"Elias?"

I jerk, a snap of lightning hitting my insides, nearly choking on a gasp. "Oh, sorry. It's just...a lot to think about." Understatement. Wincing, I take a long sip of my punch and push away the edge of snow in my fingers and the questions hanging like sharpened icicles over my head.

I can't think about all that right now. It's just—too much. I can't handle questioning everything I've known, even all the boxes I know I filter and don't filter through, under her stare. I just— have to do it later. When I am in private. When I am alone.

Swallowing hard, I press the threatening whirlpool of thoughts into the empty wasteland of my memories and lock them there, focusing on Deception's face, her smile with a glitch in it, and the darkening amethyst of her eyes.

Deception tilts her chin down, eyes flitting around my face, sobering. "I suppose it is," she says, soft and serious and understanding—so unlike the passion and gusto of moments before.

And she says nothing else, letting me gather my thoughts, letting me melt and piece back together, letting me mend the seams I tore and pretending that she didn't see them. I draw in another slow breath, measuring it, marking it, timing it to the inconstant silence in between twitters from some bird unseen.

Edison does—did?—this with me. He'd patiently let me gather myself after spilling my stuffing no matter how long I needed with no comment, no judgment, no impatience. David did it too, and Dr. Egret, and I know they are good.

So does that make Deception good? The question blooms in my mind, expanding like a puff of smoke in the sky, growing bigger and bigger until it dissipates, no walls or answers to hold it back. I don't know. She...isn't what I expected. She isn't a villain like Cyclone, all snarled words and slapping wind, or a villain like Conflagration, obsessive and unstable. She isn't a villain like me—Blank Slate me—sharp-tongued, always daring others to take it one step farther, to toe the line and push it one inch deeper.

Instead, she's been...like a woman who found out her supposed boyfriend doesn't remember her anymore, a person with goals and aspirations for a better world, a person who's...not as evil as the news or I made her out to be.

She's not evil. But...not good, either? If she isn't evil, isn't horrible, isn't mind controlling people left and right, then who is she? I stare at Deception's face, her eyes, the way her shoulders are relaxed and she angles herself towards me, and filter through not the Villain box or the Hero, or even the one hastily labeled 'Gray', and all that is left I see is a woman. A woman who cares about me enough to stay silent as I stare, enough to tell me her plans, enough to be somewhat vulnerable to me despite the distance of time between us.

My teeth clench and I fight off a grimace twisted with the scrunch and shadowy edges of confusion, dropping my gaze to the pleasant red of my drink. Bubbles wobble as they rise to the surface, disappearing the instant they touch it. Their ripples distort the faint reflection of my face, twisting it nearly beyond recognition.

Was this the woman my younger self saw and fell in love with? Was this how my younger self could say, 'she will accept you in every way'? Not looking through the evil or the villain boxes, but something else. Someone else other than labels. Was this how, some time before, I fell in love with her?

Weight settles in the bottom of my lungs, heavy, not like a ball and chain, but like a thick blanket. I inhale and exhale, feeling the edges, the shape, the form, and almost understand. Almost see how I could've seen her.

Almost, but not quite.

Deception still captured me—but did she see it like that?—and took me away from End. She still has strong opinions about the Heroes and says Edison hates me. There's still things that don't line up, and yet...I wonder. Was there one time where I hadn't filtered through labels and seen her for what she was? Is that how I had come, back then, to be her right-hand-man? Her boyfriend?

I swallow, a question rising to my throat, and, after feeling the edges, I tentatively let it come forth. "Did you...really love me? Were we really together?" I ask slowly. Did I really see you that way?

Deception pauses, her fingers lingering on the rim of the drink she had been absently stirring, a slow, sad smile coming to her face. "Of course, Elias." She moves her hands to the table, leaning forward, a few dark strands falling in front of her vibrant purple eyes. "Of course I loved you. I still do, and always will."

It's not a fist that grips my heart, but something soft and firm, a pressure of a purple wing or something softer, smoother, and it blooms outwards like the lavender blood of a wounded whale. It's a cloud billowing tendrils of color, filling, growing, living, until it flourishes out a hand, revealing a precious jewel: belief.

I believe her. She really does still love me. It's in her voice, in the tilt of her mouth, the slight sag of her shoulders, the way her fingers rest upon the table too close to mine to be accidental but far enough to not be rude. She loves me, has loved me, will love me. "Why?" It comes out as a whisper, edged with all the conflicted confusion I feel.

"Because you are you." She reaches up and tucks the fallen strands of her hair behind her ear, gaze flickering down almost bashfully. "Fearless, passionate, full of witty banter...and you really do care for others. Your heart is for those hurt and suffering and the lowest, and you do your best to lift them up."

She meets my eyes again, her own catching the glint of the sun and reflecting it like a jewel in full daylight, beautiful and sparkling. "You'd fight with all you had for what you believed in. No matter what happened, what kind of setbacks, you'd always get up and keep going. You wanted to change the world just as much, if not more, than I do. It's admirable.

"But I guess..." The sun leaves and her eyes are left dark and shadowed, their depths shrouding the raw heart once more, "...you were so focused on others that you lost yourself. Or maybe you forgot what we believed in and slipped away." She fists a hand over her heart, face turned away. "Even still...I love you. I always will."

The thing in my heart is swelling, rising, bringing tears unbidden to my eyes. I slide a hand my mouth to keep in the pressure, the tears, the thing bursting forth. That person she described, oh, I wish I was that now. I wish I knew who I am and where I am going. I wish I was that confident to fight, that sure of where I stand.

But I am not.

That person is dead, and I killed him. He's gone forever and there's no getting him back. I don't know what I believe in. I don't know where I stand on basic morals, let alone what to fight for. I am left alone to flounder between good and evil, hero and villain, with so little to stand on it hardly keeps me from drowning.

And when will it ever end? When will I get my answers? When will things ever change? A rush of emptiness fills my veins, expanding the spaces between the cells tenfold with the cold vacuum of space. It spreads to my bones, somehow making them heavier and lighter with deep-seeded weariness.

I am not a villain, whatever that is, I am not evil, whatever that means, but I am still not a good person—whatever that entails. How can I ever make up for this? How can I ever change? It hurts, it burns, and it turns my insides to ashes and makes me want to scream at the sky.

Throat thick with emotions, I struggle for something to say. "I'm sorry I don't...remember him." But am I sorry I am not him?

"It's not your fault."

"But it is! I did this to myself—I blanked myself, I turned that HQ into puddle, I turned myself into an eleven and I— I just— It's—"

Fingers close around my wrist and I blink back tears I hadn't known where there, finding Deception leaning over the table, her hand pulling mine from my hair. "Elias," she says, so soft and gentle, but that isn't what breaks me. It's the tears in her eyes, the grief of loss worn so openly, the reflected pain in her voice.

My face crumples and all the walls holding back the storm of everything wrong and confusing and tangled and difficult bursts free into the waiting arms of purple tendrils. I hang my head, covering my face with one hand, fighting to stay silent, to keep my composure.

Deception slides into the seat beside me, putting a slender arm around my shoulders. "Please, talk to me," she murmured close to my ear, breathing warm and strangely sweet.

Starbursts of purple explode in my mouth and my tongue moves to— I clench my teeth and turn my face away from her. If I say anything more, everything might spill out and then...I she'll know. And is that bad? a purple part of me whispers.

"Talk to me, Elias, Spades." Her voice is not as soft now, more firm, more intense, and she takes my hand.

Purple swims in my vision, a dizzying swirl of tendrils and sparks seeking for a foothold in the static of my mind. I shake my head, trying to clear the sparks, the purple, trying to pull away, trying...

You want to talk to me, the purple breathes—or is it Deception at my ear?—and I find my mouth moving before I even think of what to say. "But I'm...not a good person."

Her grip loosens, I blink, and all the firmness is gone as she tenderly brushes a stray curl away from my face. "What makes a person good or bad? We're fighting for what is right, but what is right is not seen the same way by all people. The world may call us Villains, but we're the heroes of our own story. We're doing what is right, what others want to ignore and put away under the label of 'wrong' because it's too hard for them to handle."

Reeling, I scramble for an answer, shoving a hand through my curls. "But how do we know what we're doing is right if everyone says otherwise?"

She cocks her head. "What do you think, Elias? What does your heart say? Don't you want to change the world?"

Do I? I don't know much about the situation of the outside world—that sort of information never really interested me—but I do hear some things from the other inmates in group therapy.

They speak of poverty, of struggling to find food or enough money to pay rent, of gangs who stole them from Ten School or before and forced them to fight. Then there's ones who worked in the black market for the thrill and money, the ones who hurt people for their own goals or for their gangs and regret—or only say so in the presence of heroes—it, and the villains reigning with terror over people who don't have power.

There's heroes who use their reputation to get what they want, there's those who are there for attention and don't actually care for others. There's things broken, there's things needing fixing. My city, my quarters, all the quarters, aren't perfect. They're messed up and complicated just like I am. But is changing the world Deception's way right? Would it make it any better than it is? Do I, myself, want to change the world for the better? "I don't know."

Deception reaches up and kisses my cheek, and I start. "I think you know, down in there. Don't let your fear hide it from you."

Her breath is warm on my cheek, touching softly like a butterfly alighting on a leaf. Her presence recedes, taking the warmth with it. I blink, the ice locking my limbs starting to crack. She just...she...I...

"Decs?"

A winter wind jumps to my fingers and I whirl, eyes landing on Sebastian who stands a little ways away on the garden path.

His gaze flits between me and Deception, who leans back in her spot, causal and unconcerned. A steel hardens his features, a poisonous fire flickering to life behind his eyes and stiffening his voice. "Do you have a moment?"

Deception smiles languidly and rises to her feet. "Of course." Glancing at me, her expression turning serious again. "Think about it, okay?" Slipping around the bench, she jogs up to Sebastian, falling into step as he spins and heads back the way he came. "What's up?"

His reply is too quiet for me to hear. But just before they round the bend and just as I begin to turn back to the table, I think I see Sebastian's arm slipping around her waist, but when I jerk back around, they're already gone.

Frowning, I turn my attention back to the table in front of me. Rubbing my cheek, I grab my drink and let it slide down my throat, cool and strangely calm compared to the storm of thoughts. "Do you want to change the world?" lingers in my mind like the heaviness of the air before a thunderstorm.

Do I? Is the answer buried deep within the static drifts where my memories should be? Is it somewhere farther back in the childhood I barely remember? Or is it hidden somewhere within, somewhere deep in my chest, sleeping like a dragon?

The world is broken, that everyone agrees. But do I, Elias, want to fix it? Do I want to be out there, getting my hands dirty and getting the gritty business lodged under my fingernails? Do I want to rip out the rotten roots like when I am weeding? Do I want to find a new system to replace it? Do I want to do it Deception's way—Deception who isn't so evil, so villainous, as I thought?

And if I do not, does that make me an even more horrible person?