Dawson took a seat on the bed and felt particularly small in the presence of his weapon. Syn paced the length of the room easily, back and forth, already like a restless lioness even without the parts of her that were in fact so. Her cobra tail coiled and hissed with tested patience, turning its head to watch him no matter what direction she went, and her wings folded for their safety; otherwise she’d either smack it against the wall or buffet Dawson about, which she didn’t want to do. Yet.

She planted her paw down and turned her imperious gaze to him. “What were you thinking, boil?” the chimera asked. “Answer me. What in Jack’s name made you think telling her was a good idea?”

He swallowed. It wasn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation, but he still wasn’t comfortable conducting it all in his head where it was easy to jumble or get distracted. She was doing him a service in a way by entering a golem, but it didn’t make him any less anxious. He bounced his heel and clasped his hands. “I trust her,” he answered simply. "I trust her t’trust me."

“Trust her?” Syntyche’s mane seemed to physically flare out even more as she laughed mirthlessly. “You trusted the ghoul who was tortured by clones not to immediately seek out one that’s infiltrated your home once she’s informed? Are you so shortsighted, cub? Are you so—” She bit her tongue and growl instead, and the cobra flexed in pent up energy. “And you thought you would, what, simply walk right back into its home after that? No fuss, no arguments?”

In truth, he had thought Maebe would see things from his perspective. He had thought after his explanation, and knowing that the America clone was on friendly terms with him (well, friendlyish after that little fall out), that it would just seem logical. They both already knew that, however, and so she didn’t wait for an answer, instead switching topics. She was already aware of how wounded Maebe’s words still made him anyway.

“Horace told you not to utter one word about its condition,” she pointed out as she stepped closer. “Your superior herself said not to interact with it needlessly. Yet you continue to message it and give it advice as if its fate matters beyond being destroyed. Why are you pursuing this? What makes your reasoning more sound than theirs, Dawson Grace?”

He became very interested in the makeup of her padded feet and started to chew on the inside of his cheek.

“Look at me, cub, and show some respect.”

Dawson closed his eyes with a wince but opened them after a moment and complied. Amber eyes met amber eyes, one like fire and one like dirty gems. He remembered reading somewhere once that locking eyes with a predator was a power play, a means of triggering aggression. Or something like that, he didn’t completely recall. But either way, he knew instinctively to stare her down, and the more hers bore down upon him, the more annoyed he got. Maybe that was what Syn was going for.

“Why?”

“You damn well know why,” he replied. “She’s a person too, she ought a’been treated like one.” Syn scoffed, but he spoke over her and continued, “How’d you feel if someone came in here n’ stole somethin’ from here, huh? s**t talked me on Twitter then came over not once but twice when I didn’ wan’ ‘em to?”

“The comparison doesn’t matter because it isn’t creeple, cub. A clone,” the ghoul emphasized, crossing her arms, “is an incomplete creation. A weaponized facsimile. A doppelganger has more status than it does. That house isn’t its by any stretch of the imagination, nor anything in it its property to be stolen.”

“So, what, the mem’ries don’ count?” Dawson countered, rising from the bed. Syn as about his height; he’d almost made a joke about seeing eye to eye the first time he saw her, but now all he could give her were increasingly irritated faces. “The feelins’ from them mem’ries don’ count?”

“Feelings? Memories? Dawson, are you listening to yourself?” Her venomous fangs poked out as she curled her lip. “It is a threat. It is the sign that the enemy can infiltrate our ranks at will, and yet your conclusion is to make friends with it?”

“She didn’ get axed t’be made, Syn, okay? She didn’ axe t’get sent here fer whatever reason only knowin’ the ******** up s**t n’ not feelin like she can love or she ain’t whole or whatever it is that’s got her goat right now, n’ I ain’ gonna treat her wrong just ‘cause—”

“Are we talking about the clone,” Syn asked, brows raising, “or are we talking about you now?”

Dawson’s rant came to a full stop. He stared at her in shock, mouth still a little open, and then he shut it and began to glower. “Too far,” he growled.

The chimera shrugged. “Not if it makes you see reason. I think you’re getting too emotionally attached to this clone because you see yourself in its existence, cub, and that is very dangerous territory to be in.”

“Syn—”

“Orphaned. Brought to the island by a higher power who gave it a purpose. Doesn’t think its whole because it’s missing the ability to love. Has moments where it believes it’s better to be a tool than something sentient. Completely uncertain of its future despite its past. Makes wildly idiotic choices on the fly.” She idly tapped her arm with a claw. “Or perhaps that one is unique to you. Shall I go on?”

“You kin shut the ******** up s’what you kin do, Syn.” Dawson’s jaw tensed like he meant to say something more, and then he turned and flopped back on his bed to continue reading the plumbing manual he’d procured from the library. “You knew what you was buyin’ when you felt me in tha’ cave. Ain’ my fault yer disappointed it ain’ as seen on tv.”

If Syn had a response, it was interrupted by the buzz of his phone. It was Maebe’s hourly check up on him. The glare melted away into something more tired as Dawson texted her something in response as proof he was alive. As he did, Syn sighed, and with a rustle of feathers, scales, and fur, settled down on the bed next to him. Dawson sighed soon after as well and tugged at his hat out of habit, the same way someone might fiddle with their hair or tuck it behind their ear.

“Someone’s gotta protect ‘em,” he muttered after a bit, the phone hanging loosely from his hands. ("You love to protect people. I know that's what's driving this stupid, wrong decision, Dawson.") “Her. Them. Someone’s gotta, Syn, someone’s gotta watch her, help her, talk to her, make her see it ain’ all bad…Someone gotta help.” Words weren’t enough to describe this functional need he had to fulfill, and even while in his head, Syntyche didn’t always understand the compulsion. It left him helpless in the way any addict could become when near their particular poison, but it was worse, so much worse when it was under the guise of kindness and a well intentioned heart, because it never felt like a mistake.

Syn’s mouth quirked wryly. “But Dawson, darkling,” she reached up and gently combed his hair with her nails, “when are you going to learn that nobody ever asked you to?”