Moniker. That took Morgan a moment. At first, she assumed Peps was talking about a shadowname, just doing so with a dash of subtlety, but "dead by the state" could only mean so many things. Well, really only a few things, and with the other context clues, it was safe to say that her dear sister's father had been a fisher of men.
For a moment, her mind catapulted back to a bar in Detroit. A dark, gloomy place, the tables dusty, the floor covered in rat shit. But, hey, beer came in bottles, and her mentor told her to go there with the veil wrapped around her eyes. She'd seen a man walk in, unassuming, average, and yet he came with company. Hands reached out to grasp at him, rotting, mutilated hands, rising up from the floor, reaching out from the walls, grasping at his clothing, his legs, and yet with each effortless step he dragged them all forward with him...
It had been a serial killer. An aberration her mentor had said. A glitch in the Exarch's failing design. But what was that worth? Especially to Peps?
She wanted to say, "I'm sorry". Something. Anything to address the pain that she knew her sister was going through. To acknowledge that, well, that she should have been there for her sister when she first learned of this. To acknowledge that this shouldn't be news.
"The didn't deserve you," she said finally, knowing it was painfully inadequate, but at least it was something.
"And no, I didn't learn anything down in Mexico. Not about my past, anyways. It was a strange time. In a lot of ways, though, while I'm sorry that I, uh, left the way I did, I'm not sorry I went. I don't think we would be having this conversation if I hadn't gone."
Morgan hung her head, unable to meet her sister's eyes. That night was still fresh in her mind. Broken plates. Throats screamed raw. The stench of burnt rubber filling the night air outside.
She blinked, and looked up again as Peps, or Briar Rose, showed her the tattoos.
"Well, what do you think? Are we strong?"