Chapter 2

The man was an indeterminate age, neither particularly young nor particularly old. He stood in front of a large glass window, sun streaming in and bathing him with a delicate light that almost seemed to make him glow. In his hand he held a small porcelain cup from which he sipped from time to time while staring at the grass and flowers of the garden beyond the window.

"Sir," the young woman said as she entered the room silently. She seemed to give some perspective to the man's age. She was young, mid-20's, and he was certainly older than her.

"He is away then?" the man asked, his cup held half-way to his lips.

"As predicted," the young woman replied with some pride. She was rather small and delicate, the man noted absently. Thin but not emaciated and still she looked ... odd ... all the same. It was her head, he decided. With her blonde hair curling out, it made her head look bigger than it was. "The traitor revealed herself and came to his rescue. There is still some slight danger with the extraction but almost all of the futures point to his eventual escape."

The man nodded with a melancholy sigh, never once looking at the young woman. He paused for a moment, his attention seeming on the garden outside. The young woman was nervous, wondering if her audience was over. She didn't know whether to remain or leave.

"And what of the traitor?" He asked finally, sipping his tea.

The young woman paused and when she spoke again her voice was sad. "That outcome is pre-determined, I'm afraid. She'll die during the escape. I see no future where she lives."

The man hung his head, his shoulders slumped. When he spoke again, his words were tinged with an overbearing angst. "Such a waste of life. Another soul's mark against my own. At what point do I lose myself? At what point do I become the monster?"

The woman said nothing, just twirled a lock of her long, blonde hair around her fingers; it was a nervous habit she'd had since she was a school-girl. She often played with her hair subconsciously when she was nervous and had nothing further to say. She, too, felt the weight of the young girl's death even though she had nothing to do with it. It was one of the hardest lessons she'd ever had to learn; she predicted the future, she didn't cause it.

There was another long, drawn out silence. The man just continued to stare out at his garden, never moving, the tea cup apparently forgotten on the saucer held in his left hand. Once again the young woman wondered if the audience were concluded but she dared not leave without his permission so she just stood there, waiting, her hand twirling a lock of her hair absently.

"Have we accomplished anything?" He asked finally, his voice quiet and his gaze still centered on the garden outside.

"We've tightened the odds," the woman replied hesitantly. "We've eliminated some of the nastier futures. It's still too far out to predict, however. We may have gained some slight ground but ... there is nothing concrete I can provide you with."

"So we're still subject to the Threat of Three, then?" He inquired quietly.

"Yes, sir," the young woman affirmed. "Nothing there has changed."

The man nodded, once again sipping at his tea. He made a face; the tea had grown cold. He looked back at the beautiful garden sitting outside his window, contemplating what was to come.

"You may go, Siobhan," he dismissed her quietly. "Please tell Mr. Bransfordt to cancel my appointments until after lunch. I do not wish to be disturbed."

In another place at the same time, a man sat reading yet another report that had found its way onto his desk. With a sigh, he looked up, his eyes searching his desk. For a moment he panicked, until he moved a large stack of papers out of his way to reveal a picture in a soft, bronze frame. He lifted the picture almost reverently, holding it in front of him.