TEASER

Daggon had bought a present for Nallia, a musical instrument. The little glass affairs were all the rage among the musically-inclined Enixians this year, and since Nallia was a musician herself it had seemed appropriate. He held it in his hands as he walked from the shuttle depot to their house, wanting to give it to her straight off, to see her eyes and her life-force shining with pleasure at this new indulgence.

He knew he spoilt both Nallia and their daughter Ashi shamelessly, he simply did not care. He had a gift for Ashi as well, a Vardian game designed to enhance problem-solving skills, but that could be given later, once the initial excitement of his homecoming had worn off. So what if the instrument and the toy had both been expensive out of all proportion to his income? The girl and woman who brought him such joy deserved the finest things.

He quickened his pace when he saw the commotion around his home. People moving in and out, a Tracker standing guard at the door, not a single civilian on the streets... Something had happened. Clutching the instrument to his chest, he broke into a run. They would be frightened by whatever had happened; he needed to comfort them.

The Tracker at the door tried to stop him, but he ignored the restraining hands, forcing his way past the more slightly-built Cirronian. This was his home, his FAMILY. No one had a right to try to keep him from them. It was wrong! A man should be with his family!

"Nallia!" he cried when he saw the sooty shadow on the floor, the only remnants of a Cirronian ‘body’.

The instrument slipped from his hands, shattering on the hard floor, but he was not even aware of the sound. As he walked towards her in a daze, ignoring the many hands trying to restrain him, he was not even aware of the shattered glass biting into the bottoms of his feet.

***

"Cole? Cole!" Mel shouted, staring at him with wide, worried eyes.

He was standing in the kitchen, looking like he was in a trance. She had dropped a glass, and when she had looked up, Cole had been like that, just staring at something only he could see.

"Cole?" she repeated, again.

He looked around, startled. "Yes, Mel?" he asked absently, staring at the broken glass on the floor in confusion. "It's broken," he whispered. A memory, triggered by the sound of shattering glass, of course. It had been so real, so much like being there... "I'll get the dust-pan," he murmured.

Mel stared at him as he wandered off, still looking dazed. "What the hell?" she whispered, shaking her head.

Cole walked back into the kitchen a few seconds later, not looking where he stepped as he absently handed her the dust-pan and small brush. Mel winced at the sound of glass shattering under his bare feet. Obviously preoccupied with something, Cole did not even seem to notice. She took the pan and looked down, wincing.

"Cole, your feet are bleeding," she whispered, feeling sick to her stomach. "Does it hurt?"

"Does what hurt?"

"Your feet! Cole are you okay?" Mel asked, seriously concerned by his behavior.

"Yes, Mel. Why wouldn't I be okay?" he asked, confused.

"Because you just walked barefoot over broken glass?" She stared at him.

"Oh." Cole looked down at his feet, blinking as he took in the broken glass and little red streaks littering the floor. "I'm fine, Mel. Not the first time." With a reassuring smile, he walked out of the kitchen.

Mel stared for a few moments, shocked and more than a little afraid for him. He had been so detached lately, so different, but THIS was just scary. Stepping carefully around the glass, she followed him.

"Cole?" she asked at the closed bathroom door. "Can I come in?"

"No, Mel."

Mel blinked. That was a definite first. She rattled the door-knob but, in another first, it was locked. "Are you okay?" she called.

"Yes, Mel. Just getting the glass out and healing my feet, Mel."

"Um, can I help?" she offered uncertainly.

"That's okay, Mel. I have it, Mel."

Mel frowned, staring at the closed door as though it could give her the answers she sought. What was his problem? Why was he acting like this?

"Um, okay. I'll... be downstairs in the bar if you need me."

"Okay, Mel."

Shaking her head in confusion, she fled the apartment.

In the bathroom, Cole pulled a particularly large shard of glass out of the ball of his left foot and stared at it with detached curiosity. He knew from experience how sharp broken glass could be, the kind of damage it could do to bare flesh, but he had never really stopped to consider it before. Glass could be so sharp... this piece was covered in blood, his blood, RED blood.

Blood unlike any a true Cirronian had ever shed...

Nallia had not shed red blood when she had been murdered, instead leaking out a small quantity of luminous circulatory fluid. It had stained the floor, he remembered, turning the bloody shard over and over in his hand. Two stains, Nallia's small one and Ashi's much larger one.

Nallia had died first, protecting Ashi. Trying to protect her. It had not worked and Ashi had fought, screaming and clawing and biting and BLEEDING. And the bioluminescent stains had never come out. He must have scrubbed that floor twenty or thirty times, until his delicate hands were raw and his slender fingers ached, but the stain would not come out. Still he would scrub, trying to wash away the images of the murder in his mind more than he was trying to remove their physical proof.

Other stains marred the floor after that day, tiny splotches of his own blood. After all, glass was sharp, could cut through flesh, even the tough flesh on the bottoms of your feet. It cut through more delicate flesh more easily. An Enixian's soft underbelly, a human's vulnerable throat... Glass could be used as a murder-weapon in the right circumstances. He had seen THAT on Sar-Top, not long after the murders.

Abruptly, he closed his fingers around the shard, crushing it in his fist and reveling in the first real sensation he had experienced in days. He watched, fascinated, as blood dripped from his closed fist and hit the floor, leaving tiny splatters. Tiny red splatters of blood. His blood. His hand shot opened and his eyes widened. What had he been doing?

Shaking his head, Cole finished pulling the glass out of his feet and hands, unaware that he was shedding tears that had nothing to do with physical pain, less aware that he was singing a Cirronian lullaby as he worked.

END TEASER
ACT 1

"Where are you going?" Mel asked immediately when Cole came down the stairs and started for the front door without a glance in her direction.

"Out, Mel," he said simply. That should have been obvious.

"Yeah, obviously, Cole. Why?"

He blinked, frowning. She could be so pushy and possessive at times. "I need some fresh air. Do you have a problem with that?"

Mel recoiled, startled. "N... no. I'm just... after this morning I... I'm... I'm worried about you, Cole."

"I'm fine Mel. I'm sorry I snapped at you," he said with a sigh. "I've just been so preoccupied lately with Lana and..." He shook his head, reached for her throat, then changed his mind. "I just need to get out of my room for awhile."

"Do you have your cell-phone?"

"Yes, Mel."

He nodded even though he could honestly not remember if he had grabbed it or not. Probably not in his haste to leave. The war-room had become claustrophobic, the walls closing in on him, the air seeming stale. He did need fresh air, and what the humans would call a 'change of scenery'. Nor would a very large quantity of chocolate would also not be amiss, he decided. He needed something to take the edge off. He had been feeling so strange lately, especially since Lana had drugged them both. Shaking his head, he left the bar, leaving Mel and Maggie to stare after him.

"That's as close as I've ever heard him come to snapping at you," Maggie observed.

"Yeah, well." Mel shrugged. "Work has him stressed, I guess."

"I've seen him get REALLY into his work, Mel, and rightly so, but I've never seen him get short with you like. You sure everything's okay?"

"Fine," Mel lied, nodding. "I'm sure everything is just fine. Look, since we're dead here, I'm going to go straighten the kitchen. Call up if you need help."

"Okay, Mel." Maggie nodded but frowned after Mel, concerned.

Mel swept up the broken glass in the kitchen, wondering why Cole had not taken care of it. He was usually so good with things like that, always a very considerate house-mate. Shaking her head, she dumped the glass and cleaned up his blood before walking into the bathroom. She was a little shocked by how much blood there was dried on the tile floor. Different layers, too, as though he had sat there dripping for a very long time, which made no sense.

Shaking her head, she pulled out a bottle of bleach and an old towel. The carpet in the living room would need to be shampooed, she reflected as she worked on the bathroom. It was harder to think about Cole’s current mental state than about something like a stained carpet. There were little smears of blood everywhere Cole had stepped.

Horrified, she looked into the trashcan which held a few large and several smaller shards of glass, along with even more blood. Too much blood to be accounted for by a few quickly healed injuries to the feet, especially given the amount of blood on the floor. How long had he sat there bleeding after she had fled down the stairs? And why?

The morning's events, combined with those of the past weeks, had come together to paint a picture that Mel was less than comfortable with. Cole was just not being... Cole. He had become withdrawn over the last several days, but not the way he sometimes did with work. He was not interring himself in the war-room and dedicating himself to hunting down fugitives. He was sitting on the living room couch or in the bar just staring into space, not even always acknowledging direct attempts to make conversation. Sometimes, he would be sitting there like that and jump a foot when someone spoke to him, or respond sluggishly and look surprised to find himself where he was. His mind was working more slowly, and he would forget what he was saying or need people to repeat themselves.

Two nights ago, she had found him in the living room at 3 in the morning, not staring through the telescope the way he often did, but pacing. Just... pacing back and forth over and over in the dark room, not even aware of Mel's presence until she announced herself to him. And he had been talking to himself, too, muttering in what Mel was pretty sure was Cirronian. Even his diet had changed. He would eat if she made him, but did not seem to pay attention to what he was eating or how much.

And he had not shaved in three days. Although she could not be 100% sure, she thought that it might have been that long since his last bath, too. Even if he had bathed in the past three days, he had not bothered changing into fresh clothes afterwards. These last things had not occurred to her before, but there they were. Not shaving for two or three days at a time was not completely uncommon. He would get wrapped up in work and not remember until he caught his reflection in the computer screen. But he had, always before, been fastidious about his personal hygiene.

So what was wrong with him?

Depression, Mel realized, shocked and more than a little guilty that she had not made the connection before. The man was a walking Public Service Announcement and she had completely failed to notice. So what to do? How to help? The truth was that Mel knew almost nothing about depression, was only GUESSING that it was Cole's problem, as a matter of fact.

"I'll talk to him when he gets back," she muttered to herself, shoving the blood-soaked towel into the trashcan and pulling the plastic bag out. In the meantime, it was time to get some studying done. She threw the contents of the bathroom trashcan into the larger one in the kitchen, then grabbed her purse.

***

Cole sat on the bench, staring at the lake, ignoring the cold breeze that was buffeting him, not noticing the tears that froze on his cheeks. It was bitterly cold and he had no jacket, but he really did not care. It could have been twenty degrees cooler and he would not have cared. He wanted to watch the sunset, and he would miss it if he wasted time walking halfway across downtown Chicago to get it.

A half empty, three-pound bag of peanut M & Ms sat on the bench next to him, and from time to time he would dip his hand in, come out with one and pop it into his mouth. A few seconds later, he would spit a peanut into the growing pile at his feet. He had been sitting there for hours, but no one bothered him.

There were certain rules to living in a big city, and approaching a large, obviously drunk man who had not shaved, bathed, or changed his clothes in several days broke most of them.

Even if anyone had cared to ignore those warning signs, his eyes would have scared them off. They were not just bloodshot from crying. They did not just have dilated pupils from the influence of the chocolate. They were glassy, wide, and burned with the kind of fire that was generally only seen in violent criminals. There was sadness in those eyes, too, a grief powerful beyond words, but a more than healthy amount of anger managed to overshadow that.

To phrase it as Mel might have, he was 'coming unglued', 'falling apart at the seams'. He was smart enough to know it, too. He was just beyond caring.

There was a large shard of glass on the ground at his feet, and he picked it up, examining it thoughtfully, wondering how much damage a piece this size could do. People could kill themselves with sharp glass if they cared to. People could kill other people...

He made a few passes in the air with the shard, his movements slow and trance-like as he reflected on how much damage, how much pain, this particular shard could have caused to, say, Rhee.

Or to Zin...

"Rhee, Zin, Tev, Sudor, Yhir, Lana..." He murmured a new name with every pass.

He dropped the glass abruptly, shocked by the direction his thoughts had taken. Had he really just been contemplating causing actual physical harm to his quarry? Just to see them suffer? He shook his head, troubled. That was torture. He had actually just been contemplating torturing people. Criminals, yes, but people all the same, he told himself firmly, feeling as ashamed and guilty as if he had actually followed through. Somehow, though, he could not bring himself to feel any less desire to hurt these awful people.

"Coming unglued," he muttered, unmoved by the fact.

Right now, he could not really bring himself to care that much about minor things like his own mental health. He fished a few more M & Ms from the bag, popping them into his mouth and spitting out the nuts in quick succession, rapid-fire. He wished that the candy store had carried such large bags of plain chocolate. Or larger ones still.

At the forefront of his mind was one thought, overpowering everything else. His concern for Mel, worry over the fugitives, uncertainty about his own future, the safety of the others who looked to them, a Vardian weapon of mass-destruction... All were overshadowed by a single thought, more a conviction than anything else.

If he never saw another piece of broken glass again for as long as he lived, there was a chance that he might die happy.

"And soon, please," he finished the thought out loud, reaching for more M & Ms with fresh tears in his eyes.

END ACT 1
ACT 2

Cole returned to the Watchfire late, as Maggie and Gail were closing for the night. They were chatting and listening to the jukebox as they worked, Mel nowhere in sight. Cole ignored them and started for the stairs, doing his best to walk in a straight line but not really managing very well. He stopped abruptly and stared at the jukebox, jarred by the lyrics pouring out of it:

‘Well I thought you’d listen
But I’m shattered like broken glass
Oh I thought that we’d be different
Baby
I thought that we would last
Yeah thought that we would last’

Glass, it just HAD to be glass...

"Something wrong?" Gail asked softly. Stupid question she knew when something so obviously was, but she felt a need to break the almost oppressive silence that had fallen over the little bar with his entry.

Cole stomped over to the jukebox, bending over, shoving it away from the wall, and grabbing the cord. He wrenched it from the socket, grateful when the music stopped. Ignoring the shocked looks he was getting from Maggie and Gail, he turned on his heels and stalked up the stairs.

"Okay..." Gail stared after him. "That was... different. Maggie?"

“It’s okay, Gail,” she assured the younger woman gently. “You just let Mel and I handle it.”

Gail nodded reluctantly, well aware that there were things that went on at the Watchfire and in the apartment above that Mel and Maggie actively strove to keep from her. Recalling what had nearly happened to Isabel, she could only suppose that it was for her own safety and go accept it.

***

"Hey, there you are," Mel said softly as he entered the living room. "How are you?"

He stared at her blankly.

"I... I was worried," she explained softly. "The way you've been acting..."

He frowned, staring. She looked on the verge of tears for some reason. "I wasn't trying to scare you, Mel. I... have I been acting differently?" he asked, confused.

Mel nodded slowly. "Yeah, Cole. You really have," she told him gently, picking up a pamphlet she had picked up that afternoon, a depression self-assessment.

One of many informational brochures she had managed to lay hands on. They all told the same story, and Mel was more frightened than she had been since Zin had ripped the life out of her body two years ago.

He shook his head. "No, Mel. I don't think--"

"Well, how about if we start with the chocolate, then. How much did you have tonight, Cole?" she asked gently. It would have been obvious that he was under the influence even if she could not still smell it on his breath.

He frowned, feeling like she was invading his privacy with the pointed question. "It's my body, Mel. I'll put anything into it that I feel like putting into it in any quantity I want!" he snapped.

Mel was too worried to be anything but annoyed by that response. He no longer even gave a damn that she cared about him? Well, if Cole wanted to be spiteful, that was just fine by her.

"And sit in a bathroom watching it bleed for half an hour?" she demanded. "And not wash it or put clean clothes on it for three days? If bodies were a privilege, Cole, yours would have been revoked by now!" she snapped, too worried to think straight, to realize that she was only driving him further away.

"Oh, unlike the wonderful care you take of YOUR body, pouring those glasses of poison you call 'drinks' down your throat all day, every day?" he retorted bitterly. "Depriving yourself of food and sleep when you're under stress or just too 'busy' to think about it. Throwing yourself into harm's way at every possible opportunity, just to prove that you can keep up with me. Not giving a damned that these fugitives want you dead as badly as they want me dead. Not giving a damn that, if you got killed, it would kill me, too!" He glared at her. "Do not lecture me about how I take care of my body, Mel. You're a hypocrite!"

Shaking his head angrily, he turned and stomped down the hall, slamming his fist into the wall as he went, turning into the war-room and slamming the door before locking it.

Mel stared after him, wide-eyed and shaking. She had never heard him shout before, and for a minute she had been terrified to have his anger directed against her. She had reflected in the past that he could have snapped her in two without breaking a sweat. Just now, he had seemed angry enough to have done just that. Fear had been replaced by something else entirely, though, when he had said 'if you got killed, it would kill me, too'. She could not even name this new emotion, some sick combination of dread and guilt and love and anger all rolled into one neat, disturbing little package.

If you got killed, it would kill me, too...

“Oh, Cole...” she breathed.

Biting back the tears that threatened, Mel started down the hall towards the war-room. She stopped long enough to stare at the fist-sized crater he had left deep in her wall, stunned. If he had hit her with that kind of force, and she strongly suspected that he had very badly wanted to do just that, it would have put her in the hospital, at the very least. More likely, she would not have lived long enough to warrant calling an ambulance.

She looked down at the pamphlet still clutched in her hand, aware that she was shaking. She walked to the war-room and knocked on the door.

"Cole?" she called gently.

No answer.

"Cole, please talk to me." When there was still no answer, she found herself no longer able to fight the tears. "Cole, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have said what I did. I’m just so worried," she called through the door. There was still no answer, but she kept talking, knowing that he heard her, even if he pretended he did not. "Please, don't be angry with me, Cole. I worry because I care about you. Because I love you. You... you need help, Cole. You're sick and you need help." Shaking her head, she bent and slipped the pamphlet under his door. "Just look at it, okay. I have others. They're in the living room, and... I'll be in my room when you're ready to talk. I just want to help you."

She pressed one hand flat against the door and repeated, "I love you." Shaking her head, she walked into her bedroom, leaving the door ajar for the night for the first time since she had allowed Cole to live with her.

***

Cole sat in miserable silence as Mel poured her heart out on the other side of the door. She loved him. Of course she did. And he loved her. That went without saying, but... Did he really have the RIGHT to love her? With Nallia and Ashi dead? Sliding from his chair to the floor, he pulled his knees against his chest and wrapped his arms around them, shaking. He glanced at the pamphlet with glazed eyes, making no move to retrieve it. Too miserable, too confused to move.

He had yelled at Mel. He had wanted to hurt her. What was wrong with him? He was sick, she said. He was sick and he needed help. Her help. He had been reliant on her since his first day on this cold, ugly little ball of dirt and every day since. Each day would reveal some new deficiency that she helped him overcome without a single comment, without expecting anything in return. And he had wanted to hurt her. Even though he had managed to restrain himself physically, at least as far as Mel was concerned, he knew that he had still managed to cause her pain.

Like he needed more guilt in his life. As if it was not bad enough that he dishonored the memory of his wife by loving Mel, he had managed to cause her pain as well. He was an arrogant bastard, not deserving of Mel's love any more than he had been deserving of Nallia's. Resting his forehead against his knees, the Tracker wept.

***

Mel was not particularly surprised that she could not sleep, even after she had taken a sleeping pill. How was she supposed to sleep when Cole was only a few feet away, obviously suffering, but at the same time refusing to let her help him? She cried soundlessly until there were no more tears, sobbed tearlessly for another hour, and tossed in the bed for some time more after that before rising and abandoning her attempt. Pill or not, she would never sleep.

She walked into the living room, picked up a quilt and walked back down the hall, sitting on the floor. Leaning against Cole's door, she closed her eyes, feeling more alone and helpless than ever before in her life. She could feel his life-force through the door, could sense his raging emotions. After a few hours, raging emotions were replaced by... 'blankness' was the closest she could come, like he was feeling nothing at all. Eventually, the pill won and she slept.

Cole could feel Mel outside of his door, felt her turbulent emotions. They only intensified his. After awhile, though, numbness and apathy replaced guilt and anger. He would have been grateful for that, but he simply did not have the energy. He barely had the energy to haul himself to his feet after he sensed that she was asleep. She was right. There was something badly wrong with him. She was also wrong, though. He did not need help, did not DESERVE it. He had brought this on himself by allowing himself to love another.

Shaking his head, he slowly opened the door, catching Mel before she could slide to the floor. She was normally so beautiful when she slept, but he saw no beauty tonight. Just a strange, fragile alien that he had deluded himself into caring about. Karma, humans called it when your actions were repaid by bad things in your life. Karma, then, explained this 'illness' of his. After Nallia, he had known that he would never love again, never even be happy. He had allowed himself to become happy, to fall in love again, and now he was paying for that transgression.

Shaking his head, he lifted her gently into his arms and returned her to her bed. In her light pajamas he reflected, not for the first time, on exactly how fragile and delicate she really was. He could have killed her in an instant with a well-aimed punch or by breaking the proper bone or more slowly but with as little effort with one hand pressed against her throat. The same throat that he had spent the last two years so casually caressing. She knew it, too, and allowed him to continue, trusting him.

That seemed wrong, too, though, he thought as he covered her frail body. How could she TRUST him after he had gotten her killed by Zin on their second day together, after what he had drawn her into the middle of? He no more deserved her trust than her love. Both were given under false pretenses. Shaking his head, he returned to the war-room, locking the door again and resuming his earlier position on the floor.

He remained there until morning, not noticing how cold it was or how sore his body grew. His head ached and his mouth had a foul taste as the after-effects of the chocolate made themselves known. He pulled the trashcan closer when the inevitable nausea made its appearance as well.

Mel announced breakfast, but he simply did not have the energy to get up, let alone walk to the kitchen. He did not even have the energy for a 'no, thank you, Mel'. When, a few minutes later, she announced that she had left a plate outside the door for him, he considered crawling the few feet to retrieve it, but even if he had had the energy, he was no more hungry now than he had been the last several times Mel had forced him to eat, and it had nothing to do with the nausea.

END ACT 2
ACT 3

"Hey, Vic, thanks for coming," Mel said, circling the bar and throwing her arms around him.

A little surprised, Vic returned the hug.

“How’s Agent Hess?”

“Better. She’s a lot better,” he assured her. “Thanks to you.”

“That’s what friends are for,” she pointed out quietly. Inhaling deeply, she quickly added, “Vic, I need your help.”

Vic had cleared his entire day when he had heard Mel's message on his voice-mail. He did not think he had ever heard her sounding so worried over anything and, given the kind of threats that she faced with Cole on a regular basis, that was saying a lot.

"Always here for you, Mel," he assured her gently, steering her to one of the couches against the far wall. "Why don't you tell me what's going on," he suggested softly. "Starting with why you've been crying."

Maggie carried a glass over to Mel. "Get you something, Vic?" she offered.

"Um, an ice-water would be great." He smiled at her as she walked off. He waited to speak again until Maggie had brought him a tray with a glass and a pitcher of ice-water and then gone behind the bar again. "What's wrong, Mel?" he asked quietly. "Why have you been crying and... why are you drinking before noon?" He frowned at the uncharacteristic action. Mel never drank before two or three in the afternoon, and it was not even nine yet.

"Don't you start, too!" she snapped, wincing as soon as the words were out of her mouth. "God, Vic, I’m sorry."

"Don't start... too? You and Cole get into some kind of a fight?" he ventured.

Mel started to nod and then changed her mind and shook her head. "We did, yeah, but... that's not why I called you. Not really." She took a long pull of her drink and fell silent.

"Well why don't you tell me about it?" he suggested.

"Oh, God, where to start?" Mel muttered. She shook her head. "Vic, Cole is, like... he's losing it. And I don't mean that he's getting... quirky or obsessed with his work. He's starting to scare me."

Vic frowned. Mel scared of Cole? That was new. And damned near impossible to understand, considering the way the two cared about each other. "Did he HIT you?" Vic asked, regarding her puffy eyes in a new light.

"No! I was crying. Cole hasn't laid a hand on me. But... I don't know. It's like the stress of the past two years, of everything that's on him all came crashing down at once. He's coming apart at the seams. He won't eat, he's having mood-swings, he hasn't bathed or changed his clothes in days, he got drunk last night..."

"Drunk?" Vic repeated.

Mel nodded. "High on damned chocolate. He was looking and acting like he'd been on a bender. Wouldn't tell me how much when I asked, just started yelling at me about... my drinking. Among other things. I mean, he went OFF on me, which Cole had never done before."

"You think he's getting a little too fond of the chocolate?"

Mel shook her head. "I want to say it's depression, but I never knew depression could be so scary. I always figured it was just, you know, like locking yourself in your room crying for days at a time. But Cole... he went into some kind of trance in the kitchen yesterday after breakfast. And he got a lot worse really fast after that." Mel told Vic about the broken glass, how he had walked over it barefooted without even noticing, briefly outlined how much blood there had been in the bathroom, and how much it had scared her. She shook her head hopelessly. "That doesn't sound like any depression I've ever heard of," she concluded.

"No, it really doesn't." Vic shook his head. "You think it's work-related? Stress?"

"I don't know what else it could be, Vic. He's never... I mean..." She sighed, shrugging. "This is not the guy I've been living with for two years. I mean, yes, he had gotten pretty damned broody in the past... Tina, Lontoria, Krace, but... this is NOT brooding, Vic. This is... it’s scary."

Vic considered his next words carefully. He was getting very worried by the picture Mel was painting. Cole was indeed coming apart at the proverbial seams, and things seemed to have gone from bad to worse pretty damned fast. He had seen good cops, veterans with twenty or thirty years service just snap overnight, going into nose-dives and spinning out of control. Alcoholism, PTSD, and depression were fairly common in cops. He had heard of cops killing themselves, killing their wives or girlfriends...

"You keep using that word, Mel. It’s scary, he’s scaring you... Are you afraid of him? Do you think he might hurt you?"

Mel shook her head. "It's bad, but I don't think it's that bad. I'm not afraid of him... I'm... it's more that I'm afraid... well, FOR him."

Vic stared at Mel for a few moments. She meant it. She thought Cole was going insane, and it scared her. He made two decisions. One, he would discuss this with Phil Poulsen, a friend who was a psychologist on contract to the Chicago PD. Second, he needed to talk to Cole. Ten to one, the Cirronian was too wrapped up in whatever he was feeling to realize how freaked out Mel was getting, and THAT was something he needed to know.

"Mind if I talk to him?" he asked gently.

"You can try," Mel said, nodding. "But I'm honestly not sure how much is getting through right now..."

Vic nodded and rose. When Mel started to get up, too, he shook his head. "You stay put. I need a few words with him in private."

Mel shrugged and nodded. "Just... This is so hard on him, Vic."

"I know." Vic gave her a reassuring smile. "I promise not to yell or lay blame or any of that good stuff. I just want to talk to him."

Mel nodded slowly, not entirely sure why he did not want her present for that, but trusting his judgment. "He was in the war-room," Mel told him. "But the door's locked and he won't open it."

Vic nodded and gently squeezed her shoulder. "Don't worry, Mel. We'll get through this." Smiling gently, he walked up the stairs and down the hall to the war-room. There was an untouched plate of food by the door, long since grown cold. He knocked sharply. "Cole?" he called.

No response.

"Giving me the silent treatment now, buddy?" Vic called. "Okay, then. You can just listen. I don't have a lot to say; it'll just take a minute. One, I've seen this before in cops. Maybe they don't have it where you come from, but it's damned common here on Earth. It's called depression. It's a disease and it can be treated. We can get you help. Mel really wants to see you getting help for this, Cole. Which is the other thing. You are scaring the shit out of her!" The last was a near-shout, and it had the effect Vic had predicted.

The door opened a few seconds later. Cole was kneeling on the floor looking up at him, and he looked worse than Mel had said he did.

"I'm not trying to scare her. I just... need to... think through some things." Cole's voice was slow, sluggish.

Vic stared for a moment, deciding that, as worried as Mel was for Cole, it was not worried enough. Cole was not bad; he was WORSE.

“Don’t get help for your own sake. Get it for Mel’s. You owe her that much.”

"Leave me alone," came the sullen reply.

Vic sighed and shook his head. "Cole, you're depressed. You need help."

"I don't need your help!" Cole snapped. "I don't want it! Leave me alone!" Cole reached up and slammed the door.

Vic sighed as he heard the bolt being thrown. Turning, he saw Mel standing at the end of the hall, looking ready to cry. Shaking his head, he closed the distance between her and drew her into his arms.

"Don't worry," he whispered. "We'll get him help."

"But he doesn't WANT to be helped, Vic," Mel sighed. "I'm so scared..."

"Shh." Vic shook his head. "Since when is Mel Porter ever afraid of anything, huh? Look, I've got a friend who's a psychologist. I'll talk to him, see what we can figure out."

"Thanks, Vic," she sighed. "I appreciate it."

He hugged her close again for a minute. "In the meantime, see what you can do to get Cole talking. I don't like the way he's drawing into himself. And if we can figure out what's causing this..."

Mel nodded. "I'll do my best, Vic, but... I don't know. He hasn't really been at his most responsive lately."

Vic nodded. "I know, Mel. But if anyone can get him back out of his shell, I'm betting it's you. You're the closest thing to family he has on this planet." He shrugged. "If nothing else, just keep reminding him that we're there for him. In his current state of mind, he may need to be reminded."

Mel nodded again. "Okay, Vic. Thanks."

Vic gave her a reassuring smile. "You call if you need anything, Mel. Any time, okay?"

"Okay. Thanks, Vic. I can't tell you how much I appreciate you dropping everything and coming over here like this."

"Hey, that's what friends are for." He gave her another quick hug. "I'm going to go see Phil now. He'll know what to do."

Mel nodded and watched him go for a minute before turning and walking down the hall. She picked up the untouched plate of food she had left for breakfast and carried it back into the kitchen with a sigh. Shaking her head, she walked back down the hall and crouched outside of the door. It was locked, but she could have opened it, easily. They both knew it, too. The lock was symbolic, an outward manifestation of his withdraw from her. Always before, in spite of the fact that locks were no obstacle to either, they had respected it when a door was locked. It was a request for privacy. Now, though...

Well, he was the one who had shown her how to spring locks, she decided, letting herself in.

Cole was sitting on the floor, knees drawn against his chest, staring dully into space. Mel moved in front of him and dropped into a crouch. His eyes did not even register her presence. It was like he was in some kind of trance. Again.

"Where are you, Cole?" she whispered, shaking her head and touching his face. “Where are you?”

Sluggishly, he reached up and covered her hand with his. It was an effort. "So tired, Mel..."

"Yeah, Cole, I know," she whispered. "Why don't we get you into bed, okay?"

"I don’t sleep," he protested weakly as she rose and hauled him to his feet.

"I know, but... I feel more comfortable having you lying down in a bed than I do having you sitting on the cold floor. Come on, it's only a few steps."

Supporting him heavily, Mel led him into her bedroom and watched him drop onto the bed, exhausted by the effort. Shaking her head, she pulled off his shoes and helped him slide into a more comfortable position, head resting on the pillows. She sat on the edge of the bed, taking his hand in both of hers.

"You want to talk about it?" she offered.

Cole shook his head. "I just want to..." He sighed and shook his head again.

"Rest?" Mel asked, nodding. "Okay, Cole. You do that and I’ll be here all night if you need me,” she assured him, stretching out next to him and gathering him into her arms.

The sexual tension that had been growing between them almost since the beginning seemed insignificant now, not even a factor. Cole was nothing more than a man in dire need of comfort. Mel needed some herself. When Cole did not automatically return her embrace, she simply reached up and pulled on of his hands over her shoulder. Although his face did not indicate that he had noticed the action, she felt his hand tighten against her back, urging her closer.

Sighing, she cradled his face in her hands, sliding closer and resting her forehead against his. “Don’t worry, Cole,” she whispered. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise. Everything’s going to be okay. You have to believe that. You have to...”

END ACT 3
ACT 4

Phil Poulsen nodded absently as he listened to Vic’s account of his friend's problems, troubled. The lunch they had ordered lay forgotten on the table as Vic recounted what Mel had told him about the broken glass, the amount of blood in the bathroom, the trance-like states, muttering to himself in his native language, 'drinking'. Short of Cole’s otherworldly origin, Vic told his old friend everything.

And Phil was more than a little worried by what he heard. It was a too-familiar pattern. "Is the girlfriend safe?" was his first question.

Vic nodded quickly. "I wouldn't let Mel stay there if I thought she wasn't. It's Cole I'm worried about."

"Do you think he might harm himself?"

"I don't know." Vic sighed and shrugged. "I think, knowing him, that it's not impossible that he might walk into a situation where he ends up dead. More likely just because he isn't focused than anything. I mean, let's just say that I can't imagine him as the type who's going to get his affairs in order and then kill himself with his service-weapon." Vic shook his head. "But his job is dangerous and his mental state is..."

"Questionable." Phil nodded and reached for his drink. "I've seen people with fewer visible symptoms hospitalize themselves, Vic. Now, there comes a point with depression where you're really just beyond caring. You aren't actively suicidal, but only because you don't have the energy to be."

"Sounds about right." Vic sighed. "Got a reaction out of him when I mentioned that he was scaring Mel, but it was... kind of half-assed to be honest."

"Any recent traumas?" Phil asked. "Because these... trances you mentioned and a few of his other symptoms... they sound more like PTSD than depression."

"Post-traumatic stress?" Vic asked, blinking. He shrugged. "Guess it's possible."

"Any traumas?" Phil repeated.

"The guy's life is nothing BUT a series of traumas, Phil! I face hardened killers for a living and Cole's work scares me."

Phil nodded thoughtfully. "Anything particularly traumatic recently?"

"Not as far as I know." Vic shook his head.

"Anniversaries coming up?"

Vic shrugged. "I'd have to check with Mel."

Phil nodded. "You do that. And see if you can convince Detective Hauser to make an appointment with me."

"Uh, he's not exactly affiliated with the Chicago PD," Vic began.

Phil looked up. "A fed? Well, they have psychologists, too."

"I'm not sure if he's going to agree to anything like that, anyway," Vic said, shaking his head. "He was... resistant to the idea of getting help when we talked."

"Resistant?"

Vic shrugged. "Okay, so he started shouting."

"Much the same thing most of the time, isn't it?"

Vic nodded. "Except that Cole doesn't shout. He NEVER loses his temper."

Except for killing Rhee a few months ago in a moment of rage...

"Until now?"

Vic nodded. "It's like... when he isn't apathetic, he's angry. And anger is just... it is not par for the course when dealing with Cole Hauser."

Phil nodded. "You're worried about him."

"Hell, yeah." Vic nodded.

"Have you told him this?"

“Of course I did.” Vic nodded. "I care, Mel cares, we're worried. Didn’t seem to help, honestly.”

"He blames himself, most likely. Probably not directly, but in the sense of, 'I'm a bad person and therefore deserve this'. It's not uncommon. It's why you work on self-esteem when you treat depression."

Vic nodded slowly. "What can Mel and I do to help him?"

"Be there for him, remind him, over and over if you have to, that he's a good person, that you both care and worry, that he has a lot to live for, that he has an illness and it can be treated..."

Vic nodded, lapsing into silence. "Phil, can it, though? CAN it be treated?" he asked finally. "I mean you and I have both seen good cops flame out. I don't want him to be one of those."

Phil nodded. "I don't ever want anyone to become that kind of statistic, Vic. You KNOW that. Watching cops buckle under the pressure kills a piece of me every time I can't help one."

"I know, Phil." Vic nodded sympathetically.

Phil's father had been a cop for a lot of years until the pressure had gotten to be too much. Then the man had shot his wife, Phil, and finally himself. Seventeen-year old Phil had survived, barely, but his life dream of becoming a cop like his dad had been taken away. The bullet had left Phil with a permanent limp, preventing him from ever meeting the physical requirements of the job. He had settled on police psychology instead, his way of trying to rewrite history.

"Look, I don't care if he's not affiliated with the PD, Vic. He’s still one of us. I'll see him on my own time. No charge."

"I can't tell you how much I appreciate that," Vic said honestly.

Phil nodded and started to respond when his pager went off. He glanced down at it, pulling out his cell-phone. "I have to take this," he told Vic.

As Phil talked on the phone, Vic glanced absently around the restaurant, completely failing to give a second glance to the man seated on the other end of the restaurant. A largish man wearing dark sunglasses had been quietly relaying every word of the conversation back to the tiny woman he was sitting with. A wide smile slowly spread across her face as she listened.

When Lana spoke, her low voice was almost a purr. "Well, now, isn't THIS an interesting development?"

***

Cole lay next to Mel, not even able to enjoy her proximity or the gentle embrace they shared, her forehead resting lightly against his, her gentle touch and loving look. He noticed but did not particularly enjoy the feel of her warm breath on his face and throat. How could he enjoy any of it when she was so obviously troubled?

She cared so much. It hurt him to think that his behavior was troubling her, but he could not change it, either. He was trying so hard to act like his normal self and, until yesterday, he had thought that he was succeeding. But Mel was obviously in significant distress, and it was his fault. What had he been thinking, falling in love with her?

She deserved so much better, starting with a man who could love her as a man was meant to love a woman. Instead, she was stuck with a man whose job forced him to keep her at arm's length so that she would not end up like Nallia.

Nallia...

He had hated ever minute away from her. Hours had seemed like days and weeks stretched out like years. And through it all, he had promised her, over and over, that it would not be for much longer, that one day, very soon, he would go back to teaching and they would never be separated again. And then he had been called off-world to help catch a particularly elusive killer. Returning a day early, a draft of his resignation notice in his bag, planning to surprise her with both, he had instead found his home the scene of one of the worst crimes Cirron had seen in centuries.

His friend and coworker, Kallissa had been there, processing the scene, doing what she could for Daggon. She had stayed late into the night, comforting the bereaved husband, holding him in her arms, crooning gently, doing what she could to console him. Rumors had been current by then that Rhee was targeting the families of Trackers, but Kallissa had stayed with Daggon rather than going to her own family. She had sent them to stay with another Tracker and his family for a few days instead, staying with Daggon until Zin arrived.

Much of that time was still a blur to Cole, especially in the beginning. He could still not recall when Zin had arrived, could not recall who had called him, although he suspected that it must have been Kallissa. She had not particularly liked the ambitious Vardian, but she had understood and respected his friendship with Daggon more than most.

His first clear memory was of the news that Rhee had been caught, delivered in a whisper by Kallissa, who had not compounded Daggon's grief by listing the Trackers who had fallen to the Vardian before his capture. Many had been close personal friends to both Cirronians.

Arguments with Zin, the Vardian vehement that it was time for Daggon to follow through on his intention to retire and return to teaching, telling him that Sar-Top would kill what was left of his spirit. Kallissa never raising her voice but quietly affirming every word out of Zin's mouth. Nallia's sister and parents, begging him to reconsider. Daggon had ignored them all. He was going to Sar-Top. He was going to make sure Rhee never saw the light of day again, that no other family was torn apart as his had been.

Zin had accompanied him on the trip to Sar-Top. Cole remembered, for the first time, what had seemed an inconsequential detail then: his feet had still been badly injured. He had not healed them, had refused to let anyone else do so. Every pained step had served as a reminder of the price of complacency. Zin had physically supported him on the walk through the space-port, still voicing his objections even as he helped the Cirronian follow through.

Once emotional numbness began fading, threatening to give way to grief or anger, he threw himself into work that much more. He frequently worked double-shifts, and sometimes two or three in a row. Safety regulations disallowed too many consecutive hours of work, even for a Cirronian, and he was occasionally forced to take some time off, but he refused to be still.

Only a few seconds of inattention were required for the pain to return, so his down-time was spent in physically demanding exercise. He counted his pulse instead of thinking. Thinking left room for grief, and Daggon would not allow that. For eight years on Sar-Top, he spent his time working or working out, not slowing down for any longer than was absolutely necessary for such things as eating. Even his meals were passed quickly, and he would get right back to work. Idle conversation was some respite, so he made friends with the other guards and sometimes with the prisoners, but most of his time was spent in more active, and solitary, pursuits.

Doctors had declared him 'meditation-deprived' more than once in those eight years and forced long blocks of vacation-time on him, never seeming to realize that it was not stress that was keeping him from meditating. He kept himself from it. In meditation, he was vulnerable to the pain. Because he never thought to ask, no one thought to tell him that giving vent to the pain would have helped to relieved it. So he continued to ignore it and push it aside for eight long years, until the unthinkable had happened and Rhee escaped.

The man who had started it all had faced a slow Collection and a quick death at the hands of the man who had once been Daggon, but it hardly seemed like enough any more. Not by a long shot...

END ACT 4
TAG

Lana had selected Tesyn deliberately. He had a taste for blood, an MO uncannily similar to that of a certain deceased Vardian, and a very real need to redeem himself after his latest blunder. Not, according to her intelligence, he was yet aware of that blunder, but that gave her a substantial advantage. She knew full well that people feared her volatile temper: it was an image she deliberately cultivated because it reinforced her power over them. Perhaps when she had liberated Zin, she would be required to check the excesses of her temper, but in the meantime she benefited by them.

Still, it could not hurt to practice restraint now, she decided. She was, after all, very close to Zin. So she waited for Tesyn patiently, outwardly calm. Anyone who could have caught a glimpse of what was going on beneath the tranquil surface probably would have turned and fled on the spot. As it was, when the storm broke, it would be completely unexpected and that much more powerful for it.

“Doctor Lana. Tesyn to see you.”

“Send him in, Mara, dear,” Lana directed, smiling benignly at the nervous-looking secretary. “See to it that we are NOT disturbed,” she added quietly.

“Y... Yes, Doctor.” Mara bobbed her head anxiously before backing out of the office.

Lana shook her head and took a deep breath, trying to call her emotions to order. When that did not work, she bit the inside of her cheek until it bled. It did not make her feel any better, but there was still something obscurely satisfying about the taste of hot blood filling her mouth.

She turned as Tesyn entered, swallowing the blood and smiling at him. “Ah, Tesyn. Have a seat.”

“Yes, Doctor. How may I serve?”

“That little... chore I gave you to do. I seem to have mislaid your report on it. Could you kindly reacquaint me with the details?”

“Of course, Doctor.” He smiled easily and relaxed back into the armchair. “My target was on her way to a religious service.”

“I see. Do tell.”

“Of course, Doctor. However there is not much TO tell. As soon as I had a clear shot, I took it. The bullet took her in the chest. She went down instantly.”

“Did she?” Lana asked, feigning approval. “Impressive. And the recorded time of death?”

“I would have to check the hospital records for an exact time, Doctor,” he said, shrugging.

“Mmm, I thought as much.”

She nodded faintly. She should have known better than to send someone so sloppy to do the job. Especially, though, sending a man who liked to kill with a blade to kill with a gun had been sheer stupidity on her part. He would pay for making her look foolish, but first he would take care of another ‘project’ for her.

Her smile not wavering, she added, “Which is why I took the precaution of checking the hospital records myself, Enixian.” Leaning closer and lowering her voice to a purr, she asked, “Would it much surprise you to learn that Agent Hess is not only still alive, but that she has regained consciousness?”

Tesyn’s eyes widened with alarm.

Lana backhanded him the moment realization set in, knocking him from his chair to the floor with an audible snap.

“Idiot! Incompetent fool!” she snarled, jumping over his chair and backing him into a corner.

Crouching on all fours in front of the horrified Enixian, she reached out with one hand, grabbed his bloodied and clearly-broken nose between her thumb and forefinger, and twisted.

Tesyn howled.

Lana smiled calmly at him and licked his blood off of her fingers, feeling infinitely calmed. “Next time I give you a job, Tesyn, you will finish it or you will die. You understand me?” she asked in a calm, even voice.

He whimpered and nodded.

“Good.” Lana gave his nose another twist, this time in the opposite direction, prompting an even louder shout of protest, followed by a series of whimpers. “Would you stop that abominable sniveling?” she suggested brusquely. “This is a place of business, not a daycare.”

She leaned back on her haunches, swaying slightly as she sized him up, every inch a cat ready to pounce on its intended supper.

“Do... D... Doctor...” he managed.

She ignored him. “Now, you have two options as I see it. One is a slow and painful death. The other is an act of service that will redeem you in Doctor Zin’s eyes. Now, if you chose this second option and actually manage to carry it off, you will then be given an opportunity to rectify the situation that has arisen with regards to Agent Hess.”

“Wh... What must I do?”

“Oh, so MANY things come to mind,” she murmured, savoring the thought of all the things she could coerce a man this cowed into doing, all the enemies she could have put out of the way. After Magan’s failure, another attempt on Haag was out of the question, but he was hardly her only enemy. Still, a woman had to have her priorities... “You like killing females, yes?”

He nodded shakily.

“Wonderful. Preferably with a knife if I recall your file correctly. Yes?”

Another shaky nod.

“Good. Then you will take the Tracker’s consort.” Lana smiled benignly. “Do what you will to her, just make it bloody, violent, and, above all, PAINFUL.”

“B... But the... the Tracker.”

“Will not trouble you, you may be assured. His past has finally come back to haunt him. As I understand it, he has neither the energy or the desire to rouse himself from his room any longer. So, while this depression still has a secure hold over him, you will be free to take the female unopposed.”

Tesyn regarded her uncertainly, waiting for the catch.

“Make it violent, Tesyn. Violate the creature if you can stomach the fact that she’s a mongrel. Make her bleed. Make her scream. Make her scream HIS name,” she ordered quietly. “Then return yourself to me so that we may discuss the... disposition of Agent Hess.”

Climbing to her feet, she turned and swept from the office without giving the bleeding Enixian a backwards glance.

***

"Wow, you weren't kidding when you said it was getting crowded down here," Mel told Gail, handing her another tray of drinks. She had reluctantly left Cole, but returned at least every ten minutes to check on him. He was not exactly asleep, but he was insensible to her absence. "Table in the corner."

"Is Mister Hauser okay?" Gail asked quietly.

"He will be," Mel assured her quietly, giving her a gentle push in the direction of the table.

"You sure about that?" Maggie asked when Gail was out of earshot.

Mel nodded. "Vic and I are getting him help. He'll be fine."

"That's good," Maggie said. "Because depression can be a NASTY business, Mel."

"Tell me about it," she agreed, nodding and moving to help a customer who had just walked in, wearing sunglasses in spite of the dark outside and the bandage across his nose. "Help you?" she asked, absently resting one hand on the bar. She frowned as he covered her hand with one of his own and pulled away as she became aware that he was not human. "Get out!" she ordered in a low, threatening voice.

Tesyn scoffed. "Not without you, gorgeous."

She shrugged and nodded, pulling off her apron. She was worried about Cole and pissed at the world in general and the fugitives more specifically. Backing down was not something she particularly felt like doing, not when there was a good fight to be had. Discretion had never really been her strong-suit anyway. This scum walked into her bar and challenged her, she was not about to back down. Especially not with Cole upstairs and helpless...

"Back in five, Maggie," she told the woman as she circled the bar.

"Mel," Maggie began anxiously.

"Nothing to worry about," Mel assured her, flashing a smile that did not quite reach her eyes. "Back in five."

Maggie nodded uneasily and watched Mel follow the strange man from the bar. She knew that Mel was a big girl, quite capable of taking care of herself, but she still worried about her, especially lately. Well, she told herself reassuringly, if Mel was not back in five minutes, she would go and get Cole to handle things. Between those two, there was nothing they could not take on.

"You know, pal, you picked a bad day to mess with me," Mel informed the Enixian as she followed him into a nearby alley, keeping her senses open for others. She may have been spoiling for a fight, but she was not about to walk into an ambush, either.

"Oh, that's right! Lana mentioned that your boyfriend was under the weather..." He smiled and produced a long knife.

Mel stared, stunned. How the hell had the fugitives found out? The moment's inattention was a bad move, she realized, as the arcing knife flashed in the glow of a nearby streetlight, leaving a long tear in her shirt. And, she realized, the thought borne on a wave of dizziness, her stomach as well.

"Oh, you're going to pay for that!" Mel hissed, not talking about the shirt or her stomach. She circled slowly, pressing one hand to the gash in her stomach to assess the damage and immediately wishing she had not. It was bad, there was no doubt. Shaking her head, she lunged.

She spun and slid easily under the knife as he raised it and out of his reach, adrenaline dulling the pain, at least momentarily. The Enixian was obviously surprised that she was putting up a fight, and Mel used that to her advantage. Cole had shown her how to use her powers and enough about how to fight that she was able to hold her own with relative ease in spite of the blood she was spilling all over the alley floor. But that would not last, she knew.

She fought like a cornered animal until she had the Enixian backed into a corner of his own, then she went on the offensive, knocking the knife from his hand and lashing out at him until he covered his face to protect it from the obviously insane human woman. As soon as his hands went up, Mel pulled out the Collector and slammed it into his exposed chest, quickly extracting his life-force. She fumbled to pocket the Collector again, but her hand was slick with her own blood and she dropped it. Bending to retrieve it, her knees buckled.

Her entire body shaking, Mel slumped to the ground along with her downed foe.

END TAG
END PART 1