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* * * * *
         "Fancy meeting you here."
         "I was here first."
         "I know . . . so, come to this featureless and utterly boring void often? I must say I certainly find acres of absolute nothingness indescribably attractive. Not to mention the men who frequent them."
         "Enough with the posturing . . ."
         "Grr, tiger, you really know how to get someone going."
         "I'm not going to repeat myself again."
         "You're right. It would lose a certain appeal. Save it for those intimate moments when it'll have greater impact."
         "I saw what you did."
         "You did . . . oh, you won't tell anyone, will you? You'll keep it our little secret, right? Because I really really really would very much appreciate that."
         "You're going to make this difficult, aren't you?"
         "No more than you are, chum. Okay, you saw me. Caught me. Got my hands in the cookie jar. Now what?"
         "You didn't think what I did was sufficient?"
         "You want the long or the short answer to that. Here, wait, let me help you with the short answer. No."
         "Very well . . . but I wish you'd warn me when you're going to pull stunts like that."
         "And I wish you'd warn me when you start dismantling property and people. What the hell were you thinking? At least they didn't have to call nine one one for what I did."
         "No, he was already in the hospital, I don't see-"
         "You weren't thinking. All right? I thought we were going to try and tone down the flashy stuff."
         "You would have done the same if our positions were reversed."
         "Oh, would I now?"
         "Yes, you would have."
         "I . . . fair enough. I would have. I'll be honest."
         "We let empathy get the better of us. We were caught off guard and didn't allow ourselves a chance to think."
         "I'd like to think I did, personally. I gave it a long rational analysis seasoned with a thick dressing of logic . . . and then screwed the bastard as best I could."
         "You spent more time on it than I did, but I got to the situation first."
         "Still, it's nice indulging every once in a while, isn't it?"
         "That's not the point."
         "All that power, you know there's energy in everything, heat and kinetics and sound and light and-"
         "Please, spare me. And try to keep to the point."
         "Which is?"
         "Are we done now? Here?"
         "I . . . suppose. Yeah, I guess. We both our cracks at him, you softened him up and I finished him off. Not bad for something we scribbled in between stopping supernovas."
         "Did you really mean it though? For that long?"
         "Longer, if I can. I'm working on clogging his arteries so that he has a massive heart attack when he wakes up . . . just to sweeten the irony a little. Think that might be going overboard?"
         "Depends on whether you're kidding or not."
         "Guess we'll find out in twenty years, now, won't we?"
         "Apparently. Keep me informed if you can. I'm assuming that wraps up just about everything here."
         "Pretty much. How's he doing, by the way?"
         "The same. But maybe a little better."
         "We'll take it day by day. It's like having an itch you can't scratch, eventually you don't feel it anymore. Right now he still has the urge once in a while. Time will cure that."
         "It's a pleasure being compared to a skin irritation, I must say."
         "Buddy, I spent a thousand years as a sentient fungus, so let's not get sarcastic with me."
         "As you say. He might have taken the first steps, though. I can't say I don't feel sorry for him. This is terribly difficult on everyone."
         "So's living. But he'll get over that eventually too."
         "Mm . . . I suppose. He is trying. Even when he doesn't seem to be. We can't ask for more than that."
         "No, we can't. And I have to admit, when you need him, he does the job. You've got to kick him in the ass but it gets done."
         "Yes. Well, I guess that does it for now."
         "Permission to depart, sir!"
         "Stop that. Where are you off to, now?"
         "I don't know. Been thinking of popping in on our little glowing friends, just to remind them that we're watching. I don't want them thinking that we'll welcome a repeat of last year anytime soon."
         "I doubt it. Too soon for them. But the friendly visit can't hurt. Try not to annihilate anything this time. I'm the one that always gets the complaints."
         "Hell, they've got so many planets out there they can't even keep track of them all. But, for you, I shall be on my best behavior."
         "Good. I'm sure we'll run into each other soon enough."
         "Wait . . . how 'bout you?"
         "Hm . . . me? Probably just poke around here a bit. There's some business that needs to be taken care of. Nothing too important."
         "Just watching?"
         "Yes. I think we've done enough damage for one day."
         "Yeah but it's tomorrow now. A new day beckons."
         "It does indeed. We can pick this up another time-"
         "Bye . . . oh, gone already. Never was one for the drawn out stuff. Or was that me? So many years, so many personalities.
         "But anyway, who the hell did he think he was fooling? Certainly not me, I mean, really-"

* * * * *
         Back at the waiting room, everything seems to have fallen asleep around them. The television is snoring. The walls dream sweet dreams of perhaps becoming part of a royal mansion. The door swings lazily, buffeted by invisible air, capering like wayward fairies. Slumber settling over the hospital like dense mist. Straight from the storybooks. Still, he's wide awake, a thin layer of tiredness is covering him like grim from rolling around in the dirt too much, but he can handle that. He's always wondered if he actually has to sleep anymore. Mostly he does so out of habit, honestly, he wouldn't know what to do with the eight or so extra hours. Have to readjust the entire clock scheme. Stop the hands. Brown's not sure he's ready for that yet. In a hundred years or so, maybe, when he wants to make life more interesting.
         Brown's just gotten used to the steady and peaceful pressure of Jina's head resting on his shoulders when Tristian has to walk in and ruin everything.
         The man appears so swiftly in the doorway, a flat man ceasing his sideways turns, that Brown figures he must have blinked or something. But no, Tristian's just quick, and Brown wasn't expecting him. Not this early. Figured he'd cry over Lena for a few hours at least. Rail at the gods to release her from this torment. Stuff like that. Somewhere out there, one of the Bard's plays is waiting for Tristian to star in it. Brown's sure of it.
         Tristian's eyes widen a little, and Brown gets the sudden impression that he's surprised to find them here. Like he's in a hospital at the end of the Universe and this the last place he expected to find anyone. Perhaps he just wanted a little peace and quiet, and here they are, spoiling it all, littering the scene with their presence.
         Across the gap, the two men regard each other silently.
         Jina shifts against his shoulder, her cheek the smoothest possible sandpaper. Her breathing is slow and even, unsullied by the nightmares of the day. Brown can't see her face, but he likes to think that it's free of worry, for the first time tonight, maybe. If they weren't in the hospital it would be the perfect end to the night. Of course it didn't work out that way. One more thing they owe Carl. He's definitely got some surprises in store for the man when he gets out. No doubt his government operatives will want to pitch in as well. As slow as it's been the last few months, he'll have people taking a number.
         Tristian enters the room, his footsteps foam on cotton. If you closed your eyes, you'd never be able to hear him. No wonder why he's not convinced he exists half the time, Brown muses. He has no evidence.
         Half the distance between Brown and the door, he stops, his body turning slightly sideways, presenting the angles. His hands have been in his pockets the entire time, Tristian's as compact as they come, no wasted space at all. Endless efficiency. His face twists into brisk amusement, as his eyebrow cocks upward.
         "You know," he comments, "you're going to break that relationship up before it even starts."
         Brown's a bit confused by this, Tristian's speaking to him but his words aren't. Then he realizes that Tristian is inclining his head toward the other person in the room with them. Jina shivers a little against his shoulder, pressing closer to him, searching for a source of warmth. Suddenly, it's very warm in here.
         He pulls a face. "Tell me about it. Trust me, it's not like I planned it that way." Both of them are talking very low, their voices seeming to cross into the subsonic range. The kind of noise that echoes in your subconscious, three years late. Jina's breathing never ever skips a beat. Either she's totally out of it or she's faking it really well. Any man's game at this point.
         "Gone for five years, and still able to sweep the ladies off their feet, eh, Joe?" Tristian says, a joking edge to his voice that Brown hasn't heard in a long time. "That's quite the talent."
         Brown wishes he could find a way to gracefully change the subject. "I know, I'm going to have to disappear for five years just to undo all the damage I've done tonight." He points a finger at Tristian. "This was all your idea, just for the record. I'm laying this all on your head."
         "Wouldn't be the first time," Tristian responds, his jacket rippling with the understated motion of his shrug. Bones moving under skin. Somehow the man can make even the simplest gestures utterly unnerving. Something blanks Tristian's face for a second and Brown realizes that his comment may have hit too close to a truth Tristian isn't quite ready for yet.
         Grasping wildly for a subject, any subject, just to get them talking about something else, he casts out and says, "And speaking of her boy, where the hell is Brian? Or any of them?" Jina tenses, drawing in a long, sharp breath. He glances down at her but she makes no other motion. Still asleep apparently. Their words must be leaking into her dreams, cracks in the faucet. The plumber shows his ass but never any results. It's just the way.
         "I don't know," Tristian remarks, glancing at the greyscreen television with utter disinterest, like he's seeing pictures beamed in from the outer realms, and it's nothing he hasn't seen already. And none of it thrilled him the first time. "Not here," he continues, glancing back to Brown. "Back at the apartment, I imagine, passed out or asleep."
         "Hm," Brown mutters, narrowing his eyes and peering at his lap, trying to resist the urge to scratch his head. Monkeys do that. Not leaders of men. Ha! "Then they might not know what happened."
         "Probably not," Tristian confesses. A sound like the fabric of the world tearing only turns out to be Tristian unzippering his jacket one handed. His hands push back the folds of the coat as they hungrily seek his pants' pockets. Brown thinks he catches a glimpse of something swinging from his belt like a skewered lantern. Jina trembles again and this time Brown finds himself going along with her.
         Tristian turns back toward the door, like he's forgotten about them already. He keeps wavering back and forth, two Tristian's trying to occupy the same space. His voice keeps leaping from an evenly friendly canter to a deadened growl, a sneer with all the entrails removed. Brown's not sure what to think of that. The man seems to have wasted all his conversational energy on their opening salvo and now can't be bothered. He wonders if he'll understand his friend. If they even understand him, as much as they pretend to. Something about him just defies explanation.
         "So . . . what now?" Brown asks, before the man turns around completely. He raises his voice a little, from the pinprick quiet of before to a near whisper. Maybe it'll be enough to wake Jina. He needs her balance right now, there's too much cosmic crap cluttering the air between them. Right now they need an honest to God one hundred percent human being to give this conversation some grounding. Even if she just looks at both of them and screams. That would at least be something to work with.
         "Now?" Tristian asks, whirling on his silent heels, his coat unfurling slightly with the motion. The look he's giving Brown suggests that the answer might very well be obvious. "Now, I suppose we have to tell them."
         "Everything?"
         Tristian only blinks. His legs are rod roots planted at angles into the unbreakable floor. He doesn't even have the decency to sway. Like any normal person would. Tristian refuses to bend. Must have never heard the fable. The oak tree versus the reed. Still, in the end nobody eats a tree, it's the reed that gets digested. If you can stand the wind, it might be better to try and last as long as you can. Else the world might simply gobble you up out of spite. Because it can.
         No response. Brown tries again, "Everything encompasses a whole lot of stuff they might not want to hear."
         "Then we tell them what we think they can handle," Tristian replies offhandedly. A caustic edge to his voice brings a glare to his eyes. There's a certain hardness there that wasn't present before. "I'm tired of offering excuses for things I have no control over. Let them come down and explain themselves, if they so desire. There are more important things to worry about." It's not bitterness infusing his voice, but something just as jagged. Realism, perhaps. Brown isn't sure what he thinks of it. On one hand, he's glad to see that Tristian shares his dislikes of cleaning up the messes of higher entities, but at the same time . . . he doesn't know. He just doesn't know what to think.
          Maybe he does need some sleep after all. God, it would be nice.
         In his pocket, Tristian's hand becomes a deaf and blind finger puppet, his whole arm working the show. "She knows, doesn't she?"
         A sudden chill passes through Brown. God, that man can be scary when he wants to be. When he's not even trying. Brown doesn't even want to ask how Tristian knows, given his possible sources, it's fairly obvious how he found out. What else did they tell him? They can read his head like a newspaper for the nearsighted, how much gets filtered into Tristian? Eerie questions. Certainly not stuff he wants to spend time debating internally. He's very much aware of Jina on his shoulder again, a numbed joint surging back into life, alarm bells screaming warnings. But there's nothing to be afraid of. The girl isn't the problem. It's the man who seems to be struggling to manufacture an expression that worries him.
         "Yeah," Brown replies, meeting those faceless eyes, "she does." His arm is starting to tingle from Jina unconsciously cutting off his blood supply. He nearly dislocates his shoulder in an attempt to restore circulation without waking her. "One of your friends kept calling me by my rank." He licks suddenly dry lips and glances back at Jina, whose eyelids are fluttering on the verge of violence, caught in the tidal drift of dreams that he can only hope are peaceful. "It was only a matter of time before she caught on."
         "I'm sorry," Tristian murmurs, turning his head away so that his voice comes across muffled, twisted. "I don't know why they do these things, they . . . sometimes they're so capricious, but . . ." he shakes his head, dispelling an anger that would go nowhere. "I'm sorry," he says again, needlessly apologizing. Maybe he's doing it for Jina this time. "It must have been awkward."
         Walking into a strategy meeting with your fly wide open and your boss staring right at you is awkward, Brown thinks wryly. This was a whole different level. He has to bite his lip to keep from grinning foolishly. Tristian means well, even when his words unintentionally spark humor. A symptom of their mad lives. It's just the crazy world they all live in.
         "For a bit . . . yeah, it was," is all Brown says. Best not to say too much.
         "She seems to have taken it well," Tristian comments, nodding his head toward her sleeping form again.
         "You should have been here an hour ago."
         A smile lightens Tristian's face, keeping stride with the dawn. "That's why I let you deal with her," he chuckles, the corner of his vision intersecting Brown. It's not clear what he means by that statement. Seconds later, a solemnness informs his posture again. "But no, Jina can handle it. She's good that way, she always has been. If not for tonight . . ." he trails off, visibly swallowing. When he speaks again his voice is much softer, nearly falling into the ceaseless hum of the hospital. "I would have her told her first, probably. If everything had gone right . . ." if he says anything beyond that, Brown can't hear it. He can't even tell if Tristian's lips are moving. A ventriloquist throwing his voice at himself, trying to see what sticks. But you're covered in wax paper, aren't you?
         Jina's breathing subtly speeds up, beating a dry pattern against his curve of his neck. Almost like she can sense the anxiety in the room. Brown really can't blame her. This is hard enough on all of them.
         Tristian's voice fades in, catching the frequency with the butterfly net tuner. ". . . would have told her . . . her and . . ." And this time he does stop talking, a hand ejecting itself from his pocket, two fingers massaging the bridge of his nose. He looks like a man bent by battle, a war he can't possibly win and didn't want to enter but one he feels an obligation to see through to the bitter end anyway. Against Time, perhaps. The ultimate enemy is always time. Death can be cheated. But time always marches on.
         "How is she?" Brown asks, flinging his voice into the air like a bouquet of flowers. A peace offering. Like the pretty colors mean anything.
         Tristian opens tightly closed eyes but doesn't remove his hand from his face. Seeming to float over his fingers, those eyes are the only part of his expression that Brown can see. And of course they don't tell him a damn thing.
         "Lena?" he asks. His eyelashes mimic a shrug. "The same. As well as can be expected." Deadened and matter of fact, there are acres of pain hidden in those words, land mines of emotions that Tristian tiptoes around, unwilling to set off. He can't handle the shrapnel fallout. Tonight, at least, it would rip him to shreds.
         "I'm glad you went and saw her, Tristian. You needed to do that," Brown tells him. He means it, too, all night he's been afraid that his friend would be unable to process the truth, the reality of the situation. Just curl up into a bubble, suspend yourself in slowtime and pretend the world will just stop. It doesn't work that way. It just doesn't.
         Tristian's turned sideways again, hands returned to his pockets, his jacket covering him like a forest green cape, giving phantom bulk to a body that wants to wither away. Sometimes Brown thinks the damn thing holds him together. He's gazing at the far wall, eyes slightly unfocused, and maybe he's nodding in response to Brown's statement. Or maybe he's carrying on his own little conversation with something that just can't be seen.
         His voice is dust slithering along a corridor to nowhere, long abandoned. "I . . . I'm glad too, Joe." But there's still something human and real there. He's not totally gone. There are still footprints marking the way back. "Because . . . I don't want to see her . . ."
         Tristian stops abruptly, like someone pulled the plug on the sound. His head swivels sharply to stare at Brown, who feels his chest tighten. The intensity of the gaze is a bit unsettling, even though he had thought he was used to that sort of thing by now, especially given who Tristian hangs around with.
         But, no, Tristian's not staring at him. Staring a little to his left. And then Brown realizes that the cadence of the air brushed sound in his ear has changed. Altered pitch.
         "What . . ." comes the shapeless tone, right next to him.
         Brown cocks his head to the side and finds himself staring right into Jina's open eyes.
         Her eyes are glazed, not quite focused and stare into his for quite a few seconds, apparently not comprehending where she is or what's she looking at. Probably think he's Brian. Just his luck. The rest of the night has probably taken on the quality of a bad dream for her. For all of them. Too bad that's not the case. Sharing a nightmare doesn't make it any less real. The fall from the endless sky can still kill you.
         A rubber band snaps tight in her head and her eyes lock onto his. Brown can almost see the binary information shuttling back and forth behind her retinas, neurotransmitters firing in their sporadic fashion, recalling pictures of the night. Reminding her. Impressing upon her the tangible drama of the situation. Human computers. That's all we ever are. The thing that Brown respects the most sports an emotional range that makes him feel schizophrenic and contains circuits so intricate that even on the most intensive microscopic level the complexity is still staggering. A fractal that never repeats. Mathematics based on pi. We think we're nature's pinnacle of sophistication but there are wonders lurking on the sidelines of reality that we're only amoebas in comparison to. We're nothing.
         Though Brown likes to think he's done all right for himself. Still, it's some sort of rule of the Universe that you have to be reminded of your place every so often. Must keep everyone from getting too uppity.
         "Joe . . ." her voice murmurs, half still entangled in dreams. Jina's eyes go wide, and her body stiffens. "Oh, I must have fallen asleep, God, I'm so sorry . . ." and she jerks herself upright, wincing a little as taut muscles protest the motion. The departure of her cheek from his shoulder leaves a void that can only be described as a definite chill. Brown resists the urge to rub feeling back into the spot. Instead he lays his ankle over his knee, angling himself away from Jina in his chair. Give the girl some room. She's had a rough night. Give her some space.
         A sunspot, red but growing paler by the second, graces her cheek at the point of prolonged contact with him. She touches it absentmindedly, rubbing the underside of her forearm with her free hand, trying to promote warmth. It is chilly in here but Brown stopped paying attention a while ago. Military training is good for something, apparently. That and he's learned to play solitaire in his head. Reshuffling's a pain in the ass though. He's sure some bastard keeps stacking the deck.
         Blinking sleep out of her eyes, Jina keeps talking, "God, I can't believe I did that . . . what the hell time is it . . ." Brown just sits there and listens to her, glad to hear something other than the airless calm of Tristian's voice. Jina goes to glance at her watch, squinting as her eyes fight to regain focus, still muttering to herself. "Have we been here that long, it doesn't . . ."
         A human shadow punctures the edge of her vision and Jina lets her sentence trail off. Slowly she looks away from her watch and toward the other person in the room.
         "Oh . . ." is all she says at first. Watching her trying to fight the urge to shrink back into her chair, rationality and blaring instinct vying for control of her reflexes, is almost painful. Tristian's face remains impassive the entire time, openly curious but otherwise neutral. Brown's not sure how he does it. That takes a level of self control he's fairly sure he doesn't ever want to possess. You'd have to watch yourself every second of every day. Just to make sure that nothing leaks out the cracks in the shield. Emotions aren't radiation, you can't treat them like that. It's not protective suits we need, that was never the point.
         "Tristian?" Jina asks, a cautious trembling in her voice. She's been fooled once before and the shock is like an infusion of ice water right into your circulation. It's not something you want to experience ever again. So Brown can't blame her for that. But he also has to hold his tongue. Say nothing. Jina has to learn. That there is a difference. That the mirror never reveals all its facets. Or else everything he's tried to tell her tonight, the quilted message behind his words, will never have meant a goddamn thing.
         The man in question merely stares at her. A heartbeat passes, agonizingly slow. Brown wants to leap up and shake the man, scream for him to say something. Don't choose now to pull the silent act, man. This isn't the time for it. Brown would risk getting his arm broken to slap that brand of sense into Tristian. But he does nothing. He's pulled himself back so he can observe. This isn't his place.
         Jina looks about to ask again, or turn and ask Brown. Her chest inflates with the question.
         While Tristian merely arches an eyebrow at her and says, "How are you doing, Jina?" Like they've run into each other at a bus stop. Slip past each other in the night, sharks shedding vibrational greetings. The mundane is the foundation we rest our lives upon, if we can't touch base with our dulled origins then we might as well not exist at all.
         His words ripple in the air like quicksilver fish, striking Jina separately, only combining when they all finally reach her head. She blinks, once, twice, still half asleep, shuddering awake, trying to pierce the fog coating the room. Dreams can do that to you. You wake up and you're not sure if the dreamworld has let you go yet.
         "I . . . I'm fine, Tristian, I guess . . ." she stammers, her voice skidding to a halt. Gazing at Tristian, it's like she's seeing him for the first time tonight. Maybe she is. For the first time ever, she's gotten a glimpse into what every day of his life is like.
         "It's really you . . . isn't it?" she asks him, her voice slow, textures of dawning wonderment crackling in the spaces. Without waiting for an answer she suddenly leaps up from her seat, legs wobbling a bit from the abrupt stress, nearly staggering the three steps over to him.
         "Oh God, it's really you . . ." she whispers, embracing him tightly, squeezing him like she's trying to remind him that he's real. That she had a friend once named Tristian and he was good to her and everyone he knew. Until one day he decided to fade away. And nobody noticed until it was nearly too late. Tristian wants to write the epilogue to his own story, Brown sees that, but Jina won't let him. None of them will, but only Jina seems to regard it as a personal mission. Brown can't help but love her a little more for that. Goddamn girl, you never change.
         Tristian's clutching her firmly as well, his arms copper bands encircling her back, his head bowed a little. A shadow like that of a passing flock of birds flutters over his face, too quickly to be identified with any certainty. He might be shaking but that could be Jina. Maybe it's both of them. The two of them shivering, fighting back the cold. Trying to draw warmth from each other. Just so they can keep fighting for one more day. Frost caking the nostrils, the chill seeping into your joints with every faltering step. If you try and make the journey alone, you'll never get anywhere.
         "She's going to be okay . . ." Tristian whispers to her. The tender way he makes his words trickle down to her Brown finds oddly touching. He didn't know Tristian had in it in him. That's the funny thing about him. Inside, there's a man who cares. He let them encase him in kiln fired clay but once in a while the pieces flake away and he comes through.
         "What?" Jina asks, lifting her head up to look at him, blinking rapidly, the bottoms of her eyes shining in the skittering flicker of the room lights.
         "Lena's going to be all right," Tristian tells her again, withdrawing his hands to slide them back into waiting pockets. Already maintaining the distance. That's not the way to live life, Tristian. Brown wishes he could make his friend understand that. You can't get close and then push them away. People don't realize, they don't see it your way. They don't think you're doing them a favor. "I saw her. Upstairs. I was there and I saw her." His voice is a velvet jackhammer, each word acting to push the words in front of it deeper into her head, staccato linkages. Push it too deep and it might pass right through.
         "Oh . . . are you . . . are you sure . . ." Jina breaths, her hands clenched rigidly at her sides. Everyone's been telling her bad things about Lena all night, each fragment telling her nothing but adding up to make a grim picture indeed. She's no longer sure what to believe, the papers are making up their own stories, doctoring the photos to fit their own individual twisted worldviews. Brown can sympathize. The truth wears a disguise that everyone should be able to see through, all tatters and dirt and the rags of clothing you threw out when you turned six. But you never look too closely, let the man stumble on right past, merely turning your head so you don't have to bear his fetid breath. That's what we think of when we remember truth. That it could use some mouthwash.
         "I saw her, Jina," Tristian repeats, his tone suggesting that he's just as surprised as she is, that he expected them to place her in some mysterious Avalon, laid down on the misted island slab, slumbering even as she floats through time, only appearing once every fifty years. And only if you're in the right place.
         "Oh . . . oh, that's good to hear . . . oh God," and Jina sways dangerously, night winds agitating her shaking frame. She presses her hands to her face, and Brown can see tears beginning to pool in her eyes moments before she tightly seals them from the bright world surrounding her. A lone passenger still escapes, gripping the smooth escarpment of her face, trying not to begin the slide into oblivion. Trying not to drop into the long fall.
         "You're not lying . . . Tristian, oh God tell me you're not kidding or . . . or joking, or oh God . . ." her body quivers, a gestures that sends a stab of pain right through Brown. He hates seeing her like that. It's a damn ugly feeling. And he loathes it. Apparently so does Tristian, the man appears almost ready to touch her on the shoulder, clasp her to him, all the old human instincts rearing up inside. But his arm remains limp, afraid of what the contact might mean, what it could ignite. You can almost see the frightened thoughts swimming behind his eyes, an aquarium of lost causes. Like she's just some seizure victim thrashing on the floor and he's trying to decide whether leaving her alone might be the best way to help her.
         "I was . . ." her face pinches behind her hands, the ocean is building, jockeying for release, ". . . I was so scared, Tristian, I . . ." she gives a hiccuping sort of laugh, "God, you must think I'm so . . . so stupid, carrying on like . . . this but . . . I'm not, I'm not you guys, I don't deal with this all the time . . . I don't . . ."
         That almost makes Brown stand up right then. Only willpower and what feels like a superhuman effort keep him glued to this seat. This isn't about him and Jina, right now. This is about Lena, a girl he knows nothing about, a girl he met tonight and would do anything to defend, if it came down to that. But the lines of friendship aren't etched as deeply on his soul as it is for these two. They've known her the longest. Longer than him, at any rate. And the pain Tristian and Jina are feeling is a razor cut right to the center of the heart. Press your hand against the wound and blood still leaks out between the spaces. There's no instant healing for a slash like that. Just time. When you look at the jagged edges, spread apart like glacial crevices on your skin, don't cry. Just remember. Time smooth it all over. We don't form scars unless we choose to.
         Tristian's looking at Jina with a faintly curious expression, eyes puzzled, like he's seeing her all wrong, she's got the head of a bear. Or clown makeup. Something that just doesn't make sense. But it has to be a feint, Tristian can't honestly be like this, Brown can't make himself believe that the man is this out of touch. He acts like he's been dropped somewhere all the streets signs are patented gibberish, each sentence is a series of increasingly bizarre non sequiturs, and the customs aren't so much backward as unfathomable. It amazes him. And maybe this is the first night he's really examined the man, but if he's truly like this all the time, then he needs help. The kind of help that he's not able to give.
         Let it be a ruse, Tristian. Prove me wrong, dammit.
         Tristian blinks, his whole face thrown into the motion. Slowly and with great gentleness he takes his hand and gingerly touches Jina on the shoulder. Her eyes are still tightly shut, ready to be sewn in place, if she at all notices his gesture, she gives no sign.
         A look of tattered sadness creases his face and his fingers cup her shoulder. "Jina . . ." and his voice seems to be coming from a great distance, "we . . . were scared too. It's no different for us. It's not." Even those words appear to take a lot out of him. Pain rustles over his face, a million gremlins jabbing with their invisible needles. Brushing at your cheeks only makes you look silly. So you have no choice but to stand there and take it. Take it like a man. Chew a hole through your lip because they won't let you shout, won't let you make a sound at all. It's not fair. More than that. It's a goddamn shame.
         Jina squeezes her eyes even tighter in the silence, trying to force those tears back into her head. The eyes that regard Tristian are almost liquid. "I know . . ." is all she can say. She draws in a wet, stuttering breath, her face imploding with the strain. Inhale all the pain. Let it fester inside. Better than sneezing it out and covering the rest of us with your crusted torment. "I know . . ." comes her soft repetition, almost a toneless moan, she's trying to convince herself, taking in deep breaths, inflating yourself to face the world. Because the world won't fight anyone bigger than it. So you try to fool it into thinking you're too large and scary to take on. But if you do that, nobody will ever want to talk to you. Because if you're too scary for the world, how are people going to stand you?
         Brown could tell Jina a million stories about being scared. About how it's worse when stuff like this crap happens because he's supposed to be the one who's out there all the time saving the Universe, if he can safeguard the future for countless trillions, how is it he can't save one young woman? Fear is being reminded that all the terrible things that you always try to prevent from happening to you, can still happen anytime and anyplace. No matter how hard you try to make it otherwise. To the people you care the most about, you can be in a hospital at any hour of the morning, gnawing your constantly regenerating fingernails to the bone with worry, wondering how someone with so much power and influence be so goddamn useless when it matters the most?
         That's fear. And Brown could tell Jina all about it.
         But he says nothing.
         "Did she . . ." now Jina's trying to form coherent sentences, not realizing they have no place on this incoherent night. She takes a deep breath, moisture rattling in her throat, before dropping her hands to her sides and saying, "Tristian, did she say anything? Did you talk to her?"
         "No, she was sleeping when I saw her," Tristian replies, sounding disappointed himself. Given what Brown knows now, he's sure that leaving the room must have been like tearing off his own arm. Even now he must be fighting the desire to go running back. Brown likes to think so at least. Call it his old romantic soul. Maybe he'll compose a ballad about all of this some time, when they've reached the let's laugh about it stage. "I sat with her . . . a bit . . . you know, to see if she would wake up," Tristian notes hesitantly, "so she wouldn't have to wake up alone but . . ." his shrug is dismissive but it's very much a plastic fake, a smokescreen for his real emotions, "she didn't."
         "Oh . . ." Jina remarks, rubbing her eye with one finger before smoothing the wrinkles in her dress out. "Ah, but she looked . . . okay, Tristian?"
         "She looked fine," Tristian says simply.
         Jina gives him a little smile. "You know, that was really sweet of you, Tristian. To do that for her. I mean it must have been . . ." her eyes widen with a fierce suddenness, half buried facts writhing out of the sand, "oh my God, I can't believe I . . ."
         "What?" Tristian asks, his eyes narrowing.
         "He said that you . . . that you found . . . Tristian I forgot, I can't believe that I . . ." her hand is touching the side of his arm, and Tristian very much looks like he wants to run away. But for Jina's sake he can't. She wouldn't understand. It's not her. It's not her that he's trying to flee. It's the very concept. What that touch means. That people care, that people want him around, that they need him. And that means he can't run away and bury his head in the sand. If Brown could get Jina to hug him and never let go, if that would keep Tristian from detaching his spirit from their lives, he'd push her right into him without hesitating. But Tristian sees himself as a leech clasped to the bloodless flesh of his friends, his razorteeth sucking in only air now. And he'd cut open his bloated body to let all the fluid run free if he could. If someone would let him.
         "Are you all right? How are you holding up?" her voice floats to him, a liferaft he'd rather puncture and let sink.
         In a quick motion, like silently tearing velcro apart, he pulls away from Jina, leaving her hand briefly clasping nothing. She goes to take a step toward him, but something in his eyes stops her and the motion halts itself.
         "Fine . . ." he blurts out, too swiftly, he doesn't even bother holding the words back to give them some credibility.
         "Come on, Tristian, you're not-"
         "I said I'm fine, okay?" Tristian nearly snarls back. But all the teeth have rotted away. "It's not important. Okay? It's not important."
         "But you were there," Jina whispers, reminding him. Like he needs the reflection. He probably sees it every time he closes his eyes for more than a second. "You found her when . . ." Jina tumbles over the words, unable to find the right context to fit the image.
         "And it was . . . hard, all right?" he snaps, nearly hugging himself, trying to send them all away. But nobody's listening.
         "Then how can you say that you're-"
         "Because there are more important things to worry about!" Tristian explodes and even Brown finds himself pressing back into his seat, trying to keep back from the hurricane edges of that helpless anger. Is that what Carl stared into the eyes of, before he ran right into his doom? Is that what he saw? Or are there deeper levels, dungeon monsters shackled with rusted chains.
         "I mean, you're . . . Lena's upstairs and she's sleeping now but when she wakes up who knows what's going to happen . . ." Tristian hoarsely shouts, his voice barely even carrying even with all the force behind it. "And . . . you're her best friend," he flings an arm out toward Jina, who does her best not to flinch and only barely fails in that effort, "and you're scared for her because . . . because of what happened and . . ." he whirls, his motions forming a three sided circular dance, "Joe's been here all night, trying to help everyone and make sure that we all stay sane . . . and . . . and . . ." and now he spins around, hugging his stomach with tense forearms, eyes blank marbles gazing at the inside of nothing, "then there's me." A bitter laugh escapes from the wreck of his throat, paddling furiously. "And you want to know how I am, Jina? You want to know?"
         "Tristian, don't-"
         "I feel like I've swallowed glass and . . . I can feel it, all broken and jagged, inside . . . just, tearing me up . . ." he makes a sickened face, like he's about to vomit it all, "and every breath I take just sends . . . slivers right into my . . ." his fingers are poking at his chest, saying more than his words ever can, even as his features cycle through a dozen kinds of pain.
         "But you know what . . ." Tristian gasps, "none of that matters, okay? None. Because Lena's hurt and when she's . . . better maybe then I can indulge in . . . pain and pity," his lips curl unpleasantly over the word. "But not now. Nothing I feel now is . . . important, because I . . . I couldn't . . ."
         His body shudders violently, and for a second Brown does think he's going to vomit. He's worse than back at the diner, Brown realizes, far worse. This has been tormenting him all night but he won't vent his grief, his anger, instead he keeps it all buried inside and makes himself feel guilty that it even exists. Layers and layers and layers. He's fooled them all, every time Brown thinks he's stripped a coating away there's still more. And they all look like his skin. It's maddening.
         Jina takes a few wavery steps toward him. Tristian isn't facing her now, his head is turned toward the wall, like he's about to ram his head right through the wood and metal. The one hand they can see has curled into a fist, the knuckles lightly rapping the wall, pressing up against it. Isometrics as part of acceptance. Tone your way to a better emotional you.
         "Dammit, Tristian," Jina hisses, her hand on his back, like her touch might pull him away from the brink, "you did all you could. Nobody blames you. I don't, Joe doesn't, and Lena certainly doesn't. To keep doing this to yourself is-"
         "Don't you think I know that?" comes the strained response, bullets shattering plate glass. "And don't you think I'm past caring . . ." his voice is a ragged glimpse into a personal hell where brimstone is the least dangerous substance there. "Because it's not enough, Jina. They tell me . . . that I couldn't have done anything else and . . . it's not enough . . . because she's still upstairs, still hurt and . . . oh God . . ." his voice is a hoarse lament, "I wasn't fast enough, I just wasn't good enough . . ." and he's facing the wall completely now, like he's trying to melt into it. Fade back into the woodwork in the midst of the lemming rush away from it.
         "Tristian, it's okay . . ." Jina tells him gently, her hand rubbing his back, the human touch he so desperately needs but refuses to accept. His spine must feel like a bone xylophone, each vertebrae sounding the same mournful note.
         "No, it's not," he nearly shouts but all his energy for yelling is gone now. His hand strikes the wall but there's no force behind it either. Brown can see Tristian and he's barely present anymore. There's nothing left. "It's not," he repeats sadly. A choked laugh clogs his voice. "I . . . I tell myself that everyone . . . that everyone fails, that nobody can always succeed, and that . . . those people get through it, they . . . accept it and . . . oh God . . . they . . ." both his hands are up against the wall, his eyes are shut tight, trying to block out the world, and his face is pressed flat on the surface. Trying to break his nose through sheer pressure. Just for spite.
         "I can't . . ." he gasps. "God help me, but I can't. I try so hard and I . . . Jina, I can't take this anymore. Everyone can do it, but . . ." he shudders tersely, his entire body seeming to vibrate at the same dark pitch. Brown can feel the movements striking the marrow of his bones. For no reason he finds himself holding his breath.
         "I can't do this anymore," he says, his hands sliding down the wall, friction reddening his fists. They make a small squealing sound as they descend. In a softer voice, he whispers, "But I don't know what else to do anymore."
         Jina steps to the side, so she can see his face. Uncharted emotions struggle over her features. Self consciously, she pushes some hair back behind her ears. "Tristian . . ." she says softly, placing a hand over his too rigid arm, "you've got to learn."
         With agonizing slowness he opens bloodshot eyes, turning his head to her, as if in a daze that he can't make himself wake up from. His body shudders again, repressed emotions playing his organs like jagged riffs off a broken guitar. A whimper of utter helplessness crawls from lips clenched together so tightly that they might start bleeding from the sheer pressure.
         Jina stares right into his eyes and says as clearly as she can, in a way that makes Brown prouder of her than he ever has been, "We won't let you stay like this, Tristian. It's gone far enough."
         He returns her gaze while remaining eerily silent. Then, a shudder begins from somewhere deep in his body, quickly becoming more and more violent as the moment increases, like he's purging something foul from the deepest recesses he can find, like he'll rattle his entire body apart just to eject it, knowing at least that he died clean. Pure.
         But after a second, his lips part, and he manages to croak out just one word.
         "Help."
         Just one word.
         Then his entire body jerks, a spasm of coughing. Someone's taken the lid off and all the gases are escaping, streamers fleeing the ship, bucking the body as they depart. Tristian thrashes in a rippling motion, once, nearly slamming his head into the wall. Brown is already on his feet but it's all over. Even as he's crossing the room, his steps military smart, inspection strides, it's all over.
         Jina's already there, the girl on the scene, her surprised step back erased by a counterstep forward, her hand darting to his arm, trying to keep him from spiralling down whatever dark drain he just opened up. "Tristian!"
         Tristian flips himself over heavily, bracing his back to the wall, his arm twitching like he's trying hard not to brush her off.. "I'm okay . . ." he mutters, and his hands are shaking. Tiny earthquakes. Almost a blur they're shaking so hard. He's pressing them against his face, trying to quiet the tremors. "I'm okay," he says again, his voice muffled.
         Brown's finally reached him now, coming up on his other side. Jina's staring at Tristian with soft eyes, her arms crossed over her chest, like she's discovered a patch of sudden cold. She exchanges glances with Brown, who only gives the tiniest of shrugs. There's not much else to say. The night's tried to wear them all down but they're all still standing. It couldn't break them. The cost was high, though. For weeks they'll still be finding fractures. Hairline cracks subject to the smallest pressures. You never find them until it's too late.
         Tristian slowly turns his head, like it's balanced on a wobbly pole, over to face Brown. He's struck by how tired the man looks. It's affected his eyes now, bleeding into his entire face. Even his skin seems to hang loosely, in folds. But at the same time there's a quietness there, a wall that wouldn't break before now having finally come down. And then there's rubble and damage and debris but the main thing is that the wall is down. You can always clean up later. But you have to start somewhere.
         "You going to be all right?" Brown asks somberly.
         Tristian sucks in a ragged breath, arching his body like a curved bridge, closing his eyes with the effort, like an old pain is coming back to haunt him, but it's not as bad as he once thought it was. Pain may not go away but we can get used to it. We can deal with it. It's not the end of the world.
         He nods with a jerk, almost giving himself whiplash. If you don't get the motion out now you'll never get another chance. "Yeah," he whispers. "Eventually." The smile that he reveals takes some effort. "One day."
         He pushes himself off the wall, locking his legs into place, perhaps trying to show them that he doesn't need their help, forcing the illusion for just one more time. But they know better now. And maybe Tristian does too. Brown hopes Tristian realizes that it's not a game you can play and simply pack up the cards and step away when you lose. You crumple once and they never let you forget it. If you try and stand up to the world alone, it'll beat you down every single goddamned time.
         "So . . . now what?" Tristian asks, his voice hushed, a man waking up from a dream that seemed too real. Maybe he'd rather be back in the dream. When you've lived your entire life that way, you don't want to replay all that time again. It was bad enough the first time and even if it didn't turn out the best, at least you know how it turned out. The uncertainty of a second run through can be horrifying. The unknown always is.
         "Now?" Brown answers, running his hand through his hair, feeling like he could use a shower and twelve hours solid sleep. He'd even more rather talk about what the hell just happened with Tristian. But he senses that the man would very much not like to talk about that right now. And Brown has to respect that. They're demanded so much of Tristian tonight, he's up against the alley and just needs a few seconds to breathe. He's not asking for much. "Now we should try and get some rest." Clasping his hands together, he looks at the two of them. "Anyone up for some breakfast or something?" Besides, there's always tomorrow.
         Tristian looks about to protest, opens his mouth to do so and then shifts gear in midmotion and merely says, "Good idea. We won't do Lena any good if we're all exhausted by the time she wakes up." A small grin warps his face for a second. "The rate we're going she's going to have drive us home." His words seem mostly directed to Jina, who has thus far been running on momentum, leaving pieces of herself behind as she runs, flaking off in the kinetic heat. Brown could go for several more hours without sleep and still be able to fly an airplane he's never seen before, while he can't remember Tristian ever sleeping for more than an hour or two every few days anyway. Freaks, all of them. How does Jina stand their company? Must be something in the water around here. She can't see them for the muck encrusted shambling wrecks of men that they are. Come out of the dank river to take her for their bride. Brown has to work hard to not keep that thought from breaking out all over his face.
         Jina's the only one who seems reluctant. "I don't know . . ." she ventures, "I was hoping, you know, to see Lena . . . before I left." There's a hopeful note in her voice.
         "Visiting hours are over," Tristian explains to her, trying to be as gentle as he can. "They wouldn't let us up there anyway. We'll have to wait until morning anyway."
         "But you saw her," the tone is tiredly accusing. Jina doesn't have the energy to really fight but then if she were awake the answer would have already occurred to her.
         "I had . . . some assistance," is all Tristian says.
         "Oh." Brown shoots her a look that says don't argue. Jina, to her credit, says nothing more, which either means she came to that conclusion independently or actually listened to him for once. Brown doesn't even mention that he saw Lena as well, and hopes Tristian keeps quiet about it. Right now, there's no need. Tie off the frayed ends of this night and start a new story tomorrow. Lock the book shut and deal with a fresh page. It's the way it has to be done. Or else you're burdened by the weight of your own words.
         "Shall we be off then, children?" Brown asks, changing the subject with the ease of a misdirection artist, running his branch-like words over the beachsand of the conversation, wiping the slate clean, giving them something else to worry about, remaking it all anew.
         "I guess," Jina answers and Tristian gives a silent nod of assent. He's already got the jacket zippered back up but Brown had no idea when the hell did he that. The man is still full of surprises, it seems. Even ground down to the finest powder, he can still slip in and give you a shock. That's Tristian for you.
         As they file out the door, a ragged band, all of them awake for nearly a day and doing their best not to stagger into something, Jina twists slightly as she exits and says, "You know, you two are welcome to crash at my place . . . it's closer and everything . . ." she can't come out and say it, of course, but Brown can see clearly that's what she wants. She doesn't want to be alone tonight. It's that simple. And they've all been through this together, a tiny community based on shared suffering, with the hope that it's going to get better. It has to. Else there's no reason to go on.
         Tristian and Brown share glances, Tristian raising his eyebrows ever so slightly and giving a whatthehell type shrug. Brown can only agree with the sentiment, whatever that might be.
         "We'd love to," Brown tells her, the three of them walking in a line stretching across the hallway. Jina's on one end, he's on the other. Tristian is in the center, his head darting back and forth depending on who's talking, watching the tennis match of words. Follow the bouncing ball.
         A sudden wicked little thought occurs to him and he finds himself grinning. "And anyway, Jina, I think you'd be stuck with us. For a while longer at least."
         Her eyes narrow. "Why's that?"
         "You're the only one with a car here." He chuckles to himself, simply enjoying the sound for a few seconds. Then his face falls into a deadly serious expression, enough to almost make them stop walking. "And, good God, do you know what else?"
         Jina glances at Tristian, "Do I even want to hear this?"
         Before Tristian can even answer, Brown spits out, "I call the couch!"
         "Hey! Can he do that?"
         "I guess so." Her voice betrays a small giggle.
         "Fair and square, buddy."
         "We're not even at the house yet."
         "Sour grapes won't change a thing. Where's that inhuman speed now, hm?"
         "I think you're out of luck, Tristian."
         "Hope you enjoy the floor. Look at this way, you've slept on worse."
         "You'd best make sure you sleep with one eye open, pal."
         "Oh gosh, I'm scared. Don't I look scared, Jina?"
         "Oh God, will you two stop it . . ."
         Encroaching light banishes the voices.
         A second later there's no sound at all. Just the pristine bell-like clarity of the silence. And tightness seemingly stretched to infinity finally relaxing.