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Cynthia was worried. Brian hadn't been in the office for two weeks, and hadn't even been reachable by phone for the last week. Of course he had told her he was taking some time off. After the stress and shock of the Babylon explosion, the investigation that followed, all the ups and downs with Justin - the almost wedding and his leaving for New York - as well as Gus leaving for Canada, she didn't know how he was even functioning. But... that was Brian. That he took this time off at all was out of character. Even when he had the cancer she wasn't supposed to know about, he kept working.  Yeah, he could take a quick ‘trip to Ibiza' or head for the Sydney Mardi Gras, but to be gone for this amount of time? Not Brian Kinney behavior. 

Yes, Cynthia was well qualified to handle the day to day operations of Kinnetik, at least in the short term. Working with Brian all these years had made certain of that, and Brian's business planning had put legal and administrative safeguards in place to allow her to actually act as his proxy and attorney-in-fact with the company. He trusted her implicitly, knew she would protect his interests. She knew the business from top to bottom, inside and out, and had no problem dealing with the asshole attitudes and sudden crises this business tossed her way at every turn. Brian had taught her well. He knew she would only need him in an actual emergency, and the FUBAR that was now the Brown Athletics account certainly qualified as that. But damnit, regrouping and realigning his life notwithstanding, right now she needed Brian's face in front of the client and she couldn't locate him. His cell phone was apparently disconnected and, although she had left messages on his home phone, he wasn't returning her calls. She was keeping him up to date by email but she had no way of knowing if he was even accessing that. Jesus, what a mess! At this point there were only two options: go to the loft and confront Brian personally, or call Michael. Closing her eyes and blowing out the air she'd been holding in her cheeks in aggravation, she knew she had to take option one. The loft it had to be - she couldn't stand Brian's ‘best friend' and she had fielded enough of his calls this past week.

As Cynthia collected the necessary files and paperwork before heading to Brian's loft, she heard her office door open and a very insistent Michael Novotny, with full whine effect, started his demands. "Cynthia, tell Brian I need to see him now."

"I'm sorry, Michael, but Brian is unavailable at the moment." Cynthia instinctively went into personal assistant protective mode. No way was she giving up any information about Brian to Novotny. "Would you like to leave a message?" God, what did Brian see in this man? She was aware of the long history, but she was never able to fathom the friendship between these two. They were light years apart in their intellect, interest, sense of humor... Even their appearance screamed incompatibility to her. She just didn't get it.

"Listen, Cynthia, I am going to see him. I've not seen him or talked to him for over three weeks." As Michael said this, he slumped down onto the small sofa in Cynthia's office. It sounded so unbelievable when he actually said it out loud. He knew things had still been a little strained between Brian and him lately; had been since before the Babylon attack. But this... this was... "He isn't answering my calls, his cell has apparently been disconnected, and his loft seemed abandoned when I was there earlier. I need to see him."

"Michael, I can't..." She started to repeat the company line, and then caught what Michael was saying. She really wasn't sure she had heard Michael correctly. "Excuse me, Michael. You said his loft looked abandoned? What do you mean by that?"

"I mean abandoned, Cynthia. Not lived in. Empty. Utilities turned off. Food rotting in the fridge. Layers of dust. Abandoned!"

The woman was stunned. What the hell? She slumped back into her chair and stared blankly for a moment at the man across the room from her. But only for a moment. ‘Okay,' she thought to herself. ‘There has to be a reasonable explanation.'

"Michael, are you sure about the loft? Maybe the power was out temporarily. I know about the cell phone, but I was hoping that was some problem with his carrier."

"Well, a power outage might explain the lights in his apartment, but not the rotting food in the fridge. It also wouldn't explain why the lights were still on in the hall, or why the elevator was still running. Wouldn't the whole building be without electric service in a power outage and not just Brian's loft?" Uncharacteristically, Michael had already thought around these arguments in his own head. He had argued the issue with himself to the point of a major headache.

"Yeah, I suppose you're right there," Cynthia conceded. "But let's think about this for a minute. I'll be honest, Michael, Brian hasn't been in the office for a couple of weeks. He was barely holding it together the week before that. With everything that has upended his life during the last couple of months, he was burning out." Recalling the vacant look in Brian's eyes when he said he was staying home for a few days, and the exhaustion evident in his whole demeanor the week after Justin left, she wanted to kick herself for not doing more. Something. Anything!

The first thing we have to do, Cynthia told herself, is to find Brian. Getting answers as to what was going on was secondary. Understanding his lack of communication would come later- finding him was primary goal. And the most logical place for Brian to be under these circumstances would be New York. With Justin.

"What about Justin? That seems the logical place to look right now." Cynthia searched Michael's face, hoping to find... something. "Have you talked to him?"

Michael's face turned pouty, but he answered simply, "no."

"What about Gus in Canada?"

Again, Michael looked sheepishly at Cynthia. "No. I thought he would be here."

The rest of that declaration went unsaid, but Cynthia heard it just the same. Michael thought Brian was ignoring him. And just when she was beginning to admire the man for thinking outside of his selfishness.

"Well, it looks like I've got some calls to make." She picked up the phone and began dialing. "Justin, this is Cynthia. Please call me back as soon as you get this message. It's urgent. Call my cell if you can't reach me at Kinnetik. Let me give you the number." As she rattled off her cell phone number, she said a little prayer that it would be Brian returning the call and shrugged off the immediate certainty that it wouldn't be. Things just didn't feel right.

*******

Marvin Trainor looked down again at one of the samples in this young man's portfolio. They were obviously good - not as good as many he had seen, but very good nonetheless. There was a passion, an inspired quality discernible about the paintings that spoke to him even through the photographs the young man presented. But there just were too few of them. The boy had potential. What he didn't know was if it spoke of artistic stamina and vision. Based upon the limited sampling with which he had been presented, and if indeed this was evidence of the whole body of work available, he just wasn't ready to take on this young man as a client.

"These are very good, Mr. Taylor. Inspired. Passionate." He paused dramatically, looking up at Justin, before adding, "I assume you have others." The last was definitely a statement rather than an inquiry. And this was the roadblock Justin continued to run into every time. The lack of volume in his repertoire. Without a suitable place, or any place, to continue his painting right now, he was limited in what he could offer. They all liked his work. They just didn't like that he didn't have enough of it. For all they knew, these pieces could be flukes of temporary inspiration and the rest of his offerings could be for shit. He knew. He understood. He just wasn't ready for the big leagues.

Taking Justin's silence for exactly what it was, Marvin Trainor spoke again. "Mr. Taylor, by no means do I want to negate the impressive quality of your work. I will honestly admit that it shows great potential. There are a few pieces which veritably border upon genius. You and I both know that. But..."

"I need more," Justin interjected.

"Quite frankly, yes. You need more."

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Trainor. I want you to know I truly appreciate your candor." The young artist smiled openly to assure the man of his sincerity and reached out to shake the agent's hand. "At the moment, however, I am a bit limited in my ability to increase my portfolio by my need to eat." Justin's face flushed with the embarrassing admission as he gathered his things to leave. Both men were painfully aware of the irony in his truth - the Catch-22 of the starving artist.

It was much later that Justin picked up the phone to call home. He was admitting defeat. This was all a mistake. At the least he was going to call a truce in this war to succeed, regroup and hopefully live to fight another day. Right now he needed to talk to Brian, to just hear his voice and refresh his spirit. Feel protected again. It had been over three weeks since he had spoken with him and he was angry that he hadn't forced himself to find time to call before now. Yes, he was exhausted beyond what he thought he could handle, and yes, Brian had urged him to give himself time to settle into city life before he talked to him again, but he should have ignored all that. He knew it for the bullshit it was and he knew it when Brian said it. He should have called.

As he picked up his phone, ignoring the voice mail notice, he dialed the most familiar number in his world - and his heart clenched at what he heard.    

*******

Sitting silently in a booth as far back as the diner would allow, Cynthia and Michael were both trying to make some logical sense of the unbelievable scenario that was playing out. Lost in trying to understand the condition of the loft they had just left, Cynthia spilled the coffee she hadn't really wanted in the first place, startled when her phone rang. Glancing at the ID, she grimaced and sighed loudly as she pressed the TALK button.

"Justin, thank go..." She was cut off mid word by Justin's frantic voice.

"Cynthia, what the hell is going on? I just tried to call Brian and his phone is disconnected? Then I heard your message saying it was urgent that I call you. What's happening? Is Brian alright? Is he hurt?" Oh, god. She knew now that Brian wasn't with Justin, and from the tears and concern apparent in Justin's voice, she also knew he had no idea where Brian could be. This was going to be a very difficult conversation, for both parties.

"Justin, please. Slow down. I need to tal..."

"Slow down? What the FUCK is going on there?" Christ, he couldn't concentrate. Brian was hurt, or sick, or... He couldn't even imagine the rest of that thought. ‘God, no, please,' he thought.

Knowing without a doubt what the response would be, Cynthia still had to ask, "Justin, is Brian with you?"

"Of course he's not with me, Cynthia. I haven't seen or talked with him in over three weeks. I'm in New York, for chrissakes! I'm going to ask you again. What. Is. Going. On?" Questions about whether Brian was ill, hurt, alive or dead began twisting together in Justin's soul. Panic was closing in quickly. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he chanted to himself.

"We can't find him, Justin. We don't know where he is and he hasn't been seen by any of us, as far as we can tell, for two weeks now. I haven't talked to him in over a week. His cell is disconnected, he isn't responding to his email and...," she really, really didn't want to tell Justin the rest of this. "...and his loft appears to have been abandoned."

"WHAT?" Anger, fear, panic and incredulity all flew into that one, single shouted word.

"Jus..."

"WHAT?" Justin repeated. "Abandoned? The loft? And how do you just lose your boss, Cynthia? For over two weeks?"

"Justin! Stop! This isn't helping anything," Cynthia snapped back.

Justin sighed and wiped the moisture from his eyes. Cynthia was right. Attacking her wasn't helping matters. Find Brian first and then he would let whatever shit hit whatever fan it wanted to. "I'm sorry, Cynthia. This is just so... confusing...terrifying, actually. He has to be in some kind of trouble. I'm just... I... I don't know what I am," Justin confessed. "Have you called the police yet?"

"I wanted to make sure he wasn't with you first, Justin."

"Then call Carl. He won't treat it as just another fag issue. Call him now. " Justin quietly added, "I'll be there as soon as I can."  

 

*******

On the other side of the city, the tall, slender man jerked awake violently, his heart hammering in his chest, and shouted: "Christ's name!" He knew it was only a dream. More a nightmare, really, but the terrors didn't settle upon waking. He rose from the small bed in the darkened room, reached his arms behind his head and pulled off his t-shirt, now soaked from his own sweat. His hand shook as he ran it through his too-long auburn hair, wiping the bangs away from his forehead, automatically reminding himself that he needed to get it cut soon. Chuffing out a humorless little laugh that he could even have such a mundane thought when his heart was still pounding as it was, he reached his still shaking hand toward the pack of Pall Malls lying on the wide sill of the bedroom window. Bringing a silver lighter up to the cheap, harsh cigarette, he thought (not for the first time) how apropos the inscription on it was.

Ignite your Rage.

What a fucking strange and somehow fitting inscription. Especially tonight. When he first found the heavy lighter tucked in the pocket of his jeans he wondered where it came from. He certainly didn't buy it, he knew that much. He could barely afford the rent on this tiny shithole of an apartment, much less an obviously expensive thing like this. But he could see the irony in the inscription. Ignite your Rage. He could feel it simmering deep in his gut. Again. Closing his eyes and taking a few deep, cleansing breaths he visualized reaching deep into that gut and locking the unwelcome emotion behind a solid metal door. He visualized calm, peace. Those things he needed as desperately as he needed air. He sat on the side of the single bed, opened the drawer on the bedside table and pulled out his Bible, letting it fall open to a random page. Looking down at the open book, his eyes fell upon a marked passage: "The Lord is faithful, and he will strengthen and protect you from the evil one." *

The evil one. Protect me from the evil one. Protect me. Protect...

He just didn't want to face the fear again. Not again tonight. Protection...

With a slight roll of his shoulders, a small shift in the set of his head, Mac slipped into a quiet nothingness.

Rising from the edge of the bed, a man walked with a purpose to the closet, pulling out the first shirt and pants he touched and dressed silently in the dark of the bedroom. Striding into the small living room he picked up the apartment keys from the coffee table, exited the apartment, walked the dark and empty streets, settling onto a stool at the first bar he came across. And he drank...

*******

 

*(2 Thes 3:3) 

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