Time passed. The Sheriff helped to bag the driver's body, and then slipped into the back. The women smiled at him as he sat down on the bench to the boy's left, where his remaining arm was - and it was only then he noticed two of his fingers were missing on that side.

"God, you dumb bastard," he whispered, taking up the boy's hand gingerly - but the missing fingers were already scarred over. He had such delicate, feminine fingers, his nails so nicely cared for despite being kept short so they didn't interfere with farm work.

The callouses on his hands were hard earned. Every ounc of dense muscle on his body was fought for with hard labor. He was a good kid... an honest heart.

It took hours to verify that every egg was destroyed, that every creature was dead - and even more time to douse them in kerosene and burn them. Then, of course, they had to sweep the lake, which involved two of them in a small inflatable motor driven boat.

Sometime during the lake sweep, Malachi opened his eyes.

"Hey, hey, kiddo," Blake rasped.

"Oh... hey... hey, it's you, Hanna. I'm sorry I hit you, sir," he mumbled, half-asleep.

"What? Oh, with the... nah, kiddo. You had to. Saved my god damn life," the big man told him, gripping his hand tight. By then, the stumps of his fingers had been fully healed, the stitches removed. "Why, kiddo? Why not just move?"

Mal's face positively lit up. The Sheriff knew that he was drugged out of his mind, that had to be why he was smiling-

"Because not moving was the right thing to do for everyone," he said. "...for everyone. For you. You were always nice to me. You were my first. The town needs you more than it needs a bad farmer."

"Goddesses' memory," he whispered, bowing his head. When he looked up again, Mal looked scared.

"D... Did I say something bad...? I just... the town doesn't get much police... police budget, and you overwork and... and they can't lose you, I j-just-"

"Shhh, kid. I just... you saved my life. You killed it, all on your own. Something so big it scared the hell out of me. It got into my mind and broke it - but you were strong," he told him, voice strained.

It looked like Mal's entire world lit up, as if everything he had ever wanted had just come true. It was then that he shifted, quite obviously feeling that something was off. Blinking blearily, he looked down himself.

"Hey... my right arm's gone... that's pretty weird."

"The creature, the matriarch. It hit you. They... it couldn't be recovered and... God, kid. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"It's just an arm... It's just an arm," Mal said, letting his head fall back to the rolled up cloth they'd given him to use as a pillow. "You're okay... the village is okay... I can bury my parents... but most importantly, sir, you're okay."

"Kid... god, kid. You're a hero," Blake managed, struggling to get the words out.

"Oh... I guess so. I just... I'm just glad it'll all be okay now. You'll be okay."

The big man couldn't find anymore words to force out.

A small, mousey girl with freckles tapped his hand. When he looked to her, she held up a vial.

"He's sedated now. He will be until tomorrow night when we leave. He needs rest, and to be woken up slowly. Things have to be explained to-"

"Will you treat him right?" he asked, standing up sharply. She blinked up at him, as his hand shifted to his sidearm.

"Mistress Xexiva will hurt him. She will torture him. He will suffer, and toil, and scream and fight and find there is no escape," she said, calm as could be as he drew the revolver and aimed it at her face. Her smile never faltered, her lips barely moved, as she added in a murmur, "and in the end, he will find happiness in understanding the Mark is not a curse, but a gift. He'll find a life full of purpose, and when he finds the person that purpose binds to... he will follow them until death comes for him same as she comes for all of us."

"Will he find people like him? Will he find people who understand him? Tell me to my fucking face that Xexiva will do her best for the boy!"

The woman stood. He felt invisible iron wires bind around his wrist, thread around his fingers, tie around his gun. No matter how strong he was, he couldn't stop the forces from lifting the gun to his own head.

After several tense seconds, the magazine dropped from the weapon. The slide racked back and then rode forward again, ejecting the round.

Only then was he forced to pull the trigger, uselessly.

"Understand me when I tell you this. We are not toys. We may be trained to be polite, to be tolerant, to withstand a flurry of bullshit - but we are people, same as you are. So take this to be my own words, and my own feelings. Attempt in any way to badmouth Xexiva to me again, and you will lose more than just a leg," she told him, tone grim and serious.

"Enough! Release him!" Tala barked. "The man is passionate. Forgive him his worry in this moment! Blake! In the cab, with me! I need someone to operate the gun controls, just in case!"

The iron tough wires of telekinetic force released his arm in an instant. He lowered his gun, staring hard at the woman - and then, despite the anger and fear bubbling in his gut, managed to growl, "I'm sorry."

"Forgiven," she replied, her calm tone returned.

Blake stalked from the vehicle, stalking around to the passenger side of the driver's cabin. Tala was already seated and belt-harness secured in the driver's seat. He worked his harness in place, loosening the straps to their maximum. She started the engine. In minutes, they were moving.

"The gun overheated. They reloaded it, but it's showing overheat shutdown. Wires melted," he said, slowly, staring at the screen in front of him.

"They don't know that. We had a lot going on."

"Then why have me in the cab?"

"So you can cry," she said, making a point of turning the auto-drive on. Making sure he saw, she drew a plastic case from her pocket, and slipped in a pair of ear plugs - and then engaged the VR screen glasses connected by thick tangles of wire to the vehicle's console.

They were, of course, intended as a backup in case the primary frontal screens were damaged.

In that way, she could neither see, nor hear him. She couldn't see him break, couldn't see his face twist and his features contort. She couldn't see his ursine teeth bared, couldn't see him hunch over, couldn't hear him sobbing so hard his stomach ached and a blood vessel popped in his eye.

She couldn't hear him howling in the sealed space, screaming against ancient memories of dead soldiers and slaughtered friends, of old allies and seeing kids just like Mal with their goddamn guts blown out and their brains all over the ground and the mutants and the monsters and the-

And all of it.

Three hours later, after a flask full of whiskey and a pack full of cigarettes, he tapped her shoulder.

Even with the goggles off and the plugs out, neither said a word for nearly an hour.

Finally, he asked, "why...? Why give me dignity?"

"I didn't give you dignity. I gave you permission," she replied.

"What?"

The wolf smiled sadly at him. For the first time, he saw the strangest hint of many years on her face - many years more than it looked like she could possibly have to her name.

"Even the strongest men and the most experienced leaders sometimes need people to tell them what to do."

"You didn't tell me to do anything," he replied, ears flicking with his confusion and curiosity.

With a soft smile, and a hand rested on his thigh, she said, "not all orders come phrased as orders. Not all commands end with a period or an exclamation point. You're welcome, Sheriff."

He sat there, staring at the gun targeting screen. It was bizarre - utterly, utterly bizarre.

She'd played him so cleverly he didn't even know how to respond, at first.

"Why make me cry?"

"Because a man like you is afraid to show the world his pain. He thinks a moment of weakness is as good as his death in the eyes of those he protects. A man of your kind thinks showing his heart and soul is weakness."

"Is it not?" he asked.

The wolf turned her eyes back to the screen.

"I don't think so. But you do. So, I gave you an out, sir. Crying alone just hurts more. Crying with someone feels weak, to you. I let you cry - alone, but together," she explained, holding out her hand. He handed her his cigarette and set to work lighting another. "It's not your fault, Hannifal."

"Hanna is fine. I know. I know it's not my fault. But god, hearing him talk like he's less than me, seeing him-"

She gripped his hand, squeezing tight enough to hurt.

"We are Marked. We have feelings. We have opinions. We are people. We are also predisposed to want to serve, to want to protect. Many of us resist it, but when there is someone we idolize, we see as a hero..."

"He's not beneath me."

She chuckled, saying, "were soldiers under your command beneath you?"

"No. They were people. They were allies. I led, they followed, but that didn't make them any less-"

She stopped the vehicle, meeting eyes with him. For a few moments, they were silent - and then she spoke, softly.

"Now imagine if that wasn't just a career choice. Imagine if it was who you are. If you are a follower. If that's how you're happy, how you function best. Imagine living your life for someone else - not because you're week, or broken, but because you WANT to. Because that is how your brain is WIRED."

He sighed softly.

"I don't have to imagine that, Talla."

The vehicle began to move again.

"When we get back to the village, you want to tell me what you mean by that?" she asked.

"Not now. Not when I'm this beaten down and worn out."

"...would you prefer to get irresponsibly drunk and have weird sex instead?"

The sheriff nodded, slowly, cigarette ash dropping on his lap.

"Killing monsters makes me horny."

"Amazing you're not a Marked, Hanna."

"I hate you people."

She snorted.

"No... you don't."