A/N: I've mentioned a few times that writing is what keeps me sane. However, during these crazy, stressful times of full-time work from home and having all the kids home all at once (teenagers who are driving me up the wall, but that's a different story), it's been hard to find time to focus and delve into a new storyline (such as The Manny). UPRISING will continue to update whenever I get a chance, but because of the research required for that story, it's hard to update frequently.

Going through my files, I recently came across this story, which I published on FF years ago and pulled with the intention of publishing, but that's been put on a back burner (for now).

Therefore, I'm updating it and reposting it now. I think it's a good solution because it'll allow me to post frequently since the chapters are already written. Nonetheless, since I haven't looked at it in years, it'll keep me entertained with edits and changes, while hopefully providing some entertainment for you guys. Those of you who've already read it can count on some considerable changes throughout the story. Just off the top of my head, I can think of a bunch of scenes I would've written differently, lol.

Anyway, here we go. This is more of an action/adventure story than pure angst. I don't think we need pure angst right now. (Though I LOVE angst under normal circumstances, lol, and there will be SOME angst. Hey, it's me.)

Hope this keeps you all entertained a bit throughout these weird times. :)

Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to me. All mistakes are mine as well.

Prologue

When I pull my hand away from my head, it's coated with blood – scarlet, slippery, and warm. I stare at it for a handful of seconds, then I wipe it all off on my pants and transfer my weapon to my other hand. My head pounds like I've got a dozen fucking jackhammers trying to drill into my brain. Nonetheless, I force myself to keep going. My vision blurs. I drip blood as I go, but I won't stop. I'll drag myself on my stomach, slide and slither like a goddamned snake if I have to until I find him. He can't be allowed to leave this place alive, not if she's to survive.

And she will survive.

My bleeding head doesn't concern me much. We're taught both at med school and at Quantico that head wounds bleed heavily because of the blood that pools to the brain and due to the thinness of the dermis and hypodermis near the scalp. I peer down at the gunshot wound on the left side of my ribs, the one I'm trying to ignore and failing miserably at stemming with my left hand.

This concerns me a bit more.

I'm not concerned about myself. The adrenaline pumping through my system has done away with fear. Besides, I've already accepted that I probably won't make it out of here alive. I accepted it the moment he told me where to meet him, the second he told me where he was holding her and I agreed to come alone, with no backup. I would've done anything he said at that point regardless of the glaringly obvious fact that it was all a setup. To the rest, she may just be the assignment, the thief, the witness we've sworn to protect.

To me, she is life itself.

A sharp spasm hits me between the eyes and forces me to reel back. My vision splits and blurs…splits and blurs. I throw back my head and clench my eyes shut for a few seconds, pressing the gun against them to quell the painful throb. When I reopen them, I stare at the ceiling; the steel pipes hanging from above multiply – three become six, and six become twelve. Holy fuck, it's spider vision.

How the hell do those creatures deal with this shit? How do you catch your prey when you can't tell which one is real and which one is just a result of distorted perception?

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I note that it's actually a fitting question right now. I then further realize that not only is my mind wandering but my thoughts are fucking nonsensical right before I jerk sharply forward and wretch all over my feet.

Head wound. Blurry vision. Confusion. Vomiting.

Concussion.

I add it to the tally of injuries and then allow myself another five seconds to refocus; I can't afford to waste more time. Pressing my palm harder against the wound at my side, I drag my feet along and try to listen through the loud ringing in my ears, try to see beyond the fog clouding my eyes. He's still here somewhere, hiding behind the billows of smoke and hot steam, crouching between the labyrinth-like maze of thick steel pipes, waiting for me to die so he can go after her.

I won't allow that. He will die first, and then and only then will I follow him to hell.

A low, indistinct clatter from below catches my attention, making me pause in my undeniably unstable steps to listen.

Nothing.

Still, my instincts tell me it was something, and I pray that as close to dead as I am, those instincts aren't failing me now. After all, it's these instincts which have brought me this far – instincts to protect, to defend. They're why I became a surgeon in the first place, and when that wasn't enough, why I found myself at Quantico's FBI Academy. My instincts have always been unparalleled; they've always been the ones that the rest have relied on.

It was my instincts that brought me to her.

I take the steps down to the sub-basement one at a time instead of in two leaps as I'd prefer. My gun is up and ready - though I wouldn't bet a dime that I'd hit my target at this point. I walk around the dark hallways, shakily pointing the gun into each room. Thick steam pours out of pipes and swirls upward; its quiet swoosh works to lull me into a false sense of calm. But the hammering in my head and the adrenaline coursing through my blood negate the steady warmth of the white mist. They keep me centered and remind me that I have to make sure she'll be okay before I give in to the darkness.

Then…I hear it.

Or I feel it.

At this point, I'm not sure which, but instinct tells me that he's in the next room, hiding like the fucking worm that he is. I'm suddenly overwhelmed by a sharp sense of fury that mixes with the adrenaline. It helps me straighten my shoulders and navigate with more stealth than I've possessed all night. The hand against my side curls into a fist. My fingers tighten around the weapon in my other hand. With renewed vigor, I swiftly round the doorway and step into the room, gun leading the way.

Silence.

It's some sort of makeshift compound mixing area if the vast amounts of glass vials and sinks are any clue. The potent scent of chemicals permeates the air. My blurred vision waters, and the drumming in my head shifts into double-time. Steam whistles from somewhere behind me while my eyes adjust then search through the darkness for anything out of the ordinary. But there's not a chair overturned nor a vial out of place. I start to doubt my instincts, which pisses me off because my instincts have always been stellar. Growling under my breath, I pivot, blaming the asshole who shot me for my failing sixth sense and thinking of all the ways I'm going to torture the motherfucker when I get my hands on him.

When his fist connects with my chest, I stagger backward before righting myself as briskly as possible and aiming, but my speed and my dexterity are both shot to hell, and he has just enough time to kick my arm away. The bullet explodes somewhere beyond, rattling my brain all the more.

He grabs my arm and hammers his elbow against my wrist once, twice, three times before my fingers reflexively spasm open and release, and the gun falls to the floor with a loud thud. I dig my elbow into his side, managing to double him over. Then I rain blows first across his face and follow them up against his chest. When he falls to one knee, I lunge for the gun, one hand still against my side to stem the blood from the prior bullet he shot into me. But he grabs my leg and pulls me down, dragging me away from the gun.

"Fuck!"

Growling in indignant outrage, I turn and kick the dirty bastard square in the jaw. The satisfying sound of cracking bones fills my ears, and he reels back while blood spurts from his mouth and nose, staining his immaculately white shirt and running like blotches of red paint on clear canvas.

Jumping back to my feet, I stalk over to him, fueled by too much rage to even reach for the gun. What's more, fury and loathing do away with any pain from the gunshot wound. Both my fists surge up in front of me, ready to pummel him. The hell with fair trials; he doesn't deserve to fucking breathe, much less a fair trial. If I make it out of here, the Bureau can lock me up and throw away the key. I'm going to beat the motherfucker to death with my bare hands. For Charlie. For Renee.

For her.

I'm going to look into his evil eyes as his life force seeps out of his body, then I'll grin and hiss,

"She's safe! You didn't get her. You will never get her!"

Adrenaline rushes through my veins. Anticipation brings a grin to my face and makes me feel whole, like an uninjured man.

But I'm not uninjured. I may have temporarily forgotten that, but he hasn't.

When he punches me square in my gunshot wound, birds, stars, planets, fucking galaxies spin before my eyes. Someone howls, and it takes me a moment to realize it's me. My legs give, and I fall to my knees as he lunges for the gun, but I drop my palms to the floor and swing a leg, sweeping his feet out from under him. Just as the gun is looking like a good idea to me again, he launches himself on top of me.

At first, we swing wildly, fists connecting anywhere they find purchase. But I'm not uninjured, and it only takes him a few seconds to recall that once more. His knuckles dig into my wound, and when they resurface, they're seeped in my blood.

I roar in unimaginable agony and fall prone to the floor. My eyes roll to the back of my head, and the entire universe spins. Wave after wave of torture consume me. The pointed end of his shoe kicks my gaping wound, and this time, I can't even manage to make a sound, much less move.

All the while, he hovers above me, laughing.

"Well, well, Dr. Masen, or should I say, Special Agent Cullen. That wasn't a half-bad fight, considering you've lost a shitload of blood and have one foot in the grave."

"Give me a minute to catch my breath, and I'll fucking show you who's got the foot in the grave."

I'm not sure if I've spoken the words aloud or in my head. At this point, I'm not entirely sure of anything anymore. The adrenaline isn't staving off the pain any longer, and I'm being swept away by rolling tides of torment. My pulse races frenziedly. I can feel my heart beating way too fast, even faster than it ever did when I was with her.

He chuckles.

"Boy, you don't know when to give up do you, Tony? Or Edward or whatever the fuck your real name is. It's over. All the evidence is destroyed, you're practically dead," he says, ticking off each item in a matter-of-fact tone, "and she…" – he snorts – "…well, she's gone."

Despite the excruciating pain, I shut my eyes and grin.

"She's gone."

I haven't killed him yet, but she's gone. And she's fast. She's got those strong, athletic legs, legs that I've seen scale a myriad of heights and obstacles, legs that have jumped unbelievably far distances…legs that have wrapped themselves so tightly around me, both in fury and in passion, that I've lost my breath.

Yeah, I'm dying, but my grin broadens. She'll be okay. I have to believe that now. She's a fighter, and she's smart and fast and strong.

He snorts. "Go ahead, Tony, grin away. I won't deny you one last grin. It's the least I can do, considering."

"It is the least you can do, motherfucker."

He snickers. I hear him more than see him moving closer, and then I feel his hot, putrid breath over me. He cocks my gun.

"A cocky smartass to the very end, aren't you? Was it worth it though, Tony?" He asks the question mildly. "From what I'm told, you had a promising career with the Agency. You were the FBI's golden boy, their shining star," he muses. "All you and your team had to do was take the group down, and any future assignment would've been yours for the asking."

My grin remains in place.

"But then you had to go fuck her. You should've just stuck to the case, Tony, treated her like the fucking thief she was, and then perhaps you would've won here."

"I did win here," I smirk through shallow breaths.

A lifetime transpires while I wait for one of my own bullets to rip through my brain.

"You didn't win," he hisses. "She used you, Tony, just like she's used every one of us. You were a means to an end for her, and you fell for her act – hook, line, and sinker. But unlike you, I see her for what she really is: just a simple, stupid girl."

I snort. "She's anything but, asshole."

He snarls derisively. "Actually, maybe she's not that stupid. Look at you, here about to die, while she's long gone, and you're still defending her. So again, I ask, what was it all for, Tony?"

"It was all for the only thing of any worth," I reply, instilling the words with as much fervor as I can manage, "but I don't expect a piece of shit like you to ever understand, so don't strain yourself."

"For the only thing of any worth, huh?" he snickers. "Boy, Tony, I definitely take it back now. She's not the stupid, simple one; you are. In a few weeks, she'll have found another dumb fuck to sucker with those innocent, doe eyes of hers. And when she screams his name in the middle of the night, she won't even remember yours."

Now I chuckle, though the action causes me to cough up something distinctly metallic tasting.

"You know, your sad attempts to rattle me are just…sad - as sad as all your efforts have always been."

Not very eloquent, no; I suppose I've lost that ability too. Either way, it gets the point across. He never knew her, not the way I did.

He nods thoughtfully as if he agrees with me.

"Yeah, you know what, Tony? We've both been sad, sorry characters here, haven't we?" He snaps his fingers. "I've got an idea on how to solve that, and in the process, I'll do you one last solid since I do owe you for killing you." Moving in closer, he whispers in my ear. "When I find her, I'll make her scream both our names before I put a bullet through her head. How's that sound?"

"You motherfuck-" I spit, "you'll never find her!"

I make a desperate yet fruitless endeavor to reach up and wrap my hands around his throat, but my limbs are no longer obeying. What's more, my eyes are begging me to allow them to shutter. Nonetheless, I struggle to remain conscious for as long as possible. As long as I'm alive, I'll find a way to keep him away from her – even if that means buying her time with what limited time remains for me.

"Oh, did I rattle you now?" He pulls back, chuckling. "Is it because you know I will find her, Tony? Because you know that her never-ending thirst for vengeance will lead her right to me? And then…"

His voice sounds distant as if I hear it from across a wide chasm, and I know I've got mere minutes left. With my failing eyes, I scan the room and force my vision to sharpen, to keep the blurry veil of death lifted for just a few more minutes. I will myself to find something, anything that'll-

That's when I see it.

He's going on and on with his back to me, divulging all his secrets the way perps tend to do when they're sure they're succeeding with their master plan. As he does, I cull and harvest a heretofore buried reserve of strength, just enough to lift my back off the floor and to drag my twitching hand down my leg. Slowly and silently, while his gaze is on the window looking out on the darkness, and he confesses to every crime he's committed since age eight, I reach under the left leg of my pants. Ignoring the sharp spasm emanating from my midsection, the puddle of blood pooling against my side, and the trickles of sweat beading down my forehead, I soundlessly draw out the government-issued M-5 holstered to my calf. I don't aim it at him. As much as I ache to put a bullet through his brain, I can't trust my aim, and I can't afford to miss.

Instead, as he continues with his back to me, convinced that he has my only gun and that I'll probably bleed out before he's done with his rant, I aim the M-5 at the glass wall. The sign on it reads,

'DANGER: NYTROGLYCERIDE: HIGHLY EXPLOSIVE.'

In case one can't read, it also has an illustration of an explosion, complete with stick figures of people being blown to high heaven. I don't need perfect aim. The room is small. The air is thick with chemicals. High heaven or bitter hell - either is acceptable right now.

They say if you're lucky, the best moments of your life flash before your eyes in your final seconds.

The corners of my mouth lift as I remember her face and the feel of her honey-toned cheeks under the tips of my fingers.

I remember the first time I saw her across that crowded ballroom. A cliché first encounter, yeah, but her taupe eyes – a unique mixture of brown and gray – captured me from the first moment.

I remember when I caught her red-handed in the middle of a heist. I feel the voltaic charge her touch sent through my every extremity.

I remember the first time she fought me in that narrow, rainy alleyway. I feel her long, wet hair slap against my arms and face as she swung wild punches and landed powerful kicks.

I remember the first time we made love…her mouth…her cries…the words we never spoke, but which were in every look, in every touch...

They also say all your regrets rush to the forefront. My biggest one is never having spoken those words.

"For you, Bella," I murmur as I hold the gun with both hands and aim. "For you."

Those are my final thoughts, my final words before I cock the trigger…

And the gun gets kicked out of my hands.

A/N: Thoughts?

Please read the following FAQ section if you need to know some of what you're getting yourself into. If you're good with just going with the flow, you can just skip it. :)

FAQ:

Q: Will this be exactly the same story as the original?

A: No, not exactly. There are a few changes already in this prologue, and there will be bigger changes. The Patty of 2020 would've written this a bit differently from how the Patty of 2008/9? wrote it. That being said, at its heart, it will be similar. The characters' basic personalities themselves won't change, more like some of their actions/scenes, etc.

Q: Who's POV will this be told in?

A: This will be told both in Edward and Bella's POVs.

Q: How often will you update?

A: Since the story is already written, I'm planning on either daily or every other day updates. I'll be editing it though, in between all my other daily responsibilities, so we'll see.

Q: Will there be angst?

A: This will be more of a drama/action/adventure story. BUT, there will be some eventual angst. Not as angsty as I can get, lol.

Q: Will there be trigger scenes?

A: I don't believe there will be anything significant that might be regarded as a trigger. As I'm going through the story, if I come across any scenes that might be considered some sort of trigger, I'll definitely post a warning in the opening A/N.

Q: Will it be canon relationships?

A: It will be canon where it counts. ;)

Q: Do you reply to constructive criticism and disagreement when stated respectfully?

A: Totally! I love constructive criticism when stated respectfully! I love the interaction with my readers even if we agree to disagree!

Q: Do you reply to unnecessary, passive-aggressive and/or just plain disrespectful comments?

A: Nope. I totally ignore them. That's not interaction, that's assholery for the sake of assholery. If the person is logged in, I'll probably block them without a reply. If it's a guest review, I'll delete it and the comment will never see the light of day. I don't have the time. :)

Any other questions, just let me know!

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"See" you soon!