This took wwaaaayyyyy to long for me to update. I'm ssoooo sorry! So I'm going to keep this way way brief! Thank you to my awesome betas for all the advice and making me re-write a certain part over and over and over again until it is perfect! Swear, I was going to kill you guys but in the end you were totally right! Love you guys!

Chapter 8:

Max sighs heavily as he treads softly down the corridor. The hallway is carpeted with a plush, tasteful blue and red pattern that feels eerily homey. Wooden panels lined with of former Directors and other noteworthy individuals are on his left. To the right are abstract pieces that all somehow work together to generate tranquility, stability, harmony. Solid colors, textures and collages of beauty that truly create order from chaos; sense out of confusion, peace from war.

Ordinarily Max would have stopped, studied and cherished this moment, a time when he is able to admire the incredible wonder inside the human mind.

Today though, is not that day; instead of serenity he finds discord. Instead of joy he finds dread. Instead of welcoming this meeting with eagerness he finds himself fearful.

Nonetheless, he is a man of duty, honor bound and proud. He will not be discredited, allow those who depend on him down, or most importantly of all, fail his own ideals of right, wrong and what is best for The Greater Good.

That is why he continues down a hallway, that despite all the harmless appearances, contains his fate within its' deceptive grasp. None of the ideas of self doubt and worry show on his features, not even when he stops at a solid, heavy oak door. Knocking loudly upon it.

"Door's open come on in," the female voice tones out in expectation at the young man that appears. Max knows that privacy is critical and closes it behind him.

What he steps into is similar to the hallway. Light green carpet adorns the floor. A rug of what appears to be of Asian Indian design sits in front of a highly polished cherry desk. The perfectly symmetrical swirls, circles and squares of the rug combine into a mosaic that compliments the walls. Although the curtains are pulled closed Max knows the sun is shining outside by the thin threads of light that escape at the ends and where twin pieces of heavy red fabric meet in the middle.

As decorated as the room maybe Max is far more interested in the attractive female sitting behind the desk. A thin pile of folders sitting directly opposite the computer is enough of a clue that the woman is fully engaged in her work.

Gesturing the red head at the desk offers him the chair across from her. "Please Max, take a seat." Instead of standing she remains seated, using her right hand instead to politely point where she wants him to go.

Inwardly this causes Max to wince. Nine times out of ten his interactions with the good Director do not go this way at all. At the very least both are usually quite informal. With her taking the lead like she has the minute fact of her not standing is powerful reinforcement of just who wears the pants, or skirt as it may be, in this particular building. As Max sits in the comfortable leather chair across from his boss he nods his thanks.

Another alarm bell in his mind sounds when he notes her hand tapping on a control pad tied directly into the desk. Barely audible static appears for a second before disappearing as if it never existed. He arches a brow as if to double check. "Sound proof Director?"

"Of course. Would you expect anything else?"

The temptation to sigh or frown is overwhelming but steadfastly he keeps his face firm. This is a skill that has taken an impressive amount of time to master. He has perfected this attribute so well that only a very few gifted individuals are privy to this ability. Unfortunately for him, as rare as those people may be, the woman across from him is capable instantly of detecting the change. A fact that perturbs him thoroughly since, while he remains readable, she remains as mysterious and unpredictable as the day the two met.

A subtle tilt of her head offers Max the clue that she is waiting for him to begin. He does so but with a question intended to throw her off guard. "I take it you read my latest report."

"Yes. Why wouldn't I have?" This time it is her turn to suppress her emotions. Unlike him she decides not to do so and allows the frown to show through. "You are after all my most valuable agent Max".

"Let us not kid ourselves we both know that your time is valuable. You can't be everywhere at once or devotedly reading every single case that crosses your desk. Even if one or two of them happen to be mine." For someone in his younger years known for generating chaos and confusion his growth and maturity is incredible. The dark haired man crosses his arms indignantly while leaning back for the answer. "So. Tell me Director what is it this time."

The redhead maintains a perfect poker face before placing her hands on the desk in front of her. From the look on her face Max isn't sure what to expect. This could either be high praise or high condemnation. His last report was complete but to be sure he isn't, and never has been, one to include a high degree of detail. This is coupled with the fact that due to security purposes he had to assume that the message might not even arrive on his boss's desk.

She stares steadily at Max as he picks up a trinket off her desk moving it this way and that as she speaks. "Before we start how about you tell me what happened. Without the code words."

Max begins to relive the memories and details to the best of his abilities. Telling her everything from the shootout to his impromptu escape with Bull. The last is still his meeting with gang leader. What Max does not include is that he has his own reservations. Years may have passed between when he last spoke to Alex or Justin but from having watched them from the sidelines. He is able to see a scheme in place, something both; particularly Alex excels at carrying out.

"So." She pauses and opens the file again; plucking out a photo of the person he's supposed to shoot.

The man is a tall blonde with short-cropped hair. He is wearing a suit that is impervious of any flaws, perfect in every way; from the white starched shirt, to the pressed black pants, and wrinkle free tie. All of this accents his blatant position in higher society. Nancy shakes her head at the realization that his individual is slated to die. Death by the very hands of her lover, the thought is one that makes her heart turn and skip but not in a good way. It terrifies her down to her very soul. As the professional that none of disturbance reaches the surface to appear in her expressions.

"You're ordered to kill this person, Justin. You know department policy and protocol on such requests."

"Yeah, yeah." Max waves his hand dismissively at the Director. "So this is where you tell me you're pulling the plug on the operation and I get a new assignment." Nancy holding a colored image rather then the black and white he was originally given by the gang Boss is missed on him.

Her eyebrows arch for a moment as if to question the statement before responding. "No. You're not only authorized to continue your intelligence gathering operation but you are sanctioned the usage of lethal force."

"What?" Max jumps out of his seat utterly startled. "You're not serious! Common. Director." Max pleads before taking his chair once again. Face stone serious. "Nancy, we've known each other a long time. What is going on?"

An unsmiling face and crossed arms on the seated female in gives Max the answer without the verbal response. "I am. In fact you are not only authorized you are ordered to carry out this assignment." If possible Max's eyes widen from saucers into full-fledged dinner plates.

The reaction makes her grin in amusement. Of course nothing is humorous about murdering someone but Max's expressions are so damn cute to her. They always have been a source of amusement to her since they met. That was a long time ago in school. In fact she was Max's first girlfriend.

He very nearly uprooted his entire family by revealing the fact that they were wizards by treating her to a magic carpet ride. Thankfully his masterful sister Alex with some creative ingenuity by everyone else saved him from making the terrible mistake.

After they graduated it was by chance that they met soon after Max became integrated into the FBI. Nancy did not make a good field agent but she was masterful when it came to organized planning and leadership. The two quickly rekindled what they started ensuring that their relationship never interfered with their jobs.

Nancy sighs depressingly before touching her forehead. "You're not going to let up are you?"

Max blinks for a moment as he ponders a response. "Do you want me too?"

The answer hangs in the air for a moment, their eyes locked until Nancy yields. "I never could say no to you." She returns to rub her temples for a moment. "Truthfully Max I don't know. This is a command from the higher ups. I can't override it even though I would if I could. I suspect this is coming from Homeland Security and NSA. You know how they like to use us for their dirty work instead of going through CIA. We're easier to pushover.

"I'll give you everything I've got but it is bare minimum. They believe a company called The Box of Paranormal Magic and Illusions is a front for a much larger scale illegal operation. Supposedly all of this is a shield for some sort of fanatics or highly ritualistic cult. This Justin person has been confirmed as one of their leaders."

"That also means that I… we suffer the consequences if I don't succeed." Max states solemnly. Nancy immediately detects the shift in her boyfriend's emotions and moves to where he is seated, pulling him upwards and into a hug.

"Look Max don't worry about it so much." She clutches him tightly with both hands gently rocking him back and forth.

"Easy for you to say," Max grimly replies as he ends the embrace gently. "You aren't the one tasked with killing another human being."

Although the two are a few steps apart Nancy doesn't free Max's hands and instead pulls him closer for a kiss. "Look, I can't lie to you Max, but they know. They know everything," her voice is dangerously quiet, her eyes meeting his, soft serenity and sympathy filling her beautiful irises. Max is about to speak but a finger touches his lips, cutting him off. "Max, one of the higher ups knows your background. They know about your training. They know about your military aspirations. They know all about your special skills."

Max steps back as he digests this new information. His head suddenly hurts. A hand comes up to massage his forehead at the place above his eye that feels like it will explode from the pressure. "Just what are you saying Nancy?" Part of his voice wants to yell, to scream, to erupt in loudness and vent all the frustration that is threatening to encompass his entire soul. Yet he cannot. His mind, his training and most of all his heart will not allow him. All three agree that this situation is utterly out of his girlfriends' hands. Turning this entire debacle into an all out argument will resolve nothing except hurt a good thing – or rather two good people.

Gears churn in Maxs' mind and Nancy is able to see them turning, grinding, sparks flying from between the cogs as they struggle to comprehend the insane amount of discoveries he is only now being privy too. "They are using you. They are using me."

A heavy exhale escapes Max's lips as Nancy eyes her boyfriend with growing worry. Not solely because of the enormity of what is being said but for the sake of their relationship too. "Who is 'they'?"

Nancy gently takes one of Max's hands in her own palm, the other she places against his cheek. "You know the compartmentalization between everyone." With the tension so heavy in the room Nancy is able to feel the stress in her boyfriend, the pain coming off of him in waves. The urge to cry is great but she refuses and pushes her emotions down and to the side.

Max has had enough and the sudden dagger in his voice drips with poison. He is not going to go on some happy charade that ends with someone dying without knowing why. "Nancy, drop it. Give it me to me straight or I walk out that door," he points for added effect. "And I'll never return."

Silence fills the air as eyes meet once more in a test of will that leaves both breathless and Nancy trying to figure out a way to evade the question. Inwardly she realizes none exist. "I wasn't lying about the compartmentalization part." Nancy removes her hands from Max's and rests them crossed against her chest wearily. "You can call yourself whatever you want Max. In your heart of hearts I do truly believe you're FBI, forever and always. That doesn't change anything though. You have an important skill set. Homeland gets that. You've done jobs that border on the fringe of military operations before. This is no different."

"Yeah, but none of those involved me shooting a civilian."

"I don't envy your task Max but NSA has something big going on. They've called in; forgive the pun, 'big guns' for this one. Hell, even CIA is on board this train." Nancy flashes him a smile of disbelief for a second before her stoic manner returns in force. "I don't have the foggiest idea what is happening but you know as well as I do that these agencies don't play nice together."

More gears grind away in Max's head, some so fast that they are beyond sparking and have turned simply red hot. "What your saying is that none of them trust each other and are calling in a third party to do their job." He rationalizes carefully. Nancy nods her head cautiously. "Are they telling the truth, is this," he pauses for the right word trying to wrap his mind around the consequences of what is being suggested. "I guess what I'm asking, is are they right?"

The pain in Nancy's throat builds. She recognizes that voice. The voice happens in two circumstances. They are opposite sides of the same coin. One is when Max is being himself, carefree, innocent, recklessly stupid, fearless and funny. The second is when he is truly terrified, a soft waver, whether from doubt or excitement being the only barest hint. To her, the voice is adorable, cute and shows a side of Max that so often is not seen. In her opinion the boy grew up too fast. She also knows that this is why he is asking the question.

This is a path they will walk together, as one, no blame, no doubt just certainty in an action that neither may fully understand. He may pull the trigger but Nancy is as responsible as he, she is the one giving the mission. She also has the capability, even if illegal to influence her boyfriend down another path, even at great cost to their careers. That is why he asks, whether all of this, what they have, past, present and future is justified in being risked.

"I don't need to remind you why you were chosen for this job. You also know why you're being given the order and not someone else. You're the best shot we have."

The tension in the room returns instantly and Max instinctively reaches for Nancy again, pulling her close as they're lips meet once more. "Come back to me alive Max. Promise me you'll come back to me."

Max lies down on his stomach on the uncomfortable rooftop. Despite wearing military fatigues that are carefully picked to mix into the urban environment he decides it isn't enough and determines to go the extra step. From his personal collection of hand made gillie suits he selects a light toned outfit. The mesh suit slips over and attaches to the fatigues. Sand and rock; even a touch of grey gravel with the occasional bit of fake foliage are carefully entwined throughout the netted fabric. Together the camouflaged clothing with the gillie suit allows him to seamlessly meld into the background.

The vivid sun makes a similar assault against his vulnerable eyes. Like the wind though it is having no success. Normally he would wear glasses to protect his eyes but he can't. The reduction in vision might affect his aim. After all that is what the highly specialized scope on his rifle is for.

If the mission were to last mere minutes or even an hour or two all of these elaborate preparations would not be required. However this is not the case in the least. This is not even similar to his last tasks. The former were easy: confuse and evade. Of course staying alive is a requirement as well.

However, this time is quite different. Max is alone. He found nearby fifteen story building with rooftop access roughly 1400 hundred meters away from entrance to the company. The butt of his military grade rifle is firmly in place against his shoulder. Concealed between an air conditioning unit and an air intact duct it is impossible for anyone to see him at all.

While Max waits he cannot help but wonder why this person, this Justin is so critical and why he must be killed. As far as he may recall such an operation has never been done in all the time he as been with the FBI. Then again, this entire mission is completely against every police policy that exists, FBI or not. Nancy has to be right; this must be some other agency.

Yet that doesn't stop the butterflies in his stomach. One eye flickers to the small black and white picture that he has carefully taped to the rooftop. Easy enough to grab and go, subtle enough to cover with any part of his body, visible enough for him to verify the target. As time ebbs forward Max cannot help but feel that there is something strangely familiar about the image.

From his vintage point he is able to see that whatever is harbored inside that building must be impressive. Using the zoom and enlargement capabilities of the scope on his rifle he is able to spot security checkpoints behind the doors. The multitude of people ensures that this killing is going to be messy. The risk for collateral damage is rising too, hitting an innocent civilian is the last thing that he want to do. Not only for the harm to his career but the potential guilt burned into soul. This mission is hard enough as it is without thinking about all the endless possibilities that could go wrong.

All of this weighs on Max heavily more and more as he lies in wait. A predator stalking a prey that he has no knowledge of and off information that isn't even from within his own division or even department. Everything about this pulse through his head that this is exploit is wrong. From the very pit of his stomach, his gut, and his instincts this action is wholly wrong.

Yet he swore an oath, to protect, to obey and serve and Max is a man of his word, even if that means going against his own beliefs.

Justin's stress level is increasing with each passing second. Demonic activity is rare. A level six disturbance is almost unheard of. Ever since the communiqué from Rome by Mike McFly report after report continues to flood into the Bureau. In the last two days alone more potential demon type briefings have accumulated then in all of the previous year. Combined.

The powerful institution is not necessarily unaccustomed to such developments except in this case the timing cannot be worse. Lax activity in the previous weeks has allowed for greater allowance of work breaks and temporary dismissal of many of the specialized teams used to address such eventualities. However, despite vacations being canceled and employees recalled a sizable fraction cannot, or do not want to be reached. What staff and teams are available are already stretched beyond their limits.

Kara and Justin are in one of the conference rooms alone. Beautiful rays of sun and a friendly blue sky are overhead flooding warmth and happiness into the room through the large floor to ceiling windows. No one may argue the essential function the Ops Center represents but in an equally manner both are relieved to be out of the shadows and flickering computer screens that the large room represents.

Sadly, however wonderful the outside is does nothing to alleviate the tense stress filling the air like a putrid smell. In fact if anything that smell seems to increase as they desperately try to determine the best, most effective course of action. A large world map spread out on the table in front of them. Several smaller graphics of specific cities are in a neat pile nearby and within easy access.

With Charles Trujillo, the other director having not reported in Kara and Justin have little choice but to take up the slack. The cumulative days of long hours and little sleep combined with alerts that always seem to sound at the most inconvenient of times is draining both quickly. Hence why they are alone in a briefing room to figure out a new course of action. The two have been at this task for hours. Going over every shred of information that the Bureau has been assembling. Both realize a clue must be present somewhere the question remains will they be able to find the proverbial word, phrase, image or sentence in the piled stacks of paper.

"I don't see what choice we have, Justin." Kara begins as she peers down at the world map again in deep thought. "I think we are over analyzing the situation." She cautiously approaches running a finger over the various marked circles spread out over the continents. Each represents a separate detection of a high-ranking undesirable creature.

Justin gives her a look that means he wants more of an explanation.

"Bear with me for a moment." Kara states as Justin cautiously nods. "We have potentially hostile intentions all over the place. Right?"

"Right…" Justin echoes her not certain where this line of thinking is going.

"When did all of this start?" She inquires.

"When the alarms-"

"No." She interrupts before he is able to finish the sentence. "That's not what I meant. When. Where did all of this seem to start?"

The room is eerily quiet as the gears turn in Justin's brain. Another moment passes before he looks at Kara in astonishment. His eyes wide open.

"We've been looking in the wrong location the whole time." The emphasis on 'whole' is laced with disgust, frustration and anger. Not at Kara or anyone else but himself. How can I be this DAMN stupid!

"Justin!" Kara approaches and places a soft hand on his shoulder. Turning him around so that the two are facing one another. Dangerous eyes meet her own. "Quit it!" You aren't dumb. You made a mistake. Get over it. Happens to the best of us.

"Yeah, well not to me!" He snaps. "Stay out of this!"

"Or what?" Kara moves with Justin's pacing making sure he can't avoid her line of reasoning. "Being pissed and upset isn't going to change what is happening. Live with it! Move on. If you can't do your job, leave!" For once since the start of this conversation she matches his irritated tones.

Strangely Justin smiles. Perhaps the lack of sleep is beginning to really catch up to him as Kara continues on her tirade.

Kara having worked closely beside him for as long as she has recognizes the look. The stare of is one of forgotten love. Many might consider him to be reminiscing about a past girlfriend but this isn't the case. He already has one of those, a special, wonderful, terrific girl he is overjoyed to call his soul mate.

No, the girl he is remembering is quite different, the total complete opposite from him in fact. Kara's words eerily taunt. They mock in a memory that Justin continually wishes turned out to be different. He will never admit this to anyone, especially not Kara but she nearly word-for-word echoes what Alex said so long ago on that terrible, horrible fateful day when his perfect world shattered into a million unrecognizable pieces.

More often then not the two siblings mix as well as oil does with water. They are utterly incompatible. One philosophy is entirely at odds with the other and with seldom if any compromise. In those rare instances when one may be agreed upon the two are closer then close. The bonds between sister and brother become unfathomably strong, as it is beautiful and joyous.

That is what Justin misses the most. Alex's carefree spirit, her rebellious attitude and determination to forge ahead no matter the cost or hardship in her path.

All to often this involves Justin and even if more frequently than he would ever like to admit he becomes embroiled in her deviant schemes too. The irony is that despite him being ever increasingly annoyed he cannot deny that the two make albeit, a dysfunctional pair. He too often discovers that she more than any other has made him mature, grow and explore possibilities he himself would never have had the guts to do so otherwise.

She more than any other single individual allowed him to become director. She more than any other realized that he was capable of much more than being an encyclopedia of knowledge. She more than any other allowed him to harness and funnel his great awareness and prowess of the mind into something tangible, useable, functional. She, without consciously being aware of her actions pushed, forced and drove him to greatness. She turned him into the man that he is today.

Emotions long bubbled up try to surface once more. Justin fiercely resists the urge to cry. All of these powerful feelings rush together in a torrent of memories that pound with great fortitude within the confines of his mind before being shoved aside by some unknown burst of strength and determination.

Now is not the time to think about past trauma within his family. Now is the time to focus on the events at hand. To devise some sort of stratagem against the madness playing across places both near and so far so away.

Justin sighs and rubs his forehead with the palm of his hand before sitting down in his chair once more. He lets out a big sigh, face scrunched up in deep thought.

"You're right Kara. We can't keep approaching this like we are. We are going to run ourselves ragged."

The statement is very true. With every available team dispatched there is little pause for the normal shift rotations that allow each of them brief respite. Nonetheless, exhaustion does take its course and eventually they have to stop. Even if the end result is a few hours of rest. This is doubly felt for Justin and Kara.

Justin is so occupied that he doesn't even realize that he has stopped his pacing and sits at one of the chairs. Massaging his forehead in an attempt to try to focus on the task at hand. His brain screams with indignation.

"You're suggesting we recall the teams and start at the beginning. "Justin surmises.

Kara shakes her head no. "Not entirely. Return temporally back to rotating shifts. Give all of them respite save for one."

He easily is able to comprehend the rest, nodding in agreement. "Alright. And send one, our best to where we first detected something out of the ordinary."

"Exactly. The Broken Talisman."

"Ok. That is our plan for now. I'm going to head to the park across the street for thirty. You know how to find me Kara."

"Will do," she responds. "Justin?"

"Yeah?" He turning as he is about to make his way out of the room. Fresh air sounds great and he is hasty to be not where he is currently.

"You know the policy."

Justin hits his forehead with a palm. "Damnit, can't we forget about that regulation for now?"

Justin and Kara may be responsible for many of the changes during the Bureau's reorganization but Charles Trujillo still held a bit of influence. He insisted that those above a certain rank within the Bureau conceal their identity by magic. Many strongly opposed the decision as being excessive. While from a security standpoint the choice seems reasonable what doesn't is when no threat has ever come close to threatening anyone near the high echelons of command.

For reasons that continue to remain unknown Charles is even backed by the Wizard Council. An interfering move that thoroughly stuns both of them. While very capable of out ranking any decision the Bureau they are much more content to allow the organization to effectively retain its pure independence. They not only and agree but insist that Charles 'suggestion' be written into policy.

Justin and Kara hold their tongues when they receive the directive from the Council. Privately they retain strong suspicions that the Council is aware of something they are not. Regardless little may be done to mitigate the situation save for biding by the rules the best they can.

"Must we always debate this rule? By the tone of her voice and crossed arms Kara is making her stance rather clear. If you don't I'll make the call."

To ensure adherence of the policy Kara or anyone else regardless of position to place the building into what is labeled 'Command & Control Lockdown'. This means that the admittedly few who are governed by that rule are forbidden to leave. A magical enchantment automatically activated around the building to prevent escape, either physically or by other means such as teleportation.

Justin holds his ground, narrowing his eyes to give Kara a gaze that would scare the dead. "You wouldn't."

She shrugs and casually walks over to a nearby button on the wall. A finger poised over the innocent looking red mechanism. "Try me."

Seconds pass between them in a silent challenge of will. Each tests the other wondering when the other might back down.

Kara's fast mind decides on another tactic and she lowers her hand. "Look. I'm not here to threaten you. We've both broken that rule more times then I can count but this is different." Her face softens into one sympathy and thought. "Something is going on out there," she gestures with a sweeping motion of an arm towards the windows. "You've always taught us to prepare for the worst. Well, the last thing we need is something to happen to you. Demons are appearing. They're a threat. We even have confirmation! You cannot go out there without concealment."

Logic is one of Justin's weaknesses and everything Kara says is very right. I hate it when she does that, using my own reasoning against me. He sighs again before straightening up. "Fine. Have it your way. I'll be good." She brightens immensely at hearing his consent.

"Try to enjoy yourself. Don't think about work. We'll all be here when you get back." Kara smiles at him enthusiastically.

Life is too short. No point in arguing. I just want to be outside these walls and in real air. Justin grins back at her. "I'll do just that. Be back in a bit!"

Luxor and Dr. Ice or Ice for short is doing there best to track the residual dark magic. Director Justin's instructions were quite clear in the matter. They were not to return until the job is done. A difficult task in the best of situations is made more intricate by the almost non-existent briefing, limited amount of equipment and not much time to prepare.

The unfortunate truth is that, in addition to being one the best monster hunting teams they are also the best rested and prepped. The duos are coming off of twelve hours of down time after working in the field for almost two days straight. Both feel that this is barely adequate but considering that some teams are lucky to receive half of that time they do not mention any feelings of discontent.

Previously Luxor and Ice were the worst of the worst but after a terrific incident involving a Leviathan, an extraordinarily rare level 7. Leviathans are not only gigantic, often a city block or more, have the ability to fly and are capable of resisting enormous magical energies that normally would subdue any other lesser demon.

The Leviathan is the first appearance of such a powerful creature in many centuries and takes everyone by surprise. As a result many of the most skilled hunters were outright killed or eaten. The entire escapade shock the foundations of the Bureau to its' foundation because few monster hunter teams of the admittedly already limited teams survived. In the end the creature could not be killed and instead trapped and returned to the dark depths to which it initially resided.

At the time Justin is just a neophyte having not even captured his first level 1. They are the most useless, mindless and 'safe' monsters of them all. Admittedly no monster is entirely safe but these creatures come very close.

Ice and Luxor are not stupid and consider this development a very blatant and violent wake-up call. Determined not to make such mistakes or become some other terrible demons snack they redouble their efforts. Paying far more attention to their training and spending many hours off the clock to ensure they are prepared for anything. Although both are in their early thirties they are at they're physical best and are able to run laps around themselves if they had their twenty-something counterparts.

This doesn't extent simply to physicality either but usage of equipment, spells and most important of all, sharpness of mind. The use of reason, logic, gathering information and making educated choices based upon their discoveries. Again something both lacked in their previous years. Although many were at first skeptical of all their traits slowly they regained and most importantly gained respect for their talents.

Using the wizard portals in conjunction with a teleportation spell the duo quickly find themselves in the hustle and bustle of the various crowds of a region known as Anvil Province. Despite being on a small peninsula the area is fairly run down. Although there is a seaport the water isn't deep enough to support the larger freighters and cargos that bring in the most money. And there is not enough traders utilizing what does exist to offer much more then a few coins here and there. With law enforcement few and in-between illicit trade of all sorts has taken full residence.

Any and all types of undesirables wander the grime-covered streets visiting various locations for cheap liquor, sex, drugs or anything else they may desire. That is why Ice and Luxor agree on forgoing the usual uniform attire and choose far more casual clothing to assist in them blending in.

Ice wears combat fatigues and black boots while Luxor dons biker leathers, jacket, pants and boots. Both have similarly matching backpacks that not only double as adding authenticity as being shady figures but conceal valuable equipment. Tools that may not be easily stowed away within jacket pockets, hidden pockets on pant legs, or narrow bands on the inseams of boots.

"You have any idea where we are heading Luxor?" Ice inquires. She has never been to this part of the city and so far hasn't been very impressed. Everything that unlawful, undesirable and unwanted seemed to thrive within the shadows of the streets and shadows making up the road they are walking on.

Luxor nods at his partner. "Yeah I do. Been there once. Should be there shortly. Gonna warn you though. The bar is rough. Not to say that that isn't true of most bars. But this one takes the cake."

"What do you mean?

"I mean that it is a place where you get your drink maybe a bite of crappy food and chill with your pals. Or in this case pal. And only your pal." He smirks knowingly. He doesn't bother to tell her that Anvil Province locally is known by another name, Fools Country. Since no one in there right mind would set foot here. Those looking for pleasantries or a vacation are in for a rude and sometimes fatal surprise.

Luxor doesn't have any intention or desire to live up to the local reputation. He also doesn't want his unaccustomed partner to be a part of the local legends either. All of these are as pleasant as the ones. "Oh yeah, keep an eye on everything you own. There are plenty of ways for your possessions to unexpectedly grow feet and walk away. Once that happens it will be a miracle and then some if you ever got them back."

"You sound like you know this place well." Ice states as she kicks a rusty can down the dirty filth called a road. Surprisingly Luxor doesn't immediately respond. She notices, "Something wrong?"

"Nah. Just thinkin'." Although he replies and his voice is steady the volume decreases dramatically, so much so that Ice struggles to make out what he is saying. "Look we're almost there." He points at a dimly light, marginally functional neon light with a quarter of its lights non-functional. "Let me lead. Stick together. And be prepared. This place is rough."

As if to exemplify this point noise from inside reaches their ears as the front doors suddenly open and a body is unceremoniously tossed harshly out head first and stomach down. The person skids along the muck until being stopped by the adjacent wall, groaning. The doors close as abruptly as they open.

"Make it look like we are a couple. We'll fit in a lot better." Luxor says.

Ice laughs. "We aren't one already?" Playfully she hits him on the shoulder a bit harder then he would have liked.

Fortunately Luxor takes the strike with stride and shoots her a grin before taking the lead. They exchange a look before continuing inside. The interior is just as dank and dingy as the outside appears to be. Why on Earth the director wants to send them to this place is beyond their comprehension but he's the boss. What the boss wants the boss gets.

Instantly the pair are bombarded with the sounds of a some sort of terrible noise that is attempting to call itself a song by a band neither has heard of and unfortunately will remember for all the wrong reasons. The damn tune stuck forever within their traumatized minds. While the joint is not completely full it is not empty either.

Any resemblance to safety codes regarding smoking, fire escapes and the like all seemed to have taken a back seat to the all mighty dollar. Just as well, the two weren't planning to stick around very long to discover what catastrophe might happen within these depressing confines.

With a tip of his head Luxor again takes the lead ignoring the various stares. Ice, unfortunately is not faring as well. Females, while not uncommon are rare enough that when one enters, particularly once as furnished and attractive in shiny black leather tend to receive lots of attention.

One enterprising patron going so far as to cope a feel of her behind only to find a kick to his forehead. The force sends him tumbling backwards in his seat. Two hulking bouncers appearing from out of nowhere to haul the very angry and very drunk patron outside to join the other violators alongside what is becoming a rather crowed wall.

"Hmm, guess all that combat training we had wasn't for nothin' after all." Ice says to Luxor who turned around to see all the commotion.

He frowns at her. "Look, don't go advertising our skills." At the curious glance he continues. "Around these parts you're always being judged. People here have a sixth, seventh, and eighth sense about what makes a person tick. They can size you up fast and rapidly determine what kind of wares you offer in comparison to the risk it may be for them to acquire what belongings you possess.

"You get what I'm saying? These guys and girls don't know you. Don't want to know you. And don't care about your past or future. All, or rather most of them are worried about is how much value might be carried within your pockets. If they believe they are capable of taking all that away from you they will. And don't fool yourself. I doubt you would find guns or any kind of deadly magic's in these ramparts but you may certainly find yourself with the greater amount of eight to fourteen inches of gleaming steel through your gut; or worse, in a thin neat line across your throat.

Ice absorbs this new information with greater and greater apprehension this certainly is not turning out to be her idea of the perfect easy mission. Luxor notes the subtle lines of concern on his partners face and places a reassuring hand on her shoulder, their eyes meeting.

"I'm not here to scare you out of your mind but I want you to be aware of the real risks represented within this area. This is a place that lacks organized civilization," his lips moving just beyond touching her ear. " The people's ideas about law are governed by what is on their backs and the weapons they carry. Everyone may look harmless but do not forget for an instant that all of that may change for the worst in a heartbeat. Should that heartbeat happen, I want us both prepared and at our best. Playing catch-up is no fun in the middle of a fist or knife fight."

For the first time Ice is feeling much more at ease having not only the confidence of her partner but of having full comprehension of the potential consequences. "Go grab us some drinks. I'll find a spot."

"Sounds good. I could desperately use a strong bruske." Luxor states with far more enthusiasm then he means. This invokes a laugh from his partner.

Emboldened Ice navigates her way through crowded bar until she successfully finds a rare, secluded table in a gloomy corner. Just as well too because it lets them hide their equipment more effectively from wondering eyes.

Out of the corner of his eyes Luxor gives a most subtle of nod to Dr. Ice. She removes a device from a pocket looking much like an ordinary, a very ordinary and plain cell phone at that. Dutifully she taps a few buttons as if to make out she is texting. The guise succeeds brilliantly. She is so busy staring at the screen that she is unaware of another joining her at the table. Luxor has returned with two metallic steins.

Ice raises an eyebrow in question. "I don't believe you, martini in a stein?" Luxor shrugs as he takes a long and rather noisy swallow of the strong liquor. "You sure you haven't gone completely insane?"

"Better then the alternative of having to try to dance, dodge, and dropkick a few people to get my insane butt over here." Grinning he pushes the other stein towards her. "Besides I made up for it and brought you a Guinness."

The comment usually is one that would invoke quite a response from Dr. Ice but in this case she is disturbingly, uncharacteristically quiet. Her gaze is stuck firmly on the small handheld device that moment ago she was dutifully tapping upon.

Eyes meet and the pair silently communicate, one hand touching another as the electronic pad is handed over. Filling the screen is a highly specialized graph that monitors for lingering magic and densities. One normally would expect residual spells and the like to be hardly detectable or if they are stronger perhaps a quarter of the way up and immovable, stationary. Instead this is very different. Not only are the lines unfathomably high they bounce up and down randomly acting without pattern or relationship or explanation.

And neither has a clue what that means.

Luxor takes out a secondary device and attaches it to the base of the first. Instantly the graph display minimizes into the corner while another program loads. Inconspicuously he waves it around as if to find the best reception for his cell phone. In actuality the minute sensors register the lingering magic. Even more important is the kind.

Dr. Ice happily sips her drink while Luxor lets out a well-acted curse of frustration, shaking the device as if it would somehow make all his troubles disappear.

"No reception?" Ice allows her mug to rest on the table, tilting her head to the side as the carefully memorized words are recited. Inconspicuous words, phrases and names designed for situations where talk about magic and the like are impossible.

A year previously both would have struggled with even the most simple of codes now both have mastered the art and not only verbally. With a tilts of the head, nod, flick of a hand, finger, or even catching each others' eye the pair are determined to always be able to read the others' thoughts or motions.

What they failed to grasp recently ago is that their very lives and those of those they are sworn to protect depend on these abilities.

There is no possible way for this to happen. I'll let her figure it out. She always was the better one at this technology stuff. That is why Luxor responds as he does. "Nah. Damn thing is busted. Reads seven bars with no signal."

A raised eyebrow is the sole reaction from Dr. Ice as she takes the detector. Intuitively she realizes that six is the maximum the device is capable of reading. If Luxor is saying seven the only conclusion is that the reading is off the charts – or in this case graph.

No signal implies that despite a reading it is impossible for the exact, specific spot of origin to be found. However, since the magic detector was never specifically designed for such a role this isn't all that uncommon, and is even anticipated.

One glance at the screen is enough for Ice's eyes to widen. Luxor looks on amused as his partner swears loudly.

"So what's the problem?" His attention momentarily focused on a fight at a nearby table before focusing on Ice once more.

Unlike Luxor who has his elbows on the table hands clasped together with chin on top Ice is nothing but a bundle of nerves.

If I'm wrong and HQ hears about it… She shudders at the thought. They pair, despite the obvious improvement still have far more to make up for and aside from occasional praise from Justin and Kara, are not well received.

Predictably Luxor senses the anxiety and stress across his partners features and places a hand on top of hers. "Stop. You're going to give yourself grey hair." He earns himself a slap for that remark. However that does not ease Ice in the least and her scowl reflects this clearly.

Underneath the table she brings in her legs so that she sits up straighter so that she looks that much more imposing. The expression on her face is unchanged despite Luxor's increasingly miserable attempts at alleviating the tension permeating the air like a bad smell.

Unfortunately the pair is the sole individuals who seem to be aware of the trouble since everyone else around them is boisterous, rowdy, mostly drunk and having a good time.

Part of the reason Luxor is so accepting of the situation is that he is not one to dwell on the impracticalities or logic of what may be transpiring. If the facts lead to a conclusion ultimately that is what must be occurring.

Dr. Ice on the other hand is much more skeptical. A student of technology she is all to accustom to software and hardware errors that cause innumerable trouble. Given the radical and unheard of data being received she is attributing most this as technology once again failing in a spectacular fashion. That is why her fingers for the last thirty minutes have been dancing across touchpad's, checking, checking, and rechecking once more. Still not convinced she retrieves the backup detector. And it too offers the same results as the first.

Unpredictably another alert appears this time very unlike all the others. This blip is moving. While on the verge of the magic detectors range the identity cannot be mistaken. Demon. Creature level: Undetermined.

Ice quickly shakes her head in pure amazement at the colossal amount of "coincidences" the pair have found so fair. Justin always taught them if it appears to be too absorb to be real than it likely is worthy of investigation.

"Come on big boy. Time for us to rock and roll. We've got to jet out of here to catch a certain friend of ours."

Justin starts his trek towards the elevator. To his surprise the door opens immediate as he pushes the down button, the car empty. He hits a highly selective combination of buttons on the number pad. Ensuring that there are no stops. Rarely does he ever use this option because in his mind it is impolite, insensitive and sets a bad example and lack of respect to those who work below him.

Today though, today though is different. He is not in the mood for conversation or for people to wonder why he hasn't appeared for days.

In all the time the Bureau has existed no one as young as Justin as been appointed to such a high position. Kara, being only a few years older is not far behind. Together the two represent a fundamental shift not only in age, but viewpoints. The younger generation, those rising or joining their ranks are quick to grasp the powerhouse the pair demonstrate and are willing to follow them in any endeavor.

This at first highly perturbs the more elder staff and even the Wizard Council. Over time however, no one is able to dispute his or her record of success. For many they, Justin especially is a hero. He is the one who defied all odds. He brought the Bureau back from the brink of internal destruction. Eliminated the petty politics that built walls and tore them down by ushering in respect, honor and unity.

An integral part of this process is ensuring that those in positions of power, he especially, are seen, heard and regarded as normal. He wants to be the person who works with you, is invited to your family barbecue as a friend not as your dictatorship-like boss. That is normally. His mind is far away from the familiarities that he shares with his employees. His mentality is concentrated on the secretive events taking place in the darkened rooms over a dozen stories above him.

That does not stop friendly greetings and waves from those around him as the steel doors open on into the lobby. While polite his attitude is one that they recognize meaning that he needs space.

Rumors abound about why so many dramatic changes have happened so quickly. Justin and Kara having not been seen for days reinforce this notion rather strongly. No doubt he appearing out of blue is only going to bolster vague ideas of what is transpiring in the highest echelons of the Bureau.

Justin is fully aware of the whispers but frankly he does not care. Even if he did little may be done to soothe the rumors. At the moment all he is trying to do is regain his senses, clear his mind and revitalize his brain with some desperately needed relaxation. All is he concerned about is that his identity is concealed, he followed policy and made Kara happy.

A stop at a vending machine for a bottle of water is his last chore before walking through the security checkpoint. After which, only glass doors prevent his escape into the outside and very normal world. The guards offer the slightest of pleasantries before the doors slide open.

Glorious sunshine greeting his eyes while the softest of breezes kisses his cheek like a long lost friend. For once in days Justin feels at peace.

He never realizes that having a concealed identity only works effectively if it is swapped out routinely. It never crosses his mind that having the same persona all the time is virtually the same as being undisguised.

The same tall, working blond office man that has been photographed and tracked for days walks forward. He touches the bark of one of the budding trees along the sidewalk. The rough texture on his fingers ensuring that this isn't a dream, this is real. His will to move is null, he is content to stay, enjoy and wallow in the sights, sounds, smells, hustle and bustle of the world around him - the cityscape that is New York.

Hour upon boring hour is beginning to weigh heavily upon Max. With the sun shining brilliantly overhead only complicates his misery. Fortunately his hiding place offers considerable shade but does little to alleviate the morbid temperature and rising humidity. Both are making him hot, sweaty and quite uncomfortable. Regardless, Max is prepared. His training prepared him for such trivialities as roasting like a pig or fighting off the cramps that come from staying in one position for too long.

Every so often he switches between the scope sight options from zoom to the more high tech features. These allow him a literal inside look behind doors that would normally be impossible to see from the outside.

One of the fundamental rules when on an operation like this is monitoring patterns. Recognizing the normal flow of people in and noting any imperfections or deviations from that standard. Usually when such a variation happens is when the moment to act occurs.

That is why during one of these casual checks is his interest becomes peaked. Quickly he double checks that the magazine is properly loaded, safety disengaged, thumb ready on the trigger.

What first attracts his attention is the abrupt acknowledgment from many inside to this one particular individual. A flick of a switch allows Max to increase the magnification. What is causing the disturbance is a man, apparently well dressed. Although he cannot identify the face perfectly through the security glass there is enough of a resemblance of the individual to that of the target picture for him to take aim.

Max realizes that the man is going to leave from the direction he is walking. That will make the shot all the easier. Carefully he thinks of the most effective fatal shots: head, neck and chest. The question then becomes which region to target. Max forces himself to relax, breathing with the utmost care to ensure that he remains in perfect control for the perfect shot. Two bullets; better known as double tapping to ensure the objective is accomplished.

With one eye glued to his scope he glances quickly to take one last look at photo.

As the man steps outside Max has his confirmation. The two match. Lack of color doesn't give any assistance to Max but the height; manner of dress and the attention the man was given moments ago all give credibility to his importance. What truly gives away the target are the facial features, specifically high cheekbones, set jaw line, nose and midnight black hair. An expensive looking suit, tie and dress shoes reinforce the notion of importance, a perfect match for the photograph once more.

Having read the brief file before hand Max recalls the suspect in question to likely be of European, likely Germanic decent. Everything fits together, the intelligence, the picture and his own observations.

He resists the urge to tense, to close his eyes. Max may have only recently joined the FBI in the eyes of the government but in truth he has been practicing for far longer. The first year he enters high school Max receives the assignment that at the time he has no way of knowing will forever shape his life.

From a long list of possibilities Max is allowed to select a job, a career person for him to shadow for several days. As with most things he does at that age, he pays little heed. Unlike his sister Alex this is not deliberate but rather from his rather colorful, erratic outlook upon life. In the end he is left with the only remaining choice. A police officer named Stanton Lamp or Officer Lamp.

Officer Lamp is a man that stands 5'7 and has a medium build. A trait that he is most grateful since his black uniform is just tight enough in the right spots and loose enough in others to ensure he is at ease no matter where or what he is doing. At one time he sported a beard but that quickly disappeared when, in an especially embarrassing situation a drunken teenager decided to pull and tug at his facial hair. Ever since that episode he has remained hair free in that region. His haircut too reflects his experience in that while remaining slightly longer in the back by an inch or so is notably short on the sides and front. Combed back and with the barest touches of gel he is able form a fitting style all his own that accents his slightly tanned skin and black police hat.

Officer Lamp may seem to be the normal, everyday officer but in reality he has a personality just as colorful as Maxs'.

Often he is found singing gleefully on the job. He isn't particularly concerned about who may overhear his tunes either. This could be in the form of melodically giving Miranda Rights or impersonating his favorite opera singers. His far from normal habits result in him being frequently teased by his peers. Nonetheless, they find no fault in his performance or dedication to the job. Despite his far-from-ordinary behavior the man is well liked and his comedic, impromptu performances never fail to bring a smile to even the most stern and serious of individuals; even those that end up in the back of his squad car.

Perhaps this is the reason Max became intrigued by Stanton. The job-shadowing project ended after a few days much to Max's severe regret. However Stanton is amazed by Max's character and personality. His impression of the boy merely grows after the pair caught a thief; a fait Stanton would have found considerably more difficult had Max not been present.

The intense training Max has undergone powerfully asserts itself forcing away his recollections. His emotions of doubt and regret are submerged beneath layers of do or die exercises and certification to reach the pinnacle of where he is able to use such a powerfully lethal piece of technology.

For whatever strange reason the target has stopped, leaning against a tree but in a way that doesn't affect his angle of fire. Using lightning fast reflexes Max makes the most minute of adjustments on the weapon using the scope once more.

I'm sorry. Forgive me. Initially aimed for the chest Max readjusts the angle and sight up towards the head ensuring to allow a few inches for wind speed and gravity. This is when he makes a discovery.

Sunlight catches a something brilliantly metallic. So bright Max is forced to activate one of the many filters on his scope to avoid messing up his shot or worse, being blinded. The filter instantly eases the color spectrum into something much more easy and pleasing to his eyes. But he is curious as to what generated that flash to begin with. Instantly, and for the briefest of moments another memory sparks into his mind.

"Congratulations Max. You're dead!" Stanton claps Max on the back in mock support after the boy hesitates.

Puzzled Max looks back up to his mentor with confusion. His aim is dead on, two shots directly into the chest. "But I was right on target! How am I dead?" He huffs in agitation. They have gone through this drill over and over again and still he seems to fail.

"You waited." Stanton matter-of-factually states.

Max shakes his head in misunderstanding, damp brown curls moving with him. "But it was only-"

"Look Max." Stanton turns his body so they are facing the metal practice silhouette. "When you had eyes on target you paused. You can't do that."

"A second or two isn't going to make a difference," the eighteen year old protests. "I just wanted to make sure! Where is the harm in that?" Max crosses his arms in frustration once more. It requires a lot for him to reach this point but the continued exercise is wearing him thin. This is especially true with the lack of answers coming from Stanton.

Stanton gazes at the target and then backs down at Max. "Alright. I was hoping you could discover this yourself." His voice is calm, steady and filled with patience. "Fine then. Once you have target confirmation take the shot. Don't second-guess yourself. There are a million things that could go wrong. Yes we may be five hundred meters away but you can't pay attention to anything other then what is in your sights, where you want your bullets to be headed. Think about where we are. Right now we are out in the open range. There is no risk. In the real world you won't have that luxury. All it could take is for the right angle of the sun or any light source for that matter, to reflect off your weapon or scope and give away your position.

"Then you might have something coming your way instead of the other way around. That isn't something you are going to learn from a textbook Max. Although I can guarantee your instructors are going to tell you differently."

Stanton has had many conversations with Max over his future and possible career choices. After discovering the boy's affinity with weapons and particularly gifted skill with precision distance shooting he begins to steer the boy on the path towards police rather then military.

"Is that what they taught you?" Max inquires with great curiosity. Stanton rarely shares his views on such matters and he is going to take advantage of the moment.

"If you mean the police force no. I learned this from my time in the army. I went through their rigors to pass their requirements to become an official sniper." Stanton recalls in memory how absolutely brutal that six-week course from Hell was. He encountered everything from the lack of food and sleep, to wading through foul smelling, freezing water, or crawling face down in thick, gooey mud for hours on end. "Nothing the police came up with is remotely close to the intensity."

Max may not think that though when he ends up in the Academy though. He hides the emerging smile on his face at such a thought and stays serene.

"While being a great shot is an obvious necessity that is but one small part of any mission. The ability to evade, to move in light or dark without being noticed, to be patient, quick and able to adapt rapidly are traits that are equally as, if not more significant then shooting in the first place. After all, if you cannot reach a point to even identify your objective there is no possibility of eliminating it either." Stanton says.

Max's eyes widen in surprise. He hadn't expected this from Stanton. Not the fun empowered, enthusiastic singing, opera loving cop he is proud to call his friend. Yet somehow the impact sinks in deeply. Stanton is telling the truth. All those skills, all his talents how he became so knowledgeable… The hard fist of reality digs deep into Max's gut as his brain struggles to process this new discovery. "You're serious," is all the boy is able to stammer out with great exasperation.

"The military is not your place Max. You're too kind hearted and pure for that kind of life." Stanton places a hand on Max's shoulder. "Being a sniper, being part of a the military no matter the branch is a proud distinction and one that should be worn with pride but that lifestyle is not for you. Every time you place your finger on the trigger means you bear incredible responsibility and power. In exchange though, the price may be high. You lose part of your soul for every time that trigger is pulled in anger."

After a moment Max nods as the words sink in. "Then why? What is the difference?"

That is a question that takes Stanton years to value and largely only through his relationship with Max is he able to begin to comprehend an answer. "Both careers mean you protect and serve, you are there to protect and fight for others. The military though means you fight in regions that have little if any relationship to you directly. You may be given orders that make little or no sense yet you are expected to carry them out. In war, in combat situations there are no rules. You play to win. And to win is a matter of life or death."

"The police follow similar procedures but you will always know who you are protecting. You will always see the results of your work. You will be able to see first hand the change you make in your community. You may return to your family. Combat is different. If there ever is that moment where you must pull the trigger you are prepared and trained to roll the dice. You intuitively realize that someone may be killed by your bullet but cherish the fact that you do your absolute best to make them non-lethal."

"Why are you training me then? Why give me this type of responsibility if you have done everything possible to keep me away from this lifestyle?" As Stanton continues with Max's training he continually challenges his young protégé with ethical and moral dilemmas. Each one is more challenging then the last. Some, most rather, leave Max utterly stumped and occasionally in great distress.

Stanton, despite the pleas for explanation is brutally simplistic in his answers and explanations. 'Live with it' or 'Figure it out' are sentences that become all too familiar.

"Because you are you." Stanton responds casually, arms crossed.

Max peers up at him in confusion. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means Max," Stanton for the first time shifts and looks at his apprentice. Eyes are dark and serious, voice flowing with sincere determination. "That you are a Russo. Through you I have met your family. I know your brother and sister. You may see them as different yet at your cores you are very similar. I could say no. I rightly should say no. I did not because doing so would change nothing wouldn't it?

"Your mind had found a track to follow before I even entered the picture. After I did I became an engine that allowed you to gather speed in finding your place in life. Ultimately, after everything I could not dissuade you from this lifestyle. You made your choice. I could say nothing to convince you to do otherwise."

A light bulb goes off in Max's brain. Brown eyes becoming animated as he makes the connection that he has been struggling to find for so long. "That! That is why you posed all those questions to me! Why you made me work through problem after problem that had no answer!" Max's voice is rapid and animated with the sudden discovery.

Stanton inwardly smiles. Oh how far you have come along Max! "Yes Max. That is right. I asked them time and time again. I had to show you that no problem, no mission is 'yes' or 'no'. You cannot act, in the police, in the military, in life with such a black and white mentality. If you do you will live a horrible life condemning those around you and yourself. To not question, to not find the answers on your own, is to give up the greatest freedom of all, your right to decide.

"Yes Max. I did not want to train you. I did everything possible to convince you to do anything else besides this career. You found the strength to persevere. You found determination and courage in the face of terrific challenge and adversity. You have the capability to do anything. You have a sharp mind that is able to take risks, to channel your fearlessness with educated decisions that weigh risk, danger and justice. Most importantly of all, you have strength to say no. I'm proud of you Max. You have exceeded my every hope and expectation. You can learn little more from me."

Silence fills the air as Stanton purposely allows Max the time he needs to think about what he says. The wind picks up, a gentle kiss on the cheek to both in a quiet manner that helps to reassure both. Stanton knows the next question as much as Max is dreading to ask it. No matter how positive and encouraging Stanton maybe one question is, and has been, harassing him for quite some time. Now is the time to ask, now Max feels he has earned the right to ask and the right to receive the response.

He swallows hard, chest feeling heavy as if weighted down with lead. "Have you… have you killed someone before?" Despite the comfortable temperature Max is drenched in nervous sweat.

Stanton doesn't reply for a minute before turning away from Max. He pivots so that his gaze is once more out upon the range looking at the macabre arrangement of metal targets. "Yes Max. Yes I have. I do not want you to ever have to go through what I did. I pray to the Lord above that you never find yourself where you must fire, but I will do everything in my power to ensure that you are prepared if and when that day comes." I won't let you make the same mistake I did.

Max's temptation to pay more attention is overwhelming but he doesn't. Mentally and physically his body and mind change. His breathing becoming calm, steady, eyes unwavering and when the time is right, his finger moves, pulling inwards on the small piece of black metal. Two loud bangs sounding while his eyes process the terrible disbelief in front of him.

The fraction of a second difference fills Max with pure, absolute shock and horror. The weapon responds immediately, the recoil bruising his shoulder. Not caring at all what he sees or what is happening. All that matters are the trigger is pulled; ammunition is loaded and powered by mechanical processes and physics; the weapon has done its deadly duty.

Two fifty-caliber bullets traveling at just over three thousand feet per second reach their target a second and a half later. Ammunition that is capable of disabling a car or boat engine slam into their flesh and body objective. At ranges of less then one thousand meters the shoots would be powerful enough to simply pass through the target regardless of whether it is light metal or organic tissue; even if it wasn't an armor piercing round.

Since the bullets are anti-personal they have lost some of their striking power. Even so they collided with flesh in a contest that is one sided. The brass head penetrates first before flattening slightly as it finds hard bone and cartilage. Both yield cracking and shattering. The hardened tip of the bullets actually exiting flesh while bone and metallic fragments ricochet merrily inside the victim.

Etched deep into the surface of the metal in absolute permanence is a name Max will always remember. A name that is deep part of his past, helped shape him into the person he is in the present, and the person he hoped, prayed to find again in his future.

On that simple piece of metal is three words, two of them a name, an unforgettable, unmistakable name that represents countless memories: Justin Russo.

None of that pain matters as Max screams loudly. Not that doing so would help or anyone could possibly hear over the roar of the intake ducts. Terrified Max wants to watch. He wants to prove himself wrong, stay there and see the aftermath.

This is one part of his training he ignores. To peer over the edge and use binoculars to look at the blood stained area for confirmation of target killed. But he can't. His heart is too filled with disappointment. His mind stunned with the atrocity he committed. He cannot bear to see the results, his heart pleads for reality to be different and his mind is just as happy to go along with the ploy. Every fiber of his being wants to move away from the roaring vents on the roof.

Already he is packing up his rifle, unscrewing the barrel. His heart feels as if it dropped out of his body, numb and in shock. His mind still fathoming what he did. What crime he just committed. Tears of shock and fear threaten to spill down his cheeks as his trembling fingers complete their task. Efficiently stuffing the weapon back into its case and bag.

The first round of barely perceivable screams reach his ears carried aloft by the suddenly increased and vengeful wind. Further away he is able to make out the approach of flashing blue, white and red lights. Their sirens wail and overpower the screams and the terror of the crowds.

While a measure of frantic hope to those who saw the crime, they represent the exact opposite to Max. Misery, failure, absolute and complete hopelessness, an action he will forever remember and replay in his mind.

An award for his prowess and skillful shot no doubt awaits him back at the FBI. This is no honor like that of the medal of honor or silver cross, but one that will forever remind him that he shot at a civilian. An award that will forever be a reminder that he targeted not an ordinary civilian, not even a criminal, but his own brother.

Although he is out of sight and off the roof he remains on the top few steps. With the rifle strapped to his back all he is able to do is bury his face in his hands and cry.

I killed my brother! Soft sobs escalating as the gravity of his action takes full hold. Fat tears leaking through clenched fingers as he struggles for breath from the enormous pain suddenly engulfing his entire body. I killed my brother!

One crime, one moment, one sibling, one action, one event, one brother all summed up in two words; two words imprinted on a name plate that he saw too late: Justin Russo.

Yay! Lots of questions, virtually no answers and people wanting to know more! Lots more to come in the next chapter! Which is already well on its way! Please R & R! =)