See Part One for Disclaimers

"Well, Stephen, I'm waiting."  Sheridan's tone boded ill for the doctor.

"When Marcus was brought in to me I was told he had gone on a binge, got blind drunk and passed out.  Still, I did a full gamut of tests just in case someone had spiked his drink or there was some other cause for his sudden lapse.  I know the Rangers are supposed to be tea total, but these things happen."  He caught the slight nod from the Ambassador and returned it.  "Everything seemed to check out fine.  The only thing he was suffering from was a nasty hangover for which I prescribed an intravenous drug.  By the time Zack called to escort him over to Ambassador Delenn, he had nothing more than a mild headache.  But not all the test results were completed, when the narcotic scan came back this was the result."  He laid the relevant data onto the table.  "Massive levels of Trichloralheptamin, a very powerful psychotic drug.  And this had not been a single dose, this must have been taken over days or weeks."

"You're saying Marcus is an addict! I don't believe it!"

"Marcus would never!"

"Why would he do that to himself?  The man is not a fool!"

Disclaimers came at Franklin from every side, he did not want to believe it either but his results had shown a consistent abuse.

Susan suddenly slapped her hand on the table, recalling them to the issues at hand.  "What if it wasn't self administered after all.  You say it was not a one off so, how could someone feed this drug to him undetected?"

"Does he do business at a set place, could they have doctored his drinks there?  Or what about where he eats?  Marcus may have a set routine, one that his enemies could predict.  As soon as Garibaldi checks in get him on it.  And someone should check his quarters too.  Stephen, you and Ivanova can do that.  I don't want this flying round the station, at least not until we are sure.  Another thing, who is this Maggie he seems fixated on?  Shaker I remember, nasty piece of work who I thought was barred from Babylon 5."  Sheridan sent an accusatory look at his second.

"The Maggie thing I don't know.  When he was recovering from that shooting incident at Christmas he occasionally spoke.  Not that he was aware, more as though he were dreaming.  He mentioned that name once or twice, and someone called Naomi, I think.  We still know so little of what goes on in a coma patient's mind whilst they are unconscious.  It could be that this dream, nightmare, whatever is resurfacing through the drugs influence.  And another thing you need to know.  The hangover antidote I administered will speed up the effect of the narcotic.  For the first few hours it will suppress the psychosis but once it leaves his system he'll be worse than before.  Reality and illusion will seem the same to him.  He will have no sense of judgement.  We have to find him damn fast."

***

Down Below was his domain.  He knew it from end to end, every nook and cranny, every dirty hole and unsavoury character.  There were many that lived and died there that didn't deserve the fate the gods had sent them.  Good people that, for one reason or another, were trapped in the cycle of poverty that abounded.  Only the shopkeepers, bar keeps and rogues had disposable income.  Marcus knew that Maggie lived here, somewhere.  Little Naomi had taken refuge here, he had found her, and returned her to her rightful place.  The lost and the needy all came to Maggie, he remembered her saying so.  Well he was lost and in desperate need and he would search the station from stern to bow until he found his saviour.

He moved slowly now, the station swaying under his carefully placed feet.  One hand reached out for support as the floor heaved under him.  Were they under attack again?  Stumbling, his vision blurring, he careened into a wall of boxes, disappearing into their midst, buried under the fall of metal and wood.  Time held no meaning for him; he could have lain there for an hour or a day, his thoughts raging wildly as his head spun.

This part of the station saw very little traffic, and he lay undisturbed for many hours until the faint sound of sobbing reached him.  Even in his debilitated state the sound of someone in distress called to him, plucked at his sensibilities until he pulled himself upright.  The world still seemed fuzzy and his head was spinning with a nauseating effect.  He tipped over, heaving uncontrollably until he could heave no more.  Sitting back on his heels he ran one unsteady hand over his face, his palm coming away damp with sweat.  "Valen," he muttered under his breath.

Sounds of someone in distress still echoed nearby.  A child surely?  Lost down here -- standing carefully, he turned a slow three sixty, trying to pinpoint their position.  Finally he thought he had it, and he took one delicate step through the debris.  A rush of nausea threatened to overwhelm him and he stood still, breathing slowly, trying to relax the spasms in his stomach.  Another choked sob pulled him around and he stepped forward again, his pace a little more assured.

Crouched behind a pile of rubbish huddled a small blonde girl, her face streaked with tears, eyes reddened from her crying.  "Naomi?" he whispered.  The waif's face blurred back and forth in his vision.  One moment she was blonde with huge brown eyes, the next dark-haired with grey blue orbs that tore through him.  The child took one look at him and screamed, her high voice cutting a knife edged path into his sensitive brain.  He had no idea how menacing he looked, the dark outfit topped by his dark head, the dancing green eyes that rested no-where, blazing in his pallid face.

"Sweetheart, don't cry.  Tell me who you are, where you belong.  We'll get you home."  It may have been his accent, or the softness of his voice, or the vulnerability that suddenly invaded his persona, whatever it was the child hiccuped the last of her tears and looked at him with a little less fear in her eyes.

Hunkering down in front of her he extended a hand.  "Let me introduce myself.  My name is Marcus, I work, I used to work for Captain Sheridan, you know who he is?"

The child nodded solemnly.

"Then you know that he would not let anyone hurt you, and neither will I.  Do you know where you live?"

She opened her mouth to speak and then her eyes suddenly slid away from his, resting on something immediately behind him.  He saw her sudden intake of breath, the fear that suffused her face, and pushed himself quickly upward.

Behind him ranged two men, both familiar to him from his dreams.  Now that they stood before him their faces slipped into place.  The taller of the two had stuck him with a knife, nearly killed him...  no, no that was not right.  Stephen said there was no scar no...  whatever, he knew they were trouble.  One hand moved to his belt, searching for the denn'Bok, coming away empty.  His weapon stolen! Gritting his teeth he prepared to do battle without, knowing he was quite capable of putting these two down bare handed.

The larger of the two men stepped forward, one mighty fist aiming for Marcus' swaying form, the ring on his hand connecting hard against the soft area over his eye as Marcus dodged the blow.  Although the world still spun around him Marcus felt stronger and faster than he ever had before.  One foot kicked out to land with a satisfying thud in the man's midriff, knocking the wind of out him.  The man bent double, clutching his stomach as he tried to drag in a full breath.  His companion then thundered in, a wicked piece of piping aimed at Marcus' head.  He ducked, grabbing the man's outstretched arm, and used his momentum to barrel him into the nearby wall.  There was a sickening crunch as his head met metal and one adversary was out of the game.  Marcus span quickly around, teetering as the walls seemed to move in toward him.  He shook his head, focussing on the opponent now rushing toward him.  In his mind everything began to slow, he had all the time in the world to prepare.  His right hand flew out at a tremendous pace, the edge hard and sure as it took the larger man across the windpipe.  He felt the snap of bone as his left hand followed in and smacked upwards into the unprotected jaw, forcing the neck back to break point, and the man fell limply to the floor.




The child was forgotten in his triumph.  Marcus turned and looked down on the vanquished men, a sense of elation ran through him, a deadly smile played on his lips.  He had the insane desire to laugh out loud, to yell his prowess to the world; he could feel it bubbling away inside him.  And then the headache returned with a vengeance, blood pounded through his veins setting up a throbbing in his temples that almost brought him to his knees.  For a brief instant his hearing deserted him and the world suddenly began and ended with the rush of his own blood.  Adrenaline shot round his system for an instant then was gone.  His legs lost their power to keep his body upright and he crumpled to his knees, palms flat to the floor in an attempt to prevent his slipping further.  As he stared, bemused at the dirty floor, a single splash of red fell, its colour bold and mesmerising.  And then another followed it.  Fascinated, Marcus reached out a finger to touch the liquid, only to lose his precarious balance, tumbling to the floor with an explosive, "Shit!"

"Mister, are you okay?  Mister?" The child had carefully approached him, unheard, unseen.  Now her small hand touched his black clad shoulder in an attempt to gain his attention.  His head shot around, a bad move as the station decided to turn the other way, and his ill-focussed eyes tried to secure themselves on her face.  What he saw there went some way to pulling him back from the edge.  It was not Naomi's face that looked at him now but an older child, dark-haired, grey-eyed, who vaguely reminded him of someone he knew.  Befuddled though he was, he realised his perceptions were teetering on psychosis.  He only hoped he really was talking to a child and not making conversation with thin air.

"I'm okay.  I'm okay.  I didn't get your name luv, but...  did I introduce myself before..."  His hand encompassed the carnage all around them.  "Anyway, my name is Marcus, and we have to get you home.  Do you know where home is?"

"You don't recognise me, do you?" The child's voice was plaintive, hurt.  "My name's Syrea."  She waited, obviously expecting him to know her.  He shook his head, an apology in his eyes.  "I'm Maggie's daughter."

At that name she gained his full and undivided attention.  "Maggie?"

***

Stephen used his override key to enter Marcus' compact rooms.  Susan was right behind him, almost in his shoes, as he stepped into the gloom.  There was the unpleasant smell of stale alcohol in the air, and something else.  Not incense, but a similar scent that just barely registered on their olfactory senses.

Susan called for the lights to brighten and two sets of eyes immediately locked onto the tidy pile of clothing that sat so incongruously on his rumpled bed.  On the small table sat a solitary candle, its wick still faintly glowing leaving a tiny trail of smoke to curl gently upwards.  The smell came from there.  Using his finger and thumb, Stephen snuffed it out, then smelled the residue on his skin.  "Damn!" he quickly ran to the sink to wash off the residue.

"What is it?" Susan was standing by the stack of clothing, her eyes, which had been fixed to the Rangers pin, now turned to watch the doctor in concern.

"That candle is stuffed with Trichloralheptamin!" His hand hovered over the sink as his eyes came to rest on the broken glass and holder in the basin.  One piece, larger than the rest, still held the residue of Marcus' last cup of tea.  Susan came over at his request and, after putting on the thin surgical gloves they had come prepared with, gingerly lifted what was left of the receptacle out of the sink and tipped its contents into a specimen pot.  With no fear of contaminating the tea now, Franklin ran the tap and washed off the candle residue from his fingers.  "Better bag the candle too, Susan.  I'll go through the fridge and cupboards, can you check the bathroom?"

Dirty clothes had been tossed to one side, ready to be cleaned.  The odour was definitely coming from them.  Stains decorated the uniform Marcus had been so proud to wear, and Susan could only wonder at the trauma he must now be going through.  The Rangers were his life, his reason for living.  The man was dedicated past natural instinct and well into necessity; she had seen it in his eyes countless times.  The sight of his abandoned clothing left a hollow pit in her stomach.  "What the hell is going on, Marcus?" She muttered to herself.

She checked the room thoroughly, but to no avail.  Nothing seemed out of place, or unusual in any way.  No medicine resided in his cabinet, not even a headache pill.  One small packet of plasters and some shampoo and soap was the sum total of his possessions.  His living room revealed little more.  Another uniform hung in his cupboard, underwear in the drawers.  No pictures, no ornaments, just a small three sided crystal block and the candle.  Franklin had checked every cupboard, and the fridge, finding only a few tea bags, some staple provisions.  He bagged samples of each and now stood surveying the room.

"He has so little," he commented quietly.  "I didn't realise how Spartan his existence was."

"I guess he doesn't need much.  The Rangers never seem to be in one place very long, there is only so much you can take with you when you are constantly on the move."  Susan had picked up the heavy crystal object, turning it over in her hands, hefting the weight experimentally.  "What do you think this is?"

Stephen moved to her side, eyes interested.  "The whole Minbari culture seems geared to the number three, maybe this is a religious icon of some sort.  I don't see Marcus having it just as an ornament.  Perhaps we should return this, his uniform, and pin to Delenn."

Two sets of eyes moved unconsciously to the pile of clothing still sat on the bed.  A last testament to the man they both knew so little about.  "Wouldn't that seem as though we are writing him off, before we even start looking?" Ivanova's curt tone was laced with concern and anger.  "We find him, fix him and we do not mess with his stuff!"

"I didn't mean it like that.  Look, once it gets around, and it will, that Marcus is not here, then you can bet this month's credits that one of the lowlife scum will try and get into his quarters.  You want him to come back and find this all gone?"

"Damn."  She took two swift strides across the room, then turned to him.  "Okay, okay, we take this stuff but...  we leave him a message on the system, let him know why and who has it."

"Agreed."

Ivanova quickly bagged the clothing, fixed his pin inside her jacket and then picked up the pike.  She handled it carefully, having no idea where the release catch was.  Holding it gingerly between her two hands she was about to follow Stephen into the corridor when her eyes lit on a tiny scrap of paper tucked down the side of the chair.  "Hold on a minute, Stephen."

Gently putting down the denn'Bok she eased the paper from its hiding place, turning it over quickly.  A bill, dating just before Xmas, from the jeweller who had been attacked by the Santa raiders.  Her eyes fixed on the description and the price.  "Oh my god."  Her voice only barely reached Franklin's ear.

"What is it?"

"Nothing.  It's just an old bill.  It doesn't have any baring on this."  The receipt was quickly stuffed back into its place, her fingers still trembling slightly.  Picking up the pike again, a question began to plague her.  "Stephen?"

"Yeah?"

"Just what is happening to Marcus?  How is this really affecting him?"

Franklin leaned back against the door and sighed.  "The drug has different effects on different physiologies.  Marcus, being human, would be one of the worse affected.  By now, if he hasn't obtained more of the drug, he's probably heading for withdrawal.  But before that he would experience the feeling of invincibility maybe, of superiority.  A lot of the 'jumpers' are hooked on this stuff.  They think they can fly and just jump, expecting their superhuman powers to let them soar above us all."  He shook his head.  "Thankfully there is nowhere here for him to try that."

"The airlocks?" Susan's fingers were white against the denn'Bok.

"No chance.  Garibaldi has this place sewn up tight.  They'll find him Susan."

"Yeah, but..."

***

He could not concentrate; the name meant too many things for him to light on just one explanation.  'Maggie' conjured up the face of an elderly woman, a soft healing touch, the smell of lavender, and yet...  Marcus could not imagine the woman of his dream having a child so young.  Confusion ran riot leaving his head aching, the pain concentrated above his eye.

"You're hurt.  If we can find Mum she could fix you up."  Syrea tugged at his sleeve impatiently.  "Please mister, I don't want them to find me again."  Her eyes now fixed on the bodies laying too close for comfort.  Having lived Down Below for all of her eight years, she had seen much more than any child should ever see.  But this was too traumatic and she was beginning to shake again, the tears barely suppressed.

Staggering still, Marcus dragged himself upright.  Pain lashed through his skull and his hands clasped tightly to his forehead.  "Bloody hell!" Brilliant lights played across his vision, blurring the world around him.  He put out a hand for support, finding Syrea's small form.  "Just give me a minute, just a minute..."

When the lights stopped, and he could see once again, his eyes quickly sought the child's.  "Okay, where is home?  I think we had best move before my handiwork gets us noticed."

She quoted one of the rougher parts of the station with something like embarrassment.  "It's not very nice there but mum can't afford anything else."

Marcus' hand tightened on her shoulder, sympathising with her.

His intimate knowledge of the station proved more than useful.  With his conscious mind not functioning on all cylinders his instincts took over.  Like tracing a route you have done many times, he led Syrea along passage after passage.  As he moved, the sense of power that had suffused him such a short time ago was fleeing his mind and body at a rapid rate.  Behind him lay enemies, he knew that, ahead of him lay Maggie and safety, he hoped.

With each corridor looking almost identical, the youngster was soon turned around but she followed blindly, her faith in her dark angel absolute.  His dishevelled, bloodied appearance did nothing to detract from the belief she had in him.  He had dealt with the two thugs who had held her captive until that very morning as though they had been nothing.  Okay, he was a little strange, but she put that down to the bump on his head, that even now still trickled blood unheeded down his pale features.

Turning one last corner, Marcus and Syrea came face to face with a group of hard-looking men.  Grim faces with angry eyes turned as one as the pair came into view.  Syrea shrank against Marcus' side, her hand slipping into his for comfort.

Fear tingled down Marcus' spine, its cold trail sending shivers through his arms and legs, leaving them trembling and unwilling to answer his call.  All around him faces loomed, a muttering arose from the crowd as they moved purposely forward.  Mouths open in angry exclamations seemed to soar close to him, hands reached out to tear him apart.  His courage fled, terror took its place and he dropped the child's hand covering his face to block out the sight.  Taking a faltering step backward he stumbled, his last conscious thought was that his luck had finally run out.  As he drifted from the real world the vague scent of lavender assailed him giving him a slim lifeline of hope to cling to.

A small elderly woman forced her way through the crowd of angry men.  "Out of my way.  You, move.  Let me through."  With elbows and small fists she pummelled her way to the front, men stepping back from her hurriedly, a muttered 'sorry' or a hasty 'Margaret' thrown her way.

The sight that met her eyes had her bustling forward.  Syrea crouched on the floor, trying to raise the young man lying inert at her side.  Tears were running uncontrolled down her cheeks as she switched her attention from the crowd to her companion.  She looked up at Margaret's approach and sprang to her feet, running toward her, almost incoherent in her relief.  "Nana!"

Clasping her granddaughter tightly, Margaret turned back to the group.  "Thank you so much for finding her.  I'll always be in your debt.  You all know where to find me if you need anything.  Thank you."

"What about him.  We should deal with that piece of filth first.  Can't leave you and the little one until we know it's safe."  The speaker took a step forward, his intentions writ plainly on his scowling features.

"No! Nana, don't let them hurt him.  He saved me.  Well I was sort of saved already, but these two nasty men came after me and Marcus fought them and they hurt him and he's bleeding and I promised him mum would look after him and..."

"Take a breath child," Margaret admonished.  "This young man helped you?"

Syrea nodded, tugging at the old woman's hand.  "He's not well, Nana.  Look what they did to him."

Marcus was an unwholesome sight.  The black clothing that sheathed his slim form was dusty from the fight and his time lying among the boxes.  Stale vomit spattered his jacket, leaving a gruesome reminder for all to see.  Blood had coagulated on his face and clotted into his dark beard.  The gash above his eye looked open and raw, its depth attested to by the faint gleam of white bone.  Her lips pursed at the state of him.  Kneeling with difficulty, she laid one hand on his brow.  His skin burned under her palm.  She cast a glance behind her, seeing that some of the men, contrary to her expectations, had remained behind.  "Could you help me up?" she requested.  Two men stepped forward and carefully assisted her to her feet.  "My granddaughter says this man helped her, therefore I must help him.  He came by his injuries whilst saving her," she added, seeing the disbelieving look on their faces.  The men exchanged glances, then moved to pick up the fallen Ranger.

***

"What do you mean Jed and Ferent are missing?  Syrea got out and all they had to do was track her down and bring her back, just how hard is that to accomplish?"

Shaker stood facing his right hand man, his face turning red with suppressed anger.

"That's not all, boss.  It seems that after the little affray in the bar last night the Ranger has gone missing.  I was going to put some more 'stuff' in his room this afternoon when I saw that nosy doctor and that Russian bitch override his codes.  I waited around until they left.  They didn't look happy, boss.  I got in right after them.  The candle's gone, the bags, everything.  I think they know what's going on."

"Impossible."  Shifty eyes moved aimlessly around the room as the man thought his way through the problem.  "Okay, okay.  Maybe they know about the drug, but they don't know why or who.  If we scale up the operation we can still get out of here before the lid blows.  We'll just have to do it without our little Ranger's co-operation that's all."

He stood perfectly still, his mind whirling with ideas.  Suddenly his eyes snapped onto Jared's face.  "The Ambassador doesn't leave for another two days.  They will have to find a substitute bodyguard for her now that Cole is missing.  Get in touch with the guy in Garibaldi's unit; see if he can get us the new security arrangements.  Somehow we have to get on board that ship or the boss is going to have us strung up.

Continued

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