[Continued from "The Trial of Joe Black"]

[Text enclosed in {} are in Spanish.]

[Warning: Language]

The Mexican Blackbird pokes her head out the back door to Lady Saturday's place upon hearing the odd-sounding excited barking. She quickly discovers that the barking sounds odd because it's coming from the throat of a human (well, human-looking) girl, an exuberant Maria chasing after one of Saturday's hapless chickens. The Blackbird watches in sleepy amusement for a moment as the girl scatters the rest of the indignant group of fowl by leaping into the middle of them and trying to touch all of them at once.

"Hey, Maria," the Latina calls out to her friend, and Maria looks up happily, though not apparently surprised. The coyote jumps to her feet once more, brushing off the voluminous gypsy skirts she wears when she deigns to clothe herself.

"Blackbird," she replies cheerfully, pushing her freshly brushed mass of shining black hair out of her face to reveal her dark eyes. Over her crimson skirts she wears a spaghetti strap tank top and a loose blouse of a riotous patchwork. Anklets jangle against the bare arches of her feet, little bells tinkling merrily.

"{What are you so dressed up for?}" the Blackbird asks in curious Spanish. But Maria just grins, and twirls in a circle.

"{Are you busy today, Blackbird?}" the coyote girls asks instead. "{And Joe?}"

"{Well, I need to run down to the market later in the afternoon... but nothing else today. And Joe's taking some time off. Not enough,}" she adds with a scowl. "{Why?}"

"{I told you about the brothers. Big and little. I thought we could go see them today, okay?}" Maria's eyes are bright with anticipation, and the Blackbird wonders idly if either of the brothers are good-looking. Not that it generally seems to matter to Maria, she gravitates towards people on an entirely alien set of priorities that still escape the Blackbird's understanding. Maria once explained to the older woman that Maggie was her best friend because she "smells bright and dusty, and talks real". There was still a very real language barrier between the two women when it came to more abstract issues.

"{Well, let me go ask Joe,}" the Blackbird replies, taking a sip of the strong coffee Saturday made earlier. She wanders back inside, Maria bouncing at her heels, to find Joe sitting at the kitchen table. The Blackbird sets her coffee down and moves behind him, sliding her hands along his arms, then folding them over his collarbone, kissing him soundly on the back of his head.

Joe looks up from his own coffee and smiles without turning to face her. Even as long as he's known her, as far beneath her hard facade as he's seen, these tender gestures remain unexpected little wonders. Like a rose blooming in hardpan desert.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Maria wants to know if we'll go talk to those guys she met in the med tent," she says softly. "Remember, the ones I told you about? With the arrowhead portal key?"

"Oh, good mornin', Maria!" he says, smiling in surprise at the coyote girl as though he hadn't immediately recognized the ebullient whisper of her bare feet beneath the clack of the Blackbird's purposeful stride. Then, to the Blackbird: "Yeah, I don't see why not. Seems like my schedule's pretty clear at the moment."

Maria nods happily, and does a little twirl, swirling her skirts out. Though she has been wearing it off and on for several years now, clothing, and the way it moves on her body, still delights her. She pulls out an arrowhead from her pocket, and holds it up in the air.

"{Hold on a moment, Maria,}" the Blackbird laughs. "{I need to get dressed, you know!}" Indeed, she is the singularly dichotmous pair of cut off sweat pants, old baggy t-shirt, and boots, pulled on hastily to ward against the morning chill when she went outside to smoke and investigate.

Disappearing into the small room being used as a bedroom, she emerges a few minutes later in her more usual outfit, carrying her coat, hat hanging down her back. Maria, during this time, sits down across the table from Joe and watches him intently, a pleasant smile quirking her generous lips, but saying nothing.

When the group is finally ready to leave, Maria leads the way back out into Saturday's dusty back yard, and carefully shoos a zombie out of the middle of the hard-packed earth. Then, with a broad, sweeping gesture, she draws a large, vertical circle in the air with the metal arrowhead. A shimmering grey portal slides into place, which Maria immediately dashes through, disappearing. The Blackbird raises her brows, shoots Joe a look, shrugs, and follows nonchalantly.

The exit in a clearing in the middle of the woods, The Blackbird emerging from the portal to see the coyote girl sniffing the air as she waits. When Joe gets through, she does the human equivalent of a bark. "This way!" and trots through the trees. A short distance from the clearing stands a small cottage. Maria raps on the door impatiently, chanting, "Nathan, Vincent, Nathan, Vincent."

A soft barrier--but a barrier nonetheless--prevents the party from moving far from the portal. Hazy sunlight drifts through the leaves above them, striking the brownish-silver barks of the trees and the soft moss-like grass beneath. A bird is singing somewhere to their left.

Within seconds of Joe's arrival, they hear footsteps approaching. Nathan comes into view, wearing dark holey pants with fresh mud caked on the knees and hems, a blue flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and strong-looking boots, also covered in mud. "Welcome!" he calls as soon as he sees who has arrived. "I'm happy to see you! Please excuse the dirt; it's been raining the last week and I'm trying to keep the weeds from taking over the garden."

The guests find, as Nathan speaks, that the barrier around them is gone. Nathan strides up to them, smiling and unabashedly offering a very dirty hand to the newcomers.

Maria dances around the man as the Blackbird steps forward to shake his hand firmly, not minding the dirt. "I'm the Mexican Blackbird, though most people just call me Blackbird," she introduces herself, tipping her head briefly. As she steps aside to allow Joe to do the same, Maria steps up behind Nathan and buries her nose in the hair along the back of his neck, sniffing deeply, before darting back again with a jingle of anklets.

Nathan seems slightly startled when Maria sniffs his neck, but smiles amusedly when she is finished.

Chuckling indulgently at Maria's antics, Joe shakes the man's begrimed hand as well. "And I'm Joe Black," he says, "but I figure you knew that already."

"A pleasure to meet you both. I am Nathan," he says, bowing his head slightly in a hostly manner. "Please, come this way, make yourselves at home..." Nathan waves them along and they begin walk along a slightly muddy dirt path.

"Since you _do_ know who I am, I'm sure you'll appreciate my being a little cautious at the moment. Maria's taken up with you, and that scores some points in your favor, but you'll excuse me if I need to know what this is about before we go much further."

Nathan turns to face Joe politely as he speaks. When the man has finished, Nathan replies, "Of course, that is most understandable."

They stop within view of the cottage and Nathan explains, "My brother was involved in the incident at the end of the trial. He is a mage and the task was quite... draining. For some reason, he's taken up an interest in what happened, and he greatly desires to know just what he was fighting and why." Nathan pauses and it is clear from the way he speaks that such curiosity is unusual in his brother. "I think he might have met something like it before, but I can't know for sure. He doesn't often tell me much. But I -do- know that no harm will come to you in this reality."

Nathan finishes his speech very seriously, leaving little room for doubt of his good intentions.

Joe gives the Blackbird a sideways glance at this. "That's good to hear," he says to Nathan. "Although if you've been keeping up with the news, you know that realities aren't quite as dependable as they used to be."

The Blackbird nods seriously. "No offense, but bad things can come in very pretty packages," she adds, looking around her at the rather idyllic forest and the cottage. "And if you or your brother were following the trial at all, you'll know it's not always good to speak of these things." She looks around, trying to find Maria, and spots her having moved ahead of the group and peering with interest into one of the windows in the cottage.

"I admit I haven't been following any news recently; I'm more of an at-home type of guy," Nathan readily concedes, "but my brother created the reality and, while I've never seen him at it, I know he pays good attention to the upkeep. He values his privacy," Nathan adds. "But... anything is possible."

"May I ask who your brother is?" she queries. By now she's regained most of her memories of that frantic fight to free her lover, but there were so many people, so much chaos...she doesn't remember seeing anyone who looked much like this young man.

For an instant, Nathan looks like he is fighting between two instincts: one of politeness and one of a desire to conform to his brother's wishes. That look disappears, however, and is replaced by his former eager host personality. "His name is Vincent. He's my younger brother by two years, but he's been through a lot more than I have, probably because of his skills as a mage. He may be quick to become frustrated or impolite," Nathan adds apologetically, "but... he means well. He's resting inside." Nathan indicates the cottage before them.

The Blackbird laughs, a stacatto, but still somehow warm sound. "Maybe I should keep my mouth closed then, and let you do all the talking," she murmurs to Joe. "He sounds a bit too much like me for us to really get along, and I don't think you or Maria really need me starting a shouting match today, huh?"

"You make it sound like there's a _good_ day for that," Joe murmurs back with a smirk and a wink.

She adds curiously, to Nathan, "So is your brother a late sleeper, is it earlier in this reality, or is he sick? Or something else entirely?"

"He's still tired from the battle a while back. He didn't use his abilities very economically," Nathan explains as he begins to lead them toward the cottage again.

The Blackbird nods politely, still trying to figure out who this Vincent could be.

The cottage is very small, made of rich limestone with a clay-slated roof. There are windows in which white curtains flutter gently in the breeze. The door is made of heavy wood and the doorknob seems to be the only metal in sight. There is no lock.

The trees hug closely to the cottage, but there seems to be an opening in the back; the location of Nathan's garden. Branches of climbing rose bushes peek out from the walls on the sides of the cottage, bearing dozens of tiny buds.

Maria stares in at the small dining room, fingers leaving delicate whorls where they press against the windowpane. She turns her hands to rub them backs of them lightly over the cool, smooth glass, closing her eyes briefly, then walks rather demurely to the door to wait for everyone else. Her nostrils flare continuously, however, and she keeps turning her head this way and that, either to listen to the sounds of the forest or catch new smells.

She can neither hear nor smell anything from the interior of the cottage. Nathan opens the door and, after allowing the others in, closes it gently behind him.

The interior is simply furnished. The first room is a kitchen/dining area and a door opposite the entrance seems to lead to a small, dark bedroom. In the kitchen, there is an oven that serves to heat the stoves, a couple of cupboards, and a lonely teapot sitting on the stovetop. On the other end of the room is a fireplace without a fire. Near it stands a table with four smooth wooden chairs. A couple of flowers hang upside down, drying, next to the fireplace as decor, but the rest of the room is undecorated.

Nathan motions them toward the chairs. "Please, have a seat and I'll get my brother." He walks through the door into the bedroom, leaving the guests to choose their own seats.

Maria sniffs around the room, stalking here and there as she examines everything in sight. As she does so, the beginnings of a frown form on her face, but she says nothing. The Blackbird, for her part, sits gingerly in one of the chairs, uncomfortable as always in a stranger's home.

While they cannot see the two men, the guests can hear their voices.

"Vincent?" A pause. "Come on, Vince, you've got some visitors. Rise and shine!"

"Who? What're they doing here?" The voice is tired, grumpy.

"I asked them to come, remember? They're here about the Arrow of Justice spiel. Come on, they're waiting."

A quiet mumbling can be heard, then a form appears in the doorway.

Vincent's face and hands are slightly whiter than usual, his hair is tousled, and dark circles are present under his eyes. Nathan's hand can be seen holding a blanket on Vincent's shoulders.

Vincent glowers at the visitors for a minute, then moves forward at a nudge from Nathan that the guests cannot see. He stops beside the table. "Good morning." From the tone of his voice, this does not seem to be a good morning at all.

"Vincent," Nathan says, "this is Mr. Black, Ms. Blackbird, and Maria. They've graciously come to speak with you at my request." The hidden message: be nice!

Vincent glares at his older brother for a moment before saying, "Thanks for coming."

"Thanks for having us over," Joe replies without a smile. He senses no menace on this man, but given recent history, he trusts that sense about as much as a self-aware lunatic trusts his own eyes. That being the case, Maria in this instance has almost become a sort of seeing-eye dog for Joe. And Joe doesn't like what her more cautious stance may protend.

The Blackbird merely nods back, hiding her scowl at the appearance of the man. She does remember him somewhat... the person who had first gone in the doors to the Tower, and who had made a tunnel out for everyone. //Looks like one of those ridiculously broody people... just like Burkett. Fan-fucking-tastic.//

Maria moves forward, side stepping at the last minute to move behind Vincent, and sniffs the back of his neck, much as she did with Nathan, though more quickly, as though unsure of her welcome. As soon as she's done that, she pokes her head into the bedroom, glancing around, then pops back out.

"Where do you live?" she asks Nathan brightly. "Not here, yes?"

Nathan smiles as he pushes his younger brother into the fourth empty chair. "Yes, I live here. I don't get out often, actually."

Maria frowns, looking around. "But... it... smells wrong. No... no you-live-here smells. Where sleep?"

A slightly confused look passes over Nathan's face. "I sleep in the bedroom, of course." He pauses, confused. "Perhaps my scent simply isn't very strong." He does not look convinced, but shrugs the matter off and returns to the matter at hand.

Vincent, who had stiffened slightly when sniffed a moment ago, sits without further ado. He proceeds to stare at his folded hands on the table.

With Vincent settled, Nathan walks to the kitchen area, pours tea into five cups, and gives one cup to each of the visitors. He gives the last two to Vincent. "I think I'll go work in the garden for a while. Holler if you need me," he adds before stepping out the door.

Maria watches him go, and looks back at the group, clearly torn. The Blackbird raises an eyebrow at her questioningly, and her expression hardens, and she moves over to the table and sets her tea down. Instead of sitting at a chair, however, she immediately plops herself onto the floor.

At Vincent's feet.

For all appearances, Vincent ignores his new foot-warmer, although he has the strong desire to pull his feet away.

The Blackbird frowns at her, and she grins back, the kind of expression that would translate into the coyote lolling her tongue out and narrowing her eyes happily. The older woman sighs, and rolls her eyes slightly. She's long ago gotten used to Maria's odd mannerisms, especially around people she feels should loosen up.

Vincent leans forward and puts his hands around one of the warm cups. He sips, takes a deep breath, and says, "I... uh... appreciate you coming out here. Um... I... asked to see you because I wanted to know--I want to know what it was I was fighting back there." His face seems slightly less emotionless than usual and his eyes seem to search theirs with an intense purpose.

The Blackbird snorts eloquently, but her face softens slightly. She picks up her tea to avoid having to say anything, looking over questioningly at Joe. //If I open my mouth, and say what it is we were really fighting, Joe is going to get so pissed...//

Joe gives the Blackbird a quick annoyed glance. He carefully sets aside his coffee and tents his fingers on the table, his frosty eyes boring into Vincent.

"Why?" he says after a moment. "What're you plannin' on doing with that information? More to the point, what're you -willin'- to do?"

"What am I planning to do? Nothing. But I don't necessarily choose-" Vincent stops abruptly and takes his first sip of tea. He places the cup on the table, hands again wrapped around its warm outside.

Maria leans back carefully, resting the back of her head on the darker man's knee. Her face, however, reflects the seriousness of the conversation, and she is clearly listening carefully.

Vincent jerks, stands, and moves to the other empty chair. He carries one of the cups of tea with him, and the blanket falls to the ground in transit. If Maria tries again, she will find a hard but invisible barrier between herself and any part of Vincent.

He settles, sits silent for a moment, then finally continues as if nothing had happened, "When I was first studying as a mage, I accepted a 'calling.' That is to say, when my services are needed, I receive a 'calling' and respond. This is the second time I have... been called to fight one of those things. I think. Perhaps that answers your question," he finishes after another pause.

The Blackbird can't bite her tongue any longer, and she asks sharply, "Is this a God thing?" Her face is arranged into a suspicious frown, and one long finger taps impatiently, if silently, against the mug.

"No." Vincent's reply is quick and firm. He does not elaborate.

Joe glances at the Blackbird again, then turns back to Vincent and sighs. "All right, then," he says. "The things you were fighting are called 'Twistings'. That name alone won't do you much good, though. They don't have any one shape, power, or tactic. The only thing one Twisting has in common with another is that they don't mean any good for anything or anybody. And the only thing to do about'em is what you already did: _Kill_'em."

Joe sits back in his chair with a small, humorless smile. "So, see there? You already had the answer before you asked."

Vincent shakes his head. The tea in the first cup is gone and the second cup slides silently into his hands as he asks, "Then why do you care what I do with the information? Where do the Twistings come from?"

Joe scowls. "You seem like a good man to me, Vincent, but that's not the sort of information you can just pass around like a bottle of whiskey. It's more like a bottle of poison. Or plague.

"You want to kill Twistings? Fine. I'd be happy to have the help. You want to know the what and the why behind'em? Sorry. Until I know more about what you're made of, I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you."

"You could try," Vincent mutters. It seems to be a statement of fact rather than a threat.

The Blackbird snorts loudly and rolls her eyes visibly. "Yes, yes, you all powerful mage, we get it," she says. "You want information, you get to earn it, hm? Do you tell your big secrets to any old person who comes wandering into your house?"

Maria, sensing the tension in the room, eases into a crouch. She keeps her head down, however, just listening.

Vincent snorts. "I've told you less about myself than you've told me about twistings."

"Look, everyone just settle down," sighs Joe, holding up his hands. "We're not here for a pissin' contest, Vincent, and I wasn't threatenin' you. I'm just telling it like it is. What you're wantin' to know isn't just there for the askin', and I'm not sayin' that just to be an asshole.

"Now, I've told you all I'm gonna tell you about this. Wish I could say more, but I can't. So is there anything else you brought us out here for, or are we done?"

There is a long silence in which Vincent stares into Joe's eyes. Finally, he breaks eye contact and mutters, "I'll help, then." He leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. "What do you want me to do?"

Joe shrugs. "Right now? There's nothin' _to_ do. These things aren't some army I can just sic you on, Vincent. All I can do is get in touch with you when something happens that'd make your abilities useful. 'Till then, just keep your eyes open for anything that just doesn't seem right somehow. I know that's pretty damn vague, but it's as specific as I can get where these things're concerned."

Vincent nods slightly. "Fine. Don't worry about contacting me; I'll know when I'm needed." He stands up and, for all appearances, graciously adds, "Thank you for coming by."

The Blackbird rises gratefully, happy to be escaping without some shouting match or other unpleasantness. She glances down at Maria, who smiles up at her.

"Staying," the girl proclaims softly.

The older women frowns. "Staying? But Maria..."

"{Don't worry about me. I'm a little bored. Burkett is... not around. He doesn't need me right now.}" The coyote girl's smile is somewhat wistful, deepening the furrow between her friend's brows.

"{Maria, I'm still not sure it's a good idea, you living over there...}"

"{It's not your decision, is it?}" The girls' tone is matter-of-fact, and the Blackbird sighs. It's so easy to want to mother this girl, easy to forget that she's not only perfectly capable of taking care of herself, but that's she fully mature for her species. "{He needs someone to look after him. He won't let a people do it. I want to.}"

The Blackbird nods slowly. "{I know. But, why do you want to stay here?}"

"{I like Nathan. He smells like pack. Something is weird here. Plus, Vincent is funny. He jumps alot}" Her grin, this time, is her normal easy and slightly mischeivious one.

Glacing over at Joe, the Blackbird nods again. "Okay. Well, you know where I am if you need anything." She dips her head politely, if a bit coldly, to Vincent, and walks out of the cabin.

Joe tips the brim of his fedora to Vincent, then scritches Maria fondly on the head. "{You take care of yourself, girl,}" he warns her with a finger wag and a wink. But as he turns away, his expression is grim.

"She sure can pick'em," he observes to the Blackbird with a shake of his head as they walk back through the forest. "This sorta thing reminds me why I hate dealin' with magicians.

"Present company excluded on both counts," he hastens to add with a wry grin.

The Blackbird arches one eyebrow, but allows the comment to pass unremarked upon, and simply nods her agreement of his previous statements. "Though somehow I was expecting more argument out of the guy," she add softly. "Almost disappointing."

As they approach the gateway back home, she glances back one last time, through the woods, just seeing a hint of the cabin beyond the trees. She sighs, shaking her head. "I'll never figure that girl out, I swear. I hope she's okay."

Maria wacthes her friends leave with steady eyes, then tilts her head backwards to regard Vincent solemnly. "You need a people, too," she observes. "Why the brother lives here?"

After standing silently in the doorway until the others had left, Vincent finally closes the door. While he is aware that Maria has stayed, he accepts her presence as her choice: if she really wants to risk it, fine. He ignores her. For all appearances, Vincent looks, smells, and sounds perfectly calm. It is what Nathan would term the "Oh shit, not again" moment.

Vincent slowly moves back to the table, bends down, and picks up the fallen blanket. He feels its rough woolen thickness and gently brushes off a bit of dry mud that it had picked up from the floor.

As soon as the last guest finishes stepping through the portal outside, Vincent allows the blanket to slip through his fingers. In one fluid moment, he snatches one of the chairs and hurls it against the door.

"Fucking bastards!" He takes the next chair and throws it into the cupboards. The cupboard doors crack and there is a slight tinkle of breaking glass. The chair falls onto the stove and then to the ground, taking the teapot down with a clatter.

In two strides, Vincent reaches the kitchen area. "Why don't you just..." he punches into the cupboard--the door implodes and his fist travels all the way to the back wall--"...fucking..." the other fist connects with the cupboard, making quick work of what is left intact, "...kiss..." he sweeps the counter, ignoring the blood already flowing from his knuckles and knocking everything to the floor, "...my fucking ass!" He kicks at the stove and hot coals fly everywhere.

At the first sign of violence and anger, Maria yelps in surprise. Had she been in her natural form, her ears would be flat back against her head now. Instead, she simply jumps to her feet and runs out the cottage door in a flurry of skirts, turning back to watch the cottage warily. Not that she's particularly afraid of the man inside, but she has never been comfortable around those with violent tempers. Even the Blackbird's rages cause her some uneasiness.

When Nathan hears the first crash from his vegetable patch, he takes in a breath and stands, the hand-shovel dropping forgotten from his hand. With the loud twinkling of breaking glass, he begins a mad dash around the house, praying that the guests have already left.

As he turns around the final corner to the front of the house, he hears the creaking of stone; Vincent is appearantly venting his rage on the walls.

Heedless of his impending peril, Nathan skids through the gaping doorway, looking desperately for any sign of the guests. He is so busy looking that he does not hear the cracking sound above him.

"Nathan!" Maria barks, seeing the man enter the building, and gets ready to sprint after him.

"Move!" Vincent's powerful voice attracts Nathan's attention, but he barely registers his younger brother's presence before the falling stones strike his head.

When the dust clears, the entire front wall of the house is in ruins and Nathan is buried somewhere beneath it.

The coyote girl stands there for a moment, simply blinking, coughing almost silently in the dust, her keen sense of smell obscured for the moment. But she sees no sign of Nathan outside of the collapsed house...

Her shift into half and half form is instantaneous, and she immediately begans hefting chunks of the cottage and throwing them away. Several trees are impacted by flying debris as she digs frantically and silently, gathering a thin patina fo dust and shredding her clothes somewhan the process.

"Shit!" Vincent slowly rises from his crouch by the back wall. "Aw, shit!" he repeats as he springs forward to the mess. He pulls chunks of limestone and clay away in an effort to get at his brother, forgetting that magic would prove an easier method of clearing away the rubble.

"Come on, Nathan," he mutters. Some bits of red hair--red from blood rather than natural hair color--come into view. Within moments, Vincent uncovers Nathan's head.

There are deep gashes on the forehead and the back of the neck from which blood still oozes. Dust from the stone and broken clay has slowed the bleeding, but not quickly enough to prevent blood from staining the rubble below his head.

The face is pale. The eyes are open and staring. Nathan is dead.

Vincent screams and throws a large piece of limestone into the distance, as if that additional act of violence would fix everything. "Shit, shit, shit!" He pounds the rocks with his fists with each word, then gets to his feet and kicks the rubble.

Maria watches the whole scene with slitted eyes, a growl rumbling low in the back of her throat.

Vincent starts to kick again, but at the last minute turns and drives his foot into the floor instead. He runs a bloodied hand through his hair, then freezes as something grips his stomach. A sense of urgency fills his mind.

"Shit, not right now," Vincent mutters. He walks and grabs his cloak from the hook just inside the bedroom, then climbs over the rubble. "Damn it all," he mutters, along with a few other phrases his mother would never let him use. // This better be a real emergency or someone's gonna find himself in the shithole...//

Cloaked and no longer bleeding, but still looking quite the mess with bits of gray and red dust coloring his clothes and hair, Vincent vanishes through a portal.

Her eyes flick back and forth across the rubble after he leaves, finally spotting the expired Nathan. She exhumes the rest of his body, sniffing slightly. She didn't know him very well, but he had seemed nice, had smelled right, and didn't deserve this callous treatment by his own brother. Any amusement and vague beginnings of affection she might have felt for the taciturn Vincent are extinguished when she finally pulls the limp body from the rubble.

She hauls him out of the clearing that holds the cottage, cradling him easily in her arms as she sits a ways away from the ruins, among the trees. A low keening sound rises in the mostly silent woods as she holds the dead man tenderly on her lap.

Charlet,
You're not going to believe a word of this, but I swear it's true. I wouldn't really believe it myself except the boys both agree with me on it, and you know how often -that- happens.

We got out to the lake all right, traffic wasn't too bad. Henry lit the stove but it was going to be a while before the hamburgers were ready to cook, so we let the kids suit up and go for a swim.

Well, you know how that "dare" fad is sweeping through the schools? Well, it's gotten to Thomas and Jonathan because one of their friends dared them to swim out past the barricade. Apparently their "honor" was in stake if they didn't make it to the other side and back. Boys!

Remember, we always joked about that alligator sign on Swamp End? Never again, Charlet, never again. You can guess what happened. We heard them shouting and Henry grabbed a shotgun and started running around the lake, but it's way too far. All I could do was stand there with my fingers tangled in my hair, trying to squeeze their way through my brain. I know, I've got the bruises.

Next thing I know, this strange man appears out of nowhere and races straight for the lake. I thought he was crazy; he didn't even take off that wierd black cloak he was wearing! But he dove straight in.

We couldn't see the boys anymore, I think they'd been pulled under. I kept turning away and back again; I couldn't look, but I couldn't help it either. Next thing I know, the boys pop back up out of the water, halfway across the lake, and drift straight over to the beach. Without a scratch. Impossible!

They tell me they can't really remember what happened down there, but they remember getting attacked. The policemen found several nests on the west side, right where the boys would have ended up if they'd gotten out of the water, full of eggs just about to hatch. No wonder they were attacked!

The thing is, that strange man never came out of the water. I can't explain it, but I feel like he's responsible for saving my boys' lives, don't ask me how. Lots of people saw him going into the water, but Henry says I'm being silly to think he actually helped our boys. How could he swim across without breathing, for example? Like I said, I can't explain, but that's what I think it is.

That's not all. Get this: the police dragged the lake for his body, but they couldn't find any. It took us three days to get back home, and I checked as soon as I got within reach of the telephone, so they can't possibly have missed him, can they? I so hope he survived.

What they did get is a lot of pieces of alligator. Broken jaws, tails, empty skins... you get the idea. Something ripped those things apart. I'm glad my boys didn't see the mess; it makes me sick again just to think about it.

Henry doesn't bother to explain it, but I just can't stop wondering. He says the boys are fine and that's a kind of miracle we shouldn't expect every day and it shouldn't be analyzed too closely. I guess he's right, but I really wanted to share that with you. Call it a last defiant strike against complacency.

One thing I know: we're not vacationing out there again.

Hope you and Frank are well,
Pam

Maria tilts her head up to the sky, her thoughts a jumbled and confused mess. Nothing about this place makes any sense to her, and the people here are even worse. Vincent, who seemed pretty much like one of those gloomy, brooding types who _badly_ need an infusion of humor had just killed his own brother in a temper tantrum, then turned tail and ran.

Maria was actually pretty okay with death. It was a simple fact of existence when one was a coyote, and she had a fairly intimate knowledge of it, from various angles. But this seems so senseless and stupid. Though she is fairly used to being somewhat ignorant of human motives, this is still wildly uncomphrensible.

Idly, she strokes some of Nathan's hair out of his face, and leans over to sniff his neck sadly. Poor dead man. She's cluthching him to her chest when suddenly, there's nothing there. Her arms bump into her chest at the sudden loss of weight.

Gone.

Her arms are empty, and any trace of Nathan has vanished, including the smell of his blood and sweat on her fingers. She lets out an interogative yelp, blinking down at the empty space where Nathan used to be. Clenching her hands a few times, she frowns, then leaps to her feet, running out into the clearing where the cottage once stood.

Nothing there, either. Confused, angry, and frankly tired of this whole thing, she sits back on the ground, amidst the rubble, and howls to the clear blue sky.

About half an hour after he had left, Vincent reappears. His cloak, clothes, hair--everything-- is sopping wet. He stops within sight of the house, slowly shrugs the heavy cloak from his shoulders, wrings it out, and drapes it over a branch. Within seconds, a strong breeze picks up, making the cloak sway slightly in its perch.

Vincent brushes his hair back with a hand, sending droplets of water flying out behind his head. He stops and stands still for a moment, letting his hands drop to his sides, his feet shoulder-length apart. He breathes deeply, sighs, then nods slightly at the house.

Pieces of stone fly back together to form the original whole blocks, broken morter slips in between them, and the dust slowly fades away from view. Within thirty seconds the house looks just as if Vincent had never thrown his little tantrum.

Vincent runs a hand through his hair again, then strides forward through the newly-repaired doorway into the interior.

Maria watches all of this with narrowed eyes, and admits to her curiosity, but no longer even vaguely trusts this man. She remains outside, and does not follow him into his newly rebuilt home, merely watching.

The interior has already cleaned itself. The teapot sits quietly on the stove, awaiting a fresh load of water. Cups are stacked neatly in the cupboards. Four chairs sit around the table by the fireplace.

Vincent ignores all this. He heads straight for the door to the bedroom, but stops short. He kneels down and carefully reaches toward a stone in the floor. After a moment, the morter around it melts into nothingness and the stone comes away in his hand.

Vincent sets the stone on the ground, then pauses, his head slightly tilted as if listening for the repetition of some faint sound. There is no noise, but he seems to receive the information he is searching for and replaces the stone.

Vincent slowly rises and runs his hand through his hair again. He turns toward the door with a hesitancy reminiscent of a man resolving to do something he loathes. He walks slowly outside and faces Maria.

{Maria,} he begins in Spanish, {please don't speak about what you see here, not even to myself.}

She practically spits at him, "{I'll say what I want to who I want. You kill your own brother during a temper tantrum, and then you ask me to keep my mouth shut? Fuck you.}" The unfamiliar profanity at her bitter lips bespeaks her emotion on the subject.

A slight smile touches the corner of Vincent's lips, although he is not laughing at her. He says nothing, but nods in acceptance of her statement and turns back into the cottage.

She watches him go, and finally turns away, walking slowly back to the clearing in which she arrived, what seems like days ago now. She's tired, of trying to understand, and frankly just wants to go home now.

In the back of the first room he takes out the heavy stone again. He places it on the ground, then reaches inside the hole and pulls out a quarter-sized transparent sphere. A tiny dot in its center glows a bright, painful green.

Vincent cups his hand and places the ball in the center of his left palm. The light reflecting off his hand lights his face with an eerie green translucence that seems to reveal his skull rather than his skin.

Almost immediately the light begins to pulse, the brighter flashes growing so strong that one could see it thorugh his hand, and the darker flashes leaving the entire cottage desolate of light. Somehow, the sun has temporarily disappeared. The only light in the reality comes from the tiny ball in Vincent's palm.

The pulsing, which had started at a rate of about one cycle per second, begins to accellerate until it fills the room with a softly flickering half-light.

Until now, Vincent has not twitched, but once the light streams consistently from the ball, his lips move slightly.

The light disappears.

Once again the cottage fills with a gentle golden glow from the midday sun. The ball in Vincent's hand is now empty. He slowly returns it to its hiding place, replaces the brick, and stands up.

A moment later, a tall, red-haired figure walks around from the garden and into the house. "Have they left, then? Would you believe it, I actually fell asleep back there! I had no idea I was that tired; I guess the sun's warmer than I thought." As he speaks, Nathan makes his way to the sink and fills himself a glass of water. "How was your meeting? Productive?"

Vincent shrugs. "No, they didn't really tell me much. Just what the things're called." He takes advantage of the open cupboard by taking a cup and filling it with water. He sips and wrinkles his nose.

"Did you drink all the tea already?" Sure enough, the teapot contains nothing but dregs. "Huh." Nathan puts the teapot down in the sink. "Good job, Vincent."

Vincent shrugs and takes another sip. After a pause, he answers Nathan's first question. "Maria is still here, but I think she's about to leave."

"Oh, really?" Nathan looks up quickly. "Why didn't you see her to the door? Oh, Vincent!" He turns right around and takes off out the door.

Vincent watches, drains the rest of the water, then puts the cup on the counter. // Sorry, Nathan.//

Maria finally reaches the clearing, fingering the soft cloth of her skirt, now muddied and somewhat torn. She pauses for a moment, thinking sadly how poorly things seem to work out whenever she tries to fit in the human world. But she's no longer welcome among the tribes of her own people, either. It's only with the half-breeds, like Maggie, that she ever feels truly at home.

Nathan appears, walking at a fast pace. "Maria! I'm sorry if my brother offended you, he has trouble working with unfamiliar people..." he apologizes as he catches up to her.

Maria stares at him in utter shock, her mouth hanging open in a most unflattering manner. Slowly she steps forward, touching Nathan lightly, her fingertips just brushing his shoulder. She blinks...then leans in much more closely, sniffing extensively along his neck, balling her fists in his shirt, her face solemn and frowning.

A look of patient confusion crosses Nathan's face and one of his eyebrows goes up in interest. // Has my smell changed or something?// he wonders.

"Alive..." she mutters, pushing up Nathan's shirt quite rudely and putting her ear up to his chest. "You died!"

Nathan's confusion turns slightly into a smile at her antics, then back to its former not-understandingnes. "Died?" He, too, looks like he has the impulse to check his own vital signs, but he resists the temptation. "I certainly hope not," he adds with a tone of amusement.

She nods earnestly, brown eyes swimming in confusion as she pulls back, patting Nathan's shirt back into place absently. "Yes. Borther knocked down house on you. Body was dead. Smelled. Bloody. Brother leave. Blood dissappear later, brother come back. Make house up. Sun go on again." This is quite a long speech for her, and a struggle in English. At each mention of "brother", she snarls a bit.

"Dead," she repeats again, helpfully.

Nathan listens intensely, seriously. He begins to regret his moment of amusement at Maria's expense. "But... oh," he says, realization lighting his face. He runs a hand through his hair in a Vincent-esque gesture. "So that's what happened." He pauses for a moment, then continues.

She watches him intently, backing up a few paces as he talks.

"See... I'm not really... I'm not sure how it works," Nathan admits, "but I believe that Vincent created me for a purpose. I'm sure there was a real brother, at one time, and I'm sure I'm modeled after him... but... I'm not quite the same. And since..." Nathan stops with the realization that he's really screwing up this explanation. He takes a breath and starts over.

"A long time ago, I'm not sure how long, there was an accident. It killed Vincent's family, including his brothers. I don't know anything about the accident, but I do know that Vincent feels responsible, and I am very sure that there was no way he could have prevented it, or he would have. His family was gone, but he created myself, and my brother, as a sort of surrogate family. Except we aren't supposed to know we aren't the real thing."

At this point, Nathan bends down to speak very seriously with Maria, "I've figured it out because of... inconsistencies... but he prefers to think that I don't know, and I really don't mind. I -am- Vincent's brother, just not the original one. With that role comes an understanding of Vincent. He has very strong emotions, but he hides them, lets them build up inside. Every once in a while, Vincent will become angry and lash out at his surroundings. He doesn't worry about my presence because if I'm affected he can simply fix it. I don't worry, either, because I -know- he can fix it.

"If there was an incident... he didn't really kill me, any more than you might break a machine so it stops working. Is that... does that make any sense?"

She thinks about carefully, standing completely still, then frowns at the end of the explanation. "Not a machine. Doesn't matter..." she growls in frustration as she tries to think of the words in English. "Doesn't matter how...born. From body," here she pats her stomach to explain, "Or from magic. Real."

She steps forward closely again, poking her finger at Nathan's chest with a fierce expression. "Not. A. Machine. Person. Real." She shakes her head, as if disappointed about something, and her face takes on a mournful expression. "Killing brother is wrong. Doesn't matter you come back. Is wrong. Should... should love brother. Be careful of." Carefully, she brushes one finger along the other man's cheek, then steps back.

"Sorry. I should go."

Nathan nods sadly. "Of course." He opens his mouth as if to say something more, but thinks better of it. After a slight pause, he continues, "Please have a safe trip. And... if you can find it in your heart... please forgive my younger brother. He has had a very hard life." He checks himself again. "Thank you for visiting. I appreciate it. May the winter winds always be one step behind you."

Maria nods, her thoughts turning over on themselves in a muted cacophony. Mostly, she thinks the brooding man in the cabin does not deserve this piece of sweetness that is his brother. But underlying that is the desperate want to understand, that human need that plays so at odds with her easy-going nature. She turns to go, and honestly does not know if she'll ever come back.

Nathan sighs and turns toward the cottage. // This isn't going to be easy.//

When he enters, Vincent is sitting in one of the chairs with his feet propped on another, sipping water and staring at the fire. "She leave?"

"Yes." Nathan closes the door. "You're soaked. What happened?"

"A couple of kids being mauled by an alligator."

"Oh." There is the sound of the teapot being filled with water and heated on the stove. "Why'd you do it while she was still here?"

Vincent sets his drink on the table, but doesn't turn. "I was hoping she wouldn't talk about it."

"She's human, and people need to talk about stuff like that. Okay, so she's not exactly human, but close enough." A pause. "Besides, I already knew something happened. I never fall asleep in the garden when you're not home. But it's okay with me. You do always bring me back. And I'm really glad to be around to help you. So it's okay."

"Why?"

"What?"

"Why is everyone in such a big damn hurry to help everyone else? What does it matter? It's not their concern. But you still get people running all over the place, sticking their stinking noses in other people's business."

"Don't you when you respond to a calling?"

"....I hate it."

"Then why do you do it?" As Nathan says this, the teapot begins to whistle. He pours the hot water into two mugs, then adds a pinch of herbs to each and stirs. "A lot of people have an urge to help others. It's a sort of sympathetic thing. People don't like to see bad things happen, so they help whenever they can. Sometimes they hope that if something bad happens to them, other people will help them in turn."

"They're stupid." Vincent takes the mug Nathan offers and sips.

There is a knock at the door. "Anybody home?" a deep voice calls before the door swings open. The newcomer steps indoors and firmly shuts the door behind him. He is wearing a light, blue pull-over, jeans worn around the knees, and brown boots. His hair is dark brown and messy as if it has been left to its own devices for too long. "Hey, Nate 'n Vince, what's up?"

Vincent sighs and says, without turning around, "Hello, Marcus."

The ordeal with Fr. Angelus, and particularly with Burkett's younger counterpart, has left him drained. Much moreso than it should have done. In particular, the final assault on the demon, while effective, had left him exhausted. From this, Burkett inferred he had used the powers given him for a purpose not approved by their Source. He had, he knew, acted in anger. It was a loss of control that grieved him now. But at the time, he had not even thought of the consequences.

The power had been given to him to fight Twistings. And only Twistings. When he was doing his job properly, he could cause vital organs simply to vaporize. No trauma, no flash-bang gee-whiz pyrotechnics. Just a gentle touch, and the being... stopped. He never felt the passage of the energy. He was merely a conduit.

But tonight had been different. The power had come at his unthinking command, and it had knocked the assassin on his back-side. Burkett held the conviction that, had he applied a little more energy to the attack, he could have destroyed the other. And he knew the other man thought so, as well. He'd seen it in the assassin's eyes. The shock, the sudden doubt and, finally, fear.

That was not what the power had been meant for. He had perverted it, and now he was paying the price in physical pain and stupor. He slept, long and hard. So deeply that, had the assassin returned, he could easily have blown Burkett away before he could wake and respond.

Maria can find her way to Burkett's place from pretty much any reality now. It's always been this way with her and any place she considers home. And while she has moved none of her things into the older man's space, knowing instinctively what problems this could solve, she does spend almost every free night there, drowsing in her canine form in front of the fire. He seems to accept her more easily this way, her four legged self less troublesome, somehow.

But this time she holds her human form, and walks slowly back, giving herself time to think. Maria doesn't really _like_ thinking very much, it seems to her that humans spend far too much time doing so and get themselves into endless trouble for it. But sometimes one has to quiet the voices in one's head, sort out the conflicting evidence, and come to some conclusion. Unfortunately, Maria's long walk does none of these things for her, and she gives it up as a bad job, slipping quietly into Burkett's house.

Her bare feet leave damp prints on the floor as she pauses inside the door. Everything is dark, unusual for so early an hour, and the house feels cold. She sniffs the air experimentally; no, he's here, she can smell him, but her ears pick up the gentle rhythm of sleep, past the cracked bedroom door.

Maria has often snuck into Burkett's bedroom when he is not around, fascinated by the trappings of his life. She is always very careful not to touch anything, and she has never been in the room at the same time as the older man. None of that occurs to her, however, as she eases the door the rest of the way open, and pads noiselessly inside.

He is asleep, deeply so for him not to have noticed the intrusion, and she stands there for several long moments, just watching him with glittering brown eyes. The way his broad chest rises and falls with his breath, the shadow his lashes lay across his cheeks, the line of darkness that is revealed with the parting of his lips. Her mind stills as she gazes at him, and she knows she should leave now.

Instead, the coyote girl kneels next to the bed, tucking her legs up under her, the tattered and muddy remains of her skirt pooling over legs. She leans forward, and very, very carefully rests her soft cheek against the back of his hand where it sprawls carelessly on his chest. Breathing slowly, she drinks in his scent, and lets her tired eyes flutter closed at the comfort the peculiarly masculine odor brings.

From somewhere deep in the abyss of his depletion, Burkett feels the touch and struggles to respond to it. It seems to take hours slogging through waist-deep mud before his consciousness rises to the surface and he stirs. Aware that he is not alone, he takes a mental reconnaissance before he opens his eyes. He feels the warmth, hears soft breathing. He localizes this, and turns his head to look down at the coyote girl as his eyelids slide open. He frowns.

He had taken up these new quarters only recently, leaving the rooming house if favor of a free-standing house when Maria made it clear she intended to become a permanent fixture in his life. It would not do to have her sharing his small rooms in human form. And the landlord didn't hold with pets. So he had opted for a small cottage on the edge of a quiet sector. But he was not accustomed, even now, to sharing his space. It had been difficult enough with Maria as a coyote.

But now she was in human wise, in his bedroom, touching him. What did this portend? Had their tacit agreement to keep their respective distances and remain pleasantly impersonal begun to unravel? What did she want? Was she... how could one put it delicately? "Receptive" again?

But there seemed to be circles under her closed eyes. And her face, even in repose, seemed drawn. Where had she been, and what had she been through? There was a smudge on her forehead. Her hair, never as tidy as Burkett would wish, was even more matted than usual. What had she been up to?

Carefully, he drew his hand from under her check and rested it lightly on her hair.

"Maria?" he said softly. "Estas bien?"

She says nothing for a long moment, simply sighing softly into the bedclothes. Finally, when she answers, it is in the Spanish she always uses when she talks with the older man, though the occasions are rare.

"It's been a very... long day," she offers in a sad whisper. She slowly rises to her knees, continuing. "I don't understand humans, sometimes."

Cautiously she dips her head towards his chest, as if to rest it there. It's clear from the scrunched expression on her face that she expects to be pushed away, but she's helpless to resist the needed contact. At times, when he's very relaxed, Burkett will pet her in her coyote form. Nothing improper, just a lazy scratching behind the ears, or sometimes across her shoulders. She misses the easy dogpiles she used to get in with Momo, or the way Maggie's hands would constantly flutter around her, poking her in the arm, pulling on her wrist to drag her laughing somewhere.

Burkett's instinct is to move away, perhaps to slide off the other side of the bed as if he'd been intending to get up, anyway. He wouldn't want to insult her, but he also can't allow this sort of intimacy.

But... she seems so sad, so vulnerable. And, after all, what would it hurt?

"Por favor?" she asks in that same quiet tone, one hand clenching unconsciously in the edge of the quilt.

He reaches up his hand, cups it around the back of her neck and pulls her head down onto his chest. Then he strokes her hair, smoothing out tangles. "What happened, Maria?" he asks gently. The tone is fatherly, and not unkind. "Tell me about your long day."

Maria settles against Burkett's chest with a happy little sigh, letting her eyes fall closed. She feels a low tingle run through her body at his touch, and almost unconsciously she lets go of some of the tenseness that has taken root in her muscles, arching her neck just a little. Oh, it's been so _long_...

It requires all the will power Burkett can muster not to telegraph his discomfort at this body-contact. It has been a long time for him, too. Until his recent stolen moments with Mannon, it had been more than 150 years. Years when touch meant danger and even death. He tries to remember this is only Maria, and manages to keep his muscles from tensing.

"There was a man," she begins in a soft voice, not childish, quite, but still threaded with a kind of youthful need. "He was a friend, and his brother wanted to see Blackbird and Joe, so I took them to see him. They left, and he got...angry. The brother did. He was a witch. So he collapsed his house and killed his brother."

Beyond her line of sight, Burkett frowns. -What sort of man would kill his brother? And what would such a man want with Black?-

Burkett can feel a faint, warm, wetness against his chest, Maria's silent tears, as she continues. "I like Nathan, the man. He's like Maggie. The brother left, then Nathan's body disappeared. When the brother came back, he brought Nathan back to life. Then..." she pauses, considering her words as she turns her face more firmly into the older man's chest, taking in a heady noseful of his scent.

Burkett's frown deepens, but this time with the effort of trying to make sense of this. -Who killed whom, and who came back to...- He swallows. Perhaps it would be better if he just accepted the convoluted narrative as Maria gave it. She apparently had escaped mostly unscathed, so the danger was over. He didn't have to respond to THAT. And if he listened long enough, perhaps he'd gather enough clues to figure out what she was trying to tell him.

"Then he told me it didn't matter, that he wasn't _real_. How could... how could someone make their brother feel like that? That they weren't real? That their life didn't matter? I don't understand." She sighs, but already her voice lightens, as though simply talking has eased something inside her.

Burkett repeats these words in his mind once or twice. They still don't make sense to him. -Who- wasn't real? And if the brother were dead, then how could he feel -anything-? And if someone isn't real, then what problem is there in... He shakes his head slightly. No, it doesn't make sense to him. But, then, the thoughts of others often don't.

She lays there for a moment more, and really, it's only a matter of inches to move her head just _so_, and rest her nose at the crook of his neck, nuzzling and sniffing deeply, blissfully, before murmuring, "Why were you asleep so deep?"

Burkett doesn't flinch at the tickling sensation on his neck. He doesn't push her away, or scratch himself there. In fact, he feels he is tolerating this rather well. Perhaps it won't be so bad adjusting to this sort of intimate invasion of his space now and then.

As long as she doesn't try to get any closer.

But she had asked him a question. "I had visitors," he explains, keeping it as brief and unworrisome as he could. He didn't want to alarm her, and he didn't want her thinking she should get involved in his personal affairs. "I dealt with them, but it tired me. It's over now." He pats her head awkwardly, feeling this probably isn't the right thing to do. "Nothing to worry about."

Maria mumbles against his neck, her breath hot, "Must have been... bad. To make you tired. Maybe you'll tell me later." There's no questioning in her voice, merely a quiet acceptance that Burkett will do whatever's best.

-And maybe I won't,- he thinks, beginning to feel drowsy again. -And maybe I'll just go back to sleep for a while longer...- It is so quiet, and Maria's body is so warm where it drapes over his. Nice, peaceful, familial harmony. He could grow to appreciate this.

He had never had the opportunity to be anyone's father. The thought that had been running through his dreams as he'd slept had to do with the child Angelus had had with the Mannon of his universe. Was the child still alive somewhere? Was he well? What would he look like? Would he favor Mannon or... himself? What would it be like to meet him? To see him? To speak with him and even perhaps hold him for a moment? This child, who could have been his own, who carried his own genetic material. What if he could find this child? He'd be...in his late 'teens or twenties now. If he lived. What if he had children of his own? What would it be like to have a son? Or a grandson? Did he dare to find out? Could he even find the boy? Should he?

She simply lays there for a moment, acepting the comfort the older man offers, aware on some level that this must be very difficult for him. On entirely another level, however, she doesn't really care. Never one to analyze herself, or sometimes, to even think before acting, she begins mouthing the warm skin of his throat, darting her tongue out to taste the sleep sweat left there, her eyes half-lidded, almost sleepy.

And Burkett is instantly awake. And tense. And battle-ready. "Maria," he says tightly, "please do not do that." For the moment, he doesn't move. But every muscle in his body is charged for action and ready to spring. "That is not appropriate behavior for a well-bred young human female."

Maria stops abruptly, realizing she's over-stepped her bounds. But the comment is so purely _Burkett_, so familiar to her, that she can't supress a small chuckle that comes tickling out along his neck. She pulls her head back slightly.

"Since I'm neither well-bred or human, and only young in your terms, how should I take that?" she asks, amused. And she doesn't really _want_ to be amused... hell, she was crying a few minutes ago, but it isn't in her nature to remain melancholy for such long periods of time. Burkett sets something off in her that she really can't explain, but she's grateful for it.

Sitting up slightly, she plants her hands on either side of his head, and looks down at him, her dark hair a ragged curtain around her face. "Besides," she adds reasonably, "A well-bred young human female wouldn't have a chance in hell of surviving around you, would they? So how much do you really want me to change?" Her wide brown eyes blink down at him questioningly, and it's hard to tell if she really intends the question to be as provocative as it could be taken.

Burkett's nimble mind whirls. A woman who could survive even in -his- world? Not frail, not delicate. Flesh-and-blood, warm and soft, yet tough enough to withstand the dangers just of being in his orbit?

He loved Mannon. But they had never been... intimate. Theirs was not that sort of relationship. He loved her in a spiritual way. And, though he had wanted more from her, it simply was not... proper. When Mannon had been flesh-and-blood, she had not even known of his existance, or his watchful guard, until she was so old a physical relationship would have been dangerous to her health. Even now, now that she was spirit and the flesh was merely window-dressing, they had not... consumated their love. It just hadn't seemed right.

But here was this nubile young woman, so warm, so close. He could feel her breath on his face. Her darks eye beckonned to him. Her carelessly assembled clothing so tenuously anchored. The heat of her poured through his shirt, igniting him.

In a flash, he had wrapped her warmth in his arms, rolling her over on the bed so that he covered her with his own hard body, pressing her into the matress with deep, hard kisses as his hands frantically sought her smooth, warm flesh under the ill- fitted clothing.

But only in his fevered mind.

And before he could act, his rational mind took hold.

"No!" he barked, grasping her by the shoulders and pushing her back as he sat up. "No," he repeated more gently. "I... do not want you to change." He slid out from under her to stand on the far side of the bed. "Of course I do not want you to change," he went on, turning away from her to hide his shame... and his arousal. "I would never ask that of you."

She stares at his back, surprised. She knew she was pushing things, and she had half expected the man to shove her off the bed forcibly. Still... she sniffs the air curiously. Something tickles just on the edge of her perception.

He moved to the window so that he could calm himself, the cold coming through the old glass panes soothing his face. "But..." He swallowed, struggling. "...you do not realize how dangerous is my world. You think you could survive it, but you could not." He paused again to swallow. "No one could. In fact..." He hung his head for what he was about to do. "...I think it would be better if you went back to your friends. I find your presence distracting." He added, too hastily, "--from my work." He gathered courage, hating himself more with each word. "I cannot do what I must do if I am worried about the consequences to you. I must remain free to act, free to do my job."

She rises from the bed, stalking towards him, but stopping a few feet shy of the older man. Again, she scents the air, and a peculiar smile tilts the corner of her lips. She raises one hand towards him, but does not touch him, as though she is simply basking in the heat of his skin.

He continued, still not looking around. "Understand, it is not what I would wish. But the job is more important than my needs or... desires."

And then he fell silent, feeling more spent than when he had faced the assassin.

"Don't lie to me," Maria whispers at his back. "Don't lie to me, I can smell it."

Burkett winces. Aware of her heightened canine senses, he's fairly certain what she smells. He remains stonily silent.

She can't, not really, and what would a lie smell like? But she knows Burkett just a little, and if this were the truth... or if this were the _whole_ truth, he would face her, she's sure of it. What she _can_ smell is that human heat, the subtle musk of pheremones and desire.

It occurs to her to be surprised at that. He's never treated her as anything more than a child, or at least, a very young woman, sometimes as a dog of sorts. She is fully aware that up until...well, perhaps a few moments ago, her longing had gone unrequited. But so many days spent in this man's presence... and he is as hard as he needs to be, hard enough to be a true dominant, hard enough to protect what is his, yet careful, so careful of others, and she couldn't stop it, the helpless feeling she has around him, the desperate desire to make him smile, to _see_ her.

So she chooses not to wallow in her shock, and instead speaks to his shoulderblades. "I'm not a child. I'm not a delicate flower, as you say. Would you tell Joe to stop? Would you tell him he's not safe? Of course no one survives this!" She realizes her voice is heating, intensity leaking through, and she's not quite hissing, but her whisper has risen to something a bit louder.

-No!- screams the voice in his head. -It's not YOU! It's not YOUR weakness!-

"But you can't make my choice for me. No one made yours for you. You aren't the strongest person I know, nor the toughest, nor the most powerful. You do what you do because of...because of your will, because it was what you decided to do."

"This is _my_ will. I will stay here, and I will help you. Tell me to go, fine, if it makes you feel better, but I won't. Knock me out, if you can bring yourself to strike a woman, and drag me out, lock the doors against me, but I'll come back, and I'll sleep in the street, and scratch at your door, and I'll howl." She smiles again, this time a flash of teeth in the faint light from the window, a coyote smile if there ever was one.

He squeezes his eyes shut. He knows she is not making idle threats. He cannot be rid of her. She will stay, forever and ever, and he will never be rid of her, or her sweet, tender body which haunts him so...

"Not once have you done your job less than to the best of your ability since I've been here, so don't tell me _that_." She finally closes the distance between them and lays her hand on his shoulder, moving up to almost press against his side. Her mouth is gentler now, a smoky murmur as she speaks almost into his ear.

"You spent so much time living for someone else. Tell me the truth, is it so hard to accept that someone might be doing the same for you?"

Now, finally, he jerks away from her and stands back a good ten feet. "Are you so stupid that you don't understand what is happening?" he growls, his breath coming in short spurts. "Until now, I've thought of you as a coyote, or as a girl who could have been my daughter!" His face darkens. "All that has CHANGED now! Don't you see it? Don't you feel it? Don't you SMELL IT???"

He lurches forward and grabs her forearms, pinning her against the wall beside the window. He grinds his pelvis against her. His voice, when he finally finds it, is a hissing, angry rasp. "I could ravish you! Here. NOW. I want to! I WANT you, right NOW!" He catches a few panting breaths. "But I CAN'T HAVE YOU!"

Maria stares up at him, her eyes dark and unreadable, but her body relaxed and accepting.

With this, he pushes away violently, spinning away from her. "I am not a man. I was sent here to be nothing more than a killing machine. Not to think, not to feel, only to kill. And I can allow NOTHING to distract me from that mission. I am NOT Joe Black, to be able to do this job and still have a little bit on the side!"

She wants to interrupt. She wants to yell at him, question him, ask him, 'Who told you that? Or was it just you who decided it?' But she says nothing. He needs this, maybe.

And then his head jerks up, and he turns back to her, his eyes narrowed and glittering. "Is...that...it?" he says, his voice suddenly smooth and altogether more threatening than before. "Is that what you want? You see your friend, the Blackbird, and you want your OWN Templar? Is that all this is?" He takes a menacing step or two toward her. "Am I just a trophy to you? A toy to play with, in your female competition with your friend?"

Now his head cants to one side as he continues to step toward her. "Or... is it more than that, perhaps?" Still his voice is ultra-calm and dangerous. "Were you, perhaps, sent here? Is that it? Did Samael send you?" His voice is becoming angry again. "Did he send you to tempt me? To drag me back into the muck so that he can snare me again?" He laughs, a cold, furious sound. "What a fool I've been!! Out-witted by a slip of a girl who's not even a girl. She comes here and rubs her body against me, and I turn as hot as any dog in the street!"

A human woman of most cultures would probably be insulted by this. It never occurs to Maria to take what he says as insult, as it is so far off the mark as to be close to insanity. But isn't that one of the things humans are best at? Lying to themselves? Instead, she simply comments quietly, not even sure if he can hear her in this state, "You don't believe that."

He turns away again and stalks to the door. "Get out!" he barks. "Get out of my house and don't come back. Tell your master I saw his game at last." He tips his head back a moment. "Or if you're only an unwitting pawn in his game, then go find yourself another Dark Man to rub against. Perhaps that man I was with when you first saw me at the party. HE should do nicely for your trophy." His words are ironic now, mocking. "Why don't you see if you can find HIM?" He opens the door and holds it wide for her to pass through, cold as December now and in full control of himself.

She doesn't know how to explain to him. She has no idea how to reach him like this. It's not that she's unfamiliar with rage and denial... she's been around the Blackbird enough that this behavior is, if not commonplace, at least a known quantity.

Her first instinct is to leave, to give him some space to cool down. But she's also hyper-aware of the fact that this may simply give the man time to work himself up into an even more irrational state. More importantly, she _has_ to make him understand this, this _thing_ inside of her that is so big that she can hardly comprehend it, this overwhelming, bizarre feeling that makes her perfectly willing to put up with this man's mercurial mood changes, his coldness, his fear of her and himself.

So instead, she simply stands in front of him and crosses her arms over her chest. "No."

Burkett grows colder, if that is possible.

She lifts her chin, and meets his eyes fearlessly. If he doesn't want her to touch him, fine. She won't, for now. If he needs her to be in her natural form, so he can pretend she's something else, well, she's willing to accept that, too. But this is a decision she's made, and she'll be damned if she's going to let this infuriating, wonderful man drive her out. Or at the least, she's going to make it as difficult as possible.

"I'm not leaving," she adds, well-aware that this could have a very limited number of responses. One, he'll force her out somehow. She doesn't think he's stronger than her, but he has a few hundred years on her in terms of dirty tricks and tactics. Two, he'll leave himself, and this seems the more likely, and how will she follow him?

She adds, almost desperately, "I love you."

For a moment, it might appear he has not even heard her. His expression doesn't change. His eyes burrow into hers with an intensity that could cut through solid rock. Then a sort of grimace twists his face. His nostrils flare out as if he has smelled something hideously foul. When he speaks, his tone is dripping with scorn.

"Love me?" he repeats, oh, so calmly. "You don't even -know- me. If you did, you would fear and despise me!" His words become more clipped, more agitated. "You would flee, as fast and as far as you could!" He does not allow her time to argue. He doesn't want to hear argument. "So you are either a fool, a liar, or a pawn sent by Samael to seduce me!" He reaches beside the door for his long, leather trenchcoat. "And since you have made it clear you will not leave, then I shall!"

And with that, he bolts through the open door and melts into the deep shadows gathered around the little cottage in the wood.

She knew he would run. There was no escaping it... and for all that she wants to run after him, demand he acknowledge her sincerity, she knows better by now. She had expected no less than this utter rejection... but the human part of her had hoped, just a little...

It was like those terrible books Maggie hid under the bed and refused to admit she read. There had been a secret hope in her breast, small and un-nourished by her normal easy-going practicality, that if he only realized how she felt, that he would see her in a new light, maybe love her just a little for her devotion.

She stares out the window, though he is long gone. //He does see you in a new light,// she reminds herself, //Just not the one you'd like him to. Not the warm, gentle sun of spring, but the harsh white sky of winter...// She shakes her head at her foolish thoughts, wanting to laugh at herself for pining like a human, wanting to cry, wanting to... she doesn't know.

Burkett is... Burkett. She wouldn't feel the way she did if he were some sappy, love-bitten fool like Momo...or even if he were like Joe, all good intentions and smoking guns. Burkett is a brutally practical person, the only person she's met outside of other animal-born shapechangers that has even a hope of understanding the coyote in her, the animal part of her that doesn't care about killing or issues of morality. He took care of his own, when he needed to, for hundreds, maybe, of years.

She finally drifts away from the window and over to the bed. As she settles onto the now-cold mattress, and falls backward into the tangle of blankets, she realizes what she really wants from Burkett, more than anything else.

//I want to make him laugh.//

Turning, she buries her nose into his vacated pillow, sniffing deeply as she rubs her face in the old pillowcase. She's tired... so tired... and he'll be gone for awhile, she's sure. With that though, she drifts off to sleep.

Burkett sat beside the pool in the little pocket-reality which had become his personal haven, the place he retreated to because there was not another living soul in the place. Only little creatures, birds and water beasts. No one to ask uncomfortable questions. No one to task him with demands. He could be quiet here. He could think here.

He had completed many, many laps in the cold, crystaline water, lain naked in the sun long enough to dry and now gathered his clothing. He had just finished dressing when a familiar voice spoke from the rocks above him.

"Chasen Ashforth Burkett!"

He turned to see Mannon standing there. Not Marianna Dellacorte. Not the old woman as he'd known her last in life, but Mannon as he had known her first. A young, lovely woman of about 22 years of age.

"Did you learn -nothing- from me?"

He looked abashed. "I... don't understand."

"No," she agreed, her arms akimbo. "You do not. And you should! What were you thinking, talking to that nice girl like that?"

Feeling guilty but unsure why, Burkett opened and closed his mouth without a word.

"She did nothing to warrant that sort of treatment!" Mannon continued. "She offered you love. What that so terrible? And you, you returned anger and spite." Mannon began to come down the rocky steps to his level. "She never tried to seduce you! What ego! You simply couldn't handle having a real, flesh-and-blood woman so close! You felt a biological urge, mere hormonal response, and you panicked!"

Burkett hung his head, unable to face her.

"And in your terror, you lashed out at her! Shame on you, Chasen! Accusing her of working for Samael! What nonsense!" She shook her head. "So she is a woman. A sexual entity. She had a natural, normal urge to have sex with you, and you responded!" Mannon leaned toward him, seeming almost to enjoy mortifying him. "So whoever said that sex was intrinsically evil?" she demanded. "Whoever said it had to be 'productive' to be sanctified? That it was only for the purpose of creating children?"

Burkett blinked. "The... Pope..." he managed. "The Church!"

"-Merd!- They only told you that to control you! As a child, to keep you pure. As a man, to keep you from being distracted from your duties as a priest by normal sexual urges. And, as a result, you never learned any healthy way to express those basic, primal needs that all humans share! It is not the act, itself, that is evil. Only the intent with which it is performed! Any act performed in love is a holy act!"

-But... I don't love her...- protested his inner voice. -I love you...-

"God never required words to be spoken by some starling in black to make it not a sin! That, too, was the Church." She sighed with exasperation. "What was the first thing God did for Adam? He gave him a woman to be his partner! He didn't then create a priest to marry them first! He told them to go forth and multiply. Did it never occur to you that perhaps that is why He sent Maria to you? To be your partner?"

Burkett's face burned. But he said nothing.

"She offered you friendship. And love. And if she wanted sex with you, hurrah!! You should be grateful!" She paced again, small circuits before him. "Perhaps now is not the time, Cheri! But... why not someday? Why do you push away even the -possibility- of it? God gave you human form that you might live fully as a human! And yet you throw it away. You squandered your first chance, and now you throw away your second!

"Why does it frighten you so? Is it the thought of giving yourself wholly to another person? Is that what terrifies you? Giving over a bit of control? Must it be everything or nothing with you? Could you not even SPEAK to her of more tender feelings? Let those feelings grow? Must it only be lust or chastity? Can it never be love?"

Burkett could not look at her.

"You seem only to experience women as Effigies of the Holy Mother, or as whores and seducers! La, Cheri! We are so much more!"

Now, something in Mannon's manner and voice seemed to change. Became edgier.

"You treated me like the Madonna!" she charged. And it was clear from her tone this was not a compliment. "But I was -not- the Madonna. I was a woman! Just like this woman. I could have loved you as a woman loves, but you never let me! You were afraid! You held me at a distance, so that I could not hurt you, or control you. In the end, I grew old and withered because of your misplaced devotion. Your supposed protection."

At this, Burkett looked up, his face a mask of tragedy. "But if I had not protected you, another would have taken my place! You'd have been killed--"

"Yes!" she cried. "And what then? I'd have gone home to my God sooner!"

Burkett stared at her.

"Instead, you chose to 'protect' me. You had me all to yourself! Your own, personal, private Madonna to worship and adore but never to touch! And I could never touch! I could never love! From the moment you entered my life, I was your prisoner. It was a selfish act, Chasen! Selfish, selfish. You never thought of what I wanted. Only what YOU wanted! Tell me: What was your excuse for working for Samael before you met me?"

Burkett stepped back, as though she had slapped him. He could not speak.

"When you refused to kill me," she went on relentlessly, "you took your first step away from Samael, and toward Home. But did you keep going? No! That would have required that you repent. That you admit that you were wrong, and turn back to God. It would have required that you ask forgiveness. But you were too angry. Too arrogant. Too sorry for yourself to do that.

"100 years, Chasen! For 100 years you had me to yourself, and could do Samael's bidding with a clear conscience, telling yourself you were doing it to keep me safe! How very convenient! And all that time I was trapped, growing older and more desiccated, and never knowing WHY! I never knew WHY I was not allowed to love! To BE loved! You never once considered what I wanted!"

By now, Burkett was rooted to the spot on the floor where he stood. His eyes closed, he could not have spoken to save his life.

"Selfish!" she said again, turning away from him. "And here you are, about to make the same mistake! All out of fear and selfishness. These are not the ways of God! God is of Love and Light! You are of darkness and fear. -Tiens!- You have not changed! You have not learned! You still wallow in the Dark Ways. You are STILL Samael's willing slave!"

And before Burkett could even take in what she had said, she was gone.

"That was harsh," said Lucea, taking Mannon by the hand.

"I know, I know," replied Mannon, rubbing her forehead with the other hand. "But it had to be done. Someone had to say it, for the sake of his soul. Someone had to wake him. He hasn't listened to loving words." She shook her head. "He doesn't trust them."

Lucea nodded. "Poor Chasen. And poor Mannon. Why did it have to be you?"

Mannon looked off to an unseen horizon. "Because I love him."

Lucea was silent for a long moment. "I pray you haven't pushed him too far."

Mannon pulled her gaze back and looked at Lucea. "As do I..."

Burkett heard a stir behind him, and turned around slowly. He faced... himself.

The assassin stood there, shaking his head. But where Burkett had expected scorn or derision, he saw something unexpected; the younger version of himself looked at him with sadness and sympathy. "She was very hard on you," he said softly. He spread his hands before him to show that they were empty, and demonstrate his non-hostile intent.

"What do you want?" Burkett asked heavily, moving to sit down on one of the out-croppings of rock.

The other shrugged. "Only to talk. Or listen, if you prefer." When Burkett looked at him with obvious distrust, he added, "who would know or understand you better than I? I -am- you. Or," he amended, at Burkett's disapproving glance, "what you were." Uninvited, he came over to sit down beside Burkett.

Burkett, unconcerned about the other man as a potential threat since their last meeting, simply ignored him and stared into the crystal water of the pool.

"I've been doing a little research on you," said the other, sitting in a compact configuration, his long legs pulled up nearly to his chest. "On you and Mannon DuVrais, specifically. Since our last meeting, I've been curious what you and the priest were fighting about." He looked over at Burkett. "Now I think I understand a little better. And... I'm sorry."

Burkett turned to him, saying nothing for the moment, but intrigued in spite of himself. He didn't for a moment trust this demon. But the approach was so unexpected as to catch his grudging interest.

"I know how it was for you, Chasen," the other man said. "I shared the same path as you, up to a point. I, too, went to war. I, too, was trained to be their perfect assassin. To do their dirty tricks. And I, too, was praised and given medals and chosen for the most secret, most difficult missions. I know what you went through."

Burkett turned away again, not wanting to relive those days just now.

"And then, the war was over, and they didn't need me anymore," said the assassin. "In fact, I had become a political embarrassment to them. Men like me weren't supposed to exist in a Civilized Society." He sighed, his anger coming through. "They turned me out with nothing. No pay, no pension. They tried to pretend they didn't even know me. What was I to do? They'd made me into the perfect killing machine, and then left me to rot. I couldn't go home. I couldn't return to the world I'd left. I'd seen too much. Done too much, ever to be able to look into the eyes of my old friends." Again, he fell silent for a moment.

"I was reared a Country Gentleman," he continued. "Just as were you. My parents were English nobility, just as were yours. I was bred to gentry, to marry and raise a family to take after me. And they turned me into a murderer- for- hire." He shook his head. "I couldn't go back, any more than you could. And the only one hiring in my line of work, so to speak, was Samael." He sat back, looking up at the clouds overhead. "He made me a decent offer, and I accepted. I'm not ashamed of that."

Burkett glanced at him. He, too, had felt that way once. It seemed this man -did- know what he'd been through.

The other looked over at him. "But that is where your story and mine diverge. I never met Mannon DuVrais."

Burkett's stomach suddenly lurched, but he hid his discomfort from the other man.

"I don't know," the assassin went on, "if my life would have been different if I had. Perhaps I would not have made the same choice you made. Perhaps I'd have killed her without a thought, as I had done so very many other times before.

"Samael was good to me. He praised me, rewarded me. Made me his favorite. There were advantages given. Gifts. He gave me women when I wanted them. Satisfied any desire I expressed. I don't know that I'd have defied Samael as you did. I have to respect you for that. I'm not certain I agree with your choice, but I respect your courage in making it. It showed how strong you were. And caused Samael a great deal of trouble, from what I've been able to find out.

"Perhaps he treated me as he did because he had learned from you how better to hold me. I don't know."

Burkett considered this. He had been Samael's favorite once. Had Samael, in fact, groomed this younger version of himself by correcting the mistakes he had made with Burkett? If Samael had indulged his every whim, would he, too, have been willing to kill Mannon without a thought? He looked at the other man thoughtfully.

"But now, look what has happened," said the assassin, disgust coming into his tone. But it was not disgust for Burkett. "Look what they've done to you. How they've treated you! It's so very unfair."

"Unfair?" Burkett repeated. To him, it seemed superbly fair. But he was interested to hear what the other had to say on the subject.

"Of course, unfair!" replied the other. "You stood up to Samael, beat him at his own game and left him flat to work for them. You repented, you confessed, you received absolution. You did everything they required of you, did everything you could to play by their rules, and what did they do? They instantly threw temptation in your path to test you before you even settled into the job. And, if that wasn't enough, when you passed the test, they -punished- you for it!"

Burkett frowned.

"They sent the only woman you ever loved to chastise you and ridicule you for being a good man and playing by the unreasonable rules they set forth. Your new god emasculated you, and then laughed at you for being a eunuch! That is so unfair!"

Burkett felt heat rising in his face and looked away. He had to admit that this man had a unique ability to put his finger on the troubling issues.

"I know you don't really want to hear this, Chasen," said the other softly, "but Samael would never have treated you so badly."

Burkett's spine began to stiffen.

"I know, I know," said the other him, holding up a hand. "You made your choice, and you can't afford to entertain the notion that you might have been sold a bad bill of goods." He shrugged. "But you know very well that Samael, while he might drive a hard bargain, always stood by his word. He wasn't above taking advantage of any loophole he could find, but he always abided by the letter of the contract. Unlike your new boss, who seems, I'm sorry to say, to be toying with you."

Burkett continued to resist this line of reasoning. But he had to... give the devil his due. The younger man was right. You always knew where you stood with Samael, for better or worse. And it did seem to him that the rules were very fluid now that he had left Samael's service. And he was further, now, from understanding where he stood than he had been when he started.

"You know, Chasen..." said his companion. "...you can always come back."

Burkett swiveled his head toward the other man.

"I know you said you never would," the assassin pressed on. "And I respect your reasons. You made a commitment, and you'll stick to it. I understand that. But... just keep it in the back of your mind. If you give this new god the best of everything you have, and he rejects it without giving you any reason... well, maybe Samael isn't the true Deceiver. I mean...we have a precedent to look to, haven't we? Cain gave his best gift, and look what happened to him."

He stood up. "Just think about it. You and I, Chasen... we could be a formidable pair!" He smiled, and there was just a hint of playful malevolence there. "All hell would shake before us!" He chuckled softly. "And let Samael beware, eh?" He leaned down and touched Chasen on the shoulder. "Be careful, brother. And consider well. Where do your best interests lie?" He straightened. "You know where to find me if you need me."

And he was gone.

Burkett was alone again. Blessedly alone. Or cursedly.

He looked out at the pool, at the water creatures at play. Then he turned and reached behind him for his coat. From the bottomless pocket, he extracted his Beretta 92F. It was cool, non-flash black. He turned it over and over in his hands. The weight of it was pleasing. It fitted so well in his hand. He pulled back the slider and loaded a round into the chamber. He ran his fingers over the barrel. So soft. So smooth. So potent with latent possibilities.

He passed the pistol between his hands, back and forth, back and forth. The cold metal soothed his hot skin. A friend. A lover. Never let him down. Never lied to him. Never judged him.

So potent.

So simple.

So quick.

He hefted the weapon, tossing it into the air a couple inches and catching it. This he did several times.

Then a slow, grim smile curled one side of his mouth everso slightly. Slowly, deliberately, he stood up. He glanced at the sky. Then, cocking his arm with the precision of any ball-player, he hurled the pistol up in a perfect arc to fall into the pool with a "spa-loosh!!" and a temporary fountain of clear, cool water.

[Continued in Battle Lines]

Dark and desolate. An orange, brown and gray wasteland. No life, no beauty, no hope.

// So you -are- here. Again.// Marcus climbs up onto the ledge and settles himself next to his youngest brother, back against rough stone. It feels warm. "Hi."

They sit in silence for a moment. Vincent stares ahead without blinking. His face is as impassive as the rock face against which they sit, as usual, but Marcus knows better.

"Does it ever make you feel better? to do it? Or are you just finding reasons?" A pause. Nothing moves. "I really... I really don't want to push you. I always manage to show up just when you're going through this and I always mean to spend more time with you but I keep getting distracted and I really don't mean to but.... Please. Don't go. As a favor to me or... or to them. Or Nathan. We'll distract you, we'll find a way somehow, make you feel better. That's all we've ever wanted. But it never seems to work.... If we only knew how to.... I just... wish I knew what to do for you." // Please, work. Please, open up. I know you can. I think you can.// "Please don't go."

Another pause that stretches on. Marcus leans back and shuts out the desolation, creating visions of his own to stare at. There is no sound or movement, but Marcus knows Vincent is gone.

There is no reason to stay. None. But he does not move. The acrid stench surrounds him, fills his mind and covers hope.

[Continued in Searching]

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