Random browsing in the system wasn't usually worthwhile, but it might help her clear her head. If not, it might distract her from noticing how unclear her head really was. Either was fine with her.

Jordan...

She tried to imagine what it would be like after Graduation and came up blank. It wasn't that she didn't want to. It was just close to impossible for her to envision life outside Battle School or Command School. That outside life was distant again already, and she'd only been back a week and a half. That didn't bother her by itself. That section of her life was centered around her father, and she preferred to think as little about him as possible.

She attempted to picture Jor and her father in the same room together and failed. They were too different. Those two men were as far apart from each other as it was possible for them to be, except for a single trait that even Wick in her subjective viewpoint couldn't force herself to overlook.

They both wanted what they wanted when they wanted it, and neither of them hesitated to take it.

Something on the screen caught her eye and she focused on it and scrolled back a bit. Infirmary logs. She scrolled too far and hit her own, and then clenched her jaw and moved past it quickly. Donovan's was next, and then another for herself, and then Hunter Gabriel, admitted for a stab wound to the chest.

A stab wound?

Wick only knew one person on the station that carried a knife.

Hunter Gabriel...that name sounded familiar. A boy who'd been in Fox, apparently. She skimmed his file and nodded to herself when she read Rebecca Solenis. Now she remembered. The ice boy. She hadn't paid the pair much attention. What could that frozen excuse for a human being have done to Katera Quistin to make her stab him? He had no fire. He couldn't ignite anyone else.

Roaming the corridors proved fruitless; there were too many students about, and even if she had managed to find suitable prey and a secluded area, the likelihood of her winning the tussle was small. As it was, she was tired and almost despondent after leaving Mode; part of her wanting to go back and be with him, part of her not wanting to see him again. Add that to her multitude of half-healed injuries and general weariness, and Kat was not up to looking for a fight.

The game arena was too noisy, the cavern too dim, and Kat just wanted someplace quiet to sit and think when she came upon the library. It was vaguely familiar; after all, Mode had brought her here on their first day, and she remembered the little nook and its solitude with dim relief. Maybe there wouldn't be many people inside, and she could find some sort of silent sanctuary.

It wasn't until that she was nearly to the center of the room that she noticed a pale girl seated at a desk terminal, icy blue eyes focused on her with an almost imperceptable smirk. Wick. Kat gave her stare for stare, giving her a raking once-over with narrowed serpentine eyes before flashing a brilliant, disarming grin. Fiery-spirited, that one, much like herself. And like before, Kat found herself wondering why she had to hate this girl. They were alike in many ways. Schemers, plotters, manipulators both. Odd turn of events that had led Mode to hate this girl and love her, despite the similarities.

But it wasn't anything she wanted to consider at great lengths, and with a sidelong glance in Wick's direction, Kat moved toward her hidden nook. The area was empty, and she threw herself onto the couch with a silent sigh of weary relief. Stretching languidly, she propped her boots up and leaned her head back, tousled copper curls falling into her eyes as she smiled and yawned.

Dominic had been her tether pet for learning more about Katera, and he'd done no good at all. Either the girl was too enamored of Mode to take an interest, or Dominic simply didn't have what it took, but he was a lost cause for this. She'd have to leave him to less subtle duties. Too bad, that, but it wouldn't matter much in the end. It just made her regret kissing him that much more.

There was still delicate work to be done here, however, and Wick had no hands capable to do it but her own. She wouldn't have the edge a lover might...but there was a certain camaraderie between them. Maybe she could draw on that.

She exaggerated her limp slightly as she walked. No need for Katera to know how much she'd improved, and if she knew the girl, it was less likely she'd attack her if she thought she was weak. Kat hadn't so much as tapped her after Mode's visit in the Quad Hallways. That suggested a system of lowgrade honor...but that wasn't certain. Kat had been in the institute, and that left all possibilities open. She might have just caught her in a good mood.

Kat didn't look so good, on closer inspection. Bad bruises not entirely covered by her uniform and a split lip. Had she and Mode been fighting again, or was that someone else's affection written on her skin in ugly splotches? Wick was conscious of the bruises on her own face. Something in common. A good place to start.

Approaching the couch, she sat down at the end, just beyond Katera's feet, pulled up her uninjured leg to tuck it under her knee, leaned back into crook of the arm and the back of the couch and crossed her arms comfortably across her chest.

Verbal sparring was the next best thing to actual fighting, and judging from her previous converstion a few days before with Wick, this might prove to be entertaining. She didn't miss the pointed glance at her bruised face, nor did her own golden jade eyes miss the marks upon Wick's throat. Some dim mocking voice that sounded like this girl giggled something about Mode being a rough boy, and she smiled with surprising friendliness.

"Home and abroad," she said nonchalantly, waving a hand. "Although perhaps I should be asking you the same thing, eh?" Kat grinned and settled deeper into the couch, comfortable enough to relax. Wick posed no threat; even if she hadn't already been injured, limping around, she wouldn't have been much of a match for her. Albeit, she was in no condition to spar herself, and that thought sent a resigned wave over her. Oh well. Entertainment came in all forms.

Kat almost laughed, before deciding that it would be vastly more amusing to play along rather than reverting to her normal outright, brutal honesty. This was turning out to be quite fun, in fact, and for a brief moment she knew, that under different circumstances, she probably would have liked this girl.

That only put more of a murderously excited twinkle into her eyes, even as they widened in disbelief, as if she just couldn't believe Wick's story. Innocence she could manufacture at will masked her features, and a childishly naive tone entered her silky voice.

Kat smiled brightly with all the sincere charm she could muster, husky voice carrying a hint of sweet sadness. "Yes, right in line. Six feet under, in line." Then a flash of conspiratorial wickedness. "Of course, I wouldn't know anything about that."

She'd certainly love to hit this Wick right about now, for even mentioning Jax. But any sign of defensiveness would only help present herself as weak. Kat was no fool. She didn't need to validate herself to this pale bitch. Mode was rough, and she had a dagger. There was nothing to discuss.

But still, it irked her, more than she cared to admit. Who the fuck did this girl think she was, anyway? To make it seem as if Mode had her leashed and beaten. How little she knew. If anything, it was the other way around.

Someone in the administration. Wonderful. Less than two weeks on this asteroid, and they already had someone inquiring after them. It wasn't really a surprise, in retrospect-- after all, they were Charybdis Institute probational soldiers, and everyone seemed to be eyeing them in half-apprehension and half-wariness. Nothing new there, for even in the Institute they were constantly monitored.

But not by someone in the administration who took to beating Command School students.

After Mode's attack on Wick, she'd been increasingly insecure about their safety. Add Ryan and his Jaydes, plus Gabe and Sol, to that unease, and Kat was surprised she hadn't locked them both away in their cell to avoid any trouble. Not that she could avoid it, anyway. It just seemed to find her.

So someone wanted Mode gone, perhaps. Kat shrugged, and toyed with the handle of her dagger as her eyes narrowed. No one was going to take Mode. He was hers.

And Mode loved her.

"Sweetheart, everyone wants us. It's really nothing new." If she'd been any less secure in Mode's love, and in their abilities to defend themselves should the need arise, Kat just might have been unconfident. As it was, eight years at Charybdis did not make for an ignorant, weak little girl. She was realistic. Death before she let him or even herself be taken back there. And Kat was not about to die.

It did, however, prove beyond a doubt that he would come after her when the twins collected her, and that was good to know.

"How's the arm?"

Wick's eyes lit up, and she gave Katera a fire smile as she tried to keep the rest of it from coming out. She slid the sleeve of her uniform up slowly with her right hand to display the pale, unmarked skin of her arm. The lines at the edges of the graft were almost completely invisible now, just tiny hints of pink on the white surface. Kat was treading too close to the edge of the flame, and it wanted out.

The fingers of her right hand curled against her left forearm, nails against the skin. It felt like someone else's arm, and she didn't even have to supress a wince when she dug her nails in enough to draw a little blood, enough to roll a few inches, halfway to her elbow.

She liked the girl. There was an answering hardness about her; fire and brimstone and malice. She didn't trust her, not one bit, but she almost felt a sense of... comradery... perhaps. The girl was a schemer. And despite Kat's virtually absent sense of honor, something in her decided that Wick would stay alive.

Unless, of course, she touched Mode.

Blooddrops rolled down the pale skin of Wick's arm, and Kat smiled, pushing up her own jacket sleeve to reveal the bandage that encircled her own wound. Part of her conspiratorial friendliness was calculated as she grinned and winked. "Looks as if we match, eh?" But a tiny part of it was sincere. Too bad she couldn't actually be allies with this girl. They could have left this asteroid in flames and ruin together.

With a sharp nail, she drew a thin slash on her palm, watching the blood well slowly into a crimson orb. Then with a smirk, she grabbed Wick's arm, pressing her hand over the girl's cut, their blood intermingling. Still gripping Wick's forearm, Kat leaned in to whisper huskily. "I won't kill you unless you touch him. He is mine to handle. Keep your hands off, and it'll all be good. We understand eachother, neh?"

She didn't wait for an answer; just pulled away and stood, holding up a bloody hand and smiling with surprising softness. "Nice to talk to you, as always, Wick. I'm sure I'll be seeing you around." Then she turned and sauntered away, out the double doors of the library, and in search of something else to do.

She found it ironic that the one person she'd found that matched her caliber in more than one area was so far out of the reach of an alliance.

Her left forearm tingled, and she jumped. A drop of blood had finally covered enough territory to reach feeling skin. She wiped at it absently with her uniform sleeve and snapped it back into place at the cuff. There was a strange tingling in the numb territory of her arm as well, and it made her shiver once as Katera's blood and hers slowly soaked into the material before the little wound began to clot.

The full impact of Katera's action did not escape her, but she had no way to cope with it, and so she buried it, but she couldn't keep the small edge of wonder out of her eyes as she stood up to exit the Library, heading for the Hydra Quad as a single thought twisted quietly in her mind.

His eyes moved slowly over the shelves, but fluidly, never stopping for a moment. He didn't stop anywhere, didn't touch a single book, just drifted in between the stacks. He had the next three years to read. Maybe he wouldn't get to all of them, but he'd sure as hell try. And he'd start with subjects that fascinated him, so that when he left he'd be leaving behind those that did not.

A spiral staircase led to the upper level, and Gabe ascended with the same stealthy care. If his movements had not had such a . . . a reverent quality, Gabe might have looked like a thief.

He toured the upper level also, taking in the rows and rows of spines. He was a living breathing library index now. He could find any title he wanted to anywhere. He would remember.

They came to a small open area between shelves, overlooking the central entryway, and Gabe put his hands on the railing looked out over the large room with a faint smile on his face.

About time you came through on this, Wick... I've honored your own right to vengeance until now, but I refuse to sit on my ass and let that bastard Mode parade around in my school, fuck my girlfriend, threaten my brother, and get away with it. One more chance meeting like the one we had in the storage bay, and Donovan and I would have had no choice but to leave you out of this and kill him ourselves... so this had better be a conference of war, little girl, to burn that bitch to ashes once and for all.

Dominic's eyes were shadowed midnight as he glanced around the nearly empty room, searching for Wick. He spotted her pale slender figure in the alcove beneath the balcony, seated on the sofa there, waiting. A viciuos half-smirk graced his lips as he gave her a raking once-over and strode closer, slowly, with all the deadly fluidity that the Creche brand upon his neck was known for. Soon, he and his brother would...

She let her eyes drift over Dominic as he sat down. They hadn't spoken since the meeting in the Command Room, the one she'd taken for an honest scheming session, the one where he'd kissed her, tried to convince her to drop Jor for him. She'd been tempted, if only briefly; his similarity to her was evident in his complete lack of fluster over their last encounter. Whatever had been troubling him that evening was gone, or very well hidden.

"I do hope this is good news, dearest," he said with a slight, lightly sarcastic grin. She had been wrong; he was tense, but it was more like eagerness than overt anger. He was in the perfect mood to receive her plan. There was still time to change her mind. Did she really want to give it?

Donovan was physically identical to his brother, but there the similarities ended. If it had only been Donovan, the bland valiant, well-meaning, blind Donovan, she thought perhaps she could have done it with almost no regret, but Dominic was of her own breed, subtle and deceptive and brilliantly gifted, a more than adequate match, if there were no Jordan.

If there were no Jordan, there would be no need for these drastic measures. If there were no Jordan, she wouldn't have used Nathan, wouldn't have been burned in return, and all this misery would never have come about. If there were no Jordan, Dominic and Donovan Creche and Anjelice Iddantel and Ariadne Ivemey might possibly have led relatively conflict-free lives until graduation.

If there were no Jordan, Wick would not be.

He watched her with that little smile, those beautiful indigo eyes two shades away from black as he waited for her response, and Wick's heart weakened. Under other circumstances...why did things have to fall this way? They don't, whispered a little desperate voice within her. If this were smaller stakes, she would have enjoyed the victory over him, enjoyed successfully using someone of her own caliber as a pawn, but this was so...final. Could she live with that finality, if her plan carried through? For Jordan, yes. And he would never know. Her resolve returned.

The sacrifice was still great, and there was an edge of reluctance to her tone when she began to speak.

"You and your brother take Katera tonight, after lights out. Put her into the broken Talon. I'll send a message to our good friend Mode, and he'll come running to take her back." She forced a smirk, and it became a little easier to fall into her role, her eyes sparkling a little as she laid out her plan. "Wait until he's in the Talon and occupied with Kat and then you and your brother can pluck him out and do whatever you like with him. Kat too, for that matter, if your taste runs in that direction." She grinned wickedly; she doubted either of the twins would indulge in such things, but it served to prove her spirit was behind her work. "Katera has a dagger, strapped to her calf in a slimline sheath, and she knows how to use it. Be careful. Wouldn't want you to get hurt." Another small smile, but her heart stung her anyway, the strange chill of certainty as she realized what she was going through with turning her blood to seawater, making her hands cold.

"When you're done with them, use the dagger on Mode, and make sure her prints are there for the authorities to find. By tomorrow afternoon, all our problems are over...if you can get the job done." She gave him one last taunting smile and then grew very serious, memorizing his face, his precisely even features, the calculating gleam in his eyes that spoke his approval, the slight tilt of his head, the almost invisible pulse in his throat, the breadth of his shoulders, the strength in his body. So strong, so alive, she whispered to herself, and so fragile.

He didn't have time for coherent thought or action after she leaned in and kissed him, escalating dreams of bloody vengeance suddenly washed away in one single torrential moment, and he closed his midnight eyes against the world and kissed her back.

Emotions flitted through his mind like clouds through the sky, leaving him only subtle imprints of comprehension, barely there, disappearing as soon as he reached out to touch them. Desire. Anger. Sadness. Hate. For all that could have been and never could be. For love of himself, his kin, his woman. For fear of drowning in something he didn't understand no matter how hard he fought to see.

Wick pulled away, fled from him, and still Dom could not speak.

His lips burned. Hadn't he wanted that but days ago? It had been a goal then, now only a distant memory buried. He hadn't wanted it now... not consciously, not that he could admit it. Was he lying to himself? Did he really want all that Wick offered? Lust of the flesh he could satisfy elsewhere... but lust for rage... an image of his bloodied, beaten brother assaulted him, and he could almost feel the tears Rox had shed after Mode's attentions, pleading eyes of both those he loved more than life itself watching him silently, accusingly. We were hurt, they shouted wordlessly. And now you think of doing nothing?

No. Dom closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the couch, heart beating a rapid staccato of uncertainty. I won't walk away from you. My brother. My love. I have responsibility, I have duty, I have... I have to kill for you. Bloody hands for your cause. I am the strong one here. Forgive me, my kin, my heart, for ever thinking that you were not worthy of a death for your behalf.

No training, no conditioning, no rules or regulations or laws or lessons could have prepared him for this. If he hadn't had Donovan beside him, then the being of Creche would have been useless. But as blood must be repaid with blood, vengeance taken and wrongs past to deal retribution, so would he succeed. And he would forget Wick, forget the mocking voice of possibility, and focus on his purpose. After this plan... Wick would be nothing but paleflame ashes in his thoughts.

Dom knew he had to kill, but it did not soothe him. Not this time.

Anger reignited, but from a different source. His eyes snapped open, swirling sapphire resolve and rage burning within. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, rough material sandpaper welcome on his lips, scouring away her kiss. Lilting chocolate eyes seemed to watch him as he stood, straightening his shoulders, and his brother's voice echoed, calling, asking him for vengeance together.

Damn you, Wick. Damn your hate and fiery dreams. Damn you for ever making me question my loyalties.

He left to find Rox, to find his brother.

And when the female to whom he was speaking -- "Wick", his mind supplied automatically -- spoke the name Katera, the entirety of Gabe's attention span sat up and took notice.

And that was a lot of attention paying attention to one single thing.

He listened. Even listening the way he had been moments before, passively, recording information without really studying it, he would have memorized it and catalogued it away. And at full attention, there really was nothing more he could do. He could not memorize it better. He could not remember any clearer than he always did. But nevertheless, he listened with his full attention.

The Creche and Wick were going to be moving against Kat and Mode tonight. From the sound of it, they were going to frame Kat for Mode's death. Kat would be taken away, surely; a Charybdis rehab wouldn't even be given a trial. Their plan was amateur, however; it relied too heavily on Kat being unable to defend herself, on Mode being stupid and clumsy, and on the restraint of the Creche twins, who would have to somehow incapacitate both Mode and Kat without making it look like someone had beaten the hell out of them. And from what Gabe remembered of Wick from Fox, she wasn't an amateur when it came to plotting. Gabe, because of his stoicism and antisocial disposition, was mostly ignored by the rest of the army, which was without question Gabe's favorite state of existance. When everybody ignored him, it was only a matter of time before nobody noticed him at all. And that was a very good thing. It meant, among other things, that people tended to say things while he was in earshot that they would normally have hesitated to say in front of any furniture more complicated than a chair. They seemed to assume that, because Gabe talked to no one but Sol, and because Sol didn't talk to anyone but him, that they were a closed circuit and it didn't matter what he heard. Which was true. Gabe had neither reason nor inclination to go about repeating things he'd heard. But it also meant that if it ever did matter that he heard, he already had mental files compiled for everyone in the Army.

And this was amateur for Wick.

And the thing that stuck in Gabe's mind, the thing that did not fit no matter how he looked at the puzzle, was the mention of the Talon. What need was there to take Kat out of her cell at all? If Gabe were doing it, he'd stay right there. There was less risk of being spotted than there would be in transit, and they wouldn't even need to send Mode any message, just wait, and then he'd be completely off guard.

The Creche seemed completely oblivious, but Gabe could hear it in Wick's voice. Guilt. It was faint, but it was there.

So why a Talon?

Because there are few better ways to remove the evidence than to flush it all out into deep space.

Wick was going to kill, not just Kat and Mode, but the Creche twins also.

Kat and Mode dead. It should have been a relieving thought. It should have been victory. Kat and Mode were going to be taken care of, and neither Gabe nor Sol had to dirty their hands at all. All they had to do was sit back and let it happen.

Gabe looked to Sol and saw that she'd heard the whole thing too. And there was a look in her eyes that Gabe couldn't immediately identify. It looked . . . conflicted. Deeply conflicted.

And Gabe understood. Just like when they'd seen Kat and Mode, tender in their isolation. Monsters that they were, when no one was watching they knew how to love. Gabe had ample reason to want them both dead, and had thirsted for vengeance against each of them at one time or another. But Gabe was not a vengeful creature. He did not believe in justice. He did not crave an abstarct sense of righteousness within the world. All he'd ever wanted was to protect himself, and Sol, by whatever means necessary. He did not want justice. He did not want Kat or Mode to pay for what they'd done. He just wanted to make them go away.

And so, although it would be the answer to every immediate problem they were facing, Gabe could not reconcile himself to inaction. Something had to be done. To murder those two monsters was just fine, but to murder their love, to put an end to a beautiful thing created by two ugly creatures, that could not be overlooked. They could not stand aside and let that happen.

Not a single word passed between Gabe and Sol. None were needed. Sol drew the keycard from her pocket, and held it up briefly. Gabe nodded. It was time to go and find out what the good Doctor had planned.

Sol knew how he felt, but they didn't really have time to talk about the Review and the new Headmaster. They didn't have time to analyze Cam's extremely brief visit, though it had inexplicably cheered her somewhat. Cam approved, and though Sol had nominally given up respect for the administration the first day of her launch when no adults had been present to stop the chaos, she couldn't avoid feeling a little bit of warmth for that approval from her old teacher. Gabriel had brought up the idea of leaving the IF, and that brought a well of conflicting emotions to the surface, and they didn't have time to discuss those either. It was important, but not as important as the work at hand, and no matter what happened in the end, they would be together, and that meant that everything else could wait until after this current crisis was finished.

He spotted them, and Sol and Gabe slowed as he hurried to approach them. He didn't even look at Gabe, just nodded at her, and said, "Let's go."

Almost finished.

She sat back for a moment to brush the long snowy hair from her face, and reflected silently upon her task and her companion. His real name wasn't Kanchou, of course, but it was his henmei, his alias. The irony of such a nickname amused them both. Kanchou meant "spy"-- but he was hardly the stereotypical covert, discreet, and crafty individual that such a word as spy might conjure an image of. No, Kanchou was loud, rather arrogant, unpredictable... and undeniably a genius when it came to hacking. That was what Riya was using him for.

Ten years had passed since she'd first been shipped into space, but only the last two, here at Command School, had been spent in relatively unthreatened peace. Riya wanted to ensure that it would stay that way. Eight years of blackmail during her tenure at Battleschool had left her contained displeasure smoldering, and even if Hunter Gabriel and Rebecca Solenis no longer remembered what had driven them to stalemate her, she hadn't forgotten. She never forgot.

But Riya was patient. If life had taught her anything, it was that rewards came to those who waited. Perhaps she hadn't been quite as patient as she should have all those years ago, but she'd been only five years old then, not eighteen and infinitely more calculating as she was now. Mistakes had been made, she acknowledged, and her enemies had taken advantage of that. She couldn't fault them-- but it didn't mean she'd ever let anyone do that to her again.

Kanchou was here to aid her task, and even if she didn't particularly like nor trust him, he was a very valuable ally. It hadn't taken much to secure his cooperation. Being female had its merits, and she had no qualms about using herself to achieve some goal. The boy readily agreed to do her bidding, and if the deed disgusted her, at least it got her what she wanted.

What she wanted was revenge.

He was now helping her to erase the police records that Gabriel and Solenis had used against her. There wasn't much evidence, but as they had so calmly pointed out to her before, some unsavory conclusions could be drawn from all the autopsies and crime scene maps and fingerprint analyses. Maybe not enough to convict her, but Riya had no intention of leaving the school, let alone being put in jail. Those reports had to be destroyed. She could have done it easily enough herself, but should trouble arise, there was nothing better than leaving someone else to take the fall. If local authorities or the International Fleet ever wondered why reports were missing, why data was deleted, or why information was erased, then all traces would eventually lead back to Kanchou, not her. He might have been smart, but no one out-manipulated Riya.

She gave him the nearly indetectable twitch of her lips that passed as her smile, but her midnight eyes were cold, and he looked away.

Baka.

Time for other matters; let him slave away at that little mission while she concentrated on other concerns. As with all things, Riya preferred to hold the upper hand. If that meant spending her time always watching, listening, and analyzing the world, then so be it. Ever since her arrival on this asteroid, she'd done just that. When Katera Quistin had arrived, it had been duly noted. When Hunter Gabriel and Rebecca Solenis arrived, she'd allowed herself the briefest flicker of distaste. For the past two years, she'd been watching them all. They might not have been aware of her presence, but she always knew where they were, and it pleased her to have such control.

Control gave her freedom, freedom gave her opportunity, and the opportunity for vengeance or manipulated amusement always gave her pleasure.

Tomorrow would be her first day in the Special Operations AIT. How-- or more interestingly, why-- she'd been picked for such a specialization remained unknown. Part of her wondered, but it was a very small part, and its concern was only peripheral. It hardly mattered. If the administration was willing to look past her social catatonia and decidedly questionable past, then she was also willing to ignore their obvious blindness. Putting her into a position where she might conceivable gain access to the Special Operations Task Force and all that power was their folly, not hers, and it gave her even greater happiness to know that there would be two people she knew assigned to her own cell.

Gabe and Sol.

Riya would have laughed if she'd known how to.

The screen stayed dark, and she frowned and made sure it was turned on before checking to see if the next terminal over would function. A few keystrokes later it was clear that the entire row was out. Unwilling to abandon the optimal observation area for something as small as a flipped switched, she made a quick search of the surrounding desks to locate the power source. It was on the floor and hidden, but not well; someone had probably kicked it. She pushed the power switch and turned to go back to her desk when a tiny curl of color caught her eye.

One of the more isolated couches in the far corner of the room faced away from her position and was hidden from the door by several rows of bookshelves, and a coppery curl was draped over one of the arms. There was no other sign of occupancy, but Wick still had no doubt as to who the owner of that curl might be.

The terminals behind her beeped loudly in loose synchronization as they ran their startup sequences, and that curl shifted and fell away from the arm and out of sight. A second later a tousled head of redgold curls and a pair of emerald eyes appeared briefly over the edge of the couch, watched her for a moment and then disappeared again.

Wick grinned and decided her homework could wait. She'd never gotten a chance to thank Katera for playing along with her when that boy Trevor Daniels from her Demolitions class had considered doing something ungentlemanly a few days ago. Jor had interrupted. Her grin gained a reminiscent edge as she began to walk towards the couches. That little interruption had been enough to keep her out of class for the rest of the day. She grew more thoughtful as she approached Katera's chosen spot. There was something building in Jor, something she wasn't sure she understood as well as she wanted to. He was as protective as ever, but there was something beneath that, something that their increasingly frenetic sessions together only took the edge from. The rest of it, whatever it was, remained below the surface and showed itself only in his roughest moments.

Jor...Jor...was banked, but Wick wasn't sure how long that would hold. As she rounded the couch and came face to face with Katera Quistin, Wick suddenly had an excellent idea about how to let off a little of his pressure. As she had nearly three years ago, she sat at the other end of the couch, just beyond Katera's curled feet, and smiled.

Nothing to do. She did not want to be in her barracks; Mercy would appear as if by magic sometimes, always curious as to why she so disliked to venture forth and interact with her quadmates. It wasn't that Kat didn't like them-- because she didn't-- but more because she did not care to talk to anyone. They held no interest for her. Her previous methods of entertainment gone, and Kat was usually bored. It was dangerous for her to have so much free time, because it meant she thought more. And those thoughts always involved Mode.

So you can imagine her relief when Wick had appeared by a few days ago, and her relief even now. It was a welcome distraction... and despite her aversion toward touch or alliance, Kat was unwillingly drawn toward the other girl. She didn't care to understand what that force was, but she just accepted it. Like gravity. There was something about Wick that was fundamentally similar to herself, as there had been with Mode, as there had been with Ryan and Jax.

"Hmmmm..." she hummed lazily, before settling more comfortably against the couch and regarding Wick through veiled serpentine eyes. "No, I suppose I'm not."

Her eyes ran over Katera's face features in a similar fashion. Still those strong, wiry muscles, but the taut, feral expression was...dimmed. There were no marks at all on Katera's face; even the small scar on her cheek Wick remembered from before was gone, and her skin was clean and unmarred by the signs of violence Wick had seen on her in their last meeting in the Library, after Mode had burned her arm. Before the fight.

Before Mode was gone.

Katera's body was also free of marks, and Wick met her gaze again and wondered what would have happened to her if Jor had been taken away. Would she have locked down to survive, as this girl had? Perhaps she would have done what she knew Katera had at least considered doing. Her eyes drifted away from Kat's to look at her wrist and then back to her face. She would have waited. SHe would have been miserable and broken and wraithlike, but she would have waited, until she saw proof positive that Jordan was dead, and what then? Like all living things, fire must feed. If there were no match, there would be no spark.

Mode had been gone for nearly three years. Wick compared the Kat before her with the Kat she'd seen huddling in the barracks when she came to return her dagger. She had expected to feel fear or guilt upon confronting Katera after she knew that Mode was gone, but it was empathy instead, and that had almost knocked her out of composure. She'd stayed long enough to give the dagger back and deliver her speech and left immediately afterward. She'd sought out Jor and lost herself with him and tried to forget the look on the girl's face.

Ashes.

Proper manipulation of the human animal required proper understanding. Proper understanding, to some degree, required an ability to empathize with the subject on a high enough level to understand their general thought processes. By her nature, Wick was receptive, and Katera's pain had reached past her shielding and touched her in a way that only true and deep understanding could have. She knew how Kat thought because she thought much the same way, and the miserable burnt out fury that had hung over Katera like a shroud had been uncomfortably close to home, too similar to something she herself might experience. Now it appeared that Kat was alive once again, and that secretly relieved her.

It is human nature to define ourselves through experience. We see ourselves as a culmination of life, and what we have done makes us who we are. There are athletes and soldiers, pilots and scholars; these people consider themselves to be a creature of their actions, a being of their emotions and thoughts and hobbies and skills. Everyone gives themself a definition.

Once, Kat had defined herself through pain, for it was what she knew best. She gave pain, and took it; lived pain, and loved it. Her life was pain, from the moment she was born, and she knew, until the moment she died. It gave her pride to live this way-- immense pride-- because the scars on her body and the dagger in her hand were who she was. She was a killer. She was a huntress.

Those scars were fading, and as they did, her psyche followed. Some she would never lose, like the twisted lines across her stomach; unwillingly, though, they were the only ones to stay. Since Mode had appeared in her life, Kat had begun to lose some of those marks. Jax's line upon her cheek; once a symbol of his ownership of her, now gone. Perhaps it had been the result of her love for Mode... as she grew to love him, her hate for Jax had faded, and his brand followed. Kat looked down at her wrist and studied the scar there. Perhaps this was Mode's new claim on her.

Strangely, wildly, Kat wanted to see her own blood again.

Would it be enough to spark her life once more? She knew that time was her enemy, and even with the promise of that picture and the hope of finding Mode, Kat's will was slowly weakening again. There had to be pain, soon, before she forgot what it was that made her human, made her alive. Maybe Wick was the key. Kat's eyes refocused on the other girl with a sharp seeking hunger, her fingertips carressing the slash upon her wrist before they fell to rest on the sheath still, after all these years, strapped to her leg, and she smiled, if not with a hint of angry sadness.

She wasn't sure what had prompted her to ask such a cruel question. She could have told her the answer. This girl was so like herself that it was more than painful to watch her misery than it would have been to experience it firsthand. Wick was the present; Katera could be showing her what she would one day become, and that frightened her.

Why do we need that? she mused silently. Why do we need to feel pain to be happy? Her arms were crossed, and the fingers of her right hand tucked under her left arm answered her question as she shifted them slightly and her arm registered no sensation of any kind. Pain wasn't just discomfort; pain was proof of life, of consciousness. Pain meant you could feel pleasure. Pain meant you could feel, and that basic need came hard to people like Katera. People like her. Wick had learned to shut out most of her concern for others long ago, and that meant a loss of sensation.

Jor gave her all the sensation she'd missed: pain, pleasure, need, fulfillment...and he gave them in huge quantities. Locked inside herself, Wick had been slowly starving. Controlling others had given her satisfaction, but Jor was the only one who she ever loved, and Jor was the only one would could have hurt her enough to make her happy, enough to make her weak enough to receive and give the emotion she desperately needed to exchange.

What would happen to her if Jor was suddenly taken away?

Katera was a living example.

She tried to resist, but the people who could affect Wick on a deep inner level like Katera just had were few and far between, and she had no built in resistance. It was like when she'd kissed Dominic in the Library; she simply couldn't help herself. Wick reached out and placed her pale fingers over Katera's delicate clawed hand. Sisters, yes, and not just by the blood they shared.

The parallel became unbearable, and she pulled her hand away and rose, fastening her eyes on the door and leaving as quickly as her feet would take her, her research forgotten. She suddenly wanted to be very far away from Kat. She didn't even want Jor. She just wanted some time to herself.

That could have been me. That could still be me.

She knows. She understands.

Kat desperately wanted Wick to return. She was starving for companionship, for comfort, for pain and hate and understanding. A little more of her spirit withered when she realized that her sister was not coming back, and she slumped against the couch, bereft and unreasonably saddened. The effort of speaking so clearly when it was all she could do to keep from choking on her words exhausted her, and her eyes fell closed before the world was able to see how utter anguish could be expressed with such clarity in one girl's gaze.

Her blood might not have been flowing from her wrists, her dagger may not have been sheathed in her own breast, and the memory of Mode's love might still have burned as brightly in her hopes, but no one, even Kat, could deny the truth.

She was slowly dying.

It was becoming harder to fight, but fight she did. She could not afford to give up in what she knew was a losing battle against time. Her heart had sworn that it would do whatever it took in this mortal world to find Mode again, regardless of how long it took, regardless of life or death. For the first time, Kat admitted to herself that she wasn't as strong as her love for Mode, and immortal as it might be, the rest of her was beginning to lose its hold. The edge was coming closer, and when she got to the edge, she was afraid she would fall.

No....

Kat clenched her nails into the palm of her hands, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to give her the pain needed to open her eyes again and breathe. Surrender was not an option. She had lived through three years; she could live however much longer it took until the day when Mode could wake her in the mornings again, when Mode could hold her and whisper his love, when she and Mode could be bonded together for eternity. She could live that long.

Her green-gold eyes were cold, her face set in an icy expression of detachment, but nothing she did or said or pretended could hide the longing and hurt that covered her like a second skin, and Kat pushed up from the couch and left the library without a moment to spare.