'What is this world that is hastening me toward I know not what, viewing me

with contempt?'

He shut the book and set it beside his bed with a sigh.

Kahlil Gibran. A Middle Eastern philosopher and poet. Bobby had first heard

of him in the Gulf, when one of the guys in his company had handed him a book

to distract him one long night. The Prophet. It was a successful distraction,

and since then had remained one of Bobby's Hobbes' favorite books.

Gibran put some lofty ideas through the mouth of his Prophet, and Bobby

hadn't figured he'd like it. But he found himself agreeing with most

everything the guy had to say. Gibran used some bigger words and more

symbolic and metaphorical language than Bobby would have liked, but the

sentiments were definitely something he could get behind.

There was a chapter in that book, one Bobby read over and over again, that he

agreed with more than others. That chapter discussed the often-used sentiment

that a chain was only as strong as its weakest link. It was a load of crap,

Gibran stated. Chains, and people, and whatever else applied, were as strong

as their strongest link, and also as weak as the weakest.

Applied to people, it meant that the worst, most hateful and violent people

in the world weren't some kind of exception, some kind of weak chain bogging

down the loftiness of human nature. Those hateful and violent people were

that way because hate and violence were there in all people. The capacity to

kill and destroy and hate were in every single person in the world, just like

the capacity to love and sacrifice and be happy were in everyone.

Or something like that. That's what Bobby figured the guy meant, anyway.

And that basic principle was one Bobby had held for a long time. No matter

how innocent or sweet people seemed, or even were, there was the capacity in

everyone to turn violent, to lash out without reason, to kill and destroy.

Mother Theresa could've snapped and turned a gun on some crowd, because she

shared the same basic flawed human nature as every other shmuck walking

around the earth.

That's what people didn't understand. People who made fun of the way Bobby

lived, and the things he thought. They didn't get that psychotic criminals

were once normal guys or girls who just snapped one day. No one knew why, or

how, or whether it could be stopped.

And that made every single person walking around the earth a threat.

He sighed and reached for his lamp to shut out the light and get some sleep.

His hand froze halfway to the light.

He had locked the door.

Of course he had. He always did. He locked the door to the apartment, and the

door to his bedroom. He had the light on in the living room to make it appear

to anyone looking through a window that someone was still awake in the

apartment. He had his alarm set to go off if the door was opened.

His hand hesitated in midair, then dropped, leaving the light on. He knew,

absolutely knew that he'd done everything he had to.

But what if he hadn't?

Couldn't hurt to check.

Bobby slung the cover off him and stood, padding to the door. Hesitating with

his hand on the knob, he held his breath and listened.

It seemed quiet, but God only knew what could be out there. If he had

forgotten anything, any thief with a slight talent for stealth could be right

by the door, waiting to kill him when he showed his face.

His heart started thumping and his mouth went dry.

But he was resolved. Tensing, ready for battle, Bobby turned the knob slowly

and quietly. He cracked the door the first inch, and peeked his eyes out.

Nothing seemed to be out there.

He drew in a deep, quiet breath, then flung the door open, eyes darting to

every corner and every visible space.

The apartment was small, and there wasn't much furniture. The living room

light was burning, and the furniture had been placed so that there were no

shadows large enough to hide an adult person.

Bobby's eyes scanned the familiar space. He had chosen this apartment because

of its one bedroom and open-aired living and kitchen space. From his doorway

he could see anyone else in the apartment, as long as the bathroom door was

open wide.

He looked over. It was.

The door had to be locked. Had to be. He would never forget to.

But what if he had?

He moved slowly, stepping into the open space beyond the doorway, tense and

ready. His stomach churned in nervous energy as he passed the window.

The window wasn't much threat. He'd had bars put on the day he moved in.

Strong bars set close together. The glass itself was vulnerable, but he

couldn't do much about that. And the drapes he had were heavy and thick. No

one could see in past those, no matter how many lights were burning. And no

one could hide behind those drapes without an obvious bulge showing.

He made it to the door, and his eyes instantly went to the alarm panel. The

light was flashing red, showing it was armed.

Good. As long as the thing wasn't malfunctioning, he'd be pretty safe.

Problem was, it was a machine, and machines broke down. He couldn't trust the

alarm fully. No one could trust those things. They could be turned off,

destroyed. They could break down, and they probably did, all the time.

He stopped his line of thinking. Never did any good to get worked up about

things like that, his shrink would tell him. That was one of those matters

out of Bobby's range of control.

Range of control. According to the present shrink, Doc Number Eight, Bobby

had to sort out the range of his control. It was no good worrying about the

weather, as she put it, because that was out of his control. It was in his

control to carry around an umbrella or gloves or whatever.

Simple as that. He couldn't control the computer technology behind the alarm

system, so he shouldn't be worried about it.

Simple. Yeah, right.

Bobby tried the doorknob leading out. It didn't move. Locked, as he

remembered.

Good.

The first bolt was obviously slid into place, and a quick push insured bolt

number two was holding steady.

He was safe.

He exhaled a sigh, trying to get his body to relax. Turning back to his

bedroom door, he couldn't help looking at the window instead.

Moving to the drapes, he reached out and pressed against the heavy fabric

until his hands touched the wall. He ran his hands to both edges of the

drapes, insuring no one was possibly hiding behind them.

Edging up close to the wall, he tentatively lifted an edge of the drape.

If someone was watching him, this was the best chance they had to take a

shot. Bobby had been a Marine; he knew what snipers were capable of. He had

worked with some of the best. Taking a shot through a lifted corner of a

drape was nothing to those guys.

But the shot didn't come, and Bobby let out a breath he wasn't aware he was

holding. Checking the windows quickly to make sure the glass was still

intact, he tried pushing at the sliding glass to see if it would open.

It didn't budge. He'd had the windows sealed shut long ago, and it seemed to

be holding firm. The bars were there, looking untouched, but he pushed at

them anyway. Just in case they had been cut and were set in place to fool him.

Satisfied, he let the drape drop and turned back to his small quarters.

The door was still shut, the bolts still locked.

He had to resist the urge to go over and check again. He could hear the

voices in his head, laughing at him.

The roommate he'd had at Quantico, making fun of him for not being able to

sleep at night without some light on in the room. Better were the roommates

he'd had in college, or partners he'd shared hotel rooms with in the various

agencies he'd worked for. They had simply griped so much about his restless

nights and constant fears that they asked for separate rooms. Most of the

time that had been granted.

Bobby formed fists with his hands to keep himself from reaching out the check

the window one more time for moving figures on the street outside, and he had

to make himself turn and go back to the bedroom.

People laughed their heads off about him. Figured it was a big joke, and he

was out of his mind.

Worse, though, were the people who accused him of deliberately acting the way

he did. People actually accused him of being paranoid to get attention. Or

just to be different. They figured he liked acting that way, because it set

him apart from most other people.

They thought he did it on purpose.

Bobby always felt a measure of amusement. Those people just had no idea.

He had taken so many pills for so long...at first, in his teens, when he got

his first prescription for some anti-anxiety pill or another, he could barely

force himself to swallow the things one at a time. He was so sure the small

pills would get trapped in his throat. They could cut off his breathing, and

he would die.

It had taken him time to learn to swallow the things. But by now, in his

fifteenth year as an official psychotic personality, he had pill

prescriptions up the ass, and he swallowed handfuls at a time. He could

swallow without water to wash it down; he could swallow any size, any number.

He was as skilled at taking his medicine as he was at practicing the

psychosis itself.

And people thought he did it for fun.

Bobby had always known that he behaved differently from other people. When he

was starting high school, he realized that he was the only person around him

who thought the closed-off fourth floor of the school was some kind of

criminal laboratory. He knew the teachers took kids up there and did all

kinds of evil things to them. Somehow they wiped the kids' memories, and they

never remembered, but Bobby knew. He just knew.

He tried telling people, but they laughed it off. Still, whenever a teacher

called him out to talk alone in the hall, he refused. He absolutely wouldn't

go unless they left the door open and he stayed in plain sight of the other

kids. He wouldn't go alone to the principal's office, he wouldn't take a

bathroom break in the middle of class. They wouldn't catch Bobby Hobbes alone

in the hallway, that was for damned sure.

And Bobby realized the other kids didn't think about that kind of stuff. He

didn't see how they could go a minute without worrying about it, but they

did. They listened to his theories about the fourth floor, the so-called

'renovations' the school was doing, and they laughed. They loved it, because

it entertained them. Bobby Hobbes was a big class clown as far as they were

concerned. They could laugh off his certainty over the atrocities being

committed.

Still, it was better than in the Marines. They didn't laugh in the Marines.

They get pissed off, and they shut him up.

Jesus, during the Gulf he couldn't sleep a night. He woke up every hour,

certain of some noise or creak or yawn. Certain it was the damned Iraqis

ready to invade and massacre everyone in their sleep.

By that time, though, he knew enough to shut up when they told him to. He

knew that when he woke up at one in the morning, he couldn't go waking anyone

else up. That led to some pissed off soldiers, and pissed off soldiers made

his life hell.

He learned not to tell other people about his certainty that every movement

was an enemy coming to slit their throats. He learned to laugh with other

people about their inconsequential jokes, and hang out late playing cards

with the guys, even if it meant he had to cross to his barracks alone at

night.

Before he was twenty-one, he was taking pills for physical reasons as well as

mental. He had worried himself a few ulcers.

Of course, he went to a few doctors before he accepted that diagnosis. He

would go so far as to drive to a spot at random, circle a few blocks until he

found a doctor's office, and go in unannounced. Just so no one would be able

to insure that he'd only go to certain doctors, doctors that were in on the

plot.

His first shrink had laughed at him. When he got into plots and conspiracies,

she laughed. Asked him if he thought the CIA killed Kennedy.

He didn't. He knew the government wouldn't be involved in killing their own

leader. Not his government.

Funny, but that was his big blind spot, and shrinks had figured that out and

mused over what it meant since he was in his twenties.

Bobby was always sure of plots against him, but he was also sure that the

government wouldn't be responsible for those plots. Not his government.

Another government, maybe. Some criminal faction, more likely. Never his

leaders.

He loved his country. He loved the guys in the history books who had fought

and died to make it free and safe and the greatest country in the world. He

loved that so many plots to destroy America had failed.

He wanted to be part of it. And he was.

Bobby shut the door into his bedroom and locked the door. He slid the extra

bolt shut, and immediately glanced over at his closet.

The closet was small and pretty empty. He had taken the doors down, and he

kept the clothes in there to a minimum. No one would get the drop on him by

jumping out of the closet.

Finally he made it back to his bed. A foot went out and thumped the boards

that went from the bottom of the mattress to the floor, just to make sure

they were securely in place and no one could have gotten through them and

under the bed.

Finally he dropped to sit on the mattress.

His stomach was still clenched in fear and worry, and his body was still

tense. Still, he shed his clothes quickly and laid down, shutting off the

light.

His eyes opened in the darkness and looked up at the ceiling absently.

He was safe. As safe as he could be.

Of course, just because he hadn't seen anyone didn't mean no one was there.

Now that he knew the kind of technology people were capable of these days, he

couldn't ever be sure. Now that he knew there was at least one person, and

maybe even more, walking around with the capacity to turn invisible, he was

never safe.

Not that he thought Darien was out there. He didn't. Really. Darien

was...okay, he wasn't government exactly, but he was working for them. Of

course, he had been a criminal. He had served jail time. If someone wanted a

mole in the Agency, they could have gotten to Kevin Fawkes and found out who

his lab rat was going to be. They could have gotten to Darien, bought his

obedience.

No.

Bobby shut his eyes with a sigh. No, damn it. He wouldn't do this. He

wouldn't fall back into this trap.

He had few enough friends in the world, and none of them had ever escaped his

suspicion. Not even Darien Fawkes.

Jesus. Why couldn't he turn it off? Why couldn't he make himself stop

thinking things like that? It was abnormal, the stuff he believed. That's

what the shrinks said. He was a freak, and he would have given anything in

the world to be able to come home, lock the door, and go to bed like a normal

person.

How could anyone think living this way was fun for him? How could anyone

believe he wanted to be this way? If they knew how his mind was constantly

alerting him to nonexistent danger, or how he could never sleep through a

night without the aid of drugs, they would change their mind.

It made him feel frustrated beyond belief that he had no power over himself.

Helpless. Weak, easily beaten.

Darien wasn't a bad guy. Darien was his partner, and he trusted his partner.

He trusted Darien.

That was one of the things he could convince himself of. Even when he

couldn't turn off the other voices, he was actually starting to believe that

was true -- he could trust Darien.

But his grief didn't end there. No. Because Darien was his partner, and

Darien didn't know about the dangers in the world Bobby knew about. Darien

didn't realize how vulnerable he was. Darien went to sleep in a big apartment

with open windows and a flimsy lock. Darien didn't check to make sure he

wasn't followed, and there were hundreds of people by now who could be after

him.

Luke Lawson was still out there. Arnaud with the last name he couldn't spell

was still out there. All kinds of people were walking free, and had some kind

of interest in shutting Darien Fawkes down.

Darien had gone home alone tonight. Bobby hadn't followed him. He only

followed Darien a couple of times a week, when he just could not talk himself

out of it.

They were in the middle of a job right now, trying to stop some scum Yakusa

agents who liked to dine on endangered animals.

Yakusa was big. Huge. Powerful beyond what Darien could appreciate. And if

they were on to Hobbes and Fawkes at all, they would be strong enough to

squash them without breaking a sweat. And Darien didn't think about it

outside of work.

Even if he did...hell, when Darien was at his most paranoid during that whole

Simon Cole thing, Bobby had still managed to sneak in to his apartment

without a problem and get close to Fawkes while he was sleeping.

Bobby sat up, turning on the lamp. He reached for his phone and dialed

quickly. Just one call, one check-up on his irresponsible partner.

The sleepy voice that answered was unmistakably Darien. "Hullo?"

Bobby opened his mouth, but his eyes went to the clock and he saw what time

it was.

He hung up without a word, fast. Before Darien could guess who it was and

have ammunition to make fun of Bobby the next day.

A minute later, he picked up the phone and dialed seven more numbers,

watching his hands move without being able to stop them.

After five rings the phone was answered. "Hello?" The familiar voice was

struggling to be polite even though they were roused from sleep.

Bobby didn't say anything. He held the receiver close, his eyes shutting,

hoping she understood.

There was a pause.

"Bobby?"

He breathed out slowly. Jesus, he missed her.

"This is you, isn't it?"

He swallowed. "Yeah. Sorry. I just..."

She knew, though. She knew how he got sometimes. She was one of the few

people who lived close enough to him to see the hell that he went through.

She didn't get mad, she didn't laugh. Not when he was in the middle of it.

Later, she would laugh. In the morning she would talk to her new husband, and

vent to him about how much she hated being Bobby's crutch. But for now she

would talk to him, and he knew it. It was worth the humiliation of knowing

what she would say later.

"I'm sorry," he said again helplessly.

She breathed into the phone lightly. "Did you take your meds today?"

He nodded pointlessly. "Yeah. I just can't..." He shook his head, wishing he

could express it. "I can't make it stop."

"What is it, Bobby? A case you're working on? Me?"

"Everything," he replied bitterly. "I can't sleep."

"How long?"

His hands squeezed the phone in frustration. "Couple of days."

She was quiet for a moment. Bobby could almost picture her sitting up in bed

in the darkness, nodding to herself as she remembered how to deal with him.

Picturing her in bed alone in the dark made his guts churn. "Viv, is he

there?"

"What? Yes, he's here. He's sleeping."

He relaxed slightly at that. Brock was a good guy, he was forced to admit.

And he was protective of Viv. He would keep her safe, if he could.

As if she could sense the absolute fear he'd felt for that brief moment, she

spoke again quietly. "This is bad, isn't it?"

"I'm sorry," he answered quietly. "I know you hate..."

"Bobby, I don't hate anything. But someday this will happen and I won't be

home. You have to find someone else to depend on."

"I..." He couldn't. Tears of helpless anger and self-hatred rose up against

his will. He couldn't do a damned thing to please her, even now.

She heard his distress. "It's okay, Bobby. I didn't mean you can't call." Her

voice was sympathetic. "Do you need the Mellaril?"

He frowned into the phone. He only pulled those pills out in emergencies. He

wasn't sure this qualified. He would get some sleep, yeah, but the bizarre

dreams that plagued him, the headaches he'd have the next day, the muscle

tremors he would have to control...he didn't know if it was worth it.

"Bobby? I'm sorry, I'm about to fall asleep on you. Please, if you can't get

any sleep, take the pills. I know you don't like to, but you can't drive

yourself crazy like this. It wears all of us down."

He couldn't reply for a moment. His throat was dry, and he found himself

listening to the silence on her end of the line for strange noises.

He shook his head to clear it. "All right, Viv. I hear you."

"You take care of yourself, Bobby."

"Yeah. You, too." His eyes slid shut in distress.

"Good night."

He couldn't answer. A moment later he heard the click meaning she'd hung up,

and he slowly lowered the phone.

She was okay. She was safe, for now.

Find someone else, she said. Someone else to depend on.

That wasn't very frigging likely. His options were too limited. In fact, if

he thought about it, he considered only one option.

Darien.

Darien Fawkes, who would sooner laugh at him than talk to him. Darien

wouldn't understand.

Then again, Darien had a good heart. He was a good person. Maybe if he

realized how serious Bobby was about it, he would play along.

Bobby's fingers dialed shakily. Any option was better than those damned

pills.

Darien's sleepy voice sounded irritated. "Hello?"

Bobby had to swallow before he could talk. "Fawkes."

"Hobbes? Jesus, what time is it?"

"I'm sorry, it's late. Early. Whatever."

"You okay?" Despite his grouchiness, Darien actually sounded a little

concerned.

"Yeah. I..." Something was nagging at Bobby, though, and he couldn't focus on

whatever he meant to say. "Could you do me a favor?"

"Now? Come on, Hobbes." Darien sighed into the phone. "What?"

Bobby swallowed, bracing himself for the jokes. "Make sure your door is

locked."

"What?!?"

"Your front door. Just do it."

Darien didn't answer, but Bobby could hear the grumbling as Darien dropped

the phone and did as he was asked.

A moment later he came back. "Alright. Now what?"

Bobby heaved a breath.

"Come on, Hobbes. Tell me what your paranoid little brain is thinking so I

can get back to sleep."

No. Darien wouldn't understand. "Nothing," Bobby said quietly. "Sorry I woke

you up."

"Wait a minute. You called me to make sure my door was locked? You are

something else, Hobbes. You're really over the top, you know that? Calling

people at...Jesus! Four-thirty in the morning? What's wrong with you?"

Bobby was used to that. But it hurt nonetheless. I'm sorry, he wanted the

scream out. I can't help it! I wish I could! I wish I knew what was wrong

with me.

Instead, he dropped the phone. He brought up a shaky hand and rubbed his eyes

tiredly, and he stood and moved to his dresser.

Under the sweatpants stashed in the third drawer was a box. Inside that box

was a locked case. He moved fingers deftly over the lock, moving the

combination numbers into place. It snapped open, and he almost shuddered as

he lifted out an unmarked pill bottle.

Tomorrow he would be a mess. He would be tired, weak, aching from this stupid

medicine. Somewhere in the city, Vivian would be griping to her husband about

having to baby-sit her nervous wreck of an ex. And when he saw Darien, the

younger man would laugh about his four-thirty phone call, making Paranoid

Bobby jokes and guessing it was time to up the dose of Lithium.

But Bobby would smile through it all. He'd fire back a few insults at his

partner, make up some reason for his call. He wouldn't talk to Vivian. She

was out of his 'range of control' now.

He forced himself to swallow two small pills, and he carefully replaced the

bottle, locked the box, and hid it back in its usual spot.

Allowing himself to double-check the bolt on his bedroom door, he managed to

keep from going back out the check the front door again. Even half-certain

that his fiddling around a few minutes ago probably shut the alarm off, he

wouldn't let himself go check.

Instead he lay back down, stared up at the ceiling, and resigned himself to

his troubled, unstoppable thoughts until the pills could work their magic and

knock him into relieving oblivion.

The End

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