A/N: Additional warnings for somewhat graphic descriptions of violence and self-harm.

"I held my head up high/ hiding hate that burns inside/ which only fuels their selfish pride."

—Creed, 1997

The clip they cut to was from earlier today. I was standing on the steps across from the glossy reporter, looking flat and washed-out in the brilliant sunlight. "And how do you feel about the recent Cooper-Trebond verdict, where the courts decided not to convict voluntary controllers of war crimes?" the reporter said. "Doesn't it worry you that these individuals will escape justice?"

My voice sounded flat even to my own ears as I said, "Not particularly."

Jake groaned, burying his head in his hands.

The scene cut, zooming in on my expression as I said, "A witch hunt is the last thing anyone needs."

The story cut back to the news anchor, looking solemn. "So he doesn't care about whether the yeerks' allies are punished or not? Or is it that he actively wants to avoid the voluntary controllers from being brought to justice?" She folded her hands on the desk. "What would a truly involuntary controller have to fear from the proper application of the law? If he hasn't done anything wrong, why would he refer to the search for human traitors as a 'witch hunt?'"

This time the clip was just me saying, "It's just not that even that easy to tell who was voluntary and who was not."

"Very convenient for many of the former voluntary controllers, don't you think?" the news anchor asked. "Especially Mr. Berenson."

Another cut back to the courthouse steps.

"So then you don't think voluntary controllers should be punished?" the reporter was asking.

The several seconds of hesitation before I answered looked very suspicious from the outside. Finally they zoomed in on my nervous expression as I said, "I think that the war's over. And we should focus on rebuilding, not punishing."

"Well, there you have it, viewers." The news anchor adjusted her pile of notes, looking almost smug. "He doesn't think there should be war reparations. Nor does he believe that any further attempt should be made to separate the criminals from the innocent victims of the war. One must wonder: if he truly is one of the innocent, what would he have to fear from the search for voluntaries?"

Well, damn.

Jake turned to look at me.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't realize—"

"No, it's not your fault," he said sharply. "They're just..."

The TV screen was currently showing footage from Rachel's funeral. It panned past the urn and flowers to show me standing just beyond Jordan and Sarah, expression blank. As if I was bored by the whole thing. Apathetic about her death. No, worse—as I was holding that blank look. As if I was hiding something. Anger at the yeerks' defeat, maybe. Glee that Rachel was gone.

"... must ask ourselves," the voice-over was saying, "what this lack of empathy indicates about the character of this young man..."

Jake stood up, pacing across the floor. "Those bastards!"

"Everything all right?" Apparently Dad had gotten off work. He was peering into the room, frowning.

"The media got bored of defaming Jake's character and decided to go after me instead," I said.

"What?" Dad walked into the room and stopped next to the couch, arms crossed.

"I know, I know. But we can't all be 'the only person FOX and CNN can agree upon liking,' according to the L.A. Times." I offered him a smile I didn't feel.

"MSNBC doesn't like me," Jake said defensively, not looking over. He perched back on the arm of the couch, still vibrating with anger.

"Hence the defaming," I murmured.

We all watched footage of Essa 412 accepting an award for "Services to the Community" from Visser Three, a smarmy little grin on my face the whole time. We were silent, even though the CNN commentary wasn't saying anything any of us wanted to hear.

I wasn't sure if the feeling in my gut was closer to nausea or exhaustion, but I knew its source: dread. What was this going to mean for... everything? How could I have been so stupid?

And then the screen flashed Viewer Discretion Advised: Content May Be Disturbing to Some Individuals.

Oh God they had footage from the yeerk pool the little boy or maybe it was the garment factory that young woman they were about to watch my body murder someone the whole world they were saying it was me doing all this me and not the yeerk—

The shot switched to security footage from an industrial garage, empty except for an ambulance parked in the corner, and I realized it was both better and worse than I'd feared.

Jake must have recognized what we were about to see as well, because he snapped his head around to look at me, eyes wide with alarm. He shot a pointed glance at Dad's back and then looked back to me, tilting his head toward the door.

It was clear what he was asking: should we try and get Dad out of here before they played the clip?

I nodded.

Jake jumped to his feet. "Dad, look, it's probably better if you don't see this," he said.

"But it's all right for you to see?" Dad frowned. "What is it, kiddo?"

On the screen, hork-bajir-controllers started flooding into the hospital garage.

Mercifully, there was no sound, but the picture was in color and not nearly as pixelated as it could have been. It was more than clear enough to watch as Jake and I entered the screen. Jake was being half-pulled, half-dragged by the bruising grip of my left hand wrapped around his neck and my right, which wrenched his arm behind him at a deliberately painful angle.

Dad hissed in surprise. The sound was very loud in the quiet of the room. The CNN anchor was still technically talking, but no one was listening to her.

Jake stood up, gently shepherding Dad out of the room. I'm not sure what he said, just that there was a whispered argument in the hallway and he came back alone.

I was staring raptly at the center of the screen, even though I knew what was happening. There were more hork-bajir-controllers following Essa 412 into the room now, dragging with them the rest of the Animorphs. Essa 412 suddenly lashed out, releasing my grip on Jake's neck and flinging him into the wall. He impacted with so much force that in the present moment I flinched. My memory supplied the crunch of a rib breaking as Jake's body slammed into the unforgiving concrete.

Rachel's mouth was open, yelling, as she struggled against the hork-bajir who held her. It was a shame no one had recorded that; from what I could recall the threats had been extremely graphic and mostly centered around the theme of her breaking my skull open with her bare hands, digging the yeerk out with a shrimp fork, and barbecuing it to death over the course of several hours if it laid one more finger on Jake.

My face turned directly toward the camera, my mouth opening as Essa 412 answered Efflit 1318's comment that the Blade ship had been delayed but should arrive in a few minutes. My eyes were wide, the expression on my face almost crazed. Essa had been at the end of the metaphorical rope, one screw-up away from a thoroughly painful death and very aware of it.

Jake was just the most convenient target of that rage and frustration.

On the tape Jake was starting to get to his feet. Essa spun back around.

"You're going to join them." There was still no sound, but I remembered the shape of the words in my mouth. "Your mommy and daddy are pitiful slaves by now, Jake, and pretty soon you're going to join them. Won't take long before you're as beaten down as Tommy here."

Essa backhanded Jake into the wall. As soon as Jake was down my foot came up, stomping down full-force. I wished I didn't remember the feel of Jake's second and third ribs breaking under my sneaker. Didn't know about the way Jake's scream of pain had been cut off by his inability to get a full breath of air.

"You know, I thought there was nothing left of him. I thought we'd broken him for good. That he was finally going to stop whimpering all the time." Essa crouched over Jake. My voice had gone low, as if sharing a secret. "But he just woke up. And you know what, midget? Right now he's screaming."

On the tape Jake's head jerked up, fury replacing pain on his face. I watched his mouth form the shape of several words that our dad probably wasn't aware Jake even knew, and definitely would have grounded him for using.

Essa's response was to swing my fist around and break Jake's nose as well. I remembered the sharp sting against my knuckles. Jake's head slammed back against the concrete, and this time his eyes rolled back in his head. And then Essa stood up, turning to address someone else in the room even though it wasn't clear who was talking.

In the present, Jake shot me a questioning look.

"Marco," I explained shortly. "Pointing out that if Essa four-twelve killed you then Visser One would throw a shit fit."

"Killed me?" Jake said. "He wasn't going to kill me."

"You weren't breathing properly by then. We could all hear it." I swallowed, bile hot in the back of my throat. "And yeah, he was. If he could get away with making it look like an accident."

"'Accident?'" Jake was the only one keeping this conversation going. "What, as in 'oopsie, I strangled my host's brother without meaning to?' Yeah, I'm sure Visser One would have totally believed that."

The version of Jake on the tape was slowly opening his eyes, which were bright with unshed tears. Essa 412 was explaining to him that they were going to kill his parents very slowly over the course of several hours if Jake didn't accept infestation quietly.

"As in 'oopsie, he wouldn't tell me where the morphing cube was,'" I said. My right hand was clenched around my left so hard that my fingers were throbbing. It wasn't enough to suppress the sense memory of Jake's skin and bone breaking under those same hands, but at least it stopped the shaking.

"Oh, well, that's..." Jake gave up. He was still watching as his past self stared up at me through two rapidly-blackening eyes, blood from a cut under his hairline painting its way down his forehead.

On the tape, my head turned toward Efflit 1318 again. This time Efflit was announcing that the Blade ship had arrived.

My left hand gestured sharply toward the hork-bajir as Essa 412 snapped out another order. The yeerk had my right hand jammed into my jacket pocket, wrapped firmly around the morphing cube. Two of the hork-bajir controllers moved forward and hauled Jake to his feet. He was still hunched halfway over, blood now pouring out of his nose and the corner of his mouth.

I glanced toward the Jake sitting on the arm of the couch. For the first time I wondered whether that last kick had, in fact, punctured his lung. Whether he'd even have survived the trip to the yeerk pool, if Cassie hadn't shown up when she did and given him the chance to morph.

The TV cut abruptly from that last shot of Jake coughing blood onto the floor to a close-up of a news anchor whose lips were pursed in fake concern. Apparently we weren't going to get to see Cassie and James's crew kick the yeerks' butt today.

"Now," the news anchor said, "these are of course very serious allegations, but any possibility at all that the young man in question could have willingly perpetrated such..."

I lost the thread of what she was saying. Lost track of everything. The TV now was flickering, cutting to a different picture, and I didn't want to see what else they had, just hoped that my eyes would move away from the screen soon.

Jake suddenly blocked my view of the screen, moving into my personal space. He reached down and gently pried my hands apart.

Shuddering, my body pulled away from him. It was enough to remind me that I could move.

Moving awkwardly (my whole left hand was asleep), I shoved myself to my feet. Jake took a hasty step back. He was looking at me with an expression that was somewhere between horror and pity.

"Tom," he said softly.

I took another step away from him.

"We can figure this out." Jake stepped forward again. "I'll tell them right now that you're not—"

"Excuse me," I said. And then I turned and ran from the room.

I stumbled upstairs, shutting myself in the hall bathroom. It was the only room in the house that actually locked.

When I turned away from the door, my reflection stared back at me. It had that same wild, uncertain expression that had distorted the face Essa 412 had owned. Everything was the same, from the wide dark eyes darting and fixing in erratic patterns to the narrow mouth that trembled just slightly. If I wanted to, I could pull out Temrash 114's cold smirk. Or the cruel expression Visser Seventeen had worn while taunting Jake in the taxxon tunnels. It was all there. It was all me.

"I'm not a visser," I whispered out loud. "I just play one on television."

If this had been an episode of one of the TV dramas my mom wrote for, I would take this opportunity to smash the mirror. As it was, I had enough sense to refrain from doing that—but I did drop down to dig through the drawers under the sink, a much more practical goal in mind. A much better weapon. Not one of the crappy safety razors, not the electric one, but the long narrow straight razor Jake had inherited from our grandfather years ago. He kept it sharp, which worked well for my purposes.

Gripping the straight razor carefully in my right hand, I flattened my left on the counter.

The last two fingers of my left hand were long, narrow, smooth-skinned except for where the knuckles puckered into wrinkles. I had a scab on my ring finger where I'd caught it on a cabinet drawer the day before yesterday. My pinky curved slightly inwards even as I spread it away from my other fingers.

I wouldn't miss them that much.

I could still type with eight fingers, if I'd be a little slower at it. I could dribble a ball righty and shoot with both hands, and their absence wouldn't make much difference. If the impulse to get married ever struck me I could just stick the wedding band on my right hand.

It was the smallest injury I'd ever seen Visser Three execute a host for: losing two fingers from the non-dominant hand. Ax had done it, to stop the controller in question from shooting Cassie. He'd probably even thought at the time that he was using non-lethal tactics.

I ran my thumb along the razor edge. Sure enough, it was sharp enough to leave a narrow and painless cut behind. It would be fast.

I wouldn't miss them that much, but without those two fingers I'd be unfit. Uninhabitable. Unuseable.

Uninfested.

My right hand was shaking, just a little. That wouldn't matter—this wasn't a precision job. Had to try and get it done with one clean chop. The idea of having to saw at the tendons and bones turned my stomach over.

"Okay," I whispered. "Okay."

I took careful aim, raised the razor—and slammed it down with all my strength.

The pain was exquisite. It rocked me backwards, every nerve ending signing to life. It was so sharp, so consciousness-consuming, that I stopped breathing for several seconds. Black splodges threatened the edges of my vision.

Blood sprayed over the mirror, the sink, the linoleum. Drunk and dizzy and elated from its loss, I staggered back two steps and sat hard on the floor.

There were two small round shapes still lying on the countertop, bone showing through the broken ends. My stomach and lap were becoming soaked with the blood running steadily from my mutilated hand. I was seconds away from losing consciousness.

I closed my eyes and focused on the king cobra.

My entire body collapsed inwards on my spine, sucked into the ever-growing string of vertebrae as scales raced across my skin. The snake mind, when it surfaced, wanted to relax. Wanted to be calm and think things through. Wanted to lie around and consider my options and maybe hope some prey came along while we were waiting.

Before that idea could become too tempting, I reversed the morph.

When I demorphed, I did so far more slowly. I focused on my face as I knew it in the mirror. Focused on my current haircut. Focused on ten toes, eight fingers. Eight.

It should work in theory. Just as long as I pictured—

My left hand. Three fingers, two stumps. My body. How it was going to be from now on.

When I was done demorphing, I finally opened my eyes.

The blood was still there, but my left hand had completely healed itself. I looked down at the ring and pinky fingers I had just regrown—and then back up to the severed bone-shattered copies of them still lying on the counter.

"Shit," I said softly.

With a grimace of distaste, I stood up and swept the fingers I'd chopped off into the trash can. There was still blood all over everything, but that didn't matter. I was about to make even more of a mess.

I carefully raised the razor again, trying to imitate the exact angle I'd used last time. Knowing the pain was coming was worse now; I could feel bile trying to crawl up my throat. I took a deep breath, bracing myself, and aligned the razor.

"It's not gonna work."

I whipped around.

Jake was leaning against the door, which was still locked. Of course that hadn't been enough to keep him out.

I set the razor down on the edge of the sink, trying to look casual. "I just..."

Jake waited.

I didn't bother finishing my sentence. The bathroom already looked like a slaughterhouse. There wasn't really a legitimate way I could excuse that.

"So you were going to keep chopping fingers off until eventually they stayed gone?" Jake's voice wavered.

I felt a sick lurch. Those were tears I could hear in his voice. "More or less," I said.

Jake closed his eyes, making a visible effort to keep calm. "You seriously think you could keep that up?"

"You seriously think you could stop me?"

Jake swallowed, and then did it again. "Yeah. I probably could."

He was probably right, too. I didn't have an answer to that. I turned away, picking up the razor again.

Jake put two tentative fingers on my wrist to stop me. "If you do that over and over, eventually you're going to bleed to death."

"I'll make sure that doesn't happen." I swung my wrist out from under his hand, careful not to catch him with the blade. These hands had already done more than enough damage to his skin and bone.

Jake grabbed the razor by the bladed end. He hissed in pain—it had opened up a long cut on his palm—but still yanked it away from me. He folded it without cleaning it and stuck it in his pocket.

"Guess I could always become a nothlit instead," I said.

"You'd be better off dead."

I smiled, expression twisted. It probably made me look like Essa 412. "Did Tobias tell you that?"

"No," Jake said. "Arbron."

There was a silence. Jake pressed his uninjured hand against his palm to stop the blood flow, grimacing in pain.

"You should really just morph to fix that," I said wearily. "And while you're at it, piss off. Leave me alone."

"And here I thought you were done letting yeerks run your life," Jake spat. "My mistake."

"You shouldn't believe everything you hear on TV," I said, rather than answering him directly. "I never let yeerks do anything."

"That's not what I—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know." I pointed toward the door of the bathroom. "Piss off, would you? I've got this all under control."

Jake opened his mouth and then snapped it shut again. I could see him grinding his teeth together, trying to get his temper under control. Not my problem.

I was just so fucking tired. So... done.

"I don't want to lose you," Jake said at last. His voice was very tight. "I don't want to lose anyone ever again, and you're pretty damn high on the list of anyone. Is that so much to ask for?"

He was doing that thing again. That thing where he looked all wide-eyed and imploring—it so didn't help that he still had his hands clasped together—and next thing I knew I was telling him that of course he could tag along with me and my friends. Or that he didn't really have to give back the walkman he'd stolen from me over a month ago. Or that I had nothing better to do than spend an entire afternoon making yet another futile attempt to teach him a proper layup.

"You wouldn't think that would be too much to ask," Jake continued. "But apparently..." He looked away, pressing his lips together.

"I'm not going anywhere." I sighed, sitting on the edge of the sink. "I just..." I buried my face in my hands, sticky blood spreading everywhere. "What if they come back? You ever think about that? What if it happens again?"

"If it does, it'll take me about two months to kill them all."

I looked up at Jake.

He looked straight at me, unapologetic. "They know who I am, so there'd be no point in trying to hide or do it their way. I'd bring the fight to them. Hit them hard, right away, with the full strength of the U.N. peacekeeping force and the U.S. military, before they can get a foothold. The second they built a pool, I'd poison it. If they took hosts, we'd lock them up and starve the yeerks out. We could recruit the human and andalite governments right away. The offensive strategy would focus on preventing the establishment of yeerk pools, whereas the defensive strategy would be about using the U.S.'s missile-defense system and interstellar communications shutdown to create a safe zone for the human and hork-bajir forces. Using that system, we could probably turn back a force up to ten times the size of the ones the yeerks brought last time with minimal casualties. It'd be over in two months, tops, even assuming massive technological advances on their part."

"Then again," I said slowly, "maybe you've thought about this more than I have."

"What, you thought you cornered the market on wondering in the middle of the night whether this peace is permanent?" He smiled, the expression shaky.

"You seriously think that's how it would happen?" I asked. "That it would be that simple to win this time?"

"Remember the part where there are five billion of us and only about a hundred thousand of them?" He shrugged. "Of course, all of that is assuming they'd manage to get another invasion off the ground. The yeerks know we treat our prisoners of war a hell of a lot better than they treat theirs. Last time they figured out all on their own it was to their advantage to surrender. You seriously think the Council of Thirteen could muster enough popular support for another war?"

It all seemed so simple when he laid it out like that. And he would know better than I would how to defend the planet from yeerks.

"You seem very sure about this," I said at last.

"I'm freakin' betting my life on it," he said. "I'd better be."

I sighed.

"Look, can you please just come downstairs? Please?" He was giving me that stupid imploring look again. Manipulative little shit.

"I'm not going to do anything stupid," I mumbled. "Wouldn't work anyway. And yeah, you're right it would be letting them win."

"Great." He opened the door, smearing blood on the handle. "So unless you have to pee or something, there's no reason you can't just come back downstairs."

I rolled my eyes. "Okay, okay."

"Thanks."

"You should seriously do something about that hand," I said.

Jake looked at his palm. "It's not that bad. Anyway, do you have an excuse for Mom when she inevitably asks why there are enough bloody paper towels for an entire Satanic cult in the trash can?"

I opened my mouth, thought for a second, and shut it again. "Okay, but don't, like, bleed out," I said at last. I walked out of the bathroom, turning toward the stairs with a pointed look at Jake.

"This mess'll blow over," Jake said softly.

I snorted. "That a promise, midget?"

"Sure." Jake gave me one of those dangerous smiles. "And if it doesn't, I'll just have to do something about it."