"I'm busy."

Sarah stared at the time stamp on her phone. She could feel her grip threatening to crack the thin, protective case embracing the fragile device. "The fuck do you mean you're busy?! I'm standing in a boxful of spent shotgun shells because Townsend thought my head would look cute mounted atop his wall! Now, the prick's run off, his host is crying and the only reason I'm forced to deal with this bullshit is you opened your fat, fucking mouth! 'I'm busy,'" she sneered, droplets of spittle spraying across the screen. "You better be busy helping me, or I'm going to break my foot off in your ass!"

The over-weight warspawn sighed. He mumbled something into the receiver that the phone couldn't quite pick up. "Alright, calm down. What do you need?"

Sarah spluttered in disbelief. "Did you not hear me? I'm standing in what's left of the O.K. Corral after Virgil Earp put five dollars' worth of lead through Billy Clanton's balls. If that wasn't bad enough, I've got Boston's least warranted Amber Alert sniveling on the ground with a busted lip. I need you to convince the kid to stop crying, so the two of us can slip out of here. I don't want to have to shoot one of my neighbors because they decided to play hero."

There was a mild thump as Kennedy set something down. "I'll throw together a video call; put his host on the line."

The punch-drunk parasite released a shaky breath and felt the growing tension in her chest begin to unravel. She pushed a few buttons when the prompts appeared and then held the cell out towards Townsend. "Here," she muttered with as much compassion as she could muster. "I need you to talk to Kennedy for a couple of minutes. You remember Kennedy, right?"

Whatever Townsend did or did not remember would have to remain a mystery because he reached for the mobile with a glassy-eyed look. Sarah rubbed her temples; she left the aging warspawn to work his magic while she grabbed her bug-out bag from her bedroom.

It was hard to walk past the countless photographs lined up along the hall. Sarah kept the negatives in a manilla envelope beneath her passport; however, there was an emotional component to the dismissal, which didn't sit quite right with her. The discomfort left her struggling to maintain her focus as she ran through her mental checklist. 'Clothes... cash... charger for my phone.' Once she was certain that everything was squared away, she zipped up the duffel bag and threw the pack over her shoulder. Against her better judgment, she paused for a moment by the door before fleeing back through the corridor.

The faded, purple paint cast a washed-out filter over her white, lace duvet. Near the far corner, two bookshelves were filled to bursting with a collection of ink-washed models. Most of the tiny sculptures were made from clay and imitated the fauna of her new home; others were shaped with wire and mocked the threats she had survived on Deravan. One, a particularly large corsk, had been knocked onto the floor during the fight. Its tail was broken off at the base. Sarah weighed kneeling down, so she could return the reptile to its diorama but simply closed the door, instead.

"...think you can do that for me?" Kennedy was saying as she re-entered the ruined foyer. Townsend sniffled quietly before mutely nodding his head. "Okay. Plug your ears and pass the phone over to Sarah. I need to read her the riot act."

Sarah accepted the call with a put upon expression. "Say what now?"

"Don't give me that shit," Kennedy grumbled testily. "You almost killed an eight-year-old. I'm not going to sit here and pretend I can't relate, but I had to tell him something. You wanted the kid to stop crying, didn't you? Has he?"

Sarah studied the fidgeting youth, who was softly humming to himself. "...Yeah."

"Then, just act contrite or something. You should be good at that."

"Kennedy," Sarah growled as her eye began to twitch. "Don't fucking push me, right now. I've had one hell of a day."

The dour parasite snorted. "And what, you think I haven't? Fiona is literally crying on my couch because her father cares more about politics than his own damn daughter. It's bad enough I'm tempted to shoot the man on general principle. Fiona doesn't want that, though: they're family. Like it really fucking matters when he's using her to rebuild the IRA."

Sarah blinked in confusion. "What the hell does Blythe have to do with this jackoff's retirement account?"

"Not his IRA - the IRA. I'm talking about those Irish pricks who spent the nineties bombing the British. Apparently, Patrick got kicked out of the Dundalk chapter for embezzling thirty thousand pounds. He's been pushing Fiona to take up his mantle, ever since he fled to the States. It's - you know what, no - nevermind - this isn't your problem, and I don't want to get into it with you. Suffice it to say, you're not the only one with issues."

Sarah scowled at the splintered struts that were barely holding up her ceiling. "I don't know, I'd say mine are worse. Is Blythe still with you?"

She could almost hear Kennedy squint in consternation. "Yeah? Why?"

"Well, the way I see it, I'm already planning to murder one squirrely shit, tonight: why don't we trade headaches? You watch Townsend for a while, and I'll handle Mr. Daddy Issues on the down low."

There was a brief pause. "...You're going after Townsend?"

Sarah nearly choked on her tongue. "Of course, I'm going after Townsend! He shot up my apartment, Kennedy! This is my life, and that gormless, little shit blew a hole in it the size of my fist!"

Sarah began to pace across her flatweave rug. Specks of blood stood out against the pale cloth, close to where she'd gotten hit in the head. Sarah stared at the scattered droplets and then numbly raised her fingers to her face. When she pressed the digits against her cheek, her nails came away bloody.

"...if you run into Mannly?" Kennedy asked. He seemed nervous when there wasn't a reply. "Sarah? You still there?"

The blonde glanced back at her cellphone and then wiped the fluid on her jeans. "What was that? I got distracted."

"I asked you what you were going to do if this wasn't a solo gig. Sarah... level with me here. Did you get hit? Do I need to call an ambulance?"

She huffed weakly. "What? No. Townsend missed me with the shotgun. I just got cracked in the face a couple of times."

"It shows." Kennedy took a second to moderate his tone. "How about you put a pin in this revenge fantasy for tonight? You're not acting like yourself."

Sarah glared at the photo she'd attached to Kennedy's number. The parasite was sitting in his wheelchair while he pulled a dozen wieners off the grill. If she focused, she could almost make out his kids in the background and the side of his white, picket fence. The fucker thought he knew how she was feeling? Kennedy didn't know shit. "Come back and talk to me when it's your progeny who've nearly gotten their skulls ventilated. I'm doing this. Now, are you going to babysit for me, or am I going to give this brat a front row seat to his death by fucking proxy?"

The old warspawn cursed her entire bloodline. "Fine. Bring him by. I'll make sure he doesn't spill the beans. Maybe, we can fill a coloring book between the two of us. Just remember: I told you this was a bad idea when it inevitably goes to hell.'"

He hung up with a click. Sarah boggled at the blank screen. "Well, fuck you too, then! Come on," she grumbled before heading towards the hall. "I'm sure you know the way."

Townsend didn't move. The boy still had his ears plugged and was oblivious to her snide request. Sarah actually had to reach out and shake his shoulder to get him to pay attention. He flinched at her touch. Sarah's mind flashed back to the last time she'd jostled him, and she wondered if his did the same. "Hey, you got a favorite pokemon, kid?"

Townsend blinked at the non-sequitur. Sarah did too. She'd reached for the first topic she could think of to distract him, and the idiocy which had poured forth was the only thing that had come to mind. Personally, Sarah blamed the afternoon she'd spent with Amanda. The childish parasite loved those stupid games and could never stop talking about their countless, palette-swapped permutations.

"Uh... I like Vulpix," Townsend admitted as she steered him over towards the door. "T-the white one."

"Yeah?" Sarah offered before guiding him closer to the stairs. "Is that the new one from the Hawaii knock-off?"

Sarah wasn't sure. Townsend wasn't either. The youth shrugged and folded in on himself. "I don't know. One of the kids at school had a plush version, which she kept tied to her backpack. The snake hated it."

It took Sarah a moment to parse his pejorative. Eventually, she made a moue of comprehension. "It probably reminded him of a woodland picker. They dangle their tails into rivers, so they can snap up migrating fish. I bet he nearly got killed by one."

"Good." Townsend's response was brusque. He scowled at his feet as they entered the dimly lit stairwell.

The descent to the ground floor was trickier than Sarah would have liked. Her balance was shot from getting knocked upside the head, and she didn't want to tip over the railing if her vision began to swim. She could already imagine the headlines they'd print in the morning paper: 'Drunk kidnapper dies to her own stupidity.' Her splayed corpse would either be front page news or buried at the bottom of page six.

A bitter laugh bubbled up as she opened the door to the lobby. When she emerged onto the freshly waxed tiles, Sarah spied a bit of movement in the office tucked behind the concierge's desk. Peter Wilkis, her landlord, was nervously peering through the window, overlooking the abandoned vestibule. Sarah suspected the frightened man had heard the gunshots since his pale cheeks were barely scraping past the frame.

The blonde offered him a tight smile before briskly striding by. The moment he would've had a clear view of the shotgun, she subtly altered her posture to hide it behind Townsend's back. Sarah figured it was a coin-toss whether Wilkis notice the deception or not. Regardless, he didn't try to stop her from chivvying the boy onto the sidewalk. "This way," Sarah said as she led him towards her car. "Make sure you climb in the back."

"The back?" Townsend repeated, staring at her uncertainly.

"Yeah, we don't want to get pulled over. That would end badly." Sarah set the duffel down onto the empty seat and shoved the firearm into the footwell. She had to fiddle with the weapon for a minute before the butt would brace itself against the backrest. Once she was satisfied it wouldn't fall over while she was driving, she climbed behind the wheel. Sarah buckled up and reminded Townsend to do the same. It was only as she was adjusting her mirrors that a paranoid thought crawled inside her brain. "...Get out for a sec; I need to check something."

Townsend silently complied. Sarah ignored the creeping discomfort of the pre-teen's gaze as she popped the hood of her car. It'd be just like that conniving bastard to hide in her fucking Subaru. Maybe, in the exhaust system, or possibly even the trunk. He wouldn't have had time to set up anything complicated; however, even cutting her brake line was more trouble than she wanted to deal with. Fortunately, her search didn't turn up any issues, and she was able to set the matter aside. Sometimes, it really was just all in her head. "False alarm," Sarah reassured him. "Looks like we're good." She slammed the hood down and ducked back into the cabin. Sarah turned the key before pulling away from the curb.

Traffic was dead as they cut through Allston and Aberdeen. All along Coolidge Street, many of the city's residents had either hidden themselves away or were shaking the windows with the punishing beat of their stereo systems. There was a real sense that the end was nigh. While it wasn't quite visible in the cold light of day, once the moon rose, you couldn't go half a block without stumbling across a candle-lit vigil or the drunken participants of a kegger. It got so bad that Sarah found herself laying on the horn more than she kept her hand off of it. When two teens climbed out of a second-story window and sprinted into the road, she actually pulled over so she could scream at them face to face. "Watch where you're going!" she hollered as her heart climbed into her throat. "Don't you know you're going to get your dumb asses hit?!"

The kids shrieked and jumped back onto the sidewalk. They only stayed there for a moment, though, before dashing off across the asphalt. The scent of licorice and pond scum invaded Sarah's nose as their interfaces burned neon blue. "Idiots," she grumbled while a subtle tremor returned to her fingers. "Didn't they listen during DARE?"

The first hit was always free. More to the point, magic was a marathon, not a sprint. When the only shortcuts were the kind that would put you in the ground, Sarah thought she could predict the Light's plan. In a few days' time, the Network would begin advertising its bounties to every jackoff, who wanted to be a hero. Then, once it'd given them a taste of the good life, it'd start throwing in more dire targets - beasts from the seeds and the like. By the time they met the adherents of the Sea, violence would be a matter of course.

Sarah threw up in her mouth. The acidic burn lingered beside her tendrils. "I need to put some music on. Do you have a preference?" When Townsend didn't reply, Sarah simply flicked through her presets until she found a station that could take her mind off the looming body count. She settled on a local icon called WZLX, which had been blasting the same Pink Floyd tracks since the band was this 'hot new thing.' Sadly, they were currently jamming through the outro of "Learning to Fly" and soon returned to the usual disc jockeys.

This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

"That was David Gilmour with a few words of wisdom from the eighties. Next up, we'll be continuing tonight's blast from the past with Eurythmics and "Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)." Before we get to that, though, the station manager is telling me to pass you over to Jules, who has an update on the warnings in effect."

"Thanks, Tim. This is day seventeen since our visitation from the outer limits, and it's the fifth since President Mason has declared a national state of emergency. Right now, Mayor Su is encouraging everyone to stay off the streets, between the hours of eight and five, and the Secretary of Health and Human Services has issued an advisory, warning people to minimize their exposure to our guest. While no wide-spread symptoms are presently being reported, anyone who's experiencing an unusual medical complication should contact the WHO's liaison using the number at the top of our website."

Sarah frowned, suddenly reminded of their current straits. She tried switching to WROR, but they must have been coordinating the announcement. "...where a full list of school closures and cancellations can be found. Meanwhile, Captain Gladhand would like to remind everyone that all available officers are looking into the thefts that were committed during last night's curfew. To quote the man himself, 'The law is not suspended when the lights go off. Justice will be served during these difficult times.' We here at WROR will, of course, wish him the best of luck as we hold Boston's victims in our thoughts and prayers."

Sarah heard Townsend shift in his seat. The leather upholstery creaked as he leaned away from the speaker. "Maybe the radio was a bad idea," she confessed.

"No," Townsend told her. "L-leave it on."

Sarah studied the youth in her rearview mirror. His eyes were watery, and his voice thick, but there was an edge of anger to his insistence, which convinced her to comply. At the end of the day, she could respect a good grudge. Some people might say that Townsend was too young to harbor such feelings; however, Sarah wasn't one of them. She had seen her first corpse before she'd finished turning two. Once you added in the half-dozen she'd help create during training, it left her with a fairly warped opinion on the matter.

The maudlin parasite peered through the dusty glass of the driver-side window. In the distance, one of the towering skyscrapers was studded with flickering lights as four of its housing units burned. Tomorrow morning, the news would either describe the event as a terrible conflagration, or a shocking tragedy, depending on how many people had died. Sarah had trouble summoning up the same level of dismay, though. The chaos was simply too normal to be appalling. Instead, the world was beginning to fall in line with her lived experience, and the insight bred only disgust.

She squashed the snarl slowly twisting her lips. Sarah pulled off the interstate and into the neighboring town of Westborough, where Kennedy had put down roots. His townhouse should only be another five minutes away. It had been a few months since she'd bothered to visit in person, but she'd made sure to memorize the route in case she didn't have the luxury of fiddling with a map.

"Sometimes paranoia pays off," Sarah jeered scornfully as she drove her car up his freshly paved driveway. Kennedy's van was currently hogging most of the strip, so she scooted onto the grass in case his Caddy needed to squeeze past. This had the side-effect of leaving a crushed divot at the edge of his close-cut lawn. Sarah suspected a normal visitor would have felt bad about the damage, yet the faux pas seemed like small potatoes when she compared it to everything she'd been forced to endure. Besides, maybe Kennedy deserved to see some trouble land in his proverbial lap. It was only fair after the position he'd put them all in.

Sarah's anger simmered beneath the surface as she parked next to a meandering, concrete sidewalk. The path had once been comprised of light-grey cobblestones, with lilacs planted along the border; however, it had become too hard for Kennedy's wheelchair to navigate, following his wife's divorce. So much so, that a contractor had allegedly been hired to make the porch more handicap accessible. At the time, Sarah had thought the tale to simply be mean-spirited gossip. Now, she wondered if there might have been some truth to the rumor, given the limestone sitting next to his garage.

Townsend quietly trailed behind her until they reached the white-washed veranda. When they drew close, the boy's mien grew slightly odd. In some ways this was the first time he'd been here in person, and there was a subtle timidity to his footsteps, which Sarah thought she could relate to. The blonde rang the buzzer. A three-tone chime echoed through the building behind its clear, glass glazing. A minute passed before Kennedy managed to pull himself out of the basement. When he finally wedged the door open with the side of his chair, Sarah could see Blythe hovering by the stairs, her flyaway bangs bouncing above her wrinkled nose. "Hey," Sarah greeted him while her gaze panned across the hall. "Anyone beat us here?"

Kennedy scowled at her with the beginning of a begrudging frown. "Is that really what you want to say to me, right now?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'm just a little paranoid after nearly getting shot in the face!" Sarah glared at him and lingered by the bottom step. "...Well?" she asked, once a couple of seconds had passed. "Is Mannly around or not?"

"No, Mannly is not around. Neither is Barkley or Rogers. Now, are you going to come in, or do you want to pitch a tent on my porch?" Kennedy looked like he was a hairsbreadth from slamming the door in her face. His fingers had already begun to slip between the spokes of his wheelchair while he ground his palms against the rubber.

Sarah sniffed primly and tried to saunter past. The moment was ruined when she bumped into the whicker bench, resting at the top of the steps. "You know, a little sympathy wouldn't be amiss," she grumbled as she caught herself upon its stiff armrest.

Kennedy had to take a deep breath before he could trust himself to respond. Sarah watched him bite back the top three comments sitting on the tip of his tongue. "And you have it," he told her, the admission much more muted than the accusations he'd have leveled in its place. He grabbed her by the shoulder when Sarah tried to blow him off. "You do have it. I nearly slipped a disc when you told me what had happened. I was worried we'd have to carry you out packed up in a cardboard box."

"But?" Sarah asked him, her head canted to the side.

"No but. No prevarication. I'm glad that wasn't the case."

Sarah clicked her tongue. She stared at a swathe of drywall, where a missing picture frame had prevented the paint from being bleached by time and the sun. "Well... thanks, I guess. Things were touch and go for a bit."

Blythe shifted at the blonde's candor and accidentally rested her weight upon one of the more weather-worn floorboards. The plank let out a low groan. The sound reminded the two of their unintended audience, and Kennedy disguised his growing embarrassment by focusing on Sarah's tagalong. "Hmm, speaking of touch and go situations, I guess that would make you Nickolas. Still holding up alright?"

Townsend rolled his shoulders in a weak shrug. Kennedy wasn't happy to spot the lingering diffidence. "I see. You know, my son has an Xbox for whenever he spends the weekend here. If you want to take your mind off things, I don't think he'd begrudge you playing with it."

Townsend ducked his head. "No thanks," he replied. "I'd rather wait with everyone else." The words were insistent even as he stumbled over their inflection. Then, softer, he muttered, "...It's not like I wasn't around for the rest of it."

Whether he was referring to their sporadic meetings or his parents' murder was hard to say. Especially, since Kennedy was unwilling to press him on the specifics. The bald warspawn swallowed. He swept his wheelchair to the side. "I suppose that's fair. We were kind of in the middle of something, but if you don't mind putting it off...?" He glanced over his shoulder and saw Blythe shaking her head. "Then, I guess..." He trailed off. The grimace on the teen's face suggested her gesture had been born from dismay rather than accommodation.

"Not to be a Karen," she called out, "but I was here first. It sucks that things popped off at Sarah's place, but how long do you expect me to wait? Ten minutes? A few days? You told me we'd work on this, Jason."

"And we will," Kennedy agreed placidly. "But you know my opinion on the matter."

"Shooting my father isn't acceptable. If everyone else gets to have a family, then I want one too. Besides, I thought we were trying to move away from the shit we learned on Deravan, not crawl up its metaphorical ass." Blythe crossed her arms in front of her chest and pressed her polyester crop-top flat against her stomach. The better half of a six-pack strained against the tight fabric.

Sarah tamped down on the flash of jealousy it elicited. "Maybe ixnay on the parentsae, Blythe, or were you not paying attention?"

The teen scowled at the warning. "Why, because I might hurt Townsend's wittle feelings? Piss off - if I abandoned my host, he'd be older than I am."

"Yeah," Sarah agreed mockingly. "By like a year."

Blythe rolled her eyes. "Pick a lane, bitch: am I supposed to be more mature than him or less? Better, yet - let's ask Kennedy - I think he has some opinions on the topic."

Kennedy looked like he'd prefer to chew nails. In fact, it was only long habit that convinced him to intercede. "Let's all just calm down for a moment. Sarah, right or not, getting into an argument with a girl half your age isn't impressive. And Fiona, Sarah did nearly die an hour ago, so maybe ease up on her a bit. Let's not tear into each other when we all want the same thing."

The teen huffed and checked the display on her phone. "Fine, I need to stretch my legs, anyway. You can settle..." Blythe eyed the older parasite. "Whatever this is in the meantime. When I get back, though, you're giving me a real answer. I've gone out on a limb for you, and I expect you to return the favor."

Kennedy sucked on his teeth while a trickle of sweat beaded along his forehead. "Fine, but I'm not sure there's any more advice I can give you." He held up his hand before Blythe could open her mouth. "Nevertheless, we'll discuss it," he agreed as she slowly settled down. "Maybe there's a solution we've overlooked. Alright?"

"Yeah," the Blythe concluded. "Alright."

Kennedy kept his composure until she'd left the room, then he closed his eyes and silently counted to ten. Sarah knew because she could see his Adam's apple bob with each subvocal invocation. "Well, that was..."

Kennedy held up his finger and mutely cut her off. "Don't even start. You're half the reason why my skull feels like it's going to split in two." When he was certain that Sarah wasn't inclined to continue needling him, he used the digit to rub his furrowed brow. "...Fuck. This really isn't what I wanted to do today."

Sarah couldn't stop herself from sarcastically snapping back. "Yeah? And what about the rest of us? How exactly did you expect things to play out after making your bombastic stand?"

"Not like this! I was hoping everyone could see a losing proposition when it was staring them in the face!"

Kenedy slammed his palm against the armrest of his wheelchair. When the steel let loose an indignant squeak, he flinched away from the frame and made sure he hadn't damaged his ride. "...Maybe I should have, though," he admitted wearily once he was satisfied nothing was broken. "Perhaps I should have guessed that the Fourth Wave would see our insertion as a zero-sum game. They're used to winners and losers."

"Does that make me a winner or a loser?" Townsend's question caught the tired warspawn off-guard. "I mean, I'm here and the snake's not, so obviously I should be ahead, but it really doesn't feel that way. It feels a lot more like the opposite."

Kennedy hesitated and then reached out to grasp the boy's shoulder. "That's because they're wrong. Oftentimes in war both parties lose. Especially, when things turn ugly, and the knives come out. It doesn't have to be that way - we don't have to act like animals - but it's hard to be kind through the pain. I can't imagine it was easy to trust Sarah after learning about where she comes from."

Townsend surprised them by slowly shaking his head.

"No?" Kennedy pressed, recalling his mistake with Blythe.

"No," the boy confirmed. He fell silent then, clearly stewing over whether he should say anything else. Finally, after digging his shoe into Kennedy's welcome mat, he offered an explanation even Hayes would have found unduly cynical. "...I'm not the one she wants."

"Ah," Kennedy mused before examining the parasite in question. "No, you really aren't. Does that mean you have no objection to staying here for a couple of days? I know you might be used to living on your own, but I'd definitely feel better if there was someone around to take care of you." The boy's chary gaze cut to the person who'd rescued him. "Somebody else," Kennedy grinned. "Sarah has a few things to finish up."

"You mean she's going to kill the snake," Townsend corrected stubbornly.

Kennedy's expression turned wry. "If I remember right, you were supposed to cover your ears for that part."

"I did," the boy groused. "She was just really loud."

Kennedy's exasperation shifted targets. "Yes, she was, wasn't she. Still, that's not the sort of thing you should say. It's..."

"Liable to get her in trouble?" Townsend offered with a far too innocent chirp.

"Abhorrent," Kennedy chided him, his tone firm. "It's not the sort of thing that good people do. It's also why I was hoping you'd stick around. You've already had enough bad role models in your life. You don't need another one."

Sarah tried not to get upset at the implication. "You're all heart, Kennedy."

The stocky parasite pursed his lips. "You know it's true. Doubly so when you're dead set on getting yourself killed. I'm not going to sit here and pretend otherwise to spare your fragile ego; go talk to Marcus if you want deceptive platitudes." He turned back towards the youth. "I also wouldn't be doing you a favor if I let you tag along. Your parents certainly wouldn't thank me for it."

Townsend flinched. Kennedy tried to look sympathetic. "Did you forget I knew them? We weren't close, but four years is a long time, and even casual conversations can add up. Looking back, I think our mutual acquaintance might have been trying to set me up as a 'family friend.' You know, in case he ever needed an alibi. I never liked him well enough to play along; however, I wouldn't mind filling that role for you."

The boy squirmed at the offer, caught between gratitude and discomfort. "You don't owe me anything," he whispered quietly. "You don't have to go that far."

"No," Kennedy insisted, his voice thick and heavy. "I want to, and I do. I can't help it. When I think about the war, and my own kids winding up in your shoes, I'm reminded of everything we've justified to ourselves. In the name of peace. Out of convenience. To help us get through the day. I need to believe that there will be someone standing there, who's willing to help them if the worst has the misfortune to occur."

"And if not you then who?" Sarah asked him, struggling to make light of his plea.

Kennedy shook his head, grimly certain. "My luck isn't that shit. Amanda would do it in the event I lost my nerve. Simon too. Maybe even you, though I'm certain you'd bitch and moan the whole way through. Selfish as my wish may be, there wouldn't be a point if I was the only one who could do it. And to be honest?" he continued after catching Townsend's eye. "I think I prefer it this way. Very little good comes from dying for a cause."

Townsend deflated and chewed on his bottom lip. Even though he didn't look at Sarah, she knew he was thinking about where her path might lead. "You don't understand. I need him to die. Like you need your kids to be safe, or Neal needs his body to stop hurting. He can't... I won't..." The boy closed his mouth in frustration. He took a deep breath. "I'll stay here. I don't need to do it myself, but someone has to stop him. Okay? I can't let him get away with this."

"Yeah," Sarah agreed softly. "Okay."

Kennedy twisted around in surprise. Sarah wasn't sure why he was so taken aback. If there was anyone in their bilious cabal who could empathize with the kid's motives, it'd be her. Let the others preach about tolerance and forgiveness and all those higher principles, which happened to catch their fancy. Sarah planned to murder Townsend dead. Not because she was angry, or because his existence burned like a splinter beneath her skin, but because it was like the kid had said: she needed him to die. If Sarah let this violation pass, then what would she even have left? A few weeks of hollow pantomime before the cops kicked in her door? No. Never. It wouldn't fix anything, but Townsend was going to pay for spoiling her happy ending. She'd lay his corpse at her dream's broken feet and see if that drowned the grief strangling her tears.

"I don't know how long it's going to take, but I'll make sure he dies. You have my word on it. If the Loom was here, I'd swear an oath." Sarah clenched her fists and wrestled with the dissonance imposed upon her by her birth. For the first time in their long association, she made a serious effort to differentiate between Townsend and his host. Not because it was the right thing to do, or for the others' grand ideals, but because no infiltrator could stare at her with that sense of betrayed offense. Like he'd been taught to expect more out of life and was upset about being let down. It was - to put it bluntly - a uniquely human expression, and even with twenty years of practice, Sarah still couldn't imitate it correctly. Townsend certainly wouldn't have had any luck.

"So don't worry," Sarah told him for all that she might be lying through her teeth. "I'll make sure everything works out. Okay, Nickolas?"