Fishing boat -- San Francisco Bay

MONDAY
1920 PST

The fog slowly rolls in across the bay, wreathing the sky, the island, and the bridge in shades of deep blue and dark gray. The boat -- small but sturdy -- slices across the whitecaps, chugging through the choppy waves. Every few hundred yards, the boat hits a particularly tall wave and comes down with a splash of seaspray and salt.

Hanging over the railing, Liz snaps off another shot of the lonely island, hood pulled up over her head but hands left bare against the cold to handle the camera. She adjusts the lens, waits with an eye on the wind -- then clicks the shutter just as a seagull comes into frame, gliding on the stiff breeze with wings outstretched. Liz wipes the damp camera viewscreen with her jacket sleeve (black, thrown on over a black long-sleeved shirt and a stab vest that says BPRD over the left breast and SHERMAN over the right) and peers at the photograph preview. In the tiny screen, the seagull hovers, frozen, over the deserted buildings perched precariously on the rocks of Alcatraz; the shore looms in the distance, dark and shapeless in the fog.

Liz nods to herself, quiet and satisfied, and she flicks a few drops of water from the lens before screwing on the cap. Camera clutched in one hand, she maneuvers back across the slippery, rolling deck, heavy boots clomping through puddles.

---

Squeezed around a tiny card table in the equally tiny wheelhouse, Agents Leach, Mendoza, and Park are playing poker; the boat's captain -- a balding man of little words -- stands at the wheel, paying them no mind.

"Who's winning?" Liz asks, shoving her hood back and shaking her hair out; she leaves her winter hat on.

"Leach," grumbles Park, tossing his hand of cards down in disgust and leaning back in the folding chair, folding his arms. "It's always Leach." Across the table, Mendoza is staring at his cards on the table, dismayed, hands clasped behind his head in disbelief.

Leach only grins toothily, starting to haul in the pile of coins, crumpled $1 and $5 bills, and scraps of paper.

Liz crouches beside her camera bag in the corner, and starts carefully dismantling her camera, slipping each part into its proper padded place. Matter-of-fact and over her shoulder: "That's because he cheats, Greg. We all know that." Heavily implied: Besides the new kid.

Mendoza stares at the table of cards, bewildered; Park and Leach both look at Liz quickly, then at each other. Mendoza catches the end of the conspiratorial, caught-out expressions, and he shoots both of the male senior agents a betrayed look. "Hey," he says, "man, are you guys playing me?!"

"We're coming up on the island," Liz says, standing up with her gun belt in hand. "Save the testosterone, guys."

"Way to be a buzzkill, Sherman," says Greg Park, rolling his eyes cheerfully; he rises from the table and folds up his chair, leaning it against the wheelhouse wall. He's a big man, tall with deep laugh lines around his eyes and mouth. All three men are in dark suits with short hair, wearing guns and earpieces and locator beacons on their belts.

Liz is fairly sure that -- despite the incongruity of her uniform and her appearance with the other three agents -- the fishing boat captain thinks that the four of them are FBI or CIA, or maybe Secret Service.

"You say buzzkill, I say the only one prepared when we hit land," Liz retorts easily, settling her belt low on her hips and checking the safety and magazine of her Beretta before replacing it in its holster.

Park makes a good-natured derisive noise; Liz rolls her eyes at him and Leach grins. As Park and Leach gather equipment -- Leach, a little on the weedy side, keeps having to push his glasses back up his nose as he scoops up a black shoulder bag and a matte black briefcase -- Mendoza sidles up to Liz. His build is somewhere between that of Park and Leach, and he is the youngest of the four agents -- an ordinary-looking man in his early twenties with sharp features and wide eyes.

"Thanks," he says quietly, with a quick glance at Park and Leach to make sure they're not listening, and then he looks Liz right in the eyes for the first time since the Yucatan.

"They like to mess with the new guys," Liz says, brisk but not unkind, as she adjusts her earpiece. "It's nothing personal."

Mendoza sighs. "How long am I gonna be the new guy?"

Liz cracks a tiny smile. "Make it through another mission without getting bitten by something, then we'll talk."

For a moment, Mendoza looks like he isn't quite sure how to take that; then he laughs, just a little, and nods ruefully. He bends down and picks up a duffel bag of equipment.

Liz turns away. "Are the infra-red and the EMF meters ready?"

"You got it," Park says, and Leach hefts his briefcase in silent answer.

"Great," Liz mutters, and she pulls a flashlight off her belt and flicks the light on and off, testing. Through the wheelhouse window, the rocks of the island loom large.

Alcatraz Island -- San Francisco Bay

MONDAY
2313 PST

"What the hell was that?!" Mendoza hollers, gun in a two-handed, white-knuckled grip with his elbows locked and his aim constantly swiveling.

"Watch it!" Liz has her Beretta in one hand and she uses the other to reach over and shove the barrel of Mendoza's gun down.

"Infra-red's off the scale!" barks Park, eyes glued to the large machine in his hands. "So's the EMF!"

Leach is on his knees, hunched over with one hand clutching at his skull. "We're not alone," he says, hoarse; "there's something coming--"

Just beyond the dim ring of light provided by the infra-red monitor screen, something -- several somethings -- moves around the four of them. In the distance, a voice is sobbing, echoing off the walls.

"Lights!" Liz snaps, loud and all too harsh. "Jesus, does anybody have a working flashlight--"

Leach screams again, doubling over and grabbing his head.

Liz's free hand clenches into a furious fist, her face white, and brown eyes flash blue. She has been here before.

---

1940 PST

"It doesn't look that spooky," Mendoza said, stepping onto the cell block.

"Aren't there supposed to be lights?" asked Leach, a little sour, flicking on his flashlight from behind. "They do shove tourists around here during the day, right?"

" 'During the day's the key phrase, Leachy." Agent Park was balancing the EMF detector in one hand and rapidly tapping the touch screen with the other. "Why spend money to light it up after hours? The only people out here are teenagers trying to scare the crap out of each other."

The four agents walked slowly down the block, row upon row of dark cells echoing their footsteps back. Mendoza flashed a beam into several of the cells as they passed; each was old, rusty, water-stained, and empty in the flickering light.

"And whatever's been making those teenagers disappear," Liz pointed out, dry; she held her gun in one hand and her flashlight in the other. "Are you getting anything, Leach?"

"Psychically? It's totally dead," Leach said.

Beat.

"You know -- figuratively." He adjusted his glasses. "I'm getting nothing."

"That's good, right?" Mendoza asked, directing his flashlight beam upward. A row of cells lined the block on either side above them, with catwalks connecting.

"It's early," Park corrected, and he slapped a motion detector on an exposed pipe as he passed.

---

2100 PST

Thud, thunk thunk thunk. Thud, thunk thunk thunk. Thud, thunk thunk thunk. Thud--

Park caught the yellow super ball mid-bounce, and shot Leach an irritated look; Leach shrugged at him, unperturbed, sitting on the concrete floor with his legs extended in front of him.

Mendoza sighed sharply, standing with his arms folded and his shoulder against a cell door. "Still nothing?"

"Still nothing," Liz confirmed, sitting Indian style and monitoring stationary sensors with a very small computer resting in her lap.

"Not everybody gets their blood sucked by the chupacabra their first time out," added Park; Leach chuckled and Liz grinned hard.

"You guys are jerks," Mendoza muttered.

---

2311 PST

"It's a pipe," said Mendoza wearily. "There's nothing else to spy." All four agents sat on the ground, within the light provided by a portable battery-powered lantern.

"Are you complaining? 'Cause I can start making stuff up that isn't actually here," Park said, helpful. "I spy something neon yellow with strobe li--"

Leach sat bolt upright. The speed and violence of the movement had Liz and Park both immediately, instinctively reaching for their sidearms. "Do you hear that?" Leach said, head snapping from side to side.

"No--"

"Someone's crying. Something's -- angry; wrong."

In the distance, a slam, like that of a cell door closing with too much force; Park rose, drawing his gun and balancing the EMF detector in his other arm. "I've got nothing on electromagnetic frequencies."

"Motion detectors and temperature gauges are clean," Liz said, voice tight as she looked from the laptop to the agent. "Leach, what've you got?"

More slams began reverberating through the empty cell block, louder and louder, growing closer and closer, the speed steamrolling.

Liz set the computer down, hard, and rolled to her feet; she shoved her lit flashlight under her arm and yanked her Beretta out of its holster, flicking off the safety and checking the magazine in one quick move. "Agent Leach!"

"Butcher," Leach said, shaky, over the sound of the rapidly-nearing closing doors, and he wobbled to his feet with help from a late grab for his elbow by Mendoza. "It says it's called Butcher--" He howled.

The last SLAM! was enormous, enough to shake the four agents where they stand. With it, the laptop screen, the line of motion sensors and temperature gauges attached to the cell doors and the walls, and the battery-powered light all blew out, all at once, with pops, crackles, and a shower of sparks.

The flashlight fell from Liz's arm as she instinctively reached out to steady herself; it cracked when it hit the floor, the light sputtering out.

---

2314 PST

"Lights!" Liz snaps, loud and all too harsh. "Jesus, does anybody have a working flashlight--"

Leach screams again, doubling over and grabbing his head.

Liz's free hand clenches into a furious fist, her face white, and brown eyes flash blue. She rips out her earpiece, turns on the Beretta's safety, tosses the gun aside, and ignites her hands -- with the familiar dull whump of flames -- before the sidearm even hits the ground. Blue-white fire spirals up her torso, wreathing the cell block in sudden, eerie light and setting her flammable jacket ablaze.



All of the cell doors are closed, when they were once open; nothing is visible but Leach cowering on the ground, Mendoza and Park standing by with weapons drawn, and the array of blown electronics. Nothing can be seen, but -- Leach is still on the ground; but despite the towering column of flame and the tremendous amount of heat, the temperature has suddenly dropped far enough that the agents' breath is visible, and it is growing colder by the second.

"Get Leach up," Liz says, her voice taut and echoing through the wall of flame. "Stay as close to me as you can without getting burned."



Park has known her the longest; he knows -- even as Mendoza is hauling Leach to his feet once again -- to shoot a swift look at her. "Is that a good idea?"

"If you've got anything better, now's the goddamn time!" Liz snaps, ragged with the effort of holding the fire close as the last remnants of her jacket fall away in ashes. Here is where the months of training with a Firebender come in to play; here is where she has to maintain pinpoint control, hold the line, or risk killing three good men.

She has been here before. She won't go there again. No mile-wide explosion, this time; no dead agents burned to cinders. Not again.

The fire is mine, she tells herself; it is part of me--

She reaches up and pulls the cross that she always wears out from under her shirt; one good yank snaps the chain and leaves it dangling from her outstretched hand. "Sancte Míchael Archángele, defénde nos in proélio contra nequítiam et insídias diáboli esto præsídium." Her eyes are shut and her hands have clenched into fists; she is blazing. "Park, holy water, now!"

The disembodied sobbing intensifies, growing louder, not-so-distant now; the temperature is dropping to the point that even Liz can feel the cold right down to her bones, right through the raging supernatural heat that she stands at the center of. The air vibrates around her; her chest thrums with contained power; her skin has the look of back-lit tissue paper, her bones showing through as dark shapes.

Not again. Not again, not again, not again!

"The fire," she breathes, shaking from head to toe, "is mine. It's mine to control; I will control it-- Imperet illi Deus, súpplices deprecámur: tuque, princeps--"

Liz's eyes are shut tightly, but her fire does something new: it flickers red-orange-gold.