c'est la vie, c'est...
 
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c'est la vie, c'est la mort

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Mira
 Mira
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Waylander:

In the grand scheme of things, explosions were nothing out of the ordinary. Worlds came and went with a bang: it was an explosion that ushered in the universe at the dawn of time, if great minds were to be believed. It had been a series of explosions that had rocked the planet nearly a year ago and caused the mass almost-extinction of mankind, and it was a series of similar explosions that rocked the warehouse that morning and woke the man called Waylander.

There was no real transition between sleep and waking—one minute he was lying down, the next he was lunging upward, fully alert. Well, maybe not fully. He didn't remember falling asleep the night previous, and for a disoriented moment he looked about himself, as if expecting to find another there with him. The only evidence that the man may not have spent the night entirely alone was a disturbance in one of the quilts: a pond ripple of wrinkles where another body had sat, as well as an open (but untouched) bottle of water. Whatever last night's circumstances, he was on his own now—save for the rifle resting beside him—and another explosion sent him scurrying to his feet and yanking the canvas curtain aside.

Down below, others had been roused, and the alertest among them were already sprinting for their weapons. Waylander, leader of the South Cardinals and resident of the lighting fixture department at Home Depot, slung his rifle across his back and sailed down the ladder of his shelving unit without the use of rungs. He hit the ground running.

"Stations!" A voice gentle in conversation projected itself all the way to opposite ends of the warehouse and rebounded back, as loud as the booming outside. In the pandemonium, his eyes sought the side exit to the store's garden department, but if there was no time for anything, there was certainly no time to locate his second-in-command. Joanna could take care of herself, anyway, and all the others she crossed paths with... whether they happened to be with the regiment or not.

"Commander, we've got company!" someone shouted as Waylander waded through the sea of bodies towards the front. Dodger, his best scout, drew abreast of him; the other's rifle was shaking in his hands, but Waylander noted the safety was still on. While their group had been no stranger to raiding parties these past few months, the explosions had everyone rattled—they were too much like the ones that had ended the world eleven months back, ending all of their lives as they knew them. Waylander thought he would never find himself thanking God for grenades and grenades only... then again, there were a lot of things the man had never thought he'd find himself doing. Commanding a motley crew of forty-some survivors was one of them.

 

Joanna:

There was no sleeping, not anymore, and the raucous sounds that assaulted her ears only awoke her from a false slumber. Her eyes, a sharp crystalline blue, snapped open immediately, and with speeds no human could replicate Joanna was out of her bed and pulling shoes unnecessarily onto her feet. A rifle followed suit just as quickly and the woman charged forward, entirely without back up and unperturbed by the fact. The sound of the explosion carried her at a pace far too quick for even her long, lithe legs, but without witness she found it hard to restrain herself to normal speeds. Investigation of the explosion’s cause was temporarily more important, and when she found the problem at hand ( several men launching grenades at what functioned as their community home), she considered solving it herself before anyone could see, but the harsh cries of her companions drew her back to join them. There was risks even she could not take, not when she had such an important purpose for keeping her cover.

A bullet cracked overhead and she flinched down only for the benefit of the others, turning only briefly to see the rapidly approaching reinforcements. Raiders were not uncommon, but the ones particularly well armed were especially annoying. Their bullets couldn’t do much to harm her, but that didn’t mean they didn’t sting. She weaved through the sea of approaching bodies and familiar faces, who in respect formed empty space around her as her gaze sought desperately one single man. Keen eyes alerted her to his presence momentarily, and she need not even slow her steps until she caught pace along side of him with a natural sort of ease. She fell in perfectly synched step with him as though designed for place at his side.

“They’ve got some kind of improvised grenade launchers. Easily the most heavily armed group we’ve seen in a while,” Her words were not cheerful nor anything but painfully blunt, stating the truth in the most unbiased way possible. The way she spoke only seemed to emphasize this, voice remaining perfectly composed despite the way it pitched up to be heard over the shouts and open fire. There was another sharp crack of ammunition spray nearby and they were forced to duck behind artificial cover, placed in the well worn battlefield specifically for that reason.

Her rifle had already been removed from her shoulder and was held firmly in her grasp. Joanna popped up only long enough to take the shot, and there was the sharp cry of agony that followed a millisecond later to signify her success. Tucked momentarily behind the barrier, she turned to Waylander and with a wry sort of grin remarked, “Good morning. Sleep well?,”

His response would be mostly lost under the sounds of intense battle. Despite the more advanced weapons, the South Cardinals were pressing back with surprising skill. Their numbers were greater and they knew the environment well, most of those on her side pressed tight against strategically placed barriers. There was only one problem, that being the few men armed with grenade launchers. The men were too far away for an accurate shot, even with her vision, but allowing them to continue further no longer remained an option.

Joanna momentarily considered informing Waylander of her intentions, but knew within that same instant he would just simply run after her despite any of her protests. The woman met his eyes only briefly instead, and hoped hesitation would be enough to make him too late to follow. She leapt up suddenly from her crouched position and took off at a dead sprint for a closer barrier to take the shot.

 

Waylander:

She appeared, as always, in an instant, not so much arriving as materializing out of thin air. While Joanna's almost unearthly punctuality seemed to spook some people, Waylander was so used to it by now he would have been alarmed to turn his head and not find her flanking his left side. But there she was, as expected: dark hair rumpled from sleep, as was his own, but eyes glowing with an uncanny clarity that the rest of them had yet to summon to the forefront. Joanna delivered her report and Dodger fell back, weaving from group to group to spread the woman's intel. Waylander could only muster a grunt to signify that he understood before they were being sprayed by bullets, and the time for conversation was at an end.

The two of them ran, hunching to minimize surface area, and dove up against an available bunker. They were two of the first to arrive, but more would soon follow: the South Cardinals may have been a ragtag group, but what they lacked in experience they made up for in preparedness and gumption. Waylander pulled an extra round from his pocket and passed it to her wordlessly. Everyone had been caught in their pajamas that morning—fortunately, his didn't lack pockets. Generally, he made a habit of sleeping in his jacket; mostly because it got cold in his loft at night, and he had long ago volunteered the majority of his blankets to the other families. Joanna, on the other hand, didn't appear to feel the cold as keenly as the rest of them... and while shorts and a shirt were practical, and, he may as well face it—cute—odds were she'd left any spare ammunition in her "other pants".

Waylander did find time to wince briefly at her remark, however. He hadn't meant to fall asleep last night. He never did. When Joanna stole into the warehouse to visit him past curfew—and really, it was becoming a nightly ritual, their conversations—well, it'd become one of the few things he found he looked forward to. No matter how often they spoke, they never seemed to run out of topics (or in Joanna's case, interesting facts. The girl was a walking encyclopedia of information, especially on historic topics). Sometimes, they didn't speak at all; they would spend the evening staring off into the chandelier constellation that made up Waylander's front yard, or out past the barricade, in the rare instances that it was he who visited her. Sometimes, there was just more to be communicated through silence. Through base companionship.

Everyone felt that way, surely.

But it embarrassed him more than a little that he was always the first to nod off. Joanna didn't seem to mind it, but it was something he privately agonized over. Did she not trust him enough to fall asleep in his presence? That was all right, if so... still, just once he thought he might like to wake to find her there. Just once, he'd like to be the last one conscious, the one to rearrange her until she was warm and comfortable and safe, as she had rearranged him so many times. Because despite the fact that Waylander was currently wearing a jacket, he definitely didn't remember falling asleep in one.

All thoughts of the girl's safety flew from his mind when she turned that look on him, though. He only had a chance to widen his eyes in response before she took off for the next barricade several yards ahead. The man cursed below her breath and followed after, as they had both known he would. His personal behavioral patterns were as predictable as hers weren't.

He slid in beside her about a half second later, pressing his back up against the sandbags they'd erected earlier that week. It was a new addition, this barricade—he'd been hesitant to allow its creation because of the possibility of bringing its occupants so close to enemy fire, but that was precisely why Joanna had pushed for it. Today would be its trial run.

"I'd sleep better knowing you're the sort of person who doesn't run right into the thick of things," he mentioned as he reloaded his weapon. "You're going to need another pair of eyes for this shot."

Once his rifle had been secured, Waylander yanked the pair of binoculars from up around his neck and turned back to the frontline, easing his head up over just enough to allow him a brief visual. Another spray of bullets had him ducking back down again, but he locked eyes with Joanna calmly despite the perspiration beading his brow.

"Launcher, two o'clock."

 

Joanna:

There was much the forty eight members of South Cardinal did not understand about the mysterious Joanna, but the same could be said in reverse. While they found her skill to appear and disappear so unobtrusively strange, she judged their ability to take any of her many interactions with Waylander as indisputable truth the two were secretly together similarly. There were some things about humans Joanna feared she would never properly understand. She did her best to feign normalcy and had been mostly successful in her efforts, but on occasion she grew forgetful. Like when she forgot the average soldier required ammunition to be truly dangerous, while she was lethal with nothing more than her own hands and teeth.

He passed the rounds to her silently, and she tipped her head shortly in thanks. He seemed to realize exactly what she’d forgotten, and as usual, had her back. The tight fitting shorts she wore had no pockets for ammunition and were mostly impractical in the chilly weather. But she was numb to all weather and climate, to anything but the feel of sunlight on her skin. Her conscience made taking weather appropriate clothes from those who truly needed them impossible. She tucked the block of rounds into the tight fitting waist band of her pants, missing the flinch that overtook his features as she spoke of sleep.

Her late night visits might’ve fueled more than a few unsavory rumors, but Joanna was mostly unconcerned. As long as such talk did not affect Waylander’s ability to lead, she found herself entirely unperturbed to what the more creative minds of the South Cardinals could think up. Their visits had started out as time to simply discuss battle plans or whatever had been bothering the group at the time, but as the tradition progressed further into simple habit, their conversations became more casual. Typically she remembered to dismiss herself before he grew too tired, but on nights like the last she had forgotten his need to sleep and had only remembered after he had fallen silent, slumped over on his bed. A combination of guilt and her strange, compulsive desire to protect the man had led her to put him in the jacket he currently wore. Whether he realized this or not she did not have time to consider, not as another violent explosion shook the area.

The men armed with grenade launchers needed to be taken out, she could not afford to wait any longer. She met his eyes only briefly before leaping up with an impulsiveness in battlefield that was a likely result of her own near immortality. She had hoped in vain that the quickness she had moved would have been enough to stun him properly into remaining where he was, but she wasn’t too particularly surprised when he clambered to his feet behind her. The narrowly dodged a spray of bullets before managing to slide into place behind the make shift barrier. She remained with her back pressed tight against the sand bags as he crept up, announcing the grenade launchers position as he quickly sank back down.

She did not need to signal her understanding, the way she gripped her rifle and twisted for a proper shot was proof enough. Her aim had been on target and took one of the heavily equipped men out, but not before a grenade rocketed forward with the clear destination of their barrier. It took Joanna mere milliseconds to process what to do, and unflinchingly the woman shot the grenade in mid air. The explosion that resulted shot shrapnel into their direction, but disaster had mostly been avoided. Or so she had thought. With her heightened reflexes she had been quick enough to duck back down, but it seemed Waylander had not. So often she forgot the frailty of humans, and she cursed herself for it once more. Twisting to face him, she was confronted by the thick trails of blood that dripped down his face and arm. Her blue eyes suddenly alighted with indecipherable emotion.

What troubled her more beyond his flesh wounds, was that her first thought had not been one of concern. It had been one of hunger, of urge to take his marred face in her hands and taste the blood that beaded tantalizingly down from his split lip. Her lips parted, suddenly dry from temptation as her mouth grew moist with saliva. She had not fed in weeks due to the lack of activity, and her self-control was being sorely tested. However the pain in his eyes snapped her suddenly from her own internal struggle, her own strife compartmentalized. Joanna took his face in her hands delicately for fear of harming him further. She inspected the damage, twisting his chin gingerly this way and that with detached ease.

She was reassured by the fact his cuts were nothing that couldn’t be healed with proper medical care. Her sharp gaze found no major damage on his face despite the blood that suggested otherwise. She was oblivious to how her behavior and sudden proximity might’ve affected him, her gaze calculating as she considered. The shrapnel had dug into his face but he seemed mostly unaffected. As it turned out, most of the metal had imbedded itself into his arm as he’d thrown it up for protection, but there was little she could do about that now. The fact his condition was stable provided only a slight relief. If she had acted only a second faster, been only a slight more diligent in her protection the injury could have been avoided in its entirety. She released his face abruptly and glanced up, peeking up over the barrier momentarily. Only a few more men armed with grenade launchers remained, and when she ducked back down it was with utmost seriousness. Her gaze caught not on the blood staining his features, but the dark of his eyes with a piercing urgency.

“If you think you can make it, head back to the farthest barrier. Otherwise stay here, and I’ll be back once I take care of the men with grenade launchers.” Her instructions were spoken with the crispness of a veteran soldier, a striking lack of room for argument in her otherwise monotonous voice. She hesitated, and then remarked again in after thought.

“Try not to be a hero, you’re not as bullet proof as we all like to think,” The woman’s lips stretched thinly in what might have been a smile, a rarity he was mostly afforded in her efforts to have him listen to reason. There was a slight note of something, perhaps concern, in her voice hidden behind the cool, composed way she spoke. While she remained merely his second in command, it was quite obvious she expected him to take her demands seriously. She met his eyes for a moment longer, unwilling to leave him but knowing it was a necessary for the success of the group. Only a few terse seconds later and the woman was on her feet, rushing past the barrier with the sound of bullets cracking sharply in the air.

 

Waylander:

Nothing ever slowed down, not in Waylander's world. Time never inched forward at a crawl on the battlefield; bullets never flew any slower; no fallen comrades ever had a chance to breath last breathes or imprint on others with their parting words, they just blinked out. One moment Joanna would be by his side, the next she would be gone, with him left helpless and hoping he would see her alive again once the dust cleared.

And he had no say in any of it.

But he had a say now. Launcher, two o'clock. In his peripheral, he saw Joanna pull back and take aim, as if time slowed for her and her alone; Waylander rose to cover her, risking exposure only for what he perceived to be an instant, and then it was over—the man firing on them was dead—but then it wasn't over. The launcher belched a last grenade as the raider went tumbling backward with a bullet through his brain, and it was headed straight for them. Joanna swung around immediately and fired off another shot, this one exploding the live grenade above their heads; shrapnel rained down around them as the two ducked for cover once more. Now Waylander was cringing for more than just the sake of another close call.

He had been hit. What they said was true in one regard, at least—in the arms of adrenaline, he barely felt any pain—but he could feel that he was wounded all the same, and he could see it in Joanna's eyes...

Then again, he didn't know what exactly it was he saw in Joanna's eyes. Fear? Pain? Fury? It was enough to make him want to shrink from the person who now carried the distinction of being his oldest living friend, but all it took was the touch of her too-cool hands and Waylander was leaning forward instead.

Maybe time did finally slow down for him then, just a little. Joanna tilted his head to assess the damage, and he complied; an urgent voice in the back of his head was screaming that this moment had to end, now, before it got them both killed, but in Joanna's hands he was a defeated man. He could only hope she found it in her to release him long enough to finish the job he'd been elected to do.

And she did, of course. Waylander fell back heavily against the barrier, momentarily confused by his body's unwillingness to respond more promptly to his commands, and Joanna took advantage of his disorientation to assume control. He watched through a red lens of blood as the girl stooped to converse with him quickly—he couldn't keep up with her—why must she always move so fast? Maybe he was getting old.

"Were you hit?" he tried to interject, but he could see for himself that she wasn't. Shrapnel wounds didn't tend to hide themselves. "You aren't bulletproof, either—Joanna!" The ghost of a smile, and the girl was gone. Waylander cursed, something he only ever did when he was alone, and attempted to reload his rifle. What normally would have been a five-second job dragged on into minutes when his wounded arm proved useless in the task, and by the time he'd risen to rejoin the battle it had all but ended; the surviving raiders were in the process of retreating. Waylander retired his rifle, not having the same heart to pick any of them off as some of his more vengeful soldiers. Instead, he moved to tend to the wounded.

There were three dead; nine injured in total. A fourth of their numbers out of commission. Waylander tried not to let the strain show on his face as he worked swiftly to get everyone back inside... they could assess the damage to the barricade later, once things had quieted... he was in the process of dragging a concussed teenager back to base and barking orders when a sudden hitch in his stride caused them both to go down. He felt the kid being lifted away from him as he was pulled to his feet, the world suddenly spinning wildly around him.

"Get the commander to the infirmary!"

Maybe some shrapnel wounds hid themselves, after all.

 

Joanna:

Joanna’s abrupt departure was marked only by a short laugh consumed by the sound of enemy fire. Bulletproof, indeed.

She moved faster than she would have typically allowed herself in the presence of humans, but the only one close enough to register the velocity at which she moved had little time to dwell on it. There was a sharp crack of ammunition, and a bullet through the jugular. She continued taking her shots, picking off the remaining launchers with ease from her new vantage. With the carnage came the smell of freshly spilt blood, and it took Joanna more than a moment to gather her bearings. It had been far too long since she had last fed.

Her limits were sorely tested as she eyed the corpse before her. It would only take a moment, the burning in her throat assured her, and her fangs slid out reflexively even as her mind protested. It was unwise, but perhaps necessary, especially if she were to return to Waylander’s side in his current state. Waylander. Her fangs flicked back in with purpose at the thought of her injured comrade, knowing full well she could not be delayed. But it seemed she would be, as a raider had taken advantage of her momentary lapse in attention.

She was aware of the knife as it pierced violently through her stomach, leading every fibre of her being to suddenly alight with pain. Vocally, she only gasped (this wasn’t her first stabbing unfortunately, but they ranked a little worse than being shot), In comparison, the reaction of the man who stabbed was considerably more dramatic. She removed the knife gingerly from her abdomen, and the skin around it healed within the moment. He swore, and confusion would have registered plainly on his face had she allowed it, but he fell dead before he had the chance to even knit his brow. Shaking off the unpleasantness of being stabbed with the same nonchalance one might dust off their shoulder with, Joanna made quick work of returning to the group once the battle had ended. After a brief visual inspection, she was confident in that the price of victory had not been too steep.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Waylander fall to his knees, and abruptly she was not so sure. Her light jog quickened to a sprint, though men had already hefted their commander to his feet by the time she reached them. “Take the boy, “She delegated instead to the man on the right, taking his position at Waylander’s side. His arm slid easily around her shoulders, too easily she thought with concern. Her thoughts became preoccupied by how pliant Waylander felt against her, and the smell of his blood remained entirely disregarded.

The walk to the infirmary had never felt so long as it did then. But relief did not come even when Waylander was settled into a cot. She dismissed the other man to help the others with injuries, as surely the few nurses they had would be preoccupied. Frowning, though unaware of it, the dark haired girl began the tedious work of removing the shrapnel and cleaning wounds and dried blood, forcefully biting her tongue through the entirety of it. There was a lot of blood, but as the other freckle-face nurse had assured her after pausing in tending to a rather moody red haired man, he would be okay.

The pain medicine she gave Waylander, and momentarily considered lacing with her own blood, knocked him out rather successfully. However, as the infirmary gradually emptied and time marched tragically on, Joanna remained at his side. Her need for food was perhaps unwisely disregarded, but the stinging ache in her throat seemed so unimportant when compared to the sudden pallor of Waylander’s skin.

He awoke slowly, and she remarked “Nice of you to join us,” in response, her eyes brightening imperceptibly.

 

Waylander:

It wasn't a nice feeling, being there one moment and gone the next. One minute he was pulling a bleeding kid to safety, and the next thing Waylander knew he was waking up in the infirmary—the state of the survivor's camp in question, the kid's whereabouts unknown. Had they been attacked again while he was out? Any one of a number of possibilities flew through Waylander's brain, none of them good, but as he made to rise and resume command he found himself falling back into the makeshift bed, head spinning.

Powerful forces were at work here: morphine, he thought, and in the next instant the man was wrenching the tube from his arm and flinging it as far from him as possible. Whoever was sitting beside him had to understand... understand that he didn't want any of it wasted on him... it needed to be conserved for emergencies. He couldn't lead without a clear head, but the damage was already done. Waylander eased back into his pillow, suddenly woozy, as the phantom at his bedside rose to hover over him. Squinting, the man raised a hand to cup the curve of his nurse's face. Skin like satin, cool like frost.

Joanna sat back down, and Waylander relaxed a little. But not much.

"Where is he?" he croaked, referring to the soldier he had misplaced. "Are we under attack?"

In repose she was out of his reach, so his hand found her knee instead and gave a squeeze of desperation. He needed to maintain some sort of connection to her, to keep himself grounded... but the sudden thought of Joanna slipping away from him threw Waylander back out onto the battlefield, and back into the moment when he had watched her disappear into the cloud of dust kicked up by the raiders and their weapons.

Suddenly, perhaps for the first time, he saw everything clearly. The unbearable halo of bright light overhead shrank as his vision returned to him, and he beheld Joanna's face, eyes bright as if she'd been... crying? No, that wasn't the Joanna he knew. Past the unearthly color of her eyes, he could never tell what she was thinking. He doubted the same could be said for him. She could probably decipher his every thought, said or unsaid... he could only hope that they were cycling too rapidly at present for her to get a clear read. He certainly couldn't. It was like watching two characters in a movie—he didn't feel in control at all anymore. Just a helpless spectator awaiting the next move of what had once been a predictable male lead.

This time, Waylander did manage to rise, using Joanna's knee for support; it was thin enough he imagined the effort he exerted might snap it, but it remained as strong as a steel girder beneath him. She was always there to support him... sometimes to the exclusion of all else.

But where was he, when she needed him? Where was he? Doped up on morphine and out of commission.

Christ, she was beautiful.

His thoughts were everywhere, fragmenting like the pieces of a detonated grenade. Thankfully, it was this metaphoric thought that distracted Waylander from the others currently clamoring for his attention.

"Nice shot," he added, rotating his shoulder with a wince.

 

Joanna:

An instant seemed so small a unit of time, so easily disregardable to one who had lived so many centuries, but it had taken only an instant for the grenade to impact. It had taken only an instant to realize what happened, taken only an instant for Waylander’s bloodied face to remind her harshly of human’s devastatingly fragile morality. Joanna dwelled on this as she stitched Waylander’s wounds with well practiced precision. She was slipping. She had reacted far too quickly, and worse, she had not even thought to protect him, a compulsion that typically came naturally.

Forgetting Waylander was human was not a common error she allowed herself, but she had never considered him anything less than her equal. Perhaps as a result, she tended to be briefly neglectful to remember her own immortality did not carry onto to those who surrounded her. She had privately thought, once or twice in moments of bitter loneliness she would not recognize as such, to turn Waylander. However, time had a way of changing even the most incorruptible, and she quite liked him the way he was, so earnestly human. Even if it made caring for him in what little capacities she was still capable so much more difficult.

As though punctuating her thoughts Waylander woke abruptly, and her seemingly nonchalant remark was ignored as he pulled the make shift IV from his arm. Joanna thought to stop him at once, but was afraid of hurting him in the process. Her hesitation showed clearly as she quickly rose, hovering over him in way that contrasted sharply to her impassive expression. For a moment she was afraid she might have to restrain him, but with a troubling weariness he settled back into his pillow. Perhaps most startling of all, was the sudden feel of a calloused cupping her cheek. Whether she was too startled by the embrace or chose consciously to linger remained without answer, as she wordlessly sat down the moment his hand drifted from the side of her face.

His voice was hoarse and rasped horribly, but it was of no surprise to her the concern that marked it so heavily was not for his own sake.

“He’s fine, left the infirmary with nothing more than a mild concussion and sprained ankle,” She informed Waylander crisply, an indiscernible pause marking her words the moment his hand took hold on her knee. “No. The raiders left running hours ago, and we managed to acquire a few grenade launchers as a result,” Her explanation was nothing short of brusque, but hopefully her intent to reassure him translated regardless. Considering the recent trend of raiders attacking more frequently, it had admittedly been one of their better, more decisively victorious battles (even though it felt like such a strange thing to admit as he remained bed ridden).

Whether intrinsically aware of her thoughts or simply thinking along similar lines, Waylander rose unsteadily from the bed with only her knee as a crutch. She mirrored his actions, rising with more certainty as he did and with the intention of forcing him back into the bed. Such intentions fell awry however, his words troubling her more than their sudden proximity. The otherwise dim lighting cast sudden, harsh relief onto the new angry scars carved into his face. Unbidden, a frown pulled the corners of her pale lips downward.

“It could have been better,” She amended not fiercely but with little room for argument, light eyes taking on a sudden darkness.

 

Waylander:

With Joanna's help, Waylander had managed to haul himself up into a sitting position; still, even this latest small feat had never felt so difficult. All his battered body wanted to do was lay down and succumb to the narcotic, to let someone else lead for a while...

But he couldn't do that to Joanna. While she was as strong as him—maybe even stronger, he suspected—they had both quietly perceived long ago that he was the one right for the role, the one that everyone wanted to fall in line behind. Whatever quality it was he embodied, it bound them all together like glue in a time when they couldn't afford to dissent and separate. They had already lost so many—whether to sickness, accidents, or attacks such as these—that all they could do was sit tight and hold out hope that the North Cardinals would return any day now with the numbers and supplies they so desperately needed.

That was one of the few talking points that he and Joanna tended to disagree on. Waylander was almost doggedly persistent in his belief that the other half of their faction was on their way back, while Joanna was more skeptical. The topic tended to increasingly dominate their conversations recently, bringing their contrasting natures to the forefront: whereas Joanna looked at their situation objectively, seeing the sick, the old, the wounded, the children incapable of pulling their own weight, and concluded that it would not be beneficial to the others' survival for them to return, Waylander had to believe that they would. Otherwise, what were they left with? A hopeless situation, a sure defeat, and as a leader he wasn't about to accept those terms.

But for now... for now, he didn't need to worry so much about it. He felt as if he was floating, as sure as the morphine floated through his veins, clouding his judgment and priorities. All he wanted to do was sit and look at Joanna. He imagined they appeared as different on the outside as they were within. He had stopped looking in the mirror months ago—what he saw only distressed him, only made him think about Joanna more. It was as if every passing day only aged him more, introduced new lines to his face, new scars to his weather-beaten body... whereas she remained as still and untouched as a stone in a river, passed over by the current of time when the rest of them couldn't help but be carried with it.

In the months he had known her Waylander had privately collected the reasons, stacking them like a wall to keep some of his more worrying thoughts of Joanna out. And it had worked, so far. So far, he had been able to maneuver around them, to work with them shoved to the far back of his brain; but now, that dam had broken. She was all he could think about. What would he have done, if she hadn't come back...? There were so many things he kept unsaid, so many things he dwelled upon privately in his loneliest hours. What was the point of keeping his silence? He couldn't even remember anymore.

There was nothing holding him back now. All of his doubts, his carefully constructed inhibitions, melted away as Joanna leaned in to check his shoulder wound. Waylander turned inward towards her, bringing their foreheads together in a clumsy, feather-light collision. They remained that way for only a fraction of an instant, but it felt like an eternity; he breathed in and closed his eyes, submitting to the connection, relishing the physical closeness he had always denied himself. Then he turned his head sideways into hers and kissed her.

His mouth brushed the corner of hers, too helpless, too deliberate, for him to have been aiming for her cheek and missed his mark. When she didn't pull away immediately, his lips finally moved to join with hers, fitting against the shape that had eluded him for so long. The kiss was too enduring to be chaste, but it was gentle; it was enough to cause the split in his lip to reopen, but Waylander was caught in a morphine dream and beyond noticing. At some point during the proceedings his hand moved to cup the curve of her neck, pushing himself up to meet her as much as he was pulling her to him. If this was a dream, he never wanted it to end.

 

Joanna:

His lips were warm when they met her own. Whatever thought she had been having before that moment was lost to the feeling of Waylander’s sudden proximity. Rationally she should have pulled away, dismissed his impulsive actions as a side effect to morphine and quietly moved along with what needed to be done. But something she could not name stopped her, and by the time his lip split it was far too late to pull away. Her hunger consumed her suddenly, deepening the kiss and shredding any chance of reasonable thought. His hand found the curve of her neck, pulling her to him as she simultaneously did the same. The resulting action had her pulled onto the poorly constructed cot, straddling him as her hands wound in his hair.

Waylander had initiated the kiss with a sort of gentleness Joanna sorely lacked in her blood lust inspired fervor; she pulled on the flesh of his lower lip as she deepened the kiss. She shifted so that her body aligned with his, and after some time her lips left his to trail slowly downward to the pulse in his neck that thrummed so enticingly. His heart beat pulsed beneath the thin flesh, beneath her lips as she kissed the area with enough force to bruise. Her fangs protracted with an audible click, and it was only then she was fully aware of the situation. She recoiled with an inhuman quickness marked by the rounding of her impossibly blue eyes.

Her seemingly limitless self control had almost slipped unnoticed through her fingers, but the consequences had she not stopped herself would have been dire. A clenching nausea that had nothing to do with her starvation rolled in her stomach at the sight of Waylander beneath her, blood on his lips and his pulse still thrumming wildly. Kissing him back had been mistake enough, but nearly feeding on him? There were no words to describe her horror, even as her expression slid back to coolly guarded within the instant. With a sudden decisiveness she leaned forward once more, taking Waylander’s face in her hands as she met his eyes intently.

“Forget that you ever woke up, that this even happened. Go back to sleep,” Her voice had taken on a strange, hypnotic quality that cast urgency into the otherwise monotonous way she spoke. When it seemed Waylander would comply she moved from the bed gently, careful not to disturb him. She stood over him a moment, arms crossed protectively across her chest (though to whose protection it was for could not be properly gauged).

She had glamoured people before, but it had never felt this dishonest, this dirty. As much as her response had been a necessary evil, essential to keeping the group together for she could only imagine how much a kiss such as that might’ve complicated things, it felt wrong. She felt wrong, increasingly more aware of her own inhumanity as she stood over the painfully human Waylander. Loneliness and drug-addled thoughts were more likely to blame than any feelings other than platonic for the kiss on his part, but she had no excuse. Dwelling on that particular train of thought would certainly be more trouble than it was worth, so she curtly shoved it aside, moving towards the door as she did so. She caught a pale-faced, startled looking woman outside the door,, and far too troubled to spend even a thought on what such an expression meant, she asked her politely to watch over Waylander. The young woman complied quickly, but awkwardly, hardly meeting her eyes. Joanna couldn’t give less of a damn about the woman’s nervousness, striding past with nettlesome thoughts that would certainly complicate the next few days.

 

Waylander:

This had to be a dream. It was only in his wildest imaginings that Joanna had ever let him close before, had ever...

But he had never imagined it like this. Maybe he hadn't been brave enough, even locked inside the privacy of his own brain, or maybe he hadn't thought either of them capable of the hunger. Starvation was a part of their lives, a necessity—sometimes, it seemed like the only thing any of them had in common. They went without, and they learned to deal with the resulting emptiness.

Or maybe they didn't. He had expected her to pull away—had prepared for it, even. Maybe he didn't know what he was doing anymore, but he was ready to deal with the consequences, ready to take responsibility as always... only now, Joanna had completely taken it out of his hands. He wasn't sure if retreat was even an option at this point, for either of them. It was strange and sensual, this dance between conflict and utter surrender. As a soldier, it didn't sit well with him—but did passion ever 'sit well' with anyone?

In his weakened state, Waylander was easily overpowered. Or maybe he was the one doing the overpowering?—it was hard to see where he ended and she began anymore, but that didn't change the fact that he was soon falling back onto the cot with Joanna in close pursuit. His head struck the pillow hard, and he saw stars; he might have had the wind knocked out of him completely had he any air left in his lungs. His hand moved up to tangle in her hair as her fingers roved through his, her teeth grazing his lower lip, laving at the blood... her movements and motivations were jumbling together, nothing made sense, but she was straddling his waist and he was on fire beneath her. Her mouth trailed down his neck and Waylander's head fell back against the pillow again, his breathing coming in increasingly unsteady hitches. His pulse beat wildly as a butterfly as her lips alighted on it. The ceiling swam in and out of focus above him as Joanna marked him; his hand was at her neck again and somehow the collar of her T-shirt had fallen down past one shoulder, but he couldn't decide if he was meant to restore it or aid in its descent...

... when all at once she was pulling away. Waylander met her eyes, his pupils dilated from more than just the drugs. His hair was mussed and his lower lip was painted red with blood, but he seemed completely unself-aware. Joanna took his face in her hands, and he closed his eyes in complete trust as she spoke. A part of him, a very small part, wanted to resist her words: he didn't want to forget. Why did he have to give this up? But he would do it, for her. Anything for her.

He was asleep before her hands slid from his face.

 

🩸

 

Several days later and the commander of the South Cardinals had made a full recovery; he could most commonly be seen striding around the exterior of the base, doling out tasks and barking orders. Well, an almost full recovery—occasionally the man could be observed holding his side after a particularly laborious activity, or rubbing at an odd spot on his neck that tended to stay covered up by his scarf. One of the nurses had taken to following doggedly along behind him, awaiting an inevitable collapse. But Waylander stayed upright, and he stayed busy.

Keeping himself occupied kept him from worrying too much about Joanna. He had caught only rare glimpses of the woman in the aftermath of the raid, and their nightly visits appeared to have been put on hold... then again, he'd been holed up in the infirmary for the better part of seventy-two hours, and his second-in-command had always famously avoided that area of the camp. Maybe it brought up bad memories. Maybe she just didn't like the smell of blood.

Still, Waylander couldn't help but feel like it was him Joanna was avoiding. He was probably overthinking it — then again, when he made eye contact with her a few days later from across the yard, she appeared to turn deliberately and sever it. Puzzled, Waylander excused himself from the expedition he was assembling and sauntered over to her.

"I'm getting a group together to go out scavenging for supplies—maybe do a little hunting, if we're lucky," he began awkwardly. Why were things suddenly so tense between them? He felt about as foolish as he had the day he'd asked his wife out on their first date. "Care to join us? No one brings down their prey better than you."

He meant it as a compliment, but it fell decidedly flat. Waylander flexed a little smile anyway, certain Joanna would forgive him.

 

Joanna:

Conveniently enough, there was little time for Joanna to dwell on what exactly had transpired between herself and Waylander. There was no lack of tasks that needed to be completed and consumed her time. The daily workings of life kept herself busy, as did tending to all of the various things that needed to be done as Waylander recovered. The only real moments she had to herself were only when she feigned sleep. It was considerably more difficult then to not think of what she had done, and even worse, what she had nearly done, but the woman managed with considerable skill.

She could avoid dwelling on it for the most part, until a glimpse of him would send her reeling. For the most part, she avoided such unnecessary angst by avoiding him, though her plan was made considerably more difficult by his insistence on being everywhere she needed to be. Her agitation was not at Waylander however, but at herself. At best, her behavior was impractical, at worst it was immature. Her guilt at nearly feeding on him was immense, without a doubt, but there was also another reason that made meeting his eyes so damned difficult. (Such reasons had much to do with the scarf wound around his neck, and more so what it concealed)

As though to sharply remind her of this, she briefly paused in overseeing the rebuilding of the barriers to catch who else’s gaze but his. She reacted impulsively, turning away, and knew immediately as the confusion crossed his face she’d made a mistake. Resisting the urge to swear aloud, Joanna instead turned back around a moment before his approach was audible. She knew him too well.

And as it seemed, Waylander could say the very same. Though she had done her best to hide it, he seemed very aware of the tension between them, and his way of speaking was not as comfortable nor familiar as usual. In fact, he sounded painfully awkward, and Joanna had to bite down a smile at his expense. Such amusement faded in the wake of his far too apt remark, and while her features remained blank her mind graphically detailed what would likely happen if she were to join them on the hunt. She could see it now, the scent of blood, human or not, waking something primal and bestial within her, a hunter slicing his hand on accident and her near starvation culminating in her ripping open the throats of comrades with her teeth.

“I’d better not,” She declined gently, her features and voice void of any emotion. “Someone has to oversee the reconstruction,” Joanna explained in further detail, eagerly seizing the opportunity to halt their eye contact in lieu of glancing over the construction in progress. Certain now her face nor gaze would give away her guilt, she asked with sudden sincerity, “How are you feeling?”

She had not been at his side during his stay at the infirmary, which wasn’t particularly too strange given her distaste for the place, but it was certainly enough to cause a ripple of gossip through the South Cardinals. Joanna and Waylander were mostly thought of as inseparable, yet she had not been at his side during most, if not all, of his recovery. But it seemed they would not have much time to make up for it, as a particularly loud member of Waylander’s group made his impatience known. Joanna forced herself to meet Waylander’s gaze, and managing a small, thin smile she simply requested of him, “Be safe. ” with more affection, even if it was hardly perceptible, than she would have typically allowed.

Waylander’s small unit left without much commotion, leaving Joanna in charge, something the South Cardinals did not necessarily approve of, but certainly knew better than to vocalize against. For the most part, things went relatively smoothly, until the feeling of something warm and wet dripping down her chin startled both Joanna and a nearby matron. “Oh dear,” The woman gasped, brown eyes widening, “You’re bleeding,”

And so she was. Pale hands, trembling hands, Joanna noted with mild surprise, reached up to brush the blood that dripped from her eyes. She knew at once what it was, a side effect of her starvation she could not ignore, but she spoke at the older woman as convincingly as possible. “I’m going to check in to the infirmary now. Tell the men I’ll be back soon, but not what‘s happened,” She spoke rather bluntly for someone bleeding from the eyes, the pale face matron thought, but woman obeyed nonetheless.

Glamouring members of the South Cardinal was not something Joanna enjoyed or approved of, but the situations she seemed to be getting in called for nothing less. One couldn’t exactly explain why he or she was bleeding from the eyes without divulging certain details, details that she would rather keep hidden. The vampire did not seek the infirmary, but instead made her way out past the clearing that surrounded them. If she was lucky, there would be a survivor or two of the raiders to pick off, and if she wasn’t…well. There was no use in thinking about that. Fate, it seemed, was for once on her side. She smelled the man before she saw him, his blood heavy in the air. She recognized from before as one of the attackers, though now it seemed he lacked a limb for his troubles.

Fever and the darkness on what remained of his limb indicated gangrene, and his malnourished state starvation. He wouldn’t last much longer, and the delirious sort of fear in his eyes indicated he knew that well. Joanna was quick, as always, biting into his throat long before he had the chance to croak out some sort of inquiry. His blood was fouled by the infection, but it would do, especially in her state. Starvation consumed her, made her sloppy, and by the time she heard the crack of footsteps behind her it was too late. She turned at once, mouth red with blood and pale skin smeared with the same vibrant hue.

Before her, stood five members of the South Cardinals, five humans who had just learned what she had tried so very hard to hide. “Let me explain,” She spoke calmly, quietly, but they flinched in fear regardless. The scout, a nervous looking boy, looked paler than even she, and explained their presence in nervous stutters, “We checked the infirmary and you weren’t there. We went looking and---”

It seemed Joanna had underestimated their concern for her, and it would be her downfall. The other members of the small party moved quickly, and far faster than she would anticipated she was seized and captured by them. She was capable of escaping, capable of killing them all, but there was no point it, not now. Her situation was at best, hopeless, and the vampire allowed herself to be dragged back to the headquarters, where she was then promptly tied up like nothing less than a beast. A larger group, but still not all of the humans who made up the South Cardinals, watched her with expectant gazes, but she provided no explanation.

After all, there was very little she could say.

 

Waylander:

He couldn't say he hadn't been expecting it. A part of him had hoped for the chance to work with Joanna, even if they wouldn't be alone; often, just pursuing a mindless (if necessary) task had a way of soothing tensions between them.

At least, it had always worked when they had butted heads in the past. But Joanna was right: somebody had to stay behind and oversee things while he was gone. He had been prepared to put another in charge, but there was no one he trusted more than her. It had really been stupid of him to even ask.

When she inquired about how he was feeling, Waylander rubbed his neck sheepishly, unintentionally drawing attention to the odd mark beneath his scarf. To him, it was just another inexplicable bruise, something he had earned in battle (even if he didn't think he necessarily deserved it). "Better now. I would have been out sooner, if they'd let me." As if Joanna would doubt for an instant the truth of his claim. "Thanks for running things. Don't know what I'd do without you."

Be dead, most likely, Waylander reminded himself. He would have probably been dead a hundred times over by now if it weren't for her. Still, it was not uncommon for him to say it—"don't know what I'd do without you". It was almost reflexive; sometimes it was an inside joke, and other times it meant more than words could say. Today, however, it felt too formal, as if they didn't know each other at all. As if they were simply a commander and his subordinate.

This sudden coldness puzzled Waylander, even as he departed with his team an hour later. True, Joanna had always been cold, but there were occasional sunbursts of unexpected warmth to temper her frost... and while others had trouble seeing it for themselves, Waylander had never doubted the woman's capacity for compassion. Not even in the early days of knowing her had he found her emotional remoteness odd, or even repellent; he had simply accepted her for who she was, without question or stipulation. She was Joanna. She was his oldest living friend. She was the closest thing he had to family within the South Cardinals, and he'd be damned if he'd let anything ever happen to her. Eventually he'd thaw this chill between them; it would pass, as it always had before.

Waylander went through the motions of the mission, his confidence renewed. They found and put down a total of two deserters, raiders who had abandoned their party before succumbing to injury or affliction—both had been too far-gone to communicate at all intelligibly. One of his men had volunteered for the deed readily, and Waylander had allowed it... though at the last instant, he always looked away.

This confirmed one of his suspicions, at least: the raiders had not attacked them out of spite, but rather out of necessity. These were not healthy people. He would go so far as to guess that illness had overtaken their ranks, one that would probably burn through their numbers like a wildfire... though of course, he had no proof to back up his belief. This was a hypothesis far beyond their ability to test, anyway—but Waylander suspected that this particular group of raiders would not be troubling them again.

It wasn't a wasted trip, anyway. They scavenged what supplies they could from the bodies they found, as well as took the time to forage; one of his men managed to bring down a few rabbits after accidentally stumbling upon a warren. But the real prize came a few days later, when they found a flock of migratory geese nesting by a dried-up riverbed. Many of them could barely stand, much less fly; still, there was meat on their bones. Waylander took no relish in the slaughter, but the thought of every wasted face and hungry mouth back at camp made the work easy. They headed home.

Waylander was leading them all in a song as they crested the hill; every man was tired and filthy from the trek, but loaded down with enough food and supplies to ensure their survival for at least another month. Waylander turned away from them all and grinned, expecting to see Joanna's lithe shadow leaned up against the barricade far below—she always had an uncanny knack for knowing when they'd return—what he saw instead was Dodger, running up the hill to meet them, his face drained of color despite his exertions. The song died on Waylander's lips.

"Report, soldier."

"Sir, it's Joanna—"

That was all he needed to hear. Waylander threw down his catch and was flying down the hill after the winded scout, his rifle drawn; he suspected injury, or worse, mutiny, though he hadn't detected any indication of the latter before he left. The level of unrest had been the same since the day they first arrived at the Home Depot, really nothing out of the ordinary...

"Joanna!" He was shouting her name before he found her. They had her bound to a chair in the basement storage room away from the general populace, locked in the makeshift cell they had built for emergencies but never used. Fury rose in Waylander as he muscled his way through the bodies crowded around her; he went so far as to let it show on his face, and his passage between them became speedier. Few had seen their commander truly angry before today.

But he managed to stop himself just short of her prison. His chest heaved with each labored breath, and he locked eyes with her; though every line in his long, lean face appeared pronounced and dangerous, he dredged up his famous willpower now to keep himself from single-handedly wrenching the door off and sweeping his captive friend up into his arms. This was all a misunderstanding, whatever-it-was; that much was clear to him without being told, though he couldn't very well say so out loud. The South Cardinals had acted as jury without him, but he was still the judge. As much as he hated it, he had to hear them out. Letting any favoritism show at this point only ran the risk of making things worse for Joanna.

"I've yet to hear your report, soldier," their commander said quietly, his words honing in on Dodger. The scout shrank back, looking as if he'd prefer anyone but himself to be the one to explain. Waylander barely noticed the other's sudden reticence. There was dried blood painted down the front of Joanna's clothes, and there was more of it darkening the corner of her mouth. The sight of it made Waylander's stomach churn—not with nausea, but with worry that it might be her own.

 

Joanna:

The news traveled fast throughout the South Cardinals, as information tended to do. Joanna had always be strange despite Waylander’s polite insistence to the contrary, but there was no denying it now. There was little argument one (even Waylander with his all his people skills) could give to reasonably explain Joanna’s blood stained mouth, and so she remained silent, which unintentionally kindled the gossip and speculation alighting throughout the camp. The few that found her were equally susceptible to curiosity when the woman in question dared not supply an answer.

“Maybe she’s ill,” A man unhelpfully provided with a knit brow. His response was marked by a disdainful roll of eyes from the woman to his left. “Of course she’s ill, you’d have to be to go…eat someone!” Briefly the group erupted into another senseless argument fueled by panic and misunderstanding. The people of the South Cardinal were tired, hungry, scared, and without a leader they dissolved into chaos. Those who found Joanna tried their best to keep the cell room free of prying eyes, but ultimately failed. A rally for an explanation, a trial, anything to calm stirred up further unrest in the camp.

All the while Joanna remained eerily immobile, eerily quiet. She gave them nothing, even as the unnerving center of attention sitting deathly still with closed eyes. The contrast of red against lily white skin had an lurid effect, and when her eyes snapped open suddenly, a sharp burst of glacial blue, many jumped or recoiled in shock. Many were too startled to notice or even realize how easily her bindings snapped as she rose like an apparition from her chair. Heads turned in the direction of her thousand mile stare, and it wasn’t but a moment later a shout of her name rang dimly through the room. The camp shifted in visible anticipation of what would come, tittering quietly under their breaths in expectation. Many began filtering out quickly in an effort to avoid association with the group who jailed Joanna, as there was no mistaking the impressively restrained rage darkening Waylander’s features.

He demanded a report, but there was nothing to report, nothing but the dead man’s blood that stained Joanna’s front and her persistent reticence. Dodger looked unhelpfully to his left, then right quickly in an effort to find support, but no one spoke or hardly even seemed to breathe under Waylander’s accusing gaze. A nervous swallow lead to a stammered remark about cannibalism and doing what they thought was right, but even in the heavy silence of the cell room his words were an inaudible, jumbled mess. The scout looked precariously on the verge of breaking into a nervous sweat, until a hoarse voice spoke suddenly and brought visible relief to his features.

“Ain’t it obvious?” The man demanded with a mirthless laugh, and though he obviously spoke to the group his eyes did not stray from Joanna. “It’s a vampire. Thought so when I first saw you, but you can never be sure. They’re tricky but we, we got our proof now!” If the man had expected a rally of understanding in response to his words he would be sorely disappointed. The only real response was a nervous peal of laughter, subtly asking what they were too cautious to. He couldn’t be serious, but when the man’s face tightened in understanding of the implications of their laughter it was incredibly clear he was.

The man, named Jack but half heartedly referred to as Old Man simply because he fit every grumpy stereotype to the point of being a living parody, was often dismissed as crazy by the group. He had no family, but the story of how he had lost his wife and children and survived himself changed daily, as though he could never quite remember. The accusation that their leader was a vampire from him, had no real weight and would have been dismissed as ridiculous, but Joanna could see the cogs turning in their minds as they tried and failed to laugh off such a claim. For herself, she gave nothing, not a blink of the eye in response to his painfully true accusation. Instead she met his stare, which he quickly pulled away from, obviously knowing better. He mumbled something about idiots, about being glamoured, as he dug unsuccessfully through his pockets. The entire room was now entirely preoccupied by the exchange, and such interest grew rapidly when the man produced what appeared to be a silver necklace chain from his pocket.

Joanna, who stood otherwise impassively near the bars of her make shift cell, frowned visibly. Old man’s grinned widened with morbid delight until it appeared to near split his face, and as he drew nearer the woman shrank back in a rare show of fear. “That’s right, you know what this is, don’t you?” The cell, hardly big enough for the chair, allowed limited movement and so it wasn’t with much difficulty he managed to grab hold of her head, forcing the silver around her neck. The reaction was instantaneous. The sound of burning flesh sizzled through an otherwise silent room, as well as a sharp, strangled noise of pain from Joanna. What had the few remaining South Cardinals gasping in horror however was the appearance of fangs, visibly sharp, in response to her obvious pain. She seemed incapable of pulling away from the man, the silver burning deeper into her skin as the camp looked on in less concern and more obvious revulsion.

“I was going…to…tell you,” The woman managed while staring directly at Waylander, but such words were only an irrefutable confession to what they could hardly believe.

 

Waylander:

It's a vampire, the old man said. Three incongruous, insane words, and the one that made the hair on the back of Waylander's neck stand on end was it. In the span of a supply run, the men and women of the South Cardinals had robbed Joanna of everything, including human pronouns, and cast her into the perdition of a crude jail cell.

She stood in the slatted shadows of her prison now as still as a marble statue. Looking at her in this context, it was almost too easy to imagine how rumors of her inhumanity might have kindled and caught fire. Waylander had often found himself marveling at his second's etherealness in the privacy of his own thoughts, but he had never gone so far as to question her place among them. Never.

The abuse might as well have been happening to someone else, for all Joanna responded to it. Waylander turned reluctantly from her and crossed his arms as Jack ranted. More troubling than the old man's ravings was the uneasy subscription he saw on the nervous faces of the crowd. How had this medieval hokum, centuries dead, managed to crawl its way back into their fractured society and revive itself? The only thing vampyric he saw was the superstition suddenly thrust into their midst.

And he wasn't the only one who took it that way. Jack's conclusions were ultimately met with laughter, and Waylander relaxed a little despite himself. He didn't let it show on his face, but he was glad of the ridicule. It was his job to weigh every grievance equally if he wanted to keep the peace, but he wouldn't stop Jack from digging his own hole, either.

A glint of weaponized silver, and the world as he knew it came crashing down around him a second time.

For a man fresh out of the infirmary, Waylander's own reaction was lightning-fast. He seized Jack's wrist and wrenched so viciously the old man dropped the necklace with a sharp cry of pain… but that pain was nothing to him, nothing, compared to Joanna's. The commander ground the chain beneath his boot heel and kicked it away like it was incendiary, but the damage had already been dealt. The mob gasped and shrank and rippled, a wave about to break. He couldn't let hysteria take hold. Navigating the next few seconds was more important than Joanna… Joanna's…

Her eyes held him like she was sinking. He wanted to follow her down. He wanted to retreat to a time, a place, where fangs had never been forced to the surface.

"Everyone! I need you to remain calm," Waylander said as he put out his hands. "I know we're all still reeling from the attack a few days ago. The last thing we need right now is to turn against our own because of a misunderstanding. Joanna has been nothing but a loyal member of this company. More than that, she's been a selfless soldier, and acted as a protector to all of us on more than one occasion. Most of you wouldn't be here to debate her innocence if it wasn't for her."

The wave crested and held, but there was no conclusion, no crash. Not a lot, but enough. Let them redirect their focus inward for a bit and find some temperance before they burned the whole place to the ground. "Right now, I need all of you out of here," Waylander continued. "There's still work that needs to be done. I'll call a meeting tonight once I get Joanna's side of the story. No one will be denied a chance to speak then."

"… with all due respect, we'll go as far as the other side of the door, sir," one of the soldiers who had returned with Waylander volunteered. It wasn't a direct disobedience of his orders, but it was as close as anyone had ever come before. "Me and Phillips, sir," the soldier added quickly, and Waylander nodded. It was a concession he was willing to put up with.

As the mob filed out of the room, the old man cast a look of pure loathing over his shoulder. "She'll get to him," he muttered, "if she hasn't already."

The words hung in the air long after the crowd had dispersed. When Waylander was assured that they were alone, he crossed to where he had kicked the necklace and rehomed it inside the front pocket of his coat, just so no one else would. He didn't look at Joanna. Though he would have liked to join her in her cell, the closet wasn't big enough for both of them… and while anyone posted by the door would be unable to hear their conversation if they spoke low enough, a cursory glance in would tell the guard if the visitation was compromised.

Waylander felt a pain so acute it was almost physical when he looked at her caged. They had a lucky run, he realized—that nothing this self-destructive to the South Cardinals' cohesion had reared its ugly head sooner was probably a miracle.

But why did it have to be her?

Waylander pulled his canteen free and unwrapped the scarf from around his neck. He wetted a corner, and reached through the bars. He slowly began to dab along the edges of Joanna's mouth, taking her too-lovely face in his free hand to hold her steady. Blot by gentle blot, the gore began to recede, and the monstrous visage began to disappear.

"Tell me like you would have told me," he whispered finally. "Tell me like none of this ever happened. Jesus, tell me this is just a morphine dream I can wake up from."

 

Joanna:

This was not the first-time Joanna’s truth had been revealed, nor even the most violent. But something about this time was different, and as the silver burned deeper into the flesh of her neck she almost wished for it to cut her totally through. Her fangs extended reflexively but the searing pain lasted only an instant longer. The sound of the chain rattling as it hit the ground echoed faintly in her ears, Waylander’s words a distinct echo she tried desperately to clarify. Her hand came up to grip her wounded neck, the flesh still sizzling beneath her palm.

The burst of energy in the room was dampened almost immediately after Waylander spoke, but it was with trepidation the quieted mob trickled out the door. The old man shot his accusation witheringly over his shoulder and a strange expression of grief passed quickly over Joanna’s face. Her expression recovered quickly, returning to the stoic mask she was known for. Though she had only used her powers of persuasion once on Waylander, that single instance made the old man’s word as striking as a punch to the gut. There were plenty of vampires who indulged their hellish nature, torturing and abusing humans as a merciless god might. Joanna had carefully toed the line between monster and man for many centuries, but she found herself doubting her current success at balancing the two.

She watched with a guarded expression as Waylander bent down to retrieve the silver necklace. For an instant, she questioned his intentions, but there was visible relief on her face as the chain slipped into his pocket. Her eyes desperately sought his for reassurance. She leaned her forehead against the cool metal as her hands gripped the bars that kept them apart. The skin on her neck had already begun to heal, though a shiny blistered scar was left as a cruel reminder.

The woman did not flinch as the cool, wet end of his scarf cleared the blood from her face, but her eyes closed gently and her entire being seemed to relax subtly into his touch. The thud of his pulse from his wrist echoed reassuringly in her ears, and for a moment of calm she listened to the steady rhythm.

When he spoke, she opened her eyes, taking the hand he supported her face with gently with her own. She held his hand with an uncharacteristic tenderness, a smile that displayed no mirth overcoming her features when he begged her to insist this was all a dream. “I’m more the stuff of nightmares really,” She corrected gently, and the small smile fell from her face.

“How would you have liked me to tell you, Waylander?” She inquired, though not accusingly. “I thought of a million different ways and none ever seemed good enough,” She released his hand and moved slowly, taking the metal bars in her grasp and pulling them apart as though they were made of a far more malleable metal. Smoothly she slid between the newly created door, and with the same ease she had pulled the bars apart she pulled them back into place.

“I should have told you,” Joanna conceded quietly, “But I was afraid,”

Although that admission seemed laughable after her show of brute strength, it was the truth. She did not fear the mob nor the pain, but the thought of seeing that same horror and revulsion displayed by the crowd on Waylander’s face hurt her in ways she could not explain. It seemed strange now that all her power and might was out in the open, that Joanna felt her most vulnerable. She could have decimated the entire mob without a scratch to show for it, but standing now in front of Waylander and asking for his understanding she felt more human and weak than she had in hundreds of years.

“No more secrets,” She promised, extending a hand like a soldier might as a show of sincerity. She met his eyes intently, uncertainty of his response intensifying the brightness of her eyes.

 

Waylander:

Darling I'm a nightmare dressed like a daydream. What had once been the cloying lyrics to a song he heard played on the radio resurrected themselves now as poetry. Is that really how you see yourself, Joanna? He almost asked her outright. How did the woman distort her own image to fit the self-characterization when she looked in the mirror? (Waylander had seen her cast a reflection, so he didn't embarrass himself with a quick fact-check into the lore.)

Her hand, cold as marble, alighted on his. He stopped fussing over her like a mother hen. Most of the blood was gone, anyway, although her pale lips looked redder than usual. They were either temporarily stained, or flush with the living blood pumping through her veins…

God, there was so much to know. Waylander had already recalibrated reality once in his lifetime. Where other men might have feared for their sanity making a second attempt, he figured he should be used to it by now.

"Any way besides this one," he replied. His mouth twisted in a rueful smile. His beard had grown out during his time spent in the infirmary. He thought about squeezing her hand, but she let it drop suddenly. Some instinct told him to step back, and he saw Joanna's true power unleashed. The bars of the Cardinals' makeshift cell might as well have been fashioned out of overcooked noodles. Joanna pulled them apart without any change in her expression and stepped out. Waylander's astonishment was evident on his face, all soft mouth and raised eyebrows, but there was no trace of the revulsion Joanna might have feared seeing there. He gazed at her like she was a tiger that had just escaped its enclosure. Admittedly, that was often how he looked at her.

"Saves me a trip to go find the key," he said, because it was only in that moment he realized Dodger still had the keyring. Waylander usually entrusted it to him when he was away, just to give the boy a taste of real purpose. Locked doors had never stopped his second's movements around the compound, and he now understood why.

He doubted Dodger failing to hand them over was just oversight.

Joanna extended her iron-proof hand to him, and Waylander took it without hesitation. "No more secrets," he agreed, and wasn't prepared for the wrenched feeling that overwhelmed him hearing his own promise. Why did it suddenly feel as if he was the one most likely to renege? Joanna clearly hadn't meant to extend the pact to his most private thoughts. He doubted they would ever come up in conversation.

"This is going to be a tribunal," he warned. "I'm not going to be able to defend you publicly. At least, not as loudly as I'd like." The skin around his eyes creased with sorrow momentarily. "But I'm not going to leave them without any question as to where I stand. As far as I'm concerned, everything's changed, and nothing's changed."

 

Joanna:

It had been a long time since she had known fear. To a creature who had seen centuries of war, plague, and famine, it was a chilling sensation. The relief she felt when he extended his hand and accepted within her was overwhelming, the heat from his skin warming her own. He spoke, his voice echoing loudly in her head. Her own thoughts raced, impossible to track, but she found herself pulling deeper into him as if in a trance.

Joanna’s embrace was totally out of character, as if possessed by her own emotions. She could think of nothing but his honest acceptance, more than she deserved, more than she could have ever hoped for. Her face pressed tight against his chest, arms snaking around his torso pulling him into an embrace she had not initiated herself for many decades, maybe centuries.

But the unfamiliar motion brought back memories unbidden, of those she had loved and lost before long before she had given up on such follies. For a moment she could almost remember what being human felt like his heart was pounding so loud, reverberating through her as if it were her own. Time always stood still for Joanna, but in this moment it raced. She could not control the flood of emotions that rolled through her, the memories like movies of those who had rejected her.

But not Waylander.

As if his name alone broke the spell, she regained herself quickly and stepped back, but perhaps not as far as she would usually. She tilted her head up to look at her steadfast companion directly and said the only thing she could say.

“Thank you,"

Simple words, but they weighed heavily in the air with their meaning. Her eyes conveyed her earnest, brighter than they had ever been, like a frozen lake thawing in the heat of the spring sun. She smiled, not the quick twist of lips he had come to know but a true curve that pulled her face in a way unfamiliar even to her.

 

🩸

 

Waylander was right, of course, there was a tribunal. No one was pleased that the scariest monster of all had been lurking right under their noses. The feelings were varied, some could see reason, but others questioned every disappearance, every death that had occurred while she was around. She tried to remain impartial, see from their point of view, but lions don’t often try to imagine the perspective of the lamb. It was more of what she had already known, had already heard before, and so she was unblinking in the face of their accusations. Fear was the cloying undercurrent, inescapable in everyone’s face but his.

She answered every question patiently, but the responses were admittedly short. She spoke as if every bit of knowledge she gave away stripped a level of protection away from her, but she never refused to answer. The questioning aligned with what she had expected, mostly concern over what she ate, how she ate, and if she could ever truly be in control. To that question she allowed herself the smallest of mirthless smiles, “Do you think any of you would be alive if I couldn’t?”

There was murmuring and grumbling that belied the general discontent. Their leader’s presence made it difficult for most to be anything but respectful in their questioning, but Joanna better. The old man did not have many friends, but his insight into her world did bring him into focus. More of the cardinals than would admit lingered around when he talked to his small band of followers, pretending to be interested in other tasks. His knowledge of vampires was deeper than even she expected, her keen ear catching his mutterings. Somewhere deep her heart ached for him, if it was capable of such things, for the only reason he had that knowledge in the first place meant he’d had experience with her kind before. He did not admit to it, but she felt strongly it was related to the story of how he lost his entire family long before the world ended, a story he’d never told in a way that rang true.

It was with a begrudging kind of acceptance the Cardinals eventually had their fill of poking and prodding. The tribunal was winding down though an undercurrent of tension filled the makeshift courtroom. The consensus was headed towards allowing her to stay, but with restrictions of course, but those details had yet to be decided when the question she had been waiting for all along was finally asked.

“No one is going to ask how we kill her if she changes her mind?”

The question sucked the life out of the room. There was no sound, no stirring with the exception of Joanna turning her head so that her eyes met her accuser’s. The hate she saw reflected back was not unsurprising or unnerving.

“I think you already know the answer to that question,”

Her response carried no inflection of ill will or malice, but it made the old man’s face twist uglier as if she cursed him.

“The only way for a human to kill a vampire is with real silver, your best bet is a stake to the heart.” Her tone was so matter of fact she could have been reciting a recipe from memory, but the response from the crowd was explosive. Immediately the calm was lost to chatter, dissolving further into chaos as Joanna turned back to Waylander, seeking the only relief she could find.


   
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Mira
 Mira
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There were days Waylander hated who he had become.

He didn't hate the man he was—at least, not as a matter of course. Certainly there were a lot of things he thought he could do better (everything) and a lot of people he could do better by (everyone). But he had never sought a position of authority over the others. Before the core group had splintered, he had only ever been a patient, dependable presence—a man happy to work himself to the bone for others, who might have easily done so had it not been for Joanna's vigilance on that score. He had been voted into a leadership role of the half of the Cardinals their former leader had thought doomed to failure. It had always been an open secret. The eldest of them, the youngest, and the sickly, had remained behind, while the able-bodied had set off north. He had become a commander, not out of a necessity that was his own, but one that had been entirely theirs.

And with that necessity came decisions he would never choose for himself. With that necessity came the obligation to make assurances like:

"If the time comes, I'll do it myself."

A hush fell over the proceedings. Waylander let them stew in silence as they turned his words over. He didn't look at Joanna, though he guessed she would understand his pronouncement for what it was: a complimentary play to her own, a promise made to quench the fire of rebellion before it took off and burned them all to the ground.

The old man, Jack, snorted. "You won't. Even if you wanted to, which we all know you don't. Even if, let's say, you had the stomach for it. She's got ways of keeping you in her hold." His eyes took on a cunning sheen. Waylander's heart sank; not because of the man's words, but because he saw the fight wasn't over.

"Fine, Jack. Then know this: if Joanna leaves, I leave with her."

And there they were: the words they had needed to hear all along. Waylander could inspire his own kind of fear after all. What had previously been a hush now rose to an anxious susurration. He was not a man who made threats lightly; in fact, this was the first of its kind, so far as any of them could remember. If the matter hadn't been one concerning Joanna, he might have felt guilty for inspiring their panic—but his warm brown eyes were flinty now, had darkened in the way they only ever did when he stared down a weapon scope. His crossed arms brooked no protest, although several voices tried. He had made himself a fortification stronger than any they had built around their encampment.

Jack stared at him for a long, loaded moment. "Right. I'll start sharpening a stake. To keep as backup, shall I?"

"You do that, Jack." Waylander barely registered the man's threat. It was toothless, and his attention was elsewhere. As the other Cardinals trickled away, clinging together in groups and giving Joanna a wide berth, a lone woman—Kennedy, Waylander thought her name was—approached her to say something. He watched the exchange in wonder, feeling grateful for it. At least he and Joanna weren't totally alone; hadn't isolated themselves from all—

"But do us all a favor." Startled, Waylander turned. Jack's pale hand wormed like a grub up the front of his jacket and came to rest on its breast pocket. "That necklace. Wear it."

Waylander didn't ask how the other knew it was in his pocket; instead, he pried himself free of the man's grip. "Sorry, Jack. I've never been the jewelry type."

He moved off, privately fighting down a growing distaste for the old man. It was unworthy of someone appointed to his position to find one whose safety he was charged with repugnant. He decided then and there that he couldn't allow the feeling escalate. Who knew what Jack had been through in his life—really been through—to harbor the knowledge he did.

He started to make a beeline for Joanna, then stopped. He wouldn't be doing either of them any favors (as Jack put it) by going to her now, much as he might want to. And despite the fact the last residents of the Home Depot were steadily exiting their improvised court room, he still sensed others' eyes on them, uneasy and suspicious. He had a feeling it would be a long time before they were looked at otherwise.

So he made the decision to withdraw, blending back in with the crowd, though he could never be just one of them again. Waylander wondered if the whole ordeal would have been easier had he never accepted their majority vote to lead. Likely, the outcome would have been worse. Likely he and Joanna would already be on a firing line, or strung up on an improvised gallows. The gruesome realization made him shiver. Again, he berated himself for thinking so poorly of the people he was meant to serve.

But Waylander had seen the look in their eyes: the animal fear, the desperation for a short-term solution that would assure their safety. Jack had almost been in a position to give it to them, too.

That's what it came down to now. Posturing and positioning. And in his case, waiting. Waiting for night to fall; waiting, and realizing that Joanna wasn't coming to him; and that he would have to go to her.

 

🩸

 

The lighting department was a hard neighborhood to light out of. The bulbs were on a timer that turned off during the day; but at night, the center aisles lit up like an electrified city of old. Waylander had never had the stomach to institute a curfew, nor seen the need, when every one of them was already conscious of conserving energy. He passed down the aisles now, casting more shadows than any one man should, his silhouette made kaleidoscopic by the forest of lights. He walked like he was on a patrol.

But his passage went unnoticed, and soon enough he was out, and through, and he slipped through the rest of the Home Depot like a wraith as he made his way to the Garden Center. Tonight the sprinklers were on, and a fine mist shimmered the air and bedewed the budding leaves. It had been a marvel of ingenuity, purifying the water and getting the system up and running again, but well worth their effort. Most of the store's decorative plants had been tossed out and replaced by edible indoor crops, and the beginnings of a seed bank project. He supposed it had been soft-hearted of him to mourn the original plants' departure for more useful greenery. Who knew if those they had thrown out weren't the last of their kind in the world?

One had made a mysterious reappearance in his loft, of course, after all the others had been thrown away: a potted anthurium, that he had perhaps stared forlornly at for too long on the day of eviction, and that he now looked after like his own heart. He had an idea of who had rescued it, but as with so many matters between them, the rescue had gone unremarked.

"When I was a kid, I used to sneak out my bedroom window at night. Okay, maybe only once," Waylander allowed to the watching darkness. "This feels a little like that."

He set his rifle aside, brought along for appearances only, and shook some of the mist from his shaggy hair.


   
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Jersey
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Joanna could not blame the old man for his hatred of her. He understood the danger of the creature before him. It was easy to only see her delicate build, her alabaster skin so translucent it seemed to reflect the blue of her veins. Her fangs stayed neatly retracted hidden behind full lips stretched into a grim line. She knew that hatred was kindled from fear, and it made her think he was the only one with any sense among them. Fear was the only appropriate response.

But it certainly wasn’t how he felt. She knew Waylander enough to know that his words did not reflect his heart, thudding loudly in his chest as if to protest. She often found herself listening to it, the rhythmic beat and reassurance of his presence soothing to her. Perhaps if she had been more human, she would be more aware of the impact he had on her and what that might imply.

Despite being threatened the woman remained like a stone-faced gargoyle until Jack lurched forward. The second his hands gripped Waylander her jaw clenched reflexively; all self-control channeled into resisting the urge to be exactly the demon Jack knew her to be. If he hurt him…

Even as it became clear the old man had no intentions of harm toward his leader, she did not relax. It was rare to find the precious metal in these dark times, the glint and shine unsettling. She was convinced the safest place for it remained in their leaderr’s pocket, and was marginally soothed at the thought it could afford him some protection. Her clenched jaw relaxed.

The drama waning, the Southern Cardinals began to slowly file out, throwing back uneasy glances over their shoulder at the woman standing eerily still. However her eyes were not on them, but somewhere far beyond.

🩸

Like an apparition, the woman appeared from the darkness, a glint of white teeth and frost blue eyes. Her hands hovered over the greenery that surrounded her in a soothing, motherly caress.  She had always had a fondness for plants, something she shared with Waylander. In many life times she had carefully tutted over a precious flower. Nurturing something so delicate had always stirred something in her she could not name. With a fondness usually only saved for her plants, she allowed a small smile at the thought of Waylander as a child.

"Mm, I could see that," She tipped her head, as though debating the likelihood. Her finger toyed with the edge of a green leaf, pausing to consider.

"When I was a child, I would look out of my window and scheme of my escape," Her eyes left the foliage to meet his as she paused, "But I was never so brave,"

Promised to a man that history would remember as Peter the Cruel, Joanna's young life was consumed by the thought of freedom. Of a place beyond courtly manners and social etiquette, where her voice could be loud and her hands could be dirty.  There were always demands of her, things she must know, places she must be, words she must say. As her royal father's favorite daughter, she was pruned and trimmed with the same rigor required of the vegetation around her.

She watched as the mist gathered into his brown curls, deep in thought. "That was a very long time ago," She mused, thinking now how he must feel, unsure of who or what stood before him. She owed him more than an explanation.

"I'm sure you have questions," She allowed finally, the words falling uncomfortably from her mouth. Joanna was less of an open book and more of an iron cage, steeled against the very vulnerability she was giving him now. She could no longer meet his eyes, dropping them down to the collar of his shirt that fell crookedly. Eager for the distraction, she adjusted the shirt so that it hung appropriately. Her eyes never lifted even as her hands did. Noticing the sudden acceleration of his heart, her eyes darted up to his, searching for the answer before she asked the question. 

"Do I scare you?" 

It was question that came with no judgment but sought understanding. Her hands dropped back to her side as if suddenly aware of closeness, though she did not step back. She looked harmless in that moment, small and uncertain.

"He's right that I should," She warned, seeing something in his eyes that was convinced the old man was wrong. 


   
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Mira
 Mira
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It was strange meeting her in these jungle wilds, this heart of darkness, boxed inside a war-torn parking lot at the end of the world. No: they had passed beyond the end of the world years before. And it seemed to Waylander that as of tonight, they had finally passed beyond strange.

He had come here with questions, of course; that much she intuited already. As a general rule when it came to Joanna, he tried not to voice too many of the ones he had about her aloud. Maybe that was why they had always gotten on so well. Whatever discrepancies he had noticed—because surely he had to give himself credit for noticing some things, otherwise he may as well give over leadership now and readmit himself to the ward as a man with a permanent and years-long brain injury—whatever details about Joanna hadn't added up for him, he had always made the math work anyway. He knew that now, as she had probably known it all along.

But any questions he may have had for her (which was all of them) trailed away as she got right to the heart of the matter. For all she had been through that day, she made it clear now what weighed on her the most.

Do I scare you?

"Maybe not the way you think." Which was the only way that made sense. He could feel a degree of foolishness now that he had gone out of his way all these years—ever since they had first joined up on the road, in fact—to make sure Joanna always felt at ease with him. It had been hard enough for women to trust strange men before, and Waylander knew that this new reality had become a living hell for most in a way he would never be able to fully understand. His sister had been the first to drill it home, before and after the end of the world, and before and after Joanna.

The man shifted his weight and crossed his arms. "I'm afraid for you, maybe. Although I'm sure that's a wasted worry. Though I think you've established to the others' liking that you do have vulnerabilities." He studied her for a moment, perhaps trying to square the waif with the damage she was capable of. He had always had trouble doing so. "And I'm afraid for us. Not just the two of us. The group. I don't like what I saw brought to the surface today. Although I—we've—always known it was a possibility."

He hadn't, not in his heart. Perhaps it had been naïve. It had been a shock, maybe even on par with the revelation of Joanna's true nature, seeing them turn so readily on one of their own and drag her to trial. Because at least fundamentally nothing about Joanna had changed, not to him.

There had been other groups they had been in communication with, once upon a time. Groups that had eventually not made a rendezvous point for trade, or gone silent on the radio. The Cardinals had even absorbed some of the survivors, traumatized folks who came with stories of raiders, sure, but also stories of discontent turned violent, of the self-cannibalizing snake, of tearing themselves apart from within. Now it occurred to him: might some of those late-arriving survivors have survived for a reason? Maybe they had fomented the mutiny themselves and bailed out at the last instant to save their own skins. He tried to remember now, but he couldn't recall where Jack had come from. He knew the man hadn't been at the Home Depot when the Cardinals set up camp originally. He had been absorbed.

"I don't know. Maybe we should play Twenty Questions." An indulgent smile tugged the corner of his mouth as the sprinklers continued to saturate them both unnoticed. "I guess beauty and age both went first in this instance." He wasn't ready to ask the age question yet. "So I'll go next. Are there any other vampires in our group I should be aware of?" He meant it lightly, although it did open a door to more questions: had there been others like her, and had they survived? And just how lucky were they that someone as powerful as Joanna had chosen to ally herself with them when she clearly didn't have to?

Luckier than they knew, he guessed, or would ever openly acknowledge. Maybe no one but him saw it that way.


   
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