A Few Key Sunnydale Alum

He thinks he's alone. But someone's waiting.

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More than one someone, in fact.

He's staring at the sceen with single-minded intensity, searching through file after file.

"Come on," he mutters under his breath. "Come on..."

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Andrew glances at Jonathan, from behind the Do Not Notice Me spell.

Now? he mouths. Or wait till he finds it?

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Wait, Jonathan mouths back. Catch him in the act.

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The hourglass of the Search function is turning on the screen. Leland's fingers drum nervously on the mouse, avoiding the keys.

And finally a file comes up.

"Gotcha," Leland breathes out.

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Andrew looks at Jonathan again and holds up a hand: four fingers, three, two.

(They're not gonna get a better cue than that.)

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They're really not.

On "one", Jonathan drops the spell.

"Hello, Leland."

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He jerks back from the keyboard and whips around in the chair fast enough to make it shoot back on its wheels, and sits there frozen, staring at them, as it slowly rotates.

"What," and his voice is hoarse as though his mouth's suddenly gone dry, "...how did you get in here?"

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"Doesn't really matter, does it?" Jonathan retorts, stepping forward. "Question is, what are you doing here at this hour?"

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As Jonathan moves, Leland's hand dives for the mouse, and the screen blanks itself.

"I could ask you the same question," he says with shaky bravado. "You're not even supposed to be on campus. I could call Security."

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"Except you're not gonna," says Andrew evenly. "Because if you do they'll hear all about why you're here. And I'm pretty sure they'd take a dim view."

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"Turn the screen back on, Leland. Let's all have a look."

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There's no good cop here at the moment. Good Cop has left the building.

Andrew steps away from Jonathan, moving closer to Leland and simultaneously blocking any avenue of flight.

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Leland looks back and forth between them.

"Look, I don't know what you think you know --"

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"Oh, yes you do", Jonathan says calmly. "Except it's not what we think we know."

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"Only part I'm not sure of yet is where you're getting your supply of hysk. Whether you know the maker or you've got some go-between."

Andrew's voice is steady and pitiless.

"Either way, you're hooked through the frontal lobes yourself."

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He starts badly at the word hysk.

"It's not like that," he objects weakly.

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"Sure it is. You stop taking it, you wind up like Mark and all the others. Sounds like hooked to me."

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"Except Mark didn't quite wind up like all the others, did he."

Another step, and he's resting one hand on the edge of the desk.

"Because Mark never stopped taking it. Mark got an overdose."

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Leland's forced to look up at him, now, and he's shrinking back in the chair; his hands slide off the armrests and down to his sides.

Through his teeth: "I don't know what you're talking about."

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"You wanted to know if he was ever coherent."

Lethally quiet.

"What were you afraid he'd say, Leland?"

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"Your name?" Jonathan backs him up. "Or did he know something else?"

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