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Little Boy Lost

by: R2

Disclaimer: The Invisible Man (2000 series) and its characters are copyrighted to the Sci-Fi channel and USA Cable Entertainment. All rights reserved.

**********

He was cold and wet. A light rain had begun to fall and he could feel the gentle drops leaving wet kisses on his exposed hands and face. Good thin, too, because it felt as if his entire body was on fire. At first, it had been more of a "pins and needles" kind of sensation, a prickly feeling extending from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. However, now that he was struggling toward consciousness the tingle had grown fingernails and then claws and now it was sporting razors, methodically ripping and tearing at his flesh.

As he struggled to free himself from the thick fog of unconsciousness, he had the vague recollection that something had happened, something that no one had planned on. He tried to hink back, attempted to awaken the memories of recent events, to remember what had taken place. What had knocked him out. The answers appeared to be buried beneath the fog too, out of his reach. It was infuriating.Above and around him he could hear several agitated voices; some were barking orders while others shouted out questions to which no one knew the answers. Gentle hands began probing him, he felt them move along his face and then down his shoulders. Their movements were quick, but precise. Experienced hands. They were rubbing some kind of salve on his exposed skin and he was greateful because it took the edge off the maddening burn.

A sudden, jolting arch of pain propelled him the rest of the way toward consciousness and he awoke with a gasp, blinking as drops of rain fell near his eyes."Agent Hobbes?"

He squinted and looked up into the concerned face that was hovering mere inches from his own. Rain droplets fell from her eyelashes and nose and there was concern evident in her wide eyes. He tried to smile, but he couldn't seem to get his facial muscles to cooperate. "Hey Keep," he managed, then he couhed slightly which sent a new shiver of pain through his body. "What the Hell happened?"

The Keeper frowned down at him as she began methodically applying the salve to his hands, Hobbes hissed and grimaced at her touch. "We were hoping you could tell us, Mr. Hobbes. It seems as if things are in a bit of an uproar."

The agent slowly turned his head to the side, ignoring the flash of pain and nausea that washed over him. Across from him, thick black smoke wafted crazily into the gray sky and several burnt drum barrells lay scattered across the damp ground. Agents in black suits scurried around the scene like so many ants in a sugar bowl.

Bits and pieces of events began to slowly fall into place, filling in the holes in his memory. He and Fawkes had been searching out the location of a supposed illegal toxic dumping ground. A favor for the boys at the Fish and Game Department, the fat man had told them.

They had tracked the activity to a private pier near a remote lake and had done some surveillance, Fawkes style. Hobbes blinked and looked toward the pier. It was now a smoking ruin, with jagged pieces of lumber spread across the landscape.Their location had been compromised, there had been a fire fight, then the explosion. Hobbes still didn't know what it was that had erupted, all he recalled was the sensation of being engulfed in a hellish embrace before being thrown into the air by an unseen force and then slammed viciously to the ground. He had blacked out then.

Hobbes blinked again and turned his head back to look at Claire, "Fawkes," he said, getting her attention, "Where's Fawkes?"The woman didn't meet his gaze as she continued to administer to his wounds.

"Hey," the agent said, grabbing one of her hands and forcing her to look at him, "I asked you a question."

The Keeper gently, yet firmly, disengaged Hobbes' grip, "I know you did," she replied, tucking a stray piece of wet blond hair behind an equally wet ear, "however I cannot give you an answer because," she paused to look away, "because I don't know."

The statement slowly sank in through the various levels of Hobbes' numbed mind before understanding dawned on him. "Wait a minute," he said, trying to struggle into a sitting position and giving up only when his brain sent him urgent messages that it wasn't such a good idea. "What are you saying? Are you saying that Fawkes .. is missing?"

Claire looked back at him, her face unreadable, "I'm saying that we found you first, Mr. Hobbes. The Official has several agents looking for him now. He may still be invisible," she said with an unconvincing shrug.

Hobbes began struggling to sit up again, this time ignoring the screams of protest from his body. He felt the Keeper place a restraining hand on his chest and he glared up at her through his haze of pain.

"Mr. Hobbes, Bobby, you need to lie still. You have second-degree burns on your face and hands as well as a variety of other injuries. You need to let me do my job."

"My partner is missing," Hobbes growled at her, "I'll be *damned* if I'm just gonna lie here."

"I already told you that there are agents looking for him right now."

Hobbes snorted in disgust as he shoved her hand away, his eyes blazing, "Those morons couldn't find their way out of a paper bag with the instructions written on the inside."

Claire was about to respond when a large shadow fell over them, they both looked up and into the grave face of the Official. Behind him stood the ever vigilant Eberts who was holding a large black umbrella, sheltering him from the light but steady rain. His grim eyes seemed to burn into Hobbes' brown ones.

"We have a problem," he stated matter-of-factly once he had gathered that the smaller agent was, for the most part, all right.

At Hobbes' and Claire's concerned looks, the bigger man produced a scorched black wallet and flipped it open. Inside was the burnt and charred identification and badge of Darien Fawkes.

***

Broken glass.

He decided that the insides of his shoes were filled with large, jagged shards of broken glass. That was the only way he could think of to explain why every step was torture.

He hefted the object he was carrying in his right hand and glanced down at it with mild surprise; it was a medium-sized black briefcase. Rather ordinary.

Why the Hell was he carrying it?

A ripple of pain wormed it's way down the length of his body and he had to stop to catch his breath. Even though it was raining, it felt as if his body were one large, raw nerve that had been doused in kerosene and set on fire.Vertigo took it's turn with him then and he groaned, watching the world swim before him.

What the Hell was going on?Something had happened to him, he tried to recall what it was but his mind was filled with angry, hissing static.

He glanced around him and saw a row of quiet homes nestled against each other on the opposite side of the street.

He began to make his way painfully across, his feet getting heavier and heavier with each laborous step he took. His head was swimming in molasses and the static seemed to be getting louder. He grimaced as another wave of pain shuddered through his broken body. He made his way up a carefully manicured driveway, a maroon SUV sat serenly off to the side. His breath was coming in painful gasps and large black circles were dotting his fading vision. As he neared the front door of the house, his knees decided they had had enough, and he collapsed.

He felt the hard, wet ground slam into his body and he groaned at the impact. He wanted to get up, needed to get up, he had to alert someone that he needed help, but his tortured body was slowly shutting itself down.

He lay his head back on the wet gravel, looked up into the gray sky and watched as it quickly turned to black.

***

"Sam! Sam, c'mon let's go, we're gonna be late!"

Barbra Stamper glanced out a nearby window and grimaced at the sight of the steady rain that was falling. "Of all the crummy days to be called into work" she griped as the hurried footsteps of her young daughter echoed on the second floor above her. She was just glad that the babysitter had agreed to watch Sam at the last minute.

Speaking of which, "Samantha Lyn Stamper! Now!"

Barbra stood at the base of the staircase, drumming her fingers on the wooden bannister and watched as her soon-to-be-five-year-old worked her way down as fast as her stubby legs could carry her.

Her agitated mood aside, Barbra had to smile at the sight of her daughter; she had recently begun to dress herself more and more frequently, and she certainly had interesting taste. Today, she had chosen a red polka-dot shirt, black stripped pants, blue socks and one yellow shoe and one brown shoe. Barbra shook her head as she grabbed her car keys, Sam would either grow up to be an artist or an out-of-work fashion designer.

"All set?" she asked her daughter, snatching her purse and umbrella from the dining room table.

"All set," the child echoed, giving her mother a wide grin.

Barbra took down a yellow rain slicker from the hall closet and hurridly stuffed Sam into it with one hand while reaching for the front door with the other. Snapping the last button in place, she threw open the wooden fixture and promptly dropped her car keys with a gasp of surprise.

Lying crumpled and unconscious in her driveway was a badly battered and disheveled young man.