"Anyway," David said drawing his gun. "I'd like you to get away from whatever that thing is, please. Leave it alone – the world is getting on just fine as it is – and get yourself over there with the little ones."

Iain looked at the gun then his son and the boy's friend. Thomas' face showed how little he wanted his father to be near him, but Iain ignored it. He was young. He didn't understand.

"Come on," David prompted. "Don't let the fact your son hates you put you off."

"He doesn't hate me."

"Doesn't he? Let's ask him, shall we?"

David looked expectantly at the boy, with Thomas staring at the floor. Did he hate his father? Could he? He was ashamed, certainly. Disgusted. He didn't like the man, but hate was a strong word.

"I think the silence has just spoken volumes. Doesn't matter. Get over there now."

David's tone changed. The jaunty friendliness had been erased and it was obvious he meant business. When Iain hesitated, he began to raise the gun.

"Move."

Iain nodded and took a step towards Thomas but, as he went, he poked his fingers at the air, small flashes following his fingertips to indicate he was typing. There was a hum and the machine began to whir, with lights spinning around its top.

David's hand was still lifting, meaning the muzzle of the gun was pointing at air rather than a target. He soon corrected his lapse and brought it to bear on the scientist. Almost casually, he pulled the trigger.

Thomas had been watching David's aim and had seen the sudden correction. He was angry at his father. He was undecided whether the man could still be called 'father' but Thomas couldn't shake a certain instinctive loyalty.

Without thinking, he dived. As David's finger tightened on the trigger, he was in the air, his small figure looking as if it could do no harm to anyone.

Harm wasn't his intention. In fact, he had no conscious intention. Even so, his timing was perfect, depending on the definition. His chest imploded and, by the time a second shot was fired, blood was already spraying across the table and its contents.

The second shot hit its intended target, connecting with Iain's neck, disintegrating the left side. Father and son hit the ground, blood spewing.

Bren screamed and turned on the Spotter. The spines were out. The fangs and claws bared, but she didn't attack. She thrust her arms out and up.

David grunted as he was abruptly lifted into the air.

Bren swiped her arms to the left.

David's body flew across the room towards the thick column. He grimaced as he was about to hit it, but there was no impact.

It was much worse.

David groaned, unable to voice the pain that coursed through his body – or what there was visible of him. From the surface of the column, his upper torso protruded. One arm hung free. The other led back, the forearm fused with the stone. Unseen, his lower legs projected from the rear of the column. He seemed to be conscious for a few seconds, glaring at Bren, but she didn't notice, she was running to her friend. The few seconds quickly passed, and then David did too.

Dor, silent and unmoving until that moment, cried out and pounced at the girl.

Bren didn't stop. She'd reached Thomas and was knelt beside him when Dor's hand gripped her shoulder. Bren shrugged the hand off, impaling it with hard spikes ejected from under her skin. Without looking, she lifted her arm again and pushed forward.

Dor flew backwards towards the wall of screens except, as with her leader, there was no impact. The Mole vanished, reappearing on the screens themselves. She was outside, hovering just over the edge of the cliff, struggling against invisible bindings. Bren dropped her arm and Dor dropped from view.

Bren took Thomas' hand and, with her other, she stroked his cheek.

"Thomas? Thomas, speak to me. Thomas! Come on mate, you're fine. You need to be fine. You're fine!"

But he wasn't. The hole in his stomach was too big. The pool of blood was too wide. The colour in his cheeks too pale and his eyes too... lifeless.

Bren embraced him, not caring that her own clothes were being soaked red. She buried her head in his shoulder and sobbed. What good were all the powers she'd gained when the only real friend she'd had, and the only person other than herself she'd ever really cared about, was dead?

Her tears flowed freely and she willed him to live. To breathe. She pushed mentally with everything she had, but could tell it was in vain. There was no such thing as a healer.

She could hear Iain's laboured breath nearby, but didn't care. If it wasn't for him, Thomas would still be alive. She wanted to feel anger at the man. She wanted to tear him apart, or wanted to want to. But she didn't. Couldn't. What was the point? Her friend was dead.

Bren took a deep breath, inhaling the sweaty odour of the boy whose usual bathing routine had been forgotten, as had hers. She berated herself for allowing such incidentals to cloud her mind in such circumstances and held the breath, wondering if it would mean a part of him would then always be with her. Finally, she exhaled slowly.

Thomas twitched. It was the slightest movement but, when he then coughed, a shiver wracked his body.

"I'm cold," he whispered.

Bren pulled back, sure she was imagining his voice and his movements. When she looked at his face, though, his eyes were open. His cheeks were flushed. The hole in his chest was gone, with only his torn shirt to indicate there'd been any incursion and a fading red mark on his skin to show there's ever been a devastating wound.

She was going to ask how, though there was no one to ask, but she knew. There could be only one reason. There'd never been a healer before. There was now.

Except...

"Save him," Thomas said, his voice husky and faint.

Bren looked at Iain and saw he was watching her in return. His eyes were wide.

"Please, save him."

Bren didn't even want to touch Iain, let alone heal him as she had Thomas, but she also couldn't let someone die. Yes, she had killed David and Ian and more, things a child of her age shouldn't have to do, and yes, it was his fault... But he was helpless. He was badly injured and he was dying.

He was Thomas' father.

She moved over to him and rested her palm on his neck. Feeling the shattered spinal column and the torn flesh and ligaments. Part of her wanted to clench her fist and make sure what the Spotter had started was finished by ripping out what remained of the neck. Instead, she tried to repeat what she'd done with her friend.

Bren closed her eyes. She pushed her will out, focussing it through her fingers and into the gaping wound. She slowly inhaled, then exhaled. Opening her eyes, she saw there was no change in the state of the injury. It was still ragged. Still oozing. Still mortal. Iain was looking at her, his eyes pleading. She looked over at Thomas and saw the same look mirrored there.

He had his father's eyes, she noticed.

With effort, Thomas pushed himself up onto his elbow.

"Please Bren."

She nodded and closed her eyes again. Something had changed, however. Something was different and she had a feeling that, no matter what she did, it would be in vain. Was it because she didn't really want to? She didn't think the man deserved to saved? Was that stopping her powers working?

No. That wasn't it. She knew why.

Iain coughed and a jet of blood shot out, covering her arm. A faint, raspy breath seeped from his lips and he slumped down, his head leaning at an odd angle. There was nothing she could do. She looked at her drenched arm forlornly. This was Iain's acknowledgment of that. His body's acceptance. It was a slap in the face of her inability.

And that was the issue.

"I can't," she said softly.

Thomas's eyes filled with tears that fell silently. He nodded slightly. Anything more would have been an admittance that he was bothered. He was affected.

"You don't want to," he said. "I understand. It's OK."

"No, you don't understand," she said. "I really can't. It's gone."

"What has?"

It was Bren whose eyes now filled with silent tears.

"Everything," she said. "It's all gone. Everything. I have nothing left."

"Your powers?"

Bren didn't nod or agree. She didn't have to. The tears flowed freely. She was like him now. Powerless. She should be mourning and, to a certain extent, she was. But, somehow, she was also relieved.

She stood, absently wiping her hand on her top, and helped Thomas to his feet.

"I'm sorry," she told him.

Thomas shook his head and put his arms around her. They stood like that for a long time.