As the Emperor's influence grows, the Tower is revealed.

***

Owen knows of the stereotypical firefighters vs. police officers rivalry that infects several houses in the FDNY. Personally, he would rather have officers of the law on his side instead of stabbing him in the back. It's why he always cooperates with police investigations, whether his firehouse responds to suspected arson scenes or medical scenes that involve the police. His expertise on arson draws the attention of various squads in the NYPD. He frequently assists Lieutenant Van Buren's squad at the 27th precinct if their cases require help getting a modus operandi. His chief goes as far as joking that his blood might as well run purple instead of red with how much he helps the police. He merely smiles and humors the chief with a witty comeback.

He whispers in the mind of the teenager his medics treat, her clothes torn and her skin bruised, and calms her panic. The burn from the tattoo on his wrist is now a comforting caress, and he watches with satisfaction as his medics are now able to deliver the best care possible. He watches them transfer the girl in the ambulance, and he directs his team to return to the 252.

When he leaves, he swears he smells ozone as he sits in the officer's seat, and the hairs on the back of his neck stand.

***

Every firehouse or police station often has their bar of choice. Owen prefers Forlini's above all else, for the camaraderie he feels radiating from the teams who sit around him. For a fire officer with inexplicable abilities such as telepathy, that kind of environment is a soothing balm at the end of his day.

Then his hackles rise and the scent of ozone seeps into his nostrils, and unbidden, he reaches for the knife that was part of every cutlery set handed out at Forlini's.

"Now, what makes you think that would be a good idea?"

The amusement grates on Owen's nerves, yet there's something about the voice that makes something in Owen say right. "Call it instinct," is all the man says as he turns to face his visitor.

Jeweled green eyes meet piercing blue, and Owen recognizes the man immediately. He works under Captain Donald Cragen for the Special Victims Unit, and Owen knows this man crusades like none other. His closure rate is one of the best in Manhattan, and he is not a man to anger.

Owen considers the detective without a hint of fear, and he extends his hand. "Lieutenant Owen Strand," he introduces himself.

The detective's grin is as sharp as a shark's as he shakes his hand. "Detective Elliot Stabler. Nice to meet you, Lieutenant."

"So," Owen leans back on his arm, fisting his hand to alleviate the sudden burning from the ink on his skin, and gestures for the bartender's attention. "Pick your poison."

Elliot merely laughs as he slides onto the stool next to Owen. "You know what, Lieutenant? Surprise me."

***

It's the beginning of a friendship that no one in their departments, even those fanatically deep into the red vs. blue rivalry, can ignore. Whenever the 252 responds to a medical call involving a victim requiring the inclusion of SVU, it's Detective Stabler who rolls up first to the scene. If a case involving arson requires a closer look, Captain Cragen learns to never call the FDNY because Lieutenant Strand always arrives to lend his keen eyes to the case. Strand and Stabler become so close on and off shift that soon it becomes StrandandStabler. Stabler's children learn to call Strand their uncle, and little Tyler Kennedy, nicknamed TK by his parents, gleefully refers to Stabler as a second father. Owen laughs at the dumbstruck look on his friend's face, and Elliot retaliates by calling TK Tyler. Neither protest their names from that night onward.

No one quite knows what bond tightly forged between Owen and Elliot. Even the men themselves never seem to have a solid answer.

Then Owen's team responds to a call in one of the brownstone neighborhoods. Owen supervises his medics when the young mother's ex barges in and waves a gun at them, his motions sluggish with inebriation. Owen doesn't hesitate to step into the path of the gun, his hands raised. The young woman shrieks behind him, her four-month-old daughter, already having difficulty breathing due to premature birth, suddenly finds the breath to wail at the top of her lungs, and the drunk man bellows that he will shoot everyone in the room unless his daughter comes with him.

Police arrive on the scene in record time. It's Elliot Stabler who climbs the stairs first, his blood pumping with adrenaline. His station had received the radio call for the hostage situation, and Captain Cragen had heard "252" before gesturing for Elliot to move. The detective had been out the door before Detective John Munch could grab his gun.

Now he lingers in the hallway, attempting to call to the drunk man, his fury crackling and demanding an outlet. Shoot, the voice in his head croons, and Elliot's finger tightens on the trigger of his gun. He's threatening your family.

No one has eyes as sharp as his. The man's patience has finally come to an end, and he aims for the youngest of the firefighters: a dark-haired woman who has just started her candidacy. Her dark eyes blow wide, and her pale face somehow loses even more color.

"Stop!" Owen roars, his voice unrecognizable.

And because Elliot is watching, he sees emerald eyes turn as red as blood. He vibrates with the sheer power infused into the words. He sees the man freeze in place, his eyes panicked as he realizes he can't move.

And Elliot takes the shot.

***

Owen answers question after question before removing himself from the crime scene. He has a terrified woman and her daughter to take to the hospital. He feels eyes on him from every direction, but he holds his head high as he climbs into the ambulance. The woman reaches for his hand, tears in her eyes as his medics take her precious child and give her the best care imaginable. "Thank you," the woman croaks.

Owen smiles and squeezes her hand in return. "You're welcome."

As his firehouse falls into the throes of sleep that evening, he lingers at the bedside of his candidate, watching her curled into a ball on her bunk, her form trembling. His abilities allow him to catch glimpses of her night terrors, and he sighs, wishing he could do more for her as he ascends the stairs to the roof of the firehouse. Alas, he is no dream weaver.

He stands at the edge of the roof, his eyes closed as he feels the wind in the night. The scent of freshwater lingers in the air, and Owen knows rain has been in the forecast. He furrows his brow when he hears the rumble in the clouds. As far as he remembered, he never saw any hint of storms in the forecast.

Then the smell of ozone overtakes the scent of rainwater, and Owen's eyes fly open. He is no longer alone.

"Elliot."

"Owen."

The lieutenant turns and comes face to face with the man he considers his brother . . . yet the face of the detective is one he has never seen. Elliot's face appears carved from stone and, with the detective silhouetted against the clouds rolling over the moon, Owen understands how he has gotten the reputation he has in the NYPD. Elliot has come prepared for a confrontation.

But it is his eyes that give Owen pause, for they are no longer blue. No, they shine like molten chrome, as silver as the lightning bolts that flash across the sky.

So Owen exhales and steps forward to meet his brother, allowing red to bleed through green. Ruby red meets chrome, and Elliot's lips curve into a devilish smirk. "Emperor," he greets.

"Tower," Owen responds.

Chrome eyes flash, and lightning splits the sky in acknowledgement.

***

"Do you think Tyler may be one of us?"

One of us. Owen knows Elliot would not say the words, for even at Forlini's, ears are everywhere. Crime and villainy don't end because the police end their shifts, and if they believe for even a moment that there is something to be gained from snatching the human incarnations of the Emperor and the Tower out of Forlinis . . .

Well. Owen decides he wouldn't mind seeing Elliot's powers in action. "Perhaps," is all he answers with as he downs his tequila. "Gwyn is not. But TK . . . I feel something from him."

Elliot hums and taps his fingertips on the bar. "I wondered for the longest time if I was the only one," he confides.

"As did I," Owen nods in agreement. "I wondered when I first met you."

Elliot puts down his glass and rolls up his sleeve, revealing the ombre black to silver XVI inked into his wrist. "Do you have one?"

Owen answers by rolling up his sleeve. The gold IV flashes in the lights of the bar. "As clear as when I was born, so my parents told me," he says. "TK's wrist appears to have the beginning of a mark."

"Mine strengthened when I joined SVU," Elliot tells him as he rolls back his sleeve. "That was when I discovered . . . "

He holds up his hand wordlessly, and Owen watches with fascination as tiny bolts of electricity lance between his fingertips. "I can't imagine why we would be here if the others aren't out there somewhere," he says decisively.

Elliot hums in agreement as he sips his drink. "We just have to find them."

Owen raises an eyebrow. "We found each other, didn't we?"

Elliot chuckles and holds out his glass. "We did."

Owen taps his glass against Elliot's, the tattoo on his wrist a comforting burn. "To finding the others."

Elliot nods in agreement, chrome flashing through blue. "To finding the others."