The Land of What-Might-Have-Been

by Straightjacketed

After spending so many years wishing that things had been different, what happens when, halfway through their final meeting, Elphaba and Glinda find themselves unexpectedly plunged into the worst of all possible worlds? AU.

27. Awake At Last

A/N: At long last, the latest chapter. I'm really sorry it's so late, everyone: work, study and it's aftermath haven't been very kind to me over the last few months - in the same sense that the iceberg wasn't kind to the Titanic. Hopefully, now that I'm on break, I'll be able to find more time to write. I'd just like to thank everyone who's still reading this monolith of a story: your loyalty, your reviews, favourites and followings are what keep me going. Plus, to all of you who've been waiting for a chapter set in the real world, rejoice! After way too much time spent in all-dream chapters, we're back in the real world again after a fashion, and I'll be doing my best to use all-dream chapters sparingly from now on. Hopefully, I'll be able to make up for all the lost time through November and December. But just before we begin, I'd like to extend congratulations and comments more to the reviewers - and once again thank all who still read my stories:

Nami Swannn: I'm glad that scene had the desired effect, though I'm a bit worried that I seem to have a nasty tendency to make Morrible seem pitiable in my stories - at least according to past reviews. I hope I'm not developing a vice.

chibikaty: I firmly agree, and it's one of the reasons why I've given this zealous trait to Alphaba - for the sheer menace that such an attitude can convey.

Guest: thank you for your review - I'm glad you like my treatment of the characters and use of description. I'd also like to thank you for bringing my attention to the errors I made with some of the facial descriptions: I've made the corrections since your review - so that's at least one less I'm going to have to make when this story's finally done. I agree with you concerning your criticisms of the dream chapters - they do tend to disrupt things; this chapter will be the first attempt to begin merging the real-world and dream-memory segments - you'll have to be the judge of how well it works, or if I should try breaking things up further as you suggested. As for the violence, well, it'll vary from chapter to chapter, but I'll do my best to stop it from becoming too distracting; unfortunately, there's quite a bit of subjectivity in that, so you'll once again have to be the judge. Thanks for all your help.

Ichibayashi: Your reviews are, as always, a joy to read. I agree with many of the points you made - I particularly like the point you made about Morrible's fear of Elphaba, appropriate considering the character direction - and you'll be able to see some confirmations to your questions in the chapter below. I look forward to your next review.

So, without further ado, the latest chapter! Feel free to point out my errors, critique my style - I am only human and I appreciate your help and constructive criticism. Read, review, and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Wicked? It ain't mine, Guv.

12/11/14: Just fixing up a few spelling and grammatical errors I made in the last few paragraphs.

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Twenty-five hours later, Mr Heart finds himself shivering in a corner of the Asylum's morgue, listening to the castanet clattering of his teeth and trying vainly not to panic.

He hasn't been here for very long, but he's had more than enough time to prepare: he's set the heavily-altered cadaver on the mortician's slab, he's made a few last-minute examinations just to make sure that none of the modifications have been damaged on the way, he's rehearsed the necessary explanations and condolences until he knows them off by heart, and most importantly, he's made himself unrecognizable. Nobody in their right mind could possibly mistake him for Boq, not with the disguise he's wearing now: he's wearing a specially-modified pair of shoes to make him seem taller, he's trimmed his hair down to stubble, he's fitted his throat with a voice-distorting amulet, and he's wearing the horribly-pockmarked face of the late Cribbidry Lonnik over his own. For good measure, he's also wearing tinted black spectacles, just in case anyone happens to look past the mask. Mr Heart is ready; he knows he's ready, he understands he's ready, he's assessed and comprehended all the reasons that add up to him being ready for what will happen next. The question is, why doesn't he feel ready?

Because Nessarose has been notified of Boq's death and is on her way here to see the evidence for her own eyes. It's silly of him to worry about it, considering that this is everything the last twenty-four hours of preparation have been leading towards: if he wants to graduate to anchored apprentice and continue his studies, he has to give Nessarose closure and ensure that his death is faked from certification to cremation. And in theory, he should feel brimful of confidence: after all, he has all the means at his disposal to ensure that nobody suspects that the late Boq is anything but dead. But now that she's actually due to arrive within a few short minutes, everything feels as though it's about to collapse in on itself. The adjustments he's made to the corpse suddenly look horribly unconvincing, the body's true appearance barely masked by the warped features and patches of chameleon skin. The script he's put together now seems pathetically easy to see through, every fact and explanation proclaiming its falsehood in neon letters a thousand stories tall. And looking at it in the mirror, his own disguise now appears hopelessly flimsy – the shoes doing nothing to hide his diminutive height, the voice-distortions too blatant to be mistaken for anything other than fakery, and as for the fleshmask… well, given that it was taken from a human being, it certainly looks realistic enough: Lonnik's heavier features disguise the proportions of his own face perfectly, and the long-healed craters of skin disease certainly make it seem more authentic; best of all, Mr Heart spent at least three hours smoothing down the edges of the mask so that it blends perfectly with his skin…

…But the adhesive spells keeping it attached to his face itch maddeningly, his feet ache from the ill-fitting shoes, the gloves are cooking his hands alive, his throat is twitching so badly from the distortion that he's on the verge of throwing up, his scalp still aches from the inept shearing he'd given it a few short hours ago, and the icy air of the morgue around him is getting colder and colder and colder –

He shudders, and tries not to focus on his anxieties, or on any of his little aches and pains. He can do this. He has to do this and get it right if he wants to progress any further in his studies. And more importantly, he has to get it right exactly now: somewhere in the distance, he can just about make out the sound of footsteps echoing towards him, accompanied by hushed whispers, and the faint but unmistakable squeak of long-neglected wheels.

"He's in here." Elphaba's voice emerges over the whine of rusted spokes, her tones gentle and soothing as always.

"Nessarose, are you sure you want to see this?" Now the voice of Frexspar Thropp, older and hoarser than ever. "If it's the Plague he died from, then-"

"It's quite safe, I assure you: the body's been very carefully examined and treated to make sure that Boq's condition didn't become contagious."

"Well, you'll pardon me if I don't join you in gambling with your sister's life. You might be proud enough to think this little institution of your is totally infallible, but those of us who actually have Nessa's welfare in mind-"

"Father, shut up." And here, Mr Heart can't help but shiver at the intensity in his former employer's voice: it's the same terse, brittle tone of voice she's always used when stressed or agitated, but magnified a thousandfold until it seems as though every single word's being forced through gritted teeth. In fact, she almost sounds like Elphaba had before her redemption. And as for what she'd actually said, in all the years Mr Heart had known her, Nessarose had never spoken to her father in such a way - not even in her desperate attempts to keep him from trying to petition the Wizard.

For a time, a stunned silence blossoms in the corridor, broken only by the sound of footsteps and the omnipresent squeak of the wheelchair drawing – drawing closer and closer with every passing second. In the last few moments before the visitors reach the morgue, Mr Heart finds himself wondering (not for the first time) how Nessarose first reacted to the news of his death, and how she'll respond once she sees the "proof" of it. He knows that there'll be grief and sorrow, perhaps anger, and undoubtedly a great many tears… but when it comes to visualizing her exact response, to actually picturing the expression on Nessa's face, his imagination fails him. Even after Oz only knows how many years spent in her service, learning to recognize her moods and quirks, he can't even dream of how she'll react to this.

Maybe it's just nerves, maybe it's just his mind drawing a blank under the influence of fear and self-doubt.

Or maybe, says a very unpleasant voice at the back of his skull, you're scared of seeing just how badly you've hurt her.

Thankfully, the nerve-jangling groan of the morgue door swinging open silences any further anxieties. Steeling himself for the performance of his life, Mr Heart takes one last look in the mirror to make sure his disguise is still intact, smooths down his coat, adjusts his tie, and with one last deep breath, steps out to meet his audience.

As per the script, he remains silent, greeting Nessarose and Frexspar with a respectful bow and mutely ushering them towards the mortician's slab in the middle of the room. Here, "Boq" has been arranged, a sheet draped across his lower body and his upper body – distortions and all – exposed to the harsh overhead light. Here, the pitch-black sections of chameleon skin stand out like diseased blisters, and the warped features seem all the more hideous for the lack of shadows to disguise them; even the incisions on the torso look more like some kind of plague-induced scarring than anything left by an autopsy. Indeed, the effect is so convincing that Frexspar actually takes a step back from the slab and hastily covers his mouth with a handkerchief, eyes bulging with horror. Mr Heart silently rejoices at the sight: it doesn't look fake, he assures himself. Even if it doesn't look like Boq, then at least it looks properly plague-addled.

Then Nessarose slides into view. In the months since he last saw her, she hasn't changed that much: still pale, still slender, still wearing the same black dress and her hair still tightly braided. Still a porcelain doll in black silk. Her wheelchair seems to be showing some disrepair – the wheels rusting, the satin cushions scratched and scarred, the armrests dotted with dozens of tiny marks from fingernails – but other than that, nothing about her has changed.

Her expression is the stuff of nightmares.

Nessa doesn't look upset. She doesn't look aggrieved or sorrowful. She doesn't look angry. She doesn't look suspicious, as Mr Heart feared she might be. She doesn't even look vaguely perturbed.

She's smiling.

She's looking down at the corpse on the slab and she's smiling.

Outwardly, Mr Heart remains as calm and professional as the role demands. Inwardly, he panics, hastily sorting through every single question that's just occurred to him: can she tell it's not really Boq? Does she know that the real Boq is standing next to her? Has someone in the Pottery told her the truth? Has Elphaba set this up to torture him? Is Nessa happy to see him dead? Does she have something horrible in mind for the body? Does she have something horrible in mind for him? Does she have something horrible in mind for both of them? Is he going to be made to take the corpse's place on the slab? Is this a nightmare? Is he going to look down and find himself completely naked? Shit shit shit shit shit, etc…

And then Nessa asks, "Who's this?"

In that terrible instant, Mr Heart's mind goes completely blank except for the panicked litany of ohshitohshitohshitohshitohshitohshit echoing across the interior of his skull.

Elphaba and Frexspar, meanwhile, look utterly baffled. After several seconds of bewildered silence, Elphaba finally murmurs "Don't you recognize him?"

If anything, Nessa's smile broadens. "He's not Boq," she says, her voice eerily calm.

Oh no, no, no, his internal monologue babbles. What did I do wrong? What have I screwed up this time? I thought I got the face exactly right, Elphaba thought it looked passable, we can't have both screwed up, oh no oh gods no. Mr Heart braces himself for the worst: any minute now, she's going to point in his direction, and Elphaba will have no choice but to hand him over.

Frexspar puts a consoling hand on Nessa's shoulder, and says – in probably the gentlest tone of voice he's ever heard the old governor use – "I'm sorry, Nessa dear, but it's definitely Boq. I know this must be painful for you to-"

"It's not Boq," Nessarose insists, smiling so broadly that it actually looks quite painful. "I mean, this man might look a little bit like him, but he's not Boq: it's a mistake anyone could make – all you need to do is look past these... these patches of chameleon skin, examine the face closely, and you'll see that it isn't really him. This is all a misunderstanding. All a misunderstanding," she repeats unnecessarily.

"I… I'm not sure if that's the..." For the second time in as many minutes, Frexspar Thropp has absolutely no idea what to say to his beloved daughter. Instead, he turns to Mr Heart and asks, "Doctor, Is it possible that there's been a case of mistaken identity? I mean, this is the Plague of Transformations we're talking about."

Now it's Mr Heart's turn to flounder: he wasn't expecting to be interrogated this early in the conversation, and Nessa's outburst has left his mind hopelessly jumbled with panic. Then, just when it looks as though his ability to speak has completely deserted him, his gaze – now flicking wildly from left to right in search of escape – eventually settles on the paperwork stacked on the small table to the immediate left of the corpse. Here, there's the incident report from the infirmary, the coroner's report, the death certificate… and everything he needs to allay the naysayers' doubts – even if it's all faked.

"I…" He coughs loudly to cover his distinctive nervous stammer and continues, doing his best to keep his voice calm and clinical despite his nervousness. "I'm afraid not, Governor. All evidence suggests that Plague sufferers can only experience one transformation at a time, and human-to-human transformations have never yet been witnessed. Boq's autopsy report confirms that at the time of death, he was transforming into a chameleon, and other than the reptilian attributes he developed, all his medical details match up."

"You're certain?"

"Quite certain, sir. All the examinations and paperwork confirms that this is-"

"Just a misunderstanding," Nessa insists loudly. "The real Boq will be here in just a minute. He'll have heard I was visiting, so he'll be heading here directly: after so many weeks spent cooped up in a tank, he'll want to stretch his legs… and he'll be so happy to see me again. True, he might be startled to see…" She gestures vaguely in the direction of the body, as if unwilling to look too closely at it: quite tellingly, when her eyes do stray in its direction, they refuse to travel any higher than the collarbone. "To see this poor fellow," she finishes. "But once all the misunderstandings have been dealt with, everything will be back to normal. Everything will be like it was when we first-"

She takes a deep breath, and for a moment or so, the smile is gone from her face. Her expression briefly registers shock, anger, disbelief, sorrow, fear, and above all, bewilderment: indeed, the look of confusion in her eyes is so palpable that it almost seems as if Nessa doesn't know where she is or how she came to be here. But then the moment passes, and the smile reasserts itself – wider and more manic than ever, mixed with a faint hint of desperation. And once again, her gaze remains very carefully averted from the corpse's face.

At long last, Mr Heart realizes why he found that smile so terrifying: it's an expression he's seen grinning back at him from the mirror all too often, especially during the lowest nadir of his infatuation with Glinda. It's such an innocent-looking smile, too, so full of hope and optimism: unfortunately, he knows from experience that the hope in that expression has absolutely zero association with the real world. This deluded little smile had only appeared on his face in those horrendous moments in which he stopped believing that he could make Glinda love him – and started believing that she already loved him and always had. It hadn't been until Elphaba had forcibly dragged him from his obsessions that he'd realized that, in those moments, he'd come dangerously close to parting ways with sanity and retreating into the murkiest depths of his own private fantasy life – never to return.

Now, after years of obsession and months of constant stress, it looks as though Nessarose is about to bid farewell to reality as well. The question is, what form will this breakdown take? Will it be as simple as Nessa continuously deluding herself into thinking that Boq is still alive and due to arrive any minute, or will it be something much worse? What could be worse? A suicide attempt? A psychotic episode? A violent outburst at anyone who dared to tell her the truth? Or maybe – Mr Heart's imagination sparks monstrously – maybe she'll attempt to recreate Boq. After all, he spent the better part of an exam transforming a corpse into a replica of his former self; what if Nessa ends up trying the same thing… but with living people? Would she really be that desperate to enforce her belief in Boq's survival on reality? It seems terrifyingly plausible; even if Nessa turns out to be a magical dunce and never learns a single spell, that won't stop her from just hiring some mercenary wizard to do the dirty deed for her.

But as horribly fascinating as all this speculation might be, he can't afford to carry on with it: Frexspar is still ineffectually pleading with Nessarose somewhere in the background, Nessarose is ignoring every word he says and smiling so hard it looks as though her face might simply tear open… and now Elphaba is giving Mr Heart a look that can be best described as "pointed." If he wants to get through this little charade without sending his former employer into some kind of mental breakdown – and earning himself a penalty from Elphaba in the process – he'll have to step in and be more convincing than he's ever been before.

Question is, how? What could possibly get her to drop her obsession? After all, he couldn't manage to break her obsession while "Boq" was alive, so the chances of him breaking it now are slim. Then again, he'd been grappling with his own private obsession with Glinda at the time, so maybe-

Behind his tinted spectacles, Mr Heart's eyes widen. Suddenly, all he can think of is the memory of the night he was first inducted into the Pottery, and the sight that had convinced him to give up on Glinda – the vision that Elphaba had forced him to watch. Had she known even back then that he might have to use the same tactic on Nessarose one day? Has everything from his recruitment to this moment been planned out in advance?

No. Elphaba's undeniably brilliant, but even she has limits. After all, it's not as if she can predict the future, is it?

One way or the other, the strategy is clear: make the evidence incontrovertible. Make the statement impossible to deny, provide too many details to contradict, and – most important of all in Nessa's case – make sure that she can't look away.

So, creeping over to the table where Boq's paperwork has been stacked, he leafs through the pile and hastily selects the most relevant of them and hastily slots them into a clipboard. Then, without a word of explanation, he hands it to Nessa. Having accepted it entirely on reflex, she doesn't even notice at first, being too busy ignoring her father and sisters' attempt to convince her of Boq's death to look twice at the object that's just been given to her. Then, belatedly realising that she's now holding something, she looks down at the collection of paperwork in her hands.

A moment later, the clipboard falls from her hands and clatters to the ground, loud as an explosion in the relative silence of the morgue. A quick glance at Nessa's ashen face reveals that the already desperate smile has cracked and shattered like glass, leaving her expression almost frozen in shock and grief; one pale hand remains clamped over her mouth, as if trying to smother a scream.

Mr Heart kneels down and scoops up the fallen clipboard, once again holding it out for Nessa's inspection. "I'm sorry, Miss Thropp," he murmurs solemnly. "I didn't mean to startle you – just some records for you to look at."

"But… but… t-t-the…"

"Again, I'm sorry. Protocol requires that we include photographic evidence of the deceased."

Nessa tries to respond, but whatever she means to say, the words can't make it past her lips: she can only stammer in disbelief at the black and white snapshot of "Boq's" face, now looking more realistic than ever under the photographers' harsh lighting. If Mr Heart's any judge of emotional reactions, this must be the first time she's seen the corpse's face since she arrived at the morgue. Up until now, her eyes have been very carefully averted; now, she can't look away.

As his former employer struggles to form her next sentence, Mr Heart presses the attack: turning the page, he shows her the next report on the clipboard – this time from the infirmary. "We keep accurate records here at the Institute, Miss," he explains. "As you can see, Boq was admitted to the infirmary at 1:27 after complaining of severe chest pains; the report clearly states that he was fully human and clearly recognizable as himself at the time, having been so for the last forty-eight hours – as you'll see in this report here. Thus, no chance of another patient transforming into Boq or vice-versa. At 1.30, his transformation began, all signs indicating that this was a normal Plague-induced metamorphosis. At 1:32, instabilities began to develop and the transformation began shifting in random directions. At 1:35, Boq lost consciousness; we attempted to revive and heal him, but the Plague's effects were too malignant to be counteracted, the damage too extensive. He was pronounced dead at 1:42 PM." The words are flowing faster now: his confidence is beginning to blossom, for now he's back in familiar territory, with material he's learned by heart and a disguise he knows that Nessarose can't see through. "As you can see on these forms here, he was taken to the morgue and has been here ever since. Had there been any kind of a mix-up, security would have noticed and brought the real Boq to the infirmary for an emergency check-up – and then to records to correct the mistake. So you see, Miss Thropp, your friend isn't anywhere else in the Institute; he's not on his way here to see you; Boq is dead."

A few seconds pass in silence before Nessarose finally looks up at him; if her face had looked pale and wan beforehand, now it looks as though it's been drained of blood. "It's only paperwork," she mumbles desperately. "Paperwork isn't perfect, people make mistakes, they sign the wrong form, they-they-they…" She pauses, trying to collect her thoughts. "How do you know all this happened? You're the coroner, so obviously you'd have been down here all day: how do you know that any of this really happened?"

"Actually, I'm a physician and medical researcher. The coroner's over there." He indicates the small cubicle at the opposite end of the morgue where the resident medical examiner sits in silence. "And I was in the infirmary at the time of Boq's death, long enough to confirm the accuracy of these reports." Once again, he's treading on familiar territory, having rehearsed all these details beforehand.

But Nessa is still shaking her head. "It can't be right," she whimpers. "It can't be right."

"What about the corpse? Do you think there's been a case of mistaken identity?"

"I know there's been a mistake," says Nessa, but there's no conviction in her voice.

Mr Heart is distantly aware that he should probably stop now: Nessarose is about three steps removed from admitting the truth to herself and Elphaba is giving him another one of her trademarked meaningful looks (slightly different from her trademarked castration glares, but not all that much). But instead of backing off and letting Elphaba handle this stage, something makes him ignore the look; something spurs him on.

It takes him a few seconds to recognize this particular something, because it's been so many months before he's felt this way about Nessa… but suddenly the feeling is as fresh and raw as it had been in the very worst months of her obsession, when Boq had only wanted to leave and Nessa had done nothing but deny every single request. All he can think of are those times when she'd ignored his clumsy attempts to set things right, when she'd told him again and again that he hadn't been thinking straight, that he'd been sick, that he'd been under too much stress and would feel different once he sat down and talked with her for a bit and drank the laudanum-laced tea. And when all the other servants retired, resigned or fled in terror, he'd been the first to experience the delights of Nessa's entirely legal form of eternal servitude. From then on, it had always been the same routine, the same attempts at intimacy between the chores, the same attempts at insisting that they were lovers while at the same time treating him as a slave. "Call me Nessa, Boq." "Kiss me, sweet Boq." "We're in love, Boq, you can call me by my name." And no matter how many times he tried to tell her they weren't in love, his own cowardice strangled him into silence. So, in silence he suffered, from Nessa's time as de-facto governor to her time as Frexspar's deputy; and so the months had dragged past, all of them spent in servitude to his own idiotic mistakes and the delusions of a crippled madwoman.

He hates her. It's only a faded ghost of the old rage he'd felt towards her, heavily diluted by his time in the Pottery and all the time he'd spent not thinking about her – except perhaps to worry about her reaction to the faked death… but it's there. And no matter how many times he tells himself it was all his fault for not telling her when he had the chance, that it wasn't her fault for being lonely and upset, that she doesn't deserve to be punished for the results of his obsessions, he keeps going back to the ugly but tantalizing thought of revenge. Here and now, he wants to make her suffer.

"Then I'm going to have to ask you to confirm this man's identity," he announces, voice cold and calm as he'd rehearsed – but this time speaking words he'd never intended to utter.

"What?"

"If there's been some error, then we'll have to make sure of it. If it turns out that he isn't really Boq, then we can order a search of the building and its grounds, and – if it turns out that he's left the facility under the influence of some delirium – alert the authorities to the fact that a patient may be loose in the city. But I'm afraid it'll require you to personally identify the body."

Nessarose, clinging to the last tattered shreds of her own delusions in much the same way that a drowning sailing might cling to a piece of flotsam, can only stare at Mr Heart in horror.

"You don't have to look at the corpse itself," he reassures her. "You can just look at the photograph if you prefer…"

He offers the clipboard again, but Nessa slams her eyes shut and blindly shoves the offending evidence away. "No," she says, voice quivering.

"I'm very sorry, but we need you to make the final confirmation if we're to order a search, Miss Thropp, and that requires you to actually look at the deceased's face. If this were avoidable, I'd bypass it entirely, but the law is very clear in this respect: as the closest known associate of the deceased, you have the right to order a search of the building if the body's been incorrectly identified, but as the presiding medical official, I'm legally bound to ensure that the body is properly examined by the requesting visitor before allowing a search to be conducted."

"You can't make an exception?" She's pleading now, almost begging.

"I'm afraid not. The only legal exception allowed is the one permitting you to make this choice at all; normally, this right would only go to close family members and other loved ones, but as most of Boq's family have been reported to be either deceased or unreachable, you – being the current and longest-standing employer-"

"I'm not just his employer!" Nessarose shrills, eyes suddenly open wide in anger and grief. "We were in love!"

A fresh stab of anger ripples along Mr Heart's spine.

"Well, if that's the case, then why not examine the corpse?" he demands.

"Because I don't need to!" Nessa wails desperately. "I know it's not him!"

"I would have thought you'd be willing to perform this minor service for the sake of your lover, Miss Thropp. If there's been mistaken identity, then we'll be able to reunite the two of you as quickly as possible once you've confirmed that the body isn't him. As his lover, surely you'd be willing to do that? I mean," he continues, taking careful aim at Nessa's insecurity, "wouldn't he do the same in your position? If he loved you, as you claim-"

"Shut up shut up SHUT UP SHUT UP!"

A ringing silence settles upon the room like a shroud, somehow muffling even the reverberating din of Nessa's outburst. As the echoes gradually die away, Mr Heart finally manages to submerge his hatred, and guiltily wonders if he's gone too far.

For a moment, it looks as though Nessarose might just be able to force a smile and slip back into delusion. But then, she finally turns towards the corpse laid out on the slab, and slowly takes in the sight that she'd tried so hard to ignore: there's no surprise in her face, nor any real shock; after all, she'd clearly recognized the body the very moment she'd arrived in the morgue, even if she'd never been able to admit the truth to herself.

"You don't understand," she whimpers at last; she's trying to hold back her grief, but it's much too late for that – tears are already streaming down her face, and her voice is almost half-choked with sobs. "He wouldn't do this to me. He wouldn't just... He loves me. He wouldn't… he… he…"

And Nessa begins to cry – not the elegantly-staged weeping that so many other members of the aristocracy display at funerals, but unrestrained, grief-stricken bawling.

Mr Heart looks away. Right now, it's the only thing he can do; after all, he's done more than enough to help the situation along – if "help" is the right word. So he casts his gaze about the room, taking care to look at anything other than the grief-contorted figure in the wheelchair next to him: Frexspar still looks concerned, though at least he looks relieved to see his daughter grieving; Elphaba's face is almost completely unreadable, though she does eventually favour Mr Heart with a nod. Then, as Mr Heart tries vainly to take comfort in this sign of approval, the two family members hurry over to offer their own condolences, Frexspar murmuring reassurances, Elphaba gently drawing her sister into a hug.

For two whole minutes, Nessarose remains locked in her sister's embrace, crying inconsolably onto her shoulder. But gradually, her wails of grief dwindle to quiet sobbing, which, in turn, fade away into the gentle rhythm of Nessa breathing in and out; finally, the hug ends and Nessa sinks back into her wheelchair. From what Mr Heart can see of her, she's ashen-faced and red-eyed with sorrow, but at least the half-deranged smile is nowhere to be seen.

Silence settles across the room like dust, gathering thicker and thicker as the visitors slowly realize that they have no idea what to say or do next.

Eventually, Nessarose asks, "How did he die?"

Mr Heart blinks, startled out of his reverie. "I'm sorry?"

Nessa takes a deep, shuddering breath. "How did he die?" she asks, clearly not really wanting to know the answer.

"Cardiac arrest," he replies. "The transformation apparently began in his heart, causing the chest pains that sent him to the infirmary in the first place. By the time his metamorphosis became visible to the naked eye, his circulatory system was already beginning to shrink: in the end, a chameleon's heart simply couldn't sustain a Munchkin body for long."

Was…" She swallows hard, blinking away fresh tears. "Was Boq in any pain towards the end?"

"Are you sure you want to h-"

"Please."

Now it's Mr Heart's turn to take a deep breath. "I'm afraid so, Miss Thropp. As you can probably guess, Boq's transformation was quite dissimilar to the normal array of recurring metamorphoses experienced by Plague victims, even partial varieties such Branderstove and Lakefold. We believe that too many elements from Boq's chameleon form were trying to coexist with his human form simultaneously – different bone structure, different size of the body, different internal organs, and so on. By the time he finally lost consciousness, he was in constant pain from numerous internal injuries and continuing distortions of his skeleton."

Nessa slowly closes her eyes, as if trying to stop herself from crying: for a time, it looks as though she might be saying something, but her voice is so quiet by this stage that her words are impossible to discern – not that she wants anyone to hear them. Eventually, opening her eyes and blinking furiously to dispel the tears, she looks down at Boq's corpse with renewed grief, pity… and something else.

"He didn't deserve this," she says, voice shaking with the effort of suppressing her emotion. "He didn't… he should have… he deserved better than this." She swallows hard, and asks, "Do you think the Plague Witch was responsible for-"

"No," Elphaba interjects. "I know that it's tempting to think that Morrible might be to blame, but I honestly don't think she's behind this: if she'd have tried anything to affect her past victims, I would have detected it, and nothing magical has disturbed the Asylum's security spells for the past few weeks. Besides, if she's capable of killing Plague victims at will, why hasn't she used this technique sooner? Why haven't Glinda and I been targeted?" She sighs, clearly all too aware that what she's about to say will only hurt Nessa more. "I'm sorry, but it's far more likely that this is simply a rare but tragic side-effect of long-term infection."

If anything, Nessa looks even more miserable "Then this is all my fault," she says tonelessly.

A disbelieving silence follows this little confession.

"All this, it's… the only reason why Boq got infected in the first place was because I... because I wanted to walk again."

Frexspar can only gaze at his favourite daughter in confusion, muttering to nobody in particular, "What is she talking about?"

"She told me about this some time ago," Elphaba whispers. "Apparently she was petitioning the Wizard and Morrible to grant her the ability to walk on her own. The Wizard turned her down-"

"Do you really expect me to believe that His Ozness would-"

"It's true," Nessa sighs wearily. "He told me that giving me working legs was beyond his powers. And Morrible, she didn't even bother to leave her room to refuse – probably too busy cooking up her next batch of the Plague. So, I thought I might be able to get some answers from Morrible's maid, and I sent Boq over to ask her some questions: I thought he might be able to learn something about medical magic, maybe even enough to help me walk… instead, he got Morrible's attention. Maybe she thought that the maid had told him what she was planning, maybe she was just angry for being interrupted – I don't know: all I know is that the day after she kicked him out, Boq transformed for the first time. And now he's dead because of it… because of me."

"Nessa, dear, that was Morrible's fault: you're blameless in all this-"

"Oh really? You think Boq would have ever have been infected if it wasn't for me? Morrible was targeting people who got in the way of her plans, people who posed a threat; Boq was… Boq wouldn't have hurt anyone! He wouldn't have been targeted by her if he hadn't been caught talking to her maid, and he wouldn't have been caught if I hadn't sent him there in the first place! Don't you see?" she almost screams. "All this happened because I threw Boq's life away for a chance to get out of this chair, because I was too stupid and too selfish to see past my own problems!"

Another uncomfortable silence.

"Maybe I deserve this," she continues softly. "My useless legs. The chair. The loneliness."

"Not true."

It takes about fifteen seconds for Mr Heart to realize that he said those words out loud. Hastily, he continues: "You weren't being selfish, Miss Thropp: you simply didn't know how Madame Morrible would respond. I mean, if you find yourself guilty for not suspecting that Morrible was insane, then you'd probably find the entire population of Oz guilty of the same crime. If you were driven to it, you could even blame me and the other physicians for failing to save Boq's life."

Nessa smiles sadly. "You're very kind to say so… but it doesn't change the fact that if I hadn't decided to pester Morrible for information, Boq might still be alive."

"Whatever you think, Miss Thropp, I very much doubt Boq would want you to blame yourself forever."

For the second time in as many minutes, a painful silence drapes itself across the room.

"Did he say anything?" Nessa asks. "Towards the end, I mean."

Mr Heart pauses. During rehearsal, he hadn't really been intending to give Boq any last words: after all, it hadn't seemed terribly realistic to give his former self dramatic final speeches, and more to the point, the slated cause of death didn't seem to offer too many opportunities for last words to begin with (except perhaps for "argh"). But now that he's here with his own guilt gnawing at him once again and Nessa's pleading gaze boring into him, it suddenly seems appropriate to give the late Boq something to say – if only to make Nessarose feel better.

"There was a point," he announces tentatively, "where Boq attempted to say something: it wasn't entirely coherent and it made little sense in context, but-"

"Please, just tell me."

"He was…" Mr Heart swallows hard; suddenly, breathing seems almost impossible. "He was calling your name; that's all he would say for about thirty seconds – "Nessa, Nessa, Nessa" over and over again, like a prayer. But In the end, just before he lost consciousness, he said, "I'm so sorry for lying to you, Nessa." And that was all."

For a split second, it looks as Nessa's about to start crying again. Then, she very calmly reaches out and shakes his hand. "Thank you," she says quietly.

"For what?"

"For showing me the truth." And without another word, she turns and glides out of the morgue as fast as the wheelchair will carry her, closely followed by Frexspar and Elphaba.

The rest is all a bit of a blur: he vaguely recalls sitting down in a chair and closing his eyes, and while he doesn't exactly nod off to sleep, the next half an hour isn't exactly spent awake either. He spends most of his sleepier moments in a dreamlike haze of random thoughts and reflections, lost in a fog of half-remembered places and people envisaged by his own memory as indistinct wraiths with only the bare minimum of identifying features; he recognizes most of these figures and locations, but only dimly – facial features are smoothed and abstracted, landmarks oddly homogenized until one seems barely distinguishable from the other. Elphaba and Glinda look almost identical; Shiz University merges seamlessly with the Wizard's palace. But when Nessa appears, drifting out of the endless mists of the daydream like a ghost, she stands alone as the one distinct figure.

Eventually, a faint coughing sound snaps Mr Heart out of his reverie, and he opens his eyes to find Elphaba standing over him.

"Well done," she whispers.

Mr Heart blinks. "I'm sorry?"

"You've passed your exam with flying colours, you've proved yourself capable enough to become a kiln and apprentice to Dr Coil, and you've managed to successfully fake your death. You even managed to put an end to Nessa's obsession before it could reach terminal levels. You've achieved much in the last forty-eight hours."

"Have I? It certainly doesn't feel that way." He sighs deeply. "How's Nessa doing?"

"About as well as can be expected: she's grieving for Boq, and probably will be for quite some time. She'll mourn, in her own fashion; she'll experience crushing loneliness without her beloved manservant by her side; she'll blame herself for his death and for weeks on end, she'll hate herself for the part she believes she played in it… but she'll recover. She'll put her lover's memory to rest; she'll move beyond her self-imposed exile; she'll learn to forgive herself – perhaps because she knows that in his final moments, Boq wanted to be forgiven too." She favours him with a smile. "And eventually, she'll be shepherded onto a new and better path in life… in much the same way that you were."

"You're thinking of recruiting her for the Pottery?"

"Nothing so drastic: she has potential, but of a more delicate kind. She'll need time and care if she's ever to reach that potential… but that's my problem from now on. You've done more than enough in helping Nessarose out of her obsession, more than I ever asked of you; you needn't concern yourself with her rehabilitation any further." She pauses, and eyes Mr Heart concernedly. "How are you feeling?"

Boq takes a deep breath. "I think I'm insane, Elphaba."

If Elphaba is in any way surprised by this response, she doesn't show it.

"I'm serious," he continues wearily. "I mean, I knew what I'd put Nessarose through by lying to her; I knew I was to blame for her obsession, and up until a few hours ago, I knew I was supposed to be helping her the only way I could. But once I started trying to persuade her, I… I hated her. It was like the last few months never happened, like I was back in Nessa's service, except this time I wasn't even thinking about escaping to see Glinda again: I was fantasizing about revenge. I wasn't even thinking about helping her when I actually started to make some progress – I was thinking about hurting her. Then she starts crying and suddenly I'm back to normal again and feeling guiltier than ever." He lets out a groan of exhaustion, and finds himself unexpectedly blinking away tears. "What's wrong with me, Elphaba? Why is it that I can't think rationally when I'm around her?"

Elphaba offers a consoling smile. "There's nothing wrong with you at all, Mr Heart: you're just experiencing the usual quirks and complications that most sentient beings have to live with, and carrying around all the emotional baggage from your old life to boot. Suffice to say, rationality isn't something we're very good at: no matter how many times we claim to have achieved it as a society, it's always just out of reach… and the same goes for everything else the people of Oz believe they've attained: justice, freedom, peace… and beauty."

"And we're working to change all that?" Mr Heart tries to sound enthusiastic when he says those words, but no matter how exciting he finds the idea of revolution against the Wizard, he's just too tired to sound even vaguely interested.

"Of course. But enough about all that – let's talk about you: tell me, what do you think of Boq now?"

Mr Heart isn't sure how to respond to this at first; but as he gradually processes the question, he slowly feels the familiar mixture of negative emotions he'd felt towards Nessa creeping over him – anger, hatred, disgust – but now directed at a different target altogether.

"What's there to think of?" He muses with a shrug. "Boq's dead, and as far as I'm concerned, he deserved it. He was a sad little man who wasted roughly half of his adult life obsessing over a woman who would barely even give him a second glance at the best of times, and ended his days as a virtual prisoner – all because he was too cowardly to admit the truth to the woman he lied to and too busy feeling sorry for himself to realize that it was all his fault. There's only one person in all of Oz who'll ever mourn him or even miss him, and if there's any justice in the world, she'll move on and forget all about him. And as for me…" Mr Heart pauses: it seems strange to say all of this, knowing who he once was, but disassociation seems to be getting easier and easier for him as his new identity becomes more comfortable. "… well, in the weeks since he died, life's been better."

"You're learning."

"What do you mean?"

"I didn't give you a new name just for the sake of security, Mr Heart. You see, for the last month, I've been teaching you the same lesson I learned when I was purified of my ugliness: if we want to become better people, we need to discard the trappings of our past lives and denounce all the ugliness we were responsible for; if we want to attain beauty and perfection, we have to let our old selves die - if only in spirit - and allow ourselves to be reborn with new identities. And now…"

She laughs. "I think you're ready to head home, aren't you? I'm sure Dr Coil will be missing you, and besides, those adhesive charms on your mask look they're about to wear off."

And in spite of himself, Mr Heart almost laughs too: he never thought he'd ever come to think of the Pottery as home, but somehow he has; he never thought he'd be able to swing so wildly from anger and self-loathing to happiness, but somehow he has; he never thought he'd end up wandering through the catacombs of the Asylum while slowly peeling another man's face off his own, but somehow he has. Maybe he is insane, but if this kind of insanity allows him friends, a home, and even a fulfilling life of work and research, it doesn't sound like such a bad thing…

Boq's eyes snapped open.

For a few seconds, he could only blink in confusion, his metal eyelids squeaking faintly in the darkness.

As he slowly drifted back towards consciousness, he hastily sorted through everything he remembered from the night before – chasing the Scarecrow into the collapsing castle, the encounter with the Hellion, the run in with the local military, the Hellion unexpectedly massacring them, and last of all, the campfire. He remembered a feeling of intense drowsiness, before unexpectedly nodding off to sleep – the first proper sleep he'd ever experienced since his transformation, as a matter of fact. At the time, he hadn't thought much of it: in fact, after spending so much time in a state of mechanical wakefulness, the prospect of sleep had actually seemed quite welcome; he'd even speculated that this little sleep might just be a sign that the curse Elphaba had cast on him was wearing off – and when he finally woke up, he'd be human again. Sadly, now that he was awake, that didn't seem to be the case. And with that in mind, maybe there was some other reason why he'd fallen asleep.

Maybe it was the same reason why he'd experienced such weirdly lucid dreams – dreams of working for Elphaba as an apprentice magician, no less. None of it had made much sense to him, least of all the part about wearing somebody else's face and faking his own death. Maybe it was something about the woods where they'd camped, or maybe it was because the Witch was somewhere nearby, working some kind of influence upon him.

Then he heard the noise: a long, drawn-out scraping sound, like metal being dragged over rough stone. It was the same sound that had awoken him in the first place… and more to the point, it was the sound of his own body being hauled away.

Suddenly wide awake, he took in his surroundings as quickly as possible: the forest where they'd made camp was gone, replaced with the craggy walls of a cave; the Lion and the Scarecrow were nowhere in sight; and worst of all, Boq was surrounded on all sides by unpleasant-looking figures – most of them barely taller than he had been as a Munchkin, and all of them clad in garish, clownlike outfits and eerily masklike faces. At the moment, a gaggle of them had taken hold of his arms and legs and were slowly dragging him roughly along the cavern floor; overhead, dozens more scuttled across the ceiling and walls, looking for all the world like a swarm of enormous spiders. A quick glance around him revealed that the Scarecrow and the Lion were nowhere in sight; equally unfortunately, his axe was also worryingly absent.

Then, to his shock, one of the creatures spoke: "Far enough, far enough," it hissed. "Don't pretend to be asleep, tin man: this is where you leave." As it spoke, the creatures dragging him along the floor suddenly stopped in mid-march and released their grip on his limbs, allowing them to clatter noisily to the floor.

Boq scrambled to his feet, backing hurriedly away from the crowd of stunted monsters as quickly as his tin legs could carry him. "Who are you?" he demanded. "Where am I? Where are the others?"

The closest of them giggled. "You've met our mother, tin man: we are her dolls, her lovely little dolls."

"She wanted to keep you for a little while," said another, "even if you were all dolls from someone else's shelves, but your owners never came to collect you."

"And the ragdoll ran away in the night, so the green girl might have her sweet straw man by her side again soon; now mother's angry at her, angrier than she ever was before."

"Mother wants what the green girl stole from her. Mother wants the girl who was to be our sister… but she's only got one doll that the green girl might care about – and it's not you."

"The stuffed lion will make her give up our sister; the little tin soldier isn't needed. Now mother wants you gone."

"What?"

"Go!"

A stone bounced off Boq's head with a sound like a gong being struck with a half-brick.

"Go! Run home!" shrieked the nearest Doll, throwing another stone.

"And if not home, to the green girl! To Loamlark! To revenge and murder!" shrilled another.

"To wherever the dented tin soldier pleases! Just go!"

"Mother doesn't want you anymore!"

Boq couldn't feel any of the stones being thrown at him, but feeling the impact of each one rippling across his tin body was still pretty disorienting; more to the point, the more he listened to them, the more comprehensible these creatures became – enough to understand that they had the Lion locked up somewhere. So, in a growing rage, he took a step towards the mob – only for something large and metallic to crash sidelong into his chest; a second glance revealed it to be none other than his own axe. "Have this too!" shouted the Dolls. "Now get out! Out into No-Man's Land where all the little tin soldiers belong!"

"I'm not leaving without the Lion!" he yelled back.

Brandishing the axe, he made an experimental swing at the nearest Doll: without even so much as pausing, the damnable thing dropped to its knees and tumbled acrobatically away. Furiously, he lunged at the crowd, swinging the axe from left to right in a deadly arc – or it would have been if any of the Dolls had been in the vicinity. On he went, threshing the air without hitting a single Doll: no matter how well he timed his attacks, no matter how quickly he moved, the Dolls simply weren't there by the time his axe hit the ground. They were already somersaulting away, or scuttling along the ceiling and into the darkness.

Then, a familiar voice roared, "Did you NOT listen to MY children, Tin Soldier? GET OUT! GET OUT!"

Boq didn't even bother to dignify the Hellion's screams with a response: he squared his shoulders, readied his axe to swing, and stood his ground. Somewhere in the echoing spaces at the back of his metal skull, long-forgotten parts of him reflected that he might just be getting a little too overconfident for his own good; after all, he wasn't indestructible. But no matter how reckless trying to take on the Hellion sounded, leaving the Lion behind simply wasn't an option: as irritable as the Animal could be sometimes, he didn't deserve whatever tortures that might be awaiting him down here – and facing the dangers of this new world alone didn't sound attractive to Boq either.

He was bracing himself for whatever attack the Hellion might launch, almost feeling prepared, when a solid wave of force rippled down the cavern and sent him hurtling backwards: he flew helplessly for about fifty feet and crashed into a wall with an undignified clunk. Then, as if deciding that he hadn't been embarrassed enough, the Hellion's magic then began rolling him along the wall like a carpet, reducing his vision to a blur of spinning lights and filling the air with a long-drawn out series of metallic bangs and crashes. He tried to grab onto something, if only to slow his progress, but to no avail: the Hellion just magically slapped his hands down and forced him onwards even faster than before. Boq rolled helplessly along the wall for the remaining two hundred feet of the cavern, before being flung unceremoniously into empty space.

A split second later, light exploded into Boq's eyes, leaving him dazzled and half-blind as the cavern abruptly gave way to open air. He had just enough time to marvel at the multitude of stars spinning lazily overhead before he slammed headlong into the ground with all the aerodynamic grace of a paper plane glued to an anvil.

"AND STAY OUT!" the Hellion roared.

Boq staggered to his feet, dazed and wobbling from the impact, and hastily inspected himself for damage: as expected, he was now the proud owner of several brand new dents along his back and stomach, and his left leg was heavily cratered from his second collision with the wall. Thankfully, that was about the extent of his injuries, and they'd probably buff out easily enough.

Unfortunately, a quick glance around him revealed that this was also the only luck he'd be allowed that day: the cavern that he'd emerged from was now blocked with a heavy stone door, and as tough as he was now, he didn't think he was capable of moving it on his one; worse still, there didn't appear to be any other entrances in the surrounding hillside. One way or the other, it looked as though there was no way of getting back into the cave network and rescuing the Lion, at least not until he could find someone to help him get the door open – or at the very least, a few sticks of dynamite. And a map of the tunnels. And some idea of where the Hellion was keeping the Lion. And how to get back inside without being thrown back out.

Doubly unfortunately, he'd landed in the middle of a vast and particularly inhospitable-looking desert: from here to the horizon, there were no settlements, no buildings, no roads, no encampments – not even animal tracks or signs that travellers might have visited this place in recent years. Just a wide expanse of dry, cracked earth, broken only by colossal mountains the colour of bleached bone, and the distant husks of beached ships from some long-lost ocean. That last sight was particularly cruel, for when he glimpsed the first of them looming out of the morning mist, he almost mistook the graveyard of ships for a village – until he looked closer and saw the wooden ribcages and crooked masts. Funnily enough, he thought he could see a house buried among the rusted hulks and splintered galleons, but it was probably just a mirage.

One way or the other, there didn't appear to be anyone around who could help.

He sighed deeply. No Man's Land, he thought, remembering the name the Dolls had given it. If nothing else, it's an accurate name.

On the upside, a he didn't have to drink anymore, so at least he wouldn't die of thirst out here. Or suffer sunstroke or heatstroke for that matter. Perhaps he could find help if he travelled far enough. If he was in luck, maybe he could find this Loamlark that the Dolls had mentioned. And then…

He shook his head. He couldn't think about revenge now: he had to concentrate on getting out of this wasteland, finding some help for the Lion, and finding out where the Scarecrow had managed to escape to. Once that was over and done with – and once he'd found a map of some kind – he'd make his way to Loamlark and find Elphaba.

Then, one way or another, he'd make her pay for what she'd done to him.

---

The months roll past, and the weather turns hot and summery. The farm enjoys a better sale than usual, resulting in a surprising windfall for the family; Uncle Henry's grandfather dies, leaving another unexpected cash bonus in his inheritance. Most of the money goes into expanding the property: Uncle Henry, the farmhands and a small army of hired helpers from town spend several busy weeks building an extension – nailing, painting, and occasionally swearing. Aunt Em spends much of this time bustling back and forth between the farm and the market on shopping trips for supplies both important and not, sometimes allowing Dorothy to tag along on some of the happier trips. And as for Dorothy herself…

Well, as always, "Daydreamin' Dorothy" keeps on daydreamin'.

Of course, she helps out where she can: she fetches and carries; she makes sandwiches and cold drinks for Uncle Henry and the workers; she helps out with some of the simpler jobs (which usually amounts to holding a plank in place while one of the workers nails it in, and then only if the other men are too busy to help). But her mind is always on other things, either her visions or her daydreams of what the extension might look like when it's finally finished; she tends to "sleepwalk" through most of her day-to-day chores and tasks, only drifting out when someone feels like talking to her – and these days, most conversations usually tend to start with "Dorothy, you look like you're going to float away on the breeze! Did you even sleep last night?"

And when she's not helping out, she spends hours wandering the surrounding countryside with Toto, cresting the boundaries of the farm and rambling through the neighbouring pastures, seeking out the wide, empty stretches of grassland. Out there, alone except for Toto and in total silence except for the droning of dragonflies, the visions appear differently – and more importantly, better: walking past the creek or sitting down atop a long-abandoned stretch of fence, she can see things with a clarity that she can never find on the farm or even in her dreams. Out here, the visions seem more vivid, more real – and with no people around to disturb her, they seem more real than the real world anyway.

But even out in the emptiness, there's still places where – impossibly enough, she can see even further into the world of her dreams. It takes her a little while to figure out which of these "crows' nests" offers the best view, and which of them she can reach the easiest and stand to be around for any length of time: the empty coop on the edge of the Hendersons' farm leaves her cooking beneath the sun at the best of times, the abandoned windmill still frightens her, and as much as she enjoys floating in the warm waters of the creek as the visions float overhead, she's learned that going home with wet clothes tends to earn her a lot of searching questions from Aunt Em. So, in the shade of a colossal tree to the west of the farm, Dorothy sits in contemplation for half an hour a day, staring up at the visions playing out above her and utterly unaware of the real world.

In drips and drabs, she sees the world of her dreams change: she sees a lizard transform into a man, before being ushered into the same underground workshop she'd seen in early, and taught how to work magic by a talking snake. She sees the crooked old witch reduced to a withered old husk and imprisoned for her secrets, and sees the fat rich man strapped to a chair and forced to have the fat painfully scooped off his body one handful at a time. She sees the woman with the soul-piercing eyes called "the redeemed" now met with bows and salutes in the street, slowly given more control every day. She sees peace finally settle across the land for a time… then the transformations once again play out across the country: men and women shrinking and growing, bloating and shrivelling, their bodies sprouting feathers or wrinkling with scales. And for every transformation, she sees the underground workshop churning away, brewing stronger potions, building bigger machines, casting deadlier spells: they're working on something massive down there, and it's not until she learns to listen closely that she realizes that they're making a revolution.

True, she doesn't know what the word means, but she can guess. She can see people beginning to wonder, "Why hasn't the Plague Witch been caught?" She can hear people on street corners ask each other, "Why hasn't the Wizard worked his own magic on her? Why does he keep asking favours from the Redeemed?" In cafes and bars, people say, "He'll do something, won't he? He wouldn't just let the Plague Witch run roughshod over the land, would he?" And somewhere, she hears a woman in a wheelchair scream, "Boq died of the Plague yesterday! People are dying now and the Wizard couldn't care less! He doesn't really have any power, don't you see? We're being led by a sham!" And though people in the street try to calm her, it's clear they're secretly beginning to agree. Slowly, with every troubling question, with every whispered rumour, with every shouted grievance, the carefully-built world of the Wizard crumbles slightly at the edges.

One day, listening for the sound of the revolution brewing, she follows the progress of a letter all the way from the workshop to the front door of a run-down old house in the glittering green city – a house owned by, of all things, a talking goat.

"We finally got a reply!" exclaims the goat, drawing a pair of battered reading glasses from his coat pocket with shaking hooves. As he speaks, a gaggle of other talking animals cluster around him, either trying to peer over his shoulders or waiting for him to read it.

One of them, a befuddled-looking Lion, can only blink in surprise for a moment. "You mean from her?" he says at last, eyes wide with disbelief.

"From Elphaba, yes. According to this, Morrible was having our mail stolen for the last few months – good grief, no wonder those postal workers kept playing dumb. Er, anyway, she's offering me an audience to discuss our petition concerning Animal rights, accompanied by one other representative."

There's a pause, as the animals consider this in barely-subdued excitement. "Who's going to be the representative?" the Lion asks.

"I thought you'd be the most appropriate, Brrr."

"What?! Why?"

"Brrr, you've been saying you wanted to meet the Redeemed yourself for the past two weeks; this is your chance."

"But I – but – but – it's – she –"

"Relax: she's not as frightening as some of the more sensationalist broadsheets claim – true, she might have a bit of a temper, but that's about all she has in common with the rumours. I mean, you're not going to be talking to the Wicked Witch of the West, you're going to be talking the Elphaba the Redeemed."

"Yes, I know that well enough, but… it's just t-that… well, what am I supposed to say to her? What could I possibly say to her?"

"Well, we'll rehearse your statements if you like. We've got a week until our appointment."

"Only a week? Oh Oz…"

After that, the vision dissolved.

The next day, Dorothy sits down in the shade of the tree and quite unexpectedly finds herself looking up at something that clearly isn't a vision – and she can tell by the fact that Toto is barking at it.

Perhaps thirty feet above her head, the sky has changed colour from forget-me-not blue to luminescent grey: looking closer, she realizes that the pale glow extends no further than the outermost branches of the tree, for the sky beyond it remains vivid blue and defiantly cloudless. As she watches, the glow begins changing shape, gradually forming itself into what looks a bit like the lens of telescope. Perhaps it really is some kind of magical telescope, because it immediately begins swivelling from left to right, as if looking for something on the horizon; it doesn't appear to notice Toto's frantic barking, though, because it never turns to focus on him, nor does its gaze ever stray below the branches of the tree.

But as it goes on watching, Dorothy can't help but notice the sound of voices echoing from the lens: it's as if she's somehow able to hear whatever's happening on the other end of the telescope, and by the sounds of things, there must be a sizeable crowd over there. The longer her ears adjust to the ghostly quality to the sound, the more she hears the sound of dozens upon dozens of people working – much of it involving heavy machinery – and talking at all volumes.

And then, a voice suddenly makes itself heard over the clamour – an old man's voice, cracked and warped and all-too prone to shouting: "You see, Director?" it babbles excitedly. "It works! Behold – my roving eye in the world beyond!"

There's a pause, and then a woman's voice asks, "And you can prove that this footage is being taken from this other world?"

"I assure you, I would never falsify such things! You can examine the composition of the enchantments just over here…"

The lens wobbles in mid-air for a moment, and the second voice remarks, "No signs of magical illusions, no scry-tracery to any known location within the boundaries of Oz or the nearby countries… and a very subtle opening in the fabric of the ether. Well done, Dr Lintel; it seems your more audacious theories have finally bore fruit."

Dr Lintel can only gibber: by the sounds of things, he's cackling too hard to speak clearly.

The Director clears her throat loudly. "Now, tell me more about this other world."

"It's only the first of many, I assure you: it's almost immediately adjacent to our own world in the great sphere of realities; in fact, from what I've seen, it's actually attached to our world, clinging to its side like a barnacle on the hull of a ship. This other world, this "Kansas," it is inexorably linked with Oz and likely has been for millennia – perhaps since the two world first came into being – and according to my experiments, the wall between the world is so thin that it can actually be torn open: historical records suggest that this has happened in the past, with freak storms and other unusual weather patterns crossing the boundary between worlds, sometimes carrying artefacts and people from Kansas to Oz and vice-versa.

"But until now," he laughs, his voice slowly growing louder, "nobody has ever seen the other world without these phenomena; now my prototype portal spells allow us to study the other world without becoming marooned in it… and one day, they will allow us to set foot upon it! And this is only the beginning – this is only the first world we shall visit! We shall traverse the emptiness between worlds as sailors upon a strange ocean, but we shall chart those infinite seas and plant our flags upon those dimensional islands! We shall endure the maelstroms and reefs, and hunt the etheric whales and sharks! We shall learn the secrets of the deepest oceans of the outer realities, and unravel the mysteries of the worlds once considered beyond our reach! We shall chart trade routes and bring home cargoes of otherworldly treasures! We shall colonize and conquer! We shall build mighty empires that stretched across the length and bred of the unending realms! We shall make the peoples of the other worlds our subjects and our slaves, and bring back great tributes unrivalled by any seen in Oz! And then we shall reach further and into realms unseen even by the travellers of the other worlds to the unspeakable glory of-"

"Pardon me for interrupting," a third voice hisses loudly, "But how can you be sure that anything you just mentioned can be true?"

"I don't answer to you, Beast! I am a visionary, I am a genius of the worlds beyond space and time! My work will endure beyond your pathetic meddling in the temporary realm of flesh and bone, and the glory of the least of my discoveries shall outshine the greatest of your so-called innovations-"

The Director coughs loudly. "Dr Coil has a point: how can you be certain that worlds other than Kansas and Oz can be accessed, assuming they even exist?"

For the second time in as many minutes, Lintel can only gibber – this time in rage. At last, he mumbles, "I have only a few hints that the other worlds can be accessed."

"Then, if you'll forgive me for prying into your business, I think we should focus on questions pertaining to Kansas."

"Such as, are there any practical applications to this discovery of yours?"

"Listen, you oversized phallus, unless you want to spend the rest of your life as a pair of boots, you'll shut up!"

"Oh dear me, how could I possibly ssssssssurvive an assassssssssination attempt from the most accident-prone researcher in the entire building? I couldn't do ssssssomething easy like knit my flesh and bone back together again; it's not like I did that the last time you ssssssscrewed up and nearly killed everyone in the Pottery."

"Right, that's it – it's bad enough that I have to put up with other uppity beasts with no idea of their rightful-"

"Gentlemen…"

The argument abruptly falls silent, and unless Dorothy mishears things, some of the noise of the crowd around them dies down. "Once again, I must side with Dr Coil in this respect: as miraculous as your discovery may be, we have yet to find any practical advantage to it; we don't know if there are any useful metals or minerals that can be mined, or if there might be people willing to trade in resources and technology there – in fact, we don't even know if the people of this Kansas can be trusted. For all we know, any journeying into their realm might be considered an invasion, and I don't intend to embroil Oz in a war – least of all while we are still under the reign of a leader incapable of managing a wartime nation. So, until you can find any practical use for your world-traversing portals, I'm afraid I must ask you to limit your experiments in them to part-time observation."

There's a hesitant pause, and then Dr Lintel mumbles, "I didn't want to show you this, but… er, I've been developing my portal spells even further in the last few days, and I've been seeing if it's possible for me to physically interact with Kansas in much the same way that more pedestrian portal spells allow. Now, I understand the danger that such interaction might pose, so I've also been been conducting a few… aha, tests concerning the effects that these experimental portals might have on organic materials if we were to every try and bring anything through. Um, if you'd just like to look under this tarpaulin here…"

Another pause, broken only by the distinctive sound of a man trying desperately not to vomit.

"Urm, as you can see, the effects on living beings can be… extreme."

"That's putting it mildly, Lintel," Coil hisses disgustedly. "I've rarely seen sorrier sides of meat outside of Quadling butchers. And what the hell is that?"

"I think that's a vestigial limb. These lab rodents have tendency to sprout new legs after being exposed to the radiation from the new portal; secondary limbs, hearts, lungs, livers and even brains are pretty common too. In fact, some of them actually survive the process – or at least, they would if they didn't start haemorrhaging the moment the portal closed. And on the occasions when they don't bleed out, it's… something even more unpleasant."

"Please elaborate," the Director urges.

"Ahah. This is a rare symptom, but… well, sometimes the portal overloads, and the resulting turbulence… well, it's like getting trapped in a shearing machine. The discharge of energies flays living matter alive, and after that… well, unless there's been some kind of enchantment cast on them, the test subjects don't react well to being skinned alive, as you can imagine. They just die of shock, really."

The Director audibly considers this. "I want you to see if you can lessen the mutation factor in these portals, and more importantly, if you can expand the portals themselves."

"I think it can be done. By how much, exactly?"

"As much as is possible without breaching safety protocols. You'll have about twenty feet to start with, and once we've obtained more working space, you can expand your portals up to a hundred feet in diameter. Also, I want to see how quickly a portal can overload and how easy we can induce this."

"You're asking me to weaponize these portals?"

"Can it be done?"

"Of course it can be done, Elphaba: I was damn near sliced in half by one of the damn things."

"I'm never going to live that one down, am I?" Lintel sighs. "Long short, I can induce an overload in a portal ten feet wide in just under fifteen seconds, so there's no reason why I can't arrange similar collapses in larger portals – and more disastrous effects on any targets beneath it."

"Good. Because in the event that the coming manoeuvres against the Wizard fail, I want your portals ready for war."

And with that, the lens vanishes. But as it fades away into the sky, Dorothy sees the magical telescope-end flash a multitude of colours: garnet red, autumnal orange, emerald green, and as blue as the sky it was slowly dissolving into… but then it turned pitch-black, and just before it vanished altogether, Dorothy faintly discerns something glowing in the darkness of the lens.

She only glimpses it for a moment or so, but she'll never forget what she saw: the image is embossed on her memory, as is the jolt of horror from when she realizes that the glow has emerged from a pair of luminous eyes as pale and cold as frost… and the faint light cast by those eyes is just intense enough to reveal the contours of a vast, terrible face – a face whose lips are curled upwards in a hideous smirk.

Something is looking back at her from the void and smiling.

Dorothy snapped awake, heart pounding in fear.

For some time, she could only lie there, allowing her heartbeat to return to normal and trying desperately to hang onto the memory of her time back in Kansas, - rejoicing in seeing Uncle Henry and Aunt Em for the first time in what felt like decades, rejoicing in having Toto by her side once again; why did she have to wake up? Why couldn't she have remained in those dream-memories of heavenly summer days? Even those frightening moments of peering into the other Oz were worth it, if it meant having to bask in the sun and hear the purring of dragonflies.

Then her memories of the last few days in the Deviant Nations come flooding back to her: the Hellion, the attack, the threats, and the terrifying possibility that she might just end up getting handed over to the Hellion by one of her protectors – if only to stop the crazed monster's attacks on the Deviant Nations.

And then she finally opened her eyes again and realized with a thrill of terror that she was no longer sitting on the floor of the closet, hidden away from unfriendly eyes: she was now lying in bed, where anyone could find her. For twelve ghastly seconds, she tried to reassure herself that if she was still here, it meant that someone had simply taken her out of the closet and put her to bed, meaning that she was probably still safe. After all, who would go to the trouble of tucking her in if they hated her, if they'd be planning to hand her over to the Hellion? The palace guards could be trusted; they wouldn't disobey the Mentor's orders, and the Mentor wasn't interested in bowing to the Hellion. No, Dorothy was safe. Perfectly safe.

Now if she could just believe that, things would be going so much better for her. Unfortunately, she'd clearly woken up just an hour or two before dawn, and with the sounds of the city fading ever-so-slightly in the distance, every other sound in the palace was suddenly making itself heard: the distant clunk of an airship docking below, elevators whirring up and down, carts rattling down corridors, doors being opened and shut, windows being slid open or closed… and footsteps. No matter how quiet the step, Dorothy couldn't help but notice them – fear had amplified her hearing to an insane degree. And as her fear slowly increased, her imagination flared to life: how many of the people out and about in the corridors had families in that village the Hellion massacred? What if the airship that just docked was carrying refugees from the village, people desperate to stop the killing from starting all over again in another village? Was the cart rolling down the hall just room service, or was it a gang of vengeful kidnappers ready to knock her out and spirit her away in the cart? Had someone paid off the guards? Was someone about to break down the doors? Was everyone going to look away while they dragged her off to the airship, tied her up in the hold and handed her over to the Hellion? Her thoughts flitted from possibility to possibility, each one more terrifying than the last, until she realized that she simply couldn't sit still a minute longer.

Letting out a muted hiss of fright, she launched herself out of bed and into the apartment living room; ducking under the windows and dodging open doors, she hurried into the kitchen and pressed herself so hard against the wall that she felt as though she might just flatten herself into a shadow. She needed to catch her breath for a minute; she needed to think; she needed to find a new hiding place – even if she was just being paranoid and nobody really wanted to hand her over to the Hellion, she'd never feel safe until she knew for a fact that nobody could find her.

Glinda wouldn't be any help in this adventure: she was still fast asleep, and from the things she was muttering in her sleep, she was enjoying her dream just a little too much. "Fiyero," she laughed, "I've got the most wonderful news to tell you… I'm so glad you're happy… I… hahah… Fiyero, stop, I'm ticklish…"

Dorothy left her to it; Glinda could be trusted, but how much help could she be against an army of kidnappers? No, Dorothy needed to find this hiding place on her own, she told herself as she hurried away; she needed to make her way to the door and creep down the hall without being noticed, and-

The rushed planning came to an abrupt stop as she blundered into something a little too soft to be a piece of furniture – and as she tumbled over, Dorothy only just managed to stop herself from screaming at the sight of an enormous pair of pitch-black wings unfolding above her. For what felt like an eternity, she sat there, holding her breath as she waited for the kidnapper's nets to fall on her.

Then, a querulous voice said, "Oook?"

"Chistery?"

"Ook."

Dorothy almost burst into tears from sheer relief. Staggering to her feet, she flung her arms around the flying monkey and hugged him tightly, whispering, "You're not going to give me to the Hellion, right? You'll help me find someplace safe, right?"

Chistery blinked in confusion. "Ook," he confirmed, hesitantly.

"Do you know any good hiding places? Anywhere that they won't think to look for me will work – just for a few hours, that's all."

Chistery nodded solemnly.

As the flying monkey led her towards the balcony, Dorothy reflected somewhat absently that, just a few short days ago, she'd never have imagined feeling safe around him or any of the other flying monkeys - or anything associated with Elphaba for that matter.

But then again, she was fairly certain that the world had gone completely mad a while ago: insane choices were the only reasonable ones at this point.

---

When Elphaba hears the news, she's not entirely surprised: after all, Nessa was still in mourning for Boq, and with so much desperate praise for the Wizard being flung about these days, it wouldn't have been out of question for her temper to fray under the barrage of unearned compliments flung in the general direction of His Ozness. Granted, she hadn't been expecting the outburst to be so public, or for word of Boq's death to get out so quickly and explosively, but Elphaba isn't exactly disappointed at the way things have turned out.

Once she's "hastily" ushered the screaming Nessarose off the street and apologised to the Wizard on her behalf, it's not hard to see how this issue can be spun in favour of the revolution; after all, a statement that someone had died of the Plague might make the Wizard look bad for not resolving the problem of Morrible sooner, but this little meltdown actually makes him look even worse, if only because it's arrived ahead of the official statement and allowed the rumourmill to run wild. Even better, thanks to being the sister of Elphaba the Redeemed, Nessa's looked upon with a certain degree of sympathy by now, and once the Wizard's notable refusal to grant her earlier request is revealed under more controlled circumstances, the old fraud is left looking even worse than ever before.

The faith that was used to cement the Wizard's rule is beginning to crumble; soon, all that need be done is the tiniest push in the right direction, and the whole rotten structure will collapse in on itself. And then, the road will be clear for a grand reinvention. But before then, Elphaba has personal matters to attend to.

Nessarose has been sitting alone in her Asylum office for the last fifteen minutes, staring at nothing, looking almost crushed by depression. She doesn't even look up when Elphaba takes a seat in front of her.

"Are you here to demand a formal apology?" she asks dully.

"No."

"Then what do you want? An informal apology for embarrassing the family?"

My, how times have changed, Elphaba reflects.

"No, Nessa. All I want is an answer to a simple question: some time ago, I asked you to think very deeply about what you wanted in life; tell me, if you could ask anything of me – absolutely anything at all – what would you wish for?"

Nessa considers this, but even after almost a full minute of thinking, she still can't muster even the slightest bit of enthusiasm in her reply: "I'd ask you to bring Boq back from the dead." She sighs. "But I'm willing to bet that resurrection is the one thing you're not capable of. Am I right?"

"To the best of my knowledge, there's no spell that can restore life to the dead, not even in the Grimmerie."

"Maybe it does exist somewhere." Nessa's tone brightens. "Maybe there's some spellbook hidden away in some forgotten library, some ritual carved on the wall of a temple far outside of Oz; maybe all we'd need to do was rediscover it."

"Maybe it does. The question is, would Boq really want you to spend the rest of your life in search of something that might not even exist?"

Nessa's eyes grow dull and downcast once more. "…no," she says at last. "But where am I ever going to meet anyone like him ever again?"

"There'll be others, Nessa. You're no longer a social pariah these days; I've no doubt you'll meet your fair share of lovers - and suitors, too. They might never truly match your first romance in sheer intensity, but I know for a fact that they'll be as devoted and as loving as Boq was."

At long last, Nessarose smiles – mirthlessly and almost tearfully. "I won't deny there'll be people who'll think about it. I'm tragically beautiful, remember? Of course, none of them will ever be more than friends and none of them will ever get as close as Boq did, because the "tragic" thing never goes away: they don't see me – they see The Girl In The Wheelchair. They see this." She gestures in the general direction of the chair. "And that colours everything. Whatever I do, good or bad, it's not enough for people to congratulate me or punish me – no, someone always feels the need to add in a dose of pity: "you've done well in spite of your affliction," "oh, she almost went completely insane, but I'm afraid it's to be expected, she's lived such a tragic life," "it's not your fault, not really." Pity, pity, pity. Nobody ever does anything because they like me: they do things because they feel sorry for me. So, they'll give me an invitation and get me involved in some big social event and they'll sleep easier for it, because throwing a few vague compensations at me is an easier way of soothing their consciences than treating me like a human being. Boq was one the few people I've ever met outside the family who didn't do that: no condescension, no pitying, no "I'm so sorry you're like this." He just…" She chokes back a sob. "He told me I was beautiful. He didn't need to add, "In spite of" or "tragically beautiful." He didn't pretend to spend time with me for the sake of his reputation, or leave me on the sidelines while he had fun elsewhere. He… he danced with me. The only man I've ever met who ever danced with me, and now he's dead… and I'll never meet anyone like him ever again. Now I'm the girl in the wheelchair forever."

Elphaba remains silent, waiting patiently for Nessa to catch her breath and calm down. Once the gasped sobbing stops, she asks "If you hate being the girl in wheelchair so much, why didn't you just ask me to give you the power to walk?"

There's a slightly embarrassed pause, as Nessa fumbles for a rejoinder.

"Do you still blame yourself for what happened to Boq? Is that why you turned down the one thing you've wanted all your life?"

"… that's one reason."

Lying to yourself again, dearest Nessarose; this is self-loathing, pure and simple.

"And the other?"

"Because I don't really think I've done anything to earn it."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, what have I really done with my life that's worth celebrating? I haven't earned a thing – I've either been given it as a sympathy present, or as a gift from a doting relative. You and father, you're the only two people in the entire country apart from Boq who've done more than just pity me, and you've done more for me than anyone else in all of Oz: father's grooming me to become his successor, and you, you're negotiating with the Wizard himself for my sake. And what have I done to deserve it? Nothing. What have I achieved with all the breaks and advantages given to me? Nothing. My one moment in the spotlight as de facto Governor of Munchkinland was an unmitigated failure that had people calling me "The Wicked Witch of the East" until father recovered and you started patching up my reputation. So why should I deserve to walk again? What could I possibly do with it if I haven't managed to do a damn thing with all the privileges I've been granted in my life?"

And had you asked me a few weeks ago, you would have jumped at the chance without a second thought. It seems that Boq's death has uncovered quite a few of your long-buried insecurities…

"And what if you were to achieve it yourself?"

Nessa looks blank.

"What if I were to turn this from a gift to a challenge? I can give you the means to make your dreams come true on your own terms and through your own strengths: the ability to walk unassisted, a success you earned through your own tenacity and intellect, a chance to validate yourself and escape the image that you feel imprisons you… and, if you so desire, much, much more."

She reaches into one of her desk drawers, and holds out an extremely thick book for Nessa's examination; too shocked to think clearly, she takes it almost automatically – and very nearly drops it once she notices the title.

"A spellbook," she whispers disbelievingly. "You're going to teach me magic?"

"No, Nessa, you're going to teach yourself: unless you specifically ask for advice, I won't interfere in your education; I won't try and influence you in any specific direction; I won't direct the ritual when it comes time for you to make the necessary alterations to yourself, and above all, I won't treat you like a spoiled child or a pitied charity case. If you accept this offer, then from this moment onwards, you will be treated as a responsible adult – and given what might be the greatest challenge of your entire life. Do you accept?"

Or do you resolve to spend the remainder of your life alone except for your own depression and grief, mourning for someone who never really loved you?

At first, Nessa looks uncertain – even a little afraid.

Then, her face slowly assumes the same look of bullish determination worn by both Father and Elphaba herself in moments where backing down was simply no longer an option.

"I accept," she says solemnly.

Elphaba's eyes slowly fluttered open, and with a groan of exasperation, she realized that she was no longer dreaming. She was not Elphaba the Redeemed, she was not running a hospital for victims of the plague she'd engineered, she was not planning to depose the Wizard and declare herself empress, and she had not just successfully faked Boq's death and manipulated Nessarose into learning magic for her own ends. No, she was awake and back to being the real Elphaba, honorary artillery magician to the armies of the Deviant Nations, and former Wicked Witch of the West. And she was still in bed, still in the officers' hotel, still in Loamlark… still waiting for the battle that would likely play out at dawn…

… or more accurately, in an hour and a half.

For two whole minutes, she lay there, half-entangled in the blankets and wondering why someone was trying to force her head open with a crowbar, even as she struggled to think of what she was going to do now. Then, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she sat up, groaning like an old factory struggling to start again in spite of all the tarnish and rust that clogged its works, and reached for the notebook on her bedside table: she took down as many notes as she could on the dream-memories she'd experienced, taking care to underline the most important-sounding details – experimental projects that the future empress had considered vital (and possibly still did), strategies she'd arranged in the event that the revolution went wrong, blueprints she'd drawn or witnessed, and most of the more clandestine activities she'd gotten up to in her increasingly lengthy waking hours. As an afterthought, she also included the fact that the Other Elphaba appeared to be sleeping less and less as the dream-memories went on, observing that at the last count, her other self had been awake for over eighty-five hours without feeling any signs of fatigue.

At long last, she put down the notebook. There, she thought, at least the Mentor can't bug me for my report anymore.

Just as Elphaba was beginning to feel a little better about herself – or at the very least, more wakeful – she remembered the last thing that had occurred before she'd gone to bed the previous evening: the conversation with the kitchen boy, the realization that the medic had been drugging her, her arrangement to catch him in the act, her request to be woken up…

Yet it hadn't been the sound of urgent whispering that had woken her, but a stabbing pain in her left shoulder.

She shook her head. Whatever had woken her up, she wasn't feeling any pain right now, and perhaps it had done her an unexpected favour: regardless of whether or not the medic would try drugging her again this morning or not, she needed to be ready for whatever was going to happen today, and for that, she'd need to be awake and aware. And because she'd woken earlier than intended, she had the time to do just that in the most indulgent manner possible. So, gathering up her towel and toiletries, she made a beeline for the en-suite bathroom for a hot shower – another luxury she was afforded thanks to the hotel.

For five glorious minutes, Elphaba stood perfectly still under the rain of hot water, basking in the heat and gleefully defying every single wild rumour that claimed that her soul was so unclean that pure water could somehow melt her.

But as she was drying herself off, about to attend to the rest of the morning routine, she happened to glance in the mirror – and with a jolt of shock and a muttered expletive, belatedly realized what had woken up her.

Protruding from her left shoulder was a tiny shard of translucent crystal no bigger than her thumbnail, glowing faintly in the dim light of the bathroom. Closer examination revealed that it was buried deep beneath her flesh, perhaps even embedded in the bone, and yet there was no sign of any dried blood or scarring around it, nor was there any blood on her clothes or the bed; as far as Elphaba remembered, this hadn't been among the wounds she'd acquired by the end of yesterday's battle, nor did it seem likely that anyone could have just implanted this thing in her shoulder while she was asleep – not without waking her up or at the very least shedding a lot of blood on the bedsheets. It was as if the crystal had simply sprouted from her body overnight. Furthermore, any attempt to remove it resulted in a surge of pain identical to the one that had woken her up.

What was happening to her?

Was this a side-effect of the dream pills?

Or was this because of the drugs the medic had been dosing her with?

She took a deep breath, resolving to get one of the other medics to take a good look at this thing once she had the time.

Elphaba had only just managed to get her clothes on – not easy with shaking hands – when there was a hiss from the speaking tube by the door. "Miss?" the kitchen boy's voice whispered. "He's right outside the door and the coffee's ready."

"I'll be down in just a minute," she whispered.

She was halfway towards the stairs, when something made her stop: maybe it was the knowledge that the medic might be gone by the time she'd reached the ground floor; maybe it was anger born of fear – fear of the fact that her body was sprouting crystals and the once-trustworthy medic was to blame. Whatever the case, she turned around and hurried back into her room, towards the largest of the windows that bordered the room (the only one of them that had been shuttered instead of being boarded up).

Pausing only to snatch up the broomstick, she opened the window and flung herself into the night. Rocketing towards the ground, she stopped just eight feet from what would have been a very messy death on the cobblestones below, before changing gear and hovering away at a much slower pace along the alleyway that bordered the hotel.

Immediately, Elphaba noticed that she had a distinct advantage over the medic: not only could the broom move faster than a human being could run, but the broom itself was almost silently except for the occasional fluttering of her cloak in the breeze. So, rather than sneaking down the alley, trying not to let her footsteps echo and cursing herself for breathing too loudly, she simply glided along in complete silence towards the kitchen back door, eyes peeled for red armbands.

The lights were on when she arrived at the door, and she could easily make out the silhouette of someone creeping around behind the window: it clearly wasn't deserted to begin with – after all, hotel kitchens were always busy – but the back room and the adjoining sections of kitchen were apparently closed for the evening. No chance of confusing the medic with any of the chefs, then. So, taking a deep breath, she swung the door open as quickly as possible, and stepped inside.

There, a steaming mug of coffee sat alone on an otherwise empty counter. Standing to the right of the counter was the medic; in one hand, he held a small bottle of silvery-grey powder, ready to empty into the mug.

And then, just as he was about to tip the bottle forwards, Elphaba cleared her throat as loudly as possible – and was immediately rewarded with a gasp of shock and a wide-eyed look of astonishment from the medic.

"Good morning," she said quietly.

The medic said nothing. He was too busy staring at her in undisguised fear.

"I don't supposed you want to tell me what the hell you were doing with my coffee?"

The medic made a dive for the nearest doorway, but it had already slammed shut by the time he'd reached it; no sooner had he turned to the other exits, Elphaba was already shutting the doors with a wave of her hand, quickly locking them with a swift gesture of her fingers for good measure. That left the back exit, and Elphaba was standing right in front of it.

For a moment or two, it looked as though the medic was actually thinking of giving up and negotiating; but the look on Elphaba's face must have been a little more murderous than she'd intended, because rather than sticking around and subjecting himself to the brunt of Elphaba's wrath, the medic put his head down and ran at a breakneck pace towards the nearest window.

Ducking the first of Elphaba's kinetic spells and swatting aside the second with a frying pan left in the sink opposite him, he leapfrogged over a bench, rolled under a chair to avoid the third spell, and launched himself headlong through the plate-glass window with a crash. He should have been cut to ribbons by the impact, but as he struggled to his feet, Elphaba saw his skin had visibly hardened into a crude set of leathery, exoskeletal armour. Stopping just long enough to shake the glass shards out of his plating, he took off running again, flesh rapidly returning to normal as he channelled all his magical resources into enhancing his speed; Elphaba charged after him, flinging every single nonlethal spell in her repertoire in his direction.

At first, she simply couldn't keep up : already moving almost too quickly for any of her spells to connect, the medic seemed to anticipate every single attack headed in his direction; every bolt of incapacitating electricity she flung at him, he simply ducked; every blast of concussive force launched at him, he deflected with an over-the-shoulder spell of his own; sleep enchantments, knockouts and paralyzers simply exploded harmlessly against the garbage cans flung back into the path to shield the medic's retreat.

Then, Elphaba's feet left the ground once more and suddenly, the medic had lost the advantage: in the air, she was always faster, always more agile, and always more effective. Within a few seconds, she was gaining on him, and the medic was finding it harder and harder to dodge her attacks; the medic snatched up a garbage can with a tentacle and threw it at her, only for Elphaba to simply catch it in mid-air and blast it back at him with a flash of emerald-green light; altering his leg muscles once more, he sprang ten feet into the air with one immense leap, landing on the side of a building and scurrying up the wall on suction-cupped hands – only for Elphaba to put on another burst of speed and tackle him with a yell of triumph, smashing him against the side of the building in the process.

Four tentacles burst out of the medic's coat, one pair struggling to break Elphaba's grip even as he frantically tried to kick and elbow her away with his own mundane limbs, the other two latching onto the wall to keep him from falling. Elphaba slapped the first set of tendrils aside with two rapid jolts of lightning, and answered each punch and headbutt with one of her own; she'd never been much of a hand-to-hand combatant, but right now, she was too angry to care – she simply lunged right in, pummelling the medic's face and chest over and over again with fists that were almost glowing with magic power. Of course, it helped that the medic wasn't much good in hand-to-hand combat either; he seemed more interested in forcing her to let go of him than doing any permanent damage, always on the defensive than going on the attack; even as Elphaba went about slowly dragging the struggling figure back to the earth by his collar, he refused to use any of his spells to attack her – he just sprouted another few dozen claw-tipped tendrils and anchored himself to the wall.

Swearing at the top of her voice, Elphaba put on as much downward acceleration as possible – only for the medic to deliberately release his grip on the building and slam into her at high speed; kicking off from her, he sprang back towards the opposite wall, scrambling over the edge and onto the roof. Elphaba flew after him, singeing his feet with fireballs and pelting him with anything she could snatch up at short notice, but this time, the medic was in no mood to counterattack, dodge or even notice; with one last burst of magically-enhanced speed, he sprinted towards the opposite end of the roof and jumped into empty air.

As he fell, his body expanded dramatically, his skin bursting free of his coat to form an immense blanket of living tissue that slowly resolved itself into a set of batlike glider wings. Even from here, Elphaba could clearly see that he was headed directly over the city wall, back into the Deviant Nations; in fact, it looked as though he might be able to make it all the way into the labyrinthine mountains bordering the road, and once he was out there, there'd be no telling if she'd be able to find him again. So, reaching out with all her magical strength, she cast the one spell that the medic had been able to consistently dodge – the one spell he couldn't dodge in his current state. A lasso of kinetic energy shot out into the night, towards the fleeing mage-surgeon: encumbered by his enormous wings, he couldn't move quickly enough to outmanoeuvre her this time; the spell wrapped around his waist, tightened, and hauled him back towards Elphaba like a trout being reeled in by a fisherman.

A few moments later, he hit the roof with a crash, Elphaba immediately pinning him down with all the force she could muster without crushing him.

"Alright," she panted. "Who the hell are you, why were you drugging me, and why has my body been sprouting crystals?"

The medic snarled an incantation, and a blinding flash of light interrupted Elphaba's concentration just long enough for the man to clamber to his feet and start running. This time, Elphaba didn't even bother with complicated spellcasting; she simply threw herself at him and dragged him crashing back to the ground with all the strength she could channel into her own body.

"I'll ask again," Elphaba snarled, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck. "Who-"

Rrrrrrrrip.

There was a pause, as Elphaba looked from the piece of torn skin in her hands to the gash she'd just left in the medic's scalp and face - a wound that revealed another face behind it. Slowly, the medic reached up and tore away the ruined mask, revealing the cadaverous face and bald dome of the Mentor's personal physician.

"Dr Kiln?" she whispered.

Kiln offered a rueful smile.

But then Elphaba remembered what she'd seen in her dreams, and realized that the word Kiln meant something completely different in the depths of the Empress's think-tank.

"Boq?"

The medic, AKA Dr Kiln, AKA Mr Heart, AKA Boq, laughed uproariously.

"It's so good to see you again, Elphaba," he chuckled. "You've no idea how much I've missed you."