Once You Have Their Money, You Never Give it Back

[Tristan Heller]

Tristan crouched low in the shadow of the building. It was late, and cold: the night air bit at the exposed patches of flesh that his outfit didn't quite cover. He rubbed his hands together, his mutant abilities conjuring flames in his palms. One loosed a spark that landed on his sleeve, and began to smoulder away enthusiastically. Muttering a curse under his breath, he shook a hand until the flames subsided, and then slapped with it at his sleeve, eventually managing to batter the fledgeling fire away into nothingness. With a sigh he slumped against the corner of a wall, and ran his still-warm hands across his face and through his hair. At least he was inflammable, even if his clothes weren't.

For a few moments he swept his gaze around the alley. They'd decided to head in through the back, rather than risk being spotted by the guards in the lobby. At least, that had been the suggestion that his partner in crime had made. Frankly, Tristan would have been just as happy walking in the front and rendering everyone in there unconscious, somehow. Instead, they were sat here, freezing various parts of their anatomy off, waiting for his insufferable partner to finish rattling away on his keyboard, and get the damn back door lock disabled.

For a moment, he allowed himself to remember the last time he had found himself in such an alley. Back then his mutant abilities had gone off without his control, and in his panic he had burned some poor unfortunate soul. Regret and anguish tugged at his chest. Though a mutant - a stupid, vigilante mutant at that - Tristan had never meant to kill the guy. The bullets in his chest were a mercy, to put him out of his agonising misery.

It had been a robbery gone wrong: very, very wrong. It was meant to be an easy, simple, and safe jewelry store heist: run in, scare the owners, grab as much as possible, and get the hell out of there before anyone saw him. The owners would claim on their insurance for the damage caused and the produce lost. Sure, it'd cost the insurance firm a little, but they earned enough money anyway. No one would get hurt. No one would suffer. And he'd be able to claw his way out of the slump he'd fallen into.

Unfortunately, after hearing that someone had died, his buyer got cold feet. The merchandise was hot now: blood diamonds, on a smaller scale. He'd paid far below the agreed price, but there was little Tristan could do about it. The money he recieved hardly paid back the loan sharks, and certainly didn't leave enough to pay the rent on his run-down appartment. He'd been forced to rely on the hospitality of the one relative who was still talking to him. Strangely, his brother was willing to do even more than Tristan had expected to help him out.

Satisfied that no one was likely to stumble across them any time soon, Tristan abandoned his sentry post, and shuffled off down the alley towards where his partner - and, unfortunately, brother - was busy working.

"Could you hurry up, please?" Tristan muttered, shoving his hands under his armpits. "It's cold out here."

[Monty Heller]

Much as he was glad at having his older brother return out of the blue, Monty Heller couldn't help but feel irked at said brother's impatience. He had never really been one for taking any type of criticism to his work well.

"You obviously have no idea just how complex these systems are." A frown and jab towards the laptop screen accompanied this statement, "It takes dedication and patience for these matters; clearly you're lacking such virtues, or we wouldn't be doing this right now."

Or voicing his opinions on such matters, either. Monty's fingers deftly tapped at his keyboard, the rhythm somewhat comforting to the younger brother. Figures and coding that he knew - with a smirk quirking at the corner of his mouth - was unintelligable to the older, and sadly, not as academically gifted Tristan, flashed before his eager eyes, his fingers devouring the strings of characters required.

Truthfully, they didn't actually have to bother with this tedious and careful tampering. Since discovering his genetic gift at the tender age of fifteen, Monty had engaged in several private experiments to test the maximum effect of his powers, using his imagination as the only limit. He could easily pass through the nearest wall and unlock the doors from the inside. Or, he could simply go after their goal on a solo mission, much like the protagonists in the large collection of actions movies he had arrayed across banks of shelves in his apartment. Frankly, he would rather be watching one right now, munching on buttery microwave popcorn and crunchy Oreo biscuits.

"Then my blood sugars would get too high ..."

A questioning grunt from Tristan struck Monty with the realisation that he was thinking out loud - a bad habit that had caused just about every date he had ever gone on to take a sharp spiral downward. "Umm, sorry. Actually, I'm kinda hungry."

Tristan's exasperated sigh was not enough to stop Monty delving into the shoulder bag at his side, which was intended to hold his laptop and accompanying equipment, along with several snacks to ward off a hypo. Funnily enough, it was a packet of Oreos that his fingers found first, and he tore into it with his teeth, other hand tapping frantically to compensate for the loss of its partner.

Yes, truthfully, Monty Heller could simply have phased through the thick walls of the apartment block they were raiding, but he refrained for a number of reasons. First, while he could easily get inside, allowing his brother to do the same would prove a more difficult task, and when it came down to the hilt, the plumper Heller sibling didn't have the guts to go through with the theft on his own. Also, there was the issue that Tristan wasn't even aware that Monty had any powers beyond the ability to annoy extensively with an ample helping of negativity and sarcasm. Sure, the X-Gene was, obviously, genetic, so did that mean that Tristan might also experience some kind of power? It wasn't limited to Monty's own gifts - New York seemed to be teeming with mutant activity, if the news reports were anything to go by. How would Tristan respond?

"Mm. These are good." This out-loud comment was directed at nobody, but complimenting the tastiness of the Oreos that were currently being crunched between his teeth. Licking away a couple of crumbs that had become caught at the side of his mouth, Monty grinned widely as his laptop signalled his achievement. One penthouse was about to get a rude intrusion. Twisting a little, Monty couldn't help but feel a little smug. Well, extremely smug.

"Besides, big brother, how many highly advanced security systems have you hacked in the last twenty-four hours? I'm on three."

[Tristan Heller]

Tristan rolled his eyes. Now was hardly the time for his brother to be bragging; besides, he did enough of that anyway. At this particular moment, Tristan was far from in the mood for it; it was only the strange burning sensation in the tips of his fingers that settled his mood. Frustrating as his younger sibling might be, and tempting as the prospect seemed, now wasn't really the best time to set Monty on fire.

"Just shut up and hurry up," Tristan muttered, adding a belated and sarcastic "Chip," to the end of his statement; the childhood nickname that Montgomery Charles Heller had always abhorred. A dislike for their given names was something that both brothers shared: John Tristan Heller - the Third - had been named for his father, and his father's father. A cousin or two had also been given the honourific: the abundance of Johns in the family made for a very confusing household, particularly when there was a reunion going on. Since birth, Tristan had been known as such to avoid confusion, save for the numerous occasions where his full name was used as a weapon by his father in the midsts of a good telling off.

Snaring one of the Oreos from his packet amidst a volley of disgruntled glares from Monty, Tristan crunched away in relative silence as his brother set about outsmarting the security system that was separating them from their quarry. For a moment, the former Army Pilot considered the irony: despite his vast - and often mentioned - genius, it turned out that the only thing Monty could reliably outsmart was a computer system. His people skills were somewhat lacking, to say the least.

Tristan on the other hand didn't have that problem; his computer skills were a match to his people skills, leaving him completely inept in any situation that didn't involve shooting things.

A shout of triumph heralded Monty's success in the battle of whits against his silicon opponent. A muffled bleat came from the locking mechanism, followed by the satisfying clunk of security bolts being withdrawn. Swallowing the last of the Oreo, Tristan patted his brother on the shoulder a little more firmly than he perhaps would have liked, and dropped a hand to the tazer holstered to his thigh. Monty had insisted that his participation was conditional on the absense of lethal weapons, and Tristan knew from experience that a good tazer was a lot less messy and time-consuming than cracking people over the back of the head with a blunt instrument.

Rising into a crouch, Tristan edged over to the doorframe, pressing his back against the slightly damp concrete. He shot a look across to his brother, and pressed a finger to his lips. Reaching up for the handle, he gently pulled the door open a crack. He pressed an eye to the thin strip of light that appeared, scanning the dimly lit corridor for any signs of movement.

Satisfied that they weren't being observed, he pulled the door open a little further, and reached for the radio strapped to his belt. Fiddling with his collar, he inserted the earpiece into the relevant orifice, and checked that the subvocal microphone that his brother had provided was firmly secured. He dropped his voice low, barely audible. "Cameras?"

Monty nodded, for once keeping his mouth shut. Tristan drew in a breath and released it slowly, pulled the door open enough to allow his ingress, and crept inside.

[Monty Heller]

The real game starts here.

With an excited grin, Monty slipped on the headset and adjusted the tiny microphone so it was almost touching his lips. In this manner, he could communicate with his brother in little more than a whisper, and less were their chances of being detected. Although just as fast, his typing was seemingly quieter than before, his purpose this time to patch through to every security camera in the building which, despite the crudeness of the images provided, would be enough to allow him to warn Tristan of anybody likely to find him before he even went near them.

For example, the security guard that had just emerged from the nearby restroom. He dutifully informed Tristan in as hushed a tone as he could, feeling his heart beginning to race. All this excitement ...

Better not risk it. What else did I bring to eat?

Again, Monty reached into his bag, this time extracting a Mars bar, which was torn and bitten into with impressive speed.

"What are you doing?" It was his brother's voice, confused by what were apparently loud chewing noises. Monty swallowed and licked stray crumbs of chocolate from around his mouth.

"I gotta eat," he explained, feeling somewhat irked by Tristan's ignorance, "I'm diabetic, remember? I could die at any second."

It was something of an exaggeration, but it was not in Monty's nature to be terribly modest, much unlike their sister. Pippa ...yes, she would definitely disapprove of what her mischeivous brothers were up to now. Even more so, since Monty had set himself up well for the future, with a well-paying job (although nowhere near Pippa's ridiculous salary) and a spacious, comfortable apartment. In fact, the only thing he really lacked, as his aunt often reminded him over weekly phone calls, was a wife. But a wife - no, the presence of any female he was romantically involved with - would just cause problems. Women wanted attention, pampering, and babies. Besides, he was happy being a bachelor, mainly because he could indugle in as many bachelor-like habits as he liked.

Another bite of the Mars bar proved to be ill-timed as he struggled to mumble through at Tristan: "Quickly - hide! There's a guy coming towards you on those stairs!"

[Tristan Heller]

Tristan winced, biting back an involuntary curse. He'd hoped to make it all the way to their objective without running into anyone. He swept his gaze around him, eyes falling on the open stairwell from where the guard was apparently approaching. His teeth grated against each other as he realised that the stairwell ran in both directions.

"Which way?" he breathed, still managing to squeeze some of his frustration into his words, and silently cursing his brother's inept descriptions. "Up or down the stairs?"

"Down!" Monty's voice hissed in his ear. "Down the stairs!"

Tristan threw himself into the other half of the stairwell, pressing his back against the wall as the security guard's footsteps - surprisingly light, given the baggage the guard was carrying around his soggy midsection - moved past him and off down the corridor. Tristan remained painfully still, hardly daring to breathe as his potential captor retreated.

"All clear!" Monty's voice announced into his ear, annoyingly loud. Tristan resisted the urge to shout out a knee-jerk insult and, waiting for confirmation from his brother that the path was clear, made his way carefully up the stairs to the floor above.

One floor passed; after a brief check of the security cameras by Monty, he ascended several more. His footsteps echoed around him, far louder than he would have liked despite his best efforts. Gripping the tazer tightly in his fingers, he felt painfully naked, particularly having glimpsed the far more lethal weapon that the guard had been carrying as he passed. He didn't doubt that he could squeeze off a shot faster than they were able to, but he had no desire to find out what happened when you tazered someone with a gun in their hand.

Finally reaching the eighth floor, Tristan stepped out into the barely distinguishable corridor, and swept his eyes from side to side. "I'm opposite 803," he said softly. "You got that floor plan for me?"

[Monty Heller]

"Is Dad humourless?" Monty smirked at his own ingenuity. Usually, his own humour manifested in sarcasm of the most extreme manner, but this time, he had managed something that he had his brother could both identify with. It was like they were boys again. Almost. "You need to head to the middle of the corridor - there's a door on the left - wait, that's your right."

As he watched his brother follow the directions, Monty licked around his teeth, seeking the last remnants of the Mars bar. Already he was hungry again, but right now he had to put that off. The most cruical part of their operation was approaching. Or rather, Tristan was approaching it.

"The door should be unlocked." Tristan tried it - and it was. "Now - go up the stairs. All the way to the top ..."

The only camera now was at the top of the stairs; Monty waited for his brother to appear, fingertips tapping against his lips. Now, the excitement had faded into nervousness, and the anxiety was growing at a quicker pace than Monty was used to. Tristan still hadn't appeared yet; Monty's eyes flickered to the camera that showed him the corridor his brother had just left. Tristan had closed the door behind him - that was good.

Where is he?

As if on cue, Tristan popped into view on the relevant camera. Monty let out his breath in a stream from between pursed lips; he'd only just realised that he'd been holding his breath. On-screen, Tristan clamped a hand over one of his ears.

"Don't do that!"

"What? Oh, sorry." Monty paused to scratch at his head before delivering the next set of instructions, "Once you get through that door, there'll be no more cameras. I'll keep checking the ones nearby, but you're going to have to find what we need on your own." His heart rate was going up - and he needed more food. Truthfully, he was more worried about himself than his brother - partially selfishness, and partially because he was confident that Tristan's military training would keep him calm in this situation.

Monty's hand was back inside his shoulder bag, digging around for more food, his eyes glued to the screen. He checked his prize briefly before opening it.

Fizzy sweets. Lots of sugar. Good. No hypo.

"Good luck, Tristan."

[Tristan Heller]

Tristan rolled his eyes, and issued a brief wave towards the last security camera, before carefully opening the relevant door. It was a fire exit, much like the various others he'd been climbing up, but unlike those this led to only one place: the penthouse suite atop the building. Therein lay his quarry; unfortunately there were all manner of security measures between there and here. Monty was adamant that he would be able to disable them all without a hitch, but even so - despite his usual distain for a reliance on luck, Tristan knew they'd have to somehow muster as much as possible.

Quietly as he could - finally having found a use for his Army-given skills that didn't seem to translate all that well into any other aspect of civilian life - Tristan allowed the door to open a little more, muscles of his arm straining against the fire door's closing mechanism as he tried to pull against it in his current crouch. Slipping through, and using his back to gently ease the portal closed behind him, he scanned the stairwell around him. No cameras. This guy must like his privacy.

Beginning his ascent, Tristan crept up the stairway, attention and taser constantly aimed up and ahead. The stairs bent around once as he reached the midway point; he paused there a few moments, barely breathing before allowing himself to peer round. Until now, he hadn't realised how subconsciously reassuring the constant presence of his brother watching his back had been.

Finally he reached the summit, and another door. Apparently for further privacy, the owner had chosen to cover the window inserts that decorated the doors on lower floors. Tristan reached for the handle and pulled gently, but it resisted. Beside it, a key-card slot loomed, an ominous red light glowing on it. "I've got a locked door, Monty," he hissed into the microphone.

"Yeah, yeah," Monty replied casually; from the sounds that accompanied his speech, he was eating again. Damn him and his incessant hunger. He'd probably come up with some bogus excuse like diabetes or somethng; as far as Tristan was concerned, it was just a lame excuse for his slightly rotund physique. Despite his numerous, irritating attributes however, Monty apparently knew his stuff. Within a few seconds, the red light turned green. From his tone, the brother apparently had a smug grin on his face. "What did I tell you? Easy."

That prompted Tristan's eyes to roll again, but now was hardly the time to engage his brother in their usual playful bickering. Levering the door open, breath trapped in his lungs, Tristan peered through the crack that was produced. Clear. He pulled the door a little further, widening his field of view. He spotted the elevator, which apparently hadn't been a viable point of entry, for a long list of reasons that Tristan didn't entirely understand; through a combination of his perspective and the slightly distorted reflection on the polished doors, he discovered no apparent signs of occupation in the room. Stepping through and rising into a half-crouch, taser pointed towards the floor, he moved near-silent into the Penthouse.

A quick sweep confirmed that the suite was unoccupied. Monty had already hacked the guy's schedule at his work computer, and knew that he was busy at some kind of dinner / meeting type function, but even so Tristan had been apprehensive. Plans changed, people were delayed, people met young attractive women at parties...

Content that he was alone, Tristan tucked the taser back into the leg holster he wore, and stepped over to the man's computer. Settling down into the swivel chair waiting ready in front of the desk, Tristan reached for the mouse, and waggled. Nothing happened; a belated glance at the box / tower thingy confirmed that the power wasn't on. Figures. "I'm at the computer," he said quietly into his headset.

"Good." Monty sounded more impatient than impressed. "Next, you'll need to to remove the harddrive."

"What?" Tristan hissed, eyes widening in surprise."

"Remove the harddrive," Monty replied, calmly.

Tristan growled. "Even if I knew what one of those was; I thought you said you'd be able to hack this thing. Can't I just -" He trailed off, gesticulating vaguely. "- email the files to you, or something?"

Sarcasm soaked Monty's reply. "Oh, sure. Because emails are totally impossible to trace, and will never lead back to us..."

Another growl. "That's not helpful, Monty."

The younger brother sighed. "This guy no doubt has numerous layers of security protecting his machine. Assuming that you could break through the initial password and log on in the first place, the files we're looking for are copy-protected, more than likely; battering down that amount of protection would take ages. If we take the drive with us, we can deal with it all in our own time."

"Fine," Tristan muttered, surrendering. "What do you need me to do?"

"Remove the cover from the main tower."

That was simple enough. Tristan grabbed the relevant piece of computer, and tugged. A nest of cables came with it, but some brute-force yanking managed to disconnect most of them. One protested - a fat white thing, with some weird little screwy things at either end - but pleanty of waggling and tugging managed to snap that one free as well. Flopping the box onto its side on the carpet, Tristan knelt down beside it, and produced a pen knife from his pocket. He galanced at the screws on the casing, wondering if the Swiss Army had provided him with the relevant doodad, but ultimately gave up and settled for using one of the larger knife blades. Four screws later, the side cover lifted free. "Done," he called to his disembodied computer coach.

"Okay. The harddrive is probably mounted towards the front of the tower. It'll be a long, thin box, probably metallic, with a bunch of cables connected to the back of it."

"There are lots of metallic boxes with cables in the back, Monty," Tristan growled.

"Find the CD drive!" Monty shot back, frustrated. "You know what one of those is, don't you?"

Tristan seethed. "Yes," he muttered back, finding the appropriate device.

"Look below."

There, nestled in some kind of cradle built into the framework of the casing, was the device in question. In fact, there were two, but he wasn't in the mood for any more hassle trying to work out which is which. I'll bring both, he decided. "What now?"

"Unplug it, unscrew it, and get the hell out of there."

That seemed simple, although some of the cable connectors turned out to be somewhat reluctant to be pulled out. Already far too frustrated for this kind of thing, Tristan set about them with his knife, clearing the tangle of wires from the back of both devices, and then setting about the screws that held them in place.

* * *

Down in the foyer of the appartment buildings, a rotating door moved into place, allowing the passage of its occupant into the interior. Striding calmly across the polished stone floor, the suit-clad Eric Winters - highly successful career investor and former school friend (and bully) of Monty Heller - offered a smile towards the night security guards.

"Evening, Mr Winters," one of those guard greeted, giving Eric a few precious extra seconds to try and pull the man's name from somewhere in his subconscious.

"Evening, Glen," he replied, with a nod of recognition, eyes flicking towards the other. "Evening, Steve."

Steve smiled at having his name remembered; he was fairly new, but apparently Mr Winters made the effort to get to know the people that ensured his penthouse suite was safe and secure. Apparently, his Christmas bonuses weren't that bad, either. "Party finish early?"

Eric chuckled. "I didn't like the talent," he jibed; if there was anything larger than his reputation as an investor, it was his reputation as a womaniser.

"Better luck next time, eh?" Glen chimed in, laughing along.

Eric's eyes waggled as he reached the lift, and thumbed the button. "We can only hope."

[Monty Heller]

Tapping his fingertips against the area on the laptop not filled by a keyboard or screen, Monty listened intently; the soft noises his earpiece was transmitting assured him that, for the meantime, Tristan was hard at work removing the harddrive.

Casually, Monty swept his gaze over the screen again, noting the tiny changes that the cameras displayed: the guards moving around, patrolling their designated pathways - which didn't include the crime scene he and his brother were creating - one resident leaving, presumably for a night out, given her attire and ...the tall, proud form of Eric Winters entering the elevator.

Oh, no. "No, no no no no no." Monty's hands attacked the keyboard, isolating the feedback from the camera in that one elevator, studying it closer. Of course, he was older, richer, but still the same grinning, sadistic adolescent that Monty remembered from his dormitory days. The sight of Eric, so at ease as he always had been in school, especially prior to his torment of the youngest Heller sibling - obviously, his family hadn't had the same impact and influence back then as it did now - sent chills rippling down the length of Monty's suddenly curved spine as he hunched over the screen. Nothing had changed; that man still frightened him.

Dimly, he was aware of his brother's voice growling in his ear: "What is it, Monty?"

"Oh, uhh," Stammering was something Monty hadn't done since his second year in boarding school - it was a habit he had had beaten out of him. He fought to clear his head, his eyes still trained on the image of Eric Winters. Of course, he had picked the man specifically for this sting; a sneaky payback for the damage that the senior boy had done. Of course, Winters would never know it was Monty Heller who had organised the invasion of his penthouse and ripped the harddrive from the computer, containing information that Winters would pay anything to keep hidden ...

"I said, what is it?" Tristan's voice was not threatening, just urgent.

Monty fought to keep his voice regular, "There's a man in the elevator, going up."

"And?"

"It's his penthouse." The urgency and adrenaline was flooding his system, spiking hunger grumbles from his stomach. Finding his focus, Monty lowered his voice into the most commanding tone he could achieve: "You have to get out, now."

Every second counted. Winters was heading towards the penthouse, drastically cutting away the time that Tristan had to escape. The escape routes were limited; out of the door he had come in by, out of the window ...

His heart racing, Monty threw his head back, looking up at the building. He could barely see the top of it. If I try to get up there, I'll just fall back down. But ...but I have to do something --!

Decision made, Monty slammed the laptop closed, thrusting it and the accompanying equipment unceremoniously into his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. He turned to the door, gripping the handle and found himself trembling. His voice shook in a similar manner, "Hang on, just - just wait there. I'm coming."

[Tristan Heller]

"You're what?" Tristan hissed into the mouthpiece, eyes darting frantically around the room. Most of his attention was still focussed on the instruction to get out; but there was no way he was doing that without what he came for. He cast an eye down at the half-unscrewed harddrive - at least, what he hoped was the harddrive. He could stay and unscrew it, but that would take time, and that was something he definately didn't have. Brute force might do it, but he didn't want to damage the contents; aside from the fact that it would mean a failed mission, it definately wasn't worth the earful he'd get from Monty about it.

There was only one option. With a grunt, Tristan heaved the ungainly device - a couple of inches too wide and too long to be quite convenient - and set off at a jog towards the stairs.

Every step of the fire escape came with the breathless panic that someone had arrived; reached the penthouse; found the computer - or rather, the carnage that Tristan had left in its place - and was already beginning their pursuit down the only obvious exit. Thanfully, he made it to the corridor without incident. That however brought a whole slew of new problems.

"I'm at the bottom of the fire escape," Tristan muttered, somehow managing to muster the sensibility to hush his tone. His brow twitched into a frown, and he fumbled with the computer against the wall, freeing up a hand to make sure that his earpiece hadn't come loose. "What do you mean on your way?" Tristan's face twisted into a scowl as Monty's voice replied. "No, I will not stay put - guards are going to be combing the building any minute now; I need you watching the security cameras." A brief hesitation. "It doesn't matter that you bounced a feed to your palm pilot, whatever the hell that means. I am not standing around waiting for you to drag your sorry, sweet-fattened ass up the stairs and -"

Tristan's tirade, at an increasingly loud whisper, was cut short by the crack of the upper door of the fire escape being thrown open, frantic words spilling down. "Oh, shit!" Tristan hissed, throwing himself around the corner. The source of the words appeared; the former soldier felt his breath catch in his throat as he struggled to avoid detection, eavesdropping on the owner of the Penthouse reporting the theft of his computer to security. Winters scanned left and right down the corridor, and thankfully - by some blessed miracle - picked the wrong way, heading for the fire escape to the next level down in pursuit of the thief.

Tristan let out a sigh, back slumping against the wall. Monty's voice finally chirped in his ear. "Yeah, I know," Tristan replied, peering around the corner to check the corridor. "We knew the guards would trigger the silent alarm as soon as they found out; that's why you're hooked in to the security mainframe to stop the alert before it makes it through." A deathly silence followed. "You did stop the alert before it got through, right?"

[Monty Heller]

The first thing that Monty's quivering eyes lay on made his panicked heart sink. With it came the dread that accompanied the onset of a hypoglaecemic fit, creeping at him like a hungry shadow. How had he not eaten enough already to ward that off? Perhaps it was just the fear. Or perhaps it was the prospect of having to climb so many floors unaided.

Stairs. Lots of them.

Monty shrank back against the nearest wall, his back firmly pressed against its cold smoothness, shrouding himself in the dimness the corner provided. He would stay here until he heard more from Tristan, and think of exactly what he was going to do. The elevator was not an option; an all-seeing camera clung to one of the upper corners, and it was likely occupied by one of the guards who would not take kindly to the slightly rounded computing and programming lecturer taking a place beside him. Frantically his frightened mind grasped at strands, tiny hints of his limited options.

And then, the mind that the Massachusetts Institute of Technology had termed 'brilliant' landed on the answer like a hammer whacking a particularly elusive mole: Teleport!

Heading to the stairwell with footsteps that produced uncomfortably loud echoes, Monty leaned up against the rail and squinted at the possum-sized gap that ran the height of the tower. "There's no way --"

Not a chance he could see far enough to teleport all the way to the top. His attention returned to the stairs, and he focused his mind; the last time he had needed to teleport anywhere near this much had been some months ago - late for a lecture he had decided to take a risk and teleport into the moderately empty grounds below his fourth-floor office window, and make his way from there.

"I'm at the bottom of the fire escape."

Monty flinched; thankfully, it was only his brother, dutifully informing him of his progress. Pulling his palm pilot from his jacket pocket, the younger Heller brother made the necessary commands with technoloically althletic speed, his mouth spilling what he hoped were reassuring words to Tristan: "Don't worry - I'm on my way. Just ...stay put, okay?"

I can do this. Come on, Monty --

And he was at the top of the staircase he had been staring up at. Monty allowed himself a brief smile and mental back-pat - that was easier than I thought! - and turned for the next set of stairs, preparing to do the same again. And meanwhile, with the patience of a wife, he listened to Tristan's urgency-fuelled tirade.

Teleport, teleport - zip, zip, like the wasps he hated so dearly. Up and up, sparing little more than a wanting thought when he wanted to teleport next. Two floors, three floors - five ...and Monty Heller had to stop, something of a headache pinching at his temples. He leaned over, breathing a softly as he could despite the sudden exhaustion that gripped him. Quietly, he listened to Tristan's voice, hushed like his own panting: "That's why you're hooked into the security mainframe to stop the alert before it makes it through."

All fear of a hypo was gone, replaced by a chill that froze him to the spot. Uh no, formed in his mind, but the words failed to leave his lips. In the pursuit for intellectual heroics, he had forgotten. A silent alarm would have the building crawling with guards and members of a far more powerful authority in very little time. Hefting the shoulder bag, Monty nervously swallowed as Tristan spoke, "You did stop the alert before it got through, right?"

"--About that --"

Further communication was silenced as footsteps thundered in his direction; Monty pulled backwards out of the middle of the stairwell and slammed his back to the wall, squeezing his eyes shut as he sank back into the cement until only his face remained. Hopefully, there would be enough darkness that he would not be obvious to the person approaching that they would not notice a face in the wall ...

Oh, and that his rear end hadn't suddenly appeared in somebody's lounge, either. Monty's thoughts strayed briefly to his own flat, safe and cosy and tucked a few miles further into the city, high above the crowds but not quite expensive enough to qualify as the penthouse they were robbing. Monty narrowed his eyes - a habit that had subconsciously convinced him that by doing this he would be able to see better - in an attempt to discern just who was heading down the stairs at such a dizzying speed --

His thoughts died and faded in a second as the face of Eric Winters came into view, and Monty's blood turned cold. His eyes riveted to the man stood only two feet away, apparently catching his breath, Monty squeezed his insubstantial free hand into a fist, nails digging into palms, breathing hard in a workout of his own to try and control his panic. His abilities, even in school had only provided moderate relief from torment from the older boys. Eric, by no means a leader but an avid supporter, had been particularly talented at finding the chubby freshman wherever he hid; in broom cupboards, up in trees, behind giant statues of dead heroes rearing high on their horses, even under his bed ...always, always had Eric Winters found him.

As he would now: Monty's chest tighted as Eric looked around - had he made a noise, inadvertently, to attract his attention? - in anticipation of what was to come. I'm in a wall; he can't possibly find me because I'm in a wall, I'm hiding ...I'm safe because Tristan's just upstairs. I'm safe.

Gone; Winters had disappeared down the next set of stairs, apparently having captured enough breath to continue his chase. Feeling almost every muscle in his body relax, Monty stepped forward, out of the wall, his free hand digging into his hair. That was close.

*

"Tristan --!"

Monty fought to keep his voice under control; inside he was rejoicing at having found his elder sibling, outwardly he was well aware that Tristan would not appreciate such attention. His brother meant security; brave, tough Tristan had always chased bullies away from the softer, meeker Monty, and ensured that they didn't come back. That same older brother was now spilling curses that Phillipa would have clouted his ear for, apparently startled by Monty's sudden appearance at his side.

"What the fu -- Monty, how'd you get here?"

Now. Now would be a good time to tell his brother that he had had an active X-Gene since he was fifteen. That he had kept such a fact secret ever since from everyone around. ("Now that you're here," Tristan was saying, all military now that he had a complete array of troops, "what do we do?") Now would be an excellent time to inform the rash, impulsive John Heller III that his little brother could teleport and pass through walls. "Tristan, I ...I can teleport."

That sounded lame. Lamer than I ever imagined it would be ...well done, Monty. Lameo.

The elder almost snorted, "Yeah, right."

Monty's face fell. So much for honesty.

"Hey, you!" The shout, fortunately, masked Monty's squeal of fright at having been discovered, and the actions of the two guards starting towards them at breakneck pace did nothing to calm his nerves. Spying the computer in Tristan's arms - could he not even get the harddrive out? - Monty latched onto his brother's arm, indicating the metal shell with his eyes.

"Hold onto that."

Tristan scowled, clearly confused, "What?"

Screwing his eyes shut, Monty bundled all of his concentration on the power he had not yet informed Tristan of. He had accidentally phased with another person through a wall - and he knew from experimentation that it was no trouble to make an object phase along with him ...it was only a matter of a few years that separated that experience from this one. Promptly, the Heller boys dropped through the floor, to land more than unceremoniously on the floor of the flat below - a plush modern affair that Monty found he instantly disliked. Beside him, Tristan was complaining of pain and wanting to know just what the hell that had been.

With a sheepish smile, Monty let go of the older man's arm and offered up his best explanation, "Yeah. I can do that, too."

[Tristan Heller]

For someone who had just phase-shifted through the floor without any prior warning, landed unceremoniously on his ass with a computer slammed into his chest, and found out that his brother was a mutant with a slight variation on Hiro Nakamura powers - all at the same time - Tristan felt he was coping quite well. Coping translated as lying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, and muttering a mix of complaints, curses and general grumbling under his breath.

"Damn it, Monty," he muttered, shoving the computer off his chest. His brother was staring at him, no doubt expecting some sort of reaction. That was annoying enough as it was. He rubbed at the sore patch over his collar bone. "I'm a mutant too," he said with a groan, heaving himself to his feet with an effort. Monty instantly bombarded him with questions, but right now he wasn't in the mood to provide answers. "Get the damn drive out of the case, he instructed; still talking - thank god Tristan was zoning it out - Monty scurried over to oblige.

Then, several things happened, almost at once. One of the doors towards the back of the appartment opened, a tall, leggy blonde wearing naught but a striped white men's shirt standing beside it. Her eyes settled on Tristan, and she screamed. Attention distracted from what he was meant to be doing, Monty looked up and stared as the frantic woman contined her shrieking - despite Tristan's attempts to calm her - and slammed the door open. The door to the appartment burst open, a thunderous swell of shouting following in its wake. Guns and torches aimed themselves into the room. Monty - and the computer - disappeared into thin air. Tristan turned, eyes settling on the gun aimed towards his head. His shoulders slumped and he sighed, slowly raising his hands and interlacing his fingers behind his head. "Shit."

* * *

It was still dark outside - that meant that the hours Tristan had been pacing backwards and forwards in the cell still numbered somewhere below a half-dozen; beyond that, he couldn't be any more specific. No one had come to talk to him in a while; they'd taken a name - Tristan Heller - and run him through the system. They'd come back when nothing appeared in their records, and he'd ammended - John Tristan Heller, Junior - which apparently produced some results. Then things had gone quiet. No interview; no official statement taken. Just him, left pacing.

He sighed, and slumped down onto the uncomfortable bed that the cell provided; anything, just for a change of pace. Bad pun. Hands ran over his tired eyes, and grabbed at his rebellious fringe. His head fell sideways, gaze flicking to the steel bar. The same thoughts ran through his head. He could make fire. Fire melts bars. Could he make enough? How hot did it need to be? Random temperatures floated through his mind - the Army had things that could melt armour which burned at 6000 degrees. He glanced at his hands. Probably can't get that hot.

He looked up, attention focussed on the far wall, and stared. "Are you just going to sit there?" the disembodied torso of his brother asked.

Dumbly Tristan stood, slowly. "What are you -?"

Monty was all the way through the wall now, eyes darting around the room, looking panicked. If Tristan had to guess, Monty had probably consumed a fair amount of caffeine and sugar before talking himself into doing this. "I'm ... breaking you out of here!"

Tristan scowled, throwing in jerky gestures to emphasise his words. "Are you crazy?" He jabbed a finger out through the bars of the holding area. "They have security cameras!"

The younger sibling turned, staring blankly towards the wall outside. "Oh." It seemed his train of thought had derailed for a few moments. It leapt back onto the tracks though, changing direction towards annoyance. "Well, sorry for trying to rescue you," he bit back through clenched teeth. "I thought you might appreciate an alternative to going to prison!"

Monty's rant continued, but Tristan's attention shifted. He heard the jangle of keys; the clunk as one of the doors that secured the corridor to the cells was unlocked. A creak as the unoiled hinges creaked open. "Monty," he tried, attempting to halt his brother's tirade, but it had little effect.

"- you've always treated me like a baby; just for once I wanted to do something that would show you that I'm -"

"Monty!" Tristan hissed, grabbing the scruff at the front of his brother's jacket, and tugging Monty's face closer to his. The younger brother's eyes widened, then he too heard the sounds of the approaching guards. He swallowed. Hard. Tristan kept his cool. "I need you to shift out of phase again."

Panic crossed Monty's face, mixed with confusion. "What?"

Tristan didn't have time to waste. Throwing his shoulder into Monty's chest, he threw his sibling into a fireman's carry, and charged at the wall.

[Phillipa Heller]

With only the slightest of hesitations, Phillipa Heller reached up and knocked with a ringless hand at the door of her younger brother's flat. Being sandwiched between two brothers had made growing up an experience much like a spy movie; keeping secrets hidden and finding out those of her siblings, the fights and shouting matches in the back garden, the obligatory beach adventures, and reporting to the boss; their father, whom was now her boss for real. Of the three Heller children, Monty had always required some level of looking-after; as the youngest child with the fewest memories of their birth mother, he had been somewhat confused as to whether he should be asking their aunt, step-mother or even Phillipa for comforting when he tripped and hurt himself ...and yet it had been Tristan to pull their tiny brother to his feet, dust him off and tell him that scabs and band-aids proved to the other kids in the playground that you were tough.

Tristan had been the leader, Monty the enthusiastic follower, never hesitating to follow in his brother's path, whether they were uprooting plants in the carefully tended garden to bury landmines for incoming enemies, or sneaking into Phillipa's room to find her journal and plunder its secrets. Tristan had been the one strong enough to take whatever punishment their father dealt out - occasionally doing little more than batting an eyelid in response - and quick enough to shield Monty from the same.

And together, her brothers had been up to mischief again. Currently, their father, now more powerful than before - truly, Phillipa didn't doubt that he would incarcerate Tristan at the first instant - was unaware of the current situation, and Phillipa, his most devoted child, was planning to keep it that way. In fact, that was the only reason she was stood outside the door of a spacious, modern flat at three-fifteen AM, feeling barely presentable in the jeans and chocolate coloured shirt she had thrown on upon receiving the call an hour or so earlier.

And she had a court trial tomorrow. Would she even be able to concentrate?

The door rattled - Finally, Phillipa thought - and cracked open to reveal the quaking form of her younger brother, who spoke with voice to match, "H-hello?"

"Monty, it's me. Let me in."

"Pippa?" She had almost forgotten her childhood nickname, "Oh, uh, okay." The door closed - more rattling as Monty liberated the door from the catch-chain - and re-opened to allow her entry. Immediately Phillipa's hand reached out, searching the adjacent wall for a light switch. Moments later, the room became illuminated by a single set of lightbulbs affixed to a bar in the ceiling. Seeming to sense her disapproval, Monty offered, "They - they're not very cost-effective."

"Actually, I was wondering why you were creeping around in the dark."

Monty's face creased into an affronted expression, "What? I was sleeping."

"Fully clothed?" Phillipa arched an eyebrow, arms crossing as she watched her brother crumble under her gaze. True to form, he was being a terrible liar. One of the few skills that Tristan had failed to teach him effectively. She stifled a yawn, and decided immediately that it was not worth the precious minutes she could be using to sleep, "Look, Monty, I know Tristan got arrested tonight. I also know he escaped - and that you helped him."

"Pippa? What --" Monty's expression faulted, and he shuffled his feet, looking at the floor, "I ...uh, I need to eat."

As he hurried to the kitchen, scratching at the back of his head, Phillipa followed, her flat shoes making little noise on the carpet below. A twinge of sympathy tugged at her chest as Monty shielded himself behind the open door of the fridge, taking far too long in deciding what he wanted to eat. "Monty, I don't like this any more than you do."

"Why?" He voice was slightly muffled - perhaps he was eating after all - "because it'll ruin your perfect reputation?"

A hurt frown, "No, because you're my little brother - and I love you."

At this, Monty's head reappeared around the fridge, his eyes widening, "You do?"

Crossing the space between them, Phillipa captured her brother in a hug and held him tightly, feeling a hand patting nervously at her back. In her arms, he was trembling, and it sent needles into her heart. She stepped back, a hand resting on his cheek, the same way it head been when they were children, and he had sought a hug from her after having a bad dream. "I don't want you to be in trouble."

Monty ducked away, head and shoulders disappearing into the fridge again, and reappearing with a plate in hand, upon which sat a slice of cheesecake. He moved further into the kitchen to find a fork, and Phillipa leaned up against one of the counters, fighting her urge to ask for some. Her diet would be ruined by just two mouthfuls. How does he eat that? Does he know how bad it is for him? ...Or maybe he just doesn't care.

"I watched the footage from the holding cell. ...Why didn't you tell me you could do that?"

Monty seemed dumbfounded, a forkful of cake halfway to his mouth, "Do what?"

"Walk through walls."

There was a short silence, broken only by Monty chewing at the biscuit base of his late night treat. The fork hovered over the now cornerless slice, ready to take another piece. He opened his mouth to say something, faltered, and tried again, "L-look, I didn't ...I didn't think you'd ...well, uh ..."

"All right, stupid question."

Another forkful, the cake quickly swallowed, "What do you want? A confession?"

"I want those charges dropped." It was a struggle to keep her voice even; though Monty had followed Tristan in pranks, he had never resorted to something criminal. "I need that computer back."

Monty blinked, almost dropping his fork in surprise, "That's it? They'd get dropped?"

"I'll pull some strings."

"The computer's in the lounge." Monty gestured with the fork, quickly loading it with more cheesecake, "With the harddrive. I haven't taken anything off it." Another mouthful. "You sure you can do this?"

Phillipa nodded, suddenly finding herself too tired to summon words. She ran a hand over her eyes, then pressed at her temples with thumb and forefinger, massaging them gently. The plate clattered against the worktop; Phillipa looked up in time to be hugged tightly against Monty's chest. Her brother breathed noisily, "Thank you. Thank you, Pippa ..."

"It's all right." Phillipa stroked at his hair, dark and fine, quite unlike the thicker hair she and Tristan had inherited. "Everything's going to be all right."

"...Wait." Monty drew back, his eyes meeting hers, suddenly total seriousness. "You can't ...you have to drop the charges against Tristan too!"

As his eyes nervously darted towards his bedroom, inspiration struck. "He's here, isn't he?"

"No, Pippa - wait!" Futilely, Monty made a grab for his sister as she headed towards the closed door of his room, blonde hair swishing with the force of her stride. Stumbling after her, he whimpered as she knocked on the door - "Tristan? Tristan!" - and proceeded to open it. As she gasped, Monty rushed to her side, peering into the room.

It was empty.

The window lay ominously open, curtains wafting the chilly night breeze. Taking in a deep breath, Phillipa released her hold on the door handle, running her other hand through her hair. Meekly, Monty rephrased his request, "Can you drop the charges against Tristan ...please?"

Phillipa's gaze was concentrated on the window - So close - as if wishing that Tristan would jump back through it. Did she miss him? Did she want to make sure that he was all right - some burning maternal instinct to look after both brothers as well as she could? She had written him letters during his time in the army, hoping for replies for some shred of evidence that he was healthy and doing well. And he had disappeared, disowned by their father's hand ...and she had missed him then.

"Fine."

Turning on her heel, she closed the door behind her, Monty scurrying to keep up as she headed for the mangled wreck of a computer lying on the lounge floor. "I'll take this back with me tonight. It'll all be cleared up soon - okay?"

Tonight was a night for inspiration, it seemed, as Phillipa's tired eyes fell on the population of wires, monitors, towers, keyboards ...Monty practically had his own workshop in this flat. Straightening up, she folded her arms, turning to fix Monty with a stare under which he cowered. "In return for dropping the charges against Tristan, I want you to do something for me. A new branch of the NYPD has been commissioned by the DA's office - that's Dad to you and me - which deals specifically with mutant-related crimes."

Monty pouted, "I'm not being the first on your records."

"No, you'll be among the first on our personnel records. We need an analyist, somebody with technological skills. And you're a mutant ..." Phillipa smiled, "Monty, you're perfect."

A small smile on the brother's face, "...I kept telling you so."

"Is that a 'yes'?"

"It's a yes." Monty's shoulders slumped; the University might not be too happy with this sudden shift. He had third years wanting help with their dissertations, first-years wanting off the course because it was too difficult ...

"I'll call you later this week." Phillipa was hefting the computer under her arm, resting it against her hip. She planted a quick kiss on his cheek, and made for the door, which Monty opened in time enough to appear something of a gentleman and allow Phillipa to speak her last remark, "And Monty - don't ever do that again."