(Were, let me know if anything needs changing!)

Katrina woke up very early the next morning, unable to fall back asleep no matter how long she lay with her head on the pillow. It seemed like her furry companion in the next bed over was not having such difficulties, but then, the lioness wasn't jet lagged.

Since there was no use wasting time lying awake, the young woman got up and made her way to the shower as carefully as possible, in case her roommate was a light sleeper. Hopefully the white noise of the water running wouldn't disturb her either. Carefully, Katrina grabbed clean undergarments from her own bag. Bleach white towels were already waiting, folded on the shelf over the toilet just like they were in countless hotels all over the world. Walking past the hand washing sink into the separated shower area, Katrina noticed that Sara had made herself at home on one side of the sink, leaving the other side for the illusionist's toothbrush and other toiletries she hadn't bothered to unpack before collapsing into the bed the previous day.

Among the lioness' possessions, the well used locket was carefully laid out with the thin chain arranged in a straight, orderly line. The jet lagged woman was struck with inspiration. Mending the illusion would be the perfect project for her sleepless morning. Carefully, she slipped the necklace around her own neck where it would be able to rest against her skin during her shower.

Permanent illusions, such as the one within WereCat's necklace actually needed regular maintenance to ensure that the illusion did not wear out. There was really nothing permanent about them, it was just easier to call them that in her own mind. In reality, they were normal illusions that were anchored to an object by a small bit of Katrina's own DNA, such as the small hair currently coiled inside this necklace. The illusion that was anchored there was no different than an illusion produced for a live audience, except for the fact that it was spread thinner, over a larger amount of time. The amount of time and energy that she put into anchoring the intended images onto an object determined how strong the illusion would be and how long it would last.

Generally the illusions were about half as strong as normal, meaning that someone who had practice seeing through her visual tricks would not need as much practice or concentration to see through to the reality. For someone like herself or Slate who were very well practiced with discerning reality behind the images, permanent illusions could look faded out as if they were only overlapping reality by a quarter rather than a half, which was the usual. She had found that by spending more time focusing her energy into the so-called permanent illusions she could make them almost as strong as the real thing, or even stronger, but it took so much planning, so much time, and so much effort all around that she hardly ever did it.

But back to maintenance. All of the permanent illusions required routine maintenance or touch ups to make sure that the original illusion didn't wear out. With a little more time and a little more effort, they were good as new again. Ideally, she could do this regularly, simply by touching the anchor object each time she met with its owner and concentrating on what the illusions was supposed to be like for just a few moments. In the end, all those moments would compile and leave her illusions strong and whole. It was easy with Slate's clothing illusion, since she saw him all the time. With Were, though, it was more difficult to schedule regular meetings and it left the poor lioness with cat eyes and hair poking out of her illusionary ears and Katrina with longer sessions of illusion restoration.

As she let the water run over her body, the locket rested comfortably against her chest. She cleared her mind of any thoughts and worries that might get in the way of her concentration. It was necessary to focus solely on the task at hand. Interruption from stray thoughts could ruin her concentration and cause inconsistencies in the image. For example, if she worried about how Slate was doing on his own back in China, Sara might very well end up with a slightly Hungarian nose... but only when viewed from a certain angle and in certain lighting. Her eyes may flash with baby blue when she was thinking deeply. Or her hair might end up with a certain tousled look that not even a comb could cure.

She focused her thought completely on the image of the blonde Sara that WereCat so wanted to be. She imagined her long hair cascading down her back, imagined it saying slightly as she walked, imagined the way it shone in the sunlight or reflected back soft candlelight. She remembered the amber lioness eyes and shaped them to look human, slightly almond shaped with crinkles at the corners when she smiled. There were small green flecks in them, because Katrina had thought it would be pretty. The flecks were imperfect, or at least not quite symmetrical, to account for imperfections inherent in human faces. As she ran the free bar of soap over her own body, she imagined every graceful curve of Sara's form, including everything between her toenails and the tips of her golden hair.

It was a good thing that the hotel didn't have a shortage of hot water.

Hours later the young illusionist had ironed and dressed in a professional yet feminine suit (one of only three outfits she had bothered to bring in her backpack), breakfasted at the continental breakfast buffet, and found herself waiting on the curb outside for her ride. When she had made the appointment she had originally thought she would be taking a taxi to the meeting. For some reason, though, she had received a phone call from an official sounding secretary letting her know that arrangements for her transportation had already been made and that she needn't worry about it.

Katrina wasn't sure what to expect, but it certainly wasn't a shiny black limousine pulling up to the curb in front of her. The young woman stepped out of the way so she wouldn't be blocking the way of whatever important person might be waiting inside.

No one stepped out of the passenger door of the limo. Instead, the driver's door opened and a man in formal attire climbed out and made his way to the passenger door. Of course, such rich and glamorous people in Washington D.C. would have a chauffeur. Katrina's family had one when she was younger, Hans, their butler, chef, chauffeur, and her friend. He had taught her how to make pancakes and so many other delicious foods and helped her on many a math assignment.

The chauffeur opened the limo door and smiled at the young illusionist who had skittered out of the way. No one got out of the car.

“Your ride, Ms. Dumonde,” he stated with a warm voice that was very familiar to her.

Katrina's jaw dropped open, luckily not quite far enough to scrape on the rough pavement. It would have been unbecoming to go to her meeting with a bloody chin. Then, recovering herself she squealed like a child and threw her arms around the well dressed driver, “Hans! It's been ages!”

“Just like old times, eh,” was his good natured response as he hugged her back. She was a lot bigger than last time he had seen her. She was still petite, but no longer a little girl.

Katrina, of course, insisted on sitting in the front seat of the limo next to the driver and the two of them chattered about school and cooking and cats and anything else they could think of. Just like old times.

Hans drove the limousine through the front gates of the white house and around the side to the garage. It wasn't quite a secret entrance, but it didn't involve the same tedious rigmarole that normal visitors would get. Certainly Katrina needed to pass through certain security checks, but somehow it didn't seem quite as scary when it was Frank Newton waving the electronic wand over her and Noin Mortman's nine fingers that typed the relevant visitor information into her small portable computer. Within minutes, the white house secretary was handing her a visitor's pass with her picture on it. Katrina smiled her thank yous and hugged both Hans and Noin goodbye before Frank ushered her away up a staircase that led, eventually to the oval office.

On either side of the door to the office stood official looking guards. Their name tags read “Percy Ferrel” and “Edward Song”. Their officialness was marred only slightly by small smiles as Katrina walked past through the door and into what was perhaps the most famous office in the world. She smiled back.

Someone closed the door behind her, and Katrina stood on the eagle crest rug in the center of the round room, with only a desk separating her from a handsome man whose sandy hair was just beginning to turn ashen at the temples, the President of the United States, Nigel Banks.

“Katrina,” the president smiled at her, “Welcome. It's so very nice to see you,” Nigel indicated an open chair. He himself walked around the antique Resolute Desk and sat in one of the less official chairs which was placed under the watchful eyes of Abraham Lincoln's official portrait.

“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. President,” Katrina couldn't help but use the fancy title at least once. Someone somewhere was bound to be watching these security tapes and it seemed like a good idea. Maybe she was just paranoid about video cameras because she couldn't do anything about them watching her. Then again, normal humans couldn't either, and it didn't seem to bother most of them.

“Please, call me Nigel. There is no need for formalities among old friends. Or rather, I am the only old one among the two of us, but really you can call me Nigel, since you've been doing it for over ten years now. Is that over half your life yet?” He was teasing her.

“Not quite, but getting close,” Katrina conceded and took a seat across from his. “And Nigel it is. It's good to see you again.”

Nigel sat back in his chair and crossed his leg comfortably, “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, young lady? Last I heard you were incredibly busy at that school of yours and didn't have time to come visit me.”

“Ah, yes. I've been working with the students on a service learning project. They are researching the refugee situation in China right now. Actually, for their midterm, they wrote you letters,” Katrina handed him the manila envelope that contained the seven short epistles. “I did want to talk to you about something, though. I was wondering...”

At that moment, Katrina's cell phone decided to ring. Most inopportune timing, that. Katrina shot an apologetic look at the Nigel.

“I'll just turn it off, sorry about that,” Katrina reached into her pocket and pulled out the offending electronic device. The caller i.d. Displayed the name of the caller automatically on the screen. It simply read “Dio”. The phone rang again while she was staring at the number.

“It's Zephyr,” came her unbelieving utterance.

“Go ahead and answer,” Nigel gave his permission, “I won't be offended.”

Katrina flipped open the phone before it could ring a third time.

(With special guest appearance: Zephyr, played by himself.)

“Hello, Zephyr? What's up?” She tried to keep her tone casual, as if he wasn't interrupting a meeting in the oval office.

Zephyr paused a moment before he spoke, "Who is this? Where's Antonescue?"

A small frown tugged at one corner of Katrina's mouth. She paused for an instant, slightly taken aback by his strange method of saying hello. “This is Katrina, I'm not sure exactly where he is.” Was it possible he dialed the wrong phone number? Why hadn't he recognized her, he had dialed her phone number after all. From the opposite chair, Nigel Banks gave her a curious look, then stood and moved over to his own desk so he could rustle through some papers and pretend not to listen. A bill from the House of Representatives about tax breaks for parents with mutant children had its pages rearranged into an order that made slightly less sense than before.

There was a pause, and then a slight note of surprise in Zephyr's voice that mirrored her own, "Katrina? Katrina Dumonde? Who gave you this number?”

The young illusionist was really confused now and hoping it wasn't showing on her face. She was still doing her best to present a facade of confidentiality for the air elemental, whom she was beginning to suspect had drank too much before dialing her number. What on earth or in the sky was he talking about?

“Yes,” she answered carefully, of course she was Katrina Dumonde, and probably would be for quite awhile, unless Slate got it into his head to propose. She paused for a moment and tried to phrase the rest of her answer in a way that wouldn't completely compromise Zephyr's privacy, “You gave it to me, ages ago. But you called me, is there anything I can do for you?”

There was another pause as the elemental seemed to weigh her response, "I gave it to you?- nevermind, I have a few issues to discuss with Hunter and my patience is running thin."

Katrina glanced over to where the sandy haired man was politely toying with his presidential pen, “Well, I've got Nigel here and I could give you Hunter's number if you don't already have it. What do you need, what's going on?”

Nigel's eyebrow arched at mention of Hunter's name walked casually over to where Katrina was still sitting. He bent and whispered, “Antonescue's out of the country and shouldn't be bothered right now.” That statement, of course, made Katrina wonder what sorts of delicate business her adoptive father was currently conducting. She could find out, but probably couldn't get the information out of Nigel. She was more likely to hear about it from Hunter himself, but only after the fact. There were, of course, other ways to go about getting the information, but she didn't have them at her fingertips at the moment.

From the other end of the line she heard an exasperated sigh, "Evans and I- wait what's Banks doing with you? Where are you?"

Katrina's brow twitched upwards. Why would he call Tris by her maiden name? Something was definitely odd about this situation and it was seeming less and less like a drunk dialing and more and more like Zephyr actually needed something, “We're in his office, discussing foreign affairs. But, what do you mean Evans? You haven't called her that for years. Oh- and Nigel says Hunter's out of the country on some sort of shady business that I'm not supposed to know anything about.”

Katrina gave an impish grin at Nigel and stuck out her tongue. She knew much more about Hunter's brand of shady business than most people, since she was so close to him. He, in turn, knew quite a bit about about her and her powers, but not as much about what she did with the money he gave her for her special projects. For the most part he seemed content to know that it went to help run the school she and Slate had helped to found. He did not know that the “staff development” money was channeled into other areas.

Nigel Banks shook his head as he wandered back to his ancient mahogany desk. Despite her grown up disguise, Katrina was still very much like the playful little girl he had met eleven years ago who liked to hang out in Mondragon Lab's break room, eat Neapolitan ice cream, and face off against Percy and Artemis at the ping-pong table. She was probably the only person in the country who could get away with sticking her tongue out at the president. Except for maybe the parasitic boss-man, though he probably wouldn't stoop to such immature antics. Nigel had a hard time imagining the serious minded vampire sticking his tongue out at anyone.

Katrina could practically feel the force of Zephyr's frown over the phone line, "Like hell he is, that bloody parasite... and I suppose Banks won't give me an exact location will he? Damn it, what about Ingram?"

Bloody parasite? Like he was one to talk, “Such language Dio! Anyway, I'm sure he won't tell you while I'm here. He probably doesn't even know himself. It's not like Hunter's got a curfew or anything. I mean, he's a little old for one.” What was it that he wanted anyway, and why did he keep treating her like a doormat in front of Hunter's stoop?

"Katrina, I don't know how much your aware of concerning Hunter but this isn't something I want you involved with, now do you know who or where Dr. Ingram is?" So that's the way it was going to be, was it? Screw stupid air elementals and their confidentiality. What did she care if Nigel and his white house staff knew what Zephyr was dealing with? They were all in the same pocket anyway.

Katrina rolled her eyes, “You don't always have to protect me Zephyr. I'm grown up now and I can take care of myself. As for Ingram, he's probably where he always is- in the lab. Not that it will help you, I don't think you're going to be able to find Hunter if he doesn't want to be found. It sounds like...” she was going to say in trouble, but changed her mind, “I mean, is there anything I can do to help? Do you want to come to DC and talk about it?”

It was becoming apparent that something was wrong, and it wasn't just that Zephyr was being rude. She just couldn't figure out what it was. She was trying to keep civil, but her patience was wearing and worrying about him wasn't helping. He was a big boy; what did he need Hunter for so badly, and why wasn't she good enough to help him? She certainly cared more about him than the pony tailed immortal did.

Another agravated sigh from Zephyr's end, "You've got a long way to go before you're old enough to look after yourself Kat and unless you've suddenly developed a healing ability I doubt you can help me much at the moment. I need Ingram because I can trust him to keep his mouth shut, now are you certain Hunter hasn't taken Ingram with him?"

Katrina felt like adopting one of Zephyr's trademark sighs herself, but she let the comment about her age pass without comment. It sounded like there were more important issues to deal with, “I have no idea if Hunter took Ingram with him. I'm not supposed to know about any of the shady business, remember? If you need a healer that bad, you should go to Pax and see Sebastian,” she was really worried now, “Actually, where are you? I'll call him and have him go to where ever you are.”

From across the room, Nigel gave a nonchalant shrug to signal he didn't know either. Then he went back to rearranging his freshly sharpened presidential pencils. He didn't show any reaction to the statement about the healer. That wasn't any of his business, most likely. But if he and Tris were expecting, he was sure he'd hear about it when they wanted to officially announce the news.

The elemental vampire sounded genuinely puzzled, "Pax? What is that a clinic? And who's Sebastian? Listen Katrina, this isn't something I can take to a public institution. If I could actually get in touch with the labs I would have taken Evans there already."

What was he playing at, why was he not remembering these simple details? With a slight tone of impatience creeping into her voice Katrina responded, “Pax is the school where I teach. Sebastian is the headmaster- he's a healer. What happened to Tris? And what happened to you? You're acting really odd, did you hit your head or something?” And why couldn't he take her to a hospital if she needed to go to one? “Tell me where you are so I can send you the healer you need for Tris.”

Nigel sat with a professional indifference, but Katrina wondered if he wasn't actually straining himself to hear Zephyr's half of the conversation as well. He certainly would never be absentmindedly spinning that globe if his brain wasn't preoccupied with something.

Disbelief dripped off of Zephyr's next words, "Katrina I'm in no mood for games, I'm fine but Evans could stand to have someone look at her, now if you actually know someone who can help I'm at my apartment in New York."

“Okay then,” her tone was just a bit snippy. She wasn't the one playing games and treating people like they were twelve again. “I'll send Sebastian right over. If you're going to pretend not to recognize him, he's the one with the white horn growing out of his head. Anything else? Because I'll need to hang up to dial him.” Red rover, red rover. Maybe she was playing games after all.

Zephyr's response was just as snippy, "Fine send him over, I hope he can do something.” As an afterthought he added, “In most cases an address is useful or do you have that as well?"

"I'll do that, and I know where you live, airhead," the conversation had devolved into a sibling spat and Katrina was not too mature to throw in an insult at the end. He deserved it.

"Well that's just great, here wait let me guess can you see dead people too?" Katrina's eyes narrowed and she glared, not at Zephyr, but at Abraham Lincoln. Her big brother wasn't there, so Abe would have to do.

“Haha, funny," it wasn't really. "Bye then," she snapped and hung up the phone.

“Sorry about that Nigel. I've got one call to make, but it should be much quicker.”

Nigel nodded, and Katrina dialed.

“Hello, this is Sebastian Csendes. How can I help you?” Ever formal.

“Hi, this is Katrina,” Sebastian didn't have caller i.d., it would probably just confuse him. The young teacher didn't waste time waiting for another round of pleasantries, “Listen, I have an urgent favor. Zephyr needs a healer at his apartment right away. Number 1501 in the Hampshire building across from the park. You know where that is?”

“I'll be there right away. It will probably take me fifteen minutes to get there.”

“That should be fine. Thank you.”

“No need for thanks,” came the reply, and they both hung up.

Katrina sighed and rubbed her temples. “Brothers,” she muttered, then added out loud, “Sorry again. Now, where were we?”

Nigel Banks waved his hand at her apology as he took his seat under the sixteenth president once again. “No need. I believe you were about to ask me a favor.”

“That transparent am I,” Katrina sighed. She had been trying to be professional about this, but Zephyr had completely ruined her composure. “I suppose I'll just cut to the chase then. All this research I've been helping the students with, you know, foreign relations and China? I just can't help but think that the pending war between China and Russia is going to end up pulling in a lot of other countries. It could very well spiral into a world war.”

Nigel sat with his two forefingers pressed thoughtfully against his lips as he listened.

Katrina continued, this was coming out more like rambling and less like the eloquent speech she had planned, “Is there anything you can do to prevent the war? I mean, could you apply pressure to either side to keep them into not fighting? Could you threaten to stop trade with them? You're in a position to at least talk to the leaders, maybe that's all they need. Or talk to their allies, to ensure that they don't join in or loan soldiers or guns or anything like that.” Katrina trailed off. She was done now, he at least had heard her case.

Nigel sat in silence for a moment, his fingers still pressed to his lips as his mind digested what she said, “Hmm,” came his thoughtful reply as the wheels in his mind turned. He would love to help her, but his true loyalty laid deeply planted in his mind and that loyalty was above all to Hunter Antonescue. He knew that Hunter had laid plans for supplying arms to a group of Chinese mutant revolutionaries earlier in the year, but since then the immortal's interests seemed to have drifted elsewhere. Perhaps there was a way that the president could do both.

“I'll have to think on it, Katrina. I'll also have to discuss it with my advisors and anything I try will take time.”

“I understand,” Katrina bowed her head in thanks, “Thank you for even considering it. Anything you can do will help.”

Nigel smiled. He would try, he really would.

(A few days later.)

He had tried. He really had. It had been too little, too late.

Nigel Banks sat in the last room he would ever want to be sitting when he found out a world war had just started; the oval office. Of course it wasn't officially called a world war yet, but he was already certain it would be. The message had just come across his desk, and very soon it would be all over the news. China and Russia had officially declared war. North Korea had been swift to declare its intentions to aid China, so swift it was almost as if they knew ahead of time and were simply waiting for the official announcement.

Nigel massaged his temples. He was expecting a call from the UN, or more specifically, from the British prime minister, at time. As soon as they officially decided what they were going to do about things, they would be wanting to know what he was going to do, too.

That meant he had a limited amount of time to figure out that out.

He hadn't asked for this job. He was only a puppet, loyal to another man who was aiming to conquer the world. Now the puppet master had disappeared and couldn't be contacted, the world looked like it was more likely to destroy itself rather than be taken over, and the puppet was left to stand on his own two feet without any strings to support him. If it was possible for Nigel to resent the situation in which he had been left, he would have done so. However, the loyalty implanted in his brain without his knowledge and without his consent didn't leave him that option.

He had no orders, which meant he was left to figure out on his own what he should do. His first loyalty was to his employer, of course; what would Hunter do? Perhaps try to benefit his own position from the war by selling to both sides. Except that money was not an issue, so that would be pointless. Perhaps he would simply wait until things died down again and try to insert his own people into positions of leadership in order to rebuild the shattered countries in his own image. That at least sounded like something his employer would have come up with. It required waiting, though, and this situation required immediate reaction on Nigel's part. If Hunter wanted to play around with leaders after the fact, let him. As for himself, Nigel would have to act as he best saw fit as the president of the United States, unless he other instructions before the phone call from the UN came in.

He thought back to the meeting he'd had earlier in the week and slammed a frustrated fist down on top of the Resolute desk with more force than the was probably healthy for the old antique. Katrina had asked him to prevent a world war. In the few days since, all he had gotten around to actually doing was making a few phone calls to his advisers. They hadn't led to much. He had failed his young friend in that regard. She had been right to worry, and he hadn't taken her seriously. What would she have him do now? How would an idealistic twenty-something run a country? If her interests were really in maintaining peace, what would she do in a war; try to make sure as few people as possible died? Impossible. Try to stop it altogether? Even more impossible. The most he could do was to try and tip the scale one way or the other in order to end things as quickly as possible. If the US really were to get involved on one of the sides- and they used their full strength- they could completely annihilate the opposition and end the war quickly.

What about the American people? Nigel supposed he did owe some loyalty to them. He stood up, unable to sit still, and began pacing around and around rather than back and forth. What was best for his citizens and for his country? Probably staying uninvolved, to be honest. It would make them look like a bunch of pansies, but it would save American lives. Was that the right thing to do, or was that selfish? Which was the bigger price to pay, a few American lives or the entire rest of the world drowning in blood? If he had the power to end things quickly, should he do it?

He made his way to the mini fridge tucked behind a mahogany panel. The oval office may look traditional, but it just hid its modernity well. He took out a new bottle of scotch and poured himself a glass. Ice watered the stuff down, in his opinion, so he didn't add any.

Had he made up his mind then? He had. Now he just needed a Pearl Harbor to convince the rest of the country. It would be for the good of the entire world. This job had been entrusted to him, by Hunter and by the US citizens. He was damn well going to do it. With new conviction he downed the scotch.