Flashback, 22 years ago.
Mama was on the table. Kristoff sat close, but he remembered what she'd always said -- it wasn't good to touch the body any more than you had to. It was like watching her sleep, but he knew better. He might not be quite six yet, but he wasn't a baby.
Kristoff looked out the window. If he looked far enough, he could see the remains of the secret police lying in the street. The Master'd done that. And he said he would...
The news traveled quickly down the street, voices shouting "The Usurper is Dead."
For the first time in the past few hours, little Kristoff Vernard smiled.
Some time later, He came back. "Kristoff, was it?"
"Yes, Master."
"Who is your father?"
Kristoff shook his head. "He was one of Mama's patients, Sir. I never met him."
"I see. As it happens, I have no son. I believe we can come to an arrangement. Let us gather your mother's things to burn at the funeral. Then I shall take you home." He offered a gauntleted hand, and Kristoff took it.
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