Taffer Notes: Hi :3 We're back.
But I've got two things to cover before I get started.
One, Blood from Stone will likely be the darkest thing I've ever written, both in its tone and in the ground it will need to cover. Overall content warnings that will apply for the entire season are postpartum depression, child death, suicidal thoughts, plus your canon typical violence.
Two, I'm going absolutely nuts in this one and will lean heavily on the Volatile lore I established in Latchkey Hero, beginning with Theo and his influence on the GRE's research. That means: hosts who've come to co-exist with the virus, sentience, and (*excited wiggles*) a hivemind. The lot is based on the Mother in Dying Light's The Following, but grand liberties were taken.
Alright. That's it!
Off we go.
I hope you'll have fun.
Season Two
Blood from Stone
Part One
Darkness Sings~
Chapter One
Died a Saint. Reborn the Devil.
2027
Zofia had found herself a new cage. Though, granted, as far as cages went, this one was generous.
Its door was not sealed, and it even had a window, which leaned open enough to let in crisp winter air. Thin, off-white curtains did terribly at dimming the sun reflecting off the snow outside, making the room—her cage— bright and airy. Even the bed she'd gotten trapped in wasn't half bad. It was sizeable, the cover clean-ish, and food made a habit of showing up on her bedside table, unprompted and plentiful.
The most distinct difference between her last cage and this one, though, was how she was not alone.
Not ever.
But none of the above made the cage any less a, well, cage.
Zofia had her eyes fixed on those off-white curtains, on how their hem was being pulled out through the window's gap, fluttering in the breeze, on how the snow good as sparkled out there; on anything that'd help hold her mind still and keep the constant, scr-scr-scr of anger scratching at the inside of her chest.
It wasn't working altogether well.
"Woah," Crane blurted behind her, over on the other side of her cage. "That's some real good poop right there," he said after a moment's pause, followed by soft rustling, an amused snort, and all kinds of gentle noises all around. "You're making your dad proud, young man."
For a second, the scr-scr-scr wreaking havoc in Zofia's chest was smothered by a swell of warmth. And being as gullible as a fool who kept falling for the same ruse repeatedly, Zofia turned away from the window, ready to chase the spark of hope that'd come to visit. Hope, that she'd finally cracked through the haze; through whatever kept her from feeling what she should be feeling and had instead weighed her down with hopeless frustration and bottled-up rage.
It sort of worked.
For a tick.
Crane stood by the changing table, where he fussed over a quietly meeping bundle of New Human.
The bundle had a name:
Theodore Sebastian Sirota-Crane.
Theodore was, at present, not at all bothered by how Crane packed him into his miniature jumper, and unbothered he remained even as he got lifted off the changing table and eventually ended up nestled against Crane's shoulder.
Crane's woefully underdressed shoulder, no less. He'd decided sleeves were a thing of seasons past, not only because he ran far too hot (his words, followed by a wink), but since babies needed skin contact (also his words, followed by a smile), leaving him to wander about with his scars showing while he held on to the barely wiggling Theodore.
The contrast of worn out by life and hardly touched by it was jarring. Enough so that Zofia's mind caught on it and stayed there, while Crane bounced little Theodore and walked the length of the bed, until, finally, his eyes slid over to her. A smile climbed onto his lips, zeroed in on her, and went straight for the anger which had bloated her chest only a moment ago.
It zapped it right off its throne, and you wouldn't have ever guessed what climbed atop of it right after.
Shame.
See, Crane was happy.
Simple as that. It didn't matter how tempered his smile might've been; he still wore it openly and proudly. It was written across his eyes, edged into the crinkle of his laugh lines, and hung off him without restraint. Not that Crane had ever been an unhappy man, no—the contrary. But there was something different about this particular flavour of joy, the very same joy she should be feeling, too.
Should be.
But didn't.
Hence, shame.
Theodore gurgled quietly. Crane's brows rocked up. His smile blossomed. "Oh, we getting hungry again, hm? Yeah, don't worry, little man, one Mom coming up, stat."
At the sound of that, every fibre of Zofia's tired body twinged uncomfortably in response, but she'd be bloody damned if she let it show.
Because any second now—any God-forsaken second—things would right themselves.
They had to.
She constructed a smile, scooted back so she could sit, and let Crane hand the baby to her; the very tiny, very fragile baby, and for a second, she feared she'd forgotten how to hold him.
Crane, ever perceptive, lingered, with one hand sliding up to press to the side of her head and the other helping her keep Theodore in place.
"You doing alright?" he asked, the words coming up genuine and doing a terrible job at concealing just how desperately he needed to hear a simple Yes.
Zofia obliged him.
"I'm fine," she lied, her smile held up by what might as well have been a row of staples. "I'm just a bit weary still, is all."
She'd have kept on fibbing, too, hadn't it been for a shift in the background noises coming in through the cracked-open window. One moment, all she'd heard had been the subdued mumble of a community recovering from its most recent trauma. The next she heard engines approach and voices rising with them.
Crane heard it, too.
He ignored it.
"What do you wanna do today?" he asked, even as he planted a kiss on the top of her head and let his thumb track down her cheek. "I can go out on a board game raid. Ooor, I can roll in the console cart, and we exploit today's extra solar juice for a buncha rounds of me beating your shapely ass at Mario Kart."
He leaned back, pulled his chair over, and thumped down right by her side.
Well, their side, really.
She'd sort of stopped being a singular.
Outside, the engine noises died.
Crane continued to ignore whatever that might've meant. "Option three," he said and swiped a book from a small stack on her bedside table. It was a copy of The Hobbit, its pages yellow and its cover bent. "Reading time. We haven't done that since the Tower days, and I miss the bit where you get all snuggly and make me do voices."
So do I, she nearly said, but before Zofia had time to be drawn to a memory of comfort like a bumbling moth to a flame, her ears picked up the footfalls headed their way. They were determined. Heralds of something bleak to come.
Crane, book still in hand, sighed.
A second later, the door to her cage opened. Damien stepped in, bringing the smell of biofuel and melting snow.
It'd only been a year ago when Crane had joked how Damien should let his beard grow out and take up the mantle of Morrow's Watch's very own Santa. A lean and mean Santa, admittedly, clothed in a sturdy grey parka instead of a red suit and with weapons on him rather than a sack over his shoulder. Like that rifle strapped to his chest and that pistol at his hip.
Damien had humoured Crane. He'd stopped trimming his beard, and as the year had passed, it'd grown all bushy and turned a respectable white. Did it live up to Santa's image? No. Not quite.
But, hey. He'd brought a present.
"We got him," Damien said, skipping right past the Ho-ho, the hellos, and all the how you doings.
Crane's expression instantly soured, and Zofia's lungs grew an icy lump, which quickly threatened to grow outwards and crack her open as it grew. She breathed through it, swallowed, and stared at the top of Theodore's head. It had the faintest dusting of soft hair.
"Where'd you find him?" Crane asked. He returned the book to the bedside table. There'd not be any reading after all.
"A day out east. Him and a good chunk of his cult were squatting in the ski resort we'd screened right before he joined us. Way I see it, he brought them in just after our last pass and has been using it as a staging area since."
"Sneaky skunk," Crane said, his voice flat.
Damien nodded, right before his eyes finally slid over to her (and Theodore). His Santa-adjacent beard lifted with a smile. "'sup Fi. You and the moppet doing okay there?"
Zofia carefully stapled her smile back on. "We're fine."
"Fantastic. Say, mind if I borrow your baby daddy for a bit?"
"Oh, please," she said and momentarily caught herself off-guard with how she managed to slip a spell of genuine mirth into her voice. "Take him. He's all yours for as long as you can stand him."
"Ouch?" Crane went as he fumbled for her hand to give it a quick squeeze. "I'll be back in sec, alright?" he added and flashed her a portion of the smile he'd only just dropped. It was a few degrees darker than it should've been, and it had a weight to it she could only describe as grim.
"Or I could come with."
"Nuh-huh, you're staying right here. Them's the rules."
Two more kisses later (one for Theodore, one for her), and Crane followed Damien out the door.
The baby squirmed.
Zofia's jaw clenched hard.
She'd only just decided to worm her way out of bed and deposit Theodore in his crib, when Collin bumbled in. He bumbled all quiet like and tentatively, a tell-tale sign that Crane had sent him to keep an eye on her and that he knew damn well she'd be less than pleased by it.
Zofia sighed. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same—or some such nonsense.
Collin gave her a rueful smile, shed his coat, and wasted no time before he picked up where Crane had left off: fussing over the New Human in her arms. It involved a lot of cooing, babbling, and poking at tiny hands sporting even tinier fingers.
"Gee," Zofia said after Collin had gone a few rounds with Theodore, rounds which Theodore mostly ignored. Supposedly, a baby's interactivity came later. Till then, it'd be a one-way street of adults making fools outta themselves while the baby blubbered through life, one mouth noise at a time. "The way you and Crane fawn over him, maybe you should've been the mom. Want to trade? I'll move in with Rahim. You shack up with Crane?"
"Oh-ho-ho, no." Collin straightened up. "I'm the jerk who's just going to reap all the benefits of unclehood without any actual hard work attached."
Which was so far from the truth Zofia nearly laughed.
"You do plenty," she said, unwilling to let Collin think for even a second that she didn't appreciate him. He was the guardian of her lies, after all. The keeper of her secrets. The sole person out there who knew damn well she'd like nothing more than to rewind time and not be a mother and that her stupid joke back there had been rooted in far too much truth.
God.
What sort of monster thought shit like that?
While holding her own baby, no less.
"Anyway." Collin quietly clapped his hands together. "I'm prepared to pamper you all day if I got to. Where'd you like to start?"
And as charming as Collin subbing for Crane might have been, Zofia wasn't listening. For one, she'd stoked her shame so high, it might as well pour out of her ears. And second, the shouting. It came from outside, muffled by the snow, but she heard it all too damn well. Collin probably didn't, judging by the look he gave her when her eyes snapped to the door.
The door to her cage; a cage she wasn't meant to leave, or else.
Pfah.
Bugger that.
Or else was a nebulous threat at best anyway, and what was Crane going to do, hm? Scold her?
She deserved scolding. Downright needed it, truth be told.
"Hold the baby," Zofia told a puzzled Collin, who accepted Theodore without a gripe. Then he saw her struggle off the bed. It clicked.
"Noo, what are you doing?" Collin blurted. But since he'd been entrusted with a bundle of fragile life, he couldn't do much beyond arguing with her. And words? No, those weren't about to stop her. "You're supposed to rest."
"Rest? I've done nothing but rest, Col. For days. There's no way I'm letting you all sideline me a second longer." Her body told her it wasn't on board with her plan, flaring with about a million aches, most centred around her midriff, from where they webbed outwards, unforgiving. She ignored them much as she ignored Collin's protest.
"Come on, Zofia. Please. You've had it the shitty sort of rough, give yourself some time, I'm begging you."
She scoffed and began squirming into a pair of sweats and an oversized hoody. "I've had worse."
"You— you almost died," Collin snapped back.
"Yeah? Gosh, I had no idea, I thought it went swimmingly." With the hoodie on, and the world made from mostly pain, Zofia threw Collin a flat stare. "And I still had worse."
It wasn't a lie, that.
She had, after all, spent most of her adult life stacking disaster after disaster under her. They'd made her taller, she suspected. In a metaphysical sort of sense, at any rate, though that didn't excuse them.
At the bottom of the stack lay Harran. It'd been squashed thin by now, but it was the foundation that carried all the weight of what had followed.
Rais, for example.
Rais, some more.
Rais, again, but differently.
A letter written in a dark bunker, chased by a bottle of pills.
The GRE's cages.
Windfall.
The Fall, and every subsequent cruelty knocked loose by the world's wicked tumble.
Then—after a moment's peace—Theo and a few lucky shots fired on an unlucky night.
She swiped up her jacket.
Yes. She'd had worse.
Once she was fully dressed and Theodore had his small head covered in a thick, red, woollen beanie, Zofia marched for the infirmary exit, the baby in her arms and Collin trailing her.
The place was mostly empty, save for the poor sods physically incapable of rising from their beds. Well, them and a very tired Doc Iris, who roamed the halls in her quest to make sure all those bed-bound souls were getting up again. She'd lost a lot of patients the first two days after the assault, but her resolve to stop death at the door had been unwavering.
"Where are you going?" Iris called the second she saw them. "Collin? Where is she going?"
"Out for some fresh air?" Collin tried, sounding sheepish, which Iris responded to by throwing a handful of Italian curses at the wall. Zofia let those chase her from the building and out under a far too bright sun.
She'd taken one step outside when her honour guard grew from one fretting Collin to one still fretting Collin, plus a pair of wagging tails. Miss and Chief had settled in by the entrance (what with dogs not being allowed in), and the second they saw a chance to, they sprung up and shoulder-checked Zofia's knees.
Miss got the left one (gently).
Chief the right (eagerly).
And that was how they stayed, all flush against her legs as she stomped ever forward, even as it slowly began to dawn on her how she didn't, in fact, know why she was stomping to begin with.
Was it curiosity?
Anger?
Frustration?
The simple need to stomp, period?
She knew what she'd find, of course, along with where she'd find it: over by the Morrow's Watch stating area, which sat right inside the settlement's main gate. Getting there meant quite a bit of walking, all under the bright sun and surrounded by even brighter snow, none of which Zofia appreciated. Her skin tightened. Her eyes stung. And she hurt and hurt and hurt.
Yes, staying inside would've been the reasonable thing to do.
The sun couldn't cut at her so fiercely there, and she could have avoided most of the pain. Plus, why'd she bring Theodore along? His quiet gurgling and the weight he added to her arms didn't help. Not one bit, no.
Might've been better to leave him behind. Have Collin watch him.
Then I could've walked the other way and kept walking until I'd reached the end of the world, too, she caught herself thinking.
A terrible thought, that.
Hm.
Was that why she'd come outside?
Because she'd wanted to walk away?
Nh-nh, she insisted and tried to chase off the guilt and shame, only for them to dig in deeper and deeper and deeper until they'd hollowed her out.
It'd snowed heavily again last night, but the path towards the staging square had been cleared. Snow piled to her left and right, higher than her knees, and the ground was strewn with pebbles so no one would slip. But the extra snow was good, in a way. It helped cover up whatever patches of blood had remained after the assault. Made everything look clean. Pure.
It also filed the edges off every noise tickling her ear, much as it did with the voice that travelled to meet her. A voice she knew and would've preferred never to hear again.
And yet, here you are. Heading for it.
"We're no different," she heard Tobias say, his tone smooth and confident as it'd ever been. "You. Me. Morrow's Watch. My people. We do what we must."
Her teeth ground together, and Zofia stopped, almost as if she'd gotten caught in an invisible net. Miss and Chief stopped with her, and there was a crunch of careful Collin feet behind her, quickly followed by his hand landing on her shoulder. He squeezed.
She inhaled the sharp winter air and stared on ahead.
Tobias and two of his men knelt at the centre of the square. Their hands were bound, but they kept their torsos upright. Proud, even. Defiant. It was all they had left, she suspected.
The defiance—pointless as it might've been—was aimed at Crane.
Crane, now wearing a heavy parka on his shoulders and a scowl on his face, rather than that flimsy top and a soft smile, loomed in front of Tobias. A foot or so behind him, Damien and two of his rangers stood in silence, and over on the far edge of the square, a small audience of Morrow's Watch residents had collected into a bundle of nervous souls.
"Ah… crap…" Collin whispered.
Zofia hummed in quiet agreement.
"And we're fading," Tobias continued. "Day by day, month by month. There's no stopping our decline. It doesn't matter how strong you've built your wall, how well you feed your people, at the end, we're outnumbered. And we'll always be. So tell me, Crane, how will you rebuild without the numbers? How are you going to turn the tide?" At that, Tobias jerked his chin forward, right past Crane, where a jeep sat on the cleared asphalt. Zofia hadn't paid it any heed before, but when her eyes flicked over to it, she spotted not only Rahim standing by the open passenger door but also a woman inside the cabin. A heavily pregnant woman, no less. And when Tobias looked her way, she shrunk back, like she wanted to withdraw further into the jeep.
"You're not," Tobias said as he shifted the weight on his knees and went as far as to puff his chest out. "You and yours, you'll fade like all the—"
"Seriously?" Crane snapped at him. "A speech? You're giving us a sales pitch for your fucking breeding cult?" He threw an arm off to his side, indicating their audience with one quick sweep. "What d'you expect that'll net you, huh? A trial? Is that what you're angling for here? Well, do I have some fucking news for you, asshole." Crane leaned forward. His voice dropped. "You gunned down a quarter of my council."
"I gave them a choice, Crane. That it ended in blood was not on me."
"Not on—" Crane's arms flung skywards. "Are you guys hearing this shit?"
Damien (and his rangers alongside him) nodded.
One sharp exhale later, and Crane's attention snapped back to Tobias. Tobias, who, even now, stared up at him with unwavering conviction; the conviction of a man who believed every single word he said.
And who'd brainwashed people of his gospel so thoroughly they'd been willing to wipe an entire settlement off the map for him.
"Okay. Okay." Crane jabbed a finger at Tobias. "You wanna talk choices? Fair. We can do that. Option one, you tell me what I need to know, and we stick you and your buddies into the box 'till spring. Now, you might be thinking that means you get to live, but really, that's up to the women you've been nabbing. Option two: you keep your mouth shut, you die. Right here. Right now. Clear?"
No one said a thing.
"Great. Now, tell me, Tobias. Where are the rest of your people?"
Silence settled onto the scene as if all noise was being sucked from the air by a collective breath. It made room for winter's gentle whispers, the soft thud of snow tumbling from a branch, the creak of wood, and the call of birds; all while Zofia hoped for Tobias to cling to his defiance until the end.
It was an ugly thought to have (a bit like wanting to walk away from your own child). But who was Tobias to deserve until spring, when all the bodies Morrow's Watch had been burning had theirs stolen? When Theo hadn't gotten his?
"Sankt Mal," Tobias finally admitted, choosing life over his principles. "Am Himmelsrand. It's about ten days south, by the border."
Zofia wrestled down her disappointment and let her eyes drop. They caught on nothing much: on snow, on dirt, on a glove someone had lost in the snow, and eventually on the top of Theodore's beanie. She stared at the red stitches, her mind numb, and felt unhappy with how unhappy she was.
"I'm telling the truth," she heard Tobias say, his voice hitching uncomfortably when no one acknowledged him. Not the Rangers, not Damien, not even Crane.
No. Crane was far too busy looking her way to give him the time of the day. She saw him staring when she raised her chin, his expression unreadable but heavy.
Still staring at her, Crane gave a light nod. "Yeah," he said. "I believe you."
Tobias did, too, and when Crane finally turned away from him, Tobias clutched at a moment of relief. Zofia saw his shoulders sag and watched his chest heave with the deep, liberating breath of a man who thought he'd escaped death.
What Tobias didn't see, was how Crane stepped up to Damien with purpose. Or how Damien swiped the latch on his sidearm's holster open and moved his hand away. No. Tobias didn't even see Crane draw the pistol.
His moment passed.
Crane turned. He raised his arm, the gesture slow, deliberate, until the muzzle pointed at Tobia's head. And with one hard clap of the pistol firing, he proved himself a liar.
2036
Zofia had yet to forget that morning.
The bright sun.
The baby pressed to her chest.
The shot, muffled in an eery sorta way by all that deep, soft snow.
But mostly, she remembered how she'd felt nothing. There'd been no remorse, no relief. It'd been as if she'd glitched from underneath her own skin and had left all her emotions far behind.
No. The feeling, that'd come later. Much, much later, when she'd realised what had truly happened.
Crane had murdered a man.
Every time since, whenever the memory decided to shuttle across her mind, she wondered, 'What if I hadn't been there?' Had her presence changed Crane's mind at the last second? Had him seeing her, seeing what he'd nearly lost (her, along with another son), sealed Tobias's fate? And, effectively, put him and the entirety of Morrow's Watch down a bloody path that'd taken years to wash clean?
She'd never know.
It wasn't like he'd tell her.
Never bothering to wait for the right moment, the memory revisited her when she woke. It stuck to the back of her mind like a sheen of dirty oil, and there it clung when her eyes flew open and she found a man hovering over her.
He wore a blood-red painted mask and had filthy blond hair. His hands were working on her, unbuckling restraints.
A large knife was seated in a sheath on his chest.
He hadn't noticed her waking.
The second her arms were free, Zofia pulled the knife. Her legs came up as the blade whispered free, and before the man had a chance to react, Zofia kicked him away from her.
He stumbled back and fell out of a hole into bright light.
The hole was the open back of a van. The light, freedom. But before she could bolt for it, a second man reached for her. He, too, wore a mask, and Zofia finally remembered who they were.
Hounds.
When the Hound made to grab her, Zofia decided she'd permanently discourage any and all such behaviour by jamming the knife into his neck. It surprised him. For a second, at any rate, and then Zofia was up. She bolted for the light.
The first Hound had gotten to his feet. Unwilling to slow down for even a moment, Zofia leapt from the back of the van and angled herself right at him. Her shoulder knocked into his chest, and they both went down, with the world performing a lurching somersault as a blur of shadows turned all around her.
It wasn't until she'd gotten back on her feet, the knife in one hand and the sun bearing down on her, that those shadows began to take proper shape.
They were people.
And walls.
She'd come out the back of the van into a large courtyard. The tall stone walls into any direction carried makeshift buildings against their flanks, and the gate she saw in front of her was literally that. A gate. Tall, arched with an actual portcullis (which was presently closed).
A castle. She was in a bloody castle courtyard, and surrounding her were the same people who'd chased her (and Aiden) onto a roof full of willow trees.
Zofia's fingers tightened around the knife. Her jaw set.
She'd not think about Aiden.
Yet.
Just as she wouldn't think about Crane.
Her focus belonged to flight and flight alone. Well. With maybe a bit of fight where needed.
"I admit I should have seen this coming," Waltz said. He'd walked in front of her. His hands were empty. "You've burnt through enough sedative to keep a grown man out for a day in, what?" He raised his wrist. A slender watch clung to it. "Two hours?"
Zofia graced him with no more than a passing look before her eyes cut from side to side. The two antlered women flanked her, while the equally antlered man was at her back, helping the Hound she'd knocked over to his feet.
"Now. Please, settle down. You continue to put me into an awkward position with my men, killing them while I demand they treat you with respect."
She shifted on her feet and flipped the knife in her hand, its edge pointing outwards. There were more people in the courtyard than the ones immediately surrounding her. Some must have been Hounds, but most wore sets of everyday clothes much as what she'd seen back at the Bazaar.
She even caught sight of two teens, who ogled her from atop a stack of tractor tires.
"You're in no danger here," Waltz continued. "This?" He spread his arms, indicating the courtyard at large (all of which Zofia noted out of the corner of her eye as she looked for a way out). "This is home. And, yes, I admit my methods may have been harsh, but I promise I do not intend to hurt you. The contrary. I need your help."
Even as Waltz punctuated his last word with surprising sincerity, Zofia's side itched. Movement. Creeping near.
Waltz snapped a hand up. "Oscar. Wait—"
The last time they'd come for her, Zofia's limbs had been weighed down by the sedative she'd supposedly burnt through, and her thoughts had gotten choked by a dense fog. This time, she was ready. Or so she thought. The moment the antlered man grabbed for her, Zofia wove out from under his arm and sliced at his gut. The slice barely connected, glancing off his tight armour. Before she could adjust, he'd hopped back, just out of reach, and barked up a quick, quiet laugh.
Not a manic one like those she'd heard from the Hounds, but a genuinely amused one that came with a flash of teeth. His scarred lips, with a wire stitching the bottom half together, stretched into a smile.
The women moved in — and Zofia might as well have still been drowsy from the sedatives with how impossibly quick they grabbed for her. One got her left arm, the other her right, each grip tight as a wire being pulled taut.
No.
No.
Panic wanted to wrestle her mind away.
She wasn't going to get caught again.
Couldn't.
The antlered man slipped in front of her.
Off to the side somewhere, she heard Waltz sigh and mutter "Children," under his breath, but she was too busy yanking her legs up and kicking the antlered man in the face to pay any attention at all.
Her feet struck and he reeled back, his mask cracked and blood gushing down his chin; all while the women stayed, unmoving and unyielding, like a pair of anchors she couldn't shake. She tried, though. Over and over, she tried, bucking, pulling, biting, until the antlered man spoke and drove an icepick through her thoughts.
"Dha' huhrd," he said, the words coming out wrong. Part of that was down to how she'd broken his nose; the rest came from a familiar scratch at the back of his throat, which morphed his voice into something not quite human.
Zofia's muscles locked up, and ice wormed itself down her spine. Years, years ago, she'd heard a voice just like it—day after day. Until one night, he'd been robbed of a spring he ought to have had.
"You god a good kig," the antlered man added and plucked the shattered mask from his brow. The antlers stayed on, and when he reached up to rub at his ear in a motion not unlike that of a boy scratching a blush away, she saw why.
They were bolted to his skull.
And he wasn't a man at all, was he?
Children— Waltz had said.
Children.
No, he was a child turned man and monster, with a shy smile soaked in blood.
Just like Theo.
It wasn't until Waltz said a quiet "Apologies," and she caught sight of the black sack in his hands that the shock dissipated and made room for naked panic.
"No," she blurted, back to kicking and pulling and biting. "No— No— no no no."
Then.
Darkness.
And the promise of yet another cage.