Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prologue

July, 2011

Hotel Bistrik
Sarajevo
Bosnia & Herzegovina

21:35 Hours (Local)

The long, hot shower did a lot to get rid of the filth of the day, including the sweat, blood stains, and the lingering sensations Bryant had left behind on his skin like a grimy film. It was mostly in his head, Damien knew that, but the fading marks on his skin were still a reminder of things he’d rather forget, and wished to be free of.

His stomach reminded him with a painful growl as to why he couldn’t spend the entire night standing under the stream of water. There were many reasons for him to step out rather than stay hidden inside a rapidly cooling cubicle. Hunger was only one of them. 

Damien got out before the water turned completely cold, and had to use the slightly wet towel on the hanger, because… well, it was Michael’s shower. Damien had opted to use it since he was already there. There was also the fact that he hadn’t yet worked up enough courage to return to his own room. 

Towelling himself dry, Damien steeled himself to make the short trip anyway. He needed to collect his things if he wanted to spend the rest of the night in Michael’s room. He was pretty certain Michael wouldn’t object to the plan. Even if it was just to sleep since they had already agreed to do things the right way.

Damien needn’t have worried. A pleasant surprise waited for him just outside the shower door. Apparently, Michael had realised his reservations, and gone to retrieve Damien’s duffel himself.

While he was glad for the chance to avoid walking into that nightmare, Damien couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt for having subjected Michael to that. He changed into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt before stepping into the bedroom, intending to make an apology.

Michael was sitting sideways on one of the single couches in front of the bed, his legs draped over one armrest and his back against the other. On the table, there was a quarter-demolished tray of sandwiches, an untouched plate of fries and a steaming pot of coffee with two mugs. 

The sight of food reminded Damien once again how hungry he was. He didn’t feel like going downstairs to the restaurant for dinner either. Damien agreed that Michael had the right idea. After all the eventful days they’d had, some peace and quiet away from the crowds of strangers was exactly what they needed.

“Hey,” he murmured, walking over to the chair next to Michael’s. “Thanks for getting my stuff–” 

Micheal looked up with a crooked smile. Damien thought he could get used to it very easily. “Don’t mention it,” he shrugged, jerking his head at the snacks, “Help yourself.” 

Damien filled the empty mug with coffee, and went for the fries, “What’s that?”

“Oh, this?” Michael turned the file he was reading around nonchalantly so Damien could see the ‘Top Secret’ seal on its cover. “Just some reading material I found on your bed.”

The dry delivery made Damien bark out a laugh. He couldn’t really blame Michael for snatching that, especially when he may very well have saved Damien’s ass by preventing the damned file from ending up in the hands of the housekeeping staff.

Bryant had left it with him, and Damien hadn’t been in his right mind the entire afternoon or the evening.

“Suleiman was one of Twelve’s,” Michael said once he finished the sandwich he had in his hand. “When he went dark for a couple of months straight, Twelve started looking for him. We found Adam Zamani completely by accident. Just like Latif, what we had on him was rather thin too–”

Suleiman was the codename of the asset Damien and Michael had extracted back in 2009, when they had met for the first time and then worked together. “I guess your people wanted to recover Suleiman to find out more about Zamani?’

“Yeah,” Michael nodded, “When I was dispatched to Kandahar for his extraction, the CIA made contact with the Crib and offered to help. Told us they already had an asset in the field tracking Fidai Mahaz.”

“I got there about a week before you,” Damien said. Now that his mind was free of Bryant’s sick meddling, he recalled the details perfectly, “Bryant already knew about your man.”

“And she conveniently forgot to tell us until we found out,” Michael said, “and made the offer for a joint op before you and I crossed paths.”

Damien saw his point. If they had come at the same target from two different sides, they’d have stood in each other’s way or could have gotten the asset killed in the crossfire. Michael’s arrival in Kandahar would have made Bryant realise that she couldn’t extract a British asset right under their operative’s nose. 

“She must have found out that you interrogated Zamani,” Damien said, thinking back to Bryant’s half-assed mission brief about an off-the-books asset and Fidai Mahaz’s involvement. Just the name of the splinter group had been enough for Damien to jump in with both feet. “She never told me.”

“I don’t know if she got the information from us or–”

“Or?” Damien prompted when Michael hesitated. 

Michael sighed, and shifted, dropping his feet off the armrest to the floor so that he was facing Damien. “She only managed to replace me so perfectly in your mind with Zamani because she knew him,” he said softly, “I wouldn’t be surprised if she was fucking him at some point, because of the way she had all those different facial expressions, mannerisms, speech patterns and scents in her mind already. The thing is, she would have kept Zamani tethered to her, the way she did with you. And the moment Zamani died, she would have known.”

Damien stared at him, not sure even where to start unpacking the information in that long statement. Michael had an open expression on his face, and Damien thought it was an invitation for him to ask whatever he wanted.

The violation of his memories was still a raw wound. While Damien was infinitely grateful that he was free of it, and that he had Michael back, he wasn’t quite ready to deep dive into exactly how the woman infected her victims with her influence.

So he opted for the least personal part of it. “When did Zamani die?”

“Before I left London,” Michael said, smiling a little sadly, “Ironic, isn't it? He was long dead before we even met.”

“Bryant never told me.” Damien murmured, feeling his insides twist with an answering wave of guilt, “When I trusted her with you, she had the perfect solution. I’ve never seen Zamani, but he was close enough to Latif, she knew I’d go after him.”

“Zamani was British,” Michael said, his attention back on the CIA file on Zamani, “He looks a little like me on the side, I guess, which made him the best choice for the memory swap.”

Damien had seen the photos Michael was talking about. “Michael,” he said firmly, “What I was seeing looked nothing like you.”

“She’s been messing with your mind for a long time,” Michael replied, his voice gentle with understanding, “It didn’t take much for her to convince you that you were seeing a terrorist, not me.”

He was right. Thinking that he was going after Latif’s right-hand man, Damien had gone after Michael without hesitation or mercy. He had put a bullet in his own damned Guide’s heart and set that shack on fire before the body had even cooled. 

It was a fucking miracle Michael survived.

“How–” Damien had to swallow past a painful lump in his throat to get the rest of his question out, “How did you get out?”

“I came online,” Michael murmured, his gaze fixed firmly on the coffee he was pouring into his mug. “I don’t remember much of it. But when my Dad finally found me two days later, he said I had an entire village trying to keep me alive. I was projecting badly…”

Damien grimaced. He couldn’t even imagine how excruciating it must have been to be so wide open to the world for the first time while in so much pain. Even though he had no idea about the full extent of Michael's abilities, Damien knew he was a very powerful Guide. Much more than Bryant. He had known that when Michael had managed to cleanse his memories. He had felt it when he had been channelling Psionic energies into healing Michael and had caught a glimpse of it when Michael had later helped him shore up his shields.

He must have been in hell, Damien thought, his mind resonating with that immense sense of grief he had felt soon after. Even in his altered state, a part of Damien had wept for the loss of his Guide. The entire village around the burning building must have felt Michael’s agony as if it were their own. 

To come online thinking that your own Sentinel wanted you dead…

Damien wished Bryant was alive, so that he could go back and kill her slowly and painfully for what she had made him do. She hadn’t deserved that quick, almost painless death after all.

“She wanted you for your power,” Michael murmured, his gaze intense and seemingly able to see through Damien without the slightest aid of his abilities, “The way you killed her, with hardly a thought or a second of your attention… believe me when I say, that was the most terrible death you could have ever given her. She didn’t deserve any more of your time, mind or soul, Damien. Not after what she did.”

Damien was at a loss for words for a long moment, holding Michael’s gaze with his own for the lifeline it was. There was no accusation or blame in there, as Damien had feared earlier, only understanding. The sadness that still darkened his expression was for the time they had lost, and the pain they had both gone through in their own ways, not because he held Damien responsible for any of it.

Damien probably owed the debt of a few lifetimes to fate, destiny or whatever otherworldly intervention that had decided Michael was his Guide. He would pay all of them gladly, however many times over, for the chance he had been given.

“Thank you,” he managed when he could finally speak, “I guess I needed to hear it.”

Michael flashed a small smile and took a sip of his coffee. “How did you make it out?”

“I barely got out of that town,” Damien said, going back to the plate of fries, “Almost killed myself by driving into a ditch. I can’t remember getting out of the country either. Bryant got me out.”

“Backlash.”

A backlash was a negative Psionic feedback that a Sentinel or a Guide was subjected to when they killed someone with whom they shared a genetic, familial or surface bond. 

In the case of a truly bonded couple, the aftermath of a Psionic backlash could very well end up killing the remaining Sentinel or the Guide, or incapacitating them permanently in a physical or psychological manner. 

Sentinels and Guides who shared such bonds killing each other wasn’t at all a common occurrence. Any kind of bond was a very intimate connection shared by the involved parties, reinforced by the metaphysical energies of the Psionic Plane. Even the thought of hurting someone you shared such a connection with was anathema to a Sentinel or a Guide. 

That was why Bryant’s entire fucking existence felt like an abomination to Damien. He didn’t even want to imagine what Michael must have felt when he had seen her true nature with his Guide abilities. 

The only reason Damien survived the backlash that could very well have killed him was because his mind had been manipulated. And that, due to Michael’s Latent status, they hadn’t yet bonded.

“Nothing like what happened to you, but it was bad,” Damien said, thinking back to the horrible months filled with debilitating migraines, collapsing spells, zone-outs and random spikes that had followed, “The worst part was I didn’t even know what was happening or why.”

“Where did you go?”

Damien let out a deep sigh. “I ran home.”

“Good,” Michael murmured, watching him, “That was for the best.”

The way he seemed to understand felt as if it were personal. “How did your father get you out?” Damien asked. 

“He’s resourceful,” Michael shrugged, “He said getting me out was the easy part. The first few weeks they had me home were terrible. My shields wouldn’t snap back until the gunshot wound stabilised. Apparently, I chased both my Dad and my sister out of the house. Only my Mom could hang around me for longer periods of time. She’s also a Guide, and she shielded me until I pulled through the worst of it.”

Damien knew Michael didn’t want it or need it from him, but he had to say it. “Michael, I don't know where to even begin apologising for putting you through that,” he murmured, willing his voice not to break, “I’m so fucking sorry hardly begins to cover it–”

“I told you it wasn't your fault,” Michael cut him off softly, “It took me a while to figure it out, but I did. I just never knew who targeted us.”

“What do you mean?” Damien asked, at a loss. How would he even know that Damien had been compromised? 

“You missed,” Michael flashed his sideways grin again, coaxing an answering twitch from Damien’s own lips without any conscious input from him. “I’ve seen you shoot. You were about seven feet in front of me, and you missed.”

“Zamani was bigger than you,” Damien said, realising what he meant, “I was aiming for his heart, not yours.”

“Yeah.” Michael nodded, taking another sandwich off the tray before draping his legs over the armrest again. “How do you want to handle this?”

“Bryant?”

“The way I see it, we have two options.” Michael said, “One: we leave the body where it is. Let the locals find it whenever. Since none of our DNA data is in any system, all they would have is the forensics of three different people and one body. They might find out she’s a Guide during the autopsy if they decide to do one. That might lead them to take it to the Council from there…”

“Someone might recognise her and claim the body,” Damien added, following Michael's line of thought, “They’ll want retribution if they don’t know what she really is. Like you said, we don’t even know how many more people she’s fucked with.” 

“Her husband is one. AD Anderson - she said so herself,” Michael said, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, the sandwich in his hand, forgotten, “And Zamani. I’m sure the list is very long, and I don’t know what her death did to them. Either they’re free of her influence, or they’ve gone insane. I wasn't really paying attention to anything in her head other than what she’d done to you–”

“How would you, Michael?” Damien asked quietly, not liking the guilt he could hear in his tone, “The bitch stabbed you in the chest!”

“Yeah, I didn’t see that coming,” Michael said and turned his head, staring at Damien with curiosity, “That was a fatal wound. I could tell. What did you do?”

“I’m no healer,” Damien replied around the French fries he was chewing on. “I just stuffed you full of Psionic energies and hoped to hell you’d pull through.”

“Well, it worked,” Michael smiled, “Thank you.”

Damien nodded, swallowing the food to force back another lump he could feel forming in his throat. It was another raw wound, still flayed open - one much more painful than anything he had gone through for the past two years. He had been holding onto the fading life of his Guide with nothing but willpower. Damien had done everything to heal, but he had been ready to die trying.

I’ve almost gotten you killed too many fucking times, Damien thought, staring back at his Guide silently, feeling grateful all over again that he could. It’s about damn time I started doing everything I can to keep you alive. 

“What was she trying to do to you?” Damien needed to know.

“To take my memories,” Michael said quietly, “She probably wanted more templates to refine the story she had planted in your head,” then he flashed Damien a tiny smirk, “Unfortunately for her, I had a surprise of my own.”

“She didn’t know, did she?” Bryant wouldn't have recognised Michael as another Guide. His shields were notoriously deceptive. Damien knew it from experience. “Your shields still make you seem like a teetering Latent!” Damien couldn’t keep a light note of accusation from leaking into his tone. 

It was another moment of realisation for Damien: he had complicated feelings about Michael’s mental shields. On the one hand, by hiding him so completely, those shields had done more to keep Michael alive and safe than Damien had ever done. On the other hand, they were hiding him. The Sentinel in Damien wasn't too pleased about it.

“I know,” Michael said, smugly. It wasn’t a bad look on him either. “I keep them that way.”

“Jesus, Michael,” Damien exclaimed, seeing the man in a whole new light suddenly, “You did the same thing with Mahmoud, and that freak, Rana–”

“And like I said, I had a lot more information, control and weapons in my arsenal than any of you knew.”

Michael had a point, and he had wielded the element of surprise brilliantly to their advantage both times. 

“But, why all the hiding?” Damien asked. He was surprised that even Michael’s own Unit didn’t know about the change in his status.

“Mainly because I didn't know who targeted you and me,” Michael replied, “When I learned we were going to meet again, I had no idea what it would do to you if you realised I was your Guide. I wasn’t prepared to take that risk while we were in the field…”

Damien understood his caution and was grateful for it. But there was also a faint note of self-consciousness in his tone that Damien couldn’t ignore. “That's not all though, is it?” He prodded.

“It never occurs to anyone that I could be a Guide,” Michael said, his voice low and a little hesitant, “Anyone who probes my shields thinks I’d come online as a Sentinel. A male Guide isn’t a common thing, is it? There aren’t many like me.”

“There’s no one else like you,” Damien asserted. He was certain of it. “And no, I'm not just saying that because I’m biased. You’re a lot different than the other Guides. In the best ways possible.” 

He would know. Damien had met his fair share of Guides during all those Council get-togethers he had been forced to endure every time he had gone home during leave. His mother was also a Guide. He knew what their shields felt like. Michael was a whole new, and different creature, and in Damien’s biased or unbiased opinion, Michael was a one-of-a-kind, and he was an incredible Guide.

“Well, if it makes you feel better, I’ll never be able to hide from you after a bond,” Michael murmured, not quite able to hide the pleased sparkle in his eyes or the faint rush of colour along his neck from Damien. “Not that I’d ever want to. I have no issue changing my status officially either. But, I’d rather keep my shields the way they are for the rest of the time. You’re going to have to trust me and my instincts on this.”

Michael clearly wasn’t comfortable announcing what he was to the rest of the world. Damien could understand. After everything he had been through, Damien supposed he felt safer that way. There was also the fact that Michael was effectively a unicorn even among the minority. He would definitely attract attention, both the right and the wrong kind.

“Guess that’s fair,” Damien agreed lightly, before letting his voice become serious, “And Michael, I do trust you.”

Michael nodded, smiling, and brought the discussion they had started earlier, back on track. “Regarding Bryant, the other option is that we inform the Council ourselves,” he said, going back to nibbling on his sandwich, “We face the inquiry and the trial…together.”

“You do know what that would involve, don’t you?” 

The death of a Sentinel or a Guide at the hands of another Sentinel or a Guide was a serious issue unless it happened during a retribution hunt which had the Council’s blessing. Or as was in Latif's case, a globally known terrorist with a mile-long list of crimes.

Bryant’s case was different. She was a registered Guide on top of the fact that she was a CIA Station Chief for the Middle East. Depending on the circles she had moved while she was alive, a lot of people would have opinions and demands about her abrupt death. 

Not that Damien had any doubts that he and Michael would be able to survive an inquiry. It was just that they would both have to live through a lot of unpleasant interrogations, mental probes, a process of testimonies, evidence and trials to get there.

“I do. I’ll back you up, either way.”

“I’d rather not have this come back to bite us in the ass when we least expect it,” Damien said, feeling quietly reassured by Michael’s simple declaration. “We should do it ourselves, get through this now, and move on with our lives.”

“Alright.”

“Just not now,” Damien added, “We’ll get out of this hellhole of a country first. Then I’ll make the call once we’re in my territory.”

“You want to do this before or after…”

“After,” Damien said resolutely, “I don’t want anything standing in the way of our bonding. We’ve lost enough time as it is.”

Michael’s crooked smile was all the agreement Damien needed. He watched as Michael uncurled out of the chair and got to his feet, stretching like a lazy cat. He grinned with a gleam in his eyes when he caught Damien staring.

Damien stood up, his hands settling on the patch of bare skin on Michael’s hips where the t-shirt had ridden high, and smiled to himself when Michael closed the distance, moulding themselves together easily. 

“Stay?” 

The question was a muffled sigh since it was aimed at Damien’s neck where Michael had ended up burying his face. 

Damien tightened his arms around his waist, drawing him in further, not wanting to let go. “Wasn’t planning on going anywhere, Michael.” 

Not now, not ever. 

Chapter Text

The Crib
Sarajevo International Airport
Bosnia & Herzegovina

07.30 Hours (Local)

Colonel Locke sat on the edge of the desk in his tiny, temporary office, with a phone receiver squeezed between his neck and shoulder when Michael stuck his head inside. He looked up and waved when he saw Michael, and Michael went in, closing the door behind him.

“Alright, thanks,” Locke said to whoever was on the line, nodding at the steel chair in front of the desk, inviting Michael to sit. “You wish, Broja. Not even damned close.” he continued, rolling his eyes.

Michael couldn’t hear anything other than a garbled, tinny noise through the receiver, but he had a feeling the Colonel was dealing with a local, someone high up in the chain of command.

“Yeah, yeah.” Locke snapped and slammed the receiver back in its cradle with a touch more force than necessary. “Fuck you too.” He cursed at the phone for good measure.

“What was that about?” Michael couldn’t stop a note of amusement underlying his tone. 

“Ungrateful arseholes, the lot of them,” Locke grumbled, “We gift wrap the biggest goddamn cartel on the western Balkans and place it at their fucking feet. All they can do in return is nag, nag, nag.”

“Are they kicking us out?” Michael asked, grinning. It wouldn’t be the first time they made a hasty retreat because the government of whichever country they were in didn’t take too kindly to their uninvited meddling, “Or sending troops to haul us in?”

“No, nothing like that,” Locke admitted as he slid off the desk to sit on the chair across from Michael, “The General’s ego is a little hurt. He’ll get over it.”

“Good.” said Michael, “Did he at least tell you how the raids went?”

Locke pinned him with a look, one that told Michael that he knew a stalling tactic when he saw one. But he decided to indulge Michael. 

“Well, more than eighty percent of Hassani’s cartel is in custody, including Fatmir Hassani,” Locke said, filling him in, “They caught him in the raid at the women’s camp. All the drugs were confiscated and their crops burnt to the ground. The ones that got away went back to their homes. Most of them were either blackmailed or terrorised into joining anyhow.”

“It was easier than paying them, I suppose.”

“Rana Hassani handed himself over,” Locke revealed, waiting for Michael’s reaction with the familiar raise of his eyebrow, “He turned state witness.”

When Michael had made the call to the Crib after healing Rana, he had been careful not to reveal too many details about exactly what he had done to get the man to cooperate. He had made it sound like he'd managed to isolate and overpower Rana before finding all that intel. 

But Michael had been under no illusions that he had successfully made the Colonel buy his hastily concocted story. The complete one-eighty of the younger Hassani brother's behaviour seemed to have confirmed his suspicions. 

“He was on the verge of going feral,” Michael said quietly, ducking his head, “I made him focus on me, and when he did, instead of taking him out, I realised I could help him.”

Locke didn’t say a thing. Michael finally looked up when the silence dragged on for longer than a minute. He was regarding Michael with a stormy mix of incredulity, exasperation and pride.

It was remarkably close to the glare Damien aimed at him when he had realised the same thing.  

“How did your Sentinel react to that little stunt?” Locke asked, his eyes glinting. Michael felt his face going hot. A Sentinel himself, it didn't take the Colonel long to work out exactly how reckless Michael’s plan had been. 

Besides, as the man who raised Michael since he was only ten, Locke knew a whole lot more about him than Damien.

“He was a little upset,” Michael made the understatement with a straight face, “But we talked it out and managed not to throttle each other until the mission was over.” 

Locke narrowed his eyes, clearly unwilling to let it go at that. 

“What about the EU rep?” Michael blurted the first thing that came to mind before Locke could dig any further, “Did they find her with the other women?”

“They found her,” the Colonel said after a lengthy pause, letting him off the hook for the time being. “She was on a flight home a little after midnight.”

“And those three Albanians with the bombs inside them? What happened to them?”

“One died during transport,” Locke sighed. “Internal bleeding. The other two pulled through. According to Harrison, they didn’t have explosives inside the canisters that were sewn into them. The butcher - her name’s Dr Mullova, by the way - was transferred to a high-security detention centre for further questioning. The rest of the prisoners were just drugged, and after their statements, they’ll probably be sent back to their homes.”

“That's good.”

“I spoke to Borja about the Albanian that died in the explosion,” Locke continued, his voice low, “I didn’t tell him about you, of course, but I mentioned that I’d consider it a special favour if he could make sure the man’s family was taken care of.”

“Thank you,” Michael murmured, recalling those terrible memories all over again. He hadn’t been able to tell himself apart from Erjon. For a horrible few seconds, he had been convinced that he would lose himself to the Albanian’s all-consuming agony. “That was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.”

“What did you do, Michael?”

“He was losing his mind to pain,” Michael muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, “I had to hold all that back to get him to listen to me. I was in his head the entire time he was running with a ticking bomb inside his fucking guts, Dad,” he winced at the slip of familiarity he hardly used when he was at work, but he couldn’t help it, “All he could think of was his wife and kids…”

“I know this isn't much help, son,” Locke said, his voice quiet with understanding, “But for what it’s worth, it was the only choice you could make.”

Michael nodded. He did know that. But that didn’t help ease the guilt he still felt about the whole thing. 

“We also found fourteen canisters of VX gas in the safe,” Locke continued, letting Michael have a moment to gather himself. “The number matches with the initially commissioned cache for Project Trojan Horse–”

“That’s a major headache avoided, then.” 

“Yes,” Locke agreed, and then narrowed his eyes, “Are we done avoiding the elephant in the room, now?” 

Michael did his best to hide an instinctive grimace. It was the whole reason he was there to see the Colonel. But that didn’t mean he was looking forward to the conversation.  

“You asked me to let you handle things with Scott and I kept my distance,” Locke continued, his tone brokering no more diversions, “But I was the one who had to listen to your mother losing her mind with worry over you out of nowhere – whatever it was that happened, it was bad enough for her to feel it.”

Michael stared, wide-eyed. He hadn’t realised that his mother had received Psionic feedback from him, that he had been projecting somehow… again. 

“I-uh,” he stuttered, “I didn’t know–”

“I told her you were fine once I got your text, ” Locke said softly, “Give her a call, anyway. It’ll make her feel better.”

“I will,” Michael promised. 

“And now, I need to know what the fuck happened,” Locke was back to hardass Colonel, worried father, and pissed off Sentinel all rolled into one, “Leave nothing out.”

Taking in a deep breath, Michael launched into the story. He told Locke everything, from the moment Damien had knocked him out until their return to the hotel together.

 It took him the better part of fifteen minutes, and he did his best to stick to the facts, not wanting to colour the account with his opinions and feelings. It was easier to treat it like a mission debrief - something he had done countless times during his lengthy career - rather than the painful personal experience it was. The more he distanced himself emotionally from the events, the more accurate he could be with the details.

“Christy fucking Bryant,” Locke growled through clenched teeth at the end of it. He had gotten off his chair at some point, and was pacing the room that was barely bigger than a jail cell like a trapped tiger by the time Michael finished.

“Yeah,” Michael sighed, “I was just as surprised.”

“She's a fucking bonded Guide!” Locke cursed.

“I got the impression she uses Sentinels like her personal supply of energy,” Michael said, thinking back to the tarnished pit that had been Bryant’s mind with a suppressed shudder, “She drains them dry and throws them away like trash. Said the same thing about her husband when I brought it up.”

“And she had Scott lined up as her next target.”

“Pretty much,” Michael agreed. “She's been working on him for years. Had all these nasty tethers buried all over his mind. It was revolting.” 

Locke stopped pacing and turned around to pin him with a serious look. “Is he free now?”

“Yes,” Michael said simply. He had cleaned all those stains before Bryant had plunged in the knife. He had double-checked when he had helped Damien with his shields after. He was certain.

“Good,” Locke nodded, the line of his mouth curving into a small smile. “Your Mom's going to be proud of you. That's a massive undertaking even for a bonded Guide like her.”

“Bryant stabbed me before I got her to release me,” Michael countered with a crooked grin, “I guess I still have a lot to learn.” 

“You'll do, son,” Locke said and dropped back heavily on his seat. “Have you had a talk with your Sentinel?”

“I have.”

“Have you decided what to do then?”

“He's invited me to go to his territory with him.” 

“Good,” Locke accepted that with a pleased smile. “I’ll arrange you some time off.”

“We're also going to inform the Council about Bryant's death.”

“Alright,” Locke said after a moment. Michael didn’t have to explain to him what he and Damien were effectively getting themselves into. But, they had both agreed that it was for the best. “Your mother and sister will come with me for the inquiry, I should think–”

“Mom, I get,” Michael said, frowning, “but Yumi?” 

His sister was only eighteen and she was still a Latent. Michael couldn’t quite understand why a teenager would want to sit through something as time-consuming and tedious as a death inquiry.

“Would you like to be the one to try and stop her if she insists?” Locke asked dryly.

“Er, no,” Michael said hastily, backtracking. He would rather get airdropped in the middle of a war zone than try to reason with his headstrong sister. He was well-trained for the former, but absolutely clueless when it came to the latter.

“Thought so,” Locke smirked. He got up from his chair to walk around the table so that when Michael got up, he was standing in front of him. “I know you said so in your texts,” he said, his right hand settling on Michael’s shoulder, “but are you really alright?”

“I am,” Michael murmured with a smile, “for the first time in two damned long years.”

The Colonel then surprised Michael by pulling him into a hug, which he returned after a fraction of hesitation. Locke had never been one to show a lot of physical affection, and Michael could count the times he had done so probably with one hand.

If Locke felt his momentary indecision, he didn’t show it. 

“I’m happy for you,” he said, letting Michael go with a firm pat on his back and a light brush against his shields. 

“Thanks,” Michael said, returning an answering flutter of reassurance. 

Michael knew he and Damien were going to have some trying days ahead of them, but he wasn’t worried. It had already taken life-altering trials to get where they belonged. But they had done it. He had no doubts they could take whatever life decided to throw at them head first, now that they were finally together.

***

Julia Richmond watched the progress of her scrubbing software with one eye, her other eye firmly trained on Grant and Scott just beyond the transparent glass door that separated Grant’s office from the rest of the Crib. 

Grant was glaring, her arms folded across her chest, and Scott was grinning, spinning lazy half-circles in his revolving chair. 

She didn’t need any special abilities of a Sentinel or a Guide to tell her that the American was cheerfully treading on the Lieutenant Colonel’s last nerve.

Scott still has the luck of the draw , she thought, absently typing in a few further instructions when the screen to her left prompted. Stonebridge got Locke.

The two had arrived together, remarkably free of any outward signs of a brawl, relaxed and cheerful even. They had split up, Scott continuing straight to Grant’s office beyond the command centre and Stonebridge taking the right turn through the short corridor that led to the storage closet Locke had commandeered as his.

No matter how long they may have worked together, Locke still had a downright scary reputation compared to Colonel Grant. Underneath her hard demeanour, Julia knew Grant still largely had a soft spot for the people in her Unit.

Even the temporary ones.

It was the only reason she hadn’t pulled her gun on Scott yet, Julia was convinced, despite the way Scott seemed determined to test the last vestiges of her patience. 

She saw Grant waving a hand at the door, and Scott jumped off the chair as if he couldn’t get out fast enough. Once he was through the door, he made his way to Julia’s station like an errant kid out of a headmaster’s office.  

“How was it?” She asked when he collapsed on the chair next to her with an exaggerated sigh.

“Your Colonel just reminded me why I left the army in the first place,” He complained.

Julia raised an eyebrow at the blatant lie, “I thought that was because you wanted to go after Latif?”

“Well, yeah that too,” Scott admitted, grumbling, “But fucking hell, I don’t miss post-mission briefings and ARRs in triplicates.”

“The CIA didn’t ask, did they?”

“The CIA and I have an understanding,” he shrugged, turning his chair a little to check out the corridor to their right, the one which led to Locke’s office just around the curve, “I get the shit done, and they don’t bother me with paperwork.”

“We’re not the best fit for you then,” Julia smirked. “At least you didn’t kill our operator. So, we should be able to return you without too much damage.”

Scott turned around, his brows drawing together in confusion, “Huh?”

“Stonebridge,” Julia reminded him with a grin, “The way you were banging on about him, I thought you two might come to blows the moment the mission was over.”

“Oh, that,” the confused frown turned into a soft smile that caught Julia off guard. That was not a reaction she had expected from Scott when it came to Stonebridge. Not after the way Scott had been downright suspicious and angry at the man for some convoluted reason, “Turns out he’s alright.”

“Really?” Julia prodded, completely ignoring another prompt from her programme on the screen.

They had a little over four hours to pack up and leave. She had more than enough time to sort out her station. What was happening between the two new field operators was infinitely more interesting. Especially when Scott seemed to be eying the corridor again with a mixed expression of curiosity, worry and bizarrely, a touch of longing. 

“Yeah,” Scott answered distractedly, smiling again when he saw Stonebridge finally emerging around the corner. The Sergeant flashed an answering grin and waved his phone in the air as he continued walking towards the exit, indicating that he was going to make a call. Scott continued to watch him all the way out of the door. 

What the hell was going on?

She tried to figure it out, and gave it up as a lost cause after a few fruitless seconds. “I don’t get it.”

“Don't get what?” Scott turned around, grinning.

“How did you go from wanting to shoot him on sight to…”

“To?” Scott encouraged when she trailed off.

“I don’t know,” she said, shrugging, a little torn between prying and curiosity, but deciding to plough right ahead anyway, “Staring at him like you want to crowd him against a wall or something.”

Scott stared at her for a long second, during which Julia held his gaze with a raised eyebrow and a smirk of her own, daring him to contradict her observation.

“Wow,” he laughed, his eyes sparkling with amusement, “You’re nosy.”

“An unfortunate side effect that comes with the job,” Julia admitted, inclining her head.

“Julia, Julia, Julia,” Scott drawled, his grin widening, “There was a reason our short marriage fell apart,” he was referring to the cover story they had maintained during the rescue at the casino back in Cape Town. He had insisted on the story and made Julia listen to all the juicy details of their torrid love affair the entire way there. “Jealousy is not a pretty shade on you.”

Julia regarded him with a level look, unwilling to let him off the hook that easily, “Don’t change the subject.”

“Communication is such a marvellous thing,” Scott declared grandly, the look in his eyes as solemn as he could make it despite the grin he was visibly smothering. “It clears up misunderstandings, lets you have new information and helps you make more accurate decisions.”

“Uh-huh?” Julia couldn’t have sounded more sceptical if she tried.

Scott nodded, and let the grin he had been holding back split, immediately putting Julia back on guard again. “I also happen to think what you just told me is a fantastic idea.”  

Julia winced. She should have known! 

“Not here, at least,” she said hurriedly, just in case he wasn’t just joking, “You’ll get written up for sexual harassment at the workplace–” Grant would definitely jump on the first chance to have Scott’s hide for something she could actually pin on him.

“Even if he consents?” Scott snickered, completely unconcerned.

“I recommend you do not try to find out.” Julia asserted, her tone serious. 

Messing around with Scott was one thing. He was easy-going and didn’t have much care for rules and regulations. But she had a feeling the reserved Sergeant, although quite pleasant, was a lot more strict of a rule-follower. If he was not the kind to appreciate Scott’s brand of humour, they would both be in trouble.

“Why not?” Scott asked and turned the chair around when the main door opened again, admitting Stonebridge. “There he is, let's ask him!”

Before Julia could stop him, Scott waved him over with a cheerful yell, “Michael!”

“Yeah?”

Julia turned to her now sleeping screen and woke it up with a hasty click on her mouse. In her periphery, Scott leaned across the table, smiling at Stonebridge like a loon. “Where did you go?”

Julia masked her sigh of relief by typing in the final command her programme needed to save all the data to the main server before wiping the hard drive clean.

“To call my Mom.” 

“Is she alright?” Scott asked, his voice going low with concern.

“Yeah, she was a little worried,” Stonebridge replied. “I’ll fill you in later.” Then he tilted his head. From the corner of her eye, Julia saw him regarding her with a knowing look. “Hello, Richmond.”

Julia looked up from her screen with an innocent smile she was sure did nothing to fool him, “Good morning, Stonebridge.”

“Listen,” Scott butted in before she could start a different, bit more polite and appropriate conversation. “She gave me a great idea–”

“Oh?” Stonebridge turned to Scott. Julia bowed her head with a sigh, accepting the inevitable.

“About me crowding you against a wall in public–”

Dear Lord, open up a hole beneath my feet and swallow me whole, she prayed, before I get shot…

“In here?” The Sergeant’s forehead creased in a confused frown.

“Yeah,” Scott carried on, perfectly oblivious, “But I'm liable to get written up if you object.”

Julia saw Stonebridge look around the Crib with an assessing gaze, as if he was giving Scott’s nonsense a valid consideration. Something in the gleam in his eyes, despite the completely serious expression on his face, made Julia suspect, for the first time, if she was the one being had.

“I don’t know,” Stonebridge said, his gaze landing once again on Scott after a complete one-eighty. “That’s a tough one.”

It was the faint grin Stonebridge flashed at the end of it that tipped her off. “You two are complete arseholes,” she informed them both solemnly, inviting another loud laugh from Scott and a head shake from Stonebridge. 

Unfortunately, the sound of Scott’s laughter also attracted Sinclair’s attention. 

“Sorry to break up this little tea party,” he said, walking over to them with two disconnected monitors tucked under his arms, “But the Crib won’t pack itself up and get ready to move no matter how much we wished it would.” He turned his glare on Scott first, “Scott, if you don't mind, we could use a hand with the servers.”

Scott looked up and around him to see what the Major was indicating. About twenty feet behind Julia’s station, the wall was lined up with the hardware they carried around with the Crib.

“You gonna pay me?” Scott asked, grimacing, “Because that’s extra labour.”

Sinclair smiled thinly, “I'm sure there’s something about it in the contract.”

Scott looked like he was about to object.

“I’ll go give a hand to Frederick,” Stonebridge volunteered before Scott could voice his objection. 

Wise move , Julia thought, fighting back a grin. If Scott managed to wriggle out of the hard work, it would fall on him. That way, Stonebridge got to pick the fun work while Scott was stuck with hauling the heavy load.

Scott seemed to catch his drift, “Who’s that?”

“He’s the armourer.” 

Scott’s gaze narrowed. “Hey! How come you get to pick the fun job?”

“Because you’re the new guy,” Stonebridge said pleasantly, “I’ll give you a turn to win it next time with one of those rock, paper, scissors games you love so much.”

“Like I’d ever have a chance of winning against you.”

“Chop, chop people,” Sinclair intervened before they could get into an argument, or Julia could wonder what Scott meant. “We need to be out by 11:00. Move your arses.”

***

The C-17 Globemaster that Section Twenty had managed to commandeer, was an old, but sturdy cargo hauler. It flew them back towards London at a leisurely speed of 400 knots at 28,000 feet. The sounds of the four Pratt & Whitney turbofan engines barely intruded the cargo bay, and nothing rattled or groaned ominously. It was more than Damien could say for some of the dodgy fliers he had been on throughout his long, and interesting career. 

Colonel Locke, once again working his mysterious magic, had secured a VIP spot in the cockpit. Grant was stretched on three of the sidewall seats on the port side to the front, dead to the world. Sinclair sat on the same row, about two seats down, reading a book. The rest of the support staff were scattered in the remaining seats on the port side and most of the starboard side, almost all of them fast asleep. 

Damien was on a seat to the starboard, closest to the cargo bay door. Julia was parked on the seat directly across, deeply ingrained in whatever the screen of her PC was showing her. She looked up when she sensed him watching, and flashed him a two-fingered salute before going back to her work. 

Immediately next to him, Michael was stretched out on his seat, his booted feet crossed at ankles and his arms folded over his chest. He could have been sleeping if it wasn’t for the way his shoulder was shaking against Damien’s own.

He was, of course, silently laughing at Damien.

“That’s a first,” Michael mumbled, without turning his head or opening his eyes, which made Damien wonder how he had seen Julia’s reaction, “I find it a miracle that there are some women immune to your particular brand of charm.”

“She doesn’t know what she’s missing out on,” Damien declared, grinning, knowing the ambient noise and the distance between their rows made it impossible for her to hear them, “sucks to be her.”

In his periphery, he could see Michael trying to smother a grin by running his hand across his face, “She can also lip read, you twit.” 

Ah well. How was Damien supposed to know that? Come to think of it, how did Michael? 

Over the lid of her PC, Julia had a knowing glint in her eyes and a smirk on her lips. Damien stuck his tongue out at her. She pretended to ignore him.

Damien nudged Michael with his shoulder, “Everything okay with your Mom?” 

“Yeah,” Michael sighed, opening his eyes, “She just knew something bad happened when I got stabbed.”

“How?” Damien frowned. 

“Apparently, she left a marker on my shields,” Michael said, smiling faintly, “Remember what I did to you when I went with Mahmoud? She did something like that. Only it was a lot more subtle. I never even realised it was there until she told me.”

“She was worried, huh?” Damien knew exactly what had driven her to do that. He didn’t even want to imagine what she must have gone through trying to hold her son together.  

“Something like that,” Michael murmured, “She also said she can't wait to meet you.”

“As long as she didn't mean it like a threat…” Damien grinned, only half joking.

“Nah, nothing like that,” Michael snorted, his shoulders vibrating again, “Besides, it’s my Dad you had to watch out for. He’s no longer actively planning to maim you…I think–”

Damien turned his head, and mock glared at the sharp jawline that greeted him, “That makes me feel so much better, Michael.”

“We’re going to your territory and I’m sure I’ll get to meet your folks first,” Michael shrugged, perfectly nonchalant as if he hadn’t just revealed a possible threat to Damien’s life. “So it’s only fair you get to meet mine.”

“They’re going to fly in for the inquiry, are they?”

“Along with my sister, yes.”

All joking aside, Damien felt the anticipation and the certainty of it all settle like a warm blanket around his heart and soul, making him smile. The imminent headache that was the impending inquiry was absolutely nothing compared to the wild joy and excitement that wanted to bubble out of him at the prospect of bonding. 

He couldn’t wait to finally claim the Guide sitting next to him as his own. To belong to his Guide in return, and finally find absolute safety and refuge in a mind space that was only meant for the two of them alone.

The mere thought of it was enough to bring the Sentinel within him surging to the surface. Even the Psionic energies around him seemed to weave and ripple in response to his eager anticipation.

Michael turned his head, smiling softly as if he could feel the change in the air around them. Damien wrapped his arm around his shoulder, pulling him in closer, and grinned when he could see Julia watching them over her PC again.

The warmth emanating from Michael added to the cosy feeling in his heart, and Damien took a moment to revel in it before letting his mind return reluctantly to more practical concerns. 

Although he wanted to catch the first available flight back to the States and take Michael home more than anything, there were some things he had to take care of first. And Damien had a feeling that Michael did, too.

“I was thinking I’d like to pop in at the Hillingdon hospital to see Marshall before we leave.”

Michael tilted his head to the side, catching his gaze, “How’s she doing?”

“According to Grant, she was stabilised enough to be transported back to London three days after her surgery,” Damien said, thinking back to the only part he had actually paid attention to during his debrief. He had been relieved to find out that the Captain had made it after all. 

“That’s great news,” Michael nodded, and leaned his head back, letting it rest on Damien’s arm, “While you do that, I need to make a quick stop at the Brookwood–”

“Where’s that?” Damien didn’t like the way Michael’s voice dropped.

“The cemetery.”

Damien winced. He had forgotten. While he had managed to keep Marshall alive, Michael hadn’t had much luck doing the same for John Porter.

“Porter’s funeral was two days ago,” Michael continued softly, his gaze stuck somewhere on the curved bulkhead above them, “I’d like to visit before we leave.”

“I’m sorry I was an asshole about it,” Damien said sincerely. He had poked that raw wound on purpose, as a way of rebelling against his own instincts to trust Michael at first glance. “You, uh–you wanna tell me what happened?”

Michael was quiet for so long, that Damien figured he might not want to. Michael had told him that Porter was his trainer, which meant he had shared a longer friendship and history with the man than Damien had ever had.

“Not how I imagined my return to the field going,” Michael said, his voice barely above a whisper, and started to tell Damien about how he had been assigned to provide ground support for Porter. Just as Damien had known, Michael had done everything he possibly could to get Porter out. 

The luck hadn’t been on Porter’s side that night. Sometimes, even after you had done everything in your power, all it took was one stray bullet to put an end to it all.

Damien didn’t need to tell Michael that. Michael was a soldier himself, and he knew what he'd signed up for. All the same, the guilt and the heartbreak of losing someone in the field left scars that never truly healed. 

He didn’t offer any platitudes after Michael was done, since there weren’t any sincere ones he could offer. He knew Michael didn’t need that from him. In their line of work, it wouldn’t even be the last time either of them ever lost a friend. Sometimes, talking about it to someone who understood helped. And the other times, it didn’t. Damien was just glad Michael could at least talk to him, even if it didn’t do much to heal those wounds.

The mission had taken a lot out of both of them from the beginning to the end, but it had at least brought a definite end to a period of two damned years that had been much worse. All Damien could hope for was a reprieve where they could take a goddamned minute to themselves before life decided to throw another curve ball in their direction.

Chapter Text

Two Days Later

Tvrđava - The Fortress
Faletići
Bosnia & Herzegovina

10.15 hours (Local)

They held him in prison even though they insisted that he was not a prisoner. 

They called it the ‘Tvrđava’ - the Fortress. It was a maximum-security holding facility for high-profile criminals. It was located in an isolated corner of Faletići - he knew because he had seen the signs on the side of the road when they had taken him there. The journey had taken only about twenty minutes from Sarajevo, which meant he was about ten miles from the capital.

At least they had given him his own accommodation - a studio that was certainly bigger and more comfortable than a jail cell. He had a bedroom, a bathroom and even a small lounge area and a kitchenette, although they supplied him with cooked meals three times a day instead of letting him make his own. He had a security team around the clock. Two armed guards stood outside his door all day and night, despite the fact that they also kept said door locked and bolted from outside. The windows in his bedroom and lounge looked out to the empty, yet neatly maintained yard, and the seven-foot wall topped with barbed wire. If the armed guards patrolling the yard and the ones stationed in the watchtower by the massive wrought-iron gate failed to discourage him from stepping outside, the welded steel grating over the windows certainly didn’t.

They said it was for his protection. Considering he was going to be the star witness of the first-ever case that would be filed against the country’s largest, most-feared crime syndicate, it even made sense.

Even General Borja Savić had paid him a visit, surrounded by an entourage of equally uniformed and important-looking people, just before he had been transferred. 

“This won’t absolve you of the crimes you've committed for the better part of a decade, Hassani,” he had said, his flinty gaze boring into Rana’s, “but, as far as an attempt at atonement goes, this is a solid beginning.”

Atonement.

Was that what it was? This thing he had agreed to do… Rana wasn't so sure.

Didn't one need to have committed sins to seek atonement? To maybe feel as if there were wrongs that needed to be made right, mistakes to be fixed or consequences to be faced?

Of course, there was a chain of heinous crimes attached to his life, there was no denying that. Since he had turned seventeen – that fateful day when he had realised he experienced the world in a vastly different way than anyone else and that he had access to certain aspects of nature around him that many others could only dream of – his life had taken an irrevocable turn.

And it certainly hadn't been for the best.

Rana had no idea how, why or when things had gotten worse. He had never been in control of the external powers that had his mind and body trapped. What had saved him from going insane, succumbing to those wild, ensnaring energies fully, was his brother. Rana’s sense of self had started to wither and crumble under the neverending assault of being so open and bare to the infinite details of the world around him. It had been his brother’s will and determination he had clung to in a desperate attempt to salvage something of himself before losing everything.

He had survived - if you could call being trapped in an all-too-defined and volatile limbo between two shifting, warping planes of overlapping energies surviving. But that was what his life had been for the past one and a half decades.

In hindsight, latching onto his brother’s life like a leech to escape his own hellish existence hadn’t been the most intelligent thing he had ever done.  

Maybe that was also the reason why he didn’t really feel any remorse over the things he had done under his brother’s guidance. He hadn’t really paid any attention, hadn’t even thought once to consider the morality of the deeds or the consequences. 

He had never had the capacity or the ability, even if he had wanted to. 

So, no.

He didn’t think his current situation had anything to do with atonement. 

It had everything to do with this newfound freedom to do whatever the hell he felt like doing. It had everything to do with enjoying a mind that was finally capable of producing coherent thoughts after so many years of being trapped under a maelstrom. It had everything to do with being able to experience emotions that weren’t shaped according to his brother’s needs and wants.

It had everything to do with being his own damn self after all those years he'd passed in a daze.

It also had everything to do with self-preservation.

Rana wasn't a fool. He was aware that his brother knew exactly who was responsible for the sudden and utter destruction of his entire empire. He also knew that his brother wouldn’t hesitate for even a second to exact revenge for what he had done, family blood be damned. And he would be justified in that too, since Rana’s betrayal had been of the worst kind.

Try as he might, Rana couldn't bring himself to care. 

What he wanted was to live. To continue to enjoy this miracle of freedom he had been granted. As selfish as it was, it was what he wanted.

When he had grabbed that man right out of the line of their latest acquisitions, Rana hadn’t been able to think past anything other than claiming the intoxicating, mind-altering presence the stranger exuded all to himself. In a turn of events he had never imagined, Rana had ended up being claimed instead.

Or he would rather say, cleansed.

The memory of that strange, liberating light invading his dark pit of a mind still gave him goosebumps. He was sure the other man hadn’t known what he was doing either, guided by those invasive energies just the way Rana had been. But, instead of joining Rana in his madness, the stranger had somehow been able to disconnect Rana completely from those intangible bindings, granting him a reprieve he hadn’t even realised he had been craving for all those years. 

Rana couldn’t have denied him anything after that. So he hadn’t even batted an eyelid when he heard the man’s request. All he had felt after handing over the metaphorical key to his brother’s entire enterprise was relief and immense gratitude.

He wished he could meet that stranger again… to talk, to learn his name and maybe find out how he had cured that festering wound in Rana’s mind so easily, effortlessly and with so little pain or damage to either of them. 

It was a shame to feel, deep in his heart, that he might never get the chance.

A sudden knock on the door brought him back from his musings. 

“Hassani,” it was one of the guards outside in the hallway. “You have visitors.”

Rana closed the magazine he had forgotten was in his hands and placed it on his lap. He had been informed about the visit the day before, although the names Christopher Desmond, and Jane McKenna meant nothing to him. He had been told that they were a pair of professionals and that they were coming to make sure he was in acceptable health, mentally and physically, to be able to testify in court.

“Yes, come in.” He called back, not bothering to get up. It wasn’t as if he could open the door anyway.

He did stand up and return the handshakes his guests offered, inviting them to sit on the sofa across from the small table.

“Oh, coffee,” Rana grinned widely when another guard showed up a few seconds later with a steaming pot and three mugs. “You two must be important guests.”

It was a rare treat. His meals were pretty bland and standard, and he only ever got coffee in a styrofoam cup with every other dinner. 

“Please, go ahead and enjoy.” The man said, smiling benevolently at him, making no effort to fill his own mug. The woman followed his lead.

“So, what’s a ‘Sentinel?’” Rana asked, turning the strange new word in his tongue experimentally. His English wasn’t the best to begin with, and he didn’t know what it meant.

The man - he looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties, with a tuft of dark, brown hair that was liberally sprinkled with grey and white strands - exchanged a silent glance with McKenna before fixing his piercing blue eyes back on Rana.

“A Sentinel is an individual who can wield the Psionic energies of the world to enhance their physical senses and abilities,” he said in a lecturing tone, “Someone who can see, hear, taste, smell and feel things in a much more detailed way than an average human.”

Rana frowned, parsing out the meaning of Desmond’s words slowly. It sounded remarkably like how he had been just after his seventeenth birthday, years before he had started losing control.

“Interesting you should ask,” McKenna, the brown-eyed brunette who looked almost a decade younger than Desmond, pinned him with a gleaming look of her own, “considering you were also a Sentinel before…well, something happened to change your status.”

Oh. So that was what his condition was called? Although 'Sentinel' sounded more like a title than an incurable illness. Rana wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he was eternally grateful to be rid of it. He much preferred his surroundings the way they were now, staying in their place without invading his mind and body in a constant, invasive rush he couldn’t escape.

Even thinking about returning to that state was enough to send his pulse rocketing.

“It’s okay, Rana,” Desmond said placatingly, his voice soft and certain. His eyes seemed much darker all of a sudden, with wisps of black smoke swirling in his pupils. “You don't have to be afraid. We know your own situation was rather troublesome. That is what usually happens when a Sentinel doesn’t receive proper training at a young age to control the external energies and shield their minds.”

Training. Yes. Rana could have used some when he had been mourning the loss of his sanity. What did ‘shielding one’s mind’ even mean? 

“I’m fine now.” He blurted when he realised the man was waiting for a response, and turned to the woman, deciding to divert the attention to her,  “What are you, then?” 

“I’m a Guide,” she replied, “I can use the Psionic energies to enhance mental abilities.”

She didn’t elaborate further, and Rana didn’t pry. He didn’t want to dwell on the finer details of ‘Psionic energies’ that had haunted him at every turn for the better part of his life. He wanted to forget all of that and move on.

“Would you mind describing what exactly happened on the day you surrendered?” Desmond prompted, sounding a little impatient. 

“I already did, to the police,” Rana griped, pouring more coffee into his mug. It was much better than the weak brew they served him at dinner. “They have everything written and signed.”

“Yes. But we are not interested in your life of crime. What we need to know is the experience that changed your life,” Desmond insisted, “And we’d like to hear about it in your own words. Consider this as a part of your evaluation.”

“Alright,” Rana sighed and cast his mind back to the day he met the stranger. “We met with the American KFOR patrol to take over a new shipment…”

He described the encounter the way he remembered it. He told them how the American Major, Donoghue, brought them a team of European Union representatives, and how the man at the end of the line captured his attention due to his unique scent. Rana couldn’t even tell them what the stranger had looked like. All he remembered was the smell of fresh exotic flowers he had never smelled before, and how he felt he had to claim that man as his own.

“I’m not sure what he did,” he mumbled, slogging through the hazy film of his memories of that day, “He took my hand in his, I think, and then there was this, um, light? In my head? I don't remember anything else. When I woke up, I had a terrible headache. But my mind was clear.”

Desmond and McKenna exchanged a silent, meaningful glance. Rana wasn’t really bothered. He had done as they had asked. It was up to them to decide if it was helpful or not.

“I’d like to see that memory, if I may?” McKenna extended her hand over the table, her palm up, strangely reminiscent of the way the stranger had done. 

Rana frowned. “Ah?”

“Give her your hand, Rana,” Desmond encouraged, “She’s also like that man you said helped you. She won’t hurt you. She just wants to see your memory.”

Rana stared, unwilling to believe either of them. “You can do that?”

“Yes.” McKenna sounded quite confident.

It couldn’t hurt. Besides, Rana knew they wouldn’t leave until he complied. He wasn’t a prisoner, but he was under the mercy of the people who held him at the Fortress. Besides, he was curious to know if she could do what the stranger had done. He wasn’t averse to feeling that heady rush again.

“Okay.” He murmured, clasping the woman’s hand with his own.

It was vastly different from the contact he had made with the stranger, Rana remembered that much. The other man’s grip had been rough and dry - a hand that had handled a fair number of guns, knives and fistfights.

He hissed involuntarily when he felt her presence spear through his mind. Even through the madness he had been drowning in, Rana remembered the stranger’s entry into his mind like a rush of cool, soothing water. It had been nothing like this woman’s harried, painful intrusion. 

“Stay still, Rana.” He heard Desomnd’s command in a fluctuating wave. 

“I, uh, what–” He couldn’t form a sentence. He wasn’t even sure if the words left his mouth. The woman’s presence had no light, grace or refinement as it filled him from inside out. He didn’t want her in his head. She felt far too similar to the uncontrollable energies that had dulled and warped his senses.

“Almost there,” Desmond coaxed as if he had also felt Rana’s revulsion at the woman’s invasion.

“Wait!” 

He felt her grip tighten when he tried to wrench his hand back, and her grip in his mind was like a vice, unyielding, unforgiving. Mental equivalents of fumbling fingers rifled awkwardly through his memories as she fought to find what she wanted.

“Did you find it?” Desmond sounded impatient.

“Stop.” Rana groaned.

Found it.

He felt her triumph, rather than hearing the words. In his mind, he saw the stranger staring at him with a thoughtful look in his hazel eyes. Even in civilian clothes, he looked like a soldier. Rana saw his eyes turn an enticing shade of silver just before his world exploded in a bright white light.

When he finally opened his eyes, blinking to get rid of the too-bright spots, Rana realised that McKenna had let go of his hand. She was also rubbing her eyes. The satisfied smile on her lips indicated that she had gotten what she had been after.

“Is that it?” Rana asked, hoping against hope that was the case. 

He had a headache. He wanted them both gone. He felt used and violated, instead of evaluated.

“Yes, Rana, thank you,” Desmond said, standing up, ready to leave. “We have everything we need.”

Rana stayed where he was, not bothering to stand up while Desmond helped the woman to her feet. She looked pale and a little unsteady. “So, um, am I?”

“Are you what?”

“Fit to testify at the trial?”

“Of course.” Desmond flashed another smile. “We’ll make sure to note in our reports that you’re fine.”

They left soon after that. Rana was thankful for the fact that the guards didn’t take the rest of the coffee. He continued to sit there, determined to enjoy the treat. 

He hoped never to see those two again. Unlike the previous encounter with the stranger, the only thing this meeting left him feeling was gut-wrenching dread.

The Next Day 

Township Grahovci
About 30 miles from Sarajevo airport
Bosnia & Herzegovina

15.17 Hours (Local)

Michael Stonebridge, the adopted son of the British Colonel, Philip S. Locke, had his mother’s hair and eyes. The rest of his facial features, however, he shared with his brother, Liam. 

Christopher couldn’t help but smile at the irony. If nothing else, he could admire the little rat’s tenacity to survive.

McKenna had dampened the initial bout of raw emotions she had scoured from the Albanian scumbag. But Christopher could feel the lingering reverence with which Rana had regarded Micheal. 

Tamping down his revulsion at the mindless desires still present in the memory, Christopher focused on the details. The Psionic energies that surrounded both Rana and Michael were visible arcs of bright greens and blues.

“Mine,” Rana whispered. 

“No,” Michael said just as quietly, his eyes turning silver as the energies flooded his mind at his call, “I am not.”

“Please.”

Christoper opened his eyes with a quiet sigh when the rest of the memory faded in the wake of glowing white light. 

It was a solid confirmation that he was on the right path. Maybe it was a good thing that Michael had survived and gained all that power. The ability to render a feral Sentinel completely dormant was not a common skill among online Guides. 

Maybe now that worthless rat could serve his purpose even better.

Christopher got out of the rental and took a good look at the half-built, two-story house. The yellow, ‘Do Not Cross’ lines that were haphazardly wrapped around the perimeter confirmed that he was at the right location.

There were no cops, as he had known. Maybe they thought the area was isolated enough that nobody would wander in. It was also possible that they were finished with processing the scene, and weren’t bothered either way.

Most likely, the local authorities weren’t all that diligent at preserving crime scenes, solving said crimes, or anything to do with their mandates. Christopher had his money on the fact that corruption and plain old incompetence of any governmental authority was a global phenomenon. It was a sure bet rather than believing that the local police were actually efficient.

Taking in a deep breath, he relaxed the shields around his mind, letting the surroundings brighten and sharpen in his perception. Although it had already been three days, he was certain he would be able to find something to further confirm his suspicions.

The yard full of gravel didn’t offer any immediate clues. There were too many tracks and footprints blending together for him to make out the initial prints that belonged to the people he was after.

Under the awning at the entrance, there was a wooden frame fitted into the brick wall, but there was no door to be found. Either it had been taken off, broken down, or never been fitted, Christopher wasn’t certain. 

The building was empty. There was not a soul that his heightened senses could detect in the vicinity for at least a two-mile radius. Satisfied that he wouldn’t be disturbed, he strode inside the building, intending to take his time looking for what he'd come to find.

The smell of dried blood hit him the moment he entered, making him grimace. The familiar, sharp metallic tones were dulled with layers of sweat, grime and a nauseating mix of personal scents. 

A lot of people had gone in and out of the house during the past three days. Considering that they had been removing a body from a crime scene, it wasn’t that unexpected, although it made his task that much harder.  

Standing there at the centre of the unfinished, unfurnished foyer, Christopher continued to breathe. With each controlled inhale and exhale, he filtered out the fresher layers of scents, digging deeper and deeper until he found the initial three strands that he was after.

There.

The soft, feminine mix of vanilla, jasmine and a hint of mint was right there, buried under all those heady musks of men. Once his mind latched onto the familiar scent trail, it was easy to let the hundreds of other scents fade into the background.

Christy Bryant. She had been here. And she hadn’t left of her own free will. 

Closing his eyes, he focused on the scent trail of the CIA Station Chief, imagining it in his mind like a tether. Although already fraying, it was still enough to lead him right up the wooden stairs in front of him, leading towards the second floor. 

The room that the scent trail led him to had a door hanging by the hinges. Inside, on the rough floor, he found the source of the overpowering metallic scent. There was an old, browned blood stain right next to the front right leg of the wooden chair that was affixed to the floorboards. 

Christopher didn’t step in immediately, content to let his senses take in all the sensory inputs first.

At the threshold, there was an interesting shape on the floor left behind thanks to a thin layer of dust. It looked like a lump that had been moved around a lot before being dragged out to the hallway. A few long blond strands, faint smudges of makeup and half a print of a high heel pointed to the fact that he was, in fact, looking at the final place Christy Bryant had graced. The concentration of her personal scent hovering over the mark also confirmed his deduction.  

He found it infinitely interesting that there wasn’t any blood. It looked almost as if she had just dropped dead, probably with a broken neck. As if it had been extremely quick and painless, almost like an afterthought. 

Not the way he had imagined the headstrong Guide would finally leave this mortal plane. 

His lips twitching in amusement, Christopher cast his focus into the rest of the room, honing in on the single piece of furniture at the centre of the room. 

There were fibres from some type of rope on the floor around the stain. The police or the crime scene techs had removed the ropes that had evidently been used as restraints, but a few, almost invisible strands remained, clearly visible to his sharpened sight. 

What finally drew him to the chair were the twin strands of unique scents that were wrapped around each other, still lingering and strong, even after more than seventy-five hours. Even at the final stages of dissipating, what was left of those two personal scents was enough for him to breathe in and break into their components. 

A Sentinel and Guide, his gut told him. How quaint and charming.

Traces of cherry blossoms, petrichor and gunpowder were prominent in those scents, along with sharper tones of cut grass, cinnamon, sandalwood and very surprisingly, hints of orris.

To say those two scent tethers were interesting was an understatement. He didn’t know them enough to separate them fully, but he had an idea that the earthy scents belonged to one while the Mediterranean, herb-like tones belonged to the other. It was more of an instinctual feeling than any scientific one. But he knew he was right.

Besides, Christopher felt a personal connection to one of those trails, as he had hoped he would. Although he hadn’t come across that particular scent for something close to three decades, and that scent hadn’t at all been developed to anything so defined, he recognised it immediately. 

Blood indeed called to blood after all.

It seemed that Bryant hadn’t been lying. She had finally done what he hadn’t been able to do for decades. It was disgruntling that she had to go and get herself killed before delivering on her promise. 

It didn’t matter. 

He had what he needed; a name, a face and a scent. It was only a matter of time until he found his target. It was unfortunate that he was unable to start his search immediately, the way his entire being insisted. As soon as the prior commitment in Qatar was concluded to his client’s satisfaction, Christopher would have all the time in the world to begin his hunt in earnest. 

Chapter Text

Four Days Later

Petoskey
Emmet County - Michigan
USA

16.47 Hours (Local)

The single-engine H130 gradually became a speck in the sky, the sound of its rotors fading into the distance as the whirlwind of dust and dry leaves it had kicked up during the take-off calmed. 

Michael dropped his backpack and the duffel on the ground and stretched. The nine-hour direct flight had taken its toll, and all his muscles complained about the lack of space and movement they had endured with a long list of aches, pains and cramps.

He felt his spine realign with a series of pops and cracks that made him wince. The final crack at the base of his neck had him groaning in relief. The dull ache that had been plaguing him throughout the long flight finally left, leaving only a mild headache behind.

“Hey, Rice Krispies, you done?” 

The grin playing on Damien’s lips was mocking, but the gleam in his eyes was an entirely different story. Even though he hadn’t really relaxed his shields, the familiar Psionic energies seemed to have gathered around Damien in enthusiastic welcome. The Sentinel’s eyes were darker, and there were faint, obsidian swirls dancing in his pupils as his gaze ran rather appreciatively all over Michael’s torso. 

Michael didn’t deem his snap, crackle, pop joke worth a verbal acknowledgement. Flashing the two-fingered salute in his Sentinel’s direction, Michael picked up his bags, signalling that he was, in fact, done and ready to follow.

Damien turned around, chuckling, and led them down a winding path paved with cobblestones towards a neat column of sugar maple, red pine and aspen. 

It was the middle of the summer in Michigan. But the surrounding greenery gave birth to a constant crisp breeze, replacing what should have been muggy, hot weather with fresh and pleasantly cool air. The driveway continued through what felt like a mini forest, leading to a well-maintained yard covered in freshly mowed grass. 

“Alright,” Michael said, taking in the sight that greeted him as they cleared the treeline, “If the chopper ride didn’t clue me in, this– um– mansion certainly does. I’m working for the wrong people. Where do I sign up with the Agency, again?”

The single-story lake house that stood in the middle of the clearing was breathtaking. It was spread over at least three thousand square feet, complete with a wooden deck that was wrapped around the entire house. Instead of walls, the entire structure was covered with wraparound windows and sliding doors. With all that transparent glass, Michael had a feeling that when the curtains were open, the house would have no problem blending in with the background perfectly. The slanted roof was done with wooden beams and roof tiles, and there were glass skylights installed at intervals, offering views of the sky to go with the rest of the open space theme. 

Behind the house was another column of tall trees, a mixture of red maple, white cedar, beech, hemlock and oak. Michael could see that the neatly grown treeline extended for about four hundred yards before the property reached its boundary at the lake. Beyond the squat, stone wall reinforcing the bank, the lake extended to a far horizon, with only the merest outline of the opposite shoreline visible. 

According to the file he had perused, the one Damien had yet to learn about, Michael knew it was called Traverse Bay, which opened up to Lake Michigan.

Three feet in front of him, Damien snorted. “First of all, this is a lakehouse, not a mansion. And the owner had to sell and leave the country in a hurry. I just got lucky.”

“Uh-huh?” Michael grinned. 

Had Damien found out about the place through his local contacts or the resources of the CIA? If the latter was the case, maybe looking up job opportunities at the agency wasn't a half-bad idea after all.

The other thing that stood out to Michael was the lack of security measures. The previous owner, despite their possibly less-than-legit dealings, must have been quite confident of their safety, he thought, letting his trained gaze take over from the appreciative one. There were no cameras, motion detection systems or even a fence surrounding the property. The only lighting in the yard was a few strategically placed posts with floodlights, arranged more with aesthetics in mind than anything else.

He could understand why Damien hadn’t bothered with it either. This was his territory, and Michael knew he felt safe and secure here, surrounded by his family and the tribe. Besides, Damien would know if anything moved in their direction at least a few miles out, and so would Michael, for that matter. 

The last thing any potential trespasser could do in the territory of a Level Five and an Adept was sneak in.

“Also, it’s not all from the CIA,” Damien added as he climbed up the three wooden steps that led to the deck. “Um– Bryant got us a lot of private gigs on the side–”

“Do I even want to know?” Michael asked, taking care to keep his tone light as he waited for Damien to open the glass sliding door. 

Bryant was going to be a sore topic for a while and so was everything that involved her, even on the sidelines, Michael knew that. He also knew that they were just going to have to push through it until one day it stopped being one.

“Not contracted wet work or anything like that,” Damien said hastily, leading him through a short hallway to the lounge. “Security, transport, bounty hunting… those sorts of deals. It was always between us, 50/50. And, uh– she was pretty good when it came to investing what we earned…”

The sun was well on its way out, but the lounge was still bright due to the lack of walls and the skylights. The interior had a fresh scent of lavender and mint, suggesting that Damien must have arranged for someone to tidy up the place before their arrival. 

“You shared finances?” Michael asked, placing his bags on the floor in a corner, out of the way.

Damien dropped his duffel on one of the sofas absently, “More like the same assets manager.”

Michael took that in without a comment. Bryant had been playing the long game, he realised, not quite managing to suppress the shudder that ran down his spine at the thought. He had felt her intentions during the time he had been in her head, but seeing the evidence of the extent of her ambitions was still a shock to the system. She had been steering Damien towards a perfect life she had planned for the two of them after trapping him in a forced bond.

A small part of him wondered, apart from Damien’s assets and his freaking mind, what else she could have been managing. 

“I guess that’s why you spent the last fifteen or so months like a drifter,” Michael murmured, mostly thinking out loud. 

“I just wanted to stay off the radar,” Damien shrugged, letting his gaze sweep over his home as if he was also seeing it in a new light. “I made money mostly fighting in underground rings and hustling in bars…couldn’t even explain to myself why I bothered when I had all this money.”

“You were fighting more battles than you even knew,” Michael said, instinctively responding to the despairing tone he heard from Damien with a reassuring one of his own, “It didn’t matter how hard she tried, you were still pushing back. You were trying to keep her off your trail.” 

“Yeah, I guess so,” Damien sighed, and then shook his head, turning around to face Michael, "You know what, let’s forget that psychopath. You wanna beer?”

“Sure.” Michael smiled and walked past the lounge to where the French sliding door led to the deck at the back. Opening it to the side, he stepped out, breathing in a lungful of cool fresh air wafting over the immaculate yard. Through the treeline, there was an empty column leading towards an extended wooden jetty over the bay. The well-maintained walkway also allowed an unimpeded view of the gently rippling blue waters.

“We have two options and we have to decide on one, today,” Damien said as he joined him on the deck after a few seconds. Handing over one beer to Michael, he leaned against the railing, his back to the view.

“About?”

“My family,” Damien shrugged, grinning, “Option one: we show up at my parents’ place, let all the nosy fucks in the family gather there to, you know… gossip, ogle, snitch on me, bring down the inquisition on you–”

Michael took a sip of his beer, mostly to hide the flash of discomfort he felt at that bit of news. His was not a family that took part in get-togethers with extended family members. Even if they wanted to, there was the fact that half of his mother’s family was based in Ireland while the rest were in Japan. 

His father was an only child, and his parents were long dead. So there weren’t any immediate relatives they could visit. Besides all that, his family itself was a very much scattered unit. With his and his father’s military careers, his mother’s work at the Council, and his sister’s boarding school, the days they all managed to make it home were small miracles on their own.

All in all, it was safe to say, that the scenario Damien had just presented was not something Michael was used to, at all.

“You make it sound like a state convention or something,” he muttered when he saw Damien waiting for a response.

“Might as well be,” Damien said seriously and took a long draught of his beer, “I have three older brothers and two younger sisters, most of them married with kids. Then, at least two of my Dad’s brothers are gonna show up with their families. My Mom’s older sister and her family will also be there. Then there’s Kelly Foshay, her husband, along with Finn.”

Damien was watching him with a look that was a mix of curiosity and challenge. He was clearly trying to gauge just how much Michael knew about him.

“That would be your kid’s mother, her Sentinel, and your kid?” Michael said with a faint smile, deciding to indulge Damien.

“One of these days you’ll return the favour, Michael,” Damien said, his eyes narrowing a little. Other than that, he didn’t push. “It’s only fair.” 

“I will,” Michael agreed. There wasn’t much to tell. He was only holding back because his father had requested to introduce himself to Damien properly when they arrived in Michigan closer to the inquiry. “What’s the second option?”

“Not showing up is not an option, unfortunately,” Damien said, his eyes shining with amusement, “So the alternative is all of that happening right here.” 

“Option one,” Michael blurted, “Please.” 

He quite liked the calm and peaceful aura that surrounded the lake house. While he had nothing against Damien’s family, Michael didn’t feel ready to tackle a massive gathering in a place he had arrived at not even five minutes ago. 

‘No need to be so polite,” Damien snorted, “It’s unanimous. Don't get me wrong. I love every single one of them to death, but this is my sanctuary. This is where I come to find some isolation and quiet, not wrangle a stampeding wild bunch.”

Michael covered his relief with another sip of his beer, although he had a feeling he wasn’t hiding that much from the Sentinel who was still watching him with a faint, amused smirk.

“When is this gathering?”

“Tomorrow,” Damien replied, finishing the last bit of his beer, “James will bring us a rental in the morning.”

He didn’t bother explaining that James was his oldest brother, having correctly guessed that Michael already knew. 

“Alright,” Michael said, holding back a sigh. It was too bad Damien’s personal file hadn’t contained information about how the Scotts apparently loved to ambush their visitors in a mob.

Sipping the rest of his beer almost reflexively, Michael decided to treat it just like another mission that had dropped into his lap out of nowhere with no warning. He was used to operating under minimal ROEs, with minimum information, no time for preparations, almost no equipment, and mostly blowing shit up as he went along.

If he were to apply the same modus operandi to this situation, probably without the improvised explosions, he should be able to emerge on the other side relatively unscathed.

Damien left his empty bottle on the handrail and took a step forward, closing the distance between them down to almost nothing. The small smirk playing on his lips suggested that he was well aware of the minor anxiety attack Michael was fighting inside his head.

“Will you believe me when I say it’s not a big deal?” he asked softly, taking Michael’s empty bottle from his hand to put it on the railing as well, “They’ll love you.”

They don’t know me. Michael bit back that initial response, smiling almost in spite of himself when Damien’s hands closed around his shoulders. “If you say so.” 

“I do,” he murmured, “It’ll also be a little easier if you didn’t hide yourself from them too much–”

Michael grunted, sparing a distracted thought for his mental shields, which were still rather ragged and prickly in their outermost layers. The way Damien pinned him in place with his sky-blue gaze and warm, soft grip was surprisingly grounding. In more ways than one. His presence, reinforced by the familiar territorial energies surrounding him like a cloak that was just beyond perception, was breathtaking. The stunning views, the chirping of the birds and the quiet rushing of water all faded into the background as Michael’s attention was completely captured by the Sentinel. 

“There’s absolutely nothing and no one for at least a three-mile radius,” Damien’s words were barely above a whisper, “It's just us, Michael. You can relax…please.”

There was nothing in him that was capable of resisting the gentle plea. Michael felt his eyelids flutter shut, his shields rippling and readjusting with hardly any input from him within one breath and the next. With his mind newly enclosed by the smooth, unresisting layers of a Guide, their surroundings came alive around Michael in a much more refined and vibrant manner.

The Psionic Plane wrapped around the midwest region was slightly familiar to the wild and untamed energies of the Balkans, but infinitely more warm, friendly and cheerful. There was also an interwoven touch of wilderness, adding a sense of adventure and thrill to the overall affectionate welcome. 

Michael opened his eyes, smiling when he felt a hand settle on his cheek. Damien’s gaze was liquid black now, watching Michael, transfixed with the Psionic energies swirling in his pupils. Michael knew his own eyes would be an answering sheen of silver.

The anticipation, excitement and joy that surrounded them at that moment was pure and boundless. Michael hardly needed any of his abilities to simply soak in it, let it chase away the troubles that seemed insignificant against the abundance of it.   

Michael wasn’t quite sure where all that exhilarating jubilation came from to saturate the air around them so thoroughly - whether it was from the Psionic Plane, his Sentinel, himself, or whether it was a combination of all of them. He felt it bubbling around him and coursing through him, filling him with brimming energies and emotions from the inside out. Caught up in that enthusiastic maelstrom, Michael felt a little light-headed and drunk.

“Your home is beautiful,” he heard himself slurring, blinking up at Damien who seemed to be framed by a shimmery halo of green, gold and blue hues.

“It is now.” The Sentinel smiled.

Those words were an echo in his ears, as well as in his mind, making Michael shiver in his hold. When Damien finally closed the remaining distance, capturing Michael’s lips with his own in a searing kiss, Michael felt the heartfelt meaning of them settle somewhere deep within his soul.

Willowdale Manor
Locke Family Home
17, Abbotsbury Road, Kensington, London
UK

23.30 hours (Local)

Philip sat cross-legged on the bed of one of the guest rooms. He didn’t want to disturb his wife while she got ready for bed. 

The 15-inch screen of his PC was divided into four sub-windows, and in each, there was footage of destruction playing on a loop. There were no sounds since the PC was muted. Philip didn’t need the sounds, in any case. He had studied the footage enough times that he knew each and every scene of the aftermath to the tiniest detail.

The first one, in the window on the upper left corner, was footage of an explosion in Beirut, Lebanon, from 2002. The official story was a gas line explosion in an apartment building, which caused an entire block of three apartment buildings to go up in flames in one August morning. The eight-storied buildings had close to seven hundred tenants, and the casualty count had been over five hundred, with one hundred and seventy dead.

The second one, in the window on the upper right corner, was another explosion in Hamburg, Germany, in 2003. The footage was on a loop, displaying the smoking ruins of what used to be a family park. The bomb had gone off in the middle of a Sunday in April, killing more than forty men, women and kids. 

The footage on the lower left was from Montpellier, France, in 2005, of a private mansion where a private fundraising gala had been hosted. The event had gathered a lot of dignitaries, including ministers, MPs, celebrities, and a lot of Europe’s ultra-rich, and it had ended with a casualty list of over eighty.

The one in the lower right corner was the destruction of a military shipyard in Ipojuca, Brazil. The bomb that had been planted in the dockyard had enough yield to completely destroy three skeletal structures of frigate-sized ships along with more than fifty workers who had been working that night, back in 2006.

The worst thing was that this was just one set out of seventeen. Philip had footage of over sixty such bombings spread from as early as 1986 to today. 

On the TV that hung on the wall in front of the bed, the latest such explosion was the main topic of the news.

“... the pressure wave of the explosion caused severe structural damage to several apartment buildings surrounding the department complex…” in low volume, the newscaster reported in Arabic. The news belt on the bottom of the screen speculated the casualty count to be upwards of thirty. 

That was in Qatar, only thirteen hours ago. Philip had already spotted the similarities; the shape of the explosion in an erratic video captured by a civilian, the aftermath, casualty count and the sheer spontaneity of the chosen target… 

He knew those indicators were way too circumstantial for him to add this to his growing collection of horror stories. He would need a copy of forensics to compare the trace components of the used explosive ordinance, trinitramine cyclotrimethylene in particular, other additional chemical markers and the mass-to-yield ratios. He would also need to see a complete report on the details of the target; the date, time and the bios of individuals who had been at the location at the time of the explosion.

But there was something about the footage that had captured his attention, and all his instincts were adamant that this was one of Oppenheimer’s.

As always, the name invoked a visceral reaction in Philip. The memory of that harrowing evening was fresh in his mind - the imprint of sounds, colours and scents of his wife, child and what used to be his home - still vibrant and undulled even after twenty-two damned years.

“Honey, we're going to be late.” He’s already at the door, pulling on a winter coat over his evening jacket. It's the end of March, but the wind still carries a biting cold, especially in the evenings.

“Give me a minute, darling,” Rose calls out from the living room. She sounds amused, rather than irritated. “I’m just about done packing Tony’s nappy bag.”

She appears next to him after a few minutes. She looks radiant, and her scent wraps around him like an affectionate greeting from spring. She’s not his Guide, but he feels connected to her as though she’s his soulmate. He loves her with everything that he is. Philip steps closer and simply breathes her in as she smiles. 

Anthony looks twice as big as he is, wrapped up in several layers of clothes and a fluffy jacket. His curly hair is tucked under a tiny, fitted beanie. In his mouth, a pacifier bobs up and down as the baby sucks on it in his sleep. 

Philip takes the bag from his wife and looks down at the baby peacefully settled in the crook of her arm. He doesn’t bother smothering the grin that breaks out at the sight of the joyous bundle.  

“He’s napping already.” He points out the obvious. He knows by experience that this is a snag in the almost-two-year-old’s schedule. The chances are, he would be a terror later when he should be in bed.

“You exhausted him earlier with your playtime,” Rose chides him gently, but the sparkle in her eyes takes out the sting of her accusation.

“Hey, don’t blame me,” Philip protests, “I hardly get to spend time with him as it is.”

“And who’s fault is that, Mr Military Man, huh?”

“Here,” Philip says, handing her the keys to his car, “Go get yourselves settled. I’ll lock up.”

She steps out while he switches the lights off. His phone rings just as he closes the front door behind him. With the house keys in one hand, and the baby bag hanging off the same shoulder, Philip uses his free hand to take the phone out of his jacket pocket and answer the call.

The screen announces that the call is coming from a blocked number. 

“Hello.”

“Philip Stonebridge Locke.” An electronically masked voice greets him from the other end, causing a shiver to run down his spine. 

“Who is this?”

“That is not important,” the unidentified man says. There’s a cold edge to his tone that sets off warning bells in Philip’s mind, “What’s important is knowing that today is the day your story ends.”

“Excuse me?” Philip snaps. On the driveway, only about fifteen feet away from him, Rose is walking towards the car he’s parked just outside the gate. 

“For your sins, Philip.” The call cuts.

With Anthony draped over her left shoulder, Rose inserts the key to the door of the car with her right hand. 

A sudden explosion rocks the ground beneath him then, instantly followed by a thundering noise. It reverberates inside his skull, loud enough to rupture his eardrums. Philip falls to his knees, his horrified gaze fixed on the massive fireball that has already engulfed his wife and son.

“Philip?” 

His wife’s soft voice wrenched him back to the present. Philip hadn’t heard her entering the room. Wrapped up in a long silk robe, she was leaning against the doorframe, watching him with a sympathetic look in her eyes. 

“Hiyori, darling,” Philip said softly, inhaling a lungful of her scent. The heady aromatic mix of fresh tea leaves, rosemary, wild cherries and cherry blossoms never failed to bring him a sense of peace and security. It had taken a long while for him to not feel guilty over the comfort he took from her mere presence. “Why are you still up?"

An infinitesimal ripple shivered through his mind. It was a gentle, concerned probe from his Guide. 

“I was wondering when you’d come to bed,” Hiyori murmured, “It’s past eleven, Philip.”

“In a few minutes.” He sighed, his gaze drawing back to the TV almost of its own volition.

Hiyori followed his gaze, and her forehead creased in a frown when she saw what was on the screen. “Is that what I think it is?” Her voice was quiet, but there was a trace of something that sounded like resignation in her tone which Philip heard, nevertheless. 

“It could be,” Philip admitted, refusing to feel guilty about it, “There’s something about it…feels like he left his mark behind.”

“Where?”

“Qatar.”

Her gaze travelled back to him. In his mind, her presence turned a few shades darker in disappointment. 

“You’re leaving.” It wasn’t a question. She already knew. 

“You know I have to, Hiyori.” Philip turned to her, his voice a quiet plea.

She stepped into the room and perched delicately on the edge of the bed on his side. Her eyes never left his. “Do I?” 

“Don’t, please,” Philip shook his head, finding refuge from that all-too-knowing gaze on the screen of his PC. “Not about this.”

“Philip,” she said, resting her hand on his bent knee, “We’ve never asked for anything from you that you couldn’t give, have we?” 

He knew she meant herself and Michael. “No, you haven’t.” And that was the truth.

“And I know that if you tell him, Michael won’t say anything other than that he understands–”

“He does,” Philip swallowed thickly, “He wouldn’t mind.”

It was becoming increasingly difficult to quell the sense of guilt. He forcibly summoned the visage of sleeping Anthony to the forefront of his mind. 

This was for him. This was for Rose.

“Yeah,” Hiyori’s voice was barely a whisper. The look in her eyes was dull and distant. It was as if she was lost in her own memories the same way Philip was, “Michael always understood way more than he should have.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“That while he will never come out and demand it, Michael will appreciate you being there as his father at this crucial point of his life, Philip,” she said, pinning him with an imploring look that was impossible to deny, “A true bonding only happens once.”

Philip knew that. After what he survived two years back, Michael deserved that incredible joy, happiness and sense of true belonging that came from such a bond. While he didn’t care for the brash American that much, Philip had seen that Damien Scott cared about Michael a lot. The connection between them was strong enough that it had been almost tangible, even when they hadn’t quite been on the same page.  

The point was, Michael was alive and well to enjoy all those things that life offered. Anthony wasn’t.

“It’ll take some time for the inquiry to be arranged,” he said, knowing that his Guide could feel his thoughts without him having to elaborate on them, “I’ll be there for that. I gave him my word.”

“And I know you’ll keep it,” Hiyori’s smile was understanding, yet a touch sad, “It's just that it would be nice for Michael to feel, for once, that he doesn't always come second to a ghost two decades old.”

Philip had to consciously tamp down the anger that roared to life at those words. He wasn’t sure whether he succeeded in doing so before she felt the traces of it. “Anthony was my son, Hiyori.” 

“So is Michael, Philip, and he’s still here.”

That was exactly the point, wasn’t it?

“I swore at Anthony’s grave that I wouldn't rest until I found his killer,” Philip did his best to keep his voice level, “That nothing else would stand in the way of that promise. I won't go back on my word even if it takes another two decades… if it takes the rest of my life–”

His wife wasn’t about to accept that and let it go, however. “But you didn’t promise to ignore the rest of your family, did you?” 

“Hiyori–”

“For Yumiko, it’s different - you’re different,” she continued. Hiyori had never been one to mince words. She went straight to the point as she always did. “She’ll never know or understand the version of you Michael and I saw when we came into your life. It wasn’t much, but both of us were there for you at the lowest point of your life. Is it too much to ask for you to be there for possibly the most important event in his life?”

The honest answer was no, it wasn’t. Philip was well aware he was failing as a father by sticking to his choice. But then again, unlike Michael, Philip had already failed Anthony, his firstborn, to the point that he wasn’t around to listen to an apology from his father. 

“I can’t,” Philip said, his mind set on his final choice, “I’m sorry, but I have to go. I can’t take the chance that this might be the time Oppenheimer leaves a clue behind and I’m not there to find it.” 

He had far too many regrets as it was, and he couldn't afford any more. Not when it came to this.

Hiyori stared at him, her dark eyes shining with a plethora of emotions, while the bond between them thrummed with a faint discordant harmony. “If that is your decision, I won’t argue any further,” she murmured after a long moment.

“I’ll let Michael know–”

“He’ll understand,” she repeated, cutting him off quietly, “You’re his father. He accepted you as such before you even adopted him…you became his hero when you saved us back in that aid camp all those years ago.”

“Hiyori–”

She stood up then, looking down at him, her gaze mirroring his own grief back at him, “I can only hope that you’ll be able to convince him one day that he’s your son too.”

Philip felt something tighten in his chest at her words. A recent memory surged to the surface, unbidden. 

“I know you said so in your texts,” he said, his right hand settling on Michael’s shoulder, “but are you really alright?”

“I am,” Michael murmured with a smile, “for the first time in two damned long years.”

Philip pulled him into a hug and felt Michael flinch in his hold before hesitantly returning the embrace.

Had he been that reserved in his affections? Did Michael harbour any doubts that he was accepted and loved?

How could Philip have missed that?

“What?” His question came out a little strangled.

“I wish you all the best with your investigation, Philip,” Hiyori ignored him completely, making it clear that she was done with the discussion. “I’m leaving with Yumi the day after tomorrow. If even half of what’s in that file you compiled is true, I imagine meeting the Scott clan for the first time will be an exciting experience. Goodnight.”

With that, she exited the room, leaving him to ponder for the first time if his commitment to the dead was overshadowing his responsibility to the living.

Chapter Text

The Next Day

Petoskey
Emmet County, Michigan
USA

09:15 Hours (Local)

Michael was lounging on a deck chair next to Damien at the front, enjoying his second mug of coffee when his phone pinged, announcing a text.

It was from his Dad:

<Got a possible lead on Oppenheimer. Going to check it out. Can’t make it there early as originally planned. Text me the details of the Inquiry and I’ll be there.
Your mother and sister’s schedule remains unchanged.> 

Oppenheimer.

That was a name Michael hadn’t thought about in a while, not consciously at least. When your family had its own Sword of Damocles hanging above it for more than two decades, it was hard to ever forget its existence. Or its name.

Michael had been so embroiled in his own issues in the last two years to be actively thinking about the bomber who was more of a ghost than an actual human being. But that didn’t mean he had forgotten the destruction the unknown man was responsible for all those years ago. Michael and his mother had known about the hollow darkness they had invited into their lives, and the perpetual threat it had meant, when they had accepted Philip Locke. The Colonel, still raw with grief, hurt and guilt even after a year since his personal tragedy, hadn’t hidden anything from them when he had accepted the two of them into his life in return. 

As always, the name invoked a tangle of emotions in Michael, frustration and anger being more prominent. Most of his frustration was at their inability to at least put a face to the bomber, let alone hunt him down. It was also frustrating to be angry at a concept rather than a tangible person for having so much power over the man he admired the most.  

There had been countless times when his Dad had just disappeared for weeks at a time, chasing ghosts whenever he thought a bomb explosion had anything to do with Oppenheimer.

Michael had had more than enough time to get used to it. Even now, he couldn’t bring himself to resent the man for wanting some closure for a barely healed wound he had been carrying for over two decades. 

“Everything alright?” In his periphery, Damien watched him with his head cocked to the side. 

That was the downside of keeping himself open, Michael supposed. He knew his expression hadn’t given anything away. He was too trained for that. But Damien was in his territory, where he was most attuned to the Psionic energies that surrounded them, and he was focused on Michael in a way he had never been before. Even as shielded as they were, Michael knew Damien had caught the micro-expressions of his inner turmoil without even trying. 

“Yeah,” he said, expelling his disappointment along with a long exhale, “Something’s come up at work. Dad won’t be here tomorrow, but my mom and sister will.”

“Anything serious?”

Would this finally be the chance they got to learn something substantial about the mysterious bomber? All Michael could do was hope. “Don’t know yet.” 

Damien’s gaze narrowed. He was about to dig for more when a gleaming black SUV took the turn around the treeline, entering the driveway. A blue police cruiser followed it sedately from a few metres behind.

James Scott was a Captain at the local police department, and Michael supposed the cruiser behind him was his ride back after he had dropped off the rental. 

“It’s fine, Damien,” Michael murmured, flashing a smile as he nodded at the new arrivals, “Go say hi to your brother.”

The look in his eyes said that they weren’t quite done talking about it. Michael accepted it with a wordless nod. They would have to revisit the topic once they had weathered the gathering the Scott clan had planned.

Damien straightened from his sprawl and got to his feet when both the vehicles came to a stop next to each other. The man who climbed out of the driver’s side of the SUV could have been Damien’s twin if Damien were an inch or so taller, his shoulders a little more broader and had a happy beer paunch spilling over his belt buckle.

“James, you asshole!” Damien yelled as he cleared the three steps leading down the deck in a jog. Their enthusiastic bear hug involved even more traded insults and a lot of back-slapping that had Michael wincing in sympathy, for both of them.

He was content to stay where he was, sipping the last bit of his coffee, while the brothers completed their greeting ritual. Even though Damien had kept in touch with his family to let them know that he was alive and well, it had been sporadic at best. This was the first time he was seeing them in a little over a year. Damien had already confided in Michael that he would have to face some music over that largely unforgivable crime. 

The way James was holding onto Damien, visibly reluctant to let go, made it clear to Michael that he had missed his younger brother something fierce. It was also a preview of what to expect when he finally got to meet the rest of the Scott clan.

Michael had a feeling that Damien would only have to face the dreaded music after everyone had made sure their youngest had made it back in one piece and perfect health. After they had showered the wayward Scott with lots of love and affection.

The next few words out of James’ mouth shattered all those fond musings. 

“I was told to watch out for a stunning blonde,” the older Scott grinned, taking off his sunglasses. He glanced at the front door pointedly, and elbowed Damien in the side, “With blazing blue eyes and curves to die for.”

Michael froze, the outer layer of his open shields snapping shut around his mind in reflex seconds before the inquiring probe of James’ shields brushed over him as he searched. 

Stunning blonde with blue eyes and curves, Michael felt cold, numb , as his frantic mind latched onto the only possibility those words could have described; Christy Bryant.

What else could she have been managing? His own stray thought from the previous evening slammed back into Michael’s mind from nowhere. He hadn't had a definite answer then, but judging by the extreme confusion in Damien’s frown and the look of disappointment that was starting to darken James’ expression, he had it now.

Damien’s family. That was what she had been managing. That fucking bitch!

“The fuck are you on about?” Damien snapped.

“I wasn't here when your Guide showed up, man,” James planted his hands on his hips, and shrugged, “Derrick and Leo couldn't shut up about it.” 

“My what?”  

“Your smoking hot Guide,” James replied in irritation, only sparing a distracted nod at Michael before turning his attention back to his brother. “The lady who came here looking for you about a month and a half back.” 

Damien stared at his brother as if he had been slapped, while his brother watched him the same way a concerned mother would watch a child she suspected was coming down with the flu. 

Michael watched them both, his mind racing. 

Bryant had visited the Scott family during Damien’s absence. Damien hadn’t known, and neither she nor his family had ever made a mention of it. What were the chances that she hadn’t intruded into their minds? Especially if she had been warmly welcomed into their midst after she had led them to believe that she was Damien’s Guide? 

None.

She wouldn’t have let such an easy chance to solidify her status pass by her claws. 

Never.

If there ever was a time Michael regretted not having enough time to comb through Bryant’s revolting hellhole of a mind, it was right then. If he’d done that, he wouldn’t be staring at a pale-faced, horrified Damien now.

There was no point mourning over missed opportunities. It only served to waste precious time they didn’t have. 

“Damien, brother, is everything okay?” James’ voice went low with sudden concern.

Michael abandoned his perch on the deck chair, took two steps over to the railing, and leaned over the handrail.

“Scott, you’re a right prick, man,” he accused Damien with a grin before Damien could form a reply, “You forgot, didn’t you?”

Damien turned a narrow-eyed glare at Michael but didn’t say a thing. He was trusting Michael to take the lead despite the mounting anger that was reddening his face.

“Christy missed her flight,” Michael continued with a pleasant, slightly apologetic tone, “We were supposed to meet at Heathrow yesterday, but she had a last-minute meeting she couldn’t cancel.”

“You know Christy?” James wrinkled his nose, focusing on Michael for the first time. He also felt another more focused probe brush against his shields and knew James wouldn’t feel anything but the rough edges of a Latent.

“We work together.” 

“MI6 defected to the CIA?” James laughed.

“Honestly, mate,” Michael said with an answering snort, “Seeing the perks your brother and his Guide enjoy, I wish I had.”

“I’m James, Damien’s older brother.” Sparing a mock-disappointed head shake at Damien, possibly for his bad manners, James stepped towards the railing, holding his hand up towards Michael, “Nice to meet ya.”

“Locke,” Michael shook the offered hand over the handrail, “you can call me Mike, and pleasure’s all mine.”

Over James’ shoulder, Michael saw Damien staring at him with a storm brewing behind his eyes, while the rest of his expression remained expertly blank. 

“How long have you guys been working together?”

At Michael's pointed gaze, Damien finally joined the conversation with a forced grin plastered on his face. “About three weeks. It was a joint op.”

“Must have been some op,” James’ tone acquired a curious edge as he studied Micheal, “for Damien to bring you along for his bonding.”

“What can I say, mate,” Micheal chuckled self-deprecatingly, “I make friends everywhere I go.”

“So when is the guest of honour arriving?”

Damien didn't avert his gaze from Michael when he answered his brother’s inquiry, “Later tonight.”

“Ah, man! Mom and Dad’s gonna be pissed!” James groaned. “They have the grill fired up already. If she’s only landing in Detroit tonight, it’ll be around midnight when she finally gets here.”

“Nah,” Damien clapped his brother on the back with a grin he managed to make almost genuine, “She’ll find a closer airfield. She's resourceful.”

“You and your spook business,” James shook his head, and dropped a key fob into Damien's hand, “Don't be late. Half the family is already there at the ranch. Waiting.”

“We’ll be there in a few,” Damien promised in a strained voice.

“Did you find a place for your friend to stay?”

“Uh-”

Micheal didn't have a good answer either. James looked back and forth between them and sighed.

“You idiot!” He smacked Damien lightly on the back of his head before turning to Micheal, “If you can’t find a place on short notice, gimme a call, or Derrick. Damien has our numbers. We both have extra rooms if you don't mind noisy kids.”

“Cheers, James,” it was Michael’s turn to accept the elder Scott brother’s effortless generosity with a strained smile, “Appreciate the offer.”

He didn't hang around after that. After another hug for Damien and a cheerful wave at Michael, James got in the cruiser that had been waiting patiently and took off in the same direction they had arrived.

Damien rounded on Michael just as he climbed down the short flight of stairs to join him.

“Michael–”

“She was here,” Michael cut him off, wanting to get to the most important point without any arguments, “Nothing could have stopped her from doing the same thing she did to you to your family–”

“Fuck!” Damien went pale while horror and fury warred over his expression, “We need to have them checked.”

“Think, Damien,” Michael urged, “James said she visited only a month and a half ago. Is there any Guide you trust who couldn't have met her?”

“Yeah,” Damien murmured, “You.”

“Can’t be me,” Michael pointed out apologetically, “We don't know what kind of triggers she may have left. Could be my name, face, scent…anything really.”

“Your name–” Damien frowned and then scoffed, “Locke? Really?”

Well, it hadn’t been a lie, not exactly. 

“Was the first thing that came to my mind,” Michael muttered, deciding to avoid a topic he knew would take time they didn’t really have to waste right then, “Couldn’t take the chance your brother might call ahead and drop my name.”

“But Michael,” Damien protested, more out of desperation than any logic, “She didn't have enough time to mess with my family. Not the way she did with me.”

“More time allows for more refinement, more control,” Michael explained from a Guide’s point of view, “Less time means aiming for as much destruction as possible with the crudest available triggers. You don't need me to explain the difference between a complex nuke and an IED, do you?”

Michael hated the way Damien’s shoulders slumped, visibly deflating, “What do we do, Michael?”

“You need to find a way to tell them you believe they've been compromised,” Michael said, “And that they need to be checked over by a Guide, just to be sure–”

“Yeah,” Damien muttered sarcastically, “I can see that going down well.”

Michael swallowed, ducking his head, “I'm so sorry–”

“Hey, no,” Damien’s hand found his right wrist, his grip warm and sure, “This clusterfuck has nothing to do with you.”

Michael looked up, aiming for a smile. But all he could manage was a pained grimace, “It has everything to do with me.”

“I really want to kill that bitch again.” Damien ground out, pulling him closer.

“Yeah,” Michael sighed, settling into the warmth his embrace offered, “You and me both.”

“What will you do?”

“I'll stay here,” Michael decided, letting his forehead rest on Damien’s shoulder for a minute, “Let me know how it goes. It shouldn't be difficult for a Guide to figure out how they've been manipulated. Once we have that information, I'll be able to help.” 

“Jesus, fuck.”

“Do you have anyone in mind?”

“Yeah, Kelly,” Damien murmured, “They only came back a week or so ago. Their family usually spends half the summer at her mother’s place in Wisconsin.” 

“Look,” Michael said, pulling back a little so he could look the dejected Sentinel in the eye, “This is all a precaution, yeah? Maybe I'm being paranoid. Maybe they haven't been touched. If that’s the case, you can give me hell for it later and we can move on.”

“I know,” Damien answered, his voice quiet, “But, I don't think that's the case. You don't pull this kinda shit for no reason.”

Michael didn’t have a counter for that simple statement. “No, I don't.” He admitted.

“And, I trust you.” 

Michael placed a quick but firm kiss on his lips, smiling when he felt Damien gasp into it, “I'll be okay, Damien,” he murmured when they parted, “We'll figure it out.”  

Damien leaned in and kissed him again, pouring a heady mix of anger and determination into it. It was more of a promise than a temporary goodbye. 

“I'll call you,” he said, his eyes shining.

Michael nodded, “Get going.”

***

The Scott family home - a ranch house that sat in the middle of three acres of farming land - was only a thirteen-mile drive from Damien’s lake house. The road was mostly gravel, with intermittent stretches of asphalt and lazy curves around other farms and ranches, and was largely free of traffic.

Damien hardly paid any attention to the empty road he drove, his mind thoroughly occupied with what had just occurred.

Christy fucking Bryant, he cursed, the bitch is still a fucking nuisance even while her corpse is rotting in some hellhole.

This was not how he had imagined the visit going. Michael should have been with him, sitting next to him in the passenger seat. The arranged gathering of welcome should have been for him, as much as it was for Damien.

But Michael was right, he knew that. As paranoid as he had sounded, Damien trusted his instincts. He had been quick enough to take control of the situation before James had realised something was wrong. Before Damien had even begun to put two and two together. 

But Michael’s always quick on his feet when it comes to snap decisions, isn't he? Damien had already witnessed that decisive quality of him during those weeks they had spent in the Afghan desert. He had experienced more than enough of it during the latest mission when they had gone after Latif. 

Michael didn’t bother explaining himself or wasting time deliberating when he detected a situation or a threat before the others did. It was one of those things that elevated him to a special operator from a regular soldier. At the same time, it was a quality that made him very different from the other Guides. 

It is all good and well if the infuriating man would just quit putting himself in danger without warning … Damien wasn’t sure if the griping was his own or his Sentinel's, but they were both in agreement. It was becoming obvious that Michael had a tendency to either risk himself or remove himself altogether when he thought it was the best way to solve a tricky situation. 

It was another thing they were going to have a good talk over once the current possible mess was dealt with, Damien sighed. There was a considerable list growing about things that they really needed to hash out, it seemed.

Now, if the fucking universe would kindly let them take a minute to figure those things out…it would be fucking fantastic, thank you very much.

Wrenching his mind back to the said current mess, Damien realised that it had been nothing but dumb luck that had made him keep the details of his visit from his parents. He had only told them that he was bringing his Guide home. He had deliberately, somewhat cheekily, avoided explaining further, thinking he’d make it a pleasant surprise. 

Now they had a surprise in their laps. It just wasn’t the one Damien had planned, and it was most definitely not a good one.

It was difficult to keep his shields wrapped around his mind, especially when the Sentinel side of him was prowling agitatedly so close to the surface. Damien hated having to leave Michael behind. Hated having to hide his goddamned Guide from his own goddamned family in his own fucking territory. 

His frustrations did nothing to change the fact that Michael had a point. 

All the Scotts had shotguns, rifles or handguns, and none of them went anywhere without them. It was just how they were, considering almost all of them were attached to some sort of law enforcement. Even his Dad had been the county sheriff before he retired and started pouring his entire free time into the family farm. If Bryant had left the slightest trigger in any of them to react rashly at the sight of Michael, it would definitely end up in a bloodbath. Michael was right when he said he didn't want to risk it. There were kids in the vicinity for fuck's sake! 

He saw what James had meant when he finally pulled into the paved driveway that led to his childhood home. 

The number of trucks, minivans and SUVs that were already parked in a neat row at the front told him that the party was already in full swing. 

Damien pulled his rental over next to an old, mud-stained minivan, and got out.

The kids saw him first. The bouncy castle was set up at the corner of the front yard, half blocking the gravel path that led to the back. 

A chorus of shrieks, screams and yells welcomed him home as he approached. A small-scale riot ensued as they all pushed and shoved each other in their haste to get out of the air-filled contraption’s small opening. 

Altogether, ten kids piled out, which told Damien that his second older brother, Derrick, and both his sisters, Lucy and Catherine, were already there. He spent the obligatory fifteen minutes listening to the kids as they yelled over each other trying to tell him a hundred stories at once. 

“Oi!”

Leo was the first to spot him as he walked to the back where the grill was set up. Half the kids followed him while the younger half went back to jumping up and down inside the bouncy castle. 

“Nice to see you finally remembered how to get home.” 

Damien returned the hug with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, forcibly shoving his worries into a corner of his mind. He had to play the part until he got a chance to corner Kelly and her husband. 

“Leo,” Damien grinned when he was released by his brother, “How’s it going?”

Leo subjected him to a head-to-toe scan, his gaze checking Damien over critically. “Glad you’re still in one piece, brother.” He said quietly. 

Damien’s recovery period hadn’t gone unnoticed by his siblings, even when they had kept their distance during those months, respecting his need for isolation and privacy. 

“Yeah,” Damien said, “I’m fine, man, all healed up and back in the game.”

“That’s great, bro,” Leo replied, choosing not to pry further. Damien knew he would get cornered for that discussion at a later stage when they weren’t surrounded by the entire clan. “Heard your Guide is delayed. James called.”

“Um, yeah. She’ll be here in a few hours,” Damien lied with a straight face, his training aiding him in keeping an even heartbeat his Sentinel brother could hear easily.

Leo frowned, and made a show of looking over Damien’s shoulder, “So where’s your friend?”

“Something came up at work. I’ll go get him in a bit.”

Leo shook his head, his expression clearly saying what he thought about Damien and his secretive friends. 

“Come on, then,” he said, gripping Damien by the arm to lead him to the rest of the gathering, “Let’s get this party started.”

The massive grill was at the furthest corner of the yard, right up next to the fence that separated the yard from the farmlands. Damien’s dad, his uncles, Herby and Joseph, and Joseph's son, Henry, were surrounding the grill. All of them were armed with tongs and spatulas, handling the sizzling meat. 

A long table was set up in the middle, overflowing with salads, charcuterie boards, rolls, bread and condiments. Both his sisters, his mom, two aunts and his cousins were arranging the cutlery and the plates. Half of them had glasses of wine and brandy in their free hands as they moved around, chatting among themselves.

Damien was swamped by countless hugs, back pats and kisses on the cheek when he was finally noticed, the greeting no less loud or raucous than the one he was subjected to by the kids. Despite the worry nagging at the corner of his mind, Damien found himself relaxing in the midst of his family as he returned their affections with equal vigour. The sense of safety, love and belonging wrapped around him in a forever welcoming embrace as it always did whenever he returned home. 

“I can’t believe you’re all here,” Damien addressed them when they gave him some space to breathe, “I only called, what, two days ago?”

“More or less,” cousin Nick, Uncle Herby’s oldest and another Sentinel, flashed an insolent grin, “Not like any of us were going to miss this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! Damien, the family stud, settling down with a Guide… who’d have thought!”

That was greeted by nods and laughter all around. Damien grinned and inclined his head. He wasn’t going to fight what was essentially the truth.

“Where’s my kid?” He asked his mom when the mob dispersed back to their self-appointed duties. 

“He and Jacob have football practice,” Kelly announced from behind him with her husband, Doug at her side. Jacob was Leo’s kid, who was also seventeen, just like Finn. “James will pick them up and bring them here in a couple of hours.”

Damien didn’t have time to talk to her further as one by one, his cousins gathered around him. They asked him about his travels, work and his Guide, the way they always did whenever he got home. He answered as much as he could, skirting around the things he did for work and giving them just enough insights about Christy Bryant to keep them from digging too hard. 

Someone pushed a plate full of food into his hands at some point, and the third bottle of beer found its way to him as another one of his siblings saw him with nothing in his free hand. Finn showed up with Jacob and James two hours later, just as Kelly said. He settled on the seat next to Damien and launched into a detailed account of how his practising session had gone. 

It took him a while to find some time to himself. Gesturing that he needed a minute to make contact with the office, Damien finally made his escape into the deserted kitchen. Knowing the secrecy involving his job, none of them followed him inside.

Finally free of the constant attention, Damien heaved a sigh of relief, collapsing on a chair by the dining table. Making a call was out of the question, since more than three-quarters of the rambunctious assembly were online Sentinels. He figured texting was the safest option, and he needed to find out how Michael was doing, since it had been close to four hours since he had gotten there.

<Hey.>

The reply from Michael was immediate. < Is everything okay?>

<For now.> Damien sent. <No one’s shown any signs of madness, not more than usual, in any case. I haven’t found time to talk to Kelly yet.>

<Alright.>

Damien felt a pang of guilt, thinking about how Michael was in an essentially unfamiliar place all by himself while Damien was having a great time with his family. It didn’t matter that Michael was a grown man more than capable of taking care of himself. Or that Damien had his own problems finding out which of his family members were compromised. The Sentinel in him was thoroughly displeased at having left his Guide to fend for himself.  

<You doing okay?> he sent, biting back a sigh. <The fridge should be stocked. The food delivery isn’t the best in this area. Sorry.>

<I’m fine, Damien.> came the reply, somehow managing to convey exasperation and reassurance at the same time, despite the lack of words. <Keep me posted.>

Damien sent a thumbs up in reply and pocketed the phone with another sigh. The bottle he had in his hand was empty, and he didn’t feel like another one. He had to find Kelly and Doug, and fill them in on the real issue before his family members started leaving.

Chapter Text

Damien’s Lake House

Petoskey
Emmet County, Michigan
USA

15.27 Hours

Michael stared at the phone in his hand, his mind still whirling around Christy Bryant and Damien’s family. Considering the time it took for Damien to touch base, Michael figured the family gathering was probably in full swing, trapping Damien in all kinds of small talk before he could find a way to broach the tricky subject.

Michael had no idea how Damien could go about it. It wasn’t as if he could round them up and announce that he had a suspicion their minds had been messed with. That wouldn't go down remotely well amidst the bunch of online Sentinels and Guides.

He had at least managed to put the free time he’d had to good use. After a light breakfast, he had combined sight-seeing with exercising and gone for a run. As Damien had promised, there weren't any other properties for a good two miles, and he had completed a five-mile circuit twice without running into a single soul. He had returned sweat-soaked, all his limbs pleasantly warm and aching, and spent the next two hours in Damien’s quiet and isolated backyard on his meditation. 

He had just come out of a long, hot shower when the texts had come in.

Both his body and mind felt refreshed and cleansed despite the worry over the potential threat they might be dealing with for the next few days. The physical workout had felt invigorating, which had also taken care of the last lingering traces of the jet lag that clung to him. His shields still vibrated minutely around his mind, responding to the enthusiastic Psionic energies of Michigan that seemed determined to gather around him in waves.

As Damien promised, Michael had found enough food in the fridge to feed about ten people for a week. Judging by the number of Tupperware containers crammed inside every corner, he assumed the fridge had been stocked by Damien’s family, not the hired service. 

He had just popped one of the smaller casseroles in the microwave when his phone rang again.

“Hey, Mom.” He answered the call with a smile.

“Michael, I just wanted to let you know Yumi and I are at Heathrow.”

Michael could hear the noise of the crowds and electronic announcements through the line. Checking the time on his wristwatch, he figured that his mother and sister had about half an hour left until the boarding started.

“Is the flight on time?”

“Looks like it.”

“You should land at Detroit around one in the morning then,” Michael said.

“We’ll crash at the airport hotel and make our way there later in the afternoon.”

“Mom, we can–”

“Nonsense, Michael,” she cut him off the same way she had done twice before when he had tried to offer to pick them up from the airport. “You just enjoy your time off work, please. We’re perfectly capable of hiring a rental.”

“Alright.” He acquiesced without further protests.

Michael knew he’d never be privy to how she sensed his troubles during the short silence that followed. 

“Is everything okay?” She asked, her voice dropping low in concern.

Michael debated brushing it aside for a few seconds before deciding against it. If Damien found out that his family was compromised, they might even end up needing her help.

“Not sure,” he sighed.

“I don’t like the sound of that, Michael.”

Michael filled her in on what happened; starting with Damien’s brother’s arrival, his concerns about Bryant’s visit that neither of them had known about, and the possibility that the corrupt Guide may have meddled with Damien’s family.

“It’s good that you haven’t made contact, son,” his mother agreed when he finished, “If the wretched woman has left compulsions behind, they won't be as refined as the ones she left in your Sentinel.”

“That’s what I figured, too.”

“Seems I will make it there right on time to help,” she asserted, and Michael could just about imagine the determined set to her jaw when she made up her mind.  

“It would be greatly appreciated,” he said softly, “Thank you.” 

“Of course,” his mother used the same tone she did when she thought he was being an idiot, “They are going to be family, Michael, it’s the least I can do.”

Michael accepted that with another small smile, and changed the subject, “Where’s the teenage terror?”

“Oh, dear,” It was his mother’s turn to sigh, albeit a bit more exaggeratedly, “I don’t know! Last I saw, she was wandering off towards the gift shop.”

“Your boarding starts in half an hour, doesn't it?” Michael chuckled. His mother and sister had a rather strange relationship.

“Yes, if she makes it here by then, you’ll see her,” she replied, seemingly unconcerned, “If not… ah, well, she knows how to catch a cab to get her arse back home.”

“Really mother?” Michael heard Yumi’s exasperated tone over the sound of his mother’s quiet laugh. “Oi, brother, are you still alive?”

“Yeah, Yumi,” Michael snorted, “Thanks for asking.”

“Stay that way, then,” she ordered, already sounding very much like the Sentinel she was going to become sooner than later, “We’ll see ya soon.”

“You too.” He said, “Have a safe flight.”

“Will do.”

Scott Family Ranch House

Petoskey
Emmet County, Michigan
USA

Meanwhile…

Damien cornered Kelly and Doug when the two broke off from the spirited discussion they’d been having with Damien’s cousins Wayne, David and Yvonne. 

“I need to talk to you two, alone.”  

Either something in his tone or his grave expression, had them exchanging a quiet glance. They followed Damien without a comment, wearing identical expressions of intrigue as he led them towards the barn further away. The small outbuilding was where all the gardening tools were kept, and his Dad’s wood workshop was set up. His Dad kept the space clean, dust-free, and the clutter to a minimum. The barn was also tucked in the opposite corner from the grill, which offered the privacy he needed, along with the distance from the rest of his family. Besides, if any of the nosy ones decided to pay a visit, Damien would be able to hear their approach, which would give him enough warning.

Once inside, Damien closed the door and locked it before turning to face them.

“Damien, what is–Oh!” Kelly started, but cut herself off with a gasp when she realised he had opened his shields, calling up the Psionic energies around them to act like a barrier against the sharpened senses of the online Sentinels outside.

“Did you just shield the barn?” Doug squinted, letting his own shields probe the air around them warily. 

“I did,” Damien said, “There’s something I need to share with you and I need your help.”

“Anything man,” Doug said while Kelly nodded in agreement, having already figured out that Damien was dead serious, “Hit us.”

“First of all, did either of you get to meet my Guide?”

“No, Damien, we only got back from my Mom’s last week,” Kelly replied with a frown, “I’m sure Finn told you that, didn’t he?”

“He did,” Damien sighed, “I had to make sure.”

He moved toward the workbench and hitched his hip up so he could sit on the edge of the table. Kelly perched on the single chair across from him. Doug dragged one of the empty wooden storage boxes to sit next to his wife. 

“Did something happen to her?” Doug asked, concerned.

“Oh, yeah, but I’ll get to it,” said Damien, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. “Do you remember how I came home a couple of years back? Fucked up in the head with a nasty case of backlash?”

“Damien,” Kelly leaned forward, planting her hands flat on the workbench surface, “What’s going on?”

“I was in Afghanistan when it happened, just after a mission,” Damien said quietly, unable to prevent the terrible memory from surfacing, “I got fucked up because I almost killed my Guide…”

His declaration went down about as expected. Both of them drew in loud, startled breaths, and stared at him, wide-eyed, as if trying to figure out if they had heard him wrong. 

“You almost killed Christy? ” Doug repeated, his voice going low in a growl. His blue eyes turned darker as Damien watched, his inner Sentinel thoroughly offended at the notion that Damien could do something terrible, “Jesus! Why?”

“That’s what I’m about to tell you,” Damien replied calmly, “Only it wasn’t Christy I almost killed,” Although I really should have. “I shot my actual Guide because she fucked with my mind…”

“Your actual Guide?” Doug repeated, squinting.

“Damien,” Kelly murmured, having finally found her voice, “I don’t understand.”

“Christy Bryant’s not my Guide, she never was,” Damien said just as quietly, “I met him during the mission. His name is Michael.”

“His name?”

“Your Guide is a man?” Doug shook his head, “Are you sure, Damien?”

Damien sighed. “It’s easier to show you. Give me your hands.”

He took Kelly’s left hand in his right and Doug’s right in his left. Doug clasped his free hand with his wife’s. Relaxing the shields, Damien cleared his mind of all thoughts except for the memory of the night he found Michael back in Sarajevo, Bosnia.

The memory sprang up as clear and defined as ever:

Damien stood by the open door, his entrance barred by a pale-faced, mumbling Christy Bryant. Over her shoulder, he could see Michael slumped on the chair, the hilt of a knife sticking out of his chest. The light grey t-shirt he wore rapidly darkened with a red stain.

He hardly gave it a thought when he snapped the woman’s neck, quickly and efficiently clearing his path to his Guide. It took him three steps to close the distance, and he fell to a knee in front of Michael when the injured Guide failed to respond.

“Oh, God!” Kelly gasped. She squeezed his hand once before withdrawing her own, shaking her head in a desperate attempt to lessen the intensity of the memory. As a Level Three on the Guide scale, or an 'Apprentice Guide', Damien knew that Kelly not only saw the memories he deliberately shared, but felt everything he'd felt in that moment, as well.

Next to her, Doug stared at Damien, pale-faced and horrified. He withdrew his hand from Damien’s grip to run it roughly across his face, as if he wanted to wipe the memory he'd just witnessed from his mind. He pulled Kelly close to him, his arm over her shoulder.

“It started when I told Bryant that I had found my Guide and that it was Michael…” Damien started quietly.

He proceeded to tell them both about how Bryant had been planting compulsions in his mind for years in order to enthral him and bind him to her as her Sentinel one day. He told them how she had planted fake memories to make him forget Michael, and make him believe that he was killing a terrorist when he had shot down his Guide. Without going into the specific details of the mission, he then filled them in on how he'd met Michael for the second time only a week ago. He also told them how Michael had managed to wipe all those intrusions out of his mind, freeing him from her clutches. 

They both listened raptly, without making a single interruption.  

‘Jesus fucking Christ!” Doug cursed softly when Damien finished, “I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around this, man.” 

Kelly was a teacher, and her disbelief and horror at his story was obvious. Doug was a detective at the neighbouring county’s police department. As such, he had seen some revolting things during his long career. His expression said what he had just learned went beyond all of it.

“We’re planning to inform the Council about this ourselves, after we bond,” Damien said, “To sort it all out before things get out of hand. Just in case there are others she fucked with other than me–”

“But why didn’t you bring him, Damien?” Doug demanded, “Why all the secrecy?”

“Oh, my God!” Kelly gasped, “You think Bryant did the same with your family, don’t you? That's why you’re only talking to the two of us with Psionic soundproofing, isn’t it?”

“Pretty much,” Damien agreed. “I only knew she dropped by during my absence when James told us. It was Michael’s idea to stay back. He said if she did plant any triggers in any of the others, they’d be crude–”

“And unpredictable,” Kelly finished his thought, nodding along, “Anyone could just start throwing punches or pull out a damn gun!”

“Exactly.” 

“I don’t know, man,” Doug muttered, glancing between his wife and Damien, “Seems awfully farfetched to think that this woman could have messed with anyone’s mind. She wasn’t even here for a week.”

“Yeah, it is,” Damien replied, “Except, she made me think I was shooting a terrorist instead of my own fucking Guide. She was too fucking powerful, clever and dangerous…”

“And too fucking evil,” Kelly muttered. Her thin frame shuddered under Doug’s arm.

“That too,” Damien sighed and looked up to pin them both with a serious gaze, “So, I need help. We need to start checking everyone, one by one. Michael said an online Guide would be able to tell.”

“Any kind of mental compulsions show up like dark stains in the mind space,” Kelly murmured thoughtfully, “But Damien, except for the initial six-month training I received after coming online, I’m not formally trained. I wouldn’t know how to remove any psychical intrusions without making things worse.” 

“I know, Kelly,” Damien said, “I only need you to find which ones are infected. I’m sure you’ll sense the triggers, or at least get the impressions of what they look like. I'll take you to Michael once you’re done. He’ll know what to do.”

“Two years is not a lot of time for a Guide whose metamorphosis was trauma-induced to train to that extent, is it?” Doug asked hesitantly.

“No, it’s not,” Damien said. He could understand the other Sentinel’s scepticism. “The thing is, from what little I’ve seen, I can tell you he’s pretty damned good. You’ll see what I mean when you meet him.”

“Alright, man,” Doug accepted that with a firm nod, and shared a determined glance with his wife before facing Damien again, “How are we going to convince your family to let Kelly poke around in their minds?”

“I can’t tell the truth, and I can’t lie,” Damien sighed. It didn’t matter how well he was trained, someone would notice a spike in his pulse or a dip in his voice one way or another. They were his family and they knew him, after all. “So I was thinking of sticking to something in between…”

The Traffic Department
Khalifa Street, Madinat Khalifa
State of Qatar

22.35 Hours (Local)

Philip brought the SUV to a gentle stop a hundred yards away from the squat, two-story building that used to be the city's Traffic Department. Despite the late hour, the row of street lamps had the street well illuminated. Under the orange-yellow glow, the aftermath of the explosion told its own story. What was left of the blackened walls were spiderwebbed with massive fissures. Broken and fragmented floors could be seen through where the outer walls had completely disintegrated. Most of the structure looked skeletal due to all the exposed steel beams and the haphazard piles of debris. 

There were apartment buildings on either side of the ruined building, as well as a row of more apartments and shops to the back. Philip could see that most of the walls of those structures were cracked and soot-stained, the glass sliding doors and windows cracked or completely broken. He knew for a fact that the occupants of the buildings within a half-mile radius had been evacuated until all of them were subjected to thorough structural integrity tests.

Even though it had been more than twenty-four hours, the air was still thick with smoke. Thin trails of it hung around the building in a dark grey cloud, an ominous warning for the instability of the shaky, still-crumbling remains.

Philip got out of the vehicle, closed the door behind him, and walked over slowly towards the yellow, crime-scene tape erected around the building. 

The cop in the blue-grey uniform watched him wearily and barked out a highly accented command when Philip came to a stop a few feet away from the crossed tapes. “Halt!”

“Good evening,” Philip said, making sure to keep his hands casually at his sides. where the patrolman could see them clearly, “I’m Colonel Locke, from the British embassy. You were informed of my arrival.”

The cop - Walid, according to his name tag - had his hand resting on the butt of the handgun in his hip holster, although he made no move to draw it. “Identification.”

Telegraphing his every move, Philip opened his jacket and took out his passport from the inner pocket to hand it over. He had pulled a few strings to get himself attached to the investigative division of the ambassador’s security team. Since the explosion had occurred within a ten-mile radius of the British embassy on Nega Umm Garn Street, they were obligated to investigate to make sure it had no impact on the embassy’s security.

Walid exchanged a few words in Arabic via his radio with his precinct, conveying Philips' details on the passport to make sure he was who he said he was. After a tense few seconds, he handed the passport back and his demeanour visibly relaxed.

“Thank you, Colonel Locke,” he said, reverting to English, although Philip had no trouble understanding his rapid Arabic, “Your authorisation was confirmed.”

“Cheers.”

“It’s not recommended to approach any closer to the building, sir,” the cop informed him while Philip put his passport back inside his jacket pocket. “The fire department has issued a warning that it might collapse any time. It’s not stable.”

“Yes, I can see,” Philip agreed. He had no intention of poking around ruins, not when he could do it easily with his enhanced senses from a safe distance. “I won’t cross the tape. But I do, however, need to walk around the perimeter, if you don't mind.”

The cop had no issues with that. With a nod and a handshake, he went back to his post while Philip stood still, his gaze fixed on the scene of destruction as he let his mental shields relax around his mind.

Qatar felt entirely different when viewed through its integrated layer of Psionic energies. The energies that entered his mind at his call carried with them a sense of solidity that only came from being ancient, having persevered through millennia of experiences and changes.

It was almost similar to the energies of London, his territory, but flavoured and tempered with distinctly Arabic history, culture, beliefs and people. The Plane was also quite fragmented and chaotic, due to the multiple nationalities that called the country home. 

The ruins before him gained sharper definition and colour in his heightened vision, allowing him to examine the destruction more critically. Philip ran his gaze methodically over the aftermath, taking in the shapes and contours of the remains, and realised that it hadn’t been just one explosion, but a chain reaction of a few well-placed explosives.

Oppenheimer had not only entered the building, but had managed to place explosives on both the floors, mainly targeting both vertical and horizontal support pillars and even the corners of the foundation of the building, ensuring maximum destruction with the least amount of explosives.

Under the cloying smell of smoke, burning wood, and concrete, lay faint traces of burnt human flesh, Philip caught the stench of chemicals and motor oil, confirming that the bomb had contained C-4.

He knew he would have to wait a while for the chemical analysis report, but a certain gut instinct had him convinced that when it did arrive, it would be exactly the same as the reports from the previous crime scenes.

Philip spent a few minutes studying and cataloguing the scene, committing each and every sensory experience to his memory. The more time he spent there, the more convinced he became that Oppenheimer was responsible. He knew that the investigations were jeopardised when the investigator committed to making the facts fit his or her theory, instead of the other way around. But he had long ago learned to trust his ingrained instincts, which had no logical basis, but were hardly wrong when it came to certain matters. 

With a nod to the cop who was unobtrusively standing to the side, Philip started walking along the cracked sidewalk. His phone vibrated in his back pocket just as he reached the small alleyway that led to the back of the burned building.

It was from the embassy, “Sir,” said the sergeant of the night shift when he answered the call. “You wanted to know when the final casualty reports were in. We received them just now. I’ve forwarded them to your inbox.”

“Thank you,” Philip said, his gaze taking in the row of four-story apartment buildings and the single-story shops that were scattered in between, “Any idea when the chemical analysis will be back?”

“We only have the preliminary report, sir. And the fire marshal’s report. Would you like copies of them too?”

“Yes, please. Send it all to my email. I’ll have a look when I get back.”

“Will do, sir.”

“Cheers.”

Philip pocketed the phone after cutting the call, letting out a relieved sigh when a cool breeze wafted over from the west. It was one of the hottest and driest months in the region, and even the nights, which usually cooled down rapidly due to desert weather, remained stiflingly hot. Anything that helped bring the temperature down, even if it was a small gust of wind, was more than welcome. 

All the shops were closed, he noticed as he strolled down the much smaller and narrower street at the back. Most of the apartment units were dark, curtains drawn over the windows while the occupants slept, and only a few remained lit here and there at odd intervals. 

The back of the Traffic Department wasn’t much different from the front. Unlike the front, the roof over the back half of the building was completely gone, disintegrated in the explosion. The entire left half had nothing but a door frame that had somehow managed to remain standing, while the wall that anchored it lay around it in the debris. The right side still had some of its wall left, albeit badly cracked. A steel door, presumably from the still-standing frame, lay at an angle on the sidewalk, against a pile of concrete and bricks. 

Once he had learned all he could, Philip let his attention wander back over to the dimly lit apartments on the other side of the street. Most of the stained walls were filled with graffiti, mainly patterns born out of traditional designs and statements written in Arabic.

On the wall that was directly in front of him, under a few mangled quotes from the Quran spray painted in flowing Arabic, a small, crude graffiti line caught Philip’s attention.

Closer inspection revealed that it wasn't even spray paint, but charcoal. Philip had an uneasy feeling that it was the dirt and grime from the explosion.

His pulse racing, Philip crossed the street and crouched next to the wall.

Underneath the thin film of soot, the clumsy Arabic writing stood out as if mocking him:

“For your sins.”

Damien’s Lake House

Petoskey
Emmet County, Michigan
USA

16:48 Hours

Branch One team leader, Senior Agent Aaron Spencer knelt behind one of the aspens, about four hundred yards away from his target. The neatly grown line of trees provided more than enough cover for his team to approach the location without being detected. According to the intel they had, the owner of the property, a Level Five Sentinel, was not currently at the premises. The raid had been arranged to fit into the window of his absence due to well…the unorthodox, and if Spencer were honest, not quite legal, trampling of the Sentinel’s rights as a Midwest Council member as well as an American citizen. 

“Alpha team in position.” Agent Miller’s voice came through his earpiece, letting Spencer know that three of his agents were positioned at the back of the lake house, out of sight of its sole occupant. 

Spencer clicked the comms twice, which was his non-verbal acknowledgement of the report. At the same time, the rest of the team, which was divided into pairs to approach the location from two opposite sides, also reported their readiness.

“Bravo team, locked and loaded.” Agent Jones and his partner, Agent Lee, were moving in from the east.

Agent Lopez and her partner, Agent Moore, were drawing closer from the west. “Charlie team, ready when you are, boss.”

“Stand by,” Spencer murmured, and let the shields around his mind fall open.

He was expecting slightly wild, yet friendly energies to fill the inside of his mind, since Spencer knew from experience that his own region, the Southeast, wasn’t that different from the Midwest. 

He was, however, completely caught off guard when the energies that flowed into his mind felt prickly, reluctant, and bizarrely, somewhat hostile. They buzzed around inside his mind like an agitated hive of bees, making him let out a startled hiss. 

“Alright?” Agent Sanchez, his second in command, whispered from behind him. Sanchez was a non-gene carrier, and he had no idea what Spencer had just felt. All the same, he had noticed Spencer’s involuntary twitch. 

“Yeah,” Spencer bit out, coaxing the troubled energies to enhance sight. He spoke quietly over the comms. “Jones, Miller, Lopez, have any of you opened your shields yet?”

Those were the other two online Sentinels and Guide of his team. The Branch One assault teams were always a mix of online gene carriers, Latents and non gene carriers. 

“Whoa,” Miller, the other Level Four Sentinel, was the first to react. He sounded just as bewildered as Spencer. “Something weird is going on here.”

“I agree,” Jones drawled in his thick Texan accent, “Y’all already know how I feel about Sandton’s cockamamie plan. Now I’m starting to wonder-”

Eric Sandton was one of Southeast Council’s assistant directors. Spencer had to agree with Jones’ assessment. He hadn’t liked the sound of a lot of things that were revealed at the emergency briefing session, the session which had ended with Spencer’s team deployed in a hurry to haul in a possible murder/ kidnap suspect. 

“Lopez,” he said, addressing the online Guide of the team, “Anything?”

“I don’t like the restlessness of the energies either, boss,” her voice was a soft growl over the comms network, “And no, I can’t detect anything of the suspect at this range.”

“Me neither,” Miller added, from where he was at the back of the lake house, “The suspect isn’t anywhere near the windows, which I’m guessing is to be expected, if the file we saw on the guy was half accurate–”

The restricted file they had referred to identified the target as one Sergeant Michael Stonebridge - a British male, age of thirty, a little over six feet in height with a hundred and seventy pounds of heavily conditioned muscle. The list of his specialities and ratings had been more than a few pages long, and those were only the parts that hadn’t been blacked out. 

That highly concerning personal file of their target was the reason why Spencer was there with eight other agents, dressed in full assault gear. All of them carried a mix of lethal and nonlethal weapons. The goal was to bring the man in alive by any means necessary, but Spencer had the freedom to make a different call if the lives of his team members were threatened. 

If the allegations against their suspect had any merit, then Spencer had to assume they were dealing with a calculating, cold-hearted and all-too-well-trained killer. Targets like that never reacted well to being cornered or caught. 

In any case, Spencer hoped the numbers alone would discourage any irrational heroics from their target, and that he would surrender without too much resistance. Although he had no reservations about following protocol, Spencer wasn’t looking forward to any needless bloodshed to get the job done.

“I don’t have visual, or audio of the suspect,” Jones reported after a few seconds. “We have to assume he’s probably inside one of the bedrooms.”

Spencer had to agree. His enhanced vision and hearing couldn’t pick up anything either, almost as if the location was empty. But he knew that wasn’t the case. He had a forbidding feeling that the target was waiting for them to make their first move.

Don’t be ridiculous, he chastised himself, shaking his head, wondering if the weird Psionic energies were messing with his mind. 

“Send in the drone then?” Sanchez inquired softly. He had the stealth quadcopter in his right hand and the controller for it in his left.

“Yeah, prep it,” Spencer nodded before focusing back on the lake house. “And stand by for my signal.”

“Ready to launch on your signal,” Sanchez murmured after a few seconds.

Something wasn’t right. The Sentinel within him was responding to the anxious energies by prowling close to the surface, highly alert and poised, as if it had sensed an unknown threat Spencer hadn’t quite yet figured out. 

He didn’t have time to dwell on bad feelings , however. He had to get the job done within a tight time frame. Shoving his misgivings to a corner of his mind, he gave the order to Sanchez to send in the drone.

The wraparound windows, which probably offered breathtaking views from inside the house also offered plenty of options for Sanchez to guide the drone to and take a closer look. Through the screen of the small controller, Spencer saw a well-appointed yet empty lounge and a massive kitchen as the drone slowly circled the house. 

“There he is,” Sanchez murmured, just as Spencer spotted the target. 

The suspect came into the lounge through an internal hallway they couldn’t quite see into from where the drone was hovering near a window behind him. He had his head bowed, as if he was concentrating on the phone in his hand, and stepped onto the deck beyond the living room without ever turning around.

“What the hell?” Brown hissed. He was another non-gene carrier attached to Miller’s team.

“What?” Spencer snapped.

“The target… uh, he’s looking right at me,” Brown reported tersely, “I’m at a four-hundred-and-ten-yard distance, hidden inside the boathouse. I’m surveilling the location through a fucking rifle scope, and he’s staring right at me.”

“Fuck!” Miller’s curse came through the net the next second, “I thought this guy was a Latent–”

“Shit,” that was Lopez, “Maybe not anymore!” 

“He’s raising his hands,” Miller reported before Spencer could get a word in, “There’s a phone in his left. Don’t see any weapons on him, otherwise.”

“Can confirm,” Sanchez added, “No weapons at his back either.”

“No point of hiding anymore, then,” Spencer decided, readying his rifle, and got to his feet, “All teams, move in.”

Chapter Text

Scott Family Ranch House

Petoskey
Emmet County, Michigan
USA

Meanwhile…

With a deep breath, Damien let the Psionic barrier dissolve around them. It was time to head back out. He found himself face to face with both his parents when he finally opened the door.

“What are you doing here?” his Mom asked, frowning. “Why are you hiding from your own party, Damien?”

“Kelly? Doug?” His Dad squinted over his wife’s shoulder when Damien’s co-conspirators flanked him, “What’s with the private party, kids?”

“Uh, Mom, Dad, I need to talk to everyone,” Damien said, deciding that he couldn’t push off the inevitable any longer, “No one’s left yet, yeah?”

“No,” his Mom shook her head. “You three are the only ones who pulled the disappearing act.”

Damien, along with Doug and Kelly, followed his parents back to where everyone had gathered around the long salad counter. Some were still eating and drinking, while the others were talking and laughing in groups of twos and threes. A few were walking around, picking up the empty bottles, disposable cups, plates and other trash to chuck them in the bins. 

“Ah, Linn,” his mother’s older sister, Lisa, called out when she saw them, “Where were they hiding?”

“In the barn.”

That earned the three of them a few raised eyebrows and muffled snickers. 

“Damien’s got something to say, it seems.”

“Go on, boy,” at his father’s declaration, Uncle Herbie, the older Sentinel of the group, addressed Damien in a way that made everyone stop what they were doing and pay attention, “We’re here for you, after all.”

“Uh, there’s no delicate way to put this, so I’m just going to say it,” Damien muttered, letting his gaze sweep over the gathering, “I have a reason to believe that some of you may have been compromised...”

“It was five years ago, you jerk,” Wayne wailed loudly, his words slurring as he blinked accusingly at Damien, “Dolly and her family packed their bags and left the state the next month–”

Damien sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose while some of his cousins dissolved into laughter.

“I don’t think that’s what my brother’s referring to, bud,” Leo distracted the drunk Sentinel by clapping him on the back and taking the beer out of his hand.

“It wasn’t my fault! She was into it,” he sniffed, before noticing his wife’s unamused glare. “It was five fucking years ago, Jane.”

Jesus Christ, Damien cursed and took a calming breath before raising his voice. “No, Wayne. I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about something else, entirely.”

“Compromised how, boy?” It was his Dad.

“Someone came here a few weeks back – a Guide,” Damien said, thankful for his Dad’s intervention to get things back on track, “They were here under false pretences. There’s a good chance they met some of you and planted some compulsions in your minds…”

That went down about as well as expected.

“Everyone, shut the fuck up,” Herbie’s roar was a command that no one could ignore. In the wake of the sudden silence that fell over them, the older Sentinel turned his glare back on Damien, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“This would have happened around about the time Christy was here–” Damien hedged. It wasn’t a lie per se. She was the one who had fucked with their minds, after all. 

Yvonne, Uncle Josheph’s daughter, who was only three years younger than Damien, held her hand up as if she were in a class. 

“I met someone around then,” she announced solemnly. The drink in her other hand sloshed dangerously in the cup as she swayed where she sat, “Lucy, Cat and I took Christy to the carnival in Boyne. The guy I met sure as hell wasn’t interested in planting anything in my mind, if you know what I mean…” she dissolved into hiccuping giggles.

Damien exchanged a glance with Kelly, who was watching Yvonne with a look of amused exasperation. There was a good chance that his two sisters, Lucy and Cathrine, and cousin Yvonne had fallen prey to Braynt’s mental assaults. Yvonne and Cathrine were online Guides, while Lucy was still a Latent. But Damien had a feeling that wouldn’t have deterred Bryant.

“You left your cousins and Damien’s Guide to go hump a boy?” Aunt Flora, Yvonne’s mother, glared at her daughter, “Foul manners, young lady.”

“It was a very fun forty minutes, ma,” Yvonne whined.

“Alright, pipe down,” his Dad’s younger brother growled, “Damien’s not screwing around. Pay attention.”

“Thank you, Uncle Joseph,” Damien nodded at him gratefully before continuing. “I’d very much like to make sure that none of you have been affected. So, if y’all just let Kelly–”

Damien wasn’t even surprised when everyone erupted in loud shouting and protests again. It was harder than trying to herd a bunch of wild cats while dodging exploding shells. The fact that everyone was more than a little drunk made things even worse.

“Wait a goddamn minute!” Sam, Lucy’s husband, roared indignantly. He was one of the few non-gene carriers married into the family, “Who’s this person who supposedly fucked with us? Is this related to your spy business?”

“Could be. That is why Christy was here,” Damien replied, twisting the truth with a lie, “She’s pretty sure whoever it was, they came here after her visit.”

“So what? Someone came here to mess with our minds between her visit and now?” James frowned.

“First of all, that’s fucking absurd!” Derrick, Damien’s other brother cursed, glowering, “Second of all, won’t that put Kelly and Doug also in the same boat?”

“No, it wouldn’t,” Damien said calmly, “I know who it was, and I’m not naming names because I'm not sure what kind of whammies they left in you. Anything could be a trigger, a name, a face…”

“Still doesn't explain why they’re not under suspicion,” Derrick mumbled sourly.

“Easy,” Damien shrugged, deciding to add a bit more truth to his convoluted lie, “The person who fucked with y’all is dead. They never got to Kelly, Doug or Finn because they were back in Wisconsin.”

The fact that there was a dead suspect involved made everyone fall silent again, staring at Damien with various degrees of suspicion, shock, irritation and even a little bit of fear. 

“You couldn't interrogate them or something before they died?” Hannah, who was James’ wife, and another non-gene carrier, asked quietly, “Isn’t that what people like you do?”

“Usually, yeah,” Damien admitted with an internal wince, “We only found out about this person's visit here after their death.”

“Gotta agree with Derrick, man,” James shook his head, hugging his wife a little closer, “This is absurd.”

“I wouldn’t be asking if I wasn’t fucking serious, James,” Damien said quietly, “Trust me on this.”

“This is bullshit, Damien,” Henry, another Sentinel, got to his feet, his face red with mounting anger. He was Joseph's youngest, and at thirty, four years younger than Damien. “No offence to Kelly, but I’m not letting someone poke inside my head. Fuck that!”

Damien held his narrow-eyed gaze calmly, and unflinchingly. “You will.”

“Oh, yeah?” He took a step forward, his right hand curling into a fist as his voice turned into a challenging growl, “You gonna make me?”

Damien stayed still, taking in the aggressive posture of his young cousin. In his periphery, he saw David, Herbie’s youngest, and James also getting to their feet, intending to hold Henry back.

I don’t fucking have time for this, Damien sighed resignedly. He could see that he hadn’t really managed to convince anyone of the seriousness of the situation. Some were still looking at him as if they were worried about his sanity.

He decided to put everyone’s doubts to rest once and for all, and show them how far he was willing to go to make them listen and cooperate.

Taking in a deep, centring breath, Damien let all the shields around his mind fall open in a single, swift wave. 

Familiar energies filled his mind, eagerly responding to his summons and ready to obey. With another steady inhale and a slow exhale, Damien did something he had never done to any of his family members before.

“Yes, I am.” When he spoke, his voice was infused with a rumble that wasn’t entirely human. It carried with it a command that had far more power and weight behind it than the initial order from the oldest Sentinel present at the gathering.  

Damien hadn't been lying when he had cited the Midwest as his territory when he invited Michael to come home with him. He had known the Psionic energies in the Midwest region would always answer his call first, and would bend to his will before anyone else’s. 

Only, he had never harboured any desire to wield that kind of authority over anyone. 

The regional Councils of the countries had their own governing systems. Most of the time, it was a system that was largely similar to the country’s constitution itself, with minor changes that applied to Sentinels and Guides. 

The Midwest Region, just like the other four Councils of the United States, had its own system for appointing and then rotating out its leaders. Their region’s current seat of the presidency was held by Lionel Scott, Damien’s father’s oldest brother, who was also a Level Five, bonded Sentinel. While being Lionel’s chosen successor for the seat carried its own weight, Damien couldn’t have summarily walked in and taken over an entire region just because he felt like it.

Bureaucracy - the rules, regulations and laws were there to prevent that kind of blatant takeover. 

That was how the modern-day self-governing of Sentinel/Guide society worked. In the ancient days, when genetic mutations had initially emerged, the leadership depended upon the inherent strength of a Sentinel or a Guide, their bonded status, superior instincts, and their ability to bend others to their will. 

Tribe leaders were known as the Primes, and the gene carriers who had the power to even command the tribal leaders were the Alpha Primes. 

In those days, their word and will was the law.

Even though those practices were long replaced by the present-day Councils, it didn’t mean that they had forgotten. Their genes still carried the memories and instincts of the good old days.  

That was why every online Sentinel and Guide in the family froze in shock as one at the end of his assertion. Damien felt the amount of Psionic energies he wielded leave rippling and crackling sensations against everyone’s mental shields. It was a command to listen, a warning to tread lightly and a demand to pay attention. He also knew his words not only echoed in the air around them, but also inside their minds, stirring something ancient and primal inside all of them to submit without question.

“I will compel each and every one of you if I have to,” Damien declared solemnly, his words rumbling in the atmosphere, thick with unnatural silence, “I know how crazy this sounds, believe me, I do. And yet, I am demanding, because I’m genuinely worried about all of you. So, yes, you will do this. Today. Now.”

Damien’s Lake House

A few minutes before the raid…

Strangely enough, Michael was alerted to the first sign of trouble by the Psionic Plane itself.

He was sitting in the first bedroom through the hallway from the living room, checking the news reports of the bomb explosion in Qatar, when the energies rippled and shivered against his mind. He wouldn’t have felt it if he hadn’t relaxed the rough outer layer of his shields. He had never bothered to tighten that last layer after Damien had requested him to stop hiding so thoroughly. He had to admit, he kind of enjoyed the way the friendly energies of the Midwest region surrounded his mind so cheerfully.

Relaxing his mental shields further, Michael focused, trying to find out the cause for the Psionic Plane’s sudden agitation.

A cold chill ran down his spine when he realised that the place was surrounded by nine different trails of thoughts and emotions. In other words, nine unknown assailants. 

Their thoughts were jumbled, flowing along with the Psionic energies into his mind in a tangled mess:

Can’t see him. Where is he? He better be in there.

That was someone who was at the front, just behind the treeline at the outer boundary of the property. The mind-voice felt distinctly male. The intense thought was accompanied by a mix of anticipation and calculation, wrapped up in an unmistakable sense of responsibility. 

Michael had a feeling it was the leader of the assault team.

Is this going to be a violent takedown? 

That was another stray thought Michael sensed from somewhere to the west. The owner of the thought was almost suffocating with dread. 

Man, I really don’t want to haul out the dead body of another friend today.

That particular stranger was not in the best mind space to be carrying a weapon, let alone participate in what felt like an impending raid.  

Why can’t I feel this guy’s mind?

That was a distinctly feminine thought, belonging to someone whose shields felt familiar. Michael was certain that it was an online Guide. But her range wasn’t that good. She didn’t seem to realise that Michael’s mind was flowing along with the Psionic energies, examining the surface thoughts spilling out of her unshielded mind.

God, I’m hungry! Fuck these bugs. 

Someone wasn’t remotely happy to be there. The man’s thoughts were emanating from the backyard, from where the boathouse was located by the river bank.

Sandton, you prick. I could have been home, watching the Titans game. But no. Here I am, sitting in a fucking shed, trying to catch an asshole, instead.

Michael knew he was the asshole they were there to catch. By then, he knew these people were professionals, most likely, agents of a Branch One team. All their thoughts, no matter how scattered they were, had a certain sense of professionalism and righteousness wrapped around them. From experience, Michael knew that it was a sense that only came from being attached to law enforcement. 

Besides, the name Sandton sounded familiar. Michael also had a feeling that most of the agents in the team surrounding Damien’s place were from further South. The distinctive drawl that seemed to flavour their thoughts was rather unmistakable. Pulling up the Council’s website on the laptop he had before him, he was able to confirm that Eric Sandton was one of the assistant directors of the Southeast region. 

Another instinctive thought fell into place when he saw that Christy Bryant belonged to the Council of Southeast region, since she was from Maryland.

Shit.  

It took a lot of self-control to not give into panic at the realisation. If the team outside was there for him in connection to Bryant, he knew it wasn’t going to go down well for him. At least, not until he had time to explain himself.

His pulse racing, Michael considered his options. He could make a run for it, he knew that. It wouldn’t even take a lot to confuse their minds with a few scattered misdirections and suggestions. He only had to distract them for a few seconds until he got out of the house, and made his way onto one of those twisting hiking trails that led to the denser forest to the west of the property. He could disappear within minutes. If the way the energies inside his mind bubbled excitedly at the thought, Michael had no doubt the Plane itself would hide him from the team.

Although the idea was tempting, Michael had to discard it with a sigh. There was nothing he could gain from running, other than piling up even more distrust and suspicion on himself. 

Guilty parties always run.

Besides, he and Damien were there to sort out the mess Bryant had left behind. Running now would only complicate that plan down the line. Although getting arrested wasn’t what either of them had in mind, it seemed that Michael didn’t have many other options.

Not when the nine minds surrounding him readied themselves to make their move. 

Expelling a lungful of air in a long exhale, Michael resignedly made up his mind to give in to the unpleasant conclusion. He could only hope that his detention wouldn't last long and that he and Damien would be given a chance to explain themselves. 

Entering a command to back up his hard drive to an encrypted cloud and then delete all data, Michael closed his laptop and got to his feet.

He then took his phone off the bedside table and slowly made his way out of the room, typing a quick text to Damien. There was no signal, which meant the team outside was also jamming incoming and outgoing communications around the house. 

Changing the settings, Michael enabled a feature that wasn’t available on any civilian devices, which allowed him temporary satellite access. After sending the message, he thumbed in a command to wipe his phone as well. It was his personal device, and apart from a few contacts and access to his personal email, he didn’t have anything valuable in it. All the same, he didn’t feel like letting some over-eager agent from Branch One go through his things without his explicit permission.

Since they would never ask, his next best option was to make sure there was nothing left in his devices for them to poke around.

Michael knew they could see him as he stepped into the living room. The emotions surrounding him heightened in anticipation when they finally had eyes on their target. A stray thought from the team leader even helpfully told Michael that he was being watched through a drone as well.

He opened the sliding door and stepped onto the deck. He had to bite back an amused grin when the agent who was watching him through rifle scope - the same man who was mentally bitching about missing a football game - panicked when he saw Michael staring right at him. 

Shoring up all the layers around his mind tightly with a thought, Michael slowly raised his hands in surrender. He did not want them to find out what he was or confirm their assumptions until he knew what exactly was going on their side. 

Although he lost his connection to the Plane, and therefore the thoughts of the assault team, he knew they could see his signal for what it was. He was fairly sure at least one of the three agents he was facing was a Sentinel. Branch One usually had a 50/50 mix of gene and non-gene carriers in their assault teams.

They moved in quickly and methodically. Michael was ordered to lace his hands together behind his head and stay still while two of them quickly and efficiently patted him down for any weapons. 

Once that was done and his hands were firmly cuffed behind his back, a tall blond man who looked to be in his early forties stepped in front of Michael.

“I’m Senior Agent Spencer,” he drawled, finally letting Michael attach a face to some of the thoughts he had sensed earlier. “Southeast, Branch One. You’re Michael Stonebridge, correct?”

“Yes,” Michael admitted, letting his gaze take in the other five agents who had him surrounded. Three of them had stayed outside in case he made a rash decision to run out of the house. “May I know on what charges I’m being arrested?”

Michael felt a few probing brushes against his shields from Spencer and the woman who stood glaring at him next to the agent. She was the Guide of the team. He knew that they would only sense him as a Latent, not an online Guide. 

They were suspicious of him because of the way he had clocked their sniper earlier. Michael hadn’t really been able to see any of them, but he had known where the thoughts he had sensed originated from, and he knew where he would have perched if he were the sniper.

“You’re being detained for the possible kidnapping and murder of Master Guide Christy Bryant-Anderson.” Spencer recited crisply, confirming what Michael already knew.  

“Where are we going?” Michael asked as they led him out. 

“The Southeast Council HQ,” Spencer replied, “Once there, you’ll be processed and briefed further.”

Sorry for disappearing on you yet again, Damien, Michael thought guiltily, wishing there was a way for him to reach out to the Sentinel. Looks like this is going down in a whole different way than we expected.

All Damien would have was the hurried text he'd sent before surrendering, which Michael knew wasn’t nearly enough. But that would at least let Damien know what happened, and where he could find Michael. It wasn’t much, but it was something. 

Scott Family Ranch House

Damien held everyone's attention for a few seconds, making sure he had been heard and understood, before letting go of the tight rein he maintained on the Psionic energies. 

The silence prevailed for a moment longer, teetering on the edge of a precipice while the meaning of his action and words settled; a command had been given, and it was expected to be followed without question. It felt as if everyone heaved a relieved breath together when they finally realised they had been released from their collective trance.

“Well then, let’s get to it without wasting any more time, people.” Herbie took the initiative to stand up and beckon Kelly to him. 

Exchanging a quick glance with her husband, Kelly walked over to him and took his extended hand in hers.

Everyone else watched with bated breath, their expressions a lot more clear and attentive. It seemed Damien’s momentary display of power had served to make them all more sober than they had been a minute ago.  

When Kelly shook her head and offered a small smile to Herbie, his wife, Enid, volunteered to be checked next. 

Altogether, ten online Sentinels, seven online Guides, five Latents, and two non-gene carriers had to be checked. After clearing Aunt Enid and Nick’s wife, Vicky, Kelly recruited the assistance of those two online Guides as well, sharing the burden. It took some time, since the three of them needed a couple of breaks in between sifting through shielded and unshielded minds alike.

It was almost seven in the evening when it was finally done. Having gotten the hang of investigating unresisting minds after a couple of repetitions, the Guides shared that the intrusions felt like thin, dark films around certain memories and thoughts. According to the way they described them, the triggers weren’t noticeable since they were lying dormant, attached to those certain memories, hiding from the consciousness of the owner. 

Heeding Damien’s advice from earlier, Kelly was careful not to describe the memories, or mention any names. Enid and Vicky also detected a few intrusions, even though neither of them had a clue why those specific memories or thoughts had been targeted. Following Kelly’s lead, and Damien’s warnings, they were also careful not to dig too deeply, in case they triggered any of those compulsions by accident. 

At the end of it, all three of them were certain that five Sentinels, four Guides and two Latents had those exact same blemishes in their minds, proof that their minds had been tampered with at some point.

Damien’s Dad, Garry, his brothers, Leo and Derrick, and Uncle Joseph and his son Henry, were the affected Sentinels. The two Latents who were compromised were Derrick’s wife, Joanne, and Damien’s sister, Lucy. His Mom, his other sister, Catherine, Joseph’s wife, Flora and Leo’s wife, Helen, were the Guides who had the same invading signs in their minds.

“Fucking hell,” Joseph growled, pulling his wife and Guide, Flora, closer to him with an arm around her shoulders, “What a fuck up!”

“Bonded couples must have been targeted on purpose,” Damien murmured, exchanging a glance with Kelly, who looked just as wiped out as he felt. “So the Guides wouldn’t notice the invasions in their Sentinels.”

The loud, lighthearted atmosphere from earlier was replaced with a grave stillness, everyone lost in their own thoughts and worries at the seriousness of the situation. Anger and disgust were also thick in the air, half of them still reeling over the feelings of violation in their minds, while the other half raged.

The smallest of the kids were already inside the house, having been cleaned up and tucked into a bed in one of the guest rooms. There were a few still awake, quietly sitting by their parents, instinctively responding to the grave, solemn expressions of the adults. 

Jacob and Finn, at seventeen, the oldest kids present, were inside the house, having volunteered to keep an eye on the sleeping toddlers. 

“Damien,” Derrick muttered, absently patting his fourteen-year-old’s head while the kid continued to doze against his shoulder, “How sure are you that we aren’t going to get triggered by accident?”

“You won’t,” Damien said, putting as much confidence as could into his words. It had been the sole reason he hadn’t offered an explanation for what he had made them do after all. “I know exactly what would set you off, so do Kelly and Doug, but nobody else. Trust me on this.” As long as none of you learn about Michael just yet, you never will.

Except for James, no one had even seen Michael, and they had a big enough problem in their laps, no one even seemed to remember that Damien had a house guest.  

Derrick accepted it with a nod, and sighed, looking exhausted. 

“What do we do now?” Herbie asked, focusing on the next practical matter. “Enid can’t handle cleansing everyone by herself. She doesn’t even have the full story. Linn and Flora are compromised and Kelly isn’t trained for this kind of thing–”

“When Christy arrives, she’ll be able to help, won’t she?” Flora asked, glancing between her brother-in-law and Damien.

“It’s late, Damien,” Herbie added, checking his watch, “Aren’t you going to pick her up?”

It left a horrible taste in his mouth to keep lying. Damien had to dig deep within himself to find the strength not to snarl at the mention of that abomination of a woman. Even after her death, her nasty presence still lingered, infecting half of his family with her rotten meddling.

“She hasn’t sent me the details of her flight, Uncle,” he said tiredly, hoping the smile he summoned wouldn’t look like a grimace, “I don’t even know where she’s landing.”

“Christy is a highly trained Guide,” his mother said, her voice full of hope, “I’m sure she’ll know what to do, won’t she, Damien?”

“Yeah,” Damien forced out, “Of course.”

My Guide would know what to do, Damien thought longingly, wishing Michael was there with him. He had cleansed years of manipulations, triggers and all kinds of other horrors out of Damien’s mind in a matter of minutes, and he hadn’t even been anywhere near Damien when he had done it. Damien had no doubts that cleansing the infected Sentinels and Guides in his family would be a simple task for him.

Thoughts of Michael made him wonder exactly when Bryant had learned about Michael’s survival. She had visited his family well before Section Twenty had come looking for Damien. 

He had initially feared that what had led her to Michael was his own fault. That it had been the call he made to her after fifteen months of silence, demanding to know who exactly Michael Stonebridge was. Now though, Damien had to wonder if she had known about his survival all along, waiting to pounce the moment she had a chance. 

Maybe she had visited his family to lay the foundation for her contingencies in case Michael made it to Damien’s territory despite her plans.

It was becoming clear to him how threatened Bryant had felt by Michael, to go to extreme lengths such as meddling with the minds of his family members. All to make sure she always had the upper hand. 

The line of thought made him also wonder what other contingency plans or precautions she may have taken before her trip to Bosnia.

“Not tonight, at any rate,” his mother, Linn, added, bringing him back to the present, “She’ll need her rest before even thinking about a cleansing of this scale.”

“Well, there’s nothing more to be done. I suggest we all go back to our own homes now,” Joseph sighed, letting his weary glance sweep over the dejected expressions of the gathering before focusing on Damien, “Maybe you can call us and let us know how we’re going to handle this?”

“I think that would be for the best,” Damien agreed. Everyone present lived within a thirty-mile radius of their family home, so visiting each family individually if they had to wasn’t that difficult. “We’ll tackle one family at a time.”

“Are you going to let Lionel know?” Joseph asked, deferring to Damien’s opinion again. The sense of submission he had wrenched from his family without warning still hadn’t dissipated completely from anyone’s mind.

Lionel and his family lived in Detroit, closer to the Council HQ. While they didn’t visit that often due to the distance, that didn’t necessarily mean he could have escaped Bryant’s clutches. If she had wanted to fuck with the Midwest region’s highest-ranking Sentinel, she wouldn’t have let anything stop her. Damien now knew not to underestimate the depths of the dead Guide’s ambitions. 

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” Damien replied. 

First, he needed to talk to Michael, to brainstorm ideas and come up with a plan of action if her meddling had gone that far. 

Chapter Text

En Route to Detroit Metro Airport (DTW)
Michigan
USA

The two cars took positions at the front and the back of the SUV, forming a convoy as they drove. Michael was in the SUV, along with the lead agent, a non-gene carrier and the Guide. They kept to the highway for the most part, and to the speed limits, seemingly unwilling to attract undue attention from the local patrols.

They were careful and professional enough to keep their discussions to a minimum. From the bits and pieces they did let slip and the road signs they passed along the way, Michael gathered that they were heading towards the Detroit Metropolitan Airport. 

Spencer, the team leader, had told him that he was being taken to Southeast HQ, which Michael knew was located in Fairfax, West Virginia. It would be an hour and a half flight from Detroit. 

About two hours into the drive, when the Guide, Lopez, mentioned a second team, Michael broke his silence for the first time.

“Why?” 

“Why what?” She glared at him through the rearview mirror without bothering to turn around. Spencer was driving, while the non-gene carrier, Sanchez, was settled in the seat behind Michael. 

They were quite cautious and took absolutely no chances with him. It made him wonder exactly how much they knew about him.

“Aren’t you going in the same direction?” Michael asked conversationally, his own demeanour and tone bland, as if he was having a conversation with his cab driver, not his arresting officers. “Why use another team?”

“Protocol.” She said curtly, but not before he caught the slight hesitation in her tone.

“Is it?” Michael let his lips twitch in a fraction of a smile, allowing a touch of condescension and mockery to slip past the rough edges of his outer shields.

Lopez hadn’t shielded her mind completely, opting to maintain a subtle awareness around him, something she could maintain for the long drive without exhausting herself. Michael wasn’t too worried, and he was content to let the spontaneous probing brushes of her shields slither around his own. His thoughts and feelings were utterly private, safe and concealed behind the impenetrable walls of his actual shields, not the ragged ones he maintained on the outer layers to disguise himself as a Latent. 

She felt nothing from him other than what he allowed her to feel. 

As expected, he saw her lips curl in anger. She didn’t take kindly to his poorly hidden disdain over their professionalism. “We do things differently here than your Queen’s navy, Squid.”

Oh, so you do know me… Michael made sure to keep his expression blank as if her referring to him as the equivalent of a US Navy SEAL didn’t faze him in the slightest. The question is, to what extent? Exactly how far does this particular security breach go?

“Good to know.” He smiled pleasantly at her glowering face through the mirror. He also caught Spencer’s brown eyes narrowing in the same reflection. The lead agent, as quiet as he was, was attentive to the discussion as much as he was to the traffic he was navigating. Michael decided to see if he could rope the man into breaking his silence. “Just that your boss doesn't seem very happy about it, is all.” 

“Oh, you’re reading minds now, are you?” Sanchez muttered from behind him. “They teach that in your navy?”

Michael had a feeling that their shared irritation was not all directed at him, but at the unnecessary change of procedure as well. Michael could understand. He wasn’t a fan of such changes either. 

“They teach a whole lot.” He said, enigmatically. 

Lopez turned around finally, her expression twisting into a snarl as she formed what was sure to be a scathing retort.

“Yes, it is redundant and inefficient,” Spencer finally interjected in a calm tone, before Lopez could snap. “But, as you may have already figured out, this isn’t the most run-of-the-mill arrest and you’re most definitely not a regular suspect. So that’s how your transfer will go down.”

“Is it another Branch One team?” Michael asked, probing into the unease he heard in the tone of the lead agent. It made him wonder if the change had been a result of the CIA throwing its weight around, interfering with the Council’s procedures. Considering the charges, the conclusion wasn’t even that far-fetched.  

“Yes.” Spencer, however, sounded certain.

Michael had instinctive misgivings about the entire incident. Apart from what lay ahead, there had been a few significant things that didn’t quite add up to his highly unorthodox arrest in the first place. 

For starters, none of the agents had been left behind to search the house, at least, not from the team that had come to detain him. The remaining six had split into the other two cars to provide escort while Michael had been bundled into the SUV.

Michael didn’t know if a separate team had been sent for that, but his gut told him they hadn’t. Their earlier thoughts, and the overall sense of urgency he had felt from them told Michael that they were under a lot of constraints. Almost as if they had timed their raid carefully to avoid any confrontation with the Midwest Council members, or Damien. His suspicion was further confirmed by the fact that they had only confiscated his phone and wristwatch, the only items that had been on him while he had been arrested. They hadn’t even bothered to do a quick sweep inside any of the rooms. Even the laptop he had left on the bed in the first bedroom wasn’t touched.

Branch One operated more or less as the police force for the Sentinel/Guide communities. The laws regarding apprehending suspects weren’t that different from regular law enforcement, although they were much better trained and armed due to the enhanced nature of their perpetrators. If they had a proper authorisation, Michael knew they wouldn’t have cared about the timing, and they definitely wouldn’t have left Damien’s place in such a hurry without combing the entire house from top to bottom.

Therefore, Michael felt safe to assume that either they had a very vague and limited warrant, or that they had been advised to make it look like a simple and voluntary detention as much as possible. 

The paranoid, military-intelligence-trained part of his mind pointed out that it felt awfully like the CIA cat-pawing the Southeast Council to do its bidding since it didn’t have jurisdiction to operate on home soil. 

That line of thought led to more unwelcome possibilities: The Southeast Council was woefully misguided, and under-informed. And, whoever had authorised Michael’s detention, had someone in Petoskey, either someone from Damien’s family or an outsider, supplying them with information. 

Those were uncomfortable conclusions, and he didn’t want to dwell on them without any further proof.

The rest of the drive continued in silence. After a couple of more hours of driving through the rapidly growing evening traffic, they finally reached their destination a little after eight. Michael didn’t have his wristwatch or his phone to be sure since they were locked inside an evidence case, but his internal clock was pretty accurate. 

Michael would arrive at the Council HQ around nine thirty if all went well and according to plan.

The lead car turned towards the staff parking area once they were inside the massive underground parking garage. In the rearview mirror, Michael saw the other car following along at a few yards’ distance. 

He supposed it made sense. The chances were he wouldn’t be transported in a commercial flight. They would either use a private or a cargo flight, which made it less of a spectacle. Michael didn’t want to be escorted through the busy crowds like a common criminal. Although they would take care to keep his cuffed wrists concealed to avoid unnecessary attention, surrounded by a team of agents in all-black BDUs with Branch One patches on their sleeves, Michael would look nothing like an innocent passenger.

“Out.” Sanchez barked when the SUV came to a stop at a dimly lit slot at the far end of the parking line. 

Michael did as he was told, and stretched his neck and back with slow, careful movements so that he wouldn’t get shot by a trigger-happy agent. Wincing as he felt his spine realign after long hours spent seated and unmoving, he took in the surroundings. 

The parking lot seemed to extend over the entire length of the airport. They were parked at the end of the left wing, which was jam-packed with hardly any free spots, despite the fact that it was the area dedicated to the ground staff. Apart from the entrance they came in, which was about three hundred yards to their right, Michael spotted another emergency exit to their left, which was only about fifty yards away from where they stood. Immediately next to it was a stairwell and a massive elevator with steel double doors, which looked like it was mainly used to haul cargo rather than people. 

Spencer got out last, his eyes wide and dark, and his nostrils slightly flaring as he scanned their surroundings with his enhanced sense. To his left, Michael saw Lopez’s eyes glowing silver for a fraction, the Guide doing the same as their team leader had done. As one, both their shields brushed against his own, a quick yet comprehensive probing of both Michael’s physical and mental senses to make sure he wasn’t planning anything unpredictable or unwise. 

Michael, for his part, kept a bland expression on his face and a tight rein on his shields, broadcasting the bored, not-overtly-worried facade he had maintained for the majority of the drive.

“Let’s move,” Spencer snapped when the others were out of their vehicles. 

Three agents stayed behind while the remaining six formed a loose circle around Michael as Spencer led them all towards the elevator. It stopped on the first floor, delivering them from the basement to the ground level with an empty, brightly lit corridor. The sign that hung on the whitewashed wall helpfully pointed out that Cargo Bay One was located to their left and Cargo Bay Two was to their right. 

They encountered no one during the five-minute hike to Cargo Bay Two, which was located at the very end of the narrow corridor. The closed steel door with the sign ‘Office - CB2’ opened inward without a sound when Spencer knocked on it once. 

The first sign of trouble appeared when Spencer came to an abrupt halt, the lines of his back and shoulders going rigid. 

The five-man team that waited inside was almost identical to Spencer's team: they were all clad in black BDUs, tac vests and tactical helmets.

Unlike Spencer's team, however, none of them had any identifiable insignia or patches on any of their uniforms. The new team was also armed primarily with M4A1 Carbines, with their secondary weapons, handguns and knives stuck to their vests and thigh holsters. None of them carried any non-lethal weapons the way Spencer’s team did.

To Michael, the main difference between Spencer’s team and the other was rather obvious.  It was in the way they carried themselves and their deceptively relaxed demeanours were only betrayed by the dangerous glints in their eyes. There was also a subtle disdain in their expressions, in the way they took in Spencer’s team - not too different from the way Michael himself had done a few hours earlier.

There wasn’t much inside the room except for a wooden desk in the middle and a couple of chairs that had been pushed to a corner next to the door to make space. Directly opposite the door they entered, at about a twenty-foot distance, there was another set of double doors, closed and locked. Four of the new team were on the other side of the desk, with their backs to the closed door, while only one remained next to Spencer. With the way everyone’s guns not-so-subtly pointed in his direction, it was evident that they had clocked Michael as the threat, even though he was the only unarmed, and restrained one present. 

Unlike Spencer's team, the entirety of the new team was screaming military - a team of Special Forces operatives, if Michael had to guess. 

The frown on Spencer’s face said they weren’t exactly what he had been told to expect. 

“Agent Aaron Spencer?” The guy who opened the door, whom Michael presumed was the new team’s leader, extended a gloved hand, “Smith, Jonathan. Agent in charge of the prisoner’s air transport.”

He even managed the blatant lie with a straight, almost honest expression. 

“You’re not Branch One,” Spencer said calmly. Behind him, Lopez rolled her eyes. “I was expecting Agent Walker’s team.”

In the hallway, the other four agents of Spencer’s team shifted subtly on their feet, eyeing their counterparts with distrust.

“Agent Walker’s team got called away on another matter,” Smith graced Spencer with a mild smile that did nothing to make him look any more trustworthy, “We’re the backup team.”

From Langley, is it? Michael let the pointed thought filter out, his gaze fixed on the new team, returning their collective glare. In his periphery, he saw Lopez frowning at him, considering the possibility.

“I wasn’t informed of this change,” Spencer said, unaware of their exchange, and pulled out his phone from a vest pocket, “Let me make a call.”

“By all means,” Smith didn’t lose any of the cheer in his tone, but his gaze hardened imperceptibly as he retrieved the clipboard that was on the desk behind him to hand it to Spencer. “Here’s the paperwork. As you can see, it’s all in order. I’d rather not disturb a director at home to nitpick a minor detail on a field op, but hey, man, it’s your neck on the line.”

Spencer skimmed the documents one by one while waiting for the call to connect. His expression didn’t change, but the way his shoulders relaxed minutely suggested that he was convinced by whatever he'd just read. 

“The signal’s pretty fucking spotty here,” Smith commented off-handedly when Spencer’s call failed to garner an answer. “Too much concrete.”

“The call goes to voicemail.” Spencer said distractedly, his gaze fixed on the clipboard, “But it’s fine. All I need is right here.”

“Sign it and then you guys can go grab a bite before your flight,” Smith grinned, “we’ll take over your burden.”

“The authorisation – is it Sandton’s or Rhodes’?” Michael asked quietly, trying not to chuckle at the way everyone twitched. What the hell, have you been warned about me?  

“It’s director Sandton’s signature on the documents,” Spencer replied, “He’s in charge of your case–”

“Chairman Rhodes has more important issues to attend to than the whereabouts of a fucking murderer,” Smith’s grin twisted into a snarl. 

“Sergeant Stonebridge hasn’t been formally charged with any crimes as of yet,” Spencer snapped, “Let’s keep it professional, shall we?”

“Get outta here, Spencer,” Smith returned lazily with a thin smile, his gaze fixed on Micheal, “we got this.” 

Spencer didn’t have much to say after that. After placing a few signatures and collecting his own copies, he gestured at Lopez to hand over the evidence case that had Michael’s belongings to Smith. Then he led his team back out the way they came without a backward glance. His part of the job was done.

Smith’s team gave up all pretence and brought their guns up while Smith moved to lock the door behind them. Michael wasn’t even surprised when he saw the slim, hypodermic syringe in Smith’s grip when he came to stand before him.

I hate it when I’m right, was the final thought Michael had time to form when the fast-acting sedative that was unceremoniously administered to the side of his neck took effect, plunging him into an unwelcome darkness. 

Scott Family Ranch
Meanwhile…

One by one, the families collected their sleeping young and made their exits, their parting hugs much less enthusiastic than they had been when Damien had arrived. Derrick and his wife, Joanne, decided to spend the night at the ranch house with their three kids. Lucy and her husband Sam decided to do the same. With their two toddlers already fast asleep in their cots, Lucy announced they could be more than comfortable in her old room. 

“I know you’ve got a big house, but if you need some privacy with your Guide, drop your friend at mine,” James said as they walked towards his car. A few feet behind them, James’ ten-year-old son staggered sleepily, hanging on to his mother’s hand. His six-year-old daughter was draped over Damien’s left shoulder, dead to the world. “We’ll be home in about twenty minutes.”

Once they reached James’ car, Damien handed his sleeping burden to Hannah to get her settled in the backseat before turning back to his brother, “I think it’ll be fine for tonight, brother, but thanks.” He said quietly.

The process of a true bond wasn’t only a sex act, although it started with it. Two extremely compatible minds opening and connecting to the Psionic Plane at the same time created intense waves and ripples in those external energies – waves not only a Latent but even a non-gene-carrier would be able to feel at an instinctive level. Merging of mental shields was a much more intense and extensive affair that could even go on for hours. Since his family knew exactly how powerful he was, they knew anyone within a mile radius of his house would be affected by his bonding. That was why – convinced as they were that Damien was morbidly lacking when it came to basic manners – they kept offering to take his unannounced house guest off of his hands.

It was past eight in the night when Damien finally managed to extract himself from his parents and the families of the two siblings who stayed behind. He got into the rental with a tired sigh and started the engine. With one hand on the wheel, he took his phone out to call Michael as he drove. He frowned when the electronic female voice informed him that the number he dialled wasn’t in use. 

A quick look at the screen showed him that the message he had sent an hour ago hadn’t been delivered. An error message showed that the recipient wasn’t available. 

What the hell? 

He absently took a left turn, wondering what was going on. The phone signals were only spotty around the area when they had thundershowers or storms. Besides, there were four bars on the signal icon, which confirmed his inability to reach Michael wasn’t an error on the service provider’s side. 

For some reason, Michael’s phone was off. Damien didn’t like that one bit. He knew Michael wouldn’t have done it without a valid reason. Only there were no good reasons that justified such an action.

Opening his shields, Damien let the cool and cheerful Psionic energies wash over his mind, heightening his senses. Satisfied that there weren’t any other vehicles or obstacles on the road, he stepped on the gas, letting the engine redline.

He made it home in six minutes.

The unease fluttering in his gut intensified when Damien pulled into his driveway. Except for the motion-triggered lights that came on to illuminate the yard at his entry, the rest of the house stayed completely shrouded in dark. 

The text came in just as he got out of the rental.

<Damien,> it said. <A B-1 team came for me around 4 pm. Sending this message via SATCOM since they’ve jammed the signal. You’ll probably see this hours later. Sorry.>  

Damien stared at the message, frozen. His eyes roamed over the words a few times before the meaning behind the innocuous, almost cheery message took hold in his reeling mind.

Michael had been taken more than four hours ago and he hadn’t had a clue!

<The arrest was on Director Eric Sandton’s orders. I’ll probably end up at SE Council HQ. I doubt your MW HQ was even informed. Have a feeling your Company’s behind this.>

Christy fucking Bryant. He had wondered what other contingencies the bitch may have left behind. Well, now he had his answer, didn’t he?

<My mom’s flight lands at DTW at 0130, they have a res. at the Westin. They’ll only get back on the road the next day. She insists on taking care of Bryant’s meddling. You mind contacting her in the morning and telling her not to worry? Cheers.>

The contact number was at the end of the message, and Damien learned that Michael’s mother’s name was Hiyori.

A distinct part of him was aware of an unnatural silence that had fallen with him at its centre. The slight breeze felt as if it was carefully weaving through the foliage without rustling the leaves. None of the night creatures called to each other and even the lake was quiet, its ever-cheerful rush of water reduced to a barely audible, diminished flow.

The Psionic energies around him felt heavy, sombre somehow, resonating and agreeing with everything he was feeling right then. It was as if his own anger, fear, guilt and frustration were syphoned out and poured back into him tenfold. A storm was brewing inside him, being fed by those wild, unrestrained energies. The mark on his chest burned like a brand in counterpoint to the rapid beating of his heart. Arcing currents of his white-hot fury felt like thunder and lightning, building inside him with mounting pressure to burst forth and burn everything in sight to cinders.

The message was long hidden behind the darkened screen, but Damien saw each and every one of those words so clearly in his mind, safe and untouched at the eye of the storm. They were meant to provide information and reassurance, he could feel it in the light tone Michael had deliberately used - a meagre comfort that was hardly noticed by the Sentinel raging within his soul.

That part of him did not care for the rules and regulations of the modern world. The ancient and volatile instincts of the Prime, still simmering way too close to the surface, left stinging, prickling sensations all over Damien's skin.

How dare they steal his Guide from his own territory?

His worry and fear for the safety of his chosen mate warred with his fury at the grave insult. That primal part of him wanted nothing but to challenge and hunt. The bloodlust howled and roared in his ears while the wild energies around him rebelled and roiled, raring to obey his commands of evisceration.

With his mind so utterly tangled in an erratic whirlwind of emotions that were hardly his own by then, Damien never noticed the actual storm clouds gathering in the sky above him in response to the intense waves he was stirring in the Psionic Plane.

The first few drops of the inadvertently summoned rain went completely unnoticed. The wind picked up the next moment, turning the drizzle into a sheet of rain that drenched him from head to toe in a swift wave. The sudden rush of cold water was startling enough to break the vicious, disastrous spell Damien was stuck in, dropping him to his knees as those invisible strings of madness were swiftly severed. His hand braced against a wet patch of grass, Damien wheezed in a few rapid breaths to his screaming lungs, struggling to figure out when he had stopped breathing.

Fuck! 

His entire body trembled uncontrollably under the merciless onslaught of rain. His mind was finally starting to emerge from the tumultuous chaos it had gotten lost in, slowly becoming aware of the very real manifestation of it in the real world. 

Fucking Christ!

Somewhere in the distance, thunder boomed, and Damien flinched. Even through the closed eyelids, he could see the flashes of wholly unnatural lightning brightening up his surroundings at rapid intervals. 

Fuck me to hell! I did not do this, did I? 

Except, he somehow had, hadn’t he? 

J esus fuck!

There were no rains or thunderstorms predicted anywhere in the area for that whole week. Sky had been vastly clear with stars and a half moon, before Damien had gotten stuck in a freaky feedback loop with the Psionic Plane. His skin crawled every time right before the lightning struck, responding to waves of static before they even emerged. There was no denying the fact that all those spider web fissures running across the purple sky now distorted by the pouring rain were perfectly in sync with the arcing energies whirling inside his mind. 

Damien realised in horror that he had been on the brink of going feral before nature itself wrenched him back from taking that terrible plunge. The insistent flutter of those energies against his wide-open mind was a crucial reminder that he needed to shield himself. He had to regain control before he succumbed to the whims of the incredibly aggravated Psionic Plane again.

He felt weary to the bone when he got back to his feet and staggered towards the house shrouded in the shadows that only lit up against the lightning. Finding his keys in the soaked jacket was a fight Damien barely won. He heaved a sigh of relief when he finally managed to close the door behind him, muffling the sounds of the downpour to a distant pitter-patter.

Damien ran a wet hand along the wall behind him until he located the light switch. He had to squint when his living room came to life in front of him, bathed in a soft, fluorescent glow.

Leaning against the wall at his back, Damien did nothing but breathe. The water from his drenched, shivering frame ran down to collect in a puddle around his boots, ruining the gleaming wooden boards of his floor. 

Damien hardly cared. His entire focus was fixed on slowly coaxing his mental shields to rebuild around his mind, to gather himself together and find some semblance of control. 

Michael was in trouble. It was a fact. There was nothing he could do to rewind time and stop that from happening no matter how much he wished. Letting his rage fuck with the local weather certainly didn’t help. Finding his Guide and bringing him back was Damien's priority and sole responsibility. Michael didn’t need an out-of-control feral charging to his rescue. He needed a clear-headed and rational Sentinel backing his play, whatever that was. If nothing else, Damien knew Michael wouldn’t have placidly surrendered to a Branch One retrieval team if he didn’t have a plan. 

With his rampant senses somewhat under control as his shields incrementally wrapped around his mind, Damien focused on the interior of his house.

Out of all the scents that still lingered, Michael’s was the most prominent. Traces of cherry blossoms and vanilla were wrapped up in tendrils of cedar, pine and freshly cut grass. The touches of petrichor and ozone of his personal scent were heightened due to the gradually fading thunderstorm outside. 

Underlying the layers of that infinitely calming scent, there were infinitesimal traces of leather, gun oil, cordite and fuel. Mixed up with those were the micro strands of personal scents - hints of citrus, cream and bitter chemicals among a plethora of others - that were too dissipated for Damien to latch onto. 

To his immense relief, however, the sharp, metallic tones of blood were absent. Whatever had happened, or Michael had done, no one had gotten hurt. 

Not that Damien gave a shit. He would have preferred to find Michael standing in the middle of a dozen dead bodies, unharmed, if he were honest. Explaining the carnage together would have been much better than returning to an empty house filled with the glaring echoes of his absent Guide. 

I swear to God, Michael, you better have a fucking plan. 

Damien found it easier to curse at the man. It distracted him from thinking about worst-case scenarios, or dwelling on the possibility that it might already be too late to do anything. 

Your way of running infiltration ops, or whatever the fuck it is this time, is starting to grate on my fucking nerves. 

But then again, what could he have done? Damien sighed, blinking tiredly at Michael’s khaki jacket that was still draped over the back of a couch. It wasn’t as if they were in some lawless hellhole in a forgotten corner of the world. They were in Damien’s territory, for fucks sake! Michael wouldn’t have reacted in any way if he thought his actions would cause trouble for Damien and his family down the line. 

He didn’t know how long he stood there, leaning against the wall, while the shivers wracking his body took forever to subside. Even after his mental shields had finally restored themselves, the warring emotions of worry and frustration remained, making Damien feel useless, helpless, and agitated.

How the fuck was he going to call and tell Michael’s mother that her son was in trouble, again? 

That Damien was responsible, again?

That he was apparently absolute shit at keeping his goddamn Guide safe for more than forty-eight hours straight? 

Christ!

Before he could spiral down a new tunnel of despair, however, Damien’s phone rang, the caller ID flashing on the wet screen demanding his instant attention. 

Chapter Text

Detroit Metro Airport (DTW)
Underground Parking.

20.16 Hours.

“That went well,” Sanchez muttered when they all cleared the elevator. 

“Yeah, except for the part we just handed our suspect over to a fucking Black Ops team.” Lopez let out a frustrated growl before she whirled around to face Spencer, “Boss, when did we start doing the CIA's dirty work?”

She was nearing her limits. Spencer could tell that much by the way her shields flickered against his own rather insistently, almost abrasively, lacking their usual grace. She had been keeping her mind open since the moment they had made the arrest, maintaining a cautious awareness of their rather unusual, and highly dangerous suspect. The long hours of continuous exposure were starting to take its toll. The collective apprehension and suspicions of the rest of the team that was feeding her own, weren’t helping.

Miller, who maintained a conservator bond with her, noticed her wavering control as well. “You need help blocking yourself?”

Lopez blinked at the hand he offered before clasping it with her own, sighing wearily, “Yeah. Guess I do.”

The rest of the team stayed silent while Miller lent some of his own strength to Lopez to ground herself. Spencer took the momentary respite to tighten up his own mental shields. It was a relief when the bright, too-refined sensory inputs from the surroundings finally dulled to regular levels along with his senses. A pulsing headache remained at the base of his skull, reminding him why extended connections to the Psionic Plane were not recommended. 

“What’s going on?” Brown, the team’s designated sniper, demanded after a few minutes. “What Black Ops team?”

“Walker’s team wasn’t there,” Sanchez said. “The five-man team we met didn’t really look like one of ours.”

“Not the first time we borrowed extra hands from Langley.” Miller pointed out off-handedly, glancing at Spencer. 

Sanchez shrugged, “Something didn’t feel right.”

“This arrest was already on thin ice if you consider the legal terms,” Jones decided to put words to what everyone was thinking by then. “We basically kidnapped a foreign national visiting on a territorial invite. Nothing in the pre-mission briefing tracked with what we actually faced. And now this…”

Spencer stayed quiet, letting his team voice their points. What Jones said was true. Sandton had insisted on covering a wide range of possible scenarios during the briefing, based on the service record of their suspect: escape attempts, booby traps, demands, arguments, gunfights and possibly even explosives. 

What they hadn’t expected was a placid surrender. 

He couldn’t fault Lopez for clocking the new team for a CIA Black Ops team either. The glaring lack of insignia, the odd assortment of weapons and their overall gruff demeanour had all pointed to a group of Special Operatives. The CIA had a way of worming its way into the Council’s business more often than not. Southeast HQ’s close proximity to Langley and Sandton’s family connections didn’t help the matter either. 

“I have a feeling the Brit knows a hell of a lot more than we do,” Lopez muttered, sipping water from a bottle Miller had produced.

“What do you mean?” Lee frowned.

“I didn’t sense a single damn thing from him unless I was meant to,” she said. “That was freaky. I have a feeling he was playing us all along…like he wanted to get caught or something.”

“What?” Miller demanded, “Why?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be able to read fucking minds?” Morgan, another non-gene-carrier in the team, pointed out.

“Yeah, well, this one’s good at keeping his mind private,” Lopez grumbled, “I only sensed these pointed little questions and thoughts–”

Brown glanced over at their Guide, confused, “I didn’t know Latents could do that.” 

“They usually can’t.” Lopez snapped, “Like I said, this one’s different.”

“What if something else is going on?” Sanchez threw in, “Other than the charges of possible murder they levelled on the guy–”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case,” Jones drawled, “Why else would the CIA want to butt in?”

“The way I see it, I don’t care how, but the suspect needs to make it to Arlington in an hour, maximum two,” Brown griped, “Because, if something happens to this asshole, as the arresting team, we’ll be the ones in shit.”

“Boss, you're awfully quiet,” Sanchez nudged Spencer on the shoulder, “Got a plan?”

In answer, Spencer drew a tablet from his tac vest and switched it on. The rest of the team surrounded him and peered at the screen while he pulled up a live tracking programme.

“You put a tracker on him?” Lopez snorted, “Where?”

“One in the evidence case and one in the cuffs,” Spence murmured, letting out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding when a blinking dot popped up in the middle of the expanding map. 

“Huh,” Miller grinned, “Clever.”

“As long as they don’t get rid of those,” Jones added.

“Yeah,” Spencer said, hoping that wouldn’t be the case. “We’ll see if we’re getting worked up over nothing or if this op really is going down the shit creek.”

They had their answer within half an hour.  

Damien’s Lake House
Petosky

20.43 Hours

“Damien,” Lionel Scott’s tight voice came through the line when Damien touched the screen to answer, “You wanna tell me why the Southeast HQ issued a detention warrant for a ‘Michael Stonebridge’ staying at your place?”

The chairman of the Midwest Council was barely holding back an explosive fury. Instead of rekindling his own anger, it strangely helped Damien to calm his thoughts further. Hearing him say Michael’s name without any detectable adverse reaction was also a massive relief.

“Tell me what’s on it,” Damien said levelly, “and I’ll tell you why.”

“This man is wanted for questioning regarding a kidnapping and a possible murder,” Lionel informed him, “the victim’s name is redacted. What caught my attention was your name on the sidelines. It says he’s here with you. What the hell’s going on?”

“The redacted name’s Christy Bryant.”

“Your Guide?” The anger in his voice instantly turned to horror, “You brought her murderer home with you!?” 

Damien slid the rest of the way down along the wall, hardly paying any mind to the way the puddle on the floor soaked his ass and thighs through his jeans. His Sentinel mark was still warmer than the rest of him, and it stung in tandem with his pulse. Rubbing a hand over it didn't do anything to abate the feeling.

“No, uncle, I brought my goddamn Guide home with me,” Damien murmured brokenly, wondering how it would have felt to share the news under different circumstances, where his family hadn’t been brainwashed and his Guide hadn’t been taken right out of his goddamned home during his absence. The ache that flared in his heart right then had nothing to do with the Psionic energies. “As for Bryant, Michael didn’t lay a hand on her. I killed that bitch…”

The silence from the other side of the line was deafening. Damien had to double-check the screen to see if the call was still connected. Lionel seemed to have stopped even breathing after hearing what he just said.

“From the fucking beginning, kid,” when he returned, the other Sentinel’s voice was barely above a strained whisper, “Tell me everything.”

For the next twenty minutes, that was what Damien did for the second time that day. He started from when he met Michael for the first time back in 2009, and how everything went downhill from there because Damien had brought in a veritable psychopath to their lives. He finished the painful account numbly with what Kelly’s efforts revealed about the rest of the family.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” 

Yeah. That about sums it up. “She even got to the bonded pairs,” Damien muttered tiredly, “Branch One snuck in and grabbed Michael while I was in the middle of handling that shit. His text said that Director Sandton was behind the order.”

“Yeah, it’s his signature alright,” Lionel confirmed after a few second’s pause. “But Damien, how would your man know that?”

“Because like I said, he’s too fucking powerful for his own good,” Damien sighed. Coincidentally, it might be for the best since I stir up freak storms when my goddamn control slips. Fuck. “I’m pretty sure he went with them to figure out the rest of the play Bryant left behind. It’s not like we have anything to hide. Disclosing that murderous bitch’s death was the other reason we got here in the first place.”

“Sandton’s got connections with the CIA,” Lionel added thoughtfully, “and Bryant’s status with the Southeast Council gives them access to the case. I don’t like this, Damien…”

Damien understood the implications behind the other Sentinel's quiet statement. “You don’t have to tell me,” he murmured, frustration and worry bubbling deep in his gut all over again, “I know how the Company works.” 

“I’ll take care of it,” Lionel said firmly. “I’ll make sure Stonebridge arrives at Arlington in one piece. From what you said, it looks like they took care to stage it like a voluntary surrender. Rhodes is not an idiot. He knows this could very well end up with a retribution claim big enough to take his entire region down if he missteps.”

“He already did.” 

Lionel grunted. Damien had enough ground to legally challenge Chairman Rhodes’ decision-making abilities if he wished. It didn't even matter what contingency plans Bryant may have left with her mentally and psychically abused husband. With what Damien and Michael had on her, Rhodes didn’t have shit to build a case against Michael. 

All the Southeast Council’s chairman had to do was present their suspicions and the arresting warrant to the Midwest HQ and formally request Damien’s and Michael’s presence for an inquiry. Instead, they decided to operate like the CIA by sending a team to kidnap Michael in a goddamn stealth operation. 

“I need to arrange a few Guides to send over–”

“Michael’s mother offered to help,” Damien added, remembering the rest of Michael's text. However, there was no telling if she would even want to after learning about her son's current predicament.

“Is she trained for that kind of thing?” Lionel asked suspiciously, “Do you know her?”

“Not really,” Damien sighed wearily, “I haven’t met anyone in his family yet. The text said her name is Hiyori.”

Damien was treated to another lengthy silence from the other end, a kind of disquiet that left Damien convinced he wasn't done receiving bad news for the day yet.

He heard sounds of riffling papers in between softly muttered ‘Stonebridge’, ‘British’ and a heartfelt ‘fuck.’ Damien thought the chairman was reading the warrant again. 

“Everything okay?”

“Not if your Guide is Hiyori Cahill’s son,” Lionel sighed heavily, “then we can officially declare this an international clusterfuck.”

There was something about the way Lionel said her name that stirred a sinking feeling in Damien's gut.

“Care to elaborate on that?” He asked, bracing himself for the other shoe to drop.

“What do you know about the Councils of England?”

“That they have three,” Damien muttered, tamping down his irritation at Lionel’s lecturing tone, “Northern, Southern and Central.” That was the sum of his knowledge on the subject.

“Yeah, well. Hiyori Cahill is the chairwoman of the London Council, Damien,” Lionel groaned exasperatedly, “How the hell could you not know that?!”

Because I never really cared about Councils and their political bullshit. Also because my Guide is a secretive little shit.

Damien let out a non-committal grunt.

“You know she’s well within her right to demand retribution for this blatant breach of protocol and failure of courtesy when she finds out, yes?”

“Fucking fantastic.” When I find you, I’m going to throttle you, Michael. I wonder what the fuck else you're holding out on me.

“I won't envy you the task of handling that encounter.”

Damien couldn’t blame him. “I'm going to have to look her in the eye and tell her that I got her son into trouble again.”

“Look kid, this isn't your fault–”

“I invited him to my territory,” he cut his uncle off. Pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger did nothing to alleviate the stress headache that insisted on making itself at home there. “He’s my responsibility.”

“I'm sure she'll understand,” Lionel murmured sympathetically, his tone turning a little wry. “Besides, from what you told me, your Guide seems to like you enough even after all the crap you two went through. Maybe she'll cut you some slack.”

“Thanks,” Damien’s sarcastic reply had no bite, “That's helpful.” 

“Anyway, I need you to get here as soon as possible. We’ll deal with disclosing Bryant’s death after we’ve paid a visit to the Halcion Tower and gotten your Guide back. A formal testimony in front of a board of inquiry should do it.”

“That was the original plan,” Damien admitted. “I need some time to get my head in the game. I’ll hit the road in a bit. Michael’s mom’s flight is supposed to land somewhere around one in the morning. I’ll meet her there and fill her in before I drop by.”

“Not by yourself, kid. At least bring James with,” Lionel cautioned in a tone that meant he wasn’t really asking. “You said he didn’t have any of that woman’s compulsions.”

“No, he’s clear,” Damien sighed, not quite convinced whether he needed a babysitter or some peace and quiet throughout the long drive, “I’ll ask him.”

“Alright, and Damien–”

“Yeah?”

“We’ll fix this kid,” There was a quiet certainty behind his words despite the soft tone. 

“Damn right.” Damien agreed. 

“In the meantime, don’t do anything reckless.”

“Sure.” Damien snorted. The other Sentinel didn’t need to know that he’d already gotten that out of his system. “See you tomorrow.”

Unknown Location

A sharp sting flared at the back of his neck, wrenching Michael from a deep blackout to the waking world in a nauseating rush. The moment he blinked his eyes open, an utterly unexpected, too-bright light blinded him, causing him to squeeze his eyes shut again and recoil with a hiss. The fireworks in his vision didn’t even have a chance to fade before his left eye was opened forcefully with a gloved thumb and a forefinger, subjecting him to another assault of light. What stopped him from rearing his head back and introducing it violently to the face he sensed entirely too close to his own, was the excruciating agony throbbing inside his skull.

That and the fact that he couldn't move.

“Pupil reaction is within acceptable limits–” Somewhere above him, a quiet voice announced clinically. “So is the pulse.”

Michael wasn't so sure he agreed with the assessment, not when he could feel his heart trying to beat itself out of his rib cage. Waking up in unfamiliar places after being arrested and drugged had a tendency to make him feel rather unsettled. He gave another shot at opening his eyes, squinting to try and reduce the spots still dancing in his sight.

A plain, white-washed ceiling with fluorescent lighting greeted him when he did, confirming the uncomfortable notion that he was horizontal. The mattress at his back was hard and thin, reminding him of a gurney. The room he was in had three bare walls and one with a steel door, closed and bolted. 

By itself, the small, almost sterile-looking room didn’t present much of a threat. What did were the belt-like, leather restraints he discovered securing his wrists and ankles to the metal railings of the gurney. There were more straps across his thighs, hips and shoulders, tight enough to make sure he had zero freedom of movement. That wasn’t all either. There was a restrictive collar around his neck, hard leather and cold steel brushing against the soft skin around his throat every time he turned his head. 

He sensed movement at the head of the bed, out of his line of sight, followed by the sounds of steel clanking against steel. Michael guessed that was probably the asshole who just shined a cursed penlight in his eyes.

Another man who looked to be in his late forties stood to Michael’s right, about a foot away from the gurney. He was tall, definitely above six feet and sported a head full of blond hair that was going grey around the edges. The tailored suit he wore did nothing to hide the broad-shouldered, well-muscled figure that had to weigh at least two hundred pounds. 

Even through the haze of agony in his head, Michael recognised the face that bore a pair of steel blue eyes, a crooked nose and thinly-set lips mostly hidden by a full-grown beard. 

It seemed that he was finally face-to-face with assistant director Anderson, Bryant’s Sentinel and husband. 

“Hello, Michael,” the CIA man said pleasantly as if they had just met over a work meeting, “Zebadiah Anderson. You can call me Zeb.”

Anderson was calm, too calm, in fact, and entirely composed. Michael knew that even a surface bond would have allowed him to sense the loss of his Guide, unless Bryant had corrupted any connection they had to meaningless fragments. Michael had fully expected to face the wrath of a devastated, possibly feral Sentinel. 

Instead, Anderson stood before him wholly unaffected, and seemingly in perfect control of his faculties. The disconcerting realisation made a frisson of ice run down Michael’s spine. 

“You know, I warned Christy about you,” Anderson continued conversationally, his eyes darkening a fraction like a predator sensing the terror of its prey, “I told her that you couldn’t have survived what Scott did to you unless you had come online. But what can I say? She never was that good at taking advice.”

There was a slight brush against Michael’s mental barriers, curious, confident and probing. Everywhere those abrasive shields touched, they left behind cold, dark, stain-like imprints wrapped up in sickeningly sinister impressions. It took all of his self-control not to flinch, physically or mentally, and keep his defences locked tight.

“Are you doing that on purpose, Michael?” Anderson tilted his head to the side and narrowed his fully-darkened eyes. “Come now. I know you’re online.”

The question was followed by another wave of even more insistent probes - a mental equivalent of malevolent claws raking against the walls around his mind like rusted nails on a chalkboard. Michael managed to hold his shields even as the agony in his head worsened to nauseating levels. 

The fact that Anderson was aware of Michael's status wasn’t a welcome notion. Or the realisation that he didn’t seem concerned in the least.

“You don't have to strain yourself. Just relax,” his overly friendly tone grated on Michael's nerves, “It’s not like you can do anything remotely Guide-like as long as the Nullifier is there to keep you in check.”

Anderson’s gaze was fixed on his neck, and Michael swallowed instinctively to repress another shudder of fear. 

“What the fuck did you do?” 

“Nothing drastic, or permanent,” Anderson smiled, holding up a palm in a placating gesture. “It’s a nifty little innovation. Too bad the Councils around the world agreed to ban the useful tool. It’s very handy when it comes to unpredictable and dangerous subjects like you.”

Michael didn’t know much about them other than the fact that the 'Nullifiers' or the 'Null Collars' were used to subdue feral Sentinels and Guides back in the day. Studies conducted throughout the years revealed that the chemical components of the drug they used could cause irreversible brain damage or tumours. After that, the use of the collars was permanently banned, worldwide.

Nowadays, they just sedated the ferals and used specially trained Guides or hypnotherapy to assist them with rebuilding their shields. Such rehabilitation took time, but it was considered a much better solution than rendering the ferals with fatal side effects.

“What does it do?” Michael did his best to stay calm and rational, but it wasn’t a fight he was winning. With every word out of Anderson’s mouth, he felt like all the restraints were tightening around his body. The collar around his neck was starting to squeeze his throat, cutting off his air. Or maybe it was a sign of true panic starting to take hold. He couldn’t help but strain and struggle against the bindings even as he knew it was a futile effort.

“It injects a special drug cocktail directly to your brainstem at measured intervals,” the man confirmed Michael’s suspicions with a smile, enjoying his distress. “As long as those chemicals are in your system, you can’t quite hang on to the Psionic energies. Go on, try opening your shields. You don’t have to take my word for it. See for yourself.”

Michael was too scared and freaked out not to. His scrambling mind took a minute to listen to his urging, and the outer layers of his shields fell open without their usual grace in response to his agitation. The moment they did, however, he felt the familiar, friendly energies of the Midwest surround him excitedly, eager to do his bidding. A part of his mind that still had some ability to think logically noted that it meant they hadn’t taken him across to the Southeast region just yet.  

His relief vanished the next moment when he realised something was very wrong. Try as he might, he couldn’t call those energies into him as easily as breathing the way he usually did. A flimsy, gossamer barrier seemed to spring up in between the shields around his mind every time he called on the energies, preventing him from drawing them in. After a few unsuccessful tries, even the Psionic energies started to give out a sense of confusion and despair at their inability to merge with him.

The abhorrent, cloying presence of Anderson’s shields still caressing against his unprotected mind hardly registered at the newly discovered horror. 

“Feels like it's slipping through your fingers every time you try to call on the Plane, doesn’t it?” 

Michael heard Anderson’s words in a fluctuating wave through the static buzzing in his ears. His breath came in gasps, unable to fill his lungs with enough oxygen the same way he was unable to invite the insistent energies around him into his mind. He felt hollow and cold, and shivers started to wrack his body from head to toe.

“I hated it when I first tried it on too. That’s how I know it works.” 

“Take it off! ” Michael snarled through gritted teeth, fighting a losing battle against the waves of pure terror that threatened to drown him.

“Hey, now, easy,” Michael felt a big hand clamp around his right shin like a brand, and he jerked violently as much as the strap around his thighs allowed. Anderson dug his fingers into his calf muscles in response, hurting him enough to distract him from his panic. “Deep breaths–”

As infuriating as it was, it worked. Michael used the pain radiating from his leg as a focus to get his breathing under control. Anderson loosened his grip the moment he noticed Michael’s pulse levelling out, and regarded him with another bright smile.

“The feeling passes after a while, trust me,” he said, patting Michael on the leg and finally withdrawing his shields back to himself, “You won’t even know it's there. Just keeps you tame and harmless, that's all.”

Tame and harmless. Anderson had that right. As restrained as he was, the only other defence Michael had was his ability to wield the Psionic energies to reach out, connect and manipulate other minds. Without it, he was effectively helpless and under the mercy of quite possibly a psychopath. 

“What am I doing here?” Michael demanded, wincing when he heard the slight slur to his words. His momentary panic hadn’t done any favours to the agony inside his head, which ebbed and waned angrily in tandem with the rapid beats of his heart.  

“All in good time, sport,” Anderson said cheerfully, “Tell me, where’s Bryant? Is she dead or did you drug her to the gills and stick her in one of your black sites?”

“She’s dead.” 

Michael’s flat declaration didn’t garner anything other than a disappointed sigh. “Pity. I was hoping we could make a deal or something. No matter. Was it you or Scott?”

Michael didn’t feel the need to answer. Instead, he closed his eyes, focusing on keeping his breathing even and the bile roiling in his stomach placated.

“Fine. Be that way.” Anderson continued, amused and unbothered, “I have my money on Scott. You got rid of her tethers and he finished the job. How am I doing?”

Too fucking accurate. Even through the whirlwind of terror and tumult that was brewing in his mind, finding the memory of that fateful day he had met her for the first time, wasn’t that difficult. 

“Anderson was just another means to an end. He has nothing I need anymore. Or should I say… he ran out of things he could possibly give me years ago.” 

She had said it with a careless smile as if she was looking forward to getting rid of him. 

“Bryant was planning on bonding with Scott,” Michael muttered, opening his eyes. He wanted to see Anderson’s reaction. Had he known about those plans of hers too?

“Always did have high ambitions, that one,” Anderson chuckled. Then, seemingly having noticed Michael’s nonplussed reaction he hadn’t been quick enough to hide, the Sentinel went on to explain with an indulgent smile. “You see, Christy and I had an arrangement. She and I supplied each other with contacts, information, leverage, power, access, alibis…ah, the list is endless.”

“Weren’t the two of you bonded?” Michael asked, not bothering to mask his disgust. 

“The bond we had was more of a contract,” Anderson shrugged, “It was our way of keeping each other honest and accountable. Or as much as we could, at least. You know how hard it is to trust anyone in this line of work, don’t you, Michael?”

“You knew.” Michael accused, just to keep the Sentinel talking. More than half his attention was fixated on coaxing the Psionic energies through the sickening chemical barrier that showed no signs of fading. 

“Of course. I knew everything. In fact, you were supposed to be her last job. Scott was her reward. I wasn’t very keen on breaking up our lucrative partnership, but hey, I was getting my own reward too. It was all about balancing the scales at the end of the day.”

Michael wasn’t sure whether he wanted to know even as he let the question slip. “Yeah, what was it?” 

“You, of course.”

Michael swallowed. The nasty gleam in Anderson’s liquid black eyes and the shark-like grin on his lips radiated excitement and triumph. The insanity of it was too much for Michael to even comprehend. But, now that he had met Anderson, he was beginning to see how the Sentinel was twisted enough to view him as a prize.

Michael had no intention of becoming anything Anderson had in mind. What he needed was to get a hold of himself, clear his mind and think through this crappy situation without letting his emotions get the better of him. Then only he would be able to figure out how to get the hell out before things took a turn for the worst. 

Sparing a heartfelt ‘thank you’ to his mother for all the rigorous training she had put him through from early on, Michael redoubled his efforts to connect to the Psionic Plane. His own frustration and fear felt as if they were echoing back to him tenfold after being fed by the anxiously rippling energies.

“There are so many things you don't know, Michael,” Anderson's tone took on a lecturing quality, his hand travelling up to rest on Michael’s knee in a rather possessive manner. “You have no idea who or what you are.”

“Why don’t you educate me, then.” Anderson was in the mood to talk, and Michael wanted him as distracted as possible to pay any attention to the war Michael was waging inside his mind. Besides, the extra information could always be useful.

“Gladly. We’re going to become well and truly acquainted after all.” 

Michael didn’t like the sound of that or the sleazy leer that accompanied the notion. He kept quiet, his mind solely focused on banging against the artificial prison erected around his brain, and let Anderson keep boasting about his grand schemes.

“Did you know that there could only be one male Guide at a time? Only fucking one in the entire world?"

“No?” Michael frowned.

“Well, it’s one of those little facts that never made it to the textbooks. I don’t quite know why. Anyway, no male is ever born with the Guide genetic mutation either. It’s a transformation that happens at the very early stages. I’m not clear on the circumstances though–” 

Michael was intrigued, despite the source or the circumstances, “How do you know?”

“Oh, I found someone who knew another male Guide a long time ago,” Anderson shrugged self-deprecatingly, “I was searching for that man for the better part of a decade with no luck. Then Bryant stumbled upon you through Scott.” His enhanced gaze raked over Michael in a slow, head-to-toe scan that left Michael’s skin crawling, “He was so sure of you, you know?”

Yeah. Michael did know. Damien hadn’t held back showing him exactly how sure he was before Bryant had gotten into his head. It was not the time, but Michael couldn’t quite keep his thoughts from flowing towards his Sentinel. There was an ache in his heart that had nothing to do with his current situation, a tangle of worry, guilt, regret and longing warring over each other. He had only known Damien for a very short time, but his feelings towards the Sentinel already ran deep and true.    

Thinking about Damien only made his focus waver. With a deep breath, Michael did his best to wrench his attention back to Anderson and his plans. 

If he had become obsessed with male Guides for whatever twisted reason, it made sense that he would be intrigued by information about Micahel. What didn’t make sense was Bryant’s attempt at his murder.

“Why did Bryant try to have me killed then?”

“It was an experiment,” the Sentinel said easily as if Michael should have figured that out by himself, “A bet, actually. She was certain she could manipulate Scott into killing you without getting him also killed in the backlash. She thought when Scott’s shields rewrote themselves, the new ones would match her own. That was her grand plan to claim him as hers.”

“You sound like you had doubts.”

“I had my money on you, sport.” Anderson’s hand on his knee tightened as if he was proud of Micheal. “I figured you’d go online to survive. Locke did a damn good job of covering your tracks, but I have my sources. I knew you made it out.” 

Michael felt a knot of dread form in his gut at the casual way Anderson let slip that he knew who Michael’s father was. It was becoming evident to him that his current situation was just another part of the trap the maniacal Sentinel/Guide duo had begun laying more than two years ago.

“The other Guide probably died that day or went dormant,” Anderson added, almost an afterthought. 

“What other Guide?

“The other male Guide. Keep up, Michael. That’s how this works. I already told you that there’s only one male online Guide in the world at a time.”

“You sure you aren't mental, mate?” Michael sighed, feeling incredibly tired. Gaining information was one thing, but having to endure the revolting presence of the unhinged Sentinel was taking its toll on him. 

His headache hadn’t abated in the slightest, and his continuous efforts at trying to connect to the Psionic energies left him exhausted. The only flicker of light at the end of the very dark tunnel he was trapped in was that he could finally sense infinitesimal cracks in that chemical barrier. The realisation that his labouring efforts weren’t a complete waste gave him hope, and a much-needed boost of strength to keep up the attack no matter how excruciating and draining it was.

“I don't blame you. It’s kinda scary, isn’t it?” Anderson continued, heedless of Michael’s split attention. “Anyhow, if I were to lose one Guide, I wanted another. Bryant had her go at you and she failed. I wasn’t going to give her another chance. All she had to do was scrape whatever she needed from your mind and then deliver you to me. A simple task she screwed up in epic proportions.”

“So what, you thought using the Southeast Council’s resources to deliver me to you was the best way to go about it?” Michael sneered. It was obvious that Anderson hadn’t disclosed any important details about Michael to the Council, only giving them just enough to make the arresting team extra cautious in their approach. All he had accomplished by doing so was leaving a trail. “How are you going to explain my absence at the Halcion Tower to the Midwest Council and my Sentinel?”

“Oh, Michael, you should know by now that I don't take unnecessary chances with my acquisitions,” Anderson graced him with another patronising smile, rubbing his hand up and down Michael’s leg in a way that had Michael squirming to get rid of the unwanted touch. “If I had sent one of my own teams, you wouldn't have come along so peacefully. I know Guides, Michael, I know what the lot of you can do with proper training. You’re the son of Cahill and Locke. You were trained by the best.”

He had that right. Michael was trained by the best. It was the only reason he was able to keep up a conversation with the lunatic while his mind felt like a hurricane of opposing forces. He was so deep in his concentrated efforts to break down the drugs severing him from the Psionic Plane, that the agony in his head only registered as a roaring static in the background. There was a sour, metallic taste at the back of his throat, mingled with the acidic notes of bile, a sure sign that the rest of his body was paying a high cost for what was happening in his mind.

“Don’t worry, sport. It’s not like I’m going to keep you in this dump forever,” Anderson declared lightly. “I’ll only need a few hours at the most, just to get the process started. I’ll make sure you’re back in Arlington before noon tomorrow. By the time the Scott clan comes looking for you, you’ll be exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

Michael didn’t like the sound of any of that. “The fuck are you planning, Anderson?” He growled.

“A little of this, a little of that,” the man grinned, licking his lips. “My main goal is to change your shields to match mine instead of Scott’s. You see, Bryant’s idea had a solid foundation, but she relied on the natural order of things too much. I, on the other hand, have a lot more faith in science. A little bit of genetic tinkering goes a long way, you know.”

For an interminable moment, Michael’s mind went blank. He had heard the words, but the meaning refused to make sense. It was so far out of the left field, that Michael wondered if he had heard the man correctly.

Rearrange the genetic signature of my goddamn mental shields? How the fuck is that even possible!?

“After I make sure you respond to the treatment without any issues, you’ll wake up in the Halcion Tower, blissfully free of this understandably terrible memory.'' Anderson continued, blithely ignoring the dumbfounded expression Michael was certain was written all over his face. “I have my own undercover people to keep up the dosages until your shields have completely rearranged.”

“You’re not serious–” When Michael finally managed to speak, his voice sounded hollow to his own ears. “You’re talking utter bullshit.”

“By then, you might feel a little sick. Maybe disoriented–” Anderson kept going as if Michael hadn’t spoken, “Scott will no longer react to the sight, scent, sound or taste of you quite the way he does now. In fact, the Sentinel in him will be repelled by you, once the mutation is complete.”

“You’re one sick son of a bitch, Anderson,” Michael spat, his entire body suddenly shivering with a cold that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature. “It won’t work.”

“Oh, it will.” Anderson nodded confidently. “You see, the concept of it isn’t new, and I’ve had a very long time to sponsor the research team to perfect the theory and the practical administration. Just another one of those CIA’s under-the-table projects, you know. At the end of the day, when everyone is confused and lost, I’ll swoop in, save the day and collect my fascinating reward.” He punctuated his remark with another firm squeeze on Michael’s thigh.

“Even if this madness does work, and I won't remember what you’ve done, you think Scott will just forget and move on?” Michael hissed, “After everything we’ve been through together?”

“I’m sure he’ll have his own shit to deal with,” Anderson shrugged, supremely unbothered, “Bryant’s death, for example. You forget I have a lot of ways to make his life a living hell, Michael. Bryant already proved it, didn’t she? And believe me when I say, sport, I’m absolutely worse than her.”

“You should hope I die, Anderson,” Michael said very quietly. He did believe what Anderson said, just the way he believed what he was about to say, “Because if I survive this with even the slightest bit of myself unscathed, I’ll end you.”

The CIA man smiled and finally removed his hand from Michael’s leg to take a step back. “Clarence.”

Michael jerked in surprise when a man in black BDUs suddenly stepped around his bed to appear next to Anderson. He had completely forgotten about the medic who had silently waited at the head of his bed until then.

The medic, or a doctor, Michael wasn’t sure, had a long, thin, silver injector in his gloved hand. At Anderson’s nod, he took a step forward, clamping his free hand over Michael’s bicep, turning it to expose the veins in his inner elbow.

No amount of roaring protests or frantic wriggling was enough to stop the dreadful thing from plunging into his skin. A slight burning sensation followed as soon as he felt the needle sinking in, despite his struggles. The man removed the injector when it finished pouring its content into Micheal’s bloodstream with a low hiss.

“Do relax and let this happen, Michael.” Anderson patted him over the knee again. “It’s not like you have much of a choice, is it? Don’t worry. You’ll get used to me. We’ll have fun together.”

Chapter Text

Clay Township (Near the Canadian Border)
Michigan

23:20 Hours (Local)

“Where the fuck are we?” Morgan’s complaint came through the comms network, breaking the silence that had fallen over the team for the past hour and fifteen minutes.

“A hop, skip and a jump away from the fucking border, that’s where,” Brown cursed earnestly. “So much for going home to catch at least one fucking game. Fucking spooks.”  

Spencer had to agree. The trackers had stopped moving more than half an hour ago, going stationary at an isolated area of Clay Township - a civil township of St. Clair county which was located along the mouth of the St. Clair River at Lake St. Clair. 

They had kept a good distance from the two SUVs the CIA team had used to transport their suspect, depending on the trackers to lead them while staying completely out of sight. The traffic on the highway had been at a minimum due to the late hour and Spencer hadn't wanted to risk alerting the other team to their presence.  

Even now, pulling into the mostly dark, sleepy community with two Crown Vics and an SUV, all black and unmarked, they were bound to attract the attention of the locals. Especially since they had arrived only half an hour behind the other two equally suspicious-looking SUVs. The last thing they needed was the local police patrol swinging into the neighbourhood to investigate the sudden influx of midnight traffic.

Morgan, Brown and Jones were in the lead car, while Miller, Lopez and Lee were in the car at their six. Spencer was once again at the wheel of the SUV, with Sanchez riding shotgun and Moore comfortably sprawled at the back.  

He had decided to follow the moment they had realised the CIA team had no intention of taking Stonebridge to Arlington. Further checks had revealed that they even had a commercial cargo flight booked for transport as a way to throw off their trail. 

Spencer was glad that his good old paranoia led him to plant those trackers he had only grabbed at the last minute before leaving the HQ. 

Even if they could reason their way out of serving a dodgy warrant at best, losing the said suspect altogether was not something he was willing to sweep under the rug under any circumstances. The realisation that his team had been used as a convenient patsy also grated on his nerves. He had no doubt that it’d be his neck that would be served up on a platter when the Midwest Council inevitably demanded an explanation.

More to the point, the moment they had the suspect in their custody, his safety became the responsibility of his team. Now, in the hands of a CIA Black Ops team in the back end of nowhere, the last thing their suspect was, was safe.

Spencer had never cared for the world their Intelligence Agency operated in, even though he understood the necessity of a certain kind of evil to fight evil. He had served in the army for three years before transferring to civilian law authorities. He had spent almost eight years in the police force before eventually ending up in the much more specialised Branch One. Throughout all those years, his sense of duty had developed in tandem with his faith in the system. Sure, as with all things, it wasn’t without its faults and shortcomings. But his experience had shown him how the laws and regulations did more protecting and serving than causing harm when they were followed in the correct ways.

It was that sense of ingrained duty that didn’t allow him to turn his back and leave as he had been ordered. Not when the laws he believed in were so blatantly broken right before his eyes. He was grateful that he was blessed with an entire team who shared the same sense of duty and beliefs.

“So, we’ve been left holding the shit sandwich, haven’t we?” Sanchez grumbled, his gaze scanning the dimly lit, narrow street their small convoy was idling on. 

They had passed a little town with a few grocery shops, cafes, a post office and what looked like a medical clinic, all closed, before turning into a vastly isolated street at an intersection. The street was bracketed by warehouses, empty stretches of land and half-built structures - a part of the town that seemed as if it was still being built. 

According to the blinking dot on Spencer’s tablet, the CIA team was hauled up in a building just around the corner, only about five hundred yards from where they were parked.

“Are we reporting this to HQ, boss?”

Spencer considered. In any other circumstance, it was the first thing he would have done. But a nagging voice in his mind pointed out that if Sandton was aware of the CIA's plan to kidnap their suspect, there really was nothing stopping him from alerting them to Spencer’s team’s presence. 

That would only make them lose the element of surprise they currently had, putting his team and the suspect at more risk. 

“I don’t think so, Lopez,” he said softly, thinking over their options.

“Yeah,” Moore agreed from the backseat, echoing Spencer's thoughts, “If the director was in on this little detour, he’ll sound the alarm. Then we’ll all be fucked.” 

“What are we going to do?” Jones’ words stretched around a long, loud yawn, reminding Spencer how long and tiring the day had been. “We can’t make a plan to storm the castle from here. We need to know what we’re facing and that means getting close enough to do some recon.”

“Wait. Are we seriously considering picking a fight with our own people?” Lee piped up from the car behind them, “I mean, we’re talking about risking our lives and careers for a murder suspect, aren’t we?”

“First of all, these are not our people,” Jones snapped before Spencer could, “We don’t kidnap people right out of transport, even if they are fucking murderers. That right there, is illegal as fuck, and we’re legally bound to protect the guy we took into our custody. His safety is our responsibility. If these spooks go and break the Geneva Convention all over the guy within our border, we’re the ones who are going to be in a world of shit.”

Spencer didn’t feel the need to add anything to it since, as far as explanations went, it was as good as any.

“Jones’ got a point,” Sanchez murmured, turning to face him, “We do need more information. We need to learn what the fuck these assholes are up to.”

“So, let’s see if I have this straight,” It was Lopez again, “we’re going to treat this like a retrieval mission and we’re going off on our own. Without orders. Without oversight.”

She didn’t sound particularly bothered either way. But Spencer had to admit she did have a point.

“Maybe not.” He murmured.

“What do you mean?”  

“We’re not doing this with total zero oversight or information,” Spencer explained, biting back a sigh, “I guess I’m going to make the call I should have in the beginning.”

“And that is?"

“To the chairman of the Midwest,” Spencer said, pulling out his phone with great reluctance. “The lead Sentinel who should have been informed of all of this before we even set foot into his damned territory.”

It was not a conversation he looked forward to in the least, but it was the call he had to make if he wanted a chance at preventing the inevitable falling out between the two regions he could already see happening in the near future. 

Level - 20
Detroit Tower
Midwest Council Headquarters
Detroit, Michigan

23.54 Hours

Lionel Scott sat on his high-backed chair, his elbows resting on the hardwood of his mahogany desk, his aching head buried in his hands. Rachel had listened patiently as he knew she would, waves of reassurance and affection sending subtle vibrations through the bond they had shared closer to thirty years. She had understood and agreed that it was a situation that required his presence and attention until it was resolved. 

Damien Scott wasn’t just his nephew, but his chosen candidate for his seat when he retired. He wasn’t Lionel’s choice for his political ambitions, since Lionel had it on good authority that Damien had none. He had been there when the kid had come online fifteen years ago, and felt the Psionic Plane itself shiver in response to the newest addition of its wielders. It was then he had known exactly how powerful Damien would become with proper training, and Lionel had done his best to steer him towards developing his abilities. 

Ha had supported and admired Damien’s decision to serve. Most of the Scotts had a way of ending up serving either in the military or civilian law authorities. It was in their blood. Lionel himself had a decade under his belt as an army Ranger before he had decided to take over duties as a Sentinel to his territory. 

Even though he had understood Damien’s reasons and even agreed with them, he could admit to himself that he had mixed feelings about his nephew ending up working for the CIA. But he had trusted Damien to stay true to himself and his beliefs. 

After listening to that frankly unbelievable story of meeting, losing and finding his Guide again, now he felt that Damien had been destined to take that path all along. Lionel had always believed that the Psionic Plane had a way of manipulating them all in subtle ways, guiding, nudging and at times blatantly interfering with their lives to get what it wanted. 

As privileged as the gene carriers were to have access to those mystical energies and experience the world in a way a lot of people envied, the consequences of that privilege came from being vulnerable to the unpredictable whims of those energies. 

He lifted his head with a sigh, intending to find out if a guest suite had been prepared for Damien when a light started blinking on his landline, indicating an internal call.

“Sir,” Whitmore’s quiet voice came over the line when Lionel answered. Gareth Whitmore was a Level Three Sentinel who was his aide, secretary, advisor, confidant and friend all rolled into one. He had decided to stay along despite Lionel’s urging for him to go home. “There’s an Aaron Spencer on the line, asking for a way to contact you. He says he’s the leader of the Branch One team that served an arrest warrant earlier this evening.”

“Patch him through.” Lionel found it interesting that the agent wanted to contact him at that time of the night, not to mention concerning. “Spencer, this is Lionel Scott.” 

“Ah, sir.”

There was a pause, as if the Branch One agent hadn’t quite expected to be connected directly to him. Lionel decided to add to the agent’s palpable agitation. “You have my complete and undivided attention, agent.”

“Sir,” Spencer's voice came back a little louder, stronger and more confident, owning up to whatever mishap he was clearly calling to report. “Today, around sixteen hundred hours local, I and my team retrieved an individual named Michael Stonebridge from a lake house in Petoskey–”

“I’ve seen the issued warrant, agent.” Lionel murmured, “If you could even call it that.”

“You have?”  

Lionel could understand Spencer’s surprise. He had no doubt that Sandton had never meant for Lionel to find out about the blatant breach of protocol he had authorised on the same day. Lionel had contacts at the Halcion tower, just as he suspected Sandton had his own people at his building. 

Politics tended to be a dirty game at times, not quite dissimilar to the dealings of a certain secretive organisation that seemed to be in the thick of the brewing disaster Lionel had in his hands. It was a notion that left him feeling rather unsettled. 

“Yes,” he grunted in reply, not bothering to elaborate. 

“Okay, well…” there was another pause that didn’t bode well. “I have some bad news.”

“Michael Stonebridge better be alive and well for your sake, son,” Lionel said very quietly, not bothering to hide the low growl that accompanied his words. The Psionic energies shuddered around him as if responding to the sudden sinking feeling he felt blooming in his gut at the agent's ominous words. 

“We’re pretty sure he is,” Spencer swallowed audibly, “ but here’s the thing. He’s not on his way to Arlington as he was supposed to. He was intercepted by what we suspect is a CIA Black Ops team. They brought him to Clay township, instead…”

Lionel took in a deep breath, and let it out slowly to get his emotions under control before speaking, “You better tell me everything, Agent Spencer. From the beginning. Leave nothing out.”

For the next seven minutes, that was what the Branch One agent did. Lionel listened without a single interruption, secretly praising the agent for having the foresight to plant a tracker on Damien’s Guide. 

“Do not call your director,” Lionel ordered, reinforcing the agent’s decision to leave his own headquarters in the dark.

“Wasn't planning on it, sir.” Spencer sighed, “That’s why I called you.”

“I need your exact location, agent.” A plan was starting to form in his mind. What better way to deal with a rogue CIA team than with one of their own?

“Sir, I don’t recommend–”

“That’s an order, agent,” Lionel snapped, cutting off Spencer’s protest before it was fully formed.

Spencer rattled off the grid coordinates twice with great reluctance. Lionel could understand his reservations about giving up his team’s position, even if he had decided to come clean in the first place. 

Lionel didn’t really care. 

“Alright, stay on the line.” He placed the call on hold with a press of a button at the agent’s quiet acknowledgement. Then taking his cell phone out, Lionel dialled Damien.

“Damien, where are you?” he demanded the moment the call connected.

“Five minutes from DTW. Why?”

Detroit was a three-and-a-half-hour drive from Petoskey. Lionel realised that Damien had hit the road not long after their call. By some minor miracle, he even seemed to have driven within the speed limit to reach the airport. Considering the circumstance, Lionel admired the self-restraint Damien had exercised, not to mention the caution. 

It was a pity he was about to shatter all that calm and reason.

“I need you to keep going,” he said, “Get to Clay Township as soon as possible. I’m forwarding the coordinates to your phone–”

“I’ll ask again,” Damien’s voice went a few octaves lower, clearly having picked up on the underlying tension in Lionel’s tone, “Why?”

“I have the agent who apprehended your Guide on the other line,” Lionel replied, “That location I just sent you is where they are now.”

“What the fuck’s going on?” 

Lionel was certain the furious rumble he heard in Damien’s voice was quite similar to the one he had subjected Spencer to earlier. He quickly explained what the Branch One agent had reported, reiterating that Micheal seemed to be safe and unharmed for the moment.

Damien didn’t say anything once he was finished. All Lionel heard was the rush of wind and a loud growl of an engine when the speed of the vehicle Damien was driving suddenly picked up just before the call was cut. 

Biting back a curse, Lionel placed the phone on the desk. Then he picked up the receiver of his landline.

“Spencer,” he said, releasing the call that was on hold, “Move in as close as you can without announcing your presence. See if you can find out how many you’re dealing with.”

“You sound like you don’t want us to engage.”

“Not unless someone starts shooting or shit starts blowing up,” Lionel confirmed the agent’s assumption.

“Do I even want to know why?”  

“Because Guide Stonebridge's Sentinel is going to be there soon,” Lionel informed him, “Do try to stay out of his way.”

“Sir–”

Lionel wasn’t interested in hearing the agent’s protests in the least. He cut the call and leaned back on his chair with another long, weary sigh. He was going to be there for a while yet. 

Decommissioned Building Complex
Clay Township
St. Clair - Michigan

00:16 Hours

Being left alone helped since he didn’t have to strain himself by dividing his rapidly fraying attention. Closing his eyes squeezed shut to turn everything else out, Michael redoubled his efforts at pushing back against the foreign barriers in his mind. 

He was certain the sting he had felt earlier when he woke up to this nightmare was the first dose from the collar. But, he had no clue when the next one would plunge into his system. He needed to break through the barrier before that happened if he had any chance at getting himself out of the cursed restraints.  

He consciously avoided thinking about the other drug circulating in his blood, the one that Anderson was convinced would alter his very being. There was nothing he could do about it, so he saw no point wasting what precious little time he had left freaking out over it.

He would indulge after he had gotten himself free of his horizontal prison, and had preferably planted a .45 round in between Anderson’s beady eyes.

A considerable fracture appeared in the wall of his mental prison in tandem with a particularly agonising spike in his existing headache. With a groan that almost bruised his throat, Michael pushed back with everything he had, hoping and praying for a break.

It took two more tries. His entire body convulsed with agony that radiated from his head to toe and Michael tasted blood that dribbled out of his nose over to his lips. 

He was rewarded for his unflinching efforts when a soothing rush of Psionic energies rushed inside his mind through the cracks he managed to inflict in the drug-induced shields, sweeping away the remnants of the chemical intrusions in one massive, decisive wave. 

The relief he felt at finally being able to establish a connection with the Psionic Plane was nothing he had words to describe, especially when his relief and sense of triumph were magnified a thousand-fold by the swirling Midwest energies.  

With the splitting agony in his head pushed to a corner for the moment, Michael didn’t waste time celebrating his win. He was on a clock he couldn’t see, and he knew he had to act quickly. He was far too weak and drained to wage another battle if the collar dosed him again before he used his chance.

The energies cheerfully bubbling inside him agreed, and they were eager to do his bidding. Even as the thought formed, eight blinking spots appeared in his mind, giving Michael a general idea of the targets he would have to neutralise.

As he focused on those individual minds, he caught a few stray thoughts drifting in and out.

Anderson is one crazy motherfucker. The mind had a familiar feel. Wonder how long we’re going to have to wait before moving…

Michael was certain it was Smith. His thoughts were drifting from somewhere below. That told Michael he was on the second floor of the building. He didn’t want to examine Smith’s mind too closely, alerting the Sentinel to his mental presence. Instead, Michael let his extended awareness flow around them slowly and carefully, gathering as much information as he could. 

Calm, relaxed waves of static were radiating from two minds, indicating that those members of Smith’s team were asleep. 

God, I miss those freckled tits. Those bouncy handfuls. Fuck. Another one of Smith’s men was frustrated and horny. Michael realised he was on perimeter guard duty.

It’s fucking humid in here, and these cursed mosquitoes. It was the other mind closest to the previous one. That was the second guy on lookout duty.

There was another dim presence brushing against Michael's mind. Judging by the distance and the vagueness of that mind, Michael guessed that operative was the farthest. Possibly posted at the exit.

The next check-up is in two hours. Must remember to set the alarm before I take a nap. Won’t do me any good if that asshole finds me asleep.

That was the closest one. The medic. His thoughts were clear enough Michael could almost hear them, not just sense them. Michael was certain he was in the next room. Probably tasked by Anderson to keep a close eye on him.

That was the one presence he couldn’t feel. Maybe Anderson had left. Or he was too fucking talented at shielding his warped mind he was as good as a wall. Michael didn’t know and frankly didn’t have the slightest inclination to care. 

His immediate goal was to get free and get the hell out. 

For that, the closest mind was his best bet. 

Gathering what was left of his tattered concentration and waning strength, Michael focused on the mind of the medic, Clarence, which didn’t have the natural defences of a gene carrier. The man’s thoughts scattered and quailed at the invading presence he could do nothing to stop, and Michael grimaced when he felt the man’s fear as if it was his own.

Taking over another human being’s mind, even for a moment, wasn’t a pleasant task or an easy one. Human minds were resilient, chaotic and indomitable by nature. It required almost all the energy Michael had left in him to form a clear, concise thought inside the medic’s mind that his body would follow. 

Get in here.

It felt like forever until Michael finally felt the man get up from the chair he was reclined on, his movements jerky and almost mechanical. Michael felt his gut roiling sickeningly as he experienced the dual sensations of being laid up and moving at the same time.

The door to his cell opened, admitting a blank-eyed Clarence. 

Release me. Michael all but screamed in his mind, making the man’s expression twist in agony.

There was no refinement or control in what Michael was doing, and he didn't have any strength to spare for anything but crude and brutal commands. 

Clarence loosened the restraints around Michael’s wrists and ankles like a poorly-programmed robot. The second the final strap around his shoulders was unclipped, Michael rolled off the gurney, landing unsteadily on his feet with a pained grunt. 

A quick search revealed that the medic didn't have a key to unlock the cursed contraption around his neck. He didn't have a gun either, or the rest of the samples for the gene-alteration drug.

Michael compelled him to hand over his phone, which was the only useful thing he had. His final command for him was to get on the gurney and pass out - an order which Clarence followed easily. Despite his rough handling, Michael made sure to leave behind no injuries or damages in the medic’s mind when he withdrew to himself.

He did fall to his knees then, the headache that had been pushed to a corner rearing back to the surface with pure vengeance. With a hand braced against the cold, tiled floor, Michael spent the next few seconds blinking to chase away the black spots dancing in his vision.

He was free, and he had a phone. His best chance at freedom depended on sneaking out without alerting the CIA team. It was a task that bordered on the impossible since half of them were online Sentinels. 

Since physically engaging his captors wasn’t an option when he could barely hold himself together, there was one other thing Michael could do. 

It wasn’t even an option he had any faith in, considering he had only done it one time out of pure, desperation-driven instinct.   

The memory of it was more than two years old and hazy at best. But the cold terror he had felt when he realised he wasn’t looking into the eyes of the man who claimed he was Michael’s Sentinel, was still raw enough to send a chill down his spine. The barrel of the gun he had stared down that day had seemed out of proportion somehow, a black void that had looked massive enough to swallow him whole. He remembered how the sound of the gunshot had echoed inside his skull, entirely too loud and strangely distorted. The pain had only registered after his back had hit the ground, when his gaze had travelled in an upward arc from Damien’s retreating back to the wooden beams of a thatched roof.

The memories of Michael’s very first experience with the Psionic Plane were wrapped up in a tangle of horror, agony and confusion. He had been drowning, unable to catch his breath, to understand what was happening and how things had gone so terribly wrong in such a little time. The harsh, unfamiliar sensations that had engulfed the chaos in his mind hadn’t been gentle or patient. Those energies had taken him over in one decisive, definitive wave - an act of swift claiming Michael had been in no position to fight or prevent.

Scared out of his mind, stuck in a rapidly numbing body, none of Michael’s training had been enough to keep his utter panic at bay. Trapped in a rundown shack that had started to feel entirely too warm, cast in an entirely too strange shade of red and orange glow, he had done the only thing he could have:

He had screamed for help. 

It was only much later Michael learned that he had been screaming in his mind – the mind that had latched onto the Psionic Plane in a last-ditch attempt to survive. He had broadcasted his agony to an entire village. No one within a ten-mile radius had managed to escape the echoes of his pain, confusion and terror. Everyone whose mind he had inadvertently touched, had come running towards the building that had been on fire by then. 

They had dragged his body out before he had stopped breathing. All of them had then spent the next fifty or so hours doing their best to keep his fractured heart beating.

He had projected a call for help that day. What he was considering now was using the same ability consciously as a weapon. With the way his head felt as if it was on fire, Michael had more than enough agony to share. All he had to do was focus on the eight fragile threads that still flickered in his mind, and release an outward wave of echoes via the Psionic Plane. Michael was certain that everyone within the sphere he could influence would experience what he was feeling ten-fold. It would be more than enough to knock everyone out to make a hasty exit.

The only snag to the plan was he had no clue how to do it. He wasn't overly concerned about what damage he would inflict on the minds of the unfortunate recipients. He decided it was the price they would pay for what they did to him. Actions had consequences after all.

All he knew was that he was running out of time. The collar hadn’t dosed him yet, but he had no idea when it would happen. He had no time to waste deliberating. 

Taking in a few deep breaths to centre his mind, Michael closed his eyes, directing all his focus inwards. The fiery agony flared at the edges of his mind - the drugs fighting back fiercely to wrench back control - and Michael concentrated. Gathering the individual threads of that pain, he weaved his intentions around the minds that were inside the building, attaching mental equivalents of targets to each and every one of them. 

Once he was as certain as he could be, Michael released the Psionic energies armed with imprints of torment outwards in a long exhale. The Plane rippled and shivered as the psychical shockwave exploded out of him in an omnidirectional wave. In a moment of time that felt as if it was stretched and distorted, the Psionic wave touched every living being within its influence as it passed through them. 

Blood-curdling screams and howls reached him intermittently through the strange buzz that was trapped in his ears. Michael wasn’t completely conscious of his movements when he stumbled out of the room, his steps unsteady and his vision waving in and out of focus. 

He had a vague notion that he was in a narrow corridor with a flight of stairs leading down only about ten feet away from him. Michael grabbed onto the railing to avoid collapsing the way his body insisted and made it to the stairs with nothing more than stubborn willpower.

He was only three steps down when a fresh flare of agony erupted at the back of his neck. An involuntary scream ripped out of his throat adding to the fading roars that surrounded him. 

The darkness that engulfed him in the wake of it was utterly unexpected and instantaneous. Michael was unconscious before his knees buckled, dropping his unresponsive body straight towards the rest of the stairs. 

Chapter Text

Decommissioned Building Complex
Clay Township
St. Clair - Michigan

00:06 Hours (Ten Minutes earlier)

Damien ignored the GPS soon after he took the turn to enter the sleepy town, slowing down his speed considerably to avoid attracting attention. He turned off his headlights two more miles in when he was only five miles from his target location. The street was dark, bracketed by parallel lines of street lights that had more broken ones than functioning ones - but his heightened sight was more than keen enough to navigate. 

The coordinates led him to a two-story building that was located in the middle of an empty strip of land. Lines of warehouses and skeletal structures surrounded it, providing some cover for approach. But the immediate quarter-mile radius around the structure was fully open, making it impossible to reach the building without being seen. 

He parked the SUV under the cover of shadows at the end of a half-completed apartment block, which was only about three hundred yards from the target. He was alone, having decided he needed some time to himself instead of the company of a worried brother. Considering the circumstances, it was for the best. 

Climbing out of the SUV and closing the door softly behind him, Damien took in the surroundings. 

The Branch One team was on the opposite side, approaching the target from the back. Damien had deliberately chosen to arrive out of sight. He had no desire to make contact with the people who were responsible for the mess in the first place until he had learned more about the situation.

How he handled them would completely depend on Michael’s condition.

Casting his senses further, Damien mentally mapped the spread of their signatures. They were doing a good job of keeping themselves shielded and quiet. But Damien had no trouble finding their locations just by their heartbeats and scent profiles.

Spencer had three agents staying behind with the vehicles. They were parked on an alleyway just behind a row of empty, blocky buildings, at about seven hundred and fifty yards' distance from where Damien was standing. 

One of them was perched on the rooftop of the last building on the block, holding the position of an overwatch.

The remaining five were spread out, two approaching a possible exit at the back while the other three were slowly inching around the target building to reach the front entrance.

There was also a slight mechanical whirring, hovering somewhere above the right side of the target building, which meant they had a surveillance drone in the air.     

Damien wasn’t concerned about the Branch One team and their positions as much as he was about the CIA team. There were eight of them inside along with Michael.

There were two at the front on the ground floor, perched by the windows at either side of the closed door. Slow, relaxed heartbeats and quiet, meaningless chatter designed to chase away the boredom meant they were the lookouts. Two quieter pulses wrapped around steady rhythms of breathing and intermittent snoring indicated the ones asleep. Another operative was stationed further inside, possibly keeping an eye out the backdoor. Two more heartbeats were located at the centre of the ground floor, one talking and the other quietly laughing, probably waiting for a shift change on guard duty. The remaining heartbeat reached Damien from an elevated position - someone stationed on the floor above, either on overwatch or guarding Michael.

Unlike the Branch One team who were armed with both lethal and non-lethal weapons, the CIA team was entirely armed with full assault gear. Damien was intimately familiar with those sharp scents of leather, velcro, metal, cordite and gun oil. They weren't there to take any more prisoners other than the one they already had. 

Drowning all those signatures, demanding most of Damien’s attention was Michael, who was also somewhere on the upper floor. His pulse was weak and erratic, in stark contrast to the others inside the building. Other than gasping breaths, Michael wasn’t making any sounds. His scent - that beautiful blend of earthy scents wrapped up in cherry blossoms - was fouled with the sour notes of perspiration, metallic tones of blood and a nauseating film of sharp, acidic chemicals. 

Michael's drugged and barely conscious. 

It took all of his self-control to tamp down the fury of the Sentinel within him. The realisation reiterated the fact that Damien had no time to waste. He checked the magazine of his Beretta and thumbed the safety off. 

He wasn’t there to take any prisoners either.

An unexpected shiver in the energies around him broadcasted a sudden warning, confusing him and freezing him on the spot. Damien didn’t know what it was for, let alone how to brace himself. He didn’t have time to wonder either as a mere second later, he was hit with the most excruciating agony he had ever experienced in his life.

It took him a long time to realise that he was on a knee, free hand braced against the gravel on the ground, while his breathing was reduced to short, panicked gasps. There was a raging inferno inside his head, all too bright and all-consuming, devouring him from within. There were screams, from all around him, from inside the building, and tearing out from his own throat to reverberate in a violent cacophony. 

Damien didn’t know for how long he was stuck in agony, his body shaking and his consciousness whitened out. A small part of him screamed that it wasn’t him, that he wasn’t hurt - a feeling he only became aware of after an eternity. Ignoring the wholly unexpected torment inside his skull to concentrate on that observation took strength Damien wasn’t even sure he had. But the moment he latched on to that sliver of hope, that impossible realisation, he was able to push the agony to a side and clear his head enough to think.

A projection. His scrambled, confused mind managed to find an explanation in between a few more rapid inhales and exhales. Michael.

His body reacted before his mind could. The pain forgotten, Damien was up and sprinting towards the building before the implications of his realisation fully dawned. 

Only a very few online Guides could project their thoughts or emotions into other shielded or unshielded minds, and they always had to find and fuel those projections from within. Even as a Guide of his calibre, there was no way Michael could have managed to project that much pure, crippling agony unless he was in very bad shape.

Damien shot one operative through the window as he ran, silencing the man’s howls for good. He didn’t bother with the door, which had a steel security gate locked over it. Instead, he dived in through the shattered window to its left without bothering to slow down his speed. He landed inside in a shower of glass shards, just over the body of the man he shot. Pivoting to his right, he saw the other operative leaning against the door with his head buried in his hands. Damien took care of him with another well-placed shot to the top of his head. 

Another CIA operative came staggering out from an open doorway to the left. He was armed with a Carbine, which he tried to lift and aim at the hallway above where Michael was holding on to the railing for dear life.

Michael never saw Damien. Or the threat. He was beyond pale, shaking and swaying in his feet like a drunkard. All his focus seemed to be fixed on reaching and climbing down the stairs. 

Damien was already moving forward by then, shooting down the gunman with barely a glance because he had seen how unsteady Michael’s descent down the stairs was. It was a good thing too since only three steps down, Michael jerked violently, letting out a strangled cry.

The next thing Damien saw was Michael’s bloodshot eyes rolling to the back of his head as his knees buckled. With a burst of speed, he bounded up the stairs and caught the man before his crumpling body hit the floor. 

Placing his free hand behind Michael’s head to prevent it from bumping against the floor, Damien slowly lowered him onto the wooden step. It was only then he noticed that something was locked around Michael’s neck. An almost inhuman growl tore out of him when he realised what it was:

A Null Collar. 

It couldn't be anything else. Not with the nauseating scent of chemicals emanating from it. Not with the way he could almost taste the bitter acids at the back of his throat. It was a nasty piece of contraption he had never seen and only ever heard of in the passing. 

In his hold, Michael convulsed, letting out a low whimper. 

Damien was aware that there were five more targets in various stages of recovery. The projection of debilitating pain had cut off the moment Michael collapsed. He knew it was only a matter of seconds until they got their act together. 

He had more immediate worries. 

“Michael, come on,” Damien murmured, willing his voice not to break. Finding his Guide badly hurt was becoming a trend and Damien hated it. “Wake up.” 

The blood dripping out of his nose was glaring evidence that the drugs were doing nothing good. Other than that, Damien couldn’t sense any physical injuries. What was worse was the fact that he couldn’t channel any Psionic energies into Michael. It was either the chemicals or something else, Damien wasn’t sure. Something was effectively preventing him from helping.

Michael roused himself then, blinking and trying to roll away with a strangled moan.

“Whoa!” Damien tightened his hold around Michael’s head, trying to stop him from hurting himself further, “Michael, it’s me.”

Michael stilled, responding to his voice instinctively with complete trust - an act that made the Sentinel within Damien preen in satisfaction and relief. 

His expression twisted into a pained grimace, Michael didn’t even bother opening his eyes when his words came out in a slurred whisper, “Please tell me I haven’t lost my mind.” 

“I'm here,” Damien said, dropping a quick kiss on his sweaty forehead. “In the flesh.”  

“Fuck,” The soft curse was full of heartfelt relief. 

Damien drew him in closer, gathering his limp body to his chest. “I'm going to get you out.”

“Okay.” Michael sighed, his hand gripping Damien’s shirt weakly. 

Damien took a moment to inspect the collar around Michael’s throat. It was a thick piece of leather, about an inch and a half wide, and he could feel a steel, buckle-like lock fastened at the back of his neck. 

“There’s a key,” Michael slurred, letting his forehead slump against Damien’s shoulder, “Not here.”

“I could–”

“Needle through the spine,” he mumbled, putting a stop to Damien’s plan of ripping it off. “Got to get to a hospital.”

Damien had to bite back a snarl, and consciously keep his voice level when he spoke, “Alright.”

“Total seven,” Michael said, his hand tightening around Damien's shoulder. “All armed.”

Damien frowned. “Eight.”

“The medic’s out.” 

Even in his state, Michael had managed to take one down. Damien grinned. 

Michael finally opened his eyes and managed to sit straight, holding himself up. Damien was contemplating hauling him onto his shoulder and carrying him out when Michael flashed him a weak glare.

“Help me up and I’ll walk.”

“Fine,” Damien acquiesced. 

It wasn’t a fight he had the time or inclination to pick. He kept a firm grip on Michael as he slowly got to his feet, letting Michael use him as leverage to pull himself up. With his arm around Michael’s waist so that he could lean against him, Damien carefully led him down the rest of the steps.

The next unfortunate CIA operative came stumbling out just as they made it to the ground floor, and Damien shot him before he even realised what was happening. 

He sensed that the Branch One agents were also drawing near, two at the back and three at the front. 

Damien was fully expecting the guns that were aimed at him and Michael when he unlocked the door and opened it. He pointed his own gun at the padlock that kept the security gate locked. He didn’t have time to waste searching for the keys. Nobody shot him when he fired. The lock broke open with a thundering spark. 

The tall, blond agent in the middle grabbed the gate and pulled it to the side while his two teammates stayed still, their weapons up and hard gazes locked on Damien. 

“Hello, Spencer,” Michael looked up and muttered with a wince. “You tracked me?”

Somewhere at the back, someone yelled at someone else to drop their guns and surrender. The other two Branch One team members had entered the building through the exit. 

“Sure did,” Spencer admitted, keeping his gun pointed to the ground.

“Guess your boys found some stragglers,” Damien addressed the two Sentinels and the Guide. “There’s four of them still alive.”

“Lopez, Jones–” Spencer jerked his head, signalling them to head in. The other man and the woman didn’t move right away, clearly torn between keeping their leader covered and assisting the others. Damien found it rather amusing that they clocked him as a threat, even though they had a point. 

“Boss–”

“Go,” Spencer ordered, cutting the Guide off. “Secure the building.” 

They both moved without further urging, stepping in and around Damien and Michael to reach the interior. 

“There’s another team on the way,” Damien continued, letting his words carry the unmistakable tone of an order, not a request, “You can hand over the scene once they get here and then bring yourselves to Detroit Tower.”

He knew Lionel would want his own team to process the scene and have Spencer’s team sequestered in Detroit until he had squeezed them for all the intel he could get. The chairman probably would have preferred it if Damien hung around to oversee the handover. But the way Michael was quietly shivering against him urged him to take the Guide back to Midwest HQ where he could get the immediate medical attention he needed.

“Listen–”

“Spencer, that’s the easy way,” Damien cut him off, not bothering to tamp down the amount of Psionic energies that infused his words and the steel in his tone. In his mind, the Branch One team had already lost any mercy he would have even considered granting them for their part in the screw-up. “Trust me. You don’t want us doing this the hard way.”

Damien had an idea of how he would seem to the other man. A Sentinel - a territory leader by ancient rules if not modern-day regulations - whose Guide had been hurt. His protective instincts were in overdrive and Psionic energies were swirling around him in a veritable tempest. Spencer seemed like a man who was wise enough to realise that it was not the time to challenge him.

The agent couldn’t hold his gaze for more than a couple of seconds. Even though Damien hadn’t done it on purpose, there were lingering traces of ancient power wrapped around him, fuelled by the Psionic energies. His statement was a demand of obedience the other Sentinel had no hope of ignoring or defying. Spencer acknowledged the insinuation for what it was with a firm nod before stepping aside, getting out of Damien’s way. Both the Sentinel and the agent in Spencer knew he didn’t have any grounds for protesting.

Michael was silent throughout the short walk to the SUV. Once they were both inside, Damien made a call.

“Damien,” Lionel answered within the first ring, his voice over the speaker filling the otherwise quiet interior of the vehicle.

“I got him,” Damien said, his gaze fixed on Michael’s slow, careful movements as he secured the seatbelt around him. He was wincing as though even the slightest move was causing him pain. “He’s in bad shape. I need the medical wing on full alert.” 

“How bad?” The chairman was all business.

“Don't know,” Damien admitted. Michael didn’t contribute any details. Instead, he reclined his head against the backrest of the passenger seat, closed his eyes, and sighed wearily. “There’s a Null Collar on him. They drugged him with Psionic blockers.”

“Shit.”

Yeah. Shit. “We’ll be there soon.”

“Alright.”

Damien didn’t waste any time getting back on the road. He didn’t bother turning on the interior lights or activating the GPS either. Michael wouldn’t appreciate anything that aggravated the headache he seemed to be fighting. Besides, Damien already knew the return route. Eidetic memory came in handy at times like these.

He kept his attention split half on the road and half on Michael. He was more concerned about the way the colour in Michael’s face drained with each passing second than getting into a potential accident on the almost empty highway. His Guide’s features were etched in a grimace, and tremors wracked his entire frame from time to time. Damien could tell that Michael was fighting a losing battle to stay awake and alert.

“Damien,” when he finally spoke about ten minutes later, Michael’s voice was barely above a whisper, “Promise me something–”

The ominous words reverberated inside Damien’s head like a gong, striking a bolt of icy dread through him. His fingers tightened around the wheel in pure reflex, making the leather around it creak loudly.

“You’re not going to die.” He blurted, his gaze fixed on the road, too horrified to confront whatever expression was on Michael’s face.

“Yeah. I know,” there was a sliver of amusement in that quiet snort, a wonderful sound that managed to summon a wave of relief. Damien swallowed, consciously loosening his grip on the wheel, and braved a sideways glance. 

“If I’m knocked out by the time we get back, I want you to make sure they don’t inject me with anything else,” Michael continued with the same low murmur, “No meds, no painkillers, no IVs…nothing.” 

Damien frowned, “But, Micheal–”

“Please,” Michael closed his eyes again as another visible shudder ran through him,  “It’s important.”

“Alright.” Damien agreed quickly, although that new detail did nothing to make the situation any better. “Whatever you want.” 

“Let them draw samples, run all the tests they want,” Michael mumbled, blindly wiping at his nose when a few fresh drops of blood trickled out, “But nothing, I mean nothing, goes in.”

Biting back a curse, Damien pulled a box of tissues out of his glove compartment along with a bottle of water. 

“Fine, I’ll make sure they won't,” he promised, “Here.”

Michael opened his eyes enough to take the tissues and the water with a murmured thanks. He finished half the water with three long swallows before tilting his head back with a bunch of tissues pressed against his face to stem the nosebleed.

“You wanna tell me why?” Damien asked. 

If he were to stand in the way of the doctors who knew how to treat a patient than he did, an explanation would make it easier. Besides, what the hell else could have happened for that strange request?  

Instead of answering Michael kept his bleary, half-open eyes fixed on the road. A haunted look seemed to darken his expression, and for a horrible second, Damien saw his eyes well up with something akin to terrible grief.

“Michael–”

“Let, uh–” Michael swallowed. It took effort. Whatever it was, something had his Guide terrified. Damien had a hard time concentrating through the sudden panic bubbling in his chest. “Let the doctors check. See what shows up in my reports. And I’ll…I’ll tell you after.”

Level - 3
Medical Wing - Detroit Tower
Detroit - Michigan

02:15 Hours

“This might sound shocking, but I don’t appreciate it when my patients try to tell me how to treat them–” Dr Lillian Campbell was a five-foot-nothing, matronly woman with a short bob that had turned entirely white, slotting her somewhere in her fifties. She was also an online Guide, expertly trained. Despite her stern tone, her shrewd, green eyes held a spark of amusement. The shields that brushed against Michael’s artificially shored-up mind were warm and gentle. “But, it was a good call.” 

Michael flashed a tired grin and took a few more sips from the bottle in his hand. At least, his stomach had stopped threatening violence, pushing bile up his gullet and setting everything inside on fire.

A small reprieve, he thought, enjoying the way the cool water went down soothingly, all things considered.

“There’s nothing I could give you to flush the blockers out of your system, although I’d have liked to get some liquids in you faster than that,” Lillian glared at the bottle in his hand as if it had personally offended her. He could understand her frustration. But he was perfectly happy with the salt/sugar/water concoctions he had insisted Damien get for him from the vending machine down the hallway. 

I have my own undercover people to keep up the doses until your shields have completely rearranged. 

Anderson’s words hung around in his memory, too fresh and sickening. Even though Michael had no reason to doubt the Midwest’s doctor, the panic and paranoia made him much worse than he normally was when he ended up needing medical care.

He’d trust her when his natural defences were back in working order.

“Your BP is lower than I’d like, as are the levels of electrolytes in your blood,” she continued, checking the results of his blood analysis on her tablet. She seemed determined to get him to cave on the issue of an IV, “dehydration is what’s making your headache worse.”

“I’m good, Doc,” Michael murmured, polite yet firm, “thanks.”

She held his gaze for a few more seconds before turning to Damien, who was slumped on the single couch he had dragged closer to the bed Michael was sprawled on. Damien, for his part, had no other answer than an exasperated shrug. 

Michael offered an apologetic smile. With the way he was frustratingly cut off from an intimate part of himself, he had nothing else with which to reassure the visibly agitated Sentinel. He knew he had to put words to what happened sooner rather than later, but gathering enough courage to do so felt like a fight he wasn’t anywhere near winning.  

“The collar we extracted was programmed to inject a dose once every ninety minutes, five doses in total,” the doctor continued, accepting his stubbornness with a quiet sigh. “It dosed you twice while you had it on; first at eleven and then at twelve-thirty. We got it out before it could dose you for the third time. Your system should completely flush the chemicals out in about fifteen to twenty minutes.”

Michael hummed an acknowledgement. His headache was nowhere near as excruciating as it had been earlier. The harsh, chemical veil around his mind still felt like it was sandpaper rubbing against his brain. As long as he wasn’t actively pushing it back, the pain inside his skull was largely manageable. 

Connecting to Psionic energies while this shit is coating my brain is not something I want to try again.

“You did what, young man!?” Lillian demanded, her complexion turning a few shades paler. 

Michael realised only too late that she had caught his internal thought. He had completely forgotten that she was brushing her shields around his mind randomly - the doctor in her being vigilant of the condition of his mental barriers while the Guide in her instinctively providing comfort.

“I think you should tell her about the projection,” Damien piped up then, snitching on Michael so unabashedly. He blithely ignored the glare Michael sent his way, choosing to keep his attention fixed on the doctor instead. “He hit us all with a wave of pure fucking agony. Caught me about two hundred yards out. He almost passed out when I found him and convulsed in my arms like he was having a seizure.”

That was news to Michael. “I didn’t know I hit anyone outside,” he murmured, feeling guilty for having hurt Damien in the process. “I was aiming it at the CIA men–” 

“You almost killed yourself, Michael,” his words, although plenty accusing, had no bite to them, or any traces of recrimination. All Michael saw in his dull blue eyes was mounting worry. “How the hell did you even manage it with the drugs blocking you from the Psionic energies?”

“I kept pushing back until something gave,” Michael admitted softly. The alternative hadn’t been an option. He would have rather died in that dump than become a mutated puppet for Anderson.

“I’ve been online for more than thirty years, practising medicine for a good two-thirds of it,” Lillian spoke quietly, her tone a mix of incredulity, disbelief and reluctant awe. “This is the first time I heard of an online gene carrier breaking through a nullifying barrier. You could have caused yourself brain damage with that stunt!”

In his periphery, Michael saw Damien’s entire posture go rigid. “I feel fine,” he said hastily.

“I’ll determine that after an MRI scan the moment your system clears,” Lillian said decisively. “I’d rather not leave anything to chance.”

The Midwest chairman, Lionel Scott, chose that moment to enter the room with a polite knock. He had introduced himself to Michael a few minutes after his check-up had concluded. Michael had waved off his sincere apology, insisting that the Midwest didn’t have to accept any responsibility for the screw-ups of the Southeast Council. 

Michael had spent the last seven months of his recovery period after the debacle of his shooting assisting his mother at work. He had needed her training and guidance in adjusting to being online, and in exchange for her time and efforts, she had requested his assistance at work. Although Michael had seen through her unsubtle ploy - an attempt at a distraction and possibly a change of heart to get him on a safer career choice - he had agreed.

He had interned at the Central Council’s headquarters in London, diligently learning the inner workings of Sentinel/Guide legislations, on both local and global scales. After a while, he had realised that it was the kind of knowledge that wouldn’t exactly be wasted in the long run. As reluctant as he had been at the beginning, later on, he had admitted to himself that there was a certain enjoyment in learning the tradecraft of diplomacy and politics.

Not nearly enough to leave the military, of course, but Michael had glimpsed an appeal in joining the Council the way his mother hoped, possibly at a distant point in the future. Besides, he had a feeling that Damien’s future was aimed at a similar path, especially since he was already his territorial leader’s choice of replacement. 

For his immediate situation, his preliminary knowledge of the Councils still came in handy. When his mother inevitably learned about what happened, Michael didn't doubt that she would be on a warpath. He would rather have her wrath aimed at the people who were responsible, not the ones who came to his rescue. 

That was why he made sure to make his stance on the matter clear from the get-go. As the ‘injured party,’ it was his account that held the most weight.

“I just spoke to my team leader,” Lionel reported, deciding to perch on the armrest on the couch Damien occupied. He was referring to the Midwest’s Branch One team he had dispatched to take over the CIA safehouse back in Clay Township. “They searched the place top to bottom, kid. Didn’t find anything you asked them to look for. All we’ve got is the internal and external camera feeds. None of them got into the monitoring station in time to smash the setup. Other than that, they didn’t leave behind anything that could point towards what they used on you.”

Lionel was a Level Five bonded Sentinel in his late fifties, with a pair of blue eyes that was almost identical to Damien’s. He also shared the same bone structure as the rest of the Scotts, and could easily be mistaken for Damien’s father. 

His news was met with silence, which grew thick with anticipation. Michael found himself at the centre of focus of two Sentinels and a Guide as they all waited expectantly. The attention made Michael feel flayed open and bare in a way he found more than a little uncomfortable and a touch too intimidating. Deprived of the protection of his shields, Michael had no way of hiding anything from their keen senses. 

He occupied himself with finishing the bottle of electrolyte water he still had in his grip, mostly to take a moment to get his thoughts in order. Now that the chairman was also there, Michael had no excuse to delay his recount of the incident any further. 

The drink didn’t last for an eternity the way he wished it would. Damien wordlessly leaned forward to take the empty bottle out of his hand, replacing it with a fresh one. They were more than content to let him take his time.

Michael sighed. 

“Spencer's team made their move around four in the evening,” he said quietly, deciding to start from the beginning. “The warrant was to take me in for questioning regarding Bryant’s disappearance. I didn’t want to resist and get tangled in a legal battle, and I wanted to find out what kind of a shit-storm she left behind.”

Damien muttered a soft curse and rubbed a hand roughly across his stubbled jaw. A good portion of his anger was aimed at himself, not just Michael. Michael knew he was blaming himself, even though none of what happened had been his fault. 

“So you pulled the same stunt you did with–” Damien started and stopped himself, remembering that those mission details were classified. “Before.”

“I wasn’t expecting to get kidnapped halfway to Arlignton,” Michael said dryly, “I only wanted to find out what Sandton was planning.”

“Where did they make the switch?” Damien asked. The look in his eyes, however, promised that they weren’t done talking about it. He was only willing to drop it for the time being. 

“Here, at the DTW,” Michael replied, “Spencer noticed something was wrong when the CIA team showed up instead of the team he was expecting.”

“That’s agent Spencer’s only saving grace right now,” Lionel added, his hand resting on Damien’s shoulder in an instinctive response to the barely controlled fury radiating from the younger Sentinel. “He admitted to inserting trackers in the cuffs they used, and in the evidence case with your belongings.”

“What happened then?”

“They knocked me out and I woke up where you found me,” Michael muttered, opening the bottle and taking a few more sips. His headache had reduced to a mild irritation, which meant the chemicals in him were almost dormant. It was a good thing too, he thought, considering he was about to get into the unpleasant parts. “It was Anderson.”

“That dead bitch’s husband?” Damien muttered through clenched teeth. “He lost his fucking mind, didn’t he?”

“Actually, it’s more complicated than that,” Michael said. That was what he had expected too. Not the completely new and infinitely more terrible reality he had woken up to. “Much worse than what we figured…”

Taking in a deep breath, Michael took the dreaded plunge. Treating it like another mission debrief, he repeated everything Anderson had gloated, almost verbatim, knowing Lillian would need all the information to find the damage the new drug may have caused. 

No one spoke once he was done. Michel kept his gaze fixed on the bottle in his hand, trying and failing to banish the memory of the manic grin Anderson had flashed at him before leaving. He didn’t need to tap into any Psionic energies to sense the unadulterated rage Damien was having a hard time keeping under wraps.

“Lionel,” Lillian was the first to break the oppressive silence. Michael wished her voice didn’t sound so unsteady and shaken. It only meant that Anderson’s insane rambles may have had some truth to them. Her next words confirmed his fears. “Unless I’m mistaken, this man must have been talking about Project Veritas. We banned that madness more than a decade ago.”

Lionel sighed wearily in agreement, “It was one of the rare occasions we all managed to agree on one damned thing.”

Michael realised that if that were the case, there was a good chance both his parents knew about it. Maybe his Dad would have a way of finding out more about the underground research team Anderson had funded. 

If only he were here.

Past experience had taught him Philip Locke wasn’t to be bothered or distracted when he was on the hunt for anything that involved Oppenheimer. While Michael understood and sympathised with his drive to avenge the death of his first family, he couldn’t help but feel a little abandoned.

Maybe the goddamn cocktail of chemicals swimming inside me is making me feel off-kilter and annoyingly emotional… he swallowed the rest of the water in long gulps, chasing away the unproductive thoughts along with the bitter taste in his mouth.

“He wasn’t there when I came in, Michael,” Damien finally spoke, his voice quiet, betraying no traces of his simmering anger. 

“I don’t think he went back. Pretty sure he knows what happened by now.” Micheal added. Maybe Anderson had left to return to Fairfax, or somewhere else. He had no doubt the CIA man would go underground the moment he learned about Michael’s rescue. “We aren’t going to find him any time soon.”

“Is that possible?” Damien’s next question was aimed at the doctor. There was a wobble in his voice, a desperate denial. “What he tried to do?”

“Nothing on Michael’s blood shows any traces of other external agents,” Lillian murmured. “But then again, what I have are chemical analysis reports. Gene therapy this madman described involves a batch of mutated stem cells, if I recall correctly. I’ll need new samples and cultures–”

“Take whatever you need,” Michael said, trying his best to keep his own bubbling emotions out of his tone, “Just try to find out if he’s done any, uh… permanent damage.”

“I need to make a few calls,” said the doctor decisively, “I’ll come back in a few minutes for the samples and we’ll do your MRI after that.” 

With a nod and a smile that didn’t really have a lot of reassurance, Lillian left the room, muttering what sounded like names and medical terms Michale had no hope of deciphering. 

Damien sprang up from the couch he was slumped on and started pacing around the room that had a lot more space than an average hospital room. The curtains were drawn, and the lights were turned low in consideration of Michael’s headache. The dark, swirling energies Damien was still wielding glimmered and shined in the pupils of his eyes in the dim glow. 

“Jesus fucking Christ!” He hissed, abruptly aborting his restless circuit at the foot of Michael’s bed. “So these two twisted fucks were playing a game with you and me as their ultimate fucking prizes, is that it?”

“I guess so.” It made Michael wonder what kind of compulsions Bryant may have left behind with the members of Damien’s family. Could they have been geared towards making them attack him on sight or delivering him to Anderson?

“Two years is a long time to wait, to bide time,” Lionel said quietly, his gaze travelling between Michael and Damien, “I don't think this man is going to give up on his goals very easily, kids.”

Michael had to agree. Anderson was a madman, and he was a powerful, dangerous one at that, with more than enough training, knowledge and expertise to move around the world undetected and hidden for as long as he wanted. 

A patient and cunning monster who knew how to dwell in the shadows. 

“Try to get some rest,” he continued, getting to his feet with a stretch and a wince. “I’ve gotta go plan a war now.” 

He looked tired. But there was a sinister gleam in his eyes that added weight to his ominous words. Michael had a feeling the Southeast Regional Council would be in for a harsh lesson of consequences for breaching his territory. 

Damien sighed when the door closed quietly behind the chairman, and sat gingerly at the edge of the bed. 

“What are you doing?” he muttered distractedly when Michael shuffled to the opposite edge.

“There’s enough space,” Michael pointed out. It was the truth. The bed would look right at home in a hotel suite than in any hospital ward. “Get in.”

Damien toed off his boots without a word and laid down in the space he vacated. Michael immediately felt better when Damien’s bulk added a considerable warmth under the blanket he drew up to their waists. He hadn’t realised how cold he had been feeling until then. It was a strange sort of chill that seemed to have wrapped around him from the inside out. 

To be able to draw comfort rather than being the one providing it was a new, untested feeling. It wasn’t something Michael was used to, considering the almost non-existent love and sex life he had led even before meeting Damien. He had always found it hard to connect, to be vulnerable with partners in a way that contributed to meaningful intimacy. He had always guarded himself too zealously. 

Maybe it had something to do with his origins. His mother had found him when he was only a few weeks old, and by some minor miracle, had promptly decided to keep him. Years later, when they had met her Sentinel in circumstances he’d rather forget, he had become a part of the family they had built together.

While he had always known he was unconditionally loved and accepted, Michael had never quite attained that instinctive knowledge, the assurance that he completely belonged.   

It had caught him thoroughly off guard how easy it had been to connect with Damien… at all levels imaginable. The mere two weeks he had enjoyed with the Sentinel had been filled with dodging bullets, running after bad guys and blowing shit up left, right and centre, with only a few moments of stolen intimacy at intervals too few and far between. It had been a wonderfully teasing preview of something incredible they could have looked forward to once they were out of the field and had time to get to know each other better. Those had been more than enough for him to realise the truth of what Damien had revealed: that they were truly meant for each other. 

That had been before they had unwittingly become the finish line of a twisted game two twisted maniacs had decided to play against each other.

The following two years had been spent on slowly crawling out of hell, picking up the broken pieces of himself and stitching them back together to the best he could. It was the hope of finding that future they had glimpsed together that had kept him fighting so hard.

Now, there was a real possibility it would all be for nothing. 

Scott will no longer react to the sight, scent, sound or taste of you quite the way he does now. 

Michael wasn’t quite sure how he ended up on his side, his head resting on Damien’s shoulder with Damien’s arm wrapped around his back. The malicious echo of Anderson’s gleeful voice reminded him how easily he could lose that freely offered acceptance, safety and affection.

It was true that the connection or the relationship they shared wasn’t all about the genetics or the natural compatibility between a Sentinel and a Guide. But those did play a goddamned big part. It was the foundation that had pointed the two of them towards each other in the first place.

Michael didn’t know if he had anything else in him that was strong, appealing or worthy enough to salvage what they had if that foundation were to undergo an irreversible change.

Or maybe it was just a shitty assumption to make about Damien. 

Michael didn’t know, and honestly, he wasn’t in a great place physically or mentally to figure out.

“This changes nothing, Michael,” Damien murmured, his hold tightening around Michael’s shivering frame as if he had felt exactly what was tumbling around in Michael’s mind, “you understand me?”

Michael wanted nothing more than to believe him, and yet…

In fact, the Sentinel in him will most probably be repelled by you, once the mutation is complete.

“That might not be a choice,” he sighed, closing his eyes. 

He could feel the soft brush of Damien’s shields against his mind, comforting and reassuring. It hurt something awful not being able to return the gesture, to soak that comfort in and revel in it. The cursed drugs were still coated around the edge of his consciousness like a grimy film, preventing him from reaching out.

“Bullshit,” Damien said resolutely, “You still feel exactly the same to me. Nothing has changed. That asshole was trying to fuck with your head.”

“Well, I hate to admit it, but he may have succeeded.” Being honest was the least he could do.

“I’ll break his fucking neck if he ever makes the unfortunate call to come after you again,” Damien vowed. 

Michael smiled. The mental image of Bryant and Anderson fighting it out for eternity in some burning pit of hell had appeal. “That’s a plan I can get behind.”

Chapter Text

The Lobby
The Westin
Detroit - Michigan

11:16 Hours (Local)

Damien took a sip of his coffee, trying to decide if the outrageous price they had charged him was worth it. 

Nope. The swill in his cup couldn’t hold a candle to the Columbian brew his uncle had broken out of his personal stash during the breakfast he had insisted on hosting. 

When the fuck did he become such a snob, again? It hadn’t been that long when he had thrown any liquid down his gullet if it had come in a glass with a few cubes of ice. Probably something to ponder when he didn’t have anything more important in his mind.

Important things such as how to get rid of that sickly, grey pallor on his Guide’s face. Or fix that blank, almost lifeless look in his tired gaze.

The previous night hadn’t been great, and neither of them had managed to sleep other than tossing and turning between fitful dozing. Not that surprising, considering. 

The scans Lillian had run on Michael had come up clean, confirming that the infuriating asshole hadn’t permanently maimed himself by fighting against the blockers. That had been Damien’s biggest concern. He had spent the early dawn on edge, fretting over the harsh, alien feedback of those cursed drugs he felt every time he had brushed against Michael’s mind. His shields had taken their sweet time reemerging, and Damien had been immensely relieved when he had finally felt an answering caress of those familiar barriers when they had finally snapped back into place. 

Anderson’s insinuations didn’t worry him, not really. He hadn’t lied to Micheal. Even if the fucker had managed to inject Michael with a concoction that actually did what he said, the Sentinel part in Damien was convinced that it made no difference. 

Even if something in Michael did change, Damien had no doubts that either he could change it back, or change himself to fit back in, for as long as that was what Michael wanted as well. 

It was a refreshingly wonderful feeling to be able to trust that part of himself so fully and completely again - the part of him Damien had believed he had lost for good after that horrible incident two years back. But Michael had given it back to him. 

The memories Damien had lost had returned to him as if they had never left. All it had taken was one crooked smile and a few soft words from his Guide, and those miserable years had faded in Damien’s mind like hazy impressions left behind by a bad dream. 

Finding Michael again hadn’t only restored him, but it had also restored his faith. He had always known that Micheal was the one he had been searching for all over the world, and he had done a hell of a lot of searching. Seeing Michael for the first time had been when he realised that he could finally stop and rest. What he had been looking for all along had ended up finding him, instead.

They had both survived the unsurvivable. In their own way, they had found their way back to each other. Damien had enough faith that they could do it again, survive and overcome whatever rotten damage Anderson may have done. 

What concerned him was the way the entire fuck up was affecting Michael. He was quiet, reserved and withdrawn in a way Damien hadn’t seen during the short period he had known him. 

Those irritating outer shields that hid him so thoroughly were also back, firmly in place with their rough, prickly edges - an impenetrable barrier that allowed nothing of the mesmerising light of his mind, or his intoxicating scent to reach out.

The Sentinel in him craved those senses, the intimacy of those ethereal touches, while Damien missed the carefree man he had managed to coax out of that unforgiving shell. As frustrating and worrying as it was, Damien couldn’t bring himself to bother Michael about it. Not when he could clearly see it was an instinctive trauma response to protect himself. Not when Damin himself couldn’t let go of the passive connection to the Psionic Plane he maintained since the night before. All his senses were still dialled halfway up in constant alert, unable to let his guard down just yet. 

It had been Michael’s idea to pick up his mother and sister and take them back to Petoskey with them. Damien had readily agreed, thinking that being around his own family might help Michael regain some of his equilibrium. 

Besides, he was relieved to be meeting the mother of his Guide, with the said Guide relatively safe and whole for a change. He had not been looking forward to meeting her for the first time in person, only to deliver horrible news about her son, with him being responsible for it all over again. 

Selfish and more than a little chickenshit, Damien was aware. But it was what it was.  

“Michael!” A cheerful shriek greeted them the moment the elevator they were facing opened. 

A stick-thin girl in a pair of sneakers, shorts and what looked more like a camping tent than a t-shirt on her, came sprinting towards them. Michael stood up with a small yet genuine smile for the first time in the day. He even managed to turn what could have been a painful collision into a gently restraining bear hug, ending up with an armful of gangly limbs and giggles.

Damien watched, a grin plastered on his face, hoping it would adequately cover his confusion. He wasn’t quite sure how to take in what he was seeing and sensing. 

Michael’s sister had long black hair and blue eyes that looked exotic due to the way her Asian heritage made them almond-shaped. Her personal scent - which she was broadcasting so freely and carelessly - was a little similar to Michael’s, but not necessarily in a way that suggested a shared parentage. 

Hiyori Cahill, the older woman who followed her daughter's path at a much more dignified pace, was the spitting image of her daughter, except for the eyes. Hers were a light shade between brown and gold, sharp and gleaming with a keen intelligence that Damien was certain didn’t miss much.

“English, girl,” she said in fond exasperation, watching her son and daughter with a soft smile. Despite her appearance, there were no traces of accents other than cut-glass British in her clear, sharp tone. “I raised you better than that.”

Michael and his sister were yapping at each other in what sounded like Japanese. Or rather, she was doing all the yapping, while Michael listened with his crooked grin.

The girl aimed a defiant look at her mother, which upgraded to plain annoyance when it turned to Damien. 

“Whatever.” she shrugged, and with a careless toss of her hair, turned back to her brother.

Damien couldn’t help but grin. It was a relief to realise that the teenagers were apparently the same everywhere around the globe. At least, he had some experience in handling them. All he had to do was not take the attitude too personally.  

Besides, it was Michael’s mother he found vastly more intriguing. Her scent, which she was polite enough to only release in tiny increments, was a more mature and robust version of her daughter’s. There were those calming notes of cherry blossoms that Damien associated with Michael, although hers was mixed with hints of wild cherries and crushed tea leaves. 

The shields that brushed against Damien’s in greeting were a lot different than her son’s too, infinitely more soft and Guide-like in a way Michael’s had never been. But the strength and agility in them left no doubts that it was her training that had shaped Michael’s shields and his skills as a Guide.

She was powerful, much more than Bryant had ever been, although Damien had a feeling Michael had a lot more potential and abilities he hadn’t even discovered yet. 

But none of it explained how Michael could be hers unless she had adopted him. There just was no familial connection, nothing that Damien’s acutely heightened senses could detect. 

That didn’t change the fact that Michael was her son in every way that mattered. Even a blind man could see the emotional bond they shared. She hugged him the same way any mother hugged her firstborn.

“Mom,” Michael murmured when he was finally released from her arms.

“How are you, darling?” It was a loaded question. Her shrewd gaze suggested she already knew something was wrong.

“Mom, this is Damien,” Michael deflected with a nod towards him.

“A pleasure to finally meet you, ma’am,” Damien shook the hand she offered with a genuine smile, returning the soft, inquiring probe of her shields with a confident and welcoming brush of his own. 

As willfully uneducated as he was on Sentinel/Guide politics, including all the intricate and complicated customs and dealings that came entangled with it, Damien knew he had just been subjected to a formal greeting of sorts. 

She hadn’t just regarded him as the Sentinel of her son, but also as the leader of the territory she was visiting. Instinctively, Damien had returned the greeting as both, extending a heartfelt welcome in addition to the respect he had for her as the mother of his Guide.

“Hiyori would do,” she replied with an amused grin, confirming his earlier feeling that she knew a lot more than she had been told. “unless you’ve done something you shouldn’t have.” 

Michael saved him from having to form a reply by guiding his attention towards the girl, “And this is Yumi, my sister.” 

She deigned to offer a nod and quick handshake, both of which Damien returned solemnly. 

“I thought we were going to meet you where you were staying,” she challenged, turning her attention back to Michael. The innocent grin she wore did nothing to hide the mischief in her narrow-eyed glare. “Why the change of plan?”

“Something came up,” Michael said, his expression darkening minutely despite the smile he flashed at his sister, “and here we are.”

The cheerful demeanour of both the mother and daughter disappeared when they noticed the change. It was a fascinating thing to see how attuned they both were to Michael. What didn’t make sense was the way Michael seemed startled by their reaction, as if he hadn’t expected them to notice.  

“What happened, Michael?” 

Damien wasn't sure whether it was the concerned mother asking or the chairwoman of the Central Council, demanding.

“I’ll fill you in on the way,” Michael sighed, giving up all pretence. “Are you two ready to leave?”

“Our bags are already here,” Hiyori nodded towards the trolley next to the elevator that only had two small suitcases. They looked used to travelling light, which Damien found a little surprising. “As soon as I settle our account–”

“I took care of it,” Michael said and shrugged when she raised a scolding eyebrow at him. “We got here early.”

Nobody spoke for a while after they got on the road. Michael was on the passenger seat next to Damien, his gaze fixed out of the window on his side. Hiyori was on the first seat at the back, also quiet, perfectly content to wait her son out if she had to. Yumi was out of sight, possibly sprawled over the seat behind her mother. Damien could hear faint sounds of techno beats and snatches of foreign words in between clicks that meant rapid typing. She was lost in a world of her own on her phone.

The moderate traffic forced Damien to stick to the speed limit, which he did with a lot more focus than the entire affair required. He was determined not to be the one to break the fragile peace the silence offered.

It was Michael who finally caved.

“I never got the chance to ask. What happened yesterday evening?” There was a hint of guilt in his quiet tone, possibly for not having inquired sooner or using that as an excuse to avoid talking about his own situation. “Did Kelly find anything?”

“Ah, yeah.” Damien swallowed, keeping his eyes firmly on the truck a few yards ahead of him. 

“That bad?” There were soft brushes against his shields from both Guides, responding to his distress instinctively.

“You could say that,” Damien sighed. “My Mom, Dad, two of my brothers and their wives, both my sisters, Dad’s brother, his wife and son. She got to them all.”

In his periphery, Michael grimaced, muttering a soft curse, “Even the bonded pairs?”

“Yeah, my parents and my aunt and uncle,” Damien admitted, “Cath is an unbonded Guide. Lucy and Derrick’s wife, Jo, are both Latents. Bryant didn’t discriminate.”

“Was she here for a long time with your family?”

Damien looked up to see Michael’s mother regarding him thoughtfully in the rearview mirror. 

“She stayed for a week at my parent’s place,” he replied, casting his mind back to the fond way his mother had talked about Bryant, completely unaware of what the horrid bitch had done to them, “So whatever she did, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t anything too deep-rooted or complicated the way she did with me.” Or so I fucking hope.

“She left kind of a greasy feeling behind her compulsions,” Michael informed his mother, “They probably show up wrapped around memories like smudges. They grab at you when you focus on them.”

“How did you deal with her clutches on your Sentinel?”

“She made it easy,” Michael tilted his head so that he was looking at Damien when he said it. “She was thinking about you. All her memories of you were swimming close to the surface.” Then he returned his gaze back to the rearview mirror. There was a certain glint in his eyes at the recalled memory, and his voice went low when he spoke, “I wrapped my mind around them and held on until all those burned to nothing.”

Damien saw Hiyori’s eyes widen in the mirror and stole a sideways glance at his Guide. Michael hadn’t really elaborated on how he had cleaned up the shit Bryant had left behind in Damien’s mind. Judging by Michael’s mother’s reaction, he had a feeling it must have been a feat.  

“That’s effective,” she said. The faint grin she flashed at her son was full of approval. “I’m surprised you managed to hold your focus that deep for that long.”

“I was highly motivated.” Michael shrugged. 

“My son told me she had years to work on you,” she addressed Damien, “A week is hardly enough time to do anything other than implanting the most basic of triggers, especially since that woman had been targeting as many of your family as she could. Those should be much easier to deconstruct than long-term intrusions.”

“Mom’s pretty good at what she does,” Michael added, flashing a crooked grin at Damien, “She taught me everything I know.”

Damien nodded, feeling a little overwhelmed and a lot relieved. Between the two of them, he believed his family was in safe hands.

“Something entirely unrelated brought you both to Detroit.” It was a statement, and Damien saw her regarding them both through the mirror calmly.

“Southeast made a move,” Michael muttered with a sigh. “The CIA decided to butt in halfway down the line…”

He gave a thoroughly censored version of the same account, only keeping to the bare minimum of facts Hiyori needed to know as the chairwoman of the London Council. He did, however, tell her about the supposed gene-altering drug he had been infected with, clearly hoping she would know something they didn’t.

“Michael,” she said quietly once he was done, pinning Michael with a look Damien couldn’t quite decipher, “Have you contacted your father?”

Michael’s silence was an answer in itself. The man had conveniently forgotten to tell Damien about his mother already. Damien had a sinking feeling that learning about his mysterious father figure would somehow be even worse.

In the background sounds he had already filtered out, Damien noticed that the foreign music and typing he heard through the teenager’s headphones had also gone silent. 

Without another word, Hiyori pulled her phone out of her handbag. Michael dropped his head with a sigh and rubbed a hand across his forehead. 

“Spill.” Damien invited his Guide, bracing himself. At the back, he heard the call Michael’s mother made, connecting and starting to ring.

Michael suddenly found the hauler in front of them very interesting to watch. “You’ve met him.” 

“For fuck’s sake, Michael,” Damien muttered and overtook the truck before swerving smoothly back into the lane. 

There was only one man Damien could think of at the right age who fit the bill. He cursed again. He had never put the two together. They had nothing in common; certainly not in their names, appearances, mannerisms or scents. He had seen nothing but curt professionalism and a familiarity he had thought was a product of a long working relationship. 

“It just never came up,” Michael made a half-hearted attempt to defend himself, “Besides, no one knows, not the military, the SBS or any of the MI Sections I was transferred to. I didn’t want any recognition because of who he is.”

Damien could understand his point. It still didn’t excuse the blatant lie by omission, however. No wonder Michael had a goddamned file on him and his entire family. The British equivalent of the fucking CIA director had had his goddamned crosshairs planted squarely on Damien’s ass this entire time.

In his periphery, Damien registered Michael’s mother exchanging a few quiet pleasantries with her husband. 

“He’s Locke and you’re Stonebridge and she’s Cahill,” he hissed, “What the fuck is that about?”

“He’s Philip S. Locke. Locke is a family name. Stonebridge is his name,” Michael explained quietly. “Cahill is Mom’s maiden name. Even Yumi's surname is Stonebridge. We try to keep our connection to him off the radar due to security reasons.”

Security reasons? In a way, Damien supposed it made sense. From what little he had heard of the Colonel, Locke seemed to be considered a veritable legend in the British Intelligence circles. How many criminals had sworn to kill him and his family during his long and illustrious career to go to such lengths to hide them?

“Are there any more bombs you’re planning to drop on my lap, Michael?” he inquired eventually, letting a little amusement colour his tone to show that he wasn’t really upset anymore, “Is the queen your great-grandmother or something?”

“No, nothing exalted like that,” Michael snorted, “And no more secrets.”

“Here, talk to him.” Hiyori tapped Michael on the shoulder and dropped her phone in his lap when he was reluctant to grab it.

“Michael.”  

“Dad.”

“I’m waiting, kid.” The tinny voice belonged to the same hardened Colonel Damien remembered putting him in his place with only a narrow-eyed look. 

Michael closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “What do you know about Project Veritas?”

“A bunch of madmen were under the impression they could manipulate Sentinel/ Guide genetics to control the bonds,” Locke replied immediately, “It was one of the rare times a Global Council session was called. That nonsense got banned with a unanimous vote.”

“Well, they may not have agreed to that decision and gone into gardening the way everyone hoped…” 

“What?”

“There’s a chance I’m infected with a gene-altering drug,” Michael said flatly, turning into a soldier debriefing his commanding officer, instead of a son talking to his father. Damien wondered if that was how they dealt with each other outside of work or whether Michael was deflecting again. “It was Anderson. He’s in the wind, along with all the information and samples of the drug. He said he funded an underground research group for years.”

“Michael–” 

“As far as the doctors can tell, nothing’s changed, not in a detectable scale at any rate,” Michael cut him off hastily in a vain attempt to placate the worry they both heard in the Colonel’s voice. “Other than that, I’m fine.”

“I don’t see why Bryant’s Sentinel would want to infect you with something like that unless he’s known about you all along,” Locke hit the heart of the matter in no time, “Michael, what the hell’s going on?”

“Anderson implied they were after Damien and me since they learned about us all those years ago,” Michael admitted, wincing.

That was greeted with a string of colourful curses.

“According to chairman Scott, a panel will be assembled in a few days,” Michael continued, “We'll deal with all these screw-ups in one go, including Bryant’s death. I’ll send you the details when the date’s finalised.”

“No,” Locke countered, “I think I’ll head over as soon as I find the next available flight–”

“Dad,” Michael didn’t sound too enthusiastic about that for some reason unknown to Damien, “There’s no need–”

“Wrong. There’s every need,” Locke snapped, his tone gaining an unmistakable edge of command, “and Michael, you'll tell me everything when I get there.”

“Fine,” Michael admitted defeat without much grace. Through the mirror, Damien saw Michael’s mother wearing a pleased expression. “Guess we’ll see you soon, then.”

Faith Hill Private Medical Centre
Northern Ireland

17:03 Hours (Local)

Christopher took in a deep breath, enjoying the cool fresh air tinged with the scents of freshly mown grass and a hint of petrichor. It was perfect, compared to the desert air that had coated the back of his throat constantly with a fine layer of dust while in Qatar. 

The job had been necessary. The pay had been acceptable, but he had needed the released energies he had absorbed even more. 

Liam needed those to survive.

He didn’t think he ever regretted the choice he made all those three decades ago. God had given him a Gift; a vision, a sight, an ability to perceive life and creation in a wholly different light. Christopher had always known he would be called one day to settle the account.

It had been a bargain. One life in exchange for another. He had saved the life that had meant the most to him, the one with which he had connected instantly, instinctively and so completely while the other had only ever reacted to him with horror, disgust and fear. Even at only two weeks old, the infant’s reactions had been curiously extreme.

The difference had made what could have been a difficult choice, not so. He had done it with his usual flair, and he had left the end result in the hands of the Almighty. To take or not, it had been His call to make. 

Life and Death and Life again. It was a beautiful circle. Christopher enjoyed plucking at those intricate strings, and listening to the agonised wails of those disrupted harmonies until they found their rhythm again. 

He wasn’t all evil and blackhearted. He knew how to dwell at the edge of the veil, to provide comfort of knowledge to the departing souls whose lives he had taken, to reassure them that it wasn’t the end. That it was merely a rest stop until they started all over again with different lives, different souls and different rhymes.

In exchange, he took their essence. Where they were heading, they had no need for those after all. 

His phone rang, bringing him back from his musings.

“Keep the next week free.” The American on the line grunted without a preamble.

“Why?”

“You wanted to know when the Council will convene regarding Guide Christy Bryant’s disappearance, didn’t you?”

Christopher didn’t care for the condescending tone. It was yet another necessity he had to tolerate for the sake of the life he had chosen. 

“Yes.”

“Well, some information has come up…” the American paused for dramatic effect, “It seems she might be dead.”

“Really?” Christopher hoped the amount of surprise he infused to his tone was adequate. “How appalling!”

“There’s something else going on,” the man dropped his voice conspiratorially, “The higher-ups are keeping it all under tight wraps. All I know is that representatives from all regions will be showing up here in the Midwest. There’s talk about even the head of London Councill is going to arrive, along with her Sentinel–”

Praise the Lord. Things couldn’t have fallen so perfectly in line if Christopher had prayed for it. God did work in mysterious ways. If this news wasn’t a divine sign of approval for his future plans, he didn’t know what was.

“That is indeed interesting,” he murmured, smiling, “Thank you for keeping me updated.”

“That’s why you pay me.” The man chuckled. “I’ll send you the details through usual channels.”

“What was that about?”

Christopher turned his gaze away from the stretch of moss-covered hill towards the voice of his son.

Liam looked well, leaps and bounds better than the last time Christopher had seen him. He could sit upright, although still confined to a wheelchair. He was awake and alert, even strong enough to have coaxed the Psionic energies around him to keep himself warm against the chilly evening breeze. He had also been unashamedly eavesdropping on Christpher’s call if the knowing glint in his eyes was anything to go by.

It was a massive improvement from the bedridden, lifeless thing he had been all those years. The credit for that miracle didn’t solely belong to all the money Christopher gave away to medicine and science. 

A lot of Sentinels and Guides had donated to the cause for a long while, even though not quite by choice. For what it's worth, Christopher was grateful for their generosity.

If all went according to plan, in a week’s time, the world would see Liam back on his feet, whole and healthy, finally able to live the life that had been denied to him all this time.

“I may have finally pinned down the prodigal son.”

Liam’s smile went crooked, a little mocking. “More like the one you threw away.”

“Semantics.” 

“I guess the dead bitch at least left behind accurate intel, for once.”

Christopher agreed. If nothing else, Christy Bryant had been a useful source of information. When she had first contacted him about a possible lead only a year or so ago, Christopher had been highly sceptical. He had contracted her more than a decade ago after all, and he hadn’t been inclined to believe her sudden claims.

When she had shown him the photos, all the doubts had vanished. He had realised soon enough that she had opted to hold onto the information for some time, other than coming to him the moment she had made the discovery. 

Christopher had even let her convince him to wait. He had been willing to overlook the breach of trust for as long as she kept her word by making the delivery personally.

Then, of course, she had gone and gotten her moronic self killed. He knew she had a stubborn streak, and tended to think too highly of herself and her abilities. 

A personal flaw that turned out to be fatal, as it seemed.

At least, she had left behind enough information for Christopher to conduct his own investigation. It had led him to Rana Hassani, the Albanian who had survived a life-altering encounter with nothing more than feelings of immense relief and freedom. Christopher had found it an interesting reaction since those weren’t the emotions he had expected from a Sentinel who had been rendered permanently dormant.

The abandoned building where Christy Bryant had taken her last breath hadn’t revealed much. But it had confirmed what he had been told, and the information he had unearthed himself. 

In the end, none of it mattered. What mattered was that he was on the correct path, and now, he had everything he needed.

“What will you do?” Liam asked.

“What I do best, son.” Christopher smiled. “Or rather, what we do best.”

Liam had a deft touch when it came to building the most perfect constructs. He was Christopher’s true son, and he had inherited Christopher’s gifts tenfold. Soon, he wouldn’t only be contributing with his keen intelligence and brilliant concepts. He would be making creations of his own, from start to finish. 

“Will you get them all?”

“I should think so,” Christopher said, “I admit, I’d like to see his face when poor Colonel Locke realises exactly what he had claimed as his own.”

“I’m certain you’ll find a way,” Liam’s grin was bright enough to rival his own. “A delicious irony if there ever was one.”

“Indeed.”

Chapter Text

Damien’s Residence
Petoskey - Michigan

09:16 Hours (The Next Day)

He wasn’t running fast, since it wasn't an area he was familiar with and there were no designated tracks. The last thing Michael needed was a broken ankle because he tripped over a hidden root. Being forced to keep his attention on his footsteps prevented his mind from wandering off to gnaw at things he had no control over. So he kept up a relaxed pace, letting the twists and turns of the woods determine his route and clear his thoughts. 

He’d been at it for more than an hour and he was certain he had completed a few circuits adding up to about fifteen miles. There was a pleasant burning ache in his calves, thighs and arms. He wasn’t breathing too hard, even though his heart rate was elevated and blood was pumping through the body to keep him warm. 

Damien had been fast asleep when Michael had slipped out quietly, letting his shields brush against the Sentinel’s when they had reached out, reacting to his absence instinctively. Damien hadn’t had the best time during the previous day either, having to deal with the issues of his family before even finding out about Michael’s troubles. At least, being home seemed to settle him. 

Michael hadn’t planned to go on a run. But it had been impossible to gather his scattered mind into a single point of focus. The tension headache pulsing at the base of his neck hadn’t helped. No amount of controlled breathing had managed to distract him from the anxiety that was crawling just underneath his skin. He had gone through the entire routine of Kiko twice, trying and failing to attain that calm emptiness of mind.

Now, however, the morning breeze, chirps of the birds and the gentle rush of the lake provided a steady backdrop of calming sounds. With his own movements and instincts of self-preservation keeping his stubborn thoughts in check, Michael finally felt the riot in his head starting to quieten.

His worries and fears didn’t miraculously disappear, but they did fade to the back of his consciousness enough for him to concentrate on his shields. He let his mind flow over the agitated barriers, feeling the rough edges of the outermost layer with a touch of guilt. He hadn’t even realised that he had wrapped them so tightly around him.

Letting those layers fall open one by one was easy. He did it in between inhales and exhales as he ran, keeping his attention split between the ground passing under his feet and the incremental flow of Psionic energies into his mind. They gathered around him with their usual vigour and enthusiasm, sensing the opening and the invitation he broadcasted freely. 

The mark spread over the skin of his chest warmed, heightening his awareness of the rapid beating of his heart. Despite their cheerfulness, the energies that filled his mind were soft, fresh and gentle, as if they too were concerned about the tumultuous nature of his lurking thoughts. 

Michael let the Psionic energies flow uninterrupted through his mind, withholding nothing. He felt them brushing against his memories, curious and intrigued. Faint shudders echoed his own emotions as they learned what Michael had felt when he had lived through those experiences. It was a strange feeling, to be able to resonate with the energies while they cleansed his mind and shields the way he had coaxed them to do. It was a lot more intense interaction than he had ever managed during a meditation session before.

The ritual helped immensely. The tension drained from him the longer the energies swirled within. He could finally think without being overwhelmed by his helplessness and frustrations. It was a tremendous relief to regain some control and clarity over his emotions.

The part of him that kept a mental eye on his circuit noted that he had turned back at some point, and was heading back towards the lake house. He was only about a mile and a half out. 

Michael let the mediation come to its natural conclusion as he ran the remaining distance. The energies took their leave of him as calmly as they had arrived, leaving him refreshed and centred. He let the layers around his mind shore up slowly, taking care not to let those prickly edges snap back around him so completely. 

He took the final turn around the immaculate line of maple trees, transitioning from the rough grounds to the smooth cobblestone path that led to Damien’s backyard. His mother was awake, dressed and was sitting on one of the deck chairs overlooking the lake, a coffee mug in her hand. Next to her was a blonde-haired woman who was about the same age as her. She was smiling at something his mother was saying.

Michael slowed his sprint to a walk and stopped when he was about hundred fifty yards from the deck. At that distance, the resemblance the other woman shared with Damien was unmistakable.

Mother? She couldn’t have forgotten, could she?

Michael felt his mother’s mind brush against his own soothingly, instantly responding to the query he sent with a soft probe. I asked Damien to let them stay.

Why? 

Michael stayed where he was, opening up his shields further. Lianne Scott’s shields were soft and cheerful, and the energies around her seemed to reverberate minutely in response to her mirth. 

Without letting her feel his presence, Michael extended his awareness a little more, sensing Damien and his father in the front yard. Damien’s answering brush against his shields was immediate, as if he had been waiting for Michael. 

From Gary Scott, Damien’s father, Michael sensed a tangle of emotions; relief, confusion and irritation being prominent. The older Sentinel didn’t seem to be agreeing with whatever Damien was trying to convince him.

So we’ll know what we have to deal with. His mother’s thoughts slid into his mind. 

Damien appeared through the French sliding door then, causing Lianne to look up and say something. Damien replied without stopping and jogged down the three steps and across the yard towards Michael. 

“Michael.” The blue in Damien’s eyes was already drowning in swirls of liquid black when he came to a halt. 

“Morning.” Michael greeted with a smile, letting his shields touch against Damien’s caressingly. The Sentinel was already on edge, bracing himself for the inevitable confrontation waiting in the wings.

“I have a perfectly functioning gym.” Neither his answering smirk nor his words betrayed any of the trepidation he was keeping under tight wraps. Next to his mother, Michael saw Lianne frowning, instinctively responding to her son’s agitation.

“I know,” Michael shrugged. 

While his sister wouldn’t have been bothered, Michael hadn’t wanted to disturb Damien. He also hadn’t wanted his mother to sense how deeply he was stressed. He had needed the time alone to gather himself. 

Damien tilted his head - his eyes narrowing, nostrils flaring and his breathing deepening - seemingly taking Michael in with all his senses. Caught frozen under that intense scrutiny, Michael felt a shiver run down his spine. 

“Feeling better?” Damien’s smug, self-satisfied expression said he had done it on purpose.

Michael couldn’t help but grin back, glad that his face was already red and sweaty with exertion. It was not the time or the place to be blushing like an idiot. “Yeah. Much.”

“My parents are here,” Damien muttered, his grin darkening, “To greet my Guide in person. I wanted to send them back, but Hiyori insisted they stay.”

Michael nodded and took a few calming breaths. His pulse was back to steady levels and his body was humming pleasantly with the residual rush of endorphins. More importantly, his mind was sharp and clear. “Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Damien said and took a step to the side, standing next to Michael, shoulder to shoulder.

“Trust us, alright?” Michael murmured.

“I do.”

***

Damien slung an arm around Michael’s shoulder and led him towards the deck, flashing a carefree grin in answer to his mother’s confused frown. She stood up when they were halfway and her gaze narrowed when they stopped near the bottom step. 

“Damien.” 

Her voice came out strained. Her eyes, flashing silver in between the blues, were fixed on Michael as if she were tracking a threat. The sight of him alone already had her on edge.

At the front, by the truck, Damien sensed that his father had gone stock still. He had felt his mother’s distress through their bond. 

I wonder if it's the name that would tip them over.

“Mom,” Damien declared with forced cheer, “This is Michael. My Guide.”

Too many things happened in the stretch of a few seconds:

The Psionic energies around him shuddered. Damien had a fleeting feeling that the Plane itself was overwhelmed by the conflicting emotions, responses and commands it suddenly received from the two Sentinels and Guides.

Damien’s mother flinched back as if she had been slapped. Her hands flailed blindly at her sides while her gaze never left Michael. 

Next to her, Hiyori was also on her feet, her hand clasped around Damien's mother’s shoulder, and her eyes were equally bright with a silvery sheen.

To their left, Damien’s Dad came bounding around the corner, his eyes black with Psionic energies, his face red with rage and teeth bared in a snarl.

The Sentinel in him surged to the surface in full force when Damien saw the shotgun in his hands. He watched, as if in slow motion, the way his Dad racked it as he stumbled to a stop only about fifteen feet away from them. Even though his Dad’s entire body was shaking with an unnatural rage, the long double barrels he aimed squarely at Michael’s head were rock steady. 

“Damien,” Michael’s tone was soft, but it had more than enough command to stop Damien in his tracks. He wanted nothing more than to drag his Guide back and put himself in front of the threat. Michael, for his part, didn’t move an inch and regarded Damien’s father with a calm, thoughtful expression. “It’s okay. I got this.”

***

Gary Scott was standing by the truck when his Guide’s terror slammed into him through their bond with incredible force, instantly wrenching his Sentinel side to the surface, roaring in a challenge.

There was a terrible threat roaming freely in his territory. He had to protect his family at all costs.

There were intense sensory inputs intertwined with that sudden and unexpected surge of fury; an unfamiliar scent of exotic flowers, cut grass, and hints of pine, wrapped up in utterly repulsive scent strands of rotten eggs, fresh blood and ash. There was a flash of an image - the face of a blonde-haired man with a pair of dull green eyes - his expression all the more revolting for the flat, blank stare and the snarl twisting his lips. 

Then there was a name…a horrid thing that mutated Gary's fury into red-hot currents of unholy rage spasming through his veins.

Gary didn’t understand how or why the tangle of those senses awakened such deep, visceral hatred in him. The Sentinel in him didn’t care, not when every atom in him screamed at him to destroy everything responsible for those horrific sensory inputs. 

He didn’t quite remember rounding the side of the house to the back. He saw Linn, standing there on the deck, shaking, while the other Guide held her. She was safe. She wasn’t harmed.

Then there was Damien.

Something wasn’t right. His son was glaring back at him with liquid obsidian eyes, fully overtaken by his Sentinel. What didn’t make sense was the clear challenge in his stance, against Gary, his own father. 

Even through the red haze of his feral rage, Gary felt a sliver of confusion at his son’s bizarre response. Why was he trying to defend the threat? Had he lost his mind? Worse, had he been blinded by the threat? Had he already been harmed?

The horror of those thoughts was enough for him to stop and lift his gun. 

Aim, shoot and kill. 

Destroy. 

Nothing else mattered. It was the only way he could keep his family safe. 

That thing - the person-shaped abomination he couldn’t even see clearly due to the way it was wrapped up in so many twisted, black strands of utter repugnance - had to go. It had to die.

What Gary wasn’t prepared for was to witness a small sun going supernova before his eyes. It happened so damned fast, even in his altered state, he wasn’t quick enough to react. He was not prepared for the way the all-too-bright explosion of colours reached out and snatched him, pinning him in place like an insignificant bug. 

He was helpless. There was no way out. He was trapped. He had failed.

The light flooded him, engulfing his mind, body and soul in one massive wave. It took him a long while to realise he wasn’t being harmed. Nothing hurt. In fact, through the haze of rage, fear and confusion, Gary finally realised that the other all-encompassing presence crowding his mind was quite gentle and pleasant. 

Relax. It’s not you. Said a male voice. It sounded British, much like the chairwoman, in fact.

She’s my mother. The voice chuckled, amused, causing the light to shimmer faintly.

What the fuck was happening to him?

Your mind was corrupted. You know this. Try to remember.

Gary remembered. 

“Someone came here a few weeks back – a Guide,” his son said, letting his worried glance sweep over the gathered family. “They were here under false pretences. There’s a good chance they met some of you and planted some compulsions in your minds…”

There was a lot of confusion at first. Which was fair because what the hell did that even mean? Why would anyone do that? For what purpose? 

Damien was dead serious. He proved it when he made everyone listen with nothing but the power of his will alone. His son dipped into the deepest well of his being in a way he had never done before.

“I will compel each and every one of you if I have to,” it was a Prime Sentinel that spoke through Damien, his words rumbling in the atmosphere thick with unnatural silence, “I know how crazy this sounds, believe me, I do. And yet, I am demanding, because I’m genuinely worried about all of you. So, yes, you will do this. Today. Now.”

Gary had a feeling that the presence had viewed the memory along with him, quietly proud and pleased about his son.

This is what he meant, isn’t it? Gary thought, feeling an entirely different kind of fear flooding his mind. This rage…this hatred. It’s unnatural. It isn’t mine.

The light around him rippled in agreement with his assessment. Let me help.

Who are you?

I’m Michael, the voice echoed as it withdrew, I’m your son’s Guide.

***

Even though he had caught glimpses of it already, those had not prepared Damien for the full experience of Michael's entirely unshielded mind. For an infinite moment in time, it felt as though a pure white light had flooded his entire being, engulfing his mind and body with its tantalising aura. The Sentinel within him soared in delight, secure in the precious knowledge that it was all theirs. Damien felt as if his soul was expanding itself to accommodate the brilliantly enticing presence that was his Guide.

The Psionic energies weaved around them both in crests and troughs, almost vibrating in their haste to obey the call of the brightest of minds. The simple touch Damien maintained on Michael seemed to let the Psionic energies flow back and forth between them, binding them both in an otherworldly cycle.

With all his limitlessly heightened senses focused on Michael, Damien was lost to the ethereal beauty of his Guide. Nothing else mattered other than his intoxicating scent that wove an entirely new world of stormy oceans and cherry blossoms around Damien. Or the luxuriating warmth that seeped into Damien’s very soul with reassurance that he’d never be cold again. Or the steady harmony of his pulse that effortlessly became one with Damien’s own to create a rhythm that was uniquely theirs. 

Mine. The Sentinel in him roared. Damien couldn’t agree more with the possessive claim he felt resonating deep within the confines of his mind, heart and soul.

It was only a glimpse of what it would feel like to bond with Michael, Damien realised. The Guide’s vital presence had truly and completely become the focal point of Damien’s very existence. 

It took immense effort on Damien's part to wrench his mind out of the blissful euphoria it was happily swimming in, and bring it back to the present. When he finally did, he saw Michael’s eyes had turned into liquid pools of silver, and they were fixed on his father with absolute focus. 

In his periphery, his mother was still glaring at Michael. Her entire frame shook while Hiyori held onto her arm, whispering softly.

Michael, however, didn’t say a thing, which led Damien to believe that he was handling Damien’s father directly with his mind. His father stayed where he was, trapped by nothing but the force of that gaze, unable to move or even blink.

Although it left like a lifetime, Damien knew only a few seconds had passed since Michael fully opened his shields. He tried not to think too closely about the wind that seemed to have picked up suddenly, causing all the trees surrounding the backyard to strain and the waves of the lake to swirl madly.

Damien was pretty sure it was his own emotions that were responsible for that minor change in the weather. Again.

When Michael finally blinked, the world snapped back to its regular pace. The silver light in his eyes was replaced by its usual shade of hazel from one breath to the next. The Psionic energies calmed and levelled out as if they hadn’t been brewing up storms. The intense energy feedback that had been looping back and forth between them vanished so quickly and abruptly, that Damien had to consciously brace himself against the whiplash. 

Michael gripped Damien’s hand over his shoulder and squeezed once in apology before letting go.

Damien took a deep breath, coaxing the shields back around his mind, and swallowed thickly, “Is he–”

“Yeah.” Micheal murmured, “It's done.”

***

Gary Scott stayed rooted to the spot, ensnared by the fading arcs of pure white light swirling in his mind.

His thoughts were scattered, as were his memories. They were taking their sweet time returning back to him in bits and pieces.  

He had been standing by his truck, he recalled that much. He hadn’t wanted to drop by, figuring his son would appreciate some time alone with his Guide. But Lionel's call had changed all that. His brother had been cagey, only letting them know that the chairwoman of the Central Council of England might be dropping by at Damien’s.

It hadn’t made any sense. His brother had been too evasive to explain the particulars. Linn had insisted on visiting so that she could meet both the Guides.

Damien had not been too pleased to see them either. He had no explanation for the mysterious absence of his Guide. At least, Guide Cahill had been pleasant and cordial enough, revealing that she had arrived to assist them with their situation.  

What happened after Linn was led to the back by her was hazy. Damien had been saying something. He couldn't remember what. Then everything inside him had turned to ice water because, out of nowhere, Linn had been frightened.

He touched on the bond they shared, and felt nothing but quick reassurance in answer, although wrapped around in a hazy cloud of confusion. 

Why was she confused? Why had he been so maddeningly angry mere seconds ago? What the fuck just happened?

Gary blinked rapidly, trying to get rid of the spots dancing in his vision. 

“Dad?” 

Damien was staring at him in concern, his eyes still shining darkly. Gary tried to take a step forward, stopping immediately when his body swayed alarmingly to the side. He had to throw a hand out to grip the deck railing to remain on his feet. 

“Dad, drop the gun.”

Huh? 

Looking down, Gary saw for the first time the shotgun he still held in a death grip. With a muttered curse, he threw it to the ground as if it were a rattler.  

He didn’t even remember taking it out of the truck. Who the hell had he been trying to kill?

I’m Michael, your son’s Guide.

He looked up again, horrified when the memory of the faint echo surfaced. The man standing next to his son looked nothing like the distorted thing he had seen in his mind a moment ago. He looked younger than Damien, and the silver flecks fading in and out of his hazel eyes confirmed that no matter how improbable it was, he was, indeed, an online Guide.

The fierce protectiveness radiating from Damien’s entire posture suggested that his son’s Sentinel fully agreed with the claim. 

Damien walked over to him while his Guide went to pick up the gun. The easy confidence and familiarity he checked it over before turning the safety on suggested that he was also a soldier. 

Gary cursed again, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. “God, kid,” his voice came out a little hoarse when he addressed the Guide, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” the younger man murmured, his gaze watchful while Damien steadied him with a grip on his shoulder, “Are you alright, Mr Scott?”

Gary thought about it. He was surprised to realise he didn’t even have a headache. He was only shaking because of the intensity of the diminishing emotions that had flared up inside his head out of nowhere. He couldn’t even remember why he had felt so insanely angry. 

“I’m fine, thanks to you,” Gary said, marvelling at the young man’s ability to have cleared up his mind so thoroughly, without even laying a hand on him. He even seemed to have done it with little effort and no side effects to either of them. It was quite a remarkable deed, and Gary had never seen or heard of any Guides who were that skilled. “Call me Gary. You’re Damien’s Guide. You’re family.”

He climbed up the short flight of stairs and sat heavily on the chair next to Linn’s. She was pale-faced and looked as confused and shaken as he felt. She gave him a quick hug, and let a ripple of reassurance flow through the bond, letting him know that she was okay. Guide Hiyori seemed to have helped her while Michael dealt with his moment of absolute lunacy.

“This was what you warned us about yesterday, wasn't it?” Linn whispered, looking up at Damien.

“Yeah.” Damien sighed, exchanging a glance with Michael, “So it was both your face and name, just like you said it might be.”

Michael nodded, and leaned against the railing next to Damien with his back to the yard, “crude but effective.”

“The triggers were designed to alter your perceptions. The sight of my son, his name and probably even his scent unearthed the compulsions Guide Christy Bryant planted,” Hiyori murmured thoughtfully, assessing them both with calm serenity as if she hadn’t just witnessed a Sentinel trying to murder her son. “How are you two feeling now?”

“Horrified,” Gary admitted, meeting her gaze with an apologetic grimace, “Appalled. I think I was about to shoot your son. I’m so sorry.” 

“I assure you, this is not how we usually welcome guests to our homes,” Linn added softly before turning to Damien’s Guide, “I don't know what came over me. I couldn’t even see you properly and I was overcome by terror that you were trying to hurt Damien. Then I felt your mother’s presence in my mind, and she showed me the intrusions.”

“We had to see what we were dealing with,” Michael replied, “Now that we know, my Mom and I should be able to help the rest of the family without any issues.”

“This brings up a goddamn question, doesn’t it?” Gary frowned, pinning his son with a look, “Who in damnation is Christy Bryant? Why did that woman try to convince us she was your Guide?”

“Damien,” Linn added, entangling her hand with Gary’s in search of comfort, “why would she leave these horrible compulsions in us to try and harm your Guide?”

Damien sighed and rubbed a hand roughly across his face before exchanging a loaded glance with Michael. After an entirely silent conversation that spanned over a few seconds, he turned back to face them.

“Remember when I came home sick a couple of years back? That was when I first met Michael…”

In quiet words, Damien told them the story about the ill-fated way their short relationship had ended. Then they learned how the two crossed paths again recently during a mission he heavily glossed over, and how Bryant had met her well-deserved end during another attempt to murder Michael.

Gary continued to stare at the two of them even after Damien was done. Next to him, Linn was deathly pale and quiet. Hiyori had a solemn expression darkening her features. Gary shuddered to even think how painful it must have been to witness her son’s ordeal. He still had nightmares about Damien’s deterioration during those months. Linn wasn’t any better. 

Their sons already invited enough danger into their lives due to their career choices. To have veritable psychopaths fixating on them and trying to kill them over each other? That was the kind of insanity no one needed in their lives.

“Lionel mentioned something about an inquiry when he called to let us know about Hiyori,” Linn found her voice first, and addressed Damien quietly, “Is that going to be about this wretched woman’s death and the things she did?”

“That was the initial plan,” he let out a weary sigh. Next to him, Michael swallowed, visibly agitated, “Things have changed now.”

“In what way?” Gary asked, dreading the answer. What could possibly be worse than what they had just heard?

“Southeast made a move while I was there at the ranch,” Damien muttered angrily, “They arrested Michael. It turned into a whole other shitfest. Turns out Bryant wasn’t working alone. Her Sentinel was in on it from the beginning…”

“She had a Sentinel?” Linn gasped.

“Yup. They fucking deserved each other,” Damien said, glancing at his quiet Guide, “Anyhow, now there’s a laundry list of breached protocols to deal with on top of the CIA’s unauthorised and entirely illegal intervention. Uncle Lionel’s taking care of it. We’ll go back in a few days for that inquiry.”

It was obvious to Gary that there was a lot that wasn’t being said. But he didn’t want to pry either. It was plain to see that the younger man was extremely uncomfortable about sharing the details of his arrest. 

“I’m glad you’re okay, honey,” Linn said to him, “You’ve been having a rough time. It’s about time you caught a break.”

Michael mumbled a few words of thanks and politely excused himself to go for a shower. Gary watched Damien trailing after him, arguing about breakfast. Despite everything, their son looked happy, and a lot more settled in his own skin than he had been in a long time. 

“Your son is quite powerful.” Linn addressed the other Guide once their voices faded inside the house. There was a touch of awe colouring her words. She had felt an echo of what Gary experienced through their bond. “He wields Psionic energies a lot more differently than the rest of us do. I don’t think he’s even aware.”

Gary knew exactly what she meant. It had felt as if a ray of undiluted sunshine had entered his mind when Michael took over. “I’ve never seen or heard of any other Guide who can do what he just did.”

“He's met his match in yours, obviously,” Hiyori acknowledged their observations with an enigmatic smile. “The wind was quite calm before it picked up all of a sudden.”

“Gary, the freak thunderstorm the night before!” Linn gasped, turning to him wide-eyed. “Do you think it could have been around the same time Damien discovered Michael’s absence when he returned?”

“Ah, hell!” Gary could just about imagine what kind of pure agony that must have been. The worst thing a Sentinel could ever experience was the loss of their Guide. “He hadn’t done that since coming online, had he?”

It had been one of the most chaotic, spectacular metamorphoses he had ever witnessed. Lionel had been there with them that day, and that was when he decided that Damien would become a regional leader when the time came.

“The Psionic Plane reacts differently to both of them…It feels as if they become one with the energies when their shields are fully open,” Hiyori observed, her quiet voice filled with concern, “They could easily be in danger of going feral if they do that often without a bond.”

“I believe our son is fully in agreement,” Gary said. Damien had brought his Guide to his territory intending to bond after all. 

“So is mine,” Hiyori replied. “My only hope is that they’d get to settle in peace before the next terrible thing catches them by surprise.”

Gary couldn’t agree more, and through their bond, he felt his own Guide’s heartfelt echo of the same hope. 

Chapter Text

Four Days Later

Halcion Tower
Southeast Council Headquarters
Arlington - Virginia

18:05 Hours

To say the CIA director, Charles Woodworth, was pissed, would be the understatement of the century. 

He greeted the guard at the door with a polite nod when the man opened it for him. He even flashed an answering smile and a wave at Gracie when she brightened up with a charming smile from behind the reception. They didn’t deserve his ire. They were just doing their jobs. The entirety of his boiling rage was reserved solely for the man upstairs. 

It took a great amount of self-control not to jab his finger at the button until the damned elevator opened. The car was still passing the twelfth floor. It would take a minute to get down to the lobby level where Charles was waiting with fire blazing out of his eye sockets.

The briefcase in his hand felt a lot heavier than it should, although Charles knew it had nothing to do with its physical contents. It was only a thin folder with three documents after all, something that would seem quite innocuous at a casual glance.

At first, he thought it was a joke, an elaborate prank by one of his clearly bored underlings. When his entire line of staff had confirmed without a trace of mockery that the document had arrived through all the right channels, the first thing he did was ring up legal.

A fucking summons?! To the Director of the fucking Central Intelligence Agency? 

The fucking nerve!

He answered to the director of National Intelligence. He handled providing intelligence briefs to the President and the Cabinet. 

Director Charles J. Woodworth most definitely did not answer to some fucking regional circus of freaks.

And yet. There it was. Apparently, he did.

It had taken the bunch of lawyers a few hours to make several calls and send just as many emails to confirm that it, in fact, wasn’t a clerical error of epic proportions. That the document that had landed in front of his face had all the power in the world to make Charles do exactly as ordered.

The elevator opened with a ding, and Charles stepped inside, consciously pressing the number twenty-eight only once. The mirrored walls reflected a tall man in his late fifties. His tie was perfectly knotted into place and not a crease, wrinkle or stain to be found on his immaculate suit even though he had been in it for more than twelve hours. The face that stared back at him was impassive; a high forehead under a dignified coif of plain white hair, a pair of keen brown eyes on the sides of a crooked nose that had been broken one too many times and forced back to submission. A set of thin lips wore a faint smirk that betrayed nothing but a sense of disdain.

Good.

All the anger and indignation simmering inside his skull was still firmly locked up, perfectly hidden behind an unaffected persona made of granite. 

Emotions were fuel. One must never let them cloud the logical process of thought and strategy. That was a surefire way to lose before the battle was even fought. There was no need to broadcast anything his opponent could use against him in any form.

He didn’t really care for Ignatious Rhodes and his ilk. Charles had always been of the opinion that these so-called Sentinels and Guides were a bunch of puffed-up, self-important assholes who thought they were better than the rest. 

It was true enough that they did have their uses. Charles could admit that to himself at least. Throughout the three decades of his illustrious career, he had used more than his fair share of the online gene carriers for various missions, and more often than not, with above-average success rates. The conclusion he had arrived at after all those years was that their so-called genetics didn’t make them better. Without proper training and handling, they were just as useless as a soldier who couldn’t tell which end to point and shoot when he was handed a gun. 

Charles had more respect for any regular human who could perform a job well without any genetic lottery winnings under their belt. Besides, they almost always were more humble and better at following orders.

The elevator opened and deposited him in a narrow, thickly carpeted corridor. Charles only stepped out when he was certain his pulse was within acceptable levels to indicate nothing but studied boredom. Perhaps with a touch of annoyance. Nothing more. As insufferable as they were, it wouldn’t do Charles any good to forget the extra weapons the online Sentinels had in their arsenals.

Gracie must have called ahead because he didn’t even have to knock on the imposing wooden door when he heard the soft call to enter. It was also possible that Rhodes may have heard the elevator even through the soundproofing of his office.

Fucking irritating assholes. Perfect for spying but a pain in the ass in general.

“Director Woodworth.” 

The Chairman of the Southeast Council was a man in his early sixties, although you couldn’t guess that by his appearance. He had more hair than an average thirty-year-old, albeit with a generous amount of silver salt mixed into the dark brown pepper. His eyes were dull brown, although Charles thought there were flecks of black spots scattered in the pupils - evidence of his status as a man who could dip into the mysterious powers in the atmosphere. A pair of glasses sat halfway down the bridge of his hawk-like nose. It was for show, of course, Charles knew that. Why would a Sentinel need glasses when they could adjust their damned sight the way a sniper adjusts a fucking scope?

The thin smile he wore had no welcome or warmth in it, regarding Woodworth as if he was just another annoyance that had darkened his threshold.

Ah, well. The feeling was mutual. 

“Rhodes.” Charles strode in without fanfare and settled in one of the visitor’s chairs without waiting to be invited. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected and unannounced visit?”

Charles dropped his briefcase on the empty chair next to his, withdrew the offending papers and slid them across the desk towards the chairman.

“The fuck is this?”

“This is a summons to attend an inquiry held at the Council of Midwest,” Rhodes glanced at the document through his glasses before removing them with a sigh. “I received one just like it.”

As if Charles was going to feel sorry for him. This was his business. Charles sure as hell didn’t have anything to do with it. 

“I’ll ask again,” he snapped, barely holding back a growl, “what the fuck is it doing with my goddamn name on it?”

“Have you read through it?” Rhodes glared, leaning back against this chair, “Did you see the allegations against your organisation listed in it?”

Yes. Charles had. The blatant intrusion of inter-council procedures was the most innocent one. Kidnapping and torture were the major crimes among others. 

Anderson had been acting all out of sorts, Charles knew that. But then again, he had been assured that it was the perfectly normal reaction of a Sentinel who had lost contact with his bonded Guide. Apparently, the mental connection they maintained with each other went wonky when one of them got into trouble. 

Charles hadn’t bothered to pull Anderson off the case, even though it had been against a bunch of regulations. Charles had known him for a long time and knew the man could do his job without letting his emotions cloud his judgment.

Much.

Besides, Bryant was one of his overseas Station Chiefs, and Charles needed to know what had happened to her. 

Although he hadn’t been privy to his investigation methods, Charles didn’t for a second believe Anderson would have done anything without a good reason. 

If his assistant director had used the Council’s resources to get his hands on a suspect, that was because he had wanted it done with minimal fuss. If he had interrogated the said suspect, that was because that man had information about Bryant; Information probably time-sensitive and directly relevant to Bryant’s safety. 

Charles didn’t see the big deal. If he had read the damned thing correctly, which he had, the Southeast already had plenty of reasons to issue the warrant they had. If anyone needed to be served on a platter to get these ridiculous demands disappear, that had to be Eric Sandton, the director who handled the case. 

Charles made his opinion clear with a few pointed remarks, reminding Rhodes of the times he had shamelessly used the CIA’s resources to get his way. It was about time he stepped up to the plate and paid up for all those past favours. 

“How do you suggest I do that?” Rhodes snarled, “My subordinate didn’t cross the line, he catapulted himself over it into the next state. What yours did was far worse.”

“Please,” Charles scoffed, “As if you’ve never authorised apprehending criminals and interrogations.”

“Except your man wasn’t doing a fucking job, was he?” Rhodes snapped back angrily, “That would have been one thing. But Anderson was on a personal fucking crusade, a goddamn dangerous one at that–”

The fucking audacity of this bastard! 

“He’s a fucking Sentinel, searching for his fucking Guide,” Charles cut him off with a roar, “Of course, it was fucking personal! Don’t you people authorise fucking retribution hunts when you find someone fucked with one of your bonded couples? Or even just the online ones?”

Rhodes pursed his lips and glared back at him with his freaky eyes. Charles held his gaze with a contemptuous one of his own. 

“Project Veritas.”

The new voice was quiet, although it had a cutting quality to it. It came from somewhere to his left, just out of sight. It was so unexpected, that Charles barely held back from letting out an undignified squeak. 

Turning in his seat, Charles glowered at the figure that stood next to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the brightly lit skyscrapers of Arlington. He hadn’t even noticed the man when he had entered, or throughout the heated debate. Rhodes, the absolute bastard that he was, hadn’t even hinted that there was a third man in the office. 

Another fucking freak at that . 

There was a menacing aura gathered around the man like a cloak. Charles wasn’t prone to dramatics, but if he had to put words to it, that was the only way he could describe the man in the shadows. It wasn’t as if the office was particularly dark, despite the late hour. The curtains were still open, letting the twilight stream in and mingle with the soft gold hues of the lights inside. But the man standing at the edge seemed to have gathered all the darkness in the office to one corner to keep him hidden until he decided to make his presence known.

“Who the hell are you?” Charles was quite proud of the fact that his voice came out level.

“Philip Locke.” 

The name sent a shiver down his spine, although Charles did his damnedest not to show it in his face or posture. 

The British Secret Intelligence Service operated under the leadership of a Chief Agency Executive, someone who usually held a knighthood. But the actual work was done by three men under his command; an Admiral, a General and a Colonel. Those three not only had the Chief’s ear and approval, but they also had a direct line to their Foreign Secretary, as well as their monarchy. 

Charles knew that name because it belonged to the ‘Colonel’ of the three. He knew all the legends attached to that name as well. He had to since this was his counterpart from their biggest ally. 

The stories - either true or false - had convinced Charles that he could happily conclude his career and retire without ever having to face the man, or talk to him.

Unfortunately, it seemed his fate had other plans. 

Locke didn’t step out of the shadows, nor did he offer any pleasantries other than watching Charles with his head cocked to the side. Charles didn’t care to be studied the way a predator would study its prey. Yet, he had no say in the matter.

“I’d say it’s a pleasure, but we both know I’d be lying,” Charles bared his teeth in a smile that had no humour or warmth, “What the hell are you doing lurking in the dark?”

“It was the end of 1994,” Locke continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted, his gaze turned back on the view of the city below them, “For the first time in history, most of the secret intelligence services in Europe and, of course, yours, came to an agreement. The Global Council session that followed was a public spectacle. We cut the head of that beast well before that, or so we thought…” 

“What are you on about?” 

Even as the question slipped past his lips, the name ‘Veritas’ stirred a memory from a decade and a half back. It had something to do with genetic experiments, something wholly unethical, inhumane tinkering of DNA that had the gene-carrier population in quite the uproar. 

“You were attached to Riker’s office,” William T. Riker was the director back then, Charles’ predecessor. “You should know about the directive. Project Veritas burned to the ground…The research, theories, initial tests, and reports, along with the scientists and the support staff. Every man and woman involved got taken care of one way or another. Scorched Earth.”

“Yeah, so?” Charles challenged. It was old news. “I was there, I know where we buried the bodies.” Both the metaphorical and the actual ones. 

“Except you didn’t,” when Locked turned back to him, his eyes flashed pure black caught against the amber glow from outside. “the rabid dog and bitch under your wing, Anderson and Bryant, they’ve been funding that madness under the table for years.”

“That’s fucking outrageous,” Charles roared. How dare this fucker accuse him of such a thing! “You lie!”  

“Don’t fucking test my patience!” Locke growled right back, although his rumble had an echoing, almost inhuman quality that set Charles’ teeth on edge. 

Charles swallowed and refused to back down. “Do you have any evidence for this claim of yours?”

“I wouldn't be standing here if I didn’t.”

“Look here, Locke, I’m not going to–”

“Do anything other than sit there and listen,” Locke spoke right over him as if he was nothing but one of his underlings, enraging Charles to no end, “You’ll give me everything you have on Anderson and Bryant. Every fucking goddamn thing–”

Oh, you want to order me around, do you? Try again. “Tell me where Bryant is then,” Charles demanded. 

Locke smiled. Charles barely stopped himself from flinching back. “She’s dead.”

“What?!”

“Project Veritas, that’s one,” Locke listed calmly, “She tried to kill my son, that’s two. She also tried to brainwash his Sentinel, that’s three. She’s dead.”

She did fucking what? Could that be true? That fucking moron!

“Then Anderson–”

“Is next,” Locke said. “He thought it’s a good idea to go after my son with the experiments of project fucking Veritas. He’s going to wish he was dead when I’m done with him.”

Yeah, well, that was a threat Charles could believe. If the things the Colonel was saying were true, then Zeb had indeed stirred up a shitstorm of epic proportions. 

“Trust me when I say this, Woodworth, you need to wash your hands off that filth unless you want to go down the drain with him.”

Whether he was in the right or wrong, Charles had never backed down from a fight. It was about time Locke learned that. “If you think you can stand there and threaten me–”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” Locke countered, “You hand everything over, and maybe I’ll let you hang onto your job for a few more years.”

“How fucking dare you?”

“A word of caution,” Locke dropped his voice to a low murmur, “You don’t want to be Anderson’s friend right now, Woodworth, because you sure as hell don’t want me as your enemy.”

Damien’s Lake House
Petoskey - Michigan

21:48 Hours

It was a nice evening.

There was a pleasant chill in the air as if there was a rainstorm on its way. The wind had picked up a little, he could tell by the way the windows and the doors rattled occasionally against their frames. A documentary was playing on the TV mounted on the wall before him - some kind of a native culture comparison throughout the world. With the volume turned low, Michael wasn’t really paying attention other than letting himself be distracted by the soft background noise it provided. 

At least, Damien’s family is finally safe, he thought, taking a sip of his coffee.

He couldn’t help but close his eyes, letting out a soft sigh of pleasure. It was damned good coffee. Straight out of Lionel Scott’s personal stash.

Maybe I need to get kidnapped more often. This brew is almost worth it.

No one had tried to kill him as dramatically as Damien’s Dad had. There had been some harsh words thrown around, an attempt at a fistfight and one try at a sneak attack that had almost ended up with Damien breaking his brother’s jaw. But nothing had escalated to a point of injury, or any other physical or psychical damages. Between the two of them, Michael and his mother had managed to cleanse all the intrusions out of the infected Scotts within three days. 

The look of utter relief in Damien’s expression had been more than worth the hard and intricate work they had done. The gratitude that poured out of his entire being had been enough to make Michael feel drunk the longer he saturated in it.

The Scotts paid back by promptly kidnapping his mother and sister, and taking them off to God knew where.

The sound of the shower turned off. A cloud of mist came in through the open door next to the bedroom, carrying with it the faint scent of herbal shampoo Damien used. 

Michael smiled without bothering to open his eyes and took another sip of his coffee. The other side of the bed dipped under his Sentinel’s weight.

“Your Mom’s not here, Yumi’s not here, your Dad’s not here…” Michael could just about hear the grin in his voice.

“I’m aware.” 

“Almost like they planned it or something.” 

Michael opened his eyes to see Damien sprawled on his side, facing him. Underneath the amusement, Michael thought there was a gleam of intentions sparkling in his eyes.

“Yeah, probably,” he said, trying to focus on the conversation, not the answering shiver of interest he felt coursing through him, “Although, it could have been Yumi discovering your sisters and cousins, or your mother taking mine on shopping or something.”

“The Colonel’s most definitely busy cutting throats and hiding bodies.” 

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Michael snorted at Damien’s serious expression before turning thoughtful, “I think there was a lot he didn’t share with us about Project Veritas. I’ve never seen him that pissed off before.”

“Michael…” 

The playfulness was gone now, replaced by concern. There was no hiding from Damien when he was singularly focused on him like this. It was obvious in the way he said his name, that he had heard the uncertainty underlying Michael’s words.

“I know!” Michal sighed, placing his empty mug on the bedside table before settling flat on his back, his gaze set squarely on the ceiling. “I just… fuck. I can’t get that bastard out of my head.”

“We’ll never know until we try,” Damien said, and in his periphery, Michael saw his lips twist into an exaggerated pout, “I don’t like the idea of some other asshole lurking inside your head. It should be me. I need to be in there.”

Leave it to Damien to make a bond sound creepy. “You weirdo.”

“Yeah,” the pout dissolved into a grin, “but I’m your weirdo.”

True enough. “I’m–” Scared. Michael swallowed. 

He had wanted it for a long time, ever since he had found out that he was a gene carrier. He had yearned to one day find out what it would be like to belong with someone who was meant solely for him. To think that his one chance at that may have been irrevocably thwarted…

It was hard to hold himself together in the face of that fear.

“Michael,” there was a tug on his elbow, coaxing Michael to face him. His doubts didn’t seem to faze the Sentinel in the slightest. He seemed to understand, however, even though he didn’t share the same concerns. “Trust me?”

“I do.” 

“Then, let me?”

There were no misunderstandings as to what he was asking. Michael didn’t know what he would do if things didn’t work out between them. Yet, he hadn’t lied about trusting Damien. 

Michael turned on his side and closed his eyes when he felt a warm palm settle gently behind his ear. “Alright.”

“Do you want this as much as I do?”

“With everything that I am,” his quiet words were sincere. If nothing else, he could give his Sentinel that much. “I’ve never wanted anything so badly in my entire life.”

He didn’t quite know who moved first. But Michael suddenly found himself pressed against Damien's warm body, limbs tangling together as their lips met. 

There was nothing urgent about that kiss. Damien kept it slow and deep, taking his time as if he were on a new and exciting exploration venture. Michael felt his entire body relax, almost of its own volition, leaving the reins in the Sentinel’s care to do as he pleased. 

Chapter Text

Damien’s Residence
Petoskey - Michigan

Micahel tasted like coffee. But Damien was after the underlying notes of cherries he could almost always taste when he got to kiss him like this. There was something incredibly exhilarating about how Michael let him roll them over, going pliant under his weight when Damien settled on top of him. The easy, intuitive submission brought his Sentinel roaring to the surface. 

Pinning Michael’s hands above his head with his own, Damien dove back into the waiting mouth, continuing the attack of nibbles, bites and licks disguised as kisses. He was determined to chase all those exotic tastes Michael’s unique scent offered.  

Michael, his eyes closed, let out the softest gasps and moans, returning the kiss with fervour. Well-toned muscles all over his body twitched and strained under Damien, arching into him, chasing touch and contact in turn. There was no fight for control in his silent writhing, but a wordless invitation for Damien to do as he pleased. 

It had the Sentinel in him clawing at the edges of his mind, and Damien let his instincts take control. 

He peppered a trail of biting kisses along Michael’s sharp, lightly stubbled jawline, smiling to himself when the man underneath him trembled. Licking down the long column of his straining neck, Damien felt a little delirious when he drew closer to the scent glands to where he was being driven.

His brain short-circuited when the Guide’s true, unshielded scent hit him in full force. He remembered the mostly hidden, dulled version of it when he had met Michael years ago... when they had done this for the first time. Then he had caught more of it recently, at the end of a mission that had almost gone terribly wrong. Damien had thought he had it when Michael let those outer layers dissolve. Or when he had opened his mind fully during the recent healing sessions. 

While those snatches had been as intoxicating as ever, none of those teasing previews could hold a candle to what he was inhaling in now. Bound together with heady notes of musky arousal, pure longing and even faint traces of Damien’s own body wash, his Guide smelled mind-blowingly perfect and Damien was in heaven.

He wasn’t quite sure how he divested them of their clothes, but those t-shirts and sweatpants were old and worn enough that he didn’t care whether he had pulled them off or torn them to shreds. The way Michael was gazing at him with hooded eyes, his kiss-bitten lips slack, laid out for Damien’s pleasure with a hot blush reddening his entire body, he didn’t look like he gave a damn either.

He was a sight to behold, and Damien took in every sharp line, contour and ripple in his body with his heightened sight, committing them all to his memory in brilliant colour and definition. There were other marks - white patches and lines of old scars - for it was a soldier’s body just as his own, and Damien knew he would spend the rest of his life learning about every single one of them.

Michael’s curses turned into breathy moans above him when Damine fastened his lips over the Guide mark covering Michael’s chest. He traced those intricate grey lines of the mark with his tongue and teeth. Michael held onto his shoulders, his grip tight and bruising, as if he was holding on for dear life. 

Maybe it was his imagination, or his senses could have been going haywire caught in the sensory overload that was his Guide. Damien thought he could taste thunderstorms and lightning under the warmth of his unbroken skin.

“Damien,” Michael's words were slurring. Trapped underneath Damien’s left hip, his cock was rock hard and wet with leaking precome. “What are you doing?”

“Your mark,” Damien whispered, his voice hoarse and deeper than usual, a sure sign that he was merging with his Sentinel, “It’s glowing.”

When he looked up, Michael was staring at him, his pulse vibrating unevenly under Damien's chin. The usual green shade of his eyes was almost completely swallowed by the blown pupils. Silver flecks were winking in and out of those dark depths, as if an entire galaxy of stars was coming alive within them. 

“My shields are crumbling.” He confessed breathlessly.

Damien could feel it. The Psionic energies Michael was drawing in without any conscious effort, were resonating with the waves that were filling Damien’s own mind.  

“Let them.” He murmured, going back to mapping out every inch of his Guide with all his senses. 

Time ceased to exist as he gave himself up to the task, losing himself in the musical litany of soft groans, pleas and whines spilling out of Michael.

“Please, Damien,” Michael managed to string a few coherent words together when Damien found his prize further down his shivering torso. He wrapped a hand around the cock bouncing against the taut abdomen, and licked around the glistening tip. “ Fuck …Don’t tease.”

“I want to taste.”

“But–” His Guide swallowed, squeezed his eyes shut and turned a warm shade of red as Damien watched, utterly charmed, “I want you.”

“I'm right here,” Damien said, smiling at the mumbled demand.

“In me.”

Well, how could he refuse a command filled with such longing? Damien straightened up on his knees and bent over without letting go of the cock he had in his grip, causing Michael to arch his spine with a startled hiss. Stretching his arm towards the table on his side, Damien opened the top drawer and grabbed a bottle of lube.

Coating his fingers with a generous amount, he rubbed them together to warm up the lube, lazily stroking Michael's hard, leaking cock in his other hand. When the man underneath him blindly grabbed at the sheets to hold himself back, Damien bent down, and took that delectable cock in his mouth, slipping a lubed finger inside his Guide at the same time.

Michael made a strangled sound and his legs quivered on either side of Damien’s head. His cock gave another twitch inside Damien’s mouth while his tight inner muscles clenched down hard around Damien’s first knuckle, sucking him in greedily.

Gods, you're so responsive, Damien thought fondly, closing his eyes at the musky, salty taste that exploded on his tongue. 

Michael hadn't changed the slightest from the man who had willingly surrendered to Damien for the first time all those years ago. It had been his first time with a man, a fact that Damien had only discovered after taking things way past the point of no return. Michael had trusted him with zero reservations, and it was a heady feeling to realise that none of that faith had diminished an iota since then. Even after all the shit that had happened.

Damien split his attention between sucking the cock in his mouth and loosening the too-tight asshole spasming around his lubed fingers. While his senses blissfully imprinted on those intoxicating scents, tastes and sensations, his mind noticed how Michael’s crumbling shields latched onto the layers of his own shaky barriers. They were entwining with him layer by layer in a tangle of yearning, loving, possessive desperation. 

It’s starting, another part of him observed in the periphery. The bond was starting to form as they both shed the physical and mental shields they kept themselves wrapped up in.

“Close…” Michael panted, frantically clawing at his shoulders. That brought Damien’s wandering focus back to the throbbing veins in the cock trapped halfway down his throat. “Fuck! Too close–”

Perfect.

Damien looked up, locked his gaze with the glazed eyes staring back at him, and started humming around Michael’s cock in tandem with the swirls of his tongue. 

Within seconds, he was swallowing down warm spurts of come, his mind going pleasurably hazy at the new taste he was adding to his growing catalogue.

“Damien?”

Michael blinked at him, his body trembling from the force of the orgasm Damien had sucked out of him. There was a silent inquiry in his unfocused gaze, a question marring his otherwise blissed-out expression.

“I'll get you there again,” Damien rumbled confidently, placing a soft kiss on the spit-slicked cock laying limp on the nest of blond curls. He knew this body. It was made for him. It was Michael's but it belonged to him. This perfect body would do anything he asked of it. “Trust me.”

Michael nodded without hesitation, hanging onto his words as if they were prayers of salvation. His legs fell open wide when Damien started preparing him in earnest, pushing two fingers in and scissoring them out to spread as much lube in as possible. 

“That’s enough,” moments later, his whines turned to begging, “Just get it in. Please.”

“I got you, sunshine,” the pet name slipped out without any conscious input from Damien. 

It wasn’t something he ever did when he was having a bit of fun in between the sheets. But all those countless past encounters faded to muddled, hazy smudges in his memory compared to what lay before him. Damien had been searching without really knowing, and he had only realised it when Michael had walked into his life. The instant attraction, wild magnetism and the soul-deep feeling of belonging, had driven home the fact that he had finally found what he had been missing. 

His Guide was everything he had ever hoped for and so much more.

Michael’s reaction to the pet name was also interesting, and he seemed to like it a lot. He blushed deeper, and a pleased sparkle brought a bright sheen to his glassy eyes, chasing away some of the post-orgasmic fog he was still swimming in.  

Damien’s thorough ministrations in his ass had the desired effect on his cock, and Damien watched in fascination as it started hardening again in response to the stimulation on his prostate. Withdrawing his fingers, Damien took a moment to coat his own hard and aching cock with more lube. Michael wrapped his hands around the insides of his knees, and pulled his legs back, exposing himself further to Damien in a wordless demand. 

Aligning himself with the slicked pucker, Damien guided his cock inside the welcoming heat of his Guide, a possessive growl tearing out of his throat at the deliciously tight pressure that surrounded him in the best ways possible. 

Michael wriggled under him impatiently, grinding himself on Damien’s cock, reduced to a mess of incoherent mumbling and twitching limbs. Damien set an unhurried pace, making sure to angle his thrusts to hit that bundle of nerves deep inside him.

The Psionic energies were a riot of twirls around him, cheerfully attempting to breach his mind through his weakened barriers. His shields were cracked and scattered, reaching out to the answering set of similarly dissembling shields of his Guide to weave themselves together. With a thought, Damien released them completely, letting them bend to the wishes of his Guide. The energies flooded in, and he welcomed it all without reservation, knowing they would bring the light of his Guide along with them. 

Damien was close. He felt his entire body warm up in anticipation, electrifying currents of pure pleasure running through his veins every time Michael clenched around him in tandem with his thrusts. Sparks of his orgasm built at the base of his spine, drawing his balls tight, and making his cock twitch as he kept gliding in and out of that warm, velvety heat.

He leaned over, grabbed Michael by his shoulders, and pulled him straight up and against him. Suddenly chest to chest, a wide-eyed Michael let out a startled grunt before diving in for a desperate kiss. Damien answered his guttural moan with an animalistic growl of his own, luxuriating in the feeling of being so impossibly deep inside his Guide who was practically impaled on his cock at the change of position. 

They rocked together, chasing the throes of impending pleasure. Guided by an ancient instinct awakening deep inside him, Damien wrapped a hand around Michael’s neck, grabbing a fistful of his short hair to wrench him back. Michael’s entire body shuddered at the unexpected, forceful tug, but he didn’t try to resist. He stared back at Damien through half-lidded eyes, with nothing but complete faith in his silvery gaze.

Damien was caught in a limbo, his body, mind and soul lost to the whirlwind of combined inputs from his senses and the energies rioting inside him. The Sentinel in him roared in his mind, steering him towards one last taste he needed to achieve a thorough and total imprint. From where his lips and teeth fastened over Michael’s Guide mark, Damien could feel Michael’s heart beating wildly under his ribcage. His breath hitched as his hands wrapped around Damien’s neck in a strong grip, not to squeeze or push him away, but to hold him in place, offering his consent and agreement for whatever Damien wanted.

Damien lost control of his thrusts the moment he felt the coppery tang of blood coating his tongue, tasting an impossible mix of fire and thunderstorms over stormy oceans. He was vaguely aware of Michael going rigid in his embrace, his entire body locking down in place as his cock pulsed from where it was trapped between their lower bodies. The clenching, spasming inner muscles of his asshole dragged Damien over the edge without mercy, and Damien let out a roar when he finally came deep inside his Guide.

At the highest peak of his orgasm, a brilliant white light blossomed in Damien’s mind, reminding him of long-awaited a ray of sunshine through a cluster of dense rain clouds, a cool beam of moonlight filtered through a window and a soft caress of a strand of starlight in a dark, shadow-filled night. The light that filled him was infinitely gentle, full of affection and adoration, and it engulfed him from inside out, bathing him with such bright brilliance that Damien wanted to stay drowned in it forever.

It was the light of his Guide… the ray of hope, a promise of safety and a neverending offer of love, affection and a sense of belonging. It was the light that would always guide him home true no matter where he was. He would never be lost or alone. 

It was the Guide’s pledge to his Sentinel.

Damien didn’t quite know for how long he basked in that glorious light, soaking wave after wave of those all-encompassing emotions in like a man parched. The bright, shining strands of Psionic energies and what felt like the strings of their souls continued to intertwine around him, binding him and Michael together in all the ways imaginable.

Yet, something was missing, and a part of Damien diligently searched.

There.

He finally caught a glimpse of what he was looking for through the searing brightness, past the all-too-powerful light of the Guide. 

It was Michael; the lonely, insecure man who stood by himself with naked yearning for a place to belong. His soul was laid bare for Damien to see the fighter who never gave up on things he truly believed in and the soldier whose loyalty knew no bounds to those who had earned it.

That was Michael at his core, the man who was for Damien alone. He knew that when the silent invitation he extended by holding out his hand was accepted by that man with no hesitation. Damien felt something fiercely possessive settle deep in his heart when that sliver of touch sent a spark through him. He knew Michael felt the same when he finally flashed that beautiful crooked smile at Damien, pulling him in closer for another searing kiss that Damien thought was brighter and more exhilarating than the bright aura still flaring in his mind.

***

Somehow, Damien knew his body better than he did, Michael realised through the cloud of lust and arousal still fogging up his mind. One moment he was lying on his back, being pounded into the bed in the most mind-blowing manner possible, his cock hardening again with perfectly aimed nudges at his prostate. The next moment, he was plastered against the Sentinel, their torsos warm and sweat-soaked, trembling against each other with exertion. The change of position had him feeling the cock inside him push in impossibly deep, making him let out a startled grunt. Then he saw Damien watching him, his own wrecked visage reflecting back at him in those liquid obsidian pools. 

Michael had to kiss him, to leave not a single inch between them untouched, or disconnected. He simply couldn’t get enough of the way those teeth insistently bit, nipped and pulled at his lips while Damien’s tongue slid in for a demanding taste. 

Giving himself over to the kiss, Michael rocked against Damien mindlessly, wrapping his arms around the Sentinel to keep himself as close and steady as possible. Before long, he was slipping into another disoriented haze when a second orgasm started building through him. All his nerve endings were firing as if he had touched a livewire while his body continued to chase the fast-approaching pleasure.

There was an unexpected, wrenching pain at his scalp then, causing him to open the eyes he hadn’t realised were squeezed shut. Damien had him by the hair, pulling him back to stare at him as if he was contemplating devouring him whole. The intensity of that gaze should have been unnerving, not as breathtaking or as hypnotising as Micheal found it. He only stared back, completely unafraid and on board with anything Damien wanted, including becoming a meal if that was the case. 

The kiss that was planted on his Guide mark was a surprise, and so was the way he felt the energies searing through him at the contact while the Psionic Plane continued to flood his mind. The kiss turned rougher the next moment, and Michael felt teeth grazing his hot skin before they fastened right over the muscle of his pectoral, breaking through the skin. 

His body reacted to the sudden, sharp pain of the bite in a manner it had never done before. Every single muscle in his body locked into place as if by command, and he only had a moment to drag in a breath before even his lungs froze. Without a single touch on it, he felt his cock strain and swell, twitching as it released spurts of come between their bodies.

His vision whitened out at the overwhelming gratification bordering on agony. Without waiting for any conscious input, his mind promptly soared into the inviting world that opened before him.  

The Sentinel’s mind was a beautiful place filled with memories, thoughts and emotions of every colour and flavour in existence. Everything Damien had ever felt or experienced in his entire lifetime, was etched into the fabric of his mind in different shades, textures and patterns, expanding around Michael in a magnificently stunning mindscape. There were images, snapshots and depictions of family, friends, acquaintances, loved ones and strangers. Of things he had done and places he had visited. Of things he loved, things he hated and things he coveted. 

Anything and everything that defined Damien, were all there, surrounding each and every inch of Michael. A wealth of history stretching a little over three decades, danced around him with so much meaning and definition, enriched with all flavours of emotions. As enthusiastic and all-encompassing an experience it was, it never quite overwhelmed him enough to drown him. It was a heartwarming realisation to feel that not only Michael was allowed in there, but he was forever welcome and eagerly accepted. 

This is all mine now, it was a truth Michael knew in his heart and soul. This was a mind that was meant for him; for him to love, protect and cherish for as long as he lived. It was his responsibility. It was his gift.  

The shields around the precious core of his Sentinel were open and fluttering around him, now entwined with the familiar layers of his own. Those newly formed barriers felt stronger, more resilient and powerful than ever before. As they should be, Michael thought as he took a moment to examine them thoroughly. Inherent instincts guided him to weave his strength, convictions and determination into those shields, reinforcing them even more. 

Above all, all around him and underlying everything, there was another presence; a presence with a heavy, all-encompassing aura as infinite as time itself. It was wise and ancient, and it watched Michael through the reel of all things that made Damien who and what he was. It watched him with kind eyes, radiating a sense of fierce protectiveness and possessiveness. 

It wasn’t frightening. Quite the opposite, in fact. As insignificant as he was under that all-too-powerful gaze, all Michael felt was a deep sense of safety, love and belonging. 

He felt like it was home.

Then he saw Damien, staring at him through the whirlwind of his mind, and Michael took the hand he offered with a smile, pulling him into a kiss. 

All he wanted to do was seal the deal. 

And that was when everything started to burn.

***

Everything hurt.

No.

It hurt beyond excruciating agony.

One moment he was kissing Michael and the next, Damien was burning from within as if his insides had caught fire. He didn’t know where the inferno began and ended. He didn’t know how it started or why. All he knew was that he was being liquified from inside and that it fucking hurt. 

With his mind shattered into pieces at the face of that unexpected, gruelling, fiery torture, it took him a long moment to realise that it wasn’t him who was burning.

It was Michael.

They were both still caught in that limbo between the worlds, the one in which they lived and the one they connected to through the Psionic energies around them. Michael was rigid in his arms, his eyes squeezed shut and his jaw clenched in an attempt to hold back a scream. Even without a single sound from him, Damien felt the crushing weight of his Guide’s agony in every bone of his body.

The pain disappeared as suddenly as it had arrived, firmly cut off from the source the moment it’d been figured out. 

Michael.

He had realised he was projecting, and swiftly severed the feedback that had alerted Damien that something had gone terribly wrong.

Fear and panic bubbled within him. Damien wanted it to stop. To wrench them both out of the Psionic Plane and bring them back to the waking world. To fix whatever that was hurting his Guide.

No!

The protest wasn’t a word that came out of Michael physically. Damien heard it resonate inside his mind. Even through the devastating pain, Michael’s desire to hold on was too damned earnest.

Don’t let go!

You’re hurting– Damien didn’t know if he was spitting the words out through his lips or screaming them in his mind. It didn’t matter. He had to make it stop. Something’s hurting you.

The gene-altering serum. The answer was soft, trembling faintly in a vain attempt to stop the agony from leaking through. It changed me after all.

Michael-

It’s you. It wasn’t an accusation. Not with the amount of disbelieving awe and desperate hope Damien could clearly hear in that declaration. You're channelling the Psionic energies through me again. Don’t stop, Damien.

I have to! Damien was torn. Was he going to hurt Michael by ignoring that heart-rending plea or letting him drown in that torture? What kind of a horrible choice was that? I’m hurting you.

You're cleansing me, Michael corrected him resolutely. Whatever happens, don’t let go.

Damien didn’t know from where he found the strength to hold it all back and hang onto his sanity. Damien would have been impressed by his Guide’s ability to endure if he weren’t busy losing his mind to panic and worry. 

Michael–

Please!

His last-ditch attempt to reason was cut off by a soul-wrenching plea that reverberated in Damien’s mind.

So he didn’t. He let the Psionic energies flow into Michael through him, feeling utterly helpless at his inability to help his Guide without causing all that pain. He wished there was something he could do other than holding on to the waning light in his mind, or the body he could feel was sagging against his own. He wished the man wouldn’t waste strength he could use for himself, to worry about shielding Damien from the feedback.

I’m fine. The tremor in his voice betrayed the lie. 

Infuriating man.

Yeah, Damien felt a faint sense of amusement curl around him. But I'm your infuriating man…

Damien tightened his embrace. Damn right, you are.

***

Swimming back to consciousness was a slow, confusing affair.

The pitch-black void surrounding him began to withdraw when memories wandered in, in bits and pieces, like a bunch of theatre enthusiasts walking into the gallery and finding their allocated seats in the rows.

Pain.

A recollection finally solidified. There was a vague sense of fiery agony still crawling all over his skin. 

He had been on fire.

He must have passed out of pain.

That couldn't be right, could it? He wouldn't be alive if he had actually been burnt. Then why did it feel like he had guzzled down lighter fluid and touched a lit match on his tongue?

He was with Damien.

He drew in a deep breath at that particular memory, feeling a tangle of emotions ranging from boundless happiness and relief to abject horror.

What the hell happened?

“Hey,” the murmur was soft. 

Hey, yourself, Michael hummed. The warm place where his head was resting, vibrated faintly with a rumble.

“Michael,” Damien’s breath brushed against the shell of his ear, making him shiver a little, “I know you're awake.”

He was. Although he didn't want to be. He was comfortable, warm and tired enough to go back to sleep. What held him back was the concern he heard in Damien’s tone.

“What's wrong?” Michael mumbled.

His pillow vibrated again. It took him a moment to realise that the Sentinel was chuckling.

“You're asking me?” Damien muttered. Michael felt a hand caressing the skin on his back before closing around his shoulder, “Michael, hey, look at me.”

Opening his eyes was a mission, but Michael managed after a few determined blinks. The room was dark since only one bedside lamp was on, but the dim glow over Damien’s shoulder was just enough to see. They were lying on their sides again, plastered against each other with no space between them. Michael had been burrowing under Damien's chin, with his head resting against the Sentinel’s chest.

“Yeah?”

“How are you feeling?”

The question had enough concern underlying it, Michael took a few seconds to make the assessment. The phantom pain he had woken up to had faded. The pleasant ache in his muscles and the lingering soreness in all the right places hinted that they'd had a great time before falling asleep. He didn’t understand why Damien would sound so worried about it. 

“Tired,” he mumbled. His eyes were closing on their own accord, momentary confusion already forgotten. Maybe they could go another round after he’d slept off this heavy lethargy. “Wanna sleep.”

“Are you hurting, still?” Damien, for some reason, was determined to keep him talking. 

“No,” said Michael, making an effort to keep his eyes open, “What happened?”

“You said it was the shit that bastard injected you,” the barely-restrained anger in the Sentinel’s voice was enough to chase away the fog in his mind, bringing him fully back to the present. “I did that thing with the Psionic energies again… I didn't even know I was doing it.”

Michael pressed his palm against Damien’s chest and pushed himself back a little so that he could see Damien’s face. Haloed by the golden light, the magnificent sight he made was slightly marred by the deep frown creasing his forehead. The dark eyes that stared back at Michael were filled with worry and guilt.

That wouldn’t do, Michael thought, bringing his palm up to settle on Damien’s stubbled jaw. That wouldn’t do at all.

He finally recalled what Damien was talking about. The chemicals he had been injected with during his abduction, or the changes those may have done to his genes, had an adverse reaction to the Psionic energies. He had a feeling Damien’s Sentinel had instinctively wielded the energies to flush those intrusions out of his system. 

“I think the Psionic energies burned out whatever it was doing to me,” he said slowly. It had hurt like a motherfucker at the time, but Michael had zero regrets. He had wanted those off of him since the moment the contents of that cursed injection had entered his bloodstream. All he felt was immense relief at being free of that horrific violation. “I don’t have enough words for how grateful I am. Thank you.”

That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. Michael was caught off guard by the way Damien’s expression crumpled, his eyes welling up in anguish. 

“Michael, you passed out,” Damien’s voice broke. Instinctively responding to the distress radiating from him, Michael moved closer until their foreheads touched. “At a point, you stopped breathing. You hardly had a pulse. I couldn’t cut off the energy flow. I couldn’t fucking move. I couldn’t do anything and I thought you were going to die in my arms.”

Oh.

“I–” Michael swallowed against the acidic bile of shame that crept up along his gut. In his urgency to be free, had he crossed a line? Had he made the Sentinel do something against his will? God forbid, had he used his powers in his delirium? He needed to know. “Damien, was I– Did I compel you?” God, please, let that be a no.

“No, no, nothing like that,” Damien said quickly, squeezing Michael’s hand with his own in reassurance. “You didn’t do anything with your mind to force me, I promise.”

“Then what happened?” Michael asked, his voice a strained whisper. 

“You begged me not to let go,” Damien replied just as quietly, “and I didn’t. I guess I wasn’t expecting the whole thing to get that much worse before it got better.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“No. Don’t,” Damien shook his head, softening his expression, “It's not your fault, Michael. You didn’t do anything wrong. Just gave me a fright, that’s all.”

“I think the bond wouldn’t have formed otherwise,” Michael said, his mind casting back to the exact moment the things had taken a turn. He was certain they had been at the last stages of their merging when it happened. “We were already too far into it to stop anything.”

It was there, he knew it. The bond – intertwined strands of Psionic energies that bound their minds, bodies and souls together – was a warm, scintillating presence languishing in a deep, safe corner of his mind.  

He let his consciousness brush over the bond hesitantly, trying to sense if it had formed properly or whether Damien had any regrets about it. His apprehension vanished when an explosion of emotions lit up his mind at the slight touch. Damien’s answering caress was filled with relief, affection, and unbridled joy, along with steady reassurance that he cherished the otherworldly connection just as much as Michael did. 

I’d rather choose to keep you alive over a bond any day, Michael couldn’t help but smile at the pointed thought Damien slid into his mind. There was a sense of smug satisfaction wrapped around it too, letting Michael know exactly how much he enjoyed this new ability. Just so you know.

“Your Sentinel side already knew a whole lot more than you and me combined,” Michael murmured, reminding Damien of his easy confidence from earlier, “Your instincts told you this was the only way. I wish I could have spared you the trauma, but I’m glad we did this.”

“Well, you had the worst of it, and you pulled through,” Damien gave in, flashing a small, self-deprecating smile, “I’m glad we have this too.”

“You got your wish,” Michael winked, “you’re in my head now.”

That’s not the only place I’m in, Damien grinned, wiggling his eyebrows.

Michael looked down at himself, somewhat confused. He knew he passed out while still speared on Damien’s cock. That was certainly not the case now. What was Damien getting at? 

“Here,” Damien placed his index finger over his chest with a chuckle, drawing Michael’s attention to his Guide mark, “the lines have changed.”

It was a palm-sized birthmark, a latticework of thin, black, tattoo-like lines woven into roughly the shape of a spade. Well, it used to be. Damien had a point. There were more lines now, weaving, entangling and crisscrossing at points to add a number of curves, shapes and patterns to the existing mark. 

He took a look at Damien’s mark and realised that it looked the same. Both their old marks had changed, merging into a new, combined shape. Michael wondered if those marks would shine both silver and obsidian when they opened themselves to the Psionic energies from now on.

“That would be awesome,” Damien said when he voiced his thought, tracing the lines of Michael’s mark with the tip of his finger, “I like the new shape.”

Michael agreed. The more he looked at it, the new shape seemed to resemble a four-leaf shamrock.

Faith, hope, love and luck. 

That sure summed up their lives. He shared the thought silently through the bond, enjoying the way Damien’s face lit up with a bright grin. 

“How did you notice?” Michael asked after a while, curious. His mark hadn't gained much definition when he had still been a Latent, and Michael didn’t think Damien had seen it during their mission to apprehend Latif.

“Eidetic memory,” Damien said, and grinned when he noticed Michael’s surprise. “I only need to see something once to remember it forever. I’m surprised you didn’t know.” 

“Guess we missed that little detail,” Michael accepted the dig humbly.

“Don’t forget to add it to that file you have on me.” Damien teased and wrapped a hand around Michael’s neck to pull him into an enthusiastic kiss.  

Chapter Text

Level - 8
Branch One/Security Wing
Detroit Tower - Midwest Council Headquarters
Detroit - Michigan

Three Days Later.

07:29 Hours (Local)

“I couldn’t sense him when I broke through the null,” Michael said, his gaze darting over the screens filled with crime-scene photos, “I thought he was either gone or shielding himself too good for me to detect. I was more concerned about getting the hell out–”

They were in the command centre of the Branch One operations. Lionel had invited Damien, Michael and Colonel Locke for a quick update on what they had so far on the ongoing investigation.

They had a few minutes before the preliminary session for the Inquiry started.

The building was full of Sentinels and Guides from the five regions of the country. They had been sent the itineraries with the bare minimum information on what would be addressed during the session. Damien knew the entire day would be spent laying out everything there was to sort out about himself, Michael, their entanglement with Bryant, Anderson, and Southeast Council’s blatant breach of territorial agreements.

In other words, a day filled with talking, arguing, squibbling and politicking; it was safe to say, Damien wasn’t looking forward to it in the slightest. 

As a freshly bonded Sentinel, he had a hard time concentrating on anything other than his Guide.

Michael sat next to him on the same desk Damien was using as a chair, both his physical and mental presence warm, solid and grounding. At a few feet’s distance, Lock stood straight with his arms folded across his chest, glaring at the various monitors containing the details of the investigation.

Damien paid attention, however. As far as he was concerned, it was the most important part of the day. The investigative team under Lionel’s command was as good as they came. But Damien had no intention of leaving it in their hands. It was his hunt, and he would do it with his Guide by his side. 

Colonel Locke, in a surprisingly sharing mood for once, had casually mentioned during the short elevator ride that the CIA had washed its hands off of Anderson for good. Damien had a suspicion that Locke’s visit to Arlington shortly after his arrival had something to do with that rapid change in Anderson’s employment status. 

“What did you do?” Damien asked curiously once the doors closed with a ding.

“Nothing.” Locke shrugged. “I only pointed out it was bad etiquette to employ people who have a history of breaking laws.”

“That’s cute.” Damien snorted, wondering if that conversation had involved guns or knives, “Do I still have a job or what?” 

His contacts had been eerily quiet for some time. Not that Damien cared. One good thing Bryant had done was set him up with a solid future in investments. He had a feeling once his bonded status was on record, they wouldn’t want to let go of him that easily. For all Woodworth’s piss and vinegar about gene carriers, he was too seasoned a director to lose the extra edge someone like Damien brought to the table. The bond meant he came in a complete package. Besides, Michael’s connections alone would drive him to keep them tied to the Company for as long as he could. 

“Eh, if not here, then definitely back home,” Locke’s faint smirk did nothing to make him feel better. “You’re part of the family now. You’ll have something one way or another.”

Next to him, Michael wore an identical grin, as if the father-son duo had a secret they weren’t sharing. No amount of curious probing on the bond revealed any answers. 

According to Locke, Anderson was now a blacklisted rogue with a ‘capture or kill’ notice attached to his name. Whenever or wherever his name had the misfortune to pop up, every law authority in the vicinity would be alerted to his presence. 

The long career in the field of intelligence and clandestine services would serve him massively when it came to keeping off the grid. But Damien wasn’t exactly worried. He had hunted Latif for seven years. The ex-CIA assistant director, Zebediah Anderson’s days were numbered, and Damien already knew how he was going to kill the bastard. After what he had done, daring to put his filthy hands on his Guide , it was only a question of when. 

“Our team expanded the search to cover a three-mile radius of that section of the town when we didn’t find anything of value at the location,” said Edwin Callahan, the Midwest Branch’s supervisory agent, “That’s how they found this place.”

‘This place’ was another largely empty, abandoned warehouse which was about half a mile away from the building they had found Michael in. On the screen, there were forensic photos of what looked like a security station. There were snapshots of monitoring screens, keyboards, CPUs and servers. Apart from the hardware, the surface of the rackety old table was clean. There were no empty cups, food wrappers, bottles or anything else that pointed to signs of human presence. 

“He’s good at hiding his tracks, I’ll give you that,” Callahan continued, switching the images with the click of a remote, “There were motion sensor triggers around the warehouse, set to blow up the moment they detected any movement. Luckily, one of the Sentinels in the team sniffed it out.”

It had been a nasty set-up, Damien could tell by the amount of explosives that had been rigged up around the place.  

“So the bastard was holed up in there,” he said, frowning, “Watching through the feeds, running another test of sorts.”

Had he been waiting to see how Michael would react to the Null Collar? Or the Project Veritas chemicals? Had he known the extent of Michael’s abilities? Or could he have realised that the B-1 team from Southeast had followed his own team in?

There were so many questions. The bond rippled faintly in his mind, and he felt the echoes of the same concerns from Michael’s end. 

“That we have no way of proving, of course,” Callahan admitted, “All the drives were wiped clean and booby-trapped to hell and back. Our agents were extra careful after the initial nasty surprise.” 

“Any leads on Anderson’s movements?” Lionel aimed the question at the Colonel.

“Vanished off the planet, for now,” Locke shrugged, “He’ll pop up.”

Damien agreed. They had already seen the video footage from where Michael had been held. The CIA team had been caught off guard completely by Michael’s desperate projection, and they hadn't been able to destroy any of the evidence. 

One thing that was clear in those moments where Anderson had been talking to a restrained, pissed-off Michael, was his keen, almost obsessive interest in him. Damien had bristled at the way the bastard never took his hand off of Michael the entire time. There was something about his posture, the greedy look in his eyes that said Anderson wouldn’t give up easily on the prize he had set his sights on.

That was alright. If the stupid fucker wanted to deliver himself to his death, Damien would gladly oblige. 

“Anyhow, that’s where we’re at for now,” Callahan said, wrapping up the briefing, “We’ll keep all of you in the loop.”

Once they were out of the command centre, Damien watched his uncle lead Michael’s Dad towards the break room located at the end of the wing. They both seemed to have agreed that a caffeine fix was in order before they had to brave where everyone else waited for the first session of the day to begin.

Michael and Damien didn’t have to go in until they were called for their statements, although, technically nothing stopped them from being present for the entire session. Michael led them towards the elevator, intending on making a quick stop at the medical wing before heading up to level twenty where the massive conference room was located.

Dr Lillian Campbell had messaged them the evening before, saying that she had the results from Michael’s checkups. Damien was also curious as to what had shown up on the samples they had run extensive tests on. To find out exactly what kind of damage his Sentinel side had taken care of when they had bonded.

The diminutive doctor met them both at her office, her greeting pleasant, yet solemn. 

“How are you, Michael?” She asked once they were seated on the opposite side of her neatly arranged workstation.

“Can’t complain,” Micheal flashed a small smile. Damien knew he had sensed the doctor’s tightly controlled agitation, although he didn’t show it. “Much better than when I saw you last.”

“That’s what I like to hear from my patients,” Lillian said with an answering grin before turning serious. “I’m afraid I have news.”

“Your tone suggests it's not good.”

“At this point, I don’t know for certain. Let me explain.” She switched on her tablet and flicked through a few pages of charts and graphs before looking up to face them, “As you probably know, the whole set of DNA in an organism is called the genome. For humans, the genome contains more than 6 billion nucleotides. In fact, if we took the whole DNA sequence of a single cell and stretched it out, it would be over two metres long. Out of all that, only 2% actually contain instructions to form essential proteins and the like. The rest, until very recently, was categorised as ‘junk DNA’”

“Dr Frank Rosenthal discovered the portion that contains the code for regulating the Sentinel/Guide expressions on the genes,” Michael said, surprising Damien. “It was back in 1988, if I remember correctly, sixteen years after the first gene was sequenced.”

Well, hello, Professor Stonebridge. Damien poked at the bond, taking care to keep his grin hidden behind a bland expression. 

Don’t even joke, Michael’s pointed thought carried a faint note of genuine horror, This shit was required reading while I was interning at the Council. Never imagined I’d actually need the knowledge to be honest.

“Yes, I sent your samples to the lab at Rosenthal Foundation,” Lillian nodded, “And they did an in-depth comparison against the clean sample you released to us–”

Michael’s medical history had been locked down tight. It had been a mission to have it released to Dr Campbell's care, even when it had been the man himself who was making the request. 

“What did they find?”

“That there were certain micro-changes between the two samples,” Lillian murmured, grimacing. On her tablet, she showed them both the photographic evidence and columns of numbers she had received from the lab, all of which made absolutely no sense to either of them. “Sequencing of the genes from the infected sample revealed possible alterations with instructions for substitution, deletion and duplication.”

“What does that even mean?” Damien muttered.

“That the foreign agent injected into Michael’s blood carried instructions to alter his genetics that are responsible for his Guide abilities and the way his body reacts to Psionic energies.”

“About those changes,” Michael said, jerking his head at the tablet screen, “Does that report tell you whether they are still actively happening or paused for further instructions? Because Anderson mentioned a course of doses. He only had the chance to inject me with one.”

“They monitored the samples for a period of hundred and twenty hours,” Lillian said after going through a few more pages, “It’s been noted that the process of new, altering mRNA transcription came to an end a few minutes after the fourteenth hour–”

“In English, please, doc.” Michael requested, his voice strained. 

“It means, you already have newly altered genes in your system,” Lillian murmured, removing her reading glasses with a sigh, “But no new ones had been produced after that first batch since there had been no new instructions added to your DNA.” 

Michael accepted that with a nod, and indicated the report on her tablet, “I need you to forward all these reports to me,” he said, taking a pen out of the holder to jot down his private email address on the notepad Lillian slid over to him.  

“I honestly do not know how this will affect bonding.” She said, pinning them both with a helpless look.

Michael glanced at him, and Damien shrugged. She hadn't been able to sense that they already had. It seemed that Michael's extreme shielding had woven into his own, resolutely hiding anything and everything he didn’t want announced to the rest of the world. 

“Well,” Michael said, and Damien had a feeling he was giving out that bit of information to gauge the doctor’s reaction more than anything else. He had to admit, it was a wonderful feeling to have those little insights without even trying. “We did bond.”

“Oh?” Lillian’s wide-eyed exclamation was followed by a gentle probe, first at Michael’s shields and then Damien’s. It was a faint curious brush of inquiry, to which they responded in kind through a ripple of their bond.

Although baffled, she congratulated them genuinely before tilting her head curiously, “Are you telling me that the change in you had no effect? At all?”

“Nothing that stopped a bond from forming,” Michael shrugged, without going into further details, “Maybe being infected with just the one dose wasn't enough to cause a disruption.”

“I’d like to take a fresh set of samples, if I may,” the doctor requested. “To compare your new reports against these. If we can understand how the bonding affected you, whether the alterations still exist in you to some extent, gone dormant or reverted to the original status…”

Damien saw her point. While the Sentinel in him was confident that he had taken care of it during the bonding, Damien wasn’t a doctor or a genetic engineer. He had to admit he would feel better to have confirmation that he hadn’t caused any inadvertent harm.

Michael, on the other hand, had a completely different opinion. With a soft echo of reassurance that he was perfectly fine, Michael addressed Lillian with an apologetic smile. 

“The thing is doc, the man who did this is still in the wind,” he said, “I’d rather not have anything else about me in any kind of system for now. Not that I don’t trust you, it's just... I don’t believe any secure system is inaccessible to someone of his calibre. He knows what he’s doing and he’s got contacts all over the world.”

“I completely understand,” Lillian accepted with a nod, “If you wish to undergo tests in the future, however, the Rosenthal Foundation has requested that I refer you directly to them. Yours is a unique case and they’d very much appreciate a chance to further study the effects of the serum. It was the genetic engineers and researchers at their lab who first alerted the Sentinel/Guide community about Project Veritas.”

And just like that, they made it to my list of places to check out, Damien reflected. I have a feeling Anderson might have connections there.

Either here or in one of their global establishments. Michael agreed. Rosenthal F oundation’s headquarters was located in Berlin, Germany, the country of its founder, and they had a chain of Foundations scattered throughout the continents.

“I will, thanks, doc,” Michael said out loud as they got up to take their leave. 

It was time to start what was going to be a gruelling day in earnest.

***

Eight representatives were invited from each regional council, four Sentinels and four Guides, for the session, along with the director of the CIA, Charles Woodworth, who decided to show up with an entourage of ten aides. Other than that, there were Michael’s parents, representing the Central Council of England, seated along with the other six Sentinels and Guides from his mother’s staff, who had flown in on invitation. There were other staff members from the Midwest scattered in attendance, all seated next to their allocated group of visiting delegations to provide assistance if needed.

Michael was sitting at the back, in the gallery. It was the area dedicated to witnesses, experts, scholars, professors and anyone else who might be called to provide their testimonies, expertise and professional opinions. Doctor Campbell and her assistant were also there with them, along with Agent Spencer and his entire team.  

Damien, what’s wrong? Michael let the question flow towards the anxious Sentinel. 

A faint curl of his lips in a grimace was the only outward reaction from Damien. Fucked if I knew.

They were only an hour into the session. There had been a brief welcome, followed by introductions. They were only halfway down the discussions/explanations portion of the listed items on the itinerary. Damien was… jittery. That was the only way Michael could describe the stinging sensation he was feeling through their connection. It had started as a barely-there niggle soon after they had left the medical wing. It was the same irritating feeling you’d get when your brain started fretting over something nonsensical or something you’d forgotten. Since then, it had steadily gotten worse.  

He sat perfectly straight on the seat next to Michael, his gaze fixed on Chairman Scott as the Midwest leader calmly went through the agenda for the session. But his mind was a mess, sparks of agitation flitting about like a nest of angry bees. His attempts at keeping it all in were failing at each passing second.

Michael guided his consciousness to wrap around the bond, letting everything Damien was feeling flow into himself. Suddenly, Michael felt like there was an itch under his skin, an uncomfortable crawling sensation he couldn’t scratch. The walls felt as if they were closing in, and he needed to get out. He needed space, he needed air and he needed to breathe.

Michael detached himself with effort and turned to face Damien with a raised eyebrow, Something has you on edge. Feels like your territorial instincts are triggered.

Damien flashed an apologetic smile and shrugged. I don't know why, but I'm itching to run a perimeter check.

Go on then. That is not the kind of thing you should ignore.

Damien nodded, sending an equivalent of a mental kiss sliding across the bond before swiftly leaving via the closest exit which was located a few feet behind their row. 

In his periphery, Michael saw Spencer tracking Damien’s exit with a frown before turning an inquiring gaze on him. Michael flashed a noncommittal smile and pointedly turned his attention back to the proceedings. 

Maybe it was something, or maybe it was nothing. Michael couldn’t blame Damien for being on edge, not after all the shit they had gone through in such a short period of time. If something was indeed wrong, Damien would alert him through the bond. 

An hour and a half later, a recession was called, mostly to let everyone digest what they had just heard while they refreshed themselves. 

Michael was by the coffee station in the adjacent room when his father approached him. 

“Is Damien alright?”

“Yeah,” Michael said, and gave the mug he just filled to his Dad before grabbing another one for himself, “just getting some air.”

The Colonel took a sip without bothering to add sugar or cream. Michael turned around to hide his wince and doctored his own with two sugars. 

“How are you holding up?” Are you ready to weather the shitstorm?

Michael heard both the worded question and the real meaning behind it. He flashed a smile, and grabbed a cookie from the nearest plate. It was not the place he wanted to reflect on his feelings about what amounted to prying himself open to a bunch of strangers. Not when most of those strangers were in the same room, already subjecting him to side-eyed glances, curious probes with their shields and not-so-subtle eavesdropping with their heightened senses. 

His early childhood memories from the troubled times, the need for secrecy that had been drilled into him since the day Philip Locke had walked into his and his mother’s lives, his career later on in the military and the intelligence field where he was trained exclusively to operate in the shadows…it was safe to say that all of it played a huge part in moulding him into an absolutely private, reserved, almost stand-offish man.

Even the idea of sharing his experiences with the panel, and then letting a group of Guides take a tour in his mind later on as part of his statement, was enough to make an icy dread pool in his gut.

“I’m fine,” he said, instinctively tightening up his shields even more. “I could use a distraction, however. Tell me about the job in Qatar?”

Lock didn’t comment on the change of subject. He seemed to understand Michael’s reservations. 

“It was the slippery bastard, alright,” he said, taking another sip of his bitter coffee. “I managed to confirm that much.”

“What does that bring the count to, 67? 68?”

“69 that we know of,” his Dad said, grimacing. “Counting the latest.”

“Did you find anything new?”

“I know that his Arabic is despicable,” Locke said, describing the rough translation of the written message he had found. It was the only definitive calling card they had for Oppnehimer - the saying for which the bomber had a strange fondness; ‘For your Sins.’

Michael knew how important it was for the Colonel to be where something even remotely related to Oppenheimer was unearthed. The deaths of his first family and the reasons he never found were the burdens he had been carrying for more than two decades. He needed all the information he could get if he ever were to take down the elusive bastard. Michael felt guilty for being the reason Locke had to be diverted from his investigation. 

“I’m sorry you had to drop it halfway to get here,” Michael murmured. “This visit turned into a clusterfuck I never saw coming.”

“None of that, Michael, this is important,” Locke said, turning to face Michael. Hidden behind the grave expression on his face, there was something else Michael couldn’t quite decipher. “I don’t like any of the shite that’s been happening. I sure as hell don't like the fact that you have a target painted on your back. Oppenheimer can wait. Living always take priority over dead. You’re my son. Don’t forget that.”

***

The city hit him in full force the moment Damien stepped out of the Detroit building to the sidewalk. He hadn’t even realised he had pried his shields open, inviting the surrounding Psionic energies in with no holds barred.  

For a few long seconds, Damien did nothing but stand there, allowing his starved lungs to drag in as much air as possible. In his periphery, Damien could see he had caught the curious attention of the security guards who stood behind the frosted glass doors of the Council building. 

Maybe they were wondering why he had signed his handgun out from the safe he had been requested to leave it in earlier when they had arrived.

The morning sun was warm on his face, chasing away the dissipating chill of dawn along with some of the tension crawling under his skin. Underlying the thin fog of gas fumes, factory emissions, delicious smells from the nearby cafes, and the collective cloud of people buzzing about, the soft breeze winding around the awake and alert city was cool and crisp. 

The Psionic energies filled his mind with their usual cheer, sharpening his senses, and adding more depth and definition to all the sensory inputs. Damien instinctively filtered out the sounds of traffic to a corner, his Sentinel side guiding him somewhat impatiently to pay attention to the sights and scents instead.

He didn’t quite know what he was after, only that he would identify it once he had seen it or caught a whiff of it. Letting himself literally be led by his nose, Damien broke into a light jog along the sidewalk. Although he had conceded to putting on one of his more formal jackets over a button-up shirt for the occasion, he had worn his combat boots - a decision he was grateful for since his impromptu run around the block wouldn’t have been comfortable in anything fancier. 

Damien passed the rest of the block which consisted of three more skyscrapers - a hotel, an apartment complex and an assortment of companies - before taking a sharp turn to his left, arriving at a massive intersection of six criss-crossing highways. 

Two highways bridged over the intersection in a winding cross around a roundabout, while the four on the ground level curved around each other before expanding in four opposite directions. There was a subway entry a few yards away from him, along with the narrow tunnel entrance leading towards the underground pedestrian crossing. 

The underground of Detroit was as busy as it was above ground, filled with a myriad of subway tunnels, sewage and drainage systems and salt mines. As his footsteps took him towards the underground crossing, Damien realised that the Sentinel in him was determined to lead him down the maze below. 

Where are you? 

The soft inquiry brushed inside his mind half an hour or so later. Damien was inside one of the subway maintenance tunnels. He tried not to think too much about the minor breaking and entering felony that had been required to gain access to this particular tunnel. 

It was a strange feeling to let his instincts purely control the reins of his advance, a dangerous stunt he wouldn’t have pulled in any other circumstance. But this was a part of his territory and his Sentinel seemed determined to investigate the cause for his hackles to bristle with indignation and annoyance.

Underground.

Michael was instantly alert. Damen could tell by the way the voice in his head sharpened. Why?

I don’t know yet. Damien sent back, not bothering to hide his frustration. 

He was covered in a layer of sweat and grime, his jacket and shirt underneath sticking to him uncomfortably. He had been breathing stale, mouldy air for some time now, and the bitter taste of it was already clogging his throat. While he had not been looking forward to spending the entire day listening to preliminaries, running around inside dark tunnels like a demented hamster wouldn’t have been his ideal choice either. Everything okay over there?

Yes. 

Damien was grateful that Michael didn’t bore him with the details. 

We’ve got range, he reflected, taking a sharp, winding curve and entering yet another section of soot-covered curved walls and a narrow pathway caked with decades-old dust layers. I’m about seven hundred yards to the north of the tower.

Considering it's the comms that always get compromised first in a mission, this is quite handy.

Damien smiled. He did have a point. Underground tunnels were the bane of any electrical or radio signals due to interference. As long as they had access to Psionic energies, and were within reasonable distances from each other, the bond between them surpassed such limitations.  

After an exchange of quiet promises to keep each other updated, Damien let the connection fade back to a corner of his mind. Something was telling him that he wasn’t too far from what he was searching for. He picked up the pace, determined to solve the mystery that had him irritatingly on edge once and for all.

Chapter Text

The Tunnels System
Detroit City Underground

Three more corners - a left, a right and another right - later, things changed. The new tunnel Damien was in - he couldn’t even tell if it was part of the maintenance or the mines after all the twists and turns he had taken - was different.

The first thing he noticed was that it was free of all the damage of time and neglect. Instead of the rough, curved walls covered with soot, he was greeted by cleaner, grime-free surfaces. The section he was in seemed to have had its walls rebuilt, or maybe a fresh layer of cement added over the old, dilapidated, rocky surfaces. Even the barely-paved stone floor had a lot less dirt, as if it had been swept and cleaned recently.

Damien stopped and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, grimacing at the sweat running down his face. He had been at this mindless running for closer to an hour, and he was beginning to feel like a loose part of the tunnels than a human. He was tired, achy in places he didn’t want to think about and positively parched. Cursing himself for not having stopped at a shop to buy a couple of water bottles didn’t do shit to distract him from the complaints his body was determined to throw at him. 

At least, the air inside this section of the maze was fresh, which was the only good thing he had going for him. The more he thought about it, he recalled being hit by a fresh wave of breeze every once or twice in a while as he continued to run. The series of vents he could see attached to the high points of the walls seemed free of blockages and maintained well throughout the years.

Loosening his shoulders and spine with a series of stretches, Damien took in a few deep breaths. Warning bells started going off in his mind when he detected something that didn't belong in the stale mix of scents invading his olfactory glands. Added to the notes of fresh concrete, mud, wet soil and ever-present dustmotes, there were faint traces of chemicals that had no business being anywhere near abandoned tunnels.

There was no reference to it or a name, but Damien knew that bitter, sharp smell very well. As an online Sentinel, his training in the army and then later on in the Special Forces had involved a lot of sampling, cataloguing and memorising a plethora of sensory inputs. As a result, he had a veritable encyclopaedia of scents stored in his memory pertaining to weapons, ammunition, explosives and chemical and biological agents that were frequently used in warfare.

That was how Damien knew he was smelling cyclonite along the walls. The presence of RDX, one of the most explosive organic compounds, mixed with the seemingly pointless attempts at renovations cast the entire situation under a new, much more sinister light.

Someone had set the tunnel to blow… he let the thought drift. Michael’s presence came alive in his mind instantly, the soldier in him responding to the threat.

What?

I can smell the chemicals but I don’t see any moulded explosives, the power supplies, or the initiators, Damien said, letting his heightened sight run along the curves and the seams, trying to spot anything else out of the ordinary. There was nothing. Just a section of newly layered tunnel walls saturated in military-grade raw components.

What if the fuses are behind the walls? Michael pointed out. His presence was sharper somehow, as if he was seeing through Damien’s eyes . Then you’re basically standing inside the container, surrounded by the charge.

Damien felt a cold shiver run down his spine. If Michael’s guess was right, he was staring at a bomb of such a massive scale it would be enough to sink half the city underground. There were so many questions. 

How far did these strange, explosive-charge-filled walls extend? How long had it taken to replace all these tunnel walls without anyone ever noticing? Where were the rest of the components? How did it all connect? What could be the possible blast radius? The yield? And more importantly, who held the detonator?

Fuck, he cursed, his previous irritation forgotten. I have to keep looking, I need to find the power source.

What do you want me to do? Michael’s thought process felt as if it was another one of his own. He was considering crowd control, emergency evac and alerting the authorities. I can call–

Not yet, Damien said, making up his mind. If it was actually a bomb of some kind, so far he had only stumbled upon an infinitesimal part of it. They needed more information before they drew attention to the situation. Otherwise, it would only serve to cause unnecessary panic. Let me find out how far this thing spreads, first. I need to know how big of a section’s been turned into a fucking bomb. I’ll let you know.

Agreeing with a soft, mental caress, Michael withdrew his presence. Damien took a moment to sift through his memory. He pulled up the various maps he had seen of the city, viewing each and every one of them to mentally pinpoint his exact location. Although he had never seen a map of underground tunnel systems, knowing where he was, at least relative to the city above, gave him a sense of direction. 

After a couple of minutes, he had an idea where he was. He was roughly six hundred yards northeast of the Detroit tower. The tunnels surrounding it were built in such a way he was cutting a zig-zagging track that made his distance to the building fluctuate with the turns.

With that estimate in mind, Damien broke into a run again, letting the new, highly dangerous layers of the tunnel lead him to his target.  

Detroit Tower

Lionel Scott, Chairman of the Midwest Council, patiently described the agreements between territories and how the Southeast’s actions had breached more than a few by issuing the warrant that had resulted in Michael’s arrest. 

Michael only half listened to the proceedings, most of his focus fixed on the bond he shared with Damien, riding along the Sentinel’s consciousness as he made the circuit with purpose. 

A bomb, he reflected, not letting his swirling thoughts hinder Damine’s concentration. Why did it have to be a bomb? Why now? 

Sixty-nine. That we know of, counting the latest. His father’s words from earlier came to the forefront of his mind, unbidden. 

Why did it feel like the Colonel’s work had followed him here?

Shit. 

He had asked Damien not to ignore his instincts. Maybe he should follow his own advice.

Damien.

Yeah? The answering echo was instant.

Michael took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He hoped he was making the right call. Keep an eye out for writings on the walls.

Writings? The Sentinel’s confusion created a ripple through their bond. As in propaganda? Do you think this could be terrorist-related?

Or just one insane man, he shared, feeling frustrated. I don't know, Damien. It’s just a weird feeling. Look out for something along the lines of, ‘for your sins.’

That’s very specific, Damien sent back, pointedly. Care to fill me in?

There’s a bomber, code name: Oppenheimer, Michael thought, letting his knowledge on the elusive bomber flow freely through the bond. Apart from the calling card, that's all we know of him. He was active during the troubled times between the UK and Ireland. We believe he’s from Northern Ireland…

So he’s IRA?

No sides, Michael sent. He’ll blow anything up for the right price. 

What else?

There was nothing else he could share. The file the Intelligence Services had on Oppenheimer was rather thin, thinner than Latif’s used to be, in fact. They didn’t even have a photo of what he looked like. The rest was his father’s personal life story which wasn’t up to Michael to reveal. Even to his Sentinel. 

I feel like I’m running a perimeter, Damien came back after a while. There was a certain sense of dread in his thought that hadn’t been there before. With the Detroit Tower as the dead centre.

Fuck.

That meant the Midwest Council building was surrounded by underground tunnels with highly explosive chemicals coated in their walls. An explosion of those walls could create a massive crater that could swallow the entire block whole.

Which could only mean one thing:

The power source. Damien followed along with Michael's thought process effortlessly. The detonation point.

Underneath the tower, Michael concluded, trying his best not to give into panic. I’m on my way.

You might have to go way down, Damien added. Down the underground parking, underneath the basement levels. Probably further down even.

I’m on it.

Michael stood up and made his way as unobtrusively as possible towards the exit. There were a few curious glances flung in his direction, which he resolutely ignored. 

Where are you going? 

That was an inquiry he couldn’t ignore. Closing the door quietly behind him, Michael made sure not to let any of his mounting dread flow over to his mother when he addressed her. 

Something came up, mother.

Being a military wife and a mother, Hiyori knew how to take such an ominous statement in stride. Are you going after your father?

Why? Michael asked, confused. As focused as he was on Damien, he hadn’t really given a second thought about it when he had seen his father making an exit on the other side of the conference room. Where did he go?

I don’t know. His mother replied, letting some of her worry seep through. He received a text and took off the same way you just did.

I don’t know what’s going on. Michael sent back, ruthlessly squashing down the new bolt of fear that struck through him. There were too many coincidences and his instincts were screaming that it was all connected. But something’s not right. Buy us some time if you can, mother. 

Michael?

It’ll be okay, Michael reassured her, hoping it wouldn’t make him a liar to his mother. I promise. 

The Tunnels System
Underground

It was a pentagon.

That was the shape of the map that was starting to form in his mind’s eye as he ran. Damien had already passed three sharp corners. He was now running along the tunnel that represented another inverse line of the pentagon leading towards the building. At the next sharp corner, he knew he would be directed outward again. 

The replacing of the entire tunnel innards had been a massive undertaking, certainly involving a contracted team, Damien thought. It had to have been. Still, even with a lot of manpower, he couldn’t imagine the job being done in a matter of days. It must have taken months, possibly years.

For your sins.

The meaning of the words sent a shiver crawling underneath his skin. A Pentagon, a religious slogan… what kind of a psychopath had turned an entire maze of tunnels into a fucking explosive container?

A fucking brilliant one at that too, unfortunately.

Damien came back to where he started twenty minutes later, the out-of-place wall that had led him around a circuit with a two-mile radius. But all the zig-zagging made the entire circumference he covered a lot more than twelve miles. He needed to find a way that led him to the centre. After all the trouble the bomber had gone through to design the elaborate death trap, he knew there was a tunnel that would lead him to where the core of the destruction waited.

The Psionic energies had other ideas, however. A firm nudge from the swirling energies filling his mind and body insisted that he keep following the tunnel until the end, and instead of taking the right turn to follow the saturated walls, he should walk in the opposite direction. It was an intersection of sorts, one leading down the renovated tunnel and the other towards the dark, damp and untravelled. The Sentinel in him was determined to explore the abandoned tunnel, convinced that there was something in there that needed his immediate attention.

Sending a quick update to Michael via his thoughts, Damien bounded down the tunnel with his senses on full alert. 

Detroit Tower

Yumiko Stonebridge was bored out of her mind. And it was her own fault.

Her mother had said she might not be allowed inside the conference room where the shit was going down, because, well, she had nothing to do with any of it. Her father had shrugged and nodded, distractedly agreeing with his Guide.

Yumi had wanted to sit through the session, despite being warned over and over that it would mostly be a bunch of men and women talking, quarrelling and arguing. It didn’t matter. She had never really wanted to follow her mother to work, to catch a glimpse or two of the inner workings of the Councils. She always figured that she’d have plenty of time after wrapping up her studies, and whatever else she felt like wasting her time with before inevitably getting sucked into politics. 

But this was different. This was about her brother, and it was personal.

She still had nightmares about the days all those years back, when Michael had barely avoided dying by coming online. She had only seen him lying in the bed once, looking more dead than alive. As horrible as the sight of him had been, the godawful aura that had clung to him, drowning everyone along, had been the worst. She hadn’t been able to sleep, eat, drink or string a coherent thought together with that heavy depressing cloud pressing in on her from all sides. 

It had been a barely restrained projection. Yumi remembered her mother explaining tiredly before asking her Dad to get out of the house with her. She hadn’t even argued, much to her shame, but it had been impossible to live with Michael’s agony suffocating them all like a terrible, living thing.

It hadn’t been Michael’s fault. He’d never have done something like that if he had any control over it, or if he had been aware. Only their mother could tolerate the pure heartbreak, pain and sense of rejection that had been pouring out of Michael in waves. She had prevented the worst of it from hitting Yumi and Dad, at the same time, trying to coax Michael’s own shields back to life. 

For a long while, Yumi had harboured a boiling hatred towards the piece of trash scumbag who had been responsible. She hadn't been willing to listen to reason and had broken into Dad’s office just so she could read everything about Damien Scott, the man she was convinced she would extract payback from one day.

Michael had somehow sensed the blackhole of hatred she had been growing fervently in her heart. Although neither of them would ever say it out loud, Yumi knew Michael was a much more powerful Guide, even than their mother. He just needed more experience and time.

Anyhow, it had been his patience, determination and a detailed-explanation that had gotten through to her. He had convinced her to let go of the murderous grudge she had been holding on to with dear life. Over time, she had let herself reluctantly be roped into giving Michael’s twat of a Sentinel a chance. 

All in all, she had to admit, it had been the right call. Apart from his grievous character flaw of trying to murder her brother - a trait which Michael assured her was totally cured - Damien Scott wasn’t actually too bad. Michael wasn’t exactly relaxed and happy, in any case, not in the way a Guide who's supposed to have found their True Sentinel. How could he be, with his trouble-magnet-ass having yet again attracted a fresh shitstorm? But, he was different. He wasn’t hiding behind a fortress of shields, trying to keep his misery from leaking out for anyone else to notice. At the end of the day, that was progress, and that was what mattered.

She could always revise her opinions if anything did happen again, anyway.

The reason she had tagged along was to see justice being served. Her brother had gone through hell and someone had to pay. Although their laws were not that different from the rest of the world’s, the Sentinel/Guide community still had some swift and a lot more definitive ways of dealing with injustices and crimes, especially if committed among their own.

She would very much have liked to see how it all worked. 

With that plan being thwarted for the time being, she had nothing else to entertain herself with, and she only had a few options; either she could hang out in the family room they had assigned to them on the 14th floor, hang out in one of the recreation areas, find food in either level twelve or five where they had the in-house restaurants or go on a walk outside.

Although it was her favourite by far, the last option wasn’t ideal, since she had been specifically told not to leave the building by herself. Considering the key point of that edict was not doing so by herself, she was pretty sure she could talk her way out of trouble if she had someone to drag out with for company. 

That was where her current subject of mild interest came in.

Finnegan Scott was cute enough. And shy too, for a seventeen-year-old. He was also a Latent, just like her. She had met him when she had been introduced to the rest of Damien’s family by his parents. Her brother and Damien had stayed behind while Yumi and her Mom had gone to the Scott family ranch for a tour. Finn had muttered a barely audible greeting before running away with his sidekick, Jacob. Damien’s sisters had stuck around with cousin Yvonne, who had made an absolutely wild bunch. They’d taken Yumi promptly under their questionable wings and showed her a great time hopping around the town. 

Too bad they hadn’t come along with the rest of them to Detroit.

Anyway, no matter. Finn was going to have to step up and fill the shoes. He seemed familiar with the place, and most of the staff and the people at the reception knew him by name. That made her task that much easier. 

“Hi,” she flashed a bright grin at the guy sitting behind the reception and received a polite smile and a murmured, ‘ma’am’ in return. “Have you seen Finn?” Yumi looked around, searchingly, “I saw him going down the lift, and thought he might be here.”

The receptionist hummed, his gaze on the elevator that was about thirty feet to their right. “He didn’t step out here,” he said thoughtfully. “Probably went to the parking lot?”

Well. It was as good a guess as any.

“Alright, thanks.” With a wave at the man, she took the emergency flight of stairs next to the elevator, bounding down the steps to the floor below. Once out of the door, she was greeted by the first level of the dimly lit parking lot, surrounded by a maze of vehicles that belonged to all the visitors and the Detroit members. 

She stood where she was, taking a moment to scan the area from left to right, hoping to catch a glimpse of the errant Finnegan. She was rewarded for her patience a few minutes later when a car alarm was swiftly silenced from somewhere to the far left. 

What are you up to young Scott? Yumi thought as she broke into a light jog towards the same direction. 

Before long, taking a curve around a row of cars, she finally saw him walking briskly towards another set of gleaming doors. A service elevator. She couldn’t see from his back, but his posture suggested that he was carrying something in his hands. To her immense curiosity, there was something rather shifty about the way he carried himself.

Did you by any chance manage to haul some contraband with you? Yumi wondered, smiling to herself as she followed him at a distance. Didn’t Daddy teach you that it's good manners to share your alcohol and weed with your friends? And guests?

This was turning out to be a much more fun endeavour than the one she had planned. 

Underground Level
Detroit Tower

There were two underground levels of parking and a sub-basement level that contained the auxiliary power generators for the building in case of emergency. The elevator deposited Michael at that level, which was where the shaft ended. 

A quick check revealed that apart from the generators, the fuel tank and the maintenance hub, there was nothing there. Although it could have served as another good point to set up an improvised explosive device, what with all the free accelerants lying around right next to the generators, Michael figured the bomber was more interested in staying undetected than anything. The maintenance staff for the generators would have stumbled upon anything suspicious one way or another. 

The room was about thirty by thirty feet, illuminated dimly with a single fluorescent bulb stuck to the centre of the ceiling. Apart from the elevator and the narrow, emergency stairwell next to it, there was only one other exit he could see. It was a set of reinforced double doors on the other side of the room, facing the elevator. Walking over to it, Michael ignored the ‘No Entry’ sign as he inspected the thick chain and the two padlocks keeping it securely locked.

He didn’t have time to get back up and look for the security chief who was likely to have the keys. He certainly didn’t have a good explanation as to why he was suddenly interested in exploring the ground underneath the building. The explanation he did have, needed to stay with him until he and Damien had figured out exactly what they had in their hands.

Taking his lockpick kit from his jacket pocket, Michael knelt before padlocks and went to work. It was a lot quieter than shooting the locks and alerting anyone who might still be lurking in the tunnels. Besides, he didn’t have his gun with him, having surrendered it to security earlier when they had arrived. Stealth was going to be his best friend, moving forward.

It took him a little over thirty seconds to remove both the locks and unwrap the chain around the handles. He got back to his feet and placed the padlocks and the chain on top of the small utility cupboard next to him before opening the doors. The cavernous space beyond was pitch black, and the faint light from the ceiling only lit up a few feet of the gravel floor before him. His luck held when a quick search inside the utility cupboard produced a flashlight. Grabbing that and a few other tools he figured might be useful, Michael stepped into the narrow corridor leading him towards the unknown innards of the tunnels. 

He noticed what had alerted Damien to the danger the moment the beam from his flashlight bounced against the curved walls. 

They were clean. Too clean for something that should have been abandoned for ages. At first glance, the walls looked like someone had splashed water on them before giving them a thorough scrub down. Closer inspection revealed that it was a new layer of cement mixed in with a light-coloured paint. That was where Damien had smelled the explosives.

The entire arched wall around him was replaced with the semtex layer. He was literally inside the explosive charge of the bomb. It made him feel worse than a guinea pig trapped inside an experimental maze in a lab. 

He followed along the tunnel with the aid of the thin, narrow beam that was barely enough to keep him from tripping over the loose bricks and other trash cluttering the floor. The elevator he had taken was located on the left corner of the building, and the more he walked, it felt as if the tunnel was leading him towards the opposite direction, further towards the centre of the building. 

A few minutes later, once his mental calculations were telling him that he had walked for about two hundred yards, Michael arrived at a T-junction. Before him, the tunnel split to right and left, and another solid door stood about forty-five feet directly in front of him. 

The Psionic energies around him rippled in warning. The usual cheer the state of Michigan constantly fed to it faded in the wake of unease and a sense of disgust that suddenly bubbled up in it.

Whatever Michael was looking for was just beyond the door.

Michael took his time inspecting the door, running the light along the lock, handle, and the entire door frame that stood flush against the wall. Once he was as certain as he could be that it wasn’t booby-trapped to blow up in his face, he turned the handle to test the lock. It caught him by surprise when the door opened inwards without any resistance or even a squeak. 

Someone must be quite confident , he thought, standing at the threshold to let the beam of his flashlight light up the interior of the room.

Michael? Damien’s voice echoed softly inside his mind, wrenching him back to the present from the momentary stupor he was caught in. He didn’t know for how long he stood there, gaping at what lay before him. What’s wrong?

Where to even begin? Michael swallowed. 

At first glance, it looked like a storage room, the entire roughly four hundred square feet of space filled with what looked like stacked pallets. Those innocuous-looking stacks took their time revealing themselves for what they truly were. Michael’s trained gaze travelled over the multitudes of wires, circuits and det cords that connected all those rows and rows of stacks along the four walls, categorising the complex structure into the main components of the massive bomb. 

The charges - those neat little bricks stacked in the pallets were Semtex, he was certain - were arranged in a fashion that when they blew up, the entire explosive force and the immense blast wave would be directed upwards. Each and every pallet seemed to be equipped with its own blasting caps and power supplies, if those little blinking lights were any indication. 

Binding the entire thing together to complete the bomb, was the main circuit or the switch, that hung on the empty space on the wall directly in front of him at about twenty feet away. A spider web of wires of all colours in existence spread out from behind it to snake along the walls, connecting the hundreds of brick-sized charges physically to the signal from the main switch. The LCD board in the middle of it was the size of a road sign and the red digits were already lit up ominously. 

As Michael watched, frozen helpless, they slowly and resolutely marched toward a set destination:

05:59:526 

05:59:425

05:59:124

05:58:897

Michael?

Yeah. I’m down here. Michael sent back. It was difficult to prevent the icy dread that had filled his veins from leaking through to the Sentinel. He was staring at an eminent destruction of a scale that had never been seen or heard of before. 

This thing has more than enough explosives to vaporise the Midwest Council building, Michael thought, unable to drag his gaze away from the countdown. The entire tunnel circuit around the building, spread around a two-mile radius, was also filled with explosives that would blow up along with the main bomb. If anything of the Council managed to survive the initial explosion, the massive crater the secondary explosion created would make sure to bury it all in an instant grave.

Worst of all, they were too late. They were mere minutes from witnessing the experience first hand. 

And none of them would live to tell the tale about it.

I found it. He thought, sharing the mental image of the enormous bomb with Damien. We’re fucked.

Chapter Text

Underground Tunnel System
City of Detroit

Damien was about half a mile into the unexplored, untouched section of the tunnel when he received Michael’s mental update that he was about to enter the tunnels himself. 

The Psionic energies kept stringing him along, drawing his attention to the faint sounds of traffic he could hear from above. He had a feeling he was getting closer to the pedestrian crossing just below the Highway intersection.

Several twists and turns took him further and further away from the epicentre of the disaster waiting to happen. Damien didn’t like the widening distance between him and the people he loved. It wasn’t just Michael who was still inside, half of his family, and Michael’s entire family were in there too, along with the country’s collective leadership of the Sentinel/Guide population.

Dread pooled in his gut in the wake of that observation. What if that was the target? What if the bomber had been laying layers of this genocidal trap so patiently throughout the years just so they could seize their chance when the entire leadership gathered in one place?

Shit.

What if other Council buildings were also compromised?

Not fucking now. Damien berated himself as he crept along the tunnel. One fucking disaster at a time. 

“I wouldn’t if I were you.” 

Damien froze at the unfamiliar, heavily accented voice that brushed against the very edge of his dialled-up hearing. 

The tunnel extended for about three hundred yards straight before it divided into yet another intersection. The voice came from the tunnel extending to his right. Damien stood where he was, and concentrated.

Intermingled with the usual musty smell of the tunnel he had instinctively filtered out, Damien could smell the sharp notes of plastic and rubber. Electronics. Possibly computers.

An observation/Security station then.

Another deep breath brought in the faint traces of cordite and gun oil. 

There was at least one more gun at play. 

What made him hiss in surprise was the completely unexpected tones of pine and petrichor that invaded his senses. It made him recoil because it was a unique note that did not belong anywhere near this unknown stranger with a hint of smug satisfaction in his arrogant voice. 

It was a part of the scent that belonged to Michael. 

Damien pulled out his gun from where he had it stuck in his waistband and took the safety off. 

Michael’s palpable fear struck him through the bond, then, as if it were his own, halting him in place mid-step.

Michael?

Yeah. I’m down here. 

The image that formed in his mind at the end of that soft declaration made Damien feel weak in his knees. It took him a moment to understand what Michael was showing him. It was a small room, about twenty by twenty feet at most. The columns of stacked pallets contained brick-sized explosives, all connected, primed and ready to blow at the press of a button. 

Or at the end of a countdown that seemed to drive in the point that it was all pointless. 

I found it. 

Michael did an admirable job keeping his emotions tightly controlled at what he had just discovered. 

We’re fucked. 

Damien tried to form a thought. What could he say? Ask him to run? By himself? He wouldn’t even get one floor evacuated with the distances involved. Not with the mere minutes they had left.

“Tell me one thing that’s going to stop me from shooting you right here.” Colonel Locke’s furious growl reached him then, breaking him out of the panicked spiral. 

Michael's father was also here. That meant the unknown voice belonged to the bomber. Or someone involved with this unimaginable madness.

Michael, stay there, Damien sent back a shaky reply, steadying his gun with a few deep breaths. I think I found something.

No point going anywhere, Damien. Michael’s voice echoed quietly around his mind before fading. His presence lingered, however, sharing Damien’s point of view as he slowly advanced.

“Why don’t you join us?” The stranger raised his voice, and Damien had a feeling it was directed at him. 

Another Sentinel then. There was no way a regular human could sense his presence this far out and out of sight. 

“Don’t you fucking move!” Locke barked. But his apprehension was clear in the faint wobble Damien heard in his voice.

“Hey, relax. Looks like we have another guest,” Damien heard the man say as he took the right turn. The more he listened to the accent, the more Damien was convinced he was Irish, rather than British. “Hmmm… A Sentinel, a silent one too. Rather good at shielding himself.”

There was a room about a hundred yards from him. The yellow glow emanating from inside was bright against the darkness of the tunnel. Through the open door, Damien saw the two men. Locke stood only a few feet across from the unidentified Sentinel, his Glock aimed squarely at the man’s forehead. 

“Yeah, you with the gun,” the stranger beckoned with a grin, “Come join the celebration.”

Damien closed the distance, leading with his Beretta. He came to a stop at the threshold, not stepping into the room, leaving a few feet distance between himself and the other man.

He was tall, taller than Locke, almost Damien's height. Dressed in an ensemble of shirt, jacket, and cargo pants, along with tactical boots, all items as black as the tunnels themselves, he looked deathly pale in the dim, yellow glow. 

He was around the same age as Locke too, Damien could tell by the lines of silver peppering his brown hair and the crow’s feet at the edges of his eyes. But the gleam in those bright blue eyes contained a sinister sort of intelligence that was not in the least hindered by age. The straight, hawk-like nose was set above a thin pair of lips that was curled to the side in disdain.

The stranger’s gaze bore into Damien as he completely ignored the guns aiming at him.

There was a small desk behind him, with a laptop on it. On its screen, a live camera feed was playing on mute. Damien knew it was live because the countdown it was focused on was slowly ticking down at the same rate as the one in his mind was ticking down. There was no mistaking Michael’s profile in it, who stood about three feet away from the LCD board with the timer, his blank expression giving away nothing of the turmoil that was actually brewing in him. 

Alerted to the presence of the camera through Damien's thoughts, Michael looked up, noticing the camera that seemed to be mounted on the corner of the ceiling to his left for the first time. 

As focused as he was on Damien and Locke, the stranger missed the moment when Damien met Michael’s gaze through the screen for a split second before Michael looked away.

“Damien Scott, isn’t it?” The man tilted his head, scanning him with a mildly-intrigued expression. His nostrils flared as if he was trying to catch Damien’s scent. Michael’s influence on his shields kept him from giving anything away. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Christopher Desmond,” the man grinned, extending a hand, which Damien ignored in favour of keeping his gun aimed at his forehead, “Although, I prefer the moniker the British Intelligence has bestowed upon me; Oppenheimer.”

Locke twitched at the name, even though his gun stayed as steady as a rock in his grip.

“So this is your doing.”

“Ah, well. I can’t take all the credit for it,” Desmond gave a self-deprecating shrug, “Let’s just say it was a collaborative effort between me and another brilliant man.”

The dread Damien felt at the declaration was echoed by Michael, whose presence was like a warm summer cloud within his mind. It was bad enough there was one of these evil fuckers, to learn that there were two…

“How about, you disconnect it and I won’t put a bullet through your head?” Damien growled, letting his tone convey that he had absolutely no compunctions about following through with the threat. 

“Funny,” Desmond said, not in the least worried about his imminent death, and jerked his head at the Colonel,  “He was saying the same thing a minute ago. I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that.”

“He’s disabled the alarms,” Locke muttered, his voice tight and his glare boring into the side of Desmond’s skull, “The entire area around the building is under a communications null zone, no signals go in or out. He’s maintaining a hardwired connection to the bomb.”

“I’m guessing shooting the laptop won’t stop the countdown then?” Damien had to ask. They were wasting time listening to the gloating fucker and it was becoming evident that they had no viable options to stop the rapidly approaching massacre.

“More like, you shoot my laptop, the bomb goes off,” Desmond smiled, sparing a glance at the laptop. “Call it a failsafe. I’m fond of those.”

Damien noticed that the laptop had not one, but three wires connecting to it. All those cables ran down the length of the table, along the grimy floor and up a wall that didn’t look like it had explosives coated in it before disappearing through a corner against the ceiling. 

“Stop this.” Damien ground out.

“I’m afraid I can’t,” Desmond turned to Locke, completely ignoring Damien, “But I can be amenable to giving you a chance… an opportunity for a swap if you will.”

Damien didn’t like the sound of that, or the malicious tone underlying his words. In his mind, he felt Michael bracing himself for the other shoe to drop.

“There’s nothing you can say to–”

“Are you sure?” Desmond cut him off. “Do you want to see another family die in front of your eyes? I’m offering a chance.”

Michael’s presence went cold. He knew what the demented asshole was talking about.

Michael?

Dad’s, uh– he was targeted twenty-something years back. Michael’s thoughts lost their usual coherency for a moment, his emotions souring with sympathy and grief . It was a car bomb. Blew up in front of his face with his wife and son in it. Seconds before the explosion, he got a call. It was Oppenheimer.

Shit. That made this entire scenario personal.

“Let me show you–” Desmond took a step back, toward his laptop, his fingers brushing over the keys. Both Locke and Damien adjusted their aims. The bomber was supremely unconcerned as he typed a rapid alphanumeric code of eight digits. Michael was out of the frame. The countdown froze.

05:54:536

“There. See, the timer stops.” Desmond smiled proudly at the screen. “It’s a temporary pause, of course, but you get my point. I control the time they have to live.”

The countdown started again after about fifteen seconds, proving his point. Damien saw Michael on the frame again. He was checking behind the circuit board where a multitude of cables flared out in all directions.

“I’m offering you a ray of hope,” Desmond addressed Locke. Damien didn’t like the way he looked like a cat playing with a mouse. “The thing that keeps us humans sane when all else seems rather pointless and bleak.”

Locke didn’t say a thing. In his mind, Micheal went still. Damien adjusted his aim again. He really really wanted to kill the asshole and be done.

“I could just start shooting your limbs off until you scream and beg to stop it?”

Desmond turned his arrogant smirk to him, “If that is how you’d like to waste the, hmm… five minutes and three seconds the good people inside the Council building have left?”

He wasn't going to cave under any threats, not when he held all the cards. They all knew that. They had to play his twisted game if there even was a minuscule chance of stopping the bomb from going off.

“What do you want?” Locke demanded through gritted teeth.

“Colonel–”

“I want you, Colonel Locke, to go in there,” Desmond smiled, jerking his head at the screen without taking his eyes off of Locke. “And I want you to shoot that man in the head.”

Damien’s blood ran cold, and he had to forcefully hold back his trigger finger from tightening. 

Why? Michael wondered as if he hadn’t just been singled out for some twisted, personal vendetta. That’s…redundant.

He did have a point. Even through the red haze that was rapidly descending in his vision, Damien could see that. What difference did four minutes make when your death was all but guaranteed?

“He’s only eight hundred yards from us,” Desmond continued, perfectly benevolent, “You do that and then I’ll give you an extra three minutes to save everyone who matters to you. You’ll have to run very fast and very far though. And put at least two miles between yourselves and the Detroit Tower if you’re going to be on the surface.”

Damien took a step back and widened his stance. His Sentinel side was battling earnestly for control now. He didn’t know if he could stop himself from shooting Locke if he took up on that horrific offer.

Michael’s warm presence rippled in his mind, turning into a soothing caress that washed over the bond in an attempt to calm the conflicting emotions Damien was fighting to hold back. 

“We’re all going to die here anyway,” Damien growled, sparing a quick glance at the doomsday laptop, “in four minutes.”

“Not us.” Desmond waved a hand to indicate the room. “We're perfectly safe. It’s the beauty of this creation. It’s quite complex and precise. It won't destroy anything other than what we meant for it to destroy.”

“Why would you want me to shoot my son?”

Desmond let his smile widen. He seemed to gain a perverse sense of pleasure from the pale look of horror on the other Sentinel’s face. 

“No Colonel, I want you to shoot mine.”

The Explosive Construct
Underneath the Detroit Tower

The words reverberated in his mind, refusing to make any sense. Instinctive terror formed ice in his veins, freezing Michael in place. 

The two rooms were superimposed in his sight, overlapping each other with transparent definitions, intermingling into a bizarre abstract. 

Through the hazy veil of red digits that were rapidly descending towards a fiery end, Michael could see a tall man standing a few feet away from him. He was sneering maliciously at the wide-eyed horror written all over his father’s expression.

The gun in his grip – Damien’s grip – wavered.

What the fuck did he mean?

Damien’s mind was rapidly dissolving into a raging storm. It took everything in him to keep their bond steady and focus on what the madman in their midst was saying. 

Ironic isn’t it? Desmond’s words were barely comprehensible through Damien’s swirling emotions. I dug into your past, just the way you’ve been digging into mine. You almost gave your life for him once, didn’t you? For a bastard spawn you had absolutely nothing to do with. Apart from the fact that your Guide had picked it up like a shiny piece of trash all those years back. She made you claim it as yours–

A memory surfaced at the man’s relentless words, a conversation Michael hadn’t thought about in decades. 

“Why am I different?” He was only eight. He was sick of being bullied by the other kids. Nosy jerks, the lot of them.

His mother frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t look like you,” Michael shrugged and sullenly threw his backpack on the nearest chair. “They say you can’t be my Mom.”

She pinned him with a look he knew he would never forget. Her presence opened up to him in his mind like a gentle river, filling him with infinite love and affection. There was no space for doubts, confusion, or sadness in the vastness of it.

“You're my son in all the ways that matter, Michael.”

… church. Remember where you met your wife? In his mind, Desmond continued to gloat, I left him in the hands of God. He was supposed to die. He did die. Like the little cockroach that he is, he refused to stay that way. Then your Guide brought him to you.

Michael knew that particular story by heart. It was back in Northern Ireland. The church of Saint Faber had been on fire for three days. His mother had followed the smoke she had seen in the sky. He hadn’t even been breathing when she had found him.

Then, ten years later, they met Colonel Locke for the first time at the same hallowed grounds.

Do you see now, Locke? Desmond's laugh reverberated through the bond, spreading poison in its wake. You’ve been raising the offspring of the viper you’ve been trying to hunt down for twenty years. 

Michael couldn’t deny that he had, at times, wondered. Although he had never been loved or accepted less for what he was, a small part of him had harboured all kinds of doubts, and maybe a little curiosity. 

He desperately searched for signs that the bomber was lying, playing one final perverse game for twisted reasons known to him alone. But Damien’s sharpened senses were all locked onto the man, and he was detecting nothing but a steady pulse and smug satisfaction from him.

He knew too much; things that weren’t in any systems, or reports…things that were only known to his family. 

Desmond was, unfortunately, telling the truth.

This was not the way Michael wanted to find out about his origins. 

Hell. This was one revolting twist of fate he wouldn’t have imagined in a million years. 

How could he have been fathered by the man responsible for the murder of his adopted father’s firstborn? Why did he have to have the blood of a mass murderer running through his veins? How would the Colonel even look him in the eye after this?

Michael swallowed against the nausea stirring in his gut. He felt cold. It was too much to think about, and it wasn’t the time. So he did what he did best. Shoving it all to a deep, dark corner to deal with later, Michael focused on the wisp of an idea half forming in another corner of his mind.

As horrific a revelation as it was, Desmond’s gloating had also shown him a possible way out of their hopeless situation. 

Michael grabbed the hazy notion with both hands before he could overthink it, or change his mind.

Damien, he took a few meditative breaths, letting his consciousness flow over the bond, I–I need you to trust me.

Always. The reply was instant.

Brace yourself. 

Michael let the warning resonate before he let the entirety of his mind enter the space that belonged to his Sentinel. Damien proved his words by giving up control without hesitation, becoming a passenger of his own body as Michael took over. 

Underground Tunnel System
City of Detroit

Philip Locke refused to believe any of it. Even if this piece of trash was somehow Michael’s biological father, it didn’t matter. Not even a fucking iota. 

When he had first found them, he had known he found his family. Even the depths of grief and guilt he had been drowning in, hadn’t been able to change that truth he had known in his soul. He hadn’t just accepted Michael for Hiyori. That kid had effortlessly wormed his way into Philip’s heart the moment they had met. He still remembered how the kid had stared up at him with a solemn gaze that had no business residing in a ten-year-old’s eyes.

Hiyori, Yumi and Michael, they were all his. There was nothing in this rotten world that could make him choose one over the other. He would rather die than make that choice and try to live with it. Some stupid fuck with a bloated ego and a convoluted sense of humour was never going to change his convictions. Or the way he loved his family.

In his periphery, he saw Damien’s eyes shine like two obsidians as he took a subtle step back, his gun wavering between Desmond and Philip while he visibly fought to keep control.

Good. 

He expected nothing less from Michael’s Sentinel. Damien should damn well shoot him if he ever proved to be a worthless piece of shit for any reason.

"You would honestly bury another family than take out the overdue trash?” Desmond stared at him, wide-eyed, his grin turning sour. “I’m–surprised.”

“I’d rather walk into the blast radius, Desmond,” Locke said and raised his gun to aim squarely at the bomber’s forehead. On the screen, the timer passed the three-minute mark. Maybe it was time to put an end to this farce. If there was nothing he could do to stop the approaching end, he would at least take the fucker responsible down with him. “And the only overdue trash I see here is you.”

What stopped him from pulling the trigger was the impossible sight of Damien’s eyes turning pure silver. 

The Sentinel cocked his head to the side and regarded Desmond with a gaze that didn’t quite belong to him. The words that came out of his lips the next moment were quiet and carried a tone that was vastly different from Damien’s midwesterner drawl. 

And they belonged to Michael:

“I guess it’s finally your turn to pay for your sins.”

The gunshot was unnaturally loud inside the small room, and it reverberated against the tunnel walls for quite a long time. Desmond was dead before he hit the ground. The blood gushing out of a neat hole in the dead centre of his forehead pooled over the grime-covered floor.

Damien took a stumbling step forward, skipping over the dead body without giving it a second glance. His attention was firmly focused on the laptop screen that was dotted with crimson stains. He was back to himself, his liquid black eyes shining with Psionic energies told Philip that much.

On the feed, Michael was kneeling under the circuit board with the timer, which was ominously displaying 02:45:711

“Come on, Michael,” Damien muttered, his gaze fixed on Michael as he ripped at the cables from underneath the main initiator with unsteady hands. There was something purposeful about the way he carried on, however, Philip realised as he watched.

“Did he–”

“Yeah,” Damien swallowed, “He triggered a backlash.”

Of course. Philips closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, feeling an immense burden leaving his shoulders. It was fucking brilliant. Shared blood automatically created familial bonds. No matter how insignificant, hidden or unknown, those bonds were there from birth. 

Sentinels and Guides experienced the backlashes in vastly different ways. While a Sentinel would suffer through a period of physical ailments, a Guide would get bombarded with rampant, uncontrollable emotions…and memories.

“Jesus, kid,” Philip sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Michael may very well have pulled the impossible out of his ass and saved everyone’s lives. But Philip shuddered to think of the cost he would pay for it.

Cables dangled from behind the circuit board like the entrails of a gutted predator. Michael had a screwdriver in his hand that he was using to rapidly disassemble the switch. The LCD board containing the still active countdown hung on its side as he managed to unearth the circuit behind it. 

The timer came to a definite stop at 00:35:117

Damien let out a long exhale, sagging against the rickety old table. Philip closed his eyes, sending a heartfelt prayer to the heavens, thanking the Almighty for His timely intervention through his son. He opened his eyes in confusion when he felt Damien going rigid next to him.

On the screen, Michael stumbled towards a stack of pallets containing explosives. On his right shoulder, a rapidly growing stain contrasted heavily against the light-coloured shirt he was wearing.

“Get the medics in there, and call the bomb squad.” Damien was already out when he threw that over his shoulder. He sprinted out of the room towards the tunnel at a speed Philip couldn’t quite track even in his advanced state.

It took way longer than it should have for Philip to realise that someone had just shot his son in the back. 

The Explosive Construct
Underneath the Detroit Tower

A surreal sight greeted Damien when he crossed the eight-hundred-yards distance between himself and his Guide in less than ten seconds - an inhuman speed he barely registered in his highly enhanced state.

The small room that contained the explosives had a steel, reinforced door, which was open inwards. On the floor, barring the entry to the room, lay the unconscious form of his son, Finn. Damien knew he was unconscious because his pulse reverberated loudly in his dialled-up hearing. He wasn’t actively bleeding, but Damien could smell that he had a cut on the back of his head that had resulted in his crumpled state. 

The gun he had used to shoot Michael was still clutched in his right hand, a wisp of smoke curling around the short barrel of Doug’s service weapon.

Michael’s sister, Yumiko, stood next to him, frozen, her gaze fixed on a point inside the room. Her pupils were blown, liquid black of the Psionic energies swirling in them behind a glassy sheen. 

She had a steel chain dangling in her grip, presumably the makeshift weapon she had used to take Finn down before he could keep shooting. She seemed entirely unaware of everything around her except for something that had completely ensnared her suddenly enhanced senses. 

Yumi was online and she was in a deep zone.

Damien caught it all during the three seconds it took for him to reach the door. Michael’s scent mixed with blood and cordite hit him in full force, making him stumble in his steps. He hated how he was all too familiar with the gut-wrenching way those intoxicating notes of cherry blossoms in full bloom soured under the sickening tang of copper. 

Taking only half a second to snatch the gun out of Finn’s grip, Damien barrelled into the room, knowing Michael was the one who was in immediate need of help. His weakening pulse beat a thunderous rhythm in Damien’s ears as he dropped to a knee next to Michael’s unconscious form. The back of the light-blue shirt he wore was entirely red, and a small pool of blood was already forming under his chest, which made it clear that the bullet had exited. Gently turning him over, Damien drew his unresponsive body onto his lap. Then he placed one hand under Michael’s shoulder blade and the other against his collarbone to put firm pressure on both leaking wounds.  

The skin on Damien’s palms burned as if he were holding back a river of liquid fire. The bond in his mind had gone dark, spreading a bone-deep chill surrounding its unresponsive state. Panic bubbled in him in waves when he realised that he couldn’t channel Psionic energies into Michael the way he had healed him only a few weeks back. 

A wall of Psionic energies seemed to have wrapped around the entirety of Michael, from inside out, rendering Damien’s efforts at healing futile.

It took him a few frightening seconds to realise that it was the backlash, the consequences Michael had to accept for his actions. As long as he was under the assault of the memories, experiences and emotions of the late and utterly unlamented Desmond, Michael was completely under the mercy of the Psionic energies that held him hostage. 

Tightening the pressure he was putting on Michael's wounds, Damien looked up to find Yumi hadn’t moved. Her gaze was fixed on his hands; on the blood of her brother to be exact.

“Yumi,” Damien snapped. She didn’t even twitch. Damien let his Sentinel side take over. As a freshly online Sentinel, her instinct would force her to acknowledge and respond to the authority of a territory leader. “YUMI. Snap out of it!”

Her glazed eyes travelled over to meet Damien’s. “Finnegan was trying to kill my brother,” she intoned mechanically.

“I know, Yumi,” Damien rumbled, wincing at the way his vocal cords rubbed together to accommodate the voice that wasn’t entirely human. “You have to listen to me. It wasn’t Finn’s fault.”

Finn hadn’t been around when Michael and his mother healed the rest of the Scotts who had been infected by Bryant’s triggers. In fact, Damien only now realised that he never really got a chance to introduce his son properly to his Guide. 

If he had, they would have realised that Finn had also been infected. Damien never had his son checked because he had been convinced that Bryant only fucked with his family during her visit. It never occurred to him that she could have gotten to Finn at a different place, at a different time.

An oversight for which Michael had to pay the price. Again.

Fuck. 

Pushing all those unproductive realisations firmly away, Damien focused on the listless teenager still teetering in and out of a zone-out. 

Distract her. Give her something to do. “I need you to help him up and lean him against the wall.”

Yumi looked down at Finn’s unmoving form curled on the floor and promptly decided it was not important. “Michael’s bleeding.” her glassy black eyes were firmly back on the burden Damien held in his lap. 

“I know,” Damien gentled his voice, “I got him.”

Yumi inhaled. Winced and inhaled again. She didn’t seem to remember how to exhale. She was rapidly descending towards hyperventilating. On the plus side, she was also climbing out of the zone. 

“Is he–” she hiccuped, trying to catch her breath.

“No,” Damie said firmly, tightening his hold on Michael instinctively, “the wound’s a through-and-through. Your brother’s going to be fine.” He fucking better be.

She nodded rapidly and continued to tremble.

“Yumi,” Damien said, forcing a calm tenor to his tone he didn’t quite feel. He consciously regulated his pulse, knowing that it would help the newly online Sentinel to anchor herself. “You can hear my heartbeat. Try to match it.”

“How?” Yumi dragged in another lungful of air, almost choking on it.

“Breathe with me,” Damien told her, his gaze fixed on hers, “Inhale…Hold it in… Let it out.” She did her best to match his instructions, her hearing fixating on his pulse while her gaze locked on to the way his chest rose and fell. “Now again, in… hold…out.”

It took them a few seconds of exaggerated breathing, but Yumi finally managed to get a hold of herself. 

“Okay,” she winced, rubbing her forehead viciously. Damien knew from experience that the headache would linger for a while. She would also need some time to get the hang of regulating her senses. But for the moment, she was more or less in control of her faculties. “I’m okay.”

“Help Finn,” Damien said, making it clear it was an order, not a request. He didn’t want her newly awakened instincts to make her rebellious.

She did as she was told without a protest, dragging Finn by a foot to turn him around, so that she could prop him against the doorframe. Then she sat cross-legged next to him, letting his head rest against her shoulder as she resumed her watch over Michael. 

Damien split his attention three ways, keeping track of three heartbeats along with his own, counting down the seconds until help arrived.

That was how Locke found them when he burst into the room, with a gurney and two medics following him closely at his heels. 

Chapter Text

It’s dark, even though he knows it’s morning. The walls surrounding him are tall, and they end up supporting a slanted, tiled roof way above his head. The only light in the cavernous space streams through the row of arched, stained-glass windows around him.

He doesn’t like them. The art and the scenes depicted on those windows are supposed to be from the bible, and they are supposed to make him feel safe, protected... whatever. He only sees the basic colour pallets splashed haphazardly over flat, out-of-proportion figures and sceneries. They are ugly and darken the sunlight with contrasting, gaudy colours.

Michael’s standing tall, his spine straight. His hands are clasped behind his back, and his gaze is fixed on the statue of Jesus on the Cross. It’s also an ugly statue, discoloured due to layers of dust and grime it’s been collecting over the years. It gazes back at him with haunted eyes. 

Michael can relate. They are both trapped in this desolate hellhole. Victims of weaponised piety.

“What do you have to say for yourself, Christopher?” The matron - Well, she’s wearing a white cotton cap secured by a bandeau and a white wimple. So, a nun? - leans over, glaring down at him with a wicked gleam in her eyes. In her right hand, she’s holding a cane.

Huh?

A quick glance down reveals a pair of dark blue shorts, knee-high white socks and a pair of black shoes on his feet. 

That’s wrong. 

Something is very wrong.

“Nothing, sister,” a squeaky voice comes out when he speaks. “I shouldn’t have set the confessional on fire.” 

A sense of smug satisfaction washes over him, and a stray thought reveals that he’s only lamenting the fact that he got caught. The roaring fire devouring all those dark, wood panelling had been a beautiful sight after all. 

Michael panics. 

He’s too small. That's not his voice. He hasn’t sounded like that in decades. The walls feel as though they are closing in from all sides and his chest is constricting in an attempt to drag in air. He feels claustrophobic trapped in this body that isn’t his. In a place he’s never been to and in front of someone he doesn’t know.

This is not one of his memories.

Oh. 

Right. 

The backlash.

The nun grabs his - Desmond’s - right hand and turns his palm up. The wordless order is clear. He’s to take his punishment without any protests. And then he’ll be sent to the study hall to sit quietly in a corner, read the scriptures and atone for his sins. 

Just another Tuesday for Desmond. 

Nauseating disgust ripples through Michael as he resigns to his fate. 

The strikes burn. There’s nothing he can do other than embrace the pain, and re-live eight-year-old Christopher Desmond’s contempt, hatred and fear as if they were his own.

This is going to take a while. 

Medical Wing
Detroit Tower
Detroit - Michigan

13:02 Hours (Local)

Damien found Finn only three doors down the hallway he was prowling. He had been told politely, yet, firmly, by the medical staff that he could only set up camp inside the room once they had gotten Michael settled in, not before. 

There was a pile of empty food cartons and wrappers on top of the table next to him, and Finn was sitting on the bed, slurping soft drinks loudly out of a large paper cup. If he could demolish a meal meant for three adults, that meant the knock to the head hadn’t given him a concussion, or done any significant damage. 

“Dad–” Finn smiled around the straw stuck in his mouth.

“Finn,” Damien went in and sat down on the edge of his bed. “How are you, kid?”

His son shrugged and continued to slurp on his drink.

“He’s fine now,” Kelly answered, having heard his question as she came through the door. “Hiyori was here earlier. She guided me through how to get rid of those triggers. He's free and clear.”

She had a coffee in one hand and an ice cream in the other. After a moment of contemplation, Damien grabbed the cone out of her hand. 

“Hey!” Finn protested indignantly, coughing when some of the drinks went down the wrong pipe. “That was for me.”

“Finish that first,” Damien nodded at the still half-full cup, “I’ll get you one later.”

Kelly wisely decided not to get involved in that argument. She folded herself on the couch next to Finn’s bed and turned her full attention to sipping her coffee.

Finn was quiet after that. Kelly pinned Damien with a pointed look once he was done with his stolen treat; Talk to your kid, it said. 

Damien sighed. She had a point. Finn wasn’t a bad kid and Damien knew he was feeling all kinds of torn up about what happened.

“Finn?”

“Yeah?”

“You know it wasn’t your fault, right?”

Finn shrugged and refused to meet his gaze. 

“Your mind was messed with,” Damien continued softly. “It was the same thing that happened with grandpa and grandma. Or Uncle Derrick.” 

“I just–” Finn mumbled, shrugging again, and stared despondently at his cup, “It sucks, Dad. I’m sorry.” 

The kid knew how to handle a weapon. Almost everyone in their family above the age of fifteen did. But it was the first time he had pulled the trigger on another human being. It had to be messing with his head. 

“It does suck,” Damien agreed. “But you had no control over your actions. It wasn’t you. No one got seriously hurt.”

That got the kid to finally look up, and huff incredulously at him.

“No, I’m serious,” It was Damien’s turn to shrug, and he let his smile go crooked, “Michael and I, we’ve both had worse. I guarantee he’ll tell you the same when he wakes up.”

“It was before she got to the rest of the family,” Kelly said softly, understanding Damien’s unspoken question when he looked at her. “She found him at school, visited him a few times and wiped the memory every time. Finn never even knew he met the bitch.”

“It was crazy, Dad,” Finn said after a while, having decided to let it out rather than keeping it in. A good choice. “I knew I wasn’t supposed to, and I fought it. But it was like my body wasn’t my own, and I was trapped in my own head. This voice was insisting that I had to kill or it would kill you. I wasn’t even seeing a person! Just some weird, dark cloud thing. It was wild!”

Damien glanced at Kelly, who was staring at Finn. Damien remembered his father saying the same thing. He hadn’t even seen Michael after the initial glance that triggered the compulsions. His Sentinel had been convinced that he was responding to a threat.

Another small part of him noted grimly that Finn made the third generation of Scotts who had tried to kill Michael now. 

“Finn,” Damien said, pushing those unproductive thoughts firmly away. The woman who was responsible for all of it was already dead. “You’re fine now.”

“Yeah, I am,” the kid agreed and put away the empty cup before turning to him, “Just totally weirded out.”

“It will pass.” Hopefully soon . 

“I got Doug in trouble too,” Finn continued, sparing a wince at his mother. “It was his spare service weapon. I wasn’t even supposed to know he had it in his truck.”

“I’m sure he’ll survive,” Kelly smiled, trying to put him at ease. 

Doug would have a terrible time at the Harbor Spring’s police precinct, filling away a hundred forms explaining why a service weapon had been discharged. But, as Kelly said, he would get through it without any permanent damage. 

“Do you wanna go home?” Damien asked.

“No, no. I’d like to hang around, if that’s alright,” Finn said quickly, his glance pleading, “I really am fine. Lillian said so too. I only have to stay here overnight. My head doesn’t even hurt that much.” 

Damien exchanged a glance with Kelly, and she shrugged. She was fine with it. 

“That girl’s got a mean aim though,” Finn continued, absently rubbing at the sore spot on the back of his head. 

“She’s got precise aim,” Damien corrected him, grinning. “She knocked you right out without giving you permanent brain damage. You’re lucky she didn’t kill you. She very well could have.” 

Freshly online Sentinels had rampant instincts, and Yumiko could have gone feral at the sight of her brother’s blood. Her control had been remarkable. Damien wasn’t the least surprised, however. With parents like Locke and Hiyori and a brother like Michael, she had grown up with the best bunch.

“She dropped by earlier,” Finn revealed, grinning back. “We made a deal. So as long as I don’t try to shoot her family, she won’t try to kill me. We’re good.”

Ah well. That was sorted then. The kids were alright. Damien ruffled Finn’s hair until he pushed him away with a squeak.

“How’s Michael?” Kelly asked after a while. 

“Well, they dealt with the gunshot wound,” Damien said. “They were setting him up in one of the private rooms when I got here. He’s going to be out for a while.”

“What happened down there, Damien?”

Damien sighed wearily. Both Kelly and Finn were staring at him expectantly, eager to know. The bomb squads were still down there, along with maintenance and survey teams, searching every inch of the tunnels for more explosives by tearing those layers apart. 

Locke had already made a hundred calls, and so had Hiyori and Uncle Lionel, deploying teams to survey the perimeters of the other Councils around the world. So far, two Councils had confirmed that they found evidence of bombs still under construction around their respective buildings.

They had literally kicked open a can of worms, and it was a nightmare.

Sparing the personal details, Damien gave them a quick rundown of how he located the rigged tunnel walls, leading Michael to find the massive bomb that was placed right underneath the building. He didn’t go into the details of how Michael forcefully acquired the knowledge to disarm the bomb by shooting Desmond using Damien’s body. 

He definitely didn’t tell them how Michael was in a deep trance, slogging through the horror show that was Christopher Desmond’s entire life. 

It was deeply personal and painful, Damien had felt that much before his connection to Michael had been abruptly severed. Knowing Michael, Damien had a feeling he wouldn’t want to share any of those intimate details with anyone if he could help it. 

He just hoped that the man would get through it in one piece, and wake up soon so that Damien could convince him that none of it made even a sliver of difference. 

Michael was his Guide, and absolutely nothing had changed.

***

The memories... they are countless, never-ending, and they bombard him nonstop without mercy. 

Not all of them are as detailed and defined. They pass through him in hazy, blurred colours, images and snapshots of the bomber’s daily life from early days, events that don’t hold any significance or importance. 

Michael knows that this is how a Guide suffers a backlash. But the knowledge doesn’t stop him from fearing for his sanity. Each and every passing abstract of Desmond’s memories makes him feel as if he’s losing the connection to his own life and memories. 

It’s frightening. He doesn’t want to lose himself to this worthless life of a dead, mass murderer.

His bond with Damien is a shining beacon of light at the end of a dark tunnel. Even through the vortex of this other life that’s intent on drowning him whole, the light never wavers. He can’t touch it and he can’t reach out to his Sentinel. He’s reluctant to do so anyway because he doesn’t want any stains of this hellish pit to leak over to Damien. 

This is his punishment and his alone. This is not a misery he wants to share.

He’s content to know that the bond is still there. His lifeline…his hope. It is his constant reminder that this isn’t going to last forever. It will end, one way or another. He just has to be patient and get through it.

He’s startled by the sounds of a woman screaming. This is an important memory. He feels it when the images gain clarity as they settle in the forefront of his mind’s vision. 

The woman looks young. Her blonde hair spills over her shoulders in waves. It's matted and uncombed as if she has just rolled out of bed.

Her face is a picture of grief and horror. Tears stream down her reddened hazel eyes.

Her right cheek is stark red in contrast to the sickly pale shade of the rest of her face. 

Michael thinks he can see a handprint emerging out of that redness.

Somewhere out of sight, an infant wails.

“Chris, please,” she begs, her lower lip trembling, “where are you taking him?”

Him who?

Desmond looks down as if in answer to his question. There's a bundle resting in the crook of his arm. It's quiet. It's not the baby that's making a bloody racket out of sight. Michael can see a tiny, bald head with a few wisps of blond hair peeking out of the corner of the blanket wrapped around the infant.

A cold shiver runs down his spine, bile rising in his throat as he has to endure the absolute lack of care or concern Desmond feels for the woman or the baby he's taking from her.

“Please, don't!” She makes another desperate grab at the baby in Desmond’s grip.

He dodges her clumsy attempt and backhands her with his free hand. She crumples to the floor in a heap. She doesn't get up. The sounds of her hiccuping whimpers follow them as Desmond walks out of the house.

Michael knows where he's going. He knows how this memory goes. He knows he survives. Still, nothing helps alleviate the horror that seeps into his bones at the realisation that he's about to witness his end and the beginning firsthand.

“There you go, you little shit.” Desmond drops him carelessly on a wooden doorstep. The massive double doors beyond the step are closed and chained with a padlock. “Your brother won the coin toss. Not you. So he gets to live. Let the good Almighty take you back. You're not wanted here.”

Desmond feels nothing but contempt, and perhaps a touch of vindication? He hates this baby, Michael feels that much. Desmond thinks the baby hates him just as much.

The baby kicks once or twice before going still inside the tightly wrapped blanket, and he doesn't make any sounds. 

Michael doesn't know if the thick, cloying terror he feels closing in on him from all corners of his mind is a reflection of what the infant is feeling instinctively. 

The small embroidery on the baby blanket catches his eye. It's a ladybug. Hand-stitched intricately and beautifully with infinite care. Underneath the bug, the name ‘Michael’ is done in cursive.

Desmond walks around the church with his duffel and sets to work. The images of him setting up the explosives around the building become hazy.

Michael finds that he can recall the memory of the woman once again to the surface. He tries to imagine how she looks when her world isn't falling apart around her. 

That is the woman who gave birth to him. He's grateful for the chance to at least getting to see her.

He thinks about the conversation he had with his mother at another time.

“She threw me away.” Michael glares at his mother. He's fifteen. He’s trying to throw a tantrum without raising his voice or swearing like an asshole. It's not his mother's fault he's feeling like a piece of unwanted trash. “If it wasn't for you, I’d be dead. Why should I give a damn?”

She purses her lips, but the look in her eyes is gentle. “I don't think that’s what happened, Michael.”

“How would you know?” Michael demands.

She goes to her bedroom. Michael follows her, trying to hide his sniffles behind the cuffs of his sweater.

“This.” She says and takes out a small piece of cloth. It's old, Michael could tell, and has a brownish sheen to it after years of being folded inside a drawer. 

“I found you in this.” She touches the worn-out cloth reverently and turns it around so that Michael can see the fraying embroidery on the edge of it. “No mother would have spent this much effort on a baby blanket for a child she was going to throw away.”

Michael stares at the ladybug that could have been red and black once. Even after all the years, the stitching looks nice.

“It says ‘Michael.’” He frowns at the word that's been sewn in a light blue thread.

“It's the name she gave you,” his mother smiles at him. “It was her right. I didn't want to take that from her or you.”

***

Damien sat on the comfy couch next to Michael’s bed, checking his phone for the first time in hours. There were hundreds of missed calls, messages and email notifications clamouring for his attention. 

His mind kept wandering back to the unconscious Guide lying still on the bed. 

Unlike the last time he had been here, Michael was connected to a plethora of monitors and IVs. One monitor was dedicated to keeping track of his pulse, which was rather weak after the surgery, but not too alarming considering the circumstances. The one next to it was a piece of specialised equipment for monitoring brain wave patterns for online gene carriers. It had been displaying ominously fluctuating lines and ever-changing numbers on a graphic chart since the moment Michael was connected to it with leads attached to his temples. 

There were IV lines of painkillers, antibiotics and saline, and the surgeon had hinted that they might have to start a feeding line after twenty-four hours if there were no significant changes in the brain wave monitor. 

The bond in his mind was still dark, and every time he touched on it, there was only a weak ripple from the other end. He had a feeling Michael was going to be out of it for a while.

The Sentinel side of him stalked close to the surface even with his mind fully shielded, frustrated at his inability to help his Guide in a meaningful manner. Damien had tried, but the invisible, Psionic energy wall erected around Michael continued to block his interventions. 

Wrenching his mind and gaze from the unresponsive figure huddled under blankets, Damien focused on the screen of his phone. 

Two of the missed calls, three of the messages and an email the size of a novel were from Director Charles Woodworth. Damien was contemplating a succinct ‘fuck you’ to the head of the Central Intelligence Agency when a knock sounded on the door to his right.

The door was not locked, and it opened before he could call out to enter, admitting an impatient teenager with a dark scowl on her face. 

“Hey, Yumi,” Damien grinned, “How are you?”

“Fine,” she huffed, keeping her voice very quiet as she stared at Michael. “The stupid headache won't go away.”

Damien could sympathise. When he had come online, the headache had lasted for a solid week. There was nothing you could do other than find a quiet place to hunker down until your senses regulated. Meditation didn’t help a lot during the first few days.

“You sure you should be up and about?” he asked. “Doesn’t the sound-proof suite help?”

“It does,” she shrugged, walking around Michael’s bed to glare at the silent monitors as if they were the reason her brother was unconscious. “It just drives me nuts to stay cooped inside, you know? Besides, Mom told me I could relieve you.”

“Huh?”

“Like from a shift?” Her impatient glare found a new target on Damien’s face. She was going to be a Level Five Sentinel. Damien was certain. She was already showing all the signs. “You can go and do whatever. I’ll stay for a while.”

“You don't have to do that,” Damien said, just to see her reaction. He didn’t mind leaving her to spend some time with her brother. He had been there for hours and was starting to crave a snack or a coffee. Still, it was also kind of entertaining to needle a newly online Sentinel. “I’m fine, really.”

Yumi’s eyes narrowed. She puffed up her chest, squared her shoulders and straightened her spine like a soldier ready to go to war. “I'd like to stay for a bit anyway.” she challenged, her eyes going dark as her newly transformed shields crumbled in response to her irritation.

“Okay,” Damien surrendered with a grin and stood up from his chair with a long, satisfying stretch that had his spine cracking to realign. Yumi winced and muttered something unflattering under her breath. “Guess I'm going for a coffee then. Would you like me to bring something for you?”

“Yeah,” she said and walked around the bed to claim the chair he vacated. She sat sideways on it, letting her back rest against one armrest with her feet hanging off the other. It reminded Damien of the first night after he had gotten his memories back. He had found Michael sprawled in a chair in the exact same way.

“Coffee. Black,” Yumi said, pulling out a pair of earphones from her jacket pocket. “No sugar. No cream.”

That was the same soulless way Colonel Locke preferred his caffeine. 

Like father, like daughter, Damien smiled to himself as he left the room in search of her demands.

***

The memories don’t have a pattern, a sequence, a rhyme or reason. They hit him randomly. Desmond’s memories of childhood and adulthood are all mixed up in a headache-inducing mess. Michael never knows when he will be staring at nonsensical pages of a hated bible until his eyes start to sting in boredom or staring down at thousands of intricate, mostly unfamiliar components of devious contraptions.

It’s exhaustive and torturous. He can’t feel anything of his own body anymore. He’s completely under the mercy of Desmond’s ghosts, and they do their best to exact the payment for what he had been forced to do.

Time has lost meaning a while back. Michael doesn’t know if he’s been trapped in this limbo for hours, days or weeks. It’s a horrifying feeling, and it’s getting harder and harder to keep his panic at bay the longer he drowns.

He’s staring at a mirror.

Except, the mirror seems to be lying flat on a bed? Half covered in blankets? It has to be, right? Otherwise, how could he be staring at himself lying prone under the covers?

Also, shouldn't he be seeing Desmond’s face if it's a mirror?

This terrible business of being stuck in someone else's life is confusing.

“Liam?” Desmond calls, his voice soft.

The reflection – okay, it’s not a mirror reflection – stirs, and blinks open a pair of dark blue eyes. That makes it worse. Apart from the different shade of the eyes, everything else in this new guy's face is utterly familiar. Michael sees all of it every time he stands in front of a mirror.

Who the hell is this and why the fuck does he look like a creepy carbon copy of him?

“Father.” the carbon-copy mumbles with a thick Irish accent, and flashes a weak smile. 

Jesus fucking Christ!

I have a twin?

“How are you feeling?”

The copy – Liam – grunts. “It’s been a bad few days.”

“Let me help you up.” Desmond fusses and manages to haul Liam up so that he’s propped up against the pillows. 

He looks young, somewhere around his early twenties. He’s frail and weighs nothing. He looks like he’s wasting away from a mysterious illness. Despite the physical ailments, the glint in his eyes hints at sharp intelligence.

“Do you…do you have it?” Liam looks up at Desmond with something like hunger in his eyes.

“Of course,” Michael feels Desmond’s lips stretch wide in a smile. “I’m sorry I’m a little late.”

“It’s alright,” Liam smiles back, and Michael finds it immensely uncomfortable to watch the eagerness of his own sunken face gazing up at Desmond. “You’re here now.”

Desmond sits on the edge of the bed, his gaze turns intent as he slowly lifts his hand to place his palm against Liam’s forehead.

Michael feels warm inside, and the heat continues to build. Something starts screaming in his mind, and those wails turn into terror-filled, mindless shrikes belonging to thousands of souls.

The Guide in him recoils in horror as he realises what is happening.

Desmond has the essence of Sentinels and Guides stored up in him, somehow. Michael doesn’t know how he managed that godawful atrocity. He doesn't want to know. It’s too horrible to even contemplate. His soul is resonating with the agony of all those stolen lives, and he feels as if he’s being torn apart.

It fills him - Desmond - from the inside. All those forcibly captured energies are running through his veins. They are simmering in his mind, leaking out of his eyes, ears and mouth. 

Michael can’t take it any more. He wants out.

He can’t. The backlash doesn’t care for his wishes.

A part of him notes that Desmond does what Damien has done before. Instead of channelling Psionic energies towards healing, however, Desmond is channelling the essence of the dead gene carriers into Liam’s body directly. 

It’s abhorrent. Sick and twisted. Some of the reasons why Desmond did what he did while he lived become clear. He hasn't been blowing up buildings only because he likes the fireworks. He’s been hiding his true purpose all this time.

He has somehow found a way to steal life forces and feed them to his dying son.

Michael watches in horror as Liam’s face transforms in front of him. The sickly pallor is replaced by a healthy shine, and his body fills up with more mass and definition like a wraith after being fed.

Michael loses himself in the cacophony of the fading, agonised screams. 

Darkness starts closing in on him from all sides, and Michael’s attempts to hang on prove futile with each passing second. 

A star shines brightly in a corner of his mind, and he reaches desperately towards the modicum of safety the shining light offers.

Everything goes black then, and Michael doesn’t know if he’s managed to grab the lifeline before he succumbs to the darkness. 

Chapter Text

Medical Wing
Detroit Tower
Detroit - Michigan

01:47 Hours (Local)

Seventy-three hours and nineteen minutes and counting. 

That was how long Michael had been in a coma, showing no signs of surfacing back to the waking world. The longest period for a Guide under severe backlash was recorded in 1989, and it was four days, twenty-two hours and three minutes.

Damien fervently hoped that Michael wasn’t secretly planning on breaking that record.

Sentinels and Guides went through backlashes extremely differently. Damien had been sick with dizzy spells, migraines, zone-outs, sensory fluctuations, and all other related ailments for months after shooting Michael. For Sentinels, the toll they paid was all physical.

Guides went through the mental equivalent of the same payback. While a Guide’s backlash would only last for hours or in rare and extreme cases, days, it was just as agonising and intense as what a Sentinel would go through. 

Damien thought the Guides had it worse since the mental scars always took longer and were trickier to heal than the physical ones. 

Lost inside what was certain to be a hellish pit of life, Damien knew Michael was going through one of the absolute worst.

He was asleep on the cot they had placed next to Michael’s bed, as he had been doing for the past three days, when something woke Damien up.

He hadn’t been sleeping that deeply, his dreams hazy and his consciousness slipping in and out every time something new brushed against his fine-edged senses. It had been fitful and hardly restive, but the medical staff had insisted he get his rest, and he had been tired enough to succumb to their orders.

The curtains were drawn, and the door was closed shut, so the room was mostly dark. The medical monitors provided scant illumination, which was mostly focused on Michael’s face. 

With his senses instinctively dialled up, Damien had no trouble seeing. Michael didn’t look like he had moved at all, and the data on the screens hadn’t changed that much either. There were no noises he could hear, other than the faint rush of the late-night traffic, the low voices of the night staff next door and the whisper-soft hum of the temperature controls. 

Yet, something had alerted him awake.

Damien was on the verge of falling asleep again when he heard it.

It was a very low sound, a very slight change in Michael’s breathing pattern, something he wouldn't have caught if he hadn’t been listening actively.

A few seconds later, it turned sharper, a little more pronounced, and Damien rolled off the bed without even thinking because it was a sound of pain.

“Michael–” Damien whispered, leaning over, his gaze darting all over Michael’s softened features for signs of distress.

He wasn’t moving. But his pulse was picking up somewhat erratically, and his inhales were catching in his throat, turning into barely audible whimpers. There was no other response from him to Damien calling his name, gripping his limp hand or carding fingers through his hair. 

Michael was trapped, and something in Desmond’s revolting life was hurting his Guide.

Damien took Michael’s hand, the one that was free of the IV port, in both his, willing some warmth into the cold, clammy palm in his grip, and closed his eyes. 

He concentrated on the bond flickering in his mind. It was going darker by the second, and Damien could sense a feeble echo of something excruciating wrapped around Michael’s mind. 

He wasn’t sure if it was Michael blocking the feedback of whatever was happening, or the Psionic energies saturated with the backlash.

“Shit.” Damien cursed. He squeezed his eyes shut in concentration when he felt their bond waver dangerously in his mind, losing what was left of its dim glow to a weak glimmer. 

I don't know if you can hear me, but I’m here, he imagined pouring his own strength into the bond, hoping and praying that something would get through to his alarmingly fading Guide. You’re fine. You just need to hold on, sunshine. Please.

As he dived deeper into his own mind, wrapping his consciousness around the bond protectively, the rest of the surroundings faded into the background. His shields were fully open, filling his mind with Psionic energies while his Sentinel side diligently fed them towards their connection. 

The sound of a beeping alarm registered in his periphery, not enough to yank him out of his trance, but enough for a part of him to pay attention. A door opened and closed a few seconds later, followed by the sounds of hurried footsteps.

There were three of them - two nurses and the surgeon who had operated on Michael's gunshot wound - and Damien recognised them by their scents. The surgeon was also an online Sentinel, and his presence, at a time while his Guide was in acute decline, caused the Sentinel in Damien to surge to the surface defensively. 

“Move, please.” 

One of the nurses made the mistake of stepping closer to where he was sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning over Michael. He heard her freeze on the spot when a warning rumble escaped his throat without any conscious input from him.

“Sir–”

“No wait,” the surgeon, Dr Walter, snapped from the opposite side of the bed where all the monitors were set up. It was a good thing too, because Damien wasn’t sure he could have held himself back from lashing out if she had touched him or Michael. “Step back. Let him be,” Walter continued, his voice soft and placating in response to Damien’s growling, “Sentinel Damien, whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. It appears to be helping.”

Damien didn’t need the surgeon to tell him that. He could feel it was working because of the way the light seemed to return to the interwoven strand that had gone dark. It was incremental, and the brightness was returning in infinitesimal amounts, but it was gaining life with each and every passing moment. It was more than enough for him to hold on, and keep showering the fragile bond with as much reassurance as he could muster.

It took a while, minutes or hours, Damien didn’t know, for the bond to return to its previous state. Once it was back to the fine, dimly-lit tether that connected him to Michael, Damien felt a weak ripple resonate from Michael’s end. A faint feeling of gratitude and relief flowed over the bond, along with a soft, answering echo of reassurance, letting Damien know that his Guide was over the worst of it.

Whatever it had been.

Damien opened his eyes, wincing at the crick of his neck when he looked up to find Dr Walter standing by the monitors.

“What the fuck was that?” He demanded.

The medical team knew that Michael was undergoing a backlash since it was information they needed to know. Other than that, only himself, Michael’s parents and Lionel knew about it.

“I’m not exactly sure,” Walter frowned at the tablet he had in his hand, the one where all the data from the monitors were duplicated. “According to the rapid changes of the brain wave patterns I observed for the past hour, I think Guide Michael went through an extreme empathic event.”

It was Damien’s turn to return the frown, “Empathic event?”

“As in, he felt someone’s or many someone’s agony as if it were his own,” the surgeon ran his hand through his salt and pepper hair while he explained. It looked like he was also perplexed by the readings he was staring at. “The event and the embedded resonance were bad enough, they simulated the symptoms of a brain aneurysm.”

“Jesus.” Damien closed his eyes, and his hand found Michael’s almost of its own volition. Michael still felt cold to the touch, but his pulse was steady enough to anchor Damien, and help him force back the sheer panic those words stirred in him.

“I’ve seen his records. I’m aware your Guide is capable of powerful projections. You could say that what he just experienced was the exact opposite,” the doctor went on, his voice gentle, “Considering the person whose life he’s absorbing, I’d say he most probably experienced an immediate aftermath of a bomb explosion.”

“Fuck,” Damien muttered under his breath and found his gaze drawn to Michael’s blank features, where there were no signs of pain or anguish of what was crowding his mind. The doctor’s theory made sense. But that conclusion led to another concern, “So, that can happen again?”

“I’d like to say otherwise, considering the time he’s been under,” Walter sighed, “I’m hoping he’ll break out of the trance sooner rather than later. But, we can’t discard the possibility.”

Damien accepted that with a nod, and absently brushed some of Michael’s sweat-soaked hair out of his forehead. 

Why did his Guide have to end up holding the short fucking stick every time? His Sentinel prowled restlessly within the confines of his mind.

“How is your bond?” the surgeon inquired. “Do you still feel it?”

“It's dark, unresponsive, but it's not gone,” Damien murmured without looking at him, “It’s there, and I can feel it.” But for how long?

“That’s good,” the surgeon tried to sound positive and encouraging. “When it comes down to it, the best treatment for one half of a true bonded pair is the other half.”

I sure fucking hope so. Damien thought, wrapping his mind around the precious connection, settling in to wait. I can’t lose you.

***

For the first time in a long while, it was dark, quiet, and…peaceful.

Yet, all he felt was fear.

He had been drowning in all kinds of horrid, traumatic, disgusting memories that never failed to leave a bitter taste in his mouth, nausea cramping his gut and what felt like septic, raw wounds scattered all over in his mind, for a damn long time. He had a hard time trusting this… unexpected reprieve.

Bracing himself for another barrage of Desmond’s life, Michael waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Nothing happened.

Was he–did it…Was it finally over?  

He was afraid to even contemplate. If this was a cruel twist designed to dangle a rare ray of hope only to squash it the next moment with another gut-wrenching deed Desmond had done in his wasted life, Michael knew he would lose what was left of his sanity.

It took a lot of self-convincing for him to focus on the bond that still glowed, wrapped around the boundary of his mind like a protective ring. A slight, hesitant touch made it shine warmly in response, making him realise how alone and cold he felt.

Michael? The answering echo from Damien was instant. 

Michael let the immense relief he felt at the soft call wash over him, embracing the precious freedom with a quiet sigh. His mind was free of the long, arduous assault, and his thoughts were finally his again.

A sliver of concern worming through the bond reminded him that he hadn’t responded to his Sentinel. Hey…

Oh, thank fuck!

Worry, affection, relief… it was all intermingled in a shimmering wave that crashed over him from all sides. Unlike the loathsome memories of Desmond, the onrush of heady emotions didn’t hurt, repulsed or downed him. Instead, Michael was surrounded by a bright warmth that made him feel cherished and protected. There was finally beautiful light in his world again, and he wasn’t as lost and captive as he had been. The feeling was a soothing balm to his fractured mind, and he revelled in the safety he was freely offered. 

Jesus, Michael! along with the overwhelming love that surrounded him, a heartfelt curse slipped through.

That bad? Michael winced, apologetic, guilt creeping up in the wake of relief, I’m sor–

Don’t you dare! The reproach was immediate but gentle. Smiling to himself, Michael continued to immerse in those wonderfully bright strands of light. How are you feeling?

That was a good question. His mind was a mess, with a lifetime’s worth of Desmond’s memories still stumbling around in his skull like errant ping-pong balls with needle-sharp spikes. There was a mother of headache lingering at the edge of his consciousness, which he knew he would feel in full force the moment he fully surfaced. But those aches and pains were expected, and what mattered most was that he seemed to have made it more or less in one piece.

It would take some time to sort through all the foreign memories and file those away, which meant there would be a lot of meditation in his near future. 

But, he knew he was going to be fine. He was okay. He would get there.

Michael let his consciousness flow further, towards his body he couldn't quite fully feel yet. He was exhausted, shaky and weak in a way that meant he had been down under for a good long while. 

Like I got hit by a train, he shared, not bothering to hide the sour notes of frustration and resignation dimming his thoughts . Repeatedly. In the face.

That’s what I figured.

Yeah. It was bad. Michael hated recovery periods. The moment of waking after being unconscious for so long, especially after a bullet wound, was the worst. As if triggered by the very thought, a sharp pain flared just below his right collarbone, spreading a burning sensation all over his chest. The unexpected hurt made him twitch, and the small movement made a spot right under his shoulder blade sting in answer.

What the hell?

I–uh, he thought, confusedly, what happened? 

You don’t remember? Damien asked, worried.

I do. More than I ever care to, Michael thought, firmly pushing those horrid, intrusive memories as far back as he could. He would deal with them later. But, what happened to my shoulder? Did I break something? Better to make sure before he tested it with any movements. It was starting to hurt badly. 

Oh, Damien’s voice in his mind went quiet and apologetic. Uh. Finn shot you.

All his discomforts forgotten, Michael opened his eyes with a sharp inhale. Thankfully, the light in the room was dim. That saved him from what could have been an ugly spike of the headache that didn’t waste a single second making its presence known. Michael hissed, winced, and rubbed an unsteady, shaky hand roughly across his forehead.

“There you are,” Damien grinned. He was standing on the left side of his bed, holding his free hand in a firm, warm grip, “Welcome back!”

Underneath the clear joy and relief in his shining blue eyes, Michael could see traces of fading exhaustion, and fear. He made an attempt at a reassuring smile and hoped it didn’t look too much like a grimace. 

“You did that on purpose,” he accused, his voice low and hoarse.

Damien pressed the controls on the side panel of his bed to adjust the incline, bringing it to a seated position so that Michael could comfortably drink some water without choking himself. The cool flow down his throat was immensely soothing on his dried-out insides. 

“I just wanted you to fully wake up,” Damien took the empty cup back with an unrepentant shrug and sat on the edge of his bed. “You were being lazy.”

“Fuck off,” Michael rolled his eyes, and let his head fall back against the pillows, “What happened, really?"

“It was Finn,” Damien replied, his mirth fading a little, “I wasn’t joking.”

Michael grimaced. That fucking bitch! “Is he okay?”

That made the Sentinel smile. “Yeah,” Damien said, “Your sister knocked the fuck out of him before he could do any real damage.”

“What?”

For the next few minutes, Michael was treated to the unbelievable story of how Finnegan had been under Bryant’s influence the whole time. He had been spotted by Yumiko when he had followed Michael down the basement with a handgun, driven by the compulsion. Yumi had managed to save Michael’s ass by coming online and rendering poor Finn unconscious with a vicious lash to the back of his head with a steel chain.

“Your sister’s fine too,” Damien said, his lips twitching in amusement, “They are both okay. Your Mom helped with Finn.”

Michael heaved a sigh of relief. No one had gotten badly hurt. Well, except for himself. 

Damien was quiet after that, content to just hold him. Michael could feel tendrils of cheerful Psionic energies flowing through Damien’s hand into his own, already eager to make him feel better. It was a wonderful, rejuvenating feeling, and he felt his eyes close on their own accord as the cosy comfort continued to grow. 

“Maybe I should call someone–” he heard Damien mutter under his breath just as he was drifting away.

Not yet, he let the thought flow, this is nice.

You’ve been out for a while.

How long? Michael wanted to know.

“A little over three days.”

Michael blinked open his eyes again. It took some effort, but he managed to turn his head to look at Damien. “The inquiry?”

“My statement was enough to close Bryant's case,” Damien said, “They took one look at how I found you, and that was it. Southeast is under a load of shit. They aren’t going to get a chance to wriggle out without a lot of sanctions, and compensations. Spencer’s team gave their own statements. So did the three of Anderson’s Spec Op team that got arrested. That was enough to nail Woodworth’s coffin shut. Your Dad looked happy. So, I'm guessing he got the CIA to cave not long after.”

Michael smiled. That sounded just about right. The thought of his Dad brought up a whole new set of conflicting emotions he didn’t have the strength to deal with right then. So he pushed it away to focus on something more mundane, and safe.

“What time is it?”

If Damien sensed his attempt at deflecting, he didn’t call Michael up on it. “Around six.”

“You were up?”

“Yeah,” Damien grimaced, “You had a seizure a few hours earlier.”

Ah. That would have been just around the time when he had felt the thousands of souls of the dead gene carriers screaming for help. The mere thought of it made a shudder run through him. He wanted to tell Damien about it, and all the rest of it, but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out. The shudders continued to wrack him while he desperately tried to find a semblance of control. 

Suddenly, there were arms around him, gentle and careful of all the IV lines connected to the back of his right hand. His face was pressed against Damien’s broad chest, with his arms around Michael’s back, holding him safe while he slowly broke apart.

“Michael–”

“I have so much to tell...” It slipped out like a confession before Michael could stop it, or at least try to hold back some of the raw emotions that were glazed around the admission. “It was fucking awful, Damien.”

“Later,” the words were murmured into his hair. Damien’s one hand rubbed soothing circles over his spine while the other settled on the back of Michael’s neck, the warm weight of it solid and grounding, “When you’ve rested a little bit more, and eaten something, maybe.”

That was a good point. Michael could hardly keep himself together, let alone string together a coherent report. Besides, he could use all that, and probably a shower too. He felt grimy after lying about doing nothing for three whole days.

Yet, he didn’t want to move. Not when he was being held as if he was the most precious thing in the world. Everything else could wait until he had absorbed more of this absolutely wonderful feeling. He had more than earned it.

Cocooned in his Sentinel’s warm embrace, Michael felt the panic subdue almost as fast as it had arrived.

“Go to sleep, Michael,” Damien whispered, having sensed his racing pulse relaxing, “I’ll be right here when you wake up. We can talk later.”

Michael disentangled himself reluctantly. He realised Damien had a point when his eyelids felt too heavy to stay open. While Damien let the bed fall back to its flat position, Michael sluggishly shimmied away to the opposite corner.

“Mind the IVs,” Damien reminded him, fixing the blanket to cover him. 

“Just get in,” Michael mumbled. There was a reason he had just made space on his side. “I’m cold.”

Damien didn’t argue. Settling on his shoulder, Michael sighed, letting himself drift away towards the sleep that beckoned. 

Chapter Text

Epilogue

Three weeks later

August 2011

Pinegrove Cemetery
Northern Ireland

17:15 Hours (Local)

The rain had diminished to a slight drizzle, leaving behind a fine mist wrapped around the silent grounds. In the distance, a lone figure in black clothing added sharp, dark contrast to the pale, smudged shades of the greens and greys. 

Philip knew this place, each and every venerated inch of it, for this was the destination of a pilgrimage he made from time to time for the past two decades. He had always made the journey alone. While he hadn’t hidden where he was going from his family, he had never really told them the exact location of his visits. It was a piece of himself he hadn’t known how to share without feeling remorse or guilt; the part of his past that he had diligently kept from merging into his present and future for reasons he couldn’t even explain to himself. 

Now, the presence of his eldest in this place meant that, knowingly or unknowingly, he had stumbled upon a way to close that final gap. 

His unhurried footsteps on the wet grass was the only sound that registered in his enhanced hearing, rendered louder than usual in the thick silence.  

Michael looked up as he drew near, instinctively responding to Philip’s soft probe against his shields even as his expression morphed into one of surprise. 

“I was nearby,” Philip said in answer to the unspoken question. 

Michael was standing in front of a lone tombstone; an old, cracked, moss-covered marker that was not quite in line with the others, placed part from the rest as if it didn’t quite belong. The crude etching spelt out a name and a timeline that somehow defiantly stood out despite the signs of ageing and neglect: 

Helen, 1962 - 1982.

A woman, who’d have been almost his age if she hadn’t died so young. 

“Is that–” Philip felt something catch in his throat when he made the connection. 

“Mom was right. It wasn’t her.” Michael murmured, his expression blank, and his dull gaze fixed on the name carved into the stone, “She didn’t want to… she tried to stop him.”

It took him a moment to figure out what Michael meant. “You saw the memory.” 

Of course, he had. Christopher Desmond was a nasty piece of work if there ever was one. Philip couldn’t even imagine the depths of heartlessness it took to be able to throw away an infant of your own flesh and blood as if it were nothing. 

Michael had always been an easy child to love, and Philip had felt fiercely protective of him since the moment he had laid eyes on him for the first time. Throughout the two decades Philip had raised him, never even once had those feelings waned. 

It didn’t matter where he came from, or who his biological parents were. As far as Philip was concerned, Michael was, had always been and will continue to be his and Hiyori’s. 

Desmond never deserved an iota of the kid who grew up to be the incredible man standing next to him.

Micheal let out a quiet sigh, his breath turning into a white cloud of steam against the chilly evening, “I think she couldn’t continue–” he stopped, swallowed, and shrugged. Underlying his dull monotone was a deep, raw hurt that made Philip throw an arm around his shoulder and draw him in closer. To provide what comfort he could and remind his son that he wasn’t alone. “It was too late when he found her. He didn’t really care either way.”

Philip couldn’t even imagine how Michael coped with getting to finally learn about his biological mother through the point of view of that bastard…to see her through his uncaring eyes, to realise she meant nothing to him, just as one of the sons she had given him meant nothing. And that he had no qualms about discarding her like trash when she finally succumbed to her grief by taking her own life.

All Philip knew was that it must have been hell to live through those awful memories. He just wished, for the umpteenth time, that he could have spared his son the terrible experience. 

“I’m sure he’s rotting in a deep dark corner of hell, Michael,” he said quietly, not bothering to hide his contempt and disgust. “And he’ll be there till the end of time.” 

According to what Michael had seen through Desmond's memories, he had planned to systematically wipe out Sentinels and Guides by targeting the council HQs. Desmond had been looking forward to revealing himself as some sort of an undefeatable force.

Considering what he had been doing, harvesting life forces of Sentinels and Guides, Philip had no doubts that he had been on the verge of attaining that impossible goal. 

In his thirty years of career, it was one of the hardest recounts he’d ever had to listen to, and not only because it came from his son who had been forced to live through it by undergoing a terrible backlash. 

Desmond’s life had been a long string of one terrible, inhumane deed after another. 

His death had been well-deserved.

“He just took the other one and left after that.” Michael sighed.

The other one. That would be Liam, Christopher Desmond’s other son, and partner in crime. 

Michael's twin.

At least, they knew what the target looked like this time.

“We’ll find him.” And stop him. Things they now knew proved that Liam was far more dangerous than his father. 

Michael nodded and leaned over to touch the fractured tombstone softly with the tips of his fingers in a wordless valediction. “I'm done here,” he said, turning to face Philip. His expression was no longer quite so blank, or lost, as if something had finally settled into place. “We should go.”

“Not yet,” Philip said, making up his mind. “There’s one more stop to make.”

If the universe insisted on giving him a sign, he might as well follow it. Michael accompanied him silently when he led them towards the other end of the cemetery, towards two more tombstones that stood under the ample shade of an ancient oak tree. 

Unlike Helen’s, these two graves were well-cared for. The ground around them was clean, the grass meticulously mowed and free of weeds. The grave markers themselves still looked pristine, unmarred by the trials of time. 

Michael went still when he realised where they were. His wide-eyed gaze darted over the inscriptions of the markers before settling on Philip. 

“Dad, this is–” he stuttered, sparing a confused glance at Helen’s resting place, which lay only at about a hundred yard’s distance, “I–I didn’t know.”

“Feels like we’ve been stuck in some freaky twist of destiny itself, doesn’t it?” Philip murmured, nodding at the only thing he had left of his first family. “All this time… she was right here with them.”

Even the lost somehow found a place to belong, leaving behind ghostly ties that still bound the living together.

“I don't even know what to say…”

“Say hi to your brother, Anthony,” Philip said simply. “And his mother, Rose.” The introduction was long overdue, and it was about time he started repairing this final chasm between his two families. 

“I thought they were somewhere in London,” Michael murmured after a few seconds of quiet contemplation.

At least, Philip now had confirmation that the IRA had been behind that attack. He had gotten too close to identifying their chain of command, and his fledgling family had paid the price. Even though he hadn’t found any proof, Philip had had suspicions, and carried that insidious guilt along with his grief. 

“This was their home.” And mine.  

Strangely, the thought didn’t send a stabbing pain through his heart. He loved them and missed them still, but it didn’t hurt as much as it used to. Not anymore. Maybe that was how it felt to finally heal.

Michael’s shields brushed against his, an instinctive response to age-old pain he must have heard in Philip’s tone. There was a wordless acknowledgement in that tender gesture too, along with a sense of gratitude. 

“Look, I know I haven’t been around as much,” Philip admitted, his gaze fixed on the silent stones, Hiyori’s words from a few days back suddenly fresh in his mind, “I was not necessarily a normal father to you. I never found time to take you out to a ball game, or even–”

“You taught me how to field strip a handgun.” Michael cut him off quietly. 

There was a small, private smile playing on his lips, and a faint sense of amusement he didn’t bother to hide warm against Philip’s shields. He was making it clear that it was a treasured memory, one of many. It was an easy way out Philip didn’t quite want to take. It was about time he made sure his son knew exactly how much he meant to his family. 

“Michael–”

“Dad, you gave me as much as you could,” Michael turned to him. The look of understanding in his eyes was eerily similar to the one he had seen in Hiyori’s many times. “That was the deal. Mom and I both knew that. You both gave me something I’ve never had. I’m only where I am because of Mom and you.”

“Michael, that wasn’t enough–” Philip tried, words uncharacteristically out of reach for him to articulate what he felt, “I didn't do–” 

“You’ve been more than enough.” 

“I lost my son,” Philip forced the admission past a tight throat. This was for himself, as much as it was for Michael. “I was lucky enough to gain another. I let the grief over my loss blind me to what I found.”

“Dad,” Michael said softly, “There was never any blame.”

“There were doubts, however.” 

It was Michael’s turn to look away. Philip waited, feeling open and vulnerable in a way he had never felt before, not even when he had been on active battlefields, dodging bullets.

“Not anymore,” when he spoke, Michael’s words were barely above a whisper. His mind was unshielded in a way he didn’t allow often, letting his own feelings out in the open in reciprocal honesty, “You had nothing to do with my insecurities. It’s just that, in a corner of my mind, I guess I always wondered why I was left behind, whether it was because something was wrong with me. But knowing what I know now, I'm relieved I was. I wouldn’t trade what I have for the world.”

“Neither would I,” Philip agreed, smiling as he felt a long, lost piece of peace finally settle in an empty corner of his heart, making him feel a whole lot more complete. “And Michael, I’m very grateful you ended up with us.”

They stood in silence for a long time, each lost in their own thoughts. It was a companionable silence, light and relaxed, in the wake of dissolved burdens they had both carried for a long time.

“I learned something…” Michael was the first to speak, sounding a little hesitant, “I don’t know if it’ll work, but maybe there’s a way for a final goodbye. If you… only if you want to.” 

A final goodbye? Philip tilted his head to the side, studying his son’s profile. He was staring into the distance, his jaw set in determination. The rest of his notorious shields were slowly falling open around his mind, treating Philip to the rare opportunity of witnessing the otherworldly light he diligently kept hidden from the rest of the world. 

“Whatever you want,” he agreed softly, curious to see what Michael was planning. 

“That backlash wasn’t the best way to learn about this,” Michael said, his eyes already glowing silver, “but, did you know that a part of us always returned to the Psionic Plane when we died?”

“No, I didn’t.” Philip replied, recalling the details Michael had shared after regaining consciousness, “Isn’t that how Desmond stole the life forces of gene carriers he killed?”

“Yeah.” 

He knew that it was another thing Michael believed. Those lost souls would only be able to return to where they belonged once they found his brother.

Project Veritas, Zebadiah Anderson, Liam Desmond…those were the targets they knew about. Philip had a feeling they were only the deceptive tip of one horrendous iceberg.

“What are you doing?”

“The essence that makes us what we are... it belongs to the Plane,” Michael explained. Around them, Philip felt the Psionic energies beginning to ripple gently, “It stands to reason, then an imprint of any Sentinel or Guide who ever lived, lingers on as a part of it. I think I might be able to look for them…here.”

Philip was at a loss for words. It sounded impossible, even though he could understand the logic behind it. He was too afraid to even contemplate the likelihood of Michael being able to do what he suggested… to get his hopes up. 

And yet, his son wasn’t like any other Guides, and if there was anyone who could manage such a remarkable feat, it would be him.

In response to the gentle coaxing from Michael and the energies surrounding them, Philip let his own shields fall open. The Pinegrove graveyard was suddenly clearer and sharper in his enhanced senses, the melancholy wrapped around the silent grounds somehow thicker and more sombre against the grey skies of the chilly evening. Shining with an ethereal glow among all those flat, muted colours, Michael’s presence was almost too bright to belong in such a contrasting backdrop. The Psionic energies, which were always proud and defiant as the people who lived on the great, ancient island, swirled in cheerful waves, eager to obey the demands of the Guide. 

Philip didn’t know for how long he stood there, caught in the middle of a calm, purposeful vortex that continued to grow with the two of them as its centre, when he felt Michael’s whisper against his mind:

There they are.

It was quieter than the slightest breeze, a call softer than a caress of a feather, yet Philip heard those lilting, light-hearted notes as clear and crisp as he had heard them more than two decades ago. 

Philip.

He didn’t know how he could smell the whiffs of orange blossoms and neroli, so intricately intermingled with the notes of soap, milk and fresh bread he always associated with Anthony. At the edge of that otherworldly call, he could have sworn he heard the giggle of a toddler. 

Oh my God. 

“Rose…” he breathed, blinking at the hazy image of her beaming smile. 

She was in the same dress he had last seen her, and Anthony was in her arms, his neck craned back to grin happily at Philip. 

It wasn’t a memory, he knew that much. 

Their shields hadn’t had the compatibility to merge in a true bond, but Philip had felt a soul-deep connection to her since the moment he had first met her. He had loved her with all his heart, and he had known that she felt the same way about him. The day Anthony arrived had been the most precious in his life. 

Then, all too soon, it had all been lost to a cruel twist of fate.

Be well. 

Philip heard a peaceful note of contentment underlying the words of that whispered command. There was a sense of understanding in there too, along with the gentle forgiveness he had craved for all those years. 

He stared at the dissipating image, committing those beautiful final moments of his first wife and child to a coveted memory. He was deeply grateful for the knowledge that at least their essence would be kept safe in the Psionic Plane until the end of time.

In his periphery, Michael was smiling faintly at something in the distance, a hand raised in farewell. Philip couldn’t sense her, but he had a feeling that Michael had caught a glimpse of a mother he never had the chance to know as well. 

The energies around them dwindled, taking those precious treasures back to where they belonged. While his own shields slowly shored up his mind, Philip saw the silvery light in his son’s eyes winking out behind their usual shade of hazel.

For the first time, there was a sense of serene tranquillity in the air, instead of the remnants of heartbreak and grief that had refused to fade for a long time.

“Dad–” 

Philip pulled him into an embrace and smiled to himself when Michael didn’t hesitate in returning the gesture. 

“Thank you.” He murmured, not knowing what else to say. He didn't have enough words to describe how grateful he was for the incredible gift Michael had somehow given him.

“It was my pleasure,” Michael said just as quietly, tightening his arms around Philip once before letting go. “I wasn't sure it would work. But I’m glad it did.”

So was Philip. Desmond had been a monster who had killed and stolen life forces to feed himself and his murderous son. Here Micheal was, fathered by the same abomination of a man, with a phenomenal amount of power at his disposal Desmond or Liam could never have even imagined, treating those same life forces with utmost respect and reverence, instead of malice or greed. 

Philip didn’t know what he had done to deserve the right to call Michael his son, but he was immensely thankful for the chance. 

There were too many forces that were after Michael for all that power he effortlessly wielded, people who weren’t even aware of the extent of his abilities. His son knew that too, and so did his Sentinel. 

Philip knew there was nothing he could do to change the path they had chosen to take. Neither the Guide nor his Sentinel would be deterred from going after those targets. That was a fact. But Philip could use his own considerable powers and reach to destroy those who wished them harm, and he knew he would burn down worlds to do it. 

He had already lost one son, he had no intention of losing another.

The End.