Olivette yawned and stretched. She was tempted to get another cup of coffee, but the tepid half fulled cup was silent testimony to it being more of a habit than being effective. Papers littered the conference table in the small meeting room she worked in, and a whiteboard was covered with notations. Several boxes sat on chairs.

There were ninety-five people that came up with the reference 'Archer', not counting minors. The two eighteen year olds could probably be discounted, as well as the octogenarian, Irene. Most of them had multiple addresses, phone numbers, internet footprints, and histories in their background checks.

Except one.

Gerald Archer, age 61, born in the UK, maintaining his British citizenship but a history of work for various US employers over the past 20 years. Large portions of his record - including immigration record, legal records, etc. had been inaccessible without a high level Federal clearance. He did have a California driver's license, though, which potrayed a balding, solid-looking man with a sour expression. The address listed was an apartment building that was demolished two years ago.

There was more. Gerald Archer's current employment - for the past 4 years - is listed as a "special security consultant" for a firm called Horizon Pharmatech.

And this... this is where it got good.

Horizon also had two employees named "Winslow" on its payroll. One, Winslow S. Tate, age 53, in HR. A Navy vet, UCLA MBa, married with two adult children, now adults. His California driver's license shows a thin, bespectacled man with a greying crewcut, with a local address.

The other, Fredrick D. Winslow, PhD, age 28, attained a degree from Stanford in biochemistry. He has a local address and is unmarried. His California driver's license shows a short-haired African-American man with a somewhat mopey facial expression.

Olivette wasn't stupid. She had lived through the agony of the Lost Nights, felt her blood boil, seen the state her regnant had Risen in. Her heart lurched a bit as she thought of her regnant, thoughts returning to him as they always did.

She missed him. Missed being at his side, while collating the information his network had provided. Hated going to sleep so that she could make the visits and phone calls during the day, but knowing if she stayed up to be with him through the night, fatigue would endanger her task.

Because she had to do a good job. Because this was all that was left. She didn't know why, or who, or if it was because she was just terrible at those things... but she missed those moments. Those moments when he would smile, or relax in satisfaction.

So she would do this job good, this important job, and maybe he would smile at her again.

Olivette wiped her eyes and berated herself for the teardrop that fell on the notepad and smudged the list she was making.