(Beyond the Pale) Chapter 22: When the Wall Breaks
Summary
Freedom is messy, rescue is relative, and some reunions hurt worse than captivity.
Prev: Chapter 21 | Next: Chapter 23 | Fic Home | AO3
Word Count: 4.3k
The commentator inhaled audibly, his voice rising with practiced excitement. “Well now, ladies and gentlemen, if you thought our scurriers had already faced the worst the Prince’s labyrinth had to offer—think again. Allow me to introduce the final hunter of today’s festivities…”
The mech climbed into the light, its three legs churning as it cleared the ramp. One of its cannons was visibly warped and useless, metal fused and blackened from old damage—but the remaining barrel swiveled smoothly as it adjusted its aim, and the repeating blaster beneath it whined as it powered up.
“Veteran mercenary, avid collector of spice refineries, and a man who paid handsomely for the privilege of ending this hunt riding an attack pod, of all things—Drokan Pell!” There was a pause, and a faint rustle, as if someone had leaned away from the mic. “Is that…can they use—” Another pause, longer this time. “Oh…oh, really?” The commentator cleared his throat, enthusiasm snapping back into place as the volume rose again. “Well. In that case—looks like anything goes!”
In the viewing box, the Bad Batch leaned forward as one, their binders rattling as the bank of vidscreens along the waist-high wall brightened. The feeds adjusted automatically, pulling wide to capture the scale of what had emerged and now dominated the bare area. So close was the ambulatory weapon that the spectators in Scrist's private box didn't need to rely on the monitors. It towered above the retaining wall that ran around the entire expanse.
“That’s not good,” Wrecker muttered.
Hunter’s breath left him slowly. “That’s…that’s a walker.”
Tech’s eyes flicked rapidly between the screens and the tense layout almost directly below them in the arena. “An AT-AP, Republic-era heavy assault platform. Tripedal configuration, designed for heavy siege operations. I was not aware that any had survived the war.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Echo snapped. "A sniper tank, in this space? That's complete overkill."
“The primary mass-driver appears inoperative,” Tech continued, his eyes narrowing during his detached ramble. “That is quite fortunate.”
Echo flung his manacled arms up in the direction of the arena. “Oh, great. So it’s only got an ion cannon and a repeater left. That's all.”
Scrist lounged back in his chair, his manicured claws tapping each other as he steepled his fingers in front of him. “Overkill is such an ugly word.”
Beside him, Xirn’s dark eyes narrowed in his ugly face, displeasure rippling through his otherwise languid posture. “This was not part of our agreement,” he snapped icily, his voice thick with disdain.
Scrist didn’t look at him. His attention was fixated on the lonely figures on the stark landscape painfully devoid of refuge. “The odds,” he said smugly, “always favor the house.” He picked up his half-empty goblet and tipped it down his throat. "Always."
The walker’s shadow crept across the ground of the arena like an ominous stain, its long legs unfolding with mechanical patience. Each step landed with a weight that Synnovea felt through her boots, up through her spine. Above them, the crowd whooped a multilingual symphony of disbelief and excitement, the sound distorted into something almost oceanic by the cavernous space. Abruptly, she stopped moving, standing there with her arm clamped over her midsection.
Omega nearly collided with her back. “We have to go,” she said, breathless, her fingers closing around Synnovea’s wrist and tugging hard. “We have to—” It was the same as tugging at a statue. At first, Omega thought she hadn’t heard. Then she realized it wasn’t that at all.
Synnovea had stopped listing to the left; her hand no longer guarded her injured side. Her shoulders eased with a kind of weary resignation. Her spine straightened as her stance shifted. The frantic, hunted tension drained out of her posture and was replaced by something unnervingly still.“Synnovea?” Omega pulled again, harder this time, fear thinning out her voice. Still nothing.
At last, Synnovea spoke.
“I’m so tired of this.”
The words were flat and so soft Omega could barely catch them. Slowly, Synnovea turned her head—not toward the walker, but away from it. Her gaze drifted, unfocused, as if tracking something no one else could see. When her eyes finally settled on Omega, it was with a pause that made the air between them feel like strangers, as though Omega had only just now been registered.
They were no longer gray.
The color itself was almost beside the point—it was the absence behind it that froze her. Gold, yes, but flat and distant, like light reflected off dimly polished metal. There was no warmth there, no recognition in the way Omega understood it. Just a moment of consideration, like someone noticing an object left in an inconvenient place. Omega’s stomach dropped. For a split second, she was back on the Marauder—being shoved aside, the look on Synnovea’s face distant and wrong, like she’d stepped out of herself. The memory hit hard enough to steal her breath.
“We have to run,” Omega said again, weaker this time as she faced the woman with growing dread. “That thing has a cannon. And a repeater. And—”
Synnovea glanced past her, back toward the walker, eyes flicking over it with mild interest. The way someone might regard a mess they’d hoped not to deal with. The detached observation didn't match up with the hum of the heavy blaster as it neared operational power.
“Mm,” she murmured. The sound was soft, almost amused. “Yes. I see it.”
The walker’s gun swiveled. A warning burst scorched the ground a few meters to Synnovea’s left, showering sparks and molten stone. The crowd screamed in delight.
Omega flinched, ducking as clods of dirt sprayed them both. Synnovea didn’t.
Another burst struck closer on the right, close enough that the heat washed over them. Omega cried out and stumbled back—but Synnovea merely tilted her head, studying the impact with something like curiosity.
“Running won’t help,” she remarked. Her voice was almost normal, almost, but hollowed out, smoothed razor sharp at the edges in a lighthearted tone that somehow withheld reassurance.
Omega swallowed. “Any moment they'll start shooting—” The ground trembled again as the attack pod took another step forward. Synnovea smiled faintly.
“Yeah,” she said, nodding toward the walker, “that won’t be enough to save them.”
Omega’s hands slipped from her sleeve as Synnovea walked on in an unhurried gait straight toward the towering machine. The roar of the crowd swelled, confused now, uncertain—drawn tight between anticipation and disbelief. It was as though whatever had stepped forward to face the walker had no fear.
In the viewing box, Hunter surged to his feet. “What is she up to?!”
Tech shook his head slowly. “That…does not align with any rational survival model.”
“Well folks,” the commentator breathed, his excitement edging into nervous disbelief, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a scurrier take this approach—she’s advancing straight toward the hunter!” A warning burst screamed across the arena floor, blaster bolts carving molten scars into the earth and stone beside Synnovea’s path.
She didn’t flinch.
"And Drokan fires right out of the gate! This may be the first time the arena has seen such firepower brought to such a small target. Hope you took your holos already, but if you haven't just remember they are always available for purchase at the concession stand on your way out."
Drokan pulled a lever in the gunner's mount and adjusted his aim. Another burst rang out, closer this time. Synnovea paused, glanced down at the scorched ground, and corrected her steps slightly to the right. And high above in his padded box, even Scrist’s smile began to falter.
She kept going.
Not straight at the walker—not quite—but on a shallow diagonal, each step measured, almost relaxed. The repeating blaster whined as it tracked her steps, its barrel adjusting in small, precise increments. She noticed that. Noted the rhythm of its sweep, the fraction of a second it lagged before correcting. She noticed the way the Devaronian hesitated, unsure whether to fire again so close, unsure why she wasn’t running.
A burst tore into the ground ahead of her. Stone spat and sparked near her boots. She adjusted her stride by half a step and kept going. Omega shouted something; the sound slid past her, unimportant. Everything narrowed to angles and distance and timing. The squeakings of the child were inconsequential.
Here.
She stopped.
The walker loomed over her now, all steel and shadow and humming power. She could feel the vibration of it through the soles of her boots, the ion cannon’s charge cycling somewhere above like a held breath. The repeating blaster dipped, centering on her chest. Drokan Pell paused for effect, then made his selection. The blaster opened up in a sustained roar, not warning shots this time but a committed line of fire, bolts stitching the ground in a brutal advance meant to mow her down where she stood.
Synnovea dropped.
She folded into herself with sudden, fluid economy, her knees hitting the ground first, spine curving as she crouched low. Her hands came up over her head, fingers lacing, chin tucked.
Blaster fire raked over her.
The ground around her detonated, dirt and stone exploding upward in choking clouds. Heat slammed into her back, a white-hot line that burned through cloth and skin alike. There was a sharp, wet sensation—pain registering distantly, like an afterthought—followed by a thin spray of blood and flesh flung into the dust.
Omega screamed. The sound cut through the arena just before the crowd erupted, a wall of noise crashing down as spectators surged to their feet. Some cheered. Some shouted in shock. Credits exchanged hands mid-roar even as the blaster slowly spun to a halt, smoking slightly. When the firing stopped, the silence afterward was almost louder.
Dust drifted, slow and heavy.
In the settling haze, Synnovea pitched forward onto her hands, coughing once as she sucked air back into her lungs. Her shoulders shook—not with pain, but with something like hacking laughter held too tightly in the chest. Smoke curled from scorched fabric along her spine. The skin beneath was burned raw, angry and red, edges already blistering under the charred tunic.
Something heavy landed in front of her with a dull thud.
Her braid.
It lay coiled in the dirt, severed cleanly, black hair singed at the ends. For a long, suspended moment, she stared at it as if mildly surprised it was there at all.
Then another object struck the ground beside it.
The collar.
It hit once, bounced, and rolled to a stop, its back plate blown apart, wires sparking weakly before going dark.
Synnovea lifted her head. Her face was streaked with grime and smoke, hair shorn unevenly at the nape, shoulders trembling as she pushed herself upright. She glanced down at the collar, then at the walker towering above her—and smiled. It spread slowly, too wide and far too pleased, as if something long-caged had finally found a crack in the door and decided to tear it off its hinges. Her eyes caught the light through the dust cloud, bright and intent, alive with an unsettling, almost gleeful focus.
The crowd went berserk.
The heavy repeating blaster stuttered once, then twice, its cycling whine breaking into a harsh mechanical cough. Warning lights flared across the gunner’s console. Drokan Pell swore, shoving a control lever aside with unnecessary force.
“Repeater’s jammed,” the commentator shouted, voice pitching high with excitement. “Looks like our scurriers might get a—oh! Oh no, folks, he’s switching to the main cannon—”
The laser cannon began to charge. The sound was different—lower, deeper, a gathering resonance that vibrated through the arena floor and into the bones. The air thickened around the muzzle, heat rippling outward in visible waves. Anyone who’d ever seen it fired before knew what that meant. Not a wound, not even a body left behind. Just a smoking crater.
Synnovea's attention fixed on the cannon with open irritation, like someone confronted with a tedious problem that should not exist anymore. Her head canted slightly as her smile thinned. “Oh,” she murmured softly in an annoyed tone. “Now that’s rude.” She lifted one hand.
It wasn’t a flamboyant gesture, just a deliberate movement. Her fingers curled slowly, one by one, as though grasping something only she could feel. Then she closed her hand into a fist and pulled down.
The cannon slammed.
Not recoiled—slammed—as if the sky itself had seized it and driven it into the ground. The barrel hit the hardpan with a thunderous crack, metal shrieking as it bent and crumpled, folding in on itself at a grotesque angle. It gouged a long, smoking furrow through the arena floor before finally wrenching to a stop.
Inside the walker, systems screamed. Sparks erupted from the gunner’s seat in a violent spray, arcing across Pell’s chest and face. He howled, jerking back as the console overheated beneath his hands. The pilot droid convulsed as its controls overloaded, optics flaring blue-white before going dark.
The commentator lost all pretense of control. “That—what—did you see that? The cannon—by the moons—”
Synnovea didn’t wait. She turned her palm outward this time and pressed.
The walker staggered as if struck by a giant's fist. One massive leg skidded backward, its clawed foot carving a trench into the dirt as the whole machine struggled for balance. The internal explosion went off a heartbeat later. Fire burst from access panels. The pilot compartment blew outward in a spray of shrapnel and flame, obliterating the droid instantly and hurling Drokan Pell hard against his restraints. He had time to scream once.
She made a second, sharper motion—less patience in it this time. The force of it was undeniable now, a concussive wave that flattened dust and debris outward in a rippling ring. The walker tipped, its center of gravity breached beyond recovery. With a creaking groan like a dying god, it plummeted backward in slow motion. Straight into the retaining wall next to the viewing box.
The impact was catastrophic.
The waist-high railing disintegrated as the walker’s bulk crushed into it, tearing away a section of the platform entirely. Hunter yanked Omega’s brothers backward as debris showered the platform. Echo hit the deck hard. Wrecker barreled into Tech, hauling him out of the way as the floor shuddered beneath them. Triage moved on instinct alone, ducking as a slab of broken stone screamed past where his head had been a second earlier.
Seats toppled. Viewers shrieked and scrambled back in panic. Scrist swore loudly, stumbling as the floor lurched beneath his feet. Xirn vanished into the chaos, retreating toward the tunnels without a backward glance. When the dust cleared, the walker lay half-crumpled against the structure, its ruined frame now forming a steep, jagged ramp up to the shattered box.
Synnovea stepped onto its leg. She walked upward with unhurried ease, her boots crunching over bent plating and smoking components as though ascending a set of stairs rather than the corpse of a war machine. Flames licked at the wreckage around her, reflected in her eyes—but she didn’t look at them.
Drokan Pell was still alive.
Barely.
He was crushed into the gunner’s seat at an angle that should not have been possible, armor buckled inward, blood soaking through the front of his jacket. His eyes fluttered open as she approached, unfocused and glassy.
Synnovea crouched in front of him.
Up close, her expression was one of detached curiosity. She studied him the way one might examine a broken experiment, without malice, without sympathy. Drokan saw her. A trembling hand lifted from the console, reaching out in a weak, reflexive gesture. Help. Mercy. Something.
For a moment—just one—she lifted a single finger, hovering it close to his outstretched hand.
Almost touching.
It hovered just shy of his grasp, close enough that he strained toward it, breath hitching in wet, broken gasps.
Then she stopped.
His eyes fixed on the centimeter between their hands. Synnovea idly watched his strength fail. Watched his hand fall, fingers slackening as the light drained from his eyes. When he went still, she straightened, already uninterested, and climbed the last few feet into the viewing box without a backward glance.
The crowd was howling now—running, stampeding—but in the ruined box, no one spoke. She stood among them like something summoned rather than born, smoke and dust clinging to her, eyes bright and unreadable. The clones were still on the ground, scattered where the impact had thrown them. For a heartbeat, no one moved—then the memory muscle of training kicked in. Bruised muscles screamed protest as Hunter and Echo pushed themselves upright. Wrecker rolled to a knee, already reaching for Tech to haul him up.
Synnovea did not look at them. She stood amid the wreckage as if alone, gaze drifting over the torn railing and the empty seats beyond. They might as well have been furniture. Or insects.
Echo was the first to act.
He lunged for Scrist, who had frozen in place, staring at the ruin of his arena with slack disbelief. Echo grabbed his arm, snapping his vambrace open and driving the scomp link home with a vicious jab. Sparks burst from Scrist’s control band as Echo broke it, the device shrieking once before dying in a curl of smoke.
Scrist yelled in alarm. That sound finally drew her attention—not to him, but to the absence beside him. Her head turned in a slow, sweeping motion, settling on the empty space where Xirn had been only moments before. Understanding settled with a curl of contempt.
“The Anzat,” she murmured. It was disgust—like noticing rot. She took a step toward the tunnel entrance, already shifting her weight as if to hunt him down, when a hand closed around her arm.
“Synnovea,” Hunter said urgently. “We have to go! We need our gear before the Zygerrians regroup.”
She halted. Her gaze dropped to where his fingers wrapped around her sleeve. Then it lifted—slowly—to his face. Hunter had faced war droids, bounty hunters, Separatist generals. None of that prepared him for the look in her eyes.
They were no longer the soft, storm-gray he remembered. They moved too quickly, tracking, assessing—sliding over him and past him as if cataloguing a space rather than seeing a person. When her gaze shifted, it swept the box in a single, efficient arc: Omega clambering up the walker with careful steps, deliberately not looking at Drokan’s body. Wrecker tearing binders from Tech and Echo, snapping collars and flinging them aside. Triage standing apart, utterly still, watching her with something tight and unreadable drawn across his face.
Then she glanced down at his hand on her arm as though inspecting garbage. Hunter let go. Almost absently, she turned back to Scrist. He was still choking, scrubbing at his face as the broken control sparked uselessly on his wrist. Without moving closer, she lifted one hand.
Scrist rose. His feet left the floor as if gravity had simply forgotten him, his body jerking as an invisible grip closed around his throat. His face purpled beneath his fur, green eyes bulging as he scrabbled at nothing.
“Where,” she asked mildly, voice calm and conversational, “are the effects of the slaves kept?”
Scrist tried to speak. Failed. Tried again. “N—next room,” he gasped. “No, two—two rooms down—”
Her fingers relaxed slightly. “Thank you,” she said, with perfect courtesy.
Then her hand snapped sideways.
Scrist’s head struck the wall with a dull, wet crack. The sound cut through the box like a blaster shot. His body crumpled immediately, sliding down the stone, skull crushed, very obviously dead.
For a second, no one spoke.
Then the Bad Batch exploded into motion.
“Gear room, two down,” Echo said rapidly.
“Wrecker, you and me,” Hunter replied.
“On it,” Wrecker grunted, already moving.
“Tech, get ready to override their door controls,” Hunter added.
Their voices overlapped, sharp and urgent, plans forming and reforming in seconds.
Synnovea watched them with open amusement now, her head tilted as her lips curved just slightly. The look was not unkind—but it was deeply unsettling, as though she were entertained by a clever trick performed by trained animals.
She peered down at her side, commenting lightly, almost gleefully. “Well…that's going to leave a mark.” The smile lingered just long enough for him to ponder what she meant. Then her knees buckled. It was instant and abrupt—like a marionette whose strings had been severed. She folded in on herself without warning, consciousness dropping away as her body hit the shattered floor.
They ran.
Rappelling lines burned through gloves as they slid down the sheer outer wall of the city, ten meters of stone dropping away beneath their boots. The arena behind them was still in chaos—sirens wailing, distant shouts echoing—but none of them looked back. Wrecker hit the ground first, knees flexing to absorb the impact, Synnovea slung over his shoulder like dead weight. She didn’t stir. Her head lolled against his back, dark hair shorn and scorched, face pale and utterly still.
“Move, move!” Hunter snapped, already cutting for the treeline.
They tore into the jungle at a dead run, branches whipping at armor, roots grabbing at their boots. The trees swallowed them whole—thick leaves, choking humidity, the ground slick with moss and rot. Behind them, metal gates groaned open. Blaster fire followed. Red bolts lanced through the trees, searing bark, lighting the undergrowth in violent flashes. A shot scorched past Echo’s shoulder; another exploded a fern into ash at Omega’s feet.
“ArEx!” She shouted into her comm as she sprinted, lungs heaving. “Start the ship—now! We’re coming in hot!” Static crackled, then frantic beeping answered her, the Marauder’s engines whining to life somewhere ahead.
The Zygerrians were gaining. Heavy boots pounded closer, voices could be heard barking orders, the rhythm of pursuit tightening like a noose over their newly acquired freedom. Wrecker adjusted his grip on Synnovea, his jaw clenched, as he pounded through the underbrush.
Then the jungle detonated into brightly-colored shapes dropping out of the trees—small, fast, feral. Omega risked a glance back, and her heart leapt. Kowakian monkey lizards swarmed the pursuers in a living wave, clinging to armor and faces, biting, shrieking in high-pitched voices, yanking fur and flesh with wild abandon. Zygerrians spun crazily, shouting, blasters firing wildly into the air as they tried to beat the creatures off. One of them was waving Wrecker's binocs that it was using to clobber a guard in the face.
They burst into the clearing just as the Marauder’s ramp slammed down. ArEx hovered at the hatch, its optics flashing, beeping in frantic relief. Tech shoved past the droid without slowing, skidding into the cockpit and dropping into the pilot’s seat. “Hold on,” he said, already pulling the yoke back.
Hunter was the last to climb the steps. “That’s it—go!” He yelled as he slammed his palm onto the airlock panel. The ramp snapped shut as the ship lifted, its engines screaming. Blaster bolts streaked past the hull; one glanced off the shields in a flare of blue light. Then the trees fell away beneath them, the jungle shrinking to a dark green blur as Tech punched them straight up, breaking atmosphere in a bone-rattling climb.
Only then did the tension begin to ease. Inside the hold, Triage staggered back against the wall, one hand braced on the bulkhead, breathing hard. His shoulders sagged as the adrenaline drained, exhaustion crashing in all at once. He slid down until he was half-sitting, half-leaning, eyes closed for a moment too long. Wrecker carefully lowered Synnovea to the deck, easing her into a seated position against the wall. He adjusted her so her head rested safely in the corner, one massive hand lingering at her shoulder as if to make sure she stayed upright. She didn’t wake.
The Marauder broke through the clouds, leaving Kowak behind—chaos, blood, and a fallen arena disappearing into the void.
The ship settled into a steadier hum as it cleared Kowak’s gravity well, the deck still thrumming with residual vibration. Emergency lights lifted to a normal level. The smell of scorched metal and blood lingered in the air, clinging to everything. Once past the exosphere, the shuddering ceased altogether, and the resulting quiet was almost as deafening as the arena's crowd.
Tech didn’t leave the pilot’s seat. His hands moved in precise, economical patterns as he ran scans and course corrections in tandem with navigation. “We are clear of immediate pursuit,” he said, more to the ship than anyone else. “Hull integrity acceptable. Minor scoring only.”
Wrecker had wedged himself into the copilot’s chair, one arm draped over the back, chest still rising and falling a little too fast. “Heh,” he muttered. “That was fun. Terrifyin’, but fun.”
Hunter crouched near the rear of the cockpit, checking Omega over with a practiced eye. She sat on a crate, legs swinging, grime-streaked and scraped but very much alive. “I’m fine,” she insisted, a little breathless. “I told you. Just bumps.”
“Humor me,” Hunter said, soft but firm, finishing his check before nodding once. “Okay.”
In the corner, Synnovea lay slumped against the wall where Wrecker had set her, her breathing shallow but steady. Tech left the controls and extended a scanner toward her, eyes narrowing as data streamed across his display.
“Multiple superficial blaster burns along the dorsal ridge and shoulders,” he reported. “Significant tissue damage, but non-lethal. That's fortunate; it could have been much worse. Pain response should be… considerable.” After a pause, his brow furrowed. “However, these readings do not account for the behavioral anomaly observed in the arena.”
Before anyone could respond, Synnovea stirred. Wincing, her eyes—gray, storm-tossed rings—squinted against the glare. She sucked in a sharp breath, shoulders pulling in jerkily as pain registered all at once. Her hand went to her side, fingers trembling. For a heartbeat she looked lost, eyes unfocused, then awareness snapped into place. She pushed herself upright.
“Easy,” Wrecker started, already half out of his seat. She ignored him, grabbing at the back of one of the chairs to propel her upright.
“Synnovea—” Hunter tried.
She was already on her feet, swaying slightly, one hand braced against the wall. Tech moved to intercept, his scanner still raised, but she brushed past him with more force than her condition warranted. “I’m fine,” she said hoarsely, though she very clearly wasn’t. Her gaze swept the ship, frantic now, searching. The cockpit, the hold, the familiar armor, the familiar faces—until it found him.
Triage stood near the rear gunner mount, half in shadow, one shoulder against the bulkhead. He looked exhausted in the bone-deep way that didn’t fade with rest. The scar along his throat caught the light through his beard as he turned.
They froze.
The rest of the ship ceased to exist.
Synnovea took a step toward him, relief flooding her features in a torrent so naked it hurt to see. “You’re—” Her voice broke. She swallowed and tried again. “You’re alive.” She reached for him, fingers lifting toward his shoulder as if drawn there by instinct.
The snap echoed through the hold.
Triage caught her wrist midair, grip iron-hard, stopping her cold. The sound of it—skin on skin, sudden and sharp—made Omega flinch in surprise.
Synnovea startled, pain and confusion flickering across her face. She didn’t pull away, just stared at where his hand held her, then up at him. “Triage,” she said quietly. “I— I’ve been trying to find you. For an entire cycle. I didn’t know if—”
“Really,” he pronounced.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t grateful. It was dry, almost empty, edged with something that might have been disbelief. His eyes never left her face.
She nodded, a little desperately. “Yes. I looked everywhere I could. I followed every lead that made sense. I thought— I hoped—” She faltered, then pushed on through his stony silence. “Did any of Beacon squad make it out with you? Do you know where they are?”
His grip loosened, but he didn’t let go right away. He stared at her as if she’d asked him something incomprehensible. Then he released her wrist and answered.
“Dead,” he said flatly. “They’re all dead.”
The words landed like a physical blow.
Synnovea’s face crumpled, grief breaking through the shock in a sharp, silent wave. She took a step closer without seeming to realize she’d moved. “What… what happened to them?”
Triage took a step back.
He looked at her then as if she’d lost all sense, as if the question itself was unreal.
“…You did.”
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