My subconscious sabotaged my attempt to wake up and write last night.

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He looked at her, and she glanced his way periodically as the seconds passed, trying to gauge his reaction. He seemed open, seemed to be thinking about what she had said, seemed to be weighing her words, seemed to be listening to her. And then he closed down, turned away, and she could see that whatever impact her words had on him, it hadn't ended positively.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing."

"What are you thinking?"

"It's… You use violence so easily for someone who says she hates to kill." His eyes narrowed as he allowed her to prod a reason from him. His entire mien grew cold, distant, and what she could feel from him turned her heart to ice.

She pulled back from him, their physical closeness only accentuating the discomfort that he emoted. "It's the easy answer," she explained, trying to find words that would make him think again, make him change his mind. "There's the part of me that knows it isn't an answer, that knows that violence is only a tool, and a poor one at that. Then there is the part of me that trained to kill until it was easy, that reveled in the fear of others because it makes… made… me feel powerful. It's a fight between what I know is the right thing to do and what is easiest for me. I fight being a killer every day, but it is always a fight. How much easier do you think it would have been for me to just kill you all in the office? Much easier than just knocking everyone unconscious, I assure you. If Mr. Herman were dead, well, that would fix the immediate problem, wouldn't it? No one coming after me and mine anymore.

"I'm not an altruist. It might be easier in the short term if I just killed you all now, but I don't want to have to fight for the rest of my life, and that would be my ultimate gain if I indulged in indiscriminate slaughter right now. And sometimes killing is the right answer. Sometimes people aren't going to change, or aren't going to change soon enough to make a difference.

"I'm really the last person who could say that someone is too evil to ever change, but I also don't think that someone should embark on a course of action without knowing that there can be consequences. And one of the consequences to acting like an evil bastard is that someone might decide that you need killing. The fact that you may change into sweetness and light at a later date does not preclude the threat you may pose."

He sat for a moment, mulling over what she had said and despite her attempt to stop it, her hopes soared. "You make things sound so easy. Killing is bad, but sometimes necessary," he said mockingly, and her hopes dropped like a stone. He looked at her. "I think that as well." His hand dropped to the gun at his hip and his voice grew colder. "I think that there are some things that are a threat and need to be killed."

Anne sighed and stood up from the couch. "Fine, Mark. You have the whole story now. You know what I am. You know what I was. You think you know what I can do." She stood six feet from him and swept her arms out. "Take the shot. Head shot is your best bet, but a heart shot should take care of me, too." She closed her eyes.

He stared at her for a moment, then moved his hand from his side. "I'm not going to kill you like this. It's too easy for you. You act all innocent and unarmed, and if I kill you now you'll just go on to your next life with even more of a martyr complex then you're showing now.

Her eyes flew open. "Excuse me? A what complex?"

"You heard me. You act like the fate of the future lies in your unworthy hands. That's the point of that whole little story, wasn't it? To make me realize how hard it is for you to be one of the good guys?"

"No… That's… What…" she sputtered.

"Just stop it. Pity me, I'm a killer," he said in a falsetto. "I'm not impressed. There are many people on this planet who have taken lives. We live with it, and we don't throw it in people's faces as an excuse for our actions. Life ends. That's normal, expected. What isn't normal, what's freakish and wrong is things like yourself that refuse to die," he snarled.

"I can't help that," she wailed. "It's not my fault I'm a plant!"

"So? It's not a sand worm's fault that it's a sand worm, but we kill them all the same because they're dangerous."

She dropped her arms and turned to leave, swallowing hard around the lump that had appeared in her throat.

He stood and silently followed after, pulling the door closed behind him as they passed into the hall.

"Sand worms aren't sentient," she hissed through clenched teeth as he drew beside her in the hallway.

"I fail to see what difference that makes," he said airily.

"You can't reason with a sand worm, ask it to not be dangerous."

"How many of those people you killed tried to reason with you?" he shot back.

"I was just doing my job."

"And why did they pick you for the job, hmm? Because you were harmless?"

"No. Dammit, Mark, I know I screwed up. Stop acting like who I was is who I am."

"Well, I figure there was a reason you told me that tale. A warning maybe? So I know not to push you too far?"

"No! I just thought you should know all the truth about me. No more secrets."

"No more until you spill the next one."

"There aren't anymore."

"Why should I believe a word you say, freak?"