Chapter Text
Zoey can already feel the flames licking at the side of her face, but she can hardly find it in herself to care. She’s empty. Hollow. A sinister voice draws her forward, whispers sweet nothings into her ear, says he'll take care of her, love her, be her family.
Interspersed is poison. She’s always too much, yet somehow never enough. Not good enough, not good at all. It's a deadly combination, a familiar cocktail of promises and pain.
There’s something cold pulling her toward this burning heat in front of her. On all sides, there are men and women bumping her shoulders, moving at the same funeral procession pace towards… towards…
She’s not sure.
But whatever it is, it has to be better than this all-consuming emptiness she feels. Mira’s last words, Rumi’s betrayal, the knowledge that she’s failed once again, her thoughts all twist and turn in her brain like a sickening twister of pain.
She couldn’t keep her parents together, couldn’t keep her partners (and how that word makes her ache, that they never got to be anything more than that) together, couldn’t seal the Honmoon. She can’t even find it in herself to care that the world is ending all around her.
She takes another step forward.
The heat is almost unbearable at this point.
Her feet continue their march, just seconds away from—
Mira knows the words that are pulling her forward intimately. They call to her like an old friend. They kept her company in the endless halls of her old mansion, filled the silence of rooms gilded in gold and apathy.
‘Hate,’ they would whisper, in a tone so similar to her motherfatherbrotherherself something she didn’t fully recognize, but had always known, ‘we all hate you, and you know it.’
‘Unworthy,’
‘Unlovable’
‘Untrustworthy.’
The voices come back to her without prompting, as if they had never left at all. Maybe that’s why they're so easy to follow, the familiarity of them resonating with every footfall.
(Maybe she’s just tired, tired of pretending that anyone could ever really love her as she is. Tired of trying to imagine a world where she could hold her heart out and not have it sent back, returned, unopened and unwanted.)
It’s warm.
The press of bodies all around catch her in their current. They are all waves swaying towards the rocks around a lighthouse on a sunny day. There is no splatter of foam, crack or crash to signify a storm. There is absolutely no fight at all. Mira doesn’t want to fight anymore. The heat is not comforting, far from it. But anything is better than the cold sting of apathy crawling across her like frostbite.
She keeps walking.
The flames grow taller, hotter.
She can see the edge, barely an arms distance away now—
When Mira and Zoey open their eyes they’re both floating. It is almost too bright to see. The world around them flickers in a cosmic glow. Everything burns bright white, the true nature of their surroundings incomprehensible.
They’re caught somewhere between infinity and nothing, within the space that emerges when two mirrors are pressed together. The world around Mira is blurred at the edges. With every twitch of her gaze, the landscape fractals and shifts. It’s altogether like nothing she’s ever even thought to know, and yet…there’s an edge to it that’s almost familiar.
The light is not peaceful. It is not the kind of light that beckons you home. It is almost too much to bear.
There is a scream trapped somewhere inside Mira’s mouth, but the sheer weight of the aura surrounding her keeps her teeth ground together. Her eyes flicker across the space, taking in everything and nothing all at once.
‘What — what…what is this — fuckwhatthef — ’ her thoughts refuse to string together. All she can see is Zoey in front of her, not necessarily her...body. But her. She would know her by atoms alone, and her figure writhes in the distance, clearly experiencing the same violent awakening as herself.
Mira can’t reach out, she can’t comfort her, she doesn’t even know where they are.
The last thing she remembers was their fight, then walking, then heat—
Then nothing.
Mira feels her eyes well up as she tries to make sense of everything.
‘God-oh God oh God, I’m dead. Am I dead? Is Zoey— ’ the thought strikes through her like lightning. ‘Is Zoey dead?’ She let Zoey die. Was Rumi — demonliarneverlovedyou —She flinches and aches at just her name. Rumi isn't here. She’ll never see her again. That thought alone is nearly enough to break her. Mira had failed—
Â̵͕͚͋͋̀̓́̌̈́̈̌̅̚͝͝g̸͓͉̤̺̣͓̖̯͙̙̃͊ä̵̰͓́̔̆̊̍͊̏̇̈́̈́̚͘͝i̶͈͇̻̞͙͐̎̃̓ͅn̶̤̒̐̃̂́̍̕͘͝͝
The sound that scrapes against the very essence of her being can hardly be called a word. But somehow Mira still understands it. Barely. The noise that peels across her consciousness is like hearing a crack of thunder and imagining that within it was the barest hints of a whisper.
Ẁ̶̰̙r̶̳͐o̴͓̪̅n̷̿ͅg̵̘̾̽.̸̰̖̀ ̵̣̂̅I̴͇͒̈́ ̶̤̈́c̴̙̔̀ḫ̴́o̶͇͠s̸̫̐̈́ē̶̲̯ ̷͔̅w̵̺̃̉r̸̻͚̿o̶̤̦͆n̴͔̯̈́ǧ̴̟͚̈ .̷̞̥̆ ̵̟͚̃Y̸͙͓̌̂o̷̲̲̚ú̶̥̏ ̶͙̋͠n̷̰͒e̷̱͉̓̈́é̸̬͝d̵̻̉͝ ̴̭̳̿̕t̵̝̚o̷͈̔ ̸͕͈̎f̵̢͔̆ḭ̴̣̊̌g̶̘̟̓h̵͉̗͐t̷̜̬̑.̵̮̎ ̶̠̌̈́Ȳ̷̙͝ͅŏ̷̩͊u̶͈͎͑̆ ̸͍̦͛͂n̶̛̦ĕ̵ͅë̷̺̳́̔d̸̠́̆ ̸̭̅t̷̲͙͗ ő̵͓ ̴̦̂w̵̙̣͠ỉ̷͙̗͘n̷̙̓͗ͅ.̵͍̘̿ ̵͍́
Each syllable sends currents of static across her form (not a body, not anymore). It leaves the scent of metal on her tongue (that's not right, she knows it isn't, but does she even have a tongue? And what is taste in a world with no scent, with nothing but light and this metallic echo). All she knows is that this feeling is just adjacent to pain, uncomfortable enough to almost hurt. Like a half-cracked knuckle or a fallen-asleep limb.
She doesn’t understand.
‘Wrong? It chose what? What is — ’ And then she understands.
The Honmoon. She’s in it. Without confirmation, she knows this to be true, the way she knows the feel of her guandao, the whiz of Zoey’s knives, the blinding light of Rumi’s hwando cutting down demons (why would she kill demons (she was one (she hid it for years ))).
I̶̱̣̹̝̿ṱ̸̳̙͋͠ ̵̬͆̏H̶̘͇̹̻̓̀͌u̵͙͕͐r̴̥̦̳͌̂ẗ̸̡̪͚̩͠s̶͔̆̽ ̷̥̑i̶̳̝̯̼͑ṫ̴̖͇͎͊ ̷̢̥̫̞͌̃͝h̷͖͋̽͝͝ǘ̸̲̟͂r̵̝̼͑͑̄͜t̵̡̺͕͕̓̀̚͠s̷̨͈̠͑̈́ ̴̪̉̅ţ̴̹̀́̈́͝r̵̦̞̫͆̀͘ȳ̷̱͌̒̍ ̷̛̱̞̳̗̽̎͒ā̵̢̔͝g̶̡̳̱͒̀̄a̸̺͍̭͊̓̄i̴̪̩̔̈́̾̀n̴͈͖̤̓̽ ̶̭̫̮͌͠ẙ̷̟̬̟̇̈ơ̶̡̡͉̓̿̾u̴͍͛̅͌ ̶͔̮͛̑̚n̵͇͕̤̱̓͛͝e̸̢̺̥͒̓͛̕e̶̫͋̂́d̵̨͚́͌͝ ̶̼̬̦̈̎̈́̂t̴̨̙͔̆̌̊̋ȏ̵̧̤̀̉ ̷̯͙̮̰͊̏̃̚t̴̛̮r̸͈̟̱̱̍̍́͛ẙ̵̭͇͙̓̂̕ ̸͈̒͜a̸̯̋́̆̒g̷̬̳̞͍͌a̵̬̓̿̊̈́ḭ̶͚͒̎͊̚ṅ̷̻̦̲̤̄͛̀ ̷͕̓ẏ̴̜͉̙͗̆ơ̸̢̺̦͒̕͜u̷̬͇̦͗̐͝ ̵͓͉͆̃̈́n̷͉͒̂e̵̟̬̍͜è̶̦͉̠̐̋d̸̡̧̨͖͑̄̎ ̴̞̫͐͊͝t̶͖̋̕ŏ̵̧̈ ̷̳̲̂͒̒w̷̝̦͉̠̋̓̋͂i̸̘̒͋͝n̶͎̹̮̊̃.̴̬̖̼̉ͅ ̸̢̥̦͐
W̸͓̤̜͈͊̇i̸̤̤̲̟̐̍n̵͓̻̣̥̒̋̚ ̵̗̬̣̯́ţ̶͕̣̅́o̷̹̘͊g̷̻̦̊͝e̴͍͎͑̏͘t̷͙͒h̴͉̞͓̐ě̴̤̿͗͝r̶͙͍̦̊ ̴̡̛͖͆̊y̷̧͉̒o̵̙͇͂̀u̴̮̣͚̇̂ ̸͇͓̉́̉̂ň̷̪̳̀e̴̯̤̜̊͛̿e̶̗̰͈͗d̶̛͉͉͎̣̍͝ ̸̠̠͠t̷̺͖̅ͅo̸̢͒̀̈́ ̴̯̳̗̾̍̓͠w̸̹͆i̴̧͓̝̳͘ṋ̴̘̯͊͜ ̴̨̛͕͛̑t̴̹͚̀ǒ̶̡͔̩́͜ģ̶͚̘̀ȇ̴̱̬̆̓́t̵̢͉͓͈̉ẖ̴̓͑͠ë̵̻̩́̉̏ř̴̛̝͙̰̭͗͠.̸͓̅͒ ̵̙̬̐̉̕ẃ̶̦͝ͅr̸͖͙̝̎o̴̬͓͒n̴̡̲͇̬͌͐̈́͌g̴̡̹͚̻͊͐̔ ̵̟̲́̐w̵̫̣̞̯̔͂̆́r̴̥̹͌o̵̢̽̆n̵͉̙̹̝̐̒͋g̸̨͙͔̳̀ ̴̩̕͝w̷̞̕r̸͍̜͒o̵̖̾̾̐̕n̸͓̱̗̾͜g̸̎͌̃͜͝ͅ ̷̤͐̍̽̕Ị̶̜̣̥̃̐ ̶̯̒͊̈́̚ẅ̴̞́̑̄̏å̸̞̮̫̜̓͂s̴̱͍̏̎ ̷̨͚̀͊̀w̶̗̠͝r̶̢̮̈́́ȏ̷̞͘n̵̞̦̤͌g̶̞̳͓͕͊̈́̒́ ̶͎̆͊͑I̵̧͎̟̾ ̶̲͗͑͒p̴̣̲͝i̶͉͗̓̈͠c̵̦̖̮̆̌k̶̨̟̒e̵̳̭̗͋̈d̷͎͍͖̑ ̴͖̠̱͒̽ŵ̷̹̤̊͗r̶̺͚̝̄̂̐ò̵̗̺̎n̷͚͈̫̾̄ģ̷̧̺̗̿̿̅͆.̵͇̑̋͑̆ ̵̨̛̝̘̝͆̃̄
Ȉ̴̡̱̯͎͚̟̯̭̹̰̦̺̣͎̌̒͂̊̐̿̚͜t̷̨̧̢̧̘̙̯̳͍̳̲͉̪̯̳̋̅̍ ̴̖̺̝̏̇ẖ̵̡̛̤̮̼͈̟̯̮̘̳̰̓̌͂̒͋̍̓̂̌̄͑̽ù̶̠̠̘̭̻̌̐̈́̚r̸͙̕ṭ̴̱̪̞̙͓̠̣̠̍s̴̨͔͙̺̩̫̩̭̗̥͍̗̗̫̃͛͋̃͌͆́̑͒͘͝.̴̝͎̣̪͚̝̳̻͇͔͎̀͜ ̴̤͈͚̖͍̠͊̅̾̉͝ͅİ̸̛̼̈́̆̑̾̀̋̄͆̕ť̶̛̛͔͕̠̙͎̐͂͋̅͛̃̈͑̕͝͝͝ͅ ̸̧̬̹̇͋̎͊ȟ̸̡̨͈͉̥̝̣͚͙̬̯͆̈̇̃͘̕ͅü̸̧͍̯̲͕̏̈́͂̈r̵͚͙͗͌͒͆̄̈́̾̉͠t̷̢̺͖̠̻̬̬̹͐̆́̈̆̓͘͜͝ṡ̵̡̝͍̞̝̚.̸̤̙̲͌͐̋̓͗̿̋͊̋͐̀̾̋̕ ̷̩̺̺̜̞̭̪̆̏̿̔̋̽̏̀͠T̶̖̰͉̲͓͖̞̥͈̞͔̫͍̣͗̃ŗ̴̡͎͎̭͙̻͚͕̈́͂̾́̌̿̕ŷ̷͎̤̮͈̺͔̹͎̊̽͒̀͗͆̽̒ͅ ̸̩̘͔̟̩̯̝͆͋̈́̚͝a̸̡̖͔͓̤̱̝̼̣̻̳͌̿͗͑̄̑̇̈͌͑̇͘g̶̡̤̬̝͕͎̞̹͈͙̈́ǎ̷͚̖̠̻̣̱̹̺̭͓̹̹̣͈͊͗̈́͌i̵͙̣͔͍͋̀̓́̂̓̄͛̐͑̕n̸̡̫̰̩̼̫̳̲͖̥̹̗̻͆͌̾̅̊͘ .̷̢̛̼͎̰̤̪͉ ̵̛̯̠͎̦͍͈͚̙̈͜͝Ỳ̸̡̧̦̗̳͈ơ̸͉̭̰͕͕̞̠̤͕̩͍͌͆̈̑̆̿̽̿̅͘̚̕͝ͅụ̸͎̲͍͎͕͔̻̥͚̪̾̿̈́͛̅̀͆͊̈́̋̔̈́̇ ̶̨̭̗̙͇̲̲̒͗̊n̵̛̲̘̩̼̰͚̯͓̮̫͒̂̈́̓͛̋͌̔̆̚͝e̴̡̧̢̛̹͕̥̻̰̥̗͍̱̣̪̓͑͑̀̾͑̇̀̀͠͠é̵̢̨̡̺̗͇͕̜͚̫̙̭̗̕͜d̶̛̻͍̝̩̥̯͈̰̮͖̲͖͓͔̫̂͋̎̍̀̈́͆̽̓̎́̀̎̚ ̵̢̨̡̼̖̺̮͓̥̦̲̯̹͓̒̆̀̎̂͊̅̀̀͊̿̕͝͠ t̷̨̢̥̻̻̰̗̓̈͒̋̓̅͋̉̕ō̴͉̹̹͕̰͚̰͇̪̋͒͌͋̊ͅ ̵̞̬̄̒̆̐̀̂̃̎̚w̸̛̠̥͖̤̘̤̲͕͒̔̎̏̈́͐̄̊̓͠͠͠͝i̵̬̟̭̼̞͇̦̠̾ͅn̷̡̪͔͙̗͈̥̰͌́̉̏͝.̸̢̧̘̻̫͖̺̠̄̓͗̂̐͛͌͊̈́͘͘͝͝͝͝ ̵̛̱͚̭̯̣̖̰̈̄́͝T̶̩̹̱͚͓̩̗̅͗̔̾̌̆̋̄͑̎͘͜ò̶̧̧̞̤̱̙̰̺̥̱̙ͅģ̷̡͎̆̂̍̇e̶̡̙̥̖̳͆͑͂̏̓͛̉͗͘ͅẗ̷̨͙̣̞́̿̽͋̄̌͗̋͘ḧ̸̨̧̞͓̣̘͇̫̦̪͈̦͔́̇͌͐̇̍̾̍̃͒͗̚̚e̷̡̻̙̪̺͒r̵̛̠̱̘̙̳͉̼͉͓̈́̈́̆͆̀́͊̽̇͛̍̏͠.̶̜͎̦̲̪̲̲͇͙̅͑̂̑̋̃̈́͘͝ͅ ̴̖̥̣͎̹͈͙̩͚͖́̓̂̓
Mira can only get bits and pieces. The Honmoon is hurting. She needs to win. It was..wrong? ‘Wrong about what?‘
The light around her and Zoey starts to burn even brighter. Somewhere deep within herself, she can feel her atoms rearranging, can feel the fabric of the universe rewriting itself within each of her nailbeds.
It hurts.
F̷̨̪̖̜͎͕̖͗̏͐͛̈́̐͗̕͜į̸̡̡̡̱̖̲̲̠̖͊̈́̂̀͆̽͜͠g̸̛̫̼̰̮͙̦̹̝̫̞͗̉͋̔͋̀̽͌͊͝h̸̡̬̩͈́́͐̊́͠͝t̵͚͇̹̃̂̾̈́͊̚ ̷̲͐͂̈̋̈͗ḧ̷̢̘́͑̈e̷̙̯̼̲͔̍̿̐͝͝r̴̡̠͚̹̩̺̙̰̀̔̎̂́.̶̡͈͉̜̬͎̠͕̟͔͎̙̬̘̗͉͑̓̾̀̈́͜ ̸̧̫͍̰̇S̷̛̰̰̭̤̗̰̭̉͋͆͒̀͌̌͆͊͆́͂̎̒̕͝ţ̶͉̼̰̞͇͙͍̤͈̖̋̎́͐̑̓̿́͜ơ̷̰̙̘̺̫̝̌̌̿̀̾̾͗̇̌̚͘̕͠p̷̡̧̣͚̜͔̖̭̘̯̻̞͓̻̹͑̏̋̄̉̃̾̃̀̚͝ͅ ̵̛̟̫͖͈̖̦̣͚̣̿́̆̃̋̃̈̔̈̂̕̚̕͠͝G̶̹̠̥̟̺̹͑́͝w̷̡̡̠̤̼͔̩̮͔̥̤̩̣̍̈́̓͋̓̈̅̔̅̀͊̕͘͝i̶̧̧͇̳̲̤̪̼̹̦͈̊̓̋̐-̸̮̍́̌M̸̗̱̤͉̲̋̔ä̸̧̢̛͕̼̺͉̜͈͖͖̮̰̜̫́̓̒́̽͘ͅ .̷̡̡̨̦̦̯̘̟̞̝͙̽͐̌̓̈́̈́́́͜͝ ̸̧̧̧̡̥̳̭͚̠̝̲͍̞̜͎͂̂̋̌͒̎̓̑̏̍̉͊̒S̷̤͙̘̪̗̭̩̩̤̣̋̈́̉̐̄̎̀͊̈́̓͂͋̀͘͘͠͝t̸̢̟̜̦̜̫̖̥͓͇̖̒͒͛̃̿̕̕͝ͅò̵̪̎̔͒̈́̈͒̕͝͠ṗ̸̮͇͕̯̘̩́͗͝͝ ̴̱̰̪̮̱̓̔̀̄́h̸̨̫̙̮͚̰̘̺͈̖̞̱̠̙̗̺̎̓̑̈́̊̅̉̉̕i̷̟̬̞̰̠̪̙̖̦̭͑̏̎̿̈́͆́̄͗̌̇̓͒ͅͅm̴̗̬̭͂̒͒̍̍͆̈́̓̒͐͐̿͘͘̕͜͝.̴̦̬̩̘̩͈̺͆̋̑̽̕͘ F̸̙̗͇̻̻̂̈́̇̌i̶͖͎͔̤̺̞͓̗̘͍̿̒͌̋̈̔͂͌͝g̶̨̢͎̞̥̥̮̞̀̒͊͒͂͐̄ͅh̷̢̲͕͉̯̼͊̐t̶̤̦̹̯̝̺͊́̚ ̴͈̞̤̫͈̖̌̎ǎ̴̱͗̀̉̐̎̊̍̓́͛̂́g̸̛̛͍̥̻̹̘̜̞̥̳͒̀̔̃̅̊̐̿̑͝͝ä̴̧̧̱̱̖̣̖̬͚̯̓͗̓̾̆̚͜͜ỉ̸̛͍͉̙̭͓̠̻̼͍͂̊ͅ n̴̡̢͔̥̰̼̜̟̳͍͇̜̲̑̉̍͒͒s̴͔̞̘̳͔̥̬̹͍̑̀̈̎̏̊͒͊t̵͎̳͔͕̉ ̷̪̖̗̾̿̅͂̾̋̒̕ͅḧ̵̡̥̣͈͚͎͚̳́̉̽ͅē̶͈͋r̷͓͇̱̾̐͒͑̈́̒̎͝͝͝.̵̢͇̈̑̔̀͑̐̓͝
‘Fight her?’ Mira’s eyes are burning. She knows she needs to stop Gwi-Ma. Knows she failed before. But she won’t again. Still, the voice keeps going. Mira can feel the particles of what used to be her teeth cracking apart and coming back together.
She is coming apart at the seams and being sewn back together in the same instant, planes of time and reality coming into conflict.
‘Who?’
F̶̜̳͎̀̋͘͝i̷̧̢̳̓g̷̠̤̈́ḣ̷͉̖t̵͍̦̥̗̎́ ̶̯̹̭͛̀̽h̸͉̗͊é̷̬̍̈̚r̸͔̋.̵̨̧͉̳̈́̀ ̸̡͖̖̠͒͑̆͑Ŝ̵̝̯͑͜á̸̠͎͝v̸͓͍̱̔͒̕ẹ̷̜͑ ̴͚̯̹̰͐̋h̸̞̗̍͆͘͠è̶̮̣͛̓̚r̸̤̀ .̵̠̑̋́̆ ̸̝̈́͜Í̷̬̜͊͊͝ ̶̞͎̾́̿͗w̴̖̫̘̔̊͘a̸̛̬̮̗̽ş̴̨͇̫́ ̶̧̫̦̋̾̎ẅ̷͇̭́̈́͜r̷̢͂o̷̩̯̊̓n̷͔͖͌̾͛̚g̷̭̲̻̈́̊͝ͅ.̷̖̃̈̒ ̸̛̳̲̼̚İ̴̩̜t̸̖͛͠ ̶̹̼̘͚̾h̵̟̝͝ú̴̡̙͂͝ř̷̯̫͓͇t̷̙̹͔̿̈́͘s̷̡̀̑͝.̴̻̲̅̊̅
̶̢͍͚͙͕̩͇̼̠̾̂̽͛͜ͅF̶̛̙̗͙͓̥̈͘͜i̴̧̛̠̙͈̲̹̼͉̮̠͛̏̀̃͛͐̅̓̍̄͗͒̓͌̓͝ģ̵̮͍̹͉̳̼͙̳͇̯̌̚͜h̷͇̦͈̣̞̫͎̗͆̉͊̈́́̊̋̊̕͝t̸̼̘͉͔̰̃̈́͋͆͠͝͠ͅ ̴̨͙̮̗̥͂̀h̷̡̛̥̗̲̭͖̰̙̻̮͙̩̞̮̱͍̟͒̈̏̈́̄̄͋̽̃́͋̅̆͠e̵̛̛̥̝͖͕̪͓̥͓͛̉̒̈́͑̂̈́̽͆̐̈̑͆̕͠ͅr̵̛͚̱̹̞̟̋̑͆̽̒͐̐̃̒̈́͒͑̆̕ .̸̨̙͓͚̥̣̙̬̻̫̍͋͂͒̏̈́̑͗̏͌͜ ̶̪͉̂̈̂͑̄̀̑̓̽̒̀̀͝͠T̶̢̨͙͓̫̖̙̣̰̙͕͖̤̪̮̣̉͛̆͒͋͝ͅơ̸͍͓̳͛̅͆̎͐̋̌͛͌́̒̀̈͝g̶͈͎̙̝̭͕̮͉̳͕̺̏̓̄̔͜ͅͅḝ̵̦̹͖͖̩͖͈̫̞̑̅̋̿̊̆̈́̈͘͜͠t̴̡̫͚͍̟̀̎̉̈́́̃̀̑̇̿̃̆͑͋͝h̶̤̟̓̊͛̈̍̌̾͂̈͌̔͆͊̈́͝e̸̢̼̯̰̺͚͙͔͍̦̅̈́̆̿̿̎̀͛̋́͆͘ȓ̴̛̗͈̯̯̻̙̻̦̞͋̀̉̿́͌͆̈͑͂̊͂̏͝ ̶̢̡̛̻͈̘̱̟̙͔̻̯̭̏̓͛͊͗͘ḯ̵̡͚̝͖̋̊̅̃̓́̿̓̈́̍͊t̸̺̱̦̝͖̣̥̦̠̩̝̱̆̒̆̐͗́́̆͆̓̅͋̚̚͝ ̶̺̗̫̻͒̄͘n̶̡̬͕̞̪̬͋̍͌̀̌̃͗́̿̏̐̏͛͐̿̌͘ę̴̺̩̼̰̮̪̞̙̦͕͖̹̞̜̗͊ͅe̷̟͐̽̾̓̅͛̓̃͊́̈́́̆̕͘͝͝d̵̡̛̼͉̣̥̙͇̱̲̫̰̍͊̂̎ͅͅs̴̙͎̮̝̯͙̖̜͍͙̐̑̐̓͠ ̶̟̻̫̩̾̇̊̒̈̾̅̒̏̾͛̄̊̔̏̆̒ͅt̵̛͍̒͆̐̅̅̿̍̊̃͆̆͌̑̕̚͠ȍ̸̡̡̧̙͍̼̰̙̮̗̼̦̲͖͙̆͌̃̒̾̀̑͒͝ ̷̨̞̜͉̹͓̒̈́̈́́̎̍͑̂̋̿͗̄͘͝͝͝b̴̨̺̙͈̬̻̫͔̲͍̲͇̳͓̫̾̏̽̐̄̄͒̄̽͒̈̕͘͠ę̴̖̺̜̻͍̮̲̣͍̩̭͉̣̉͜ͅ ̶̢̠̼̦̖̹̠̫͚͎̇̀͑̽̓̈́͂͆̉͘̕͠t̵̨̪̠͍͓̓̈́ͅơ̵̝̫͖̽͗͗̊͊̉̽̀͂͗͂͘͝͝g̶̈́͑̔̊̈́̊̅̽̾̍͛̾̅̄͜͝͝͝ȩ̸̗͕̹̠̳̩͈̞̹̫̭̞͗̅̀̉͊̀̈́̽̏̈́t̵͓̲̉̆̈́́͛͋ḩ̵̡̢̳͙̼̐̌̂̂̈́́̑̚e̶̛̮̩̣͗͑̕r̷̢̪̥̹̦̭̲̺̈́͌͌̌̈̿͘͠ͅ.̶̨̢̛̮̪̙͈̗̭̬̭͈̤̊̉̌̉́͐̎̀̂̚̕͝͠ ̴̛͔̹͙̦̝͚̞̭̖̽̑̀̿̽̏͂̏̄͌̇̋͋Ę̸̺̳̩̲̈̊̏̌̏͑̒̑͊̋͗̌͘n̷̢̛̼̙͉̆́̃̋̀̇͛̊̃̋͋̂ͅd̶̫͋̔̎̽̄̄̀͑̑̓̀̕͘ ̸̮̻͉̟͎̖̱̣̃̆̆͜ͅt̶̺͇̣͈͖̬̣͉̜̃̈̾̌h̵͖͊̒̄͊̑̓̃͑͆̍̐͛͌̚ḙ̶̫̪͙͉͍̤̂̆̊̒̈́͊́͝͝͠͝ͅ ̸̢̡̢̫̼͇͖̻̘̬͉̻͈̊d̴͖̗̄̽͛̔̍́͛͐͘͠ȩ̸̲͓̲̋̂̀́̐͛m̷̧̧̲̟͓̹̠̟͇͇̙̖̩͋͌͋́̉̆͒̊͒̽̋̅̀̀̚õ̴̡͕͐̅͑͗̒̏͆̃͜͝͝n̴̡̡͓̙̖͔͙̝̮̰͒͊̾̈̍̊̅͛̊͐̐̏͝s̴̡̧̠̬̭̭̺̬͔͖̻̦̐̎̊̌͋̍͗̈́̄̕͠ Ŝ̵̝̯͑͜á̸̠͎͝v̸͓͍̱̔͒̕ẹ̷̜͑ ̴͚̯̹̰͐̋h̸̞̗̍͆͘͠è̶̮̣͛̓̚r̸̤̀.̴̧̨͍͕̟̦̣͇̪̯̬̦͍͉̝̣̮̿́̓ ̵̛̛̛͓̭̘̯̜̱͉͙̂̽̌̅͐͂͆̊̓̑̚̚Y̵̨̘̍̌̿̃͑̆̇̿͝ǫ̷̡͈̹̭͈̈́͛̆͐͒͊̂̊̾͜͠͝u̸̧̢͊̃̈́́͊͘͜͜ ̶̡̹̯̤̻̫̯̦́̈́̃̑͆̓́͌̑̔́͌̈́̃͘̕͘m̸̢̢̙̤̩͉̰͉̯̳͉̤̝̪̏͐͋u̴̧̱͍̮͚̙̞̼̗̤̘͇̹͕̗̘͕̕͝s̶͚͈͚̣͖̘͕̯̦̗̝͔̭͇̲̳̲̉͌͌̿̊̍̍̓̐̽̃͝t̷̢͉͉͇̪͍̮̳̙̥͕̮̠̞͙̼̞̏͆̎̌͒̒̐̇̑́͝ ̵̨̘͍̤̟͌̐͑̄w̸̢̲̖̝͖̜͊͊i̴͎̗̰̍̕͜͝n̶̛̮̣͈̯͍̯̗͉͎̝͖͉̭͊̋͒̑̔͐͋̎́̀̇̈́͋̈́̄̕.̸̛̺̩̣̖̘̠͓̯̲̘͎͙̆̇͂̉͗͜͝ ̶̡̡̨̧̘̳̜̖͇̪̤͓͔̮̏̈́̇̆̓̐̌͊̎̀̈̔͆̆̃
She knows that! Knows that she needs to win, needs to save Zoey, but who is her? Who does she need to fight? Who? She’ll do it. For as long as Mira’s been alive, she’s never shied away from a fight. From the feel of bones cracking beneath her fist and her rage coursing through her muscles.
She can do it this time. This time she won’t be weak.
As she looks out, Zoey’s bodysoulessence shaking and rearranging, Mira makes a promise. The words are still echoing around the infinite void as everything burns and twists and spins.
F̷̨̪̖̜͎͕̖͗̏͐͛̈́̐͗̕͜į̸̡̡̡̱̖̲̲̠̖͊̈́̂̀͆̽͜͠g̸̛̫̼̰̮͙̦̹̝̫̞͗̉͋̔͋̀̽͌͊͝h̸̡̬̩͈́́͐̊́͠͝t̵͚͇̹̃̂̾̈́͊̚ ̷̲͐͂̈̋̈͗ḧ̷̢̘́͑̈e̷̙̯̼̲͔̍̿̐͝͝r̴̡̠͚̹̩̺̙̰̀̔̎̂́.̶̡͈͉̜̬͎̠͕̟͔͎̙̬̘̗͉͑̓̾̀̈́͜ ̸̧̫͍̰̇S̷̛̰̰̭̤̗̰̭̉͋͆͒̀͌̌͆͊͆́͂̎̒̕͝ţ̶͉̼̰̞͇͙͍̤͈̖̋̎́͐̑̓̿́͜ơ̷̰̙̘̺̫̝̌̌̿̀̾̾͗̇̌̚͘̕͠p̷̡̧̣͚̜͔̖̭̘̯̻̞͓̻̹͑̏̋̄̉̃̾̃̀̚͝ͅ ̵̛̟̫͖͈̖̦̣͚̣̿́̆̃̋̃̈̔̈̂̕̚̕͠͝G̶̹̠̥̟̺̹͑́͝w̷̡̡̠̤̼͔̩̮͔̥̤̩̣̍̈́̓͋̓̈̅̔̅̀͊̕͘͝i̶̧̧͇̳̲̤̪̼̹̦͈̊̓̋̐-̸̮̍́̌M̸̗̱̤͉̲̋̔ä̸̧̢̛͕̼̺͉̜͈͖͖̮̰̜̫́̓̒́̽͘ͅ.̷̡̡̨̦̦̯̘̟̞̝͙̽͐̌̓̈́̈́́́͜͝ ̸̧̧̧̡̥̳̭͚̠̝̲͍̞̜͎͂̂̋̌͒̎̓̑̏̍̉͊̒S̷̤͙̘̪̗̭̩̩̤̣̋̈́̉̐̄̎̀͊̈́̓͂͋̀͘͘͠͝t̸̢̟̜̦̜̫̖̥͓͇̖̒͒͛̃̿̕̕͝ͅò̵̪̎̔͒̈́̈͒̕͝͠ṗ̸̮͇͕̯̘̩́͗͝͝ ̴̱̰̪̮̱̓̔̀̄́h̸̨̫̙̮͚̰̘̺͈̖̞̱̠̙̗̺̎̓̑̈́̊̅̉̉̕i̷̟̬̞̰̠̪̙̖̦̭͑̏̎̿̈́͆́̄͗̌̇̓͒ͅͅm̴̗̬̭͂̒͒̍̍͆̈́̓̒͐͐̿͘͘̕͜͝.̴̦̬̩̘̩͈̺͆̋̑̽̕͘ F̸̙̗͇̻̻̂̈́̇̌i̶͖͎͔̤̺̞͓̗̘͍̿̒͌̋̈̔͂͌͝g̶̨̢͎̞̥̥̮̞̀̒͊͒͂͐̄ͅh̷̢̲͕͉̯̼͊̐t̶̤̦̹̯̝̺͊́̚ ̴͈̞̤̫͈̖̌̎ǎ̴̱͗̀̉̐̎̊̍̓́͛̂́g̸̛̛͍̥̻̹̘̜̞̥̳͒̀̔̃̅̊̐̿̑͝͝ä̴̧̧̱̱̖̣̖̬͚̯̓͗̓̾̆̚͜͜ỉ̸̛͍͉̙̭͓̠̻̼͍͂̊ͅn̴̡̢͔̥̰̼̜̟̳͍͇̜̲̑̉̍͒͒s̴͔̞̘̳͔̥̬̹͍̑̀̈̎̏̊͒͊t̵͎̳͔͕̉ ̷̪̖̗̾̿̅͂̾̋̒̕ͅḧ̵̡̥̣͈͚͎͚̳́̉̽ͅē̶͈͋r̷͓͇̱̾̐͒͑̈́̒̎͝͝͝.̵̢͇̈̑̔̀͑̐̓͝
She will fix this. She would save her.
She swears.
F̷̨̪̖̜͎͕̖͗̏͐͛̈́̐͗̕͜į̸̡̡̡̱̖̲̲̠̖͊̈́̂̀͆̽͜͠g̸̛̫̼̰̮͙̦̹̝̫̞͗̉͋̔͋̀̽͌͊͝h̸̡̬̩͈́́͐̊́͠͝t̵͚͇̹̃̂̾̈́͊̚ ̷̲͐͂̈̋̈͗ḧ̷̢̘́͑̈e̷̙̯̼̲͔̍̿̐͝͝r̴̡̠͚̹̩̺̙̰̀̔̎̂́.̶̡͈͉̜̬͎̠͕̟͔͎̙̬̘̗͉͑̓̾̀̈́͜ ̸̧̫͍̰̇S̷̛̰̰̭̤̗̰̭̉͋͆͒̀͌̌͆͊͆́͂̎̒̕͝ţ̶͉̼̰̞͇͙͍̤͈̖̋̎́͐̑̓̿́͜ơ̷̰̙̘̺̫̝̌̌̿̀̾̾͗̇̌̚͘̕͠p̷̡̧̣͚̜͔̖̭̘̯̻̞͓̻̹͑̏̋̄̉̃̾̃̀̚͝ͅ ̵̛̟̫͖͈̖̦̣͚̣̿́̆̃̋̃̈̔̈̂̕̚̕͠͝G̶̹̠̥̟̺̹͑́͝w̷̡̡̠̤̼͔̩̮͔̥̤̩̣̍̈́̓͋̓̈̅̔̅̀͊̕͘͝i̶̧̧͇̳̲̤̪̼̹̦͈̊̓̋̐-̸̮̍́̌M̸̗̱̤͉̲̋̔ä̸̧̢̛͕̼̺͉̜͈͖͖̮̰̜̫́̓̒́̽͘ͅ.̷̡̡̨̦̦̯̘̟̞̝͙̽͐̌̓̈́̈́́́͜͝ ̸̧̧̧̡̥̳̭͚̠̝̲͍̞̜͎͂̂̋̌͒̎̓̑̏̍̉͊̒S̷̤͙̘̪̗̭̩̩̤̣̋̈́̉̐̄̎̀͊̈́̓͂͋̀͘͘͠͝t̸̢̟̜̦̜̫̖̥͓͇̖̒͒͛̃̿̕̕͝ͅò̵̪̎̔͒̈́̈͒̕͝͠ṗ̸̮͇͕̯̘̩́͗͝͝ ̴̱̰̪̮̱̓̔̀̄́h̸̨̫̙̮͚̰̘̺͈̖̞̱̠̙̗̺̎̓̑̈́̊̅̉̉̕i̷̟̬̞̰̠̪̙̖̦̭͑̏̎̿̈́͆́̄͗̌̇̓͒ͅͅm̴̗̬̭͂̒͒̍̍͆̈́̓̒͐͐̿͘͘̕͜͝.̴̦̬̩̘̩͈̺͆̋̑̽̕͘ F̸̙̗͇̻̻̂̈́̇̌i̶͖͎͔̤̺̞͓̗̘͍̿̒͌̋̈̔͂͌͝g̶̨̢͎̞̥̥̮̞̀̒͊͒͂͐̄ͅh̷̢̲͕͉̯̼͊̐t̶̤̦̹̯̝̺͊́̚ ̴͈̞̤̫͈̖̌̎ǎ̴̱͗̀̉̐̎̊̍̓́͛̂́g̸̛̛͍̥̻̹̘̜̞̥̳͒̀̔̃̅̊̐̿̑͝͝ä̴̧̧̱̱̖̣̖̬͚̯̓͗̓̾̆̚͜͜ỉ̸̛͍͉̙̭͓̠̻̼͍͂̊ͅn̴̡̢͔̥̰̼̜̟̳͍͇̜̲̑̉̍͒͒s̴͔̞̘̳͔̥̬̹͍̑̀̈̎̏̊͒͊t̵͎̳͔͕̉ ̷̪̖̗̾̿̅͂̾̋̒̕ͅḧ̵̡̥̣͈͚͎͚̳́̉̽ͅē̶͈͋r̷͓͇̱̾̐͒͑̈́̒̎͝͝͝.̵̢͇̈̑̔̀͑̐̓͝ ̶̢͍͚͙͕̩͇̼̠̾̂̽͛͜ͅF̶̛̙̗͙͓̥̈͘͜i̴̧̛̠̙͈̲̹̼͉̮̠͛̏̀̃͛͐̅̓̍̄͗͒̓͌̓͝ģ̵̮͍̹͉̳̼͙̳͇̯̌̚͜h̷͇̦͈̣̞̫͎̗͆̉͊̈́́̊̋̊̕͝t̸̼̘͉͔̰̃̈́͋͆͠͝͠ͅ ̴̨͙̮̗̥͂̀h̷̡̛̥̗̲̭͖̰̙̻̮͙̩̞̮̱͍̟͒̈̏̈́̄̄͋̽̃́͋̅̆͠e̵̛̛̥̝͖͕̪͓̥͓͛̉̒̈́͑̂̈́̽͆̐̈̑͆̕͠ͅr̵̛͚̱̹̞̟̋̑͆̽̒͐̐̃̒̈́͒͑̆̕.̸̨̙͓͚̥̣̙̬̻̫̍͋͂͒̏̈́̑͗̏͌͜ ̶̪͉̂̈̂͑̄̀̑̓̽̒̀̀͝͠T̶̢̨͙͓̫̖̙̣̰̙͕͖̤̪̮̣̉͛̆͒͋͝ͅơ̸͍͓̳͛̅͆̎͐̋̌͛͌́̒̀̈͝g̶͈͎̙̝̭͕̮͉̳͕̺̏̓̄̔͜ͅͅḝ̵̦̹͖͖̩͖͈̫̞̑̅̋̿̊̆̈́̈͘͜͠t̴̡̫͚͍̟̀̎̉̈́́̃̀̑̇̿̃̆͑͋͝h̶̤̟̓̊͛̈̍̌̾͂̈͌̔͆͊̈́͝e̸̢̼̯̰̺͚͙͔͍̦̅̈́̆̿̿̎̀͛̋́͆͘ȓ̴̛̗͈̯̯̻̙̻̦̞͋̀̉̿́͌͆̈͑͂̊͂̏͝ ̶̢̡̛̻͈̘̱̟̙͔̻̯̭̏̓͛͊͗͘ḯ̵̡͚̝͖̋̊̅̃̓́̿̓̈́̍͊t̸̺̱̦̝͖̣̥̦̠̩̝̱̆̒̆̐͗́́̆͆̓̅͋̚̚͝ ̶̺̗̫̻͒̄͘n̶̡̬͕̞̪̬͋̍͌̀̌̃͗́̿̏̐̏͛͐̿̌͘ę̴̺̩̼̰̮̪̞̙̦͕͖̹̞̜̗͊ͅe̷̟͐̽̾̓̅͛̓̃͊́̈́́̆̕͘͝͝d̵̡̛̼͉̣̥̙͇̱̲̫̰̍͊̂̎ͅͅs̴̙͎̮̝̯͙̖̜͍͙̐̑̐̓͠ ̶̟̻̫̩̾̇̊̒̈̾̅̒̏̾͛̄̊̔̏̆̒ͅt̵̛͍̒͆̐̅̅̿̍̊̃͆̆͌̑̕̚͠ȍ̸̡̡̧̙͍̼̰̙̮̗̼̦̲͖͙̆͌̃̒̾̀̑͒͝ ̷̨̞̜͉̹͓̒̈́̈́́̎̍͑̂̋̿͗̄͘͝͝͝b̴̨̺̙͈̬̻̫͔̲͍̲͇̳͓̫̾̏̽̐̄̄͒̄̽͒̈̕͘͠ę̴̖̺̜̻͍̮̲̣͍̩̭͉̣̉͜ͅ
̶̢̠̼̦̖̹̠̫͚͎̇̀͑̽̓̈́͂͆̉͘̕͠t̵̨̪̠͍͓̓̈́ͅơ̵̝̫͖̽͗͗̊͊̉̽̀͂͗͂͘͝͝g̶̈́͑̔̊̈́̊̅̽̾̍͛̾̅̄͜͝͝͝ȩ̸̗͕̹̠̳̩͈̞̹̫̭̞͗̅̀̉͊̀̈́̽̏̈́t̵͓̲̉̆̈́́͛͋ḩ̵̡̢̳͙̼̐̌̂̂̈́́̑̚e̶̛̮̩̣͗͑̕r̷̢̪̥̹̦̭̲̺̈́͌͌̌̈̿͘͠ͅ.̶̨̢̛̮̪̙͈̗̭̬̭͈̤̊̉̌̉́͐̎̀̂̚̕͝͠ ̴̛͔̹͙̦̝͚̞̭̖̽̑̀̿̽̏͂̏̄͌̇̋͋Ę̸̺̳̩̲̈̊̏̌̏͑̒̑͊̋͗̌͘n̷̢̛̼̙͉̆́̃̋̀̇͛̊̃̋͋̂ͅd̶̫͋̔̎̽̄̄̀͑̑̓̀̕͘ ̸̮̻͉̟͎̖̱̣̃̆̆͜ͅt̶̺͇̣͈͖̬̣͉̜̃̈̾̌h̵͖͊̒̄͊̑̓̃͑͆̍̐͛͌̚ḙ̶̫̪͙͉͍̤̂̆̊̒̈́͊́͝͝͠͝ͅ ̸̢̡̢̫̼͇͖̻̘̬͉̻͈̊d̴͖̗̄̽͛̔̍́͛͐͘͠ȩ̸̲͓̲̋̂̀́̐͛m̷̧̧̲̟͓̹̠̟͇͇̙̖̩͋͌͋́̉̆͒̊͒̽̋̅̀̀̚õ̴̡͕͐̅͑͗̒̏͆̃͜͝͝n̴̡̡͓̙̖͔͙̝̮̰͒͊̾̈̍̊̅͛̊͐̐̏͝s̴̡̧̠̬̭̭̺̬͔͖̻̦̐̎̊̌͋̍͗̈́̄̕͠.̴̧̨͍͕̟̦̣͇̪̯̬̦͍͉̝̣̮̿́̓ ̵̛̛̛͓̭̘̯̜̱͉͙̂̽̌̅͐͂͆̊̓̑̚̚Y̵̨̘̍̌̿̃͑̆̇̿͝ǫ̷̡͈̹̭͈̈́͛̆͐͒͊̂̊̾͜͠͝u̸̧̢͊̃̈́́͊͘͜͜ ̶̡̹̯̤̻̫̯̦́̈́̃̑͆̓́͌̑̔́͌̈́̃͘̕͘m̸̢̢̙̤̩͉̰͉̯̳͉̤̝̪̏͐͋u̴̧̱͍̮͚̙̞̼̗̤̘͇̹͕̗̘͕̕͝s̶͚͈͚̣͖̘͕̯̦̗̝͔̭͇̲̳̲̉͌͌̿̊̍̍̓̐̽̃͝t̷̢͉͉͇̪͍̮̳̙̥͕̮̠̞͙̼̞̏͆̎̌͒̒̐̇̑́͝ ̵̨̘͍̤̟͌̐͑̄w̸̢̲̖̝͖̜͊͊i̴͎̗̰̍̕͜͝n̶̛̮̣͈̯͍̯̗͉͎̝͖͉̭͊̋͒̑̔͐͋̎́̀̇̈́͋̈́̄̕.̸̛̺̩̣̖̘̠͓̯̲̘͎͙̆̇͂̉͗͜͝ ̶̡̡̨̧̘̳̜̖͇̪̤͓͔̮̏̈́̇̆̓̐̌͊̎̀̈̔͆̆̃Ȉ̴̡̱̯͎͚̟̯̭̹̰̦̺̣͎̌̒͂̊̐̿̚͜t̷̨̧̢̧̘̙̯̳͍̳̲͉̪̯̳̋̅̍ ̴̖̺̝̏̇ẖ̵̡̛̤̮̼͈̟̯̮̘̳̰̓̌͂̒͋̍̓̂̌̄͑̽ù̶̠̠̘̭̻̌̐̈́̚r̸͙̕ṭ̴̱̪̞̙͓̠̣̠̍s̴̨͔͙̺̩̫̩̭̗̥͍̗̗̫̃͛͋̃͌͆́̑͒͘͝.̴̝͎̣̪͚̝̳̻͇͔͎̀͜ ̴̤͈͚̖͍̠͊̅̾̉͝ͅİ̸̛̼̈́̆̑̾̀̋̄͆̕ť̶̛̛͔͕̠̙͎̐͂͋̅͛̃̈͑̕͝͝͝ͅ ̸̧̬̹̇͋̎͊ȟ̸̡̨͈͉̥̝̣͚͙̬̯͆̈̇̃͘̕ͅü̸̧͍̯̲͕̏̈́͂̈r̵͚͙͗͌͒͆̄̈́̾̉͠t̷̢̺͖̠̻̬̬̹͐̆́̈̆̓͘͜͝ṡ̵̡̝͍̞̝̚.̸̤̙̲͌͐̋̓͗̿̋͊̋͐̀̾̋̕ ̷̩̺̺̜̞̭̪̆̏̿̔̋̽̏̀͠T̶̖̰͉̲͓͖̞̥͈̞͔̫͍̣͗̃ŗ̴̡͎͎̭͙̻͚͕̈́͂̾́̌̿̕ŷ̷͎̤̮͈̺͔̹͎̊̽͒̀͗͆̽̒ͅ ̸̩̘͔̟̩̯̝͆͋̈́̚͝a̸̡̖͔͓̤̱̝̼̣̻̳͌̿͗͑̄̑̇̈͌͑̇͘g̶̡̤̬̝͕͎̞̹͈͙̈́ǎ̷͚̖̠̻̣̱̹̺̭͓̹̹̣͈͊͗̈́͌i̵͙̣͔͍͋̀̓́̂̓̄͛̐͑̕n̸̡̫̰̩̼̫̳̲͖̥̹̗̻͆͌̾̅̊͘.̷̢̛̼͎̰̤̪͉ ̵̛̯̠͎̦͍͈͚̙̈͜͝Ỳ̸̡̧̦̗̳͈ơ̸͉̭̰͕͕̞̠̤͕̩͍͌͆̈̑̆̿̽̿̅͘̚̕͝ͅụ̸͎̲͍͎͕͔̻̥͚̪̾̿̈́͛̅̀͆͊̈́̋̔̈́̇ ̶̨̭̗̙͇̲̲̒͗̊n̵̛̲̘̩̼̰͚̯͓̮̫͒̂̈́̓͛̋͌̔̆̚͝e̴̡̧̢̛̹͕̥̻̰̥̗͍̱̣̪̓͑͑̀̾͑̇̀̀͠͠é̵̢̨̡̺̗͇͕̜͚̫̙̭̗̕͜d̶̛̻͍̝̩̥̯͈̰̮͖̲͖͓͔̫̂͋̎̍̀̈́͆̽̓̎́̀̎̚ ̵̢̨̡̼̖̺̮͓̥̦̲̯̹͓̒̆̀̎̂͊̅̀̀͊̿̕͝͠t̷̨̢̥̻̻̰̗̓̈͒̋̓̅͋̉̕ō̴͉̹̹͕̰͚̰͇̪̋͒͌͋̊ͅ ̵̞̬̄̒̆̐̀̂̃̎̚w̸̛̠̥͖̤̘̤̲͕͒̔̎̏̈́͐̄̊̓͠͠͠͝i̵̬̟̭̼̞͇̦̠̾ͅn̷̡̪͔͙̗͈̥̰͌́̉̏͝.̸̢̧̘̻̫͖̺̠̄̓͗̂̐͛͌͊̈́͘͘͝͝͝͝ ̵̛̱͚̭̯̣̖̰̈̄́͝T̶̩̹̱͚͓̩̗̅͗̔̾̌̆̋̄͑̎͘͜ò̶̧̧̞̤̱̙̰̺̥̱̙ͅģ̷̡͎̆̂̍̇e̶̡̙̥̖̳͆͑͂̏̓͛̉͗͘ͅẗ̷̨͙̣̞́̿̽͋̄̌͗̋͘ḧ̸̨̧̞͓̣̘͇̫̦̪͈̦͔́̇͌͐̇̍̾̍̃͒͗̚̚e̷̡̻̙̪̺͒r̵̛̠̱̘̙̳͉̼͉͓̈́̈́̆͆̀́͊̽̇͛̍̏͠.̶̜͎̦̲̪̲̲͇͙̅͑̂̑̋̃̈́͘͝ͅ ̴̖̥̣͎̹͈͙̩͚͖́̓̂̓W̵͕͓̭̱̅́͗͐̽̕͝į̵̧̢̟̖̦͈̥͖̲̟̯̳̣̽ͅn̸̛̛̳̭̟̖͇̟̤̉̏͜ͅ ̴̛͉̠̟̪̹̻͔̮͖̟̱͕̍̓͌͐̋́̓̋̇̏̈̌ͅt̸̨̛͉̜̗̖́̋͌̃̒̊̚͝ͅơ̷͎͇͖͕͚̫̰̜͉̹͖̒̈́̑͋́̽̑̓̑͆̓͜͝g̶̨̧̛̱͉̻͉͓̱̗̮̙̰̏͆̐́̍̊̊͘̕ḛ̷̡͈͍̦̟̟͚̘̘͈͉͐̆̈́͂̈̂͗̎̆̌̿ͅţ̸͓̟̩̲̝̯̱̂̀̽̎̓̃͂̄̔̇ḩ̴̛̲̝͉̯̗͎̮͈̱͒̄͆͋̍̊̏̀̂̚͠e̶͓͙͇̠͇̣̗̬̬͕̥̼̙̝̬̾ṛ̵̨̡̪̗̦̰͉̯͍̒̈́̀́̏̕.̷̡̡̧͖̮̰͓̳͇̭̣̺̽͜ ̴̠͙͛̽̋̀͒̂͆́̐̉͘ ̴̹́Ì̶̢̡̠͍̾́͐̂͒̇̽̏͗̃̿̚͝ ̴̡̠́̀̄̉w̷̡̧̙̲̺̺̝͌̊̓͛̈̈̾̂͑̚a̵̛̻͌͆́s̸̡̨̭̭̯͉̽̓̈́̒̃̿ ̷̨̖̠̮̭̗̣̠̝̼͉͖̍̔͐̃̚͜w̸͕̭̣͎̞̄ŗ̷͉̳̫̲̙̬͔̠̬̞̦̮̬̳̐ó̷͚̻͎̦̤̩̦̼̲̊̆ņ̴̯̘̲̝̩̺́͌̍͘ģ̷̰͔̙͚̗̖̾͒͌͆̏̿̽̑͝ ̸̢̢̢͇̮̰̗͙͔̈́̈́̒͝ͅẅ̶̦̮̥̟̤̲͕̟͍̀̐̀͝r̶̞̺̗͍̬̳̙̩̪̫̜͉͚̄͜o̸͇̰̜͚͓͍̖̺̠͙̿̂̈͝n̴̨̧̨̳̗̺̞̙̩̣̘̗̟̲̐g̶͎̽͊̀̓̓́͛͝͝
Ȉ̴̡̱̯͎͚̟̯̭̹̰̦̺̣͎̌̒͂̊̐̿̚͜t̷̨̧̢̧̘̙̯̳͍̳̲͉̪̯̳̋̅̍ ̴̖̺̝̏̇ẖ̵̡̛̤̮̼͈̟̯̮̘̳̰̓̌͂̒͋̍̓̂̌̄͑̽ù̶̠̠̘̭̻̌̐̈́̚r̸͙̕ṭ̴̱̪̞̙͓̠̣̠̍s̴̨͔͙̺̩̫̩̭̗̥͍̗̗̫̃͛͋̃͌͆́̑͒͘͝.̴̝͎̣̪͚̝̳̻͇͔͎̀͜ ̴̤͈͚̖͍̠͊̅̾̉͝ͅİ̸̛̼̈́̆̑̾̀̋̄͆̕ť̶̛̛͔͕̠̙͎̐͂͋̅͛̃̈͑̕͝͝͝ͅ ̸̧̬̹̇͋̎͊ȟ̸̡̨͈͉̥̝̣͚͙̬̯͆̈̇̃͘̕ͅü̸̧͍̯̲͕̏̈́͂̈r̵͚͙͗͌͒͆̄̈́̾̉͠t̷̢̺͖̠̻̬̬̹͐̆́̈̆̓͘͜͝ṡ̵̡̝͍̞̝̚.̸̤̙̲͌͐̋̓͗̿̋͊̋͐̀̾̋̕ ̷̩̺̺̜̞̭̪̆̏̿̔̋̽̏̀͠T̶̖̰͉̲͓͖̞̥͈̞͔̫͍̣͗̃ŗ̴̡͎͎̭͙̻͚͕̈́͂̾́̌̿̕ŷ̷͎̤̮͈̺͔̹͎̊̽͒̀͗͆̽̒ͅ ̸̩̘͔̟̩̯̝͆͋̈́̚͝a̸̡̖͔͓̤̱̝̼̣̻̳͌̿͗͑̄̑̇̈͌͑̇͘g̶̡̤̬̝͕͎̞̹͈͙̈́ǎ̷͚̖̠̻̣̱̹̺̭͓̹̹̣͈͊͗̈́͌i̵͙̣͔͍͋̀̓́̂̓̄͛̐͑̕n̸̡̫̰̩̼̫̳̲͖̥̹̗̻͆͌̾̅̊͘.̷̢̛̼͎̰̤̪͉ ̵̛̯̠͎̦͍͈͚̙̈͜͝Ỳ̸̡̧̦̗̳͈ơ̸͉̭̰͕͕̞̠̤͕̩͍͌͆̈̑̆̿̽̿̅͘̚̕͝ͅụ̸͎̲͍͎͕͔̻̥͚̪̾̿̈́͛̅̀͆͊̈́̋̔̈́̇ ̶̨̭̗̙͇̲̲̒͗̊n̵̛̲̘̩̼̰͚̯͓̮̫͒̂̈́̓͛̋͌̔̆̚͝e̴̡̧̢̛̹͕̥̻̰̥̗͍̱̣̪̓͑͑̀̾͑̇̀̀͠͠é̵̢̨̡̺̗͇͕̜͚̫̙̭̗̕͜d̶̛̻͍̝̩̥̯͈̰̮͖̲͖͓͔̫̂͋̎̍̀̈́͆̽̓̎́̀̎̚ ̵̢̨̡̼̖̺̮͓̥̦̲̯̹͓̒̆̀̎̂͊̅̀̀͊̿̕͝͠t̷̨̢̥̻̻̰̗̓̈͒̋̓̅͋̉̕ō̴͉̹̹͕̰͚̰͇̪̋͒͌͋̊ͅ ̵̞̬̄̒̆̐̀̂̃̎̚w̸̛̠̥͖̤̘̤̲͕͒̔̎̏̈́͐̄̊̓͠͠͠͝i̵̬̟̭̼̞͇̦̠̾ͅn̷̡̪͔͙̗͈̥̰͌́̉̏͝.̸̢̧̘̻̫͖̺̠̄̓͗̂̐͛͌͊̈́͘͘͝͝͝͝ ̵̛̱͚̭̯̣̖̰̈̄́͝T̶̩̹̱͚͓̩̗̅͗̔̾̌̆̋̄͑̎͘͜ò̶̧̧̞̤̱̙̰̺̥̱̙ͅģ̷̡͎̆̂̍̇e̶̡̙̥̖̳͆͑͂̏̓͛̉͗͘ͅẗ̷̨͙̣̞́̿̽͋̄̌͗̋͘ḧ̸̨̧̞͓̣̘͇̫̦̪͈̦͔́̇͌͐̇̍̾̍̃͒͗̚̚e̷̡̻̙̪̺͒r̵̛̠̱̘̙̳͉̼͉͓̈́̈́̆͆̀́͊̽̇͛̍̏͠.̶̜͎̦̲̪̲̲͇͙̅͑̂̑̋̃̈́͘͝ͅ ̴̖̥̣͎̹͈͙̩͚͖́̓̂̓W̵͕͓̭̱̅́͗͐̽̕͝į̵̧̢̟̖̦͈̥͖̲̟̯̳̣̽ͅn̸̛̛̳̭̟̖͇̟̤̉̏͜ͅ ̴̛͉̠̟̪̹̻͔̮͖̟̱͕̍̓͌͐̋́̓̋̇̏̈̌ͅt̸̨̛͉̜̗̖́̋͌̃̒̊̚͝ͅơ̷͎͇͖͕͚̫̰̜͉̹͖̒̈́̑͋́̽̑̓̑͆̓͜͝g̶̨̧̛̱͉̻͉͓̱̗̮̙̰̏͆̐́̍̊̊͘̕ḛ̷̡͈͍̦̟̟͚̘̘͈͉͐̆̈́͂̈̂͗̎̆̌̿ͅţ̸͓̟̩̲̝̯̱̂̀̽̎̓̃͂̄̔̇ḩ̴̛̲̝͉̯̗͎̮͈̱͒̄͆͋̍̊̏̀̂̚͠e̶͓͙͇̠͇̣̗̬̬͕̥̼̙̝̬̾ṛ̵̨̡̪̗̦̰͉̯͍̒̈́̀́̏̕.̷̡̡̧͖̮̰͓̳͇̭̣̺̽͜ ̴̠͙͛̽̋̀͒̂͆́̐̉͘ ̴̹́Ì̶̢̡̠͍̾́͐̂͒̇̽̏͗̃̿̚͝ ̴̡̠́̀̄̉w̷̡̧̙̲̺̺̝͌̊̓͛̈̈̾̂͑̚a̵̛̻͌͆́s̸̡̨̭̭̯͉̽̓̈́̒̃̿ ̷̨̖̠̮̭̗̣̠̝̼͉͖̍̔͐̃̚͜w̸͕̭̣͎̞̄ŗ̷͉̳̫̲̙̬͔̠̬̞̦̮̬̳̐ó̷͚̻͎̦̤̩̦̼̲̊̆ņ̴̯̘̲̝̩̺́͌̍͘ģ̷̰͔̙͚̗̖̾͒͌͆̏̿̽̑͝ ̸̢̢̢͇̮̰̗͙͔̈́̈́̒͝ͅẅ̶̦̮̥̟̤̲͕̟͍̀̐̀͝r̶̞̺̗͍̬̳̙̩̪̫̜͉͚̄͜o̸͇̰̜͚͓͍̖̺̠͙̿̂̈͝n̴̨̧̨̳̗̺̞̙̩̣̘̗̟̲̐g̶͎̽͊̀̓̓́͛͝͝
̴͖̟̲̱̖̜̯̖͚̟̖̟̎̒͆́̀͋͋̐̾͌̔̆̚͜͠w̵͓̤͓͉͚̱̗̣̩͓̟̞͉̰̯̍̈́̔̓̀̿͐̀̕͝ř̸̨̢̹̼̠̪̦͖͎̥̤͒̽̽̀͐͋̑ͅo̸̡̨̞̺̝̪̟͓̦̲̺̺̓̏̈́̐͒̂̐̊̾̇͘͘͜ǹ̷̨͕̼̯͍̲̄̍͌̈́́͌̐͒͘͘g̶̨̩͖̩͉͚̣̬͚͐͊̿͛͒̐͐́͊͜ ̸̗͙̺̰͕̟̣̤̤̈́̍͠w̴̹͔͓̘̱̟͓̫͖̩͆͑̓́̀͗̊͜͝͝r̸͎̿̑͌̾̽̈́̚͠͠o̵̱͚̭͉̜̤͎̒͌̄̎̈́̌̈́̂̕̕ň̴͔͎̝̤͍̞̘͐͊̓̿̋̽̔̎͛̐́͂́͜͠ġ̸̲̤̰̜̻͍͚̬̻̰͔̈́̄̔͗̓͋͆̇̾̍̍͛͜͝ ̶̧̢̞͓̟̫̻̣̞̳̮̙̭̱͉͒͆̑́͆͌͘ẃ̵̛̱̙̫̺͎̀̑̎̐̀͝r̵̨̺̰̎̂͌̿͊̑̕͝͝ŏ̷̢̧̩͎͓̚n̴̮̬̙͙͔͖̠͓͕͎̭͖͙̄ͅg̴͈̃̍͗͑̾͐̿̾̈̏́̔͠.̶̧̤͕͍̝̼̘̫̫̔̓̅̾͘̚͝ͅ ̸̡̰̪̠̭̤̙͉͖̪͚͎̞͒͐̈́́̈́̌̆͐͌͜͜
̴͖̟̲̱̖̜̯̖͚̟̎̒͆́̀͋͋̐̾͌̔̆̚͜͠w̵͓̤͓͉͚̱̗̣̩͓̟̞͉̰̯̍̈́̔̓̀̿͐̀̕͝ř̸̨̢̹̼̠̪̦͖͎̥̤͒̽̽̀͐͋̑ͅo̸̡̨̞̺̝̪̟͓̦̲̺̺̓̏̈́̐͒̂̐̊̾̇͘͘͜ǹ̷̨͕̼̯͍̲̄̍͌̈́́͌̐͒͘͘g̶̨̩͖̩͉͚̣̬͚͐͊̿͛͒̐͐́͊͜ ̸̗͙̺̰͕̟̣̤̤̈́̍͠w̴̹͔͓̘̱̟͓̫͖̩͆͑̓́̀͗̊͜͝͝r̸͎̿̑͌̾̽̈́̚͠͠o̵̱͚̭͉̜̤͎̒͌̄̎̈́̌̈́̂̕̕ň̴͔͎̝̤͍̞̘͐͊̓̿̋̽̔̎͛̐́͂́͜͠ġ̸̲̤̰̜̻͍͚̬̻̰͔̈́̄̔͗̓͋͆̇̾̍̍͛͜͝ ̶̧̢̞͓̟̫̻̣̞̳̮̙̭̱͉͒͆̑́͆͌͘ẃ̵̛̱̙̫̺͎̀̑̎̐̀͝r̵̨̺̰̎̂͌̿͊̑̕͝͝ŏ̷̢̧̩͎͓̚n̴̮̬̙͙͔͖̠͓͕͎̭͖͙̄ͅg̴͈̃̍͗͑̾͐̿̾̈̏́̔͠.̶̧̤͕͍̝̼̘̫̫̔̓̅̾͘̚͝ͅ ̸̡̰̪̠̭̤̙͉͖̪͚͎̞͒͐̈́́̈́̌̆͐͌͜͜Ȉ̴̡̱̯͎͚̟̯̭̹̰̦̺̣͎̌̒͂̊̐̿̚͜t̷̨̧̢̧̘̙̯̳͍̳̲͉̪̯̳̋̅̍ ̴̖̺̝̏̇ẖ̵̡̛̤̮̼͈̟̯̮̘̳̰̓̌͂̒͋̍̓̂̌̄͑̽ù̶̠̠̘̭̻̌̐̈́̚r̸͙̕ṭ̴̱̪̞̙͓̠̣̠̍s̴̨͔͙̺̩̫̩̭̗̥͍̗̗̫̃͛͋̃͌͆́̑͒͘͝.̴̝͎̣̪͚̝̳̻͇͔͎̀͜ ̴̤͈͚̖͍̠͊̅̾̉͝ͅİ̸̛̼̈́̆̑̾̀̋̄͆̕ť̶̛̛͔͕̠̙͎̐͂͋̅͛̃̈͑̕͝͝͝ͅ ̸̧̬̹̇͋̎͊ȟ̸̡̨͈͉̥̝̣͚͙̬̯͆̈̇̃͘̕ͅü̸̧͍̯̲͕̏̈́͂̈r̵͚͙͗͌͒͆̄̈́̾̉͠t̷̢̺͖̠̻̬̬̹͐̆́̈̆̓͘͜͝ṡ̵̡̝͍̞̝̚.̸̤̙̲͌͐̋̓͗̿̋͊̋͐̀̾̋̕ ̷̩̺̺̜̞̭̪̆̏̿̔̋̽̏̀͠T̶̖̰͉̲͓͖̞̥͈̞͔̫͍̣͗̃ŗ̴̡͎͎̭͙̻͚͕̈́͂̾́̌̿̕ŷ̷͎̤̮͈̺͔̹͎̊̽͒̀͗͆̽̒ͅ ̸̩̘͔̟̩̯̝͆͋̈́̚͝a̸̡̖͔͓̤̱̝̼̣̻̳͌̿͗͑̄̑̇̈͌͑̇͘g̶̡̤̬̝͕͎̞̹͈͙̈́ǎ̷͚̖̠̻̣̱̹̺̭͓̹̹̣͈͊͗̈́͌i̵͙̣͔͍͋̀̓́̂̓̄͛̐͑̕n̸̡̫̰̩̼̫̳̲͖̥̹̗̻͆͌̾̅̊͘.̷̢̛̼͎̰̤̪͉ ̵̛̯̠͎̦͍͈͚̙̈͜͝Ỳ̸̡̧̦̗̳͈ơ̸͉̭̰͕͕̞̠̤͕̩͍͌͆̈̑̆̿̽̿̅͘̚̕͝ͅụ̸͎̲͍͎͕͔̻̥͚̪̾̿̈́͛̅̀͆͊̈́̋̔̈́̇ ̶̨̭̗̙͇̲̲̒͗̊n̵̛̲̘̩̼̰͚̯͓̮̫͒̂̈́̓͛̋͌̔̆̚͝e̴̡̧̢̛̹͕̥̻̰̥̗͍̱̣̪̓͑͑̀̾͑̇̀̀͠͠é̵̢̨̡̺̗͇͕̜͚̫̙̭̗̕͜d̶̛̻͍̝̩̥̯͈̰̮͖̲͖͓͔̫̂͋̎̍̀̈́͆̽̓̎́̀̎̚ ̵̢̨̡̼̖̺̮͓̥̦̲̯̹͓̒̆̀̎̂͊̅̀̀͊̿̕͝͠t̷̨̢̥̻̻̰̗̓̈͒̋̓̅͋̉̕ō̴͉̹̹͕̰͚̰͇̪̋͒͌͋̊ͅ ̵̞̬̄̒̆̐̀̂̃̎̚w̸̛̠̥͖̤̘̤̲͕͒̔̎̏̈́͐̄̊̓͠͠͠͝i̵̬̟̭̼̞͇̦̠̾ͅn̷̡̪͔͙̗͈̥̰͌́̉̏͝.̸̢̧̘̻̫͖̺̠̄̓͗̂̐͛͌͊̈́͘͘͝͝͝͝ ̵̛̱͚̭̯̣̖̰̈̄́͝T̶̩̹̱͚͓̩̗̅͗̔̾̌̆̋̄͑̎͘͜ò̶̧̧̞̤̱̙̰̺̥̱̙ͅģ̷̡͎̆̂̍̇e̶̡̙̥̖̳͆͑͂̏̓͛̉͗͘ͅẗ̷̨͙̣̞́̿̽͋̄̌͗̋͘ḧ̸̨̧̞͓̣̘͇̫̦̪͈̦͔́̇͌͐̇̍̾̍̃͒͗̚̚e̷̡̻̙̪̺͒r̵̛̠̱̘̙̳͉̼͉͓̈́̈́̆͆̀́͊̽̇͛̍̏͠.̶̜͎̦̲̪̲̲͇͙̅͑̂̑̋̃̈́͘͝ͅ ̴̖̥̣͎̹͈͙̩͚͖́̓̂̓W̵͕͓̭̱̅́͗͐̽̕͝į̵̧̢̟̖̦͈̥͖̲̟̯̳̣̽ͅn̸̛̛̳̭̟̖͇̟̤̉̏͜ͅ ̴̛͉̠̟̪̹̻͔̮͖̟̱͕̍̓͌͐̋́̓̋̇̏̈̌ͅt̸̨̛͉̜̗̖́̋͌̃̒̊̚͝ͅơ̷͎͇͖͕͚̫̰̜͉̹͖̒̈́̑͋́̽̑̓̑͆̓͜͝g̶̨̧̛̱͉̻͉͓̱̗̮̙̰̏͆̐́̍̊̊͘̕ḛ̷̡͈͍̦̟̟͚̘̘͈͉͐̆̈́͂̈̂͗̎̆̌̿ͅţ̸͓̟̩̲̝̯̱̂̀̽̎̓̃͂̄̔̇ḩ̴̛̲̝͉̯̗͎̮͈̱͒̄͆͋̍̊̏̀̂̚͠e̶͓͙͇̠͇̣̗̬̬͕̥̼̙̝̬̾ṛ̵̨̡̪̗̦̰͉̯͍̒̈́̀́̏̕.̷̡̡̧͖̮̰͓̳͇̭̣̺̽͜ ̴̠͙͛̽̋̀͒̂͆́̐̉͘ ̴̹́Ì̶̢̡̠͍̾́͐̂͒̇̽̏͗̃̿̚͝ ̴̡̠́̀̄̉w̷̡̧̙̲̺̺̝͌̊̓͛̈̈̾̂͑̚a̵̛̻͌͆́s̸̡̨̭̭̯͉̽̓̈́̒̃̿ ̷̨̖̠̮̭̗̣̠̝̼͉͖̍̔͐̃̚͜w̸͕̭̣͎̞̄ŗ̷͉̳̫̲̙̬͔̠̬̞̦̮̬̳̐ó̷͚̻͎̦̤̩̦̼̲̊̆ņ̴̯̘̲̝̩̺́͌̍͘ģ̷̰͔̙͚̗̖̾͒͌͆̏̿̽̑͝ ̸̢̢̢͇̮̰̗͙͔̈́̈́̒͝ͅẅ̶̦̮̥̟̤̲͕̟͍̀̐̀͝r̶̞̺̗͍̬̳̙̩̪̫̜͉͚̄͜o̸͇̰̜͚͓͍̖̺̠͙̿̂̈͝n̴̨̧̨̳̗̺̞̙̩̣̘̗̟̲̐g̶͎̽͊̀̓̓́͛͝͝
̴͖̟̲̱̖̜̯̖͚̟̖̟̎̒͆́̀͋͋̐̾͌̔̆̚͜͠w̵͓̤͓͉͚̱̗̣̩͓̟̞͉̰̯̍̈́̔̓̀̿͐̀̕͝ř̸̨̢̹̼̠̪̦͖͎̥̤͒̽̽̀͐͋̑ͅo̸̡̨̞̺̝̪̟͓̦̲̺̺̓̏̈́̐͒̂̐̊̾̇͘͘͜ǹ̷̨͕̼̯͍̲̄̍͌̈́́͌̐͒͘͘g̶̨̩͖̩͉͚̣̬͚͐͊̿͛͒̐͐́͊͜ ̸̗͙̺̰͕̟̣̤̤̈́̍͠w̴̹͔͓̘̱̟͓̫͖̩͆͑̓́̀͗̊͜͝͝r̸͎̿̑͌̾̽̈́̚͠͠o̵̱͚̭͉̜̤͎̒͌̄̎̈́̌̈́̂̕̕ň̴͔͎̝̤͍̞̘͐͊̓̿̋̽̔̎͛̐́͂́͜͠ġ̸̲̤̰̜̻͍͚̬̻̰͔̈́̄̔͗̓͋͆̇̾̍̍͛͜͝ ̶̧̢̞͓̟̫̻̣̞̳̮̙̭̱͉͒͆̑́͆͌͘ẃ̵̛̱̙̫̺͎̀̑̎̐̀͝r̵̨̺̰̎̂͌̿͊̑̕͝͝ŏ̷̢̧̩͎͓̚n̴̮̬̙͙͔͖̠͓͕͎̭͖͙̄ͅg̴͈̃̍͗͑̾͐̿̾̈̏́̔͠.̶̧̤͕͍̝̼̘̫̫̔̓̅̾͘̚͝ͅ ̸̡̰̪̠̭̤̙͉͖̪͚͎̞͒͐̈́́̈́̌̆͐͌͜͜S̷̤͙̘̪̗̭̩̩̤̣̋̈́̉̐̄̎̀͊̈́̓͂͋̀͘͘͠͝t̸̢̟̜̦̜̫̖̥͓͇̖̒͒͛̃̿̕̕͝ͅò̵̪̎̔͒̈́̈͒̕͝͠ṗ̸̮͇͕̯̘̩́͗͝͝ ̴̱̰̪̮̱̓̔̀̄́h̸̨̫̙̮͚̰̘̺͈̖̞̱̠̙̗̺̎̓̑̈́̊̅̉̉̕i̷̟̬̞̰̠̪̙̖̦̭͑̏̎̿̈́͆́̄͗̌̇̓͒ͅͅm̴̗̬̭͂̒͒̍̍͆̈́̓̒͐͐̿͘͘̕͜͝.̴̦̬̩̘̩͈̺͆̋̑̽̕͘ F̸̙̗͇̻̻̂̈́̇̌i̶͖͎͔̤̺̞͓̗̘͍̿̒͌̋̈̔͂͌͝g̶̨̢͎̞̥̥̮̞̀̒͊͒͂͐̄ͅh̷̢̲͕͉̯̼͊̐t̶̤̦̹̯̝̺͊́̚ ̴͈̞̤̫͈̖̌̎ǎ̴̱͗̀̉̐̎̊̍̓́͛̂́g̸̛̛͍̥̻̹̘̜̞̥̳͒̀̔̃̅̊̐̿̑͝͝ä̴̧̧̱̱̖̣̖̬͚̯̓͗̓̾̆̚͜͜ỉ̸̛͍͉̙̭͓̠̻̼͍͂̊ͅn̴̡̢͔̥̰̼̜̟̳͍͇̜̲̑̉̍͒͒s̴͔̞̘̳͔̥̬̹͍̑̀̈̎̏̊͒͊t̵͎̳͔͕̉ ̷̪̖̗̾̿̅͂̾̋̒̕ͅ
S̷̤͙̘̪̗̭̩̩̤̣̋̈́̉̐̄̎̀͊̈́̓͂͋̀͘͘͠͝t̸̢̟̜̦̜̫̖̥͓͇̖̒͒͛̃̿̕̕͝ͅò̵̪̎̔͒̈́̈͒̕͝͠ṗ̸̮͇͕̯̘̩́͗͝͝ ̴̱̰̪̮̱̓̔̀̄́h̸̨̫̙̮͚̰̘̺͈̖̞̱̠̙̗̺̎̓̑̈́̊̅̉̉̕i̷̟̬̞̰̠̪̙̖̦̭͑̏̎̿̈́͆́̄͗̌̇̓͒ͅͅm̴̗̬̭͂̒͒̍̍͆̈́̓̒͐͐̿͘͘̕͜͝.̴̦̬̩̘̩͈̺͆̋̑̽̕͘ F̸̙̗͇̻̻̂̈́̇̌i̶͖͎͔̤̺̞͓̗̘͍̿̒͌̋̈̔͂͌͝g̶̨̢͎̞̥̥̮̞̀̒͊͒͂͐̄ͅh̷̢̲͕͉̯̼͊̐t̶̤̦̹̯̝̺͊́̚ ̴͈̞̤̫͈̌̎.
w̴̹͔͓̘̱̟͓̫͖̩͆͑̓́̀͗̊͜͝͝r̸͎̿̑͌̾̽̈́̚͠͠o̵̱͚̭͉̜̤͎̒͌̄̎̈́̌̈́̂̕̕ň̴͔͎̝̤͍̞̘͐͊̓̿̋̽̔̎͛̐́͂́͜͠ġ̸̲̤̰̜̻͍͚̬̻̰͔̈́̄̔͗̓͋͆̇̾̍̍͛͜͝ ̶̧̢̞͓̟̫̻̣̞̳̮̙̭̱͉͒͆̑́͆͌͘ẃ̵̛̱̙̫̺͎̀̑̎̐̀͝r̵̨̺̰̎̂͌̿͊̑̕͝͝ŏ̷̢̧̩͎͓̚n̴̮̬̙͙͔͖̠͓͕͎̭͖͙̄ͅg̴͈̃̍͗͑̾͐̿̾̈̏́̔͠.̴̦̬̩̘̩͈̺͆̋̑̽̕͘ F̸̙̗͇̻̻̂̈́̇̌i̶͖͎͔̤̺̞͓̗̘͍̿̒͌̋̈̔͂͌͝g̶̨̢͎̞̥̥̮̞̀̒͊͒͂͐̄ͅh̷̢̲͕͉̯̼͊̐t̶̤̦̹̯̝̺͊́̚ ̴͈̞̤̫͈̖̌̎ḧ̵̡̥̣͈͚͎͚̳́̉̽ͅē̶͈͋r̷͓͇̱̾̐͒͑̈́̒̎͝͝͝.
When Zoey opens her eyes, the immediate next thing she does is open her mouth.
Vomit comes spewing out. White bile and whatever was left of her pre-show ramyeon. Her hands press against her face frantically, clawing and grasping at soft, warm skin. Her eyes are wide, unblinking. Pupils dilated.
Vaguely, she hears the sound of wretching to her right.
‘Good ,’ a miserable voice hisses in her ear, ‘ at least Mira’s here too.’
Zoey’s throat burns as acid continues to travel out of her body, her abs spasming from the force of her heaves.
‘What was that? — what-what the actualfucking — godGod..was that God? — fuck-wh — ’
“Zoey,” a raspy voice pulls her from her spiral, “are-are you okay?”
Mira sounds as miserable as Zoey feels, and she can’t help the surge of bitterness that courses through her at the sound of the dancer’s voice.
‘She left you, abandoned you, you died, you were gone, you definitely—that had to have been death? Right? Some kind of afterlife?’ Zoey's mind was fraying at the edges. Somehow, they were back. But… back where?
She ignores the pink-headed girl ( for what is probably the first time in her life) and instead looks around. Immediately, she knows where they are. A chill crashes through her, shaking her bones and leaving her with her hand pressed to her lips.
They’re back under the stage.
Back where Rumi had left them.
(Or had they left Rumi?)
(Or had they never had her at all?)
They’re back. They’re alive. They’re together (almost).
They get to try again.
Zoey feels a swell of hope begin to build in her chest.
They can do this. They can stop Gwi-Ma. They can save the Honmoon. They can win. They can fight him. They just need to find Rumi and they can—
“Zoey!” The sound of her name snaps her into focus. For the first time since waking up, she fully registers the girl who had woken up alongside her. Their eyes lock, and for a moment, time stands still. Tears are flowing like a river down Mira’s face, silent and awestruck. The tall girl is staring at her like a lost woman might stare at an oasis in the desert, desperately, frantically.
She doesn’t know who reaches out first. All she knows is that, in seconds, they’re caught in each other’s arms. Shaking. ‘I’m sorries’ and ‘I forgive yous’ bleed together in the fervent chant they’ve begun. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except each other, stopping Gwi-Ma, and saving the world.
(And finding Rumi)
The two girls slowly pull apart, hands still clasped and shaking from the feeling of being brought back to life, and brought back in time.
They both speak at the same time.
“We need to beat Gwi-Ma!”
“We need to get Rumi!”
They freeze. Mira's brows come together, immediately at a loss.
Zoey, always the quickest with words, is the first to respond.
“Didn’t you hear the Honmoon? We need to do this together!” Her voice echoes around the stone basement in disbelief.
“No, didn’t you hear the Honmoon? What we” Mira pulls up their conjoined hands, attempting to emphasize her point, “need is to fight Gwi-Ma! People are going to die, Zoey, they probably already have! And besides, Rumi left!”
“We forced her too, and so did you!”
Mira winces at the dark haired girl’s words “We don’t know where she is!”
“So we’ll track her down! Besides she—”
“Zoey, we don’t have time to do both and—”
“—could be in trouble, the Honmoon said we would—”
"—save everyone we don't even know where we are, please—"
"—have to work together to win so we—"
“—I can’t do it, I can’t fight her, please don’t make me — ”
“ —need to save her!”
They both froze. Zoey inhales, her eyes crease in anger and disbelief. Mira can sense the change in the air, can sense that she’s made some mistake.
“...fight her?” Zoey rips her hands away and gets to her feet “Why would we ever fight Rumi?”
And now it’s Mira’s turn to gaze in disbelief.
She can feel her eyebrows furrow as she follows her up. ‘Why would we…’
“Zoey,” she starts hesitantly, “what… what did you hear the Honmoon say?”
“It,” the young girl’s eyes flash in confusion as tears, and a hint of something else creeps just at the edge of her vision, “it said that… that it was 'wrong,' and that we would need to ‘save her.’ That we would need to ‘fight Gwi-Ma,’ 'together' and 'win.' I didn’t really get the…the other parts.” Her voice trails off at the end, betraying the lie woven into her last few words.
Zoey, always hopeful, always the optimist, always the terrible liar.
“It said,” Mira gulps back a fresh wave of bile, “that it had chosen wrong, and that we needed to fight together, that we needed to ‘fight her.’”
“It can’t mean her, Mira!”
“Zoey! She’s a demon , you saw it with your own eyes!”
“But she’s Rumi!” Mira had never heard their lyricist ever sound so miserable. Her voice cracked on their leader’s name,
But it's not that simple, and Mira won't be the bad-guy when she's just trying to protect everyone. “I know! Don’t you think I get that! I know it's Rumi!” Mira looks away. She knows herself. Knows how deep her love for the purple-haired singer has clawed itself into her. When the universe remade her, it left this yearning, undeniable, love inside of her. It had left Rumi behind in her DNA, in each eyelash and scar.
She could never fight her.
“That’s why we need to try and end Gwi-Ma ourselves,” she grits out, trying to get Zoey to understand.
Because she knows what the Honmoon, what fate, wants from them. And she refuses to give it to them.
Rumi might be a demon, might be a liar. The Honmoon might have chosen wrong.
But Mira doesn’t care.
She just needs for Rumi to stay away. So she doesn’t have to do what destiny, what duty demands.
As she stares into Zoey’s teary eyes she can tell that the girl is close to giving in. She can see it in the way her shoulders curl forward, the way her gaze drops.
Always the peacemaker, the discussion was over before it had even begun.
“Okay,” the younger girl whispers, “we’ll try it your way. But after, after Gwi-Ma is gone, we’re finding her.”
Mira lets out one long, hissing exhale, gratitude nearly taking her back to her knees.
“Yeah,” she swears, and prays that the cosmos won’t make a liar of her, “after, we’ll find her. I promise.”
“First, though” she continues as her resolve hardens, her body beginning to itch for a fight, for something to hit, “we put out that flaming pile of demon garbage.”
“Let’s get to the stadium,” Zoey answers back, just as ready to save the world. And, as if the world itself is responding to her request, a bright white light flashes, and the two huntresses are gone.
Mira blinks, fighting a wave of vertigo for the second time that day ( days? (how do you count time spent outside of time)).
“Jesus—what, what was that” and it’s like deja-vu as she takes in her surroundings. This warp isn’t quite as bad as the one that brought her back from the brink of oblivion. But it still isn’t great.
“We’re here,” Zoey whispers, fear and awe weighing the two words down.
All around them, thousands of people are marching mindlessly forward. From their vantage point, the highest point in the stands, they find themselves just outside of the Saja Boys' view but with a good look of everything happening below.
They watch as Gwi-ma swells and grows with every body falling like stringless-marionettes into his gaping maw. The Saja Boys are halfway through a song that tingles at Mira’s memory.
They were singing it when—
(‘we all hate you, and you know it.’
(flames)
‘Unworthy,’
(heat)
‘Unlovable’
(waves of bodies all around)
‘Untrustworthy’)
—she shakes herself quickly from the memory, and from the voice that she can hear attempting to pull her down into the stadium.
From the looks of her haunted expression, Zoey remembers too.
Mira has no idea how they got there, but she knows they need to act quickly.
With every passing second, she sees how Gwi-Ma gets stronger, how each soul is both a life lost and an addition to his demon army.
She just… has absolutely no idea what to do.
God, she was never the planner. This wasn’t supposed to be her job!
(Rumi would know what to do, she always knew knows knew knows what to do / until you have to kill her / kill her to save Zoey / to save yourself / you heard the Honmoon / it choose wrong / chose you wrong / chose her wrong / she’s a demon / she’s a liar / you swore to kill all demons / she never loved you / Celine taught you all / they’re not people, not human / she’s Rumi and you love her you could never / if it came down to it, the world or her, which would you pick / what would you do / time is ticking / Mira needs to pick needs to pick / Rumi or the world / Zoey or Rumi / the three of you or everyone else )
Because there is a third option.
She knows there is.
The world may be ending, but the three of them knew how to kill demons. They could survive.
Just them. On the run. Together.
The three of them or everyone else.
She was sick just considering it. What kind of selfish monster would pick the loves of their life over every other human being, every man, woman, and child.
‘You’ an acrid hiss whispers in her own voice, ‘you would. And it scares you.’
Mira swallows, focusing back on the demon popstars and literal embodiment of evil in front of her.
Yeah. It does.
Which is why this needs to work. She and Zoey need to be enough. They need to win this. Together.
Their eyes lock with one another. Within a few minutes, they’ve come up with the bare bones fossil of a plan. Start with the Saja Boys, try to win the crowd back, try to build back enough of the Honmoon to push Gwi-ma back down, and then deal with the stragglers.
Just the…just the two of them.
So what if all of their songs were three part harmonies?
It doesn’t need to be perfect. Doesn’t even need to be pretty.
It just needs to work.
With one last breath, the two peer over the ledge, and jump. At the motion, the Saja Boys glance up, wicked smiles curling their way across each of the faces Mira once thought were so beautiful.
It was all fake. Demons could do that. Pretend to be something they weren’t.
(Pretend to be gorgeous)
(Pretend to love you back)
Gwi-ma’s laughter rings across the stadium at the sight of them. His flames flare, and it almost seems as if the pile of hellfire has eyes that turn to follow their falling figures, dropping into the fray like meteors.
Like shooting stars begging to be wished on.
Mira feels the heat pulse around her, almost suffocating in its intensity. She’s ready.
She is.
And.
Midair.
Time.
Stops.
Ą̶̢̛̜̳̩̱̖̞̭͕̘̺̼̝̠̝̋̃̐̏̾̃͌͂̃̅͘g̴̛̛̛͚̀̈́́͆̈́̄̋̚͘ȧ̸̢̛̛̗̗̞̫͚̭͎̪̑̌͗́̆̊̎͑̂̏̍͒̇̉̎̾̿̕͘̚į̴̧̻͉̬̹̘̳͓̯͉̫̥̲̻̞̠̰̂̐̊͒́͒̇͜͜͠͝ņ̵̣̯̳̗͔̰̠̳̪͎̖̤̙̲̻̀̅̆́̌̆̊͛́͒̃͛͂́̏̂̚͜͝͝͠
The second time Zoey opens her eyes is less jarring than the first, but still unpleasant.
She still has no idea what happened, still feels like particles and molecules have been put back in the wrong place, still has this unpleasant wrongness clinging to every inch of her.
But at least she isn’t throwing up.
To her right, she hears the telltale gulp before—
“Hlueghhhh.”
Mira, unfortunately, is still adjusting.
Still, the tall woman manages to get herself together quickly, pulling herself up with the grace of an international dance icon.
Her left hand wipes the leftover bits of vomit from the corner of her mouth. Also gracefully.
“I don’t understand,” Zoey starts, “we hadn’t—at least I don’t think we did—I mean we were…”
“We didn’t die that time” Mira shakes her head, “I don’t get it. We didn’t even get the chance to fight him!”
“...Maybe we have to be…quicker? This time?” Zoey adds, disbelief coating her tone but then again, she’s never been one to shy away from an unlikely suggestion.
Mira shakes her head, confusion and a touch of anger finding its home in her expression.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Mira is almost in a daze, “why would it reset us? Why when we didn’t even get to try?”
Zoey simply shakes her head. She doesn’t know. Doesn’t know anything about this whole timetravel, bringing people back from the dead, killing the king of demons without the one person who normally makes crazy things like this make sense business.
She couldn’t even fix a sore throat.
But what Zoey has in spades, in bucketsful—is hope.
The raw, unwavering audacity of it.
So the Honmoon isn’t going to make this easy?
Fine.
Because at the end of the day, the end of the world is the only thing standing between her and her family.
Mira, herself, and Rumi.
Her soulmates.
And so screw her if she believes in things like that, in destiny and hearts tied together, and love lasting beyond even the grasp of death itself.
Crazier things have happened today.
“It doesn’t matter,” Zoey hardly recognizes her own voice as it escapes from her throat, flat and unyielding, “it doesn’t change what we have to do. We need to go back, try again.”
Mira looks lost. And it’s so rare, for her groupmates to reach for her for what to do. But in that moment, all Zoey has is resolve, knives made of starlight, and a dream.
With a deep breath and a wish, the two huntresses hold on to one another and get ready to try again.
‘Take us to the Stadium,’ Zoey wishes with eyes twisted shut, and she prays that she’s right. That this is how this new teleportation thing works.
In an instant, she opens them again to fire and the first wave of people just cresting the first entrance to the arena.
They've arrived quicker this time.
The singing hasn’t even started, but they most likely only have minutes to try and get a better plan together.
Zoey begins to think aloud. “What if we try to stop people from even getting into the stadium? Stop the fuel and you stop the fire, right?” She’s hopeful, maybe this will work. It has to work.
Mira shakes away any lingering doubts. It’s worth a shot, at least, and it’s not like they have any better plans.
They draft out another quick strategy, building on pieces of their last one but focusing on getting civilians out of the Saja Boys’ musical grasp.
Just in case, Zoey reaches up to catch the corner of Mira’s jaw before she can turn away.
Ever so softly, she plants just the brush of a kiss across her groupmate’s ( and how she wishes she could call her something else, something that meant something, something tender and love filled) perfectly sculpted cheekbone.
“For luck,” she giggles before turning away, ready to try and save the world. Her lips tingle as she approaches a mass of zombielike fans.
When she glances back, quickly, not like desperately or anything. Just to check, Mira has just the hints of a flush lighting up the cream-colored planes of her face.
And the fight is on.
It’s longer this time, Mira thinks to herself. It’s going better. They’re saving people, fighting back against Gwi-ma and his influence.
At some point, the Saja Boys split between pulling in souls with their voices to just outright attacking the two huntresses. Mira doesn't care.
In fact, she likes this better. Quickly, she ducks under a swinging claw, only to come up with the blade of her guandao, nicking Abby’s forearm and sending him flipping away from her with a growl.
She doesn’t remember how long they’ve been fighting. But it feels like they’re winning.
Every few minutes she checks for Zoey, checks to make sure she’s okay, that she’s still holding her own.
(A ghost of lips, petal soft, brushing against her cheek)
In the midst of a backbend-turned-backflip-kick, Mira feels her face light up.
‘Later,’ she promises herself, ‘ think about it later Mira. Come on, lock in.’
They can do this, just the two of them.
Them versus Gwi-ma. Them versus the Saja Boys.
That’s it.
They don’t need to fight anyone else.
(Especially her, never her)
In a split second, she’s managed to gain the upper hand. Without flinching, her blade cuts through Abby’s neck, his beautiful HIDEOUS head, toppling from his shoulders.
“Woohoo!” She hears a call from across the stadium, Zoey in all her charm having woken another group of fans all the while dodging every swipe from Baby Saja.
“Nice hit Mira, take ‘em OUT!” She yells in satisfaction, overjoyed at the feel of their plan coming together.
Gwi-ma is growing still, souls are getting pulled into his grasp, but he is far smaller than the last time Mira and Zoey were unfortunate enough to look into his flames.
They just need to keep—
“NO!” Zoey screams, taking in the annoying familiar stone and bluish-green haze of the basement.
“No, no no nononono,” Zoey feels her hands reach up into her hair, nails tugging and pulling at the carefully reset spacebuns. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be happening.
“Zoey—” Mira starts but is immediately cut off.
“We need to go back, we were so close that time!” Zoey doesn’t hesitate. They just need to be quicker. They can do it. She knows they can do it.
“TAKE US TO THE STADIUM!” Her voice booms across the space, rage ricocheting off of every syllable.
The two disappear in a flash of blinding blue and white.
They reappear on top of the stadium, the marching procession a few meters behind where they were when the two demon slayers had last appeared.
“This time,” Zoey reaches for her, once again pressing a kiss to the side of her face. This time, it lands just on the side of her mouth.
“We’ll get it this time,” Zoey’s eyes water as she turns away.
Mira doesn’t look around this time.
“SEND US BACK!” She can’t be here again, they were so close that time. She could feel it. Zoey had taken out Mystery and Romance within minutes of appearing, catching them both by surprise.
“Maybe we should—” Mira’s hesitation is drowned out by the rapper’s guttural screaming, spit flying from the black haired girl’s mouth like a rabid dog.
Zoey doesn’t want to hear it, she can’t.
“Take us back, now!” And time and space split themselves apart to meet her demands.
Over and over, they end up back in the basement.
“Back, back, we need to GO BACK” Zoey can hardly see. Everything is white and black and red.
This time, one of the demons manages to catch her through the middle.
She bleeds and bleeds.
And bleeds.
Mira is somewhere, she thinks.
She doesn’t know. She can’t see. Everything hurts.
Mira had kissed her this time, gently, atop her forehead.
“For luck,” she whispered.
Eventually, they reset.
Sometimes they manage to kill every Saja Boy, manage to come face to demonic smirk with Gwi-ma, before there’s heat and burning and fire and pain and they’re right back down in that goddamn basement.
Zoey doesn’t understand.
Ą̶̢̛̜̳̩̱̖̞̭͕̘̺̼̝̠̝̋̃̐̏̾̃͌͂̃̅͘g̴̛̛̛͚̀̈́́͆̈́̄̋̚͘ȧ̸̢̛̛̗̗̞̫͚̭͎̪̑̌͗́̆̊̎͑̂̏̍͒̇̉̎̾̿̕͘̚į̴̧̻͉̬̹̘̳͓̯͉̫̥̲̻̞̠̰̂̐̊͒́͒̇͜͜͠͝ņ̵̣̯̳̗͔̰̠̳̪͎̖̤̙̲̻̀̅̆́̌̆̊͛́͒̃͛͂́̏̂̚͜͝͝͠
Mira opens her eyes crying.
‘Why won’t you let us win,’ she’s crying and still, she is squaring her shoulders to go back.
Ą̶̢̛̜̳̩̱̖̞̭͕̘̺̼̝̠̝̋̃̐̏̾̃͌͂̃̅͘g̴̛̛̛͚̀̈́́͆̈́̄̋̚͘ȧ̸̢̛̛̗̗̞̫͚̭͎̪̑̌͗́̆̊̎͑̂̏̍͒̇̉̎̾̿̕͘̚į̴̧̻͉̬̹̘̳͓̯͉̫̥̲̻̞̠̰̂̐̊͒́͒̇͜͜͠͝ņ̵̣̯̳̗͔̰̠̳̪͎̖̤̙̲̻̀̅̆́̌̆̊͛́͒̃͛͂́̏̂̚͜͝͝͠
Ą̶̢̛̜̳̩̱̖̞̭͕̘̺̼̝̠̝̋̃̐̏̾̃͌͂̃̅͘g̴̛̛̛͚̀̈́́͆̈́̄̋̚͘ȧ̸̢̛̛̗̗̞̫͚̭͎̪̑̌͗́̆̊̎͑̂̏̍͒̇̉̎̾̿̕͘̚į̴̧̻͉̬̹̘̳͓̯͉̫̥̲̻̞̠̰̂̐̊͒́͒̇͜͜͠͝ņ̵̣̯̳̗͔̰̠̳̪͎̖̤̙̲̻̀̅̆́̌̆̊͛́͒̃͛͂́̏̂̚͜͝͝͠
“Why,” Zoey’s knees buckle. She barely manages to hold herself up on unblemished palms, each cut and scrape disappearing with each return.
“Why won’t you let us get back to her ,” She watches as the stone beneath her nose darkens, tears dripping from her nose and into the cement below.
Her voice is hardly more than a whisper this time.
“Take us back.”
Ą̶̢̛̜̳̩̱̖̞̭͕̘̺̼̝̠̝̋̃̐̏̾̃͌͂̃̅͘g̴̛̛̛͚̀̈́́͆̈́̄̋̚͘ȧ̸̢̛̛̗̗̞̫͚̭͎̪̑̌͗́̆̊̎͑̂̏̍͒̇̉̎̾̿̕͘̚į̴̧̻͉̬̹̘̳͓̯͉̫̥̲̻̞̠̰̂̐̊͒́͒̇͜͜͠͝ņ̵̣̯̳̗͔̰̠̳̪͎̖̤̙̲̻̀̅̆́̌̆̊͛́͒̃͛͂́̏̂̚͜͝͝͠
Ą̶̢̛̜̳̩̱̖̞̭͕̘̺̼̝̠̝̋̃̐̏̾̃͌͂̃̅͘g̴̛̛̛͚̀̈́́͆̈́̄̋̚͘ȧ̸̢̛̛̗̗̞̫͚̭͎̪̑̌͗́̆̊̎͑̂̏̍͒̇̉̎̾̿̕͘̚į̴̧̻͉̬̹̘̳͓̯͉̫̥̲̻̞̠̰̂̐̊͒́͒̇͜͜͠͝ņ̵̣̯̳̗͔̰̠̳̪͎̖̤̙̲̻̀̅̆́̌̆̊͛́͒̃͛͂́̏̂̚͜͝͝͠
Ą̶̢̛̜̳̩̱̖̞̭͕̘̺̼̝̠̝̋̃̐̏̾̃͌͂̃̅͘g̴̛̛̛͚̀̈́́͆̈́̄̋̚͘ȧ̸̢̛̛̗̗̞̫͚̭͎̪̑̌͗́̆̊̎͑̂̏̍͒̇̉̎̾̿̕͘̚į̴̧̻͉̬̹̘̳͓̯͉̫̥̲̻̞̠̰̂̐̊͒́͒̇͜͜͠͝ņ̵̣̯̳̗͔̰̠̳̪͎̖̤̙̲̻̀̅̆́̌̆̊͛́͒̃͛͂́̏̂̚͜͝͝͠
Ą̶̢̛̜̳̩̱̖̞̭͕̘̺̼̝̠̝̋̃̐̏̾̃͌͂̃̅͘g̴̛̛̛͚̀̈́́͆̈́̄̋̚͘ȧ̸̢̛̛̗̗̞̫͚̭͎̪̑̌͗́̆̊̎͑̂̏̍͒̇̉̎̾̿̕͘̚į̴̧̻͉̬̹̘̳͓̯͉̫̥̲̻̞̠̰̂̐̊͒́͒̇͜͜͠͝ņ̵̣̯̳̗͔̰̠̳̪͎̖̤̙̲̻̀̅̆́̌̆̊͛́͒̃͛͂́̏̂̚͜͝͝͠
Ą̶̢̛̜̳̩̱̖̞̭͕̘̺̼̝̠̝̋̃̐̏̾̃͌͂̃̅͘g̴̛̛̛͚̀̈́́͆̈́̄̋̚͘ȧ̸̢̛̛̗̗̞̫͚̭͎̪̑̌͗́̆̊̎͑̂̏̍͒̇̉̎̾̿̕͘̚į̴̧̻͉̬̹̘̳͓̯͉̫̥̲̻̞̠̰̂̐̊͒́͒̇͜͜͠͝ņ̵̣̯̳̗͔̰̠̳̪͎̖̤̙̲̻̀̅̆́̌̆̊͛́͒̃͛͂́̏̂̚͜͝͝͠
Ą̶̢̛̜̳̩̱̖̞̭͕̘̺̼̝̠̝̋̃̐̏̾̃͌͂̃̅͘g̴̛̛̛͚̀̈́́͆̈́̄̋̚͘ȧ̸̢̛̛̗̗̞̫͚̭͎̪̑̌͗́̆̊̎͑̂̏̍͒̇̉̎̾̿̕͘̚į̴̧̻͉̬̹̘̳͓̯͉̫̥̲̻̞̠̰̂̐̊͒́͒̇͜͜͠͝ņ̵̣̯̳̗͔̰̠̳̪͎̖̤̙̲̻̀̅̆́̌̆̊͛́͒̃͛͂́̏̂̚͜͝͝͠
Ą̶̢̛̜̳̩̱̖̞̭͕̘̺̼̝̠̝̋̃̐̏̾̃͌͂̃̅͘g̴̛̛̛͚̀̈́́͆̈́̄̋̚͘ȧ̸̢̛̛̗̗̞̫͚̭͎̪̑̌͗́̆̊̎͑̂̏̍͒̇̉̎̾̿̕͘̚į̴̧̻͉̬̹̘̳͓̯͉̫̥̲̻̞̠̰̂̐̊͒́͒̇͜͜͠͝ņ̵̣̯̳̗͔̰̠̳̪͎̖̤̙̲̻̀̅̆́̌̆̊͛́͒̃͛͂́̏̂̚͜͝͝͠Ą̶̢̛̜̳̩̱̖̞̭͕̘̺̼̝̠̝̋̃̐̏̾̃͌͂̃̅͘g̴̛̛̛͚̀̈́́͆̈́̄̋̚͘ȧ̸̢̛̛̗̗̞̫͚̭͎̪̑̌͗́̆̊̎͑̂̏̍͒̇̉̎̾̿̕͘̚į̴̧̻͉̬̹̘̳͓̯͉̫̥̲̻̞̠̰̂̐̊͒́͒̇͜͜͠͝ņ̵̣̯̳̗͔̰̠̳̪͎̖̤̙̲̻̀̅̆́̌̆̊͛́͒̃͛͂́̏̂̚͜͝͝͠
Ą̶̢̛̜̳̩̱̖̞̭͕̘̺̼̝̠̝̋̃̐̏̾̃͌͂̃̅͘g̴̛̛̛͚̀̈́́͆̈́̄̋̚͘ȧ̸̢̛̛̗̗̞̫͚̭͎̪̑̌͗́̆̊̎͑̂̏̍͒̇̉̎̾̿̕͘̚į̴̧̻͉̬̹̘̳͓̯͉̫̥̲̻̞̠̰̂̐̊͒́͒̇͜͜͠͝ņ̵̣̯̳̗͔̰̠̳̪͎̖̤̙̲̻̀̅̆́̌̆̊͛́͒̃͛͂́̏̂̚͜͝͝͠
Ą̶̢̛̜̳̩̱̖̞̭͕̘̺̼̝̠̝̋̃̐̏̾̃͌͂̃̅͘g̴̛̛̛͚̀̈́́͆̈́̄̋̚͘ȧ̸̢̛̛̗̗̞̫͚̭͎̪̑̌͗́̆̊̎͑̂̏̍͒̇̉̎̾̿̕͘̚į̴̧̻͉̬̹̘̳͓̯͉̫̥̲̻̞̠̰̂̐̊͒́͒̇͜͜͠͝ņ̵̣̯̳̗͔̰̠̳̪͎̖̤̙̲̻̀̅̆́̌̆̊͛́͒̃͛͂́̏̂̚͜͝͝͠Ą̶̢̛̜̳̩̱̖̞̭͕̘̺̼̝̠̝̋̃̐̏̾̃͌͂̃̅͘g̴̛̛̛͚̀̈́́͆̈́̄̋̚͘ȧ̸̢̛̛̗̗̞̫͚̭͎̪̑̌͗́̆̊̎͑̂̏̍͒̇̉̎̾̿̕͘̚į̴̧̻͉̬̹̘̳͓̯͉̫̥̲̻̞̠̰̂̐̊͒́͒̇͜͜͠͝ņ̵̣̯̳̗͔̰̠̳̪͎̖̤̙̲̻̀̅̆́̌̆̊͛́͒̃͛͂́̏̂̚͜͝͝͠
When Mira wakes this time, the smell of burning flesh and misery still clinging to the inside of her nose, she immediately sits down. She leans forward, resting her forehead on the rigid bumps of her knees. They should be hurting by now, but nothing hurts. She's not even sweaty. They've worked and worked and fought and run and bled and every time she goes right back to normal.
“I can’t” There’s something broken in her voice this time, “Zoey, I-I can’t do it.”
“Please, can we please just sit this time, can you just hold me, just for a little bit” She’s begging. She’s begging. Please. Please don’t make her. She doesn’t want to go back. She wants to stay here. She needs to stay here.
(She needs Rumi, needs her calm and her too-wide smile, and her perfect nails and perfect hair and her lavender scent to wrap itself around her)
(But Rumi’s a demon)
(Was she?)
(Was that real?)
She can’t even remember what she was mad about.
They don’t sleep.
They can’t.
The sun doesn’t even set. It never does.
Two twin arms wrap themselves around, holding her shaking form tight. Two self-contained earthquakes rock against one another. Zoey tucked carefully beneath her chin.
Misery splits their fault lines apart.
They lay entwined with one another.
There’s no yelling.
No demand to return.
Instead, Mira buries her nose into the crown of Zoey’s head.
Zoey runs her fingers along the curtain of pink hair scattered across her love’s shoulders.
Something is missing.
A body.
A girl should fit between the two, perfectly, like a puzzle missing the centerpiece.
She’s not there.
(She’s never there)
Their longing bounces between the two, amplifying every second they exist without her.
“What do you think happens if we just…stay here,” Mira whispers, mouth inches from the lips that had so tenderly brushed against every exposed part of her face. Time, after time, after time.
But never where she wished.
“I don’t know, Mira.”
Zoey’s tired.
She closes her eyes and begs.
She knows no one is listening.
This time, when Mira opens her eyes, it’s a surprise.
She resets just feet away from where she had just been laying.
It doesn’t make sense.
Why?
Why did they reset?
They hadn’t done anything.
Mira sits back down, landing heavily on the concrete below. None of this is making any sense at all. It doesn’t matter if they go. It doesn’t matter if they stay. How many Saja Boys they kill, how many civilians they manage to save—
It.
Doesn’t.
End.
She doesn’t get it.
It has to be something. If she could just figure it out then maybe she could fix this. Fix everything. Could make them whole again. It's right there, right at the tip of her—
“Time.”
Mira’s eyes freeze open, listening as Zoey stretches out on the ground next to her, the younger girl popping each vertebrae in her back before going boneless across the floor.
“It’s time-based. I counted, the last…couple of times. We always reset at exactly the same minute from when we reappear down here.”
“That—that’s great!” For the first time in…Mira doesn’t even know how long, she feels like they’re getting somewhere. It’s not much but at least it’s something.
“No, it’s not great.”
It’s the most hopeless she’s ever heard the maknae. Her tone, icy and biting, leaves Mira frostbitten. She opens her mouth, then lets her jaw click gently in place. Instead, she waits. Zoey will fill the silence, she knows it. She’s counting on it.
“It’ll never be enough. The two of us? We’ll never even come close to getting Gwi-ma quick enough. Mira,” Zoey turns her wide, shining eyes towards her, “we need her.”
If Mira thought she was cold before, the chill that those words cast over her body turns her positively glacial.
‘No, please.’
(A long purple braid spins around her dancing figure)
'Fight her'
'Stop her'
( fangs, black claws, a glowing slit eye)
'Wrong wrong wrong'
'Fight her'
(Sparkling teeth stretch into a smile so blindingly bright it used to leave spots in her vision if she stared too long. She always ended up staring too long.)
'Wrong I picked wrong'
( shoulders hunched, spine curved inward like a dying tree)
(Abby's head, falling from his shoulders, beautiful, poisonous fake a lie all a lie lie lie lie)
'Wrong'
'You must win'
(‘Mira! Loo-hk, I cauht a snowfla-ge on ma tongue’ laughing, always laughing, beautiful, snowflakes caught in each lash, their first Christmas together)
( The Honmoon shaking at the sound of her voice)
Wrong wrong
(Laying out under the stars, three bodies curled into one another, dragonflies whistling across the air. She was teaching them the constellations, naming each individual planet and cluster in sight. The starlight reflected in the warm pools of her eyes. Twinkling. Always the smartest, always perfect, gorgeous —)
Wrong
wrong
('You know,' Rumi began hesitantly, and Mira turned to look at the purple haired girl laying across from her, the three of them crashing after a long cardio session with Celine, 'I'm really thankful for you both.'
'I think,' and Mira tried to ignore the way the older girl's voice caught in her throat as she turned that blindingly white smile toward them both, 'no-I know you both are the first friends I've ever made.'
Mira felt her heart break. Instead of saying something stupid, like 'me too,' or 'I love you,' she just rolled her eyes.
'And the best,' she finished with a satisfied smile.
'Mira closed her eyes, anything to ignore the flutter of affection beating its wings behind her sternum and Zoey's squeal of joy, 'Yeah, whatever nerd')
‘I can’t’
‘Please don’t.’
“We need to find Rumi.”