"I can see why you called this 'time consuming,'" Bruenner remarked as they hit a level patch a few hours later. "Want me to drive for a bit?"

"No offense, but you don't know this road," Lance replied. "It's a tricky bugger."

She harrumphed at his British-ism. "Hear anything back on that APB?"

"Just a bunch of false leads, mostly," he replied brusquely. "Chief has other units checking them out right now."

Bruenner nodded and turned to watch the shady forest crawl by. "Sure is pretty out here."

Lance grunted noncommittally as he down-shifted before the Jeep began descending into a small valley.

"Be a good place to go camping."

"Yeah, probably," he answered, trying to keep his mind on the road.

The Jeep trundled down the steep incline and splashed its way across a small creek before starting up the next rise. It was close to an hour later before he started seeing signs of habitation. A rusted-out '44 Ford sat amongst some trees not far from the trail. Mattress springs and other odds and ends could be seen lying in the undergrowth as well.

"Do you smell something?" Bruenner asked suddenly.

The scent of burning wood and what he knew to be corn mash was faint and growing stronger as the Jeep climbed again. "Yeah, we're getting close. Mooney's trailer is just up this rise."

"He knows you're coming, right?"

Lance grunted. "Not likely. Too far to run a phone line and there isn't a cell phone tower for miles. Perfect place for a still."

"Wait a second," she protested. "Still? People do that around here? That's illegal."

"Yeah, but Mooney's harmless," he replied. "As long as he's not selling the stuff, I tend to look the other way."

"But—"

"Look, Mooney and I go back aways," Lance grumbled. "So, just drop it."

A few minutes later, he spotted a single-wide trailer set in the far end of a meadow. Sure enough, there was a pretty decent-sized still percolating to it's tinny heart's content. Lance rubbed the back of his neck.

"Best let me to the talking," he said, killing the engine and climbing out. Bruenner followed suit.

Instead of going up to the door and knocking, Lance stood by the side of the Jeep, thankful for the chance to stretch his legs. Bruenner joined him.

"So, what are you waiting for?" she whispered.

"Mooney's a bit touchy about trespassers," he replied simply. "Give him a minute and he'll come out on his own."

Sure enough, a few moments later, the front door of the trailer swung open and out stepped a man of a bygone era. He was grizzled and weathered with a full head of shocking white hair and a matching, if albeit scruffy, beard. One cheek bulged from a wad of tobacco. He was dressed in a plaid hunting jacket that was probably one wash away from falling apart altogether, a white undershirt whose myriad of stains vaguely resembled a Rorschach ink-blot test, and jeans that had probably been purchased sometime during Vietnam. Cradled in his arms was a sawed-off shotgun meant to be more intimidating than anything.

"Charger? That you?" the old man called out.

"Charger?" Bruenner repeated softly.

"It's an old nickname," Lance lied. "Mooney was the coach of my high school football team, and I used to charge into the opposing offense like some kind of crazed bull."

"Why not call you 'Bull,' then?"

"I like 'Charger' better," he answered. "It kinda stuck with me after I joined the force and still charged into situations before I had any backup."

The truth was Zeb Wainwright had once been his partner in Chicago, when Lance had gone by the name Frank Charger. They had both worked with Ness's team of Untouchables. Lance had once taken a bullet for his partner, a debt of honor the old man never forgot. Wainwright also never forgot that Lance wasn't always what he seemed. After Ness left Chicago, former Untouchables and their cohorts began turning up dead, victims of mob hits in retaliation. Some of Wainwright's family had come from Appalachia and Lance had helped him escape back to the hills. When Lance returned to Bremerston five years ago, one of his first stops was to look in on his old partner.

"It's about time you came back up here to check up on me," the old moonshiner chided, walking over to shake hands. "Same as ever, huh, Charger?"

Lance cleared his throat pointedly before introducing Bruenner.

"New girlfriend?" Mooney asked with a laugh. "About time you had one of those."

"Actually, we're here on business," Lance replied. "We'd like to talk to your grandson. Is Devin around?"

Mooney's eyes narrowed at the word "business." He crossed his arms stubbornly. "You know Devin's a good kid. If he's mixed up with something, I've got a right to know about it."

"When was the last time you saw him?" Lance asked, before Bruenner could open her mouth.

"Morning before last," Mooney replied. "Said he needed to borrow the truck."

"Did he happen to say what for?" Lance asked. Bruenner glared at him, but kept silent.

"Naw," Mooney answered, spitting out a dark stream of tobacco. "What's all this about anyway?"

"Sorry, but I can't say anything about an ongoing investigation," Lance answered. "Did Devin say why he needed the truck?"

"Said his car was in the shop again," the old man replied, and promptly spit. "Told him never to buy anything from any foreign fellers. Can't trust 'em."

Lance sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Did he say when he'd be back?"

"Said he needed the truck for a few days at least," Mooney answered. "You sure you can't tell me what all this is about?"

"A little girl was kidnapped," Bruenner replied, sharply.

"And you think Dev was involved?" Mooney was aghast. "No way in hell."

"We just need to talk to him," Lance replied, trying not to glare at Bruenner. "Maybe he saw something, but we need to find her fast. She's been gone almost thirty-six hours now. So, if you know anything..."

"Dunno how much it'll help you," the old man replied after a long moment of chewing and spitting. "But there's been something strange about that old logging camp down the ways a bit. You know the place I'm talking about?"

Lance nodded. The road that led them up to Mooney's place went on for another two miles before ending in a logging camp that hadn't been used since before the TVA. It was mostly a collection of old machinery and shacks.

"Least once a week, I see folk drive through here in those whatchacallums. What's the Army using now instead of Jeeps?"

"Hummers," Lance supplied.

"Yeah, them things. Anyways, like I was saying, about once a week I see one of those drive by, then a few hours later drive back out again." Mooney paused to spit. "Got me thinking, 'why's someone driving a big ole thing like that up this way?' Now, I won't say that your little girl's involved in all that, but it makes a body wonder just the same."

Lance nodded. "We'll look into it." He turned to get back into the Jeep.

"Oh, and, Charger," Mooney added. "Don't let it be another dog's age before you come up here for a visit."

Lance nodded again, and waved before climbing back into the black 4x4. Bruenner climbed in shortly after, steam practically curling out of her ears.

"Just what the hell was that?" she snapped. "Football? Bullshit! If the old man ever coached a game, it was probably back in the Sixties, round about the time you were born."

Lance whirled to face her, glaring menacingly. "I said drop it," he growled.

Bruenner refused to be intimidated and instead petulantly crossed her arms and pointedly stared out the window. Lance twisted the key in the ignition, nearly breaking it in the process. Still angry, he jammed the Jeep into gear and turned down the road.

He ground his teeth as the Jeep bounced over a rock. "I wish you'd just trust me."

"Maybe if you'd quit lying to me, I would!"

Lance took a deep breath. He knew she was right, but he couldn't bring himself to tell her that he was damn near as old as Christ, had fought Celts and Huns, had once been a Knight of the Round Table, fought in the Crusades,  the Hundred Years War, been a Captain in the Royal Navy, and worked alongside Ness, among other notables. Somehow he doubted she'd believe any of that. Instead of answering, he concentrated on trying not to roll the Jeep down the ravine.

The charged silence between them lasted for at least another half-hour before Bruenner finally spoke again. "What's for lunch?"

"Sandwiches," he replied tersely. "Better than fast food."

"Looks like there's a place to pull over just ahead," she offered. "We could eat by the creek."

He could hear the apology in her voice, but said nothing. The Jeep bounced and swayed a few more times before he pulled off the trail. Without a word, he got out of the 4x4 and grabbed the sack. Bruenner climbed out as well and followed him down to the creek. Granite boulders made for plentiful, if not painfully hard, sitting, as the water swirled and burbled its way downstream. The creek was probably twelve feet across and maybe two feet deep in places. The surrounding trees, lush with their new spring leaves, provided ample shade. It truly was an idyllic setting for an impromptu picnic. Lance dug in the bag and handed Brunner her sandwich.

"What was all that about anyway?" she asked, after taking a bite.

Lance sighed. It looked like it was time to either fish or cut bait about telling her about her own possible Immortality. He washed down a mouthful of his own sandwich with a drink from a bottle of water.

"How much do you know about your family?" He knew that answering a question with a question wasn't very well done of him, but it was necessary.

"Nothing," Bruenner replied bluntly.

"But I thought you said something about your parents getting killed."

"My adopted parents."

She said the word with such disdain that he guessed her family life wasn't all that happy.

"How did you find out?"

"I've always known. The Bruenners all had light brown or blonde hair and green or blue eyes. I noticed early on that I didn't look like them, but I never mentioned it. Neither did they, until Tanya brought it up at their funeral."

"Tanya?"

"My older sister."

"Right, the one you said was in college."

"Yeah, anyway. John and Trudy were on their way back from Lubbock. Trudy and I had gone there looking for Prom dresses. We'd found one the weekend before that I loved, but it was too expensive. They were going to buy it for me for my birthday as a surprise. It was John's day off from the fire department and he decided to go with Trudy. They were on their way back when an eighteen wheeler blew a tire."

Bruenner's voice trailed off as her dark eyes flickered with memories. She suddenly looked so alone and vulnerable that Lance had a difficult time reconciling the fact that she was a pain the ass FBI agent.

"What happened?"

"AJ showed up to my classroom. He and John had been friends since elementary school. I knew something was wrong just by looking at him. Turns out the shrapnel from the tire hit the windshield, John lost control of the car and it flipped off the side of the road. Both he and Trudy were killed almost instantly."

Lance swallowed hard. "That had to have been hard."

"Losing them? Yeah, there were the only family I'd known, but the real sucker-punch had been Tanya." Bruenner paused to take a drink from her own water bottle. "She blames me for their deaths."

He looked at her sharply. "How? You didn't cause that tire to explode."

"Maybe not, but she claims if I hadn't made such a fuss about that dammed dress, they'd still be alive."

Unfortunately, he could follow Tanya's logic, for all the good it did him. Before he could say anything, Bruenner continued.

"She told me about my adoption at their funeral. In front of everyone I'd ever called family," she added. "Said that everything was just peachy before I came along, but apparently John and Trudy had some financial hardships and heard that if they signed up as foster parents, they could get some government grants. Basically, Tanya told me that all I'd been to them was a paycheck, and it had cost them their lives. She left for Texas A&M the next day and we haven't spoken since."

"And Uncle AJ?"

"I'd known him since I was old enough to walk. He was like a second father to me. Unfortunately, after Tanya's dramatics at the funeral, every last member of John's or Trudy's family didn't want to have anything to do with me. So, he took me in."

The way she said it, it sounded like she was some unwanted pet or something. Lance could tell there was some deeply-rooted resentment that would probably take awhile to get through. He absently stared at the sunlight sparking on the flowing creek as he thought about his own past.

"Look, Arturo," she said seriously a few moments later, after both their sandwiches, and most of the water was gone. "Believe me, I want to trust you, but I can't. Not if you keep lying to me."

He tucked the bits and pieces of trash back into the bag before answering. "What I'm lying about has nothing to do with this case. It's something about myself I've kept private for a long, long time, and only the people I can trust, know what that secret is."

Bruenner looked at him for a long moment. "Wainwright knows."

Lance sighed and leaned his head back against a stone. "Yeah. He does."

"But you don't trust me."

"Bruenner, we've known each other how long?" he argued. "Mooney and I are old friends."

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her, but he just couldn't find the right words. How do you tell someone you were around for the fall of Rome? He sighed again.

The crunching of tires on the dirt trail caught his attention. Someone was driving towards the old logging camp. "Quick! Behind those rocks!"

They had just ducked behind some of the larger boulders when a brand-new black Hummer came rumbling down the trail. It matched the vehicle Mooney had described, and Lance had to admit he was just as curious as his old partner as to what a H2 was doing that far out in the woods. Cautiously, he slid his hand under his jacket and unholstered his Colt.

"The Jeep," Bruenner mouthed, nodding in the direction Lance's own black 4x4.

He gnashed his teeth, hoping either it wouldn't be seen, or the driver would assume they'd gone off for a hike. He breathed a sigh of relief when the enormous SUV continued down the trail without stopping. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Bruenner tucked her own firearm into the back of her jeans. He hadn't even noticed she was wearing it. They waited a few more minutes before climbing back over the boulders.

"You think that was the Hummer Mooney was talking about?" she asked.

"Probably," he nodded.

"What now?" Bruenner asked. "Call for backup?"

"Can't."

"Why not?"

"No cell phone or radio towers for miles. We're out of range."

"What if Mooney's wrong? What if they do have Sarah? If we go back now for help, we'll never know where they've gone."

Lance nodded. "But if Mooney's right and they don't have Sarah, we could be in for much more than we bargained for."

"I can handle myself."

Before he could argue, Bruenner was heading back to the Jeep. Lance followed suit, stifling a grumble.

"We need to get down there as soon as possible," she said sharply, buckling her seat belt. "How much farther is it to that logging camp?"

"Another mile or so," he replied, starting the engine.

"Let's go."

If Bruenner really was a pre-Immortal, she needed to know. Especially when it looked like they were headed into something that could get ugly. But one look at the way she impatiently drummed her long fingers on her knee, he knew she wasn't thinking about anything else but Sarah. He didn't even know if she believed his story to begin with. Instead of arguing, he focused his attention on the difficult terrain and trying to find the quickest, and safest, part of the trail. It took the better part of an hour before they reached the camp.

It really wasn't much to look at. There were three shacks in varying degrees of decay. A fourth had fallen down some time in the past twenty years. None had been used since before the TVA, and all were clustered around the end of the trail. Hulking, rusted-out pieces of heavy equipment were scattered throughout the camp. And, right in the middle of everything, was the Hummer, looking incredibly out of place with its show-room shine.

Lance killed the engine and let the Jeep roll down the slight incline towards the camp. He spotted a place in the shade, behind what appeared to be some kind of steam-powered hauler. They could easily see the other buildings in the camp without being seen themselves.

"Do you smell something?" Bruenner whispered.

Lance sniffed. "Ammonia. Lots of it."

Bruenner nodded. "Meth. What do you want to bet they're cooking? Hummer's probably the dealer."

Lance agreed. "Trust Mooney to know something was off about this place."

"I'm going to go look for Sarah."

"Bruenner, wait!" he hissed, but it was too late.

Lance watched tensely as she crouch-jogged to another rusted-out piece of equipment. Once she was in position, he quickly sprinted over to her.

"Just what the hell do you think you're doing?" he hissed. "We don't know Sarah's here. If things start going sour, she could get hurt if she is. Hell, you could get hurt!"

"I can take care of myself," Bruenner shot back, barely keeping her voice above a whisper.

Before he could argue, she was off again. This time she reached the side of one of the closer shacks. Lance growled under his breath. When all this was said and done, he'd have her over his knee, and not in a good way. There was no telling how many people were in those shacks, what kind of supplies they had, or even if Sarah was there to begin with. Bruenner caught his eye and shook her head. Either no one was in the shack, or Sarah wasn't there. He wasn't sure which. She had just reached midpoint between the shack and the old tractor when a shadow in one of the other doorways caught his eye. He had no time to warn her before shots rang out.

Time slowed to a turtle's crawl as he watched helpless. Neither had thought to bring vests, a decision he silently kicked himself for. He had only thought they'd drive up to Mooney's, talk for a bit and drive back. He hadn't expected to run into a full-blown meth operation. He watched as a bullet slammed into Bruenner's back. She instinctively arched just as a massive red stain erupted just between her breasts. Slowly, her feet went out from under her and she fell hands-first to the ground. Her face wasn't far behind. Lance knew she was probably dead before she hit the ground. Feeling the tiny pre-Immie tingle at the back of his neck suddenly vanish, Lance began to shoot back.

One bullet went wide, shattering what was left of a window. Bark shattered on a nearby tree as the shooter returned fire. He instinctively squeezed off another round. The bullet ricocheted with a sharp "twang." He heard a "whoosh" followed by several shouts. He must've hit something in the lab. Lance fired another couple of rounds. One hit the gunman. The second hit something else in the lab. The shouts grew louder as flames lit up the interior of the far-side shack. He had to get Bruenner out of there before the whole place blew itself into orbit.

Luckily, the other meth cookers were too busy with the mess in the lab to notice him. He gently rolled Bruenner over onto her back. Her face was deathly pale and smudged with dirt and grime. The massive blood stain on the front of her shirt marked the spot where she'd bled out. The bullet had probably nicked her heart. That, at least, was a saving grace: he wouldn't have to perform minor surgery. He grunted and groaned as he picked Bruenner up and cradled her against his chest.

It took some doing, but Lance managed to open the passenger door to the Jeep and maneuvered Bruenner into the seat. He fastened her seatbelt, hopefully holding her in place. He tugged her jacket closed, trying to disguise the massive stain across her chest. He had just about to get in on his side when the lab exploded with a boom that set off the Hummer's security system. Lance drew his weapon again, and fired. The tires hissed as air leaked from bullet holes. Even if anyone survived the blast, they weren't going to get very far without the SUV.

He jammed the key into the ignition, twisted, and the Jeep's engine roared to life. He then raced back down the abandoned logging trail as fast as he could. The big, thick tires of the Jeep absorbing most of the impacts from roots and rocks, but he couldn't afford to blow one of those now.

He was just about to turn onto the highway in the direction of his house when a very faint tingle zinged up the back of his neck. Lance jammed the Jeep into first and killed the engine. Without a second thought, he ripped open the front of Bruenner's once-blue shirt. Despite the obvious, copious, amount of blood, he could see tiny blue sparks of lightning criss-crossing her chest.

He couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief. He hadn't been entirely certain she was pre-Immortal. Now would come the inevitable questions about Immortality, but first, he had to get her home.

It took him three tries to get the Jeep started again, before he remembered to engage the clutch. He was still in a daze when he pulled up the driveway nearly two hours later. Rather than carry her through the front door, in full view of the neighborhood, he got out and opened the back gate wide enough to drive the 4x4 through and up to the back deck. Bruenner was still not breathing by the time he managed to carry her into the bathroom. As he waited for the tub to fill with water, he gently eased her out of her ruined clothes. That was a task easier said than done. It was one thing to have a willing participant, and something else entirely for said participant to be, for all intents and purposes, deceased.

Lance tried to keep his mind on the strictly clinical. The entry wound to her back was gone. The exit wound to her chest was another story. Though she'd stopped bleeding, the bullet had left a hole about the size of his fist right between her breasts. Blue sparks continued to shimmer over her skin, healing as they went. He stared, fascinated. He'd never seen another Immortal's powers of healing like this before. He was so enthralled, that he only remembered the bath just in time to keep it from spilling over.

He gently, carefully, eased Natalie into the warm water. His intent had been to wash the blood and death-muck off, but his male brain, now making its presence very well known in the general vicinity of his belt buckle, said otherwise. Though the jeans she'd been wearing hadn't left much to the imagination, they'd still managed to hide creamy soft skin and firmly packed muscle. She was no gym slouch. The front of his jeans throbbed as he gently ran a washcloth over her trim waist and flat stomach. He cradled her dark-haired head against his arm as he continued to wash off the remaining blood. The exit wound was nearly closed now, but there was no telling how long it would take for her body to heal. It could take hours or even days to replace all the blood she'd lost.

"Mmmm."

Her soft moan startled him. He hastily dropped the washcloth and reached for the pulse point in her neck. The beat he found there was faint and thready. Lance knew it was just a matter of time before she came round. He quickly pulled the plug on the tub and eased his arm under her very shapely knees. Trying to keep a strangle-hold on his libido, he carried her into the spare bedroom and tucked her between the sheets of the queen-sized guest bed. Lance dug through his dresser and quickly found a t-shirt that looked to fit her and a pair of flannel pajama pants. Though he preferred to sleep in the altogether during the warmer months, there were some nights during the winter that flannel was a necessity. He added his finds to the foot of the guest bed before retreating to the bathroom for a very much needed shower. Naturally, he made sure it was a cold one.

Once he was showered and changed into another shirt and jeans, he took care of disposing of Natalie's own ruined clothes. He made sure to empty the pockets of her jeans and jacket. There was only the tiniest of holes where the bullet had gone through the back of the jacket. He set it aside thinking maybe she'd want to keep it. He knew of a good leatherworker in town who might be able to patch it up. Then again, he wouldn't blame her if she never wanted to be reminded of that again. The rest of her clothes would go into the oil drum in the back to be burned later. He'd let her have the honors, if she wanted.

In her wallet was the normal four or five credit cards, driver's license, gun permit, sixty dollars cash, with another hundred dollar bill folded into a tiny square and hidden behind her license. There were also pictures of family and friends. Her parents and sister all had light brown, nearly blonde hair and what looked to be blue or green eyes. Bruenner's lanky build, dark hair and eyes stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb. He set the wallet aside and neatly arranged the rest of her things on the table: watch, gun with spare clip, hotel card key, the keys to her Eclipse.

Lance scrubbed at his face with his hands before running them over his hair. Natalie's first death had come as a surprise. He hadn't yet made any kind of decision as to whether or not to tell her, and now there was no way he could help it. She had to know the full truth, and it looked like he'd be the one to tell her.

Hours ticked by. The sun set. The moon rose. Lance knew that sleep was not an option. Even if he did manage to get comfortable, he found his mind often wandered back to memories of his own first death. He shook his head, remembering that fateful day and that extraordinary flame-haired Icini queen who had led hundreds of thousands against his Legion. He had watched in awe as her chariot thundered across the field. Without a moment's hesitation, she ploughed her horses straight into the first line of defense, but the Legion had been prepared for the onslaught. They had chosen a tract of land that would keep the Icini forces from overwhelming them. Though they had superior numbers, the Icini were slaughtered by a force with better weapons and more training.

It was a sour victory indeed. He absently rubbed the left side of his chest where there should have been a scar from an Icini blade. He still remembered the all-consuming pain as his heart was pierced by the sword. He remembered looking up into the face of his opponent just before his eyes dimmed. It had been that Queen!

"Boudica," he whispered before death claimed him.

Women Immortals were not unheard of, but many passed into old age simply because they weren't as violent as men. She was one of the exceptions, and had certainly lived up to the adage that hell had no fury like a woman scorned. He hadn't seen her in over thirty years, and had just made the decision to travel to Orkney when Johnson had been murdered. Lance stared thoughtfully into the fire. Perhaps she would be a better teacher for Natalie. She knew what it meant to survive the ages. She understood that Immortality was a tricky beast for women, much more so than for men. He just wondered what kind of student would Natalie be?

Lance tried not to watch the clock as the hours ticked by slowly. Sometime around midnight, he finally caved in to his stomach's demand for food. He didn't remember which microwave dinner he ate, or what it tasted like. His mind was more focused on trying to answer the inevitable questions. Just after the grandfather clock in the foyer struck three a.m., he decided to take a foray into the upstairs attic. Some of the boxes and miscellaneous junk belonged to the previous owners, and some crates and other things were his. It took only a few minutes before he found the box of old photo albums. He didn't need the pictures to remind him of those times, but he thought Natalie might be interested. And it would help prove that he was telling the truth. Ten minutes later, he was sitting in front of the fireplace, thumbing through the old photographs.

The first picture in the oldest album was an old tintype of him dressed in the uniform of a Union cavalry officer. Lance didn't want to say he remembered his days with Sherman fondly, but they had been a necessity. The rebel Confederates were loathe to admit defeat, and the Burning of Atlanta had been a necessary evil. A few pages later reminded him of his days in Arizona during the heyday of the Wild West. Beside him were two other men: the town doctor and the then newly-appointed Mayor. He stood between the other two and sported a five-pointed Marshall's badge. He flipped through the album, vaguely wishing he had pictures of himself throughout the first part of his life.

The other three albums chronicled his life throughout the Twentieth Century. He remembered a time on the Western Front and that Christmas night in the forest when, in the quiet, a lone German began singing Stille Nacht. Soon, voice after voice joined in, some in German, others in English. Lance flipped the page with a lump in his throat. Another picture showed him a few years later. This time he was dressed in a top coat, fedora, snappy suit and holding a Thompson sub-machine gun. There were other men beside him dressed from the same era, including Mooney and Ness. Though Ness had tapped him to be one of his Untouchables, Lance realized it would give him a notoriety that might become a liability, and had respectfully declined the honor, preferring to work out of the spotlight. Another picture showed him shaking hands with Patton during his time in Italy. There were other pictures: him and Ethan the last time they'd crossed paths, his home in Tuscany, and various friends he'd made along the way.

Setting aside the last album, Lance realized he'd stayed up all night. The first gray light of day was just creeping into the sky and Natalie was still out. The grandfather clock chimed a quarter to six as he quietly let himself into her room. He gently sat on the edge of the bed and felt for the pulse in her wrist. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found it steady and strong. Natalie stirred in her sleep.

"Huh...?" she murmured finally. "Where...? How...?"

Lance flipped on the bedside lamp, flooding the room with a cheery incandescent glow. Natalie groaned as she squeezed her eyes shut against the sudden glare.

"How do you feel?" he asked gently.

"Like shit," she replied frankly. "I don't remember drinking last night, but damn, do I ever have one helluva hangover."

"What do you remember about yesterday?"

Natalie thought for a moment. "The last thing I remember is being out in the woods looking for Sarah."

Lance nodded and watched her eyes as she remembered more details about that afternoon. A few minutes later, she peeked underneath the covers, looking for any evidence of her wound.

"Where are my clothes?" Natalie accused.

"The kitchen," he replied. "They're in a garbage bag. You're welcome to burn them yourself."

"Why?"

"They're ruined."

"So yesterday wasn't some god-awful dream?"

Lance shook his head. Natalie stared at him in disbelief.

"I really... died?"

This time Lance nodded.

"I don't believe it," she whispered softly.

"Believe me, I know that feeling."

Natalie pretended not to have heard him. "What time is it?"

"Nearly six," Lance replied. "I'll go make breakfast and then drop you off at your hotel. I'll meet you at the station after you've had a chance to change."

He handed her the t-shirt and flannel pants before moving to leave the room.

"Do you have any aspirin?" she asked before he could leave. "My head's buzzing like a bad speaker."

He smiled wryly. "Not that it'll help, but yeah. I'll go make some coffee."

A few moments later, clad in the proffered clothing, Natalie wandered into the kitchen. She was still a bit pale, but seemed to be steady on her feet. Lance poured her a cup of freshly-brewed coffee before starting on a breakfast of bacon and eggs.

"How long was I ...?"

Lance glanced at his watch. It had been probably around two the afternoon before when she was shot. Given that it was just after six, that meant she'd been down for a little over sixteen hours. Natalie stared at him over the brim of her mug.

"You don't seem surprised by it."

"I wanted to tell you that something like this could happen, I just didn't know how, or when to tell you."

"Something like what?" Natalie asked, absently rubbing her forehead.

Lance pulled out a chair for her at the kitchen table, where all of her belongings were laid out. "It's commonly referred to as a First Death."

"A what?"

He sighed heavily. "Natalie, when I first saw you, I knew you weren't like other people."

Natalie opened her mouth to correct him, but quickly closed it again by taking a sip of coffee. A shy blush colored her still-pale cheeks.

He couldn't help but chuckle at her misunderstanding. "I didn't mean like that. You've been trying to figure out what my big secret is since you got here, right?"

"I don't suppose you're going to tell me," she replied, setting her mug down on the table.

"Actually, I am," he answered, which earned him a raised eyebrow. "Just like me, from now on, you are going to have one helluva time staying dead."

Natalie sat back against the back of the chair. "That's it? That's the big Arturo mystery?"

"That's part of it," he answered. "But the rest will have to wait until later."

"Why?" she asked, almost petulantly.

"We still have to find Sarah," he reminded her sternly.

"How do I know that you're not lying?" Natalie countered. "How do I know yesterday wasn't some fucked up dream?"

Lance nodded to the black garbage bag sitting next to her chair. "Best to see that on an empty stomach."

Natalie fixed him with an even glare. "I've seen bloody clothes, Aurturo. It isn't something new."

"It's different when it's your own," he answered softly.

She harrumphed and opened the bag. He saw her wince at the smell of dried blood and death, but she reached into the bag anyway. Natalie haltingly pulled out the long-sleeve t-shirt she'd worn the day before. The back was marred only by a hole and a small amount of blood, but it was the front of the shirt that sustained the most damage. Lance watched realization dawn on her as her face turned slightly green. Natalie hastily tucked the shirt back into the bag and dropped the bag to the floor, trying to keep her stomach under control.

"I... really... died..." she whispered softly, trying to comprehend what happened.

Lance reached across the table and gently squeezed her hand. Natalie seemed to welcome the contact, for all of two seconds before jerking her hand away.

"What the hell happened out there?" she blazed. "And just who the hell are you?"

He sighed and took a sip of his own coffee before answering. "It isn't who so much as what."

Natalie crossed her arms. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm an Immortal," he answered, standing up to add bacon to the now-hot skillet. "I can get shot, stabbed, among other things, and heal like nothing ever happened."

She glared at him. "How can you eat at a time like this?"

"I'm hungry," he said simply.

"I died out there, and all you can think about is your stomach?" she railed.

"Do you want it to be different?"

"Yeah, actually, I do," she snapped. "So sue me if I want a parade, complete with brass band, floats, balloons, the works. I fucking died and by some quirk of fate, I'm alive."

Which reminded Lance of just how furious he was with her. Were he truly honest, he'd have to say that he was livid.

"Natalie Ann Bruenner, just what the hell were you thinking out there?" he bellowed, storming over to her. He slammed his hand down on top of the table, his other on the arm of the chair so Natalie was effectively trapped as he towered over her. She blinked up at him in surprise.. "One, you didn't know how many people were in those shacks. There could've been ten or even twenty for all you knew! Two, Mooney expressly said that he didn't think that they had anything to do with Sarah. Three, you didn't have a vest. Four, if you weren't Immortal, we wouldn't be having this conversation right now because you'd be lying dead in a morgue!"

She glared up at him from her chair. "Did you know what I was? Tell me! Did you know?"

"Not entirely, no," he answered, backing off a little.  "Immortality is triggered by a very sudden, very violent death. For me, like many others, it was on the battlefield."

"So, let me get this straight. You knew I was going to be Immortal, and you didn't bother telling me?"

"I didn't know anything for certain, Natalie. I only suspected."

"Still, you didn't think to tell me?"

"How was I supposed to tell you?" he argued, still leaning over her. "You would have thought I was out of my mind if I said something like, 'Hey, be careful. Don't get yourself shot or you'll end up living for two thousand years'!"

Natalie's jaw nearly dropped open in shock. "Two thousand years?"

"Yeah, as far as I know, I was born in Tuscany probably a couple decades after the Crucifixion."

"What do you mean, as far as you know?"

"I'm adopted, the same as you," he answered. "My foster father owned and ran an olive grove. I was the youngest of five, and taken in by a kind-hearted woman."

She rubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand. "I don't believe this."

As an answer, Lance yanked off his gray, long-sleeved t-shirt and pointed to four very faded, but still legible letters on his left arm, just below the shoulder: S P Q R. Again, Natalie stared at him, both in disbelief and something else that he didn't want to acknowledge at the moment.

"That proof enough for you?" he growled, pulling his shirt back on. "Between that and your clothes, I don't think you have much of an argument."

"Your real name isn't Lance Arturo, is it?" she asked softly. As an apology, it was sadly lacking, but at this point he would take what he could get.

"No," he replied, turning back to the bacon on the stove. "It's Titus Quintus Farris."

"And Mooney?"

"What about him?"

"He knows all this?"

"Not everything, no," Lance answered. "He saw me get shot by a Tommy and get up a few minutes later like nothing happened."

"A Tommy?"

"Thompson sub-machine gun," he replied. ".45 caliber, nasty bugger."

"I didn't think they still made those."

Lance shook his head in amusement as he flipped the slices of bacon over. "That was back in the Thirties. We were working with Eliot Ness at the time."

Natalie choked on her coffee. "The Eliot Ness? You mean like in that movie?"

"Except Costner doesn't look a thing like him," he smirked. "Not enough grit either."

She was quiet for a few moments, almost too quiet. He turned to see her staring at her effects still scattered across the table.

"What happens now?" she asked after a moment.

Natalie still hadn't looked at him since he'd practically thrown death in her face. He couldn't exactly blame her for that. It was a harsh reality and one it would take time for her to become accustomed to.

"As callus as it sounds, life goes on," he replied gently. "The upshot is, the only people who know you died are sitting in this room."

"You call that an upside?" she shot back.

"Try having to explain dying in front of a roomful of people and suddenly 'poof' you're alive," he answered. "That's a tricky mess."

"That's happened?"

"In theory," he replied. "But what I mean is that aside from you and me, no one else knows what happened today."

"What about the shooter?"

"Dead. There were two or three others, but after the lab blew up, I don't think they paid much attention to anything else."

"So, we just go on pretending yesterday didn't happen."

"For the most part, yes," Lance replied, sliding a couple of pieces of toast into the toaster. "We stick to the case. We find the guy who has Sarah and prosecute him to the full extent of the law."

"Business as usual," she griped.

"Pretty much," he sighed. "After breakfast, I'll take you back over to the hotel. You can take a shower, get changed and get over to the station. I'll come back here, do the same, and meet you there. That way you can still get there early enough to make me look bad."

"But I –" she protested hotly. "I went over there early because I couldn't sleep! This whole thing with Sarah as eaten up two years of my life. My fiancee broke up with me over it! I didn't want to believe I was back at square one, all over again."

Now, it was Lance's turn to stare. "Fiancee?"

"Yeah, fiancee," Natalie snarked. "Surprised to think anyone would want to spend the rest of their life with me?"

"No, that's not it," he replied, moving the bacon to a paper-towel-covered plate. "You just seem too... independent for the husband and white picket fence life."

"I guess that's part of why he broke it off," she said thoughtfully. "He was some forensic accountant, and he thought his life was too boring for me. But he was a good guy. One of the last few. I guess he realized he wanted kids after all, and I can't have any."

Lance busied himself with scrambling a few eggs before pouring them into another skillet. "No Immortal can."

"What do you mean?" she asked confused. "If... we can't have kids, then where do we come from?"

"Hell if I know," he answered honestly. "No one knows where we come from, only that we're found as infants or young children. How did you find out?"

Natalie tried to hide an embarrassed blush behind her coffee mug. "Mom, er, Trudy took me to the doctor when I was fifteen and hadn't had a period yet. They ran all kinds of tests, took x-rays, the whole shebang. Come to find out, I was missing some very important plumbing. After seeing what some of the girls on my cheerleading squad in high school went through, I was actually glad to be left out of that loop."

Lance only shook his head as he stirred the eggs.

"What about you?" she asked. "Ever been married?"

"The odd time or two," he answered noncommittally.

"In two thousand years?" There was no hiding the surprise in her voice. "Don't tell me you've never been in love."

He sighed. "Yeah, but it was a long time ago."

"What happened?" Natalie asked softly. "Is she...?"

"No," he answered, quietly. "It just took a very long time to realize she didn't feel the same way about me."

It had taken Ethan's nearly insistent teasing that finally convinced him to let her go. One of these days, he really needed to thank his former student for getting his head out of his arse. Shaking his head, he filled two plates with eggs, bacon and a piece of toast each before carrying them to the table.

"Look, Natalie, there's a lot you need to know about Immortality," Lance said after a few minutes.

"Like what?" she asked, nibbling on the bacon.

"For starters, there's what's called The Game."

"What's that?"

"Immortals have been challenging each other to single combat since long before I showed up," he replied.

"Why? Just to prove who's better?"

"No, it's a duel to the death."

Natalie raised an eyebrow. "But I thought Immortals were immortal."

"For the most part, yes," he answered. "But just like with any other animal, we don't do well without our heads."

She stared at him, her fork halfway to her mouth. "So, in order to die, someone has to take off our heads?"

Lance nodded, taking a sip of coffee.

"I bet not too many stuck around for the French Revolution."

He chuckled. "You're right. I was a county magistrate near Yorkshire then."

Natalie swallowed her mouthful, and nearly choked. "Have you always been in law enforcement?"

"No, not always," he replied with a wry smirk. "But I have been going by the motto 'to serve and protect' for most of my life."

"Don't tell me," she replied with a smirk of her own. "You were a knight in shining armor."

Lance nodded. "I was once a Templar. Fought in four of the Crusades, and in the Hundred Years War."

She stared at him over the brim of her coffee mug. "No shit."

They fell silent as they each finished breakfast. Natalie kept opening her mouth to say something, but quickly closed it again, deciding not to speak. It wasn't until he began cleaning up that she finally managed to come up with something intelligent.

"What happens now?" Lance looked at her quizzically. "I mean to me. Will I live for two thousand years? Will I ever get married? Obviously, I can't stay Natalie Bruenner forever."

"No one knows for sure, Natalie," he answered, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. "The best thing to do right now is go on with trying to find Sarah."

She nodded silently and then looked up at him as though seeing him for the first time. "You've started calling me Natalie."

He raised an eyebrow. "I thought after everything, calling you Bruenner was a bit formal."

She actually smiled as she stood up from the table. "Yeah, well, I guess it's alright. Just so long as you don't start calling me Christmas."

Lance chuckled. "Oh, you mean Natale?"

"Yeah, that." He could tell from the soft tone in her voice that she didn't mind it, much, as long as he was the only one calling her that. "By the way, where's my jacket and boots?"

"I wasn't sure if you wanted to keep them," he answered honestly, pulling another black sack out from under the table.

Natalie opened it and pulled out the leather jacket she'd worn the day before. It was a bit grimy and there was a hole in the back from the bullet, but he was fairly certain it could be cleaned and patched, good as new. Her boots were probably the least damaged of everything. She surprised him by loosening the laces and shoving her bare feet in them and then pulling on her jacket over the t-shirt he'd lent her. He couldn't help frowning a bit.

"You're taking this awfully well," he remarked.

"Well, if life goes on, it goes on," she shrugged. "But if I let myself think about it for more than two seconds, I'll probably fall apart."

Lance nodded and squeezed her shoulder in a gesture of comfort. "C'mon, let's get you over to the hotel. You'll feel better once you're in your own space."