“Am I speaking to Piero?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

Rayan sighed. “Am I speaking t-to Mother?”

“Yes.”

He was cornered against the drafting table and all of his hard work. Piero inched closer, already crowding him uncomfortably but now actively pressing Rayan’s lower back into the lip of the table. The academic side of him had wondered what full integration with the Foxfire would look like, though perhaps his innocent curiosity meant he lacked the capacity to imagine this outcome. It was more terrible than he expected, and now he wished he didn’t know the answer to his silent question.

“So this is what will happen to me,” Rayan mused, trembling. His eyes bubbled with tears, every new rent discovered on Piero’s face making him feel more powerless with grief. “This is what the end looks like.”

Piero, or the Foxfire taking his form, tilted his head to the side. His expression grew blank and then puzzled. The connection he had lost to Piero now blazed, and he felt overwhelmed by the hurt and confusion radiating through their shared network.

His eyes were the same turquoise blue, but a dazzling white core stared out from each, a dollop of liquid mercury shimmer.

“I called you beautiful,” Piero said in a voice unnervingly mingled with a woman’s. “Am I not beautiful, too?”

“Don’t do that,” Rayan said, pushing against his chest with both hands. It was pointless. Piero was bigger and stronger, and they both knew the corruption dulled pain. Fully integrated, he probably felt invincible. “Don’t. Don’t use something good between us against me now. It isn’t fair. You didn’t call me beautiful, Mother, Piero the man did.”

“Fair.” Piero tried out the word as if tasting a new and perplexing flavor. “I see.”

“No, you don’t see.” Rayan sighed and beat his fists on Piero’s chest again. The other man took hold of his wrists, squeezing until Rayan saw stars. “You don’t get it because you’re not one of us. A human. Those memories are special. They’re not weapons. Do you hear me? They’re not weapons.”

He stopped fighting, feeling light-headed and disoriented. The familiar pulsing headache began at the base of his skull and he moaned. No, not like this. I wanted to be in control of when it happened.

We are in control together, dear one.

It was the voice of his mother, soft, sweet, flowing seamlessly in and out of Punjabi.

Why not join us? Why not be a true child and a true sibling? Struggling, struggling, struggling, and for what?

“Stop that,” Rayan whispered weakly. “I don’t want to talk with our minds. I hate that.”

“Everything in your mind is a weapon,” Piero said aloud, humoring him. “Every thought, every memory, every delight, every sorrow is a weapon she will use until she gains control. It’s painful, Ray, I know, but it can end.”