A glance at his pale face, eyes closed once again, washed any echo of such a thought out of her head.

"I'm sorry," she whispered quietly. "I do know. I'm sorry. I didn't do any better than you did. Jax...Jax is here, and he saved her. Again." Jax. That carried its own special sting. She'd beaten him when she was six, and still relatively untrained...but he'd been fast this time, much faster than she remembered, and he'd caught her by surprise. Her fingers went to her neck as her eyes glowed with renewed anger. There was a mark there now, tender, and she grimaced as she remembered his touch. She suddenly wanted a bath very badly.

Funny. Gabe would have thought that one would have killed the other by now.

There were two. Even if he had beaten Kat, he'd still have had to deal with Jax. Just like last time; he counted on facing Kat, but forgot about Jax. How many times would he make the same mistake?

Never. Never again. He'd almost died tonight at Kat's hands, yet again. Yet again he hadn't thought far enough ahead -- he'd charged after Kat alone and landed himself in the infirmary because of it. And it was Sol that had saved him, both times. For all the talk he'd thrown at her father about her being every bit as much of a soldier as he, he still tried to protect her like she was a child. She wasn't. She'd saved his life.

Yet again. When was he going to learn?

I'll be back as soon as humanly possible...

Not because she could not protect herself. Not because she was untrustworthy. Not because he expected her to want to go alone because he had. He was terrified because he loved her and she was in danger and it didn't matter whether it was rational or not. He was terrified anyway.

The oxygen tent was draped over the bed like mist, but she could see him clearly through the sheer material, eyes closed, chest rising and falling evenly. The monitors informed her that he was doing well. There was a tightness in her chest. He'd given her exactly what she needed to save them both from further danger. She'd had it in her HAND, and Jax - Mode - had surprised her and taken it away.

And now she had to tell him.

Reluctant steps brought her to the side of the bed, and she slipped her hand under the tent and grasped his own gently, running her thumb over the tops of his fingers. She had parted ways with the twins on the way back. They might be able to help them...but they might not. There was too much at work there for her to determine what was going on, what was dependable and what might fall through. She needed to talk to Gabe, needed his help to sift through this information...but first she had to tell him what she'd done. Or, rather, what she hadn't.

There were new bruises.

"Oh no," he whispered, softly. "Are you . . . alright?"

What have I done? I sent her back into danger and they were waiting for her. She might have been killed, goddamit, and I sent her. What if she had been killed? What if she hadn't come back at all?

He let his eyes fall shut, and gave her hand a weak squeeze. "I'm so sorry, Sol. I should have . . . thought that they'd be there . . . waiting for you. Are you . . . hurt? I'll . . ." his voice trailed off, because he realized how ridiculous his words were. He'd what? Hurt them back? He wasn't doing anything in his present condition. There was nothing he could do about it.

"I took the twins with me, Gabe. There was no one there when we arrived, and I found the dagger. I had it, right there in my hand..." She cut herself off before she could sink too far into irrelevancy and sighed. "Gabe, it's not Jax. I don't know where Jax is, but he's not here. It was someone else who looks a lot like him, someone named Mode. He waited until I found the dagger before he jumped on us. He took it. I had it, and he took it away. I'm sorry." It slipped out before she could contain it, and she grit her teeth and pressed on.

"The twins tried to catch him, but he jumped onto some crates too high for us to get at him. He can jump, Gabe. I've never seen anyone clear that high an obstacle so easily. Dominic shoved me behind them, and he and Mode started arguing, so I snuck around behind and climbed the crates from the other edge. I kicked him twice in the back of the head and he barely blinked." She paused, sighed.

"He blocked everything I threw. Everything. When he got bored with it, he pushed me off the edge and ran. Dominic caught me...but I slowed the twins down, and he vaulted off the end of the crates and ran out the door, knocked it off its hinges so they couldn't follow."

Why couldn't she be more deserving?

The netting of the oxygen tent was easy enough to push aside, and the oxygen-rich atmosphere contributed to a general feeling of lightheadedness as she leaned over the bed to kiss his cheek, careful of the IV lines. A small depletion of enhanced oxygen shouldn't hurt him, but she dared no more than that, and she quickly moved away and put the tent back in place and sat down in the chair next to him.

He concentrated on breathing for a few moments, so that he would have enough oxygen to last him through what he was going to say without fragmenting his sentences.

"And you talk too much," she added in a whisper.

The slight motion brought an answering pulse of tension from Gabe's fingers around her own, and she switched to the chair nearest the head of his bed and put her face against the side of the oxygen tent, pushing it in a little to get a better view as his eyes opened.

He looked around the infirmary. He was tired of this place. He wanted to leave. They hadn't played chess at all yesterday.

Compromising, she said, "Not like that. You need a uniform...and so do I." She looked down at her own, still cut in the place Kat had sliced her across the stomach. The material felt stiff and uncomfortable after she spent the night in it, and her neck was tender where Mode had bitten her, but she was alright. She just wanted a bath, a fresh uniform, and Gabe dressed and vacuuming up his breakfast next to her.

He pu a hand on her shoulder, and she moved to support him as he slid off the bed and got to his feet, shakily. He stumbled, but his other hand caugh Sol's shoulder as tightened her grip around his chest to keep him from falling. The added pressure hurt but Gabe suppressed a hiss, not wanting to alarm Sol. He leaned mostly on her for a moment as she eased them both back up to a fully stnading position.

Somethign was bothering him, and it wasn't easy to pin. Sol had been knocked off a stack of crates and might have broken her neck if she'd not been caught. She'd tangled with Kat and walked away tih minimal injury, considering that Kat'd had a knife and an ample dose on insanity keeping her on her feet. She might have died both times.

She nodded kissed him instead, briefly, but the look was still there when she gave him a small smile and released him. "Don't fall over. They won't let you leave if you fall over."

It had looked like a bitemark. The impressions in the skin looked a whole hell of a lot like teeth. Gabe wasn't entirely sure what it was about the wound that made him feel like this; he just had a sort of generalized feeling of wrongness. In a fight kicks and punches were thrown, and if available, weapons were used. Teeth were, of course, weapons, but this didn't look like an attack, necessarily. At least, not an attack of the sort Gabe was familiar with. This was . . . against the rules.

And no sooner had Gabe started reaching around behind him than Sol was helping him out of the scrubs, and holding his undershirt rolled up for him to slide into. It still wasn't comfortable, having to lift his arm high enough to fit through the proper hole, but it was a hell of a lot easier than it would have been. Once his head and arms were through, Sol rolled the shirt down, straightened it, and then tucked it into his pants. She'd tucked in all but the front when she seemed to realize what she was doing and pulled back just a bit, blushing faintly. Gabe finished tucking the shirt in himself, and kissed her on the cheek, and she stopped looking like she'd just broken some unspoken rule.

She helped him into his coat as well, and if Gabe felt any embarrassment about being dressed liek a child, he didn't show it, nor was it detectable at any level to his own mind. When Gabe was healthy he could dress himself; right now he was not, and he required help. Embarrassment did not occur to him. There was no logic in it.

How funny that seemed. Logic. He hadn't even thought of the word in some time. It had been . . . months, he decided, since he'd last done something simply because it was the logical thing to do.

Gabe wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Perhaps it was just a thing, good or bad depending upon what Gabe did with it.

Sol set the two sets of zipper teeth together, but let Gabe sip up the jacket up himself, perhaps to let him feel that at least he had a part in this dressing process. She finished it off, though, by fastening the snap on his collar, after Gabe tried unsuccessfully to do it one-handed.

He smiled at her, as she fastened the snap. "You're enjoying this babying bit far too much," he said, holding his voice low so that it would not carry far.

She'll be an excellent mother, he thought.

This thought brought up a sudden surge of other thoughts and feelings, and a great majority of them were in conflict with just about all the others. He mentally added, Someday, and most of the tumult died down, or at least got quiet enough for Gabe to be able to ignore it.

"You're enjoying this babying bit far too much," he said in a low voice, but there was no real irritation in it, and she raised an eyebrow and grinned. There was a shift in his gaze then, and her grin faded just a little, but it disappeared before she could begin to figure it out, and she relaxed her grin into a smile instead. "Let's go," he said in the same quiet voice. "I can't stand this place." She nodded and straightened his hair that needed no straightening before moving out of his way.

He walked, and she walked next to him. He seemed to be able to manage, but they took it very slow anyway, and she slipped her arm around his waist as they left the infirmary to go to their Place. She didn't have to ask. It was understood. They hadn't played chess in almost twenty-four hours. Enough was enough.

His bandage was removed, and Gabe got to see the wound for the first time. It was stitched closed, but still looked ragged. Gabe looked at it expressionlessly. It had happened; he was still alive. He was not one to dwell.

The wound was re-dressed, and Gabe stood and moved his arm experimentally. The nurse ordered him to stop, and to keep his movement minimized. Gabe didn't argue, and she soon went back to whatever she'd been doing before they arrived.

Again Sol helped him with his undershirt -- though this time he tucked it in himself. His jacket he did himself. He wasn't in perfect health, but he wasn't an invalid either. This time he managed to get the snap at the top of the neck fastened himself.

That made Sol very angry. What gave Kat that right? What gave her the right to mark him like that? He shouldn't - they shouldn't have to wear that for the rest of their lives, because was them from now on, not just him.

But he was the one who'd been stabbed.

She waited until the nurse had begun to wind gauze around it once more before she pressed his hand again and then let it go. The doctor was working in his office, and she tapped lightly on the doorframe to get his attention.

He looked up, and she was struck by the family resemblance he bore to her mother. His features were less delicate, more masculine, and his skin tone was noticeably darker, but the eyes were the same, the lips a little less generous but of the same configuration. Her mother's brother.

With a quick hand gesture and a slight smile he invited her in, and she stepped in almost hesitantly, looking back over her shoulder towards Gabe. They locked gazes for a moment, and then the door slid shut and she faced the doctor once again. She was a little nervous, but not much. He was just a man with her mother's last name, not someone she cared about, just someone she'd seen a few times when she was very young, but her mind ran back to those dim memories and squeezed every bit of information out of them.

It wasn't much.

"How can I help you today, Sol?" he asked in a friendly manner, and she frowned a little, but took the seat he extended his hand towards, uncertain how to begin. He watched her curiously. "Something you need to talk about?" She nodded mutely, but still said nothing. Maybe he could say it for her...and if not, she might learn something about what he knew that she did not. "Something about Gabe, maybe?" She remained silent, and his smile faded somewhat. "I'm a little busy, Sol," he said gently. "Tell me."

When she did speak, her voice was low and even, and she withdrew behind her Gabe face to do it, just a single word, a solitary syllable.

"Mode."

Any hint of a smile that was left on the doctor's features vanished, replaced with a dark, angry look that reminded her sharply of her mother's face when she and her father were fighting. His lips tightened, and he looked her over with much greater scrutiny, his eyes lingering on the mark on her neck still visible over the collar of her uniform and then back to her face. His work forgotten, he dropped the pen on the desk and stood as if about to walk around to her side, but he paused and regained enough composure to ask.

"Are you alright?"

She still wore her Gabe face, but inside she was staring at him in surprise. That kind of reaction could only mean one of two things. Either he'd happened to read Mode's file, or he'd treated other patients that Mode had sent here. The boy had only been here a week. It was a long shot, but if that was true, why was Mode still here? They should have been able to send him away with the very first attack. He was a Charybdis probational student. The administration should have been salivating to send him back.

Studying the man before her, the depth of his concern written on his features, she decided to test her hypothesis. Reaching a hand to her neck to touch the mark with the tips of her fingers, she added, "Mostly."

She was rewarded with a burst of anger on his features, and he rounded the desk and tilted her head gently to the side as he unsnapped her collar. Remaining passive was difficult. After so many years with almost no physical contact at all, being in close proximity with someone who wasn't Gabe or her father or Alec wasn't very welcome, and she was uncomfortable, but he only examined the bruise and then dropped his hands.

"He did that?" he asked tightly, and again the inner Sol stared. Gabe's words exactly. "Yes," she said faintly. "But that's it. He's...I saw him near where Gabe was hurt." She couldn't bank on him knowing about Katera, and it would be easier to focus on Mode, since he was apparently already on the doctor's bad side.

The doctor sat down in the second patient chair next to her and looked at her with a mixture of anger, concern and frustration. "I treated a girl earlier this week for a serious fourth degree burn and a host of less er injuries, broken arm, broken ankle. The girl identified him while she was still halfway under, and then recanted when she became fully aware." Sol's eyes widened despite herself. Burned? She didn't know much about degrees, but if a broken arm and a broken ankle were lesser injuries, she wasn't sure she wanted to.

"Stay away from him, Sol. The administration wants proof, and there's nothing I can do without that proof." His eyes shaded for a moment like her mother's had just before she dropped into her "courtroom" state, and he became more reserved. It put Sol on guard. "I'm doing what I can, moving through what channels I have open to me, but there's not much I can do. In my opinion, Mode is dangerous, much more dangerous than his file explains him to be, and I think he needs help, but he needs to be stopped before he hurts anyone else."

Because it needs to be done.

Sol almost lost her Gabe face and then bit the inside of her cheek.

"I don't see any way to do that without the chance of someone getting hurt. Do you?" His tone was oddly flat, as if he didn't really expect her to think about it, and he rose from the chair and went back to his side of the desk, seating himself and opening a drawer. Inside was a ring with a silicon keycard on it. "I've been meaning to lock this up," he said to her conversationally, with a slight smile that went nowhere near his cold eyes. She supressed a shiver. He was entirely too like her mother right now for her taste, and it made her want to get up and run.

She stayed absoultely still.

"My desk is pretty secure, but it should probably be someplace safer," he said in a gently self-chiding voice, splaying the key out on his palm and regarding it almost affectionately before dropping it back into the drawer and closing it. "I'd better check on your friend. We wouldn't want him to get an infection, would we?" He stood, still staring at her with that same icy motherly expression, and left his office.

A few seconds later the tiny whirring holocam in the corner of his office ceiling went dead.

Sol blinked in surprise and then slowly walked around the desk. The drawer was slightly open. The lock hadn't clicked into place. She pulled it open, and there was the key, just as she'd seen them only a moment before. Her hesitation was brief, and she plucked it out and pocketed it, pushing the drawer shut until the lock engaged so she couldn't think about putting it back, donned a concerned expression and went out to see Gabriel.

Gabe could rememeber lying out by the pond and looking up at the sky. Just lying there for hours. So peaceful. Nothing distrubed him. There was nothing to disturb him.

He'd missed that perfect calm for many, many years. And yet, he'd found it again last night in Sol's arms. Safe in their cell, warm beneath the sheets, there was no danger. There were no disturbances. Perfect, blissful calm.

The doctor came out a few moments after the nurse had finished. Gabe had been asked not to put his shirt back on yet, because apparently the doctor wanted to speak with him. The talk was little more than the same Take Care of Yourself and Get Plenty of Rest talk that he'd gotten before they're released him the day before.

The infirmary door opened at his clumsy swipe, and he almost fell through it, catching his balance at the last second as the duty nurse rushed to help him. He let her steady him and move him towards a bed on the same wall with the medical cabinets, until the curtain shielded them from the holocam. Then he slid the hand that rested on her shoulder for stability to her throat, applying firm pressure to the deeply buried carotid artery and letting her fall to the floor in a boneless heap.

Using his bodyweight to help drag the curtain to a greater width, he moved to the cabinets, supporting himself with his hands until he could lean against the drawers and begin his search.

One did not spend years as a laboratory animal without learning basic medicinal organization, and he found what he was looking for in a surprisingly short amount of time - a simple silver bottle, like all the other liquids were stored in, with a neatly attached label, as all the others had, a label that read "PN17", with a full paragraph of notation beneath it. That drawer should have been locked. Several of the others he hadn't touched were also open. Inventory. The nurse had been running inventory.

What luck.

He didn't want to hear that voice. He drowned it with the clatter of medical instruments as he looked for an injection gun.

PN17 was a distant cousin of an ancient medication that had been taken out of factory production after patients had begun to exhibit delusions and other unwelcome side-effects. Most of the pharmaceutical stock ended up in the street, and became quite popular before newer, safer and stronger drugs became available. Eventually, some gifted researcher somewhere had discovered a way of refining it further, mixing it with something else that removed most of the negative side effects in 90% of the test group, and it was gradually re-introduced as a powerful painkiller.

It was an emergency drug only, increasing the blood pressure, pulse rate and respiration, and was generally saved for victims near enough to death that such a state was useful. This new, refined form was reputed to be less addictive than its ancestor, but Nathan had excellent information to the contrary. One dose wouldn't hurt him, though. He needed to be active now. He had to get Katera back.

He found the gun at last, knocking several other medical instruments to the floor in the process, and loaded it with hands that were trembling with more than pain. He had time for a single gasp of air before he pressed the gun to his arm and injected himself. The effect was nearly instantaneous, a spreading numbness that ran through his body with a strange painless burning and took all sensation with it. The rush of returning control made him shiver, and he slowly straightened, testing his muscles to verify compliance before he ditched the gun and fled the infirmary, the strange chemical glow giving him new strength, and trying to forget about the bottle he left on the floor.

Everything was... it was fuzzy. Like steam, like smoke, thick and heavy and oddly warm. He couldn't quite focus enough to think coherently, concentration a fleeting thing, but the sound of voices managed to filter through the fog and reach him. Something about... a broken neck? A slit throat? A coma?

Are they talking about me?

It took tremendous effort to breathe, and pain resurfaced as he struggled to move, to speak, to do something to prove he was still very much alive. Excrutiating light struck him the moment he opened his eyes, and he groaned, his attempt to move halted by strange uncomfortable ties on his hands. Confusion trickled past the hurt, irritation and anger following, and Jor grit his teeth despite his body's protests and sat up abruptly.

He was in the infirmary. Wick was sitting beside him.

The infirmary?

"Shhhhhp...." His tongue felt too unweildy to move, voice slurred and indistinct. Jor made a brief try at opening his mouth further but was instantly beset with mind-screaming pain, and tensed as he fell back onto the cot and groaned again.

What had happened? His memory seemed disconnected, and he wandered aimlessly, searching for the pieces. He could remember walking into the empty engineering bay... remembered a hissing Kat knocking into him as he stood unaware beside the Talon... and then Nathan, vengeful slate eyes. But... but the infirmary? And why was Wick there? Was she hurt too?

I thought she wasn't going to fight...

"Don't move," she said quietly, just above a whisper. "They gave you a pain killer. Nathan broke your jaw." Her eyes slid away from Jor for the first time since she'd entered the infirmary to the bed where Nathan lay, and frowned a little. Had lain; the bed was empty. She turned her head in time to see one of the orderlies wheeling him out of the infirmary and into the hall. Dr. Muraida was just turning away, and for a brief moment their eyes met.

Wick quickly looked away. She had her own problems.

Her fingers tightened around his. "Don't try to talk, either. I want you to listen to me, matchman." She took a silent breath. "You weren't supposed to be in there tonight." She leaned closer, so her voice was right at his ear, with no risk of being overheard. "There was a charge in the fuel tank on the talon, Jordan," she said in a fierce whisper. "There wouldn't have been anyone left...anyone but Dante. You...we would have been safe. You came in after I triggered it. I...couldn't stop it, Jordan. I had to have Mode disarm it for me." She took another breath, less quiet than before. "He...as soon as he did, I got down there as fast as I could..."

Now she did pause, and closed her eyes, calmed her breathing and squeezed his fingers as tightly as she could until she could speak with a level whisper again.

"I love you, Jor. He could have done much, much worse before I got there. The twins...I don't know if they're going to make it or not. Donovan's neck is broken. Dominic's throat is cut. Someone shot him, Jor, or he could have killed you. Someone else knew, I don't know how, and they shot Mode and Katera with tranquilizer darts. I don't know how many he took, but it put him into a coma, and that's the only reason I didn't get you killed tonight." Her voice was rough now, tight as she tried to keep it from breaking too much. "Damn you, Jordan, you should have known better! Why couldn't you trust me?" Her grip was painfully tight, and her fire wavered and dimmed, turning inward, releasing his hand from all but the barest contact.

Shimmering mercury eyes opened. Dante was fighting her tears.

The medics and nurses had taken Donovan away toward the surgical ward, despite her protests and pleas, oblivious to her pain as they forcibly tore her from his bedside. Dominic had soon followed his twin, and there was no one left for her to watch over.

She'd moved once, toward the infirmary desk, to send a brief message to Rox. The girl would want to know, and Dante was not selfish enough, even in her grief, to ignore another's right to know. When Rox received her summons, she would come, and at least Dante could share her fear with another.

Rox arrived soon thereafter in a cacophany of pounding footsteps and accented laments.

"Where... where's Dommy? What happened? Oh, he isn't dead, he's okay, isn't he?! Isn't he?!" She was wild, frantic, the tears filling her wide chocolate eyes rolling down her cheeks as she rushed to Dante. The two embraced, trying to comfort eachother, and Dante managed a painful whisper. "Donovan... his neck is broken... and Dominic had his... he had his throat cut..."

There was no coherent reply to her news. Rox shrieked and went limp against Dante, knocking them both to the floor, and she cradled her unconscious friend and wished that she could find such release.

He isn't dead. I would know if he was. I would know it.

I'm sorry too, Wick. I just wanted to keep you safe. I thought I could.

He should have trusted her and hadn't, and this was the result. All his fault. But how was he to know? And why should he have been the one to stand aside, when she might have been hurt? It wasn't that Jor hadn't trusted her abilities... it was because he trusted no one else to keep her safe. That was what he was for. He was supposed to be the one protecting her. He didn't want her risking her life to protect him. He didn't deserve it.

It was against every instinct to withdraw from pain, against every single message his nerves were trying to relay to his brain, telling him to stop, to hold still... but Jor squeezed her hand in his and whispered. "I... love you... too."

Her lovely face blurred, his eyes fell closed, and Jor didn't bother fighting the darkness that washed over him.

He'd nearly been asleep when the medical emergency alarm went off in his quarters, and he arrived in the infirmary just after the prospective patients. Rachel was waiting for him with a report. George and Sarah, the daytime and evening shift duty nurses, respectively, were doing what they could to stabilize the five patients in his infirmary. He took the electronic chart from Rachel as she began to speak.

"Five patients, all fresh, all from the Engineering Bay. Some sort of fight. Donovan Creche has several broken cervical vertebrae. We've immobilized him, and he's waiting for you to examine. Dominic Creche has a severed windpipe, and left external jugular was nicked. Minor hemoptysis; he aspirated a good deal of blood. George is completing the tracheotomy now. Nathan Terrence..." He looked up from the chart briefly to meet her eyes and then went back to reading, scanning to find his specifics, and she paused, and then continued. "...he has multiple hairline fractures in his arms, ribs, and legs, and one of his ribs is cracked more severely. Internal bleeding in his abdomen, at least two days gone; large abdominal hematoma, and an advanced case of ACS, but Sarah's putting him through decompression now. He's got an incredibly high level of PN17 in his system, too, and there's sizeable residual traces of a lesser painkiller. He's also got enough tranquilizer in him to drop a very large, very determined elephant." The doctor paused in his scanning and then began again without looking up. "He should be dead twice. His pulse is almost...normal." The nurse shook her head.

"The other two, Jordan Windhaven and Katera Quistin, have relatively minor injuries. Quistin was beaten pretty badly, but nothing's broken. She's got a lesser amount of the same tranquilizer in her, but nothing dangerous. Windhaven's jaw is broken, but we set it." Rachel lowered her voice slightly. "That girl Callenstrom came in with them, and won't leave, but it was easier to leave her there out of the way than to try to move her."

She was here; that would save him trouble later, but he had to handle his patients first.

"Move Donovan into the surgery and join me when George and Sarah have the others in hand, and get me an ansible link to Martin Davenport in Neurology at John Hopkins and Evan Litong at the Creche Keep; they may know something I don't. Monitor Terrence until you know, one way or the other; his system has too much in it for us to add something else. Don't line up a transfusion without alerting me; is that clear?" Rachel looked at him a little strangely and then nodded, her fingers already tapping at the medical terminal to arrange the secure connections he requested in the surgery before moving away to prep Donovan as much as possible, cutting away his uniform and dropping a sterile sheet over him while the doctor sterilized his hands.

Slightly under two minutes later, Rachel pushed Donovan into the surgery after the doctor and locked the door.

The large consulting screen was already deployed, and split into two halves. Dr. Martin Davenport was in his mid-fiftees, slightly heavyset with thinning iron grey hair and light blue eyes, and looked tired, irritable and very unhappy to be attending at this hour of whatever it was where he was. He was visible only from the shoulders up, and appeared to be wearing some sort of sleeping robe. Dr. Litong was awake and alert, dressed in the dark blue of the Creche Keep staff, a pair of rimless glasses and a very worried expression on his asian features. A slender man in his early thirties, his unlined face and lack of facial hair made him look even younger, but the air of his apprehension was the concern of a loving parent.

Dr. Muraida glanced at Rachel, who nodded; the ansible link was open. "Dr. Litong, I have Donovan here with me," he said quickly, without preamble. "He's alive. He's been in a fight with another student, and his neck has been broken." Litong's face lost his color, and the doctor wondered briefly if the man were going to cry, but the young doctor mastered himself and nodded. "What of his brother?" His voice was even younger than his appearance. "His injuries have already been dealt with. Dr. Davenport," he continued, unwilling to be sidetracked, "I'm running a scan over the cervical vertebrae now, but I'm -" "Creche?" interrupted Davenport with a disgusted curl of his lip. "I don't work on toasters, I don't fix cars, and I don't deal with Creche APs, Muraida. Don't wake me up again." Shocked, Muraida stared. "He's not - " The left half of the screen went dark, and Litong's image expanded to fill it entirely.

He did not appear pleased. The concern had been replaced with the same anger Muraida felt. What did it matter that these Creche children were designed instead of random? There was nothing in them but pure human genetic material. Donovan and Dominic Creche were not artificial persons; they were genetically engineered humans. Davenport was obviously of a different opinion.

To hell with Davenport. He blinked at Litong and then looked up at the display above the bed to see the results of his scan.

"Lesions?" Muraida glanced back to the screen. Litong's voice had deepened, rage making him seem older and more imposing in his devotion. Muraida glanced back to the display as it beeped to indicate the end of the scan. His eyes widened a bit, and he shook his head. "No. No lesions." The break was clean, but the spinal column had sustained no damage from the breaking bone. Incredibly unlikely, but incredibly lucky. Donovan would quite likely survive. Litong nodded and visibly relaxed, but he seemed less surprised than Muraida. "Just set it then, Doctor, and give him a basic steroid to boost the rebuilding rate. How long ago was it?" "Less than an hour." "Excellent. You won't have to rebreak it before you set it. Donovan and Dominic heal very quickly, Dr. Muraida." Litong's voice was still cold, and the smirk that came to his lips had a bitter edge. "Any of the Crecheborne can outperform a normal human by at least 60% in nearly any physical activity, healing included. Dr. Davenport was obviously not prepared to deal with that improved recovery rate, and graciously declined, not wishing to injure the patient." He could almost hear the man's teeth gritting. "What about Dominic?" Muraida gave him a brief description of Dominic's injuries, and Litong listened intently. "Then you have nothing to concern yourself with. Focus on your other patients, doctor. Dominic and Donovan will be fine. They were scheduled for Review in four days; we will have the Reviewer return them to us for a final inspection before we send them on to IFC." There was a softening in his features. "Thank you for your timely communication, doctor. I've followed Donovan and Dominic since they were six. Please let me know if anything else develops." The screen went dark.

Muraida shook his head as he worked, and Rachel knew better than to say anything.

When he emerged from the surgery, everything was a good deal quieter than it had been. Sarah was still watching over Terrence and looking exhausted. For the first time he noticed the bruises at her neck. "Sarah?" he spoke her name questioningly as he walked to the bedside, allowing Rachel to push Donovan out and towards an empty station. "What happened to your neck?" Sarah told him about Terrence stumbling into the infirmary, and then waking up to find the bottle of PN17 on the floor next to her, amidst the scattered medical equipment just before the MPs arrived.

Muraida nodded wearily and looked down at the patient.

Asleep, Nathan Terrence appeared anything but a violent lunatic. Aside from the nearly indistinguishable scar above his right eyebrow, his face was entirely unmarked, and appeared peaceful and calm in his unconscious state. His injuries and subsequent treatment had left him a little pale, but he otherwise appeared a normal, healthy boy. A normal, healthy boy who burned Callenstrom's arm, stabbed Gabriel, bit my niece, strangled my nurse, broke Donovan's neck, slit Dominic's throat, and broke Windhaven's jaw before someone happened to shoot him full of tranquilizers.

There was an excellent chance he wouldn't survive without a transfusion. There was also a chance that transfusion might kill him. Muraida wasn't sure what would be best. He wasn't entirely sure what best was, best for Terrence, or best for his station. What if these students proved no more talkative than Wick?

"Doctor?" came a new voice from the doorway. He looked up to see an MP. MPs. There were at least three others, that he could see, and he could hear other rustling as the first MP moved towards him with a slip of paper. Transfer orders for Terrence; he was effectively being iced from Command School, and Dr. Muraida's conscience problems quietly faded away. He didn't even have to say anything; he only nodded, and then nodded to George, who helped to move the boy to a wheeled gurney and out of the infirmary.

The Major? Johan, at last? It hardly mattered.

Dr. Muraida himself was nowhere in sight.

The infirmary was full. Jor's bed was closest to the front, and Wick was coiled in a chair next to him, sound asleep. For someone who had tried to kill four people tonight, she sleeps much better than we do, Sol thought angrily. The twins were in beds to the right, extremely unconscious, but their monitors showed no serious life-threatening conditions. A little of Sol's general guilt lifted, but it came right back down when she spotted Katera.

She looked small and lost with her eyes closed, one small hand curled across her stomach as the other trailed listelessly at her side. Copper curls spread out on the pillow, accentuating the white of the sheets and the paleness of her skin. She was still asleep. They weren't too late, this time.

This time.

Gabe had spent over a year on the streets. One of the things he'd learned early on was how to spot a blissfreak. They were dangerous, not only because they felt invincible, but because they damn-near were. Their motor skills were enhanced, their senses were hyped, and they were almost impervious to pain. Gabe had been worried, once he'd seen the way Mode was moving down on the floor of the bay, that they would run out of ammo before he hit the floor.

The tranq darts and bliss were counteragents. There was no possible way Mode could be dead. Not from a tranq overdose, at least.

Had there been something else? He'd been kneeling when they shot him . . . perhaps some injury from the fight had taken him off his feet . . .

No way of knowing. No reason to speculate.

He came to Sol's side. Kat was sleeping in the bed. She looked almost . . . peaceful. Gabe wondered briefly if monsters could dream.

He placed a hand on Sol's shoulder. His sympathy was somewhat transient; the power of the dream was fading. But not Sol. She geniunely cared. Gabe felt sorrow for the loss, for the idea. Love had been murdered tonight. But Sol seemed to care about Kat herself. And Gabe loved her for that. It made him sure that they were the good guys. Kat wouldn't have shed any tears over Sol's grave. But Sol was better. Better than them all.

Someone moved at the foot of her bed, and she was afraid to open her eyes.

For the first time, Kat was afraid of death.

If he's gone, then it was all for nothing. It'll all be worthless. I might as well be dead.

That didn't leave too many options.

Not here.

He's gone...

Kat didn't see Sol, nor Gabe, any longer. She stared at them, but she was seeing right through them, as the life in her gaze flickered, dampened, died. Blank, flat eyes filled with tears that slowly began to run down her cheeks, but she never even noticed.

Life without Mode. It wasn't an option. There had been a reason Kat had fought so many years to stay alive, struggling past Jax, battling through Charybdis-- it all became clear the moment she realized she could not kill Mode. Revenge was just a hollow excuse to survive. It gave bloody glory, and little else. But love... to know that she wasn't black-hearted and cold, to know that someone could actually love her in return... that was why she'd given up vengeance and hate. Without Mode... there was no reason to fight anymore.

He said he'd never leave me, and now he's gone. She's lying. He's not gone. He's dead.

She turned her head to look at the cabinet of medical supplies beside her bed. A scalpel and syringes were in easy reach, and Kat slowly began to sit up.

But it had occurred to Sol. What he wouldn't have realized until it was too late, she realized just in time, intuitively. For all his methodical thinking and photographic memory, if things had been left to him alone, Kat would be dead, and he would have failed completely.

Thank you for being smarter than I am, Sol.

He moved from Sol's side, to stand between Kat and the open cabinet, and placed a hand on her shoulder. It took significant willpower to be gentle as he pushed her back onto her pillow.

"If we think you are a risk to yourself then we will alert the staff, and they will keep you sedated and restrained until a full psych evaluation can be administered."

She might give her word, but Gabe wouldn't trust it; would he keep his, if Sol were dead? He had to give her at least a glimmer of hope. If she had that glimmer then she couldn't kill herself. She might not believe there was any chance it waas true, might not let herself hope that it was, but deep in her black heart that glimmer would live and refuse to let her give up.

"If he's dead, Kat, it wasn't from the tranquilizers. He was dusted to the eyeballs on bliss, and he has a documented drug tolerance. I don't think he's dead. Not unless there was something else that might have killed him."

Or maybe this was dying. Living every day in such torment. Unrequited love and useless hope. Hope. That alone was more dangerous than leaving her here with her dagger and her memories. No, this was worse than death. Much, much worse.

Maybe this was his revenge for all she'd done to him over the years.

Kat turned to stare at Sol, tortured serpentine meeting pained brown, and a tiny glimmer of understanding bled into her pleading eyes. If this is how it felt when I tried to kill your Gabriel, then I know why you hate me so. And if you feel that way, then let me die. Please.

"It doesn't matter." Her whisper was nearly silent, but so bitter and resigned that Sol's eyes widened. "If they sent him to Charybdis, he's already dead... and if you report me, they'll send me back. I'll be dead either way."

She started to tremble, and grief washed over her as the tears began to flow again. Apathy struck too, as she no longer cared that they could see her cry. Let them witness their most hated enemy at her weakest. Let them understand she wasn't the monster, incapable of love, that they thought her to be. Let them see that she was human. Perhaps then they would leave her to mourn, and she could use her dagger to return to hell.

But not yet. I will live until I know for certain. And if he truly is gone, then you won't stop me. Nothing will. I will find him again, even in death. He can't leave me forever.

Kat buried her face in her hands and shook with silent sobbing.

In its place was a sort of sick, sad pleading that had far too much clarity in it to be the product of chemical side-effect. She said nothing else after her whispered speech, and as she bowed her head into her hands and wept, Sol wondered as she had once before what had happened to Kat to make her the way she was.

Kat had beaten her up once. That was forgivable; Sol had returned the favor only a few days ago. Kat had beaten Gabriel to within an inch of his life once. That was less forgivable, but Gabe had tried to kill her with a metal pipe first. Kat had stabbed Gabriel, and that was unforgivable, but Gabe had survived. Gabe was still with her. Mode was gone, and possibly dead. They had done far more damage to Kat than she had to them. Sol took a quiet breath and aged a little.

Yes, he's gone, and yes, we are responsible. That would not change. Nothing would ever change that, just as nothing she could do would change what she'd done in the Library in Juneau. It was set in stone, written, complete. It simply was. Resignation to that fact left Sol tired and weak, but she kept her eyes on Kat as detachment allowed her to slip back behind her Gabeface and continue her analysis. He was not well. He knew he wasn't well, or he wouldn't have asked me to kill him. I didn't kill him. Wherever he is, he can do it himself. The tiny flare of anger faded, but she was unable to regain her cold composure. Her hands trembled a little, and she dropped them to the rail at the end of the bed to give them something to hold onto.

If he's dead, she's not. If he is not dead, then she will be waiting for him, and I will find him for her. I can't do anything else. There's nothing else I can do to make this right. We did what we had to do. How can what we had to do be so...wrong? Nothing is ever easy.

Resigned and aching, she stood away from the edge of the bed and walked around to the side. She wasn't sure what to do, really; aside from Gabe, and only very recently, Sol had neither shown nor received physical comfort in years. She wasn't even sure that Kat would appreciate such a gesture from her. In the end, her hand fell shy of Kat's by several inches, and she settled for leaning in.

Her savior.

She'll find Mode for me...

But apathy was not as easily persuaded as her heart. Alive in the Belt, alive in Charybdis, alive on Earth... that isn't alive here, it sneered at her. He isn't with you. He might never be with you again. They wouldn't have sent him back to landside, not after what he's done. And even if he were at Charybdis, alive there... if you were sent back, they'd kill you. And you wouldn't have him anyway.

Kat choked on her tears. "Two now..." Two. Her greatest loves, her greatest hates, her greatest mistakes. But this time... this time was it her fault? She'd seen him kneel before Dominic. She'd seen the resignment in his eyes, before they closed and he touched her one last time. Had he wanted to leave her...?

No. And I will find him. I will.

She curled on the bed, still crying desperately, and she said the two words she had never thought she'd ever speak to the enemies who stood at her bedside.

For right now, he couldn't see past the pain that he knew she was feeling, because he knew that he would feel the same.

Sol did not continue that line of thought.

Finding Mode wasn't going to be easy. If he was dead, they would have shipped his body back to earth for burial. If he was alive and in Charybdis, she'd have to dive into the Charybdis database to see if he'd been readmitted, and that was going to be difficult. She couldn't possibly have cared less. For now, at least, Katera was safe.

She reached for the scalpel on the cabinet beside her.

It would be so easy. No one would find her until the morning, and by then it'd be too late for them to stop her. Sol wasn't really going to help her locate Mode anyway; it was probably all some cruel joke in retribution for all she'd done to them. Pretend to pity the enemy until she broke down, and then exploit that weakness. Her mind believed it not only because that's what she herself would have done, but because it didn't want to admit that there could be hope. It was just so much easier to give up this time, instead of fighting only to find out that it had been futile after all.

I don't want to die, but I don't want to live, either.

The pain of her heart eclipsed the pain of the blade, and blood was running down her wrist in a steady stream before something stopped her from completing her task. Mode's voice.

"Don't ever do that again."

Kat's imagination betrayed her, and when she glanced up, there was no one. Nothing but darkness and silence, and the scalpel dropped from her fingers as crimson hurt dripped slowly from her wound. She wouldn't die, not even close, but she wanted to as she remembered his face, the intensity to his tone as he'd commanded her in the barracks after seeing her injure herself. He wouldn't have wanted her to do this. He would have wanted her alive, for him... or if he were dead, alive to repay those who had taken him from her.

Is that true, or am I just hoping?

It didn't matter anymore as Kat buried herself into the blankets of her cot and hid from the world. Tomorrow she would live and fight and survive in the hopes of finding him again. Tomorrow she would face reality, and do what it took to stay out of Charybdis and alive. Until then...

For tonight, Kat would grieve.

It was still dark, and he was grateful for that. He didn't want anyone to see his silent tears; not because he would seem weak, but because he was, and he didn't understand why he should be crying. He should have been happy. Wick was safe, he was relatively unharmed, and Nathan was gone. There was nothing to fear-- at least, not right now, not for a very long time. And if Nathan ever managed to come back, then he, Jor, would be certain to kill him this time. Wick would never have to be involved. She would be safe, forever.

So why were the tears still falling?

He was caught in a nearly indefinable maelstrom of emotion, and everything was hard to categorize. Guilt; there was no denying that he still felt guilty. If he'd only killed Nathan right after the man had arrived at the school, then none of this would have happened. Wick would have never been burned, he-- well, who was he kidding? It didn't even matter if he himself were injured. Death would have been a paltry sacrifice if it only kept Wick alive.

But she was alive. And Nathan was gone. And as much as Jor wanted to just say that yes, everything had turned out alright in the end, it wasn't, not for him. He felt useless. He should have been the one protecting his spark, not the other way around... and look what had happened because he'd failed to. The twins might be dead. Nathan and his Charybdis girl-- he cared nothing for them, but it didn't have to happen this way.

It didn't, yet it had.

Because of Wick. Because she schemed and plotted and refused to let him help. Jor sighed and wiped his eyes with his sleeve, wincing a little as his fractured bones and swollen muscles protested the movement. His spark. He felt angry too; angry that she had broken her promise to refrain from fighting, angry that it had even been necessary for him to force that promise from her, and angry that she hadn't trusted him enough to tell him of her plans. No, that wasn't anger-- that was hurt. Betrayal. And however muted it might be, it still stung.

I don't care if you hate me for it, Wick, but I'll never let you protect me again. Not at risk to yourself. Nothing will ever harm you again, not while I'm alive. I'll be there with you everywhere you go, see everything you see, do everything you do, and I will protect you. You can't stop me. No one can stop me. We'll always have enemies, but I'll be the one to destroy them. And someday... someday, when your greatest enemy comes, *I* will kill him.

Jor tilted his head to look at Wick. She was curled in the chair beside his bed, fast asleep, and he reached out to lay one hand on the crown of her head. The sudden need to have her near him arose, and with little thought to pain or consequence, he shifted enough to wrap his arms around her, and tugged her onto the cot. Those glacier eyes fluttered open, and as Jor cradled her against himself and closed his eyes, a smile turned the corners of his lips.

He stopped crying. He wasn't guilty or sad or angry any longer.

All Dante could do was stare at Nathan.

Their eyes met and time froze around them, a still frame of terrifying blood and pain and chaos. Disbelieving violet bled out like tears, and icy quicksilver met cold slate with alarming placidity.

Mon ange, how you kill me...

Then her horror shattered and she was running, calling out for her Angel to return as she fell to her knees beside her injured love. She leaned over to kiss him upon his dead lips, when a whisper of air rewarded her hope, and...

"Dante? Where are we? Where's Dommy?"

Rox's voice snapped Dante from her dream, and it was fortunate that her friend could not see her face in the dark. Even Dante was afraid to see her own expression, because she knew was it is. She knew it all too well.

She was smiling the ice smile she had worn when Nathan was first taken away.

Pure glacier hatred.

"Infirmary, Rox. Shhhhh," Dante hushed the girl as she sat up slowly and stretched in the dark silence of the waiting room. Rox uncurled herself and sat up too, wide chocolate eyes full of pleading. "Where's Dommy...?"

Dante managed a small smile, but it faded too quickly to be reassuring. "Over there. Let's go see them, but be quiet-- we don't want to get caught." Together they stood and crept quietly through the main infirmary rooms, until the two identical forms were before them. Dominic. Donovan.

She watched as Rox crawled into the bed beside Dominic, coiling against him as she started to cry. Dante turned her head away, and her gaze fell upon Donovan. He looked so... so safe. Calm. If there hadn't been a collar around his neck, hadn't been IV's in his hands and machines surrounding him, then he would have appeared perfectly at peace.

It took only a few steps, but then she was at his side. Dante leaned closer, drinking in the sight of him breathing, the sight of him alive... and she kissed him lightly at the corner of his mouth as she whispered.

Her heart couldn't decide whether to be angry or break. Weakness wasn't something she handled well, in herself or others. Jor rarely let her see anything other than strength, either in love or anger or sadness. Wick had never seen him cry. Her instinct was to pull away and leave, to spare him the humiliation of crying in her presence, but his arm was tight around her, and she wouldn't fight him. She felt trapped and guilty. If he'd had his eyes open, she would have felt manipulated. For everything she did to steer him and others, she didn't cry. She considered it beneath her.

His eyes were closed. Those tears were genuine. He wasn't looking for reaction. He wanted closeness or comfort. He wanted her.

Practically independent of personal thought, her left hand came up and drew a line on his cheek with a finger, following the tear track. His eyes didn't open. Her fingertips came down, brushed his lips, and then she wiped the tearstain away completely. The curtain around the cot was pulled over halfway, enough to shield them from everyone but the sleeping Katera in the next bed. Wick lay in the curve of his strong arm and pressed her lips to his ear.

"I love you, Jor-dan," she whispered gently. "I'm done. I mean it. Three years from now and we're out. Until then...you can keep me safe." The words were hard to say, but she said them, her voice coming out almost indecipherable towards the end as her lips formed the words. She didn't like making a promise she intended to keep. It felt like subservience; but who deserved obedience from her, if not Jordan?

Her fingertips wiped away his tears, and suddenly, Jor couldn't bring himself to care.

It didn't matter. She had seen, and he had let her. Maybe by showing her his tears, by baring his soul to her, she would know how much he loved her. Maybe she wouldn't condemn him to being paltry and weak. And maybe, just maybe, she would understand what a sacrifice this was for him.

He blinked hard a few times to clear his eyes, and was trying to think of something to say when she pressed her lips to his ear and began to whisper. Those eyes, wavering forest pools, grew wide as she gave him what he knew to be the most valuable thing she owned. She was relinquishing herself to him, by renouncing the very thing that made her Wick. She wasn't going to scheme. She wanted him to protect her.

And she promised.

Jor didn't trust himself to speak, not yet. He recognized her own sacrifice for what it was, and it touched him, deeper than he cared to analyze and cared to admit. Instead, he cradled her closer against himself, her body pressed to his, her cheek resting above his heart, and he held her. He could have held her like that for years, centuries, eternity, and it wouldn't have been enough. Eventually his heart stopped burning, and with a voice kept steady only by sheer force of will, he whispered.

"And I promise to keep you safe, Wick, forever. I won't let anyone hurt you, I swear, not ever again. I..." he nearly choked, and his arms tightened around her. "I love you so much, spark."

His last two words were so quiet that he doubted she could hear, but he had to say them.