If guilt were a bell that unceasingly reminded you of the error of your ways with every pang, then I was feeling guilt – a lot of it. Why? I didn't know. Okay, that was a lie. The wise and logical part of my brain grudgingly came to the admission that it was because of my traitorous conversation with Leonardo Sterling; how perhaps I should have stopped at "There's a guy". However, in an attempt to escape mental confrontation with myself, the more immature part of brain tried to shrug it off, blindly thinking of the picturesque beaches of LA as a source of distraction. 

"Tried" being the operative word. 

Because for starters, and despite how many times I'd already said it, it was winter, which posed a challenge to the picturesque beach idea. And for seconders, him sitting right opposite me like that, made it hard to ignore those pangs of with guilt with every strike of clapper to bell.

When I first entered the room, I found that Mark wasn't in there. Thank God, I thought. The only people there were 

Bernard and Everest. They didn't ask me any questions regarding my whereabouts of the past four hours. Judging by Bernard's facial expressions, the suspense was clearly eating the big guy out, but he chose to remain quiet. I decided that Everest was either too stubborn or too careless to ask, however he did watch me carefully as I came into the room. At first, I thought it was a general, empty stare. It was when I moved closer that I realised his eyes were focused not exactly on my eyes, but rather the empty space above my left eye. 

He didn't comment on it, but carefully took in my face, as if looking at it for the first time. It was when I struck a posed in response, that he seemed to come to his senses and looked away. 

I took a seat opposite him at the table he was sitting by. "So, how do you suppose we approach her?" I conversed, referring to Gemma, whilst trying to discard that stabbing burden of guilt. 

"I haven't thought about it."

"Oh," I glanced at the now scabs on his hands, which came about from all the shambles in the forest, and cringed; I was never really a huge fan of the sight of wounds even if they were almost completely healed, as his were. "What if she refuses?"

"We will get it," he stated. 

"Yes but—"

"202, you can shatter her nervous system in a fraction of a second. I can't see why you're overthinking this."

My eyes widened. This swiftly took a drastic turn. "You want me to shatter her nervous system?" My eyes glittered at the very thought. 

"No. We need her cure."

"Fair enough," I shrugged, half disappointed. "Wait. Did you just praise me?"

"No." It was a small word, but it was a small word that was answered too quickly, as if in a meteoric spasm of absolute refusal. 

"Yes, you did!" I accused. "You were all like—" I dropped my voice, "you can do it! You have superpowers! You're awesome!'" 

"I didn't say that."

"But you meant it," I sang. 

As per usual, he glared and I hushed after that – for a few seconds, at least. 

"I have to give it to him," I said, "he's a smart guy."

"Who?"

"Director. He managed to keep you hidden from the world all these years."

"Why are you bringing this up now?"

"It was going to come out anyway. Why not sooner than later?"

"Why not ever?"

I ignored his comment. "You know, you never really told me, how did he get ahold of you? Did he just yank you out of your mothers arms as soon as you were born?" If you asked me, I thought I was being pretty sly. 

"It has no relevance to what we're doing, so drop it."

I was not. "Jeez, okay. Soft spot," I muttered, although I doubted there was any area of softness in that granite's body. "Everest?" 

"Hm?"

"Why are you doing this, why didn't you just listen to Director?" I asked, out of nowhere. 

At first, he didn't answer, probably because of the suddenness of my question (to be completely honest, I had surprised myself with it), but after the dreadful pause, he answered in a way that I'd least expected him to. 

"Because they were asking me to kill someone. And I didn't want to." 

At last, I shallowly thought that finally his stubbornness had worked in my favour. However, later, the meaning of his response became less unsubstantial than I had initially made it out to be. He wasn't a killer. Of course, he wasn't. He was mean; distant; brutally cold; an absolute enigma. But he wasn't a killer. 

I frowned in thought. "Would you go back there? I asked, my fingers mindlessly stroking over the marks on his hand. "To the Front, I mean. Suppose we do get the cure; after that, would you go back?" I guessed the Front was his home as much as it was mine, so why would he not? But he betrayed them as much as they betrayed me. So, where would he go?

However, he didn't seem to be listening to me, which was a first. I had noticed he was a good listener; not a very good replier, but he listened well. Sure, most of the time, he didn't bother with posture, or lacked a considerable amount of facial expressions, but there was never a syllable that missed his ears – hence, why I found this newborn gesture of inattentiveness to be, indeed, peculiar... that was, until I looked down to see what he was staring at. 

At lightening speed, I tore my hands off of his, and quickly used them to tuck in the already tucked in hair behind my ears. He must have noticed my embarrassment because his eyes followed the way my hands moved, intently.

He looked at me blankly for a moment, as if all train of thought had departed long ago. Then, seemingly snapping back to reality, he answered, "I have to."

This annoyed me. "Why? Director will hang, draw, and quarter you."

"He won't." There was an irritating sense of certainty in his voice. 

"How are you so sure?"

"Because, I know he won't."

"Why not?"

He didn't answer. 

"Why not?" I repeated. 

Again, no response. 

"Okay, fine. Why do you have to go back?"

When I was met silence, once again, I gave up, sighing, "I don't understand you." 

"Don't," he bitterly replied. 

He was deliberately being spiteful – well, spitefuller – for reasons I didn't know. Was he angry? Could he feel anger? Most of the time he was just... emotionless. Was he waiting for an explanation for my absence, which I hadn't yet given him? Oh my god, what  if he somehow found out that I had told Leonardo Sterling about him? That definitely had to be the reason why—

Then, a shocking revelation occurred. Seriously, it shook me to the tip of the nerve on my toe. 

"I'm sorry," he muttered. 

I stared at him for a few seconds, utterly dumbfounded. "What?"

He held my stare, so intensely, in fact, that it penetrated right through my eyes and out the back of my head. "Don't make me repeat it."

A smile crept up my face. "It's okay. Hey, why you think Director never got married? Especially when his friends were getting married, left, right and centre. Wouldn't he have been, I don't know, fifth wheeling?"

"His friends?" 

"My parents..? Chadwick and Holland? They were all friends...?" Surely, he'd known this. 

"Yeah, them," he stared blankly into nothingness, before looking back at me. "Maybe he just didn't find someone to love."

"As much as he loves power, you mean."

"Maybe. Or maybe, the things in his life just didn't fall into the right place at the right time. Like, if he had found someone who loved him before he met power."

"It's weird," I replied, "Director threw away his life even though he didn't have to. Do you even think he can fall in love?" I asked the most philosophical question to a guy who seemed to know everything, except philosophy. There was heavy silence before he replied: 

"Anyone can fall in love."

The laptop chimed. 

"That's the tracker," said Bernard. "It's complete." He took out his phone and I'd make a safe bet it was Mark whom he dialed, for Mr Hemisphere himself walked, or rather thundered, into the room, a moment later. 

Without even sparing anyone in the room a glance, he violently strode over to the laptop, typed something in, and then spun the laptop to face me. The screen presented a rather detailed map with a red blinking spot hovering over San Francisco. 

"Zoom into the map," I ordered. 

With the slight twitch of a jaw, Mark magnified the map until the names of numerous roads and blocks presented themselves. At a closer look, I found that the red light was blinking over some road called Rapp Gardens, Northern California. 

Bingo. 

"Ah," a familiar voice spoke from the doorway, "a few hours' road trip should do the trick." Arya stroked her almost bald head. "Good thing I have a car."

"Miss Jimenez, may I ask what business you have here?" The ceaseless scorn in Mark's voice was unmissable. 

But, to my utter shock and fascination, the raven haired girl wasn't in the least bit fazed by him. In fact, she dismissed him completely, looking only at me. "So, what do you say?"

"You will answer me when you are spoken to." Mark's irritating voice cut through. 

Now, she glanced at him. No, she practically squeezed his trachea shut under that glare. Then, her eyes flickered to the name tag on his desk. "How strange, it doesn't say 'Gemma Reynolds'." 

Oh, no she di-ent. 

Mark swallowed down a ball of fury. 

"You don't have to," I told Arya. 

"How much experience do you have driving on the right?"

I frowned. "None?"

"Precisely. I'll be waiting in the parking lot." She eyed Everest. "Who the hell is this?"

"Everest. Everest, this is Arya."

Both parties just stared at each other, neither wanting to to stimulate a conversation. 

Finally, Arya shrugged. "Cool."

"What is the matter with you?" I hissed at Everest, as we made a complicated journey from Mark Hemisphere's office the parking lot. "Ever practised the subtle process of introduction?"

"Yes, that's why we had quite the etiquette introduction upon our first meeting."

"Maybe we did. Maybe eight year old you had more courtesy than twenty...?"

"One."

"Twenty-one year old you."

***