Frank struggled to put one booted foot in front of the other. The days of almost no rest and very little sustenance were finally taking its toll. Even a 'Chosen of Gaia' needed food, water, and sleep eventually. Most of their scanty supplies had gone to Tabitha; as a true mundane, she had needed them most. The nearby helicopters rotor wash was throwing dust and dirt at him in a steady cloud as he stumbled along, their engines shrill. Somewhere behind him were Connor and Tabitha.

Frank wondered idly what he must look like at that moment. What they all must look like.

Probably like bandits, came the answer in his head. Surplus fatigues and a shirt borrowed from the Marya, caked and stained with sweat and grime. A ballcap whose provenance was completely impossible to determine now. A black and yellow shemagh scarf that was up around his mouth. The raggedy ChiCom chest rig on his chest completed the look. For as much as he and his compatriots insisted they weren't outlaws or terrorists, man, did they look the part.

Amita Kaur-Mitchell's gloved hand was a firm pressure on his shoulder, his hands flexcuffed behind him.

“Just keep your mouth shut, Frank,” she said into in his ear as they moved closer to the helicopters, her helmeted head bending close. “For once in your life, please, keep your fucking mouth shut until we can get you back to the Hall.”

Frank complied. The former members of D Cell had gathered together to assist Inquisitor Akinwumni in both his and former Inquisitor Grey's apprehension. They had come because one, if he wasn't infected, if he wasn't some rogue terrorist, they wanted to make sure he came back alive, and was treated fairly.

And if he was?

Then they wanted to be the ones to deal with him. There are some things only dear friends can do. And so for them, Frank kept his silence. Given how bone weary he was, it wasn't that difficult to do.

His fatigue addled brain struggled to remember some of the others. He knew Felicity Bane and Mihaela Bereza both had come to assist him with recovering the dead agents, as he had promised to surrender afterward. Of course, Grey had delayed that action. He was fairly certain he recognized members of Akinwumni's strike force, though. Not the men who were clearly French military, despite their lack of name tapes or flags. No, the Templar personnel. He knew them. Not Inquisition, either.

More old friends, come to save him from himself?

He thought he saw--or heard-- the experienced and sarcastic magi, Solomon Lancaster. He thought he saw the young, but fierce Yukiko Yoshida. He thought he saw the sword swinging Frenchwoman, Esther Maerthiel. He thought he did.

Somewhere, Grey was being led off as well, along with his retinue. When Frank had seen him, the man had looked...he had looked broken. Deflated.

Less than he deserved, given what the bastard had forced into motion. Fuck him.

And then he was in the helicopter, Amita on one side of him, the robust Nigel Warrick on the other, as ever looking like a sleepy bear dropped into a set of armor.

Frank's vision began to blur, and he felt himself listing.

“We've got you, Frank. We've got you,” he could barely hear from Amita as they gently secured him. The world faded away.

At some point he had been transferred from the helicopter to a plane. Cargo plane. Huge interior, uncomfortable metal chairs bolted into the walls, crash webbing. Dimly lit.

And noise. A solid wall of noise. So loud, and so constant, that his brain apparently had been overwhelmed and only accepted its presence now, as he awoke.

He looked around. In the center aisle were metal supports going from floor to ceiling, like pillars, supporting stretchers. Tabitha was on one of them, asleep, an IV in her arm. A man and a woman in Templar red-and-blacks watched over her. Medical staff of some kind.

Connor was in the rack of seats across from him, also asleep. Most of those involved in the raid were seated somewhere in the massive hold. Their guards, however, were not asleep. Frank turned his head slightly and saw that Amita was still on his right. She noticed the movement and looked over at him, still wearing her body armor and helmet.

Cee One Thirty? Frank mouthed above the roar of the engines. He received a nod in return.

“Most of the Inquisition people can't use Agartha,” Amita shouted back. “So we're 'borrowing' this from the Royal Air Force.”

Frank grunted, the sound lost in the ever present noise of the engines.

This Akinwumni had had the clout to summon up Templars from all over the Order, her personal retinue, French military personnel from their mission in Chad, and now this.

Damn. He didn't know whether he should be flattered or scared shitless.

Blinking a bit, Frank realized his thoughts weren't as muddled as they were before. Shifting his head slightly, he saw what he hadn't noticed upon waking up. He too had an IV. Supported on a purpose built spar, it was in his left arm. Donnie Mitchell was there keeping track of him. The stringy blond, also still in his gear, gave Frank a quick, tight grin.

“Seemed like a good idea,” commented Amita, seeing the object of Frank's attention. She patted his shoulder.

“Might as well go back to sleep, Frank. Long flight ahead of us.”

This time Frank slept more fitfully. The three-way fire-fight with the Atenists and Grey's retinue blurred and juddered alongside glimpses of older memories. The Barents Sea. Indonesia. London.

Home.

A frowning woman he was sure he knew asked him if the choices he had made were worth it. He recognized her from somewhere, but...

The bodies of the recovered agents tortured and slain by the Atenists tried to ask him if their deaths had been worth it. They tried, but no sound came out of their gaping mouths.

When next he woke, Frank Calhoun was in a cell.

He was lying on the bottom part of a bunk bed. He was washed, and clothed in a simple red and black set of workout clothes and socks, but no shoes. He didn't remember washing. Maybe someone else had done it for him. Maybe his brain was just trying to deal with too much and such a mundane thing wasn't worth noting now.

With a groan, Frank pulled his protesting body up and off the mattress, and placed his feet on the concrete floor.

The cell was spartan, but very clean. There was the bunk bed, with its simple sheets and thin blanket and a pillow that was barely worthy of the name. A single light set into a metal cage in the ceiling provided illumination.

And that was all.

Letting his eyes flicker from concrete wall to ceiling to wall, Frank exhaled, a slow, mournful sound, and rose to his feet. Frank padded over to the gray steel bars of the cell door and placed his calloused hands on them.

Cold and strong, and very, very real.

Well then. Here he was.

“Hello?” He called out into the corridor beyond the bars, just as austere and lit in a similar fashion, but by multiple caged lights. He could see other cells, but none were occupied at the moment. With his limited perspective, Frank couldn't tell just how many cells there might be.

Frank was rewarded with the sound of booted feet approaching. A solid looking man with a shaved head, wearing the deep jet and dark red of the Inquisition came up to his cell, sidearm holstered on his hip.

“Yes?” He asked curtly.

“I uh...where am I?”

“You are beneath Temple Hall, in one of the cell blocks the Inquisition maintains.” The answer wasn't delivered kindly nor in a hostile manner. The answer simply was.

Frank nodded a bit, flexing his fingers on the bars.

“Isn't there...I dunno, s'posed t' be someone t' come here an' tell me what I'm charged with...an'....all that?”

The guard blinked back at him.

“What? I'm kinda new t' this...”

The guard chuckled, or perhaps he coughed, it was difficult to tell given the similarity between the two expressions, but nodded back at him.

“It was to wait until you were awake. You have another visitor first, however...”

With that, the guard turned and marched crisply away.

“Hey! What visitor! Hey pal, where ya...”

But he was already out of sight.

“...goin'. Hey, could you at least bring me a glass of water maybe? Jesus.”

Frank moved the very short distance back to his bunk and sat down. There was no give to the mattress at all.

Rubbing his hands over his face, Frank wondered who it might be that had come to see him.

How many people even knew he was here?

The answer arrived escorted by a pair of Inquisition troopers, wearing the same composite armor in jet and vermillion as the first guard. Frank arched an eyebrow at who was walking with them.

“Good morning, Mister Calhoun,” said Tova Stolt.