November 20th
Taylor kept his eyes on the punching bag.
Whitman was pacing around his gym, only visible when he wasn’t looking.
Mimosa was sitting on the bleachers, rolling her head from side to side, seemingly content to let Whitman be the active one.
He closed his eyes, and continued to count his punches, the blows doing nothing to calm him down.

Fifteen minutes later, Magnolia returned, gave him a formal salute, then headed back to her cot.
Mimosa began to pace around him, far less elegant than Whitman. She angled her large head from side to side, and when she made eye contact, her eyes were silver.
After a few minutes, Mimosa danced close to him, and he threw a punch at her. She shattered like glass, appearing a few feet away as if she hadn’t noticed the attack.
She walked to the wall, and it disappeared as she waved a hand, revealing the night sky. She rose off the floor and her body turned to mirror.
The moon caught fire, and started to fall from the sky.
She turned, and grinned at him, before all of her features disappeared into a pool of mirror.
He forced himself to blink, and everything disappeared.
Whitman was a murderer. Mimosa could end the world.
He looked to Magnolia’s cot, nothing but her feet visible from his current angle, the rest of her form hidden behind the green divider.
Magnolia could take his place.
He lifted the heel of his hand to his forehead, and refreshed his skin. The sweat and dirt from hours of training disappeared.
He slowly unwrapped his hands, his fingers holding on to the strips of Magnolia’s skirt for seconds too long before he dismissed them, then he required a new uniform.
The armoury opened with a thought, and he selected a few items – more than enough to kill an agent. He touched Ursur’s axe, laying his hand flat on the blade – it wasn’t a problem worthy of the weapon, Mimosa didn’t deserve a death that good.
He looked towards Magnolia’s cot one more time, then shifted to the basement.
Mimosa’s cell was far from the functional confinement areas that the other tanks were. Those held food and water and not much else. Mimosa’s tank held…conveniences, like she deserved something more than an execution.
And it was execution. It wasn’t murder.
The Agency would see things clearly, once sentimentality was out of the way.
Mimosa stood off to the side, silver eyes staring at him, daring him to make more useless attacks.
The glass was unbreakable. The glass held back the behemoth, the Nephilim, and other creatures designed for brutality.
He could break it. He knew he could break it. He had reason to try. He could punch, and keep punching, until it shattered and gave him access.
He could do it, but there was no need.
He stepped up, and stared at the security panel – it opened as soon as the box appeared in his HUD, and cleared his credentials.
Mimosa stood in front of him, a reflection of the burning moon in her eyes.
He reached out to grab her, and she allowed him to hold her by the throat for a moment, before she shattered into points of light, coating his hand with pieces of mirror.
Mimosa sat up in bed, looking like nothing more than a rumpled child, and immediately looked panicked. She moved to the end of the bed, grabbing for a stack of tablets on top of the small refrigerator.
He moved forward, grabbed one of her flailing arms, and swung her into the wall of the tank, stomping the tablets as he released her.
She crumpled, and he watched her shoulder fit itself back into the joint before she even tried to sit up.
She was crying.
Mimosa stared at him from the corner of the tank, silver drops spilling from her palms like blood.
Whitman whispered in his ear, no words, nothing but sound.
Mimosa reached for the tablets again, grabbing one and sliding under the bed.
He tossed the bed aside, took one long stride towards her, then kicked her in the head.
Her face crumpled, and he lifted her by the neck, and forced her to stay local as the damage healed, instead of shifting out for a regeneration.
When her face was whole again, she was crying.
Whitman slashed at him, and he dropped Mimosa.
She landed heavily, and he stomped his feet, trying to trample her.
Whitman’s knife opened a long gash through his sleeve, and left him bleeding. He turned, looking for her, and saw nothing. He stepped forward, and ripped some of Mimosa’s sheeting, enough for a makeshift bandage.
He quickly tied off the wound – it would serve no one if he died of blood loss, and looked for Mimosa again – Whitman could be dealt with later. Mimosa needed to die.
He heard running footsteps, and saw Mimosa running out into the basement – she’d made it past him, and was running for the elevator. For freedom. For an escape from execution.
He threw aside the remains of the sheeting, and ran after her – it was easy, he was so much faster.
He aimed a punch, and she ducked, his hand slamming into the lift doors, crumpling the steel.
She weaved out of his way, showing a grace she never had during the limit training. It was far more Whitman like, than the living failure that Mimosa embodied.
He swung out a leg, tripped her, and she landed flat on her back. He pulled a knife – fae, good enough to kill an agent, but nothing special, not like the knife he’d given Magnolia.
He focussed on Magnolia, and swung the knife down, slashing her throat open – it would be a far quicker death than any of the murders Whitman had committed.
She bled silver from the wound, mirror spilling down her neck to pool behind her shoulders.
Mimosa opened her mouth and laughed, a deep, sick, evil thing.
Taylor blinked, then blinked again, and tried to force himself to focus.
He heard crying from behind him, and he ran back towards Mimosa’s tank.
She sat on the floor, face wet with tears, surrounded by broken tablets. She looked up, then looked down again, arms curling around herself.
She disappeared.