There was a fraction of a moment -- a millisecond -- where Karla almost paused. Then the whisper of hesitation was gone, lost among Chilton’s scraping arguments. Her nails dug ridges in the skin where she gripped his wrists.

“Oh, I thought you’d have appreciated the symbolism.” He’d invaded her past; hadn’t he wanted to get into her head? The literal reverse-turn felt only appropriate. Her shoulders sank, a mocking sigh. “How disappointing.”

“You are right. Unfortunately.” She withdrew her hand, allowing it to solidify in front of his face; for a long moment she was still. Her expression, no longer masked under a taunting smile, had turned to a chilling calm. The eye of a hurricane, the storm itself flickering threats in her own eyes.

Her hand, now free and very much solid, caressed Chilton’s throat. Tightened.

“You’re entirely right. Leaving you alive would be careless, wouldn’t it? We’ve come too far here--” (A taunting we) “--to leave those kinds of loose ends open. I suppose the more... poetic thing to do would be to sever one of your limbs and strangle you.” Did he know the hows of the incident as well as the basic outcome? “Since that’s the performance you seem so interested in.”