They were down to one roll of gauze, and some sadistic failed product design major from Crested Butt, Colorado, probably, had put the disinfectant in tiny foil pouches that could only be opened with scissors because apparently he'd never looked up the definition of survival situation or just hadn't bothered taking spies who had their limbs blown off and/or cut open and needed disinfectant into account. Willow ripped the packet open with her teeth, sent a silent prayer down to whatever devil Bob in Crested Butt feared that he'd contract shingles at the worst possible age, and looked over to her friend. "Ready?"

"Right as rain." MJ sagged against the cave wall, hair sticking to her sweat-shiny forehead as she clamped a hand at the spot above her bandaged knife wound. She smiled, looking decidedly not right as rain. "Cut me open, doc."

Bad joke. Terrible joke. Willow rolled her eyes and began to strip the gauze slowly, assessing the bleeding—yep, it had slowed enough to stitch up the wound. Judging from the ambient light that reached their portion of the cave, it was probably getting darker outside; a few hours since the wound had first been opened. And yet it seemed like only yesterday that little daughter of a bitch had wandered into her length of the jungle and stolen her gun. Ah, nostalgia. "And I'm going to ask you one more time: are you sure you don't want painkillers?"

"I have painkillers." MJ waggled the bottle of near-empty bird alcohol in Willow's direction. "What I need is for you to hurry the fuck up before I die."

"Stop being dramatic. You're not going to die." The medical cabinet didn't have a proper suturing kit, so they'd have to make do with a sterilized needle and thread and some alcoholic disinfectant wipes that were in more foil packets that could only be opened by someone under extreme duress. Bob in Crested Butt had better hope Willow never saw civilization again. "At worst, you're going to get some sort of horrible infection and die slowly." And not even a needle driver. At this rate, MJ was going to get infection and die. It almost made Willow wish there were another pair of Michelsons to bug-bomb and raid medical supplies from, except nowadays that thought was kinda guilt-ridden because (a) Willow had bigger problems, (b) it turned out the Michelsons weren't the ones spying on her and plotting her imminent demise anyway, and (c) two out of three of them were dead and one had fallen to the common enemy AKA 'bigger problems', the enemy of my enemy is my ally, allies should only be turned on after the war is over when you're splitting territory (or island resources), what have you. Sure, Sam Michelson Threat Level™ 2.0 had been the actual worst and Willow was pretty sure he'd...hit her with a golf club in a dream, once? It didn't matter. Either way, she hadn't killed him, which means it was a stinkin' shame he'd died. It almost made her miss cave sex. Operative word: almost. "At best, you're going to get some sort of horrible infection, but that little demon girl will kill you because you let her run free and you'll die quickly."

"I told you already, I'm not gonna kill a kid."

"If you don't kill the kid, the kid's gonna kill you." Willow used the bowl of hot water, the foil packet of disinfectant, and a rag to clean out the blood as much as possible before turning to the needle. "I know you've got unresolved guilt and...stuff..." She restrained herself from saying whatever, because that was dismissive and mean and negotiation meant not being dismissive or mean. "But we are in a survival situation. This is, like, the literal best moment to abandon your principles. Take it from me, a person who has abandoned her principles for a lot less."

"C'mon, try to think about it from my point of view." MJ grimaced as Willow held up the needle so that it glinted in the torchlight. Straight as an arrow. She'd have preferred a curved one—the ones in the kits came that way—but then again, she'd learned how to suture herself with a fishhook, a candle, and thread off the floor of an abandoned sweatshop in Kuwait. Suturing MJ was probably less likely to send Willow into shock than suturing herself, and objectively, yes, the straight sterilized needle was probably technically a better choice than the nicely curved but probably infected fishhook. She'd just have to use a gentler angle. "Or—hey, try to think about it from your point of view! Didn't you also have a terrible mother?"

"I did, thanks for reminding me." Because that definitely put her in the mood for mercy. Her mom did make her liable to make idiotic mistakes, though, if the whole 'defecting from the motherland' thing was anything to go by, so maybe that was what MJ was banking on. "And for the record, I don't think you were a terrible mother." If anything, it just made MJ distinctly unsuited to be any sort of mother, but Willow didn't doubt she'd given her best shake at it while she'd been one. Honestly, it hadn't come as any sort of surprise. Given her staunch insistence on a fictional talking turtle, Willow had been willing to bet that Sheila had been raised above the location of a methamphetamine lab explosion or equally catastrophic ecological or man-made chemical disaster that warped her memories of her upbringing, but barring that, extreme guilt and denial was a close second. Granted, she'd been banking that MJ was on the lam, but still. "My mom? She was a terrible mother. At least when you left your kid, she wasn't old enough to do dumb things like follow you."

"...Hot take, but okay." MJ raised the bottle to her lips again as Willow inserted the needle. Good thing, considering Willow had slipped some over-the-counter painkillers from the cabinet in there at some point; maybe MJ trusted alcohol to be enough of a painkiller on its own, like an amateur or WebMD or medical training would have you believe. "Well, you wouldn't want someone else to blame you for her mistakes, right? Like—it was her fault you left China, right, so why should China blame you?" Her brow furrowed. "And then you...did WikiLeaks for them? I kinda don't remember. Either way, you tried to go back, and they wouldn't take you back." She shook her bottle at Willow accusingly. "So in this case, we're China. The girl is you. And her mom is your mom. Mom is mom."

"First off, someone else did blame me for her mistakes. An entire country did." Two countries, if you counted the whole follow up that was definitely not WikiLeaks, and her ex-girlfriend to boot. "I've moved past it, as you can see." To emphasize how past it she was, she twisted the needle at the requisite angle for exit and definitely did not set her mouth in a grim smile when MJ winced. Served her right for not wanting painkillers, anyway. "Second off, it wasn't her mistake, it was my own mistake, and I tried to make up for it by defecting back." She moved briefly to point to the entrance of the cave. "That up there? Stealing our shit—nay, our deadly weapons—and stabbing us with sharp implements? That is not trying to make up for it. That is the opposite of trying to make up for it. That is trying to start some shit. Take it from me, an expert on starting shit." International shit, too. First throw. Second throw. Third throw. Cut the thread and start another quarter-inch up. The light flickered. "I told you the entire time someone was watching us, and I was right. Can you just trust me when I say she's gonna kill us, too?" It wasn't that much of a stretch or anything, given the open knife wound they were currently dealing with and all.

"No, no, no." MJ tried to sit up, as in move while Willow was conducting a very amateur and extremely underprepared medical procedure on her. And she wondered why Willow didn't go along with all her crazed, suicidal ideas. "Ah-ah. You don't get to do that. You don't get to tell me to listen to your Willow-brain now, just because you were right one time."

"Excuse you, my Willow-brain is right all the time." Not to mention that, if her brain was right one time, it was definitely the time the girl she was claiming was trying to kill them stabbed them not twenty-four hours ago. How was this still under debate?

"Was it right on the boat, when it said there was an assassin there?" MJ gave Willow a look that said checkmate and very clearly didn't take into account that yes, Willow was still pretty damn sure there had been an assassin on that boat and just because they turned out to probably not be one of the survivors didn't mean they never existed. "Was it right when it said the Michelsons were going to be our downfall? Face it: this pre-teen girl is not a threat, and there's definitely no excuse to kill her." She waved a hand dismissively. "At worst, she's confused and threatened because we're invading her home and she's lashing out. That's why we need to disarm her and talk to her, not legit murder her."

"I'm sorry, did you miss the part where she was two millimeters and a little bit of shrapnel away from legit murdering you?" At this rate it wasn't even a crime, just straight-up self-defense. Killing that kid was something she could get away with in the courtrooms of most civilized countries and some parts of Antarctica, and ignoring international law was part of Willow's job description.

"Willow, it's a child, not a criminal mastermind." MJ blinked at her accusingly, the patience gone from her drowsy expression. Like children couldn't be criminal masterminds. With less patriotism and more pleather, Willow would've been a child criminal mastermind. "And are you saying you couldn't just disable her and talk to her? You? The certified spy with, like, twenty different types of training? You don't have to kill her." There was some sort of hypocrisy here, about how MJ had definitely not complained this much when Willow had been seriously considering murdering the Michelsons and not some dumb defenseless child. "She's not a threat to you; you're just indulging your paranoia to take the easy way out and go with the simplest solution, which was fine when you were an international spy in a country full of enemies with poisoned umbrellas, or even trapped in a hulking tin tub with a bunch of multinational strangers on an cross-continental cruise, but doesn't work when we're on an abandoned island where the worst threat to your life is eleven year old with a rock!"

"And a gun!" And she'd sharpened the rock. That made a difference. Although to be fair, it wasn't that hard to kill someone with an unsharpened rock either, so she'd be about as deadly and just as much of a threat with a regular rock and a good angle at their heads—

"Why are you always so paranoid, anyway?!" The outburst was loud enough that Sharkbait started from his position dozing on his throne of centipede carcasses, attempted escape, and hit the roof of the cave with a strangled squawk. Willow, meanwhile, had to cash in on every spy reflex she had to not stab MJ hard in the artery on impulse. "We're on this beautiful island with literally no one else to bother us—we're alone, we should be trying to make a life for ourselves in literal paradise with no stress and nonstop adventure—and you just can't stop worrying about things. If it's not survival, it's assassins, and if it's not assassins, it's other survivors stealing resources, and if it's not other survivors stealing resources, you loop back to assassins!" Child assassins. There was a difference. MJ was on a roll, though, and seemed fully prepared to rip the not-doctor who was actively stitching up her knife wound a new one despite the potential ramifications. It was actually kind of impressive. "It's just a kid, Willow: a confused, abandoned kid who doesn't know enough about what's happening to be a murderer. There is no enemy! It's like you have to find an enemy when there isn't one—why can't you just stop being paranoid and realize there isn't always someone hellbent on killing you?!"

"I—" Well then. Willow felt her jaw click shit as she abruptly shut down about twenty different sarcastic replies, ranging from so I can save money on life insurance to because it's a cheaper hobby than cruise ship theft. MJ was looking at her with a look that was disturbingly close to either tears, constipation, or maternal disappointment, and Willow felt the uncomfortable sort of stirring in her stomach that usually meant indigestion of her own but, in this case, was probably the sort of guilt she didn't feel about killing feral children in the wilderness but did feel about hurting one of the few people she cared about. Her friend probably deserved a real answer at this point, and not just because not doing so increased the possibility of infection/death/the whole nine yards—but the answer was that there always was someone hellbent on killing Willow, and somehow Willow had the impression MJ wouldn't take kindly to it. "—I mean...I don't know." Huh. "I've always been this 'paranoid'—and I mean, it's not paranoia if it's true and it's kept me alive, so it's not a bad—"

"Sure, if there were still grown-ass government agents who wanted to murder you—but you're acting like your only option to deal with this tiny girl is straight child murder. Like, who hurt you?" The grown-ass government agents, obviously, but Willow kept her mouth shut and let MJ get it out of her system. "No one's born like that. No one. Is it something about growing up in dystopian China that made you this way? Or—"

"Hey, China's a great place to raise children. It's not China's fault; I bet if the demon child were raised in China, she wouldn't be a murderer." Willow spoke up instinctively, hackles rising. Oh, great. Now she was doing it. She focused herself back on stitching—first throw, second throw, third throw—and managed to cool herself down enough to speak rationally. Calm explanation, reassuring gestures, and the sort of tone that she used to talk down agents backed in corners or rabid tigers that one time at the San Diego Zoo: that was the key to relaxing a patient. At least they were on a different subject. "I told you—I've been like this for as long as I can remember." By her estimation, they'd need about ten stitches total. Gah. She'd never get used to how they looked. And now that they looked a little too much like those devil centipedes, she'd always be grossed out by how they looked.

"Batshit crazy?"

"No, prepared." Willow had to remind herself MJ was stressed, injured, and probably emotionally vulnerable after opening up. Now was not the time to slap gauze over her mouth and call her a ho. "Like—don't you have that voice in the back of your head that always tells you not to get too comfortable? The one that tells you to keep one eye open when you're asleep because 'what if that one worst case scenario that's too awful to even think about'? I don't think that's paranoia." If anything, that was human nature. Common god damn sense. If Willow hadn't kept one eye open when she was asleep, she would've died in a used car dealership in Ottawa. Ottawa. "That's survival instinct. It keeps me safe. It reminds me of the dangers that are out there so I can prepare for them: and for what it's worth, that's not a bad thing." Case in point, medical box. They'd worst-case-scenario'd it, and now here they were, in the worst-case-scenario, where MJ was probably not going to die of infection because Willow's Willow-brain had made Willow procure hallucinogenic gas 'just in case' so they could gas the Michelsons many moons in the future and also learn how to suture herself while freezing under a waterfall in Tibet.

"It is when you're not in a survival situation."

"Which we are, duh." Was the trouble they were having surviving not making that obvious enough? "The Willow-brain's a good thing. When we're in trouble, it gets us out of trouble." Because let's face it, they wouldn't be alive if it hadn't been for Willow's Willow-brain, even if Willow's Willow-brain clearly hadn't done enough to: study survival, learn how to fight giant impossible Cthulhi (although to be fair that was kind of science's fault for not finding it and not Willow's fault for choosing to put her faith in science), research child psychology, and many more. It couldn't do everything, but between knowing how to wield weapons and acquire gas and stitch wounds and plan out convoluted Goldberg-esque plans to steal cruise ships and prepare for the eventualities of eventualities, it came pretty damn close. "And I've been in varying levels of 'survival situation' for most of my life, anyway."

"Or maybe you just think that because you're always paranoid?" MJ made to cross her arms sternly, and Willow had to grab the wrist of her extremely injured arm to stop her. "That would explain why you were so paranoid about the ship and the Michelsons when nothing happened with the ship and the Michelsons."

"...See, I thought of that, but no, I really think so." First throw, second throw, third throw. "That's the thing with survival situations: once you're in one, you're never going to get out of it again. Like, can you imagine if I had let myself settle down when I got to America?" If she hadn't taken that info just in case and left herself a way out after turning herself into the Feds, she would've been trapped with Hadyn and her mother forever. In America. With their neverending regional idiosyncrasies and their portion sizes. "Or if I hadn't had the cruise ship after China didn't take me back?" That would've killed her. Debatably worse than the America thing. Debatably. "Once you start running, there's no moment when the credits roll and you get to stop running. You know who thought they could stop running? Adelaide McCormack."

"Who the hell is Adelaide McCormack?"

"Exactly." No one wanted to end up like Adelaide McCormack. Those poor ladybugs. "And that's why you always need need a plan, no matter where you go, for anything that might happen. And you always need to have backups to the plan, and plans for every eventuality if things go wrong with the plan." That was her biggest mistake with the cruise ship heist, actually: that Willow hadn't accounted for the possibility of a shipwreck. If she had, she would've carried more vital supplies on her—or at the very least made their backup life raft more accessible. "And, as a last resort, you always need to be ready to cut your losses and run." Even in China, perfectly happy, she'd been ready in case she ever needed to defect, and that preparation was the only reason she hadn't been murdered when she defected. Which she shouldn't have done, sure, and was partially the reason why she'd ended up having to suture herself with a fishhook in Kuwait, but even that was better than being super dead. "Because the people who get lucky, survive, and don't get harvested into bug aphrodisiac like Adelaide McCormack—"

"—I'm sorry, what?!—"

"—are the ones who listen to the voices in their heads." That sounded totally sane, right? Right. "That's what the Willow-brain does. And you know what? I'm glad it does, because if it didn't, all I'd do is worry about these things without being able to think them through and account for them. This way, I can prepare for them—when I think about the worst case scenario, I can make sure I come out of it on top. If I end up shipwrecked on an abandoned island with nothing but a punctured life raft and the human embodiments of 90 Day Fiance: The Other Way, I come out on top, because the Willow-brain gave me that what if before it even happened." God, American reality television really was the worst. First, second, third throw. "If I end up trapped in a cave on fire with a bunch of flesh-eating centipedes and an injured partner, I come out on top." Or rather, she came out carrying MJ on top of her shoulders, but she survived, and that was the point. "If I have to defect to America, I come out on top; if I have to un-defect from America, I do that too. If we find out we're cohabitating with a child murderer who wants us dead? I've already been thinking about the possibility for weeks, and frankly, I'm just relieved to find out it's a prepubescent girl and not the Somalian government. And if—ah, if!" She paused to wag the needle at MJ before her companion could cut in indignantly. "If I have to murder said girl before she murders us, I'm prepared to come out on top for that, too. And knowing that calms me." Check and mate.

"Thinking that you're in constant danger and the threat to your life never ends calms you?"

"Yep."

MJ punched Willow in the head with her free hand.

"OW!" What the fuck?! "Damn it, woman, I am trying to stab your very destroyed arm with a needle in the one super specific way that won't fuck it up and you are not helping!"

"You know, for a super smart international super spy and also apparently a doctor, you can be really fucking stupid sometimes." And then, because the first time apparently wasn't enough, she punched her again. Hard. In the head, the literal worst place to punch somebody because it was probably going to hurt MJ's knuckles as much as it hurt Willow. "Of course you can't settle down anywhere if you're always looking for a way out!" She sat back suddenly, a comically betrayed look on her face as her eyes widened. "Hang on, do you have a contingency plan off this island?!"

"...Well..." It wasn't like most of their necessary supplies didn't fit into a single backpack or anything. "Is it really fair to say that I made the contingency plan if it basically made itself?"

"Wha—YES!"

"It's not like I wasn't going to take you with me, it's a lot quicker if two people blow up the raft—"

"But this is our island! Our whole plan—since the cruise ship!—was to have a place to ourselves where we had the freedom to explore without having to worry about leaving again. Our island!" MJ made a movement like she was about to pull out her own hair, which was worrying for a number of reasons, starting with the fact that being too incoherent to properly convey frustration was a mostly Willow move and ending with the fact that her arm was currently still sliced open like a freaking dissected frog. "How can you still be worried about enemies forcing you out on a literal abandoned island?!"

"Well, back when it was the cruise ship, the coast guard could've picked us up. Hence, lifeboat." Willow silently offered MJ the painkiller-alcohol again and sent a silent prayer that she would just pass the fuck out and stop moving her injured arm. "And with the island—well, I mean, I wasn't as worried about it before the fucking missing link popped out of the woodwork and tried to murder us, but now I'm thinking this is only helping my case." How was she going to put this in a way MJ understood? "You know Mad-Eye Moody—constant vigilance and all—"

"Oh, don't try to quote Harry Potter to me now." MJ huffed angrily and, unable to do anything with her arm limp and stabbed through with a needle, turned away with a petulant scowl. "You know—and I hope you do take this the wrong way—it's no wonder you defected. Double-defected. Triple-defected." Low blow, but understandable, all things considered. "Didn't you at least make an effort to stay where you were before you jumped ship?" She paused before abruptly snorting. "Literally?"

Willow snickered herself, breaking some of the tension. It was funny, because they'd gotten shipwrecked and jumped off a ship and nearly literally died and death was funny. "You think I ever wanted to leave China? Or that I wanted to leave my mom in America? It was awful there, sure, but I knew going into it there was a big fat chance I'd get extradited from both China and America if I tried any shit. It's not like paranoia gave me an extreme amount of optimism about my outcome." First, second, third. "I tried to make a life, you know? Hadyn and all that crap. I really tried. I ate the food and everything—like, do you know about Panda Express? It's not bad, but it's not Chinese, and I ate it. Everything there tastes like the eye of democracy's butthole." And the suburbs. They were just all too quiet. That was something MJ had to understand, if nothing else. "But it's not easy when there's always the voice in the back of your head, reminding you that you're one bad thing away from needing to cut and run. And it's not like I can disagree when it's saved my life literally...you know, bajillions of times." Besides, it ended up bringing her to the island with MJ, and Willow couldn't really complain about that, even though she'd rather walk out onto the open beach with no cover and let little Lizzie Borden snipe her in the head with a slingshot than admit it (and also the current circumstances weren't totally ideal, given one of them was severely injured and both were sitting in a cave). "Trying to be a normal civilian was the absolute worst, because that just is not my shit. You know how it is. And being an American—ugh. You've seen them. They're the worst. It's not me."

"Not like being a Chinese spy worked out for you either." MJ rolled her eyes and thumped her head impatiently back against the wall of the cave. "No offense, but this is the most slow-moving and least interesting identity crisis I've ever seen someone have."

"I am a Chinese spy—"

"No, you defected from China and you're not a spy, because creeping on the Michelsons from a bush just makes you a stalker and listening to them have cave sex from our home just makes them exhibitionists. You know what? That's the reason you're so fucking paranoid and why it ruins your life—because you keep thinking about it like you're a spy." Was MJ always this psychological when she was drunk, or did they just know each other too well? Willow put down her needle, fully prepared to argue the point—especially considering they were nearly done anyway—but MJ silenced her with a stern glare. "You aren't a Chinese spy, mate. And this isn't a country to defend, and there's no enemy plotting your downfall." What, did the eleven year old girl sitting outside watching them from the trees not count? "And no, the eleven year old girl sitting outside watching us from the trees doesn't count. There isn't even anyone here to plot your downfall. Just you and your stupid Willow-brain."

"...Okay, but if this is our home, we need to defend it like—"

"Nope!" MJ shook her head firmly and punched Willow. In the head. Again. Willow glared at her best friend through watery eyes, wondered very seriously to herself whether MJ was in fact the biggest threat to her well-being on the island, and muttered something darkly under her breath about how she should've prepared a contingency plan for her. She was rewarded with a dark, soul-crushing glare. Maybe MJ would've been a good mother. She had the disapproving look down pat. "Because it's not a country! And you're not a spy! And it's not your job to be the first line of defence against the Canadians—"

"—I think you mean the Caribbeans—"

"—you are not working for the government anymore, okay? You are just a person on the run from the government, and your only job is to live here and try not to get picked up by the space force." She scoffed to herself. "Who am I kidding? No one's coming to rescue us. We're probably legally dead. Even without being legally dead, we're officially stateless."

"...Right, because that makes me feel better."

"I'm not trying to make you feel better, I'm trying to tell you the truth." MJ sighed, flailed a little, and made an annoyed face. "Ugh. I can't hug you to make what I'm about to say sound like a friend offering advice instead of a sick burn."

"Go ahead." MJ was still pretty injured, so any burn she could come up with was going to be kind of sad either way. "I won't take it personally."

"That seems...impossible." Her friend craned her neck to try to see the stitches. "Are you done yet? I feel like I should wait until you're done stitching me up before I say—"

"I mean, I'm not gonna keep going until you tell me, so you might as well—"

"You're the worst. I regret checking into this hospital."

"We're in a cave."

"I regret checking into this cave. Doesn't this violate the Hippocratic Oath or something?"

"Probably." What even was the Hippocratic Oath? Not sharing personal information about your patients, right? Willow had shared personal information about a lot of people who were definitely not her patients or even people she knew personally during not-Wikileaks. "But I've done it before—you know, during the whole defecting thing—"

"That! That's your problem!" MJ lifted herself up from the cave with such Herculean effort she went pale for a second, twisted her torso at an unhealthy angle, and strained her arm so she could poke Willow in the temple. Then she sat back, stared at her for a long, accusing second, and punched her again. "That you're thinking about it all the goddamn time! Stop with the defecting and the spying and the oath violating. There's no one to defect from, because you're not a citizen. There's no one to spy on, because there's no one here other than me, and I give less of a shit about whether you see me naked or not than you do. There's no one to defend our not-country from, so you had to take it out on an, and I cannot stress this enough, eleven year old girl." She sat back triumphantly. "You are not a spy anymore. No one is coming to get you. No one is out there to kill you. No one cares enough to extradite you from this island, because you are no one."

"...Right, because that makes me feel better."

"I'm just telling it like it is." MJ sighed, leaned back with a smug smile, and put her good hand behind her head in the universal symbol for I have seen the other side of the Matrix and it says I'm right. "You don't need to cut and run now because there's nothing to run from, so you literally can't. Face it, mate: this is the nightmare you never wake up from. This is your end of the movie. Credits roll, fade to black, boom." A spark of revelation gleamed in her eye. "You're Adelaide McCormack now."

"What? No." That was ridiculous. "Adelaide McCormack failed and literally got dissected into parts for insect viagra by a very shady internet porn company doubling as a government shell corporation—"

"—and Willow Zheng went crazy and disappeared off the face of the Earth with an Australian housewife after failing to steal a cruise liner."

"Crazy? That's low." Would MJ let a crazy person stitch her up? "What part of what I'm doing right now makes you think I'm crazy?!"

"Well, aside from the whole 'disappearing off the face of the Earth with an Australian housewife after failing to steal a cruise liner' thing..." MJ nodded around them, jutting her chin to indicate their general surroundings, and began counting points off her fingers. "You stalked, gassed, and nearly shot a married couple on a deserted island because you were really convinced they were government plants trying to kill you, you declared your love for a lot of inanimate objects really loudly where I could hear you, you willingly risked death chasing a teenager through the woods because she stole your clothes, and you tried to rationalize all of those things two seconds ago by saying the voice in your head tells you to always think about the possibility of being murdered." She paused, looking over. "You want me to keep going?"

Now, that was just unfair. "Sure, that all sounds crazy when you say it like that." Or when Willow went over it in her head. But it had made sense at the time—and it definitely didn't excuse the little girl who had legitimately stabbed them. Oh God. She was crouched in a cave full of dead centipedes she had set on fire with an aerosol can flamethrower a week ago, trying to stitch up an Australian housewife and plotting to murder a child. Was she crazy? "But you—you're no better!"

"I tried to steal a cruise ship with an internationally wanted expat! Of course I'm not better!" MJ and Sharkbait both cackled simultaneously, like Willow was missing some hilarious inside joke. Or the point. Actually, she was probably missing the point. "But it doesn't matter. We're two insane nobodies on an abandoned island with no one to judge us or care and no responsibilities to take care of except surviving." She paused. "And even that probably doesn't matter much to anyone except ourselves. There's no point in trying to be hyper-functional, yeah? She'll be right, and all that." And then she fixed Willow with an accusing glare, as if this was her fault. "So stop being so worried about stupid things like survival and whether or not we're gonna be killed and live a little, will you?"

"...Can I at least worry about your survival long enough to finish stitching your arm up?"

"Oh, yeah, sure." MJ shifted back into position and stretched out her arm; Willow went back in for the last stitch. First throw, second throw, third throw. MJ watched as she set the needle and scissors aside, wrapping gauze once more around her newly-sutured arm. "But after that, no more worrying, alright?"

"Easy for you to say." Willow rolled her eyes. Even now, her mind was running like a hamster on speed on a treadmill: the things they'd have to do to make sure MJ's arm movement wasn't shot in the long-term, the ways they'd have to prepare in case anything like this happened again, how they'd deal with the need for specialized supplies like the medical kit when they inevitably ran out of things to scavenge. "It's who I am, I can't just turn it off."

"See, this is why I'd be a terrible mother. I can't deal with this emo shit." MJ punched her in the head again; Willow had to restrain herself from shouting child abuse with great difficulty as she rinsed her hands off in the bowl one more time. "Who I am my ass. Ignore that motherfucker. Tell her to shut up. Put her on the back-burner like the world's worst elf on the shelf."

"You mean...put her on the shelf?"

"No." Her eyes gleamed. "The burner. And then set her on fire."

Okay, so MJ definitely was crazy and that wasn't just a figure of speech earlier. "And setting things on fire is relaxing to you?"

"It sure as shit isn't worrying about the future." MJ gave her arm an experimental and (thankfully) sufficiently cautious twitch, nodding to herself and maneuvering painstakingly to her feet without using her hands. "Now, instead of trying to plot our next step like we've been trying to do since you discovered the cruise ship, how about we go relax in the hot spring you already tested and just explore the island?"

Before Willow could think through a response, something clattered sharply, a resonating sound that could only have originated from the mouth of the cave. Instinctively, both of them turned toward the source of the sound—something that looked like a coconut rubbed with an uneven coating of soot rolled to a stop by the bowl of boiled water, disconcertingly metallic filling jangling inside like a bell. A limp reed-like plant hung a single hole, a sad little blue flame drooping on the end. Familiar laugh echoed alongside it—MJ's laugh from a disconcertingly familiar voice.

"What the fuck—?!"

As it turns out, Baby's First Bomb went off with a sound like a concentrated thunderclap, echoing off the walls with such force that the cave vibrated as if scared itself and also about to come down on them like Thor's hammer. The force of it threw Willow back into the dark bowels of the cave—stupidly enough, her first thought was again that vague dream about Sam Michelson hitting her with a golf club, the explosion catching her in the gut as carelessly and violently as a flick of a titan's finger—down one of the winding tunnels that came off the main entrance. Planning wouldn't have helped her. Nothing in the world would've helped her survive a thing like that, except for the sheer lucky fact that her head cracked hard against a patch of that same potentially toxic bioluminescent moss rather than a crag in the stone, leaving her ears ringing and her thoughts blown clear out of her skull. She lay suspended there for a long second, stunned completely motionless as the shock morphed almost immediately into pain. A few feet to the right and she would've been dead as a doornail.

A few feet to the right. MJ.

At first, trying to move her limbs was a lot like that first moment of impact—her body categorically refused to cooperate, less hurt than completely offline. Then, with a twinge like her bones were being thrown in a shredder, she managed to haul herself into a sitting position, opening her mouth in a silent scream when she leaned weight on her arm because her elbow was definitely not right and mistake, mistake, mistake. Slowly, she managed to wiggle her way to MJ, static shocks of pain running through her spine with every movement. The hole they'd been blown through was almost exactly perpendicular to the wall of the main cave; none of their natural light made its way in, but it was pretty easy to see the flicker of firelight against the far wall. Beyond the torchlight, the shadows of their supplies was barely visible—a dim grey wisp in the light—but as she watched, she was pretty sure everything they'd collected since coming on the island was on fire. Either that, or she had just started full-on hallucinating. Neither was good.

Fortunately, MJ had been thrown in alongside her and landed on another patch of moss. Unfortunately, she wasn't doing as well; her other arm had definitely gone at the wrong angle (not entirely unlike Willow's, apparently), and she'd been flash-burned by the explosion, the fabric on her legs smoldering a little and probably at least a little melted into her flesh. Her face was red and peeling, as if sunburned. Willow tentatively raised a hand to her own face, but she couldn't tell if the ow was from her fingers (which were definitely in pain) or her face (which was probably also in pain). It was probably safest to assume both. Actually, it was probably safest to assume they were both just entirely in pain. At least they were both alive, although it was debatable how long that would last, especially since MJ's wound had probably re-opened and there was nothing to patch it up with now.

From nearby in the darkness, there was a low coo.

"Sh-sharkbait?" Willow's tongue was thick in her throat and her jaw made uncomfortable grinding noises when her teeth met, but at least she was still saying the words she was trying to say, so that was a plus. "Is that you?"

Something soft nudged the open palm of her hand—feathers. When she grasped for them, they retreated, barely brushing her fingertips. Sharkbait made another noise, more insistent this time.

"...What?" Willow turned to MJ, before remembering that MJ had apparently passed out. Of course. Willow and Sharkbait had been getting along more ever since the incident with the wasps in the woods, but she still hadn't learned to speak his language, and the one time she needed to, the translator was off in Candyland. "Do you—" Not that it mattered, actually, English and sounds in general were probably just a bad idea. Ow. "—do you want me to follow you?"

Sharkbait cooed again. Which was absolutely no help whatsoever. From the corner of her eye, however, Willow saw another shadow creeping along the firelight, starkly contrasted against the orange light. The flickering of the flames made the silhouette move as if water were rippling over it, but it was unmistakably the little girl. Partially because no one else had hair that specifically fucked, and partially because no one else would set them on fire. The shadow raised its hand.

"...That fucker better not have," Willow muttered under her breath, for her own benefit more than anything else.

The hand jumped; a shot rang out. A gunshot. The shadow drew nearer, head swiveling.

"Fuck me." Alright. Of course. Because the moment she began considering whether or not to cool her shit, shit got dark. Willow reached out her arms, defiantly ignoring the sound like crunching rice-krispies, and grasped MJ by the closest limbs she could find. "Alright, Sharkbait, this better be good."

She wasn't sure how long Sharkbait led her through the dark tunnels, her feet stumbling blindly over the uneven stone with nothing but the galah's claws in her shoulder, occasionally nipping at her ears to turn one way or another, and MJ's weight making her elbows scream in agony as she dragged her unceremoniously along. It felt uncomfortably like dragging a body bag. She did notice, however, when the cave began to slowly but surely brighten, ambient light dancing across the angled stalactites hanging low from the ceiling. Sharkbait left Willow's shoulder, looking a little worse for wear and losing a good portion of his feathers in the process as he fluttered down to the ground and began picking his way across the stones. The cave was angling slowly but surely downward.

Finally, they reached what Sharkbait had been leading her to—a shallow pool of still water just about big enough for the two of them to jump into, lit up clear and translucent with blinding white sunlight from some opening on the other side.

"...Great." Willow turned to look behind her, craning her neck to look upward into the darkness from whence she came. This was a stupid move for multiple reasons, including the fact that her neck felt like death when she tried to lift her chin to any position above her collarbone and she was ninety percent sure she could hear the little girl's giggles behind her. Or maybe it was just the echo. Or just her paranoia. "So what are we here for?"

Sharkbait stared up at her, dark eyes unblinking, and cocked his head with the birdlike wisdom only an all-knowing demon bird could muster; the I have seen the other side of the Matrix and I know what you're thinking look. And maybe it was the concussion talking, or the weirdly lit cave that was reminding her a lot about the Beltane festival with the Wiccans, or maybe it was just the sheer cognitive dissonance of being hunted by what had to be a kid who wasn't old enough to learn algebra, but—

"I weirdly know exactly what you're telling me." Willow sighed, dragging MJ a little further; the Australian's body slid along the cave floor with a heavy sound before she sank into the water with a quiet splash. Willow adjusted her into a sitting position on one of the rock outcroppings within the cenote; MJ's brow furrowed and her eyes flickered as the cool water hit her.

"What—?"

"That eleven year old girl has learned how to play with bombs." Willow sighed, lowering herself into the pool alongside MJ and gasping in relief as the cool water lanced through the burns she hadn't realized hurt until right then. They stung at first, tingling, but soon she felt as if she'd lost feeling in her limbs entirely in the best possible way. "Congratulations, mom."

MJ looked at her for a long moment, mouth working as if trying very hard to think through the obvious (or maybe she was just trying to feel her tongue again, hard to tell). "...What now?"

"Well, chances are she's following us through this cave." Willow sighed, wading herself over to the lip of the rock and grasping on to give her aching legs a rest. She looked up again. Mistake. Again. "But I don't think she'll find us here; we're kind of in a weird place, and it's only thanks to Sharkbait we made it this far. When she gives up, we'll go back out and see if we've got anything left to salvage."

For a moment, the two locked gazes. MJ's eyes narrowed again, as if trying to work out what her subconscious mind must have immediately realized, but the exertion eventually became too much to bear; she leaned her head back against the rock and sighed, trilling her lips with a long, exaggerated breath. "Right. Whatever you say. I'm just gonna rest here for a bit..."

"You do that."

It didn't take long for MJ to fall asleep, sagging into the water as her muscles relaxed and Sharkbait picked at her hair. It was hard to watch at first, Willow's nerves tingling excitedly, her mind crystal-clear and laser-focused as it was, but eventually even waiting became an experience of its own; her anticipation in her stomach went from twisting itself into nervous knots to coiling like a spring ready to strike. The hamster on speed on the treadmill ran faster and faster before popping the treadmill out of its position entirely, racing it into the sunset, and setting itself on fire. The static-y numb feeling of the cold water against her skin spread up her toes and through her spine. Even as she sat totally still, watching the light shift as time passed and MJ fell asleep, she felt the energy sparking through her as if ready to be released.

When she finally pushed herself off the edge of the cenote, Sharkbait cocked his head and squawked reproachfully.

"She's not thinking clearly," Willow whispered back. Her mind rattled, barely processing her surroundings; she felt as if she was watching everything from behind a mask, an out-of-body experience of a different sort, separated from what was happening. "About her daughter. Stay with her and make sure she gets out if she needs to." Was she talking to a bird? Definitely the concussion. Defensively, Willow added: "and she's wrong. This is my homeland, so now I get to defend it."

Sharkbait shook his head in a motion akin to flicking off an insect—but he wouldn't get it. No one would've, not even MJ—it wasn't paranoia or patriotism or even personal loyalty that could explain it, the clarity of purpose and action she was experiencing right then. A single-mindedness like runner's high. MJ had been very close to being right, but Willow's brain had seen it first. The girl was going to kill them both if they didn't kill her first, simple as that, and if MJ couldn't do it, Willow was there to do what civilians didn't have the guts to do to protect their homes. Just that final thing, and then she could shut her paranoia up once and for all. She'd stay on the island and make a home, explore everything with MJ and worry about nothing but herself and her closest friend for the first and last time in her goddamn life.

But her paranoia had been right. And before she'd even known it—before she'd even thought about it consciously, while stumbling blindly through the darkness of the cave, she'd already known what she'd had to do. The girl's stone dagger dug incessantly against her hip-bone, held fast by her waistband. Before she'd even found a way out, she'd been thinking through scenarios—an assailant with a gun against herself, who was unarmed except at short range. Throwing it would be a fruitless endeavor; facing her head on was out of the question. But the enemy was an eleven year old girl, smaller in stature and probably not used to being hunted. She was smart, the wasp trap had proven that, and she had no qualms or morals...but Willow was smarter, more experienced, and had more to lose. And the girl was primitive. A child, easily distracted and impulsive (if nothing else, her automatic animosity had proven that). Willow nodded to Sharkbait one last time, turned her sight toward the sunlight as she took a deep breath, and let herself drop soundlessly into the cold embrace of enveloping water.

After tonight, she'd settle down and live her life. But for now, she was going to do what she did best: she'd do what no one else was willing to do, and survive.