I take forever to update. I really do. Fail. Oh! But I do love how my writing in this story is getting progressively non-suckish! So, yay for that!

Why was her face throbbing? Surely she hadn't hit her nose on the headboard of her bed, again? Her eyelids remained closed, red pulsations in front of her vision, as she slowly greeted consciousness. Vaguely aware of a conversation to her left, her ears strained to break through the murk of sleep.

"Watch her; she isn't to leave or have any outside contact until this misunderstanding is sorted out. Am I understood?"

A door slammed, disrupting the pulse behind her eyes and pulling her out of her fog. Ropes bound her wrists and ankles, she noted grimly. Slowly opening her eyes a crack, she surveyed her surroundings.

It was his room...

She was on his bed...

In his room...

Tied up on his bed!

As she desperately tried to quell the rising panic in her chest, she continued to gaze around the room. The guard was a short, stocky pig of a germ, with thick arms and a barrel chest. He glared resolutely in her general direction, his arms folded.

What to do about him?

Burn tried discreetly looking for some kind of weapon, slowly twisting her arms around on the bed, feeling for anything that would be of any use. It was only after about two minutes of this that she realized no one would leave any sharp object near a tied prisoner. Perhaps she was still half asleep. Mentally cursing her stupidity, she turned on her other side, her back to the guard.

"Don't try it." The gruff voice froze the blood in her veins. She knew him.

Tattaptat. Paul was known to be a habitually nervous person; downright cowardly, in some hidden opinions. However, his pencil wasn't dancing a jig across his unfinished paperwork because of nervousness. He was annoyed, frustrated, furious over Chief Gluteus's enactment of the "Burn Notice," a policy that publicly identified and called for the extermination of any burners left in Hector's system. The notice gave citizens a license to kill on sight, an abhorrent add-on the chief somehow managed to slip past the Police Committee, who were rushed into signing the document by virtual lynch mobs clustered around their building. Fyaira hadn't been seen for two days now; he worried that she might be found by the wrong person, her unawareness of the notice a particularly concerning bullet-point. A blurry picture of her face, captured by a curious onlooker during one of her escapes, had been blown up and plastered on every available surface in Hector. Although encouraged by the lacking quality of the shot, Paul still fretted over the distinguishing features that could still be seen, her eye color his main anxiety.

His pencil continuing to dance, Paul faded in and out of the inane speech his advisers were giving him as he thought of ways to find Fyaira quietly.

Temperature, normal. Sleep schedule, getting better. Surface temperature, decreasing, thanks to the Burn Notice (Paul scowled.) Hormone regulation, a little out of whack, but that's puberty for you.

The two cells continued rattling off Hector's bodily functions as Paul turned his back to them and gazed out the window. He watched citizens amble about below; he watched dogs chase each other and fight for scraps; he watched a poster of Fyaira bob in the wind, watched as it was finally freed from its moorings and sent fluttering away by a strong gust. His gut wrenched.

"I'm going out," he announced, interrupting the cells' drivel.

"But, sir!" The lanky one exclaimed. "You must stay to hear-!" Paul's glare cut him off mid-sentence. Turning away, Paul left, slamming the door behind him. The lanky one shivered. "Since when is he so moody?"

The fat one glanced at his clipboard. "Must be the hormone imbalance we covered on page twenty-three."

Fyaira stared at her reflection in the storefront window, aghast. Fading; she was fading already. Her normal lusty red skin was now dulled to a pale rose color; the steely blue was being leeched from her eyes, leaving a mocking gray sea-water in it's wake. Her stint in the boss's holding cell had done nothing to improve her appearance either; it left her haggard and tired-looking. Finally, she tore her gaze away from her withering figure and continued walking, rubbing the fresh bruises on her arms.

As the docks and dilapidated stores behind her faded into the distance, Fyaira slowly entered a large city. She froze, shocked and confused. Her own face stared back at her from a wanted poster stapled to a pole. She tore it off and ducked into an alley. Quickly scanning the article underneath her picture in the semi-darkness, Fyaira began to shake uncontrollably, her fingers eventually letting the poster fall to the ground. Panic set in. She needed a place to hide, now! No, no wait, she needed to find Paul; that's what she needed to do. But, how? She couldn't exactly waltz into his office, now that all of Hector was after her head. The stress of being imprisoned and repeatedly tortured for the past two days, along with the horrible compromise she had to make and this new development, came crashing down onto her shoulders. She fell to her knees, dejected, and sobbed.

It had been hours since Paul began his search, and the melatonin would soon be pumped into Hector's veins, bringing nightfall. He stood on the sand, facing a lake of bile, and felt sick. No one had seen Fyaira, for which he was at once grateful and terrified. For now, he knew no one had killed her, a small comfort in a sea of worry. He sighed.

"Well, just standing here isn't going to find her," he hissed to himself. "Alright, I started at the top and got here, the stomach. That leaves the entire lower half of Hector." He rubbed his temples. What if he couldn't find her? What would he do then?

"No!" He shouted defiantly. "I'll find her, even if it kills me!"

"Not the best thing to be shouting in a place like this."

Paul whirled around to find an elderly, hunched blood cell in a hooded cloak standing behind him. "What?"

The woman gave him a toothy grin under her hood, her bare toes scrunching the sand under her feet. She jerked her head right. Paul followed the movement to see a line of old warehouses and stores standing on a dock a little ways down the beach. "Bad company resides there," the woman said conspiratorially. Paul nodded in agreement; the dock was the perfectly clichèd villains' lair.

"Thank you for the warning," he said to her. The woman smiled again.

"I hear you're looking for someone," she stated. "And who might that be?"

Paul eyed her warily for a moment, contemplating. She seemed harmless enough, and she had giving him some sound advice. Perhaps she could be trusted. He pulled a folded wanted poster out of his pocket.

"I'm looking for her," he said, pointing to Fyaira's picture.

"How lovely," the woman crooned, taking the poster into her gnarled red hands. "I remember seeing a girl like this." Paul inhaled sharply.

"Really? Where? When? Please, tell me!"

The woman patted Paul's arm, attempting to calm him. "Over there," she pointed to the dock, "About two days ago." Paul's face fell. "However, I saw someone resembling her leave there about an hour ago, in that direction," she pointed back toward the city. "You might catch her if you take the dock road." Paul thanked her profusely and went sprinting toward the road. The old woman chuckled to herself and shuffled away.

She stared, her mouth agape. Paul stood before her, bent double and panting frantically. He gave her a toothy grin. "I've found you!" He shouted triumphantly. Quickly shushing him, Fyaira's mouth turned up into a smile behind her finger.

"So you have," she whispered, relief coursing through her frame. "The question is: how?" Paul responded by pulling her into a bone-crushing hug.

"You're alright; I'm so happy you're alright," he mumbled into her hair, desperately clinging to her fragile form, afraid she might slip away again.

Returning his embrace, Fyaira wondered if he had noticed the difference in her. She gently pulled away.

"What happened to you?" Paul asked, his initial excitement fading as he noticed her poor condition. Fyaira smiled.

"I'm just fading, that's all," she replied playfully, "It happens to all burners eventually." She considered mentioning her unwilling foray into captivity somewhat tactless and unnecessary, and so kept it to herself. "Now," she poked his chest, "Answer my question."

Paul puzzled for a moment, trying to remember what she had asked. "An old blood cell told me," he said hesitantly. "She said she had seen someone like you head in this direction. It was just luck from then on."

Fyaira bristled. "Blood cell?" Paul nodded. Suspicion crawling up her back, Fyaira began to look around frantically, terrified. "Paul," she whispered fiercely, "We need to..." Quick, successive blows to their necks and heads prevented Fyaira from finishing her sentence and Paul from hearing it.

Ok, I copped out. This could have been so much longer, but I REALLY wanted to end it and post it. I haven't posted in so long! Also, apparently, people like this? -sobs appreciatively- You're all so wonderful!