A/N: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

(deep breath)

I'M BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK!

Ahem.

Read, review and above all, enjoy, everyone!

Disclaimer: Wicked is not mine.


For ten heart-stopping seconds, Elphaba could only stare in disbelief at the figure standing before her.

She knew that this couldn't be real: she couldn't have seen and heard what she'd just witnessed here; she had to be imagining things. After all, even if by some miracle Nessa really was still alive and sane in the parallel world, she couldn't possibly be real. Had she shown some sign of change, it might have been more believable – if she'd been old and scarred like the Mentor, or remade like the Empress or even completely unrecognizable like Shenshen/Pfannee.

But no, Nessa looked almost exactly as she had the last time Elphaba had seen her back at the governor's mansion: no signs of aging, no scarring, no changes in weight or build (none recognizable under those black robes, at any rate. It was as if she'd stepped out of Elphaba mind and into reality, a memory given life by poor lighting, mental fatigue and far too many head injuries.

She blinked, half-expecting Nessa to have vanished when she opened her eyes. But no, there she stood still, looking down at her with an exuberant smile and beaming with happiness. If anything, the sight only made things even more bewildering: quite apart from the strangeness of finding herself being looked down on by Nessa for a change, that smile hadn't been seen on the real Nessa's face in years; it was a relic of her days at Shiz, eroded to nothingness by years of disappointment and isolation. When they'd met again – for the last time – Nessa had manifested a ghost of the old smile the moment she'd found herself able to walk again, but in a matter of second, it had soured into a bitter, possessive snarl as she'd turned on Boq. This was a smile that couldn't possibly be real… and yet, here it was. It was too much to hope that she'd meet her sister again in this world in any form she could possibly recognize, but somehow, here she was.

I'm even sitting in her old wheelchair, Elphaba thought feverishly, as her fingers traced the edges of the chair. It's even got the same dents in the spokes on the left-hand side. Gods above, if I'm dreaming or hallucinating this, it's an amazingly detailed fantasy.

In the end, though, she had to ask:

"Are you real?" she whispered, scarcely daring to hope.

"Real as your reflection," said Nessa gently. "Real as a shadow. Real as an echo. You don't have to distrust your senses, Elphaba: I'm real. This isn't a dream, and it definitely isn't an illusion: you now look upon Nessarose Thropp, once Governor of Munchkinland, now Mistress of Mirrors."

"But… but I…"

Elphaba wanted to demand answers at that point: she wanted to know how Nessa hadn't aged a day in the last fifty years if she hadn't been Purified, how she'd managed to avoid being Purified with the Empress for a sister, how she'd become the Mistress of Mirrors, what had happened to her in all those decades spent her in this strange dark house.

But in that moment, Elphaba couldn't speak: her throat was clenched so tightly with emotion that it was a marvel she could even breathe. Somewhere in her mind, a tidal wave was slowly taking shape, ready to swamp her – all the grief and regret and guilt she'd felt over her sister's death ready to overwhelm her, no matter how many times she told herself this wasn't her sister.

This couldn't be her Nessa. She understood that: assuming that this vision of Nessarose was real and not just a phantom conjured up by her badly-traumatized brain, it still wasn't her. No, this could only be the Nessa native to this reality – Alphaba's sister, for all intents and purposes. Elphaba knew full well that there was no point getting emotional about this meeting, for the Nessa she'd known and loved was still in Oz, still dead and forever reviled as the Wicked Witch of the East. The woman standing before her was a complete stranger; pretending that she was anything other than that would be disrespectful to her and to the memory of Nessa, and it would probably make Elphaba even more miserable in the long run as well.

Elphaba knew this. And yet…

Something in the back of her mind was insistently hammering on buttons and demanding action, all the guilt over Nessa's death screaming for Elphaba to do something – no matter how irrational, how pointless or how pathetic. And there was something deeper than that – something echoing up from the same place as the dream-memories – something continuously insisting that the figure standing before her really was her sister. And in spite of her exhaustion, Elphaba actually found herself lurching out of the wheelchair and stumbling towards the apparition standing over her.

Naturally, her knees buckled under her on the second step; at the last moment before she toppled over, the Mistress of Mirrors caught her by the shoulder and helped her upright, gathering Elphaba's weakened body into a hug. And in that moment, Elphaba couldn't hold back the tide a moment longer: suddenly, she was in tears.

Somehow, she actually managed to stop herself from blubbering out anything that would have made her delusions more apparent. Instead, she simply stood there, supported by Nessa's astonishingly strong arms, crying into her shoulder. For her part, the Mistress of Mirrors simply held her and waited for the storm to past.

When it was all over and Elphaba could speak again, she found herself whispering "I missed you," before she could stop herself.

"I'm sorry," she said, after an embarrassed pause. "I know you're not her, and it's not fair for me to force you into her role, but I-"

"It's alright, Elphie. You cope with this in whatever way works best for you." The Mistress of Mirrors sighed. "Truth be told, I wasn't sure if I ever really wanted to reveal myself to you, not after all the stories I heard of your reality; I knew revealing myself would only hurt you, especially with your sister's death so fresh in your mind. For a while, I considered even keeping my identity a secret until you'd had time to come to terms with what happened to you back in Munchkinland, and just stay a silent partner of the Deviant Nations. But unfortunately, after you arrived here, there honestly wasn't much point in carrying on the masquerade."

"But how are you even here? How are you the Mistress of Mirrors? And if you aren't Purified, why haven't you aged at all in the last fifty years?"

"What makes you think I'm not Purified?"

Elphaba blinked, suddenly unable to think of the ice-cold chill forming at the pit of her stomach. "… I'm sorry, what?"

"You saw what happened to Fiyero, Elphaba; you know what the Empress does to those she loves in order to keep them close to her. I'm one of her most precious possessions left in the world: don't you think she'd go to any length to preserve who I am – or more accurately, who she thinks I am?"

Elphaba took in Nessa's beautiful face, looking for any of the telltale signs of the Purified. True, she seemed much more vital than she had during her days in Oz, and she seemed to move with a grace and fluidity she'd lacked as a younger woman. Even her eyes seemed brighter, her skin clearer than it had in the bad old days… but those signs were so subtle that it was almost impossible to compare her to Hayfelt and the other glaze-faced ghouls she'd met during her clashes with Unbridled Radiance.

"How is this even possible?" she demanded at last. "I mean, you're clearly not like the others: your skin actually looks like flesh, not porcelain; you're not smiling all the time, you can actually emote-"

"Yes," said the Mistress of Mirrors. "But then, I was a prototype design."

"Hang on… you're telling me that you were one of the first Purified?"

"No, no; Lizzel and the others had already been remade and shown off to the public by the time my sister earmarked me for greater things… but I was definitely one of the grandest attempts to further the initial design. Contrary to what the imperial subjects believe, Purification wasn't perfect from the moment it was first conceived of, nor has it remained unchanged in its many years of existence: it's undergone a great many revisions and upgrades over the decades, though of course the Empress and her mage-surgeons would never admit it. There've been a few failed attempts here and there, prototype methods that never produced the desired mental effects or malfunctioned too badly to be permitted in polite society – or even ended up killing the chosen one before they could be reborn. Most of them were consigned to oblivion along with all memory of Oz. I was different: in the end, my failure arrived not because the method was flawed, but because it was simply too ambitious to be replicated."

She offered a smile, at once amused and strangely nostalgic. "By that time, I'd already made a success of myself. I'd found a method of correcting the damage to my legs, and – with a little surgical assistance – I was already on my feet and walking under my own power within the month. I was researching magic, I was keeping myself busy, and I was happy. Then one day, my sister decided I had proved I was worthy of transcending 'base flesh.' It was all nonsense, of course, a pretext to ensure I could be made hers for all eternity before I grew old – or grew apart from her.

"Once she made all the necessary arrangements, she and a few loyal mage-surgeons enacted a procedure that would grant me immortality without having to replace my skin with flesh-porcelain or mechanically modify my internal organs: through spells of the Grimmerie, alchemical compounds were synthesized and intravenously fed into my body to enhance my physique and ensure my longevity, while a procession of specially-designed serums were pumped into my skull to enhance my brain to the standard of any Purified. And it worked… for the most part. However, once the project was finished, my sister found that no matter how hard she tried, she could never precisely recreate the formula she'd brewed that night. But then, you know all about how unpredictable the Grimmerie can be, don't you?"

"All too well," Elphaba sighed. "But whatever she did to you, it obviously didn't have the desired effect on your mind, did it?"

Nessa just smirked. "Let's just say I'd gotten wind of what was happening in advance, and I was able to make arrangements of my own. See, back in those days, loyalty wasn't an absolute guarantee among the mage surgeons, and with a little subtle influencing, I had my procedure sabotaged: I got my intellect enhanced, my reflexes sharpened and my senses heightened to glorious extremes… but I kept my free will. And here I am."

"And Alphaba didn't question that? She didn't make any investigations?"

"By that time, she had more important things to focus on: protest movements were starting to spring up in response to Purification, and my sister had her hands full keeping them suppressed while trying to enact the next stage of her plans. Next to all that, I barely rated a mention so long as I didn't stray too far from her side. Even in the wake of the Slamming Door, even after Oz fell and Unbridled Radiance and the Deviant Nations were born from the shattered remnants, I was left to my own devices. You see, I was making my way in the world as an independent magical researcher by then… which, incidentally, proved to be the perfect excuse to relocate to an isolated facility so I could continue my "studies." I've been that way ever since: so long as I remain in contact with the Empress and don't show any overt signs of rebellion, nobody bothers me – and nobody suspects that I'm actually the Mistress of Mirrors."

Elphaba took a deep breath. "I was going to ask about that: how did you somehow go from mild-mannered researcher to international information broker, and how did you gain all this power over mirrors and shadows?"

"One of the many benefits of living out in No-Man's Land: if you're brave enough to take risks and well-prepared enough for the hardships, you can find a lot of valuable materials scattered across the wastelands if you look long enough. The Pottery may be ruined and its membership dispersed far and wide, but their research lives on... and exposure to the mutating energies of so many colliding magical spells had only enhanced it further. I appropriated their resources and used it to further my own studies into shadowbinding and mirrormagic… and since I kept my findings to myself, nobody was able to follow me as I ascended; even the Empress doesn't fully understand the mechanics of my art. Eventually, I realized that my new powers had given me a means of accessing anyone or anything within reach of a reflection – or a shadow – and with the war still raging, there were people who'd be willing to pay a great deal for the kind of secrets I could offer. Thus, the Mistress of Mirrors was born."

"But if you're that powerful, why have you been staying neutral up until now? Why didn't you just throw your lot in with the Deviant Nations?"

For the first time since they'd met, a ripple of pain crossed Nessa's serene features. "Because that would have meant eventually being complicit in the death of my own sister," she whispered. "There are some things I cannot do, Elphaba: the Empress may be only a mockery of the woman she once was, but for all her insanity, she is still my sibling and I still love her."

"And? What makes things different this time? The Deviant Nations can only win this war if Alphaba's dead. You know that just as well as I do."

"Perhaps so. But this time, it'll be you who finally bring this war to an end: as painful as it is to admit, if my sister has to die, I'd much rather it'd be at the hands of the woman she once was than anyone else. There be justice in that, a sincere answering for the betrayals and atrocities she's committed over the course of her long life – better than Branderstove's vengeance or the Mentor's desire to end the war at any cost. And," she added thoughtfully, "Perhaps you can accomplish the impossible…"

"What do you mean?"

"You have the Grimmerie, Elphaba; even with all her experience with it, there are still some things that the Mentor can't do. But with your instinctive grasp of the Grimmerie's magical language… perhaps my sister doesn't have to die after all…"

Elphaba was halfway through opening her mouth to ask what she meant by this, when there was a sharp ringing from the corner of the room – courtesy of a small mirror-golem armed with a small bell. Next thing she knew, Nessa was lowering her back into the wheelchair, cutting short any further attempts at discussion.

"That's another matter for another day," she said loudly. "I think it's time you got some much-needed rest and allowed those much-abused muscles of yours some time to recover." She tutted disapprovingly as her hand strayed to the tiny jagged crystals protruding from Elphaba's back. "And you need to take better care of that crystal growth, by the way; if you really must be taking that stuff, I'd at least give some time for the bleeding to stop before throwing yourself back into the fray."

"Gods almighty, you really are determined to mother me, aren't you?"

"For as long as you're in my care, yes," said Nessa with a grin. "I love what you've done to your hair, by the way."

"Thanks."

"Now, off to bed with you: when you wake up, I'll have an escort ready to send you back to Greenspectre, and then our collaboration can begin in earnest. This is where the war changes course, Elphaba: grand things are happening! You wait and see…"

As the mirror golem began pushing the wheelchair away, a thought struck Elphaba, and she voiced it almost without thinking: "By the way, what about the survivors of the attack? What happened to Dorothy and the others?"

Nessa frowned. "After the attack on the fleet began, I couldn't get a clear reading on what was happening: no proper reflections, shadows disrupted, too much noise to capture the echoes… and in the last couple of days since then, I've been too preoccupied with your treatment to seek out the news elsewhere. I'll catch up on the latest information while you're resting, but I wouldn't worry if I were you: Dorothy was in a fully-armoured escape pod, if you recall, and by now, rescue efforts are probably already underway…"


Dolls had no past. By nature, they weren't troubled by memories of their lives before transformation, or curiosity for what they might once have been. As far as they knew, they were dolls and always had been.

Dolls had no future – or at least, no conscious thoughts of it. They couldn't imagine any life beyond their "mother's" side, or doing anything other than pleasing her in whatever manner she desired. As far as they were concerned, they would be the Hellion's beloveds until the last star fell from the sky.

So, when the Hellion's newest doll sat up and opened her eyes, she wasn't troubled.

On some vague and distant level, she knew that she was slightly different than the others: she hadn't been given a hook on the wall, her stuffing hadn't gone soft and fluffy yet, and her face wasn't smooth porcelain like her brothers and sisters'… but what did it matter? She was safe, nestled in mother's bed and treasured for all eternity. Mother loved her no matter what she looked like. That was more than enough for her.

After all, hadn't she been given nice clothes? Hadn't she'd been given the makeup? She could see herself in the shards of mirror set into the blackened wood of the bedhead: she could see the red and black silk layering her body, the silken hood masking her hair; she could see the greasepaint masking her face, the deep crimson lipstick extending her smile, the pitch-black shadow accentuating her eyes.

Mother had made her pretty.

Mother loved her.

And yet…

What was that noise from down the hall? What was that sound of banging and crashing echoing though the tunnels? And why were all her brothers and sisters edging away from it?

"No, no, no, no…NOT right, not right, not right…"

Trembling, the newest doll slid gingerly off the bed and crept to the doorway to listen closer. She could tell at once that this was not the sound of a battle in progress, otherwise mother would have summoned every single doll in the caverns to her side. No, this was something much different, and in many ways, far worse: mother was upset.

Even from here, the doll could feel mother's anger and grief rippling through their cobweb of connections, oozing from her in sickly waves of heat. Something had upset her, something had made her sad and angry and lonely beyond all measure, and everything about it cried out for a doll to cuddle it all away.

The doll had not been summoned along the cobweb, nor had mother called her to her side. But in the end, she was one of her toys: she'd been made to comfort and care for mother as much as mother comforted and cared for her and all her brothers and sisters. So, she left her place at the doorway and crept out to find her, intent on soothing mother's pain.

For several minutes, she slunk through the tunnels, until at last she emerged from the maze of corridors into one of the trophy rooms. There, mother hovered five feet above the ground, wreaking havoc among the pretty things she'd taken from the other playgrounds across the world: clothing was torn, armour was shredded into rusty shrapnel, guns were snapped in half, furniture was smashed to splinters; when nothing else was in reach, mother simply hammered at bare rock, pounding and pummelling the stone floor with her bare fists until every surface in the room was layered with bloody craters.

"I have her at last,"mother bellowed. "I got everything Iwanted. The sweet, sad little doll is MINE. Then why am I not happy?! Why is something still wrong? What have I not done to MAKE things right? I have everything I want, so why can't I be happy?! WHY IS EVERYTHING WRONG?!"

With a howl of rage, mother sent her wrath billowing out across the cavern, a hundred thousand tendrils of boiling ectoplasm lashing the walls and carving massive trenches in the stone. The air turned so cold that the stalagmites shattered like glass, the rock turned molten and reached out for nothing with a million tiny grasping claws, vines reached down from the void to strangle the hands, and fire burned so hot that even solid rock burst into flames long before it started to melt.

And when at last the tempest subsided, mother sat in the wreckage of the trophy room, all six hands clutching her head as if something within threatened to explode out of it.

"SHE IS MINE now," she snarled. "Her old mind is already gone. All I have to do is make her PERFECT. Make her PERMANENT. I could do it now, if I wanted. One touch, and all the aging,all the death, all the loss goes away FOREVER. I want her that way, I want her forever, I want her immortal.But I can't… or won't. I want her but I don't! I don't want her a pure doll, BUT I DO!Why can't I just be happy?Everyone should be happy: the Green Girl has her shoes and her last toy is free; the Empress is without a foe for now; the Fat Squid will get his revenge; the Mentor even has her little toy soldier ready to return! I have all I want, SO WHY AM I NOT HAPPY?What is wrong with me? I should be able to be happy whenever I want! What the Hellion wants, the Hellion takes! WHY AM I NOT HAPPY?!"

A deafening pause followed the tirade, as the echoes slowly died away. And in that silence, mother began to cry, boiling tears coursing down the length of her face like rivulets of molten lead.

Something in the back of the doll's head sparked vaguely at the words that mother had spoken, but they were little more than faint motes of light in the gloom, instantly swallowed by the gloom and smothered. For now, all the doll knew was that her mother was deeply upset and in need of comforting.

"Mother?" she whispered. "What's wrong?

Instantly, the sound of weeping ceased. "Oh, nothing, MY sweet little doll. Mother's just tired. Nothing to worry about."

"Was it something I did?"

The doll had no idea why she said this and no idea how the tirade could have been her fault, but something in the back of her mind insisted it was so – that it was the only logical reason, in fact. And at once, the sense of guilt was overpowering: the thought alone that she could be responsible for her mother's anger filled her with such a sense of despair and self-loathing that it was all the doll could do not to start tearing at her own face.

"Is it my fault?" she asked again, unable to hide the fear in her voice. "Am I the reason you're so upset? Did I do something wrong?"

For a moment, she was almost in tears. Then mother's first row of arms slowly closed in around her, gathering her into a warm embrace. "No, no, sweet little DOLL. Mother could never be mad at you, my sweet. You MAKE everything better, my darling. Nothing in the world is wrongwhen you're by my side."

Immediately, the doll was at peace. Everything would be alright, so long as mother loved her; no matter what happened, all would be right with the world: everyone knew mother loved her little dolls and always would, no matter how her mood warped and shifted, no matter how many bodies lay dead at her feet, no matter what visions of the truth tore through her mind.

No matter what happened, the doll would always belong to mother.

She would be hers long after all the armies of the world had laid down their arms, after the forests and grasslands withered away into trackless desert, after the cities of the Deviant Nations and Unbridled Radiance had gone silent and still. She would be hers long after humans ceased to walk upright and slunk into mindlessness on all fours, long after life itself faded from the world and the stars began to vanish from the sky. In the end, the Hellion and all her dolls would be playing together until the moment the universe winked out and receded into endless night – and even then, when all life had ceased, mother and her dolls would live on in perpetual slumber, her beloved companions nestled safe in her arms.

Forever.


A/N: Up next... just guess! :) Feel free to furnish me with your theories on what might happen, ladies and gents! I am back and I am powered by speculation!