The positioning of the two of them now is a little twisted in a few places, like several twists on a rubik's cube so the shape is largely recognisable but the colours are all jumbled. Not that something like that would bother Ed, he'd had it all organised again in no time, but for Oswald he can feel the difference.

He can remember the deep-seated distress seeing the flesh around Ed's neck all bruised pink and purple from Butch's brutish grasp, how anxious it had made him, how despairing. And he can also remember the absolute vindictive glee he felt watching the Court of Owl's guards kick the stuffing out of Ed.

The way Oswald feels interest veers between a brand of visceral concern in the pit of his stomach and a spiking thrill of vindictive pleasure at the mental image of someone kicking Ed to the dirt for cheap laughs and then back again is a kind of rollercoster he hasn't signed up for and isn't sure he wants to stay on. But he's there now and will have to work out what to do with the consistent whiplash experiences being around Ed causes.

He swallows, trying to focus on the content of what Ed is saying rather than the emotions they invoke.

"Variants? As in... Clones? Or mutations like the kind Hugo Strange created?"