The lyrics of 3 Doors Down drifted from the radio on the night stand as he stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. The face that looked back at him was pale, gaunt. Circles hung beneath his eyes like horned moons. He'd lost weight in the past few months. One of the drawbacks of being too much on the Web.

     Water dripped sporadically from his damp, bleached hair to his bare shoulders. The hair hung over his eyes. His nude body glistened as he stood completely still. He was different - changed somehow.

     Awakened...

     Memory of the morning of his Awakening returned unbidden, unwelcome. The Agents were at the door again, at the house in O'ahu. Maouri was in the kitchen, and he stood rooted to the floor, the phone in his hand. He knew they were coming, and still he had sent her upstairs to the bedroom while he went to the basement.

     He should have gone up with her. He could have grabbed her and taken her with him - disappeared before the Agents could take her.

Wish that I could move,
but I'm exhausted and nobody understands (how I feel)

     He watched himself in the memory, a spectator wishing he could change the outcome of his favorite movie, harboring a hope that one day - someday - the ending would change. That the hero would get the girl, and they could live happily together. That the World of Darkness would not take him, and bury him deep inside.

I'm trying hard to breath now
But there's no air in my lungs.

     His gaze traveled slowly down to the center of his chest. The bullet scar marred his skin to the left of his heart. The bullet had penetrated his sternum, missed his heart and lungs, but shattered bone. He'd been lucky. The pain of the impact returned again and again, and the agony of her death had become a constant echo as it stained his soul and took the only thing from him the ability to ever be happy again. She died over and over again in his mind as he fell backwards into the arms of the man that would take him in and care for him even as he wavered on the edge of surrender.

There's no one here to talk too
and the pain inside is making me numb

     Four months he languished in the hospital. The will to live left with his wife. Trent told him night after night that he had to go on. He had to survive. If for no other reason, to avenge Maouri's death. And it was in that instant when he looked deep inside his Mentor's eyes that he saw the man's pain. Trent had wanted to bring them both home. Maouri had been his friend. He'd planned on taking them together. And he'd failed - Trent Cole would carry that burden for the rest of his life.

I try to hold this
Under control
You can't help me
Cause no one knows....

     He pulled himself back to the now, blinking the tears away quickly, sending the memories retreating back to that small place he kept in his mind. A treasure box full of instances of chance and fate. Decisions made badly.

     Shivering, Mac turned and pulled a white towel from the wall rack. He dried his body and pulled on the complimentary robe the VA at the desk had given to him in the bag. He gave his reflection a smile, the white of the robe giving his skin some color.

     Some.

     When he shoved his hands into the robe's pockets, something scraped against his right hand. He pulled out another envelope. A chuckle escaped his full lips. What was it with these people? Anyone heard of email?

     Inside the envelope was another 4 x 6 card with instructions to order a drink with a red umbrella at the bar. A red umbrella? What the hell?

     This was getting weirder by the minute.

     The song on the radio changed from 3 Doors Down to the Dave Mathews Band, a cut from the newly released "Matrix: Reloaded". Mac saw as many movies as possible, and created his Rote and Code to music - his passion. Most of the day he had a piece of a song repeating in his head. He figured if someone ever tried reading his mind, they'd get the song stuck in their head too, and stay well enough away from his brain.

     Too bad I can't program my mind to send out the All In The Family theme, complete with Edith Bunker singing. That'd teach 'em to be nosing around in there.

     Replacing the note in the robe's pocket, Mac got busy making himself presentable. He tamed his hair down a bit, using the complimentary hair products on the counter. In about half an hour, he had a decent looking style. Not quite so...twitchy.

     He pulled a pair of jeans and a tee from his travel bag and immediately wished he'd pulled them out before his nap. The fabrics were wrinkled and crimped. He'd never been a snappy dresser, prefering to dress down to not be noticed. But he wasn't sure who he was meeting or if they were important or not.

     I should have bought a suit or something. Surely the stores were open twenty-four seven in this town.

     On a whim, he strolled to the two door closet and opened it up.

     "Holy shit..."

     Inside were seven outfits. Two dressy, two casual, two tuxedoes, and one pair of pressed jeans and white, long sleeve shirt, crisply pressed. A quick check confirmed they were all his size.

     He looked the pieces over and chose a nice black, pin-stripe jacket and black slacks with a black shirt. Black on black. Well let's look the part of a techno-geek, why don't we?

     The clothes were a perfect fit, as if tailored to the contours of his body in the bathroom mirror. He turned to the left, then the right and gave himself a smile that did not reach his eyes.

     At least I don't have that headache anymore.

     The clock on the nightstand read 9:10. Just enough time to get down to the lounge and get to the bar. Mac gathered his Treo 300, his small stash of smart cards, his pen light, Raybands, Oakleys and his wallet.

     Once outfitted with his gear, he slipped the laptop into its slimline black case and hoisted it over his shoulder. After sliding the Raybands on, Mac grabbed his key and left the room.

     The Tropics Lounge was sparsely populated. No one sat at the bar and only a few of the slot machines to the right were occupied. Maybe it was suppose to be dead on a Tuesday night?

     He checked his PowerPuff watch. 9:24. Music he recognized as Mary J. Blige was piped through the soundsystem, and he realized it was being filtered from a different bar or lounge. Definately a place more alive than this one.

     The smell of tobacco was prevelant, as well as the aroma of food, spicey and tangy. His stomach growled and he wondered if he could at least snack on something before whoever-it-was-he-was-suppose-meet arrived.

     Mac took the center stool, setting his laptop on the counter. A young man with ponytail, Tropics Lounge tee-shirt fitted tightly across his chest, and wide smile stepped up to him and smiled. "Hello gorgeous. What'll it be?"

     He returned the bartender's smile. "This is going to sound funny, but something with a red umbrella in it."

     To his amazement, the man nodded. "Com'n right up."

     Mac removed his shades and rubbed his chin. This was just too creepy. And being led around and manipulated like a puppet was beginning to wear on his nerves. Without the numbing effects of the headache from earlier, he could think more clearly. With thinking clearly came the ability to panic clearly as well.

     The bartender brought a tall bell shaped glass filled with a yellow liquid and a red umbrella. He must have noticed Mac's bewildered expression and said, "Don't ask what's in it. Just drink it."

     Mac moved to retrieve his wallet, but the young man put a hand on his wrist. "It's on the house."

     He eyed the drink when the bartender moved to attend two patrons who'd just stepped up to the bar on Mac's left. Well, might as well try it.

     On his first sip, the beverage was tangy, smooth, and fruity. Almost as an afterthought, the flavor became metallic, bitter. Frowning, Mac took another sip, then a larger one, downing the sub-zero icey drink quickly. The metallic taste remained and with it came pain. It crept into the spot between his eyes and he thought, brainfreeze. Something he'd always managed to get as a kid eating icecream too fast. As he pressed his fingers to the bone between his eyebrows, Mac looked to his left at the new patrons.

     A man and a woman, both dressed in casual military fatigues, seated themselves on stools.

     He was tall and blond, the perfect idea of the American soldier. She was smaller, dark haired and attractive. Both were perfect specimens of the human condition.

     Perfect.

     In every way.

     With a start Mac turned his gaze back to his drink. Alarms vibrated from every muscle in his body. He looked back at the soldier again. Mac did not know him; not his face nor his profile, yet the sight given to him the morning of his Awakening wrapped the stranger's physical form in an aura of light Mac had come to recognize as the signature of a pattern. Only rarely could he see such things without his Rotes, and only when the being's make up was...wrong.

     He put his Raybands back on and pulled his Treo from his pocket. The 'detection' Rote was still active and the readout came bright and clear on his shades.

     >TECHNOCRAT

     Damn.

     It's my father. I knew it. I knew it.

     But even as he gave birth to these thoughts, another set of data came through.

     >UNKOWN COMPOSITION. ALIEN IN ORIGIN.

     Alien? Wha-?

     Mac turned and looked directly at the soldier. Something swirling in a miasma of yellow and blue rested at the man's hip. Perhaps a phone? A calculator? He looked over his shades but couldn't see anything other than a phone clipped to the soldier's belt.

     A weapon?

     Mac pulled the shades off and looked back at his drink. His heart thundered inside his chest. Alien. He didn't think that had anything to do with his father. Not alien technology. Was there such a thing? Damn I'm still too new at this crap.

     "You okay?" the bartender came up and leaned forward. "The drink not agreeing with you?"

     Licking his full, parched lips, Mac smiled. "No, no. It's fine. I'm fine."

     The young man nodded and then carried the mystery couple their drinks...

     ...with red umbrellas.

     Okay, sweet mary mother of...

     The female left the room, perhaps on her way to the restroom.

     They were alone.

     He's bound to notice me now. And he'll know what I am.

     As if on cue, Mac turned to look at the soldier just as the soldier turned to look at Mac.

     The reflections in their shades locked, the soldier's eyes widening for an instant behind his lenses. Mac was sure those shades were giving the 'crout some sort of readout - data - something.

     In unison, they looked away. Mac drank half of his drink. His head spun momentarily. Okay...get drunk stupid. How will that help you?

     Mac glanced at the soldier who was looking at everything but him.

     Is it me, or does he seem as uncomfortable as I am? If I didn't know any better, I'd think he was wanting to avoid me as much as I want to avoid him.

     Long minutes passed like hours as the two sat on opposite sides of the bar. People came in and out and soon the tables were half filled. The two continued looking at each other fleetingly, each avoiding the other's direct eye-contact.

     Okay, this definately doesn't feel like my father. This guy is obviously Technocrat, like his partner, but he's definately not here for me.

     Depeche Mode's "Only When I Loose Myself" began to play over the speakers. The soldier's partner returned and he whispered into her ear. Mac felt her glance at him. He kept his gaze on his drink, then on a nervous whim, downed the rest of it.

     The soldier stood and the two left the lounge.

     Mac let out a long sigh and leaned forward, resting his forehead on the bar's surface with an audible thud. What the hell was that all about? Surely that's not who I was suppose to meet?

     Or maybe...

     Maybe I'm suppose to know they're here - that the Technocracy was alive and well in Las Vegas.

     His Treo vibrated in his hand.

     Mac's heart leapt into his throat as he jumped in surprise. "Shit..." he checked the ID and flipped it open. "Trent...you're not going to believe..."

     "Mac, were you just near any Technocracy?"

     Mac swallowed. "How did you know?"

     "Well, I just received a missive that you would be in the vicinity of two very key Technocrats - and that you should follow them. The message had a Sphinx attached."

     What? "Follow them? Are you insane? One of them has some alien thing on his hip." Mac kept his tone serious, but his hoarse whispering made it sound like he was having a fit of hysterics.

     Which given his abrupt situation wasn't that far from the truth.

     "Alien technology? Did you get a reading on it?"

     "Yeah, hold on." He pulled the Treo away and transmitted the data to Trent's computer.

     Several seconds later Trent said, "Damn. Void Engineer."

     Mac's legs turned to water and his stomach soured. He rubbed his forehead again as the bartender came over. He signaled for another one of the drinks...whatever it was. "You have got to be kidding me. What is one of those doing here?"

     "In Vegas? Just like everybody else. He's on vacation. Who knows? I just know you need to get after them. And keep me posted."

     "Trent I..."

     But the connection was broken. Mac stared at his phone, then stuck his tongue out at it.

     He stood, gathered his laptop over his shoulder and started to signal the bartender to forget the drink; but the man already had it ready in a styrofoam to-go cup. Again he tried to pay for it, and again the bartender refused payment.

     Weird.

     Mac grabbed his drink, sipped some from the straw and with a smile, realized the guy'd given him Hawaiian Punch this time. Now that's my kind of bartender.

     The Tropicana lobby was packed and Mac nearly lost site of the couple. He moved around people and dodged drunks. The couple headed outside and Mac reached them in time to see them enter a taxi. He memorized the number and turned quickly to a nearby bench.

     He pulled out his laptop, fingered a quick hack using his phone's GPS, and found the cab's route and intended destination.

     The 57 Club.

     Mac shrugged as he closed the ibook and reshouldered it. Maybe Trent was right and the 'crout was on vacation.

     It could happen.

     Mac stepped to the curb and a taxi pulled up immediately. Stepping inside, he said, "The 57 club." The cabbie nodded and pulled from the curb and into the miasma of Las Vegas lights.

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