Author's Note: This was written in response to the LFN "Bathtub Challenge II," which required the use of two LFN characters and a bathtub. *** Part One: Terror Tub It was supposed to be a Red Cell safehouse. That's what the intel said, at least. And it wasn't Davenport's job to argue with the geeks in DRV with their satellite imagery and fancy data mining algorithms. Not even when he eyeballed the perimeter and noticed that the rutted drive didn't show anything remotely resembling fresh tiretracks. Instead, he just shrugged and motioned the team forward. If the smart guys said there were terrorists inside, who was he to say otherwise? It was only after they kicked down the doors that he realized the place was entirely abandoned. No bad guys, no weapons cache, no intel -- no nothing. Just an empty structure that had seen far, far better days. Rickety floors creaked as Davenport led Snow and Cooper on a sweep of the lower level; chunks of plaster fell from the ceiling as several other operatives trod upstairs. Davenport leaned into his comm. unit. "No hostiles. The place is clean." "First team, return to Section," came Birkoff's response, crackling in the earpiece. Davenport exchanged exasperated glances with Snow. What a waste of time. So much for DRV and that high-tech intel they always bragged about. This dump hadn't been inhabited in months, if not years, judging by the cobwebs and putrid streaks of mold. I always get sent on a wild goose chase, thought Davenport. What do you wanna bet that Operations is gonna blame *me* for screwing this up? I just have the shittiest-- A loud cracking sound startled him out of his thoughts. He looked up and saw the ceiling giving way. As it ruptured, wooden beams snapped and fell like tinkertoys flung in a child's tantrum. He ducked his head and dove for the doorway. Moments later, he found himself digging out of a pile of debris. Coughing, he tossed aside rotten planks and cursed as a nail snagged and tore his jacket sleeve. "Dude. Look!" said Snow. Davenport followed Snow's gaze. Across what was left of the room, through a cloud of choking dust, a pair of legs stuck out from under a heavy porcelain bathtub. "Is that Cooper?" asked Snow. "I think he's dead." "Aw, shit." It wasn't funny, but Davenport felt himself seized with a horrible urge to laugh. Those lifeless feet looked just like the witch when the house fell on her in the Wizard of Oz. He had a sudden vision of the 250-pound Cooper wearing ruby slippers and guffawed aloud. Snow made a puzzled face. "What a way to go," said Davenport, struggling to stifle his sniggers. Snow grinned. "Could have been worse. At least it wasn't a toilet." ******* Part Two: Torture Tub "I can't understand why there was so much discharge," said Elizabeth. "We only adjusted the formula by three percent." Henry said nothing, and they continued down the corridor in silence. She hadn't expected him to answer. He never did: that was the point. Voicing questions aloud helped her clarify her thoughts. Indeed, when working through a particularly complex issue, she sometimes had entire conversations with herself. The fact that Henry was usually present kept the others from staring at her as much, but his participation was not expected and quite frankly would have been unwelcome. She didn't like people who interrupted her thought processes. Henry, thankfully, was not one of those people. So. The discharge. It was a puzzle. And an inconvenience, because it stained the White Room floor so badly the cleaners had to use twice the normal amount of bleach after the interrogation. The fumes had lingered for days. Madeline had complained that they irritated her throat, and that would not do. Had the formula been flawed? Or was the subject's reaction a fluke, the product of some unknown medical predisposition? She wanted to know the answer. Even more, she wanted to know if she could duplicate the results. They rounded the corner. Madeline waited just outside the White Room door. "We've installed the drainage tub according to your specifications," she said. "Do let me know how well it performs." With the briefest of smiles at Elizabeth, she walked off. It was so good to have an employer who understood. Strictly speaking, the speedy breaking of the subject was at all times the highest priority. As it should be. Elizabeth would never question her duties; that was not her place. However, within certain limits, Madeline allowed generous leeway for research. Elizabeth could satisfy her hunger for knowledge, and Section would gain from the results. It was all very fair. Elizabeth liked people who were fair. Henry pushed open the door, and they entered the room. The chair was absent; in its place stood a stainless steel tub. The curved metal gleamed in the light. So new. So pristine. Functional, simple, and yet elegant, like a mathematical formula. The subject sat huddled inside the tub. His arms were bound behind him; perspiration darkened the front of his shirt. He babbled in some language Elizabeth didn't recognize -- was he ready to cooperate so soon? No, the inflection was defiant. Good. That meant she could try the formula again. She set down her briefcase and flipped the switch at the side of the tub. The drainage system whirred to life. This time, no unsightly stains. ****** Part Three: Tower Tub "Are you sure she's unconscious?" asked Paul. "She's looking right at me." Madeline snapped her fingers in Adrian's face. There was no reaction, not even a blink. "Quite sure." Madeline glanced at the monitor they had wheeled into the bathroom. "Her alpha levels are completely flat. Transporting her seems to have had no effect." "Good," said Paul, relieved. "God knows we don't want her waking up while George's team is here." He stared at Adrian's pale skin as she floated in the bathtub. Bobbing in a pool of cobalt-blue liquid, she looked more like a wax figure than a real person. "How long can we leave her like this?" "We have a window of five hours. The fluid is a reasonably effective insulator, but if she remains outside the sealed tank for too long the ambient temperature will eventually start to have an effect." "Five hours might not be enough." "No," Madeline admitted. "Possibly not." He scowled in frustration. Surely George knew his "flash inspection" wouldn't actually find anything. The point was to toy with them, to force them to spend all morning scrambling to prepare instead of doing productive work. What a waste of time, just for a dick-waving show of authority. Damn him. Why couldn't the decrepit SOB just drop dead already and get out of the way? He sighed. All right. Five hours before the old battleaxe started to thaw like a stringy package of chicken left overnight in the fridge. What could they do if the idiotic team dawdled around Section all day? "We'll have to make sure they inspect the cryogenics lab first," he said. "That way we can move her back while they're still here if we have to." "It's already arranged." He grunted in approval. In the corner by the sink, the monitor blipped steadily. He watched the glowing green lines trace the screen. The pattern meant nothing to him, but concentrating on it kept him from having to look at that wrinkled thing in the tub. "I still don't like having her here," he said. It gave him the creeps, to be honest, but he kept that thought to himself. Madeline's tone was apologetic. "With such short notice, there weren't many options. The Tower is one of the only places they won't have access to." "True." He frowned. "And the cameras?" "Are playing a loop. To anyone watching, the bathroom is completely empty. And we, at the moment, are having an argument in the hallway. So when we leave, which we should do in forty-six seconds, be sure to look angry." He finally smiled. "You've thought of everything." She acknowledged the compliment with a slight incline of the head. "It was a likely contingency. We needed to be prepared." He didn't mistake her understated reaction for modesty; it was far too coy for that. She was, in fact, the least modest person he knew -- except perhaps himself. Then again, that was why they understood each other so well. But enough thinking. And enough standing around in the goddamned bathroom. It was time to go greet George's team of spies and meddlers and pretend he didn't have anything to hide. As he turned to leave, however, he found his gaze straying back to the bathtub. "I do have one request," he said. "What is it?" "Replace the tub when this is over. I won't be able to use it again." Madeline arched an eyebrow. "The fluid is nontoxic. And it will clean completely off." "It's not the fluid that bothers me." She looked down at the tub. After a moment, a hint of nausea tightened her face. Reaching into the liquid, she plucked out a floating strand of red hair. Blue droplets fell and smeared the white tile floor. "I see what you mean," she said, dropping the hair into the wastebasket. "We'll install a new one."