May 4, 2007: My Muse is still poking me with this story… 

Thanks to Alaidh, the Almighty Beta, who ensures my 'Dark Angel' writing stays proper to the Universe. 

My thanks also to all who read and those who review. 

May 27, 2007: My apologies for the delay. I had most of this written then Real Life intervened. Darn Real Life, anyway… ;)

Enjoy!

December 12, 2008: I wrote this that long ago? Man, am I running behind…

I haven't forgotten about this story or 'Thoughts in the Dark'. Real Life and so on interrupted me. I hope to be back on track with more regular posting soon.

Now I just have to remember how to post to FFN…

My thanks to Alaidh, for still being the Almighty Beta, and to those who have taken the time to comment on my writing or send PMs, asking if I'm alright. I've been terrible about replying, and I do apologize.

Um… You might want to re-read the last chapter before reading this one. It's been a hell of a long time…

sheepish look

~ Mouse

Playing With Fire

Chapter Eleven

By Mouse

"Revenge is a confession of pain."

- Latin Proverb

"An eye for an eye would make the whole world blind."

- Mahatma Ghandi, Indian Philosopher, 1869 - 1948

The DVD continued to play. Logan shifted a few times in his sleep while she watched, as if he was having difficulty getting comfortable. Max wondered if he was dreaming.

"Let me see the note." Moratelli extended his hand for the piece of paper Misaki was analyzing. She gave it to him and he skimmed it quickly. "Wow, no threat to Shakespeare here." He cleared his throat. "'We've lost our way but never fear - I know just what to do; I blame the rotten apple core, the red, white and blue.' That's brilliant prose."

"I've read worse," Original Cindy murmured.

Moratelli gave her a sympathetic look. "I'm so sorry." He waved the page. "It goes on -"

"It would," Sue muttered.

"'I must remove the scales of Justice; must demand she pay her due -'"

"The court house has been evacuated," the captain interjected.

"'The innocent will suffer for your lack of future view.'"

"Stretching the rhyme," Max commented absently.

A uniform entered and announced: "The building across the way is clear. In fact, we've got that whole block clear."

"Good," the captain said.

Moratelli continued to read. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the sound of the telephones and multiple conversations around them. "'Across the way they'll scream your names -'"

"Ah," Sue said. "That's where the apartment comes in."

"'The harbor lights will cry anew -'" He paused, eyes widening. "Do they mean the hospital?"

"We don't know," another detective said. "So we're having that evacuated, too."

Sue shook her head. "God." Max couldn't agree more. The chaos and panic at Harbor Lights Medical Facility must be overwhelming for staff and patients alike.

Moratelli frowned. "'Destruction will befall the ones who follow the red, white and blue.' But that doesn't even flow properly."

The captain sighed. "This isn't an English exam, Moratelli."

"I didn't say it was; it's just… so bad. And it goes on -"

"We've read it, thanks," Christine stated dryly.

"Yeah, but I haven't and neither have they." Moratelli gestured to Max and Sue. "'You will burn with all the rest, until you see my view. The chimera will comply with my request, or he will be burning, too.'" He looked sharply at Max then followed her gaze to the man on the monitor. "Shit."

Sue frowned. "What?"

"He means me," Max said flatly. "This guy has Logan as leverage so I'll do something for him."

"Or her," Misaki commented. Moratelli narrowed his eyes at her. "Well, it could be a 'she'. The note is typed, so there's not even any hand writing to try to determine gender."

Moratelli conceded. "Point taken. But there's another verse: 'Time is an illusion - it is running out for you. Any deaths will be the fault of the red, white and blue.'"

"He's kinda fixated on colour," Original Cindy observed. "Or she," she added and nodded toward Misaki.

Max sighed. This was a nightmare made real: Logan being held hostage, bomb threats and bad poetry. Her eyes were distracted by a series of numbers running in the bottom right hand corner of the screen. At first, she'd thought it was the count for the footage but now she realized that the numbers were running down to zero…

"But this part," Moratelli said. "The 'You will burn with all the rest' bit. If the package was addressed to me -"

"It was," Christine confirmed.

"And therefore the station, then are they talking about… us?"

Max jolted to life. "It's a countdown," she stated and pointed at the numbers. Damn. Why didn't I make the connection sooner? "And according to this, we've got about a minute to get the hell outta here."

"Dear Lord," the captain said, then, "Everybody out, out!"

Sue grabbed a microphone, which turned out to be part of the station's PA system. "This is Detective Jones. Clear the building. You've got less than a minute. This is not a drill, I repeat, this is not a drill. Movemovemove!"

The room was emptying rapidly, with people charging out both the front and rear exits. Max could hear feet pounding down the stairs from the second floor and thanked whatever deity might be paying attention that the station wasn't larger.

"Max!" It was Original Cindy, being escorted firmly by Sue but not wanting to leave her friend behind.

Max waved her out with both hands. "Go! I'm coming!"

Sue's voice could be heard as she ran for the front door. "Moratelli, move your ass!"

"How'd they get a bomb in here?" Moratelli wondered aloud, ejecting the disc and jamming it into his trench coat pocket with the note.

"No time to hunt for it if that countdown is anything to go by." Max grabbed Moratelli by the arm. "Back is closer."

And they ran.

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Logan tried not to stare. Heather continued to sit before him, smiling. He looked at his glass of milk and took a sip, just so he'd have something else to focus on.

"I make things burn."

Was she serious? And did he dare ask her? "Thanks for the sandwich," he said instead, and worked on the remains of his potato chips.

She beamed. "You're welcome."

"Nice milk, too." That sounded stupid. "Very… fresh," he added.

"Glad you like it." Heather looked at her watch and sighed. "I have to go now," she said apologetically. She stood, placed the newspaper beside him and lifted the tray. "See you later," she said brightly and left the room, a spring in her step.

Logan let his head drop back until it hit the wall. He stared at the ceiling and wondered if maybe he'd slipped into the Twilight Zone. With nothing else to do and not wanting to try the shower until later, he opened the paper and started flipping through it, very aware of the camera. Heather had said that it wasn't always taping but he had no confirmation that this was the truth, nor did he have any way of determining when it was on or off.

A little light at the base of the camera would've been useful, he thought, which is exactly why there isn't one, of course.

This paper, like the previous one, originated in Seattle but it was definitely more substantial. Logan tossed the advertising inserts on the end of the bed, set the sports section aside for later and started to read the headlines. After five minutes, the size of the type became too much of a challenge. He groaned in frustration and started flipping the pages at random, looking at the pictures mostly. There was an article on graffiti, a feature he'd noticed in the previous paper, and there were several examples photographed to go with the text. He glanced at them, turned the page and stopped.

As casually as possible, he turned the page back and stared at one of the images.

His eyes stared back at him, framed top and bottom by a familiar red, white and blue banner.

He raised the page so he could read the caption: 'A portrait of the infamous 'Eyes Only' was spray painted on a support pylon down by the docks. The artist didn't sign his work.'

So my dream was right: I am Eyes Only.

He didn't know how that was possible but the picture made it plain. The article itself provided no news regarding his apparent alter ego. His eyes were merely an example of the city's problem with artists using public structures as their canvas. Not wanting to draw any attention to the page he was reading, he flipped until he reached the back and looked blankly at the articles there. Several were tags, continued from the first or second pages, and at least one was a follow-up that read more like a space holder when he focused on it. It was under the heading 'Voice of the People'.

The latest word on the street in Sector 5 is that the arson investigation has reached a brick wall. The general feeling is that no one cares what happens to the citizens who live there, as they don't earn enough money or have a loud enough voice at City Hall. It is this reporter's opinion that the police are doing the best they can, considering the lack of evidence left at the various scenes. I spoke with forensics investigator Christine Tennant after the last explosion and she had this to say at a meeting with the press: "We still aren't sure what type of explosive has been used as there never seems to be enough conclusive residue to determine the nature of the bombs." She had no further information. This reporter knows there must be a pattern to the buildings targeted but the police haven't revealed any leads to the criminal. I'll be watching this case and will keep you informed. The Voice of the People will be heard. – Calvin Simon Theodore.

He reread it, somehow feeling that this was important. The author's name meant nothing to him but the subject of arson did. Why? Scattered snippets of a day gone awry threaded through his head: the topic of marriage, preparing a lamb for roasting, swimming lap after lap in an indoor pool. None of it made much sense but remarkably he didn't seem to have any physical reaction to these pieces of information. No seizures or dizziness or rising headaches. He folded the paper and set it aside, hoping he still appeared nonchalant to anyone watching the video feed.

Which I guess would be Heather, if what she said was true.

He remembered how she'd checked her watch, as if an unwanted appointment required her attention. Maybe she's stepped out for a bit. If only I knew whether or not I was alone -

There was one sure way to find out.

Logan reached for the wheelchair, which had been left beside his bed, and pulled it closer. He locked the brakes and transferred quickly then snapped the brakes off and manoeuvred around the bottom of the bed, heading for the door. It wasn't locked so he proceeded into the hallway and reached the living/dining area in short order. Since leaving the bedroom, he'd been listening for any sound to indicate that someone else was in the apartment but so far it had been quiet. He checked the kitchen: nobody there. He poked his nose into the fridge and discovered a carton of milk. He sniffed it cautiously. It seemed safe so he took one of the plastic glasses from the dish rack and helped himself to another serving, leaving the glass in the sink when he was done.

The door to the front bedroom was closed and locked when he tried it, and no light shone from underneath. He listened carefully but either the door was very well insulated or there wasn't anyone on the other side. That's probably where they have the surveillance equipment set up, he thought, still puzzled as to why they would bother. If he was really named 'Tim' and these people were his family, there was no reason for him to be kept here, never mind have his movements recorded. The story of him being ill had been suspicious from the start and was growing old very quickly. His dream about Eyes Only and then confirmation that such a person actually existed only added to the summation that it was all an elaborate ploy to keep him mostly drugged and physically confined. He had concluded that they wanted him to believe their story so that he wouldn't ask difficult questions or attempt to escape, giving them time to do…

He sighed. What? What are they trying to accomplish? They want me to be as little trouble as possible but obviously want me alive. Something else is happening here, but what?

The drugs were making it difficult to think. He smacked the top of the wheels in frustration. Damn.

The front door only had two bolts drawn across this time, both within reach when he stretched. Logan sat back in the chair and considered his options. He could try to open the door and test if there were any other locks that were operated from the outside. He scanned the area around the moulding but couldn't see an alarm system of any kind. His main problem wasn't the physical limitations that came with his injury, though that didn't help; the erratic nature of his 'spells' was disturbing and they completely incapacitated him. It was unfortunate but he really needed more information before he tried leaving.

That didn't mean he couldn't try to get a message out to someone. If only he knew who he could contact.

If only I had a phone -

At least no one had appeared to direct him back to his room. That was something.

He took the time to search the rooms he could access but, as he suspected, he couldn't find a telephone of any kind. If he was in a building where people could lease for a period, there might be an office for the landlord or maybe even a telephone in the lobby. It was a place to start.

Logan took a deep breath, let it out slowly and reached for the higher of the two bolts.

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The back door of the police station stayed on its hinges, much to Max's surprise, as she and Moratelli launched themselves into the darkness. They crossed the small, wooden deck where the smokers took their breaks and skipped the three steps down completely. Moratelli wasn't a slouch in the running department, but he wasn't nearly as fast as Max could be. She wasn't trying to outrun him, though. If she kept close and they hit a patch of trouble, she was more likely to be able to do something about it if they stuck together.

Ahead of them, other members of the force were fleeing through the parking lot to where a number of people were gathered behind a barrier of harassed uniforms. Max could make out Misaki and the captain. Misaki was flagging and stumbled. Max had hold of her right arm in seconds and propelled her along. They reached the edge of the lot and turned in time to see Moratelli skid to a halt just beside them. The three of them exchanged a look in the gloom then focussed on the building.

"Is everybody out?" the captain shouted at the group. As some of the officers had left by the front door, it was impossible to know for certain.

Max had been counting in her head, matching the time she'd seen on the screen. Aloud, she said quietly, "Three, two, one…"

There was no explosion.

"Huh," Misaki managed, still trying to catch her breath. "Maybe we were wrong."

"What about the apartment building?" someone behind them asked.

Max tilted her head to one side, listening and sniffing the air. "Something's burning," she said. Moratelli lifted his cell phone, possibly to call the number of the CO the young corporal had provided, or so Max guessed. He had just taken a breath when the station lit up like a Roman candle. People screamed and some fell to the ground as a wave of hot air blasted across the lot.

Max flinched and narrowed her eyes at the intensity of the fire, determined to witness anything that could lead her to Logan. Something moved by one of the windows; someone was still inside. Max took a few steps, instinctively wanting to help but wondering if anyone could survive something like this. Even if she could get inside, she'd only arrive in time to retrieve a badly burned corpse.

Then the figure appeared in the back door and raised its arms to the sky, as if in celebration of the event. From what Max could tell, it was a young woman, and she was very much alive. There were gasps around her as some of the others spotted the figure. Predictably, Moratelli started forward. Stupid hero, Max thought, and grabbed hold of his arm with a determined grip.

He turned, frustrated, unable to free his arm. "Max, I have to try -"

"She's fine." Max glanced at the detective then returned her gaze to the young woman. "They've got a damn pyrokinetic."