Her fingers clutch at the ground, twitching slightly, the barest of movements. She doesn't want to stare at what's left of her child -- the snarling beast that claws at his own body, trapped inside his playpen and unable to reach her. He wants to reach her, she sees it in his eyes. The mania, the hate, the passion.

Everything that's missing from her, that she can no longer feel.

She should sob, should scream and rage about what should have been their new home, but now is nothing more than a nightmare. Meant to be the newest, shining face of the Core. The Core's farthest extension, meant to be a hub of activity, prosperous and proud. Just like she had been when they'd been selected, when they'd won the chance for a new life. This isn't life, they're barely living anymore and "what is"…is something she wishes she could turn from, wishes she didn't have to see, yet she can't move. There's no running from the monsters when they turn in front of your eyes, no screaming, no fighting back. Too sudden.

We got sick, thought it was a cold… not this.

It's a hell. A place she's sure the rest of the 'verse would like to forget.

One she can't. Even as she breathes, light and slow, each inhalation an effort in comparison of the relief from exhalation. Her eyes leaden and closing, fingers twitching still. She can't explain the lethargy, the disconnection. Can't hide from the horror she sees in front of her because she can't turn her head. It's too much of an effort.

They'll hide it, she's sure. Wipe them under the carpet in a hurry, mop them up like a dirty mark and pretend it never existed. She just hopes someone will remember, will mourn for her and the hundreds of thousands of souls she can hear dying on Miranda. Not with a scream, not fighting with their last breath, but only with a sigh.

As her small son claws at his own face, blood sliding down his cheeks, she feels the dampness on her own before she realizes she's crying. More automatic then conscious, not enough effort to want it to happen. As