The rage burned through the reflection of the yellow eyes visible underneath the mask, the flickers of purple as the teleportation spell took hold, depositing them on the mark Spyder had painted on the floor so long ago.  For just a moment, irony distracted him, the wave of purple magic jumbling with the purple tint of old teleportation plats.  For a moment, rage wavered, raw wounds salved with the anticipation, but then the disorientation fell apart, consumed by grief and anger, loss.

They walked further into the room, and he saw her, asleep at the table.  Anger and resentment stirred, the wind storms of guilt surging.

He heard Henri offer coffee, and he grunted, her cheeriness disappearing, at his response, instead asking why she hadn’t been summoned.  Self loathing coated his answer, “The children . . .  dead too long.”  He stretched his jaw, the tendons distending inhumanely, not allowing the satisfaction of the crack of release.  He hears, but ignores Brant’s whispers to Henri, “…..a rough night.”

“Brett? What’s wrong?”

He swallowed, turning, holding out his hand, “Take a walk wit’ me.  Pleassse.” 

She’d walked with him through the base, up the stairs, onto the “roof.”  He knew where he was going, even if she didn’t, but she didn’t hesitate, and he clutched her hand with a desperate, quivering strength of mixed need and hesitancy, needing to hold tight and trying not to hurt her.

He stopped, exactly where he had stood the night after he’d taken them out that first time, where she’d agreed to help him find answers, looking southwest like he could see Australia from here, through the cloudy sky on the horizon, slowly clearing from the storms of earlier in the night.

He told her then, in a halting, pain and guilt induced story of finding the children…..and then,  “They’re dead because of me…..I didn’t do anythin’.  I chose ta go ta that damn wedding, ta have…..fun…..us, ta have fun, as a family.”

“He, the one with the hound features,” he started….

“Henri said they’re called aberrations,” she led when he paused.

“Yes, those not fortunate enough ta change like I can. What if…..” and he paused, again, he couldn’t say what he wanted to know….what if they had kids that couldn’t change, that would be easy targets.

He listened to her calming voice, her admonishments that he can’t take on the sins of the world, the guilt of the world, he can’t protect everyone.

Then, “I have something ta ask, will ya tell me the truth?”

“That sounds like ya don’t trust me, Brett.”

“That’s not…..would ya not lie ta me ta protect me?” Its as close as he can get to saying she has before, and the anger surges briefly within him.

She pulls him around to look at her, “We’re all about brutal honesty, aren’t we Brett?” Yet, he doesn’t answer, because that’s yet another conversation he doesn’t know how to have.  Deep inside though, a voice says hisses that she didn’t say yes or no, but he nods.

“Whitley says there’s a Dreamer, or Dream something, that might be able ta help.  ‘melia, I’m afraid ta dream, an’ I’m afraid not ta dream, which means I’m afraid all the time, an’ I hate it. What do ya think I should do?”

She puts her hand on his cheek, “If she can help, what are ya waiting for?”

Calmed slightly, he breathes deeply, her scent wafting over the receptors lining his tongue, “Are ya sure ya want ta be here forever? On this damn base?” Its not the time to ask that question, but its the answer he needs.

“That depends, do ya?”

“I don’t know what I want.”

“Well, then that’s yer answer.  I want ta be wherever ya are.”

The yellow has slowly left his eyes as they stand there, overlooking the Pacific.

“Yer exhausted, an’ I don’t mean physically.  Let’s get ya back to the bath an’ cleaned up.”

A memory of a shower flashes….before he smiles sadly. “Lead on, Bomber.”