Mad Season

By Vonilyn

due to the promptings of my beta, ::waves to lylia!::

i've decided to start posting this. the way things are, i plan to give myself two days or so between postings. gotta allow for R/L, now that school's started up again and all that... this is a work in progress, but i'm managing to churn the parts out surprisingly regularly considering my usual. 0:) and besides, according to *someone* who shall remain nameless ::glances accusingly at beta reader:: you guys "NEED" to see this fic... at any rate, fic is fic huh? :)

ANYWAY, hope ya'll like this! lemme know if you do, okay? i'm a feedback-thriver too. :) ask anyone who knows me. :) okay, okay, on with it... :)

*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~**~*~*~*

(Life according to Darien Fawkes)

Okay, so the average person knows when they've been screwed over pretty well. You'd think I'd be quicker on the uptake as well then, wouldn't you? Especially with this weird gland in my head; I have an even bigger reason - or should that be an extra responsibility? - To expect the crappy stuff to be aimed directly at me.

Hobbes knew I was screwed. From the very start of this assignment, just as soon as we'd left the Official's office, he'd made that loud and clear. He said it was just too easy. With Bobby Hobbes, though, it's always that same old gag line: if things are quiet wherever you are, it's always *too* quiet. The paranoiac that he is, I'd thought nothing of it; just kept walking away.

The target was some supposed smuggler. The go-between for whatever desperate and wealthy crook needed a thoroughly invisible way of getting something across a border or an ocean. The man had supplies, ships, planes… you name it, he had it stashed somewhere, just waiting to be put to use. At first, I didn't see why we'd been assigned at all; it wasn't exactly something the Agency would even look at under most conditions.

Then I found out that a couple of Agency Feds were involved with the guy. Of course, the Official wanted to know the who, the how, and the why. It was supposed to be on the books as a simple stakeout. Watch the place and see who we knew that went in. On the surface, it sounded like a walk in the park. No real problems. I figured I'd go Quicksilver, eavesdrop, copy a few computer files maybe. Cake.

If I'd been thinking along the same track as my partner though, rather than silently mocking him, I wouldn't be *running* away now…

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Darien Fawkes, the most annoying ex-con in the world at the moment, had done it again. One minute Hobbes was staring right at him, passing on some pretty vital survival tips. The next, he was talking to himself. Or at least from all outside appearances he was.

"Hey! You haven't been listening to a word I've said have you?" he asked, his eyes searching everywhere, uncomfortable as he tried vainly to see his partner.

"Sure I have Hobbes. But my ears hurt from listening and my butt hurts from just sitting here. I'm gonna go put an end to this whole 'watch and learn' session a little earlier than planned, that's all. You know, if you keep freakin' out like this you'll give yourself a headache," Darien advised, looking with amusement at the flustered fed. Still smiling at Hobbes, he reached an invisible hand to the door handle and opened it.

"Fawkes! Would you just stay put for once?" Hobbes tried again, reaching quickly for the door. But he wasn't fast enough. With a slight chuckle, Darien had slipped out of the van, letting an unwitting Hobbes close it for him. He pounded on the door once, and Hobbes jumped, startled and now growing angrier. Then Darien slipped away toward their target.

The place was nice, and from the outside it looked like every thief's dream take. The lot wasn't exactly huge or anything, but a Byzantine garden made the place a big, beautiful maze. A wide, pebble path led through it from the front gate on, surrounded by overgrown bonsai trees and fragrant flowers of red and white. Darien quickly climbed the perfectly harmless, gilded fence and followed the path up to the estate. Bamboo grew in rows sporadically along the path, surrounded by the bonsai and sharp leafed ferns every so often. He silently marveled at the stylish outside décor as he crept toward the house.

He paused at a clearing of sorts, maybe five yards off from the wall of the house, noticing a fountain surrounded by a large pond. Darien walked around the waterhole, carefully watching his surroundings for cameras or other surveillance. There was nothing, just him and the pond. He came to a stop, standing between the water and the house.

"Cute fish…" he muttered, staring at the foot-long goldies in the water. "Why don't mine ever last long enough to get that big?" he quipped with a grin.

Sudden movement closer to the house instantly caught Darien 's attention and the fish were forgotten. An Armani suited thug came around the corner, gun in hand but not aimed anywhere. Darien relaxed at that and was content to stand there and let the thug stare right on around him. Then, with a sudden jolt to his brain, he realized the man was wearing goggles. It wasn't dark out yet, so night vision goggles didn't make sense to Darien… unless these were that particularly sensitive kind…

"Aww crap," Darien breathed. For once, Hobbes had been right. These guys had been expecting him. Thinking only of escape, Darien took a blind step back and felt his foot contact the water. "Crap! Crap! Crap!" Darien had forgotten about the water. The man in the goggles smiled then, something purely evil, and the gun was up. Darien quickly turned and ran, splashing through the shallow water. His gig was up. Time to leave.

Two more suited, goggled gunmen came rushing at him from the path he'd just been on. Darien turned another direction and found two more waiting for him. He could either charge through them or try and break through a wall of bamboo. Darien stood in the middle of the pond, perfectly still. He didn't have any options. Then he hit on something.

"Let's level the playing field," he reasoned. Darien stood, his hands held harmlessly in the air, trying to calm himself down. If he was gonna do this, he needed to be able to see with his own eyes, not through a Quicksilver filter.

The hired guns got closer and closer. Before they could get too close, Darien charged through the gap to get behind them. As he did, he shook himself free of the silvery skin. The others all turned and rushed on him again to contain him, still partially blind because of the goggles they wore. Fawkes took advantage of the moment and slipped unseen between them in their circle, just out of their range of vision. Since he was no longer invisible to the naked eye, the goggles couldn't differentiate between Darien and the rest of the gunmen.

One of them finally realized that fact and took his goggles off, spotting Darien almost instantly as he did so. He raised the gun and fired. Darien felt a small twinge in the side of his leg, but nothing else. It seemed that the man had just barely grazed him. Darien pushed the nearest, blind, thug toward the one now without thermal imagery. The goggle-less goon stumbled with his partner and Fawkes turned and ran down the path to the gate without looking back.

Not even a moment later his legs froze up as the rest of his body hit the ground, unconscious.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Hobbes stared at his watch for the sixth time that hour and then glanced up at the digital on the van's dash. Hadn't changed in the last minute…

"Fawkes…" he grumbled irritably. He drummed his fingers across the steering wheel, then looked at his watch again. He looked at the passenger side door. It hadn't opened yet. He noticed the window was open, his mind thinking that just *maybe* there was a slight chance in hell that Fawkes had managed to pull his tall frame through that without his partner noticing. Yeah, right. Hobbes suddenly took a wild swing with his elbow at the middle of the seat next to him anyway, hoping to hit something besides rotting vinyl. Nothing there.

Bobby's mind began to wander back in time those few hours ago. The Official had given Hobbes an eerie kind of impression when he'd given Fawkes his instructions. And when he'd called Hobbes back into the room once Darien had left, he'd given him a very odd instruction.

He'd said, "Hobbes, I expect you to allow Darien room to … er, perform… as he sees fit on this mission. Whatever happens. He needs to learn the consequences of his own rashness."

Hobbes had given his boss a look then, one that made it clear he planned to argue about that command as soon as he could find his voice again. That was one of the most unsettling things simply because the old coot's voice made it clear that *something* was definitely going to happen, no matter what Hobbes or even Fawkes did about it.

"Damnit, kid! Of all the assignments to leave the mic…" he complained, the worry creeping in to his voice. He swiveled back toward the back of the truck, waiting for the back doors to open and reveal his partner. Fawkes had gone in nearly two hours ago. Hobbes knew the kid should have gone all crazy by now if he'd kept out of sight this long.

It was a set-up. He knew it then and he most assuredly recognized it now. And he had no fucking clue what he was supposed to do about it.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Darien woke up with an incredible pain in his head. It felt strangely like someone had turned up the bass on a really loud stereo in his head. Slowly, he opened his eyes, feeling the dull ache at the base of his skull increase from the blinding bright light. Ignoring it, he tried to remember what had happened. It didn't take him long to realize that he wasn't at home in bed, and he certainly wasn't in the Agency's lab. He was on a padded table, and from what he could tell, strapped down. He tried the bonds on his arms. They left him hardly any room to move. Oh this was not good…

Dropping his head, frustrated, back onto the padded table, Darien let his attention return to his pounding head. It was a familiar sensation for the most part, as unpleasant as it may have been. He couldn't help wondering if he'd been invisible long enough to have triggered the madness. It didn't make sense though, because he swore he hadn't been invisible for even fifteen minutes at the most before he'd gotten caught. Darien looked down at his wrist, twisting in the cuffs to try and see the snake that would tell him if he'd pressed his luck too much in that maximum-of-fifteen-minutes time span. But the tattoo was still green; his system hadn't built up enough Quicksilver to bring out the madness.

The knot that had formed in his stomach tightened like a vice. He realized he didn't know much about his current situation. He knew where he *wasn't*, though that didn't do him any good. He wasn't in the lab. He wasn't tied down for his safety or the safety of whoever else was around him. Besides, at the moment, there wasn't even a bottle he could break in this empty room. And he hadn't just woken up from being knocked out by a good dose of the Counteragent.

"Then what the hell is going on?!" he growled, jerking again on his restraints. That homing device the Agency had tried to get him to wear would sure be appreciated right about now.

Somewhere in his head, Darien swore he could hear Bobby Hobbes' cocky voice saying 'I told you so.'

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Hobbes watched the truck drive by and stared at the empty seat next to him. Dilemmas…

His last call to The Agency had been fruitless. As soon as he'd mentioned how long Darien had been gone, the Official had hung up on him.

"Okay, so there's this little problem here… I follow the car, or I wait for the partner who I've been ordered to basically ignore…" Bobby muttered to himself.

Now, after seeing the suspicious Explorer drive away from the target's address, he thought about making a second call. Then he snorted wryly, realizing how stupid that'd be. His cell phone bill was going to be high enough, thank you.

"Well, Partner, once again *you* have gotten us into the mess and *I'm* gonna have to go save our fat from the fryer…" Bobby Hobbes, Agent Extrodinaire, gave a long-suffering sigh and started up the department-issued, trashed up old van, pulling it out of the alley to follow the truck.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Darien was making an extra effort to stay awake in the boredom of lying down in a completely uninteresting room. He found he could easily shut out the over-bright lights after the first hour of consciousness. Whatever it was they had shot him with earlier, the side effects of instantaneous unconsciousness was a lagging desire to just roll over and go back to sleep. A desire that he fought as much as he was able.

Fawkes had gotten to the point of singing his own, loud, obnoxious, totally out-of-the-blue theme song, when a door creaked open behind him. Freezing instantly, his mouth stopping mid-word, Darien almost went Quicksilver, but then realized that whoever was there obviously was expecting to find a body on the table; visible or not, he knew one was there. Giving a mental shrug, Darien assumed one of his more frustrated looks (which at the moment was far from impossible) and waited.

A thirty-somethingish man walked into Darien's view a moment later. He had a very professional manner, despite his jeans and baggy turtle-neck sweater. His dark hair was cropped short, fringed with the *slightest* touch of gray. So either the guy aged really well, or his work was harder than he let it on to be on paper.

"Hello Mr. Fawkes," the man greeted with a worldly accent. Darien couldn't place it at first; it was either British or Australian. Whatever he was, his calm demeanor wasn't helping Darien any at all.

"Who the hell are you?" Darien snapped, very unsettled by the fact that this guy already knew his name. It just confirmed the theory that his invisible ass had been expected.

"I'm Mr. Pierson. Consider me your Keeper for the time being," the man replied casually. He stepped toward Darien and carefully looked at the snake tattoo.

"I'm fine," Darien informed him, the anger still in his voice as he tried to turn his wrist so the other man couldn't see. Pierson looked him in the eyes, a very appraising look on his face. He raised an eyebrow at Darien's behavior but said nothing. He didn't move away either.

"You're not from the Agency," Fawkes looked back at him, part question, part accusation in his words.

"The Agency doesn't matter anymore, Mr. Fawkes."

Darien's blood ran cold at the man's finalizing tone. "Like hell it doesn't. What do you mean?"

"Just what I said. What the Agency does or doesn't do no longer concerns you. Someone else has paid for the Gland and you now work for them."

"What? No. No! That's bullshit! Kev- No, The Agency put time and money…" Darien began. His brain was on one track and one track only: They had sold the gland that was still in his head and Darien Fawkes was screwed.

"That may be the case, but as soon as the buyers get here, you and the Gland won't be going back," Pierson interrupted calmly.

"You can't just dig the gland out and pass it around… One, you'd kill me; Two, the thing'd be worthless…" Fawkes shot back at him, incredulous. He wasn't buying into this. He glared, instant and obvious hatred on his face as he narrowed his eyes at this 'Mr. Pierson' con.

"They're buying the whole deal, including you. Think of it as…well, as just switching employers, really. I know how this all works, and now so do they. They aren't interested in the Gland so much as what it can do for them. Which is good news for you in a way; no more scientists poking around in your brain trying to figure out what makes it tick. Or so I've been led to believe… At any rate, it's really not that bad of a set-up, Fawkes. You'll just have to learn to live with it," Pierson had a stern edge to his voice that left no room for argument. Darien was struck momentarily dumb by the realization. He stared at Pierson, wide-eyed and slack jawed.

Darien felt his face grow hot. He liked having his own apartment, his own stuff, his right to bitch and moan and complain at whatever assignments he got stuck with. Hell, he even liked having a psycho secret agent partner like Hobbes. The idea of being *sold* alone was enough to piss him off, now add to that the betrayal, then the loss of everything familiar… things weren't looking too good. The idea of suddenly losing all that he had managed to gain in the past few months, to be packed off at the drop of a hat, without being consulted first, without warning… Even if the Official wasn't going to give him a choice on the assignment in the long run, he at least always asked first. Life with The Agency may suck, but at least he was living under the *pretense* of having freedom.

"No, no, no, no, no. Wait, wait. Me? They 'sold' me?" his voice faltered slightly, "They can't do that… There's no way- No. Way. That The Agency would sell *me*…" Darien stammered, suddenly reviewing his value to that particular branch of government. He was the Quicksilver Wunderkund, sure. Without him, they wouldn't have the Gland… the thing in his head was the only record of Kevin Fawkes' years of research, the last link to their army of invisible soldier boys… there was no way they'd *sell* that knowledge to anyone. Not even to their own government. But that aside, no government group, even one as shadowy as The Agency, would ever stoop to actually selling another human being, a US citizen at that... "They couldn't."

A shrewd smile crept onto Pierson's face. Darien's wondering stopped then, because he knew that look. It was one of pride, the aftermath of a successful job. It was the look of having emptied the cookie jar just to let someone else get caught with the last one. It was one Darien Fawkes had worn once or twice in his lifetime… Darien cursed silently as he realized what Mr. Pierson was really up to.

"I never said that 'they' did, Mr. Fawkes," Pierson assured him.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Part Two
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

(Life according to Darien Fawkes)

So far, this is all I've been able to figure: I've been kidnapped - or rather, as far as this guy Pierson is concerned, I've been *stolen*. So now, I'm waiting for 'the buyers' to arrive, like a slave on the auction block. The Gland in my head being the cause of all my troubles. Yet again. Surprise, surprise...

And something else; this guy is good. He's definitely done his homework on this assignment. So far, he's been all too glad to tell me about my most recent history, and he's gone into some surprising detail about the Quicksilver at least twice now. I'm really going to have to get the Agency to lock up the files they *do* manage to keep on this project a little more religiously.

But something about this whole thing still reeks of a set-up. Like I always say, a con knows a con. But for now, I'm stuck where I am, doomed to just play along. There's not a whole lot of other things one can do while they're strapped to a table, am I right?

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Hey look, Mr. Pierson…" Darien tried interrupting the newest rendition of the Gland's possibilities, but the educated Mr. Pierson was too busy marveling.

He tried again, actually getting the man to shut up and look at him, "Pierson. Pierson! Would you lis… Thank you!" Pierson shrugged and looked at him expectantly.

"Would it be okay to go use the john? I've been stuck to this table for a coupl'a hours and nature's calling…" Darien asked, trying to play up the 'buddy' role just the slightest bit. Pierson looked at him, scrutinizing.

Then he simply nodded and left the room.

Darien blinked. Well, that didn't go exactly as planned…

A moment later, Pierson was back, carrying what looked like a watch. Fawkes eyed the 'watch' mistrustfully. When Pierson made a movement toward him with it, Darien actually jerked away. That's not to say the extra effort helped any…

"What is that thing?" Darien demanded.

"This," Pierson replied, calmly grabbing Darien's wrist in a strong enough grip to keep him from moving away again, "Is a temperature-sensitive sonic device."

Darien really didn't like the sound of that. Pierson snapped it onto his arm like a handcuff, hearing the 'click!' as the new bracelet attached itself to his wrist. There was a slight buzz radiating up his arm from the device and Darien looked at it, surprised and worried. It obviously showed on his face as he glanced back up at Pierson for the briefest second.

"Don't worry, you'll be fine. It's to ensure that you don't go invisible on me. See, the way it works is the sensors pick up on any temperature change. Once the change reaches a certain degree -the temperature drop your body goes through when you 'disappear', to be exact - it will emit sonic waves that should break up the Quicksilver."

As he spoke, Pierson began loosening the straps that held Darien down. Once his hands were free, Darien immediately grabbed at the device now hanging closely to his wrist. Nice and snug. And from what he could tell, there wasn't even a key slot to pick the damn thing open.

"Go ahead, try it," Pierson prompted without a trace of emotion. Darien looked at him. The guy was serious, alright. Darien grinned slyly; Pierson was gonna regret that suggestion…

Quickly, before Pierson had a chance to strap him down again, Darien began to blend with the background, the Quicksilver slowly covering him in its familiar, odd, liquid tendrils. But judging from the look on Pierson's face, he was still completely visible. Darien stared at his own arm as the silver broke into pieces as it attempted to solidify to his skin. The device on Darien's wrist was successfully keeping the Quicksilver off. Darien just stared, open-mouthed as the now dry chemical splintered off. Kevin's saran-wrap analogy went up in smoke at that point...

"Aww crap."

A smirk appeared on Pierson's face then and Darien would have given a lot to be able to just pummel it off his face. He personally was finding nothing even remotely smirk-worthy of this technology.

"Speaking of which, you said you needed the john… I'll show you where to find that."

"Oh, ha, ha…" Darien muttered, not at all amused, as he bent down and freed his ankles from the table. Then he followed Pierson out and up a flight of stairs.


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Pierson was waiting outside the door for him. Darien growled despite himself. He wasn't going back on that table. No way, no how.

"What now?" he asked harshly, still standing in the darkened bathroom's doorway. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared defiantly at Pierson. "You stick around to be sure I washed my hands?"

Pierson raised an amused brow, "No, actually," he said, "Just can't have you wandering around yet."

Darien rolled his eyes. He gestured up to a miniscule red light in the junction of the ceiling and the hallway wall. Along the opposite side of the passage, the wall was made of very thick paned glass, allowing them an ocean view accented carefully by the occasional armed guard. Then, he pointedly glanced at the device on his arm.

"Oh yeah, you've got a lot to worry about. Me, unarmed, outnumbered, and not likely to get five feet before you sic the goons on me again… I can see your concern," Fawkes replied, light sarcasm rolling off his tongue.

Pierson just shrugged.

Pierson didn't reply, preferring to grin smugly. He stepped away, gesturing Darien down the hall toward the spacious front rooms again. Darien eyed him irritably, but walked across the shiny, black marble floor without a word.

"It's not all for you, you do realize?"

Fawkes paused as Pierson came level with him, and made the announcement. He hadn't been expecting this much actual communication with someone who'd 'stolen' him to try and 'sell' him. Getting over the surprise, he considered the other man's comments.

"Well, it only makes sense. I mean, you're a thief, a smuggler, who knows what else… You've got your fair share of enemies, I'm sure. Unless, of course, you're this charming toward all of your clients," Darien drawled, again toying with the cuff at his wrist. Nothing got to him more than being told that he *couldn't* do something. Invisibility was now no exception. So, naturally, he was going to dwell on that bracelet for awhile.

"Exactly. Everyone's got their own enemies, but very few of us are invisible to them. All of this," Pierson drew a hand up loosely to indicate their secured surroundings, "Is as much to keep others out as it is to keep you in."

Darien caught the hint. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. No daring Agency rescues. Whatever."

"Something like that, yes," Mr. Pierson replied with a small smile as he led Darien through what was obviously a kitchen. Fawkes spotted the refrigerator and thought of the Agency lab. What was he supposed to do without the Counteragent boosters the Agency had? For the millionth time since his body had become dependant upon the Quicksilver, he realized that without the boosters, there was no way he'd really be able to survive. What was going to happen if this sale of Pierson's actually went through?

Then, suddenly, Darien looked around and realized that they were back down the stairs in the basement cell again. Of course, the offensive table hadn't moved any.

"Now come on, lets get realistic about this… If I can't disappear, why keep me locked up down here? Huh?" It wasn't that Darien couldn't bear to leave his captor's side or anything, he just didn't want to miss any opportunity of escape that might present itself to him if he weren't locked in a room. Besides, since he'd gotten the Gland, he'd been in so many rooms like this one; he'd begun to grow sick of that whole sterile look.

As if to prove that he was harmless, Darien again put the gland to work, trying to blend with the air once again.

"Damnit, don't do that, Fawkes," Pierson grumbled, grabbing Darien's arm automatically, thoughtlessly, to stop him. The Quicksilver spread to his palm and was able to solidify on Pierson's hand. The sonic vibrations didn't mess with his skin like they did Darien's. Pierson let go instantly, swearing at the cold, tingling feeling. He stared at his hand, seeing through it in spots.

"My God," he breathed, moving his fingers and not seeing them. It was eerie and yet… incredible.

Darien watched Pierson's reaction closely, an expression close to jealousy on his face.

"Just shake it off and you'll be back to normal," Darien supplied, his tone neutral. Pierson looked up at him briefly, then back to his hand. Carefully, testing it, he shook his hand. The Quicksilver splintered off easily.

"That was unbelievable…" Pierson admitted, working his hand again now that he could see it. The oddity over and gone, he returned his attentions elsewhere. He grabbed Darien's wrist, again checking the monitor now that he had expended more of it.

"Yeah, it is kinda cool," Darien replied, darkly. Pierson's initial reaction to his attempt to disappear had gotten Darien thinking.

"So why'd you freak when I tried?" he asked. Pierson's face sobered guiltily.

Deciding that Fawkes still had plenty of time left before he needed a shot, Pierson quickly dropped his hand again and tried his best to look preoccupied as he crept ever closer to the door.

Pierson didn't reply fast enough and Darien guessed, "Does it have something to do with the Counteragent?" He tipped his head to the side, his eyes glaring daggers at the smaller man as he waited for an answer.

"Indirectly, yes. Look, all I'm saying is try and conserve it alright?"

"Why?" Darien pressed, "You said you knew how it worked. If that's the truth, you know about the Quicksilver Madness then. What I can do… *have* done while I'm hit with it. I tell you what, if there's not enough Counteragent to go around, you can forget this idea of me sticking around much longer. These walls be damned, if I go crazy, that door won't be enough to stop me…" Darien warned, stepping threateningly closer.

"Calm down, I've got the Counteragent. I'm not stupid, Fawkes," Pierson said, recovering from the disappointment of his prisoner having caught on.

"Then what's the catch?"

Pierson shrugged. "I only managed to get a hold of just so much. I can't get more for awhile."

"What?!"

"You just have to go easy on it for awhile…"

"Go easy on… Go easy…" Darien gave a derisive snort and backed away from the man before he was tempted to inflict serious bodily injury.

"That's what I said. Must you repeat me?"

"Okay, that's it. You get this friggin' thing off of me," Darien said, looking at him intently as he gestured to the bracelet, "And then you tell me what the hell this is all about. I'm not playing along anymore. Let me in on the scam and *maybe* I'll help you out, but you better have a damn good explanation."

"I'm afraid not Mr. Fawkes. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some phone calls to make," Pierson replied coldly, stepping quickly to the door. He had it closed behind him before Darien had even had a chance to move.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Mr. Pierson, also known as Adam Pierson, and in some smaller circles, simply Methos, closed the thick door behind him, hearing the reassuring sound of the lock clicking in to place. Then, squaring his shoulders, he climbed the stairs up to the kitchen.

That certainly could have gone better, he decided with a frown. Darien Fawkes was turning out to be the handful his contact at The Agency had warned him about. The man had an attitude to match his own and, though that wasn't a bad thing, it certainly wasn't helpful. Honestly, Methos had been expecting one of the stoic, temperamental American soldier types. He could have handled them a little easier simply because he'd prepared himself to deal with one of them. Methos certainly hadn't expected someone who'd catch on as much as Fawkes had so quickly. He'd been expecting someone he could give an order to and actually have a prayer that it'd be followed. Fawkes certainly wasn't one of them. And in retrospect, Methos laughed at himself for having been naive enough to think anyone would respond to the situation as he'd 'expected'.

Methos walked through the kitchen, lost in thought. He picked up a backpack that had been resting against the kitchen's island and took it over to the living room's glass coffee table. Spreading the contents of the backpack out on the table, Methos began looking over the police reports and other information he'd managed to dig up on The Agency's surprising Invisible Man.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Hobbes couldn't stifle the yawn that finally managed to escape.

He'd followed the suspicious Explorer to another estate just south of the San Diego suburbs, determined to find out just what was going on. Parking a few yards away from the main gates, Bobby slipped out of the cab and casually walked by the fence. Besides the absence of any seriously damning security cameras or guards in the immediate area, Hobbes took a peek over the cement wall just in time to catch a couple of goons dragging a body from the back of the Explorer up by the house. Through the trees he saw that it wasn't just *any* body either; it was his partner's.

He'd climbed down from the wall and back to the van, driving off into the fading sunlight, away from the unknown estate for a block and a half until he found a restaurant and a pay phone. He'd tried calling the Official, but he hadn't been in. His dweeb of an assistant, Eberts, had rambled something about paying a visit to the Keeper, but Hobbes hadn't been able to get in contact with her either. After a strong cup of coffee, Bobby Hobbes returned to the van and drove back to where his partner was being held.

So now, here he was, hours later, parked around the corner with the front gates in plain sight. Nothing had moved since he'd gotten back. Nothing at all. It was really, really starting to gnaw at his nerves. But he couldn't do anything until he found out what The Agency already knew. Because they most definitely knew something about this whole scheme. So, for the time being, he decided to do what he was good at… sit and watch for anything suspicious.

And he did, until he closed his eyes and nodded off to sleep…

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When the door closed behind Pierson, Darien swore, smacking a palm wildly against the padded table. He hadn't gotten anywhere at all with his latest outburst. He'd just dug himself a bigger hole, if anything. But at least he wasn't tied down to the damn table again. He turned his attention to the door momentarily. The door was thick, and Darien instantly gave up all thoughts of breaking through it with anything less than an ax or a ram. He tried the lock next, finding it strong enough to withhold a good deal of weight on its own. Idly, he stuck his hands in his pockets for his wallet, finally finding it and bringing it out. Everything he remembered having put in the wallet was still there. Maybe Pierson wasn't as notorious a thief as his rap sheet said he was, if he'd walk away from a sleeping man's wallet. Darien looked back into the money case, sparing a second to count the cash he had in there. Not even ten dollars.

"Nope, nevermind. I wouldn't even take that much," he reasoned, caught somewhere between feeling sorry for his sad financial state and being amused by it at the same time.

Darien pulled out one of his credit cards. It was the oldest trick in the book, which meant that he might just have a chance in hell at pulling it off. Besides, he thought, glancing skyward, someone up there just *has* to owe me for *something*…

Applying the cards and his skill to the task, Darien soon heard the satisfying 'click!' of the lock. He blinked his surprise, and looked around, expecting this to be some kind of joke. He stood up again, taking the handle in his hand to be sure the door didn't shut on him. Poking his head out the door, he checked the corridor, half-expecting to see someone standing at the base of the stairs, just waiting to knock his head back into the cell-like room. There was no one there except himself.

"Whoa, whoever saw to that, I owe ya one…" he muttered, quietly. With that, Darien slipped out the door and up the stairs again.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Part Three
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


Methos felt, more so than heard, the unwelcome presence now standing in the room with him. With a slight groan, he looked up from the piece of paper in his hand to see Darien Fawkes leaning against the bar-like divider between the kitchen and the living room, where Methos now sat.

"I knew that door wouldn't be good enough," he muttered, only half-honest. *Now*, after having reread in more detail the paperwork on his new friend Fawkes here, he knew that door wouldn't be good enough to keep the ex-burglar in for long. Beforehand, however, he hadn't consciously thought anything of it.

"Oh, bravo! Give the man a prize!" Darien deadpanned. "You already make your phone calls? Gee, that was quick, Mr. Pierson."

Methos rolled his eyes, setting his jaw just a little bit. "Forgive me if I haven't gotten that far, Mr. Fawkes."

Darien tipped his head to the side, as if pondering the suggestion, then stood from his perch on the bar. "Nah, I don't think I will," he said, plopping down on the couch, facing Pierson with the table full of papers between them. He glanced down at the glass table, only moderately surprised to see his own face staring back at him from a few different places. Darien leaned forward and picked up a photocopy of a newspaper clipping. Darien sat wordlessly for a moment, staring blankly at the print, already knowing what the whole article revealed. The third time he'd been caught, the only time he'd made it to the press, and it was for a bum rap. But hey, he'd made the front page for the first time in his life… even if it was just the Daily Seniors Sentinel front page… Glancing contemptuously at the picture, Darien decided that neither the article nor the photo cast him in a very good light.

Coming out of his flash back down Memory Lane, Fawkes looked up at Pierson, noting the man had been watching him wearily since he'd sat down. Leaning forward again to drop the paper back to where he'd found it, Darien said, "So, what's the deal here Ace?"

At Pierson's carefully blank expression, he rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"Oh come on, man! You're poking through *my* life like it's some old family photo album!" He reached down and grabbed a handful of papers off the tabletop, shaking them at Pierson before throwing them down again.

"If you were after just the Gland in my head, you wouldn't be this interested in *me*. Hell, I'd probably be dead." Darien moved closer over the table, his elbows resting on his knees, his eye glinting with conspiracy. "There's something going on here and it's not gonna kill you to let me in on it."

Methos chuckled and finally put the file down that he'd been reading before his guest so rudely escaped the basement. Then, he settled himself comfortably back into the heavily padded chair. The man refused to leave this alone, so now he had to let it all play it's course.

"I don't know what you're so adamant about, Fawkes. I've already told you everything you need to know. It's more than you wanted to know to begin with, isn't it?" he answered with a question. A man like Darien Fawkes would have to hate that, Methos reasoned slyly.

"What? That the Gland and me are gonna be sold to the highest bidder by this time tomorrow? That's it? No. That's not real. Just a cover. No, there's more to all this than that."

"Nope, 'fraid not…" Methos replied, carefully masking the trace of hope that Darien would fall for it this time.

Pierson looked calm, and quite amused; far from the nervous, uncomfortable, guilty man Fawkes had been expecting to see when he charged in with his questions.

"You mean…" Darien straightened jerkily on the couch, suddenly not as sure as he had been a second ago, "So wait… this *isn't* a set up?"

Pierson shook his head in the negative.

"You're really gonna… Me… I'm gonna be… well, *sold*?

After a moments pause, to be sure he gave the right response, Pierson nodded. The look on Darien's face then spoke volumes and Methos almost felt sorry for him.

Realization, fear, hurt, anger, surprise, shock… all found a place in that look. Darien fell back into the black leather cushions, suddenly looking as pale as death by comparison. He looked despondently at the bracelet on his wrist that had so easily rendered him helpless in this whole situation. There was nothing he could do.

"Sold…" he repeated.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He hadn't believed it was real before, but now he did. Pierson was totally calm about the whole thing. Perfectly… serious. Darien had looked. God, he'd looked hard, for any and all signs that would give the other man away. But there was nothing so much as a frown. Or a nervous twitch. Nothing at all revealed the scam he had been so sure had been brewing just below the surface. "But it can't be real…" his mind struggled to wrap itself around the concept of being sold, failing for the second time.

"You're just switching employers, that's all," Pierson reminded him. But it was more than that. The Counteragent had made him a junkie, and because of that, whoever owned a bottle of the Counteragent owned him. For someone who'd never wanted anything more from life than to take it through doing his own independent thing, that was a huge pill to swallow. For some reason, that bugged him more than the idea of being yanked away from the Agency ever could.

Darien absently rubbed his hand over the back of his neck and the base of his skull, feeling the scar there and frowning. Fear of the unknown started creeping into him. Okay, so Pierson said they were after the whole deal; they didn't want to know anything about how it was done, they just wanted whatever it was done to. The other mysterious 'them'… Darien knew what the Agency was like, how they treated him, what *they* used him for… but what would the others be like?

Darien opened his mouth to ask, but shut it just as quickly, his jaw still working. He wasn't sure he really wanted to know.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Methos saw the proof of Darien's mental battles waging by his expression.

"If it helps at all, at least none of this is personal," he shrugged. Darien glared at him. He shrugged again and stood up.

Darien stayed where he was. After a moment, he looked up at him and asked, "So when do they get here?"

Methos glanced at his watch, then back down at Darien. He hesitated, not sure if he should tell him or not.

"If they're on time? As long as everything goes according to schedule, about an hour."

Methos hadn't believed it possible, but Darien's face fell even further.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

(Life According to Darien Fawkes)

I never thought much about *not* enjoying being able to leave The Agency. But then, I never thought I'd be forcibly removed… much less be actually sold. I still don't think I believe the guy. He says that no one can get in or out of this place very easily, but I still keep expecting Hobbes and a team to come busting through here. Hobbes had to have let The Official know I had *really* disappeared this time. And there's no way the Agency would let Seventeen Mil be taken away this easily.

I don't know what I can do about it on my end, though. Pierson gave up on trying to keep me in the basement once I came up here and started asking questions. I blew my one shot. Any sane, rational-thinking, moron in my situation would have just high tailed it then, with an 'Adios!' and a wave. I could have snuck away, even without the hormones kicking in. Then, I'd be gone and away and I could let the Keeper try and get this bracelet off of me.

Robert Frost is known to have said "Two roads diverged in a wood and I, I took the one less traveled by and that has made all the difference."

Well, this is one case where the road less traveled made all the difference of landing this idiot in an even bigger mess.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The bargaining table was opened up at precisely nine o'clock that night. Pierson had been right, it had been exactly an hour until the first showed up. Darien was allowed to stay on the big cushioned couch that he'd first landed on an hour ago. Since Darien's daring escape with his MasterCards, Pierson had called in two of the outside guys… and confiscated his wallet. And damnit, he'd taken the ball point pen and the paper clip too… Darien had had such great plans for those. Add a stick of gum to that and he coulda made a great bomb…

Deciding to spare Darien some shreds of dignity, Pierson dealt with his guests at the bar; their backs to Darien, his to them. It helped a little, but Darien could still hear their exchange clear as crystal. So, he occupied his time by staring unmercifully at the two guards who had moved to stand directly across the table from him, watching both him and the buyers with their boss. When you're bored in the front row of the class, the best thing to do is distract the prof without getting caught doing it… One of them was his height, but much, much wider around the neck. He looked like the high school star quarterback who'd been scorned by UCLA. Even the smile he'd pasted on for the buyers looked like a disinterested scowl.

The second guy was shorter than Darien, built just a little smaller, too. Darien recognized him as the one who'd shot him with the tranquilizer earlier in the day. Shorty fidgeted more and was far less stoic than his partner. He'd tried making conversation before the others had arrived. He'd taken the chair across from Darien's couch and was soon paranoid of being glared at. Darien's quick retorts bristled the man enough to make him shut up. "I haven't forgotten you," Fawkes warned once, "And I'd say I owe you big for this…" Shorty had moved off behind the couch after that.

But now, both were standing in front of him again. Darien glared up at them contemptuously as he listened to Pierson chat up the customers somewhere behind him. Finally, Darien heard the subject get around to the inevitable… it was sample time.

The two goons in front of him motioned Fawkes to his feet. The tall one grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, twisting the back of his shirt collar all out of shape as he led him toward the kitchen. Pierson and the others followed, the group having gone curiously quiet.

When they got to the basement, Darien was surprised to see that the table had been shoved into a corner, out of the way. The door was shut and the tall one stayed standing in front of it. Darien now stood facing two men he didn't know and one very pretty, though tough-as-nails looking, lady. Darien gave a quick nod in her direction out of habit before looking to Pierson. He and Shorty were now standing on either side of him.

"Let me see the monitor," Pierson said quietly, turning his back on the audience. Darien narrowed his eyes at him, but pulled his jacket sleeve enough for the snake to be seen. He spared a quick glance at it himself. He would be running on fumes after this little show and tell. But then maybe that was the plan. After all, Pierson had said that these people would be down for the count…

Mr. Pierson nodded briefly to Shorty, who pulled out a set of handcuffs. One was snapped on to Darien's wrist, then Shorty's. Then he nodded back at Pierson.

"Behave yourself," Pierson cautioned in an undertone, then, using what seemed to be a magnetic key of some sort, he unsnapped the sonic device from Darien's wrist.

"Whatever," Darien scoffed back. He waited until Pierson had backed off before doing his thing.

Soon, the suited guard, (whom Darien now noticed had left his firearm with the tall one,) was standing handcuffed to a patch of air. There was a heavily accented "Wow!" from one of the group. Even Shorty looked impressed by it up close. To drive the point home, (Okay, so Darien suddenly felt like showing off now that he could become invisible again…) Darien raised his invisible, handcuffed hand and waved at them. "Hi guys, how's it goin?"

Then he jerked Shorty around in circles a few times, moving through the buyers and even over to the tall one. Having caused enough panic over by the door, Darien moved back to the center of the room. There were a few laughs as Shorty stumbled over his own feet, unsure of where he was going. Darien didn't miss a second of it.

"Oh, think this is that great, huh? Barrel of monkeys, am I right?" Darien asked innocently. Then he turned, unseen, to Shorty and he felt the sly smile he'd been wearing turn into a hard, angry sneer. He delivered a fierce fist to the shorter man's face. No less than twice.

"I told you I owed you," Darien muttered, just loud enough for the other man to hear. He moved as far away from him as the cuffs allowed, giving the shocked man room enough to moan about his aching face. Still invisible, Darien worked his fist, then added, "Damn, you've got a hard skull…"

"It's just as thick as yours, Fawkes," Pierson grumbled loudly, "Get back to normal. Now, Darien…" Pierson looked at the place he guessed Darien's head to be and gestured pointedly to his own arm. Darien noticed an odd tattoo there, peeking out beneath the other man's sweater sleeve and wondered on that a moment before he realized what Pierson had meant.

"Oh. Yeah…" The Counteragent… Darien slipped free of the Quicksilver, surprising Shorty. Shorty glared at him. "You deserved worse than that, so don't even think about it," Darien warned, interpreting the look he was shot. Pierson grabbed Darien by the arm and snapped the bracelet back into place. "Damnit, I hate this thing… It's not really necessary…" Darien complained. He noticed Shorty quickly freed him of the cuffs and went over to join tall one by the door. The other people in the room were itching to leave, to go report to their people and get their bids authorized. Darien was suddenly sorry he'd enjoyed the chance to disappear quite that much.

"Do you have enough control to try that again?" Pierson asked, not bothering to keep his voice down this time. Darien stared over Pierson's shoulder and sighed. He swore blue-fire under his breath, but nodded. Then, already feeling the sonic waves on his skin, Fawkes accessed the hormone again, only to have it go everywhere rather than seal over him.

More hesitant than before, Pierson grabbed onto his arm, letting the Quicksilver cover his hand. Then he let go, his hand covered in silver cold for just a second before it seemed to disappear completely.

Awing slightly at the action himself, he soon shook it off and then looked coolly up at his buyers. "Any questions, lady and gentlemen?"

Heads shook in the negative around the room.

"Alright then. Let's go upstairs. The bidding can start in, oh, another hour," Pierson informed them. "Mr. Fawkes, you stay in here," he added to Darien. Darien stared at him.

"Like hell..."

But Pierson was herding the others out of the room. Darien frantically looked after him, noticing the blonde woman looked back at him with a smile and a wink. Thus distracted, Darien clamped his mouth shut, not being able to help but watch her walk up the stairs in her high heels. Then Shorty shut the door on his view and he heard the lock click into place again.

Darien stood there, stupid for a moment. He tried the door handle, tugging and turning it loudly. From the other side of the door, one of the guards yelled for him to knock it off. With a heavy sigh, Darien turned back to the room. Feeling more than just a little claustrophobic suddenly, he twisted out of his jacket and threw it on the ground with a vengeance. Leaning back against the door, he again checked the monitor on his wrist. There wasn't even the slightest trace of green left. Oh, this was *definitely* not good.

Going over to the cupboards that lined one wall, Darien looked through the empty cabinets, opened drawers, pushed aside everything that was lying out on the countertop. There was nothing in them. No Counteragent in sight. He managed to find a polished, metal napkin holder and caught his reflection in it. Red had begun to sneak into his eyes and his face looked a little pale. Darien closed his eyes and tried to calm himself down before looking at himself again. The red had disappeared, but it wouldn't be long before it returned.

"Aw crap…"

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Part Four
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The roaring sound of traffic on the mostly deserted road woke Hobbes up with a start.

"Wha…? Whoa, I'm up, I'm up… no need to get punchy…" he muttered, still mostly asleep as he scrubbed tiredly at his face. The loud sports car that had woken him was making its way toward his position. Hobbes finally remembered where he was and grabbed the binoculars, following the
impressive red car through them as it entered the estate. He let out a low whistle as he saw the blonde driver. He didn't have much time to ogle, however, as another car followed the woman in. The new car was a dark blue Saturn. These people had apparently been expected because they
had hardly had to slow down at the gates before they were opened from the inside.

From his raised vantage point on the road further from the estate, Bobby could see right over the fence. With the binoculars, he could easily see what went on up at the front doors as the two new arrivals got out of their vehicles. A sentry helped the lady out of her car and pointed her to the doors after checking her ID. He then walked to the other car and did the same. An older gentleman with a full head of short cropped, graying hair limped up the few small steps with the assistance of a walking stick. The lady was apparently waiting there for him. He didn't recognize either of these new players. Bobby Hobbes watched through the spyglasses as the two greeted each other warmly.

"Ah, such a sweet reunion…" Hobbes muttered, focusing the glasses elsewhere as the two were allowed inside. He glanced at his watch; it was eight forty two PM. He made a quick note of that and sat back to watch again.

Twenty minutes later, another car showed up. This one approached slowly, having to come to a complete and total stop and talk to an intercom before it was let in. This caught Hobbes curiosity and he again raised the binoculars and followed the car's travels up the circling driveway. It stopped behind the Saturn, and the driver instantly jumped out and opened the back door. A man with brown hair and a gray mustache got out, nodded curtly at his driver and moved forward to meet the estate's sentry.

Hobbes noticed immediately that the two who had come earlier had not had their own driver and bodyguard. His suspicious mind working in overdrive, Hobbes dropped the binoculars and stared thoughtfully at the estate, vowing once again to never let his partner even get in the van without being at least wired for sound.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Back up the stairs from Darien, Methos showed one of his guests, Omri Silva, into another part of the house, where he could make his phone calls privately. Silva thanked him and promised he'd make the call a quick one. Methos smiled courteously as he shut the door behind the mustached Underworld man, but the smile disappeared the second he was out of sight. "I hate flunkies," he sighed. He walked briskly back to the kitchen where the remaining 'buyers' were waiting for him.

"So?" he questioned upon his arrival, shrugging his most 'What do you think about it now?' gesture.

The older gentleman looked at him, surprised. He shook his head slightly. "I don't know what to say. Just how did you find out about this whole project, again?" Joe Dawson asked, leaning heavily on his walking stick. "No offense, but that… A project behind *that*," he nodded his head back toward the door that led to the basement stairs, "Would have to be kept silent. Totally silent. The man can disappear, for Chrissakes!"

Methos shrugged, "I heard some rumors and checked them out. Pierson's past with the Watchers, and my own acquired talents helped me gain a position with The Agency." He waggled his eyes mischievously.

The blonde woman laughed then. "That sounds *so* much more impressive than 'The Department of Fish and Game',"

Joe looked at her, not being able to help himself from being a little surprised at her attitude. Like she came across invisible people at some other point in her long existence? Amanda looked back at him innocently.

"What? *I* think it does, anyway."

"What does that have… no, never mind…" Joe almost laughed as he held up an acquiescing hand. He looked back to Methos, who was suddenly busy digging through an empty refrigerator for a beer. The immortal emerged a moment later, offering Joe a bottle.

"You look like you could use th is," he offered with a wry grin. He looked askance at Amanda, but she shook her head with a similar smile as she glanced at Joe. Joe just nodded as he took the offered drink, a slightly frustrated smile on his face as he realized these two knew him too well. Methos opened his own bottle and took a long, grateful drink. Raising an eyebrow at Joe, he asked him to continue the conversation before he started opening cupboards around the kitchen. Most all of them were just as empty as the fridge.

"The invisibility *could* be a problem if the Hunters ever heard about it," Joe surmised.

"And they most certainly have. I first heard of this project from Josh Mathers about three years ago, during my travels, and he was none too secretive about it…" Methos pointed out, still rifling the top shelves. "Mathers was a somewhat well-known Watcher contact. He of course had no clue about Immortals themselves, just knew a lot of names, but he was a conspiracy fiend and for once, it seems, he had hit one on the mark. If it was enough for me to take notice…"

Joe nodded, "Yeah, then you can probably bet you weren't the only one. And I'm glad you let me in on this. Now that I've seen what this guy can do, I'm inclined to say we're in trouble if this Gland of theirs ever hits the market. The Rogue Watchers would *jump* at a chance like this… think about it; all they'd have to do would be follow an Immortal around long enough to catch them alone, then walk up and finish them off. They wouldn't be seen, and wouldn't give their target a fighting chance. As tenacious as some of them can get, they'd aim to have the planet cleared of you all by the end of a year…" Dawson paused his blunt guessing, opening his bottle now and drinking as his mind continued working on the problems at hand just as he always did.

Methos, meanwhile, had apparently found what he was looking for in one of the bottom cupboards. He muttered a quiet "Ah ha…" and pulled out a small plastic case, setting it on the countertop next to Joe. He opened it, and Joe tipped his head curiously as he watched him pull out a syringe. Amanda looked surprised when she saw the object in her friend's hand.

"Ah hum, and what's this?" she asked, crossing the kitchen to look over Methos' other shoulder. Methos smiled almost evilly.

Taking another drink from the bottle, he replied, "There's a small, cardboard box in the fridge, Amanda. Could you bring that here for me please?" He quickly unfolded a piece of paper that had been wrapped around the syringe and kept in place by a rubber band. Dawson recognized Methos' handwriting, but had no idea what was written on the note. Amanda peeked over his shoulder one last time before finally turning around to retrieve the requested box.

When she handed the white box over, Methos opened it, pulling out a small vial of a clear, blueish liquid.

"This is the Counteragent," Methos informed them at their questioning glances. "If he doesn't get a booster, the Quicksilver builds up in his system getting to dangerously toxic levels." Methos looked to Joe, somewhat triumphantly. "This is what kept the Gland from hitting the market," he said, "Fawkes is dependent upon this, which is how The Agency manages to employ an ex-con and keep him controlled."

Amanda raised an eyebrow at that, but said nothing, looking pleased.

"So, this… Quicksilver? It's like a drug; every time he uses it, he overdoses on it? What happens if he doesn't get the shot, then?" Joe asked, impressed and surprised as he watched Methos prepare the shot using what were apparently dosage amounts from the paper. He hadn't expected a flaw as big as addiction to be in the plans.

"I'm honestly not sure. I've never seen it happen," Methos replied slowly.

As if on cue, a loud sound came from down the stairway. Methos looked from Joe to the door. Then he looked back at Amanda, who was staring wide-eyed at the door to the basement.

"Go get one of the guards," he told her, "Then get Mr. Silva. He should probably see this since he's going to be buying into the problem…"

Amanda nodded, and moved away, slipping out of her heels so she could move that much faster.

Methos turned to Joe and held out the hypodermic.

"Here. Hold this a minute."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Omri Silva heard the loud crash from somewhere in the house. He hurriedly explained and hung up on his boss' assistant. Grabbing an automatic from the shoulder holster beneath his jacket, Silva crept out of the room, cautiously watching all directions as he moved down the hall. The woman - she'd introduced herself as Amanda?- was just running in with he shoes in her hands, followed closely by two of the outside sentries. She noted the gun in his hand and slowed to stay with him.

"What's going on?" Silva questioned her quickly. Amanda nodded toward the kitchen, where the two guards had just disappeared.

"Fawkes went crazy," she replied, throwing in just enough hesitation to sound scared.

"Fawkes?" Silva repeated.

"Yeah. Pierson said it's a side effect of the whole invisibility thing,"

"What! Is it controllable?" After coming all this way, he wasn't going to bid his boss' money on dysfunctional technology.

Amanda nodded and started moving toward the kitchen again, "I'm not sure. I think he wanted us to see it…"

Silva quickly put himself between Amanda and the kitchen as he cleared the distance in a dead run.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Methos had his ear to the door when the two backup guns showed up, weapons drawn. He put a hand out to stop them and checked to be sure that they were only shooting darts. The last thing he needed was to have the seventeen million-dollar man downstairs *killed* on his watch. Amanda and Silva returned within seconds of the others, but Methos decided that he didn't have time to explain anything to their buyer at the moment. He moved back to the door and opened it enough to see down the stairwell.

He was surprised to see a large dent in the door, which was quite impressive given that the door was two sheets of quarter-inch thick metal on a sturdy, *hollow* frame. The two men stood on the steps, fully prepared to shoot at whatever it was that managed to break through. The racket of pounding fists and feet on metal echoed up the corridor, accompanied by some colorful language, and Methos ventured to open the door all the way for the others behind him to hear.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he waved his instructions for them all to follow. It got a bit crowded on the short, cramped staircase as Amanda, Silva, and Joe Dawson followed the tranquilizer-equipped guards through the doorway. Methos looked through the ill yellow light
provided by the unprotected bulb above Joe's head and motioned that the door at the top of the stairs be shut. Then he made his way to the bottom door and waited for Darien to stop his pounding and rest, even if it was only for the smallest second. And Fawkes did indeed pause in his
attack on the door just a moment later.

That's when Methos forced the door open. He felt the weight on the other side as he pushed, knowing he'd caught Darien as well. The two men who had been behind him rushed in, their eyes frantically searching the room until they saw the man on the floor behind the door. As he concentrated on getting back to his feet, they stuck their guns in their belts and attacked. Darien was pinned to a wall before he knew what had hit him in the first place. Methos was slightly impressed. He pointed to the table in the corner and ordered, "Get him over there! Get him down."

With the enraged Fawkes growling and bucking between them, Shorty and his friend grappled their way to the opposite corner of the room. The remaining security moved forward to help, making it even harder for Fawkes to fight, thus making him even angrier. With Methos and Silva assisting, he was eventually tied down to the table and allowed to fight the straps all he wanted. For the first time, the people observing him had a chance to see the physical changes that had been the prelude to the mental one. Fawkes' hooded eyes were darker than ever, the white replaced by a deep, bloody red. Because of the sonic device on his arm, beads of Quicksilver ran all along his skin in tracks before falling away, useless. Every muscle in his body fought vainly, aggressively against the restraints. Methos stepped back, turning to the wide-eyed Joe Dawson and taking back the syringe he'd given him earlier for safe keeping.

Methos waited only long enough for Silva to see the man's reaction, for the consequences to sink into his brain, before he called for some help holding Fawkes still long enough to inject him with the Counteragent. The serum took effect almost immediately and Darien stopped yanking and straining with a quick, surprised gasp. Within a second he was out cold. His face didn't loose the enraged contortions. Even closed, his eyes still wore the shadow of their earlier, haunted look.

But at least now he was quiet. Methos took the opportunity to address the other people in the room. He was surprised by what he saw on his buyer's face, however. Nearly everyone else in the room had traces of sympathy, and even worry on their faces. They seemed to realize that the
man they'd just fought down was not himself at all, more a man possessed. Silva, on the other hand, looked about ready to kill somebody himself. He hadn't expected anything like that when he'd signed on to put more money into this man. The fact that the man had clearly been intent upon getting away was bothering him more than the man's obvious ability to kill or be otherwise violent and havoc wrecking. He was impressed, yes, but he was still pissed.

"What just happened," Methos told them, "Is known as the Quicksilver Madness. It's just a build-up of toxins, not unlike an overdose on narcotics. This Counteragent balances out his system. Once he reaches this stage, the longer he goes without it, the more damage is done." He held up the now empty hypodermic. "So you can't have one without the other."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Amanda folded at twenty million, but Joe kept driving the price a little higher, then a little higher still. Amanda sat back on the couch, realizing that behind Dawson's impenetrable poker face, the man was enjoying the hell out of it. He didn't seem to like Mr. Silva much. He got to thirty-five, and Amanda cleared her throat, just loud enough for Joe to hear. It was one of those 'Let's not push our luck *too* far…' cautions that Amanda knew Methos would have been sending if he hadn't been standing in Silva's plain sight as well as Joe's.

Joe stopped at forty million, leaving Silva stranded with his sixty three million offer.

Methos let it go once, twice… "Sold for sixty three million."

Joe cursed a couple times for effect, glared at Silva and Methos in turn, then sat himself dejectedly down onto the large, overstuffed chair across from Amanda. At her questioning look, he shrugged and winked at her.

"I'll have your cash upon delivery, Mr. Pierson," they heard Silva promise. He wasn't exactly elated about the price he'd just agreed to, and he was sure his boss would not be either, but at least he'd beat the other offers finally. He handed Methos a business card and told him he'd taken the liberty of writing the instructions to the compound on the back. Methos nodded without even glancing at it.

"We can expect you in two days?" Silva asked, turning away from Methos and looking around for the door. It was clear he wanted to leave now. Amanda expected he had more news to give his boss that he was sure would be met with mixed emotions. He was fidgety under his impeccably calm demeanor, she noticed.

Methos nodded again and replied, "A day and a half, Mr. Silva. See you then." He waved Shorty in from the kitchen and the man escorted their departing guest to the door.

As soon as he was out the door, Methos turned to Joe and Amanda.

"Sixty three million," he said, giving a low whistle. "Not bad for a day's work, you think? You know, it's kind of sad really; I could live another 5,000 years and I'll never be worth that much…" he quipped. He found a spot on the opposite end of the couch from Amanda and sat down.

"You're just old, old man. Fawkes has got the combined values of youth and invisibility to offer these Underworld types," Joe laughed.

"And besides," Amanda offered with a innocent grin, "Underneath those Freak show-esque qualities, he can always fall back on his boyish charm and good looks. Now that's something you most certainly wouldn't understand, would you, 'Mr. Pierson'?"

"Oh ho ho, ouch!" Methos replied, carefully lining up his shot and flicking Silva's business card across the cushions at her forehead.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Part Five
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The phone rang and the woman at the desk reached blindly back to the wall to answer it. Never taking her eyes off the slide below the microscope lens, she grumbled a greeting at the receiver.

"Hello Claire," came an accented voice on the other end. The Keeper quickly abandoned her slides and turned around in her office chair, away from the project's distraction.

"Adam! I wasn't expecting to hear from you until the…"

"Well, I'm just calling to tell you how much I appreciated the warning about the Quicksilver Madness."

The Keeper paled visibly. She fumbled with the phone and her own words for a moment before finally asking, "Why? What happened?" Claire fully remembered having told Adam Pierson about the Madness, but she also remembered she didn't tell him *everything* about it. She had left out a few important, eh… details. After all, Darien was still a classified assignment…

"Oh nothing *too* drastic, he just tried to kill myself, and a few others…" Pierson replied easily. His tone changed to a slightly higher pitch, as he added "Nothing too out of the ordinary. He just wasn't himself. We just tied him to a table, and he was no problem at all…"

Claire cringed as her own joking words came back to her ala Mr. Pierson. Okay, so those few details she had left out had made it all an outright lie…

"But he's okay? Nobody was hurt? You gave him the Counteragent?"

"Oh yes, but he'll definitely be feeling the aftermath of his actions when he wakes up."

"Well you weren't supposed to let it get that far out of control Mr. Pierson!" The Keeper argued angrily, "I told you to be watchful of the monitor on his wrist!"

"Yeah, yeah. 'Green is good, red is bad' and all, that lecture. I *did*, for your information, keep an eye on that. But you didn't tell me he turned into a red-eyed monster if I let it go the little while I closed the deal."

"Oh, no… you didn't…" Claire muttered, closing her eyes and kneading her forehead.

"I didn't? I didn't what?" Pierson retorted, "I asked you what happened and you told me that there would be a slight attitude change resulting from the Quicksilver buildup in his system. You didn't prepare me for the real thing."

"The project is classified… I didn't want to give you more information than you needed… And if you had just given him the shots like I had instructed, you wouldn't have needed to be 'prepared'!"

There was a rustle on the other end of the line as Pierson lowered the phone and covered it with a hand. Claire listened closely and heard the sound of sloshing liquid.

"And it doesn't help that you're drinking on the job, Adam…" she admonished, only half kidding.

"Calm down, it's only water," he replied a second later. He was lying, she knew better.

"Anyway, onto the real purpose of this call… Call off your dogs. We're going to be leaving as soon as Fawkes regains his senses. I don't want an Agency tail showing up right behind me and complicating things down there."

Claire nodded silently and made a mental note to tell Bobby Hobbes that his presence had been detected early on. The Official would probably have the honor of delivering that particular piece of news, however badly she would have loved to.

"So you've already made the sale?"

"Yes, about twelve hours ago now."

"And?"

"And he'll be going to Mr. Micheal Santos as planned. As long as you get Fawkes' partner to leave before noon today that is…"

Claire nodded again. Her curiosity got the better of her and she asked, "For how much?"

"A cool Seventeen Million. Cash on delivery."

The Keeper startled. That's how much the Agency had put into Darien to begin with. He couldn't have gotten a little more out of it?

"That's all?"

On his end of the line, Adam Pierson was slightly on the defensive.

"I almost lost the sale because of the Madness. I didn't want to push the issue," he replied.

Claire couldn't help but silently gripe about the low price tag, but she moved on quickly.

"Alright. Well, I need to get back to work here. And I imagine you'll have to deal with Darien sometime soon…"

"Oh yes, that's the other thing I meant to thank you for… the warning about his absolutely charming personality," Pierson interrupted briefly.

Claire shrugged. At least she had *honestly* tried to warn him about that part. She thought she had made that quite clear; Darien was a pain in the ass when he wanted to be. *That* was a matter of public record.

"Alright then. You're welcome. Now promise me that you'll not let him reach the Madness stage again?"

"I can't promise that. It depends on how much of a jackass he is to me on the ride to Santos'…"

"That's not funny, Adam…" Claire frowned into the phone.

"Yes it was. Besides, I'm honestly not sure how long the amount he's still got will last. You didn't leave out a whole lot when I snuck in there."

"It doesn't store well. Besides, we don't want him grabbing a months supply and *somehow* running out on you with it, do we? He'd take it somewhere, have it analyzed and The Agency would never see him again," Claire informed him, turning back to her desk and searching the top of it for a pen and paper.

"No pun intended, of course," Pierson added for her. Claire sighed and rolled her eyes.

"Of course. Look, you can always call me when you run out, but don't shortchange the man unless you absolutely have to. We can't afford to experiment like that that far away from home. Where should I send another batch?"

Pierson gave her the address to a place he planned to be staying when he wasn't required at Santos'. Claire wrote it down quickly and tore the paper off the pad so she could lose it faster.

"That address belongs to a good friend of mine. I trust him with my life, so don't worry about anything sensitive being leaked to the tabloids in a month,"

"Oh, that makes me feel so much better… honor among thieves, Pierson?"

"Exactly."

"Right," The Keeper replied, nowhere near believing the man.

"Good then. I'll keep in touch then, Claire," and Adam Pierson hung up the phone, leaving the dead signal ringing in her ear. Claire placed the phone back in its cradle, not the least bit phased, and stood up from the desk. She folded the paper with the address on it and taped it to the refrigerator, where the serum was kept. Then she promptly left the lab, intent upon telling the Official to yank Hobbes back home before the overzealous agent accidentally botched up the assignment.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

His shoulder was on fire. No, 'on fire' really didn't begin to cover it. The feeling was more like the appendage had detached itself from his body and was currently residing on a pedestal in Hell, sending the resulting pain sensations back up to his ghost limb. Darien groaned as his brain struggled back to reality, forcing him to face the agony of having a fully operational shoulder and arm that just *hurt* like hell.

Darien squinted one eye open cautiously. He was back on the table again, strapped down again, in the same boring basement he'd been in before he was knocked out. The numb feeling at the base of his skull suggested that it was the Counteragent that had done the job this time.
That particular buzz had become all too familiar in his opinion. He'd have to tell Claire about that revelation the next time he saw her. "Oh no… I miss my own damn Keeper," Darien groaned, laying his head back on the table. He tugged wearily at the restraints, discovering a
few more injuries in the process that had, up to that point, not bothered him in the least. He cast his mind back, trying to recall just what he had done to deserve the nasty bruises. The last thing he was able to remember was panicking when he had been left down here on his own without
the much-needed Counteragent. Looking back, panic was the most obvious thing he *shouldn't* have done, as it just sped up the Madness. But he remembered it as being one of the only options available at the time. Right now though, he was really, *really* regretting it. His body wouldn't let him forget the mistake for awhile either.

"How are you feeling?"

Darien startled, unaware that anyone else had been in the room with him. "Whoa, man, you have *got* to work on your timing…" he replied, still disoriented. For the briefest second, he thought that he was talking to his partner. The visitor got closer and Darien chanced opening both eyes to see who he was really speaking with. "Oh, its you."

Mr. Pierson nodded, "Yes, so sorry you've had to wake up to *my* face twice now…"

"What'd I do?" Darien chose to ignore him in favor of curiosity. Pierson pointed back to the open door, which was hanging just a little off-kilter with a shoulder-sized dent in the metal about half way up.

"Ouch…" Darien whispered, suddenly awake and staring wide-eyed at it, "I did that?"
Pierson nodded.

"Wow…" Suddenly his shoulder didn't feel as bad as he expected it should.

"Yes, that was the common consensus- after the fact, anyway," Pierson admitted, "But you're back to normal for now? I'll let you up as long as you aren't going to attack anyone…"

Darien nodded, shifting his attention back to his aching body. He wasn't sure if 'up' was where he wanted to be just yet, but he figured he had to give it a shot at least. Pierson soon had the armbands undone and Darien swatted him away, preferring to do the rest himself. Then he
carefully swung himself off the edge and slipped off the table. He tried stretching his shoulders, but cringed instantly when his right shoulder complained of the added abuse. Angry and pained, he gave up on the idea and slowly turned toward Pierson again.

Mr. Pierson was holding out his jacket for him off the counter. Darien snatched at it with his left hand, glaring daggers at him.

"How long was I out for?"

"Just about fifteen hours. Give or take a few," Pierson replied evenly. Darien looked at him funny. "No shit? That's just unbelievable." Hobbes would kill him if he ever found out he'd managed to sleep that long while in the custody of the enemy. "So what's the deal now? I'm assuming I've missed all the important decisions."

"We're going to Mexico."

"Mexico? What's in Mexico."

Pierson shrugged. "Micheal Santos. He's your new employer. Great guy. You'll love him." He couldn't have been more sarcastic if he'd tried.

"Thanks anyway. I've been to Mexico one too many times in my lifetime. You can forget it. There's the door and I'll show myself out…" Darien replied, nodding toward the broken door as he stepped around Pierson.

Shaking his head in mock sadness, Methos caught Darien's elbow as he walked by, getting an instant reaction. Darien shied back with a growl of pain, unable to turn and fight without causing himself more pain. Reigning in his anger in favor of a release, he stepped back until he was even with Pierson, but the other man didn't loosen the grip on the already bruised, right arm. Pierson's face was suddenly unreadable, going from the almost playful look a moment ago to one that was dead serious. Darien knew what was coming before Pierson even opened his mouth.

"This isn't negotiable, Mr. Fawkes."

Shorty and his taller companion entered the room then, as if to reinforce Pierson's statement, tranquilizer-dart guns at the ready. The angry challenge died out of Darien's expression. He couldn't Quicksilver, and his shoulder alone successfully prevented any other forceful retaliation. The look on Pierson's face made it obvious that he knew it too, there was no way he would have initiated contact like that otherwise. Not unless he had a death wish, anyway. Once again, Darien realized he didn't have any favorable options.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Hobbes wasn't expecting the cell phone in his jacket pocket to ring. Once he figured out that it was really his own phone, not some other phone down the street or somewhere else in the van, the agent answered. He was even more surprised to hear The Official's voice on the other end.

"Get back to the Agency, Hobbes. Nothing's going on there, so stop wasting our time."

"Nothing's going on? Bull shit. You know as well as I do they've got Fawkes in there…" Bobby argued, "They could be tearing the kid's brain apart and you're ordering me back to base instead of sending me some back up?"

"Have you heard any screams of anguish, Hobbes?" the fat man drawled and the agent could just see his oh-so-jolly face in his mind's eye. He quickly shook his head to clear the image before replying.

"No, of course not, but…"

"Then he's fine. Now get your ass back to base before I have to send a team after *you*."
*Click!*

Hobbes stared at the dead phone in his hand and swore. The Official was really, really getting on his nerves now. But he was right. No one had come in or out of that place all night. He'd seen no sign of Darien since he'd seen the body carried inside. Sitting and watching wasn't
doing anyone any good. Hobbes narrowed his eyes at the house over the fence before starting up the van and heading down the hill, back the way he'd come. If The Official didn't give him any insight on this assignment, he was going to go to The Keeper and get it out of her. His
partner had a habit of disappearing, yes, but it had never been this glaringly obvious to everyone but him as to why.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

(Life According to Darien Fawkes)

What would you do if you were told you'd been sold while you slept? What would you do if, on top of that lovely news, you were injured and fully unprepared to defend yourself against those who'd sold you? And what would you do if you were suddenly unable to do something that was as second nature to you as walking away from it all? You'd probably do what any red-blooded mammal would do; you'd fight it tooth and nail, injuries be damned. A fox caught in a hunter's trap can chew off it's own leg to get free; I was certainly willing to put a little pressure on an already purple shoulder to get myself out of the mess.

And let me tell you people, the fight that ensued was *not* pretty. Mr. Pierson will most likely be telling Mr. Santos that the shiners on his face came from trying to control me during one of my more violent crazy sessions, the coward. And you might say even if he does, it wouldn't be
all that big of a lie. But I've got to admit; Pierson throws a pretty mean right cross. My jaw feels like it should be about the same color as my shoulder. And Shorty is definitely going to get what's coming to him. That's the second time he's shot me with those damn darts, the *second*
time I've been carted off to a waiting vehicle, unconscious and against my free will. The man will *die* if he gets too close any time soon.

I'm a coward in my own right, I guess. It would be very easy to just open the door and roll out right now. Traffic is heavy enough that the driver wouldn't even be able to make it to the side of the road for another mile at least. But that's the problem… Traffic. I think I'm in pain now… I don't want to get hit by a car, and I don't want to chance full contact with pavement bailing from a car going 80 mph down the highway. Though that *would* be the perfect ending to this so far, perfect day…

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
End Part Five
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*