Title/Prompt: Kill
Rating/Warnings: R; violence, murder, character death.
Word count: 5417
Summary: Linka has left Blight with nothing to lose. Blight intends on leaving Linka in the same position.
Notes: Unbeta'd. Apparently this is how I spend my Saturdays now? Writing horrific Cap fic :p IDK. I have no idea where this came from, but I have just read The Hunger Games, so I guess I'll blame that for the subject matter. Please pay attention to the above warnings! This is possibly part of a multi-series, but IDK. I'll label each appropriate chapter if I ever revisit this 'verse.
This is set after a really early Blight episode, the name of which currently escapes me. Remember Linka programming MAL so he was "friendly" again, rather than Blight's creation? This is set shortly after that. The Planeteers haven't been together very long in this fic.
Bad things are going to happen.
Kwame knows, as soon as he wakes, that bad things are going to happen. It's more than the throbbing in his head and the sharp taste in his dry mouth. It's in the way his flesh has tightened and it's in the metallic feel of the air in his lungs.
He sits up, looking around immediately for his friends. He and Linka appear to be the only ones there, and he can remember now; can remember lunging for her as the metal claw fell from the sky and snapped around her, hauling her up to Blight's aircraft.
He checks the bruising on his arm, but the claw hasn't seemed to have done much other damage. He can't remember how he came to be unconscious, or why there is such a horrible taste in his mouth, but he decides to focus on one problem at a time.
Linka is out cold. He leans over her and pats her cheek gently, whispering urgently that she needs to wake up, but she doesn't stir.
He sits beside her and takes a look around. The room is cold and bare, white and well-lit. One wall is glass, like a huge, square window, but a curtain is drawn across the other side and Kwame can't see beyond it.
There is only one door, and when he tries it, it leads into a small bathroom with a toilet, sink, and a shower-head above a drain in the tile floor.
He thinks to check his finger, and his ring is gone.
He presses his mouth into a thin line and leans against the cold wall beside Linka's slumped body. He checks her breathing and keeps one hand just below her shoulder, so he can feel her warmth and be reassured that her chest is still rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
No sound can be heard but her breathing. Nobody comes for them. No voices call out or float through the air on golden beams of Heart.
Blight does not make an appearance, though Kwame knows she must be there somewhere.
Bad things are going to happen.
It takes much longer for Linka to wake. Kwame sits silently beside her, worried about what Blight has done.
When he concentrates, he can vaguely remember Blight leaning over him, furious, a syringe in her clenched fist.
He checks his arms but he can't see or feel where she may have injected him with anything.
He leans over Linka when she stirs. "Linka?"
She mumbles something soft and incoherent – maybe something in Russian, he can't be sure. He thinks she probably got a bigger dose of whatever drug Blight had in her hand.
He helps her sit up, but she sags against him, blinking in the bright white light of the room.
"Where are we?" she asks. She rubs a hand over her face and shivers.
"I am not sure," Kwame admits. His voice has a strange echo in here. It puts him on edge.
"Where are the others?" Linka checks for her ring, and her hands fall to her lap when she discovers it gone.
"I am not sure of that, either."
Linka tries to sit up, but sags back against the wall again. Kwame puts a steadying hand on her arm. "Are you all right?"
"Just light-headed." She frowns.
Kwame gets to his feet and paces the room.
"Is the door locked?" Linka asks.
Kwame swings it open, revealing the tiny bathroom. "No."
He looks around again, but that door appears to be the only way in or out of the little box he and Linka are in. He can reach up and touch the ceiling easily, but it feels as though it's made of smooth, glossy stone, rather than any sort of plaster or render. It offers no give – only resistance.
"Is it Blight?" Linka asks. "I do not remember."
"I think so," Kwame says. But then he admits, "I do not remember much either."
Linka watches him carefully for a moment. "How is your arm?"
He sits beside her again. "A little bruised. But I am all right."
Linka glances at him again, and then to the floor. "Thank you for trying to pull me back down," she says. "You should not have done that."
"I had to try something," Kwame says in surprise. "The others were all ahead of us. That thing dropped from the sky right on top of you."
Linka pulls her knees up to her chest. "I am sure she was only aiming for me," she says.
Kwame thinks so too. "Because of what you did to her computer?" he asks.
Linka rests her cheek against her knee and looks at him. "Da, I think so," she agrees. "I have never seen a program that advanced before."
"But you were able to destroy it," Kwame said.
"Not destroy," Linka says, sounding surprised. "I did not want to destroy him. He was a work of art." Worry lines crease her brow. "I just changed him into something nicer. Something friendly."
"Perhaps that was worse," Kwame says, sure Blight hated whatever Linka did to her precious computer program. To MAL.
They sit in silence for a while, waiting. There are no sounds, and the air in the room is cold. The curtain hangs heavy and still on the other side of the glass, and Kwame can feel a tight, hot knot of worry and apprehension in his stomach whenever he looks at it.
Linka gets to her feet, shakily, and heads for the bathroom, where she splashes cold water on her face and sips from the faucet. "Are you hurt?" she asks after a moment. "Did she drug you, too?"
"I am all right," Kwame assures her. "I felt a little sick after waking up, but I am fine now. It wears off."
"I hope so," Linka says, sinking down beside him again. Her hair is damp around her face. After a moment, she leans against Kwame's arm closes her eyes.
He's worried about her reaction to the drug. He still has an odd taste in his mouth, but the dizziness has worn off. Linka looks pale and shaky.
Kwame knows he's not supposed to be here. Whatever Blight has planned, it is meant for Linka only. He is just an inconvenient extra.
Kwame thinks Linka is growing irritated with his questions, but his own anxiety won't rest unless she answers them convincingly.
"Are you still dizzy?" he asks.
"It is wearing off," she insists. "I am feeling better. My head is not spinning so much now."
He watches her face carefully. She does seem to have some colour back in her skin, and her eyes are able to focus again.
Part of his anxiety is coming from waiting. Blight has not made an appearance, and it's setting Kwame's nerves on edge.
"What do you think she wants?" he asks Linka.
"Revenge."
She doesn't seem nearly as scared as he feels. His experiences as a Planeteer so far have been dangerous, and he and his friends have escaped death by the narrowest of margins several times already.
He is not used to this sort of danger. Not this immediacy, this action. The biggest threats in Kwame's life so far have been things like disease, famine, and thirst. All of which are much slower than the villains he is becoming increasingly familiar with.
He feels ill-prepared for dealing with things like abduction, drugs, and computer programs. He is ill-prepared to deal with things like revenge, the concept of which still seems utterly alien to him.
"I do not understand the way her mind works," he admits in a low voice. "Blight."
Linka curls into herself again, drawing her legs up and hugging her knees. "I do not understand her, either," she says. "She is very unpredictable."
"That makes her dangerous."
Linka nods in agreement.
Talking seems to be the best way to distract himself from having no real answers. "Where did you learn to use a computer?" he asks.
Before the Planeteers, he had no concept of such technology. He had heard things about what the world was like outside his little village, but he'd had other things to focus on. Medicine. Food. Water. Fuel.
"My uncle worked for the government," Linka says. "He was rich. He had computers. My cousin Boris and I – we used to..." She frowns, and her voice falters for a moment. "They live in America now."
Kwame has never had the impression that Linka has come from a background with money. He has recognised the same hardness in her eyes that he has – that even Wheeler has, occasionally. The same sense of struggle and loss; the scars of survival and hardship.
He can only imagine how hard it would be to have a relative with excess, only to have them move away and leave you with your own poverty. Her life must have changed at that moment, and not for the better.
He suddenly understands Linka a little more. He sees exactly why she's so careful to keep distance between herself and others, even if she manages to do so in a playful sort of way.
Sometimes it's better, relying on only yourself. Even if it does mean you're lonely.
Blight's appearance is almost anti-climatic. She steps between the glass and the curtain, wearing a pink jumpsuit and a cold expression.
Kwame and Linka both get to their feet.
"Comfortable?" Blight asks. Her voice is thin and slightly distorted through the glass.
"Your hospitality could use some work," Linka says irritably.
Kwame has to admire her in moments like this. Her humour is as sharp as her fury.
Blight glances to him. "You weren't invited," she says.
He shrugs, not sure what to say. He likes a bad joke as much as anyone, but uttering one now seems impossible. He tightens his fist, feeling the muscles in his bruised arm move with protest.
"Never mind," Blight says, dismissing him easily. "A guest won't matter." She narrows her one good, visible eye at Linka. "But this party is for you, blondie."
"I am honoured," Linka says, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
Blight seems mildly amused by Linka's bravery. "What you did to MAL," she says. "That was unforgivable."
"What you did to him was unforgivable," Linka shoots back. "You turned him into something malicious."
"I did not turn him into anything," Blight snaps. Her eye glitters dangerously. "He was mine. Built from the ground up. And you destroyed my years – my lifetime – of work in a measly few minutes."
Linka merely folds her arms across her chest and matches Blight's glare.
Kwame's heart is beating heavily. His palms are slick with sweat and that feeling of terrible apprehension his upon him again.
Bad things are going to happen.
"What do you want?" he asks suddenly, his voice sounding unnaturally loud in the small, shiny room. "Our friends are looking for us, and when they –"
Blight waves her hand, apparently unconcerned. "They'll find you," she says. "Eventually. But that's all right. I only need a few minutes."
She traces a gloved finger lightly over the glass. "MAL was the most precious thing in my life," she says. "My creation. My friend. My confidante. And you destroyed him in one fell swoop." She fixes a burning stare on Linka. "You will pay."
"I'm not afraid of you," Linka says, her fists clenched at her sides.
"You should be," Blight says. "You left me with nothing to lose." She steps back and seizes the edge of the curtain in her fingers. "How would you feel, I wonder, if someone took away the most precious thing in your life?"
Kwame glances to Linka, nervously, just in time to see her bravado falter a little.
Blight paces alongside the window, drawing the curtain back.
Linka lets out a gasp of horror and springs forward, palms against the glass, her breath fogging on its surface. "Mishka!" she shrieks.
The man on the opposite side of the glass lifts his head at the sound of her voice, though he still looks sluggish. His blond hair is a couple of shades darker than Linka's, but there is no mistaking the resemblance. Kwame knows he's looking at Linka's brother, and the realisation sends a new chill down his spine.
"Let him go!" Linka demands, and the panic in her voice is obvious. She cries out to her brother again. "Mishka!"
He seems disoriented and slow, but he says something in Russian that has a sense of urgency and fear to it.
Linka answers him in kind, her face white, hands flat against the glass.
Kwame doesn't know what to do. He doesn't think there is anything he can do. And he doesn't know what Blight is truly capable of doing.
His gut instinct is that she has no limit, and that frightens him more than anything.
Linka tracks back and forth in front of the glass like a caged animal, her hands leaving sweat-prints and streaks. "Let him go!" she says to Blight. "Please let him go."
Blight doesn't answer her.
Linka and Kwame both watch helplessly as Mishka is hung from his wrists in the middle of the room. The toes of his boots, still caked with mud, graze the shiny white floor.
Linka's face is pale and tear-streaked, and Kwame can hear her breath, sharp and panicked. She cries out in Russian, hammering her fists hard against the glass, which doesn't even rattle under her assault.
"Do not hurt him!" she screams, her breath fogging. She steps aside again to see through a clear part of the glass, her eyes wide and rimmed with tears. "Please, I will do anything. I will do anything, just do not hurt him!"
Kwame feels as though he should be adding his pleas to Linka's, but his throat has frozen up. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know what is going to happen, but he knows it will be bad. He steps forward, his muscles tense and heavy, and slams a hard kick into the glass.
He feels the impact recoil up his leg, but he grits his teeth and does it again.
Linka hastens to join him, her breath hiccuping and stuttering with the effort, with her tears and her fright.
Blight only looks amused.
The glass will not give. Kwame realises it must be thick, or reinforced, or both. His leg hurts and the glass hasn't even moved within its fixtures.
Linka doesn't stop. She kicks and hammers on the glass desperately, sobbing. "Let him go!" she screams at Blight. "Do not hurt him! Let him go!"
"Our friends will be here any moment!" Kwame blurts. "Do not do anything rash, Dr. Blight."
Blight only laughs at him. She opens the switch-blade knife in her hands and Linka screams again.
Her pleading is entirely in Russian now. Sometimes Mishka answers her, his voice calmer, stronger, but his face just as pale as hers.
Kwame knows, seconds before it happens, that he is about to see a man die. He tries to grab Linka, to shield her from it, but she darts away from him, her breath sobbing out of her, tears streaming down her face.
Blight slits Mishka's throat wide. She is sprayed crimson with blood.
Linka screams so loudly her voice ruptures. She sinks to her knees, croaking, sobbing, her hands curling to fists against the cold glass.
Mishka twitches against the ropes holding him up. His boots kick and slide on the floor and his mouth opens and closes desperately before he stills, blood still spilling down the front of his shirt onto the floor.
Kwame grabs Linka and drags her back to the far wall, but there is no curtain to shield Mishka's body from view. He is still swinging from the ropes and the pool of blood at his feet seems impossibly large and dark.
"Linka," Kwame whispers. Bile is at the back of his throat.
Linka is unable to hold it back. She vomits helplessly onto the floor, sobbing and groaning. "Mishka," she wails. "Mishka..."
Kwame pulls her into the corner and wraps his arms tightly around her, holding one hand against her head so her face is pressed into his shoulder.
She struggles for a moment, but then collapses against him, sobbing, her hands shaking violently.
He holds onto her tightly, staring back at Mishka's bloody body in horror.
Hours and hours pass, but it does not grow dark. The lights are unrelenting. Mishka's body hangs still and white in the next room. The blood on the floor has thickened and darkened. It has dried to a deep brown down the front of Mishka's shirt.
Blight's boot prints are blood smudges to a door in the wall. She has not returned.
Kwame has attempted to clean up the pool of vomit in the small room he and Linka share, using rolls of toilet paper, the shower and the drain. There are no towels or blankets, and he's getting stiff and cold from sitting in the bare, hard room for so long.
Linka's eyes are wide, and have not strayed from Mishka's body since she finally pulled herself out of Kwame's arms. She sits with her legs out in front of her, her hands in her lap, and she stares at her dead brother silently.
Now and then she twitches or shudders from the remnants of a sob, too exhausted or too deep in shock to truly let it out.
Kwame has searched relentlessly for a way out of the room, but he can't find one. He's unsure how Blight got them in there. He feels hungry, tired and shaky. His stomach is rolling with panic and what he supposes is grief.
He sinks down beside Linka again, not sure what to say.
When he was young – six summers old, perhaps – Kwame's father died on a hunting trip for the village. He had not understood at first, though death was by no means unknown to him at that age. But his father had been so strong, so well-liked and so kind, Kwame had always thought him untouchable.
And he was, when it came to the things that struck so many others down. He always brought food home, he knew where to find firewood, how to track animals to water. But there were some things that just couldn't be prevented or avoided, and accidental deaths were not uncommon on hunting trips.
When Kwame had finally realised he had lost his father to the great void of death and unknown, he had been inconsolable. His mother had pulled her into her arms and wrapped them both in blankets which still smelled of his father, and had hummed quietly, rocking him back and forth soothingly.
Kwame thinks the same gesture, the same comfort, is too little in this situation. But he doesn't know what else to do, so he wraps his arms around Linka tightly and holds her close until he feels her slowly curl into him, turning her head away from the gory scene on the other side of the glass.
"It is not real," Linka says. Her voice is croaky and rough.
Kwame tightens his hold on her.
"It cannot be real," she says, starting to weep. "That is not him."
He decides to indulge her, because he can't see how the truth will help right now, when she already knows that of course it's real; of course it's Mishka hanging there. Dead.
"The others will find us soon," he says soothingly, keeping his voice low and close to her ear. "They will get us out of here and then everything will be all right."
She nods in relief, finally closing her eyes. She slumps against him and curls her legs up, holding tight to his t-shirt.
He cannot imagine the grief she is feeling. Kwame's mother lasted only a couple of years after his father, and that loss still seems indescribable to him. His throat tightens, just thinking about it.
He cannot imagine forming a bond like a brother and sister must share, to be best friends and family all in one package, only to have them so violently taken, right in front of you.
"It is my fault," Linka whispers helplessly. "She did it because I destroyed her program." She starts to cry again, though it lacks her earlier panicked energy.
Kwame holds her tightly, stroking her hair, soft beneath his fingertips. "This is not your fault," he says, with as much conviction as he can possibly muster. "Of course this is not your fault."
Eventually, Linka dozes off, too weakened and distraught to keep herself alert any longer.
But sleep doesn't come to find Kwame. He holds her tightly and stares at the pool of blood on the other side of the glass.
Linka seems to be treating the whole thing as some sort of nightmare. She seems better when Kwame positions himself between her and the glass window, so she can't see Mishka's body unless she lifts her head.
She keeps her head down. "Where are the others?" she asks desperately.
"They will be here soon," Kwame promises, though he has no idea. For all he knows, he and Linka could just slowly waste away in this room, never to be rescued, forced to stare upon Mishka's body for the rest of their lives.
She seems desperate for conversation, for noise and distraction. "Do you have a brother, Kwame?"
"No," he answers. He watches her eyes close. "My parents died when I was young," he adds. "There were no other children close to my age in our village."
"That must have been lonely."
"There was too much to be done to dwell on loneliness," he says.
Lines crease Linka's brow. "No matter how hard he works," she whispers, "Mishka always makes time for me."
Kwame starts the repetitive action of stroking his fingers through her hair again, to comfort himself as much as trying to comfort her.
"He works in the mines," Linka adds quietly. "Everyone loves Mishka. He reminds everyone of our father. I was always afraid Mishka would die down there..." She swallows hard.
Kwame doesn't know what to do. Doesn't know what to say. He pulls her close so her breath is warm and soft against his throat, and he holds tightly to her so she can't see Mishka's body, which is still hanging so still and bloody behind him.
They are alerted to their rescue by Gi screaming.
Kwame keeps his arms around Linka, but she's crying again as her eyes fall upon Mishka.
Wheeler finds the switch that slides the glass panel aside. The metallic smell of blood rushes into the room as soon as the window opens.
Wheeler looks as though he's about to be sick. "You okay?" he asks, frantically.
Linka shudders and grips tight to Kwame's hand. "I want to go home."
"Who is that?" Ma-Ti has tears streaming down his face.
"It is Mishka," Kwame says quietly. He hugs Linka tightly and then passes her into Wheeler's arms, gently. "We need to take him home."
He supposes they should call the police. But he's not sure what good it will do, and he's certain getting Linka out of here is the best thing to do now. He quietly requests help from Ma-Ti, who wipes his eyes on the back of his hand and then nods, steeling himself.
They cut Mishka's body down gently, though he is stiff, and still crusted with blood. Gi pulls the curtain down off the wall and they wrap Mishka's body in it as gently as they can.
Kwame catches Linka's eye as they prepare to leave. He lifts Mishka's packaged body carefully, with Ma-Ti's help. Linka's eyes focus on the floor, and she keeps her head down as they leave.
Gi takes control of the geo-cruiser and sets coordinates for Linka's home town. Ma-Ti sits beside her and occasionally reaches out to pat her shoulder comfortingly.
Kwame sits at the back of the geo-cruiser and tries to clean Mishka up a little. He closes Mishka's eyes and bathes the blood from his face and his hair.
It takes Wheeler's help to get Mishka's arms down at his sides, but after so long the body has started to soften again, and they manage it with some effort.
Linka curls into a seat behind Gi and sobs quietly, her hands over her face.
Kwame hates the cold, but he braves it without question when he sees Linka standing by the gate of her family home, in the shadows, with no coat on.
He wraps a coat around her shoulders, but she doesn't turn. Her eyes are fixed on the moving line of flashlights and helmet lamps moving down the road. Miners returning home.
"He is not coming," she says. Her voice is almost completely stolen by the cruel, icy wind slicing across the bare, frozen ground.
"I am so sorry, Linka," he says quietly. He takes her hand in the dark. Her fingers must be numb, she's so cold. "Blight will not get away with it."
"I do not care," Linka says, staring at the lights ahead, her voice wooden. "It does not matter. Mishka is gone. Nothing will bring him home again."
Kwame squeezes her hand. "Come inside," he pleads. "It is so cold out here."
"It feels good," Linka says, sounding as numb and frozen as Kwame feels. "I do not want to go in."
"Please," he says, tugging her gently. "Your grandmother is worried about you."
That brings her in. Kwame feels relief. He's not sure what Linka will do next – not sure she will want to come back to Hope Island. Arrangements have been made for her grandmother to go to America, to stay with Linka's uncle Dimitri and cousin Boris, but Linka has already said she doesn't want to go.
"You okay, babe?" Wheeler asks, looking pale and exhausted in the yellow light of the kitchen.
"Nyet," Linka answers. She disappears into Mishka's old bedroom and shuts the door.
"Stupid question, I guess," Wheeler mutters, looking down at his hands.
"What about you, Kwame?" Ma-Ti asks softly.
Kwame almost jumps. "What?"
"You saw it too," Gi reminds him gently. "Are you all right?"
"Oh," he says. "Yes."
But of course he's not. Not all right at all.
"Kwame!"
He wakes with a start, and for a moment his heart jumps crazily because he thinks he's covered in blood, until he remembers the shreds of a nightmare. It is only sweat on his skin.
Gi bursts into his hut then, and he connects his waking with her crying his name. "Kwame," she says desperately. "Come quick. It's Linka. I don't know what to do."
Gi is crying, and Kwame takes her hand and squeezes it, forcing his own fear and nightmares back, swallowing hard. He can hear Linka sobbing long before they reach her.
The jungle on Hope Island hums with insects and the night calls of birds, and the waves on the beach wash in and out, but nothing is drowning out Linka's panic.
He sits beside her and wraps his arms tight around her again, but she shudders and struggles, feeling hot and damp in his arms.
"It was just a nightmare, Linka," Gi says, and her voice cracks.
Kwame gives her the bravest smile he can possibly muster. "It is all right, Gi. Go to sleep. We will be all right."
"Are you sure?" she asks in a small voice.
"I promise." He feels like he's telling an awful lot of people this lately, and it's a lie every time.
Gi closes Linka's door gently, and Kwame pulls the blankets up around Linka and himself, despite the sticky heat of the night and the sweat still clinging to his skin.
He cocoons her inside the sheets with him and takes her face in his hands, stroking hot tears away with his thumbs.
"He was so frightened," Linka chokes. "He must have been so frightened."
He can't lie any more. "Yes," he agrees quietly, his face close to hers in their dark tent of bedding. "We were all frightened."
"It is all my fault," she wails. "I killed him."
"No," Kwame says firmly. "No, Linka."
It is exhaustion which forces her to calm down eventually. Her breath slows and her fingers curl against the front of Kwame's chest.
"I do not know what to say," he admits quietly, stroking her hair back off her damp forehead. "I wish I could make things all right, Linka."
"It will never be all right," she croaks. "Not this time."
She burrows into him, her breath hot on his skin.
"Blight got away," she says after a moment. "Mishka is buried. Mishka is dead, and Blight is still out there."
"She will not get away with it," Kwame vows. He feels that this part is his fault, that it was his decision to get Mishka's body – and Linka – out of Blight's little prison that led to the new reality of Blight probably escaping charges.
"I do not know what to do," Linka says miserably. "In my nightmares I see it over and over. In my nightmares she comes for us next."
"I know," Kwame whispers. He doesn't want to have to tell her Gi woke him just before Blight's knife sliced his own throat.
"The others are trying to understand, but they cannot," she says, her voice muffled against his shoulder. "They cannot possibly understand."
"They're worried," Kwame says. "They're not trying to understand, Linka, they're just not sure what to do."
"Neither am I," Linka says in a small voice. "I feel as though I should be tracking Blight down. That I should be bringing her to justice."
Kwame shifts so he can stroke her hair again. "What would Mishka want you to do?"
She blinks her wet lashes against his throat. "I have tried to think about it. I am not sure what he would want."
"I am sure he would want you happy," Kwame whispers. "I am sure he would not want you miserable and trying to think of revenge."
"I miss him so much," Linka weeps. "She killed him because of something I did."
"She will not get away with it," Kwame promises. "But our idea of justice is unlike hers. And it will take time."
Linka nods tiredly.
"Go to sleep," he urges quietly. He keeps the blankets around them, despite it being so hot it's almost unbearable. The comfort they crave comes from closeness, not from warmth, but the tent of bedding over them shelters them from everything else and makes them feel safe.
"Please stay," Linka whispers.
He kisses her brow in response. He wants to tell her things will look better in the morning, but it will only feel like another lie. He wants to tell her things will be all right, but he's not sure of that either.
"I have the same nightmares," he says eventually. He figures that's as close to understanding as he'll ever get.
Linka's eyes flutter closed, and her fingers close around his wrist, seeking his pulse. "Will you help me find her?" she asks.
"Yes," he answers, without hesitation. He kisses her brow again. "Of course we will."