"...And now, she's just like the rest of them, a slave to Miranda. And that doll of hers. The puppet & puppeteer." It wasn't lost on him that the puppet could have been either Donna or Angie. Karl crossed his arms against his chest, pushing the wooden chair back on two legs as he reclined.

"So...the doll isn't really alive?" Celia leaned in towards him, dropping her voice as if they were sitting around a campfire; whispering scary stories to each other.

"No, not really. She pulled a "Miranda" and sliced off a part of her cadou and shoved it into the doll. She controls it and can make it move and look like it's talking." Karl waved his fingers in the air, as if to show a puppet master moving strings. "Between that, and how she can make people see all kinds of weird shit...she puts on quite a show! Almost rivals me!"

He watched her as she clutched her now empty cup. "Poor Donna. Losing her parents and sister like that. It's so...sad."

Sad? It was beyond sad now. And they were so enamored with Miranda, that they couldn't even see that they steamrolled their own sadness into gratitude. How foolish they were. But not him. What started as sadness had morphed into rage. An unbelievable, burning rage that had burned away any of the hopeful, young Karl left inside...and revealed the raw-nerved monster that Miranda made him. "Yeah." Was all he could manage in response.

"So...Donna never knew that Miranda basically killed her sister trying to do the same thing to her?"

"Hell if I know. I doubt it, and I doubt she knows her parents killed themselves over the guilt of handing them both over to the devil. I'm sure they're burning in hell where they belong." He pushed down the gnawing, clawing thoughts of his father alongside them.

"That's...horrible." she said.

"Yeah. What she did was horrible. But we're going to stop her." His words surprised them both, but neither spoke of it.

Karl pulled out a cigar. He almost asked her if she minded but thought better of it. This was his fucking factory. Why did he care what she thought? He put his feet on the table, to solidify the fact. She didn't seem to mind, which annoyed him even more.

"I can't believe she survived what we did to her. If we had any idea..."

"Don't take it too hard, you actually messed her up pretty bad! So bad, I had to help that night. I was there." He assumed she knew that, but didn't know how she felt about his involvement.

"Yeah. I...I smelled static and I know that's kind of your thing. How did you...how did you know about us?" Celia leaned back into the metal chair, green eyes piercing him and she waited for an answer.

"I didn't. Miranda called me. At some point after your team loaded her "body" in the van. You left her alone long enough to give me the heads up that I needed to get to the road and stop the vehicle she was in. So I did. I went up and waited. And sure enough I saw headlights. She had told me she was in the last one. So, when the others passed the curve, I stopped the van. She got out with Rose. Then I flipped it." He did that part for fun, assuming Miranda had already killed everyone on board. He didn't tell her that. And, if he knew she was still alive, he would have killed her too. He didn't tell her that either.

Instead, he continued his story. "The other trucks stopped ahead, I assume because they noticed; I could see brake lights, so I flung them out into the forest. I saw the vehicles catch fire and figured that would take care of them. Miranda was pretty weak when she got to me with the kid. So I carried them both back to the village."

She kept her stare steady, responding matter-of-factly, "I was in that van."

"Yeah I know. I figured that when I ran into you...well...when I found your little ID tags. Sorry." It was a genuine apology. Karl shifted uncomfortably before continuing. "If it makes you feel any better I thought about crushing it before I left too, but I didn't."

He waited for her to chuckle, or say something sarcastic, or say anything at all...but she just sat there, staring. After a minute or two, she cleared her throat and asked, "Is there a bathroom down here?"

"Yeah. Go out this door and go all the way to the right. Last door on the right." Pushing back from the table, she left him alone to his thoughts.

xx

It was suddenly too quiet. The clock on the wall let off a soft tick, tick as the seconds dragged on. Why did he feel so uncomfortable? The silence felt almost palpable on his skin. He used to seek it, welcome it. Now it seemed to weigh on him. Maybe it wasn't just the quiet. Maybe...just maybe...he felt...bad.

Did she blame him? Did she...

He struggled with himself. No. She got out of the van, more or less unscathed.

So it was all a wash. Why should he feel guilty? Why should he feel anything? It was her fault she was even here in the first place . She was lucky Miranda didn't tear her apart.

She was occupying too much of his mind; his thoughts. He needed that space to flood with anger, his determination...to plot and plan and create. For good and bad, she was a distraction, pulling him to the opposite extremes. She smelled too nice. Her skin was too soft. Her eyes were too green. For a few moments there, he wasn't thinking about murderous revenge. It made him weak. And that bothered him.

But he had to admit, maybe it was nice having someone to talk to. Someone to vent to. Someone who could understand him. He realized that, for a minute with her, he wasn't thinking about anything other than the conversation.

And at least he didn't have to babysit her in the factory. She could take care of herself.

And last night, for the first time in a long time, his dreams were silent after he had slipped into the bed he had avoided for so long. He woke up not to his own screams and metal whipping around the room...but to soft skin that he wanted to melt into. He had been careless, that was to be sure. Thankfully he stopped himself before he woke her up. He was so close...slivers of a second...from doing something he would surely regret. Yet...he couldn't help but notice how she was pushed against him, her moans echoing in his memory. That wasn't a dream. What he felt was real; she was trembling beneath him before he ripped himself away.

But what if he hadn't left? What if...he had stayed. What if he had removed the thin swath of material between them, had dipped his hand between her legs...

His concentration broke with her voice. "Next is...Moreau?" She was standing in the doorframe, arms crossed and staring at him as if she could read that he was so deep in his thoughts they threatened to drown him. Her hair was tied back now, revealing her bruise-mottled neck and shoulders. Something was different about her – was it her face? And her eyes. Taking in her features tinged in shades of pink and red, Karl wondered if she had been crying. If she had, her voice and mannerisms didn't betray her; she stood tall and her voice was clear and bright. She was a professional. He decided not to say anything, he could give that to her at least. Instead, he abandoned the cigar in the ashtray and stood briskly. Sweeping towards her, he placed his hand lightly on the small of her back and led her out of the room – towards the foundry.

As they walked, he studied her from the corner of his eye. Though she was so much shorter than him, she seemed to walk so tall. She had an air about her that was almost imposing. She had probably seen a lot in her short time, things that hardened nice girls like her. Or, maybe she was always like this. Either way, he admired that about her. That, and her composure.

Composure.

He thought on it for a moment as they approached their destination.

A professional. Was she really asleep last night? At the very thought, almost instantly, he was hard.

She had only been here a day. He brought her here to help him destroy Miranda; but was there a chance she would be his ruin?

xx

It wasn't surprising what Karl had told her...but it didn't make it hurt any less. The confirmation that Chris and the others were killed. That this was all their fault...that they didn't make sure she was dead. That they didn't check her body for a cell phone...that they didn't cut her fucking head off. Anything to prevent what happened to poor Rose. And Ethan. She didn't know where he was now...but wherever he was, it was partially her fault that he had slipped into this hell with her.

She shrugged it off, wiping her tears away with the back of her arm. She had to be strong, she had to keep moving. She could feel guilty later. Pulling her hair back, she plunged her face into the icy cold water she had gathered in the sink. It shocked her back to her senses. She had to look forward.

That's better.

She didn't even blame him. In fact, she wouldn't have blamed him if he had tried to kill her himself that night. It was in the past. They had come together; formed an alliance. And they would get their revenge...together.

Just like he said.

Drying her face on a paper towel, she took one last look in the mirror. Her face was a bit red, but that couldn't be helped. She had to get back.

On her return walk, she realized just how loud the factory actually was. It was almost soothing, in a way. The symphony of constant, distant buzzing, heavy machinery thunking rhythmically, and sounds of motion caused vibrations that she could feel in her stomach. It was almost like music. Celia actually liked the way it seemed to take over her nervous system, making her feel a bit numb. She took a few deep breaths before stepping back toward the doorway. They weren't finished. He had more to tell her.

Leaning into the frame of the doorway; he sat staring into space, obviously deep in thought. The way he was chewing on his lower lip intrigued her. Not wanting to ask, she spoke softly as not to surprise him with her presence. "Next is...Moreau?"

Despite her attempt, he seemed startled as his eyes shot to her. They stayed that way for a few seconds before he stood and approached her. To her surprise, Karl reached out and slid his hand to her back to show her out. It was an innocent act; but she struggled all the same to conceal her reaction as stomach dropped out and heat pooled there. She walked with him, letting him lead her through the corridor as she tried to push down the urge to throw herself into his arms.

Before she could succumb to her weaknesses, they stopped in front of a large set of double doors. He pushed them open for her, revealing a large room with metal tables and glow that seemed to emanate from the center while he began..."So, Moreau came from a long line of physicians..."