Walt enters the barn unsure of what to expect and barks out the standard greeting for occasions such as these: "Freeze! FBI, drop your weapons!"

The tactical team fans out behind him, surrounding the people in sight and searching for others, but Walt already isn't paying attention. Instead he locks gazes with the only man in the barn still standing. Unconsciously, without even realizing it, his gun has lowered slightly, his finger shifted from the trigger.

Grant MacLaren, his partner and friend, stands before him with a slightly confused but determined look on his face. There's an axe in his hand and a giant machine of some sort in front of him.

Tearing his eyes away, Walt evaluates the scene. There's an old man on the floor behind Mac, unmoving. Two more people lie on the floor before him, blood seeping from their midsections. Each of them has another person trying to save their lives, hands pressed desperately to their wounds. Finally, another young man kneels on the floor beside the injured one – the only one who's reacted to the situation properly by putting his hands on his head, fingers interlaced like he's done this before.

Unbelievably, Walt knows these people. Or, at least, knows of most of them. One, two, three, four – Walt counts off each of their faces. It's the strange hackers, the ones Grant had been investigating before he'd mysteriously closed the investigation. It had been around that time that he'd changed too – become whatever he is now.

"I need to destroy this."

Walt's gaze snaps back to his partner, his mind snaps back to reality. He levels his gun again.

"Forbes, I need to destroy this," Mac repeats. There's a hint of desperation in his voice as he glances between the machine, the injured on the floor, and Walt.

Walt let's his gaze flicker to the strange contraption. The FBI had gotten a tip about a terrorist cell, and a potential bomb, and Walt knew that Grant had been acting weirdly lately but he couldn't believe… refused to consider…

Still. There were two wounded on the floor, a possible dead man behind his partner, and MacLaren's only plea was about the machine in front of him.

Personally, even if it was a bomb of some sort, he couldn't see the harm in taking an axe to it, and if it wasn't a bomb then the axe certainly wouldn't set it off. But he had a tactical team watching his every move and he had to consider the circumstances of the situation. It didn't look good for his partner.

"Drop the weapon," he said firmly.

Grant's expression fell, the axe lowering ever so slightly, and he looked toward the people on the floor. The young black woman tending to one of the injured met his gaze strongly, the woman under her hands terribly still. The other three didn't look up, the injured boy gasping slightly as he shifted uncomfortably, obviously in pain.

"Drop the weapon," Walt repeated.

Grant's grip on the axe tightened, but he didn't comply. It didn't matter though – there was a final strong whir of the cooling fans and the light around the device brightened. Around them, computers came to life, code scrolling across their screens.

Whatever reason Grant had to want the machine destroyed didn't matter anymore – it was too late, the thing was already active.