Virgilius’ termination had been evidence of Kirsten’s success. This is confirmation. “You did it,” Koda breathes, marveling. “It’s over.”

Kirsten, beside her, glances around at the still forms. Even in the dim illumination, Koda can see that her face is pale, her eyes still wide and dark and stunned. “Over,” she repeats softly. “Over.”

A sprint carries them around the curve of the building, then, across the lobby with its avant-garde German sculpture, all twists and tangles of stainless steel. They hit the panic bars on the main doors at full speed, bursting out into the pale light of dawn. Momentum carries them through the grounds, over the disused parking lot, up the slope of the hill. Asi bounds through the high grasses to greet them, and Kirsten seizes him by the ruff, her feet still flying, while Koda scoops up their gear. “Keep going,” Kirsten pants, “Just keep. . ..”

. . .going. . ..

The shock runs though the earth beneath them as they reach the level ground above the small valley. Thunder rolls along the air, the crash of collapsing concrete and the roar of secondary explosions. Glancing back, Koda half expects to see a mushroom cloud rising behind them, but there is only a cloud of dust and smoke, roiling upward toward the clear sky.

Beside her, Kirsten turns to look. She says softly, “And the kings of the earth, who have committed fornication and lived deliciously with her, when they shall see the smoke of her burning, shall say, ‘Alas, alas that great city Babylon,’ for in one hour is her judgement come.’” For a long moment she is silent, and Koda reaches out for her hand. Despite the warmth of the morning, despite their run, Kirsten’s skin remains cold to the touch. She whispers, “Never. Never again. Never, never again.”

Around their ankles the grass stirs as a breeze ghosts over the ground. It lifts the dust along the road, catches the smoke that rises over the remains of the Westerhaus Institute, shredding it, carrying it in thinning coils up into the clean sky. Koda never knows how long they stand watching as it disperses, taking with it the terror and grief of the past nine months. Above them, the sun catches a glint of bronze off a hawk’s wing feathers, and Wiyo’s cry comes floating down to them. It is welcome; it is triumph.

It is joy.

Koda turns Kirsten gently by the shoulders and bends to kiss her. “Cante mitawa,” she murmurs. “Let’s go home.”