The laboratory's door had hardly begun to swing shut when Broyles was assailed by Peter's insistent voice.

"Did you get it?"

He asked without looking up from his soldering, but sensed Brandon's attention wander to the large black suitcase in Broyles' hand and his face slacken in mild dread − of course he had gotten it. Brandon was probably wondering what had happened when Broyles had presented it to security on his way into the building. That would have been interesting…

"This raised quite a few eyebrows, Peter. I could only get it on the assurance that it wouldn't be used."

This point had been raised numerous times, and Peter was tired of deflecting it. Brandon had assured him that they could assemble a very convincing, but entirely harmless, prop, and Broyles had latched onto the idea with almost childish eagerness − it would save him having to call in some very large favours. Peter's reply had, unbelievably, won them over, despite being a smoking lie:

"They have more advanced tech over there, and they may be able to spot a phony more easily than we would. It's the key to the whole thing – it's got to stand up."

Hiding behind this nonsense, however, was the true reason: he had asked for a real one because he was going to use it, and whether it would destroy only the building and its technology, or also the people therein contained, was up to them. He had experienced almost every emotion he could name during the past few days – disbelief, denial, rage, hate, helplessness – but had now moved past, through them all, as though leaving a planet's atmosphere. What was left to him, this titanic interstellar blackness, had no name; nihilism was far too watery a word for it. His sole anchor, his touchstone, had been taken, and until it – she – was returned, he didn't belong here. No, more: he didn't belong anywhere. Thus uncoupled, he was free to strategize without regard to his own safety. Or the potential safety, or otherwise, of his enemies.

"But what about conventional explosives? Won't they do?" Broyles had asked. Being in law enforcement, he had that classic knee-jerk reaction to all things "nuclear". It was one of the very few times Peter had actually detected nervousness in the man.

The objection had been dealt with easily, and honestly: to achieve the same psychological effect, he would have had to take more C-4 than twenty men could lift, and he needed the payload to be mobile. Just in case. Besides, he hadn't added, a nuke would evoke a completely different and unique fear, making his opponents all the more pliable. Just look at the effect it had had on Broyles, he had thought, and he's on our side…

Thus convinced, Broyles had disappeared into the governmental dark alleys to grease palms and twist arms, while Peter and Brandon had indulged themselves in Massive Dynamic's profligate resources and set about creating the rest of the necessary hardware. Brandon had been in his element, despite the use to which their inventions would ultimately be put, and Peter knew he was imagining himself to be Q of the James Bond universe. In truth, most of their creations had a definite Bond-ish tilt; the detonator bracelets were the only exception – Bond had never gambled with his own life. They had instilled in Brandon an uncomfortable association with suicide bombers, but Peter had reminded him that they were merely insurance. He could not afford to be taken out before he had reached her, and she could not be taken out no matter what. Hence, there were two of them. To Brandon's question of why Peter's was also equipped with a block of C-4, when it would be assumed to light up a perfectly real suitcase nuke, Peter had simply repeated "insurance". He had not be entirely sure that Broyles would have allowed the thing to proceed if he knew the real reason.

Peter eyed the black case with no expression at all, Brandon with a blend of fear and curiosity. He seemed to be wondering how such a devastating weapon could be made so compact. The compactness was almost a by-product – Peter's yield calculations suggested that anything larger would cause significant collateral damage, and he wasn't so far gone that he wanted to hurt innocents. On either side. Getting rid of the DoD facility was all he intended to do.

"I was considering only giving this to you on the condition that you take me with you," Broyles said quietly.

They had been over this as well, and Peter had managed to persuade them all that he was the one person the other side wouldn't kill, and he had them convinced that hangers-on would more likely end up hostages than be of any help. Only Walter had come within brushing distance of the truth, but had not been able to articulate his suspicions (or had been unwilling to): Peter was coming back with her, or he wasn't coming back. He had taken responsibility for everything that had followed his return on the basis that he, of all of them, should have made Altivia far, far sooner.

"Nice try," Peter replied to Broyles, "but you know the plan. A second man would be redundant. Or worse, a liability."

Broyles seemed to have saved all his objections for D-day, and kept going undeterred, retreading old ground.

"Alright – what about the intelligence you're basing all this on? Can you really trust it, given the source?"

"I took it straight out of her mind, Broyles. There was just no mechanism for lying."

Peter, half-insane with fury by this point, had been all for torturing Altivia into drooling imbecile to get answers out of her – she had goaded and taunted him, in particular, ceaselessly since being captured, no doubt hoping he would kill her before she spilled her guts − but Walter had suggested something far cleaner and more reliable. Thus, Peter had re-donned the old metal head-cage and dived into her thoughts.

Her mind had been like an endless, ice-cold plane of polished steel, a perfect illustration of her feelings toward the denizens of this hostile universe. He had felt nauseous at having to review his time with her from her perspective in his search for anything useful. He had felt her twinges of revulsion at his touch. Every dinner date felt like a hot knitting needle through the heart, reminding him just how easily he had fooled himself. He had taken something resembling satisfaction from her violated expression afterwards; she had struggled mightily, but without so much as a moment's success. Now she knew how he felt.

More pertinent than her reflections on her mission here, she had also carried an extensive and detailed knowledge of her side's Fringe Division and, thanks to this, Peter had added a second objective to his mission, hence the agglomeration of hard drives he was currently linking together. While he was there, he could at least do some shopping for them.

"And we absolutely have to give her back?" Despite that fact that most of her intelligence had almost certainly been already relayed home via the typewriter, Broyles was understandably reluctant to let her go. Reprehensible as she was, she was also undeniably capable and dangerous, and putting her back into circulation, if even in a different universe, did not sit well.

"Walter says having her there for exchange will maintain a balance and make it easier for Olivia to get us home. I'm no happier about it than you – she's done a fair amount of reconnaissance and there's nothing we can do about it. This," he said, indicating his impromptu NAS device, "should at least even the score."

"You're counting on our Dunham being in any shape to get you home, or being willing to do so if she is."

"Walternate would never have made this exchange for just the one potential advantage. Having Olivia there has given him access to a risk- and tech-free way of crossing over, and he won't ignore that. It may even have been his main goal; having his Dunham here could just be a nice side-benefit. It may have been the other way around, though – she was probably supposed to take those two Weapon pieces back with her."

Broyles reflected on just how close she had come to doing just that. A play for Peter would have followed in short order, and with the need for subtlety no longer applying, it would have been ugly.

"There's no way Olivia would willingly help him, and that leaves coercion. Torture? Maybe, but given their tech, a more sophisticated brainwashing than we could manage may also be possible. In the first case I'll have no problems getting her out. In the second… that's what the tranks are for, and I'll have to find some way of getting home on my own. But one way or the other, she's not staying there."

Broyles was wary of the icy resolve in Peter's voice. He had clearly passed into some darkness devoid of emotion, and such a man was capable of almost anything. While this had its advantages – a total lack of fear, primarily − it made such people unstable, insensitive to danger. He wondered again at the wisdom of handing this Peter a live nuclear warhead, but the three blackboards' worth of calculations he could still see on the other side of the lab suggested that

(when)

if it did go off, it would be as surgical as a nuclear explosion could possibly be.

He went to prepare the prisoner for transport, leaving the scientists to their work. Dealing with the spitting and snarling Altivia would drive all thoughts of A-bombs from his mind, he was sure.

Six hours later, with the sun going down, Peter, Walter and Broyles stood a-circle in the old Harvard lab around two cases, one black, one heavily-shielded aluminium, holding the completed fruits of Peter and Brandon's week's labours. It was a strange and incongruous selection, and an outsider would discern no purpose to most of it. If one existed, and was consulted, a list would have read:

Nuclear warhead, with attached digital inclinometers and smoke alarm;

2 x vital signs monitoring bracelets, with wireless RF transmitters (50 km range);

Telephone-driven wireless transmitter;

20 x 2TB solid state hard drives, with umbrella Ethernet interface;

Microdot audio/video camera, with handheld remote viewer.

Along with these, Peter would be taking two silenced Glock 18 machine pistols, each with a full thirty-round magazine, a tranquilizer pistol with ten darts, and several pairs of handcuffs. Peter held a vague hope that the weaponry would go unused, but was not optimistic. Despite being totally untrained in such matters as these, he gauged his willingness to kill for this mission, and found that he was certain he could. The realization would have dismayed him a week ago. Not now.

Walter, clearly disturbed by this vaguely menacing toolbox, was totally unconcerned about the atomic bomb sitting on the bench, instead engrossed in trying again to get Peter to change his mind about his one man mission. Having been warned by apparent supernatural beings that Peter should never, ever be allowed to go back, he was barely controlling his terror at the prospect of his son returning after what had happened last time. Broyles observed this with pity, knowing that Peter would almost certainly have to lie to his father to get out of here with his equipment. He had sensed the translucent capsules of half-truth in which Peter had wrapped his previous answers, but knew the old man hadn't. He hadn't seen that perfect vacuum behind his son's eyes, either.

"Peter… it doesn't have to be you. There are special outfits for this thing, aren't there?" He cast around for the name, gesturing to Broyles for help. "Uh, Uh… HRT, right? We can brief them on everything they need to know…"

Broyles was moved by the old man's desperation, and yet more moved that he would be unable to assuage his very appropriate fear. Peter's reply was almost sickening in its insincerity, as had been all the previous ones every time this argument had come up.

"Don't worry." Soothing, placating. Facile, nothing more. "They won't dare kill me, they know they'll need me eventually."

"But… but what if they just capture you! They need you to power the Weapon! You're walking right into their hands!"

"They have people over here, Walter – if they really wanted me yet I think we'd have known by now. Besides, we have two pieces. You can ransom them if need be." He had used almost exactly the same reasoning to silence Astrid. Almost word for word. She had been more dubious, but had acquiesced, seeing the twisted logic.

Broyles watched Walter struggle to come up with more, or better, arguments, and fail. He knew the senior Bishop wanted Olivia back very much – perhaps not as much as the younger Bishop – but could not stand idly by while his son went into very real danger without at least trying to dissuade him. Broyles also knew that Peter's assurances were not coming from love; they were coming from necessity: had he not needed their help he would have been over there already, most likely scything his way through the enemy like a saw blade tipped with scalpels, daring them to kill him, and seal their own doom by doing so.

"Alright, Peter. But I want your word: you will come back. Alive."

Peter knew he had finally won, but played the game, taking his father's cheek in his hand and locking his eyes. He made a supreme effort to put some sort of emotion on them. He wasn't sure precisely which emotion emerged, but his father's face slackened slightly, so whatever it was, it had done the trick.

"I swear, " he said solemnly, not meaning it in the slightest. It wouldn't be up to him if he came back alive.

He wasn't eager for death, but nor was he perturbed at all by its possible imminence. On the contrary: great meaning seemed to have been attached to his life, but not meaning of his own making, and trusting to it luck would be a very satisfying middle finger to those who would play God with him.

Walter, satisfied by Peter's promise, had deigned to help them, offering the first bracelet to Peter's upper arm and testing the monitors. The bracelets operated very simply: a variety of sensors made sure the wearer was alive and conscious, and if it discovered that he or she was not both, or that it been removed forcibly without the key, it would emit a modulated radio wave − made up of three different frequencies to guard against the possibility of accidental… response. Peter was the only one who knew that there would be an actual receiver on the nuke that would respond – he had had to weave it into the mix in the hour after he'd sent Brandon home and before Broyles had return, along with the inclinometers and jerry-rigged smoke alarms guts.

"Heart rate, blood pressure, body temperature... all loud and clear. Brainwaves… yes, here they are." Walter's tone was business-like, and Peter and Broyles were both glad, but for very different reasons.

"So this thing will definitely catch on if somebody knocks me out?"

"Yes, unconsciousness will suppress the brainwaves and trip the alarm. I'll set an appropriate threshold for both you and Olivia; I have copious amounts of data from her visits to the Tank."

Walter paused here, mulling. He was on the verge of some great realization but couldn't quite grab hold of it. Peter mentally held his breath − If his father put two and two together and said it out loud, it would crystallize Broyles' doubts and the whole thing could grind to a halt here and now.

"Peter… this is all just for show, isn't it? The bomb is just insurance, surely." Trying to convince not Peter but himself. He had asked a question, but more than anything had wanted to frame it as a statement: Peter, this is all real. This thing will go up like Hiroshima if they don't do what you want.

Broyles watched Peter very carefully as he replied.

"Yes, of course it is, but it has to be a real one in case they use some of their tech to scan it; all these bracelets do is flash and bleep."

He couldn't tell whether this was a lie or not. Maybe Peter himself didn't know.

Thus persuaded and placated, Walter snapped the bracelet's ratchet shut, locking it to his son's arm. He handed Peter the key, which he placed in his shirt pocket. Walter offered up the second bracelet, tested it like the first, and pronounced it working perfectly. He removed it and tinkered with the delta wave threshold to better fit Olivia's brain, consulting his notes occasionally, and humming.

After a few minutes he was done. He handed Peter the second bracelet, which he clipped to his belt. Peter turned to Broyles.

"Ready?"

Broyles, not trusting himself to speak, could only nod. He was not used to taking a back seat during field operations, and the prospect of trusting this wild-card with a bomb that

(would)

could vaporize the Stature of Liberty went against his every instinct.

Between them they packed the goodies into their appropriate cases and carried them out to the SUV. Broyles carried the bomb, determined to keep an eye on it for as long as possible. Walter followed, not carrying anything, apparently determined to make one last attempt to restrain his son. As Peter slammed the trunk shut, he felt his father's hand around his elbow. He prepared himself for another go-around, but he was surprised. All the old man said was

"Son… please, be careful."

It was spoken quietly, in that one-octave-lower serious-Walter voice, and Peter felt the first barest wisp of indecision. He smothered it instantly, but favoured his father with a smile and a sincere "I will." He removed Walter's hand from his elbow and held it briefly before opening the passenger door and joining Broyles in the cabin. The sun had almost completely set by now, leaving only a glowing orange stripe across the horizon. As the car started, Peter realized that this could well have been the last sunset he would ever see. The realization did not affect him in the least. On the contrary − it was completely appropriate: he would either see his next sunrise with Olivia back home, or he wouldn't see one.

Broyles opened his window and addressed Walter.

"Agent Farnsworth will be here in half an hour. You'll need to start working on a way to reverse this potential brainwashing – we might need it."

Walter chuckled, truly amused for the first time in days.

"Agent Broyles, we already have it – the Tank will be able to recover her repressed memories if we need to. Send Asterix over anyway – we can play Monopoly until Peter comes back."

Broyles kept his features as neutral as possible, but they had tried to go from relief to exasperation in a fraction of a second. He settled for a helpless nod, and rolled his window up. They pulled out of the parking lot, Broyles turning the headlights on.

"So… where are we going?"

Peter's face tried to grin, but the resulting expression was chilling. Broyles hoped never to see it again. Peter pulled a Post-It note off the dashboard and wrote something on it, before putting it in the pocket with the bracelet key.

"A junk shop." He keyed the address into the GPS, and upon seeing it Broyles called for backup, telling them to stay one block away until further notice.

They drove on in silence.