Chris trips on air, grumbling loudly when he is fiercely hoisted up by strong hands on both of his shoulders. He is in a nice pair of handcuffs, two lackeys on each side, Glenn in front of them as they weave through this new labyrinth-like lab setup they''ve relocated to.


    All he can do is grumble at the handcuffs locked too tight, the cool metal biting into his skin sure to leave a mark. Marks he didn''t want. Marks would be difficult to explain to Alex or, God forbid, Akio.


    A rough shove from the lackey on his right rebounds him back into consciousness. He blinks irately at the idiot before clocking the tail end of something Glenn had seemingly been directing at him.


    Something about wanting to help the military, if his distracted hearing was to be trusted. He takes a breath and replies with the first thing that comes to mind.


    “The last thing I ever want to do is help you. Heck, If it were up to me, I''d hand the crystal over to the aliens, crack open a bottle of whiskey and call it a day. At least they know what the thing does.”


    The General halts abruptly. Chris and his current sentinels nearly running into the burly man. Glenn turns to face Chris, a placid but deadly look in place; Chris swallows. Perhaps that was one wisecrack too many.


    “You''re obviously not going to stop till you get what you want. So, I''m here to make sure you don''t kill us all in the process.” He amends, cuffed hands raising in placation.


    Glenn blinks steadily at him, mouth set in a moue as he works out whatever the hell conniving three-star Generals work out in their heads.


    “And the Alien?” He asks finally, hard eyes boring into Chris'' soul.


    This was a test, Chris knew. His next answer would determine if he were to be forced into reluctant servitude, or locked away in some dark container somewhere and the key tossed in the ocean. Reluctant Servitude gleamed enticingly at him.


    He spares a moment to hope Kyp is healed up enough to defend himself should need be, before replying, “Him or me,” he shrugs, “I''m choosing me.”


    The General nods slowly, eyes appraising Chris thoroughly. He looks torn between pride at Chris'' duplicity and asserting his dominance.


    “What do you need?” He asks finally.


    ~~~


    Alex alights from an Uber, whipping off her sunglasses to regard the sleek black car parked suspiciously close to the house, with barely any regard for the front door.


    The driver–Not Ezra–is standing outside the car in a cleanly pressed suit and sunglasses. On thorough inspection of the simple Mercedes, Alex doesn''t remember Chris ever owning a vehicle this … unobtrusive.


    “Can I help you?” She asks, wrangling her suitcase behind her.


    The man whips to her at attention, perfunctory smile in place. “No thank you. I''m waiting for Mr Jordan.”


    “He hasn''t kept you too long has he?” She makes a scene of shimmying through the barely wide enough space between the bumper and front door, eyebrows raised pointedly.


    The man either lacks the necessary social cues or simply doesn''t care.


    “I''m not being paid to complain, Ma''am.” He says, kind smile unshaking.


    She eyes him one last time before wrangling the front door open, sparing a brief moment to commend her restraint. A younger Alex would have kicked that car into a ravine somewhere.


    She tosses her suitcase to a corner, ignoring the crashing sounds that follow as she slumps onto the armchair. Perhaps she still had a bit more maturing to accomplish.


    “Chris! Are you up there?” She hollers, her boots joining her suitcase in the aforementioned corner.


    “Alex? Is that you?” Chris'' muffled voice calls from somewhere upstairs.


    Alex snorts to herself. “No, It''s the Plumber.”


    “Ah.” Her head swivels to where Chris is descending the stairs, both fists lodged too casually in his pockets. “Why are you here?” He squints.


    “I live here.” Alex raises a sedate brow at the inaneness of the question, eyes following him resolutely down the stairs.


    “I''m sorry. I''m sorry.” Chris shakes sense back into his head, “Welcome back. It''s just, I thought you were staying in Jersey a little while longer.”


    He is in front of her now, hands still in his pockets. It makes for an awkward pose, and Alex wonders about his insistence on the stance.


    “I never said that.”


    “I know you didn''t, I simply thought so.” He says with a sigh.


    “Well, I''m back, had Akio check me out. Aside from a Brain Hemorrhage that fixed itself, I''m good for business.” She waves nonchalantly.


    Chris stiffens. “Brain Hemorrhage? Jesus, are you alright?”


    “Oh yeah, aces. Went bowling even, smoked Akio''s ass.” She crosses her feet on the table in front, fully expecting Chris to smack her feet off, per routine. He doesn''t.


    “Glad you had fun.” He says instead.


    “Mm-hm.” Her eyes lift from his pockets to his face, eyes narrowing inch by inch at the discovery of every cut she locates on there. “What happened to your face?”


    “Oh, this?” He gestures at his face, the hand firmly tucked back in the blasted pocket before Alex can get a good look at it. “An alien dropped a building on me.”


    Her gaze flits repeatedly from his face to his pockets for a moment. Short of bluntly asking him to present his forearms for inspection, Chris wasn''t going to unsheath his hands.


    This was either some new fad he had discovered on the Internet, or he was in his semi-regular ‘Mess with Alex'' mood, which would explain the dull Alien joke.


    Either way, she was too jet-lagged to properly contemplate which one it was at the moment. So long as he still had both his hands.


    “Fine, don''t tell me.” She draws her feet from the table, instead angling them in an uncomfortable sprawl on the armchair. “At least don''t keep your new Driver waiting.”


    Chris blinks blankly. “Driver?”


    “The one you left standing under the scorching sun?” She squints suspiciously.


    “That driver.” He tsks, shoulders deflating a fraction.


    Alex squirms in place, turning to scrutinize with concern. “Chris, I realize acting suspicious makes up about 85% of your personality, but are you okay?” She asks sincerely. “Blink twice if you''re being held against your will.”


    Chris snorts, somehow managing to not blink at all.


    “Don''t I look okay?” He parries.


    “Would you tell me if you weren''t?” She huffs, Chris, whirling to acknowledge the driver who had just walked in, a hand tapping urgently at his watch.


    “I have to go, Alex.” He strides towards James Bond. “If I had known you were returning today, I might have ordered something.”


    “I can cook.” Alex scoffs in offense.


    Chris scoffs right back. “Right, Francis something-something–”


    “Francoit Massialot.”


    He kisses his teeth in thought. “Whatever. Nobody cares.”


    Alex rolls her eyes as he leaves, jolting when at the last minute, she feels his arms wrap awkwardly around her in a quick hug.


    “Take care of yourself, Alex.” He says quietly, before leaving almost reluctantly with the driver.


    Alex considers the dubious exchange for a while, eventually curling into the armchair for an overdue nap.


    <hr>


    Sometime before the Present …


    Alex takes in the vast office with wide eyes. Twirling briefly to ogle at the impressive ceiling before her eyes finally rest on the gold dagger, propped up like a trophy on the mahogany desk.


    She raises an eyebrow as if to ask –really?– and Castor shrugs in response.


    “Turns out people don''t care about important things disguised as paperweights.” He says with a genial smile, offering a hand out to her, which she politely declines, instead opting to take a seat.


    “No, thank you. I still haven''t gotten over the …” She gestures to her face with a dismissive wave of her hand. And Castor nods in understanding.


    She makes a show of raking her eyes over his form, eyes cataloging every expensive piece of jewelry on him, and boy, were they a lot. He also looked impressively young … for someone who ought to have expired over approximately 1800 years ago.


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    “You look good.” She props up her head on her hands resting on the desk. “How is Albus by the way?”


    Castor relaxes back in his seat, furrow settling in between his brows. “He''s fine, the usual grump. Been between himself on the concept of immortality. Hasn''t come near this thing in almost 50 years.”


    He rears back up, sharp smile in place and fully intent on steering the conversation back to neutral grounds.


    “However, when I heard Alex Jordan wanted an appointment with me, I thought my secretary was having an aneurysm.” He vibrates giddily, and Alex laughs.


    “How do you imagine I felt when I heard you were starting a law firm?” She asks.


    “I know!” He squeals excitedly.


    “A Law Firm!” Alex reiterates. “Cas, you are the most dishonest person I know.”


    “I know!”


    “Frankly I''m impressed it''s been successful this long.” She gives the office another impressed once over.


    Castor reaches for a drawer beside him, pulls it out, and retrieves a complimentary card, which Alex scrutinizes thoroughly.


    “Castor Smith. Senior Partner, Smith & Wesson. Established by my ‘Great Grandfather’–also named Castor Smith, May he rest undisturbed–75 years ago.” He recites dutifully, finishing with a solemn signage of the cross.


    Alex shakes her head in amusement as she flips the embossed card over, fingers rubbing over the raised letters.


    “‘Smith & Wesson’.” She reads dubiously. “Isn''t that already a thing?”


    At this Castor shifts forward in his seat, the fervent nod he is giving promising an interesting tale.


    “It was. We sued them and won, obviously. They''ve since been curtailed to obscurity.” He waves at the roof-to-floor glass window behind him, the general direction of obscurity perhaps.


    “Oh my God.” Alex shakes her head in poorly concealed amusement, tossing the card back on the table. “Only you Castor, only you.”


    Castor retrieves his card, polishing it vainly on his crisp shirt before returning it back to its drawer. “To what do I owe the pleasure then? Some nasty person you need me to pin an equally nasty crime on?”


    “Not particularly.” She steeples her hands under her chin in thought. “Something''s come up. I''m going to need the knife back.”


    Castor stares at her for a couple of seconds, before releasing a shaky exhale.


    “Come now, Alex, you know I can''t do that.” He says, the ghost of his nearly faded smile fighting for purchase.


    Alex sits up from her slouch, rankling at the refusal. “What are you talking about? We''ve done this before. I use the fancy cutlery for a bit, and I hand it back to you.”


    “Yes, but that was what, 1900 years ago? I can''t afford to be away from this thing for hours at a time.” He taps the pedestal on which the knife is propped, discreetly moving it just a bit towards him.


    Now Castor was just like any other run-of-the-mill sleaze, his durability and slightly above average wits, the only thing distinguishing him from every other sleaze in town. Fake tears and sob stories were most certainly not below his purview.


    Alex eyes him viciously, lips curling into a frown. “Get over yourself, it''s a bloody relic.”


    “Literally, Alex.” Cas sits up in his seat, face set serious. Thankfully, Alex had known him long enough to not buy whatever it is he was trying to sell her. “You should see Albus, I''ve been begging him to just touch the thing, instead of suffering through whatever form of decay he seems to be undergoing at the moment.”


    “Decay?”


    Castor swipes a hand down his face, letting out a tired sigh. “He''s aging again, rapidly too. But he doesn''t seem to be able to die from the effects.”


    This was the problem with Warlocks and their magick. Save for simple conjuring tricks and their exuberant light shows, nothing was an exact given. Most of their favors relied heavily on quid pro quos, with a lot more emphasis on the ‘quid’s’ than on the ‘quo’s.’


    Not that Alex could have predicted this exact outcome so as to warn them off the knife. She was too busy at the time extinguishing Warlocks en masse.


    She schools her face into something solemn and full of pity. “I truly am sorry about that, and I might be able to look into it as soon as I''m done with my personal mission. But Castor, I cannot stress how urgently I need that dagger back.”


    Castor looks distressed for a split second, eyes darting about his office rapidly, before settling on a spot beyond Alex.


    She clocks the fear and seriousness in his gaze, turning behind her to glance at whatever it is he sees that elicits the reaction from him.


    The sound of a gun clicking pulls her back to Castor in front of her, forcing her to laugh breathlessly at the gun trained in between her eyes.


    “Oh, Cas.” She scolds, her head shaking low and regrettably. “You know that won''t work.” Her eyes train slowly across the length of his outstretched arm.


    “Probably.” Castor shrugs, unoccupied hand finally snagging the mounted knife from the table. He lets out a satisfied breath, his body quivering slightly as soon as the knife is in his grasp. And Alex would swear he looked like an addict. “But it should buy me just enough time to cut out your heart undisturbed. Maybe I''ll mount that one next.” He says morosely, finger squeezing the trigger.


    The gun goes off, bullet whizzing past her head as Alex tilts away from the line of fire in the nick of time.


    Castor swears briefly and attempts another shot, failing again when Alex seizes the hand with the gun, finger firmly jammed between his trigger finger and the trigger. He lets out a sharp yowl when Alex squeezes, nearly crushing his finger. Swinging blindly with the knife hand, he hears the telltale squelch of the blade digging into her shoulder and feels it strike bone. Her grip on his trigger finger loosens, and the gun drops.


    A well-placed kick to his midrib frees them from their tussle, her hand–presumably the one without the dagger jutting out of its shoulder–fisting into his hair to slam his face into his mahogany desk.


    Castor crumbles to the floor with a groan of pain, fingers lifting to swipe away blood, and prod for damages to his face. A broken nose bridge. He winces once his fingers come in contact with the raised spot, anger blindsiding him alongside the pain.


    Alex spins in place, hand trying to grasp the knife still impaled in her shoulder, and Castor''s blood curdles, diving for her as soon as her hand wraps fully around the knife. With one last pained grunt, Alex yanks out the knife. The blood splatter from the action the last thing Castor registers before he feels the blade break the skin above his heart.


    Alex catches him before he can slam to the ground, watching him gurgle the blood that has suddenly pooled into his mouth. She has a hand tangled in his hair, fingers softly carding through it as she shushes him gently, while her other hand firmly drives even more of the blade into his chest, eliciting a loud scream from him.


    Alex watches the light fade from Castor''s eyes, letting his lifeless body thud to the ground. A bloody hand lifts to uselessly wipe away the blood dripping from her nose. She squats down to pry the knife off Castor, a bloody handprint where her hand briefly scrambles to steady herself on the white wall.


    With one last regretful look at her former friend''s body, she staggers to the office door, tearing it open to peer into the lobby where Cas’ secretary should be. Finding it empty in the eerie night--small mercies--she stumbles out of the office, her good hand relocating the knife to her limp one, before digging into her pockets for her phone.


    The pre-recorded voicemail message of whoever is on the other side of the line babbles dutifully, Alex bristling, after the tone to leave a message. “Albie, we have a problem.” She says sedately, staggering steps slowly taking her away from the scene of the crime.


    <hr>


    The General''s head lifts up at Chris being manhandled into his office. He winces internally at the way the sergeant–whose name he couldn''t care less about–ragdolls Chris about, tossing him precariously across his desk.


    The crack that follows after Chris makes contact with the desk is proof that Chris had surely broken something. However, the man simply releases an annoyed puff of air as he straightens himself back up.


    “Is this necessary? I''m not some petulant teenager being led to the Principal''s office.” Chris groans, left hand lifting to cradle his right wrist.


    Definitely broken, he frowns. The sergeant would have to face a severe reprimand for his carelessness, seeing as their entire mission relied heavily on Chris'' use of both hands.


    Speaking of Chris. The General gives him a serene look, posture taut from his seat behind the desk. A fleeting air of admiration for the inventor washes over him. Lesser men would have reacted worse to that sort of thing than a slight furrowing of the brow.


    “You told Mr. M here to take you home before stopping by your office?” He gestures at the sergeant behind, making sure to keep his demeanor placid.


    Chris scoffs. “Mr. M? What is this, Men in Black? I told the driver to take me home first because I thought I forgot something.”


    He sighs. If there ever was a moment for Chris to display his abnormal sense of humor.


    “Where is this thing?” he asks, taking great pleasure in watching Chris’ expression devolve into deep vexation.


    “‘Thought’, Glenn. You''re a smart man. You should know what that means.” Chris bites. “If it helps, I brought the blueprints for the shield.”


    The Shield was some fancy contraption that Chris had sweet-talked him into, citing the benefits of anonymity and other technical jargon he hadn’t the brainpower to remember–not that he was paying any rapt attention to Chris’ bloviating.


    It had promised complete invisibility for the crystal from any tracking system, and that had been enough for him. However, this talk of blueprints was new.


    “Blueprint? Don''t you already have the shield?” He makes sure to make his displeasure known.


    Chris rolls his eyes hard, broken wrist tightly ensconced in his pants pocket. “Yes. Because I''d stupidly hand the military my unpatented prototype.”


    Like he was interested in stealing some tech nonsense.


    “I take it you''d be doing …” He nods amicably, gesturing vaguely at Chris, “ … whatever yourself then?”


    “Yes, Glenn. I will personally see to it that your crystal becomes invisible to whatever crystal-seeking creatures are out there.” Chris throws his good hand up, three joined fingers pointing skyward. Scout''s honor. It was the wrong hand, so Chris would be able to curb his guilt when he inevitably betrayed Glenn. That, and his right hand was currently out of commission. “Of course, I have a list here, of everything I''ll need, and I want it exactly as is, no substitutes, no either or. And please, have someone with the required understanding of Physics fetch them for me.”


    Chris hands a meticulously folded sheet of paper to Glenn. He skims through it so quickly, Chris wonders if he even read through it.


    “I know I look good and all, but we really don''t have time for distasteful ogling. The list?” He spits derisively at the General’s intense gaze on him.


    In hindsight, he had gone mostly unscathed for his intense jibes per minute, it was about time someone responded furiously.


    He chokes as Glenn snags him by the collar, forcing him to clamber weakly over the desk with both his hands to meet Glenn''s gaze dead on.


    His weight rests on the broken wrist, and he moans slightly at the pressure, puffing out a small breath of air through his nose.


    “Your sense of humor could be your greatest strength or the thing that ends up killing you.” Glenn states calmly, fingers tightening on his collar.


    Chris can make out purple blotches in his vision and thinks it won''t be long till he passes out.


    He gasps in huge lungfuls of air when the beefy hands clenching his trachea shut free him, somehow managing to straighten himself back up with more aplomb than he currently feels.


    He sees Glenn seethe at how unbothered he makes himself appear, and feels better about the whole thing immediately.


    “Clifford will get you what you need.” Glenn says, eye twitching as Chris swipes his clothes back into their proper state of being.


    “Thank you, Glenn,” Chris says gingerly. Relishing the man seething even more.


    “My name is not Glenn!” He slams his hands down on the desk, jostling the wood greatly, lips curling even steeper when Chris doesn''t so much as flinch.


    Chris pauses in his grooming, lips pouting in thought before he replies, “Vincent? You look so much like a ‘Vincent’.”


    “Take him to get his wrist checked out.” Not-Glenn growls at Chris’ slave driver–how long had he been standing there? “Then he waits in his old room.”