Russula sat very still in the chair. She couldn’t see, so she didn’t dare move. Who knew what could set these people off?

“Are we live?” Rocky’s voice had become familiar to Russula over the past days. Russula still didn’t know quite what to make of her. She was, as far as Russula could tell, a completely ordinary human. Was the girl being deceived, then? Just a tool to get the message out on behalf of Russula’s demonic captors? That seemed right. And yet Russula couldn’t shake the feeling that the woman was aware of more than she let show on-camera.

Other people were talking, now, though Russula could only hear snippets of the conversation.

“Excuse me? What did you just say? An attack? Now?” Rocky’s footsteps raced away, towards where Russula assumed an exit was, followed by a number of others. Was it everyone? Russula listened carefulyl for the sound of footsteps. None could be heard, but that didn’t mean nobody was there. Was it worth risking it to break out?

Her hands and legs were tied to the chair, but the bonds could probably be broken if she transformed, melted away by the enzymes. It was hard to tell what they were made of, but they felt relatively rough and pliable. Rope, maybe? What were the odds that people had remained in the room with her? Guards of some sort? Surely they weren’t that incompetent. Surely.

That said, it was indeed quiet. It was perhaps a bit too quiet. From outside the room, she could hear a commotion, muffled shouts punctuated by spurts of gunfire. What was happening outside? Had people come to rescue her? Had Quinn? Yes. That must have been it. Quinn was going to come here and rescue her. In that case, all she needed to do was sit tight and she’d come. Why, she could already hear the footsteps approaching her.

“Quinn. You actually—”

“I’m not Quinn.” Something cut through her restraints. The voice was oddly familiar. Where had she heard it before? Not another Angel...

“Who are you?”

“Just someone trying to help.” She lifted Russula’s blindfold. She was a young woman wearing a jeans and a plain white blouse. She had light skin and gray eyes. Her left hand was in a cast, and her right was holding the cloth. “Go. Don’t tell anyone about this, okay?”

Russula paused. “Thank you so—”

“Just go!” She shoved Russula away. “Run!”

There was a loud banging on the door, which she could now tell was boarded shut. Russula ran. She felt her body slip into her Imago, felt her human flesh melting away into a liquid warmth, crystallizing into a beautiful golden outer shell. Her wings were out of practice but quickly found their rhythm, her thorax buzzing in sync to take to the air.

Behind her, she heard a scream, followed by a number of angry voices. They’d found what had happened. They’d be coming soon. She drew her weapon. But a voice of doubt still echoed in her mind. These were only humans, after all. Was it really good to harm them? Even if they were a threat to her, they were only misled. Only lost. But one swipe from her blade and they’d—She rounded the corner into some people. On instinct, she swung her blade around, leaving paper trails in its wake. The paper surprised and smothered them. Safe. And then she noticed the drop of crimson on the ground. She’d cut one, and—No use thinking about it now. It was time to go on. She left a sheet of paper blocking the hallway to buy a few more precious seconds as she raced out.

Or she would have, were she not distracted by the haunting light emanating from the room down the hallway. She paused, peering into the door and saw a sterile room. A doctor’s office. Metal instruments were laid out along the table, each shining under the fluorescent light.

And she was there, too. The Doctor. Quinn’s mother. She still had her back turned to Russula, tending to the tools. She hadn’t noticed her. Not yet, at least.

“My specimen is out?” Why is this?”

Her. It was her voice. The woman who’d captured her, the one who’d ridden in the helicopter all the way here, the one who’d tied her up. And she hadn’t even turned her head. How? How had she noticed?

“I have eyes at the back of my head,” she said with a laugh. Even so, she turned around, so she could look Russula in the eye. The red goggles she wore masked her eyes like the visor of an Angel. Russula couldn’t read anything behind them at all.

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Russula took a step back.

“Afraid?”

“No,” Russula lied. Why? Why was she so intimidated by her? Looking again, the doctor was simply a woman. She wasn’t in particularly great physical condition. She simply stood there, with a sharp metal instrument in her hands, carefully polishing the tip as she stared her down. Russula was clearly stronger. She could simply go in there and incapacitate her. And yet.

“Are you sure?” The doctor stepped forward, tilting her head inquisitively.

“I...”

“Why don’t you escape, then? Isn’t that what you were doing?”

It was. How had she been distracted from it in the first place? But... “Who are you?”

“I’m just a person, dear. Just an ordinary human.” She was coming closer.

Russula drew her sword. But it was caught by a black hand. Though she cut into the flesh, it dripped red-hot ichor on the floor. Echo.

There were a lot of Echoes here.

They reached out from the walls and floor, peeked out of the drawers and cabinets. And they were unlike any Russula had ever seen. Not in their texture—these were charcoal black just like so many others—but in their shape. They were shaped like people. Misshapen arms and legs, fragmented and broken, crawling along the ground, grasping at her arms and legs. And, in the shadows, eyes, mouthes with red-hot tongues hissing incomprehensible words.

The doctor was controlling them. Russula didn’t know how that could possibly happen, but she knew it was true. They reacted to her motions, moved alongside her body. But only Demons could control Echoes. And this woman, despite everything, was human. She was.

Being surrounded by Echoes took its toll on Russula. Her vision blurred, seing the horrible, screeching tears in reality that those things represented. They grabbed her arms and legs, holding her so tight that escape was impossible. And all the while, Quinn’s mother stepped closer and closer. She turned for a moment to take another shiny and oh-so-sharp instrument out from the tray on the table, admiring it in her hands.

And her words. “Now, then, shall we continue where we left off? Dear, why did you run away? What were you afraid of?” She stepped closer and closer, until Russula was close enough to feel her breath on her face. “The cameras aren’t running anymore. But I’m going to see what you’re made of anyways.”

Then, the doctor stopped, and her demeanour shifted instantaneously. She backed off, turning around and walking out the door, closing it behind her. The Echoes subsided, melting back into the walls, and Russula was free.

And footsteps approached, running down the hallway. They came closer and closer, until a figure in yellow and crimson stood there. Her head reverted from its transformation, revealing the familiar face beneath.

“Quinn!” But Russula looked down the hall, where the doctor’s footsteps were rapidly disappearing. “If you want to talk to your mother—”

“I.. I don’t need to anymore, Russula. I... there are more pressing things to do. Like getting you out of here.” Her glaive was drawn, its jagged edge stained red. “Come on.”

It was as if all the exhaustion and tiredness suddenly caught up to her. Russula was exhausted. Her head spun. She had to lean on Quinn for support. Why was she so tired? Why hadn’t she been? She’d hardly slept for days, stuck in a perpetual state of moving from place to place, often blindfolded, and... “Quinn...”

“It’s okay. We’re getting out of here.”

As they neared the door, Quinn paused. She opened it a sliver and peeked outside.

“Who’s there?”

“There... there are still a few soldiers,” she said. “Just regular people, though. I think it’ll be fine. But you might have to shift back. Is that okay?”

Russula nodded. “How many?”

“Maybe six? You take the ones on the left, and I’ll handle the ones on the right,” Quinn whispered. “And then we’ll—”

The door swung open, and the soldiers stood before them. The figures all wore bandanas with the Blood Thunder insignia. They stood tall over the two Angels. Quinn stared back up defiantly, but Russula was too tired to.

Still drifting in and out of consciousness, she woke up walking through the sand. The figures were leading the way. Had they been captured again? The men before her moved with a serene grace that the other people lacked. They seemed to glide across the floor without even touching the ground. Drifting like... like Angels.

But that was silly. Men couldn’t be Angels. She must have been dreaming.