not much going, with this one. I just really felt like writing something like it... without anything particularly clever about it. I always wondered what it would be like if the Bishop boys went bad...

*I do not own Fringe. But if I did, I would make John Noble do a jig. Right now.

Chapter I

The exterior security cameras saw only a sleek, black Plymouth Viper pull to an elegant halt on the curb, the purring engine coming to a soft halt. Then, the picture and sound were static.

"Are they out, Walter?"

"These things are never exact, and I can't know until I get into the system. See through their eyes, so to speak."

"I need to know, and soon. We don't have leisure time, tonight," Peter glanced cautiously out of the darkly tinted windows and windshield.

"Oh, do, pardon me," Walter snapped, "I was under the impression we were on holiday." He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, his fingers flying over the keyboard of the laptop to strike the keys with a small, sharp snapping noises, "Would you like to take a crack at this?"

Peter sighed patiently, "No, Walter."

"Then be quiet and let me get on with it," He grimaced at the glowing screen, the blue light darkening the hard line of his mouth, "shatter," he muttered under his breath, "I'm in."

"Good. Are you-"

"Yes, they're off, you demanding little peacock," Walter snapped the laptop shut, pulling off his glasses and slipping them into the inside pocket of his jacket. He pushed the laptop into his black canvas side bag. He was frowning again, plucking at his clothes, "all black, Peter? It's ridiculously cliché…"

Peter frowned, "What is with you, anyways? You've been snappy all night."

Walter slipped a pistol into the holster in his armpit, "Oh, I'm wonderful. Committing grand theft to the tune of an egg timer…I couldn't think of a better use for my Tuesday night, could you?"

Peter smirked, "Fine, don't tell me." he kicked open his door and stepped out, "We've got this one figured about the same as the last ones, we just need to hurry."

Walter did not reply as they approached the glass doors of Massive Dynamic.

Peter sighed, "Fine. How about takeout, after this?"

Walter brightened considerably, "You mean it?"

Peter swiped a duct-tapped security pass, and the doors slid open, "Sure. Now, you're sure the lab systems are off line?"

Walter nodded, stopping to examine a map of the building layout posted in a large plastic display in the lobby, "It should be here," he pointed, "labeled under 'executive storage', in the basement. At least, that's what I could hack out of the FBI database. A bunch of useless drabble, the other bits of coding. What does 'executive storage' even mean, Peter?"

"Don't know. Let's get going."

"We're going to need the system tapes for the safe, aren't we?" Walter said as they stepped into the elevator, and Peter swiped the pass again, requesting access to 'executive storage'. Walter reached past him, dialing in the pass code, and scanning his own thumb. The light on the consol turned green, and the doors shut.

"We'll deal with the safe later. We've got plenty of money, for now." They stood in silence a few moments, listening to the muffled sound of soft rock in the speakers, "Ready?" Peter questioned, checking the clip of his nine-millimeter.

Shrugging, Walter drew his own gun, pulling a surgical mask over his mouth, obscuring the lower half of his face, "As ready as one can be, burgling top-secret information."

Peter pulled on his own mask without comment.

The doors slid open, and the Bishops ducked to either side, taking cover from the bullets that splintered the mahogany paneling on the back of the elevator. They took aim, silenced bullets striking their marks on each of the security personnel, rendering them incapacitated. After a brief bit of chasing, Peter managed to shoot the last of the offence in the chest. Walter stilled him, shaking his head, "Not the chest," he murmured, "aim for the limbs."

"Sorry," Peter replied quickly.

Walter used a portable drill to dismantle the door lock of the lab, jacking it into the laptop on his hip. He typed in a command, and the door crackled with electricity, and went dead. Peter pulled it open effortlessly, entering with his gun ready.

"Go for the interface," he told Walter quietly, "I'll keep an eye out." Walter nodded, starting past him, and Peter grabbed his shoulder, "Don't get distracted. I know there's a lot of shiny surgical crap in here, but stay focused."

"I'll try," Walter replied wryly, scurrying away.

Peter moved in the opposite direction, keeping low, close to the walls. His eyes spanned the open operating theater before him, and he gritted his teeth in disgust, "Chest butchers," He growled, passing the bodies filleted open, hooked to countless machines to keep them alive, like bastard depictions of the crucifixion.

In the other wing of the lab, Walter was singing softly under his breath, as he pried off the face panel of the super-computer, "They may say some awful things, but there's no point in listening…"

He drew out a small welding torch from his bag, pushing a pair of sunglasses onto his nose as he lit the torch, setting to work against the steel barrier that protected the circuitry from harsh outside tampering, and continuing with his melody, "Your words are the only words…that I believe in afterwards…"

He was careful as he pried away the small rectangle of hot metal, setting it aside as he pulled off his gloves, reaching into the square hole to grab a fistful of wires and pull them into the light, "you should know, it's true, just now, the part about my love, for you…"

"…And how my heart's about to burst into… a thousand pieces…" He carefully selected the light blue wire, ripping it loose and stripping it with his teeth. He twisted it into an interface, and plugged the newly created plug into the side of his laptop. The screen blinked, the security firewall code popping up, "Peter!" Walter called, "I'm in!"

"Wonderful," came Peter's distant call.

Walter ignored the response, returning to his task of cracking the mathematical system, "so it must be true, and they'll believe us too soon…"

Peter crept between the long, stainless steel tables, his curiosity and concern growing with each step. It was too quiet…too easy…

He took cover as shots rang out, and his eyes widened as he heard the soft thunk! of a flash-bang striking the linoleum tiles and rolling to a halt. Peter threw himself flat on the floor, covering his head with his arms and plugging his ears. There was a muffled explosion, and he rose to his feet, debris raining down on him. He slammed a full clip into his gun, "Walter!" he roared, "Company!"

Biting the inside of his cheek, Walter glared at the screen in his lap, as he sang louder to focus himself, "Baby it's fact! Our love is true! The way black is black!" his fingers were trembling as he heard the crack of weapons' fire, "And blue is just blue…" he hissed under his breath.

Peter fired off three rounds at the entering SWAT team, running low along the counter as bullets rang off the walls. He rolled across the aisle to the next gurney, making for the open doorway of the database.

Walter turned, aiming for his son. Then, he returned to gun to his holster, scrambling for the codes. The screen whirred, and shown the message access granted. Walter rubbed his palms together with a soft chuckle.

"We've got to get out of here!" Peter cried, taking cover beside the door, "It's the feds, Walter!"

Walter looked up with alarm, "Just-just a few more moments!" he insisted, "It's nearly complete-"

"Now, Walter!" Peter pulled the plug from the computer, leaving it dangling as the Bishops fled for the fire exit.

"Do you think it's her, Peter?" Walter whispered breathlessly as they sprinted up the stairs.

"I don't know! Just go!"

"She'll catch us, you know…" Walter slung the laptop case onto his back as Peter shot the lock from the exterior door, kicking it open. A spotlight suddenly blinded them, and Walter sucked air through his teeth, "If she hasn't already…"

"Shut up!" Peter snapped, looking around in desperate need of an escape.

"But prison is a cakewalk, compared to the asylum…" Walter paused, "Say, I know we're having takeout, but could I get cake, too? Chocolate, please."

"I've got an idea," Peter said, shutting the door, "you said there was a sub-floor above the lab, right?"

"Presumably. It's not on the map in the lobby, though."

Peter nodded, "Follow me."

Moments later found them in the service elevator, moving slowly toward the custodial section of the ground floor, Walter somehow relating chocolate cake to the situation while Peter ignored him, silently plotting his next move of escape.

The mesh doors slid open, and they sprinted down the hall, pushing out of the double doors and into the night air. At last they found themselves back in the Viper, speeding away from the building and toward the freeway. Walter managed to scramble the police radios in the area, and after another bit of typing, sat back, crossing his arms behind his head, "Well, my boy," he grinned, "How does it feel to be twenty million dollars richer?"

Peter laughed triumphantly, "Not bad, for a nights' work, eh?"