He was good – a master at his craft. Self-made too, taken out into the ‘verse too soon, having to learn how to deal with it the best he could. He was lucky, finding people willing to help him rather than kill him, at least until he was able to defend himself. And he got better, building on his natural abilities and honing them to a knife’s edge.

She was a weapon, made by others. It should never have happened, but it did, and there was no point in crying over it, like her brother did at times. Make the best of it, that was his opinion, maybe hunt down the hwoon dahn who cut into her, but use what they did to her to be the best weapon she could be.

Truth was, she could take care of herself, and yet he had still pushed her out of the way of the bullet, taking it himself, feeling it rip into his chest, taking his breath even as he fell to the blood-soaked earth.

He didn’t remember much about the next hours – or maybe days – except for the pain, and that drifted away when the doc gave him some of the good drugs. People had come to see him, unless they were hallucinations, but none of them looked happy. Which seemed odd to him. Didn’t they like it that he was still alive? Or maybe …

She came last. He’d been dozing, troubled thoughts disturbing his dreams, and when he opened his eyes she was standing next to him, a somber expression on her face.

He swallowed, screwing his courage to the wall and knowing he had to ask. “’M I dying, moonbrain?”

“Yes.”

His eyes widened. “I am?”

“You asked and I answered truthfully.” She blinked. “For a given value of dying.”

Now his gaze narrowed. “Huh?”

“You are dying. But only in as much as we’re all dying from the moment we’re born.”

“You making fun o’me?”

“No. Trying to be honest.”

“Crazy, if’n you don’t tell me straight, I'm gonna get up off the bed and come and give you such a hiding, you won’t be able to sit down for a week.”

“That could kill you quicker.”

About to attempt to haul himself upright he paused, ponderi