Greetings, brother.

He could never accurately describe that sensation, not even to Talia, whom he felt knew him even better than he did himself. However, if pressed, he would speak of insects crawling and skittering in his brain, covered in slime and vomit.

Dexter Smith reeled from the mental assault of the thing before him. One of the Hand of the Light, it called itself. A search-and-capture unit, like the old Psi Corps Bloodhounds, but working for someone else.

Do not fight us, brother. We have not come for you.

"You won't touch her," he whispered. "You won't...."

We will. She fights us. Our Masters have ordered her capture. She has a rare mind, talented and deceitful and truly treacherous. She will make a fine addition to our unit.

"You won't take her."

Join us, brother. Perhaps we will give her to you. She will do anything you like, anything at all.

Dexter looked at Talia. She was still as death. Only the painfully slow and shallow rise and fall of her chest showed that she was still alive. A faint glow of light still shone around her mouth and nose where the Bloodhound had tried to draw it from her.

What had it been attempting to do? What was that light? Her mind, her soul, what?

Both, and more. There is something that makes you human, that makes you weak, that makes you cry and question. Something that makes you unhappy. We will remove it from her, brother, and make her stronger as a result.

"Stronger, and.... more.... biddable?"

We will not deny that. Remove the need to question and what is left but glorious obedience?

Dexter slowly rose, the throbbing pain in his head becoming less. "You'll give her to me?"

Perhaps. That is not my decision to make.

"And she would do anything I ask. Anything at all?"

We do not know why you would want her to do.... that, brother, but ask and she would obey. She would have no choice. None of us would.

"And if I wanted her to argue with me, to fight, to disagree, to be awkward and different and maddening, to find fault with everything I did, to be contradictory and nonsensical?"

We do not understand.

Dexter looked at her, still unmoving, and smiled. "No, you really don't, do you?" He moved forward, trailing his hand along the edge of the bed. A plan was beginning to form in his mind, one shaped by instinct, not intelligence. He had no idea if this was going to work, and there was nothing to suggest that it would, but still.... there was a....

.... feeling.

A memory of that brief, sweet, blissful, complete communion of minds, and a sense of how she thought.

The Hand and Mr. Edgars would call it his telepathic powers, or empathy or whatever. He called it instinct.

"You can offer me all that? I must be really special to you," he said, still walking slowly forward.

The melting-wax features of the thing twitched into a grotesque parody of a smile. You have no idea how special, brother. You have a rare gift, truly rare, one that we can use.

"What will you take from me in exchange for this.... power?"

Nothing you will be sorry to lose, brother.

His hand brushed against her bare leg. A shock struck his fingers, almost like an electric current, or an unexpected flare of heat.

"What is it I have that you don't?"

Why brother, do you have to ask? Do you not just know? Can you not read me as you do those you beat at that infantile card game? The voice in his mind twisted, becoming a perfect replica of Zack's. So, explain that dealer chip again?

Dexter's hand touched Talia's. He curled his around hers. Her skin was so warm. He could feel it again, that one moment of communion. She was there. She was conscious, she was aware, she was just trapped behind a wall of pain and fear. All she needed....

"Well, Chet," he said. "First you...."

.... was a key.

Her eyes opened.

The creature hissed and moved back, but Talia was already awake.

"Now, I'm annoyed," she said.

The plan was a strange combination of genius and insanity, as all the best plans are. Marrago was more than a little discomfited by it, not least because it meant the complete derailing of all his carefully laid schemes. He had come to dislike strategy lately, but he had not lost his grasp of it. As things currently stood, he would be leader of the Brotherhood Without Banners in less than a year. Within two, he would have an army for Sinoval.

But time and fate and the machinations of others had a habit of interfering with even the best laid plans of Centauri and men.

One battle, one throw of the dice, one opportunity.

Marrago breathed out slowly. He had never liked gambling, although he recognised its occasional necessity in war. He had always left real gambling to Londo.

He was still shaking and he could still feel the impact on his fist, even up to his shoulder. He could still see the look in her eyes.

Sometimes he tried to remember the last time he had felt any self-respect at all. Where had it all gone? There had been a time he had been proud of himself, proud of what he represented. He had done.... things he was not proud of, but they could all be rationalised. Dealing with the Shadows, blackmailing Lord Valo into a politically convenient suicide, lying to Londo and Durano.

But now, now there was nothing, an emptiness at his core. He was not even sure why he was here, what he was doing. He had failed to protect Lyndisty, his dealings had led to his people becoming slaves to the Alliance, and now he had hit a woman. No, a girl.

"You made a poor choice, my friend," he said, not sure if Sinoval would be watching or not. "You should have chosen a much younger man, a much better man."

But who else was there?

He thought over Sinoval's plan again, considering himself very fortunate he did not have to think the way the Minbari did. It was risky and dangerous and quite probably suicidal, but it could work. And at this stage of the game, both of them had to take risks.

He looked up at the commscreen as the image appeared there. About time. There was a need for security systems and screening processes, but sometimes he thought his associate took things a little too far.

No, there was no such thing as too much security.

"Greetings, friend," said the twisted, alien voice. Even over a distance of countless light years n'Grath still managed to convey that aura of sheer otherness, along with a very simple malevolence. "Are you in need of more work? There is business to be done if you wish it."

"No, thank you," Marrago replied. "I've got some information for you, and I want some information in turn."

"Yes? This is of interest to this one. Let us hear your information and it shall be seen what the worth of it might be."