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.

33. A Revolution In The Making

A/N: Once again, the best-laid plans of mice and men, I swear...

I'm truly sorry for the delay, ladies and gents, but it seems as though just about everything under the sun was queuing up to keep me from working on the story this month. I honestly wanted to finish off the dream-memory in this chapter, but with so many little things cutting into my writing time, I had to chainsaw a good chunk of it. I can only offer my sincerest apologies and promise all of you that this isn't going to end up getting distended into five months of dream-memory chapters like it did last time; the chainsawed half of the story will be finished and posted soon, I promise. Thank you all for your continued support and your continued reviews: you give me the strength to continue. Please continue writing those lovely long reviews, and don't be afraid to critique the work (and grammar) of this humble sleep-deprived lunatic!

Calliax, I'm glad you're looking forward to the resolution - believe me, they're incoming. There will be an end in sight... just not for a while yet!

Nami Swann: The Hellion's perspective has been a blast to write, and I'm glad you've enjoyed the details I provided. As for the crystals... tune in soon for more grisly details! Bwahahahah!

Anyway, without further ado, the latest chapter: be prepared to witness the many lies and manipulations of Alphaba the future Empress!

Read, review and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Wicked is not mine in this universe, and I've yet to find a reality where it does belong to me.

---

Days went by.

With their northward march stalled and no end in sight to the bombardment, command was forced to rethink their tactics somewhat; unwilling to risk their troops on another pointless charge for the forest, they decided to shore up their defences in Loamlark and the surrounding area, and devise less costly methods of bypassing the enemy's defences. Top priority was given to finding their base and their artillery divisions, so, a swarm of miniscule mechanical probes were sent out over the forest, laboriously surveying and photographing the area for any sign of an encampment; magicians were removed from combat duty and put to work on scrying for the base's location; one of the more ambitious generals even attempted to bypass the wall of mortar fire that protected the mouth of the forest by sending scouting parties eastward into the foothills of one of Loamlark's gentler mountainsides, hoping that they'd be able to find some way of safely descending into the forest below.

Sadly, most of these attempts were stymied by the enemy: probes were shot down; crystal balls cracked and scrying pools boiled away; and though all three scouting parties managed to descend into a region of the forest untargeted by enemy artillery, they quickly discovered that "untargeted" didn't necessarily mean "safe." According to their increasingly-panicked radio transmissions, the Empress's Champion was patrolling the area, killing anyone fortunate enough to make it past the barrage; more than once, the radio operators back in Loamlark found themselves listening helplessly as routine transmissions suddenly dissolved into terrified shouts, earsplitting spates of gunfire and the flat unromantic hiss of blades tearing through flesh, slowly dwindling away into whimpers, pleas for mercy, and eventually, silence. In the end, with twenty-eight of the original thirty scouts dead, the remaining two had turned tail and ran for their lives – right into the bombarded region.

So, while command irritably shuffled back to the drawing board, their soldiers quickly settled into the familiar routine of waiting. Fortunately, most of them were simply too swamped with work to be frustrated with the lack of progress: with the town still recovering from the last attack, the Deviant Nations' troops found themselves assigned to construction efforts all over Loamlark, particularly in reinforcing the increasingly-battered fortifications. Others were sent to work among the field hospitals and medical ships, assisting the perpetually-preoccupied mage-surgeons as best as they could. Others still were selected for the increasingly desperate attempts to find the enemy base, either through magic, technology, or sheer manpower. And for those personnel who'd somehow missed out on all of that excitement, there was still a seemingly-endless procession of drills, patrols, guard details, supply surveys and other day-to-day chores to keep them insanity.

And for a particularly unlucky few, there was the thankless job of training the militiamen: with qualified instructors becoming increasingly rare among the townsfolk and new recruits streaming in every minute, Chief Marchfly had decided to seek help from outsiders. When Branderstove predictably refused (threatening to reinstate the town's debt for good measure), a few compassionate souls from the Mentor's army had volunteered – and immediately regretted it. The sheer volume of prospective militiamen was bad enough, but the fact that the students clearly didn't trust their instructors made every single lesson an ordeal, particularly for the Irredeemables.

After twelve hours of drilling, cajoling and exploding down at the parade ground, Captain Wolton was more than happy to provide Elphaba with some of the nastier stories. "I swear," He'd grumbled, "You hand one of these people a rifle and they look at you as though they'll be shot with it if they make the wrong move; walk within arm's reach of them, and they'll look around for someone to use as a human shield; gods help you if you use the same jargon I did – they'll think you're casting a spell on them to make them into Irredeemables. And the questions! Does 'scarring' mean the same thing in the Deviant Nations as it does here?" Mentor preserve my sanity…"

"What do you expect?" Marchfly had grumbled right back. "They're new recruits! You can't expect them to be professionals right out of the starting gate… or is that just something all the high-and-mighty warriors of the Deviant Nations do?"

"Look, I don't know if you've ever served in a proper army and frankly I don't care, but in real armies, the recruits don't ask "will it hurt?" if you try and shake their hand."

"Are you calling my men cowards?"

"I'm calling them squeamish! And more to the point, they aren't conscripts: they're volunteers! Where did all that bravery go between recruitment and training, huh?"

"Again – what did you expect? We're a fringe town with no local contact with you or the Irredeemables since we first settled: you didn't want to settle up here, you didn't want to send anyone to check on us, you didn't bother to fix the railroad, and you didn't figure out that we were being invaded until it was almost too late. You really think we'd be anything but suspicious around you after all that shit?"

"I tell you what I didn't expect, chief: I didn't expect to be called a "Deeveneer," whatever the hell that is-"

At this point, there'd been a hoarse chuckle from the lookout post by the window, where Harker had been crouched. "DVN-er," he'd corrected. "Means "citizen of the Deviant Nations," an' you gen'rally hear it outside our borders – usually in friendly neutral countries."

"And just when did you head out there? Was it on official business or-"

"I can neither confirm nor deny. Like I said, it's only used in neutral states."

"Bet they didn't stay neutral for long with you lurking around, did they, Mr Sharpshooter?" Marchfly sneered.

"I can neither confirm nor deny."

"You do that just to annoy people, don't you?"

Harker's eyeless face split into a wicked grin. "I can neither confirm nor deny…"

"Oh dear god, with the way you keep carrying on, I'm just glad we don't need to train any snipers yet…"

Granted, Harker looked quite thankful for the fact as well. And all things considered, Elphaba was just glad that the militia weren't training magicians, either: she'd have lost her temper much sooner.

Unfortunately, command had decided to leave her schedule permanently clear: no errands, no patrols, no scrying work, no tests, not even the engaging drudgery of paperwork. Maybe this was some kind of safety measure to keep her away from unnecessary dangers and distractions, but Elphaba found it deeply frustrating however necessary it was: for days on end, she had precious little to do with her suddenly abundant free time, and the few pastimes she could while away the hours with barely managed to keep boredom at bay.

All too soon, she'd finished what little reading material she'd brought with her, and had resorted to scouring the libraries and bookstores of Loamlark for anything remotely entertaining – not easy, given the astronomical surplus of conspiracy theory texts, cliché-crammed pulp novels, and infuriatingly pompous mayoral memoirs. Flying under her own power was understandably forbidden, thanks to the possibility of enemy snipers. Practicing magic was restricted to a dank warehouse on the southern end of town, especially in the event that she decided to try out some of her more destructive spells. And the conversations went south, too: with Harker only vaguely conversational, Wolton too busy complaining to talk, Marchfly even grumpier than usual, the Mayor a walking bag of worries, and Branderstove uninterested in leaving the comforts of his airborne pleasure palace until the fighting started again, only Kiln and Corone were interested in actually holding something akin to a conversation. And most of those conversations tended to start with the dreadful words, "How are the crystals today?"

As it happened, the usual answer was "Itchy."

It was the itching that really tried her sanity, when all was said and done: after the growth of her second crystal, she'd spent the rest of the day furiously raking her back with her fingernails, trying desperately to settle the crawling skin by brute force alone. And needless to say, it didn't work, because it wasn't something on her back that was itching – it was something under it, something slowly turning harsh and jagged as it took shape beneath her emerald green skin. She'd have spent her nights awake if it hadn't been for the dream-pills, but that didn't stop her from instinctively scratching in her sleep: four days in a row, she'd woken up with ragged, broken fingernails and a back covered in livid red scratches from her unconscious attempts to soothe the growing discomfort. Ironically, the itching had finally subsided to bearable levels about four days later, when a third crystal had sprouted right between her shoulders.

But thank heaven for small mercies, she did have a few little joys to keep her from going completely mad. There were a few decent books on mysteries and magical theorem buried among the dross, some borrowed from local libraries, some rescued from the wreckage of bombed houses. There were ointments and bandages for her torn fingernails. There were therapies and techniques for soothing the incessant itching beneath her skin. There were long chats with Kiln, who was always ready with a suitably morbid tale that hadn't made it into Alphaba's memories. There was the daily radio conversation with Glinda, the aimless discussions of everything that had happened in Greenspectre and Loamlark, the moments of genuine laughter, and almost indescribable sense of relief Elphaba felt every time she saw that Glinda was safe and happy. She hadn't yet told her about the crystals – after all, how could she? – but the simple fact that she could actually talk to her and vent every other frustration and fear on her mind was almost enough to smother her guilt over that little lie of omission.

And when all else failed, when radio transmitters broke down, when Kiln was too busy, when good books were scarce, when the writhing under her skin threatened to drive her into the murkiest depths of insanity…

Well, when all else failed, she still had the option of climbing into bed, downing a dream pill, and burying herself in this world's past.

---

"Would you please calm down? Everything's going to be fine."

"Easy for you to say; you know the woman – or at least, you did. From what I've seen, she's changed a lot in the last few years."

"Obviously not that much, otherwise we wouldn't be here right now. After all, it's not as if she's tried to reinstate the Anti-Animal Laws, has she? After that last mob of fanatics tried and failed-"

"I know, I know, I know, I read the papers just like you… but she's working for the Wizard now. Can we really trust her?"

"Brrr, you asked me the same question yesterday. And the day before that, and the day before that, too. In fact, you've asked me on just about every single day since we got the letter, and I don't recall you ever explaining what it is about Elphaba that frightens you."

"You don't think it might have something to do with meeting one of the most powerful officials in all of Oz? Or meeting the former Wicked Witch of the West, by any chance? Or just the fact that humans give me the jitters at the best of times?"

"Is that all about her that frightens you?"

"…no. It's… well, it's… something about the way that… oh, I don't know. She just scares me. Yes, I know, lots of things scare me, you don't have to remind me."

"I wasn't. I was just going to ask why you seemed so interested in meeting her if she frightened you so much."

"It's… complicated."

"I gathered as much by the fact that the possibility of meeting her seems to terrify you almost as much as the possibility of you not meeting her. But at this particular moment in time, that's not the point; the point is that Elphaba isn't going to hurt us. You have my solemn oath that my former student will not attempt to harm you or me at any point during this meeting. I know it might not sound like much, but if she really was trying to bring back the Anti-Animal laws or if she really wanted either of us dead, we wouldn't have made it as far as the front door. Come to think of it, we probably wouldn't have made it out of bed alive either."

"…You think she knows where we live?"

"Oh for Oz's sakes, Brrr; let's just get this over with…"

And with that, Dr Dillamond turns and hobbles towards the distant office door as fast as his cloven hooves can carry him. Faced with being left alone in a wide and extremely empty corridor scant feet away from an entire ward full of Plague victims (probably ravenous, undoubtedly infectious), the Lion has little choice but to hurry after him, cursing his own cowardice with every step.

He's been dreading this day ever since the Director finally replied to the good doctor's mail, ever since he'd been volunteered as Dillamond's plus one, because he knew that it would end with him stranded in a building that terrified him, surrounded by people who terrified him, and forced to make up his mind between being left alone (which terrified him), getting infected with the Plague (which terrified him) or meeting the dreaded Elphaba (who utterly petrified him). Why hadn't he declined the invitation? Why hadn't he been able to think of an excuse to stay at home? Why wasn't he at home right now, tucked up in bed and slumbering blissfully beneath the covers? And why, why in the name of all things warm and fuzzy had he decided to open his maw and tell Dillamond that he'd been interested in meeting the Witch?

Well, the answer to that one's actually pretty simple: he'd gotten a little too anxious to fit in among the other Animals at the shelter and accidently blabbed out half his life story and interests to complete strangers before Dillamond had managed to calm him down. Looking back now, it seems pretty stupid, but at the time, Brrr thought it actually went down quite well with the other Animals –at the very least, it broke the ice. Now, of course, it's just another sign that he's not fit to be a Lion: a real Lion would have had the dignity to keep his mouth shut, and the strength of will to ignore things like shyness and fear.

Okay, he thinks to himself, I can do this. I'm going to go in there, shake her hand, say "hello" and say absolutely nothing else unless specifically asked. I'm then going to listen carefully, sit politely, thank for the time, and walk away without being hexed into oblivion. I can do that.

…No I can't, but I'm going to try.

Steeling himself for the worst, he finally falls into step alongside Dr Dillamond, just in time for the office doors to swing obligingly open in front of them. There, sitting behind a desk and surrounded by all the predictable trappings of a government official's office is…

…Her.

Even if he hadn't seen her in over dozen different newspapers, broadsheets, posters and portraits over the course of the last few months, he'd still recognize Elphaba Thropp on sight… and by those other unpleasant thoughts suddenly worming their way through his head (more unpleasant than the usual thought that merely denounce him as a coward and a disgrace, for those usually fade away after the fiftieth chorus).

Every time he's seen her in the last few months, whether at a public gathering or in a photograph, he's been stricken by a disturbing sensation of familiarity blended with fear, accompanied by a bevy of symptoms he's usually only felt in his nightmares: claustrophobia, hallucinatory cages surrounding him, phantom pains in his skin and hair, deafening voices screaming at him at all angles… and a familiar voice screaming out in rage and horror. And after the symptoms have passed, the nightmares seem all the more vivid, until the once-incomprehensible haze of misremembered sights and sounds takes on a ghoulish new life inside his head: he can now distinguish words spoken by the voices, one voice proclaiming "the silence of progress!" over and over again; he can smell blood, metal polish, old wood, fresh blood (his own) and for reasons he still can't fathom, a strong smell of cosmetics wafting over his cage; and of all the faces that appear above him in these nightmares, there's only one he recognizes.

He's met Elphaba before. He doesn't know how or why, but he's met her before – and ever since then, he's been afraid. Ever since then, he's been a coward.

And now she's standing before him.

Here and now, Elphaba is rising from her chair to shake hands with Dr Dillamond, and Brr can do is watch and try not to lose composure as the symptoms overtake him. Easier said than done.

"It's good to see you again, Doctor," she says – and as if the sight of her shaking the former professor by the hand wasn't astonishing enough, she follows this up by hugging him. This time, the Lion can only gape in disbelief as one of the most powerful officials in Oz flings her arms around the elderly goat and draws him into a comradely embrace.

Dillamond returns the hug, a little surprised by his former student's affection but no less happy to see her. "You too, Miss Elphaba. Or should I call you Madam Director now?"

"Just Elphaba, please: the Wicked Witch of the West wasn't the most flattering title the people could think of, but at least it was more interesting than "Madam Director." It makes me sound like Morrible's younger substitute." She gave a mock-shudder. "No, Elphaba will do just fine. How have you been?"

By way of explanation, the elderly goat raises his arms so that Elphaba can see the distinctive twitch his front hooves have acquired. "I've been better," he admits. "But things have been improving."

"Shiz hasn't re-hired you, have they?"

"No. Truth be told, I'm not all that surprised: universities are proud institutes, and they don't like admitting to mistakes; having me re-employed might be seen as admission of guilt. So, until the last of the Anti-Animal laws are repealed, no Hallowed Halls and Vine-Draped Walls for me."

Elphaba sighs. "And the legal work is going to take quite a while to complete and enact. I'm sorry, Doctor."

"Oh, it's no problem. I might not have made my way back to the realms of higher learn, but I am teaching again: there's always a few Animals in the ghettos who need some inexpensive education, and there've even been a few humans who've been willing to employ me as a private tutor every now and again."

"We do what we can in troubled times, as they say." And then, to Brrr's horror, Elphaba's gaze turns in his direction. "Oh, where are my manners?" she laughed. "Sorry to keep you waiting. Anyway, you must be the good doctor's newest student."

Brrr opens his mouth to reply, but all that emerges is a sound not unlike a rat getting caught in a mangle.

Speak to her, you coward! Ask her your questions, get some answers, make something of yourself for a change! You disgrace Lions everywhere with your whimpering, you little shit!

"Actually, he's one of my neighbours at the charitable housing zone where I've been staying," Dillamond explains. "His name is Brrr, and last I looked, he was very interested in meeting you in person."

Oh for Oz's sakes, Doctor, did you really have to mention that so soon?

Outside the Lion's half-infuriated half-terrified inner monologue, Elphaba strides forward and shakes his paw with a murmur of "Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," Brrr squeaks.

"So, what brings you to the Asylum today? Why were you so anxious to meet me?"

Oh dear.

He's dreaded this part ever since Dillamond put his name forwards as the plus one: how is he supposed to explain that he might have met the Director at some point in the past, even though she probably doesn't remember it any better than he does? How is he supposed to explain the fact that he was being tortured during this particular meeting? Oh god, why did he even mention he wanted to meet her? Why had he bothered to get out of bed this morning?

The Director eyes him curiously. "Have we met before? You look familiar…"

Oh crap.

The Lion can only nod silently.

To his surprise, Elphaba looks almost as awestruck as he did a moment ago: "I didn't encounter too many Lions while I was Wicked Witch of the West, and most of the ones I've met over the course of my time in Animal Affairs weren't as skinny as you." Or as shy, her expression reads. "Tell me, were you caged when we first met?"

Oh god she knows she knows she knows she knows and it's going to be horrible.

Petrified, he nods again.

"And how old were you?"

"J-j-just a cub, ma'am."

Elphaba doesn't reply to this, but frankly, she doesn't need to: the smile of recognition slowly etching itself across her face is all the answer Brrr needs.

At this point, Doctor Dillamond coughs for attention. "I, er, I hate to interrupt this," he says, slightly louder than necessary. "But do you think we could attend to business before we catch up on old times?"

"You're telling me you don't want to share your tales of the misadventures you've been through in the last few years?"

"Oh, I do. I just think we should get down to business first: your letter said that this was going to be a fairly significant meeting concerning Animal Rights, and I would have thought that our business would take priority over stories of the good old days. No offence intended, Brrr."

"None taken," Brrr mumbled, secretly grateful for the reprieve. As intriguing as all this information is, he desperately needs a chance to sit down and catch his breath before he gets hit with another revelation.

Elphaba sighs. "You're right, of course. Take a seat, and we'll discuss the petition as it stands... for what it's worth."

As the three of them sit down, Dillamond gives his former student a quizzical look. "What do you mean, 'for what it's worth?'" he asks suspiciously. "If it's about the limited response from the Wizard, I'm well aware that my petition isn't likely to draw much attention from most of the government-"

"Hence the reason why you came to see me," Elphaba finishes. "Because you believed that I'd be sympathetic to your cause and able to help. And I am. But there's limits on what can be done through legitimate channels."

"Last I looked, Miss Elphaba, you were one of the most influential figures in the Wizard's government; I'd have thought you'd be able to pull some strings within your department-"

"I can; but once again, there are limits. I can improve Animal housing, I can raise wages, I can supply you with medicine and trained professionals, and with the right word or two in Fiyero's ear, I can make sure that your homes receive official protection from Anti-Animal groups... but repealing the last of the Anti-Animal laws beyond my power, and the Wizard isn't likely to grant that right to me no matter how many petitions you send."

Dillamond sighs. "How long have you known this?" he asks, wearily.

"Almost two years; we've made great strides in furthering Animal rights, but the powers that be don't want the stride carrying us any further. For all intents and purposes, we've been manacled."

"So there's nothing to be done? This entire meeting was a waste of time?"

Once again, a smirk begins etching itself across the Director's face. "Not necessarily."

In spite of himself, the Lion blurts out, "But you said you couldn't -"

"Through legitimate channels, yes." As it so happens, I have connections that would allow me to make a greater difference to the Animal cause that I ever could through lawful means, if you'd be willing to grant me your blessing… and your help."

For the second time in as many minutes, Doctor Dillamond can only offer a look of polite confusion. "My help? Forgive me, Miss Elphaba, but I'm currently living in a glorified homeless shelter and surviving on the charity of a few small-time businessmen – small-time Animal businessmen, I might add. I'm a little short of resources to draw on at present."

"But you do have connections," says Elphaba, her smile wider than ever. "You've been getting signatures for this petition, Doctor, signatures from just about every single figure of influence you could find in the ghettoes. I've done my research: the community leaders who've signed your petition might not command much sway outside their respective districts, but as a whole, they have just enough to make life very difficult for their enemies. They gave you their backing because they believed that you could inspire support from both halves of the general public, and why wouldn't they? Articulate, respectable, gentlemanly and well-educated, but also a survivor of the re-education camps and well-known for his opposition to the Anti-Animal movement… I'd imagine that image would allow you a good deal of support among Animals and sympathetic humans alike, yes?"

"Well, to a point, yes. You want to make use of my connections, then?"

"If I have your blessing to proceed, and if you think they'd be willing to cooperate with me."

Dillamond hesitates. "Despite your status as a member of the Wizard's government, you're still very highly regarded by the Animal community," he says at last. "You've acquired a good deal of popularity over the course of your time in office… but the question is, what do you want their help with? If it's criminal, as you say, then I'm afraid that my friends are strictly legitimate businessmen who don't-"

"The work I want them to help with isn't garden variety crime, Doctor. It's… well, let's just say that it's something much more risky, and much more rewarding."

"How do you mean?"

"Does the word "revolution" strike your heart?"

There's a long and distinctly startled pause, as Brrr and Dillamond gape in disbelief. Eventually, the old goat manages to recover just enough to mumble the words, "I think you'd better show me what you've been working on, Miss Elphaba."

"I'd thought you'd never ask…"

---

For five long minutes, Dillamond and Brrr can only stare down at the labyrinth of cubicles and machinery below them, their jaws flapping aimlessly as they struggle to find a coherent response to the hive of activity they've just been introduced to.

Brrr hasn't the slightest idea where they are, and only the vaguest idea of how they got here: for the sake of secrecy, they'd agreed to be blindfolded for the duration of their journey into the bowels of the Asylum, and the most Brrr can remember about it is being propelled along an underground passageway at seventy miles an hour, feeling the wind roaring through his mane and trying desperately not to succumb to his fear of high speeds – or his fear of the dark, for that matter. But after the pulse-pounding ride along the rails and several more minutes of walking blindly down flights of stairs and around sharp corners, they'd found themselves standing on a balcony overlooking…

Well, this. This workshop, this laboratory, this rumpus-room of scientists and magicians at play in just about every conceivable field and with almost every sort of equipment imaginable – Brrr doesn't know what he should call it. There's simply too much to take in at a single glance, too many esoteric machines and eclectic magic at work, too many things to shock and unexpectedly fascinate him; in the end, all he can focus on is the fact that humans and Animals alike at work down here – and the overwhelming majority of the Animals don't appear to be working as servants or assistants. Indeed, a great deal of them seem to be running the experiments.

Back on the balcony, Dr Dillamond is still struggling to string words together; eventually, he manages to gasp out, "W… whu… what is this place, Elphaba?"

"I call it the Pottery; it's a private think tank I set up a few months ago. Among other things, I've providing facilities and patronage for out-of-work experts from the Animal communities; together, we've been preparing for the future through research and development… and in some ways, we've been making the future."

The Lion stares in bewilderment at the fiendishly-complicated experiments on display thirty feet below: for all he knows about magic, someone could literally be making the future down there and he wouldn't recognize it. "W-what do you mean?" he manages to ask. "What are you making here?"

"Among other things, the Plague of Transformations."

This time, astonished silence simply doesn't suffice. This time, Dr Dillamond can only blink and mumble "What."

"The final iteration, to be specific. We're going to need a spectacular display to kick off widespread public dissent against the Wizard, and I think their current batch looks especially promising."

"What."

"I think it might even top the first variant created. And that one was my own design, a fusion of Dahl's Formula and the Circean Draught. Of course, I made the production of later batches the responsibility of the Animals among my staff: after all, it's the instrument of their freedom, so I felt it would be best if was left in their capable paws."

"What."

"We've also got the cure ready to go, complete with the necessary delivery system; once the Wizard is out of office, we'll need to deploy it as quickly as possible to prevent lasting unrest against the new government."

"…What."

"Of course, our movements over the next few days – including the deployment of this final batch of Plague – will require some assistance from the local Animal community, one of the reasons for this visit in the first place. So tell me, what do you think?"

"Wh… WHAT?!"

Brrr flinches at the noise, and a few researches at work below them glance upwards in concern, but the good doctor hasn't finished airing his incredulity just yet. "You created the Plague?" he shouts. "You're responsible for the epidemic making its way across Oz right now, just so you could discredit and depose the Wizard?"

"In a word, yes."

"Then… then what about Morrible? What role is she playing in all this?"

"You'll find her down there: if you'll look carefully, you might just catch a glimpse of her wheelchair trundling around the alchemical vats. I broke her out of prison so I could make use of her connections and magical expertise."

"So, you framed her?"

"Yes."

"But what about the assassination attempt? You were poisoned – according to the doctors, you could have died! Surely you wouldn't have done that to yourself just to frame Morrible-"

"All great undertakings require great sacrifices, Doctor Dillamond; I felt it was time that I sacrificed a little of myself for the sake of the cause."

"What cause? What could be possibly worth all the suffering this Plague's inflicted?"

"The same cause you represent; the same cause I fought for as the Wicked Witch of the West, the same cause I tried to further as Director of Animal Rights: equality… and of course, the downfall of the Wizard and the rise of a newer, fairer government."

"But people have died of the Plague, Elphaba! How can you justify the deaths of people who had nothing to do with the Wizard's government?"

"The Plague wasn't meant to kill them, Doctor: the few who have died as a result of infection were victims of trampling, crushing, falling and other injuries – unfortunate accidents, but in the end, just accidents. Why do you think I agreed to my position as Director of the Asylum? With a fully-funded hospital for Plague victims at our disposal, we have ensured the survival of our targets. And that's only the beginning of the lives we can save: we're hardly limited to the people we've infected, Doctor; with the fall of the Wizard, we can improve the lives of millions, human and Animal alike."

"I… I can see your plan makes a certain degree of sense… but why the Plague? Why did you need to use that to discredit the Wizard? Why not rally the Animals against him? Why not reveal his secrets to the public, turn his own citizens against him? Why not fight him directly. For Oz's sake, you could have even tried something within the law instead of something as monstrous as-"

"Do you remember what you said on the day you were arrested?" Elphaba's voice is soft, almost a whisper, but somehow Brrr heard it even over the din of the workshop below them. "You said they couldn't stop you from speaking out. You wanted us to remember that we weren't being told the whole story. You were right in the latter case, of course… but they did stop you from speaking out, just as they stopped me from speaking out. I tried to reveal the truth to the people of Oz, I tried to make them realize that the Wizard was a fraud and a despot, but none of them believed in me: even when I had a few precious grains of concrete proof at hand, nobody lost faith in the Wizard. And eventually, my attempt at breaking the news as honestly and earnestly as possible ended with me being beaten to within an inch of my life and chained to a hospital bed for the next few months.

"It took a while for me to realize my mistake, but eventually I understood that it wasn't enough to just tell the truth: I had to make it impossible to ignore. Back when I'd been the Wicked Witch of the West, I'd been a lone threat, forced to the outskirts of Oz and labelled weak because of my refusal to target civilians; people could ignore me then, wrap themselves up in their little lives and lull themselves to sleep with Glinda's latest proclamation. But with the aid of the Pottery and the mask of the Plague Witch, I gave the country an enemy that could strike anywhere at any time, with no limits, no scruples, and no human weaknesses. I had to make them fear for their lives, to make them suffer if necessary – all so they would look to the Wizard for rescue, and discover that he was powerless. This is the only way I can set this country free, Doctor Dillamond: can you look me in the eye and tell me that Animal equality and effective leadership wouldn't be worth the price I've had to pay?"

Elphaba hesitates for a moment, and then slowly turns in the Lion's direction. "Do you have any thoughts on the matter, Brrr?"

"I-I-I'm just…" He gives himself a little shake, and continues as best as he can: "I don't know. I just don't know what to make of it all…"

"Then don't think about the Pottery. Don't think about the Plague, don't think about the Wizard, or about anything I've been rambling on about. Let's talk about our first meeting: you were right, Brrr – we have met before. Do you want to know the how and the why of the matter?"

The Lion nods.

"We first met at Shiz University, many years ago. I was a student, still outcast by my unnatural skin colour and only just getting the Wizard's attention; you were…" She takes a deep breath. "You were a test subject, brought in by Dr Dillamond's replacement as an effective demonstration of the methods used in containing and silencing Animals. You were caged throughout the class, and if you dared to break the silence, the…" Her mouth visibly twitches with the effort of suppressing an expletive. "… The substitute would hurt you. Even though you couldn't speak a word of coherent speech, even though you could only snarl, he'd still torture you, ripping tufts of your fur out with a pair of tongs – to spare his hands from being bitten, I'd imagine."

The stinging pain in his skin again, the pinching, tearing sensation – the tongs ripping bits of me away, he realizes, that's what it was all along. Out loud, he manages to gasp, "I heard you screaming, saw your face over my cage."

"Yes, I was shouting a bit. I, uh…" For the first time since the conversation began, Elphaba actually looks somewhat abashed. "I lost my temper. Suffice to say, the substitute wasn't able to continue his lesson. In all the confusion, I smuggled you out of the class with the help of one of my few friends – Fiyero Tiggular, one of the few students in the entire with a conscience and the ability to act on it. Together, we took you as far from the university as we could travel on foot and released you into the wild. At the time, I hoped you'd be able to make some kind of a life for yourself out there – certainly we thought you were old enough to survive on your own… but given that your records show that you were liberated from an Animal re-education camp, I can see your freedom didn't last long." She offers a sad little smile. "Another failure to add to my already generous supply."

"I-it's alright," Brrr mumbles. "I don't remember enough of it to really blame anyone for what happened."

"I appreciate your forgiveness, but that's not the point right now: the point is the small matter of the laws that had you jailed in the first place… and the man who'd be willing to reinstate those laws if it meant keeping a few influential bigots happy."

"Sorry, what?"

"The Wizard might be corrupt, dictatorial, fraudulent and unspeakably wasteful as far as his own intelligence goes, but I will say this much of him: he doesn't harbour any real anti-Animal beliefs. Of course, that in itself ends up becoming a problem in itself, as it's not a sign of any defensible motives on his part, but just a sign of his weakness. The only reason he started passing the anti-Animal laws in the first place was because he felt more like pandering to the bigotry of his followers rather than making his own decisions. So," and here, she addresses both Dillamond and Brrr, "If either of you had the choice between allowing the newest of Wizard's "experts" to silence you, and making the necessary sacrifices to remove a weak man from office, would you really choose insentience? Would you want to go back to your cage, Brrr? Would you willingly allow the madness to continue? Would anyone?"

For well over a minute, neither of them can answer: Brrr is too busy trying to shake of the symptoms of flashback to answer, and Dillamond seems to be having trouble making up his mind.

Eventually, the Lion shakes his head. "I don't know if I'd be able to make the sacrifices, but I wouldn't let the Wizard's reign continue," he says – and to his surprise, his voice sounds oddly steady for a change.

Doctor Dillamond sighs deeply. "Likewise," he grumbles. "But once this revolution of yours is over and done with, you and I are going to have a very long and thorough conversation about this "ends justify the means" business, Miss Elphaba."

"Then you're willing to aid the revolution?"

"It doesn't seem as if either of us have much of a choice in the matter: nobody would believe us if we testified against you, and even if we had the proof to have you convicted, what would be the point in doing so? You're right enough about the Wizard, and you're undoubtedly correct about this government. And…" The Goat lets out a muffled snarl of exasperation. "I concede that your Plague… might be worth the results," he admits, begrudgingly. "You have my blessing… but I still don't approve of your methods."

"I'd be worried if you did, Doctor: in fact, one of the reasons why I chose to trust you with this information was because I knew you'd understand my reasoning yet still disapprove. And that moral outlook will be necessary once this coup is finished; sooner or later, every revolution needs a moral reminder. But perhaps we should discuss the matter further in my office: after all, we're going to have to plot out a few instructions for our friends in the ghettoes. If you'd care to follow me…"

But as Elphaba strides down the gantry with Dillamond in hot pursuit, a thought occurs to Brrr and he voices it almost on instinct: "Do you actually need me around for this meeting?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Suddenly realizing what he's just said, Brrr hastily clarifies: "Well, I'm grateful for being trusted with so much, but I honestly don't have much to offer as far as connections go. I mean, I know a few other animals who might need work, but I can't contribute much to the meeting unless you want to catch up on old times. So, um, with your permission…"

He knows what he should do now: he should give Elphaba a short list of Animals looking for work, thank her for trusting him, and get the hell out of here without sparing another thought for the revolution. He'll get on with his life, look for work along with all the other Animals of the ghetto, and maybe entertain the occasional wild fantasy of having an ounce of courage in his soul – enough so he can call himself a Lion without wincing. And if the Director's plan succeeds, he'll maybe enjoy a better lifestyle, get a decent job that won't prove too much of a disgrace, live out the rest of his years in relative contentment and go to his grave without too many embarrassments to his name. And all he has to do is walk away.

He knows what he should do. And yet…

Less than twenty feet below him, the experiments are still in progress, filling the air with luminescent vapour and crackling tongues of electricity. He can't pretend to understand what's going on, and he can't pretend that the chaos unfolding below doesn't frighten him… but even with every sensible impulse in his body demanding that he turn around and leave, there's a little voice in the back of his head clamouring for a closer look at the workshop.

"…Could I have a look around the Pottery?" he finishes at last. "Just for a few minutes."

Brrr may very well be a coward, but even he can't resist the call of his own curiosity for long.

"Looking for a job as a research assistant, Brrr?"

"What? No, no, no, I'd just like a tour of the place, that's all."

"Suit yourself. The offer's still open if you ever change your mind. Meanwhile, I've got the perfect tour guide just for you: Mr Heart, front and centre if you please!"

---

"What's that?"

"Oh, that's Mad Handerson's latest prototype: an airborne assault sphere, he calls it. Made a hell of a mess when he last activated it, especially when Chistery had to drag it out of the rafters."

"And that? Why is it staring at us?"

"That's a golem, one of Palanquin's creations by the looks of things. He never bothers to repair the damn things, you see, so when they break a leg or an arm or what have you, he just leaves them out in the corridor until the spells animating it finally decay."

"It won't follow us, will it?"

"Probably not; even if its kneecaps weren't shattered, the animation spells around its legs have started to falter. Unless this thing decides to crawl after us, it's not going anywhere."

"Okay, what's that thing back there? The glowing thing, I mean."

"That's Lintel's newest gateway project. I'd steer clear if I were you; from what Dr Coil tells me, he created this one as a weapon… not that the peacetime gateways are any safer."

"Who's Dr Coil?"

Mr Heart almost laughs.

Ever since they began this little guided tour about an hour ago, the Lion's been bombarding him with questions: about the Pottery, about the researchers, about their experiments, about Elphaba, and occasionally about Mr Heart himself. In all the years of his short but colourful life, he's never met anyone so curious in his entire life; even his four-year-old cousins didn't ask so many questions when he last met them. But perhaps the questions are just the Lion's way of taking his mind off the more unpleasant sights on display; after all, Elphaba told him that Brrr was a bit on the nervous and flighty side before they set off, and true to form, he has spent most of the time between questions jumping at every loud noise in earshot.

Still, he does his best to accommodate the young Lion. It's been a long and backbreaking day, and with the workload only growing greater with every passing hour, he's grateful for any lull in the action he can get.

"Dr Coil's my tutor and supervisor," Heart replies at last. "You'll find him just over there, in that cubicle with all the glass jars and medical samples on display."

"The snake, you mean?"

"Yep, that's him."

"But that woman in the wheelchair? What's she doing in there? I though Elphaba said she was Madame Mo-"

"That's one of our research assistants, Miss Emmataal – not her real name of course, but when Lintel storms out of his cubicle and starts screaming words he learned from other dimensions at you, the name does tend to stick. Right now, Miss Emma is posing for a sculpture."

"… a sculpture?" The Lion echoes sceptically.

"A flesh sculpture. A facsimile. Well, a facsimile of her corpse, to be brutally frank. This isn't the first time we've faked someone's death, I'll admit, but this is the first time we've ever required a sitting model for the fakery."

"Speaking of corpses, what's… w-what's going on in that cubicle behind them?" Paws trembling, the Lion points towards one of the enclosures just around the corner, where three dead bodies have been arranged in a triangle around a vast bank of machinery; even from here, Brrr can't have missed the cables burrowing into the corpses' skulls.

"I believe that's Doctor Mainspring's latest invention: he claims it's a means of preserving the memories of the dead in a mechanical containment unit, but so far he hasn't shared any of the results with us apprentices. Even Dr Coil doesn't know much, and he's been one who's had to get the corpses ready for integration. But the director says that-"

"Dr Coil!" a strident voice booms. "Over here now, apprentice and all!"

Muttering an expletive, Mr Heart turns just in time to see Dr Coil slithering out of his cubicle and making a beeline for one of the more secluded regions of the maze; belatedly realizing that the call had been for him as well, Heart takes to his heels and sprints after Coil as fast as his bruised feet can carry him.

By the time he arrives at the cubicle, Coil is already deep in conversation with a gaggle of other senior researchers: Drs Coil, Ailing, Calenture, Miasmal, Dispensary, Broil, Souper and over a dozen others are all clustered around a huge stack of papers, all shouting at the top of their voices. With so many people struggling to make themselves, Heart can't discern the topic of conversation over all the noise, but in all honesty, he doesn't need to: just about every single researcher gathered in this cubicle have had a role in the development of the Plague.

Eventually, the noise subsides enough for Dr Ailing to announce, "The final batches are fine. It's the initial spectacle that's not working, and the Director made it clear that the batch wouldn't have the desired effect without the spectacle."

"Why isn't it working?" one of the researchers shouts. "I thought we had the Plague-creation down to a fine art by now!"

"We do!" Dispensary roars back. "But we can't overcome the basic chemical limitations: the serum can only induce unidirectional transformation; it can turn a human into a mouse, an eagle, an elephant, a fish, or what have you. It can't manage consecutive transformations. It can't turn a human into a mouse, then an eagle, then a fish – it doesn't work that way."

"Then how can we manage the spectacle?"

"We'll have to go back to formula-"

"No, we have to try a different blend of-"

"The machinery could-"

"-what about illusions, nobody ever said the spectacle had to be-"

"-no, it has to be solid, it has to be inescapably believable-

"Listen to me-"

"No, you listen to me-"

"-is anybody-"

"-you stubborn old-"

"Ssssssssilence!" Coil hisses, his voice cutting easily through the growing clamour. "The sssspectacle was never meant to be sssspecfic sssstrain of the Plague, as the Empress made clear. Why not use a different approach altogether?"

"Like what? Shapeshifting?"

"It's a possibility."

Dr Calenture eyes Dr Coil with interest. "I've heard rumours that some mage-surgeons actually managed to achieve a limited form of shapeshifting through their mastery of flesh-moulding – way back when it was still widely practiced, of course. Do you think you could manage anything like that or teach someone to do it, or-"

"No. Alas, that's one skill I've never mastered or needed for that matter. And I doubt anyone could learnt it at short notice – not without accidentally killing themselves at any rate."

"What about more conventional forms of shapeshifting?" Miasma asks. "It might have fallen out of fashion for several decades, but surely the Director has some knowledge of the art of self-transformation."

Ailing shakes her head. "Even if she does, it won't be enough. We want multiple subjects, consecutive transformations, widespread effects, things we can't achieve with just one shapeshifter within reach. We need something chemical."

"Oh, it's always something chemical with you-"

"And it's always something hackneyed with you. Broil, do you have anything in your library that might work?"

The rotund little chemist pauses, absently rubbing his nose in consternation. "Perhaps," he says at last. "We've been basing our work on potions designed to cause involuntary transformation: what if we tried a potion that allowed voluntary transformation? That way, we could make use of volunteers for the spectacle, plant them in the crowd ahead of time and have them transform in as visible a manner as possible."

"Do you have a formula that could accomplish this?"

"As a matter of fact, I do: the Blood of Proteus. It shouldn't be too difficult to produce at short notice, given that it's technically a variant on the Circean Draught, and it shouldn't pose too many dangers to our volunteers."

"But who are those volunteers supposed to be, exactly?" Coil asked. "We're not exactly overflowing with personnel here: we can't just start dragging guards and assistant researchers away from their work just for the terrorist equivalent of an opening ceremony."

"We'll find them somewhere."

"Definite somewhere."

"Look, all I need is a test subject, and once we're sure the potion works, we can trust that the Mentor can find volunteers for-"

"Shut up, Broil. Now, define "somewhere," Dr Cordite: the Asylum, the poorhouses, the prisons, the other madhouses? I'm waiting for some input."

"Now listen here, you-"

"-I'm not talking to you-"

"-Ailing, would you reason with this idiot-"

"-fucking thing will probably-"

"-you tell me where we'll find volunteers this late in the production, and I'll gladly-"

"-I will rip off your shinbones and scalp you with them, you howling-"

And then, just as it looks as though the conversation is going to give way to pointless bickering all over again, a deafening roar sounds from somewhere behind them, smothering the noise just long enough for a voice to proclaim, "I volunteer!"

But even with the crowd suddenly silent, it takes Heart at least ten seconds to realize that their brave volunteer is none other than Brrr.

---

Once upon a time, a visit from the Wizard himself would have been a rare occurrence.

After all, as the undisputed ruler of all Oz, he didn't need to venture out and meet people – all he needed to do was relax under the comfortable shroud of pomp and mystique he'd woven for himself and wait for people to visit him. And once upon a time, there'd been a great many of them: worshippers, well-wishers, petitioners, prospective courtiers, dignitaries, representatives, and subjects from the highest pinnacles of society to its lowest chasms, all of them waiting for the guard at the door to proclaim "The Wizard will see you now!" Not all of them were favoured with an audience, but there were enough accepted entrances to keep the visitors happy.

Following the outbreak of the Plague, there'd been more supplicants than ever, from businessmen floundering in Plague-induced panics (economic or otherwise) to bereaved families pleading for a miracle. But the Wonderful Wizard had seen none of them; eventually, the increasingly disgruntled petitioners slowly trickled away, taking with them the courtiers, the ambassadors, and all but the most ardent worshippers. And after another eleven months of waiting, they gave in as well, leaving the palatial antechamber occupied only by dust.

These days, nobody sees the Wizard. Once interviews and audiences ceased, the rest of Oz soon found themselves facing a similar plight: by now, Wizard's public addresses have all been cancelled; the palace servants are ignored; guards go without orders; even the officials who help manage the country according to his edicts are left idle, their requests for further orders all unanswered.

In fact, the only person he speaks to at all is Elphaba.

And tonight's conference is particularly informal. He doesn't schedule a meeting, he doesn't summon her to the audience chamber – he doesn't even send one of his guards to issue the usual ponderous proclamation, and couldn't anyway, given that he isn't speaking to said guards. He simply turns up at her door that evening, unannounced except for a quick mumble of "I'm not disturbing you, am I?"

"No, of course not. Come in."

There's an awkward pause as the old man shuffles inside and parks himself in front of her desk. Unusually self-conscious, he stands there in silence for several seconds before finally clearing his throat and managing to force out the words, "Uh, I just wanted to see how you were doing lately – personally, I mean, not in the sense of progress reports and such…" He trails off, a vaguely bemused smile frozen on his face.

"I'm fine," Elphaba replies. "Busier than ever, but somehow still keeping my head above water – much like the rest of Oz. And you?"

"Fine, fine, er… you're sure you're alright? You don't feel tired or tense or-"

"I'm pretty sure that everyone in the country's feeling tense right now, Your Ozness. As far as my personal wellbeing goes, I've never felt better."

"But you've been awake for the past two days, and you still haven't taken a single break from all this… this…" The Wizard's eyes quickly scan the archive of files and forms stacked across the desk in front of him, most of it related to subjects that he can only guess at, and most of it coded for good measure. "…paperwork," he finishes limply.

Far longer than that, Your Ozness; purity has its benefits.

Elphaba shrugs. "That's just what I do in times like this – I go without sleep and overwork. You should have seen me back when I was still the Wicked Witch of the West: two-day stretches without sleeping were pretty much the norm. Once, I actually spent an entire week without sleep… though I only managed that through magic, of course."

If anything, the Wizard looks even more uncomfortable… and oddly enough, also more than a little guilty, too.

"… er, speaking of magic," he continues, "I hear that you've been teaching your sister that very subject. I understand you, uh, you care for Nessarose very deeply, but is tutoring her in magic really such a good idea?"

"I'm afraid 'tutoring' might be putting it a tad overgenerously, Your Ozness: as far as I know, Nessa's been teaching herself magic; I've merely provided her with the necessary spellbooks and wished her the best of luck. As for how much of a good idea it is, I find that one of the best remedies for grief is work: this way, she has a productive outlet for her frustrations over losing Boq, and more importantly, she no longer has the time or inclination to speak out against you."

"Well, that's all well and good, but is leaving her unsupervised really-"

"She isn't unsupervised, Your Ozness. I might not be peering over her shoulder every minute of the day, but I can sense her use of magic: if she tries anything dangerous or deliberately harmful, I'll be the first to know." And if all else fails, there's still Chistery and the other flying monkeys on watch, she remarks silently.

"Oh… good thinking, then…" Finding himself unexpectedly superfluous for the second time in a single conversation, he trails off once more.

This isn't the first time her attempts to educate Nessa have met resistance, of course: scant days after they began, her father had burst into her office and shouted at her for a whole minute until his heart condition managed to incapacitate him long enough for Elphaba to explain that, contrary to the tirade he'd just bombarded her with, Nessarose wasn't being forced to learn magic, nor was she being taught anything remotely wicked, and Elphaba wasn't teaching her anything per se. Father had quite naturally refused to believe a word of what she'd said, demanding to know how she was controlling her and how long she'd been bewitching her sister, before abruptly storming out. Hours later, he'd returned to her office, this time almost too infuriated to speak: after a minute of silent fuming, he'd grumpily admitted that Nessarose was indeed acting of her own free will, a fact he'd only accepted after about three qualified magicians had examined her and confirmed that she showed no signs of mental enchantment. In the end, the only thing Frexspar Thropp had been able to complain about was that his beloved daughter was doing something he didn't like – and he couldn't bring himself to let Nessa know he disapproved.

And he still disapproves even now, of course; a shame, for Nessa's studies are progressing admirably. It was only a few short weeks ago that she managed to successfully levitate a pencil, a feat she was so excited about, she actually went out of her way to show Elphaba in person: since then, she's mastered the art of levitation and progressed to outright acts of telekinesis, along with basic studies in transfiguration and energy-casting; she's even taken a sideline interest in the complicated manipulation of light and shadow, showing commendable ambition for a novice witch. And all through her studies, Elphaba remains in the background, subtly correcting her sister's mistakes when necessary but always ensuring that every victory belongs to Nessa.

Just yesterday, Nessarose actually went so far as to bypass the usual system of elevators and ramps arranged for her by simply levitating her wheelchair down one of the palace's larger staircases, giggling with delight at the speed of her descent – and at the astonished stares she'd received from fellow pedestrians. Elphaba had looked on with an almost parental sense of pride: the girl who'd once been no more than "tragically beautiful" was finally blossoming into something greater…

Back in the present, the Wizard is still trying to think of some way of continuing the conversation – or the awkward, mumbling substitute for a conversation they've found themselves in. Eventually, he coughs a little, and asks, "And how's Glinda? I mean, I heard that she's with child, but my sources have been a little quiet on the subject…"

It takes all of Elphaba's self-control not to roll her eyes at this remark: at the rate the Wizard's been losing contact with his staff, the old man's "sources" likely consist of the daily newspapers and nothing else. Glinda had announced her pregnancy just last night, and since then, it's made the headlines for just about every single rag in the country – probably the only event that could possibly knock the Plague of Transformations off the front pages. Long before the story had seen print, though, Elphaba had heard it from Glinda herself, and along the way, it had probably reached the ears of just about every single servant, functionary and medical professional that had attended Glinda over the course of the last week. If the Wizard hadn't heard the news before last night, his sources aren't worth a damn.

"Glinda's fine. Ecstatic, in fact: I don't think I've ever seen her so busy in all the years I've known her: in the last few days, it's been nothing but arranging baby showers, planning the nursery for the new home, planning the new home… and of course, pondering names for her child. In fact, I've got a meeting with the happy couple tomorrow just to discuss their next big plan for the future. Granted, I think she and Fiyero would be even happier if they could actually get married within the next nine months, but they're content with their lot for the time being."

At last, there's the tiniest flicker of relief on the Wizard's face. "You're sure?"

"Positive. At present, there's little any of us can do but wait and hope that Captain Harnley's team meets with some kind of success."

The Wizard coughs. "That's another thing I meant to discuss with you… um, has there been any word from Harnley's team in the last few days? I may have missed a critical memo somewhere or..."

Just as expected: he hasn't been reading anything that's crossed his desk in the last few days.

"Fiyero tells me that the news has actually been pretty good," Elphaba reassures him. "According to the last report from the field, they've picked up a trail somewhere in Quadling Country; all indications are that Morrible's been injured – quite badly, in fact. Odds are, she won't be escaping this time."

"Really? That's… that's excellent news. We're almost out of the woods, then?"

"Well, there's still the matter of implementing the Plague cure we've developed, but that's a different story."

"Why? What's the problem there?"

"You don't remember?"

"Remember what?"

Inwardly, Elphaba smiles and ticks another box on the ever-expanding checklist of the Wizard's growing eccentricities; outwardly, she sighs in exasperation and wearily explains: "Four weeks ago, you told me that you wanted us to make the cure look as though it was your handiwork, Your Ozness. Well, we've finally managed to formulate a serum that can dispel the effects of the Plague and erase any lasting symptoms: now, all we have to do is to make the delivery system Wizardly enough so that the public will attribute it to you."

"Oh, good point. Erm, well, carry on then…" Trailing off, the Wizard lapses into an awkward silence as he struggles to continue the conversation; once or twice, he seems to grasp at an idea and opens his mouth as if to voice it, but then uncertainly clouds his eyes and he finds himself at a loss for words again. Then, the silence becomes a pause, then a hiatus: bit by bit, the Wizard's gaze slowly descends to the floor, avoiding all eye contact along the way; his lips trace the shapes of half-formed words and phrases that he can't bring himself to say out loud; his hands drop to his sides, fists absently clenching and unclenching in muted frustration; and from somewhere around shoe level, Elphaba hears the all-too familiar sound of the Wizard absently tapping his left heel on the floor. Perhaps once every thirty seconds, he looks up as if ready to finally voice whatever's been troubling him; but just as he's opening his mouth to speak, he makes eye contact with Elphaba, and suddenly the words escape him altogether, forcing him to return to contemplating the floorboards.

Sadly, this isn't the first time Elphaba's witnessed this behaviour: he's been in the habit of lapsing into odd silences for a while now, but it's only recently that the condition's become terminal; pauses like these can go on for several minutes at the very worst. Elphaba tolerates it, however: after all, the old man has a lot on his mind. Northsweep Industries isn't breathing down his neck anymore, but only because the rest of Oz has decided to do so instead; with the Plague still on the loose and the cure still unreleased, his popularity is slowly beginning to erode.

It's subtle, but nobody can deny that it's happening: the old adoration has dried up, taking with it the chorus of "praise the Wizard," the cheering crowds, the near-fanatical fervour, and the worship – for the Wizard doesn't hold audiences or make public appearances anymore, and without the awe-inspiring displays, people are starting to lose faith. These days, when his name's spoken aloud, there's an undercurrent of bitterness and desperation in the voice of the speaker; in areas hit hardest by the Plague, angry whispers follow mention of yet another delay in their masters' response to the tragedy; every so often, a few especially disgruntled citizens will lose their tempers and speak out – just as Nessarose had (if only she knew what she'd helped to usher in!). Even the newspapers, once loyal servants of the Wizard, now print a different message: once, they proclaimed "The Wizard will accomplish this"; now, journalists, editors and managers alike beg the Wizard, beseeching him from the pages of the daily papers to save Oz. And given that newspapers are all he reads these days, they might have the right idea – or at least they would if the Wizard could possibly do anything to help them.

Again, Elphaba tolerates this eccentricity: after all, it serves her purposes after a fashion, give or take a little help of her own. One day, she'll uncover the truth behind the Wizard's odd behaviour… but for now, there's work to be done.

"Is there anything else, Your Ozness?" she asks.

The Wizard, having been silent for almost three minutes, mumbles a "no," and begins awkwardly shuffling towards the door.

"You will tell me if there's any news from Harnley, won't you?"

"Of course, Your Ozness."

"Good. Wonderful. Um, thank you for your time…"

And as the ghostly figure shambles away, Elphaba can't help but feel sorry for him.

It's clear by now that there's no trace of the Wonderful Wizard left in the old man: the energy that once animated him is gone, his bustling purposeful stride reduced to a bemused shuffle and the shining brilliance in his eyes reduced to a dull, listless gleam. There's no confidence in his voice anymore, no grandeur, no charisma, not even the joviality he once fell back on in private meetings, just a nervous, mumbling stammer. And as for his mind… well, all the creativity and audacity that once fuelled his rise to power is buried under all the problems weighing down his mind. Through her scrying spells, she's seen him trying to get back into the habit of designing, without success: on the rare occasions when he manages to gather enough energy to put pen to paper, all that emerges is a meaningless scribble. But as sad as it is, this little breakdown once again serves her purpose.

As much as Elphaba would like to take credit for this slow decline, she knows that her acts of sabotage are only partly to blame: true, the drugs she's added to his food have left him drowsy and listless throughout most of the day, and less likely to catch up with the ongoing crisis; yes, Morrible's "betrayal" dealt a serious blow to his self-confidence; and of course, the Plague and the growing discontent of his citizens have been slowly corroding his will to govern. But there's more to it than that: there's something else slowly eating away at the Wizard from within; if it's the root cause of these mysterious lapses in conversation, perhaps it's something he wants to say to her but can't – perhaps the same reason why he only speaks to her these days. Probably something to do with the little green bottle he obsesses over so often.

Again, something to be investigated once this debacle is over and done with… and it may be over sooner than anticipated.

Reports from the Pottery all bring back the same story: their priority assignments are in the final stages, and the preparations for a world without the Wizard are almost complete. The final strain of the Plague is almost ready, as is the antidote and Dr Ailing's delivery system. Brrr, Doctor Dillamond and other Animal volunteers from the ghettoes are ready and rehearsed for the great spectacle that will introduce the final strain. Dr Coil and Mr Heart have made great strides in their studies, not only finishing the prototype augmentations that Elphaba commissioned, but also completing their facsimile of Madame Morrible in record time. Handerson, Tinkerage and Clinker have been hard at work on the new engine designs, and have already produced several cost-effective prototypes that – once the new regime is in place – will revolutionize transport and travel throughout Oz. The accumulated knowledge of the magicians among the Pottery has been comprehensively documented and archived, to be put to good use in the training of new mages – and there will be a great many of them once the Wizard has been removed from office: no longer will the study of magic be restricted to the fortunate few deemed likely to serve the purposes of the Wizard and his lackeys; in the new world slowly taking shape in the depths of the Pottery, the study and practice of magic will be open to all who possess the aptitude to use it – a measure to ensure that con artists like the Wizard never ascend to such lofty heights again.

And last but certainly not least, Dr Mainspring's greatest invention is scheduled for a private meeting with the Wizard himself.

Does she feel guilty for what she plans to do to him? She's pondered this question in quieter moments, wondering somewhat absently if she can feel the slightest bit of remorse within herself for the man who's brought such suffering and ignorance into Oz. Does she harbour guilt for the fate she has in store for the Wizard?

No.

Even if she weren't concerned with building a better Oz through these necessary sacrifices, this one in particular will be an act of purest mercy.

---

As expected, there's a huge crowd of people waiting for them outside the Asylum: reporters, gossip-mongers, thrill-seekers, well-wishers, and members of the general public eager to take in the first bit of good news in gods only knew how long. A few months ago, Glinda might have felt a little sad that this announcement had been the nearest thing to a public celebration that anyone had enjoyed since the Plague first broke out. Today, she's too happy to care.

After all, she's pregnant, Fiyero loves her, and for once, nobody's worrying about the Plague; nothing in the world can spoil her good mood right now.

If anything, she's getting happier by the minute, especially once she and Fiyero finish pushing their way past the crowds and into the building itself: there, past the quiet wards and the rows of slumbering patients, past the lucky few who've been cured, past the courteous orderlies and nurses, past all the trappings of an Asylum at peace for a change, Elphaba is waiting for them in her office – and the look on her face is truly something to behold: Elphie's smile is a thing of beauty at the best of times, but now it looks positively radiant, for the office around her seems a thousand times brighter than any other room in the building, even with the lamps off and the curtains half-drawn.

"And how's the mother-to-be today?" Elphaba asks, as her guests descend gratefully into plush armchairs.

Glinda laughs. "Getting rapidly accustomated to the idea of being a mother."

"Just because of the reception you got outside?"

"Ha-ha. Okay, that's one reason for it, fair enough. But I've actually been looking forward to starting a family for quite a while now. And for once, I have to agree with the newspapers: this is the first bit of good news we've had in a long time, and… well, it's hard not to get caught up in the spirit of things."

"And how does the father-to-be feel about all this?"

This time, Glinda only just manages to stifle a giggle at the look of bemusement crossing Fiyero's face. "Not accustomated just yet," he sighs. "I don't think I'll ever get used to being called "father-to-be," especially now that the newspapers have joined in on the fun."

"Aaawww," Glinda coos, gleefully pinching Fiyero's cheeks. "Is Fiyero-wero getting cold feetsies because of big bad newspapermen?"

"I'm just saying I don't think I'll ever get used to being called a father. Or being a father. It sounds stupid, I know, but the thought of having children never crossed my mind before Glinda broke the news to me."

"I wouldn't call it stupid," says Elphaba. "I can name over a dozen patients at this very facility who've voiced similar concerns to me; you're not exactly the first man in the world to fear parenthood, Fiyero."

"I don't fear it, I just…"

"Oh yes you do-oooo," Elphaba and Glinda chorus in perfect unison.

"Okay, maybe I do, but… well… look, just be honest with me here: do you really think I could be a semi-decent father?"

Glinda rolls her eyes. "Fiyero, you've asked me the same question about eight times in the last week, and the answer is still the same: of course I think you could be a decent father. You're brave, you're kind, you're responsible-"

Fiyero blushes a rich shade of burgundy and mumbles something that sounds like, "I'm not responsible."

"You're not at Shiz anymore, Commander-Administrator," Elphaba remarks. "You've grown up a lot since those days: do you really think Mr "Dancing Through Life" would have been willing to arrest Madame Morrible herself? Do you really think your younger self would have been able to soldier on through the Plague?"

"And," Glinda chimes in, "do you really think we'd have gotten this far together if you weren't the bravest, kindest, most responsible man I've ever met?"

At long last, Fiyero smiles, a hint of his trademarked mischief sparkling in his eyes. "I must be having a good day," he remarks blithely. "Any other morning, I'd be trapped behind a desk with a stack of complaints halfway to the ceiling by now. If you don't mind, I'd like to savour the mood of praise and relaxation while it lasts."

"Savour away: the entire morning's free."

"I wouldn't mind a few more compliments, though…"

"Fiyero…"

"Aw, just a few compliments? Pretty please? Something about me being noble, dashing and heroic as well as brave, kind and responsible."

Now it's Elphaba's turn to laugh, as Glinda all but pounces on Fiyero and informs him – between kisses – that "you, Fiyero… are… utterly… impossible!"

"And don't I just know it..."

The next forty-five minutes are spent on conversation, aimless motiveless rambling chatter on any subject that crosses their mind… though Glinda's pregnancy seems to be a popular topic of discussion. For her part, Glinda finds herself loving every minute of the banter; after all, when was the last time the three of them had the chance to get together and just talk? When had they last been able to find a nice quiet spot away from the public eye and speak freely – not about work, not about affairs of state, not about all the problems besetting Oz, but just for the sake of talking among friends? Perhaps a month, maybe two? Glinda isn't sure, but it feels like decades to her. Maybe she's just caught up in the wave of jubilation that seems to have swept across the capital in the last few days, maybe the last few months of worrying about the Plague have left her more downtrodden than she realized, but these moments of good news and directionless chatter suddenly seem improbably rare and impossibly precious. So, she does her best to make this little chat last for as long as she can.

So, they talk about the baby, about names for boys and girls, about plans to move out of the palace apartments to a house of their own, about sojourns to the Vinkus and the Uplands to celebrate in the company of their relations, and about their hopes of finally getting married on a formal basis once the threat of assassination ceases (as far as Glinda's concerned, she and Fiyero have been informally married for months; all that remains is to make the marriage official in as grand and joyous a manner as possible).

And of course, they tease Fiyero for getting cold feet – but only gently. Truth be told, Glinda can't really criticize him for having doubts about the baby; after all, only a few short weeks ago, she'd been just as uncertain and nervous as he had, if not more so.

From the first stomach-churning bouts of morning sickness to that fateful appointment with the palace physician, the possibility of being pregnant had filled her with such worry that it had been virtually impossible to stop thinking about it. And when the doctor had finally confirmed her pregnancy, she'd been almost consumed by every single doubt and fear her mind could possibly dredge up: she'd worried about the scandal, about what her parents might say, about what her friends might say, about what Fiyero might say, about the pain and discomfort she'd endure, about the risk of dying at the end of it (every childbirth horror story told by her more deranged relatives suddenly returning to haunt her). But past all of that, past all the little fears buzzing around her head like a swarm of angry blowflies, there'd been two questions that had all but kidnapped her mind:

First, with Oz still gripped by the Plague, was this really the right time to bring a child into the world? Was this really a land where she could raise a child safely?

Secondly… could Glinda actually be a good mother?

That second question had possessed her: whenever she'd tried to focus on work, or on a speech, or on any of the other matters requiring her attention, it had returned to the forefront of her mind; did she have the capacity for motherhood? She'd occasionally daydreamed of starting a family with Fiyero and raising handsome blonde children of her own, but now that the possibility was staring her in the face, she could only ask herself if she was ready: could she actually step up and achieve parental responsibility?

And so she'd wondered on and on, up until she'd finally plucked up the courage to reveal the news to Fiyero. As expected, he'd been nervous… but he'd been happy, and somehow, that awestruck smile on his face had been enough to help Glinda wash away the worst of the doubts.

Three days afterwards, she'd made up her mind and decided to announce her pregnancy to the rest of Oz: she still didn't know if she could be a good mother, but she was more than prepared to find out for herself. And even if she didn't have any confidence in her own abilities, she at least had Fiyero and Elphie around to support her.

Hence this meeting.

A meeting that seems to have become very quiet all of a sudden…

The silence in the room around her snaps Glinda out of her reverie, and she looks up to see that the smile has inexplicably vanished from Elphaba's face. Suddenly, the light she seemed to emit is gone, and for the first time since she arrived in the office, Glinda notices dark circles around her friend's eyes.

"Are you alright?"

Elphaba wearily pinches the bridge of her nose. "I haven't been entirely honest with either of you," she admits. "This meeting... well, I wanted it to be a friendly get-together, but reality got in the way again: there's something the three of us need to discuss, something very important, and…" She hesitates. "I'm so sorry for bringing this up, especially on a day like today – I honestly didn't want to spoil the festivities, but… this has to be said."

And just like that, all the warmth seems to have drained from the room. "What's wrong?" Glinda whispers. A few million worst-case scenarios rampage through her head – that Morrible's threatened her directly, that the Wizard's accused her of wickedness again, that the journalists outside are really part of a lynch mob after Elphaba's head, that she's secretly dying, that Oz is being invaded, that something has decided to threaten Glinda's child before it's even born, that there's a bomb under the table and they're all going to die – before Glinda hastily clamps down on her imagination.

"It's the Wizard," Elphaba replies at last. "I think he's…" She closes her eyes in hesitation, as if trying to find a more delicate way of phrasing the problem. "I think he's going mad," she confesses.

There's an awkward pause, as Glinda only just manages to stop herself sighing in relief.

"You've heard about how he's no longer holding audiences with guests? That's only the beginning: he's dismissed just about anyone who's had any legitimate business in the chamber: guards, servants, you name it. For the last few weeks, the Wizard's the only person who's visited the throne room, and to the best of my knowledge, he's not even doing anything in there – he's just sitting behind his machines and staring at the floor!"

"How do you know this?"

A faint look of embarrassment crosses Elphaba's face. "I've had Chistery watching him."

Glinda groans in exasperation. "Elphie, if he'd found out-"

"I know, I know, it was risky… but…" If anything, Elphaba's face looks even gloomier before. "If he had noticed me spying on him, that'd be a positive sign in itself. It might mean he'd be recovering from whatever's ailing him… but he clearly isn't."

"But if it's just a matter of becoming a recluse, then is it really such a big problem? I mean, he's still running the country, right?"

If anything, Elphaba only looks gloomier. "I was just getting to that. About a fortnight ago, some of the servants told me that they've been banned from cleaning the Wizard's private bedchamber. So, I had Chistery investigate while the Wizard was downstairs in the throne room: apparently, the man's been digging deep into the palace wine cellar, and helping himself to some rather unorthodox prescriptions from his private doctor."

"Like what?

"Laudanum, mainly. I think he's been taking it to help him sleep… and it's been working a little too well, because he clearly hasn't touched his work for the last few weeks."

"What?"

"I'm serious: no paperwork done, no forms signed, no correspondence attended to – the unread mail up there must about four feet deep by now. Some of it dates back to months before this all began! Oh, and Fiyero? I'd be willing to bet that most of the complaints in that pile of yours were actually letters you sent to the Wizard; anything he can't ignore, he just sends back."

Glinda blinks rapidly, trying to make sense of what she's just been told. She's known that the Wizard is magically powerless for a long time, but up until now, she's never doubted that he was actually ruling Oz: he may have been a con artist, a fraud, and yes, even a dictator, but for all the man's flaws, he had actually been willing to govern the land… up until now, it seems. "But surely he must be doing something?" she asks. "I mean, even if he isn't issufying orders in person, he's got to be doing it by mail."

"I'm afraid not: I've checked his desk for anything that might constitute an order, and I've asked everyone from the couriers to the courtiers: either way, no orders in sight. Do you know what that means? For over a fortnight – at the very least – this country has been effectively headless!"

"But everything's still running!" Fiyero protests. "I mean, the government's still working, isn't it? If the Wizard isn't issuing any orders, how is anything getting done?"

"It's not," says Elphaba, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "We're currently running on instinct. This is a nation governed by muscle memory and nothing else: we receive no orders from the Wizard, so we assume no special actions need be taken; our requests for information aren't answered, so we assume that the problems aren't important enough to warrant the Wizard's attention; we can't do anything serious without permission of the Wizard, so we keep our heads down to avoid jail time; we don't know what to do, so we just carry on doing what we were doing beforehand."

Glinda feels a faint rush of heat rising to her cheeks, and laughs mirthlessly. "I did wonder why the workload's been so light in the last few days," she mutters, unable to hide her embarrassment.

"You can see the disaster in the making, can't you? This government's been designed to allow the Wizard and his uppermost lackeys complete autocratic control of the country – no room for independent thought, no room for dissent, and no room for questions. All well and good in theory, but when the uppermost lackey turns traitor and the Wizard stops issuing orders, it all falls apart in the long run."

"But surely he's talking to someone; I mean, he can't have turned into a complete reclusivist so soon!"

"As a matter of fact, he is talking to someone: me."

"Why you?"

"Your guess is as good as mine at this point. I thought he was looking for progress reports on the Plague cure, but he barely even mentioned it… and that's another thing we've got to worry about: the cure's been ready for almost a month now, and we're still waiting for the Wizard to approve the planned delivery system – something suitably magical to patch up his reputation with the public. Since then, the Wizard's said nothing on the subject. So, no delivery system, no cure, no solution for the Plague, and no means of calming the public when protestors turn into rioters."

"Is there anything you can do to help him?" Fiyero asks. "He seems to listen to you more than anyone else."

"I've tried, but he's clearly not interested in listening, and there's not much I can do to push the matter without overstepping myself and getting into trouble. I can't do this on my own."

"But you've got magic, and…" Fiyero hastily lowers his voice, and continues: "And he doesn't. So, why not just force him?"

"Fiyero!"

"Sorry, Glinda. But you've got to admit it's a possibility at the very least."

"It would be," Elphaba admits, "If the Wizard were in full possession of his wits. Unfortunately, he's been withdrawing from reality for quite a while now, and threatening him – especially with magic – might just drive him even deeper into solipsism. And what if the guards intervene? The headlines practically write themselves: "Elphaba Returns To Wickedness, Menaces Defenceless Old Alcoholic!" Believe me, there's nothing to be gained from challenging the Wizard, and less than nothing to be gained from doing so alone; I learned that lesson well enough the last time."

A question suddenly occurs to Glinda, and, desperate for anything that might take her mind off the nightmare scenario of Elphaba being declared a Wicked Witch all over again, voices it almost without thinking.

"What about the three of us?"

"Sorry?"

"You said you can't do this on your own: what about all three of us? What can we do?"

For a moment, Elphaba smiles. It's grim and almost humourless, but the sight of anything approaching a smile on her face is just enough to lighten the mood. "It's possible that the three of us can fix this before it gets any worse. Unfortunately, it'll mean doing something reckless, stupid, and extremely dangerous… but also something painfully necessary.

It'll mean staging a coup."

Fiyero's jaw very slowly thuds open. "… I'm sorry, what?"

"I did say it was stupid. Stupid, but necessary."

"Putting it mildly there, Elphie," mutters Glinda, barely keeping the anger out of her voice. "I thought you said you didn't want to challenge the Wizard-"

"Directly, yes, and alone, yes. But we're not planning to do this alone, as we've just discussed. The three of us have influence throughout Oz, influence we can use in order to remove the Wizard from office: I have the Asylum and all the respect its name currently commands, plus more than enough supporters among the Animal population; Glinda, you have an entire army of followers at your disposal-"

"I do?"

"Haven't you noticed how the crowds are still cheering for you, even while they've stopped applauding the Wizard? You have the public eating out of your hand, Glinda; if we want to install new leadership, we'll need someone to help stop the rioting before it happens. And Fiyero-"

"- commands the guards," he finishes, smoothly. "And they'll be the ones who'll actually arrest the Wizard when the time comes."

"Well done."

"Thank you."

Glinda flounders, suddenly unable to think of a coherent response. "I… I… w…" She gives herself a shake, and continues breathlessly: "I guess it makes sense, but… I mean, is this really the only option? Isn't there something else we can do? I mean, I know Wizard's not doing such a good job at the moment, but is that really our cue to have him thrown in prison and take over the government? For all we know, maybe he's on the mend-"

"Maybe he is, maybe he isn't – the Wizard isn't the real problem at hand: the longer this government remains still, the angrier the public gets. We've already had protests. How long until we have riots? Civil uprisings? Rebellions? How long until we have a full-blown revolution on our hands? No, Glinda, we need to step in before things get any worse. The Plague might occasionally result in a horrific death, but believe me, that's nothing compared to the thousands of civilian casualties that a revolution would cause."

"But do you really have to do something this dangerous? There's got to be another way, one that doesn't run the risk of getting you killed-"

"And none of them will work. I've checked all our options, Glinda: openly ignoring the Wizard's authority, forging his signature, bribing officials to turn a blind eye – all short-term solutions at best, solving none of the problems at the heart of the matter and probably adding another dose of corruption to an already hopelessly dishonest government. Even the best possible alternative won't work: trying to rewire the bureaucracy to cut the Wizard out of the equation and reassign power to the lower echelons will take months, if not years. And the more time we waste, this closer this country gets to complete societal collapse."

Here, Elphaba pauses for breath. "I can try to talk to the Wizard in the time we have left," she continues. "I can give him time to recover. But I can't give him more than a fortnight: if he hasn't gotten this government moving again, we'll have no choice but to go ahead with the coup… assuming, of course, that we're in agreement."

She looks from Glinda to Fiyero, eyes visibly scanning their faces for any hint of an opinion. For her part, Glinda can only stare in horror as she recognizes the all-too-familiar spark of revolutionary spirit in her friend's eyes. She knows what that look means, and she's seen it enough times to understand that it rarely means anything good for Elphaba in the long run: after all, the last time she'd seen it, it had been in the palace attic almost three years ago, and the rebellion that had begun that day had almost cost Elphaba her life. And now, here it is again: it's subtler, blended with caution, fear, and more than a little desperation, but there's no mistaking the glint of rebelliousness in her eyes – nor the tiniest flicker of hope that appears alongside it.

"What's it to be?" she says at last.

Neither of them can answer, it seems: Fiyero doesn't seem to know what to say, and Glinda… well, even with every sane instinct demanding that she drag Elphaba back from the edge and stop her from doing anything suicidal, Glinda finds herself unexpectedly fighting the urge to agree with her. After all, she felt the same urge last time Elphaba rebelled… and more to the point, it's not as if anything she's been told is especially farfetched: the Wizard has become a recluse, yes, and he's undoubtedly losing control of the government, and there've been quite a few protests that stopped just short of a full-blown riot. But she can't bring herself to voice her approval, not with her closest friend risking death and worse on another foolhardy rebellion. Nor can she bring herself to disagree, not with that look of desperation and hope in her eyes.

So, instead, she forces herself to approach the subject on tippy-toes.

"How long have you been planning this?" she whispers, trying not to sound accusing.

"Two days, every hour of which was spent on analysis. I didn't sleep, either."

In that moment, Glinda knows exactly how she should proceed: she should put a hand on Elphaba's shoulder, ask "are you sure you've planned for everything?" then carefully suggest that she rethink the plan after she's had a full night's sleep; not wanting to make any mistakes, Elphie will reluctantly agree. Then, Glinda and Fiyero will escort her back to her palace apartment, usher her into bed and wait for the sound of Elphaba's snores fills the room, before leaving – secure in the knowledge that she'll be willing to reconsider her options once she's recovered.

But then, Elphaba remarks, "Truth be told, I'd been considering a coup for the last couple of months, but I never could convince myself that it was truly necessary. It's only recently that I found the inspiration to start planning."

Suddenly, all thoughts of careful persuasion are out of Glinda's head and floating away on the breeze. Curiosity piqued, she asks, "What convinced you?"

Elphaba hesitates.

"Come on, Elphie, you can be honest with us; I won't laugh or anything like that."

"Your pregnancy."

"… What?"

"It was the news of your pregnancy that convinced me," says Elphaba; her voice is barely louder than a whisper, but Glinda hears every single word with perfect clarity. "I'd been tangled up in the possibilities for days, too busy worrying about the effects on the government to make up my mind, pondering the what-ifs of my actions when I should have been thinking about the cost of inaction. But then I heard the news, and… well, it put things in perspective."

"How do you mean? What did it put in perspective?"

"The cost of inaction. I've seen riots before, Glinda: I toured the Animal re-education camps while my department was dismantling them; those places were bad enough on their own... But there was one camp – the very worst of the re-education facilities, built deep underground to spare the public any qualms of conscience: the treatments had been the harshest there, and most of the inmates were angry, scared, barely rational, practically feral after months of torture; most of them saw us as a threat, and the few who were still sentient enough to think didn't realize we were there to help… and some just saw us – and their fellow inmates – as food." She closes her eyes for a moment, and it suddenly seems as though Elphie's holding back tears. "It didn't take long for the riot to break out. Between fighting, trampling, and mauling, we lost almost three quarters of the inmates we'd been sent to rescue.

"One thing stuck in my head about riots: it's rare that the instigators suffer; more often than not, the innocents are left to suffer in their stead, regardless of whether they're the scapegoats, the unlucky bystanders… or children. Up until a few days ago, I got lost in thinking through the ramifications of staging a coup, thinking more about what it'd mean for the government more than what it would mean for the people… up until I heard the news about your pregnancy, and realized what could happen if someone didn't stop the chaos before it began."

"Elphaba, you don't have to worry about-"

"Please, let me finish: in the years since we met, I've grown to care for you and Fiyero very deeply; you've both been good friends to me, even when you've had good reason to be otherwise. I don't want to see you hurt or worse in the rioting, I don't want you to spend your lives as targets of anti-government rebels, and I don't want your child to grow up believing that constant rioting and daily terror are normal or – gods forgive us all – acceptable. I want to keep you – and your baby – safe from harm… and I want to give the three of you a world worth living in. I know it sounds just as fantastical as any of the Wizard's ideas, but we have a chance to lay the foundations of a better Oz, a land stripped of violence and corruption, a land at peace."

She pauses for a moment, and once again Glinda sees tears shining in her eyes, trickling down her cheeks even while her voice remains almost perfectly calm. "I won't blame you if you choose not to work with me on this; I'll understand if you don't want to risk the consequences – for a while, I didn't either. All I ask is that you give the matter some thought: don't think about what the Wizard would want you to do, don't think about what the other officials would do; think about what you should do… for your family."

Glinda hesitates, briefly lost in thought.

Can the three of them actually build a better Oz? Can they even make it through the coup safely?

Can she even bring herself to decide the course of the matter here and now? She's based most of her adult life on playing things safe, on keeping herself safe in her comfort zone and avoiding risks wherever possible. After all, while Elphaba and Fiyero had been risking expulsion to rescue the lion club, she'd been little more than a spectator; when Elphaba had flown off to conduct a one-witch rebellion against, Glinda had stayed behind and meekly toed the line; and when she'd found work with the Wizard's government, she'd avoided jobs that might have required further education on her part (or thought, for that matter) and taken a safe, comfortable job as Morrible's mouthpiece. The biggest risks Glinda's ever taken were on the occasional wild nights away from school and work. How can she make a decision like this, a decision where either option could lead to disaster, when she clearly doesn't have the spine to take any sort of risk?

But then she thinks again, and realizes that she's wrong – worse, that she's been lying to herself.

She had taken risks.

She'd confronted Morrible in person, hadn't she? She'd tackled the Plague Witch in person, and brought her down when all the other guards had been felled. She's made decisions like this before, stupid but necessary decisions, as Elphaba described them… and just like before, the option of standing still and doing nothing seems more and more ridiculous by the second.

After all, she's been given a second chance at joining Elphaba's rebellion; is she really going to turn down the chance of a lifetime again?

So, taking a deep breath to steel herself, Glinda closes her eyes…

…and makes her choice.

---

An hour later, Glinda and Fiyero finally leave the Asylum, smiling dutifully for the few reporters left on the scene.

They've just been given a great deal of instructions on how to properly arrange the coup that they're now complicit in, most of them to be carried out first thing tomorrow morning: there are speeches to be rewritten, troops to be reassigned, opinions to massage and troublemakers to remove – and even with five weeks to prepare at the very most, Glinda finds herself curiously optimistic about the whole thing.

After all, hadn't she been wondering if Oz was the right place to raise a child?

Now, she can make it so.

---

One month later, Captain Harnley's elite squadron finally corners the Plague Witch; after a prolonged battle, Madame Morrible makes a hurried escape from her lair, but not before Harnley and his snipers open fire. According to the captain's after-action report, their target was shot no less than eight times – four in the gut, three in the shoulders, and one in the throat.

That night, the golem posing as Morrible touches down in a small secluded patch of forest, where the Pottery's representatives hastily dismantle it. Back in the Emerald City, Dr Coil and Mr Heart add the reported wounds to their completed flesh sculpture, before dressing it in Morrible's old robes and depositing it in a shallow crater just outside the city walls.

The next day, all of Oz rejoices at the news that the Plague Witch is finally dead. All over the country, celebrations are being planned, but none of them quite like the one being arranged in the Emerald City: here, the entire city will turn out to witness Morrible's corpse being ceremonially cremated, with enormous magical viewing screens transmitting the glorious sight to every district of the city; here, the final cure for the Plague will be released at last, freeing the tragic victims of Morrible's curse and allowing them to join the festivities in natural form; best of all, the Wizard himself is scheduled to make his first public appearance in months, restoring the public's waning faith in the great magician after so much time spent in self-imposed exile.

And so, at seven-thirty that evening, the celebration commences.

Not long afterwards, the nightmare begins in earnest.