“The past, like the future, is indefinite and exists only as a spectrum of possibilities”

Stephen Hawking

When Trials regained consciousness he was still on the floor where he had fallen. A pool of dried blood lay beside him, dry and sticky. His side, he knew, would already be sealed, a fresh pink layer of sewn tissue and growth-stimulated flesh staunching the bleeding, with marks of cauterisation where the nanites had rushed to prevent major haemorrhaging. Matterson was nowhere to be seen.

The sound of gunfire caught his attention. It was distant, coming from somewhere the other side of the building. Mostly single rounds, with the rattling of automatic weaponry cutting in at points.

He got unsteadily to his feet and strained to look out the window. It was the same scene he had seen the past several days, green and idyllic in the sunlight. It must be early afternoon, he guessed.

There... a black-clothed figure sprinted across a distant part of the gardens, followed by another. No, not black-clothing... body armour. Trials recognised the uniforms of the NOCS, the Special Forces branch of the Italian police.

Shit...

Even if they got him out, Trials knew that by now his face must be in circulation for at least the suspicion of a connection with the shootings at the villa where Mike had been held.

Out of the frying pan... he thought to himself.

Still, there was nothing he could do. The bars would hold him for as long as it took for the building to be taken. All he could do was wait. He wondered where Matterson was.

It only took a few tens of minutes for the sound of shouting to enter the hallway outside, the thuds of kicked-in doors and room sweeps drawing ever closer. He heard the handle turn in the door to his room.

It opened to reveal The General. Matthews.

"You..? How..? You son of a bitch." Trials threw himself in an unthinking fury at the bars, at the man standing the other side.

Matthews' face changed in comprehension.

"He told you, then?" asked The General.

Matthews' was dressed in the same gear as the Italian forces outside, though modified to be without insignia or identifying marks.

Trials ceased his futile struggles against the bars and fell back onto the bed, mentally exhausted, as Matthews' reached down into a front pouch and withdrew a set of keys.

"Your house keys?" asked Trials resignedly.

"Something like that," replied Matthews, as he unlocked the door. It swung open but Trials made no move to leave.

"We need to go, Trials," said Matthews' firmly. "I can only keep this off the books so long. Even my contacts don't go that far."

"Your contacts? You can't just... will someone into doing what you want?"

Some spirit returned to Trials as he spoke, and he stood up.

"I am not my son, Trials. He is... special. Far stronger than I could have believed. And far more evil."

"Ha!" laughed Trials grimly, "Evil? Is it really so simple?"

"He really did a number on you, my boy," Matthews' voice was soothing, but Trials glared resentfully at him.

"Once we get out of this, you have some explaining to do."

"And I shall," said the man Trials had known as The General.

They left while they could.