Chapter Three.

Patrick reached the sanctuary of his office, and saw that the door was unlocked and the lights were on in the lab. Poking his head in, he saw his two interns, Claudette, on exchange from the Sorbonne, and Amanda, from the University of Delaware, setting up the round table in preparation for the daily group therapy session.

"Good morning," he said in his erudite accent. "Thank you both for coming in on a Sunday."

"Ah, good morning Patrick. Pas de problème," replied Claudette with a nod of her elegantly chignoned head as she pulled out six chairs from the stack in the corner.

"Let me know when you are finished. We need to go over today's schedule," he said over his shoulder as he returned to his office.

"Like we have anything better to do," Amanda muttered under her breath. She was a former sorority girl complete with a year-round tan, bleached blonde ponytail, and an overly perky disposition that bordered on whiny. Not for the first time, Patrick wished he'd conducted interviews when filling his intern position. Somehow Amanda had managed to appear relatively serious about her work on paper. He had a sneaking suspicion that Google might have been an uncited co-author.

Claudette, on the other hand, was everything he wanted in a protégé. She shared the same zeal for her work and spent many hours outside of her required allotment working on side projects to build a resume likely to one day rival his own.

Not that he played favourites, of course.

In the room next door, the first signs of life were heard as the lockdown in the dormitory was lifted and the staff nurse and orderlies woke the slumbering young residents and they went about their morning schedule. Elizabeth appeared in the doorway to the lab at ten minutes after seven, showered and dressed. She slid into her usual seat around the large table, silently awaiting the other five group members. Usually Sundays were quiet at the Institute, with a light staff and minimal planned activities. Elizabeth loved having the time to herself to catch up on reading or projects while the other kids did the homework sent from their schools back home. Visitor's day was an unwelcome deviation from that routine.

She glanced around the empty room, hearing voices coming from the office next door. The connecting door was slightly ajar, so Elizabeth silently crept closer, hoping to pick up a kernel of information, maybe even the identity of her new neighbour. A low bookshelf beneath the observation window was the perfect cover for her mini reconnaissance operation. She knelt before the shelves, tracing the spines of the familiar titles with her index finger to fool any eyes- or cameras- and craned her neck to pick up any snatches of conversation.

"…Preventative measures…can't have Raines-"

"…Pretender program..."

"…Genetic anomaly… Jarod…"

Elizabeth sat back on her heels and frowned. Out of context, the gathered intelligence was useless. There was no one named Jarod at the Institute, at least not to her knowledge, and though she'd heard of a few projects in passing, none were referred to as the Pretender program. Knowledge was power at the Institute- that was a lesson Elizabeth learned early on. She worked hard to pick up any shred of information on her background, the projects going on, sometimes even gossip from the staff. The snippets of conversation were interesting, but further reconnaissance was necessary.

Her mission was prematurely abandoned as familiar voices in the hall outside the lab forced her to abandon her post. The burst of chatter moved from the hall into the room as the others filed into the lab, accompanied by three orderlies. A nurse with a rolling cart followed behind, doling out medication in small plastic cups. One of the many games Elizabeth had devised over the years was to guess the pills in the cups based upon the symptoms and diagnoses of the other kids. The first cup went to Jane, a tall, thin giraffe-like girl with feathery blonde hair. Her diagnosis was easy- she was what the Institute categorized as a guest with "food issues" and had been admitted after suffering a heart attack at school. She swallowed the plethora of vitamins and food supplements and took her usual seat closest to the door.

Next to Jane sat Karsten, a fifteen-year-old recent addition to the group who demonstrated "issues with authority." He openly flaunted a juvenile record that made most other delinquents keep their distance. Three long scars extended from his temple to his jaw, the result of being on the losing end of a fight with a guard dog in the last detention centre he was placed. Though Anti-Social Personality Disorder was usually not diagnosed in teens, Elizabeth had had a sneaking suspicion the doctors were playing a little fast-and-loose with the DSM V guidelines, which a glance at Patrick's open files one day had confirmed. Elizabeth smiled to herself as Karsten muttered a slew of creative curse words under his breath before dry-swallowing a Depakote.

Fraternal twins Valentine and Misha sat as far away from Karsten as possible. At fourteen years old, they had seen their share of the darker side of the world, shuttled from one foster family to another, until social services decided the Institute was a better alternative. Though typically well behaved, they both showed signs of severe PTSD, usually manifested as night terrors that woke up the entire wing of the building.

Scott, the second oldest after Elizabeth, rounded out the group. A sixteen-year-old with a dark complexion, Scott was another guest with food issues, though he was at the opposite end of the spectrum from Jane. He had a large personality to match his frame, and was rambunctious and loud, which the staff believed was controlled through a careful regime of Prozac. Elizabeth, however, knew he dodged taking the meds as frequently as possible, complaining often that he hated how it made him feel 'flat.'

He nudged Elizabeth with his shoulder, tilting his chair backward at a precarious angle. "Hey G.P." G.P. The moniker stood for "guinea pig" and had originally come out of Scott's effort to assert his dominance over the group, but his authority was subverted when, rather than submitting to outrage, Elizabeth embraced the name. It was funny, she agreed, and it was not like her situation was something she could really control. "Are you excited for the party downstairs?"

"Elizabeth has her own schedule today," said Patrick, overhearing Scott. It was impossible not to- his robust voice echoed around the room several times.

"I do?" Elizabeth looked up in confusion.

"You do," he confirmed, tossing a padfolio on the table to get everyone's attention. "Alright everyone, listen up. Scott, the feet of the chair belong on the floor, please."

"Nice tie, Doctor P," Karsten snickered from the corner.

"That's enough," Patrick snapped his finger toward the smart-talking teenager. "You all are going to get the early shift for breakfast, and then, since Karsten has extra energy to burn, you can help Rosalyn and Charlie and the other administrators set up. You'll have free time if you are receiving visitors. If not, it's study hall in the library. Am I understood?"

The five teenagers in question voiced their accord.

"Good. Now, does anyone have anything for the good of the group? Any thoughts or concerns about today?"

The twins shook their heads silently. Karsten muttered something that was probably best left unheard, and Jane requested time to debrief after the event, which was granted.

"Anything else? No? Alright, Amanda will take you down now."

The blonde intern cracked the piece of gum she was chewing and ushered the group to the cafeteria.

"See you later, G.P." Scott called from the doorway.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "Grow up," she called back. She turned her attention back to Patrick. "You seem…off. Is everything okay?"

Patrick pulled out the chair directly across from her and sat down. "I thought I was the psychiatrist here," he answered, good humour lost in a slightly forlorn expression. "I really hate this, Elizabeth, really, I do."

Elizabeth bristled. "Hate…what?"

Patrick studied his hands. "Mr. Parker, the chairman of the Centre, and Mr. Raines, one of his associates, will be coming to observe a simulation this afternoon."

Elizabeth gave him a quizzical look. "That doesn't sound all that bad… it's no different than any other day, is it?"

"I need you to be on top of your game. These people are not to be trifled with, and the Centre has taken an elevated interest in you. Please, for your own sake, don't bring in any other distractions to your work."

"Okay," she agreed, not entirely sure what she had just pledged herself to. The initial curiosity at the deviation from the routine was replaced with just a trace of fear as she internalised Patrick's ominous warning.

Claudette came back into the lab with a large binder of freshly photocopied materials. "Et voila, the simulation binder." She gave Elizabeth a wink before depositing it on the table, and retreated back to the office she shared with Amanda and the other interns.

Patrick stood up and pulled on his white lab coat, usually left unused hanging on the back of the connecting door to his office. "I have to look the part for our guests," he explained when he noticed Elizabeth watching. "Go ahead and get started. I'll send someone up with your breakfast in a little while. If you need anything, Claudette should be around."

Elizabeth gave a single nod and took the binder to the desk in the corner where the computer used for most of her simulations was stationed. The cover screamed out STATE V. FLYNN in bold, size 72, Times New Roman font. Oh joy, she sighed. Another criminal case. Her overactive mind craved stimulation beyond tedious case files and police reports. She flipped to the first page and started reading.

Fifteen minutes later, there was a knock on the doorframe into the lab, revealing a tall, handsome Ph.D. student. "Hey kiddo," the intern, Ben, said with a smile as he set down her breakfast tray. "One chef surprise, made to order."

"Thanks," she said, returning a shy smile. Ben was one of the few staff members at the Institute she genuinely liked. He was what she imagined an older brother would be like and looked out for her as best as he could. Ben perched on the edge of the countertop, obviously enjoying the breather from the hustle and bustle of visitor's day. "How come you're not at the circus downstairs?"

Elizabeth shrugged, peeking under the foil covering to see a usual bowl of green mush. Lovely. "I've never had any visitors the last seven times they put on that 'circus,' so it seems kind of pointless."

Ben gave her a mocking glare of admonition. "Now that is a bad attitude."

"Believe me, I wish it things were different," she replied honestly. "The Powers-That-Be said my parents were indicted from arms dealing, and yours truly was brought here after the raid on our house. I somehow doubt federal prison has a temporary release program for coming to see me."

Ben was flooredat the bluntness with which Elizabeth explained her situation. "Do they ever write or call?"

Elizabeth snorted in contempt. "No, never…and believe me, I tried. I used to write to them every single day when I was younger. After awhile, it became obvious that it was a waste of my time."

"Did you ever look up their judicial records?"

Elizabeth would have responded honestly, that yes, of course she had, but instead shook her head warily, perceiving the trap. She was not supposed to have unfettered access to the internet, and as much as she liked Ben, he was still on the side of authority at the Institute, and therefore could not be trusted.

She'd overheard someone once say trust could kill you or set you free, and was in agreement, she couldn't be too careful.

"Doesn't mean you should give up hope," Ben said wisely. "Thomas Fuller said the darkest hour is just before the dawn."

"Well, Nietzsche said hope in reality is the worst of all evils… it prolongs the torments of man," she countered.

He laughed. "You win. I can't wait for this week to be over," he said, changing the subject, trying to prolong the time away from all the shenanigans of the event.

Elizabeth trenchantly stabbed her fork into the bowl of wheat grass and tomato juice. "Why?"

"I'm flying back home tomorrow for a couple of exams, and then I get a week of vacation."

"Oh really? Where are you going?"

"A cabin in the Smoky Mountains. It'll be great- going for hikes, seeing the stars away from the congestion here, cooking s'mores…"

She looked up quizzically. "S'mores? What are those?"

Ben looked appalled. "You've never had a s'more before? It's the opus of campfire cuisine. You take two graham crackers, put a chocolate bar between them, and then add a toasted marshmallow, squish it together, and eat it. If you promise not to tell my superiors, I'll bring in my toaster oven when I get back and make you one."

"Really?" Elizabeth was ecstatic. There were almost no occasions for culinary deviation from the green goop, so anything new, let alone something dessert-related, sounded delightful. She gave Ben a sideways glance and tried to hide a smirk. "Are you going on vacation with Claudette?"

She'd seen they way they looked at each other over the past months of their rotation at the Institute, and despite their best attempts to hide it, it was painfully obvious the two were in a relationship.

Ben's initial look of shock at the casual revelation of his secret was muted to one of subtle amusement as he remembered that Elizabeth was, in fact,a genius. "Yes, we are both going. Please don't say anything- I'll throw in a package of Oreos in addition to the s'mores if you agree to keep my secret."

Elizabeth grinned. "Blackmail? I'll take it."

Ben looked at the clock and heaved a sigh. "I guess I should get back to my duty station. Enjoy your breakfast." With a wink, he left, shutting the door to the lab behind him.

Elizabeth attempted to choke down a few more bites of the disgusting green concoction, but couldn't get Ben's words out of her mind. The darkest hour is before the dawn. There was a plethora of logical reasons that her parents could have not been in touch- sealed records, no communication orders, bureaucratic holdups in disseminating contact information, the list was endless.

What bothered her more than anything was the lack of a judicial file that had turned up during her search. There was no one by the name of Stephanie or David Berkley in either the Federal or the state correctional system records. She'd "borrowed" access to both CODIS and IAFIS and neither yielded any matches. An arms dealing conviction made no sense. Her parents were doctors, for crying out loud, not international terrorists.

With uncharacteristic determination, Elizabeth put her fork down and abandoned the binder on the table. She poked her head out of the door from the lab to the hallway, and seeing no one, made her escape. Technically, since she was not at the Institute for a behavioural issue, she was allowed to walk around unsupervised. It didn't stop the staff from asking questions, though, and that was an interaction she wanted to avoid.

For all intents and purposes, the Institute was an architectural masterpiece. The interior was modern- all glass and chrome, with accents of beige and green, which Elizabeth had heard were colours specifically to "promote maximum tranquillity and healing." The place looked expensive, and rightfully so, given the exorbitant amount of money the Institute brought in annually.

Getting out of the lab was the first challenge. The second lay just outside the door to the hallway, where the desk of the department's executive secretary was located. Rosalyn was an African-American woman in her mid-60s and maintained the organizational aspects of the place with unparalleled efficiency. She sucked on peppermints and hummed gospel songs while she worked. The residents that got on her bad side quickly realised she was not someone to have as an enemy, but Elizabeth was lucky to not fall into that category. She was also lucky in that Rosalyn was away from her desk, leaving the broad corridor leading to the elevator bank entirely unattended.

Elizabeth took the elevator down to the mezzanine level, where a balcony encircled the elegantly furnished lobby. It provided a secluded view of all the festivities below; parents marvelling at how their former troublesome sons and daughters had been morphed into well-behaved angels, homesick little ones clinging to a brother or sister's hand, and an occasional burst of tears as the emotion of the event caught up to someone. Elizabeth found a spot on the right side of the mezzanine, where the shadows of the architecture concealed her presence from any curious observers and sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor. A long line of people stood before the registration table, waiting to check in and receive their temporary security badges. She scanned the faces, not recognizing a single one, and moved on to the group listening to an information session given by several of the interns. No one looked familiar there, either. The meandering families all had been claimed by a child- or children- eager to show off their work on displays from the art therapy department. Patrick held court near the large auditorium, answering questions and proving progress reports on how little Johnny or Suzie was progressing, though she knew he probably was relying on the records contained on the Centre-developed tablet computer he brought with him.

She wistfully watched the scene below, trying to suppress the feelings of jealousy and the tinge of anger at her own lack of familial support. She felt her chest constrict as she realised that there was a chance she wouldn't even recognise her family if they decided to show up- and even more likely, they wouldn't recognise her. It was a strange concept, knowing that she was growing up and seeing her reflection change over the course of the seven years at the Institute, but coping came with taking things one day at a time, moving from one highly-structured day of routine to another.

Elizabeth had gone from living her life to merely existing. It was a truly depressing thought.

She stayed there for over an hour, slipping into the persona of each happy child she saw there. Becoming them meant living vicariously through their thoughts and feelings, and for a short time, she forgot her own troubles and lived in a blissful oblivion.

A dark hand knotted with age touched her shoulder and pulled her out of her reverie. She jumped in visceral reaction, but breathed a sigh of relief when she saw whom the hand belonged to- Charlie Rose, the facilities manager of the Institute, and Rosalyn's husband. He was always kind to her, even on the first instance of their meeting, when he discovered her hiding in between the stacks of the Institute's library.

"My name's Charlie, Charlie Rose. Not like the talk show host."

"Talk…show?" She inclined her head quizzically.

Charlie let out a deep laugh, one straight from his soul. "For bein' the smart kid they all've been talkin' about, you sure are an odd one. I won't tell I found you here, but we need to get you back before somebody comes lookin'." He held out a hand and after a second of cognitive dissonance, she decided to trust him.

Even seven years later, she mused in irony, some things hadn't changed.

"Miss Elizabeth, you're goin' to get caught sittin' here," he said softly. "I know it's hard, not havin' a family and all, but someone's goin' to come lookin' for you. I heard Dr. Patrick tellin' Miss Amanda that he was comin' to check on you, so you'd better scoot."

Elizabeth scrambled to her feet. "Thank you," she replied seriously, with a small nod of gratitude, and scrambled to the elevators.

The third challenge, and perhaps the most difficult, was gettingback in to the lab. The elevator opened to Rosalyn manning her post. She glanced up and smiled at the girl. "Charlie said he saw you on the balcony," she said, slipping a peppermint to Elizabeth after making sure no one was within earshot. "Dr. Patrick's on his way back now. You be careful now, you hear?"

Elizabeth nodded gratefully. "I promise. Thank you so much!" Rosalyn touched her security card to the pad on the wall and the locking mechanism disengaged, opening the door. "Thanks again," she called, slipping into Patrick's lab.

The breakfast tray had been removed, but the binder was untouched. Unwrapping the peppermint, she popped it into her mouth and savoured the cool, sugary taste. Her stomach grumbled, and she wished she had slept more than a few hours and not skipped breakfast. Too late for that, she realized, snapping to attention in a subconsciously conditioned response as she heard Patrick's voice from the doorway.

"How is it coming?"

"Um, fine," she quickly answered, flipping to a random page in the binder to give the appearance she was farther in the materials than in reality.

"Good. Our guests should be arriving soon. Keep working, I'll let you know when we're getting ready to start."

Elizabeth nodded and pulled the binder closer, hoping that she would be able to still pull off the Sim. Five pages into reading the police report, Elizabeth's worry was replaced with something much worse as she realised just what it was she was supposed to become.

A killer.

A cold warning travelled up her spine. The murder detailed in the notebook was grisly. Crime scene photographs showed a man laying face down in a pool of blood, with a close-up showing two lacerations in his neck.

Stab wounds.

This murder was up close and personal. Elizabeth had handled guns before, usually for a Sim where she had to portray a friendly force, or rescue a hostage, or something of the sort, never for an overtly malicious purpose.

Guns were crude, heavy and impersonal. There was distance between a shooter and the victim, distance that Elizabeth relied upon to keep a shred of her sanity in tact. With a gun, there was a bullet in between the pulling the trigger and the projectile hitting a person, but a knife? A knife was entirely different. There was no separation of cause and effect. The weapon would still be in her hand when it ended another person's life. She would feel the life draining from the victim, existing in a level of animalistic instinct that would be impossible to escape. Even without knowing the motive of the killer, the stabbing shown in the photograph seemed too calculated and too precise to be from an inexperienced killer. It didn't matter that it was just a simulation- it was all too real. It was ironic- in absorbing the primal and raw power of the murderer, her own identity would be vulnerable and powerless. She was venturing into a dark place in her soul where there was a probability that she would lose herself in the mind of a sociopath, and that terrified her more than anything.

When Patrick returned shortly afterward, leading a contingent of men in expensive tailoring, Elizabeth's heart fell straight into her stomach. Panic was etched across her face. She tried to get his attention while he explained their usual simulation procedure, but his back was to her. Claudette and Amanda, the usual observers to the proceedings, stood against the wall next to the door, attentively watching Patrick, oblivious to her plight.

The taller of the two men, Mr. Parker, Elizabeth recognized from a few prior visits when she was younger, had a shock of white hair and a white moustache, looking every bit as distinguished as a chairman of a multinational corporation should. His commanding baritone voice asked Patrick pointed questions, to which her trained eye couldn't help but notice the psychiatrist's nervous response.

The other man, Mr. Raines, did not ask as many questions, but watched her with an almost-predatory curiosity. He wore a gray, double-breasted suit that made his gaunt face and bald head appear ghoulish. A wheeled oxygen tank served as a satellite behind him, issuing a sinister squeak that established him as a physical incarnation of the living dead.

Two additional men accompanied the guests. Centre Sweepers, Elizabeth had overheard Patrick call them. Being the innate observer that she was, she took in their muscular physiques, identical black suits and holstered 9mm firearms. They sure are taking executive security to the extreme, she thought sardonically. The two Sweepers were dismissed as the question and answer session drew to a close, and they moved to a sentinel position just outside the door.

Around the periphery of the lab, the lights were dimmed, obscuring the faces of the figures that stood in the shadows, silently observing. Spotlights in the centre illuminated the work desk. The heat radiating from the fluorescent bulbs above Elizabeth, mixed with nerves at the large audience in the room, made her feel dangerously close to passing out.

"Patrick?" Elizabeth spoke up cautiously. The psychiatrist turned and raised an expectant eyebrow. When Elizabeth didn't answer right away he took a few steps over to the table.

"I don't think I can do this," she whispered. "Did you read it? They want me to get in the head of a murderer."

"You've done plenty of things that are difficult," he said, trying to balance an impression of strict authority and his concern for the effect of the troublesome assignment on Elizabeth's psyche. "Just relax and focus. Become each of the people in the house and tell us who committed the murder. You can do it." He squeezed her shoulder in encouragement and re-joined the others.

Indeed Patrick had read the simulation, and was well aware that the emotional depth to which she would have to delve was beyond anything she had done in previous simulations. The Centre had sent down the simulation as a measure of Elizabeth's progress to see how she handled more advanced material and dealt with the substantial level of pressure foisted upon her. As the project coordinator, the assignment gave Patrick great pause, but his hands were very much tied.

With a deep breath, released slowly to steady the mind and the will, Elizabeth drifted into a trance-like state, filtering out the many pairs of eyes watching her every move.

"Begin."

"I open the storm door. It's heavy, made of steel and fibreglass. The hinge is old and rusted. It creaks, but I don't care. The adrenaline from the cocaine keeps propelling me forward. I try the knob of the front door. It's unlocked."

"Very good, keep going."

"The house is dark. There's just the moonlight behind me illuminating the staircase leading up to the second floor. There is a set of keys tossed on the floor. Someone must have pushed them through the mail slot."

"Keep going, Elizabeth."

"I feel the weight of the knife in my hand. It's heavy, and the wooden handle digs into my palm. I walk up the stairs, trying to muffle my footsteps, but the rubber matting has worn off in places and I freeze, rooted to the spot, hearing a noise from the living room above. My entrance was more conspicuous than intended."

"Stay with it. What do you do next?"

"I make it to the third step from the landing. Peter Slocumb is there, wearing sweats and a t-shirt. He has just woken up from a nap on the couch. He sees me."

"How does that make you feel?

"Angry. He gets up and starts shouting. He comes closer, threatening. He picks up the end table and tries to throw it at me. It topples over. My anger grows, fuelled by cocaine and the Slocumb's provocation. I step closer, showing him I'm not afraid. The high makes me feel invincible and sure of my actions. Slocumb glances down and sees the knife. It's too late now. I reach out and the knife makes contact, plunging into his throat. He tries to scream, but it hits his vocal cords. I can feel the anger burning in my veins, so I stab him again. A sound from the kitchen startles me, so I turn to run down the-"

The door from the dormitory opened with a bang, startling everyone in the lab, admitting a fearful toe-headed boy around eight years old. He skidded to a stop much like a deer in the headlights once he realised he interrupted something important. His shock was short-lived, however, as Tommy the Terror barrelled into the lab after him, screaming, shouting and throwing punches. The Centre Sweepers stationed outside the door to the lab burst in to investigate the melee, but rather than halting the chaos, they only added to it. The two boys dodged and evaded the orderlies by exchanging taunts and blows, their tussle reaching epic proportions when the open door from the dormitory brought forth a group of cheering spectators, eager to watch the skirmish unfold.

Elizabeth moved to get out of the way of the stray limbs flying between the boys, both secretly amused and slightly annoyed at the interruption. The tow-headed boy, whom she recognized as Daniel, one of the more angelic in the bunch of Dr. Marissa's tiny terrors, quickly ran for safety behind her, realizing that a human shield would give him an advantage in the fight with Tommy. Tommy, however, was pulling no punches, and Elizabeth found herself directly in the middle of the fight. She tried to move the boy away, telling Tommy firmly to stop, but upon turning to issue the same edict to Daniel, Elizabeth was met with an elbow making contact with the bridge of her nose with a loud whump. Staggering backwards with the force from Daniel's lack of spatial awareness, the sudden movement put her directly in the path of Tommy's meaty fist, which connected with the side of her face and sent her flying to the floor with a gasp as the wind was knocked out of her.

Tommy and Daniel froze and stared in horror, allowing the Sweepers to promptly seize them. Patrick sprang into action. "Get them out of here," he snapped at the dark-suited men holding the two squirming offenders. He ran to a now-unconscious Elizabeth. "Holy hell," he said, as a gush of blood flowed from her nose. "Call the Infirmary," he commanded Amanda. "Get someone up here now." He turned to Claudette, who was on his heels, crouched next to the girl. "Find Michelle and have her take care of Raines and Parker. Sing a song, do a dance, I don't care," he hissed. Claudette gave a single nod of understanding and directed the two visibly peeved Centre guests out of the lab.

He pulled off his white coat and rolled it into a ball to elevate Elizabeth's head. She came to a moment later, head reeling from the combined impact of the blows and hitting the floor.

"What…what happened?" She asked blearily, trying to get her racing heart and spinning head under control.

"You were a casualty of Tommy the Terror's war of attrition," he said, gently helping her to a sitting position. Blood ran freely from the girl's nose, a red rivulet trickling down her chin to the collar of her navy blue sweater. Startled, she hastily swept the moisture away with two fingers – which came away bright crimson.

"Son of a…" Elizabeth grumbled in annoyance.

Patrick held back a chuckle. Somehow, he doubted the socialisation the Centre had desired for her included the acquisition of such language. He pulled a pen light out of the pocket of his bunched up lab coat and shined it in her eyes, relieved when her pupils constricted as normal. "Do you know what day it is?"

"The day from hell," she retorted, accepting a tissue proffered by one of the remaining orderlies. "Sunday. The 22nd of May."

"Very good. Lean forward," he directed. "It will help stop the bleeding." He waited for a moment as the on-call nurse from the Infirmary came in and took over the ministrations.

Holding an ice pack on her already purpling face, Elizabeth looked up at Patrick. "So what now?"

He looked toward the door where he could hear Michelle appeasing Raines and Parker. "We'll just have to wait for the fallout. Whatever that may be."

THE CENTRE

Interoffice Memo

DATE: May 22, 2004

TO: Triumvirate Council

CC: The Institute

FROM: The Tower

RE: Pretender Program

We have grave concerns regarding the oversight of certain aspects of the Institute. The display of Simulation 58259 was interrupted, inhibiting its timely completion for our client. As such, it is our fervent desire to move up the timetable of the second phase of the project. Instructions regarding the introduction of the two Pretenders will follow shortly.

Mr. Parker

A/N: This chapter would not have been possible without the help of two truly wonderful sources of support- first, to Jacci, who is the best Beta reader on the planet. It is surreal, after being a fan of your writing for so many years, to have your incredible guidance and insight on this project. I am truly grateful. (Shrubs!) I am also indebted to my twinner, Stephanie. Thank you for answering millions of emails of psych-related questions (see, that Ph.D. is worth something after all!) and regaling me with crazy cat stories in the process. This is dedicated to the four Centre subjects hiding out in the Hybrid Biotract. (Less than 3!)