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Tate should have been asleep. It was ridiculously late, going on two in the morning, and she had in fact had every intention of sleeping... around four hours ago. Her hair was out of its tie, she was wearing a matched set of flannel pajamas, but she'd sat down for half an hour of Haunting Ground and just. Never checked the clock. It was so easy to get absorbed into video gaming, it was ridiculous. Just insane.

It still startled her to feel her cell phone, wedged between her thigh and the arm of the loveseat, go off. Cursing, she managed to flip open her phone before it launched into the actual ringtone; that would have woken Mariska and Iuri up for sure. Then she would have caught it. The annoyance died a swift death at the message she read: Are you up? I kinda need some help.

For a long moment, she stared at the glowing letters. In fact, the screen was dimming, about to go out, when she finally keyed in:



And then, a moment later, she added:



Horrible things were running through her head--what if he was hurt, the kind of hurt that usually ended in a morgue? She pinched herself as she left her room, slid down the stairs, and stopped in the entre-sol to find her shoes. No, he couldn't be that hurt. If he had been, he wouldn't have texted her. He would have called the hospital. Life wasn't a manga.

She pulled on her coat and left the house to sit on the steps, cell phone clutched tightly in hand.

She saw him approaching; it wasn't hard, her street was deserted at this hour. And if she'd been a lesser person, she would have let her jaw hang open at what she saw; but for once, she managed to control her expressions as she skittered across the snowy lawn to grab her friend's shoulders, her green eyes frantically searching his face.

Oh god oh god oh god he was hurt. He hadn't been kidding. His entire face was practically covered in blood. Was his nose broken?

"What the hell happened," said Tate. It was not a question. She pulled him into her house, into the kitchen (he'd never been in there before; it was very clean, very modern, very black and white. Tate sat him down on one of the stools around the center island, pulled out a towel, and pressed it against the side of his face. Then, looking down at his fingers, she sighed and dragged him and the stool to the sink. She ran the water, frowning, and then shoved his hands into the gathering pool in the sink.

Her hands on her hips, she said, "Hold on to your story, I'm gonna get Uncle Ivan so he can fix your nose. Don't move." And, not waiting for a yea or a nay, she pivoted on her heel and hurried out and up the stairs.

Tate returned, her uncle in tow. He looked tired, exhausted, even, but there was an alertness about his eyes when he saw Ladon that was similarly echoed in his niece's. The two of them really did look scarily alike--and if the picture on the wall was any indication, they shared much more in common appearance-wise than Tate and her own father.

"See, Uncle Ivan? He's hurt," Tate said, holding out one hand to indicate Ladon, as if it could be anyone else. She frowned at her dark-haired friend, expression stormy as she shoved his hands back under the water. "Stop it or you're gonna get gangrene," she said firmly, the wrists of her pajamas soaked when she lifted her hands back out. "I think his nose is broken," she said over her shoulder.

Dr. Konstantin sighed, and relocated his niece to the other stool at the island despite her protests; he turned off the water, checked Ladon's hands. "Those aren't in danger of infection," he said. "Any pins or needles?" He was looking at Ladon's face, concerned. "You were right, good eye. It should be easy to fix. That cut isn't too deep, either. Tell me why you're going to be an artist again?"

Tate grumped over to Ladon's other side, dipping a towel in the water to scrub off the blood around his cut. Being surrounded by two similar faces was probably overwhelming, in addition to being injured. And Tate looked so weird, her face overwhelmed with concern.

"So. Do you want to go to the hospital, or would you rather I fix you up, call your mother, and keep you here tonight?" Ivan was searching through a drawer for something, his expression just as worried as Tate's.

Tate scowled. She wasn't pleased by this at all; she hated to worry, because worry had a tendency to make bad things happen. Setting the wet towel aside, she said, idly, "Well, at least if it heals funny, you'll look rakish and daring." It didn't quite come across as the levity she wanted, but she was trying. Meanwhile, her uncle was still sorting through the drawer, lips pressed into a thin line.

"Hold his head for me, would you," said Ivan, shutting the drawer and setting a first aid kit on the counter. Tate did as she was told, spidery hands gentle in a way her appearance, and her actions previously, suggested she couldn't be. And, quickly, with an ease that suggested he'd done this before, Ivan slid Ladon's nose back into place with a crunch. "Will you be all right with the rest of it," he asked Tate, washing his hands in the sink.

She nodded. "I think we can manage. Thanks, uncle." Ivan said good night and disappeared up the stairs, leaving Tate and Ladon alone in the kitchen. For a moment, Tate was engrossed in covering the gash on her friend's cheek with gauze and tape, then she was off roaming the kitchen.

"He won't tell," she said, her head in the freezer. "I mean, as long as you don't go sneaking off, 'cause if you're not here when he checks then he's going to fuss. I mean, you can sneak off, if you want, but he'll fuss. And call your mother, and fuss some more. When he has time, he likes to fuss." She pulled out a bag of frozen peas, and another of corn; she took two clean towels, picked up the bloody ones and threw them in what appeared to be a hamper, pulled the drain on the sink. "C'mon, let's go upstairs."

She was rummaging in the storage space under her bed, pulling out beaten-up old magazines and setting them aside until, finally, she located a pillow and a blanket. With a sigh, she tucked the pillow under his head, covered him with the heavy comforter; on the screen of her television was a menu for a video game. "Don't worry about it, Uncle Ivan is on call tonight anyway. Some emergency would have come along." Tate nudged him, sat in the spot freed up with her controller in hand. "It always does. Anyway!"

Sighing, she wrapped the bag of frozen corn in a towel, did the same for the peas; then she put the corn over his hands, and held out the other bag. "Put this over the cut. And your nose. It won't swell so much."

Then she slumped in her spot, unpaused the game. On the screen was a blonde girl and a dog, wandering around a castle. "At least we don't have school tomorrow. Hey, tell me if you hear the music stop, okay?" She patted Ladon's knee absently, almost like she wasn't really thinking about it.

"So anyway, what happened?" (The character on the screen was hiding in a laundry room.)

The sound she made was an assenting, understanding one; she smiled at him, thinly, as the girl on screen walked out of the laundry room and through a small sitting room. "Bitches," said Tate flatly. "I mean, jesus, tying you up?" Who could do something like that to Ladon? Ladon was like, a little kid, he wasn't any danger. No way could he have the power to do anyone any damage, he was... he was small. And adorable. And...

She turned to the game. At least in this world, she could do something to stop people from hurting her friends, even if it was just by throwing antimony and magnesium at the bad guys.

"If the senshi were really the good guys like the news and the rumors say, that Jude Lawson kid wouldn't have died," said Tate. "They say he was beaten to death. Real heroes don't let things like that happen on their turf, you know?" She reached out with one hand to press the towel-wrapped frozen vegetables onto his hands, harder and tighter. "And there's stories about all kinds of senshi now. Some red-clad one with scales comes around here every so often. At least she hasn't done anything yet, you know?"

The music stopped.

"Aw, s**t," said Tate, right before the music changed. Where it had been subtle and atmospheric before, now it was discordant, technological, and--was that a giant inbred hillbilly. Why was Tate playing a game with giant inbred hillbillies screaming my dolly. The question had to be answered.

Or rather, not. The character sent her dog to attack the monster, then ran and hid under a bed. Surprisingly, this worked; Tate waited until the normal music came back to ease the character out from under the bed. "This is the impossible part of the game," she confided in Ladon, and then she saved at a clock and shut the game system down.

In the darkness, she sat for a few minutes. Outside her window was a streetlight; it barely illuminated her room. "Don't I know it," said Tate. "One of my friends died right after the senshi started showing up. Well, not really. I thought she had, but..." She wasn't looking at him as she stood up, walked over to her bed and took out her contacts; she traded them for a pair of glasses with slim black frames. "...not really. It's too coincidental, don't you see? The senshi show up. Then the other guys, the Negaverse. That flu, the one that puts you comatose without warning. Then Barren Pines. That girl from school, Sidra Winters, vanished? Do you realize how many people from our school are disappearing or getting comatose? It has to have all started with the senshi."

She shut her mouth. He probably thought she was insane. "If one of them would beat you up, they're worse than I thought." Then she shook her head. "Giselle won't see reason," she said. "She says that the Negaverse are murderers, but how often do you hear about them on the news?"

A sigh. "I shouldn't rant at you like this. It's not polite." Tate crossed the room back to Ladon, lifted up the peas to look at his nose. "If you want, we can tell your mom that we were playing ball or something and you got hit in the nose," she said. "That won't look too suspicious. I can get Uncle Ivan to back us up."