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The trees are dense, the air still, and the ground soft with layers of pine needles. Sunlight filters in patches over the gruesome scene: a man’s body lies in the center of a shallow, ritualistic circle—chest cavity split open, heart missing. Bones, blood, and strange symbols made of ash surround the corpse.
BRENNAN is kneeling beside the body, gloved hands gently inspecting the ribcage. CAM, HODGINS, and ANGELA are nearby, taking notes and samples. BOOTH stands a few feet back, surveying the woods. The air is too quiet.
CAM (uneasy)
This isn't just murder. This is... performative.
HODGINS
Ritualistic. I’m seeing trace amounts of burned sage, and that ash circle? It’s a pentacle. Old-school occult vibes.
BRENNAN (clinical, focused)
The sternum was split precisely. No hesitation. Whoever did this has anatomical knowledge.
Suddenly, a soft click breaks the silence.
Everyone turns slowly—BOOTH already reaching for his gun.
Standing behind them is the guide, the local park ranger who led them here. Only now, he’s holding a pistol trained on the group.
KILLER (calmly, smiling)
No one move. I’m gonna walk out of here. No one gets hurt.
ANGELA
You’ve gotta be kidding me.
BOOTH raises his gun, but hesitates. One wrong move and someone—Cam, Angela, Hodgins, Bones—could die. The guy’s finger is already on the trigger.
BOOTH (quietly)
Alright. Fine. You leave. But know this—we will catch you.
The killer laughs, low and smug.
KILLER
You won’t. I’ve been doing this for over fifteen years. You just found one body.
Then— a faint whip-crack sound.
The killer blinks. His expression falters.
A silver throwing knife is now buried dead center in his forehead. He doesn’t even fall backward—just crumples where he stands, dead before he hits the ground.
The clearing goes silent.
Everyone turns—shocked—to Brennan, who is still kneeling calmly beside the body. She doesn’t even look at the corpse she just created.
BRENNAN (blandly)
He was a threat.
ANGELA
Wha—wha—what?!
HODGINS
Did anyone see her move?
CAM
Where the hell did that come from?
BOOTH stares at her, eyes wide, still holding his gun.
BOOTH
Bones… you just threw a knife into his head.
BRENNAN (matter-of-fact)
Yes. His position indicated imminent violence. I neutralized him.
She stands, dusting her gloves off.
BRENNAN (shrugging)
I always carry three knives. That was one of the smaller ones.
ANGELA
That raises so many questions.
HODGINS (in awe)
You carry knives? Like, plural?
BRENNAN
Of course. The world is unpredictable. As demonstrated.
BOOTH just sighs, muttering to himself.
BOOTH
One day… one damn day without a murder or a surprise weapon...
CAM (still stunned)
Well. I guess we don’t need to arrest him now.
BRENNAN
Correct. He’s deceased. Time of death: approximately thirty seconds ago. Cause: cranial trauma from a 6-inch Damascus steel blade.
Everyone just stares at her.
HODGINS
...Yeah, I’m not sleeping tonight.
The woods were dense and still, shafts of late-afternoon sunlight slicing through the trees in thin, golden beams. A body lay in the center of a shallow clearing, surrounded by symbols drawn in ash and what looked disturbingly like dried blood. His chest was split wide open. The heart was gone.
Brennan knelt beside the corpse, hands gloved and steady as she examined the open cavity.
“This was no amateur,” she said calmly. “The sternum was split with precision. Clean blade. No hesitation marks.”
“I’m picking up traces of burned sage,” said Hodgins, crouching near one of the ash lines. “And this symbol? Old-school pentacle. Classic ritual setup.”
“This is horrific,” Cam muttered, rubbing her arms against the chill in the air. “The heart’s completely removed. He was alive when it was taken.”
“Well, that’s great,” Angela said under her breath, staring at the ground like it might lurch up and bite her. “Really makes you appreciate the stuff we usually deal with.”
“Quiet,” said Booth, suddenly alert. He stepped a few feet away, scanning the trees. “Anyone else hear that?”
A soft click broke the silence behind them.
They turned slowly.
The local ranger who’d guided them here—tall, unassuming, kind of forgettable—was standing a few feet away with a gun in his hand. It was pointed at them.
He smiled.
“I’m gonna go,” he said casually. “No one tries anything, no one gets hurt.”
Angela stared. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Booth lifted his gun, but he didn’t aim. The guy already had his finger on the trigger. One wrong twitch and someone—Cam, Angela, Hodgins, Brennan—could die before Booth got a shot off.
He sighed and slowly lowered his weapon. “Fine. Go. But we will catch you.”
The man laughed. “I’ve been doing this over fifteen years. You just found one body. I highly doubt you’ll catch me.”
Then—fwip.
The man blinked. Wobbled.
And dropped.
A knife was buried in the center of his forehead, sunk deep between the eyes.
No one moved. The woods went dead silent again.
They all turned slowly.
Brennan was standing now, completely calm, brushing dirt off her gloves like nothing had happened.
“What?” she asked. “He was a threat.”
Everyone stared.
Angela finally sputtered, “You—what the hell just happened?!”
Hodgins looked back and forth between the dead man and Brennan. “Did anyone see her move? I blinked and the guy was dead.”
“Where the hell did that come from?” Cam whispered.
Booth still had his gun half-raised, eyes wide. “Bones… you just threw a knife into his skull.”
“He was going to shoot us,” Brennan said, as if explaining something obvious. “I neutralized the threat.”
“Where did you even get the knife?” Angela asked.
“I always carry three,” Brennan said simply. “That was the smallest one.”
“You what?” Hodgins blinked. “You carry knives? Like plural?”
“Of course. The world is unpredictable,” she said, already turning back toward the body on the ground. “As demonstrated.”
Booth let out a heavy sigh. “Just once… just once I’d like to investigate a murder without needing to fill out a second body report.”
Cam stared down at the corpse. “Well. No need to call for backup now.”
“Correct,” Brennan said, crouching again to examine the now-dead killer. “Time of death: approximately one minute ago. Cause: cranial trauma from a six-inch Damascus steel blade thrown from approximately 15 feet away. Death was instant.”
They all just looked at her.
Hodgins shook his head. “Yeah, no, I’m never asking what’s in your bag again.”
The lab is buzzing in that we-just-saw-someone-get-killed-kind-of quiet. Everyone’s moving, but no one’s really talking. Angela is frozen at her workstation. Hodgins has been staring into a microscope for ten straight minutes without blinking. Cam keeps rereading the autopsy report on the dead killer but hasn’t changed a thing.
Then—
“Dr. Brennan?” a stern voice calls.
They all turn. Two stern-looking FBI Agents in suits stride onto the platform like they own it. One holds a manila folder. The other is already scanning the room like he’s expecting to find a bazooka.
“Special Agent Scott. This is Agent Morales. We’re here to ask some questions about the… incident in the woods.”
Booth, already standing nearby with his arms crossed, mutters, “I told them not to come in like they’re storming the place.”
“We have a report that Dr. Brennan—” Scott glances at the folder, “—killed an armed suspect with a throwing knife from fifteen feet away. A scientist. With a knife.”
“Correct,” Brennan says flatly, not even looking up from the bones on her table.
There’s a long silence.
Agent Morales raises an eyebrow. “You… admit it?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” she asks, puzzled. “He was an active threat. I neutralized him.”
Angela lets out a wheeze and quickly covers it with a cough.
“Dr. Brennan,” Agent Scott tries again, slower this time, “you threw a knife into someone’s forehead. From across a clearing.”
“Yes,” she replies. “Center of mass wasn’t viable. The cranium was exposed and offered a better angle. The medulla oblongata was likely severed—instant death.”
The agents blink.
Booth steps in quickly. “Okay, let’s all just take a breath. She didn’t plan to kill anyone, it was self-defense. The guy had a gun pointed at the entire team. I couldn’t take the shot without risking someone else getting hurt.”
“You’re telling us a forensic anthropologist reacted faster than a trained sniper?” Morales asks.
“She was closer,” Booth snaps, then mutters under his breath, “and apparently terrifying.”
“She always carries knives?” Scott asks, flipping through the file. “Why does she carry knives?”
Brennan answers, very matter-of-fact. “Because the world is unpredictable and I prefer to be prepared. I have three: a Damascus steel throwing knife, a multi-purpose combat blade, and a folding knife with a serrated edge.”
Hodgins, who has been completely silent up to now, just says, “She listed them. She’s… she’s naming them like kitchenware.”
Angela stares. “I sleep over at your place sometimes. Where are the knives?!”
Cam puts a hand on her forehead. “They’re probably hidden in books or plant pots or—God, why do you even have them?”
“In case I need them,” Brennan says simply, as though it’s obvious. “Which proved accurate.”
Agent Morales leans toward Booth. “So this is just… normal for her?”
Booth lets out the sigh of a man who’s already fought this battle many times. “Normal adjacent. Look, it’s not like she’s trying to be lethal. She’s just… efficient.”
“I don’t understand why this is a problem,” Brennan adds. “Booth has killed numerous people in the line of duty.”
“Yeah, but I’m allowed to!” Booth hisses. “It’s my job! Yours is bones!”
“I did not use the bones to kill him,” she says.
“Not helping!” Booth mutters.
The two FBI agents stare at each other for a long moment.
Finally, Scott sighs. “Alright. Paperwork nightmare aside, the incident fits legal self-defense. But this… this can’t become a habit.”
Brennan tilts her head. “So I should allow a future armed assailant to execute my colleagues if the opportunity arises?”
“No!” both agents and Booth say at once.
“I’m just saying—don’t lead with the knife next time,” Booth groans. “Maybe talk first.”
Angela throws her hands up. “How did she even throw it that hard? I can’t throw a pen without dropping it.”
“I’ve been watching her reassemble skulls for years,” Hodgins says numbly. “I should have known. She’s got precision hands. Weaponized science.”
Cam shakes her head. “We’re going to need a new HR manual.”
Brennan goes back to her examination like nothing happened. “I’ll make sure I replace the blade this week.”
Booth stares at her. “Wait. You threw your favorite knife?”
“She was a threat,” she replies again.
The FBI agents just walk out without another word.
Sweets walks in, smiling brightly and holding a clipboard. He’s clearly unaware of the emotional wreckage waiting for him.
“Hey guys! I heard about what happened in the woods and figured I’d come by for a quick debrief—help everyone process, check for lingering trauma... y’know, standard post-critical-incident care.”
He stops dead.
Angela is sitting in a corner, stress-eating pretzels like they’re sedatives. Hodgins is muttering to himself and staring at a model of a human skull with visible distrust. Cam is reading an anatomy book, but upside down. Booth looks like he hasn’t blinked in ten minutes. Brennan is calmly drinking tea, completely unbothered.
Sweets slowly lowers the clipboard. “...Okay. So. Who wants to start?”
“I watched a scientist throw a knife,” Hodgins blurts. “Into a man’s skull.”
“Dead center,” Angela says, wide-eyed. “Like, right between the eyes. She didn’t even look stressed.”
“I am not stressed,” Brennan confirms.
Cam lowers her book, deadpan. “We know, Brennan. That’s the problem.”
Sweets blinks. “Okay, well, trauma responses come in many forms. Booth? Maybe you could explain—”
“She pulled it out of her lab coat, Sweets,” Booth says quietly. “Like it was a pen. Just flicked her wrist and the guy dropped like a sack of bricks. I still don’t know where the knife came from.”
“I told you,” Brennan says. “I carry three knives.”
“She named them,” Angela adds. “She has names for them, Sweets.”
“I did not name them,” Brennan says, sipping her tea. “I described them. Damascus steel, multi-purpose, and serrated folding.”
“You categorized your knives like instruments,” Cam mutters. “Which I suppose makes sense. You used one like a scalpel.”
Sweets clears his throat, trying to stay professional. “Okay. Let’s slow this down. Booth, you didn’t feel threatened by the situation?”
“I did, but I was also processing the fact that Bones was faster than me,” Booth says. “Which shouldn’t be possible, but apparently she’s been secretly a ninja this whole time.”
Brennan tilts her head. “I am not a ninja. That’s culturally inaccurate. I’ve trained in precision throwing since graduate school—biomechanical accuracy and trajectory estimation.”
Sweets turns slowly to her. “Wait… you trained for this?”
“Of course,” she says. “It’s not ethical to carry weapons one isn’t skilled with. I practiced. Frequently.”
“Where?!” Angela exclaims. “You live in a townhouse! Where do you practice throwing knives?”
“I installed a target in the spare room.”
Hodgins puts his head in his hands. “Oh my god, she has a knife dojo.”
Cam looks at Sweets flatly. “You wanna analyze someone’s mental state? Start with her.”
“I am right here,” Brennan points out.
“I know,” Cam replies, exhausted. “That’s why I’m saying it out loud.”
Sweets takes a deep breath. “Okay. Rationally speaking, Dr. Brennan did act in defense of the team. But emotionally—how are you feeling, Dr. Brennan?”
She frowns slightly, like the question doesn’t compute. “Satisfied. I protected my colleagues, prevented further violence, and used efficient methodology. Is that… incorrect?”
“No,” Sweets says slowly. “It’s just not the usual response.”
“Would you prefer I had panicked?” she asks, honestly confused.
“No, I—honestly, I don’t know what I expected,” he admits. “But I think it’s fair to say the rest of the team is still processing.”
“I’m not going anywhere near her spare room,” Angela says. “She probably has throwing star wallpaper.”
“I checked her coat this morning,” Hodgins confesses. “There’s still two knives in it.”
“I didn’t throw those,” Brennan replies calmly.
“That is not comforting,” Booth mutters.
Sweets glances at his clipboard again, then gently closes it. “Okay. So… maybe a few more sessions this week.”
“Excellent,” Brennan says. “I can teach you the basics of grip and trajectory, if you’d like.”
“Nope,” Angela says immediately. “Absolutely not. You are not giving the psychologist knife lessons.”
Hodgins just whispers, “I’ll never look at a lab coat the same way again.”
The team is trying to have a normal day. Cam is reviewing lab reports. Angela is quietly sketching on her tablet. Hodgins is elbow-deep in bug samples. Booth, for once, is reading a case file in peace.
Then—
Brennan strides in with a bounce in her step, clearly pleased with herself. She’s carrying a slim velvet-lined case in one hand and a to-go coffee in the other.
“Good morning,” she says cheerfully. “I made a new knife!”
Everyone freezes.
Angela slowly looks up. “I’m sorry, you what?”
“I made a new throwing knife,” Brennan repeats, visibly delighted. “Obsidian. I had several shards in storage from a field expedition in Guatemala. Obsidian is significantly sharper than surgical steel—it seemed logical to use it.”
She places the velvet case on the counter and flips it open.
The knife inside is stunning—jet black, glassy, and glinting sharply under the lab lights. Sleek, perfectly balanced, and clearly deadly.
Cam stares. “That’s a weapon. A real weapon. That you made.”
“Correct,” Brennan nods. “I used traditional flint knapping methods to shape the blade, then constructed the handle with reinforced carbon fiber for durability. It took several hours, but the process was very satisfying.”
Hodgins leans in, fascinated despite himself. “This is… actual obsidian? Like, volcanic glass?”
“Yes,” Brennan says. “It’s sharper than a razor. It can slice on a molecular level. I would advise against touching the edge.”
Angela just stares at the knife. “Okay, one—why do you have random obsidian just lying around? And two—since when can you make knives?!”
“I’ve known how to make knives since graduate school,” Brennan replies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Archaeology often involves recreating ancient tools to understand their function. And I had some time last night, so I forged one.”
Booth walks over slowly, eyeing the blade like it might lunge at him. “Bones. People relax by watching TV. Or reading. You made a death shard in your living room.”
“No,” Brennan corrects him, “I used the balcony. Ventilation is important when working with stone and resin.”
“You have a weapons workshop,” Cam says flatly. “In your apartment.”
“Not a workshop,” Brennan says. “Just a few tools. And a heat lamp. And a compression vise. And a—”
Angela holds up her hands. “Okay! We get it! You’re a walking episode of Forged in Fire.”
Hodgins, wide-eyed, leans closer to the case. “Can I… hold it?”
“You may,” Brennan says. “But do not touch the blade. It could cut through your skin with minimal pressure.”
Hodgins picks it up like it’s a holy relic. “It’s so light.”
“I designed it for speed and balance,” she explains. “The weight distribution favors rotational throw.”
Booth mutters to himself. “This is not normal. This is very not normal.”
“I don’t understand why you’re all surprised,” Brennan says, genuinely confused. “You’ve known me for years. This is consistent with my skills and interests.”
“You threw a knife into someone’s skull two days ago,” Angela says, pointing. “Now you’re forging obsidian blades at home like you’re arming yourself for the apocalypse.”
“I am not arming myself,” Brennan says. “I simply enjoy precision crafts.”
“Okay, well, next time we’re in danger, remind me to duck,” Booth mutters.
Cam sighs. “I’m gonna need to rewrite the lab’s weapons policy. Again.”
Angela points to the obsidian knife. “Can I just ask—what did you name this one?”
“I didn’t,” Brennan says.
Angela squints. “Really?”
“Well… I refer to it as K’awiil, after the Mayan lightning god,” Brennan admits.
The silence is deafening.
“Of course she did,” Hodgins says under his breath.
The platform is unusually quiet. Angela, Cam, and Hodgins are gathered around a table, staring in awe as Brennan lays out what appears to be a small knife-making kit on a clean, sterile tray. A hunk of obsidian sits in the center, surrounded by tools that definitely aren’t from the Jeffersonian’s approved inventory.
“Okay,” Brennan says, visibly excited, “we begin with understanding the cleavage planes of the stone. Obsidian fractures conchoidally, so precise angle and pressure are critical.”
Angela leans in, wide-eyed. “You’re actually going to show us how to make a knife?”
“Of course,” Brennan says. “It’s simple once you understand lithic reduction techniques.”
“Why do you know the phrase ‘lithic reduction techniques?’” Cam asks weakly.
“I told you. Graduate school.”
Hodgins holds up his phone. “This is the greatest day of my life.”
At that exact moment, Sweets walks in, clipboard in hand, chipper and unsuspecting.
“Hey, everyone! Just stopping by to—” He freezes. His eyes land on the table full of stone, blades, carbon-fiber handles, and sharpening tools.
There’s a beat of silence.
Sweets lowers his clipboard. “Okay. I’ll bite. What’s happening?”
“I’m teaching them to make knives,” Brennan says cheerfully. “Would you like to try?”
Sweets blinks. “Why are you… making knives in a federal crime lab?”
“It’s educational,” she says. “And therapeutic.”
Angela lifts a shard of obsidian carefully. “Honestly, I kinda get it. This stuff is beautiful. Like dangerous jewelry.”
“She named hers K’awiil,” Hodgins adds. “After the Mayan god of lightning and war.”
Sweets just stares at Brennan. “You forged a weapon and named it after a deity of violence?”
“I also considered Ix Tab, the Mayan goddess of suicide, but it felt less appropriate.”
“Why is that a sentence you can just say?” Sweets demands.
Booth enters from the hallway with coffee and stops cold. “Are you seriously making more knives?”
“She’s teaching us,” Angela says. “It’s educational. And terrifying. But mostly educational.”
Sweets pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay. I know I said learning new skills can help people process trauma, but I meant like… gardening. Meditation. Not knife forging.”
“This is extremely effective at reducing stress,” Brennan replies. “Controlled focus, refined motor skills, instant feedback. Also, it’s satisfying to create something beautiful and deadly.”
“You hear yourself, right?” Cam asks.
Booth takes a long sip of coffee. “I give up. I live here now. In the Land of Weaponized Nerds.”
“Would you like to learn as well?” Brennan asks Booth. “I have extra materials.”
“I’m not making a murder knife with you, Bones.”
“It’s not for murder,” she corrects. “It’s for precision defense and artistry.”
“You know what?” Hodgins says, raising a hand. “Can we make two each?”
Sweets turns to Angela in desperation. “Angela. You’re the sane one. Talk her out of this.”
Angela, still holding the obsidian like it’s an engagement ring, says, “If I die, this is the one I want buried with me.”
“I’ll allow that,” Brennan says.
Sweets sets down his clipboard. “Okay. Fine. But when the FBI finds out you’re crafting blades in a government facility, I am not defending you in court.”
“They already know,” Cam mutters. “They sent two agents yesterday. She described the knife throw in clinical detail. They left visibly shaken.”
“And impressed,” Brennan adds.
Booth groans. “They were not impressed. They were terrified.”
“Well,” Brennan says, picking up a piece of stone, “if they’d like to learn, I’m happy to provide instruction.”
There’s another long pause.
Sweets sighs and sits down. “Fine. Show me how to not cut my hand off.”
The room has been unofficially converted into what can only be described as the Jeffersonian Knife-Making Olympics.
Brennan stands at the front like a serene, scholarly blacksmith goddess. Her hair’s pulled back. Her lab coat is off. A chalkboard behind her says “OBSIDIAN BLADE FORMATION – Round Two: SHAPING.”
In front of her are four workstations:
Angela is hunched over hers, tongue sticking out in concentration.
Hodgins has goggles on and is muttering something about “blade weight ratios.”
Cam is pretending she doesn’t care but is clearly trying to outdo Hodgins.
Sweets has a bandage on his thumb but refuses to stop.
Booth, standing off to the side eating chips, mutters to no one in particular, “This is either the world’s nerdiest cult or the start of a documentary called 'How It Got Out of Hand.’”
“Remember,” Brennan says calmly, “the edge must be struck at a shallow angle—otherwise you’ll create a flake instead of a blade. Angela, rotate your wrist slightly.”
Angela adjusts. “Like this?”
“Yes. That’s optimal.”
Just then—
The FBI agents, Scott and Morales, walk into the room.
They stop.
They stare.
In front of them: a federal crime lab team gathered around tables actively crafting deadly obsidian weapons while being given detailed instructions by a world-renowned anthropologist who casually murdered a man last week with a similar blade.
There is a very, very long silence.
“…We came to follow up on the forest incident,” Agent Scott says, slowly.
Morales looks like he wants to melt into the floor.
Booth waves a hand toward Brennan without even turning around. “She’s over there. Making a new generation of knife-wielding scientists.”
Scott watches Cam hold up a half-shaped knife to inspect the balance. “Is that your medical examiner?”
“Yep,” Booth says. “She’s winning.”
Morales stares at Hodgins, who is sanding his handle with frightening glee. “Is that the bug guy?”
“Yep,” Booth confirms. “Don’t ask.”
Angela looks up. “Hey, do we get points for design? I added runes to mine.”
Brennan nods, pleased. “Cultural integration. Five bonus points.”
Scott slowly lowers his notepad. “We… just needed to clarify a few details on the use of force protocol—”
“You don’t,” Booth says. “You really don’t.”
Brennan finally looks up, smiling politely. “Agents. Would you like to join the knife-making session? I have two unassigned workstations. Sweets cut himself, but only mildly.”
Both agents take a synchronized step backward.
“We’re good,” Morales says. “Actually, we were just—uh, we were going to request reassignment.”
“To what division?” Brennan asks curiously.
“Doesn’t matter,” Scott says quickly. “Anywhere. Arctic. Space. Food crime. Doesn’t matter.”
Morales adds, dead serious, “Just… somewhere far from wherever you are, Dr. Brennan. With all due respect.”
Brennan nods. “That’s logical. People often react that way when confronted with evidence of their own inadequacy.”
Booth nearly chokes on a chip.
Angela grins. “You’re scaring federal agents, sweetie.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Brennan says, “but I won’t apologize for being competent.”
The agents just look at each other.
Scott says, “You know what? We’re done. We’re just… we’re done.”
They turn and walk out—briskly.
Sweets watches them go, then looks at Brennan. “You terrify them.”
“I taught them something,” Brennan shrugs. “Fear is often a byproduct of enlightenment.”
Hodgins holds up his knife triumphantly. “Mine could definitely decapitate someone!”
Everyone stares at him.
“…Hypothetically!” he adds.
Booth sighs and mutters, “I’m gonna need a new therapist. And maybe a lawyer.”
The knife-making workshop has officially evolved into a full-blown presentation round.
A long table is covered in velvet cloth and dramatic lighting. Each obsidian blade gleams under a spotlight. There are handmade labels:
“Angela’s: Murder Chic”
“Hodgins: Bugslayer Prime”
“Cam: Precision Scalpel of Doom”
“Sweets: I Tried My Best” (in Angela’s handwriting, not his)
Brennan stands at the front, holding a clipboard. She's dead serious. Like she’s judging doctoral theses and not… handcrafted weapons.
“Each blade will be assessed on balance, sharpness, symmetry, and cultural integration,” she announces. “And, of course, lethality.”
Booth, still leaning against a counter with crossed arms, sips coffee and mutters, “This is the weirdest day of my life and I’ve been kidnapped twice.”
Angela steps up first, flourishing her knife like a fashion model. “It’s deadly and stylish. I carved protective runes into the handle and added a mother-of-pearl inlay. Very goth anthropologist.”
Brennan inspects the blade with her scientist face on. “Symmetrical, polished, blade edge could be sharper… but excellent aesthetic integration. 8.7 out of 10.”
Angela fist-pumps.
Next up is Hodgins, practically bouncing. “I used a beetle resin composite to bind the handle—biologically thematic. Plus, it's weighted to return to my hand if I miss.”
“Like a boomerang?” Cam asks, alarmed.
“Like destiny,” Hodges says.
Brennan examines it. “Structural integrity is subpar for combat use. You prioritized novelty over function.”
Hodgins gasps, hand to chest. “Et tu, Brennan?”
“7.1,” she says, and moves on.
Cam steps up, cool and calm. Her knife is sleek, black, and terrifying.
“I used surgical precision tools to shape the edge and balance it to the gram,” she says, smug.
“Flawless geometry,” Brennan says, impressed. “Excellent hand-fit and durability. 9.8.”
Cam smirks. “Thank you.”
Then Sweets presents his, looking exhausted and heavily bandaged.
“I call it Desperation. I mostly bled on it.”
Brennan inspects it kindly. “The edge is jagged and improperly shaped, but your effort is commendable.”
Angela leans over. “That means you get a gold star for trying.”
“6.2,” Brennan announces.
Sweets nods solemnly. “Fair.”
Then—footsteps echo up the stairs.
The interns walk in: Wendell, Daisy, Arastoo, Clark, and Fisher. They stop just inside the platform. Their faces morph from curious to confused to utter horror in about three seconds.
“What… is going on?” Wendell asks slowly.
Daisy’s mouth drops open. “Are those knives?!”
“Obsidian throwing knives,” Booth says, totally done with everything. “Handmade. Judged. Welcome to the Jeffersonian.”
Fisher blinks. “Oh. Good. I was worried this place had become less insane.”
Arastoo cautiously steps closer. “Wait. Who made these?”
“We did,” Angela says proudly. “With Brennan’s help. She taught us.”
Clark glances at Brennan. “You taught them… how to make blades.”
“Yes,” Brennan says pleasantly. “It’s been very productive. Would you like to try?”
There’s a collective silence as all five interns process that their boss—the brilliant, intimidating, logic-driven scientist—has led a knife-crafting competition in the lab.
Wendell whispers, “Is this because of that murder in the woods?”
“Oh yeah,” Cam says, totally casual. “She killed the guy. Knife. Threw it fifteen feet. Right between the eyes.”
The interns freeze again.
“She what?” Clark says, stunned.
“She carries three at all times,” Angela adds helpfully. “This one’s new. She made it from scratch. Named it after a god.”
Daisy, horrified: “She has names?!”
“She’s been training since grad school,” Hodgins says, like that explains anything.
Sweets, still holding his bandaged hand: “Don’t resist. Just accept it. It’s safer that way.”
Brennan turns to the interns, smiling softly. “You’re welcome to participate in round three: grip wrapping and holster design.”
“Nope,” Fisher says immediately. “I value my remaining fingers.”
Arastoo murmurs something in Farsi that’s probably a prayer.
Wendell just looks at Booth. “How do you work with her every day?”
Booth drinks the rest of his coffee and mutters, “Fear. Mostly fear.”
Brennan claps once, all business. “Next, we’ll review the molecular slicing capacity of obsidian and compare it to steel.”
The interns just… sit down silently. No one moves. No one argues.
They understand now.
Dr. Brennan isn’t just a genius. She’s a genius with knives.
And they will never be late for shift again.
The interns—Wendell, Clark, Arastoo, Daisy, and Fisher—are huddled around a table. They all have coffees. None of them have touched them.
They’re staring across the room, where Brennan is chatting with Angela, gesturing with what’s very obviously another new knife.
“She has a collection,” Clark whispers. “An actual knife collection.”
“I still think that obsidian one glowed under the lab lights,” Wendell mutters. “Like an ancient cursed artifact.”
Fisher sighs. “We knew she was intense. We didn’t know she was a walking mythological weapon.”
Daisy, still clearly frazzled: “She named her knife after a Mayan lightning god. That’s not science, that’s a warning sign.”
Just then, Cam walks in, sees the gathering gloom cloud over the interns’ heads, and sighs. “You all heard some of what happened. Do you want the full story, or are you going to keep whispering like traumatized pigeons?”
“Full story,” they say in unison.
Cam sits down, looks around, and starts like she’s telling a campfire tale.
“We were in the woods. A body was found. Ritual kill, heart removed, creepy ash symbols everywhere.”
Daisy shudders. “This already sounds like Brennan’s favorite day.”
“Then,” Cam continues, “our forest guide pulled a gun on us. Turns out, he was the killer.”
Clark leans forward. “How did she even get the knife out without anyone noticing?”
“She didn’t.” Angela walks in, joining them with a bag of snacks. “One second, he was monologuing. Next second, thunk. Knife between the eyes. Guy dropped like a tree.”
“She threw it?” Wendell asks.
“Fifteen feet,” Angela confirms. “No hesitation. Dead center of the forehead.”
“I blinked,” Cam says. “He was just... dead. It was surgical.”
“She didn’t even sweat,” Angela adds. “She looked annoyed. Like he was interrupting her lecture.”
“I asked the FBI if that was legal,” Sweets pipes up from a nearby chair. “They said yes. Then requested immediate transfers.”
“Wait, seriously?” Arastoo says. “They left because of her?”
“They said—” Sweets lifts his voice into a mock-official tone—“‘We respectfully request reassignment to any available posting located as far from Dr. Brennan as geographically possible.’”
Daisy’s eyes go wide. “They fled. Federal agents fled.”
“Oh, yeah,” Angela nods. “They walked in on her teaching us how to make knives in the lab. She offered them a workstation. They ran.”
“Smart choice,” Fisher mutters. “If Brennan ever snaps, we’re all bones.”
“She won’t,” Booth says, suddenly appearing behind them, holding a bagel. “But if someone else tries to hurt any of you? Yeah, she’ll absolutely kill them. Fast.”
He takes a bite of his bagel like this is fine. Everything is fine.
Wendell turns to Cam. “And you’re... okay with this?”
Cam shrugs. “I’m managing it. And reworking the lab’s safety policies.”
Clark shakes his head. “I thought she was scary before. This is another level.”
Angela grins. “She’s always been another level. You’re just catching up.”
“I feel like I should file something with HR,” Daisy mumbles.
“You are HR,” Cam points out. “Interns rotate.”
“Then I’ll file it with myself,” Daisy says, slumping.
Fisher sips his coffee. “You know what? I’m not even mad. Honestly? I think she’s the apex predator of science.”
“Yeah,” Wendell mutters. “And I work for her.”
They all pause as Brennan walks by, carrying what definitely looks like another blade—this one curved.
“I forged this last night,” she says casually. “It’s based on a ceremonial Aztec blade used for heart extraction rituals. Would you like a demonstration?”
“No!” the interns chorus in panic.
Brennan tilts her head. “Why is everyone so jumpy?”
Angela pats her on the shoulder. “Because you’re amazing, terrifying, and capable of murder with office supplies.”
Brennan nods thoughtfully. “Thank you.”
She walks off, humming.
The interns all watch her go.
Then Clark says, “We’re never surviving this internship.”
Booth leans in and mutters, “You’re only in danger if you mess up her labels. Or say anthropology isn’t real science.”
The table goes silent.
“…Noted,” says Wendell.
The interns are spread out, trying to pretend this is a normal day.
Wendell is cleaning tools.
Arastoo is helping Daisy assemble a skeleton.
Clark is typing a report, pretending he’s not still haunted by obsidian knives.
Fisher is staring into the void, sipping coffee, already emotionally dead inside.
Brennan is nearby, meticulously cataloging fragments, calm and focused.
The door slams open.
A man in his early 40s storms in, red-faced, furious. No badge. Not lab staff. Definitely not invited.
The interns freeze.
He storms up to Clark, who goes stiff the second he sees him.
“You think you can run, huh? Think you’re safe here?”
Clark steps back. “I don’t want any trouble. Leave.”
The man reaches out—fast, grabbing Clark by the front of his shirt.
Before anyone else can blink, Brennan moves.
One second, she’s at her station.
The next—she’s in front of Clark, blocking him completely, hand around the man’s wrist.
She twists.
CRACK.
The man screams.
Before he can react, Brennan drops low, sweeps his legs out, and slams him to the ground with brutal precision. One hit—open palm—to his temple. He goes limp.
Unconscious.
Dead silence.
Clark stumbles back, wide-eyed. “What the—how did you—”
Brennan, cool as ever, stands over the man. “He was a threat.”
The other interns just stare.
Wendell whispers, “Did she just take him out in under three seconds?”
“She did,” Fisher mutters, blinking hard. “I timed it.”
“I think I blacked out,” Daisy says faintly.
“Same,” Arastoo says. “Mentally, emotionally, spiritually—gone.”
Just then, Booth bursts in, gun drawn. Cam, Angela, Hodgins, and Sweets right behind him.
“Bones?! We got the silent panic signal—what’s going on?!”
Brennan steps aside, revealing the unconscious man on the floor. “He attempted to harm Clark. I neutralized him.”
Booth immediately moves to the body, checking him—and stops.
He pulls something from the man’s jacket.
A gun.
Fully loaded. Safety off.
The room goes very quiet.
Booth’s expression darkens. “He had a gun.”
“Of course he did,” Brennan says. “His hand was angled toward his waistband. His gait indicated concealed weight. And he displayed aggression toward a member of my team.”
Angela steps back, stunned. “You saw all that in like two seconds?”
“I’ve been trained to,” Brennan says. “Booth insisted.”
Booth just stares at her. “Bones. You saved his life.”
“I did the logical thing.”
Booth looks at the interns. “Anybody want to argue with her logic?”
All five interns shake their heads fast.
“Not even a little bit,” Wendell says.
“Nope,” Clark adds. “I will never doubt her again.”
Cam sighs, already pulling out gloves. “Okay. Booth, get security. I’ll start bagging the evidence. Angela, pull the security footage.”
Angela looks at Brennan. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Brennan says, then glances back at Clark. “Clark, are you injured?”
Clark just stares at her like she’s made of fire and logic and pure death. “…I’m okay.”
“Good,” Brennan says softly. “He won’t hurt you again.”
The other interns?
They’ve seen Brennan lecture, solve impossible cases, and make knives out of volcanic glass.
But now?
Now they truly understand:
Do not mess with Brennan’s interns.
Ever.
The interns are huddled together again—quiet, intense, and deeply traumatized in the weirdly respectful way.
Wendell: “Okay. So. We agree… Dr. Brennan is not a normal person.”
Daisy: “She’s a force of nature. Like a hurricane in heels.”
Fisher, calmly sipping coffee: “I think she’s a minor god.”
Arastoo: “No, seriously. The man touched Clark and she appeared. She moved faster than physics.”
Clark: “She took down a six-foot-two man with a gun barehanded and then asked if I was okay like she didn’t just assassinate someone with her elbow.”
They all pause, nodding slowly.
Then Wendell leans forward. “So we agree we need more intel. If we’re going to follow her, we need to know who she really is.”
“Like a religious text,” Daisy says seriously. “Gospel according to Brennan.”
They turn to Angela, who just walked in with coffee.
“Angela,” Clark says. “How long have you known Dr. Brennan?”
Angela raises an eyebrow. “Long enough to know you’re about to ask something insane.”
Fisher: “We’re trying to compile her legendary feats. For science. And survival.”
Angela stares. Then sighs and sets down her coffee. “Fine. You want stories? You got stories.”
She sits down.
“Three years ago, we were cornered in Guatemala by artifact smugglers. One guy tried to grab me—Brennan dislocated his shoulder with a shovel. I didn’t even see her move. She went full ‘Don’t touch my artist.’”
Daisy gasps. “That explains the broken ceramic artifact labeled ‘do not discuss.’”
Angela just nods solemnly. “Yup.”
Cam walks by. “You telling Brennan War Stories?”
“They asked,” Angela shrugs.
Cam sips her coffee. “Okay. Morocco, 2016. One of the dig assistants tried to drug Booth’s drink. Brennan noticed the ice melting unevenly. Five minutes later, the guy had a broken wrist and was crying under a jeep.”
Wendell: “She ice-analyzed an attempted poisoning?”
Cam: “She said it was ‘obvious.’ Like any of us notice things like evaporation symmetry.”
Hodgins pokes his head in. “Oh! Oh! I got one. That time the snake got loose in the storage closet? Everyone ran. Brennan just… grabbed it. With her hands. While lecturing it about how its behavior was entirely logical.”
“...Was the snake afraid of her?” Fisher asks.
“Probably,” Hodgins says. “We all are.”
Booth walks in, hears this, and stops. “You guys doing Brennan Mythology?”
Everyone nods.
He snorts and grabs a donut. “Try this one: we were in Egypt. I got taken hostage. Brennan broke a guy’s nose with a thigh bone and freed me. She said it was anthropologically poetic.”
Everyone goes still.
Arastoo, reverently: “She used bones.”
“Of course she did,” Booth says. “She’s Brennan.”
Clark stares at the table. “We’re not her interns. We’re her chosen ones.”
Wendell: “We’re not protecting her. We’re being protected. Like ducklings under the wings of a carnivorous eagle.”
Fisher: “Or like worshippers of a god who wears lab coats and can end lives with a clipboard.”
Daisy, dead serious: “We should make pins. Or patches.”
Angela: “Please do. I will design them.”
Booth chuckles and walks off. “Just don’t tell her. She’ll run a psychological threat assessment and somehow justify it.”
LATER – INTERN WHITEBOARD ROOM
The board that once listed bone density ratios now reads:
THE BRENNAN BIBLE
Vol. I: Moments of Wrath and Logic
Threw a knife into a man’s head from 15 ft
Broke a guy’s arm saving Clark
Used a femur as a weapon in Egypt
Choked a snake while giving it a science lecture
Possibly taught herself ancient combat forms in her spare time
May have invented her own martial art (inconclusive)
FBI agents now fear her more than most serial killers
Underneath, someone’s written in sharpie:
“We are not the shields. She is the sword.” – Intern Creed
And right below that, in a different color:
All hail the Queen of Bones.