"That was very good, Sloan. Thank you."

Tom's flat voice startled her from her 'daydreaming'. She smiled at the compliment. He looked like he had more color today, though God knows why. Ray's security made it almost impossible to get out even for a walk. She stood and started to clear the table, when his hand reached out and touched her arm.

"Let me do that," he offered. "It gives me something to do."

Sloan hesitated because Tom's offer was mechanical. There was no inflection in his voice. He offered so he could be away from her scrutiny, so he wouldn't have to contribute to any conversation Sloan dreamed up tonight.

Tom took the plates from her slightly resistant hands, walked around the island to the sink, and carefully scraped them clean. He ran water over them and loaded the dishwasher. His movements were slow, and deliberate, and Sloan found herself watching him again.

But then she realized he wanted some privacy, and her observation of him was the one thing that was sure to cause tension. So she turned to the living room and searched for her lab notes. Settling onto the couch, she opened the folder to look them over.

Minutes later a glass shattered, and looking up from her work, she saw Tom hunched over the sink. "Tom! What happened?" She was at his side in an instant. Sloan saw he held his right hand with his left. Bright red blood ran in rivulets into the sink. Gingerly, she grasped his hand and removed any shards of glass she could see. Satisfied, she turned the faucets on warm water, and gently tried to ease his hand under the flow.

Tom cringed from her touch and tried to pull away, but Sloan held onto his hand tightly. She sympathized with him, "I know it stings, but just a bit more." Finally seeing the extent of damage she exclaimed, "Oh Tom, this needs stitches!"

Sloan was unprepared when he suddenly wrenched free of her grasp and backed away from her. Blood dropped steadily to the floor, and with each splatter, Tom stared raptly, as if he were no longer aware of Sloan or the running water.

"Tom?" shouted Sloan, frantically. "Tom, can you hear me? Answer me!"

"Answer me, Tom. What must you do?"

"Kill them," he said unemotionally.

"And why must you do this?" asked Lewis.

"They're a threat to our survival."

"Very good, Tom."

…and then, he held a man by the throat. He squeezed, increasing the pressure with his hand. The blond man's pale skin turned stark white, as he cut off all oxygen. And still, he squeezed, ever tightening his grip. Tendons and bone snapped, and his blood covered his hand. Human blood.

"Tom, it's me, Sloan," she said as she frantically tried to gain his attention. Forcing her voice to calm, she clearly ordered, "Look at me! Look at me, now!"

Tom blindly gazed at the commanding voice and saw Sloan in front of him, her eyes glistening.

"Give me your hand, now!" she commanded again.

Puzzled and not comprehending, he placed his bleeding hand into the palm of her outstretched one. He stared at his blood, pooling in the palm of her hand.

Sloan's voice lost its authority and she said hesitantly, "I'll just wrap this carefully, after it's been disinfected, okay?"

"Sure." Tom heard his own words as if from far away. He blinked and Sloan left him, his arm outstretched. After a few seconds, Sloan returned and cleansed the wound with hydrogen peroxide, gently swabbing the torn and ragged skin.

Tom noticed everything. Every sound seemed detached from him. The pain of the disinfectant's sting wasn't a part of his hand. He watched impassively as Sloan wrapped the hand in a clean towel.

"Tom, I'm going to call Ed. He'll come over and take care of your hand. Okay?"

"Sure." The word seemed to stretch for miles. He then found himself sitting, staring at the white towel stained red. He had slumped to the floor where he stood. And Sloan sat in front of him, holding his hand cupped in hers. She murmured reassuringly that Ed would be there soon. Getting up, Sloan ran to the phone and called Ed.

Ray sat in a white Ford Taurus and bit into his sandwich a second time. He needn't have bothered; it tasted as bad as it had the first time. With disgust, he flung it into a nearby waste bin. Reaching for his coffee, he settled back, and squinted at the glare of the sun off the water.

He'd been waiting by the pay phone for over three hours. When the tip had come, apparently from Jon Mitchell, that he would contact him here, Ray had held his suspicions. It seemed you needed a score card just to keep straight who was a potential ally and who was a potential traitor.

Bob Santiago had been adamant that Jon would contact him as soon as possible. He would have information about Alexandra Luthor's latest move. That was supposing that she had use for her extensive team of doctors, now that Tom had been rescued from her clutches.

Ray sighed, and glanced at his watch. He decided to give the man five more minutes. A small chill blew in from the waterfront and Ray zipped his jacket. He had to keep the window down to hear the pay phone ring. Gazing at the phone, he heard a sudden shrill from it, as if it had rung on command. Ray quickly exited from the car, and by the fourth ring, picked up the receiver.

"Peterson," he spoke into the phone. He scanned the street as he held the receiver to his ear.

"This is Mitchell. I have only a minute. Check the manifests of a trucking company called Pacific Lines. Specifically, investigate the past two-week's deliveries in LA county. I think you'll find something that can be of use to you."

The line went dead. Ray replaced the receiver and returned to his car. Starting the car, the radio blared, "Secret Agent Man". Turning it down, Ray rolled his eyes upward. "God, you certainly have one twisted sense of humor." If he hurried, he could be back in Pasadena before rush hour.

"Hello, Ed. May I sit?" Walter had lumbered over from his office, where he had kept the blinds shut most of the day.

"Yeah, sure," muttered Ed, happy to have a break. "Have a seat."

"I wanted to talk with you about possible uses for the lab's resources. As you know, we've been on the receiving end of most of the Dominants’ movements of late. I would like to take a more proactive approach to this problem."

"Oh-kay," said Ed, drawing out each syllable. "What exactly do you want from me?"

"I want to know what findings you've collected in regards to the genogenisis serum."

"Look, Walter," interrupted Ed. "I don't know if..." Ed's speech fell off at the end, he was not willing to continue that line of thought.

"If what, Ed. Surely, you haven't abandoned that research?" Walter appeared incredulous.

"No," denied Ed. "No, I haven't. At least, not entirely. But, I don't feel that it's such a good idea anymore."

"Interesting," murmured Walter. "Why not? We've had explicit intentions from the start. We're at war. The serum puts us…"

"...On the same level as the Dominants," finished Ed. "When I started this process, I felt angry over what had been done to Kelly, and to the mothers of all the Kevins. Hell, I felt that we were justified. Now I just don't know." Ed ran his fingers through his hair in frustration.

Walter smiled slightly and expanded on this line of reasoning. "Now you feel that such a process is, what? Shall we say, 'immoral'?" Snorting in disbelief, he said, "I'm not sure we have that luxury anymore, to be so naive."

"And so," asked Ed, sarcastically, "what separates us from Alexandra Luthor then? She tortures, we torture. Who's right here?" The heat in his voice increased with each syllable.

"Tell me, Ed," asked Walter calmly. "Is this an attack of conscience, or does it have more to do with Mariana?"

Angrily, Ed stood up and leaned over his desk, hands spread wide and glared at his boss. "Listen, Walter. The ones who've helped us the most have been those from the coexistence group. And there may be more of them than we know. I think that might be a better tack to take."

"I see," murmured Walter, undaunted by the display of anger. "And what avenue of action do you propose for this lab?"

"For one, we could further study their brain chemistry. If it's true that the average Dominant's IQ is not significantly higher than a humans, but only has a brain that works at a vastly accelerated rate, maybe there's something that we can find to slow that down. Something that levels the playing field, until we can find a more effective…"

"Weapon?" interrupted Walter.

"No. But maybe a more effective means of detecting them. Walter, I'm not saying chuck the data from the genogenesis serum. But there are other options we can explore."

Walter rubbed his chin, as he seemingly mulled over the points Ed had made. The meeting in the desert had, in all truth, frightened him. But working counter to his team wouldn't do anything but impede their progress. "All right, Ed. I think I see your point. We'll shelve the genogenesis serum, for now." Rising from his chair, Walter gave Ed one more measured glance. "But there may come a time when expedient means ARE our only option."

And with that, Walter quickly made his way back to his office. Ed watched him go, and unbidden thoughts of Mariana came again. Shutting off his computer, he decided it was time he got some air.

Sloan walked out the bathroom, pulling on a dress for work. She had mixed feelings about going in today. She'd been up half the night; sitting and watching Tom sleep, nightmares plaguing him once again. He had tried to put on a positive front in her presence, but each day there was something new that frightened her—frightened her deeply.

Yesterday, she had came home from the lab to find him sitting perfectly still, just staring out the fire escape window. She didn't greet him right away because she wanted to see if he would acknowledge her first. Instead he sat motionless with that empty stare for almost an hour. It reminded her of the time when Lewis had called this same apartment and had triggered his programming. His face then, so devoid of any of its intelligence and understanding, was not unlike the way he looked now.

Her nerves almost at the breaking point, she called out to him. On the third call of his name, he snapped from his trance-like state, and turned to face her. Of all the things she had every seen in his beautiful face, his look of fear was the worst of all. She had tried to cover, making light conversation. She didn't ask about his hand, however. "Tom. There's this great bottle of wine I picked up on the way home. Would you like a glass?"

He hesitated, but then nodded. Walking to the living room sofa, he sat down. Sloan brought the glass to him, then slipped off her shoes and settled in front of the fire. She had no doubt that Tom had started it before she had come home. Looking at the flames, she watched them dance and flare. She had once heard fire referred to as 'demon poetry'. She liked that description.

After a few minutes of silence, Tom shifted in his chair. He brought his elbows to his knees, and leaned forward. He studied her in the flickering light. Her auburn hair gleamed. "You're very beautiful, Sloan." Tom said in a soft voice. And she turned to him and smiled warmly.

:Desire, Happiness, love: His senses were attacked by the emotions that lay within this woman. He tried to block them, but he found he couldn't. His defenses were so impaired. Overwhelmed by his senses, the writhing emotions ripped at his mind and suffocated him. The pain created a blackness, a swirling void, to which there was no escaping. He fought, feebly pushing at the onslaught of feelings that came in waves.

Tom staggered to his feet, and then tripped, as he tried to make his way away from this source of torment. The wineglass slid from his fingers, and he clutched his head as if in great pain and howled his agony.

"Tom! What is it?" Sloan appeared at this side and grabbed his shoulders. "Tell me! What's wrong?" When he didn't respond, Sloan tried to pull him close. "Tom? It's okay, just tell me what's wrong!"

Tom pushed her away, roughly sending her flying across the room. She hit the small table by the chair and crumpled to the floor. And then the emotions subsided and Tom was able to look around the room. To his horror, he saw Sloan lying on the floor.

She moaned, and slowly sat up, her head in her hands. A trickle of blood showed through her fingers. She raised her head and looked at Tom. Seeing him so distraught, she tried to act as if everything was fine, and said so. "It's OK, Tom. Don't worry. I'm fine."

"Sloan, I'm sorry. I don't, I can't…" Tom looked wordlessly at her and then retreated to the bedroom.

Sloan pushed herself upright and stood on wobbly legs. She limped to the bedroom, and managed to pull the shuttered doors open. And what she saw made her blood turn to ice.

Tom was in the farthest corner of the room. And he was kneeling with his head down, as he had once done in the desert of Oaxaca, so long ago. Unmoving, unblinking, and so withdrawn within himself. He didn't even notice Sloan's presence.

"Oh Tom! What's happened to you!" Sloan cried aloud. And when Tom didn't respond, she silently closed the door, sat on the couch, and began to cry.

Ed poked his head into Sloan's office, but she wasn't there. Oddly enough, he hadn't seen her for longer than two minutes since she first came in. As he searched for her, he noticed the closed blinds on Walter's office again and wondered why. Shaking his head slightly, he pushed thoughts of Walter aside and started a tour of the lab, looking for his friend.

After checking several rooms, he finally found her. She was in one of the back rooms, kneeling on the ground, sorting through some equipment. Her back was to him, so she didn't look up when he entered.

"Hey, there. What're ya doing?" Ed asked cheerfully.

Her voice subdued, she replied, "Walter mentioned something about keeping an accurate count of what we have on hand. So I decided to do an inventory." As she finished speaking, she turned and Ed noted the dark circles that were under her eyes.

"Hey!" exclaimed Ed. "What's wrong? I s it Tom?"

She hesitated as if weighing her words. He thought she might cry, but her face seemed set in a frowning and a very determined expression. "Yes," she whispered. "It's Tom." She raised her haunted eyes to look at him. "Ed, he's so…"

"…Out of control," he finished for her.

"No," she responded, "more lost." Sloan opened up as if a dam had given way. "Ed, he either paces that apartment like he's in another cage or he sits and stares at nothing for hours. And just when I get a glimpse of the old Tom, he retreats –mentally, physically. It's really beginning to scare me. And he's in so much pain during these bouts."

"And what does Tom say about it?" asked Ed, worried for both his friends.

"That's just it!" Sloan stressed. "He won't tell me what's wrong. If I ask, he backs away. But if I leave him alone, he just slips into these…oh, I don't know… trances. They're very similar to the catatonia he suffered when we first rescued him. And when something does happen, a nightmare or a memory, he shuts down, usually screaming in pain. And then there are these little things."

Moving to kneel on the floor, he grabbed her hands and asked, "Like what, Sloan?"

Looking down in shame, she answered, "I don't know how to say it exactly. It's like all of a sudden, he can't move as he used to. I mean, he doesn't move so sleekly any more and he's clumsy. One day, he knocked a plant over from the table."

"And cutting his hand on broken glass? Was it this clumsiness?" asked Ed, concerned that he missed something medically for Tom.

"Yes," whispered Sloan. "A glass broke in his hand." Glancing up in supplication to her friend, she asked, "Ed, what can I do? I must do something. But I don't know what! It's like he's physically recovering from his ordeal, but he isn't." Slamming her hand against some equipment, she stressed, "I swear, it's getting worse, not better."

Ed hauled her close and hugged her for a few minutes, rocking her back and forth. Pulling back slightly, he quietly explained, "Tom suffered a lot from his captivity and torture. And he's still under its effects. His actions sound a lot like what I've read about prisoners of war, like he doesn't know what he should feel, nor what's normal anymore. He wants to reach out, but he can't. Hell, sensing may be too painful due to his time in the tank. Imagine, being overwhelmed by emotions, betrayed by the one power his species uses constantly. He needs to use his sensing, but he's afraid to open his shields since he's not sure he can block it again. The way it was in the tank. Tom's trauma may be from this…or it may be one unique to his species…one we've never come across before." Seeing comprehension dawn in Sloan's eyes, he offered, "I tell you what. First chance I get, I'll talk to Mariana about it, okay?"

Sighing, Sloan whispered, "Okay."

Ed gathered her again in his arms and hugged her. He instinctively knew his friend needed some closeness. So, he held her close for a long moment, until her breathing eased. When she pulled away, she smiled at him tremulously and returned to her sorting. Ed smiled back and picked himself from the floor.

As he reached the door, she called after him. "Thanks, Ed. I really needed a friend."

"Anytime," he smiled and felt pleased that she gave a hint of a smile in return.

Tom came in the front door, laid the keys on the table just inside the door, and punched in the code for the alarm. Sloan tried not to worry when he went out. She knew that one of her own security men followed him, keeping relatively close. But she still worried, because she knew his strength had not returned. And even more important, she recognized that he needed time alone.

Sloan looked up and caught him staring at her. "Want some of this?" Sloan asked as she raised her cup.

"Ummm," accompanied with a brief nod indicated Tom's only assent.

Sloan got up to make more tea. She put the kettle on the stove and with the smallest of sighs, sat down again. She leaned over her work laid out on the island, trying to concentrate. The tension in the room was palpable.

Sloan let the words swim in front of her as she thought back to another time, and another Tom. One who had held her and quieted her fears. One who had caressed her cheek until her body shivered with want and need. Now there was this familiar stranger that lived with her but remained separate and alone.

The kettle sang, and Sloan walked around the island and into the kitchen. She grabbed her cup to refresh as well. As she prepared the tea, Sloan stole a glance at Tom, who had sat down in the over-sized chair. His cupped hand under his chin – his thinker's pose as Sloan thought of it.

When the tea finished steeping, she carried a cup to Tom, wordlessly holding it out to him. After a few seconds, he turned his head and reached for it without looking at her. Sloan returned to her seat and tucked the steaming teacup beneath her chin and began to alternately blow and sip her tea. When the tea was gone, she turned to watch Tom, until the strain in the room was more than she could bear. "Tom. Can we talk? Please?"

He sat, looking into his cup – frowning.

Sloan's voice quivered with suppressed emotion. "I know you don't want to talk about this. And I want to respect that. But you must see that I can't just sit by and let you go through this alone. You don't have to. Not with me."

Tom didn't answer her, but his hand holding the teacup began to shake. He wrapped the other one around the cup as well, trying to mask his trembling, but Sloan noticed.

Sloan watched in horror, as Tom's hands continued to shake, spilling the hot liquid. She jumped from the couch, and moved to take the cup from his hands. But before she could grasp it, Tom flung the china, shattering it on impact, while tea dribbled down the living room wall.

Sloan flinched as he threw the cup, almost as if she he struck her. But she didn't hesitate to drop to her knees in front of him, taking his hands into her own. "Tom I know I can't understand what you were put through. But let me help you. Don't let Alexandra Luthor win by allowing this to torment you."

At the mention of Luthor's name, Tom's implacable face turned to stone and his eyes burned. It was the same look Tom wore as he choked Lisa, the Dominant that Lewis had later killed. Sloan recognized the raw fury channeled into aggression. It was the face of a killer.

Hearing the telltale chime, Sloan rushed to the door. Seeing Walter on the monitor, she punched in her security code and allowed him to enter the building. Sloan opened the door for him and smiled.

"Taking a snow day, Sloan?"

"Ahhhh, ha, ha. Very funny, Walter. I had some work that I brought home with me. Thank God for laptops." Despite her ebullient demeanor, her voice sounded laced with worry.

"Well, I thought I'd stop by to give you this." Walter pulled an envelope from his coat pocket and offered it to her.

"What?" She looked at him quizzically, as she opened the envelope and took out a single sheet of paper. Opening it, she read silently, nodding her head up and down. Then her eyes flew to meet Walter's eyes. "Do you know what this means? Walter! How did you?"

"Just think of this as an early Christmas present. Ed's at the lab right now, overseeing the installation of the new computer system. With this network, we'll have better access to relevant data world-wide."

"This is incredible!" said Sloan. Overcome with joy, she hugged him.

Turning red and pulling away, Walter suggested, "Why don't you go to the lab. No sense in Ed having all the fun."

Sloan's elation fell from her face. "I don't know, Walter."

"I'll look out for Tom," he said quietly, pushing her to the closet. " Go on."

"I'll be gone for only an hour, okay. Just one hour." Sloan said, as she grabbed her keys. "Tom's been asleep for about thirty minutes. There's some…"

"Go!" interrupted Walter. "Sloan. I'm sure with my meager management skills, I can hold down the fort 'til you get back."

"Thanks, Walter!" Sloan reached for her jacket and disappeared out the door.

Walter sat relaxed on the couch while he made his umpteenth phone call of the day. On his lap lay a legal pad, where he jotted notes as he spoke. Finishing a call, he looked up to see Tom step into the living room. He still had a pallor to him and a wariness like that of an untamed animal.

"Hello, Tom," greeted Walter. "It's good to see you looking better," he said, as he lay his phone and pad to the side. "I had hoped that we might be able to talk."

"Huh? About what?" Tom's voice sounded hollow and worn.

"About what happened to you. I'm sure you have some information that could help us find Alexandra Luthor. We need your help badly, Tom."

Tom remained silent, but he made his way to the chair and sat, facing Attwood.

Walter explained, "You know of course, that Alexandra's actions were in no way sanctioned. She's become a 'rogue' as it were. And she threatens all of us." The silence grew, but Walter appeared undaunted.

"Well, give it some thought then," Walter suggested. "I know you've been through a lot. And you've survived. You're on your way to recovery. I think that perhaps no one could have survived this but you. Remember that when everything appears to overwhelm you." Sighing, he looked down and said quietly, "I just hope we find this woman before she endangers anyone else's life."

Tom tilted his head, as he scrutinized Walter. He, in turn, gazed across the room to meet Tom's look with hooded eyes. Finally, Tom looked away. As he rose, he stopped in front of Walter and asked, "Would you like something to drink? Coffee?"

"Yes," answered Walter, surprised by the change in subject. "That would be good."

Walter, realizing this conversation was over, reached for his notepad, and wrote with a swift hand. So intent was he on his work that he never noticed the shadow that fell from behind. He never saw Tom's hand strike him, but he felt the pain for a brief instant. Then his world went black.

The door was flung open and Ray moved in, weapon poised. Something was terribly wrong. There had been no response to phone calls for over two hours,

His men fanned out along the walls, searching for an intruder, but finding no one. Ray stepped into the middle of the living room and froze, his stomach clenching as he saw the prone form of Walter Attwood lying on the floor. He moved in and checked for a pulse, sighing with relief as he felt it throb, slow but steady.

"Sir," one of the guards from the agency called out. "The window is open, and it looks like someone went out the fire escape."

"Damn," Ray muttered. Tom Daniels had finally snapped. He hated the idea that he might have been right after all.

And how the hell was he going to tell Dr. Parker?