To his credit, Mark didn’t react at first. Honestly, if it wasn’t for the fact that Boss felt that she was on to something deep and important, she would have almost cut off his head with her sword. Honest.

The air had the faint tang of sweat to it, like a thick electric fog was settling on everything in sight, and beyond. Tension in the air.

It was only when he still didn’t react that her sword hand flicked the blade out of its scabbard and swung it towards his neck. Eh, she could get the information somehow in a way that involved Mark being headless.

Instead, Canary canceled her sword swing with an application of magic without even looking at her. Annoying as hell. Mark gulped when he realized just how close he came to death by Boss’s sword, and bowed his head.

“My word.” Boss repeated. “For your words.” Dammit, had she really been about to kill him? Her heart was almost in her throat.

That’s a very stupid saying. Her heart pounded. That’s a far better saying.

Would she finally have an actual explanation on why all these nearly impossible to explain coincidences kept occurring? She had almost ruined it already!

She watched a drop of sweat roll off of the tip of his muzzle and hit the ground before he replied. It had taken him long enough to understand that she was being serious.

Mark opened his mouth. “This is going to sound really stupid…” Everything that came out of his mouth so far was similar enough, and Boss could almost tell that similar thoughts were coming from Canary.

Well, not really. Canary was reading a book. Looked as boring as Canary normally is, so it fits.

The rest of his party nodded, including Deadshot. Deadshot moved to speak, and Leona shot him down with a glance that was either a if you speak you will lose your favorite organ or maybe even a Deadshot, I swear to god…

“But Logan and I-” This zebra, Mark, was nervous enough that his gaze was flicking around. As was the griffon gunner, who was looking at Mark and speaking. Again, Boss barely managed to give enough of a damn to pay attention.

“DEADSHOT.”

“SHUT UP.” Came everyone else, including Canary. Leona, the gryphoness, really had a voice to her. Then again, so did Catastrophe.

Mark took in a deep breath, to finish his statement, his body tense, stiffened with almost audible nervousness, like a hive of bees had been stuck right above his head and that by talking again, he would be stung into oblivion.

Nervous sort. That’s what he should’ve gotten for putting a member of her team in the hospital.

Her team. She liked the sound of that. She really liked the sound of that.

“-are aliens.” Then he exhaled, like that explained everything. It didn’t of course.

Aliens.

Wait what?

Boss paused, her false hand wavering on the hilt of her other sword. “Wait, what?” Those were her thoughts on the matter.

“Aliens. We’re not from here.” Illegal immigrants? Illegal emigrants?

Boss nodded, and motioned with her sword to continue. “Keep talking.”

“Well… We’re from a place called Earth. Third planet from the sun…”

Deadshot rolled his eyes. “And we didn’t used to be like this.”

“Like what?” Boss asked, looking clearly confused. What the fuck were they saying?

“You know. Zebras, gryphons.” Mark said. He has a voice like Ivan’s, except without the breaking point in it. “We were these…” He looked over at Deadshot, who shrugged.

“Human things, I guess.” Deadshot continued. Mark glared at Deadshot.

“That’s not what I was going to say at all!”

Deadshot looked confused. “I thought we were trying to do that thing where we finish each other’s sentences?”

“My god, you are so useless.” Mark face hooved.

“...”

“AS I WAS SAYING… We come from a place that is far more advanced than this, is barren in magic, and we were brought here by gods to make war on other people brought here.”

Boss blinked. “... That’s it? Really? Alright.” She looked completely uncaring. Her hand dangled on the hilt of a sword, gently brushing it with loving care and attention. Her eyes unfocused, drifting about the place looking for something far more important to invest her attention upon.

“...What?!” Mark and deadshot looked totally confused. “Don’t you get it?! THIS CHANGES EVERYTHING.”

Canary flipped a page in his book.

“Not really.” Boss yawned at this apparent change. “He’s still the unlikable asshole he was before, and he now has even more reason to be an unlikable asshole. Not anymore than any other long term slave, but why the fuck should it matter that he’s some sort of human thingy?”

“Because he lied to you about it!” Mark exclaimed incredulously. “Isn’t that kind of worrying?”

“If I really worried about everything everyone around me lied about, I’d be a lot worse off.” Boss muttered, rolling her eyes. Really, if she kept this up, they would roll out of her head.

“What?” Deadshot turned and shot a look at Mark.

“You know, honestly, I guess it isn’t that big of a deal. It’s a bit like being from another country, except from another reality.”

Leona facepalmed. Again. Like, full palm on face action. Her paw caressed the side of her face for a moment, before her talons raked it, parting the fur like fine toothed comb. Her tail flicked disagreeably. Boss observed her. The gryphoness was almost entirely too fluid and languid, as most of the female persuasion of the hybrids tended towards; she went almost beyond that, like she was too comfortable in her own skin.

Catastrophe was similar only when in a state of euphoria brought on by the cessation of the pain that now constantly plagued her from her replacement parts. Boss could understand that.

Boss moved her eyes from Leona to her own false hand and watched it twitch, almost as if it were aware of her eyes. It was a hard loss to not have as fine control, but she knew that it could always be far worse. She could be just like the gryphoness laying in the hospital bed...

NOT AT ALL A FORCED SCENE CHANGE
-----

I stared at the sleeping gryphon in the bed, watching her chest rise and fall. I felt… odd. Very odd. Was this what love was? Watching someone you hardly really knew, staring at them, counting each breath, each rise and fall as a measure that they still exist? Was it pressing against their hands, desperately wishing you had your own so you could intertwine your fingers with theirs, just so they know that someone else is grasping for life along side them, that they aren’t alone in the world?

I paused from my thoughts.

What did I even know about love? I had a family. I had to think analytically here. I had to separate what the spider made me do, and what was my own thoughts.

What was love?

The purest love is between mother and child.

But that’s purely a symbiotic relationship. The touch of a child to the mother releases a pleasure causing chemical rush as powerful as crack and just as addicting; mother’s selflessly care for a child out of a need for it, not only through such a frail and fragile concept as love.

Then maybe a dad and son? Surely there is a reason for this affection?

Ah, but as mother and child, so to is the father affection. Namely through loss of testosterone, meaning the father has no reason to roam and look for other mates. Therefore the father stays home and bonds with the child.

So the love of the mother is created by an addiction. The love of the father is facilitated by chemical changes.

What is love beyond that? Is love some sort of magical, mythical thing?

In harry potter, I could remember, it’s a metaphorical and literal magic.

In the bible, it is for love that all humans carry the ability to avoid sin.

But in reality… who can really say? Is love nothing more than a series of chemicals which promote a belief in something greater than the singular I? Is WE, the idea of companionship just a way of reproduction? Do we risk it all for the sake of our love, or is it pre programmed into our minds?

What’s the damned difference?

Is it just chemicals?

I stared at the steady rise of her chest and tried not to think too much harder on anything else. Maybe I should consider retiring from everything as soon as I got settled? Sounded great to me. It’d only been a few months, and yet… So much has happened. So much I can barely remember.

She snorted in her sleep. Oh, if she could hear my thoughts, she’d probably say I was being a fucking moron while secretly being touched.

Or just call me a moron. Hard to tell a lot of the time to speak the plain truth.

“Heh…” I laughed a little. Hard not to. This was all so very surreal. So many people I knew, but didn’t know at all.

How many people? Myself… Canary… Ser- Catastrophe… Boss… ...floyd… mark… skinner… ken… skinner.

Skinner.

SKINNER.

…

And then I tapped Skinner on the shoulder and slit his throat. Blood sprayed out and then he died, his lifeless corpse resting against my side. I shut my eyes to stop from getting blood in them and then turned to Grim. "I expect you to tell the truth; that I beat you at your own game."

Like the oddest of visions, I saw a memory winking at me from beneath a cheese cloth like veil.

…

And then I tapped Skinner on the shoulder (and saw his eyes so full of hope looking into mine, his heart, just like mine in his chest, a fellow person stuck in such horrible shitty times, alone except for me, me who he had finally helped him to have hope again.) and slit his throat. Blood sprayed out and then he died (Falling to the ground, the hope still in his eyes, just an expression of surprise as well. The cut had to have been deep, but how could it not be when I was cutting through friendship? ), his lifeless corpse resting against my side. I shut my eyes (not to stop the tears but) to stop from getting blood in them and then turned to Grim. "I expect you to tell the truth; that I beat you at your own game."

Like an unending torrent, I watched Skinner die by my hand and no matter what, could not stop my own body from destroying him.

Time.

Time.

Time.

Again.

…

I beat them at their own games. I killed them better than they killed me. They left me just alive to kill again, and I left them just dead enough to be at peace.

Skinner. He was a friend, right? He was my friend, and he had eyes that had hope in them. But he’s dead.

Dead.

So was Floyd. So were the rest of my flock, all dead. Had I ever even cared? Did I even care at this point? Was I a caged bird singing, or was I the cage? I know why the canary sings, he has yet to die.

I know why the caged bird sings, it's because he cannot cry.

Their deaths felt like it had been twenty years ago, though I wasn’t even that old. I was… I was… only… 19… and yet, so much had happened lately. When is showing grief angst, and when is it justified?

When is grief too much? I didn’t know. Is it like a weight on your back, pressing down sharply, aching, aching, aching? Does it have a weight?

Why do I feel so horribly guilty?

What was love?

What was…

then a cold wind drifted over me and I was out of my thoughts and watching the slow rise and fall of the chest of the gryphoness in the bed, with her black fur in stark contrast to her white feathers.

----

Leona looked over at Boss and pondered, before elbowing the absolute ogre of a dog who already smelled like he was dead. They whispered at each other for a moment, before both of them walked towards her purposefully.

“... Excuse me. Would your name happen to have ever been Muse?” The ogre dog spoke.

Boss stopped, dead and cold, at the mere sound of that name.