CATTLE CALL

Not for the first time, Blair blessed his mother for the unorthodox upbringing that allowed him to be comfortable in his own skin, even when that was all he had on. Closing the door to the locker that held his clothes and possessions, he put his thumb in the lock so that it was keyed to his print, and turned to examine himself in the mirror. He studied the image as carefully as if he had to reproduce it for a final exam; as carefully as the sentinels would be examining him in a few minutes, and just as critically.

With his hair moussed to within an inch of its life and ruthlessly clubbed into a small ponytail, he looked too young and innocent to be away from his mother's side - an opinion that would amuse Naomi to no small extent. The thick, heavy glasses he wore unnecessarily over blue eyes gave him a geeky, scholarly appearance that wasn't quite a lie, since he was a grad student and teaching fellow. Though he was fairly well built, he was heavily covered with body hair, which he'd learned was very unappealing to most sentinels. He'd skipped a shower and a shave, so he gave a slovenly impression, and his breath was as bad as a tuna sandwich smothered in onions and garlic could make it.

Beside him a slight young man fussed with his blond hair, first gathering it back, then letting it fall free to the middle of his back. "Damn," he muttered more or less to himself. "Wish I could stand just buzzing it off. I'm told most sentinels don't like that, but I like it long too much myself to do it."

"Don't wash it next time. Leave it greasy and stringy, with lots of odors trapped in it," Blair murmured, aware the room could be bugged. What difference did it make since the building was full of sentinels, anyway? Nor was giving advice particularly illegal, at least for now. "First time for the cattle call?"

"Cattle call? Yeah, that's what it feels like, despite the guy on the phone calling it an 'Informal Meeting for Introductory Purposes.' I just got identified as a potential guide a few months ago." The guy sat down heavily on the bench, hands over his groin as if to protect himself, green eyes half-closed in misery. "I want to hurl something fierce. The idea of just *standing* there and letting them sense me, like, like some exotic snack...."

"Could be worse," Blair said conversationally, not really wanting to calm the stranger down. The more nervous he was, the less likely a sentinel would choose him. "They used to make the men and women undress and get in line at the same time, regardless of sexual orientation, on the theory that sentinels were bi and shouldn't be denied a guide based on sex."

"You're shitting me!" He shuddered, then offered his hand. "I'm Luke, by the way. How'd you know that?"

"Blair, and one of the oldest Possibles I ever met told me. He managed to dodge the bullet for nearly twenty years, since the start of the government arranged Introductions. I haven't seen him in a couple of years, but I don't know if that's because he was finally chosen or if he passed away. Anyway, he said that the sentinels were the ones to insist that the practice be put to a stop. After all, the instinct to protect includes not terrifying a homophobe or traumatizing a sexually repressed woman."

"Man." Luke shuddered again. "Anything else I could do?" Hastily he added, "It's not that I don't think sentinels are valuable or important or don't deserve the services of a guide. It's just not what I want to do with my life!"

Looking him over thoughtfully, Blair bit his lip, then decided to trust his instincts. While most people would understand reluctance, out-right refusal to accept a sentinel when chosen was considered tantamount to murder, and there were always radical elements in society that were agitating to make it even easier for a guide to taken into service. If this man were a plant for one of those, he was a superb actor because his distress and fear were genuine to Blair's perceptions - not just to his empathy, but to his trained anthropological mind, as well.

Judgment made, Blair stood behind Luke, hair tie in hand. "Maybe if you wear it so that it makes you look really flamboyant gay. Most sentinels are looking for a partner to work with them in their chosen career, and there's still a lot of prejudice against queens in the closed societies like the military or law enforcement that they tend to prefer." As he spoke, he pulled out a slip of paper from inside his own ponytail and pressed it into Luke's palm.

Eyes widening, Luke closed his hand around the note, but said innocently enough, "I thought it was pheromones that triggered a sentinel's interest. Like, I don't know, falling in love or something." He read the hints listed on the sheet, complexion paling a little more.

Digging out grains of vanilla from under his nails, Blair scrubbed them into Luke's armpits, then motioned for him to do the same at his groin to neutralize his natural scent as much as possible. "Hence being forced to meet total strangers while stark naked. Not to mention if there is chemistry, it's harder not to show it." Blair lifted a foot so Luke could see the tack he had hidden between the web of his first two toes, demonstrating that it was possible to short circuit attraction with pain. Rocking, as if nervous, would force the point into the tender flesh, but standing or walking wouldn't hurt at all.

Continuing his mini-lecture, Blair went on. "But it's like any other physical magnetism. The psychological and emotional components can over-rule or negate the automatic responses. In fact, the early research on sentinels, before the Homeland Defense Agency shut it down, indicated that it's even more of a factor for them than for the average human being." He hesitated, but wanting to give Luke the best possible chance of getting through the call with his freedom intact, finally whispered almost in his ear, "Even a sentinel near to cascade failure from sensory overload will walk away from a Possible who shows genuine loathing and fear of him or her. It totally kills their instinctive reaction to an otherwise acceptable guide."

"Whoa," Luke breathed.

"So hurling on anybody who seriously looks you over is a good idea."

"Thank you. I mean that." Luke looked him over, obviously seeing past the facade, and asked shyly, "How many times have you made it through? Does it wear on you? Always worrying that *this* time, your entire life is going to change, whether you want it to or not?"

Wearily Blair sat beside him. "For the past five years, like the law demands, whenever a sentinel or sentinels in this region are scheduled for or request a meeting with possible guides - six or seven times, now. I'm an anthropologist, and when revolutionaries took over an expedition I was on, I talked myself and the rest of the team out of trouble, and walked into a subpoena for a DNA test for the guide genome when I arrived at the airport back home. And while like any guide I'm good at adapting whenever necessary, as fast as necessary, I want to make my own choices in who to spend my life with, what career I have, not have it made for me by the government."

With the intense sympathy of a Possible, Luke rubbed Blair's shoulder. "Wow. That seriously sucks. I got nailed when a profiler tagged me. There was enough circumstantial evidence to get the subpoena."

"Did you suspect?"

"Completely clueless." Luke buried his face in his hands for a moment, then scrubbed at his features. "Thing is, I don't know what I could have done differently; how I could have been anybody but me."

"That's part of what makes us possible guides," Blair pointed out, reminding himself as much as Luke. "Even if we guess, we can't exactly bury our nature or lie about what we are. And the up side is that if we do get chosen, we're capable of great things as a sentinel's partner. That's why they sometimes call us potentials, you know? Because we have so much, only needing the strength and stability of a sentinel to reach it. It's just, just..."

"Who wants an arranged marriage when you're not doing so badly on your own," Luke filled in when Blair trailed off.

"Exactly."

"What gets me most is the way everybody watches me now. As if I'm going to suddenly go off the deep end and start my own cult or become obsessed with, I don't know, UFO's or Sasquatch or something." Luke pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them. "I wouldn't mind if I became someone like Mother Theresa or St. John Paul. Or heck, even the guy who's been giving out sandwiches and warm clothes to the dispossessed in Broketown for the past ten years."

"Or you could just be you for the rest of your life. Most Possibles have normal, unremarkable lives," Blair argued. "Again, the key words are 'could be.' How many people live up to their potential, whatever it is? Trust me, the bug under a magnifying glass thing fades over time as long as you ignore it and get on with living."

A polite knock on the door startled both of them, and an older sentinel came inside. "It's time gentlemen," he said, not unkindly.

Blair caught a flash of deep compassion/regret from the man before the accustomed impassiveness of a working sentinel set in, making him wonder how much the man had overheard as he approached. Not much, surely, or he'd be angry or upset. Dismissing the fleeting concern, he followed him down the short hallway to the meeting room, working at making himself hyperventilate.

Taking the place indicated, across the room from Luke, apparently the only other candidate this time around, Blair fixed his eyes on an imaginary spot on the floor and waited, heart pounding. The door opposite from where they came in opened and three sentinels he hadn't seen before entered, almost visibly wearing cloaks of confidence, despite being stark naked. Peering up through his lashes, Blair wrote off the first two. He'd bet the first was young, idealistic, looking for the mystery and romance of a 'bond' or 'connection.' The second radiated arrogance and disdain. He most likely thought only the weak needed a guide and was there only because a commanding officer or the like had ordered him to attend the call.

It was the third that worried him, though he couldn't say for sure why. He looked to eight or ten years older than Blair's twenty-five, carrying himself with military straightness and wearing a militarily short hair cut. In another place, another situation, Blair might have given the tall, buff body more than a fast once over, though it was the hands - long fingered and elegant - that really plucked at Blair's interest.

Stomping on it mercilessly, he darted a fast glance to the man's face and unintentionally met his gaze for a fraction of a second. The vivid sky-blue of his eyes seared him, the pain and exhaustion in them reaching across the room in search of comfort and succor. To Blair's shock and dismay, part of him wanted to reach back, offering whatever was needed, as long as it brought a smile to the austere expression.

Truly alarmed, Blair hastily dropped his eyes to the floor, wondering what the hell had gotten into him. He stayed that way, shaking slightly with nerves, while the first sentinel looked over Luke, then Blair, not pausing for more than a second either time. The conceited one didn't do that much, but breezed by in obedience to the letter of his orders, not the spirit. Wishing the third would be as cursory, Blair swallowed hard when he took his time with Luke, circling him a few times despite the fact that the young man looked ready to pass out.

With a gesture the sentinel dismissed Luke, who sped out of the room as if certain death were on his heels. It was Blair's turn, and he stubbornly, desperately kept his head down, afraid of meeting that blue gaze. Weirdly, the thing that kept bouncing through his mind as he was inspected was that the feet matched the hands - fine boned and eloquent somehow.

Then it vanished as the sentinel leaned forward until his nose was nearly brushing Blair's ear.

Scenting me? Blair thought in panic. Okay, that's happened a couple of times before. It doesn't mean anything. Maybe he likes garlic? No big deal here unless he asks me something, to hear me speak, cause then, then, he likes me with more than one sense, but hey, I can flub that. Squeak like a kid whose voice is breaking. Just don't ask me to look at you, please don't ask me to look at you, I don't want to, but, god, I will, I think I will, and then I think I'm going to be in big, big trouble.

All during Blair's internal monologue, the sentinel just stood there, breathing easily, as if he were doing nothing more interesting than waiting for public transpo. Finally, with what could have been a sigh, he turned and left, silent from beginning to end. Blair wasted no time in getting on the other side of his own exit, not exactly running but definitely not waiting for an escort.

Bursting into the guide's changing room, he surprised Luke into jumping several feet in the air - quite a feat as he was on all fours, looking for something on the floor. "Blair! Thank god! That thing you gave me, I lost it. I thought I'd do the hair gimmick with it, like you did, but when I took down that poofy thing you put in for me, it wasn't there. Man, it's got my prints, maybe my DNA on it. Am I in trouble?"

Blanching, Blair scooped up Luke's clothes and shoved them at him. "My fault, my fault. I forgot to tell you to eat it. It's kada paper, even got some mint in it to make it easier to swallow. Get dressed, I'll look. It's my handwriting, and my prints, too."

"I'm sorry, I'm so damn sorry." Luke scrambled into his clothes, searching as best he could while he dressed. "It's not, like, illegal or anything is it?"

As he crawled over the tiles, sweeping his hands under the edges of the lockers, Blair said grimly, "It depends on who finds it and what they do with it. Technically, you could consider it evidence of conspiracy to murder. Homeland Defense Agency would love to use something like that to press for stricter laws on the guide genome."

Swearing, Luke pulled on his shoes. "I'll check the hallway."

"No, I will. I was there last so they'll believe me if I claim it was mine and won't look any farther. You take off."

"I can't!"

Getting to his feet, Blair took him by the elbows and gave him a shake. "Look, it's my fault for not making sure you destroyed it. You want to own some guilt here, then make restitution by passing on what was in it. Remember, sentinels can probably hear anything said, so you have to find a way to share silently. Now go, go! They'll be suspicious if you're still here when it's found."

All but pushing him out the door, Blair let it shut, then took a deep, calming breath so he could *think!* Between the two of them they had to have effectively covered the changing room, which meant the note was either in the hallway or the meeting room. Which meant he had to back track, no matter what the risk, he decided unhappily. It couldn't be too much of one, he assured himself. The sentinels wouldn't have any reason to hang around, and since he didn't recognize them, likely all were from outside the Northwestern Region with long trips home ahead of them.

Moving cautiously despite that, Blair crept back the way he had come only minutes earlier, thankful the hallway was as bare as the meeting room. He was within a few feet of that door when he saw the paper under the edge of it, near the hinges, caught between the door and the frame. Stooping down, he tried to pick it up, but it was wedged tightly in the crack, defying his attempt to pull it free.

Voices approached, and he froze, praying that it wasn't sentinels on the other side of the door, capable of hearing his erratic heartbeat and too fast breathing.

".... for filling in for Martin. Next time I'll ask Duncan from Seattle to come," said a voice that sounded like the elderly sentinel. Blair almost sagged in relief. His senses wouldn't be very sharp, and he'd have no reason to be on alert here. "Between the two of you, the boy will be conditioned to go into panic mode every time a sentinel taller than him comes close. It'll go a long way toward protecting him, unless he finds one he wants."

"The Possible you had scheduled with him did a good job of teaching him how to ward us off, too," another man said, and for some reason Blair was positive it was the blue-eyed sentinel with the magnificent hands.

"Yeah, Blair's good with the new catches," the first sentinel said. "Even his first time, he was full of ideas for ways to safeguard himself. Some of 'em are pretty damn effective, and still being passed around." His tone changed subtly, and he added, "You know, Jim, he's older now, maybe more willing, for the right sentinel. I know you got a bit of a rise for him; next time I schedule, I could give you a call. After he's seen you around a bit, he might ask after you. It happens, you know, even now."

"Tope, you're hopeless," Jim said in fond amusement. "Because you and Georgina have been paired for nearly thirty years, you think we all can be. It was just luck that the woman you fell for was a guide."

"Maybe, maybe not." Tope didn't sound insulted or put out. "I'm just saying, it can't hurt to make an opportunity. You're a good man. You deserve better than to be killed or maimed because the senses turn on you at the wrong time and place, and no guide to watch your back. Or did you think I couldn't tell how far down you dialed just to tolerate being here?"

"And how far could I trust someone coerced into being with me?" Blair could almost see Jim hold up his hand to stop a protest from Tope. "Yes, I know they have the instinct to protect, too. It's natural for them to want to tend to those under their charge. But I don't want to be just the sentinel he settled for so he could have a life or career or whatever. I want a true partner, in all things, which is more or less impossible the way matters stand now."

"Good things can come from bad beginnings," Tobe intoned, but so melodramatically that Jim laughed.

Blair scuttled off, automatically popping the hastily retrieved piece of paper into his mouth and adamantly refusing to question why the rich, full sound of that laugh had kicked him out of his paralysis. He didn't stop moving until he was dressed and back at his office in the pits of Hargrove at Rainier, surrounded by a multitude of artifacts, mementos, blue books to be graded, research material to be gone over, and paperwork to be filed. It was early for his office hours, but he left the door open in hopes of company that would smother the confusion and wild curiosity about what he'd overheard.

Until now he'd never given a single thought to the cattle call from the sentinel's point of view. It was mostly pure self-defense, he knew without question, but a part of it was that he had apparently unconsciously bought into his mother's opinions on sentinels. Naomi considered them drones and jack-boot thugs of a corrupt, rigid, authoritarian government. It was an attitude the cattle call reinforced, Blair realized with some shock, since those were typically conducted in total silence unless a sentinel wanted to hear a guide's voice.

What must it be like, he asked himself, to know that finding the right partner could mean an extra thirty or forty years of healthy, useful life, instead of the meager forty or so an unpaired sentinel would have if he were lucky? Yet he was rejected, repeatedly, over the span of years, in the most subtle ways possible, by the only people who could give that to him. No wonder very rarely one of the solitary ones went bad.

Despite that, some sentinels obviously not only accepted the rejection, but understood and encouraged it. Was the need to protect potentials that intense? Was freedom of choice for their guide as important to them? Or was it as simple as what Jim had said? Like any other human being, they wanted to be loved and respected for themselves.

Blessedly a student poked his head with a problem on the year-end project Blair had assigned before Blair could drive himself to distraction with the horde of unanswerable questions stirred up by his eavesdropping. The rest of the day was spent in the usual bustle and hurry of people coming and going as he tried to get his work done. It always surprised him a little that he was considered a 'popular' teacher - easy to talk to and willing to make time whenever it was needed seemed to be the defining factors. In an odd moment he wondered for the first time how much of that was due to his natural abilities and how much was due to a liking for his job.

He also had a fair share of co-workers and acquaintances drop by his office on a regular basis to flirt or set up dates. While no one looked to him for a serious relationship because of the uncertainty of his future, his sensuality and honest enjoyment of the company of his casual lovers guaranteed him companionship whenever he wanted. If it left him feeling a little... hollow... on occasion, he considered it a price worth paying to have to independence he worked so hard to keep.

Today, however, he turned down several offers, telling himself he wasn't in the mood for socializing, which wasn't the truth, strictly speaking. He managed to convince himself of that until he got home, and stood in the middle of his small apartment, unable to think of a single thing he really wanted to do.

What he needed, Blair decided abruptly, was a reminder of why he risked some unknown sentinel's life so he could run his own the way he wanted. He wanted to go where he wanted, when he wanted, and do what he wanted without having to ask for anybody's permission, understanding, or forbearance. For Blair, nothing epitomized that carefree, no baggage, no-strings-attached lifestyle so much as a Walk on the Wildside.

Hurriedly he showered and shaved, took a few precautions so he could have what he wanted with a minimum of preparation, and dressed in a silvery-gray running suit and matching sneakers. In very short order he was at the entrance to Wildside Riverbank Park, a half-masque in place. Idly reflecting on the customs and rituals that become a part of the quasi-culture of gay communities in recent years, Blair strolled down the barely lit path, already half hard. All major cities now had a park or beach or desolate street dedicated to providing for the base needs of unattached males.

No matter where he went, walking in the middle of the trail indicated a need/desire to bottom, walking beside it meant switch hitter, and lucking in the shadows at the side was for a serious top. Half masque meant oral sex was available, cropped jacket/short shirt that showed off his ass said that he would bend over for the right man. Normally Blair took whatever came his way, delighting in the variety that could be found here, no questions asked, no expectations beyond the pleasure of the moment.

Tonight he wanted it hard and fast, maybe even a little rough, and this was the place to find it. He didn't linger at the edge of the park where the tamer action went down, but headed into the heart of it where old trees and barely tended foliage created an abundance of dark, mostly private spots. Several times a male figure materialized at the edge of the gloom, some daringly not masked at all, some covered from head to toe except for exposed genitals.

None of them appealed to him. It wasn't until a tall, well-built man dressed in black leather made his appearance that Blair admitted that was what he hoped to find: a clone of the blue-eyed sentinel with expressive hands who stirred him to such confusion. The man wore a full masque, which was good, because Blair could pretend what face lay behind it. He also had on gloves and a thigh-length open vest that promised the intense fucking Blair needed. He slowed, brazenly looking Leather over, unzipping his own jacket to agree to being used.

Moving so patches of moonlight dappled over him, coming to rest on his groin, Leather drew a fingertip along his length, calling attention to its generous size. That massive cock, along with the tang of danger from being taken by such a powerful looking stranger, sent Blair's blood racing and his dick filled to full length. He put his hands in his pockets to draw the fabric tight over it to show it off and drifted closer to Leather.

Teasingly the man melted back into the dark, but slowly enough that Blair could follow, if he wished. Blair did, but paused to draw out the anticipation. Leather waited for him, but upped the tension by petting himself through his pants. Blair met and raised by licking his lips, inching a little closer, then swaying back as if uncertain. Abruptly pivoting on his heel, Leather glided away on cat feet, displaying broad, strong shoulders, a small, perfect ass, and a reminder of who would be in charge of whatever happened in the concealment of the night.

All together it was a package Blair couldn't resist, and he went after him with swift, sure steps. For a moment he thought he'd gone the wrong way, but he pushed aside a few branches and found a tiny paradise. Trees enclosed a glade about the size of a small room, except for one side where a moss-covered rock outcropping tumbled up to nearly the tops of the trees. The moonlight held more sway here than on the paths, and Blair could clearly see Leather lounging on a large, fairly flat boulder in a classic come-hither pose.

Lying on his side, head in one palm, one knee uplifted to reveal the huge bulge at his groin, Leather waited patiently, giving the impression he watched Blair closely as he approached. On impulse Blair dropped to his hands and knees, covering the last few feet in a crawl, willing to swear the other man's cock grew even larger. Once he was close enough, he nuzzled along the covered shaft, worrying the material here and there with his teeth.

An indrawn hiss was the only response Blair got, and in search for more, he rubbed his entire face into the man's crotch. Expecting to get a fist in his hair to direct him to more explicit acts, he was mildly surprised when a gloved finger traced the cap of his ear, sending a sizzle down his spine and into his balls. Not certain what was wanted, he hesitated, and Leather undid the closures on his crotch piece, revealing pale, creamy skin and amazingly erect cock. He caressed both of Blair's ears, somehow drawing Blair's head down until his lips were at the very tip of the hard-on waiting for him.

Voicing his delight, Blair tasted with dainty licks, taking his time to explore the whole thing before sucking it into himself, glorying in the whole, smooth span of it. He would have willingly done nothing else until it exploded into him, but another gentle swirl over his ear, this time upward, and a matching one on his throat, brought his head up. A forefinger under his chin lifted him to his feet and one at his hip turned him.

The delicacy of the commands, for commands they were regardless of the gentleness used, was a turn on that Blair could not have foreseen, expecting brute strength as he was. With more barely-there nudges, Leather coaxed Blair backwards until he was between Leather's wide-spread thighs, chest so close to Blair's back that the heat of it soaked into him. His sweat pants were quickly pulled down enough to bare his ass, and his jacket shoved up out of the way.

Blair's tummy and chest were painted with obscure glyphs that burned and tingled from the leather-encased contact, making him long for his dick or balls to be handled. When the touch wandered up to his nipples, though, he arched his back to offer them up, throwing his head back so that his curls spilled over the shoulder of the man behind him. With an indistinct but definitely pleased murmur, Leather pulled and rolled the little nubs, balanced precisely between too much strength and not enough. Trembling, Blair reached behind to brace himself on the corded legs, winning another of those arousing noises from Leather and a brush of the plump head of his cock along Blair's cleft.

Boldly he angled himself for entry, wishing he could see how he looked and hoping he appeared as wanton and willing as he felt. Leather gave a last, nearly too much, tug on the bits he'd been tormenting, and skimmed a fleeting caress down Blair's abdomen, up his sides, then down the line of his spine until both thumbs were between Blair's cheeks, opening them for a deeper probe.

Finding Blair lubed and ready, Leather slipped both digits past the guardian muscle, radiating a mix of approval, amusement, and pure, unadulterated lust that enflamed Blair's to the point he felt like a mindless animal in heat. He bent to present his bottom - or rather tried to. Punishing hands gripped his hips, holding him still, and a quiet growl reminded him that he had few, if any choices left about what happened, along with how and when.

The reminder only served to send him farther into his rut, putting him on the edge of release with little more than what could be considered foreplay by some. Blair didn't have a problem with that; a quick one would take the edge off, guaranteeing a long, long ride later, if Leather was willing.

Leather seemed to be of a like mind. Poised on the very brink of penetrating Blair, he rumbled, "Go for it. Sluts are always better after they take the first load, anyway."

The raw, ravenous undertone finished Blair, and he moaned as his cream spilled. Leather shoved into him, Blair's opening flexing and clenching round him with the force of his climax, which enhanced Blair's release but didn't blunt his appetite. After a few strokes, Leather came as well, grunting a little as his slippery fluid made the passage of his large cock a bit easier. He didn't lose his hardness, thank whatever, and Blair sighed his satisfaction.

As if that were a cue, Leather stopped moving. "Want more? Fuck yourself on me, slut. Ride me good, and I promise that you'll be the one to beg for us to stop."

"Work my tits while I do? Please?" Blair whispered, tightening around the pole inside of him in promise.

"Oh, you asked that so nicely." Leather pulled him tightly to his chest, buttery smooth leather vying with satiny skin for Blair's attention. "Take my cock. Now."

Blair obeyed, inching away, then swaying back, slowly increasing his movement until the crown was barely inside him before he slammed back to take Leather's shaft full-length. The friction of it, the substantial presence was exquisite, and Leather kept his promise, pinching at Blair's nipples in time to their fucking, increasing the strength used until Blair wouldn't have been surprised if he twisted them off. It was sooooo good, so exactly what Blair needed, and he babbled his relief with dirty words and desperate pleading, not wanting to come but accepting that it was inevitable.

He wanted, needed, more stimulation, and begged, "Damn, please, jack me, touch my cock, please."

"Do it yourself, slut," Leather growled. "Show me how much you can take without losing it."

"Not, not... ah! much more..." Regardless, Blair took himself in hand, fisting his cock nearly brutally. It still wasn't enough, but for the life of him he couldn't think of what else to do, then Leather bit at the material bunched on his shoulders, muttering an obscenity Blair couldn't quite make out. It made him realize that his own mouth could be used for more than begging, and he turned his head to lick at Leather's throat.

He tasted wonderful, bringing to mind the magnificence of his cock, both in flavor and texture. Blair sucked at Leather's sweaty flesh, finding a strong tendon to fasten onto. A growl of pleasure rippled through them both, and Blair lost it, ramming himself onto the huge shaft inside of him with everything he had.

His finish ripped through him, stealing away his breath before he could make the slightest sound. The ecstatic shudders went on and on as Leather took over the job of fucking, pulling Blair back onto him with full strength, grinding powerfully, then shoving him away, only to repeat the process using more force with each thrust. Blair came back to himself, albeit slowly, body relaxing into the magnificent hammering, enjoying it in a luxurious, cat sated sort of way.

Leather shifted to accommodate Blair's newly boneless state, humming to himself in satisfaction, and Blair slumped into his arms, letting him and the rock under them take more of his weight. The change in position must have felt really good. Leather abruptly muffled a shout and shot into Blair, the heat of his seed wonderful on abused tissues.

His hold weakened for a second, jarring Blair into straightening enough to brace himself. He bumped into the mask that had fallen to one side because of his earlier nuzzling, and it dropped away. Blinking, Blair didn't believe who he saw under the concealing material, but as recognition flooded him, he went rigid, hands groping to push the sentinel away. In his clumsiness, his own mask was dislodged, and he ripped it away in frustration.

Blue eyes widening, Jim tightened his hold and said clearly, "I didn't know, I swear, I didn't know. Because of everything going on around here, I have to keep the senses down tight. I didn't know."

True panic rising, Blair tried to squirm free. "Oh, god, oh, god, oh, god, I'm trapped, I'm as good as in chains and manacles, oh, god, oh, god!"

"No!" Jim broke in. "NO! You're just another fuck to me. If I hadn't lost my mask, we would have gone our way without ever thinking about anything except how good the sex was. Hell, for all we know, we've done this before and been none the wiser. I have a thing for long, curly hair, and you obviously like big men."

"Trust me, I would have recognized that dick," Blair said, unwillingly relenting a little. The man's attitude from earlier, his utter sincerity now got through to him, though barely. "You're not going to look for me, claim me as your guide?"

"Tell me what I have to say or do to convince you I'm not."

"Let me go, right now."

Jim did as Blair demanded, very carefully not letting him recklessly yank off the shaft still embedded in him. The moment he was free, Blair tugged his clothes in place and spun to face the sentinel directly, searching his expression for trustworthiness. He found something else, something he could not or would not put a name to, but it was enough to let him breathe more easily.

"Damn," Blair said, surprising himself with his honesty. "I was really looking forward to seeing how long you could do me, too."

Not giving Jim a chance to say anything, Blair backed away, then turned and ran, for some bizarre reason wondering if he really wanted to.

***

The only reason Blair made it through the next few weeks without winding up in a padded cell under observation for Stress Crisis was because people were used to him being distracted and perpetually disorganized. It was, after all, part of the definition of an ABD grad student. In the end, though, he couldn't sustain an overly alert and suspicious mindset and began to believe Jim, almost against his will.

There was no knock at his door from a Homeland Defense Agency official, demanding that he register as an active guide. He did not receive a summons to the meeting center for a cattle call, and no Sentinel/Guide pair was sent to fetch him to his new duties as Jim's guide. As far as he could tell, Jim did not look for him and certainly didn't contact him, though it wouldn't have been hard for him find out everything he wanted to know about Blair. The privacy laws did not protect a guide from a sentinel in search of him.

If it weren't for the dreams he would have been able to sink back into his life without the slightest ripple from his Walk. The erotic ones were easy enough to dismiss, even with the bone-shaking intensity of them. After all, it *was* the best sex he'd ever had; no point in denying it.

Now if he could only explain away the ones that started with him and Jim doing something mundane - dinner, watching a game on the TV, laundry - and ended with Jim dying in any number of grisly ways. Guilt didn't cover the sense of grief and misery, as if he'd lost a spouse or sibling instead of a man whose full name Blair didn't even know.

When his advisor, Hal Bruckner, called him in for an unscheduled meeting, Blair was almost relieved that the shoe had finally dropped. No matter what, he privately vowed, gathering up his latest chapters and research as if it were any other meeting to discuss his dissertation, he was not going to meekly submit to the decisions the powers that be thought they could make for him.

Rehearsing in his head various excuses, diversions, obfuscations, and out right lies, he let himself into Bruckner's outer office and was waved through by his assistant. With a perfunctory rap, he went in, a smile of cheerful cooperation plastered on his face. Bruckner finished pouring a cup of coffee, asked Blair if he wanted one with a wave of the pot, and took the shake of refusal without comment.

Okay, maybe this wasn't about Jim, Blair thought. The only other person in the room, an older, tall black man who obviously took care of himself, was someone Blair had seen with Bruckner a time or two before. He looked Blair over carefully from his chair in the small conversational grouping Bruckner had next to the window, but while it was thorough, it wasn't personal, as if the man would have done the same to anyone who walked through the door.

"Excellent timing, Blair. I was just telling my friend, Simon Banks, a little about your dissertation. Personally, I think it's going very well, and the various papers that you've presented from the initial research have been very well received." Hal sat down opposite his friend, making it clear he wanted Blair in the third chair.

Puzzled, Blair did as expected, calling up his most recent files on his handheld computer's screen. "Thank you, Dr. Bruckner. I've finished the revisions to the chapter you recommended at our last meeting, and reorganized the data for the one after that."

"Hal says that you're studying closed cultures," Banks said in a deep, pleasantly rich voice.

Nodding, Blair pointed to the title on the paper file on the table: *Identity and Adoption Rituals of Modern Closed Societies With a Special Emphasis on Service Organizations.* "It started when I visited a monastery with my mother. All during the visit I had the feeling that there was so much more going on than the guests were seeing, and that if I only knew the right question to ask, the right place to be, I'd understand why the Brothers seemed so *apart,* even while in the same room."

"You have a gift for bridging that separation, and not just in words," Bruckner said, with just a hint of condescension. "The Broketown Shelter's donations have doubled since your article on the evolution of a closed society among the dispossessed."

"Most people don't even want to admit that our country has its own peculiar brand of refugees thanks to the eco damage," Banks agreed. "It's good work. Which was why I was agreeable when Hal suggested that my department be the next closed society that you study."

"Your department?" Blair blurted, though he had a good idea of where Banks had to work. There was only one group that Hal insisted be included in the dissertation that Blair had not done research on, very deliberately and for what he considered to be extremely good reasons. The only unpaired sentinel resident in Cascade worked for the police. Most city regulations, as well as HDA, demanded that any potential guide serving in any role with an agency that employed sentinels be assigned to any unpaired sentinel for the duration of his stay. It was supposed to encourage pairings, not that Blair had ever seen any statistical evidence that it worked, and he did not want to be a test case for it.

None of which was news to Bruckner, of course, but Blair did not trust the man well enough to use that as his rationale for avoiding the police department. Taking a deep breath, Blair prepared to remind his advisor of his extensive list, even as Banks said with a trace of confusion, "Major Crimes, Cascade PD. You didn't tell him, Hal?"

Warning Blair to silence with a stern look over his glasses, Bruckner said, "Blair has an unorthodox opinion of law enforcement officials, thanks in part to an nontraditional upbringing. He has claimed, among other things, that his bias is so pervasive he is incapable of the necessary objectivity to do his research and collect data, an attitude I find odd in a potential guide. However, his committee is unanimous and resolute in the opinion that the non-inclusion of what many consider the largest, foremost closed society in our culture would invalidate large portions of the entire dissertation."

Putting down his mug, Banks said doubtfully, "If he doesn't want to work with cops, Hal, he shouldn't. Even as an observer, and I give you my word he would be protected, there are risks to be considered, and those increase significantly if he doesn't trust the officers working with him."

Bruckner looked away, a flash of discomfiture crossing his expression. "There are other influences at play here; ones that the university as a whole cannot afford to ignore."

Shooting Blair a sharp glance, Banks barked, "Because he's unpaired? He's showing signs of instability?"

"Hey, I am right here," Blair put in sharply. "And I'm fine, thank you. Out of the dozens of guides in this region, why would anybody be paying attention to what I'm doing?" Inwardly, he quaked; had some one seen him and Jim together? Had another sentinel sensed the flash of attraction during that first meeting?

"I was given to understand," Bruckner said carefully, "that all guides are watched over to some extent, and that the profilers are quite skilled in pinpointing those that may, ah, shall we say, require more monitoring than most."

"Hal!" Banks said.

"Not to say that Blair is among those," Bruckner added hastily. "But the fact remains that he has a schedule to keep to finish his degree. It's detrimental to Possibles to allow them to linger too long in their studies; too much temptation to fixate on obscure or unsound research. Or shatter from the pressure to succeed. And I truly believe that his contributions will bring nothing but good to your people, Simon."

"I don't know...."

"And I don't get a say about it?" Blair put in tightly.

Banks at least had the grace to look uncomfortable with the situation, but Bruckner simply said, "I'm afraid not; not if you wish to attain your Ph.D in anthropology at this university."

"Officer Banks..."

"Captain," He corrected peevishly.

"I..."

Pinching the bridge of his nose under his glasses, Banks broke into Blair's hastily marshaled arguments before he could begin. "Mr. Sandburg, bear with me a moment, please." After a moment, he asked, "Are you determined to submit your dissertation on this subject?"

Unable to stop a wince, Blair said, "I'd practically have to start again from scratch if I don't, and it's unlikely I'd be able to get a time extension from the U for it, let alone the necessary monies."

"Is there any possibility you will be able to convince your committee that your work will suffer if you are coerced into including the police department?"

"Coerced!" Bruckner sputtered, but fell silent at Banks' upheld hand and serious glance.

Staring down at his fists, Blair thought fast and furious, choosing answers, and then dropping them when he couldn't justify them with solid facts. Banks gave him the time with what felt like honest patience, and mercifully Bruckner had to step out to his outer office at a summons from his assistant.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Banks leaned forward, tapping the arm of Blair's chair to get his undivided attention. "The sentinel I would temporarily assign to you is a lone wolf who refuses to have a permanent partner of any kind," Banks said softly, his sincerity shining from him. "And he's such a snarly bastard, most of my people are grateful they don't have to spend a second more than necessary in his company. Ellison's also the best damn cop I've ever had the honor of working with. He'll see you through this, safe and sound, and get you back to academia with nothing more than your research to remember him by."

Eyes widen slightly, Blair swallowed hard, not sure how to react. Banks was telling him as subtly as possible that he understood Blair's true objections to being an observer in the department - and that he didn't have to worry. "Has he, ah, had temporary guides before?"

"Yes. This is hardly the first time I've been pressured into taking one on, for whatever reason. I have no qualms about handing them over to Ellison because of his opinion about the government tampering in what should be considered strictly personal matters." Banks hesitated, then added very quietly, "An opinion I agree with, though it will eventually cost me my best man - and best friend."

For an officer of the law, it was a bold confession, and Blair treated it with the respect it deserved. Relaxing, he conjured up a smile that actually felt more or less honest. "What can I do to make this easier for everyone concerned?"

Sitting back in his chair, Banks returned the smile with a faint one of his own. "Remember you're not a cop, and we'll get along fine. Now, what do you have in mind to get the data you need?"

They discussed the necessary arrangements until Bruckner came back, beaming so patronizingly at Blair's obvious capitulation that Blair had to fight to channel his anger into productivity. In a surprisingly short time, all the necessary university paperwork had been taken care of, a timetable of benchmarks had been set, and Blair was leaving with Simon to go to the station to take care of the red tape there. He took his own car, and despite the reassurances he'd been given, he sat outside the building for several minutes before convincing himself to go inside. Banks was waiting for him in the main lobby, and before long he had his official observer's badge hanging on a chain around his neck, feeling like it weighed a ton.

Introducing him as they went, Banks led him to his own bullpen and sat him down at a desk that Blair wouldn't have had any trouble as identifying as a sentinel's. It was clean and tidy to the point of ridiculousness, with everything aligned perfectly in accordance to some geometry he couldn't discern. Even all the pens in the holder were the same size, shape and color, and he stifled a laugh at the very real possibility the sentinel would refuse to work with him the moment he saw the incredible mess of Blair's backpack.

Well aware of the many curious looks aimed his way, he took out his handheld to outline his game plan for observing, watching the detectives out the corner of his eye as much as they were watching him. Like always, he soon lost himself in his work, hardly hearing the "What the hell," before his handheld was shut practically on his still typing thumbs. He started to stand, protest on his lips, when he realized who was standing in front of him - Jim.

"No, damnit, No," Blair muttered to himself, shrinking away as far as he could.

Radiating an insane melange of emotion, Jim spun on his heel and stomped to Simon's office, letting himself in without so much as knocking. The entire bullpen went into suspended animation, allowing the muffled shouts from behind the door to echo painfully through the room. Banks' voice eventually over-rode Jim's, and dead silence reigned uneasily for several long moments. Somewhere in the distance a horn sounded, breaking the stasis holding everyone, and Blair packed up hastily, thoroughly intending to be gone when Jim got back to his desk.

A large black man with a mournful expression sat on the corner of the desk and leaned over to speak quietly. "Don't run. If Ellison has to hunt you down, it'll be worse all the way around. Banks wouldn't have brought you in if he hadn't already made up his mind, and he *is* the boss. And I'm thinking you wouldn't be here if you had any choice, anyway."

"I am so fucked" Blair whispered. "He's going to treat me like shit for being foisted on him, and I'd bet my next grant that he's the alpha dog when it comes to the other detectives, so they'll treat me like shit too."

Shaking his head, the cop said, "Ellison's a fair man for the most part. You'll get the rough edge of his temper, but you call him on it, he'll swallow it down. And since you're his responsibility, if anybody so much as frowns at you disapprovingly, he'll make them regret it. Name's Joel Taggart by the way - captain of the bomb squad."

"Blair Sandburg. I'm working on my dissertation in Anthropology - closed societies, like police departments." He brushed his hair away from his face, but took Taggart's advice and settled back down behind Jim's desk.

"Ah, Simon's friend Bruckner got you into this. Never have understood how those two managed to become close."

"More or less," Blair admitted weakly. "Actually..."

The door to Bank's office slammed open and Jim stalked out, face thunderous. Taggart didn't get up, but shifted subtly so that Blair was eclipsed by his bulk. The obviously protective move put a small hesitation in Jim's step, and his jaw tightened to the point that Blair thought the muscle throbbing in it would explode.

His voice was civil, though, when he said, "You need anything, Taggart, or just getting the low-down for the grapevine?"

"At least it'll be accurate," Joel said unrepentantly, but he stood as if to leave.

Again Jim hesitated, something Blair was positive was rare. "Maybe you could introduce Sandburg around, get him started on his research."

"My pleasure." Taggart's response was automatic; his obvious surprise didn't leave room for much more.

Shamelessly taking advantage of it, Blair abandoned Jim's desk and tugged Joel away, chattering about hierarchies and the human tendency to unconsciously recognize them and act in accordance. The rest of the afternoon wasn't that different from Blair's initiation into the Fire Department or the Dispossessed community save that most cops took one look at the black on silver etching of his badge that identified him as a guide and dropped several layers of suspicion and reserve. It annoyed him, because it couldn't help but invalidate some of his observations, but he went with it since it would get him out of the PD that much faster.

The only bobble was when they were on the way back up from the records room, a place Taggart warned Blair would spend a great deal of time if Ellison had anything to say about it, and bumped, almost literally into another sentinel. Blair recognized him from the last cattle call, but as was custom, pretended he'd never seen him before. The sentinel wasn't as polite, looking him over as he were dessert, but Joel came to the rescue again by interposing himself between them and murmuring, "Ellison's."

Every trace of emotion faded and the sentinel gave a sharp nod of acceptance before simply leaving. Unable to stop a sigh of relief, Blair leaned back on the wall and hid his eyes with a hand. "He's new to the PD?"

"Here to give testimony in a seriously nasty case; maybe you should stick close to me or Ellison for a while. Oh, and borrow one his shirts for a few days, to get his smell on you." Taking Blair's next question for granted, Taggart added, "Despite the bad guys best attempts, bombs still smell and sound like bombs. I've worked with Jim on more than a few cases, and read up on guides so I could be more of a help to him."

"He's got that much control?" Blair asked, interested in spite of himself.

"Yeah, though when he zones, he is *gone,* man. No one can bring him out. But unless he's tired or stressed, he does okay. Just about every unpaired sentinel that comes through here aspires to be Ellison, but none of them have half the skill he does." Joel checked his watch and gestured for Blair to continue on ahead of them.

Once they were in the relative privacy of the elevator, Joel stole a sideways glance and asked with patently false casualness, "That happen often? I mean, sentinels just coming up to you in public to check you out?"

Leaning his head back against the wall, eyes closed, Blair said, "It's a sense thing they can't really help when they're under duress. My pheromones and personal energies create a clarity and precision to their senses that can be startling and very appealing. Thankfully I'm allowed to completely ignore them in most situations. If they really want to meet me, they have to go through the proper channels and do it under controlled circumstances with a senior paired sentinel overseeing the contact. That way my responses can be monitored, and I don't get matched to someone I don't like. There are those who think I shouldn't have that choice."

"Not sentinels, I bet. You don't trade one life for another," Taggart said with such solid conviction that Blair decided he really liked the soulful cop. "Can you get out of the pairing if it doesn't work for you?"

"No. Legally, the sentinel has all the control because it's his life that's at stake. I'm expected to move in with him, or have him move in with me, to change my career so that I can work with him, do whatever I have to do in order to accommodate his senses." Blair didn't try to hide his bitterness. "As you can imagine, most people with the guide genome prefer to stay unpaired."

"So why are there any pairings at all? The ones I've worked with seem truly devoted to each other; an odd mix of married and officially partnered."

Because Joel sounded genuinely interested, and because Blair wanted as many allies as possible while he was working with the cops, Blair said slowly, "I've only seen the pairing happen once, and I got a chance to ask the guide why she agreed to take on a sentinel. She said it was the right thing for her to do and right person for her to do it with." He sighed, and stood straight. "Thing is, possible guides are known for making life-altering decisions based on little or nothing and being dead right nearly every time. I've done it myself, but I can't see just *surrendering* like that."

"Maybe it's something like love at first sight," Joel said dubiously.

"Could be." Blair nodded at the floor indicator, showing they were nearing their destination. "I don't have anything against those who pair, and yes, it bothers me that some sentinel somewhere could be going through hell without me as their guide, but I will not be emotionally blackmailed into giving anyone, even someone I love, total control of my life."

There was nothing but understanding and sympathy in Joel, and just before the doors opened, he whispered, "You can trust Jim to respect your choices." With that, he left for a meeting he'd already told Blair about, giving a small wave as he strode off.

Blair stared after him, a little hope flaring despite his best attempts to stay suspicious and on guard. It didn't stop him from planning on zipping into the bullpen just long enough to grab his things and go. He'd done enough for the day; for the week if he had his way.

As if reading his mind, Jim - no, Ellison, he had to maintain a distance between them, and calling him by his last name would remind Blair of that - kept his head down over the file spread over his desk, pen making neat, precise comments on a pad next to him. Despite his best intentions, Blair noticed the photos of various tattoos fanned out so that just the art showed, and paused to look closely at them. Without thinking he said, "You cataloguing gamer memes for some reason, like they catalogue gang tats and tags to keep track of ganger movement?"

Head shooting up, Ellison said, "Memes?"

"Yeah, icons, personal symbols. These are all for Hunter One, which is a way hot online game right now." Blair picked up one of the pictures, and pointed. "See, the banding here? That's how you know which game the wearer is into. The coloring and thickness of the outlines indicates what group - called clans - they're affiliated with. These are all from different clans, but that's the beauty of the onlines. Your team can be scattered all over the country, or all in the same room. I wanted to include them in my closed communities studies, but they're not, really, just socially isolated, though I think I could have made a case, if I'd wanted."

"Whoa, Chief, whoa." Ellison compared the photographs. "These are like tribal markings; a way to ID friend and foe?"

Delighted at his choice of reference, Blair said, "Got it in one. So is the department thinking they need to be able to read them for some reason? They worried the gangers will take offense or something?"

Absently, looking over each photo carefully, Ellison said, "We've got five dead kids, one girl and four boys, all between fourteen and nineteen, all with one of these inked onto their body somewhere visible on the upper torso. Coroner says it's a temp, but a long lasting one, and all have had them for a couple of weeks, at least."

"Dead," Blair said, shocked. "These are pictures of bodies?"

Apparently the distress got through to Ellison. He turned the pictures over, then shuffled them into a folder. "Homicide handed them over to Major Crimes because they're thinking they've got a new kind of serial killer. Cause of death was different in each case, but all were dumped in the same area - Tyler Point, which is a long distances away from their home in a couple of instances. It's also the only thing they have in common so far. One was beaten beforehand, the girl had defensive wounds, a couple had drugs in their systems, one was a good students but several were indifferent to bad - different schools, different social circles, different neighborhoods, different ethnic backgrounds. They could have been randomly pulled from the street for all we can tell."

"But now you know they all played the same online game," Blair pointed out.

Dismissively Ellison said, "Along with how many million other kids their age?"

"Okay, I'll give you that, but the ink jobs are expensive enough that they're not casual players, and all of them have the star on the edge that only high scorers are supposed to have." When Ellison didn't respond, Blair added tightly, "You got any other leads?"

"We're trying to track down who provided the temp tattoos; it could be the link." Ellison sat back, thinking about the information Blair had given him with obvious reluctance, but thinking all the same. "Not much of a chance, though, since all you need to make one yourself on your home printer is special paper and ink. Been checking into the art itself, hoping the artist could be useful."

Dragging up a chair and taking out his handheld, Blair said, "There are programs for that, believe it or not. With basic templates and graphics you can customize your own meme using click & drag. You do see originals, but that's a major, major player who probably does cash prize tournaments. None of those looked pro."

"Damn."

Grinning, Blair added, "However, memes are cataloged, with profiles, by the company that invented and runs the server for the game. Maybe what the kids have in common is *where* they played. There are rec centers, gaming rooms, even community clubhouses where gamers congregate before and after they play. Not to mention that wining is much more fun with an audience."

"That'll be in the online profiles?" Ellison asked, scooting so he had a better view of the screen.

"No, but players have to have accounts with real names and addys, and you, being a cop and all, can contact the company to get what you need." Blair clicked through pages to get one where he could use sort parameters based on clans and the basic glyphs he'd seen.

Some time later he sat back, fingers drumming as he scanned Ellison's info. "Damn. Half only played at home, and the others were scattered all over the city."

Frowning Ellison stood and reached for his coat. "I need to learn more about this game. Which one of those clubs is closest?"

Automatically standing with him, Blair shut down his handheld and pulled his things together. "Like kids are going to talk to you. Not only are you an adult, you're a badge, man."

"I'm a sentinel. As soon as they're sure I'm not there for a bust, they'll relax."

Blair snorted at the conceit in the calm statement and followed Ellison to his vehicle, which turned out to be a superbly restored '69 Ford truck with a modernized hybrid engine, and not the departmental issue Blair had expected. It wasn't until he'd put on the seat belt that he realized that he'd simply assumed he'd be going along, and for no good reason that he could see. Nonplused, he snuck a glance at Ellison, who seemed to take his presence for granted.

That bothered him even more, but self-contemplation while tearing through downtown traffic at illegal speeds was not really practical, forcing him to push aside his confusion. After a few miles he made a mental note to never, ever ride with Ellison again, or, at the very least, have crash webbing installed in the passenger side of the truck, vintage be damned. After the second sharp right with squealing tires and a dangerous sway that felt like a hiccup away from a rollover, he gave up all pretense at dignity and braced himself with both legs on the dash.

"Aren't you supposed to be all protective and careful of me?" Blair gasped out.

With what Blair was willing to swear was the promise of a smile at the corner of his mouth, Ellison said, "This is nothing; don't even have to stretch the senses or reflexes. Wait 'til we do a hot pursuit, with sirens and lights."

The only answer Blair had for that was an 'eep' of pure fear as Ellison blew through a yellow light, millimeters ahead of a rig who was doing a right on red. For the rest of the ride he concentrated on not disgracing himself by squealing like a girl, and, weirdly enough, by the time they arrived at a dilapidated three-story building with a wrap-around porch, he had even begun to relax somewhat. That didn't stop him from wanting to kiss the ground as he got out of the truck.

Blair wanted to be annoyed but wound up intrigued when the kids hanging around on the sidewalk and outside of the house tensed, taking on pure teener hostility until Ellison made a show of hanging his badge, gold edged with black for a sentinel, around his neck. They mellowed to curiosity thinly disguised as surliness, watching them while pretending not to. For some reason Ellison took his time locking up the truck and checking out the area.

Ellison pulled a bill out of his wallet, tore it in two, and held a piece of it up in the air. "Half now, half when I come out and find my ride exactly like I left it."

After a murmur of conversation, an incredibly skinny kid of about fifteen with bright purple hair sauntered up and snatched at the money. "Look out, only, Badge."

"Deal," Ellison said blandly, "As long as you don't try to convince me you don't have the streets to know which way the shit is about to flow."

The teener shrugged irritably, but went back to his banister perch with an air of satisfaction. The exchange, Blair saw in bafflement, had set the tone for the rest of the crew hanging around. They went back to their conversations and horseplay, acknowledging Ellison with a shrug or careless hand gesture as he and Blair went past them.

Once in the house, Blair had to pause a second for his eyes to adjust to the flickering gloom, and that gave him the chance to realize that, while all the kids were all affecting nonchalance or indifference, there was an atmosphere of accomplishment underlying their act. From the faint hint of cigarette smoke in the air, he guessed that they had successfully removed or disposed of any illegals or contraband they'd had on hand that could have been perceived by a sentinel. A split second later he realized that had been the true reason for the exchange outside; Ellison had been giving them time to realize he was there and clean up.

It was so not what he expected from a law enforcement officer that he missed Ellison's opening moves. By the time Blair recovered, the sentinel was sitting on a battered footstool, comparing his weapon to the fake one a player was showing him. He went so far as to let the girl hold his piece to get the weight and feel of it - clip carefully removed and held at the ready.

With nothing else to do, Blair circulated through the club rooms, fitting himself into a bit of conversation there, starting another there with a pertinent question, as he'd learned to do a long, long time ago. It didn't take him long to discover the kids knew about the deaths of the other players, and that most of them were acquainted with the deceased, by screen name and reputation if nothing else. No one had any solid information; just the usual anti-establishment prejudices or urban myth style theories they were eager to air.

He suspected that would change from clan to clan. This one was comprised mainly of the new 'working poor' - abandoned, neglected, or dumped-out-of-the-foster-system kids who didn't have the grades or resources to go to college or trade school, destined to work minimum wage jobs until poverty burned them out. Contrary to popular belief, this bunch, at least, hadn't surrendered to hopelessness or anger; their club was proof of that. While a trusted adult probably nominally owned the building, the kids pooled whatever resources to pay for the basics of power and water, and lived upstairs. It got no upkeep, but was clean for all that.

The cupboard, Blair soon saw, was very bare, though, and most of the teeners he spoke to felt so hungry his own stomach twisted in sympathy. Unable to stand it, he found a private spot and ordered a bunch of pizzas to be delivered, several nutritionally vegetarian in the hope that they would get eaten, if only because they were food and on hand. Because of the address he had to give out his credit account number, and he mentally juggled figures, deciding he'd sell a few things to pay the bill.

Slowly he migrated back to the main room where the clan's true investment lay - several pure screens hooked up to state of the art gaming systems. He'd be willing to bet that at least one of the kids was a gifted tech with no formal or legit training that could get him a decent job. Still, it was a tradable skill, and probably explained the quality of their equipment. And empty larders.

Ellison was playing against a guy that whispers said was the best in the house and one of the tops in the city. The teeners were astounded that the sentinel was holding his own, but strangely willing to accept the claim that he'd never played before. A muttered comment gave the senses the credit, but Blair muttered back that it was more than that.

The girl - so frail and tiny that he couldn't begin to guess her age - squirmed onto the back of a chair filled with two other kids. "Whadya mean?"

"Well, you'd use sight and hearing, maybe smell, if you were hunting for real, right?" Blair said, unintentionally sliding into teacher mode.

"Yeah, and smell wouldn't do him any good here, and guess maybe sight would be bogus, too, since it's like, a picture," she said thoughtfully. "Nothing real there on the fringes for him to pick up on, right?"

Smiling his approval, Blair said, "And sound is a recording. He dials up, all he gets is background garbage from where the recording was made."

"So how come he's not tanking?" an older teen next to Blair's elbow asked.

"Part reflexes, part instinct, and mostly experience. He's hunted for real." Blair pointed to the urban maze of back streets, abandoned buildings, and half-demolished ruins on the screen. "That's his turf on a daily basis, and his life depends on his ability to navigate it."

"Huh. We screw up, we just go back a level or lose a life. He screws up, he's permanently gone. That's motivation you can't unlearn, I bet." The kid nodded to himself, satisfied with his deductions.

Blair beamed at him, and turned his attention back to the game play. When it reached a save point, Ellison logged off, took off his headset, and offered his hand to his opponent, thanking him for the competition and clearly making the teen's day. Reaching for his wallet, he went to the door, opened it before the pizza delivery guy could knock, and paid in cash after tearing up the credit slip.

As he took the load of boxes, Ellison called out, "Okay, who takes pepperoni and mushroom?" Just like that he was a loser being a good sport, which let the teeners take the food without shame or feeling bribed. He helped himself to several slices, casually rehashing the round he'd played, and learning an amazing amount about the people around him.

The same tiny girl from earlier found a corner of a table to sit on and took the slice Blair passed to her. "You look like you went in to take a math test and got socked with a geography quiz."

A laugh bubbled out unexpectedly, and Blair waved toward Ellison. "Just realizing I've got a blind spot. I was thinking your crowd would freeze him out solid because he's a badge, not treat him like a favorite teacher."

"Well," she said seriously, "He's *the* badge, not a badge. It makes a difference. He's what cops are supposed to be: protection, justice, compassion, fairness. We're not stupid; we know sentinels can go rogue. But even a rogue will die trying to protect a kid, if they don't get a chance to think about it."

"You don't think that's all just sound bytes from talking heads?" Blair said, truly curious about the attitude. "Propaganda to convince the john q. public of the value of sentinels?"

Shaking her head, she took a huge bite, chewed enthusiastically, and said around her mouthful, "With the 'net you can get all the info - bogus, legit, and backstabbing. It takes awhile, especially with all the garbage the gov dumps, but you do learn how to filter to the roots."

"You're unusual in that, then. Most believe the gossip and bullshit they hear on the street or from friends who are all air and no solid info."

"We're broke, not ignorant," she said sharply.

"So I'm learning." Blair let his honesty speak for itself, mollifying her ire into what looked very much like resignation.

"Most of us don't have real family, so we make our own, and that lets us hold it together, but it's not much help with authorities and official types. You can't give 'em an address that's more than where you been crashing for the past couple of days, and all kinds of things are suddenly out of reach, you know?"

"I've been there," Blair admitted. "It gets better, I swear. You learn how to work the system, work the suits."

She shrugged, took another enormous chunk off her slice, and added wistfully, "What's does it feel like to have someone who's going to be there for you for the rest of your life?"

Before Blair could correct her mistake, Ellison's phone rang, and he took off for the door, pulling Blair along with him with the urgency in his expression. Sparing a split-second to hand the girl his card and a whispered 'text me', he raced after him.

Once back in the truck - the rest of the twenty in the hands of the owner of the other half - Ellison said, "Another body, dumped close to where the others were found."

"Oh, man." Blair did not want to be a part of that scene, and mentally flipped through his files for a good reason for Ellison to leave him at the station.

As he was settling on the most reasonable sounding one, Ellison reached for his arm. "Do you mind?"

"Huh? I..." Blair said, caught by surprise, to say the least. "You want to ground on me? Okay, I guess."

It wasn't a warm welcome, but apparently all Ellison expected. He pushed up Blair's sleeve until he could wrap his fingers around his forearm, eyes closing in concentration. For some reason Blair thought he was doing more than listening, or maybe listening with more than his ears. After a moment he released Blair, put the truck in gear, and drove away.

"As far as I can tell, no one's checking in on us," Ellison said absently, driving more sensibly as he used his senses to search for surveillance. "You need to know that the reason the profilers are keeping a close eye on you is because of your lack of strong ties to family or community. As far as they're concerned, that means there's nothing and nobody to stop you from drifting away from reality. Rainier considers you such an asset to their anthropology program they're more than willing to go along with whatever the so-called experts claim you need so you'll keep chasing after their cheese."

Using obscenities in every language he knew, Blair swore and pounded on the dashboard in front of him. Finally, he spat out, "They make me teach all the freshman classes so that sheer numbers stop me from having 'undue influence on young minds,' line up publishing and academic expectations that keep me scrambling to do anything *besides* live up to them, and make sure everybody knows what I am, despite those extremely useless privacy laws. How the hell am I supposed have any significant, long-lasting relationships? How can they penalize me for being the only child of an only child who was orphaned?"

"It's not about you as a person at all." Ellison waved at the world in general, as if to point out that Blair was hardly the only human in it. "You're a resource, a commodity, a statistic, a tiny piece of the big picture. They deal in generalities because specifics aren't useful for what they need to accomplish."

"And that makes their treatment of me okay," Blair bit out. "My individuality is null and void because, god forbid, they have to judge me or any other guide on their own merits. Then they'd have to treat us as people, not things."

"Bureaucracies always treat the public as faceless entities; they have to. It's the only way to handle large numbers with something resembling equality and impartiality. You do it, too. You see a sentinel and clump me in with all the rest without giving a single thought as to who *I* am, because you need to regard us as all the same."

Incensed because Ellison was turning this back on him, because he was being sane and reasonable when Blair needed him to be righteously angry on his behalf, because the honest part of him knew Ellison was right, Blair exploded. "Well of course *you* support the status quo. After all, this entire setup in for your benefit. Damnit, you even get to see my personal files, privacy laws be damned. Like what you contribute is so much more valuable than anything I could ever do on my own that you're entitled to do whatever you want where me or any other guide is concerned. So what if a few sacrifices, like personal liberty and happiness, are made, so long as you can do your job to the best of your abilities, because so many more people will benefit. Hell, even those kids think that sentinels are important, precious...."

Brakes squealing, truck shuddering painfully, Ellison pulled to the nearest curb. "Keep them out of your self-pity. They're doing the best they can with what life dumped on them, and not whining about it. Get out of the truck. Now, Sandburg."

Dumbfounded, Blair stared at him, tirade completely forgotten.

Reaching across him, Ellison undid his seat belt and threw open the passenger door. "I said out."

There was a thread of danger, of pure animal rage under the terse words that put Blair in motion before his conscious mind caught up to the suddenness of Ellison's attack. Working almost on autopilot he scooped up his backpack and slid out. Before he could even think to do it, Ellison swung the door shut, locked it, and peeled off, not once looking back as far as Blair could tell.

Belatedly his brain kicked into gear. He was alone on a dark street with no idea precisely where he was, and his place was completely across town. Looking around to orient himself, he saw a lighted bus stop and trotted in that direction, pulling out the laminated pass attached to his zipper. While he waited, he called Ellison every name he could think of and dreamed up creative ways to get even with him for abandoning him without so much as a chance to defend himself.

It wasn't until he was on the bus that Blair realized how unlikely it was that there would just happen to be a stop where Ellison had tossed him out. And that he could see Blair had the pass on him. "Protecting me even when he's pissed?" That didn't seem like enough of an explanation, and he unhappily admitted to himself that bringing up the teeners to make a point wasn't cool. Not when Ellison was as helpless as he was to do more to improve their lot as Blair was.

Which was the real point, wasn't it, Blair decided glumly, watching Cascade stream past the bus window. There's nothing he could do to help Blair, either, except what he was already doing - his best to make it possible for Blair to get his degree without the risk of being saddled with a sentinel he didn't want.

"Another rejection for him to swallow down, this one personal because I'm not a nameless candidate standing in an otherwise empty room," Blair muttered to himself, feeling about three inches tall.

The guilt didn't stop him from staying away from the station as much as possible for the next few weeks, and as far away from Ellison as he could during those brief visits. Without being asked, Ellison kept him up to speed on the Gamer's deaths with a few curt comments, and gave him copies of his files so that Blair would have an idea about the other cases on his plate. The other cops chalked up the antagonism between them to Ellison's attitude about partners, and did their best to cooperate with Blair, as if that would make up for it.

That ate at Blair too because he didn't so much as hint that he was as much in the wrong as Ellison was. Sheer desperation sent him back to Bruckner's office twice more to try to wiggle out of the PD chapters, using the very honest argument that his temporary guide status was invalidating his observations. As far as most of the cops were concerned, Blair was one of them on an honorary basis until Ellison got rid of him.

Both times Bruckner heard him out, then repeated that there were no options available, and escorted Blair out.

It was, Blair reflected glumly, head down over a stack of surveys that he had coaxed and cajoled every cop he could latch onto for five minutes into filling out, for no reason except to see if they would, a no-win situation all the way around. He simply wasn't capable of maintaining the level of belligerence/assholiness that might protect him from his own folly, but he needed some defenses, some protection, damnit. Ellison's stonily abrasive exterior wasn't grinding away Blair's innate need to make things right between them. It was refining it, as if buffing away all the bullshit and leaving him with too clear an idea of how much Ellison hurt.

Simon's bellow of "Sandburg, my office, now," broke into Blair's thoughts, and he got up from the desk, reflecting that the common-place nature and tone of the summons was another example of how well he'd been accepted. Once he was inside the office, Banks offered him a cup of coffee, which Blair took eagerly. He had no idea who Simon's source was, but, man, he had the good stuff.

After an appreciative swallow, Blair swung into a run down of his activities around the station, adding a bit of gossip here and there because he'd learned Banks liked to keep tabs on the undercurrents within the force. When he was done, he sat back, pen in hand, waiting for Banks' usual comments and suggestions. To his surprise, Banks sat back, sipping at his coffee and regarding him over the rim of the cup long enough for Blair to wonder what he'd done wrong.

Finally Banks said, "Hal tells me you're still trying to get out of working here."

"Well, you see..." Blair hunched his shoulders, an untamed flurry of pure lies springing to his lips.

Cutting him short with an upheld hand, Banks put down his cup. "This room is shielded for privacy, not just from sentinels but from electronics, so I'm going to be bluntly honest. Hal covered for you; no one knows besides him and me that you've got an issue here. You don't want the wrong people wondering why you're so frantic to get away from Ellison."

"Oh, man," Blair moaned.

"It doesn't help that Ellison has made the same request. In his opinion you are too distrustful of any cop, sentinel or not, to be able to work with them safely." Banks leaned forward, finger tapping on his desk. "He has never, *never* tried to wiggle out of an assignment once I made it clear that it was not an option. His doing so now convinces me that he's truly worried, but again, if I let you slide, the wrong people are going to ask the wrong questions. Can you really afford that?"

Fighting the urge to pull his knees up to his chest and bawl like a scolded kid, Blair said softly, "No. And much as I hate to admit it, the dis does need the inclusion of the police department, if it's going to be a valid work. I just don't know how to work around the sentinel thing. It was fairly easy to handle the EMT's and Fire Departments, groups like that, because I was able to get into units with either no sentinels or already paired ones. And for the record, Ellison's doing his best. Did you know he's been leaving one of his shirts on the coat rack by his desk for me to slip on while I'm here, to use his scent shield me from other sentinels?"

"Yeah, but he's never slacked on doing what was needed for any other Possible I've had to turn over to him, however begrudgingly and acerbically." Banks flipped open a folder in front of him, scanning over the contents. "There's been four since he signed on with the department, and while the nicest thing any of them had to say was that Ellison had all the emotional warmth of a toaster, they all reported that he did nothing to make their assignment more difficult." He snorted to himself, muttering, "Given some of the letters you've got in your jacket, Jim, it's a wonder HDA hasn't made an exception for you personally just so they don't have to worry about you being a bad influence on some poor optimistic guide."

Despite it all, Blair couldn't stop a surge of curiosity. That was Ellison's official file? Was there any way to get Banks to share a few more tidbits? What questions could he legitimately ask that Banks might feel free to answer?

The phone rang as Banks was reading, and he reached for it without looking up, though he almost instantly shut the file and went on alert. "When? Now? No, the timing is not good. No, no - if that's what it takes I'll be there. Give me five." He stood and shrugged into his suit jacket. "High profile witness has something special to drop but only if I can give him personal assurances that a deal will be cut that includes Erase and Relocation."

Banks hesitated and looked Blair over as if trying to decide where they both stood at the moment. "Look, Sandburg, we have to come to some kind of resolution on this. You stay in here a few and give serious thought to what can be done to get you to a comfort level so you won't be endangered while you're riding with Ellison, and you *are* going to ride with him. He's the best - and safest - for you."

He left on that note, and Blair went ahead and curled up, head on his knees. Inhaling and exhaling slowly, he purposefully defied Banks and didn't try to think at all. The ruts in his brain were too well worn, too deep, and he was long past being able to see over them. What he needed was a way to kick himself outside the box, force a new perspective on the entire situation.

Nothing came to him, and he found himself eyeing the folder sitting so innocently on the captain's desk: Ellison's formal record, all the official events that made up who and what Sentinel Detective James Ellison was. Maybe if he knew more about him, how he came to be where he was, it would be easier for Blair to accept him at face value.

He was, he realized dimly, talking himself into invading the privacy of a very reserved person, but he had to find a way to reconcile the passionate lover he'd taken a Walk with to the dour sentinel he was assigned to. Slowly, as if the folder could literally explode, Blair got up and went to stand behind Banks' desk, unwilling to move it for fear Banks would know he'd looked through it. In sudden surety he flipped it open and began to read, hitting only the high points.

"Cop of the Year, twice in row," Blair mumbled, zipping past press clippings, not particularly surprised Ellison had been in the media a number of times, both for praise and for criticism. He had other official awards and commendations, but, as Banks had mentioned, he more than a few letters of reprimand, too, worded in a way that convinced Blair that if Jim hadn't ultimately been in the right, he would have been fired. The real shocker was the I.A. investigation when Jim's first, and so far only, steady partner had disappeared. Reading between the lines, Blair could tell that they had no honest reason to think Jim was dirty, which didn't stop them from periodically finding reasons to harass him.

"Personal grudge, I'll bet." Blair scanned quickly over Jim's official stats - solved, convicted, cold, weapon drawn, weapon fired, sensory acuity levels. At the very back was the personal information he'd been hoping for without admitting to himself that was what he wanted most. "Left home at seventeen, no further contact, unaware of latent abilities, Army, Ranger, Captain at absurdly young age, team crashed over *Peru?* Wow. I remember reading about that in a magazine article. Lost all his men and stayed in the area for eighteen months. No wonder he was online when he came back, and my, doesn't HDA sound touchy that Ellison claims a native guide taught him everything he needs to be able to survive without one. His record sure backs that."

Carefully, almost reverently, Blair closed the folder and went back to his seat, turning it all over in his head. "Damn. Left home that young, no idea what he was? Sounds like abuse to me. Being a sentinel sure hasn't saved him from his more than share of pain, has it? Double damn. He didn't know what was hidden in his genes, any more than I did. At least my traits were always there; familiar tools I don't think much about. He got slammed with his. I've heard how rough that is."

Though Banks' order had implied that he stay put, Blair didn't want or need to talk to him right away. Still deep in thought, he left automatically walking toward Ellison's desk only to pull up short when he realized the owner occupied it. Blue eyes flashed up to his, then dropped too quickly.

On the heels of that came Blair's recognition of the setup. In typical Ellison fashion, the sentinel was doing his best to do what was right and fair. If he knew more about Blair than Blair was happy with, then he'd balance the books by showing Blair the truth about himself in a way that wouldn't require either of them to acknowledge he'd done it.

Emotionally teetering on a ledge he didn't have a name for, Blair crossed the tiny gap between them. "One question, and I promise I'll let it all go." Ellison didn't say anything, but Blair took a deep breath anyway. "HDA is very closed mouthed about sentinel rules and regulations, but I've always heard that the sentinel informs them who he wants for a guide, if he wants one at all. Can they *make* you take one?"

"No. They can and do threaten, bluster, even go to my boss and tell him I'm unfit for duty, but the simple fact is that if I don't trust my guide implicitly, there's no point in having him." The grimness that tightened Ellison's mouth showed that he understood the irony in the situation, even if the powers that be were oblivious to it.

Blair took another deep breath. "Okay, then." He sat down and opened up his handheld. "What's this I hear that maybe not all the bodies in the Gamer's case have been found?"

***

Back crammed into a corner, Blair watched Ellison methodically search the small bedroom, constantly scanning, occasionally touching or shifting various objects. In the few months since he had allowed himself to relax in the sentinel's company, he had watched him work many times, clinging to his own role of observer and never, ever offering support as a guide, despite the intricacies of the cases they worked. It had been much easier than he had expected. Ellison rarely asked, usually only when intense concentration was needed, and even then all he seemed to want was for Blair to be close.

It also hurt in ways that he could have never anticipated. The two times Ellison had zoned in his presence, it had taken everything Blair had not to go to him to bring him back. As Joel had warned, when Ellison went, he went deep and stayed there, usually jarring out of it for no reason that Blair could begin to identify. It was a measure of the respect that Ellison commanded that the other officers on hand would cover for him, protecting him as best they could until he could protect himself. Ellison always acknowledged their support with an exhausted glance and nod, yet neither he nor the officers blamed Blair for not stepping in.

As Blair had overheard one succinctly state, "Who the hell in their right mind would willingly partner with Ellison?" To Blair's astonishment, a part of him had whispered that he would, if they had been just two people trying to do a job that he could see and feel the value of more clearly every day. If Ellison had been just a cop, just a gorgeous, intelligent, man with a sly, shy wit and good heart, Blair would have wrapped his arms around him and done his best to pour every ounce of his strength into him.

Instead he stood squashed in a corner, questions equally squashed by an impatient, irritated snarl, as Ellison fruitlessly sought some clue, some hint to the reason nine young lives had been ended. And Blair couldn't help but ask himself would he have found it by now if Blair wasn't so terrified of doing more than observing. Ellison himself hadn't so much as suggested the possibility by word or deed, though he found plenty of other things to snap and scowl about.

Blair didn't hold it against him. He could see the weight of guilt and frustration wearing at the sentinel; could feel it as deeply as his own.

Stubbornly telling himself it was his conscience speaking out, he said, "Which sense are you using? Maybe I can help you focus better, or take on the more superficial stuff."

Eyes moving, moving, Ellison said absently, "I'm not working with the senses. Don't usually; they're like my gun or badge - a tool with its uses. They're not needed here."

That didn't sound right to Blair, and he frowned." Why not? I mean, it's an edge, right?"

"Modern forensics can do more than a sentinel ever could. It's not like I can memorize the fingerprint database or can identify every microscopic trace I come across." Ellison stooped, fingers flitting along the underside of a shelf in the closet. "And our team is good. They won't have missed anything that a sentinel would have picked up on in a standard search."

Curious despite himself, Blair said, "I never thought about how sentinels would work with forensics. Aren't you, well, sort of in competition with them?"

"Not really. I might spot something I'd like them to check out for me, or, if time is a factor, they might ask me to do what I can without waiting for the tests to come in. Generally I'm no different from any other cop to them." Ellison flashed his rare grin suddenly. "In fact, I dated the head of forensics for a long time; nearly married her. Now, what do we have here?"

The tidbit of personal information was irresistible to Blair. Taking advantage of Ellison's distraction with what he'd found, he asked softly, "Why'd it break off?"

Mind clearly on what he was trying to tease from its hiding place, Ellison said, "Said she could stand sharing me with the job; that was part of being with a cop. But she wouldn't share me with a guide."

Feeling every last bit of color drain, Blair pressed back harder into his corner, palms flat on the wall.

Lips a tight, white line, Ellison wheeled to stare at him. "Sentinels and guides aren't necessarily lovers, and I wouldn't share, either. There are married sentinels who have guides, and married guides who work with sentinels. It's nobody business how they handle what happens among the three of them. In Carolyn's case, she was put off when one of the unpaired sentinels she worked with, a really arrogant ass who claimed that a guide was nothing but a weight holding a sentinel back, suddenly came to work with one in tow, obviously totally besotted with her. It didn't help that I approved. Sentinels like that usually wind up being recruited by some of the less savory alphabet agencies and die young on a mission with no real value except to some paranoid politician."

Weirdly, Blair fought down the urge to apologize, though for what, he wasn't sure. "You can't blame her for being concerned that she might suddenly acquire competition for your time and attention."

Turning back to the shelf, Ellison said shortly, "She didn't know me at all if she thought I was even remotely capable of being less than one hundred percent committed to a wife or life partner."

"Isn't that what courtship and dating is all about? Learning things like that?"

"My point exactly."

Any rebuttal Blair might have made - including that trust takes more than time - was lost when Ellison produced a small black fabric bag from the slit hidden by the shelf, bits of tape still attached. He spilled out the contents onto the bed, and rapidly sorted through them. There were seven: a polished stone, a fast food toy, a miniature action figure, a Pez dispenser, a gaming dice, a playing card, and a Hotwheels car.

Picking up the car, Blair asked, "Why did he hide his mod trophies?"

Ellison swung his gaze up to him. "His what?"

"Mod trophies." Putting down the car, Blair poked at each of them in turn. "Hunter is one of those games that a player can build his own variation on if he has some basic programming skills. The really good players like seeing if they can improve on the original."

"I know about the mods," Ellison interrupted. "How can you get a trophy for one? There's nothing about that in the rules or game play."

"You do?"

Ellison brushed aside the question. "The trophies, Sandburg. I've found stashes like this in the possessions of the victims, but thought it was some fad or another since they're only similar, not identical."

"Whoa." Blair turned over each of them, looking for the memes of the mod designer. "Well, if it's a challenging but good mod, you leave a comment in the play blog for who did it, telling them so. Sometimes, the creator will let you know the mod is based on a real place, and you can run a variation of the computer play in real life. It's more a scavenger hunt/ orienteering exercise than anything else, but some players really get into them. If they do the real life run, there's a token at the end of it to prove that they made it through."

Examining each of the toys in turn, Ellison put them back in their bag. "You're telling me that the game can move from the screen to a physical location, and that the deceased did it if they have the tokens."

"Unless they were a gift, which is unlikely." Excitement rising, Blair pointed to the PC on the desk. "There will be a record of which mods he played. We can compare them to the others to see which they have in common."

"And the one they *don't* have a trophy for is the one they died while playing." Ellison made for the door, taking Blair by the elbow to bring him along. "That explains why not all the top players are dead, and why some of the bodies are so far from home."

"Where're we going?"

"Beamer will be able to find out which trophies are for which mods, even if he doesn't play them." At what Blair knew had to be the blank expression on his face, Ellison added, "The kid who taught me the game."

"You've stayed in touch?" Blair had no idea Ellison had done that and couldn't fathom why.

"Yes." That seemed to be all he had to say on the subject. Jaw muscle jumping, he led the way to the truck, making sure the house was locked behind him as he left.

The silence dragged on, and while Blair had learned to appreciate comfortable quiet Ellison often surrounded himself with, this time it wore at him. Ruefully he admitted that it was because he'd put his foot in it with the man over the past hour. Finally he couldn't stand the weight of the stillness and groped for a topic of conversation that Ellison might respond to.

A bump in the road drew his attention to the black bag, and his earlier question rose again in his mind. "I still don't get why he hid his trophies."

A split second later, Blair thought, *Damn. Did it again. What's wrong *this* time?*

Vibrating with barely contained anger, Ellison said grimly, "The parents, Silas and Eloise Weathers, are extreme religious conservatives. 'Frivolous pastimes' are forbidden in their house, especially violent computer games. Their son didn't associate with the sort of worthless, godless young people who would corrupt his spiritual upbringing and pure intellect. They are so convinced I'm on the wrong track that they've tried repeatedly to either get their son's case investigated separately from the others or get me removed from it. Wouldn't even be in the house while I was searching, insisting there would be nothing of interest there."

"Oh, man." Blair put his head back on the truck seat and closed his eyes. "I take it they home schooled him to control who he knew and had the max parental controls on their screen and his PC to control what he learned." He nudged the bag between them. "Going by how well that was stashed, so that even forensics didn't find it, the poor kid's used to having his room tossed by his parents. I wonder how long he's been hiding himself from them?"

"A very, very long time." There was something in Ellison's voice that popped Blair's eyes open, and he caught a flash of ancient pain in the sentinel's expression before he went on. "He's a top player, but not one we have a body for. It's possible, like a couple of the others, he's moved on, in this case, as a runaway."

"So far you've only got a half dozen or so that aren't accounted for, right? And no new bodies," Blair said encouragingly, more to keep him talking than because he needed to go over the particulars of the case again.

"Right. A few found another game that grabbed them more so they're not playing Hunter now. A couple had a change of circumstances where playing isn't possible, like the kid who had an accident and is in long term care." Ellison drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "Given what we know about the ones we haven't found, it's likely some are either homeless or broke right now. They might surface in another few weeks, when subsidy funds go out." The drumming turned into a fist lightly tapping. "If he hasn't stopped killing, it doesn't make sense to dump some bodies and not others. Even the profilers are chewing on that."

"Could the killer be doing it for that reason? To confuse the issue? I mean, everybody knows that what you see on the screens isn't anything like what a cop really does, but at the same time, a lot of the cliches have sunk in so deep that people, especially kids, have huge misconceptions." To himself, Blair added ruefully, Like me.

"Possibly, possibly. So here's another cliche for you; it doesn't feel right." Ellison made the last few words a sonorous proclamation, and Blair had to laugh.

From there the conversation wandered to cliches in general and how they propagated, padding the rest of the trip with jokes and a light banter that Blair had decided at the beginning he could get addicted to, no problem. Ellison didn't revert back to cop mode until he parked in front of the old house, and even then it was almost visibly a mask. As he got out, the same skinny kid from the first visit bopped out, huge grin in place.

"Badge! What brings you to the pits?"

Ellison said in the same playful way as he made his way up to the porch, "I'm low on my bust quota, Speed. Hold still so I can plant some bags on you."

"Hey, only if I get to sample it first!" The kid took the bill from Ellison and flung himself down on a banister, obviously to keep look out.

"What? And short my next customer? I don't think so." Ellison threw a soft punch that Speed met, knuckle -to -knuckle, and went inside.

Too bemused to do more than follow in the sentinel's wake and wonder when he'd found time to get so cozy with the teener clan, Blair stepped into the artificial gloom of the main room. Unsurprisingly, a major game was in progress, with a semi-attentive audience milling around behind the players, posturing and posing for each other. Ellison found a wall to lean on and joined them, obviously at home, and Blair wandered the rooms, comparing them to his last visit.

On the surface, the place was the same as before; gritty kids against a dilapidated but tidy background. Underneath, though, Blair could feel changes. Most obvious was that the edge of starvation hunger was gone. Oh, the normal buzz of teenaged appetite was still there, but it wasn't overwhelming. The mood held less angst and anger, as well, with a fragile optimism trying to infiltrate normal teener sullenness.

A closer look showed that the environment held subtle differences, as well. Broken cabinets had been inexpertly repaired, and several lights that hadn't been working were now. Blair thought that some of the worst furniture had been mended or replaced, though he wasn't sure. Studying an over-stuffed chair that was better somehow, he was caught off guard by a gentle hug from too-slender arms.

"Penny!" Blair laughed, turning gingerly return the hug. They had stayed in touch via emails and texting, hers usually filled with questions on how to help a friend or acquaintance navigate the bureaucracies that held the keys to money for trade school or college classes or other training. For the most part, she didn't talk about her own life, though Blair spotted bits and pieces of a lonely, precarious existence when she explained why she was the one doing the asking.

"Blair! I was hoping you'd come with Badge on one of his visits."

That there had been any visits still startled Blair, but he didn't let that show. "Looking to pick my brain in person?" he teased.

Grinning mischievously, Penny said, "Something like that." She gave him a push to seat him in the same chair he'd been eyeing and perched on the arm.

They spent a few minutes catching up with each other, then Blair became serious. "You still having trouble with that jerk at the store? It's illegal to offer you a full time position then keep you at under forty hours so you're not eligible for bennies."

"Try proving you were hired as 'full time' when you can't even access your own personnel record," she said with more wry humor than true anger. "It's okay. I'm getting enough to get by while I figure out what I really want to do." She giggled, the sound ringing like tiny bells. "Like most of the kids I chill with. I mean, I can't imagine liking anything so much I'd do it for the rest of my life, you know?"

"Who says it has to be the rest of your life?" Blair countered lightly. "Lots of people switch careers. Or they find a hobby they love and the job's inconsequential except that it pays for their obsession, whatever it is."

Plucking at a loose thread on the chair, Penny said with false casualness, "Actually, I'm thinking of submitting to DNA testing. I mean, you can't be required to do it, but it's a plus to most companies if you volunteer your profile when you apply, and if I'm going to be slotted with a mental, like schizophrenia, I'd like to know now."

"Aren't you worried you might have genetic disease markers, which could stop you from getting health insurance later?" Blair asked and added sympathetically, "Or that you might be slotted as a guide?"

"Would you believe I'm sorta, kinda hoping for the last?" she said with a sigh. She waved at the room in general, and went on. "We're pulling together a family here, and it feels good, works good. At the same time, it's too flimsy. People fight and take off, or drift away, like Tooks, who wouldn't give up the drugs when we decided staying totally clean would make it easier for Badge to keep us under his wing."

Blair mustered his arguments against being tested and stopped, suddenly reconsidering. For Penny, being a guide was a way out of poverty, if a sentinel chose her. She would be trained for whatever profession suited her pairing, and was guaranteed certain benefits even if a sentinel didn't select her. It was, in a way, like marrying a rich man, though most sentinels were only comfortable, financially.

Unable to believe, on one level, what he was thinking, Blair said slowly, "You could just ask Ellison, you know. That way if there is some bogey waiting in your genes, you don't have to worry about the outfall coming back to haunt you later."

"He can tell?"

Nodding, Blair said, "Possibly. He might already know, but hasn't said anything to you out of politeness. It's considered rude to bring it to anybody's notice, and it's likely to be way mistaken." Thinking about his first day at the station, he added honestly, "Not that it doesn't happen, if the sentinel is dialed up too high or too blown down, or if you're keyed up and pouring out the pheromones, but often that's just sexual attraction. One reason they don't use sentinels to locate guides."

"I..." Penny rubbed her hands over her thighs. "Does he have to tell anybody else?"

Again Blair had to stop a knee-jerk answer. The law said Jim had to; his heart said Jim wouldn't. "If you ask him to make it confidential, I think he will."

She considered that for a moment and got up. At the same time, Ellison materialized at her side, as if he'd been summoned, and for all Blair knew, the mere mention of guides had been enough to gain his attention.

Cupping her shoulders with careful palms, Ellison asked, "Are you sure?"

To give Penny credit, she thought it over, hard, but finally fisted her hands over her chest, pressing them tight to herself. "There's something here that already knows, but I need confirmation. Why, I don't know, but it's clawing at me. I've always trusted my instincts, which has saved me more than a little grief. I need to trust this, too."

Drifting his hands feather-light down her arms and back up again, Jim leaned in, face surprisingly serene. He brushed his cheek over hers, barely making contact, then straightened. Ushering her back to her seat on the chair arm, he reached into his back pocket for his wallet.

"If you're sure you want a sentinel, contact this couple," Jim said, signing the back of a business card and giving it to Penny. "They've been paired for longer than you've been alive, and she's the best guide in the business. After you've met them in person and they've got to know you a bit, you'll receive the occasional invitation to a barbeque or Habitat for Humanity house raising, something like that. There may or may not be sentinels there. You might never find your sentinel. In fact, it's likely you won't, given how few there are. But you will find friends, I'm sure."

Squatting down next to her, Jim laid a hand over hers. "And if you have your doubts, then why mess with what you've got here? You're the heart of the house; you're the reason they're all slowly but surely inching toward a life they can be proud of. I'm not saying it's all on you. The dynamics here are really good. Baring disaster, you're all creating a network that will sustain you and others after you. That's no small thing, and a much better use for a guide's talents than babysitting a, a, competent adult who should be capable of taking care of themselves."

Blair had the distinct impression that Jim had started to use another, more acidic, description for a sentinel. From the pensive look Penny gave him, he thought she'd caught it, too. Jim didn't give either of them an opportunity to call him on it, but stood, gesturing for Blair to do the same.

"Beamer did the search I asked for," he said strictly for Blair's ears, "and we think we've found the mod that all the victims have in common. He asked in the chats about which trophies went with which mods, too, and if there's a trophy for the suspect mod, no one's seen it. We need to get back to the station and bring Banks up to speed." With no more good-bye than a wave to the room, Ellison left, trading a last mock punch with Speed on the way out.

Reeling from the idea that Ellison didn't just personally dislike the idea of guides being pressured into pairings, but actively discouraged them from trying to find one voluntarily, Blair followed in his wake, beset by questions. Asking them wouldn't get him any where with Ellison, though, he knew from experience. He fumbled for something else to talk about before he exploded, a thousand different subjects bubbled through his brain, discarded almost as fast as they came to surface. Pulling on his hair in frustration, he opened his mouth and hoped that what popped out was coherent.

To his relief, he said, "The cupboards back there aren't as bare as they used to be - you paying Beamer to snitch?"

Flashing him a sidelong glance, Ellison said, "Expert consultant fee, which he is and which he deserves. When that dries up when the case is solved, I'll have something else for him, or the PD will. The E-department, especially, needs people savvy with what's current among the geeks."

"Who else you got on the department payroll?" Blair asked, sure that Ellison would gather in as many as he could so if one failed, others could take up the slack.

"No one - the PD's not running a charity group, Sandburg."

"As you pointed out, it's a legitimate expense if they have a service to offer."

Giving him another glance, Ellison shrugged. "Speed's good with engines; he's been helping at the department's motor pool on an as-needed basis. One of the kids, Wilson, was clearing out a patch of scrub behind the house, probably thinking about growing pot, at the time. He was having so much fun, I sent him to the wife of a cop I know whose part-time paying hobby is landscaping, which she does for friends. Wilson's got a knack for it and she'll keep him busy for a long while at a reasonable wage. There's a couple of other things like that going on."

At Blair's wide grin, he added, "What, you're the only one who can extend a helping hand? Or did you think I wouldn't find out that you're tutoring half of them for either a GED or college entrance exams?"

"Not half, and I do that anyway for the mentoring program I'm in now, thanks to you." Blair hadn't meant to let that last bit slip, but the little twist of a smile Ellison gave him made it worthwhile. "I can't believe I let myself get so over-focused on the degree and U."

"You were being nudged into it by people who thought they had your best interests, Chief. You're valuable to them - enthusiastic, energetic, gifted, and young, especially for someone only months away from a Ph.D. You can't blame Bruckner and the others at the U for trying to keep you fully absorbed in their world."

It was unexpected praise from an entirely unexpected source, and Blair automatically pushed it away, not wanting to hear the 'but' that usually followed. "Well, guides have their uses, as you'll find out when you send me into explain to Banks why you and the other detectives have to play Hunter to find clues to the real location your suspect mod is based on."

Ellison gave a snort of sardonic humor. "Might want to record that for posterity. Not to mention you may be the hero of the bullpen for at least, oh, two hours."

Rubbing his hands together in mock-avarice, Blair asked, "Think that'll translate to some real lucre - a free meal maybe?"

"Well, they might spring for a treat from the donut girl," Ellison said consideringly.

"Awwww, come on. It'll take a couple of days at least to beat that mod, let alone find what we need from it."

"Okay, so maybe a fast trip to Mr. Tube Steak."

Trading the silly negotiation back and forth all the way to the station, they swung without any effort from the verbal play to whipsawing Simon with the evidence they'd found and how best to proceed with it. They walked out of his office barely hiding grins, but the humor faded quickly in the face of what had to be done. The game wouldn't have been so popular if it wasn't challenging, and it gave the members of the bullpen a run for their money that took every minute they had to spare from their regular caseload for the next few days. Not wanting to be distracted by the chatter surrounding the action, Ellison made copies of the game play at the save points and replayed them, watching intently and freezing individual frames to print and hang on the glass partition behind his desk.

Working on the theory that if the victims were killed at the mod site, they most likely were dumped close to it, he and Blair constantly compared various background scenes from the game to pictures of the area. They made repeated trips to Tyler's Point to drive along the streets and alleys, occasionally stopping to compare a still to what they saw. When that produced no results, they tried making the same journey at different times of the day or night, hoping a variation in the light would illuminate the clues painstakingly gathered through game after game.

Weirdly, it was a uniform in the bullpen to deliver a witness that broke the case for them. He pointed to a picture, tracing an upside-down cross hidden in the shadows of interlacing girders. "You guys working on a satanic thing?"

"Not exactly," Ellison murmured, glaring at each print. "Looks like who did this might want us to look in that direction, though. Here." He indicated a scattering of flowers withering on a pool of fire. "Dogwood - mythically, the wood used for Christ's cross."

After the uniform reluctantly left, casting curious looks back over his shoulder, Blair found a pentagram, and a cloak with the blade of a spear peeking from under it, then tapped the now obvious demon hand curled around the ankle of a 'slain' hunter. "Isn't there an old fish processing plant at the end of the point that a Christian group bought to turn into a church, school and rectory? I remember seeing something about it on the news feeds I download on occasion, and the talking heads tossing around phrases like 'religious persecution' and 'demonizing them as a cult' as part of their rhetoric."

Unexpectedly, Simon spoke up from behind them, apparently drawn by the intense conversation and study of the pictures. "The First Freewill Congregation bought it from the city, and are presently suing on the grounds the property was sold under false pretenses. Seems they started the remodeling and discovered there's asbestos insulation in the place, which has to be removed under controlled conditions by a licensed haz-mat contractor."

"Expensive," Ellison said. "More than most churches could afford."

"They've a damn good lawyer working for them pro bono, and they don't have much choice but to fight, since they've already got so much sunk into it." Simon took down several pictures with flickering white 'fog' effects, holding them face up, before tossing them onto Ellison's desk. "They removed most of the roof, thinking it would make the major renovations easier and to give a 'castle fortress' feel to the place. Now, because of the asbestos, they have to keep the site sealed off, and shrouded in plastic to prevent the rain from washing the material into the water table."

"Yeah, I can see how the plastic in motion could make someone think of fog," Ellison muttered, gathering up several other photos.

With more than a little disgust in his voice, Simon added, "The church has to win the suit to get back what's been spent on the security and materials, but the city is trying to win by attrition. The city lawyers have asked for delays, continuances, every time intensive tactic they can think of, to bankrupt the church and force them to back out of the suit. Several civic organizations have offered assistance, which is why I know so much. I've been approached a few times about economical ways to maintain the necessary legal levels of security on the site."

"A haz-mat lock down is pretty tight," Blair agreed, reaching for his handheld to look online for current photos of the old plant. As he'd hoped, the church had put up a page detailing their case, along with the necessary photographic evidence. He turned the screen so Ellison and Banks could see it, slowly scrolling from image to image. "I don't see how players could get in, though. The designer would have time to figure out a way, if he doesn't have some kind of access already - he could be one of the security guards, for instance."

"No, think about the very beginning of the game. Where does it start?" As if they were cards, Ellison turned up his photos one at a time.

"The techno-terrorists are creeping along a rocky shoreline, with the Hunters tracking them in an inflatable boat." Blair didn't get it until the last picture was turned up, and wanted to slap himself for his denseness. "The shipping dock; the original owners built part of the plant over it so it would be sheltered from the weather. It looks like the cave the techno's run into, except there's a gate with a security lock across the opening."

"Everybody's been saying the numbers that keep turning up have to mean something." Ellison grabbed a pen and circled the ones that had repeated as everything from license plates to graffiti. "Want to bet that's the combination?"

"I don't think you'll get any takers on that one," Simon muttered. "You going to go in the same way and check your theory out for yourselves?"

Taking his jacket from the hook and handing Blair his, Ellison said, "Too good a chance the killer has a way to watch the old dock; two adults checking it out might spook him off. If we go in the front, we're just a couple of cops looking over the haz-mat security for a project their boss is involved in. No reason to worry, let alone panic and go to ground."

"I'll call ahead to the guards, and give them that line, in case one of them is our man, which, given how fast the so-called adults in my bullpen got hooked on the game, strikes me as possible, no matter what the profilers say."Taking the cigar perpetually dangling from his left hand and shoving it in his mouth, Simon stalked away, muttering under his breath about not running a nursery school.

As they walked to the elevator, Ellison handed Blair a flash stick. "Beamer's beaten the mod; gave me this recording of the game. I'm going to head straight for the endpoint, where the trophy is supposed to be."

"What is it?" Blair asked, juggling the flash with his backpack and handheld.

Ellison took the pack and nudged Blair through the elevator doors. "No idea. The fight takes place in the open area that was supposed to be a huge courtyard. There's the skeleton of a greenhouse to one side where, in the game, the last battle takes place, with the very tasteful decapitations and mutilations caused by flying glass from an explosion as the main event. Beamer's suggestion was to look for something out of place where the last 'body' fell."

"You know, I never can decide if teeners have always been that blood thirsty, but with no outlet besides sports until video games came along, or if the games awoke some dormant sub-adult trait necessary for existing in more violent primitive times." Ignoring Ellison's noncommittal sound, Blair plugged in the flash and watched the vid with an earbud in place, wincing at the abrupt changes in noise levels. He let Ellison navigate him along, automatically belting himself once they were at the truck. By the time he reached the finale, they were driving up the access road to the point, and Blair was certain they were onto something.

He shut down his handheld and stowed it as Ellison checked in with the guards, holding up his badge and looking mildly aggravated at his 'assignment.' The guards were simultaneously sympathetic and mockingly derisive, a combination that was so macho Blair worried about testosterone poisoning, despite being male himself. Ellison went along with it, showing just enough irritation to make the by-play believable.

Once they opened the gate for them, Ellison drove through, senses obviously spiraling out ahead. Without thinking, Blair reached across the bench seat to clasp his upper arm, just above the elbow. "Get anything from either of them?"

"Nothing unexpected. If either of them are the killer, he's seriously cool about it; no trace of nervousness at having a cop show up." Ellison craned his neck, looking up at the top of the fence through the windshield. "Security cameras can be tapped into by a good viral, but other than that possibility, it doesn't feel like I'm being watched right now."

"You usually right about that?"

"Nearly always." Ellison smiled, though there was a feral element to it. "It's a sentinel trait, and the brain trusts can't decide if it's part of the senses or a psychic thing that's linked to the warrior mindset. Doesn't help that more than a few seasoned soldiers have a degree or two of it."

"Survival characteristic," Blair murmured absently, studying the immediate area himself. "Brought out by life-threatening circumstances. Makes sense that if it's present in the warrior genome, it would be selected simply by allowing those men with it to live and procreate where those without it would fall victim to the enemy."

"More to a man than his genes or even his background." Pulling up in front of a huge garage door, Ellison put the truck in park and got out. A smaller, man-sized door was beside it, and Ellison went to it, pausing to study the keypad next to it. Before Blair could suggest he try the code from the game, Ellison did precisely that, and the door opened with a tired, rusty creak. "Laziness on someone's part," Ellison muttered.

They went inside, but Ellison came to a complete stop before they were more than a few feet inside. Sounding as tired as the door hinge, he said, "We're going to find at least one of the missing bodies in here."

"Oh, man." Blair hung his head and swallowed, reaching for his handheld to contact Dispatch.

He passed on the information that it would take a while for units to arrive, then trailed after Ellison as he followed his nose to the corpse. Not wanting to think about their destination, Blair took in his surroundings, marveling at the eerie beauty of the enormous two-acre building. The missing roof in the center let in enough sunlight that a variety of plant life had been able to take root in the detritus of what had been demolished or drifted in on the winds. Small pine trees struggled toward the sunlight, moss carpeted any area where the dust had been thick enough for it to gain a toehold, and vines crept everywhere.

Interwoven through nature's stubbornness were scaffolds of metal and wood and the roughed out framework of offices or perhaps apartments. There was exposed ductwork and piping winding from ceiling to floor for no discernable reason, creating patterns of brightness in the shadows, and shades of gloom in the bright light from overhead. Throughout it all, enormous sheets of thick, heavy-duty industrial plastic hung like shimmering curtains, there to channel Cascade's abundant rainfall away from interior walls and support columns.

The plastic moved with the air currents, heavily, reluctantly, but still putting Blair in mind of the Northern Lights, turned to silver and white by some act of nature. He paused for a moment to admire it, then hurried to catch up with Ellison and share the observation. As he reached Ellison's side, the sentinel went still, and without thinking Blair cupped Jim's cheek in his palm and turned his head toward him.

Blinking away the zone that nearly took him, Jim hastily took a step back, clearly startled. "How'd... never mind." He turned on his heel, head down, and walked deeper into the building, skirting around the sheets as he went.

"I don't know," Blair answered anyway, following him, fingers locked around his bicep. "Maybe because I want to stare at what the sunshine is doing to them, too. I can't even begin to imagine what you see in that glow."

"It's like a kaleidoscope of white and opalescence," Jim admitted, steps slowing. "The plastic is wet in places, refracting the sunlight into tiny, tiny rainbows. My eyes keep wanting to follow the darts of color."

"Wow. That's worth looking at. Maybe when it's all done we can come back so you can check it out without worrying about what it's hiding." If Jim had been surprised that Blair could sense and stop a zone before it happened, Blair was as surprised that he was willing to make an offer to guide for anything less than an emergency.

Almost visibly setting the moment aside, Jim pushed away several layers of plastic draping the bottom of a scaffold. The scattered bones of a human body lay inside the network of metal pipes, trapped there by the tightly interconnected struts and braces. No flesh remained on the skeleton, and only fragments of the clothes that had been on it.

Barely able to look directly at it, Blair tried to shield himself with an anthropologist's mindset, as if he were studying ancient remains at a dig, not a hapless teenager who fell into the trap of a murderer. "The small pieces are missing; probably because of scavengers."

"Rats and gulls mainly," Jim agreed absently. "Couldn't get the skull or femurs out, though. This is a male, died here, I think, about four months ago, from smell and blood stains." He reached out and traced the length of a pipe sticking straight up from the ribcage. "Probably fell from higher up, impaled himself on that. If the fall didn't kill him, he probably bled out fast."

"Makes it the oldest of the bodies found, right? No way to tell if the fall was an accident or if he was pushed, but it's possible his death was the trigger for the rest." Blair backed away a few steps to look up, comparing what was there with what he had seen in the vid earlier. "There's a setup about two-thirds of the way through the mod where you're fighting enemies on ledges above and below you. I wonder - another cliche coming here - if the designer decided to start hunting, paint ball style to start with, then for real once he'd tasted the thrill of a genuine kill."

"The problem with cliches," Jim said tightly, "Is that there's a nugget of truth in them."

"Be interesting to hear what the profiler..." Blair started, twitching one of the plastic panels to get a better view of the top of the scaffold. As he spoke, a harsh hum of metal moving fast over metal sang out, and the material in his hand slackened, gained weight and slipped out of his grip. Overhead he could see the chain holding the sheet slither free of its grommets, falling in a graceful slow motion glide.

Even as his brain informed him that wasn't good, Jim slammed into his side, knocking him several feet toward the nearest cinderblock wall before they hit the ground and rolled. The first fold of the plastic dropped on top of them while they were in motion, and Blair had time to think, 'that wasn't so bad,' before the sheer weight of it registered, sending a spike of fear through him. Through the translucent material he could see the next ripple of it coming down, with more to follow, and he had no idea if it would be enough to crush them to death or if they would smother instead. Amazingly, Jim managed to keep their momentum going, though the last tumble that banked them up against the wall was done with pure muscle power, Blair automatically kicking at the ground to help as much as he could.

Jim put Blair between himself and the cinderblock, taking the brunt of the drubbing on his back as each wave of plastic collapsed on them. Face pressed into Jim's chest, arms tucked between them, Blair could feel the repeated impacts, none too punishing, but the accumulated mass had to make each blow heavier and more painful. Finally, after an eternity that probably only took a few seconds, all of the plastic was down, shrouding them from head to foot, with only a few inches of air space at either end, plus what was between him, Jim and the wall. Though he had never considered himself particularly claustrophobic, Blair already felt stifled, breathing with soft gasps.

"Easy, easy," Jim murmured, rubbing small circles into Blair's shoulder blades. "This cocoon isn't anywhere near airtight. And it's not so heavy we can't work our way free with a little patience and time."

"The killer..."

"Isn't close," Jim interrupted. "No sounds closer than the guard's shack, and I think the plastic was booby-trapped to capture anyone who got close to the body. Before the chain let go, I heard an electronic hum and looked up in time to see an eyebeam flash."

"It was bait for a trap?" Blair asked incredulously.

"Or part of an early warning system so the killer would know that the authorities had tracked him this far. Either way, I don't think he'll be back, though Simon will probably stake the place out just to be politically correct." Shifting to free his hands, Jim shoved experimentally at the edge of the plastic over them. "Hang on a few minutes while I scope the best way out from under this."

Not wanting to distract him with vitals that were running amok, Blair closed his eyes and inhaled slowly through his nose for a count of four, held it, then exhaled for a longer count, repeating his mantra to himself as if he were meditating. There was no way he could reach that level of calm, of course, but it gave him something to concentrate on besides the yards and yards of stuff on top of them. It worked, after a fashion; perhaps a bit too well.

Suddenly all he could think about was how great Jim smelled and how warm he was where he pressed into him. Their shelter became snug, even cozy, instead of frightening, and Blair unintentionally relaxed, all but melting into the strength covering him. The cold, hard floor faded from his perception; the rough cinderblock behind him became only a minor annoyance.

It had been so long since he'd been totally comfortable in the embrace of another person, he'd forgotten how wonderful it was. Sighing quietly, he instinctively cuddled against Jim, nosing at the collar of his shirt to find bare flesh. Part of him decided there were other, even better ways to be close to Jim, and, ignoring the prickle of alarm from the deeper levels of his psyche, his dick grew full and heavy, straining at the zipper of his jeans to burrow into Jim's heat.

A subtle shift of his hips brought Jim's growing erection alongside his own, and with a murmur of pure male appreciation, Jim rocked gently into him, hand slipping to the small of Blair's back to hold him securely. Dreamily Blair reciprocated, already lost in a heady pleasure that was unlike the usual rush of lust and urgency he equated to sex. In fact, despite the singing of his blood through his body and the burning tautness of his nipples digging into his shirt, their leisurely undulations were more a dance of sweet sensuality than they were a demand for physical satisfaction.

He bit Jim's throat, a careful graze of teeth over the pulsing vein in his neck, and stretched up, wanting the flavor of his mouth.

"Blair," Jim whispered, throwing his head back to deny the kiss, but still leaving him access to his throat. "Not that. Taste is the one sense I've haven't imprinted for you. We share that and there's no going back."

It should have been a deluge of cold water over their passion. Instead Blair whimpered in need as areas of his heart and mind he'd had locked down for too much of his life curled free of their prison and reached for Jim. Blair slipped into sync with him effortlessly, finding power to compliment his own, compassion that matched his empathy, and anchors of resolve, honor and integrity that would steady his own impulsive and erratic ways.

"My sentinel?" Blair whispered against Jim's jaw, dusting tiny kisses toward his chin. "Mine?"

"I won't bind you to me with laws made by people who don't understand us," Jim said fiercely, even as he wrapped Blair tightly in his arms. "I won't cage a spirit that should soar where and when it will."

"No, you wouldn't," Blair agreed happily. "That's why you're mine. That's why I'm yours. If you never hold me again, if we never do more than this, this is right, this is us." He couldn't stop a small laugh as he finally understood the guides who had claimed their sentinels, for that was what it was in truth. The courts may have granted the control to the sentinel, but Nature had bestowed it on them equally, call for a meshing of will and heart that a guide's gifts initiated.

"You're happy your life is permanently entangled in mine?" Jim asked, half-hopefully, half-incredulously.

"That's too small a word for it. For the moment, in this place, I have everything I will ever need. It's like a Walk on the Wildside. Once we leave here, we have to face the world and all the complications of living in it. But for now, this," and Blair hooked his leg over Jim's hip to open himself to him, cradling him into his body, "is all that matters, my sentinel." Cupping the back of Jim's head in a careful palm, Blair urged him to bring his face down for a kiss.

Reluctantly, fear coloring the hunger struggling to overwhelm him, Jim did as he was bid. Tentatively, almost timidly, he touched his lips to Blair's, going no further than that before drawing away, tongue flicking out to gather all the flavor there. He closed his eyes, and Blair felt something give way in him - a surrender that held no shame or failure.

"My guide," Jim murmured, and kissed him again, lingering on the plump moistness of Blair's lips. "Mine."

"Yes." Blair caught Jim's lower lip in his teeth and tugged gently before plunging his tongue in to feast on Jim's mouth.

With a contented sigh, Jim yielded to Blair's oral ravishment, apparently willing to do nothing more regardless of the hard-on digging into Blair's thigh. It was as if nothing mattered except glutting himself on Blair's taste, and that he could do forever. Eventually, though, he pulled back and scooted down until he could rest his head on Blair's chest.

"I hear vehicles coming down the access road. We need to get out from under this and see if there are other booby-traps."

"Damn." Blair threaded his fingers through Jim's short hair, savoring the soft, fine texture. "And after that?"

"Nothing changes, as far as the rest of the world is concerned. There's no rule that says a sentinel can't be close friends with a possible guide, or even partners on the job," Jim said thoughtfully. "If I don't take any steps to officially pair with you, anybody who thinks we are more to each other has no basis for complaint or action, and no way to force us into legally pairing."

"I still have to do cattle calls," Blair said, looking for possible problems. "Will other sentinels be able to tell we've chosen each other?"

"It shouldn't be a problem." Jim hesitated, and their closeness hadn't faded enough yet for him to hide the worry underneath the comment. Before Blair could lovingly prompt him, he added, "I don't have any issues with you having lovers. I've sensed them on you before and while it's not pleasant, it's nothing I can't deal with. But if you get too close to a sentinel, I... I'm not sure I'll be able to handle it rationally. It's too much of a challenge, right in my face style. Sentinels have enough trouble being in each other's territory as it is, without that kind of provocation tearing at us."

Blair went very still, heart twisting in pain for both him and Jim. He thinks I'll be with other people besides him? How can he believe I'd ever be able to let anyone else hold me, let alone have sex with me? Just because neither of us will submit to the stupid laws concerning guides, doesn't mean I can't or won't commit to him.

Anger flared, but died quickly in the face of the simple fact that Jim had no reason to think that they'd have any kind of physical relationship. They'd traded no promises, no vows; had spoken only of their genetic status, relative to each other. For all practical purposes, they weren't truly lovers, though Blair longed for it with a frightening intensity.

Taking Blair's confused silence for granted, Jim turned until he was sitting awkwardly on one hip, tunneling his hands up the wall that had sheltered them. "Sloping," he muttered, and worked his body upwards until he was standing. From Blair's point of view, he leaned, hard, putting his thigh muscles into it, and the plastic slid over itself.

Understanding that he was using gravity to move the material away from them, Blair wormed his way along Jim's side until he could add his own mass to the plastic's momentum. In a surprisingly short time they were clambering over the many layers and cautiously making their way back to the front to safely lead the forensics team and other officers to the body. Much as Blair felt they had a week's worth of very necessary conversation ahead of them, he didn't argue with the priority of doing the job, especially after they found the next booby trap.

Stubbornly staying at Jim's side as he took point, Blair went deeper into the maze in his wake, flowing into his rhythm as he used his senses to navigate and Blair watched for the more obvious hazards. Though the path was very similar to the one in the game, there were no enemies to fight, only more devious traps and snares. They found another body, a girl who looked as if she'd only been dead a few weeks.

Jaw muscle throbbing, Jim squatted to examine the ground around her. "The word's been out for months that gamers are being murdered. She either had to know her killer or had reason to trust him."

"Or she was a typical teenager who didn't think it could happen to her," Blair put in, voice bland but letting the sorrow he felt soak through his palm at the small of Jim's back.

"Something this bastard may be counting on." Jim straightened, subtly pressing back into Blair's touch, and rolled his shoulders. "There's at least one more in here. He didn't stop killing; he stopped dumping the bodies. He has to have this place under surveillance, one way or another. Now that we've found his killing ground, he'll abandon it. Most likely he's got a new mod either in place or under construction."

"Possibly in another city," Blair agreed. "He's gone through the competition here, pretty much. He could be looking for a new challenge, maybe even a new game to base a different mod on. That's what gamers do. They beat the game, go back and try some variations, then move on to the next thrill."

"He hasn't beat this game, yet," Jim said a little too loudly, derision filling his tone. "It's called 'Hunter,' for a reason, and he's not one. He doesn't stalk his prey, look it in the eye, risk his own life to bring it down. He's a sneak, a cheat, a thief, letting the traps he sets slaughter for him. That's why there are so many different causes of death, Chief. Filthy scavenger, that's all he is, and I *know* how to bring down a scavenger."

Realizing that Jim believed they were being watched now, and that he was trying to bait the killer, Blair said, "Between being a Ranger and living on the land with the Chopec in Peru, I guess you have the experience to be considered an expert on the subject. God knows it's been child's play for you as far as finding your way through this warren. But trapping's a valid way to hunt, too."

"No, it's a way to keep your belly from being totally empty, a method anybody can use. In most tribes, women and children bring in the small game you get with a snare. The men, the *warriors,* might use a blind or a pit to level the playing ground with a dangerous animal, but they go in with a spear and take their chance that they might be the ones to die." As he spoke, Jim turned slowly in a circle, eyes constantly scanning.

When he stopped, Blair ran a steadying hand over his arm, guessing that he was piggybacking sight and hearing. Abruptly Jim sprang onto the nearest scaffold and began to climb at full speed. "He's here. There's a living space blocked out underneath what's left of the roof, shielded with white sound generators and blackouts. Get backup!"

Pulling out his handheld, Blair connected to the uniforms left behind at the first body and guided them to where he was, all the while watching Jim scramble toward a barely visible opening at the very top of the building. He thought he caught glimpses of motion, and a flash of bright metal. Shouting a warning, he ran for the scaffold himself, only to roll underneath it as gunfire sounded.

Blair heard a metallic thump, Jim curse, and a chorus of chiming rattles. Pipe rattled down around him on all sides, bouncing crazily enough to make dodging them impossible. Curling in on himself, arms wrapped around his head, he suffered through repeated glancing blows, thankfully none too heavy, all the while swallowing back bright, sharp terror for Jim.

Long after his ears stopped ringing from the cacophony of steel on steel on concrete, long after Jim dropped down beside him, fingers flitting everywhere to make sure he wasn't injured, it was the fear that reverberated through Blair. In the days that followed, it silenced him when Jim acted as if there was nothing between them but duty. It stifled his protests when Jim was more aloof and untouchable than ever as they combed through the killer's labyrinth and lair, looking for clues to his identity.

It did nothing at all to curb the growing yearning to share what they could while they could, for, most of all, the fear reminded Blair that the clock was ticking for them. Jim had missed the white sound because of the surf surrounding the point; had not noticed the blackout curtains because of the overwhelming visual input of the plastic shrouding the interior. Unable to delve as deeply as he was capable for fear of a zone, he had nearly died because of it, a fate all unpaired sentinels met sooner rather than later.

The man condemned to that fate because Blair refused to be little more than an indentured servant was no longer faceless and nameless. He was a beautiful, proud, damaged soul who shared Blair's beliefs about that slavery. He was an answer for all Blair's secret insecurities and doubts, a bulwark against what the world threw at him. Even with the limited contact they had, Blair had never been so focused and sure, had never felt so useful and secure at both the U and at the station.

At the same time, a ravenous, nearly vicious hunger for *more* of Jim churned and smoldered inside him, giving him restless nights of little sleep and intensely erotic dreams. He tried to drown it in a deluge of marathon sessions with a series of casual bedmates, but though he left them exhausted and limp with satiation, he would return home to lie alone in his bed and obsessively replay his scant moments of intimacy with Jim. In the end he gave up on other partners and turned to his own hand and fantasies, taking care of himself more often during a day than he had even as a horny teenager, images of Jim all he needed to reach his finish.

Blair wanted, needed to be naked with Jim, bare skin gliding over bare skin as he explored every inch of that magnificent body. Taste had not had its due in their too brief kisses, and he obsessed on licking or sucking Jim in his most intimate places, almost as much as he was preoccupied with hearing his name on Jim's lips in varying tones of arousal, demand, pleading, and insistence. Most of all, he longed for the strength of Jim surrounding him, filling him, holding him as he came apart in pleasure.

Finally the internal pressure from all he could not have, but *had* to have anyway, drove Blair to pull clothes from the back of his closet for a Walk on the Wildside, in hopes that he could batter away at a willing body until his own found a measure of peace. Though he seldom had the urge to dominate and overpower, it's wasn't totally unknown to him, and because of it, he had an outfit designed to give him maximum sexual contact with a minimum of exposure. It consisted of soft kidskin leggings in the Native American style that fastened to a belt of interwoven black neoprene strands that could be unwound to use as restraints. A long-sleeved black silk shirt went over top of it, barely covering his naked crotch, and he left the top half unbuttoned to show off his chest. He hesitated before pocketing the black hood that went with it, but common sense threaded through his tempestuous desires so that he took it with him.

Throwing on a raincoat to cover the licentious clothing and carrying a small satchel filled with useful items, he took the underground to a stop a reasonable walk from the park, moving quickly through the waning twilight to a place he'd staked out before. The trees were old, with broad, thick branches that had been trained to grow straight out for a distance before curving toward the sky. Judicious pruning and logging had created an alcove of natural, living wood seats and benches that mankind had added a few interesting twists to, such as rebar hooks buried in concrete here and there.

Laying aside his coat for padding on the 'bench' he wanted to use, Blair made a few adjustments to be able to take what he ached for, if only in proxy, and slipped on the hood to wait for the right man to walk down the park's path. But none were right - too tall, too short, too fat, too something - and when night sank into its darkest hours, he was still alone and half-insane from the screeching demand for relief. Just as he was ready to simply take the next male that came his way and make do as best he could, he saw what he had been waiting for all along.

The man wore a veiled whore's cloak and nothing else save sandals, announcing to any who saw him that he was available for anything with anyone. For now, 'no' was not part of his vocabulary, and he expected to be treated as nothing more than a receptacle for come. The cloak parted as he walked, showing off flashes of a perfectly toned and buff body, making it a wonder that he hadn't already been dragged off the trail and into the underbrush to be used.

Distantly hearing a soft growl from deep in his own throat, Blair pounced on him, literally pushing and pummeling the man toward his lair. As he planned, the whore was off-balance enough that Blair was able to force him into stumbling, landing perfectly across the bench Blair had prepared. In a flash he captured the whore's wrists in the restraints waiting for him, secured so his arms were stretched out in front of him, leaving him unable to use his hands to regain his feet. Before he could twist or kick out, Blair yanked tight the loops the whore had stepped into, lashing his ankles to hooks so his legs were pulled wide.

Through it all the man didn't voice a single protest. It was no more than he'd been looking for, after all.

Yet when Blair stood behind him, taking a long, steadying breath to settle himself before he lost any semblance of control and actually hurt the helpless person in front of him, the whore whispered, "Blair, no. No."

"You shouldn't be here dressed like that, bitch, if you weren't going to put out," Blair snapped out, hardly able to believe he actually said it, totally unable to accept that his ears weren't tricking him into hearing Jim's voice using his name.

"I didn't know you'd be here! Blair, no!" The restraints and wood creaked in harmony as the whore fought them.

Furious, because he couldn't be this close and let this fill-in for Jim stop him from getting what he needed, Blair slapped him with his full strength, hurting his hand and discovering the pain was actually exciting. "Yes. You want it; who doesn't matter." He smacked the other cheek. "How doesn't matter to that empty hole of yours either, does it? You came to get fucked into oblivion, to take all you could get for as long as you could get it. Deny it, bitch. Deny it and I'll give it to you anyway."

"Goddamn it, NO! Not with you. We can't!"

It was what Blair expected to hear, what Jim should say, and he ignored it completely. "Go ahead, scream 'no' and 'you can't.' No one who can hear cares; you'll probably help get them off."

Slowly, able to hold off now that relief was inevitable, he finger-waked the cloak up the whore's back, revealing his bare legs and backside in tantalizing slow motion. "I'll say this for you, bitch; you are a magnificent eyeful. My handprint is a nice addition, though. I think a few more are just the thing."

"Blair!"

Spanking him so that each handprint was clear and distinct, Blair covered the whore's bottom and upper thighs with his mark, pausing to feel the heat radiating off them. After the last angry, defiant shout of his name, the whore hadn't made another sound or tried to get away, but that didn't bother Blair. Soon enough he would be screaming Blair's name in an entirely different way; when he did, Blair would let him come.

When his arm was tired and the ache in his hand was distracting instead of invigorating, he knelt behind the whore to lick each imprint, working his way upwards to the curve of ass into back and bypassing the whore's center. The flesh under Blair's mouth prickled and goosebumped, but that was all the reaction he got. Vaguely annoyed, he stroked long, tickling lines over the whore's legs, front and back, almost but never touching the huge cock hanging between them, and still all the whore did was impassively endure.

That would never do, and without warning, Blair fastened his mouth over the tight pucker, spearing it with his tongue. That won him a jolt and a cry of surprised pleasure. Pulling away, he tasted the edible oil from the tiny opening and purred, "Good little whore to be all ready for me to fuck. You'll get it soon. A whore is so much better when he's desperate for cock. So much more willing to let go and be what he is at heart."

No answer, not that Blair thought there would be one, and he bent to lock a sucking kiss over the vulnerable portal, pausing occasionally to trace the fragile folds with his pointed tongue or plunge in deep past the guardian muscle. It was good to own the tormenter of his dreams so completely, and he lost himself in the assault on it, moaning and unconsciously lifting his hips in time to the action of his tongue. All the while he tasted to his heart's content, his hands wandered over the swells and planes of his whore's body, as far as he could reach, scratching and petting, alternating between near pain and near worship.

Despite it all, the whore remained motionless and silent, though involuntary quivers chased under Blair's fingertips from time to time. Eventually the implied rebuff nagged at him enough that he drew back from his own absorption to consider how to break the surprisingly resistant bitch. Drying his face on the cloak, Blair used his first finger in place of his tongue, invading the tight hole without warning. The inner tissues spasmed, and the ass cheeks tensed, squeezing Blair's finger almost painfully.

"Hot, so hot. Nothing's the same as an asshole for heat and tight," Blair murmured, but his own words stirred a few brain cells into working. He thrust in and out, carefully, paying attention to the reaction of the channel itself. His gut clenched, then rolled in unadulterated lust. This bitch was virgin! Blair had deflowered a few in his time, especially when he was younger himself. Those who wondered and worried about their orientation had gravitated toward him, his intuitive handling of their anxious curiosity part of the guide thing, he could now see in hindsight.

For a split second he wondered why anyone would choose for their first time to be near rape, but the joy to be the first for Jim over rode anything but the imperative that he take him thoroughly, completely, now. Murmuring nonsense, Blair fingered him, stretching and twisting to prepare him for his cock. He bit at Jim's cheeks and back, slowly standing and positioning himself so that he was poised to breach him.

"I'm going to fuck you, now," Blair whispered, bending over Jim to kiss a shoulder blade. "Going to ease in, deep, all the way to the core of you."

"I won't lie and say I don't want you to," Jim said, voice raw and shaking. "But you have to *think,* here. You're a guide, my guide, admitted and accepted. You take this step with me, and you're forcing a commitment from me you don't want, but I can't deny or refuse."

With a shake of his head, Blair dismissed the buzz of noise that had no meaning in it at the moment, and bit the other shoulder blade hard enough to leave teeth prints. "You'll love it, I promise. If you beg me nice enough, I'll even do it hard and fast at the end, so you'll be well and truly used, like a proper whore."

Blair pressed in, just a tiny bit, and rode out the last ditch attempt to break free, possessively kneading Jim's ass. When he finally wore down to stupidly stubborn yanks on the restraints, Blair slid in, wincing a little at the resistance. Filling Jim gradually with shallow, careful rocking, he sighed when he was finally, completely sheathed in the trembling body.

Nuzzling the nape of his neck, Blair murmured, "It doesn't have to hurt, be an invasion. It can be a yielding, a gift of yourself for yourself, if you let it. Let me love you."

Blair didn't understand the soft, pained cry his words caused, but the passage holding him *flexed*, caressing him with a satin shimmer of pleasure, driving away anything but the imperative to thrust. Some fragment of sanity stopped him from giving into the drive to pound mindlessly, but it couldn't stop him from withdrawing completely, only to slide back into the hilt in one long, endless stroke. Jim took the fucking passively, hardly breathing, though his opening clenched at Blair's cock as if reluctant to allow it to leave, eager for its return. Ecstasy built in tiny increments, giving the illusion that they could continue the ancient dance of mating forever.

The first flash of release caught him unawares, and he moaned Jim's name, convulsively pumping into him as he shot. Disappointingly, Jim didn't so much as grunt and none of the tension left the taut form. Through his dazed euphoria, Blair could feel the pain in him and it twisted sharply through his own heart, erasing even the possibility of satisfaction.

Annoyed, angered, shamed, worried, frustrated, confused - he was all of it at once, yet none of it. Moving mechanically, he withdrew and moved back a step, rubbing at his face with both hands as if that would help him make sense of what he was doing. Not looking at the man spread out before him, he stared down at his own still-erect maleness, reaching for his supplies to clean himself.

"That wasn't the way it was supposed to be," Blair mumbled, tossing the wet cloth back into his satchel. "That wasn't right. Why wasn't it right?"

Sudden fury took him, and he spun back to his whore, grabbing him by the heavy balls. "It's your fault. You didn't follow through with the promise behind that cloak; you held back, didn't give all of yourself to me."

"All you're supposed to get is a hole, a place to empty yourself," the whore snarled. "You don't get more." His voice changed abruptly, emptying so that it showed nothing, but in some weird way underlining the sorrow in him. "That's what you want, isn't it? That's what you were looking for."

"I..." Blair shook, head aching with goddess knew what, and fumbled to explain what it was he did want when he no longer knew. The fragile sack in his palm shrank defensively away from the threat in his rigid fingers, and that gave him something to think about besides how messed up everything was.

Bending to quickly undo the lashes holding the whore's ankles in place, Blair snapped, "Roll over. Feet on the ledge there. One move I don't like, and your nads will never forgive you."

It took several long, awkward moments, but he got the man on his back, knees up and wide, kept there by restraints, arms stretched over his head. His whore looked both obscene and vulnerable, yet there was no hint of submission in his pose. Anger moving through him again, Blair plunged two fingers into the tiny pucker, fingering deep and hard, and got no more response than if he'd done nothing at all.

Working the whore's opening, Blair laved his way along the inside of a thigh, mouthed the downy skin of the balls, and moved his way up the hard muscles of the abdomen until he reached the erect nipples waiting for him. He simply breathed on them, at first, delighted when the areola pebbled up even more, thinking that maybe his mistake all along had been using force when delicacy would work better. With that in mind, his first lick was barely there, followed by another breath, then he moved onto the next nub to treat it the same. Each time he switched, he used more strength, adding teeth and tugging as he nursed at both bits.

The taste of blood called him back from his oral ravishment, making him jerk back, panting harshly. Three fingers were jammed hard into the whore's reddened center, and his cock was standing straight up, liberally coated with pre-cum. Despite that, he was apparently unmoved as ever, not even breathing fast, though every muscle in him was tight enough to snap.

Incensed, Blair removed his fingers and wrapped both fists around the tall shaft, jacking mercilessly in an effort to finally break him. Fluid beaded on the tip, and without thought he lapped it off, then straightened, unconsciously licking his lips.

Jim sighed his name so quietly it could have been a stray breeze in the night, but Blair heard it. Heard it and trembled, for the emotion in his voice had been what Blair had been seeking so ruthlessly. He would, he realized in awe, do whatever it took, whenever he could, to get that sweet cry again.

Reaching up, he yanked off the veil he'd willfully ignored for so long, shocked to the core at the tears dampening the lashes on the tightly closed eyelids. Hesitantly he brushed his thumb along the feathery line, swallowing hard when Jim's lips pressed into a white line. Cupping his cheek, Blair waited patiently until pained blue eyes opened and met his own.

"Jim, why isn't this working?" Blair asked, dismayed that his voice came out like a young child's. "What am I doing wrong?" His relief when the pain fled before the rising understanding in Jim's expression was nearly sexual in its intensity.

Very, very gently, Jim said, "You're not used to taking care of your own wants, are you? Guides get so caught up in what others' needs, they can't see their own, sometimes. That's why we lose them."

"Maybe, I don't know. Right now all I'm sure of is that this isn't what it's supposed to be."

"Share," Jim murmured. "Free my hands and turn around here so that I can taste you, too."

"Sixty-nine?"

"For starters." Taking a deep breath, Jim added oh-so-sweetly, "Please? It'll be just like you said - a giving. On both sides."

"Oh. OH!" Blair scrambled up onto the bench, taking a hasty moment to make sure of Jim's comfort and undoing the tethers. Poised on all fours over him, Blair eyed the thick cock greedily. He loved oral sex, and had intended all along to indulge himself. Jim was right though; this would be better.

He sank down the length, almost unhinging his jaw to get in all the way down, and lifted up little by little, working his throat around the girth of it. As he did, Jim nosed along the crease of his thigh, into the tender skin of the perineum, hands skimming along Blair's back and thighs. Tiny noises of appreciation and approval escaped his control, vibrating against Blair's dick.

Yes, Blair thought. Yes. That's what I need; let me know you want me. Let me feel it; hear it.

With an 'mmmmmm' of pure male satisfaction, Jim licked Blair's hardon from the crown to the base, then took him in, sucking hungrily.

The incredible rush of sensation hit Blair like a blow, and he collapsed onto Jim, stubbornly bobbing his head to fuck his own mouth. Moaning, Jim got his hands under Blair's hips to hold them up so he could do the same, long fingers delving into Blair's center to tease and tantalize. Blair copied the insubstantial caress. Both of them gradually strengthened it until they were opened wide at both ends, doing their best to fill the emptiness of being alone.

Like electricity through a closed circuit, pleasure raced from mouth to hole to cock, to mouth again, each course bringing them closer toward fulfillment. Somehow they wound up on their sides, faces buried into each other's groin, hands busy in the same rhythm as lips, until Jim whimpered a warning. Blair screamed around the bulk using his throat, undone by the power of bringing his mate to the breaking point. They came, nearly in the same instance, greedily gulping down what was given, the joy in that as good as the physical ecstasy.

Desperately needing air, Blair unwillingly released his prize and rested his forehead on Jim's thigh though he continued to pump into the hot suction on him. "Need you, need... oh, what... UNH!" Jim twisted the three fingers he had in Blair, pushing hard against the hidden gland in the channel, dragging another burst of seed from him. "Jim! Oh..." He screamed again, astonished that he could give more and that Jim could pull it from him so effortlessly.

Shuddering, Blair melted into Jim, utter exhaustion hitting him as hard as his climax had. "My sentinel," he mumbled, sleep already taking him down. "My Jim."

***

Moving from deepest sleep to barely awake without any transition, Blair blinked in confusion at a dark, unfamiliar room located goddess knew where. It was hardly the first time, thanks to his many travels with his mother and his own wandering ways, so he dismissed that and focused on what had awakened him. Thirst, he decided, but before he could begin to gather his wits together enough to figure out what to do about it, a shadowy figure pressed a straw to his lips. Sucking automatically, he drank down the liquid, relishing the wetness on his dry mouth and throat so much that it took half the glass before he recognized it as a nutrient shake. That bothered him, but before he could formulate why, he dropped back into sleep, still swallowing the last bit.

Thirst woke him the next time, too, but accompanied by his bladder, both screeching with equal vehemence. Hitting the bathroom first seemed like the best idea before drinking anything else, and Blair tried groggily to push his blankets away. They were tucked back around him, and he irritably shoved them back again.

"Blair, don't, please."

He recognized Jim's voice and muttered, "Bathroom, man. Now."

"All right, wait for me to help you up." Jim whipped away the covers, gave him a hand to hang onto, and put an arm under his back, lifting as Blair sat up, head swimming.

"Whoa." The movement increased the urgency to relieve himself, and he fought to hang on while Jim hoisted him upright. They made it just in time, took care of the necessities, and stumbled back toward the small bed, Blair's weakness making him more of a hindrance than a help all along the way. This time he nodded off still nursing at a shake.

Sometime during that round of slumber, his subconscious managed to shout loud enough to jolt him upright, brain abruptly working overtime on questions he should have asked before now. As if reading his mind, Jim sat on the edge of the bed, no doubt summoned by the radical change in Blair's heart rate and breathing, and gathered him into a reassuring hug.

"You're safe, you're in my spare bedroom in my home, it's been about twenty-eight hours since we got here, I called in and covered for you at the U and at the station, no one has a clue as to where you've been." Jim smoothed Blair's hair back from his face, tucking the curls behind his ears. "Do you remember what happened yesterday night?"

"Of course...." Blair started, then shut himself up. While he was sure he'd gone to Wildside, he couldn't have done what he thought he'd done there. Could he? Jim wouldn't... It wasn't possible that he had... he wasn't capable... that Jim could...

He had to know, had to, and brusquely shoved up Jim's sweatshirt. His nipples were swollen with dark bruises all around them that were vicious looking even in the half-light of the room. "I did that? My god, I did... oh, man... how can you..."

Blair fought to get away; Jim caged him easily in careful arms until the spurt of terror and flight response died from lack of strength. Sagging back against Jim, he mumbled, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," until he tumbled back into sleep.

It was daylight when he resurfaced, though the only reason he knew was because of the bright edging around the blackouts on the windows in the room. Still in Jim's embrace, he lay on his side, his back to Jim's front, and while the coward in him wanted to creep away, the smarter part of him pointed out that he would have to face the sentinel sooner or later. And as Joel had pointed out so many months ago, making Jim look for him would not do anything for his mood.

Conversationally, and apropos of nothing Blair could see, Jim said, "I sleep in here when I'm on night shift or a late stakeout; that's why it's so dark and quiet. Not that I'd have any trouble picking up on how panicked you are again, already, even without the senses. If you were in that much trouble with me, do you think I'd have brought you home, to my sanctuary?"

"I am so, so ashamed," Blair said around an enormous lump in his throat. "I don't understand how you can stand to be on the same continent with me, let alone take care of me."

Finger-combing his hair, Jim kneaded Blair's skull before each down stroke, banishing Blair's fear almost against his will. "You were in Stress Crisis, and handling it very well despite how spun up you were."

"No way," Blair blurted, shoulders trying to hunch but unable to overcome the calm Jim was projecting. "I mean, yeah, my plate's been way full lately, and I haven't been sleeping as much as I need to, but I'm not obsessing on anything, or, or neglecting my work."

"You've been neglecting yourself. When was the last time you had leisurely meal, or went out on a date? Or did something as simple as sleeping in?" Jim's tone was unrelenting. "And we both know what you've been obsessing on."

Though he wanted to argue, honesty had him looking back at the past few weeks and wincing. "I don't get it. I felt so good! Focused, getting so much done without hardly trying."

"That's the irony of it. Fifty years ago they would have diagnosed you as bipolar, just like they would have called me schizophrenic or autistic." Jim settled his arm over Blair's waist and gave a small squeeze. "You did exactly the right thing, Chief, so no one would know or be harmed. You went someplace ultra private, where you were anonymous, and wore yourself out in one of the most effective ways there is for Stress Crisis, where a certain kind of... intensity is needed."

Flashes of Jim in the whore's cloak, of what they had done together, went through Blair's mind, and he cringed, even as the most male part of him perked up. "Why were you there like *that?* You could have been seriously hurt!"

For a long, long moment, Jim was silent; long enough for Blair to worry that he wasn't going to get an answer. Finally Jim said, "I've been obsessing, too, which made me back off big time where you were concerned - the exact wrong thing to do. I'm the one who should be apologizing to you. If I'd been taking care of you, the way I'm supposed to, the way I *want* to, you wouldn't have needed that Walk. I would have derailed things before they got that far. I could see I was neglecting you, was worried about the consequences, and, oh, hell, I wanted it to be ugly, brutal, degrading. The idea was that if I hated it enough, my senses would help me suppress the need so I could be a better sentinel to you."

"Why didn't you fight me off when you realized it was me!"

"Because the sight and scent of you hit me like a ton of bricks!"

"You could have died! People have bled out from the abuse they took as a cloaked whore!"

"It's no worse than some of the other deaths I might meet." Jim blantantly reined in his temper and scrubbed at his face. When he spoke again, he tone was gentle, but resigned. "Look, I love you too much for things to go on as they were. Like you, a Walk was the only solution I could see. I was at the point that the outcome didn't really matter, as long as you weren't in danger from me any more."

It was a good thing, Blair reflected dully, that he was already lying down; otherwise he would have fallen because of insides that turned to silly putty. "You love me?"

Jim turned him enough to be able to look in his face, one knuckle tracking from his temple to his ear. "Damn. I didn't mean to put it out like that; I know it's the last thing you want to hear from me."

"No, it's okay," Blair said hastily, unwilling to hear the usual disclaimers and explanations that negated the value of the words. "I mean, sentinel instincts play with your head, makes you think you feel emotions you don't, not to mention the guide stuff comes off like courtship, so it's majorly easy to confuse all sorts of feelings with each other. I know..."

"Stop, Sandburg. Stop right there." Sharp and bitten off as the words were, Jim's touch remained tender and supportive. "I've been in love, enough to consider getting married, remember? She backed off from me; not the other way around. And I've worked with more than one guide in my time, including one I would have given my life for. The greatest sorrow I've ever known is that he gave his for mine. It was a monumental waste of a man far more valuable to his tribe than I'll ever be to my own people, thanks to our government's attitude about sentinels. So if I say that I love you, it's not driven by the senses or by gratitude or stress or anything but what I feel, okay?"

Blair had no clue what to say to that, but knew he had to say something, fast, because Jim was winding up inside himself in a way that Blair didn't understand, but hurt regardless. "I didn't expect love," he blurted. "Not the real deal, not ever in my life. Before I learned I was a guide, well, people liked me and wanted to have me around, considered me a lot of fun, but no one looked for commitment with me. I won't lie and say that didn't bother me, but I thought, hey, I have time. Then I got slapped with that damn DNA subpoena, and whatever chance I had at long term with anybody but a sentinel evaporated like a thimble full of water in the Sahara."

"How could anybody not love you?" Jim said with such confused sincerity in his voice that Blair was lost, wanted to be lost, fuck the consequences.

Curling his fingers at the nape of Jim's neck, he pulled him down for a kiss, putting all his worry, wonder, bewilderment and nascent love into it. It gave him the sweetest twist of sensation in his heart and belly, and Blair sighed into Jim's mouth, surrendering to him the way Jim had once surrendered to him.

When they slowly eased back into snuggling, Blair whispered, "If there's no reason we can't be friends and partners without pairing, is there any reason we can't be lovers, as well?"

"We'd have to be discreet," Jim said slowly. "Very discreet, just to keep HDA from trying to make an issue of it. If they raise enough of a stink, they could get public support behind a change to the laws. I... I don't think I could stand it if they used us to make guides more at risk than they already are."

Shuddering, Blair nodded a hasty agreement and burrowed in closer to him. "I can do discreet. With that kind of motivation, I can be the poster child for it."

"Just so long as you understand that's not what I want. If I had my way, we'd be like any other couple out there." He chortled. "Public displays, the occasional long, lustful looks, the whole nine yards."

"Cutesy nicknames and baby talk?"

"Lovers, Chief. Not infatuated teenagers! Just don't bring our fights to the station with you. Everybody will be on your side, all of them ganging up on me, and I won't be able to get squat accomplished."

"Done!" Blair said brightly, then added in a dead-serious tone, "We can do this. One way or another, we can do this."

Jim kissed him, all reassurance and determination, then brushed another over his forehead. "We can. Now you'd better get a meal in you, nothing too heavy. I told everyone you had a wish-you-could-die migraine, so looking a little strained and pale is no problem, as long as you're good to go underneath." He stood, effortlessly taking him with him. "Up for grilled cheese and tomato soup?"

"Made with milk, not water, right?" Blair asked, burying his fear and worry down far enough that not even his sentinel could see it.

***

Before Blair could drop his backpack in the executive office chair that had mysteriously acquired a position next to Jim's desk, Joel appeared at his elbow. Urging him toward Simon's office with a palm on his shoulder, his solemn face showed a level of agitation that Blair hadn't thought a bomb squad captain would willingly reveal. Quietly he said, "Ellison and Banks are knocking heads over the Gamer murders, and it's getting out of hand. You have to do something, fast, before they go where they can't get back from, either professionally or privately."

Opening the door for him, Joel nearly shoved Blair through and hastily shut it behind him. Blair hardly noticed. His attention was immediately grabbed by the tableau in front of him: Jim and Simon standing on either side of Simon's desk, fists planted on the top as they bent toward each other, almost nose-to-nose, silently glaring at each other in a test of wills that neither could win.

The confrontation had been building for weeks, ever since the last trap in the fish plant had been disarmed, the last body recovered. Banks was being pressured by the brass and politicos to consider the case cold, since it appeared on the surface as if the killer had stopped his spree. The profilers had thrown up their hands, as far as predicting whether or not he had, or had moved on, or was merely waiting for whatever vid game that took off next. Jim had no doubts that he was still in town, lying low and being patient; unfortunately, he had no evidence to back his opinion.

Needing only a split-second to take in their stalemate and run possible outcomes through his mind, Blair let go of rationality and let instinct take over, for no better reason than because sensible or logical would *not* get through to either of them right now. In two steps he was beside Jim, oozing between him and the desk to wrap his arms around Jim's waist, face against Jim's chest. He peeked up through his lashes to see the look of utter shock in Jim's expression, as if he'd grown a new appendage around his middle and had no idea what to do with it. His arms were spread high and wide, afraid to touch, but as Blair watched, they sank down slowly to encircle Blair's shoulders.

Aggression leaking out like air from a balloon, Jim softened fractionally and sat, taking Blair with him. Putting his knees on either side of Jim's hips, Blair knelt up so that Jim could bury his nose in Blair's open collar, appeasing scent, and after a circumspect lick, taste. Blair could see Simon's reflection in the glass behind Jim, and, as he carded through Jim's short hair, he held his breath, waiting for an explosion.

Simon stumbled backwards and fell into his chair, hands landing on the arms and tightening until his knuckles were in sharp relief. Mouth slightly agape, he stared, shook his head a few times, hard, and stared more.

While he did, Jim inhaled and exhaled slowly, carefully, several times, as he'd been trained to do when focusing his senses. Why it worked to calm him, Blair had no idea, but he could feel Jim's anger die, his frustration recede until it was more worry than anything else. Before very long he pulled Blair down so that he was sitting on his lap, and gave Blair a turn at finding bare skin to take refuge in until he was up to dealing with their 'outing' and Simon's reaction. Forehead resting in the curve of Jim's neck, Blair sagged imperceptibly, suddenly exhausted.

When Simon remained silent and motionless, Jim sighed and took his badge from around his neck and tucked it into a pocket, then did the same to Blair's. It must have been a sign that the upcoming conversation was between friends, because Jim said, "I've done nothing illegal, immoral or unethical that my captain needs to know about, but I think my friend deserves to know I've found a partner who can take care of me the way I need."

"How..." Simon coughed, which sounded a little strangled, but said in a far steadier voice, "The two of you been together long?"

"Just a few weeks. We've been looking for a way to let you know, but I don't have to tell you how chaotic things have been around here, and it's been worse for Blair." Jim slipped Blair's backpack off and unerringly found Blair's handheld. Booting it and scrolling to what he wanted, he tossed it to Simon. "You need to see this."

"Sandburg's schedule?" Disbelief colored Simon's tone, and Blair couldn't blame him at being irritated at the diversion, as he wanted Simon's rampage over his relationship with Jim to be over and done with himself.

"Read it." As was his wont when either of them were upset, Jim played with Blair's curls while Simon obeyed, and Blair relaxed even though he wanted to be alert and contributing.

At some signal from Simon that Blair didn't perceive, Jim added, "You might want to ask your friend Bruckner why he's overloading someone who he claims is a total asset to his department. Academic responsibilities alone could drive Sandburg into a Crisis. Add in what he's doing for us, and the only reason he hasn't lost it is because he feels free to come to me like this." Jim hesitated, unoccupied hand fisting to beat a light tattoo on Blair's back. "Which is probably why he didn't hesitate to return the favor, despite being at work."

"I'm not pissed - at him," Simon said with surprising gentleness. "Or even you, despite your bullheadedness. And I'm nothing but glad that the two of you are together, however you're together."

"You won't stop me from riding with him?" Blair said without moving from his sanctuary, and Jim hugged him, cheek resting against his ear.

"You're a civilian observer, not a cop," Simon said thoughtfully. "And I'd have a riot in the bullpen if I pulled your pass for anything less than a direct order from the brass. I don't think you realize how much of a benefit you are to us, if for no other reason than because we can leave all the Ellison wrangling to you."

"I am not a loose canon," Jim said sharply.

"It's a line I've been waiting for you to cross." It was still Simon-the-friend talking, which was probably why Jim didn't deny the accusation. With a thread of humor and relief in his voice, Simon added, "I've always thought that the main problem with the whole 'pecking order/alpha male' thing was that it doesn't seem to take intelligence and character into account. Much as you respect and understand chain of command, you're too independent to willingly go against your own better judgment."

"Haven't we had this discussion before?" Jim said dryly.

"No doubt we will again, but we're getting off track." Blair heard Simon stand, and scrunched in closer to Jim when Simon squatted beside them. "I mean it, Blair. You've shown an insight and flare for detective work that could easily earn you a permanent place once you've got that Ph.D, and it has nothing to do with your genetic status. Which *is* the reason I'm going to speak to Hal about allocating our shared resource in a more sensible way. It bothers me that Rainier is pushing you this way." He hesitated, drumming his fingers on the chair arm, but went on. "If you need respite and Jim's not available - well, I don't think I could do the living teddy bear thing, like Jim here, but I can provide a safe, private place for you to... rest until he reaches you."

"Why?" Blair blurted, but it was too important a question to backpedal or dance around.

"Because any other time, any other subject, you'd be in my face, mouth going a mile a minute and brain running even faster. For you to let Jim do all the talking... well, let's say that I know you have to be in a bad way. I don't like seeing that in anybody, let alone someone who's doing his level best to meet excessive demands on them." Simon straightened, went back behind his desk.

Blair followed him visually, saw the subtle change in his body language that announced that Simon-the-Captain was back, and slid out of Jim's arms with a last, hidden kiss to his neck. Taking a chair for himself, he reached for his handheld, and opened his personal file on the Gamer's case.

"I think there's a way to break this weird alliance the church and the mayor's office have going," he said.

Despite a snort of disbelief, Simon sat back, ready and willing to be convinced. "I can't imagine what since they're both seriously into saving their political face - and ass. The mayor and company don't want the mess with selling them a useless piece of property, well aware it was useless, to get too much air time. The church isn't too thrilled about being connected to a serial killer, first by a victim belonging to a prominent family within the church, then by owning the property where he hunted."

"So both are pressuring you to make it a cold case, and both are stonewalling the investigation as much as they can," Blair agreed to point out he was up to speed on the behind the scene machinations. "If you can turn the parents, convince them that their son, Stuart, was played and they can make points for themselves in the community by finding who's the wolf in sheep's clothing in their midst, their cooperation could force both the church and the mayor's hand. That's the carrot. The stick would be hinting that there are those in the press who would love to know the Weathers didn't report their seventeen-year-old, supposedly devout in their faith, son missing for nearly two weeks. That they sanitized the kid's room - destroyed his old computer, bought a new one, replaced all his clothes and toiletries - *after* Ellison turned up on their doorstep to talk to him about the murders."

Staring at something Blair wasn't sure even a sentinel could see, Jim said, "I don't know, Sandburg. They and the church could start making noises about religious discrimination, claiming they've been completely cooperative, which they have on paper - another reason the Mayor is kissing their backsides. And if all they care about is their standing, their reputation, they're more likely to disown the kid than they are to risk exposing any dirty little secrets they might have."

"You think they do know something, something specific?" Simon gingerly prodded.

"Yeah, but no evidence, just a hunch based on the fact that they're not using their son's death as a platform to exalt their faith and life while condemning the rest of us heathens." Jim's tone was matter-of-fact, but Blair could feel more underneath it - an unnamed darkness and pain deep within Jim that he'd caught glimpses occasionally.

Not sure why, Blair put his hand in the crook of Jim's arm and said gently, "Maybe the loss of their child cuts too deep to use it to preach their beliefs, even if they're not exactly model parents."

Distantly, as if only his body remained while the rest of him was far, far away, Jim said, "Their child... I doubt he was ever that to them; a loved and cherished addition to their lives. Most likely they see him as a tool, a possession, a symbol of their pride and status."

"That sounds cold," Simon put in, sounding a bit worried about Jim's behavior. "I'm not saying that some parents put too much of their own ambitions and ego on their children, especially if they only have the one, but from all reports, this is a model family. If Stuart had a problem with their strict, rigid lifestyle, he never did anything to publicly rebel or complain."

"Only child," Jim murmured to himself, somehow growing more remote. He stood, visibly pulling himself back, at least part way. "Go ahead report the case as a cold one, but remind whoever needs it that there are children involved, and therefore, as primary and sentinel, I am under legally recognized genetic imperatives to continue working on it when my case load allows."

Pinching the bridge of his nose under his glasses, Simon shook his head. "You've never played that card before, Ellison, but it should shut both parties up, at least temporarily."

"It's not a play; I can't walk away from this. I think I've got an angle to look at, not that anybody but you needs to know that right now."

Jim didn't wait to be dismissed, but before Blair went after him, he met Simon's gaze. "Thank you." With Simon's embarrassed pleasure and confusion sparking around him, he fled for Jim's desk.

Already searching through computer files at breakneck speed, Jim said as Blair sat down, "Can you give me an update on the specifics of the First Freewill Congregation? What makes them different from other sects? Any other basic information you can find on the members, the history, whatever could be useful, too."

It didn't take long for Blair to burn through what could be found online for the group, above and beyond all the blogs and thisplace links taking sides in the lawsuit against the city. Unsurprisingly, given their beliefs, the church didn't maintain a website or lj of its own, nor did any of the members, beyond the page the lawyers put up concerning the law suite. Most casual chat about them was scathing and dismissive, and Blair didn't find much official documentation beyond the paperwork needed for church exempt status, and the required membership roll.

When Jim asked for an update, Blair rolled back from the desk and stretched. "About what you'd expect for a backward looking mindset - anti everything modern, more or less, but at least none of the overt racist, supremist bullshit that makes the few radical Christian sects so dangerous. My first impression is they're trying desperately hard to create the mythical 50's of the last century; Leave it to Beaver and Andy Griffin morals and beliefs. It also looks as if the whole thing was basically started by two rich families who couldn't find a religion that allowed them to decide how to worship."

"Yeah, I get that, too. So for them, homosexuality doesn't exist, or feminism, or reproductive rights, or genetic profiling, or any other belief that could threaten the power structure of a few willful, arrogant men." Jim made a sweeping gesture as if to clear away a mass of clutter. "If it doesn't fit with their viewpoint, they get rid of it by refusing to see it."

Snorting, Blair said semi-curiously, "Wonder how long it'll take them to figure out that willful blindness will only get them blindsided by the outfall of their actions."

"Given the evidence, they won't even if it bites them in the ass, and I think it has." Turning his screen so Blair could see it, he enlarged an image of Stuart, his parents, and another boy. "His brother, Craig."

Hastily backtracking through his own hits, Blair said, "Membership roll says only one child; so does home-schooling record and the last census."

"Birth records say otherwise, as does social security, and IRS. No death certificate, guardianship or adoption papers." Jim zoomed in on the obviously older boy, staring at the picture as if that would allow him to see the real person. "They have to have disowned him, and given their practices, they probably removed the evidence of him in their lives. Why? Because he's genetically imperfect or maybe when he rebelled, like all teenagers do, he crossed some line in their tight, unforgiving world that he couldn't cross back?"

Jim's last words were distracted, and his expression was the one Blair had learned meant he was using his senses. As they were more or less alone in the bullpen, he had to be focusing on a sense memory for some reason, and Blair automatically slid his chair over to cup Jim's elbow to help. Diverting the contact by turning slightly and catching Blair's hand, Jim brought them knee-to-knee, Blair's wrists loosely held in his fingers.

Before the pain of rejection could truly take hold, Jim dropped his head and peered up at Blair through his lashes, the passion and love brightening his gaze more than enough to reassure him. "You making a pass at me, Sandburg?" he said playfully, the slight tightening of his grip enough to remind Blair they had a front to keep up and mock flirting repartee was par for the course in the bullpen.

"Considering the train wreck you call your love-life, I thought you might give me a shot out of pure horniness," Blair said in the same vein, a grin coming easily because of the underlying truth in his jibe. In the few weeks they'd been together, their mutual schedules hadn't allowed for more than occasionally sharing a bed for sleep and a couple of hand jobs to take the edge off.

In more honest tones, he added, "Seriously, for a second there it looked like you could use a friend. Like maybe personal experience was why you thought of looking for another child."

The half-smile Jim had managed to produce faded instantly, and he backed away, one hand going to the back of his neck to rub at sudden tension. "Something like that."

Doing his best to project understanding and patience, Blair clasped his hands between his knees and waited. After a moment, Jim stood, reaching for his own coat and handing Blair his. "I'm going to go in to update Simon on this, then I need some fresh air. Feel up to a walk? Maybe get an early lunch?"

"Food is good, but if we walk too far, you may end up dragging me back by one foot. A nap was the next thing on my agenda for the day."

"In that case, you can catch twenty in the truck while I'm driving. There's this seafood shack on Forrest's Pier that makes the best fish 'n chips, and I've got a taste for it." Jim led the way out, describing the culinary delights of deep-frying the old-fashioned way, Blair lecturing him on the effects of hardened arteries.

Much to his surprise, Blair did doze off on the way to the waterfront, curled up on the bench seat of the truck, head pillowed on Jim's thigh. He woke, much refreshed and ravenous, more than willing to stuff himself on the batter-coated filets even as he went on about how bad they were for a healthy body. When the meal was done, Jim strolled along a path thousands of feet had worn into the rocky shore behind the restaurant, soaking up the early autumn sunshine with obvious pleasure.

After a while they came to a spot where Mother Nature had carved out a love seat from the solid rock, just below the path and sheltered by small, wind-twisted trees on several sides. Filled with soft sand and facing the ocean, it invited a body to take a load off and enjoy the view, and Jim nudged Blair down to do so, sitting opposite him, long legs bent to fit in the small space. Though the rock radiated off the warmth it had gathered through the day, the sunlight itself was only good for its radiance, too weak to fight off the effects of the cold breeze from the bay.

It gave Jim an excuse to unfold the blanket he'd carried from the truck. Under its welcome concealment they shifted so they were practically bottom-to-bottom, arms and legs intertwined to make a loving enclosure for heart and soul. From a distance it would look as if they merely sat side by side instead of holding each other, however awkwardly.

Once they were situated, Jim said tiredly, "We're below line of sight, which rules out parabolic mikes and the like, and the surf is a white noise that most sentinels can't filter out. Any boat close enough to eavesdrop is close enough for me to see, so one can hear us, despite how out in the open we are, or see us until they're right on top of us, which means we're as private as you can get without special equipment."

Half-joking and half-worriedly, Blair said, "Whatever you've got to talk about must be serious. Is there a body I need to help you hide?"

Thumb rubbing over his brow as if to ward off a headache, Jim said simply, "It's not illegal, but the way the government keeps eliminating personal rights under the guise of protecting the citizens, I wouldn't bet on it staying that way. Mostly it's just private. My official records cover everything from my food allergies to what my favorite color is. This doesn't need to be out there for some self-important HDA researcher to use as an excuse to put me under a microscope."

As blandly and calmly as possible, Blair asked, "So what is it, already?"

"I had the senses when I was a kid. They didn't go offline until I was about ten or so, when my mother died in childbirth, and stayed that way until Peru."

"Jim...."

"Yes, I know how rare that is and what it means for the possible extent of my abilities, as well as how much impact it had on making me the flaming asshole I am now. The only reason I'm bringing it up is because the old man wanted a normal, well-trained son for his heir, and when I couldn't be that because of the sentinel thing, he disowned me in favor of my younger brother, Stephen. When I left home, I swore I'd give Stevie an out if he needed it, but when I reached out, he ignored me. Now he's a clone of the old man, climbing his chosen corporate ladder to power and money, not caring who he hurts on the way." Jim clamped his mouth shut on the last of his harshly spat out words, jaw muscle jumping, and looked away, out to the sea.

For a moment he was silent, and Blair let him be, waiting for him to find a way to get the rest of it out. Finally, Jim whispered so softly Blair almost couldn't hear him, "I see his name in the paper once in a while, mostly the society pages. See his picture. And don't recognize the little boy who wanted so bad to be a fireman; who cried when he accidentally hurt a squirrel. And wonder how he would have turned out if he'd had the courage or stubbornness or whatever to disobey the old man and stay in touch with me."

Bringing his gaze to bear on Blair, not trying to hide the pain, Jim added, "If he had, and if he'd been hurt or killed because of me, I can't even begin to imagine what I would have done."

"You think that's what happened with Stuart and his brother? When their parents disowned him, Stuart refused to go along with it, at least on the sly?" Going over it in his head, Blair nodded to himself. "That's who introduced Stuart to Hunter One. Who else would he know who would even have access to the game? If Craig was already squatting at the fish processing plant, which is likely given the living area we found under the eaves, it would have been natural for them to use it for a basis for a mod, both as a way to spend time together and to defy the parents."

"Stuart's body was the oldest we found," Jim reminded him, adding in his own points to Blair's logic. "It could have easily been an accidental death, from what the coroner said, even if a prosecutor could make a case for someone deliberately pushing him off the scaffold. If Craig saw him die, or has a reason to blame himself for it happening, he could be out of his head with grief. The profilers haven't been able to get a handle on the killer. Maybe it's because we're dealing with the random, impulsive reactions of someone totally out of control."

"The rage and wild reactions of true temporary insanity as compared to the methodical, carefully worked out patterns of a psychopath or thrill killer, covered by the meticulous preparations for the mod before it became a death trap," Blair agreed reflectively. "Sort of an ongoing psychotic break."

"It would explain why he stopped killing, too. The body's gone, he's on the run instead of holed up with his grief and despair, and maybe he's beginning to think clearly again." Jim reached over and scraped one of Blair's locks away from the corner of his mouth. "We need to find someone who actually knows him, knows about his family, so we can figure out what he'll do once he fully realizes the consequences of his actions since his brother's death."

"Back to Beamer's, then, I think. We have Stuart's screen name; it shouldn't be too hard to pinpoint who he usually teamed with and trace those players. His brother is bound to have been one, and the others might have enough info for us to use." Turning his cheek into Jim's touch, Blair kissed his palm, hiding the action with a shrug, even in this hidden place. "One last thing before we head out - I get why your father would want you to hide your abilities. It was nearly thirty years ago, before those sentinels died stopping the terrorists during the Superbowl attack, on vid no less, thanks to that news crew. Until them, most people had little or no idea how modern sentinels function, how they work, what being a sentinel really means. I guess most were a little afraid or paranoid, like humans are where the unknown is concerned."

"We still run into that, especially with bureaucratic types," Jim interrupted brusquely.

"So I've seen." Glaring at him to stop him from breaking in again, Blair said stubbornly, "But why did he go so far as to disown you for being what you are? There wasn't a lot out there about sentinels, but enough that he should have seen it wasn't as if you had a choice about your genetic heritage, which he contributed to."

The only reason Blair didn't pass out when Jim's pain clawed through him was because it was old and Jim was experienced in smashing it into submission. Gasping, he breathed through it, then demanded, "What did he say to you!"

"That I was a freak he never wanted, but put up with for my mother's sake, mostly because he'd promise to take care of me so she'd agree to have another child despite the risk to her health. Once she died and he had Stevie, he saw I had my uses, but when I turned seventeen, he didn't feel obligated to put up with my abnormalities any more."

The worst part of Jim's recitation, Blair thought wildly, was how flat and unemotional it was, as if he were quoting a traffic report. It left him uncertain what to say, or how to say it; a place Blair didn't find himself in very often. With words out of commission, he did what came naturally and used the language a sentinel, especially Jim it seemed, understood best - touch. Under the blanket, he stroked Jim's arms, shoulders and back as far as he could reach and massaged carefully at the nape of his neck until the blankness in him silently sighed away.

They spent a few more minutes simply enjoying sun, surf, and each other's company before reluctantly climbing back onto the trail to return to the truck. They walked side-by-side, hands in back pockets, and close enough to knock elbows in a silly, juvenile contest of buddy punching. A few dozen yards from the end of the boardwalk, Jim abruptly turned impassive again, donning the attitude of cop and sentinel in an instant.

It was warning enough that Blair eyed the man who was walking toward them with suspicion, though he tried to maintain a relaxed facade. Something about the situation - either the vibes Jim gave off or the studiously polite expression on the other man's face - made the short hairs on the back of Blair's neck rise. Tall, lanky and dark-haired, he had the indefinable something that marked him as a sentinel to Blair's perceptions, which did not help him stay composed.

He stopped a polite distance away, and Jim acknowledged him with a simple, "Roarke."

"Ellison."

"I take it you're not out for a pleasant stroll. What does HDA's best want with me?" Jim's tone was genuinely respectful, though Blair picked up on a wariness underneath that worried him.

"Actually, it's the young Possible with you that brings me here." Amazingly Roarke's gray eyes were regretful, but that didn't stop Blair from taking a defensive step backward.

Or Jim from stepping between them. "I've promised him my protection while he's working with me, and that includes being harassed because of his genome. If this is in regards to a Call or Meeting, you should go through the proper channels."

"You know my history," Roarke said with surprising gentleness. "So you know I'm not looking for a guide, nor is he required to come with me. However, there have been allegations, and as an Internal Affairs agent, I must resolve them to my superiors' satisfaction."

Proud that his voice came out steady, Blair said, "What allegations, and what, exactly, do you intend to do to resolve them?"

"That you are not well and have used a sentinel's instinct to safeguard to coerce Ellison into covering for you." Looking him over with an appraising eye, Roarke added, "My first impression is that is so much nonsense, but I will ask your permission to do a more in depth check of you with my senses."

Taking another step back, throat closing over panic, Blair shook his head. "I'd rather just go to a doctor, thank you very much."

Roarke stayed put, posture stiffening. "A time consuming and potentially difficult proposition, as a doctor could possibly have his own agenda or prejudices in regards to a potential guide, though if you have one in mind that you trust completely and who will see you quickly, I am not adverse to accepting his medical judgment."

There was a warning under his words, faint with hints of genuine concern, that toppled Blair unhappily into capitulation. "No, so I guess we might as well get it over with."

Fists knotted at his sides, he held his ground while Roarke strode forward, apparently unsurprised that Jim didn't give way until the last second. Stopping just inside Blair's personal space, Roarke leaned forward, eyelids at half-mast.

"A little too thin," he murmured, apparently to himself, "but skin tone and hair indicate good health and generally good diet, as does scent. Heart and respiration elevated, but not beyond what is typical for an extremely unpleasant situation. Eyes are clear, not bloodshot, no signs of excessive fatigue or stress. In fact, at the moment, I would have to say that you appear generally relaxed, content, and more than capable of dealing with life's trials and tribulations with composure."

"Way to make me feel like something under a microscope," Blair muttered.

Inching closer, Roarke unexpectedly purred, "Would you rather I tell you how beautiful you are and that you smell perfectly edible?"

Blair bolted, not exactly running for the truck, but not lingering, either. He didn't look over his shoulder to see if Roarke was pursuing him, or if Jim had taken umbrage. Once he reached his goal, he locked himself in, sliding into the driver's seat to drive, determined to use the spare keys Jim had given him, if necessary.

Blessedly, it was Jim who knocked at the window, and Blair went back to the passenger's side, though not without making sure Jim was alone. Neither spoke until they were on the road, then Jim covered Blair's hand with one of his, gave a gentle squeeze, and guided it to the base of the steering wheel. Giving control of the vehicle to Blair, Jim went very still, save for a single finger stroking over the back of Blair's hand.

Steering carefully and hiding that he was by staying where he was, despite the awkward reach, Blair waited while Jim used his senses, going deeper than Blair had ever seen him risk. Eventually he came back to himself in stages, frowning, but clearly not alarmed. Once he took over driving, he stretched in place and rolled his shoulders.

"What was that all about?" Blair demanded, positive that Jim would have had a thing or two to say to Roarke before leaving.

"A test. Which you passed with flying colors."

"A test? What... why? Because they suspect...." Interrupting himself because of the worried, speculative glance his partner sent his way, Blair clamped his mouth shut and waited, visibly fuming.

Out of nowhere, Jim said, "No one ever asked the sentinels if we wanted the Guide laws passed, and when we protested, no one listened. For all the public recognition we have, there's only a few hundred of us in the country, so we've got no political pull at all, and politicians, as always, had their own agenda."

"I can't imagine them or you doing nothing about it," Blair said encouragingly, unwillingly intrigued at the peek into the most closed society in the world.

"We're not, but it's a long term-plan. Thing is, no one, except maybe our guides, really *understand* the abilities of sentinel. So while people think they're taking precautions to hide things from us, they're not necessarily effective, not to mention it doesn't stop us from snooping the regular ways, if we feel we have to."

Blair got it instantly. "Like when you were searching Stuart's room; you were being a cop, not a sentinel. Like me, everyone assumes you're always working on the senses, nothing else."

Nodding, Jim went on, somewhat absently, as if he were thinking it over as he spoke. "We've gotten, I don't know, hints, suggestions, pieces, of something going on in HDA in regards to us and the guides that the brass in the organization are scrambling to fix."

With a deep breath and half-formed prayer to whomever, Blair asked, "What do the sentinels know about guides that they haven't told HDA?"

"It's more like what statistics have we noticed that they don't want to acknowledge," Jim said with a shocking grin aimed Blair's way. "Like, before the laws, not all guides came from the guide genome; about ten percent could have been any warm body off the street, as far as their genetics went. Before the laws, ninety-three percent of all sentinels were paired; now, it's only fifty-seven, and that's including long term from before the laws. Take those out, and only about nineteen percent of sentinels are paired, or have been paired since the laws came into effect."

"Oh, my, god." Blair had to remind himself to inhale again. "That's major. Used the right way, that could make for serious problems for them, especially if they know and haven't been up front about it."

"The question is, what *is* the best way? And is this information behind what's got HDA in an uproar? Is it why they've been pushing you and a couple of other potential guides, like insisting that Roarke make a not-so-subtle pass at you to see your reaction?"

With a shoving away gesture, Jim brusquely changed the subject. "Let's call Simon and see if he's had a chance to work on the parents. There's an itch in my skull that says we have to move fast. Craig's had enough time since we spooked him into running to settle down, get a grip, and decide what to do next."

Agreeing with him for his own vague reasons, Blair took out his handheld, and once he'd gotten the go-ahead from Simon, called the Weathers to set up an appointment with them. To that point he'd had no direct contact with them, and though he liked to think of himself as nonjudgmental, his impression of them was bad enough that he kept the call as impersonal and official sounding as possible.

It seemed to set the tone for Jim once they arrived at the Weather's residence. Dispassionately, almost mechanically, he questioned them about the 'other boy' and 'earlier child,' never once referring to the brothers as such or speaking in a way that connected them emotionally to the parents. The tactic, cold and detached as it was, worked. Since it was a reflection of their own attitude, they assumed Jim was on their side, or at least truly disinterested in their involvement in the case, and answered him in detail after a slow, mistrustful start.

By the time the door to their home - if that frigid, unforgiving, sterile environment could ever be considered one by anybody - was shut behind them, Blair's heart ached for both boys. Hearing the empathetic pain in his voice and unable to stop it, he said, "Please tell me that was what you meant by playing them. That you don't really approve or, or, or..."

"Chief." Jim dropped an arm over his shoulder and pulled him in close to his side as they walked to the truck, as if to warm him from what they'd just escaped. "They were looking for an excuse to justify their actions with righteous superiority; I just took advantage of that. Now we know that they worked Craig's ass off in the family's construction business from the time he was old enough to hold a hammer, whether he wanted to or not. And left him home alone to take care of his baby brother while Weathers and the wife were off at church functions during nights and the weekend."

Warmed, but not enough, maybe never enough, by the consideration behind the embrace, Blair leaned into him. "I'm not sure which fate is worse. They already had Stuart's wife picked out, all but selling him to the highest bidder who needed a 'suitable' husband for his daughter, the only use for a second son in their opinion, and leaving him on his own for the most part because of it. That is, until the older was disowned for reasons they can't even bring themselves to admit, and suddenly he's expected to fill in his brother's shoes, regardless of his own interests or capabilities."

"All in the name of a god who they believe declared that it's the obligation of every adult to work tirelessly toward the prosperity and security of the next generation. Which begs the question, who gets to stop and enjoy that prosperity and security; a descendant five times removed?" Opening the door for him, Jim waited until he was seated before he added, "First we check with Beamer and see if he's got the memes of the players Craig usually teamed with, and we'll check their physical location against the list of properties Weathers' company has or is working on to see if any are close."

"Yeah, somebody had to turn Craig onto the game originally, didn't he? And since he'd know the layout of most of those buildings, he'd know which one he could safely use as a hideout."

"Not to mention it's another way to stick it to his parents," Jim agreed dryly.

Less than fifteen minutes Blair had four likely sites lined up, and after calling Simon to give him an update, they left to check them out. It was early evening by the time they reached the third one, and the day's sun had given way to Cascade's more normal gray, drizzly dreariness. Like he did at the previous two, Jim pulled up in front of the old Masonic temple being refurbished into a museum, sweeping it with his senses to decide if further investigation was needed. After a moment, he turned in his seat so that he was facing Blair, head tilted down slightly so that his features were in shadow.

Tapping Blair's handheld where it lay on the seat between them, he mouthed 'backup,' but said aloud, "Nothing, but I want to do the same drive around that I did with the others, to make sure."

With a fast blip, Blair opened up his texting program and wrote, "Outside eyes and ears?"

Putting the truck in gear, Jim drove slowly up an access alley next to the building that led to a parking lot, taking a second to clear the message and type in 'y' for yes. "Weathers said this one was moving in stages, as the fundraising brought in the cash, right? So the only security is random sweeps to make sure squatters haven't compromised the locks or gates, and so far they look solid."

He accelerated to the next block, sped to the corner, and paused at the stop sign. "There are wifi vid cams well hidden outside, heavy electronic signatures scattered everywhere inside, with a good attempt at masking them with white sound and dampening baffles, just like at the factory. Call for that backup, and make sure Taggart and his team is part of it. I smell explosives, despite the ionizers running inside - gunpowder, dynamite, and ignitall. My guess is Craig's set up another mod, this time with real bangs and booms."

"Man." Blair swept his hair from his face, sparing a moment to grieve for the young man who didn't know how to grieve himself before tagging the station.

Waiting until Blair finished with Dispatch, arranging for units to meet them without lights or sirens a few blocks away, Jim put the truck back in motion and completed the circuit of the building, stopping in front again. "What's next on the list?" he asked, obviously for the cams.

"The warehouse on Central Avenue being converted to business on the first floor, and lofts on the others," Blair said, making a show of checking the list.

"How many after that?" Not giving Blair a chance to answer, Jim turned in the direction he would need to go to Central, and was quickly out of earshot for even the best microphones. Pulling into a spot in a parking lot not far away from the temple, but shielded by a taller building, he leaned his head back onto the seat, obviously listening.

Releasing the seatbelt, Blair hitched closer, fingers circling Jim's wrist. "Tell me what you hear," he said, to give him another focus against zoning.

"He's pacing, heart rate through the roof, muttering to himself. He didn't buy that I didn't pick up on him, but he's not sure and can't figure out why I would back off if I did."

"Why isn't he bolting, then?" Blair wondered, more to himself than Jim.

Tiredly Jim sat up, not meeting his eyes. "You know why."

Wishing he didn't have to admit to what they both knew, Blair said, "He wants to play Hunter for real, with you as his opponent. Suicide by cop, going out a winner no matter what because who could beat a sentinel cop? With no place to go, no family to turn to, blaming himself for the death of the one person in the world that mattered to him, what other choice can he see for himself?" He chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, but added, "I think there's something else going on, too. I'm still not sure why he didn't dump all the bodies. We're missing a critical element to understanding him."

"If you can think of a way to dig him out without anyone getting hurt, now's the time for me to hear it," Jim said so emotionlessly that he had to have buried his sympathy for Craig deep. "Banks will likely be coming in with Taggart because of the scope of this. We'll have to sell them both that we're right about what he's going to do if we want to convince them not to just send in SWAT."

Try as he might, Blair couldn't see a single path that didn't end in death and bloodshed unless Craig was willing to listen to someone, anyone. That didn't stop him from tossing out possibilities, which, to give Jim credit, he listened to before shooting down. By the time the other officers arrived, he had unintentionally, grimly, convinced himself that short of a miracle, Craig would die.

"Jim," he said helplessly, stopping him from leaving the truck with a hand on his thigh.

Not turning back to look at him, Jim went stock still except for the muscle jumping in his jaw. "I have every intention of bringing my suspect in, unharmed, but I'll do what I have to stop him." He left to join Simon and Joel at a mobile command unit, and Blair trailed after him, not sure which of them was more miserable.

Joel already had the blueprints of the Temple up on a field screen, and Jim quickly pointed out where the vid-cams were positioned, along with the scope of their coverage. He couldn't pinpoint where the explosives were, only that there was a generous quantity spread over a large area. The electronics were easier to place, not that it would be much help unless they could figure where they connected and why.

Though Jim frowned, he didn't argue when the decision came down with the plan to take Craig in a straight-forward assault that depended on speed, armor, and overwhelming numbers. All the exits, including less obvious ones such as the roof, would be covered, and the SWAT commander was confident that his team was up to spotting and disarming any traps inside. Blair shared Jim's grimaced opinion on that, but didn't voice it as the man gave off serious macho asshole vibes. If he wouldn't listen to Jim, there was no chance he'd listen to a civilian observer who wasn't even supposed to be on the scene.

It seemed like it took forever for everyone, including him at Jim's insistence and with his help, to gear up: helmets with vid and sound feed back to the command center, body armor of Seclar, the second generation Kevlar that could stop even Teflon bullets, and thin-as-leather stress gloves that went rigid as steel under impact. But once they were on the way, time went into overdrive for Blair, screaming by far too fast. One moment he was buckling up, the next the street sped by, punctuated by flashing lights and sirens. The instant after that a dozen police cruisers and unmarked cars were arrayed outside the Masonic Temple, spilling heavily armed men onto the streets and sidewalks.

Stopping mid reach of the door handle, Jim shouted into his headset, "Back, get back, now, there's...."

The night lit up with the orange and white of an explosion, and it was only later that Blair was able to sort the images and noise into the individual blasts along the front of the building. Even as Jim gave his warning, he had dived for the floor of the truck, taking Blair with him. Without thinking, Blair wrapped himself around Jim's head, fingers sliding on the metal of the helmet, yelling for him to dial it down, dial it down now.

As the last echoes faded, an amped-out voice announced that if anybody tried to come inside except the sentinel, the whole block would go up. It may have been bluff. In Jim's professional opinion the first volley had been more show than anything else. He shared that in a soft mutter to Blair, mike covered, as they unwound themselves with careful pats to assure no injuries and peered out through the shattered windshield to survey the damage.

There was enough to sourly convince the SWAT commander of the danger of rushing in, and he didn't sweeten up any when his team reported that there were no views into the structure, not even infrared because of interference inside. After Taggart retreated to where his crew were waiting to be useful, the commander and Banks had an intense discussion that might have evolved to yelling and threats if the news trucks hadn't arrived, focusing on them nearly instantly, despite the hastily erected police tape barrier. That was the clue that led Jim to asking Blair to use his handheld to catch a news stream. It only took keying in 'sentinel, Cascade' to discover that Craig wasn't simply watching the action outside his keep; he was live-streaming it to any number of sites.

Ironically, that was what Blair needed to finally make sense of everything that Craig had done from the time his brother had died, right up to demanding the one-on-one showdown with Jim. His heart rate must have changed, or maybe Jim was simply that in tune with him; he caught Blair's hand below the line of sight of the cam, squeezing gently as his eyes questioned. With a slight shake of his head and significant tap to his own helmet, Blair told him he didn't want to explain yet, and Jim accepted that with a last, lingering stroke along Blair's fingers before breaking contact and sliding out of the truck.

Shedding Seclar as he went, Jim plopped it all down on the hood of Banks' car with a loud enough thump that everyone nearby ducked. "I'm going in."

He leaned on the car, arms crossed over his chest, legs crossed at the ankle, and repeated the three words whenever he could stuff them into the argument raging around him. Blair dropped his helmet with Jim's stuff and sat in lotus on the hood, waiting with him for all the fighting to be over and done with. Handheld tucked discreetly to one side where only he and Jim could see it, Blair clicked through the newsfeeds, not surprised the media was watching and listening to every word. Vaguely impressed with how composed he and Jim looked, he wondered how much longer it would be before the brass called Banks or the SWAT commander and chewed them out for making a public spectacle of themselves.

Almost on cue, phones rang, backs were hurriedly turned away from the perimeter for mumbled conversations, and Jim ignored Banks and company to concentrate on the Masonic Temple. "He's had too much time to set things up in there to his satisfaction, and he learned from his last mod," he said, head down nearly to his chest to baffle all the boom microphones aimed at them. "Not to mention he picked his opponent, so this one is likely designed with a sentinel's weaknesses in mind."

"So don't be one," Blair said automatically, then leaned in so that only Jim could hear him, no matter how good the mike. "You were a soldier; you have combat experience. How would you deal with an enemy who held the high ground and knew the terrain?"

A feral grin blossomed. "Make him come to you." Jim's expression faded to somber again. "Which won't help me if he uses my senses against me."

"Dial them down, way down. All of them. You don't need them for this." Thinking it through as he spoke, Blair went on. "Remember when they thought T-Rex was more or less blind, hunting by motion and sound? Well, sentinel sense memory is extraordinary, and I'll bet yours is even better. You saw Craig run, heard his footsteps as he did. Make that your target. Forget everything else but matching that sense memory to what is in there."

Frowning, Jim thought about that, clearly trying on the idea for size.

Taking advantage of his distraction and a sudden lull in the verbal battle around them, Blair said calmly, "Captain Banks, I would like to volunteer to guide Detective Ellison for the duration of this operation, and *only* for this operation. I'm not looking to be paired with him."

Dead silence reigned for a moment, then Jim snorted. "As if I'd pair with you, Sandburg."

The words and tone were just the right mix of derisive and amused, but the truth underlying them rang clearly to Blair's perceptions. Convinced he was doing the right thing, he said, "I know I'm an observer, not a cop, and I don't want to be one, but in this instance, I believe my skills are needed to maximize Ellison's usefulness. We've worked together enough that he'll respond to my coaching through the sensory deluge waiting inside for him, and much as I hate to remind either of you, he is at risk for cascade failure in that environment, given his years of service and current stress level."

"Likely you'll be the first target," the SWAT commander sneered before Simon could speak up. "If Weathers even lets you in."

"He has a reputation for fair play and good sportsmanship, which means since he's chosen the battlefield and weapons, he won't argue with Ellison's choice of tools, which is all a guide is to most people." Not willing to waste the opportunity of reaching a major audience, Blair added with only a fraction of the frustration and disgust he felt, "Why do you think most of us with the genome are terrified of being paired? We've become things in the world's eyes, regardless of our accomplishments or skills."

Whatever the man had to say was lost when Banks elbowed him sharply then nodded fractionally at the cameras, clearly holding his own tongue by major effort of will.

"Why do you think sentinels don't want to be paired, either?" Jim put in. "Who wants to be looked at as if they need a living teddy bear or the equivalent to function well?"

"Well, what the fuck do you want?" The commander snarled, apparently losing patience and commonsense.

As if it were a cue, Blair slid off the car and walked toward the building beside Jim, unconsciously matching his footsteps.

"A partner," Jim called back over his shoulder. "An equal."

As soon as they were at the door, Blair muttered, "And this public service announcement has been presented by Dissidents-R-Us. Homeland Defense Agency is *not* going to be happy, but, damnit, if you don't speak up, you're never heard."

"Preaching to the choir, here, Sandburg, but I'd worry more about what Simon will do since neither of us waited for an order from him. Now can we focus on the task as hand?" Apparently not wanting a response, Jim closed his eyes, tilted his head to one side and breathed deeply.

When he opened them again, there was an oddness to their depths, to the line of his tightly pressed lips, that worried Blair. Far too aware of the eyes and ears on them, he contented himself with asking, "Ready?"

"Let's go for it."

They swung the double doors open together, diving to one side to avoid being an easy target by standing in the entrance, backlit by headlights and street lamps. Scuttling on hands and feet, Jim followed the wall a short distance, then darted across to one of the wide pillars that broke the single open space into many small alcoves and chambers, trusting Blair to stay in his wake. Once there, Jim stood slowly, fitting Blair close to his side, and studied their surroundings.

It was, Blair realized with a sinking heart, worse than he had expected. Mylar and aluminum foil had been draped over every available surface and across every opening, drifting slightly in the faint breeze from the open door. The reflective surfaces caught and bounced every bit of light, every hint of movement, creating an enormous kaleidoscope of eye piercing brightness and color. To add to the visual confusion, dry ice fog covered the floor to about knee-height on Blair, hiding any booby-trap or pitfall Craig might have in place.

Sound was as muddled and confused, with a wide variety of clicks, hisses, and thumps issuing from unseen speakers at different volumes. The natural echoes from the general openness of the building distorted them further, making it nearly impossible to detect what direction any noise came from. Occasionally a shriek or scream would slice through the miasma, hurting Blair's ears so much he wished he could dial down himself.

Blessedly Jim seemed undisturbed by it all, putting most of his attention on the mist. "The cold from that will kill any chance at SWAT using infrared, along with the heat flares behind some of the foil shrouds."

Blair wondered why he would remind him of what they already knew, then Jim's overly alert scrutiny sunk in. If Craig had a small oxygen tank, he could be hiding in the fog. It was, Blair admitted, where he would be.

"There's an electrical charge running through almost all the foil and wires holding the mylar, some of it pretty high voltage. Breaking the circuit probably trips explosives or other devices." Jim shifted slightly first to one side, then the other. "The idea, I think, is to herd us where he has the best shot and we have none at all."

Blair didn't have to ask if he could find that blind spot or if Jim could avoid it. A second later it occurred to him that Craig might have one or two of those himself, and Jim was waiting until he had located both it and Craig. He would have never believed it could be so easy to stand still, especially with the tension filtering into the cavernous room like the wisps of dry ice fog. But with Jim's steady presence beside him and the sense of expectation calming jagged anxiety, he did it, listening with all he had. Once or twice he saw the mist move against the currents drifting it along, creating swirls that could have been caused by movement underneath. A dark mass lifted above it briefly, scuttling to one side, but Jim only followed it with his eyes, holding Blair in place with a motionless shift of his weight.

Without warning, Jim raced sideways to another pillar, tugging Blair along with him, then put him behind him so that he was sandwiched between man and stone. "This is getting to be a habit," he murmured so quietly even Jim would have to strain to hear it.

A silent chuckle vibrated against Blair's chest, and they waited in the blind spot for Craig to lose patience, if not his nerve.

Finally, when the suspense had built into a nearly physical thing, Blair whispered the question he knew would unleash Craig's fury, and Jim shouted it into the reflected light and shadow around them, echoes hiding their exact location. "Why did your parents disown you, Craig? What could you have possibly done in that sheltered, sequestered environment to warrant getting thrown out, all traces of you erased from their life?"

The laugh that echoed back was bitter and shocked. "Don't you want to know why I killed all those kids?"

Blair gave Jim the answer to that, and he could hear the truth of it in Jim's voice as he relayed it to Craig. "I already know. It's a memorial, isn't it? Gamers every where, of every kind, are talking about Stuart's mod - that it was the real thing, and the best players went into it and got beat. No one, not even a sentinel, was able to play it fair and square and win."

"When they don't even remember the game it was based on, they'll remember what Stuart did. It's an urban legend that'll grow in the telling, with my brother's name attached to it for generations to come." Craig laughed again, this time with a world of pain under it. "Our old man, that so-called church of his - what you leave for the future generations is so important, such a big deal - your reputation, your status, your fortune. Stu's memory will out-last it all."

"Can't argue with you on that." Jim eased a few inches to the left, and Blair drifted with him as if he were attached. "You'll be remembered, too, you know, because of your part in it."

"Not so much a thing to me, you know?" Craig said so off-handedly, he probably meant it. His tone, when he went on, was so cutting, Blair wouldn't have been surprised to see blood. "After all, I've already been forgotten, haven't I? All because I dared be smart enough, resourceful enough, skilled enough, to win an engineering design contest that gave me a free ride to MIT. Only that's not what my parents expected of me, was it? They demanded I use my knack for structure and organization to become an *accountant* for the church, to help wash allllll that questionable cash clean and filter it back into the hands of the congregation.

"Congregation - ha! Legal tax dodge is all it is. They pay a huge tithing, then get it back slightly smaller as a gift for being the pastor, a deacon, a Sunday school teacher, a contractor, whatever. If somebody has questionable income, like say a stack of cash for materials to rebuild a mansion that were sold twice to two different clients, why then they donate it to the church, who gives it back for services rendered, say less twenty percent to make the exchange worth their while."

Craig's voice got louder and louder as he spoke, until he was practically preaching, his words carried by digital stream to news feeds, live cam sites, vid locai. "That's not the only business they do, of course. Wonder where I got the dynamite and ignitall for my lovely pyrotechnics? Why, church inventory, of course, listed as 'survival supplies,' a lively sideline of theirs that they sell to other organizations with more militant views. Not interested in buying? How about selling? Got a lovely, innocent fourteen-year-old daughter? Pastor Grammkin will marry her for a goodly sum, and after he's tired of her because she's not so young or sweet any more, divorce her with a nice settlement to you. Done it three times since I was a kid; the last one isn't very willing to be a 'dutiful' wife, if you go by the bruises, which isn't that uncommon, either. Want to know how many Child Services workers have been bamboozled, bribed, or lied to..."

Craig went on and on, systematically tearing down every major member of the congregation, and giving enough explicit evidence on a wide variety of crimes that many of them would face incarceration if they didn't clear away the evidence fast enough. Ironically, there was a good chance most wouldn't know of their danger because they had turned their back on the outside world, refusing modern communication with it. In Blair's opinion, those who had only paid lip service to that particular doctrine would be in too much of a hurry covering their own asses to warn anybody else.

All the while Craig vented, Jim glided closer and closer, not making a sound, though Craig had given up any pretense at hunting him. Instead he stayed in one spot, swaying from foot to foot and waving his gun in the air as his hands punctuated his tirade against his former community. When he wound down to silence, absently swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, Jim was only a foot from him.

Stepping out of the gloom to stand in front of Craig, Jim said, "You've done what you set out to do: memorialized your brother, brought down the people who were the ultimate cause of his death. You can stop now, catch your breath, think about what he would want you to do with the rest of your life."

For a minute Craig stared at him, then simply handed his gun over to Jim. "No rest of it, man. Just jail time and a needle in the arm, which I deserve. Weird thing is, I never meant any of them to die; I just couldn't stop once the game was on. I'd get so fucking *mad,* crazy mad, you know?"

"Believe it or not, yeah, I do." Jim passed the weapon back to Blair, and took out his handcuffs. "One last thing - why keep any of the bodies? I know you had to dump at least some so that you'd make the news; how'd you pick?"

Looking very surprised, Craig said, "They had someone who would worry about them. A parent, sister, boyfriend, somebody. I left the others because, well..." He hesitated, turning very sheepish and teener. "Real bodies were kinda cool. Made the place feel less like a playground and more like the hunting ground we'd dreamed up to make a name for ourselves."

Jim put one hand on Craig's shoulder to turn him. "Added realism," he said, noncommittally, putting the cuffs on.

"I know that comes off as really cold, but most kids don't think a body is anything but leftover meat. The good part, the important part, is already gone, so why...."

Forever after Blair would wonder if Craig had willfully forgotten or knew exactly what lay in front of him as he stepped forward as if to lead the way out. He stumbled, Jim snatching at his bound hands to steady him, and fell. Both Blair and Jim darted toward him, but he vanished face-first into the fog. An explosion knocked them both back to land on their backsides, yet even as the last painful tremors of it shook the air and ground, Jim scrambled on hands and knees for where they'd seen Craig last.

Thankfully the blast shock had temporarily cleared away the fog, showing the safe passage to where he lay. Jim reached him first, fingers flying to the throat to look for a pulse. Sitting on his heels, chin on his chest, he reached out to stop Blair from approaching any closer. Blair had to know for himself, though, and wound his fingers through Jim's, letting them rest on Craig's back as he sat cross-legged on the other side. He turned Craig's head to one side, and hastily let it fall back to place, the image of the missing face and hollowed head burned into his mind.

In the distance he could hear cops yelling and swarming into the place, following procedure he knew, but all he could think was he the only one who would mourn this lost man-child?

***

Wearily propping his head in one hand, Blair promised himself that he would finish one more stack of papers, then give up for the night and work on the last chapter of his dis for a while. Bruckner's chagrined response to Simon's terse request to ease up on Blair had been a promise of next semester because they were too far into the current one to change anything now. There had been a furtiveness in the promise that Blair didn't trust. In the three weeks since his performance as a guide on national media, the school's faculty had practically tiptoed around him as if he were a gun with a hair-trigger.

The students, on the other hand, had treated him like a hero, though he wasn't sure if he liked that any better. Blessedly the PD had closed ranks around him as if he were truly one of them, protecting him from reporters, news people, religious fanatics, and strangely enough, guide groupies. Only Jim seemed to understand the weird place he was in: caught between the world he had fought so hard to keep and the one he was drawn to by circumstance, society, and his own nature.

He smiled, reminded that Jim would be picking him up soon to share a late dinner and maybe make out for a sweet, lovely while. It gave him enough encouragement that he flew over the test sheet, losing himself in the labyrinthine meanderings meant to be answers to essay questions. Despite his concentration, his head jerked up when a shadow moved across the glass of his door, and he surreptitiously pulled his handheld close, clicking up the call connect.

A sharp, short knock did nothing to ease Blair's caution, but he called out an invitation to come in, regretting it as soon as the visitor stepped over the threshold. The months with Jim had given him practice at identifying different suits by their manner and dress, not that he needed it to make out this one as a HDA agent. He had learned to recognize that particular combination of brutal, surly, and arrogant the first time he'd been dragged into a Center for a cattle call.

"You could have just called to inform me of a meet," Blair said by way of greeting.

"I'm afraid there was no time to go through the proper channels," the almost stereotypically looking enforcer said without identifying himself, his attitude proclaiming it was need-to-know information that Blair didn't even remotely require. "This is a special case, with special protocols in place, with all the authorization necessary already done at the highest levels."

That did not sound good, not in any way, but Blair put on his most cheerful and accommodating manner. "Okay, just give me five to lock up here, and I'm out the door. I'll stop by my place to freshen up - been a long day, and sentinels, you know, man - then head straight to the center. Should be there inside of an hour."

"No, you will accompany me directly to the center, now." He sounded as if he wanted Blair to protest, to give him an excuse to exert his authority.

"Wow, must be really serious," Blair chirped, bustling around to put things up, turn them off, or gather them to take with him, shrugging into one of Jim's heavy camp shirts that Blair kept on hand simply because he loved the scent of him clinging to it and had gotten used to wearing it.

Before Brutal had a chance to manufacture a reason to show what a bastard he was, Blair was at his side, reaching for the marker for the dry erase board on his door. "Got a date later, don't want to worry her."

Quickly Blair scrawled, leaning one sweaty, nervous palm on the wooden frame, *Duty demands, late dinner tonight? Call me! B.* Capping the marker and letting it swing on its string, he trotted down the hallway, calling over his shoulder, "Should I take my car or ride with you?"

Frowning thunderously, Brutal started after him, but not without glancing back at the message several times, as if to reassure himself that it was harmless and uninformative. To anyone but Jim, or perhaps another sentinel, it was, or that was what Blair sincerely hoped. What Jim could do, he had no idea, but he felt better for leaving his fear scent with the hint that HDA was behind his unplanned absence.

Brutal insisted on Blair getting in his vehicle, glowering at him as if anticipating an argument. With an inane comment about saving fuel along with wear on tear on his classic, Blair climbed in, immediately balancing his pack on his knees to use as a desk while he read from a textbook and took notes on his handheld. In his peripheral vision he could see the baffled and irritated looks shot his way, taking a small, petty pleasure from thwarting the man. Not for the first, and most likely not for the last, he had to wonder who put an agency in charge of people their operatives had no clue about.

By the time they reached the center, Brutal had decided that Blair was completely without balls, as Blair had planned, and more or less ignored him as long as he was obedient. Hopefully that reputation would carry by word of mouth to whoever was in charge of his captivity, to be disabused the first time Blair had a real opening of any kind that he could use. Because of that, he made no protest when the man insisted on looming over him as he undressed, and, remembering Luke from the last call, flounced and primped flamboyantly to coax him into subconsciously keep his distance.

There weren't much in the way of preparation Blair could make under that watchful eye, though he got away with pulling his hair back severely and placing a tack between his toes because of his 'queen' act. Brutal put his foot down when Blair reached for mascara, though, grumping loudly and obscenely as he finally had justification to drag Blair along. Blair went without demur, hiding his growing fear as best he could.

In the years since he'd been classified as a possible guide, Blair had had one private meeting with a sentinel mildly interested in pairing with him. The meeting room could have been the same: a study in neutral, bland colors with a lush carpet and one well-padded sitting platform running along two intersecting walls. That corner had a raised, rounded stand that held a filled water pitcher, two glasses, and a small decorated paper box that usually held lube, breath mints, wet wipes, and contraceptives. The lighting was recessed into the ceiling, and there were no windows and only the single door.

Like that earlier time, Blair hunched himself into a small ball next to the table, knees under his chin and arms wrapped around his legs. The defensive position, along with the honest terror percolating through him, would be enough to make him totally undesirable to any normal sentinel. That was the plan, anyway. He couldn't believe any sentinel was bent enough to get off on a terrified guide, unlike some so-called normal humans. If he was wrong, well, there was always Plan B - puke on whoever it was.

Imagining various ways to defend himself, Blair rocked slightly in place and waited, torn between wanting the meeting over and putting it off as long as possible. Finally the door opened and a young man, blonde, slender, and boyish, no more twenty or twenty-one, wandered into the room. Palms together, tapping at his upper lip, he studied Blair for a second, doubt and skepticism coloring his hazel eyes.

"Hi," he said softly, uncertainly. "I'm Greg. I'm not looking for a guide. I have one, but she's, she's, well, ill, I guess, and the Director thinks maybe you could give me a hand while...while... Anyway, is it true that you've worked with a sentinel without pairing with him?"

Surprised Blair studied him for a second to judge his sincerity, and wound up worried about his state of mind. While he was obviously a sentinel, there was something off about him that set alarm bells chiming. Indicating the other side of the platform with a flip of his hand in an invitation to sit, he said, "I'm Blair. And yeah, I'm observing Cascade PD for my grad thesis, and was assigned to Sentinel Detective James Ellison for my ride-along."

Coming to stand in front of him instead of sitting, Greg nodded, gaze flitting over Blair constantly, as if seeking something specific. "I know him. He's a good man; he was so kind to Kelly when he tested her."

"Tested her?"

"She's not supposed to be my guide," Greg said in a confiding tone. "She doesn't have the genome. But I've known her most of my life, the only family I've ever had, and I asked her to marry me before I came online, and when I did, well, I knew who I needed. Who I need." His expression grew dreamy and remote. "All the experts, all the big-shots, said it was impossible, but Ellison picked her out of a crowd of naturals, treated her like a lady and escorted her back to me. Man, you should have seen how pissed the HDA guys were. They wouldn't let me claim her legally, which I didn't really want to anyway. I mean, she's my *wife.* That's better for her, and she has more rights, where I'm concerned, than a plain guide would."

As he spoke of his wife, Greg grew aroused, dick rising high and proud. "I miss her so much."

Eyeing his erection warily, Blair said, "What's wrong with her, man?"

"We... I..." Absently reaching for himself, Greg squeezed the head of his hardon. "I can't tell you where we were or what we were doing, but I wasn't careful enough of her, and she took repeated tazar shots, and the sick mother always aimed at her face." His voice was surprisingly bland, but Blair could sense the rage and guilt buried underneath, possibly put there by drugs or a very persuasive shrink. "She's in a coma, and the doctors aren't telling me much, like when she'll come out of it. In the meantime, I'm having problems with zones and spikes like you wouldn't believe."

Abruptly he came back to the here and now with Blair, idly stroking his dick. "They tell me you're a real guide and know what to do to make it better."

"Kelly's your real guide; don't let anybody say different." Blair laid his cheek on his knee and went with impulse. "What would she say or do to help?"

"All she has to do is be there." Greg sighed tiredly. "They won't let me visit her, and I don't like the way they smell and sound when they tell me she needs to rest undisturbed. It doesn't feel right, either."

"Why are you listening to them, anyway? What do they know, really, about you and her and how it works for the two of you? What do *you* know about *them,* for that fact?"

Staring at him as if he couldn't believe the questions Blair had smacked him with, Greg said slowly, "You sound like Kelly. That's what she would say, what she has said when it's just been the two of us, away from nosy researchers and handlers."

"Bet I know something else she would say," Blair said, heart sinking at the implication of the young sentinel being under some agency's thumb. "Trust your instincts; you know what you need to do."

Greg grinned, looking ten years younger with it. "Yeah, you've got her pegged, all right. It's a little spooky, but I suppose it's a guide thing." His smile faded, and he asked uneasily, "Is it okay if I sit next to you, just for a minute? I promised I'd give this a try, and it won't feel honest unless I do."

Dry-mouthed, Blair nodded his compliance, and to his surprise, Greg sat on one hip, facing the wall, leaning into Blair's side as best he could, temple against his ear. "I can smell your sentinel on you," he murmured. "It's a happy, relaxed smell. I didn't think Ellison's had much happiness in his life."

"Wish I could argue with you on that." Fighting the urge to move away, Blair rubbed small circles into Greg's back, unable not to react to his pain.

Tears pooled, then trickled down Greg's face. "Isn't much for most of us, I guess. I'm lucky that I've had Kelly."

"Be sure you tell her that, even if you think she can't hear. I promise, she's listening."

Exhaling deeply, Greg hugged him awkwardly. "I believe you. And I know what I have to do, just like you said. Thank you."

"No problem, man." Blair hugged back, relieved when Greg stood and went back to the door.

Half-expecting he would find it locked from the outside, Blair's fear cranked up another level when Greg was let out - and then the lock snicked into place. Not sure what else he could do, he stretched hugely and paced around for a few minutes to get the kinks out of his legs. He sat back down in lotus with every intention of meditating until the agency played their next card, but could only give the appearance of it.

Unfortunately, the room was meant to be warm and comfortable enough for naked people, and, much against his will, Blair grew sleepy because of the long day and longer week he'd had. He got up to walk again, flogging his brain to make sense of the meeting with Greg, drank some of the water relishing the cold bite of it, even did a few yoga exercises. In the end, he decided what the hell, and stretched out on his side on the bench, sure he would only doze because of the stress of being locked up with no reason he could fathom.

In fact it took the slam of the door to wake him, and he leaned up on one elbow, blinking groggily at Jim. They stared at each other, Jim going very still, fists at his side, pressing into the door behind him.

"You have the stink of another sentinel on you," Jim snarled, but Blair could all but touch the hurt under the rage.

Choosing his words very carefully but surprisingly unconcerned about Jim's possible reaction, Blair said, "One was in here. He sat next to me, and because he was very upset, I patted him on the back."

Nostrils flaring, Jim tilted his head as if listening, but prowled forward. Hands millimeters above Blair's skin, he knelt beside the bench and mapped out where Greg had touched him. "He was turned on."

"Not by me; we were talking about his wife. He hasn't been allowed to touch her for way too long, especially for a sentinel." Blair lay passively under the inspection, turning to his back so that Jim could search all of him. "You know I wasn't horny for him."

"No, no you weren't," Jim muttered. "But your sex scent is strong in here, thick with pheromones and the gloss of your come. It's not fresh, though, and it's mixed with... me?" He licked his lips, and slowly got up, backing away without taking his eyes off Blair. When he was at the door again, he shook his head as if to clear it, but the growing bulge at the front of his slacks showed that he wasn't being entirely successful.

Vaguely Blair remembered Jim warning him that if he took another sentinel as a lover, it could rouse primitive instincts of territoriality and dominance in Jim. The idea didn't bother him at all. In fact, there was an answering surge of emotion from the bottom of his psyche; ancient, animalistic and male. His stomach clenched, nerves quivering in anticipation, but his body remained lax, muffled in an odd way that should have disturbed him, but didn't.

Jim must have picked up on what he felt, though Blair couldn't for the life of him guess what sense allowed it. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he muttered rawly, "Sandburg, I... something's wrong here."

Rationally, Blair agreed with him, but formulating the words to say so, let alone figuring out what it was, seemed impossible. Swallowing hard, he said Jim's name, but it came out rough and quavering. Flinching as if struck, Jim spun to pound at the door as if life or death depended on getting through it. Built to take desperation, it held, and he gave up on it abruptly, head hanging to his chest and panting hard.

"Pain's not helping. Not looking's not helping." He groaned. "Nothing's helping."

Blair didn't have to ask what he was fighting. His lust was obvious, mind and body, and very, very appealing. He didn't want Jim to resist the need overwhelming him; he wanted him to pour it over him. He wanted to rise up and meet it, head-to-head, in a battle of will and control, until he was compelled to submit. A haze settled over his mind, matching the one dulling his command over his physical self.

Though he wasn't erect at all, Blair was hyperaware of his cock, his opening, his mouth. With an enormous effort of will, he covered his genitals for the pleasure of the touch, but also to goad Jim. It worked. With a shudder from head to toe, Jim stood straight and turned. There was nothing left of civilized man in his expression or his eyes; he was one step away from the beast who would destroy to take what was his.

"Mine." Jim took a single stride toward Blair, ripping off his shirt as he went.

"NO!" Automatically voicing the fear-coated challenge, Blair clumsily drew back into his corner, ready to fight as best he could.

"Mine." His tone brooked no argument. "No one else has you, ever again."

"My choice, asshole. You need laid? Go fuck yourself."

Brushing away the denial and defiance, Jim undid his slacks, revealing a cock already leaking with need, the crown dark plum and shiny. He stroked himself from base to head, once, spread the moisture with his thumb once he reached the top. "This is yours. Always. You'll never need or want another. It was made to satisfy you, to fill the empty place no one else has been able to reach."

"No. Absofuckinglutely, no! God, could your ego be more inflated or ridiculous!" Blair planted his heels next to his bottom, refusing access with more than just words. At the same time, lust twisted through his middle, setting his pulse to racing and shortening his breath.

Jim picked up on that immediately, eyes narrowing as he studied Blair's defenses, and hastily finished undressing. Proudly naked, he approached carefully, like a predator stalking his prey. He seemed to have abandoned spoken language in favor of a silence that carried his sense-sure assertion that not only was Blair going to get fucked in the next few minutes, but he wanted it despite any words that came out of his mouth.

To which Blair blazed back the reply that the only way Jim was going to have him was if he took him by force, holding nothing back, because that was how it had to be.

So be it - and with that unarticulated roar, Jim pounced, grabbing Blair by the ankles and dragging him away from his refuge. Instinctively Blair kicked, and kicked hard, but Jim's arms acted like shock absorbers, soaking up the impact without loosening his grip on Blair. That didn't stop Blair from doing his best to rip free, twisting and writhing as he threw punches. Jim stayed just out of his range, riding out the frantic contortions until he saw an opening that allowed him to flip Blair to his stomach, still hanging onto his ankles.

Digging in with his nails, Blair tried to pull away, thrashing with all he had, but he couldn't find any purchase on the thick, smooth carpet. Sensing his vulnerability, he tried to turn back over, but Jim landed on him before he could, pinning him face-first, full-length into the corner where the bench met the floor. The position robbed Blair of any leverage he might have been able to get with the full use of his limbs, but that didn't stop him from bucking and clawing blindly over his shoulder at any part of Jim he could reach.

When swiping nails snagged his head, Jim put an end it by very professionally forcing Blair's arms behind him. Using the remnants of his shirt, he tied Blair's wrists at the small of his back, and, to stop his struggles, he used his own bulk to hold Blair in place. It took a few moments for Blair to concede that the physical combat was over, but as far as he was concerned, the battle was far from done.

Counting on a sentinel's innate inability to deliberately harm a guide, Blair locked every muscle he had, silently shouting his refusal to yield. Jim ignored the defiance completely. Almost leisurely he stretched out to snatch up the lube from the box that had been knocked to the floor during their fight. Spreading it with a startling lack of concern about making a mess, Jim slicked himself, and pried open Blair's ass cheeks enough to liberally coat his entire cleft.

Cursing him, calling him every vile name he could think of, Blair squirmed as best he could, but the lust he had disguised as fury was winning control over his body. When Jim slid the huge pole he used for a cock between Blair's thighs, rubbing over the opening to his body, Blair gasped, his entire body jerking with the need to have it in him. Very distantly, he knew that a witness to the entire debacle would think that he was reacting to pain.

Jim wasn't deceived, though. He felt the leap of hunger, or perhaps tasted it as he trailed the very tip of his tongue over the cap of Blair's ear. "A very wise man," he breathed in a faint wisp of sound, "Once told me that opening to a mate was a gift of self, to self." Gingerly pumping, he used his length to caress Blair's center. "I want nothing but pleasure for you; the kind only another man can understand, can give you."

Blair sobbed and renewed his squirming efforts to somehow get away, but his bottom shifted to fit Jim more perfectly against him. Gradually, carefully Jim eased an arm under him to pillow his head on, both hands finding the sensitive places on Blair's front to tease and tweak mercilessly. All the while he crooned promises and endearments, Blair's increasingly distressed moans covering them as if for protection. When Blair could endure no more, he rocked back hard as Jim was at the apex of a stroke, shrieking as he impaled himself completely on his cock.

He was nowhere near ready to take the massive size of it, but underneath the spike of hurt was the most delicious completion - a climax of heart and soul, not flesh. Unashamedly crying, he gave himself over to Jim's suddenly frantic thrusts, begging mutely with tiny noises and movements for more, for all that Jim could give him. Kissing wherever he could reach, Jim did as Blair needed, holding him with all his strength. Blair soaked it up, demanded more, got it, and demanded yet more, screaming as Jim hammered him a last time before burying himself as far as he could ram to empty himself into Blair.

And that was what Blair had needed most of all. He came, unable to cry out or move in his ecstasy, trusting Jim explicitly to coast them both through their finish. Which Jim did lovingly, tenderly, whispering of love and belonging that carried Blair into desperately needed rest.

***

Blair woke with the surety that if he moved, he was going to regret it. The why of it escaped him for the moment, along with several other important pieces of information, such as where was he, and how the hell did he get there? Regardless of the lack, he obeyed the subconscious warning to be still, except for lifting his eyelids to peer through his lashes to look for his answers.

It took a few minutes to add the bits and pieces of what he saw into a coherent whole, not that it helped him much at all. Instead, it gave him several new, equally pressing questions. Why was he in a bus and what was Simon doing sitting beside him, hand on his upper arm as if to anchor him? The bus was in motion, communicating a gentle rocking to the hammock Blair was in that was actually kind of soothing, as were the flashes of light and dark against the privacy-shielded windows.

He was tempted to go back to sleep. If Simon was there, surely all the big things were covered, and Blair could wait until he was happier about being awake to find out what was going on. The same intuition that held him immobile, though, warned him that he didn't have the option of either waiting or hiding in sleep any longer. Unwillingly, he opened his eyes and tried to smile, but that was the only movement he allowed himself.

"Hey," he whispered, mildly surprised at his lack of volume.

"Blair!" Simon reached for him as if to touch his cheek or hair, but at the last second diverted to tucking the blankets in tighter around his shoulders. "The doctor said that you might be muzzy or confused when you came to, and likely wouldn't remember much from the past couple of days."

"Doctor? I'm hurt? How?"

Simon winced. "Nothing too serious, thank God." He pinched the bridge of his nose under his glasses, and went back to gripping Blair's arm. "I wish I could give you all this in small doses, as you needed it, instead of dumping it all at once, but we just don't have that option."

He was so sad, so worried, so *afraid,* something Blair hadn't thought to ever sense in the confident, determined cop that Blair zoomed straight into fear - fear for the most important person in his life. "Jim?" he blurted.

Understanding instantly, Simon said, "In the hammock below you." He pushed Blair's bed to the side slightly as Blair peeked over the other side.

"Oh, god, no, no, no, no."

"Sandburg! It's not a body bag! I promise. Jim's... well, he's not all right, but he's alive. Heavily sedated and restrained, but alive. That hammock's modified for sentinel comfort; dark shroud, white-noise generator, special padding. There's a zipper tab on the inside so he can get out if his head's clear enough to work the code on it, and if the zipper's stuck, the seam to the side is a pressure sealed one that will open to the right pull on it."

Unwillingly on full alert, Blair shakily pushed his hair away from his face, pausing for a moment to study the IV in his hand and the hospital scrubs he wore. "Blood. I remember blood everywhere. Jim keening like an animal with a mortal wound." Frowning, he thought hard. "More sentinels? You and Joel? Maybe you'd better tell me what happened, from the top."

"Before I start, I want to make one thing perfectly clear: neither of you can be held responsible for what happened. You and Jim were drugged and manipulated by people who either didn't care if they were successful in their little experiment or believed that any results would be useful. In fact, they've been setting the two of you up from the beginning; that's why they've been trying to push you into a real crisis. They wanted you exhausted and vulnerable." Simon's anger increased radically, but his hold on Blair and voice remained gentle.

"Oh, shit."

"To put it mildly," Simon agreed wryly. "Do you remember a HDA agent picking you up at your office?"

"Yes; it worried me enough that I left a message for Jim so he'd know where I was."

"Good thing you did. Jim called me, then called several sources of his own to find out what HDA was up to. Not long after, the agents came after him with the story that you were in Crisis and asking for him. He happened to be talking to me when they showed up, and left the line open so I'd hear the conversation. He went along with them but not before reminding me in Jimspeak that he was in a position to be positive that you weren't in Crisis any more than he was."

"The water," Blair said thoughtfully. "You said I was drugged. When Jim came in, he went all primal on me, and I didn't do a thing about it. In fact..." Despite the years of experience and confidence in his sexuality, Blair blushed deeply.

Obviously misreading it, Simon said earnestly, "They had a shirt of yours in the ventilation system that the sentinels said was drenched with your sex scent and pheromones. There was also a drug in the air designed to lower a sentinel's inhibitions. To be blunt, they intended for Jim to use you, spurred on by instinctive mating drives and your induced passiveness. They did the same thing to two other guide/sentinel sets; you and Jim are the only survivors."

Blood, fountains of it, flashed through Blair's mind, and he cringed, stomach twisting. "Only barely, my god, it was so close. If you hadn't broken in when you did, Jim would have killed himself. Why? Why did he try to do that? Why did they force us into what we did? I don't understand. I Don't Understand. I Don't Understand!!"

"Sandburg!" There was steel in Simon's tone, a cold slap to Blair's rising hysteria, as was the well-hidden burst of panic from him. "You have every right to freak out, but not NOW, understand me?" More gently, he added, "HDA is looking for us, and if we have to abandon this vehicle or find ourselves a confrontation with them, you and Jim need to be back on your feet. The doctor left me something, if you want it, to take the rough edge off your emotions until we have the luxury of decompression, which I suspect will not be anytime soon."

"At least you're not telling me to suck it up," Blair said wearily.

"After what you've been through? Look, cops might have a reputation for being unconcerned about a victim's feelings, but you've been with us long enough to know that putting emotions aside so we can do the job isn't the same as not having any!" Simon seemed to be holding anger at bay, probably not anger at Blair, but misdirected because of the situation.

Taking a deep breath, Blair said very quietly, "There's some miscommunication going on here. Maybe you better get back to filling me in so I can figure out where it's going astray."

Shooting him an irritated look, Banks said, "From the first, HDA pushed the sentinels to allow the agency to pair them with guides based on compatibility tests, or just convenience, like the guide who had the closest job and home to where the sentinel was. After all, cops are partnered based on who's available and the C.O.'s best judgment."

"It's not the same," Blair said automatically.

"Which is what the sentinels have always insisted," Simon agreed, "And what HDA was trying to disprove by forcing a few of them into relationships. They planned on using the tapes of what happened to blackmail the sentinels into claiming the guides for pairing, then leverage that up to taking complete control of the who was assigned to who, not incidentally giving them more power over the sentinels themselves."

Working his shoulders as if to ward off tension, Simon went on. "Unfortunately for them, it all went to hell in very short order. One of the sentinels went on a rampage, taking out every doctor, agent or orderly he ran into; another barricaded himself in a hospital room, killing anyone who tried to go in. It was such a mess that I seriously doubt if anyone realized we were there."

"You broke into the room where Jim and were held?"

"Just as he was opening the veins on his wrists with the fragments of a supposedly shatter-proof pitcher. You were clinging to him, trying to stop the flow with your bare hands."

Closing his eyes against a wave of nausea, Blair moaned, "Why?"

"Later he told me that it was the only justice he could give you for what he'd done. If you pressed charges against him, or he turned himself in for rape, the DA would be pressured by HDA to drop them because you were just a guide. And if he were dead, a sentinel he trusted would produce paperwork that Jim had paired with you, and you would be free, since one paired, you never have to submit to another sentinel, ever again."

It made a weird, sentinel sort of sense to Blair. "He was protecting me, the only way he thought he could."

"Sounds like Ellison." Simon shook his head, in both respect and frustration. "At the time, though, we all piled on him and Roarke, the sentinel who met us at the door and let us in, started talking to him so softly, we couldn't hear. Jim quieted, nodded, and said he knew what they had to do. We took every file, report, or vid we could find and made two copies, and Roarke took off with the originals without telling us where he was going. Rafe and H took one copy to the station, following chain of evidence rules, and one was doctored with a program that erased faces so that they couldn't be reconstructed for identification purposes and... Look, maybe it'll be easier to show you."

He took out Blair's handheld and clicked up a newstream. On it a slim young man battered a woman's face into non-existence with his bare fists, splattering blood over both their naked bodies. Underneath a info ticker read off an explanation of what was being seen, along with the statistics about the success of HDA's pairing program that Jim had shared with Blair not so long ago.

"Beamer," Blair breathed. "I'll bet Jim had him seed virals of it, complete with source tags, on every server he could access without leaving a trail. No way to kill all the copies, no way for HDA to pretend they're fakes or doctored. He'd do it for Jim, even if there was a possibility of getting caught, because of Penny."

"After we dropped them off," Simon said, putting away the handheld, "we went on the road because that makes us harder to find, since eliminating witnesses is likely a priority for the agency, now. Jim had us knock him out so that if we're caught, he can't be coerced into telling their operatives or allies where the originals are." Again Simon hesitated, stretching in place as if to make himself more comfortable with the conversation. "And I think to give you another layer of protection. Blair, HDA's first response when they started clearing up the mess was to have Jim declared mentally unsound, and acting on his behalf, claim you as Jim's guide. Now you can't testify against him or them."

Snorting without one smidgeon of humor, Blair acknowledged the canniness behind Jim's move. "So now if they catch up to us, all responsibility for his safe keeping is mine if he's unconscious for any reason, and not even HDA has the right to interfere with a guide seeing to the needs of his sentinel. If they start making noise over your involvement, I can say you're helping me level him out."

Wearily, miserably, Simon said, "He made me swear to take care of you; not let you ignore you own injuries to tend to him. And he was right to do it. Blair, you're torn internally. Not bad enough for stitches, thank god, but you lost a lot of blood from several long tears. You stopped breathing more than once, thanks to the drugs, and Dan was seriously worried that you might slip into a coma because of the combination. As it is, you've been out, more or less, since Wednesday - three days ago."

"Man." Blair thought it through, and asked, "How long are we supposed to stay on the run?"

"No more than a week. Ironically, the bus belongs to the agency, so it's already stealthed against being traced or tracked, but Roarke said he would be able to find us when he's ready. We're supposed to drive at random anywhere in the North Pacific area." Simon shrugged. "Where the sentinels got enough cash for us to do that, I have no idea, but Joel, Dan and I have been trading off with periodic sleep breaks. The hammocks are surprisingly comfortable."

"And what did you give Jim? Are you getting him up for food, water, bathroom break?"

"So far he's been coming out of it about every six hours, but he insists he can over ride the drug if we need him. All we have to do is ask him to wake up; he's listening for our voices and that cue."

Wearily closing his eyes, Blair murmured, "More protection - this time from you, huh, Jim."

"Blair?" Simon said in confusion.

Trying to give him a smile, Blair said, "I'm okay. There is one thing you have to know. In fact, it looks like Jim needs to know it, too. He didn't rape me. Truthfully, what those vids show isn't how things are between us normally. Right at the moment I can't explain why it looks like it does or what *did* go down, but I swear to you, I *swear,* Simon, my only complaint about what happened in that room is that those bastards made sure he couldn't understand his behavior or mine. I have to fix that. Now."

"No way."

"Now, Simon."

"Blair!"

"I mean it."

"Sandburg!"

The argument went on too long for Blair's peace of mind, but finally Simon woke up Dan to unhook Blair's catheter and IV. After making sure the hammock could take the weight, he had Jim's shroud keyed open, and with Dan's help, crept from his own bed to lie on top of Jim. Grateful claustrophobia wasn't a problem for him, he had them zip the hammock close again, pleasantly surprised when he discovered the shroud could be adjusted to allow in varying amounts of light.

Once he'd squirmed into the best position possible for a long, intense conversation with a man who most probably wasn't going to want to talk at all, Blair levered himself up on elbows, fingers carding through Jim's hair at the temple, and gently kissed him. Speaking against the lax lips, he said nearly soundlessly, "I love you. I wanted what you did to me. You didn't do anything wrong. You don't need to be punished for hurting me. You weren't the one responsible. I want your help to punish the people who were."

Predictably Jim didn't respond, and Blair had no sense of him actively listening. However, that didn't mean he wasn't getting through on one level or another, so he repeated himself endlessly, using different variations of tone and word, radiating all the love and understanding he had. All while he talked he dropped tiny, soft kisses everywhere he could reach, concentrating on eyelids, mouth and neck.

Eventually Jim's arms stole around Blair's waist, hugging him, eyelashes fluttering as he lifted toward awareness. Licking dry lips, he turned his head into the palm of Blair's hand and nosed it, cautiously stretching underneath him. It did interesting things to Blair's libido, which he would have been willing to swear until that second was on vacation because of the ache in his body, especially his ass.

The scent from his renewed interest did what words hadn't. Jim's eyes popped open, finding Blair's instantly. "You wanted that violence? That mindless rut? Sandburg, I didn't care if you were ready, or enjoying yourself or even conscious! You were just a hole for me to fuck."

Despite the rough, self-disgusted edges to his tone, Jim's body responded to the memory, and Blair sighed in pleasure. "Don't ask me to explain. Maybe the primitive part of me needed to be conquered so that I could indulge in what I wanted without losing status with my tribe. Maybe the savage in my genes demanded that you earn the right to have me by over-powering me. To be absolutely truthful, I don't *care.* If you look at your sense memory honestly, you'll know that, for all I was resisting you with all I had, I've never been more turned on or eager."

Jim gingerly pulled him higher on his body until he could hide his face in the hollow of Blair's shoulder. "The violence freed something in me," he admitted reluctantly. "I swear, I could hear individual molecules bumping together in the air; see them break apart and combine, anticipate the scent or taste they would take on, feel them touch my eardrums, my tongue, my skin. In the middle of all that, you were this oasis of cool, sweet beauty, spinning silver strands of longing and need to bind me together, so I wouldn't dissipate into all the other elements surrounding me."

"Wow." A shiver of pure longing chased down his spine, and Blair pressed in closer. "I'm not going to lie and say it didn't hurt, but I didn't mind. It was part of the power moving me; the release of my blood was right for that time and place. I'm just sorry, so, so sorry that you had no way of knowing that; that the drugs kept us both from meshing the way we usually do when we make love. It would have ended in joy, not you trying to make restitution I don't want or need by attempting to end your life."

"I'm going to tear down HDA until there's nothing left for what they did to us, did to you," Jim said fiercely, tightening his arms around Blair. "They turned me into a weapon against my guide, against the person I'm designed to protect, and it was only your endless understanding of how I work that stopped us from having the same fate as the other two pairings Homeland tried to force."

Petting the back of Jim's head, Blair said, "Actually, I think it was because we were paired already, in our heart and head. Not to mention we'd already shared two extremely intense sessions and had experience in working toward our mutual satisfaction. Face it, hung like you are, if I hadn't know what to expect, I would have bled out before you finished."

Again his body twinged at the thought of the heavy, wonderful pounding he'd taken, but Blair pushed it away, more concerned about bringing Jim around to forgiving himself. Jim nuzzled at his throat, the dampness of tears communicating to the flesh there. "I could kill them for risking you like that. It was too close, Chief. Much too damn close."

"I like the idea of taking the agency down better," Blair said honestly. "The operatives of a defunct, disgraced government outfit would be unemployable, I bet, if they didn't end up serving time for their part in anything blatantly illegal that went on in the name of national security. Taking away their badge, gun, and status would be as good as castrating them. Better."

Chuckling weakly, Jim said, "And they'd be alive to have their nose rubbed in their failure. I like the way you think, partner."

"Partner?" Nudging his head back so he could see into Jim's face, Blair studied him. "For real? Not just because some bogus paperwork on file?"

"You know Simon wants you to stay on board after you get your degree. And you've been the best partner any cop could ask for almost from the beginning. That paperwork is the only reason I haven't asked." Thumb skimming over Blair's cheek, Jim added, "I want to undo that, whatever it takes. I've got resources for a long court battle, if it comes to that."

Sharply, Blair said, "As long as you understand that ending your life is *not* an option." Gentling his tone, he went on. "Like most guides, I'd rather be caged and paired with you, than widowed and free. It would be like losing the most important part of myself, and I'd never recover."

Jim tried stubbornly to stare him down on that, but finally had to relent. With a small shake of his head, he said, "I may not get the option."

"That's true for both of us, but as long as you're focused on surviving, I'll be happy." Tired of the conversation and well aware Jim needed to process it all, Blair kissed the tip of his nose. "How long before we're under fire again?"

"Looks like right now." With a last hug, Jim unzipped the cover to the hammock, startling Dan into grabbing for a syringe.

"It's okay, it's okay," Blair said hastily, patting Dan's arm.

Carefully rolling himself and Blair to their sides, Jim said, "Company's coming, and the kind of party they're looking for requires more fire power than we've got. Luckily for us, the guests burning in behind them can provide that, but we're going to have to stall until they join us."

"Any suggestions for that?" Simon asked as he came back from the front, swaying with the motion of the bus.

"They need to talk to us, so they're not going to take a chance with running us off the road unless they don't see any other option." Jim slipped out of the sling without so much as a bobble, automatically steadying it for Blair.

"Cheerful cooperation drives them crazy," Blair put in, painfully easing his way into a sitting position, then over the edge of the hammock, letting Dan take his weight until both feet were on solid ground. "When they come up beside us, demanding that we pull over, we smile and nod agreeably, then mime that stopping a bus isn't exactly easy."

"There's not much of a shoulder. They'll be smart to let us find a good place to pull over, maybe one with some privacy," Jim mused out loud. "Question is, how much patience will they have, once they've acquired us?"

"That probably depends on how badly they think they need what we know. The safe bet is that a dead witness is more important than only the possibility of useful information." Absently unlocking an overhead bin opposite the hammocks, Simon took out Jim's badge and weapon. "If we're giving them full cooperation, on the surface, they won't expect an all-out attack when the opportunity presents itself."

"Or we make one," Jim agreed, hooking the kidney holster on with something like relief in his expression. "Add to it that HAD agents are accustomed to bossing sentinels around. In fact, the majority of them think we're next to useless and should be treated like the freaks we are and let out of our cages only when the real soldiers need an expendable weapon."

Apparently unaware at the slack-jawed surprised aimed at him, he took the boots Simon had taken down as well and stepped into them. "The first generation of sentinels to be under HDA's supervision made the decision to *never* officially let anyone know how acute our senses are or exactly what we're capable of when we use them. It's a policy that's paid off repeatedly, which is why all of us since have continued the charade voluntarily." A particularly dangerous grin twisted his lips for a split second. "We always take down the dangerous ones, simply by giving them enough rope to hang themselves with, then tightening the noose ourselves. Should work this time, too."

Looking up from lacing his boots, he added irritably, "What?"

"We *are* going to have a long talk about self-image and self-worth when this is all said and done," Blair said bluntly. "In the meantime, we're agreed that we're going to kill them with kindness until they let their guard down, then we're going to kick their ass, right?"

"In a nutshell," Simon said dryly.

"I've got a few things I want to set up while we're waiting," Jim put in. "Anybody else have any ideas for surprises for our company?"

By the time Joel called out a warning, the bus lurching ever so slightly as he compensated for the vehicle swerving in next to them, they were ready. At the blared command to pull over, Joel donned an amiable expression, opened the door on that side, and leaned over, hand to ear. At the repeated order, he flashed a cheery thumbs up and braked. In slow motion. Peering ahead as if to find a place where a bus wouldn't block traffic. Weaving erratically. Pumping the clutch and fighting with the gear shift.

Watching the driver of the black SUV pacing them from a window, Blair grinned. The idiots were obviously buying Joel's show, possibly because of the 'company' jacket he wore, taken out of one of the storage bins.

They managed to milk the slow down for almost fifteen minutes, adding to the performance by skidding on locked up brakes through a wide place by the side of the road and weaving as if nearly out of control. A paved rest stop appeared quickly after that, and Joel did a stately entrance into it, parking at the farthest edge, well away from traffic and half-hidden by dense trees and brush. As soon as the bus stopped, the SUV parked immediately in behind it, and Joel got off, already lighting a cigarette he'd found in the pocket of the jacket, and leaning on the fender of the bus, hands in plain sight.

Arrogantly taking his cooperation for granted, one of the agents, Blair's old friend Brutal, put a hand on his weapon and shouted for everyone to get off, right now.

Dan went out first, ID and hands held high. "I'm one of your people; Dr. Dan Wolf with the Cascade Center. I have a sentinel on board in full failure, officially designated as a danger to himself and others."

That pulled Brutal and his buddy, who Blair facetiously named Blunt Object because he looked like the type to prefer that method of killing, up short. They conferred briefly, then Brutal called out, "Where are you transporting him?"

"To Tacoma Central. Did you hear about the mess at Cascade? I got this guy out, along with his new guide, on Director Cole's orders, just as all hell was breaking loose." Dan put away his ID, and sagged onto the bottom step of the bus, hands hanging between his knees. "Seemed to think these guys were important for some reason, but I have to tell you, I can't see where this pair of loonies are of any use to anybody. If it hadn't been for the cop who brought the sentinel in, I don't think we would have made it this far. The cop's still on the bus, holding the tranq gun on them."

Brutal and Blunt talked again, then Brutal approached Dan, suspicion marking his steps. "Dr. Cole is dead."

"Well, fuck it all," Dan said tiredly, and Blair could have applauded his act. "There wasn't time to get paperwork. His aide, Lyndstrom, was there."

"We'll check with him. In the meantime, I need to see your passengers."

"Much as I'm not looking forward to getting them back on, taking them off might be the safer way to go. More room to maneuver if the sentinel goes off again, but hey, your call." Dan stood creakily and went to stand near the rear wheel.

Gleefully Blair decided the two of them were completely unaware that they had been flanked by armed men, and moved into position for his role.

Brutal stuck his head inside the bus. "Out. Now. Slowly."

"No other option, here," Simon called out to them. "Got your gun ready? Okay, sentinel first, guide clinging to his back, so you won't see him at first. I'm coming out behind them and I am *not* putting down the tranq, okay? I'll point it straight up, though." More roughly, he barked at Jim, "Move! Or the little guy gets another zap, just for the hell of it."

Hands fisted into the top of the scrubs Jim wore, Blair shuffled along with him as he negotiated the bus steps, hanging his head as if he were too drugged to look up. Restrained with cuffs looped through a wide leather belt and wearing leg irons connected to them, all of which were rigged to look tight and locked when they weren't, Jim hobbled down the steps, propping himself on the door frame when he reached the bottom. Blair clung to his side, barely visible, watching the agents from behind the fall of his hair over his face. Resting his hip against the handrail at the top, Simon stood in the open, ostentatiously kept his attention on Jim.

"We'll take it from here," Brutal said, barely not gloating.

"Thank God. Want the bus, too, or should I hit them again before you put them in your car?"

As Blair had predicted, Simon's enthusiastic cooperation left the agency goons without a game plan. They exchanged a long, blank look with each other, then Blunt shrugged. "Orders said bring 'em in, mostly undamaged and alive if possible. Didn't say what to do if they were already on their way in."

"Going to have to tail 'em all the way there, though, if we leave 'em on the bus," Brutal argued lackadaisically. "Seems like a waste of time, with no payoff for us at the end except new orders while somebody else has all the fun. And nobody but us has to know what shape they were in when we found 'em, if we go by how the boss usually likes things tidied up."

For the life of him, Blair couldn't decided if they were so dense they thought they were being clever about talking around the order to 'eliminate all witnesses,' or if they simply didn't care if they were overheard. Before they could summon up enough brainpower to make a decision, four people in fatigues simply appeared behind them, walking toward them from various angles, weapons out and pointed at their heads.

To Blair's delight, the tall, slender man with graying hair in a militarily short brush cut, a sentinel he was sure, said pleasantly, "Gentlemen, this sentinel and his companions are no longer your concern, by order of the President of the United States, himself. The Secret Service, that's us, has temporary authority over all sentinels and guides. Please be stupid now, so that I have an excuse to blow your heads off."

Unfortunately, Brutal had a pre-programmed response to being told what to do by anybody he didn't recognize. "Sentinels are the business of Homeland Defense Agency, over-riding everybody, even that soft lefty in office."

"You're making the assumption there still *is* a HDA," a small, sturdy brunette woman who gave off serious 'guide' vibes to Blair said. "Since I know for a fact your boss has already been fired, as has his boss, and the boss over him isn't just unemployed, he's facing charges, I can say the chances are really good you're not employed any more. And if I were you, I'd be contemplating what crimes I might be accused of myself, and the fact that 'I was obeying orders' is not considered an adequate defense in this country."

Brutal and Blunt gaped at her, and the blond man with glasses, also a guide Blair thought, added, "She means, your boss will tell the cops you broke the law without telling him, and you don't have any way to cover your ass."

"Motherfucker would turn on us without a blink," Blunt muttered.

Apparently Brutal was made of slightly sterner stuff. "We got nobody's word but yours that anything's wrong at the head office, and we've got our guns on them, so they're dead if you don't back off, right now."

The largest sentinel, the largest *man* Blair had ever seen, rumbled in a deep bass voice that somehow matched his dark skin, "That should be sufficient under other circumstances. However, as two sentinels have you in their sights, and we are capable of perceiving the slightest suggestion of intent to fire, I would suggest that you will die before you are capable of carrying out your threat."

"They can shoot before you do," the blond guide said helpfully. "And they're better shots."

"I don't want those two agency assholes dead," Blair said loudly, angrily, pounding on the side of the bus draw all attention to himself while Jim and the others made their move. "I want them *hurt,* bad."

Dropping the cigarette, Joel straightened his arm and uncovered the gun hidden under the jacket sleeve. At the same time, Simon threw aside the tranq pistol, revealing the .45 he had held alongside it, unseen because of the greater size of the dart gun. Jim shook off his cuffs to take out the gun he'd tucked into the belt they'd been attached to, covered by the droop of his top. Dan simply pulled his weapon from his shoulder harness. In less than a heartbeat, four more guns were pointed at the agency thugs.

"Make that three sentinels," Jim said succinctly. "And I have a serious problem with you."

Voice hard, demanding, Blair said, "Don't just aim for their guns; go for their hands. Both of them. Or the shoulder, or knee, or belly. I want them in pain permanently; physically helpless, dependent for their every need on people who don't care if they live or die. Let's see how they like it; how well they survive with only good-will and ass kissing skills to get them by."

"You know, Ellison," the senior sentinel said, "I like the way he thinks."

Blondie added, "Do you have any idea how hard it is for a sentinel *not* to do what a guide asks him? Especially if the guide is injured or upset?"

"Personally, I'm with him," the female guide said, adjusting her aim accordingly. "Feet and groin are good targets, too. Bet I can get your dick without hitting your balls, so you still get the itch but can never, scratch it again."

Breaking into what he knew had to be a beaming smile, Blair said, "Oooooooh, I like how *you* think. Did you know that if you're castrated, you can still get off, but only if you get your prostate massaged - like by having a dick up your ass?"

"It is agreed, then," the huge guy said. "Agony and mutilation, preferably leaving these individuals without the capacity to fend for themselves."

"Translation - you won't even be able to wipe without help." Blondie grinned. "Ain't it a bitch to be the one holding the shit end of the stick for a change?"

For a moment Blair thought they were going to have to shoot the agents, who most likely had never had to run away since they were old enough to be playground bullies. Abruptly Blunt pointed his gun toward the sky and backed off toward the SUV. Brutal snarled at him, held his ground for a second longer, then inched backwards.

"You haven't got the guts to take us on," Brutal blustered.

With icy calm, Jim said, "You were recently at Cascade Center; you saw what *one* enraged sentinel did with his bare hands. Allow me to demonstrate what one can do with a little imagination and some help from his friends."

That broke the agents nerve, finally and with no finesse, leaving Blair to wonder just how bad the carnage at the Center had been. Not without a few more threats and posturing, the goons left, and the sentinels watched and listened to make sure it wasn't a ruse.

"Talking about heading down to Mexico to lay low," the senior sentinel murmured. "Ah... Apparently they helped themselves to a few things during the chaos at the Center. Do we have them picked up for theft and illegal possession of controlled substances?"

"Hell, yes," Blair said, sagging weakly into Jim's side. Adrenaline had been a good substitute for strength, but it was fading fast without fear to pump it along.

"Definitely like how you think." The senior sentinel took out an ID wallet. "As I said, secret service, Sentinel Agent Liam Daniels." He looped one arm over the shoulders of the blond man and dragged him close. "My guide, Jack Tulley. The big guy is Sentinel Agent Thomas Judd, and last but not least, the lady hugging the stuffing out him is Lilly O'Toole, his wife and guide."

"The president's personal body guards," Joel said with something resembling awe, putting away his gun and joining Simon near the steps.

The light bulb went on for Blair. "That's where you sent Roarke with the files? These guys weren't bluffing; HDA is going down?"

With a last squeeze to their partners, Lilly and Jack went to Blair, holding their hands out to him so that both of his were cradled in a nest of theirs. "The videos and records are being authenticated by a third party with impeccable credentials who have promised to be done with the task by Sunday morning. Sunday night the president will address the nation live and report the results. He may not dismantle HDA - it has good, legitimate uses - but the theme of his speech will be that using genetics as an excuse to create second class citizens is not an acceptable policy, now or ever. It helps our cause considerably that there haven't been any David Koresh's or Jim Jones since the genome was identified. Apparently all we need is to be recognized for what we are and encouraged to trust our intuition and instincts."

The mix of comfort, relief, happiness and enthusiasm poured through their shared touch, cushioning Blair's discomfort and fatigue. Gratefully soaking it up, he said, "I don't know if it'll be enough. A whole generation has treated guides like mental defectives or feckless children."

"It's a start," Jack crooned. "A good one. Things will change; we'll have to fight to make them the right changes. But we've been laying the groundwork for a long time. There's hope."

Tilting back his head to meet Jim's eyes and return his smile, Blair said, "I already had that. Now we've got something as good. A chance."

***

All things considered, the timing for the entire stupid tragedy couldn't have been better for Blair. The U had a Monday holiday that week, and he'd cancelled his Friday classes previously in anticipation of poor attendance. With Thursdays usually spent at the PD, he hadn't officially missed any time from work. Despite that, the looks of shocked surprise at his presence from other teachers and faculty members told him they hadn't expected him in at all. Ever.

It was an interesting fact to chew over, and woke more than a little lingering resentment at how he'd been treated by the school administration. While serious payback would have been nice, he mused, it wasn't a good move politically if he wanted to stay on the staff. On the other hand, there was no reason he couldn't make a few people sweat, maybe pave the way for consideration above and beyond later, when working with Jim interfered with his job at the U.

With that in mind, Blair made his way through the day as if oblivious to the speculation aimed his way and pretending not to hear the buzz of gossip that followed in his wake. While he refrained from sitting - it simply was too uncomfortable - he was able to move naturally, more or less, thanks to his sentinel's skill at massage and two days of serious TLC. The only visible sign of the rough treatment he'd received was the bruise on the back of his hand from the IV.

After his last class for the day he vacated the hall for the next lecturer, and stood in the foyer of Hargrave surrounded by students uplinking with his handheld to transfer the papers due that day. Questions about the day's lecture flew fast and thick, and he answered them lightly, keeping an eye on his firewall to make sure his own info wasn't getting geeked. When Bruckner pushed his way through the crowd to talk to him, Blair walked toward his office, trailed by his students, deliberately giving the man the impression he was in a hurry and unaware of him.

Bruckner was forced to keep pace with him, elbowing his way to his side, to grab his arm, which didn't stop Blair - or the crowd around them. "Blair! I said I need to talk to you! Didn't you get your messages?"

"I'm so, so sorry, man," Blair laughed, handing off another flash to its owner. "I haven't been in my office at all today, and every meeting I've been to has run over, big time."

"You're not supposed to be in at all. We had already lined up replacements for you for the rest of the semester," Bruckner blurted, then winced at the chorus of quiet boos that hit his back.

Grinding to a dead stand still, Blair asked with mock hurt, "I've been fired? On what grounds? I was unaware I had any problems with my job. There's been no disciplinary meetings or letters of complaint." The boos were a little louder, and more students were stopping to see what the fuss was.

"This is not the place for this discussion." Blair didn't so much as blink, but the mutter around them grew tense, and Bruckner added, apparently unwillingly, "No, no, not fired. HDA notified us that you would be unavailable for at least several weeks." Just mentioning a higher authority smoothed down a few of Bruckner's ruffled feathers, and he added with a patently false paternal kindness, "I thought perhaps you'd been paired."

"Hey, I don't know why they'd tell you I wasn't coming in," Blair said with perfect innocence. "Maybe they had something in mind before that mess at the Center, which, given the trouble the Agency's in now, makes it all a moot point, don't you think?"

"I'm sure that will all be settled without any fuss before much longer."

The man's pompous attitude rankled, and by the indrawn hisses of breath around them, Blair thought he wasn't the only one bothered. "I wouldn't count on that," he said with the air of someone sharing a confidence. "The vids were authenticated again by an outside source, and witnesses have testified that there are three dead pairings, undeniably because of the agency's incompetence. My sources tell me that if Homeland survives, they'll never have authority over civilians again. Right now the favored suggestion for the oversight of sentinels and guides is a three-person committee - one sentinel, one guide, not a pairing, and one government rep. A sentinel from a wealthy background has donated the money for funding."

"I... I... see." Releasing his hold on Blair, Bruckner eased back a step.

"Given that the President has openly encouraged any guide with a grievance, especially concerning privacy laws or discrimination, to sue with the aim of obtaining a Supreme Court decision on the constitutionality of the Guide Genome laws, I would think now is not a good time to be affiliated too closely with Homeland or any organization they've favored in the past. My understanding is that funds for pursing litigation have been made available to any guide or potential guide with valid complaint." There was not a single ounce of threat in Blair's voice, expression or body language. Only his gaze, holding and burning Bruckner's, said that he could be that guide and the University his target.

Trying to regroup, Bruckner smiled thinly. "Your source must be impressive to be so certain of Homeland's fall."

Switching to cheerful, Blair said, "Hey, sentinels are this century's ultimate closed society, and I lucked into an inside track in a serious way. I almost held up finishing the dis to include them, but decided I might want to get another major work out of observing them, if they're willing. You *did* get my finished dissertation, right, Dr. Bruckner? I had it couriered directly to your office, along with everyone else on my committee." Inwardly, he bounced with glee. During his recuperation it had all simply clicked for him, and in a blaze of creative madness, he'd finished the last revisions and chapter in a twelve-hour writing sprint just last night.

Obviously thinking he'd found a way to regain the upper hand, Bruckner zoomed back to pompous, with condescending thrown in for good measure. "Of course I did, but you're anticipating a bit much there, aren't you? Realistically you can only call that a first draft."

"As you and the committee have approved every chapter before allowing me to move onto the next, it seems logical to think that there shouldn't be many changes needed," Blair said, secretly amused at the way he and Bruckner seemed to be playing dueling emotions, with the large mass of students and staff silently, nonverbally cheering them on.

"Now, Blair, as I've said, we shouldn't be having this discussion here."

"Why not? Got something to hide? I see no reason for my dissertation to be treated differently from any other grad student's work." Before Bruckner could sputter a protest, Blair waved him off. "Not that it matters. I want my Ph.D, but I don't have to have it. It's not necessary to what I want to accomplish. Just as I want to keep teaching here, but it's not necessary, either. The police department has already offered me a very decent position, and I'm sure they'd be delighted to know I'm willing to commit to full-time, instead of dividing my energies between here and there. Frankly, with the opportunity I've got to do a significant study of sentinels, it would be perfect to do it under the aegis of Rainier, but I'm sure there are other universities that would be interested."

Dead silence reigned after that announcement, and Blair put his handheld in his pack before hiking it over his shoulder. An unknown person asked timidly, "The rumors are true then? You paired with that cop sentinel?"

Spotting Jim leaning against the wall next to his office door, beaming at him with pride and love, Blair chuckled and headed directly for him. "No way. I'm officially partnered with him at the PD, and we'll be rooming together since my place was trashed, and I do mean seriously trashed, by HDA for some obscure reason that no one left alive seems to know. It'll make the ride-along much easier to handle logistically, too."

"Anything else between us," Jim said in his flattest, no-nonsense cop voice, "Is no one's business." Looping an arm over Blair's shoulders, Jim tucked him close and walked away. Once outside, he added, "You enjoyed that."

"Damn straight, I did." Blair glanced back over his shoulder to see students and faculty flow past a puzzled and worried Dr. Bruckner as though he were a rock and they a stream. "I should have paid closer attention to Penny and the attitude of her clan towards her," he said absently. "Her generation, *this* generation, doesn't see guides as unstable head cases, waiting for the trigger that sets them off, despite HDA's strident attempts to convince them of it. They'll support the new laws, see the truth in them."

"The only guides they've known," Jim said gently, "are like you: bright lights trying to heal and help those in need. The old guard, like Bruckner, might fight for status quo, even win for a while, but in the long run, they'll be dismissed as the scared dinosaurs they are. In the meantime, can he cause you much trouble?"

Leaning into Jim's side, Blair waited while he unlocked the truck door. "Probably not as much as he thinks he can, though it's a blessing that every one thinks Greg and Kelly were the third pair to be forced. I'm not sure what use he and the University would make of the fact that we were if it was ever found out, but I'd bet at the very least they'd make a very civilized attempt at blackmail."

"The original records are going under presidential seal; no one will ever see them again without direct permission from the oval office," Jim said grimly. "Anyone who does, has to wade through the long, long, *long* scientific discourse which boils down to the only reason we're not dead is because of outside intervention and an already established working relationship. If, by some horrible mistake, it is discovered, you were the victim there; no logical way to blackmail you."

"And if they try to use it against you, I'll rip out their throats," Blair said mildly, well aware Jim thought he was exaggerating for effect.

Or maybe not, since Jim opened the door, and urged him to sit on the edge of the bench seat. Kneeing Blair's thighs apart, he stood between them and pulled Blair into a full body hug. "That's my guide." He hesitated, but added, "Chief, what Greg did was *not* your fault. The agency lied to him about his wife's condition in another one of their bizarre experiments. Sooner or later he would have realized that Kelly was brain-dead, gone except for the flesh, and done the exact same thing - fight his way to her side to turn off the damn machines, then lie down beside her body to die himself. Roarke is the exception, not the rule, to how a sentinel deals with the death of his guide. And don't even bother to try to wheedle a promise out of me that I will be, too, if anything happens to you."

"We'll fight about that another day. Right now, I want to do something I've dreamed about for months."

"What?"

"This." Blair curled his fingers into the nape of Jim's neck and drew him down, kissing him with all his heart, where anybody could see and nobody would care, because that's what lovers did.

finis