Ever since joining Ursus, Taylor had gotten himself into the habit of collecting scars.
These were different, though— these scars he'd got from his own actions and his own volition. It felt good to not be powerless under a massive gloved hand and a microscope lens. It felt good to know that his brother wasn't there to test the newest experiment of the day on him.
He's still sore and bruised from his last fight, but has cleaned himself up since then. Only his torn ear displayed any remnant of violence. Still, his ear maintained a dead radio silence. 
The sun was just setting when he came across the lake. He wasn't alone. He hangs back along the trees, unsure and shy. Spring was here, and the earliest ducks were scattered around the lakeshore, though they were beginning to edge away at the presence of two wolves.

No, he answers, his voice metallic. I need a bath myself. The first step in the water is markedly more difficult than the second. He gasps despite himself as the coldness of it slips past his legs and to his chest, as it laps at his neck. The world turns dark and blurred as he dunks his head under the water. When he comes back up, the drops pull at his eyelashes and he blinks them away.
Taylor looks terribly skinny and much more boyish with all the hair slicked back. The last remnants of the poultice and dried blood are finally off of him and so is the grime between his toes, stuck in the fold of his neck. Here for business? Or just passing by?
He licks his lips, assumes the proper inquisitive tilt of his head. Water drips out of his ears, runs in rivulets down his shoulders, wondering blearily if he had needed a bath at all, or if it was Evien's emphasis on hygiene that was rubbing off on him.

She's either very old or very young— this discrepancy unsettles him. He pulls himself up out of the water too, shakes the water off of himself before approaching her. A sort of intense friendliness surrounds him, with nothing behind the eyes. Well, he remarks, a hand on his chin, would you like one?
He sizes her up out the corner of his gaze. She's small and pale, and she dances over the uncanny valley like it's nothing. She could very well be a student or a grown woman and Taylor can't put his finger on what evades him, whether its those bright blue eyes or the clear skin. More and more, Taylor sighs, It's hard to come by a home. But I can give you one. He never finishes his sentences.
Another hand comes to wipe his wet brow. It lingers over the mole on his cheek, before returning to his lap. With interactions between strangers and Taylor, it was inevitable that they found something odd about him. He wonders how long it would take for the woman to see it and toss him by the wayside as something inherently malfunctioning.

Young and beautiful and fucked up, he smiles. Her attention, rapt and charming, tickled at his confidence. It stretches and opens up. His smile is nothing but a baring of teeth. No connotation or denotation to it.
The symmetrical face, the bright features— simple biology tells him that she is beautiful. She slides into some golden ratio, snug and perfect, and the fur on her stomach is impossibly white. He thinks, vaguely, how soft it would be. Where do you come from? A single eyebrow arches neatly.
Then, laughing, self-deprecating, he adds, My name is Fields. It's bold of him. He had never been good with people, even himself. But Ursus, Evien, and now this stranger...he was getting used to the heat of the spotlight on the back of his neck. If his brother were to find him now, perhaps he wouldn't even be able to recognise him, this blooming version of himself. A poisonous flower was still a flower.

Every word she says, every motion she takes, comes from an enigma that Taylor cannot crack through. Perhaps this is why he learns forwards, a detective with a pencil notched in his ear and a notepad in hand, eager and hungry. He watches her hand flutter up to her collarbone like a white bird. Her eyes glint and bat. The languid back and forth of her tail in the water.
Her answer is just as opaque as the rest of her. In any other situation he would've been annoyed— but the porcelain dish of her face gleams in the light, and any frustration is quickly wiped away. Rosina. As she approaches, he realises just how small she is.
Something thrills up his spine. Yes, he replies, with a voice that is more breath than intonation. He raises his hand to just in front of that tasteful white face. Here you are, fräulein.