Contains spoilers up to Catch a Falling Star, and I took some liberties with the end of that episode.

ONE

The dream always began the same way.

The boy walked down a clean, white hall, wearing clean, white pajamas. He felt as if he were floating just off the surface of the floor, his bare feet skimming the cold surface only one step in three. An unknown intellect told him he should be very frightened, but the lassitude that replaced his blood paid the warning no heed.

"Good luck." A simple wish followed him, ground out from a disembodied voice like a landslide, rough and loose and deep.

At the end of the hall, a door opened, flooding the passageway with painful light. Monstrous figures and machines lay in the blinding bath, waiting for him.

"It's time."

The boy felt something in his hand. It was the furious grip of another hand, a warm connection to someone he couldn't see or hear, suddenly torn from his.

"No! No! I don't want to goooooo!"

He woke abruptly, the harsh cry from his own throat still resonating in the air around him. He felt tears on his face, and his chest moved with the hiccupping jerks of his dream's weeping.

The open door to his room darkened, and a lanky woman hurried to his side.

"Jason? Honey, are you okay?"

"J-just a -- a nightmare." He sucked down a deep, jittery breath and scrubbed his face with both hands, smearing away the tears. The woman gently pushed damp hair away from his face, her eyes wells of concern but her mouth a grim line.

"Is it the same?"

"Ah..." Jason gulped. "Yeah, the white place, but..." The dream had already fragmented into bits that crawled like wild mercury and sank into his voracious subconscious, gone. "That's all I remember."

"Here. Lay back down."

Her cool, dry hands urged the blankets back up and settled him down into the posture for sleep. He felt the solid mass of her hand as it smoothed over his brow, a heavier caress than his mother's light touch, but just as full of comfort. He felt her presence as a guardian against the ephemeral terror of nightmares, fuzzing his thoughts into meaningless white noise, safe and numb.

"I'll stay with you until you fall asleep, if you want," she said.

He nodded drowsily and turned on his side, already feeling the urge to succumb to sleep. Her weight on the mattress anchored a deep feeling of security in him that built over the past three months he had been in her care, and evoked a reciprocating feeling of gratitude. For the first time since his mother had died, he felt he could trust someone, and it was this woman who had adopted him. Jason looked over his shoulder at her, his eyes heavy with somnolence and something closer to the heart.

"Thanks...Mom."

~~~~

In a small, shadowy observation room, Madeline and Dr. Gelman stood just outside the sleeping chamber, watching through one-way glass. Wishing to see the nightmares first-hand, she and Dr. Gelman had been summoned at once when the boy's REM stage of sleep escalated. Soon after, the softly muted gasps of unconscious lament had whimpered through the room. He had muttered incoherently, his head tossing from side to side on the pillow and limbs twitching under the covers until he suddenly sat up and shrieked. After his breathing had stilled, he fumbled for the television remote and turned it on, apparently using it to avoid sleep -- and nightmares. Now he sat jammed at the head of his bed, eyes bleary with fatigue as he watched TV.

"This is the fourth time this week," Madeline said. "Is the process failing?"

"No. Although the memory adjustment is responsible to a degree, the nightmares are caused partly by post-traumatic stress syndrome, too."

"Is there a chance it could come undone?"

Dr. Gelman tilted his head deferentially. "A slim chance. This is hardly an exact science, much as we try, but this is the most successful trial yet. I have much confidence, yet at the same time, the human brain is a complicated structure. Failure? A slim chance, at best."

Madeline pressed her lips together, thinking hard. "Post-traumatic stress syndrome...how might treatment for that affect the process?"

The doctor shrugged. "You know as well as I do that there are no guarantees. Certainly, any medications administered would have to be carefully balanced with the limbic suppressors, but regular psychotherapy could be adapted for use."

Madeline did not reply.

"The process will hold," Dr. Gelman said decisively. "Random suppressed memories may well surface in the future, but they will be mere fragments, and hopefully by that time be dismissed as nothing but the memory of dreams."

"That's all well and good, but this condition here is affecting his performance. The sleep depravation alone..."

"I know." Dr. Gelman turned from the flickering tableau. "Perhaps examining the memory alteration process is the wrong track to take." He gestured to the youth in the next room clutching his pillow and fighting his drooping eyelids. "He's a boy who's just suffered several great traumas, on many levels. Maybe all he needs is...a friend."

"A friend?" Madeline snorted softly.

"He's engaging enough. Turn him loose; he'll find someone to confide in."

Madeline frowned and crossed her arms. Setting a precocious and adorable 14 year old loose in Section wasn't her first choice. His presence alone could cause any number of disruptions, from inciting the pedophiles with his limpid eyes and fair skin to rousing dormant parental instincts in those people so moved. Worse, he could engender a real friendship that could cloud judgments on all sides.

"No. I can't just let him have the run of Section." She turned to Gelman. "What about the children at Four? There are a few his age."

"There are only a very few able to interact on a normal level." He shrugged. "But it would not solve the root problem. If he's to be part of One, he'll have to integrate sometime. Try something limited, rather than a free rein. Or, assign one of your Valentine operatives in a parent scenario."

Madeline nodded. "Thank you for your input. I'll consider it."

She turned back and watched as the boy lost his battle with fatigue and his eyes closed, the flickering light of television dancing across his pale face. The potential that lay sleeping behind those closed lids was massive. Seymour Birkoff was a genius. Properly harnessed, he could be Section One's greatest asset -- provided he could overcome this mental fit. She knew it would be a difficult job, fraught with the strong possibility of failure, but, difficult or not, the job had fallen to her.

Damn Lisa for dying...and damn Adrian for allowing her to bear children in the first place!

***

TWO

Bernie Crawford flipped through a People magazine, ignoring with unequal levels of success the magazine's pictures of plastic fame, the uncomfortable chair she sat on, and the annoying crackle of paper echoing sharply as Jason squirmed on the examination table. She knew he was nervous. Among his other challenges, he suffered from a violent and unreasoning fear of medical professionals -- unfortunate since he required regular treatments. He used to require Valium to stand the sight of white lab coats. Now he only required the presence of his mother.

The paper protested with a loud splat! when Jason flopped back, supine, and heaved a heart-deep sigh. Bernie gave up her pretense of reading and looked up.

"Are you gonna make it?"

"I'm cold," he said petulantly.

"Cold? I reckon."

"Yeah, it's freezing in here." He sat up again, torturing the thin paper some more, and tugged a frayed tie on the thin, cotton johnny he wore. "And this is so boring, and stupid, and, and embarrassing."

"It's just the way doctors' offices are, I guess. D'ya want me to wait outside?"

"No!" he snapped, panicked. He swallowed and calmed his voice. "Um, just turn around when the doc has to, uh..."

"I'll turn around," she assured him. And she would. She never made a promise to Jason that she couldn't keep. It was what made her a good foster parent in the past, and what made her a good adoptive parent of a special needs child now.

The fruits of her consistency were continuing to bloom, six months after he came to be her son. Despite the unusual medical condition that required frequent doctor visits and exacerbated his phobia, the absences from school did nothing to hold back his grades. Placed in the advanced classes within his first month at school, he was already bored. He had gained weight, and grew over an inch. The number of nightmares he suffered diminished in frequency with each passing week. He was a wonderful child: the son of any parent's dreams.

A brisk knock preceded the doctor. He walked in, reading the chart as he mumbled an absent-minded Hello-how-are-you-today. He read another few seconds before looking up.

"There we go. All caught up." He set the chart down, then leaned against the counter, his arms crossed and a magnanimous grin on his face. He was an attractive man; thirties, charmingly disarrayed sandy hair, intense eyes behind glasses and a slight German accent Bernie found cute on occasion. "I have some good news, and some bad news, folks." He looked from Bernie to Jason. "Which do you want first?"

"Good," Bernie said.

"Bad," interjected Jason.

"Okay, the bad news is, you won't be seeing me anymore. The good news is that you don't need to. You, son, are cured."

"Wh-wha--?" Jason gaped. Surprise overwhelmed his fear, and he swung his legs down from the table.

"No more treatments? No more blood work?" Bernie spared a glance for Jason as he stood, transfixed next to the exam table.

"Oh, they'll be blood tests, but only twice a year." The doctor turned to Jason. "I'm going to examine you one more time today, Jason, and administer your very last treatment. After that...we're through with you. If your levels remain normal, you'll never have to come back for treatments."

Jason beamed a grin too dazzling for that small, drab room. "You mean it? Really?"

"Really."

Bernie felt her own face split with joy. She had never before heard of Gelman's Syndrome, the exotic condition that Jason suffered from, but that had never stopped her from seeking the most aggressive treatment for her son. From Dr. Jurgen's information, the disease could have had very tragic results. Instead, the doctor's uncompromising and innovative treatment had now cured her son.

"Doctor, I..." She wiped impatiently at a tear that escaped and cleared her throat. "I don't know how to thank you."

~~~~

"It's done." Jurgen held out a plastic disk to Madeline, rainbow colors running across its surface. "They accepted my explanations from the beginning, and now, well, the mother thinks I'm Jesus Christ for having cured the kid."

"Good." Madeline gracefully accepted the disk. "Jason got his last ocular boost, then?"

"Oh, yeah. And the last dose of the drugs, too. I sent him home with some placebos and a diminishing regime, so he and his mother think they're tapering him off of his medicine."

"Excellent. How did the boy seem?"

"He was pretty relieved when I told him he didn't have to come back for more treatments. He seems like a normal kid." Jurgen arched an eyebrow at her. "What about the other one? How's that going?"

"If I felt it necessary to keep you apprised in the daily details of my job, I would."

Jurgen laughed. "I'm sure, Madeline. Still, it doesn't take an Einstein to see he's not keeping up with his twin."

"Oh?" A flash of competitive pride goaded her to boast. "You haven't seen young Mr. Birkoff's performance numbers on the sims, have you?"

"Ah, no, actually. No, I haven't. I'm not into freak shows."

"What he lacks in social graces he makes up for a hundredfold in intelligence and pattern recognition. He'll be running Comm soon."

Jurgen tilted his head back and looked at Madeline through narrowed eyes. "You know the scary thing is, I believe you right now." He shook his head. "Damn. A kid."

"Thank you, Jurgen."

He turned to leave.

"Oh, and Jurgen? You won't be needed for this project anymore."

***

THREE

The hotel ballroom thrummed with deep currents of politics, both social and otherwise. Scientists from all over the world had converged on St. Petersburg to attend a medical conference showcasing the very latest in bleeding-edge technology and treatment, research and development. The majority of attendees were just what they seemed: their country's top minds, looking to learn more, but another, slipperier, meeting of the minds was taking place as well, one that involved the illegal selling of sensitive state secrets, dangerous medical discoveries, biological warfare. Section One had planned far in advance to insure they were well represented.

Operations had strict orders from Oversight to forge a working, voluntary relationship with one Dr. Archibald McRae, a leading geneticist. Brilliant even in comparison to the stellar gathering of brainpower at the hotel, Dr. McRae would easily detect -- and reject -- a standard Section operative. Only a fellow scientist could hope to feed his curiosity with any veracity, and considering Dr. Gelman's recent success with the Birkoff twins' memory adjustment, he was the ideal bait to lure the reclusive Scottish doctor into Section's fold. Gelman's service to Section rarely included fieldwork, however, so Michael headed a six-member team to provide on-site support.

Michael quickly came to rue the assignment.

St. Petersburg in August was pleasant, but Dr. Ross Gelman was tentative in his approach of Dr. McRae, spending more time in his room than with the target. Michael resented this lack of productivity as he mingled at the conference's final party, enduring endless numbers of research scientists and their constant bickering and networking, jealousy and fund raising woes, publications and egos. He spared little thought on their unimportant motivations, and merely played the room, circulating with a glass of champagne in hand and a polite smile in place. He occasionally joined a conversation, inevitably drawing out some female or another with seamless professional charm. Many found excuse to touch his cream-colored jacket, and none asked him his medical specialty. All received his raking awareness, constantly watched in case one should prove to be a hostile.

All the while, he watched for Gelman. The good doctor was late to the party, and a last chance to entice Dr. McRae. When at last he showed, the older man was nervous, his manner clearly that of a person seeking something...or someone. Within a few moments, Gelman exited to the garden.

Michael followed, stealthily sliding out the door on the exhalation of a breath: there, and suddenly gone. He tracked the doctor to a gazebo, white columns gleaming pale in the dark, fragrant blooms whispering sleepily in a breath of air, plenty loud enough to give Michael's footfalls cover. He watched from the shadows of a laden trellis adjacent the gazebo as Gelman paced, agitated. The doctor checked his watch several times, brief flickerings of luminous green.

"Michael, why are you out of position?" asked Jurgen through the com.

"I'm investigating a possible anomaly," he said flatly.

A pause. "Be quick about it."

A woman approached. She wore an ivory satin gown of simple design, drops of crystal in her ears and a magnificent expanse of cleavage artfully displayed. In sparkling light thrown through ballroom windows from the party, Michael recognized her as part of the hosting delegation from Russia. A casually uttered comment of Madeline's suddenly stood out of memory.

"The good doctor is quite good with some techniques of undercover work, but he's too enamored of the ladies for this," she had said, in regards to a special-profile Valentine mission six months ago. Michael recalled it vividly, for he had been required to take the doctor's place and play the staid scholar to entice a reclusive female target. He began to suspect Gelman's reasons for his substandard behavior now, and realized instantly the razor path the doctor trod between Section and the Russian delegate, perhaps for no better reason than sexual congress. Some unbidden flicker of intuition told him to deactivate his com's transmitter. He reached up and adjusted the bug behind his ear, allowing incoming signal only.

"Elsa!" Gelman exclaimed.

"Ross," she replied, less warm although she endured his embrace.

Gelman nuzzled her sleek up-do of honey hair. "Is your room clear? Let's go, now."

"Ross, you haven't been entirely candid with me, have you?"

From his vantage point, Michael tensed, preparing to meet the violence he heard in Elsa's voice.

"What do you mean?" Gelman continued the desire-slowed exploration of Elsa's neck and shoulders, not quite daring the fecund curve of her bosom.

"I mean that the information you gave me was incomplete -- useless."

"Later, my beauty. After..."

"After nothing. You weren't truthful about your employer, either." She stepped out of the circle of his arms. "You're Section One."

Michael slipped his cream jacket off with a twitch of shoulders and hung it on a nub of trellis. His black shirt and pants camouflaged him well as he circled the gazebo to the loose screen of vegetation behind Elsa. Through the leaves, he could see the back of her head, and Gelman's face beyond her shoulder.

"Section One?" Gelman dissembled well. "I work for Synergex! I don't..."

"My dear Ross," Elsa said, her voice stone cold. "You have played the game poorly." She produced a gun from nowhere. "Give me the second block of data and perhaps I won't need to kill you."

"Elsa!" Gelman protested. "I -- I...it's yours; you know that! Why...?"

"You've got until I count to three to give me the disk, or I'll have to assume you're too much of a risk to my position here and kill you now."

"I don't have it here!"

"One."

"My room. It's in my room!"

"Two."

"Elsa, please!"

A rustle of leaves alerted the woman too late. Pale hands at the end of black-clad arms looped over her head, garrote pulled tight around her neck. Her hands reached up reflexively as she choked.

Gelman stared incredulously at the spectral appendages strangling the life from the Russian beauty.

"Her gun, now!" demanded Michael.

The doctor shook off his stupor and wrested the handgun from Elsa. She hardly noticed; her struggles weakened as the wire dug deeper and deeper into her throat, cutting into her skin as it cut off her air. Depressed to collapse, the main artery in her neck refused to supply her brain with critical oxygen and she suddenly slumped, unconscious. Michael held her up by her neck.

"Give me her gun," he ordered Gelman.

"What? Who are you?"

"I'm part of your perimeter team: give me her gun now!"

Gelman held out the gun by its barrel, bemused. Pale death hands let go of the garrote and took the weapon. Elsa's limp body thumped to the floor. The gun turned in a disembodied grip, angled down and shot her twice in the chest. She never moved. There was little blood to mar the creamy satin.

"What were you doing?" Michael challenged as he walked around the outside of the gazebo, still screened from Gelman's view by the creeping vines and blooms.

"I gave her nothing, I swear it. She was willing to do anything for worthless secrets... I just wanted...I..." Gelman turned around, vainly trying to catch a glimpse of Michael.

Michael continued to keep the greenery between them.

"Get back to the party. Find your target."

"Y-yes. Yes, of course." Gelman backed away from Elsa's body, then turned and quickly walked back to the hotel, looking back over his shoulder at the gazebo. Michael waited until he disappeared into the building, then calmly ascended the gazebo stairs, wiping the handgun clean of prints with a handkerchief as he walked.

"Michael, I can tell you're running dark and I know you're still off profile. Report. What the hell is going on out there?" Jurgen sounded annoyed.

He tapped his com unit, reactivating the transmitter.

"It's nothing; false alarm. I'm moving into fallback position now."

"The kid...ah...Birkoff here says look out for a play from the Russians."

Michael looked up at this, eyes slanting away as he tested Jurgen's tone. He heard reluctance...and resignation. He also knew Jurgen's cynical opinion of Madeline's pet project. Someone must have ordered him to pass on the information; he certainly would not take mission advice from a child.

"I'll keep an eye out." He dropped the gun on Elsa's body and tucked the handkerchief back into his shirt pocket.

*** FOUR

"So, Mom, did you have enough time to think about it?"

"Think about what?"

"The car!" Jason exclaimed. "Time's running out, y'know: tick-tock, tick-tock!"

"Shut yer trap, kid," his mother retorted, leaning hard on the Southern drawl that was the only physical trait she'd given her son. "That's tonight, huh? So, where are you taking Andrea?"

"Andrea?" Jason exclaimed. "That was last week! I'm going out with Sarah...and you knew that!"

Bernie winked over the top of her paper. "I know, I know. Just teasing. But tonight, right?"

"Yeah, tonight."

"Hmmm... I'm still thinking. Let me finish my paper."

Bernie straightened her morning newspaper, trying hard to hide both her smile and her worry. Jason had grown so well in the past two years since he became part of her family she could sometimes shut off memories of the fetal-curled ball of misery that had come into her care, waking the household nightly with screams of nightmares. This morning, he sat across the table, tablespoon in hand, tearing through a quart-deep mixing bowl filled with sugary cereal. His school gear sat in a jumble on the floor behind him, topped by a basketball, a teetering monument to the trappings of a normal adolescence. She turned the page of her newspaper, shaking it again.

The spoon stopped a moment. "You done rattlin' that paper yet?"

Bernie heaved a sigh. "Yes. You can have the car..."

"All right!"

"...but! Only until ten tonight."

"Ten!?"

"Hey, you're sixteen, not twenty-one. And don't forget, you also have an appointment with that psychiatrist after school."

Jason's face fell. "Damn. Not another one...!"

"Hey, none of that!"

"Sorry," he drawled. He continued his assault on the mixing bowl, this time without enthusiasm. "I just don't wanna go."

"You don't have much choice about it, kiddo. You know my feelings on counseling, and you know darn well how much it's helped. You're going." Bernie rattled the paper once more for emphasis, then relented. "Besides, this is nothing more than your once-yearly consultation with someone that has more letters behind his name, that's all. If a regular counselor could do it, yours would, but..."

"...but he can't, so I gotta go," Jason finished for her. "It's stupid. I don't have to do this after I'm eighteen, do I?"

"Let's cross that bridge when we get to it, okay?"

~~~~

Jason was used to psychiatrists. They were no more special to him than dentists were, performing preventative maintenance for the mind or a fix for the occasional bout of nightmares or depression. This one was little different that the others, offering the same advice and calmly serious attitude that was supposed to make him trust them. He did, for the most part, but repeating his story got wearisome, especially for a routine check.

By the end of fifty minutes, Jason once more recounted all that he could remember of the car crash that killed his mother (nothing). He spoke of how the accident had precipitated the Gelman's Syndrome that affected him for months after. He talked about the nightmares, and the troubles he had adjusting to his new life after his mother's death and the headaches that sometimes plagued him.

It was all nothing new.

The doctor dismissed him with a friendly wave and the news he didn't need to come back.

Well, duh... Jason thought derisively.

As he waited in the outer office for his mother to pick him up, he read from his history book. The door to the counselor's office was open, and he could just hear the man as he spoke on the phone.

"Yes, I've finished. The process is holding remarkably well, even with leakage. He considers the majority of memories to be dreams, just as the doctor predicted." Pause. "Of course." Pause. "Oh, I understand, of course it is. But really, there's nothing to worry about here." Pause. "Thank you, Madeline. I'll be in touch again soon."

Jason frowned, wondering if the man were speaking of him. His mother entered the room just then, and he remembered her promise of the car. All thoughts of the afternoon's encounter vanished in a burst of anticipation for tonight.

*** FIVE

Mission frequency occasionally dipped, resulting in the chance to take care of loose ends and maintenance at Section One. Operations walked with Madeline, physically inspecting each department and level, taking notes and making decisions with an almost leisurely air.

At the mouth of a narrow hallway in Isolation, Operations paused. "What's down there?"

"Seymour lives down there."

"The boy?" An eyebrow cocked up. "How long has he been down there?"

"Almost two years."

"And how's he working out?"

"Actually, I ran data through analysis just last week. The report should cross your desk soon. His remote-access participation in missions has been very good; in some cases inspired genius. All his numbers have been steadily climbing."

"So why is he still living in here?"

"He is still a child. I had hoped avoid any problems his age might cause."

"How old is he?"

"Sixteen."

Operations contemplated the shadowy hall again. "We give all the other recruits two years. He's old enough. Let him out...or cancel him."

~~~~

Seymour sensed something was different. Beaufort was late, leading Seymour to suspect the man had died, he was usually so punctual. The older man treated him well enough, but even though he compromised the largest part of Seymour's entire world, little more than education and mutual respect connected them. Still, he wondered with an annoyed twinge of hunger why Beaufort was late bringing his supper. Dry as a twig, at least he was a breathing person to talk to.

Seymour Birkoff knew only three people.

Beaufort Couleau was his teacher, but also brought him food and took care of the day-to-day needs of living. Gadhi Matsya was his doctor who he used to see regularly, but now only visited every other month. And Madeline...he wasn't sure who Madeline was, but he knew she was important. She was the only one that was nice to him, too. The only other human interaction he enjoyed was through audio interactions with Comm to profile missions.

Everything else he knew about anything came through the television monitor in his room: TV shows, news, movies, sports, video games, MTV.

He remembered what the outside world was like, in a dreamy way. He could recall what bright sunlight on his face felt like, or a cutting, cold wind, or the sound of a breeze in the trees, but the memories often felt as if they had happened to someone else, someone just like him who lived out there. As for specific details...he could remember nothing but those experiences he had in the past two years.

His door tweaked. He rolled off his bed where he had been reclining, video-game controller in hand, punched the open button and rolled back, never taking his eyes from the screen.

"'Bout time, Beaufort. I was beginning to get worried."

"Monsieur Couleau won't be bringing your meal tonight, Seymour."

He looked up, surprised, and lost the video game match. Madeline stepped into the room.

"Where's Beaufort? And where's my food? I'm starved."

"Tonight, your food isn't coming to you; you are going to your food."

"Wha--?" He dropped the controller. It fell to the floor with a thump.

"I'm taking you to the cafeteria, Seymour. You've worked hard and earned the status of operative. It's time for you to come out, meet your co-workers, and start doing your job."

"I...I don't know what to say."

Madeline smiled at him. "Well, first things first. Dinner, and then I'll show you your new room. It's in the habitation levels."

"A new room? Is it bigger than this one?"

"Yes it is. And you can decorate it anyhow you like."

Seymour followed Madeline out of the suite of rooms he had called home for as far back as he could remember.

~~~~~

Two returning missions caused a bottleneck in Munitions. The first group of three people quietly divested themselves of weapons and communications devices with little conversation or bother after an uneventful surveillance duty in South Korea. Before they finished, a second team swept in; a dozen shock-troops back from the sack of a weapons' lab in the Middle East. They moiled into the quiet, still hyped on adrenalin and covered with the stink of sweat and blood and plastics. Walter resented the intrusion, but only for a moment. Time was, he would have been among the throng of survivors, tired to the bone and ready to drink away the memory of deeds done that no man should be forced to do.

Nope, much better to mind the store at home, he thought. He shelved some equipment and put guns in bins to await analysis or cleaning, depending on the debriefing. The last of the noisy lot dropped his things on a bench with a loud clatter.

"Thanks, mate," he boomed, his bass voice resonating in a huge barrel chest. "I'll hoist one for you."

"You do that," Walter flipped him a jaunty wave, the goodwill less for the man than for what the man did. And what I don't have to risk my neck for, anymore... He bent to his task and didn't notice Madeline's cat-footed approach.

"Walter, I need you to do something."

"Now? I'm kinda busy." He didn't look up.

"Yes. Now."

Walter raised his head, annoyance drawn clearly on his brow, and opened his mouth to protest. Sound never made it past the sudden tattoo of his heart, and he drew his mouth shut with a snap.

"Walter, this is Seymour Birkoff. Seymour, Walter."

When the mutual staring at one another grew uncomfortable, Madeline gently prodded Seymour's arm. "When you meet someone, you shake their hand."

"Oh, yeah. Hi." He stuck out his hand and Walter took it wordlessly, letting the young man pump his tentatively before letting go.

"H-hello. Pleasure to meet you."

"Seymour and I just finished dinner. Since he's earned operative status, he needs a guide." She looked pointedly at him.

"Me?" Walter stared back at her, horrified.

"Yes. You," she said. After a pause and a meaningful look, she added, "Who better?"

"Hm," he rumbled his displeasure at her deliberate irony.

"After you've shown him the permitted areas of a level one Comm operative, take him to the habitation levels and set him up with a new suite." She aimed a warm glance at the boy. "First class."

"You aren't coming with us?" Seymour asked. His body turned to face her, his shoulders rounded as if to exclude Walter.

"No. You know I need to get back to work," Madeline said gently. "Walter will help you get around. I'm sure he'll show you all sort of interesting things." She left.

The boy watched her retreating back like a dog that watches his master go to work. He twitched his hand; an aborted wave since she couldn't see. "Um, bye."

Walter rested his gun-greased hands flat on the bench, still stunned. Unease rolled off the kid's slight frame in waves Walter could feel. He observed the desperate way Seymour's brown eyes latched onto Madeline's form, tracking her progress across the entire area in what Walter recognized as an awkward bid to delay speaking to him. The pause gave him ample time to stare at the young man, and remember back to Lisa, the mother of ill-begotten twins.

She had carved out as much life for her boys and herself as she could. Once upon a time, Walter had occasionally visited them, until Lisa discouraged it. She voiced her desire to keep Section as far from the boys as possible. Walter respected her wishes and her wisdom, and stopped coming around when the boys were six or so. After Lisa had died on a mission, he saw them once more when they were brought to Section the day after they became orphans; two gangly 14-year-olds with identical dinner-plate eyes in shocked faces.

And then Madeline had announced what was to happen to them.

Walter had protested vehemently, but to no avail. In an appalling deferral to his friendship with Lisa, Madeline had granted him a dreadful choice: pick that brother who would take his mother's place in Section...and set the other free.

It was an evil choice to make. He had found he could not, so he did not. He'd slowly drew out a worn coin and silently gave each brother a side. He had flipped it up high, spinning and humming with a faint, silvery ring, then snatched it out of the air as it fell.

Tails. Seymour.

Walter had watched them go into Medical as brothers, and reemerge as numbed strangers. Jason was slipped back into society along with a back-story, and soon adopted. Seymour had sunk into the depths of Section...and only now resurfaced.

The boy looked just like his mother, with the same eyes and smile...the hair and nose must have come from his father, Walter supposed. He had changed since Walter had seen him last, two years ago; he had filled out a bit and put on some height. He was still dreadfully pale, although two years ago he had been pale with fear; now he was pale from lack of sun.

What am I going to do with this Seymour... As he thought back, Walter remembered the boy had been called by his middle name. Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to call the teenager in front of him by that childhood name.

I killed that boy, sure as a bullet to the head.

When Madeline disappeared into a hallway, Seymour turned back to Walter, his expression blankly open. He said nothing. It was obvious he didn't recognize the older man. As far as Walter could tell, it seemed that this was the first time they had ever met...a tabula rasa...a new beginning.

A clean slate.

Not often did chances come to make good on the regrettable deeds he had done, and Walter was a firm believer in clean slates and second chances. It was that or go mad from the things he had done in the past.

Oh, this is a big debt to pay off, he thought, but suddenly realized he relished the chance to attempt reimbursement on the boy's stolen life. There wasn't much he could do for the boy who was gone, but maybe he could do something for the young man standing there.

"Ah...so! You get a new room, huh?"

"Yeah. And, um, a tour...um, Walter, right?"

"Right, kiddo."

He got a pained look in return.

"Hey, I always use nicknames. It's just what I do."

"Uh, whatever."

"Okay, let's make it Birkoff instead."

Birkoff nodded.

"Wanna hang out 'till I finish this?" The instant look of disappointment was answer enough. Walter looked down at his work, then up at the boy again, smiling as best as he could. "Ah, the hell with this. It can wait. It seems...it seems I've got something more important to deal with, now."

~~~~

A week later, Ross Gelman nodded to the technician who began efficiently stripping sensor leads from Seymour Birkoff's head and body.

"That's it, I'm done?"

"Yes. You're done. Get dressed."

The young man skimmed into his clothes with astounding speed and left the MedLab with all haste. Dr. Gelman took notice, but only with a peripheral awareness. His primary focus was on the neurological function printout paper.

"Dr. Gelman."

He turned. Madeline waited for him just inside the room. The technician was gone.

"Yes?"

"I want the report."

Gelman shrugged one shoulder. "Nothing has changed, even now that he has interaction with more people. He still remembers nothing of his life before the memory alteration."

"Nothing at all?"

"The ability to function, yes, but very little of a non-environmental nature. Actually, he behaves very much like a victim of brain injury with severe memory loss. It's unusual, but not outside of the question."

Madeline walked closer and looked at the EEG readings he held. "Yet Jason still remembers his mother quite vividly."

"I told you at the beginning, Madeline. This is a very imprecise science -- look at the disparity of results between identical twins. I consider it a success that they survived the procedure."

"And I find it miraculous that you achieved the specific memory deletion requested. For an imprecise science, you brought about spectacular results." Madeline crossed her arms, frowning slightly. After a lingering pause, she tilted her head thoughtfully.

"Dr. Gelman, is it possible to target not the memories of a subject, but just...the emotions?"

***

SIX

Fair beige walls deferred to pleasant furniture and bland Southwestern prints, a comfortable neutral haven. A young man entered and walked to the receptionist's window, his stride swinging with careless confidence. The receptionist, a middle-aged woman, nodded and smiled a plastic smile at the man, acknowledging his presence.

"I'll let Laurie know you're here, Jason."

"Thank you," replied the man. He sat in a pleasant chair, one of several in the waiting room, folding into it with a casual grace that put nary a wrinkle in his suit, then glanced at a newspaper laying sprawled on the end table and picked it up. He flipped it open to the financial section and began reading. After several minutes passed, the inner door opened. A sinewy woman with wavy, medium brown hair and small, wire rim glasses perched on a strong nose invited him inside with a friendly gesture.

"I'm ready, Jason. Come in."

Jason folded the newspaper and set it down before he followed her into her well-appointed office. She settled into her chair while he settled into his accustomed perch on the edge of a built-in counter across the office. Ten feet wide, the room was large enough to avoid claustrophobia, yet comfortably shadowy with dark wood blinds on the windows that engendered a sense of security.

"Usually you're talking by now, Jason."

The young man frowned and shifted where he leaned. "Is it a psychiatrist's trick when you use my name all the time?"

"What makes you say that?"

"You always make a point to say my name, Jason. So does your receptionist."

"We're just trying to make you feel at ease and let you know we care about you, as a person."

"Hm."

"Is there something specifically wrong today?" Laurie asked.

Jason inhaled deeply, inflating his chest and raising his shoulders, and let out the air in a long sigh. "I had more nightmares this week."

"Like before?"

"Yes. For the most part."

"How has your sleep been, overall?"

"All right, I suppose." Jason shrugged. He looked at her with a half-smile on his lips. The soft overlay of a mild Southern accent deepened. "My appetite hasn't changed, either."

"Well, this is what you pay me for." Amusement colored her voice. "The dreams. Tell me about them."

Jason turned his face away from her, but his body still faced her. His hands gripped the edge of the counter he leaned against until the knuckles looked like bones. "I saw my mother in the dream. She was in the living room with me, and she was upset, crying."

Laurie nodded and wrote on a pad of paper on her desk.

"Men came." Jason paused. "Men dressed in white. My mother...my real mother...wasn't there, and I was scared. I don't know why I got all scared," he laughed, an uncomfortable, self-depreciating hiccup.

"Go on."

"Well, then the dream got weird. I was in a hallway, walking hand-in-hand with myself."

"With yourself? That is unusual. What happened next?"

"Someone grabbed me, and took me away. I was yelling and crying 'cause I didn't want to leave...somehow, I knew they were taking me away from that place." Jason rubbed his eyes with one hand, massaging the bridge of his nose with an abusive motion.

"Except for walking with yourself, it's quite similar to the ones you've had before." Laurie wrote some more. "What else was different?"

Jason looked up at her. "Well, I heard things, voices. Someone said 'Good luck' and then, the screaming started. That's when I woke up."

"What do you think it means?"

"How the hell should I know? This is what I'm paying you for."

"But I don't have the same context. Dreams are tricky, and rooted in very personal imagery."

"I don't know." Jason heaved a frustrated sigh. He shook his head. "Maybe I'm having nightmares of being in the hospital after the accident. Maybe...maybe I'm just going nuts."

"Jason, you are not going nuts," Laurie said wryly. "But I'm honestly not sure what your nightmare could mean, other than it could be the slow emerging of suppressed memories."

"Please," Jason said scornfully. "Don't tell me my father raped me when I was ten, or my mother neglected me, okay? Both my mothers were good people, good mothers, and I never had a father."

"I didn't say that," Laurie contradicted. "But everything that we've worked on over the past year has pointed to a very traumatic event that happened to you around the time when your mother died. Or, it could be the grief of that tragedy, long suppressed."

"But I never suppressed it!" Jason faced his psychiatrist squarely, and his hands were now fists balled at his sides. "I cried a goddamned ocean of tears, I missed her so much! I didn't speak to anyone for over a month! What the hell do you call that?"

Laurie absorbed the barrage. She said quietly, "I call that grieving. Now, what you and I both want to know is why do you suffer from post-traumatic stress syndrome? What happened to you just before your mother died in the car accident? Are you willing to find out now?"

His eyebrows huddled together in anxiety. "You want me to do hypnosis, don't you?"

"It's one way, Jason."

She held his serious and vulnerable gaze steady in her own, not once looking away. He looked down first.

"No. I...no."

Laurie sighed. "It's what you pay me for. And you're not making it easy."

He shrugged, still not meeting her eyes.

"Do you want to talk about something else, then?"

"Yeah."

"How's it going with your girlfriend? Last time you mentioned her, it sounded like you two were communicating better."

Jason straightened against the counter and tugged at his suit coat. "Yes, we are. Things have been pretty good."

"Did you go with her on that trip? Where did she want to go...?"

"Paris. No, we didn't go."

"Why not?"

"I was busy then. The plans fell through."

Laurie tilted her head a fraction. "Are you sure it wasn't just more evasions on your part?"

Jason grinned at her. "So, you do earn your money, but that was an easy one."

Laurie smiled. "Hey, if I can't get to the juicy stuff, at least maybe I can help you with simple commitment-to-relationship woes."

Jason made a circular gesture with his hand that echoed the amusement on his face. Laurie held her smile a beat longer, then let it relax until she was serious once more. "Jason, I do as much as I can to help you, you know that. As a professional, I am telling you that we can dance around the peripheral issues all you want but until this past mystery and the memories that come with it come to light, you'll find yourself held back in all aspects of your therapy."

Jason looked up from the floor to her sober expression and nodded slightly. His voice was again punctuated with the softly genteel Southern accent. "I'm...not ready. Not yet."

Laurie nodded. "Call me when you're ready," she said gently. "I'll be here when you are."

Jason straightened. Each time he finished a session with his counselor, his open expression and loose body language disappeared, transmuting into the confident professional persona he lived every day. He nodded politely to Laurie and went through the door, leaving his vulnerability in Laurie's office, away from prying eyes.

~~~

When Laurie returned to her office the following morning, she settled at her desk and reviewed the previous day's sessions: her daily ritual. She found Jason Crawford's case of particular interest, ever since he had moved to her area and sought her out for counseling. She looked forward to reviewing his file in particular, having ruminated on his plight overnight. Going back to his first visits six months ago might give her the clues she needed to help him break through this strange barrier of memory and affect a true sense of closure for him.

At the filing cabinet, she glanced at the various Kachina figures that danced upon the powder-coated steel top as she opened the drawer for 'C'...and then glanced again. They were different. She touched the feathered head of one that usually stood as guardian over this filing cabinet with a smaller companion to his left; now the smaller one was to the larger one's right. It was a small thing, but her collection of Native American dolls brought her much joy, and she had arranged them with loving precision. She carefully picked up the smaller one. As she looked closely, she could see their original positions in the faint coat of dust. She rearranged her dolls to their original spots, puzzled.

The phone rang. Laurie drifted distractedly to her desk and answered it.

"Hello?"

"This is Harry in the Security office. Sorry to bother you, Ms. Berman, but before it got out of hand, I thought you should hear it from me."

"Excuse me?"

"The night watchman saw some lights in your wing last night. He called the cops. They came, and apparently chased away some hoodlum. Now, nothing was stolen," Harry assured her. "None of the offices were broken into or nothing, but since Mr. Finch caught wind of it, he's blowing it all out of proportion just like the time the kids spray painted the south wall..."

Laurie's attention wandered away from Harry's grousing to the open file cabinet. She debated mentioning the slightly ruffled dolls, but quickly decided against it. Perhaps the cleaning crew ignored her standing order to leave the file cabinets alone...but they were still dusty. Perhaps she had moved the dolls herself, and forgot. Yes, that had to be it, she thought as Harry wound down.

"Thank you, Harry. I appreciate your telling me."

Laurie hung up the phone.

~~~~

Madeline read through the brief report.

Crawford has refused Berman's suggestion to use hypnosis again. Her notes state she's going to let the matter rest unless Crawford suggests it himself.

She looked up to the aid that had just handed it to her.

"Have the sniper stand down. Unless Dr. Berman convinces Jason to undergo hypnosis, there's no reason to cancel her."

The aid nodded and left to carry out the order.

*****

SEVEN

Sneaking out of Section, faking identification and ordering a plane ticket with hacked funds proved easy, but then, the last ten years spent working for Section One had given Birkoff training and experience the likes of which few people could ever possess. The mechanics of his illicit expedition worried him far less than covering his absence at Section, but he had managed it. He found the risk acceptable on all levels of his being.

I am going to see my brother.

Variations on that happy thought occupied him on the plane, distracting him from the view outside the window and spinning bright with all the possibilities of reaction. He thought of what he would say, what he would ask, what he would do. Details of how to get to Jason were finished long ago and stored with complete security in his memory, so he had only to imagine the payoff to come and to bask in the memories that shot to the fore of his consciousness like the silver flash of minnows in shallow water; there and gone in the fraction of a second.

Mom'll kill you if she catches you! Birkoff could hear himself talk to a 13-year-old version of his own face and remember feeling the fear, the outrage, the admiration his twin evoked as he lit a cigarette with a practiced hand and dragged a slug of smoke deep into his lungs. It was the clearest memory he had of Jason, one of precious few.

After he had discovered the existence of his brother and Walter confessed his role in their separation, shredded memories had come to Birkoff in fits and tatters, the shattered remnants all that remained of fourteen years together. Most of the others faltered in the stream of skewed mental processes and returned to the subconscious ocean from which they emerged, but that one vivid image of his brother's face stuck with him. Confidence. Daring. Rebellion. Birkoff remembered how the orange glow of burning tobacco warmed that face and lit highlights in the wavy hair.

The only other image of Jason his mind could hold on to was an anguished countenance when men dressed all in white separated them, ripping their clasped hands apart. They had been barely fourteen, small for their age, and easily mastered with physical force. Birkoff could remember the feeling of his own voice in misshapen memory, screaming his brother's name, and the feeling of panic so raw that he could hardly breath...and Jason's panic-twisted face, just like his own. Despite the fear associated with the image, he looked at it again and again, cupping it in his mind protectively. Besides the sure knowledge if his existence, it was all he had of Jason.

I'm finally going to see my brother. Feathery excitement carried Birkoff through the landing of the plane, the long taxi drive, and a dreary wait in a neighborhood park until nightfall, when he could break into Jason's house without being seen. The security surrounding Jason's home was surprisingly stiff, considering he was a private citizen, but Birkoff broke it in seconds -- this was his bread and butter. He opened the door just wide enough to slip his body through, then closed it behind him with a deliberate motion.

Birkoff wandered through his brother's apartment as if through a dream, gently touching the various objects on shelves and the satiny smooth horizontal surfaces that told his fingertips they were made of rich materials. He slid an overcoat from its hanger in the hall closet and filled his hands with the heavy material. A faint odor emanated from the cloth, of aftershave or scent or maybe just the drycleaner's shop, but he doubted it; it was too sweet. A streak of red on the light brown collar gave him another idea -- conceivably it was perfume from a woman who embraced him and perhaps left that streak of lipstick on his collar, unwittingly scenting the fibers in the weave. He re-hung the coat and continued his dreamy exploration.

Jason owned an expensive home theater system better than his security. Birkoff ran his fingers down the spines of CD cases shelved neatly on the wall next to the player, not really reading until his eye caught on familiar colors and words. It seemed Jason had similar tastes in music, if expanded into genres Birkoff wasn't fond of or familiar with. The electronic equipment sitting in Jason's living room rivaled what Birkoff could get with the unlimited resources of Section One to pay for it, which might have surprised him, but he knew the details of Jason's financial dealings. The man was rich.

Birkoff looked around, suddenly realizing what it was he searched for. He has to have a computer, he thought. The hazy notion of searching files coiled in his brain, but there was no obvious plan willing to leap out at him...yet. What did he expect to find, evidence that Jason knew about him? Birkoff shook his head and broke off the search. He wanted to see his brother, share the same space as him, and breaking into his computer files would only antagonize him, so he stopped snooping and waited.

Although the trip to this place streaked across Birkoff's experience like a joyful comet, now he felt trapped by mounting anticipation that seemed never to end. He had taken the usual path through electronic means and found Jason, caught a glimpse of his own double -- an ill omen, if superstition was right -- and flitted through his brother's house like an envious ghost. Now he wanted nothing more than to see him. Hear his voice. Talk to him. Ask him... At last, the key turned in the lock, and Jason came home. Birkoff waited, then stepped from the shadows and savored the sight of his brother.

Jason turned suddenly. Birkoff stepped closer and removed his glasses. They stared at each other, eye to naked eye, a smile of tumultuous joy hovering on Birkoff's mouth, stunned revelation blanching Jason's face.

"Jason..." Birkoff said the name out loud, but couldn't think of anything else to say. Mirror faces gaping at each other were evidence and proclamation enough for the moment.

Jason blinked rapidly. His shocked expression crumpled into recognition with a revelation that seemed monumental. He stuttered. "P-peter! My god!"

Birkoff frowned. "Peter?"

"Peter! You...you're alive!"

"My name's not Peter. It's Seymour."

Jason grinned at him with sudden elation, and took a step closer. "Yes! Yes, Seymour Peter Birkoff!"

"Peter?" He frowned and looked away, his mind working furiously against a veil of haze and pain that allowed no access to memory. "Peter. I...I...Peter?"

Jason laughed out loud. "Well, you sure ain't Seymour! You hated that name, that's why we called you Peter."

"Peter." Birkoff said the name once more with a tentative conviction. "I...don't remember. I...didn't know I had a middle name." His smile returned, happier than before.

"What? You don't remember?"

"Not much..."

Jason looked around the room. "I, uh, I've got to sit down."

Birkoff sank into a chair as Jason fell onto the couch.

"Where did you come from?" Jason asked.

Birkoff glanced at the door. "From outside."

"That's not what I mean. Where were you for all this time? It's been ten years, ten years since, since mom died and..."

"I know." Birkoff looked down. "I'm here now." He looked at his brother again. "Do you remember what happened?"

"Men came. They took us away...it was all white." His eyes looked away, into shadows. "I...I don't remember anything until I woke up in the hospital. They said I'd been in a car accident, and Mom was dead."

"Mom?" Birkoff stared. Mom. It sounded so...normal. It didn't fit what Walter told him about his mother, Lisa. Section wouldn't have let her out to raise children...would it? "Who was she?"

"What do you mean? She was our mother."

Birkoff stared at the wall, trying to burn holes through time. "I have no memory of my mother."

"Peter, what do you mean, you don't remember?"

Birkoff looked at his brother. "Maybe you should just call me Seymour. I'm not sure Peter exists anymore."

***

EIGHT

Naomi dozed in the seat next to Jason, lulled by the whine of jet engines. He gazed down at her with affection, happy to be with her, happy that he loved her. If only he had heard from Seymour before boarding the plane, this moment would've been perfect.

Jason had met his brother four times since that fateful night when seeing his himself in his brother's face had burst open the locked door to his memory. In between, they communicated over the phone or through e-mail, slowly piecing the flotsam and jetsam of destroyed memories into a past they could share. Jason remembered his mother, Lisa. He recalled strings of experiences with his brother, but they were spotty. He did not remember Section except in the vaguest of images. Seymour gave him the details that mattered; they had visited it as children, although infrequently. He told Jason about his life in Section now: the exciting technology, the adrenalin-pumped action, his friends Walter and Nikita, and the ruthless circumstances that ruled his life.

In return, he gave Seymour his mother back. Jason plumbed the depths of his memory to scrape up the tiniest sliver and tell his twin, who slowly responded with flashes of his own. Seymour's recollections came hard to him. However it had happened, both men had been tampered with when they were teenagers. Both would forever bear the invisible scars.

"I've got some downtime coming to me," Seymour had said the last time they saw each other. "Two entire months."

Jason had smiled, yet at the same time cringed inside at the wondrous joy on his brother's face. Two months. Less than a school summer vacation, and it was if he'd won the lottery.

"I'll come," said his brother, oblivious to Jason's unease. "We could do...something."

"Yeah, like what?"

Seymour had looked around as if searching for ideas. He broke into a grin. "I don't know!"

"Well, don't you worry about it. I'll make the plans. You just let me know when you can get away."

Jason reclined his seatback on the plane, bringing his thoughts out of the past and into the future.

I'll try to contact him when I get back from Aruba, he thought.

~~~~

Jason felt as though his entire being were smashed into the back third of his body. Everything around him receded as he reclined on the mattress; the walls and ceiling and netting around the bed. Naomi's sweet face loomed in close, a bulbous peephole caricature, then leaned back, stretching up high and thin.

"Everything okay Jay? You seem tired."

"I don't know if it's work catching up to me, or..." His tongue seemed reluctant to cooperate. "Too much wine? I can barely keep my eyes open."

"That's okay. You've got four days to feel a lot better."

A wave of sentimentality swelled in runnels up his nerves to his eyes, coaxing them to close. "Ah love you," he slurred, and his lids gave in to the lazy promptings and closed.

Darkness did not bring oblivion. Jason felt Naomi leave the bed, and heard her pad to the door, but there was no way in heaven or hell that he could open his eyes or move his limbs. The odd feeling of being distanced continued, and it was only a languid flick of curiosity that cared to attempt identifying the noises that entered his room. After a few seconds without success, his curiosity gave up, and he drifted into a strange level of consciousness between dreams and reality.

Where could Seymour have gotten to? he thought, his imagination nibbling on left-over worry. He idly ruminated on the memory of their surprise reunion. A tang of snow filtered into his dreaming mind, and he remembered playing with this brother, both bundled in winter clothing and draped in scarves. They used to slide down hills on tarps, the plastic crackling under them as they flew. He heard it now, his hearing the closest sense to total consciousness, and the sound dragged him out of the jittery images of memory in his mind.

He remained helpless, his muscles twitching with the force of aborted nerve messages, and disoriented with the effects of...something. His senses sharpened, however, and he could hear the crackle of plastic once more and smell a sudden, antiseptic scent. A heavy weight landed on the bed next to him, emitting a distinct chill he could feel on the skin of his forehead.

"Yes, that's it," said a male voice. "Get his clothes."

"Everything?"

"Yeah."

Businesslike hands removed Jason's clothing. He felt the hair on his legs stand up in the sudden faint breeze. With a mighty effort, he lifted one eyelid a fraction and saw two men wearing black loom over him. He couldn't hold it open, and he drifted once more into a light doze that blended darkness and real noise.

A faint rash of gooseflesh roused him briefly. He was nude. The weight on the bed next to him shifted; he could hear the sound of cloth against flesh. For the first time, he felt fear.

This isn't right.

"You get his feet; I'll get his shoulders."

Where's Naomi?

Jason listened carefully for any sound of her, but all he could hear were the strange voices. A rough embrace circled his knees, while strong arms slid under his shoulders. Jason fought as hard as he could, but his mind would not connect with his body. The mysterious men lifted him from the bed, held him suspended for a moment as the plastic crackle returned. His head flopped uselessly on his shoulder. Jason tried again to open his eyes, and, with gravity on his side, succeeded.

Neither eyeball wanted to track with the other, and his lids fluttered. He could only see where his head aimed: down at the bed. He saw himself stretched out, half dressed and sleeping.

My god, I'm having an out of body experience, he thought dizzily, then realized that it wasn't his body on the bed.

Seymour.

The men lowered Jason on the bed once more, setting him on top of cold, slick plastic. His head faced his brother. Jason fought to raise his lids repeatedly, catching glimpses of Seymour.

Open shirt.

Burns.

Still.

White...white...white...

The men tucked his legs under the plastic and then his arms; plastic enveloped him. Panic broke through the mental fug. Oh my god! It's a body bag! He gained another measure of control over his muscles, turning his face up and snapping his eyes wide this time, startling the male face over his.

"Shit, he's waking up!"

"What? Damn. Hold on; I'll fix that." Pain stabbed the muscle of his arm, instantly dissolving his control.

"Naomi," he whispered. "Seymour..."

"See you in hell, kid," said the man, and drew the zipper closed.

~~~

The dream always began the same way.

The man woke in a clean, white room, wearing clean, white pajamas. He felt as if he were floating just off the surface of the bed, his bare feet twitching as he slowly woke up. An unknown intellect told him he should be very frightened, but he found it hard to remember just how he knew, and the lassitude of drugs that had infiltrated his blood lied to his panic.

"Good morning." A simple wish followed him into the waking world, the disembodied voice smooth and rich and controlled.

Jason slowly sat up, looking all around at the featureless room. A blank door swung open with a metallic screech, showing a hallway of burnished steel and mellow tan walls. Memories of his brother's warnings seeped in from the bottom up, filling his mind with the sure knowledge that monstrous figures and machines lay out there...

Waiting for him.

Send suggestions and comments to Jean by clicking HERE!