This story is the sequel to "Night Was Ordained," my first "Pretender" story. I never thought there would be a sequel-- shows you how much I know. Please read "NWO" before reading this, or this story won't make much sense.

It's rated PG, only because of a bit of language. The title is from the same Michael Drayton sonnet as the first story.

Thanks to Kelly and Karen for beta-reading and putting up with all my babbling. Please let me know what you think. Constructive criticism, praise, or extravagant gifts to kirbyfest@yahoo.com.

***

It was amazing how the Centre had the power to push one's recovery into overdrive. Any weakness was a liability; the fact that Miss Parker had survived a bomb blast was incidental to the fact that she wasn't on active duty. That implied weakness. Weakness was not permitted.

She knew that better than almost anyone.

Miss Parker was back in her office within two weeks. She could heal perfectly well while working. Sitting in a hospital bed just made her crazy, anyway. She refused drugs, other than the antibiotics she knew were necessary and non-prescription painkillers. At the Centre, one couldn't afford to have one's reflexes dulled. It led to problems. The constant pain from the injuries was safer than the numbness, however welcome the lack of feeling would be.

She religiously attended her physical therapy sessions, trying to get her old range of motion back without howling from the pain. Her arm was in a cast for longer than she liked, and the itching and inability to use it made her grit her teeth with frustration. She'd always taken her body for granted-- its flexibility, its ability to respond instantly to any command she gave it. Now, even a simple movement could paralyze her for long, gasping minutes.

The doctors couldn't find any cause for her pain in the dozens of tests they ran. The severe back and leg spasms that Miss Parker was experiencing seemed to have no physical basis. One of the doctors-- a new one to the Centre-- ventured that the pain might be psychosomatic.

If looks could kill, he'd have been instantly minced into a thousand pieces. He didn't open his mouth around Miss Parker for days.

The pain in her arm, at least, had a clear cause. Miss Parker chafed at the cast, and started more physical therapy as soon as it was removed. It was slow going, though-- so many of the exercises made her turn or lean in such a way that her back or leg would spasm.

Sometimes, she would have to stop entirely, breathing deeply, fighting not to burst into tears.

No tears.

Fortunately, there was little pressure at work. Her job, her mission, her raison d'etre was lying comatose in the infirmary sub-level, so she got put onto an expense review project that would have bored the most boring of accountants. Oddly, though, the absolute routine of the work was comforting, and it didn't require her to interact with many people.

She saw Sydney and Broots, and her father when she had to. Everyone else she avoided, or was so rude to that they avoided her.

Miss Parker settled into an odd routine of sorts, day after day, week after week. Therapy, work, and every evening before she went home she made the trip down to the infirmary to check on Jarod. There were never any positive changes. She learned the names of the staff, even treated them politely in order to get more information. Once they realized that she actually gave a damn about their patient, they kept her as updated as they were able.

There was little to tell, unfortunately.

***

Miss Parker woke with a start. Her room was dark and silent, lit only by the dim glow of her bedside clock which changed from 3:20 to 3:21 as she glanced at it.

What had awakened her? Everything was quiet. No cars or trucks or dogs disturbed the quiet of her neighborhood. Her leg and back hurt, as always, but no more severely than usual.

She stared at the ceiling a while, but it was useless-- even she couldn't will herself back to sleep tonight. Giving up, she fixed herself a cup of herbal tea (vile, but at least it didn't have caffeine) and settled on the couch with a magazine and two Tylenol.

"Are YOU ready for commitment?" blared one article in neon letters. Miss Parker repressed a snarl-- she wasn't in the mood; the only commitment she felt ready for was the institutional kind-- and threw the glossy publication aside, picking up a news magazine instead. Stupid politicians were preferable to asinine articles that assumed that just because she was female, she didn't have a brain.

The sun was just starting to tint the horizon when the phone rang, and she stared at it with her heart suddenly in her throat. It was never good news when the phone rang at this hour, and she answered it, sick with dread. She knew what this call must mean. In some part of her heart, she'd been waiting for it.

It was Sydney, his voice barely audible-- not from a concern for privacy, but from pain and grief. "He's gone."

Miss Parker held the phone for just a heartbeat longer, then pressed the "off " button and rested the receiver against her cheek, staring at the slowly lightening windows.

***

Black suit, black blouse, an extra layer of lipstick-- all provided her with the armor she needed to get through this day. When she strode into Sydney's office, she didn't waste time on small talk or sympathies.

"They're going to autopsy him."

Sydney nodded. She was too focused on her objective right now to care about the dark circles under his eyes, or about the fact that he'd obviously been crying recently.

"They'll dissect him. They'll chop Jarod..." her voice broke, just slightly, on his name, and she cleared her throat. "They'll chop him up and analyze his brain and strip away whatever small shred of dignity he has left."

Sydney rubbed his face with one hand. "Yes. All in the name of science, of course."

She held back the anger. "I won't let them."

"And what choice do you have, Miss Parker?" Sydney gestured around him. "They won't just give you his body." Now it was his voice catching, cracking on that last terrible word. He turned away from her, putting his face in his hands, and it was several minutes before he turned around and continued. "He's just another project to them-- one that went wrong, but finally came home for extermination." Sydney looked up, and if it was possible he looked even more desolate than he had before.

She leaned forward, resting her hands on his desk and staring him in the eyes, and her voice was back to its old hard timbre for the first time since the explosion. "I will not let this happen, Sydney." Her words were sharp and defined, and she held his gaze so that he had to understand her. "I will not let them do this to him."

Sydney shrugged, everything in him looking defeated and broken. "How can you stop it?"

"I can't stop it alone. But I can stop it with your help."

"Why..."

"Why should you help me?" Miss Parker laughed, but it wasn't a pleasant sound.

"That wasn't what I was going to ask," Sydney replied gently.

She ignored him. "You should help me because you're the one who killed him. It was your bomb, Sydney, and Jarod's dead because of you."

He sat unmoving, his face pale.

"I was injured, not lobotomized. I figured it out, and you know damn well they could too." She didn't have to explain who "they" were; both of them knew exactly who she meant-- and what retribution they would exact. "We will get Jarod out of this place." She glanced away from Sydney, taking a deep breath. "We'll do for him in death what we didn't do when he was alive," she murmured.

"How?"

"You got your brother away-- he died free, and you buried him where he couldn't be found." Her angry turn to face him brought the pain back, raging full force, but she pushed it down and away, focusing everything in her on what she had to do. "Jarod died because of your goddamn bomb. You will help me do this. You will help me get him out of here."

Sydney couldn't meet her eyes any more. "Or what?"

"Or I'll kill you." Miss Parker smiled, and it was as cold as her father's smile. "Or worse-- I'll tell them you're the one who planted the bomb, and I'll let them kill you."

Sydney's head lowered. "Of course I'll help you, Miss Parker." The sadness in his voice almost made her regret her cruelty. Almost. "I can't let him stay here, either."

***

She'd had a hand in designing part of the Centre's security system, so she knew how to bypass many of the critical areas. Angelo proved invaluable in handling the rest-- she didn't even tell him what they were planning, but when she returned to her office she found a crude diagram on her desk detailing how to deactivate the alarm and camera at the loading dock. It wasn't neat or pretty, but it would get the job done.

It also helped that there was minimal security around the morgue. Who would want to take a corpse, after all? Even for the Centre, that wasn't standard practice.

They figured they had at least 24 hours before the autopsy started. Sydney had made inquiries, and the doctor slated to perform the assignment wasn't flying in until the next morning.

They got Jarod out in less than 15 hours.

***

Sydney's cabin was out of the question. Once the Centre knew where something was, you could never go back; the cabin was probably the first place they would search. Fortunately, there were other places they could use to disappear.

It was a long drive, with constant over-the-shoulder checking, but it was without incident. They didn't even have to go through a border checkpoint when they entered Canada, which might have turned up later in the Centre search.

"Thank goodness for the longest undefended border in the world," Sydney muttered as they drove through the night, undetained.

It was very late at night (or very early in the morning) when they arrived at the house, deep in the Canadian woods. It belonged to the friend of an acquaintance of a friend; the distance was sufficient so that even the Centre would have trouble tracing them quickly.

It was too dark, too cold, too late to bury Jarod tonight. They would wait until morning, though neither of them expected to get much sleep.

***

The sunset was probably the most beautiful one she'd ever seen. Miss Parker wasn't normally one to notice sunsets. But this evening, as she sat on the porch resting her bare feet on the railing and pushed the swing gently back and forth, the sunset was so lovely that she didn't want it to end.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

She smiled up at Jarod, standing beside the swing. "Gorgeous."

He settled onto the opposite end of the swing and swung his long legs up on the porch railing, matching her pose. The fading sun bathed him in an orange-gold light, and his already tawny skin seemed to glow with color.

He didn't look at her when he finally spoke. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For getting me out of the Centre once and for all."

She was embarrassed. With everything she'd done to him, with everything he'd gone through-- hell, he was dead-- his thanks seemed out of place. They seemed ludicrous. "I knew..."

"You knew I couldn't end up there. You wouldn't let them have me. You were right. Thank you."

She glanced over at his shadowed profile, and her stomach twisted. There were a thousand things she should say to him-- wanted, desperately, to say to him-- but none of that seemed to matter right now.

"Nothing..." She paused, trying to keep her voice steady, hating the weakness that implied. "Nothing is the same without you, Jarod. Sydney misses you."

I miss you, Jarod.

He reached over and covered her hand with his, gently. "I know."

Slowly, she turned her hand to clasp his, wishing she knew how to tell him everything that was in her mind, in her heart. "What will he do without you?" she whispered, giving up any pretense of an even voice, any pretense of control. What will I do without you, Jarod? Why can't I just come out and say this to you, you who I have already lost? Why can't I tell you, even in a dream, just what you mean to me?

"You'll all go on. You'll find out what happened to your mother." His hand was so warm in hers; his thumb stroked the side of her hand, so gently. "And if you happen to find my mother in the process..."

"I'll tell her about you."

He smiled, his teeth flashing white. "Thank you."

The sun was almost gone now-- just a sliver showed above the tree-lined horizon. With an abrupt rush of panic, Miss Parker knew what would happen when the sun disappeared. Her breath caught. She wasn't ready. It wasn't fair. God, it wasn't right.

"Jarod..."

He squeezed her hand gently. "I know." In the dimming light she saw Jarod's smile fade, and realized there were tears running down his face. "Why don't we just enjoy the sunset?"

Wordlessly she slid over on the swing, next to him, her eyes not leaving the horizon. If she wished hard enough, maybe the sun would freeze right where it was and give them just a few more minutes together. Was that so much to ask, when it was all that they had left?

Jarod's arm went around her shoulders, warm and strong, and she fit perfectly against him with her head nestled on his chest. She could hear his heart beating, steady and low, like a bass drum against her ear. Miss Parker slipped her arms around him, tightly, and together they watched the sun disappear.

Just before it went dark, he bent and kissed the top of her head, his lips warm and gentle against her hair.

***

Her face was damp with tears when she woke. Miss Parker ignored them as best she could. There was a busy, tiring day ahead, and she didn't have any time to dwell on dreams.

It wasn't until she was fully dressed and brushing her hair that she realized the pain was gone. Nothing hurt her-- not her arm, not her back, not her leg. Nothing.

Slowly, carefully, she turned and stretched in a way that only two days ago had made her gasp in anguish and consider ripping out her spine. Her body moved obligingly, just like it was supposed to.

She stared at her face in the mirror for a long, long time, wondering.

***

They buried Jarod deep in the forest, covering the grave with fragrant pine boughs and marking the site only with their memories. They paused when they were done, both suddenly unsure about what they should do next.

"I feel like we should do something else," Miss Parker said, and there was a lost echo in her voice that brought Sydney out of his own pain, and reminded him that he was not the only one who mourned.

"We could say a prayer."

She smiled. "I've never been much for religion."

Sydney shrugged. "Then perhaps we can have just a moment of silence."

Miss Parker watched as Sydney folded his hands; unconsciously, she copied his pose, then turned and looked at the earth were Jarod's body now rested.

Peace, Jarod. May you find in death what you never found in life.

"Amen," said Sydney softly, almost as if he'd heard her thoughts.

End

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