The man's large and rough hands bound Aimee's wrists behind her back. An agent, with his forceful grip, was walking her towards a steel door. A vertical glass panel above the door's handle let Aimee see into the next room; there was even less light in there than in the dim lit passage they were in – their walkway lit only by the miniscule, far-spread lights embossed in the ceiling.

There was a second agent in their company. She had choppy black hair and a slight humanness in her eye, which saved her Aimee's spurn. Maybe not all of GINM's agents had been let in on Buckley's plan, and those who had been left in the dark were just following orders because it was all they knew. Aimee could only imagine how long they must have been followers to have lost their sense of better judgement.

The woman opened the door and Aimee ogled her wordlessly. Because of that shred of guilt, that humanness, she felt Aimee's piteous gaze, and she did not have the stomach to look back at her. The agent entered the space first and her friend nudged Aimee forward. Left and right, the walls of this new passage were lined with narrow gates, cages, with bars liquid black. On each gate was a slate with a surname, and they were walking past the As. Alcott...Atkins... it was a long way to Whitaker. There were so many gates and rooms and not knowing what they were for was terrifying. The interiors looked like labs or surgeries, taciturn and uncomfortable, each with a single recliner surrounded by various apparatuses. The rooms were empty, but they had not always been; many of the formerly white recliners were tainted with splatters of blood. There were three gates marked with the name Whitaker; two of them were directly across from each other: Whitaker A. and Whitaker AI. – Aimee Isobel. The female agent locked Aimee in her cell, and she and her comrade left her there, but she was not entirely alone.

 Earlier...

Buckley. He looked so crisp and untouchable, dressed in his tailored suit and seafoam green tie, like he was the only member of GINM that Gavin and Stefan would not shoot.

"What are you doing?" hissed Stefan.

Honestly, he was not surprised that Buckley was there, his unsympathetic persona a reminder that he was truly capable of saying and doing anything he wanted to. Of course, he had not been fighting alongside his agents, his unflawed appearance proved it, but he was sure to be there for the clean-up.

"You needn't worry," he told him. "Everyone is going to GINM; we have to evacuate before the building collapses."

Gavin and Stefan shared glances, almost uncertain whether or not to trust him, even though it was clear that they had to leave.

"Valerie told me something about this earlier," Gavin remembered, whispering into Stefan's ear regretfully, as if he did not want to admit that Buckley was capable of honesty.

However, even with Gavin's word, Stefan could not look at his father with certitude.

Buckley sighed, "Stefan, you know, it really wasn't necessary to kill all those men," and he stepped off in the direction of the next room.

Stefan grinded his teeth in anger, looked to the floor, and lowered his weapon to his thigh, but he did not feel reproach. "They attacked us, so yeah, I tried to stop them," he seethed. "But you knew that because they were following your orders."

"They were. And now I'm ordering you gits to remove yourselves from this building!" he spat, having turned back to look them in the eyes.

That had to be the first time Gavin was a victim of his wrath.

"And before you start back chatting, remember that I'm your boss."

"Well, you're supposed to be my dad!" Stefan didn't mean to yell; his words had transcended him.

He could only wonder how Buckley missed it, the most natural blessings this life had given him: a wife and a son. He'd treated them like nothing more than hollow machines that had to follow him around and match his self-proclaimed marvelousness. And when they strayed from the path he had set for them, he disowned them – he had instigated the divorce, and he blatantly decided that Gavin was more deserving of his attention than Stefan was. Stefan remembered his mother once asking Buckley how, in his pursuit for the perfect family, he could lose the only people who ever gave a damn about him.

A strive for perfection, power, omnipotence, these were the similarities between Abba and Buckley. They were enemies and they hated each other, yet they were so alike.

Stefan uttered, holding back the pained expression he refused to bare, "You had everything with me and Mom, but I guess everything wasn't enough for you. I quit. You don't control me."

Gavin looked at him, as if asking whether he was sure about his choice, but he was proud of him, too. It felt like a new, free beginning for Stefan. So, he smiled.

They marched past Buckley, who was stationary and uncharacteristically wordless.

"Promise me you're serious about resigning."

"As serious as the Earth is round," Stefan laughed lightly.

Halfway down the first flight of stairs – the first of many more – he glanced back at Buckley, who's constantly careless face suddenly held something. Stefan had to be strong; he could not break again, not for him. Gavin reminded him that they had to move fast. He followed after Gavin, checking back periodically at his father, until he was low enough that the stairs blocked his view. He still had not moved. Why was he just standing there?

"Was I unreasonable?" queried Stefan, dashing down another flight.

"No," Gavin replied flatly, some steps ahead of him. "And you know you weren't, so I'm not even gonna try to convince you."

They moved as quickly as they could, counting the levels they were passing in their descent, but Gavin was growing weaker. Stefan flung his arm over his shoulder, carried his weight. They just had to make it to the ground, they were close now.

In moments, they came bursting out the front doors of AIM. They joined up with the other late escapists, and the few agents that had been stationed outside from the beginning.

"Anyone heard from Buckley?" asked Stefan, more frantically than expected.

Two petrified agents shook their heads. He ogled Gavin, who knew what he was thinking.

"You can't go back," he uttered, it was not up for debate.

Stefan understood that. With Gavin still leaning on him, Stefan faced the building, hopelessly watching it burn. He was furious for too many reasons, overwhelmed, as his tears coated his eyes.

"What do you think that coward did?" he said in a nearly inaudible mutter. "You think he just let himself die in there?"

Gavin exhaled, "That's not the kind of man he was."

"He's an idiot," he sniffed and wiped his tears clumsily like a child would. He knew he was still in there, otherwise, if he had made it out, where the heck was he?

Every level above the fifteenth floor, smothered in flame, fell to one side, disjointed. AIM was on the brink of the seaboard, its disassembled parts crumbled onto the sand and into the saltwater, then floated like offcuts of paper before sinking. Scorched pieces of that elaborate furniture bobbed above the water, but those eventually sank, too. Everyone watched the edifice crash and recede into the depths of the sea. It was over now, but they were far less happy than they had thought they would be. Was this how victory felt? They thought of the lives that had been lost, on both sides, wondering if they had really saved anyone.

Soon, the agents returned to their helicopters, when they had mourned for those who'd passed on. Stefan was on his way to his chopper, seemingly over his loss and determined to get Gavin aid, when they saw Kimiko's chopper. It was bigger than the others and chrome in colour – the chopper of the First in the Ranks. She was sitting on the step in the doorway, clutching to her left arm.

"Kimiko, are you alright?" Stefan called as he carried Gavin over to her. "Where are the others?"

She tilted to one side, giving them a view into the chopper.

"We're fine."

Dom and Valerie were sitting together on a couch that stretched around the back of the chopper in an uneven semi-circle. She was dabbing the bruises and blood on his face with a cloth and cold water from the bowl on her lap. She had already tended to her own wounds. Finn and Luna sat on the section of the couch that ran along the left side of the helicopter. She was holding an icepack to the back of her head, and he was talking to her, hoping to keep her mind off the pain. In the pilot's seat was Kimiko's brown-haired, brown-eyed mechanic, Erin. He was to Kimiko what Gavin was to Stefan: a best friend with worldliness in the art of airliner and car mechanics. He was also an RDA. He wasn't much good in the field, but his technical skills earned him the twenty-fourth spot in the Ranks.

"Where's Aimee?" Stefan looked at Kimiko expectantly.

"Two agents took her back to GINM with some AIM soldiers. I know, we tried to stop her, but she said she was okay."

"Yeah, because she always knows what she's doing," he said, his words sharp as knives.

His friends heard the chattered and realised that he and Gavin were there. They were so relieved, but Stefan struggled to enjoy their reunion as he was washed with fear. He headed hastily to his chopper, ignoring his friends as they called him. Gavin stayed, though he was conflicted; he could accompany Stefan or persuade him to come back. Alas, his body reminded him that what it needed was rest. Moreover, he recognised the look in Stefan's eyes, there was no stopping him or having his heed.

Gavin joined his friends in the chopper, their faces clean of joy. He was standing on his own, but Valerie and Dominick were pillars, waiting beside him, ready to catch him should he fall. Those automata had done a real number on him. They walked him to the couch, and Kimiko shut the door, signalling Erin into motion. Meanwhile, Stefan had already joined the homebound agents in the air.    

 Aimee sat cross-legged on the cold concrete, watching Abba's back as she sat against the gate.

"Turn around."

Abba was at her lowest point – the mere fact that there were tears in her eyes said it all. She had lost everything she had worked for, the last thing she wanted to do was face Aimee.

"Will you at least talk to me?" she questioned, holding tiredly to a bar and resting her forehead on that hand.

"They're going to take out your microchip," Abba croaked bluntly.

Aimee furrowed her eyebrows, "All those names; those are people with your microchips?"

Abba nodded lightly, "Were. At least now, when they take yours out, you will be rid of me forever."

Aimee stuttered through the awkward silence that ensued, "D-do you know what happened to them?"

"They were let go, I assume. They are no longer threats. They are nothing."

"How could you say that?"

"My chips gave them strength, longevity, the promise of a fulfilled life in which they could provide for their families and for themselves. We were never bad people. We were powerful."

"You were greedy," she stated simply. "Power wouldn't make their loved ones love them more. All they have to do is be there for them, to care about them and not take them for granted. You don't need to be immortal to do that."

"Well, in most cases, that's true."

"It's true in our case!"

"I know," she blurted, and turned around, ignoring all the reasons she did not want to be seen. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I should've listened to Benjamin, he tried talking me out of it the moment I thought of those damn microchips. I made a mistake, and I'm sorry."

Quiet crawled down the hallway, watching Aimee and Abba with sympathy.

"Yeah," Aimee whispered. "I'm sorry, too."