To enter the inner chambers of Solaris, the dark heart and soul of the city in the sky-- the place into which all vanished persons disappear, and never emerge as anything akin to their former selves-- required the highest security clearance; only those of the utmost importance went into there of their own free will.

The woman who strode languidly down the dim corridor, a long, sinuous shadow thrown behind her by the after-hours lighting, did not appear to have any such importance at first glance. She wore a plain blue dress woven of thick, slightly coarse fabric; a light-green shawl was knotted about her shoulders.

Clothes of such primitive make were never seen among the elite of Solaris, only among the dwellers of the land. Every so often she would reach for something hung about her neck, fingers toying idly as it shone metallic in the dull light. It was not her pendant, of course; she knew that, and /he/ would know that as well.

Then again, nor did the finely woven shawl, embroidered with the initials "K.W." where the last stitch had been placed, belong to her; neither did the dress. Neither, for that matter, did the body.

Pausing and standing before a pair of double doors in the hall-- for she knew the layout of the place as an ordinary woman might know the contours of her own body--she pressed a button on the adjoining wall.

The sibilant hiss of the door, the sudden shaft of sharp light, went unnoticed in the dimness of the laboratory, though its vastness produced echoes to rival the famed Great Rift in Elru. No, the intent of the man standing in that room, silent as stone, was focused upon a single, glittering glass tube.

Warm, golden light suffused his face, softening what lines there were in the smooth skin, though his eyes were quite obviously lost, riveted upon the emptiness of the crystalline nanochamber. Had the motions of his chest not indicated breath, he might have been just a part of the room, inanimate. Dead.

The woman at the door advanced forward, a single step, into the room. She was not-- or had not been-- what one would call classically beautiful; she was tall, too much so to ever hope to be dainty or delicate.

Her features were sharp, rather angular, and faintly unfeminine; there was a certain masculinity in the way she carried herself, though it seemed more a function of her build than through any deliberate action on her part.

She stepped forward once again, the sound of that step ringing hollowly in the chamber of steel, and the pale light afforded by the empty reactor illuminated her face. Her half-lidded eyes shone coal-black in the luminescence, utterly void of emotion as she spoke at last: "I will bring the boy here tomorrow."

Moments passed, after her voice broke the silence into a million shards. Moments in which the tall, carven figure standing before the tube did not move, or respond in any way that might be seen by the woman behind him. Only his eyes flickered, moving their gaze from the center of the swirling liquid to trace her reflection on the glass.

Resentment flashed in that gaze, for an instant. Her face was unfamiliar to him, still, and the desire that it remain so grew in the back of his mind, though he knew that would be impossible.

So he waited, gathering his thoughts, his anger, that ringing emptiness he could not explain... and compressed it as he had learned to do, over the years, crushed it until it was no more than an annoying buzz in the background. It wouldn't do to deal with /her/ in that state of emotion; certainly not when he himself was unsure just why he suffered so in the first place.

The woman's long, broad fingers wove quietly into her jet hair, pulling it back from her face, stroking through its dark reams as something like enjoyment tugged a semblance of a smile out of her thin lips.

Once she had prided herself on this hair, the woman who had first owned this body: the voice that fought and kicked and screamed at the recesses of her mind day and night, clawing and striking with her words, with maternal rage.

Near the roots of the dark hair, a faint tint of indigo could be seen; she unbound the hair from its careful knot, shaking it luxuriantly over her shoulders.

Idly, her hands fell to the pendant hanging about her neck; she toyed with the chain, regarding it with an unflinching raven eye.

"Missing it already? I would not have thought you capable..."

Finally, he moved; just a slight shift of his stance toward her voice, his way of acknowledging her presence at last. His expression did not change, though his voice lacked what his features would have painted quite plainly had she seen them. That flicker, that touch of resentment, refused to leave him.

"A waste." The words were softly spoken, in his strong baritone. "It is intellectually offensive to me, if nothing else." /Lie.../ He refused to face her, though he sensed her gaze boring into his back. /Lie.../

She let her hands fall slack at her sides, hands lightly clenched, and shifted her pose, uncomfortable in the thick ungainly bundle of a dress. "Not a waste..." she murmured, voice caught and splintered into a thousand echoes by the dark corners of the room.

Her voice was a low alto, not sweet or coy in any manner, and had an undeniably commanding air about it. "Think of it... we have finally solved the problem of Cain. You need not trouble yourself with such thoughts any longer."

"Or trouble /you/, perhaps...?" He forced his voice to a lighter - if still serious - note, eyes still fastened to her reflection. She was by no means as beautiful now as she had been... A relief of sorts, to his mind. He was tired... and he had no intention of playing her games this time. Too many things were at stake, now.

If she wanted to have her fun... she would be welcome to return to her 'family', such as it was.

As if picking up the unspoken cue from him, she replied, a trace of coarseness in her voice, "I had no easy time of getting away from them tonight. You should be thankful that I made this effort for you..."

He turned, finally, delicate features sharpened by the angle of the light. "Grateful? Certainly. Would I be anything else, to the woman who caused me to reach my current status?" The smile that crossed his lips was faintly mocking. "I do, as always, appreciate your time and effort." The dull ache receded somewhat, as he turned to face her fully. Yet...

A glitter caught his eye, just as he was about to speak. A pendant? Yes... hanging from a bronzed chain about her neck, swinging about as her fingers toyed with the links...

And the dull ache sharpened, suddenly, lancing through him like the sword he had weilded, so long ago.

Her lips curved, crested in a thin, tight-lipped smile. She let the shining chain slip through her fingers, sleek and supple against her flesh, and the cross pendant came to rest just below the clasp of her shawl. "Do you like it? I had such trouble hunting it down after so many years..."

Her words did not quite achieve the coquettish effect she had been striving for; the voice was too low, faintly manlike. Nothing about the body she currently inhabited was suited to the role of a coy seductress; rather than appearing merely inept, however, the overall effect of her manner was both disturbing and vulgar.

The words didn't come to him, for a moment; they caught in his throat as if choked back, snapping the fragile rhythm of his breathing. But hsi mind overruled his body, and the sharp sensation of pain, throttling it back little by little.

He started forward without really thinking, and instead of replying to her taunt, reached with a slender hand to seize the pendant.

He thought, for a moment, of simply ripping it from her neck as he had done their first meeting. But the impulse passed quickly -- the coolness of the metal sliding against his palm, icy and warm from her fingers at the same time, calmed him somewhat. A silly thing, perhaps... but the memory of the woman who had worn such a pendant in the past was enough to soothe his anger, evem now.

The woman once known as Karen slowly yielded her smile as he examined the pendant reverently, though her eyes-- those dark pools of nothingness-- betrayed just a flicker of satisfaction at his surrender. She brushed a tawny lock of hair from his forehead, ensuring that her fingers brushed his cheek as she did so-- the touch as faint as a breath against his skin.

"You've been working too hard lately..." Her voice dropped to a low whisper, faintly husky; the impression of vulgarity never once relented.

Krelian let the pendant slip from his fingers, even as his mind tried to capture those faint traces of peace it had granted him, for those few, precious moments. Even around /her/ neck, the glitter of that ancient symbol managed to capture some thread of his soul.

/Damn you, Miang.../

The beginnings of a bitter smile tried to move his lips again; he pushed it back, as he did her hand. /No... that is already done, isn't it.../ If there was, in fact, a Hell outside of their own miserable world... Was there really any question that she would grace it with her presence? "Surely you know I have reason to work so hard... If you're right about your boy, special preparations must be made."

She hung back a few feet, hands idle, tilting her head to one side. "Tonight?" she inquired calmly, a note of sharpness in her voice. "Surely, whatever preparations you make under such duress will be of inferior quality to those you make when fully rested..."

A thin, cultured eyebrow rises, the tone of her voice goading a smile to his lips once again despite his initial desire to resist it. Even after long years he had not quite learned all of the nuances of her tones, or her words... but when disturbed, there was always a certain quality to her voice... One he cherished as a rare pleasure.

Almost as pleasing as her pain... Years ago that thought might have evoked disgust, or self-loathing; but years ago, he hadn't been caught in her web. In that, he and Lacan shared a common bond. "Yes, tonight..." The sensation faded, somewhat, as he pushed it back with the rest of his thoughts. "What better time to work than in the peace of darkness? The presence of my aides would be... inconvenient."

"You're troubled," she whispered, that low, indelicate voice sounding almost sympathetic-- or like a parody of sympathy. One broad hand rose to clasp the links of the chain; the other flew to his face, fingers pressing against his lips with a certain delicacy. "You ought to put such thoughts aside until you're rested..."

He turned away from her abruptly, striding to a computer console and striking the lights off with a few quick commands. Only the golden glow of the nanochamber remained, to illuminate the chamber. "Disturbed?" Krelian started back to her after a moment, chains of apprehention weighing him down. "And what did you expect, /Karen/...? My tasks are nothing to be casual about.

"...Certainly not as yours are." His last words were laced with a certain bitterness.

Miang tilted her head to one side, twining a strand of jet hair around one finger, the cold pools of her eyes lost in the darkness of the dimmed room. "Suit yourself. I recall that it was you, after all, who handed me your creation, at the last minute, to dispose of. Was that task beneath your dignity as well? Perhaps your 'son' wasn't so important to you as you had wanted me to think..."

Her voice was peculiarly void of satisfaction or even spite: it was thin, sharp as a splinter of glass.

Lips compressed in silence.

What would she know, of that? She was just a puppet, hardly capable of her own feelings - and if that assumption was wrong, he had yet to see proof of it. Yet, human or not, she did have that uncanny ability to strike her mark every time...

And yet he said nothing. Words would imply weakness, and he loathed weakness.

"Then again..." He could tell that she /knew/ she had hit a nerve, though her face gave no outward indication of a reaction to this; she went on as if she had merely been struck by an errant thought. "It is often easy for parents to come to hate their children when they fail to measure up to our hopes and dreams. Even those not born of our own flesh and blood..."

She inclined her head again to face him, her long, sharp face looking nearly hawklike and predatory in the ill light.

"You do have your good qualities, Miang..." He emulated the tilt of her head, far more feminine in his execution of the gesture. Again he reaches for her, fingers tracing the indentation under her lips. Tempting, that... tempting thoughts... "You have a wonderful way with words..." His hand recoiled suddenly, snapping back to strike her across the cheek.

Perhaps it /was/ weak to give in to one's temptations... but infallibility was for God, not his messengers.

She weathered the blow with more resilience than he might have expected, gritting her teeth faintly at the fresh pain. One hand flew up to nurse her stricken cheek, and she turned her gaze to the shadows.

"How low of you. Who would have thought you of all people would resort to striking a woman..."

Her voice was quieter this time, almost at the level of the harsh exhalation of breath which escaped her lips next. She turned back to him: her eyes were cold, oily, with a miasma about them that made him feel vaguely tainted. With one long finger she caressed the scarlet gem in the center of the pendant.

"Then again... as you yourself once told me, there are no truly noble or hateful qualities in us, are there not? We love or loathe in others those things which we love or loathe in ourselves..."

She paused a moment, tipping her head again and almost meeting his gaze, pursing her thin lips tidily: the gesture was a disturbing emulation of the detached, sweetly purposeful manner she so often adopted in her more feminine guises. "It is our nature. We cannot help it," she finished, reiterating the phrase he had so oft repeated to her in more cynical moments.

"Call it... curiosity," he replied softly, hand itching to strike her again. But he resisted the impulse, instead reaching up to shift her hand, and caress the redness of her cheek with a mocking tenderness. "I am only human, after all... even I fall prey to my flaws, from time to time." Lacan's words, those... as it had been Lacan's prompting that caused him to react so violently to her.

Miang raised an eyebrow in surprise at the familiar words. "You remember your friends, then, after all these years? You surprise me, Krelian..." She made his name into a low, purrlike whisper. "I would have thought you would consider such things beneath your importance."

Krelian withdrew his hand, running it over his circlet to push hair from his eyes. His apprehension grew steadily, stiffening his limbs in a sort of panic he had rarely felt outside of battle, until this woman had come into his life. "Memories require little effort and less thought." He shifted back, slightly, away from the warmth of her soft breath.

"Sometimes it is easier to forget..." Miang breathed, extending a hand to touch the side of his cheek, even as he seemed to recoil from her very presence. In the eerie light shed by the nanochamber, a small glitter reflected off of something on her hand: a gold band around one finger.

Her dark eyes flickered to the ring for a moment, gazing at it with some sort of idle contempt-- contempt for both the bond it signified and the woman whose vow had put it there, the woman whose rage even now scored at the depths of Miang's thoughts, trapped in a battle she would never win.

/Silence, girl/, she called out into the well of her mind.

"You must understand the dillemma of not being /allowed/ to forget..." Krelian tried to stiffen his resolve, forcing himself to stand his ground and endure her touch. "Or are your memories so numerous that such would be impossible...?" His limbs nearly shook with the effort of remaining under her fingers; his mind screamed at him to move away.

But he did not. /Why?/ Why did he not draw away from that loathesome touch, that almost-delicate caress? Stupid pride? It was the same every time... no matter whether she did more than pat his cheek, or brush his fingers, or not.

Yet there was always a fire that burned behind her eyes... that never changed. Never, no matter the body she wore. The fleeting familiarity of that iron will...

/Fool... Fool.../ His lips tightened, and he fell silent.

"There are things that cannot be forgotten easily..." She shrugged, twin locks of black hair framing her face on either side; with an almost disgusting tenderness, she trailed her fingers along the edge of his cheekbone. Somehow, she had sensed the hint of surrender in his eyes, and was onto him now, a predator spurred by the scent of blood.

"Some things are merely trifles... why not forget about your trifles for tonight?" She inclined her head gently, letting a sign of hunger show in those dark, passionless eyes.

The offer was more direct, this time, than he thought he'd ever heard from her lips. Was it the nature of this woman she had posessed, showing through somehow?

Krelian bit back a scowl. Or was it simply that she knew what his answer would be, eventually? How transparent he must be... and how utterly pathetic. His ability to oppress his emotion was almost a thing of pride to him, yet he could not resist the advances of such an abhorant woman as Miang?

There was nothing, in her face, that reminded him of Sophia's beauty. There was no kindness in her eyes, no well-meaning intent... and something still drew him toward her, pulling him with a vice-like grip. He told himself resistance would be ridiculous, as she always got what she wanted, in the end... and he hated himself for that lie.

Another bitter moment passed and he tore his eyes away, gesturing mutely, sharply to the door.

Anything, to get away from that light... that empty light...

Miang averted her eyes, for a moment, to the room's sole source of illumination, and the focus of Krelian's few neurotic glances behind his shoulder as he left. "Isn't it better to not have to worry about it...?" she inquired coolly, surveying the empty tube, and followed out of the room in his wake, shoes clicking a sharp staccato rhythm on the chill tiled floor.

"If it is half of what you intended for it to be, our problems will take care of themselves in time. Its mind will be vulnerable, like soft clay-- we need only mold it to a focus, give it a target for its lust to destroy."

"/If/ it survives..." Krelian paused by a panel, requesting a transport tube and waiting somewhat impatiently for her to catch up. "Even such a being as this might be killed, in this stage of growth. I should have planned better..."

Guilt fueled his words - he bit it back, clenching his teeth together as if that alone would help combat the weight dragging at his mind. As soon as the transport door slid open he stepped in, hardly waiting for Miang to enter before keying the door closed and punching in their destination.

"If this doesn't work..."

She stepped in just behind him, toying thoughtfully with the pendant and tracing her fingers over the sharp ends. "This shall be the ultimate test of its capabilities, then, shall it not?"

Eyes turned to that cold oily black again, that void without emotion or passion, she went on, "What use would such a 'weapon' be to us if it could not even thrive at its current level of development? If it dies, that old body has but a few years left in it anyway. If it lives, our task will simply be that much easier."

Another caustic reply rose in his throat, and he forced it back, hardly granting her more than a glance to acknowledge her words. "Perhaps..." was all he said in response. The doors slid open and he strode through without another word, the hall blurring by as he focused on the door at the end of the hall that led to his quarters.

He couldn't help thinking, oddly enough, that perhaps they were expecting a bit too much out of his child... An infant was not capable of meeting their expectations, and if he was to grow as fast as they hoped... he still had to live through the various stages of childhood, regardless of how short they turned out to be.

But those were thoughts for another time... contemplations for the darkness just before dawn, when even /she/ would be asleep...

Miang placed her hand over his own as they stopped before the door; the palms of her hands-- no, he reminded himself, the hands of the woman whose body and mind had been violated and torn from her, whomever she had been-- were slightly rough, the skin tough and thick in places. Hands that had seen many days of housework, most likely.

Facing away from him, she spoke: "If it dies, it would have been worthless to us even to begin with. Without suffering it cannot know its true strength..." Her voice dropped to a thin, intense whisper in the echoing loneliness of the corridor.

"Yes, we are living testament to that, aren't we?" He withdrew his hand, pressing it against the identification panel - the door slid open immediately, admitting them to his rooms.

She smiled, this time, when he spoke the words. It was a cold and brittle smile, void of its usual delicate charm this time: unrestrained, and satisfied. "We have born so much pain, the two of us, have we not?"

Idly brushing the pendant again as her hand shifted to brush hair from her eyes, she followed him through the door. "Children seldom do appreciate the sacrifices their parents make for them, or why they must suffer sometimes too..." Her eyes were frigid cold for a moment: black ice.

He spun on his heel to face her, quite suddenly, eyes dark pools of conflict. "You would know nothing of that!" His eyes narrowed, voice clipping the words and lending to them a darkness somewhere between anger and distant pain. "You administer the suffering, you do not feel it. /I/ have borne the pain, while you simply hold the leash..."

He reached to take the pendant from her hands again, tongue nearly curdling with the last statement. With a sharp yank, he ripped it from her neck, closing his fingers around the gold in a fist.

Miang gave a sharp cry as the chain snapped, stilling for a moment and quickly bringing her hand to rub the back of her neck. Her thin lips tensed, as if she were on the verge of forming a word, but she seemed to think better of it, and lapsed into silence.

"Such impertinence. You think your pain compares to mine?" This time, she allowed a thin edge of anger to enter her voice, even knowing he would perceive it-- and correctly so-- to mean he had won, at least for the moment being. "You walk this earth by your own choice, your body twisted and augmented to live hundreds of years after it should have withered and died like any ordinary human's.

"But you do so of your own will; you might take that sword of yours and end your life at any time if you so wished. I am a prisoner-- a prisoner of the one we call 'God.' For ten thousand years I have walked among humans. Do you think I have not wished, in all those years, to simply /die/ like any other human?

"Do you think it does not pain me that I /cannot/ die-- that I must live, no matter how terrible the indignities I suffer, the pain I bear, the sorrow and the hate? You may be a learned man, Krelian, but you are a child still."

Her hand lay clutched against her chest, clenching into a fist as if unconsciously seeking the presence of the pendant which had hung there moments ago. "How dare you presume to speak to me of suffering, /boy./"

"Oh, I would never presume to accuse you of such a thing, Miang..." His fist tightened around the pendant, and a trickle of warm blood trailed down over his wrist to stain a dark sleeve. "But even you have your flaws, even you have holes in your oh-so-vast experience..."

Krelian trailed off for a moment, voice shaking badly. /Only a fool bets his life in a game against the gods.../ His fist tightened further.

"There is only one true form of suffering in this world, Miang, and you have not come near understanding it. Your memories may lend you some idea of it, and your experience may have given you words to explain it, but I'll be /damned/ if you have ever truly, honestly felt love for any living being on this planet of your own will.

"We're just sheep to you, and our only importance is our slaughter. So you've explained, so patiently over the years." Blood ran in rivulets from his fist, sluggish even as he held it before her eyes. "Sacrifice created this symbol, Miang... /love/ is what allowed your plans to live on. And you scorn it..." He wanted to throw it at her, strike her, shout at her... anything to alleviate the knot tightening in his throat.

He turned his back to her abruptly, staring down at his fist, and the crimson ribbons trailing over his pale skin. It was useless... utterly useless. And what had he succeeded in doing? Nothing, but to make himself look like a fool for the second time that night...

Miang raised her chin slightly, a dark glint in her eyes as she clutched a hand against her chest. "Watch your tongue, boy..." The words were low, carefully measured, and yet each controlled word was a pound of flesh: something old and ashen inside her had been restirred, and she despised it with the rage of centuries upon centuries.

"Tonight need not be a pleasure for you. I shall decide that at my discretion."

Krelian simply snorted, forcing his fingers to release their death-grip on the pendant. The pain was minimal, hardly worth notice, but the blood was a mess. He despised the scent of it, and he hated the memories it brought back.

Carefully, he extracted the pendant, wincing slightly as he pulled a tine from his flesh, and let the chain slide back to hang from his wrist as he examined the wound. Miang, he did his best to ignore as he eyed the gashes - much like a cat might have, he chose to turn his attention elsewhere, rather than acknowledging his childish stupidity of a moment before.

He'd suffered enough humiliation already...

At length she turned, jet eyes focused on the thin stripes of blood marring his hand; that cold tainted aura was gone from her eyes, though they offered no visible indication of sympathy, either.

She motioned over to him with quiet, lithe steps, dress rustling, and slipped a finger through the dangling chain of the blood-smeared cross, yanking it from his hands-- although the gesture was not an overtly unkind one. "I shall keep this for now..." The voice was both faintly disapproving and maternal at once, a mother irritated with a child's tantrum.

He flinched, the chain sliding from his fingers like fire. But he made no move to retrieve it, or vocalize a protest. In fact, he did not move at all, aside from the shudder that marred his now perfect - if dark - composure.

He'd done this before... Same woman, same pendant, same wounds...

Miang stepped closer, breaching the last of the space between them, as she mutely slid the scarlet-smeared pendant into a roughly sewn pocket.

Still silent, eyes half-lidded, she reached for his shoulder-- her body was stronger than he'd expected, this latest victim of hers, though he knew full well her true strength lay not in physical blows-- as her hand slid into his own, prying apart the blood-sticky fingers and intertwining with them.

There was a soft shiver then, like a brief current of electricity rippling across the surface of his skin, and her hand warmed in his own; he felt a chill of power emanating from her body even as the heat against his skin grew nearly unbearable.

It was a struggle to keep from yanking his hand away, but after what seemed like an eternity the heat began to fade. A shudder coursed through his body as the power receded, and his skin knit itself together seemingly of its own accord. The sensation was eerie, at best... yet even as the tingle subsided, the very real warmth of her hand against the now smooth flesh intruded into his thoughts.

Krelian's fingers tightened, ever so slightly. He couldn't crush this hand, couldn't harm it as he might have the delicate frame of her last vessel. Nor would he, though his anger still simmered, beneath the wall of his mental control.

No, he drew comfort from her, for a brief moment... and despised himself for it.

Miang let her hand slip from his, wiping her fingers idly on his sleeve; the expression in her eyes was faintly lazy, distracted, as if to remind him beyond doubt that the brief expenditure of power had been merely a middling trifle to her, a mere whisper of what she /could/ have done.

Her other hand traced the contours of his shoulder and neck, weaving into his hair with a light and practiced touch, though the hands themselves were large and indelicate.

It was always this way, in the end... He would rail against her silken bonds, try to break them away... and all he had ever succeeded in doing was falling...

But she wasn't so terrible as her determination was. Take her purpose away, and she was simply another pawn, locked in the same struggle he was. It was her will, her terrible composure, far smoother and polished than his would ever be, that struck him with a sort of fear.

He saw in her all that he feared. He saw in her those very same feelings he had suffered as a child, the terror associated with being deserted and forgotten. She was afraid of it, deep in the recesses of her mind; she'd confessed it once, and only once... and he'd believed it to be sincere.

What a terrible trick of fate, to see understanding in such a person. Or to seek, rather... She may very well understand, but the only sympathy he ever saw in her eyes was simply a manufactured mask for his benefit. And he accepted it... pathetic as that was.

His fingers wrapped themselves tighter about her hand. Breathing a resigned sigh, his eyelids slid closed.

The woman who had once been Karen watched his eyes close, and smiled, a thin, self-satisfied little smile. In silence, she wreathed her hands around his shoulders, drawing tendrils of hair away from his face and tucking them behind his ears as she pressed her mouth against his.

The feel of the lips against his own, the shape of her mouth, the taste of it were all utterly alien to him; and yet the softly forceful kiss that followed, the serpentlike flicks of her tongue as it slid between his lips, were all familiar to him. Too much so.

He drew back a little, turning his face just slightly to break contact with her lips, willing his eyes to remain closed, and the world dark. He didn't want to see the faint, mocking shimmer of satisfaction in her eyes... didn't want to see this new face... nor her to see the emotion, faint as it was, stirring at the depths of his mind.

But it was an old motion, a game, almost. Miang's hands smoothed his hair away, long fingers tracing the line between circlet and skin until they lifted the ring of gold from his head with a swiftness born of long practice. The fine strands of his hair fell between them, shielding his face from her sight - for a moment. A short, precious moment.

Her hands laced around his neck again, and he felt the heat of rising breaths brush his cheek in successive rhythm. "Think of nothing but me..." she whispered, her voice a low, silken caress.

It wasn't enough, was it? It wasn't ever enough. Not once had he managed to escape this blue-haired demon... Never. But what law stated this was inevitable? He was no part of her precious cycle.

And yet he found himself responding anyway, running his fingers thorugh her jet hair and capturing her mouth with an almost forceful kiss. She wasn't so enticing as her previous incarnation, and even still... Even still he was finding some reason, in some obscure corner of his mind, to give in to those base impulses he worked so hard to suppress...

The smell that enshrouded him as her lips pressed to his was oddly unsettling to him, at some deep level: the slightly sweet minglings of soap, of baked cookies and young children, the scent of a mother. Overlaying it was the sharp, pungent scent of alcohol, of the sterile Solarian medical labs.

There were some musky trappings of cologne intermingled with it-- the smell of another man's presence.

A few thick strands of her hair tickled his cheek lightly. He decided it best not to think about whom he might be sharing this woman with.

In the dim light, Miang reached, with a single, lithe motion, for the gold band that encircled her finger: it was not her ring, and she had pledged no vows. Karen's wordless keen of fury and sorrow rose at the back of her skull and died into a dark, muted whimper as she tugged the ring from the long, bony finger, tossing it-- with some small measure of contempt-- onto the table beside the bed. There was a tiny, metallic chime as it landed: in the morning, she would put it on again and return to a family not her own.

Krelian reached out, with a groping hand, toward the control panel anchored to the wall, dimming the lights as the hands which encircled him tugged him down towards the bed. The source of illumination faded away, slowly; the world became darkness, a peaceful oblivion where he would not have to look, to see the things her hands were doing to his body, the things he was doing to hers. Close his eyes, plunge into darkness, and he could pretend the things he couldn't see no longer existed.

Which was, of course, how it had always been.


~Fin.~


(Okay, I hope that wasn't /too/ creepy. ^^ And if you're wondering, Amber wrote for Krelian and Azusa (me) wrote for Miang. the part about how Miang/Karen acquired the pendant is our personal theory, of course, as is the whole... insinuation of the exact nature of their relationship.)