#coauthored

“Tell me something I don't already know,” The king rumbled softly, alerting Marianne to the fact that she was resting with her head on a pillow on his lap. His hand was on her bare shoulder, his thumb rubbing gently up and down when he noticed her stirring.

“There's always an exchange,” The first voice continued, sounding annoyed, “It's not surprising that this time it would be more extreme, considering. Though I didn't expect it to mix up with the strength so much, to be honest. It's unusual, but these are unusual circumstances.”

A hand touched Marianne's wing delicately, pulling it open.

The sensation of someone touching her new limbs made Marianne gasp and wake up completely. The edge of her wing slapped the over-familiar hand as Marianne sat up and pushed herself back across the bed, retreating until she had her shoulder pressed up against the wicker screen that covered the window and she could go no further. Vertigo made everything swim and Marianne wove her fingers into the wicker screen, holding herself up until the dizziness passed and she could take in the room and its occupants.

The person speaking to the king was the veiled goblin from the throne room. The sight of the layers of shimmering veils sent a dart of fear stabbing into Marianne's stomach. The image of purple butterfly wings flailing helplessly before the pestle ground them down flashed through Marianne's eye, making her stomach roil with irrational terror.

“I don't think she likes me,” The veiled goblin remarked.

“Who does?” The king grumbled, “Are you done?”

“I suppose so.”

“And?”

“She's fine. Nothing to worry about. Just keep her in bed for a day or two. And look after your own, hm, new additions.”

“New--?”

The king held up his hands when the veiled goblin pointed at them. Marianne could see lumps swelling on the sides of his hands, almost like—

“Fingers!” Aura chirped, “Four fingers and a thumb, just like your--”

“Get out, Aura.”

The veiled goblin—Aura—swept away, leaving Marianne alone with the king again. Marianne looked away from him, gripping the wicker and staring through its weave. There had been a window right next to her the whole time. She wondered if it would be boarded up now that she knew it was there. If they didn't she could possibly try climbing down to the forest floor.

Or fly down.

She stared at the forest, bathed in the soft light of the rising sun, admiring the view with great determination, ignoring the king, ignoring the tingle of wings on her back. When she shrugged the ragged edges of her shirt back up over her shoulders she hissed at the cloth touching the wings. She could feel the shreds of skin that had sloughed off to free the wings. Where the king had ripped her back open.

She flinched when the king remarked, “I wonder if I should expect to start sprouting hair, too.”

Looking over her shoulder she could see the king was rubbing at the swollen sides of his hands. She could feel the tightness in her own hands, the heat of his swollen skin, like an infection beneath the surface. She found herself mimicking his gesture, worrying her hands together to ease a pain that was not hers.

“They were sensitive yesterday,” the king mused, “I must have overlooked them because . . . because of everything else.”

He glanced over at Marianne.

She looked away.

She didn't know how to feel about the king now. She couldn't manage to hate him at the moment, not after he had come and willingly pulled the pain out of her until the agony was bearable, stayed with her, comforted her. And she had felt . . . felt something of him in those moments of balance between them. There was no malice in him. Nothing of the smallness she had expected to find in him. For she had expected him to be narrow, petty, and cruel. She had every reason to think he would be.

But he wasn't.

And that wasn't fair, that he had made her see him as . . . as a person. Not just a cardboard cutout villain who did cruel things for the sake of cruelty. Why then had he done this to her if it wasn't a punishement, if it wasn't just to make her suffer for damaging his dignity..

“There are questions I would ask,” the king knit his fingers together, tapping the nubs together experimentally, “If I had any hope of you being able to answer me. I'm sure you have your own questions.”

Marianne's hand flew up to the translator clipped behind her ear. She could give it to the king, get some answers from him. It would be a risk. Revealing the translator might get it confiscated to prevent her from understanding what was going on around her.

But there were wings on her back and it sounded like the king knew why.

Unclipping the translator felt strange. She hadn't dared take if off since her capture and her ear was sore where it had pinched. Ears that were the wrong shape now, tapering to points like some sort of fairy tale elf. Or just a fairy, Marianne amended, thinking of the wings.

Hitching up her shirt again, Marianne scooted across the bed until she was sitting next to the king with her legs folded underneath her. The wings hung from her back like dead things, dragging across the bedding which felt as rough as sandpaper.

“Lean down,” Marianne told the king.

He blinked at her, leaning away as far as he could without tumbling off the bed.

“Fine, be difficult,” Marianne reached up and grabbed the collar of his carapace, pulling him down so she could clip the translator behind his ear. She could feel that he wanted to pull away, but the contact of her fingers on his ear made them both pause, her hand hovering just shy of cupping the side of his face. She could touch his face, let her hand slide around to the back of his neck and let herself hold him and be held by him and just . . . breathe. Find that balance that had been so briefly achieved last night, when their heartbeats had matched and everything felt right. So perfectly right.

She clipped the translator onto the king's ear so tightly he yelped. She slightly regretted the action because she didn't want him to be offended and refuse to answer her questions, and also because her ear hurt now.

“No, don't move it!” Marianne smacked his hand away when he reached up to feel the device, quickly adjusting it for him, “You could break it.”

The king obediently took his hand away.

Then he did a double take.

He said something that was no doubt something along the lines of, “I can understand you!”

Marianne shook her head at the unintelligible words and clicks, “It only works for the one wearing it. You can understand my language now, but I can't understand yours.”

The king looked confused and asked her something.

“Okay, take it out—no, let me,” She took it off and held it up in front of him, “You can't understand me, right? Okay, dumb question. But put this back in and you can understand me now, right? No, stop talking! I can't understand you when I'm not wearing that!”

The king rattled off something that sounded accusatory.

Marianne held out her hand.

The king gave her back the translator.

She motioned for him to speak.

“How can you speak and then not speak? Understand then not understand?”

“Look—ugh,” She pulled the translator out of her ear and put it in the king's, “You can understand me, right? Just nod. I take it out and you can't understand me, right? Just looked puzzled if you don't understand. Now, back in again—you can understand me?”

The king nodded.

“The translator—the thing—lets you understand my language when you're wearing it.”

The king shook his head, obviously discomforted by the translator buzzing when it couldn't find an equivalent word. Squinting, the king said, “Language?”

He spoke the English word, or a mangled version of it anyway.

“Uh, yes, language? How I speak, how you speak . . . languages? English? I speak English?”

The king passed her the translator back, “There is only speaking. You speak or you don't speak. You don't speak? You . . . inlish?”

“English. I speak English.”

“You inlish?”

“No—yes—I guess? Yes, okay, if that hurries this conversation along, yes, I English. You speak, I English. The translator lets us understand each other. Sort of. Now that we've established that I am going to ask you a question. Then you're going to give me back the translator and answer my question. Got it?”

A nod from the king.

“Good, great. Okay, question: why do I have wings?”

“In the ceremony,” The king began, rubbing at his hands, “There is an exchange of strengths. When it was uncertain whether you would survive the ceremony or not it was decided to give you more strength. I'm not sure that you weren't given too much. Wings are not something that usually transfers in the exchange.”

“But fingers do?” Marianne pointed at his hands.

The king held up his hand, rubbing at where his pinky finger was growing, “Smaller is more usual. The coloring of skin, the shape of ears.”

When the king gestured at her Marianne's hand went up to touch the new point on her ear. That was less distressing than wings. Maybe she would even keep them when she got home, a souvenir of her disastrous first mission. There had certainly been stranger fashion choices than walking around looking like a Tolkien elf.

“Most things are not seen. You will be able to eat our food and I would be able to eat yours. What illness I am immune to, you are, and the reverse.”

“Great. Now I have no reason to be picky about mushrooms,” She changed positions, accidentally crumpling a wing under her knee.

“Be careful!” the king helped her smooth the wing out, “They are still fragile, young. They'll grow strong enough to fly, I think, but right now they are young.”

“I don't care--” Marianne swallowed her remark, remembering he couldn't understand her.

Unless her wings could fly her back to the ship she wasn't very interested in whether or not they were functional. Judging by the size of her wings the king was correct and they would have to grow significantly before she could even think of trying to make them bear her weight. Since she was going to be on her way home long before then, it wasn't important. Also, the smaller the wings were the easier it would be for the doctors to remove them safely.

She moved back over to the window and leaned her shoulder against the screen, feeling the breeze whisper into the room, stirring up the stale air and whisking it away.

This was fine. Everything was fine. She just had to get back to the ship, and once she got home everything could be fixed, everything would be fine. She would be immune to the diseases of another planet, that was not a bad thing. Wings and ears could be dealt with, cut off, tidied away, and she would be herself again, too far away to share the pain and feelings of the king.

Because, surely, the distance between two planets would be far enough to sever the strange bond that been forced on her.

“I feel your pain,” Marianne said, “Why?”

“The bond. The sharing,” the king paused, searching for the right words, but in the end just shook his head and said, “You need to eat.”

Marianne wearily clipped the translator back behind her ear, tired of his stilted conversation, filled with gaps and pauses while they fumbled with the translator and struggled to phrase questions clearly. She was hungry. Beyond hungry, she felt pale and empty.

“You need to eat,” The king said, standing.

Pain shot through Marianne's foot and the king sat down heavily on the bed.

“Oh, lucky us,” Marianne said, leaning over the side of the bed and seeing the nub of a pinky toe forming on the king's foot, which he had managed to stub on an empty floor, “you get toes, too.”

“You need to eat,” The king repeated, carefully getting to his feet again, “And I have work to do.”

“You're not leaving--!”

Panic was a tight band around Marianne's chest. She almost grabbed the king's hands to pull him back, keep him from leaving. She couldn't stand the thought of him being somewhere on the other side of the castle, so impossibly far away.

“I'm not leaving you here,” The king said, “The study is . . . too far away for today. And I have more questions.”

“You have questions? Listen, buddy, nobody is going anywhere until--”

“I have no idea what you just said, but I have a feeling it was an objection. The night was long and I am too tired to deal with objections.”

“Hey!” Marianne protested when the king picked her up. He flicked her wings out of the way so they draped freely over his arm as he carried her bridal style.

“Still can't understand you,” The king replied, deadpan, carrying her out of the room.

“You—you idiotic flying cockroach!”

“Back to shouting, I see. Give me the charm so I can understand whatever curses you're throwing at me.

Marianne obliged and continued, “Put me down and let me walk!”

The king just shook his head, a gesture Marianne had long ago established meant the same on this planet as it did on her own.

“I can walk,” She insisted, somewhat sulky in tone. She did not miss the king distinctly rolling his eyes. She gave up, deciding not to waste her energy on this small battle.

She hated how she was secretly glad for the excuse to be carried.

The king hated how glad he was to have an excuse to carry the warrior.

Even though her hunger gnawed at his stomach too he couldn't force his feet to quicken their pace. He walked with a steady stride, but without hurry, savoring every moment spent without the aching hollow in his heart.

The sounds of the castle's inhabitants bustling about their morning tasks faded into the background, lost beneath the soft sound of the warrior's breathing. Opening the door of his study, the king was hit by the noise of activity like a slap to the face, jarring him from the few peaceful moments of balance he had enjoyed on the short walk from the warrior's room. As a crowd of clerks, officials, and messengers vied for his attention he remembered his resolve to appear strong, to not appear dependent on his unwilling partner. So he set the warrior down in a chair, refusing to let his hand linger when he took her arm to help her balance as she settled her wings.

He had never seen anything like those wings.

Yes, he had seen the tiny insects that flew on such wings, but they had been of no importance to him. Tiny, flitting things, frighteningly delicate compared to most of the creatures that dwelt in his forest. To see them on the back of the warrior was strange. Though she might have been confined to bed for most of the king's acquaintance with her he had never once thought she was as delicate and useless as those pretty little snips of color.

The crowd was quickly dispatched, a few barked words alloted to each member, a stack of paper dropped on the table, and one messenger sent scurrying off with a message for the king's mother. In a exemplary display of his mother's dependable efficiency, there was breakfast on the table in only a few minutes.

The warrior looked at the king warily when he pushed the food toward her. He returned the charm to her before saying, “I know it would please you to go hungry and see me squirm, but would you . . . please not?”

The warrior looked stubborn, but only for a moment. She grumbled something and pulled a bowl towards herself.

“Can't understand you,” the king muttered, picking up some of the papers that had been dropped in front of him.

The warrior glared at him.

“Can understand that,” he remarked.

The warrior ate and the discomfort of her hunger abated, clearing the king's head a little. Not enough. His head was still full of confusion over the warrior's little charm that let him understand when she . . . spoke? Inlish? When she inlish. Even Aura did not have such a device in her bag of tricks and potions. It begged the question of what sort of place the warrior came from.

From a kingdom in the sky, a place so high above the forest that wings could not reach it.

“Ow!”

The warrior dropped her spoon when the king bumped his tender hand against the table. He hunched his shoulders up and tried to ignore her scowl, “It's your hands that are shaking.”

The warrior huffed out a breath but did not bother to argue the point.

Her hands were shaking. He could see the unsteady movement of her spoon as she lifted food to her mouth, the way her fingers trembled when they held a cup. It was a battle not to let his pen sputter ink across the page of a report about a lizard that had got into someone's home and could not be got out again.

It was apparent that the warrior was not recovered. She could not be expected to. A molt like that happening over only a few days, the rapid growth of the wings. It might have killed them. It would take more than a brief nap and a large meal to put her right.

The king's pen rattled across the table when the warrior nodded off, making his sight blur. The noise woke her and she sat up with a start, flinching when her wings made a sluggish attempt to flutter in surprise.

“Try to stay awake,” the king snapped, his temper shortened by his share of the pain.

The warrior pushed the charm toward him.

“No. I'm busy.”

The warrior pushed it toward him more insistently.

He took it.

“Do you fall asleep when I do?” She asked, then waved her hand when he started to return the charm, “Hold onto it, I have more questions. A lot of questions.”

The warrior was breathing short, quick breaths, and the king's chest felt constricted, preventing him from drawing enough air into his lungs. But the warrior was still talking, her arms wrapped around herself, fingers white as they clutched her shoulders.

“I mean, I still don't understand why I have wings . . .”

The king started to answer, but stopped, remembering it was useless. He took the charm back and shoved it at her, “I don't have time for this. Later.”

She shoved it back until he put it back on, “Keep it for a minute. You work, I'll think of questions I want to ask when you're done.”

The king shrugged. Just so long as she left him alone, he would wear the charm.

The warrior sat back and to compose her questions. Out of the corner of his eye the king could see her stirring her spoon around in wobbling circles. The tightness in her chest remained, but the king ignored it, turning his eyes to his work.

There was so much to get through, it had been piling up over the past few days. For a little while he lost himself in it, vaguely aware of the warrior emptying dishes of food and tapping her fingers restlessly on the table in a way that irritated him. But she asked no questions and made no truly disruptive noise so he let her be.

Halfway through a stack of complaints about someone poaching on other people's territory, the shaking in the king’s hand got noticeably worse. He shot a resentful look at the warrior, but she was huddled on her chair, hugging herself again, staring at the tabletop. She was tired. He was tired. He could feel their exhaustion looped and magnified between them. The letters were dancing on the page in front of him and he wondered if it would better or worse to send the warrior away.

The pang in his heart warned him it would be worse. Just the thought cast a cloud of gloom over him. The room was illuminated by sunlight, but the king felt the same foreboding sensation as one did when a heavy storm was rolling in and the air grew heavy.

And his hands would not stop shaking!

The king threw down his pen and turned to snap at the warrior.

She looked up at him, the pupils opened so wide that the golden color of her eyes was reduced to a thin rim around the edges of the black.

The pen rolled off the table and onto the floor, the gentle tap of its landing making the king jerk his head around to see what the source was. All his senses had heightened, as they did in a fight, or when he was hunting and kept alert so he would sense the danger approaching in time to flee. He scanned the room, looking for the danger, looking for what subtle clues had alerted him.

There was nothing. Nothing in the room, no sound of hidden assassins trying not to breathe, not even the sound of approaching footsteps. There was only the king and the warrior, both of them breathing fast as if in preparation to bolt as soon as the imaginary danger appeared.

There was nothing there.

The king picked the pen up off the floor, hoping that the mundane little task would help the world to right itself. There was nothing wrong and the room was still.

The warrior shoved away from the table and crumpled to the floor so abruptly that the king thought something had struck her, his sense of impending danger intensifying. He reached out to her but she was gagging as her breakfast came back up, choking them both when she tried to breathe.

The bond screamed at the king to go to her, help her. He was shaking too, his heart racing so fast that he could barely breathe. Something was wrong, something was wrong and he didn't know what, but he was afraid, he wanted to fly, as quickly and as far as he could, as if pursued by this unknown danger. He couldn't stop it, he couldn't stop it, something was wrong with the warrior, with him. The pain in his chest, his shoulders, it was terrifying, his mind so full of darting thoughts that his head buzzed with them.

This was worse than the warrior's growing pains.

He felt like this would kill them.

“S-stop,” he gasped, clutching his chest, numb hand scattering the papers when he tried to brace himself on the table and stand, “What . . . what are you doing . . . stop.”

“Sire?” someone scratched at the door, cracking it open and peeking inside, “Sire, do you need any help?”

It was Stuff, with Thang squeezing his head over her should to get a look inside. They stared at the gasping, vomiting warrior, and the king slumped over his desk.

“I'm getting Griselda,” Stuff said without waiting for an order from the king.

The door snapped shut and footsteps pattered away.

Good. They were getting his mother. She would help. Even just the thought of her was comforting. She was safe and always knew what to do.

The warrior couldn't breath.

They couldn't breathe.

The pressure on their chest was crushing.

They needed to be closer, share the pain, halve the pain.

The king pitched forward in his chair, trying to get his legs to bear his weight. They refused and he fell back in the chair.

“Oh, sweetheart!”

The king hadn't heard his mother come in, but she was there, gathering up the choking, shaking warrior in her arms. The sound of his mother's voice made the charm screech in his ear and he tore it out, letting it drop from number fingers.

“I think—think—killing us . . .” he choked out.

“Is this hers or yours?” his mother asked, petting the warrior's hair.

“H-hers.”

He thought so, anyway.

“It won't kill you. Get over here, dummy, and you'll both feel better.”

His mother had produced a towel—the king had long ago given up wondering how his mother seemed to always have the right bit of homey paraphernalia on her person for any situation that might arise—and was cleaning the warrior's face.

“You're fine, fluffy-top, it's fine. Everything is alright. My boy is coming.”

“No,” the king gritted his teeth, leaning down until his forehead rested on the desk, hoping that somehow that if the room seemed smaller there would be less room for this overwhelming panic that tugged at him, “What's wrong with her?” the king asked, gripping the edge of the desk to keep himself from standing up and going to the warrior. He still wasn't sure his mother was right, that this sudden affliction wouldn't kill them.

“She's scared and upset. Who wouldn't be? Growing wings overnight! Poor little love. I've seen it before. It's nerves, that's all.”

“Doesn't feel like that's all,” he persisted, hoping for further reassurance.

“Get over here, hold her. It'll help, you'll see.”

“No . . . no.”

His mother was wrong, this was killing them. His life was going to end because of this interfering little creature that had punched him in the face and smashed his life to pieces.

And all he wanted to do was hold her.

“She should be fine,” his mother insisted, “She'd be fine sooner if you weren't acting like a petulant child. Oh, love, what's wrong, what's got you crying?”

The warrior could not answer the question, but she heard it and the king felt her answer in a rush of emotion and longing.

Home. The king needed to go home. Away from this strange place, fly back to everything that was familiar and comforting. He was afraid, and so tired of being strong, he just wanted to rest somewhere safe.

“Stop!” the king snarled, pulling himself free of the warrior's entangling longings.

“Get over here! I can't carry her to you,” his mother sounded worried, “You can't keep doing this to her! Accepting her and then pushing her away. It's cruel. To both of you.”

Lines were scored into the table, the king digging his claws into the wood, trying to plant himself more firmly in reality and disregard the warrior's desperate sobbing. Each sob crashed down on him like a curl of burning, saltwater breaking on fine yellow sand, each sharp gasp for air pulling at him like the receding water.

“Stop!” the table bounced when he slammed his fist down on it, “I don't want your kingdom of salt and water!”

“No, no, fluffy-top,” his mother said as the warrior pushed herself way from the king, tripping on her wings, “he didn't mean it and he's going to apologize!”

The warrior shook her head, confusion radiating off her, fear because she did not understand.

The king touched his ear, remembering he had thrown the charm away, that the warrior did not have it. She was alone, hurt, and cut off from understanding anything that was said. Guilt curled around the king's heart. She fought valiantly, without resources or allies. He sat in a place of strength and held his power over her, knowing he would always win because this was his kingdom.

Chest burning as he dragged himself from his chair, he scratched at the corner of the room until he found the charm and took it to the warrior, crouching down to slip it around her ear.

She seized his hand, holding to to the side of her face, her tears wet on his skin. Her soft face felt as delicate as the pretty little insect she had taken her wings from, and the king wondered how she could bear as much pain as she did. He kept thinking she couldn't possibly be so fragile as she looked, but the bones of her face were so small, felt so easy to break.

He was tied to this now. This weakness that his enemies would gladly use against him at every opportunity. He tried to defy the bond but it only tugged him harder, dragging him back to this warrior from the sky until he gave in, as he was giving in now by taking her face in his hands and resting his forehead against hers.

Only then did the sense of danger begin to fade and the grip of panic release them.

Why.

That was the central question. On the surface a simple one, but Marianne already knew it was not. It had already been enough to work her up into a full-blown panic attack once today. The questions, endless questions, had circled around and around in her head until she was dizzy and sick with them. Yet she once again persisted in trying to sort through them.

The king had left the window open, no doubt confident that Marianne would not be able to attempt an escape today. And he was right. She was tucked back up in bed, having been given some drink that eased the tightness in her muscles until she could breathe freely again while she burned with embarrassment over humiliating herself in front of the king. She had lost control, showed weakness in front of the person she least wanted to witness it. She had won some grudging respect from him and now she was afraid she had lost it.

She wanted people to see she was strong, self-sufficient. Not a weeping, shaking mess that had to be hugged and soothed like a fretful infant.

It didn't help that the king was still with her, his presence a reminder of her breakdown. She lay facing the window, watching the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window and moving across the bed. The king sat behind her in a chair by the bed, pulled up close so he could keep a hand on her shoulder.

She did her best to ignore it and try once again to organize her questions.

Why had this been done to her? Why had the king agreed to an arrangement he so obviously hated? It was clearly not through any desire of his that she was trapped here with him. If this was one of Dawn's space opera novels the king would have been captivated by the human visitor's beauty and kidnapped her with the intent of marriage.

Marianne hated those novels.

Their science was always painfully inaccurate.

Romance was not the motivation here. Even if the king's actions hadn't demonstrated that, Marianne could clearly feel his reluctance to even be in the same room as her. She could see no possible benefit the goblins could derive from her presence here.

A hostage, maybe? In case her friends came back to free her? But that made no sense, they would only come back fighting because she was here. And after so many days without a sign of them the goblins must have realized no one was coming.

Of course, Marianne knew they were coming back for her. No doubt they were figuring out a way to extract her without causing a fuss. They might even be nearby, hidden in the forest, waiting for her to meet them halfway. She could picture them in their camouflage jackets, Dawn's golden hair concealed under a cap, Roland's hair gleaming in the gloomy forest because he refused to wear a hat. Said the bill of the caps narrowed his vision.

Even Roland would risk rescuing her. He wouldn't pass up a chance to play the hero and get in her good graces. Really, she would be glad to see his face right now. She still hated him, but it was a familiar hate that was part of her normal life. She'd gladly accept his grasping, greedy hand if it was pulling her free of this nightmare.

The king's hand merely rested on her shoulder, a reluctant contact born of necessity. He didn't want her here. This bond compelled them to closeness, but neither of them wanted it.

Maybe he would let her go, maybe even take her back to the shuttle. He knew she didn't belong here, resented her, he would be glad to see her go, there was no reason to detain her. Now that they had established communication surely he would let her go when she asked.

Let her go home.

He had to.

The next day Marianne was feeling much stronger.

Strong enough to take advantage of the lax security, which had been eased off due to the assumption that she could not get far, and sneak out of her room. The wings ruined her balance, but she managed by keeping close to the walls as she searched for either her gear or a way out of the castle. She had nothing but the clothes on her back, so she wouldn't complain if she found some weapons or tools to use in a tramp through the forest.

'Clothes on her back' was technically inaccurate, seeing as her torn shirt was held on by knotting the ragged edges above and below the wings, leaving her feeling uncomfortably exposed. The feeling was only heightened by the sensation of wrongness that tingled over the wings. They were not just attached to her, they were part of her, and every time they brushed against something she shuddered at the unexpected touch.

Wandering the passageways, Marianne tried to believe she was traveling in a randomly chosen direction, but she had to admit she was following the pull of her connection to the king. It was like an internal compass, pointing her toward him. She gave in and followed the pull, reasoning that the king might be willing to consider releasing her. Or at least be near an exit she could use.

Before long she heard shouting that she immediately recognized as the king's. Too far away to be translated, but she knew that impatient snarl. The translator buzzed and crackled as she grew closer, picking up bits and pieces of the heated conversation.

“I don't need rest!” the king was bellowing.

Marianne knew that was a lie. She could feel how tired he was. The other participants in the conversation agreed with her.

“The process has had a deep effect on your body and mind, majesty,” they said, “you need time to collect yourself, to recuperate.”

“Do not presume to tell me what I need,” the king hissed, Marianne feeling the hostility he had to whoever he was talking to, “I imagine you would take over while I 'collect' myself?”

The other voice was so calm it was infuriating, “The council exists to inform the king's decisions and to stand in for him should he be incapacitated.”

“I am not incapacitated. I have proven I can fulfill all my duties, as I always have.”

“You continue to make decisions, but with the bond still fresh there's no way of knowing how much her mind is influencing those decisions.”

“I am separate.”

Marianne was close enough now that she could feel how the king's hands were closed into fists, and that it was not one person he was arguing with, but several. The council, it seemed. So goblins did have councils after all. She remembered important looking goblins during the ceremony, their eyes glittering and gleaming. In hindsight they reminded her of vultures, circling around a wounded animal, cold and opportunistic.

Was it Marianne they were stalking? Or the king?

If they were attempting to dispose of the king he was certainly having none of it. She almost wanted to cheer him on for standing up to them. She never trusted anyone with voices that calm, that smooth. They poked and teased until you lost your temper and claimed your anger was irrational, that you were irrational.

“You cannot possibly be separate,” one of the council said, speaking as if this was an indisputable fact, “The bond melds you in every way and it is impossible for her not to have influenced your actions. It is simply a question of how much influence she has. Until we know the extent of it it is safer for you to relinquish your power. Temporarily.”

The king's claws were digging into his palms. Marianne rubbed her hands together as she continued to search for the way to the room he was in, peering cautiously around every corner to make sure it was safe for her to continue. She finally peeked around a corner and saw the king.

His back was to her, facing four or five goblins. His body was drawn tight, his wings shimmering a little as they vibrated with tension. His jaw was clenched so tight that Marianne was afraid he was going to crack a tooth.

In contrast to the king, the council members were relaxed, speaking firmly, as if dealing with a stubborn child.

“It is the custom,” one said, “that kings take a leave of absence after the bonding, to be by their mate's side for some weeks, or even months, to rest and grow accustomed to the bond.”

It might have been the king influencing her, but Marianne really wanted to punch that smug goblin in the face. She had to admire the king for keeping his hands at his sides and speaking in a voice that was steady even if it wasn't exactly calm.

“There is plenty of time to grow accustomed to her. She isn't going anywhere.”

“That's not what I've heard. I've heard that she takes every opportunity to run away.”

“The warrior is restless, that's all. Exploring. It is not as if she could go far, or ever leave. You know so much about the bond, you should know that.”

Marianne's heart jumped.

Not ever leave?

She shook her head. He was lying. He was putting on a show in front of the council. Passing off her escape attempts as the exploration of a curious guest. Politics and lies went hand in hand.

But why did the king feel so resigned to the idea that this arrangement was permanent? Why did he not argue to just send her back where she came from? Then the council would have no reason to doubt his judgment, if she were not here to taint his thoughts with hers. It was almost like he would let her go if he could.

If he could.

She felt panic growing, squeezing her chest.

It was an irrational anxiety. Just general stress from the whole situation.

There was no way she was really, irrevocably trapped here.

“Of course,” a goblin soothed, “the bond has been forged, the decision cannot be changed. But that only reinforces the point: her thoughts will always be tangled with hers, your opinions and motivations blurred together . . . it will be so forever.”

Forever.

The king slumped a little at the word. He did not fight it, as if it were a fact that could not be changed, no more than he could change the color of the sky or halt the passage of the sun.

He didn't want her here, but he didn't let her go.

Was it that he couldn't?

Panic spurred Marianne into motion, turning around so fast she almost fell into the open, her wings slapping the corner of the wall.

She ran.

The king glanced at the doorway, narrowing his eyes when he saw it was empty. He could have sworn he saw something there, something that made his heart twist with panic. Had it been . . .?

“You are under an enormous amount of stress, majesty,” said a webbed eared councilor, displaying a smile that was missing several teeth, “I cannot imagine what it must be like to be tied to one who . . . dislikes you so greatly.”

“So difficult to tell what nagging thoughts come from her mind or yours,” another nodded in agreement.

The king ground his teeth together and fought the urge to clutch at his heart. The constant, aching hollow of the warrior's absence grew worse the more he let his thoughts dwell on her, but he could also feel her panic. Something had happened, something had distressed her.

He had no time to deal with her, he was fully occupied dealing with the council. They saw that he was plagued with mistrust in his own thoughts and feelings, and they poked at the weakness he fought in vain to hide. It exhausted him, fighting the bond, pretending everything was as it had been before.

The worst thing was that the council was not entirely wrong.

He was suffering, pulled in too many directions, unable to sleep, unable to focus. It was only a matter of time before his ability to rule suffered as well, but he could not afford to let the council take control from him. He would never be able to wrestle it back from their greedy claws. So he was on his guard, every moment, avoiding their traps, proving he was strong, that the warrior from the sky did not control him in any way. His mind and will were his own, unchanged by the bond.

He was so tired.

“Perhaps,” a councilor said, slowly, as if just considering some new idea, “if you will not allow us to ease the burden of your ruling, might we instead take upon ourselves the task of dealing with this woman?”

The idea was presented as if it had only just been thought of, but the king narrowed his eyes, sensing another well-laid trap and irritated by their rude way of referring to the warrior.

“Your attention is split between your duties as king and your duties to your other half. Allow the council to take her into our care, watch her, guide her as she adjusts to her new life.”

“All the while finding ways to bend her to your will?” the king growled, “by which you would bend me, seeing as our thoughts are entangled forever?”

The councilor's expression soured at the king's blunt statement and use of their words against them, “If his majesty is displeased with--”

“Always,” the king snorted, the pulling at this chest distracting him, making him too direct in his speech. This was not the time to make hasty accusations without the means to act on them. He wasn't thinking clearly and the councilors' voices buzzed in his ears like trapped insects. He wanted to get out, away, be anywhere but here. The king was beginning to think the warrior had the right idea as far as escaping went.

“How many times has it been now, that she's tried to escape? That must be draining.”

The others murmured sympathetically over the king's hardship.

“I heard she made it into the forest in one attempt. Such a distance must have been painful.”

“Painful? It's downright dangerous! She's hurt herself more than once and I don't need to remind anyone what would happen were she seriously wounded. I mean, how can we trust a king to control his kingdom when he cannot even control his mate?”

The word had no sooner been spoken then the king grabbed the councilor by the throat and slammed him into the wall.

The councilors had come at him like a single creature speaking in many voices, but now he saw them separately, saw that it was Tologt that had spoken with such foolishness, such disrespect. It was Tologt's feet that dangled helplessly above the floor while he gasped and sputtered, pulling uselessly at the king's grip on his neck.

“You will have respect when speaking of your king!” the king hissed, wings and shoulders spread in a pose of intimidation, all pretense of civility gone when he slammed Tologt once more against the wall for emphasis, “Both of them!”

Raged burned in the king's heart, but it was nothing compared to hollowness in his chest that was growing all encompassing. Nothing was more important than the horrible pull, the need to find the warrior.

The king dropped the squirming goblin, snarling at the distraction.

She was too far away. Trying to escape again, making the distance between them grow too great. Of course she would chose now of all times to do this, just when he was trying to prove that he had control over the situation. Over her.

But he had no choice.

Grinding his teeth together he told the council, “I'm afraid I must postpone this discussion. I need to attend to a pressing matter.”

The king didn't have to see the councilors' faces to know they were unbearably smug. They knew where he was going, what he was doing, and it backed up their claims beautifully. The king couldn't even sit through a meeting without having to get up and fetch his other half out of trouble.

Still, he stalked out of the room without hurry, waiting until he was out of sight before taking to the air and flying down the long hallway.

He could have found a guard and sent them after the warrior so that he could return to the meeting. That would have been ideal. But he would have been unable to concentrate with the warrior so far away, and he could find her more quickly than anyone else, the bond pointing toward her in a straight line.

Which was not always for the best, seeing as he nearly flew into a wall, too focused on direction and not focused enough on the actual layout of the castle. He forced himself to stop and think. She must have already been outside, there was nowhere in the castle that was far enough away to cause this much pain. So go outside and work from there.

He shot past the people milling about in the throne room, waiting for the king to hear their requests, and out through the skull entranceway of the castle, into the surrounding forest. There was space there, open air, that let him increase his speed, lessening the gap between him and the warrior in a matter of a few minutes. She could not yet fly and was forced to go on foot, hampered by bare feet and dragging wings.

Such ridiculous feet, so vulnerable that the warrior had to wear odd coverings to protect them. The king rather wished they had been left in her possession so that he did not have to feel the throb of her cuts in his feet. That, added to the soreness of still growing new toes, put the king in even more of a foul mood. He resolved to simply pick the warrior up and carry her back, no discussion, no arguments, just put an end to this latest escapade as soon as possible.

He was in control the situation. Or soon would be.

The warrior sensed his approach, her lungs burning when she put on a burst of speed in a laughable attempt to outrun him. He felt almost ashamed to overtake such hobbled quarry. She had been so quick, gracefully nimble when she ran from him that first day. Her feet had eaten up the distance with ease and even if he had not been deliberately letting her get away he might not have been able to catch up.

Now she limped through the underbrush, a broken thing caught in a net she could not escape, for all she wasted her energy fighting for freedom.

A flicker of his wings shot the king forward, out into a clearing where the warrior was still running, as fast as her clumsy legs could carry her. Which was to say, not fast at all. It was the effort of a moment to catch up, snag her wrist and end their uncomfortable separation.

“I have had enough!” the king dragged the warrior back a few steps, just to show her he could, “What do you even hope to do here? Annoy me? Because that's a complete success!”

She yelled her nonsense words at him, twisting in his grip, trying to fight him. Why was she always fighting? She must know it was useless, so why couldn't she just resign herself to her fate?

“You cannot go!” The king held on, refusing to let her move away, “Can you understand that? You cannot go!”

She just yelled something else and slammed her fist against his arm. The weak blow infuriated him to an unreasonable degree. She had been so strong when they met and she had punched him in the face. Their weapons clashed and she danced around the throne room with vicious energy mixed with a delight in the battle. A battle that could actually be won. And so she had been the victor, probably for the last time.

When they were bonded she had been destroyed and did not even realize it.

“Give me the charm,” the king demanded, “Let me hear what idiotic reason you could possibly have for causing all this trouble!”

The warrior possessively covered her her ear that the charm was clipped to and babbled more incomprehensible gibberish. All he could make of it was that she was angry, which was obvious even if he had been deaf.

He was sick of this.

Sick of the warrior's stupid games, of her words that weren't words, her pointless rebellion, sick of fighting her, fighting the council, fighting himself. Couldn't she see that they were both broken beyond the possibility of repair? Two broken halves that couldn't even make a whole.

“Fine,” he lifted the warrior off the ground by her wrist, struck anew by how light she had become, easily thrown back, away from him, “You want to leave so badly? Then go.”

The warrior stumbled, bleeding feet slick with moss and mud. She held onto a fallen tree branch, her hands stained with dirt and her stubbly little claws broken. She just stood there, eyes wide and chest heaving.

The king likewise paused, head reeling from the abrupt separation, taking a moment to regain his voice.

“You heard me,” he did not yell this time, just look her in the eye and spoke firmly, “Go. See how far you can get.

Those golden eyes flicked over his face, suspiciously searching for the catch, but her hesitation did not last long and she pushed herself off the log and took off running, not bothering to look back to see if he was following or not.

A frisson of excitement ran through her, of impossible hope. The king shook his head, turning to face the way back to the castle, standing there as he caught his breath.

The warrior would understand now that these battles were a waste of effort.

And he would quicken her journey to understanding.

Grunting as he pulled against the drag of the bond, the king took flight in the opposite direction of the warrior.

This was going to be unpleasant.

The massive trees send out sprawling roots that were as large around as any tree from Earth and Marianne ducked beneath them rather than over them, fighting her way through the underbrush, pulling her wings free when they caught.

This was a trick. The king had let her go as part of some trick. Any moment he was going to swoop down on her and drag her back to the castle.

Or so she first thought.

Instead, she could feel him getting further away.

Which, while unexpected, was fine with her. If she got far enough away she would be sure to find one of the areas she and the crew had set up cameras or sensors in, and they had left stashes of emergency supplies in several strategic locations. There would be a communicator she could use to hail the shuttle. Maybe Dawn would be the one to answer, maybe she would hear her sister's voice soon.

She tried not think about why the king had let her go so suddenly when he had thwarted every previous attempt. Maybe he had gotten fed up with her. She was certainly fed up with him. His inconsistency was driving her crazy, she never knew if he was going to be kind or abrasive. One minute he was keeping watch by her sickbed, the next he was throwing her across a clearing.

See how far you can get!

Maybe he thought she wouldn't survive in the forest alone and be forced to make her way back to the safety of the castle. If so, he had another thing coming. She had practical experience in surviving in far more dangerous environments with far fewer resources. This forest was crawling with plants and animals she could eat, it was practically an open buffet, thanks to her training. Even if it wasn't, she would rather die from exposure or at the claws of some alien beast than give the king the satisfaction of seeing her crawl back to him.

Yet doubts continued to prey on her mind.

She had no compass, no way of telling where she was going. No equipment, no supplies, not even her beam sword. The forest was a massive maze of gigantic trees, she couldn't see more than a few yards ahead most of the time. The shuttle might behind any of these trees, just a short walk away, yet she might pass it right by without ever knowing.

She shoved the doubts aside. No, she couldn't turn back now. She wasn't trapped, wouldn't let herself be trapped on this planet. She'd find one of the stashes, signal Dawn, fly away from here forever. She couldn't wait to see Dawn, see her deceptively sweet face light up in a smile when Marianne made a triumphant return. Maybe Dawn had even saved one of the frozen hamburgers in anticipation of Marianne's return and they would make jokes about bringing a little bit of civilization to a wild planet, laughingly claiming that cheeseburgers were the height of human achievement.

They disagreed about whether or not onions were included in this, but both firmly believed that pickles were a necessary part of the greatness.

The doubtful thoughts would not be put aside. They grew, a writhing mess of anxiety, telling her she was being reckless, that she needed to go back. That unpleasant feeling in her chest was back, worse than it had ever been before. A tight cord was looped around her heart, pulling harder and harder the further she ran.

That pain, that wasn't pain. There was no physical cause, but it ached all the same, like loneliness, like heartache. Even the thought of Dawn's smile was not enough to soothe it away. In fact, it grew so intense that it crowded out the memory of her sister's face.

And it just kept growing.

The cord around her heart was pulling taut, stretching painfully as it tried to bridge the gap between her and the king. It hurt. She was too far away, farther than she had ever been from the king before and the bond was begging her to go back to him.

She stopped running.

If she kept going, would it break? She put a hand to her heart, trying to feel something that existed only in her mind. The bond was stretching, but would it break? Would she be free, her mind purely her own again?

She was too far from him.

It hurt.

She had to go back, she had to go back! The panic had returned, the panic that had been with her for days, and it was telling her if she just found the king everything would be okay, the panic would leave her alone.

Marianne wanted her sister. She wanted cheeseburgers and a ship that would carry her back into the stars. Her adventures had just been starting when they touched down on this planet, her very first alien planet. She would not let her journey end here.

Even as she made this resolution she found herself turning around, the cord around her heart pointing her true, right toward the king.

It felt right.

Leaves crunched under the king's feet as he let his tired wings still and drop him to the ground.

The warrior had turned around. Finally she understood, would return to him, ending this awful separation. The battle would be over and they could rest, both resigned to this fate.

He was relieved that she had stopped, not sure how much longer he could have kept flying before it because unbearable. Now that he had stopped he wasn't sure he could take another step away from her. No matter, she had stopped, turned around, and would come back.

It was over.

Marianne clenched her hands into fists, thinking of the bright, stark interior of the spaceship, with its filtered air and spotless floors. A white ship to carry her home, back to sprawling, towering cities, and the stinging scent of the ocean breeze. Sand crunching beneath her feet as she ran across the beach with Dawn to find a good place to make sandcastles.

Lately she had scorned sandcastles as an activity for children.

She wanted to build sandcastles again.

The bond tugged her away from these thoughts of home.

No.

She wouldn't waste this chance at freedom.

She wouldn't go back to the castle of wood and dust!

She started running again.

Away from the king.

Toward sandcastles.

The king cried out, dropping to his knees at the shock of the warrior's sudden change of heart. She was getting farther away again, not closer as she should have been. Clawing at the ground, the king struggled to keep from following her, as if clinging to the ground would keep him from being physically torn away by the terrifying, churning expanse of sour water that filled the warrior's thoughts.

How was she still walking away.

Why was she still walking away.

There had to be a limit, Marianne thought, fighting her way through the forest as if it were on a steep incline. A limit to the bond's range, a point where its chains would snap and leave her free. If she could push through the pain then she would be free.

Ocean. Sand. Castles. Stars. Dawn.

She could endure this pain for them.

There was a galaxy to explore and a home to come back to afterwards. Maybe she would even build castles in the sand of some new world. So many possibilities, and they were hers if she just pushed through.

The pain was so intense, it couldn't be too much longer before it was all over.

How was she so strong?

It was incredible.

The king couldn't even force himself to stand and he was shaking with the effort of resisting the warrior's pull. She had to give up soon. She shouldn't have even gotten this far, so she had to give in soon.

So far. Too far.

Just give up, just rest.

The king wrapped his arms around himself, scratching his claws across his armor.

He wouldn't go to her.

She had to understand.

She had to come back.

Stars. Sand. Dawn.

Marianne stumbled to her knees, her breathing ragged and throat dry. She pressed her hands to her chest, trying to contain the pain that was eating her up from the inside. Shuffling forward on her knees, a hoarse cry was forced out of her and she fell, hands jarred when they struck the ground, tears leaving from her eyes and into the dirt.

Stars. Dawn.

Couldn't stop now.

Had to get home.

She crawled onward.

Dawn . . .

But the thought of the king was drowning everything else out . . .

The king was sure the warrior would kill them both.

She had stretched the bond impossibly far, pulling both of them until all they could feel was pain and emptiness as they were torn in half.

And image of the yellow-headed girl flitted through the king's mind, vanishing almost as soon as it appeared, a castle of sand replacing it, being washed away by encroaching ripples of water.

This wasn't his.

The trees, cool and fresh, shading and protecting. They were his. Not washed away so easily by a little water. Water was drawn from wells and it was pure, no taste of salt to bite the tongue. Water remained beneath the ground, nourishing the trees.

These things were his.

She was still moving.

Too far too far too far

Please, come back. Let that stubborn woman and her golden eyes and impossible strength come back to him.

Then, at last, something snapped, catching his breath in his throat.

The king didn't even care if this was the prelude to death. At least the pain would stop.

Marianne screamed.

She was so close, so close.

But it was like a rubber band, stretched to its limit until it had to snap back or be broken.

It snapped, striking her right in the heart.

And she was running.

She couldn't remember getting to her feet, but now she was running, back to the king. He was the only thing that mattered and she needed him to be there now.

The tide was going out and she was running deeper and deeper into the forest.

The king couldn't fly fast enough.

He didn't know which one of them had broken first, finally turned around. Whichever had gone first, the other had followed a split second later. Perhaps it had even been simultaneous.

It didn't matter.

All that mattered was that he couldn't go fast enough.

There was no speed fast enough.

They needed to be together now.

They had given in, accepted they needed to be together, and now every moment they were apart was too long, unbearable. Tears poured from their eyes as they willed their bodies to move faster. There was no forest, no ocean, only each other.

When they came in sight of each other they would have called each other's names in a cry of relief, had they known them. Instead wordless cries were ripped from them as she traveled the final, endless few yards before they finally, finally crashed into each other.

An ocean wave crashing into a forest, a strange world of salt water and ancient trees churned up with mud and debris, the wind howling across the rippling expanse. The waves tossed branches of ravaged trees up onto the sand even while the water was pull further and further back, exposing dry sand and dying creatures. The two worlds had fought each other for so long, fought to remain separate, that when they finally met the result was devastating.

It hurt, crashing into each other, but after the pain of their separation it went almost unnoticed. The king had still been flying, his wings so intent on going ever faster that he forgot how to make them slow down or stop. He knocked the warrior off her feet even as he took her into his arms.

They fell, tumbling to the ground in a painful heap.

Neither of them cared.

They clung to each other, not in an embrace, but a desperate attempt to be as close as possible, as if the width of their skin was still too great a distance. Not like two people tied together, but two halves desperate to be one whole.

Not an ocean.

Not a forest.

An ocean in a forest.

A forest in an ocean.

Legs and wings burning with overuse, they lay there on the ground in the dirt and leaves, rough sobs shaking them, relieved that it was over, ashamed that they were relieved. They were not whole, but they were tangled, overlapping, the ocean ripping at the walls of ancient trees that tried to block its path.

There was no balance between them, no understanding, no love.

There was just the warrior's bitter realization of the truth.

“You cannot go,” the king breathed when his voice returned to him.

The warrior cried harder because she knew now what he meant. She was trapped, forever, only half of a whole, never complete without the king. They called it a bond, but it was more than that. The two of them had been melded into one and then cut in two.

She wasn't just Marianne. She was mostly Marianne, the shape of her retained when they had been halved, but she was only completely Marianne when the king was there. He held all the missing pieces of her, as she held the missing pieces of him. Even then she wasn't just Marianne, but something else.

“You cannot go,” the king whispered into her hair, holding her so close her bones felt close to cracking and yet she wanted him to hold her closer still. His wings were caught under her arms, crushed in a way that was painful for both of them. But this pain was better than the raw edges of their minds and hearts, strained to the point of breaking.

Marianne needed the king there, holding her, where she could feel the beat of is heart.

But she didn't want him there at all.

She hated him. He had stolen everything from her. She hoped he felt the hate, she hoped it burned in his heart as fiercely as it burned in hers, even as the ocean calmed and the forest stood straighter, no longer bowed by the wind, the two forces too exhausted to clash.

The king could feel her hate, but accepted it.

Marianne Fairwood had gone missing briefly at the same time her sister was taken, but had contacted her father, letting him know she had been caught in the rush of the fleeing crowd. She reappeared at her apartment not long before her sister was released, looking tired and somewhat knocked about by her treatment at the hands of the party-crashers. She had been at home ever since, save one or two brief excursions into town, staying with her sister as they recovered from their ordeal.

The Bog King disappeared from the public sight, once again, returning to the privacy of his lair to work on reorganizing the research stolen back from Fairwood Labs. Money was getting tight, but all plans for further bank heists were put on hold until the excitement died down and the city relaxed its guard.

The confined quarters and the monotony were starting to prey on Bog's nerves and he had welcomed Marianne's next visit gladly.

At least, for the first five minutes.

“I won't be able to get a proper sample if you don't hold still!” Bog snapped, pulling the syringe away when Marianne's arm restlessly moved out of place. Again.

“How much longer is this going to take?” Marianne asked, her voice bordering on a groan, continuing to shift around in the folding chair she had been seated in for the procedure.

They were in Bog's lab, trying to collect samples of Marianne's blood, hair, and scales. She had agreed to this during the aftermath of their first encounter but when it came to the actual process Marianne seemed to be having second thoughts.

The day was overcast and smothering, the clouds sealing the heat in and bringing the temperature in the warehouse to a boiling point. In the high-ceiling spaces of the main sections it was more bearable, but in the confines of the lab things had grown stifling. Perhaps that was what made both of them so irritable, or perhaps it just aggravated the existing irritation.

“The process would be faster—and more bearable—if you would stop squirming!” Bog said, preparing to try again with the needle, “It's hard enough to get a needle through all the scales without you writhing around like a worm on a hook.”

Bog took a deep breath of the stale air, reining in his temper and adjusting his hold on the needle. He had become more adept at working with delicate tools while wearing his ill-fitting cloth gloves, but they, and the addition of his long fingernails, still made it difficult. Marianne's constant movement certainly didn't make things easier.

“I am not ‘squirming’,” Marianne retorted. “It’s not my fault you’re bad at finding a vein.”

“Oh, please! You’re practically coming out of your chair!”

“Well maybe if you weren’t taking so long.”

“I wouldn’t be taking so long if you’d hold still!”

“Well I wouldn’t–ouch!”

Bog stuck the needle into Marianne's arm, arguably with more force than was entirely necessary, but considering that his temper was frayed to the breaking point it was really a remarkable show of self-restraint on his part.

The moment the needle slipped past Marianne's scales she had her other hand gripped around his wrist like a vice. The movement was so quick he didn't even have time to blink. He didn't bother blinking after the fact either, Marianne's golden-brown eyes had locked onto his and Bog froze, mind racing as he fought against the impulse to pull away.

Marianne had gone still, too, her eyes burning with fury.

Bog raised an eyebrow.

The calm exasperation of his manner apparently irritated her, her stillness breaking as her anger flared, “You did that on purpose!”

“Quite the temper today, huh, princess?”

The hold on his wrist became almost crushing and he winced despite himself. Intellectually he knew how strong she was. He had been on the receiving end of her temper once already, after all. Yet somehow he kept forgetting that she was strong enough to go toe-to-toe with . . . well, with him.

It was just that she was so small. More than that, she was Marianne Fairwood. Bog had done his research on the whole family and his impression of Marianne and Dawn Fairwood had been that they were spoiled little princesses that daddy kept locked safely away in an ivory tower.

He had never expected one of them to attempt to break his wrist.

Bog glared down at Marianne, his lips pulling back in the beginning of a snarl.

“Don’t call me princess,” Marianne said, between clenched teeth, glaring right back at him, unimpressed with his deliberately fierce expression.

Her grip on Bog's wrist was becoming more painful than he would have thought possible, but he just gritted his own teeth together and hissed, “Any more requests, your highness?”

“Hey, now! You two behave!”

Griselda's arrival cut the cord of tension, a small draft of air blowing through the door with her, granting temporary relief from the closeness of the room.

Marianne released Bog.

“I swear,” Griselda shook her head, frizzy hair restrained by a bandanna, “I leave you two alone for two seconds and you’re already back to squabbling with each other.”

“Mother, please,” Bog huffed, putting the syringe down and starting to rub his wrist. He stopped, glancing sideways to see if Marianne had noticed the motion. She was glowering in the other direction.

“Please,” Bog began again, “we are not ‘squabbling’. I’m am trying to work. Marianne is simply being obstinate.”

“I’ll show you obstinate!” Marianne growled.

“That’s enough! You,” Griselda pointed at Marianne, “sit still so my boy can take a sample. And you,” she pointed at Bog, “stop harassing our guest.”

“Hah,” Bog scoffed, “Guest is a bit of a stretch don’t you think--“

“What did I just say?”

Bog opened his mouth to argue further but his mother gave him a sharp look and he closed it again. Grumbling under his breath, he turned back to Marianne's arm and focused on collecting the blood sample. She continued to squirm in her seat and Bog was tempted to snap at her again, despite his mother's warning.

But when he flicked his eyes up from her arm he got a good look at Marianne's face.

Marianne's eyes looked forward, staring intensely at the far wall, her jaw clenched and her brow furrowed, a sheen of sweat covering her face. Her whole body was as taut as a bowstring, the squirming really more like twitching than impatient fidgeting.

Bog wondered if she was afraid of needles. Maybe her anger was just to disguise her fear. But she had been on edge since she'd arrived, long before he'd even mentioned needles. He might have even suspected that she was wearing a wire, working with the police, if not for the fact that she hadn't prompted him with any leading questions. Or any questions. If anyone was listening in all they would hear was Marianne's feet shuffling on the floor and Bog's teeth grinding together.

Perhaps it was simply that Marianne was having second thoughts about their alliance. While she had been the one to propose it, Bog could easily imagine that she changed her mind after seeing the scope of the situation. No doubt it had sunk in that Bog and the escaped test subjects were still criminals, despite a sympathetic sob story.

For all the risk Bog was taking in working with her, Marianne was taking just as much of a risk, if not more. She had no guarantee that his intentions were good and her life was potentially at stake if they weren't. Not to mention that having her secret come to light now would bring about more than just public disgrace. She was working with a major criminal now. The consequences would be dire.

As well, Bog's natural good looks and charming nature probably did nothing to sweeten the deal.

He grimaced, self-consciously, then forced himself to focus on the taking the blood sample. Not trusting himself to be civil he settled on silence and Marianne followed suit. In silence he took a few vials of blood and then removed the needle, much more gently than he'd inserted it. He pressed a cotton ball to the injection site, taped it in place, then leaned back, dragging the back of his glove across his forehead. He liked a certain amount of humidity, but the room was really getting unbearable, especially after being confined indoors for so long.

“There. Done.”

“Finally!” Marianne cried, leaping to her feet.

“You're welcome,” Bog grumbled under his breath, clearing away his tools while Marianne walked up and down the room, flexing her abused arm to work out the stiffness.

Even in the midst of his sour mood he couldn't help but admire the layers of purple sparkling on her arms. There was really nothing they could be compared to, except armor, maybe. Delicately forged links of chain-mail, exquisite in craftsmanship. There was something breath-taking about the way the scales moved and shimmered with the shifting of the muscles in her arms.

Bog was startled out of his thoughts when Marianne swung around with an expression that was anything but sparkling.

“Oh, right,” Marianne adopted a tone of exaggerated sweetness, “Thank you so much for stabbing me in the arm and ripping out my hair and scales. I've had just an absolutely lovely time today!”

Bog slammed down a tray of tools with a bang and a clatter, “What is your problem? You were the one that suggested we work together! You were the one who was so gung ho last week about me taking these samples! Now you come in here and act like you've been forced to do this against your will!”

“It’s none of your business what my problem is!” Marianne snapped, continuing to walk up and down the lab, “Maybe last week I just didn’t realize you were going be so incompetent at drawing blood you’d have to stab my arm ten times before you found a vein!”

“Check your math, princess. Three tries isn't the same as ten! And what did you expect? Your arms are covered in scales!”

“Maybe I expected you to be a little better at what you do! I mean, it’s no wonder you’ve barely made any progress on the antidote!”

That remark struck home and Bog's hands curled into fists, his heart pounding over the effort of standing still. He struggled to limit himself to words instead of throwing a table.

“You have no idea how much progress we have or haven’t made!” He spat, voice rising sharply, “You don’t know anything about this operation! You get to go back to your penthouse at night while the rest of us have to make do here with the rats and the cockroaches!”

“Which is probably why you have accomplished exactly nothing except knocking over a few banks! Maybe I would have been better off just sticking with Fairwood Labs! It would have at least been hygienic! Here all we've got is the revolutionary inclusion of a tank full of cockroaches! If only Fairwood Labs had one of those, then we'd probably be just speeding along the road to an antidote! Why do you even have that?””

Her pacing had brought her alongside the tank and she paused to look at the insects scuttling around in their habitat.  Bog could see Marianne realizing exactly why he had a tank of cockroaches as she glanced from them to him. He had wondered if she had figured it out. It wasn't exactly the hardest mystery to crack, but he had hoped that, maybe, somehow she hadn't done the simple math of putting two and two together.

The sharp pain of humiliation spurred him on to continue shouting, as if the noise would drown the truth out of her head.

“You were the one who wanted us to work together in the first place, princess! I answered your questions, showed you my work, you made an informed decision!”

“Obviously a mistake on my part,” Marianne sneered, “I helped you get your research back, no strings attached, and all you've done for me in return is stab my arm and pick a fight!”

“Me? I picked a fight? All I did was what you asked me to! I'm sorry you can't handle a little prick on the arm!”

“That’s not the ‘little prick’ that–“

“Enough!” Griselda smacked a microscope slide on the table where she was working, “Do I have to separate you two? Neither of you are too old to be put in the time out corner or get a sharp smack across the ear!”

“Oh, enough of the nagging mother routine!” Marianne groaned, throwing her hands in the air and moving away from the tank, “I am so sick of it! I'm sick of you and your snooping and fussing! Can't you keep your mouth shut for five minutes in a row?”

Bog's nails tore through the tips of his gloves and dug into the palms of his hands when a surge of protective rage flooded his chest. Red mist was tinting the edges of his vision and his voice shook when he spoke:

“Watch. Your. Tongue,” he was surprised that his voice came out in a low growl instead of the roar of fury he had felt building in his throat, “You will not speak to my mother that way!”

“I'll talk however I want!” Marianne was trembling with anger as halted her endless marching, her face white and strained with it. She stood in front of Bog, her own hands balled up too, her entire body shaking uncontrollably, “You don't tell me what to do, you—you—you scaly-backed cockroach!”

Bog felt like he'd been kicked in the gut.

So she had figured out why he had the tank of cockroaches.

And now there it was.

There was the reaction he’d known was coming. There was the truth he’d known would come out eventually. Whatever she’d said, however she’d acted when she’d first seen his deformities, this was how she really saw him: as a hideous, disgusting insect.

Just like everyone else did.

It shouldn’t have hurt.

He’d hardened himself to this already. To the stares, the gasps, the looks of disgust and fear. He was used to this. He knew how everyone saw him. He’d been a fool to think she really saw him any differently, as anything other than a repulsive creature.

It shouldn’t have hurt.

But it did.

The anger went out of him. How could he be angry at her for speaking the truth? For reacting to him like every other sane individual would? It wasn't his fault he'd tricked himself into thinking that she might . . . tolerate him. Bog looked away, hiding the pained expression on his face, hiding from the disgust in Marianne's eyes.

“I . . .”

Marianne's voice cracked and Bog looked back sharply, preparing himself for what she might say next. But her expression was far from disgusted. Her face was bloodless with shock and, perhaps, regret.

“I-I didn't--” she stammered, her purple lips moving but her words reluctant to escape her mouth, “I'm so—I—I have to go!”

Her arms shimmered under the lamps as she caught her coat up off a nearby table and bolted from the lab. The door swung loosely behind her. She hadn't even taken the time to slam it shut.

“Huh,” Griselda remarked.

Bog said nothing. He just stared blankly at the swinging door, watching as it creaked to and fro.

Marianne's behavior had shifted so quickly. He hadn't thought her the type to back down in the middle of a fight, and the look on her face just before she ran off, it had been regretful and upset, but also . . . afraid.

Scared. Terrified. But of what? Of Bog? He found that unlikely. Maybe she was afraid she had destroyed their partnership? Also unlikely. That wouldn't have caused such a strong reaction. Afraid. Afraid of what? Of . . . herself?

Bog thought of her tense posture, the agitation that left her twitching in the chair, the shaking as her anger built. It seemed familiar, somehow, very familiar. He thought of the reaction that set in after he lost his temper, the shaking of strained muscles trying to relax, the horrible feeling of guilt . . .

“That girl's got spunk, I'll give her that.”

His mother's voice pulled Bog out of his thoughts, “I'm sorry about that,” he said, “She shouldn't have--”

“Pah!” Griselda waved a hand dismissively, “I wouldn't have managed living with you all these years if I couldn't handle someone snapping at me once in awhile. Besides, if I wasn't always nagging you who knows what trouble you'd get yourselves into? Nothing to be ashamed of, I say.”

Bog wasn't convinced by his mother's breezy attitude. She'd taken a strong liking to Marianne, praising the young woman for her beauty and brains. Bog knew it was mostly for his benefit, but he also knew that his mother wouldn't say such things if she didn't think they were true herself. She loved to mother, and thought she'd found a willing victim in Marianne. It must have hurt to have been so roughly pushed away.

“Still . . .”

“She did that thing you do, did you notice?” Griselda continued sorting slides, glancing up to see Bog's reaction to her question.

“What? What 'thing'?” Bog asked, assuming his usual slouched pose, hands tucked out of sight.

“That thing when you move too fast and you go all blurry for a sec. Marianne did that when she was leaving.”

Bog had long ago noticed that his speed had increased. Was increasing. Overall, but also when he was angry or stressed, he moved so fast that other people found it disconcerting to watch. It was something he tried to control, but with only varying levels of success. He hadn't noticed Marianne blurring. Now, or at any other time.

“Did she?” Bog relaxed his arms, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck where he prickled from the heat, trying to sort out his thoughts and finding it hard to do so in the stuffy room.

“I guess your eyes could keep up. It wasn't as fast as you usually are, but that's still plenty fast!”

Bog picked at the ruined ends of his gloves, “You think it means something?”

“Well, I think it means something when you do it.”

Bog frowned at his hands and shoved them in his pockets.

“Keep an eye on things for me, will you, mom?” He said after a moment's thought, moving over to the corner to grab his staff from where it leaned against the wall, “I'm going out.”

The sun was setting and the wind was picking up, the heavy weight of the day's heat abating.

Marianne leapt from the edge of a rooftop and rolled as she landed on the adjacent one. Her jacket was heavy on her shoulders, sweat trickling unpleasantly down her arms, under her scales, and behind her mask. But she kept running, her heart pounding in her chest, burning away the awful energy that coursed through her. The burning in her lungs helped distracted her from the pangs of a guilty conscience.

She hadn't meant to snap at Griselda like that.

She hadn't meant to say such a cruel thing to Bog.

She'd just been so angry.

The next building had a higher roof that the one she was running across, but Marianne didn't break stride, launching herself off the ledge and catching hold of the fire escape on the side of the building. It rattled horribly and someone in the building shouted wordless protest, but Marianne was scaling the rickety ladders and pulling herself onto the roof, taking just a moment to brush rust off her hands before her feet pounded across the cement again.

She had been cooped up at home since the party, keeping her father from becoming suspicious. He had barely bought the lie she and Dawn had fed him about the night of the party and Marianne was afraid to so much as step foot outside her room until he was no longer on high alert. Even her quick trip to give Bog the motorcycle had provoked an interrogation that had left both her and her father tense and angry.

So she had stayed home.

With no way to blow off steam, no chance to do a proper patrol. The restless energy had been building up insider her, seething like magma under the Earth's crust, searching for a way to vent.

Or explode.

It had only been a matter of time before something set her off.

She just wished that something hadn’t been Bog.

The two of them were still suspicious of each other, afraid to completely trust, and all too prone to picking fights. Their partnership wasn't just shaky, it barely even existed. They had met a grand total of three times and had only just begun to exchange information. A quick tour around Bog's lair—as she insisted on calling it—showed her that things were grim for him and his crew.

Marianne had imagined a supervillain's lair to be a place of luxury, furnished at the expense of all the banks Bog had robbed, with cutting edge computers and lab equipment of the highest quality. Maybe a helicopter pad or a hovercraft dock disguised under a facade of a crumbling loading bay. Instead it was a crumbling loading bay, trash and dead leaves piled in the corners by the wind. The inside of the building was barely habitable, a junkyard of broken lab equipment and junked cars, tarps and plywood nailed over holes in the walls and ceilings to keep out the weather. Marianne hadn't gotten a look at the kitchen yet and she was afraid to imagine how little there might be in it.

She had been working out the numbers and quickly saw that funding complex biological research and feeding and housing a small army of people would put a strain even on a bankrobber's budget. Obviously, Bog had a lot on his plate even before his research was stolen.

All Marianne had been doing was sitting at home, humoring her dad.

Chest tight from running, Marianne slowed her patrol. She had taken herself further into the city where it was lighting up as the sun went down. It was busy there and chances were good that she'd find someone in need of a fist in their face. She only convinced herself to slow down because she didn't want to be gasping for breath when she found a target.

She just wanted to hit something.

She had wanted to hit Bog today.

The few opportunities that had allowed Marianne to banter with Bog had been enjoyable, as it had been the night they'd met. They'd jab back and forth effortlessly in a verbal joust, giving and receiving equally.

Today's exchange had not been like that.

There was nothing enjoyable about her fight with Bog today. It wasn't fueled by a sense of competition, a desire to show off. It was just vicious anger, bottled up too long, finally released in cruel words designed to hurt because she couldn't find a reason to just hit him. She had known how on edge she was, but she thought she could keep it together. Keep it all bottled up just a little longer, get through Bog taking samples, then go out on patrol immediately afterwards.

She hadn't counted on Bog's thorough methods, how they'd stretch the time out so painfully, and she hadn't thought that having a few hairs pulled, a few scales plucked, and a needle in her arm would fan the flames of her anger.

And she'd lost it. Completely lost it. She might as well have slammed her fist into Bog's face, the pain in his expression was so potent. There hadn't been time to think about things, like what foreign DNA was mixed up with Bog's, what insect it might be. It was obvious, when she thought about it for two seconds in a row, and she had turned right around and thrown it in his face.

Their alliance was in jeopardy because she'd picked up that piece of information and wielded it like a knife, stabbing at Bog's heart. Because she had wanted him to hurt. She wanted him to know that she was hurting and that she needed to let it out. She used it against him, along with every other weapon she could scrounge up. How could she have said she was better off sticking with Fairwood Labs? It was so unbelievably stupid. Fairwood had gotten nowhere in treating her condition and, worse, the research was being handed by none other than Roland.

Rage flared up, fresh and hot in Marianne’s chest at the thought of him.

Roland.

He’d been all too happy to use her “situation” to his advantage. He’d rushed in and taken over everything to do with the serum and any possible cure for its effects. Said that he was “determined to save the women he loved” and everyone ate it up. They lauded him as the romantic hero fighting against the odds in the name of love. He’d used her misfortune and stupidity to further his own position in the company and to draw attention away from his own scandal. And she’d let him. She’d practically handed the opportunity to him on a silver platter.

Marianne bit back her rage. She had slowed her patrol, taking in the sights of the streets and alleys below, treading carefully through cluttered rooftops, avoiding any with lights. But now she ran, faster than before even though her legs were beginning to ache, forcing the thought of Roland away. She was already too dangerously on edge to allow him to get her more worked up. It was a bad idea to let her mind wander down that road.

Her thoughts came back to her guilt.

Bog never said it out loud, but she could tell how self-conscious about his mutations he was. In the short time she had known him he had already made off-hand remarks deprecating his own looks. The first time they had met she had seen how his hands trembled when he'd taken off his gloves to show her his mutations. He hid them at every opportunity, tucking his hands out of sight even though he was never without his gloves.

She knew from personal experience what that was like. Her mutations were much less severe than his but she still felt the need to hide them, even around people who knew her secret. She knew how it felt, thinking of yourself as freakish and disgusting. And she had still been so stupid, so callous, throwing Bog's fears right in his face.

Now she’d be lucky if he didn’t just call off the whole partnership.

Because of Marianne being stupid and letting her emotions get the best of her.

Like always.

Self-hatred boiled within her, mixing with her guilt, annoyance, and frustration. It curled her fingers into fists and itched to be let out. She needed to find someone who deserved a good beating soon. The pent up rage was becoming unbearable.

The sound of someone shouting made Marianne slow down and loop back around to the alleyway she had just jumped over. Her heart, already pounding, accelerated to painful speeds at the prospect of a fight.

“Give me your wallet!” a rough voice demanded from below.

“I—I don't have any money!” a second voice quavered.

Gripping the edge of the roof, Marianne looked down to see a darkly dress man pushing a smaller man against the wall. The dark man raised his arm and there was a glint of metal in his hand.

He had a gun.

Marianne would have laughed in triumph if her throat hadn't been so tight.

A mugger. A mugger with a gun.

It was much better than the pickpockets or purse snatches she often ran into on patrol. This was someone who was putting an innocent man's life in danger, waving a gun around for the sake of few dollars. Yes, this was someone who deserved everything he was about to get.

The fire escape creaked under her feet, but the noise was masked by the distant rumble of traffic. She was more worried that the mugger would hear her heart drumming against her ribs as she crept down to the alleyway, moving as swiftly as silence allowed. She didn't want to risk alerting the mugger to her presence.

Or to scare him away.

“I'm not playing games!” he shouted, just as Marianne's boots touched down on the grimy asphalt, the smell of garbage souring in her nose and mouth.

The victim whimpered when the muzzle of the gun was shoved closer to his face, “No—no! Please!”

Neither of the men noticed her approach. She was almost upon them when the mugger cocked the gun.

Marianne's heart jumped.

A mugger with a gun.

A mugger with the intent to kill.

Everything she did to stop him would be justified. She wouldn't hurt him too badly, just enough to work off some of that anger. That is, to subdue him. She would keep herself under control this time. She wouldn't even break anything.

Anything important, anyway.

“Hey!” She yelled, pulling one of her collapsible batons from under her coat. She gave it a quick flick to extend it to it's full length, slashing the air to make sure it locked in position.

She cracked the mugger's wrist when he spun on his heel to point the gun at her.

The gun clattered to the ground.

Fortunately the impact didn't set it off, but Marianne wasn't really paying attention to that.

She dropped her baton and grabbed the mugger's wrist, relishing the sharp cry of pain he made. She pulled her other arm back in preparation for a punch then decked him across the face. He staggered, but Marianne's hold on his wrist kept him from getting away.

Oh, had that felt good.

The seething mess of anger and guilt flooded out of her chest and into her fists as she punched him again, this time in the gut, doubling him over. But he wasn't down yet. She wouldn't let him. All the rage was burning up, fueling her attack before dissipating into smoke. She couldn't stop until it was completely gone.

The mugger's victim seized the chance to escape and Marianne was vaguely aware of his departure. If she had thought about it she would have come to the conclusion that she couldn't have cared less if he stayed or went, just so long as he didn't get in her way.

The first punch was always the best. The shifting of a huge weight off her chest. But each subsequent blow was less potent than the one before and she had to hit the mugger again and again to achieve a fraction of the relief.

That was fine.

A few more hits wouldn't be too much.

She was just subduing him.

He deserved it.

Just a few more.

The mugger's face was slick with blood and her fist was coated to match. Something crunched beneath her fist. It might have been his nose. She didn't care. Not about that, not about the man's desperate pleas for her to stop.

He deserved this.

And she needed this.

There was still so much anger and all she could think about was getting rid of its burning, frantic energy. It wasn't enough yet. Just a few more.

Just a few more.

Pulling her arm back to aim another punch, she found her arm caught.

“That's enough, tough girl.”

Marianne released the mugger, spinning around to confront her new opponent.

“You!” she gasped, lost in the whirlwind of emotions and adrenaline, unsure of how she felt about Bog's sudden appearance. He had her wrist firmly in his grasp. Blood was dripping from her knuckles and onto his glove, spotting black on the gray cloth in the dim light. His face was still and unreadable.

“You followed me?” Marianne yanked her hand free, her question coming out nearly as a shriek. Having her outlet so abruptly cut off seemed to make her anger double. She felt betrayed, exposed, wondering how long he had been following her, how much he had seen. Was this the first time, or had he tailed her before?

How dare he.

“He's had enough,” Bog said, voice calm, face still expressionless, “Let him go.”

“You don’t tell me what’s enough!” Marianne hissed. “This scumbag was going to kill somebody!”

“And you stopped him. But now it’s time to stop. Calm down.”

Those sensible words, so softly spoken, made Marianne see red.

Darlin’ just calm down, you’re just misunderstanding.

“You don’t ever get to tell me when to calm down!” she raged at Bog, at Roland, at the world. She hated the calm, placating voice Bog used. It was the same one everyone used, as if they were talking to a small child throwing a temper tantrum.

Marianne, dear, just calm down, please.

You make such a big deal out of everything!

Calm down. Be quiet. Be complacent. Don’t get upset. Smile. Smile. Smile.

She wanted to smash the condescending looks off their faces.

She just wanted to feel some relief from this terrible energy that made her heart race so hard she couldn't breathe. Was that so much to ask?

No. No it wasn't.

A noise, the noise of a man dragging himself to his feet, hand muffling the noise of his sobbing, snapped Marianne's attention away from Bog and back to the mugger.

He was making a break for it.

“Get back here!” Marianne lunged forward.

Bog's arm caught her around the waist and hauled her back. He turned, putting himself between her and the mugger.

“He's getting away!” She shrieked.

“Let him go,” Bog said, still infuriatingly calm.

The mugger ran past them and out of the alleyway, disappearing around the corner.

“No!”

Frantically, Marianne fought to free herself, clawing at his arms, his chest, scrabbling at his neck in a vain attempt to climb over him. Climb over him, tear her way through, just anything to be free of him, to be free of this uncontrollable rage.

Her fingernails scraped over the plates around Bog's neck, suddenly finding purchase in a slight crevice. Without thinking, except that she had found something to tear apart, she attacked the weakness, digging in her fingers and pulling down sharply.

Something tore, the feeling and sound satisfying.

But Bog's scream was chilling.

The red haze clouding Marianne's mind evaporated at the shrill sound of pain.

Bog's arm went slack and he collapsed to his knees, Marianne's bloody hands frozen in the air as he slipped from her grasp. He clutched at his neck, pressing his hand against the tear.

“Bog?” Marianne was staring at her hands, seeing Bog's face between her fingers, blurred because her eyes were riveted on the blood coating her hands. She was afraid to bring him into focus. There was safety, distance, in keeping his face blurred.

Even so, she could see him ripping at the buttons of his coat until the top one popped off and he could pull the collar away from his neck.

She wanted to look away.

She made herself lower her hands and watch.

The ridge that had grown around Bog's neck like a collar had been torn half off. It peeled away from the rest of his neck, a small patch of skin still stretched over it, bridging the gap. Bog hissed as he explored the spot with his gloved hand, sliding his fingers between the ridge and his neck. He peeled away the remaining bit of skin from the plate, like he was ripping off a bandage.

Marianne stared.

There seemed to have been a thin layer of skin between the collar and his neck, but it had stuck to the underside of the plate, pieces torn off and dots of blood forming in the raw patches.

She had hurt him.

Lost control again.

Almost beaten another criminal half to death. She probably would have killed him, if Bog hadn't intervened. If Bog hadn't gotten caught in the crossfire of her rage.

“Bog,” her voice was a whisper, “I didn't . . .”

“We need to leave,” Bog said, face pained but calm. He glanced down at the blood on his fingers and his face pinched a littler tighter.

Marianne expected Bog to be furious. To be filled with that same voiceless fury that had taken him over after she punched him at the party, teetering on the edge of control.

“It's okay,” he said, rising stiffly to his feet.

Marianne automatically put out a hand to help him, then started to pull away again when she remembered the blood.

Bog took her hand and pulled himself up, leaning on her arm for a moment while he got his balance, “It's okay.”

“Okay?” Marianne felt tears coming now, “Okay?” How is any of this okay?”

“It was coming off anyway. You just helped it along. A bit earlier than it was ready, but it isn't your fault.”

Not her fault?

They climbed the side of the building, Bog retrieving his fallen staff and her baton before they began their ascent. Of course it was her fault. It was always her fault. Every time she told herself she wouldn't lose it, but every time . . .

They crossed several rooftops, heading away from the crowded center of the city and in the direction of the warehouse, only stopping to rest when they found a quiet, unlit rooftop where they could sit on the edge and let their legs dangle over the dark streets far below.

Marianne pressed the palms of her hands into her eyes, pressing back tears, refusing to cry. But there was still blood drying on her hands and the smell of it filled her nose, prompting a replay in her mind of the way Bog's skin had torn in her hands.

“I can't control myself. I try and try to convince myself I've got it handled but I don't. I lose control. People get hurt. They always get hurt. I--”

“Marianne . . .” a hand touched her shoulder, making her look up into gentle blue eyes that held no anger, only sadness, “How long has this been happening?”

She looked away again.

“About a year ago. Just . . . just sort of restless. A restlessness that wouldn't go away. I ignored it. Or tried to. But it just built up until I'd snap, lash out at anyone around me.  It was just—I just needed to get out. Away from their hovering, from the suffocation of being hidden like some embarrassing mistake!”

Head in her hands, Marianne's breathing hitched, uncomfortably close to the beginning of sobbing. Bog's hand was still on her shoulder and she wished he would take it away. She didn't deserve comfort. Everything was her own fault. Her own stupidity in action.

“It just got worse,” Marianne dug her fingers through her hair, “I—I started getting out. Mask and everything. It helped. Because if I stayed locked up any longer . . . I snapped at Dawn. Once. On a bad day. I didn't hurt her, but for a moment . . . I wanted to.”

It was something she had never said out loud, but now it poured out of her along with every twisted thing that had been inside her.

“I swear this all started off as something better. Not just sneaking out in a mask to blow off steam. To help people. Be useful where I could. I've done stakeouts, surveillance, even managed to tip the police off so they could bust some drug rings. But it all started getting . . . narrow. Just me looking for someone to hit. Someone who deserved it,” tears threatened again as she felt the confession slipping out, “Just, anything to get rid of that horrible feeling in my chest.”

She couldn’t continue. It was all she could do to hold back tears of shame and frustration. But she wouldn’t cry, she wouldn’t. She'd sit there, curled in on herself in silence all night, but she refused to cry.

“Marianne . . . I'm so sorry.”

For teaming up with an unstable thrill seeker, no doubt.

“I'm sorry I didn't see the signs—didn't put it all together the day we met. I can't believe—I've been such an idiot! This is all my fault!”

Marianne blinked, sitting up straight, feeling the cool wind ruffle her hair.

“What?”

“I mean,” Bog had his hands tucked out of sight, but he kept pulling one or the other out so he could gesture, “I've read the news articles about you, as a vigilante. And that night we met, when we fought—I should have seen. Warned you.”

“What are you talking about? Warn me about what?”

“The aggression, uncontrollable anger. Everything that happened today. It's the serum, one of the side effects of the serum, that has affected nearly every test subject. I thought—if I was thinking at all—that the version of the serum used on you might have been different and not everyone is affected . . .”

“The party,” Marianne said, her thoughts tripping over each other in a tangle, “At the party, you--?”

Bog nodded, hissing when the movement reminded him of the tear on his neck.

“Oh.”

Marianne stared at her hands.

A giggle crawled up her throat, escaping as a broken little sound that quickly died in the cool night air. But there were reinforcements following right behind, bursting out of Marianne in a harsh fit of laughter. It rocked her body so hard that she wrapped her arms around herself to try and keep it all in, her legs kicking back and forth against the ledge.

“I'm . . . I'm not going crazy!”

All this time . . . all this time she thought was was losing it. That the stress of the last year had been chipping away at her mask of humanity, that any kindness and love she had possessed had just been there to hide the twisted violence at her core. She had thought she was just an evil, horrible person, but now Bog was telling her that she was just . . . just basically having a nasty side effect from medication. It didn't fix anything, but still. She felt relieved.

“I guess,” Bog said, watching her hysterics with some alarm, “I guess it depends what you mean by 'going crazy'.”

“Oh, shut up!”

Marianne, still laughing, leaned her head against Bog's shoulder. She would have hugged him if she hadn't been worried about hurting his neck any further. She wanted to hug somebody. Get on the phone and scream at someone to buy a cake because they were celebrating Marianne being officially not an unhinged, bloodthirsty monster.

But there was no one to tell.

The thought was sobering and her laughter finally trailed off. She leaned a little closer to Bog, catching the cuff of his coat in her hand and squeezing it, afraid that taking his hand would make him leave. She could feel that rigid plates on Bog's shoulders, pressed against her cheek, and she was reminded of their fight.

“I'm sorry for what I said in the lab today,” she said, pulling away and looking down at her boots.

“Um?” Bog had frozen when she leaned on him, but was thawing now, nervously rubbing his shoulder.

“What I called you.”

“Oh.”

“I should have never--”

“It doesn't matter. Uh, look, I've been trying to get together some treatments to counter the rage problem but so far the most effective thing has been to just . . . well, fight it out. We sort of have a sparring ring and everyone makes a thing of it. It helps, to have it be just a thing we do. Fight a few rounds. Make a few bets. Loser has to wash dishes. No shame in it. All arguments go into the ring and stay there. And you . . . you would be . . . that is, if you wanted . . .”

Bog was speaking in a fast, disjointed way and looked like he wanted to shut up but had come too far to stop in the middle.

“I know you probably don't . . . I mean, the warehouse is very . . . but if you did . . .”

“Are you inviting me to supervillain fight club?”

“. . . yes?”

“For real? Like, I could crash in on you in the middle of the day and pick a fight?”

“More or less. You'd be welcome at any time. Everyone understands . . . anger issues.”

“That would be great. Well, if your mother ever lets me back in the lair again.”

“Ha! She loves you. Though a box of chocolate liquors probably wouldn't hurt.”

“I will buy her ten pounds. Hey, Bog? Thanks. Seriously, thank you for coming after me tonight. I almost—I did something stupid and almost did something terrible. Thank you for stopping me, for telling me--”

“Don't!”

The harsh sound of Bog's voice made Marianne fall silence. He looked ashamed, wide shoulders hunched up. His gloved hands opened and closed where they gripped the ledge on either side of where he sat. There was a faint grating noise, his claws scratching the cement.

“Everything that's happened,” he said, voice heavy, “To you. Tonight. This past year. It's all been my fault.”

“Your fault?” Marianne laughed at the absurdity of the claim, “You're as much a victim of this as anyone else. You didn't make the serum.”