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Daniel's mind tore through the Continental Apartments tower in planning his escape route while trying to best understand all that had transpired in the past half-hour. He had confirmed his previous conclusions about the doctor's work, yet was still unable to say what the human was ultimately working to achieve. The doctor's refusal to cooperate and the ill timing of the cops had edged Daniel on, leading him to take one of the more risky possibilities of the thousands of ways he could have handled the situation.

He had spared the seven humans in and around Apartment 1208; his vengeance was being sated as the Accountant and his goons continued to thrash upstairs. He would have killed them easily, but the real pleasure in executing a hallucination like this was his victims' exquisite agony climaxing over and over again as long as Daniel held them in the snare. Daniel's powers did not work on technology, however, and their communication links had relayed their screams to the other six officers securing the lower levels, who had been arresting anyone, hybrid or human, that may have taken shelter there. Daniel just stood aside as the officers dashed past him. It seemed that the six officers had agreed to abandon their collars when the burning sensation had become too distracting. Daniel gingerly picked up two of these on the way down.

It was all beautiful to Daniel: the humans running to the rescue of their comrades, just to crumble to their knees the moment they entered his exacted nightmare. The door was wide open and all were welcome to the Dalmatian's mad house. He continued his leisurely stroll as he contemplated the irony of men rolling around on the floor wearing what were practically shock collars. Proof that maybe the world was going to the dogs.

The men on the twelfth floor howled for more back-up, but protocol demanded that the two remaining officers on the premises stay at the Jeep. One of the men sat in the front seat of the Jeep, panicking to his radio for Border Patrol assistance while the other stood erect and ready to fire at anything that walked through the front door of the building. Since the officers had left their posts to aid their fallen colleagues and superior, those who had been held at gunpoint and about to be marched out of the building were suddenly free. Daniel wasn't about to stop the blind and foolish from walking into the sights of a desperate cop. The apartment complex was just outside of what remained of Eden's last living link to the Spinal Tap, Border Patrol was minutes away, and the distraction might just be enough for him to get to the parking garage below the building before a local unit of Border Patrol stormed the lobby.

The garage was full of a motion out-of-character for an abandoned garage. A border patrol jeep had plowed through the garage door and had dumped at least ten of the mercenaries. Daniel stood behind a concrete pillar basked in shadow and waited. Man's inherent fear of the dark was all Daniel needed, and the pillar went unchecked. When the garage was "secure" and most of the men had left, Daniel put on his invisible guise and walked out of the building unscathed.

Daniel took a deep breath as he recovered his motorcycle, allowing the sonic grenade to finally fizzle out and disappear, ending the nightmare for the men on the twelfth floor. The bike was a luxury he had taken off one of his long-since disposed-of subjects. He mounted it and headed for one of his safe houses in one of the human-abandoned subdivisions that used to house thousands of humans before The Strain had ravaged it twenty years ago.

The bike was relatively new, but conditions in the Skirts had led its previous owner to gut it and install an electrical engine. The only real way to charge the engine was to boost it, plugging its power chord into a Pulsar transport, Eden's nuclear-powered, artificially intelligent replacement for automobiles and the innovation they would like the world to remember them for. Pulsars were very valuable and very dangerous when tampered with or hacked. The artificially intelligent software in a Pulsar limited the possibilities of a crash or theft to almost zero. It could only be pure chance, fate, or deals made behind closed doors that this particular target had managed to acquire both the bike and the Pulsar. In summary, the dirty bomb was never created, and Daniel had learned some new tricks in the attempt to get this rat hybrid to betray his clients.

Daniel had found interrogations indirect and difficult with his acute form of telepathy, and he contemplated his explanation of how pure telepathy worked. It was his first time explaining it to anyone, and he had been honest. Those were the rules of telepathy - the sharing of data between minds and the access points through which a telepath acquired entrance into the consciousness of another. But as the Dalmatian sped down the empty streets at top speed, he felt that his account failed to explain his powers at all.

True telepaths enter into a person's mind and can see anything they want. Thoughts, perceptions, fears and pains, as well as actions done or still in preconception. Daniel could only strike at a person's mind through its weaknesses exposed in moments of distress, or bring them into his own architected tortures. He could never stay within or really have a conversation with another person psychically. It was always one-sided, playing the conscience to trick the subject into feeling guilty and confessing, as he had tried to do with the doctor, or directly tormenting the information out of his victims. Getting the answers was never easy.

"Scraps and scabbards," the Dalmatian muttered under the helmet, an ugly rusting piece of plastic that matched the war-torn vessel he was riding. It was a catchphrase he had coined with Seymour, his parasite lizard who crashed in his safe houses whenever his home life became too complicated. Daniel spent most of his time alone, and he did no more than acknowledge and tolerate the eight-year old. Seymour respected him and generally followed his rules. As long as he wasn't around when Daniel was working and didn't visit his one forbidden safe house, he didn't mind having a little personality around.

It was 3:30 in the morning when he pulled into his garage. Home sweet home. The house was only a few years old when the disease had came through. During their feverous transformations, hundreds of infected humans ravaged the suburbs in bloodlust and sex drive. No house had been spared from the violent and sexual deviants, and when the survivors had sobered and returned halfway to their minds, many of the houses were raided for supplies and any functional furniture taken underground. Daniel was among a minority that still technically lived above ground. Atmospheric conditions, vagabonds, flesh-eaters, and border patrol swayed many to find colonies, but Daniel didn't play well with others, so he kept to the basements of his safe house.

The house had never been sold, and Daniel had never seen this particular house in its prime. The house was sound and sturdy. His father would have admitted it was a half-decent house. He probably would have called it "stubborn" if he had been able to have seen it. The house should have fallen to termites and nature, but Daniel had taken lessons from his perfectionist father, an architect in his human life. After he had completed his transformation, he reluctantly took the task of building the underground colony for a group of canines he had settled with, bringing his pup along with him when he felt charitable. Daniel at least acknowledged that his father had left him something useful before Daniel had left the colony with Eli, never looking back.

Yes, his father had taught him the art of keeping order in the home, with a little cement and the fist to drive the nails into the studs, hanging the empty frames of his childhood. He hated having to look at the work he had put into the place. He had gone the extra mile to make the house seem as condemned and cursed as possible. Not a single protruding nail or creaking floor board was there by free will. A single splinter to a finger or nail through the foot immediately let Daniel know that a real threat was in the house.

Eden didn't have to worry about radiation levels. Daniel imagined that the same technology that cleanly disposed of Pulsar nuclear waste was employed to protect the city. The Skirts, and perhaps the rest of the Collective, was not extended the luxury of shielding from the consequences of fallout from nuclear test sites and malfunctioned reactors throughout the Southwest. Fortunately, the hybrids had shown a strong resiliency to the effects of radiation, mutant powers possibly being the proof of that. Human outcasts were not so lucky, and Eden gladly let the exposure take care of the forsaken. Only the occasional but unpredictable storms from the west would bring lethal levels of radiation. Everything in The Skirts had been irradiated, and life had adapted. But still, it was never wise to be above ground long. Strange creatures roamed the surface world, and a night wind could carry far more than whispers.

The garage and the basement were the only places in the house reaffirmed securely with concrete to keep as much radiation out as possible. He had little need for the rest of the house, other than for its hopeless and empty image. He plugged the motorcycle's jack into the Pulsar control board, placed in the first cockpit in a Pulsar seated for two. The vehicle was dated, but it had fared well in The Skirts. The chrome slender armor of the machine reflected every cringing, ugly aspect of that unkempt garage. It was an inconceivable breeding of design, a jet's girth squeezed into the sensibilities of a motorcycle. Made to be fast, phallic, and smooth. Any white-collared man's wet dream to speed down the glossy freeway of a shimmering city at a hundred and twenty miles per hour, lubricating the wind with the resonance of a woman's finger licked and rimming the edge of a wine glass.

Daniel only admired the Pulsar's convenience for his work, however, and the Accountant was still a looming presence in his mind. Accountants were mythic outside of Eden, and he felt an uncommon sense of misplaced pride in the fact that he might be the first standing hybrid to meet one. And speak with it. And be heard. Listened to. This was strange to him. He had forgotten what a human mouth had looked like. The police had all worn thick black gasmasks that cloaked their faces completely. And Border Patrol covered their faces with scraps of cloth, bandanas, dust masks, anything they could get their hands on. They remained superstitious about radiation exposure and that any contact with a hybrid brought disease, worms, testicular cancer among other things. And yet the agent wore nothing over his face, and those perfect teeth were there, smiling warmly if sardonically.

Daniel had had the upper hand that time. The Accountant had been arrogant, but he was sure to never let that happen again. He was a man who could learn from his mistakes, a trait that was rare among his species. The house was in perfect character, greeting its caretaker in the creaks and squeaks of floorboards. He couldn't shake the image of the agent slowly pacing upstairs, smiling that the canine was shying away from a rematch. The subtle but distinct sense of middle-age, knots in the back and knee pains, perked the dog's ears as he opened the door from the garage into the basement. He curled his lips and lowered his ears, resisting the instinct to growl. He swore as his projections began to search the house. Seymour's signature was detected. He was unharmed; his distress was lost in the reptile's fitful sleep below. Daniel proceeded with caution.

The Pulsar also powered the generator in the basement since it and the bike had been acquired. A flick of a purposely sharp and stubborn switch at the bottom of the stairs brought a ghostly luminescence to the workshop, which took up about a good third of his living space. There was a patchwork assortment of rusting and polished tools hanging from two opposing walls adjacent to the stairs the canine had just ascended. In the middle of the room were two "operating tables," always sanitized and scrubbed after use in case Seymour popped in. There was a small cot just on the other side of the room, located against the right side of the basement wall that led to the rest of the basement, used primarily for food and health supplies. This part of the basement remained in shadow.

And on that cot was Seymour. The lizard's small body was mostly shadowed by the door that had been left open. Seymour grunted as he rolled over to face the wall, his horned head exposed to the light. An empty bean can and spoon lay at the foot of the cot, a bit of the rations Daniel kept on a lower shelf that Seymour could reach. Daniel walked around the perimeter of the room, slightly more hunched, ready to spring at anything that moved. He came to Daniel, making sure with his eyes that he was untouched by whatever waited on the other side of the door frame.

The detail at the center of the room between the two tables had not gone unnoticed, part of his unassuming act of getting one's bearings after a long day away from home. All was in order except that last detail. A single bullet, sitting on a barstool, the head facing upward like a dormant rocket. Daniel walked from the cot to the barstool. He didn't have the need for .45 Colt cartridges. He picked up the bullet and rubbed away at the dust and dandruff, signature to only person who would leave such rare and expensive ammunition behind. Prophet.

"Is that supposed to be some kind of gift?"

"No," The dog shook his head, flexing his fingers, prepared to face the intruder standing behind him. "It's a message." In the flick of one of the bulbs above, Daniel had reached underneath one of the benches and whirled around, ready to fire a Beretta M9 into the doorway.

"You're not the only one who can sneak around. I've been watching you for a while now." A dark man emerged from the doorway. He was tall, aged, admittedly well-built, but unarmed. Daniel could tell this was a formidable opponent, perhaps as arrogant as the agent and just as unprepared. He was the second human to look him in the eye that night. At least, he was mostly human. The right side of his balding head was completely metal. One human eye clashed with the red lens that served as its counterpart; this right eye was no doubt scanning the Dalmatian's vital signs and brain functions.

"Bad time to stop," the canine growled. "You are not an Accountant. Border Patrol. S.W.A.T. Who sent you?"

The human put up his hands. "You can call me Soto. I just want to talk."

"I've had to listen to one too many chatty humans already today, thanks."

"Who, the doctor?"

"The doctor couldn't hold his own snot, but the arrogant little thespian they sent after him was what really pissed me off."

"We don't have to do this." His voice was calm, his eyes glazed in complacency.

Daniel was panting and shaking again as he spoke, "I didn't get to kill the Accountant, but you'll do. You got one last chance to tell me who you work for."

The man put his hands down and inside his trench coat pockets. He took a deep breath, "All will be explained in due time, but as of right now, you're not being very cooperative. That gun isn't even loaded, by the way."

The gun didn't move. He placed the bullet in his pocket and pulled out an identical gun from the bottom of the other table. Both pistols were now aimed at Soto's chest.

"Do you really think I wouldn't check both tables?" He asked, eye widened, obviously annoyed.

Daniel just stood, hunched and panting, a sharp bloodlust in his eyes. Soto just shrugged and continued, propping himself against the left side of the doorway. He continued, "You see this?" he unbuttoned the top of his trench coat to see a smaller, lighter, collar around his neck. "This baby has been in the field for two years now. Fully functional and guaranteed to block unregistered attempted intrusions while logging the specific signature of rogue telepaths. We track them down and -"

"Put their brains in jars. You can't say anything that will impress me."

"I know I can't, but I can leave an impression, nonetheless. We need to debrief you on your recent activities in the past year. I could have brought a whole team. We even have collars back at headquarters designed to completely inhibit specific mutant powers. But I don't believe that's needed. I believe at the end of tonight, I will have convinced you to come peacefully."

"If you've seen all I've done, and what I can do, you shouldn't have trusted my better judgment."

"Granted, I've heard of whores with hearts of gold. I've yet to see a serial killer who had one, but you're more than a serial killer, aren't you? Your methods are undeniably fucked up, but the results have saved lives. This little shop of horrors you run down here have made the world a better place."

"Then why don't you leave me to my work?" Daniel was incapable of buying his words.

"You've gotten bolder, and it impresses and unnerves me that you were able to uncover the location and plans of a rat arguably more diabolical than yourself, avert a nuclear crisis, and then make the bastard disappear. You found and eliminated my organization's number one target without leaving a shred of evidence to find. We went through the safe house that kept your case file on the affair. Had nothing left to do, so we closed the case? That was a year ago. And since then we haven't interfered."

"You didn't think to seize the jail-broken Pulsar. You must be some detectives."

"It seemed that it was being put to better use. Your actions in the past two months however, have forced my agency's hand."

Daniel grimaced and chuckled, livid, "So you're just another government agency that'll go to any outrageous length to save its ass. And your diplomacy was tugging at my heartstrings." Daniel relaxed his arms to his side and shrugged. "So, do we begin the shakedown? You want to start the threats? The slurs? Or we can do the dissection right here. I have all the equipment. It'll be fun."

Soto raised his voice above the canine's antics, "I'm not here to threaten you. I'm offering you a job."

Daniel tensed up again. The passion was gone. The processing began to reassess the conversation's turn. He raised the gun's again and smirked, "You're just full of it."

"You're the one holding the empty pistols. Why would I come to the house of a murdering canine hybrid with fangs and claws with nothing but an offer?"

"I've seen some wild shit, but this takes it. I don't believe you," the canine shook his head. The emotional outburst before was feigned sarcasm. He was actually getting emotional. Beyond angry. Beyond loathing. He was confused. "This isn't possible. How is this possible? Eden kills us. They hunt us down like vermin. They want to shoot, gas, splice, electrocute, and stuff every God damn one of us and you want to offer me a job, a murdering telepath a job?"

"Come on back to base with us. I got a ride in the sky."

He shook his head. His palms were starting to sweat. For the first time in minutes, he started to move. He inched towards the man. "What about Seymour?"

"Who?"

"_The lizard, damn it! Right there!" _ He motioned with his muzzle to the lizard still asleep on the cot.

The man's reaction set Daniel off. That face. That same dignified pity. That undeserved sense of righteousness that came as second nature to humans, even to the suicidal doctor whose only real legacy left behind was the experience plunging twelve-stories and hitting the ground headfirst. That cold human glare that rivaled the cyborg's machine parts, repeating over and over again: "You poor creatures." Negotiations fell apart after that. Daniel was going to shoot.

"Everything's going to be alright," He put up his hands in peace again.

"Enough of this shit!"

"You have no powers and there's nothing in those guns."

Daniel cracked his neck and relaxed his shoulders as another Daniel appeared from the darkness at the bottom of the steps. It was still acting like it was searching the house, making the same motions about the room, stopping at Seymour.

Soto watched in wonder. "How did you get into my mind?"

Daniel resigned as he raised the guns to his temples. "You should have wondered why I didn't bring you into mine."

The cyborg stumbled backwards into the doorway in the shock of the workshop now covered in the brains of a teenage psychopath. Blood and jaw had hit him, staining his coat. A metal click from behind and the slight nudge from the barrel of a gun stored elsewhere in the house brought the human to attention. The eviscerated corpse was gone, the workshop in darkness. The other projection gone. His coat was unstained and dry. He smiled, "We meet at last."

Daniel didn't have time to pull the trigger before sonic waves hit him. He hadn't heard a pin being pulled or seen any tripwire. The waves were coming from above. He had dropped the gun. Canines were particularly susceptible to sonic attacks. The agony was crippling and arousing. He logged the usefulness of the new file downloaded. He could now communicate sonic attacks without using grenades as a medium. The file was stored before the canine blacked out.