Safe in his Citadel room, the Terrorist frees his hand from his long gray glove and sighs.
There are far too many wily people about, and he has no wish to get on the wrong side of any of them. Until he’s ready. Then it’ll be fun.
A sharp pain erupts like a nuclear cloud in front of his shoulder-blade as he flops down on his plain white bed. He’s jarred the wound again. Idiot. As he tries to reach into the dresser for his latest hit in a long line of fast-heal patches, there comes a knock at the door.
“You fool! Get in here!”
He shoves the bear mask in the drawer and instantly shortens his blond hair, quick and dirty like. Did he remember to take the things off? The stupid-looking hose with the floppy boots?
But the person who enters his room is not who he thought it would be.
“It must be terrible, being separated from your stubble for this long, Kos’, just for me,” Flamina tells him, reaching out with white arms to take his clean cheeks before she’s crossed the room.
Her fingers reach as she moves; her flesh touches his. For a moment, he is back there, standing in House Oakdown’s fields, the red grass so bright it burns the retinas. He remembers that, when the grass finally blooms, the sweet violet flowers fly up and fill the air with their silent strains. His father called it the Third Sunrise.