Sophie typically did what she wanted, how she wanted, when she wanted.

So, watching the others imprisoned and being reprimanded, then stripped of the means they found to protect themselves, left a bitter taste in her mouth. In this world, a knife could be the difference between life and death, even in this protected little colony of Russell's. Until now and her own arrest, she did her best to remain neutral on the matter, or at least present herself as such.

One look at Doyle and she knew the game had been far over for him.

He's shackled. Contained in a cell on his own. The jails overflowing, he's the sole person that has his own, private, limited space. She's crammed into the cell next to him, along with several other women. At one point she wanted to take Doyle's hand as he continually paced, hoping to sooth away the tense grip that turned his knuckles white beyond his restraints, but she refrained. She just wished he'd look at her. Even once, after all these hours.

His anger with her over his forced sedation enough, she felt, for one night, but when it rolled over into the next day she couldn't understand why he didn't forgive her. Why, he wouldn't speak to her.

So, when his eyes finally met hers through the rusted bars, she couldn't help but crack a smile of relief. However quickly, when she noticed the anger still seething in the depths of green. Now within her reach, she grabbed his hand just as she imagined.

She blurts out a confession in a whisper, "I've been helping Elisa with her research. I just thought you should know that I'm here, now, jailed next to you, probably because they found something in her lab about me...and I'm sorry about that..."

"What kind of research?" His brow furrowed as he stared down at her, immediately taking his hand back. Confused, Doyle's clear memory of Dr Finch's desperation on Sophie back at the CDC and her defiance, didn't match up with her willingness to partake in anything.

He opens his mouth to yell at her, to demand, just what the fuck was wrong with her, or if she'd lost her damn mind. Instead of his fury, a siren blares throughout Richmond Hill.

It instilled fear, immediately bringing everyone to tense, to prepare for the infected to spill out into the room at any given moment. At orientation, they were told it could mean one of three things: the contagion broke out, marauders were trying to get in, or mother nature had reared her uglier side. All in all, it meant to take cover.

Not a weapon on him, Doyle gives the guard in the jail watching them his dirtiest glare yet. Eying his weapon, not hiding that he had every intention to take it by force if he got half the chance.

The others jailed with Sophie and in the few cells beyond demanded answers from the guard with them. Answers, he couldn't possibly give, since he had the shit duty of watching Russell's chosen scum.

Doyle gripped Sophie's arm as the guard distracts with the jailed in their uproar. Under the cover of the guard's distraction, he says, "If that's the case, she'd be in here with us. For all of our sakes, I hope to God she kept whatever she knows about you to herself. And just for the record, Soph, you might be willing to start taking up with some experiments, but I'm not cool with being sedated. If I scare you that much, keep away from me. Don't control me in the same way you refused to be controlled."

As quickly as he turns from her, Sophie can't help the surge of emotions that crash within her. Anger, shame, sadness....

Though he's merely a few feet from her, he's miles away. Finding anger above them all she yells over the volume of the siren, "Fine! Next time you're punching holes in my walls, I'll just let you carry on with the demolition and I'll go for a stroll with Abby! If there is a next time!"

Ignoring her and her dramatics, Doyle gives her an agitated, slow blink before he leans in through the other side of the cell.

His wrists, bound in front of him with a zip-tie that squeezed to cut off his circulation entirely. The last time his wrists were restrained, the cops had him for beating the shit out of his friend who stole his fiancée. "Get this fuckin' thing off of me..." Doyle hissed to the guard as he walked past, who barely glanced his way on his own search for answers when the siren refused to die down.

Doyle finally decided to sit down on the cold bench, when he tired of the aggressive lean through the bars. His head buried into his hands, his hair proving as an anchor to hold himself still.

What had really been going on with Elisa and Sophie? Suspicion and betrayal, brought on the string of paranoid scenarios. All of which, had to do with plots against him. Plots, to leave him here, by himself. His worst fears were always becoming realized. A disturbing, predictable pattern in James Doyle's life.

For all he knew, he had some secret powers on manifesting them. It seemed whenever he had a disturbing thought on something, no matter what it was, it happened.

Control, and the lack he had of it, gave him the power to let go quickly. A far cry from the teenager he once was, Doyle's once over-protective nature drove people away. Now, his forced aloofness wrecked a different havoc on his life. If he'd taken a more active stance here at the colony, maybe he'd have a voice. In his silence, his following of orders, he now possibly faced a death sentence.

It was enough to drive him insane.

The hours passed. One, then two, as the other survivors tried to make their escapes frantically without a guard to drive them back. Sophie, among them, all expecting the zombies to take in their buffet should that blaring siren spell their ultimate doom.

When it finally died away, Doyle took his first full breath and exhaled it, slower than he took it in. His good ear rang in response. Loud enough, that Doyle couldn't hear Sophie talking to him, with his bad ear facing her direction. Distracted further, when the one that put them all here walks in with the small team of men and the sheriff at his side.

Russell Wolfe, standing just beyond the reach of his cell should Doyle decide to charge it, is clearly here for him and only him.

Hands on his hips, the freshly cleaned-up Russell with slicked back, wet hair, asks him, "Why did you light that fire on your watchtower? Who are you sendin' signals to?"

When Doyle gives nothing but a small shrug, Russell abandons one hand on his hip so it can pull a gun out on the defiant soldier.

The old revolver clicks as he readies to fire his bullet, but Doyle does nothing but stare back and silently taunts him to shoot.

Russell screams as the vein protrudes from his forehead, down to his flushed neck, "WHO WERE YOU SENDING THE SIGNAL TO?!"

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The character Sophie Grey was created by the lovely @Mello8201! Portions of this chapter were contributed by her in regard to Sophie. :D