Miltia was, as one might expect, rather loose-lipped about the 'sexing Vampires for their information' situation. She held nothing back, going into excruciating detail into many of her specific sex acts while interspersing what bits of useful knowledge she did have, ensuring the virginal Huntress would be forced to listen intently lest she miss a detail. There were a total of about twelve Vampires, at least, though that was based only on Miltia's estimate from how many leeches she'd sucked off. They were not overfed, nor starving. Most were on the first five floors. None were particularly smart or stupid. Apparently there was something underground, but Miltia didn't really know what. That was the extent of her useful knowledge.

So the Huntress let Miltia left the room first, sauntering ahead with considerably more hip-sway than necessary. As soon as they entered the hallway, Qrow looked up.

"Ooo, look at him," Miltia purred. "I love a sad, wet man—"

The Succubus pitched forward, her skull turning into something like a shredded meat-canoe as a slug round sneezed her spongy cortex all over Qrow Branwen. Black blood and bright crimson brain matter splattered across his longcoat, splashing over his face and decorating the walls behind him. The burning seals quenched like a deep, gratifying sigh. The Huntress lowered her gun.

It took a good few seconds for Qrow's face to react to being splattered with whatever smut Miltia had been imagining in the end. Eyes widening, he pulled fully away from the doorframe, stepping over the black-bleeding corpse to stomp up to the Huntress. One of his leather-gloved hands shot out and seized her lapels.

"What the hell is your problem!" he demanded. "You said she wasn't hostile!"

The Huntress scoffed in his face. "I got everything I needed out of her."

"That doesn't mean you had to kill her!"

She checked over his shoulder, sneering at the dead Demon. "I was worried you'd be susceptible; even the corpse is affecting you."

He pushed her back, disgust writ across his features. "I am not being charmed, I just have some damn sympathy! I thought you wanted to help her!"

"You—" air ripped out in a hard snort. "You thought I wanted to—" laughter clawed out. "Are you stupid?"

Qrow grit his teeth. "I thought you two had something in common."

"You thought I could have anything in common with a Malevolence?"

Qrow stared at her for a long time, brows puzzling as if he had to come to grips with a reality shattered. After all, why would she do that? It was an unnecessary cruelty, and he was more than sufficiently experienced to resist the lust of a Succubus. Miltia was an informant. Worse, she was Infernal, which meant there could be an inquisition against them both if she decides to press her ducal lord or lady. What could the Huntress possibly gain from such senseless murder?

'Oo-oo, and I'm not the only one.'

Pleasure. Pure, zealous, bloodthirsty pleasure. It made sense, even if it was stupid. The Huntress lusted to exterminate Malevolence. That was it. She wanted to kill the demon just to see it die. Nothing more.

She pushed past the man. "I'll take point again."

He grabbed her. "I'm not done—"

The Huntress met his eyes, making his words catch in his throat at the frozen steel of her gaze. "Yes. You are. Now get behind me, Drunk."

When she jerked away, he let her go, following close behind as she advanced tactically towards the stairwell. Twelve Vampires, minus the two they'd killed, meant ten more leeches were between them and the ground floor. The Huntress imagined they were congregating on the fifth.

As she neared the doorframe, however, the seals on her arms objected. Hotly. Very hotly— growing even hotter— encroaching fast—

The Huntress burst around the corner and let off a round of buckshot from her revolver, spraying down the stairs before her eyes could process something being there. A cry rang out as blessed lead touched one of the advancing Malevolences— another Vampire, six steps away, clad in a red shirt with his white pants blooming scarlet from the shot. The Huntress leapt into him without hesitation, jamming her knife up under his jaw to pin his mandibles together as he lost his balance, falling back, the Huntress riding his torso down the stairs as she passed one, two, four Vampires. Each one turned, mouths agape at the sight, distracted for a long enough moment that they couldn't stop Qrow from Gallaghering their heads in rapid succession.

The Vampire beneath her finally regained its control, but not its senses, seeing as it grabbed her around the waist and tossed her towards the next landing, ripping her knife out through the bone of its chin. She flew as a billow of white over black, reflexively aiming at the pair of Vampires awaiting her below.

She fired twice mid-air: her first round a slug that tore the left Vampire's chest open, her sixth and final round being buckshot that peppered the right Vampire's eyes. She landed in a crouch between them, the latter wailing as regenerative sinews whipped across his shredded features, the former collapsing towards her like dumb undead: arms extended, mouth ajar, shambling as blood slopped out of the hole in its chest. She chucked her heavy gun in the face of the one who was falling towards her, the weapon making a hefty clack as it sent one white fang (ha ha) flying past his lips. His desperate lunge ended up just short of her, and his big, stupid red eyes blinked open to greet the point of her knife lodging firmly between them. The silver-plated blade boiled his grey matter. His arms twitched, jerking wildly with half-dead desperation.

The Huntress only realized she was grinning when his eyes flashed with a brief rage of clarity, forcing her lips into a grimace. His silver-plagued mind gave his body a desperate command to grip, locking his twitchy arms around her shoulders and dragging her into his bloody, meaty chest. She wrenched her knife around, hoping to scramble whatever nerves were left to command his desperation, but the actions were all instinctual, now— peripheral— and nothing short of death would loosen his grip. This also meant he was a brainless statue, unable even to command his mouth to bite her vulnerable neck.

But the wailing, blinded Vampire behind her stopped his crying, and she'd never finished off the Vampire who'd thrown her. With her left arm pinned up— stuck holding her knife in this parasite's skull— and her right arm held tight against her side, all she could do was kick for his balls. Alas, she was hoist by her own petard: he had no working neurons left to process the pain.

A hand grabbed her head, wrenching it aside as a Vampire sandwiched her from behind. It bared her neck. The Huntress' lips mouthed, 'Hail Mary—'

The body against her own went stiff. The hands went thin. The Vampire went dead.

Qrow appeared from the corner of her peripheral, aiming a pistol down the stairwell as he crept backwards with his rifle slung at his front. Without looking, his left hand darted out to stake the Huntress' scrambled captor through the back.

Stiff. Thin. Dead.

The Huntress fell out of skeletal arms and fell to her knees, panting, adrenaline all draining away to leave her in the void of how fucked she had just been. She stared at the knife in her hands, watching the blood boil off its pure white surface.

VeniinauxiliumhominumquosDeusadimaginemsimilitudinissuaefecitetatyrannidediaboliemitpretiomagno.

She watched the blood fall from the corner of her eye. She watched it land on the floor. She moved her hand. She watched it land on her palm.

"Get up."

Her face hurt. Why did… why was she…

"Come on, Schnee, get up. Be a big girl."

"Win…ter?"

"She's gone, Schnee. You left her all alone to die."

"She… told me to…"

"How about this: you stay still, and I'll take you back to see her body. That way your failure will be the last thing you ever see. Sound good?"

"Weiss?"

"Shit—"

"Weiss!"

The Huntress jerked, shaking her head. Qrow stared at her. He had a hand on her shoulder. Every feature was pure concern.

She slapped the hand away. "I'm fine."

Qrow scowled, but the Huntress stretched her shoulders back and took a deep breath to smother her pitiful combat-jitters.

"Only three more," her mouth said, walking to collect her revolver and set it in its holster. She readied her pistol. "Almost done."

Qrow reached for her shoulder again, but she rolled out of the way of his touch. "Weiss—"

"Watch the stairwell," the Huntress commanded, marching to this level's open door. "I'm going to clear."

They saw no more Vampires until they reached the first floor. Father reported a similar dearth when they collected him. Qrow said nothing of the Succubus, though the silence visibly agonized him just as much as it puzzled the Huntress; he had nothing to gain from covering her ass.

Thankfully, tracing the Malevolent energies at the ground floor did bear near-instant fruit: a poorly-hidden hatch, which Jacques' axe quickly levered open. Bafflingly, the old man stepped aside and gestured welcomingly towards the hole in the earth, his eyes set firmly on his daughter. 'Go ahead,' his gaze told her. 'It's all yours.'

The Huntress slid down the ladder, entering the soggy and dirt-walled, poorly-braced guts of the earth beneath the housing project. Her seals ached at the fog of Malevolence about the place. The space barely accommodated the breadth of her shoulders, but the funneling potential had her drawing both knife and rapier while she waited for the others. When the two old men showed up behind her, she nodded down the tunnel. "I'll stay low and keep them from coming close. Shoot above me."

Qrow looked like he wanted to object to the plan, but Jacques overruled him with a hearty laugh of, "That's my girl!" which made something hot and terrible fester inside the Huntress' lungs. Without further discussion, they proceeded to stalk down the tunnels, the two men behind flicking on flashlights that beamed from the ends of their guns. Weiss walked in a half-crouch, which would've been exhausting if she cared to be exhausted. She had more important things to worry about.

It was a labyrinthine construction, these tunnels— filled with false ends and winding paths like a duck's vagina— but an impressively constant supply of glowsticks from Qrow's vest kept them from accidentally retracing their steps. They crept for what felt like hours, or just a couple minutes, the crush of the musty earth around them making time strange. The seals tied to Weiss' arms pulsed with warmth around every corner, their Seraphic nature unsettled, and the shadows in her peripheral kept twitching around, making her do double-takes only to find nothing.

So, when she did see something— the barest sliver of something, perhaps a heel or the tip of a shoe— disappearing around a T-junction ahead of them, she found it hard to immediately trust her instincts. She stopped. "Did anyone see that?"

Qrow's response: "See what?"

Jacques': "Probably your eyes, but keep your guard up anyways. Your senses are fallible. Your guts won't be."

The Huntress nodded, tensing in the direction of the things she couldn't see anymore. One flashlight followed her tension, the other covered the opposite side. She slunk forward, rapier extended, knife close.

When she got near enough, she burst around the corner and thrust blindly, catching something— something meaty. The darkness that'd engulfed her as soon as she escaped the flashlight suddenly fled from an explosion of bright blue flame, so bright and so blue that it almost didn't look real. It hurt her eyes, making her shrink back and blink as the Vampire's existence was expunged.

When the afterimage faded, however, she saw another thing deeper in the dark— a glint, reflecting the last embers of a dying Malevolence. A white-gold sheen. Like the shimmer of a ghost.

Her legs moved on their own, boots pounding hard against the thinly-boarded earth as she sprinted towards it, heart hammering, blood white-hot, hands clutching hilts, teeth bared. She followed that achingly familiar light until it disappeared to the left, rounding a corner that she skidded into, bouncing off the wall in the dark.

(Get it back.)

"It's beautiful."

"Yeah. They all are. See this one? Right below mine?"

"Yeah?"

"That'll be yours, once you join the Parley."

"Holy shit."

"Weiss."

"Sorry, it's just… wow."

"Yeah. It can be a lot, but of all things in the Parley, I'm grateful to have my own. It's actually in my prayers every Thanksgiving: You, Whitley, sword, and Father."

"I'm… you're thankful for me?"

"Don't ask stupid questions. Of course I'm thankful for you. I love you."

"You're thankful for Shitley?"

"Don't call him that."

"Come on!"

(GO. GET. IT.)

"Sister, can— can we take— a break?"

"Depends. Thirteenth canonical Brood in ascending alphabetical?"

"Cain."

"Twenty-first?"

"Callows."

"Yes. We can have a break."

"Thank Chri—"

"Hey! Don't."

"Sorry."

"You need to leverage the length of your rapier more. Your reach will keep you safe."

"Tell me… again… when you get… five inches shorter."

"I have to close. You don't. Nothing's stopping you from backing up forever until you win."

"My lungs… disagree."

"I'll add more cardio to the regimen, then."

(YOU NEED IT.)

"So… does it have a name?"

"What? My rapier?"

"Come on, Weiss. All the best swords have names."

"Since when did you start watching Game of Thrones?"

"Inasmuch as you can 'watch' a book? Five years."

"You read Game of Thrones at fifteen?"

"You're watching it at fifteen, which is arguably worse."

"W— but— shut up."

"Seriously, though: does your sword have a name? It's important."

"No? How is it important?"

"Part of how image brings power— giving it a name makes it easier to venerate."

"Does yours?"

"Yeah."

"Which is…."

"Uranus."

"You mean Uranus?"

"No. Uranus."

"But why tho."

"Someone from an old show I used to watch."

"What, did you have a crush on him or something?"

"Sure. We've all had TV crushes. Without simple things like that to atone for, it's not as easy to mortify in repentance."

(NEED HER.)

"And you're having these feelings… for girls?"

"I know— I know it's bad! And it's weird! I— I don't know why—"

"No, no, Weiss— it's okay."

"Please—"

"I won't tell anyone."

"Thank you. I… I just had to get it off my chest. I'll leave you alone."

"No. Stay— c'mere. Let's talk."

"I don't want to talk about—"

"Yes, you do."

"I—"

"Weiss. Come on."

"I… okay."

(TO BE HER.)

"I thought you were going to a party tonight."

"W-well, dad said there might be a, uh… Parley thing, and, um… I wanted to see if I could… watch… it…"

"Weiss. I am in the Parley. I would know if there's a 'Parley thing'. If there was one, doing it without inviting me would make it either a waste of time or bureaucracy, and even I get invited to bureaucracy. You can't lie to me."

"I just— I don't— I don't wanna go!"

"Why?"

"There'll be… people."

"That's the point of a party, yes."

"I hate peopl— ow! Don't flick me!"

"Don't be melodramatic. You don't hate people, you're scared of them. And you know how you get less scared of something?"

"I'm not scared of people."

"Then prove it. Go to the party. Maybe Ruby will be there."

"Shut up. Why would I want her there. How would that possibly be a good thing. I hate her. I can't stand her."

"You've been sulking since the summer started; glass is half as transparent as you, dear sister."

"What does that even mean!"

"It means go to the damn party! Go see your girlfriend!"

"She is not my girlfriend! I don't have a girlfriend! I don't like girls!"

"'S-s-sister, I— I th-th-think I— l-l-l-like—'"

"Fine! I'llgotothefuckingparty! Fuck you!"

"Good luck! They're gonna love ya!"

"Die in a hole! I'm leaving!"

"That's literally just how burial works!"

"Not listening anymore!"

"Put on something nice for—"

"Don't you dare—"

"The party! What'd you think I was gonna say?"

"I— AGH."

(BE HER.)

"Mother hasn't talked to me since."

"'I'd say that's optimal, if anything.'"

"You would— you hate mom."

"'You wouldn't get it.'"

"You always say that about something you don't want to explain."

"'Yup.'"

"You're the worst."

"'Maybe, when you get to my age, you'll get it.'"

"Such a boomer. Ha. Haha."

"'Ha… ha…"

"Hey… Winter?"

"'Yes, d— Weiss?'"

"I don't want to be here anymore."

"'Ah. Well…'"

"Or anywhere."

"'I'm… sorry to hear that.'"

"Yeah."

"'Well, I have… advice! For you!'"

"You do?"

"'I always do!'"

"Well?"

"'Um… mortification!'"

"I already did."

"'Then… go make some friends! You need to get out more! And do some cardio! Cardio— exercise is… it'll… help…' y-you…"

"..."

"'...'"

"This was stupid."

"'...'"

"I think, probably tomorrow…"

"'...'"

"I miss you."

(GET HER BACK.)

The Huntress thrashed upwards, reaching out for the—

Her arms didn't move. She tried to yell, but her mouth was full of leather— a belt, buckled tight around the back of her head. She was blindfolded.

"She's awake."

"Good. I was worried."

"Worried? Why the fuck would you be—"

"Do not speak to me in that tone, you useless little whelp. You almost gave her fucking brain damage."

Wait.

"Would it be bad if I gave her brain damage? She'd be fine once you sire her."

"And until then we'd have to deal with a vegetable, you stupid sack of shit."

That voice…

"Besides, I've got plans for this one."

She was thrown, flying for a second before she crashed painfully on a hard surface. Her head swam at the impact— the dark world in front of her eyes became soupy, threatening to pull her in, but she held tight to what she knew. She was on metal. She was bound. She needed to stay awake and think. The tunnel

"How do you know her people won't—"

There was a loud, wet noise of squelching violence that she instinctively ducked away from— or tried to, before something stomped down hard into her gut. She barely managed to keep the vomit down, but nearly lost it again when she was grabbed by the jaw and pulled up, jostling her aching brain.

Then, as she was being held up there by what she realized were blood-wet fingers, another hand relieved her of her blindfold.

A familiar face greeted her— one with deathly pale skin, a shock of crimson hair, and a beaming, fanged grin. The only difference was that his left eye, once rent and bubbling from Winter's blade, was now taut and puckered with scar tissue.

And his voice, just like last time…

"Hey, Schnee," greeted the Vampire who had murdered her sister. "Looks like you finally grew up."

She vomited, and finally passed out.

Agent Imprisonment/Capture/Hostage Protocol

In the event that any living Field Agent or Member (hereinafter "Agent") of the European Parley For The Extermination Of Demons, Angels, Vampires, And Agents Of Darkness (hereinafter "The Parley", "Parley", "The European Parley", and/or "E. Parley".) is held against their will by a Corporeal Malevolence (such as Vampires, Dragons, Undead, Malevolent-Influenced Persons, and/or Dæmons), any Wound of Demon above Fourth Circleship, and/or any Wing of Angel below Subluceo Proximity (hereinafter "Captor"), the following actions are to be taken by the Agent to the best of their ability, without exception, regardless if Agent is under pain of death, as accepted Standard Operating Procedure (SOP):

Agent will assess spatial surroundings by Senses of sight, scent, taste, touch, sound, and/or Sixth. Agent will comply with Captor in accordance with the Restricted Information SOP in exchange for further sensory access.

If at any point during consciousness Agent access is restricted to five or more Senses, Agent will open personal link to Seraphic Gate. Agent will proceed with self-termination in accordance with the Self-Termination SOP.

Agent will establish Information Link, Soul Well, or other Hypercorporeal Portal in accordance with the Hypercorporeal Portal SOP.

If Agent cannot establish Hypercorporeal Portal, Agent will proceed with self-termination in accordance with the Self-Termination SOP.

Agent will act in cordial nature with Captor for the purpose of gathering information and building rapport.

Agent will seek following information, in descending order of priority: Time, Location, Direction, Captor Demographic, Access to Higher Transport, Means of Capture, Malevolent Source (if present), Benefactor (if present), Overlord (if present), Self-Reassurance (i.e. access to a mirror or sufficiently reflective material), Personal Effect (i.e. Agent Equipment).

Should sufficient information at any time permit any form of Corporeal or Hypercorporeal Bridge, Agent will make prompt retreat via established Bridge.

In the case of a failed retreat (e.g. Agent being recaptured, captured by another Captor, or being shunted from Bridge against the Agent's will), Agent will proceed with self-termination in accordance with the Self-Termination SOP.

In the event that previous attempts have not achieved extraction, Agent will Self-Brand by any means application of Self-Brand, Agent will put violence unto Captor until Captor until such time as Agent can make a Certain Retreat in accordance with the Principal Retreat SOP, or until Brands have become Active.

Should Agent prove incapable of making a Certain Retreat in accordance with the Principal Retreat SOP, Agent will open personal link to Seraphic Gate, obsecrate, and self-terminate by any means necessary.

The Huntress assessed her spatial surroundings.

She could immediately guess that she was in a defunct walk-in fridge, judging by the fact that it was a big box of metal, four paces wide and seven paces deep, with a coating of rough rust eating away at the surface of every wall. A small amount of artificial light filtered in through a square window on the door— locked tight. There was probably supposed to be a safety latch for people accidentally locked inside, but the only thing she could find was the unmoving door handle.

It smelled like decaying metal and rotting meat, despite the fact that the Huntress was perfectly alone in there— probably the Vampires' blood supply, either disposed of or relocated. With the walls being so thick, she could never hear anything more than the occasional muffled voice. Her preternatural senses told her the obvious: corpses have been here, Malevolence is all around. She opted not to use her sense of taste.

The Huntress sat against the wall of her impromptu cell, next to the door so she wouldn't be seen through the window. She bit her own wrist, drawing blood from the puckered skin with ease, and squeezed her hand to encourage more droplets to fall into her palm. She concentrated on the blood, feeling for its vital presence: on her hand, the droplets slowly dying; in her body, hot and alive; in the safe archive of the European Parley in Massachusetts, preserved and now surely pulsing.

She felt the distantly stored blood move as if it were still in her body. Someone was attending the link— the Hypercorporeal Portal between where her body was (in a rusty freezer) and where her body also was (in an on-call employee's hands)— waiting for her words to cross it. She didn't have anything to say yet, but the channel would remain open until she intended otherwise.

So she waited. Eventually, the door opened. The Vampire that came in was the same one she recognized before, with the scar and the bright red hair. He carried something just as surprisingly familiar as he had been: a steaming cup noodle.

His nose immediately twitched. His eyes glowed red in the dark. "You're bleeding."

She hoped he would see her grin. "Come and drink it, then."

"All you Huntsmen think the same— I'm not some bloodthirsty animal," claimed the bloodthirsty animal, squaring his shoulders and shutting his eyes. "I'm smarter than that."

"I suppose I can see that," the Huntress placated, grooming her tone with begrudging respect. "Do you have the time?"

He snorted. "Sure. I've got the location, direction, and captor demographic too. Not gonna tell you, but there's no need to worry. I've got 'em."

Shit. "Okay… is there anything you can tell me?"

"I could tell you you're fucked for free," he joked. "Other than that?"

The Huntress watched him mull over the notion, rolling his fist under his chin.

"We bused you here in a ripgate, but before that my dearly departed friend hit you over the head with a wooden plank— which we'd taken from the tunnel supports, collapsing the whole thing on your buddies' heads."

She couldn't hide her sharply indrawn breath.

His fist stilled on his chin, scarlet eyes moving to glare through her heart. "Say… you're a Schnee, rolling with The Drunk… holy fuck," he breathed, smile tugging up his words. "I buried your old man, didn't I? God damn!"

She pinched her brows up and pushed her lips down. "My…"

She could see the unimpressed flattening of his eyes. "Don't get watery. I know you Schnees don't have those things."

The Huntress frowned. "What things?"

"Real emotions."

She grunted, and it took her lips far too long to push out the words, "Yes I do."

He smirked at her, bright whites visible as if spotlighted by an ethereal source, all but begging her to prove it. She stuck up her chest, drawing from her guts any scrap of feeling that she could. It was like sucking water through a blanket.

"I… hate you," her throat grit out, jaw grinding. "I hate you for killing my father."

He tilted his head, smirk unmoved. "No. You don't."

"I hate you for being a Vampire."

"No," he lied again. "You don't."

"I hate you for hurting people."

He snorted. "You don't give a fuck about that. They're beneath you."

Her mouth moved, forming words, but her throat didn't push anything out.

"What about that other Schnee?" he urged, bending down until she smelt the stale blood on his breath. "What was she, your sister? Some… two years ago, now?"

She pinned her eyes to the floor, forcing down what finally did come up— something too volatile to be helpful. "I don't have a sister."

"Uh, haha, yeah ya do. I killed her." A familiar metal sliding sound. Achingly familiar. "Got this to remember her by. And, y'know, the scar."

"I don't have a sister."

"Say, we're similar, aren't we? Both got the same fucked-up faces, that's for sure."

She pitched forward, working it down like bellows. "I don't have a sister. My face is fine."

"Don't you want a mirror? Self-reassurance?"

She pitched backwards, forcing it to snake down into the pit of her. "No. I do not."

"Why the fuck are you rocking? You look crazy."

She forced herself still, fingers digging into palms. She bit her tongue to cork it, but it boiled in all the chambers of her heart, burned the branches in her lungs. She willed the distant blood out of her mind, out of her focus, so she could focus everything into damming up her throat.

"Don't you hate me? For what I did to her? For killing your big sis?" He laughed and she smelled it and it punched a pressurized hiss through her lips. "I mean, come on. Gimme something, Schnee. Back up your claim."

Give him nothing. Give him nothing. What did he deserve from her anyways. He took her sister. Why would she give him anything. Any scrap of satisfaction. Just because. He took her sister. Because he took. Her. Sister. He took her. He took Winter. He took the woman she wanted to be and he's wearing her around like a trophy.

She bit her cheek hard enough to draw—

"Ha! You're holding back so hard you're bleeding? You're really fucking stupid, huh. Just like your dumb dead bitch of a sister."

He smelled like blood and she could taste it. Feel it. The warmthlessness of it. The slick of it on her fingers. His grist in her teeth.

"Come on."

He kicked her hard, sending her across the room and into a wall. Her body knocked loose a shower of rusty chips. The sound of her voice ripped out too hard to be pain. She whipped it back inside her with a yelp.

He watched her wrench into herself and sighed. "Jesus, you suck. Just gimme one shred, Schnee! Something to make you worthwhile."

To create a Brand on yourself, place your dominant palm over your heart and—

"You're probably glad to have her gone."

Focus your intent on—

He laughed. "What good was a bitch like her gonna do for you?"

Focusyourintentonfocusyourintentonfocusyourintentonfocusfocusfocusfocus—

"I wouldn't want her either."

Focus— hold it, focus— focus on— holding—

"What? What're you saying?"

"I—I-I—"

Don't look— stop looking— "Come on, little girl, say it!"

Don't say it. "Y—you—" That's what he wants. "You t—took her—"

His grin spread. "See? That wasn't—"

"You took her from me."

"You— took Winter— from me—"

"I can't have— her— any—more— I— I had one— thing—"

"I— would do— any—thing— to— to have her— back—"

"But—but you—"

Weiss lifted her eyes to his. Just to show she wasn't crying. To show she wasn't giving space for tears, but for hate. Thick, burning, napalm hate.

"Lord, forgive my selfishness," she prayed. "When I sell your ashes to the Devil."

He drank of her indulgence. He found it sweet. He smiled wide. He retreated. He pushed the door open with a heel. He leaned out and said, "You get that?" and a voice from the other side said, "Yep! I've got plenty." He looked at her again. His smile, his eyes, his posture— softened. He left the room.

Weiss lay there, strewn half across the floor and half against the wall, panting.

BRAND. BRAND. BRAND. NOW. BRAND. BRAND. BRAND BEFORE IT IS TOO LATE. BRAND BEFORE

She pulled her legs up to her chest. The rest of her slumped onto the floor. Something pushed out of her chest, and she had so freshly burst that there was no stopping it. Her shoulders hitched. Air puffed through her lips. Her eyes stung. Her cheeks grew wet.

She felt for the string in her mind, and clung to it.