Medusa stood in front of the mirror and watched the new snakes wind up and around her arms. As they settled onto her shoulders, she allowed herself a sigh of relief. She felt naked without them. To have them destroyed may not have devastated her—as it had centuries ago, when a cocky DWMA agent had managed to crush the first pair—but it still galled her that she could be bested in such a manner. And by a traitor Deathscythe, no less. And Black*Star had nearly defeated Crona, too. It would not be a day to remember proudly, but least Crona’s madness was unassailable. For the rest, there would be more training.

Already beginning to plot her next move, Medusa turned away from the mirror—and froze. Standing in front of her with an impish grin on his face was none other than Dr. Franken Stein. Medusa sent a warning splay of vectors towards him to hide her shock. But he didn’t flinch, only smiled back at her as if thinking of some private joke.

“How did you get in here?” she demanded.

“That’s a funny way to greet someone you said you loved once.” He nodded at the vectors.

“Do you think that would stop me from killing you?”

“Oh, I’d never think something that stupid.”

“Then answer my question.” She pressed the vectors a little closer, her eyes narrowed. He was alone. She could defeat him easily if he attacked, even tired from the battle as she was. But first she needed to know what he was doing here.

He gave a shrug, his arms spread wide. “Through the front door.”

“No, you didn’t.” She had hated to take a page from her sister’s book, but with the current state of her antagonism towards the DWMA—not to mention the Kishin’s adherents, like that idiot Justin—she could not afford to be caught unawares. No one could have approached her hideaway without tripping one of the many magic sensors she’d laid. Not even Stein.

His grin only stretched further. “Then guess.”

But the grin was too wide now, inhumanly wide. Was he mad? Or—

On a sudden whim, Medusa shot one of the vectors forward. It pierced his throat but without the sensation of magic against skin. There was no blood and no wound when she withdrew the arrow. He didn’t stop smiling.

A chill ran down Medusa’s back. This was the aftereffects of Justin’s madness attack, undoubtedly, or of the visions Tezca Tlipoca had inflicted on her. He was not here; he would vanish as soon as she could focus her mind. But he only took a step forward as she realized, the smile on his face amicable, if twisted. There was nothing threatening in his manner.

He curled one hand around the back of her neck. She could feel it. It reminded her of the dance, of the first moment when she discovered that he was more of a kindred spirit than an enemy.

But then he’d killed her.

“Get out,” she said with a sneer.

“That’s up to you.”

But he seemed too solid to just will away. And she’d stupidly allowed herself to want the way he was leaning close. She had longed for his touch, for affection from him that would be as twisted as her own. So maybe that was why he had one hand on her waist, precisely where he’d sliced her in two. When he spoke again, it was in a low murmur.

“Would it be so bad, Medusa?”

She refused to speak aloud again, but he was her mind so of course he knew the question she didn’t voice.

“To give into madness. To let it flow through you and give you power.”

She rolled her eyes and muttered, “You are the least sensible avatar to convince me of that.” Stein—the real Stein—was fighting insanity with all his might, clinging to empty-headed friends and pointless superstitions to cement his mind to reality. Even at the battle for the Brew, he’d fought desperately against her magic and clung to what few scraps of sanity had remained.

The hallucination’s smile didn’t waver. “Then ask yourself, why has your mind chosen this shape for the task of tempting you? Mere lust for a man who bested you?”

No, it wasn’t that.

“Of course not,” the hallucination agreed. “Because you wouldn’t let yourself be led astray by something as simple as that. You’d rather deny yourself completely than be overpowered by anything. That’s always your strategy, isn’t it, Medusa?”

She closed her eyes and willed the blackness to wear him away. But she could still feel his thumb caressing the back of her neck. And the hand on her waist was temptation, not only sexual (though there was that; she could admit it without falling prey to it just as she could with any other emotion) but the temptation of memory. She had never felt anything like her death. The madness had seeped into her through the exposed veins, where arms and legs should have been. She had felt his triumph as her own; his laughter had nearly brought tears of joy to her own eyes. She hadn’t lied when she’d said she loved him, for what was love but understanding and yearning and souls joined together? Madness had accomplished all that.

The real Stein would not have known that the memory of his attack was tied up with all of these sparkling, invasive thoughts. But the hallucination did. It smiled as she opened her eyes once more (better to see him, concrete if false, than to be drawn into the whirlpool of those memories).

“Was it so bad when you were overpowered?” he asked softly.

“I died,” she pointed out.

“Not because of the madness.” He traced his hand over where there should have been a scar. His touch was warm, almost burning. “My madness killed you, yes, but the madness in the air and the madness that bled into you are what allowed you to save yourself. You would have been gone for good if you hadn’t given in then.”

It was true. She’d had no other choice, no other hope, than to abandon sense at the time. If it hadn’t worked, she would have died. And yet here the feeling was again, when the risk was not the same: radiating from his touch and creeping along over her skin like a thousand furred insects, like spiders, like spiders—

A sudden cry burst out of her and she shoved him away. He moved loosely and bounced against the far wall, his face almost collapsing in on itself as he snickered. There had been no sensation in her hands when she’d pushed him away. She straightened and tried to calm her breathing.

“I have no need to give up control,” she said. She didn’t have to say it out loud, but she did, to give the words weight and because there was no one watching her, no one. “I am strong enough on my own.”

“Barely.”

Now the hallucination’s smirk was cruel, scornful. Almost exactly like Justin’s as he’d executed her snakes.

“You could have died today, had that other Deathscythe not shown up. You were losing. You lost to Arachne. You lost to me.”

He laughed, an echo of his laughter from underground. It replayed in her head with a tinny, canned quality. And then there was a buzz of static and in an instant he upon her again, pushing her back against the mirror and holding her head between long, bony fingers. She had no choice but to look in his eyes, which were red and repeated infinitely, like fractals, like two mirrors set against each other. His fingers were sinking through her skull and into her brain, and answering them was a fierce screaming voice from inside her that she’d never managed to tame. She gritted her teeth together so that it could not escape and she squeezed her eyes shut but the red was all around her and the madness still clinging to her, still digging into her mind. She was torn between the desire to push him away and the desire to stay still, stay still so that she would not be seen—

The snakes ripped off of her arms on their own instinct, not her command, and the sudden sensation gave her something new to focus on even as they launched themselves at nothing. Because there was nothing there. It was all in her own head and it was her own fault, now, that her arms felt raw where the snakes had torn away. She pulled them back. Her eyes must have been wild, but as the snakes righted themselves she felt herself regaining control. Stein was gone and the scream was quieting. Her racing heart began to slow. Taking deep breaths, she shut the screaming untamed voice up into its usual corner of her mind. She was not mad. She would not go mad. She could defend herself.

What’s the point?

It was Stein’s voice again. She whirled around, but he was nowhere to be seen in the small room. Still his voice seemed to echo in her ears.

Why do you get to stay sane, Medusa? Why do you get to drive me and your child and the whole world to insanity but hold onto your own mind? What gives you that right?

It wasn’t a matter of right. It was a matter of power. She had the power to hold onto herself and the power to ruin others, and these were not powers she had won lightly. She intended to take full advantage of them. Let the world crumble; she would watch and catalog and know that it had all happened by her hand.

And what makes you think it’s to your advantage?

A light touch on her back to pull her forward. She still did not see him, but she could feel his presence and the solidity of the body that she was hallucinating (he was not here). She closed her eyes so that at least there was no contradiction in what she was perceiving (he was not here, and as long as she remembered that, she held the power). He was leaning close, taunting her, tracing her spine with his fingers as his lips hovered inches from hers.

All you’ve done is lose to those who embrace insanity, and yet you cling. Your child will surpass you, and yet you cling. You handicap yourself. What are you afraid of?

She was not afraid. She was determined. She did not choose insanity and therefore she would not let it have her. When she opened her eyes again, the pressure on her back and the softness of his breath disappeared. He was not here; he had never been here; it had been her mind playing tricks on her, but she knew better than to fall for the tricks.

She would not let insanity have her.

She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water onto her face. Next, her arms, though they stung where pinpricks of blood dotted them. The snakes were motionless once more. They had accomplished their purpose. Not in warding off Stein, but in reminding her that she was capable. She could protect herself. She could fight the insanity and win, and she would: because there was still too much to do, too much to affect. She could not yet give in. She perhaps could not ever give in because there would always be more to see.