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"Where is her shoe?"

"What?"

"She's missing a shoe."

"Oh," Robin looked down at Baby Sam's feet. Reached with her free hand to close fingers around a set of little pink toes. There were ten altogether. Five on each foot, and the ones tucked inside her palm were chilled from exposure to the night air. "It must have fallen off in the park."

"Is there an extra pair somewhere?"

"In the diaper bag," Robin kissed the top of her baby's head. "There should be a pair of socks. No. Andrew, not in that pocket. In- no, yes, there you go."

Andrew tried to offer Robin the tiny pair of baby socks. They were pink with white dots. She told him no again, impatiently, and hissed that he should just put them on Baby Sam. Couldn't he see that she had her arms full? There was nowhere for her to put the baby down that wasn't positively filthy. She had agreed to the park visit on the condition that he not give her a hard time for taking a sterile wipe to Baby Sam's fingers every time she touched something that hadn't come from their home.

Baby Sam was just under eighteen months old. She'd taken to the swings like a bird without wings, and had nearly given her mother a heart attack when she slipped down the plastic slide head first. There was a bump on her forehead the size of a chicken's egg. And he laughed, Robin thought, gaze flickering from her baby's face to her husband's. He finished pulling on the little sock. Stood up tall, and looked away from her.

"The car's this way," he said, switching the diaper bag to his other hand.

The storm had come upon them suddenly, as storms often do. It quickened in the horizon to the south. There was no rain. Not yet, but the sky was grey and the wind whipped Robin's hair in her face. There was a crack of thunder, and Baby Sam started to cry.

Robin stared, mouth fallen open, the back of Baby Sam's head cradled in her palm. The infant screamed into her shoulder. It started to rain. Absurdly, it occurred to Robin that she should have worn something with sleeves. She cursed her husband when his knees buckled- cursed him for not spotting the creature that had heel-clicked up to them like some kind of rooster. Andrew was such a skinny, stupid man. She was so sick of folding his laundry. So tired of fighting with him to get up with the baby. So fed up with the way he neglected to sweep out the sink after shaving in the morning.

And then she realized that he was probably dying, and started to cry. He heart had never been so broken and so terrified. She gaped at Schorl, eyes shining bright with tears and hatred.

"What kind of monster are you?" she hissed, stepping backwards, hunting frantically for a way to save her baby. Baby Sam could walk. Maybe, if... No, it has to be me.

She turned and ran and shouted for help. The wind took her voice and whipped it back.

At the basketball courts -just a little to the south- John Jr was packing up to leave as the storm rolled in. He looked up at the sound of Robin's scream. Spotted Schorl. Narrowed his eyes, and the flickered into Syrtis.

"Oh God."

A wracking, tortured sob. Robin clutched her baby tight-- aware that something was inside of her, though she could not see what. The grip on her hair was severe, unrelenting. Her scalp strained. Tears of pain and fright coursed down her cheeks. She remembered -with all of the clarity of the previously traumatized- precisely the last time that she had felt this violated, and started to pray.

"Hailmaryfullofgrace," the words came sharp. Faster than the breath that she struggled to force into her lungs around Schorl's searching claw. It had been too long since catechism. Too long since church. "OurLordiswiththeeblessedarethose-

Robin drove herself forwards at the same time that Schorl started pulling back, less concerned about her own life now that it was surely forfeit than she was the safety of the child that wailed in her arms. She strained against the grip on her hair, hastened the coming of her death by separating herself from her starseed, but tucked her baby underneath herself; shielding, smothering, dying on top of her.

And then the sheep dog came for the wolf.

He was alone, but unafraid; a tall, gangling mass of bone and Martian muscle. He did not wait. Summoned his discus. Surged forwards like a flame and swung upwards -the same way a bowler might approach the pins at the end of a lane, attempting to clip Schorl underneath the chin.

Syrtis was absent the day the gods handed out capacity for fear.

He was a natural athletic, if not yet tried in battle- training with Vulcan and Ophelia had only heightened his self-confidence. A fire for life burned hot in his blood.

Made him foolish.

Made him stupid.

Made him brave.

'Again, and faster.'

He tried. Hissed through his teeth when the cane came down on his arms, pain ringing up into his fingers. They went numb for a moment. He nearly dropped the disc. He clutched it tighter, and then swiped across; attempting to nail Schorl in the side of the head.

With his free hand he grappled for the cane. Tried to disarm her.

The blow to his back knocked the breath right out of him.

Syrtis struggled with the air. Was more startled than he was displeased, though the pulse of the latter was strengthened inside of him by the mockery in Schorl's voice.

'Is it worth it?'

Underneath Robin the baby's cries continued- muffled by her mother's breast, but still there. She was alive. And so the answer to Schorl's question was yes.

His discus lay on the ground near Robin's head. When had he dropped it? Syrtis wheezed, grasped for it. Tried to roll out of reach, discus tucked underneath his belly, and get to his feet.

There was a ringing in his ears. He felt that almost more than the clap of her hands on either side of his head. There was a sensation of draining. It was new. Unfamiliar. What was it that Ophelia had said?

'Do not let them touch you.

His memory was a fog, and the air was just returning to his lungs. The beat of the rain was steady. He had only half-listened to the cat at the time. Between Vulcan and Ophelia, Ophelia was the less over-bearing, but more likely to lecture. He carried both women with him everywhere.

They will take your strength and use it against you. Syrtis. Are you paying attention?'

When she spoke to him Ophelia was sometimes frustrated, mostly affectionate. He thought that Schorl sounded like her- but the honey of the General's voice was icy cold.

'Do you have your magic, yet? Your ring?'

He whirled to try and face her, a snarl on his lips.

'What worth are you to Mars...but here's another bull to the slaughter. A sacrifice used up and then? Forgotten.'

Syrtis stood as tall as he could while remaining defensive; feet shoulder-width apart, arms raised. Discuss clutched in his hand. He made a fist with the other, struck his chest with it, and then pointed at Schorl.

"Why don't you try and take it then?"

His tone suggested that he thought she would not be able to.

And then, from the direction that Syrtis had come, a voice rose out of the distance. A woman calling his name. He recognized it at once. Ignored her. Tried to keep pace with the General that circled him.

At sight of Schorl Vulcan's heart leapt into her throat.

She quickened her pace, started crossing the park in a rush to intervene.

'Here, all your strength and speed and fury. No more than this.'

He stared at the little light that flowed around her hand.

Can it be? I am the torch from Mars. A fond way that Vulcan called him. Syrtis had taken it to heart. Stood defiant and proud in front of Schorl still, despite the power that drained from him as the orb increased in size and bounty. I do not feal weaker.

A lie.

Fine. Let her take it.

He tucked and rolled, scrabbling for the youma in hopes that he could seize hold before it reached the baby. Or stomp on it. Anything to anchor it in place before his strength gave out.

The volcano arrived a moment later; barefoot and bold, hair dampened from the rain, chest rising and falling slightly from the efforts of her run. She heard the baby's cry. Could not pinpoint the source. Zeroed in on the ball of energy swelling in Schorl's hand, and then simply launched herself at the General, fists raised, attempting to drive Schorl backwards. To sever the chord of her magic by creating distance between the parasite and John Jr.

Rude.

Ha.

Did a bullet declare itself after the gunshot? She had called Syrtis by name. Schorl had plenty of forwarning. Time to flee, if she were so inclined. She looks as afraid as I am.

She slowed. Was careful to insert herself between Schorl and the boy who battle-tangoed with the thing that had once adorned the General's shoulders. Syrtis inched his way towards the fallen mother, hands outstretched, one of them poised to take hold of Barbary if it got too close. Not for the first time, he found himself resenting the shape of his weapon. A hammer would have been better for breaking bones. A sword better for cutting enemies with.

"Your name first."

Vulcan did not glower. Did not smirk. She had been practicing with masks- at Ophelia's instance.

"We can trade for them."