Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Author's Note:

TW for murder committed during a sex act. The act is detailed in the perspective that's relevant to the theme of the story. The extreme act is not in any way idealised/explored as a sexual kink and is treated as the horrific crime it is.

September 2011

The Gymnasium
Whitehall
London

22:06 Hours/Local

Damien had graced the home of the British Military Intelligence for all of twenty-four hours before they had made him sign a contract and sent him off to India. That had been only two months back. To say those weeks had been a rollercoaster of events was an understatement. Damien had no complaints, however, for the storm that had come barging into his spiralling life had picked him up and tossed him straight at his Guide. 

It was also true that he had met the man a little over two years ago. Caught up in a web of manipulation and deceit, Damien had almost killed him, turning what should have been the best time of his life into absolute misery and chaos. He had spent the months that followed paying the price - sick, confused and lost - while his Guide had struggled to hang onto life and crawl back out of the hell Damien had thrown him in. 

With his memories twisted and replaced, Damien hadn’t even known who he was meeting the second time around. When the clarity had finally dawned, Damien had found himself stuck in a nightmare, witnessing life fading out of his Guide for the second time.

It had taken a miracle, the intervention of forces he didn’t quite understand yet born to wield regardless, and they had both pulled through without lasting damage. They had thought that was the end of it, that they’d finally get to bond in peace. 

Boy, how wrong had they been.  

“Should have realised this would be your idea of fun,” Damien grumbled. 

Michael had insisted on taking the stairs instead of the elevator which was in perfectly working order. After the second flight of stairs, Damien had started to wonder if he was being led down to a secret dungeon. The Whitehall was old enough, he wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that it had been a part of the palace. Maybe a mediaeval correctional facility of sorts, hiding all kinds of ancient interrogation techniques centuries old like some gift from the past to its future dwellers.  

His hopes shattered when he realised it was a large, fully-equipped gym. A mediaeval torture chamber would have been a hell of a lot cooler.

“It’s all your fault.”

He turned around to see Michael watching him with an expertly blank expression. The only hint of humour was in his glinting hazel eyes.

“How’d you figure?” Damien demanded indignantly. 

“You got me used to living in a mansion in the woods. With all those long, empty stretches to run and a lake to swim in,” Michael shrugged and turned on his heels to walk past the rows of workout equipment. “Now I’m feeling claustrophobic.”

“First of all, it’s a lakehouse, not a mansion,” Damien held up a finger as he followed, “Second of all, we just got here yesterday. Third of all, I was all for staying. You, Sergeant Stonebridge, dragged us here.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, Sergeant Scott, it’s our job.”

“Which neither of us really need,” Damien pointed out. “We can retire today if you just say the word.”

It was the only good thing that had come out of the years Damien had worked for the CIA. He was perfectly set to live a comfortable life without having to lift a finger to work. His uncle had already started hinting at Damien getting involved in the Council business now that he was bonded.

But Micahel also had a point. Having the resources of Section Twenty at their back would make hunting down their targets a lot easier. 

“Tempting, honestly,” Michael admitted with a quiet sigh, surprising Damien. He had thought Michael wanted to work with the military intelligence for a while longer yet, and Damien was more than prepared to go along. “I might think about it really hard once we finish what we started.”

“Good enough for me,” Damien agreed.

The gym seemed to be spread over the entire length of the building. Roughly half of it was reserved for the equipment, while the other half was kept free for sparring and possibly group training. Michael walked past the area towards the locker rooms. 

Damien realised there was a locker reserved for him right next to Michael’s. The protests he had been mentally preparing died when he saw the military-issue workout clothes and gear already in it. 

“In the meantime, you can help me blow off some steam,” Michael flashed him a crooked smile.

Damien closed the locker door and leaned against it, crowding Michael in against his own. 

“Michael,” he let his grin turn lecherous, “if that’s what you want, I have a fantastic alternative.”

“Later,” Michael laughed and pushed him back so that he could grab his gear, “Besides, I’ve hardly seen you getting a proper workout in for the past two months.”

“The benefits of being a Sentinel,” Damien lied smugly, “I don't need it.”

“You’re just being a lazy arse.” Michael had no trouble calling him on it.

“That too.”

“I can promise you this won’t be like the times you were letting those steroid-addled wanna-bes kick you around for money.” 

In those underground fighting rings back in Kluang, Damien hadn't been fighting to win. All those matches had been fixed, and he had done what his landlord asked in exchange for rent. He would have wiped the floor with each and every one of those locals if he had actually set out to fight back. 

“Oh, I know it won't.” Damien grinned. Michael, with his years of training in the special forces, was an entirely different story.

“It's settled then.”

Damien was thoroughly distracted when Michael took his shirt off. Red and purple bruises that had nothing to do with fighting covered the base of his neck and the toned chest muscles around his Guide mark. Damien suddenly had the urge to add a few more to the canvas of his skin, and maybe suck and lick those fading ones back to life.

“You wanna go fully open?”

Damien's wandering mind latched on to an entirely different meaning. The gym was deserted. Although he hadn't done it quite like that before, he could easily see a number of interesting possibilities. 

I'd have never guessed you have an exhibitionist kink. Damien let the teasing thought skip along their bond to Michael.

“I meant the shields, Jesus.” Micahel tried to hold a glare, but it dissolved quickly behind a snort. “Also, fuck no.”

“Fine, fine,” Damien acquiesced with a wink before turning serious, “I don’t know about sparring with my Sentinel side fully on the surface. I mean, I’ve done it with the other Sentinels during training. You know I’ll have a considerable speed and strength advantage over you.”

The link he shared with Michael grew warm in his mind, making him feel like he was being hugged. For several seconds, it fluttered around him like a trail of teasing kisses, distracting him yet again. 

And I can counter it. Damien didn’t even realise he had closed his eyes. When he opened them, it was to see Michael’s eyes shining with faint traces of silver, his grin wicked.

“Point taken,” Damien said and took a step back. Pitting his physical advantages against Michael’s mental abilities was an intriguing idea, and he wondered if that would make them evenly matched. He accepted the challenge with a smirk. “You’ve convinced me. Game on, sunshine.”

“Get changed.” Michael jerked his head towards Damien's locker, toed off his shoes and started taking off his jeans.

“Oh and Michael,” Damien turned away from the display, determined he was done getting sidetracked. Michael wasn’t even trying, but the man was too damned sexy even when he was stripping so economically. “Stay off the nose.”

“Deal.”

Once he was done changing into a pair of shorts, a wife beater and a pair of sneakers, Damien opened himself to the ancient, somewhat overbearing Psionic Plane smothering the grand old city of London. Instead of the cheerful rush of energies he was used to back home, the energies of London had the countenance of a great grandfather silently judging the generations he sired with his aristocratic nose turned heavenwards. 

The energies flowed into him with restrained, stately grace, and Damien let his senses heighten along with it. The city came alive around him with sharper, clearer definitions and textures, and Damien focused on keeping his awareness locked onto the building they were occupying. The sounds of heartbeats, quiet chatter and different scent trails intertwined with the sensory signatures of workstations, temperature controls, lighting, plumbing and a number of other things generated in a government building to create a sensory blueprint in his mind. Damien used the sounds and scents of outside traffic and the parking lot below to create a boundary for his temporary territory. The sub-level three they were occupying had no other souls lingering in the vicinity. They were alone.

With his shields fully open and his eyes glowing a mesmerising silver, Michael shined brilliantly like a beacon in Damien’s mind. His scent of freshly mown grass and roiling oceans wrapped up in blooming cherry blossoms was a soothing balm to Damien’s very soul. The Sentinel in him swam close to the surface, perfectly happy and content to bask in the glorious presence of their Guide.

The sparring ring was off to the left outside the locker rooms. Michael slithered through the horizontal lines around the ring to get on the raised platform with predatory grace. Damien felt a purr vibrate out of his chest, a rumbling approval from his Sentinel. 

When Damien didn’t make a move to follow, Michael went down on a knee and locked his gaze with Damien’s. When he spoke, his quiet words carried a clear challenge wrapped up in his teasing tone. “You promised me a fight, Sentinel.”

That was all the two sides of him needed to slide into one. Smiling indulgently at the Guide, Damien let his Sentinel take him over from inside and out. The link between him and Michael was a bright ring around his mind, and Damien caressed it lovingly with his thoughts for a moment before willing it to fade to the back.

His Guide demanded an opportunity to test himself. Sentinel Damien would deliver without holding back.

The game was on.

Michael knew him; his training and his preferred fighting styles. When it became clear that Damien was waiting for him to open the session, Michael came at him with a flurry of quick jabs meant to distract rather than attack. All concerns he had about accidentally hurting Michael vanished when Damien realised that Michael was much faster than an average soldier. He didn’t even try to match speed with Damien’s defences. Instead, he correctly guessed when to sidestep and dance away to avoid getting hit.

Even with their bond dampened, Michael seemed to have no trouble predicting Damien’s moves. Damien dropped all pretences of taking it easy. With a roguish laugh, he fell back on his favourite combos of roundhouse and axe kicks to follow up with his swings.  

About six minutes into the sparring session, Damien was pleasantly surprised that he had only caught Michael twice with glancing blows. Despite all the lightning-fast ducking, feinting and retaliating with his own kicks and throws, Michael’s pulse was hardly elevated. The gleam in his silvery eyes said he was enjoying himself immensely.

“You’ve done this before.” Damien felt a laugh rumbling out of his chest when he had to do some quick footwork to avoid a dangerous combo of a back fist reinforced with a quick switch.

Damien answered with an elbow aimed at his side. Michael countered the jab by letting his momentum carry him into it, and then skidding past Damien with a vicious, slicing blow to the back of the neck Damien barely managed to duck under. 

“Told you already,” Michael’s blinding grin greeted him when he turned around, “I trained with Porter. The fucker threw me around for good until I learned ways to counteract his reflexes and strength.”

There was something else there; a quick, faint darkening of his smile before Michael rushed him. It was a minuscule change in his expression Damien never would have caught if he hadn’t been focused on his Guide the way he was with his Sentinel fully in control. 

He let Michael close in and blocked the undercut with a forearm at the same time lashing out with a kick. Michael narrowly avoided it by closing the distance and throwing his shoulder against Damien’s chest in an attempt to push off of him. 

Unwilling to let the chance go to waste, Damien grabbed him before he could slither away, and brought them both down to the floor in a twitching tangle of limbs. He took the brunt of the fall on his back, and promptly rolled to the side and over to pin Michael down with his body. 

Michael let out a huff and went still under him, acknowledging the point to Damien. 

“What is the story with you and Porter?” Damien asked softly, his voice thrumming faintly with the influence of his Sentinel. 

Silver flecks winked in and out of his eyes when Michael blinked, “Nothing much,” he murmured, and then frowned, “At least not from my side. Like I said, I worked with him for years. He was my trainer when I first joined the SBS, and then I was attached to his team for a while. He worked well together.” 

“But?”

Michael stared at him, his mind seemingly distant, “Just something he said when he…” Michael trailed off. Instead of words, a memory sprang up in Damien’s mind, not his own but Michael’s. 

Damien - no, Michael- is bent over the bloodied form of John Porter. He’s been laid down on his side, and secured to the seats with straps wrapped around his shoulders, hips and legs. He doesn’t look good.

Michael inhales, and Damien grimaces along with him at the remembered scent of blood mixed in with the cordite and jet fuel. Porter dissolves into a bout of wet coughs, and Michael tries his best to keep him steady through it. 

“At least I didn't die among a bunch of those fucks,” Porter grins, flashing lips and teeth coated in pink blood, “I’m gonna die next to a friend.”

“Fuck you,” Michael’s curse comes out in a strangled croak. 

Damien is drowning in a bleak sense of grief, anger and frustration right along with the Guide. He feels tendrils of Michael’s consciousness flow along to Porter in a desperate attempt to relieve some of his pain. 

“I would have,” Porter smiles. Damien can understand and relate to how he must feel. Micheal is a beautiful and soothing presence inside and out. “if you gave me the chance. You never did.”

Through the amusement shining in the other Sentinel’s tired, dimming gaze, there’s something wistful staring back at Michael.  

“Would you have?” Damien inquired gently when the memory faded, “given him a chance if he had timed it better?”

It wasn’t that he was jealous. Michael was his and no other history, romantic or otherwise, would have prevented them from ending up together. It was just that the shared memory was full of genuine feelings Michael had for his friend. Damien could feel that Porter’s unfortunate death had taken a toll, and Michael still missed him. There were also lingering traces of guilt despite the acceptance that sometimes things were just out of one’s control. 

Damien was only curious. 

“Before I met you? I don’t know,” Michael shrugged, his expression utterly open and earnest, “I never really considered guys that way until you came along.”

The Sentinel in him preened at that, and Michael’s lips twitched, having obviously felt an echo of it. 

“You didn’t get to train like this after coming online, did you?” Damien murmured. 

It was his turn to wallow in the familiar guilt. Michael had spent the first few months fighting for his life. Once healed, he had kept himself hidden, unwilling to use his abilities to their full extent until he had found out who targeted them. 

“I didn’t,” Michael said, and Damien felt their bond rippling in his mind tenderly, soothing away the sombre turn their conversation had taken, “I wanted to though. It’s kinda fun.”

Damien closed his eyes and returned the affection flowing into him with a warm mental embrace of his own before opening them back again. 

“It is,” he agreed with a smirk, “Don't get cocky now.”

Underneath him, Michael’s eyes flashed, humour and mischief blending in with the energies he was wielding. One moment, Damien was lying on top of his Guide, hovering over him with his bulk pinning the other man to the ground, and the next, Damien was on his side. Michael stood next to him with his hands curled into fists, already on guard. 

Damien stared. Michael could move pretty damned fast when he put his mind to it. 

“Then do something.” Michael goaded. 

Damien rolled to his feet with a quick smooth move and joyfully obliged.

Michael seemed to have used the few minutes they spent talking to recharge. He moved around Damien like a gazelle on crack, looking for an opening to hit. They both went at each other with increasingly unpredictable flurries of punches, jabs, kicks and swings amidst the defensive blocks, shoves, pushes and lightning-quick footwork. It was a spirited dance between the two of them, both moving at speeds and with reflexes way above any average human could ever hope to achieve. 

They went at it for a while, grinning, smirking and laughing amidst the dizzying arrays of attacks they unleashed at each other without mercy. Damien whirled around himself, avoiding a left hook that narrowly missed his temple, and replied with a sweeping kick his Guide had to skip away from like a rabbit. 

Grinning, Damien pressed his attack, chasing Michael with two quick steps and launching himself midair with a roundhouse kick. Michael cursed, ducked and rolled on the floor to the side with a grimace when he wasn’t quite quick enough to avoid the full force of the blow that landed on his thigh. Damien was more than ready for the retaliatory kick, and Michael wasted no time bouncing back to his feet. He even managed to wriggle his way out with a burst of lashing elbows and knees when Damien almost caught him in another restraining hold.  

It took some time, closer to half an hour when Damien’s practically endless reserves of energy won out against the exhaustion that rapidly caught up to Michael. Damien knew the sparring session was over when Michael only managed to block two of his punches and caught the full force of his left hook on the jaw with a pained grunt. 

Damien followed his fall and slid his hand quickly under Michal’s head to prevent it from bouncing off the thinly padded floor. 

“I’m fine,” Michael huffed out a breath when Damien straddled him and placed his palm over the side of his face. Psionic energies flew through to Michael without any prodding from Damien, hurrying to heal. “You pulled the punch.”

Hickies and bruises from kisses were one thing. But Damien wasn’t about to let his Guide suffer through any injuries, however mild, from a sparring. Not when he could easily take care of them. 

“You know what this means.” Damien grinned down at him. 

“Yeah,” Michael said, and wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, “You won.”

Damien knew very well that Michael could have dropped him with a thought and ended the sparring session before it even started. But the goal had been to drain each other physically, and as they had both already known, Michael reached that point a lot earlier than Damien. 

Michael had only wanted to find out for how long he could go on before the inevitable conclusion. Damien was extremely impressed. It had taken a good twenty-five minutes of fighting with his full Sentinel powers to finally get the better of him. 

“I get to claim my prize now,” Damien informed him. 

Michael met his leer with a mock glare, “Oh, do you?”

“Them’s the rules.”

Wrapped up in a rioting tangle of sweat, breath mint, cherry blossoms and thunderstorms, Michael smelled absolutely delicious. He squirmed like an eel when Damien bent down to lick a stripe along the column of his neck. A prominent vein pulsed under Damien's lips with exertion, bubbling laughter and a slowly waking desire. 

Damien committed himself to the task. Kissing and nibbling along the line he just licked, Damien paid special attention to the soft spot just underneath the shell of his Guide’s ear. Michael went pliant under him, surrendering to Damien’s ministrations with a quiet sigh. 

“Damien, come on.” 

The mumbled call after a while was a half protest, half moan, and it sounded like Michael had no idea if he wanted to continue or wrap it up.

“No one’s here,” Damien murmured in his ear.

“Yeah, but still–”

Damien put a stop to his half-hearted protests by catching his lips with his own. Another one of his moans got swallowed between them when Damien started kissing him in earnest. Michael wrapped his arms around Damien and drew him in closer to return the favour with equal enthusiasm.

Damien had to fight the primal urge to tear off the layers covering his Guide and take him then and there. The Sentinel – invigorated and thoroughly pleased by the show of his Guide’s impressive stamina, cleverness and perseverance – was roaring in his mind to stake his proud claim. Michael seemed to have lost all his reservations about making out in public if the little gasps and groans escaping him between their tangled lips, teeth and tongues were any indication. But Damien knew he wouldn’t appreciate taking it any further than what they were doing. 

He didn’t want to part for air, and pause what they were doing to pick it back up later at Michael’s apartment. Not when Michael was an openly needy, breathy, responsive puddle of want underneath him. 

Damien was about to very reluctantly pull back when suddenly something went wrong. 

***

Michael loved the way Damien’s broader, heavier frame pinned him to the floor. He loved the way he was being so thoroughly kissed even more. He was long past caring that they were in the gym, and that anyone could walk in on them while they were busy making out like two horny teenagers. The sparring had gotten his blood hot and rushing through his veins, and Damien’s plan felt like the perfect way to wrap up the session. 

The only warning he received before things took a turn was a sudden shiver in the Psionic energies swirling in his mind. 

He couldn’t figure out what happened. The sudden, unexpected change in his surroundings, thoughts and emotions left him reeling for a long, uncomprehending moment. 

Then his entire perception of reality changed.

Michael’s not lying on the cold, thinly padded floor on his back anymore. Instead, he’s hovering over a woman. Her blond hair cascades over the pillow underneath her head, creating a golden halo curving around her stunningly pretty face. She’s staring up at him, her eyes shining shades of silver.

What the fuck?!

“Harder, Liam, harder!” 

Oh Gods.

It takes a moment for Michael to realise that he’s naked and so is the woman. Sure enough, his cock is hard, and already thrusting deep inside her warm, wet vaginal walls. Her ankles are locked together at the small of his back, and her thighs are straining against his hips to keep him driving in deeper.

Michael’s horrified. He feels sick to his stomach. He doesn’t know where he is and he doesn’t know this woman he’s fucking. Somehow, through a fucked up twist of familial Psionic connections, he’s stuck inside the mind of his twin. 

And he’s now a helpless, perverse spectator to a rather intimate moment Liam is sharing with a rather enthusiastic Guide.

“Feel so fucking good, McKenna.” Michael - no, Liam, growls. His voice carries an inhuman rumble that suggests he’s channelling Psionic energies, and that his Sentinel side is surfing close to the surface.

Michael feels the dark, insidious presence of it slithering around him, completely unaware of Michael’s intrusive presence. Liam’s Sentinel is vastly different from that of Damien’s or any other Sentinels Michael’s ever known. It feels vicious, greedy and starving for something more than all the physical sensations Liam is enjoying while fucking the woman.

“You’re balls deep in me, jackass,” the Guide, McKenna, bares her teeth at Liam and growls back, “Call me, Jane.”

“Jane, you fucking whore,” Liam complies and smacks her on the side of her arse hard enough it leaves his palm stinging. McKenna howls. Michael feels bile rising up to his throat because he feels a current of real fear running through her at the sudden violence. “Tell me I’m much better than my old man.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” McKenna chants, her eyes rolling back in her head. “Right there. “

Her fear fades while she gets lost in the pleasure. Liam is picking up the pace and her vagina spasms around his cock as if it's trying to wring his orgasm out of him. “Scream for me, Jane.”

“Liam!” She wails, and her orgasm courses through her, leaving her entire body shuddering and twitching while her insides tighten around Liam’s cock in a rather delicious manner. 

Michael thinks he’s wailing right along with her. He feels dirty and violated in a way he’s never felt before. Not even when he’s been swimming through the sludge of memories that had been Christopher Desmond’s life.

He knows what he’s feeling is not his own pleasure. It’s a nauseating combination shared by the other Sentinel/Guide duo engaged in the act. Michael’s along for the ride without consent and there’s no way out. He’s trapped and he desperately wants to get the hell out.

The horror he’s feeling rises to a new height when he watches Liam extending his right hand to wrap his long fingers around McKenna’s exposed, vulnerable neck. Reeling from the high of her mind-blowing orgasm, she smiles softly back at him. The look in her half-lidded eyes is affectionate and trusting.   

Only Michael knows what’s going through Liam’s twisted, cruel mind. The Sentinel in him is roaring for something more. Something vile, atrocious and forbidden.

It hungers. 

Michael is right there with him when Liam’s pleasure grows. The sensations crest and then fall, deeper and deeper past confusion and desperation, straight to a bottomless pit of mindless, animalistic need centred around the Sentinel’s hunger. 

Michael is utterly helpless to prevent those fingers wrapped around the Guide’s neck from tightening. 

Someone screams. Michael isn’t quite sure if it’s him or Liam, while McKenna’s eyes go wide and round in utter fear. She realises what is happening to her too late. She gasps and struggles, but Liam is still fucking her in reckless abandon, and she’s not strong enough to push him off of her. She lashes out with her mind, but those silvery strands disintegrate against the abomination residing in Liam with hardly any effect. Her ability to drag in oxygen dwindles rapidly as the force of Liam’s thrusts picks up speed. She holds onto Liam’s wrist with both hands, her nails digging into his skin in desperation fuelled by mortal terror.

Michael is caught in the maelstrom of mindless pleasure, gnawing hunger and soul-shattering horror. The conflicting emotions taste like acid in his throat and he feels as though his own mind is being sliced into pieces by their jagged edges slashing at him from all around.

Liam lets out an inhuman roar when he finally finds the pinnacle of his pleasure. Michael feels his body convulse as his cock pulses, ejaculating spurts of come deep inside the terrorized Guide. 

He floats in the rush, utterly satisfied and momentarily sated, while another wave of anticipation continues to build within him. His fingers keep up the unrelenting pressure like steel bands around McKenna’s slender neck, and her struggles underneath him lose strength as the vital seconds pass. 

Michael knows what to expect. He’s experienced this abhorrent act once before when he’s gone through the backlash of killing Desmond. Unfortunately, no amount of bracing can prevent him from feeling the excruciating agony of McKenna’s rapidly waning soul as it wails under the onslaught.

Michael can’t turn away or shut those dying throes out of his mind. The light in her soul dims and her essence splinters into a million shards when the horrid thing inside Liam starts to consume her. The mutated thing, for it can’t be a Sentinel, roars its triumph sickeningly once it's done absorbing the stolen essence. It feels rejuvenated, alive and glorious. Liam rides the waves of his wretched Sentinel’s pleasure as if he’s going through another orgasm, perfectly content and utterly remorseless.

It takes a while for him to come down from the high to notice McKenna's rapidly cooling body. He pulls his limp cock out of her with a grimace and stares back at her lifeless gaze for a few seconds before sighing loudly. He sits back on his heels and begins to contemplate the most efficient ways of getting rid of the body and cleaning up the crime scene.

Fate takes mercy on Michael’s own battered soul. He feels himself detach from the malignant pit that is his twin’s mind and spirals down a dark tunnel that doesn’t seem to have an end.

He feels so fucking grateful and relieved.

“Michael…” It was Damien. Why did he sound so far away? “Michael!”

He was also worried. Michael could tell by the way his voice was pitched high. Michael didn’t know why his eyes were closed, or why he felt as if his life had been drained out of him to the last drop. He felt strangely disconnected from his body, and everything around him. The only thing that kept him from drifting away was the resonance of Damien’s fear within his own mind.

“Michael, please, come back to me, sunshine.”

Damien was shaking him in a way that made it impossible for Michael to ignore his pleading. Michael was tired, worn out beyond belief, but he had to speak to the clearly concerned Sentinel. He hated it when Damien sounded so upset.

“Urgh.”

Well. Okay, That was decidedly not what he wanted to say. Coughing once to clear his throat, Michael tried again, “Damien.”

“Oh, thank fuck, Michael!”

Damien’s relief was almost a physical thing, weighing him down. Michael blinked to clear his hazy vision. “What happened?” 

“We were kissing,” Damien said, his voice still a little shaky, “Then you went rigid under me. You kind of froze up with your eyes open and I couldn't get you to move or respond to me.”

Michael frowned, trying to remember. Damien was sitting on the floor and Michael was lying on his lap, his forehead resting against the Sentinel’s chest. Damien held him in a warm embrace, his arms wrapped securely around his shoulders. 

Turning his focus inward towards the Psionic energies still simmering inside his mind was a mistake. 

The memory slammed into him without warning, still fresh and nightmarish.

“Oh God.” Micheal croaked, squeezing his eyes shut again. That didn’t help. Blood roared in his ears and his body started trembling uncontrollably through the aftershocks.

“Hey, hey,” Damien tightened his hold instinctively, his voice soft and comforting. “Easy, Michael. I got you.”

Somehow, through the nightmare playing in his mind, Damien’s warm, vital presence found him and pulled Michael back to himself.

“Fuck, it was–” Michael had to stop and swallow thickly against dry heaves that wrecked his insides before trying again, “Shit. Damien, I–uh, I think it was a vision.”

“A vision?”

“A Guide just died,” Michael murmured, begging the sight of those terror-filled eyes and dying gasps to fade away from his memory, “Liam killed her.”

Saying it out loud made him aware of how sore he was all over. His body felt as though it was utterly confused from all the real and phantom sensations still crawling through him. He had a hard time sorting between his own exhaustion from the sparring and the vigorous fucking he had been forced to experience while stuck in his murderous twin’s head.

Damien made a move as if to pull back, possibly wanting to look at him. Michael tightened his grip on Damien’s sweat-soaked wife beater and held on. He didn’t quite want to face the Sentinel just yet, not when a part of him was inanely convinced that there might be remnants of Liam lingering all over him still.   

“You’re going to have to explain that one to me, sunshine,” Damien said softly, and continued to rub his back soothingly. 

“The woman, McKenna, the one who helped Desmond track us–”

“Yeah,” Damien said encouragingly when he trailed off, “You said she’s Guide. You saw her while you were under.”

“They were having sex,” Michael tried again, willing the words past his convulsing throat, “I don’t know how, but I was inside Liam’s head. Damien, the thing inside him is not a Sentinel! It’s twisted – mutated and…fucking hell! That thing was hungry!”

Images of McKenna’s horrified features faded behind the sense memories of the vicious, insidious thing that occupied Liam’s mind. Michael shivered against the pure malevolence of the vile recollection. 

Damien’s other hand settled on the back of his neck, warm, solid and grounding. Michael sighed, willing the chaos in his mind to settle.

“What happened?”

“Liam, he– uh, he strangled her to death,” Michael forced out, gritting his teeth against the bile that rose in his throat, “And that thing in him just ate her soul as she died.”

Damien stilled. Micahel had a feeling that he needed a moment to process that. Even Michael didn’t understand how or what connected him to that horrific moment. He rested his forehead against Damien’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. It lulled him into a state of safety. Michael desperately needed to stay out of his own head for a minute, and find refuge in the solid, comforting presence of his Sentinel.

“Christ,” Damien’s ribcage deflated under him with a long exhale, breaking the silence, “Desmond’s been feeding him life forces of the Sentinels and Guides for decades. You said that was how he kept that bastard alive. The fucker had obviously developed an appetite.”

“It was fucking horrible,” Michael admitted brokenly. 

“I wish you didn’t have to see that.” Damien heaved another sigh, drawing him in even closer, “Do you have any idea how it happened? Whether it was a memory or did you see the whole thing while it was happening in real-time?”

“I don’t know,” Michael murmured, “Maybe what I did to Desmond kind of created a link between me and Liam. And, I think I was seeing the murder as it happened. It wasn't a memory. McKenna died just now.”

“Fuck.”

“Did you get any of it?” Michael asked quietly after a while, “Through the bond?”

“Not as clearly as you did,” Damien said, “I think I saw flashes of it when you checked out. But then you shielded yourself and sort of pulled on mine to go up at the same time. McKenna is a blonde, isn’t she?” At Michael’s nod, Damien continued, “I only caught a flash of her face and then I was cut off. You even blocked off our bond.”

“Good,” Michael sighed, immensely relieved and thankful for his protective Guide instincts.

“You really need to stop doing that, Michael,” Damien snapped abruptly, causing Michael to finally pull away from his warmth and look at him directly. 

“Do what?” He frowned.

“Protect me by throwing yourself in front of threats like that,” Damien ground out, his voice low and accusing, “You didn’t have to absorb that nightmare all to yourself while shielding me! Stop doing that and let me help.”

Damien’s eyes - reverted to their beautiful shade of blue - flashed in the dim light of the gym. It was an anger born out of concern and it was understandable. During the short time they had been together, Michael had, albeit unintentionally, put him through a lot.

“It doesn’t work like that,” he murmured apologetically.

“Oh, yeah? Care to explain that to me?” Damien demanded, unwilling to back down, “Because I’m getting sick of being sidelined and having to watch you suffer through this kind of shit. I thought we’re supposed to be a team.”

It wasn’t an easy task to hold that accusatory gaze, and Michael was pathetically grateful for having reflexively blocked off their bond when he had been pulled into his twin brother’s hell. He didn’t think he was anywhere near ready to absorb his Sentinel’s displeasure and disappointment on top of the evil that was still saturating his mind.

“We are,” he ducked his head and fixed his gaze on his hands that were still desperately clutching onto Damien, “This shit– these backlashes, feedback loops, visions…whatever you want to call them – they are my thing. My responsibility. These mental attacks, fucked-up emotions I experience…there’s power in them that I can use. I can turn them around – weaponise them,” he looked up with effort, searching for words that could convince his Sentinel, make him see what he meant for Micahel, “You’ve seen me do that. But I can’t do it by myself, not for long. I need you to anchor myself. I need you untouched by those things so that once I'm done, I have a place to retreat and recover. We can't both be affected by these – influences. Do you understand?”

“I– fuck,” It was Damien’s turn to look away. He shook his head in frustration, “I do, alright? I hate it, but I think I get it. That doesn’t mean I have to like it, though. It makes me feel useless.”

“You are not useless, Damien, far from it,” Michael said quietly. He needed Damien to understand how he saw him. “You’re my sanctuary. Without you, I don’t have a place to fall back and gather myself. I’d lose my mind very quickly, or turn into a mutated abomination like my brother.”

“Never,” Damien denied fiercely, “Not while I have a say in it.”

“You can take a bullet for me if you want,” Michael smiled tiredly, letting his voice turn a little teasing, “But when it comes to things like this, you have to accept that I’m going to shield you and take the hit.”

“Fair enough,” Damien agreed, his expression softening, “Are you–Michael, are you okay?”

“I will be,” Michael said. It was close enough to the truth, “Just give me a little time.”

Damien stood up first and hauled Michael up gently to his feet by his arm. Michael leaned against him, letting the Sentinel support most of his weight. He still felt incredibly weak and numb from fatigue.

Let me be useful then. The pointed thought came sliding across the darkened bond. Michael looked up to find Damien watching him with concern.

Michael closed his eyes and opened himself to the link he shared with the Sentinel. An unrestrained amount of relief, affection and love flowed through to him in a rush, and Michael welcomed it all with heartfelt gratitude. The lingering traces of repulsive memories disintegrated at the purity and brightness of those unvarnished feelings, clearing his mind, and cleansing his soul. The healing energies that followed along, filled him with light, making Micahel feel a lot more like himself again.

Something that felt a lot like satisfaction curled around his mind, making him feel warm, protected and taken care of. Michael was more than content to let himself get lost in the glorious feeling.  

What do you need, Sunshine? 

He already had everything he needed. Michael smiled. 

Just take us home.  

Chapter Text

September 2011

Section Twenty Headquarters
Whitehall
London

09:00 Hours/Local

“Morning.”

Julia Richmond turned around at the hoarse greeting and saw a half-awake Damien Scott stumbling into the break room. 

“Good morning, Scott.” She returned and stepped aside, clearing the way as he made a beeline to his target; the coffee machine. 

“Why are you all dressed up?” 

Julia really wasn’t. She had merely swapped the field BDUs to a tailored pantsuit, done her hair back in a braid and worn a very subtle layer of makeup. It was the bare minimum required when working out of the headquarters. 

“It’s what you do when the big boss calls for a meeting,” she replied, taking in Scott’s worn pair of jeans, the wrinkled button up and the muddy tactical boots with a pointed glance. He looked like he had been prowling the streets all night. “Rough night?”

He grabbed two mugs, poured coffee into both and started doctoring them generously with sugar. “You could say that.”

“When did you get back?" Julia snorted, shaking her head. "Has it even been 24 hours? You look like you’re on a three-day bender. London nightlife must be treating you well.”

“I wish,” Scott grunted without looking up.

“Whatever it is, you better shake yourself awake,” Julia said, picking up her own mug of tea and the handheld PC to take with her, “Colonel Locke wants us in the main briefing room. Come on.”

“Lead the way, Richmond.”

Colonel Grant and Major Sinclair were both seated at the conference table when they arrived. Julia found a place across from the Major. Scott plopped down on the chair next to her in a graceless heap, somehow managing not to spill any of the steaming liquid all over the polished surface of the table. 

Colonel Locke came in a few seconds later, followed by Stonebridge. His demeanour was identical to Scott’s in every way except for the black suit jacket he wore over his shirt in a half-hearted attempt to appear a bit more professional. Julia ducked her head, suppressing a grin. Scott was proving himself to be a terrible influence over the other Sergeant. 

“Good morning everyone,” Locke greeted and nodded to them to sit back down. 

He took a seat at the head of the table, where a laptop was already set up for his use. Behind him, there was a display screen on standby, which was already connected to the laptop. Stonebridge walked around him to get to the chair next to Scott. He flashed a tired smile when Scott scooted one of his coffee mugs over to him.

“We’ve got a mission,” Grant said while Locke woke up the PC and the screen, “Something a bit different from our usual line of work.”

“You’re going to be working closely with the Sentinel/Guide Councils on this one,” Locke said, and with a click on his keyboard, sent a few bio pages to the screen. “Meet your new assignment: Zebediah Anderson, Christy Bryant, Liam Desmond, Jane McKenna and Project Veritas. At least, these are the targets we currently know about. Expect the list to grow as we go.”

Julia stared at the mugshots on the screen, uncertain if she was imagining things. A surreptitious glance at Sinclair and Grant from the corner of her eye revealed that they were both frowning at the screen, equally confused.

Scott, bent over his mug and inhaling the coffee fumes as if it were his salvation, barely paid attention. Stonebridge didn’t seem overly worried that his doppelganger had found its way to their crosshairs. 

This is going to be interesting. Julia sipped her tea and rapidly skimmed through the available information on the targets.  

“I know you’ve probably got some questions,” Locke muttered dryly, letting his gaze sweep over them, “Before we get into any of these people and their crimes, I think you all need to learn a little about the background. What’s about to be shared with you now will not go further than this room. To that end, your security clearances have been elevated to DV/GCL-1.”

Developed Vetting, Julia thought, her pulse picking up a little at the implication, Gene-Carrier Level One. DV was the highest security clearance available to British military units, which all of them already had. According to Locke, it now included unrestricted access to materials pertaining to the Sentinels and Guides - information that wasn't readily available to the non-gene carrier population. This is serious business.

“This entire story began when this expired CIA Station Chief, Christy Bryant, targeted Michael and Scott back in April 2009,” Locke continued, bringing her rap sheet to the centre and enlarging it over the others. “She didn’t succeed, obviously. We never knew what her agenda was until very recently.”

Skimming over the particulars, Julia realised that Bryant had been Scott’s handler after he had left the army to join the CIA. She had also been married and bonded to their other target, Anderson. 

“The highly redacted report of injury in the field,” Grant muttered thinly, pinning Stonebridge with a look, “You did insinuate that it wasn’t mission-related.”

“It wasn’t, Colonel,” Stonebridge replied, “She got to us after we’d successfully retrieved and secured the asset.”

“Laid you down pretty good,” Sinclair added. “What happened?”

Julia recalled reading that file. The Sergeant had been out of commission for nineteen months after that fateful mission. She was also curious.

“I got shot, and I came online.” 

Trauma-induced onlining. Julia couldn’t quite contain her gasp at that. She’d heard of the times that had happened in the active battlefield. None of those stories were pretty. Stonebridge’s file had indicated his status as a Latent. Julia wondered if he had kept the change of status under wraps for security reasons. 

“That must have been rough,” Sinclair grimaced, mirroring her thoughts in his pinched expression. Then he turned his attention to Scott, “And you? What did she do to you?”

Scott finally looked up and shared a loaded glance with Stonebridge. “I did the shooting.”

“Bryant was an online Guide,” Stonebridge said before any of them could recover from the shock of that quiet admission, “Damien was under her influence at the time. It was another thing we didn’t know until she popped back up in Bosnia last month.”

“She was shadowing our mission?!” Julia demanded, incredulous. 

“Something like that,” Stonebridge flashed her a slight smile, “Anyway, she tried her luck again. Didn’t work well for her. She was neutralised and Damien was fully cleared of her psychical influence.”

“At first, we were under the impression that she was operating alone and that her end target was Sentinel Scott,” Locke picked up the briefing and replaced Bryant’s details with Anderson’s. “This led us to assume that this man - her bonded Sentinel, Zebediah Anderson - would understandably be devastated by her loss. Her death would have negatively affected their bond, causing him to mentally deteriorate and seek retribution.”

Bonded pairs supposedly had deeper connections, even as far as being able to feel each other’s thoughts and emotions. At least, that was what Julia recalled from what she had studied on the subject. She didn’t really know any online gene carriers, bonded or otherwise, personally or professionally. So her understanding of their special abilities was limited to published knowledge.

What the Colonel said made sense. In addition to the Sentinel/Guide clash between the three of them, the fact that two military agencies were involved would have complicated the situation even more. 

“As an Assistant Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, Anderson easily has the reach, ability and the resources to do so.” Sinclair nodded thoughtfully as he read what they had on the man. “Did he make a move already?”

For the next few minutes, Locke succinctly described the second attack Anderson had unleashed targeting Stonebridge while he had been visiting Scott. Julia listened with rapt attention, wishing she had another mug of tea. The entire chain of events took unexpected turns by the minute. The multiple attacks concerning the Sergeant were highly concerning, and she was burning with questions once the Colonel was done.

“So this character was after Stonebridge all along, even though he was perfectly fine to let his Guide try and kill him first,” Sinclair muttered with a frown before she could, “I don’t get it. Why was he obsessing over messing with the mental shields of another Sentinel?” 

“Genetic compatibility is what determines a bond between a Sentinel and a Guide; whether the shields would merge in a true bond, a conservative one or a surface bond. Which is also why we automatically develop familial bonds down the bloodlines,” Stonebridge explained, “That’s where ‘Project Veritas’ comes in. They were a group of researchers who wanted to conduct chemical experiments on online gene carriers to see if they could manipulate our genes, and change the compositions of those bonds.”

“It was highly illegal, unethical and posed a lethal danger to the gene carrier community,” Locke added. “About sixteen years ago, the Councils around the world held a global session and passed a decree to stop those experiments and destroy all the documentation. We only realised these two had been funding the research for years off the books after Anderson kidnapped Michael.”

“Besides, I’m not a Sentinel,” Stonebridge clarified with a quieter tone, “I’m a Guide. Anderson was hoping to replace Bryant with me.”

That declaration caught everyone’s attention. 

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Julia said, frowning in confusion, “I thought all the Guides were female?” 

She was quite certain that was what the statistics spanning over at least a century indicated.

“You’re not wrong.” Michael shrugged.

“So, you’re an anomaly?”

“Not really,” Next to her, Scott grinned, “He’s just extremely rare. Like a unicorn.”

Julia had a hard time suppressing a laugh at his ridiculous remark, no matter how accurate. On his other side, she saw Stonebridge rolling his eyes with a sigh.

“What happened after?” Grant asked, tilting her head at Stonebridge, “Was there a way to reverse the effects of the drug that was administered to you? How will that affect you if or when you find your Sentinel?”

“I’m fine, Colonel,” Stonebridge shrugged, smiling faintly, “One dose wasn’t enough to do any permanent damage, and the minimal changes that did occur were reversed when I bonded to Damien.”

Julia forced herself to breathe calmly while her mind reeled. She had to admit that it made perfect sense in hindsight. Their joint mission back in 2009, Bryant’s attack, Stonebridge’s long convalescence, their rather stilted reunion due to Bryant’s interference, her subsequent demise and finally the revelation about Stonebridge’s visit to the United States with Scott…

It had been in front of her all along. She just hadn’t seen the connections. How could she? She never had all the data. She would never have pegged Damien for anything but a pathological flirt and a philanderer. Those were the same initial impressions Captain Marshall had gathered from the man when she had retrieved him from Kluang. Julia had only ever seen him act in a way that kept confirming those impressions. 

Maybe the way Scott’s inexplicable antagonism towards Stonebridge did a complete one-eighty on the day after they had taken down Latif should have been a clue.

Sinclair cursed under his breath, shaking his head, before facing Stonebridge. “So you two already knew you were a compatible match. But Anderson and Bryant had their own agendas to separate you and what… take you to themselves?”

“Pretty much,” Stonebridge confirmed, “Bonds stabilise online gene carriers. They increase the amount of Psionic energies we could wield at a time and the duration.”

“So they were after ways to increase their abilities?”

“Yes.”

“Why you two specifically?” Grant’s narrow-eyed gaze locked onto them both, “Do your abilities register on a higher scale than theirs?”

“They seemed to believe so.”

Julia considered Stonbridge’s evasive answer. Anderson and Bryant had definitely operated with a lot more conviction, possibly backed up by evidence, than simple belief. Anderson still did. She knew they had levels and scales where they measured the abilities of the online gene carriers. Scott’s record had him classified as a Level Five, and Colonel Locke himself was of the same level, also bonded. It was only logical to assume that Stonebridge registered on the same level since he was bonded to Scott. The records of the two CIA agents placed them both in the same category. 

Yet, for some reason, they had determined that Scott and Stonebridge would act as enhancers. Figuring out what had led them to that conclusion was likely to be a part of the mission. 

“Anderson’s attack on Michael while he was visiting on a territorial invite, abuse and misuse of Branch One Authorities and the fact that he was continuing Project Veritas work, led to the Councils of Midwest, Southeast and London authorising a retribution hunt on him,” Locke said, bringing the briefing back on track.

“Why three Councils?” Grant inquired, reaching over to pick up the unopened water bottle she had in front of her, “Is that the required number?”

“Not necessarily,” said the Colonel, “It depends on the transgressions of the gene carrier. It was the Pakistani Central Council that authorised the retribution hunt on Latif. They renounced him as a terrorist. All the Councils in the world at the time stood in favour of shutting down Project Veritas and everyone involved.”

“Did they kill everyone?” Sinclair asked. 

“Not really, no. Some ended up in prison and some had their memories wiped,” Locke replied. The unconcerned way he said it made Julia wonder if he had personally been involved in rounding up those criminals. “In Anderson’s case, the Midwest Council got involved due to broken protocols and territorial breaches. His actions directly threatened the life of one of their guests. Southeast renounced Anderson as one of theirs and condemned him for his actions–”

“And London got involved because Michael’s mother was pissed,” Scott interrupted with a daring grin at the Colonel.

Julia wanted to elbow the idiot in the ribs. It was a rather interactive briefing, considering the subject matter. But that didn’t mean the Colonel had an infinite amount of patience for Scott’s childish antics. 

She never expected the Colonel to shock them all with his next oh-so-casual remark:

“It was perfectly within my wife’s rights as the head of the London Council,” he said lightly, “Michael’s a member and it allowed the Council to intervene on his behalf.”

Wait. what?

In the stark silence that followed in the wake of his words, Julia’s mind scrambled frantically to connect the dots.

His wife? Did that mean…

She still clearly remembered the service record she had read when Stonebridge had joined Section Twenty. A number of after-action reports on it were hidden under blocks of redactions after 2006 when he had temporarily transitioned to the Intelligence branch. 

In the section where his personal information was listed, she had noticed that he had been adopted, and the names of his parents redacted. She remembered thinking that it was a little strange to hide the names of one’s parents. 

Of fucking course.

The more she thought about it, the more she understood the reasoning behind it. Colonel Locke was a legend in their military intelligence circles and it was a known fact that he had a lot of enemies. Stonebridge’s close connection to him would have been deliberately hidden to keep the Sergeant protected and prevent him from becoming a propaganda tool against the Colonel. It also meant that Stonebridge had risen through the ranks completely due to his own merits rather than his highly decorated and respected father’s influence. 

“That’s exactly how I felt when I found out.” Scott snorted, breaking the thick tension.

“You didn’t know!?” Julia blurted before she could catch herself.

“Have you ever seen this guy flash a smile at anyone let alone opening up about his deep, dark secrets?” Scott laughed, jerking his head at Stonebridge, “Like father, like son, let me tell you.”

“I have to admit, sir,” Grant aimed one of her rare smirks at the Colonel after finishing half of her water bottle, “This is one of the wildest briefings I’ve had the pleasure to sit through with you.”

“Don’t get too comfortable yet,” Locke said wryly. “It gets even better.”

“Perhaps you can tell us about what someone who looks like the good Sergeant’s carbon copy is doing on the screen.” Sinclair nodded at the display that still had Zebadiah Anderson on the front and centre.

Julia leaned forward. She was dying to know too.

“Allow me to introduce you to Liam Desmond, son of Christopher Desmond, and consequently, Michael’s biological twin brother.”

“Christopher Desmond–” Sinclair started, and then stopped himself before clearing his throat, “Sir, that’s…

“Oppenheimer, yes,” Locke sighed wearily, “We all had the dubious pleasure of meeting the bomber face to face while we were attending the inquiry held at the Detroit Tower.”

Oppenheimer. Julia knew all about the infamous bomber, which was admittedly not much. There was a rumour that the Colonel himself had been targeted, but she had no idea if that was true or not. All she knew was that the Irish native was presumably responsible for upwards of sixty bombings around the world. The file they had on him was rather thin, which told them a lot about the man’s terrible genius. 

“Wait,” said Grant, turning to face Locke directly, “There was an intelligence brief about Oppenheimer a few weeks back. An open alert was issued to all Councils about possible bomb threats. Don’t tell me you were in the thick of it too.”

“As a matter of fact, we were, Colonel,” Locke admitted, bringing the details of the father-son duo to the centre of the screen. 

Christopher Desmond was a man in his mid-fifties and had been married to a woman named Helen for all of two years before she died due to unknown circumstances. Apart from his nationality, there wasn’t much information available on him. Liam Desmond had dark brown hair and teal blue eyes, which were the only things that made him slightly different from Stonebridge. Other than that, they both shared the exact same features and physical build. Liam was also listed as an online Sentinel, just as his father. It was speculated with high probability that he was in the business of designing high-yield explosives as well.

“We discovered that Desmond had constructed a bomb that spanned over a mile radius right underneath the Midwest Council building,” Lock said, and with a few keyboard strokes, brought up a blueprint of a bomb design that looked massive and vaguely pentagon-shaped. 

Julia felt a fresh wave of dread slice through her when she read through the specs. It could have easily taken down the entire block of skyscrapers along with the Council building if it hadn’t been disarmed in time.

“It was disarmed in time,” the Colonel continued, “Desmond didn’t make it.”

Good riddance, Julia thought. Oppenheimer’s fatality count was speculated to be in the thousands. 

“So, your biological connection to this man,” Grant inquired Stonebridge directly, “Did it come to light during this altercation?”

“Like all terrible villains, he couldn’t keep his trap shut,” Scott answered instead of the Sergeant, “He was bragging about all kinds of shit right up until he caught a .45 in between his eyes.”

“How did the bomb squad get to the scene on time?” Sinclair wanted to know.

“They didn’t,” Locke said, “Only Desmond knew how to disconnect the bomb from the timer. We only had access to that knowledge via Michael’s familial connection to Desmond. To say we got lucky is an understatement.”

There was a whole lot the Colonel wasn’t saying. Judging by the curious expressions of both Sinclair and Grant, Julia knew she wasn’t the only one who thought so. It was also equally obvious that none of the three gene carriers were going to elaborate more on it. There was a whole lot about Sentinels and Guides that the rest of them didn’t know, a fact that was becoming obvious through this rather astonishing briefing. 

Julia could also understand the need for secrecy. Their inherent abilities placed the gene carriers in a category above the rest of the regular human population, which led to a whole lot of scrutiny, distrust and fear from the majority. Naturally, there had been a lot of terrible transgressions committed against the much smaller gene carrier community at the beginning when their existence had come to light. That was why a whole lot of new laws and regulations were introduced since then to keep both communities safe and protected from each other. 

As the subject matter of the briefing proved, they already had malefactors within the community targeting their own to acquire more power. They certainly didn’t need extra attention and the negative impact it would bring along from the rest.

“Do we know why Desmond targeted the Tower?” Grant directed her question to Locke, “Was it a paid contract? Were there any other Councils targeted as well?”

“Another new, frankly terrible thing came to light,” Locke murmured, “We’re still in the process of educating the rest of the Councils, and through them, the Sentinels and Guides around the world. Desmond did sell his talents to the highest bidder. What we didn’t know until now, is that he had another, a lot more sinister agenda every time he killed people. He was specifically targeting online Sentinels and Guides. He was somehow using those deaths to increase his abilities and that of his son. We honestly don’t even know how, yet.”

Julia saw Stonebridge rub a hand roughly across his face, looking even more worn out than when he walked in. Scott had a distant look in his eyes, his mind elsewhere. Locke wasn’t any better. Whatever it was that they had witnessed Desmond doing, it seemed to have impacted them all rather profoundly, and not in a positive way.

Julia was fairly certain by then that Locke, Scott and Stonebridge were at a higher level of the Sentinel/Guide hierarchy. And, they were rattled . That elevated the threat profiles of their targets to a whole different level of danger in her mind. 

“Once we cleared the threat, we contacted the other Councils,” Locke continued, “within the next two days, eight Councils - one more in the States, our Southern Council, two more in South America, one in Canada, one in Japan, one in central Russia and another in India confirmed that they found evidence of explosive constructs under their headquarters buildings.”

“Jesus,” Sinclair blew out a breath, “Who’s been funding these attacks?”

“Good question,” Locke sighed, “That’s one of the things we need to find out along with the remaining targets.”

“Sounds like there’s an overarching agenda to commit genocide,” Grant murmured.

“Starting with our leadership, yes,” Locke agreed, “Now you understand the reason for this assignment. These people are just the tip of the iceberg. We don’t know how many more are involved. Or what their end game is.”

“Who’s the final target on the list?” 

“Jane McKenna,” Locke answered Grant’s inquiry and brought up her profile to the front. “She’s a Guide, also from Northern Ireland, and a close associate of Christopher Desmond. She was in Bosnia recently with him, shortly after the Hassani brothers were taken into custody. We have it on good authority that they visited Rana Hassani in order to find out information about our involvement in their capture.”

Julia stared at the image of the blonde woman. She seemed remarkably familiar. Julia was certain she had seen the woman from somewhere. Distracted by the backgrounds of the other targets, it had slipped her mind until now.

Opening her PC, she brought up her recent project. Section Twenty wasn’t actively involved in any operation at the moment, but Julia had been following the Hassani trial closely. 

“Anything you want to share with the class, Richmond?”

“Ma’am, I think we have something on her,” Julia said, pulling up all the records she had archived, “I was keeping tabs on the Hassani trial–” she found what she was looking for on the third folder she opened. “Found it.”

“On screen, please.” 

The thirty-second clip of the news feed played where everyone could see it. McKenna was greeted by a plethora of reporters when she stepped out of what looked to be a courthouse. She didn’t answer any of the questions that were thrown at her. Instead, she only stated that her client was innocent and that she was confident she could prove it.

The information on the newsbelt underneath the video identified her as Máiréad O’Keef, the lead attorney of Fatmir Hassani’s legal team.

“Rana Hassani is being held at a maximum-security facility in Faletići: Tvrđava - The Fortress. It’s about sixteen klicks from the capitol, Sarajevo,” Julia pulled up the police records over the clip that had ended playing, “Fatmir is incarcerated in the main Bosnian prison in Zenica. They’re keeping him in the isolation wing.”

“Visiting Rana Hassani while representing his brother is a clear law and ethics violation,” Sinclair pointed out, “I don’t think Bosnian authorities would have allowed that. Rana’s their star witness against Fatmir.”

“There won’t be any records, in any case,” Locke said. “We didn’t necessarily get that information via the usual channels,” his gaze briefly landed on Stonebridge before reverting to the screen, “McKenna is a Guide. She could have used her abilities to take Desmond with her to meet Rana and erase the evidence of their visit on the way out.”

Julia knew she should stop being stunned at the things she kept learning during this particular briefing. But it wasn't easy. Freaking Mind Readers added a whole nother layer to the already complicated mission. She couldn’t help but steal a glance at Stonebridge. 

It was a damned good thing they had one of their own. 

“The trial is set to start in four days, which means McKenna’s in Bosnia,” the Colonel continued, sounding elated. "There’s a good chance she can lead us to Liam Desmond.”

“There’s a good chance she’s dead,” Stonebridge said very quietly. 

Julia was surprised to see that even Locke was taken aback by that. So far, the three of them seemed to be on the same page on everything they shared. That meant the news about McKenna was rather new.  

“Happened somewhere around twenty-three hundred, local,” the Sergeant continued reluctantly when the Colonel stared at him, an eyebrow raised inquiringly. “Last night.”

“How–” Sinclair demanded, and then cut himself off, “Let me guess. Something to do with the bonds you were talking about earlier?”

“Yeah.”

“How reliable are those…what are they anyway? Gut feelings?” the Major pried.

“Those are a bit more detailed than gut feelings,” Scott answered instead of Stonebridge. 

“Does this mean we’re back to square one?”

“Not necessarily. I think we should start there, with Fatmir,” Stonebridge replied, nodding at the screen, “We should find out why McKenna was representing him, and if there’s something connecting the Hassanis to Desmond.”

Grant pinned him with an inquiring stare, “You want to do the same thing she did to Rana.”

“Yes.” 

Julia couldn’t help but feel a chill run down her spine at the way he admitted it with such casual confidence. She had a feeling he could do whatever McKenna had done to Rana a whole lot better and with precision than her. 

“Starting now, this is Section Twenty’s mission,” Locke reiterated, letting his gaze sweep over them once again, “I want all our resources focused on everything we discussed today. Cast the net as wide as possible. Start collecting HUMINT, SIGINT, IMINT, MASINT* and everything in between. I want them and all their associates found. I’d prefer them alive, but I can live with them eliminated.” he paused to turn his focus directly to Scott and Stonebridge, “You’re free to make the call in the field.”

They both nodded, accepting the rules of engagement. It made sense for the two of them to have that authority anyway, she thought, especially since the involvement of a military intelligence unit in the Council business muddied the waters of jurisdiction. 

“Colonel Grant has field command,” Locke continued, “I’ll make a call to Borja, let him know we’d like to have a word with the Hassanis.” 

General Borja Savić was Bosnia’s head of military, and it would make their lives that much easier if the locals cooperated. 

“Get the Crib up and running at the Sarajevo International. Once we’re on Anderson’s trail, you’ll be able to utilise the Councils to set up shop. I’ll liaise between the two from here. That way, you’ll have access to Branch One Units for manpower. Chances are, you all will be on the move for a while, covering a lot of ground.”

“Works for me,” Grant nodded at the Colonel before directing her next question to the rest of them, “Any other questions before we mobilise?”

There were none. Not right then. Julia knew they’d have plenty once they got started, however.

“Alright then. Thank you all for your time. Get to work,” Locke dismissed them with a nod and turned to Stonebridge and Scott. “Stay for a minute.”

Julia followed the Major and the Lieutenant Colonel out. Grant took off towards the direction of her office. Julia knew she had a lot on her plate getting the logistics of the Crib organised. She had a feeling they’d get the marching orders in a matter of hours. 

“Wonder what’s that about,” Sinclair murmured, following Julia to the lift. Both their offices were located three floors below.  

“Probably the bomb Stonebridge dropped about McKenna,” Julia speculated, “He caught the Colonel off guard with that.”

“Strange, isn't it?” the Major frowned thoughtfully as the lift door closed with a ding, “I mean, I’ve heard about all the extraordinary things these guys can do with their abilities. Hell, I’ve seen some of them move at speeds the rest of us can’t even track. But the Guides... they are a secretive lot. Can’t say I’ve ever dealt with one directly before.”

“I get what you mean,” Julia said, “Reading the literature about them is one thing, but sitting through first-hand accounts is an entirely different ball game.”

Sinclair waited for her to step out before following her when they arrived at their floor. “There’s one thing I can tell you right now,” he flashed her an excited grin, “This op is going to be one for the books.”

Julia grinned back. She couldn’t agree more.

Chapter Text

Two Days Later

The Zenica Prison
Zenica
Bosnia and Herzegovina

09:00 Hours/Local

“Your communication devices and weapons please, gentlemen,” Roel Neziri, the liaison General Savić had insisted on escorting them throughout the visit, pointed at the tray. 

Despite how he was dressed in a suit and a tie, along with a briefcase to complete the look of a solicitor, Neziri’s rigid demeanour screamed military.

Michael did as requested, placing his Glock and the phone in the container. Damien followed suit. They didn’t have any other weapons on them. Expecting that they’d be subjected to close scrutiny, neither of them had bothered.

Both of them were then invited to step through a scanner, followed by a wand search. Satisfied that they were both free of prohibited items, the prison guard then led them towards a closed and locked door to the left of the reception. 

Neziri was allowed to keep his briefcase. He was also exempt from any searches. Having him with them cut through a lot of red tape. But it also meant that they were going to have an audience. There really wasn’t much that could be done about it. 

Is he armed? Michael let the thought flow over to Damien. 

He was shielded, with only the barest amount of the wild and untamed Psionic energies of the Balkans pressing against the outermost layer of his shields. Neziri wasn’t exactly calm and relaxed, but he wasn’t overly anxious or on edge either. From the prison guards, Michael felt nothing but boredom and a touch of curiosity about him and Damien. He didn’t detect anything that required deeper digging for the moment. 

Yeah. A revolver, extra mag and a recorder inside the case. Damien was similarly shielded. He didn’t need to channel a whole lot of Psionic energies to heighten his sense of scent either. 

They were both in agreement that they didn’t need to broadcast themselves to any other online gene carriers in the vicinity unless they absolutely had to.

He’s going to stay through the entire interview, isn’t he? Michael sighed. 

Looks like it.

The liaison was a low-level Sentinel. But he wasn’t about to learn a whole lot by shadowing their moves.

“Through here,” the guard said, unlocking the door. He opened it to reveal a narrow, empty corridor bracketed by two similarly bare walls. At about five meters distance, it turned sharply to the right. “Meeting Room 3. Officer Dervishi will let you inside and escort you out once you’re done.”

“The room’s sound-proofed,” said the officer standing outside their destination as she unclipped a pager-sized panic button from her holster. She handed it to Neziri. “If something goes wrong or once you’re done, press it. Or bang on the door. I’ll unlock it.”

The door closed behind them with barely a sound, and Michael didn’t even hear the lock being engaged. The room was roughly 2.5 x 3 meters in size and had another reinforced door identical to the one they stepped through on the opposite side. The steel table at the centre of the room was bolted to the floor, as were the three chairs arranged around it. There was a raised bar on the top of the table, where the prisoner’s handcuffs would be attached for the duration of the visit. 

Michael took the seat to the left, and Damien settled on the one on the right. Neziri stood at parade rest in front of the door behind them.

A surge of pure suffering flooded Michael when he finally opened his shields. Although he had been expecting it, and bracing himself for it, he almost suffocated under the weight of it. One thousand seven hundred incarcerated souls contributed to the tidal wave of anguish, anger and simmering terror, mixed in sickeningly with underlying currents of satisfaction, twisted desires and putrid ripples of anticipation. 

Michael closed his eyes and concentrated on keeping his breathing silent and even. It took all his training to keep himself from drowning and filter the cloying cloud of negative emotions to the back of his mind. The bond he shared with Damien glowed around the boundary of his mind in a protective ring, flaring brilliantly like white fire to reinforce his wish to push back the darkness.  

Michael?

I’m fine. Michael opened his eyes to find Damien watching him with an obsidian gaze. He flashed a reassuring smile at the Sentinel. It’s just… it’s a lot.

I’m right here.

Yes, Michael thought softly, you are. 

Savić’s errand boy is having a stroke. Damien’s amusement was a warm presence in his mind, I think we’re scaring him.

Damien was right. Neziri was torn between utter awe and terror. Michael had a feeling the poor soldier hadn’t been around a lot of higher-level Sentinels or Guides. His scattered thoughts confirmed that he had been ordered to monitor and report. His Sentinel side, however, was screaming at him to submit and protect.

The last thing they needed was for Neziri to act on his baser instincts and attack Hassani in a misguided attempt to protect him and Damien. Michael directed a soft wave of calm at the conflicted Sentinel. The effect was immediate. He heard the man taking in a few deep breaths and shuffling his feet before going still. 

Hassani’s on his way.

Michael sensed his approach the exact moment Damien did. He was being escorted by two guards, who were both radiating annoyance at the extra work. Concentrating on their surface thoughts revealed that they weren't happy about having their tea break interrupted. 

Fatmir Hassani was not a happy man either. Strong currents of irritation and disdain were sewn around him like a thorny hide, almost overpowering the hidden, weaker strands of curiosity and dark slashes of fear.  

He only knew that he wasn’t being taken to see his lawyers. That had him on edge.

Life in prison hadn’t been kind to the older Hassani brother. That much was obvious when he was brought in. His eyes, red-rimmed and dark-circled, looked sunken in their sockets. The overgrown hair and beard hid the sallow shade of his skin, and how it had stretched along his facial bones. There was a new, vertical scar that sliced his right cheek, a recent injury that hadn’t fully healed yet. The grey prison overalls hung on his gaunt frame, accentuating his weight loss. 

The guards forced him to the single chair across from Michael and Damien, secured his cuffed wrists to the bar on the table and left without a word. 

A scent-wave of sweat, mothballs and bad breath hit Michael in the face when Hassani fidgeted in the chair, snarling at the restraints. In his periphery, Michael felt Damien hurriedly dialling down his sense of smell with a grimace.

Hassani’s gaze lingered on Damien’s face for a few seconds, possibly having noticed the familiar darkness swirling in his eyes. Throttling the amount of Psionic energies he was channelling, Michael drew his own consciousness tightly around Hassani’s mind. That would keep the silver sheen in his eyes reduced to a minimum.

They needed Hassani focused on his own troubles, not distracted by the strange phenomena staring back at him through their gazes. 

“I should have known I haven’t seen the last of you.” He grumbled with his heavily accented English, finally breaking the silence.

“Nice to see you too, knucklehead,” Damien returned the greeting.  

Hassani leaned back on the chair as far as the chain of his cuffs allowed, and regarded Damien with an insincere smile playing on his lips, “I refused visitors without my lawyers present,” his gaze slid over to Michael and then the soldier standing behind them. “I was told no. A flagrant violation of my civil rights. But then again, laws don’t apply to the likes of you, do they?” 

“It’s not like you’re an innocent, little flower, is it? Drugs, extortion, racketeering, human trafficking, sex slavery and human organ harvesting–” Damien glanced sideways at Michael, “Did I miss anything?”

“Terrorism, war crimes…” Michael shrugged. International bombings and funding bio-weapons were also included in Hassani’s list of crimes. 

“You do the crime, you do the time,” Damien said lightly, “No other way around it.”

“Everything was fine until you two kopilad turned up in my forest,” Hassani snarled. 

The memories from the fateful day flooded his mind. Hassani had been at the warehouse where he kept the women when the Bosnian special forces had surrounded the facility. Snapshots of those terror-filled hours flashed past rapidly, treating Michael to a hazy reel of gunfire, fighting, running and panicked screaming. Then, the clear memory of Hassani being tackled to the ground by three soldiers in full assault gear solidified, wrapped up in a miasma of pure shock, disbelief, and horror that quickly morphed into boiling fury. 

What kind of fucking witchery did you perform on my brother? 

Hassani’s hateful glare turned to him. Michael didn’t need to understand his native language to feel the meaning behind the accusation that burned within.

“That’s what happens when you play best buddies with scumbags like Latif,” Damien said, drawing Hassani’s attention back to him, “We were hunting him. You were just collateral.”

That dismissive remark struck a nerve. Michael witnessed a new surge of red-hot fury flashing through him like lightning.  

“I have nothing to say to you,” Hassani ground out and craned his neck back at the door behind him, “Guards… Guards!”

It seemed that his escorts had neglected to mention that the room was soundproofed. 

“Not just yet,” Damien said once he stopped his frustrated yelling, “We’re not done. Besides, what’s the rush? It’s not like you have any other appointments you can’t miss.”

“It’s the personal grooming day.” Hassani bared his yellowed and broken teeth.

“Trust me,” Damien snorted, “A haircut and a shave won’t bring back the good looks your mama never gave you.”

“Jebi Se.” Apparently, a heartfelt ‘fuck you’ carried the same inflection in any language. 

“Your lawyer,” Michael said, deciding to probe a little, “Máiréad O’Keefe, is it?”

The image of the woman with familiar blond hair, bright green eyes and a sinister smile surged to the surface of Hassani’s mind. The former cartel boss wasn’t the least bit attracted to her. Instead, his perception of her was wrapped up in a grim layer of suspicion and fear.

Interesting.

“What about her?” He asked wearily. 

“Do you know her well?” He pressed, “I understand that she’s not from here.”

Hassani swallowed and then grimaced. He was irritated at himself for betraying a reaction.

“She’s one of the best.” He shrugged, averting his gaze to glare at Neziri over their shoulders. 

He hates her. But someone pressured him to keep his mouth shut and accept her services. Michael shared what he was getting from Hassani with Damien, Whoever that is, Fatmir is deathly scared of them.

Let’s rattle his cage a little then.  

“Is she? Really?” Damien regarded him with visible pity, “You don’t sound so sure.”

“Of course, I am.” Hassani asserted indignantly, “O’Keefe’s got a great team working for her. She’s not going to back down from fighting for me, even though this sham of a trial is rigged against me from the start.” He ended his almost-practised ramble with another heated glare at Neziri.

“You wanna know what I think?” Damien tilted his head, and considered Hassani with a sneer, “I think she doesn’t give a shit about what happens to you. I think she’s only here to look after someone else’s interests. Again, you’re just in the way.”

His ego was his weakness. Hassani truly despised being pushed into a corner as someone unimportant, only a tool serving someone else’s purpose. 

“Don’t know what the fuck you’re on about.”

“Probably an investor,” Damien went on, “Now they are not very happy. After all, you got caught. They can't afford to have you drag them through the mud, can they? What the Bosnian Special Forces discovered is just the beginning, isn’t it? There has to be more…shadow dealings hidden under all the other crimes.”

The colour drained from Hassani’s face as he listened to Damien, his mind scrambling to string together a denial. A dark memory latched onto the forefront of his mind, and refused to let go:

It’s one of Hassani’s facilities in the wilderness, located somewhere west of Košćan. 

Fatmir is perched on a barstool. He’s hunched over the counter, staring at the amber liquid in his glass. His reflection on the polished, wooden surface looks decades younger than what he is now. 

Fatmir is contemplating the pros and cons of making a deal with the Devil.

“I’ll have whatever he’s having.” 

The Devil speaks with a Scottish accent. The man who bends over the bar counter to Fatmir’s right looks only a few years older than him, with a tan that suggests that he’s been spending a lot of time in the Mediterranean. An uncomfortable mixture of admiration, amusement and condescension shines in his liquid black gaze that rakes over Fatmir. 

‘He has those same damned eyes,’ the older Hassani brother thinks, ‘At least, he hasn’t lied about that.’

Fatmir nods at the bartender and watches him pour a generous amount of bourbon into a glass half filled with ice.

“I must say, young man, I’m impressed,” the Scot says patronisingly. Fatmir tamps down a surge of anger by taking a carefully controlled sip of his drink. “You’ve done some great work improving the mess you inherited from your old man. Violence has its uses, but it also has its place. You seem to understand the difference well enough. I think I’ll enjoy working with you a hell of a lot more than that dead old cunt.” 

Fatmir has studied the books from top to bottom and left to right. He hasn’t discovered a way to wriggle out of the thumb of The Broker. That man has invested too much. He knows too much. Unfortunately, along with his father’s fortune, Fatmir has inherited his mistakes too.  

It’s the only warning his father had given him on his deathbed: Never, ever defy the will of The Broker.

Or his agents.

“What do you want?” He sighs and swallows the rest of the drink in one long swallow. The burn is soothing, but it does nothing to calm the storm within.

“Well,” the Scot flashes a grin, and tastes the drink daintily, “For now, the same thing the Hassani senior’s been supplying me for the past decade or so will do. Keep proving yourself and maybe I’ll find something new.”

People like this man himself. Hassani’s own brother. The freaks. That’s what he wants. A simple blood test is enough to find out if they have a specific genetic mutation or not. The Scot requires a certain number of them, men and women, every year. 

Then, something clicks. Fatmir turns around to face him, frowning. “Decades?” he demands. “You’ve been running this business since you were ten?”

He was under the impression that the Scot was an agent. Not the Broker himself. Anger is taking a rapid turn towards dread. 

The Scot laughs, “There are some things you don’t need to know, young man.”

Fatmir disagrees. Especially since his brother seems to be sharing an affliction with his man. It makes him frustrated all over again that he’s not brave enough to pry. Instincts are warning him to tread lightly. This is not a man he wants to face when he’s not in control of his…other self.  

“So tell me,” the Scot asks once his mirth has faded, “where is your brother?”

“He’s at the cabin.” Locked away from the rest. 

“How’s he been?”

“The same.” Mad. Out of his mind. Feral…scared. It’s been a little over two years. Rana’s been deteriorating at an alarming rate. He’s barely coherent. Barely human.

“Pity.”

“Can you help?”

“Right now, he’s lost,” the Scot says somberly, “He’s beholden to the forces beyond our control already. What I can do is give him a purpose.”

“What sort of purpose?” Fatmir isn't certain he wants to know. 

“I can bind him to your will,” says the Scot, “He’ll follow your lead. You’re intelligent enough to figure out uses for his unique abilities.”

“You call that help?” Fatmir sneers.

“It’s better than putting him down like a rabid animal, don’t you think?” The Scot knocks back the rest of his drink.

The imagery faded as Michael watched. The traces of distrust and instinctive fear Fatmir still felt towards the unknown Sentinel lingered on the surface. Michael had to agree. There had been something strange, and abnormal about that man. He had a distinct suspicion that the Scot, The Broker, might also be dabbling in the same twisted practices as Desmond and his son. For at least as long.

The memory also suggested that Rana’s unnatural dependability on his brother for his sanity had been the work of the unknown Sentinel. Somehow, he had found a way to bind Rana to Fatmir’s will, turning him into a mindless yet deadly weapon in Fatmir’s arsenal.

A means of protection for his investment, of sorts. 

Got anything? Damien’s presence was a much-welcome distraction after having to witness that bleak recollection. 

Oh, yeah.

Are we done?

Not yet. 

Up until then, Michael had been observing Fatmir's emotions, thoughts and memories while keeping his presence shielded. There was a lot more important information hidden in the deeper recess of Fatmir's mind, and Micheal decided it was time to actively seek what they needed.

The Devil, he let his consciousness flow around Fatmir’s mind, What is his name?

The Hassani brother’s reaction was about as expected. His eyes went wide. His mouth opened and froze in a scream that never passed through his suddenly, unexpectedly tightened throat. Under Michael’s watchful presence, his mind quailed and quivered in terror.

He’s right. You’re not a fool, Michael continued, radiating ripples of calm reassurances towards the mind on the verge of collapse. He didn’t want to shatter Fatmir’s sanity, but he did need what was buried under all that emotional clutter. You did your best to find out everything you could about your enemy, although you were working for him all this time. 

The Broker had been a silent partner and one of Hassani’s major investors. Hassani had followed instructions despite his reservations, carefully and meticulously keeping all his dealings with the man separate from the rest. As the memories flashed past Fatmir’s mind, Michael learned that he maintained an account at the Unicredit bank under an assumed name. The ledger was kept in a safety deposit box. The Bosnian law authorities had no records of it because it was all in Fatmir’s head.

There was something wrong with the memory, however. It felt distorted, fractured as if it had been roughly pulled out and shoved back inside in a hurry. Traces of a perverse, repulsive signature still clung to it, reminding Michael of the grimy smudges Bryant’s meddling left behind in Damien and his family. 

“I’m Máiréad O’Keefe,” McKenna smiles at Fatmir from the other side of his jail cell. “I’m your lawyer.”

Fatmir frowns. Her accent puts him instantly on guard. “No you’re not.” he says, “It’s Afrim.” He looks past her over her shoulder, hoping the man would show up. He’s already made the call. 

“Mr. Afrim Bashir works for me now.” McKenna shrugs.

“Listen, lady–”

“Fatmir,’ she cuts him off. Her smile turns a little sharper. “The Broker sent me.”

James Leatherby, Fatmir thinks, but doesn’t say it out loud. 

Found something, Michael let Damien know as he slowly withdrew from Fatmir’s mind.  

He also wiped out the traces of his presence, along with the memory. Fatmir was hardly in a position to maintain his sanity, his connection to reality if he were to remember the strange light that had gone digging through his mind and memories. 

Fatmir blinked and shook his head before turning his glare at Michael.

“It was you,” he growled, leaning forward, “You did something to my brother. He was going to kill you. He should have killed you.”

“Your brother was a Sentinel on the verge of going feral.”

“He was a mindless freak.” Fatmir snapped, “I kept him under control. I kept him from lashing out. ”

“He only needed a little training and he would have been fine,” Michael said, thinking back to the wildness of the Balkans that had insisted on helping. Of Rana’s immense gratitude at finally being able to hear his own damned thoughts.

“What did you do?” Fatmir demanded.

“I cut him off from the energies he didn’t know how to let go,” Michael said, figuring Fatmir had a right to know. Rana was his brother after all. He had made a glaringly wrong call by accepting the other Sentinel’s help. But the concern he had felt for Rana all those years ago had been genuine. “No Sentinel or Guide is ever meant to hang onto the Psionic energies for longer periods of time. It’s like permanently being caught in a storm. It drove him mad. I merely freed him from his prison.” 

Fatmir shook his head. Feelings of relief and betrayal warred within him.

Disappointment won out. “And like an ungrateful dog, the first thing he did was turn around and bite the hand that kept him fed.”

Michael let go of the Psionic energies he had been wielding, letting the layers around his mind shore up again. He turned around and gave Neziri a nod. They were done.

The door that Fatmir was brought in opened first, admitting the same two guards. It seemed that the protocol required the prisoner to be taken away before they were allowed to leave. The door behind them opened once the other closed behind Fatmir’s departing back.

Dervishi escorted them all the way out to the reception where Neziri waited until they retrieved their guns and phones. They parted ways at that point. The liaison hurried off in his car towards the direction of the capitol. 

Michael climbed onto the driving seat of their rental SUV at the parking lot while Damien got in on the passenger side. Their next stop would depend on the update from the Crib.

“Richmond, you’re on speaker,” Damien said, placing his phone on the dashboard holder, “tell me you got something for us.”

“Found the condo O’Keefe’s renting,” she said over the sound of rapid typing, “It’s forty-one klicks from where you are if you stick to A1 all the way. Forwarding you the coordinates now.”

A ping announced the arrival of a message. Damien fed the address to the SUV’s navigation system. They’d make the drive in about half an hour if the traffic conditions stayed the same.

“Got it. Thanks.”

“Your turn.”

“James Leatherby,” Michael said, taking the cue. “Calls himself The Broker. He’s one of the main investors of Hassani’s operation. Apparently, he’s been funding it going back as far as thirty years. He’s the one who arranged O'Keefe to represent Fatmir.”

“Trying to save what he can of his investment, is he?”

To her credit, she didn’t ask how he knew. Michael had the impression that the non gene carriers of the Crib were still getting used to this rather unorthodox method of getting intel. Michael had to admit, it was a new way of operating for him too. 

“More like trying to keep his name from coming out,” Michael replied, starting the vehicle and putting it in gear. The highway was about five klicks from the Zenica prison. The gravel road turned out mostly empty in the early hours. “Hassani was careful enough to leave that guy’s business out of his daily operations. There’s a bank you need to check out for us, UniCredit, and an account under the name of Ali Hadžić. Hassani’s got a ledger in the safety deposit box.”

“Could be what this Leatherby sent O’Keefe after.” Sinclair’s voice joined in.

“Yes,” Michael agreed, thinking back to the disrupted memory, “And she may have already taken it. We’ll need to double-check to make sure.”

“Got it.” Richmond acknowledged. 

“Alright. We’ll get back to you once we’re done at her place.” Damien let them know before disconnecting the call, and turned to Michael, “You think that fucker was after the same thing?  and decided to suck her life out once he got his hands on it?”

“I don’t know,” Michael said, thinking back to his strange, rather unexpected detour to Liam’s mind that night, “It wasn’t planned, you know, the, uh– the way he killed her. He just gave himself up to the urge. Like it was the most natural thing… like he’s done it before.”

‘You mean, like that,” Damien grimaced, “not the way his murderous Daddy did it.”

“Yeah,” Michael shuddered, willing the sludge of dark emotions that surged along with the memory to die down. “I’m sure he’d have realised the importance of it if he’d seen the ledger. I got the impression that this Broker’s been around for a while. Even Fatmir could feel something wasn’t right with the guy.”

The Scot had radiated the same repulsive energy the Desmonds had. 

“Is he a Sentinel?” Damien frowned.

“Yeah. Rana was already halfway down the hill when Fatmir accepted Lethearby’s intervention on his behalf,” he explained, sharing the memory with Damien through the bond, “He did something to slave whatever was left of Rana’s mind to Fatmir.”

“Huh. Sounds almost like he laid down the law,” Damien grunted, the look in his eyes distant as he observed the incident through Fatmir’s eyes. A different memory, one of his own, replaced Fatmir’s memory the next moment. He was thinking about the time he had made his family submit to his wishes of checking their minds for evidence of tampering. It was the same memory Michael had witnessed through Damien’s father. Do you think that guy did something similar?

“Not even close,” Michael said resolutely. “Your control over the other Sentinels stems from within naturally. You’re a Prime. You inherited the ability down the bloodlines and genetics. I don't think any Sentinel worth their salt would have left Rana to suffer the way Lethearby did. Not when he could have easily trained the man to get himself under control. He had time.”

Damien flashed him a smile, and Michael felt a ripple of affection through the bond, “Maybe one piece of trash will lead to the other,” he grunted, putting on a pair of shades before fixing his gaze on the road, “That’ll make our job easier.”

Chapter Text

Kalotići
Visoco
Bosnia & Herzegovina

10:02 Hours/Local

Máiréad O’Keefe, or Jane McKenna, as they knew her through the Desmonds, had rented a cosy, one-story cottage that stood in the middle of a tiny, well-maintained yard. The place was located at the edge of a quiet neighbourhood in Kalotići. 

At first glance, nothing seemed out of place. The front door was closed, and the curtains were drawn over the windows visible from the street. A black Volkswagon Golf was parked in the driveway, which was the only sign to suggest that someone might be home.

“Doesn’t look like we have much of an audience,” Michael murmured, taking in their surroundings with a sweeping glance once they were both out of the SUV. Damien agreed. The few houses around McKenna’s place looked similarly empty, their occupants presumably left for work. “I’d say we’d have about half an hour until someone gets curious.”

“More than enough time.” 

Damien let a few layers of his mental shields fall open as they approached the house. Although they were pretty certain that her rotting corpse wasn’t going to be waiting for them out in the open, he figured it was best to use caution. Michael's presence flared in his mind as he did the same.

The lock to her front door wasn’t complicated. Damien managed to pick it in about fifteen seconds while Michael stood behind him, discreetly blocking the view from the street. He had a complete sensory blueprint of the interior by the time he slowly pushed the door open.

The house only had two bedrooms, a kitchen, a living room, one bathroom and a storage shed at the back of the yard. The temperature controls were set to 20°, keeping the house mildly-humid, dust-free and ventilated. Apart from the low hum of the AC, a refrigerator, and a minor leak in one of the taps in the kitchen, the deserted place produced no other sounds.

The scents were another matter. 

Hidden under the pleasant veil of lavender-scented air freshener, traces of nastier smells still lingered, bearing silent witness to the tragedy they already expected. Michael’s grim expression told him that the psychical imprint must be just as revolting as the sensory one. 

“I’ll take the left,” Damien said, nodding in the direction of the closest hallway, “you take the right.” 

Michael had already suffered through the gory incident in his mind. Damien decided there was no need for him to witness the aftermath of it in real life as well. Michael took the hint, pulled out a pair of thin gloves from an inside pocket of his jacket, and wandered off towards the guest bedroom without any argument. 

The master bedroom was at the end of the short, dark hallway, and the scene that greeted Damien was just as expected when he nudged the door open with the toe of his boot. 

The overpowering stench of bodily fluids hung thick in the air, saturated with the personal scents of both McKenna and Desmond. He stood there at the threshold, his breathing slow and even, letting the tangled scent strands unravel themselves.

The first signature contained malted barley, peaches and hints of citrus, buried under the layers of thistle, oleander and almond, adding a touch of poison to the soft, feminine tones. The unmistakable traces of decay wrapped around each and every one of those unique strands confirmed that the scent had belonged to McKenna.

The smells that made up Desmond’s personal scent were a lot sharper, pungent and carried definitive masculine tones. It was a mixture of burnt syrup, acrid tones of sulfur mixed with smoke, slathered with amber and candle wax. There were also the unique and familiar tones of pine and petrichor, the scent signatures both Michael and Liam seemed to have inherited from their progenitor.

Underlying the decaying smells of sex, sweat and saliva, there was another thick, cloying reek that reminded Damien of mildew and graveyards. It was a unique odour he had only ever detected around violent deaths.  

The rumpled sheets and stained pillows told the final hours of McKenna’s story. The haphazard pile on the floor only contained her clothes, underwear and shoes. Desmond seemed to have cleared all evidence of his presence along with the dead body, leaving behind only his scent.

Damien stepped inside and started his search from the first item of furniture clockwise, which was a dresser. Apart from McKenna’s personal care products, a few items of jewellery, make-up and perfumes, there was nothing of importance. He moved to the closet next, which was filled with clothes, accessories, handbags, and footwear. The safety box, which was installed on the middle shelf, was open and empty. Lingering scent trails suggested that she may have kept a few passports, a gun, a few magazines and some money in there. 

Her briefcase was resting on the small table next to the closet, equally emptied out. Desmond had taken all her legal files, laptop, phone, and possibly even the ledger from Fatmir. 

The drawers of the bedside table had nothing in them, and neither did the trashcan next to it. Not even crumpled receipts, takeout menus, or candy wrappers. 

Nothing. 

Either Desmond had a good handle on how to get rid of forensic evidence, or McKenna had been an obsessive compulsive clean freak.

Anything?

Michael’s soft inquiry found him when he was almost done checking out the bathroom, which was on the opposite side of the hallway from the bedroom. 

Not a damned thing. Damien didn’t bother hiding his grumble, The bastard even emptied the bins. And the medicine cabinet.

Same on this side, Michael’s sigh rippled through the bond, The guest bedroom's hardly used. Two charging cables plugged on the wall next to the TV. But no phones. Nothing in the kitchen either. 

“Desmond went that way,” Damien said, nodding at the tool shed he could see through the kitchen window. Now that he had their personal scents, he could easily track the entwined strands through the myriad of other scents saturating the rest of the house. “He took McKenna with him.”

Michael kept up with him silently while Damien followed the scent trail to the shed. From there, new scents of hard plastic, twine and stale trash added into the mix, creating a rather grim picture.

“What do you have?”

“I’m pretty he wrapped her up in a garbage bag, dumped her in the trash can, and rolled her out from here,” Damien answered quietly, unlatching the small gate at the corner of the backyard’s fence.

“It was pretty late - after midnight, Bosnian time,” Michael said quietly, his gaze fixed on the empty alleyway and the few houses in the distance, “He could have either done it then or the morning after without raising much suspicion.”

“He was on foot,” Damien said, walking down the narrow, empty road where the scent trail still hung around like a tow line, “Couldn’t have gone far.”

Damien was quite certain where the murderer had gone to dispose of the body a couple of hundred yards later. He stopped when he saw the small pathway leading to the local funeral parlour which was conveniently next to the line of dumpsters. 

He saw Michael frowning at him when Damien turned his attention towards the funeral parlour instead of the dumpsters.

“He didn’t dump her in there?”

Damien let his heightened sight scan through the list of advertised services ‘Halilović & Sons' provided. Among the list of funeral services which included, embalming, viewing, visitation, graveside and memorial services, the wide range of choices available with regard to cremation caught his attention: 

“I think he wanted to enjoy the sight of her one last time in his other favourite way,” he said quietly, “by watching her go up in flames.”

The Crib
Sarajevo International Airport
Bosnia & Herzegovina

11:25 Hours/Local

“How sure are you?’ Richmond made a face when Damien told them about the fate of McKenna’s body.

“Well, they had two scheduled cremations,” Michael said, settling on the edge of her workstation while Damien straddled the chair next to her, “Kovač, the assistant, made a log that he did the job, locked up and left. Halilović senior said he never showed up to work for the last two days.” 

“You think Liam got rid of him too?” 

“Most probably,” Damien shrugged, “he was there. The place reeked of his stench.”

“It’s fascinating,” Sinclair said, tilting his head at Damien, “the way you can track personal scents. Almost like–”

“You better not say police dogs,” Damien cut in with a grin a little too sharp, prompting Sinclair to throw his hand up in surrender, “but yeah, I guess.”

“Are we sure McKenna got to the ledger?” Grant intervened, keeping the informal briefing on track, “The footage from a traffic surveillance camera nearby had her entering the UniCredit five days back. She was there for a little over an hour.”

“She did,” Michael said, and shared with them how their brief stop at the bank turned out, “She had documentation on Fatmir’s alias and the code, granting her access to his safety deposit box on his behalf.”

“Did you have a look at the box by any chance?”

“Yeah,” Michael nodded. Nudging the bank manager to cooperate hadn’t been that difficult. “She emptied it out.”

“So we have Liam Desmond in the wind, possibly with blackmail material on this James Leatherby character.”

“Do we have anything on him?” Michael asked. It was still rather early. He had only acquired the name a few hours ago. But he had learned to trust Richmond’s skills when it came to information gathering.

“Nothing concrete yet regarding his activities as the Broker,” she said, pulling up a few windows with running programmes on her monitor, “but, I did get a hit on a ‘James Leatherby’ from our own military service records.”

The image on the bio she pulled up matched the man Michael had seen in Fatmir’s memory. According to the personal information on the file, he was born in Merstham in 1969, to a Scottish father and a British mother. It was listed that he was fluent in Russian and Arabic. He had joined the Royal Marines when he had turned eighteen, becoming a Special Air Services operator four years later. His service record indicated that he had served in Iraq during the first Gulf War, where he had been captured by Saddam Hussein's Republican Guard. 

He had returned home six months later following a successful retrieval mission, and left the service shortly afterwards with full benefits and a retirement package.

That was where the information they had on Leatherby ended. He had been clever enough to keep his transition to illegal activities completely hidden from the authorities.

“Is that him?”

“Yeah,” Michael confirmed. 

“That should make our lives easier,” Richmond said, her fingers already busy on the keyboard, “I can use the images we have to run facial recognition software on him. If he’s been travelling, we’ll get a hit.’

The Tarcin
Fojnica
Bosnia & Herzegovina

Meanwhile

The view his suite at the Tarcin offered from its balcony was a vast improvement to the bare and boring backyard he had been forced to endure through McKenna’s bedroom window. 

Liam sprawled on the comfortable futon, crossing his ankles over the railing. The rainforest loomed beyond the massive pool and the beautifully landscaped yard around it. The weather was warmer and much less humid, but the abundance of trees surrounding the hotel property kept the air fresh and crisp. 

It wasn’t home, but it was mostly bearable.

Liam closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing for a while, willing the clamour of his thoughts to die down. The rush of feeding had taken its time to dissipate, leaving him riding the high for a long time. He hadn’t been able to meditate for over fifty hours. The low headache pulsing at the base of his neck was becoming harder to ignore by the minute. 

His mind was busier than a cat trying to hide the shit it had taken on a marble. One part of it was obsessing over the contents of the ledger he had taken from McKenna, diligently categorising the product information, locations, names, and ways he could be using it all to his advantage. Another part was idly wondering how the trial would turn out now that Fatmir Hassani was without his lead counsel. The part that was thinking about the investigation that would inevitably follow after the authorities discovered McKenna’s mysterious disappearance was rather small. The part that was wondering if his involvement would ever come to light was almost negligible. 

He had done more than an adequate job of disposing of her body. The sight of her naked form engulfed by the fire inside the furnace had been a truly breathtaking sight. The glowing crimson shroud had suited her pale, naked body much better than a plain, white one. Even the poor guy who had helpfully led him to the back of the funeral parlour had ended up becoming an enticing contribution to the end of the evening. His dying screams had added a visceral sensory layer to the uncontrollable writhing of his body. The flames had held him in a loving embrace, kissing and licking him while dancing to the exquisite rhythm of his agony. 

Just thinking about it made a surge of tingles ripple all over his skin. It was a rather pleasant feeling.

The exhilarating imagery playing behind his closed eyelids led to the inner thoughts that occupied most of his mind. The feeding had been wonderful, satisfying and more than enough to keep the beast within him sated for a while. He could still feel the warmth of her skin, the phantom pressure of her long, toned thighs wrapped around his waist and the way her soft, wet inner muscles had clenched around him to wring every ounce of pleasure out of him. She had made the most wonderful sounds. Said the silliest things with pure adoration ringing in her tone. Looked at him with the brightest, most affectionate light shining in her eyes. 

He had held that light until it had crested to the stars and then taken the plunge towards the deepest and darkest of depths where it had winked out for the final time.

The Sentinel stirred within him as he dived deeper into the sensory imprint of that evening, blooming out of the corners of his mind like a pitch-black cloud to taste the rich flavours of the precious memory. 

A promise rippled faintly through him as it drew back. Soon.

With a sigh, Liam wrestled his wandering focus back to the task he had started; meditation. It was only then he realised his hand had travelled over to his crotch on its own volition in response to the remembered simulation. With effort, he wrenched it back to rest on his chest, on top of the other, and forced his attention once again on calming his breathing pattern. 

It took a while, and Liam only allowed the shields around his mind to peel open once his mind was in a reasonably calm and uncluttered state. Sensory inputs in the shapes of sounds and scents rushed in along with the Psionic energies, eager to fill his mind and shatter his concentration. He took a moment to observe the tapestry of his surroundings they wove, to make sure there weren’t any threats lurking about before filtering those distractions out with practised ease.

The Psionic energies of Bosnia made him feel as though he were trying to pet a porcupine. Those were prickly, untamed and distrusting. The energies responded to his invitation with great reluctance, almost resentment, as if running through his veins, cleansing his mind and rejuvenating his soul were unpleasant, arduous tasks it would rather not be doing.

Liam felt his lips twitch at the poetic turn his thoughts had taken. He had no idea when he had started attaching emotions to the Psionic energies. He usually treated the energy plane as the valuable tool it was, and he knew how to use the abilities it granted him to maximum efficiency.   

Maybe McKenna’s essence left a mark, he figured with amusement. She used to be a Guide after all.

He let himself fall into a light trance, ignoring the pins and needles crawling underneath his skin as the Psionic energies cycled through him. The mark on his chest warmed, and the headache slowly faded. He didn’t quite feel refreshed when he felt the final strands of the energies leave his mind and body, but at least, he was fully disconnected from the Plane. Excessive channelling kept one bound to the energies, and the constant connection agitated those energies in rather unpleasant ways. 

Besides, Liam needed a clear head before making the call.

“Woman, you know it pisses me off when you ignore my messages,” Leatherby’s irritated Scottish brogue greeted him after three rings, “what the fuck took you so long to call?”

“McKenna can’t come to the phone right now, James.” 

The sharp intake of breath on the other side said Liam had his undivided attention. “Who the fuck is this?”

“A potential friend,” Liam said, “My Dad used your services, including lovely Jane, from time to time. Remember Christopher Desmond?”

Father had always been very protective of him, probably due to the deteriorating illness Liam had suffered through most of his life. While he had spent all the time he could manage with Liam, teaching him his craft, guiding his hands, sharpening his mind, allowing him to improve, innovate and thrive, he had kept Liam shielded from the practical aspects of his profession.  

He had never allowed his business associates anywhere near Liam or even shared the resources that connected him and his unique services to the world. 

Liam understood that he would never have survived without the aid of his father, not with how weak and fragile he was, despite the constant feedings. But that was all before the death of his father.

When he concentrated hard enough, Liam could still feel the faint traces of him within, stirring, floating, swimming just beneath his consciousness, always watching over him protectively. Maybe it was his last gift to me, he supposed, the life essence his father had somehow managed to redirect to Liam in his final moment.

Maybe it was the intention behind his act, the selfless sacrifice that made Liam as strong as he was now, finally able to leave the care facility and live by himself, doing the things he had always dreamed about. He even had access to his father's knowledge, his legacy, all those little things he hadn’t been able to share while he had still been alive…Liam had it all now.

He was grateful for everything his father had left him. But that didn’t mean he was going to live the way his father had. He had ambitions, which were far bolder than Christopher’s ever been.

“That would make you his twisted little offspring, Liam, wouldn’t it?”

“Glass houses, Leatherby,” Liam said evenly. It was a subtle reminder to the Broker that he was hardly in a place to judge, and that Liam knew his own twisted secrets, “I’m sure you’ve heard of them?”

Leatherby’s laugh rang through the line, sudden and genuine as if he had been pleasantly surprised. “This is rather daring of you, I must say,” he said after he had gotten himself under control, “I never had the pleasure of dealing with your daddy directly. He preferred to go through the usual channels. To keep his hands clean, so to speak. Things were less messier that way, for both of us.”

“Yes, well, I’m not my father.”

“I’d say,” Leatherby agreed, “What can I do for you, Liam Desmond?”

“It’s more of what I can do for you,” Liam said, wondering if changing the tone of their rather friendly conversation would get under the other Sentinel’s skin.

“Oh, lovely,” Leatherby huffed sarcastically, “You have Hassani’s little black book. Good for you. Before we get into that lad, tell me where’s McKenna?”

“Let’s just say you don't have to worry about her any longer and leave it at that, James,” Liam said, knowing the other Sentinel would understand the meaning through his voice.

“I was rather impressed with you until now,” Leatherby’s words accompanied a low rumble, a clear sign his Sentinel side was on the surface. “You see, McKenna was very useful to me. She was my asset, handling my business. I decide when to dispose of my assets, not arrogant little punks with delusions of grandeur.”

“Yeah, well, you’re going to have to suck up the loss, James,” Liam said lightly, “since we haven’t yet perfected the art of bringing the dead back to life.”

“You contacted me because you wanted my attention, not just my good humour,” Leatherby growled, “for better or for worse, you’ve got it, lad.”

Good. That’s exactly what I wanted. “I want to meet you, in person.”

“You steal my information, kill my Guide, and now you want a face-to-face? Either you’re very clever or very dumb. My money’s on the latter.”

“I have no interest in taking over your little side business, handing you over to the authorities or even blackmailing you for money,” Liam said softly, countering Leatherby’s incredulity, “What I need is your reach, your reputation, your connections.”

“Raring to move up the ladder in the world, are you?”

“There are some people I want to find,” Liam replied, deciding it was time he shared some of his true intentions, “My father had connections, but he dealt with them the same way he dealt with you. That’s not good enough for me. I’ve seen the blueprints, bits and pieces of grand plans of these… pioneers, I’d say. What I’ve seen has intrigued me. I have talents I’d freely share for a chance to be a part of something that’s a hell of a lot bigger than you or me.”

“Huh,” Leatherby grunted after a lengthy pause. The fact that he didn't outright laugh at Liam, or dismiss his vague claims as nonsense meant that Liam hadn’t been too far off the mark, “if nothing else, you talk a good game, little Desmond.”

“There are things I can’t share with you over the phone,” Liam said, ignoring the condescending moniker. He had already goaded the other Sentinel to a certain point. Picking up a fight now would only serve to tip him over to the wrong side of the edge, “Let’s meet. I promise you, I’ll make it worth your time.”

“You have already cost me a fine weapon in my arsenal,” Leatherby murmured, “You had better deliver, little Desmond, or I can promise you, I’ll make you regret your entire existence.”

Liam smiled. “Sounds like a perfect deal to me, James.”   

The Airport Hotel
Sarajevo
Bosnia & Herzegovina

18:13 Hours

“See,” Damien pointed out gravely after retrieving his and Michael’s passports and the single room key off the reception counter, “We’re saving taxpayer dollars already. The advantages of having a bonded pair in the service.”

Michael perched on the armrest of the nearest empty couch in the lobby and took a sip of the bright red juice they had been served at the arrival. “This is nice,” he said, squinting at the swirling contents before turning to Damien. “Also, you meant Sterling Pounds. Not dollars.”

“Semantics. My point still stands,” Damien grinned, glancing around at the golden-hued hallways leading to the public areas and the winding staircase that led to the suites on the floors above. “Dinner, bar or the room?”

“Room first for me,” Michael decided instantly, “I need a shower.”

“Shower sounds good,” Damien agreed and slurped on his juice loudly through the straw. Michael was right. It was a combination of berries, lime and syrup with a lot of crushed ice. It was a delightful cold drink. “I’ll join you. Cut down the water and heating costs too while we’re at it.”

“Damien Scott,” Michael snorted, “the mighty saviour of resources.”

“Cool title. I’ll take it.”

“You noticed how easy it’s been channelling energies for longer periods since we bonded?” Michael asked once they were walking towards the elevator, which was located at the far right corner from the entrance, “I don’t even have a headache. Just a little tired from all the driving around.”

Damien had to agree. Ever since becoming bonded, a subtle layer of Psionic energies always seemed to hang around even when he was fully shielding his mind, increasing his level of awareness through all physical senses exponentially. 

“Yeah,” he said, pressing the button on the keypad to summon the car idling somewhere above, “If I had done what I did today two months back, I’d be slipping into a coma by now.” He couldn’t quite suppress the shudder at those memories. 

Michael spared him a concerned glance, “Was it that bad?”

“I could never dial all the way up after…well, you know,” Damien murmured, getting into the empty elevator, “I was constantly battling with my Sentinel side until I met you again. Then it got worse.”

Micahel pressed ‘eight’ and turned back to stare at him inquiringly. 

“I mean, you caught my attention right away,” Damien elaborated when it was clear Michael wasn’t about to let it go, “I just didn’t know why. Then my Sentinel went all possessive on you, which in turn made me hate your guts right off the bat. I just didn’t trust that part of me yet.”

“You were rather insufferable,” Michael smiled crookedly at him.

“Well, you being so closed-off and tight-assed and high-and-mighty British didn’t help,” Damien grinned back, “I thought I was losing my fucking sanity when I realised your blood burned.”

Michael stopped halfway out of the elevator on the eighth floor, and did a double take, “Huh?”

Damien picked up his duffel off the floor and led the Michael-shaped block out by his arm, letting the doors close behind them, “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Tell me anyway.” Michael stubbornly dug his heels in, refusing to move.

“It’s not like it physically affects me,” Damien mumbled, casting about for a way out of the hole he had dug for himself. He hadn’t meant to worry his Guide. “It’s just the sensation is very real. Whenever I touch your blood, it feels like I’m holding my hand out to flames.”

“You need to stop doing that!” Michael was visibly fighting to keep his voice down and level.

“And watch you bleed to death?” Damien countered with an equally quiet tone, “Yeah, try again, Sunshine.”

“Fucking Christ,” Michael shook his head, glancing around with a mix of horror and frustration marring his face. Only then he seemed to realise that they were still in front of the elevator. He started walking down the hallway where their room awaited round the corner, “How do we stop it?”

“I don't think we can,” Damien said, falling into step beside him.

“Damien, that’s–”

“How it’ll always be, and I have no complaints,” he said, cutting Michael off gently, “It’s a reminder of how careless I was with you. I hurt you when I should have protected you. The most basic thing a Sentinel is supposed to do for his Guide and I failed that one. Badly. I’ll never forget that.” 

“You didn’t know!” Michael snapped.

“Actions have consequences, no matter how intentional or unintentional,” Damien shrugged, “You’re not going to worry about it.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Michael–”

“I don’t appreciate the fact that I can cause you pain just by fucking bleeding,” Michael glared at him, his hazel eyes a few shades darker with something akin to guilt and anger, “That’s messed up.”

“Look at it as my punishment - a lasting side-effect through the Psionic Plane itself,” Damien murmured, opening the door to their shared suite. “You’re not responsible.”

“No,” Michael grumbled sullenly, closed the door behind him and let his backpack fall off his shoulder onto the carpeted floor, “but I’m instrumental.”

Damien dropped his duffel on the small shoe rack next to the door, and took a step closer so he could cradle the face of his dejected Guide, “What you are, Michael, is the light of my universe, the one who makes me feel like I’m the luckiest bastard alive in this world. The piece of my soul I can’t live without. As sappy as it sounds, that’s the truth.” 

Michael stared at him, seemingly at a loss for words. His open expression and the bond thrumming between them hid nothing, however, which made Damien feel a little smug if he were honest. The way the look in his eyes changed - his pupils brightening and expanding to swallow the gold-green hue of his irises into nothing but the faintest rings - was an infinitely fascinating thing to witness. 

Damien was snapped out of his stupor when his back suddenly met the flat, hard surface of a wall with considerable force. 

Wow. You sure move fast when you feel like it.

Damien had time for that one thought before Michael was on him, kissing him in a way that reminded him of the first time he had worked up the nerve to kiss his Guide. Michael was a force of unrestrained passion; his lips, teeth and tongue on Damien punishing, demanding and desperate at the same time.

Oh God, Damien thought, holding onto Michael with his hands wrapped around his neck, returning the hungry kiss with equal vigour on every bit of skin within reach, if I knew you'd feel this bad, I'd have told you sooner.

A sharp spike of pain flared on his bottom lip when Michael nipped him. Shut the fuck up! This has nothing to do with that. An apologetic lick followed the next moment, along with the full weight of Michael’s body when he practically melted against Damien. The frantic heat of their kiss turned into something slow, deep and breathtakingly sensual. But, if you feel like you’ve manipulated me, I can always just… stop.

Michael’s hand took a leisurely stroll down Damien’s torso while those words curled around him with a purr. Damien forgot to breathe altogether when that hand cupped suggestively over where his cock was straining against his jeans. The bond flaring around his scattered thoughts hid nothing of his Guide’s wicked intentions. 

“Don’t,” it was an embarrassingly needy, little whine, instead of the command Damien hoped it would be. The way those clever lips fastened over a sensitive spot right underneath his jawline didn’t help matters either, “when have you ever known me to be so noble when I’m about to get my dick wet?”

That’s what I thought, Michael dropped to a knee in a graceful move that made Damien all the more aware of his own trembling legs. The cocky smirk on Michael’s glistening, kiss-bitten lips and the gleaming look in his eyes was a vision that was fully capable of frying the circuits in Damien’s brain.

He didn’t quite know when Michael had opened his belt or unbuttoned his fly. He was glad for the support of the wall when those long fingers finally freed his aching cock from underneath all the restraining layers of clothing. Micheal didn’t break eye contact when he stuck his tongue out, and purposefully licked around Damien’s already leaking tip.

It was a sinful move designed to reduce him to a mindless puddle of singing nerves and quivering muscles. Nothing could convince Damien otherwise. 

Michael closed his eyes then, resting his hands on Damien’s thighs for support. With the hypnotising spell broken, Damien used the small reprieve to push through the white-noise sizzling in his brain and gather his thoughts. Keeping his breathing slow and even, Michael took his time taking Damien in. His tongue meticulously swirled around what felt like every throbbing vein around Damien’s cock. 

Michael’s forehead rested against Damien’s abdomen, while his measured exhales warmed Damien’s skin. The air rushed out of Damien’s lungs in utter shock when the tip of his cock touched the back of Michael’s throat. Unwilling to stop there, Michael swallowed around him, encouraging Damien to keep going even further. 

With what was left of his awareness, Damien redirected his scrambling hands towards Michael's head; not to force, but to hold on, and let the feeling of that soft hair under his sweaty palms ground him. 

Fuck me, Michael! Damien’s entire world was narrowed down to the tight hot windpipe wrapped firmly around his cock, and it was a good thing he didn’t trust his voice. 

That’s the plan. Michael’s clear amusement sent another current of pure desire through his veins. Damien let his head thump against the wall and closed his eyes, surrendering to the heady pleasure.

Michael kept an unhurried pace, sliding up to his hyper-stimulated glans and back all the way down to the root over and over. His tongue and teeth applied just the right amount of pressure to coax out every single strand of building sensations to the surface.

Come on, Damien, fuck my throat.

Did I hear that right? Damien opened his eyes and looked down to find Michael staring up at him with the demand shining in his liquid gaze. 

You heard me. The bond went hot in his mind with the needy arousal of his Guide, Do it. 

Damien sent a prayer to the heavens before tightening his grip on Michael. The Sentinel stirred in his mind, responding to his shift from the trembling receiver to the active seeker. He felt a silent roar of triumph and pleasure ripple through him when he started thrusting into the wet heat of his Guide.

Micheal relaxed his throat and held onto his thighs as Damien took over, allowing him to take full control of chasing his orgasm. The simple act of submission was a heady thing that drove both Damien and his Sentinel absolutely wild. 

Sunshine, I’m close. Somehow, Damien had enough sense left in his lust-addled brain to issue the warning. Let a hopeful question flow along the bond.

Don’t pull out. The answering thought was instant, full of anticipation and pure want. Keep going.

Damien felt his entire body go rigid when his balls drew tight as if ready to explode. Sensing his precarious balance on the edge, Michael hollowed his cheeks and bit him lightly underneath his glans.

That was all it took for him to tip him over. A groan rumbled out of his chest when Damien felt his cock swell and twitch. Michael wrapped his tongue around him, guiding everything Damien had to give down the narrow confines of his spasming throat. Damien shuddered through the mind-blowing sparks of his orgasm while Michael continued to swallow around him, forcing down a gag reflex Damien could feel clenching around his pulsing cock.  

It took him a shocking amount of time to realise that Michael wasn’t sucking around his cock anymore, or was kneeling at his feet. With all of Damien more than happy to just stay plastered against the wall, lost in the pleasant afterglow, opening eyes took effort.

He smiled lazily at the mesmerising sight of the toned, rippling muscles that were revealed to him when Michael took his t-shirt off. There was a considerable bulge tenting the front of his cargo pants; evidence of a neglected hard-on that needed immediate attention. Damien’s cock, now limp and cooling off against the breeze of the air-conditioned room, made a valiant effort to twitch back to life. 

“Where are you going?” Damien slurred, frowning when the vision he was enjoying turned around and walked away from him, “It’s my turn now.”

The thud of a discarded boot hitting the floor reached him, followed by the sounds of a belt being unbuckled and the rush of running water. Even with most of his cognitive abilities still offline, instincts honed in on those sounds, turning them into invisible chains on Damien’s wobbly legs that pulled him after his Guide.

“Get over here, then,” Michael’s words reached him halfway, teasing and inviting, quickening Damien’s steps, “you wanted to save water, remember?”

Yes, yes, of course, that’s the plan, Damien thought, stumbling happily into the shower. Among other things.

Chapter Text

October 2011

A Week Later

Miguel ‘The Jaguar’ Gomez’s Complex
Caquetá
Colombia

15:30 Hours/Local

Despite his self-proclamation, the former Colombian police commander Miguel Gomez bore no resemblance to a sleek feline predator physically, intellectually or otherwise. 

Zeb would know. Although he hadn’t actually met his investment/asset in person, he had interacted with the man enough to feel confident in his assessment.

The massive wrought iron gate opened inwards as the armoured SUV drew near. Zeb took in the security precautions Gomez had implemented with a practised eye; the seven-foot wall wrapped around the compound was topped with electric fencing, motion sensors, surveillance cameras and flood lights. The gate - the only above-ground entry point to the complex according to the blueprints and the satellite imagery Zeb had studied - was manned by heavily armed guards. As the SUV climbed the winding uphill towards the main residence, he caught glimpses of more guards patrolling the two acres of ground with trained canines.

So far, it seemed that Gomez had taken Zeb’s instructions about the safety and security of his base of operations to heart.

The drug cartel runner waited at the entrance to welcome Zeb. He was a non gene carrier in his early fifties. And, quite unhappy about it too if the way he had dyed his receding hair with the blackest pigment he could find before greasing it back was any indication. He wore his dark, short-sleeved shirt unbuttoned over white cargo pants with a pair of slippers to complete the outlook.

It was an attempt at projecting casual confidence, while showing off what Gomez obviously considered a toned, tanned body covered in an intimidating collection of tattoos. 

Zeb wasn’t the least impressed.

Once the vehicle came to a stop under the porch, Gomez blew a plume of cigar smoke into the air before reaching out with his free hand to open the door.

“Welcome, Director Anderson,” the druglord greeted him with heavily accented English. He grabbed Zeb’s forearm and shook it vigorously. “Welcome to my humble home. Me casa su casa, mi amigo.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gomez,” Zeb murmured, squeezing the man’s arm with just enough strength to turn his bright grin into a pained wince before letting go. The overly friendly address rubbed him the wrong way and Gomez would do well to remember his place. Zeb wasn’t in a generous mood to suffer fools with inflated egos. The past few weeks hadn’t been very kind to the reserves of his patience.

“Tonterías, call me Miguel, director,” Gomez waved his cigar in the air, summoning another sunny grin to cover his faux pas, “Or as my people call me, el Jaguar if you’re feeling generous, yes?”

The animal that sauntered out of the open door behind Gomez was a colossal waste of resources. But even Zeb had to admit, the full-grown, well-cared-for feline was sleek and gorgeous. Her spotted coat shined in the glow of the afternoon sun, healthy and robust. The jaguar came to a halt next to Gomez, its head almost at level with the man’s waist, and growled warningly at Zeb.

Zeb suppressed a sigh at yet another pathetic attempt of the glorified drug dealer vying for the upper hand. If the distinct sound of claws raking against the granite flooring hadn’t alerted him, the weird inflection on ‘el Jaguar’ certainly would have. 

He glared back at the animal in answer to her challenge, locking his gaze with the pair of black, round pupils embedded in golden irises, and let his mental shields fall open.  

The Amazon rainforest added a layer of untouched, unclaimed, untamed wilderness to Colombia’s tropical Psionic energies. The world around Zeb came alive with sharp and bright definitions, clamouring for the attention of his heightened senses. 

The ancient power of the world running through his veins was a rush Zeb knew he would never grow tired of. He inhaled deeply, letting the rejuvenating energies wash away the remnants of exhaustion from his travels. They filled him in with the secrets the lands never gave up for anyone but the wielders of nature's very essence itself.

The jaguar went still, her ears twitching and flattening against the back of her head. Another vibrating roar made a valiant attempt to roll out of her chest, only to taper out into a low whimper. It didn’t matter who owned her because the animal operated on the law of the jungle. And at that moment, she realised that Zebediah Anderson was stronger, faster and deadlier than her. 

She accepted him as her master without a fuss. She wasn’t necessarily a wild animal, not the way she had been domesticated; regularly fed, bathed and groomed like a coddled pet. The momentarily stirred instincts tested, sated and rearranged, she yawed lazily, showing off rows of sharp white teeth, and rubbed her cheek affectionately against the back of Zeb’s hand. 

“If we’re quite done, Mr Gomez…” Zeb didn’t bother tempering the harsh growl of his awakened Sentinel. 

“Si, si, sinór,” Gomez, pale-faced and stuttering, averted his gaze and took a hasty step back.

With the jaguar trailing after him as if she had been his pet all along, Zeb walked past the drug dealer and entered his opulent residence.  

A gleaming marble staircase aligned with intricate wrought iron balustrade dominated the richly appointed foyer, curving invitingly towards the floor above. More attempts had been made to show off wealth in the shape of expensive furniture, chandeliers, framed artwork and other odds and ends of matching themes and colours. All Zeb registered were clashing textures, gaudy clutter and more of his money wasted on useless, empty gestures.

He dismissed his irritation with another sigh. Auditing Gomez’s inability at efficiency would have to wait. He wasn’t there to stay long, and he had more pressing issues that required his undivided attention. 

“Is Ulyanov here yet?”

“Si. He is here,” Gomez mumbled around the cigar he had stuck between his teeth. The cloud of potent tobacco dominated over the mild, lemon-grass tones of the air freshener and the smell of raw meat and musk emanating from the jaguar. Zeb did his best to filter them out along with thousands of other non-threatening scents. “He arrived with his son half an hour ago.”

Zeb frowned. “His son?”

“I believe his name is Victor.”

“Where is he?” 

“By the bar.” 

Zeb didn’t say anything as Gomez led him through the house. A long hallway led down the length of the left wing to the back. His senses registered that the three rooms they passed on their way were all empty, with their doors closed and locked.   

Muffled sounds of techno beats, feminine laughter and splashing water reached Zeb well before Gomez led him around the corner. A pool party seemed to be already in full swing. As they approached, the sentry posted at the sound-proofed exit unlocked and opened the door. 

Gomez stayed behind while Zeb stepped onto the outer corridor. Squinting, he took out a pair of sunglasses from his jacket pocket to put on. The sun seemed to have gotten a few shades brighter and warmer during the few seconds he had passed through the indoors.

The loud cacophony greeted him like a kick to the head, making him grit his teeth. He wasn’t even a little interested in the cheerful throng of wet, well-toned and naked bodies on display. Filtering out the blasting music, drunk chatter and the nauseating scent mix of freely flowing alcohol and chlorine, to a deep corner of his mind, Zeb concentrated on the lone figure hunched over the far end of the bar counter.

“What’s this I hear about a visitor?” he asked cheerfully, choosing to sit on the bar stool two spots over.

“My eldest, Victor,” Ulyanov rumbled in his gravelly voice. 

Sweat saturated in vodka fumed out of every pore of the Russian mob boss. The acrid smell did not mix well with his personal scent of dried chamomile, spiced rice and copper. He had been waiting for a while. 

“Why’d you bring him?”

Ulyanov’s shields were up, although his eyes remained as black as the void itself. It was a subtle reminder that there was still a lot of knowledge out of Zeb’s grasp. He hoped his recent setbacks wouldn’t have too much of a negative impact on his present and future with the Organisation. He had dedicated so many years of his life and paid his dues. Getting kicked into the curb now would be worse than a kick to the nuts.

Besides, I’d never have gone as far as I did without the higher-ups' blessings, Zeb consoled himself. The Facilitator’s presence instead of a hired assassin had to count for something. They must have had a reason to let things play out the way they did.

“It’s about time Victor learned how the money he so enjoys wasting is earned,” Ulyanov glared at his half-full glass as if it were hiding the secrets of the cosmos under all the ice. Zeb let his own shields touch against Ulyanov’s mildly in greeting before coaxing them to shore up his mind.

The offspring in question was in the pool, the only Sentinel among the rest. A light touch on his wavering shields was the only clue Zeb needed to know that the kid had only come online recently. 

Victor was tall and skinny, with a pasty complexion that contrasted horridly with his skimpy red speedo. He had bushy eyebrows, a crooked nose and a ridiculous moustache over a thin set of lips. Even worse, there wasn't a lick of intelligence to be found in those droopy eyes.

He had a girl in his right arm, and a boy in his left, and he was busy taking turns making out with them both.

“I don’t know, Arkady,” Zeb said out loud, “Victor seems more interested in fucking his way through all the available holes rather than learning financials.”

“Yeah,” Ulyanov grunted and knocked back what was left of his drink in one swallow, “it’s a slow process.”

Zeb requested a glass of cold water from the mostly naked young girl behind the bar while Ulyanov signalled for a refill. Gomez’s jaguar curled around itself at Zeb’s feet and decided it was a good time for an afternoon nap. 

“Anyway, we’re not here to discuss my kid,” Ulyanov finally turned to face him, the look in his soulless eyes, piercing. Unforgiving. “We’re here to talk about you, your fuckups and what the Organisation intends for you to do about them.”

“I operated within stated boundaries,” Zeb said, thinking back to the conversation he’d had months before setting out to do what he had done, “I achieved the majority of the stated goals. The subject’s escape was within acceptable outcomes of the experiment. In fact, it contributed to a fascinating collection of data.”

“You lost your job, security clearances, and you had to flee your own damn country. You’re a fugitive, a wanted criminal,” Ulyanov continued to list Zeb’s recent troubles with his heavily accented tone. “Three Councils have authorised a retribution hunt to take you down like an animal.”

It seemed he was interested in hashing out Zeb’s fuckups before moving to his achievements. 

“I’ll admit, I wasn’t prepared to end up on the run this early in the game,” Zeb said, taking a sip of his water. Things had actually gone rather well before flushing down the drain. “But, again, the possibility was discussed before I was allowed to commit.”

It had been one of the strangest conversations Zeb had ever had in his life. Considering what he had been for most of his adult life, that was saying something. Listening to the intriguing, almost whimsical musings of the electronically altered voice on the other end, Zeb had wondered if he had let a certifiable lunatic dictate a good decade and a half of his life. 

Fleeing the aftermath of his ruined mission, however, Zeb had caught himself thinking if he were under the thumb of a freaking prescient. Or just someone scarily good at predicting the future. 

“I’ve seen the feeds and read the reports,” Ulyanov grunted, and swallowed a mouthful of jet fuel on the rocks, “it was almost like watching a cockroach. First your crazy bitch, Bryant, then you and then that other motherfucker, Desmond–”

“To be fair, I wasn’t trying to kill the man. I was specifically told not to.” It would have been infinitely more satisfying to have him enslaved to me, “What happened after was completely out of my control. Or knowledge, for that matter.” 

“Another failed mission that could have concluded as intended had you succeeded.”

“Really?” Zeb glared at him. Is this ‘let’s pile all the crap on Zeb since he’s already in shit’ day? “You think Desmond would have just packed his kit and gone home? He’d have blown up the tower anyway. He hated them all.”

“Exactly,” Ulyanov nodded slowly as if he were talking to a slow child, “He was supposed to.” 

“And you think having his son in there was what made the difference?” Zeb snapped. “That makes zero sense.”

He had kept up with the news even while on the run. He had seen the reports on the attempt that had been miraculously thwarted. Try as he might, Zeb couldn’t figure out how they had managed to trick Desmond into disarming the bomb before killing him. 

“Dominos… you misplace one, the entire chain falls apart,” Ulyanov murmured sagely, swirling the contents in his glass, “that’s why we now have an escaped test subject with proof of our work and our existence. The collective attention of the Councils around the world, and a bloodthirsty Sentinel and an Adept Guide on the hunt for us.”

“First of all, they knew about our existence already,” Zeb felt the need to point out. It was that Global Council session that had fascinated Zeb in the first place, and driven him to pursue the architects behind Project Veritas. “They only found out that we didn’t die out as they hoped. Secondly, there is some good news on the ‘hunting party’ front. Those two could have been a lot worse if they had bonded. At least, I made sure that wouldn’t happen.”

The Russian mob boss made a noise that could have been a huff. Or possibly a burp. “They are in the system as a bonded pair.”

“Wishful thinking,” Zeb snorted, “Besides, it’s a good counter-intelligence move. I’ll bet you this fine residence that the good Colonel is counting on us to monitor Council correspondence. Registering his adopted offspring as a bonded Guide is supposed to make us cautious while granting him a layer of protection.”

“I received a copy of the blood sample analysis,” Ulyanov said. His reluctant tone told Zeb that he was finally done giving Zeb a hard time, and was ready to move on, “Stage One was a success. All changes were within the expected parameters. The Guide is now trapped in a stasis, if you will. Unbonded, and therefore, unable to acquire the full potential of his abilities.” 

“And now, we guide them to us,” Zeb added. He had figured that part out, at least. “If his Sentinel follows him in, that’s a bonus.” Maybe I’ll finally get to see why Bryant was so hung up on the fucker while I’m at it.

“Yes,” Ulyanov agreed, “A solution to his current problem will be the lure we use against him.”

“I’m listening.”

“Don’t bother,” the Russian snorted and took a long sip of his drink, “That’s not your concern.”

“Oh?” Zeb raised an eyebrow at him, trying to not let his trepidation show at the ominous remark. Am I marked to be discarded after all? “What is my concern then, Arkady?”

“The spotlight on you has effectively ended your ability to operate out in the open,” Ulyanov shrugged, a small smile quirking his lips. The asshole was enjoying Zeb’s discomfort. “As it happens, a project manager went through an unfortunate incident recently and is out of commission. You’re out of a job and a job is out of a handler. Perfect timing, I’d say.”

“Unfortunate incident, huh?” Zeb did not like the sound of that. Ulyanov’s visible amusement only added to his existing misgivings.

“It’s the nature of our business,” Ulyanov reminded him in a lecturing tone, “You aren’t going to reap the benefits by sitting on your ass, fiddling your thumbs.”

All it took was one mistake to reduce fifteen years of dedication to fiddling my thumbs, Zeb sighed. 

“Fine,” he said, resigning to his fate. “Where and when?

“You’ll know when it’s time,” Ulyanov let his smile widen, finished his drink with two swallows and licked his lips, “Until then, enjoy the freedom of fresh air and these accommodating energies around you. Where you’re going, let's just say, you’re going to need a lot of strength and determination just to fight for the oxygen you’ll need to breathe.”

Bogotá
Colombia

16:53 Hours

It wasn’t exactly up to the quality of Damien’s uncle’s stash, but the coffee was pretty fucking good. And it was cheap too, compared to the ransom he had paid for the dishwater in that airport hotel back in Detroit. 

Not a bad way to enjoy myself before walking into a trap, he thought, taking another sip. A whisper of amusement curled around his mind. Michael seemed to agree.

The call had come in only two nights ago. His phone had rung, waking Damien up in the middle of the night, with a name he hadn’t thought about in years flashing across its screen.

“Rebecca?” 

‘Rebecca Levi,’ he thought back quickly in answer to the questioning ripple from Michael, ‘Ex-Mossad. Current contract killer. Used to be Christy’s BFF. Online Sentinel.’ 

Michael went still, slowing his breathing, letting his presence melt into the surroundings as if he wasn’t even there. He had correctly guessed Levi would clamp up if she figured out Damien wasn’t alone.

“Did I wake you?” she let out a giggle Damien had only ever heard her make in bed, “Oops.”

“What the fuck?” He let his growl carry his annoyance at being disturbed at two in the morning.

“Rude,” Levi countered playfully, “‘Hey, lover, I missed you. How are you?’ would have been more appropriate.”

‘Lover?’ 

Even in the pitch-black of the night, Damien could see the way Michael’s eyebrow took a judgmental climb towards his hairline. His pointed thought was a mix of amusement and curiosity. 

‘This, I have to hear.’

Levi’s voice was plenty loud and clear through the line in the quiet of the late hour even if Damien hadn’t put the phone on speaker.

“You just woke me up in the middle of the goddamned night,” Damien grumbled, falling easily back to the habits of the relationship he’d had with her. “I’m cranky. Deal with it.”

Rebecca had been introduced to him by Bryant. She had joined them in a number of missions and then jumped into bed with both of them at the end of each successful one. She used to be an acquaintance-with-benefits of sorts; a lot of benefits in and out of bed.

“The word on the street is sleep isn’t the only thing that’s making you cranky.” Her voice dropped low in a way that told Damien she was done fooling around.

Damien was confused. He had no idea what she was talking about. “The fuck do you mean?”

“Hey, Scott, it’s me. You know I hear things. It’s one of the reasons why I worked well together with you and Christy.”

Damien most definitely did not want to think about that. He had sealed that chapter of his life with Bryant’s corpse. “I’d rather not talk about her.” 

“Yeah, I heard all that too,” Levi continued, “about her, about Michael…about Anderson.”

Damien felt Michael’s presence through the bond turn sharp with interest. 

“Did you?” He asked wearily.

“I can help.”

Damien frowned, “With what?”

“Don't waste time playing coy with me, sweetheart,” her voice picked up with a hint of impatience, “I know what that CIA bastard did.”

“How?” Damien demanded the question that reverberated through Michael at the same time.

“That’s not important,” Levi brushed it aside lightly, “What’s important is I can get you what you need.”

“Oh, I guess you’re about to tell me what that is too,” Damien didn’t bother to hide his irritation or his sarcasm.

“The counteracting agent to the drug Anderson injected into your Guide,” Levi said evenly. She sounded confident. “I’ve seen the change in your status, and I also know it's a lie.”

‘Anderson put her up to this?’ Michael’s questioning thought wrapped around him.

‘Most probably.’

‘They think we aren’t bonded,’ he added, ‘maybe you should lean into it and see what this woman is planning.’

Damien agreed. “Levi,” he said, pitching his voice a tiny bit shaky. He knew the Sentinel in her would pick up on the difference, “I’d really not talk–”

“I know what those drugs do to gene carriers,” she cut him off, sounding rather eager than sympathetic, “I know you could use some help right now. Before things get any worse. Before the situation is out of your control.” 

‘Laying it down a bit thick, isn’t she?’

‘She’s dangled the bait and thinks I’m about to bite’ Damien shared, casting his mind back to the times he had worked with her. ‘She always gets a little impulsive when she thinks she’s got a lock on a target.’ 

“How’d you know all this?” Damien asked, his voice barely a whisper, suited to a devastated Sentinel unable to bond with his Guide.

“I know because I helped someone else in a similar situation,” Levi murmured soothingly, “You know the circles I move in. I hear things. What I learned…Damien, that shit was scary.” 

“What happened, Levi?” Damien pressed, “Who is it? what did you do?”

“I’ll tell you everything,” she promised, “Come meet me.”

“Where?” 

“I hear Colombia is beautiful around this time of the year,” she said, “Let me know when you’ve made arrangements. I’ll send you the location once you’ve touched down.”

Damien gave it some time before sighing loudly, “Fine.”

“Oh, and Damien?”

“Yeah?”

“Come alone.”

He had dissected the entire conversation with Michael at length afterwards. They both agreed that it was a trap. Either she wanted something, even though she hadn’t mentioned anything. She wasn’t the type to give handouts. Or Anderson was using her to lure in Damien this time. Possibly both.

In any case, it would get them closer to the elusive ex-CIA director. If she had honest intentions, which Damien very much doubted, they would end up with more actionable intel on Project Veritas. 

Since their lead on Liam Desmond had gone nowhere back in Bosnia, it was easily decided that letting the ex-Mossad agent’s ploy play out was the best course of action. 

That was how Damien ended up flying in all by himself, while Michael arrived with the team the day before to set up the Crib.

His phone was next to his cup, and it chose that moment to ping, shattering the momentary peace. Damien glanced at the screen. He saw a string of numbers before the screen went dark. 

“Levi just forwarded the coordinates,” he mumbled to the mouthpiece of the earphone that was dangling off of his right ear, and took a sip of his coffee.

“It's a small town in Bosa, southwest of Bogotá,” Richmond’s voice came through the open line a few seconds later. The Crib had remote access to monitor all incoming calls and messages on his phone. “That’s fourteen klicks via Avenue Ciudad de Cali from where you are. A forty-minute ride if the traffic conditions stay unchanged.” 

The mobile command was set up in central Bogotá, in the vicinity of the Council HQ in case they needed to relocate and request additional resources. For the moment, they were operating covertly, since they couldn’t be certain if Levi had any contacts within the Council.

Damien was just outside the El Dorado International Airport, having only arrived an hour ago. The small cafe promising authentic Colombian brew had drawn his attention. He was pleased to find out that they actually kept their word.   

“Looks like an abandoned patch of land with a single navigable entry point via ground,” Sinclair added, “You will drive through the township and further past what looks like a strip of scrapyard to enter the area.”

“At least a kilometer-radius of flat and open ground around the meeting point,” Richmond went on, describing the rendezvous point further, “No buildings, trees or any other structures to provide decent cover in the vicinity.”

“Yeah, sounds like a place Levi would go for,” Damien shrugged, “The size of the area is well within the range of her senses. She’d have checked the perimeter top to bottom before setting up the meet.”

“Is she going to show up with a team?”

“I don’t think so,” Damien replied, “She works alone. Besides, she’s offered help and I’m here on my own free will to take it. No need to try and kidnap me or anything.”

“She’s only given you an hour,” Grant joined in, “She expects you there at eighteen hundred hours.” The next part of her comment was directed more at Michael, “Finding an overwatch post without alerting the target is going to be tight.”

“I’ll manage, ma’am” Michael sounded distracted. 

Damien figured he was studying the satellite overview of the grounds to find a place to hunker down and provide backup. By what he had heard so far, Damien felt the scrapyard would be Michael’s best bet. It was still at the extreme range for a sniper perch, but he had faith in Michael’s sharp-shooting skills. With his rather unique ability to conceal himself from prying senses, Damien felt confident Michael would be able to stay close enough to intervene if things went to shit. 

“Alright,” Damien said, finishing his coffee. “I’m going to go find a ride.”

Placing a tip under the cup, he stood up. He rolled up his earphones to stick it in his jacket pocket along with the phone. It was time to get moving. 

Chapter Text

Bosa
Bogotá
Colombia

17:48 Hours

Damien made it to his destination with twelve minutes to spare. He parked the rental pickup truck in the middle of the empty land. The gravel crunched under his boots as he climbed out. He leaned against the closed door, facing the narrow winding path through the junkyard. To his right, the clear, cloudless sky greedily held onto the orange tint of the setting sun.

With a thought, he loosened the shields around his mind, inviting the Psionic energies of Colombia to enhance his senses. The rush that filled him in wasn’t that much different from what he had wielded back in the western Balkans. The tropical energies carried a touch of untamed wilderness, tempered with conflicting senses of reticence, curiosity and asperity.

A slow, sweeping glance with his dialled-up sight didn’t reveal any threats lurking in the perimeter. The junkyard that acted as a boundary between the township and the empty lands was equally deserted. The scents and the sounds also confirmed his visual assessment. 

The only reason he knew Michael was there with him was because Micheal told him. He was hidden in the junkyard somewhere to Damien’s left, and Damien couldn’t exactly pinpoint where. It would have unnerved him if it wasn’t for the warm, intensely focused presence in his mind.

I forgot how much I hate it when you do that. Damien grumbled, letting his thoughts poke around Michael’s presence. 

He knew he could easily remedy the situation by completely opening himself up to the Plane and letting his Sentinel side take over. But that would only alert Levi of the full scale of his abilities. Damien had never done it before and he didn’t see the need to do so now, especially since a lot had changed after he had bonded with Michael. Besides, he had never trusted Levi all that much.

Do what? A sliver of confusion bumped gently against his mind.

This chameleon act of yours, Damien thought, You just blend in with your surroundings and disappear. 

He felt Michael flip through the memories he called to the surface; the time they had met at the Royal Lotus, when they had been travelling with the EU committee just before getting captured by the Hassanis and finally when Levi had made contact.

It’s a stealth technique. Michael shared, letting bits and pieces of his own memories overlap Damien’s. Mother made me train my shields not long after I joined the military. As a precaution, in case I came online on the battlefield. 

It’s impressive, Damien admitted, letting the admiration wash over his misgivings, it drives me nuts, but it’s fucking impressive.

If you can’t pinpoint me, Levi definitely won’t know. Michael pointed out, his thoughts warm with fond amusement. Any sign of her yet?

Damien extended his hearing past the dumping ground, which was a thousand-yard-wide strip of land extending along the edge of the township. Lots of traffic - cars, motorcycles and trucks - zigzagged through the alleys of the small town, its residents hurrying home after a hard day’s work. Sounds of idle chatter, machinery, stray animals and a hundred other things allowed Damien to picture the town in his mind in all its evening glory with accuracy. 

None of the vehicles took the winding curve towards the scrapyard, which was at about two and a half miles’ distance from where he stood.

Not yet. 

“Bravo Two’s in position.” Damien heard the faint whisper of Michael updating the Crib, “Waiting for contact.”

She’s probably waiting somewhere to see if you were followed, Michael switched back to communicating via the link, Or called for backup.

I think I hear an engine around the corner. Could be her.

A nondescript Toyota Corolla came down the road as Damien watched, and stopped parallel to his pickup about ten feet in front of him. 

Rebecca Levi got out of the car with the sleek grace of a feline. She was a tall woman, almost as tall as Damien. She had her long, wavy black hair clipped to the base of her neck at the back. She wore a tightfitting jacket, a pair of tightfitting jeans and tactical boots, that accentuated her lean frame. Her make-up was subtle, which made her lips painted in dark red all the more prominent. It was her usual getup when she was on a job.

Damien saw her nostrils flaring minutely as the Sentinel in her scented the air around him. Other than his gun and the phone, there was nothing on him or in his pickup that would set off any alarms. Damien returned the favour. Apart from her collection of concealed guns and knives, he couldn’t sniff out anything too suspicious from her either. 

“Rebecca Levi,” Damien flashed a grin. He stayed where he was, his back against the door, and made no move to pull her into a hug as he would have in the past. It was a subtle reminder to her that things have changed.

“Damien Scott,” she matched his grin, “as irascible as ever.”

He felt her shields brush against his, partly in greeting, partly probing. A faint sensation rippled through his shields, and Damien felt the smooth layers turn a little grainy, uneven. Michael’s presence faded to the back of his mind, undetected, yet watchful.

It was only then Damien remembered that his shields had changed since he had bonded. He had gotten so used to the new feeling, that he had forgotten their pre-bonded state. 

Frankincense and myrrh were prominent fragrances in Levi’s personal scent, which reminded Damien how important her religion was to her despite her career. Or maybe because of it. The subtle undertones of benzoin, red wine, and desert sand washed over him before withdrawing back to her. 

“You made me fly all the way out here to the drug dealer capital,” Damien said lightly, “you better not have wasted my time.”

“Oh, were you busy?” She tilted her head, and mirrored his pose against the side of her car, “Last I checked, you were unemployed.”

Damien shrugged, “Maybe I’m beginning to enjoy all that money I have sitting around in the bank.”

“At least, you can’t accuse Christy of leaving you high and dry,” Levi said. Accusation darkened the humour in her eyes as they locked onto him, “Admit it, she wasn’t all that bad. She didn’t have to die.”

You don’t know the half of it, Damien thought, holding her gaze unflinchingly, “Well, she is,” his tone brokered no more dwelling on the subject, “move on.”

Levi’s lips quivered into a thin smile. Damien could guess its meaning. If she can’t poke that wound, she’d pick another. 

“Where’s your Guide?”

He let the expression on his face harden. “Not here.”

“He didn’t want to tag along?” she prodded. Her shields glanced off against his while she attempted to catch him in a lie, “This concerns him as much as it does you.”

Damien remained still, and silent, letting her probe to her heart's content. His pulse remained steady, and his shields were firm around his mind, giving away nothing.

“You didn’t tell him!” She exclaimed, her eyes wide in surprise, “He doesn’t know!”

“Here’s the thing, Levi,” Damien said, knowing his voice would convey the truth in his words, “I don’t trust you. Did you think I’d risk his safety after everything he went through? Besides, I’m more than capable of dealing with you by myself.”

“I could have showed up with backup.” She challenged, “This could very well have been a trap.”

“And I’d have taken you all down with me.” Damien let his smile turn feral, just enough to portray him as the pissed-off, unstable Sentinel she seemed convinced he was. 

“Fair enough,” she relented and softened her tone, “I’m glad you came.” 

“Lay it out on me, then, see if I can reciprocate the sentiment.”

Levi nodded and unzipped her jacket halfway to reach inside. She took out the leather pouch he had sniffed earlier. There were two transparent, glass vials inside it, sealed and not bigger than the size of his thumb. They were both filled with a colourless liquid.

“What’s that?” Damien felt Michael’s presence in his mind sharpen in reaction to his suspicion.

“This is a sample of what they infected your Guide with,” she said, handing it over to Damien, “A pretty sturdy chemical formulae, I’d say. Easy to store, no need for special temperature or pressure conditions. Completely harmless until introduced to circulation directly. You don’t have to trust me. Take it to a lab and have it compared against his blood cultures. You’ll see what I mean. This is proof that I know what I’m talking about.”

“And not what you promised me in the first place,” Damien pointed out while placing the pouch inside his own jacket pocket. 

He hadn’t expected her to show up with the promised goods. But he hadn’t expected her to bring an actual sample of the gene-mutating drugs either. If she was being honest, they’d finally have a fresh sample of what Anderson had used on Michael to test and work on.

As far as the hooks went, it was a good one. Now, Damien just had to see what she had in store for the line and sinker. 

“Of course not,” she winked, “We’re still at the first stage of negotiations after all.” 

Damien obligingly took the hint, “What do you want in exchange?”

In answer, she turned around, unlocked the backdoor of her car and retrieved the file that was lying on the seat, “An extraction.”

Damien opened the file. The man who stared back at him was a blue-eyed, caucasian somewhere in his forties. He had a curly, mess of black hair that made him look more like a singer back in the 70s than an Anthropology professor as his bio page claimed. It was the target’s location that caught his interest: the British Embassy.

Huh, Michael mused. Looks like she wants you to rope me in after all.

“I work for the people who want to stop Anderson and his ilk,” Levi revealed while Damien skimmed the details of the target and the job, “You know how dangerous they are. None of us with the gene are safe while they run around, using us as guinea pigs to turn into mutants for their entertainment.”

“So this guy is involved too?”

“You could say that,” she shrugged, nodding at the file, “Look at his profession. He was one of the leading advisors of Veritas.”

“And he runs free?” Damien snapped, allowing his tone to sharpen in anger.

“He turned whistleblower when he realised the noose was closing in around them,” Levi tilted her head, staring at him thoughtfully, “Why don’t you ask Colonel Locke? I’m sure there’s an entire file on the guy.”

“I’m still waiting for the part where you tell me how you got involved in this mess in the first place,” Damien reminded her, letting her realise that he wasn’t entirely sold on the story she had laid out for him, “All of this is very intriguing. I’ll even accept that this is a real sample for the sake of argument,” he tapped lightly over his jacket where the vial rested, “but you want me to deliver you a man for all I know is completely innocent. You’d either finish him off or hand him off to some shadow organisation with an agenda. I’m not convinced the price is worth what you’re offering, Levi.”

She watched him silently for a long moment, visibly debating her next decision.

“Adrian Castellanos.” She whispered the name so quietly he almost didn’t catch it.

It was a blast from the past out of the left field. A name Damien hadn’t thought of in a long while. He had a lot of good memories wrapped around that name, with a layer of heartbreak and pain that had taken some time to heal.

The shock of hearing that name connected to the current context left him reeling.

Damien? Michael’s presence was warm and reassuring with a hint of concern and curiosity mixed in.

I’m fine, he thought, wrenching himself out of his stupor, I’ll tell you later.

“I’ve given your number to him,” Levi continued in the same quiet tone, “He knows you’re here. Give him 24 hours. It’s his story to share. You’ll see what I mean when you meet him. Listen to him, and then you’ll know.”

“24 hours then,” Damien said gruffly, “That’s when you’ll know if I’m in or not.”

“Fair enough, Damien,” she said, turning around to climb back inside her car, “I hope you’ll make the right choice.”

Damien watched her drive off in a cloud of dust. “Yeah. So do I.”

***

As it turned out, Castellanos didn’t need twenty-four hours. In fact, he didn’t even need one. Damien’s phone rang with a blocked number twenty minutes later, just as he was entering Bogotá.

“Scott,” Damien said, putting the phone which was recharging in the dashboard holder, on speaker.

“Hello, lover.”  

The voice, the cadence and those rolling ‘r’s…they were all still the same. The words had the effect of transporting Damien instantly across six long years to a time when he had come very close to falling for another man. 

They had met back in 2005. Only a few months into working with the CIA, Damien had been on contract to infiltrate a Mexican drug cartel. Adrian had been a dancer in one of the cartel-run clubs. The attraction that had sparked between them had been instant and mutual. One thing had led to another, leading them to use each other for their own gains. Feelings had wormed their way into what had started as pure physical transactions. What had followed was a seven-month-long whirlwind of a romance, with both Bryant and Levi cheering them on. Then, on one fateful night, Adrian had realised the tattoo on Damien’s chest wasn’t a tattoo at all, but the mark of a Sentinel. That had led to an epic fight, ending the night that could have been filled with promises of something more, with them breaking each other’s hearts.

Damien had been angry and hurt, at first. Most of the Sentinels and Guides didn’t put their lives on hold until they met their true match. It was rare enough that most of them went on their whole lives without anything other than a surface or a conservator bond that kept them tethered. He had been ready to make a commitment to Adrian, wanting to pursue a relationship with the man that didn’t just involve fucking. To hold on to what he had in the present than to hold out for something with no guarantees in the future. 

It had taken a while for Damien to understand Adrian’s point, and even longer to accept it. But once he had, he had let go of Adrian and his feelings for the man. Then, when he had met Michael a little over three years later, Damien had been grateful for the choice.

He couldn’t help but feel a little relieved that Michael wasn’t around - in person or in his mind - to hear yet another one of his past escapades make a pass at him. Twice in the last seventy-two hours was already too many.

Damien wasn’t completely alone, however. He knew the Crib had eyes in the sky tracking him, and Michael’s silver Renault Duster was only four vehicles behind, effortlessly keeping up with him through the traffic.

“Not anymore,” he said, rolling to a stop at a red light. It was better to set the record straight from the get-go. “Not for a damned long while.” 

A long, dramatic sigh rattled through the line. “You’re still angry.”

“I’m angry at a lot of things,” Damien said, which wasn’t a lie, “But not you. Not really. It’s been a long time, Adrian. I’ve moved on.”

“I’m glad.” 

The short clipped tone betrayed the lie. Adrian Castellanos, born to a Mexican mother and a Greek father, had an explosive temper that was often swimming just under the surface. There had been times when Damien had enjoyed turning that hot fury into passionate desire. Now, it only managed to grate on his nerves, sparking an answering irritation.

“What’s going on?” He asked, pretending he hadn’t heard the emotional undercurrent. 

“I was wondering if I could see you.’

“Yeah,” Damien snorted and took the left turn. The traffic was considerably less condensed as the exit from the highway turned into a street leading towards the suburbs. “I’m a popular guy today.” 

“That’s not a no.”

The hopeful note in Adrian’s tone made Damien somewhat uncomfortable. The idea of meeting the guy face to face after all those years wasn’t something Damien was keen on. And it wasn’t only because of Michael. He had been truthful earlier. When he had cut those ties, Damien had cut them with finality. 

Unfortunately, it seemed the past wasn’t quite done with him yet. 

“No.” He sighed after a moment.

Castellanos rattled off the name of a hotel in the city proper. “Come find me at the bar,” he let his words stretch invitingly, “I’ll wait for you.”

“Fine,” with that curt acknowledgement, Damien cut the call.

Michael, he thought, letting the soft call slide along the bond. Change of plan.

Four Seasons Casa Medina
Chapinero
Bogotá
Colombia

19:28 Hours/Local

The bar was located on the hotel grounds. The patrons were required to cross the lobby and walk through the outer corridor that curved around the swimming pool and the surrounding garden to reach it. 

Since the dinner service had started, more people were coming out than going in. The crossover foot traffic helped Michael blend in as he followed Damien a few steps behind.

By silent, mutual agreement, Michael made his way towards the row of wooden stools lined up along the bar counter while Damien made a beeline to one of the couches arranged around a table in a secluded area. 

It was a nice place, Michael had to admit. The mix of cigar smoke, alcohol and faint notes of incense was inviting rather than overbearing. The place was spacious for a bar, he noted as he found an unoccupied seat at the edge of the counter. Whitewashed walls and the grey linoleum floor were bathed in the low glow of golden ambient lighting, casting the interior in cosy darkness. 

Apart from where they entered, Michael clocked two other exits. One was to his immediate left, leading towards the restrooms and the emergency stairs. The other was on the opposite side of the bar counter, presumably extending towards the area that served as a pool bar for the swimmers. 

Only half of the bar stools were occupied for the moment; some awaited their drinks while the others chatted up the bartender. The rest stared up at the TV screen hung on the wall beyond, where a game of football was playing on mute.  

Michael concentrated on adjusting his shields minutely before signalling the bartender. He hadn’t had anything to eat since a late breakfast and he was starving. To conceal himself from the advanced senses of the online gene carriers, Michael had to draw a lot of Psionic energies into himself and hold them in his mind. Then he used those energies to adjust his shields and mimic his surroundings while maintaining a subtle ‘there’s nothing here’ compulsion around him. It was a process that required a lot of effort and continued focus. Michael needed something substantial to boost his already drained energy levels and combat the headache he could feel beginning to pulse at the base of his neck.

At least, the music playing in the background had a soft, crooning melody of a classic. It quietly and seamlessly blended into the low murmurs of the thirty or so people without turning into a noisy racket. 

The guy at your nine o’clock. Damien’s thought had him looking up and checking the mirror lining the wall behind the liquor shelves. That’s him.

What Michael saw gave him pause.

The man Damien was referring to was slow dancing with a woman who was at least twice his age. He had a tall, sinewy body, and he was doing his damn best to show it off by swirling his not-quite-as-graceful partner in delicate circles. 

Michael had thought he had the measure of Damien’s preferences when it came to his rather colourful sex life. Judging by the women he had already met - Bryant, the ones back in Afghanistan, even the Israeli femme-fatale wannabe, Rebecca Levi - Michale had been quite certain that Damien’s type ran towards stunning women with an element of danger. 

Although he had intellectually known that Damien had previous experience with men, Michael had never really wondered about their looks, professions or personalities. It had never even occurred to him to ask. Because none of it ever really mattered compared to what they had together.

Seeing the man with the soft, almost feminine features and liquid grace, made him wonder if that was what Damien had preferred in men before they met.

The quick background check the Crib had managed to conduct during the ten minutes it had taken them to get to the bar placed Castellanos’ age at twenty-eight, a dual citizen of both Mexico and Greece due to his mixed parentage. His allegiances with the Los Zetas cartel had earned him the attention of the intelligence agencies, although all his connections to the Mexican criminal world had ended in late 2006 when he had moved out of the country. Castellanos’ travel records had him travelling around the world through the next few years, to Paris, Ukraine and New Zealand, before he made his way back to South America.

Adrian Castellanos had obviously timed his performance. Michael had no doubt he had seen Damien enter the bar. He had deliberately chosen to place himself on the dance floor where no one would miss the effort he was putting into suggestively swaying his body.

Jesus fucking Christ. Damien's soft curse sent a ripple through the bond. In his periphery, Michael saw Damien speaking quietly to a server.

Are you alright?

Yeah. Just wanna get this over with.  

He had felt an echo of the jolt Damien felt when Levi had mentioned the name. The Sentinel hadn’t bothered to hide the mix of joy and heartbreak associated with that period of his life. Michael understood that it was someone Damien had cared about a lot, and felt a lot of pain when that relationship had ended. 

It was also clear to him that when it had ended, it had ended for good. It had been a clean break. While Damien still cared for the guy on a certain level, he harboured no residual romantic feelings. However, Damien suspected that was not the case for Castellanos, hence his discomfort Michael could still feel hovering like a dark cloud over the bond.

Damien opened his beer and watched calmly while Castellanos ended the dance with a ringing laugh, letting go of the older lady with a kiss on her cheek. The music changed to something slightly more upbeat, and he sauntered his way over to Damien as if he were planning on starting another dance.

“Damien Scott,” he sing-songed in a lilting tone, cocking his head at Damien and spreading his arms, “Baby, you haven’t changed at all.”

Damien didn’t stand up, or fall into his ex-lover's arms the way he was obviously expected to do. Instead, Damien took a sip of his beer and lifted the bottle in the air in a half-hearted salute. “Adrian.”

Castellanos folded himself elegantly on the couch next to Damien’s and leaned over the armrest. “So that’s how it is, huh?”

“That’s how it’s been since 2006,” Damien shrugged and leaned back in his chair. Michael felt the aura of his presence change when he opened a few layers of his shields, “you and I are done, remember?”

His scent’s been changed. 

Letting his breathing fall into a slow, even rhythm, Michael closed his eyes, and let his consciousness flow along the bond to Damien. The Sentinel in him had caught the whiff of something that wasn’t quite right.

“Would you believe me if I said letting you go was the biggest mistake I ever made in my life?” 

Through Damien’s heightened senses, Michael saw Adrian Castellanos in an entirely different light, as if seeing him through an ultra-high definition filter. His pupils, which were strangely dotted with white specks, were blown enough to swallow his dark, blue irises. A thin sheen of sweat from his earlier dancing added a shining gold tone to his blemishless skin in the low lighting. His nostrils flared from time to time in response to the way his breathing seemed to pick up as he continued to stare at Damien. 

Then there was his scent. 

Blended in his aftershave, sweat and a plethora of other scents Michael had no hope of identifying, there were unmistakable strands of acrid, almost burning notes that could only be classified as artificial chemicals. 

The Sentinel within Damien stirred. Micahel felt the presence of the ancient Prime wrap around him protectively. Something about Adrian Castellanos had the Sentinel on edge.

“I believe your feelings are as unpredictable as the weather, and you change your mind faster than a pit crew in F1,” Damien snorted. His words were sharper in response to his Sentinel’s agitation. “Spare me the drama, Adrian.”

Castellanos drew back, and let his head fall against the backrest. But his gaze never left Damien’s, “I’ve changed.” he murmured, shrugging delicately, “I’m not as – how’d you say… as volatile anymore. I’ve calmed down a lot,” he flashed a perfect, white row of teeth in a self-deprecating smile, “Still, baby, you can’t lie and say you didn’t enjoy taming me and my storms.”

“As fun as those times were, they are exactly where they belong. In the past,” Damien responded lightly, his even, calm tone conveying his genuine feelings, “In case you haven’t heard, I have a Guide.”

Castellanos didn’t take kindly to the reminder. Pure fury flashed in his gaze before he could duck his head and close his eyes to hide the reaction. He let out a long, weary sigh that was supposed to sound stricken rather than aggrieved.

“I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” he mumbled quietly. 

“You’re supposed to tell me what you know. That’s why I’m here,” Damien said, taking a sip of his beer, “I need information. Not a distraction or another option. If this is one of Levi’s poor attempts at trying to get you and me together, I’m walking.”

Castellanos looked up at that, and pinned Damien with a pleading look, “I can share my story with you, baby… but Levi is right,” his hand found its way to Damien’s and his long, clammy fingers wrapped around Damien’s wrist, “I can give you a lot more than that.”

What happened the moment Castellanos’ bare skin made contact with Damien’s was utterly shocking. And impossible. 

The things that came to life around the man’s mind weren’t shields, not the natural ones a gene carrier would inherit at birth, at any rate. One moment, Castellanos was a perfectly normal non-gene carrier, and the next, there was a storm of splinters raging around his mind, tearing to get free. The abrasive, brambled wave that crashed over Damien’s shields reminded Michael of the chemical barriers that had been erected around his mind when Anderson had forced a Nullifier collar on him. Except only a thousand times worse.

The chemical-induced shields Michael had fought hadn’t had the madness, the hunger to reach and hold on like the ones he felt converge around Damien in an uncontrolled surge. The shields, somehow artificially mutated to bear sharp, claw-like Psionic hooks, had only one determination driving its wild, slashing attack: grab the Sentinel.

Michael had a split second to spare a thought at his own body, which was now mostly unoccupied since he was in Damien’s mind, to stay on the barstool without toppling to the ground. With that done, he focused his entire attention on the invasive force, letting Damien’s shields ripple and scatter where those hungry tentacles wanted to latch on.

Shattered fragments of frustration, fury and unbridled desire crashed against Damien's shields, ebbing and cresting along with the reaching, unnatural Psionic energies. Castellanos had no idea how to control his intentions or his shields. He had no understanding of why he couldn’t grab hold of the shields he so thoroughly craved while they slipped and slid around his woefully untrained and ignorant attempts.

It didn’t last long, possibly a few seconds until Damien got over his shock and snatched his hand back with a growl.

However, for Michael, it felt as if he had spent an eternity preventing those forces from touching his Sentinel without revealing his own presence. If Castellanos had even the slightest clue of what he was doing, he would have realised a Sentinel’s shields would never have reacted in that manner.

The sudden disappearance of the malignant forces crashed over Michael’s consciousness like a whiplash. He had to anchor himself to the bond to stop himself from washing away with those withdrawing fragments. The Sentinel - now fully on the surface in a raging response to the wholly unacceptable claim Castellanos had tried to stake - curled around him reassuringly.

“What the fuck was that?” A subsonic roar seethed out of Damien. Michael knew everyone in the bar felt the echoes of it in their chests even though none of them heard it.

Castellanos flinched. His eyes were wide in fear for the first time. Michael thought he caught a flash of more white specks winking out in his blue-black eyes. The agitated energies around him sunk back inside him in a hurry as if they had never been released in the first place. 

“I–”

“Did you just try to get in my fucking head?” Damien continued to grow low in his throat, “The last time someone tried that, it didn’t end well for her.”

Castellanos folded in on himself, and held his hand against his chest, as if burned. His gaze locked onto Damien’s, whose eyes Michael knew would be flooded with the obsidian energies.

 “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Castellanos forced out, swallowing thickly, “I was just trying to help.” 

“You can help by telling me what the fuck happened to you,” Damien snarled, “Whatever the fuck I just felt, it’s not normal.”

The fear in Castellanos’ eyes faded as they watched, only to be replaced by his earlier persona of casual confidence and oozing sensuality. Whatever had happened, it didn’t look like Castellanos had been traumatised by his experience.

“I was in Panama last December. I had a client,” he started softly, “Two months in, something happened. I’m not sure exactly what. All I remember is walking into a club one night, and waking up a week later in my apartment. I had no memory of what happened. Although, I thought I was going crazy because I could hear other people’s thoughts.”

Lies mixed with the truth, Michael shared.

More like somebody pitched him a deal and he jumped in with both feet, Damien agreed.

“Once I got over my initial shock and panic, it was kinda fun,” Castellanos let his lips curl to the side charmingly, “It was like having a superpower, you know? I could literally hear what everyone was thinking. Anyway, you know me. It could all have gone terribly wrong, but I got lucky. Levi found me before I got into serious trouble.”

Michael sensed a plate of wings and a tall glass of club soda on the bar counter in front of him. The bartender still didn’t seem to notice him, or the others on the bar stools nursing their drinks. While he was confident that the other man wouldn’t try another stunt, Michael couldn’t quite bring himself to withdraw just yet.

“She got me into a facility,” Castellanos continued, his pulse a little uneven in instinctive response to the fabrication he was weaving, “Introduced me to some researchers who knew what happened to me. The tests confirmed that someone fucked with my genes, and injected me with some kind of an experimental drug. It turned me into a Guide. I spent the next few months with them training, trying to get a hold of everything.”

“So these people,” Damien interjected sceptically, “Couldn’t they reverse what was done?”

“They said they could,” Castellanos admitted, ducking his head bashfully, “But I wanted to wait. I guess, in my heart, I wanted to hold out for you. Once I heard what happened, first with Christy, and then with Anderson, it was almost as if you weren't meant for what you were chasing. I just thought maybe I could finally give you what you need, be your Guide if that’s what it meant. Something I never ever thought possible, the reason we had to part ways.”

Damien snorted. The Sentinel in him huffed angrily and tightened its presence around Michael possessively. Michael sighed. It seemed in his twisted mind, Castellanos still held a candle to Damien. In his web of lies, that admission shined true.

“Well, you thought wrong,” Damien informed him, invoking another spark of indignance to flash in his dark eyes, “Michael’s my Guide, and that won’t change. I’d never stop looking for a way to reverse what was done to him,” he added, knowing it would serve to strengthen the wrong assumptions Levi, Castellanos and possibly Anderson harboured, “Even if all that fails, and I can’t find a way to bond with him, I still won’t leave him.”

“Why?” Castellanos demanded, his brows drawing together in anger.

“That Adrian, you’ll never understand even if I spent the entire night explaining to you,” Damien said easily, while his mind went warm around Michael, “Now, I’d like to meet these people. The ones who helped you after what happened. If they had the option to change what happened to you, they’d definitely have the means to help Michael.”

“I thought you might.” Castellanos flashed a self-satisfied grin.

“Levi wants to deal,” Damien said, knocking down what was left of his beer in a single swallow, “She wants something from me, and I’m only getting involved if there’s something in it for me. That’s where you come in. And I’m sure, Levi didn’t send you my way out of the goodness of her rotten little heart. If I know her, which I do, she has your balls in a tight grip too. So do us all a favour and spit it out. Then you can get whatever she has for you, and she’ll get what she wants from me. Wins all around.”

Jesus, Michael couldn’t hold back his annoyance from leaking through to Damien, the fucking woman couldn’t just tell you about these people when you met? She knows them already!

Yeah, but then it would have been too easy, Damien pointed out, and she’d have missed the chance to orchestrate all this drama. Me seeing Adrian and the way he had changed added more credibility to her story.

“They are a secretive bunch,” Castellanos said after a moment, “And their security is as tight as it can be. If I tell you about the facility and you go with all your guns blazing, you’re going to end up dead. Give me 24 hours to arrange a meeting. I’ll get back to you with the details.” 

"Just remember,” Damien murmured, “Until you prove you can deliver what I’m after, I’m keeping Levi hanging in the wind.”

***   

Damien stayed where he was after Adrian took his leave, following him with his extended senses all the way out to the parking lot and into his rental until he drove off. Once he was certain there was no one else paying him any undue attention, he stood up and walked over to where Michael was hunched over himself by the bar counter. Damien could sense that his shields had turned back to normal, smooth and Guide-like, finally revealing him to the rest of the world.

“You okay?” Damien asked softly, resting his hand over the back of Michael’s neck where he was pretty sure a reaction headache would be pounding by then. His skin was too warm to the touch, and Damien felt the Psionic energies flow through to Michael from him without any guidance. 

“Yeah,” Michael let out a low groan, leaned into the touch and closed his eyes.“Just tired.”

The incredible smell of untouched food in front of Micahel reminded Damien how hungry he was. He stole a wing from the plate. “Oh, this is delicious,” he murmured appreciatively and caught the eye of a server to signal for another order. Then he turned back to Michael, who looked completely drained and ready to fall asleep against his arm. “Listen, we can just stay here tonight.”

“Nah,” Michael blinked wearily, “we need to hand over those samples to send back home.”

The samples Levi had handed over were still in his jacket pocket. Damien had almost forgotten. 

“I’ll leave my rental here. The company can pick it up,” He was sure he could expense the extra charge to the British military. Besides, Michael’s Duster had all the guns in it. “I’ll drive us back.”

“That works,” Michael mumbled. His lack of argument confirmed that Damien had made the right call. “Thanks.”

“Aren’t you going to have any of this food?” 

“I should.” Michael sighed, making no move to do so. “I will, in a minute. Leave me some.”

“I ordered more,” Damien said, nibbling on another wing. “Anyway, what did Adrian do? It felt like a brand when he touched me. I know you did something with my shields. What was it?”

“The same thing Bryant tried to do,” Micheal said quietly, finally plucking a wing out of the plate, “Only with zero understanding, knowledge and training.”

“So, he was right?” Damien asked, intrigued. He hadn’t felt anything but that initial burn and an instinctive disgust, which had made him snatch his hand away. He hadn’t really believed Adrian’s claim about turning Guide-like. His bizarre shields had felt nothing like that of a Guide. 

“His shields had the same feeling of those chemical barriers I had to fight while wearing the null collar,” Michael explained, “Just that there was nothing natural, or controlled about them. Even Rana’s feral shields were better than those things.”

“So Project Veritas is alive and thriving globally,” Damien muttered. 

He had no sympathy for Adrian, however. He knew that Adrien had fully consented to the changes he had undergone. He and Levi were working two angles to convince Damien that they had all the answers. 

“I’d say.”

“Listen, Michael,” Damien murmured, forcing himself to look at his Guide rather than the half-empty plate between them. “I’m sorry you had to sit through all that other shit. Adrian and I… it’s been over for a long time.” 

He knew Michael had sensed all his emotions, and he hadn’t pried. Still, Damien felt inclined to say the words.

“It’s alright,” Michael shrugged. A teasing smile stretched on his lips as he slowly turned to face Damien, “Now, would I like to continue without more mentally unstable supermodels with prior claims to my Sentinel crawling out of the woodwork? Yes, I would. Unfortunately, it's the job. So I guess I’ll have to suck it up and keep going.”

“Supermodels, huh,” Damien grinned, and pulled Michael close to plant a loud, wet kiss on his temple. Micahel squirmed in his hold, laughing and cursing at him for smearing barbeque sauce on his face, “What can I say? It’s my animal attraction. And I got to keep the best one out of them all.”

Chapter Text

The Next Day

Unguía
Chocó Department
Colombia

09:12 Hours/Local

After a week of waiting, followed by a fifteen-hour flight, and another hour in the air inside an ancient Cessna that rattled and groaned its way to a private airfield as if it was in its dying throes, Liam was finally back on the ground in the butt fuck of nowhere. 

He had been surprised when the coordinates Leatherby had forwarded actually showed up on the map as a municipality in northern Colombia, with a name and a flag and everything.

Still, it didn't change the fact that Liam had been summoned to the dredges of civilisation, to the edge of the wilderness where humanity and its markers faded and gave way to the jungle. An empty, minimally-paved strip of land and a single, squat building to the distance made up the airfield. The dense rainforest acted as a boundary, barely kept back with wire mesh fencing erected around the property. The sky bore all the shades of melancholy grey. The only break from the murky monotony was provided by the occasional lightning webbing across the thick clusters of clouds in flashes of blue, red and orange. 

Everything on the ground was dominated by the thriving greens, the cool air permanently suffused with a scent layer of petrichor. The ground was grass-covered, wet and muddy with not a single dry patch of soil to be found. All of that, combined with the continuous rain that fluctuated from storms to drizzles with no particular pattern or warning, Liam was willing to bet that the concept of sunshine may have been reduced to a myth in the region. 

His ride was already there: A Range Rover with generous layers of mud and filth all over its camouflage paint job parked next to the ATC/office building. Liam had crossed half the distance when he felt the faint sensation of unfamiliar shields brush against his own in inquiry and greeting.

‘Unfamiliar’ was perhaps not the entirely correct word to describe the feeling. 

The shields were only unfamiliar because Liam had never met the owner of them in person before. However, the rough, almost abrasive exterior of those shields, with undeniable undercurrents of strength, durability, and raw power, were quite similar to his own. The way they slid against the guards around his mind sparked faint ripples of recognition that had survived through trials of time. Liam felt the Sentinel within him stir in response and reach out through his shield to touch a presence it had instantly decided was one of its own kind… a kindred spirit of a sort.

He had a feeling that reaction would change the tone of their meeting.

“Well, well, well, Liam Desmond,” James Leatherby climbed out of the Rover with a hand extended, “Your daddy had been shielding a gem, hadn’t he?” 

The Scot was almost as tall as him, with short, dark hair, a straight nose and a moustache. He looked to be in his early forties, although Liam knew for a fact that he was far older than he looked. Their way of dabbling in the dark, mostly unknown uses of the Psionic energies had rather enticing side effects. Something to which Leatherby’s permanently obsidian eyes bore witness silently.

“Can’t say I’m surprised,” he continued as Liam shook his hand, “Out of the rest of us, Chris was the one who had the most talent, and yet the least willing to get involved than he absolutely had to. Funny how that works.”

“The rest of you, huh?” Liam flashed a knowing grin, “I know my Dad was the Contractor. You are the Broker. I know there’s a Facilitator, although I’m yet to learn his name.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be pleased to meet you,” Leatherby shrugged, staring at him thoughtfully, “Although, I’m not certain he’d have tolerated your method of making contact. He’d have contracted an assassin and tried to have you killed for insolence. Now, me, I’m a kind-hearted fellow with a certain appreciation for dramatics. You made the right choice by contacting me.”

“I figured,” Liam said, smiling thinly, “McKenna was the only link I knew that could lead me to the inner circle,” seeing Leatherby’s expectant expression, Liam decided it was time to show a little humility, something the Sentinel within the Broker would certainly notice, “Her death, however, wasn’t entirely planned. Things… got away from me.”

Leatherby hummed, a faint smile twitching on his lips under his prominent moustache, “I’m sure you’ll think of a way to compensate me for my loss.”

Liam opened the duffel hanging off his shoulder and pulled out the small, leather-bound ledger. “Let me start with this,” he said, holding it out to Leatherby, “As promised, I have no need for it.”

Leatherby plucked the book out of his hand and threw it inside the back of the Rover without even giving it a glance. “Returning what amounts to my own property isn’t going to be enough, Junior.”

Liam let his smile widen, “As you’re well aware, I have an inherent skillset and the willingness to use it,” he reminded the Broker easily, “I know McKenna was useful to you, but I believe the role I can fulfil in her place will be even more profitable, especially since I’m open to sharing my skills freely for knowledge. At least, at first. Unlike my father, I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.”

“You’ve already proven that,” Leatherby acknowledged his point with an incline of his head, “Tell me Liam, what made you throw away the nice little life your father made sure to leave behind for you and pursue us? Your father was a wise man. He knew the pros and cons of going down this rather dark road. He knew that once you step in, there’s no going back. Yet, here you are, staring right at the face of the thing your father fought to keep you away from.”

Leatherby had a point. As his father’s sole heir, Liam had inherited a massive amount of wealth his father had amassed over the decades selling his quite rare, unique and destructive products. When he had been bedridden, barely able to move on his own, Liam’s contributions had been restricted to new and sophisticated theories and concepts to improve his father’s designs. Although his father had never made him feel less for it, his inability to be more useful had always plagued Liam like a thorn stuck in his craw. 

He hadn’t expected his father to die along with his latest project, the same way he hadn’t expected to receive the rush of strength that had coursed through him, rejuvenating him, strengthening his feeble body and enlightening his mind. 

Liam believed that was the most important, precious gift his father left behind for him, not his money. With his legacy now firmly suffused to Liam in every way that mattered, Liam was determined to use every bit of that inheritance to fulfil his future ambitions. 

That was why he wanted to join forces with the intellectuals who broke through the worshipful, and oh-so-thoroughly restraining beliefs over the freely available energy source to a select few. He knew that was the only way to reach his true potential in the way his father never dared while he lived. 

“I’m a product of your work, just as my father, you and the others like us,” Liam said quietly, “This is where I belong. This is where I can attain a different future from the rest. From all those mindless sheep who don’t dare stick a toe across the line. And I can only do that after I’ve avenged the death of my father. Destroyed each and every soul who was responsible.”

“Liam,” Leatherby lowered his tone to match his own, “Your plans for your enemies might not be as same as ours. Where you might wish to see them dead, we might see other uses with them alive.”

“I do not care if they live or die, Leatherby,” Liam said fiercely, his Sentinel surfacing to reinforce his conviction, “For as long as I get to see them suffer a thousand times of the pain and grief they inflicted on me by killing my father.”

“Now,” Leatherby’s intense expression dissolved under a feral grin, “That, my dear fellow, can be quite easily arranged.” he turned on his heels, and opened the passenger-side door of the rover for Liam, “Let's go.”

“Where are we going?” Liam asked when Leatherby climbed in and started the engine.

Leathery turned to him and winked, “To see where the future you dream of is being born.”

Section-Twenty Mobile Command/The Crib
Suba
Bogotá
Colombia

09:30 Hours/Local

Osborne Holdings was an import and export company owned by a somewhat known British franchise. At least, that was what its registration papers said. The company even occasionally traded goods between the two countries and had about five staff members who showed up daily to keep up the appearance of an office. 

However, its main purpose was to accommodate intelligence assets when they were in need of a quiet place without alerting the authorities. To that end, Osborne Holdings had a fully equipped hidden basement that wasn’t even on the blueprints of the building. 

“We have a lead.” 

A red-eyed, frazzled Richmond barked at him the moment Damien stepped inside the dark cave of the Crib. Her rumpled BDUs looked like she had fallen asleep in them at some point. 

“Wow,” he teased, backing up a step with his hands up, “what happened to, ‘Hi Scott, good morning. How are you?’”

“Ask me when I haven’t been up for thirty-something hours.” She threw over her shoulder with a display of teeth that was more of a snarl than a smile and walked over to the workstation tucked against the left wall. ‘Where’s your other half?”

Damien’s other half came down the stairs then as if summoned by the question. Damien saw him take one look at Richmond, wince slightly and decide to sacrifice his second coffee for a better cause.

“Here you go.” 

A real smile finally broke through Richmond’s dark scowl when Michael placed the steaming, to-go cup on her desk next to her monitor.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Michael murmured and settled on the empty chair to her left. 

Damien moved the stack of files on the table behind her to a corner to make some space before sitting down on top of it. 

Suck up, he grinned at Michael.

Self-preservation, Michael sent back solemnly, I think she’d have pulled her gun on me.

Sleep deprivation and a loaded weapon are a bad combination. Damien had to agree.

“Working on the assumption that Rebecca Levi is working for Zebadiah Anderson, we had some feelers out to see if he’s popped up in the neighbourhood,” Richmond held the coffee in her right and typed with her left as she spoke. Being single-handed seemingly had no impact on the speed of her fingers on the keys. Her screen lit up with a collection of surveillance images. “Look who finally showed up.”

“That’s the motherfucker, alright,” Damien muttered, taking in the candid shots of the ex-CIA director, Zebadiah Anderson. “When and where?”

“The first set was taken in Tumaco,” Richmond said, dividing her screen to pull up the map of the region. According to the information label that popped up along with the pin, Tumaco was a port city and municipality in the Nariño Department, by the Pacific Ocean. It was located in the southwestern corner of Colombia, near the border with Ecuador. “He was dropped off by a narco-submarine, and was picked up by a supply boat.”

The satellite images were taken a few miles off the port, in the middle of the ocean. More of the focus was on the product in neat packaging, most probably drugs, being handed off to the submarine. Two of the stills had focused on Anderson however, one with him awkwardly climbing off the exit hatch on the tower, and one with him hanging onto the deck railing on the boat.

His hair was a little longer, darker and his dirty-blond beard had acquired a lot more land on his heavily-tanned face. But there was no mistaking that towering figure or those steel-blue eyes when he had been captured with high resolution, staring into the horizon with a massive scowl on his face. 

“He was picked up by an unmarked SUV once he was deposited on the land–”

It wasn’t the port. That much was obvious from the next cluster of images. According to the available geographic information, it was an isolated beach area a few miles further to the north of the main port. 

“Anderson and his driver spent the night in Pasto, Nariño,” Richmond continued, changing the display of the snapshots as she spoke, “and continued their drive the next morning towards their final destination: Florencia, Caquetá.”

“Where did they go next?” Michael asked. There were no more images after that.

“Deep into the Caquetá Moist Forest,” Richmond manipulated the map to focus on an area that was one giant blob of green. “It’s a transitional area between the Amazon Basin and the Guayana Shield. The HQ of a crime syndicate is located in the thick forest area, near the swamplands. Our source declined to share imagery of their main objective. Mainly because they claimed they don't have any shots of Anderson at the compound itself.” 

“Looks like Anderson’s luck finally took a turn,” Michael said, his gaze fixed on the photos of the ex-CIA director and his local driver outside an old, rundown motel, “After all the weeks of flying under the radar... and then he stumbled right into an ongoing surveillance operation.”

“It was the DEA,” Richmond revealed after gulping down half of the coffee in one go, “They had this guy–” she pulled up the mugshot of a Colombian native, possibly in his late forties, “Miguel ‘the jaguar’ Gomez, under investigation for drugs and human trafficking for a little over a year. They knew who they had caught in the net. They kept it under wraps because they didn’t want the word to leak and compromise their raid. The plan was to apprehend Anderson along with the rest of Gomez’s people, and then contact the CIA and the Council after the fact.”

“Huh,” Damien murmured, staring at the back of Richmond’s head, “How did you get them to cave?”

“I didn’t,” she shrugged, “I just about sold my soul to get the first few photos of his transit.” she turned to her left and flashed a sideways grin at Michael, “Then I contacted Colonel Locke. The rest came after that–” typing some more, she pulled up a detailed map of a small town in Caquetá along with a location pin, “Along with an invitation to visit the holding facility in Florencia where they’ll hold the fourteen prisoners, nine casualties and five fatalities for the next,” she checked her wristwatch, “eighteen hours to sort out the logistics.”

Your Dad’s never gonna let us forget how fucking scary he is, isn’t he? 

The DEA was a notoriously tight-lipped lot and knew how to fight dirty to maintain operational security. It didn't surprise Damien to learn that they had been willing to keep the CIA in the dark until the very end. Locke, on the other hand, had no trouble getting them to cough it all up with a phone call, or probably just a sternly-worded email even. 

He has friends everywhere, Michael thought back nonchalantly, as if it was a perfectly normal term to use for people Locke somehow managed to intimidate, blackmail or threaten into cooperating from his cosy office back in London. 

“Something tells me Anderson wasn’t in any of the three categories,” Damien said out loud, referring to the apprehended suspects held at the facility.

“No,” Richmond said, and turned her chair around so she could talk to both him and Michael directly, “But I figured you two would like to pay a visit while we’re waiting for Levi or Castellanos to make contact. Do the same thing you did with Hassani and see if any of them knows where he ran off to.”

“Sounds like a good way to kill time,” Damien shrugged. 

If Gomez had facilitated Anderson’s travels via smuggling routes and had him at his place as a guest, he would certainly have a lot more information on Anderson’s whereabouts. 

“Any word on Professor Blair?” Michael asked. 

While they had no plans to hand over the new player to Levi and her mysterious employers, they were interested in why the man had come under their crosshairs in the first place.  

“Colonel Grant and Major Sinclair went to the embassy just before you two arrived.” Baxter, Richmond’s assistant analyst, answered from two workstations away. He never took his eyes off the code that was changing rapidly on his own screen. “They haven’t made contact yet.”

“Here are the details of your travel arrangements,” Richmond grabbed a file off her desk and handed it to Michael. 

Leaning over, Damien saw that she had arranged for a commercial chopper which would take off from a private airfield in Suba in about twenty minutes. They would be in Florancia within two hours. 

“Your contact on the ground is Special Agent Kim Martinez. Here’s her file.” Richmond handed that folder to Damien. A dark-skinned woman in her mid-thirties glared back at him from her bio page. She was also a Level-Four Sentinel. When he looked up, Damien saw Richmond watching him with a tired grin. “Apparently, she’s a little pissed off about us wanting to trample all over her business. So tread lightly. Or not. Up to you.”

“Cheers, Richmond,” Michael said and stood up. They had about ten minutes to get to the airfield.

“You should get some sleep,” Damien said, joining Michael, “Let Baxter hold the fort for a while. I’m sure he could use the experience and would prefer to survive this job without any major trauma. You look like–” 

Damien couldn’t impart the rest of his wisdom without resorting to yelling since Michael had already dragged him by the arm halfway up the stairs by then. 

She was definitely reaching for her gun. Michael informed him.

It was only then Damien noticed that the glare on Richmond’s face had gone a few shades darker. Maybe Michael had a point.

“Bye, Richmond.” Damien managed to holler cheerfully just before the door banged closed after him.

Tapón del Darién
Chocó Department
Colombia

09:30 Hours/Local

The Darién Gap, the remote geographic region that connected the ass end of Panama to the northern part of Colombia, was a hellhole that superseded its reputation in every way imaginable. Consisting of a large watershed , dense rainforest , and mountains, to say it had difficult terrains, horrid weather and an extreme environment, would be the understatement of the century. 

If asked, Zeb would describe it as one of the most isolated and inhospitable pieces of land on Earth – the only land bridge between North and South America no one in their right mind wanted to brave. It was the reason why the utterly unnavigable, roadless area that spanned over 575,000 hectares from Colombia to Panama, was the ideal location for the most ambitious work Project Veritas had undertaken to date. 

The facility was called, ‘The Hub.’ To the geographically curious, it was located on the  Colombian side, with the eighty-mile wide flat marshlands created by the river delta of the Atrato River , serving as the facility’s eastern boundary. The rest was just endless green foliage spreading indefinitely in all directions, although Zeb had been told the range of mountains they could see to the south was called Serranía del Baudó , which apparently extended along Colombia's Pacific coast, into Panama. 

It had been a week since Zeb had bid farewell to the trappings of civilisation to relocate to his newest work post. As long as he was inside the complex, which was designed and built exactly the same as any modern-day, hi-tech, research facility, it was the easiest thing to pretend that he had never left. The illusion shattered the moment he took a peek out of one of the floor-to-ceiling windows while their shades were drawn up. Then, Zeb was greeted by all shades of green known to man, always blurred behind the sheets of rain that never really stopped. If he were to open one of those said windows, the sounds of thunder, raging wind, the continued racket of a million bugs and other wildlife would join in the greeting. If he were really unlucky, one of the critters or the snakes would take it as an invitation to slither its way in to say hello in person.

As hard as it was for him to wrap his head around the change of scenery, coming to terms with what they did there was a whole nother level of challenge.

A knock sounded at the door, snapping Zeb away from his musings.

Suppressing a sigh, he called out. “Come in.” 

The door opened to admit Nikolay Skander, the man who wore many hats at the Hub, including but not limited to being Zeb's second in command. 

“Director,” he drawled in his Eastern European accent, “the Broker called in. He’s on his way. He’ll arrive within the hour.”

While Arkady Ulyanov acted as the Facilitator, providing infrastructure, manpower, supplies and security for the projects, James Leatherby provided the test subjects, raw material, weapons, ammunition, and valuable contacts via his globally-spread networks, thereby claiming the title, the Broker. 

The unholy trinity of the middle echelon was missing the Contractor since Christopher Desmond had unfortunately met his end at the hands of his enemies. Ulyanov had hinted about a possible contender when he had called the day before to let Zeb know about Leatherby’s visit. Zeb wondered if Desmond’s prodigy had finally decided it was time to step in to fill his father’s considerable shoes. 

Zeb tried not to let the fact that some younger upstart would upstage him, and gain higher levels of access to Veritas and its secrets than him. It was how the world where he had chosen to dwell, operated. Bloodlines, genetics and inherent abilities always superseded money, influence and ambition.

Being in charge of the research facility with a little over two hundred people, which included the test subjects, scientists, enhanced groups, support staff, and security, looked good on paper. But it hadn’t taken Zeb a long time to figure out it was more of a punishment than a reward. The people under him got to claim the credit for all the accomplishments, while he got to shoulder the responsibility for screw-ups. Considering the extremely experimental nature of the work that was being conducted, the latter was in greater supply than the former.

“Dr Langdon reported a few minutes ago that Unit-13 is ready to move to the final stage,” Skandar announced, walking around Zeb’s desk to the windows overlooking the thick foliage. Shaking his head in disappointment, he pressed the button on the wall to retract the shades. The office remained dark in the low lighting, since there was no sunshine to stream through, only the never-ending rain falling from the forever-grey skies. “The beautiful view of nature is good for your soul, director. Also reminds you of the difference between what we do here and what we have been granted freely.”

Personal health guru and amateur philosopher, Zeb mentally added two more to Skandar’s growing list of skills. The only thing the view reminded him of was how trapped he was. He tried not to be too bitter about it. Zeb’s own skill set unfortunately did not include extreme wilderness navigation and survival. If he tried venturing out on his own, he’d be dead within the first twelve hours. 

“What happened to subject Eleven?” Zeb asked, redirecting his wandering mind back to work. Unit 13, which consisted of six online Sentinels and Guides, should have been sent to ‘Disposal’ two days ago. When one part of the chain malfunctioned or blocked, the entire process suffered. “Have they figured it out?

“Langdon said he forwarded his official report to you, Director,” Skandar said, turning around, “But, in short, the good doctor speculates that number Five somehow managed to initiate a surface bond with subject Eleven, triggering subject Eleven to wake up from his induced coma unexpectedly. They were the only two with unusual readings during the time of the incident. None of the others even twitched.”

Zeb stared at him, thinking. He had been reading all the reports and other research materials since he had arrived. The Hub had been conducting research, harvesting genetic material and playing with genomes for a little over three years. In all those years, there had never been an incident where a subject broke through an induced coma to try and make a run for it. 

He would have noticed.

What the incident did remind him was the extremely unexpected, yet infinitely fascinating phenomena he had witnessed during his own short experiment. Any online gene carrier breaking through a nullifier was unheard of until he saw it… felt echoes of it, as it happened. 

“Eleven must be a Level Five then,” Zeb said, mulling it over, “It’s fascinating that Five managed to project distress in her unconscious state enough to snap Eleven out from his.”

“Langdon has separated the two from the Unit on Dr Petrova’s request,” Skander went on, “She intends to branch out his research. She thinks, and Langdon agrees, that those two might be a matched pair. She wants to run the usual tests on shield compatibility.”

Turning his attention to the PC on his desk, Zeb woke it up with the press of a key. Opening his email, he saw five emails from the two doctors, both explaining their points and vying for his attention. 

“Of course she does,” Zeb mumbled. Keeping scientists focused on their goals was harder than herding cats. They were hideously prone to distractions. Although, on rare occasions, they did stumble into new and important findings, “I’ll approve.”

“Commander Rodriguez is not happy, however,” Skandar smirked, “It was his man, subject Eleven ended up stabbing.”

“Hazards of the job,” Zeb sighed. He was convinced that interdepartmental rivalry was a cockroach that would probably even thrive in space, “Besides, I’m sure Langdon found someone to heal him as good as new.”

Skandar’s handheld decided to erupt in a squeal at that moment, announcing an incoming hail.

“Skandar.”

“Sir, Gate-1,” the sentry at the entrance reported over a burst of static, “The Broker just arrived.”

“Thank you.” Skandar said, at Zeb’s wordless nod, “The Director and I are on our way.”

The elevator took them both down four floors to the ground floor. Zeb followed Skandar through the corridor to the left where the reception area was located. The visitors and staff came through that entrance while the entrance on the opposite side of the building was dedicated to processing test subjects.

Zeb could only spare the most perfunctory glance at the roguish Scot before his gaze was forcibly pulled towards his guest.

Oh, you absolute fucking bastard! Zeb cursed, hoping it would find the fucker in the darkest level of hell where he was surely burning. This was not how Zeb would have preferred to discover the most damning secret Christopher Desmond had managed to keep from him.

Michael Stonebridge’s carbon copy slid out of the Rover parked under the porch with lethal grace and a tiny, self-satisfied smile.  

“Director Anderson, Skandar,” Leatherby said, flashing a sleazy grin, “Meet Liam Desmond, the newest member of our little adventure.”

Zeb returned the handshake and the smug grin with equally appropriate levity. The shields that brushed against his own had the same heavy, insidious, devouring aura he associated with Ulyanov and Leatherby. 

He’s his father’s son, alright, Zeb thought, letting his gaze roam while his mind categorized the differences and similarities between the twins.

Except for the hair and eye colour - Liam sporting dark hair and blue eyes inherited from his father compared to the blonde hair and hazel eyes their mother had gifted his brother - the facial structures and the builds of their bodies were exactly the same. 

Those were the things they shared.

Liam’s entire presence contrasted heavily with Zeb’s memories of Michael. The Guide had done an extraordinary job at keeping himself so tightly shielded, despite the cocktail of nullifying drugs swimming in his system. Even then, Zeb had felt the faint traces of pure light winking through those deceptive outer layers that had hidden his silk-smooth, natural-Guide barriers. Zeb had basked in the glory of those minuscule, yet teasing previews of a light he had planned to bind to himself forever. Had dreamed about claiming the mind-blowing sense of power that had leaked through those shields all for himself. In those few hours, Zeb’s future had been full of wonderful possibilities. 

Even though that meeting had been the catalyst for the downward spiral of his life, Zeb could never bring himself to regret those few hours when the rarest creature on Earth had been his. 

Liam was the polar opposite; where his brother shined pure, bright white, Liam was the most terrifying and hideous darkness that consumed the light. Michael had been infinitely alluring even when he had been as furious and defiant as ever. All Zeb felt for Liam was an instinctive abhorrence and a touch of dread despite the calm and relaxation radiating from him. 

Still, even with all that, Zeb was somewhat dismayed to realise that he was every bit as attracted to Liam as he had been to Michael. If he had the choice, Zeb would gladly slash Liam into ribbons to claim Michael, but in the absence of it, his mind and his recalcitrant libido seemed to agree that Liam was a wholly acceptable consolation prize. 

The smug smile and the sinister light shining in his eyes told Zeb that Liam had sensed his response, and likely guessed the turn his thoughts had taken. It was also obvious that he wasn’t the least bothered by any of it.

And damn it if that didn’t make him even more attractive, Zeb cursed again, hoping his smile hadn’t soured into a grimace.

“Pleasure’s all mine,” Liam chewed and rolled the vowels and consonants into Irish much more charmingly than Leathery butchered the language to Scottish. “I almost regretted my decision when James plunged us into this hellhole.”

“And then you were pleasantly surprised when the Hub came into view,” Leatherby wrapped a proprietary arm around Liam's shoulder. “Weren’t you, my boy?”

His grin suggested that he had done it on purpose to invoke a reaction in Zeb, which to Zeb’s great consternation, kind of worked.

“It’s marvellous how you managed to fit this piece of urban wonder in the middle of the rainforest,” Liam agreed, doing nothing to dislodge the invasive appendage. “It’s the perfect hideout.”

Zeb felt his Sentinel huff in annoyance. 

“Wait till you see what we have going on in here,” Leatherby said cheerfully, “Some of the stuff we do, I’d say it's right up your alley.”

“Oh?” Zeb interjected, wondering what that meant, “Here I thought you might be following your father’s footsteps.”

“I do,” Liam shrugged, “His knack for designing intricate explosive devices isn’t the only thing I inherited,” he exchanged a look with Leatherby, and smiled crookedly, “From what James already told me, I have a feeling I’d enjoy contributing what I can from my own knowledge. I’m very interested in Professor Stoddard and his line of work.”

Of course, the life sucker at the Disposal, Zeb couldn’t help but feel a complicated mix of longing, disgust and a morbid sense of awe. Why am I not surprised?

Once Langdon had drained everything he could from the gene carriers, the final stage was where they went to die, hence the name, ‘The Disposal.’ Stoddard was the final gatekeeper of the chain, the last stop. His work was more incomprehensible, and intangible compared to the butchery conducted by the scientist. Stoddard generated no chemical, biological or mathematical formulae to describe his work, since it involved theories, practices and philosophies that were rather instinctively understood than taught. He dabbled in the ways of manipulating, mutating and twisting Psionic energies in a more metaphysical…spiritual manner. 

Zeb also knew that he and Christopher Desmond had shared history, which led him to conclude that was where Desmond’s occult leanings had sprung to life. 

Something about the malevolent nature Zeb could feel just thrumming beyond Liam’s passive demeanour hinted that the apple hadn't fallen far from the tree.  

“As long as you stay away from Langdon,” Zeb teased, beckoning the duo towards the elevator, “The Doc has a bad habit of confusing guests and staff with test subjects.”

Liam smiled back, “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“I’m glad you decided to finally find us, Liam,” Zeb added, pitching his voice low and earnest, “Your father sheltered you extremely well from all of us.” 

“Thank you,” Liam said quietly, falling into step with Zeb as Skandar and Leatherby took the lead, “It was about time I stepped out of his shadow. My only regret is that it took me this long to find you all.”

Chapter Text

Florencia
Caquetá
Colombia

11:46 Hours

The DEA had worked their special brand of charm to turn the biggest building complex in the entire town - which happened to be the public school since the police department operating out of a single-story building about half a mile away was woefully inadequate - into a temporary prison. 

The addition of concertina razor wire on the six-foot wall around the roughly four hundred square yards of empty school grounds was new, as were the armed guards in full assault gear manning the single entry point to the south of the building. Surveillance cameras, flood lights and motion detectors hooked up all around the perimeter made it impossible to reach the facility without being monitored from at least a mile radius. If someone were to ignore all of that and approach the site anyway, there were snipers stationed on the flat rooftop to actively discourage their efforts.

One guard and a trained canine inspected the car they had rented at the airfield to drive to the site, while the other called in their arrival via a handheld. A third guard had an IWI Tavor aimed at them through the diver’s side, where Michael was seated on Damien’s left. Their short, clipped Spanish and the choice of assault rifles suggested that they were Colombian Special Forces soldiers. 

It made sense. DEA only had the authority to field seventy agents on Colombian grounds according to the agreements. Damien figured that the agent in charge had probably divided her forces between guarding the prisoners and processing the scene at Gomez’s complex. She had to rely on the local forces for security and other related logistics. 

They were directed to park on the opposite corner from the gate. Martinez, who was also in full gear except for a tactical helmet, waited for them at the entrance to the building.

Stifling humidity and cold wind greeted him the moment Damien got out. It was still hot, although the sun was nowhere to be seen behind the grey globs of rain clouds. 

“Special agent Kim Martinez,” Damien took off his shades and flashed a winning grin. He was convinced his charm had recovered after its disappointing failure with Richmond earlier. “Even lovelier in the flesh.”

The special agent dashed his hopes.

“Don't try that charm shit on me,” she snapped, her expression as hard as a rock and utterly unimpressed. “I have enough on my plate already than having to babysit some higher-up’s little pets.”

She was definitely pissed. Stressed. Probably bitter too. Michael would know better. What is with all these women this morning?

Michael was still inside the car, replying to a text and updating the Crib quietly that they had made it. Hopefully Baxter, not the half-feral Richmond, was at the helm, watching over them through the eye in the sky. 

“Hey, don’t be like that,” he said cheerfully, “I promise we’re not here to get in the way.”

Maybe it’s not them. Michael’s suggestion was decidedly wrong. And it didn’t help either.

“Too late for that,” Martinez grumbled, absently stroking the butt of the rifle which was hanging off her right shoulder, “I was told to facilitate a Sentinel/Guide pair. And, I was expecting Brits.”

“Damien Scott, I’m on loan.” Damien walked over to her with his hand extended and jerked his head back to indicate Michael climbing out of the car. “He’s the Brit.”

Martinez let her mental shields glance off of his lightly while she shook his hand. A spark of challenge and then recognition, followed by grudging acceptance washed over Damien while their Sentinel sides took each other’s measures and came to an agreement. 

“Where’s the Guide?”

Michael joined them then, with a quiet greeting and a small smile. Damien watched amusedly how Martinez forgot all about her irritations, and visibly brightened.

“Oh, you can charm me any time with that accent,” she flirted openly. 

Damien silently poked at his dormant Sentinel. Fully confident that their claim wasn’t being challenged, that side of him showed no reaction. The slight annoyance Damien felt crawling through his mind was apparently all him.

“I’ve never met a male Guide before,” a faint frown drew her brows together as Martinez considered Michael, confused and fascinated in equal measures, “Are you even online? Your shields are… strange.”

Damien double-checked. They really weren’t. Michael was being Michael by letting the outer layers of his shields turn a little rough around the edges.

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” Michael shrugged, his smile disarming and a little shy, effectively putting a stop to Martinez’s curious probing, “Thank you for agreeing to accommodate us on such short notice.”

Instead of grumbling about orders, her lips stretched in an inviting grin, “Don’t mention it,” she said, gesturing towards the door, “Let’s go inside.”

It’s not them. It’s not me, Falling into step behind the DEA agent, Damien shared his theory triumphantly. It's you.

It’s me, what? 

You stole it, Damien let the accusation flow as gravely as he could make it, You stole my charm, my mojo. You’re a mojo thief.

I think I fucked up, Michael shared back with a touch of resignation colouring his admission, his face as blank as ever, and stole your mental faculties, instead.

With Martinze’s back to him, Damien didn’t bother suppressing his grin.

Inside the building was dark due to the absence of any windows on the ground floor. Incandescent bulbs hanging from the ceiling lit up the hallways extending to their left and right in a warm, yellow glow. The ventilation inside the building was poor, which made Damien feel as if he had just stepped into an industrial oven.

Relaxing the shields around his mind, Damien let his senses reach out through the Psionic energies. Moments later, the sensory feedback created a detailed blueprint of the base’s interior in his mind. 

The ground floor was dedicated to the injured and the dead. To their left, the first two rooms containing eight beds was the temporary infirmary. The third room also had four beds, all but one empty and clean for the moment. The fourth room served as a medic’s station which was occupied by three medics. 

A cooling unit had been installed in the room at the furthest corner of the hallway extending to their right, presumably to preserve the five dead bodies. A line of restrooms was located beyond it. Two more rooms on the same side served as the armoury, planning, and the CIC. with the remaining one serving as the break room.  

The floor above had been reconfigured to serve as temporary quarters, for the agents and the security to take rest breaks and sleep during shift changes. The space that was left was being used for storage. 

The third floor was where the prisoners were held. The two women shared a cell. Four men were kept isolated, while the other eight were doubled up in four cells. Among the prisoners, two of the men were online Sentinels.

Altogether there were thirty armed men and women on the property, a combination of DEA agents and the Colombian Special Forces. Apart from the three guards and the dog at the gate, there were four snipers on the roof. The remaining twenty-three were inside the building; guarding the prisoners, assisting the medical personnel, monitoring the surveillance feeds, preparing food, using the restrooms and even sleeping off their breaks. 

Out of twenty armed men, eight were online Sentinels, three Latents and the rest were regulars. Martinez was the only female online Sentinel. There were two online Guides, one medic and one sniper, while the rest were non gene carriers.

The building itself was a sturdy, concrete/brick structure, even though the ventilation was minimal and the plumbing could use a serious upgrade. The floors were connected via flights of stairs on both the left and right corners of the building, with no elevators. The power was supplied to the building through a distribution transformer that was located inside the property. Three generators were installed one per floor to provide backup power in case of a power failure. Only the second and third floors had windows, which were all burglar-proofed with steel bars installed from the outside. 

He felt Michael’s presence ripple faintly around the bond, studying the map that had come to life in Damien’s mind. Trusting Damien’s senses and instincts that there were no immediate threats in the vicinity, he continued to keep himself shielded. 

“We raided Gomez’s place a little over forty hours ago–” Martinez shared as she led them up the second flight of stairs. 

Damien caught a flash of lightning through one of the windows, and the sound of thunder followed instantly. The breeze felt as though it had gotten a few degrees cooler, and wetter. The rain was imminent.   

“By all accounts, Anderson should have been present,” the agent continued, “Nobody left the compound. We were watching. My forensic processing team discovered an underground exit a few hours earlier. They’re saying that there might be a maze of tunnels leading out to even as far as Santo Domingo.”

“You think they got a warning about the raid?” Damien asked.

“They didn’t,” Martinez assured, “Otherwise we wouldn’t have walked out with zero casualties on our side. We hit them hard and fast. They had no idea. Your man must have left on schedule.” 

“We’re hoping to find out where he went,” Michael added. 

She stopped mid climb, and turned around to stare down at them from two steps above with a serious expression, “I looked up on the guy and the statement the Midwest Council issued,” she said, “Made me realise that I need to get updated on what’s been happening back home while I’m here squashing all kinds of nasty bugs and chasing bad guys.”

“Might be a good idea.” Damien agreed, “It’s been… interesting, to say the least.”

“Let me warn you, the ones singing like parrots, don’t know shit,” she said, resuming the climb up the stairs towards the third floor, “The ones who do, they aren’t in the mood for sharing.”

“We’ll figure something out.”

***

Miguel Gomez, the former-police-commander-turned-cartel-runner, had his own cell, which was located nearest to the staircase. An armed guard saw them approach, unlocked the cell door and stepped aside.

Gomez had been provided with a small cot, a desk with a few bottles of water resting on it and a plastic chair. To the back of the room, Michael could see a bucket tucked against the corner, presumably to reduce the number of escorts all the way down to the restrooms.

Next to him, Michael saw Damien grimace and felt him tighten the shields around his mind to cut off the flow of the Psionic energies. Michael didn’t blame him. Gomez was literally left to stew in his juices, and the stench of bodily fluids emanating from the cell was highly repulsively to even Michael's regular senses.

Gomez was lying down in his cot. When he heard the sound of his cell door opening, he turned his head and opened one eye to glare at them. 

Michael didn’t need to be fluent in Spanish to understand what he snarled at them. Curses sounded the same in any language.

Centering his thoughts, Michael allowed a few outer layers of his shields to fold open. Psionic energies rushed in, bringing along with it the psychical imprint saturated throughout the base. 

Gomez’s seething contempt and fury flared brightly in his mind above all else, darkened with underlying traces of uncertainty and fear. Behind him, Michael felt Martinez go still. Her shields reached towards him almost of their own volition before they were yanked back by her awakened Sentinel. 

Despite her open flirting, it seemed that her Sentinel side had already figured out that she had no business trespassing anywhere near his open mind. She muttered a curse under her breath that sounded more like a fervent prayer, and took a few steps back to let Damien cover his back. 

“What the fuck are you–”

Michael didn’t let him finish the rest of his demand and dived through Gomez’s mind with the precision of a laser. All he needed was Anderson and his whereabouts. The DEA was more than welcome to deal with the rest of his crimes.

He found the memory he was after easily and held Gomez still with his mental grip while viewing it.

Anything? Damien’s soft inquiry wrapped around his mind.

Yeah. Michael thought, letting the memories of Anderson’s arrival, and Gomez’s contempt towards him flow past him. The cartel runner was terribly bitter about having been treated like a servant in his own home. And the fact that he hadn’t been invited to the pow-wow between Anderson and his guest. He doesn't know shit. Anderson left the day before the raid. 

What’s their connection?

Michael riffled through some more of Gomez’s memories and found something interesting. Anderson funds most of his business.

Scumbags attract scumbags. Damien’s mental snort tickled down the bond, Anything else?

The Russian; Arkady Ulyanov. Michael shared, letting all the emotions wrapped around Gomez’s memory wash over him as he viewed it, Gomez thinks Anderson is kind of scared of the guy. Looks like the DEA managed to bag a bigger fish. 

If there’s nothing else in this knucklehead, let’s go pay a visit.

Michael withdrew from Gomez, leaving no evidence of his intrusion. Gomez continued to blink and stare at them in confusion even as his cell door closed.

***

Arkady Ulyanov had the same amenities at the Martinez Resort & Spa as Gomez did. He was sitting cross-legged on his bed, waiting for them when they approached.

He was shielded, yet there was something wrong in his gleaming black eyes that had Damien’s Sentinel roaring to the surface instantly without warning.

Unexpectedly wide open to the Psionic energies surging to crawl inside him and take refuge, Damien’s heightened senses painted a truly horrific picture of what was inside the cage. 

Millions of sensory inputs sprang up all around him from the structure and the people occupying it, livening up the blueprint Damien already had in mind with vivid detail. That instant clarity had a moment to make the faintest ripple before it was pushed back to a corner. The online Sentinels and Guides lit up in his mind like beacons with their life signs and suddenly open minds. Damen felt his Sentinel take control, touch them all with the gentlest of touches in reassurance before returning its attention to the threat.  

It was only then Damien realised he had his beretta already in his grip, aimed straight at Ulyanov. 

“Don’t,” he didn’t sound entirely human when the command came out in a low growl, preventing the guard from unlocking the cell door. 

He was a non gene carrier, yet the sudden change in Damien’s entire demeanour had him taking a few frightened steps back, his right hand fumbling towards his own gun in his hip holster. 

“What the hell’s going on?” Martinez hissed. Her eyes had turned liquid black, and she had positioned herself at Michael’s left flank, her M16 aimed directly at Ulyanov’s head.

Michael didn’t outwardly react. He didn’t even open the rest of his shields, merely opting to watch the Russian with tiny silver specks winking in and out of his eyes. 

Ulyanov slithered off the bed and stalked towards the cell door with almost inhuman grace that shouldn’t have been possible for a man seemingly in his sixties. His hair, almost shoulder length, was streaked with grey, just like the stubble around his chin and upper lip. 

His attention was focused entirely on Michael when he came to a stop only a foot away from the vertical steel bars. With his head tilted to the side, and his utterly strange eyes that seemed to have gone permanently pitch black, Ulyanov studied Michael like a hungry predator. 

Everything in Damien rebelled against letting his Guide continue a staring contest with the Russian. He wanted nothing more than to put himself between Michael and the threat that was too damned close.

What held him back was the clear message coming through the bond, telling Damien to stay back and let him handle it.

“Well, well, well…nice to finally meet you in person, Guide. ” Ulyanov’s words, tinged with a heavy Russian accent, came out in a deep rasp, “A lot of us have been waiting for you for a long time.”

“Sometimes wishes do come true,” Michael murmured. 

There was a faint ringing quality to his voice Damien had never heard before. It sounded as if he was whispering through currents of wind. It was almost as if the Psionic Plane itself was imbued in his words, delivering a subtle warning along with the observation. 

“Indeed,” Ulyanov bared his teeth in agreement, his eyes shining with something dangerously close to joyful anticipation, “Fate must be smiling upon me today.”

Michael did the craziest, most unexpected thing then, catching Damien completely off guard.

He struck out with his right hand, as quick as a viper, and grabbed Ulyanov by the throat. Ulyanov froze in shock, his lips stretching back in a snarl and his eyes going wide. Damien had a moment to witness the pure white light encompassing his Guide, turning him into a miniature sun right before Damien’s eyes.

And then, the world around him plunged into hell.

Screams…Unintelligible, mindless, agonized screams.

Damien wasn’t inside a building in a rural town of Colombia anymore. He wasn’t certain if he was still on the damned planet, or that he was even alive. Wherever he was, it was entirely born out of never-ending darkness and bone-deep cold. 

And being there, fucking hurt.

The darkness that was suddenly Damien’s entire world, wasn’t a normal darkness by any meaning of the word. It roiled, swirled and writhed all around him, oscillating between a thousand shades of blacks and greys. He had no body, no limbs, no existence to speak of, submerged as he was in that pit of unforgiving and murderously hungry swamp. 

The freezing chill had to be wrapped around his mind, since he had no skin or a body to feel it slicing through his bones to his soul. Everything the chill touched, turned into frozen blocks of ice. Damien could feel his memories and thoughts turning into sharp-edged shards, mutating and twisting into a storm of splinters that lashed out viciously at the rest of his consciousness with the single purpose of destruction.

Somehow, the screams were the worst.

It was a shattered, unholy harmony of howls, wails and shrieks. It was a savage, mindless whirlwind born out of screaming denials, dying defiance, and impotent fury. It was also a soul-rendering clamour of ignored pleas for mercy, heart-wrenching cries for freedom, and mindless begging for relief. 

Damien had no hair to tear out. No eyes to close against the endless black and the excruciating pain it threw at him from all directions. He wished he had ears, just so he could stab himself in the eardrums and be freed from the horribly awful cacophony intent on dissolving him and absorbing him into its pit. 

Mercy finally found him in the shape of a strand of light, infinitely familiar, soothing and beloved.

As soon it touched him, the horror he was stuck in, was over. 

Damien came back to himself to find out he was still standing, somehow, albeit with his entire trembling frame leaning against the cell door. His handgun, caught in a shaky, two-handed grip, was still aimed at the Russian on the other side.

Michael didn’t look like he was there with him anymore. He held onto a vertical steel bar with his left hand to anchor himself, while his right remained firmly wrapped around Ulyanov’s neck. Even with his enhanced strength, Ulyanov seemed unable to dislodge Michael off of him. 

The Psionic energies were visible around Michael, engulfing his entire body in a shield rendered in pure, shining silver. It was an impossible sight;  an unimaginable creation of the forces that far superseded the frail boundaries of human comprehension. 

Damien instinctively understood that his Guide was wielding the Plane, and was being wielded by the Plane in return. Ulyanov had something that didn’t belong to him; souls he had murdered, raped and stolen from with no control or remorse for a damn long time. His mind, soul and body… his entire filthy existence was wreathed in it, layers upon layers of stolen essences of lives, forced to enhance and lengthen the life of the vile creature. Millions of scattered pieces of souls were left forgotten and abandoned, to be trapped in an eternal hellhole, deprived of their final rest to appease Ulyanov’s limitless greed. 

The Psionic Plane was abhorred, and it raged. It was past time those lost souls were freed, their suffering ended and they returned to where they belonged. It was finally time for Ulyanov’s reckoning and he was going nowhere until he had paid for his horrid crimes.

And Michael was going nowhere until the Psionic Plane was done delivering its own form of justice.

As much as it pained him to just stand there and watch, knowing what he felt was only a fraction of what Michael was going through, Damien had no choice but to let it happen. 

You’re my sanctuary. Without you, I don’t have a place to fall back and gather myself.

Those were his words. Michael would need him to pick up the pieces. 

“Bravo, this is zero,” Baxter’s tense call broke through the comms, diverting Damien’s attention, “There’s a convoy of four unmarked SUVs exiting the highway about thirty clicks from your position. ETA, based on their current speed…seven minutes. Confirm if it’s DEA reinforcement.”

At the same time as Baxter’s alert, Damien felt the Psionic energies shiver through him, adding their own form of warning. The Sentinel in him stalked back and forth in his mind, agitated and angry. There was also no denying the undercurrent of anticipation and righteous bloodlust Damien could feel mounting in him like a cresting tide. 

There was a battle forming on the horizon. 

“Martinez,” Damien growled, straightening himself. “Are you expecting backup?”

The DEA agent was on her knees, breathing harshly as if she had run a marathon. The guard was no better. He was plastered against the wall, his face pale and breathing shallow in a desperate attempt to hold onto his consciousness and sanity. Through his extended senses, Damien could feel that it was the general condition of everyone scattered through the base; in various stages of recovery from the flash of unleashed purgatory before Michael wrangled it all back into himself. 

“No,” she managed to force past an uncooperating throat, “What the fuck just happened?”

“No time to explain,” Damien barked, wincing at the not-so-human rumble that came through his vocal cords, “Sound the alarm. We’re about to come under attack.”

In his current state, fully open to Psionic energies and his Sentinel at the helm, Damien was not someone Martinez could disobey. With her own instincts riding on the surface, she didn’t even try. She dropped her M16 on the ground without a word and slid it across the floor towards Damien along with two extra magazines from her tac vest. It took her a few seconds to get back on her feet and had to fling an arm out to steady herself against the wall. A few more controlled inhales and exhales later, she recovered enough to stand on her own. She grabbed the guard by his arm, spared a firm nod at Damien and stumbled down the stairs to prepare her base to ward off an imminent attack.

*** 

Arkady Ulyanov was a pillar of Project Veritas, Michael could sense it in his thoughts, in his memories buried under all that horror wrapped around his warped soul. There was no getting to any of it until Michael had allowed himself to be used as the judge, jury and executioner of long-awaited justice. 

At least, he had some forewarning this time to brace himself; some notion of what he was going to have to withstand as wave after wave of horrific, prolonged agony of countless souls surged through him. 

Not that it helped much. But it was something.

Ulyanov was a whole lot older than he looked, a little over a hundred at least, which made Michael realise that he must have been around when the Sentinels and Guides became a known phenomenon around the world.  

He had been dabbling in the ways to corrupt, twist and mutate the Psionic energies for almost two-thirds of his malignant, ghoulish life. Michael could feel the repulsive satisfaction, the rush of excitement and the nauseating arousal Ulyanov experienced every time he consumed the life essence of a Guide or a Sentinel. Throughout his long life, he had left a long trail of dead bodies in his wake. Michael knew he was going to be locked onto Ulyanov for a considerable time until every single one of those souls was rescued, cleansed and sent away to their rightful resting place. 

He had been reduced to a passenger in his own body. He could feel his hands, one holding on to the cell door in a death grip while the other choking the life out of Ulyanov, although he had no control to let go of either. All his physical senses felt as though they had been shut down, cutting him off completely from the rest of the world, so that there were no other distractions. Every ounce of his strength and focus were pinned upon the sole task of disintegrating the unnatural darkness Ulyanov wielded.

Michael’s consciousness - his sense of self - was curled into a ball in a corner, the bond he shared with Damien wrapped tightly around him in a protective circle. The rest of his mind-space felt as if it had become a pulsing convergence point of Psionic energies. With those energies overflowing all around the boundaries of his perception of his mind, driven by a purpose that was not entirely his own, Michael felt small and insignificant. Thousands of silvery arcs made of pure light lashed out against the writhing mess of black strands that represented the masses Ulyanov had absorbed into himself. Those bright arcs were determined to eradicate his malevolence. 

Michael lost track of the hazy images - faces contorted in endless pain radiating all levels of terror and fury - as they swirled around him in wild hurricanes. It was all he could do to hold himself together without letting pieces of him join the storm, and be sucked either into the feral forces driving Ulyanov or the battling forces of the Psionic Plane itself.

He didn’t know for how long he weathered the soul-crushing storm. At some point, he thought he heard yells, tinged with anger, frustration and dread. The soldier in him recognized faint echoes of gunfire, static bursts of radios, sounds of magazines being changed, the clatter of empty shells bouncing off the concrete and shattering glass. 

There could have even been an explosion, possibly two. Or maybe it could have been lightning and thunder. Michael wasn’t sure. Some screams belong to the dying, some to the injured, and the rest to the ones who were putting up a defence. 

None of it made any sense. To Michael, the outside world was nothing but a rapidly changing jumble of sounds, scents and clamouring emotions. He had no capacity to wrench himself out of the endless ocean of lost souls he was drowning in, and pay attention. Or try to understand. Whatever was happening felt just as insignificant as himself, compared to the decades of rot and decay he was systematically cleansing. 

Michael didn’t feel the need to try, anyhow. Damien was there, right behind him. He trusted the Sentinel without reservation, and he knew he would be safe no matter what. His physical protection was in the best hands, and there was no need for him to worry about that. He just hoped and prayed that he would somehow emerge from the monumental war the Psionic Plane was waging through the confines of his mind, not too terribly broken. 

I’ve got you, he felt Damien confirming his thoughts through the bond.

Time distorted, stretched and ceased to exist altogether. 

There was light at the end of the long, dark and terrible tunnel. The turn of the tide was infinitesimal but Michael felt it. The darkness hovering over Ulyanov lost its dense concentration layer by minuscule layer. As the defiance it put up against the opposing forces of the enraged Plane lessened, Michael felt a few strands of the energies flowing through Ulyanov to his son even, who was locked up in another cell. The younger man had only come online very recently and the darkness had barely touched him. Cleansing the handful of stolen life forces out of him was much easier and quicker than draining the horrendous bog that was his father.   

Towards the end of it, just as he was becoming hopeful that it was finally over, Michael felt more of the same darkness blooming into life all around him. It took him some time to understand that it was an enemy attack force consisting of twenty-four online Sentinels. 

They were poor facsimiles compared to Ulyanov, but there was no mistaking the similarities of the stain they carried within them. The Psionic energies within Michael surged again, determined to dissolve all of it until nothing was left.

The new arrivals, who were the reason for the gunfights raging everywhere within the base by then, were sworn in to protect the Russian. The corrupted blood running through their veins and the oaths of allegiance they had taken, were the invisible chains that bound them to Ulyanov. Michael felt the energies flow through him to Ulyanov, and then disperse through those chains into the infected Sentinels. 

The dying screams of the stolen souls renewed to a whole new level. The Sentinels were embedded with the life forces of the newly murdered gene carriers. Therefore, their agony was still fresh, and a thousand times more painful than the age-old cries of the ones entombed in Ulyanov. 

Michael didn’t know for how much longer he could take it. He still couldn't feel his body, yet there was the sensation of a weighted blanket of pure exhaustion smothering him from all directions. His insides felt raw and flayed open. He was on an open wound that kept getting carved in until all the rot and pus were scooped out, followed by waves of acid to disinfect what was left within.  

Or maybe it was Ulyanov and his men. Michael couldn’t really tell the difference.

When the atmosphere around him finally started to feel lighter, Micheal almost thought it was an illusion, a trick played by his own waning life in a desperate attempt to hold on a little bit longer. Then he felt the change in the Psionic energies, their flow through him slowing down gradually from the raging storm to a soothing stream. 

It felt as if he was breathing fresh air for the first time in a long time, his head finally out of the cloying horror drowning him. The energies trickled down to the faintest strands as they withdrew from him, leaving behind an immense sense of relief, joy and gratitude. 

Michael felt drained. He watched numbly from his fetal position as his own light dimmed precariously, beckoning another form of darkness. This time it was welcome, however, for there was a sense of peace in that new, almost soothing darkness, one that didn’t swirl or scream in pain and anger. This one was surrounded by the protective ring of fiery light that was his bond with his Sentinel. 

His task had been completed for the moment. A battle had been won, but the war loomed in the not-so-distant future. 

Rest well, Guide, a gentle command from the Psionic Plane resonated somewhere deep in his consciousness, for you shall be needed again soon.

Michael was only half aware of the air leaving his tired, overworked lungs in a rush. The way his knees buckled didn’t even fully register. He wasn’t overly worried. Even in his rapidly dissociating state, he trusted his Sentinel to catch him before he hit the ground. He found it rather easy to let go of the fading light that still lingered, and give himself up to a well-earned reprieve.

Chapter Text

Thirty-Five Hours Later

Guest Residence
The Central Council Headquarters
Bogotá
Colombia

00:30 Hours/Local

Michael shut off the shower with a sigh. The hot water and the water pressure did wonders to chase away the remnants of his headache, along with the sweat and grime that had clung to him for over a day and a half. 

He saw his reflection in the mirror while towelling himself dry. The evidence of the thirty-something hours he spent completely unconscious was only visible in his dull gaze; the slight red tinge around his irises and the way his eyes looked sunken in their sockets.

The mark on his chest caught his attention. The tattoo-like lines of the four-leaf shamrock used to be black. Now, silver lines seemed to have intertwined with the inky black, along with a faint gleam he wasn’t certain had something to do with the Psionic energies or the lighting in the bathroom. 

In any case, Michael didn’t feel like opening his shields to find out. He wanted only his own thoughts and the warm, reassuring presence of his Sentinel in his mind. He still felt drained, and he hadn’t had anything other than IV fluids for a little over a day. Damien’s intervention had taken care of most of his aches and pains, but his body needed proper sustenance to replenish his depleted energy reserves. 

As if on cue, Michael heard the door to their suite being open, followed by a low murmured exchange before being shut again. He was pretty sure that was the arrival of the order he heard Damien place just as he stepped into the shower. 

At least, he was hungry, and his stomach growled in agreement. It was a good sign. Usually, when he woke up after being knocked out, thoughts of food made him nauseous. 

The pair of sweatpants and the slightly big T-shirt he put on were new. As were the socks and underwear that were still in their packaging. Even his own clothes had been cleaned and returned at some point. He wasn’t sure if it was courtesy of the Council staff, or if Damien had anything to do with it.

More to the point, he wasn’t even sure how he got from Florencia back to the capitol to end up in the Colombian Council HQ. 

“Hey,” Damien looked up from where he was hovering over the dining table, “Feeling better?”

“Yeah. Much.” 

Michael eyed the food. He could have sworn he heard Damien only asking for a light snack. The kitchen had sent up grilled cheese sandwiches, tomato soup, a plate of crackers, a bowl of fruits, and a massive jar of fruit juice. There was no coffee, however, to his mild disappointment. He wondered if the doctor who released him from the infirmary had any influence over their food order.

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Damien said cheerfully when he grumbled, and plopped down on a chair, “Sit down and eat.”

Taking his own advice, Damien dug in like a man starved. Michael folded himself on the other chair and picked up a sandwich. It tasted just as good as it smelled. It was even better with the soup and crackers. 

For the next twenty minutes or so, neither of them spoke.   

“There used to be a time I could walk out at the end of a mission,” Michael murmured, drawing his right leg up so that he could fold an arm over his knee, “Deal with the clean-ups, logistics, debriefs and reviews…” he plucked an apple out of the bowl, “Now I just wake up flat on my back on a bed and wonder what the fuck I missed.”

Damien leaned back in his chair, stretched his legs out to cross them under the table, and regarded him with a complicated expression. 

“It’s what happens when you fight an entire fucking battle all by yourself and leave the rest of us to handle the aftermath.” His reply was quiet, neither angry nor amused. Yet, it wasn’t just a bland observation either. 

Michael forced himself to hold his Sentinel's gaze. “What happened, Damien?”

“What do you remember?”

It was as good a place to begin as any, Michael supposed. He absently took a bite out of the fruit and braced himself. Even thinking about what he had experienced through Ulyanov was enough to send a bolt of icy dread through him, making him shiver.

“He was just like Desmond,” his voice was faint in his own ears as the reel of terrible memories unwound in his mind. What he had felt through the backlash was a cakewalk compared to drowning in all that horror first hand. “I got this sense that he’s been around for a long time. He’s been killing us even before the rest of the world found out about the Sentinels and Guides. And he’s been using those life forces to extend his own.”

“When you touched him, for a moment…just a few seconds at the most, I think I saw it,” Damien’s words were equally quiet, laden with suppressed horror, “Lived through it. It was like he was carrying a literal piece of hell with him.” It was his turn to look away, and sip some of the orange juice from his half-filled glass as if to chase away a bad taste, “I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream. Couldn't do shit but stay still and let it wash over me.” he looked up then, a mix of awe and fear in his eyes, “Then you did your thing.”

Michael knew what he meant. That was the only thing he had been able to control, the boundaries of the battleground, so to speak.

“Michael, the entire base felt it, possibly the whole town,” Damien continued, his voice a low, hoarse whisper, “And if it wasn’t for you, none of us would have survived being exposed to…whatever the fuck it was.”

“When we die, there’s a part of us that returns to the Psionic Plane; a part that’s carrying the essence of who and what we were while we lived… an imprint of us, you could say,” Michael murmured, wishing the twisted, gnarled images of countless, unknown faces would fade away from his memory, “that’s what Ulyanov’s been absorbing into himself. Living, feeling pieces of souls bound to him without their knowledge or consent. Each and every piece of those souls was hurt, terrified and angry. They wanted out. The Plane wanted them out.”

He saw Damien processing what he said, his gaze never leaving Michael, “It wasn’t all you, was it?”

“No. I was just a conduit at that point,” Michael admitted. “Once the dam was open, I couldn’t do anything to hold it back. Honestly, I didn’t want to. I did my best to keep it all contained inside my mind.” 

“Michael–”

“None of you are equipped to handle a century's worth of buried pain erupting like that,” he cut the Sentinel off gently. For better or for worse, it would always be his burden to bear, and Michael knew he wouldn’t have it any other way, “It was like a nuke going off. Only made of truly terrible emotions amassed over all those years of captivity.”

“Are you?” Damien tilted his head, a challenge in his question, born purely out of worry.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Michael smiled weakly. For now, at least. 

“You did something to Victor too,” Damien said, “That’s Ulyanov’s kid, apparently.”

“Familial bonds,” Michael replied, thinking back to how the Psionic energies had leapt through to the younger man, following along the lines of corruption, “He came online recently. He was new to his father’s terrible practices. Tackling him was a lot easier.”

“What about the bunch of mercenaries?” Damien asked, “Baxter called it in just as you started on the Russian. Three SUVs. Twenty-four Sentinels in full assault gear. They came in within five minutes. Took down the gate with a Stinger. Aimed one at the rooftop too, but luckily, that one missed. Then all hell broke loose. Two minutes into fighting, they all kind of just stopped, and dropped like flies.”

Michael recalled bits and pieces of the gunfight; the screams he had heard, the explosions and gunfire all wrapped up in the howls of a thunderstorm. His perception of that fight was rather dim, compared to the battle of opposing Psionic forces he had been entrenched in.

“They were his private security,” he shared, blinking to get rid of the image of spider web-like chains that had bound them to Ulyanov, “trained and oath-bound to protect him. The Psionic energies used those connections to deal with them.” It was only then Michael realised that he had no idea what that had entailed for those Sentinels, or Victor. Or his father, for that matter, “Do you know where they are now? What happened to them?”

“Ulyanov is dead,” Damien said without a trace of emotion, “Victor passed out, just like his Daddy’s mercs. Martinez’s base didn’t have the capacity to handle all the casualties. So, I called it in.” The Colombian Council, and its leading Sentinel, Horatio Cortez, had been made aware of their arrival in his territory, as well as the need for secrecy. It seemed that he had honoured his word by welcoming them all to the HQ with just a phone call, “Cortez mobilised a med-evac by air. Got us all here within a couple of hours.” 

“Did any of them wake up?” Michael had woken up in a private room about an hour ago, with only Damien and Doctor Herrera by his bed. 

“All of them did,” Damien said, “Cortez had some of his Branch One agents question them. None of them can remember shit. It’s almost like they were brainwashed and medicated into becoming something nobody wanted.”

“I think they may have been altered,” Michael murmured. He recalled feeling something simultaneously familiar and wrong within those Sentinels, “Genetically.”

Artificially induced/altered mental shields via gene therapy and boosted abilities via stolen life forces, in other words, Project Veritas.

“The Doc had the lab here run some preliminary tests. According to those reports, all of them have traces of funny chemicals in their blood. He couldn’t tell us anything further before running more tests.” Damien took a moment to finish his juice before continuing, “There’s another thing. They’ve all gone dormant. Their Sentinel genes and mental shields are now permanently inactive.”

Michael stared at him. That was the exact thing that had happened to Rana when he had finished with the younger Hassani brother. The only difference was, as unfortunate as it had been, Rana’s condition had been natural. Ulyanov, on the other hand, had actively desecrated all things sacred without an ounce of care or remorse. 

What had been done in retaliation, hadn’t been Michael’s decision. The Psionic Plane had judged them unworthy, and taken back what it had given them in the first place with swift precision. 

By rendering them all dormant, it had made sure that none of them could repeat their grave mistakes ever again.  

Michael had been nothing but an instrument that had been wielded to carry out the reckoning. A shiver ran down his spine when he remembered the parting words of the energies that had used him. 

Rest well, Guide, for you shall be needed again soon.

“Michael?” The soft inquiry accompanied a questioning ripple through the bond, concern and worry engulfing him in a warm embrace. 

“I’m fine,” he sighed, doing his best to reassure his Sentinel, which was difficult considering the epiphany that had only then occurred to him, “I just realised that we might have to do this all over again.”

Damien closed his eyes, and ran a hand roughly across his stubbled jaw, mirroring Michael’s apprehension, “Anderson, Liam, Leatherby, Castellanos, Levi… and Lord knows how many more.”

“I couldn’t scan Ulyanov’s memories the way I did with Hassani,” Michael exhaled wearily, “They were buried under that filth and compulsions from Guides. Actionable intel – the locations, numbers and their plans were set to dissolve the moment their minds detected outside intrusions. All I know is they’re close by. Within the country somewhere. Colombia is a big place, and a lot of it is hidden in the wilderness.”

“Castellanos made contact,” Damien dug his phone out of his back pocket and unlocked it before handing it to Michael. “I was hoping to avoid this. I guess it’s our only option then.”

Michael opened the recent message from the blocked number. Damien had received it late afternoon the day before. 

Saturday. Noon. 8.0410° N, 77.0931° W

It was already Thursday. They had less than forty-eight hours to prepare. 

“The location’s in Unguía - a town in the far north of the Chocó Department,” Damien explained, “About an hour’s flight.”

“There were about fifty people at the base in Florencia and however many they had clearing Gomez’s complex,” Michael said, as another thought occurred to him, “Ulyanov’s people knew where to hit. Either someone tipped them off or they had a way to track Ulyanov through the Psionic Plane.”

“The Florencia base is gone,” Damien said, “Colombian forces took the prisoners and casualties. All the mercs are here, along with Victor. Martinez and her agents are back at their local office not too far from here. I don’t think Ulyanov’s people know exactly what happened.”

“Unless they have contacts here,” Michael pointed out. 

“That's always a possibility,” Damien agreed, “If they’ve been here a long time, experimenting on gene carriers and then killing them, it makes sense they have someone at the HQ to keep an eye on things. Moving forward, we have to assume they know you’re here. Pretty sure they expected it. But now they’ve got proof.”

“By now they also have proof I’m a threat to their work, bonded or not,” Michael speculated, “They count on you showing up to this meeting - either for the drug they’re dangling in your face or to recon. Motivations aren’t even relevant at this point–”

“Their play is to leverage me for the professor,” Damien picked up his line of thought, referring to the target Levi had asked him to acquire, “I have a feeling he has something they desperately need.”

“Then I show up with him to take you back, it’s a triple bonus.” Michael sighed, “We need to talk to the guy.”

“That’s not going to be an issue,” Damien snorted, “In fact, the guy can’t wait to meet us.”

“You spoke to him already?” Michael frowned.

“The other way round,” Damien shook his head, “First he wanted to rush here. When Grant made him stay put, he nagged both her and Sinclair until they gave in to make contact.”

That was strange. “How does he know?”

“That’s the weirdest thing,” Damien said, and Michael felt an echo of his own confusion thrumming through the bond, “He said he’s been waiting to talk to you and me for a long time. He also said he used to be you.”

The Next Day

En Route to the British Embassy

07:45 Hours/Local

“... Damien and I talked to them. All of them have a complete black-out period going back a year,” Michael continued his verbal report to the Colonel while Damien drove. “I think it may have been my doing. The moment I touched their minds, compulsions were triggered to wipe out their memories of Ulyanov’s employment, clean.”

“You’re certain they’ve all gone dormant?”

“Yes. Doctor Herrera confirmed it medically.”

“Are they all from Russia or other countries as well, do you know?”

“Eight Russians, six Ukrainians, four from the Middle East, and the rest from the States.” Michael recited from memory. 

“I’ll get in touch with Cortez,” Locke said, “And see if we can return these lost souls to their families.” 

“Any word on the samples Damien’s contact handed over?” Michael asked.

“Preliminary tests indicate they are a match. I haven’t received an in-depth analysis yet,” Locke announced just as Damien pulled into the visitors' parking lot at the embassy, “I think it’s safe to assume that they very much want Scott playing ball.”

“What do we have on this professor?” Damien inquired. 

According to the file Levi had handed over, Professor Blair Sandburg, PhD, age 42, headed the anthropology department at Rainier University in Cascade, Washington DC. His foray to Colombia was just one of the many visits he paid around the world to study the local tribes and their unique cultures. He had arrived in the country five days ago, only to be detained at the airport due to a discrepancy in his travel documents. When he had made a call to his good friend, George Hemmings, who happened to be the British ambassador to Colombia, he had been invited to stay at the embassy as a guest until the paperwork was sorted out. 

“Is he related to the guy who published the first book about Sentinels and Guides all those years back?” Michael added. 

Damien knew he was referring to the publication with the title, ‘The Protectors of the Tribe.’ It was the first study ever published on gene carriers, introducing a lot of terms such as the Psionic Plane, Sentinels, Guides…so on and so forth. Dr Jonathan Sandburg was one of the eight contributors and editors of the textbook.

“I have Riker’s file on the professor, as well as his assessment. According to it, yes, Blair is Jonathan Sandburg’s grandson,” Locke said. Riker he was referring to was, William T. Riker, the predecessor of the current CIA director, Charles Woodworth, “He submitted a letter to the Northeast Council regarding the very concerning matter of unethical experimentation on gene carriers. There was a lab report from the Rosenthal Foundation, Washington DC, backing up his claims. This was in September 1994. He was an anthropology major under Professor Eli Stoddard at Rainier–”

Eli Stoddard was a familiar name. According to the investigation files Damien had skimmed, Stoddard had been one of the major assholes involved in Project Veritas. He was also one of the apprehended criminals who didn’t end up in prison with the rest. It was more than likely that Stoddard was dead. 

“Is he a member of the Northeast Council?” Michael asked.

“Yes. A registered Latent. His status hasn’t changed.” Locke replied, “But then again, if he’s a Guide, it’s understandable he’d want to fly under the radar.”

Damien agreed. Anderson had already implied that there could only be one online male Guide at a time and that he had been hunting for that Guide for a long time before setting his sights on Michael. Sandburg’s strange comment to him could have been his way of telling Damien that it was him. Or it could be something else altogether. 

If that’s the case, he felt Michael’s thought flowing along the bond, I wonder what happened to his Sentinel. 

“Anyhow, the London Council and the Council of Quebec had received similar letters and evidence by this time, and had already launched investigations into the matter,” the Colonel continued, “this was around the time the intelligence services got involved. A few months later, Project Veritas came into light and the Council leaders were fully briefed .”

“So Levi was right,” Michael said, “Sandburg was one of the whistleblowers.”

“Riker’s background check on Sandburg was thorough,” Locke added, “And he testified before a number of Sentinel/Guide panels. It was confirmed Sandburg was not in any way involved with Veritas.” 

“So I guess it’s possible these people want Sandburg because of his connection to Stoddard,” Damien said, exchanging a glance with Michael, “If Stoddard is gone, Sandburg is their next best bet, especially if he came online at some point.” 

If he was anything like Michael, there was a good chance he would know Stoddard’s secrets. 

“Makes sense,” Michael murmured, his expression torn, “On the one hand, fifteen-something years is a long time to wait to go after him. But then again, it would have taken them time to lay low until the pressure died down and regroup under the radar to continue the Project in secret. Chasing after a public figure who exposed the truth would have drawn unwanted attention before they were ready.”

“I know how you feel,” Damien agreed, “It’s the timing that bothers me too.” 

“All our targets are tied together one way or another and they’re all leading us to the same place.”

“Well, boys, hopefully, the good professor will shed some light on the situation,” Locke said before ending the call, “Keep me updated.”

Chapter Text

The Ambassador's Residence
The British Embassy
Carrera 9, No 76-49
ING Barings
Bogotá
Colombia

08:00 Hours/Local

The breakfast, to Damien’s greatest surprise, turned out to be a highly entertaining affair.

His excellency Hemmings had developed an instant infatuation towards Colonel Grant, and throughout the entire meal, he did absolutely nothing to hide it. Sinclair had the misfortune to be seated between her and Hemmings, possibly under Grant’s orders. The poor Major did his best to keep his head down, his entire being laser-focused on the eggs, sausages and bacon on his plate. Flowery compliments from Hemmings flew over and under his head towards Grant, who steadily turned an alarming shade of homicidal rage.   

Not wanting to let Mrs Hemmings feel left out, Damien took it upon himself to return the favour. She, unlike Grant, loved being the centre of attention and soaked it up along with the delicately cut pieces of fruit that was her breakfast. Sandburg, seated on her left, had a wealth of anecdotes he had collected from his travels around the world, which he shared generously in between bites. 

Michael, sitting directly across Damien to Grant’s right, was the quietest, content to eat in silence with just a smile or a nod at Sandburg’s stories when required. That changed when Grant decided enough was enough, and with a shark-like smile, casually threw Michael’s exalted parentage out in the open. 

For the next twenty minutes, she got to nibble on her toast in peace, while Michael got grilled by the united force of the Hemmings about the Colonel and the Chairwoman of the London Council.

***

“What a lovely breakfast,” Sandburg declared cheerfully as he led Damien and Michael outside, to the well-maintained yard of the ambassador’s residence. “Usually it’s just me and George. Or me and Harold, that’s George’s butler. Nice fellow. The more the merrier I always say.”

Harold seemed to have anticipated the Professor’s intentions. On the table overlooking the tropical flower beds, both tea and coffee were waiting for them, along with three mugs, milk and sugar on the side. 

“Sit, please,” he invited, wrapping his long coat around himself tightly before settling on a chair. “There's something very important I need to know before we proceed,” he pinned them both with a serious look, “how's you bond? Is everything okay with it?”

Well, that’s...interesting, Damien thought, wondering what drove the peculiar intellectual to pry into something intimate and private, and rude.

He relaxed the shields around his mind, and did a bit of prying of his own. Sandburg’s mental shields were as rough as a brick wall, and they didn’t react to his light probing in any way. It felt as though they had frozen around his mind, unable to fold open and channel Psionic energies. Latents usually had rougher outer shields, but they weren’t as rigid or unresponsive as Sandburg’s. Dormant gene carriers didn’t have any shields around their mind. 

Sandburg was something in between.

“Yes,” Michael replied succintly.  

“Oh good! And Congratulations,” Sandburg said earnestly while pouring himself his third mug of tea since breakfast, “You aren’t going to survive what’s in store for you without being able to completely rely on each other.”

“So, doc,” Damien leaned back on his chair, and considered the professor, “What is in store for us?”

That earned him a smile. For a moment, Damien felt like he was once again at school. “For you to understand what’s waiting for you in the future, you need to first learn about what happened in the past.”

“By all means,” Damien held his mug for Michael to pour him some coffee. He had a feeling he was going to need it. “Please.”

Damien let some more of his shields fold open, extending his senses to cover the immediate area around them. Instead of opening his own shields, Michael let a part of his mind flow around the bond, infusing his own senses along with Damien’s. That way, they had an early warning system if anyone in the vicinity tried to listen in on their conversation.

“1900 was a bad year,” Sandburg declared, the look in his eyes going distant, “That was when everything went wrong for the first time. I wish I could share the memory, the nightmare that found me, and rearranged my life.” He took in a deep breath and released it slowly, while stirring the spoon in his tea absently, “Alas, I can’t. I think the way my shields are now is a protective measure. In case I’m compromised, I believe they’d fight to keep my thoughts and memories private, and if they can’t, they might just cave in and erase everything.”

There was a lot to unpack in his broad statement. “What happened?” Michael asked, letting the professor pick a point for his explanation.

“A whole goddamned lot,” Sandburg said, sipping some of his tea, “Dietrich Rosenthal was born in 1815, to Rosa Müller and Helmut Rosenthal, both non gene carriers. Dietrich was a miracle child; faster, stronger and healthier than any other child of his age, with keen intelligence to boot. He came online as a Sentinel when he turned sixteen. His poor parents didn’t know how to deal with that. The rest of the villagers thought he was a demon. Safe to say, he was forced to leave life as he knew it behind very quickly. Men fear what they don’t understand, and scared men turn violent more often than not.” 

Damien cast his mind back to the global history lessons back in high school. The pages from the textbooks were still clear as day in his memory. Apparently, 1815 was around the time the 12-year-long Napoleonic wars ended, and the German confederation was established. He could understand Sandburg’s point. That would have been a turbulent time; lots of deaths, devastated families…depression that followed after a brief surge of triumph and relief. 

A bad time to acquire abilities beyond the norm… to become a little extra human. 

A classic recipe for a villain. Michael agreed .

“To the best I can tell, Rosenthal roamed the world for a long time; looking for people like him, people who could teach and train him,” Sandburg continued in his lecturing tone, “I believe the lack of perception and understanding of his purpose, his duty, was what turned him into the thing he became later on.”

“He went feral?” Michael raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Going feral would imply that he lost control. That he became enslaved by the Psionic energies that intertwined with him permanently and drove him insane,” Sandburg pointed out, “Rosenthal never lost control. He was a greedy man, in love with the rush of power he could wield over other men. He wanted to wield the Psionic energies indefinitely and become a permanent part of the Plane. Now, we all know it’s not possible. The gene carriers aren’t born that way, not then, not now. Rosenthal found a way to fix that inconvenient little glitch.”

“Let me guess,” Damien interjected, “He’s the one who figured out he could suck the life forces of gene carriers into himself when he killed them… the very first Vampire-Sentinel.”

“An accurate term,” Sandburg snorted, “when you add in the most vile connotations of the word you could think of, you have an idea what Rosenthal became. Only it wasn’t just him. He had a few trusted followers by then, willing to do whatever he asked of them.”

He aimed an expectant look, inviting them to share their guesses. It wasn’t that difficult.

“Christopher Desmond, Arkady Ulyanov…” Michael trailed off.

“James Leatherby?” Damien frowned.

“Along with Élodie Benoît and Russel Serrano, you have the full set,” Sandburg smiled at them as if he and Michael had just passed a test, “The founding forces of Project Veritas. Rosenthal fancies himself, ‘The Architect.’ Desmond is his ‘Contractor.’ Ulyanov ‘Facilitates’ while Leatherby ‘Brokers.’ Benoît is his ‘Oracle’ and Serrano is his ‘Protector.’”

“If this all began back in 1900 as you said, then these…murderous freaks have been around for a very long time.” Damien pointed out. All of them had lived well past a hundred without the signs of ageing. 

“Yes. They have.”

Michael tilted his head, and pinned the professor with a curious look, “How did you learn about them?” 

“I’ve been around for just as long,” Sandburg sighed and averted his gaze first, “And no, I’m nothing like them.”

 “Sounds awfully like you are,” Damien muttered.

He’s not lying, Michael shared with him silently, and it’s not like he believes what he’s saying either. He’s telling the truth and I can feel it . He doesn’t feel the way Desmond and Ulyanov did at all. He’s quite different. 

“I was born in 1858,” Sandburg’s distant gaze was fixed somewhere in the cloudless sky. His soft tone was barely above a whisper, either unaware or unbothered by Damien’s accusation, “My mother’s name was Naomi. I never knew my father. She didn’t say and I didn’t ask.” 

Fucking hell, Damien cursed silently. His own surprise was mirrored by Michael. Sandburg didn’t look a day over forty. He’s hundred and fifty-something years old. 

“I met Jim Elison in 1899,” Sandburg murmured with a small, private smile, his gaze finally returning to Damien first before landing on Michael, “He was my Sentinel. He knew right away what I was to him.”

Michael’s presence rippled warmly in Damien’s mind, Just the way you knew about me.   

“I came online on that terrible night back in 1900 – the same night Rosenthal and his people killed so many of us. They ritualised the practice of absorbing the life essences of the parting souls,” Sandburg’s tone went low and heavy as he got lost in the memories, “I was asleep one moment, and staring down at the entire gruesome affair the next. I saw and felt every damned thing. I couldn’t break free. Couldn't wake up. I was going nowhere until the Psionic Plane had shown me everything. I’d have lost my sanity that night if it wasn’t for Jim. We bonded the next day.”

“Then what happened?” Michael prodded gently when Sandburg stayed quiet, lost in his thoughts. His grief was a palpable thing. Enhanced through Michael’s empathic nature, Damien felt it intensely. “What did you do? Did you go after them?”

“I wanted to,” Sandburg shrugged, “But I couldn’t. I was to learn, retain the knowledge, and pass it on when the time was right. The Plane had different plans for me and Jim.” He looked up at Michael with a curious expression then, the professor in him peeking through the grim veil of history to appease academic interest, “Did you know male Guides like us only come online after we've met our Sentinels? Hell, we aren’t born with the Guide genetics either. A traumatic event changes something in us. I almost drowned in a lake when I was three. My mother said I didn’t breathe for two whole minutes. Did anything like that happen to you too?”

Michael exchanged an uneasy glance with Damien and sipped his coffee to buy himself some time. He decided to share his own story after a few long seconds. “Uh, yeah. My mother found me next to a burnt-down church. I was only a few weeks old. She said I wasn’t breathing when she found me.”

“The Psionic Plane takes care of its own,” Sandburg flashed him a pleased smile, “You were given to the best. Hiyori Cahill is a wonderful Guide. She’s the best there is at discipline training. I wish I could feel your shields. They must be remarkable.”

During breakfast, Sandburg had been delighted to learn about Michael being her son. He had enthusiastically shared how he had met her twice; once during a visit to London and once during a global Council event. 

“She is, yes. She taught me everything I know,” Michael admitted. “And you’re right. I was lucky. My life would have been different if my father kept me.”

“Why?”

“Christopher Desmond, the Contractor, he’s my father,” Michael said, his expression bland in the face of Sandburg’s visible shock, “He recently tried to blow up the Midwest Council. I killed him and triggered a backlash. That’s how we learned about this practice of killing gene carriers and stealing their souls.”  

“I’m so sorry, Michael,” Sandburg murmured earnestly, “I thought seeing these things through dreams was bad. Unfortunately, we’re destined to occupy the front-row seat to witness despicable deeds of truly horrific men.”

Damien finished his coffee with two long swallows before breaking the depressing silence that followed, “You said you weren’t supposed to go after Rosenthal’s cult. So, what did you do?”

“My purpose was tied to my academic experience,” Sandburg said, leaning back in his chair and getting comfortable. “You see, I started as a student of psychology at the University of Arkansas back in 1878. Since psychology as a field of experimental study only began somewhere in 1854 back in Germany, it was a rather new and exciting avenue to explore altogether. I’ve always had a fascination with people; our behaviours, emotions, thought processes and how they all impact our social relations and cultures. I figured learning about the mysterious phenomena of the human mind was as good a place to start as any.”

He’s going to give us the long version, isn’t he? Damien grumbled.

“In 1879, Wilhelm Wundt came along, founded the first psychological laboratory dedicated exclusively to psychological research in Leipzig, turning the topic into an actual academic discipline,” Sandburg continued cheerfully, “Our great nation was starting to catch on. I had the opportunity to pursue studies in a quite new field from its wonderful beginning.”

“It was probably the hippie spirit I inherited from my mother. I loved to travel, and every chance I got, I did exactly that. I went everywhere in the country, to meet and talk to people, to create, prove or disprove theories,” there was a certain gleam in the professor’s gaze by then, evidence of the satisfaction gained by hard-earned accomplishments, “During those visits, I would sometimes meet a rare person or two who thought they were insane due to the way they perceived the world, so different from the rest. Men with incredible hearing, some could smell things from miles away, taste a pie and tell you exactly what part of the country the cattle were raised…Then there were the women; some could tell exactly what someone was about to say because they could hear the words about to be uttered. Some could walk into a savage battle and calm everyone down with just a word and a smile.”

Well, it is his story. Michael replied with a touch of amusement and awe, I find it intriguing. I can’t even imagine how they dealt with being so different from the rest with no reference or anyone to rely on.  

“It took a while, since we were even rarer lot back then,” Sandburg went on, flashing a knowing smile at Michael as if he had heard his silent thought, “for me to realise that I hadn’t been talking to delusional, mentally ill people, but a very special sect of people with extraordinary abilities. That was when I turned my attention exclusively to them and started working on the how’s and why's of it.” 

“That’s how I met Jim too," his smile turned a little nostalgic then, a touch of sorrow darkening his expression, leading Damien to wonder what exactly had happened to Sandburg’s Sentinel, "We hit it off right away, for reasons that only became clear much later, of course. He accompanied me on my travels a lot. He could connect with these special people in a way I never could. I used to envy him for that.”

The findings about Psionic energies and mental shields came to light a lot later, Michael’s thoughts were layered with sympathy towards the professor. He wouldn’t have known he was Guide. 

Damien agreed. He couldn’t imagine living in a period of time with absolutely no clue about Psionic energies and mental shields. It was understandable that a lot of gene carriers would have felt utterly lost and scared of themselves .

I think that was Sandburg and his Sentinel’s purpose. 

“I was nowhere ready to publish anything, mind you. That would have brought too much attention to these people; ones who trusted me and Jim to share their innermost thoughts and fears. Everything changed on the day I came online, however, when I realised I was one of them too. It wasn’t the most joyous event it could have been, at any rate, considering how I tipped over the precipice…”

“It was the Plane that started teaching you, wasn't it?” Michael asked, “The why’s and how’s of it, as you put it.”

“Yes,” said Sandburg, “I became a student and a teacher at the same time. Learning about a whole new world and being responsible for teaching others about it was a monumental task. Jim and I had our work cut out for us. Being forced to watch how Rosenthal and his ilk did their best to hunt down the gene carriers and use them like cattle from time to time didn’t help. But our path and duty were clear, and we weren’t allowed to stray from it. Carving a place for the Sentinels and Guides in the world to learn, train and thrive was more important than anything else.”

“So, the global summit back in 1911, I’m guessing you were behind it,” Damien interjected. It felt as though his mental archives of history were getting a great workout done, “Although if memory serves, that was a professor called Rowina Eisenhower from the Lund University of Sweden who pioneered the movement and delivered the keynote lecture.” 

Hello, Professor Scott. Michael teased.

Blame my fucking mutant brain. Damien sent back a grumble. 

“Rowina was one of my best students,” Sandburg admitted with a proud grin, “I had an excellent group of men and women from around the world dedicated to bringing about a bright and safe future for the gene carriers. A lot of students, teachers, lawyers, businessmen, law enforcement officers, doctors and scientists rallied together. We wanted to make sure the merging between the majority of the population and the select few who were born to be different and advanced from the rest, I dare say, to be as seamless as possible.”

“I can’t even imagine spearheading such a massive movement,” Michael murmured quietly, “The amount of work involved alone…the regulations, rules and laws that protect the two sects, the studies, the publications, the amount of things you must have had to teach…it's truly mind-boggling.”

“As I said, I could never have done it by myself,” Sandburg replied humbly, almost shyly, “The establishment of the Councils -  the safe havens for the gene carriers around the world - is, I believe, our greatest accomplishment to date.”

“How did you manage to keep your long existence a secret?” Michael asked the follow-up question, “You and Jim obviously didn’t prolong your lives the way Rosenthal and his followers did. The others would have felt it, and they would have been repelled by you. The Psionic Plane wouldn’t have guided you the way it did if that was the case.”

“To answer the first part of your question, Michael,” he flashed a self-deprecating grin, “With great difficulty. It’s hard to hide from enhanced senses and mind-readers, even when you share the same abilities. Our closest friends and family knew about us, of course, and they helped. Let me just say, that the amount of false identities, changes of locations, long vacations, and faked deaths involved was staggering. The Psionic Plane contributed a lot too, in the way of convenient hints, visions and dreams.”

“And the other thing?” Michael pressed. Damien could feel the slight unease he was feeling through the bond. 

“That’s where the little tidbit we did our best to keep from all the textbooks comes in,” Sandburg sighed, his tone turning serious and lecture-like again, “A Sentinel excels at physical aspects of a human while the Guide is the complementary force excelling at the mental aspects. Therefore, a male Sentinel and a female Guide is the ideal combination of the two, which is the reason why the true bonds only occur between such pairings. That’s also why the female Sentinels, the elegant warrior spirits, are rare in comparison.”

“But male Guides are almost unheard of.”

“That’s because Michael, we’re not a natural occurrence,” Sandburg said gently, “we’re the outliers. Not born, but chosen at a specific period of time for a specific task.”

“I’m not a scholar.”

“No, but you are a soldier,” the professor pointed out the obvious, “The time for education is over. Jim and I’ve done our part. The world knows about us, and we’re as safe and protected as we can be. That task has been completed to the Plane’s satisfaction. Now, there’s a war brewing on the horizon, a threat to our existence as we know it. Do not ask me why now; why Rosenthal and his terrible followers weren’t crushed before they gained a foothold. All I know is that dealing with them wasn’t the priority then, but it is now. Those are the whims of the powers we wield, not the other way around.”

Well, the supervillain’s fresh out of a Contractor and a Facilitator. Damien thought consolingly in an attempt to soothe the agitation brewing in Michael’s mind, that’s gotta count for something.

And yet it feels like we’ve barely skimmed the surface of something that’s bigger and more spread out than we ever imagined, Michael countered, I don’t like being caught up in something we barely understand.

Doesn’t sound like we have much of a choice, though, does it? 

“The Psionic Plane is being corrupted by Sentinels and Guides; the very fabric of the Plane is being infected like an open, untended wound every time they dabble in their twisted practices,” Sandburg continued, unaware of their silent exchange, “It is now in need of a warrior it can wield to fight for all the souls that’d been stolen. To take back what belongs in the Plane in the first place.” 

“Yeah, we figured that part out,” Michael said, sparing a glance at Damien before turning to the professor, “The Facilitator is also dead. It was one of the most horribly difficult things I’ve ever had to do. I think I understand what you mean when you say the Plane wields us, the same way we wield it. I don’t have full control over what happens when I deal with someone like that.”

“The Psionic Plane protects itself and its wielders,” Sandburg murmured sagely, “I’m just a tool… or I was. That burden has passed onto you now. ” 

“One of our targets went after Michael once,” Damien said, thinking about the claims Anderson had made, “he said something along the lines of there being one male Guide at a time. What does that mean for you? Have you gone dormant?”

“He was right,” Sandburg replied, his voice going low in sympathy, “I know exactly when Michael came online - two years ago in April. I saw it happen. I felt the exact moment when he crossed over to the side of the living from the dead.”

Shit, Damien swallowed. That was the single most terrible memory he carried, along with a tangled burden of grief and guilt that was never going to truly fade away. 

The ripple he felt flowing through the bond was instant, as he had known it would be, and soothing, Wasn’t your fault, Damien. 

“That's when my mental shields changed,” Sandburg continued softly, “I can no longer channel Psionic energies the way I used to. On the one hand, I miss it. But mostly, I admit, I’m relieved. I think I’ve earned my retirement after a century and a half.”

“Jesus,” Michael swallowed thickly, “I don’t know how to feel about that. I’m sorry!”

“It’s not your fault, Michael,” Sandburg said kindly, “Or your burden.” 

“I have a question,” Damien said, mostly to distract Michael and himself from the mixed emotions they were both feeling, “If you don’t have access to Psionic energies, then how did you manage to be here now?”

“Because my work isn’t done quite yet,” Sandburg said easily, “I’m still being guided via my dreams. I had to see the two of you and teach you the history. The other side has more information and that simply won’t do.” 

“You said you wanted to join us when you were on the phone yesterday,” Damien reminded him, “What did you mean by that?”

“I’ve seen myself accompanying you to the den of the hyenas, so to speak,” Sandburg grinned, seemingly way too pleased with the idea of walking right into a bunch of people who were actively hunting for him, “They’re here, but we don't know exactly where. You have an opportunity to find them, but there is a price attached to the information. Me. All you have to do is tell me when and where. I’ll be there. I have to do this. I need to. After that, hopefully, I’ll be done.”

“Dr Sandburg, you do understand they know about you, right?” Michael stressed, “Along with me and Damien, they’re going to want what’s inside that big head of yours. I’m not saying we’re going to barge in without a plan. But, there’s a good chance we’re all going to end up in the hands of the enemy. They aren’t going to be gentle about taking what they want.”

“Of course,’ the professor nodded, supremely unconcerned, “And yet, we’re all going to walk right into their trap anyway.”

They needed the professor. That was a fact. Still, that didn’t mean that either of them wanted to drag the poor bastard along with them to the field. Sandburg seemed to have made up his mind, however, and there didn’t seem to be a way to persuade him otherwise. 

Damien decided to change the subject. 

“Something just occurred to me,” he said, “Those titles you referred to earlier…Contractor, Facilitator, Broker and so on. Are they just for fun or do they represent the meaning of the word? Because, in that case, them having an Oracle on their side makes me think they might have someone like you with them already.”

“Élodie Benoît is Rosenthal’s bonded,” Sandburg revealed, “Not in any natural way, mind you. She’s one of many, but she’s his most treasured. You must already know what I’m talking about.”

Both of them nodded. They did know. Anderson had provided them with the first–hand experience, and so had Adrian Castellanos. 

“She has a unique ability to force her perception through the Plane and catch glimpses of possible futures,” Sandburg continued, “Rosenthal is very intelligent and cunning. He knows how to use her insights to best serve his own purposes, and do whatever it takes to keep his secrets protected.”

“There are Rosenthal Foundations all around the world,” Michael gave voice to the same theory Damien had been quietly contemplating since the moment Sandburg had mentioned the name, “Basically, that was his answer to the Councils, wasn't it? On the surface, they provide invaluable services in form of scientific studies, advanced research, essential medical services, donations, charity projects…so forth and so on. They operate hand in hand with the Councils. One of them even played a big part in uncovering Project Veritas.”

“And yet, at their core, those Foundations are what fuel all aspects of Project Veritas in the first place, hiding in plain sight.” Damien picked up Michael’s thought, “Giving up Veritas was strategic. That way, all the attention was on just a small part of something massive, and it stopped further investigations that could have led to Rosenthal.”

“That is why you need to follow the crumbs,” Sandburg said, nodding, “You’ve already taken down two pillars of his inner circle. It won’t hinder him, and he will have more followers to take up the mantles. But, every time you take down one of them, that’ll be a step closer to the head of the snake. The Plane won’t release you until you're done.” 

Damien glanced at Michael. Underneath his somewhat pale yet unaffected expression, there was a storm brewing in counterpoint to the same whirlwind of emotions Damien was feeling. Sandburg’s story was surreal, and Damien had a hard time wrapping his head around the whole thing. 

And yet, Michael was right. The Professor hadn’t lied. The Psionic energies vibrated subtly around Damien’s mind in full agreement. 

The meeting had served a purpose; it had allowed them both a glimpse of the destiny they shared. 

Damien couldn’t quite decide whether the forewarning was a good thing or bad. There was something to be said about ignorance being bliss, and he felt the loss of that bliss rather keenly.

“All I can say is, I sympathise.” Sandburg continued, glancing between him and Michael with a knowing smile, “The two of you are in for a world of adventure. It won’t all be fun, but it won’t all be doom and gloom either. You have each other and that’s all you’ll ever need to succeed. Everything will be okay. Have faith.”

“I have one more question for you, professor.”

“Yes, Michael?”

From the faint echoes of dread radiating from Michael, Damien had a feeling what he was about to ask.

“Where’s your Sentinel?” Micheal asked very quietly, “What happened to him?’

“When it comes to the two of you, all the Sentinels and Guides are your tribe,” Sandburg’s answer was equally soft, “You are their leaders…Protectors and Guardians. The Psionic Plane will always answer your call first and foremost.” His gaze then travelled to Damien, and Damien had a feeling the professor wasn’t really seeing him, but maybe a shadow of his own Sentinel, “When a territorial Prime bonds to his True Guide, he becomes the leading force of all Sentinels, and as you can probably imagine, there cannot be two alphas in a tribe.”

“Dr Sandburg–” 

“Jim died the day you two bonded, Michael,” he said sorrowfully, “When you became the Guide Ascendant, and your Sentinel, the Alpha Prime.”

“But you’re still here…” Michael murmured. There was a certain sense of dread underlying his tone, along with a lot of empathy towards the Professor’s loss.  

“As I said, helping you two find your path is my final task,” Sandburg replied, his words sad yet somehow laced with a defiant sort of hope, “Once it’s done, I’ll have my turn to reunite with my Sentinel.”

Chapter Text

Guest Residence
The Central Council Headquarters
Bogotá
Colombia

21:33 Hours/Local

Sitting cross-legged on the bed, Damien switched on his PC, wondering why he had to file reports when Michael had been doing the same diligently. It wasn’t as if they were at two corners of the world, running two different operations. In his opinion, he was only duplicating the crap on an already overflowing pile of paperwork. Unfortunately, the Colonel’s opinion held more weight than his, therefore, he had to shelve his grumbling aside and get it done. He was already behind, and he had a fuck load to catch up on.

Damien logged on to the secure server and glared at the screen when it promptly provided him with a blank template to file his report. The official language and terms were somewhere there in his mind, buried along with the times he had excelled at military bureaucracy. 

Finding them and digging them out, however, was difficult.

Sandburg’s bizarre story still made continuous loops in his mind, while his brain dissected it into little pieces, analysing everything back and forth. Michael had been silent and preoccupied for the rest of the day too, doing his best no doubt, to come to terms with all the mind-blowing realisations. 

Damien squeezed his eyes shut and tried to calm his whirling thoughts by concentrating on his breathing. 

It worked. Sort of.

A ping on his phone jerked him awake from his light doze. 

The message was from his cousin Yvonne. The text was a little strange; 

POV: When your cousin doesn’t know he’s bagged an amateur (although very hot) model. You’re welcome!

But that was on par for the course. Yvonne was a little strange. In many ways.

Damien pulled a pair of earphones out of the top drawer of his bedside table. He had made the mistake of opening the videos she had sent to him in public once or twice before. He had learned his lesson.

This had better not be some freaky fetish, Yvonne, Damien muttered under his breath as he pressed play on the four-minute-long video, or I swear I’m going to play this thing on your wedding day. Along with the rest. All day long.

To his mild surprise, a song started playing. It started with a soft, crooning melody, and he was pretty sure it was French.

The video for the song opened up with a young, hot blonde. She was visibly unhappy with the older, towering silver fox who was throwing his hands in the air, shouting something or other. The blonde chick wasn’t having it, and the song changed its music and pitch to convey her displeasure. 

The woman was very pretty. But try as he might, Damien couldn’t place her. He definitely didn’t know her or had met her. He would have remembered. 

What the fuck was Yvonne getting at?

The scene changed. The hot chick stormed out of the dining room. The vast, well-maintained courtyard of her mansion came into view. An open-top Porsche waited right under the patio, ready to take her away from her miserable life. 

The French woman continued to sing, possibly about mankind and their shortcomings if her shrill, scathing tone was any indication. 

While the blond sped down an open, winding road around a picturesque hill, the melody of the song changed into something a little upbeat. The singer’s voice went from complaining to beautifully lilting, suggesting a shift in the blond’s life for the better. 

The blond found a beach and pulled over next to the road. She skipped along the sand towards the ocean, her long hair dancing in the wind, celebrating freedom. 

Out through the foaming waves, like a fucking water nymph, rose the toned, tanned and of-fucking-course the undeniably beautiful reason for the million-dollar grin playing on the blond chick’s lips.

With all his senses locked onto the unfolding scene on the tiny screen, Damien forgot to breathe altogether.

Michael was very young. That much was obvious. His buzz cut and the already well-trained muscles under all that dripping water suggested the video had been filmed around the time he had just joined the Royal Marine Commandos. The beams of the morning sun seemed to have fallen in love with him, casting him in a shiny, golden hue. The camera angle was strategic. It stayed focused above his shoulders to give the viewers a few seconds of his shy, crooked smile before drawing back to include the blond chick’s backside. 

Which was a good thing too, because she was the only thing blocking a full frontal nude shot of the man. The chick took a running jump, and Michael caught her by the waist with little effort. The blond went to town on his lips, the sides of his face, his jawline and neck. 

With his bits hidden under the happy blonde wrapped around his hips, Michael twirled around, gifting the entire French nation, and the world with a generous view of his absolutely perfect, buck-naked ass.

Damien felt light-headed, and he didn’t know whether to laugh, cry or throw his phone against the nearest wall. The song was a distant memory for him by then. Utter shock and awe had given birth to a strange wave of buzzing static that was drowning everything around him.

Mercifully, the scene changed, breaking the spell. Damien’s lungs finally managed to pull some air in before the spots in his vision completely took over the screen.

It was back to the blond chick and her problems. Her horrible lover/husband/boyfriend looked enraged. Damien supposed he had found out about her source of happiness. The French woman started wailing in the background when he took a swing, dropping the blond chick to the floor. 

Michael made another appearance in the next scene, opening the door the woman was knocking on. This time, he had a pair of shorts on. It wasn’t much, but it was something. He welcomed the chick into his apartment with another one of his brilliant smiles. He looked concerned about the bruises on her face but threw his head back and laughed when the chick waved her newly ring-free hand in front of him.

She had divorced/broken up with her trash husband/fiance and was now free to get together with her infinitely better lover. They celebrated by stumbling into the nearest, rather untidy and small bedroom. The blond’s skimpy dress came apart with one careless tug from Michael. Thankfully, the cameraman found an interesting spot on the lampshade to show the viewers when they got into it.

A series of snapshots showed how the happy couple enjoyed their markedly poorer yet stress-free life. There were a lot more shots of laughing, kissing, dining out, driving around and fade-to-back fucking before the story took another turn.

The song crested, ebbed and finally found its rhythm. Now, there was a haunting quality to the melody, and the woman sang as if she was in shock, and grieving. The unexpected change made sense when the new scene turned out to be a grey, rainy day in a cemetery. Someone was dead. A bunch of men and women in elegant black dresses held umbrellas over their heads and wiped subtly at their eyes. 

The abusive ex of the blond chick threw some soil on the coffin. He looked up and closed his eyes while the water ran down his face. From the corner of the shot, the mourners dispersed to go back to their lives. 

Then he opened his eyes. The French woman belted out something furious, outraged and dreadful. The man turned around with a sinister smile. Michael - dressed equally in a black suit and looking rather delectable in it - stared at his dead lover’s ex with a complicated expression. 

Just as Damien was expecting to see Mchael’s impressive right hook swinging towards the asshole, the man leaned in, grabbed Michael’s face with his big hands and kissed him full on the lips. 

Under the screeching protests of the singer and the end of the confusing song, Michael melted into it.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” What the fuck did I just watch?

“Damien?” 

Damien looked up to find Michael standing next to the open bathroom door. A cloud of steam framed his dripping wet body under incandescent light, creating a breathtaking view that could have easily fit into the video that just ended. 

Michael tilted his head to the side, his expression pinched in concern, “what’s wrong?”

Absently throwing the phone and the PC on top of the bedside table, Damien climbed off the bed and stalked towards his Guide.

Michael flashed an inquiring smile when Damien stepped into his personal space.

“Nothing,” Damien whispered, leaning into cradle his face and kissing him. 

Damien forgot all about the blond chick and her murderous ex when Michael went pliant in his hold, responding to Damien’s possessive claim of his lips with a soft sigh. He tasted like breath mint and cherries. His personal scent - unaffected and unhindered by the bland, Sentinel-friendly shampoo and soap he had just used - surrounded Damien in a cheerful cloud made out of rainy days, pine forests and stormy oceans. 

The nonsensical logic of his Sentinel side drove Damien on a mission; there were phantom touches and kisses on his Guide that needed to be chased away and replaced with his own. It didn’t matter that the video he had seen was most probably a decade old. And that it had been nothing but acting.

The Sentinel in him was adamant. Damien never found kissing Michael a difficult task. He gave himself up to it enthusiastically. Satisfaction and desire warmed his blood when Michael returned the kiss with matching fervour. 

The towel Michael had wrapped around his waist had dropped on the floor at some point, and Damien didn’t mind. In fact, the way his Guide’s wet, naked body dampened his own clothes was an incredible turn-on.

He didn’t break the kiss when he placed his hands under Michael’s ass and picked him up clean off the floor. He swallowed Michael’s surprised grunt, and with a firm squeeze on his buttocks, Damien encouraged Michael to wrap his legs around his hips. 

Michael laughed when Damien more or less threw him on the bed, “Are you going fucking caveman on me?”

Damien wriggled out of his sweatpants, and shucked his t-shirt off, grinning, “I believe the term is Alpha Prime.”

“Oh, you like that, don't you?” Michael raised a teasing eyebrow.

“You bet your sweet ass I do.”

There was a silvery gleam in his eyes when Michael leaned up and grabbed Damien by the neck to pull him into another kiss. Damien let his body weight settle on top of him, knowing Michael could easily take it.  

With his arms wrapped around Damien’s shoulders, and his legs tangled with Damien’s own, Michael was a warm, needy cocoon around Damien. His soft grunts, hitched breaths and trembling muscles radiated an eagerness that resonated with Damien’s desperation.

Peppering a trail of biting kisses along his jawline, Damien discovered a delightful blush creeping up to redden Michael’s otherwise sun-kissed skin. He promptly followed it with his tongue all the way down to Michael’s Guide mark, which had started to glow with an inner light just as his eyes.    

Michael’s shields weren’t open, but there was a thin layer of Psionic energies engulfing him from inside out, adding a touch of thunderstorms to the way he tasted. The heady feeling had the Sentinel within Damien roaring in impatience.

“Turn around,” his words came out in a rough whisper.

Michael did as he was asked. Turning on his stomach, he drew up a knee close to his chest and watched Damien fumbling to find the lube from inside the drawer with a sideways grin.

He buried his face fully in a pillow, muffling a string of curses when Damien poured a generous amount of the cold liquid directly into his quivering hole. Working two fingers into him, Damien kissed the nape of Michael’s neck in a quiet apology. The need to get inside his Guide was greater than his need to breathe, and Damien could hardly wait to feel the tight channel clenching around his painfully erect, weeping cock.

Michael thrust his ass back, and wriggled around Damien’s fingers, sucking him in greedily. Damien’s urgency seemed to be fueling his own, and a breathy demand to get on with it came only a few seconds later. 

Damien was more than happy to comply. A groan rumbled out his chest when he finally sank into the warm, welcoming heat, bottoming out deep inside him. Michael didn’t need a lot of time to adjust, and he started grinding back against Damien almost instantly, urging him to carry on. 

Damien laid down on top of him, covering his entire body with his own. He locked Michael in place with his arms wrapped around his chest and with his legs along Michael’s sides, completely bracketing him in. Michael went still under him, instinctively responding to the restraining, full-body embrace without a trace of protest. 

The amount of trust in his submission alone was enough to drive Damien wild. Curbing his desire to plough right in, he decided to take his time. He fastened his teeth on the junction where Michael’s neck met his shoulder, and fell into a leisurely rhythm of shallow thrusts.

Trapped under his entire body weight, Michael didn’t have the leverage to do much other than take it. His body continued to tremble under Damien, his breathing harsh and punctuated by halted moans. His asshole clenched and unclenched around Damien in a desperate attempt to pull him in further and deeper.    

Damien, the bond connecting them flared with Michael’s plea. His yearning was wrapped up in frustration for the pleasure Damien was doing his best to keep tantalisingly close yet just out of reach, you’re killing me.

Am I? Damien teased, sucking leisurely along the freckled muscles of his shoulder, Doesn't feel like it.

I thought we were trying to get off, Michael grumbled, grinding back as best as he could in tandem with Damien’s measured thrusts, not drive me insane.

We can do both, Damien decided playfully. In fact, that’s the plan.

Evil fucker.

Damien nipped him in retaliation, sucking and licking around the bruise that bloomed to life instantly at the base of his neck. 

Damien got to have his fun for a moment longer before Michael turned the tables on him.

The bond linking them together rippled and tightened around Damien’s mind, making him feel as though he was the one trapped in a restraining hold. His ass suddenly felt like it was stretched and full, yet maddeningly empty at the same time. The glancing touch of the phantom cock moving in and out of it was only barely teasing the spot deep inside him, not nearly enough to stimulate him the way he needed. 

His cock started throbbing, torn between two conflicting sets of stimuli. The way Michael’s asshole was deliciously gripping his cock was pushed to the back of his mind. In its place, there was now frustration and ache flaring from it, trapped as it was by his body weight and the crumpled bed sheets that hardly produced any sort of friction. The inability to reach his cock and take it in hand to provide much-needed touch was driving him mad. 

Breathing was difficult, not only because of the sensation of being weighed down. His pulse was up and uneven in counterpoint to the wild beating of his heart. His rushing blood was mingling with the uneven sparks of pleasure firing from all his exposed nerves, making him feel like a live wire. 

Damien… wait. Wasn't it Michael? was caught on a precarious edge, being drowned by stimuli too much and not enough. 

It was a terrible place to dwell in for too long, and there was not a whole lot he could do about it other than beg and curse his asshole of a Sentinel…  

The terrible wave of trapped pleasure and mounting frenzy faded back as soon as it engulfed him, leaving Damien back again with his own body, mind and thoughts. It took him a moment to recover from the unexpected sensory whiplash, and couldn’t quite stop a relieved curse from slipping through the bond.

Fuck me.

No, for fucks sake, Michael’s response was a mix of laughter, demand and a heartfelt plea, fuck me!

Damien obeyed. 

He sat back on his knees, pulling Michael along with him so that his back was flat against Damien’s chest, still firmly bracketed inside Damien’s folded legs. Michael let out a long, appreciative groan when the sudden change of position allowed him to sink all the way down on Damien's cock. His relief at finally being able to feel much-needed pressure instead of relentlessly teasing touches sent ripples through their bond, making Damien feel a little guilty for keeping him on a frantic edge for too long. 

Michael let his head fall back against Damien’s shoulder with a sigh. Damien relaxed his embrace and brought up his right hand to rest against the long column of Michael’s neck, his fingers caressing over Michael’s rapidly pulsing veins. Michael found his touch grounding, just the way Damien knew he would, and melted against him. His hands gripped Damien’s thighs when Damien wrapped his left hand around his cock. A full-body shudder shook through him when Damien started to jerk him off along with his thrusts.  

A choked-off moan, tightening of muscles and the way the cock in his grip swelled and twitched warned Damien of his Guide’s impending orgasm. With two more firm strokes, Damien pulled Michael’s climax out of him in strings of come that ended up on the sheets and against his chest. The delicious way Michael’s asshole quivered around him was more than enough for Damien to tip over the edge, driving him to fill the insides of his Guide with a load of warm, wet come.   

Damien kept Michael where he was for a moment longer, kissing and licking the side of his neck lazily until their bodies came down from the high. Michael barely reacted when Damien pulled out of him carefully and laid him down gently on the dry side of the bed. He then went to the bathroom to find a wet towel so he could clean the mess they made. 

Michael was pliant, almost unresponsive except for soft sighs and tiny groans, when Damien moved him around to wipe off the sticky splotches in his ass, on his chest and on the sheets. He lazily turned back onto his stomach, wrapped his arms around his pillow, and buried his face in it with a muffled sigh when Damien settled on his side.

“Hey,” Damien called softly, running a hand through Michael’s hair, “Don’t fall asleep yet. I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Michael turned his face, and opened one bleary eye, “What is it?”

“There’s this thing I want you to see,” Damien grabbed his phone off the bedside table before turning back to face Michael. He unlocked the screen and muted the sound as he let the video play. “This little masterpiece…this treasure. ”

Michael turned his face some more so that both his blinking eyes were focused on the screen. It took him closer to a minute to figure out what he was watching. When he did, all the traces of sleepy lethargy fled from his expression.

“Oh, for the…” he glared at Damien’s phone with big round eyes, shock and embarrassment vying for dominance while a red hot blush crept up along his neck to darken his cheeks, “Where’d you even find that thing?!”

“I didn’t,” Damien said truthfully, “Yvonne did.”

“That little shit.” Michael closed his eyes and groaned, “Urgh … kill me now.”

“Oh, no, I’m going to do much worse, Sunshine,” Damien let his grin break wide open, “I’m going to make you talk about it.”

Michael batted his eyes at him pitifully. When Damien didn’t budge, he let out a long, aggrieved sigh, “It was a long time ago, Damien,” he mumbled, “And I never did anything like that ever again.”

“Tell me about it,” Damien invited, “I’m dying to know.”

“What do you wanna know?” Michael gave in with a jaw-cracking yawn.

“Let’s start simple,” Damien said gleefully, “What is the name of the song? How’d you get roped into acting in the video? Who’s the chick? More importantly, who’s the old stud?”

“It’s called Multifaceted Love. De Nombreux Visages D'amour, a song by Vivian DuBois,” Michael murmured, the French words flowing out of him with beautifully effortless precision, “She recorded it back in late 2002. Eugéne De la Croix directed and produced the video as a surprise gift to DuBois. He proposed to her with it. The song was a chart-topper for a few months until something or other came along.”

“He proposed to her with that video?” Damien snorted in disbelief. 

Although he hadn’t understood a word of it, the tone and the story depicted in the video had been more than enough to clue him in that it definitely wasn’t a happy love song.  

“Well, the video matched the song and DuBios liked it,” Michael shrugged, “She said yes, and they got married a year later. So I guess it made sense to them.”

“How’d you know them?” Damien asked, intrigued. “How’d you get involved?”  

“De la Croixs are family friends. Eugéne is a few years older than me and we kind of went to the same high school while they were living in London. Once he graduated, they moved back to Paris,” Michael explained, “We were just doing him a favour. His original cast choices backed off from the deal last minute–”

“We?” Damien interrupted, raising an inquiring eyebrow.

“Me and Kerry.”

“Kerry,” Damien repeated, waving his phone, “The handsy blond.” 

“Uh…” Michael bit his lower lip. His gaze bounced back and forth between the screen and Damien like a skittish rabbit.  

“What is it?” Damien insisted, unwilling to let Michael even consider skipping out on any good parts, “Spit it out.”

Michael visibly struggled to hold his gaze, “She and I were sort of married back then.”

Damien stared. The static in his ears was back. He had heard the words, but they refused to make any sense. The Sentinel within him started stalking back and forth in his mind, scoffing in irritation.

“It didn’t even last that long,” Michael added hurriedly, “we signed the divorce papers in early 2006–”

“Michael,” Damien muttered in a carefully controlled tone, pushing down his triggered possessiveness with effort, “You said no more bombs.”

“It wasn’t a big deal!” He mumbled, averting his gaze to fix it somewhere over Damien’s chest.

“You were married,” Damien repeated, quietly proud of how his voice stayed level, “To. This. Chick.” 

It was blatantly hypocritical. He was aware. But in all his years of stumbling happily into bed with anyone who returned his wink, Damien had never really properly fallen in love, proposed to or married any of them. Ever.

Something in his chest twisted painfully with annoyance and jealousy that some woman had dared to have a legal claim on his damned Guide, even for a few measly years. 

“Damien, we both knew it wasn’t for us the moment we signed the stupid paper,” Michael continued in a soothing voice in an attempt to placate him, “We were better off being friends with benefits.” His gaze turned a little distant then, his mind cast back in time, his voice turning softer, “It was more of a bid to get the family quarters back at the base anyway…”

The meaning of the barely audible afterthought Michael added got through the brewing, green-hued monster. Damien barked out a laugh. “You got hitched for logistics?!”

“They were nice quarters,” Michael said defensively, “Private bedroom and a bathroom with a tub. Located on the opposite side of the barracks. It was quiet.”

The more I learn, the more I fall, Damien kept the thought private as he continued to laugh at Michael’s indignant expression, “You are a fucking treasure, you know that?” he made sure to let the affection he felt flow through the bond.

“Fuck off, Damien.” Michael hid his smile by burying his face in the pillow again and poked Damien blindly on his collarbone.

“Hey, we’re not done,” Damien poked him back on the side of his ribs, “Tell me more. Who’s the guy?” And why did he end up sucking your face? He didn’t share the thought, but the feeling of irritation tangled with jealousy managed to leak through the bond before he could hold it back.

“I can’t even remember his name,” Michael said earnestly. Then his smile turned a little teasing, “That kiss was weird. Kerry thought it was hot, though.”

“How did you end up marrying her if you knew it was a mistake?” Damien prodded, firmly telling himself that the kiss wasn’t that hot. Not even a little bit. “I want to know.”

“It was the first shore leave after the boot camp,” Michael launched into the story with another yawn, “A bunch of us went to Blackpool in Lancashire to celebrate surviving the first hurdle. That’s the ‘Las Vegas of England.’ We were either at the Coral Island or the Grosverner, I’m not sure…” his brows drew together while he riffled through his memories, thinking hard, “Hell, I can't even remember signing the marriage certificate. We were drunk off our arses. Our squad mates thought it was a done deal. Someone had the bright idea to gift us a surprise honeymoon. They put money together and bought us a tour to Paris – plane tickets, hotel reservations and everything. Kerry and I thought we’d enjoy ourselves and then deal with the annulment later.”

“How did an impromptu honeymoon end up with this?” Damien tapped his phone, indicating the video.

“I called Eugéne to let him know I was in Paris,” Michael wrinkled his nose and rubbed a hand across his cheek, “He came to pick us up from the airport. He saw us and decided it was his lucky day.”

Damien could understand. The man had been at loose ends with his contacts turning their backs on him. He would definitely have felt as though luck was smiling at him when the vibrant, insanely pretty young couple just dropped in his lap.

“Let me guess,” he said, grinning, “It completely slipped your mind to deal with the annulment when you got back.”

“Jesus! It was bad when Dad found out,” Michael’s words were laden with remembered horror. A full-body shudder shook him when he closed his eyes, “I ended up in Serbia for six months; extreme weather and underwater navigation training. I knew that fucking clerical error was his doing. It was a living hell. Froze my balls off and lost count of the times I almost fucking died.” 

Minute tremors continued to run through Michael’s body, making him look as if he was getting cold along with the terrible memory. Damien wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him in close. Michael burrowed under his chin with a sigh.

“I guess the Colonel didn’t take it kindly to you starring in this tasteful, soft-core porn?” Damien smirked. 

“They don’t know about that. Nobody does.” Micheal mumbled against his chest,  “I don’t know how your freaky cousin dug it out.”

“It’s the real horror of the internet, Michael,” Damien said sagely, “It’s forever. Maybe we can ask Richmond to scrub it?”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” there was a quick intake of breath, followed by an index finger digging at his ribs, “Leave it be.”

“Fine,” Damien chuckled, tightening his embrace around Michael, “Just so you know, it’s Yvonne. So the chances are she forwarded it on the family group chat before sending it to me. Everyone’s gotten an eyeful of your ass by now.”

“Tell her I hate her.” Michael’s defeated sigh washed over his chest.

“I don’t know, sunshine,” Damien smiled, and dropped a kiss on top of his head, “I feel like I owe her for finding this gem for me.”

“I hate you too.”

“No, you don’t.” Damien contradicted his mumbled protest confidently, “Anyway tell me, why did the Colonel punish you then?”

Michael wriggled a little to find a comfortable angle against Damien’s chest. Then he turned his head sideways so that his words weren’t muffled. “It was for getting married,” he confessed quietly, “I never told either of them. Dad would have left me there for a whole year if it wasn’t for Mom–” his voice went a little quieter, a touch sadder, “She was disappointed. I think I’d have stayed in that hellhole rather than having her find out through Dad.” 

“Why didn’t you settle the divorce when you returned?” Damien asked.

“Because Kerry was deployed.” Michael said, “We kept missing windows. And when we did cross paths, it was for a week or two, and then, well…”

“Ah,” Damien nodded, correctly interpreting the mixed feelings he could glimpse through the bond, “The benefits.”

“Yeah,” Michael shrugged, his index finger tracing the lines on Damien’s Sentinel mark absently, “We got to it finally when she found her Sentinel.”

Damien was content to hold him when Michael went quiet after that, his breathing slowing down to an even cadence. With unintentional yet perfect timing, Yvonne had managed to cast some light-hearted joy into an evening that had been clouded with heavy burdens and uncertainties. 

Michael was an intensely private soul, even with Damien. He never volunteered any information about himself unless he was specifically asked. It made Damien wonder. How many more curious discoveries were hiding underneath his very reserved Guide, waiting for Damien to bring them to light?

It wasn’t a secret that Damien had slept around through a good half of his life until he had met Michael. He had enjoyed the momentary intimacies of those brief encounters; wild instances of mindless lust, sparked bright into life like fireworks and turned into ashes within a matter of hours at the most. 

Those moments had been exciting. Fun. Yet, fleeting. His thoughts had never lingered on any of them for far too long. 

Michael was different. Damien had realised that undeniable truth the moment he had laid his eyes on that crooked smile. Michael had a quiet, calm and solid presence that settled Damien in a way nothing had ever done. The passion, desire and love Damien felt for him was deep and endless. He had a feeling, that even the prolonged life Sandburg hinted at, wouldn’t be enough to find the boundaries of how far his feelings ran for his Guide. 

That was the reason, ever since learning about the obstacles that lay before them, Damien worried. 

He knew Michael wasn’t a martyr, but his Guide had a way of approaching things in a very practical and logical manner. He hardly let his feelings get in the way of fixing things, preferring to lick his wounds in private. 

He also had a way of putting himself last, always choosing to protect others first. Damien knew he was at the top of that list. He knew because he felt the same when it came to Michael. 

Even just the thought of losing Michael was a knife sinking through his heart. He had no desire to live in a world that didn’t contain the light of his Guide; the shy smile of the love of his life. 

Michael's words from the day before echoed in his mind, a forewarning of what’s come;

“None of you are equipped to handle a century's worth of buried pain erupting like that,” Michael’s murmur was gentle, “It was like a nuke going off. Only made of truly terrible emotions amassed over all those years of captivity.”

“Are you?” Damien challenged, trying not to read too deeply into the sinking feeling in his gut. 

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Michael flashed a weak smile. He wasn't very successful in hiding his uncertainty. 

It was the one last thing Damien needed to address before forging headfirst into the jaws of the enemy that awaited only a few hours away.

“Michael.”

Michael twitched and hummed sleepily. Damien felt guilty for disturbing his peaceful slumber, but it was important.

“I need to know something,” he said quietly and felt Michael blinking himself awake at his serious tone, “It’s about how it works when you deal with someone like Ulyanov. You said you’re not entirely in control when the Psionic Plane takes over.”

“It feels like carving out a marble…with your fingernails,” Michael’s barely audible reply had a distant quality, as if he was back in that hell all over again, “Only instead of creating a work of art, the energies are uncovering a vile, rotten core. The parts being chipped off are the trapped souls, screaming to get out.”

“And you feel the pain of every single one of these souls,” Damien continued his thought, “because of your empathy.”

“I can’t block any of it,” Michael exhaled wearily, “Maybe because I need to understand why I’m being used that way. Because it needs to be done. It’s the right thing. ”

“And yet, you can contain it inside–”

“More or less,” Michael shrugged, and moved back to look at Damien directly without dislodging Damien’s arm around him, “Think of it like wrestling a mad, hungry grizzly bear.”

“Ulyanov tested your limits,” Damien said, holding Michael’s curious hazel gaze with his own, knowing he was about to step into untested, possibly sensitive territory, “What would you do if you had to deal with someone worse? Who'd been around longer? Or more than one at a time like what happened with Ulyanov’s army?”

Michael stared at him for a long moment, and then his eyes narrowed. “I won't let anyone else get hurt, Damien.” A hint of defiance and hurt curled its way around the bond before it was abruptly snatched back.  

“That’s exactly the point I’m trying to get at,” Damien said gently, “You’ll destroy yourself before you let that happen.”

Confusion darkened his gaze, and his words came out in a whisper, “What are you trying to say?” 

“That we’re a team,” Damien said, “I know you said you’re going to take the hits to keep me safe but hear me out. Why not let me help? When it gets difficult, why not lean on me instead of shielding me? You know I can channel almost limitless amounts of Psionic energies when I open my shields. I can heal you without even trying. Maybe that’s because I’m supposed to be your anchor. I can lend you strength instead of you trying to spread yourself thin trying to protect me.”

“Damien, please,” Michael sounded broken, his eyes wide and round in genuine fear. Damien felt something in him break right along with him. He didn’t know what he had done to earn that much reverence in Michael’s mind. “You can’t ask me to do that. You said you felt it! You know how terrible it is! Why would you want to go through that with me? How am I supposed to let you when I can just–”

“Why not?” Damien asked softly when Michael stumbled to a halt, “You think I’ll just carry on if you shatter yourself along with these souls you’re being forced to save? That I'll just be fine losing you? I know you. I know you’d sever the bond and go down by yourself rather than let anything happen to me.”

Michael swallowed and blinked rapidly to chase away the watery sheen in his eyes. Damien didn’t need a response from him to know he had hit the mark. He brought his hand up to cup his jaw, and smiled when Michael leaned into the touch almost in spite of himself.

“I have a choice in this too,” Damien continued softly, “And I want you to understand that mine is to follow you wherever you go. I knew that when I first healed you after what happened with Bryant. I didn’t know if you were going to pull through, and I was more than happy to die right along with you. That hadn’t changed.”

You’ve lost your mind. The weak accusation had no heat in it, only mounting dread.

Wrong. I’ve found it, Damien thought back soothingly, letting all his feelings flow through the bond without holding back, and it’s attached to yours. Permanently. I won’t have it any other way.

Michael closed his eyes and his breath turned into shallow gasps. Damien genuinely didn’t know why Michael had such a hard time accepting how much he meant to Damien. 

“I need you to promise me, Michael,” he said, letting his tone carry the weight of his determination, “that you’ll do your goddamned best to survive, and you’ll hang onto me no matter what. Do you understand?” 

Michael focused on getting his breathing back under control for a few long seconds. When his pulse calmed down to a reasonable rhythm, he nodded without opening his eyes.

The Sentinel in him soared to the surface without warning, without any prodding from Damien. 

“I’ll have your word on that, Guide.” The demand was a low, almost subsonic rumble, something that Michael must have heard and felt deep in his chest.

When he opened his eyes, silver specks were winking in and out of his darkened pupils, the Guide in him responding in reflex;

“You have my word, Sentinel,” his promise full of pain, yet earnest.

“Thank you,” Damien said, closing the distance between them to catch his lips in a searing kiss that spoke his silent words for him; I love you.

Chapter Text

The Dawn of the Weekend

The Central Council Headquarters
Bogotá
Colombia

07:00 Hours/Local

Pre-Mission Briefing

“This is El Roto,” Richmond zoomed in on the regional map displayed on the main screen. “It’s about seventy-eight klicks southwest from the contact point.” 

El Roto stood up to its reputation as a ghost town. A few scattered ruins of wooden shacks bore silent witness to a small fishing village that had been abandoned a long time ago. Unguía was a harsh, sparsely-populated region surrounded by the marshlands. There were no possible entry points to the location via land. Damien would be flown in by a single-engine, four-seater Cessna they had chartered for transport. 

“River Atrato will be your insertion point inland,” she continued, addressing the thirty-strong recon team who were already in full assault gear. They would act as Damien’s back up and the initial wave. Once they had the location of Project Veritas locked in, they had a hundred more Branch One agents in reserve to be sent in and take over the facility. “We'll monitor your progress from here and coordinate your ingress with Bravo Two’s movements.”

The Atrato River, acting as the boundary between the Choco and Antioquia Departments of the northwest Colombian region, curved around El Roto from left to right and flowed into the Caribbean Sea.  

The inland Richmond was referring to was the rough, unnavigable marshland, which created the Colombian portion of the geographic region known as the ‘Darién Gap.’

It was a heavily isolated forest Colombia shared with southern Panama. Darién Gap was largely underdeveloped, with most economic activity consisting of small-scale farming, cattle ranching, and lumber. Criminal enterprises such as illegal logging, mining, human and drug trafficking thrived due to the remote, unlivable nature of the region. 

There were no roads, not even primitive ones, across the Darién: Colombia and Panama were the only countries in the Americas that shared a land border but lacked even a rudimentary link. 

Even with highly advanced GPS and satellite tracking, hiking into the barely-mapped region was not an option. Aside from natural threats such as deadly wildlife and tropical diseases, the flash floods remained a constant yet unpredictable threat due to frequent heavy rains. Law enforcement and medical support were nonexistent, and Project Veritas was only one of the countless other criminal organisations operating in the massive, unexplored region. 

The recon force would insert via the Atrato river in two fully-equipped and armed assault boats. The Crib, which had relocated to Council HQ, would monitor Damien and the recon force separately. Once they had the position of the Project Veritas complex, they’d converge the two together, hopefully without alerting the enemy security too early.

To counteract the issues they might encounter due to telemetry loss, everyone venturing into the field had micro GPS trackers implanted under their skin. Those were able to transmit strong radio signals even through the harshest environmental conditions. The trackers could be turned on and off from the HQ to avoid detection of the signal emissions. They weren’t easily detectable with the usual scanning equipment, unless one was subjected to a medical-grade x-ray scanner. The trackers couldn’t be detected via enhanced senses either, since they were implanted under several layers of human skin, their metallic scent well disguised under the scents of blood and fluids.

“So, Scott’s getting the VIP treatment,” sitting on the edge of the conference table, with her M4A1 Carbine resting on her thigh, DEA special agent Martinez drawled, “while the rest of us get to happily row ourselves into the depths of a nasty jungle–”

Originally from Chicago, Illinois, she was a member of the Midwest Council. After the debacle back in Florencia, it seemed that she had done exactly what she had threatened to do. She had contacted the Chairman, Lionel Scott, and updated herself on the recent events. 

As a result of her learning about Anderson and the retribution hunt, on top of what she had witnessed during the attack on her temporary base, Martinez had decided to lend her services as a trained Sentinel to the mission. 

Since her operation regarding the Colombian cartel runner, Miguel Gomez, was already wrapped up, the DEA didn’t have a reason to stop her from getting involved in the Council matters. Michael had a feeling the Colonel may have had a conversation with her bosses to expedite her request.

She brought nine agents with her, all of them online Sentinels, which added to the twenty Branch One Sentinels they had initially picked for the mission. 

There was an undeniable sense of awe and reverence in them, towards him and Damien, something Michael had noticed the moment the two of them had walked into the briefing room earlier. He had the sense that they had all volunteered for the mission and that there was an instinctive trust involved, which made them all agreeable to follow his and Damien’s lead. 

Michael had a feeling the events at Florencia may have had something to do with it and the condition of the dormant Sentinels who were detained in the infirmary. In any case, it lessened any friction that could have otherwise been present between two different agencies forced to merge and work together.  

“Motorboats, Martinez,” Damien interrupted with a goading grin. “You just point the nose where you wanna go and steer, the boat does the rest.”

“Boats can also capsize.” Instead of snapping at him for his patronizing remark, she leaned into it with all the seriousness in the world. “There are swarms of all kinds of critters, poisonous, venomous wildlife… and who knows what’s in that water? Could be alligators, flesh-eating fish…”

“Yeah, well,” Damien shrugged, unwilling to give in that easily, “Planes can crash or be shot down. That’ll definitely hurt worse than drowning.”

“Semantics,” she waved an unconcerned hand in the air before turning back to Michael, to make the point she initially wanted to make, “where will you be?”

“Over there,” Michael nodded at the map when Richmond brought up the Antonio Roldan Betancur airport to the centre of the screen. “With Professor Blair Sandburg.” 

“Who’s that?” Agent Santiago Rojas, the leader of the Branch One team, inquired.

“He’s the bargaining chip,” Michael continued, nodding at the image of the professor that Richmond brought up on the screen alongside the map. He was still at the embassy. Michael would pick him up on his way to El Dorado International Airport for their own flight. He and the professor would fly commercial, out in the open, to reinforce the optics that he and Damien were operating by themselves. “He’s the target Damien’s contact wants in return for the information.”

Martinez raised an eyebrow, “You’re not planning to hand the man over, are you?”

“Not if we can help it,” Michael shrugged, “but missions rarely go down the way we want them to and locating the Project Veritas facility remains the main priority. Dr. Sandburg understands the risks, and he’s agreed to accompany me. He insists, in fact.”

“What’s his story?” Rojas insisted, “Why is he their target?”

“He’s an anthropology professor at the Rainier University in Washington DC,” Michael said, electing to stick to the facts, not wanting to betray Sandburg’s confidences or his true nature. It would only draw unwanted attention to the professor. “He’s here on a lecturing tour. He’s published a few books on Sentinels and Guides. It is possible that he’s wanted for his extensive knowledge about us, but we’re hoping never to find out.”

“If they take me to their hidey-hole the way they promised, neither Michael nor the professor even need to get involved,” Damien added. “We hit them hard and fast before they realise what’s happening. Sandburg is the back up plan, in case they insist.”

Michael wasn’t exactly a big fan of that plan, although he knew it was the best outcome they could expect. The idea of sitting on the sidelines while Damien was in the thick of things grated on his nerves. It also irked the soldier in him to realise that all the Sentinels in the room seemed to prefer the scenario where he was holed up somewhere far from action.

Whether it was due to their instincts to protect him as a Guide or whether they were still a bit shaken about his rather extravagant abilities, Michael wasn’t entirely sure. 

“Coordinating a peremptory attack is going to be a little difficult when you’re out of the loop, isn’t it?” Martinez cocked her head at Damien. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Damien grinned, “You'll know exactly how and when. I won’t be out of the loop just because I’m not patched into the comms network.” 

Private Airfield
Suba
Bogotá
Colombia

10:20 Hours/Local

Michael pulled the Duster over into the parking lot and left it on idle. It was the same airfield from where they had taken the chopper to Florencia last Wednesday. It felt as if a lifetime had passed by in just three days. 

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” he murmured when Damien unclipped his seatbelt. 

“You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”

“No. No, I think you’re right,” Michael admitted quietly, turning his gaze towards the landing strip that stretched diagonally across the otherwise empty piece of land. Damien’s Cessna was already out of its hangar, being fuelled. “You had a point. It is entirely possible I was being rather selfish.”

He caught Damien’s smile in his periphery. “Just a little overprotective,” Damien shrugged, “I don’t like it when you hurt yourself in the process.”

“Fair enough.”

“What were you going to say then?”

“It’s about how these people are convinced that we’re not bonded,” Michael said, “I think we can use that.”

Damien turned in his seat so he was fully facing Michael, “I’m listening.”

“You and I both know they’re going to try something,” Michael started slowly, letting his thoughts take shape as he spoke. He had been thinking about what Damien had said a lot, and how it fit into what the professor had shared with them. “You’re not necessarily small fish, and they’d want you on their side if they can make it happen.”

“You think they’ll try to turn me instead of getting rid of me…” Damien trailed off, frowning.

Guessing was, unfortunately, a big part of the game since they had no access to verifiable intel. The knowledge from their brief encounters with the targets, and their reactions were all they had to make reasonable assumptions.

“Yes.” It wasn’t only wishful thinking on his part. It was the impression Michael had gotten from both Levi and Castellanos during their interactions with Damien.

“The gene-therapy drugs, the way Anderson tried with you,” Damien picked up on his line of thought, “or something even more horrific altogether.”   

“I think the only protection you’ll have against that kind of manipulation is our bond.”

“What are you planning?” Damien tilted his head at him curiously.

Michael wrenched his gaze away from the airfield and turned to face his Sentinel. “That we’ll let them.”

“What?” Damien blinked at him.

“If they conclude they can’t use you, their only other option will be to terminate you,” Michael explained, “but if we let it happen–”

“Michael–”

“It’ll probably feel like hell,” Michael admitted, cutting Damien’s protest off gently, “You’ll want to fight it with everything you have. Don’t. Give in without hurting yourself too much.”

He was turning Damien’s words around on himself. Damien was the one walking into the enemy territory this time, and Michael wanted him to be able to walk out without any permanent damage. He had felt exactly how much Damien cared about him the night before, and those feelings went both ways. 

“What are you going to do?” There was a sense of dread wrapped around his whispered inquiry.

“The bond, I can hide it,” Michael said, equally softly, “I mean, really hide it, even from you. You won't know it's there. They won't, either. Allow them to do whatever they want. It’s the same thing you made me promise, Damien. Do whatever you have to do to survive. Even if that means turning sides, letting go of the bond and me. You do it. I’ll bring you back when the time’s right.”

Damien didn’t say a thing for a long time. Michael didn’t break the silence either. It was a lot to process. The more he had thought about it, the more he had realised it was the best solution to a difficult and unavoidable problem. Michael hated it just as much as he could feel his Sentinel did, but he was confident in his abilities to do it. 

Besides, he had made a promise, and he would do his utmost best to keep it.

“Show me,” Damien murmured after what felt like a lifetime. Michael’s first instinct was to protest. He didn’t see the point of putting themselves through something that painful before it was absolutely necessary. The resolute demand shining in Damien’s uncompromising gaze, made him hold his protest. “I need to know how it feels.”

Michael held his gaze, letting the equivalent of an apologetic hug warm the bond before centering his thoughts. Even with his shields fully confining his mind, Michael felt the Psionic Plane ripple faintly at the edge of his consciousness, responding to his sharpened focus. 

Closing his eyes, Michael dived into Damien’s mind. The presence of Damien’s Sentinel was vast and encompassing, and Michael felt it watch him intently, fully aware of what he was about to do. The fact that he wasn’t squashed instantly like an irritating bug spoke of the trust they shared.

With another heartfelt apology, Michael directed his mind towards the bond, letting it ripple and unravel in his hold. He spread his awareness throughout Damien’s mind, diligently targeting the memories they shared. Their colours faded as he dulled the importance of those memories, along with the plethora of emotions that held them lovingly in their places. 

He wasn’t destroying anything, nor was he taking them away. Michael knew Damien’s mind more than he did his own, and he held a perfect replica of what he was erasing from the surface of his Sentinel’s awareness in his own mind. 

Once their shared memories were reduced to nothing but the faintest traces, Michael opened his eyes. The confusion clouding Damien’s gaze was a much more painful sight than he had imagined. Michael had done the deed with a lot of precision and gentleness, not even close compared to what Bryant had done when she had wreaked havoc in Damien’s soul. Still, it was close enough, and a knot of dread tightened in Michael’s chest, making him feel nauseous and out of breath.

Damien blinked, rubbed at his chest absently and opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He frowned and looked out of the windshield, squinting at the sound of the Cessna’s revving engine. 

“Damien?” 

He looked at him and flashed an uncertain smile. Even after what amounted to a complete memory scrub, Damien still seemed to instinctively trust him. It was all too much. Michael closed his eyes in a vain attempt to gather his own, strangling emotions.

“Hi?” 

Hearing a generic greeting in that confused tone broke him. Michael reached out blindly and grabbed Damien by the collar. Damien let out a surprised grunt when Michael started kissing him with a desperation he couldn’t quite control. The shock and uncertainty on Damien’s part faded when Michael opened the bond again. Freeing them from the mental prison he had built around the bond, Michael coaxed the strands of their souls to weave back together where they belonged, wrapped around both their minds. 

A sound akin to a whimper made its way out of Damien's chest when the bond settled as if it had never left. The kiss turned frantic when Damien wrapped both his hands around Michael’s neck, keeping him in place. Michael held onto his wrists, willing himself to imprint on the feeling of those insistent lips, biting teeth and tongue all over him, committing every bit of that possessive love deep into his memories.

“Christ, that was freaky.” Damien gasped when they parted for air, resting his forehead against Michael’s.

“It’ll be worse,” Michael whispered hoarsely, “You’re going to have to trust me, Damien. Please.”

“I do, always.” 

Michael opened his eyes and held his shaken Sentinel’s gaze, “You’ll stay alive,” he said, allowing a fraction of Psionic energies to intertwine with his words. “Otherwise, I'll hunt you down in the afterlife just so I can kill you myself. There will be no place for you to hide.”

Live together and die together. That was the deal. If Michael was going to keep his end of it, he expected nothing less from his Sentinel.

A slow grin broke out on Damien’s kiss-bitten lips, making him look rather savage. 

His reply was, however, serious. “Got it.” 

Michael waited until Damien was hidden from his view behind the Cessna before pulling back out of the parking lot. He had a flight to catch of his own.

El Roto
Colombia

11:24 Hours/Local

Kim Martinez gave her Carbine a quick yet thorough once-over before adjusting its strap to secure it across her back. 

Except for the constant buzz at the edge of her regular hearing, the entire village was quiet.  Apart from the swarms of mosquitoes, dragonflies, and other chittering insects, not a soul lived in the ghost town for miles. 

“Bravo Three, Bravo Four,” Richmond’s voice came through the comms, “Zero.”

Kim clicked the comms twice at the same time Rojas’ quiet acknowledgement came through the network. He was inside one of the boats, securing their gear, while Kim was outside, keeping an eye out on the perimeter with half their agents. The comm line was clear despite the distances. She hoped it would last once they had progressed deep into the jungle. 

“Bravo Two’s on the ground.” The Section Twenty Sergeant continued, “Bravo One’s landed at Antonio Roldan Betancur with the package.”

As if on cue, Kim saw the single-engine Cessna fly over the land in the distance.

“Are we good?”

“Visual and thermal scans confirm you’re not being monitored,” Richmond confirmed. “You’re the only souls for a good ten-klick radius.”

That was something. What their enhanced senses couldn’t cover, the eye on the sky definitely could. Blowing up their cover even before the operation started would have made things unnecessarily complicated. 

“Eyes on the targets yet?” 

Scott was expected to meet up with two of his contacts: Rebecca Levi and Adrian Castellanos. Kim had skimmed through their files while on the way. Scott seemed to have worked with some interesting people during his company days.  

“Not yet-” Stonebridge, Bravo One, answered instead of Scott.

Kim knew she wasn’t the only one who had a hard time wrapping her mind around what those two could do as individuals, let alone trying to figure out what they had together. 

Scott, at first glance, came off as an annoyingly outgoing, insufferable flirt. He talked to people and made friends easily. He also had a talent to talk a load of crap without giving away anything of substance; a talent Kim was sure must have come in handy when he worked for the spooks.

He turned into an entirely different creature when his shields were open, however; a barely-contained, Level Five Sentinel that had an uncanny ability to effortlessly dominate the rest of the Sentinels with his ancient and all-encompassing presence alone. There was also a mile-wide possessive streak towards Stonebridge he didn’t bother hiding. It was a claim that no one seemed the least interested in challenging. Kim included.

Stonebridge was the silent, almost stand-offish one of the two, preferring to only speak when spoken to or when he had something to say. It seemed that he was grateful for Scott’s presence at times, so he could avoid interacting with people unless he absolutely had to. When his mind was open, he was also an entirely different story. Kim had felt his presence shining like a newborn star in her mind, inviting, alluring and mind-blowingly beautiful. For the first time in her life, she had felt her Sentinel bow down in reverence to the pure light that radiated from him.

Scott and Stonebridge were the polar opposites in every sense of the term, yet they seemed to fit each other like the two sides of the same coin. 

“He’s complaining about the bugs.”

There were at least fifty klicks between them. Kim had no idea how their bond functioned as if they were sitting next to each other. It was mind-boggling to even comprehend. 

“Did you all remember to inoculate yourselves against the yellow fever, tetanus and typhoid?” The eager voice she could hear through Stonebridge’s line probably belonged to the professor. “These bug bites can give you all kinds of infections.”

She heard him patiently explain to the good doctor that they had all gotten their shots in the ass along with the microchips. 

“We’re ready to move.” Rojas climbed off the boat and walked over to join Kim, “waiting on your signal.”

Both Richmond and Stonebridge acknowledge his report. 

“With luck, we’ll be able to wrap this up within twenty-four hours, eh?” Rojas said, his gaze fixed on the distance where Kim could see the clouds were acquiring a darker shade of grey, “I have to confess, I’m not looking forward to camping in the marshlands during thunderstorms.”

“The weather’s going to turn?” Kim asked. So far, the sun was still shining a little to the left, and the ground was mostly dry.

“In the Darién Gap, the weather always turns. And, you can be sure it's never for the better,” Rojas nodded at the two well-equipped and well-armed boats bobbing serenely by the shore, “We have reliable transport, weapons, weather-proofed gear and enough supplies to last us a week if needed. We’re as prepared as we can be. Now, we can hope for the best, but it’s always wise to expect the worst when venturing into this particular region.”

“Fun,” Kim muttered. 

She had heard all kinds of stories about the Darién Gap throughout the two years she had spent in Colombia. She had never really wanted to find out if any of them were true. Now, she was ready to go guns blazing into the damned forest-covered swamp because her inner Sentinel’s gotten its panties twisted in a wad.

Sometimes, she wished she didn’t have to follow her inherent instincts even when they insisted so thoroughly. 

Something in the Psionic Plane itself was adamant. She knew she wasn’t the only one who felt it. All of them had their instincts riding on the surface, and they were all being called to perform a service, do their duty, and it was important.

If this was going to be anything like what she had seen and felt back in Florencia, Kim knew they were all going to be in for a wild ride. 

“Get ready,” Stonebridge’s words wrenched her back from her internal musings, “They’ve made contact. Levi and Castallanos both showed up.”

Chapter Text

Location: 8.0410° N, 77.0931° W
Ungía
Choco Department
Colombia

12:01 Hours/Local

Throughout the six years Rebecca Levi had known Damien Scott since 2005, she had seen him do a lot of crazy and stupid things. Sometimes, that would be because he got paid for it. Other times, well, because he was stubborn like that. 

Showing up all by his lonesome in the middle of nowhere, knowing that he was most probably walking into a trap, had to be the stupidest and craziest thing he had done so far. 

Feelings made even the best of them lose higher brain functions, Rebecca supposed. And hope, for that matter. Damien Scott just put everything on the line because he had allowed himself to be guided by his feelings, placing all his bets on hope. 

It didn’t really matter. Misguided by utter stupidity as he was, Damien still had ended up in the right place. It was only a matter of time until he was freed from all the bindings that tied him to a half-life, his potential hindered by archaic rules and ethics and all that nonsense.

She had seen Langdon’s and Stoddard’s work first-hand, although she was yet to experience any of it. If anyone could bring Damien along to their side, it would be the two of them. 

Opening up her shields, Rebecca breathed deeply. The breeze was cool and damp with water droplets from a storm that was already forming above the thick foliage of the Atrato Delta. It was also saturated with the personal scent of the Sentinel standing only about a thousand yards away from where she was. 

Rebecca closed her eyes, allowing herself to enjoy the traces of cinnamon, sandalwood, and hints of orris all wrapped up tantalisingly in soothing tones of exotic incense. Scott’s personal scent always reminded her of Mediterranean palaces; rich, luxurious foyers with gleaming marbles bathed in gold. It was a strong, seductive scent, one that never failed to spark a sense of thrill and excitement in her. 

Scott was shielding himself. She knew that when she didn’t feel his mental barriers reach out in response to her faint probing. He had opted to wait, to let them play their hand first, either too confident or too resigned to care. 

Fool, she thought, letting her senses reach around him to make sure he hadn’t brought along any surprises. Apart from his phone, a handgun and a pair of shades, he didn’t have anything else on him. Not even a hidden knife. It’s almost as if you want to make it easy for us.

Next to her, Castellanos sighed dramatically before opening his own shields. Rebecca tried not to grimace at the bitter, acidic tang she could almost taste at the back of her throat. The acrid tones of chemicals that were released into the air when Castellanos interacted with the Psionic energies vanished just as quickly as they emerged, leaving only a serene sense of tranquility around them. 

Adrian’s been practising, she mused, thinking about the times it had been a pure horror just to be around him while he learned how to curb his wild, uncontrolled emotions. He’s getting quite good at Projecting. 

Rebecca supposed she only felt that slight yet somewhat jarring difference because Castellanos wasn’t meant for her. He was customised for Scott and Scott only. That was the beauty of Project Veritas and its vision. The time that the gene carriers had to wait with bated breath for their chosen ones to drop into their laps was finally over. 

Project Veritas was for the ones who wanted to shape and forge their own fates. Rebecca was happily on board with the idea of making her own decisions and choices, writing her own destiny. That was why she hadn’t thought twice about agreeing to join the Project when Christy and Zebediah pitched the idea to her in the first place. 

“That’s a hundred bucks you owe me,” she said lightly, breaking the silence. 

Scott wouldn’t hear them, not at their current distance, especially with the way he was keeping all his senses locked up at regular levels. 

Castellanos stared straight ahead at the line of trees, the thick green curtain that hid Scott from their view for the moment, and flashed a lopsided grin. “How about I share him with you for the night, instead?”

Rebecca chuckled. She had to admit, the suggestion had appeal. “That defeats the purpose,” she said teasingly, not sharing her interest although she knew the man could probably feel it.  “You lost the bet. It’s supposed to hurt.”

“Oh, it’ll hurt,” his voice dropped a few octaves, and Rebecca could see his pupils dilating at the very thought of getting together with the other Sentinel, “but in the best way. You’ll love it.”

Rebecca couldn’t deny the way her inner sadist perked up at what Castellenos was implying. She knew exactly what it was like to have Scott in bed, and she’d never had any complaints. Seeing him in his element, dominating the whirlwind that was Catallenos, felt like it would be the best reward for all her work in bringing him in.

“For old time's sake, I suppose,” she kept her tone bored, not wanting to let Castellanos know how much she preferred the new arrangement. “You got yourself a deal, Adrian. You better not back up on this one.”

The man’s smirk said she hadn’t been very successful. Not that it mattered.

“I can’t believe the moron showed up alone with no backup,” he complained, sticking his lips out in a pout, “Damien Scott I knew would never have.”

“Ah, well,” Rebecca shrugged, “he’s not using the head above his shoulders right now, is he?”

His sudden spark of anger felt like a spike through her skull before it was abruptly yanked back. She had hit a sore spot with that remark. She knew the initial meeting with Scott hadn’t gone the way Castellanos had planned. Scott had a hard time letting go of his other Guide, the one who was permanently lost to him no matter how hard he wished otherwise. Scott was stubborn like that. Rebecca knew. 

Castellanos just had to be patient. His artificial shields were completely saturated with chemicals specially designed to entice Scott and his senses. Every time Castellanos opened his shields, traces of those chemicals poured out of him in suffocating waves. He just had to give those drugs some time to get absorbed into Scott and do their work. 

“The faster we get him fixed, the better,” Castellanos murmured with more than a hint of possessiveness.

“Let’s go say hi,” Rebecca said. He had a point. The quicker they turned Scott to their side, the faster they could get on with the rest. “He hates bugs.”

***

The duo made plenty of sound before stepping out of the treeline and the undergrowth that offered decent camouflage. 

“Huh.” Damien took off his sunglasses and hung them on his shirt. “I was wondering if you two would show up together.” 

“Well,” Castellanos flashed him a flirty smile, scanning him from head to toe with a hungry look, “your wish is our command.”

His shields were open, and there were tendrils of silvery light reaching out to Damien through the Psionic Plane, glancing off of his shields in a gentle caress. Michael hadn’t hidden their bond completely yet, but Damien could feel it had gone dark and transparent, maintaining only a minimal link between them. Michael’s presence in him was dampened to a feather-like sensation in a deep corner of his mind. He was only observing the interaction, not intervening as he had done when Damien had met Castellanos the other day.

The difference was day and night. Without Michael’s active interference, Castellanos felt entirely different. His voice sounded soothing, and the way his almost feminine features looked so soft and pretty was somehow enchanting. It was strange and a little discomfiting because Damien could feel it wasn’t right and that there was an imbued sense of wrongness radiating from the other man. Damien’s senses were being flooded with very specific inputs. He had a hard time ignoring them, even as his instincts were screaming at him to get away. It was a scary thing to admit that whatever they had pumped into Castellanos was having an irresistible effect on him.

Damien was glad he was shielding his mind. He did not want to breathe in the man’s artificial scent and find it somehow a perfect blend of his favorite scents. That belonged to Michael, and he had no intention of even catching a whiff of it on anyone else. Without the comforting presence of the bond as he knew it, Damien was already on edge. That would only serve to tip him over and drive his Sentinel off in a rampage. 

Feels almost as if they had tailored him for you, Michael’s pointed thought made a faint ripple in his mind. He was almost like another imaginary voice, not an active presence. Damien had no idea how Michael managed to have that much control over his own consciousness. What are the chances that Bryant had collected a stock full of your blood and other genetic material when she knew you?

Fuck me, Damien cursed. Michael, I don’t like this. Makes me feel like some sort of a guinea pig.

I know exactly how you feel. Michael's warmth curled around him in a reassuring embrace, I think when Bryant lost, they had Castellanos ready to take over as her replacement.

Makes my skin crawl.

He felt Michael’s agreement flowing through the bond, tangled along with an apology, soothing comfort and a firm reminder: Don’t fight too hard, Damien. Remember, staying alive is more important than letting them take their temporary win.

“That’s great,” Damien grumbled out loud, eyeing the treeline and the wet, muddy trail Levi and Castellanos brought to life with their knee-high, tactical boots, “because I’m not going hiking through the swamps. I’m not dressed for it, and frankly, I’m not in the mood. You better call an RTV or a chopper, I’m not picky.”

“Scott, baby, we’re not going to cross the swamps by foot, come on,” Castellanos purred, taking two more steps closer so that he was almost in Damien’s personal space. Damien was torn between the desire to pull him closer and push him away. He hated both conflicting feelings equally. “We’re civilised people here. We’ve got a much better alternative.” Castallenos made an elegant gesture with his head, indicating the area where the two of them had emerged. “It’s less than a mile that way.”

“Let me guess,” Damien stared at him thoughtfully, “Tunnels?”

“Better than the freeways back in Tabasco,” Castallenos laughed prettily, mentioning the poor city back in Mexico he had grown up in. “We’ve got tunnels and elevators. Totally mud and bug free, darling.”

“Fine, lead the way,” Damien let out a sigh. The sooner he got them to point him to their cave, the better. He was already done with the blasted mission.

“Not so fast, Scott,” Levi finally decided to join the conversation with a suggestive smile of her own, “Where’s the professor? Last we checked, he was still at the embassy.”

Castellanos' mind slithered like an oily snake inside his mind, looking for his memories. Damien instinctively recoiled from it while Michael seamlessly scattered his memories out of his grasp. Castellanos was nowhere near good at it, and Damien felt him withdraw after a few seconds of futile searching. He knew Castellanos would choke it up to his own inability at wielding telepathy rather than Damien’s ability to somehow hide his thoughts.

“I told you I wasn’t doing anything until I’ve seen for myself you can deliver what you promised, a way to fix my–” Damien snapped, and then stopped himself, swallowing hard, “A way to fix Michael.”

Castellanos smiled, although he was very unsuccessful at hiding his irritation underneath it. Without another word, they both turned around and started walking back towards the treeline. Michael’s presence withdrew from him as he fell into step behind them, and Damien did his best not to feel like a lamb to slaughter as he placidly followed them to their den.

El Roto

Meanwhile

“Bravo Two’s on the move,” Stonebridge’s voice had a distant, almost dream-like quality when it came through the comms. “They’re taking him to their facility through a tunnel.”

“Confirmed,” Baxter, Richmond’s assistant, joined in a second later. “We’ve lost the satellite visuals. The signal from the tracker’s holding strong. We’ve got good positioning.”

“Amen to that.” 

Kim wholeheartedly agreed with Rojas’ mumbled prayer. 

“Bravo Three and Four are on the move,” she added her own sit-rep as the two boats started speeding down the Atrato river. Their navigation controls were enslaved to relay from the Crib, and so far, it looked like they could maintain a parallel entry to Scott’s progress with only a klick and a half distance between them.

“We’ll continue to monitor,” Baxter acknowledged crisply. “Good luck.”

The thing was, they were nowhere near enough to provide back up in case Scott pissed off his targets and tried to get himself killed. But the mission priority remained locating the Project Veritas HQ. To that end, if Scott managed to stay alive until his tracker arrived on the target, they had a great chance at surrounding the facility without alerting the enemy forces. 

Kim couldn’t help but feel as though they were dealing with two highly unstable nukes by separating Scott and Stonebridge. The Guide had managed to neutralise an entire group of online Sentinels within a few seconds. He had done it by simply splitting his mind via the Psionic Plane, not even laying a single finger on any of them. It had been an unbelievably remarkable thing to witness. Everyone back in Florencia base had experienced echoes of the power he had wielded and instinctively recognized that they were all in the presence of a rare and extraordinary being.

However, it had also been quite clear that Scott was Stonbridge’s stabilising anchor, his way back to himself out of an endless stream of Psionic energies that had poured out through him like an open valve. The amount of energies the Guide had channeled that day had been mind-boggling to even comprehend. Yet, all of them had known instinctively that they were safe, that he had been protectively contained by an equally strong Prime Sentinel.

Now, the two were not quite so close, their bond possibly stretched thin, although they could still communicate through it. Bonded couples functioned best when they were together, and they had a way of deteriorating when they were separated for long periods of time.

There was nothing normal about Scott and Stonebridge. Kim had a very valid and logical concern that the longer they were out of each other’s spheres, the more volatile and disastrous they’d become. 

For all their sake, she hoped they’d get to complete the damned mission before anything went horribly wrong, and they were forced to witness the aftermath of either one of them losing control.

Antonio Roldan Betancur Airport
El Prado
Carepa
Antioquia
Colombia

12:22 Hours/Local

“Here you go.”

Michael looked up to find a large steaming mug of coffee in front of his nose. Sandburg had a concerned expression on his face. Michael took the offering with a grateful smile. Maybe that would help chase away the taste of bile in the back of his throat. 

“Tell me what’s going on, Michael,” Sandburg asked quietly, settling on the plastic chair next to him. They were both seated in the lounge, two backpacks resting on the floor at their feet for their luggage. Apart from a couple of waiting families, the area was deserted. “Maybe I can help.”

Michael took a sip of his coffee, giving himself a moment to gather his thoughts. It wasn’t as easy as he thought. His misgivings about the whole thing were warring with what he had just witnessed and felt through the darkened bond. 

“Why don’t you start with what happened to Damien?” Sandburg suggested after some time, when Michael remained silent, “You said you were going to watch the interaction through him? It’s fascinating. I must confess, I could never hold my concentration with that much focus in Jim’s mind without getting lost in his memories. He had such a bright mind, so many beautiful moments filling up his mindspace.”

In his periphery, Sandburg stared wistfully into the distance. Michael didn’t need his Guide abilities to feel the sense of loneliness radiating from the professor.

“I find Damien’s mind the most beautiful place to find peace and serenity,” he replied quietly, truthfully, “As to not getting lost in it… well, as you said, my mother’s the best there is when it comes to discipline training. She made sure I knew my limits and how to control myself,” it was Michael’s turn to get lost in the memories. The diligent training, instructions and relentless drilling he used to hate had saved his life more than once. “I managed to break out of a null recently.”

Michael hadn’t really meant for it to slip out. He had to admit, Sandburg’s open and earnest way of conversing was a good method of luring information out of even the most reluctant. 

“Did you, indeed?” The professor turned to Michael, pinning him with an intrigued gaze.  “How? When?”

“I was captured by one of our targets, Zebediah Anderson,” Michael said after a sip of his coffee. It was bitter and more water than coffee. Yet it was warm and much better than the lingering taste of frustration and guilt coating his tongue. “He put a nullifier collar on me before injecting me with the first dose of a gene-altering drug. I fought and broke through the drug-induced barriers. Took out a few of my captors with a Projection.”

“And the fact that you didn’t end up like a brain-damaged vegetable is more than enough proof your mother’s training held,” Sandburg muttered, looking at him with a mix of incredulity, chastisement and awe. It was remarkably similar to the look Doctor Campbell had given him back at the Detroit Tower that day, “Then again, there’s a reason why a true soldier’s been handpicked for the job.”

“I hate the job,” Michael mumbled, only half joking, “Is it too late to submit a resignation?”

“You’d never,” Sandburg chuckled confidently, as if he had known Michael for a lifetime. He sipped some of his own coffee before turning serious. “Now, if you're done deflecting, tell me what happened.”

“Should have known it wouldn't be that easy.”

“Of course not,” Sandburg replied to his muttered grumble sagely, “I was in your shoes once. Still am, kind of. You should let me help. As much as it's for you, it’s for me too, Michael.”

Michael sighed. The professor had a point. If he was willing to walk into the thick of it with them, the least Michael could do was keep him in the loop. He relaxed the shields around his mind a fraction, sweeping their surroundings with a cursory mental scan to make sure no one was paying them any undue attention. 

For the moment, everything was quiet.

“Levi and Castellanos made contact,” Michael started softly. “I was observing through Damien’s mind. They couldn’t sense me or the bond.”

“Something has you bothered, though.”

“The way this other, medicated and mutated Guide felt caught me off guard,” Michael confessed, doing his best to disentangle his own feelings from the events. It was the wrong time to get emotional over things they had knowingly set in motion. “I got the feeling he was tailor-made for Damien. Without me actively blocking him and with the bond now muted, he’s affecting Damien - the way he looks, his voice… it’s confusing my Sentinel.”

“The scent, too?” Sandburg murmured thoughtfully.

“Probably,” Michael shrugged, sipping some more of his coffee to distract himself from the dark cloud of consternation hovering in his mind, “Damien was shielding, and he was torn. Castellanos’ presence was making him feel sick.”

“Michael–”

“I wanted to reach out and kill them both with a thought,” he continued, not reading too much into why he didn’t feel even an ounce of remorse over the fact, “It would have been so easy. It was hard to hold back and let them just take him away.”

“That would have defeated the purpose, wouldn’t it?” Sandburg pointed out without a trace of judgment in his matter-of-fact tone, “The goal is to locate their complex. You said so yourself, they took precautions to keep themselves hidden. Had you taken their lives, you’d never have learned the location out of their minds.”

It was interesting and a little funny that the professor couldn’t care less about Michael admitting to almost committing a cold-blooded murder. But, then again, he used to be a Guide. If anyone could comprehend what Michael felt for Damien, it would be Sandburg.

“That’s why I didn’t,” Michael said tiredly. It was only then that he realised that keeping the bond dampened seemed to be taking a physical toll on him. The grim topic of their conversation wasn’t helping either. “It’s just that, this isn’t the first time Damien went through something like this. There was another Guide, a woman named Bryant – she’d been corrupting his mind and thoughts for years. When she learned about me, she replaced his memories of me with the template of a terrorist and triggered a killer response. She made him hunt me down…”

“The day you came online,” Sandburg picked up from where he left off with an equally soft voice, his gaze a little dull as if he was staring through a memory. Or a dream, “There was so much pain, fear and uncertainty around you. It was smothering you. You couldn’t breathe. Everything was too loud and too quiet at the same time, and you were numb. You were frozen. That wasn’t right because it was also very hot, and everywhere you looked, you could see nothing but bright flames above you.”

“I’d just been shot,” Michael murmured, swallowing thickly. Sandburg sounded like he had felt the whole thing through Michael’s senses, “and he set the shack on fire.”

“Jesus,” Sandburg exhaled wearily, rubbing a hand over his chest as if trying to chase away a phantom pain, “I don't know how you two managed to survive that, but I'm glad you did,” he looked up then, pinning Michael with a gaze burning of intensity, “As brutal as it must have been, it was a test, and you both passed. You have been chosen to wage war, Michael. The Psionic Plane had to test your mettle before christening the two of you as its warriors.”

“Ever since I learnt about my biological parentage – about Chritopher Desmond - I’ve had this feeling that I’m a way of balancing cosmic scales of karma or something, you know,” Michael confided. It was something he’d never spoken to anyone about. Not to his parents or even Damien. A lot of things about his rather over-the-top abilities had made a certain sense when he had come to that conclusion. “I already knew how it felt to be used by the Psionic Plane. When I went through the backlash after killing Dsemond, I knew I’d be the one to undo all his sins. I was fine with it. I am fine with it. I just wish–”

“What?” Sandburg prodded gently when he trailed off, lost for words.

“Damien…” Michael forced out through a tightening throat, “He doesn’t owe anything to the Psionic Plane–” He really didn’t. He had a good family, and he had nothing staining his existence the way Michael’s did. “Why does he have to be chained to me? Terrible things happened to him because of me and what I am. He did nothing to deserve any of that. Yet, he doesn’t have a choice, does he? He has to because he's enslaved to me on a genetic level. How’s that fair?”

“Well, first of all, when you’re called to serve the Psionic Plane, it’s a two-man job,” Sandburg explained earnestly, “It’s always been. Secondly, would you have preferred for your Sentinel to have lived through a terrible life just so it justifies being chained to you?”

“What?” Michael frowned, shaking his head. “No! I just wish he had a choice to pick a normal life instead of being forced into one filled with chaos.” 

Sandburg watched him with an understanding gaze, one that looked almost paternal. 

“Look, I know it feels like a piece of puzzle slides into place when a True Bond emerges,” he said gently, yet with unwavering certainty, “but it’s not all genetic or predestined. It’s not. You both always had a choice. The instant attraction and connection you felt when you first met were just enhancers of the experience, not root causes. Damien wouldn't be here if he hadn’t made the conscious choice to pick you.”

“How can you be sure?” Michael whispered, not caring that his tone was so pathetically pleading toward someone who was practically a stranger.  

Sandburg smiled. “Think about the time you bonded.”

Closing his eyes, Michael did as he was told. Before things had taken a turn to hell, that night had been the most exhilarating experience in his life. He cast his mind back to how it felt to be so openly and wholly welcomed into an intensely private place such as one’s mind. Michael had felt so insignificant under that beautiful, all-encompassing tapestry of vibrant colours, sounds and textures that made Damien who and what he was. He had felt seen and adored by the ancient wealth of wisdom and patience that resided within Damien… his Sentinel. Through all that, he had also felt how Damien, the man, had dived through the magnificence of their combined powers to reach Michael, the lone man underneath all of it. He could clearly see Damien’s triumphant grin when he discovered Michael for who he was without all the bells and whistles the Plane had attached to him. 

Michael opened his eyes with a soft gasp. He didn’t know how he had forgotten that moment.

“Exactly,” Sandburg’s smile widened, his gaze bright and knowing, “A True bond - one as strong and extraordinary as the one you two share - would never have flared to life if the two of you hadn’t made the choice on your own volition. You both made a conscious decision out of love, duty and loyalty. The bond you two brought to life is all about you and how you feel for each other. All the Psionic energies did was reinforce your choice.”

“Maybe you’re onto something there, doc,” Michael said, flashing a small smile of his own. Thank you for pulling my head out of my ass. 

“Of course,” Sandburg nodded gravely, “I know you’re new to this, and you’ve already been through hell and back. I’m glad I’m around to give you a hand, as much as I can, at least.”

“I don’t know how you do it,” Michael admitted, “Just keep going without your Sentinel.”

“Because I have faith that once I’m done, I’ll get to see him again,” Sandburg murmured. “You already know that when we leave, we have a place in the Plane. I’ll find him.”

“Damien made me promise not to do anything stupid like sacrifice myself to save him.” Michael revealed quietly, “The thing is, I’m not like you, doc. I won't linger in this world without my Sentinel. If it comes to that, I’ll always choose to go down with him.”

“And you’ll take the world down with you.” Sandburg nodded, patting him on the shoulder gently. “You don't have to be like me, Michael. We’re different. We were chosen for different tasks. As long as you know your own mind, heart and soul, you’ll know where your path lies.”

Chapter Text

The Project Veritas Hub
Darién Gap

13:04 Hours/Local

Castellanos was right about one thing. The tunnel – well-maintained, ventilated and generously-illuminated – made Damien almost forget that he was hiking through a vast, hardly-mapped land, venturing further and further into the thick forest. Both of them kept up a constant, light-hearted chatter, making the entire forty-five-minute walk feel a lot less than it was. 

Damien kept his responses to a minimum, his mind shielded as tightly as he could in counter to soft yet relentless nudges of Castellanos’ wide-open mind and barely-tamed shields. 

He didn’t know for how long he could resist, however, which was a frightening realisation. 

When he had first met Castellanos, Michael’s presence had been a bright beacon, with Damien's Sentinel side wrapped around him protectively. Now, the bond was reduced to a fading memory, and his Sentinel – a distant, disconnected and lethargic cloud - was stuck in a deep corner in Damien’s mind.

Damien knew it was Michael’s doing, although he had no idea how long that particular knowledge would last. Michael had shown him how it would be when Damien had demanded. Michael had done it quickly and painlessly. Damien had felt as though he had just woken up from a long, pleasant dream, with only a faint sense of recognition of the striking man staring back at him. The awareness had rushed back in when Michael had kissed him, sending him reeling with whiplash. 

It was the same thing happening to him now, only a lot slower. The memories of Michael were fading, along with the intensity of his own Sentinel. With every passing moment, Damien’s perception of Castallenos was also changing. He was wondering why he had let go of the man who obviously still cared about him a lot, and was in love with him.

The confusing thought had Damien stumbling over the smooth asphalt. Castellanos reached out and steadied him with a hand wrapped around his forearm.

The touch on his bare skin burnt. Before Damien could yank his arm back, Castellanos tightened his grip. The burn turned soothing, cool and rather nice on his warm skin. Through the sudden hazy fog in his mind, a voice told Damien not to fight it. To go along with the flow.

“Thanks,” Damien muttered, blinking. The voice faded as if it had never been there in the first place.

“You feel okay, baby?” Castellanos purred.

“Yeah, yeah,” Damien grumbled, letting the other man hold onto his arm. “Are we there yet?”

Levi jerked her at the intersection about thirty yards ahead. It was the third one they had crossed so far. “The place is just around the corner.”

This time, they took the right turn. Castellanos hung onto Damien as they walked. Damien let him, wondering why he hadn’t wanted to in the first place. It felt nice. He liked Adrian. He liked the way he looked, the way he spoke and the way he smelled.

Without thinking, Damien relaxed the outer layers of his shields. It was somewhat concerning how much he had to concentrate in order to coax the energies around him into his mind. He was used to them rushing in and filling him up with cheerful vigour to enhance his senses. Now, though, he had to fight to absorb the reluctant, almost resentful energies. 

The scent that engulfed him through his enhanced sense of smell was magnificent and utterly seductive. Damien forgot all about the dull, cloying Psionic energies as Adrian’s scent overlapped his consciousness, settling over him like a warm, soft blanket.

Somewhere in the hidden recess, his Sentinel made a half-hearted attempt to growl. It rippled along the boundaries of his mind more like a sleepy yawn before fading back to silence.

Damien wrapped an arm around Adrian’s delicate shoulder, drawing him in closer. The man’s much shorter, leaner frame fit alongside him perfectly. 

There was an elevator at the end of the narrow tunnel, as promised. Levi pressed the button to call it down while Damien happily soaked up the warmth and palpable joy radiating from the Guide nestled contentedly under his arm.

“Welcome to the Hub.” Levi declared with dramatic flair when the elevator deposited them at their new destination.

Damien stepped into the brightly lit hallway after her. If it wasn’t for the greenery and the grey sky that dominated the view from the windows lining up the entire hallway, he would never have guessed they were somewhere deep in the forest. Judging from the way the ground was almost completely hidden from his view, Damien guessed they were several floors above ground level. 

To their left, there were two parallel lines of closed doors stretched for about twenty yards, bracketing the hallway before it split into an intersection. All of the doors were made of steel and reinforced, supporting a black placard with a unit number. Subtle yet irritating strands of chemical odours emanating from the hallway had Damien wrinkling his nose in reflex.  

“This way, love,” Adrian tugged on his arm, and Damien let himself be led down the opposite direction. 

A sharp right corner brought them to a wide-open lounge. The high ceiling was lined with fluorescent lighting, bathing the entire area in a sterile white glow. A wide range of couches and chairs surrounded wooden tables that came in various sizes and shapes in an overall arrangement that looked inviting and cosy rather than chaotic. The mouth-watering smell of food wafted in from the far right corner, where there was an entrance leading down to an equally open dining area. 

On the opposite end, there was a set of double doors with one half open, offering a glimpse of a hallway identical to the one they had walked past, indicating the existence of possibly more labs and research areas. 

Damien automatically clocked an emergency exit to their immediate left out of habit, another pair of double steel doors that led to the restrooms and what he assumed was a flight of stairs.

“Nice digs,” Damien remarked casually, letting the smell of roast beef and potatoes drown out the tang of bitter acids and other sharp odours. It was well past noon, hours since he’d had breakfast. He was starving.

“Wait till you see where the magic happens,” Levi said, jerking her head at the doors that led to the open hallway.

Adrian stayed where he was, sidled against Damien. “Or would you like to have lunch before we continue?” He looked up at Damien, a knowing smirk playing in his soft, pink lips. “The doctors and the labs can wait.”

The Guide knew him well already. Damien grinned back, “You know, I’d like that.”

“I can hear your stomach growling,” Adrian let out a ringing laugh and started leading him towards where the food beckoned. “Let’s go feed the beast.”

“See, I knew I liked you for a reason.” Damien felt an entirely different sort of hunger curling through deep inside him at the beaming smile that earned him. 

An open buffet line was set up in the corner of the dining area, with a lot of meat, vegetables, rice and bread options to cater to a wide variety of dietary requirements. A few men and women in lab coats were lined up on both sides of the neatly-arranged shelving dishes, serving themselves amidst idle chatter. 

Apart from a curious glance or two that didn’t linger for more than a few seconds at the most, nobody paid Damien any undue attention. It never occurred to him to wonder about it either. Happily heaping up a plate with roast beef, potatoes, bread rolls and about three other sides, Damien joined Adrian and Levi at the corner table next to a massive window looking down the forest. 

“Hello, there!” 

Damien looked up at the sound of the friendly greeting and came face-to-face with an elderly man who seemed to be in his late fifties. Salt-and-pepper hair, a wrinkled forehead and fleshy jowls were the only signs that betrayed his age. The pair of green eyes that stared back at Damien contained a keen intelligence under the veil of gleaming joy. The lab coat he wore over his casual clothes indicated that he was one of the scientists. 

“Welcome to our humble facility,” he continued cheerfully, “I’m Dr. Howard Langdon. You can call me Howard, or just Doc, as everybody else does.”

Damien introduced himself while shaking the offered hand. Langdon’s grip was almost as strong as his. A faint, abrasive touch against his shields told Damien that the man was also a Sentinel.

“Doc, there’s nothing humble about this facility,” he said when Langdon took a seat next to Levi. “Looks and feels more like a five-star resort than whatever it is you actually do around here.”

“What we do, eh?” He let out a belly laugh and stole a fry from Levi’s plate. 

To Damien’s utter astonishment, the woman let him. Through all the years he had known her, Damien had never seen Levi so placidly share her food like that with another. His regard for the old man went considerably higher. 

“A little of this, a little of that.” Doc shrugged, flashing another fatherly smile at Adrian before turning a serious gaze on Damien, “We’re changing the future, son. We’re bending the rules of Mother Nature herself. We challenge the foundations of our existence as we know it. We enlighten ourselves more and more with each challenge we win, and advance further than we’ve ever before dared to venture.”

Damien chewed on some of the meat and chased it down with a sip of orange juice. “Sounds grand.”

“Isn’t that why you’re here?” Langdon’s gaze on him turned sharp, “To find a way to fix something that shouldn’t have been possible in the first place?”

Damien blinked at him. He had heard the question, but it refused to make sense. Why was he there? Adrian’s shoulder rubbed against his own soothingly, and another wave of his heady scent wrapped around Damien, clouding his mind. With the delectable Guide next to him, it didn’t really seem to matter why he was there.

“Uh, yeah?” he shrugged, unconcerned, “I guess so.”

A stray thought flitting across his mind pointed out that the meaningful glance Doc, Adrian, and Levi shared was suspicious. But Damien couldn’t hang onto the thought or the suspicion. Adrian was warm, and there was an undeniable scent of arousal that had started to radiate from every pore of his being. It was making Damien feel a little light-headed with an answering desire. 

“How’s your Guide?”

Langdon’s follow-up inquiry had him turning to look at Adrian. He looked simply breathtaking bathed in the dim, gloomy glow streaming through the window. Damien rubbed a hand across his forehead absantly, wishing his mind wasn’t so muddled. His thoughts had a syrupy, sticky feeling to them, slow and uncoordinated despite his best efforts. His memories were hidden behind a hazy veil of grey not so different from the sky outside. 

“Eat, Damien,” Adrian scolded him with a lilting voice, pointing his fork at Damien’s plate. “You look like you’ve been starving. A Sentinel like you’ve got a faster metabolism than a lot of us combined.”

“You got that right,” Damien admitted, not caring about the way his own voice sounded so dream-like. “This food is delicious.”

“Say, after lunch, why don't you let Adrian show you around?” Langdon suggested, “Get some rest afterwards. We have a suite already prepared for you. Once you’re feeling up to it, come find me. Adrian knows where. We’ll give you the grand tour.”

“I like that plan, Doc,” Damien agreed, relieved, and flashed a self-deprecating smile, “I’m kind of feeling a little tired. Must be all the walking you guys made me do to get here.”

Langdon chuckled. “I must say, I'm so glad you’re finally here with us,” he said sincerely, “We’ve been waiting for someone like you for a long time.”

It never occurred to Damien to ask why. He also failed to worry about the alarmingly deteriorating state of his mind. With Adrian clinging to his arm, radiating such light-hearted joy and unmasked desire, Damien didn’t feel the need to worry about a thing.

Langdon excused himself after that, citing he had to get back to work. During the next few minutes, the three of them continued to eat in silence. 

Once Damien finished his second glass of fruit juice, Adrian rubbed a hand across his back. “You need to make a call, baby.”

“I do?” Damien frowned. All he could think of needing right then was a bed and Adrian in it next to him.

“Yeah. Michael’s waiting, isn’t he?”

“Michael?” The name unlocked a few reluctant memories. A blurry image of a blond-haired, sharp-jawed man flashed past his mind. If Adrian was bringing him up, he must be important, Damien supposed. Maybe someone I work with? 

“Um, yeah, probably.” he glanced at the Guide doubtfully.

“Where is he, anyway?”

Damien had to wrack his uncooperating brains for that. “Uh, what’s the name of that airport again? Antonio something?” He did his best to sort through his muddy thoughts, “I think the goofy Doc is also with him.”

“We’ll send someone to bring him along then,” Adrian tilted his head, and smiled prettily at him, “It’s not nice of us to leave him hanging while we’re having all the fun, isn’t it?”

“I don't know,” Damien murmured truthfully. He didn’t really understand why he had to worry about someone he could hardly remember. “Why should we? You’re here.”

“Just make the call, baby, for me,” Adrian pleaded softly. 

Damien took his phone out of his back pocket without a thought. It was hard resisting anything from Adrian when he looked at him like that. 

Thumbing through the contact list, Damien found the number and dialled. The call was picked up on the first ring. 

“Damien?” 

The quiet voice that greeted him cut through the fog in his mind like a knife. Before Damien could hang onto it, however, a faint sensation rippled in the wake of that intense feeling, dulling it down to nothing.

“Michael,” he said, swallowing thickly. “Hey.”

“Where are you?”

Nothing happened. Damien shook his head, breathed in a lungful of Adrian’s excotic scent and dismissed his strange reaction as nothing important.

“I’m with Adrian, at the Hub,” he said when Adrian nodded encouragingly at him, “You should come see it. It’s a cool place.”

Michael sighed quietly on the other end. “Yeah. sure. I will.”

“Alright, bye.” 

Damien cut the call. Somewhere in his chest, a hollow feeling tried to eat its way out before it was squashed under the brightness of Adrian’s smile. The Guide stood up from his chair slowly and extended a small, delicate hand to Damien.

“Shall we?”

Damien took it with a grin and got to his feet. “Let’s go.”

Atrato River
Meanwhile

“Zero, Brave Three,” Kim murmured, transmitting over the main channel, “We’re on the ground.” 

Her team spread around her, keeping a perimeter watch while the rest disembarked. Two Sentinels would stay behind to secure the boats while the rest converged on the target, which was only about five klicks to the south from where they had landed.

“Acknowledged. We’ve got you on the grid.”

“Be advised,” another voice from the Crib joined in. Kim was pretty sure that was Major Sinclair, the second-in-command of the unit, “There’s a thunderstorm heading your way. The comms might go intermittent due to electrical interference.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

“Sensor sweeps indicate there might be surveillance cameras, motion sensors and booby traps,” Richmond added, “Tread carefully.”  

Kim allowed the barriers around her mind to fall open, broadcasting an open invitation to the Psionic energies to fill up her mind and enhance her senses. What she did not expect was the reluctant, almost resentful way the energies trickled in, as if they would rather be anywhere else than channeling through her. 

Throughout the three years she had already spent in Colombia, Kim had never felt the usually cheerful, albeit a little untamed and wild energies respond to her that way. Judging by the way Smithson, who was standing to her left, grimaced, she had a feeling she wasn't the only one to notice.

“Qué demonios,” to her right, one of the Branch One agents cursed under his breath, and shook his head as if he wanted to dispel the energies.

“Something’s wrong with the energies here,” Rojas subvocalised through the comms, “Feels corrupted.”

Rojas was on the other side of the river, along with thirteen agents. They had split up since they planned to surround the facility from multiple fronts. 

“I recommend fifteen-minute channeling and fifteen-minute breaks,” Kim murmured, “We’ll take turns. I have a feeling we’re going to end up either zoned out or knocked out if we try to wrangle these energies for too long.”

A low chorus of murmurs through the network agreed with her recommendation. Kim took in her group of thirteen Sentinels with a sweeping glance, and was pleased to discover seven of them were keeping themselves shielded without her ever having to reissue the order.

Letting her sight, hearing and sense of smell spread around her in all directions, Kim started a slow jog towards an opening of the undergrowth. Spread across in a line, her Sentinels followed suit.

Richmond’s warning had been a good one. Only about five hundred yards through the massively overgrown thicket, Kim caught the unmistakable whiff of steel, plastic, carbon and gunpowder flowing towards their direction from the front.

Lifting a closed fist in the air, she gave a silent order to halt the progress.

“Booby traps, and cameras, up ahead,” She whispered through the comms, a warning for the Sentinels who were shielding. “Eyes and ears open.”

“The reinforcements are being mobilised,” Richmond came back a few minutes later with an update, “ETA, five hours.”

“Copy.” Kim acknowledged and checked her position on the GPS on her wristwatch. “We’re about two klicks off the target.”

“Your instructions are to observe only.” Richmond reminded her. “Do not engage.”

The plan was to wait for a signal from either Scott or Stonebridge. It was understood that one of them would reach them through the Psionic Plane. In the extremely unlikely event they were both incapacitated or failed to make contact before the reinforcements arrived, Kim had the authority to make the call. 

“Got it.” 

The mission priority had already been accomplished. What was left was the hard part, which was raiding the facility and getting Scott out. It would only get even more complicated if they decided to bring both Stonebridge and the professor into the mix. Kim hoped the op would go down before that happened.

Richmond’s next update, which came a few seconds later, dashed her hopes.

“Two land rovers are leaving the facility. Be advised. They might be going after Bravo One.”

Antonio Roldan Betancur Airport
El Prado
Carepa
Antioquia
Colombia

Even half an hour later, Michael still couldn’t look away from his dark, unresponsive phone. Damien’s quiet, almost dream-like voice continued to whirl around his thoughts, making him feel sicker by the minute. 

Sandburg was draped around the arm of his chair, fast asleep. The burger he had bought for Michael was still on the empty chair next to Michael, untouched. Even the thought of food made his stomach roil in agitation, adding to the nausea that was already brewing in it. 

Damien had sounded distant. A little lost and extremely unbothered about it. Whatever they had injected Castellanos with must have been smothering Damien the entire way to the complex, Michael supposed. He had to admit, it was a clever way of drugging a Sentinel. Michael had a feeling that the constant battering from the other man’s shields would have made Damien relax his own at some point. Especially since Michael had been slowly and carefully dampening the bond along with their shared memories, depriving Damien of his instinctual defences.

Once Damien’s senses were enhanced, he would have been fully exposed to the chemicals emanating from Castellanos, losing himself to the sensory inputs that were specifically designed to entrap him.

Michael had to remind himself once again that the loss of his Sentinel was only temporary, and that it was way better than discovering how it would feel to experience his actual death through the bond.

Besides, he had his own problems. He had been officially put on notice. He had to sit placidly, waiting for a team that would take him and Sandburg to their facility. By making Damien call him, they had made it plenty clear to Michael that they had the Sentinel, and he was utterly clueless. Michael had received the message behind the move; Damien’s continued well-being would depend on how Michael reacted to their escort.

A shudder through the Psionic energies warned him of the approaching enemy. Centering his thoughts, Michael let his mind flow along the Plane. There were six of them: five dark stains and one familiar signature. They bloomed across the Psionic Plane like nasty infections. Michael didn’t know if the sudden disgust he felt was his own or the Plane’s. 

Anderson didn’t have the aura of someone who had started the vile practice of stealing souls, although his intentions hung like a dark cloud around his presence. Michael had a feeling the ex-CIA Director may not have been involved in the operation long enough to earn that dubious honour. 

None of it really mattered. 

“Bravo One,” Richmond's voice came through his earphones, “Zero.”

“Go ahead.”

“Two land rovers approaching the airport from the west. Fifteen klicks from your position.”

“Thanks,” Michael replied softly, “That’s them.”

“Satellite telemetry indicates six boogies.” She continued, “Four in the lead vehicle and two in the escort.”

“Got it. Do we have the target location?”

“We do.” Richmond rattled off a set of coordinates. “It’s fifty-three klicks from your position, towards north-northwest. Bravo Three and Four have the complex surrounded in three directions. They’ll wait for your word.”

Michael had a feeling that the word would get to them not through the comms but through the Psionic Plane itself. First though, Michael had to make it to the location alive, and then let the Psionic Plane guide him to do whatever that needed to be done.

“Alright, thanks,” he said. “Going dark now.”

“Copy. Good luck.”

Michael took the earphones out and stuck them inside his jacket pocket along with the phone. He knew Richmond would remotely delete all signs of the communication network from it, leaving only a few contacts and the details of the call from Damien. 

“Hey, Doc,” he called gently, “Wake up. It’s showtime.”

Sandburg jerked himself awake and blinked like an owl. “Huh?”

“We’ve got company.”

“Already?” He blinked some more and dragged a hand roughly across his cheek.

“Damien called about half an hour ago.” Sandburg had been snoring by then, and Michael hadn’t felt a need to disturb the professor’s rest. 

“Oh.” Sandburg stared at him. “Is he okay?”

“He’s alive,” Michael replied, refusing to dwell on his feelings. He needed to keep his head in the game. “That’s what matters, yeah?”

Sandburg dug through his backpack and found a bottle of water. He finished about half of it in one go before turning back to Michael. “Now they’re coming for us?”

“Yes,” Michael said, “Five altered Sentinels and Anderson, the guy I told you about earlier.”

Sandburg’s eyes went round in shock, “You didn't know he works with these people?”

“We had an idea,” Michael replied lightly, “He doesn’t know we know, though. It’s complicated.”

“Ah?” he blinked confusedly.

“These people think Damien and I can’t bond because of what Anderson did to me,” Michael explained, “They think Damien went with them willingly to find a drug to counter the changes they inflicted on me so that we can bond.”

“But, Michael–”

“They don’t know,” Michael interjected, “And we’re going to keep it that way. What we needed was to find the complex, and we’ve done it. Now, it’s just a matter of getting there…”

Nodding resolutely, Sandburg added his two cents when Michael trailed off. “And surviving whatever fate has in store for all of us.” 

Michael tilted his head, regarding the professor curiously, “What do they want from you? You never really mentioned.”

“It’s a bit late to ask that question, isn’t it?” Sandburg flashed a lopsided smile.

“Better late than never?” Michael shrugged.

“I don’t know for sure, Michael,” Sandburg sighed, “But I believe they want me to tell them how to summon and bind a spirit animal.”

Michael didn't have enough time to demand an explanation of that cryptic remark. Zebediah Anderson and two of his Sentinels were already inside the airport building, heading determinedly towards them.

Chapter Text

Antonio Roldan Betancur Airport
El Prado
Carepa
Antioquia
Colombia

14:34 Hours/Local

A tall, blond man, easily well over six feet, flanked by two equally hulking men, strode confidently towards them through the hallway to their left.

They were dressed identically, with black t-shirts, jeans, open jackets and hiking boots, and they did nothing to hide the handguns they carried in their shoulder holsters. Their equally identical, liquid black eyes were a dead giveaway that they were all Sentinels and that their minds were fully open to the Psionic energies.

Blair imagined that they must have reached out to him with their shields and noticed how different the barriers around his mind were compared to other Guides and Sentinels. None of them were quick enough to hide their befuddled reactions before turning their attention to Michael. 

“Michael!” The blond man declared with a laugh that would have sounded cheerful if it weren’t for the sinister gleam in his pitch black gaze, “It’s lovely to see you again, sport.” 

Michael stood stock still next to Blair, his true feelings towards the man only visible in the way a muscle in his jaw ticked. The hazel shade in his eyes had gone dark in fury, but Blair noticed that they remained free of any silver sheen, which meant that Michael hadn’t tapped into the Psionic Plane just yet.

“Anderson.” The single word was forced out in a snarl.

Anderson’s grin widened. “You seem surprised,” narrowing his eyes, he considered Michael for a moment. His nostrils flared as if he was trying to catch a whiff of Michael’s scent, “Oh, my! Scott never told you, did he?”

“Tell me what?” 

Michael’s words were quiet, his glare intense. His hands were curled into fists at his sides. He was doing a great job of pretending to be shocked and trying his best to cover it with anger. Blair found it rather fascinating to watch.

“Rebecca Levi, the gorgeous woman he dropped everything to come and meet, works for me,” Anderson declared triumphantly.

Michael didn’t say a thing. But his subtle reactions - the way his gaze darted between the other two Sentinels, the way he swallowed, and the way the veins in his neck throbbed with a quickened pulse - betrayed his dread. 

The Sentinels before him gleefully absorbed those reactions, revelling in his fear, his poorly-concealed helplessness. 

It was an impressive performance on Michael’s part. He seemed to know exactly what buttons to push on the physically enhanced creatures to deceive them. None of them seemed to realise that Michael had been expecting them since the beginning. 

Idly, Blair wondered if Michael had also been trained as a spy of some sort, in addition to being a soldier of the British military.

“See, sport, this is what happens when you stop thinking with your brains and let emotions cloud your judgement,” Anderson chirped patronisingly. “Anyway, what’s done is done now. Fortunately for us, and not so fortunately for you, we’ve now got Scott, you and the good professor Sandburg.”

Blair wanted to recoil from it when that sleazy, obsidian gaze fell on him. It was one of those rare moments when he was glad he wasn’t a Guide anymore. There was something nasty writhing deep inside the man, staring at the world through his eyes. He did not want to feel that thing reach out to him and glance off against his mind. 

“I don’t know you,” Blair muttered. He didn’t need to feign the disgust he felt.

“Well, I, on the other hand, have heard a lot about you,” the Sentinel continued, “Even before I met Michael. Professor Stoddard speaks of you very highly, which is quite often, I must say.”

Blair felt something in him break at the revelation. It had been a knife to the heart to discover the depth of his betrayal. Blair had never suspected until he had been forced to witness Stoddard’s horrible deeds in his dreams. Until Jim had found one of the discarded bodies. Using one of Rosenthal's own labs to produce the evidence of experiments had been Jim’s idea. A defiant poke in the eye of the bear, so to speak.

“I thought he was dead,” Blair murmured, wondering why it still hurt. “He used to be a friend. I mourned him.”

The retaliation from the Global Council had been swift and complete. Riker had personally visited Blair to inform him of Stoddard’s death. While he had accepted the news, a niggle of doubt had always remained in a corner of his mind.

Anderson cocked his head, and raised an eyebrow, “You sound like you wish he stayed that way.”

“I do,” Blair admitted truthfully, “Because that would have been infinitely better than the monster he became.” 

“Ah, well,” Anderson shrugged unconcernedly, “I’m sure when you see what he’s done along with a group of like-minded people, you’ll change your mind.” Dismissing Blair with that light-hearted remark, he turned to one of his lackeys. The man drew a steel/leather collar from the inside pocket of his jacket without being asked. Taking it from him, Anderson turned to Michael with another patronising smile, “Be a dear, Michael and put this on.”

Something in Michael’s demeanour changed. His entire posture went rigid, and he kept his gaze locked on Anderson instead of the cruel device he had resting on his palm. Silver sprinkles began winking in and out of his darkened pupils.

“Uh, uh,” Anderson took a reflexive step back, his expression tightening threateningly, “None of that, Sport. If something happens to me, someone is going to plant a .45 right in your lovely Sentinel’s skull. you don't want that, do you?”

“Fuck you, Anderson,” Michael ground out, “If you think I’m just going to let you–”

“Yes, Michael, that’s exactly what you’re going to do,” Anderson cut him off, “Because you don't have a choice. There are four more Sentinels outside, who will start spraying the innocent bystanders with machine gunfire with just a word from me. Do you honestly want all of those deaths in your conscience, along with the one of your own Sentinel?” 

Michael said nothing. The fury in his glare never lost its intensity, but the silver sheen vanished without a trace - another subtle reaction depicting his reluctant surrender.

“We all know what you can do, how sharp your teeth and claws are, so to speak,” Anderson grinned, “Let's not take any chances, sport. Come along peacefully. There’s no need to make this any more painful for anyone else, is there?”

The Collars were nasty things. Blair had seen a few models during his long lifetime, although he had never had the misfortune to wear one. He had been a pioneer of the movement that had gotten those things banned. 

Michael didn’t break his deadly staring contest with Anderson when he snatched the Null Collar out of his hand. Blair heard a faint clink when the magnetic mechanism locked into place, securing the contraption around Michael’s neck. 

It was a preprogrammed collar. Blair knew the automatic needle would only take a second to sink into the brain stem to release its dose. Then it would retract back inside the hidden compartment and stay there until the timer triggered it for the next dose.

Anderson moved as if to help the moment he saw Michael’s involuntary flinch. Michael recoiled from him with a snarl, swaying into Blair on unsteady feet. Blair grabbed him by the arm, supporting him with his own weight until he found his balance again.

“Fine, be that way. Let’s go.”

Blair didn’t let go of Michael’s arm when they fell into step behind the three Sentinels, allowing themselves to be led outside the airport building. Michael’s faltering gait was far from the silent, graceful way Blair had seen him move, and with every step, his breathing pattern became uneven and heavy, increasing Blair’s worry. 

“Michael–” he muttered quietly when two mud-covered Land Rovers came into view. They were both parked behind the airport building, on the opposite side of the parking lot, conveniently out of sight.

“I’m fine,” Michael grunted. 

Blair didn’t know if it was an act or if Michael was fighting against some horrible pain. Maybe it was a bit of both.

Michael didn’t react when one of Anderson’s men produced a set of zip ties, which he used to restrain Michael’s wrists together in front of him. Taking his cues from him, Blair didn’t resist the indignity either. They were directed to the back seat of the second Land Rover, with Anderson in the passenger seat and one of his Sentinels behind the wheel.   

Before long, the two Rovers were deep in the jungle, climbing up and rolling down uneven hills covered with thick undergrowth and brambles. Low hanging branches, vines and bushes hit the vehicles from all sides constantly, and it was a miracle that the windows and the side panels of the Rovers held without shattering or denting. There was no road of any sort visible through the heavily-smudged windshield, but the drivers of the two vehicles seemed to know the paths of least resistance. 

Following Michael’s lead, Blair hung onto the side bar on his side, hoping and praying they would get to their destination in one piece. He’d leave worrying about the horrors waiting for them there for his future self.

***

They had definitely upped the dose. Michael had to grit his teeth against the raging headache flaring at the base of his neck, spreading throughout his skull and down his spine like white-hot currents. The rough drive on non-existent roads through the jungle didn’t help. Every time the cursed Rover jolted, which was every fucking second, spikes of agony shot through his head, saturating dancing black spots in his vision.

At least, the collar they had made him put on was different this time. It didn’t have a needle permanently stuck to the base of his skull. He had felt it injecting the drugs and retracting back inside the cold steel compartment resting against his nape. 

A silver lining in a very dark cloud, he supposed. The constant, violent jarring motion would have easily snapped the bloody thing in half, adding a broken needle stuck in his vertebrae to his existing problems. 

The professor sat quietly next to him, hanging on for dear life while the two Rovers advanced in a nauseating circus of slips, slides, rolls and stumbles through the dense forest. 

Thankfully, the harsh, bumpy ride didn’t last long. Both vehicles took a hairpin turn to the right after about twenty minutes into the drive, and a ramshackle barn hidden in the thick foliage came to view. The presence of camouflaged guards who scrambled to open the two massive wooden double doors suggested that it was a hidden entry point. They drove through the barn without stopping, which was largely empty except for a dark, downward ramp at the end of it.

It was a tunnel entrance. Michael wasn’t certain if it was the same one they took Damien through or just another branch of an entire system. 

Once inside the tunnel, the ride turned a lot better. It was hardly different from any other tunnel running through any major city; properly lit, rather new and spacious enough for the two vehicles to drive side by side. 

In any case, it was a massive improvement and a reprieve for his roiling insides. In his periphery, Michael saw the professor closing his eyes and letting out a long sigh of relief.

The drive through the tunnel was short. About fifteen minutes later, the tunnel split into two at an intersection, where they took the left turn. A few minutes later, the narrow exit came into view.

They left behind the curved walls of the tunnel and entered what looked like a massive, underground parking/cargo bay. To their immediate right, a spacious section with painted lines on the floor seemed to be reserved for parking, where a fleet of equally dirty Land Rovers took up half of the space. 

To their left, the area was mostly empty except for a line of steel shelves, haphazardly-piled up wooden pallets and other discarded clutter. What looked like a service elevator and the emergency stairs stood directly before them, indicating the entrance to the building. 

“Here we are, folks,” Anderson’s voice echoed inside the cavernous basement. Two of his Sentinels opened the doors, dragging Michael and Sandburg out of the vehicle by their arms. The two drivers took both the Rovers towards the parking while the remaining Sentinels formed an impromptu escort around their flanks. Anderson took the lead and strode toward the gleaming steel doors of the elevator. “Welcome to the Hub. This is where the future is being refined.”

“If that’s what you want to call kidnapping people and injecting them with drugs to fuck with their genes,” Michael muttered under his breath, shrugged off the unwelcome hand on his arm and walked on his own. 

His steps were unsteady. His body was having a hard time shedding the remaining traces of the previous violent motion. His mind was already thick with the chemically induced fog. 

“Now, now,” Anderson flashed him a smile over his shoulder, “Who said anything about kidnapping anyone? For all you know, everyone’s walked in here on their volition, completely voluntarily.”

“Whatever you say, Anderson,” Michael bared his teeth, quietly proud of how his voice was still steady despite the burning agony gathering behind his eyes, “I’m sure the pigs around here prefer flying too.”

Anderson pressed the button on the wall and turned around to face him. Michael was pleased to see a flash of anger darkening his expression.

“Always with the negative attitude,” Anderson muttered, shaking his head, “I’ll be sure to ask Langdon to tweak that out when he’s dealing with you,” he extended his hand then, letting it rest against the side of Michael’s face and took a step closer right into his personal space, “Constant nagging gets on my nerves after a while,” he murmured, his voice going low while his obsidian eyes somehow turned even darker, more insidious. Greedy. “I’d like to enjoy myself without having to fight every five fucking minutes. And mark my words, Sport, I intend to take my time and enjoy my prize properly this time around.”

Michael held his bottomless gaze for a beat without a word. Then, gathering every ounce of strength he had to a single focal point with a breath, Michael reared back. As quick as lightning, he brought his head down violently on the bridge of Anderson’s entirely-too-large nose.

Utter shock prevented Anderson from reacting as fast as he should have. Blood spurted out of his nose as he stumbled a step back, a hand flailing blindly against the wall to catch himself. The Sentinel standing to his right was much quicker, and he had Michael in a choke hold before Michael could sidestep to avoid his restraining hold.

As it happened, the man’s arm around his neck was the only thing that kept Michael on his feet. His vision completely blacked out for a long moment, the agony in his head reaching excruciating levels as an instant consequence of his rash attack.

Blinking, gasping and sagging against the massive chest of the Sentinel at his back, Michael thought the temporary discomfort was well worth it to see the humiliation and red hot fury in Anderson’s blood-soaked face.

The elevator ride up two floors happened in complete silence. The Sentinel kept Michael in his grip, his free hand clamped around Michael’s right forearm, just above the zip ties. Sandburg didn’t make any sudden moves and stood sandwiched between two equally quiet Sentinels. The remaining one stood with his back to them, facing the closed doors, while Anderson did the same, his one hand clamped over his nose to stem the bleeding.

Michael didn’t need his Guide abilities to taste his seething fury in the air.

The doors opened to reveal a wide open area, a lot more brightly lit than the incandescent lighting inside the elevator. Michael hadn't realised the pure hell boiling inside his skull could get any worse. But the moment the bright white light pierced his vision, he felt as though he had been stabbed through his eyes. Squeezing his eyes shut, Michael had to concentrate to bite back a groan and hold onto his wavering consciousness. 

“Oh, dear,” a new voice tsked like a disappointed school teacher. “You just couldn’t help yourself, could you, director?”

Michael let the guard do most of the work as he was more or less dragged out of the elevator. Squinting his eyes open, he saw an elderly man in a lab coat shaking his head at Anderson.

“You have your delivery, Langdon,” Anderson snapped. “Get on with it. Radio me when you’re done.”

“Of course,” Langdon called after Anderon’s retreating back as he stormed away angrily. “Please go to the infirmary and have that looked at.” Turning back, he let his gaze travel between Sandburg and Michael with a cheerful smile, “I’m Doctor Howard Langdon. I simply do not have the words to describe what I’m feeling right now. The Guide that Was and the Guide that Is. I’m in the presence of true legends!”

Michael hardly felt like a human, let alone a legend. Something was terribly wrong with the Psionic Plane that was surrounding the Project Veritas complex. Even as he was so thoroughly blocked from the energies by the nauseating chemical barriers erected around his brain, their agitation was palpable in the air. 

The doctor’s obsidian glare on him had a physical weight. The energies swirling in those bottomless black pits gave off the same malignant aura Michael had seen and felt through Ulyanov’s gaze. 

Langdon, it seemed, was another Sentinel who had been absorbing life essences of murdered gene carriers.

“And you are a vile abomination,” Sandburg growled quietly, his blue eyes shining with anger and disgust. “Your deeds do nothing but wound the Psionic Plane itself. You’ll destroy one of the greatest gifts mother nature has bestowed upon us if you continue this… desecration. ” 

“Doctor Stoddard mentioned once or twice you’re not really impressed,” Langdon regarded Sandburg with a mixed expression of part envy and part contempt, “I get it. Why would you? You’ve had unrestricted access to the greatest gift, as you put it, from the beginning. Through your dreams and your visions. You could have been the leader of all the Sentinels and Guides in the world. Hell, you were the most powerful human on Earth. Yet, what have you done with all that power? Nothing!”

“You don’t understand!” Sandburg declared vehemently, “I never wanted to rule over anything, let alone gene carriers or humans as a whole. What a ridiculous notion! Psionic Plane is a tool of defence. Gifted to some of us to be the guardians, protectors and caretakers of the tribes. It was never meant to be used for personal gains.”

“Oh, spare me the bullshit, Sandburg.” Langdon sneered, “You hoard knowledge as if it’s your personal wealth, and the rest of us have to accept the crumbs you deign to give us. That’s how it’s always been. I have news for you, professor. We’re done depending on your charity for knowledge. Science only requires hard work and diligence, and it rewards us with a lot more gifts than the likes of you and the Psionic Plane itself had ever done.”

“You think your benefactor leads you down a path of enlightenment?” Sandburg muttered quietly, his tone low and heavy with suppressed horror, “That you can simply win by destroying the very foundations of something you barely understand? The Plane takes care of its own, Langdon, and it knows how to take care of itself.”

“Your Sentinel is dead,” Langdon snapped, causing Sandburg to flinch back at the harsh reminder, “Your mind is hidden behind a permanent fortress. The Psionic energies are forever lost to you.” Michael couldn’t help but stiffen when Langdon’s glinting black eyes found him with a contemptuous glare, “As for your successor, well… a Guide doesn’t do well without a Sentinel, does he?” It was a not-so-subtle reminder that not only Sandburg but Michael was also without a Sentinel. Damien was effectively under their control for the moment. Michael gritted his teeth against the wave of icy dread that washed over him and held Langdon’s gaze with a defiant one of his own. “The great Chosen Ones are nothing without access to the Plane or their anchors.” 

“Langdon.” 

The call was quiet, but there was a hollow, ringing quality to it that demanded instant attention. Looking to their left, Michael saw an elderly, willowy man standing at the end of a dimly lit corridor. His sunken eyes, pasty complexion and thin, bloodless lips made him look as if he had been living in a basement, and that he hadn’t seen sunlight in decades.

He was different. Even worse than Ulyanov. That much was obvious. 

The Psionic energies he was wielding weren’t only contained within his pupils and irises, but the entirety of his eyes. Even the whites completely vanished behind what seemed like an overflow of swirling energies. They were gleaming with an unnatural black shine against the sickly pallor of the rest of his face. 

Looking at them was akin to staring down an abyss, and the terrible thing was, the abyss seemed to be staring right back. 

The Psionic energies sent anxious ripples all over the Plane, and Michael felt them glance off against his barricaded mind from all directions. He swallowed thickly against the bile that rose in his throat and blinked rapidly to get rid of the new wave of spots dancing in his vision.

“Doctor Stoddard,” Langdon muttered. 

Interestingly enough, the Sentinels and Langdon all regarded the new arrival cautiously, as if they were all surprised to see him out in the open. Sandburg cursed under his breath and took a step closer to Micheal.

Stoddard ran a hand through his matted white hair distractedly, “Both of them.”

“But the director–”

“Anderson doesn't tell me what to do, and neither do you,” Stoddard murmured in a gravelly voice, “I will have them both down in the ‘Disposal’ now.”

“Well, it’s your neck on the line,” Langdon murmured.

“My work is more important than checking boxes in a worksheet, Langdon,” said Stoddard. “I’m sure the Director will understand once he sees the results.”

Fifty Yards beyond the Security Perimeter of The Hub
Darién Gap
Colombia

Meanwhile

“Sound off.” Kim sent a murmured command over the comms network.

One by one, she received six affirmatives, indicating that her team had spread around the west side of the perimeter. Rojas and his team were approaching from the south. Kim knew he had also paired up his Sentinels and spread them further to cover more ground. 

She took a knee on the soft, moss-covered ground, and sighted the compound through the scope of her Carbine. Garcia, her partner, was on her left flank, covering their backs while she conducted the visual recon.

The Project Veritas HQ stood in the middle of a flattened square-acre of the otherwise dense forest like the proverbial sore thumb. It was an ‘L’ shaped building that had to be at least four stories high, not counting the basement that had to connect the maze of tunnels running underground. The seven-foot high wire mesh fence wrapped around the property was fully equipped with floodlights and surveillance cameras. The above-ground entry point was about fifty yards to her left, manned by a group of armed guards in camouflage. The vines and undergrowth seemed to be engaged in a spirited battle to take over the perimeter and invade the compound. Kim had a feeling there had to be a team of gardeners just to keep the security measures from being swallowed by the forest. 

The building itself didn’t look like much from the outside, although from what she could see through the windows, the interior of the structure seemed modern and well-designed. Apart from the guards at the entry point and a foot patrol, there wasn't any security positioned on the building itself. They seemed rather confident of their abilities to keep their location a secret, therefore not overly concerned about repelling an attack. 

“Bravo Three is in position.”

“Copy.”

Rojas reported his position a few seconds later, confirming the readiness of his team. 

“What’s the latest on our two wanderers?”

“Both Bravo One and Bravo Two are inside the complex.”

“Together?”

“Negative.” 

Kim bit back a sigh. That would have been too easy. 

“Bravo Two, second floor, east corner,” Richmond continued, “Bravo One a level below ground, the opposite corner.”

“Copy.” Kim acknowledged the report, “Bravo Three Out.”

The fact that the two were separated wasn’t good. Kim hoped the civilian was still alive, and was with one of them. She didn’t know exactly what they had planned, when or how they intended to give off the signal.

The disturbing aura of the Psionic Plane alone was enough evidence that whatever was happening inside the building complex wasn’t good. That could only mean that the place was crawling with the likes of Arkady Ulyanov and his mercenaries. If Stonebridge were to attempt the same thing he had done back in Florencia, he definitely had his work cut out for him. Kim could only hope that he was still functional enough to get the job done, and that Scott had a plan to back him up. 

One way or another, she would know soon enough. 

Chapter Text

The Disposal Unit - Basement Level II
Left Wing
The Project Veritas Hub
Darién Gap

16:48 Hours/Local

‘The Disposal,’ as befitting its name, was located two levels below the ground floor. There were no elevators, and they had to climb down two flights of stairs to get there. Michael was certain it was situated even below the level of the tunnels.

The room was mostly bare and dark, with its rough, whitewashed walls cast in the sickly yellow glow of the single incandescent light bulb that hung down from the high flat ceiling. The smell of mold and mildew blended with smoke and faint notes of brimstone, making it feel like an actual extension of hell. The unnatural chill permeating the room added to the sinister aura, causing goosebumps to rise all over Michael’s exposed skin. The agitation of the Psionic energies was infinitely worse, as if this basement was the focal point of everything terrible that was happening in the Hub. Michael felt the hair in the back of his neck rise instinctively in response to an undiscovered yet very real threat.

“If this is where he works, no wonder he looks like a walking cadaver,” Sandburg muttered, looking around the dark, dungeon-like space with a grimace.

The stainless steel contraption affixed to the brick wall across from them was an industrial furnace. Michael recognized it since it was not too different from the one he and Damien had seen at the funeral parlour near McKenna’s apartment back in Bosnia. Two parallel metal rails of about two meters in length were attached to the floor, perpendicular to the opening of the furnace. An empty gurney, which seemed to be made of the same alloys as the furnace, was parked pointed at the closed doors of the oven, with its two front wheels neatly slotted in the rails. In the middle of the room, on the dark, stone floor, a circle of a meter’s radius was marked in a white paint line, with its outer edge touching the two back wheels of the gurney. 

“The circle,” Sandburg whispered, “It’s a convergence point.”

Michael didn’t like the sick expression on his suddenly pale face. “Of what?”

“Of the Psionic energies of this geological region.” 

That didn’t sound good. At least, it explained why Michael suddenly felt like he was surrounded by an invisible, massive tsunami wave suspended in the air, hovering precariously on edge only moments from crashing on him from every direction. Even breathing was difficult in the cavernous room. The air felt as if it had inexplicably acquired a thick, viscous quality. Michael’s heart and lungs had to work overtime to keep him from passing out due to lack of oxygen. 

As disconnected as he was from the energies, even Sandburg had felt it, and realised exactly what it was.

“Took us forever to find it,” Stoddard rumbled hoarsely, his gaze sweeping around the area with obvious adoration and pride that sent a chill down Michael’s spine. “Then we built the complex around it. The entire three years we spent painstakingly clearing the forest, digging tunnels, and dealing with the logistical nightmare of bringing materials, supplies and physical labour to this place is well worth it.”

“This is where you’ve been killing them,” Sandburg’s words were barely above a whisper, his horrified gaze fixed on the ominous ring on the floor, “And when their souls were inevitably drawn to the strongest point of the Psionic Plane, you would stand there, at the centre, barring their way to where they belong. You’d bind them to yourself instead.”

Michael could just about see the horror show in his mind; alive and possibly aware gene carriers would be strapped to the gurney, which would roll forward on the rails into the fiery death that awaited them. Stoddard would stand in the centre of the ring like a grim reaper, waiting for them to die. Instead of escorting the souls where they belonged, he would absorb them into himself, feeding the insidious hunger of the malevolence that lived within him.

His headache spiked to unbearable levels while those terrible images flashed through his mind. Michael could taste a tang of copper along with the acidic bile at the back of his throat. The chemical barriers were holding firm against the whirlwind of Psionic energies rioting to flow through to his mind and find refuge from the malignance that had been defiling it for a long time. 

“Secure him to the gurney,” Stoddard commanded two of the Sentinels, pointing his finger at the professor. 

“No!” Michael yelled, struggling with all his might against the Sentinel that still held him. No amount of desperate clawing at the muscled forearm wrapped around his throat made it loosen its restraining grip. The Sentinel wrapped his free arm around Michael's waist and tightened his massive thighs around his legs, effectively using his entire body like a python to counteract Michael's frantic bid to break free.  

All Michael managed to do was expend what was left of his waning strength to no avail. Gasping for breath and struggling not to pass out, he was forced to watch helplessly while a resigned, barely resisting Sandburg was pushed onto the gurney flat on his back. One Sentinel held him down while the other quickly undid his zip ties and restrained his wrists to the side of the gurney using the built-in manacles. Once he had secured Sandburg's ankles in the same manner, they both stepped back.  

“What the fuck are you doing?” Michael’s demand came out in a rasp.

“Elison is somewhere in the Plane, waiting for you,” Walking over to his side, Stoddard addressed Sandburg, ignoring Michael, “Your final moments will draw him to us.”

“It won’t work.” Sandburg glared defiantly at the Sentinel. “The spirits aren’t drawn to spirits. If I die now, I’ll go to him, not the other way round.”

“Oh, I know,” Stoddard stared down at him with a twisted grin, “Why do you think I brought him down with you?” he jerked his head at Michael’s direction without breaking eye contact with the professor, “The spirit imprints will be drawn to the Guide Ascendant, won’t they?”

Michael had a feeling they weren’t only talking about the spirits - the ones he could summon and the ones he could release - but the spirit animals Sandburg had mentioned back at the airport. He had no idea what it was or why Stoddard was convinced that Sandburg’s late Sentinel had something to do with it. 

“Your director drugged Michael,” Sandburg reminded him triumphantly. “He can’t channel even if he wanted to.”

He had a point. A small part of Michael was kind of glad he couldn’t connect to the Psionic energies. It was a temporary reprieve, however. The Psionic Plane was beyond livid, and Michael could feel its fury lashing out against the atrocities done to it and its wielders from all sides. The pressure seemed to be building continuously from all around him, and the weight of the Plane was pressing down more and more on the flimsy artificial barriers blocking his mind with every passing second. It was only a matter of time until the tsunami wave crashed down on him and washed away those obstacles to flood his open mind. 

The question was whether anything of himself would be left to salvage after the Plane was done taking its vengeance. His only hope was Damien, and Michael didn’t even know whether he would be able to reach the Sentinel before it was too late. 

“That’s the plan, I don’t want him to.” Stoddard made a sound as if he was gurgling bits of sandpaper. It took a moment for Michael to realise the man was cackling. “If he could channel energies, he would undo everything.”

“What the hell are you planning?”

“Your presence will alert Elison,” Stoddard went on, gladly lecturing the professor on his grand scheme, “and Michael will draw him out. All I’ll have to do is let my Sentinel take control at the right time, that moment when Ellison’s between worlds, when he’s at his most vulnerable. When my Sentinel gets its claws on the magnificent beast that he is, he will forever be mine!” 

That was when Sandburg started struggling in fear, squirming helplessly against the restraint that held him. Craning his neck as far back as he could, he tried to catch Michael’s gaze. 

“Doc, I don’t–” The guard tightened his grip, effectively cutting off the rest of Michael’s words, along with his air intake.

“Never.” Turning his infuriated gaze back at Stoddard, Sandburg spat.

“You don’t have to be too upset, Blair,” Stoddard patted him on the head patronisingly, “Look at it this way. You’ll be together once again. Only instead of in the Plane, you’ll both be right here, with me, feeding me with the neverending reserves of your long lives.”

An infinitesimal loosening of the arm around Michael’s throat allowed him to drag in some air to his squeezing lungs before he passed out. Michael didn’t even bother renewing his struggles. Letting the Sentinel support the weight his trembling knees couldn’t quite hold up, Michael closed his eyes and directed all his focus inwards.

He had to revive the bond. He had to get through to Damien.

“Let’s have the Guide here,” he heard Stoddard instruct them again. The faint sound of squeaking wheels indicated that Stoddard must have pushed the gurney fully onto the rails, getting it closer to the furnace. “Secure him at the centre.”

He was dragged forward and roughly pushed to his knees. Michael had to brace himself with his cuffed hands flat on the cold stone floor to avoid falling face first. When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the short iron chain affixed to the centre of the circle. His captor swiftly attached the D-ring shackle at the end of it to the zipties before letting go of him. With his arms extended and secured to the floor, Michael was effectively restrained in that position. 

It was as if being trapped in the eye of a storm. There was a howling roar surrounding him, that was echoing in his ears as well as inside his head. The pressure that had been building felt as though it had reached its zenith, and Michael could feel the vibrations of the Psionic energies as they teetered on a precarious edge. Behind his closed eyelids, he could see the fissures appear all over the thin shells of the drug-induced barriers; a warning they were about to shatter. 

Bracing himself against the imminent flood of enraged, wild Psionic energies, Michael did the only thing he could. Diving deep inside his mind, he wrapped his consciousness around the barely glowing strand that represented his bond with Damien and started screaming for help.

The Residence Wing
Level - III
The Hub

Meanwhile

Closing his eyes with a groan, Damien craned his neck back and turned his face towards heaven. 

No. That wasn’t quite right.

The heaven was further down south, where Adrian was feasting on his hard, aching cock as if it were the only thing keeping him alive. 

The smell of wild dahlias, jasmine and gooseberries mixed beautifully with the smell of musky arousal in the air, enough to make Damien lose his mind with pure, unbridled lust.

Adrian’s hair was silky soft under Damien's fingers. Tugging on it elicited a moan from the smaller man that did wonderful things to Damien cock halfway down his throat. Adrian liked it rough, and Damien never held back from giving his lovers what they wanted. 

He pulled out slowly and looked down just in time to catch Adrian staring up at him with round, tear-filled eyes in protest. With his forehead furrowed, cheeks hollowed, lips red and stretched around Damien’s cock, Adrian made a perfect picture of absolute debauchery.

His fists tightened where he was gripping the waistband of the jeans Damien still hadn’t taken off. It was an instinctive bid to keep Damian from moving away. His lips and tongue swirled around the tip of Damien’s cock with renewed vigour in a wordless attempt to keep him where he was. Damien flashed him a grin, Adrian’s only warning to brace himself, before guiding himself back inside that warm, wet heat with a quick, hard thrust.

Adrian’s throat spasmed around him in reflex. The rugged sound he made tapered off to a needy whine as he cheerfully started sucking around Damien’s cock as it was his treat. 

Tightening his grip on Adrian’s hair, Damien fell into an easy rhythm, fucking himself down Adrian pleasingly accommodating windpipe. His moans and gasps were music to Damien’s ears. The subtle vibrations that came to life along with those sounds performed a perfect caress along his length.

“He was right,” Rebecca murmured in a sultry voice, “This is much better than the hundred bucks.”

She was naked and draped over the single couch next to the bed. Her toned legs hung over the armrest, crossed at her ankles. She had let her long black hair strategically cascade over her chest, hiding her perky breasts, offering only teasing glimpses. The blush along the pale column of her neck that brought a beautiful crimson shine to her cheeks was more than enough evidence that she was incredibly turned on. 

Rebecca always did like to watch first.

“What hundred bucks?” Damien was rather pleased with himself when his voice came out unaffected. Taking that as a personal challenge, Adrian hollowed his cheeks, and started sucking and licking more aggressively around Damien. 

“Oh, we had a little bet,” Rebecca replied distractedly, her eyes darting between the way Adrian’s throat swelled up with Damien’s length and the gorgeous curve his spine made while laying flat on his stomach on the bed. Damien couldn’t blame her. The way Adrain’s sinewy, tanned and lightly freckled body contrasted with the white sheets was an enticing sight to behold. “He thought you’d show up with your little friend. I said you’d be by yourself. I won.”

“My little friend?” 

Damien frowned when his earlier headache made a sudden appearance, sending a current of agony from the base of his neck, through his skull and into the back of his right eye. It had started sometime after lunch, and Damien had shielded his mind, thinking the excess channeling may have been the cause for it. The discomfort had disappeared after a while, and he had forgotten about it until now. 

“He’s not important,” Rebecca said at the same time Adrian lifted one hand to lay his palm flat against Damien’s abdomen. A cool, soothing wave of Adrian’s scent washed over him, dissolving the pain to a fading memory. 

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” Damien shook his head and picked up the pace of his thrusts. Adrian managed to let out an approving grunt, and continued to let Damien fuck his throat with abandon.

“That’s perfectly fine,” Rebecca smiled and started playing with one of her nipples. 

“Is that all you’re going to do?” Damien raised an eyebrow at her. He suddenly had the urge to fondle those firm breasts himself, feel the smoothness of her skin under his palms, “Just watch?”  

“What can I say? You two are hot,” she let out a ringing laugh before finally deciding to meet Damien’s gaze with a heated one of her own. “I’m waiting for an opening.”

Chuckling, Damien leaned over and slapped one of Adrian’s asscheeks with a resounding smack. The sinful moan that squeezed out of his throat was a mix of protest and a plea for more.

“It’s rude of us to hog all the fun, isn’t it?”

Adrian blinked his watery red eyes at him, his gaze hazy and hopelessly lost in bliss. Damien held Adrian upright by his hair with one hand, and pulled out his saliva-drenched cock out of Adrian’s mouth. That earned him an insolent pout from the Guide. Damien took a moment to lean down and kiss it away with a warning nip at his swollen bottom lip.

Grabbing him by his thin shoulders, Damien pushed Adrian backwards, letting his head fall against the rummaged line of pillows at the other end of the bed. The sudden change of position had him blinking confusedly at the ceiling. Damien placed his hands under Adrian’s ass and pulled him closer to the edge where Damien was standing. Snatching the nearest pillow, Damien stuck it under his hips so that Adrian’s other eager hole was perfectly lined up to take over the job his mouth had been doing. 

He didn’t know when the man had taken time to prepare himself, and he didn’t care. Adrian’s asshole was dripping wet with lube and quivering. That was all Damien needed. His cock sank in all the way without any resistance. Adrian’s greedy hole sucked him in as if it had been starving for it.

“You can sit on his face,” Damien invited Rebecca with a smile. 

He held himself still, knowing that the tip of his cock was pressed deliciously against Adrian’s prostate, teasing him with promises not yet fulfilled. Adrian's head lolled from side to side, his wide eyes and low whines sending pitiful pleas in both Damian’s and Rebecca’s direction. 

Adrian’s hands fisted the sheets on his sides, but they stayed away from straying towards his hard, leaking cock that was woefully neglected. Damien was pleased with his self-control. He would come with what he was given, or he wouldn’t come at all. Those were the rules. 

Adrian had a wicked way of finding his climax without a single touch on his cock, and Damien was eager to watch him do it.

“That’s very generous of you two,” Rebecca slithered off the chair with predatory grace, stalked towards the bed unhurriedly and climbed on it with seductively liquid movements. Placing her knees on either side of Adrian's face, she held herself upright, narrowing everything in Adrian’s line of sight to the view of her ass and vagina. Like a well-mannered guest at a house party, she waited for Damien’s permission to indulge her gift.

“Make yourself comfortable, Becky,” he purred, finally allowing the rasp in his voice to convey his approval at the utterly sensual image his lovers created. “Adrian, you know what to do. Make her feel good.”

Rebecca planted herself on his face before Adrian could make a sound. Her vagina settled nicely over his open mouth and her plump ass became the perfect plug over his nose. 

Damien leaned forward and pulled her closer by her chin, “Make him choke.” 

“Gladly,” She accepted Damien’s whispered command with an equally quiet murmur, and crashed her hungry lips against his.

The bed rocked back and forth while Rebecca effortlessly matched her grinds on Adrian’s face to Damien’s vigorous thrusts into Adrian’s asshole. The air around them was thick with the scents of frankincense, red wine and benzoine intermingled with exotic flowers and hints of berries. The sharper odours of their combined sweat, saliva and arousal added a mind-blowing element to the already intoxicating mix, making Damien feel lightheaded every time he breathed.  

Their hungry moans tangled together in a harmony of wicked desires. The choking sounds Adrian was making added a perfect counterpoint of agony to the music of trapped groans and slapping bodies. Damien let go of Adrain’s legs he had been holding up until then, encouraging the man wordlessly to wrap them around Damien's hips. He caught Rebecca’s face with both hands so that he could plunder her mouth to his heart's content.

Damien felt currents of pure pleasure running through his veins as his entire body strained towards a satisfying completion. Adrian’s asshole was clenching and unclenching around his cock in a frenzy as his body responded to a conflicting mix of arousal and frustration at its meagre supply of oxygen. Damien continued to swallow Rebecca’s moans and pants, licking her lips and sucking her tongue with abandon. 

As close as he was to finding the peak of the pleasure he had been leisurely chasing for over an hour, Damien almost didn’t notice the change taking place inside his mind.

At first, it was a negligible murmur of a tiny part of his otherwise lust-addled brain, followed by a faint ripple of cold dread that vanished as soon as it flashed into existence. Just as Damien was about to dismiss it as nothing, it happened again. 

And again. 

It was distracting enough, the pace of Damien’s thrusts into Adrain wavered. 

“What’s wrong?” Rebecca mumbled against his neck, and licked over the spot where she had just bitten him on his pulse point. 

“Nothing,” Damien groaned and craned his head back to grant her more access.

The subtle disruptions waking up in his mind didn’t fade as he hoped. In fact, they gained more strength with each passing second. The confused murmurs turned into unintelligible chatter, which then mutated into howls and roars of pain and confusion. The flashes of dread turned into full-blown fear and then utter, soul-shattering horror.

“Damien!” 

Damien opened his eyes. He had no clue when he closed them. Adrian’s pale face came into view the moment he did, staring at him with a mix of fear and concern. It was only then Damien realised he was no longer kissing Rebecca or fucking Adrian. He was a few steps away from the bed, on his knees, bracing himself against an unknown threat. Tremors wracked through his body as it struggled to respond to the rapid change from heated arousal to mindless terror.

“What?!”

Even as the hoarse question left him, a cloying wave of bitter and acidic chemicals hit Damien full in the face, making him flinch back.  

“Damien, baby–”

The way his words choked off caused Damien to look up at Adrian. His hand was wrapped around Adrian’s delicate throat, holding the man well away from his shaking body. Adrian’s pulse was frantic under his thumb, yet a deep, ingrained instinct stopped Damien from loosening his restraining hold.

Moving exaggeratedly slowly as if trying to tame a wounded, cornered animal, Adrian wrapped his long fingers around Damien’s wrist. His touch elicited a visceral disgust in Damien with no warning, causing him to snatch his hand back as if burned.

“What’s wrong, Damien?” The blue shade of Adrian’s eyes went dull behind a sheen of sickly white.

Why did I ever think those eyes glowed with brilliant silver?  Damien wondered confusedly, The mark of a Guide?

It was almost the same thing that happened with Bryant. The only difference was that Damien still had the memories, uncorrupted and untouched. They had lost their shine, however, their importance and what they meant to him. It was as if they had all gone into hiding in a deep, dark corner of his mind he never even knew existed.

Now, they were all streaming back to the front with terrifying urgency, along with the bond that connected him to Michael. 

Suddenly, it was all clear: why he was there, why he had so placidly let himself be manipulated and given himself freely to all the physical impulses. His Sentinel side had been half-asleep all this time, wrapped around the bond that had also gone dark, waiting to be awakened when the time was right.

The way the bond flared into life in a whirlwind of fear and wild panic meant that the time was now. 

With shaky hands, Damien tucked himself back in, pulled the zipper up and fumbled with his belt. It gave him a few seconds to gather his scattered thoughts and push himself back onto his unsteady feet. 

He had to find Michael. His Guide was here, and he was in trouble.

A familiar click made him look up. Rebecca knelt on the bed, still naked and completely unbothered by it. She held a SIG-Sauer in a two-handed grip, aimed straight at his head.

“Stay still.” The quiet command belonged to the killer, not the lover. 

She already knew he was lost to them. She hadn’t wasted any time grabbing her weapon, seizing the chance to control the situation. 

Gritting his teeth against the sudden vertigo clouding his mind, Damien did as he was told. His shields were fully open. Damien felt his Sentinel shake itself to shed the last vestiges of drug-induced lethargy off of its hide.

Something was terribly wrong with the Psionic energies. They were resistant and spiteful, almost thorny, as if they weren’t certain if Damien was someone they should enhance or not. It was an unnatural feeling, and Damien didn’t quite know how to invite those energies in, to convince those energies that he needed their help urgently.

“Adrian, get the–”

Urgh.

Damien didn’t hear the rest of what she said. He was vaguely aware of stumbling backwards as if he had been shoved by an invisible hand. His back hit the wall at the same time a bright white light exploded into life in his mind. 

It was the bond. Yet, it was far from the shiny, woven strand Damien was used to feeling draped around the boundary of his mind. Instead, the thing that flared into life was engulfed in an inferno of wild, uncontrolled power. 

For a moment, Damien was blinded by the intense brightness of it. Closing his eyes squeezed shut didn’t help since the explosion was somehow inside his skull. It was nothing like how Damien was used to perceiving Michael when he opened his shields. The gentle, bright starshine that usually radiated from him was vastly different from what Damien was experiencing through the bond now.

It was as if all the Psionic energies in the region – along with the hatred, fear and anger it had been stewing in possibly for years – was flowing through to Michael with no control or precision, drowning him in a horrific flash flood. 

The wails were deafening, although Damien knew he wasn’t really hearing any of it through his ears. It was all in his mind; an unholy melody of howls, screeches and roars of excruciating agony that Damien had not the faintest reference to compare or understand. 

It scared him when he couldn’t feel Michael. Drowned under the neverending waves of rampaging energies, Michael’s presence, his voice and his thoughts were hopelessly lost.

The terrifying realisation snapped something in him. His frustration, dread and denial roared out of his throat in a piercing growl, and Damien felt his Sentinel diving headfirst into the fathomless ocean of wounded light in search of his Guide.

Damien didn’t quite know how long it had been when he finally caught the faint, intermittent snatches of Michael’s screams. 

That was when everything changed.

Chapter Text

The Disposal Unit - Basement Level II
Left Wing
The Hub

Michael was no longer kneeling on a cold, rough floor. 

He was in hell.

Except, he wasn't there because he had committed unforgivable sins. The ones who had were still back in the human plane, blessedly unaware and unconcerned about their vile atrocities. They would find their own hell soon enough, and face consequences of their wrongdoings, but not just yet. 

The hell Michael was in, was where all the innocent souls were trapped. They were bound to places where they never consented to be bound, forced to do things they never wished to do, and robbed of their essences so they could feed an insatiable hunger. 

The Psionic energies rushing through him had an imprint of the torment of each and every one of those tortured souls. Michael was in hell because he was feeling their collective agony throughout the years all at once. 

The Null Collar was a distant memory. Michael had no idea if he had been dosed again or not. He didn’t think a few drops of artificial chemicals could stand against the overflowing waves of the energies anyway. 

He didn’t know if his eyes were open or not either. It didn’t really matter. 

The hellish world was made of a darkness that was alive with malignance. If he concentrated, Michael could see shapes writhing in the swirls, the places where the shades of black seemed to waver. Those shapes were incomprehensible at first glance, as though they weren’t meant to be perceived by a human mind. They were multidimensional and ever-changing, insidious in a way that could shatter one’s sanity just by returning one’s attention. If Michael were aware, or maybe brave enough to keep watching, the incomprehensible shapes would allow him a glimpse of what they were hiding. 

Faces. 

Countless, body-less faces that could only convey their terrible anguish by warping themselves into the most twisted abstracts, wailing and howling their agony in utter silence to anyone who would listen.

There was a sense of urgency in the whirlwind of those bizarre, horrifying hordes of faces too, as if they had sensed a way out; a path to freedom. There was finally a beam of light in the perdition, a bright, shining ray of hope, of promise, of retribution. 

It took Michael a long time to understand that he was the source of that light. It was him, or rather the Psionic energies that were flooding inside him, lighting him up like a beacon; the ultimate light at the end of a truly damning tunnel. 

The souls didn’t take turns. Patience to line up so that they could leave their unfair, unearned hell to go back where they belonged in an unhurried, gentle manner was beyond them. The long overdue freedom was calling. The only way to it was through the strand of silvery light barely enough to light up a fraction of their endless cavern. 

If they were the roiling river that was forcefully held back, Michael was the fissure in the dam. 

It took no time for the fissures to turn into cracks, and then shatter the invisible walls into pieces, creating an exit that had been denied for far too long. 

The influx of tortured souls streamed through Michael in a whirlwind of splinters. Michael didn’t have anything to hang on to, to anchor himself and keep himself from being washed away with the tide. Frankly, he didn’t know if he could. The uncontrollable wave wasn’t something he could fight against and win, and he would only shatter himself to pieces if he tried. All Michael could do was let himself be carried along through the vortex, hoping Damien would somehow manage to throw a lifeline in time.

***

An incomprehensible sense of urgency ran through his entire being like an icy current, followed by a challenging roar that tore past his throat to shake the very foundations of the building.

Damien didn’t quite know what was happening to him, but instincts told him not to fight, and let it happen. Doubting himself would only waste the precious time he didn’t have. 

His Guide didn’t have.

The Psionic energies were forcibly pulled into him by his awakening Sentinel, filling Damien’s mind and enhancing his entire being at a scale he had never experienced before.

The air around him was cold, ventilated through a temperature control system and wet with droplets of water, but Damien was burning as if he were in a sauna. The agitation of the energies around him were pinpricks on his suddenly very sensitive skin, as though there were hoards of ants crawling all over him.

An instinctive swallow at the strange feeling made Damien realise how horrible the taste in his mouth was. It was bitter, chalky and nauseating, reminiscent of a childhood memory where he had bit onto a painkiller tablet and had regretted it for days. 

When his vision sharpened, Damien’s perception of colours, textures, definitions and shapes heightened with it. Everything in his sight merged, expanded and then snapped back into place in such different and contrasting shades and scales, that the room could have turned into an alien object he had never seen before. 

Damien could see the faint iridescent sprinkles of the Psionic energies saturated in the air. He could see a hundred different shades spanning from olive to pale on the naked, trembling man before him. He could see a latticework of lines on his skin and the millions of micro shapes they wove over every joint and contour over his bones. He could see the man’s veins, the discoloured blood infected with drugs, the stains of the experiments, running through them. 

Damien blinked consciously a few times to avoid getting lost in all the extra and extremely distracting details. A zone-out was the last thing he needed right then.

Keeping himself focused wasn't easy. The moment Damien pulled his attention from his unbelievably enhanced sight, his sense of scent caught it. An instinctive inhale brought in the two distinctive personal scents of Levi and Castellanos, along with a thick wave of aromas and odours everything in the room emitted. The various scents of two-hundred-something people living in the complex and the unholy things they were cooking in their laboratories were a cloying cloud rioting for his attention. He could even smell the trees, swamps, and soil along with the musks of every living creature around the complex, with the unmistakable scent of rain, lightning and thunder wrapped around them. 

More importantly, Damien could smell the Sentinels waiting in the boundary of the Hub, untouched by the evil aura that coated everything inside the building. They were his backup, his pack, and they were waiting for his call. Their righteous anger at what was happening, their bloodlust and their anticipation for battle were a balm to the olfactory assault Damien was forced to endure.

Entangled with the frightening odours of sulphur, burning wood, copper and mold-coated limestone, were the beloved scents of cherry blossoms, pine and cedar entrenched in freshly cut grass and stormy oceans. Michael’s personal scent had no trouble drowning out everything else and swimming into the surface of his mind, carrying with it the unmistakable stench of anger, dread and urgent need for help. 

Damien's body responded to it by stretching, expanding and imploding in on itself. The explosion of sounds he could hear with his entirely-too-enhanced sense of hearing was drowned out by the sounds of breaking, crunching, and grinding of his bone structure. It would have been utterly horrifying except for the fact that nothing hurt. The all-encompassing feeling of freedom and power running through his system made Damien feel as if he had guzzled a gallon of jet fuel. The scream that tore out of him was nothing human. It was a defiant, challenging roar that burst out of him in an omnidirectional wave, shaking the very foundations of the entire region.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

Castellanos’ soft curse was loud enough to drag Damien out of his own mind and focus back on his surroundings. The moment he did, however, his line sight shook unsteadily, and his world tilted on its axis before righting itself back again.

Something had fundamentally changed about him. Damien could taste it in the pure, animalistic fear saturating the air. 

“Adrian, get out of the way!” Levi screamed. 

The gun in her hand bucked at the same time Castellanos screamed at her to stop. The noise was deafening, but Damien shook it off as if it was nothing but a chitter of an insect. The sting he felt somewhere on his chest was nothing to worry about, and neither was the twisted clump of metal that hit the floor near his feet.

Wait. 

What the fuck was wrong with his feet? 

Where the fuck were his boots?

Why did they look like they had disappeared behind a tangible, swirling cloud of obsidian Psionic energies?

An idle part of his brain made a funny observation; it didn’t look like he had human limbs anymore. Instead of arms and legs, he had pitch-black, wildly hairy paws armed with sharp, pointed claws that gleamed a pure lethal silver. 

Damien knew he should panic. The hindbrain so dearly wanted to. But, he wasn’t really in control anymore. For the first time in his life, Damien was a passenger in his own body, and it was entirely different from the time when he had let Michael take control. 

When he wielded Psionic energies, it was always Damien who was behind the wheel, with his sentinel side either enhancing his body and his senses or merged to him fully in awareness as well. Now, however, Damien was pushed to a corner, while the Sentinel and the instincts honed through generations were in control.

His vision changed again. It took Damien a moment to realise he had – well, the beast he had turned into had – shook its head to clear off the last bits of his metamorphosis. Castellanos made a sound that drew Damien’s attention to his deathly pale face. His eyes – filled with drugs that had mutated the energies to a disgusting white substance - were round, displaying a perfectly detailed reflection of Damien’s new appearance;

The Prime that resided within him was a gigantic wolf as black as the starless void itself. His eyes were as red as the firefly agony that was radiating out of Michael.

The thought broke him from his stupor. He didn’t have time to freak out or contemplate the hows and whys of it. There would be time for all that later. 

He had a Guide in need of an immediate rescue.

Declaring its agreement with another bone-shattering howl, the wolf galloped into action. 

***

“Uh, oh.” Garcia’s liquid obsidian eyes narrowed as he turned his head to the side, sniffing the air. His grimace said whatever that had caught his attention, wasn’t good.

Kim instinctively opened her shields, wincing as the horrid Psionic energies started trickling through to her mind with great hesitancy. The moment her senses and strength enhanced, she understood what had garnered Garcia’s reactions.

There was a certain aura of urgency in the air, and the Psionic energies vibrated subtly all around her in anticipation. 

“Something’s happening,” She murmured in agreement, and clicked on the command channel, “Shields open, everyone, and brace yourselves.”

Her warning was right on time. Moments later, a wave rippled through the Psionic Plane, engulfing every Sentinel in the vicinity with pure, unadulterated agony. Kim felt as if she had been transported back to Florencia all over again, helplessly stuck in a purgatory of suffering and pain for which she had no defence against. 

Only this time, the feeling was a million times worse.

Just as the inescapable ocean of insidious horror washed over her, Kim felt another omnidirectional ripple through the Psionic Plane following in its wake. 

The second wave was different. 

It felt like a warm blanket to ward off a bone-deep chill. An umbrella over her head in the heavy rain. A strong pair of arms to catch her and break off an unexpected fall. The sound of a soothing lullaby when she was stuck in a nightmare. 

It was all the good things in life; a gentle reminder that there was always light after darkness.

Engulfed in the second wave of protection, Kim managed to hold onto herself and her thoughts without losing her sanity. Judging by the various curses and exclamations through the comms network, she knew the entire team had weathered the sudden change in the Plane without any everlasting effects hindering their functionality. 

The first wave was merely a taste of the brutalities the land of Darién had helplessly witnessed for far too long. The second was a shield, courtesy of the Guide in their midst. A warding charm to protect them while the enraged Psionic Plane dished out its own form of justice over the ones who had abused its gifts.

“Fucking hell,” Rojas’s heartfelt curse reached her quietly, “Bravo Three, Bravo Four. I’d say that’s a signal.”

Before she could reply, a resounding howl she had never heard in her life pierced through the entire jungle, visibly shaking everything around her. Without warning, Kim felt her Sentinel side surging to the surface. A low growl tore out of her own throat to join the similar chorus of howls that emanated from her entire team in answer. 

It was an ancient call; a call recognised instantly and instinctively by all Sentinels.

It was a call to battle from their alpha, and as long as Kim had a single breath left in her body, she would answer that call. 

The Rules Of Engagement for the mission dictated that they were to take prisoners. And that lethal force was only to be used for self-defence. All those directives went out of the window the moment that call pierced through her soul. 

Heinous crimes had been committed on the members of her tribe. She would kill everything that needed killing. 

Her Sentinel would be the judge, jury and executioner. 

“Concur,” her voice wasn’t entirely human when she replied through the net, “Let’s do this.”

***

The feeling of having four points of his body touching the ground was decidedly weird. So was the feeling of the powerful hindlegs pushing him off the ground and the forelegs finding purchase so smoothly as if he had been running on four legs his entire life.

The way everything blurred past him as if he were speeding down an empty road in a sports car wasn’t normal either. Damien wasn’t necessarily running. Or jumping. Or flying. He didn’t think he would be passing through solid objects such as walls, concrete floors, furniture and people if he were using any of those regular methods of moving.

As best Damien could tell, he was speeding through the Psionic Plane itself. As insane as it sounded in his own head, it was the only possible explanation for being able to pass through four levels of the complex down and then lengthwise in a matter of mere seconds. His new form didn’t seem to care for the laws of physics of the material world much. 

Or at all.

A few more walls, flights of stairs and hazy snapshots of seemingly unconscious bodies later, Damien came to an abrupt halt.

He was where all nightmares preferred to be born; a dingy basement.

Damien had reached there in the time span of about five winks. He didn’t think he came down the narrow flight of stairs he could see across the room, which seemed to be the only entry/exit point. He had phased through the wall with the furnace. 

Its stainless steel doors were closed. But he could smell the cloying odours of gas, coal, ash and the searing tones of flames. Underlying it all, there were also faint tendrils of flesh, skin and bones liquifying in the terribly high temperatures. 

A sweeping glance revealed five bodies littering the cold, grimy floor. Four of them were unconscious, their pulse reduced to barely audible beats just enough to keep them on the side of the living. The remaining one – barely identifiable as human due to the way it had shrunk on itself to reveal the skeleton under the skin and flesh – was dead. 

None of it was important. The Prime Sentinel compiled a thoroughly-detailed, sensory imprint of the room and filed it into a corner of his mind in less than a second. 

What was important was what was in the middle of the room.

Michael was hardly visible through the tangible beam of silvery Psionic energies that reached straight towards the sky and beyond. The blindingly bright column of pure light had pierced through him, pinning him in place like a bug to the centre of an ominous circle.

Damien was glad he was pushed to the back, for he had no idea how to help. The Sentinel had no such compunctions. With another howl of defiance, he trotted towards the light with all the confidence in the world. 

It wasn’t a beam of light, per se, but a vortex. Damien didn’t know how his paw didn’t dissolve into fragments when he touched that lightning-fast tornado of revolving, swirling energies. It was as if he belonged, welcomed, even. The energies went through him without ever breaking its shape or form as if he wasn’t even there. 

Trying to figure out the mechanics of what was happening was firmly beyond his capabilities. What mattered was that he was there, feeling incredibly relieved at the fact that he was finally with his Guide. Michael was not as intangible as the energies emanating through and around him. He was there, kneeling on the ground, his wrists tied together and attached to a metal chain connected to the floor.

Michael glowed from within; a light too bright and terrible for Damien to stare at directly for too long. He didn’t move. He wasn’t even breathing, kept upright and still by the sheer force of unbridled power that was skewering him from the inside out.

Mindless panic tried to bully its way through Damien’s mind, intent on sending him spiralling down a tunnel of pure terror. The wolf form ignored it completely. It leaned in and licked around Michael’s face a few times before headbutting him gently with its furry forehead. 

The moment they connected, Damien knew he was at the right place, in the nick of time and doing the absolutely right thing.

The bond flared between them like a golden lifeline. Closing his eyes, Damien imagined holding onto it tightly and using it to find his way to his Guide. 

It was as if wading through a storm in a dark world made of torment and agony beyond perception. There was a silver sheen around Damien, however. It was a transparent, paper-thin shield of untouched, unaffected energies that moulded to the shape of his consciousness, keeping him protected from the horrors of his surroundings. Damien pushed himself further and further, for he knew he would only find his Guide at the other end of the line.

He found Michael after what felt like an eternity. He was on the ground, curled into a miserable ball around himself. His eyes – frozen into two shiny, silver diamonds – were open and staring blankly into the distance.

Michael! Jesus… Michael! Damien didn’t know if his screams were coming through his vocal cords or his mind. He didn’t really care. He fell to his knees, his human knees, next to his unresponsive Guide, and kept hollering, Can you hear me? Come on, Sunshine, please! 

Possibly another eternity or two passed before he heard a faint reply. 

Damien.

Oh, thank fuck. Damien sent a heartfelt prayer towards any and all higher powers in the vicinity. He leaned over Michael, watching intently for any visible response other than the words echoing softly around him. He wasn’t certain if he could touch him.

Your timing is incredible.

The words were laden with exhaustion, but they definitely belonged to Michael. Damien would know those quiet tones of relief, gratitude and affection anywhere.

I try, Sunshine, I try. He didn’t care that the cracks in his voice were betraying his terror.

I could use some help.

What should I do? Damien asked urgently. 

Hold me?

The sense of relief that washed over him at the simple request would have dropped Damien to the ground if he weren’t kneeling already. Wrapping his arms around Michael’s scarily light frame and drawing him onto his lap was the easiest thing in the world. He didn’t know if the energies he could feel running through him to Michael were helping or not. He hoped they did. But he wasn’t too worried. 

The Guide had kept his promise. 

It didn’t even matter if they would wake up back in the real world or not. 

Damien was exactly where he wanted to be. Where he belonged; 

I’ll hold you forever.

***

The Sentinels were safe. 

Michael sighed in relief. That was just about the only thing he could manage in his current state. Whatever that was.

Awareness wasn’t really within his reach.

Even though his existence and state of being were a mystery, Michael could still feel what was happening. What the Psionic energies that were filtering through him were doing. 

Part of it was dedicated to rescuing all the trapped souls. Those captive souls were being ripped out from everywhere. 

Stoddard was the worst. He had been feeding those stolen life essences to his vicious, mutated Sentinel for years. He had used his infected blood to develop the drugs they used on their special Sentinel force; enhancing them beyond their natural capabilities, and binding their loyalties to Stoddard, making them his extensions. Michael could feel those Sentinels dropping like flies all around the complex, the glow of their existence in the Plane winking out. He wasn’t entirely sure if they were dying or being turned dormant, but he was certain that they were losing their connection to the Plane with finality.

Another part of the energies was engulfing those newly freed soul imprints, gathering them into secure folds before transporting them back to the Psionic Plane.

Michael was a two-way valve for the incoming and outgoing Psionic energies; one half was rushing out of him to fight and liberate, while the other half was conducting the evacuation and the safe passage. He was reduced to a mere spectator, forced to feel the years worth of agony every single one of those souls had suffered as if it were his own.

Then there was another part that was doing the healing. The Psionic energies in the region were wounded beyond recognition; ridden with infections and malignant, cancer-like cracks and fissures. It was wholly unstable, unable to feel or perceive anything other than mindless horror, pain and powerlessness. It was in need of urgent healing, to prevent the entire energy Plane from imploding into itself and disintegrating everything it touched.

It would leave a disaster a million times worse than a nuclear explosion in its wake if that were allowed to happen.

Michael wasn’t sure how he was channelling unaffected energies. It felt as though the Plane covering the entire nation of Colombia was rushing through him to avert the imminent destruction.

He was nothing more than an insignificant bug under that overwhelming feeling. On the one hand, it was a relief that he could help, to be useful in some way now that he understood the scale of horror he was battling. On the other hand, he couldn’t help but feel doubtful whether he could last until the mammoth of a task was completed. 

Psionic Plane chooses well. Have faith.

Is that a memory? Or did he just hear the professor?

Michael cast his mind around frantically, hoping and praying he wouldn’t see Sandburg's twisted, tortured soul also lost somewhere within the hordes.

Michael.

His hopes were dashed when he turned around. The professor’s transparent form wavered in the air like a phantom. He looked exactly the same, however, not plagued by years of unimaginable pain, but that didn’t make it better. 

He was no longer among the living.

Oh, God, professor! Michael focused, frantically trying to pull together enough determination to draw Sandburg’s apparition closer, to himself. He didn’t want to see it getting lost in the void.

Michael, I’m fine. He thought he could see a smile in that see-through expression. Everything is happening as it should. Do not waste your energy on me. I’m quite well protected.

Before Michael could argue the dubious logic of that statement, he saw something else. Sandburg wasn’t alone. It wasn’t necessarily a black cloud that was wrapped around his legs. The more he focused, Michael could see a vague shape emerging from it;

A panther with a pitch-black hide and eyes as green as emeralds.

This is Jim.

The clouds cleared a bit as the animal form gained more shape and definition. The feline predator’s pointy teeth were visible behind its stretched-back muzzle. It looked more like a grin than a threatening snarl. 

A soft chuff that echoed in the air confirmed Michael’s thought. The panther wasn’t a threat. It was there to keep Sandburg’s soul together and intact.

What happened to him? The relief at the realisation made way to his curiosity.

Nothing. This is what he is. The true form of his Sentinel in this Plane. 

Is that what Stoddard wanted to steal?

Yes. 

Michael didn’t want to imagine what the abhorrent man would have done if he had gotten his hands on Jim Elison’s Sentinel. Even across the distance, Michael could feel the age-old power radiating from its massive form. I’m glad that didn’t happen.

It never was going to work, Michael. Sandburg sounded certain.

I’m sorry you had to die, Michael admitted sorrowfully. It had always been a possibility, but Michael had figured he wouldn't let it come to that. He had failed. I’m sorry I was too late to stop it.

Don’t be. Sandburg smiled again, running a hand absently through the cloud-like fur on the panther’s head, I knew exactly what would happen.

You never said you were going to die. 

If I had, you wouldn’t have let me tag along. Sandbug shrugged.

You wanted to?

How else was I going to see my Sentinel again?

When put like that, it was hard to argue the point. Michael knew he would have done the same thing if he were in Sandburg’s shoes. Will you be okay?

More than, Michael. Sandburg's soft voice echoed around him, Save your strength, and hold on. Your own Sentinel isn’t too far behind.

I don’t know if I can. Michael admitted. He was laden with a sense of bone-deep exhaustion he knew was far from normal. The shining, micro-fragments in the air around him felt like dissolving pieces of his own soul. 

You must. Sandburg insisted with urgency. Your job is far from over. In fact, this is just the beginning.

It’s a shit job.

Sandburg chuckled. You’ll learn to love it. 

The form of the man and the beast started to waver, turning transparent and losing colour. Michael instinctively knew they were about to wash away with the stream of energies.

Farewell, Professor.

Take care, Michael. Sandburg’s voice faded into the distance. Maybe I’ll see you again!

Will I? Michael called out, When? 

Soon.

The sense of loss was too much to bear, and so were the never-ending wails of the soul-storm trapped in his mind. It took Michael a long moment to realise he was on the ground, curled around what was left of himself, waiting resignedly for an end that didn’t seem anywhere near.

At first, he thought it was another lost Sentinel. Another massive, pitch-black beast that had gotten sucked into the Psionic energy vortex. A small part of his brain pointed out that Stoddard would have bragged about it if that were the case. His next guess was a hallucination. Seeing Sandburg’s close connection with the panther had made his own exhausted mind concoct an image of something similar.

After some time, Michael realised that the animal he was staring at was different. Although he was formed from the same ebony Psionic energies, his shape was clearer, sharper and far too solid for an apparition. Besides, he was a wolf, not another panther; one the size of an SUV with its four paws on the ground. 

There was also a fiery, crimson fire burning in his eyes.

He stared back at Michael through the veil of Psionic energies, an inexplicable aura of ancient wisdom shining in those flames. Michael wanted to protest when the beast started to stalk towards him, to warn him to stay away, to run back to safety.

He couldn’t. There was no energy left in him to form a coherent thought, let alone a warning yell.

Something happened when the wolf somehow crossed through the vortex of energies Michael was trapped within. His eyes changed from fire to a soothing sky blue that was infinitely familiar; the unique shade that reminded him of Damien. 

What a majestic beast you are. Michael marvelled when he felt the wolf’s forehead touch his own.

He didn’t know how much time had passed until he heard Damien. The sound of his urgent calls broke through the cloying stupor, dragging Michael back to consciousness. When he blinked, it was to see the man, not his Psionic representation, kneeling before him with concern radiating out of his entire being.

Damien didn’t hesitate to grab his hand or pull him onto his lap. The sudden infusion of healing, rejuvenating energies sent Michael’s mind spinning. It wasn’t frightening, since he knew he was finally anchored to his Sentinel.

Either they would both wash away along with the tides of energies, or they would weather the storm and emerge intact when it finally died down. It didn’t really matter. He had kept his promise. The absolute contentment radiating from Damien agreed with his sentiment. 

Wherever fate took them, they would end up there together. 

A Few Hours Later…

Kim looked around the office. It was located on the fourth floor, away from the research, manufacturing and experiment labs. It was definitely the office of the boss.

The dead body on the grey carpet confirmed her theory. He really shouldn’t have bet against Kim’s speed and reflexes, and underestimated how much she hated looking down gun barrels.

Ex-CIA director had lived and died in disgrace. She was glad for the opportunity to take down the bastard for his crimes. She had done her duty and fulfilled the Retribution on behalf of her Council.

Walking around the body, she knelt down to snap a few images of the man’s face from her phone. He already had a bandaid across the bridge of his broken nose and nasty purple circles around his eyes. She idly wondered if Stonebridge had something to do with it.

Clicking on the comms, she addressed the Crib. “Zero, Bravo Three.”

“Go ahead.”

“Uploading images now.”

“Receiving.” A few seconds later, Richmond confirmed the receipt. “So far, we have eight confirmed fatalities; three to defensive fire and five to unknown causes.”

Unknown cause would be the Psionic energies that had rampaged through the entire region for hours before dying down only about thirty minutes ago. Kim didn’t want to mention that over the comms. Some things were still sacred, not necessarily needed to be shared among the non gene carriers.

Kim settled on the seat behind the mahogany desk and inserted the USB she had received before heading out. It would grant the Crib direct access to the Hub’s network. Richmond could retrieve all digital files and scrub the drives. Rojas was on the opposite wing, doing the same with the computers located in the research labs.

“As of now, we can confirm two hundred and thirteen souls occupied the complex,” she continued after receiving confirmation from Richmond that a connection had been established. “The scientists, security forces, support and admin staff and the test subjects. It’ll take a while before we have a confirmed casualty count.”

“Understood. The reinforcements are ninety minutes out.”

“Got it,” Kim replied, “We’ll need extra hands to deal with these folks when they start waking up.”

“Are they…unconscious?”

“More or less,” Kim said, “Some of them, Dr Howard Langdon, for example, didn’t survive the initial Psionic energy backlash. Almost all the security forces are knocked out, possibly gone dormant. The rest are the test subjects they have in these isolated wards.”

“Medivac helos will land in twenty.” 

Kim knew they would land at the same coordinates Scott had arrived around noon. That route was far easier to navigate than the route they had used to bring Stonebridge and the professor into the facility. 

“Good,” she said, “We have agents out in the field already. We’ve commandeered a fleet of Land Rovers. They’ll drive the medical personnel through the tunnels.”

“What about the two contacts?”

“Same. Knocked out. But alive.”

An agent from Rojas’ team had found the duo naked in one of the residential suites. Kim didn’t even want to know what they had been doing before the Psionic energy storm had raged into existence. 

“The civilian?”

“We haven’t found him yet.” Kim sighed. She didn’t have much hope that they would. 

There was a slight hesitation in Richmond’s tone when she asked her next question, “Status of Bravo One and Bravo Two?”

Kim really didn’t want to get into that. She had only caught a glimpse of Scott carrying an unresponsive Stonebridge. It was almost the same thing that had happened back in Florencia. She knew they were in one of the rooms in the residential wing. There was no way in hell she was going to take a walk and check. A Sentinel was at his most unpredictable when his or her Guide was hurt and vulnerable. 

Besides, there had been a pure aura of warning radiating from Scott’s entire being, wordlessly imploring them all to stay the fuck away. 

None of them were going to disobey that command. She knew that much.

“Look, all I can say is they are both alive,” Kim said quietly. None of us is capable of taking down a feral of Scott’s calibre and we’d all be dead if that were the case. “When it comes to bonded pairs, sometimes the best course of action is to leave them alone. This is one of those times.”

“Understood,” Richmond accepted her non-explanation without any protests, “Zero out.”

Kim leaned back on the chair and placed her rifle on the desk in front of her. The air around her felt cleaner, crisp and fresh. The Psionic energies she could feel glancing off her shields had an energetic, buzzing quality to it that reminded her of a newly freed wild animal. 

Whatever Stonebridge and Scott had done, they had fixed something that had been deeply wrong. The light quality in the atmosphere itself was more than evidence of the fact. She just hoped that neither of them had gotten too damaged in the process.

Chapter Text

The Next Day

Petoskey
Michigan
USA

En Route

Something was wrong.

Michael couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Well. A lot of things weren’t quite right. At least, he knew about those;

For one, he didn’t know what day or time it was. He was certain Damien had told him at some point when asked, but the memory was nowhere to be found. 

Then there was the fact that he was on a plane. A small private one that made a lot of noise that assaulted him even through the noise-cancelling headset. It was doing no favours to his splitting headache. It was probably a Cessna or something. How he left the complex, boarded the plane and left Colombia behind were also things that were completely blank in Michael’s rather scattered memory. 

At least, Damien was on the seat next to him, staring out the window on his side at the clusters of clouds they were passing.  

That was the good news.

The bad news was that something had changed in Damien, in his demeanour. Try as he might, Michael didn’t know where things may have gone wrong.

It had taken him time to notice, considering how he wasn’t necessarily at peak physical or mental conditions. His head was a painful mess and his entire body still shivered and shuddered through tremors at random intervals. 

The first thing he noticed was the short, almost clipped replies from Damien to his questions. Then there was the fact that he could hardly bear to face Michael. Granted, he still had an arm around Michael’s shoulder, and a thin stream of Psionic energies passed through him from time to time. It was as if Damien’s entire being was moulded to Michael in a way he knew more about Michael than Michael himself. It was a comforting feeling. The Sentinel’s natural warmth was a pleasant blanket warding off the unnatural chill that seemed determined to cling to Michael. 

While his body was perfectly content to hold and heal, Damien’s thoughts and mind were somewhere far in the distance, detached and aloof.

What frightened Michael the most was the status of the bond. On the surface, it was perfectly fine and intact. Nothing was damaged, infected or affected by anything they had done while back in the Hub. Yet, it wasn’t quite open. Michael’s end – with the remnants of his harrowing experience and the all-too-fresh memories firmly locked away in a corner – was still wholly open and accessible to Damien. Nothing in Michael’s splintered memories or the still-healing wounds would affect him if he were to let his consciousness flow through the bond.

The thing was, Damien didn’t care to.

And that was the problem. Worse, his end seemed closed off, as if he had built a wall blocking off Michael. Except for a faint sense of discomfort, Michael could feel nothing from him.

In his rather fragile state, the disconnect was starting to wear on his nerves, and that was scaring Michael.

The plane rolled through yet another gust of headwinds, and Michael felt it losing altitude in quick succession. 

“Are we…” Michael had to stop, and swallow thickly against the nausea roiling in his gut before speaking again, “Are we landing?”

Damien drew his gaze away from the window with effort. Michael almost didn’t hear his grunted affirmative above the burst of static.

“Where?”

He didn’t like the look Damien was giving him, as if he was concerned about Michael’s sanity. His one-word answer had a faint note of irritation attached to it. “Petosky.”

“Oh,” Michael blinked. 

They were on their way to Damien’s place. That brought up so many questions. Why had they left without wrapping up the mission? Or the debriefs? What about the casualties, fatalities and the prisoners? Why weren’t they flying back to London? Had the Colonel been informed? 

None of it made it past his lips. Probably because he could hardly muster any strength to worry about the implications. Or think about the consequences. It all seemed a bit too much at that moment. Instead, Michael chose to address the concern darkening Damien’s expression.

“I’m guessing you already told me?”

“Yeah,” Damien grunted.

Michael closed his eyes, let his head fall back against Damien’s shoulder and sighed wearily. His mind was an unholy pit of dark, insidious horrors that were taking their sweet time fading. He didn’t honestly want to riffle through that mess to find his memories. He had a feeling that he might not be able to find his way out if he were to get lost in it.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Damien’s words had a snappish quality to them. When he spoke again after a beat, his tone was a lot lower, forcefully smoother. Michael was starting to hate it. “How are you feeling?”

Like I want to die. He caught the thought before it slipped through the bond. Not that Damien would have sensed it. Not with the way he had separated himself so completely. 

“Not worse,” Michael murmured, “but not that better either.”

“We’ll be home soon.”

Michael opened his eyes and stared at the instrument panel of the open cockpit. It was easier than braving a look at his reluctant Sentinel.

“Damien, is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” another grunt. Maybe an impatient huff? “Why wouldn’t it be?”

I don’t know. Michael sent the thought along the bond, hoping perhaps he was wrong. Utter silence from the other end confirmed he was, unfortunately, right.

Michael didn’t have an answer. So he kept quiet and did his best to hold onto his insides while the pilot guided the craft through a rough landing.

Petosky
Michigan 

11:34 Hours

Michael had changed. 

Instincts told him that those inexplicable changes were irreversible and that they were permanent. The worst thing was, Damien was having a terribly hard time holding himself back. 

When the Psionic energies that had kept them both trapped for hours finally died down, Michael had shut down with it, lifelessly flopping against Damien with hardly any pulse. Damien had turned back to human by then, although he had no clue how, and had caught Michael before he toppled to the floor. 

With the zip ties, metal chain and the ring that secured Michael to the floor dissolved to nothing, Damien hadn’t had any issues carrying him back to a residential suite where he could recover in peace.

By the time Michael had started to show signs of life, Damien had already spoken to Martinez, the Crib and Colonel Locke, updating everyone as quickly and succinctly as possible. Then he had called an old acquaintance and agreed to pay a substantial ransom to hire the man’s services to get him and Michael to Petoskey at the earliest.

He had been operating purely on instincts at that point. The influence of the Prime had still been riding on the surface, driving him to take action with his Guide’s wellbeing first and foremost in mind.

He had managed to coax a barely aware Michael out the bed and had driven him to the airfield through the tunnels via one of the Hub’s Land Rovers. The complex had been crawling with Branch One agents and medics by then, but Damien had only noticed them in the periphery. His sole purpose by then had been to get Michael out as quickly as possible and take him home.

After seven hours of flying, which had mercifully included only one re-fuel stop, they were finally there. The ever-cheerful energies of Midwest that welcomed him back with their usual enthusiasm didn’t help Damien’s rampant instincts the least.

The thing was - even with his shielded mind fully disconnected from the energies, and his senses at regular, human levels - Damien’s perception and awareness of Michael was at an all-time high. His Sentinel – firmly back where it resided in the deep recess of his mind – was a constant, agitated presence that wouldn’t stop stalking in its confines, fighting to reclaim the Guide with every passing second.

Damien felt like an absolute asshole for even imagining it.

Michael looked like death warmed over. His skin had a sickly pallor that couldn't be masked by the sheen of silvery light that continued to radiate from within him. Michael’s mind was back behind the safety of his shields, but some of the Psionic energies seemed to have taken permanent residence, engulfing his entire body in a faint halo. 

The look in his eyes was dull and hazy, made to seem even worse by the dark circles hanging under them. Still, those physical marks of exhaustion did nothing to divert Damien’s attention from the pure silver strands that ringed around his pupils and irises. When his pupils were blown, the two shiny, parallel rings merged together to create a thick silver line that separated the black of his pupils from the white of his sclera. It had been an incredible thing to witness, and Damien found it difficult to look away. After Michael had questioned him about it a few times, with plain worry darkening in his mesmerising gaze, Damien had forced himself to keep his attention locked on his surroundings.

The changes didn’t end there. The most visible was the new colour of Michael’s hair. At first glance, Michael’s pure silver hair looked like a genetic condition. Or an extremely skilled platinum dye job. Damien knew any Sentinel in the world, even one at the lowest level, would notice immediately how every single strand of his bright white hair seemed to glow with an iridescence of pure power. That glow would change colours when they travelled, depicting the colours and shades unique to the Psionic Plane in the particular region. 

Damien had seen his hair shine in all shades of greens in existence back in Colombia. He had known the moment they had entered the air space of Midwest, when Michael’s cowlick had acquired a silver blue shine along with streaks of purple, emerald and gold; the colours Damien had always associated with home. His territory. 

Even more incredible was the fact that it wasn’t just the hair on Michael’s head. His eyebrows, eyelashes and the fine hair all over his skin hadn’t escaped the metamorphosis, adding another layer of beautiful shimmer to the new light emanating from him. 

Damien didn’t even want to think about the hundreds of mind-blowingly enticing scents newly infused with Michael’s already intoxicating personal scent. He had to keep his breathing shallow and pointed away from Micahel just so he wouldn’t attach himself to the man, lose control of his inhibitions and start licking him all over like a mindless animal.

At his core, he was still Michael. But he was a hell of a lot more. Considering what he had experienced, so was Damien. That was why his inner beast was impatient for another complete imprint of his Guide.

Michael could hardly even stand by himself, let alone handle the full force of Damien’s uncontrolled need to claim him. It didn’t help that it was reinforced by the need to replace the horrid memories Damien still had swimming on the surface with better and beloved ones.

That was the inner battle Damien was fighting when the hired Cessna finally landed in his territory.

Michael climbed out of the craft dazedly under Damien’s watchful gaze. He squinted at the sun and looked around in confusion. Then, he promptly started staggering towards the single-story squat building that acted as the traffic control/office for the private airfield. 

The rental Damien had already organised for them was waiting at the opposite end.

“Where are you going?” Damien called out, moving quickly to block Michael’s mindless trajectory.

Michael tilted his head at him. Damien tried not to notice how the silver shine wrapped around him oscillated between sprinkles of gold and emerald. 

“Need water.”

Damien hid his wince at the hoarseness of Michael’s voice. Turning his backpack around, he pulled out a bottle and handed it over. Michael had the same supplies in his own backpack, but he hardly even seemed to remember he had one.

The human part in Damien panicked every time he saw the evidence of how much the Guide had deteriorated, physically and mentally. The Sentinel in him radiated confidence, however, that they were exactly where they should be to accelerate healing. 

Michael took the bottle with a mumbled thanks and finished about half of it with three long gulps. 

“Do you need to use the restroom before we go?”

Damien received a series of slow blinks in answer, “Go where?”

“The rental’s right there,” he nodded at the SUV, mostly to hide his agitation from Michael, “we’re only twenty minutes from home.”

That information seemed to clear up some of the confusion from Michael’s gaze. He nodded firmly and started walking towards the vehicle with a bit more steady gait. “Let’s go.”

Damien fell into step beside him, alert and ready to catch him if he stumbled.

Damien’s Residence
Petoskey
Michigan

20:13 Hours/Local

Surging back to the waking world was a slow, arduous process.

The first thing Michael realised was that he was in a comfortable bed, cocooned inside a bunch of cosy, warm blankets. His head was sticking out of the cocoon, facing the side of the windows. The entire room was pleasantly dark, with curtains drawn and lights dimmed to the lowest setting. 

The digital clock on the bedside table cheerfully announced that it was a little past eight at night.

A part of him wanted to go back to sleep. 

It was easier than trying to sort out the disjointed memories floating close to the surface. They didn’t provide a lot of context other than reminding him that he was in Petoskey, at Damien’s place. Details were lost in the storm-ravaged pit that was his mind. 

Another part pointed out that even though he had slept an entire afternoon away, his headache hadn’t abated in the slightest, he was still weak with exhaustion and his hopelessly scattered mind hadn’t recovered even a little.

A different part of his awareness brought up practical concerns; he was thirsty, hungry and was in desperate need of emptying his bladder.

Physical needs won over the rest. 

It took him a few long seconds to crawl out of the blankets. He was mildly surprised to see that he was in a pair of comfortable sweats and an old T-shirt. He couldn’t even remember changing. Either he had done it or Damien had done it for him. He wasn’t really bothered about it.

There was a bottle of water on the table next to the clock. Michael finished that before stumbling into the bathroom. Switching on the light was hell on his headache. The bright light speared through his eyes like spikes, but he managed to finish his business without blacking out or making a mess.

Turning around to wash his hands by the sink was what delivered the shock that nearly gave him a stroke.

Frozen in utter astonishment, Michael didn’t know what he was seeing. His brain refused to accept what his sight was transmitting. Blinking rapidly and wiping at his eyes made no changes to the complete stranger staring back at him through the mirror.

The ghost-like quality of the reflection was expected. The pale shade of his skin and the red-rimmed eyes were the evidence of the raging headache that refused to leave.

But the rest…

Michael couldn’t find a single strand of the familiar dark blond hair no matter how hard he searched. His bizarre new hair colour was definitely not the result of some vanity-related trip to a hairdresser. Besides, he didn’t think a hairdresser would dye the hair of his eyebrows, armpits, forearms and…yes, around his fucking genitals.

Or that they would have a pigment that seemed to glow with faint shades of blue, gold and green when light touched it.

No. That just wasn’t possible.

Noticing the change in his Guide mark was a punch to the gut, driving all the air out of him in a rush. The dark grey shade he was used to seeing on those intricate lines was gone, replaced by the same shiny silver gleam that was in his hair.  

Michael ran a trembling hand through his hair, unable to tear his gaze away from his shocking new reality. He had to accept that it had to be a side effect of what he had done - had happened around him with him at its centre – back in Colombia.

Even his eyes were different. 

Leaning closer to the mirror, Michael stared back at how his pupils and irises were framed by prominent silver rings, as if Psionic energies had settled in there permanently. 

He had, somehow, irrevocably changed. 

Mutated.

No wonder Damien could barely tolerate him. A hollow ache seared through his chest at the sudden thought. 

The more he considered the painful realisation, the more it made sense. Damien was a Sentinel; someone who imprinted on physical senses. There was no reason to believe Michael’s unintentional metamorphosis was only restricted to his looks. It was entirely possible that his scent, temperature, voice and even the way he tasted had also changed. 

He now carried an entirely different sensory template to what Damien had imprinted on when they bonded. 

Being repulsed by the new turn could easily explain why Damien had been so distant, walled-off and seemed rather discomfited to be around him. That could also explain why Michael had woken up alone. Why Damien wasn’t even home. 

Holding on to the edge of the marble counter with a white-knuckled grip, Michael focused on getting his breathing back in control. He had to convince himself that the bathroom wasn’t spinning and that it hadn’t suddenly run out of air. He told himself firmly that his lungs were fine and still working. And, by focusing on slow, deep inhales, followed by long, controlled exhales, his heart should find its regular rhythm again.

It took some time. He wasn’t certain how long. Knowing that he was having a panic attack and actively trying to ward it off were two different things.

Michael only let go of the counter when the static buzz in his ears had completely faded. When he had stopped feeling as though his heart was on its way to climb out his throat. He was pleased to find that he could stand on his own, and the sense of vertigo was nothing but a mild irritation that made him feel only a little lightheaded.

“Meditate,” Michael muttered under his breath as he forced himself to walk out. Staring at the reflection of his new appearance while stewing in bitter realisations was the last thing that could help him deal. “I need to meditate.”

Putting on a pair of comfortable track shoes, and one of Damien’s old hoodies over his t-shirt, Michael stepped out to the backyard of the lakehouse. 

The breeze was fresh and crisp, more invigorating than cold. The rustling of the leaves, the humming and buzzing of the insects, and the croaking of the frogs created a soothing harmony coupled with the bubbling of the lake. The sky was cloudless, with plenty of scattered stars and a waxing crescent of a moon in the distance. 

It was a peaceful night. 

Maybe I’d be able to absorb some of it, Michael hoped fervently as he went through a few light, warm-up exercises. He only needed to get some blood flowing through his veins, not a vigorous workout. He wasn’t in the best physical state for anything strenuous. I could use some peace. Maybe a chance to hear my own damned thoughts without the constant wailing in the background.

A few minutes later, Michael had to give up the futile exercise. His mind was nowhere near calm enough for him to even consider channelling Midwest energies. The endless, painful echoes of tortured souls were held back with nothing but determination, wishful thinking and a hazy veil of Psionic energies from Darién Gap that had stayed behind.

Those newly formed inner shields were starting to crack along the seams. The horror of his experience was beginning to leak through in bits and pieces.

Introducing an entirely different mix of Psionic energies to the volatile situation didn’t seem like the best course of action. Michael could feel the welcoming cheer and excitement of the Midwest energies, their faint tendrils of concern and the curiosity in their glancing touches. He just wished he could find a bit more control and stability in his mind before allowing them in.

The serene sight of moonlit water drew him to the wooden pier extending over to the lake. 

The deep, navy-blue canvas was barely disturbed by the gentle ripples and splashes. The dim glow of the moon had turned it into a dark mirror. Seeing his new, surreal reflection in the water brought back all the fears Michael was trying to suppress with renewed vigour. 

Maybe a swim would help.

He liked swimming. Wading through water never failed to lull him into a relaxed state. A small part of his mind made a noise, pointing out all the reasons why he shouldn't; it was dark, he was alone, physically drained and possibly not thinking clearly. 

Yet, the quiet tranquillity of the water beckoned, promising everything he was in dire need of by then. 

Michael dismissed his concerns. The warning sirens in his head screeching about unwise actions could have been real or imagined. He didn’t really care.

All he wanted was a break, a small reprieve from the ghosts new and old still rampaging in his head.

Michael stopped thinking altogether as he stripped down to his underwear. He left his clothes neatly folded on the edge of the pier along with his shoes and socks. Taking in a deep breath to fill his lungs, he dived before anything else could change his mind.

Michael welcomed the cold rush when he hit the water. He already knew the lake was quite deep in that area, and allowed his body to free fall through the water for a few long seconds. He only kicked back and started swimming when he was certain he was as close to the bottom as he could get. He could hold his breath a lot longer than an average swimmer due to his military training. He was more than content to let the massive body of water surround him from all sides, let it quieten the raging noise in his mind.

It worked. 

He could finally feel a deep sense of stillness envelop his mind, letting him forget all about his troubles for a precious moment. It was only him and the darkness, with the invasions of the waking world firmly blocked from being able to reach.

Then, without warning, the peace shattered.

Michael wasn’t even sure how it happened. One moment, he was cutting through the water, blissfully calm and enjoying himself, and the next moment, he was back in that cursed basement, staring up at the swirling clouds made of twisted souls. The transition was so quick and seamless, that it left him reeling, unable to tell the difference between reality and the flashback.

The world around him was pitch black, cold and filled him with never-ending pain, horror and misery. It roiled and raged and whirled around him, drowning him in a sea of torment. All those souls were trapped, and they were in various states of agony. Their screams and wails were endless, echoing in his ears and inside his skull. Michael was so lost in it all, he couldn’t remember where he was, or who he was, and he didn’t know how to discern himself from the rest. 

The horror around him was alive, malevolent and hungry. It fed off of his terror and fed him with hopelessness in return, keeping him firmly trapped and unable to pull away. 

He couldn’t breathe. His lungs were starting to burn. His pulse was roaring in his ears, adding a frantic layer to the howls already storming in there. Michael looked around in desperation for something to hold onto, something to point him a way out, a ray of hope.

There was nothing.

Nothing except utter, terrible darkness.

His mouth was open, but his screams weren’t getting past his throat. Instincts made him dive through his mind, chasing after a vague memory of a darkened bond. There was something there. He couldn’t remember what. The moment his fragmented consciousness touched it, however, a bright silvery glow bloomed to life.

Michael didn’t know what it meant, whether he had reached the safety of a shore or his calls for help had been heard. Everything went ominously dark, liquid and quiet before he could find out when the remains of his awareness winked out.

***

Damien’s phone rang while he was waiting for his food order to be ready. The name on the screen said it was his brother, James.

With a sigh, he touched the icon to answer. 

“Damien, when the hell did you get back?”

“How the fuck did you even find out?” Damien demanded in return. He had only arrived in the mid-afternoon and slept the daylight away holding Michael. He hadn’t even called anyone. 

“A cruiser tagged the rental, and came up with your name,” James said dismissively before turning serious, “Don’t dodge the question. Is everything okay? Is Michael with you?”

Damien ducked his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. He should have remembered he was in a small county, and everyone tended to be nosy, not just the patrol cops.

“Yeah. yeah. Everything’s fine,” He murmured after a beat, hoping his words wouldn’t make a liar out of him, “And yeah, Michael’s here too.” Preferably still asleep. Getting some rest. Not awake and looking for me. 

“Where are you?” 

“At the Crowleys’ ,” Damien replied, resigning himself to the interrogation, “Getting dinner.”

He also shouldn’t have forgotten he was not only talking to his brother, but another Sentinel. James didn't miss the heaviness in his tone, or the worry he was doing his best to hide.

“Damien–”

“Look,” Damien sighed, staring out the window of his rental. A line of maple trees at the end of the parking lot swayed gently in the breeze. He decided to stick to the truth, as much as he could, at least. “It's just… we’re both kind of worn out from our last mission. Falling back here to recover felt like the best option. We’re both fine. So don’t worry about it.”

“If you say so,” James didn’t sound convinced.

“I do,” Damien murmured, “We’ll drop by. Later tomorrow or something.”

“Yeah, you do that,” James ordered, his tone vaguely threatening, “Or I’ll drop by, instead.”

“Night, James,” Damien smiled, “Say hi to Hanna and the kids for me.”

James promised he would before cutting the call. Damien saw one of the waitresses sauntering towards him with a go-bag. Damien rolled down the window and breathed in a lungful of cool autumn wind.

“There you go, sugar.” She handed it over with a cheerful grin.

It wasn’t anything fancy or complicated. Two orders of cheeseburgers with fries and cold drinks. It smelled heavenly, however, and Damien knew how delicious the food would be. He had dined at the Crowley’s more than a few times. 

“Thanks, Carla.” He took the food and placed it on the passenger seat.

He tried to give her a tip, which she refused vehemently. That was also nothing new. It was an interaction between them that had become a ritual. With a wave and a promise to return soon, Damien pulled out of the lot. 

It was only quarter to nine. He would be home in about fifteen minutes.

The Psionic energies around him shivered in warning only three miles out.

Damien opened his shields instinctively in response, his Sentinel surging to the surface on high alert. The bond flared to life with a fiery glow, reminding Damien that he had forgotten to open his end after leaving Michael back home.

The guilt didn’t have time to manifest, let alone take hold and berate him for being an inconsiderate asshole.  

There just wasn’t enough time.

Something was utterly, terribly wrong with Michael.

The pain and horror were all-encompassing, and it seared him through with the precision of a scalpel. Before Damien could begin to comprehend what was happening, the fiery agony vanished as if it never happened. 

It left behind a chilling sense of lifelessness in its wake, an icy dread that sank into his bones and wrapped around his soul, leaving Damien shaken to the core.

Damien was barely aware of speeding down the empty gravel road leading home. The bond remained unresponsive no matter how much he poked, prodded and yanked at it. The Psionic energies ran through him in agitation, enhancing his senses almost to the levels he had experienced when he had turned into a wolf.

Thankfully, he didn’t change forms this time. Damien was relieved. He didn’t want to find out whether he could drive an SUV with paws and claws right then. Granted, he would have been faster, but the vehicle wouldn’t have survived the encounter with a wolf trapped in the enclosed space. 

He made the journey within two and a half minutes. He brought the SUV to a violent halt in front of his house in a riot of squealing tires and screeching brakes. 

The scent of cherry blossoms, petrichor and freshly plucked jasmines was still in the air, leading to his backyard and all the way to the pier.

“Michael!” 

Damien ran through the yard, roaring his name even though he knew it was pointless. Sailing through the air at the end of the pier, Damien made contact with the lake surface in a resounding splash. It didn’t matter how dark it was, or how poor the visibility was through the water. All his screaming senses locked onto his Guide, he knew exactly where Michael was entangled in a patch of submerged weed.

Damien grabbed him by the shoulders and started pulling him back. There was no resistance from the long vines of weed, which made it clear that Michael wasn’t really stuck. He had just stopped swimming. Firmly pushing his worry away to deal with later, Damien hauled his unresponsive body to the surface and swam towards the pier.

By the time Damien had him flat on his back on the wooden boards, Michael was as cold as a block of ice, and he wasn’t breathing. 

Cursing and praying, Damien started chest compressions. Healing Psionic energies flowed from him to Michael where Damien interlocked his fingers and pressed on his chest over the mark. The intricate lines that had shined with an inner white light now looked like dull white scars. It was a battle to keep the worst-case scenarios from plunging him into mindless panic. It took two rescue breaths, and Damien was halfway through the second set of compressions when Michael finally twitched with a full-body shudder.

Acting quickly, Damien turned him on his side and held him while he coughed and expelled all the lake water from his lungs and gut. Michael fought to get his breathing back under control while his body continued to shiver in Damien’s hold. He rubbed Michael’s back, willing some warmth into his cold skin. Damien felt the amount of Psionic energies trickle out slowly when Michael’s pulse reached calmer levels. Damien could see a faint glow emerging through the grey pallor of skin after some time, which he took to mean that Michael was out of danger.

Damien inhaled a lungful of air, and let it out slowly. With the terror of finding his goddamned Guide drowning finally abated, the anger reared its head to take the newly-vacated space.

Before Damien could open his mouth, however, Michael did something he had never done in the time they had known each other. 

He recoiled away from him. 

With his back to Damien, he curled around himself as if to ward off the chill. The way he withdrew to himself until Damien’s hands were dislodged, and not touching him, couldn’t be misinterpreted as anything but a silent rejection.

Words froze in Damien’s throat. The reflexive anger died, leaving behind an entirely different sort of horror in its wake.

“Michael–” When he could finally speak, it came out in a barely audible croak.

“I’m alright,” came a halting whisper, “Just give me a minute.”

A few seconds later, Michael rolled onto his knees with a groan. Damien moved instinctively to catch him, to help, but another flinch from Michael stopped him in his tracks. 

What the fuck?

Damien stood up, extending a hand which was again completely ignored while Michael got to his feet by himself. He kept his head down and his arms wrapped around himself in a vain attempt to stop shivering. 

Damien couldn’t help but notice how Michael was firmly avoiding looking at him. His mind was shielded, and glancing touches from Damien’s own shields didn’t garner any response. Coaxing his shields to shore up his mind, Damien turned his focus inwards, towards the bond. He remembered guiltily how he had kept himself locked away to avoid his rampant instincts and desires from leaking through to Michael, making him uncomfortable. 

The bond remained rather bleak. Michael hadn’t closed himself, but he wasn't sharing anything either. Except for a faint, dark veil of hurt and misery, Damien couldn’t feel anything else from him.

“Michael?” He called out quietly when Michael started staggering towards the house on unsteady feet. 

“I’m c-cold,” his teeth were starting to chatter together, “Need to g-get inside. Don’t wanna get sick.”

Damien followed him a few steps behind. It was hard to tamp down the urge to grab the stubborn man and carry him to the house. But the earlier sense of rejection was still there, wrapped around Michael’s entire being like an invisible cloak, telling Damien to stay the fuck away without words.

“I’m fine.” 

Michael muttered as he walked without looking back; a reflexive response to Damien’s agitation he could most probably feel without even trying. Maybe it was the rush of adrenaline or the temporary boost from all the energies Damien had poured into him in his panic. Michael sounded a whole lot better than the barely-aware, scatter-brained mess he had been only a few hours earlier. Damien didn’t know if the rapid change was an indicator of him recovering or getting worse.

No, you're not. He let the thought slip through the bond.

Michael didn’t look back, or respond. Damien thought he felt a hollow sense of bitter surprise ripple through the bond before it was hurriedly yanked back.

Chapter Text

Damien's Lake House

The sound of the shower running in the background acted as a firm and constant reminder that Michael was alive and relatively well.

Damien kept repeating the mantra in his head as he moved around the house on autopilot. While the coffee machine obligingly worked on delivering his beverage demands, Damien got out of his sodden clothes and changed into an old, comfortable pair of shorts and a t-shirt. Then, he moved the SUV to the garage and brought the food inside to the kitchen. One coffee was ready and waiting for him by then. Replacing the full mug on the tray with an empty one, he went out the back to bring Michael’s clothes and shoes they left behind on the pier earlier.   

While his body moved through the motions, Damien’s mind tried to make sense of what happened.

He resolutely didn’t want to contemplate the obvious conclusion. 

No, it has to be something to do with what happened, Damien told himself vehemently. Even in his rather absent-minded state, Michael was emphatically not suicidal. He just hasn’t recovered from cleansing an entire goddamned region.

The decision to go for a swim had been deliberate. He had left his clothes neatly folded like the rigid soldier he was before jumping into the water. It had to have been something to do with the state of his mind.

Perhaps a flashback?

The sound of the running water shut off, wrenching Damien out of his thoughts. He gave it a few more minutes, not wanting to add to the discomfort Michael was already feeling. The memory of his instinctive rejection and extreme reluctance to accept Damien’s assistance after regaining consciousness still stung, leaving Damien conflicted. 

His Sentinel stalked the confines of his mind like the cornered, frustrated animal it was. It didn’t necessarily provide any helpful insights other than fuelling his rabid libido now that the disaster had been averted.

Damien couldn’t deny the fact that he desperately wanted Michael. Maybe Michael had felt a glimpse of it when Damien had opened his side of the bond and was probably disgusted at his lack of self-control.

Pacing the length of his kitchen was not going to get him any answers. Besides, he owed Michael a few apologies. The decision to leave him in his deteriorated state hadn’t been a great one either. 

He found Michael sitting on the edge of the bed. He had put on the same clothes Damien had left on the couch on the other side of the bed. He leaned on his elbows, his hands clasped together, with his gaze fixed on where his bare toes were digging into the carpet.

The look in his eyes was distant and dull, the same look he had worn from time to time after waking up from his ordeal. 

He didn’t look up when Damien entered the room, or when he placed the coffee on the table. After a moment of deliberation, Damien decided to plant himself on the couch. Michael’s scent was dampened by the smell of shampoo and body wash, possibly on purpose if the way he was firmly shielding himself was any indication. 

Even with his senses determinedly locked onto their regular levels, the traces Damien caught were intoxicating enough to send a full-body jolt of desire through him. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on inhaling the coffee fumes, hoping the aroma of the luxury Colombian brew would provide a distraction.

“Thanks for pulling me out of the water,” Michael mumbled haltingly without looking up, “I didn’t–uh…I didn’t mean to give you a scare.”

“It’s alright,” Damien said just as quietly, unable to look away from the incandescent lighting of the room intermingled with the faint glow of the Psionic energies, creating an enticing silver/gold glimmer around Michael’s hunched form, “I shouldn’t have left you alone. I’m so sorry, Michael.”

“Where did you go?”

“To get dinner,” he replied, sipping some of his coffee, “I didn’t think you’d wake up. You were out.”

“I woke up around half past eight…” Michael shrugged, running a hand through his wet hair absently. Damien saw him swallow convulsively a few times before speaking again, “I wasn’t trying to drown on purpose or anything. Just wanted to quiet the noise in my head…” he trailed off, and Damien barely heard the rest of the shaky sentence, “meditation wasn’t working.”

Everything in him screamed at him to go to his Guide and hold him in his arms. Damien tamped down the desire with effort. Michael had enough shit to deal with as it was without Damien adding his own madness on top of everything. 

Let him heal first, berating himself, Damien focused on Michael's quiet admission, “Is it that bad?”

Micheal nodded, and sighed wearily, “The memories are locked away, but barely,” his silvery brows drew together in thought, “The energies – I don't know how some of it stayed behind – they’re sort of woven over the whole ordeal. I’m only getting bits and pieces, almost like an overflow? It’s messing with my own memories and thoughts.”

Damien couldn’t even imagine how that had to feel. While he had been there with Michael the whole time, his perception of the whole experience was nothing more than a hazy blur of dark, swirling energies and faded wails. Damien knew he had Michael to thank for that. Michael had done his best to shield everyone from the negative backlash of the war the Psionic Plane had waged using him and his mind as the battlefield. 

“Anything I can do to help?”

That had Michael looking up finally, and turning to him with a complicated expression darkening his face. 

“Don’t worry about it…”

Damien frowned. Something didn’t sound right. Why wouldn’t he worry about it? It was his fucking job as Michael’s Sentinel to worry. Besides, it was obvious that he was badly in need of help. Damien didn’t quite understand why Michael was withdrawing from him again.

Was his raging libido that obvious? Jesus fucking Christ!

It was Damien’s turn to cast around for an explanation, or an excuse, “Michael–”

“I was thinking I should leave–”

For a moment, Damien thought he had heard it wrong. Michael was back to staring at his feet, his voice low and heavy with defeat, “I don’t know why you brought me here. I could have easily gone back to the Council HQ with the rest of the wounded.”

“What?” Damien snapped. “No!”

Setting the half-finished mug on the floor, he stood up and started pacing on the other side of the bed. He couldn’t sit still and he didn’t want to hover over Michael, intruding in his space. The thought of him leaving Damien’s sight sent prickling sensations all over his skin. 

“Damien–”

“Look, it's not that bad,” he muttered, cutting Michael off. And it was the truth. He had been unable to let go of Michael the entire time they had been back at Project Veritas complex. It had been a minor miracle being able to get out of bed to go get dinner. Although, in hindsight, it hadn’t necessarily been the best decision. “I’m not going to force myself on you while you can barely stand, Michael, Jesus–” If nothing else, Damien could guarantee that much. He’d rather jump in the lake himself before he did something to hurt his own goddamned Guide.

Utter silence from Michael made him pause his pacing and turn around. Michael was staring back at him with shock and incredulity written all over his face.

“I’m not feeling this way on purpose,” Damien rubbed a hand across his forehead in exasperation, “something’s changed and I don't know what!”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m trying to get at too,” Michael murmured slowly, as if he was choosing his words carefully, “I, however, thought this whole new change was throwing you off. That you couldn’t stand it or something.”

A cold burn suddenly flared to life in the pit of his stomach, freezing Damien on the spot. 

“I thought you were unnerved because what happened to me ended up contrasting with everything you imprinted on when we bonded. Or maybe something to do with the way I had to hide the bond. Or the entire thing with those souls was too much,” Michael continued in the same controlled monotone while Damien stood there, reeling from the shock of what he was hearing, “I thought that’s why you blocked me off from your end…” he buried his head in his hands then, his entire body wracking with faint tremors, “because something crossed a line and you found it intolerable.”

No, no… no!

His head was full of denials Damien couldn’t force past his lips. He wasn’t even sure how he ended up on his knees next to the bed in front of Michael, his hands wrapped around Michael’s wrists.

To his immense relief, Michael didn’t shy away from his touch this time. The strangely alluring glow of Psionic energies pouring out of him created a halo around his frame, casting him in an ethereal light. The confused haze Damien had seen in his eyes for the past twenty four hours was gone, although the abject hurt that had replaced it was no better.

“I’m a fucking moron.” Was what came out when Damien opened his mouth, instead of all the vehement denials, excuses, explanations and apologies fighting for the upper hand.

It was probably the best response, Damien thought, when he saw a tiny smile twitch on Michael’s lips, “I’m no better.”

Damien tightened his grip reassuringly, willing warmth into Michael’s still somewhat cold skin, “This one’s on me, mostly.”

“What happened, Damien?” Michael asked softly. 

Damien remembered his words from a few days back; 

I need you to anchor myself. I need you untouched by those things so that once I'm done, I have a place to retreat and recover, he had said earnestly when Damien demanded an explanation for his suicidally over-protective instincts, You’re my sanctuary. Without you, I don’t have a place to fall back and gather myself. I’d lose my mind very quickly.

Michael had lost himself. It had been glaringly obvious. Damien had been all too focused on protecting Michael and his fragile state of mind, even from himself. Especially from himself, since he hadn’t even known how to process his own temporary metamorphosis either. Damien had done his best to shield Michael from his suddenly out-of-whack instincts, visceral desires and almost animalistic needs. 

Damien had apparently done it a little too well, it seemed. He had deprived Michael of his most basic need in the process, leading him to draw all the wrong conclusions. 

He didn’t even know where to begin, or how to explain. Then he realised he didn’t really have to. 

“I think it would be easier to show you.”

Closing his eyes, Damien focused on the bond. The slight hesitation he felt from Michael’s end was more than enough evidence of his glaring mistake, something he had to fix before it was too late. He let his mind flow along the bond, towards the bright yet flickering light that was his Guide. He imagined opening his arms and embracing that light against his chest, a greeting, an invitation, and an apology all rolled into one, hoping Michael would accept.

***

Damien’s memories were crisp and clear, unlike the bits and pieces of hazy, splintered snapshots that were fluttering around in his mind. 

Michael watched the reel unwind from the moment Damien arrived at the complex with Levi and Castallenos, fully under the influence of Castellanos’ drug-induced abilities. He saw them meeting Langdon, the other Sentinel who had been in charge of the experiments, while having lunch. He saw Castellanos doing his best to keep Damien entranced, and how Damien allowed himself to be led towards the inevitable conclusion he had been looking forward to by then.

The obvious pleasure he had gained from the encounter with the two enthusiastic lovers while under their control, had lost its gleam. Strands of guilt, fury and disgust were wrapped around the entire memory sequence, casting it in dark shadows.

Damien, this wasn’t your fault, Michael felt the light surrounding him touch the darkness of the negative emotions eating away at his Sentinel’s consciousness, soothing away the guilt. They had known, expected even, that it was a possibility. Keeping Damien alive had been the priority over everything else.

I know, but still… Damien’s reply was heavy with frustration. Can you maybe do something? Please. 

Like what? Michael wasn’t about to erase any of it. No matter how unpleasant, the experience provided a wealth of information Damien might benefit from one day.

Push it to the back. Dull it… anything. 

Damien’s genetic quirk made sure all his memories were saved intact, with all their colours, definition and brightness perfectly preserved. Michael understood that he probably didn’t need to remember a highly unwanted memory with that much clarity. 

Obligingly, Michael dampened the images seared into Damien’s mind without destroying their coherence. He also numbed all the intense emotions underlying them, making sure they would only garner the barest of attention in case they had to surface. 

When he reached the point where Damien finally broke out of the stupor in response to his frantic call, Michael finally witnessed how Damien went through an incredible change of his own.

It wasn’t something that could be described with words. Even though he was observing the change through Damien’s memory, it was still very intense, and astounding. Michael felt things he had never been able to perceive through his senses, wondering how Damien managed not to lose his sanity. Everything changed so alarmingly quickly, and in ways not experienced by humans. 

Michael already knew how staggeringly different it was, how detailed, clear and defined, when Damien viewed the world through his enhanced senses. All those sensory inputs and Damien’s comprehension of the world around him reached unimaginable scales when his Prime nature took over.

Damien saw his reflection in Castellanos’ terrified eyes. Michael’s own memory of seeing the Prime’s true form broke away from the cluttered mess and surged forward. Michael felt Damien see his massive wolf form through Michael’s gaze for the first time.

He’s quite the majestic creature. Michael let the thought flow freely. 

He remembered how it had felt like being touched by a cloud when the wolf had touched its forehead to his own. Next to him, Damien was surprised to see the crimson shade of the wolf’s eyes changing back to the same blue of his own. 

I still don’t know how that happened, Damien shared, his confusion and curiosity palpable as he watched the short interaction with keen interest, how to do it again, or if it had something to do with the way you were calling.

I think that’s your spirit animal, Michael thought, just another aspect of who you are. 

Other than that, he had no answers to Damien’s questions. He could only hope they would learn together. The only other man who could have helped was no longer among them. Sandburg mentioned something about it before Anderson got to us.

What happened to him? Damien quickly caught onto the change in his emotions.  

Michael still felt a deep sorrow at the loss even though Sandburg had insisted uniting with his Sentinel had always been his goal. While Michael could understand, for he knew he would have done the same, he couldn’t help but grieve. He died, Damien.

Another memory shook free from the whirlwind of others and soared to the surface. He shared it with Damien, letting him see a glimpse of the other Sentinel and the Guide before they faded from existence.

Is that– Damien noticed the distinct feline shape wrapped around Sandburg’s legs, staring back at Michael with a pair of bright green eyes.

Jim Elison, Michael completed his thought, Sandburg’s Sentinel. His other form was a panther.

He felt a sense of immense relief ripple through Damien’s entire being. It was obvious he had been suppressing concerns about the entirely unexpected discovery about himself. Seeing that it wasn’t something to be worried about, or afraid of, seemed to help.

Although he was silent, Michael felt an echo of answering sadness from Damien entangling with his own emotions, turning into a heartfelt farewell for the bonded duo as they became a part of the swirling Psionic energies together. Even though they had only known Sandburg for a day, the professor had managed to leave a strong impression behind.

Do you believe him? Damien asked. He was referring to Sandburg’s cryptic remark about seeing them again.

I want to. 

Although they both now knew a whole lot more than when they started, it still felt as if they had only begun to scratch the surface . Filing away those unanswerable questions and worries to be dealt with later, Michael turned his attention back to his Sentinel, and their current state of disconnect.

I think now it’s clear where we went wrong.

“Is it?” Damien was still kneeling on the floor. The mischievous grin playing on his lips was much better than the memory of a grim frown that was still stumbling around in Michael’s head. 

Michael scooted backwards until he had enough space to sit cross-legged on the bed, and grabbed the coffee from the bedside table. It was still warm enough, and the strong brew felt wonderful passing down his parched throat.

“We need to bond,” he said after several sips. 

Damien’s grin lost some of its shine, “There's nothing wrong with the bond,” he insisted.

“Let me rephrase,” Michael smiled, “We need to bond again. We both changed. Our connection needs to change too. Think about it, Damien. Why else would you leave an Op in the middle to bring us both here? You were acting on your instincts, weren’t you?”

Damien leaned forward, folded his arms over the edge of the bed, and looked up at Michael with an amused expression on his face. 

“First of all, I didn’t leave the Op in the middle, our part was done,” he declared indignantly, “The others were more than happy and willing to deal with the aftermath. They insisted, in fact–”

Michael tilted his head curiously, “What do you mean?”

“All of us were running on our Sentinel instincts by then,” Damien said, his voice turning serious, “No one was going to protest what was best for the hurt Guide we had in our hands.” His expression turned somewhat self-deprecating then, a shoulder hitching up a little in a half-shrug, “And, me being– well… close to feral probably didn’t help. All I can say is, they were relieved to see our backs.”

“How bad was it?” Michael wanted to know. His memories after collapsing against Damien’s very human chest were severely fragmented, “Did we lose anyone besides Sandburg?”

“Not from our side, no. You made sure to shield everyone before the Psionic Plane went wild. That supernatural storm didn’t touch anyone innocent,” Damien said quietly, “Langdon and Stoddard died the same way the Russian did. Most of the others, including Levi and Castellanos, got knocked out. They’ll probably wake up dormant the same way those mercs did. The strike team took care of the scientists and staff.” 

“What about the test subjects?” 

“Got medevaced to Council HQ. They were in the middle of transporting the dormant Sentinels when I got you out.” 

Michael nodded. Then he remembered the name Damien didn’t mention. “Anderson?”

“Matinez shot him dead,” Damien grinned, “She was pretty stoked about that kill.”

“Good for her,” Michael chuckled. 

Delivering a retribution was always a highlight for a Sentinel. Michael had seen the same righteous satisfaction radiating from Damien when he had killed Latif a couple of months back. 

Damien rested his head on Michael’s knee. He looked a lot more settled, but Michael could feel the visceral, bone-deep need underlying the emotions he was no longer hiding. Michael was relieved to be back on familiar territory, open and at ease with each other. Their misguided, overthinking, overprotective tendencies had almost driven them in opposite directions, leaving them both lost and scrambling to regroup. 

“Hungry?” Damien asked after a while. “There’s food in the kitchen.”

Michael finished his coffee and placed the empty mug on the table, “A little later.”

“Michael–”

“I meant what I said,” Michael cut him off gently, running a hand through his hair, “we’ve wasted enough time. We need to listen to your instincts more often.”

Damien looked torn. By then, Michael knew it wasn’t because he didn’t want to. He was uncertain about his ability to hold back once they got started. His concern for Michael and his weakened state was once again overriding his own screaming desire to claim. 

“Are you–”

Michael decided actions would work better than words, and leaned down to cut off whatever Damien was about to say with a firm kiss on his lips.

With a low growl, Damien uncoiled from his perch on the floor and crawled onto the bed. Michael fell flat on his back, pulling Damien along on top of him, never breaking the kiss. He could feel the hesitation in Damien’s movements. He was doing his best to be slow and careful. For the first time in over twenty-four hours, Michael’s head was finally clear and his body was craving touch, warmth and release. He had no intention of taking his time to get what he wanted.

Licking at his lips, Michael could almost taste the barely-restrained desperation in Damien along with traces of coffee. He was determined, however, to let Michael take the lead and set the pace, holding himself back for as long as he could. 

Tracing a line along his Sentinel’s teeth, Michael smiled. It was a test of wills he knew he was going to win. Locking his knees alongside Damien’s hips, Michael flipped them over in one quick, smooth move that left Damien grunting in surprise. Taking his open mouth as an invitation, Michael dove in, kissing him with abandon. 

Damien’s hands were all over him then; running through his hair, tearing at his clothes, roaming on his sides and back, spreading a pleasant, much-needed heat. His frantic touches oscillated between feather-light and bruising, a clear indication that Damien was steadily losing his battle to control his instincts.

Underneath all the layers of restrictive clothing, Damien was as hard as a rock, grinding against Michael’s own aching cock in desperate search of relief. Withdrawing from his feast on Damien’s lips was difficult. The need to breathe forced them apart a fraction, and Michael ceased the chance to lean back enough so that Damien could pull off his t-shirt.

Micheal marked a trail down Damien’s neck, along his collarbone, down his ribs and trembling contours of his abs, with his lips and tongue. The mark on Damien’s chest looked and felt slightly different too. The pitch-black lines stood out in stark contrast with his tanned skin. There was a liquid shine to the latticework they wove, bringing the shape of the shamrock to life. 

Peppering a line of biting kisses along Damien’s treasure trail, Michael tugged at the shorts blocking his way to his destination. Damien’s hips lifted almost on their own accord so that Michael could pull them off. Grabbing his thighs for leverage, Michael dropped his head back down to greet the weeping cock resting on the nest of black curls with his mouth.

Damien may have been fighting a mindless desire to renew his sensory imprint, but there were also memories Michael needed to replace by staking a claim of his own. 

A keening growl reverberated out of his chest when Michael kissed the sensitive glans of Damien’s cock. Sucking and licking around the salty precome and pulsing veins, Michael took his time taking his length down to the root. The tip of his cock was halfway down Michael’s convulsing throat by the time he was pressed against Damien’s abdomen.

Apart from the faint trembling Michael could feel through Damien’s straining muscles, the Sentinel was still as a statue, doing his damndest not to move. Michael had a feeling he was barely even breathing, frantically holding onto the last threads of his self-imposed restraints.

That won't do, Michael thought. He started to swallow around his hard cock deliberately, knowing the rhythmically tightening muscles would drive Damien off the proverbial cliff. 

Michael– the call that came through the bond was shaky, wrapped up in a warning and a plea.   

Trust yourself, Michael replied. Turning his head up as much as he could, Michael saw Damien staring down at him with a mixture of absolute desire and helpless fear. 

I don’t want to hurt you.

You won’t hurt me, Michael assured, swirling his tongue around the pulsing root, just above his balls, to drive in the point. I want this. I want to feel you. All of you. Now let go.

The way Damien’s long fingers slowly tightened through his hair was his last warning. Michael swallowed around him again, encouraging him wordlessly. He wanted Damien to use him to find his pleasure without holding back.  

With another roar that didn’t sound at all human, the Sentinel finally obliged.

Michael closed his eyes and concentrated on timing his inhales and exhales with Damien’s thrusts. His entire focus narrowed down to the cock moving inside his mouth. The maze of thick veins wrapped around it pulsed every time Damien’s length slid up and down over his tongue. Michael revelled in the way it twitched minutely when he applied pressure with his teeth and how those flared glans stretched his windpipe to its limits. He was surrounded by the thick scent cloud of sweat and arousal, making him feel light-headed as he dragged in lungfuls of it. The taste of his saliva was a mix of bitter salt and lightly acidic precome Michael never thought he’d enjoy until he had met Damien. 

When the cock in his mouth suddenly swelled, twitching and pulsating against his throat, Michael knew Damien was close. Before Damien could pull out, he tightened his grip around Damien’s thighs. Determinedly hollowing his cheeks, Michael started licking and humming around his length with renewed energy.

His own sounds of choking grunts and gasping breaths tangled with Damien’s low groans as Michael desperately swallowed around the warm load of come gushing down his throat. Damien’s entire body shook with the force of his orgasm.

Michael only had a moment to catch his breath before his world suddenly tilted and spun. It took him a moment to realise that Damien was no longer below him. Michael was flat on his stomach, his face buried in a pillow, and Damien’s warm, sweat-soaked body was laid down along the length of his back.

Hiding his triumphant chuckle, Michael wrapped his arms around the pillow. He stretched his back lazily, undulating his hips in a slow, unhurried rhythm. His hard cock was trapped against the mattress, and it was achy and weeping for some friction. 

Damien’s mouth was all over his back, kissing, sucking, biting and licking along the knobs of his spine. His fingers were on a mission to massage, pinch and rub every single one of Michael’s back muscles within reach.   

Michael didn’t think much of it when he felt Damien pull his pants down a little. The way his lips planted a soft kiss on his tailbone should have been a warning. The unexpected bite on his asscheek sent a full body jolt through his body, making Michael buck against the bed like a wild horse. It didn’t hurt per se, but Damien had inadvertently stumbled onto a very sensitive spot.

Fuck, Damien, that tickles!

In hindsight, maybe he should have kept that information to himself. 

Damien’s utter delight lit up the bond like a live wire, while he moved to bite on the other side of Michael’s ass gleefully. His hands had a firm grip on Michael’s waist, preventing Michael from squirming away from the instant overstimulation.  

Damien…

It was meant to be a warning, not a plea for more. Somewhere down the line, however, the call turned into a needy whine. Damien promptly licked and sucked over the spot he bit before doing it again. The sensation of teeth fastening sharply over a soft, fleshy part of his asscheek ignited a conflicting mess of sensory inputs through his nervous system. Michael could feel the sting of fresh tears even though his eyes were squeezed shut. His body shuddered through the aftershocks while his mind scrambled to discern between pain, acute frustration and white-hot currents of pleasure. 

Damien stopped and leaned back just as the extra attention on his sensitive spots teetered closer to being too much. Michael instantly missed his warmth but consoled himself when he heard the bedside drawer being opened and a bottle of lube being located.

His relieved sigh at the sensation of a cold, lubed finger sinking into his hole was swallowed by the pillow. Don’t take too long.

I won’t, Damien’s reply was filled with promise, heavy with desire and a need to rival his own, Relax for me, Sunshine.

The pet name sent another searing wave of arousal coursing through Micahel’s body. It hadn’t even been that long and yet he had missed the sense of intimacy it conveyed dearly. 

Damien found the spot that sent sparks through him with keen precision in his first attempt. Michael wriggled, and pushed his legs apart further, allowing even more access. Adding another finger, Damien made scissoring motions inside him that were designed to make him lose his mind. Michael had to bite down on the pillow and focus on not humping against the mattress. His cock had already created a messy wet spot with a copious amount of pre-come. His balls were heavy and drawn tight, ready to explode with the merest touch. 

Another desperate moan pushed its way past his throat. He didn’t want to come until he had Damien’s cock buried deep in his ass.

Always in tune with his needs better than Michael himself, Damien pulled his fingers out. A complaint formed in Michael’s lips nevertheless, but was silenced with an unexpected smack on one of the still-stinging spots on his ass. It sent another confusing pleasure/pain surge through his body. 

On the plus side, it cleared Michael's head enough to recover from the very temporary loss, and for his body to pull back a fraction from diving headfirst into an orgasm.

On your knees. Using one hand to rub soothingly over the newly stinging spot, Damien wrapped his other hand around Michael’s waist to pull him back. Michael pliantly lifted his torso, allowing Damien to position him the way he wanted. 

Lifting his legs one by one, Damien pulled his sweatpants off of him. His ass ended high up in the air while his head was firmly pushed back onto the pillow again, to be bracketed in between his bent elbows. 

A sliver of a question flowed down the bond without words, to which Michael replied with a resoundingly eager demand to continue. With a soft chuckle, Damien finally aligned himself with Michael’s achingly empty hole - his lubed cock once again delightfully thick and firm - and sank into him slowly.

They both groaned at the same time when Damien finally bottomed out. His length settled snugly inside the confines of Michael’s asshole, the tip of his cock teasing Michael’s prostate in the best way. Sparks of pleasure travelled right down to his cock, and Michael felt it twitching in frustration while Damien patiently waited for his stretched hole to adjust to the intrusion.

Fuck, Damien, Michael didn’t have the capacity to be mortified at the wanton moan that shivered down the bond, Move.

That was the plea that did it; what broke the final thread of Damien’s rapidly dissolving self-control. 

An instant metamorphosis rippled through Damien. Michael felt the tips of his fingers digging into his sides suddenly turning into sharp, pointed claws. Damien’s grip tightened in a bruising way that spelt a barely controlled surge of inconceivable strength. His breath brushing over Michael’s sweat-soaked back was a lot warmer as if it was coming out of a furnace. 

Turning his head to the side, Michael thought he could see the dark swirls of Psionic energies in the air. He let all his shields fall open on reflex, inviting the energies into his mind without restrictions. He was finally in the safest place to let go of his fears.

Damien’s mind was open, and Michael felt his immense presence surround him in a warm, protective cocoon. The feelings of safety, peace and tranquillity were heightened to mind-blowing levels, and Michael felt his mind soaring in delight and relief. The heady sensations wrenched out of him by the cock moving in and out of his body provided a beautiful counterpoint to the glorious clarity.

Damien’s smooth, powerful thrusts rocked him back and forth. His cock ground against Michael’s prostate with every thrust, sending live sparks of pure pleasure through his system enough to white out his consciousness. The Psionic energies were a riot of colours in his blank canvas of a mind, dancing around the bond as it pulsed in tandem with the wild beats of Michael’s heart.

The flat of Damien’s palm was a hot brand over his Guide mark. It was Michael’s only warning before he was roughly pulled back to sit on his heels. Michael felt Damien’s cock sink further into him towards depths it hadn't gone before. It somehow felt longer, girthier and warmer, possibly another change Damien’s body had gone through.

The rhythm of Damien’s thrusts never faltered as Michael fell against his chest, his head resting on Damien’s bulging shoulder. Impaled on his cock in the best way possible, Michael felt blissfully full and complete. His own cock was beyond hard, glistening a painful shade of purple and aching for release. Michael had no desire to touch himself and rush to completion, however. He was more than content to hang onto Damien’s thighs and let him drive them both off the precipice together.

The memories of pain, horror and anger of the released souls had finally loosened their death grip on Michael. They were mercifully fading behind the newly strengthened and reinforced shields he now had inside his mind. The wails and shrieks of torment were reduced to a barely-felt rustle. They no longer resembled uncontrolled and wild hurricanes, wreaking havoc in his mind. 

Michael healed under the watchful gaze of the Sentinel. Now that he knew the shape and form of the ancient presence that resided within Damien, Michael could see those crimson and blue eyes, the pointed ears and his long, velvety muzzle. He was the same colour as the obsidian energies that filled the Sentinel’s eyes whenever he channelled the Psionic energies. The massive wolf was solid, tangible and so very real, even though he was formed out of pure Psionic energies.

Closing his eyes, Michael sent along a wave of gratitude, wrapped in a strand of apology for ignoring and missing the Prime’s instincts and wisdom. A faint string of amusement curled around Michael in return like a warm embrace, entangled with affection, acceptance and forgiveness. 

He saw the wolf’s whiskers twitch, his lips stretching back to reveal the length of his lethally beautiful canines. Michael thought he felt another current of reassurance warm him, along with a caution to brace himself. 

He didn’t feel afraid exactly, but Michael felt a sense of thrilling anticipation surging through him at the wolf’s wordless command. 

Damien’s newly clawed fingers wrapped around his neck, his thumb resting just underneath Michael’s pulse point. His heart skipped a beat, and Michael swallowed reflexively. A wave of serene calm washed through his body, making him go still against Damien.

The teeth that sank into the junction of his neck belonged to the wolf living within the man. Michael felt two sharp points break through the skin and pierce into the pulsing vein beneath in the blink of an eye. The pain that flared was instant and burning, although it was quickly forgotten behind the profoundly overwhelming pleasure that rushed through him, setting all his nerve endings on fire.

Michael wasn’t certain if he had come or not. He didn’t care. His mind was free and soaring, surrounded by the pure brilliance of the silver Psionic energies swirling around him. He was once again sheltered under the all-encompassing presence of the Prime standing guard over him. It was a giddy feeling; a sense of relief that left him weightless and floating. 

The fact that he couldn’t feel his body anymore failed to bother Michael in the slightest. He was swimming in an otherworldly tangle of pleasure-pain and joyful respite, and he was in no hurry to let go of the wonderful feeling. Letting go of his worries about the waking world was the easiest thing to do right then, knowing he would still be held in his Sentinel’s warm, secure embrace when he returned.

Chapter Text

A short while later...

It’s nothing to worry about, Damien told himself firmly. It’s normal.

Hopefully.

Michael wasn’t entirely conscious, but the soft purring sensation tangled around the bond meant that he was sleeping contentedly. Just as long as Damien kept his panic at bay, preventing his scrambling thoughts from slipping through the bond to disturb his Guide’s peace, everything should be fine.

It’s got to be normal, a logical part of his brain repeated with a deceptive sense of calm. It wasn’t as if he was experimented upon or anything. It had to be connected to the new part of himself; the one that took the shape of the wolf. It’ll go down, eventually. Just hold still. 

Damien resolutely didn’t want to hurt Michael. Not more than he already had. He had taken care of all the black and blue bruises that had bloomed to life all over Michael’s body by channelling healing energies. He had also stopped the bleeding on the fresh wound on Michael’s neck, but a primal instinct had stopped him from healing the bite entirely. His Sentinel side insisted that the wound needed to heal naturally, and a small, yet permanent scar would emerge to serve as the visible evidence of his claim. It was animalistic, but Damien had to admit that there was a visceral appeal to the idea. He would only heal it if Michael wanted it gone, or if it caused him unnecessary discomfort. 

If only the issue with his cock could be resolved so easily…

Michael had come without a single touch on his cock when Damien had bit down. His asshole had clenched around Damien like a vice, pushing him off the precipice of pleasure without mercy. Once his body had stopped shaking, Damien had managed to fall on his side without dislodging Michael. He had to be mindful not to injure Michael by accidentally pulling out his suddenly enlarged cock. 

Jesus fuck! But it feels so fucking good. 

It took Damien a moment to realise that he was slowly grinding into Michael again, chasing the aftershocks of the exhilarating orgasm that still hadn’t entirely faded. The new shape of his cock was somewhat concerning, yet the sensations it was invoking were absolutely fucking mind-blowing. His only fervent hope was that it would get back to normal on its own, without needing any external assistance such as surgery or something. 

The absolute horror at the idea was enough to send an ice-cold current through to his cock. Damien was certain the damned thing shrank down infinitesimally. 

That’s good. That means it will go down. Just have to give it some time.

Damien felt Michael’s ribcage expand under his arm when the man finally woke himself up with a long, loud yawn.

“What’s that, Sunshine?” He prodded when he couldn’t quite catch what Michael mumbled into his pillow.

“I said, I now know what an Incubus feels like.”

Damien was confused. “A what?” 

“Incubus?” The only indication that Michael hadn’t suffered some sort of a mental breakdown was the faint strand of amusement slithered along the bond, “Well, that’s a male demon of folklore that derives energy to sustain itself through sex.”

Damien felt a laugh bubble out of his chest at the ridiculous non sequitur. At least, it seemed to be keeping Michael distracted from their predicament. Damien decided to indulge and keep him like that for as long as possible.

“How do you even know what that is?”

He felt Michael running a finger on the side of his forearm in a bid to either gather his thoughts or plan a diversion.

“Out with it, Sunshine.” Damien insisted, lazily dropping a line of kisses along his nape. 

“Fine,” he felt a snort vibrate out of Michael, “I used to date a woman who was kinda sort of into roleplaying.”

Oh, this I have to know. “Not Kerry the ex-wife?”

“God, no,” Michael giggled. He sounded a little drunk. It was a massive improvement from his zombie-like stupor from earlier. “This was after. Her name’s Adelaide. It was supposed to be a casual thing…but one thing led to another and we kind of stumbled into a relationship.”

Damien felt a sense of bitterness underlying his amusement. 

“What happened?” He asked softly.

“She wanted kids. I wanted out.”

“That led to a break-up?”

“That led to her becoming pregnant,” Michael shrugged and plucked at the hair on Damien’s arm absently, “I could forgive a lot of things but not betrayal.”

“What do you mean?” Damien frowned. “The kid’s not yours?” 

Not that he cared either way. He already had Finn, whom he knew Michael had accepted unconditionally. If Michael had a child, and he wanted that child in his life at some point, Damien had no issues with it. 

“No. I knew I was sterile,” Michael explained quietly, sharing another part of himself Damien hadn’t known before, “Told her that too when she first started talking about it. She probably thought I was lying or something. Pretty sure she planned to surprise me and then trap me.”

“Christ,” Damien sighed. He rested his forehead against the back of Michael’s head, and tightened his embrace around him, “Sounds like you dodged a bullet there.”

“I did,” Michael agreed. “I swore off women and dating after that. A year later, I met you,” another yawn tore itself out of him at the end of that happy note, “Anyway, enough of my relationship history. You said there was dinner?”

“Yeah,” Damien smiled. 

Even with his senses down to regular levels, Damien could hear Michael’s stomach growl to punctuate his inquiry. It was also the first time Michael had shown any interest in food since leaving Colombia. 

Michael stretched and swept up a knee towards his chest before Damien could warn him.

“Ow!” It was more of an exclamation of shock than pain, and he froze. Damien winced when Michael’s asshole clenched and unclenched around his cock inquiringly, drawing out even more currents of pleasure along with a few drops of come.

Damien, Michael was surprised enough that he slipped to wordless communication on reflex. Strands of hesitant dread were woven around his mild tone, Care to explain?

I would love to, Damien shared earnestly, letting all of his concerns, half-formed theories and fervent wishes out in the open, if I knew what was going on.

Your cock… a few more thoughtful squeezes, another pained grunt and an inadvertent groan of pleasure from Damien later, Michael figured it out on his own, We’re locked together.

Yes. 

Because your cock has grown some sort of a knot at the root that’s stuck just inside my ass, Michael’s initial surprise was replaced by a sense of awe and curiosity. It's too big to pull out.

That’s about the size of it, Sunshine. Damien admitted, nuzzling against the junction of Michael’s neck and shoulder, where Damien’s bite mark pulsed a bright red. He licked at it instinctively.

Michael leaned against him with a soft sigh, craning his neck back in invitation. It seemed that the soothing licks had a calming effect on both of them.

So, um, now what? He asked after a while, I'm hungry. Another rumble from Michael’s stomach tore through the air, registering an impatient complaint.

It’ll go down in a little while, Damien promised guilty, hoping that would be the case.

You sure? Michael was sceptical, How long has it been?

About fifteen minutes, and it’s gone down almost halfway.

Half way? You mean it was twice as big? Another rush of surprise rippled through the bond, followed by an involuntary round of contractions that made his asshole go deliciously tight around Damien. 

Keep that up and we’re going to be here for a while, Damien warned him. 

Wow! I mean, ouch. Something like a giggle vibrated its way down the bond, skittering around inside Damien’s mind like a mischievous butterfly, But it doesn’t hurt. Not really, not if I don’t move.

You’re fine, Damien smiled and dropped another affectionate kiss on Michael’s pulse point throbbing under his lips, I didn’t tear you or anything. I’d know. 

You said my blood on your skin burns, Michael reminded him after a pause, a faint shiver of horror adding splinters of ice to the thought, that would be a painful way to find out.

Thanks, Damien sent back sarcastically, not bothering to hide the answering terror at the image of his sensitive glans experiencing that kind of torture, I think my cock shrank down a bit more.

So, that’s it? Michael was doing his best to cover his glee under an unsubtle veil of feigned innocence. We think about horrid, non-sexy things and it should get you back to normal?

Sounds like a fun theory to test, doesn’t it? With a dramatic sigh, Damien resigned to his fate.

Michael didn’t disappoint. So, did you remember to call my Dad before we left?

Jesus!

“I need to know,” Michael said out loud, laughing, “Talk to me. Let the information serve a dual purpose.”

“Yes, you little shit,” Damien bit him gently on the mark, and held him tightly through the shiver that instantly ran along his body, “I did.”

“Are we in trouble?”

“Nope,” Damien said, “He told me to take all the time we need when I texted him after we got home. He said he’s already spoken to the territory leader. According to him, they were more worried about you than us dodging out in the middle.”

“Guess we didn’t leave too much of a mess behind then.”

Michael had single-handedly healed years' worth of corruption and infection out of the Psionic energies in an entire region. He had cleansed mutated energies out of about a hundred Sentinels without killing any of them. He had even kept everyone else shielded while the Psionic energies had rampaged through the complex, exacting their revenge and rescuing countless tormented souls. 

The entire country of Colombia owed Michael a huge debt they could never even fathom to repay. 

Yet, here he was, buried against Damien’s chest, worrying about leaving the aftermath in the hands of the others. He had no idea that everyone who had been in the vicinity – the DEA agents, Branch One soldiers, and anyone who had been left standing by the time he had been done – regarded him with absolute reverence for the remarkably powerful creature he was.

“We didn’t.” Was all Damien said, knowing that Michael never appreciated that sort of attention.

The thing was, Damien had a feeling his Guide wouldn’t be able to hide himself from now on. For whatever reason, the Psionic Plane had guided his predecessor, Dr Sandburg, to keep himself and the information about the male Guides as hidden as possible. Sandburg and his Sentinel had moved in the shadows. Bringing knowledge of the Sentinels and Guides to the rest of the world, and making sure their community had a safe place among the population, had been their primary mission. All their work - the books they had published, the laws and regulations they had fought for and won, the movements they had led to integrate the gene carriers along with the rest in meaningful ways…all that and more – had been targeted towards that end.

Michael, on the other hand, seemed destined to shine under a spotlight, despite his intense aversion to attention and recognition. Damien had a feeling Michael would not be able to hide his true nature ever again the way he used to. Not with the way he looked, and glowed with a fountain of Psionic energies he now had within him. 

Damien knew that Michael might struggle to accept that he was meant to be seen. Not hidden. Perhaps as a warning to the ones who dwelled in the shadows, hellbent on destroying the Psionic Plane. Or as a ray of hope to the ones who had been led astray. Either way, Michael was not a man to shy away from his duties, whether he had taken them on intentionally or not. That was why Damien had to agree with Sandburg’s assessment; 

The Psionic Plane needed a warrior, and it had chosen a damned good one.

As his Sentinel, Damien’s part was to have Michael’s back, catch him before he fell and protect him when he couldn't protect himself. As it happened, he was more than happy and willing to take on the task. Underneath all the power akin to a newborn sun, Michael was a reserved, quiet man whom Damien already loved with all his heart. 

“We’ll have to drop by before heading back to London.”

“Why?”

“I want to check on the Sentinels, Damien,” Michael said quietly, unintentionally proving everything Damien had concluded. Even with all those epic burdens and responsibilities on him, Michael was still a Guide at the core of his being, “The ones I knocked out and the prisoners…If there’s something I can do to help, I should do it.”

“Alright, we’ll do that,” Damien agreed easily, “But if you’re planning on healing sessions, we’re not leaving until you’re back to one hundred percent.”

“Fair enough.” 

“I should also probably tell you that my family knows we’re here–”

“You called them?”

“Not really,” Damien let out a long exhale, “A cop saw the SUV. James got the wind of it. The whole family knows by now.”

“Will they come over?” There was an understandable tenor of dread underlying Michael’s question.

“Not if we drop by Mom and Dad’s later tomorrow,” Damien said consolingly, “That way we’ll get free meals, accommodation and interference.”

“Interference?” Michael repeated questioningly.

“They’re pretty good at not letting the hordes overwhelm their guests,” Damien explained, thinking back to the time he had returned home, plagued with a severe backlash, “They’ll take one look at you and tell everyone to stay the fuck away.”

A faint sense of discomfort darkened the bond, 

“Is it that bad?” Michael asked haltingly. “This whole, ‘new-look’ thing?”

“Of course, not!” Damien asserted.

He really shouldn’t have left Michael to find out the changes he had gone through all by himself. In his fragmented state, he had drawn all the wrong conclusions. Michael still had no idea that his presence had become even more incredible than before. 

“Michael, you’re shining like an actual source of light – it’s amazing and very distracting,” Damien said slowly, letting Michael see himself through his own senses and memories, hoping it would make him understand, “My parents are good at spotting when one of us needs to be left alone or be around the others. This is definitely time for some privacy. At least, until you get used to the fact that you’ll attract attention.”

“Privacy would be nice,” Michael admitted quietly after a while, the darkness of his needless fears easing at Damien’s reassurances, “I’m not going to be very good company, Damien.”

“It’s fine, don't worry about it,” Damien murmured, “Just concentrate on getting better. That’s the only point of this visit. Then we’ll head to Colombia and London later on.”

Agreement flowed along the bond in a warm current, until it turned to ice of horror the next moment.

“Oh, God!”

“What?” Damien demanded, letting his reflexively enhanced senses scan Michael over, looking for the signs of a threat or an injury.

Michael’s apology was immediate, soothing his sudden alarm away with a reassuring warmth wrapped around in guilt. 

“I just remembered the stunt your cousin pulled,” he mumbled against the pillow, his voice full of embarrassment. 

Damien couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing.

“It's not funny,” Michael tugged at the hair on his arm in retaliation, his voice pitched high in protest, “How will I ever look your parents in the eye? Jesus! Is it too late to leave?”

There was a delicious blush reddening the entire column of Michael’s neck and shoulder. Snickering, Damien chased it with his tongue. 

“You can trust me when I tell you it's a very pretty ass,” he said in between kisses he peppered along the curve of Michael’s shoulder, grinding his trapped cock inside him a little for emphasis, “No one in my family will be offended to catch a glimpse of that beauty.”

You’re such an arse. 

The complaint came bouncing along the bond, full of indignation and misery . 

Says the man who flashed his own in front of a camera for everyone to see. Damien returned gleefully.

“I’m never living that down, am I?” Michael’s sigh warmed the back of his hand.

“Not as long as I’ll live,” Damien promised solemnly, “and don't forget, I still have so many questions about the role-playing chick too. I’m going to need a detailed list, Sunshine.”

Michael’s body vibrated in his hold with suppressed laughter. “I only ever had three relationships in my life before you. Give it a break, damn it.”

“Oh, there’s a third?” Damien pried cheerfully even as he felt instant regret radiating from his Guide, “Do tell.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” Michael huffed.

Damien grinned against his head, “Somehow, I don’t believe you.”

Michael wriggled a little, and Damien’s cock finally slipped out of him with a wet plop. “Uh, okay,” Michael muttered, “Guess you’re back to normal.”

Damien hummed, licking over the bite mark one more time before Michael turned around, finally facing Damien. His eyes were clear, and the silver rings embedded in them gleamed. Instead of the deathly pallor from before, Michael had a healthy sheen of pink to his skin intermingled with the glow emanating from within. He looked so much better and breathtaking with the way his silvery hair shined in the light.

Damien’s attention was drawn to his limp cock when he realised Michael had a hand wrapped around it. He was staring down at it with a thoughtful expression. 

“Nope,” he announced confidently after a few seconds, “Nothing wrong with it.”

Having his Guide’s hand on him was sending signals to the part of Damien’s animal brain. “Can we at least have dinner before we start something again?” he asked, grinning self-deprecatingly when he felt his cock twitch happily in Michael’s grip.

“Good idea,” Michael let go of him, and planted a firm, yet quick kiss on his lips before rolling off the bed.

“Where are you going?” Damien called after him.

“To clean myself,” Michael shrugged, leaning against the bathroom door frame. The alluring image of his nude form sent even more of Damien’s blood down south, “I’m not going to leak your come all the way to the kitchen, and I’m grimy.” 

Letting his gaze trail down Michael’s body, Damien saw the truth of his statement on the insides of his thighs. He would be even more uncomfortable when the fluids dried out, making him sticky and itchy. There was a small, primal part of Damien that swelled with pride and possessiveness. His sight suddenly acquired a hazy crimson sheen before fading away.

“If you don't mind making another coffee for me, I’ll change the sheets after I’m done,” Michael flashed his crooked smile at him.

Damien felt his heart jump and miss a beat at the simple expression of affection. He directed the wave of gratefulness he felt at the Sentinel in him, knowing his prayer of thanks would find the powers it was meant for. He was certain he would never find any other joy compared to a smile from his Guide. 

“There’s more coffee and I'll fix the bed,” Damien murmured, smiling back, “You just wash yourself and get your ass in the kitchen.”

“Join me once you’re done, then,” Michael winked, turning around, letting that irresistible invitation hang in the air like a seductive siren, “We’ll go eat after.” 

The End.