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The shards are red and white triangles, pentangles, jagged edges and strangely smooth curves, more shapes than he ever despaired over staring at his Euclid. He stares at them now, crouched on his haunches gazing at the shiny shattered things. Just as pressed against his flank, Dru stares, the little pink tip of her tongue protruding from between perfect white teeth. Red and white.

Two, shattered, first one, then the other, whole once, made of the same pattern, the same size and shape, and mixed together now so that it would take infinite patience to sort one from the other. Yet not one shard from the first will ever exactly match one from the second.

Dru shifts a little, and sighs, a soft breath from her teeth in a sound that is half a hiss of anger, half a whimper. And she places her finger in the centre of the shards and stirs, shifting and changing the shapes, brushing new pieces up against each other and pulling old ones apart. The slivers are sharp as icicles, they look as powdery as sugar, the red and white pattern a glaze of smooth icing.

Beautiful. A geometry of destruction.