"Hardison! Wake up!"

Somewhere between "wake" and "up", the voice in Alec Hardison's head morphed from his Nana rousing him for school to a very grouchy Parker in the midst of shaking him within an inch of his life.

"Jesus, woman, stop!" he cried, pushing her off and scrambling into a sitting position. "Where's the damn fire?"

Standing by his bed, Parker looked like she still hadn't entirely woken up. "Your computers won't stop beeping." She was swaying slightly on her feet.

"What?" It wasn't the first time he'd been woken up by Parker in his bedroom. Most of the time, however, she woke him up by crawling into bed with him. Not talking about…computers? Hardison desperately tried to sweep the cobwebs from his brain. "Why were you sleeping on the couch?" He slid out of bed and took her by the arm – helping her lie down in the spot he'd just abandoned. "I've told you a million times you can just crawl in here with me."

"You snore," she grumped as she snuggled into his pillow.

He almost crawled back in beside her; his heart was doing pleasantly flippy things as he watched her drift back to sleep. Her news about the computers had taken root in his brain, however, and he knew he wasn't going to be able to go back to sleep until he checked out whatever had woken her up.

You snore. Hardison had no doubt Parker was telling the truth – he'd been plagued with allergies as a child. Knowing now that it bothered her enough to keep her out of his bed, made him a lot more motivated to find a cure than he'd ever been before.

All happy thoughts of Parker and sleep seemed to drain out of his head as he crossed the threshold of his bedroom and heard the incessant beeping. Data miners, he thought, recognizing the alert immediately. He'd suspected as much – they were set to alert him whenever they'd dug up something that they thought needed his immediate attention.

Problem was, a program's idea of "important" didn't always jibe with reality. "You better not have gotten stuck in the entertainment section of the Journal again," he grumbled, taking his seat and tapping the keys to bring the report he wanted up. "My stalker-like feelings for Freema Agyeman aside, her latest shopping trip is not earth shatteringly important." He scanned the newspaper article his best crawler had dug up out of that very same Boston Journal, and his expression sobered immediately. "Oh not good. So not good."

He glanced at the clock on the bottom corner of his monitor and tried to work out whether this was world shattering enough news to risk waking the others over. The only one he could be absolutely certain wouldn't try to kill him on the spot was Eliot. "Of course even money says Mr. Soldier of Fortune isn't asleep in the first place," he noted.

Hardison got to his feet and stumbled into the kitchen, still mulling over what to do. This was exactly the kind of news he'd set his data mining programs to bring him, but there wasn't a lot of substance to it. The press release that would be appearing in tomorrow's Journal was so neutral as to be suspicious all on its own.

Cracking open a new two liter of orange soda, he took a long swig directly from the bottle. "Substance is out there," he decided. "Just gotta find it."

Course of action charted and suitably fortified for the night's (morning's?) activities, Hardison returned to his desk. There was a reason a law firm like Wolfram & Hart was opening a branch office in Boston, and he'd bet every date he would never have with the lovely Freema that it wasn't going to be good.

700 Congress Street in South Boston had been bleeding tenants for years. It was no great surprise, therefore, when those businesses who were still managing to deliver at least the previous month's rent every first of the month received an official looking notice telling them they had thirty days to pack up and clear out.

A few determined souls attempted to contact the leasing company, to see if the owner was willing to negotiate them staying on, but ultimately it went nowhere. One by one the graphics shop, the consulting agency, the temp agency and the corporate headquarters of the Missionary Food Bank loaded boxes in their cars and trucks and headed for greener pastures.

The building was quiet and dark for three full days and most of a fourth. At dusk on a Friday afternoon, the trucks started to arrive. A construction dumpster was set, and anything that had been left by the building's previous occupants was disposed of without a single backward glance.

That same night Lindsey McDonald, Attorney at Law, moved into Wolfram & Hart's executive suite at the Seaport Hotel.

Six days passed before the night Alec Hardison would be roused from his bed by rumors that a monster had moved into his town. Six days working round the clock – planning, scheming and supervising – as local companies ran their people ragged trying to meet the most impossible of deadlines.

Lindsey's superiors had questioned his decision to use Boston-based companies to complete the interior renovations of their new office building. The feeling among the company executives was that Wolfram & Hart's own people were more efficient, and with very few exceptions had first-hand knowledge of just how seriously the law firm took its deadlines.

"In order to accomplish our objective," Lindsey had argued, "we need to look like the good guys. In an area like South Boston, that means showing a willingness to inject capital into the local economy from the beginning."

His understanding of just how desperate times were for the construction industry paid off handsomely – even though it was only a week's work, companies had jumped at the chance to put three shifts of people to work for time and a half plus bonus. Four days into the project, Lindsey had approved a whisper campaign about just how many people Wolfram & Hart would be looking to hire once their doors were open for business.

Word had spread like wildfire. Even though they might not be qualified for the kind of work Wolfram & Hart needed done, everyone working on the renovation knew at least a handful of people who would jump at the chance for steady work at competitive rates.

The same night Hardison was sitting down at his computers, and learning about the "economic stimulus" that would be provided by the international legal giant, Lindsey was comfortably ensconced in his office, enjoying a Scotch and updating the Executive Vice President of Operations in Los Angeles on their progress.

"All the local news outlets have confirmed," he said, taking another sip of his drink. "No, sir – national coverage would be counter-productive to the operation. We need to stick to the scenario laid out by Marketing – they believe it's bulletproof, and I support that." Up until it fails, he noted mentally. Then the marketing department would find out exactly how much his support was worth.

His smart phone vibrated for his attention. Lindsey checked the message from his IT department and smiled. "Actually, sir, his trace was detected less than a minute ago." He rolled his eyes at his superior's comment. "Yes, sir. I have personally made it clear to IT what will happen if he escapes the net we currently have him in. I promise you, Alec Hardison will only see what we want him to see, when we want him to see it."

He paused. "My brother has grown…unfortunately idealistic." An image of Eliot and the last time they'd seen each other drifted across his thoughts. At the eleventh hour, forgiveness. "We'll need something more personal than money to convince him."

Lindsey's expression sobered at his superior's next comment. "Sir, you have my opinions on that subject." He flashed on memory of another office – another city – and a dark-haired, severely unbalanced young woman smashing the head of one of his co-workers repeatedly into a nearby desk. "If the Senior Partners are determined to proceed with this operation, I believe we need to take a less direct route." He shook his head reflexively in reaction to the response in his ear. "No, sir – I believe we have more than enough leverage to bring her around. All I'm saying is that it's going to take a lighter touch this time."

He exhaled softly, trying to rein in some of the frustration that had bled into his voice. "Of course. I understand. Same time tomorrow?" Receiving the expected affirmative, Lindsey touched his earpiece and finally terminated the call. Taking out the device, he tossed it onto the nearby coffee table.

"Dammit," he sighed, draining the remainder of his glass in a single swallow. Intellectually he understood upper management being reluctant to trust him completely, but that didn't ease the constant frustration of having every single one of his decisions questioned. I'm the best person for the job. He half-collapsed into one of the chairs in his sitting area. That's why the Senior Partners brought me back – I'm the only one that can deliver what they need.

And there was a very large part of him that was glad that was the case. Lindsey had worked all his life for power and the trappings that came along with it. He liked expensive haircuts and flawlessly tailored suits. When the Powers That Be had grabbed hold of him long enough to facilitate Nathan Ford's release from prison, his suit was department store off-the-rack and had made his skin literally itch.

He appreciated having the best of everything at his disposal. This was control. This was the way to make sure you ended up nobody's victim. He'd tried it his brother's way – the long-haired, badass look he'd sported his last go-round had been classic Eliot Spencer – and it had led him straight to oblivion. Death was definitely overrated in Lindsey McDonald's opinion.

He smiled, thinking about his brother, and the look on Eliot's face when he realized his twin was back among the living again.

Yeah, he was definitely going to like being back this time.