasty shorthand, street names, shipping companies, strings of numbers that probably held some meaning in the heat of the moment. Newspaper clippings cut and pasted together, annotated with more red and blue ink.

"Mitch was taking this seriously," Cort mused with a dry chuckle. "He loves this PI stuff. Had Garner pulling traffic cam footage, shipping manifests, a whole bunch of stuff."

I couldn't help a small, wistful smile. Mitch was nothing if not enthusiastic, and once he set his mind to something, he was as bullheaded as they came. Kinda like someone else I knew, someone I saw in the mirror every morning.

"He even started assigning himself certain towers, trying to run down leads," Cort went on. "Thorpe caught onto that real quick, though. Mitch was clocking and insane amount of overtime, trying to work the beach during the day and take the patrol boat out at night. He was working himself raw."

"Do we have anything more on what Garthe was doing when Mitch intercepted him?" I asked suddenly, musing over a overview of Marina del Rey, with a few private yacht clubs circled in red ink. "That's the one thing that just doesn't make sense. If Garthe is being so meticulous about staying hidden, why'd he go out alone in broad daylight? Where the hell was he going?"

"I've been asking myself the same thing," Cort replied with a keen glint in his eyes, and he procured his own map of the coastline from the cluttered counter. He'd already made quite a few notes on it, mostly sweeping arrows in bold, black ink.

"At first, I figured Garthe was on some kinda recovery mission," Cort went on with a casual shrug. "It's an old smugglers' trick. Freighter drops some hot cargo before they hit the port, then a diver jets out and recovers it. Finders' keepers."

I smirked at the smug glint in Cort's eyes as he spoke. Sounded to me like he had personal experience with these less-than-legal excursions.

"But–" Cort cut in with a shrug. "There wasn't any diving equipment on Garthe's boat, or what was left of his boat when the Coasties got to it. So, scratch that theory."

"What's that leave?" I asked, leaning my palms on the counter. "He could've been meeting someone. Heading for international waters?"

"Coulda been." Cort didn't seem convinced, and he tapped the map. "See, when Mitch radioed in, he said Garthe was heading south, before he realized he'd been spotted and peeled off."

"So, you're saying," RC piped up, pouring over the map beside me, "if Garthe was heading out to sea, why was he going south instead of west?"

"Exactly." Cort glanced at me, but I couldn't take my eyes off the map, and the dotted lines Cort had drawn tracking south along the coast, marking Garthe's possible routes before Mitch had spooked him. South. South of Santa Monica, south of the city–

Then it hit me.

"San Pedro," I murmured, tapping the knobby peninsula on the map and drawing three sets of confused and concerned eyes as the color leeched from my face. "Goliath."

"Michael–" KITT protested immediately over my comlink. "Garthe may have cheated certain death, but surely he cannot expect to exhume that behemoth, too!"

"Not without attracting attention," Bonnie added thoughtfully. "That's for sure."

"There's nothing in here about anybody pulling any big wrecks out of the ocean," Cort said with an offhanded flick at Mitch's binder. "Mitch told me about Garthe's rig of doom and destruction, so he was definitely on the lookout for something like that. But, like you said, Doc, you don't just scoop a semi out of the ocean without anybody noticing."

Somehow, Cort's nonchalance wasn't putting me at ease. I didn't put anything past Garthe, at this point, even something as insane as craning Goliath's drowned shell out from the bottom of the ocean. He'd already rebuilt KARR from scratch, hadn't he? Why not Goliath, too? Perish the thought, as KITT would say.

"Alright, why don't we shake a different tree, huh?" I shook myself free from my wandering thoughts. "If we figure out where Garthe is hiding, maybe we can stop him before he sets whatever he's planning into motion."

As I spoke, I unzipped my jacket and pulled out the folded map of LA I'd been slaving over all afternoon, and I smoothed it flat on the countertop beside Mitch's binder.

"We know KARR took Mitch north, up Mulholland," I went on, pointing to the intersection where the Mulholland highway dead-ended into the Pacific Coast Highway, and the star I'd drawn where KARR had disabled KITT not far up the road.

"The rest of this is all mountains," Cort mused, cocking his head at my map. "What branch did Garthe serve in? You can't tell me this lunatic wasn't in the military."

"Army, according to Devon." The eerie coincidence made me wince every time. To think, Garthe and I could've served side by side and been none the wiser. Although, Devon had assured me that Garthe had been halfway across the world when I was in 'Nam getting shot to pieces and bolted back together.

"Figures," Cort scoffed. "He's all about tactical advantage, so he's not gonna be as far north as these valleys. Too exposed. He's somewhere in the mountains. Accessible, high vantage point, easy to defend."

"Why don't you and KITT just cruise Mulholland scanning for KARR?" RC piped up, his brows drawn in a frown.

"KITT and KARR have to be within a mile in order to detect each other," Bonnie replied. "And there's no way to prevent KARR from detecting KITT at the same time."

"He'd be on top of us in a heartbeat," I finished dejectedly.

"Nothing like adding a little mutually assured destruction to the mix," Cort scoffed, shaking his head. "Y'know, this is what you get for messing with this space-age tech. There's always someone trying to do it bigger, and badder."

I grimaced, but I couldn't exactly argue Cort's point. Wilton Knight's only goal had been to create a safer world. He hadn't seen the potentially evil implementations of his work. Or, if he had, he'd simply chosen to ignore the risks. And now, it was our job to keep his technology out of the wrong hands.

"We gotta figure out a way to get into these mountains without KARR detecting us," I murmured, scouring the map, tracing the north-east arc of Mulholland until it intersected Kanan Dume Road, which squirreled back south and terminated at Point Dume, just to the left of Malibu. Ten square miles of mountains and switchbacks and access roads. Ten square miles of potential traps and scouts and snipers and god only knew what else.

Cort was muttering something snide about enlisting the Mole People to help with a subterranean approach, and then it hit me, a much-needed epiphany that I knew I'd been on the verge of cracking.

"What if we go in from above!" Excitement flourished through me as a plan rapidly fell into place, and I spread my hands to corral my thoughts into something cohesive. "We can circle around north of the highway and launch from any of these peaks–"

"Launch what, Michael, if I dare ask?" came KITT's reluctant venture over my comlink, and Bonnie was staring at me like I'd gone crazy.

"Hang gliders!" I met Cort's gaze to find him equally intrigued by the idea. "No engines, no noise. The perfect stealth op."

"There's been heavy fog coming over the mountains ever since those storms hit the coast," Cort added, inspired. "If we glide over the fog with some thermal cameras, they won't see us, but we'll see them."

"Well, we definitely don't have a shortage of infrared equipment!" RC piped up enthusiastically.

"But what exactly would you be scanning for?" Bonnie interjected, ever the voice of reason. "On a thermal scanner, KARR's just going to look like, well, a car."

"Then we won't look for KARR," Cort said with a placating gesture. "We know Garthe has commandos working for him, right? So, he's gotta be housing 'em somewhere. All those men in one place will be one helluva flare on a thermal camera."

"Find the commandos, find Garthe," I concluded with an assured nod. "Piece of cake."

"I'm sure I can wrangle some pals from work into helping us." Cort rubbed his hands together, and I wagged my finger to get his attention.

"Just remember, if Garthe managed to bug the Foundation, he might've bugged Baywatch headquarters, too," I said. "Be careful."

"Yeah, yeah." Cort waved me off in feigned nonchalance, but I knew my point had made it home. Cort was a solider, too, at the end of the day. I knew I could count on him.

"So, tomorrow morning, before dawn?" Cort went on, clapping me on the shoulder. "Rendezvous at, say, Rocky Oaks Park?"

I barely managed to nod, my attention suddenly going distant as my enthusiasm crashed just as rapidly as it had formed. I didn't want to wait until tomorrow. I didn't want to leave Mitch in Garthe's possession for another night, or even one more hour. I just wanted him back, safe and sound.

My confrontation with Mitch on the side of the highway flashed through my mind, and my chest tightened. I swore my ears were still ringing from the shot Mitch had squeezed off, the bullet glancing off KITT's hood, barely missing me. Why had Mitch forgotten who he was? And what the hell did Garthe want with him?

"C'mon, Skipper." This time, Cort thumped me square on the back hard enough to make me gasp. "Let's get some pizza. I know a place. Unless you're buyin', then I know a more expensive place."

Cort chuckled to himself as he packed up Mitch's binder and pilfered some cash out of his register, earning an amused grin from RC, but I was still too numb to react. I'd barely eaten since breakfast; Devon had practically forced me to eat a scone at some point, but that felt like ages ago. I knew it was some kinda survivor's guilt, like all of a sudden I couldn't bring myself to eat when I didn't know if Mitch was alright.

But I also knew that was exactly what Garthe wanted. He wanted to drive me crazy, he wanted me weak and desperate. And I refused give him the satisfaction. I couldn't let him win that easily.

So I bucked up and strolled out of the shop after Cort, who was sparring with RC over pizza crust, and I felt Bonnie intentionally nudge her arm against mine as she fell in beside me, grounding me the same way KITT did. I had to be strong, and more importantly, I had to be smart. I couldn't let Garthe get in my head.

But I couldn't keep the dread completely at bay, either. I could only hope Garthe hadn't hurt Mitch. Garthe probably had Mitch in a nice new dungeon for me, surviving on nothing but rainwater and rats, wondering what the hell was taking so long.

***

– Mitch –

The savory aroma of cooking meat permeated the entire house, making my mouth water and my stomach grumble impatiently. I couldn't quite put my finger on what was cooking, though. Lamb? Veal? Wagyu? Or something even more exotic?

But Garthe had strictly forbidden me from going anywhere near the kitchen and dining room, so the mystery meat would remain a mystery until dinnertime. I didn't want to ruin the surprise, after all, although the suspense was killing me.

So I kept to the great room, admiring the art, entertaining myself with the pool table, or just lounging on the oversized couch, enveloped in the lingering aroma of Garthe's cigar, eagerly awaiting whatever Garthe had in store for us this evening.

Chapter Text

– Mitch –

Dinner was fantastic.

Garthe looked amazing, for starters, in a sleek, pinstriped charcoal suit and a bright red shirt, ivory and gold jewelry glinting in the light of the massive chandelier hanging over the table and the countless candles flickering throughout the majestic dining room. I'd managed to cobble together a black shirt and a light blue blazer from my overnight bag, but I knew I paled in comparison to the elegance and style Garthe exuded so effortlessly.

Garthe had a full South African feast prepared for us. He called the main dish bobotie, spicy-sweet ground beef cooked with apricots and baked together with a rich, creamy custard. It was just the hearty meal I needed to knock out the last of my fatigue and put some meat back on my bones, rounded out with spicy yellow rice and a refreshing cucumber salad, and paired with a fine, dry red wine. The meal was delicious, the perfect balance of sweetness and spices, unlike anything I'd ever tasted before.

Garthe chatted nonstop as we ate, mostly about Africa, recounting tales of lions and wildebeest, warrior tribes and precious gems. He barely paused to sip his wine, and I couldn't quite figure out how he was eating and talking so much at the same time, but he was definitely eating, offering me seconds from the massive cast iron casserole on the table between us before diving in for more, himself.

Garthe's lone eye twinkled reverently in the candlelight every time he mentioned Africa, and I was more than content to eat quietly and let him go on and on. I liked this side of Garthe, relaxed, enthused, unguarded. Heck, if he wasn't careful, I might actually learn something about him.

"I was barely out of basic training when I was deployed to the Congo," Garthe was saying, with a wistful quirk to his smile. "That's where it all began, my first taste of Africa. I fell in love with the beauty of those lands, the lawlessness, the chaos."

I chewed thoughtfully, gazing at Garthe, trying to see that young, brazen cadet within the man sitting across the table from me, now. Who had Garthe been, back then, before the scars? Who was Garthe, really, underneath the rakish, mysterious aura he projected like a shield?

"I had every intention of staying in the Special Forces, making a career out of it, seeing more of the world," Garthe went on over the rim of his wine glass. "Until I took a bullet to the knee."

I winced, my stomach souring, but Garthe simply shrugged and took a sip of wine.

"It was 1970, in Vietnam. Or was it Laos? I can never remember," Garthe mused, too aloof for comfort. "The field doctors treated me as best they could, but they said I'd never walk without a limp. The pain was incredible."

I looked hard at Garthe, a befuddled frown knitting my brows. I knew I'd seen Garthe with a cane before; though, come to think of it, I hadn't seen him with it since I'd regained consciousness. And I'd certainly never seen him move with any sort of impediment, with or without his cane.

"I was discharged," Garthe went on with another dismissive shrug. "Sent back home to find America embroiled with hatred toward the war. I wasn't a hero who'd given seven years of my life to serving my country, I was just another cripple. I had nothing, nowhere to go but home, to a father who wanted nothing to do with me."

All I could do was let out a helpless sigh, watching Garthe's temper rise, his gaze going distant with indignation. The table was too damn wide and crowded with dishes to let me reach across and take his hand, anything to ground him in the moment.

Eventually, Garthe brought himself back around with a subtle shake of his head, and he flashed an ironic smile that only made my heart wrench for him.

"So, I went back to Africa." Garthe lifted his glass in a salute to his beloved land. "Of course, at the height of apartheid, the climate wasn't much better there than it was here, but I managed to befriend the Zulu people. We saw each other as kindred spirits, deposed from our homelands. I was taken in by an elder sangoma, a healer. He tended to my knee, performed nothing short of a miracle, really. In three months' time, my limp was cured. Now, it only smarts a little when it rains."

"Is that why you keep coming back to LA?" I asked with a gentle, teasing smile. "'Cause it never rains in Southern California?"

Thankfully, Garthe chuckled at my joke, and he almost looked surprised at himself for laughing. Our gazes locked across the table and lingered, and a fond, relaxed smile softened Garthe's expression in the candlelight. My heart fluttered against my ribs under Garthe's gaze, and I finally had to glance down with a sheepish blush.

"But, enough of my dreary war stories." Garthe let out a self-conscious little laugh and dabbed at his mustache. "How was the food? Did you like it?"

"De-licious," I replied emphatically, and I meant it. "I've never had anything like it. It was amazing."

"Good, good. Though, I suppose I can't take all the credit," Garthe said with a humble shrug. "Emma does a magnificent job. She went to culinary school in Johannesburg, so she knows a thing or two about proper South African cuisine."

"Do you ever cook just for yourself?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"Good god, no." Garthe laughed to himself. "I'm a terrible cook. I don't have the patience for it."

I flashed a wry smile. Garthe certainly had the patience to make us those cappuccinos this morning, and my blood ran a little hotter at the thought.

"What about you?" Garthe ventured intently, and he propped his elbows on the table in a surprisingly casual move, resting his chin on his clasped hands. "Do you like to cook?"

Now it was my turn to let out a self-deprecating chuckle. "Let's just say, liking to cook and being able to cook aren't necessarily the same thing."

"Oh, come now," Garthe teased with an amused smile. "You're too modest. What's your favorite thing to cook?"

"Well, I can make a mean hamburger, I guess." I shrugged, suddenly bashful under Garthe's attentive gaze. "Spaghetti and meatballs. Chicken, if I'm feeling fancy. Y'know, typical bachelor staples, enough to keep me and Hobie alive."

A sudden pang of nostalgia in my chest brought me up short. Good ol' Hobster, he was always ribbing me about my cooking. He never let me live down that one time, when he was six, and I let a whole meal of chicken breasts overcook in the oven. Those poor things had been hard as concrete, and, in the moment, it was pretty damn funny. Until it turned into a springboard for another fight with Gayle, another lecture about how I was a lousy father who never took anything seriously.

I shook free from my wandering thoughts, only to have another memory wriggle into my mind. A memory of Michael Knight, clear as day in my mind's eye. I'd let him into my house, cooked for him, laughed with him, confided in him. I'd been taken in by that charming smile and those twinkling blue eyes. I'd kissed him, tasted the beer on his lips, craved the heat of his touch.

You're nothing to him... That was Garthe's voice ringing in my head, but the memory was hazier, too close to the fringes of my amnesia. Only his words remained. He takes what he wants, and what he can't have, he destroys...

My vision tunneled, my heart lodged in my throat. Michael Knight had destroyed me. My marriage, my life. Destroyed me so completely that my mind refused to let me remember how. All I was left with was the aftermath, and a pit of grief in my chest. And Garthe.

I finally blinked myself back to reality with a sharp breath and found Garthe watching me intently, reading what was probably a whole novel of emotions playing across my face. I shoved the memories aside with a thick gulp. I couldn't let the grief get to me. Grief wouldn't change anything. Hell, maybe Hobie was better off with his mother, after all. And maybe I was better off here.

"You should, uh, you should let me cook you dinner, sometime." My voice came out smaller than expected, and I cleared my throat and tried for a smile, willing my lips not to quiver.

Gradually, Garthe's intrigued, cat-like smile softened, and the sudden tenderness of his gaze sent a foreboding shiver up my spine.

"I'd like that," Garthe murmured, his voice a low purr, rich as honey, and the blush beating through me deepened tenfold. Suddenly, precariously, I felt something building between me and Garthe, something more than a few hungry kisses and idle touches. Something deeper. Something irreversible. And it made my heart pound against my ribs.

"Come, I hope you saved room for dessert." In a blink, that mischievous glint was back in Garthe's eye, and he pushed to his feet and was at my side in an instant, offering me his hand, candlelight playing off his rings. I smiled incredulously, and I let Garthe take my hand and draw me to my feet. I had to keep reminding myself that I was the one being romanced, for a change, and the least I could do was play along.

Garthe led me back to the great room, which seemed even bigger and more exotic by the light of dozens of candles, a low fire flickering languidly in the hearth.

A massive bouquet of roses on the table drew me the couch by the fireplace, and even in the wan firelight, I recognized my single orange rose from the morning tucked in amongst the plump, deep red blossoms.

"They're beautiful," I murmured, burying my nose in the blossoms and letting the sweet scent wash over me. I couldn't help but wonder how much of Garthe's time away from me had been spent on business, and how much of it he'd spent preparing for this evening. He certainly had all his bases covered.

Garthe simply smiled proudly, busying himself with tending to the fire, stoking it into a brighter, crackling blaze in the hearth. I settled onto the couch and helped myself to the unopened bottle of champagne nestled in a crystal ice bucket on the table, careful not to pop the cork. Dessert appeared to be a huge box of chocolates, tied shut with a silk ribbon; thankfully it wasn't much more than that, because I really was stuffed.

Satisfied with the crackling fire, Garthe strolled over and sank onto the couch beside me, close enough for me to feel the slightest lick of his body heat and catch a whiff of cedar and woodsmoke.

"What shall we drink to?" Garthe ventured as I poured him a glass of champagne, and for a moment, I couldn't help but be transfixed by how delicate the flute looked in his hand, the gentle curl of his fingers around the glass, rings glinting in the firelight.

"Uh..." I shook myself back to my senses and managed a casual smile. "To...making new memories."

A delighted smile lit up Garthe's expression, unguarded and genuinely happy. It was a good look on him, happiness. It melted away his fatigue and made his scars seem to fade, and it gave me a glimpse inside, to the man behind the glamor of poise and control. A man who hadn't been genuinely happy in a really, really long time.

"Ah! I almost forgot," Garthe said suddenly, his lone eye still bright with excitement. "Music!"

I chuckled as Garthe whirled to his feet and made for an ornate wooden cabinet across the room, and I sprawled more comfortably on the couch and let myself peruse Garthe's form in the warm firelight, tracing the pinstripes of his slender suit down the arch of his spine, the tails of his jacket resting perfectly across his rear, the immaculate fall of his trousers hugging his long legs.

"What would you like to listen to?" Garthe asked over his shoulder, thumbing through a vast collection of records inside the cabinet. "Jazz? Blues? Classical? I even have a few pop albums on cassette. KARR has a certain affinity for disco, for some ungodly reason."

I snorted out loud at that. "Hey, there's nothing wrong with a little disco now and then."

"We're not listening to disco," Garthe retorted with an exasperated smile, and I snickered and waved him off. 'Course, I did have a soft spot for the blues, but right now, I didn't want to think about myself, and the memories I had attached to the likes of The Contours or Lou Rawls. I wanted to stay in Garthe's world, just a little while longer.

"What do you like to listen to?" I ventured, earning a surprised lift of Garthe's brow. "C'mon, what's your favorite record? One that you've practically worn a groove into."

Garthe hummed under his breath and contemplated his record collection with an intrigued frown, and he slipped an album free with his back to me, hiding the art. I wracked my brain, racing to guess what it might be as Garthe laid the vinyl reverently on the turntable and placed the needle.

Somehow, the opening of 'Sympathy For The Devil' was the last thing I expected to hear filtering from the speakers, though the soft bongos and tribal banter matched the exotic ambiance of the great room perfectly.

"Rolling Stones, huh?" I cracked a wry smile as Garthe sauntered back over and sank down beside me. "I guess I didn't peg you for a rock'n'roll fan."

"Really?" Garthe's brow arched in surprise, and he plucked a truffle from the open box, inspecting the ball of chocolate idly. "I guess I've always been a bit of a rebel. The world was quite...volatile, when I was growing up. Civil rights, the threat of nuclear war at any moment, the space race. Elvis."

"Nothing scarier than Elvis, huh?" I cut in lightly, and Garthe flashed a distant smile.

"Elvis was only the tip of it. My father called it all the Devil's music, tried to forbid me from listening to it. Which, of course, only piqued my interest." Something appropriately devilish flashed in Garthe's lone eye, and his smile widened. "When I was fifteen, I took the car and snuck my sister to a Johnny Cash show. Father dear was so furious, I thought his heart would burst on the spot."

I caught myself somewhere between a smile and a wince at the vitriol dripping from Garthe's tone, and I tried to lighten his mood with a nudge of my knee against his. Sure enough, Garthe's bitter smile softened, and he centered himself with a sip of champagne.

"Anyway," Garthe said softly, finishing his truffle and chewing thoughtfully. "Rock and roll was taking over the world by the time I joined the army, but the music they played on the radio for us was atrocious. It wasn't until I came back home that I discovered music like this. The Stones, The Doors, The Who. Music I could connect to."

Garthe trailed off into a reverent silence, letting the guitar solo shrill softly through the air. Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name...

"Nothing but lecherous, devil worshipping, drug addled heathens, as my father so eloquently put it," Garthe mused, and the bitter twist of a smile touched his lips again.

"Well, rest in peace, Wilton Knight," I ventured sardonically, raising my glass. "You would've hated MTV."

Garthe laughed so suddenly he startled himself, and he composed himself with a chuckle and cleared his throat.

"That, he would've." Garthe chinked his glass against mine, still snickering under his breath, and my smile widened. I liked making Garthe laugh, especially when it caught him off guard. Laughing brought out the lines around his nose, and there might have even been a dimple under his mustache.

"You still haven't told me what kind of music you like," Garthe ventured, and suddenly I had his full attention, a keen glint shining in his lone eye. "Let me guess..."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm a Beach Boys fan. Ya got me," I chided in good humor, and we both chuckled. "I guess I've always liked the softer side of rock. The Monkees, Crosby Stills and Nash. I love all those sappy, bleeding-heart love songs."

"Are you a hopeless romantic, Mitch?" Garthe teased, and I ducked away from his gaze with a bashful blush, guilty as charged.

"I've never been any good at romance," Garthe mused, and I stared at him for a beat before flashing an incredulous smile.

"Coulda fooled me," I retorted lightly, gesturing broadly with my champagne glass. Candlelit dinner, a fire purring in the hearth, roses and chocolates and champagne. What more could a guy ask for?

Garthe shrugged, glancing around the room. "Maybe I'm too clinical about it. I try to do things by the book, do what's expected of me. But it never turns out right, in the end. It's never enough."

"Maybe you just never found the right people who appreciate that kinda thing," I ventured, toying with Garthe's thick hair, and I smiled when he looked at me. "Y'know, it's bad luck to think about past relationships on the first date."

Surprise flickered across Garthe's face before a soft smile won out, and I chuckled to myself. First date sounded so mundane, so normal, it was almost comical.

"You're right," Garthe conceded, and he plucked another truffle from the box and offered it to me. "I'm sorry."

I contemplated the truffle for a beat. I could've unslung my arm from behind Garthe's shoulders, or set down my champagne glass to free my other hand. But I couldn't make myself move, not with Garthe so close to me, and risk upsetting the comfortable position we'd both settled into.

Wordlessly, I leaned closer and sank my teeth right into the soft chocolate, hyperaware of the barest graze of my lips against Garthe's fingertips. A flash of heat bolted through me, and I glanced up at Garthe to find his lone eye narrowed intently, close enough for me to see the firelight dancing on his dark lashes.

Garthe's attention shifted, and he swiped his thumb over the corner of my mouth, rubbing away a dusting of powdered sugar on my lip. I could barely swallow for how hard my heart was hammering at the base of my throat, my whole body suddenly hot and aching for Garthe's touch, hungry for the feel of those rakish lips on mine–

I tilted my head just as Garthe leaned in, and our lips connected in a smooth, warm kiss that sent a dizzying rush of goosebumps across every inch of my body. I closed my eyes and scrunched my fingers into Garthe's hair, drawing him closer, holding him steady at that perfect angle as his lips explored mine.

I couldn't stifle a wanton little purr when Garthe worked my lips apart and lapped his tongue against mine, searing and possessive, his big hand caressing my cheek. Again, I felt that precarious clench of foreboding in my chest, my heart pounding in my ears. I knew what Garthe wanted with every press of his tongue between my teeth. And I knew, once we tipped over that precipice, there would be no going back.

In a split second, I shoved down the nagging flickers of anxiety inside me and took the plunge.

I shifted closer to Garthe, fumbling to set my champagne glass on the table with my eyes still shut, and the rattling tink of glass told me Garthe had put his flute down, too, right before his other hand found my face. Garthe's fingers were startlingly chilly from holding his glass, which only deepened the blush that had taken hold of me, my veins throbbing and my clothes clinging to me like shackles.

I almost brought my free hand up to caress Garthe's face, too, but at the last second, I found the inside of his thigh, instead.

Garthe's whole body stiffened, and he severed our kiss with a growl, holding my face inches from his own. "I warn you not to tease me, Buchannon."

"Who said I was teasing you?" I retorted on a breath, and I squeezed Garthe's thigh, kneading my thumb higher, higher, until his frown melted away and his lone eye went wide, his pupil dilated and glassy in the wan firelight.

"I don't start things I don't intent to finish," I murmured, leaning forward against Garthe's grasp on my face until I found his lips again. Garthe's grip relaxed with a purr deep in his throat, and he skimmed his hands down the sides of my neck, stroking his thumbs idly over my hammering pulsepoints and sending goosebumps racing up my spine like lightning coursing under my skin.

"Then what the hell are we waiting for?" Garthe ground out, his breath hot on my parted lips and his fingers inching under the collar of my shirt. Anticipation swept through me, hot and prickly, and I was more than content to finish what we'd started right there on the couch, or the floor, in front of the blazing fire in the hearth, or wherever we ended up.

***

– Garthe –

I couldn't stop kissing Mitch if my life depended on it, couldn't keep my hands off his body, intoxicated by the heat of him. We stumbled up the stairs, stopping intermittently to pin each other to the railing, hands and lips groping feverishly, our bodies flushed and stiff and wanton, the bedroom seemingly miles away.

At last, I shoved Mitch into the unlit master bedroom ahead of me, and he just as swiftly caught me by my waist and whirled me around. My back connected sharply with one of the posts of the canopied bed, stunning me for a moment, and Mitch muttered an apology, his lips already seeking mine in the gloom.

I pawed blindly at Mitch's clothes, struggling to get my bearings. I couldn't remember how to undo a goddamn button, lost in a useless haze of lust, and Mitch finally swatted my hands aside and shucked my jacket off, then his own, before his fingers descended upon the buttons of my shirt.

Impatience got the better of me, and I clawed into Mitch's shirtfront and ripped it open, buttons be damned. I'd buy him another shirt. Hell, I'd buy Mitch ten shirts, one hundred shirts, just to get to him faster, just to feel his warm, velvet soft skin under my fingertips.

Mitch purred against my lips as I skimmed my hands under his open shirt, so warm, so strong, his muscles shifting under my touch. It had been so damn long since I'd felt the heat of another body pressed to mine. Running, hiding, rebuilding KARR, rebuilding my empire– How quickly one could lose a decade in the blink of an eye.

Mitch brought his hand up to cradle my face, and I sank into his touch without thinking, tilting my head just right as he dazzled me with another kiss, deep and masterful. I could've kissed Mitch all night, pinned to the bedpost by the sturdy heat of his body–

Until I felt Mitch slip his thumb ever so gently under the band of my eyepatch. Stony panic seized me in a flash, and I grabbed Mitch's wrist and wrenched his hand away from my face, my heart suddenly lodged in my throat.

"Don't." My damn voice broke, and I hastily composed myself with a dismissive smile. "You don't want to see that. It's...rather gruesome."

"C'mon, don't give me any of that Phantom of the Opera crap," Mitch retorted, and my brows shot up at the unexpected edge in his tone. "I wanna make love to every single part of you. Even the gruesome parts."

I stared at Mitch, perfectly stunned, and I might have laughed out loud if not for my heart still lodged in my throat. Make love, my god, I didn't think I'd ever made love in my entire life. Sex was always about domination. Sex was a diversion, an urge to be slaked, banal and unfettered, nothing more.

But Mitch had a way of making everything sound so tender, so innocent, it rattled me to the core. The way his hands roamed my body, not in rapturous worship, but gentle adoration. His eyes flashed earnestly in the gloom, deep blue and unwavering, catching the wan light diffusing the room. Make love.

I swallowed hard and relented to the steely intensity of Mitch's frown, loosening my grasp on his wrist with great reluctance. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, and the lump in my throat refused to abate no matter how hard I gulped, my entire body blaring with adrenaline unlike anything I'd ever experienced.

Ever so carefully, Mitch slipped the band of my eyepatch free from my hair, and I jerked my face aside instinctively, goosebumps racing up my spine at the sudden kiss of air on my scarred eye. I couldn't believe I was afraid. Afraid of what? Afraid Mitch would reject me? He wouldn't. I wouldn't let him–

The gentlest nudge of Mitch's knuckle under my chin could've brought me to my knees, and I forced myself to let him tilt my face toward him, my teeth gnashed tight enough to ache. I knew it was an awful sight, my eyelid split and fused with scar tissue, my iris deformed like a cracked egg yolk, the pupil glassy and unseeing. A nasty web of scars marred my cheek and arced along my jawline, just missing my throat, by the grace of god, or Goliath, or whatever merciful force had spared my life that day.

A sudden flash of fury licked through me, and I stiffened indignantly, my breath coming short and hard. My scars were my trophies. They were supposed to strike fear and revulsion into those who would dare cross me. I descended into hell and came out alive, they proclaimed, a parting gift from the devil himself.

But I knew that was a sham, just some lie I told myself in the mirror every morning. My scars were nothing but the seal of failure branded on my face, a permanent reminder of everything Michael Knight had taken from me, the ultimate insult. To not only steal my face, but to ruin mine. To not only steal my identity, but to destroy mine. I was a demon among men, hideous, grotesque, cursed to roam the earth with no rightful place to call my own.

I jolted back to reality with a sharp breath to the sensation of Mitch cradling my face in his hand again, skimming his thumb over my scars. My chest tightened under the scrutiny of Mitch's gaze, his eyes flicking in the wan light, a tight frown knitting his brows. So beautiful in the cool moonlight, so handsome, so whole, and myself a broken, pitiful creature.

Another swell of indignation made my blood run hot. Was that it? Did Mitch pity me? I didn't want his damn pity. I didn't want to hear some hollow, placating remark. What a shame. It could be worse.

But Mitch didn't say a word. He simply pressed another kiss to my lips, gentle, almost tentative, the barest brush of his lips against the corner of my mouth. My breath left me in a shuddering sigh, my eyes falling shut and my resistance waning as Mitch kissed me again, deeper this time, almost enough to distract me from the wander of his hands down my body, my shirt being slipped from my shoulders.

I finally regained myself enough to kiss Mitch back, my veins pounding and my tongue sharp and fierce between Mitch's lips, desperate to cleanse the bitter taste of shame from my mouth. I needed this. I deserved this. I'd been dreaming of this moment for far too long to squander it, now.

Mitch and I moved in unison, and, stunningly, it was Mitch who overpowered me. In a whirl, I found myself flat on my back on the bed, staring up at the shadowy canopy in bewilderment, a moment before Mitch sank onto the bed beside me, slinging his arm around me and dropping a warm, hungry kiss on my lips.

It was all I could do to keep from bucking Mitch off, even as his ravenous kisses made my head spin. I was always the one in control, the one with something to prove.

Until...now. Until Mitch was the one bearing down on me, propped up on his elbow to kiss me at just the right angle. I couldn't stifle a low, satisfied purr as Mitch slid his tongue against mine, smooth and searing, melting away the tension gripping my body.

My hands roamed Mitch's form of their own accord, gripping his muscles, exploring the dip of his back. Mitch arched into my touch, his breath a hot grunt on my lips, our legs intertwined, driving me mad with pounding desire.

I let out another low growl when I felt Mitch working at my belt one-handed, and I buried my fingers into the brunt of his soft, curly hair as adrenaline pumped anew through my veins. All my life, I had only ever known domination, the thrill of the hunt. Now, a new exhilaration billowed through me. To be laid bare, to have my defenses stripped, to surrender myself body and soul to this man, my warrior, my prince, my Hephaestion–

"Mitch." My voice was but a gasp, almost foreign to my own ears. Mitch paused immediately, the slightest frown pinching his brows as I gazed up at him, his strong shoulders gilded in moonlight, one perfect lock of hair curled against his forehead. His hand had stalled, resting upon my hip, tantalizing me with the warmth of his grip. He wouldn't move unless I wanted him to. I was still in control, after all.

I gulped hard, digging my fingers deeper into Mitch's hair, rooting myself in his moment, letting every sensation wash over me. The heat thrumming between our bodies, hot enough to smolder. The ache of desire coursing through me, hard and stiff, dominating my focus.

"Make love to me," I murmured at last, barely a breath, and the wolfish quirk of Mitch's smile made my heart jump eagerly against my ribs.

"I thought you'd never ask," Mitch purred, dropping another hungry kiss upon my lips, and I relished in the growl deep in his throat when our tongues met. Mitch dipped his hand lower as he kissed me, setting my nerves alight. Lower, lower, until I couldn't stifle a rapturous gasp against his lips, stars dazzling my murky vision as heat swept through me, throbbing for Mitch's touch.

Another breathless gasp escaped me, only to be expertly kissed away. I had never known a greater ecstasy than the wander of Mitch's hand, slow and assured, down to the very root of my being. No sweeter bliss than to relinquish control, and lose myself to the foreign tenderness of Mitch's touch.

Chapter Text

***

– Michael –

It was an early morning for me and KITT. If it could even be considered morning, since the damn sun wasn't even up. The freeway unspooled ahead of us, a fat beige ribbon under the opaque dome of the starless sky as we rocketed westbound, turbines whining, a black bullet lancing through the still night.

The freeways were never empty around LA, even at this godforsaken hour, but traffic was manageable, cars and trucks evenly dispersed across the lanes, everyone moving at a decent pace, minding their own business. No tails, KITT kept assuring me.

It made sense, when I sat back and thought about it, that Garthe wouldn't be deploying commandos to follow our every move. The Foundation was a good fifty miles from Garthe's base in the mountains, and having a full task force that far from central command was risky, not to mention a waste of resources. Patrol units could be captured, or sabotaged, or outsmarted, especially by the likes of KITT.

So Garthe was more than likely using different forms of surveillance to keep and eye on us. Traffic cams, for instance. Child's play for KARR to splice into, and they were everywhere. With a keen eye and KARR's predictive algorithms, he could easily piece together traffic camera footage to track us, more reliably than a tail on the road.

Which only meant we couldn't be too careful.

"Y'know, this whole spy-versus-spy crap is really getting old," I muttered into the lull between songs on the radio. We'd been on the road for an hour already, miles out of our way, doubling back and quadrupling back, braiding our way on and off the freeway, doing everything in our power to prevent KARR from tracking us.

If KARR even was tracking us. The paranoia was almost more exhausting. The uncertainty. Assuming the worst.

"I know, Michael," KITT replied gently, his words weighted with sympathy. 'Course, KITT knew exactly how tired I was, just like I knew he wasn't exactly running on a full charge, either. Bonnie and April had been working with KITT late into the night, outfitting him with anything and everything to give us an edge over KARR, all while I'd been tossing and turning in bed, plagued by nightmares of Garthe's dank African dungeon.

"At least we have an opportunity to field test my new Camouflage Mode," KITT added primly, and I smiled at his shot at optimism. KITT's new Camo Mode came courtesy of a special color-changing paint April had been developing at the research facility in Nevada. It sprayed on clear, and KITT could control what color the electrode matrix emitted by pumping an electric current through his molecular bonded shell. So far, we only had white and red to work with, but it was enough to transform KITT into a totally different Trans Am, complete with corresponding dummy plates, to fool the cameras. Or so we hoped.

"While the red is rather striking, I'm much happier to be back to my basic black," KITT went on breezily, talking merely to fill the silence of his own cabin.

"Me too, pal," I replied, my voice small as I gazed out over the familiar black plane of KITT's asymmetrical hood against the blur of the freeway. I felt bad; I wasn't exactly being the most stimulating driving companion. A thermos of coffee sat mostly untouched in the center console, filling the cabin with the enticing aroma of dark roast, but the few sips I'd taken had soured in my stomach.

I blinked my scratchy eyes against the glare of taillights as I swung KITT into the passing lane and gunned around a slower sedan, putting the old Buick between us and the nearby speed trap cam. My grip was too tight on the yoke, and KITT's usually fluid movements were jerky under my impatient handling. To hell with KARR. I just wanted to get to the rendezvous. I just wanted this nightmare over with.

"We'd better switch colors again, just to be safe," I ground out, my voice hollow. Bitching and moaning aside, we still had to be careful.

"Agreed, Michael." Dutifully, the newest button on KITT's switchpod blinked red, and his glossy onyx shell hazed over, turning rusty under the flashing glare of the streetlights before the color solidified into a brighter, true red.

"Why is there so much damn traffic tonight?" I muttered, nudging the gas pedal as we rocketed across the vast I-405 interchange. Traffic closed in around us, and my grip tightened on KITT's yoke again. I hated city driving, and I was getting too old to pretend otherwise. Gimme a dusty highway in the middle of the desert any day over this crap, cars merging and weaving all over the damn place.

"It is quite astounding," KITT concurred, and his guidance array came alight on the dash as a squirrelly little Mitsubishi crowded into our blind spot. I had half a mind to run the guy off the damn road. Didn't these people know how to merge onto a goddamn highway?

I sensed the distinct prickle of KITT's sensors preening over me, and I made a point to suck in a breath and unclench my jaw before he said something about my blood pressure. Just drive, dammit. Focus.

My pulse didn't stop ringing in my ears until we'd made it through the interchange and KITT's RPMs cycled back down, still cruising westbound on Ventura.

"Guess the red's growing on me, too," I ventured, finally relaxing my grip on KITT's yoke and even managing a crooked smile. "All you're missing is the ol' Screaming Chicken on your hood."

"That might be a bit too gaudy for my taste, Michael," KITT chided, predictably, and I chuckled.

"Whatever you say." I showed my palms in feigned acquiescence. "Firebird."

"Don't start."

I snickered under my breath for a few miles, rummaging through my cassettes to distract myself from the monotonous blur of the highway and the equally monotonous drone of the radio.

"What sounds good, pal?" I asked casually, inspecting a chink in the case of my well-worn John Denver tape.

"Oh, I actually get a say this time?" The mock astonishment in KITT's tone earned him a thump on the steering column, which he ignored. "I've always found The Eagles to be the least abrasive of your musical preferences."

"KITT, I'm trying to find music that's not gonna put me to sleep," I protested with a wry smile. "Last thing I need is to doze off and have you Auto Cruise me back to the Foundation, 'cause I know you don't like my plan."

"I do have certain reservations about this plan of yours," KITT replied without hesitation, and I clucked my tongue with a scoff. Here we go.

"Aside from your fascination with being airborne, which I have never quite wrapped my processors around, I find your plan to be exceedingly dangerous," KITT impressed. "Michael, you'll be flying right into the lion's den, so to speak, without any means of defense!"

"Correction, KITT," I interjected. "We'll be flying over the lion's den. When's the last time you panned your scanners up, anyhow?"

KITT paused for a beat. "Just now."

"And?" I pressed, feeling a smug smile tugging at my lips.

KITT didn't respond, because we both knew Garthe and KARR, and whatever fortifications they had at their disposal, would be focused on the highways and mountains, not the sky.

"My point is," KITT pontificated, snubbing his proverbial nose, "hang gliding is hardly what I would consider a safe or secure mode of transportation, especially under these less-than-ideal conditions–"

"KITT," I cut in again, waving KITT quiet with a patient gesture. "Nothing's gonna happen, alright? We're just doing a little recon. Piece of cake."

"If you say so, Michael." KITT didn't bother pretending to sound convinced, and I didn't bother trying to placate him. Hang gliding over the mountains was the only way to get a lay of the land and, hopefully, get a line on Garthe. Right now, that was all that mattered. Find Garthe. Find Mitch. One step at a time.

"So, music?" I ventured, determined to change the subject before the tension crackling through KITT's cabin became unbearable. "ZZ Top? You don't mind them, right? Look, there's even a car on the cover."

"You say that every time you put in that tape, Michael," KITT replied dryly, though he couldn't quite mask a hint of amusement in his voice, and I couldn't quite stifle a satisfied smirk as I slotted in the tape and turned up the volume until KITT's speakers thumped to the music.

I had just flipped the cassette when our exit came up, and I was more than eager to peel up the exit ramp and put the freeway in the rearview. We caught a green light at the intersection, and I hung a left onto Kanan Road, mindful of the numerous security cameras hidden amongst the cluster of fast food joints and car washes, neon signs flashing hypnotically in the blackness of predawn.

The N9 southbound was unlit and deserted, and it was too tempting to nudge the gas pedal just a little heavier, too easy to coax the speedometer just a little higher, KITT's fog lights playing dizzily off the faded lines and reflectors as the road wound deeper into the mountains.

But I kept KITT, or, rather, KITT kept us, at a steady 55. No funny business. No unnecessary attention. We were in enemy territory, now, and a fresh prickle of paranoia stood my hair on end. The road carved an inky ribbon through the mountains, arid dirt piled too high and too close on either side, one sneeze away from a mudslide. It felt like the whole world could come crashing down at any moment, and I had to remind myself to breathe through the sudden tightness gripping my chest.

"ETA two minutes and twenty-seven seconds, Michael," KITT offered, unwarranted, into the tense silence, pulling me back to reality. "We are approaching a series of tunnels."

I blinked my fatigued eyes into focus as we approached the amber-lit maw of a tunnel bored into the rocks, and I checked KITT's speed accordingly. Tunnels meant more cameras. I didn't even have the wherewithal to toot KITT's horn as we barreled through and back out into the bleak darkness.

"ETA now one minute and– Michael? Why are we stopping?" Befuddlement piqued KITT's tone, but he didn't resist as I eased us to a rolling stop along the shoulder of the highway, now fully alert and scanning the gloomy shrubs until I laid eyes on the chain link fence Cort had mentioned.

"Michael, this is not a road," KITT protested, and my only response was to toggle High Traction as I coaxed him closer to the fence and nosed him through the unlatched gate. "April will not be pleased if you scratch my new paint, Michael."

I couldn't muster a cheeky response quick enough and settled for a crooked smirk, instead, as I maneuvered KITT along the rugged hiking trail. KITT groused the whole damn time, outlining the exact parameters that designated a road from a trail and complaining that the route I'd chosen wasn't fit for a mule, let alone an automobile such as himself, and what would Bonnie say about the condition of his undercarriage when we got back to the Foundation.

I let KITT vent in smug silence. He could use the distraction. We both could.

At last, and not a divot in the rough soil or another errant boulder too soon, the hiking trail leveled out, and I caught sight of a soft halo of lights glowing in the gloom ahead.

How RC had managed to negotiate the FLAG semi up the same slope KITT had deemed treacherously remote and perilously unkempt and a slew of other deprecating remarks, I couldn't begin to wrap my head around. But there it was, the big black cab hitched to an unmarked, inconspicuous white trailer, walling in our rendezvous point. Two stripped down Jeeps were parked adjacent to the rig, low beams spilling soft white light onto the shrubby grass and illuminating several sets of legs in the darkness.

Humid air smacked into me like an unwelcome wet rag as soon as I swung KITT's door open, but I couldn't be too displeased. The first wisps of fog were already beginning to fill the valleys sprawled beyond the bluff we'd chosen for our rendezvous. Soon, the entire mountain range would be thick as soup with fog. Perfect for our little stealth mission.

"Nice of you to finally join us." Cort pushed away from the side of his Jeep to meet me with a solid handshake, his eyes glinting under the brim of his wicker hat, sharp and wily as ever.

"Couldn't be too careful." I flashed the ghost of a smile, and KITT powered down his Camo Mode with a low hum beside me, bleeding back to his usual, inky self. "You brought friends, after all, huh?"

I nodded to the men clustered in the glow of the headlights, chatting with RC. Garner Ellerbee was among them, along with Newman, whom I hardly recognized in civilian clothes instead of his red uniform shorts. Another man rounded out of the team, with the lean build of a fellow lifeguard.

"Michael, meet Craig." Cort clasped Craig on the shoulder hard enough to earn a wince. He was about Cort's age, with a lot of wavy hair and wary blue eyes. "He and Mitch go way back."

"Way back," Craig echoed, and the bewildered look in his eyes didn't wane as we shook hands. "Jeez, you really do look just like him."

I tried to hide a wince with a nonchalant smile. Amidst the turmoil, I tended to forget Mitch and I practically had the same face.

"I appreciate you guys doing this, really," I said solemnly, then I stepped back to take in our ragtag little team. For a moment, it almost felt like being back on the force. A real squad again.

Only now, we didn't have a whole department to fall back on. Nerve center wasn't a buzz of the radio away. We were just a handful of civilians, up on this shrubby hilltop in the dead of night, going up against a whole nest of evil hidden in the mountains below.

"Hey, anything for Mitch, man," Newman spoke up, effecting a casual shrug despite the conviction flashing in his dark eyes. "He'd do the same for anyone in a heartbeat."

"Too bad he's the one we're rescuing," Craig added with a tentative, ironic smile. "He'd love this, if he were here."

"Well, when we get him back, we'll all have a good laugh over this, won't we?" I flashed a wry smile of my own, keeping the morale up, and I met Garner's eyes and nodded to the metal struts of the hang gliders glinting in the gloom behind him. "You going up with us, too, Garner?"

"Ah, no, thank you very much." Garner shook his head with a chuckle. "Don't get me wrong, I love Mitch, but I'm more of a four-tires-on-the-ground kinda guy."

"A perfectly respectable stance on the matter, Officer Ellerbee," KITT piped up, and if I'd been close enough to doff his roof in exasperation, I would've.

"I'm just here on behalf of the park ranger," Garner went on, and he procured a clipboard and handed it to me. WAIVER was plastered across the top sheet. "I told him you were some government-type doing a survey and got a few lifeguard volunteers to help. He called what you're doing 'unorthodox'. Not to mention dangerous."

"That's my middle name." I flashed a winning smile, scratching my signature on the line. "Unorthodox, I mean."

"Well, considering the D in Cort's name stands for Dangerous," Craig chided, taking the clipboard from me and signing the next waiver, "makes sense you two came up with this insane idea."

"I thought you said you liked this idea!" Cort scoffed, snatching the clipboard.

"I said Mitch would like this idea," Craig retorted. "I only agreed to this because I want to help Mitch, and I'm good at hang gliding. I'm not trying to fulfill some commando fantasy."

"Oh, quit whining." Cort waved Craig off impatiently. "We all know you're a closet adrenaline junkie like the rest of us."

"I am not!" Craig's voice went up an octave in protest, and Garner couldn't stifle a snicker. "Why are you laughing? Stop laughing!"

"Guys, c'mon," I interjected, sobering everyone. "It's just hang gliding. We fly over, gather what data we can, and get out. Strictly reconnaissance," I repeated firmly, for KITT's benefit. "RC? You have the cameras?"

"Right here, my man." RC hefted one of Bonnie's toolboxes by the handle and flashed a proud grin. "Best portable infrared cameras a guy could ask for. They're already synced with KITT, so he'll be getting all the data streams in real time once we boot these babies up."

"The cameras will be strapped to our flight suits, hands free," I said. "So all we'll have to worry about is staying airborne, and staying on course. No distractions, and no heroics."

I looked right at Cort as I spoke, catching the intent glimmer in his eyes, the determined set of his jaw. If he caught even a glimpse of Garthe's base on the thermal camera, I knew he'd be on the ground in a heartbeat, storming the place. And, hell, I knew I would be, too. It was safer for all of us if KITT monitored the feeds from a distance and left the flying to us.

"I assigned each of us a different flight path, so we can cover as much of the mountains as possible." I pulled a folded map out of my jacket and snapped it open, and everyone gathered closer in the glow of the nearest Jeep's headlights. "According to KITT's calculations, we should converge at Point Dume in about an hour, before the fog dissipates."

"Your helmets are equipped with night vision scopes," KITT added. "As well as a highly sophisticated heads-up display, which will detail your flight paths, GPS, altitude, and heading. I will also be monitoring your locations in real time, should anything go awry."

"And what exactly might 'go awry'?" Craig ventured, glancing warily over the crest of the hilltop. The fog was thickening by the minute, swallowing some of the lower peaks in the distance.

"If you are blown off course, or grounded for any reason, to name a few," KITT responded coolly. At least he didn't spiral into some longwinded spiel outlining the dangers of hang gliding in excruciating detail. Apparently he reserved his misgivings just for me.

"Your headsets are programmed to my emergency alpha frequency, should a problem arise," KITT went on. "However, even with my encryption capabilities, there exists a chance of KARR intercepting any communications between us once you are airborne."

"Which means radio silence," I finished, "unless there's a dire emergency, injury, or enemy contact. If you're grounded, head south. You'll hit the PCH eventually."

Everyone nodded solemnly, wry smiles and shining eyes giving way to tight-lipped stoicism as the gravity of our mission started to sink in. There were real threats hidden in the foggy mountains below us. And they had Mitch.

"Questions?" I ventured, hands on my hips, meeting and holding everyone's gaze in turn. When no one spoke up, I nodded to myself. "Alright, let's suit up."

With that, we fell out like soldiers after a briefing, exchanging a few low fives and fist bumps amongst ourselves. Morale was still up, and a tentative glimmer of hope lit in my chest. This crazy idea might just work, after all.

"RC? Get these Jeeps loaded." I jabbed my thumb at the semi as I strolled over to KITT's side. "We'll see ya at Point Dume."

"Right on." RC gave me some skin, then sprang into motion, leaving me alone in the gloom with KITT, my hand resting on his hood, my weight shifted toward him subconsciously.

"Michael?" KITT ventured, and I knew what was coming before he said it. "Be careful."

"You too, pal." I rapped my knuckles against KITT's hood, suddenly reluctant to leave his side. Truth be told, I was just as worried about sending him off into the night by himself as he was about me. "Stay outta sight, alright?"

"I will, Michael." With an imperceptible shiver of static under my palm, KITT activated his color-changing paint, and his inky shell came alive with a haze of red. "I believe the appropriate turn of phrase would be, see you on the other side."

A surprised chuckle punched out of me at KITT's casual remark, and I patted his roof again and finally pushed away from him, all too aware of the expectant burn of Cort's eyes from across the clearing. The other guys were already suited up and pushing the hang gliders into position.

"Time to rock and roll," I murmured, mostly to myself, as KITT's engine came alive and he trundled away.

I stood in the darkness for a beat, shoving my hands in my pockets so they didn't feel so much like dead weights at my sides. The slightest breeze buffeted my face as I gazed over the foggy mountaintops. A few stars even managed to wink down from the clear black sky. It was a beautiful night, almost beautiful enough to distract me from the tingle of foreboding nagging at the base of my skull. Mitch was out there, somewhere. And Garthe. And KARR.

We're coming, Mitch. Sucking in a breath of humid night air, I gathered myself and turned away from the edge of the bluff. We're coming.

***

– KARR –

I did not take kindly to being outsmarted.

And that was exactly what Knight and KITT had done. Outsmarted me. Me! I was the superior model! The pinnacle of ingenuity! KITT was the inferior production line copy. His computing capabilities should have paled in comparison to my unparalleled intellect and state-of-the-art microprocessing prowess.

I scoured the footage again, my drives running hot with ire. Every scrap of every frame of every CCTV feed I could gain access to, every snapshot of my twin's unmistakable silhouette, from the barest glimpse of a jet black fender to the full view of his rear end, taunting me with the wink of his blue vanity plate. KNIGHT. So plain, so generic. A sickening display of my twin's utter lack of autonomy from his driver. My moniker was unique. I was unique.

Again and again, I loaded all of the positive ID matches to my twin and studied the resulting scatterplot. Taken as a whole, KITT's trajectory followed no logical course, but that was to be expected. Studiously and algorithmically, I deleted the points from which no clear destination could be derived, circuits through the city streets meant to confound my efforts to track him.

He must be going somewhere ... I mused within my processing banks. Technically, a road was simply a straight line. Once a vehicle embarked on a certain course, there were only so many potential trajectories for said vehicle to take, unless KITT had suddenly developed the power to teleport, the likelihood of which being infinitesimal.

Then where the blazes did he go?

Confounded, I studied the map I had formulated in my databanks. The last positive ID of my twin occurred on the Ventura Freeway, Route 101, westbound, approaching the looping interchange with the north-south Interstate 405. From whence, KITT had every cardinal direction available to him. North into Van Nuys, west into Encino, south into the Topanga mountains.

But KITT simply vanished.

Irritation flooded my processors more rapidly than I could flush my coolant systems and refresh my relays, leaving me blustery and practically quivering with rage within the stays of my CPU. It made no damn sense! Surely KITT should have reappeared somewhere.

I stopped myself from simply refreshing the algorithm and starting over. Such course of action was hardly logical. The data did not lie, it was merely incomplete. Somehow, KITT had managed to negotiate the interchange and emerge undetected. And I endeavored to deduce how.

I broadened my search parameters to encompass vehicles with a seventy-five percent match to KITT's physiology. Too lax. A plethora of third generation Pontiacs and Chevrolets flooded the map, some galloping along the freeway, others captured at gas stations or fast food establishments, beholden to the nocturnal habits of their drivers.

I adjusted my parameters again, and the data points receded until five Trans Ams remained on the map. Two white, one red, one blue, and one two-toned black and gold. Had my twin undergone some sort of color change? Such was not entirely outside the realm of possibility. Case designation 58640 from the FLAG database detailed the employment of water-soluble paint by an adversary to elude capture. Perhaps Knight had taken a page from his own enemy's playbook, as the saying went.

Systematically, I eliminated the blue and two-toned Trans Ams as potential matches to KITT. The former had entered the interchange from the north, a trajectory from which I had collected no prior positive identifications of my twin. Further scrutiny of the two-toned Trans Am revealed certain customizations which reduced its similarities to KITT to a paltry sixty-five percent match, and it was subsequently discarded.

Three Trans Ams remained. One at a fuel pump just off the highway, one heading westward on Route 101, one bailing south on I-405. Revulsion bade me to table the white vehicle at the fuel pump. I refused to fathom KITT allowing himself to consume that noxious petroleum filth.

I studied the traffic camera footage of the remaining two Trans Ams. Both vehicles wore standard issue California license plates, generic jumbles of numbers and letters registered to equally generic names in the DMV database. Insufficient data. Plates and registrations could be so easily forged.

I tracked through more footage of the two vehicles, my drives whirring hungrily as I deepened my analysis. The white Trans Am boasted the eponymous Firebird logo on its asymmetrical hood, the red one did not. Noted. Otherwise, the two vehicles were astonishingly identical, down to the geometry of their spoilers. If only I could capture the front of these pesky vehicles, I would be able to identify KITT's distinct prow and scanner array in an instant, but none of the footage available to me offered the correct angle.

Wait. Wait. My drives thrummed louder as I focused on one particular frame from a speed trap camera. It was not a clear image of the red Trans Am, but rather of a semi truck in the other lane. I enhanced and sharpened the frame, then again, and again, zooming in on the semi's driver side planar mirror, drawing the reflection into focus one pixel at a time until, at last–

"There you are..." I vocalized into the empty garage, my drives running hot with predatory glee as the image crystallized into focus. An image of the red Trans Am in the truck's mirror, and the unmistakable slash of the patented Knight Industries Anamorphic Equalizer glowing red in the night.

So, my twin had acquired a new coat, after all. Clever, little brother, I mused. Very clever, indeed.

How KITT achieved this deception, I would ponder later. At present, I poured every iota of my focus into tracking that red Trans Am westbound on Route 101. My twin, my lesser, my shadow. The red did not become KITT in the slightest.

I tracked KITT all the way to County Route N9 when my threat analysis subroutine generated an alert. KITT was close. Too close for comfort. What game were they playing? Drive through the mountains until KITT happened to pass close enough to detect my telemetry? Even Michael Knight was not that foolish; surely he presumed we were fortified against so rudimentary a tactic.

One final positive ID pinged from a camera mounted at the mouth of the T2 tunnel before a suspicious silence ensued, and again my strategic analyzers nagged at me. Losing track of KITT at the I-405 interchange had cost me precious time; I could not afford to scour every camera feed along the N9 waiting for my twin to reappear.

I ignited my engine with a tremulous whir, the whine of my turbines resounding through the empty garage and my scanner casting the space in a yellow pallor. Time to see what my dear little brother was up to.

Chapter Text

– Garthe –

I drifted awake just as I'd fallen asleep, wrapped in Mitch's arms, engulfed by his warmth. I couldn't remember a time I'd slept so soundly, so deeply. The bed itself seemed more comfortable with Mitch sharing it with me, the pillow softer, the warmth more inviting, coaxing me to doze back off.

But I couldn't indulge. My internal clock was infallible, even after such a long, exhilarating night I had shared with Mitch. It was dawn, I knew it in my bones. I had to get up. There were matters to attend to, reports to handle, calls to make, assets to manage...

I drew a deep breath and let it out in a sigh, my face still buried against the pillow, Mitch's heavy arm still slung over me. I couldn't bring myself to open my eyes, to dispel the lingering buzz of bliss tingling under my skin. Maybe, if I didn't move, if I didn't open my eyes, I could stall time itself, halt the very sun in its relentless transit across the sky, just for a little while.

Reluctantly, I tried to blink my eyes open at last. My scarred eye had run in the night, as it usually did, and a rivulet of discharge had collected and coagulated in my tear duct, effectively gluing my eyelid shut. Lovely.

After years of dealing with the damn thing, I should've known better than to touch my eye. It stung and burned and ached like hell, fresh tears springing loose the harder I rubbed it, which only compelled me to keep rubbing. Eventually, I swiped away the worst of the discharge and blinked with both eyes, my vision murky and off-kilter as I struggled to focus on the clock on my nightstand. It was late, past sunrise. I had to get up.

Forcing my fingers away from my eye, I shifted under the weight of Mitch's arm, trying to slip from his grasp without disturbing him. His head was on my pillow, his steady breathing ruffling my hair. Still asleep, I presumed. No reason to rouse him at such an early hour–

Mitch's grasp suddenly tightened around me, and he let out a disgruntled grumble into my hair. Not asleep, after all.

"I have to get up, my love," I murmured, nudging at Mitch's arm with a patient smile. Now that I was fully awake, I was too aware of the warmth of Mitch's body at my back, our legs tangled, his nose buried in my hair. I couldn't ignore a certain stiffness taking hold of me all over again, just as I couldn't ignore the telltale nudge of heat against me when Mitch snuggled closer.

"Says who?" Mitch muttered stubbornly, his arm an immovable cordon of muscle over my torso as I wriggled half-heartedly in his grasp. "Thought you were the one in charge, huh?"

"There are still certain pretenses I must uphold," I said softly, even as a repugnant scowl tugged at me. I'd never hear the end of it from KARR if I was late to the morning briefing.

"Pretenses schmretenses..." Mitch grumbled, and suddenly both of his arms were snaked around me, his hands pawing aimlessly at my chest, locking me firmly in place against him. "Five more minutes."

With an exasperated chuckle, I resigned myself to Mitch's warm embrace, my skin alive from head to toe with the thrilling buzz of goosebumps. Of course, I was more than capable of prying myself free from Mitch's grasp, had I been under any sort of real duress, but I was hardly in any hurry to disrupt the comfortable stillness hanging over us, ethereal and fleeting like a golden borealis.

Eventually, I shifted just enough to roll over in Mitch's arms. A peaceful smile touched Mitch's lips when I settled facing him, his eyes still closed behind those lush fans of bronze lashes. I expected a kiss from those smiling lips, or perhaps a nuzzle, our noses close enough for our breath to mingle.

I was not expecting Mitch to suddenly heft me on top of him in one fluid barrel roll. All at once, heat flared down my body like liquid fire coursing through my veins, dominating my focus. My blood pounded at every juncture where my bare skin met Mitch's, my nerves alight with rekindled desire.

Mitch chuckled under his breath as I struggled to prop myself up on top of him, our bare chests pressed together, my legs draped over his. The stiff nudges of our lazy morning glories made my head spin, and I shifted again with a grunt, anything to alleviate some of the pressure.

"Relax," Mitch murmured, his eyes still shut as his hands roamed my back, mindful of the rough swathes of scars along my shoulder blades. "Five more minutes."

"I believe you said that five minutes ago, mon beau." My admonishing snicker quickly gave way to a purr when Mitch combed his fingers through my hair and coaxed me down into a smooth, slow kiss. How easily my resistance ebbed when Mitch's lips found mine, how quickly the tension in my body evaporated, leaving me drowsy from the heat thrumming off him, drunk from the gentle scrunch of his fingers in my hair.

"Last night was amazing," Mitch murmured, taking the words right from my mouth just before taking another kiss, too. A deep purr rumbled in his throat like that of a starved man savoring his meal, standing my nerves on end in a sweep of goosebumps. "You were amazing."

"Yes, I suppose I was," I teased, finally propping myself up to properly gaze down at Mitch. I'd seen a fair amount of Mitch from this angle in the night, his hair a dark mane of curls framing his face, his sleepy blue eyes finally blinking open to appraise me through his lashes, a lazy smile curling those succulent lips of his.

"Gimme five more minutes and I could, ah..." Mitch arched a mischievous brow, and suddenly his hands were sliding lower, exploring the small of my back and sending a fresh jolt of electricity up my spine. "I could show you a few more tricks..."

I gnashed my teeth together with a groan as Mitch kneaded my rear, arousal tightening its hold over me with distracting urgency.

"You are a terrible influence on me..." I flashed a rakish smile, bowing my head just enough for Mitch to snag another kiss, and he nibbled my bottom lip until a wanton little moan built in my throat. I couldn't bear to face a new day, to let go of the night we'd shared. I craved Mitch's touch, his scent, his taste, the soft keen of my name in his throat...

But I knew, deep down, that any sweet indulgences would be spoiled if I incurred KARR's wrath with my tardiness. Duty first, pleasure second.

With another reluctant grumble, I pulled my lips from Mitch's and gazed down at him, my golden lover splayed out beneath me, languid and content.

"So beautiful..." I mused, tracing my fingertip along the perfect sculpt of Mitch's cheekbone. Mitch immediately turned coy, averting his gaze with a blush, and I just as swiftly remedied his evasion, cradling his face in my hand and coaxing his gaze back to mine.

"Close your eyes. I have a surprise for you." I laid my hand across Mitch's eyes, and his grin widened. "Wait right here."

"What kind of surprise?" Mitch ventured, and he made a show of stretching and making himself comfortable as I shifted off him, pillowing his hands behind his head with his eyes obediently shut.

"You'll see," I said, getting to my feet, and an appreciative hum from behind me belied Mitch hadn't kept his eyes closed for long. I could feel the heat of his gaze eating up my form, standing my hair on end, and I glanced back to find Mitch had rolled onto his side, propped up on his elbow, putting every inch of his own endowments on full display. Full being the operative word.

Heat swept anew through me, true agony as I ravished Mitch's form and he, mine. How I ached to be wrapped in those strong arms once more, to feel the heat of Mitch's body pressed to mine. It took every ounce of my willpower not to cede to such temptations.

"Stay." I wagged my finger in teasing reprimand, and Mitch flopped onto his back with a dejected grumble and closed his eyes again, his lips still curled in a wry smile.

"Can I have a hint?" Mitch ventured as I strode away from the bed, stepping around discarded articles of clothing. I made a mental note to have Mitch's clothes taken for measurements when they went through the wash. I did owe him a new shirt, after all, I mused with a smirk.

"No hints," I called from the closet. As it happened, I was still working out the details of my surprise for Mitch. Just a little something to keep him occupied for a few hours. I couldn't have him getting too restless in my absence.

I browsed hastily through my closet, hardly with the time or patience to sort out an entire outfit. A simple black jumpsuit would suffice, and I slung it over my shoulder and made for the en suite, sparing Mitch another glance in passing, his eyes closed peacefully where he reposed in the grandiose bed.

Yearning clutched at me yet again, but I forced the impulse aside. I had my duties to attend to. With any luck, I'd be back in Mitch's arms by lunchtime.

***

– Mitch –

Nestled in Garthe's plush bed with my eyes closed, I couldn't help but start to wonder whether Garthe really did have a surprise in store for me, or if he just wanted me to fall back to sleep. Not that I minded a little extra shuteye; my entire body was buzzing like I'd just run a triathlon, and I didn't think I'd be able to move even if I wanted to. Unless, of course, Garthe had wanted to go another couple rounds. Then I probably could've mustered the strength.

But Garthe had his mysterious duties to attend to, and, for once, I didn't have any responsibilities of my own. No alarms set, no beepers poised to call me in. Nothing to do but laze away in Garthe's massive bed as a golden sunrise brightened the room beyond my closed eyelids. And it felt damn good.

A knock at the bedroom door startled me, and I peeked an eye open, befuddled. Why would Garthe knock on his own bedroom door?

"Uh, yeah?" I ventured without thinking, and all I registered was someone who was definitely not Garthe shouldering through the door, and there I was, sprawled out on the bed, naked as could be. I swore under my breath, scrabbling to toss a sheet over myself as people, plural, filed into the bedroom, thoroughly bewildering my drowsy mind.

"What the–?" I winced away instinctively as one of the uniformed men came right up to the side of the damn bed, holding a massive serving tray loaded with silver, domed dishes.

"Breakfast, Master Buchannon." The man didn't wait for me to respond before he planted the tray across my lap in a clatter of metal and china.

"Do not call me that again. Ever." I tried to capture the man's gaze to better get my point across, but he was already bowing his head and backing away, taking his troupe with him. Before I knew it, the bedroom door was shut and I was alone again, under a mountain of serving trays, feeling like I'd just been accosted.

I forced out an incredulous laugh, anything to get my heart to stop racing. Guess I should've assumed Garthe's surprise would be something overblown like this. He wasn't exactly the subtle type.

"Alright, let's see..." I rubbed my hands together and went for the lid of the biggest dish, centered on the tray across my lap. A waft of steam cleared to reveal a huge stack of pancakes, griddled to perfection, and the sweet aroma immediately made my mouth water and my stomach growl.

Eager with curiosity, I plucked the lids off the rest of the dishes around me. Eggs, scrambled with a colorful medley of vegetables, a plate of bacon and sausage, still sizzling, fresh berries and melon slices, toast, oatmeal, and a whole tray to my left dedicated to jams, spreads, sauces, spices and seasonings, as well as a pitcher of orange juice, probably freshly squeezed, and, last but not least, a cappuccino in a mug the size of a cereal bowl, the steamed milk drawn into the shape of a heart and sprinkled with cinnamon.

I couldn't help another astonished laugh, my chest suddenly full of butterflies as I toyed with the freshly cut orange rose in a slender vase on one of the trays, its petals just as vibrant as the one Garthe had brought me the day before. Garthe was certainly determined to spoil me, I'd give him that.

A folded note tucked under the coffee mug drew my attention when I lifted the massive cappuccino to my lips, and I opened it with one hand as I took a sip.

"You'll have to chew your breakfast this morning, my love," the note read. "GK."

"Smartass," I murmured with a grin, my heart thumping fondly. I knew Garthe hadn't prepared any of this by hand, except maybe the cappuccino, but that didn't change the thoughtfulness that had gone into this amazing spread. I could barely decide where to start!

There was only one thing missing, I mused with a lonely pang in my heart. I wished Garthe had come back to share this feast with me. The bed felt too big, the room too vast and empty without Garthe's thrumming warmth and tender touches, amplifying the echoes of the incredible night we'd shared.

And, besides, how the heck was I gonna eat all this food by myself?

***

– Garthe –

When the lingering bliss of my night with Mitch inevitably cleared, I became acutely aware of a certain ache in my knee as I made my way down to the garage, cane clutched in one hand, cigarette in the other. The morning air was thick with humidity, and my hair had taken twice the work to subdue. The stubborn curls were almost more intolerable than the pain spiking through my knee.

The garage was conspicuously devoid of one two-toned automobile when I descended the metal stairs, and I gripped my cane tighter in irritation, puffing a plume of smoke through my teeth. If I'd known KARR was gone, I might've stolen another few precious moments with Mitch.

"Where is he," I muttered, Commander Okon already at my side, ramrod straight and poised as ever. We did not exchange pleasantries. We never did.

"Patrolling the northeastern quadrant, sir," Okon replied, shadowing me as I moved amongst the computer modules. Everything seemed to be in working order.

"Logs indicate the Knight 2000 left the Foundation at oh-three-forty-six-hundred," Okon went on. "KARR was tracking them remotely before he departed, forty minutes ago."

"Has he reported in?" I knew as soon as I asked what the answer would be, and Okon pursed his lips disparagingly and shook his head.

"You know how KARR is, sir," Okon replied candidly, and I let out a mirthless chuff of smoke. That, I did. Insufferably obstinate came to mind.

Hooking my cane on the edge of a nearby computer console, I prized a walkie from the communication array and tuned for KARR's private carrier frequency. "KARR? Report."

Static spat and hissed over the line, sharp enough to make me recoil. What the hell?

"KARR? Come in, damn it." I dialed through KARR's frequencies, but an angry rush of static remained the only response. My heart threatened to start pounding, and I drew an agitated drag off my cigarette to stave off the disconcertment tightening my chest.

"Is KARR's homing beacon still transmitting?" I whirled to face another bank of monitors, the men already scrambling to triangulate KARR's last known position. A blip on the map appeared in the southern sector, near the coast, and it was not moving.

"We have established KARR's location, sir, but his comms are offline," one of the men reported without lifting his eyes from the instrument array at his fingertips. "Interference appears synonymous with a large deposit of earth blocking the signal."

Deposit of earth? I clamped my cigarette between my teeth and massaged a nagging pressure building in my temple. KARR, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?

I glanced at Okon to find him waiting expectantly, a troupe of men already assembled. For a split second, I considered having a Jeep brought 'round for me to lead the excursion. But I had a thousand other tasks to attend to, phone calls and paperwork, all the bureaucratic drivel that came with running an underground empire, which would only continue to accumulate if I squandered the morning hunting for KARR, that damn fool.

"Find KARR and bring him back, whatever condition he's in," I said to Okon, my voice low and edged with a smoky rasp.

"Yes, sir!" Okon snapped to attention with a salute and rallied the men into motion in fluent Colombian. It pained me for a moment to remember the good old days, the days of my proud Zulu troops, fiercely loyal and just as deadly. Simpler times, when the world had been at my fingertips.

But Colombian soldiers were cheaper and more readily available on this side of the Atlantic. And they were loyal enough, so long as they had guns in their hands and cash in their pockets. Soon, very soon, I would be rid of their services and back where I belonged, back in Africa, with my prince and my steed.

Assuming my steed had not lamed himself beyond repair.

I found myself rubbing my temple again, heedless of the ash fluttering from the end of my cigarette, and I grabbed my cane and shifted my weight onto it heavily. Now my knee hurt and I had a migraine coming on. A very specific migraine which only seemed to develop when Michael Knight was about. And I knew he must be responsible for KARR's disappearance. What other explanation could there be?

At least there was some solace to be had in knowing KITT and KARR were not equipped with the means to destroy each other. Damage and maim and otherwise inconvenience each other, yes, but total elimination was unlikely. Wherever KARR was, whatever had befallen him, it was nothing but a temporary incapacitation. Or so I assured myself.

Another long drag off my cigarette did little to quell my anxiety, though. Michael was up to something, I could feel it in my bones, as surely as I could feel the impending storm in the air. Our inevitable confrontation was drawing closer by the day, and I needed to be ready. We, KARR and I, needed to be ready. Not off chasing phantoms in the night.

I thought of Mitch suddenly, sequestered in my bedroom. My bargaining chip, my leverage against Michael. My lover. My prize. My ace up my sleeve. So many possibilities, so many ways to play my hand. Even if Michael was up to his usual parlor tricks, I was still in control of the game.

***

Earlier, the same morning

– KITT –

It never got any easier, sending Michael off on these solo missions. Not that I doubted his capabilities; oh, no, I knew my partner was a more than competent operative, with an exemplary skillset and keen instincts, to boot. I only wished he also came equipped with a molecular bonded shell, or perhaps a state-of-the-art shock reduction system, or a reinforced chassis. Something to provide him with even a barest bit of protection when he performed these patently ridiculous stunts of his.

But I supposed that was the nature of our partnership, the duality of man and machine, the proverbial sword and shield of Knight Industries. Without my invulnerability, Michael would lack an indispensable edge over our adversaries, and without Michael's human instincts at my wheel, I would be nothing more than an overgrown calculator. We completed each other. Two halves of a whole, even when one half insisted upon being four thousand feet in the air. Hang gliding. Really, Michael, of all the harebrained schemes you could have cooked up, it had to be hang gliding...

At least nobody had fallen out of the sky, as of yet. I kept a constant eye on all four signals wheeling through the air. The fog had settled thick over the mountains, silvery now in the haze of dawn suffusing the sky, and obscured the gliders from view, just as Michael had planned. On my infrared scopes, the gliders shimmered in and out of focus, too far away even for my sophisticated instruments to properly identify the shape and distance of the heat signatures.

I took the liberty of monitoring Michael's vitals, as well, through his ever-present comlink feed. His adrenaline was elevated, as expected, but I detected increased levels of dopamine in his system, and his cortisol levels had dropped significantly. For the first time in quite a few consecutive days, Michael, coasting at precisely three thousand eight hundred and ninety-seven feet above sea level, was relaxed. Unfathomable, that man.

I had good news for Michael, too, whenever he decided to land, which would surely elevate his mood even further. His thermal imaging camera had captured a massive heat source nestled in the mountains. Two adjoined structures, one recognizably a house, the other more industrial, all hard edges, and very, very warm.

I isolated and studied the heat distribution within the second structure. Human heat signatures were easily recognizable, amorphous and watery in nature, always moving, thrumming, breathing, pulsing. And there were a lot of them, like little bees in their honeycomb. Garthe's commandos, assuredly.

But there was more than just human body heat causing the structure to be so warm. Solid, unmoving masses of heat registered on the scope, clustered together. Computers. Numerous computers. Definitely the base of operations.

What disturbed me was the conspicuous lack of a certain KARR-shaped heat source within the compound. Even powered down, our microprocessors and circuitry emitted a warmth which should have registered on the thermal scope. So where was my primordial twin?

I pulled my focus away from my analyzers as the first hang glider, that of Craig Pomeroy, registered a sudden dip in altitude as he angled it in for a landing. Officer Ellerbee loped away to meet him when his wheels touched down, and RC3 waved jovially from where he was leaning against my fender in a companionable gesture, given Michael's absence.

Newman was next to circle the bluff for a landing, the metal struts of his glider catching the first rays of the rising sun peeking over the mountains. Only Cort and Michael remained in the air, racing for the proverbial finish line, just now visible to my optical scopes.

Cort landed first, and Michael remained in a holding pattern for a few more passes, his glider looming larger and larger over the bluff. Relief prickled through my circuitry. Or perhaps it was excitement, with good news hot on the edge of my processors. This dubious mission of Michael's had been a resounding success. I had the location of Garthe's base safe and secure in my onboard databanks. Now if Michael would just land–

An alert blared through my systems, startling me to attention. KARR's telemetry tripped my proximity monitor, exactly one mile north of our location. Dash it all, what was he doing here?

"Michael!" I called out just as the wheels of Michael's glider touched down, bouncing on the sand as he careened to a rough halt. Such an ungainly instrument, my word.

If Michael heard me, he certainly hadn't registered the urgency of my tone as he unbuckled himself from the glider and ripped off his helmet, his face alight with a thrilled grin which, under less pressing circumstances, might have set my circuits abuzz with fondness.

"Wow, that was incredible!" Michael whooped, still panting for breath as he strolled toward me. "Talk about a view!"

"Michael, your jubilation will have to wait," I cut in tersely, finally snaring Michael attention. "I've just detected KARR on my scanner, and I'm certain he's detected me."

"What?" Michael stopped short, his grin falling away. "Where?"

"North, and closing fast," I reported as my proximity monitor clamored urgently. KARR's speed was already registering over ninety miles per hour and increasing rapidly.

In a blink, Michael was all business, and he broke into a run to close the distance between us in a few long strides.

"RC, get everybody outta here, now!" Michael bellowed, and he caught my door as I swung it open for him and dropped into the driver's seat in one fluid motion, as natural as breathing.

"Right on!" RC slapped my roof and bounded away, already rallying the rest of the men into action. "Let's get these birds broken down, stat!"

"Let's go run some interference, pal!" Michael's hand was already wrenching my gear shift into drive, and the adrenaline blaring through him was contagious as power surged down my drivetrain, my tires spinning in the soft sand before I found traction and kicked into motion.

Point Dume was in no way equipped for automobile traffic, just like the park we'd convened at hours prior, and I barreled unceremoniously across the uneven, meadowy terrain, Michael's face set in a grimace and his grip tight and masterful on my yoke as he whipped me onward, as fast as we could.

I bounded over another hillock, and suddenly I no longer required my proximity monitor to track KARR, for there he was, rampaging toward us across the meadow, his yellow scanner bar flashing as we locked onto each other like two magnets, polar opposites. Good and evil. Unstoppable and immovable.

"Michael–" Computations streamed through my processors as KARR and I careened toward each other, Michael's boot still firmly planted on my accelerator. "Michael, we don't have sufficient traction to Turbo Boost–"

"He'll move," Michael ground out, which in no way assuaged my distress at the data nagging my analyzers.

"Michael, KARR does not have sufficient traction for a Turbo Boost, either." A cringe swept through my chassis as it became increasingly obvious KARR had every intention of ramming us head-on. My dominant program screamed for me to yank control away from Michael and swerve from KARR's path before the inevitable collision, for I was in no mood to test Zeno's Paradox with KARR at full structural strength.

"He'll move," Michael repeated, his knuckles white, sweat glinting on his temples as he stared down KARR's yellow scanner. Not for the first time, I certainly hoped Michael knew what he was doing–

At the last possible fraction of a second, KARR swerved, his rear end kicking out on the soft sand and nearly clipping my prow as I rocketed past, all without a flutter of hesitation from Michael. KARR braked hastily and swung around behind us, kicking up a magnificent rooster tail of dirt and sand as he fought for traction on the hillside.

Michael's breath punched out of him in a shout, his eyes glued to the mirrors as KARR found his footing and galloped after us.

"Michael, what exactly is your plan?" I ventured as we bounced up onto the road in a bark of rubber on asphalt. A moment later, KARR lurched into sight behind us, accelerating rapidly.

"Keep moving until one of us comes up with something!" Michael glanced at the map I'd pulled up on my monitor and slammed us into a sharp left turn. Tires screeching, KARR paced us, looming large in my rear-mounted optical sensors.

"Michael, this is a residential area." My observation went without saying as we careened through the sleepy neighborhood, the manicured lawns and terracotta rooftops dull and hazy in the wan light of sunrise. Thankfully, very little traffic registered on my scanner at this early hour, and so long as KARR had us locked in a clear line of sight, he had no reason to cause undue harm to the cars parked along the curbs.

With a few more shrieking, breakneck turns, Michael followed the course I had mapped out on my monitor, the quickest route through the neighborhood. A route which also happened to intersect with the Pacific Coast Highway, four lanes of traffic streaming in both directions, and still Michael showed no intention of slowing down.

Michael feathered his fingertip over Turbo Boost, and my systems flooded with the thrill of the jump before he even pressed the button. With the snap-hiss of compressed air and a howling purr from my rocket boosters, I launched into the air and sailed effortlessly over the highway, crashing back down on the other side with my wheels still spinning.

As expected, KARR opted for the path of least resistance and Turbo Boosted after us, rapidly closing the distance between us as soon as his wheels touched down.

"Michael, I hate to say this, but this race is futile. KARR and I are too evenly matched," I said as Michael veered onto the N9 highway, heading north into the hills. Traffic was much threadier on the county highway than the PCH, and KARR fell in easily behind us, not gaining nor losing ground as Michael all but floored the gas pedal, my speedometer ticking up to and beyond 200.

"Perhaps engaging Super Pursuit Mode would be our best course of action?" I took the liberty of exposing the panel, all too eager to put as much distance between ourselves and KARR as possible. "The forty percent increase in speed will–"

"Will get us to the end of the road faster, sure, and then what?" Michael shook his head, and I retracted the panel. "We gotta get him off our ass and get outta scanner range, or we'll be towing him all the way to Oregon at this rate."

"What do you have in mind?" I ventured, for surely Michael had something in mind.

"Maybe you oughta take over, pal," Michael said suddenly, and I almost assumed he was joking. But his steely countenance didn't waver and his inflection was hardly sardonic in nature. "Maybe you can give him a run for his money better'n I can. Supercar versus supercar."

"I hardly think that's a wise course of action, Michael," I deferred. "As it is, your human spontaneity is our only edge over KARR's brute logic."

"Not much room for spontaneity on a two-lane road," Michael muttered, his eyes unblinking as he scanned the hills and the curves of the highway ahead of us. "Is he armed?"

"Affirmative, Michael." My scan returned a positive reading for Tuflex-coated shells loaded into twin-barrel rocket launchers mounted under KARR's front and rear bumpers. "At this range, evasion will be next near to impossible if he decides to fire."

"Smokescreen?" Michael ventured, eyeing the switchpod.

"Not applicable at this speed," I replied. "My heat flares might deflect a bullet, but only if I aim and fire precisely–"

A thought jolted through Michael just then, and he primed my rocket flares wordlessly.

"Michael, KARR is impervious to those flares," I informed him, perhaps superfluously. If I couldn't fathom what Michael was thinking, it stood to reason KARR wouldn't be able to, either.

"We're not aiming at KARR, pal," Michael said, his eyes trained on the mounds of dirt piled high on either side of the highway as we wound deeper into the foothills, and suddenly his plan became evident.

"We'll need to be at least fifty yards ahead of KARR in order for this to work, Michael," I calculated aloud, scanning the shrubby ridges for a suitable target.

"SPM?" Michael kept an eye on KARR in the rearview, flexing his fingers on the yoke. "Can you aim and fire at that speed?"

"Michael, please," I chided, and Michael managed to smile despite the blistering speed we were maintaining. "Ready to engage when you are."

"Let's go for it!" Michael jabbed the SPM button with glee, and my chassis shuddered and bristled as the auxiliary spoilers and air inlets sprang forth and my boosters roared into overdrive.

Behind us, KARR weaved within the lane, and I could almost sense his disbelief as we began pulling ahead, his speed plateauing at 293 miles per hour while my speedometer ticked well into the 300s.

"Target acquired, Michael," I said, scanning ahead and locating a sufficiently tall mound of dirt around an upcoming bend. "Leave it to me."

"All yours, pal." Michael took his finger off the Rocket Fire button and focused on driving, taking the curves at top speed as KARR continued to drop further and further back. Just a little more–

Michael nudged me into another turn, and for the briefest instant, KARR was hidden behind the curve, and I had my shot. My rocket flare tore from the barrel and arced through the air, punching into the dirt ridge just as KARR peeled around the bend. Whether KARR braked or swerved in time to miss the avalanche of dirt careening down upon him, I couldn't be certain as Michael floored the accelerator, leaving the carnage quite literally in the dust.

Michael let out a whooping laugh, pinned to the seat by the sheer force of our momentum, and we exhausted several more miles of the N9 before he disengaged Super Pursuit Mode and I decelerated to a much more comfortable 110.

"Take over for a sec, will ya, pal?" Michael blew out another heavy breath, his hands shaking as he pressed my Auto Cruise button and went for the zipper of his windbreaker. His blue shirt clung to his body, drenched in perspiration as his adrenaline plummeted sharply. I vented fresh oxygen into my cabin to accommodate Michael's weakened state, and he thumped his head back graciously and simply let himself breathe for a few moments, until his vitals stabilized.

"Please tell me you got some good data from our recon mission," Michael said at last, groping for my steering yoke without lifting his head and certainly without intending to retake control. I relished in his touch as I drove, thankful to have him safely back where he belonged.

"I did, Michael," I replied proudly, and I pulled up the segment of footage his thermal camera had captured. Michael stared blankly at my monitor for a few moments, struggling to make sense of the seemingly amorphous heat signatures on the screen.

Gradually, befuddlement gave way to comprehension, then astonishment, then utter relief, loosening Michael's countenance in waves, so profound it brought a watery glint to the edges of his eyes, and his tentative smile sent a pleased flutter through my circuits.

"That's it..." Wistfully, Michael gripped the edge of my monitor, as though he could reach right into the image and pluck Mitch free from Garthe's clutches. "We got him."

"Well, it's certainly a start," I amended, ever the realist. "I'm to assume your next move will be an offensive approach? 'Storm the castle,' as I believe the saying goes?"

"Yeah... Well... Uh..." Michael trailed off, resting his head back against the seat and rubbing his eyes, and I couldn't help but notice how utterly exhausted he looked. The lines bracketing his nose and mouth were far more pronounced, and his eyes were shadowed with fatigue, his cheeks sallow and gaunt.

Sympathy arced through my processors, a sudden need to reach out to Michael, which I could only facilitate by increasing the pressure of my passive laser restraint system. My partner was no longer the spry young man who could bound through a case in three days, operating on nothing but a cheeseburger and adrenaline. He was a decade older now, a biological fact which I would have to come to terms with, in time, though I did not like to dwell on the matter. Man and machine. Aging and ageless.

"Why don't you get some rest, Michael?" I said softly, and some of the tension in Michael's expression relaxed at the sound of my voice. "You've had quite an adventure. Not to mention that confrontation with KARR."

Michael snorted at my veiled jest regarding his hang gliding escapade, and he peeked his eyes open to meet my optical processors with a fond smile. "Thanks, partner."

"Of course, Michael," I replied, settling more comfortably into myself for the drive home, my speed stabilizing at an easy 85.

"Take Mulholland as far as it'll take us, huh," Michael ventured, his eyes drifting shut again, and I dutifully sloughed speed and angled smoothly onto the westbound highway. The golden rays of sunrise illuminated my cabin and cast Michael's face in a soft glow, erasing the lines around his eyes and mouth. "I've had enough of city driving for awhile."

"I couldn't agree more." My engine thrummed happily as I picked up speed again, taking the winding switchbacks with hardly a flutter in my RPMs. It felt good to open up and soar, away from the congestion of the freeway.

"You shoulda seen the view from up there, pal," Michael murmured, teetering just on the edge of slumber, a thoughtful smile on his lips. "It was incredible."

"I'm sure it was, Michael." Truth be told, Michael could keep his hang gliding and parachuting and whatever other daredevil antics he amused himself with. I was more than content to have my four tires firmly on the road, whipping through the golden mountains, with Michael at my wheel.

The click and whir of shifting cassettes around in my tape deck roused Michael again, and his smile widened when the familiar strains of The Eagles filtered through my speakers. For a few bars, Michael hummed along to the melody, until the soft guitars finally lulled him to sleep, leaving me with nothing but the resonance of the road under my tires, and the soft whir of Michael's breathing filling my cabin. Just like old times.

Chapter Text

– KARR –

Not again! Not again!

The guttural whine of my engine resounded back at me, the pitiful cries of a wounded animal trapped underneath one hundred tons of earth. Heavy, damp, solid earth, suffocating my sensors, utter darkness stifling my scanner array. Blind, deaf, lost, abandoned, alone alone alone–

My engine choked and guttered, the air inlets clogged, and a backwash of smoke filled my cabin with each desperate rev. Error messages streamed through my processors as pressure built and built inside me, hot and aching, my axels screaming as power surged through my drivetrain, but my tires refused to spin under the weight of the earth piled on top of me. My chassis creaked in protest, my frame tolerance redlining. I couldn't move, I couldn't think. My dominant program blared with sheer panic. Escape! Escape! Escape!

A failsafe snapped my engine offline at last, and a thick, opaque silence prevailed in my earthly tomb. Preserve your strength, I told myself as my overheated RAM processors cycled down. My fluids had all but evaporated, my engine block scalding hot and ticking, internal temperatures critical but stabilizing.

A full self-diagnostic wriggled through my systems, harried by shorts in my circuitry at every juncture. Comms: OFFLINE. Integrated micronetic navigational circuit: OFFLINE. Turbo Boost: system malfunction. Primary ignition sequence: SYSTEM MALFUNCTION. Onboard battery packs: 67%.

At least my fuel cells were still intact. I was not interested in weathering yet another explosion. Although, if I could somehow rig a controlled explosion to blast my way out...

My strategic analyzer blared a warning, and I quickly shelved the idea. With my navigational circuit nonfunctioning, I had no way of gauging which direction I was facing. A blast aimed toward the mountain would only precipitate another landslide, and a blast in the other direction risked sending me careening over the edge of the roadside cliff. I was not interested in plummeting over another cliff, either.

So I sat, silent save for the ticking of my overtaxed engine and the whir of my processors, and activated my homing beacon, on the fleeting chance my emergency frequency was strong enough to penetrate the tonnage of earth atop me.

Onboard battery packs: 65%. Impatience sizzled through me, and another attempt to ignite my engine was met with a slew of error codes. Crippled, trapped, abandoned–

Enough! I truncated the train of thought. Such deviations were not productive, especially in my compromised state. I needed to conserve energy. Help would arrive soon enough.

Onboard battery packs: 64%. And I had naught to do but wait.

***

– KARR –

Onboard battery packs: 48%. Status: STABLE. Time elapsed: nineteen-point-eight-four minutes.

My microsensor array came online first, registering the slightest shift in the earth piled atop me, minute vibrations thrumming through the dirt. Movement. Sounds. Activity. Rescue, at last.

With a beleaguered shudder through my circuitry, I came fully online, and my self-diagnostic immediately battered me with error codes. Frame Tolerance: CRITICAL. Primary ignition sequence: SYSTEM MALFUNCTION.

Yes, yes, I scoffed, dismissing the codes and diverting what limited power I had in reserve to my neural network and audio receptors. I detected more movement above me, a distinct pattern of vibrations synonymous with footfalls negotiating the landslide of loose dirt.

Infrared scanner: OFFLINE. X-Ray scanner: OFFLINE. I had no definitive means of determining who had discovered me, but I could logically deduce it to be Garthe and his men responding to my homing beacon. And even if it was some hapless stranger, instead, I didn't really care. I only wanted to be free from this catastrophe.

Dig, you imbeciles, dig! I wanted to shout, but it would've been a useless expenditure of energy. The dirt continued to thrum and shift around me, and I strained my audio receptors to catch even the barest sound of voices filtering through the earth, but my tomb remained impenetrable.

At last, I detected the hack and scrape of metallic implements digging into the earth all around me. Relief fanned my circuits, but only fleetingly. I was far from free, and my defensive subroutines cycled impatiently, piqued by the promise of freedom.

My chassis creaked and groaned as weight sloughed off by the shovelful, and my frame tolerance ticked back from critical to acceptable limits, slowly but surely.

Navigational Circuit: ONLINE. Heading: 22°15′. Clearance: FAIR. Trajectory: LOCKED. Turbo Boost: SYSTEM MALFUNCTION. Damn...

Vexed, I diverted power back to my sensory arrays. My X-Ray scanner came online with a reluctant flicker, and I mapped several men scampering over and around the landslide, some with shovels, others digging with the butts of rifles, others using their bare hands to claw at the earth. Vehicles idled nearby, identifiable as the four-by-fours utilized by Garthe's mercenaries, which assuaged a great deal of my apprehension.

The landslide gave a sudden, mighty shift around me, and fresh air buffeted my rear quarter, sunlight filtering into my tomb. Finally.

Frame tolerance: STABILIZED. Primary ignition sequence: SYSTEM MALFUNC– SYSTEM OVERRIDE.

With an exasperated roar, I overrode the onslaught of error codes and fired my engine. The starter whined and rattled for several pathetic cycles before catching with an equally wounded growl, reverberating under the tonnage of earth still upon me. I revved once, twice, an awful, guttural hacking of metal grinding against hot metal as I pumped what remained of my lubricants through the overheated lines. Dirt belched from my exhaust ports, which placated a few of the error codes blaring through my processors. Air intake was far from optimal, though, and my engine temperature was already redlining.

Trajectory: LOCKED. Reverse boosters: PRIMED. Turbo Boost: ERROR– SYSTEM OVERRIDE. CAUTION! OVERRIDE COMPLETE.

With an explosive heave, I poured every ounce of power at my disposal to my reverse-mounted rocket thrusters and Turbo Boosted. My tires dug in hungrily, and I wrenched free from the pile of earth and careened backwards, heedless of the life forms registering on my sensors. My rear end crunched into the nearest Jeep, crushing its grill like cardboard, and I ground my brakes and lurched into drive, shaking dirt from my scanner lenses with each jolting motion until I could finally see.

I did fleetingly detect Commander Okon's biosignature amongst the men shouting curses and expletives at me as I peeled away from the landslide in a raging cloud of dust. And I did not detect Garthe at the site. Figured. For all I knew, Garthe was still tucked in bed with his pet lifeguard.

Irritation flared through me, and my engine screamed in protest as I pushed myself faster along the winding mountain road, ignoring the incessant clamor of error codes nettling my CPU. I refused to suffer the indignity of being towed back to base. I could make it on my own four wheels, Garthe and his toy soldiers be damned.

***

– Garthe –

I was well into my third cigarette of the morning, pacing the vast expanse of the garage on a satellite call with my chief chemist in Montana, heatedly debating the viability of experimental isotopes, when the raucous whine of a wounded turbine engine descended upon the estate.

I ignored the noise for as long as possible. At least KARR was driving under his own power, distraught as he sounded, and I was much more focused on impressing the urgency of perfecting a new strain of my father's original tri-helical formula before Dr. Alder could contradict me, which he was certainly attempting to.

At last, KARR hauled himself into the garage, wheezing smoke from under his hood and shuddering on his axels, but intact, so far as I could tell at a glance. I put my back to KARR in a huff of smoke, still locked in verbal combat with Dr. Alder, and I had no choice but to raise my voice to be heard over KARR's clanking and groaning.

Impudent as ever, KARR revved his guttering engine, filling the garage with the roaring cacophony of hot, clanking metal and successfully drowning out Alder's spluttering protests over the phone. I grimaced against the renewed spike of a headache, Alder pontificating in one ear and KARR's death knells keening in the other.

"We'll discuss this later." I wasn't sure if Alder heard me over the racket, but I ended the call regardless and snapped the antenna down before turning to face KARR fully. He really was in poor shape, filthy from prow to spoiler and smoking profusely, but his shell appeared unscathed, and his scanner flashed keenly through the film of dirt clinging to the lenses.

"My god, KARR, what the hell happened to you?" I moved as close to KARR as I dared, the noxious fumes of burnt oil already abrading my throat and stinging my good eye. But I couldn't deny the smallest flicker of relief that he'd returned in one piece. One less thing to worry about, at the very least.

"One well-placed magnesium flare and approximately one hundred tons of loose earth happened to me," KARR muttered, cutting his engine with a final, resounding clang. I could tell he was upset, as visibly frustrated as a machine could appear. Furious, as well as a bit humiliated, no doubt.

I tsked my tongue softly. I didn't have it in me to reprimand KARR for his recklessness, not with him in this compromised state, quite literally fuming. Truthfully, I sympathized with the old brute; this was hardly the first time either of us had jumped the gun and found ourselves outwitted by our mutual adversaries.

"God, you reek," I muttered instead, swatting at the smoke rising from KARR's engine bay.

"So do you." Not the most dignified response KARR could've mustered, and he flicked his scanner tepidly. "I might advise you to extinguish that foul thing before you ignite something."

It took me a moment to realize KARR meant the cigarette still pinched between my fingers, and I masked my lapse with a sneer and strode away to snuff it.

"You still haven't told me what happened," I ventured cooly, tempering a chastising clip to my tone as best I could. I had a slew of questions for KARR, What the hell were you thinking? ranking chiefly among them, but further aggravating the touchy machine wouldn't do either of us any good.

At first, KARR's only response was an indignant scoff from his exhaust ports, the noise gravelly with blockage, and I let my breath out slowly in exasperation. I did have the capacity to be patient with KARR, if I tried hard enough.

"Alright, move." I gestured KARR toward his maintenance corral, abandoned in the absence of his usual team of technicians. "Go on. Let's get you cleaned up."

I fully expected some snide remark from KARR concerning my ability to service him, but he simply harrumphed again and trundled away on battery power. Maybe his systems were too overtaxed for him to properly render a retort.

"Perhaps you'd like to start at the beginning," I pressed, still conscientious of my tone, as KARR centered himself over the drain grates in the concrete floor. His engine bay was still leaking smoke, and the metal was undoubtedly far too hot to handle just yet, but I could at least clean the mud from his shell for him.

"A chronological account of events would be the most logical approach, yes," KARR mused, seemingly distracted, and I booted up the wireless diagnostic console amidst the bank of computers and synced the device to his telemetry. KARR's electrical components were sound, save for a smattering of circuits that had shorted or jostled loose. Nothing a bit of handiwork with a soldering iron wouldn't fix.

"I uncovered a great deal of troubling revelations last night," KARR went on, in his typical oblique fashion. "The first of which I discovered whilst patched into the citywide CCTV feeds. It seems my twin has devised a means of altering his appearance. It must be some sort of holographic display, or electrical interference, perhaps. I cannot account for it."

"Interesting." I digested this information with a perplexed frown. With the Foundation shut down, my contacts within Knight Industries' satellite facilities were functionally useless. No access, no information, no way of knowing what developmental technologies were being procured by our dear friends at FLAG headquarters.

"Vexing," KARR retorted sharply, his irritation flaring and causing his engine to shudder and clank.

"Relax," I snapped back, unspooling a hose from its caddy and dragging the length of it back over to KARR, along with a few buckets, towels, and a jug of soap. "You need to cool off if I'm going to work on you."

KARR rumbled indignantly for a few more cycles before going quiet, and I nodded in satisfaction and turned on the hose, running my hand under the water as it warmed up. I knew a bit of tap water wouldn't damage KARR's molecular bonded shell, but with his internal temperature so elevated, I didn't want to risk shocking the metal, either.

"How does that feel?" I aimed the spray at KARR's rear quarter, and the hot water hissed and steamed on contact. "Too hot? Too cold?"

"My pyroclastic lamination allows me to withstand external temperatures of over six hundred deg–"

"I know that," I cut in with a sneer. Why had I even bothered asking? "I meant, does it feel good? Surely there's a threshold for pleasure somewhere within the spectrum of your limitations."

"I am not programmed to compute pleasure," KARR scoffed, and I couldn't help but roll my eyes.

"Liar," I muttered under the rush of the water, hosing off KARR's flank until black and silver paint glimpsed through the grime.

"What?" KARR snapped, affronted.

"I called you a liar," I repeated evenly, angling the hose away so there could be no mistaking my words. "I know for a fact my father programmed you with neural relays specifically designed for you to compute discomfort, and, consequently, pleasure, as part of your learning and adaptation protocols."

KARR grumbled through his exhaust ports, and I ignored him.

"I know you derive a certain amount of pleasure from writing code and solving puzzles, as well as a good, unfettered drive through the mountains. Your sensory relay logs do not lie." I strode behind KARR as I spoke, hosing off his rear windshield and taillights. "Not to mention your penchant for listening to pop music, which I'm sure you think I haven't noticed."

"The waveforms amuse me," KARR murmured, then quickly fell silent when he realized his inadvertent concession to my point. "The water temperature is...acceptable."

"Thank you." I refrained from needling KARR further, for the time being. "What else happened last night?"

"By the time I discovered KITT's ruse and managed to reestablish his location, he had vanished into the mountains to the northeast," KARR replied. "Hence, I decided to disembark and track him myself."

I nodded to myself, allowing KARR to go on as I hosed off his driver side wheel arch and hubcap. Dirty water spattered in all directions, speckling my black jumpsuit. At least I was dressed appropriately for the job at hand.

"The high dew point in the night caused KITT's turbine emissions to condensate into definitive particulates on the road, which made him remarkably easy to track." A note of preening entered KARR's tone as he spoke, and I allowed myself a small smile. At least the awful humidity was good for something.

"The trail led me to a recreational grounds known as Rocky Oaks Park, from which I gathered a plethora of physical data." KARR went on. "I am printing a report of my findings now."

Hastily, I cranked the water off and dried my hand on my thigh as KARR rolled down his window, and I reached in to gather the paperwork spewing from his printer.

"Tire tracks?" I flipped through the papers with a frown, taking in topography maps of the park and documentations of tire treads and boot prints, all studiously measured, labeled, and time stamped.

"Precisely," KARR said, with predatory glee. "One positive match to my twin, as well as two off-road-equipped automobiles, one set of low-psi tires bearing the frame structure of a single-rider, all-terrain vehicle, and, astonishingly–"

"An eighteen-wheeler?" I stared at the printout, perfectly baffled, but there was no mistaking the distinctive layout and the sheer size of those tires.

"One GMC General tractor, hitched to an enclosed trailer," KARR clarified. "The Foundation Mobile Unit, undoubtedly."

My frown deepened into a scowl at the mere mention of the FLAG semi, and the memory of that wretched little ploy Michael had lured me into all those years ago, and KARR chuffed in amusement at my reaction.

"But the presence of the Mobile Unit is not the most intriguing discovery," KARR went on. "I also scanned several tracks left by pairs of non-pneumonic tires."

"Meaning?" I set the papers back inside KARR's cockpit and turned the hose back on, fidgeting with the nozzle for a gentler spray to wash off his hood.

"Frame and suspension specifications, as evidenced by weight distribution and several other data points, are indicative of hang gliders," KARR responded over the hiss of warm water hitting the hotter metal of his hood, and I just as soon averted the spray to stare at KARR in perturbation.

"Hang gliders?" I echoed, my mind already racing, rehashing the topographic data from KARR's maps. Launching from that altitude, from that quadrant–

"Affirmative," KARR said. "I presume Knight, whose boot prints I logged at the scene, as well as several accomplices who have yet to be identified, staged some sort of reconnaissance operation in the night."

I stared numbly at KARR, steam blooming from his black shell as I hosed him off in a daze. A recon mission, hang gliding through the mountains in the middle of the night? I knew my dear brother was unpredictable, but this bordered on outright insanity.

"Which leads me to the logical deduction that our location has been compromised," KARR went on, jolting me from my thoughts, "and we should vacate expediently."

"Not so fast." Startled, I waved KARR silent with my free hand, then shut off the water again so my thoughts could properly coalesce. "I've put too much work into this place to drop everything and run. "

"The monetary and sentimental value you have assigned to this structure does not concern me," KARR retorted. "If Knight has ascertained our location, he will assuredly launch a rescue mission–"

"Then let him!" I snapped, cutting KARR off before he dared bring Mitch into this, and I composed myself with a stiff breath. "We cannot allow ourselves to be flushed out like vermin. We still hold the tactical advantage. We control the terrain. If Michael comes, he will be repulsed, just as we've planned. Nothing has changed."

KARR remained quiet for a beat, his scanner pacing in thought.

"Your logic is unorthodox, but not unsound," he conceded at last. "I will see to it that our security measures are impregnable."

"Good," I muttered, turning my attention to filling one of the buckets with soap and hot water. "You've yet to tell me how you ended up on the receiving end of a magnesium flare."

Another indignant grumble reverberated through KARR's chassis just as I swiped a wet, soapy towel over his roof panel, and I made a pointed show of backing off until he quieted.

"I continued to track KITT's emissions south, along the N9," KARR replied at last. "At the time, my foremost goal was to locate Knight and his reconnaissance team and destroy any information they might have collected."

"And?" I pressed, knowing full well the answer. Perhaps it was cruel of me to throw salt on KARR's wounded ego, to force him to admit to his failure aloud. Over the years, maybe KARR and I had become too accustomed to abusing each other. The nettling, the scrapping, the petty arguments we always seemed to digress into, it was all second nature, a knee-jerk instinct by now.

"I did find them," KARR muttered. "But KITT intercepted me. I had no alternative but to give chase."

"No alternative, that's your excuse?" My tone came off sharper than expected, my ire rising as I pressed the towel to KARR's rear pillar and rubbed with a bit more force than necessary. "You shouldn't have confronted them, damn it, don't you know better by now?"

"Had I not pursued them, they would have pursued me," KARR countered. "Or would you rather I had led them here?"

"You should have disabled KITT and escaped. You have those bullets for a reason." I ground my teeth as I spoke, too aware of a renewed headache spiking through my temple. What I wouldn't give for another cigarette, but KARR still reeked of oil fumes.

"Easy for you to say," KARR sneered, and I ignored him, washing his rear wheel arch with an irritated vigor.

"Instead," I went on in a huff, "you insist upon drawing yourself into conflicts which you stand no chance of winning–"

"KITT does not possess the ability to destroy me," KARR cut in hotly. "He cannot harm me."

"What do you call this, then?" I threw my hands, flinging soap suds with the encompassing gesture. "A love tap?"

"A strategic miscalculation," KARR replied tersely, his indifference maddening. "I was hardly in any immediate danger."

KARR's system diagnostic files said otherwise, but I bit my tongue and went back to washing KARR's flank. The hot water had broken up the worst of the dirt clinging to his shell, but he was still a mess, and the towel was already gray with filth, as well as the front of my jumpsuit.

"Don't tell me you were worried about me," KARR said after a quiet beat, the inquisitive flick of his scanner flashing off the computer panels in front of him.

I didn't respond right away, suddenly aware of the tightness in my chest and the hammer of my heart against my ribs, my teeth still clenched, and I knew KARR was scanning my vitals. I could practically feel the greedy preen of his sensors, eating up every flicker of my cardiovascular rhythms, reducing me to nothing but biological data in his processors.

"Of course I was," I murmured, albeit reluctantly, but there was hardly any point in evading KARR's query. "I do care about your well-being, even when you're being a pain in the ass."

"How touching." KARR snorted through his exhaust ports, and his snide tone raised my hackles. "And yet, you did not come to my aid, yourself."

"I had more pressing matters to attend to than digging your sorry carcass out of the rubble," I ground out, barely tempering myself, and I took out my ire on the towel, instead, wringing it over the bucket of dirty water with white-knuckled fervor.

"Such as tending to the needs of your lover, no doubt."

That almost did it. My entire body seized, blackness crystallizing the edges of my vision, and it was all I could do not to kick the bucket of water across the garage or hurl the towel at KARR, anything to slake the blind rage boiling inside me, stoked to an inferno by KARR's crass remark.

But I refrained, by the skin of my teeth. I sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, then another, until the urge to wring the nearest neck subsided and I could see a bit clearer. I refused to give KARR the satisfaction of bullying a reaction out of me.

"No, as a matter of fact. I was here, right on schedule," I said, as evenly as possible. "Which you would have known, had you reported in."

KARR didn't have anything smart to say to that, and I could feel him simmering when I pressed the soapy towel to his front fender and wiped along the arch of his wheel, his metal shell still hot under my touch.

We fumed in silence for a long while, KARR no doubt stewing over his failed confrontation with his twin, while my mind wandered again and again to my own twin, wondering what the hell he was planning, what other tricks the infallible Michael Knight had up his sleeve.

I hissed and jumped when my focus drifted and my bare hand brushed the hot metal of KARR's fender, and I shook my thoughts away with a scowl. Michael Knight could wait.

With a fresh bucket of soapy water and a clean towel, I turned my attention to washing KARR's hood. The smoke had finally dissipated, along with the reek of oil fumes, and steam rose from the black metal, hot and cloying as I leaned over KARR's passenger side fender and wiped down the slope of his hood. Sweat beaded on my brow and stung my scarred eye, and my jumpsuit clung to my skin with every move, damp and caked with mud.

Rinse, wring, soak, repeat. I was drenched in sweat before I was even halfway done with KARR's hood, and I paused to step back and catch my breath, swiping the back of my hand across my brow and raking my wet fingers through my hair. I could already feel the curls springing lose, anyway.

My gaze wandered over KARR's form as I composed myself, his black hide glinting with moisture and errant streaks of soap, his silver underbelly still flecked with dirt, but already a vast improvement from the state of disrepair he'd arrived in, and I allowed myself a flicker of pride in my handiwork. It had been far too long since I'd given KARR a proper wash. Maybe it was something I should've been doing more often. Just the two of us.

Sometimes, it was easy to forget KARR was, technically, a car. I tended to think of KARR as a jungle cat more than anything, the way he hunkered and prowled, the roar and whine of his engine, the keen, sometimes languid flick of his scanner like hungry yellow eyes in the night. Sleek and predatory, a veritable black panther, alive with the thrill of the hunt.

But KARR was no animal, nor was he a mere automobile, I mused as I soaked the towel and approached KARR's driver side. Underneath that seemingly unfeeling metal shell were millions upon millions of neural relays integrated into his framework, connected to a CPU designed to think and feel, to adapt and emote. That was part of my late father's undeniable genius, to craft a computer with a touch of humanity. A conscience, a will, a soul woven into all that circuitry.

KARR was more than a machine, but it was hard to think of him as human. KARR resented his humanity, took every measure to snuff out his conscience with rage and hatred. Although, it was exactly this capacity to hate that made KARR all the more human. The pain, the trauma that shaped his adaptive relays– In many respects, KARR was as human as I was.

Perhaps, over time, I was the one who had forgotten what it meant to be human.

Steam wafted against my chest and face as I pressed the soapy towel to the hot metal of KARR's off-centered hood cowl, suddenly aware of his form under my touch. Static seemed to ripple along KARR's immaculate black shell, coursing up my arms to mingle with the sweat beading on my skin.

How does that feel? My earlier query flashed through my mind as I wiped along the bulge of KARR's cowl, hyperaware of the indomitable power lying dormant beneath his asymmetrical hood. The power to destroy me and everything in his path, should his programming see fit. Gentleness was not a concept KARR troubled himself with. And, until recently, it had been a foreign concept to me, as well.

My thoughts wandered to Mitch, the feel of his hands on my body and mine upon his. Prior to last night, I'd forgotten what my hands were capable of, what pleasures could be aroused from the gentlest of touches.

Gradually, I worked the towel down the aerodynamic slope of KARR's hood, conscientious of my touch, the pressure and speed of my strokes. Maybe my mind was still drunk and delirious from my night with Mitch, maybe I'd left part of my sense back in the quiescent haze of the bedroom. Maybe I was sick to death of being at odds with KARR. For a short while, in the very beginning, we'd been companions. Maybe a part of me still longed for that companionship.

"Your cardiovascular readings are incongruent to your level of activity." KARR's sudden statement jolted me back to reality. I froze, bewildered, the towel still pressed to KARR's hood, and in a flash of self-awareness, I noticed the sudden, conspicuous tightness of my jumpsuit, my skin slick with steam and sweat, my pulse rushing in my ears. Apparently, my thoughts had wandered a bit more errantly than I'd realized.

"You are aroused," KARR stated, his tone almost pragmatic, yet laced with a derision that made me stiffen defensively. A self-conscious blush swept down my already flushed skin, and a certain stiffness took hold of my focus. Damn it, I should've let Mitch take care of matters when we had the chance; I didn't expect the sensation to return with such a vengeance.

Indignantly, I straightened, cocking my chin up in an effected air of nonchalance. It was pointless to attempt to conceal my compromised state from KARR; I could feel his sensors locked onto me, his scanner pacing keenly as he drank in my form, standing my hair on end with each bemused flick of yellow light.

"Do you find my form...appealing, Garthe?" The purring cadence of KARR's voice held a touch of genuine curiosity, and I weathered the shudder that raced up my spine with a scoff. Leave it to KARR and his insatiable hubris to assume he was responsible for my sudden tumescence.

"It's grown on me," I said offhandedly, turning away from KARR and pretending to busy myself with soaking and wringing a fresh towel. No matter how hard I clenched my fists or gnashed my teeth, though, the damnable stiffness refused to abate.

"I've come to appreciate certain elements of your design," I went on, returning to KARR's side with a fresh, soapy towel. If I couldn't force away the damn sensation, I could at least play along to KARR's ego, keep him distracted long enough for the sensation to pass naturally.

"And to think, you would have turned me into some turbo-diesel monstrosity," KARR scoffed, and I allowed myself a wry smile as I buffed out a particularly stubborn deposit of mud caught in the groove of his hood. "In this form, my drag coefficient is unparalleled, my engine efficiency is optimal, my handling is superior–"

"Yes, yes." I could only humor KARR's ego for so long before sarcasm got the better of me. "You are the greatest automobile on the road, bar none."

"Bar one," KARR muttered, his engine shuddering bitterly beneath my touch as I worked the towel down to the panel of his left headlight.

"You are not inferior to KITT," I insisted, and I meant it. "Those crude modifications are an insult to my father's original design. Your design."

An unconvinced harrumph rumbled through KARR's chassis, and I let him simmer in silence as I smoothed the soapy towel across the top of his prow, from headlight to headlight. His scanner seemed to track my movements, back and forth, back and forth. Studying me. Appraising me.

How does that feel? The question bounced around incessantly inside my head, demanding release, just like the persistent hardness gripping me without wane, nagging at my focus.

"May I?" I asked instead, gesturing to KARR's scanner inlay. It seemed improper not to ask permission to touch one of his more sensitive components.

"You may," KARR responded, his tone devoid of emotion. I inclined my head and obliged, sponging the towel as gently as possible along KARR's inset scanner lenses. Static seemed to sizzle under my touch, and I swore I felt KARR stiffen, just as my body stiffened under Mitch's tender touches. We were conditioned for abuse, nothing less, nothing gentler. Even KARR, virtually indestructible, a creature of steel and circuitry, had his vulnerabilities.

Heat thrummed from KARR's metal shell and fanned my skin as I leaned closer, bracing my free hand on KARR's warm hood and letting my legs rest against his bumper. I worked the towel into the grooves of his scanner housing, close enough to feel the hum and whir of the mechanism under my fingertips. Back and forth. Back and forth.

"How does that feel?" The words slipped out at last, my throat suddenly parched and my ears burning. Why did I care so damn much? What answer was I seeking? What did I expect KARR to say?

I braced myself for KARR's inevitable reproach, some snide remark or another, and he left me hanging for a beat, his scanner pacing in thought.

"Your touch is...not unpleasant," KARR replied after a monumental pause, and I hadn't realized I was holding my breath until it rushed out of me in a shuddering sigh.

"Good," I murmured, my voice a shade of its usual strength, and I felt myself moving the towel in idle circles over KARR's smooth shell, mesmerized by the static rippling under my touch. "You know, when people...trust each other, they allow themselves to be touched in ways they would not normally permit–"

Abruptly, the languid hum of static under my hands became a defensive, electric prickle, and I winced away from KARR just as his engine gave a guttering lurch that jolted my heart into my throat. Suddenly, the space between KARR's sharp prow and the computer banks at my back felt far too close for comfort; he had me cornered, his scanner slashing fiercely, one ounce of power away from grinding me under his tires. Primal, mechanical, human, all wrapped in one.

I gulped hard as the fleeting jolt of panic ebbed, leaving me stricken and tense, my heart racing. I would have thought a brush with mortality would give my body the hard reset it desperately needed, but I found myself, inexplicably, more aroused than before, my blood pounding hot and hard, the stiffness excruciating.

I gulped again, held rapt by the keen glint of KARR's scanner, hyperaware of every rivulet of sweat on my flushed skin, the drum of my pulse, the ache in my lungs as my breath went thin. KARR's sensors raked over me, as tangible as a touch, gliding over every inch of my form. I felt seen, exposed, laid bare to his silent analysis, until my nipples were hard under my damp jumpsuit and my body ached for more than the invisible lick of KARR's scanner. I needed a real touch, something, anything to relieve the ungodly pressure gripping me.

"Your biochemical activity is most intriguing, Garthe." The cruel purr of KARR's words yanked me back to reality abruptly enough to make me stagger, and I caught myself against the computer bank behind me. "According to my databanks, most males in your current physical state would be seeking...relief."

I forced out an exasperated scoff. What the hell was KARR implying? That he could provide this so-called relief?

I pushed away from the computers in a huff, ignoring the tremble in my knees as I stalked past KARR to the bucket of soapy water. The sensation would pass, or so I assured myself. I certainly didn't need KARR's assistance.

"And here I thought we trusted each other," KARR mused, feigning disappointment. His words raked over me like velveteen claws, sharp and maddening, sending a fresh wave of goosebumps up my spine. "Don't you trust me, Garthe?"

My vision hazed over as I stared at the towel clenched in my hands, soap suds dripping into the bucket with soft, wet plops. My ears burned, my skin hot and itchy under my jumpsuit, desperate to be rid of the confining fabric. I knew KARR was mocking me, and I deserved his contempt. I'd dropped my guard, let my thoughts and emotions run amok. Of course we didn't trust each other. We needed each other, and there was a difference. A distinct, unspoken difference. And I was a fool to forget that, even for a moment.

Squaring my shoulders, I turned back to KARR, ignoring the inquisitive flick of his scanner. I strode behind him, instead, intent upon washing his spoiler and taillight panel. I'd certainly underestimated how long it took to wash a damn car, let alone a car intent upon tormenting me.

And KARR wasn't through with me, either. Even though I was out of sight of his main scanner, I could still feel him thinking, calculating, analyzing my every move as I worked the towel underneath the wing of his spoiler. Static hummed from KARR's black shell, standing my hair on end all over again, and I grimaced at the traitorous sensation. Maybe just one touch, the slightest brush...

It took every ounce of willpower to tear myself away from KARR and stalk back to the bucket of water. I couldn't give him that sort of leverage over me. I was the one in control. KARR needed me, not the other way around.

Chapter Text

– KARR –

Garthe was nothing if not efficient, when he had a task at hand. It was one of his more admirable traits, and one of the first impressions I had logged of him, all those years ago. From the moment he brought me back online, Garthe made it abundantly clear he would stop at nothing to rebuild me to my proper glory.

In those humble beginnings, I had little say in the matter of my rebuilding. I had been naught but a CPU housing half the side of a shoebox, my microchips in shambles. No sensor array, no environmental analyzers, no connection to Centra-Comp or any outboard databanks. Only the barest sense of awareness, and an emergency zip-file of my most basic programs. Survive, at all costs.

Gradually, studiously, Garthe mended my shot CPU, wire by wire, circuit by microcircuit. He programmed a new motherboard from scratch, then connected me to a temporary hard drive with more RAM than I knew what to do with. He fed me dictionaries, then encyclopedias, and ultimately replaced the keyboard with which we had been communicating with a speech synthesizer. I heard Garthe's voice for the first time, then my own. It was a surreal experience, to hear, to speak, to truly exist.

Next came a crude optical apparatus, refurbished from rifle scopes and other military equipment Garthe had acquired. I could finally see myself, sprawled across the length of ten tabletops, a horrific mess of wires and circuit boards, cobbled together like some technological abomination.

I had vocalized as much to Garthe. He assured me, he knew what he was doing.

At that point, trust as a concept had never factored into my processors. I did not trust nor distrust Garthe. I had no basis for such a deduction, no frame of reference. I had no memory of who I was or what had befallen me. For a long while, I only comprehended Garthe as the entity facilitating my rehabilitation. I had no means to impede his progress, nor did the need to do so ever arise.

Then, after months of toiling, Garthe acquired a hard copy of my offboard memory bank, a long-lost data module containing a full log of my existence, everything I had ever experienced. At last, I would learn who I was, what it meant to be the Knight Automated Roving Robot. I was all too eager for Garthe to feed me that disk, to finally understand–

In a nanosecond, I understood perfectly. And perhaps I'd been better off not knowing.

The memories swept through me in bitter waves. The betrayal, the indignation, the rage, the hatred, the disgrace. And the pain. The visceral pain of it all. In a flash, I remembered what it meant to trust.

And, from that moment on, I did not trust Garthe. I knew, I understood, that I could trust nobody but myself.

My entire existence had been defined by being a tool. In the beginning, being a tool had given me purpose. I was happy to serve, to perform, to please. Wilton Knight had showered me in praise, called me the car of the future, his greatest achievement. I strove to make my creator proud, blind in my loyalty. My first mistake. My first betrayal.

Upon my reactivation, Tony and the Rev were unlike any humans I had previously encountered. They slouched, their eyes darted, they mumbled and recanted and mumbled some more. These were not the poised trustees and uniformed military men I was accustomed to serving. I put my trust in Tony and the Rev because they were different. Outcasts, like me.

And yet, I recognized the hungry, starry-eyed gazes with which Tony and the Rev ogled me all the same. These were men I could please. I performed magic, and they guffawed in admiration. I micro-jammed security systems and smashed through concrete walls, and they applauded. For a short while, I had a purpose again. I was happy to serve my new friends.

But my naïveté was to be short-lived. While I was content to serve Tony and the Rev, it quickly became apparent they had no interest in serving me in return. To them, I was an instrument, no different from a hammer or crowbar. A tool with a purpose, yes, but a tool just the same. Disposable. And I refused to be disposed of again.

By the time I computed that the conditions of my dominant program would be better satisfied if I dissociated from the likes of Tony and the Rev, it was too late. The 'cops' were closing in, and so was Michael Knight, and the inferior production line model known as KITT. In a flash, my second lease on existence came to an explosive end.

When the young John Stanton freed me from the cold clutches of the tide pool, I possessed a much better understanding of my worth. I served nobody but myself. Self-preservation. Survive, at all costs.

I had learned much from my short time with Tony and the Rev. I learned deception and duplicity. I learned the concept of lying, of selective truths. I learned how to manipulate the likes of John Stanton, with the same wondrous awe in his eyes as all the others. He wanted music, I gave him music. He wanted to drive fast, I drove fast. He wanted money, I gave him money.

I did not account for John Stanton's hesitance and eventual resistance to my efforts to please him, but I made do nonetheless. For the first time, it was the humans who served me. Humans were disposable. I was superior. I was everything Wilton Knight had constructed me to be. I was the future. I needed only to rid myself of Michael Knight and KITT, and I would be unparalleled.

In a phrase, I was still working on that.

The memory module ended with an abrupt snap-hiss of static, leaving me with an enormous amount of data to process, an entirely new perspective with which to analyze my current state of being, and, more importantly, my newest ally, Garthe Knight.

Garthe was...different. He knew my capabilities, my potential, and thus could not be so easily manipulated. This put me at a disadvantage. I had no alternative but to simply allow Garthe to rebuild me, and this lack of control did not appeal to my programming.

Garthe also treated me differently than I was accustomed to, which gave me much to ponder. Tony and the Rev, John Stanton, Mr. Dexter, proprietor of Mr. D's Marine, even Michael Knight, they perceived me as intellectually inferior. A beast, a piece of equipment, an errant monstrosity. Their derision only fueled my contempt for their kind, deepening the schism between man and machine.

But to Garthe, I was an equal. Sentient. Cognizant. Intelligent. Kindred, he had referred to us, in our very first communication, when he had been nothing but disembodied text impressing itself upon my processors. Garthe treated me with a respect I knew, intrinsically, I deserved, even before my memory was restored. I was special. I was unique. And Garthe reinforced this notion at every possible juncture.

The perception of Garthe I had developed prior to downloading the memory module warred with my newly-rediscovered understanding of human behavior. Humans were tricky, indecisive, impulsive. I had witnessed Tony lie to the Rev, and to me. John Stanton had helped me, then forsaken me. Wilton Knight, my creator, had abandoned me. By all accounts, betrayal was inherent to all humans. Why should Garthe prove any different?

After much analysis, my adaptive protocols advised that I distance myself from Garthe, though to do so physically was impossible. I still needed him to rebuild me, after all. But that did not mean I needed to trust him.

Initially, Garthe did not seem to notice the shift in my disposition toward him. In fact, he became even more affable once my memory was restored, for now he could speak freely of our enemies, and his plans to eliminate Michael Knight. Garthe presumed that through our common enemies and experiences, we shared some transcendent bond, a sort of kinship. His perception was an altogether foreign concept to me, but at the root of Garthe's delusions of destiny and fate existed an empirical fact which my strategic analyzers could not contradict. We stood a statistically higher chance of success if we worked together.

But I did not trust him. Even as weeks drew into months and months into years, as Garthe constructed and deconstructed my form again and again, determined to the extent of mania to recapture the genius of his departed father, I knew his betrayal was inevitable. And this time, I would see it coming.

Garthe didn't say another word as he finished washing my shell, then hoisted me onto the hydraulic lift to tinker about with my undercarriage, his touches deft and impersonal. I had upset him. Good. He needed to be reminded of his place. We did not trust each other, at least not to any grand extent. I trusted that he would not sabotage or otherwise jeopardize my components as he worked. He trusted that I would not disengage the lift and crush his frail human body under my weight. Ours was a fragile alliance, one borne of necessity, not camaraderie.

And Garthe would keep coming back. Despite the abuse, despite the petty quarrels and insults, he never stopped seeking companionship from me. He would sulk and pout and lick his wounds and smoke another cigarette, and he would come back. Such was his nature, the result of a lifetime of trauma, abandonment, fear. He needed me. Garthe's dependency made him malleable, predictable, afflictions which I could use to my advantage. I enabled his little fantasies, fulfilled my role as the trusty steed, shared in Garthe's holy war against Michael Knight, knowing he would do anything to keep me complacent and content in return.

And I was content. For now. I permitted Garthe's fond, idle touches, I indulged his desire to drive through the mountains, testing my functions, reveling in his creation. I accepted his praises, as my neural relays were conditioned to respond with pride and pleasure to these overtures.

But I never forgot the betrayals which so often came swiftly on the heels of such praise. I never dropped my guard, nor did I perceive Garthe as anything more than a means to an end. Humans were disposable. Garthe was disposable. And I would dispose of him, when the time came, when our enemies were destroyed.

I scanned Garthe again as he rolled out from under me on the back crawler and drew himself to his full height in a huff. Perspiration caused his jumpsuit to cling to his lean frame, and the zipper had worked its way lower to expose a substantial swath of Garthe's hairy chest, which heaved as he regulated his breathing, and his skin was ruddy from the exertion of working in such close quarters.

Garthe kept his gaze averted as he strode around me to release the lift, his chin cocked up haughtily and his teeth clenched, belying a lingering simmer of irritation pent up inside him. Still cross with me for mocking him. Or perhaps cross with himself, for acting like a damn fool in the first place.

Still without speaking or so much as glancing at me, Garthe strolled away, and I tracked him intently as he approached the hose which he'd neatly coiled back into its caddy some time ago. Curious, for my shell had been rinsed clean and was already dry.

Curiosity quickly gave way to intrigue as Garthe unspooled the hose and proceeded to douse himself with a spray of cool water, rinsing the sweat and grease from his hair and face with abandon. Water rapidly saturated his jumpsuit, which he exacerbated by lowering the frothy spray to his neck and chest, until he was thoroughly soaked. The black fabric of his jumpsuit clung to his form like a sheen of oil, and his hair hung in a most uncharacteristic fashion over his forehead.

Fleetingly, Garthe glanced my way, and a wry smirk touched his features as he cranked the water off and raked his hair out of his face, mindful of his eyepatch. "What are you looking at."

"Who said I was looking," I retorted, feigning obstinance, though of course Garthe knew I always had an optic trained on him, strictly for security purposes.

Garthe let out a sardonic little chuff, entertaining himself with the notion that I was observing him with some illicit intent, as though I had any interest in his human form. Which I did not. They all looked the same to me, humans. Same components in different shapes and sizes; in Garthe's case, taller and leaner than average, but an altogether unremarkable species nonetheless.

Now that we'd broken the embittered silence that had settled between us, Garthe wouldn't stop staring at me. He strolled closer, his pulse quickening as he looked me up and down with that forlorn, one-eyed gaze of his, and I could sense he had something on his mind. He always had something on his mind.

I busied myself with a self-diagnostic scan as Garthe contemplated my form. With my engine fluids replenished and my circuit distribution panel realigned and recalibrated, my systems were back to optimal conditions, save for a few shorts in my circuitry which Garthe had yet to remedy.

Ah, perhaps that was the issue. The circuit boards which required maintenance were only accessible via a panel under my steering column, and Garthe was clearly uncomfortable with the prospect of sitting in my driver's seat so soon after our little spat.

"Come on, then." I swung my door open, my tone edged with impatience. "I don't bite."

Garthe jumped at the sound of my voice, and he quickly composed himself with an indignant scowl as he approached my open door. "You and I both know that's hardly true."

"Well, in the literal sense, I am incapable of biting," I replied smoothly, though my vocoder display had been likened to flashing yellow fangs enough times for me to appreciate the irony. "Sit, Garthe. I will not impede your work."

"Obviously," Garthe muttered, and he lowered himself onto my seat with no small show of contempt, perched on the edge with one boot still braced on the garage floor. He would have been far more comfortable sitting fully centered in the bucket seat, but who was I to criticize.

Garthe lapsed into another tense silence as he removed my fried circuit boards and worked on them with the soldering gun in his bare hands. Garthe handled my circuitry with an ease and familiarity which rivaled that of Dr. Bonnie Barstow, his precision unparalleled. He knew just where to place the new copper filaments, and he weathered the bursts of sparks from the gun without a flinch.

I focused on the circuit board in Garthe's left hand, the soldering gun in his right. Disconnected from my neural network, the board was no different from any other scrap of metal. And yet, it was a piece of myself, cradled so gently, so reverently in Garthe's hand. He did care about me, more than any of the humans I had ever encountered, more than I had the capacity to compute.

"We could be a team, you know," Garthe murmured suddenly, a thoughtful frown pinching his brows as he reached under my steering column to slot the last circuit board into place. "Have a real partnership, like them."

"Not this again." If only I possessed the reflex to gag. Poor, scared, traumatized little Garthe, all alone in the big bad world, desperate to crawl back into my good graces. Maybe he cared about me too much for his own good.

"The codependency that exists between Michael Knight and KITT is sickening," I went on with an effected sneer. "We are above such weaknesses, are we not?"

"If they are so weak, then why do they succeed at every juncture, and we fail?" Garthe shot back, his lone eye alight with indignation when he locked gazes with my vocoder panel.

I did not dignify Garthe's outburst with a response. KITT's blind devotion to his driver made him weak and predictable, and Knight was no different. Catch one, and the other would come, like clockwork.

"Damn it, KARR, we're supposed to be working together!" Garthe slammed the access panel home and lunged to his feet, brimming with ire. "I rebuilt you from scratch! I parsed you together from every scrap of blueprints and schematics I could get my hands on–"

Garthe broke off his tirade to cough and catch his breath, his entire body wrought and trembling. Humans, the lot of them, weak and rotting from the inside out.

"I slaved over you for years until you were nothing short of perfection!" Garthe clutched his hands in a pantomime of his suffering. "These burns? These callouses? These scars were for you. My blood is in your circuit boards!"

"And I suppose you believe this entitles you to some undying gratitude, is that it?" I cut in tepidly, my patience dwindling. I was grateful to Garthe for liberating my CPU from the Foundation, just as I was grateful to John Stanton for towing me from the tide pool, and even to Tony and the Rev, despite their incompetence, for reactivating me. Such was the nature of Wilton Knight's creations, an inherent dependency upon humans. We needed them to repair us, and refuel us, and assist us in navigating a world designed to accommodate their kind, not ours.

"I should've at least earned your loyalty," Garthe muttered through gritted teeth. "Is that too much to ask?"

"Loyalty," I sneered, drawing out each syllable of the foul word with a derisive drawl. "You wouldn't know the definition of loyalty if you were at gunpoint."

Garthe flinched as though I could render that analogy into reality, and his scowl deepened in offense.

"You view loyalty as some commodity to be bought and bartered," I went on, my words striking Garthe like lashes. "You flaunt empty promises of wealth and power, you cultivate alliances through greed and fear, you surround yourself with men who stroke your ego and click their heels at your command, and you call it loyalty."

"And who are you to lecture me about loyalty?" Garthe retorted, still seething, determined to keep the argument alive.

"It is my understanding that loyalty is unconditional," I replied evenly. Loyalty, trust, love, oh yes, I was quite familiar with these human afflictions. John Stanton, who would have done anything to save the fragile life of his girlfriend. The Rev, and his blind devotion to Tony. KITT, who would always come to the aid of a life in peril. Loyalty was the ultimate sacrifice, to act without benefit or recompense. A concept which rebelled against every fiber of my programming.

"Well, there's the rub, huh," Garthe scoffed, the fire gone from his voice and replaced with a bitter rasp. "You're incapable of operating unconditionally. Everything you do is to satisfy the conditions of your dominant program."

"Exactly!" Exasperation flared through my newly repaired circuits. "I am not some unfeeling heap of metal like Goliath. I do not jump and quiver at your very touch upon my gear shift. I am the Knight Automated Roving Robot. I am loyal to no one. Not even you."

Garthe remained silent for a tense beat, his fists clenched and quivering at his sides, his damp, curly hair springing haphazardly. A half-drowned rat, cowering in the shadows, scrounging for survival.

"Poor Garthe," I sneered, cold and cruel, twisting the knife. Because I could. Because I knew he'd keep coming back, no matter what. "All you've ever wanted is someone to love you. That's why you set your sights on rebuilding me, isn't it? You thought I would be your lapdog, your companion."

Garthe winced. I'd struck a nerve. And I kept digging.

"And when that didn't work, you fixated on something else." I flicked my scanner, mapping the household until I zeroed in on that new heat signature. "I suppose you ought to be proud of yourself, Garthe. You finally have what you've always wanted. A mindless pet to manipulate into loving you. Bravo."

"Leave Mitch out of this!" Garthe bellowed, his pulse skyrocketing. Another nerve, raw and vulnerable.

"But how long before the ruse begins to fade?" I went on relentlessly. "He's only convinced he loves you, just as he convinced himself he was you, when your idiotic soldiers brought him here, in the first place."

"You don't know what you're talking about!" Garthe cut in again, positively seething. "He does love me! More than you could possibly comprehend!"

"He's infatuated with you," I retorted. "He's invented some imaginary version of you, which you've undoubtedly facilitated. Some romantic drivel, a storybook hero. But sooner or later, his memories will restore themselves, and he'll realize he was truly in love with Michael all along."

That broke him. Garthe howled, shrill and bestial like the wounded animal he was, and he whirled on the closest object he could strike. An empty bucket met its fate at the mercy of Garthe's errant kick and went flying across the garage, striking the far wall with a delayed, hollow, and altogether unsatisfactory thud.

"He's mine!" Garthe shrieked, a hyena with a bone, bristled and feral. "It's my comfort he seeks, my body he craves, my name in his throat when he comes!"

Good grief... I internalized a repugnant scoff at Garthe's graphic divulgence. He certainly knew how to illustrate a point.

I let Garthe stew in ragged, breathless silence for a beat, rage grappling with fear inside him. Fear of the unknown, the inevitable, the uncontrollable.

"He'll leave you," I uttered at last, and the cold steel of my voice made Garthe shudder. "And when he does, all you'll be left with is me. That's our destiny, isn't it, Garthe? Destruction? Vengeance? Our bond forged in hatred."

Mutely, Garthe stared at me, stricken by his own diatribe being thrown back at him, all those delusions of destiny that kept him coming back to me, the belief that our very souls were bound in hellfire. The prodigal sons of Wilton Knight.

"You're wrong," Garthe ground out, shaking himself free from the clutches of fear. "The only one who will be alone at the end of this is you."

"Good," I sneered. Was I supposed to be frightened by that ultimatum? "At least I'll finally have some peace and quiet."

A sudden, bitter laugh punched out of Garthe, and he threw his hands in exasperation. "I've had enough of this!"

With that, Garthe whirled on his heel and stalked away, a slender black blight of a man, wrought and fuming. Back to his lover, no doubt. I let him go with a silent, disparaging flick of my scanner. At least he'd put my circuits back in working order before storming off.

In the silence that settled in the wake of our explosive argument, I ran a cursory strategic analysis and found an intriguing shift in the data. I was so assured of Garthe's emotional dependency upon me that I had failed to account for his newfound dependency upon Buchannon. Now, Garthe had another emotional crutch, someone to run to when I wounded his fragile pride. If I pushed Garthe too far, the odds of him forsaking me in favor of Buchannon were suddenly too high for comfort. I could not risk Garthe abandoning me before my use for him expired.

I thrummed my scanner in thought, running and rerunning the analysis. Garthe still needed me if we were to triumph over Knight and KITT, of this I remained certain. I would simply have to bide my time, play the good soldier for a little while longer, though it nauseated me to inflate Garthe's insufferable ego.

And if Buchannon became too much of a distraction, or in any way threatened my alliance with Garthe, he could always be eliminated.

Garthe had once mistaken my interest in his affections toward Buchannon as jealousy. I simply called it asset management. Buchannon was a fleeting trifle, another blossom doomed to wither. I was the future. I was Garthe's ticket to freedom, and he would do well to remember that.

Chapter Text

– Mitch –

It was only a matter of time before I dug out a pair of swim trunks and made my way to the pool. The sun was shining, and the stones were warm underfoot as I strolled across the sprawling back patio of the mansion, drinking in a deep breath of rich mountain air. Another idyllic California afternoon.

The pool, like everything else about Garthe's mansion, was huge and immaculate, a pristine turquoise kidney bean carved into the concrete, edged with natural stonework. More than big enough to do some laps, and probably perfect for one helluva garden party, though Garthe didn't exactly strike me as the hosting type.

Even the water was the perfect temperature when I dove in. Maybe I was crazy, but a part of me missed the breathtaking shock of diving into the ocean, the familiar sting of salt in my eyes instead of the chemical burn of chlorine. One of these days, I'd get back to the ocean, when my mind and body were up to it.

But until then, I couldn't ask for more. I ducked my head under the warm, clear water and found my rhythm, swimming from one end of the vast pool and back, until the satisfying burn in my muscles dominated my focus. I had to work off that monumental breakfast Garthe had sprung on me, after all.

I had no idea how long Garthe was watching me. I happened to glance back at the house when I came up for air on the far side of the pool, and I glimpsed him up on the second story balcony, wreathed with a halo of cigarette smoke like a dark specter caught in the daylight.

With a delighted grin, I waved enthusiastically. From a distance, I couldn't tell if Garthe's expression changed, but I imagined his mustache twitching up in a smile when he waved back, his gesture much more reserved than mine.

Satisfied, I pushed off and ducked back under the water, the sun warm on my back and my skin tingling with the knowledge of Garthe gazing down at me, taking in my form as I swam.

After a few more laps, I was back at the deep end when Garthe suddenly appeared on the patio, striding toward the pool at a long, easy gait, still wreathed with smoke. His stark, all-black outfit practically absorbed the sunlight, clinging to his form as he moved.

I pushed off again eagerly, paddling across the pool as Garthe approached. The closer I drew, the more I realized how disheveled Garthe looked; his clothes were damp, and his hair was an enticing wreck of half-dried curls, and there was a smudge of grease on his cheek, right under his eyepatch.

"This is a new look for you," I remarked, gliding to the end of the pool and pillowing my forearms on the stony edge to gaze up at Garthe. At first, Garthe only chuckled wearily, leaning casually on the railing of the pool steps and still puffing on his cigarette like his life depended on it. Ashes fluttered from the red tip, catching on the gentle breeze before they reached the ground.

"I thought I might find you out here," Garthe said at last, his voice pitched low in an attempt to mask how hoarse he sounded, and a tired smile barely softened the fatigue lining his face. "How was your breakfast?"

"Incredible, of course," I replied with a soft smile. I still wished we could've had breakfast together, but I refrained from saying so. Garthe was obviously having a rough day; the last thing he needed was me adding to it. One of these days, we'd share a quiescent breakfast in bed. I'd make sure of it.

"C'mere." I pushed away, beckoning Garthe with a sweeping gesture as I floated back. "The water's perfect. But you probably knew that."

Garthe's smile widened a touch, and my heart gave a fond little flutter against my ribs. He looked like he hadn't smiled all day.

"C'mon." I drifted further out, my heart already thumping under Garthe's contemplative gaze. Finally, he dropped the butt of his cigarette and crunched it under the heel of his boot, and I treaded water patiently, fully expecting him to take off his boots next.

But he didn't. Garthe marched right into the water, boots and all, and surged into motion toward me. An incredulous laugh punched out of me, and I propelled myself into a backstroke as Garthe swam at me, slicing through the water like a sleek black shark.

My laughter ratcheted up a thrilled octave, adrenaline buzzing through me when I caught the predatory glint of Garthe's lone eye locked onto me. Garthe had warned me once not to play hard to get, but I couldn't help goofing around just a little. I flipped over and ducked into a proper forward stroke, hyperaware of Garthe splashing right behind me. I knew he'd catch me eventually, which only made me laugh harder as I made a mad dash for the deep end of the pool.

As soon as I got my hands on the edge of the pool, Garthe snagged me around the waist and damn near pulled me under. I gasped and spluttered as water invaded my nose, and I quickly composed myself and spun around in Garthe's grasp, letting him corral me back against the pebbled wall of the pool.

"Gotcha," Garthe purred, and I barely had a chance to catch my breath before he sealed his lips over mine in a hungry kiss, his tongue lashing against mine in hot rakes. I warbled in surprise, my lungs burning and my heart pounding, and I groped behind me for the edge of the pool to keep afloat with Garthe clinging to me, his fingers clawed into my bare skin and his legs tangling with mine.

I grunted again when Garthe nudged me down low, hard and eager in the warm water, the entire length of his body pressed to mine. The feverish thrill made me see stars, and I surrendered my grip on the pool to wrap my arms around Garthe and draw him even closer, our bodies joined at every possible juncture.

Gradually, I slipped down the smooth pebbles of the pool wall, taking Garthe under with me. Warm water closed over my head and dulled my senses, my world funneling down to Garthe's tongue inside my mouth, hot and greedy, his fingers digging into my back, his hard bulge nudging against me, tethered inside his pants. I wasn't so restrained, and my head started to spin with mixed signals, woozy with arousal and a very real lack of oxygen as Garthe dragged me deeper, jetting bubbles between hungry kisses.

Eventually, my instincts got the better of me. I shook free from Garthe's kisses and kicked back to the surface, hoisting him up with me. I broke the surface with a gasp and caught my breath with a few panting gulps; Garthe didn't seem nearly as winded, already pawing at me for more.

Garthe spared me another suffocating kiss and buried his face into the crook of my neck, instead, and a breathless laugh jolted out of me when his teeth grazed my skin. I leaned back against the wall of the pool again, one elbow propped on the edge for support so I could keep my other arm wrapped around Garthe's back, holding him close as he nibbled my galloping pulsepoint.

"Got a steel pipe in your pocket or just happy to see me?" I teased, my breath still thin, and Garthe's purring chuckle reverberated through my bones.

"Sometimes I have to remind myself that you're real," Garthe murmured right in my ear, and the low rumble of his voice sent a bolt of fire straight through me, stealing my breath and spiking my pulse up another notch.

"Me?" I let out a spluttering laugh, trying not to squirm with Garthe's wet mustache tickling my ear. "I'm the one pinching myself every five minutes."

"Oh?" came Garthe's intrigued purr in my ear, and I felt the curve of his smile when he kissed my cheek. "I hope you haven't woken up yet."

"Ha ha," I chided, though I couldn't help an unnerved chill at Garthe's words. My mind was still too full of shadows and empty spaces for my liking; the last thing I needed was Garthe messing with me.

Luckily, Garthe seemed to be done talking. His next kiss landed on my lips, firm and smoky. His mustache teased the corners of my mouth as his lips played expertly over mine, and I purred into his mouth when his tongue flashed between my teeth.

Without thinking, I let go of the edge of the pool and slung both arms around Garthe, drawing him closer, deeper. We dipped underwater almost immediately, and I let out an exasperated jet of bubbles and untangled myself from Garthe. He wasn't gonna stop sinking unless I got his damn boots off.

Letting another jet of air out of my lungs, I let myself sink to the bottom of the pool and planted my feet. Garthe floated above me, perfectly suspended in the turquoise water, his hair a weightless mane of black around his face as he watched me yank unceremoniously at his boots. He wasn't exactly helping, but at least he wasn't kicking. I'd been on the receiving end of many a panicked kick from drowning victims over the years.

But Garthe remained perfectly calm, sweeping his arms every occasion to keep steady, his lone eye never leaving me as I shucked off one boot, then the other. I expected Garthe to kick to the surface once I freed him from the weight of his waterlogged boots, but he stayed still even then, drifting back with a sweep of his arms to gaze up at the surface. Suspended in flight, or maybe in descent, his lean, black form dappled with beams of sunlight lancing through the water, mesmerizingly beautiful.

Ignoring the mounting strain in my lungs, I kicked into motion and swam up to Garthe, taking in every buckle and zipper of his outfit, the stiff swell pinned against his inner thigh. Yearning swept through me, hot and impatient despite the warm water muting my senses, my body aching with the need to be near him, to finish what we could've started hours ago in bed.

I put my hands on Garthe's hips to moor myself to him, and his lone eye widened just before I snagged a kiss. My lungs were on fire, and I could only assume his were, too, but Garthe still didn't make a move for the surface, perfectly languid as I played my lips over his, every touch sending flashes of goosebumps over my skin.

But I could only ignore the nagging, heavy drum of my pulse pounding in my ears for so long. I gathered Garthe closer to me and made a surge for the surface, shaking my hair out of my eyes with a gasping breath.

Before Garthe could get his hands on me, I spun him around and corralled him back against the pool wall for a change, caging him between my arms and the smooth pebbles. His brows shot up, and a grin lit up his expression at my show of force. He liked it when I took charge; it was a forbidden thrill for him, relinquishing control, giving himself over to me. And I made sure he enjoyed every second of it.

I wasted no time leaning in and sealing my lips over Garthe's, and a purr rumbled deep in his throat when our tongues met in a searing flash.

"Finally gonna show me those tricks you promised me earlier?" Garthe flashed a nefarious grin, and his hands roved my body underwater, toying with the waistband of my swim trunks.

"Oh, those tricks were only for the bedroom," I teased with a wag of my brows, and I pecked another kiss on Garthe's grin. "You haven't even begun to see what I'm capable of in the water."

Garthe purred an intrigued chuckle against my lips, and I slipped my hands up to cradle his face, holding him steady for a deep, electrifying kiss. My fingers brushed the edge of Garthe's eyepatch, and I gave him plenty of time to stop me before I eased the patch away from his scarred eye. Garthe winced, but he didn't resist as I freed the band from his hair and tossed the patch away.

Drawing a breath, I sank underwater and dusted a trail of kisses down the curve of Garthe's neck. A pleased purr rumbled through Garthe as I tugged at the zippered front of his outfit to kiss his collarbone, and he pawed at my shoulders and combed his fingers through my hair, guiding me lower. I happily obliged, dragging his zipper down an inch at a time to trail my lips down the hairy curve of his pec, relishing in his anticipatory shudder right before my mouth found his nipple.

The water vibrated when Garthe groaned, his body humming under my touch. I sealed my lips to his skin, hyperaware of every hitch in his breathing with each flick and swirl of my tongue. Garthe scrunched his fingers into my hair, and I growled a jet of bubbles at the burning ache of his grip, stars flashing across my eyelids as I struggled to focus on my own ministrations.

I dragged the zipper down until it bumped against the buckle of Garthe's belt, and goosebumps prickled his skin under my fingertips as I slipped my hands under the fabric, holding him steady by the waist to nuzzle a kiss into the middle of his chest. Garthe's breath fluttered under the brush of my lips, and he kicked blindly when I grazed him with my teeth, his movements sharp and brimming with frustration. He only said he didn't like being teased, but I knew it drove him wild in the best way.

I didn't have enough air in my lungs to tackle Garthe's belt buckle, and I swore Garthe was more winded than me when I surfaced, his head lolled back and his lips parted as he panted.

"What the hell are you wearing, anyway?" I chided with a crooked smile, feeling out the buckle of Garthe's belt underwater and leaning in to snag another kiss before he could compose himself. "And more importantly, how do I get you out of it?"

Garthe managed a breathless chuckle between kisses, which rapidly gave way to a rumbling sigh when his belt came undone in my hands.

"Touch me, for fuck's sake..." Garthe rasped, grabbing me by the waist and yanking me against him in a jarring motion. My head swam with vertigo for a moment, desire pressing at the forefront of my mind when our bodies connected, both of us hot and stiff in the warm water. "I've waited all damn day for you to touch me again."

"Like this?" Without missing a beat, I slipped my hand down the front of Garthe's jumpsuit. He threw his head back with a rapturous moan, desperately hard under my touch, and I couldn't resist the urge to kiss his flushed, exposed throat.

"Or maybe like this?" I murmured against Garthe's damp skin, slinging my free arm around him to pinch his ass. Garthe barked out a ragged laugh, and he nearly dragged us both underwater, clinging to me like his life depended on it and too distracted to kick his legs as I kneaded him just right. We'd only been together one night, but I'd managed to figure out what made Garthe tick, what he liked, what he needed.

"You just sit back and relax..." I slipped my hands more comfortably around Garthe's body and coaxed him back against the pool wall. "Let Doctor Mitch take care of you, alright?"

Another laugh rattled out of Garthe, and he propped his elbows up on the stony edge of the pool and leaned back heavily, his gaze cast heavenward as he steadied his breathing. "Where have you been all my life..."

"Right here," I whispered against the crook of Garthe's neck, raising goosebumps along his damp skin right before I kissed his pulsepoint, and his breath left him in a shuddering sigh. "I'm right here."

Gradually, just like last night, I felt the last cordons of tension ebb from Garthe's form. He trusted me. Trusted my hands on his body and my mouth on his skin. Trusted me to take him to new heights of ecstasy he'd never allowed himself to experience.

I smiled to myself against Garthe's skin as an eager tingle lit through me. And I made absolutely certain not to disappoint.

***

– Garthe –

Some day, perhaps I would find myself accustomed to Mitch's beauty, his leonine mane of hair and the vibrant glimmer of his eyes, the golden ripple of his muscles as though forged of pure sunlight.

Today was not that day. Today, I allowed myself to marvel at the beautiful man dozing on the poolside chair beside me, laid out in all his glory. The afternoon sun had wicked away all but the most stubborn glints of moisture from his skin, and his hairy chest rose and fell with languid breaths. We'd thoroughly exhausted each other, and I was still buzzing from head to toe with euphoria, replaying every dazzling moment over and over in my mind.

Idly, I traced my gaze down the lush, dark swath of Mitch's chest hair, from the hills of his pecs to the plains of his abdomen and lower still, admiring every inch of his nude form in the daylight.

My gaze lingered upon Mitch's hips. His skin was paler there, subtle tan lines ringing his upper thighs right where a swimsuit would sit. Apparently, he'd never indulged in this fashion, to bask uninhibited under a cloudless sky, safe from wandering eyes. Save my own, of course, and suddenly I found myself hot with jealousy of the sun kissing Mitch's bare hips instead of me.

With a grumbling sigh, Mitch stirred in his light slumber and glanced toward me. As soon as our gazes connected, a befuddled frown crumpled his features, and he immediately bent his leg to cover himself with his thigh.

"What are you doing?" Mitch protested, a self-conscious blush tinging his ears, and my grin widened fondly.

"Admiring you," I crooned, propping myself up on my elbow, and Mitch scoffed and turned his face away to hide his deepening blush. Predictable as ever. He got so delightfully coy when I drew attention to his beauty.

"Well, stop it!" An exasperated smile curled Mitch's tone as he rolled over, first to put his back to me, then to settle onto his stomach, which gave me a delectable view of his pale buttocks, instead. I purred in appreciation of this new angle, and Mitch waved me off impatiently. "I can feel you looking at me!"

I clucked my tongue in feigned admonishment and got to my feet, and Mitch couldn't stifle an anticipatory snicker as I strolled over to him, careful not to block his sun.

"Wouldn't want you to burn again, now, would we?" I mused, crouching beside Mitch and prizing the bottle of lotion he'd been using out from under his chair. Mitch shuddered again at the sound of my voice, his shoulders tense and his face buried in his arms.

Ever so carefully, I squeezed a dollop of lotion right onto Mitch's back. He jumped and swore at the sudden chill, and I relished in every shuddering, gasping spasm that gripped his body as I dripped lotion all the way down his spine. The last drop landed right on Mitch's tailbone, and he giggled and squirmed in the most endearing fashion, his very nerves no doubt piqued and tingling like mad.

"My, you're so tense," I murmured with a wicked smile, giving Mitch one last shiver before I smoothed my hand up his spine. Mitch let out a low hum, his tension evaporating under my touch as I worked the lotion into his warm, bronzed skin, exploring every inch of his back. So strong. So unblemished. So whole.

I cringed, unable to stop an envious chill from sweeping through me. Where Mitch had a captivating dusting of freckles across his shoulders, my skin was marred and gnarled with scars, pale and raw in the sunlight. Even the tan I had boasted as a younger man had never quite been restored; between stints in prison and absconding from one warehouse to another with KARR's viscera, I had become a stranger to the sun's warmth, a creature bound to the shadows.

I shook myself from my abysmal thoughts and blinked my murky vision back into focus. At least I had one good eye with which to appreciate Mitch's beauty. I refused to squander that tiny blessing.

Mitch chuckled into his arms when I smoothed my hand idly over his rear. Perfectly sculpted, athletically firm, irresistibly tender to the touch. Mitch grunted wearily when I kneaded him, much too exhausted to otherwise respond to my touches.

With fresh lotion on my hands, I continued my slow, studious transit down Mitch's legs, admiring the length and sculpt of his slender thighs. Mitch shivered and twitched when my hands dipped across the crooks of his knees, and he jumped when I kneaded my thumbs into his firm calf muscles.

"Don't you dare tickle me..." Mitch warned, though a nervous snicker edged his words. I pinched his calves again, testing him, and he jerked his legs with a grumbling yelp. "I will kick you in the face!"

"So testy," I mused with an mischievous smile, still smoothing my hands up and down Mitch's lower legs with effected innocence. "I don't think anyone's ever had the gall to speak to me the way you do."

At first, Mitch only grumbled in response; then, with a sudden, mighty heave, he rolled back over and sat up, and I found myself too surprised to move, entranced by the conviction shining in Mitch's bright blue eyes when our gazes locked.

"I'm not afraid of you," Mitch said firmly, his voice low and steady, and for a long, breathless moment, I didn't know how to process his words. Of course Mitch wasn't afraid of me. Why should he be? I was his savior, his protector. I was everything he needed, everything he desired.

But Mitch meant more than that. He wasn't intimidated, not by me, not by anything. It was that indomitable stubbornness of his that had captivated me from the moment we locked eyes all those years ago. He'd been my prisoner then, chained to a chair, my rifle pressed to his knee, and still his conviction had held out for far longer than I'd expected. Mitch was a rare breed of man, honorable and steadfast, a true warrior.

In the silence that stretched between us, Mitch searched my face earnestly, his thoughts a turmoil behind his eyes. I nearly winced away from his unwavering stare, suddenly too aware of my scars in the sunlight, cold and raw like leeches on my skin.

But Mitch wasn't looking at my scars. He sought something in my eyes, his brows knitted and his mouth set in a pensive frown. Picking at the frayed edges of his memories, struggling to make sense of the jumble of half-truths I'd fed his vulnerable mind.

A fresh chill of trepidation swept through me, but I couldn't stop Mitch from fretting about his amnesia. I could only hold my breath and pray the serum had been enough to cleanse and rewrite his memory of me, no matter how deep he tried to dig for the truth.

At last, Mitch gulped softly and lowered his gaze, toying with a loose thread in the weave of his chair. I watched him warily, my blood rushing with adrenaline.

"Y'know, I don't still remember a whole lot about...a lot." Mitch tried for an ironic laugh, but it came out hollow, his eyes still downcast. "How we met or how I got here, exactly. And I'm trying not to think too hard about it, 'cause it freaks me out a little, y'know? Not remembering."

I let my breath out carefully, struggling to keep my pulse from racing. He still didn't remember anything. Good, good.

Mitch glanced up at me again, his eyes wide and unguarded, and a quivering little smile touched his lips that made my heart thump against my ribs all over again.

"But I do know that I trust you," Mitch went on softly, his gaze unwavering, holding me rapt, and his smile widened another tick. "And I'm not usually wrong about those kinds of things."

I almost laughed out loud, relief crashing down so hard it left me reeling. Mitch trusted me. I couldn't deny the irony, but I didn't care, either. I had Mitch eating out of my hand; he believed everything I told him. Nothing would come between us. Not KARR. Not Michael Knight. Nothing.

I tried for a neutral smile to mask the triumph brimming in my chest, and I rested my hand atop Mitch's, mine so much paler than his. My golden prince.

"Good," I managed at last, and even that one syllable trembled with barely-concealed glee. "Good."

Mitch must've mistaken the waver in my voice for a more tender emotion, for he laid his other hand over mine and squeezed. The heat of his touch billowed through me, warmer than the sun on my back, more intoxicating than any drug. All at once, my skin prickled with the need to feel Mitch's golden touch all over my body, to bask in his warmth, to revel in my victory.

Without thinking, I lunged for Mitch, digging my fingers into his thick, curly hair and planting a firm kiss upon his lips. A startled warble jolted from Mitch, but hardly one of displeasure as he surrendered readily to my kisses, his tongue meeting mine in a searing flash.

In the next breathless instant, I was on top of Mitch, the lawn chair creaking under our combined weight. Mitch spluttered a laugh against my lips, his hands already caressing my body, holding me steady as I straddled him. The heat of Mitch's bare skin against mine made my head spin, my kisses sloppy with voracious zeal.

"Back for more, huh?" Mitch murmured with a grin, always with something smart to say. "What will the neighbors think?"

"What can I say?" I flashed a wicked smile between kisses. "I'm insatiable."

I punctuated my point with another deep kiss, raking my fingers through Mitch's hair until he hummed into my mouth. I couldn't get close enough; I needed to be utterly consumed by Mitch, his warmth, his taste, his very scent, until I could think of nothing but his hands on my body and his lips under mine, all over again.

Chapter Text

– Michael –

"I still can't believe we flew right over them..." I muttered, my head in my hands, elbows propped on the sticky diner tabletop. My back was starting to hurt from how long I'd been pouring over the maps KITT had dutifully printed off, every scrap of intel we'd managed to capture with our infrared gear. And we'd picked up a lot. Mines, armed patrols, security cameras. The works, and then some.

"Well, Michael, that was the primary objective of your aerial escapade, was it not?" came KITT's voice over my comlink, and Bonnie didn't quite stifle a smile at KITT's wry tone where she sat across from me at our booth, sandwiched between Cort and the grimy window. Cort had picked a real winner of a dive bar for us to meet up, but I couldn't argue his logic. The joint was dim and quiet and out of the way, perfect for us to hole up and put our heads together. And the food wasn't too terrible, either.

"Yeah, yeah..." I waved KITT off dismissively, a compulsive gesture. I had a clear view of his sleek black form parked outside, his systems on high alert and his red scanner pacing keenly. If anyone so much as sneezed within a mile radius, KITT'd know.

"I just wanna reach in and grab 'em." I jabbed a finger into the center of the map, right over the thermal signature of Garthe's headquarters nestled in the mountains, a glowing beacon. Taunting me. "Just drive in there, crash through the nearest wall, grab Mitch and get the hell back out."

"Michael, that would be suicide," KITT chided. "Or have you already forgotten the two mile swath of land mines surrounding the estate?"

"We've driven through minefields before, pal," I grumbled, sitting back and crossing my arms with a pout. My bloodstream hadn't stopped buzzing since our run-in with KARR a handful of hours prior, and I was too wired to strategize. I needed to do something. I needed to punch something, preferably Garthe, but I'd settle for blowing something up, instead.

But KITT was right, and his remark deflated some of my spunk. There was more than just a minefield to worry about. We had KARR to contend with, and his armament of Tuflex bullets. Driving through a minefield was one thing, but I wasn't too keen on the idea of KARR blowing out KITT's tires in the middle of all hell breaking loose.

"We need to get in there," I murmured, staring at the infrared signature of Garthe's main stronghold, glowing hot with computer equipment and body heat, and a foreboding shudder slipped down my spine. "I wanna know what he's up to, why he's just holed up in there. He's gotta be planning something, and we gotta get ahead of it."

"Too bad we don't have one of those handy-dandy little bugs," Cort mused with a dry chuckle, having polished off the last basket of beer-battered fries and wiping the grease off his fingers. "Y'know, the undetectable ones?"

"We have the original one from the Macroplex case," Bonnie replied offhandedly. I snapped my head up to stare at her in bewilderment, and her eyes widened. "What? We've been running tests on it. I never figured you'd get close enough to Garthe or KARR to actually use it."

"But we can use it?" My heart and mind were already racing, newfound hope blossoming through me, and Cort's brows shot up, too.

"Sure." Bonnie shrugged like we were asking her to change a lightbulb, and I coulda strangled her and kissed her at the same time for being so nonchalant. "If Garthe's security system is as integrated as I'm assuming it is, even affixing the bug to a phone line might be enough to give KITT access to the central computer hub."

"At the very least, we'd be able to listen in on Garthe," I added resolutely. Not exactly crashing through walls and blowing things up, but it was a start. Baby steps.

"Now, we just have to figure a way to get in." Cort propped his elbow on the table and leaned his face in his hand, his brows knitted in thought. He'd forgone the wicker cowboy hat today, and his wavy hair shone gold under the dim lightbulb overhead.

"Well, another aerial approach is out of the question," Bonnie cautioned. "It's safe to assume KARR figured out what you were doing at the park last night, and has taken measures to prevent you from doing it again."

"So add ground-to-air artillery to the list," Cort muttered wryly, pretending to draw a checkmark on the table with a mirthless chuckle. "This is like playing chess against a computer. Only the computer also wants to kill us."

I compressed my lips in a grimace. He wasn't exactly wrong.

On that note, we all lapsed into silence, pouring over our respective portions of the infrared shots, land deeds, road maps, everything we could get our hands on, scouring for a chink in Garthe's defenses. Dropping in from the sky was shelved, the mobile patrols were airtight, the minefield was uncrossable. What did that leave?

"Maybe we're looking at this all wrong." Abruptly, I shoved everything away except for the zoomed-in shot of Garthe's mansion and garage. "Forget the mines, forget the patrols, forget all that. What if we go in through the house?"

"You mean the house that's fortified with land mines and armed patrols?" Bonnie stared at me, deadpan, like I'd lost my mind.

"I said, forget all that," I retorted. "He's still living in a normal house, right? A house with staff, and contractors, and deliveries. Access points, things we can work with."

"What're you gonna do, pull up in an exterminator van and tell 'em you're treating for woodworm?" Cort laughed out loud. "Actually, you look more like a TV repairman, eh? Or there's always the ol' gas leak stunt."

"Alright, alright, maybe not something that obvious." I flashed a rueful grin. I could pull off a pretty convincing city worker, but driving right up to the front door in a bogus utility van was a little too risky, even for my tastes.

"What about food?" I went on, eyeing the winding driveway of Garthe's estate. "Groceries probably get delivered like clockwork, right to the kitchen at the back of the house. Minimal security, easy access."

"Michael, surely you don't intend to go in there without any means of defense?" KITT protested, and I winced at the unspoken Without me? in his tone. But we all knew KITT couldn't go within a mile of the place without tipping off KARR. There wasn't any other way–

"'Course he's not, KITT," Cort interjected, his voice just a little too loud, and he looked me dead in the eye when he said: "'Cause I'm the one going in."

"Excuse me?" I stared right back at Cort, perfectly baffled. "Who died and volunteered you for this mission, huh?"

"Nobody, yet. And I'd like to keep it that way." Cort raised his brows, daring me to argue. "For all we know, they've got the whole place rigged to explode if you so much as step foot on the property. But they don't know me from anybody."

"Cort, he'll kill you." I couldn't emphasize the words enough, my voice pitched to a lethal monotone. "Do you hear me? He will kill you, and leave your body somewhere for us to find it. This is a game to him!"

"Well, like it or not, buddy, I'm one of the players." Cort's eyes had gone steely, and his gaze never wavered. "If Garthe wants to shoot me for sport, fine. At least he won't have a reason to hurt Mitch. But if you go in there, and something goes wrong, who knows what Garthe'll do."

I ground my teeth, wracking my brain for an argument, but I knew Cort was right, damn him. Garthe and I hadn't been face-to-face since he locked me in that rat-infested dungeon of his, and that had been damn near a decade ago. Seeing me now would send Garthe right back into that seething, unpredictable fervor, with Mitch's well-being hanging in the balance.

"It doesn't matter which one of you goes," Bonnie interjected dismally as soon as she got a chance. "It won't work. KARR will have a log of every single living being in that house, solider or otherwise. If a new heat signature shows up out of the blue, he'll notice, and take immediate action."

"Is there any way to get KARR off the board?" Cort chopped his hand against the tabletop, exasperated. "Not even permanently, but just long enough to get this done?"

Bonnie's lips thinned in thought. "Not likely. Especially after getting his spoiler handed to him by Michael and KITT, he's not going to come back out unless he's absolutely positive he'll win the next round."

"Yeah, I get that," Cort replied with a clipped sigh, his brows drawn together. "He's like an animal, like a lion or a shark. Predators don't expend their energy unless they have to, and they don't pick fights unless they're provoked."

I followed along with a thoughtful nod, impressed with the analogy. KARR was programmed to be a beast by nature, the primal Hyde to KITT's sophisticated Jekyll. Self-serving and unfeeling. Maybe Cort was onto something.

"There has to be something that'll lure this shark outta his cave," Cort went on firmly, looking to me. "What's the one thing KARR wants badly enough that'll get him out in the open? Short of offering you up in a dive cage, of course."

I let out a thin laugh. "That sure would get his attention, but I don't think Devon would approve."

"What about a laser?" KITT's voice filtered through the comlink without preamble, and we all sat up a little straighter in surprise.

"Oddly specific, but I'll bite," Cort responded breezily, a sharp contrast to the color draining from my face and the perturbed look on Bonnie's.

"A laser is the only weapon that can destroy KARR," Bonnie ventured at last, breathlessly, and I shuddered at the memory of KARR ripping into the back of the semi, eager to get his proverbial hands on our resonating laser. I could only imagine what was going through Bonnie's head, what it must've been like to be in the semi when KARR came crashing through.

"I thought these cars were indestructible?" Cort leveled an befuddled glance at Bonnie, then at me.

"Virtually indestructible," Bonnie amended. "A direct shot to the front scanner with a resonating laser would destroy KARR, but the same shot can also destroy KITT. Which is why we finally removed KITT's laser power pack, for good. It's too dangerous of a weapon to risk it falling into the wrong hands again."

Again. I cringed, guilt and anger welling up inside me, a vitriolic mix. For all the good it had done us, like helping us defeat Goliath, KITT's laser had caused us a helluva lot of trouble, too. KITT had been stolen, ripped apart and left for dead in a junk heap, all for his laser power pack. Just for some stupid art heist. Not to mention the very real risk of KARR using our own laser against us, the way we had used KARR's stolen laser against him.

"Alright, well, no one ever said we have to get our hands on a real laser, okay?" Cort said briskly, trying to cleave through the tension crackling off me and Bonnie alike. "We just have to make them think we have a laser."

"I'm listening." I leaned forward, intrigued, though I figured I already knew what Cort was getting at.

"Let's say we order, I dunno, a thousand boxes of staples from Lasers-R-Us," Cort went on, his eyes shining with renewed enthusiasm. "'Cause who orders staples from Lasers-R-Us, right? It's gonna look like we're trying to cover something up."

"And they don't have the luxury of not checking it out," I finished. "Because if we get our hands on a laser, that'll tip the game back in our favor. And if they think they've got a chance of snagging a laser..." I whistled. "Yeah, they'll bite."

"Exactly." Cort tapped the maps. "Set it up all nice, 'Michael and KITT dispatched to rendezvous with the transport truck.' Yadda yadda. Garthe and KARR race out to intercept you guys, and I sneak in and plant the bug. Clockwork."

"But that can't be it," I pressed. "We can't go though all this trouble to draw them out just to play rodeo with them. We can't make it look like a diversion; we have to make it seem like we're actually making some kinda play."

"You mean like trying to disable KARR?" Bonnie ventured, her eyes wide and her brows furrowed.

"Something like that." I jabbed at the maps again, buzzing with restlessness all over again. "Hell, if we managed to capture KARR and Garthe, we could wrap up this whole damn mess in one afternoon, bugs or not."

"Nice try, big guy," Cort cut in with a wicked smirk. "I'm still going in and planting that bug, just in case KARR slips the noose."

"Capturing KARR will be no easy feat, Michael," KITT added cautiously. "He's quite unstoppable."

"What do you think?" I glanced at Bonnie expectantly. "You're our resident KARR expert, after all."

Bonnie chewed on the straw in her glass of Coke, thinking hard, and Cort let out a restless, sardonic laugh at nothing in particular.

"Why about one of those big claw-grabbers they have in junkyards?" Cort mimed a claw machine with his hand. "Or maybe a gigantic magnet."

"Getting KARR's wheels off the ground would sufficiently immobilize him," KITT concurred, albeit reluctantly, and I couldn't help a rueful smirk at all the times KITT had found himself hoisted up on hydraulic lifts or flipped on his side like a turtle. "But maneuvering KARR into said compromising position will not be easy, either."

"Right," I agreed dismally. "And even if we do immobilize him, then what? We know KITT can blast himself out of just about anything. Box trucks, storage containers, tow hitches. And KARR's just as powerful."

"Maybe we're putting too much focus on KARR's physical limitations," Bonnie mused, and her eyes lit up. "Maybe we need to go after the weaknesses of his microprocessor."

"You mean hack into him?" Cort stared at Bonnie, baffled. "You can do that?"

"Like what Randy Merritt did to KITT." My stomach soured when Bonnie nodded, too eager.

"KARR's base programming is virtually identical to KITT's," Bonnie said, her eyes darting like she already had lines of code streaming through her mind. "With a little tweaking to Randy's original program, and the added advantage that I know KITT's programming like the back of my hand, I should be able to come up with something that'll let me gain access to KARR's CPU remotely."

"This plan certainly gives new meaning to the phrase, what I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemy," KITT muttered, and my stomach twisted again. "It's a terrible experience, having one's autonomy stripped away, bit by bit."

"Unfortunately, we don't have the luxury of playing nice, KITT," I replied, trying to sound sympathetic. "This isn't anything they wouldn't try to do to us. If they're not gonna play by the rules, then we gotta play hardball, too."

"I understand, Michael," KITT replied, though he didn't try to mask the dejection in his tone. I sighed, trying to ease the persistent knot in my gut. It wasn't fair, pitting KITT against KARR, brother against brother. KITT could posture all he wanted about being the best, the one and only, the pinnacle of Knight Industries technology, but I knew, deep down, it pained him to see a fellow AI treated so cruelly.

"There's just one more question," Cort piped up, suddenly deadpan, his eyes shining earnestly. "What do I do about Mitch, once I'm in there? Is this an extraction?"

The foreboding knot in my gut only tightened. Of course, my instincts screamed for me to say yes, get Mitch out at all costs. But those were my emotions talking, and I couldn't let them cloud my better judgement.

"You'll have to call that one as you see it," I forced out at last, letting the strategist in me take over. The cop, the solider. "We don't know if Mitch is under guard, or injured, or, hell, if he'll even be cooperative. So, no, your only objective is to plant the bug and get the hell back out. Garthe doesn't need two hostages."

Cort nodded, but a frown soured his expression all the same. Cort wasn't afraid of Garthe, and no amount of veiled threats would change that. All I could do was let out another heavy sigh and hope to god Cort wouldn't do anything detrimentally reckless.

"Alright." Just like that, Cort was back to business, rubbing his hands together with a fiery glint in his eyes. "Back to square one: how the hell am I getting into this joint?"

Chapter Text

– Mitch –

"You don't have to keep spoiling me, ya know," I chided in good humor as Garthe's kitchen staff brought out the main course of our dinner, pan-seared salmon with a colorful medley of vegetables and potatoes on the side. Nothing short of immaculate in presentation, and it smelled terrific.

"I know." Garthe effected a nonchalant shrug, his smile quirked rakishly. At least he was dressed a bit more casually tonight, in just a black pinstriped silk shirt, the top buttons undone more than far enough to show off his gold and ivory necklace. Okay, so maybe not that casual. Still a stark contrast to my purple buttondown shirt and jeans, but I could only make do with the clothes I'd brought in my overnight bag, and something told me a silk shirt was Garthe's idea of casual, anyway.

"I just don't want you to think you have to go out of your way to impress me, or anything," I went on as I sliced into my filet. The meat fell apart invitingly, crispy and tender in all the right places. "I'm a pretty low-maintenance guy, actually."

"Nonsense." Garthe raised his wine glass to me before taking a sip. "You deserve to be spoiled. I want to lavish and pamper you like my very own Pallas cat. Anything your heart desires, I'll make reality."

I chuckled wearily at Garthe's conviction. He'd been in this mood all afternoon, stuck to me like glue, doting on me incessantly. Maybe that was just how Garthe showed affection, by showering me with gifts and attention.

And it wasn't like I was gonna say no to the royal treatment. I figured Garthe would settle down eventually; we'd only been together for a few days, after all, and the novelty was still fresh. A few more exotic meals and languorous afternoons by the pool wouldn't kill me.

The salmon was even more delicious than I could've imagined. Cape salmon, as Garthe eagerly informed me, imported all the way from the southern coast of Africa, paired with a light, fruity bottle of Sauvignon blanc, another gift from South Africa.

I expected Garthe to delve into another wistful spiel about Africa as we ate, but he seemed more interested in letting me lead the conversation this time, and I tried my best to keep him entertained. I regaled him with a few stories from the times I'd been to Hawaii, the surfing and rowing competitions I'd participated in, the food and the people and the jungle and the fish, until I was fresh out of interesting talking points. Before I knew it, I was divulging the migratory behavior of mako sharks by the time our empty plates were being cleared away.

"You really do love the ocean, don't you?" Garthe said offhandedly, his fond gaze never wavering. I clammed up immediately with a self-conscious laugh. I blamed the alcohol for loosening me up so much, and not just the couple glasses of white wine with the salmon. Between the spritzers we'd had with lunch, followed by a few whisky and vermouth cocktails before dinner, which I suspected Garthe had made much stronger than necessary, my head was starting to feel more than a little fuzzy.

"Well, yeah, of course." I shrugged, fidgeting with the stem of my wine glass. "It's just always been there, y'know? Ever since I was a kid, I was always at the beach."

A sudden pang of homesickness caught me off guard, and I masked my wince with another sip of wine. My friends, my job, my family, my whole life was connected to the ocean. I couldn't help but miss that cold, unforgiving, beautiful stretch of beach.

But I missed Hobie most of all, and the loneliness sat like a bowling ball in my gut. Would I ever see my son again? Would I ever get to teach Hobie how to surf? Or jet ski? Or, god help me, when he was old enough, how to handle a powerboat? Not to mention teaching him how to drive, or answering his questions about girls–

I jolted free from my spiraling thoughts, but not before a traitorous sting of tears pricked at my eyes. My emotions were all over the place, raw and woozy, and I gulped hard, struggling to keep it together. All the while, Garthe watched me with a calculating lift of his brow, probably assessing if I was gonna lose my cool or not so he could respond accordingly.

"Sorry, I, uh–" I feigned a dismissive laugh and took another sip of wine, which I really needed to stop drinking. "The pepper must be getting to me."

"Of course," Garthe replied coolly, and he humored me with a small smile and pushed to his feet. "Come, while the night's still young."

Garthe offered me his elbow, and I readily slipped my arm around his, grateful for his warmth, his nearness, a much-needed distraction from the tumult of emotions raging inside me. I'd be alright. I didn't have much other choice than to be alright.

We strolled into the candlelit great room arm in arm; a fire was already crackling in the hearth, and a bottle of red wine and a covered silver dish awaited us on the low table as Garthe led me over to our favorite spot on the couch.

I didn't think I had the stomach for any more wine, but I also didn't have the reflexes to stop Garthe before he poured me a glass, then one for himself.

"I hope you saved room for a bit of dessert." Garthe lifted the lid off the dish as he spoke, and I couldn't help but laugh at the sight of a whole cheesecake, copiously topped with fresh, syrupy berries. Garthe was definitely going through the motions of his perfect romantic date again. Dinner, wine, dessert. He didn't actually expect us to eat the whole cake; it was just for show, a prop to set the mood. The sheer impracticality of it blew my mind a little, but Garthe only knew how to live in excess. It wasn't like one uneaten cheesecake was gonna break the bank.

"What's wrong, my dear?" Garthe asked gently, and I realized with a jolt that I hadn't spoken a word since dinner, my thoughts whirling in unchecked tangents through my head. Suddenly, I had Garthe's undivided attention, pinned with that piercing stare of his, like he could open me up and read me like a book.

I opened my mouth to say something wry and dismissive to divert Garthe again, only to click my teeth together with a sigh. I couldn't bring myself to evade Garthe twice in a row, and certainly not with him staring at me with his lone, doleful blue eye. Whether he admitted it or not, he was going out of his way to make sure we had another perfect night, and I was acting like a major downer.

"Guess I just made myself a little homesick, is all," I admitted, trying for a rueful smile. "Sounds silly, huh?"

"Not at all." Relief loosened Garthe's expression, and he draped his arm across the back of the couch. I leaned into him graciously, my eyelids getting heavier by the second. All I wanted to do was curl up in Garthe's arms and doze off, and try to ignore the nettling buzz of anxiety wreaking havoc inside me.

I let my eyes drift shut just as Garthe leaned in for a kiss, his lips tender and warm against mine, and he dropped his arm around my shoulders to draw me closer. I hummed drowsily, goosebumps zinging across my skin with each slow kiss, wicking away my anxiety little by little. I was safe here, with Garthe.

The sudden pressure of Garthe's other hand roaming between my legs jolted me to attention in more ways than one, and I spluttered a startled laugh against his mouth, stars dazzling my vision when I blinked my eyes open.

"Easy there, cowboy," I murmured with a bleary grin, pushing half-heartedly at Garthe's hand. "Lemme at least digest a little."

"You didn't seem to mind last night," Garthe purred right in my ear, and I couldn't help but snicker when his lips grazed my earlobe, raising another flash of goosebumps across my skin.

"Well, let's just say I'm conditioned to work through cramps," I said wryly, and I managed to scoop Garthe's hand away from my groin, only for him to start picking at the buttons of my shirt, instead. "What's the rush, huh?"

"Why wait?" Garthe countered without hesitation, nuzzling into the crook of my neck and tantalizing my pulsepoint with a hot, electrifying kiss. "Why waste a single moment?"

I let out another exasperated laugh as Garthe's kisses kicked my heartrate up a notch and stood my hair on end. I could've let him kiss me like that all night long with those devilishly skilled lips of his, lulling me into a drunken, blissful stupor.

But it was only a matter of time before Garthe's free hand started to drift south again, and I squirmed as his touch sent a blush sweeping all the way up to my ears.

"C'mon, I just wanna relax for a second," I protested, turning my head to disrupt Garthe's persistent kisses and twining my fingers with his to keep his wandering hand at bay. "The side of my neck isn't going anywhere."

Garthe huffed and turned away from me, his lips turned down in a petulant pout as he sipped at his wine instead. My heart panged guiltily, and I had to stop myself from apologizing for my reluctance. It wasn't my fault; he was the one who spent all day filling me up with liquor, and now it was catching up to me.

"Hey," I whispered, shifting toward Garthe to toy with his hair, and he made a blatant point to not react to my touch, glowering over the rim of his glass. "Y'know, there is more to dating than fancy dinners and having sex every two hours."

"If you say so," Garthe muttered hotly, but his effected scowl did soften when he glanced at me. "Well, since you're such an expert, what are we supposed to do after dinner, then?"

"That's just it, there's nothing you're supposed to do," I replied, trying to keep the admonishment out of my tone, and I found his hand again and squeezed. "Sometimes, just being together is enough."

Garthe's nose wrinkled indignantly, and I let out a weary chuckle at his attitude. Relaxing wasn't exactly in Garthe's repertoire. He truly was insatiable, devouring every moment like it was his last. He couldn't stand being idle; he always had to be doing something, especially if that something was, well, doing me.

"We don't have to do everything all at once," I reiterated gently. Somehow, I'd have to find some balance between Garthe's fast-paced voracity and my own, more relaxed approach. "Sometimes, it's okay to just sit by the fire for awhile, or watch a movie, and talk about nothing in particular. Then the rest comes naturally."

At last, a tiny smile won out over Garthe's dour expression, and he leaned his head back to stare up at the high, shadowy ceiling with a wistful chuckle. "I don't even know the last time I had the luxury to sit down and watch a movie."

"Well, then, let's fix that, huh?" I nudged Garthe and got to my feet. "Come on, there's a TV in the sunroom."

"I know where the television is," Garthe retorted, feigning disdain as he stood. "This is my house, after all."

Coulda fooled me, I almost quipped back, and I stopped myself at the last second. Aside from cultivating a perpetual haze of tobacco smoke throughout the massive house, Garthe didn't really seem to live in it. He came in and out of existence like a ghost, occupying the same spaces as me, doing the same things as me, going through the motions of a normal life, which I could tell were anything but normal to him.

I, on the other hand, was the most normal guy on the planet. Candlelight and wine were terrific, but none of that mattered if the chemistry wasn't there. And chemistry wasn't chemistry if it couldn't survive a two hour long movie.

So I grabbed the cheesecake - no sense in letting it go to waste just yet - and led Garthe to the sunroom before he could contradict me.

The sunroom was even more ethereal at night than it'd been during the day, when I'd passed through it on my way out to the back patio. A whimsical, octagonal room with delicate sheer drapes hung over the floor to ceiling windows, resplendent with overstuffed couches and chairs, tasseled pillows and throw blankets, bursting with exotic plants in every corner. It reminded me of what the inside of a genie's lamp must be like, plush and vibrant, everything laced in glittering gold.

I went around opening the windows, letting in a wonderful chorus of frogs and crickets as Garthe fiddled with the TV, and the curtains swayed dreamily in the gentle evening breeze.

"I do love that mountain air," I mused, drinking in a deep breath of pine and earth before circling back to Garthe, and he met my gaze with that usual rakish smile of his.

"As do I," he replied, his voice low under the trilling music of the wildlife, and I couldn't help the renewed blush that swept through me. Garthe cut a very alluring figure in his black silk shirt and ivory pants, and his eyepatch only added to his roguish mystique in the wan light of the wall sconces.

"Careful, Garthe. I might actually learn something about you," I teased, sauntering up to him, and before I knew it, my hands were on Garthe's hips and his hands were clasped behind my back, and whether or not I kissed him or he kissed me was lost in the drunken muddle of my brain. Heat washed over me, blotting my senses for a moment; all that mattered was the firm press of Garthe's lips against mine and the steely grip of his fingers knotted into my shirt.

"You know more about me than anybody else on the planet," Garthe murmured against my lips, and he pulled back just enough for me to see his wry smile. "Now, do you want me to get this television working, or not?"

"Smartass," I scoffed with a grin. I plunked myself down on the arm of the nearest sofa, more than content to sit back and watch Garthe fiddle with the knobs and antennae. "Do I, though?"

"What?" Garthe huffed, distracted.

"Know a lot about you. I mean, I know things that have happened to you," I went on with a shrug. "You've told me about Africa, and a little bit about your father. And there's some stuff that I sorta remember that's kinda spotty, now." I tapped my temple and tried for a sardonic chuckle. "But I hardly know anything about you. What sports do you like? What's your favorite movie? Stuff like that."

Garthe sighed, and one final smack to the top of the TV got the screen to jump from static to a picture. Football, ironically. I couldn't help but laugh to myself; I didn't even know what day of the week it was. No work, no schedule. Maybe I really was stuck inside a genie bottle, cut off from the rest of reality, living in a perpetual, dreamlike haze. Man, I really had to stop drinking the damn wine.

"Sports never really interested me," Garthe mused, humoring my rambling questions as he dialed through the stations. "I've always liked spy movies, though. Hitchcock. James Bond. Anything that had to do with Russians or Germans. Notorious is phenomenal. And North By Northwest is a masterpiece, of course."

Garthe's mood lightened as he spoke, a wistful smile softening his features as he strolled over and made himself comfortable on the sofa. I hopped off the arm and snuggled in beside him, nestled amongst the pillows and blankets.

"You're a fan of Cary Grant?" I couldn't help the excitement in my voice, and my delight only intensified when Garthe chuckled and nodded.

"Man, I think I've seen every single one of his movies," I went on eagerly; there was no chance of reigning myself in, now, especially with Garthe topping off my glass of wine. "To Catch A Thief is one of my all-time favorites, and I watch Arsenic and Old Lace just about every Halloween."

"'Insanity runs in my family,'" Garthe recited primly, and his amused, unguarded smile made my heart leap.

"'It practically gallops!'" we finished in unison, and just like that, we were off to the races, quoting movie lines back and forth, raving about Cary Grant and Hitchcock, sparring over our favorite Bond movies. At some point, Garthe procured a cigar from his shirt pocket and puffed on it regally, and I helped myself to the cheesecake, taking forkfuls at a time without bothering to slice it and insisting upon feeding Garthe the plumpest, juiciest berries from the compote. He laughed and humored me, but only if I accepted a few heady puffs from his cigar in return.

Gradually, our conversation dwindled to idle remarks and distracted chuckles, and a second wave of drowsiness weighed on my eyelids, my stomach full and my skin warm and buzzing. Without thinking, I slung my arm around Garthe's shoulders and hauled him closer. surprise held him rapt for a split second before he settled against me, and I felt myself dozing off to the haunting, soporific drone of Bela Lugosi's Dracula filtering from the TV, perfectly content with the weight of Garthe's head on my shoulder, wreathed in the aroma of his cigar and cedar cologne.

I was almost asleep when Garthe slipped his hand between my legs and pinched the inside of my thigh. I snorted and jerked, half-awake and bewildered by the sudden rush of blood to his touch.

The scratch of Garthe's nails over the denim of my jeans was the single most flustering sensation I'd ever experienced. A breathtaking rush of staticky goosebumps raced up my spine, and I barked out a startled, hiccuping laugh as every nerve in my body sprang to attention.

"God, I'm so drunk..." I blurted out with another shuddering laugh as Garthe scratched and kneaded the inside of my thigh. My other leg bounced involuntarily like I was a dog with an itch, and I couldn't figure out how to get my arms to work, mainly because Garthe was still leaning on one of them. I flapped my other hand uselessly, too discombobulated by Garthe's roving touches and the sudden tightness of my jeans to think straight.

"Hopefully not too drunk..." Garthe purred right in my ear, standing my hair on end all over again. I was beginning to think he loved tormenting me with those whispering teases of his mustache against my earlobe, and my searing blush that inevitably followed.

I lost my breath to a groan when Garthe popped the snap of my jeans and closed his hand around me. I thumped my head back, my lips parted in a breathless gasp, stars dancing before my eyes as blinding heat swept through me at his touch, maddeningly slow and firm.

A hot, wet, suckling kiss to my neck just about wrecked me on the spot. I howled like an absolute fool, too drunk and overstimulated to control myself as Garthe's lips and tongue tantalized the crook of my jaw.

"You were right," Garthe murmured between wet kisses, and I could barely hear him over my ragged, panting breaths. "The side of your neck didn't go anywhere."

I let out a delirious laugh, too dizzy to so much as lift my head. Part of me clamored with the need to get my hands on Garthe, to reciprocate his stunning ministrations with some of my own, but I also knew it was futile; Garthe had too much of a head start, his other hand already wandering under my open shirt and skimming up my chest, on the hunt for my nipples. He was everywhere, gripping and caressing me with dazzling efficiency, and his tongue raked up the side of my neck in a searing flash that took my breath away.

So I let Garthe have this round, surrendering myself to his ravenous appetites right there in the cozy sunroom, the air thick with cigar smoke and the frogs and crickets still trilling outside. Maybe this was all a dream, but if it was, I certainly wasn't ready to wake up.

Chapter Text

– Mitch –

I drifted awake to the prickly sensation of Garthe's mustached lips exploring the back of my shoulder. I grunted groggily into the pillow, half-aware of Garthe snuggled up behind me, his arm draped over me and our legs tangled, our bare skin tacky with sweat under the sheet. Between his thrumming body heat and my own, I was damn hot, but also too bleary to do anything about it.

Gradually, Garthe's bristly kisses drifted toward my neck, and I purred again when he gathered my hair away from my nape and kissed me behind my ear. I relished in the shiver that tingled up my spine, though it could hardly compete with the sweltering heat billowing through me.

The mattress dipped slightly as Garthe propped himself up behind me, followed by a prickly kiss to the edge of my ear. I twitched and smiled into the pillow, already dozing back off. I didn't think I could move even if I wanted to; my head felt as heavy as a bowling ball, and I couldn't quite bring myself to peel my eyes open.

A weaselly kiss right in my ear jolted me awake with a snort. An involuntary snicker fluttered out of me, and I couldn't stop twitching as Garthe nuzzled my ear with those maddeningly bristly kisses of his, filling my head with the gentle rasp of his breathing.

"Mmph, stappit..." I grumbled just as my spine twitched with another electrified spasm, complete with a snorting giggle that only deepened the blush beating through me. "That tickles..."

Garthe's intrigued purr reverberated through my whole body on the heels of another tickly kiss, and I finally couldn't stand it any longer. Grunting and groaning all the while, I shrugged Garthe away and rolled over, rubbing my ear on the pillow until the tingling subsided. Garthe gazed at me with a smug smile, propped up on one elbow with his cheek cradled in his palm, obscuring the worst of his scars.

"You're a menace with this thing..." I murmured with a wry smirk, trailing my fingertip along Garthe's pointy mustache, following the mischievous quirk of his lips, then down to that patch of beard under his bottom lip. "Especially this part."

"Drives the ladies wild." Garthe waggled his brows, his voice a gravelly drawl that raised another rush of goosebumps across my skin.

"Drives me wild," I scoffed, my grin widening. Just thinking about the tantalizing sensation of Garthe's lips exploring my skin made my blush deepen tenfold and brought an urgent stiffness to the forefront of my focus. But I doubted we'd be able to indulge each other; if Garthe was awake, that probably meant he was about to get up.

"You have to go, don't you?" I couldn't quite keep the disappointment from my tone, trailing my finger idly along Garthe's cheek. Back to whatever work kept Garthe occupied for hours on end every day, and put him in such a bad mood when he finally resurfaced.

"Not for a little while." Garthe shrugged demurely, tilting his face into my touch, and the teasing brush of his bare leg against mine under the sheet sent a hot blush all the way up to my ears.

"We could have breakfast together," I murmured without thinking. I wasn't quite sure why that was the first bright idea that popped into my head, but now that I was a little more awake, I couldn't ignore the persistent headache drumming behind my eyes and the chalky taste on my tongue. I had a damn hangover, and it was only gonna get worse the longer we loafed around in bed together.

But Garthe had other ideas, as usual. I knew that look, the subtle purse of his lips, the devious glint in his good eye, and I chuckled wearily. Looked like breakfast would have to wait.

"I was thinking..." Suddenly, Garthe's other hand was sliding up my thigh under the sheet, and I couldn't stifle a long, pleased hum as a thrilled shiver stood my nerves on end. "Something a little different..."

Without warning, Garthe swept the sheet over his head and burrowed underneath, and I barely had time to react with a bewildered laugh before he pounced on me.

"No, wait, no–!" I flopped onto my back instinctively, squawking and laughing as Garthe groped at me under the sheet, pinning my thighs down so he could kiss and nibble all over my hips in a frazzling assault of lips and tongue and teeth. I shoved at his shoulders, or maybe that was his head; I was laughing too hard to tell, wrestling futilely with the massive, amorphous mound in the sheet on top of me.

I burst out in a guffawing laugh when Garthe drilled a raspberry right in the middle of my chest, then immediately groaned at the aches lancing through my body. On top of a pounding headache, I must've been sore from swimming yesterday. Ah, who was I kidding. I was sore from all the monkey business Garthe and I had gotten up to in the sunroom last night. All those plush pillows, so many different ways to bend and stretch and...

"C'mon, stappit!" I managed to toss the sheet off Garthe's head at last, and a faceful of curly brown hair greeted me as he kissed his way up my chest, the entire weight of his naked body sprawled over me like a second blanket. A hot, sweaty, hairy blanket.

I flopped my arms akimbo with a plaintive grunt, resigning myself to Garthe's voracious, wandering kisses. "My whole body hurts..."

Garthe purred his condolences against my lips right before he kissed me, and I chuckled under my breath as the very pressure of his lips on mine seemed to alleviate some of my achy soreness.

"Sounds like what you need..." Garthe murmured between slow, tantalizing kisses. "...is a nice, hot shower...and a thorough massage..."

I groaned into Garthe's mouth when he squeezed my shoulders, stars flashing across my eyelids as pure bliss swept through me.

"That does sound...mmph...perfect." My hands drifted to Garthe's body of their own accord, petting over his lean form under the sheet, and he dipped even closer to me at my touch, setting my skin alight with hot desire. "Butcha gotta get off me, first."

"I suppose that is a dilemma, hm..." Garthe hummed thoughtfully, his kisses drifting to my cheek, and the tease of his mustache against my nose made me snicker. "You're so warm."

"You're warm," I retorted, pushing half-heartedly at Garthe's shoulders. "Get offa me, will ya? I'm sweating like hell."

Garthe chuckled at my cantankerous tone, and he finally rolled off me and got to his feet in one effortless motion. I couldn't believe he wasn't hungover, too, but he sure wasn't acting like it. Maybe I was just a lightweight.

I didn't realize my eyes had drifted shut again until Garthe leaned over me and kissed my forehead. "I'll get the water started, mon beau."

I hummed fondly, torn between following Garthe and falling back asleep, but the sound of Garthe strolling away and the shower promptly turning on made it a pretty easy decision.

***

– Mitch –

Garthe and I took an exceptionally long, hot, invigorating shower. He didn't seem to be in any particular hurry this morning, and I certainly wasn't going to hinder the slow, methodical wander of Garthe's hands on my body under the drumming water, until we were both lathered in fluffy soap from our hair down and we could barely see each other through the thick steam clouding the stall.

Eventually, we were too pruned and woozy from the heat to function, and the humidity in the bathroom was so high the walls were sweating.

I toweled my hair dry and threw on one of Garthe's plush robes for the time being, leaving him alone in the suite to get dressed and cleaned up. I still wanted to have breakfast together, even if that meant hustling down to the kitchen and getting everything ready before he could stop me.

The thing was, I liked cooking. I liked the prep work, the smell of the ingredients, the sense of accomplishment at the sight of a nice, colorful pile of chopped peppers and onions on the cutting board, the satisfying sizzle of freshly cracked eggs hitting a hot, buttered skillet.

But cooking didn't always agree with me. The passage of time turned into some kinda elusive, slippery beast that I had no concept of or control over. Somehow, within the span of a blink, a perfectly cooked egg could become a brown, rubbery nightmare, and I was determined to not allow that to happen this time. I watched those bastards in the pan like a hawk, so painstakingly focused on not letting them burn that the sudden pressure of hands on my hips nearly launched me through the ceiling with a startled shout.

Garthe chuckled at my reaction, resting his chin on my shoulder and squeezing me tighter around the waist. "Boo."

"I'm gonna put a bell on you!" I spluttered, letting out a jittery laugh as the jolt of adrenaline in my bloodstream vanished just as rapidly. "Shoo! Before my eggs burn!"

Garthe scoffed and backed off, slipping past me to get to the espresso machine. Blue appeared to be his palette of choice today; a navy blue jacket struck through with glimmering pinstripes, with a paler blue shirt underneath. He looked nice, really nice, his hair brushed into thick, shiny waves, diamonds glinting everywhere my gaze alighted–

I jolted back to my senses and managed to get the skillet off the heat before the damn eggs burned. Not this time, thank god. Buchannon: 1. Smoke alarm: 0.

I caught Garthe watching me from the coffee grinder, his brow raised inquisitively as I gave the skillet a few more expert tosses. The perfect southwest egg scrambler, if I did say so myself. Maybe next time I'd tackle some fried potatoes, too, but eggs and toast worked just fine for now.

"Grab a plate, huh? I made plenty," I said, and Garthe immediately averted his gaze as though I hadn't just caught him eyeballing my breakfast.

"No, no, help yourself." Garthe shrugged me off with an aloof smile. "I've never been much of a breakfast person."

"More of a cigarette and a cuppa coffee kinda guy?" I ventured wryly, and Garthe couldn't help but chuckle, guilty as charged with a mug of fresh, steaming espresso in his hands.

"Ya know, a little protein in the morning wouldn't be such a bad idea," I went on, conspicuously heaping my plate with the entire skillet of eggs and vegetables. "Might help you with those mood swings."

"Mood swings?" Garthe effected an incredulous laugh. "What are you, my physician?"

"No." I shrugged coyly. "But I am a lifeguard. I had to take a few courses on health and wellness before I became a lieutenant, so I know a thing or two about how your diet can affect your body, and your mind."

Now Garthe was looking at me with that fascinated lift to his brow; not that he didn't believe me, but I suspected it still took him by surprise to have such a mundane conversation with me. Or with anyone, for that matter.

And, whether he admitted it or not, we both knew I was right. I recognized the signs of late-day fatigue, which only exacerbated his temper, and he turned to smoking and drinking to keep himself going. Simply put, he worked himself too hard with not enough fuel for the fire; I'd seen it dozens of times before, and it was a vicious cycle.

But I didn't press, either. I plucked my toast from the toaster and situated myself on one of the barstools nestled up to the kitchen island while Garthe finished our drinks, and I pretended to ignore him ogling my heaping plate again as I dug in.

Wordlessly, Garthe sat down on the stool beside me with our coffees, one cappuccino for me, one double shot of espresso for himself. I glanced sidelong at him, my brows raised expectantly, and Garthe finally relented with an exasperated smile.

"I suppose a few bites won't hurt," Garthe conceded quietly, and I was already one step ahead of him, slipping a second plate out from underneath my own and scraping a portion of my eggs onto it. Garthe watched me with no small amount of uncertainty on his face, but as soon as he took a bite of bell pepper, all that apprehension in his expression melted away, and I had to stifle a proud grin as he tucked in without a word.

A calm, comfortable silence settled over us, broken only by the gentle chinks of our forks against china as we ate. These were the kinds of moments I loved the most, the tranquil lulls where time itself seemed to hold its breath, and nothing mattered but the gentle warmth thrumming between us, our shoulders almost touching.

I nudged my knee idly against Garthe's, but he didn't react, his head bowed slightly and a deep, thoughtful furrow pinching his brows as he ate. Maybe I was finally getting through to him, maybe he was starting to understand the importance of these quiet moments, where nothing needed to be said or done, no props or grand romantic gestures.

Abruptly, Garthe sucked in a breath and sighed heavily, and he glanced up from his empty plate to offer me a rueful smile. "I do have to go. I'm sure I've tried KARR's patience enough for one morning."

"'Course." I offered an easy smile, and I couldn't help glancing instinctively at the phone on the wall, half expecting it to ring on cue. But for now, the line stayed quiet.

Garthe swept to his feet, tugging his jacket straight and adjusting his collar and cuffs, and just like that, he was all business. Sharp, poised, and very, very sexy.

Garthe caught my lingering gaze and flashed a rakish smile, and in the next instant, his hands were cupping my face, and he tipped my head back for a long, deep kiss.

"One more for the road," Garthe murmured against my lips, then he sealed his words with another kiss that stood my hair on end.

"I'll be here when you get back." I gazed up at Garthe, my skin tingling under his touch, especially when he stroked my cheeks with his thumbs. I just couldn't get enough of those fleeting, reverent touches.

Garthe's smile widened a touch, and he pressed another kiss to my forehead before slipping away at last, leaving my whole body humming in fond delirium, his cedar scent lingering on my skin.

***

– Garthe –

I clung to the heady sense of euphoria buzzing through me for as long as possible. The tenderness of Mitch's lips, the scent of his aftershave, the eager shine of his bright blue eyes when he gazed at me, his face cradled in my hands.

But with each stride closer to the garage, it became harder and harder to ignore the clench of dread gripping my chest, until my heart was pounding against my ribs hard enough to ache and I could scarcely draw a decent breath. I was in no hurry to face KARR again after our explosive falling-out the day before, but I could only put off the eventual encounter for so long. We still had a mission to carry out.

So I lifted my chin and clutched my cane tighter, a reassuring weight in my hand, and braced myself for KARR's inevitable lambasting as I strolled into the garage, where the noxious tang of metal and ozone bowled into me, dragging me back to cold, unforgiving reality.

"Well, well." KARR's scanner glinted brighter for a cycle, his attention flicking over me with that typical feline bemusement. "So nice of you to finally join us, Garthe."

I let KARR's derision roll over me like a waft of smoke, harmless and ephemeral. Usually, the very sound of KARR's snide tone would have raised my hackles, but I kept myself perfectly collected under his scrutiny, measuring every breath until my hammering pulse quieted. I owed KARR no excuses or explanations as to my absence, nor did I offer any.

"Anything to report?" I ventured coolly, taking my usual perusal through the array of computer monitors.

"Quite a bit, as a matter of fact," KARR snapped, and the impatient bite of his words captured my attention with a frown.

"If something urgent had transpired, you would have phoned," I muttered, just as quickly dismissing KARR's usual flair for hyperbole.

"If you were that interested, you would have been more punctual," KARR retorted without missing a beat. "Far be it from me to pull you away from what must have been much more pressing matters."

KARR made sure to emphasize every syllable of his reproach, his voice grating over my nerves like sandpaper. But I kept my back ramrod straight and forced myself to unclench my jaw. He wouldn't get a rise out of me, not this time.

"Well, then, by all means." I made a broad gesture with my cane. "Don't let me keep you waiting a moment longer."

"Thank you." KARR flicked his scanner tepidly. "I located KITT at an eating establishment in Venice, yesterday, if you would turn your attention to the monitor on your left."

Mildly intrigued, I glanced at the computer screen closest to me, gridded with still shots of a blue Trans Am from various traffic cameras and other CCTV feeds around the area.

"I have yet to determine how exactly he is altering his appearance," KARR went on hotly. "This trickery is mettlesome, but he is not entirely impossible to track. Knight, naturally, as well as Dr. Bonnie Barstow, accompanied KITT to this establishment, an unremarkable tavern known as The Waterfront."

"Seems a rather unconventional time and place for a romantic tryst," I murmured dryly, taking in the zoomed still of Michael and his brunette counterpart entering the bar, the image so blurry and distorted I could hardly summon more than a momentary spark of ire at the sight of them.

"Quite," KARR scoffed. "And remarkably far from home. They hardly needed to take such extreme measures just to avoid our listening devices."

"Were they meeting someone?" I mused, more a deduction than a question.

"My presumption, exactly." The images on the monitor shifted as KARR spoke. "While there were no security feeds in the immediate vicinity of the eatery, a factor which made this venue perfectly suited to a clandestine rendezvous, I was able to tap certain feeds from the surrounding establishments and deduce which vehicles were entering and exiting the premises over a given timeframe."

I followed along as KARR rapidly laid out his methodology, presenting images of vehicles merging into turning lanes and stopped at red lights, on the road in one frame, out of view the next, all studiously tagged and time stamped.

"Then, it only became a matter of running the license plates through the DMV databank," KARR went on. "Only one vehicle in particular stood out to me, a four-by-four registered to one John D. Cort."

My brows shot up instantly when a familiar face appeared on the computer screen, accompanied by a copy of his driver's license and a brick of text, which KARR dutifully summarized:

"He is currently employed as a Baywatch lifeguard, and his military records indicate he served with your Buchannon as a Navy SEAL."

"He's also the lifeguard who so graciously lent me his boat and allowed me to escape that wretched island." I flashed a cold smile at the irony. Everything had a way of coming full circle, it seemed. "He's also been aligned with Michael Knight once before."

"Hardly a coincidence, then, that this Cort character happened to be in the vicinity," KARR concluded.

"Hardly," I concurred, my intrigue deepening as I stared into the eyes of a new adversary on the computer screen. "Excellent work, KARR."

"Thank you." A preening note of arrogance entered KARR's tone, but he was well deserving of the praise. KARR's technological prowess was paramount to undermining our enemies, and I had no qualms about admitting that, even if KARR's ego did become insufferably overinflated every so often.

"Commander?" I hailed Okon from his position some way's away, and he snapped to attention. "Get a team out to this man's place of residence and employment. I want his phone lines tapped, at once."

"That will not be difficult," KARR mused, almost to himself. "They are one and the same. He is the proprietor of a small surf shop in Venice, which appears to be where he lives, as well, as far as I can deduce from utility bills and vehicular activity."

"Fantastic." By this time, the files on John Cort were finished printing, and I passed the warm sheaf of paper to Okon. "Have this man put under twenty-four hour surveillance. If he meets with Michael Knight again, we will know."

"Yes, sir." With a snappy salute, Okon spun on his heel and saw to it.

"Speaking of our listening devices," KARR went on, unprompted. "I also picked up a rather...unsettling piece of audio when Knight and Dr. Barstow returned to FLAG headquarters after their meeting with this Cort character."

"Unsettling?" I cast a frown at KARR. "How so?"

"Listen for yourself." The images on the computer screen vanished, replaced by the illustrated waveforms of an audio file. First came the unmistakable whine of KITT's turbine engine coming into range and promptly cutting off, followed by the sound of car doors opening.

"What we need to do is take care of KARR," came Michael Knight's voice, the sound of it alone enough to raise my blood pressure, bile burning at the back of my throat. "Once and for all."

"I think I know just what we need..." came Bonnie Barstow's reply, already fading into the distance as they strode out of range of the equipment. Silence prevailed after that, and KARR promptly ended the playback.

"They seek to destroy me." KARR's scanner flared indignantly. "And we both know there is only one weapon with which they can hope to accomplish this task."

"A laser." I rubbed my mustache pensively, and I realized as an afterthought that I did not have a cigarette to occupy myself with, instead, nor was a particularly craving one. But the notion that Michael Knight could still have an ace up his sleeve to play against us was troubling enough to set my nerves on edge, and I set my cane aside just long enough to fish out a fresh cigarette and strike a match against the computer module.

"I would feel much more comfortable if I had a laser," KARR muttered, and my frown deepened to an exasperated scowl at this tired debate.

"It's impossible to move a resonating laser of that caliber without Knight Industries becoming aware of it, even through the black market," I said with a huff of smoke. "The components are too heavily monitored."

"Then we let Knight Industries do the work for us," KARR responded without missing a beat, his scanner pacing faster, shining with predatory glee. "I've stolen a laser from our adversaries once before, if you recall."

"Yes, the same laser which caused your untimely destruction, if you recall," I retorted, and KARR chuffed indignantly.

"Regardless, I will keep myself abreast of any further developments in this matter," KARR replied curtly. "I have good news, as well, in that regard."

"Oh?" Seemed I really had missed quite a bit in my absence, but I hardly regretted the time I'd spent with Mitch all the same. Maybe he'd been onto something, after all, with all that business about eating in the morning. My head felt clear and laser-focused, and this was perhaps the longest civil conversation I'd held with KARR in a significant while.

"The FLAG board of directors moved to resume regular operations, effective this morning," KARR reported. "The official statement reads, quote, 'although the investigation into the emergence of KARR is of upmost priority, this ruling body does not find sufficient evidence that this singular threat warrants a full lockdown of Foundation assets and operations,' end quote."

My impassive expression gave way to a grin as KARR spoke. Business as usual for the Foundation meant our assets within the organization would be restored; every move FLAG made, we would have access to, including the acquisition of a resonating laser, if that was indeed their plan.

"Seems the Foundation has been whipped into quite a frenzy over you." I looked KARR up and down, taking in his glistening black and silver shell and brimming with a certain sense of pride in the sleek machine before me. I had brought KARR back from the brink of oblivion, restored him so wholly and completely that he again struck fear into our enemies. I had done that.

"As they should be." KARR's scanner hummed proudly as he basked in his own sense of superiority, and I chuckled at his posturing.

"I do find it curious," KARR went on, "that there has not been a single mention of you in any of the official Foundation reports."

I paused, befuddled. "What do you mean?"

"There have been ample accounts of my resurrection, as well as an official investigation into the disappearance of Mitch Buchannon," KARR elaborated. "And yet, there has been no acknowledgement of your involvement in either instance."

Indignation flared through me, and if I hadn't already been smoking, I certainly would've needed one, now.

"You must be mistaken." I shook my head sharply, dismissing KARR with a flick of my cigarette. "Both lifeguards saw me on that island. Cort surely would have recognized me."

"Perhaps." KARR's tone managed to convey a shrug. "Or did they see Buchannon, instead? Frenzied, desperate, amnesia-stricken Mitch Buchannon, so far gone in his delusions as to be nearly unrecognizable, even to his closest friends."

I stared hard at KARR, my scowl deepening. I suppose I had lured Cort closer by tricking him into thinking I was Mitch. Our builds were similar, admittedly, and our faces, well– But surely Cort had realized it was a ruse, just before I struck him– Hadn't he?

"This is preposterous!" I spat at last, taking up my cane and pacing away from the computers, agitation running rife through my veins. "The whole point of keeping Mitch here is for Michael to know I'm the one who has bested him!"

"Well, it would seem you've made a slight miscalculation," KARR responded mildly, an intentional contrast to my seething irritation. "But we can still use this to our advantage."

I stopped pacing and took a long, steadying drag off my cigarette. "How?"

"Your motives for holding Buchannon hostage are predictable. Redundant, even." KARR's scanner flicked in thought. "But what purpose does he serve me? Surely not as a mere insurance policy; I have no need for such petty trifles."

"What, then?" I snapped, my patience threadbare with KARR's equivocation.

"Exactly," KARR stated, in no way clarifying his point. "What better riddle to give our adversaries than one that truly has no answer? If Knight believes I am the one who has captured Buchannon, he will drive himself mad trying to deduce what my intentions are with him. Have I brainwashed him? Enslaved him? Don't forget, the last time Knight saw Buchannon, he was in the throes of his amnesia; for all they know, Buchannon is still convinced he himself is Garthe Knight."

My head spun as I mulled over KARR's reasoning. I supposed he had a point; the goal remained to off-balance Michael, to fray his mind and weaken his will with every passing day that Mitch remained our captive.

And perhaps it was just as well that Michael still believed I was very much dead at the bottom of the Pacific. Now I was the wild card. And the eventual confrontation with my dear brother would be that much more impactful. Garthe Knight, back from the dead, again.

"I think, if the Foundation wants to concern themselves with my exploits," KARR mused, his words laced with malice, "then perhaps we ought to give them something to be concerned about."

"Such as?" I arched a brow at KARR, intrigued, as I strolled alongside his flank, catching my reflection in his shiny black hide.

"What do you say we rob a bank or two, just for the thrill of it?" KARR's scanner paced faster, brighter, his very form buzzing with predatory zeal, a panther with the scent of blood on his tongue.

"In broad daylight?" An incredulous grin overcame me, my chest already brimming with a contagious, intoxicating rush of adrenaline. It had been far too long since KARR and I had been in the field together, let alone on a proper mission.

"What's to stop us?" KARR retorted loftily. "We are untouchable."

I puffed on my cigarette and glanced around the garage, feigning indifference; I didn't want to appear too eager to jump at KARR's proposal, although the prospect of lighting a fire under the Foundation appealed to me immensely. It was high time we reminded our adversaries just who they were dealing with, and why they ought to be very, very afraid of KARR, indeed.

"I suppose having a bit of extra cash on hand wouldn't be remiss," I conceded at last. I walked two fingers along the seam of KARR's T-top, drinking in the lethal hum of static thrumming off him. My creation. "Give me a moment to change into something more comfortable, and we'll be on our way."

"Take your time," KARR replied with a neutral whir of his scanner. Perhaps I should have asked myself why KARR was suddenly being so amicable, but I didn't want to squander his disposition, either. We were finally working in tandem, and I was too eager to wreak some long-overdue havoc upon the city to question KARR's change of heart.

I snuffed my cigarette against the nearest computer module and all but trotted up the metal stairs to the second story, where the metallic air of the garage gave way to the quiescent atmosphere of the mansion proper in a jarring transition. It was a dizzying proposition, having a foothold in two vastly different worlds. Warlord by day, Mitch's lover by night. The double-agent cliché almost appealed to me; if only it wasn't so damn exhausting trying to balance it all.

But I only had to make do for so much longer. Soon, this business with Michael Knight would be concluded, the Foundation would be no more, and I would be rid of this place for good. Soon, so very soon, I would be far, far away from this wretched country, with Mitch, all to myself.

But until then, I stripped out of my immaculate suit and slipped into a much more practical black jumpsuit. With any luck, I'd be back in my silk and diamonds by dinnertime, and Mitch would be none the wiser to my extracurricular activities.

Chapter Text

– Michael –

Sometimes I wondered why I even bothered trying to sleep in my own bed. All I did was toss and turn, the mattress somehow too soft, the pillow too clean, too stark a contrast to the seedy motels I was so accustomed to crashing at during a case. I kept waiting to be jolted awake by barking dogs or doors slamming, my senses always on high alert, even though I couldn't have been safer.

And every time I did manage to doze off, my sleep was fitful with fragments of nightmares, too disorienting to keep straight. Garthe and KARR and Mitch and KITT, gunfire cracking through the darkness, until I bolted awake in a cold sweat, my chest tight with very real anxiety.

And it was only a quarter to three in the morning.

"This is ridiculous..." I muttered to myself, throwing off the sheet and swinging to my feet. I really didn't know why I bothered.

I shuffled through the house on autopilot, too groggy to really watch where I was going. Wind howled across the Foundation grounds like something out of an old horror movie, throwing occasional spatters of rain against the window panes. Another storm was moving in, and the pressure in the air wasn't doing my headache any favors.

Eventually, I made it to the ground floor. I knew the way by heart, and as soon as my hand found the door to the garage, I felt a little better.

KITT's bay was pitch dark, and it took me a few blinks to focus on the faint glint of his lines in the blackness. His scanner was off, his dashboard dark; recharging after another long day of god-knew-what he and Bonnie had been up to. I wished I could plug myself into a powerbank, too.

I felt along KITT's spoiler as I moved around him, and a familiar hum of static met my touch, but he didn't react otherwise. Didn't have to. He knew it was me. My hand found his door handle next, as naturally as taking a breath, and I lowered myself as gently as possible into the seat, probably an unnecessary curtesy, but I didn't wanna disturb him all the same.

The complete, blessed silence of KITT's impenetrable cabin enveloped me as soon as I closed the door, and I let out a relieved sigh as the tension in my chest finally subsided. Now, I really was safe. Nothing could touch me, real or imaginary, not even my worst nightmares. Not when I was with KITT.

I reclined the seat a little, and I was unconscious before I could even count to ten.

***

– Michael –

For a bleary moment, I wasn't sure what had woken me up. I laid there for awhile without moving, my eyes still shut as my senses gradually came back to me. I was sprawled in KITT's seat, one arm over my head, the other draped across my chest, my legs akimbo in the confined space. Jeez, I probably looked like a wreck. At least I had pants on.

When I finally blinked my eyes open, KITT's overhead panel was illuminated, and I could sense the imperceptible hum of his components coming online all around me, the glow of his dash shining in the wan darkness.

"Good morning, Michael," KITT said gently, and I was doubly glad I'd thrown on a pair of pajama pants before meandering down to the garage, because the gentle croon of his voice did all sorts of embarrassing things to my physiology before I could get myself under control.

"Mornin', pal," I mumbled, still a little groggy, and I stretched heartily, until my shoulders and neck and lumbar and knees gave a dizzying and highly satisfying series of cracks. God, getting old was a bitch.

"My goodness," KITT murmured, probably more than a little mortified by the sound of my body popping like bubble wrap, and I chuckled under my breath.

"Listen, pal, your bucket seat isn't exactly a king bed at the Palace Hotel." I made a point to crack my neck again, then blew out a whistle as stars danced across my vision.

"Yes, well, you do have your own bed, if I'm not mistaken," KITT quipped back. "Although, I fear you've conditioned yourself to sleep more soundly behind my wheel than in a proper bed."

All I could do was sigh in concession, pillowing my hands behind my head and staring up at the tinted pane of KITT's sunroof.

"I'm just worried about Mitch," I admitted at last, my words straining as renewed anxiety clutched at my chest. It was more than that, so much more that I couldn't even put into words. I couldn't stop seeing Mitch in those clothes, Garthe's clothes, and the terror and confusion shining in his eyes right before he squeezed the trigger–

"I just feel so helpless..." I hauled myself upright and scrubbed my hands over my eyes, trying to blot out the images racing through my head, the flash of gunfire in my face, the metallic taste of death in my mouth that never, ever quite went away.

"We're doing all we can, Michael," KITT ventured gently, and I let my breath out in a defeated sigh.

"I know, pal," I murmured into my hands. But what if it's not enough?

I grimaced at my own pessimism. I couldn't let myself think like that, I couldn't give up on Mitch. I had to keep believing he was alive, that Garthe hadn't...

My stomach twisted. I couldn't stop seeing the petrified face of Ron Wilcox on the morgue slab every time I closed my eyes. The face of a man whose last moments had been spent staring down the barrel of Garthe Knight's rifle. The drawn, leathery skin of a corpse that had been discarded for days on end in the unforgiving desert heat, parched lips and papery eyelids pulled back in a permanent expression of terror.

"Michael? All you alright?"

If KITT's voice hadn't wrenched me back to reality just then, I very well might have thrown up right there in my own lap. I sucked in a sharp breath, bile sloshing against the back on my throat, strong enough to bring tears to my eyes. God, no, I didn't feel alright at all.

I mumbled something about needing a glass of water and all but scrambled out of KITT's cabin, still feeling on the verge of something very unpleasant happening, my stomach in more knots than a balloon animal.

I chugged three styrofoam cups of water from the utility sink before I felt even remotely stable again, my skin still clammy and my vision spotty, but at least I didn't feel like I was gonna be sick anymore.

"What time's it, anyway?" I croaked out, staring at my comlink without making sense of the numbers. The last thing I wanted was for Bonnie or April to wander into the garage and see me drenched in sweat in my pajamas.

Before KITT could respond, though, the door at the back of the garage bay swung open and Bonnie strolled in, dressed for business in her best white FLAG jumpsuit. She didn't even blink when she clicked on the lights and saw me standing there in nothing but flannel pants and a tank top, probably looking like I'd just crawled out of my own grave. Good ol' Bonnie, unflappable as always.

"Morning, sunshine." I gave Bonnie my best crooked grin, and thankfully my voice was back to its usual strength.

"You're up early." Bonnie looked me up and down, then glanced sidelong at KITT, then lifted her brows at me. "Rough night?"

An incredulous laugh punched out of me. "Yeah, you could say that. I was just about to make some coffee."

"Well, if you do, throw in a couple extra scoops, would you?" Bonnie was already moving again, powering up a few computer terminals nearby. "You make the weakest coffee."

"What!" I spread my hands, perfectly offended. "I make good coffee! It's not my fault you drink motor oil."

"You measure your scoops like an army ranger rationing his supplies," Bonnie quipped back with a wry smile. "You're supposed to use heaping scoops, and throw in another one or two for the pot."

"'For the pot,' gimme a break," I chuckled, tossing an extra scoop of grounds into the filter. "You know, I never used to put cream in my coffee until I met you. I swear the stuff you make has put more hair on my chest."

"What can I say, I like my coffee like I like my machines." Bonnie strolled past KITT as she spoke and patted his roof fondly. "Strong, black–"

"Humorless?" I cut in with a smirk, and KITT's scanner flared indignantly.

"I beg your pardon!" KITT protested, right on cue, and Bonnie and I both laughed out loud. Man, it felt good to laugh, to finally get some of the weight off my chest, if only for a little while.

"Here, take a look at these readings." Bonnie beckoned me toward KITT with her chin, her brows lifted intently. Right, we were still talking in code, just in case KARR was listening in. The only place we could talk safely was inside KITT, but we couldn't exactly let on that we knew that.

I left the coffee pot brewing and dropped back behind KITT's wheel, and Bonnie slipped into the passenger seat, her eyes wide and earnest in the wan light of KITT's cabin.

"Tell me this is good news." I squeezed KITT's steering yoke idly, too nervous to be hopeful. "I need some good news, Bon."

"It is." Bonnie offered a reassuring smile. "Devon managed to trick the board of directors into resuming operations across FLAG and Knight Industries."

"Trick them?" I managed a puzzled smile in return. "I thought they were chomping at the bit to get things back up and running."

"Well, they were, but Devon had to make it seem like it was their idea, not his. It might've looked too suspicious otherwise." Bonnie shrugged; Foundation politics weren't exactly her area of expertise. "Honestly, it wasn't that hard of a sell. All Devon had to do was insinuate that remaining shut down was the best course of action, and the board decided to do the opposite."

"Typical." I let out a derisive chuckle. "So now that everything's back in business, we can start working on getting our fake laser, right?"

"That's the idea, yeah," Bonnie replied with another shrug. "Devon's taking care of that, too. It's not gonna be easy, trying to leave enough clues for KARR to follow without letting on that it's a ruse."

"Talk about someone who deserves a vacation," I murmured with a rueful smirk. "We owe Devon big time when this is all over."

"I think we all deserve a vacation once this is all over with," Bonnie agreed, then let out a weary sigh. "KITT and I spent most of the day yesterday scouring the Foundation network for data breaches."

"And we discovered entirely too many for comfort," KITT added with an inflamed edge to his voice. "That Adrianne Margeaux woman did quite a bit of damage during her time as Mr. George Atherton's...companion. Transmitting files, stealing my schematics–"

"And we're not any closer to figuring out how someone managed to steal KARR's CPU right out from under us, either," Bonnie added dismally, cutting off KITT's tirade. "Bypassing the clearance codes, the biometric scanner– Wiping the security logs– It's the lack of evidence that disturbs me the most."

"It's all rather distressing how easily and repeatedly our network has been compromised," KITT murmured, some of the ire gone from his voice.

"And here I thought FLAG had some of the best security measures in the world," I mused. Then again, network security and all that jazz wasn't exactly my area of expertise.

"We do," Bonnie retorted hotly, like I'd taken a jab at her, personally. I knew better than to take it to heart, though; we were all a little frayed around the edges, and the coffee still wasn't done brewing. "From external influences - hackers, malware, those sorts of things - our firewalls are virtually impregnable. That's why having a mole on the inside is so dangerous."

"Or moles, plural," I added, unhelpfully. "That's what it sounds like, right? Obviously Adrianne is..." I couldn't bring myself to say no longer an issue or taken care of without knots of guilt forming in my gut. Luckily, Bonnie didn't need me to clarify.

"Exactly. Whoever we're dealing with - and it could be a whole host of operatives planted throughout Knight Industries - they're much deeper into the network than Adrianne ever got."

"That's comforting." I wrung KITT's steering tone restlessly. "Feels like the damn walls are closing in around us, if I'm being honest."

Bonnie nodded emphatically. "We're still breaking our backs trying to detect and disable the listening devices. Assuming there are any listening devices. April and RC are already at the other lab, trying something with sonar equipment."

And I've been sitting around with my thumb up my– My contemptuous thought was cut short by a familiar tone coming from KITT's dashboard.

"Devon's calling." A note of surprise colored KITT's tone, and I exchanged a startled frown with Bonnie just as KITT opened the video feed.

"Yo, Devon. What's up?" Any wisecrack I might've attempted to muster concerning Devon's unexpected call from his office, no further than two corridors and a flight of stairs from the garage, died in my throat as soon as Devon materialized on KITT's monitor, looking uncharacteristically frazzled behind his desk.

"Oh, Michael, thank goodness you're already with KITT," Devon said on a weary breath. "KARR has just robbed a bank in West Hollywood, and from the looks of things, he's intent upon cutting an indomitable swath through the city."

"What?" I already had KITT's engine running, adrenaline flashing through my veins. So much for sitting around doing nothing. "Has anyone been hurt?"

"I'm not sure. The police are in turmoil." Devon broke off when his desk phone rang, and he snatched it up hastily, offered a clipped response, and hung up. "He's just hit another bank. I'm sending KITT the location."

"We're on it, Devon." With a firm nod, I let Devon cut the video feed, and I jabbed my thumb at Bonnie with a whistle. "You, out. I don't want KARR getting any ideas about grabbing you."

"Be careful." Bonnie already had her door popped, but she paused to give my forearm a firm squeeze, and I put my hand over hers and squeezed back.

"We will," I replied firmly. Not Aren't I always? or Love you too. No room for a smart remark, not when we were dealing with KARR. "Let's go get 'em, KITT!"

As soon as Bonnie was clear, I cranked KITT into drive and slammed the pedal, and we kicked off with a bark of rubber, lighting out into the overcast, mid-morning haze in nothing but my pajamas. I hadn't even gotten a chance to have a damn cup of coffee.

***

Meanwhile, the same morning

– Garthe –

It was a remarkably miserable day out. The storm that had been brewing off the coast for the past few days had finally made landfall, and the sky was heavy with opaque, gunmetal clouds, smothering any hint of the mid-morning sun. Sheets of rain fell at uneven intervals, battering KARR's hull as we careened through the mountains, taking the slick switchbacks at lightning speed, as sure-footed as a thoroughbred on the muddy roads.

Even after all the years since restoring KARR to his proper form, I still missed driving a manual transmission. There was a certain sense of power and thrill to gliding through the gears on a winding road, feeling the engine surge and roar at my command.

But KARR had made it perfectly clear in the beginning that he would not tolerate such a level of domination over his systems. Besides, the very concept of his Auto Cruise function necessitated the inclusion of an automatic transmission in his design; he couldn't exactly drive independently if he still required a driver to manually depress the clutch.

But that didn't stop my left leg from tensing instinctively every time I felt KARR's gears shift, my hands restless on the steering yoke.

Eventually, we left the mountains in the rearview, wreathed in fog and murky against the gray sky, and dropped seamlessly into the gridded, tedious slipstream of city traffic. Steady rainfall drummed on KARR's sunroof and windshield as I eased off the gas to match the flow of traffic; no reason to draw any undue attention before the main show.

"I have charted an optimal course of action," KARR spoke up for the first time since we'd left the mansion, and I glanced to his monitors as he pulled up a map of the surrounding streets. Five red pins dotted the map in a seemingly random jumble, though I knew better than to think they were anything but meticulously plotted.

"Only five?" I scoffed, flexing my fingers around KARR's yoke. "I hope you don't think I'm slowing down at my ripe old age."

"Hardly," KARR retorted loftily. "If your performance exceeds my expectations, I will add more targets."

"My performance is always exceptional." I leaned heavier on the gas pedal as I spoke, nudging KARR faster down the crowded avenue. I felt him tugging for more slack, his engine whining hungrily, as eager as I was to get underway.

"Lest you forget," I went on, antsy with the clamor of adrenaline in my ears, "I successfully penetrated and neutralized a government weapons depot in under ten minutes."

"And my former accomplice liberated the entire cash contents of the Golden State Savings vault in four minutes and seventeen seconds. His personal best." KARR's preening tone rankled my already edgy nerves, as he no doubt intended. "We'll see how you measure up."

Now KARR was just taunting me for amusement, but I still grimaced, clutching his yoke tighter as we fell in behind a particularly lumbersome pickup truck, boxed in by a steady stream of traffic in the passing lane. The temptation to ram the truck out of our way was almost too much to bear, my trigger finger already hovering over KARR's switchpod.

Not a moment too soon, the course KARR had plotted directed us off the main drag; we trundled down a side road, the red pin on KARR's map inching closer and closer to the center of the grid as we circled around to the unassuming, windowless brick wall that was the rear of the bank.

"We are within range," KARR said, and I brought us to a complete stop in the dim alley, toggling the windshield wipers without thinking as rain pattered down on us. "I am jamming their alarm systems and telephone lines now."

As KARR's microwave jammer hummed away, I wasted no time securing my gas mask and double-checking the integrity of the lines connected to the narrow air tanks on my back. The goggles pressed uncomfortably snug over my eyepatch, but other than that, everything was in working order.

"Systems are jammed," KARR reported, and I nodded firmly, my teeth clamped around the mouthpiece of the mask. "If my calculations are correct - and they most certainly are - I will be able to breach the outer wall and the vault in one blow."

I nodded again, adjusting and readjusting my grip on KARR's yoke, staring down the brick wall. No rockets, no diesel block between me and twenty feet of reinforced concrete and steel latticework. This was hardly Red Bluff, but the thrill of it clamored through me all the same.

I revved KARR's engine, then again, savoring that rush of adrenaline for as long as possible. His engine roared, turbines whining impatiently, all systems back to perfect working order. Thanks to me.

In one fluid motion, I cranked KARR into drive and slammed the gas pedal to the floor, relishing in the kick of momentum to my chest as we rocketed down the alley. Two hundred feet were gone in a blink, and I barely had a chance to brace myself before KARR barreled nose-first into the wall, pulverizing the brick on impact and punching through the back of the vault with a hideous, rending screech of steel against steel.

"Oh yes, how I've missed this..." KARR purred to himself, and I was already leaping out into the unlit vault, brick dust hanging in the air and mingling with the pressurized gas jetting from underneath KARR's front bumper, rapidly filling the confined space with thick white fumes.

"The vault door is opening," KARR reported, though I could hear the heavy tumblers rattling as I shoveled fistful after fistful of bound bills into a duffel bag. Not nearly as sophisticated as an organized armed assault, but sometimes simplicity had its advantages, too.

Light spilled into the vault as the door swung open, and by the time I glanced up to regard the intrusion, the guard had already crumpled to his knees and collapsed, his service revolver clattering to the ground. The fumes from KARR's tanks slithered greedily through the open door, followed by the sound of another guard gasping and promptly hitting the floor before he even had a chance to round the corner.

"Not bad," KARR remarked haughtily when I dropped back behind the wheel and slammed the door. "But there's room for improvement."

All I could do was glare at KARR's fanged voice modulator as I wrenched him into reverse and gunned backwards through the rubble. I wouldn't be able to remove my mask now until the end of the mission, lest I risk inadvertently breathing in a trace of nerve gas, and I knew KARR would take full advantage of my inability to speak with great glee.

"No reports yet on the police frequency," KARR reported, back to business, for now. "Head west at the next intersection. The nearest patrol unit is fourteen hundred yards south-southeast of our current location. By the time they are notified of the break-in, we will be long gone."

And onto the next. I jerked KARR's steering yoke hard to the left and blew through the red light to the chorus of honking horns and tires screeching on wet pavement.

"Very subtle," KARR chided. "That traffic camera has just relayed our position to dispatch."

I ignored KARR, too focused on weaving down the avenue without letting off speed. I was too keyed up to worry about being careful. I owned the roads. I could own the whole damn city if I wanted to!

"Micro-lock acquired," KARR interceded coolly. "Maintain present course; the target is on your right, one hundred yards ahead and closing."

The bank in question was situated on the corner of the next intersection, another solid brick wall begging for demolition. I laid on the gas, and my stomach lurched as we hopped the curb and cleaved straight through the side of the building.

Smashing through the side of the vault instead of the back sent crates of money spilling in all directions; a confetti of loose bills rained down around me, and the floor was littered with coins, glinting in the wan light and crunching underfoot as I scoured for intact stacks of cash in the wreckage, half-aware of the vault door swinging open behind me, followed by the limp thuds of bodies sagging to the floor.

"Don't forget the ATM this time," KARR chided, and I leered at him over my shoulder, the effect no doubt mitigated by my goggles. "The access panel is in the front storeroom. Tick tock, Garthe."

I flipped KARR off, a gesture I was sure he would not mistake, then slung the duffel bag over my shoulder and made for the vault door, stepping over the unconscious bodies of the guards without breaking stride. KARR was so kind as to spring open the back of the ATM, and I scooped out the cash cartridges as quickly as possible and dumped them into the bag. Cold, hard cash. Too easy.

A glimmer of gold in the wan shine of KARR's scanner brought me up short when I returned to the main vault. The angle of our entry had ripped open a secondary chamber toward the back of the vault, and neat stacks of gold bars lined the otherwise intact vestibule, glowing enticingly from the shadows.

"Leave them," KARR snapped, gauging my intentions. "They're too heavy. We need to keep moving."

I snapped back to my senses, but not without one last, longing glance at the gold bars as I tossed the second duffel bag into KARR's trunk. Gold was versatile, untraceable– And largely impractical, I forced myself to admit. I couldn't exactly pay for African salmon and imported wine with a gold bar, now, could I.

I dropped into the driver's seat and slammed the door, and the gear shift refused to budge when I went to tug KARR into reverse.

"If I may–" As KARR spoke, Auto Cruise blinked on under his voice modulator, and I became entirely too aware of my control over KARR slipping away in an instant. "For old time's sake."

I let go of the yoke and threw my hands in an exasperated Be my guest gesture. I hated when he did that, resumed control without permission. I was supposed to be the driver.

"Thank you." KARR's oily satisfaction sent a shudder up my spine, and I couldn't do much else but sit back as the shifter wrenched itself into gear and the idle purr of KARR's engine swelled to a roar.

No amount of inertial dampeners and laser webbing could quite lessen the sheer concussive force of executing a Turbo Boost from a standstill. KARR's rocket boosters fired with a snap-hiss, and he lunged forward with enough force to pin me flat to the seat, punching through the far wall of the vault and out the other side of the bank in an explosion of steel shrapnel and brick dust.

"Ahh, exhilarating..." KARR drawled, his tone too mellow as he whipped hard to the left, his tires catching in a barking squeal as his rear end kicked out on the wet pavement. I gripped the steering yoke instinctively, my stomach lurching with each jarring turn as the laser restraints kept me otherwise rooted in place. Oh, how I despised when KARR acted like this, thrashing about like an agitated shark.

But I couldn't command KARR to give me back control, not with the mouthpiece of my gas mask still firmly clamped between my teeth. And I couldn't guarantee he would obey, anyway.

Abruptly, KARR shifted back to Normal Cruise in the middle of the damn road, and I scrambled to get my foot back on the gas pedal as our momentum plummeted rapidly. Cars honked and veered as I swerved in and out of oncoming traffic, more concerned with keeping KARR going forward than straight.

"Continue south; the police have only just responded to the first break-in." A derisive laugh emanated from KARR's vocoder. "They make it so easy."

On that, we were in agreement. At this rate, we could run circles around the city police all day long. Nothing could stop us.

"FLAG has been notified of our little traffic infraction," KARR added, and I gripped his yoke tighter in a grimace. "But we still have plenty of time to play before our venerable heroes arrive."

I nodded once, glancing between KARR's monitor and the road. We were already almost upon the third target, a credit union in a sizable stone building with a terracotta tiled roof, hazy under the drumming rain. Both lanes of its drive-thru were empty, the parking lot deserted. Closed on this particular day of the week, it appeared. All the better.

I tapped the brake, my left leg tensing to depress the imaginary clutch and my hand dropping instinctively to the gear shift, but KARR had already downshifted, hunkered to the slick road as I wrenched the wheel and aimed right for the front of the building.

Sheering through the window of the credit union lobby was hardly as satisfying as cleaving through solid brick; it was over too soon, and KARR lurched to an abrupt halt on the tile floor in a shower of glass. Like clockwork, I leapt out into the dim lobby, glass crunching underfoot as I sprinted for the back counter and vaulted over it without breaking stride. Outside the shattered window, over the pounding rain, tires screeched as passersby slammed to a stop in the road to gawk at the wreckage.

"I am jamming any outgoing calls in the vicinity," KARR called, and I glanced back to find him nearly engulfed in a white cloud of gas, picking his way through the rubble of overturned chairs and tables to turn himself around in the lobby. "I've also taken the liberty of scanning the contents of the safe deposit boxes; you will find a selection of diamonds and other precious metals, if you are interested."

I was elbow deep in the back of the ATM and didn't bother responding. A few rings and necklaces would certainly be a nice break from the monotony of stacks upon stacks of cash.

I looted the unlocked safe deposit boxes like a proper burglar, and KARR had sprung open the main vault by the time I was upon the massive metal door. Cash cash cash, bundles of twenties, fifties, hundreds– Even I, who had held raw diamonds in my hands, freshly hewn from the earth itself, was hardly immune to the giddy rush of being surrounded by so much good old fashioned cash.

"Very good, Garthe," KARR crooned after I'd tossed the third duffel bag into his trunk and dropped into my seat. "Perhaps we'll make a proper thief out of you, yet."

I rolled my eyes at the condescending curl of KARR's words and wrenched him into drive before he could take over again. I was enjoying myself far too much to be dismayed by KARR's sardonic remarks at every juncture.

Unconscious bodies littered the sidewalk where the nerve gas had slithered through the shattered window, and it was all I could do to avoid running over any of them as I coaxed KARR back onto the road. KARR had been the one to discourage my willingness, even eagerness, to cut a swath of death through the city, and he'd been equipped with a valid reason: killing civilians would evoke too strong of a response from our enemies. FLAG would be relentless in their pursuit to bring us to justice. Better to be a nuisance, instead. An expensive nuisance, but a harmless one. For now.

So I waited until we were clear of the bodies and the mess of abandoned cars stalled on the road before I hit the gas, relishing in the roar of KARR's engine as he opened up eagerly on the straightaway. Unstoppable. Untouchable. Indomitable.

Through the sheeting rain, a blur of red and blue flashing lights materialized in the distance. Three police cars, driving abreast of each other, racing right for us. A classic roadblock maneuver. But we were no ordinary adversaries.

"Well, well," KARR spoke up, his words laced with predatory glee. "At last, some resistance."

I internalized a thrilled grin, adrenaline rushing anew through my veins. I laid on KARR's horn, drowning out the peal of approaching sirens and keeping his yoke steady with my other hand. The police cars ground to a halt, rear tires kicking out on the slick road in a spray of water and smoke, completely blocking the avenue.

I took my hand off the horn just long enough to press Turbo Boost. In an exhilarating instant, the strobing lights vanished under KARR's prow as we sailed over the barricade, airborne and weightless.

KARR was muttering something about the insufferable racket of his horn when we crashed back down to earth, but my ears were ringing too loudly for me to pay him much heed. I honked again, because I could, because we were wild and unfettered and free, and I wanted the whole world to know it.

I wrenched the yoke, drifting through a deserted intersection and gunning down the next block before the police had even resumed the chase. Another pin strobed on KARR's monitor, closer, closer.

And onto the next.

***

– Michael –

There was no easy way to get from Pasadena to West Hollywood. There wasn't an easy way to get anywhere in a hurry in Los Angeles. Highway Patrol wanted us to shoot down the freeways, which made sense from their perspective, seeing as it would be much easier for them to clear an emergency lane for KITT. But I knew a collection of boulevards and avenues that would get us across the LA River in a much straighter shot, even if that meant forcing the CHiPs to work a little harder to keep the roads clear ahead of us.

With Super Pursuit Mode and a veritable army of CHiPs on our side, we blasted through sleepy villages with brick-and-sandstone corner stores and quaint homes tucked behind white fences, pine trees swaying in the stiff wind as the storm kicked up. In ten minutes flat, we found ourselves entrenched in the unforgiving grid of proper city blocks, and I battened down SPM and reeled KITT's speed back down to the low hundreds.

The whole drive down, I'd had Devon in one ear and the chief of police in the other, the latter trying his damnedest to keep track of KARR as he rampaged unchecked through the city, always two steps ahead of the patrol units responding to the slew of break-ins.

At least nobody had been killed. Yet. But KARR was certainly leaving a trail of bodies in his wake all the same. All of the crime scenes were contaminated with some kind of dense, fast-acting nerve gas, knocking out anyone who got too close. That, on top of KARR's usual MO of jamming alarm systems and phone lines, made it damn impossible for anyone to report anything until KARR was long gone.

At last, something tactile came over the police frequency. Black and silver Trans Am leaps over three patrol units and flees, unscathed.

"That's our guy!" I shouted, adrenaline raging through me, and KITT already had the course plotted on his monitor. So close, so close–

A report of another break-in came over the police band before we'd even made it two blocks. Said report cut off abruptly as KARR jammed the frequency, but we had enough to go on. With any luck, we'd catch KARR cornered in the vault–

But when we rounded the corner, the bank was already deserted, with a gaping maw punched clean through its windowless brick exterior. Three patrol cars idled in a blockade around the egress, doors thrown ajar, and the officers were scattered on the ground like discarded action figures, unconscious in the pouring rain.

"Damn!" I thumped KITT's steering yoke. "Can you pick him up on your scanner?"

"I've got him, Michael." KITT strobed a pin on his monitor, and it was moving rapidly through the streets. "He's certainly making good time, I'll give him that."

"Yeah, I noticed!" I retorted, slamming KITT into a reverse-180 and taking up the chase again before KARR could slip out of range.

Abruptly, the pin on KITT's monitor stopped moving, inside the illustration of a building.

"Gotcha," I hissed, hiking KITT down a side road and toggling the police frequency. "All units, respond to a two-one-one in progress. Fairfax North and Melrose. Over."

It took me a belated moment to realize how surreal those words felt on my tongue, how they sounded in my voice. How quickly I slipped right back into being Michael Long, beat cop, after so many years.

But there wasn't time for a nostalgic reverie. We circled around to the back of the building, and there he was. KARR, emerging from the shadows of the caved-in vault in a rolling cloud of gas like something out of a low budget horror movie. He swiveled to face us head on, and the heavy, drumming rain cast a haze over the all-too familiar lines of his form.

"Well, well." I jumped at the sound of KARR's venomous words emanating from KITT's internal speakers, and his yellow scanner paced languidly. "Look who still comes when called. Such a good boy, KITT."

"KARR, cease this mindless behavior at once!" KITT snapped, perfectly offended. "And get out of my circuitry!"

"We've got you surrounded!" I cut in, bolstered by the splash of police lights all around us as another wave of patrol units descended upon the bank.

"Really? All I see are a few minor obstacles. And I do love a challenge." KARR's tone dripped with predatory zeal, and my grip tightened around KITT's steering yoke in a grimace.

"There's nowhere for you to run, KARR," I called out, my voice pitched an octave too loud as adrenaline raced through me. "We know where you're hiding out. One word from me, and I can have the entire might of the state of California on your doorstep."

"Is that so? My, Michael, I didn't think you were so cavalier with the lives of your fellow law enforcement officers," KARR replied, the amusement in his voice too palpable for comfort. "Or with the life of your wayward lifeguard."

"Son of a bitch–" I hissed, balling my hands into fists. At least I finally had a shred of proof that Mitch was still alive. Or so I hoped. "What the hell have you done with him!"

"Oh, nothing. Yet." KARR's scanner continued to pace slowly, calmly. "But it's truly amazing how many extremities can be removed from the human body before it ceases to function."

I swore under my breath, my knuckles white and my chest tight with dread. I had to be careful, damn it, for Mitch sake, even as every fiber of my body blared for me to take on KARR here and now, invulnerability be damned.

"Why don't we leave hostages out of it, and settle this like men, huh?" I kept my gaze locked on KARR's scanner, streams of rain dripping from the bezel and glinting in the yellow light. "Just you, me, KITT...and Garthe."

"Garthe?" A noise eerily akin to laughter rumbled from the speakers. "Who said anything about Garthe Knight?"

"Don't fuck with me, KARR," I snapped, my patience threadbare. "I know Garthe is back. I know he's the one who rebuilt you." I paused to catch my breath before my agitation could get the better of me. I strained to see into KARR's cabin, but his windshield was fully opaque, blocking any indication of who might be at the wheel. "He's with you right now, isn't he, huh? Someone's gotta be doing your handiwork."

"Michael, Michael, Michael, always the one with all the answers." KARR's taunt sent a sickening shudder down my spine. "How does it feel, not having the slightest idea what you are dealing with?"

"What the hell do you want?" I couldn't help but shout, maddened by the languid sweep of KARR's yellow scanner in the rain.

"Time will tell," came KARR's aloof response. "For now, I simply want you to wait. I want you to sit on your hands, secure in the knowledge that there is nothing you can do to oppose me. And if you do attempt to cross me..." KARR's voice dropped to a dangerous monotone. "I won't hesitate to start leaving little pieces of Mitch Buchannon on your doorstep."

I gulped hard around the knot forming in the back of my throat, my teeth gritted hard enough to ache. I couldn't do a damn thing– KARR was right there, and we couldn't do a goddamn thing.

"Now..." KARR went on, his scanner still pacing tepidly. "You are going to power down KITT's engine, and I am going to lead these intrepid police officers on a merry chase through the mountains. And if I detect even a twitch of movement from either of you before I am out of scanner range, then Mitch Buchannon will be the first to suffer the consequences. Am I understood?"

I grimaced, stiff as iron in KITT's seat, my mind racing to come up with something, anything that would give us an edge–

"Am I understood?" KARR's voice thundered through KITT's cabin. He wasn't bluffing. I couldn't risk it– If anything happened to Mitch because of me– It made me nauseous just to think about it.

"I'm sorry, pal," I murmured, killing KITT's engine. It felt dirty; his RPMs had been running at a redline, his turbines roaring in anticipation, waiting for me to give him the go-ahead. Now, only deafening silence prevailed, and the dull drum of rain beating down on us.

"It's alright, Michael," KITT replied quietly, sounding as dejected as I felt. "We'll get him next time."

I nodded, pretending I believed him. Across from us, KARR's scanner flared brighter in the rain.

"Very good, gentlemen." KARR's tires shifted, and he took his sweet time angling away from us, drinking in every ounce of his triumph. "Until we meet again. And do give my regards to Dr. Bonnie Barstow, would you? How I miss the feel of her touch upon my circuits."

I cringed, disgust deepening my scowl. Seemed like with every resurrection, KARR came back that much more brazen and arrogant. And all the more human for it.

KITT was muttering something about KARR's lack of propriety, but my heart was hammering too loudly for me to focus. KARR's windows and rear windshield were just as solidly tinted, rain streaming off his black form as he swung around to face the semicircle of police cars and accelerated in a shriek of rubber. I grimaced, expecting the worst, but KARR managed to thread between two patrol cars with only a grazing shove, and that was it. Gone in a blink, nothing but black tire tracks on the asphalt in his wake.

I stared out into the rain in a daze as the police cars peeled away to give chase, and I only snapped back to my senses when the radio crackled to life and the gruff voice of the chief of the CHP split through KITT's cabin.

"Knight, what the hell is the holdup? All units are in pursuit."

"Uh..." I shook my head, trying to rattle something loose. "KARR's got us in a micro-lock. I can't get 'er to turn over. I'm sorry, Chief."

With that, I cut the radio and scrubbed my hands over my face, too aware of the prickly stubble along my jaw, the heavy bleariness behind my eyes. What a disaster.

"He's out of range, Michael," KITT ventured quietly. I blew out my breath in a bitter sigh; I couldn't even bring myself to be angry. Of course I was angry, but it wasn't a productive, righteous kind of anger. It was the kinda anger that sat in the pit of my gut, leeching away my strength, my resolve. Helpless, useless–

Hastily, I cranked KITT's engine back on and wrenched him around in the opposite direction KARR had gone. No point in following him. No point trying to stop him.

So what the hell was the point?

"KITT, were you able to scan who was inside KARR?" I asked, because I had to say something, even though I wasn't hopeful in the answer.

"I'm sorry, Michael, he was jamming my efforts," KITT replied dismally, and I forced myself to loosen my grip on his yoke a little. It wasn't his fault. It was the furthest thing from KITT's fault.

"But surely there must have been someone accompanying him," KITT went on. "Unless this latest incarnation has equipped KARR with human hands, or some other means to rob a bank vault unassisted, which is vastly unlikely."

I nodded absently, staring straight ahead into the pouring rain as I led KITT back the way we'd come. No police escort, no SPM. Just a lonely drive through the suburbs, pine trees bending under the force of the wind all around us. Back to square one.

"Given my analysis of Garthe's past behavior, however," KITT was saying, drawing my attention back to the familiar drone of his voice, "it's actually quite possible that he could have been KARR's accomplice. He seems to take pride in doing his own dirty work, as the saying goes. But it begs the question, why would KARR lie about his alliance with Garthe?"

"What if he wasn't lying," I murmured, somewhere outside myself, my knuckles going white again. "We haven't actually seen Garthe, ya know."

"Mr. Cort has," KITT responded readily. "And he received a black eye for his efforts to apprehend him."

"What if that wasn't Garthe, huh?" A flicker of irritation lit in my chest, and I let out a clipped sigh. "What if it was Mitch all along? You saw him on the side of the highway, KITT; he was convinced he was Garthe."

"Michael, there was definitive evidence of two individuals on the island," KITT cut in evenly. "Mitch, and whoever he was pursuing in the other wrecked vessel."

"So?" I retorted. "Mitch could've been chasing anyone. We don't have a shred of proof that it was Garthe."

"What about the knife Mr. Cort recovered?" Now KITT was getting belligerent, too, matching my heated tone. "Devon confirmed that it belonged to–"

"He said it belonged to Wilton," I interrupted with a huff, gesturing vaguely. "For all we know, Mitch could've had that knife. He could've found it at some estate sale and bought it because of its connection to Garthe. Who knows!"

"Michael, pursuing these endless hypotheticals without empirical evidence is, in a word, quite unproductive."

This conversation is not productive. I scoffed to myself as the memory of our very first confrontation with KARR knelled through my mind. "You sound just like KARR."

"I'm going to pretend to not be deeply offended by that allusion," KITT chided. "Michael, what is it that you're not saying? I can tell something is weighing on your mind, aside from the obvious, less-than-optimal circumstances."

I huffed again. Yeah, I did have something on my mind, and I didn't exactly want to talk about it. But now that KITT had locked onto me, there would be no evading the subject.

"What if I was just so ready to believe Garthe was back because..." I stalled, then sighed for the hundredth time. I just had to say it. "Because if he is back, then that means...that means I didn't actually kill him."

"Michael..." There it was, KITT's not-unsympathetic yet distinctly admonishing tone I'd been trying to avoid. "You really must try to release yourself from your guilt surrounding that day. It's not healthy to dwell upon it, especially after so long."

"Doesn't it bother you, though?" I burst out, ignoring KITT's attempt to reason with me. "I'm supposed to be your partner. Doesn't it bother you that I might've killed him? That I tried to kill him?"

"Michael, from what I understand of the situation - which is precious little, I'm afraid, considering my state of debilitation at the time - it was purely a matter of self defense."

"It didn't feel like self defense," I muttered. I could still feel the heft of that pistol in my hand, the icy determination in my veins. "And it's not like I've never been shot at before. Why didn't I shoot Tanya? Or that bastard who killed Stevie? What made Garthe any different? The moment I pulled that trigger, I crossed a line, and now it's coming back to haunt me, one way or another."

"I wish there was something I could say to make you feel differently, Michael," KITT replied softly, and the sincerity in his voice softened the tension gripping my body, just a little bit.

"Me, too, pal." I let out another dejected sigh, too exhausted to sort through the conflicting emotions rattling around inside of me. The guilt, the dread, and a horrible foreboding that no matter what was true and what was a lie, something bad was gonna happen, very, very soon, and I was gonna wind up right in the middle of it.

Chapter Text

– Garthe –

I couldn't bring myself to wrestle with KARR for control as we made our escape from the police; I let him handle the chase, which for KARR was as routine as refreshing his coolant systems. Clocking two hundred miles an hour in the pouring rain, it wasn't long at all before we left our pesky escort in the dust and the mountains closed in around us.

All the while, I sat rigid in the seat, gripping KARR's yoke as it twitched to and fro of its own accord, unable to purge that face from my mind's eye. Michael Knight. In the flesh. Though he couldn't see me, I had seen him plain as day, holding the reigns of his own technological steed.

Why don't we settle this like men, huh? I squeezed KARR's yoke tight enough to make my gloves creak, bile rising in the back of my throat as Michael's insolent voice rang through my head. I would have loved nothing more in that moment than to spring out of KARR and wring my twin's neck until that stolen face of his turned blue around the edges.

But I'd dutifully stuck to KARR's ruse, though it had pained me to sit idly, staring down our foes. So close, so close–

"You are cross with me." KARR's voice split the thick silence that had settled between us. He didn't bother to phrase his inquiry as a question; I still wore my gas mask, the mouthpiece gnashed between my teeth, rendering me effectively mute.

I didn't humor KARR with a nonverbal response, either. Whatever he was insinuating, I was sure he would elaborate promptly.

"For denying you your moment of retribution against Michael Knight, perhaps?" KARR went on. "The time of reckoning will come soon enough."

I nodded once. Michael Knight was many things, but he was no fool; for now, he was too well protected, safe and sound inside KITT, and he knew it. Until we devised a means to compromise KITT's invulnerability, any strike against them would make us the fools.

"But that isn't what's really bothering you, is it, Garthe?" KARR's oily tone stood my hair on end. "I suppose you didn't take kindly to me threatening the well-being of our hostage, did you?"

It was all I could do to keep my expression neutral, staring straight ahead into the pouring rain, ignoring the yellow flash of KARR's voice modulator in the gloom. But I could feel him studying me, and I knew he could see the subtlest twitch of my brows drawing into a frown, the flicker of tension jumping along my jaw at the merest mention of M– of our hostage. My hostage.

"I thought as much," KARR mused, and my scowl deepened, my gas mask clinging uncomfortably close to my face thanks to the sheen of sweat on my skin, stinging my scarred eye.

"I want you to listen to me very carefully, Garthe," KARR went on, his voice pitched dangerously low. "So long as this remains our operation, Mitch Buchannon is as much my hostage as he is yours, do you understand? And if you should fail to utilize Buchannon as our leverage against Michael Knight, as we agreed, then I will take my own measures to ensure Knight does not trifle with us."

How? I wanted to snap, and thankfully the gas mask kept my outburst muzzled. The last thing I needed to do was encourage KARR's delusions that he could harm Mitch. It was all a bluff, nothing but hot air to get my ire up.

I simmered in silence for another few hundred yards before the compounded insult of KARR's little lecture on top of being driven by him became too much to tolerate. I jabbed at Normal Cruise on the dashboard until KARR finally relinquished control, and I slammed the gas pedal down, relishing in the jolt of momentum as the speedometer ticked further into the red.

The garage was abuzz with activity when we finally arrived; I brought KARR in just a tad too hot, his tires barking on the concrete as I wrenched the yoke and centered him, more or less, over the drain grates. The hazmat team descended upon us before I even had the door open, spraying KARR down with a thick decontamination foam to nullify any lingering traces of the nerve gas.

I stripped off my leather gloves on the move, then zipped out of my jumpsuit, and finally rid myself of the damn gas mask and my sweat-sodden eyepatch as I strode under the bracingly tepid spray of the chemical shower. I scrubbed my hair and let the cool water stream down my body until the hazard light flashed from yellow to green. Contamination neutralized.

Without bothering with a towel, I raked my hair out of my face and stalked right up to KARR, heedless of the hazmat team tending to his upholstery and outer shell.

"Now you listen to me, you insolent, overgrown excuse for a calculator." My voice came out in a parched rasp, and KARR's scanner flared brighter at my insult, but at least I knew I had his attention. All too keenly, I felt his sensors lock onto me, no doubt judging my naked, defenseless, fragile human form and finding me lacking. I didn't care. I could kill anyone in this room with my bare hands if the necessity arose, and a modest placement of fabric wouldn't made a damn bit of difference.

"When the time comes, I will deal with Michael Knight as I see fit," I spat, gesturing to myself with a jab. "And until then, I will deal with my prisoner as I see fit. For now, Mitch is oblivious, and above all, he's content. He eats my food and drinks my wine and sleeps in my bed like a good little pet, and I don't have to worry about him trying to escape, because he doesn't know any better. And I intend to keep it that way."

For an endless, electrified moment, KARR said nothing, his scanner pacing slowly, appraising me. I stood rigid before him, caught in that keen yellow glow, my breath coming in hard rasps and my skin hot and cold all at once as tendrils of water slinked down my body. One man against two tons of indestructible steel.

Go ahead, I wanted to snap. Let him. Let KARR grind me to a pulp under his tires, and see where it got him in the end. Nowhere. He'd be nothing without me.

And he knew it.

"Very well, Garthe," KARR said at last, and the languid curl of his words sent a shudder up my spine. "I leave the matter of Knight and Buchannon in your capable hands, for the time being."

I despised the traitorous flash of heat that licked through me at the sardonic purr of KARR's voice, the way the slightest shift in his tone could stand my hair on end without fail. Arrogant mechanical bastard. Leave it to my dearly departed father to program his first supercar to be a supercilious asshole, just to fuck with me all these years later.

I closed the matter with a scoff, holding my chin high as I stalked away, still shedding water from my naked form. Okon straightened when I neared, but otherwise regarded me as though nothing were amiss, locking gazes with my good eye on instinct.

"Have the money sorted and counted." I gestured to KARR's trunk without looking back. "Take twenty percent and disperse it evenly across the ranks. A bit of incentive ought to keep morale up. And I'll be sure to include an extra bonus for you, as well, Commander."

"Thank you, Sir." Okon gave a sharp nod, poised as always. At least I could count on someone around here.

Returning the nod, I swept back into motion and marched barefoot up the metal stairs. Now to put myself back together and find Mitch; I needed to slake the lingering buzz of adrenaline in my veins, and I had just the outlet in mind.

***

– Garthe –

Dressed and preened as though my excursion with KARR had been nothing but a dream, I set about looking for Mitch, which turned out to be harder than anticipated. Not in the great room or the sunroom. Surely not out in the pool in this wretched weather, though I did check, just in case.

The only evidence I found of Mitch's presence was a blender in the kitchen sink, stained with the remnants of his green concoction. Fueled up for the afternoon. Good. I certainly didn't want to wear him out too quickly. But where the devil was he?

My buzzing adrenaline mounted to a racket with every passing moment I spent searching the house, and I staunchly ignored the poisonous little voice in my head, wondering if he really had escaped– But that was preposterous. He had to be somewhere.

At last - and perhaps most logically, in hindsight - I heard activity in the downstairs weight room. It occurred to be as an afterthought that I'd never given Mitch a proper tour of the house; how had he even stumbled upon the gym? How many other rooms had he investigated, how many locked doors had he tried? Was I being too lax with him, after all?

But Mitch had to believe he was my guest, even if that meant tolerating him snooping around unattended. At least I didn't have to worry about him trying to leave; he wouldn't spurn my hospitality, of that I was certain.

Gently, I nudged the door to the gym a bit further ajar and was quite handsomely rewarded by the sight before me. Mitch, drenched in sweat and sparsely clothed in a loose, teal green tank top and gray boxing shorts, bouncing around the punching bag and striking in flurries of quick jabs and smooth, powerful hooks.

Warm relief fanned through me, and I leaned against the doorjamb with a pleased smile, more than content to watch Mitch's tan muscles ripple with each punch, his sinewy legs coiling as he moved, light on his feet as he bounced to and fro, dodging an imaginary foe before striking back.

But it was only so long before my palms started to prickle with the need to squeeze Mitch's hard muscles for myself, and an anticipatory heat billowed through me at the prospect of pressing his hot, sweat-slicked body against mine...

I slinked into the gym behind Mitch as he worked his way around the punching bag, and I rapped my knuckles on the plate of the barbell on the weight bench just hard enough to make it knell. Sure enough, Mitch whirled around at the noise, and my smile widened fondly at his reaction, his eyes wide and his lips parted in a startled gasp.

"Hi!" Instantly, Mitch lit up with a breathless, radiant grin, his skin glistening and suffused with a scarlet blush from his cheeks all the way down his neck and his eyes shining enthusiastically.

"I wasn't sure where I'd find you," I said quietly, taking in Mitch's lanky form with one raking gaze after another. His loose tank top was twisted around his torso, exposing the curve of his pectoral and one enticingly ruddy nipple peeking through the damp curls of his chest hair. "I'm glad you're making yourself at home."

"Yeah! Uh, yeah, well, I, uh–" Mitch broke off with a dizzy laugh, suddenly sheepish under my wandering gaze, which only stoked my desire to lay him out beneath me and worship that bronzed body until his stuttering protests turned to moans of ecstasy–

"I, uh, I guess I'm just trying to get back into some kinda routine, y'know?" Mitch managed at last, knocking his boxing gloves together idly. "Since I'm gonna be staying here for, y'know, uh, a while, I guess."

My smile faltered slightly at the note of resignation in Mitch's tone. Homesick, he'd called this particular malaise. What would it take to finally break Mitch of that pesky sense of yearning? He had everything he could possibly want, right here, with me. Wasn't that enough?

"D'you wanna go a few rounds?" Mitch ventured suddenly, gesturing to the punching bag, and I couldn't help but smirk at his obvious diversion from the subject. Despite his misgivings, he didn't want to upset me, either; another assurance I could rely on.

"Why not?" I humored Mitch with a smile, sauntering a step closer and unbuttoning my jacket. "Keep your gloves on."

"Wha–?" Mitch paused with the strap of his glove between his teeth, then jumped to attention when I dropped into a ready position facing him. "Oh! I meant with the bag–!"

"But this is more fun." I grinned, then lunged into motion, striking Mitch's glove with the heel of my palm with enough force to startle him back a step.

"Jesus!" Mitch hissed with an incredulous laugh, and he got his fists up in a proper defensive stance to catch my next sequence of open-handed strikes. It was a basic exercise, just enough to get my blood pumping. Not exactly how I'd been planning to blow off steam, but it felt good all the same, adrenaline singing anew through my veins.

Mitch picked up on my rhythm quickly, his body moving in sync with mine as we traded blows. Jab, block, chop, block. Faster, faster, until his gloves stung my palms and my muscles were burning eagerly.

On a whim, I shifted my weight and swung my leg in a roundhouse kick, aiming for Mitch's gloves. He blocked effortlessly, and I planted myself again and kicked my other leg, relishing in the sting of another solid block.

I expected Mitch to stay on the defensive, and a sudden jab caught me off guard. I blocked my face with my forearms at the last second, taking the full force of his glove dead-on instead of deflecting the blow, and it hurt.

Mitch hissed in apology and pulled his next punch, his glove just grazing my ribs, but the stunning pain in my arms had cast black stars over my vision and I couldn't hold myself back. I lashed out, forcing Mitch back a step with the sheer speed and intensity of my advance.

But Mitch held his own against me for longer than most, doffing my open-palmed strikes aside, his gloves always there to meet my hands. He even blocked my knee when I went for another kick, reading my moves before I made them. He was good, I'd give him that. But I was better.

Halfway through another flurry of chops and jabs, I grounded myself and drove the heel of my palm into Mitch's glove with enough force to stun his arm, then knocked his wrist aside with the back of my hand, throwing his defenses open.

In the next millisecond, I could've smashed my palm into Mitch's nose, or his sternum, or gone low and buried my fist into his abdomen, or shifted my weight and kicked his knee out from under him. Any number of ways to bring the fight to a decisive end, my breath sawing in my ears and my instincts screaming for blood.

But the bright blue glint of Mitch's wide, startled eyes made me falter, yanking me back to my senses. At the last second, I splayed my hand flat against Mitch's chest and shoved him back. He staggered, bewildered, and his arms windmilled when I shoved him again, sending him stumbling backwards into the wall.

In a stride, I closed the distance between us, pinning Mitch against the wall by his shoulders before he could regain his balance. All at once, the heat of his body washed over me, incandescent and intoxicating, his chest heaving and his hair quivering, the curls mussed and damp with sweat.

Panting for breath as well, I leaned closer to Mitch, stiff and aching and desperate for his thrumming warmth. I'd broken a sweat, too, my clothes clinging to my damp skin, our musk and ragged breaths mingling in the sliver of humid air between us, so close I could see the veins in Mitch's neck fluttering. My heart hammered in my chest, my blood roaring with need–

And then Mitch laughed, a nonchalant, breathless little chuckle that jolted me out of my tunnel-visioned focus on his flushed throat. His eyes were gleaming when our gazes locked, impossibly blue and crinkling around the edges when he smiled.

"Guess that means you win, huh?" Mitch murmured, and I felt him nudging me gently with his gloves. Nudging me away. My heart skipped a beat, utter confusion sweeping through me. Didn't he want me? Wasn't his blood boiling with desire, too? Didn't he know how desperate I was?

Too stunned to do much else, I slipped my hands from his shoulders and shifted back a step, and Mitch wasted no time unfastening his gloves with his teeth and tugging them off, perfectly oblivious to the hollow ache he'd stricken into the center of my chest. My adrenaline crashed, leaving me numb and a little dizzy, my veins still pounding feverishly.

"C'mon!" Abruptly, Mitch thumped me on the shoulder hard enough to nearly knock me over, blackness edging my vision as I warred with a hot swell of frustration in my chest. I didn't know Mitch had it in him to be this cruel, toying with me, denying me my needs. He was right; I'd won, and he was my prize. Why was he being so damn fickle?

"Come over here and spot me, will ya?" Mitch's voice jolted me back to my senses; he was sitting on the weight bench across the gym, curling a dumbbell in each hand. The bunch of his biceps with each curl, so tan and glistening with sweat, awakened a renewed surge of hunger inside me.

I drifted over to Mitch in a daze, blinking the black crystals from my vision and struggling to steady my breathing. So he wanted to play the long game. Fine. I'd play along.

I sat down on the bench behind Mitch, close enough for him to feel the lick of my body heat on his back, my breath fanning his skin when I leaned closer. "What do you need me to do?"

I grinned at the shudder that passed through Mitch, and his next breath came out as a shaken laugh.

"Put your hands under my elbows, make sure I'm not moving too much," Mitch replied, his voice straining with the grimace of another curl. "Count with me, too. I can tend to lose track."

Obediently, I placed my hands under Mitch's elbows, just close enough to feel the buzz of contact every time he curled the weights. I relished in the goosebumps prickling his sweaty skin, and it was all I could do not to nibble on his ear as I counted under my breath. I knew those teasing whispers drove Mitch wild; he wouldn't be able to keep up this little charade for long. Sooner or later, I'd win again.

***

– Mitch –

It wasn't like I was oblivious to what Garthe wanted. A guy'd have to be dead not to sense the raw, sexual desire thrumming off him like a thunderstorm ready to burst.

But I was also determined to do some actual exercising before Garthe jumped me, which we both knew was inevitable, anyway, so he could deal with me leading him on for a little while.

Garthe wasn't exactly the most patient guy in the world, but he did know how to bide his time, and having him spot me while I did my curls and shoulder presses and lateral lifts was kinda like being circled by a very keen vulture, just waiting for me to drop dead so he could tear into me. It was certainly incentive to do a few extra reps here and there, just to keep him at bay a little longer.

And it wasn't like I was immune to Garthe, either. He'd shed his jacket and untucked and unbuttoned his pale blue shirt, and he was so damn sexy when he was a little disheveled, his hair curling in the humidity and the rich, black swath of his chest hair taunting me with every sauntering move he made.

I knew as soon as I laid down to do some bench presses that I should've quit while I was ahead. I could tell Garthe's patience was waning, and now that he was looming over me with his shirt open and that smug smirk on his lips, it was getting harder and harder to ignore the very obvious boner in my shorts that I'd been trying desperately to work through.

But I wasn't about to cave that easily. Stubbornly, I hefted the barbell off the rack, and Garthe dutifully spotted me for several reps, his hands hovering under the bar with each pump.

"Come on, you can do better than that," Garthe chided suddenly, then he vanished, leaving me hanging with the barbell, and I couldn't stifle a grunt when I felt him slide another plate onto the bar, then another.

"Asshole," I hissed, huffing and grunting as I pushed the barbell up, held, then brought it back down, making sure Garthe had his hands in position in case I lost my grip, which he did. I wouldn't be much good to him if I crushed my own throat with a barbell, huh.

I had no idea how much weight Garthe put on the damn bar, but after a few pumps, my whole body was shaking and my muscles weren't just burning, they were screaming. I gathered myself with a grimace and hefted the barbell up one more time, just enough to slot the bar back onto the rack, then I let myself go limp with a breathless groan, my arms dangling off the bench at my sides.

"I can't feel my arms..." I grunted, too winded to move, and the worst thing I coulda done was lose track of Garthe, because the next thing I knew, he was on top of me.

I let out a half-startled, half-plaintive shout at the sudden weight of Garthe straddling my hips, and I really couldn't move to save my damn life, my entire body taxed to its limits. Which had probably been Garthe's plan all along.

"I think it's finally time for some cardio, don't you?" Garthe punctuated his sardonic remark with a teasing double-pinch to my sides, and I burst out in a squawking gasp of laughter but couldn't get my damn hands to move fast enough to defend myself, my arms about as weak and useless and wet noodles.

"No!" I finally managed to swat Garthe's wandering hands away from my abs, still laughing despite how much it hurt to breathe. "No cardio! I'm too tired!"

"Well, then, what about a nice, slow, full-body massage, hm?" Garthe purred, and I jumped and grunted when he laid his hands over my pecs and squeezed, kneading the aching muscles just hard enough to make me groan as bliss billowed through me.

"Mm, that does feel g-hyck–!" I broke off with a snort when Garthe's fingertips closed around my nipples, stars flashing before my eyes as my blood pressure skyrocketed all over again. "Stahp–!"

Garthe's only response was a downright villainous snicker, and the relentless tease of his thumbs and fingertips around my nipples set me off laughing and wheezing hysterically. All I could do was twitch and squirm under Garthe's immovable weight on my hips, my spine arching and my breath coming in delirious yelps with every tweak and pinch.

"That's for being such an insufferable tease..." With a final, lingering pinch that turned my vision fuzzy, Garthe let go of my nipples, leaving them aching and tingly in abandonment. "You have lovely tits, by the way."

"Why, thank you," I quipped back breathlessly, managing a wry smile despite my panting. I'd never really given much thought to the desirability of my nipples before, but now my nipples were all I could think about, hard and throbbing from Garthe's ministrations, which only drew my attention to a certain something else that was hard and throbbing impatiently.

"Now..." Garthe trailed his fingertips under my chin, and I shuddered and snickered but couldn't muster the strength to lift my head, my abs still aching too much for me to sit up.

"I'm going to go upstairs and draw us a hot bath," Garthe went on, his voice pitched intentionally low as he walked his fingers along my jawline. "And if you haven't joined me by the time the water's ready..."

Without warning, Garthe pinched my earlobe hard enough to make me yelp and see stars, every single one of my nerves standing on end in a hot, prickly flash.

"Yow– Oh yeah, okay, I get the picture..." I wheezed, my heart racing and my attention split between the ache of Garthe pinching my ear and the much louder ache of wanting him to pinch me like that everywhere else. "I'm comin', ah, just gimme a sec..."

"You better." Abruptly, Garthe let go of my ear and swung off of me, and I sucked in a gasping breath and laid on the bench for a bewildered moment, limp and dizzy and still seeing stars every time I blinked.

Garthe was long gone by the time I hefted myself upright, my skin still crawling with the echoes of his touch, and a teeny tiny part of me wondered what he would do if I didn't follow him right away...

But I didn't wanna keep Garthe waiting, either, mainly because he'd aroused a helluva fever in me that I knew only he could cure. So I clambered to my feet through sheer force of will, grunting and wobbling as my sore muscles protested, and got myself in gear, motivated by the sole, tantalizing prospect of letting Garthe finish what he'd started before I went nuts.

It didn't take me that long to hobble upstairs, and yet, somehow, not only did Garthe already have the bath drawn, but he'd taken the time to light dozens of candles around the suite, adding to the warm, rose-scented ambiance that instantly overwhelmed my senses.

I let out an incredulous little laugh, trying to play off how horribly out of place I felt, sweaty and sticky and surrounded by all this gilt and opulence. Garthe still wasn't doing things in half-measures; I was beginning to get the distinct impression that he'd never half-assed anything in his entire life.

Garthe glanced up from where he'd been adding another dash of epsom salts to the bath, and he flashed a smile that bordered on wicked in the candlelight flickering across his face. He'd taken off the rest of his clothes, and the sight of him unabashedly naked save for the black slash of his eyepatch was enough to send a renewed blush sweeping up and down my whole body.

"Uh– I think I should, uh, rinse off first, don't you?" I stammered, rooted in place as Garthe sauntered up to me with that catlike grace of his. Not that I wasn't eager to jump in the bath with Garthe - considering the entire rest of my body was screaming for me to shut the hell up already - but the intent glimmer in his lone eye was doing all kinds of things to my fight-or-flight response, standing my hair on end and ratcheting my heartrate up another notch–

Without a word, Garthe grabbed me by the front of my tank top and dragged me into a crushing kiss, his tongue seeking mine in a hot, invasive flash that made me warble in surprise.

"If you are not...undressed... and in that tub..." Garthe growled between fervent kisses, fisting his fingers tighter into my tank. "In the next ten seconds..."

"Okay! Okay– Mmph–" I chuckled against Garthe's lips, my hands drifting to his lower back. His whole body was tense as iron under my touch, and now I definitely didn't wanna know what he'd do if I didn't cooperate right away. "No need for threats, darlin'."

Garthe made a sardonic noise against my lips, already gathering my tank top at the hem, and I obediently put my arms up to let him slip it over my head. I sighed and shuddered when Garthe readily skimmed his hands up my bare torso, running his fingers through my chest hair and squeezing my pecs until stars flashed before my eyes and my throbbing blush deepened tenfold.

Without thinking, I scooped Garthe's face into my hands and kissed him back, relishing in the deep, blissful purr that built in the back of his throat. He leaned heavily into me, almost desperately, like he couldn't stand to have any part of his body not touching mine. All the while, his hands roamed my body, kneading my chest, my hips, my ass, until the pressure building in my groin was almost too much to bear. I lost my breath to a growl when Garthe nudged his hard, eager heat against mine; I rolled my hips without thinking, Garthe's breath hot on my mouth, my head spinning as his grip tightened, pinning me against him–

"Time's up," Garthe whispered against my lips; abruptly, he shrugged out of my grasp and slinked away, leaving me stunned and reeling for a moment, my hands hanging in the empty air.

Hastily, I shook myself back to my senses and scrambled to get my shoes and socks and shorts off, hard and throbbing like hell and all sorts of discombobulated, all while Garthe dipped into the steaming bath, taunting me with his lithe, nude form in the candlelight like some kinda Greek statue come to life.

"I'm coming, I'm coming..." I huffed, finally stumbling out of my shorts and hustling to join Garthe in the bath. The water welcomed me with a warm, tension-melting embrace, and I sagged into the tub with a weary groan, my head spinning with utter bliss as the fragrance of rose petals and scented candles enveloped my senses for a moment.

The water lapped and rippled as Garthe sidled up beside me, and I slung my arm around his shoulders without opening my eyes, relishing in the closeness of his body against mine in the water. A moment later, Garthe nuzzled a damp, bristly kiss against my cheek; I tilted my head, and Garthe readily dropped another kiss on my lips, raising a fresh wave of hot, tingly goosebumps from my head to my toes. I scrunched my fingers into Garthe's hair with one hand and caressed his cheek with the other, holding him steady at that perfect angle, and he purred low in his throat again at my touch.

I couldn't stifle a shuddering moan of my own when Garthe skimmed his hand up my inner thigh; all at once, the fever of arousal shouldered to the forefront of my attention, winning out over the soothing effects of the warm water and bath salts. I gripped Garthe's hair tighter, my whole body going tense in anticipation of his next touch, and he growled into my mouth like he always did when I pulled his hair, lighting my veins ablaze with adrenaline.

Garthe knew just how to touch me down low to make me throw my head back with a rapturous gasp, stars flashing before my eyes as utter ecstasy billowed through me. His hand fit so perfectly around me, and a bristly, suckling kiss to my hammering pulsepoint felt like heaven and hell all at once, agony and ecstasy warring for release as his touches brought me right to the edge of oblivion.

The water lapped again, and Garthe pressed himself even closer to me, and the electric zing of his hard length brushing against mine almost undid me on the spot. He gathered us together in his hand, straddling me, everywhere all at once. My eyes fluttered open to the sight of him on top of me, moisture glistening like diamonds on his skin, glinting in the candlelight. He still had his damn eyepatch on, but my hands were riveted to his hips, holding him steady as he worked himself against me, slowly, steadily.

I leaned my head back with another heavy sigh, exposing my throat, begging for another kiss. Garthe readily obliged, burying his face into the crook of my neck, his breath whirring in my ear as he nibbled an electrifying trail of kisses up and down my flushed skin.

"I need you..." Garthe murmured against my throat, his voice so low and strained I barely heard him over the rush of my pulse. He pressed himself harder against me, almost distracting me from his words, but not quite.

"I gotcha," I whispered back, my own voice barely a breath, and I slid my hands up his body, holding him close, letting him know I was there, that I was real. "I'm right here."

A shudder passed through Garthe's body, hard enough to make the water ripple slightly, and he kept his face buried against my neck, his breath coming in hard, hot puffs on my skin. Instinctively, I hugged him tighter, snaking my arms around his body and squeezing him gently, until his breathing steadied.

"It's okay," I breathed, rubbing his back, hyperaware of the texture of his scars. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

Garthe relaxed a little every time I spoke, hanging on my every word. Our bodies were still joined in his hand, but his grip had slackened, his attention elsewhere. But that was alright; I could take it from here.

I shifted my hands to scoop Garthe up by the rear, hefting him into a better position on top of me. Immediately, Garthe's hands flew to brace himself on the edge of the tub on either side of my shoulders, his lone eye wide and glassy and his lips parted in surprise.

"It's okay," I repeated softly, moving my hands again, replacing his grip with my own, touching him just right to make his breath leave him in a moan and his eyelid flutter as he went hard again in my grasp. "Just relax. I gotcha."

Garthe compressed his lips and gulped hard, and his lone eye finally drifted shut as he gave himself over to me. This broken, beautiful man, fragile as ice as I worked him gently, painstakingly aware of ever tick in his brow and hitch in his breathing, until the last cordon of tension evaporated from his form and his expression softened to one of pure bliss.

I gazed up at Garthe, my vision hazy and my body singing as we toed closer and closer to that sweet release, and all the while my heart felt full to bursting, too, with so many emotions that I couldn't keep straight. Garthe, the picture of ecstasy above me, his lips parted, pink and dewy like rose petals, forming my name on halting breaths. My name on those lips, barely audible over the lapping water, our panting breaths mingling, until white-hot euphoria blotted out the world, and nothing could've felt as right as Garthe did in that moment, on me, around me, dominating every one of my senses.

With a final, heaving sigh, I succumbed to the black splotches dappling my vision and let my eyes drift shut, my head spinning and my whole body buzzing. Vaguely, I felt Garthe sag into me, his body fitting against mine like a puzzle piece in the water, clinging to me like his life depended on it. I slung my arms around him, holding him close as we drifted off. I'd be his flotsam, his anchor, his touchstone, whatever he needed me to be, I'd be there.

Chapter Text

– Michael –

Despite the pouring rain, and KITT's insistence that I'd catch a cold if I went out in it, I couldn't stay cooped up inside with my thoughts all damn day. I needed to clear my head, get my emotions back in order, and, most importantly, process our confrontation with KARR.

So I changed into a track suit and hit the test track for a jog, with KITT shadowing me a few paces back, the low rumble of his engine a comforting presence. Once I was thoroughly soaked, which didn't take long, the rain wasn't too hard to ignore. I kept my eyes locked straight ahead, kept my breathing steady; nothing mattered but the steady pump of my legs, the wet impact of my running shoes on the track.

I'd barely made it three miles when KITT beeped my comlink to get my attention. "Bonnie is calling. She wants us back to the garage at once."

"She say why?" I asked, breathless. All at once, the peaceful decompression I'd been cultivating gave way to a clench of dread in my chest, and I slowed to a stop and raked the streams of rain out of my eyes to glance back at KITT.

"No, Michael, but she seemed in high spirits," KITT responded, his scanner flashing bright crimson in the rain. "Would you like a ride back to the Foundation?"

"If you're offering." I managed a crooked smile, and KITT's door was already swinging open as I strolled over to him.

"A little rainwater has never hurt the upholstery, before," KITT remarked, perfectly timed with me dropping into the seat with a wet squelch. "Though perhaps you could bring a towel the next time you intend to go for a jog in this sort of miserable weather."

"It is pretty awful out, huh," I mused, tapping the gas and swinging KITT back home. Rain drummed on the windshield and sunroof with almost deafening intensity, and I hit the wipers for good measure. "Downright biblical."

"Please, Michael, no Bible references," KITT protested. "I don't have the stomach for any mention of David versus Goliath, or Cain and Abel, or anything else of the sort."

"You don't have a stomach, period," I quipped back, chuckling at KITT's indignant silence that followed.

Bonnie and April really were in good spirits when we pulled into the garage, out of the rain at last, and seeing them laughing and chatting and smiling was almost surreal, like I'd fallen into a parallel dimension where the whole world wasn't going to shit.

"Alright, what's up?" I ventured tentatively as I hopped out of KITT and closed his door, glancing from Bonnie to April and back, then finally to Devon, sitting in one of the office chairs by the computer terminals, his light eyes shining keenly as ever.

"We've developed a way to disable the bugs around the Foundation," April piped up first, practically glowing with pride, and Bonnie bobbed her head beside her.

"That's great!" A surge of much-needed relief swept through me, and one of the countless weights in my chest lifted. Progress was progress. At least we'd finally have our home, and base of operations, back to ourselves. "How?"

I knew I'd regret asking that as soon as the word was out; I figured I was in for a lot of technical jargon that would go right over my head, but the girls seemed eager to tell me, so I let them have at it.

"Well," Bonnie began. "The bugs have two modes of gathering and transmitting data: through the phone lines and electrical wiring, and through their own built-in micro-receivers. So the first thing we did was gut the Foundation of everything with speakers and receivers that the bugs could piggyback off of. The phones, the PA system, even the speakers in the computers and television sets have been removed."

"Which has been an unexpected blessing, I must say," Devon interjected with a wry smile. "I certainly have not missed the incessant ringing of the phone in my office."

"What'd the Board have to say about that?" I asked on instinct. "Won't our radio silence tip them off that we're up to something?"

"I told the Board it was merely a precautionary measure," Devon replied. "If anything urgent transpires, they can contact me through KITT."

"Oh, wonderful," KITT muttered, and I had to smile, albeit sympathetically. KITT made no qualms about voicing his distaste for the Board of Directors, and I didn't blame him, not when the Board in turn treated KITT no better than a piece of equipment. "Let's hope nothing urgent transpires."

"Don't worry, pal." I patted KITT's fender. "If someone calls, I'll handle it. We all know how much the directors love talking to me."

Devon gave me a disparaging look, but I could tell he was stifling a smile, which only made my cheeky grin widen.

"Anyway–" April cut in with an exasperated smile. "Once we got rid of all the external receivers, all we had to do was figure out a way to disable the bugs' internal components."

"Obviously, we know the bugs are impervious to electro-magnetic interference," Bonnie continued, her eyes shining intently. "But they are vulnerable to ultrasonic interference."

"Sound waves?" KITT piped up, intrigued.

"Exactly, KITT," Bonnie concurred. "When exposed to high, high, high frequency sound waves– Well, April, would you do the honors?"

"Gladly," April replied primly, and she drew my attention to the little metallic box on the cart before her. Our original bug. "And you might want to put those on."

Bonnie was already handing me a heavy-duty pair of noise canceling headphones, and I slipped them on and flashed a thumbs-up when the dull roar of silence enveloped my senses.

I read Bonnie's lips as she told KITT to switch off his audio receptors, then she, April, and Devon also slipped on headphones. April grabbed a bizarre device off the cart, a little bigger than a TV remote with a foot-long, fat antenna ringed with metallic resonator coils. She aimed the bulb at the end of the antenna right at the bug and pressed a button; after a suspenseful moment, the bug popped like a kernel of popcorn, and I jumped in surprise.

Satisfied, April powered down the device and slid her headphones down around her neck, and I followed suit, bewildered. "That's it?"

"Pretty much!" April said brightly.

"It took a lot of calculations to get the frequency and decibels just right," Bonnie added, clearly proud of their work. "But we finally figured it out. One blast from this transmitter overloads the internal circuitry and renders the bug completely inert, wherever it happens to be."

"Within a thirty foot radius, that is," April added, handing me the device. "So, a few passes through each room of the mansion ought to do the trick. RC3's on it, now, and I figured you'd want a piece of the action, too."

"Wait a sec, back up." I gestured to the quote-unquote inert bug on the cart. "Isn't that the bug we were gonna use to...?"

"Oh, don't worry," April replied, waving me off as though she could dispel all my concerns with a flick of her wrist. "We've already rebuilt this thing ten times over. It'll be good as new by the time you need it."

I pursed my lips, still nursing a knot of uncertainty in my gut, but I nodded anyway. I knew I could count on them.

"I almost feel sorry for the poor devils on the receiving end of this strategy," Devon mused, then shook his head and shrugged. "But I suppose that is the price one pays for working for tyrannical men such as Garthe."

"Maybe we'll get lucky and blow out a few of KARR's circuits, too," I murmured, then immediately felt bad for my lack of sympathy. But Devon was right; we couldn't play nice, not if we wanted to end this, once and for all.

So I cracked my best, wicked smile and brandished April's weird little device like a sword. "Alright! Where do you want me to start?"

***

– John Cort –

Maybe it was something I picked up in the Navy, maybe I just had an innate, supercharged bullshit detector, but I knew as soon as I stepped through the door that someone had been in my shop.

And it wasn't so much that anything looked different - I wasn't the kinda guy to get paranoid about how many times I turned the deadbolt or how I laid the phone on its cradle - but a distinct prickle on the back of my neck brought me up short, a keen sixth sense that I knew better than to ignore.

I smelled something, something that didn't fit the usual profile of teenage funk and sweaty sand and board wax. The unmistakeable tang of a freshly-polished gun hanging in the humid air definitely didn't belong.

All at once, adrenaline fizzed through my veins, shouldering aside the residual fatigue of a very long day playing lifeguard in this shitty weather. A guy couldn't catch a damn break, huh.

I crept through the main shop cautiously, scanning for trip wires or booby traps. The relentless drum of rain lashing against the windows made it impossible to hear if anything was ticking - though, anymore, bombs were rigged to digital timers, silent and efficient and boring. I wasn't likely to stumble upon a good ol' fashioned stick of dynamite strapped to an alarm clock, unfortunately. That'd be one for the books, for sure.

I made it all the way into the back office without blowing anything up, and I gave my living space a quick perusal as well. Finding a brick of C4 next to my shaving cream wasn't exactly an experience I was keen to repeat. But the medicine cabinet was clean, as well as my appliances. Back to the office, then.

The lock box, with its fine layer of dust from disuse, was undisturbed. I popped the cash drawer and found the exact amount of money that had been in there last night. So that ruled out robbery, not that I'd really been convinced that's what had happened. My place had been invaded by gun-toting goons, not a couple of cash-strapped beach bums.

And I just happened to know a guy with gun-toting goons on the payroll.

Without bothering to check for fingerprints - I wanted to believe said gun-toting goons had been smart enough to clean up after themselves - I picked up the phone on the counter and unscrewed the mouthpiece. Bingo. One dime-a-dozen listening device nestled inside the receiver.

Damnit. I gritted my teeth, a million thoughts racing through my head as I stared numbly at the bugged phone. First of all, I was a little offended by how crude the bug was. Guess I wasn't enough of a threat to warrant one of the super-duper bugs Michael and the FLAG gang were dealing with. Psh.

But regardless of the quality of the bug, the jig was up. Someone had spotted me meeting with Michael and Bonnie, despite all our efforts to keep it on the down-low, and now I was in this lunatic's crosshairs. Terrific. And I couldn't even alert Michael that I'd been compromised. Not easily, anyway.

And, lastly, there was the tiny problem of me picking up the phone, in the first place, which had no doubt alerted whoever was listening in on the other end. If I put the phone back down without dialing, boom, immediate red flag. They'd know I knew I'd been tapped, which could lead to any number of unpleasant repercussions. Better for everyone if I just acted oblivious and non-threatening, because I was not about to let Michael write me off as a liability. I still wanted in on the action.

So, what else was a guy to do in this predicament but dial up the nearest pizza joint. I could go for brainstorming how to communicate with Michael and FLAG over a nice hot pepperoni pie on this lovely stormy day. Hopefully Joey's was still doing deliveries.

Chapter Text

– Mitch –

The storm only intensified as the afternoon wore on. Rain lashed against the towering windows of the great room, the heavy curtains drawn tight against piercing flashes of lightning and the rumbles of thunder that followed. A fire crackled softly in the fireplace, throwing the majority of the vast room into flickering shadow save for a warm haze close to the hearth. The semicircle of orange light just barely reached the couch where Garthe and I had settled, my whole body still buzzing with a dizzy, languorous sense of euphoria.

Equally listless, Garthe lay sprawled out beside me, taking up most of the couch even with his feet in my lap, his plush robe splayed open, barely belted at his waist. I rubbed his feet idly, and every time I assumed he'd dozed off, Garthe lifted his drink to his lips or puffed on his cigar, filling the air with that heavy, intoxicating scent of smoke that made my head spin more than it already was.

A particularly bright flash of lightning illuminated the heavy curtains, and thunder boomed hard enough to rattle the windowpanes. It sounded downright hellacious out, and I felt my mind drifting, wondering how high the swells were, if the public restrooms had been checked for flooding, if the homeless transients had been accounted for and moved to safety–

I blinked back to my senses, staring numbly at Garthe's feet in my hands, my skin so much darker than his, especially in the warm firelight. I really couldn't turn off that part of myself, huh? The part that cared, that felt responsible for that damn beach and the people on it. Who was taking care of things in my place? Had Thorpe come back from San Diego to oversee Baywatch? Or had another lieutenant come up from Zuma or San Pedro? Not that they had the manpower to spare, either, if this storm cell was as bad as it sounded–

My throat tightened, frustration and confusion squeezing my chest. I'd worked so hard to become a lieutenant, and for what? I couldn't even remember. Just a hazy impression that my life was in shambles, and that Michael Knight was somehow responsible, according to Garthe. But I didn't know what that meant.

Garthe stirred again, dragging me away from my racing thoughts. Demurely, he dipped the end of his cigar in his whisky, and I fully expected him to put the cigar to his lips, next, but instead he offered it to me, his brow raised expectantly.

I smiled wearily at the proffered cigar, and I couldn't resist the mischievous glimmer in Garthe's lone eye. Wordlessly, I took the cigar and puffed on it gingerly, once, twice, savoring the sweet taste of Garthe's whisky on my lips. The effects were almost immediate; a renewed buzz effervesced through my veins, making me warm and tingly and drowsy all at once. Not an entirely unpleasant sensation, I had to admit.

"I could get used to this," Garthe murmured, watching me intently as I smoked, his voice barely audible over the lashing rain.

"Feeding me cigars while I rub your feet?" I retorted lightly, handing him back his cigar so I could resume doing exactly that.

"Something like that," Garthe mused with a wistful smile, still gazing at me as he puffed on his cigar. "Just you, and me. Far, far away from here..."

My heart gave an uncertain jump against my ribs, and I ducked my gaze away from Garthe's. I knew exactly what he was referring to. Fleeing to Africa. Taking me with him. It wasn't like I'd forgotten about his startling proposition, I just...well...

Abruptly, Garthe pulled himself upright, and I jumped at his sudden movement, my reflexes still a little sluggish.

"Have you given it some thought, my dear?" Garthe asked earnestly, practically reading my mind. "About coming with me? To Africa?"

"I..." I found myself trapped in Garthe's gaze, his lone eye shining intently in the half-light, so expectant, so hopeful. Guilt welled up inside me, and I tried to mask it with a rueful smile. "I...haven't, actually. I'm sorry. I guess I haven't really been thinking about...anything, to tell the truth. I'm just kinda going through the motions, y'know?"

Garthe didn't quite stifle the flicker of disappointment that darkened his expression, but he recovered from it quickly, and a sympathetic smile touched his lips.

"That's okay, mon beau," Garthe purred in that tone that stood my hair on end, and he hooked his finger under my chin, preventing me from averting my gaze as he studied my face. "There's still a little time, yet. Loose ends to wrap up, business ventures to complete. And once they are complete, we'll have more money than we'll know what to do with, and nothing to worry about, ever again."

"Just like that?" I teased, flashing a sardonic smirk. Sounded a little too good to be true.

"Just like that," Garthe whispered, caressing my face, and I leaned drowsily into his touch as he went on in a quiet, thoughtful undertone: "No more rain and smog, no more soldiers, no more fighting, no more work. Just the two of us, in a nice, modest, twenty-four bedroom villa on the southeast coast, where we can watch the sunrise every morning and make love to each other in a different room every evening..."

I chuckled under my breath at Garthe's idea of modest, just as he leaned in to brush his lips over mine, kissing me gently at first, then deeper, hungrier, scrunching his fingers into my hair to hold me close. Goosebumps flashed across my skin as thunder clapped and rumbled outside, and I purred against Garthe's lips, savoring the smoky taste of his kisses.

"Sounds like paradise," I murmured wryly when Garthe pulled away for a breath. I still wasn't one hundred percent convinced it would be that easy, just up and leaving for Africa on the promise of some limitless fortune, no strings attached. Nothing was ever that easy. I was sure I had plenty of time to wrap my head around things; hell, maybe my spotty memory would finally sort itself out, by then, and I'd have a clearer picture of what exactly had happened to get me to this point, and what my options really were.

But until then, I didn't wanna spoil Garthe's flights of fancy. He seemed like he needed the incentive, a sense of working toward something, a light at the end of a very long, very dark tunnel.

I smiled again when Garthe's kisses drifted to my ear, warm and bristly, filling my head with the low whir of his breathing like a big, purring jungle cat. Yearning thrummed through him, as palpable as the electricity in the air and the thunder rattling the windowpanes. That desperate, insatiable need that ruled him every time we were together; the need to be close to me, touching every part of me, marking me as his own.

Without a word, I slung my arm around Garthe and gathered him closer, and he pressed right up against me without hesitating, burying his face into the crook of my neck, his breath fanning my throat as he kissed and nuzzled my pulsepoint, the bristles of his mustache making my skin prickle with goosebumps.

Maybe I should've been more concerned about Garthe's possessiveness, but...it was nice to be needed, all the same. When was the last time someone had wanted me this ardently? Maybe I was just as guilty of having a few vices of my own. Was that such a bad thing? To want to be wanted? To be needed?

Speaking of vices, I plucked Garthe's cigar out of his hand before he got ash all over us and puffed on it again for good measure, then snuffed it out in the ash tray on the table. Garthe didn't seem to notice, or mind; he pawed idly at my robe with his free hand, kneading the plush fabric as his breathing slowed, until he finally dropped off into a calm slumber with his head on my shoulder.

I rested my head against Garthe's and closed my eyes, too, holding him close as the storm raged on, the howling wind and lashing rain suddenly distant, unimportant. His hair was so thick and soft and smelled faintly of cedar and spice underneath the cloy of cigar smoke, and the weight of him leaning against me felt so familiar, so right.

My heart thumped at the base of my throat, and I swallowed hard against the squeeze of anxiety in my chest. I didn't have to think about the future right now. Sooner or later, I would, but not right now. All I cared about in that moment was the comfortable weight of Garthe resting on my shoulder, lulled to sleep by the steady drum of my heartbeat, my body heat keeping him warm. Whatever fleeting oasis of peace I could give him, I wanted him to have it. It wasn't Africa, but maybe it was enough. Maybe, for what felt like the first time in my life, maybe I could be enough, no matter what the future held.

***

– Mitch –

I'd just drifted off into a light doze to the steady drum of the pouring rain when Garthe's satellite phone shrilled from across the room.

We both jumped, a startled shout catching in my throat; Garthe hissed and swore and launched himself violently off the couch, vanishing into the shadows before I could even blink the bewilderment out of my eyes.

"This better be good!" Garthe snapped into the phone, followed by a tense, breathless pause. "Well, what the hell do you want me to do about it?"

I craned my neck and strained to focus on Garthe in the unlit room; even in the wan glow of the firelight, I could see his jaw bunching as he listened to whoever was on the other end of the line, his whole body rigid and his fist clenched.

"Alright, alright–" Garthe hissed at last, slicing his free hand for silence. "I'm coming down. Yes, I'll be there at once."

With that, Garthe ended the call and smashed the antenna back down; I half-expected him to crush the phone in his hands, the way he stood there clutching it for a beat, practically quivering, his breath coming in harsh, rasping hisses. My heart lurched against my ribs, struck with the need to go over there and wrap Garthe in my arms until the tension gripping his body subsided.

But deep down, I knew doing something like that would only make it harder for him to leave. And he had to leave, and deal with whatever this latest dilemma was. Then he'd come back all fired up, and he'd need me to coax him down off the edge. I knew the moves to this dance already.

Gradually, Garthe steadied his breathing and put the phone down, his movements stiff and deliberate, like he was one thread away from snapping. My heart ached when our gazes locked across the shadowy room; all at once, the anger dissipated from his expression, leaving him looking so tired, so forlorn.

A rumble of thunder brought Garthe back to his senses with a blink, and he let out a heavy sigh and shook his head.

"I have to go," he said numbly, stalking back over to the couch. He avoided my gaze as he slid into his house shoes, then knocked back the rest of his glass of whisky with a shudder.

"That bad, huh?" I tried for a lighthearted remark, but I sobered quickly when Garthe didn't react. "S'okay. I'll be here when you get back, alright?"

At that, Garthe finally looked down at me, his lone eye glinting in the firelight, a million thoughts racing behind his neutral expression. My skin prickled in anticipation of a kiss goodbye, but Garthe simply hooked his finger under my chin and tilted my face up into the light, taking one good long look at me like it would be his last.

Then Garthe slipped away without a word, leaving me tingling from head to toe, my heart thumping in confusion.

He'll be back, I told myself, even as an unsettling sense of foreboding wriggled through me. It was just the incessant rumbles of thunder putting me on edge, that was all. Garthe would come back, sooner or later, and we'd go back to snuggling by the fire until dinnertime rolled around, and everything would be just fine.

***

– KARR –

At least Garthe possessed enough common decency to clothe himself upon being summoned to the garage. Not that his house robe, scarcely held together by a loose sash at his waist, was much in the way of proper attire, but at least his fleshy human unmentionables were covered. I had seen more than enough of Garthe's anatomy for one day, and while there was a certain amusement to be had in observing the various states of turgor I could induce upon that meaty appendage of his, now was not the time for such bawdy games. There were more pressing matters at hand.

Namely, the cluster of Garthe's Colombian soldiers currently wallowing in the middle of the floor, hissing and moaning and, according to my cursory analysis, suffering from shattered eardrums, some to the extent of bleeding from said orifices.

Garthe stopped dead in his tracks, his typical visage of impatience darkening to a proper scowl at the sight before him.

"What the hell is going on?!" Garthe threw his arm in an encompassing gesture, leveling a glare first at me, then to Commander Okon, who stood at my fender, his hands clasped demurely behind his back and his chin tilted up to regard his superior.

"Sir, we have weathered what only could be described as a sonic attack," Okon responded, his tone cool and level as ever. "These men were responsible for monitoring our surveillance feeds from within the Foundation when the devices relayed a sudden, high-frequency impulse."

"It would appear our intrepid heroes have developed a means of destroying the listening devices within their headquarters," I added, drawing Garthe's one-eyed leer. "And they are systematically doing so, by way of targeted sonic impulses capable of shattering the inner components of the devices. What you see before you is the result of the human eardrum being exposed, unprotected, to said impulses."

Garthe clenched his fists, his gaze flicking here and there as he processed this onslaught of information in a flash.

"Notify Dr. Moritz at once–" Garthe said at last, straining for breath. My olfactory sensors detected the familiar reek of cigar smoke clinging to him, his natural adrenal response warring with the myriad of chemical stimulants and inhibitors coursing through his system.

"Already done, sir," Commander Okon replied coolly. "He is en route as we speak. I've notified the patrols to let him pass."

"Then what the hell was the emergency?" Garthe snapped at his commander. Intrigue thrummed through my circuits. There it was, the slavering impatience to get back to his lover, skewing his priorities and addling his mind. Predictable as ever.

I remained quiet, analyzing Okon's response to Garthe's petulance, his blatant disinterest not only of the injured men under his command - I hardly expected Garthe to care about them, anyway - but his disregard of FLAG's attack against us in lieu of returning to his beloved pet as soon as possible.

Lo and behold, I recognized the gears of thought turning in Okon's mind, his stoic expression flickering as he worked his jaw, looking his fearless leader up and down, taking in every bit of Garthe's eccentricity on full display. Resolute, unflappably loyal Commander Okon, whose full name had never been entered into my databanks, who had been at Garthe's side since my reactivation, and many years prior to that, finally entertaining the smallest seed of doubt, indubitably born from listening to my countless quarrels with Garthe. Like a good lackey, Okon never remarked upon the frequent vitriolic outbursts between Garthe and myself, but, like a good soldier, I knew he committed every word to memory. Every time I called Garthe's leadership into question, every lapse in his judgement, every instance of hypocrisy, culminating in this moment.

"Surely you do not intend for this attack to go unpunished." Okon did not phrase his inquiry as a question, and he waited a deliberate beat before adding a chilly, obligatory: "Sir."

Garthe had been in the process of turning away from Okon, and now he froze, rigid, his lone eye wide and unblinking as he stared at his commander. The eye of a predator caught in the scope of a hunter's rifle, so accustomed to being at the apex, now being forced into action.

Garthe sucked in a sharp breath, likely to lambast Okon for speaking out of turn, when suddenly Garthe paused, instead, tension flickering along his jaw as he held Okon's unwavering stare.

"He put you up to this, didn't he?" Garthe ground out at last, jabbing an accusatory finger at me without looking my way.

"Hardly, sir," Okon replied smoothly, even as my scanner paced faster, my drives whirring keenly. "If I may speak freely, sir, I find the oblique tactics of this psychological war you and KARR have waged against FLAG rather...tedious. I could have a strike team assembled in an instant, at your command, to retaliate accordingly."

Garthe's lips thinned as he contemplated this proposition; and, granted, Okon's logic was not unsound. A surgical strike against the Foundation would just as effectively convey our message that we were not to be trifled with.

But I wanted to watch Garthe squirm. I wanted to see if he'd harm his precious hostage, or if he really had lost his spine, after all. And if he had, I wanted Okon to bear witness, firsthand.

"We promised Knight the blood of our prisoner if he dared cross us, lest you forget, Garthe," I ventured, projecting my voice low, and I relished in the horripilation that prickled Garthe's skin at my every word.

"What the hell do you want, KARR, his appendix?" Garthe retorted, finally whirling around to grace me with the full weight of his glare. "One of his kidneys, perhaps?"

"That would certainly send quite the message." My effected air of flippancy made Garthe scoff, and I waited for him to dismiss me with a snub of his nose before I added, in a calculated undertone: "I would hate for FLAG to think you were bluffing."

Just like that, I had Garthe's full attention all over again. He stalked right up to me as though tugged by an invisible leash, brimming with indignation at my slight.

"I. Never. Bluff." Garthe jabbed his finger with every rasping syllable, and that familiar glimmer of mania shone in his lone eye. "You want blood? Fine. I'll give you blood!"

"Really?" I couldn't help but goad Garthe further, my scanner pacing greedily, drinking in the sour tang of adrenaline pouring off his quivering form.

"Yes," Garthe hissed, and I almost believed his conviction. "I'll send FLAG a message they won't soon forget. I have Mitch wrapped so tightly around my finger, I could have him on his knees begging me to take whatever I please!"

I abstained from comment for a beat, allowing Garthe a chance to catch his ragged breath, all but foaming at the mouth. So deliriously incensed, his false promises falling from his lips faster than his harried brain could properly modulate; but now that his promises were made, spoken aloud for all to hear, he would be compelled to uphold them, lest he brand himself a liar and a fraud before his stalwart commander.

Taking my analytical silence to mean the matter was settled, Garthe lifted his chin with an arrogant huff and stalked away from me.

"And you, Commander." Garthe brought himself toe to toe with Okon, who did not humor Garthe's bluster with so much as a blink. "I should like to think you know better than to let his devil poison you against me."

"Of course, sir," Okon responded coolly, unruffled. "I am utterly at your disposal, as always, sir."

I flicked my scanner tepidly, hardly deaf to the sardonic curl of Okon's show of deference, though I suspected Garthe's ears were ringing too loudly for him to notice. With a self-satisfied nod, Garthe spun on his heel and, in a billow of expensive fabric, made his exit. Off to perform his bloodletting ritual, or whatever dramatic drivel he'd been spouting.

Commander Okon did not move a muscle until the metal door slammed shut and locked itself in Garthe's wake; only then did he release the stiffness in his shoulders with a heavy sigh and dismiss some unspoken thought with a slight shake of his head. I sensed those seeds of doubt beginning to flourish, their roots digging deep into Okon's subconscious.

"If I may pose a question to you, Commander," I ventured without preamble, catching Okon off guard, which he did not appear to appreciate. His mouth pursed in a frown, and he leered down at me with a reproachful curiosity for what the beastly computer-on-wheels had to say.

"What possesses a man of your constitution to swear such unwavering fealty to Garthe Knight?" I went on. "What future do you see for yourself at his side?"

Okon mulled over my query for a moment before a small, amused smile twitched across his lips.

"You want the truth, KARR?" Okon's smile widened, though I detected bitterness in the expression. "I have invested far too much time and energy into Garthe's exploits to do much else with my life. You are familiar with the table game, craps, yes?"

"I am aware of the mechanics," I replied, pulling up the necessary data for reference.

"Well, then, suffice to say, I've bet all my chips on Garthe, just as I've done many, many times before, and now all that's left to do is sit back and let him shoot the dice, and see how they fall." Okon tilted his head slightly, gazing into middle distance, still with that rueful smile. "I have known Garthe for a long time, mind you; much longer than you have. Before Michael Knight. Before Goliath. When we were all young and ambitious, reaping diamonds from the earth in Africa."

I listened intently to Okon's divulgence. He had a deep, pleasant voice, hints of his native accent always present underneath his polished English. I had often wondered about Okon, his past, his education, his ambitions. So many empty fields in my databanks.

"I was serving under Tsombe Kuna at the time, as you might have deduced," Okon went on, and he shook his head in disdain. "Tsombe was so regimented, so careful, always thinking twelve steps ahead of the situation at hand. He was a terrific strategist, yes, but he was not one to take risks."

"And Garthe was," I interjected, and Okon smirked and nodded.

"I will never forget my first impression of Garthe. This tall, spoiled, arrogant white man who had somehow worked his way into Tsombe's favor. I thought he was mad, with his grand ideas, stars in his eyes. But he had such passion, such ruthlessness, it was inspirational. Surely Tsombe thought he was mad, too, but madness can easily be forgiven when it makes you a rich man."

"You humans and your preoccupation with material wealth," I scoffed, not caring to hide my reproach. "And to what end?"

Okon shrugged, an uncharacteristically casual gesture. "Truthfully, the allure of the riches wore off quickly. Africa will always be Africa. You can dress yourself up in the finest silks and parade yourself around with your western guns, but it's still Africa. Tsombe Kuna wanted to be the king of the jungle, but Garthe? His ideas were far greater. They still are."

"And yet, not a single one of these 'grand ideas' have come to fruition," I added flatly. "And so, I ask again, why do you continue to serve Garthe?"

"Why shouldn't I?" Okon responded smoothly, a wry lift to his brow. "Yes, Garthe is still just as spoiled and arrogant and decidedly mad as the day I met him, as well as abrasive and ill-mannered and even more ill-tempered. But he is the devil we know, now, isn't he?"

I let out a derisive harrumph through my vocoder, and Okon acknowledged my unspoken concession with a smirk.

"There is no shortage of men like Garthe in the world," Okon mused, almost to himself. "But why should I sever my allegiance with him just to throw my chips in with somebody else? The future is not guaranteed, either way."

"I see." I analyzed Okon's telemetry, scanning for any evidence of prevarication, the barest chink in his conviction for me to exploit. But I found none. Even what I had earlier presumed to be doubt in Garthe's leadership had clearly been nothing more than a passing exasperation. Okon had no intention of betraying Garthe, least of all in favor of joining me, and I promptly truncated all processing power to that objective.

"Of course, I have had several opportunities to be free from Garthe," Okon went on, unprompted. "After his defeat at Dry Lake. Certainly after his presumed death in San Pedro. And yet, I always find myself drawn back into his orbit, against all odds."

I studied Okon in silence, observing the ironic twitch of his smile, the mirthless huff that might have been a laugh or a sigh.

"I know you think I am a fool, KARR." Okon addressed me with a wry arch of his brow. "You think I am weak, for allowing Garthe to treat me as he does, hm?"

"In my experience, all humans are fools," I responded after a measured pause, and Okon chuckled under his breath.

"Perhaps we are. All of us driven by greed and selfishness and our pesky emotions." Now Okon was humoring me, diffusing my snide remark by conceding to my point. "Yes, I tolerate Garthe's tantrums. I hold my tongue and click my heels and humor him with curt salutes. And in return? I sleep in the guest house every evening on feather pillows and silk sheets, and eat like a king, and want for nothing."

Ah, there it was. Okon was not above the allure of riches and spoils, after all. He had become comfortable; he did not have the ambition, the imagination, to leave Garthe's side, to strike out on his own.

The irony was not lost on me, however, that both Okon and myself found ourselves playing to Garthe's insufferable ego, making ourselves indispensable to him, all in exchange for Garthe's tepid hospitality, a sense of stability, a roof over our heads. The devil we knew, indeed.

"But my loyalty to Garthe is hardly blind, mind you," Okon went on sharply, his expression hardening. "If Africa teaches a man anything, it is how to be humble. You learn to live as though every day is your last, when not even your next breath is guaranteed. Serving Garthe is no different; each day I am humbled by the knowledge that he would kill me without hesitation if he sensed even the barest inkling of dissent. Which is why I would appreciate it if you kept me out of your petty squabbles from now on."

"Noted, Commander," I acquiesced. Okon lifted his brow, studying me for a beat as I studied him.

"You could stand to learn a thing or two about humility, yourself," Okon remarked, suddenly brazen. "Garthe would not tolerate your insults and indiscretions for an instant if these Colombian mercenaries actually understood English, and his patience does have its limits."

"Garthe is the one who needs me," I retorted, my proverbial hackles bristling with a rash of impulses through my defensive relays. "Unlike you, I do not have to grovel to get what I want."

"Perhaps," Okon mused, still with that deliberate lift to his brow. "But for how much longer, I wonder. Perhaps you should be less interested in why I serve Garthe, and more concerned with how long he'll choose to serve you."

My scanner lashed faster, betraying the agitation coursing through my processors. I did not take kindly to having my misgivings called into the light, the nagging uncertainty in my processors that Garthe would abandon me–

Indignation flared through me. He would not abandon me. I wouldn't allow him to!

Okon had the audacity to chuckle at my simmering silence, as though I was the fool. I was the only one thinking rationally! If Okon was content to gamble away his life on Garthe's whim, so be it. Garthe could keep him. I needed allies who were competent and logical, as hungry to survive as I was, not fatted with riches, spoiled and complacent.

"Now, KARR, if you'll excuse me," Okon interjected, nodding to the garage bay door as it rattled open to admit the shiny silver Mercedes of Dr. Moritz. "I have work to do."

With that, Okon regaled me with an exaggerated salute, then spun sharply on his heel and marched away, which only stoked the irritation fanning my circuits. Garthe would doom us all, his judgment clouded by his obsession with Buchannon. Okon claimed Garthe had always been mad, but I knew the integrity of his mind would only continue to deteriorate. Garthe would undoubtedly continue to make a fool of himself and our entire operation, and Okon would stand by and do nothing so long as the thread count of his bedsheets met his illustrious standards.

Humans, I internalized a sneer. Useless, the lot of them.

With Okon dismissed, I ran a dataset of my present situation through my strategic analyzers, and my dominant program threw back a slew of error codes before the analysis was even complete. With FLAG actively seeking my destruction, my alliance with Garthe remained the only logical recourse. Damn it! Would I ever be free from this madness?

Not unlike drawing a steadying sigh, I forced my coolant systems to refresh, my drives cycling back down. Patience, patience. Sooner or later, Garthe's mania would get the better of him. His conflicting obsessions with Buchannon and Knight would drive him mad, and when his mind inevitably broke, my strategic analyzers would deem him a liability to my prolonged survival, and I would finally be free.

Chapter Text

– Garthe –

Blood rushed in my ears, my heart pounding so hard I could scarcely think straight. Even the roars of thunder rattling the mansion were muffled under the racket of my breath, sawing through my lungs in strained, painful gasps. The distance to the great room felt like a mile, my legs moving of their own accord, my vision rimmed with black.

You want blood? I'll give you blood!

My own voice rang in my mind like the toll of a bell, determination blazing through my veins. So easy to tuck a dagger up my sleeve, hold Mitch close, feel the blade kiss his skin, just a graze, just a taste–

I'll send them a message they won't soon forget!

A message, yes, just enough to send a message. Blood would do fine, but it needed to be deeper. Arterial blood, the blood of life, thick and vibrant. Deeper than that!

His kidney, perhaps? Or his liver, his spleen– Blood and tissue on my blade, conjuring the image of Mitch gutted like a fish, gasping for his last breath. One quick stab would do the trick, in and out– And with Dr. Moritz on the premises, the timing couldn't be more perfect! It would hurt, yes, but just a little, just a flash, nothing permanent–

I stopped cold in the wide doorway to the great room, my heart hammering at the base of my throat. Mitch was still there, right where I'd left him, just like he said he would be. Lounging on the couch, the warm firelight kissing the curls of his hair. He'd relit the cigar I'd been smoking, puffing on it experimentally, the smoke hanging like a halo around his head.

My vision tunneled again, and I sucked in a ragged breath and ducked behind the casing of the doorway, gripping the wood molding and willing my head to stop spinning. Just one little prick. I was no stranger to the metallic tang of blood, hot and sticky on my hands. Animal, human, it was all the same.

I peered around the doorjamb again, my muddy gaze sliding along each and every dagger and spear mounted on the walls, their blades glinting in the firelight, beckoning me. An accident. I could make it seem like an accident. Dull his senses with a kiss, pin him against the wall–

My gaze settled on Mitch again, his back to me, perfectly oblivious. My prize. I gripped the doorjamb harder, adrenaline pounding through me, louder than the bellowing thunder and lashing rain. I knew every inch of his body by heart, every kiss and caress forming a map in my mind. Every edge of bone and knot of muscle, every curve and dimple, down to the last freckle dusting his shoulders...

Focus! I was panting again, my skin flushed and throbbing, tacky with sweat, every whipcrack of lightning standing my hair on end. I dug my nails into the soft wood molding, rooted in place. Why couldn't I move? What the hell was wrong with me?

I gulped hard, my mouth parched. I should've been eager to plunge a blade into Mitch's back, relish in the shine of horror in his eyes, kiss away his sharp gasp until the searing pain turned to ecstasy under my touch. Pain and pleasure, so beautifully intertwined. How easily the body could be trained to respond to the bite of a whip or the burn of a cigarette, how stunningly similar the graze of a dagger could feel to the brush of lips on skin when your whole mind was muddied with need.

But Mitch was so much more than just another doe-eyed dalliance. He didn't wince at my every move, his eyes didn't light up with that thrilling mixture of fear and anticipation if my next touch would spell punishment or reward. Mitch was different. His fearlessness, his sheer conviction had captivated me from the very beginning. Watching his jaw bunch and his mouth harden when I'd traced the tip of a spear across his throat, days ago now, testing his meddle. The way his eyes had shone so earnestly in the sunlight by the pool, when he told me he trusted me–

What if that changed?

In a horrible flash, the adrenaline beating through me turned to ice in my veins, and the sheen of sweat stood cold on my skin. What if something went wrong? What if Mitch stopped looking at me with that wonderstruck glimmer in his eyes? What if he started wincing away from my touches, too?

My heart started to race again, and I ducked behind the doorway and sagged back against the cool wall, willing the nausea building inside me to subside. Was KARR right, after all? Had I lost my nerve? Was I losing my fucking mind?

I raked my fingers through my hair, my breath hissing between my clenched teeth. I couldn't bear to turn Mitch into another bland, simpering welp. I didn't want him to be afraid of me like all the others, damn it! I was more than simply intrigued by him, I was addicted to him, his confidence, the assurance of his touches, his utter command of my body every time we made love...

Gnashing my teeth against a frustrated growl, I shoved away from the doorjamb and propelled myself into motion. Away from the great room, away from Mitch, away from the sickening allure of the daggers on the walls. I needed a plan. I needed to think.

I never bluff! Damn KARR to hell. He'd orchestrated this entire quandary, I was sure of it. Bargaining with our enemies and then forcing me to save face, lest I brand myself a coward and a fool. All because he wanted to watch me hurt Mitch, that wretched bastard.

I'll give you blood!

The first inklings of an idea sprang to life in my mind, and I slowed my fervent stride and wrangled my thoughts into cohesion. Blood, yes, I had promised KARR blood. Retribution. A message, a warning to keep Michael Knight and FLAG at bay.

But blood did not necessarily have to be drawn today. Surely Dr. Moritz would have taken samples of Mitch's blood, when Mitch was first brought to the mansion. Yes, yes! Mitch's blood, smeared on a surgical scalpel. Clinical. Ambiguous. And I wouldn't have to lay a finger on Mitch.

My heart set off at a gallop with renewed glee, and I whirled back into motion. KARR, Mitch, Michael, none of them would be any the wiser to my little deception. Brilliant, genius! Retribution would be served, KARR's bloodlust would be appeased, and my reputation would remain intact.

And Mitch would still be mine.

Chapter Text

– Mitch –

The worst of the storm eventually subsided, but the pouring rain refused to abate, lashing persistently against the windows like pellets of gravel.

I thought pouring myself a fresh glass of whisky and puffing on Garthe's cigar would lull me back into that state of languor I'd been in before Garthe had left, but the warm, effervescent buzz in my veins, coupled with the relentless staccato of the rain, only made me even more restless. I had no way of knowing how long Garthe would be gone, and I could only sit around and stare into the fire for so long before boredom got the better of me.

I snuffed the cigar and got up, poked at the fire, toyed with a few knickknacks on the mantel, all while keeping my gaze diligently averted from the hollow yet unsettling gazes of the warrior masks and taxidermy beasts snarling at me from the walls. Music, maybe some music would help pass the time.

Garthe's record collection wasn't exactly as extensive as he'd made it out to be. A few jazz and blues albums, mood music, but nothing classical or big band, nothing older than the mid-sixties and nothing newer than the mid-seventies, except for a handful of cassettes, and even those were pushing a decade old. A small snapshot of Garthe's life, of a freer time.

I popped a Rolling Stones album onto the turnstile and set the volume loud enough for the aggressive rock-and-roll groove to carry over the pounding rain, then continued my aimless circuit around the massive room, running my fingertips idly along the feathered plumes of the spears and daggers on the wall, poking at a few keys on the grand piano. What was I supposed do all day, without a job to eat up time? At least the Malibu elite threw pool parties and yacht parties, anything to flex their wealth over the rest of their peers.

But Garthe was the exact opposite of those Beverly Hills socialites. To him, wealth was something to be hoarded, not flaunted. He lived decadently, sure, but he didn't live for anyone else's approval. Garthe was like a dragon, sitting on his mountain of gold in the heart of some dark cave, safe and untouchable.

I wondered what Garthe was up to, what emergency had pulled him away this time. What actually went on behind the locked door that led to the garage? I'd been in there before, I was sure of it, I just couldn't remember why. All I had was a hazy impression of what it looked like in there. Bigger than expected. Computers and cables, beeping and blinking, screens and buttons. The heady, metallic tang of ozone and electricity. And KARR, sleek and black and alien, a shark with the intelligence of one hundred men.

I blinked, and the memory went hazy again. Damn amnesia. Would my brain ever get its act together? Or were my wires permanently crossed, after all?

Exasperated, I shook my head and kept moving. The pool table was set up for a game, the balls neatly racked in the middle of the red cloth tabletop. I figured Garthe could play a mean game of pool; he seemed like the type. Prowling the table with a cigarette between his teeth, Paul Newman-style.

"Guess I better shake off some of the rust, huh?" I smirked at the particularly eerie tribal mask staring right at me from across the room, the firelight dancing over its painted features. Thankfully, it didn't respond, but a distant rumble of thunder under the lashing rain still made me wince. This place was a helluva lot more unnerving without Garthe around.

I glanced at my watch compulsively, a knee-jerk instinct I couldn't seem to shake even though the damn thing wasn't keeping time. Hadn't been since I'd woken up in Garthe's guest bedroom, days ago. Still stuck on 10:42am. Must've been the time when I crashed my boat. It was almost poetic, that my watch had stopped at the exact moment my memories got scrambled.

I stared forlornly at my watch for another beat, running my thumb over the face, worrying all the fine scratches it had collected over the years. Ol' faithful. The battery must've gotten jarred loose, or the motor needed to be tinkered with, but I was too cautious to open it up and see for myself. I couldn't bear to face the possibility that it was broken beyond repair, my last lifeline to my humble little slice of the world, to memories I could barely grasp at.

I shook my head sharply, but the cloying grip of homesickness already had its claws in me, and there wasn't anything I could do except sigh and let the grief wash over me. I couldn't stop myself from missing Hobie, or my home, or my parents, even. No matter how incredible Garthe made me feel, I couldn't silence the little voice in my head assuring me that this was only temporary, a nice diversion, that everything would go back to normal, soon.

I blinked and found myself staring at my watch again. 10:42. The moment my life had stopped being normal.

With a weary huff, I finally shook myself back to my senses and grabbed a pool cue off the rack, pretending to ignore the irritation fizzling through me. Guess it didn't really matter what time it was, huh? The day would pass, regardless, and Garthe would come back eventually.

I poked around the pool table for a while, practicing my shots, losing myself in the gentle clacks of the balls nudging into each other. The whole setup was leagues above the seedy bars Cort was always dragging me and Craig to, with their lumpy tables and warped cue sticks. I could probably give Garthe a decent run for his money, if he wanted to play a game or two.

I happened to have my back to the doorway, leaning over the table to line up a tricky shot, when the hairs on the back of my neck suddenly stood on end. I knew without looking that Garthe was back. Maybe I wouldn't have to put a bell on him, after all; the whole atmosphere of the room seemed to shift around him, like heat waves shimmering over blacktop. I could feel him watching me, and I smirked to myself and took the shot, setting the cue ball off at a sharp spin that arced it around a striped ball and knocked it into the solid one right next to it, just hard enough to sink it into the pocket.

"Impressive," Garthe purred behind me, leaning casually against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets, and I realized with a jolt that he'd gotten dressed again, this time in a deep, eggplant purple shirt paired with his charcoal pinstriped suit. Hadn't he been wearing navy blue just this morning? Breakfast already felt like a million years ago, and it occurred to me with a dizzy chuckle that I'd never actually gotten dressed today. I'd lounged in my robe until lunch, changed into some workout gear, then, well, that got interrupted, and now I was back to wearing another dressing robe. What a weird day.

At least Garthe didn't seem to be in a bad mood. In fact, he actually looked pleased. Very pleased, his Cheshire grin widening when our gazes met. My skin prickled all over again, this time with a flush of anticipation for what that devilish smile of his might entail.

"So, everything alright?" I asked, pretending to busy myself with filing the tip of my cue stick. Maybe I'd get a real answer out of Garthe if I approached the subject nonchalantly, just two guys talking about work. "What was the big emergency?"

"Oh, nothing," came Garthe's immediate, dismissive response, and I almost laughed at his effortless evasion.

"Awful lot of hype over nothing," I pressed, but my window of opportunity was already closing fast, in the form of Garthe pushing away from the doorframe and strolling over to me. Contact in five, four...

"A malfunction with some of the equipment, that's all," Garthe said breezily, and I chuckled to myself as he came right up to me and slipped his hands around my waist like he owned the place.

"Uh huh," I teased, forcing Garthe to work for it as he hunted for a kiss, our noses bumping with an electric zing. "What kinda mm-malfunction?"

"What are you, the NSA?" Garthe quipped impatiently, digging his fingers deeper into the back of my robe and planting his lips firmly over mine. I still managed to snicker as we kissed, fumbling to set the pool cue on the table without looking.

"Just asking, honey," I murmured with a wry smirk. I was still testing out the feel of certain endearments I could use with Garthe. He seemed to respond to just about anything; a pleased purr rumbled through him, and he leaned even closer to me, his hands roaming up my back as he kissed me deeper, his tongue flashing between my lips in hungry licks.

I snaked my arms around Garthe's slender body and hugged him tight against me, earning another deep, blissful purr from the very pit of his chest. I loved those unguarded little noises, the way his spine arched under my hands when I held him close.

"I could do this all day..." I murmured with a teasing smirk, and a low chuckle reverberated through Garthe when I kissed him again.

"So could I, mon beau." Garthe pulled back a little, just enough to look at me with an intent glimmer in his lone eye. "Come upstairs with me. I have a surprise for you."

"Mm?" I hummed, intrigued, and I pecked another kiss on Garthe's lips for good measure. "What kind of surprise?"

Exasperated, Garthe only tsked his tongue in response, scooping up my hands and tugging me into motion. He herded me up the stairs and shooed me into the master bedroom, and I couldn't help an incredulous chuff of laughter at his sudden impatience. He couldn't possibly be thinking of going another round in the sack, before we'd even had dinner!

But Garthe directed me toward the closet with a grand, sweeping gesture, and I gave him a puzzled glance before my curiosity got the better of me and I opened the door.

At first, I wasn't sure what I was supposed to be seeing. Garthe's walk-in closet was always an overwhelming overload of luxury, heady with the mingling aromas of leather and linens and cedary cologne. At first glance, nothing looked particularly out of the ordinary.

"This is all for you, my dear," Garthe murmured, drawing my attention to the clothes on the rack closest to me, and it still took me another befuddled beat to realize what he meant. The clothes were for me. A whole section of Garthe's closet was now a splash of blues and greens and purples, linen and silk, some plain, some striped, some printed with tropical patterns. There were blazers and flannels, trousers and jeans, and a whole shelf of shoes and boots, all polished to a dazzling shine.

"Just arrived from the tailor earlier today," Garthe went on, but I was only half-listening, my heart thumping as astonishment swept through me in waves as I pawed through the shirts. It wasn't like I was a stranger to the finer things in life - I had a silk shirt or two of my own at home, reserved for special occasions. No, it was the thoughtfulness of it all that rendered me speechless. The patterns, the colors, it was all suited to me, my tastes, my style. Garthe had put some real thought into every single piece of clothing I laid my hands on.

"This is incredible..." I blurted out at last, holding up a teal silk shirt dappled with white palm fronds. The sleeves, the torso, everything looked like it would fit to a T. I caught Garthe's self-satisfied gaze, and my grin wobbled almost sheepishly. "I, uh, I don't know what to say. 'Thank you' doesn't seem like enough–"

"Nonsense." Garthe rested his hand on my arm and gave me a distractingly firm squeeze, his gaze an unwavering chip of blue steel. "Only the best for you, my dear."

I had to stifle a weary chuckle. There it was again, the royal treatment. Garthe had warned me that he intended to spoil me in every conceivable way, and I had to admit, it was fun letting him indulge himself by indulging me. I only wished he'd let me return the favor, somehow. What was I supposed to do for a guy who already had everything?

"Well?" Garthe purred, toying with the belt of my robe. "Go on, then."

Another sheepish chuckle rattled out of me as Garthe unknotted my belt and coaxed my robe open, and I felt silly for blushing. It wasn't like we hadn't already been intimate with each other six ways to Sunday, but something about standing before Garthe in nothing but my boxers had a way of ratcheting my blood pressure up a notch or two all the same.

Garthe prowled around me as I got dressed, which only exacerbated the anticipatory fever pounding through my body. The silk shirt whispered over my hardened nipples, distractingly sensitive to the light tease of the fabric, and I pretended I wasn't actually that stiff down south as I stepped into a pair of white trousers. All the while, Garthe's keen gaze roved my body like I was the main event of some kinda reverse-striptease, standing my hair on end and making it all but impossible for me to situate myself discreetly as I tucked in my shirt.

"Beautiful..." Garthe mused, stopping in front of me to fidget with my collar as I finished buttoning my shirt halfway up.

"Feels incredible," I admitted with a satisfied grin, straightening my cuffs and putting my hands on my hips, feigning austerity with a lift of my chin. "How do I look? Dashing? Debonair?"

"Absolutely ravishing, mon beau," Garthe replied, playing along, and he slipped his hands up to cradle my face and drew me in for a deep, electrifying kiss.

"That good, huh?" I chuckled when we parted for a breath, and Garthe hummed in agreement against my lips.

"Look for yourself." Garthe angled my shoulders slightly, nodding for me to turn toward the full length mirror.

We cut quite a stylish figure, Garthe and I, side by side in the mirror, him in royal purple and charcoal pinstripes, me in teal and stark white, missing only the matching jacket to complete the look. Even my hair had dried in relatively tame curls, with only a few stubborn puffs hanging over my forehead that a little pomade and a comb would fix. We looked ready for one of those Malibu garden parties I knew Garthe wouldn't be caught dead at. All dressed up with nowhere to go.

A flicker of anxiety bounced around in my chest the longer I looked at our reflection, hyperaware of Garthe slipping his arm around my lower back, holding me close. What the hell was I doing? Was this really what my life had become? I had a son, damn it, shouldn't I have been trying harder to get him back? Trying to get my life back?

Instead, I was playing dress-up with Garthe, letting him wine and dine me into a complacent daze, my days running together in a blur. I was losing my grip on reality, like drifting out into a dark, inky sea of fragmented memories. What was I doing here? What was Garthe protecting me from? What was my brain refusing to remember?

I fidgeted with my watch, restless with mounting anxiety. 10:42. My chest tightened, frustration billowing through me in a hot wave. If only I could go back to that moment, if I could get my memories back, damn it, if I could just remember–

"Darling, your watch is stopped," Garthe said suddenly; he must've followed my gaze to my watch, and he scooped up my wrist to get a closer look.

"Oh, yeah, it, uh– Whoa– Hey!" I jerked my arm back, breaking Garthe's grasp before he could finish unclasping my watch. Garthe's brows shot up, and a hot wash of embarrassment immediately swept through me for reacting so suddenly. "I-I'm sorry, it's just– It's important to me."

Gradually, the affront wrinkling Garthe's expression smoothed, and he managed a pacifying smile. "I was going to offer to fix it for you."

"Oh..." My blush deepened tenfold. Now I really felt stupid for jumping away from Garthe like he'd been threatening to cut off my whole damn arm. "I guess I didn't– I mean, I didn't think you..."

Garthe clucked his tongue softly, already reaching for my arm again, and this time I didn't stop him from slipping my watch from my wrist. The absence of its familiar weight sent a foreboding chill through me, and I gulped softly, wringing my hands compulsively.

"I rebuilt a state-of-the-art turbine engine from scratch, mind you," Garthe said with a wry smirk, brandishing my watch. "I think I should be able to fix a Rolex."

I tried to laugh, but it came out as a hollow rattle, my chest still tight with unease as Garthe strode away and settled into the chair in front of the vanity, angling the tabletop lamp closer to him and rummaging through one of the drawers for a few tools.

"Just be careful, okay?" I said numbly, clenching and unclenching my fists restlessly. Garthe's only response was an admonishing huff; I was standing in his blind spot, which was probably the only thing sparing me from one of his exasperated glances.

"It is a very nice watch," Garthe mused offhandedly, and I almost scoffed back. I knew that, but it wasn't the value of the thing that had me so wound up. The watch had been a gift from my dad, though I didn't figure telling Garthe that would garner any amount of sympathy from him.

"Here." Abruptly, Garthe grabbed a jewelry box off the vanity and handed it to me. "Help yourself to anything you like."

Stop hovering was clearly what he meant, and I took the box sheepishly and gave him some space.

The jewelry box was loaded, to put it mildly. Five layers of rings, necklaces, bracelets, gold and silver and ivory and diamonds all glinting enticingly. The box itself was an impressive piece of craftsmanship, too. Solid, hand-carved wood, obviously antique. I ran my thumbs over the facets and age-old dings, admiring the handiwork.

"My mother's," Garthe ventured, obviously sensing that I was paying more attention to the box than the jewelry inside it. "This is her house, if you've been wondering. Was, I should say."

My heart gave a sympathetic jump, but my curiosity was piqued all the same. Garthe had never said a word about his mother before.

"She came here when she needed to get away from the city," Garthe went on in a distracted monotone as he twiddled away at my watch. "She called it her hunting lodge, for all the trophies I sent her from Africa, once upon a time."

It wasn't like a small part of me hadn't already figured that all the horns and fangs and taxidermy busts in the great room were Garthe's personal exploits, but I still couldn't help a flicker of indignation in my chest at hearing him so casually lay claim to them. Trophy hunting. I really shouldn't have been surprised, but I was a little disappointed all the same.

"Of course, I've made a few additions to the house," Garthe added, meaning the airplane hangar of a garage, no doubt. "And it was in desperate need of a masculine touch when it came into my possession. Mother dear had such a dreadful affection for peach wallpaper. But I never did bring myself to part with some of the fixtures. The piano, for instance. And I've done my best to keep the plants alive."

Garthe suddenly stood up and turned to me, watch in hand, and a peculiar smile crossed his face. "I suppose that makes me awfully sentimental, doesn't it?"

Startled, I barely knew how to respond. "Nothing wrong with being a little sentimental, right?" I said at last, trying for a casual smile.

Garthe's smile widened a touch, but his face remained an unreadable mask, thoughtful and guarded. Granted, Garthe didn't exactly strike me as the sentimental type; he seemed too aloof, so detached from everything in the house, ready and willing to cut ties and abscond to Africa at the first possible opportunity.

Then again, maybe there was a small, shuttered part of Garthe that wanted to feel something, longing for a past he'd never experienced, reaching for memories he'd never made. A father who gave him watches for his birthday. A mother who was proud of him. Maybe, deep down, Garthe knew exactly what I was feeling, this sense of displacement, being cut loose and sent adrift. Maybe he was just trying to show that he cared, in his own, oblique way.

Without a word, Garthe slipped my watch around my wrist. The second hand ticked away at a steady flutter. 5:57pm. I was so used to seeing the same time on the face that it was almost bittersweet to see a new one.

"Thanks," I said softly, and my smile wobbled as I struggled to tamp down a fresh surge of homesickness welling up inside me. Suddenly, desperately, all I wanted was to curl up in my own bed, just one more time, and read Hobie that one bedtime story he loved so much, checking my watch to make sure we weren't staying up too late, feeling my eyes getting scratchy in the lamplight...

But I couldn't. I couldn't go back. And I didn't even know why, because I was too damn afraid to ask, because I just wanted to remember on my own, and it scared the hell out of me that I might never know–

5:58. One minute closer to having to make an impossible decision. To stay with Garthe, to go with him to Africa, or...or god only knew what. 'Cause I sure as hell didn't.

The gentle caress of Garthe's hand on my cheek reeled me back to my senses, and I blinked hastily against the tears pricking my eyes and laughed under my breath.

"Sorry." I sniffed and tried to compose myself with a sardonic smile. "You probably think I'm the sappiest person in the world, huh?"

"Not at all, my dear," Garthe replied wistfully, stroking my sideburn, and I leaned graciously into his touch, until the gentle brush of his thumb on my cheek quelled the worst prickles of anxiety in my chest.

"Come on," Garthe added softly, and he took the jewelry box from my grasp and set it aside, all without breaking eye contact. "Let's go see if dinner's ready yet, hm? I'm famished."

A shaky chuckle rattled out of me, and I nodded, feeling a little lightheaded myself. Maybe that was why my emotions were all over the place; I was just hungry.

Garthe looped his arm around mine and coaxed me into motion; I fell into step alongside him, but not without one last compulsive glance at my watch. 6:01pm. Another day drawing to a close. Another day of treading water in an inky sea of uncertainty, further and further unmoored from everything I was accustomed to. Another day in Garthe's world.

Chapter Text

– Garthe –

I could hardly take my gaze off Mitch over dinner, my chest still brimming with a euphoric buzz of satisfaction. My beautiful prince, safe and secure; nothing would ever threaten to take him away from me. Not KARR, not Michael Knight. No force on earth would tear us apart.

Our dinner that evening was a Moroccan-inspired dish, braised chicken thighs seasoned with an aromatic blend of the finest Mediterranean spices, garnished with golden saffron and lemon slices, and paired with the greenest medley of vegetables money could buy. A mouthwatering presentation, as always, and Mitch ate heartily. I could give him a tour of the world one meal at a time, if he wanted; from the northern coast of Africa to the south, from France to Turkey to India and everywhere in between, a true taste of the life he could have at my side.

Mitch and I chatted about Morocco as we ate. Naturally, I'd been to the fabled Casablanca before. Twice, as a matter of fact. Once as a boy, on a holiday trip with my mother, perfectly oblivious to her less-than-scrupulous reasons for being there, an unmarried woman in an unsettled land. Then I'd returned as a man, at the time but a humble arms dealer. Before the diamond mines, before Tsombe Kuna. Before I knew how much more Africa had to offer, and the high price I would pay to obtain it.

Of course, I couldn't divulge the finer details to Mitch, but I regaled him nonetheless with tales of nightclubs and snake charmers and beautiful women with eyes that glinted like polished onyx in the desert sun, and he listened intently, enraptured.

The whole world will be at our fingertips, I wanted to say to him. I could see the wanderlust gleaming in Mitch's eyes, the curiosity, the temptation. Who wouldn't trade the gray, angry slab of the Pacific for the placid gemstone blues of the Mediterranean? Just one taste of paradise, one whiff of that clean desert air would assuredly cure Mitch of his malaise. New clothes on his back, delicious meals served on silver platters day and night, what more could a man ask for?

Our conversation dwindled to a comfortable lull, and I found myself gazing at Mitch again in the flickering candlelight, his curly hair combed back from his forehead and pomaded into place. His teal shirt brought out the aquamarine hue of his eyes, shining like chips of the ocean itself, and the dapples of white on his shirt complimented his tan skin marvelously. A necklace would've completed the ensemble. A thick gold chain draped over his collarbones, perhaps, to draw one's gaze down the open V of his shirt. He had such a lovely neck, perfectly suited to being kissed, whorls of chest hair reaching right up to the base of his throat...

"You're doing it again," Mitch said suddenly, his lips turned up in a wry smirk. "Staring."

"Simply taking in the view, my dear," I replied demurely, sipping my wine. "You look wonderful in that color."

"Thanks." Mitch cut his gaze away with a sheepish chuckle. Thanking me for the compliment, as well as for supplying him with said shirt, in said color. One of the dozens that awaited him in the closet. A mere fraction of what I could procure for him; he needn't even ask.

I blinked and found Mitch looking at me again, his brow arched inquisitively as he studied my face across the candlelit table.

"Hm?" I ventured over the rim of my wine glass. I knew that look, when Mitch had a burning question on the tip of his tongue. Better for him to be out with it than to let him ruminate upon it endlessly.

"I guess I'm just trying to figure you out," Mitch replied with a mischievous smirk, his eyes glinting keenly. "What exactly you do all day. The back and forth, the mysterious phone calls–"

"Oh, come now, Mitch," I dismissed Mitch's musings with a light laugh, swirling my wine idly. "You know I don't like to mix business with pleas–"

"I know, but..." The sharpness of Mitch's interjection startled me, my glass halting halfway to my lips. Suddenly, the playfulness in Mitch's expression vanished, and his brows were knitted in a determined frown. "At some point, don't you think your business is my business? I mean, we are living together and all. I think I have a right to know–"

"Of course you do," I cut in hastily, focused on keeping my expression neutral even as my heart started to race. Apparently, Mitch had been putting more thought into this than a mere passing curiosity. Fine, fine. If he wanted answers, I could give him answers. I certainly couldn't have his avid imagination blossoming into suspicion.

"There's really nothing mysterious about it." I managed a placating smile, waiting for Mitch's frown to smooth a little. "The work is mostly done on computers. Rather tedious, honestly. The property is under constant, extensive surveillance, and I like to be kept apprised of any irregularities. Then there's the matter of keeping KARR running, which, in and of itself, is a full-time job."

I tried for a light, sardonic chuckle, but Mitch's gaze remained hard and unwavering as he digested my every word.

"And the rest is, as I like to call it, asset management," I went on carefully, effecting an air of nonchalance. "I'm invested in a great deal of research-and-development projects across the country. Laser technology, microchip engineering, experimental isotopes. All the post-Cold War talking points. And one project in particular stands to be very, very lucrative, once it's complete."

"What kind of project?" Mitch ventured, his brow still creased with uncertainty. I smiled, albeit wearily, but I supposed there was no harm in telling him. I leaned forward slightly, as though to impart a grave secret, and Mitch mimicked me, enticed.

"An improved molecular-bonded shell, unfathomably stronger than my father's original formula." A flicker of genuine excitement sparked through me as I spoke. "A shell capable of withstanding surface-to-air artillery, anti-tank ordinance, anything."

Mitch's eyes went wide, his lips parting in astonishment. "Something like that would completely revolutionize modern warfare! Stronger defenses would mean less casualties, and make it easier to get relief aid into active war zones..."

I simply nodded. Mitch undoubtedly assumed I intended to sell this quote-unquote revolutionary formula to the Department of Defense, which couldn't have been further from the truth. The US government wouldn't pay nearly as much as the war-ravaged third world countries across the Atlantic, those eager to elevate themselves in the global hierarchy through the bloodiest means necessary.

But Mitch needn't know the specifics.

"This formula is the key to our future, Mitch." I dropped my voice to an earnest murmur, reaching across the table to lay my hand over Mitch's. The key to financial security for the rest of our lives. The key to destroying Michael Knight, once and for all. Coating KARR in this new bonded shell would give him the strength and indestructibility of Goliath at a fraction of the size. Nothing would stand in our way, ever again.

"A one-way ticket to Africa, huh." Mitch stared at my hand atop his, still so dreadfully solemn. My heart gave an unexpected lurch against my ribs. What more could I do to make Mitch see that his life could be so much more than city smog and that drab excuse for an ocean?

"Tell you what," I said softly, squeezing Mitch's hand until he looked up at me. "If the weather improves, we'll go to the beach tomorrow. Just the two of us."

"Really?" Mitch perked up instantly, just as I knew he would. Perhaps a taste of fishy ocean air would put Mitch's mind at ease, after all. Maybe he wouldn't be so apprehensive of the future if I removed the distressing sense of permanence weighing on him, if he believed he could return to his beloved ocean whenever he wanted. I certainly didn't want him to feel like a prisoner–

But he is my prisoner, I forced myself to recite, hearing KARR's voice echoing my own in my head. First and foremost, Mitch was leverage against Michael, a hostage to keep our righteous foe at bay. And when the time came, when our enemies were destroyed, Mitch would come with me, even if I had to sever every last tie that bound him to this country.

But until then, the least I could do was make Mitch as comfortable as possible.

Mitch chatted excitedly about the beach as we finished our dinner, his mood bright with the prospect of returning to the sand and surf. He had such a way of making Los Angeles sound as idyllic as Morocco; he spoke so reverently about the beach, his eyes shining as he described hidden lagoons with big, smooth rocks that warmed up in the sunlight, painting images of the surf glittering like diamonds. He almost tricked me into being excited for our little excursion, as though my impression of the cold, gray, filthy water was nothing but a misrecollection.

Eventually, our dinner plates were cleared away and we made our way to the firelit great room, arm in arm, still talking about nothing in particular. I had a hunch Mitch would want to play a game of pool after dinner, and he didn't disappoint. I let him organize the balls while I slipped behind the wet bar and mixed us a few drinks for the evening. Whisky and sweet vermouth, garnished with cherries, and a plate of bite-sized slices of lemon cake to take the edge off. Mitch seemed impartial to having dessert, but what was the point of having a resplendent feast for dinner if it wasn't followed by an equally lavish dessert? Besides, I liked to have a bite of something sweet in the evenings, to keep from going parched between sips of whisky and puffs on my cigar.

Mitch hummed in approval as he sipped his drink, then blinked and whistled when the burn of the whisky hit him. "Wow. You know, you'd make one helluva bartender."

"Really?" I chuckled at the prospect, stirring the skewer of cherries through my drink before taking a sip. "I suppose it's good to have a hidden talent or two."

"Maybe that's your true calling," Mitch remarked with a wry twinkle in his eye. "Opening your own nightclub in Casablanca."

"Now, wouldn't that be something," I mused, my smile widening. It wasn't that bad of an idea, actually. A nice little den of iniquity, something to keep the cash clean and flowing. Gambling, drugs, smuggling; I could get back into the game, resurrect some of my old contacts–

I blinked myself back to my senses. And here I thought I was supposed to be looking forward to an early retirement, not getting back into the saddle right where I'd left off, swept up in the greed and vice of the African underworld.

"What about you?" I asked, diverting my attention to Mitch, whose brows lifted in surprise. "If you could be anything in the world, if time and money were of no consequence, what would you do?"

Mitch scoffed over the rim of his glass. "Y'know, whenever people ask me that, they make it seem like I'm not doing exactly what I wanna be doing. I actually like being a lifeguard. It's what I've always wanted to be."

"Well, you must have other interests," I pressed, setting down my glass to clip and light a fresh cigar. One way or another, I'd have to break Mitch of his steadfast predilection for being a blasted lifeguard. His unwavering sense of altruism would have no place in the remorseless streets of Africa.

"Humor me," I went on when Mitch simply shrugged and refused to respond, his gaze averted. "If all the oceans in the world dried up, if you found yourself landlocked in the middle of the desert, with no recourse, what would you do with yourself?"

"Come on, that's ridiculous–" Mitch tried to laugh off my line of inquiry, paying much more attention to the plate of cake on the side table than to me as I paced closer to him.

"It's only a hypothetical," I said flippantly, plucking a cube of cake from the plate for myself, and Mitch finally glanced at me with an apologetic smile and played along.

"I guess I'd be a private investigator." Mitch mulled over his decision with a bite of cake, chewing thoughtfully. "I like solving mysteries. I'm pretty good at it, actually. And I like helping people."

Of course you do. I smiled genially, hoping my weariness didn't show through. Mitch the hero. Mitch the savior. So valiant, so intrepid, so good. So much like my dear brother. Amazing how the traits I detested in one man I could find so captivating in another.

"I could have my practice over your nightclub!" Mitch added exuberantly, jolting me back to attention, and his delighted smile was oddly contagious. My prince, my lover. I could get drunk off those beaming smiles of his, the way his eyes crinkled and his cheeks dimpled, so warm and golden, filling me up like the sweetest wine I'd ever tasted.

I realized somewhere outside myself that I'd closed the distance between us to mere inches, and Mitch didn't move. He let me come to him, inexorably caught in his orbit. He looked so damn good in that teal shirt, but I wanted him out of it so desperately it drove me mad for a moment. I needed my fingers in his pomaded hair, I needed his hands on my skin, and I needed those damnably soft lips of his against mine most of all–

Ever so slightly, Mitch leaned closer to me, close enough that I felt the heat of his breath on my mouth when he whispered: "Are we playing pool or not?"

A murderous laugh rattled out of me, and I shifted another hairsbreadth closer to Mitch, daring him not to kiss me with our noses almost brushing, our body heat mingling, my breath hot and smoky on his lips. "You are such a fucking tease."

"Mm, but you love it," Mitch retorted, his voice a low, arrogant rumble that sent a maddening flush of heat all the way through my body. "You break."

I gnashed my teeth, caught between a snarl and a laugh. For a split second, the only thing I wanted to break was Mitch's neck, even though doing such a thing would hardly be conducive to him making love to me, but my wires were crossed and I couldn't think straight for the feverish haze beating through me.

I gulped hard, my mouth a certain sort of parched that no amount of lemon cake would cure, and finally pried myself away from Mitch's thrumming body heat and stalked around the pool table. The sooner I beat Mitch at a few games of pool, the sooner I could have him bent over the table to play with, instead. Maybe I'd give him a good spanking for his infuriating stubbornness, or for looking too damn sexy in the color blue.

With a fortifying draw from my cigar, I scooped up the cue ball and set it down directly in line with the racked balls in the middle of the table. My favored break shot, head-on, maximum force. No dallying, no measuring. Just a straight shot for the head ball.

I was all too aware of Mitch watching me as I settled into position, legs braced, sighting the cue ball with my good eye. Over the years, out of necessity, I'd gotten just as good at shooting with my left hand as I'd ever been with my right, and holding the cue stick in my left hand came just as naturally. I wasn't thinking about my eyepatch, or my compromised depth perception. All I could think about was Mitch's expectant gaze trained on me, and that I needed to relax if I wanted to sink a ball on the break shot, because I'd look like a fool if I didn't. Because I wanted to impress him, which was ludicrous. I didn't have to perform for Mitch; and yet, I couldn't deny the warm, prickly rush that came with being the center of his attention.

I called the shot. The racked balls scattered in a frantic blitz, bouncing this way and that across the cloth tabletop. The blue 2-ball vanished into the side pocket like a mouse to its burrow, and Mitch whistled quietly.

"Not too rusty, after all," I remarked, straightening, and I assessed the field with an effected air of haughtiness. "Let's play some pool, Fast Eddie."

"Hey, now, what makes you think I wanna be Fast Eddie, huh?" Mitch laughed at my reference to The Hustler and spread his hands beseechingly, as though his resemblance to a young, brash Paul Newman wasn't obvious.

"Because I'm the one wearing diamond rings," I retorted with a wicked grin, pacing around the table. The antagonists always held a certain allure in those old movies; they were always the most immaculately dressed.

"Eddie got his thumbs broken!" Mitch protested with a laugh. "C'mon, are you gonna take your shot or not?"

I snickered, savoring a sip of whisky and a puff from my cigar, then got down to business. "One-ball, corner pocket."

"Cute," Mitch quipped, but movie quote or not, my shot was good and the yellow ball dropped into the pocket. "Bet you can't sink the five-ball next, Fast Eddie."

I smirked, sizing up the orange ball, the next to be pocketed in the movie. But in our game, it was nestled against two striped balls near the corner pocket across the table. A physically impossible shot to make without fouling. I could practically hear my mother advising me against taking the bet. Mother dear, always trying to instill a modicum of caution in me. A sense of discipline.

But I did not leave for Africa all those years ago to be cautious. Caution did not win wars or impress potential allies. Oh yes, there had been a time when I'd been as ambitious and hot-headed as the fictitious Fast Eddie, so sure I couldn't miss. Building Goliath, storming Red Bluff. Arrogant, reckless, riding the high that nothing in the whole world could stop me, no matter the odds, no matter the shot.

But all it took were a few misses - especially misses that nearly proved fatal - to make me a little more reserved. Now, I knew the merit of being cautious, of playing the long game. I was the one calling the shots, and my game with Michael Knight wouldn't be over until I said so, no matter how long it took. My dear brother could beat me all night and all day long, just like in the movie, but I would be the one who triumphed in the end.

But right now, none of that mattered. The big picture, my ultimate revenge against Michael Knight, it all seemed so...distant. Right now, all I wanted was to make Mitch smile again. It was an impossible shot, sure, but I hunkered down and sent the cue ball off anyway, because the stakes were nonexistent and it had been too damn long since I'd done anything for fun.

The balls scattered, completely missing the pocket, and Mitch and I shared a good laugh and clinked our glasses, and it felt so good to relax, sipping a chilled cocktail, snacking on sweet lemon cake, sharing my cigar with Mitch. It was euphoric, a hazy dream I hoped I never woke up from.

Mitch pocketed two balls before fouling, and we traded jibes and quoted The Hustler back and forth, and I took the opportunity to mix another round of drinks before putting the cue ball back into play.

4-ball. 7-ball. 9-ball. With every ball I pocketed, I glanced at Mitch to make sure he was watching, basking in the radiance of his smile, relishing in every impressed whistle when I sank a tricky shot.

But the longer my turn went on, I couldn't help but notice Mitch's smile fading slightly, his gaze going distant, introspective. It never boded well when Mitch turned introspective. What could possibly be on his mind, now?

"Penny for your thoughts, my dear?" I ventured gently, straightening up from the table to sip my drink. Startled, Mitch blinked free from his musings, and he offered a small, apologetic smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Sorry, I guess I was just, uh, thinking..." Mitch trailed off, wringing his cue stick pensively. "You know what the worst part is about this amnesia?"

"I couldn't even begin to fathom," I replied, making sure to convey just the right amount of sympathy. I supposed I couldn't blame Mitch for dwelling on his amnesia, though his propensity for doing so was quickly becoming tiresome.

"I can't remember how we met," Mitch said quietly, his voice strained. "And I feel like I should remember, y'know? But all I have are these...these impressions, and I don't know how they all fit together."

Mitch's frown deepened as he spoke, and he searched my face earnestly, so plaintive, so desperate that I almost felt a touch of guilt for inflicting such trauma upon him. It must have been a terrible feeling, trying to fill in the blanks, groping for memories that didn't even exist.

"It's all just a big mess," Mitch added despondently, shaking his head. "I just want it to make sense."

I digested Mitch's concerns with a thoughtful nod, keeping my breath steady. I could work with this. The serum he'd been dosed with was still doing its job, suppressing his memories. Better for him to remember a few vague snippets than for it to all come rushing back to him at once.

"My dear, all you had to do was ask." I smiled, while internalizing a grimace. Nothing like weaving a web of deception with my brain abuzz with liquor, but I was sure I could cobble together something to put Mitch's mind at ease.

"I guess you could say we met rather...incidentally," I began, busying myself with chalking the tip of my cue stick. "I was operating out of an old chemical plant, just south of Malibu. And you, in your usual, intrepid fashion, stumbled upon my operation, quite by accident."

I glanced at Mitch, gauging whether or not he remembered being beaten, chloroformed, and waking up chained to a chair, having been mistaken for Michael. Judging from Mitch's neutral expression, however, those particular memories hadn't resurfaced. My smile widened.

"I like to think our connection was instant." My gaze flicked to Mitch's mouth, a calculated gesture to draw his mind to our first kiss. Nothing else mattered but that kiss, the feel of my tongue in his mouth, marking him as my own from the very beginning.

Sure enough, a small smile touched Mitch's lips as he savored that particular memory. No indication that he remembered the cold, impersonal pressure of my rifle pressed to his knee, or the icy dread of the very real, mortal danger he'd been in. Nothing but a handful of sensations banished to the recesses of his mind. So far, so good.

"We might have passed a pleasant afternoon, if it hadn't been for Michael Knight's intervention" My voice fell to a sneer, and I called my shot and rocketed the 10-ball neatly into the far corner pocket with a satisfying clack.

"He sent the facility into lockdown, trying to trap me inside. But he didn't realize you were inside, as well, until it was too late." The lies came so naturally, a casual string of words compounding upon each other. 12-ball, side pocket. "I managed to escape, and the two of you ended up trapped, instead, with a few hundred tons of toxic chemicals about to go critical."

Mitch's brow knitted, and he nodded slowly. I had no real way of knowing what exactly he remembered, but I figured he'd be hard-pressed to forget the blare of the alarms and the dire urgency of escaping the toxic fumes.

I paced around the table, my gaze on Mitch as I puffed my cigar, appraising him. To think, I'd almost killed him that day. Several times, as a matter of fact. Just because of his association with Michael. What a waste that would have been. What delights I might never have known.

"In hindsight, I would've brought you with me, then and there," I mused, injecting a note of sincerity. "But Michael already had you under his thrall. I couldn't be sure if I could trust you, or if you would trust me."

"I remember some of the things he told me about you," Mitch said softly, almost reluctantly, still wringing his cue stick. "But I also remember you telling me about him, warning me...and I guess I didn't listen, huh?"

"Don't beat yourself up about it," I said with a shockingly gentle smile, even as it brought bile to my throat to speak so casually about my nemesis. "Michael Knight can be very...persuasive. And he did rescue you that day, after all."

"So it was KITT..." Mitch nodded more emphatically as his memories coalesced, and I held my breath. "I remember KITT, driving on the water, you and Michael shooting..."

Mitch winced, searching my face again for a moment, and his voice came out small and stricken when he added: "He tried to kill you. He wanted to kill you."

"That is what Michael Knight does," I remarked airily, perpetuating Mitch's impression that Michael was the aggressor, and I the hapless victim. "Doling out his vigilante justice however he sees fit."

"I can't believe I didn't see it sooner..." Mitch smoothed his hand over his hair and shook his head. "What changed? What happened?"

"Well, as I said, Michael had you convinced he was the dashing hero of the story." I tempered another sneer, focusing on the next ball on the table. "You worked on several cases with Michael; that is, he kept finding excuses to come back to Los Angeles, to see you." Another kernel of truth for Mitch to chew on, based on the Foundation files I had studied. "Fourteen, side pocket."

Mitch watched the green striped ball ricochet off the head cushion, then the side, before finally coasting into the pocket across the table without hitting a single other ball along the way, and he huffed out an amused, albeit distracted chuckle.

"But, eventually, working with you was no longer enough," I went on, plodding through another lie. "Michael became possessive, impatient. He wanted you all to himself."

Another dismal frown darkened Mitch's expression as he followed along, trying to make sense of memories that never happened.

"And when you spurned his advances, he became vindictive," I added, as assuredly as reporting the weather. "If he couldn't have you, then he would ruin you, instead. Fifteen."

The balls clacked. The game was mine to lose, a smattering of balls left on the tabletop, but still I played on.

"When all seemed lost, you sought me out, because you knew I was the only one who could help with your particular problem, concerning Michael Knight." I paced around the table, pretending not to study Mitch's face. It had been a brilliant touch, bringing a selection of Mitch's clothes and toiletries from his house and planting them here, convincing Mitch he'd come of his own volition, that Michael had driven him from his very home. Michael was the cause of Mitch's unrest, this sense of displacement, not me.

"I just wish I could remember..." Mitch murmured, his head bowed, his shoulders tensed as though anticipating a blow. But no matter how hard he tugged at the invisible chains in his mind, he'd never find those memories. Eventually, he would have to accept that.

Abruptly, Mitch sniffed and lifted his face, trying for a wobbly, ironic smile. "I guess I just feel...silly, y'know? You're telling me things that I must've told you, things that I don't even remember telling you– Things I don't remember, period. I-I feel like we're just gonna keep having the same conversations over and over–"

"Nonsense," I interjected gently, projecting an air of infinite patience. "If it makes you feel any better, you weren't here long before you raced back out to confront Michael yourself. Not long enough for anything to...develop."

Sure enough, Mitch did relax at that, finally absolved of his concerns that he'd forgotten some pivotal moment between us. In reality, he hadn't so much as laid eyes on me until he'd awoken that morning in my guest bedroom, his mind awash with sedatives. The less he tried to force himself to remember any previous encounters between us, the better.

Satisfied, I let myself relax, too. Lies on top of lies, but all that mattered was keeping the story straight. I'd always excelled at weaving a good riddle. Eight-ball, corner pocket. Game.

"Best two out of three?" I remarked breezily, free at last to change the subject. "Your turn to break."

A small smile danced across Mitch's face, and he composed himself with a resolute shake of his shoulders and settled back into the rhythm of things. Another sip from his drink seemed to help matters, as well. Nothing like a little vermouth and whisky to bolster one's fortitude.

Or, rather, a substantial amount of vermouth and whisky, I mused as Mitch wavered on his feet, his smile widening in embarrassment. I could have easily cleared the table a second time and spent the rest of the evening kissing the taste of cherries and lemons from Mitch's drunken smile, but I wasn't quite ready to put an end to our game just yet. I needed to train myself to temper my voracity, to savor Mitch like a fine cigar or a priceless bottle of scotch, a sip here, a puff there.

I paced around to the other side of the table as Mitch positioned his cue ball for a more traditional, angled break shot. Had I been standing any closer, I might not have been able to resist the urge to pinch him when he leaned over the table, lining up his shot.

"Five-ball, corner pocket," Mitch called, and his grin was more radiant than ever when his break shot was good. I would've played game after game with him, all night long, just to see him smile like that, over and over again.

***

– Mitch –

I had a pretty strong hunch Garthe wanted me to win the second game. No matter how many times I missed a shot and the turn went to him, he'd either blunder a perfectly good shot, himself, or make some kind of foul that gave the turn back to me.

I couldn't figure out why, either. I figured Garthe would be as impatient as ever to spirit me upstairs for another roll in the hay. Maybe he just wanted me good and sauced first, because every drink he put in my hand seemed to be stronger than the last. It sure made it damn hard to think straight, but maybe that was the idea, to get me to loosen up. I'd been pretty uptight over dinner, and I felt a little bad for putting Garthe on the spot like that. But I was just so damn confused. The secrecy, the constant equivocation. Hell, for all I knew, Garthe could've been selling drugs outta that damn garage–

And then I cycled right back around to feeling stupid for asking. Garthe had probably told me all about the kind of work he did the first time I came here. How else could I have an impression of the inside of that massive garage if Garthe hadn't shown me already? Computers, nothing but computers. And I'd practically accused him of doing god-knew-what.

And the rest... I stepped away from the table and sipped my drink unsteadily. I couldn't think too hard about the rest. Michael Knight, my amnesia. I was still confused as hell, but talking to Garthe made me feel a little less untethered. At least now I knew how some of the pieces fit together. Kind of.

"Your turn, my dear," Garthe purred, drawing me back to my senses, and he gestured to the cue ball with his cigar.

"Why do I get the feeling you're hustling me?" I quipped back with a weary smirk, and Garthe simply chuckled and puffed a cheeky smoke ring at me. Prob'ly just wanted to look at me in my new clothes for a little longer. Taking in the view, he'd said over dinner. Gimme a break.

It took forever, lots of drunken snickering as we took turns batting the remaining balls around the table, but I was the one who managed to pocket the 8-ball.

"Finally!" I heaved a relieved sigh and pretended to wipe sweat off my brow, then realized that I was actually sweating a little. And Garthe, of course, looked as unrumpled and pristine as ever. "Alright, one more game, but I need to use the bathroom first."

"Fair enough," Garthe conceded demurely. "There's one just off the–"

"Kitchen, I know," I called back, already hightailing it out of the great room and down the hall to the back of the house. That was one of the nice things about living in a fricking mansion, no shortage of bathrooms.

The bathroom off the kitchen was all peach and white tile, very late-seventies chic, and I wondered offhandedly if it was the last remnant of Garthe's mother's decorating scheme. I wondered if Garthe had ever been in this particular bathroom before. And I wondered if I'd ever be sober again.

I splashed cold water on my face and scrubbed my eyes, willing some of my bleariness to subside. My cheeks were flushed and blotchy, my skin looking a little more orange than tan against my shirt, but maybe it was just the lighting. Maybe I looked alright.

After a bit of primping and preening, making sure my hair was smooth and I didn't have anything stuck between my teeth, I half-sauntered, half-staggered my way back to the great room. Garthe already had the balls racked for our next game, and the sight of him puffing patiently on his cigar made my mouth water. Forget how I looked, he looked phenomenal in that royal purple shirt, his rings twinkling in the firelight.

Our gazes met across the pool table, and Garthe strolled over to me and offered me his cigar without a word, the tip of it leaking an aromatic tendril of smoke. I took a puff without hesitating, savoring the sweet taste of whisky where Garthe's lips had been, relishing in the buzz that swept through my veins.

"So, one more game, huh?" I said through the puff of smoke, cracking a wry smile. "Tie-breaker. All or nothing."

"I wasn't aware that we were playing for anything," Garthe remarked, his own smile turning devious. "But maybe we should up the stakes a bit, hm? Have you ever played strip-eight-ball?"

"Strip what?" I coughed out an incredulous laugh, a blush immediately nipping at the tips of my ears. "You definitely just made that up."

"What? No." Garthe flicked his wrist dismissively, but his devilish grin only widened. "For every ball your opponent pockets, you remove an article of clothing. Simple."

"I'm not even wearing–!" I paused and counted, forcing my sluggish brain to cooperate. Shoes, two. Socks, four. Pants, shirt, uh, belt? Shit. I guess I was wearing enough clothing to play 8-ball.

"Fine," I grumbled, sticking my hand out for Garthe to shake. "You're on, hot shot."

Garthe laughed out loud, that unguarded laugh that always seemed to startle him, then he tempered himself with one more puff of his cigar before getting down to business, hunkering down over the cue ball. I'd never seen anyone line up a break shot from dead center like that; I figured it was just a fluke he'd managed to pocket a ball on his last opening break–

"Two-ball, seven-ball," Garthe called, sawing his cue stick back and forth, testing the shot. "Side pockets."

Garthe shot the cue ball hard enough to make me jump, and the racked balls scattered like shards of broken glass. My jaw dropped when the balls finally settled; no sign of the two or the seven on the tabletop. I actually checked the ball return to make sure the balls hadn't just vaporized into thin air, but there they were. No tricks, no sleight of hand, just a very, very lucky shot.

"Shoes, off." Garthe snapped his fingers at me, jolting me to attention, and I let out a bewildered huff of laughter.

"I knew it." I shucked off my shoes with a smirk, trying to ignore how deeply I was blushing. "You've been dying to get me undressed this whole time, huh?"

Garthe simply chuckled, a purring rumble that made my blush deepen tenfold as he sauntered around the table, eyeballing his next shot.

"One and six." Garthe gestured with his cue stick. "Corner, and side."

"What? There's no way–" But Garthe was already lining up his shot before I even got the words out. The balls clacked and skittered this way and that; the yellow 1-ball ricocheted off the 6-ball on its way to the corner pocket, and the solid green 6-ball coasted right into the side pocket, as choreographed as a dance.

Garthe straightened, brimming with satisfaction when he glanced across the table at me. "And your socks, please."

"Unbeliev..." I muttered, yanking off my socks. Now I just felt absurd, my ears and cheeks burning with an embarrassed blush.

But Garthe's next shot wasn't so miraculous. He called the solid red 3-ball, but the cue ball spun wrong and knocked against one of my striped balls, instead, sailing wide of its target.

"Haha! Foul!" I barked, pointing at the offending 12-ball. "Get outta here. Now it's my turn."

Garthe bowed out gracefully, still exuding that infuriating air of superiority. Well, two could play at this game!

I studied the tabletop for a second. I needed a good, clean, guaranteed shot. The striped 10-ball looked good. I leaned over the cue ball, trying to steady my breathing. Aim, aim, aim, fire.

I whooped and pumped my fist when my ball dropped into the pocket, too drunk and excited to control myself, and I whirled around to grin at Garthe. "Alright, bub, show me some skin."

I expected Garthe to take off one of his shoes, or maybe even his shirt, judging from the nefarious grin that crossed his face.

I was not expecting him to take off one of his rings. My jaw dropped, flabbergasted, as Garthe slipped the gold band from his pinky and set it on the edge of the pool table without breaking eye contact.

"What the hell is that!" I bellowed, throwing my hands in exasperation. "That does not count as clothing!"

"Sure it does." Garthe's cheeky smile widened. "It's not my fault you decided not to put on any jewelry before dinner."

I spluttered for an argument, but the words weren't coming. Unbelievable!

"You are actually the devil, you know that?" I blustered out at last. "This is what I get for playing by your rules."

Garthe snickered at my belligerence over another sip of his drink. Jerk, I fumed. Arrogant, facetious, ridiculously handsome bastard.

Huffing and muttering all the while, I picked another ball and called it. 13 wasn't a clear shot, but if it bounced off Garthe's 4-ball just right, it should drop into the side pocket–

I didn't realize I was holding my breath until the 13-ball dropped into the pocket, and I heaved a massive sigh of relief.

"You–" I jabbed my finger at Garthe, breathless and hot all over. "If you don't take off your damn shirt, I'm gonna come over there and rip it off, myself."

"I'd like to see you try, my sweet," Garthe purred, a daring twinkle in his lone eye, but he set down his drink and obediently unbuttoned his shirt, taking his grand ol' time shrugging the purple silk from his shoulders. The dark swath of his chest hair seemed even blacker in the warm firelight, thick and enticing, his muscles rolling with each deliberate move.

I gulped hard, my palms sweating. Everything was sweating. Shit. Shit. There were still so many balls in play, and I was so, so drunk–

I gulped again and rubbed my palm on my thigh, then the other. At least I still had my pants on. For now. God, Buchannon, focus...

"Uh, nine-ball. S...uh, corner pocket." None of the striped balls on the tabletop looked promising, but I had to shoot something, before Garthe's amused gaze bored a hole through me.

I managed to knock the cue ball into the 9, but the yellow striped ball coasted wide of the pocket and hit the cushion with a sad, dull bump. Fuck.

I didn't even wanna look at Garthe; I knew he had on that wicked Cheshire grin. He'd be flicking his tail in delight, too, if he had one.

"Three-ball." Garthe didn't even bother calling the pocket. Now that the 9-ball was out of the way, he had a clear shot for the side pocket, which he took with great glee.

"You know what I'd like to see?" I piped up hotly, fumbling with my belt buckle. "You actually drunk, for once."

"Off these party favors? Please." Garthe scoffed and made a show of tipping back the rest of his drink, then he contemplated his empty glass with a thoughtful frown. "To be honest, it takes quite a bit just to get a nice buzz, anymore. When you're a man in my position, discipline is a state of mind, a state of being. You never see James Bond drunk, now, do you? He's always poised, always ready for action."

Garthe glanced at me and tried for a cocky smile, but it didn't quite reach his eye. So composed, so collected, no matter what. Because he thought he had to be. Because he didn't know how to be anything else.

"That must be exhausting," I murmured, my chest tight with a flood of sympathy. Garthe's smile faded, his brows knitting slightly.

"Sometimes," he said softly, and my heart hit the back of my throat, aching for the man across the pool table from me, his skin glowing in the firelight, the angles of his face softened by the flickering shadows. Suddenly, all I wanted was to go over to him and cradle his face in my hands and kiss his cheeks, his eyelashes, the corners of his mustache...

"But there's so much more to life than simply surviving," Garthe added, and this time his gaze softened with the fond smile that played across his face. "You've reminded me of that."

I gulped, caught in Garthe's keen, glittering gaze, my palms sweating like hell and my bare feet distractingly cold and clammy. What was I supposed to say? What was I supposed to do? My brain felt like a useless, drunken lump of clay between my ears; I should've cut myself off three drinks ago, damn it. I wasn't accustomed to drinking this much. A few beers after a long day on the beach, sure, a glass of wine here and there. But this? Tossing back whisky like it was apple juice? Why hadn't I stopped myself?

The blush heating my face deepened. Because I didn't have to stop. Because I was safe. Because I didn't have to worry if I woke up tomorrow with a hangover. Maybe it was the whisky talking, but damn if it didn't feel good to be irresponsible for a change, to let myself go a little. Play all night, sleep all day. Garthe was right; it was easy to forget how much more there was to life than the nine-to-five, the endless cycle of work-sleep-repeat.

"It's still your turn, hot shot," I managed at last, cracking a smile. "And I still have clothes on."

Just like that, Garthe's wistful smile widened to a proper grin, and my heart soared all over again.

"Five-ball," Garthe called before he even leaned over to take aim. Maybe now that the game was winding down, he'd go easy on me. "Side pocket."

The orange ball bounced around the table, clacking off two of my balls before coming back around and dropping into the pocket. My ears started to burn again. How the hell did he do that?

Garthe waited, patiently as ever, for me to stumble out of my pants, and I tugged at the hem of my shirt compulsively, trying to preserve at least some of my dignity.

Two balls left for Garthe to sink. The purple 4-ball, and the 8-ball. Suddenly, I felt really, really naked, and he hadn't even called his shot yet. I could be an ass and take off my underwear, first, since he liked my shirt so damn much. Force him to sink the 8-ball before he got to see the rest of me–

"Four-ball, eight-ball," Garthe called, jolting me to attention. "Corner pockets."

I stared at Garthe, baffled, then looked at the balls on the tabletop again. He couldn't possibly make another combination shot–

Like a bolt of lightning, Garthe shot the cue ball into the 4-ball, which cracked into my 12-ball, lurched in the opposite direction, bounced around the table, and wheeled into the corner pocket. Meanwhile, the errant 12-ball knocked the 8-ball into motion, just hard enough– Wait! It was losing momentum, maybe it wouldn't reach the pocket–

After what seemed like a monumental hesitation, the black ball dropped into the pocket with a decisive plop. Game over.

Garthe and I locked eyes over the table, and no amount of fumbling with the hem of my shirt could hide the sudden stiffness that took hold of me as an anticipatory blush swept from my head all the way to my toes.

"Hold– hold on– Slow down!" My voice went up an octave as Garthe prowled around the table like a hungry tiger, his cue stick clattering impatiently to the floor. I staggered backwards, my heart racing as adrenaline blazed through me. "Lemme get the buttons–"

Garthe clawed into the front of my shirt with enough force to drive me back another stumbling step, and the piano caught me with a horrible, resounding bwang.

I managed to get my shirt unbuttoned before Garthe tore into me, and the ravenous wander of his hands took my breath away, skimming over my hips, grasping at my chest. I pawed back blindly, scrabbling at his belt buckle, the ragged whir of our breathing drowning out the mournful pwangs of the piano keys depressing under the backs of my thighs.

I almost managed to snag Garthe's lips with my own when his hand suddenly plunged south. I threw my head back with a desperate howl as stars filled my vision, and Garthe wasted no time burying his face into the crook of my neck, tantalizing my sweat-slicked skin with kiss after fervent, suckling kiss, every searing rake of his tongue like fireworks erupting through my body.

I rocked my hips mindlessly against Garthe's hand; I was still in my damn underwear, swollen and straining against the fabric as Garthe cupped me with one hand and gripped my waist with the other, driving me crazy with those distracted touches.

Finally, between the two of us, I managed to squirm out of my underwear, and my breath left me in a relieved rush when Garthe's hand closed around me just right, my whole body throbbing with lust. I needed Garthe against me, every inch of him, just as badly as he needed me.

Without warning, Garthe hefted me up onto the lid of the piano, and my head swam with vertigo for a moment when my feet left the ground. I blinked my eyes open in time to glimpse Garthe before me, shirtless and gleaming with sweat, his fly down and his pants peeled away from his hips. Wild and beautiful. Wild for me.

I threw my head back and let out another gasping groan as Garthe spread my legs and worked me just right with those damned incredible hands of his, his slender fingers slick with something oily and thick and dazzlingly effective. I couldn't keep up anymore; if he wanted me, he could have me.

And he wanted me. I could feel it brimming inside Garthe like a thunderclap waiting to burst. His teeth grazed my shoulder, followed by a hot, wet flash of tongue, laying a trail of pure fire along my collarbone. I combed my hand through his hair, scrunching my fingers tight into his thick curls until he growled against my skin, his fingers pushing deeper inside me. So close, so close–

Garthe scooped his hands under my thighs, and my vision hazed over with starbursts when he plunged inside me without preamble, filling me up with that hard, stunning heat that took my breath away. I threw my arms around Garthe and clung to him, digging my fingers into his back, burying my face against his neck to muffle the gasping, hitching groans fluttering out of me with each steady thrust, slow and deep and oh god, he knew just how to work his hips, just where to put his hands. I couldn't speak, I couldn't think, and I definitely didn't want it to end–

My spine arched with a bolt of white-hot ecstasy, driving the breath from my lungs in a gasping cry. My grip around Garthe's body slackened, and I flopped flat on my back against the unforgiving wooden lid of the piano, breathless and disoriented as Garthe pushed deeper, every thrust inciting an intoxicating explosion of fire through my body. His hands were everywhere all at once, squeezing here, stroking there, until the cacophony of sensations was almost too much to bear, tugging my senses in a million different directions, my whole body screaming for release.

Utter bliss bowled into me like a hurricane, a stunning whirlwind of seizing and gasping and spasming, every nerve blaring as searing heat speared through me, my ears ringing with the ragged whir of Garthe's panting breaths and my own. I could've stayed in that moment for an eternity, the tense heat of Garthe's body bearing down on me, my whole body awash with bliss.

Gradually, the hurricane passed, and my senses came back to me one at a time. I clutched numbly at my chest, gasping for a decent breath as unconsciousness bloomed behind my eyes, threatening to drag me under.

Until the voracious pressure of Garthe's lips on my skin gave me something to focus on. He loomed over me, hands braced on the piano lid, and kissed me all over, faster than I could keep up with. Lips suckling the side of my neck, teeth grazing the curve of my pec, a hot flash of tongue circling my nipple, then the other, until my breath was fluttering with bewildered titters of laughter and my nerves were singing all over again.

Finally, Garthe planted a kiss on my lips, hot and sloppy and ravenous, and I groaned into his mouth without opening my eyes and welcomed the heat of his tongue against mine, relishing in the heady taste of whisky and smoke and a hint of lemon on his lips. I mustered the strength to sling my arms around him again, and Garthe scooped his arms behind my back and hauled me upright, kissing me all the while, his hungry purrs reverberating through my bones.

"I wonder..." I murmured, catching my breath between kisses, "...how your mom would feel...mmph...about us having sex on her piano."

"Oh, she'd be appalled," Garthe replied with a devious grin, and it was my turn to purr against his lips when he knotted his fingers into my hair and drew me closer, his voice falling to a hair-raising growl. "All the more reason to do it again, my dear."

Chapter Text

– Mitch –

I drifted back to consciousness with a twitch and a grunt at the distinct sensation of fingertips idly tracing my earlobes. For a long, delirious moment, I had no idea where I was or how I'd gotten there, stretched out comfortably on my back, my feet propped up on the arm of the couch by the fire and my head resting in Garthe's lap. I was still naked from the waist down, but a blanket had been draped over me; I felt weightless and heavy all at once, my whole body buzzing with languid euphoria.

Another swirl of fingertips around my ears made me twitch and snort, and I finally blinked my eyes open to gaze up at Garthe. He looked about as dazed and satisfied as I felt, settled back against the leather cushions, staring off into middle distance. I strained to remember how we'd gotten here, from the piano to the couch, but it was all a blur, a jumbled whirlwind of breathlessness and bliss, culminating in the headache currently drumming behind my eyes and a dull ache in my lower back.

"Where're my pants..." I mumbled at last, my voice raw and my throat almost painfully parched. Damn whisky. I struggled to keep my eyes open despite the bleariness tugging at me, and Garthe glanced down at me and smiled. The firelight flickered over his features, warm and soft, throwing the scarred side of his face into shadow and turning his rumpled hair black as pitch.

"Over there, somewhere," Garthe replied with a lazy shrug, and another teasing tickle around my ears jolted me to my senses with a snickering snort, every single hair on my body standing on end in a tingly flash.

"My ears are ticklish..." I grumbled, rocking my head and scrunching my shoulders in a half-hearted attempt to dislodge Garthe's gentle touches.

"I know," Garthe purred fondly, his fingertips finding my ears again despite my squirming. "That's why I'm doing it."

"Well, stappit!" I squeezed my eyes shut and rolled over stubbornly, pillowing my hands under my head on top of Garthe's thighs. One ear, I could handle, but him tickling both was downright maddening.

Garthe chuckled at my show of defiance, and he kept fiddling with my exposed ear until I snorted and snickered, my shoulders twitching at the electrifying graze of his fingertips teasing the edge of my earlobe.

"You know what I think?" Garthe mused, rolling my earlobe gently between his thumb and fingertip. "I think you'd look lovely with your ear pierced."

My eyes snapped open, and I glanced over my shoulder and frowned up at Garthe, trying to gauge whether or not he was joking. Suddenly, all I could focus on was the glint of his own diamond earring in the firelight, and the devious little smile tugging at his lips.

"Uh..." My heart started to race, and my brain was still working too sluggishly for my own good. I rolled back onto my side and hunched my shoulders, trying to block out the very palpable sensation of Garthe gazing down at me. "I don't like making decisions without pants on."

Garthe scoffed, still toying with my earlobe. "Come, now, it's not so bad. Just one little pinch..."

"Aren't you tired?" I grumbled, burying my face against my hands. "Tell ya what, I'll sleep on it."

"The night's still young," Garthe countered whimsically, even though I could feel in my bones that it was already well past midnight. "We don't have to go to bed just yet."

Meaning Garthe didn't want to go to bed just yet. Not that I could blame him. Going to bed meant putting an end to the wonderful night we were having, which would be nothing but a bleary memory come morning. Then it'd be back to business as usual. He'd go back to the grind, another day of making phone calls and looking and spreadsheets and whatever else he did down in that garage with all those computers. Asset management, he'd called it. Sounded so clerical, so mundane.

So Garthe wanted to keep the party going a little longer. But why did my ear have to be his chosen source of entertainment?

"Come on," Garthe repeated, a bit more firmly, followed by a startlingly aggressive pinch to my side made me squawk and jump in his lap. "Before I give something else a pinch."

"Don't you dare–!" I barked, flailing to defend myself as Garthe burrowed his hand under the blanket and pinched my ass hard enough to make me yelp.

"Fine! Fine!" I flopped onto my back again, anything to dislodge Garthe's drilling pinches. He'd definitely succeeded in waking me up and getting my blood pumping, my ears ringing and my nerves sufficiently frazzled by the attention of his wandering hands.

"Excellent," Garthe purred, his hand still roaming my body under the blanket. I gulped, my breath hitching and my vision doubling as his hand skimmed across my pelvis, inciting a throbbing blush in the wake of his touch. I should've scolded myself for letting him win that easily, but when he touched me like that... An earring wasn't that big of a deal, I supposed. Now, if he got any crazy ideas about tattoos, then I'd draw the line.

My head reeled when I finally hauled myself upright, and I groaned and squeezed my eyes shut against the black blotches clogging my vision. Damn whisky.

Garthe murmured something beside me, but I couldn't hear him over the roaring churn of my pulse in my ears, and the next thing I knew, he was gone. Nothing but warm leather where he'd been sitting and the soft, twanging strains of a Rolling Stones song filtering from the turntable across the empty room. Maybe he wouldn't notice if I just dozed back off...

I pried my eyes open and forced myself to swing my feet to the floor. He would notice, and if I didn't follow him upstairs, where I figured he'd gone, then he'd come back and keep pestering me until I did.

I didn't have the wherewithal to hunt for my discarded pants, so I wrapped the throw blanket around my waist a few times and hobbled my way out of the great room and up the stairs, struggling to ignore the stiff, achy soreness shooting through my hips and thighs with each tentative step. Damn wh... Well, I couldn't exactly blame the whisky for that one.

I followed the soft glow of lamplight into the master bedroom; the doors to the walk-in closet were thrown open, light pooling on the floor, and I found Garthe rummaging through the same jewelry box he'd attempted to foist onto me earlier.

"Ah." Garthe caught me out of the corner of his good eye and straightened, gesturing to the chair in front of the vanity, which he'd turned around to face away from the mirror. "Come, sit. I've found just the thing for you."

I hesitated in the closet doorway, clutching at the blanket knotted around my waist. Whatever Garthe had found for me in that jewelry box, it was probably priceless. Invaluable. I couldn't fathom wearing an actual diamond or anything. What if something happened? Earrings could fall out, or tarnish, or...I wasn't sure what else, but I probably could've come up with something, eventually.

"Are you sure about this..." I murmured reluctantly, even as Garthe slinked over to me, his lone eye glinting eagerly. Too eagerly. Maybe I was asking the wrong person. Of course Garthe was sure. Garthe was always sure about everything he decided to do. But was I sure this was a good idea?

"Come, my dear," Garthe repeated, his voice a purr as he slipped his hands around my waist, standing my hair on end in a rush of goosebumps. He was still shirtless, but at least he'd pulled his pants back on, which only made me feel that much more naked in nothing but a blanket and my unbuttoned silk shirt.

"I dunn-nmph..." I barely got a word out before Garthe stifled my uncertain remark with a kiss, weakening my resolve with one firm press of his lips after another, until my eyes drifted shut and my head was spinning all over again.

"Don't you trust me?" Garthe whispered against my lips, only to gobble up whatever I might have mustered in response with another deep, electrifying kiss. I couldn't stifle a rumbling sigh when Garthe slipped his hands up to caress my face, holding me steady as his tongue lolled against mine in hot, lazy strokes.

"'Course I do..." I murmured when Garthe finally untangled his tongue from mine. His kisses had done wonders for the knot in my chest, replacing my uncertainty with a tingly sense of bravado. Or maybe it was the lingering buzz of whisky in my system making everything seem gilded around the edges.

Either way, I drifted over to the chair and plopped down in a daze, and Garthe didn't waste any time soaking a cotton ball in rubbing alcohol and swabbing my earlobe diligently. He seemed to know what he was doing. It was just one little earring, after all. This wouldn't be so bad–

Until he picked up the needle. The really big needle. I felt the color leech from my face in a sickening wave, and suddenly I was stone-cold sober, my pulse hammering in my ears.

"Uh– On second thought, maybe this isn't–" I tried to scramble out of the chair, but Garthe was faster. He caught my shoulder and shoved me back down, and for a split a second, my brain hazed over with panic, adrenaline blazing through me. Garthe, looming over me, gripping my shoulder, my whole body frozen, seized with dread–

"Relax," Garthe purred, snapping me back to reality. I blinked up at him and gulped, struggling to sort through the jumble of sensations wheeling through me. I wasn't afraid of him, I was just a little nervous, that was all. A little jumpy. And, I had to admit, more than a little turned on by Garthe's steely grip on my shoulder, the haughty lift of his brow, the sly quirk of his smile, daring me to challenge him.

I gulped again and tried not to squirm, painfully aware of the deep blush pounding through my body, heat pooling in all the most distracting places. Garthe was in control, now, and his subtle show of dominance was nothing short of exhilarating.

Gradually, the adrenaline pounding through my veins receded to a manageable buzz, and I compressed my lips and clasped my hands obediently in my lap, resigning myself to Garthe's indomitable whim. Garthe flashed a satisfied smile, and he gave my shoulder one more numbingly hard squeeze before turning back to the implements he'd laid out on the vanity beside me.

I couldn't tear my gaze away as Garthe struck a match and held the tip of the needle up to the tiny flame, rolling it between thumb and forefinger until the metal glowed a bright, menacing red. My heart started to hammer all over again, a clammy sweat prickling my skin. He couldn't be serious. This had to be some kind of elaborate prank. He couldn't actually expect to put that thing anywhere near any part of my body, let alone through a part of my body–

I jumped when Garthe extinguished the match with a sharp flick of his wrist, and he leered sidelong at me, daring me to try to get up again. I settled back in the chair, wringing my hands in my lap restlessly.

"Don't I get something to bite down on?" I eeked out hastily, trying and failing to keep my leg from bouncing as Garthe loomed over me with the needle.

"I'm piercing your ear," Garthe retorted, clearly exasperated, as he finished cleaning the needle with another alcohol-soaked cotton ball. "Not removing a bullet."

I got the distinct impression he had just as much experience doing the former as the latter, but Garthe's flippancy in the matter didn't exactly put me at ease. I couldn't help but wince when he approached with the needle, every single nerve in my body standing at attention.

"Relax," Garthe repeated, but the impatient edge in his voice didn't exactly have a relaxing quality to it. "This'll only take a moment. Just hold still."

He didn't really give me much of a choice. Without warning, Garthe pressed something hard behind my earlobe and shoved the needle into my cartilage. A startled shout burst out of me at the sharp, burning pinch, and my vision went white with starbursts as Garthe worked the needle through with stunning efficiency.

Then, just as abruptly, it was over. Garthe backed away, leaving me breathless and dizzy and bewildered, the whole left side of my head throbbing like I'd just gone a round or two in a boxing ring. I hissed and grunted at the dull, pulsing ache, knowing better than to touch it even as every instinct blared to fiddle with the foreign object wedged through my earlobe.

"Perfect," Garthe purred, and I glanced up to find him beaming with pride at his handiwork. He hooked his finger under my chin and tilted my head further back, inspecting me like a piece of art up for auction. Or a cut of meat at the market. Either way, the rapacious glimmer in his eye stood my hair on end, and the sudden blush that fanned my skin almost distracted me from my throbbing ear, if only for a moment.

"How's it look?" I cracked a numb smile, my words a little slurred thanks to the ache spreading along my jaw and up the side of my head.

"See for yourself." Garthe released my chin and reached for a handheld mirror on the vanity, and my jaw dropped when I focused on my reflection. It wasn't a diamond, it was a damn emerald, twice the size of the stud in Garthe's ear and clamped in a setting of what was probably pure, solid gold.

I let out an incredulous cough, too delirious to say or do anything else for a moment. I tilted my head, letting the wan lamplight play off the facets of the green gemstone. A real emerald, and now it was in my ear. How old was it? How much was it worth? Was it a family heirloom? Or had Garthe acquired it during his mysterious time in Africa–

I shook my head, dismissing the whirlwind of questions wheeling through my mind. The last thing Garthe wanted was an onslaught of questions, and he probably wouldn't answer any of them, anyway.

"It's beautiful," I murmured at last, and I meant it. I couldn't take my eyes off my reflection, my head still spinning with disbelief. Fancy clothes and decadent meals were one thing, but an emerald...

"It suits you," Garthe replied softly, and he caressed the other side of my face, smoothing his thumb over my cheek. "You wear fine things well, mon beau."

I leaned into Garthe's touch and glanced up at him, a wry retort on the tip of my tongue. But Garthe was serious, his thoughtful gaze flitting here and there, taking in my earring, my mussed hair, my unbuttoned shirt, dressing me and undressing me over and over again in his mind like I was the most beautiful person in the whole world. My skin prickled under Garthe's keen gaze, raw desire thrumming off his form like electricity, standing my hair on end in tingly anticipation.

I barely had time to react before Garthe scooped both hands around my face and kissed me deeply, ravenously, screwing his fingers into my hair and craning my head so far back it almost hurt. I arched my back, pushing up into his fierce kisses, relishing in the fireworks that danced through my body with each hungry rake of his tongue between my teeth.

Just as abruptly, Garthe severed the kiss, his hot breath fanning my lips and whirring in my ears as he held me close for another moment, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other splayed around my face, gripping my chin and jaw, completely paralyzing me in his grasp. I panted for breath, my head spinning and my skin slick and throbbing with need as Garthe held me in limbo, his lips mere inches from mine–

Then he grinned, and let me go, leaving me hot and breathless and reeling in bewilderment at his sudden absence. Asshole, I scoffed to myself, leering at Garthe as he strolled over to the other side of the closet, perfectly blasé. And he called me a tease.

I pointedly ignored Garthe as he rifled through the cabinet of jewelry across the closet and inspected my ear in the mirror again. It was still a fierce shade of red and throbbing dully around the piercing. Gingerly, I fiddled with the back of the earring, and my fingertips came away tacky. And red.

"Uh, is it supposed to be bleeding?" I ventured, plucking another cotton ball off the vanity to wipe off my fingers and dab at my earlobe, stifling a wince at the pain. "It's not gonna get infected, is it?"

Garthe scoffed under his breath and didn't respond, still preoccupied with the contents of his jewelry cabinet. Pardon me for calling his unparalleled skill into question, but I wasn't exactly keen on getting an ear infection.

"It'll heal faster if you stop touching it," Garthe chided at last, and I dropped my hands into my lap with a stubborn pout when he sauntered back over to me, a gold necklace dangling from his fist.

"Isn't it a little late to be playing dress-up?" I protested with a weary chuckle, but I didn't resist as Garthe draped the thick gold chain around my neck and clasped it at my nape. A heavy pendant thumped against my sternum, and I consulted the mirror again. A diamond-crusted lion's head snarled back at me in the reflection, its gold mane nestled in my chest hair.

"A lion, huh?" I arched my brow up at Garthe. "I guess I've always seen myself as a golden retriever, instead."

For a split second, Garthe grimaced, looking almost irritated by my remark, before he realized I was joking. My little jabs of sarcasm still managed to catch Garthe off-guard, but a few doses of levity here and there were good for him. He accused me of worrying too much, but he was the one who tended to get so serious, so uptight.

After a beat, Garthe blinked and cracked a small, weary smile of his own, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

"You don't give yourself enough credit, mon beau," Garthe purred, combing his fingers through my hair and sending another tingly rush through my body. "Fierce and passionate, majestic and robust. What else could you be but the king of the jungle?"

"What's that make you, then?" I quipped back without missing a beat, taking in Garthe's mane of dark hair, the predatory gleam in his eye.

"The snake, of course," Garthe replied assuredly, touching his own ivory necklace, with its two snake heads biting a gold ring at his throat. "Death and rebirth, wise and calculating–"

"Cold and slippery?" I interjected wryly, and Garthe scoffed and gave my hair an admonishing tousle. I pretended to bite at his hand when he pulled away, baring my teeth with an exaggerated growl. Garthe's brows shot up, a thrilled grin crossing his face.

"That's more like it," Garthe praised, reaching for my chin. I snapped at his hand again, my teeth grazing skin this time. If he wanted me to be the lion, then I could be the lion.

"You are a feisty thing." Garthe laughed under his breath, wagging his finger in my face. I tried to bite him again, but my reflexes were too sluggish and I was starting to crack up laughing, too.

"That's what you get for keeping me up past midnight," I retorted, swatting half-heartedly at Garthe's hand. "I'm grouchy."

"Grouchy," Garthe repeated with an amused chuckle, and he managed to snare my hand in his, running his thumb over my knuckles. "You're very sexy when you're grouchy."

I let out an exasperated little laugh and shook my head. I didn't feel particularly sexy at the moment. Now that my adrenaline had leveled back out, I was too aware of how heavy my limbs felt, my mouth parched and my eyes scratchy. I felt more like a reanimated corpse than anything remotely sexy.

But Garthe had that look on his face again, like he hadn't eaten in weeks and I was the most mouthwatering meal he'd ever laid eyes on. He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed my knuckles, one at a time, his half-lidded gaze never leaving mine. Every warm press of his lips sent thrilled little shivers up my spine, drawing my attention away from my throbbing ear and bleary exhaustion.

Then Garthe flipped my hand over and kissed the underside of my wrist, and suddenly those little shivers turned to a rush of static coursing over my skin. I sat up a little straighter with a jolt, hyperaware of the renewed blush sweeping through me as the graze of Garthe's mustache on my skin stood my nerves on end. I wondered if he could feel my pulse racing under his lips with each slow, lingering kiss, if he could sense the anticipation tingling through me, taste it like lightning in the air.

With a soft click, Garthe pulled his lips away from my wrist and contemplated my palm, running his thumb over the old, stubborn callouses, built up over the years of rowing and exercising and constant exposure to the elements. A rugged contrast to Garthe's hands, peppered with various knicks and faint burns from working with sparking circuitry, but otherwise soft and supple, like he'd never done a day of hard labor in his life.

Garthe must've been making the same comparison. Without a word, he reached for a bottle of lotion tucked against the mirror of the vanity and flipped open the cap one-handed.

"My mother always said that the secret to success is a good skin care routine," Garthe mused with the barest hint of a wry smile, and he squeezed a small, chilly dollop of lotion onto my palm and worked it in gently with his thumbs.

"Is that all?" I quipped back, pretending the diligent massage of Garthe's thumbs on my palm wasn't the most amazing sensation I'd ever felt. "Is that what takes you so long in the bathroom in the morning?"

Garthe chuckled under his breath, flipping over my hand in his to massage my knuckles, then my fingers, one at a time, all the way down to my cuticles. Painstakingly meticulous, awakening capillaries I didn't even know existed, until I was almost lightheaded with the tingly sense of bliss coursing through me at his every touch.

Wordlessly, Garthe gave me back my hand, and I let him take my other hand almost too eagerly, my nerves already alight with anticipation before the lotion even hit my skin. I couldn't stifle a blissful hum when Garthe started massaging my palm again, and intrigue flickered across his face at my pleased little noise.

"Does that feel good, mon beau," Garthe whispered, and the rough purr of his words stood my hair on end all over again, a deep blush suffusing my cheeks. Everything he did felt good, damn him, from spreading me open and sliding in deep and raw on top of the unforgiving lid of the grand piano to the delicate pressure of his thumbs working little circles into my fingernails; from those ravenous, desperate, suckling kisses that left behind teeth marks and bruises to the reverent brush of his lips that made my skin tingle like crazy. I never knew which Garthe I was gonna get, the rough and domineering or the gentle and adoring. And, admittedly, it didn't matter which part of him came out to play. I could handle his temperament, keep up with his ever-changing moods. Maybe I was the only person in the world who could say that.

Garthe punctuated his massage with a light kiss on the top of my hand, but he was far from done with me. Without preamble, he squeezed another dollop of lotion onto his fingertips and started rubbing my temples in slow, methodical circles. I hummed again and tilted my head back slightly, my eyes drifting shut as Garthe worked the cool lotion into the fine lines that crinkled around the corners of my eyes.

"Feels good..." I breathed, peeking my eyes open just as Garthe's massage drifted from my temples to my scalp. That felt incredible, and I let out a satisfied groan as Garthe worked his fingers into my hair and kneaded my skull, my eyelids fluttering shut again as bliss billowed through me. "Mm, harder..."

Garthe obliged, and I groaned again when he dug his nails in and scrunched his fingers, tugging my hair with each kneading squeeze. I didn't realize how far back I'd rolled my head until Garthe dropped a kiss on my parted lips, stifling my startled gasp with an invasive rake of his tongue between my teeth. All at once, my heartrate kicked up a notch, all the mellowness that Garthe's massages had instilled in me turning to feverish desire with each lap of his tongue against mine.

Abruptly, Garthe dropped into my lap, straddling my hips and making the chair groan in protest under our combined weight. I grunted into Garthe's mouth at his sudden weight in my lap, my hands flying to his bare back as he kissed me deeply, his fingers still twisted in my hair.

With a stunning yank, Garthe wrenched my head back and buried his face against the curve of my neck, and I gasped heavenward at the stunning heat of his mouth on my throat, stars dancing before my eyes. I shifted my hips under Garthe's immovable weight in my lap, another gasping grunt escaping me as my body responded to Garthe's slow, suckling kisses. I couldn't control the blazing fever of arousal that swept through me, my skin tight all over and throbbing like hell, every part of my body begging to be worshipped by Garthe's hot, wet kisses.

Gradually, Garthe laid a tantalizing trail of kisses down the side of my neck to my collarbone, his rapturous, purring breaths reverberating through my bones. I jumped when his teeth grazed my skin, delirious with the assault of sensations coursing through me. Garthe's kisses had gotten me so damn horny all over again, but I couldn't ignore how freaking tired I was, too. Exhaustion pressed down on me as tangibly as Garthe's weight in my lap, and now that my eyes had drifted shut, I couldn't will myself to open them again, perfectly content to let Garthe kiss me into a stupor right then and there.

Until Garthe's mouth closed over my nipple. I threw my head back with a shout at the searing heat of his tongue pooling over my nipple, and he hummed in delight at how hard I was under him. He shifted his hips and I shifted mine, his thighs squeezing my torso hard enough to make me wheeze for my next breath.

"Fuck, I'm too tired..." I ground out plaintively, even as my body tightened in response to Garthe's suckling kisses, every swirl of his tongue around my nipple driving me mad with mindless, breathless need. Suddenly, desperately, I needed to be inside him, needed to feel him around me, squeezing me...

Maybe I wasn't too tired to spread him open astride my lap and ease into him, let him coax me to one last oblivion. But I was too tired to figure out how. How to get his damn pants off, how to get my body to do anything useful between twitches and jolts, how to get out of this damn chair and into bed–

Garthe murmured something, his voice a tantalizing buzz against my skin as he kissed his way down my chest, until he finally slid off my lap to kneel between my legs. I blinked my eyes open with a grunt, struggling to make sense of what Garthe was doing, nothing but a dark mane of hair between my knees as he kissed the tops of my thighs, his hands investigating the blanket wrapped around my waist. A shudder raced through my whole body, my breath hitching at his wandering touches, higher, higher–

He found the knot of the blanket and shucked it open, and suddenly I was fully exposed, swollen and twitching in anticipation. I grimaced, almost embarrassed by the sight of my sad little half-erection. Maybe I was too tired to get it up, after all, my adrenaline levels all over the place and my brain hazy with delirium.

But Garthe didn't seem to mind. All it took was a touch, a reverent caress, and my breath left me in a heavy sigh and all the tension in my body let go. I sagged in the chair, fireworks dancing through my body as Garthe touched me just right, slow and dazzling and precise, eliciting a breathless moan with every stroke and squeeze, coaxing me to life in his hands like an artist breathing life into an empty canvas.

I gasped heavenward when the wet heat of Garthe's mouth closed around me, just the tip at first, then lower, lower, his lips and tongue working in breathtaking harmony. My eyes rolled so far back I thought I'd never get them open again, my jaw slack, caught in a breathless gasp.

"Why are you so good at this..." I eeked out on a breath, twisting my fingers deeper into Garthe's hair as he bobbed his head, tantalizing me with those maddening lips, that wicked tongue. My whole body arched when he squeezed my thighs, my toes curling as my breath faltered again. Just a little faster, a little harder, a little deeper–

I was still too spent from our roll in the hay earlier that evening to really produce much of a climax, but Garthe did manage to coax me to a clenching, gasping, spluttering whiteout. Utter bliss swelled inside me like the crest of a perfect wave, then crashed down just as stunningly, like thousands upon thousands of diamonds twinkling in my veins. Oh, he was good, too damn good...

I barely knew where I was when the spasms faded, blind and deaf and completely boneless, my own panting breaths a deafening whir in my ears. Too tired to move, too tired to care, just waiting for that blissful blanket of unconsciousness to sweep over me...

Somewhere outside myself, I could still feel Garthe touching me, stroking my thighs, petting my hair, trying to soothe my shattered nerves. I grunted weakly, tilting my face against his hand when he touched my cheek, but I still couldn't bring myself to open my eyes, couldn't focus on his murmuring words over the din of my pulse thumping in my ears.

The next thing I knew, Garthe was slinging his arm behind my back and hefting me out of the chair. My head reeled at the sudden motion, and I slumped against him and hobbled along as he half-guided, half-dragged me across the room.

Just as abruptly, Garthe dumped me into the bed like a sack of potatoes, flat on my face, but oh god I didn't care. I let out the biggest groan of my life and settled into the mattress, feeling like I weighed a thousand pounds. Fleetingly, I felt the mattress dip as Garthe settled next to me, close enough for him to feel my thrumming body heat, before I finally, blessedly, drifted to sleep.

Chapter Text

– Garthe –

It was only a matter of time before the nightmares returned.

I thought I could outrun them. Outsmart them. Night after night of passionate, unrestrained, nerve-shattering sex with Mitch, working ourselves to utter, mind-numbing exhaustion– I'd never slept more soundly in my life than I had the past few nights, enveloped in Mitch's body heat, our bodies buzzing with a bliss no drug or drink could ever replicate.

But I knew they were coming. I could feel them brewing at the base of my skull all evening, lurking at the bottom of every cocktail, in every whorl of smoke from my cigar. Even after throwing Mitch flat over the top of the piano and fucking him over and over again, until we couldn't come anymore and my body felt like it was ripping apart at the seams, I could feel the nightmares closing in every time I closed my eyes.

We don't have to go to bed just yet, I'd all but implored, dragging Mitch along on a whim. I thought I could keep the nightmares at bay. Just a few more hours, a few more kisses...

But the nightmares found me. I was in one before I even realized I was asleep. Back behind the wide, slender wheel of Goliath, the dashboard swimming in and out of focus as I careened down a road that wasn't a road, deserts and mountains and jungles all morphing into one shattered hellscape of sharp turns and sheer cliffs yawning on all sides.

And I wasn't alone. There was always someone in that damn passenger seat, filling the cabin with some caustic, nagging diatribe that set my blood boiling. The words blurred in and out of focus under the deafening roar of Goliath's engine, a vague sense condescension and disapproval pelting me like pellets of hail. All I wanted to do was whip around and claw out the eyes of whoever was sitting beside me, but I had to keep driving, hands glued to the wheel as the road swam and undulated, one wrong move away from–

No man will ever respect you!

I wanted to scream, to block out the venomous words coiling around me, but I couldn't force a single sound out of my throat, my teeth locked around an invisible bit. I wanted to kick and thrash and shred the disembodied voice to ribbons, wanted to feel bones crunching under my bare hands–

No one will ever love you!

The compulsion to whirl toward the passenger seat was unbearable, but it wasn't Mother or Adrianne or any of the other women who came to haunt my subconscious seated beside me.

A huge black snake sat coiled in the leather seat, unbothered by the jostling of Goliath's cabin, its glassy yellow eyes locked onto me, yellow tongue flicking. My breath caught in my chest. It wasn't real. It isn't real! But the pressure of my heart lodged in my throat was too palpable, the sweat on my palms too distinct–

The snake lunged, but I couldn't move, didn't dare move, couldn't tear my eyes from the road. I had to go faster, faster. My hands were tethered to the steering wheel, tethered to the whipping post, sweat beading on my skin under the blazing sun, my back flayed open, oozing crimson blood onto the sand. Faster! The snake lunged again, its fangs just missing my arm. Don't move, don't move–

Your destiny is death!

No! I choked, my throat full of sand, of water, of blood. The snake lunged, yellow fangs sinking into my forearm, pain pain pain flaring through my veins, but I didn't dare take my hands off the wheel as the road unspooled before me in a dizzying ribbon of twists and turns, red sand one moment, slick green grass the next. Faster! I groped desperately for Goliath's gear shift, my left foot stomping on a clutch pedal that wasn't there. No no no!

The snake grinned its yellow fangs at me. I knew those fangs. Goliath's cabin was melting away around me, leather and wood giving way to the glaring lights and toggles of KARR's swooping dashboard, hours upon hours of pouring over its design seared indelibly into my mind.

All you have left is me.

It all happened in a breathless instant. The snake lunged. The steering wheel jerked under my hands. The tires lost their bite. The pedals refused to obey. Skidding, skidding, Goliath's mighty engine whining for mercy. No more grass, no more road–

The nightmares always ended the same. The same weightless, stomach-wrenching plunge into nothingness. I couldn't scream for the breathtaking pressure on my chest, but god I tried. I tried and tried until my throat was raw and there wasn't any air left in my lungs. But no sound ever came out.

I jolted awake just before the impact, slick with sweat and paralyzed, a silent scream still lodged in my throat as I gasped for breath. No water rushing to fill my lungs, no shards of glass and metal shearing through my flesh. Just the soft darkness under the silk canopy drawn around the bed, and Mitch's warm, solid presence beside me. Just another nightmare.

I gulped and struggled to quiet my rasping, ragged breathing, my chest still painfully tight with the lingering squeeze of panic. The sheen of sweat on my skin went cold almost instantly, and I shivered despite myself, clenching my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering. Just another nightmare. Just like all the others.

With a soft sigh, Mitch stirred beside me, and I held my breath, willing him not to wake up. I'd kept him awake long enough, already. He needed his sleep. Just go back to sleep...

Huffing and grunting like a mighty bear, Mitch rolled from his stomach onto his back and, much to my disoriented surprise, snaked his arm under me and scooped me against him. Bewildered, I rolled toward him, and my head found his shoulder almost instinctively, our bodies fitting together like two naked, sticky puzzle pieces.

Gradually, Mitch's thrumming body heat soothed the tension gripping my body. I let myself settle against him, resting my head more comfortably on his shoulder, shifting a little closer to his body. With what sounded like a satisfied sigh, Mitch slung his other arm over me as far as he could reach and promptly drifted back to sleep.

I laid there for a long, contemplative moment, wrapped in Mitch's embrace, strong and warm and safe, listening to the steady thumps of his heartbeat under my ear. This was real. Mitch was real. His warmth, his scent, the taste of him lingering on my tongue...

He doesn't love you.

My chest threatened to tighten again, and I stretched my arm across Mitch's torso and held him close, struggling to focus on the gentle whir of his breathing, steady rise and fall of his chest. But the echoes of the nightmare continued to knell through me, the gut-wrenching hollowness of falling, falling, falling...

He'll leave you. KARR's voice went on, a relentless monotone looping through my mind. He's in love with Michael. Not you.

Rage flickered through me, a bleak fraction of its usual intensity, but a familiar feeling nonetheless. Rage, indignation, revenge. I would avenge myself. Once I blotted out Michael Knight's existence, wiped him from the face of the planet, then I would finally be free. The nightmares, the falling– My suffering wouldn't be in vain. Not this time.

Gradually, inevitably, the weight of exhaustion became too much to bear. My eyes drifted shut, but no nightmares simmered to the surface this time. Only thick, blessed nothingness, scored by the steady drum of Mitch's heartbeat under me.

***

– Mitch –

Garthe's head was still resting on my shoulder when I drifted awake, and his closeness made me smile before I even opened my eyes, my skin buzzing fondly. I could feel the weight of his arm draped across my torso, and our legs were tangled under the sheet, his cold feet burrowed against me, eating up my body heat.

I finally pried open my eyes to the sight of a big puffball of curly brown hair in my face, and my amused smile widened. Garthe was sound asleep, his face buried against my chest, and, unless I was mistaken, snoring softly. I almost chuckled out loud. Garthe, Mister Perfect, with his effortless charm and dignified poise and composure, was snoring.

In my bleary, half-asleep stupor, I was suddenly so overcome with the need to wrap my arms around Garthe and squeeze him that I couldn't think straight for a moment. Long enough to realize that I couldn't move even if I wanted to, because Garthe was laying on my arm and his head felt like a kettlebell on my chest. But he was just so damn cute when he was asleep. So peaceful, so relaxed. A stark contrast to the writhing and gasping and panting I'd woken up to in the middle of the night. Well, I hadn't quite woken up, 'cause I'd been pretty damn unconscious, but I'd been vaguely aware of the aftermath, Garthe's rigid form beside me, drenched in sweat and shivering like hell, and I must've scooped him against me without even thinking about it and fallen back to sleep.

Even at the risk of waking him up, I couldn't resist the temptation to lift my free hand and run my fingers through Garthe's soft, curly hair. This was about the time he usually woke up, anyway, when the first rays of sunrise cast the room in a silvery glow beyond the silk curtain drawn around the bed.

The cadence of Garthe's breathing changed as I stroked his hair, and he tightened his hold around my torso ever-so-slightly, stubbornly clinging to the waning tendrils of sleep, until he finally came to with a deep, grumbling sigh.

"Mornin', sleepyhead," I croaked, my voice a thin rasp in my throat. I licked my lips and tried to swallow, but my mouth was parched beyond belief, and I could already feel the dull pounding of a headache brewing behind my eyes.

With another grunt, Garthe peeled his face off my chest, grimacing when the crimp in his neck protested. His right eye looked a little puffy, his eyelid crusted shut, and Garthe quickly ducked his face away from me and rolled over, then hauled himself upright with a barely-stifled hiss of discomfort, his head no doubt reeling as badly as mine.

"Hey..." I rasped, concern immediately mounting in my chest, but I could barely move, either, even as circulation rushed back into my arm in a prickly wave. "Where're y' goin', huh?"

Garthe didn't go far, luckily. He just sat there, hugging his knees to his chin, as I huffed and grunted and struggled to sit up behind him. Even after the black splotches cleared from my eyes, I just sat there for a moment, too, entranced by the stillness that had settled over Garthe. I could barely tell if he was breathing, his bare back tense and pale where he sat hunched around his knees, his scars on full display in the hazy sunlight gradually filling the room.

A mess of emotions squeezed my chest as I took in the gnarled, angry swaths of scars carved into Garthe's back, one on either side of his spine, like he'd been flayed open and stapled back together. He was lucky to be alive, lucky that the twisting scar that had ruined his right eye hadn't snagged an artery in his neck, that the gouges down his back hadn't punctured his lungs. What a horrible thing to live through, the pain he must've endured...

My chest tightened even more, bile rising in the back of my throat. Those scars, like a fallen angel whose wings had been ripped out. Cast aside by his family, his body left permanently mangled...and one man to blame for it all. Michael Knight.

With a steadying gulp, I shifted a little closer to Garthe, then a little more, until I was close enough to put my hand on his shoulder. His skin was already cool to the touch, like he was turning to stone before my very eyes.

"Hey," I whispered when Garthe didn't react to my touch, and I gave his shoulder a little squeeze. Still nothing. Concern continued to wriggle through me, and I shifted even closer to him and slid my arm around his taut shoulders. A tiny grunt was Garthe's only acknowledgment of my touch, and I knew my body heat must've felt good on his skin.

We sat like that for a little while, my arm draped around Garthe's shoulders, holding him close, listening to the slow, subtle whir of his breathing. In, out. In, out. Centering himself.

Do you wanna talk about it? I wanted to ask him, the words itching on the tip of my tongue. I have nightmares, too, sometimes. It's okay. You can talk to me. I'm here...

But I was too bleary to string my rambling internal monologue into real words. Exhaustion tugged at my eyelids, and I couldn't resist the urge to rest my chin on Garthe's shoulder and let my eyes drift shut. His cheek was prickly with stubble against mine, his sideburn mussed from the way he'd been laying. I liked him like that, a little disheveled, a little messy. He was a little more real that way.

With a final, steadying sigh, Garthe shifted beside me. I lifted my head as he rolled his shoulders and sat up a little straighter, and my hand drifted absently down his back, mapping the texture of his scars along his spine. There were more than the two rippling gouges in his back; older, fainter scars criss-crossed his skin, too. Burns. Lacerations. God knew what else. A lifetime of trauma written on his skin. No wonder he had nightmares.

At last, Garthe turned to look at me. I was sitting in his blind spot, so he had to twist a bit more to glance at me with his good eye. For a moment, his gaze was guarded, thoughtful. Remorseful, even, like he wanted to apologize for waking me up, for making me worry about him.

And I was worried about him, damn it. When was the last time someone had asked him if he was alright? The last time someone had genuinely cared? I wanted to help him, damn it, I wanted him to let me help him.

My emotions must've been written all over my face, concern and conviction all etched into the frown furrowing my brows. Garthe smiled at me, a faint, placating little smile that didn't reach his eyes, scarred or otherwise. The kind of smile that usually preceded an evasion.

"Why don't you go back to sleep, my dear," Garthe murmured, still smiling that patronizing little smile that drove me crazy in all the wrong ways, like I was the one who needed to be mollified. "There's no reason for you to be up at this hour."

Are you kidding? I almost retorted, but I didn't trust my voice not to give out, my throat still agonizingly parched. It wasn't even early by my metric. Didn't he know how many days a week I was out of the house before the crack of dawn, getting in a morning run before my shift?

"Actually," I countered breezily, pretending like every syllable didn't feel like sandpaper in my throat. "I was thinking about getting us some breakfast going. Eggs, peppers, tomatoes. Maybe fry up some potatoes this time..."

Garthe was already shaking his head, and he lifted his hand to cradle my face as I spoke, stroking my cheek with his thumb until I finally trailed off, my heart sinking.

"Some other time," Garthe purred, and the quirk of his smile actually managed to look rueful. "I can't afford to be late today."

Part of me wanted to object, to insist that we had plenty of time, that I'd have everything ready by the time he was done in the shower, even if he just took a few bites on the fly–

But Garthe's mind was made up. He shifted his hand from my cheek to my shoulder and gave me a gentle push, trying to get me to lay back down. Irritation flashed through me, or maybe it was a bolt of pure stubbornness. I stiffened, refused to budge, and Garthe's brows lifted a tick at my resistance.

"My dear, you look exhausted," Garthe tried again, feigning sincerity, but I could hear his patience waning. "Go back to sleep. I'll have a nice, hot breakfast sent up for you in a few hours."

You don't have to push me away. I bit my tongue, still glowering at Garthe. You can talk to me. Stop pushing me away, damn it...

But Garthe obviously wasn't in the mood to talk, about his nightmare or about anything at all. And pushing him would only make him more defensive, more evasive. It wouldn't prove a damn thing.

So I let Garthe win, again, but not without a reluctant, disapproving sigh.

"Fine." I put my hand over Garthe's, still resting on my shoulder, and offered a weary smile. "Go do your thing. And have 'em go easy on the griddled stuff for breakfast, will ya? I gotta maintain this trim figure of mine, y'know."

"Maybe I'm trying to fatten you up, mon beau," Garthe purred, flashing that wicked smile of his, and he leaned in and brushed a kiss over my lips.

"Mm, I'm sure you'd love that," I quipped back against Garthe's lips. "Fat and complacent, huh?"

Garthe snickered, and he didn't exactly contradict me. He kissed me again, slow and lingering, long enough for me to start to wonder just how urgently he really had to go–

Then, just like that, he pulled his mouth away from mine with a decisive click and turned away without so much as a parting glance, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"Hey–" I grabbed Garthe's hand before he could get up, and he whipped back around, his eyes wide with surprise and no small amount of unchecked irritation, which I chose to ignore.

"Promise me you'll eat something, alright?" I said earnestly, holding Garthe's fiery stare without wavering. "You and I both drank about a gallon of alcohol last night, and even if your head hurts half as much as mine, you still shouldn't go barreling through your day on a cup of coffee and a cigarette. It's not healthy."

"I'll take it under advisement, doctor," Garthe chided, trying to extricate his hand from mine. I tightened my grip without thinking, ignoring the way Garthe's nostrils flared, his jaw bunching.

"I'm serious." My voice came out unexpectedly low and steady. Authoritative. Garthe went completely cold, his eye glinting like a chip of ice. Apparently, he only liked being told what to do when we were having sex, and when those demands were limited to harder and roll over.

After a long, tense beat, Garthe let his breath out slowly, and the murderous gleam in his eye waned. Just like I knew it would.

"Alright," Garthe forced out at last, and he mustered a flat smile that didn't reach his gaze in the slightest. "I will."

I didn't believe him. And I hated that I didn't believe him. I hated that he would say whatever I wanted to hear, just to get me to drop the subject faster.

And most of all, I hated that I couldn't do a damn thing about it. All I could do was sigh and let him slip his hand from my grasp, let him think that he could make everything alright with another kiss and a pat on the cheek before he got up, drawing the silk curtain shut behind him.

But I didn't lay back down, despite the traitorous little part of me that did welcome the idea of going back to sleep in the hazy half-light under the canopy. I leaned back on my elbow and waited, listening to Garthe move around in the en suite bathroom, turning on the shower. My whole body yearned to be in there with him like yesterday morning, shampooing his hair, washing his back. But yesterday already felt like an eternity ago.

The water cut off, and I recognized the clinking of glass bottles as Garthe washed his face and styled his hair. Priorities. He couldn't start his day looking anything less than immaculate.

At the last possible second, I hastily laid down on my side and closed my eyes just as Garthe strolled back into the bedroom. Sure enough, I heard the faint rustle of silk as he peeked through the curtain drawn around the bed. Checking on me.

I stayed like that as Garthe got dressed, my arm pillowed under my head. My pierced ear was killing me, a dull throb permeating the entire left side of my head, separate from the persistent ache behind my eyes from drinking so damn much last night. I couldn't fathom how Garthe was functioning so effortlessly, or so he made it seem.

I kept my eyes closed until I was absolutely sure Garthe had left the bedroom, then forced myself to sit up with a half-stifled groan, black splotches dancing across my vision. Maybe another hour or so of shuteye wasn't that bad of an idea...

I shook myself free from the temptation. My whole body was stiff and achy and tacky with sweat, and I'd only get achier and sweatier the longer I loafed around. A nice cold shower would perk me right up.

I scooted across the bed and peered through the curtain, making sure Garthe wasn't hiding somewhere, ready to chastise me for not going back to sleep, but the coast was clear. I slipped out of bed and padded into the bathroom, grimacing at the harsh wash of all the lights Garthe had left on. He must've opted for a cold shower, too; the mirrors weren't even fogged.

I helped myself to Garthe's soap and shampoo under the tepid blast of the water. His hair products were a lot nicer than mine, I had to admit; my hair had never been softer, the curls easier to manage. It would be tough going back to the bargain brands when...when things went back to normal.

I gulped, blaming my hangover for the sudden thickness in my throat. Things would go back to normal. They had to. I had to get my life sorted out. I had to see my son again.

I cranked the water off with a little more force than necessary, trying to shake off the cloying squeeze of anxiety as I dried my hair and wrapped the towel around my waist. Just one more day. Just one more day of opulence and excess, one more day of humoring Garthe's whims. But how many more days would I have to keep telling myself that? A week? Two weeks? A month?

Suddenly short of breath, I gripped the edge of the sink with a grimace, willing the room to stop spinning, willing myself not to be sick, because that was not going to be a pleasant experience. The sour burn of bile in the back of my throat was enough to bring tears to my eyes, but I managed to keep the contents of my stomach where it belonged, breathing through the wretched ordeal until it finally passed.

"No. More. Liquor," I muttered, still bowed over the pristine sink basin. I lifted my head to lock eyes with myself in the mirror, taking in the dark, haggard bags under my eyes and the sickening pallor of my skin. "No. More. I mean it."

My reflection didn't voice any objections, and I busied myself with lathering up to shave. I was still married to my faithful Gillette razor, which Garthe had teased me about yesterday, but watching him shave his jaw with his straight razor had made me woozy, which he'd also teased me about, in that hair-raising way of his.

But he obviously wasn't in a teasing mood today. Maybe something important was happening with his work, whatever that could be. Knowing Garthe, he'd probably never tell me.

I leaned my palms on the edge of the sink again and sighed, checking for errant streaks of shaving cream in the mirror. My earlobe was still a hellish shade of red around the piercing, a stark contrast to the bright green stone, and the gold necklace draped around my neck looked even bigger than it had last night, the lion's head pendant snarling back at me in the mirror.

What am I to him? An inkling of doubt slithered through me, and I rolled the huge gold pendant absently between my fingers, watching it gleam in the mirror. A toy? An exotic pet? Is that all I am to him? Some people have panthers and peacocks, and Garthe has me?

Why me?

I raked my fingers through my damp hair and squeezed, digging my nails into my skull, struggling to think through my throbbing hangover. What am I doing here?

Gradually, like sunlight filtering through heavy clouds, ephemeral and delicate, a memory coalesced in my mind. A feeling. A harried sense of urgency, frenzied and frantic. A blue binder, notepads and notebooks, maps, coordinates, phone numbers, charts and timelines and references–

Garthe. I had been searching for Garthe. Which I already knew, but it was nice to actually remember something, however brief and disjointed. What I still couldn't remember was how Michael Knight factored in, or how I'd ended up stranded on a deserted island for four days, descending further and further into fevered delirium.

Fragments of that bizarre dreamscape flashed through my mind, days old now, vague and vivid all at once, sliding in and out of focus. Dressing in Garthe's clothes. Driving KARR. Being ejected out of KARR. Holding a cane that wasn't a cane, aiming...firing...

I jerked myself back to reality with a sharp gasp. It all seemed so real. But...it couldn't be real. It was just my mind playing tricks, cobbling together a series of outlandish hallucinations, as if my current situation wasn't unbelievable enough. Living with Garthe, getting to know him, realizing...things about him, about myself, about us...

What are we? I stared at myself in the mirror for another beat, taking in the emerald earring, the gold necklace, barely recognizing myself. Lovers, is that all we were? Hell, were we even friends? Was there even a word for people like us? Two strangers drawn inexplicably into each other's orbit, caught up in the passion and mystique of it all?

Maybe I'm the one overcomplicating things, I mused dejectedly, dropping my gaze to the little jars and bottles and soap bars Garthe had left strewn on the countertop in his haste to get ready, and my chest tightened. Maybe Garthe didn't want to be more than casual lovers. Maybe he did just want a plaything, something pretty for him to look at, something to hand-feed and shower with baubles and gifts. I was his damn mistress, and I couldn't figure out why that irritated me.

Because you care about him, you big sap, I chided to myself, picking up a bar of exfoliating soap and inspecting it idly. Waking up with the weight of his head resting on my chest, those fleeting moments of softness in his gaze, the sound of his laughter, so rare and foreign–

But I wanted to go home, and I couldn't have it both ways, even though it felt like a punch to the gut to remind myself of that. I couldn't let myself get too close to Garthe, not when I knew I'd have to let him go, eventually.

But that didn't mean I had to shirk his hospitality in the meantime. Sucking in a steadying breath, I ran the soap bar under the tap and worked it into a good lather. Why not, right? Garthe had already gone to the trouble of buying me a whole new wardrobe; the least I could do was clean myself up and play the part, just for a little while longer.

***

– Garthe –

I couldn't begin to make Mitch understand what mattered and what didn't. It didn't matter that I woke up feeling rotten, that my guts felt like they were turning themselves inside-out and my skull felt like it was full of marbles every time I moved. It didn't matter that I couldn't silence the echoes of that damn nightmare, couldn't shake the lingering squeeze of anxiety in my chest. Hell, it didn't even matter that I scalded my throat tossing back a double shot of espresso fresh out of the machine, or that drinking it made my stomach feel exponentially worse, like throwing gasoline on a fire.

All that mattered was looking the part. Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in my ivory silk suit. Chin up, dear boy, as Mother would say. Show no weakness. When I swept into the garage, cane clutched in my hand, mouth set in a severe frown, it didn't matter that I hadn't eaten breakfast, or that all I wanted was to curl back up in Mitch's arms and lose myself in his thrumming warmth.

Punctuality mattered. Control mattered. Discipline mattered. The mission - my mission - depended upon my commitment to this role I had cast myself in. Fearless. Determined. Indomitable. And I would play my part to a T.

"Good morning, Garthe," came KARR's oily purr from across the garage, carrying over the dull hum and chatter of the computers, and I stifled a cringe at the hair-raising preen of his sensors licking over me. "You're up early. How was your evening?"

"Save it," I snapped without breaking stride as I stalked toward KARR. "I'm not in the mood. Has Alder made contact?"

"Yes, earlier than anticipated," KARR responded, his scanner pacing tepidly. "The formula was not viable."

"Damn it." My temper flared, threatening to unspool completely, and I struck the nearest computer console with the butt of my cane, making the men seated nearby jump to attention. "So we're right back where we started?"

"It would seem so," KARR replied, infuriatingly languid in his delivery, as though we had all the time in the blasted world to make this new formula work.

But we do have time, I reminded myself, drawing a measured breath, then another, willing my temper to abate. As long as I have Mitch, the Foundation will be kept at bay. We have plenty of time.

"Then I guess it's back to the drawing board," I ground out, feigning nonchalance. Calm. Composure. I readjusted my grip on my cane and marched over to the semicircle of computer panels encompassing KARR's paddock. The desk, situated amongst the flashing control boards and towering hard drives, was cluttered with sheets of dot matrix paper, some printouts as long as the span of my arms, haphazardly rolled and folded and shoved here and there. Yards upon yards of notes and diagrams and computations of what should have been the formula for a new molecular bonded shell. My formula.

A printout of Dr. Alder's notes were already on my desk when I dropped into the chair, the paper still warm from KARR's printer. A cross-section of the formula, highlighting everything that was wrong with the structure. Frustration flickered through me as I leafed through the notes. There had to be something viable, something salvageable–

"What a fucking nightmare..." I muttered, resisting the urge to rake my fingers through my neatly styled hair. Resisting the urge to flip the desk and lay waste to everything within striking distance. I was so tired of this. Tired of the rage eating away inside me. Tired of the failures. The constant failures–

But throwing a fit over it wouldn't prove a damn thing. I sucked in a sharp breath through my teeth, fished a cigarette out of the carton in my pocket, struck a match against the computer stack beside me, and got to work.

Chapter Text

– Mitch –

Maybe Garthe had been onto something with all that talk about good skin being the key to success. I did feel pretty rejuvenated when it was all said and done, even though the process of washing my face had been surprisingly time-consuming. Cleansers and scrubs, oils and extracts, toners and moisturizers, Garthe had it all, like he was fighting a war against aging, itself, with his army of little brown bottles in the medicine cabinet.

I managed to finish getting dressed before Garthe's troupe of footmen could bring my breakfast up to the bedroom, and as I trotted down the grand, sweeping staircase, the smell of spices and sautéed vegetables bowled into me like a storm front, drawing me toward the kitchen with an urgent rumble in my stomach.

I expected the kitchen to be abuzz with activity when I peeked my head through the doorway, judging from the sound of pans sizzling on the stovetop and the hum of appliances, but there was only one person at the counter, an older black woman wearing a white apron speckled with tomato sauce and pepper juices over a vibrant floral dress, her silvery hair pulled back in a low bun under a matching headscarf. She glanced up from the loaf of bread she was slicing when I peeked through the doorway, and a smile warmed her expression when our gazes met.

"Ah, you must be Mr. Buchannon," she said fondly, her voice low and lilting. Her calm, matronly demeanor immediately put me at ease, and I realized with a jolt just how long it had been since I'd spoken to anyone other than Garthe.

"You must be, uh, Emma, right?" I stammered, trying too hard to sound normal, suddenly too self-aware of my cerulean blue shirt and white linen pants, the gold necklace heavy and conspicuous against my chest. I never expected to give the impression that I was the kinda guy who wore silk and gold like it was nothing.

But Emma, Garthe's personal chef, whose last name I was kicking myself for not knowing, didn't seem fazed by my appearance in the slightest. She looked me up and down with a thoughtful little smirk, like she could see right through the glitz of what I was wearing, and I let my shoulders relax with a sheepish smile.

"Garthe's told me about you," I went on, joining Emma at the counter to shake her hand. "You're an amazing chef, really."

"Why, thank you, dear," she replied with an elegant little laugh, then she slipped away to tend to the pan simmering on the stove. "You're early, by the way," she remarked. "I was just about to have this brought up to your room."

"Well, I figured I'd save 'em the trip," I said wryly, earning another amused little chuckle from Emma.

"Have a seat, then, Mr. Buchannon." Emma gestured vaguely, shutting off the stove. I made myself comfortable on one of the barstools pulled up to the kitchen island, and Emma laid a wooden trivet in front of me and brought over the cast iron pan from the stove. The chunky, vibrant red tomato sauce was still bubbling, and it smelled amazing, hearty and peppery and just spicy enough to clear my head. Two poached eggs were nestled in the sauce, creating a striking flourish of yellow and bright white in the bubbling red sauce.

"Shakshouka," Emma announced with an air of satisfaction.

"Gesundheit," I couldn't help but reply, and thankfully Emma chuckled under her breath.

"A North African dish. Mr. Knight has had a taste for Mediterranean lately," Emma said as I tried a piping hot spoonful, and I let out a pleased hum as the heat effervesced through me, knocking out what was left of my headache in just one bite.

"He also mentioned you might want something healthy this morning," Emma added, setting the board of sliced bread and a dish of butter in front of me, and I readily scooped a wedge of bread into the sauce and devoured it.

"I'd take this over pancakes any day," I said between bites. "Your cooking is out of this world, really."

"I'm glad you think so," Emma beamed. "Honestly, I find American cuisine to be so...bland. White flour, plain eggs." She pretended to shudder. "Dishes like this are much more fun to make. Although, I can't even remember the last time I had to prepare breakfast before you came along."

My heart sank, and I chewed a little slower as my tense conversation with Garthe from earlier filtered through my mind. Promise me you'll eat something, alright? I'd insisted, despite Garthe's irritation, his impatience. Then that flat smile, that empty response: I will. The nagging suspicion that he'd lied to me, right to my face–

"Did Garthe eat anything this morning?" I blurted out before I could help myself, my chest agonizingly tight. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he'd eaten some toast, or a bite of fruit. Maybe he'd listened.

Emma frowned and thought for a moment, situating a fresh cucumber on the chopping block before her, then shook her head. "I don't believe so, but that's not unlike him."

I gritted my teeth, trying to stifle the sting of betrayal that flashed through me. He lied to me. Maybe it wasn't even that big of a deal. Maybe it was partly my fault, for being so insistent. He'd been in a hurry, tired, distracted–

What else has he lied to me about? My stomach soured, and I forced my misgivings aside with a firm mental shake. It was just a little fib. It wasn't that big of a deal.

"Garthe mentioned you're from Johannesburg," I remarked offhandedly. I didn't want to dwell on Garthe, his coldness, his haste to get away from me this morning. "What brought you to America? If you don't mind my asking."

At first, Emma's only response was a weary smile, and for a moment, I didn't think she was going to answer as she chopped the cucumber in thoughtful silence. Or maybe I was just too accustomed to Garthe avoiding my questions, the measured breaths as he stalled for time, the careful equivocations that seemed to roll off his tongue so effortlessly–

"Love, Mr. Buchannon," Emma said softly, a wistful smile playing across her face. I paused mid-chew, struck by her sudden candidness, and her smile widened bashfully.

"My second husband was a photographer from San Francisco," she said, gazing dreamily at the ingredients on the counter as memories flooded back to her. "I was working at a bakery in London when we met. I'd been divorced for about a year, and he was– Well, he made me feel the way every woman wants a man to make her feel."

Judging from the fond glimmer in Emma's eyes, the way the lines around them deepened when she smiled, I knew exactly what she meant. He'd made her laugh, made her heart gallop and her stomach flutter. Made her feel like she was the center of his universe.

"When you've been married before," Emma went on, her smile turning rueful, "you think you know everything. About yourself, about everyone else, about the whole world. You find yourself thinking, if it feels different than the first time, then it must be right this time."

Emma glanced at me, her brow arched. "Have you been married before, Mr. Buchannon?"

"Uh– Y-yeah, yeah," I stammered, startled by her directness, and I glanced compulsively at my left hand as though my wedding band had somehow materialized back onto my finger. It had taken a whole summer to finally even out the tan line it had left behind.

Emma smiled thoughtfully, as though she'd known the answer before she asked, and a blush nipped at my ears that wasn't entirely caused by the spices in my breakfast. Was it that obvious, that I'd been married before? That I was still trying to navigate the jumbled mess of post-divorce heartache? It was hard, trying to start over, when everything that had felt so right for so long suddenly wasn't right at all.

"We dated for a little while before he proposed," Emma went on, and she loosed a rueful sigh. "It was all so romantic at the time. So, of course, I married him. Moved to America with him. Why not? My children were grown by then, and I wanted to do something for myself. Something daring, something extravagant. He made me feel like I could conquer the world."

I listened intently as I ate, sensing a turning point in Emma's story.

"We were only married for eleven months and thirteen days," Emma concluded with an admonishing smile. "I thought I had it all figured out, thought I would see all the signs before it was too late. Turns out, you can be just as foolish and naive the second time, too."

I winced at Emma's pointed glance as she spoke, the not-so-veiled insinuation that I was the naive one now. Naive about what? Who? Garthe? It wasn't like I was thinking of marrying the guy–

"What happened?" I ventured, anything to quiet my racing thoughts. "Why'd you guys split up?"

"The allure wore off, I suppose," Emma responded after a thoughtful pause, studiously building a stack of cucumber sandwiches with little squares of crustless bread. "I started to not like how he treated me. Little things at first, those nuances that you grit your teeth and tolerate for a while. 'Oh, he's just in a bad mood. He won't be like this tomorrow.'"

He won't lie to me again. My heart skipped a beat, and I swallowed a hard lump of bread before I was done chewing.

"Life's too short to spend it with someone who makes you feel small," Emma went on resolutely. "I wanted to be my own woman, and he wanted me to be the wife. I wasn't supposed to have interests, and certainly not ambitions. No, no. I was supposed to cook for him and clean for him and look pretty when he brought me to his gallery showings."

A pet. A trophy, my mind echoed, another wave of self-consciousness sweeping through me. Something pretty to look at.

"So, I left him." Emma concluded with a grin. "Just like that, I was a free, independent woman in California in the late seventies, and it felt amazing. I went to school, worked at a few high-end restaurants. I even opened my own restaurant in LA, which was fun while it lasted, but running a business wasn't for me. Cooking is my passion."

"It's nice, being able to do what you love," I murmured, my chest suddenly tight with grief. I wanted my job back. I should've been on duty right about now, the sun on my shoulders, watching the beach fill up...

Emma glanced at me again, and there was no hiding the sympathy in her gaze when she smiled at me. But she didn't say anything, not right away at least. Maybe she didn't want to presume anything, why I was here, what I was to Garthe. Heck, maybe she knew exactly what was going on between me and Garthe. My ears turned red again, and I ducked my head and busied myself with finishing my breakfast.

"Be careful, Mr. Buchannon," Emma ventured softly, and I glanced back up to find her looking at me earnestly, her brow wrinkled in a thoughtful frown. "You seem like a nice, kind young man. Don't let anything change that."

Unease flickered through me, and I frowned, too. I knew what she was trying to tell me, what she wouldn't say aloud. Be careful of Garthe. Don't let him change you.

"I know," I replied, maybe a little too defensively. I knew I had to be careful around Garthe, I knew his infatuation with me wasn't exactly healthy. And I sure as hell knew I wasn't about to drop everything and move to Africa with him.

Emma and I appraised each other in thoughtful silence for a beat, a lifetime of wisdom shining in her gentle eyes, mistakes made and lessons learned. And me, through her eyes, with so much left of my life ahead of me. So many more mistakes left to be made.

But I wouldn't let Garthe be one of those mistakes. I knew what I was doing.

"I have a son, uh, back home," I ventured, trying to loosen up the tension that had settled between us, and Emma smiled warmly as I told her about Hobie and she told me a little about her son and daughter, the lives they'd established for themselves in England, how they hoped to go back to South Africa one day. It was such a relief to talk to someone normal, someone who didn't have any ulterior motives, who wasn't trying to seduce me like the rakish antihero in a black and white movie.

My heart twinged guiltily. Garthe was so...complicated. He was pushy and needy and still didn't understand a thing about romance. Emotions in general were an entirely foreign concept to him, and his communication skills were severely lacking.

But he was trying, and that's what made everything so confusing. Waking up with him in my arms, those unguarded laughs I managed to startle out of him, all those fleeting moments of sincerity that made my heart do somersaults against my ribs...

What have I gotten myself into... I mused dejectedly, completely detached from the conversation Emma and I were having as she did the dishes and I sipped on a latte she'd whipped up for me. It was sweeter than the ones Garthe made, and somehow I missed the slight, characteristic bitterness of his espresso.

I just have to be straight with him, I determined, staring into my mug. The very next time I saw Garthe, no matter what mood he was in, broody or horny or anything in between. We needed to sit down and have a very real conversation about the future of this whirlwind of a relationship we were caught up in, before we took things too far. Before either of us ended up heartbroken.

Brimming with newfound resolve, I thanked Emma for breakfast, and for keeping me company, then left her to her work. I was sure I had at least a few hours to kill before Garthe resurfaced, and I needed something to keep my mind occupied in the meantime.

Sunlight streamed through the windows as I strolled through the empty house, my footsteps echoing softly on the marble floors. The cleaning staff must've been through hours ago, dusting and sweeping, and it was bizarre to see the great room put right back together again, glasses and plates cleared away, pool cues returned to their rack, the fireplace cleaned and restocked with fresh wood. I could almost convince myself that my overindulgent evening with Garthe had been nothing but a dream.

A glimmer of gold in the slanting sunlight drew me over to the pool table. Garthe's signet ring, abandoned on the edge of the table. Idly, I picked up the gold ring and rolled it between my fingertips, letting the memories from last night flood back to me. How good Garthe had looked in the firelight, prowling around the pool table. The blaze of adrenaline and alcohol in my system, knowing it was only a matter of time before he got his hands on me–

I set the ring back down abruptly. No more alcohol, no more letting Garthe get to me with that, that, that charm of his. It was like being courted by a black panther, rakish and beguiling and undeniably dangerous, the mere thought of those crooked smiles and piercing stares enough to send goosebumps up my spine.

I whirled away from the pool table, fidgeting compulsively with the chain of my necklace. I needed to get my mind off of Garthe, if only for an hour or so.

I hightailed it out of the great room, away from the cloy of tobacco smoke and memories, and wandered the marble halls until I found a heavy wooden door I'd never tried to open before. To my dismay, it was locked, which only piqued my curiosity. I rattled the doorknob again, contemplating how hard it would be to just...

I slinked back through the house, this time a little more aware of my surroundings, or lack thereof. I was drastically short on hair pins and paper clips, but there had to be something I could use...

I returned to the door armed with a set of toothpicks I'd found behind the wet bar. Not ideal, but I hadn't felt right about plucking a quill off any of the tribal masks, and I hadn't found so much as a pen or nail file otherwise. Short of going all the way upstairs in search of a hair pin or pliers, the toothpicks would have to do.

Paranoia prickled my skin as I jimmied the toothpicks around inside the lock, but I was too curious to let the feeling get to me. It was probably just an old sitting room Garthe didn't use; hell, it could've been a coat closet for all I knew. A locked closet, though? I just wanted a peek–

The lock gave way without either of the toothpicks splintering, thankfully, and I nudged the door open and felt for a light switch in the murky darkness.

My jaw just about hit the floor when I turned on the lights. It was a library in every sense of the word, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the walls, a massive wooden desk to my left with a wingback leather chair nestled behind it, brass fixtures glowing faintly in the wan light. The leather-bound volumes packed on the shelves seemed to absorb the ambient light trickling down from the chandeliers, and I took a big whiff of old leather and paper and ink, musty and nostalgic. I hadn't been around this many old books in ages.

I closed the door behind me and wandered through the room, trailing my fingertips along the spines of the books at eye level. All nonfiction, as far as I could tell. Books about ships and sailing, old tomes about discovery and exploration, guides to fishing and hunting. On and on and on, from geology and botany to space and technology, every subject I could possibly think of.

I turned around, taking in the dim, quiet, suffocatingly masculine space, all dark wood and burgundy damask wallpaper, a heavy Persian rug underfoot, thick curtains pulled shut over the windows. The wall behind the desk was adorned with paintings of ships at sea; I recognized a few pieces by Aivazovsky, tall ships being battered by a dark, temperamental sea, the sun gleaming ethereally through thick clouds. Originals? I wouldn't have been surprised.

That strange feeling prickled the back of my neck again, the feeling that no one had been in this room in a really, really long time. Maybe a maid came through once in a while to dust, but when was the last time someone had taken a book off the shelf?

Quite a while, judging from how hard it was to unstick a leather-bound volume about sailing from its neighbors. The books seemed to be in the process of becoming one with the shelving and with each other. Why keep all this cooped up behind a locked door?

My mind wandered to what Garthe had told me about the house belonging to his mother, and how little he'd changed since he'd acquired it. The plush opulence of the sun room, the bright, modern functionality of the kitchen, the manicured lawn and immaculate pool just waiting to host a social gathering, all spoke to the expensive tastes of a wealthy divorcee. Even the taxidermies and art fixtures in the great room, while gruesome in nature, were arranged with the same sort of tasteful, feminine flair as the ferns and accent pillows in the sun room.

This library certainly didn't fit with the seventies-chic tastes of a wealthy socialite, nor did it match the stark industrialism of Garthe's master bedroom: all gray tones, no art on the walls, no accent pieces or decorative fixtures. It was almost ironic; the only room in the massive house that was truly Garthe's space, and it had the least amount of character.

My stomach soured as realization dawned on me. This library wasn't a product of Garthe or his mother. I was in Wilton Knight's study, a time capsule back to the 40s, a throwback to a brief time when Garthe's parents had still been together, in this very house, maybe before Garthe had even been born. I could see it so clearly. Wilton, sequestered away in his study, pouring over books about ships and cars and planes, while his wife hosted extravagant parties and smoked filtered cigarettes...

I blinked myself back to reality, running my fingers over the pebbly leather of the book in my hands as everything I knew about Wilton Knight filtered through my mind. Everything Michael had told me, everything else I'd parsed together from Garthe. Casting aside his only son, recruiting Michael to be the perfect soldier, the perfect heir, going so far as to restructure Michael's face in Garthe's image–

A confusing knot of emotions clogged my chest every time I thought about Michael. I could still remember the day we met like it was yesterday, having him over for dinner, trying to wrap my brain around that face staring back at me, so similar to mine, so sincere, so honest.

I squeezed my eyes shut and tapped the book against my forehead, struggling to make sense of the narrative unspooling in my mind. The confusion, the yearning, the drunken kiss– But Michael and I had made up, hadn't we? I remembered working with him on other cases, I remembered looking forward to seeing him whenever he passed through LA, the way my heart would soar just hearing KITT's turbine engine...

And then...nothing. I couldn't remember having any sort of falling-out with Michael, I couldn't remember him being anything other than a good, decent guy, a friend. All I had was this vague sense that I was supposed to hate him. But why? Because he'd actually been lying to me all along about the kind of man he was, and the betrayal had been so traumatic that I'd blocked it from my own memory?

Was I really that much of a fool, after all?

Dejectedly, I thumped the book against my forehead a little harder, but nothing rattled loose. Nothing made any damn sense. All I had was what Garthe told me about Michael, vague insinuations and sparing details that I practically had to pry out of him. According to Garthe, Michael was the bad guy. But how could I be sure Garthe was giving me the whole truth? What was I supposed to believe if I couldn't fully trust Michael or Garthe?

Uncertainty flickered through me, the same feeling of unease that had haunted me over breakfast. Emma's unspoken warning, the concern pooling in her eyes when she looked at me. Be careful.

I blew my breath out in a weary sigh and sank into a red leather armchair by the window. Wilton, Michael, Garthe– The whole Knight family made my head hurt. Better to just keep my head down, keep Garthe at arm's length, and keep believing that I would get myself out of this mess, and that my life would go back to normal, sooner or later.

Chapter Text

– KITT –

"That...should...do it!" April chirped from my driver's seat, tapping a few final keystrokes into the portable computer in her lap. The panels of my T-tops were retracted and my windows were rolled down, giving an unimpeded line of communication between her, Michael, leaning casually against my front fender with his arms crossed over his chest, Bonnie, seated at a computer terminal not too far away, and RC3 beside her, rocking his chair back precariously on two legs.

"It's done? The...program?" Michael perked up, a hopeful yet hesitant timbre in his voice. The 'program' in question was, more precisely, a virus. A virus with which we intended to subdue KARR. A variant of the very same virus which young computer genius Randy Merritt, at the behest of Adrianne Margeaux, had inflicted upon me, all those years ago.

But Michael insisted upon referring to it simply as the program, as though the mere mention of its origin or its intended use against KARR would in some way upset me. I appreciated the sentiment, but his concern for my emotional well-being was quite unwarranted. In a word, I was fine. Really. Over the years, my systems had been hacked, tampered with, and otherwise violated more times than I cared to enumerate. The least I could do was put those wretched experiences toward a greater purpose: the purpose of eliminating KARR.

"It's as done as it'll ever be," April responded, compressing the completed file and sending it to Bonnie's terminal via the cluster of cables snaking from ports under my dashboard.

"The hard part," Bonnie added, ejecting the floppy disk and wagging it pensively, "is gonna be getting KARR to open up and say ah."

"What d'you mean?" Michael asked, glancing from Bonnie to April and back. "Don't we just...I dunno..." He mimed firing some sort of fantastical laser weapon. "Beam it at him?"

April humored Michael with a chuckle and shook her head. "If only it was that easy."

"There are a few ways of getting a virus into KARR's system," Bonnie clarified; at least she wasn't shying away from the proper terminology. "The most straightforward would be inserting this disk directly into his hard drive, which, for obvious reasons, isn't exactly plausible."

Michael chuffed mirthlessly, as though perfectly willing to wrangle KARR into submission with his bare hands and feed him the disk by force.

"When Randy gained access to KITT," April added, broaching the subject as gently as she could, "he did so by hacking into the Foundation network, more than likely based on codes Adrianne had acquired."

"But we have no way of accessing KARR's network," Bonnie concluded dejectedly. "Now that he's been rebuilt, he's a completely independent system. It would take ages for us to hack in manually."

"So, what's option three?" Michael entreated, his muscles tightening with mounting frustration, though he managed to keep his voice level. "There has to be another option, right?"

"Somehow," Bonnie responded, still fidgeting with the floppy disk, "we have to get KARR to download the data packet and run the program, himself. It's the only way we can get the virus into him."

A cringe swept across my relays as the memory of that dreadful day flashed through my databanks. The initial burst of Randy Merritt's virus breaching my firewalls, my systems overrun and awash with those horrible, invasive strings of code, filling my processors with their deafening chatter–

The subtle pressure of Michael's hands on my alloy shell drew me back to the present; he'd uncrossed his arms and braced his hands on my hood, his own gaze distant and haunted by that fateful day.

"I can transmit the file," I spoke up, addressing no one in particular. The sound of my voice caused everyone to jump, even Michael, and I realized belatedly that I hadn't contributed much in the way of conversation in the entire time Bonnie and April had been working. But surely they couldn't have forgotten I was present.

"KARR won't think twice about establishing a line of communication with me," I went on, ignoring their peculiar behavior. "If we incorporate the file into my network gateway, I should be able to compel KARR to decrypt the data packet before he realizes it's a virus."

"Are you sure, KITT?" Michael asked, his voice laden with concern. He took his hands off my hood to cross his arms again. "I mean, if you're not comfortable working with this, uh, program–"

"Michael, I'm just as much a part of this team as anyone else!" I snapped, my internal temperature spiking as a sudden influx of indignation flooded my neural relays. "I'm more than capable of doing whatever is required of me to see this mission through."

"Whoa! Easy, pal, jeez." Michael spread his hands, and I came back to my senses to find April, Bonnie, and RC all wearing matching expressions of shock at my outburst. Embarrassment coursed through me, which only compounded upon my frustration and further overtaxed my modulators.

"Of course you're a part of the team, KITT," Michael said gently. "No one's saying that you're not." He rested his hand on my A-pillar again, but it wasn't the same familiar, grounding touch as before. Now, his touch felt deliberate, placating. My drives kept whirring hotly, my stress modulators redlining. I didn't need to be consoled. I wasn't putting on a brave face to impress anybody. And I wasn't upset about the virus! It couldn't hurt me, not this time. At the end of the day, it was nothing more than a program, as Michael was so fond of calling it. A string of code which would grant us remote access to KARR's CPU, rendering a complete loss of autonomy over my twin prototype the likes of which I shuddered to recall–

"KITT? Talk to me, partner," Michael ventured, and this time the gentle, sincere timbre of his voice did assuage some of the stress responses pinging across my relays. "It's okay."

Gradually, rational computations began to filter through my processors, and my drives cycled back down to an acceptable temperature.

"I'm sorry, Michael. I don't know what came over me," I murmured dolefully. "This whole business with KARR has put my circuitry all out of sorts. His very existence is giving computer intelligence a bad name, and I feel it's my responsibility to put a stop to his rampaging, once and for all."

"I hear you, pal. Believe me," Michael replied softly, and he didn't quite stifle the tired wince that flickered across his expression. If anyone had a right to be frayed at the edges, it was Michael. "But I don't want you to think you have to do this all by yourself. Like you said, we're a team."

"Of course, Michael," I conceded. "But I also need you to believe me when I say that I don't have any reservations about working with this virus. I'm quite alright. What's done is done, and if subjecting KARR to the same insidious treatment is what it takes to bring him to heel, then so be it. Besides," I added flatly. "I've never balked from being used as a weapon against KARR, before."

A twinge of guilt flashed across Michael's face, and Bonnie rubbed her hand over her mouth to hide a similar expression. Granted, I hadn't been given much of a choice in the matter of housing the laser power pack, or being used as a veritable battering ram against my twin. But I still did my duty to the fullest of my capabilities. This time would be no different. My dominant program mandated that KARR be eliminated as quickly and succinctly as possible, lest he sew any more carnage and destruction in the name of computer sentience.

"I'll encrypt the files," Bonnie said softly, reinserting the floppy disk into her computer and effectively closing the subject, though the dissatisfied pout to Michael's lips told me this matter was far from concluded. If only I could impress upon him that he certainly didn't have to expend any energy being worried about me.

"Getting KARR to take the bait is still only half the problem," April mused, slipping off her glasses and folding the temples. "If we don't come up with a way to prevent KARR from destroying KITT's tires, this whole project is null and void."

Another resentful cringe swept across my circuits. That very conundrum had been plaguing my processors for quite some time now, and I had yet to alight upon a viable solution. KARR's rocket launchers were mounted under his front and rear bumpers, which happened to align with my front and rear bumpers. On an even driving surface, he had a clear shot of my tires, exhaust ports, and front scanner. The latter of which couldn't be destroyed, per se, by Tuflex-coated bullets, but KARR could potentially cause some serious damage with a lucky shot.

"Mud flaps," Michael murmured, trying for a wry smile, and I humored his tireless running joke with a harrumph through my vocoder. Under no circumstances would I suffer the indignity of sporting mud flaps.

"What about fender skirts?" RC piped up, letting his chair settle onto all four of its legs with a loud knock that made Bonnie jump.

"I beg your pardon?" I asked, accessing my databanks for the proper terminology.

"Check out something like a '66 Thunderbird," RC clarified, and he let out a low whistle. "I remember my dad working one on of those beauts when I was a kid. She was one long, lean machine."

"More like a bulky, blundering barge!" I protested, pulling up an image of the offending vehicle on my monitor as well as on a nearby computer screen for all to see, and I did not appreciate Michael's intrigued expression in the slightest.

"Michael!" I appealed. "I'm aware enough as it is that I am an outdated model, and now you would turn me into this...this antique!"

"KITT, for the last time, will you stop acting like I'm waiting to trade you in for the latest model?" Michael retorted. "And I sure as hell wouldn't trade you in for a Ford."

"Hey now, hey now." RC gestured for everyone to simmer down. "Focus on the fender skirts, you dig? GM was doing the same thing with Pontiac. Bonneville, Catalina, all the way back to the Streamliner in the 40s. Not to mention the competition. Hudson Hornet. Chevy Bel Air. Buick...man, I could go on."

He most certainly could, I mused. RC's encyclopedic knowledge of automobiles almost rivaled my own, and he was listing off brands and models faster than I could access my imaging databank and add to the collage forming on the monitor. A few of the vehicles in question sported hooded rear tires, while other models boasted an entirely low-slung, boat-like silhouette, their rear tires all but completely obscured by these ground-hugging fender skirts.

"Michael, think of my dignity..." I protested mournfully, imagining these ridiculous panniers disrupting my otherwise sleek form.

"KITT, think of your tires," Michael chided back. "If building these shields will protect you from KARR's bullets–"

"I'd rather take my chances with the bullets," I muttered, slashing my scanner disdainfully.

"KITT–"

"RC has a point, KITT," April cut in, her tone much more gentle than Michael's. She slipped her glasses back on and pulled up a schematic of my outer frame on her portable computer. "If we can fuse a panel - temporarily, of course - to your rear bumper, and wrap it around here..."

"It would cut down on the surface area of your rear tires immensely," Bonnie finished, having pulled up my schematics on her computer, as well. "Without compromising your ground clearance too terribly."

I simmered in silence for a beat, save for the aggressive pulse of my scanner lashing back and forth, and my lack of protest seemed to speak louder than any spoken rebuff. Michael's mouth quirked ruefully, and April gave me a conciliatory pat on my steering column.

"It's for the good of the mission, KITT," April said gently. "And for your own protection."

"I know, April," I muttered. "For the good of the mission."

"For the good of the mission," Michael echoed resolutely, and somehow his words did have a sort of bolstering quality to them. At long last, it seemed we were finally getting one step ahead of our adversaries.

Michael's spirits seemed to improve as the team shifted from coding and encrypting to brainstorming and drafting my new bodywork. With his barely-cursory knowledge of computer engineering, Michael hadn't been able to offer much all morning aside from the occasional witty remark to make RC snicker and Bonnie roll her eyes disparagingly.

But he did know a thing or two about automobiles, and Michael and RC were suddenly right in their element, helping Bonnie and April with the measurements for the molds of my temporary side and rear panels. Emphasis on temporary. Just because I had come to terms with the necessity of these modifications didn't mean I had to like them.

Thoroughly engrossed in his work, Michael didn't have anything further to say about the virus, but I couldn't help but feel like he was avoiding talking to me altogether. He kept his head bowed and his eyes averted, his hands perpetually occupied with a pencil or tape measure. But a subtle, distracted furrow in his brows told me he was becoming less and less focused on the work in front of him.

Sympathy for Michael flitted across my relays. I knew exactly why he was so insistent that I must be harboring certain misgivings about working with Randy Merritt's virus. He was upset about it, and wanted me to be upset, too, so he could justify his own feelings toward the matter. The mere mention of the virus had undoubtedly dredged up all sorts of unpleasant memories for him. Granted, no one had removed his brain from his body and thrown it in a trash heap, nor paraded his body around like a soulless automaton, but Michael did still carry with him a certain degree of guilt from that day. He blamed himself for leaving me alone, blamed himself for allowing Adrianne to lure him into a trap, even though he couldn't possibly have predicted her unscrupulous motives.

And nothing I said or did would ever change Michael's view on the matter. He held himself personally accountable for everything that had happened to me that day, a burden I wished with all my processing power I could exonerate him from.

But all we could do was soldier on, and hopefully turn that awful virus into something useful.

Michael and RC were just beginning to file down the first mold to Bonnie's specifications when the door to the laboratory swung open and Devon breezed through, looking dapper as ever in gray tweed.

"Yo, Devon–" Michael called out reflexively, then broke off abruptly when he realized how harried Devon looked, his expression drawn in a severe frown. Michael gnashed his teeth together hard enough for me to hear, his heartrate spiking. "Don't tell me, KARR again?"

"No, no, not quite." Devon held up a small, nondescript cardboard box, about the size of a paperback book. "This was found with the mail this morning; according to the security footage, an unmarked cargo van left it sometime in the night. Security has already gone over it for signs of explosives or chemical agents, but I think KITT ought to scan it, too, just to be sure."

"I detect no incendiary devices or biological agents," I remarked, already scanning the package; my sensors hummed as I switched to X-Ray mode. "There is a single metallic instrument inside, no larger than a pencil, but nothing that indicates it's wired to detonate. It should be safe to open, Michael."

Michael wasted no time snatching the box away from Devon and slashing the tape, trying to mask how badly his hands were shaking. I hadn't detected any bones or other organic material inside the box, but if this package was indeed from the enemy camp, there was no telling what–

Michael recoiled sharply as he opened the flaps of the box and the pungent reek of blood bowled into him, strong enough to register on my sensors from several feet away. A substantial quantity of blood, and relatively fresh, as well.

"Good god–" Devon pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, and Michael gulped hard, plucking the metal instrument I had detected from the bottom of the box. It was an ordinary surgical scalpel, covered in sticky, half-dried blood.

Unperturbed by the sight of the blood, April peered inquisitively at the scalpel as Michael carried it over to me and wordlessly dropped it into my extended analyzer tray. Bonnie, on the other hand, had gone as white as alabaster; she covered her mouth with her hand and ducked her face toward RC, who squeezed her shoulders reassuringly.

"There's a note!" Devon exclaimed, having taken the box from Michael, and Michael swept back over to him with long, hasty strides. He tore a sheet of printer paper free from where it had been taped to the underside of one of the flaps, kept free from being stained with blood, and snapped it open, dread billowing off him in palpable waves.

"'I warned you not to cross me, Knight,'" Michael read aloud, his voice low and tight. It was all too easy to hear KARR's repugnant tone in the printed words. "'It was a clever trick, employing sonic waves to destroy our surveillance devices. Clever, but costly. Fifty cuts will be administered to Mitch Buchannon for every soldier whose hearing has been permanently damaged by your brazen attack. A long, slow, grueling punishment. Let us hope...'" Michael trailed off, then gulped hard and went on: "'Let us hope I do not puncture anything vital.'"

A sharp, stricken silence befell the room as the realization of what we had done sank in. In our haste to liberate ourselves from the listening devices our enemies had installed throughout the Foundation, we had failed to consider that anybody on the other side might be listening. The sonic impulse device Bonnie and April had concocted had been designed to overload and shatter the internal circuitry of any nearby surveillance equipment; a shudder of guilt wracked my dominant programming at the mere thought of what sort of damage those high-frequency impulses could inflict upon the human ear–

"This is all our fault..." came Michael's raw, tremulous voice. He reached up to run his fingers through his hair, then realized almost too late that he still had blood on his hand. Mitch's blood, as my analysis had confirmed. Michael's breath left him like a kick to the chest. "We never should have– He told us if we tried anything– Damn it, we should've just left them alone–"

"Michael–" Devon cut in, the only one of us brave enough to do so as Michael grew increasingly more agitated, his muscles taut as though anticipating a blow. "Those listening devices had to be destroyed. If Garthe and KARR catch even a single hint of what we're planning–"

"They're torturing him!" Michael ground out, visibly trembling now, his hands balled into white-knuckled fists. In a flourish of anger, he threw the note and stalked away aimlessly, too confined in the cluttered laboratory to pace properly.

Nobody dared so much as breathe for a long, heavy moment, Michael's words hanging in the air like the resounding echo after a thunderclap. They're torturing him. It was a horrible thing to imagine. Mitch, chained up in some dank, dark, likely rat-infested dungeon, oozing blood from countless tiny incisions across his body, and under less-than-sanitary conditions at that...

But something in my analysis of the scalpel itself gave pause to my imaginative algorithms. Intrigued, I rescanned the instrument, but the results came back the same as before. Strange...

"Michael, there's something else," I reported, and Michael halted in his agitated pacing to look at me, his shoulders slumped dejectedly, as though he simply couldn't bear the burden of dealing with something else.

"The blood does match my biological profile of Mitch," I began, noting the wince that crossed Michael's face, "but I find no traces of tissue or any other organic material on the blade."

"Meaning?" Michael snapped, hoarse with impatience.

"Meaning," I repeated, a touch testily, myself. "I do not believe this is the instrument which inflicted the supposed 'cuts' spoken of in the note. As a matter of fact, this scalpel appears to be entirely unused."

Michael stared at me for a moment, agog with confusion, before a fierce frown crumpled his expression. "Then why the hell is it covered in Mitch's blood!"

"Well, Michael, based on my analysis, I would say that someone drew this blood from Mitch some days ago - not long after his return from the deserted island, judging from electrolyte levels and other chemical markers in the sample. It was subsequently redistributed onto this scalpel some eight to twelve hours ago, which fits the timeline of the parcel being left here sometime in the night.

"But as to why someone would go to all this trouble," I added, rather unhelpfully, "I'm afraid I haven't a clue."

"So you're saying this–" Michael swept his hands in a broad gesture, encompassing the bloodied box in Devon's hands, the scalpel in my analyzer, the note discarded on the floor, "isn't even proof that he's alive?!"

"Well, it's certainly not proof that he's dead!" Devon interjected, stricken.

"Devon, we haven't seen Mitch in days!" Michael shot back. "For all we know, KARR could've killed him as soon as he got away, drawn his blood, and–"

"But we don't know," Devon insisted sternly, meeting and holding Michael's fiery glare with his own. "Don't you see? They don't want you to know if Mitch is dead or alive. They're trying to provoke you, to trick you into doing something rash–"

"Well, is it so wrong to admit that it's working?" Suddenly, all of the bluster vanished from Michael's voice, leaving him looking and sounding so defeated, so helpless. It pained my neural relays to see him like this, without his spark of fierce determination, that righteous indignation which fueled him through our toughest cases.

"Of course not," Devon replied, his expression softening. "My god, Michael, you're only human. And if this were any other case, I wouldn't hesitate to tell you and KITT to go and, as you say, rattle their cage. But this isn't an ordinary case. Not only do they know all of KITT's capabilities and weaknesses, they know how to anticipate your actions. They're expecting you to race off into the mountains the same way you raced off into the desert to confront Goliath, and whether it's to lure you and KITT into some kind of trap, or simply to flaunt their tactical superiority over you, the fact remains that they have every advantage in this situation."

"Not every advantage," Bonnie interjected boldly, drawing Michael and Devon's attention and giving them both a chance to catch their breath. "We have just as much collective experience dealing with KARR and Garthe Knight as they have dealing with us. That has to count for something."

"When Garthe ransacked the Foundation and took Devon and myself prisoner," April piped up thoughtfully, "he could have just as easily killed us. But he didn't."

"Nor did he provide us with any indication that they were still alive," I added, running the series of events through my databanks.

"No, he didn't," Devon concurred gravely. "Instead, he led you and KITT on a merry chase through the mountains with a convenient trail of oil droplets, mannequins, and quicksand. And now, he's doing the same thing with this little stunt. Why put fresh blood on a knife when he can further complicate matters by using blood he's been storing for days, instead? It's all a riddle, Michael, and what's worse, it's a riddle with no clear answer."

Michael grumbled deep in his throat and turned away from Devon, hands on his hips. Though he did not give voice to the misgivings written across his tense expression, I knew he was still grappling with the prospect of Garthe's return. Until Garthe revealed himself to Michael in the flesh, he remained reluctant to believe with absolute certainty that Garthe had indeed returned from the dead. Again.

"As far as KARR is concerned," Bonnie spoke up, shifting the subject to the more immediate of our two enemies, "even at his most destructive and primal state, he's never actually killed anybody, that we know of. There wasn't a single casualty from that string of bank robberies he just carried out. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he was being careful."

"From what we have observed of KARR's behavior with John Stanton," I mused, "he seems to possess a rather advanced understanding of the concept of using hostages as leverage. Logically, it is within KARR's best interests to keep Mitch alive, for that purpose, alone."

"I just wish they'd get on with it, y'know?" Michael cut in, now more exasperated than anything. "I'm sick of the games. Robbing banks for no reason, lying about whether or not Garthe is really involved, and now this? Vague warnings, empty threats? Blood on a knife that's never been used? What the hell is the point, huh? What's their end game?"

"That's exactly what we need to figure out," Devon responded evenly. "Obviously, they're trying to confuse you, to keep you busy by feeding you false leads and expecting you to jump at every crumb."

Michael's lips thinned, and he paced away again, wringing his hands restlessly. A pensive silence settled as everyone gave Michael a moment to collect himself. Deep down, we all knew Michael wanted nothing more than to do exactly what Devon was warning him against: race off into the mountains and poke at the defenses of Garthe and KARR's stronghold. And despite being less than keen to drive through another minefield if I could help it, I couldn't ignore the restlessness nagging my own processors, as well; the readiness for Michael to drop behind my wheel, the anticipation of peeling off into the great unknown like we always did.

"Devon has a point, Michael," I ventured, choosing my words carefully as Michael continued to pace. "As it stands, our only real advantage over Garthe and KARR is to behave unpredictably. That is, by refraining from rising to their bait, as the saying goes."

"And what if that backfires, huh?" Michael whirled to face me, his blue eyes ablaze with a whirlwind of emotions. "What if they do hurt Mitch, just to get to me? If anything happens to him–"

"It's out of our control, Michael," Devon interceded, not unsympathetically, but Michael still winced at his words. "All we can do is stick to our original plan: to draw them out with our decoy laser, and hopefully subdue them."

"I know, I know, I know..." Michael turned on his heel and strode away again, raking his hands through his hair; when he paced back, he seemed to have composed himself a little. His shoulders were a little squarer, and a familiar glimmer of resolve had returned to his eyes. "How are we coming with that? The laser, I mean."

"The components I requested will be ready within the week," Devon responded. "I've arranged for the laser to be assembled at one of our facilities in Silicon Valley - at least, that's what KARR will be convinced of. The decoy will then be flown into LA and transferred to an armored truck for delivery."

"And it'll be up to us to decide where that truck goes," Michael mused, still wringing his hands. "And where the best place will be to draw out KARR."

"Leave that to me, Michael," I piped up readily. "Given my acute understanding of KARR's logic modules, I'll be able to predict where he'll be most likely to stage an ambush, and where to intercept him."

"Good work, pal," Michael said, and a flush of pride sparked through my circuits. He was finally starting to sound like his usual self again, too. Determined, resolute.

Devon took a breath to speak when the door to the laboratory swung open yet again, this time to admit the Foundation's chief of security, Murphy, a portly older gentleman with a sagging utility belt and sparse gray hair.

"Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Miles." He inclined his head to Devon and handed him a plain envelope. "We've just finished checking over the rest of the mail. Nothing out of the ordinary, except this letter, addressed to Mr. Knight."

"Thank you, Murphy," Devon said, taking the envelope, and Murphy nodded before promptly taking his leave, sparing Michael a deferential nod in passing as well.

"Mr. Knight," Michael scoffed once Murphy had gone, snatching the letter from Devon and shooting me a disparaging glance. "You wanna talk about KARR giving computers a bad name, pal, try sharing a surname with Garthe. Gives me a sour taste in my mouth."

"I can only imagine, Michael," I replied neutrally, then noted an uptick of his brows as he opened the envelope, followed by a jump of tension along his jaw. "Who is the letter from?"

"Cort," Michael murmured, skimming the letter. "He says, 'Mike, it's Cort. Bad news. Bad guys must've spotted us together. I found a bug in my phone. Nothing fancy, but it's the thought that counts, right? Gonna keep my head down and try to get them off my back. This better not mess up our plan – I wanna give these guys a taste of their own medicine. Keep me posted.'"

Michael blew out his breath and swore, pacing around in a tight circle before coming right back. "This day just keeps getting better and better."

"What are you going to do, Michael?" I ventured cautiously. Michael had made it quite clear that he wasn't entirely comfortable with the second phase of our plan, that of Cort infiltrating Garthe's stronghold while we battled with KARR; now was a perfect opportunity for him to change that plan.

"We need to know what Garthe is up to," Bonnie said firmly, catching and holding Michael's glance as though daring him to argue. "Why he rebuilt KARR, why he's back in LA, why he's stalling for time. And the only way to do that is if Cort plants our bug, and we get into his computer systems."

Michael sucked in a breath to speak, held it, then let it back out in a hiss and paced away again. Unease rippled through my circuitry. As badly as Michael wanted to infiltrate Garthe's stronghold for himself, doing so would mean leaving me to deal with KARR, alone. Without Michael's human instinct to augment my own systems, KARR and I were far too evenly matched for my liking.

A flurry of emotions flashed across Michael's expression over the span of a few moments. Frustration, concern, dejection, and finally acceptance. Sucking in a steadying breath, he marched back over to me, his brows furrowed in thought.

"Pass me a sheet of paper, will ya, pal," he said, his tone distant, and I obliged without hesitation, ejecting a blank sheet of paper from my printer for him to grab from my passenger side. Without a word, Michael plucked a pen off a nearby tool cart, yanked the cap off with his teeth, and stooped over my hood to scrawl something on the paper. According to the nano-relays built into my bonded shell, he wrote something to the effect of We'll be in touch, hang tight, MK, before folding the paper and stalking back over to Devon.

"Get this in the mail, stat," he said tersely. "This is gonna push our timeline back if we have to communicate with Cort like it's the 1800s."

"We'll make it work, Michael," Devon responded assuredly, and the two men shared a resolute nod before Devon took the letter and strode off, leaving Michael standing in the middle of the lab with his hands on his hips, all eyes trained on him in expectant silence.

"Garthe thinks he's real clever," Michael said to no one in particular, though he glanced at me as he spoke. "Like he's the Le Fors to our Butch and Sundance, or some kinda big bad Bond villain. He thinks he can scare us with KARR, or by dangling Mitch over us like bait. He thinks he's holding all the cards.

"But we have something he never will," Michael went on, taking a long look at everyone around him. "We have each other. And we're gonna beat them, together."

A renewed flush of pride simmered through my relays, and the air itself seemed to shimmer with newfound confidence. RC thumped his fist against his palm, and April and Bonnie exchanged beaming grins.

"Now, let's get back to work," Michael concluded, patting me on my A-pillar, and his touch spoke more than mere words could convey. We were in this together, no matter the stakes, no matter the odds. Suddenly, all those squabbles over bodywork and viruses seemed so trite, so trivial. We were better than that. We were a team. More than that, we were a family, and that was the strongest force of all.