Author's Note: Got inspired by that awe-inspiring epic beast of a promo. This will be a series of four shots, and all are complete. So they should follow after one another pretty quickly.

I have read the sides, but only once, and I confess to taking some minor artistic liberties here and there.

Also, none of this reflects my personal opinions, and remains a work of fiction.

That said, ONWARD!

Vision tunnels.

He surrenders to the one track mind he's become increasingly and intimately familiar with over the past five years.

All at once, all he can comprehend is her.

There's a barrier between them—and isn't there always? But this one is clear, and no less impenetrable. Her eyes seek him out from across the vast indoor room, all too briefly. Even with the distance separating them, her wariness is painful to witness.

She's cowering. And Booth wants to slaughter whatever caused such reaction from her.

He waves to her, trying to catch her attention in case she's somehow overlooked his predicament. But he knows better. He doesn't miss the slight, urgent shake of her head, warding him away. The look in her eyes makes his stomach twist in knots.

They're both too stubborn for their own good. He pulls out his cell phone and dials her number. In theory, because she is first on his speed dial. He sees her fumble and quickly cancel his call before shoving the cellular device back into her lab coat.

All the squints are huddled atop the platform, each one of them leaking tension like smoke. His gut expresses caution and concern. Warning bells go off in his ears, louder than before.

Fury is something he's familiar with. He knows it's a useful tool when the situation demands it. But when he reads the poorly veiled fear in his partner's eyes, that fury suddenly takes the form of a flaming sword in his arsenal.

He's been barricaded away from her. The glass doors stare back at him defiantly.

And so her often silent guardian prepares to unleash some noise.

He reverts to form. A heartbeat later, his sidearm is in his hand.

An explosion of thunder rocks the lab. A wall of glass shatters and falls like acid rain against the marble floor.

Booth ignores the stunned faces of the squints and serves no further delay as he steps determinedly over the threshold. Shards snap and crunch under his shoes, but offer little to no hindrance.

A hunter's eyes scope the surroundings and try to draw some reconnaissance from the situation. The lab is deathly silent compared to its usual beehive quality. Shadows on the upper walkways quickly snag his attention, though. The pounding of feet is amplified in his ears, because he's still in predator mode. Every sense hyper-aware.

Black clad men, speaking into earpieces, comb the upper path systems. Their movements are swift and controlled.

What is this? Night of the Living Suits? At least back-up appears to have arrived…

This all registers with him in a manner of very few seconds.

His partner's warning shout registers next.

He's rushed from the side, and he has little time to assess his surprise opponent. An arm clamps around his neck from behind, constricting like a steel band. Booth wrestles out of the lock and subdues his attacker with a quick and brutal jab to the throat.

Now the true madness unfolds.

He whirls around—get to Bones, get to Bones, get to Bones—gun more firmly in hand, when a unit of darkly clad men pour in around him like locusts. Three from up top have made their way down. Seven suits total, including the one he's just taken down. Three remain above, but he can tell they aren't field trained. The others' voices fill his head and make the score even more unclear.

"Potential threat!"

"Intruder is armed and hostile!"

"Do not move!"

The squints are flooding from the platform like a sea of blue, their yells of protest a stark contrast to the cold observations of the black suits.

"Weapon is a .45!"

"Easily disposed, unknown suspect appears unhinged!"

Booth eases up, scanning the stern faces of what he assumes are either government agents or Men in Black. He raises his hands a little, but doesn't relinquish his gun. "Hey, hey, hey… take it easy."

All three men have their weapons leveled at him now. This fails to make him back down. Something feels wrong. The ones along the upper walkway observe emotionlessly.

"Lower your weapon!" one before him demands.

"Bones!" Booth calls out, dark eyes nearly black with focus as he unflinchingly surveys each man with a high-powered sidearm aimed straight for him. He needs to know what the hell is going on.

He takes a step forward, when a smaller suit rushes him.

They collide with a grunt, the air knocked from each their lungs. Both their sidearms skitter away from the impact. Booth hits the floor first, and he sees several things then, but not at once. First, a white flash and a fiery pain on the back of his head. Stars dot his vision then, winking off the metal beams high above his head. And then darkness creeps in, blinding him momentarily. He hears her voice in the back of his mind, and mumbles her name.

When his eyes open again, there's a fist sailing for his face. He dodges it and jumps to his feet, trading blows with the man before knocking him out cold with a knee to the temple. "What the hell is going on?" he growls.

Now he's ready to shoot everybody who's not a squint. Except he's lost his weapon.

Only moments have passed. The suits now assume vicious calm.

"Threat cannot be contained."

"Take him out."

Adrenaline pours through him. He hadn't exactly been looking for a fight. Taking out those two guys had been instinctual. He hadn't been the one to initiate attack.

Nevertheless, he hears the worrying sound of hammers being pulled back. He raises his arms a little higher, showing that he's done. There's been a misunderstanding.

But there's no balking from the suits. It becomes shockingly clear that each of them means him death.

Take him out.

"No!" a female voice shouts.

There's hesitation as a blue form rushes forward.

A dark-skinned man disregards her and repeats the order. "Shoot him."

Brennan tears across the floor, the protests of the other squints lost in the background to her cries. "No, stop! Please! Please! Don't," Brennan begs, her voice a desperate and panicked cry as this becomes her mantra.

He'd never heard that much desperation in her voice—higher than the scream in a New Mexican hospital.

Brennan throws herself in front of him, arms splayed. Her clear eyes are moist with fear, and her voice shakes when she speaks. "Please, he's my partner."

"Partner?" The dark-skinned man repeats with disinterest.

"Special Agent Seeley Booth," Booth glares back.

"He's with the FBI," Brennan finishes. She doesn't remove her protective shield from his form. Booth doesn't like it, but the suits had slightly lowered their weapons when she'd inserted herself into the path of crossfire. "I swear, he won't cause any more trouble or delays. And if you harm him in any way, I can promise you you'll get no more assistance from me." There's that harsh resolve. "Or my team, for that matter."

"You'd have to shoot us, too," Hodgins pipes up from the sidelines, surprising them all.

A silent stand-off commences.

"Mr. White." A wordless prod from Brennan.

Reluctantly, and too slowly for her liking, Mr. White lowers his weapon and nods at the other man to do the same. "Dr. Brennan," he begins, the warning in his tone obvious, "leash your pit-bull from this point on."

Brennan nods sagely. Booth crushes the urge to roll his eyes.

Mr. White regards his men—and the two starting to revive—and gives a meaningful jerk of his head in Booth's direction. "He doesn't leave. And seal off that gaping door."

Next one on the way!