by Captain Sammitch
The MBL Consulting Complex, La Perdita:
Phil paused in the middle of logging a particularly tricky subroutine. That headache was getting worse and worse. He massaged his temples, hoping for relief but finding none.
Beep.
Phil checked the console. Everything was normal on the monitors.
Beep.
Phil looked again. Nothing had changed. He dialed the volume control back to zero.
Beep.
Where was that sound coming from? Not this again.
Beep.
Phil sat back in the chair and closed his eyes. He couldn't fight it this time. The beeping wasn't coming from the computer. It was coming from Phil.
Beep... beep... beep beep beep beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep... The electronic beeps merged into one high-pitched whine.
Thoughts and sensations streamed through Phil's mind faster than he could process them. His brain was bombarded by a flood of information, a flood of information he didn't recognize.
Phil grabbed the armrests of his chair and gritted his teeth. He heard a metallic voice inside his head. It was speaking Russian, but he could make it out clearly.
Reset cycle stalled. Filtration cycle stalled. Entering failsafe mode.
The pain became too much. Phil gasped and fell out of the chair. "Grissom!" he called. "Griss!"
More information flew across his mind's eye. Bits and pieces of data in hundreds of languages -- both human and computer languages -- sped in crazed circles through his brain.
Phil had lost all control.
He staggered to his feet slowly, relieved that he still commanded all his motor functions. Phil slumped into the chair and wound his arms through the armrests, trying to fight off whatever was attacking him from inside his head.
Erasure sequence aborted. Failsafe mechanism offline.
Phil stiffened and squeezed his eyes shut. "Stop!"
Shutting down.
The voices all fell silent, and the whirlwind of information vanished.
Phil sank into the chair and heaved a deep sigh.
Grissom bolted into the room. "What? What's wrong?"
Phil opened his eyes and looked at him. "Oh, nothing's wrong, Griss."
The mercenary raised an eyebrow. "You sure, mate?"
"Perfectly sure," Phil answered. He smiled.
"You sure everything's okay?" Grissom Montag asked. "I could have sworn I heard you yelling for me."
Phil Smith raised an eyebrow. "When was this?"
"Just a few seconds ago," Grissom insisted.
Phil shrugged. "I think I would recall something like that."
Grissom looked away. "Right." He looked around the room as Phil went back to working. "So," the mercenary asked, "you have any ideas on how to work out the whole Leslie issue?"
Phil frowned. "Leslie issue?" There was a long pause. "Oh! Yeah. That issue."
Grissom looked puzzled. "Not to be confused with... some other Leslie issue?"
"No, no, no," Phil said. "I'm with you on this." He looked down. "Nothing comes to mind, but I'm sure it'll turn out okay. It's not like she'll run off and join the circus or anything."
"You sure about that, mate?" Grissom sat in a chair across the console from Phil. "If the GRU is after her, then chances are they're not going to hesitate to rush to her last known location and do whatever it takes to get to her." He paused. "Do you really think that FBI guy Fisher thinks you're dead?"
Phil shook his head. "Not really. I'm just counting on the probability that he assumes I'm still in the U.S. somewhere. Besides, he only has domestic jurisdiction, anyway."
"But what if..." Grissom thought a moment. "What if he did come here, and he found you on the island? What would you do?"
Phil shrugged. "I suppose I'd fight him off."
"Because you have something to fight for," Grissom said. "Pretty much everything that matters to you is here." He looked around. "This room? Your creation. This supercomputer? Part of our plan that you fleshed out as a way to integrate all the team's assets together. This new integration plan -- the first step toward giving the MBL a real purpose -- that's largely your doing. Your friends are here. Gabi's here. There are people here who know you and respect you. So thank you for being honest, because there's no way you could convince me that you'd leave all this, even because of someone like Fisher."
"I suppose you're right," Phil conceded.
Grissom stood up. "But what about Leslie? Her livelihood revolves around not getting attached to people and places. Her purpose changes with every contract that comes in. Leslie has not only a need but a desire to move, to always be going somewhere. I know this, Phil, because I was the same way -- until I came here. And I'm pretty sure you were the same way -- until New York." Grissom rested against a wall. "Leslie took one chance, made one gamble at getting attached to someone. That was you. And it got her nowhere. Think about it, Phil. What incentive does she have to stay here?"
"Are you pinning all this on me?" Phil asked indignantly.
Grissom shrugged. "I suppose you could have just let her take you to the Russians. Or I suppose you could have given her a chance and pursued a serious relationship with her. Those were choices you made. One was self-preservation. One was a question of loyalty. Those choices are behind you now. But you haven't given Leslie what you still can and probably should offer her: a sense of security. And if she decides she can't get it from you, she'll go to anyone who can and who will offer it to her."
The mercenary looked at Phil intently. "I'm not pointing fingers here, Phil Smith. I'm simply warning you not to take Leslie for granted, because in all honesty I don't expect her to stick around for much longer at all."
Leslie Kline's room, the Fish Factory:
"I would love to know how you got my number," Leslie grumbled.
"That would be telling," the voice on the other end of the line said smugly. "I'm not here to chit-chat. We're making you an offer here."
"For all I know," Leslie protested, "you're GRU. How do I know I can trust you?"
"You don't," came the reply. "But if I were with the GRU, I would have been able to track you down a long time ago."
"All right," Leslie conceded. "What's the deal, then?"
"It's quite simple, really. All you have to do is come and work for us, and I can guarantee that neither the Russians nor anyone else will be able to find you. We can erase you from the databases of every agency out there, and you're guaranteed consistent employment with more than adequate compensation."
"I don't understand," Leslie argued. "Why would you do all that for me?"
"Your abilities interest us," the voice replied, "and they would be a valuable asset to our work."
"Can I find out more about you before I commit?" Leslie asked.
"No, you can't," the voice replied bluntly. "Just get on the plane and meet us at O'Hare International in Chicago. You won't be sorry."
"I'll do that," Leslie said reluctantly. "We'll talk again, Mr...."
"Turner."
The line went dead.