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He didn't let him go, not when he stumbled, not when he choked. It was not until Lurks' weapon appeared that Taym broke his grip, fumbling backwards in sudden and immediate terror even as it became obvious that the goal was escaping hurt, not dealing it out. He shook an ephemeral, skittering shape off the end of the knife and he met Lurks' eyes and stared, gently baffled, looking for a moment very much like a stupid, thoughtless clone of himself.

"Let him go," he barked, and then, immediately, with a violent and animal toss of his head: "No, don't."

His body language was all wrong. He half-turned, restless, frantic, as though America were putting some small animal out of its misery and he could not bring himself to watch, let alone to help. But he couldn't leave her there and in a breath's time he'd gritted his teeth and once again he snaked in, flinching away from the curve of the sickle, the knife making a strange, unreal clicking sound as he drove it again into the space where he thought Lurks' ribs might be, under the cloak. With a flicker he thought of the dreams where a single bullet or a decisive movement was enough to end the conflict and he realized, too late, that the appeal had been, not in the ease, not in the human familiarity, but in the fact that it was painless.

He was hurting him, doling out all the pain that he'd been spared. Exhilarated and terrified and sick with guilt, he no longer hesitated. The sudden contorting of his features was one partially of remorse and partially of animal pleasure and vicious competence, of the same feeling that crept up in him on the training fields but unleashed, given something to pursue. Fiona, wordlessly, rejoiced in finally, finally, after a year of restraint and self-control and measured hatred, being given over to absolute violence.

He had sometimes read, in his life before, dispassionate news articles: a body found with five bullet holes, with stab wounds in the double digits. He had sometimes reflected, unfeelingly, that it seemed so unrealistic, and this from a man who knew well what kind of emotion-driven excesses a human was capable of. He would try to picture the frantic and feral movements of an arm, again and again and again, pushed to gratuitous viciousness, and he never could. He would never need to try again. He would have a stark memory, steeped in euphoria and grief and elation and contrition and fear. Reason fled, and the thing that set on Lurks now was as wild and unthinking as a creature miles and realities away, its jaw crushed, its limbs snapped, under Konstantin Bashmet's steady boot.

The Original's erratic behavior was obvious enough for even Lurks to see: a man-- just a man-- torn between sorrow and resentment, caught in his own web of emotion and paralyzed by indecision.

It did not last long. It was like a switch flipped, and any lingering bouts of remorse bled into a tenacity unmatched by any sane person. Between the two of them he was a ragdoll, a small frame of bony and shadow and tattered clothing. The location Taym stabbed him in meant nothing-- it was the sting of runic-blade dragging against bone and fear that would grind him down into oblivion, into dissipation, coupled with the chain that wound around him like a python made of ice.

The training had worn off, he recognized, in a part of his mind locked away, tamped down with a protective shield of furious betrayal. He would have to do better, next time, and perhaps ensure that Tam was deprived for longer before kindness set in. He had behaved so well, but if it did not last, then it was all for naught.

It distressed him, because the Mother would surely be displeased.

There were no bugs, now: every bit of fear Lurks had was concentrated into fighting his enemies off. He looked at the red one with a sorrowful face, as if he pitied her for the work she was doing to aid and abet Taym in his crimes.

It hurt too much for him to say much, to offer any words of sinewy dark promises of what would come the next time. His weapon disappeared next, the crude chains fading away, retreating back into Lurks to preserve his energy, and even his wings seemed to shrink, and his height, and--

No.

With a last ditch burst of energy, Lurks launched his sickle at the ground beneath him: it swung and spun in a tornado arc, burrowing into the sand, kicking it up high above their heads, spinning it across the dips and valleys of the nearby dunes.

"The Mother will know," he hissed, quiet enough that they would need to strain to hear it, but each syllable was enunciated with the cruelty of a spoilt child not getting their way and threatening the one who deprived them.

And then he was gone, vanished down, a segment of his torn scarf and cloak left behind, caught in Stryker's chains or Fiona's edge.

Watching, waiting. He lived his namesake, until it was safe.

They had it. As a team the two held a brutal advantage against the creature and like this they could do more than simply hurt it, they could capture it, they could make sure it never...

Whatever victory America saw in their immediate future turned to dust. Sand. And all that was left was she and he, facing off, weapons drawn and target fled. For a moment, still keyed for a fight, America began to raise Stryker in a defensive stance, one she'd learned when trying to defend against him before. When the dagger disappeared, the girl let out a long, quiet breath and let Stryker slip back as well.

She looked him over and this would be the time that someone should comfort him. To give him some there-there honey's and it's okay now's. Placing a gentle hand at his lower back, America said quietly, "Next time use a signal. Don't hold your partner back, just signal a stand down."

The anger and vitrol she'd planned on saving for that advice had bled out when the creature had refused to. It wasn't the time or place for that anymore than it was for loving reassurance.

"C'mon, we've still work to do."

While she watched Taym closely and stayed near, just a step behind and full of ready tension, America did not move to support him. Not while he could walk on his own. It was a very long, very quiet trip back to camp on her part.

As it came into sight, the girl finally spoke up again, "You should handle the paperwork. They'll need all your details." You need to stay in the camp for as long as possible. You shouldn't be here at all. America never was as subtle as she thought.

"Paperwork's work. It's even in the name," America complained, voice edging on petulant. But they entered the camp and there were no Hunters quietly doing paperwork. Everything was hustle and get it done as headsets were being shoved at them while Caelius gave orders. There was nothing left for them to do, except their jobs.