He rested his skull back against the purple stone and closed his eye sockets. Heck, he might doze off too if he got too cozy like this. It wouldn’t be the first time. Almost always, she was still here when he woke up, whether that was in five minutes or five hours. Which was interesting, since she definitely didn’t stay at the door constantly—there were days when a whole shift passed without an audience to his jokes. 

So why did she wait for him? He hoped it wasn’t because she worried—nah, it was probably just so she could have the last laugh.

She wasn’t laughing now. Or saying anything. Had he been the one to space out this time?

“Who’s there?” he tried asking.

“........I’m sorry, my friend.”

“I’m sorry, my friend, who?”

A sigh filtered through the door. He almost imagined he could feel the breeze of it.

“I’m sorry, my friend who has been so kind as to attempt to cheer an old lady who is currently beyond cheering. I should have known better than to visit today.”

A light thud shook the stone behind Sans’s back. Her skull thumping against the door? 

“Kind of a long punchline, but I’ll let it slide,” he said as she seemed to slide lower down. “Knock knock.”

“My friend—”

“Great, you already know who’s there.” He wished he could look her in the eye while he said this, or squeeze her shoulder, or… heh. 

Bones weren’t supposed to be this soft. 

“So the knock-knock jokes ain’t cutting it today. Eh, that’s life. Can’t bring the house down every time.” He shrugged. She’d be able to hear his jacket brush the stone, he was pretty sure. “Hope I’m not bringing you down, though. Believe it or not, I can shut up.”

“It is not you. Of course it is not you.” She sighed.

He hadn’t thought it was, but it was good to get confirmation. That meant he could stand to push a little harder.

Not too hard, though. It was a delicate balance they hung on these rusted hinges. 

“Yeah, ‘course. You wouldn’t’ve come out if you didn’t want to have some bad laughs, right?”

A pause. Without sound, she might as well be nothing at all. He tried not to dwell on that, on sleepless nights—how easy it would be to lose her forever, and never know why.

(The sinking feeling that it’s happened before.)

“Either that, or… you wanted to talk about it?” he tried, like trying to coax a tough jar to twist open.

More silence. He’d probably twisted too hard. Was she there? Was she breathing? He thought she needed to; her laughs sounded like the type to come from wide, deep lungs. 

“.....Today was my wedding anniversary.” 

It was a good thing Sans didn’t have lungs. That would’ve punched the air out of ‘em for sure.

As it was, he forced a chuckle. Probably the wrong move, he realized a beat late.

“Uh. Sorry.”

He came up with about a dozen bad anniversary jokes he could’ve told, but out of respect, he buried ‘em in the snow. Or at least tucked ‘em in his pocket for later, in case he got the sense they’d help. 

“It is alright. I… wish I could laugh about it.” An odd wet sound was probably her swallowing.

“That bad, huh.”

“It would be easier if it had been. ‘That bad.’” She breathed out shakily. “It was fine. Until it was not. And it has been… quite some time since then.”

Well, that told him basically nothing. 

“Sometimes it feels as if… as if all I have to mark the days are tragedies,” she murmured. “And when the events are not tragedies, they have become so by their absence…”

Sans’s fists were clenched in his pockets. He’d asked for this. He couldn’t say he was in over his head now. 

She needed a better way to keep track of time. Something to look forward to. Something other than another loop, another end—

He was projecting again. But hey, regular life could end up a lot like a time loop if you weren’t careful. If you couldn’t find some way to keep the days from running together… a new face to talk to, a new hand to put a whoopie cushion in…

“I am sorry. I knew I should not—”

“Hey, ‘s fine. Was just thinking,” Sans interrupted before she could dig herself a pit of guilt. “So, uh, ‘s your spouse still in the picture? On your side of this door?”

“No, thank goodness.” She gave a shaky laugh. “No. He is… the reason for the door.”

Sans’s marrow froze.

“Great. You want me to give ‘im a bad time for you? How’d that be for an anniversary present?” He wasn’t sure if he meant it as a joke or not. 

“Ha.” Her laugh was too flat. Bad joke, then. “You would—you would like him. Most people do.”

Sans couldn’t see himself liking anyone who’d fumble a hilarious woman like this old lady. 

Though, beneath five layers of guilt, three layers of shame, and at least one layer of irony, he realized he might need to be grateful for that guy’s mistakes.

He shook his head, hoping the thought would fly out and lodge itself in one of the pine trees across the path. 

“Hey, we’re friends, right?” he said more brightly. “A friend’s gotta take your side against your crappy exes. That’s just how it works.”

She snorted a little at that. He hoped it was from amusement, and not because she didn’t believe him.

It was too bad he didn’t know the guy. Sans was sure he could’ve come up with a personal roast or two to get her really rolling. As it was, he’d have to settle for a different strategy.

“Thank you. Truly,” she said quietly.

“Don’t mention it.” He winked, for all that she wouldn’t be able to see it. “Hey, how long do you think we’ve been friends, anyway?”

He was terrible at keeping track of time these days. It sounded like she might not be that much better—

“Five months and ten days,” she said without missing a beat.

“Wh—really?”

“Yes, ‘really.’ Er, counting from the first time I heard you knock. Unless you would consider a later date the beginning of our friendship?”

Sans’s skull warmed. Wow. 

“No, yeah. That’s—me too. I just, uh. You’ve got a good memory.”

“It was a special day.” She sounded like she was smiling, now.

Good. Maybe his idea could actually work.

“Hey, so’s today. It’s our five-month-and-ten-day anniversary.”

His grin was tense in the absent heartbeats that followed.

“Uh. Friendiversary?” He coughed. “Whatever you wanna call, uh, this thing we’ve been doing.”

That sounded almost worse. Wow. Maybe he should take some pointers from a human skeleton and bury himself six feet under the dirt.

“Nevermind. I just thought—I’d, uh—” Steal this day from your ex? Make you think about me instead? Geez, he hadn’t thought he was this selfish and pathetic. “—Forget it. Think I got lost on the way to the punch line.”

Despite everything, a giggle bubbled out through the crack in the door.

“I will not ‘forget it.’ I have a good memory, ‘remember’?” she teased.

He groaned. 

“Besides, I like it,” she added. “Happy five-month-and-ten-day anniversary, my friend.”

…Well. She sounded happier than before. That was the whole point of this, right? Didn’t really matter how much he made a fool of himself on the way there.

He’d do a lot worse than that to make her laugh again, if it came to it. 

Beat. Beat. Beat.

Relax.

You can’t be blamed.

Give up your pain.

The Unmade’s voice didn’t matter. She was Veil. Veil didn’t have pain.

Her teeth tore into the pastry. It was dense and doughy, and it tasted… strong. She couldn’t make out a flavor beyond that.

“Mmmmm… Shallan…” Pattern hummed from the hem of her trousers. 

For a moment, the drumbeat quieted—smothered by Pattern’s voice.

Veil didn’t jump. Veil wasn’t that easily startled. But she did hiss a little. What if Kharat heard? She was supposed to be being stealthy, and…

And her pastry was gone. Bits of it still felt stuck in her throat. Had she really eaten that fast?

She wanted another. Or… something else. Anything else she could stuff inside her, to fill that horrible void the beat carved out.

She needed something. She wanted something, with a heat that rivaled the bonfire blazing nearer the circle’s center. 

Let go.

Don’t fight it. 

Enjoy it.

(She couldn’t. Whatever she was missing, she certainly didn’t deserve to have it.)

Still, she drifted closer to the inner ring. Like a planet tilting just slightly out of orbit. She’d thought her motion subtle enough, but Kharat pulled her back anyway.

“No, no, not yet,” he said in an irritating mumble. His grip was limp on her sleeve. He didn’t even have the decency to yank on her properly. 

It would be nice, to have someone pull on her. To feel a gravity, a magnetism, something physical…

Not with Kharat, of course. She wasn’t that desperate. But she saw people pairing off, slipping away into little rooms surrounding the outer ring…

You want it, don’t you?

You always have.

To be loved.

To be touched.

Tears pricked her eyes, unbidden. She did want that. The strength of that desire threatened to overpower her, to throw off Veil’s lone-wolf persona. Part of that yearning was physical, sensual, but not all of it. In fact, maybe not even the worst of it.

To finally be a full participant in someone’s life—not just a picture, a thing, a doll on a shelf…

One tear-soaked blink, and Veil’s stalwart form shattered. Black hair dissolved to red; tan skin to pale dappled with freckles. She was Shallan again. 

And everything was so much worse.

Beat. Beat. Beat. 

Want. Want. Want.

She tripped over the toe of Veil’s boots—she always wore them a size too big—and landed on her knees. 

For all that Kharat forbade her from moving towards the center, he didn’t seem to care if she did anything else. Turning into a different person? Barely earned her a blink. Falling? Not his problem. The eternal tide of revelers swept him further counterclockwise. The people stumbled slightly around her, but it might have just been their intoxicated gait, and not any surprise at finding a lighteyed woman on her hands and knees.

Shallan’s fingernails dug into the stone. Her safehand glove scraped so harshly it threatened to tear. Maybe it should; maybe that would free this horrible, desperate feeling from inside her—

She finally processed Pattern’s anxious humming. The sharp shrieks of laughter and drunken murmuring had all but muted it. 

And that drumming in her head… that… that wasn’t normal…

Forget about it.

You can have what you want.

Anything you want.

Give in.

Give up.

“—to get help,” Pattern said. 

“No,” Shallan gasped out. 

She was supposed to be strong. She was supposed to be clever. She was supposed to be Radiant. If anyone saw her like this, driven mad by such a simple, base need…

“Shallan. I am… frightened.”

She could hear the anxiety in his voice. It took a lot for him to admit to that. 

She couldn’t reassure him, though. All she could do was groan and curl further in on herself. 

You want someone.

Pleasure.

Enough of pain.

She became a little ball of agony, wrapped around a core of lust. Stupid. It wasn’t like she’d never felt such emotions before. She’d helped Jasnah bathe, for Kelek’s sake. She could handle this on her own. As long as she didn’t move, she wouldn’t reach out for the nearest glassy-eyed man or woman and—

Pattern’s buzzing grew louder. It was his way of trying to distract her, wake her from this nightmare. 

Go.

Do what you want.

Take what you want.

You can have it.

“I can’t,” she hissed. 

“Shallan. I will get help,” Pattern said more forcefully. “Vathah—”

“No. Please, no,” she whimpered. 

“Adolin?” Pattern suggested instead.

Bile rose in her throat. Adolin couldn’t find out about Veil.

Adolin couldn’t even find out about Shallan.

“Then—”

“Kaladin,” she finally said in a small, small voice.

That horrible core she was wrapped around burned hotter at his name. But that hidden lust wasn’t the only reason she spoke it.

He’d seen her. Maybe not the worst of her, but… close. As close as anyone.

He might think less of her, but he wouldn’t leave her. 

“Okay! Okay,” Pattern sounded relieved. “I think I noticed Sylphrena nearby. He should be too. I will be back before you can count to nine hundred ninety-seven by primes.”

Shallan took a deep breath. It smelled of sweat and heavy nectar.

Pattern slipped from her pant leg and left her to the mercy of her mind.

XXX

Sweat beaded on Kaladin’s forehead as he climbed the side of the Oathgate platform. From a distance, the illusion Vathah had clumsily stitched to him made him appear part of the stone, and it hid the faint glow of Stormlight wafting from his handholds—rough, palm-sized rocks he’d stuck to the wall. For some reason, Full Lashings didn’t draw the spren that his “louder” lashings did. Syl didn’t know why. 

He was grateful, though, because this seemed like their only shot at saving Shallan from… he didn’t know what. Pattern wasn’t very good at describing things in concrete detail. 

“She is not herself… or she is too much of herself… mmmm… please hurry…”

Pattern rode on Kaladin’s leg, and Syl pretended to be annoyed at sharing her human with a Cryptic. She didn’t actually dislike Pattern much, despite what she said about his race. 

“I don’t like this,” Syl whispered as she flitted by. She would be visible to any Voidspren, and didn’t want to draw attention to Kaladin’s location, so she tried to keep her distance. That usually left her within a ten or twenty foot radius above him.

“Me either,” Kaladin grunted. “I feel… heavy.”

It was a foreign feeling, as used as he was to ignoring gravity. It wasn’t from the climb, either; Stormlight gave him plenty of physical strength. 

“Mmmm. You have mass. That is common in the Physical Realm,” Pattern answered.

Kaladin frowned. Was the spren making fun of him? He wasn’t used to talking to any spren besides Syl. And that one Voidspren that had led Khen and Sah’s group of refugees, he guessed.

He pressed onward, upwards, even as the heaviness continued to grow.

Beat. Beat. Beat.

What was that? Why did it feel like it wanted to crush him?

Give up.

Give in.

You are what you feel.

Kaladin grit his teeth. What he felt, usually, was… not great. 

But Shallan was up there. 

“Mmmm. You are not as perambulatory as usual.” Pattern slipped up Kaladin’s arm and onto the wall. “But I cannot help, even though I can move. Shallan… needs someone like her. Mmm. You.”

Kaladin wasn’t sure how that would help. If this pressure was smothering her like it was him, they’d only make each other worse, right?

No. They’d saved each other before, in the darkness of the chasms. They could do it again. They just had to get away from this place. From the Unmade, or whatever else was multiplying those dark emotions… 

Beat.

Don’t leave.

Beat.

You can have what you want.

Beat. 

What do you want?

The pressure shifted. Like the air just before a storm, only more still, more fetid. Instead of weighing him down, it now seemed to draw him in. 

He crested the wall, and was met with a scorching heat. 

Of course, he’d known about the bonfire. It was impossible to miss the gaudy light when keeping guard on the city wall. From up close, though, it seemed to have become twisted and alive—and not just from the blue flamespren dancing in rigid, jerking motions. The ring of people surrounding it seemed as alien as the spren, their shadows sharp and ragged…

And was it his imagination, or did a few of those shadows stretch towards the fire?

He shivered, skin prickling from the wrongness of it all. How could these people feast and celebrate when those below starved? But that was typical lighteyed behavior. 

Stranger, then, that the revelers weren’t all lighteyes. A good half or more wore tattered ardent robes. Several others were dressed in spren costumes from those bizarre parades throughout the city.

He hung back near the edge of the platform, despite the pulse drawing him inward. Would they see him? Shallan had made a point of infiltrating covertly. He didn’t want to undermine her mission, but if her spren was worried enough to fetch him…

Something was very, very wrong.

He shrugged off the uniform of his jacket and set it on the ground. Vathah had warned him that he was still a novice—his lightweaving obscuring Kaladin would probably fade as soon as he was out of sight. Kaladin would have to blend in the old fashioned way. 

After taking his knife to the hems of his clothing in a way that would have made Adolin wince, Kaladin darted into a gap in the circle. 

His stomach lurched worse than when he pulled off a particularly sharp lashing. He braced himself against one of the stone tables, piled with rich food, that dotted the inner edge of the circle.

Want. Want. Want.

There must be something.

It was… just the food, the cloying smell of it—the flagrant, selfish excess—all turning his stomach. 

…He wished that was the case. A spren that could not just react to emotions, but influence them? It was violating. 

“Is this what Shallan is fighting?” he whispered to Pattern. 

The parade of revelers swept past him, though, drowning out whatever answer Pattern might have given. They smelled rotten, a fermented odor oozing from their desperate laughter.

What sick jokes were there to laugh at at the end of the world?

You don’t want to laugh. 

You don’t want to eat. 

What do you WANT?

Frustration flared in Kaladin, but he could tell it wasn’t entirely his own. The Unmade wasn’t happy with his refusal to indulge.

How had Shallan fought one of these? Storms, how had she been brave enough to face another?

He needed to get out of here. Fast. His mind wasn’t a great place to be on the best of days, without some dark force of Odium interfering.

“I want to find Shallan,” he hissed at the voice-that-wasn’t-quite-a-voice.

The frustration ebbed.

In its place flooded something so much worse.

Beat. Beat. Beat.

Want. Want. WANT.

The desire consumed him. No longer vague and directionless, but filed to a single, carnal point. He would’ve been better off throwing himself in the bonfire than suffering this new sensation.

He needed Shallan. Now.

“What a coincidence.” Shallan sidled up to him from behind, looping her right arm—her bare arm—through his. “I wanted to find you, too.”

She’d been wearing trousers and a long white jacket, more ragged than his own disguise. Only the right sleeve was missing, and her safehand glove was still on. Even so, her touch burned like the fires of Damnation. He couldn't help leaning into it—too hard; he made her stumble with his weight. Or was it the alcohol in her?

She smelled of sweet wine, heady enough to disorient him. Alcohol didn’t normally appeal to him, but if he could drink it from her lips—

This was bad. This was wrong. But the part of him that recognized that seemed to be watching him from somewhere far away. Up close, there was only Shallan, and the heartbeat.

She pressed herself to his side, the tattered pieces of her sleeve hanging from her shoulder tickling his arm. He shivered.

“I… yeah?” he asked dumbly.

“Mm-hm.” She rested her cheek against his arm, and they drifted out of the circle—towards a cluster of small structures at their right. Rooms, once for meditating ardents, now were hazy with smoke and sounds of pleasure.

His blood burned. The silent drum beats seemed to draw him there, as physically as Shallan’s swaying touch.

“Shallan! You are standing! Are you better?” Pattern hummed. He’d taken up a spot on her trouser leg, now.

Something about that was unfair. Kaladin should be wrapped around Shallan’s leg—

He grimaced. This—this wasn’t like him, even with Tarah he’d never felt—

Want. Want. WANT.

“Of course I’m better.” Shallan grinned, and Kaladin caught a hint of… blood? Was that blood at the edges of her gums?

No, she must have just eaten something red.

It should have been his flesh in her teeth—

“Syl?” he called up at the sky. A desperate move, and probably the wrong one. He wanted the mental clarity she could often bring, but when it came to—to things like this—she was more likely to encourage the foreign feelings than not.

“Oh, don’t worry about her. Pattern will keep an eye out. Won’t you, Pattern?”

“Mmmm… I don’t have eyes. But I will use the senses I have.” Pattern paused. “You will use your sense. Please. Be careful.”

Whatever was happening seemed entirely devoid of sense. But Shallan made empty promises as Pattern slid away.

And then, free from prying not-eyes, Shallan tugged Kaladin into one of the alcove-like rooms. 

“Finally.” Shallans’ voice was somewhere between a gasp and a growl.

She shoved Kaladin against the stone bench that ran the circumference of the round room. He was bigger than her, heavier than her, and could have resisted… if he were in any state to resist anything.

If he didn’t want it so badly.

Shallan climbed into his lap. One knee on either side of his thighs. 

Distantly, he remembered her experiment with the shamespren. She didn’t attract any now. 

“I expected this to be a little harder,” she admitted, her breath as hot and stilted as his own. It puffed against his cheeks, and he sucked it in as if it were stormlight.

“It should be,” he admitted, swallowing.

Smoke wafted in from an adjacent room. Not too strong, thankfully; he didn’t want to smell anything but the woman in his lap. 

“I didn’t… create you, did I?” Shallan squinted, pulling back just slightly. “That would be incredibly embarrassing. And… incredibly like me…”

He didn’t know exactly what she meant. But if she wanted proof he was real—

He gripped her waist and crashed his lips to hers.

She tasted of sugar and blood as she kissed back, just as hungrily, though even her desperate motions felt more practiced than his. Of course they did. She’d spend the past weeks kissing Adolin—

That realization made him freeze. Only for a moment, though, because Shallan’s freehand was in his hair and her tongue was in his mouth and her heartbeat was in his blood.

For now, it was just Kaladin and Shallan and the storm between them. Thoughts of consequences were too slippery to gasp, too flimsy in the face of something so physical.

She scraped her safehand glove off against the corner of the bench, refusing to let go of his hair with her other hand. He’d never been as thrilled by a woman’s hand as other men he knew—maybe because of his surgeon’s background, knowing the anatomy of one hand was no different from another—but that didn’t stop him from burning as she tugged at his shirt with it.

“What is wrong with you,” Shallan broke the kiss to mutter in frustration.

“Huh?” Kaladin blinked, frustrated and itching to get back to it, before realizing she was scowling at his buttons. “Oh.”

Standard uniforms had belt loops that attached to both the shirt and trousers, to keep anything from riding up or sagging down. The buttons holding the shirt to the belt had kept Shallan out, and he did them both the favor of tearing them free.

“Much better.” Shallan hummed in pleasure, sliding her arms under the fabric and up towards his chest. 

He shuddered at the thrill of her touch. How had he tried to fight this feeling? 

Her arms got tangled under his shirt, and he pulled it off over his head, snapping off more of the buttons running up the side. 

“This really is too easy.” Shallan traced her fingers across his abdomen, his chest, his neck. She could have been a Dustbringer, with the way each brush left him aflame. “Maybe I didn’t make you. Maybe the Unmade did. Though if so, it must not know I’d prefer a little more hair…”

She curled a finger in one of the sparse locks growing over his sternum. He suddenly felt embarrassed about his inability to grow any more.

“Unmade?” Why were they talking about that now? Couldn’t she just let him enjoy himself, for once?

“You haven’t even said anything clever this whole time.” She frowned. “I find it hard to believe the Kaladin I know would get too tongue-tied to quip back at me. As much as I am enjoying tying your tongue…”

“Shallan,” he groaned. “I don’t want to be clever. I want you to kiss me.”

She rested both hands on his chest and squinted up at him.

“Not very convincing. But… maybe it’s better if this isn’t real, anyway.”

She kissed him again, but he could feel a sliver of hesitation, this time. After her initial passion, he couldn’t stand it.

He wanted her. All of her. And he wanted her to know it.

He’d hardly known what to do with his hands before, but he yanked up her shirt enough to place them against the bare skin of her waist. He tugged her closer, and her knees rammed the wall behind him. So instead he twisted, flopping back against the cold bench with her warmth atop him.

“You feel real,” Shallan whispered against his mouth.

“I am.” He bit her lip, as if the pain could prove it.

Whether or not it did, she let out a little moan of pleasure. Storms. Was that what she liked?

He went in for her throat, leaving marks with each sharp kiss, and was rewarded with more of those precious sounds—and a flutter of wrong passionspren.

“Real or not, at least you’re not a coward,” she panted. 

He growled, trying to flip so she was beneath him—

But the bench wasn’t that wide. They tumbled off onto the stone floor. He gaped, lifting himself up on one arm to apologize, but she just laughed. The faint glow of stormlight wafted from her.

“Being with a Radiant has perks, huh?” She wiggled her eyebrows. “You can’t hurt me in any way that matters. You don’t have to hold back.”

“You think I’m holding back?” he groaned. 

She was the one very much not kissing him right now. He would appreciate a few of those bitten bruises in return.

“I don’t know, honestly.” She regarded him carefully. “I suppose we could find out.”

Still beneath him, she brushed the trail of hair beneath his navel, inching closer to his belt. His throat went dry.

Then, breaking through the beat of yes, yes, YES, he smacked her hand away.

“Don’t,” he gasped.

She raised an eyebrow.

“Afraid of getting intimate with someone else’s betrothed after all?”

He flushed. He should have been, and it cut like a knife to hear her say so aloud.

“...We don’t have protection.” He looked away, suddenly embarrassed to meet her eyes.

“What was that?”

“We don’t…” He swallowed, and forced out his surgeon’s blunt professionalism. “I don’t have a condom. I am not going to get you pregnant, Shallan.”

She blinked, mouth hanging open dumbly. 

She let out a single shriek of laughter. Then another shriek, this one legitimately terrified.

“What?” he asked as she scrambled out from under him.

“Wait! I can help!” Syl suddenly appeared through the window—oh Stormfather what was she doing here. “Don’t worry Kaladin, I’ll go find one for you! You’re doing great!”

“Mmmm… no mating,” Pattern said firmly before following in the form of a floating ball of lines.

“Storms. Damnation. Drynets.” Shallan’s knees curled up to her chest, which heaved with each of her gasped curses. “You’re real. I almost—”

“Almost what?” Kaladin growled. “You were fine with tearing my pants off when you thought I was a delusion of the Unmade, but not if I’m an actual person?”

“If you were an actual person, you wouldn’t let me tear your pants off!” she snapped back. “And you didn’t. And you are. And I… am worse than the ten fools.”

Kaladin crossed his arms over his bare chest, suddenly feeling like he was freezing. Syl’s entrance had done exactly what he’d hoped when he’d initially called for her—he felt like he’d been doused in a cold downpour. Corrupted shamespren pelted down around him, appearing as pieces of broken glass.

He felt just as broken. Had he really thought Shallan could want him like that? She’d only been under the influence of the Unmade. Though she seemed to have handled it a little more gracefully—lucidly—than he had. He could still feel it, that beat, beat, beat—though his mortification nearly drowned it out now, thankfully. 

How could something that felt so right in the moment have been so insanely wrong?

“I think I need to throw up,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut.

Bad move. Images of Shallan only replayed in his mind. Her hair splayed out over him like fire; her throat marked with his tracks; her skin wafting with heavenly light. He simultaneously wanted to excise them from his memory, and tuck them close to his heart for safekeeping. 

He opened his eyes to find her shooting him a glare.

“Don’t tell me kissing me was that disgusting,” she huffed, pulling her safehand glove back on. “You certainly seemed to enjoy it. ‘I don’t want to be clever. I want you to kiss—’”

Kaladin threw up. It was probably the least embarrassing way he could’ve handled the situation, all things considered. He at least managed to do it in the brazier at the center of the room, where the smell was diluted by leftover ashes. Shallan’s nose wrinkled anyway.

“I guess this still beats when my first crush tried to poison me,” she muttered to herself. “Except he at least had the decency to die afterwards. I doubt you’ll do me the same favor.”

Kaladin gaped at her. 

“I’m revising my earlier statement,” she said. “You’re simply not as clever as I remember. Pity. I could really use a bad joke right now.”

Isn’t this whole mess a bad enough joke? He wanted to snap, but he didn’t. He’d never won an argument with her before, and was more unlikely to now than ever. She’d only lead him around in circles if he let her.

“Shallan.” He stepped away from the brazier, forcing himself to sit closer to her. He might be embarrassed beyond belief, but he needed answers. “Did you know what you were doing? At all?”

Did you mean any of it?

She squinted up at him, her eyes barely visible above her knees. 

“Did you?” 

“I asked first,” he said.

“And I’m more stubborn than you.” She glared, blue irises like chips of ice.

Some part of him still wanted to kiss her, even now. He wished he could blame it entirely on the Unmade. 

“I somehow doubt that.”

He still had the patience of a prisoner. Of a slave. He could wait here all night if he had to. He wouldn’t cave beneath a pale glare.

She licked her lips. Maybe she would find a different way to make him cave, but that would count as an admission on her part, and a victory on his.

“Does it matter?” she finally asked, quietly. 

He closed his eyes. That was possibly the worst answer she could have given, despite the fact that it was practically a confirmation.

She’d known, on some level. The Unmade hadn’t put new thoughts into their heads—it had only amplified what was already there.

“I think it does to a few people. Adolin, for one.” Kaladin didn’t want to bring him up, exactly, but maybe his name would make her put some thought into her words.

He watched her face fall into a wince.

“Adolin… doesn’t have to know.” Her voice was weak.

“Right.” Kaladin snorted, standing. 

What had he expected? To be more than some dirty little secret? She was a Lightweaver. Her spren was all about lies. What had he been thinking?

“What?” she demanded. “Don’t tell me you want him to know! Would he still see you as a man of Honor if he knew we…”

She couldn’t even say it now. As if she was already trying to erase what had happened.

(The bruises still marked her neck, though. She’d likely heal them as soon as she remembered they were there.)

“Probably not,” he admitted. “But I can’t lie to him. That’s gone poorly for me, before.”

If he spun it as protecting Adolin from the truth, it could be done. Syl didn’t even consider this a betrayal, considering her… enthusiasm for the whole situation. 

But it still felt wrong. He didn’t need Radiant oaths to tell him that.

“We weren’t ourselves. That’s not a lie,” Shallan said firmly, though she might have been trying to convince herself. “You don’t have to pretend. You wouldn’t have… let me go that far, otherwise. You probably wouldn’t have let me do anything at all…”

Was it his imagination, or did she sound disappointed by that?

“I don’t understand you,” Kaladin finally sighed, sitting back down on the bench. 

“That makes two of us, then.” She snorted. “Or three. Or four.”

Kaladin blushed.

“Syl doesn’t understand a lot of things. Please, ignore whatever she said. And—whatever she says in the future.”

Shallan’s brow furrowed. 

“Syl—? Oh.” She chuckled. “I wasn’t including her and Pattern.”

“Then…?”

She bit her lip. Some kind of inner struggle might have been playing out within her, or she might have been coming up with another lie. How was he supposed to know?

“She can take care of this,” Shallan mumbled. “It’s what she wanted, anyway. She deserves to clean it up.”

“Huh?”

Shallan took a deep breath. Stormlight streamed from a pouch in her pocket, and her hair bled to black. Her skin darkened, marked with a few light scars, and her eyes became a deep brown. It wasn’t one of the disguises she’d used to bring them into the city—this face still looked like her, just rugged and Alethi instead of soft and Veden. 

“Real rude of Shallan to hog you all to herself.” She smirked, and—there it was. Those looks Shallan had shot him when no one was looking, those winks and leers—they seemed right at home on this face.

“Shallan?”

“Veil. Finally.” She stretched out her legs, lounging back against the foot of the bench. “Shallan never lets me out for anything fun. Don’t suppose you’d be up for picking up where she left off…?”

Kaladin stared. And stared some more. 

“Did you make up a darkeyed persona just to try and seduce me? Because that’s insulting for at least ten reasons.”

Shallan’s smirk fell a little. 

“See, this is where I’d say I’m not trying if it’s working, but… in this case, you’ve got it backwards. I’m not made up, and if I was, it wouldn’t be for you. You really should stop assuming that. You know what they say about assumptions…”

“It wouldn’t take any to make you an ass.” Kaladin rubbed his temples. At least his confusion was strong enough to keep other, more dangerous emotions at bay. For now.

She grinned, wider and sharper than Shallan normally did.

“It’s a good thing you like my ass, then.” She winked. 

He blushed a little, swallowing as he looked away. Why couldn’t she make this any easier on him? Did she want him to give in to the Unmade?

At least she didn’t look or act exactly like herself right now. It was easier to resist her when he could pretend she was a stranger. 

“Are you just trying to distract me, then? Because I was trying to find out if Shallan meant to… seduce me. And if so, storming why.”

“Ugh. Of course you’d like her better,” Shallan—Veil? Was she actually another person? After such a bizarre night, he couldn’t rule anything out—huffed. “As for what she meant to do… I’m in her head, and even I can’t always figure that out. She’s kind of a freak, if you haven’t noticed.”

“I… that’s kind of mean?” 

Veil blinked. “Huh?”

“It’s not like it was all her fault. I… I was… into it.” He bit down on the inside of his cheek, face heating even further. Did he even mean to say this to Shallan’s face? Was it easier to speak about it to Veil? 

Maybe that was the point. Maybe sharing this Veil persona… was how Shallan was trying to answer him. In her own strange way.

“I don’t… normally feel like this,” he continued. It turned out she was more stubborn than him, after all. “A lot of it was the Unmade, Shallan was right about that. But not… not all of it. I… we shared something. In the chasms. She’s been through Damnation and back, and she… she gave me some perspective. And ever since, everything’s looked different. She’s looked different.”

“Is that a pun about my face?” Veil asked, twirling a knife in her fingers. He hadn’t seen her pull it out, and wasn’t sure where it had come from. He clearly hadn’t explored her well enough.

And you won’t be doing any more ‘exploring’ in the future, he reprimanded himself.

“No. I was trying to be serious, for once.”

“For once?” She chuckled. “Kal, I think the Highstorms would stop blowing if you ever weren’t serious.”

“Someone has to, out of the two of us.”

“Three of us.” Veil pointed the knife at her chest.

Kaladin frowned. “Didn’t Shallan say four?”

“Eh. Depends on whether or not you want to let Radiant count.”

“Radiant—?”

Shallan’s hair bled back to red, but this time somehow appeared in a bun atop her head. And… her chest was larger. He wasn’t imagining that. 

“Radiant.” She gave him a curt nod. Her posture had straightened, and her legs folded elegantly beneath her. Despite the disarray of her clothing, she looked every bit the nobility she was. “I wish I could place the blame for this entire fiasco on Veil, but Shallan is equally, if not more, to blame. I apologize for her behavior, and would appreciate if you would do the same.”

Her glare was somehow colder than Shallan’s. No, this persona was definitely not for Kaladin’s benefit.

“I would rather Shallan apologize for herself, if it’s all the same to you,” he matched her tone. “That is, if she feels she has anything to apologize for.”

“She requested your presence, despite anticipating the consequences. You are weaker than I gave you credit for; I had assumed you would be capable of resisting her—frankly embarrassing—wiles. Still, you would not have been placed in that position if not for her foolish choices, and so yes, she owes you a sincere, humble apology.”

Kaladin’s brow furrowed. Was this the part of Shallan that continued to insult him more acerbically than anyone else? Radiant’s words were derisive, but lacking the humor that at least made Shallan’s quips bearable.

“I’m tired of this,” Kaladin said softly. “I don’t deserve your insults. And Shallan doesn’t, either.”

Radiant’s mouth flattened to a thin line, but Kaladin kept talking.

“I don’t know exactly who you are, or how you came to be. But I know how it feels to be attacked by my own mind. Don’t do that to her. Please.”

“Shallan is weak—”

“We’re all weak.” Kaladin joined her on the floor, kneeling in front of her. “Strength before weakness.”

Radiant breathed in sharply.

“Even if you regret what we shared tonight, we can move forward. Together, or apart.” He wanted to reach for her hand, but held himself back. “Journey before destination.”

“And life before death?” Radiant raised her eyebrow. “Do you have a platitude to share for that?”

“Sorry. Fresh out. Doesn’t seem like they’re making much of a difference, anyway.” He’d expected better results, considering the name she’d chosen for herself. But he shrugged and changed tactics. “You said Shallan asked for me.”

“...Yes,” Radiant admitted, looking away. She studied a dark stain on the wall with the same intensity Shallan would give to an interesting cremling.

“Me, specifically? Or…?”

“You.” She grimaced. “Against our better judgment.”

“Your better judgment, you mean?” His eyes narrowed. “Shallan and Veil seemed fine with me.”

“Which is exactly the problem. We made a commitment to Adolin, even if a relationship with another Radiant might be… advantageous…”

Kaladin laughed in surprise.

“Even you like me. At least a little.” He ran a hand through his hair, trying to get a grasp on all of this. 

Unfortunately, his surgeon’s training hadn’t given him much insight into mental ailments. That was typically left to the ardents. If Shallan’s trio of personas weren’t a Lightweaver thing, or something else supernatural, then he would have to study further. 

“Unions are not always founded on emotion.” Radiant crossed her arms. 

“I understand that. But if they were?” Kaladin raised an eyebrow. 

“…I still prefer Adolin, personally,” she admitted, sheathing Veil’s knife in the side of her boot. “He is… less trouble.”

“Then why didn’t Shallan ask for him?”

It could have just been practicality. Adolin couldn’t scale a wall like a Windrunner. But would Shallan have been thinking of practicality under the Unmade’s influence? Besides, Radiant didn’t seem the type to condemn Shallan for choosing the most useful tool in a given situation.

Kaladin sincerely hoped he was more than just a tool to her.

“Alright, Shallan. I’ve had enough. It’s your turn to explain yourself, for once,” Radiant said.

For a moment, nothing happened.

“Don’t give me that. This was your choice—no, stop blaming Veil. Just because you tried pawning your fawning off onto her…” Radiant sighed. “Yes, I am going to keep arguing out loud. If it embarrasses you in front of the Windrunner, then stop sulking and—”

She cut off, slumping. Her bun poofed back into flowing, tangled hair. Her bust returned to its natural size—which, if Kaladin was allowed to have an opinion (and he figured he was, after what she’d said about his chest)—he preferred anyway.

Though he didn’t prefer to see her crying.

“…Shallan?” he asked quietly. “Are you…?”

“Okay? Rarely. Bordering on never.” She sniffled. “But surely you guessed that much, after hearing all that.”

“I've seen worse,” he said, thinking of Dabbid and the other examples of battle shock he'd witnessed. “You can still talk. You can still function.”

She snorted wetly.

“Ah, yes. Functioning. That's how every woman wants to be described.” 

Kaladin grimaced. 

“Then what do you want? I'm trying to understand, Shallan. I’ve misjudged you before. I don't want to do it again.”

He met her eyes, but her gaze fled quickly, her face matching the color of her hair.

“...I want you to put your shirt on before I throw myself at your chest again.”

He grinned, but did as she asked—as well as he could, anyway. His shirt was more of a vest now, with so many buttons snapped.

“Better?” he asked. 

“...I suppose.” She sighed. Her gaze still looked hungry as she considered him. 

He licked his lips, but otherwise held himself back. The knowledge that Syl might return at any moment helped him resist the continued temptation.

They still weren't done here, though. Shallan seemed to understand that.

“Why did you ask for me?” he voiced the question they both knew she had to answer.

“Why?” She finally met his eyes again. Though she still blinked away tears, her gaze was steady. “Why would I ask for help from a man who is competent and determined? From a man who has already saved my life on another incredible occasion? Who hasn't abandoned me, despite knowing I've done terrible things—despite the terrible things I've done and said to you? 

“I don't know, Kaladin. Why would I do that?”

His mouth went dry. It was the closest to an apology she'd ever given him. Heat flooded him at her words, and he clenched his fists to keep from reaching for her.

“There’s only one clear answer. Because you're storming hot, obviously.” She smiled wolfishly. 

He choked a little, which seemed to be her intention.

“Even if your breath smells like vomit,” she added, because of course she would.

“Still the nicest thing you've ever said to me.” He smiled. “You can have a pass for the half-insult this time, but only because it's true. My mouth tastes terrible.”

She smirked, blinking up at him through her lashes.

“You could let me be the judge of that…”

His heart pounded in time with the Unmade’s thumping beat. He swallowed.

Maybe Veil was right about her being “kind of a freak,” in some ways. No matter how bad her flirting was, though, it said more about him that it was still working.

“Later,” he rasped out. “If we get out of here and you still think that's a good idea.”

“Is that a promise?”

Was it? Despite her kind words earlier, part of him doubted she would still be interested once they left this cursed place. She would notice how easily despair could smother him, making him barely functional, too. She would see Adolin with his bright smiles and easygoing demeanor, and remember how much she preferred him. She would reveal this was all some elaborate prank for reasons he couldn't comprehend.

He hoped anyway.

“Yes,” he breathed.

She smiled and stood, extending her freehand to him. 

“Then let's get out of here. Before our spren get back and have more embarrassing words for us.”

He grimaced. He'd have to deal with that eventually. He'd have to deal with a lot of things eventually, whether or not Shallan chose to continue this path with him.

For now, though, he took her hand, and didn't let go.

XXX

“Kaladin! I’m back! Sorry it took so long, Pattern wasn’t helping—”

“I was helping,” Pattern buzzed. “Shallan said no mating. Mmmm. You do not know how to chaperone.”

“She didn’t say no mating with Kaladin. Besides, if you wanted to ‘chaperone,’ you should’ve stayed with them,” Syl huffed. “Where did they go?”

The little stone room was empty. For some reason, there was a weird slime in the fireplace in the middle.

“Maybe you scared them away,” Pattern suggested, floating next to her. “I have studied this. Humans prefer to mate in private. …Except, the ones here are weird. Not normal.”

He was right about that. It had taken Syl forever to find anyone in these buildings using protection! And then once she’d stolen the rubbery item, she had to listen to Pattern nag her about it the whole way back. He didn’t even try to help her carry it, which was rude, because as a fellow spren he should know how hard it was to carry things in the Physical Realm. She’d had to wear the item like a sleeping bag to avoid dropping it.

She sighed loudly. She’d have to carry it even farther, it looked like. The things she did for her silly, clueless human.

“Good evening, Kairi,” he says, even though the sun hangs directly overhead, casting no shadows on the world below. He doesn’t look up from his work—though why he’s bothering to weed a plot of nothing but weeds is anyone’s guess. “I hope that your day was sufficiently pleasant.”

How can it be, when I have to see you at the end of it? she wants to snap, bitter as the violet garlic blossoms in the plot behind her. 

It doesn’t matter what she says, though. Nothing has been able to uproot this shadow of Xehanort from the soil of her dreams.

Tonight, he resembles his complete self—the one who had taken her as a child and sent her adrift. The one who had connected her heart to Sora. It’s his favorite form, from what she can tell, though he seems as helpless to choose between his alternate selves as she is to banish them. 

His purple ascot hangs untied around his neck. His lab coat has been set aside, folded neatly on the ground between the budding plants, leaving him in a collared shirt under a ribbed gray vest. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, but dirt has still managed to stain his cuffs.

If he’s a phantom, he’s a very vivid one. And if he’s not…

“Ah. No words to spare for me tonight? And here I was rather looking forward to your clever barbs.” He plucks a thorned weed from the plot of leafy stalks, twirling the stem between his fingers. 

She doesn’t know why a magical dream garden grows weeds at all, much less why Xehanort bothers to remove them, night after night. If not for his sisyphean effort, she would attribute the thorns to his corrupting influence. Of course, maybe he’s the reason this plot lacks the blooms that color the rest of the garden.

“I’m not here to entertain you, Xehanort,” she sighs.

“I suppose that’s true.” He nods thoughtfully. “I am meant to entertain you, more likely.”

She snorts, plopping down on the curved beam that edges this flower bed. If she has to be awake during her dreams, she can at least stop standing like she expects to be attacked.

Xehanort won’t harm her. He can’t. He’s tried a few times, when he first began invading her dreams. He seemed to believe that destroying her would free him from this dream-prison, but she’d just respawned, more frustrated than ever. 

His idea of “entertainment” is likely just as violent. If she hadn’t sparred so much today, she might’ve picked a fight with him, just to see if her training would show. 

Not that she expects to destroy him, either. No matter which form he’s taken, she hasn’t been able to best him—unless she counts the one time Sora had projected enough of his consciousness to assist her. 

(She doesn’t.)

“Well, if you have nothing to say, then you won’t object to me filling the silence.” He hums, inspecting a narrow, slightly yellowed leaf that looks just like every other narrow, slightly yellowed leaf in this plot. “I have not been able to determine what time of year this place is meant to mirror. Every bed seems to run on its own timeframe. I’ve spotted zinnia and hellebore blooming in plots barely two stepping stones apart.”

“It’s a magic garden.” Kairi yawns. “You don’t expect it to make sense, do you?”

“Not particularly. But that’s why this bed is so fascinating. None of these plants have flowered, despite every other species’ state of perpetual bloom.”

Kairi’s brow furrows as she inspects the plants. A few leafy stems end in tiny bulbs, with the hint of orange petals hiding within. For the most part, though, they just resemble tall grass.

It is strange. Not as strange as hearing Xehanort sound so interested, though.

“I assume you are familiar with these flowers, considering this is your garden,” he continues. “Asclepias tuberosa. More commonly known as butterfly weed. But are you aware of their significance?”

He’s wrong. The garden is as much a mystery to her as it is to him. She hesitates to give him any more power by admitting her ignorance, though. 

“So… they are weeds?” she asks tentatively. 

“‘Weed’ is merely a title given to any plant that grows where it isn’t wanted. It isn’t a very useful classifier, botanically.”

She frowns, leaning forward to pick at one of the leaves. 

“Something that grows where it isn’t wanted, huh? Sounds like you might know something about that.”

“Ah. There’s that wit of yours.” His smile looks entirely too genuine. On anyone else, she’d call the expression warm. “But yes, I do. What about you? You haven’t answered my question.”

She sighs. Unfortunately, she has nothing better to do than humor him. 

“I don’t know anything about butterfly weed,” she admits, deciding that his opinion of her doesn’t matter enough to pretend otherwise. 

“Really?” His eyes go wide with surprise. “I must reevaluate my hypotheses. That is what I get for assuming, I suppose…” He shakes his head. “Butterfly weed. In the code of flowers native to Radiant Garden, it is gifted as a goodbye—particularly to someone from which one desires long-term distance. The literally translated meaning is ‘let me go.’”

“Let me go…” she echoes quietly. 

If only the buds would bloom. This is the only flower she’d want to share with Xehanort.

“How do you know all this?” she asks, caught between suspicion and curiosity. She can’t imagine him studying flowers alongside the experiments that plunged her homeworld into darkness. 

“Ah. Let’s just say my former Master had plenty of chores for me to attend to… and my former companion had plenty of trivia to distract from the menial labor.” He smiles again, reminiscing fondly. “Of course, the meanings he assigned to each flower weren’t always accurate. I recall him trying to convince me that daffodils meant someone was ‘daft and smelled like dill.’”

He snorts softly, and Kairi’s teeth grind together to keep a shocked laugh from escaping. 

How can he sound so normal? This is the man who stole her from her birth family, who used her as a pawn against Sora time and time again. He doesn’t deserve to be here, tending flowers without a care in the world.

“It would be wonderful to see him again…” he murmurs while caressing one of the stems.

“You should’ve thought of that before you tried to destroy the worlds,” she says sharply.

Before you destroyed me. 

She can’t listen to this anymore. She doesn’t care if she’s stuck here all night; she’ll find another section of the garden to hide away in. 

She stands, only to be stopped short by his melancholy voice.

“Yes… I suppose I should have.” He sighs. His hand falls to his side, index finger tracing aimless trails through the dirt. “If I had only been content with what I had… perhaps my life would not have ended alone.”

His form flickers like static, and a black coat replaces his gray vest and pants. The spikes of his hair split and darken a shade. 

Xemnas. The Xehanort who delivered her up to her final fate.

“If that’s your way of apologizing for kidnapping me, it could use some work,” she huffs.

She refuses to flinch away from his more intimidating appearance. He’s still kneeling in the dirt. He still can’t hurt her. Not this time.

“You would accept an apology from me?” he asks, brow furrowed. His voice is at least a half-octave deeper now. 

Jarringly, it reminds her of when Wakka’s voice dropped in junior high. At least the ridiculous mental comparison makes it easier to stand up to Xemnas.

“No. But it wouldn’t hurt.”

He chuckles ruefully, dipping his head. 

“Very well. I am sorry for the pain you have suffered at my hands…” He takes his original form again, and his shoulders relax a little. “Though it is impossible for me to honestly apologize for everything.”

She frowns. She doesn’t believe he’s honest about anything—but if he’s going to lie, why not go all in?

“What do you mean?” 

“Radiant Garden was already doomed, before any of my actions took effect. The Ansem you call ‘Wise’ made sure of that.” He snorts. “But you… you were our hope, Miss Kairi. If not for your bond with Sora, who would have come to pull us from the dark?”

He snaps a closed bud from its stem, holding it out to her like a peace offering.

“I sent you off. And you found a home that you treasured, did you not? The same home that half of me hailed from.” His visage flickers to that of Master Xehanort, but thankfully becomes his younger self again. She can’t look into the Master’s eyes without feeling like she’s choking. “And so the wind blows the next generation of seeds back out to sea…”

She does treasure the Islands. But most of all, she treasures the friends she has there. Her adopted parents. Sephie, Tidus, Wakka. Sora and Riku… 

Sora, trapped in a realm beyond her comprehension. Riku, searching for him alone.

“I just want my friends back.” Her throat tightens. She doesn’t take the offered bud. “If you really cared, you wouldn’t have sent me to them just to take them away.”

“This is true.” Xehanort’s arm drops, letting the snapped stem fall. “I did not care. It is only in death that I can see how shortsighted that was.”

He looks up, and for once, she believes the regret in his brown eyes—a different color from the other Xehanorts. 

(Why? It can’t be Terra’s influence. Terra’s eyes are blue.)

“But there is nothing I can do for them now. I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “You and I are both seeds drifting far from those we called friends.”

“Don’t—don’t compare yourself to me.” She shakes her head, her hands trembling.

He can still hurt her. He doesn’t need keyblades or magic—he just needs to be human. To nurture her sympathies the way he attempts to nurture this garden. 

She hates that she wants to fall for it. She wants to believe the man trapped in her mind isn’t as evil as he appears. Is she really this desperate for someone to understand her?

Xehanort simply nods, returning to his silent plucking of weeds. Red wells from the pads of his fingers where thorns prick them.

It’s what he deserves. To be alone and forgotten. 

(As alone and forgotten as she is.)

…Light, now she’s comparing them. The seed he’s planted has already taken root.

She brushes one butterfly weed bud—and a single petal peels free, facing the sun.

Her breath catches. How…?

Xehanort looks up at the sound, then to the opening orange bloom. His eyes widen.

“How did you…?” he echoes her thoughts.

She nearly says she doesn’t know. But—but she does.

She knows. And she knows how to make him leave.

(Asclepias tuberosa. “Let me go.”)

The flower bloomed when her hate had wavered. The question is, can it waver again? Can she let go of this pain for good?

Not yet. Not yet, but eventually. Hope blooms in her chest, bright as the flower in her hand.

“It’s my garden, remember?” She grips the blossom tight, its stem leaking warm sap against her palm. “I still hold the power here.”

“How Much Would It Cost To Add Sound”

“Err… .mp4 is not one of my supported filetypes, my liege,” Swatch said in a faux-apologetic tone. They didn’t want to have to sweep up Swatchlings swooning over the dulcet melody of Never Gonna Give You Up.

“Hm / Tasque Manager Should Upgrade Your Software”

Swatch grimaced, forgetting that Queen could see their expression in her mirror.

She couldn’t blame them, though. Tass’s upgrades weren’t exactly a pleasant process. No Darkner enjoyed having their Task ended, even for a short period of time.

“Perhaps Spamton could sell you an external speaker.” It would surely be of the lowest quality—and likely programmed to explode—but at least it wouldn’t involve any upgrades.

“Oh Ho Ho.” She laughed after saying the words “oh ho ho” out loud. “I Do Love That Little Freak / And His Hilariously Explosive Merchandise”

“Wonderful,” Swatch said evenly, careful to keep their expression neutral this time.

They passed Queen her caped shirt, and she dropped the modesty blanket to pull the garment over her head. She knew that the shirt didn’t fit that way, didn’t she?

“Swatch You Don’t Have To Blush / You Gave Me The Titty Tattoo”

Yes, they had. As if they could forget painting the cursive word “titty” onto their Lady Grace’s literal breast. They could still see those pink letters peeking out over her black bra. It wasn’t anything they hadn’t seen before, of course, but it would be awkward for any other customers who walked into their studio.

The bell above their door chimed. Oh dear.

“HEY EV3RY BUDDY—”

Spamton’s eyes bulged comically out of his plastic skull. His face turned bright red before he covered it with his hands.

“EAHAHAH! I DIDN’T KNOW YOU [Too] WERE [Hyperlink Blocked].”

“Oh Don’t Be Silly Spamtony / Swatch And I Are Purely Professional” Queen kept trying to get the shirt over her bulbous head until Swatch helped her with the zipper on the back. “Wait Wait / I Should Show You My Sick New Tat”

“...I’m not sure he could withstand the artistry,” Swatch said soberly. They frowned at the small puddle where Spamton’s sweat was collecting on the pink tile.

“ANOTHER [After Hours] THEN, [Hochi Mama].” He dropped his hands to attempt what Swatch could only guess was a flirtatious wink. It looked more like his eye had developed a spasm.

“LMAO Sure” Queen grinned, her visor displaying a ;) emoji.

Swatch did their best not to gag. They knew that was half the reason Queen entertained the small Addison—she found Swatch’s annoyance entertaining.

She would likely break Spamton’s little heart, though, whether on purpose or accident. She had done so with plenty of Darkners before him. Swatch couldn’t help looking forward to that moment.

She popped her collar as she passed Spamton.

“Well / Have Fun You Two / Don’t Destroy Each Other Too Much / While I’m Not Here To Watch LOL”

“We would not dream of it, my liege,” Swatch deadpanned.

“Thank You Swatch You’re The Realest” She blew them a kiss before leaving the studio.

As soon as she was gone, Spamton seemed to collect himself. Unfortunately, he couldn’t collect the puddle of sweat under his black loafers.

“FINALLY READY TO STOP [[explosion.mp3]]ING ME?” He grinned, sidling up to Swatch.

Ugh. They really did not need his grease stains on their apron.

“You are a valued customer, Monsieur Spamton,” they lied smoothly. “As long as you respect our Lady Grace, I have no quarrel with you.”

“YOU’RE ONE [Smoothe] SELLER, [Lovebird].” He tried to caress Swatch’s forearm—since he couldn’t reach anything higher—as if he hadn’t just been flirting with Queen moments before. “YOU CAN CUT THE [$%$!], THOUGH. I KNOW YOU WANT TO [[Full Refund]] ME.”

They wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of agreeing.

“You are the one who entered my studio.” Swatch arranged their brushes back in their sidebar to avoid looking at him. “If you are here to browse the gallery, you aren’t obligated to make smalltalk. I doubt you will find anything that you are looking for, however.”

The walls were covered in Swatch’s favorite works—mostly those made in tandem with Lightners, but a few of their own design. The original portrait of Queen that had been duplicated by their Swatchlings hung on the back wall.

Spamton’s apparent infatuation with Queen couldn’t compare to his obsession with Swatch’s artifact in the basement. Nothing on display in their gallery would shed more light on that abandoned dream.

“NO TALK IS [[Rapidly-Shrinking]] WITH [U]!” Spamton’s wink was distinctly less twitchy this time. “BUT I’M NOT HERE FOR [Call Toll-Free] OR [Pay-Per-View]. I’M HER3 FOR AN [[Extreme Home Makeover]]!”

He hopped up on the tattoo table. His feet didn’t touch the ground.

“You… want a tattoo?” Swatch’s brow furrowed.

“[[Bingo]]!”

“...You know that means I have full access to your skin. With tools that can cause physical pain.”

That was, unfortunately, an exaggeration. Their CMYK ink would hold fast on Darkner skin without the need for needles. Even the extra effects of converting to .gif format would only leave a temporary itch.

“A SMALL PRICE FOR BEING [[Hot Singles In Your Area]].”

Then he flopped over on his stomach, propping his chin up in his palms. Oh no.

“You haven’t even asked if I can paint what you want,” they said, in a last ditch effort to dissuade him.

“YOU’RE THE [[Big Shot]] IN THIS DEP4RTMENT.” Spamton tried to wriggle out of his shirt. He probably should have done that before attempting his seductive pose. “I [Trust Fund] YOU.”

Swatch sighed. As much as they wanted to permanently graffiti Spamton with the most atrocious art possible, they knew that disfiguring him would poorly affect their reputation. Darkners trusted the sleazy salesman, for whatever reason.

“Fine. Let’s make this as painless as possible.” Swatch dampened a clean rag with a faucet in the back of the studio. Darkners may not need to worry about skin infections, but Swatch didn’t want to ruin their brushes by using them on his sweaty back.

To their horror, when they returned, it wasn’t just his shirt that was missing. His pants had been pulled halfway down his butt, exposing more of Spamton than Swatch had ever wanted to see.

“Where… are you wanting this tattoo?” they asked while averting their eyes. Where was that modesty blanket…

“RIGHT ABOVE MY [[@$$]]. I HEAR THE KOOL KIDS ARE CALLING IT A [[Tramp Stamp]].”

Swatch had given enough tramp stamps, mostly to their Swatchlings who wanted marks with their favorite colors that wouldn’t be seen when they were in their coordinated uniforms. Swatch doubted that Spamton’s desire would be that innocent.

Of course, such was the nature of dabbling in tattoo artistry. Not everyone had as refined taste as their lady grace.

“That will be double the starting price,” they informed him, not wasting their hope on him changing his mind.

“HEY, I’M NO [Cheapskate]! I’VE GOT THE KROMER TO SPARE!”

“Of course you do.” They didn’t bother to hide their sigh. “Alright, then. What design would you like to SAVE into your skin?”

They had a few guesses. A stack of “kromer,” or a graph of stock prices, or a motif from the basement artifact.

“ONLY THE BIGGEST [[BIG SHOT]] TO [Grease] CYBER CITY!” Spamton grinned. “SPAMTON G. SPAMTON!”

They stared. Then they realized they were staring at his bare back, and threw the modesty blanket over his head.

“You would want that, you narcissistic fool,” they grumbled.

But then a smirk tweaked their mouth. They could work with this, actually.

It was time to show Spamton who he really was.

“Hold still.” They picked out their sharpest brush, then turned back to Spamton’s buttocks with determination. “This may sting.”

XXX

“WOW.” Spamton twisted, poking at the tender plastic on his back. “DO I REALLY LOOK THAT [[Hyperlink Blocked]]?”

Swatch frowned. Did that mean he liked the tattoo, or not?

The jpeg-artifacted image was Spamton, certainly. Swatch’s artistry hadn’t done his features any favors. His nose was still large enough to use as a kebab skewer, his cheeks crimson as if they were constantly bleeding. If anything, his typical grin was caricatured into something slightly more grotesque than normal.

Just slightly, though. The resemblance was accurate enough that Spamton wouldn’t be able to say he hadn’t gotten his “kromer’s” worth.

“EAHAHAHA! I KNEW YOU HAD A SOFT SPOT FOR ME, [[Lovebird]]!” Spamton punched Swatch in the shoulder before hiking up his pants and sliding off of the table. “[$!%$], IT’S ALMOST A SHAME TO HIDE THAT HANDSOME MUG! MAYBE I’LL HAVE TO [Comeback Specil] AND COMMISSION ANOTHER ONE!”

Swatch’s jaw clenched. Of course his ego would interpret any half-decent art as a compliment. They should have made him even uglier.

“Thank you for your patronage,” they grit out as Spamton tossed them a wad of dark dollars.

That was… a rather large stack of money. More than twice their normal tattoo price, at any rate.

“NOW I’LL HAVE A [[High-Quality JPEG]] TO SHOW OFF TO THAT [[Hochi Mama]] TOO.” He laughed.

And then, with that horrible, horrible mental image, he left.