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 h