Bree absently scratched the velvety soft ears of the black cat beside her, letting the rumble of the purr reverberate through the motel mattress soothe her. Stretched out on her belly, propped up on her elbows as her legs slowly, almost lazily, swung up and then down, she might have seemed more a teenager than a grown woman, reading intently through the latest issue of [i]Seventeen[/i] or [i]Glamour[/i]. 

And though undeniably handsome, the man she studied went well out of his way to stay under the radar, avoiding any notice, any attention like the plague. The surveillance photos spread out before her, her free hand thoughtfully tapped one, and then the other, as she studied the printouts for the hundredth time at least, burning that face into her memory.

The pictures were black and white of course, but Bree's gaze saw those green eyes anyway, whether she would or no. She saw those eyes as she stared at the photos, some shitty cable show droning on in the background like white noise in this no-name motel. She even saw them when she closed her eyes at night, praying for no dreams and too afraid taking any of the drugs to keep them at bay would dull her edge. She saw then through the explosion of blood and bone on the other side of Victor's exploding skull, boring into her own. 

Sometimes those eyes were wide with surprise, horror - even fright - and sometimes they bled. Other times they were... Cold. Calculating and alien, inhuman somehow and Bree woke screaming, clutching at the scar on her chest.

The FBI had put her on 'mandatory personal leave.' The department psychiatrist was apparently unimpressed with her insistence they needed to find this green-eyed man, the man responsible for Victor's death she knew - and no, no he didn't pull the trigger, and no, she couldn't explain why no one else seemed to recall the guy, but damn it all he was there... HE WAS THERE! 

A few jokes floated around the office about taking a long vacation, lying about on a beach with some umbrella drink and a well-tanned pool boy...

Haha. Yeah. Hilarious. But if her bosses thought enforced leave was going to keep her still? Well, their first mistake had been not taking her badge and creds and gun. 

And the green-eyed man's first mistake had been thinking banks really were no more than an amalgamation of automatons, that if he pulled money just under the reporting limits no one would notice, nor report what he was so obviously trying to conceal in the amounts. It had been a serious long shot, checking the financials - and more than worth the face time. Bree had a name, though she somehow doubted it was his real one, and several of these slightly grainy photographs to hold in her hands, real physical proof of his existence, that the green-eyed man was so much more than some phantom fever dream. Almost, almost she was tempted to run these back to her office, leap on her boss' desk and shove them under his nose. 

Thankfully wisdom won out over smug satisfaction. Even in her excitement, she knew this was no real proof of anything at all. Bree could almost hear their voices in her head, the incredulous laughter and the condescending concern that made her teeth grate. 'Congratulations Agent Walsh, you've discovered a dark-haired man withdrawing money from his bank account! Great work there, but if you'd really like to impress us? See if you can convince him to join you on that goddamned beach you're supposed to be sitting on right now, and pay for one of those umbrella drinks? Oh, and yeah... Leave the creds and gun on your way the hell outta here... '

The green-eyed man was good. Really good. He understood all the principles of living off the grid, but one it seemed. 

Cameras. Videorecording was a fact of life, from the bank to the local 7-11 to Wal-mart parking lots to traffic cameras in work zones. She surmised he'd be staying in the States - this much cash, and no safe deposit box opened for passports and the like? Yeah, he was staying here, just like Victor had. And there probably wouldn't be any planes - the TSA had made customs and security a serious bitch. So bus then... Maybe trains? FBI creds and a shiny badge opened doors that would have otherwise been firmly shut in her face.

Bree remembered the first time she'd seen him again, not on still photographs but on some grainy surveillance video in the DC train station. And it wasn't his face - no, it was the way he moved, furtive movements yet quick and precise as he boarded the train to Chicago. Slowly, tentatively, one fingertip traced his outline on the screen, as if somehow, some way she might actually reach out to touch him now... 

Bree had almost lost him in San Francisco, the ache in her chest throbbing with panic she kept well-hidden, buried right alongside the growing obsession she knew damn well had long since turned 'unhealthy' - until the stolen car. The gas station surveillance video told her it was her green-eyed man who'd quit this shitty part-time job, and then inexplicably disappeared yet again, like some hunted animal. 

Which he technically was - but how could he know? Or was Bree only flattering herself, that she was the only one pursuing the green-eyed man?

The question simply... Didn't matter. Not anymore. Because the car had been recovered to the north, in Port Orchard. This lovely little town where she and Riddick had landed in this less-than-charming-but-affordable motel that accepted cats, their entire winding, twisting pursuit paid for out of her own savings.

"All the way across the country... Now north... What do you think Riddy? Making for Canada?" She took a sip of her bottled water, looking curiously at her cat with a small, tired half-smile.

For his part, the black cat only glanced up at her, serene amber eyes inscrutable as he purred.