He looked up at him and smiled ruefully. "If you've got a list of charges," he said, "I'll be glad to confess to all of them--provided, of course, that it _is_ a complete list." _I'm sure it doesn't list me as a werewolf_, he thought. _I wonder what the sentence would be--death by firing squad equipped with silver bullets?_ But, then, he wasn't going to confess to that, anyway. "Um!" The FBI man looked suspicious. Obviously, he'd expected nothing of the kind. "No strings," the Insurgent reassured him. "The job's over, and it's time to punch the clock." Which was just about the way it was. But he wanted that Watcher. If he was in the office at all, he'd almost have to come out to witness the confession. After all, the Insurgent was supposed to be a pretty big fish. The FBI man went into a cubicle office set off to one side. When he came out, carrying a sheaf of paper, the Watcher was with him. The Insurgent felt the hackles standing up on the back of his neck, and something rumbled inaudibly at the base of his throat. He knew. He could tell. He could smell Watcher every step of the way, from the day he had docked until now, when the scent--half there, half the pure intuition of instinct--rose up before him in an over-powering wave. Then he saw the look of distaste crawl across the Watcher's face, and he barked a laugh that drew curious looks from the men in the office. _Hello, brother._ He saw the bulge of the hip holster on the Watcher's belt, and laughed again. _So, we play the game_, he thought. _We add up scores, and, in the end, the side with the most points wins. Forget that there should be no sides, that every point, no matter for whom scored, is a mark of shame and disgrace._ He wondered, briefly, whether the Watcher was of his kind by choice, or whether it was simply something that had happened, as it was with him. Probably. Two separate heritages had met, represented by identical individuals who happened to have awakened in dissimilar chrysalids. _Will we remember?_ he wondered. _When we awaken, will we remember this? How we battled, blinded, in the shadows of our own casting?_ Or was there more mercy in Creation than they, themselves, had shown to the chrysalids? He had three brothers among the sleepers. When they woke, would they embrace, not remembering that each had killed the other countless times? Or forgetting that they had stood together, on some battlefield? Would all the old comrades, all the bitter enemies, be wiped from memory? He hoped so. With every segment of his being, he hoped so, for there was no peace, through eternity, if it was otherwise. He stood up, lightly, tensing the muscles in his calves. The FBI men, suddenly alert, began to move for him, but he'd maneuvered things so that none of them were close enough to him. The Watcher went pale. "Shall I coalesce, brother?" the Insurgent asked, the words rumbling out of his throat, a grin of derision baring his teeth.