For a moment he thinks he has her. He has the cover, he has the vantage, he has the firepower. All stolen, all hard won, all worth every drop of blood spent acquiring it. He thinks he has her - Ekha and her sick little girl. She's tired, she's worn, but she's a hardy one and she soldiers on for the sake of the thing that takes the form of her daughter. It's not the real one, Ikharos can tell that much. Ekha can't tell, or maybe she doesn't want to, but he can. Even from a distance he knows - he can smell the scent of vanilla and strawberries left to burn, can see the faint crystalline shimmer of her eyes, the very doll-like movements of her limbs. Her hair is unkempt and her face is pallid. That much is authentic, convincing. The rest: a charade.

Ikharos sets himself up. He busies himself because he doesn't want to think about what comes next. The whole endeavour has soured him on... life, mostly. Surviving was hard enough; no one warned him living with himself would be that much worse. I am a dead thing, he recites. I am a dead thing and the dead feel nothing.

There's no cadaver more self-delusional.

The wire rifle he braces against his shoulder is warm. The mag-battery hums softly, gently; it's a motherly comfort and he wishes, oh wishes so fucking hard, that he could just let it drive him away to kinder dreams. But that's what gets him. That desire for otherwise. The living caricature twists its head around so far it surely shattered each and every vertebrae in its neck and it stares right at him. It tugs on Ekha's hand. She turns, stiffens; she recognizes the glare of Fallen weaponry powering up. She knows there's nothing she can do about it.

But he can. In the end Ikharos drops the rifle, the merciless hammering beat of his heart driving him to his knees. He pulls in lungfuls of air but it sears all the way down. He can't breathe. He can't- he just can't live with it.

"Get up," Ghost tells him. She's at his ear. He can no more escape her than he can his own crippling humanity. He doesn't want to. She's the only good thing he has going for him. "You need to get up."

Ikharos looks ahead. Ekha is frozen with indecision - confused, yes, but still terrified. It would have been smart to run. She has a rifle under her arm and a fatty handcannon shoved under her belt but she makes no move for either of them. The girl, though, the girl tugs her hand again and starts walking - towards Ikharos. She pulls Ekha along and the poor woman is helpless to resist.

"They're coming," Ghost presses. "You need to get up. Please."

He gets up. It's because of the fear in her voice. Ikharos never fails to heed it. He can't afford not to. They're closing in but he's rising, he's steeling himself for what's to come, he's scooping the rifle back up-

And there it is. Ekha in hand. A veritable hostage to something that doesn't belong, doesn't make sense. It's a hideous stain on rationale and reason and when it flashes him an impish smile he sees teeth like needles.

"Hello," it says, and in doing so damns him. It's no monster's voice. He'll remember it, Ikharos knows. For as long as he lives.

"Your children are safe," he says dully. "They're being cared for. Your neighbours took them in."

Ekha gives him a trembling thin smile. Grateful. Full of remorse. Frightened.

"But you stole," Ikharos continued. "Carnunta wants his property back."

"We're not his. We never were."

"He wants his guns. Not you."

She barks a laugh - bitter and short. "Of course he does."

"I'm to collect them."

"... Suppose you are." Ekha exhales softly. "I can't go back."

"I'm not making you."

"You are. We can't survive without them."

"Who are you?" the thing asked.

Ikharos tried to ignore it. Tried. Its pull was magnetic; he could feels its talons sinking into his every cohesive thought, lancing his brain with unwanted impulses. It hurt.

"Mère? What's his name?"

"Hush hush," Ekhan replied. "He's a friend. He won't hurt us."

"He doesn't want to," the thing decided. "I know it. He doesn't want to."

"He won't."

"He doesn't want to but he will."

Ekha inhaled sharply.

"What happened?" Ikharos asked - begging. Begging because he didn't understand. Because he feared the worst.

"We just... went for a walk." Ekha knelt down beside the creature in the shape of her daughter. "She was sick. So, so sick. Some fresh air was all she needed. I just... needed someone to tell me that. Our visitor was helpful. So helpful..."

"Where is she?"

"She's right here."

"Ekha-"

"She's here. She's here, look. Are you looking? Please. It's Léa. It's my little girl."

Ikharos looked. The thing stared at him hungrily. "This isn't her."

Ekha sobbed.

"He wants to be safe," it said. "He wants to be away from everything. He wants the world to be quiet."

"I'm sorry," Ikharos whispered.

"He wants-"

He pulled the trigger. Ekha moved. So did her daughter. The shrill crack of the rifle's discharge split the air. Birds erupted from the nearest trees in a frantic flurry - and in their absence silence crept in.

Ikharos picked up the guns and turned back for home.