Abelard sighed as he stepped through the threshold to the hospital. An attendant at the desk smiled at him. They exchanged pleasantries, and he was soon down the hallway to Dia’s room. It had been weeks since she was shot, and she went into a coma. The Needaimus that would normally be used to recover her was still nowhere to be found. Rom had confirmed to him—but at this point, he didn’t need the confirmation—that video was found with a suspicious individual removing the Needaimus from the hospital. Array had stolen it right from under their noses, and all he could do was wait for the sleeping girl to wake.

“Ah, Mayor Abelard!” a doctor shouted to him from down the long hall. Abelard slid his finger between his shirt collar and neck—adjusting it so it didn’t squeeze so tightly, then turned to the man who called out to him.

“Good to see you, Doctor,” the mayor lied. He hated that he was starting to remember the faces of this particular place.

“I’m glad I caught you! We wanted to talk to you before you went into the room this time.”

“Has her condition grown worse?”

“No, no, nothing like that, it’s improved even, but not perfectly…. You see, she’s—”

Abelard didn’t wait for the man to finish. He knew where the conversation was headed and sprinted to the room. Awkward as he may have looked running, he didn’t care. With a heavy breath, the door slid open, and a green Aqueenian girl weakly turned her head.

“Hey,” she mumbled, clearly trying to sound like her peppy Beauideal persona but too weak to get it out just right.

Abelard fell to his knees and wiped some moisture from under his eyes, thinking he must have walked through some mist. “Don’t be like that,” Dia weakly said; it was impossible to tell what her tone was meant to be. From a shelf in the room, the white Needaimus, X, hopped to the floor and made its way to Abelard. A pat from the metal foot on his knee helped bring him back into the moment. Gently, he picked up the metal companion, like a feline, and walked to a chair near the bed. X sat in his lap as he scooted the seat closer.

“Are you feeling alright?” he asked.

“How long was I out?” She shifted slightly and moved her large wings. She winced and clenched her jaw, leaving them where they ended up. The staff likely didn’t know to exercise the wings like her arms and legs, and they must have been unbelievably stiff.

“Weeks,” Abelard said. Dia didn’t reply but groaned and shut her yellow eyes. “The organization you were helping were the ones who shot you. Then, they made an attempt at my life. I wouldn't be here right now if not for the Nonpareil and his friends.”

“That guy? What did I miss?”

“A lot. A lot of political debates as well. You killed King Whitlock?” Dia’s eyes opened and looked at the floor.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“For the future, for Resh. He would have gotten in the way.”

Abelard rubbed his hands through his thinning hair and shook his head. It wasn’t his first time talking to someone caught up in a group, but it hurt more coming from Dia.

“What are their goals?”

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“To save Resh.”

“Save from what?”

Dia pursed her lips, then bit on the lower one. She looked Abelard in the eyes.

“A disaster beyond what could be imagined. Jolon Whitlock would have been instrumental in causing it.”

“That is still too vague, Dia.”

The green girl’s face grew stern; Abelard wasn’t sure what she was thinking. He let out a heavy breath and switched the subject. “The Aqueenians have been demanding that you be punished. They want to bring you to Quenth for trial per conference guidelines.”

“We don’t attend the conference, though.”

“They are using your presence at the last one as Nun’s attendance. You forget your status as…. I could not argue away that point, but I have been stalling as you have been unconscious.”

Weak as she was, Dia was able to push out some concern in her tone. “You don’t intend to put me to trial!”

“I’d rather not send you to Quenth; they don’t look favorable on….” he looked at Dia’s wings, “but you killed the leader of a nation—honestly, I thought I raised you better—you will have to be punished in some way, I had hoped we could run a trial in Nun.

“For now, I will keep you being awake a secret while I try to confirm a fair trial. You need to think long and hard about whose side you are on. Now is not the time to be stubborn; some are calling for execution.”

Dia’s face grew weak, and she turned her head away from Abelard and to the ceiling.

“I’m getting sleepy. Would we be able to continue later?”

Abelard sighed and gently set X on the bed next to the green girl. He gently smoothed out some of her messy hair and patted her shoulder.

“Get some rest.”

With his last words, the mayor left the girl alone in the room. He reached for his necktie—but wasn’t wearing it—and scratched his chin. The next stop would be talking to the doctors about Dia’s condition. Abelard wasn’t looking forward to it.

***

Dia looked up at a bare ceiling and sighed. She moved a hand to her stomach and felt where she had been hit. It was an ugly scar; she couldn’t see it, but she was certain from how it felt. Swimsuits that showed her abdomen were now off the table, a waste of all the time she had spent finding the right amount of sexy.

X made its way to Dia’s side and nuzzled her chin. She smiled and patted the metal creature on its head. It curled up so that it touched her shoulder and simulated sleep. She was never sure if Needaimus slept, but they would get in a state that resembled it well enough every now and then. Gently, she poked the creature's head, but it didn’t stir.

The winged beauideal spent the next few minutes looking around a bare hospital room before the thoughts she was trying to ignore came rushing back in.

She had been betrayed by her allies and left comatose. The agreement she made covered being kicked out if she betrayed them, but Dia had not taken the whole thing seriously. Even after she plunged a blade into King Whitlock’s chest, she did not take anything seriously. Her lips turned downward, and she tried to slam a fist on the bed, but her limbs were still numb from the coma, and she had trouble moving—she settled for a violent jerk that knocked a pillow to the floor.

A trial in Quenth meant execution was on the table. And regicide meant with certainty that she would be deemed guilty. She felt her eyes grow hot, and she clamped them shut. An image of the blue princess, Fiona, invaded her mind. The one that was probably hanging off the Nonpareil’s arm like a biaskylo.

The princess was free to do what she wanted. The princess wasn’t dumped on the street for having a cursed wing. The princess didn’t have to care about anything in the world. She hated the blue princess. Fiona got to live the life that Dia only pretended to live, and as her hand closed into a fist, she wished she had plunged the blade into Fiona and not her father.

Tears began to escape the dam of her eyelids, and Dia did her best to move her hand to wipe them away. She jabbed a yellow eye with a finger before accomplishing the original goal.

“What do I do,” the green girl finally whispered. “Mom, what do I do? I don’t want to die.”

She knew the answer would never come; her mother—through adoption, but just as loving if by blood—had long passed, leaving poor mayor Abelard to raise a delinquent beauideal daughter, leaving the green girl longing for someone to listen to, leaving a Needaimus that could make her the best at anything, but without a clear understanding of what to be best at.

Dia tried to sit up; she had wings, she could fly, but her body was still too weak. She was trapped, with her helpers locked in positions they couldn’t escape, and no one outside who could intercede. The green beauideal pressed her body into the bed and forced out a laugh.

“I got myself into this mess; I have no one to blame.” She cried until she fell asleep.