[Fang's hand flashes out behind her to brace against the wall; it's the only thing that keeps her sitting upright in face of Vanille's charge. She can feel the gouges forming in her scales under the other gargoyle's claws, threatening to split. Her tail lashes once over the bed indignantly; Fang's too worked up to be conscious of the alien swell of wounded pride, and she sits straighter, despite Vanille looming over her with claws hooked in her scales.]

So, what, you want me to roll over and accept it? What the gods did to all of us—what they did to you? You want me to settle for this? Never feeling the sun again and watchin' you tear yourself apart every time you've got to go eat?

Like hell. Because guess what? We're all disgusted with ourselves—the things we've enjoyed and the wants we've got. [She glares up into her partner's now-golden eyes, unflinchingly—defiantly. There's a beat before her lips curl into a scowl, just a sliver of teeth bared, and one last thing boils out of her throat.] You and your little martyr act've got no right to lecture me about keepin' me safe.

[There's forgiveness in death. Let's die for Cocoon and let the cycle perpetuate. I'll sacrifice myself to soothe the damned. No, Vanille had no right to complain about Fang's recklessness, not when her own guilt was the greatest danger to her.]