Chapter Text
"Huh̵̰̦̦̊... the s̴͔̋̇ky is ver̵̻͉̍̍̀y clear tȍ̶̡̯̖͎͂̊̉nigh̶͈̥̾̀̐̓͂̕t."
"Rig̸̣͌͛ht? It's the pę̸̦̐͌͠r̸̠̣̯̋fect timę̸̦̐͌͠ to go star̴̪͓̬͔̓̽̕g̸̡̖̊̓̀̚azį̸̙̥̹̲̗̖̼̭͕̘̔͗́͗̋̅͂̀̀̀͌̀͛͝ͅn̵̟̱͚̗͕̯͋͌͊̽ͅg̷̨̡̡͙̘̺͓̬̪̟̰̙̦̼̍̋̓̈́͝͝! Have ẏ̸̯̘̯͖͌ou ever s̷̨̧͖͔̞̠̅͆̆̐̾̂̌ḛ̸̡̘̰̖̣̃́̆͂̄̍ͅen that cĺ̷̨̨̟͚̦̰̳̝̺̰͌͆͑͋̄͋́̾̚̕͝͠ͅú̷̢̡̢̲͕̫̬͓͚̫̫͇̠ster ov̴̯͉̥͑͒̈͝er the̵̛̼͇̱̥̮͎̱͉̤͆͛̓̄̃̋́͜ͅr̸̢͕͗̃͆e̵̘͍̠̽̏́̐,̴̦͠ █████████?"
"Í̸̝̞̱̘͇̟̑̐͐͌... don'̴̡̢̲̫͔̥̞͓̉̓̋̅͠͝͝t̴̨̘̤̝͚̃̐͛̊̾̃̕ ̶̢͈͇̯̠̙̻̠̲̄̒̆̎͋̂ͅt̴̼͙̖͎̱̝̯̙̺̅̒̂̐͂h̷̢̦͚̯̻͆̋̓i̴̡̡̤̱͗̆́͝͠͝nk sơ̴̬̠͎̙̖͉͈͈̔͊̾͛̃̑̑.̷̹͇̗͖̓̎.̴̧̛̼̺͉̤͕̟͜.̵͎̭͓̽̇̒̍̌..?"
"Hä̶̛́͌̒͝h̸́̓͗̈́̉̀̚͠a,̶̡͍͕̦̬̘̺̞͔̍̾͑͊̓̀̽͗̌͌͋́͜ you jus̴̻̬̫̅̌͊̿́͑̍̕̚ṱ̷͕̙͔̈͊̄͂̚ ̸̈̉̆͐́͠͠haven't learn̶̥͎̦͇̣̼̲͔̤͋̄͒͐̾̒e̵̮̘̟͉̦̫̲̬͕̳̝̝͍̾̃̈͆̒̃̆͌̃̽̅̐͒d how t̵̑̏̔ö̶́͌̆̀͒͐̈́͠ tell them̷͉̤͈̪̲͆̅͐̌͐̄̈͘ ̷́͊̅̈́́̎̔̌͋͝͠a̶͖̪͙̳̦̹͗̓̀̾̓͐̿̋̇̎̓́͜͝͠p̵̧͎͚̖̱̗͚͚̼̎̆̾̈́́̕͝a̶̪̍͗̏̅̂͆͌͊͐̂́͜rt yeṯ̵̗̣̱͕͖̞̻̗̓̾̿̽́̀͋̍. This is a cơ̸̧̘̤̲̞̘͋̀̈́̽͝n̸̳̆̍͊̃́̈́̀̒͝͝s̸̺̼͚̱̤̭͙̱̲̜̞̖̬͗͌̉ͅtellat̶̛̞̖̪͎̐̀͝i̶̬̼̻̤̜̭̟̍̊͂̿͐̈́̔͋̈́̀̂̾̎͘͠ǫ̶̧̦̥͈͖͔̱̲̯̯̭̠̯̊́n̸̡̟̲͍̫͇̗̽̈́͜͠ͅ; a bǔ̴̱̭̩͔̱̰̓̈́̚n̵͖̟͑̿ch of stȃ̷̺͎̯̹͉̰̻̱͙̿͊̇̃̋̀͂̚r̵̟̝̊̑͑͒ͅs that fö̸̢̨̼̘̘̫̣͇͔͕̪̳̲̰͓̥̱̲͉̼̯́͆̀́́͊͑̔͌͋̈́͛̽́͜͠͝͝r̵̨̢͉̪̟͍͉̣̮͔̦̫̝̮͕͍̩̩̪̜̪̀̇̐̇̆̌͌̽̐̈̿́͝͠m̶̨̻̤̮̱͇͎̜͚̬͍̰͚̬̮͖͇͎͔̰̗̎̂͝ͅͅ certain sḣ̶̉̔́̾̆͗͊̿̏̊á̴̯̺̖̭͋͂͒͒͑͜p̵̛̩̳̪͊̎̊͒͊̑̂̇͑͂̉̐̈̋̚͝es. L̸̨̦̣̳̟̣̂͌̉͊͒̏̾͌͌̽̊ǫ̷̝̼̙͈̳̯̐̎̃̃̈͗͝ok- this on̸̛̼̝͔͖̅͂̎̿̽͐̌̾͊̃̃̔̔̆̉̆̀̀e̵̛̳̱͈̫̰̐͌̈́̈͘ resemb̷̧̧͚̪̮̞̰̬̼̬͚̓̋̊̑̄̿̿͂̉͑́͋͘͜͜͠l̴̡̹͇̠͖̝͔͔͖͖̰͙̞̳͎̲̟͎̈́͛̐̅͒̈́̈͝͠ͅͅë̵́͌̑͑̓̋́̌̀̀͋̋͂̅̋̕͘̕͘͠s a ç̷̼̟͇̯̤̠͔̭̙͖͈̩͚̘̻̟̝̀̃͋̏̌̿̊̿̏̉͑͒͌̅̐͑̋͗̀͘̕͜l̷̡̡̖͕͕͉̦̹͇̯͚̜̤̪̗̥͔̫̯̲̻̲͑͐̀̎̆̎͒͒̂̅̚̕͜ō̴̭̺͍̪̽̅͐͒̉́̎̂̓̉͒̑̈́́͒̓͐̀̿̽̃̽̚̚̕͘̕͝͝͝ud!"
"Oh̸̻͕̮̩͛͊͊͝.̸̢̦̑͋̋͑͌̀̆. I ca̵̢̫̭̩̲̗̙̩͚̲̮̼̳͙͇͈̠̖͙͎̹̍̈́̐̌̋͗̔̓̽̂̊̃̋͠n̵̡͉̬̖̯̝̖̹̥̂̿͐̓́́͗̆́ ̶̨̬̳͕̼̪̬͉͔̱͕̅̽̍̓̊̆͌͌́̊̈́̈̔̓̽̌̾̉͆͗̐̉͠͝s̴̢̨̡̡͉͙̟̞̝̝͈͔̘͔͓͙̬̠͓̩̣̩͓̍̊͛̑̋̾͊̀̕ͅͅĕ̵̡̡̡̧̡̡̧̙̣̹̫̟̫̭̜̗͙̫̜̩̘̾̊̈́̇̎̈́̐͐͑̃͂͂͐̓͑͝͠͝e it̶͖̙́͛͌̈̓͑͌̐̓̀̓͐̓̚͠ͅ ̴͖̓͛̐̈͗͑̀̂͂̆́̑͠͝͝͝͝ņ̶̮̬͈̝̹̫̹̖̤̼̩̪͓̗̤̣̻̜͍͉̮̠̹̽̀̄̐̀ͅͅͅo̵̧̧͖̙̺̦͈̤̺̳̼̖͈̞̮̥͖͆́͂͐̕ͅw̷͎̦͋̀̌̔̆̄͐̎̄̿̾̅̈́̄̇́͒̋͛̈́̋͑̈́̀̋̕̕, yệ̷̛̛̛̱͎̔̈͂͑͛́̊̒́̓̉̿̂́͋̑̕͘͝͝ͅs.T̵̢̡̧̗̩̦̹̗̜̙̖͍͙͈͉̳̼͍̯͎͓̗̜̜̞͕͚͒͐͜ͅͅh̵̝͇͚͐̑͒̎̒̀͗́̈́͊ė̴̛̩͔̮͔̳͐̀͊̉̄̉̊̒͗̇̌̈́̇͆̀̄̏͌͝͝r̴̨̧̯͎̞̫͖̤͕̳̝͖̦̻̺͔͔͕͔̼͕̲̬̮̲̥̪̮̞̤̾̚͜ͅe''̸̰̣͎͔̟̭̰̗͕̣̞͖̝̞̙͙̭̫͔͙̟̳̦̤̒̾̉͌̈́̈̉̃͂̈̌̒͌͛̋̊̃̔̌̈́̿͊̀̆̔̌̽̍̽̚͠͠͠s̸͈̠̩̘͎̥̏̈́͒́̔̊̀̐̇̿̅̈́̑̐̄̽̈̍̀͆̓̃̀̑̒̌̂̕͠ ̶al̸̾̀̏̀̿͊͝͝sơ̸̯͌̎̒̋̂̚ ̴̡̰̘͕͚͇͕̹̞́͐̋͐͗̊̎̓͒̚̚͜͝ a ̷̛̣̏́̌̒́̑̎͆̏͗̒̐̓̑̌̊̈̎͑́͐̌̏̕͘͝ş̸̫͖̟̬͔͖̲̞̟͔̠̩̦͚͋̄̃͌͋͜ṅ̵̛̮̮̙̬͑ọ̶̢̡̡̡̞͕̫̮̮̹̯̹̣̣̱̯̜̄̇̓̐͐̂̀̿̄̾̐̋̇̋̓̾̚͜͜͠͠ͅw̶̡̨͖̳̳͇͙̬̦̫͛͒̉̂̔͑̊̒͛̽́̉̃̀̿͒̒͗̎̔̇͑͋̀͆̌͂̋̍͜͠͠͝͝f̸̨̨͖̤̙̟̼̭̥̝͕̝͎͚̜̝̣̩͕͎̲̫̲̩̺̼̿͊̀̉̑͌̄̿̄lak̴̢̫̰͓͇̼̱̙̫̼̳̪̤̿́͋́́͆̿́͑̐͛̆̎̓̅̂ȩ̴̖̙̣͉̩̰͉̙̺̦̳̊̍̎̎̀͊̈̾̎̍́͂͐͝ shä̸̢̨̞̟͖͓͔̹̬̠͊̔̈́̀̐̀̋͜p̷̢̧̭̱̭̻̬̪̮͇̹̪̈́́͗̽͛́͌͗̅̾͒ȅ̵̯̬͓͎̈́̚̕͝ͅ ̵̡̧̜͙̙͍̯̘͎̱̮̌̍͐̾̚ c̵̛͔͕̯͎̦̖͕̠͇̗̪͉̤̹͖̩͊͆̉̇́̇͒̊͂̐̌̀́́͐́͘̕ͅl̶͔̣͚̫͕̜̟̹̲̘̰͈͇̱̮̱̥͎̥̹̤͌̌͋͌̂͗̒̉̌͒̏̋́̇͛͐͘͝͠͝͠osę̴̧̰͉̞̟̣̫͈̭͙̞̱̪̟̼̔̐̑̿͗̅͒́͒͋̂̀ by, r̴ig̵̨̮̻̻̺͌̅͠ht̶͕̖͔͍̗̱̯̯͂̇̑̆̃̂́̆̀̽̾̿͐́́̎̽̇͘͝͠͠?̵͎̻̫͙̟̤͔̓̈̀̀̿̂̋͛̇̊̇̈͋̉̅͜͠͝"
"W̷̨͍͕͚̲̫͉̙̪͔̠͙͕̘̺̼̳̖̮̒͛̉̒̿͑̾̍̓͌͋̕̕o̶̧̨̘̦͈̭̮̖̩̖̬̫͈͚̲͕̳͙͍̐͛͗͐̽͂̒̈̒͆̅̃̈́̓̉̐̕̚͜͜͜ͅͅâ̷̖͕͔̗͙̪̗̜͖̌̉̿̍̄̊̀̈̋͜͠h̶̃̈̈́͋̓̅͆̈́͂̈́͂́́͋͆́͋̚̚͝-̶̧̨̛͔̤̯̺̍̃̊̈́̈́̐̑̎̉͛̋̿̃͘ ̷̤̙̰̺̜͔̲̓͊̑̐͊͐̔̓̂̉͜͠y̴̹͚̌͠o̸͔͕̱͇͙̿͆̎͐͌̓̑̋̅̾̄̆̓͑̕̕̕͝ư̵̟͕̲̖͖̲͉̣͇̙͍̫̥͕̺̗͓͈̰̯͙̓̓͛̋̐̓̎͒̌̈́̇͆́͂̈̆̾͛͘̕͠͠ ̸̨̪̭̞̠͓́̊̾̆̈́̇͒́͌̍͆̊́̐̀͘͘͠c̵̨̢̘̼͎̰͔̗͕̯̔̎̀͐̔͆̌͛̆̅͗͆̓͘͠at̴̛͊͒̀͂̃̀̂́̈̚͝c̶̤̦̜̲̘̗̝̟̖̯͇͛͒̆̐͊̏͐̏̍͐̽̀͗͒͘̕͠h̵̢̦͇͖͍̖͕̾͊̎͐̀͊̓̒͛́̀̔̈́̔́́́̂̄̈́̔̋̎̚͝ ̶̢̓̈͂̄̐̽̓̀͗̅̂͊̒̄̏͊̾́̾̒̒̊̕͘ô̶̧̢͖͎̞̘̗͇͚̳̹͕̝̪͎̠͔̝̟̖͙̪̪̒͜ͅņ̵̡͓̬͈̦̱͈̖̫̩͕͕͙̗͈̥͑́̇̈́̆̽̔͜͜͜ ̴͍̲̥̮̩̫̜͉̭̟̳̺̗̟̬͍̳̼̦̪̔̄͗̔̾̂̄̈́̎̈́̀̀̍̀̉̚͜͜͜͜͠ͅq̸̡̧̡̡̘̣̣̙̦͙͙̳̭̙͓͉͕̦̺͈̺̃͑͊͒̈́̚ư̸̢̛̗̔͒̐͗̇̇̉́̈́̃̍͗̄̓̏̚̕͝ic̷̛̎k̶̦̙̖̦̐̄̈̒͋͊͆̌̈́̈̾̕̕͠͝,̶̔̓ █████████!
" "Į̸̧̛̩͙̻̱̹͚͔̝̉̈́͐̆̿̾̀̿́̆̕̚ͅ ̷̭͖̝́͊̈́̏̓͗͑͛g̸͌̐̕ủ̶͇͎̯̑̏̎̅̐̇ȩ̸̳͓̤͑̒̾̓̿̃̍̋͋͠sş̵͈̪͉̥̬͚͎̯̭̰̆̌̈́̃̂̓̂̚͘͝ͅ ̶͍̺͓̪̭̫̠͉̞͈̩̈́̓͋͛̇͑͆́̾s̴̃͒̚ö̸͈̒̒͂̿̿̽́̓̂̋͂́̚͘̕͠? ̴͉̫̋́B̴̨̛͈̠̬͇̲͕̥̟̺̺͙̻̪̲̖̈́̄̂̉̀̂̓̿̓̂͌͒̍̚ut ̸̼͙̙̖̟͍̂̎̍̊̍̀͑͐̊̚i̷̡̨̪̘̖̮̞͕͖͖̲̟̤͎̜͆̅͋̒͜͜ͅt̷̋ ̴̦̱̙̹̲͙̈́̀̈́̉͋̉̕d̴̡̢̛̠̎̾̊̈́̓̇͊͑̀oeş̸̨̤͈̦͕͇̻̯̳͖̝̥̻́̀͘͜ṇ̵̡̞̭̱͕̅̂̈́̈́̏̕'̵̈́̊t ̶̼̰͕̩̩̗͙̲͖͓͓́͐͛͆̔͐̌̍͊̑̐̇͒͠ͅs̴͙͎̬͚͉͕͎̯̤͍͈̊̇̒̚e̸͒̏̊eṁ̴̛̛̮̬̱̮̔̃̀̏͋͑̓̓̉͌̍̀̚͝͝ ̸̛͔̈̓̅͐̿̑͊́̄̏̒̇̃̍̃͝͠t̴̨͎̱͇̩̤̲̥̗̻̟̪̝̯̩͇͖̮̕h̶̑̊͊̅̄a̴̓̄̅̆̿̚͝t ̴̠̤̳̘̭̩̰̲͉̺̫̙͉̮̭̘̐͑̆̑̌͒̍̐̋͗͊́̂͘̕s̸̝̼̠̯̎p̶̢̙̗̹͇̝͍̃̀̀͆̌͗̊̍̀͝ͅe̶̛̛̎̂͝͝ç̷̢̧̢̜̝͓̠̰̪͖̼̭̳̑̃̈́͌͋̔̅͋̒̓̋̆͗́̄̐͜͝ͅį̶̡̨̹̟̻̘̗̤͖̻͕͚̼̦̭̬̓ͅą̶̞͕͗̄̓̾̋́̿̉́̐̃̒̂̐͒̀́l̷̰̍̂̅͆̀͘̕̚- ̶̧̨̮̖͕̭͎̦͎̫̙̗͖̮̘̳͉̍͊͋́̆͊̍̽͐͌̈́́̕I̸̹̎́͌͑̆̾͑̂̐͊͋͠͝ ̷̨̛̗̖̳̦͕̠͕̪̣̱̪̹͓̐̆̐͗̋͝m̵̧̟̹͉͍̜̦̲̯̝̠͛̀͋͆̒̄̇͘͝ean̸̟͈̜̝͙͖̳͌͒͝,̸̨̧̦̥̮̯̘̰̰̬͙̠̟̮̀̈́̑̈́̈́͋͌̉͛͛̑̊̕͝͝͝ͅ ̴̨̨̺͖͎̠̜̣͎̹̙͉̖͖͇̮̋͋̆̐͂͋͋̈́̂́̅́͗̍͆̚͠å̶̏̉̿̈́̾͆̉̓͋̋̕͠r̷̙̱̣̯͑̎̃͐́͌̆ë̵̡̛̬̲̝̘̦̙̈́͌̅͒̍͆n''̸̨̛̫̖͖̩̲̜̪̩̘̞̗̮̌̃̕͝t̸ ̴͛ẗ̷̬̬͉͓̼̻͕̻͓͔̼͓̎͜hḛ̸̞̹̫̤̓̄̆͑͗s̶͝͝ę̴̤̻̬̙̞̣͔̬̣̪̘̜͓́͌̋̈̓͋̀͋͛́̔̿̕͠ͅ s̸̢̧̨̨̡̬̮̲͎̦̘̆̌̾̊̓̈́̇͝h̴̢͔͚̹͈̬̥̖̹̠̬̝͉̜͛͒̈̿̈́́̓̂͌̈̄͠͠ä̴́̐̾̃̃pḛ̴̾̈́̀͆̓̀̄̇̊̈͌̍͘̚̕͠s̶̢͙̜̱͔̩̭̗̗̮̲̯͉̯̉̐͐͋̇̂̋̈̃̌͘͠ ̵̇ö̵͑͌̇̊̇͋͆̿́̃̿͠b̷̉̓v̷̇̎͌̐̕̕i̵̫̮͐̌̒̄̍̽͝o̵u̴̪͙̖͍̠͉̗̟̻̭̠̜͛̊̓͌͆͜͝s̸̛͕̞͉̄͒̄̉̀̿̌̈́̾̃͒̀̚͝͝͝͠ ̶̺͇͖̟̬̖͙̙̲̮̟̂̓͛͐̔̌̕ͅơ̵̢̛̲͖̜̤̻̩͚̳̘͓͈̿̈́͆̈̀͐͂̔͌͘n̶͌̀̕c̴͇̤̟̲̆̌̅̐͂͐͆ͅe̸̜͎̲̜̗̤͍͕͈̪̋̇̄ ̵̢͕̗̮̲̹̪͈̹̙̩̖̹͌͋̈́̀́̍̈́̓̎̍͂̅̋̕͠͠yo̸͌̓̉̎u̵͍͍̩̣̪̱̬̙͈͚̍́̄̃̈̀̓͊͛͊̆̾̅́͘ ̷̭̩̝͎̑ͅk̵̬͖̟̮̳̝̬̳͕̰̩̘̹͖̓̊̂̈͋̀̐͘̚͝͝n̶̨̛̳͖͍͇̣̣̣̟̺̟̖̖͚̖̞͇͌̄́͛́̀̓̐̚͘͠o̵͎̻͔̙̪͕̒w w̶͕̦̰̗͇̰̗̞̭͓͖̟̤̙̖̫̗̽h̷̎͊͒̐̀̉a̶̢̡̡̧̨͍̘̤̟̤̭͔̻̤͙͎̐̃̒͗́̐͛̊̽̓̑͗̊̕t̶̛͍͙͖̀͛̎̅͗̽̽̋̉̓̾̓̃̚͠ ̸̈̾̈̈́̑͒̆͛̈́͆͊̕t̸͔̒̊̂̏̓̄̄̓̏̀̓̋̚͝͝ǫ̴̟̦̰̳̤̪̟̰̠̥͕̦̱̼̙̌͊̐ ļ̵̳̤͉̘̱͙͈̥͕̞͓̼̝̮̓͑̈́̒̐͑̑̕͠ǫ̴̩̩̫̮̘̹̠͎̦͈̞̯͚̱̝̌̀̐͌̔͑͛̈́͑̈́̓̓̕̕͠ͅok̴̼̱̠͓̩̀̆̏̌͛̅͗͂̄̆̆̓͗́̌͛͘͘ ̶͖́̋̔͗̅̇̍̿̑̽̆͠͝͠fǫ̵͈̯͋͗̇̈́̒̎͑̃͑̕͠r̴͙̪͈̳̯̘͚̭͇̤̄̂͂̈́̈́̔̑̆͜ ̵̡̞̫̟̭̩̳̞̜̭͍̤̜̠̎̀̂ͅį̷̨͉͎̙͕̺̯͙͈̺͚͓͓̖͛̌́͐͋̍̓͐͌͝͝ͅn̴̘̗͎͓̦̼̪̗̐̓̓̈́̍̃̎̈̃͐̕͠͠ ̵͉̯̙͑ṭ̴̮͕̄́̀̄́he̵̠̰͇̻͕̱̣͎̟͍̱̩̯̱̯̙̩͊̏̀͐̓́̋̓͋͐͘͜ ̶̡̨̹̻͖̺̱͈͙̻̗̹̲̂̐̒̋̽̃̔̉̏͌̄͘͝ͅs̷̡̟̮̻̘̗̲̈͋̏͊̈́̍̌̀̐k̷̭̈́̏̚͜y̸̧̪͚̑͐͜?̵̧͈̤̫̰̝͍̖͙͉̣̖̈́̐́̽͐̈̈́̈́͛̐͒͝
" ̴̨̧̹͎̗̤̠̼̩̖̟̝̱͕̬̰͚̓̇͋̐̔̏̌̋̇ͅP̸̨͇̠̲̟͚͉͎̳͎̳̬̮̮̖̝̜̆͑̽͋̀̾̔̽̄̏́̑͒̓̕͠ṥ̵̞̫͋̋̆ḧ̶̩̪̼͙̖̱̮́͒̓̐̂͛͌͌̂̾͘͜͝,̴̱̲͛́̓̈̽̒͌̋̕̕͠ d̸͂͒̓ǫ̵̢̡̧̦̦͍̣̱͖͈͈̬̹̫͇̉́̉͛̈́̀̀͜͝n̷'t ̷̝͔̇̈͗̊̾͗̌̏͋̿̾͋̅̄͝͝s̸e̶͛͑̌̈́ĺ̶͚͈̘́̌́͌ͅl̸̢̻̟̩̬̝͍͓͉̩͇͌̆̑̍͊̄̔̿̂̚͝͝ ỹ̷̞̳͓̗̭̦͔͊̈́ȏ̸̧͚̭͈̯̺̱͔͇̩͉̼̖̖̮̗̙̔̾̓́͝͝u̶̢̯͉̳̳̘̘̩̯͉̒̕͜r̷͎̰̰̣̣̤̭̞͔̳̊͐͛̍̋̀͌̕ś̴̡̞̖̪͇̰͚̤͈̈́̈́̈́̀̌̐̚͝e̷̢͔̫̤͇̪̺̳̞̝̹̯͕̳̣̩̮̔́̂̃́̈̏̋̂̀͑̂͘̕͜͠͠l̸̛̫̭̣̔̔͒̀f̵̧̧͈̘̺̥̥̲̜̲̝̼̫̰̠̞͚̠̎̑̑͂̉̐͛͛̓͋̽̚͘s̸̱̲̣̹̹͖̝̻̄̂̂͛̊̐̾̚͜͝h̶̙̏̂̈́̔̔̊ö̸͕͚̞̤̟̮̠͉̰̩̦̫̤̬́̄̈r̶̡͇̟͕̙̥̬͕̗̖͑́̏̈́̓̓͂̊̀̉͊̏̚͠ṭ̶̨̢̢̢̨̛͎͍̻̤̺̗̺̟͎̖̻̈́̈̐̍͂͆̆͗̂̇̍͂̎͘͜,̶̨̣̲͎͍̳̗̬̰̯̬̙͎̗̟̪̈́͂̽̕ l̷̂̀͊͆͠ḯ̶̺̠̮̤̱̦̤̬͖̤̫͗͜ͅţ̷̟̅̓̂̋̐͑͂́̀͆̋̀̔͝ͅt̷̩͓̯̅̈̽̾͌͌͊̑̊̂͋̐͝͝͝l̸͉̘̠̥̦̬̱̒͐͌́́͆̈́̓̉̃͒̚̚ę̶̧̛͖̠̗̗̈́̇̌̌̆̍̏̀̅̈́͌̚ ̶̡͉̻̲̩̭̝̰̘̌̿̄̈̾̆͛̒̍̍̌̓̌̈̎g̴͖͈̘̱̫̔̑̓͐̌͛̆̔͐̀̄̒̕͜͝͝͝ͅų̷̨͖̙̔̾̈́͊̔̔̓̑̔̐͒̍̒̃͘͠y̷̦̝̹̗̻͚̓̀̈́̌̄͆̉̉̚;̵͚̌́͗́̽͗̌̅͒͜͝
p̴̡̼͔͍̈̌̚͘i̸̳̠̣̪̥̱̠̘͎̲͗̂̕c̵̡̧̧͈̮̣͔̺̯̭̯̪̮̤̭͇͎̲͊̈̑́̎͒́̒̕ͅk̷̆́̃͐͘͝į̷̧̢̹̬̬̩͖̈̂̏̌̓̃͘͜ͅͅǹ̸̨̻̞͇̣͇̦̺̻̰̹̗͔̻̗͉̠g̸̛̖͍̬̖̮̩͚̓̈́͑̐̍͆̀̌̽̅͗̈́ t̴̢̨̨͍͔͈͇̯̝͎̙̗͉͆̐̑̓̊͜͜h̶̫͓͎̫̠̺̗̏̿͌̏͌͂̌͝em̴̡͓̼̰͍̟̜̪̞̜̥̙̻͇̣͖̂̊͛̀̃̈́̏̈̉͂̍̐́̐͜ o̶̢̨̹̤̦͇̻̱͇̫̯̫͚̟̾̈̅̌͐̊̒̎͝ͅư̸̡͙͕̺̣̭̯̟̰̫̣͌͗͠ţ̴̠̙͇͍͓͔͎̗̀̇̚͜ d̶̡̨̰̳̜̣̣͎̜͔̥́̓̉͊̐̀̋̊̒̄̑̚ͅǫ̶̛̩͍̲̺̗̼̟̘͎͙̫̙͉͌̾̓̋̒́̑̈̏̓͑͊̊̽̇̕̚͝es̵͔̺̖͚̅́̔̽̇͂̐͛̍̉̾̽͋̋̊̿̃̀͠n̵̘̱̜͙̲͒̈'̴̨̛͍̟̩͎̱͇̙̜̬̺̏́̄̄̿̽̾̍̈́̂̈́͠͝ͅt̵̢̛̮̘̳̼̠͉̺̬̹͕̣͒̈́̄̑̐̉̈̀͜ com̸̺͓̜̩͓̣̰̹̺̱͍͓̲̤͙͉͇̦̍̄̾ͅę̴̜͇̬̫̖̳̥̾̔͠ͅ t̷̢̧͎̘̥͉̦̳̘̣͉͔̪̙̯̤̗͇̒̑̒͊͗̑́͐̃̆̓̉͌̅̉̋͠͝ͅo̶͓̕ e̶̺̮̭̜͚̮̼̅̍v̵̛͔̰̬͍̥̯̬̟͆̆̿̈͝ͅer̶̐y̸̘͕̼̓́̅͒͊͋̒̇́͆͝͠ơ̶̲̹̯͕̟͎̬̩̘̟͔̲̺̹͉̟͇͒̆͒̓͌̃͗̓̈́̅̕̕̚͝n̷̩͂̒͌̌́͜e̸̡̢͇̘͉̳͙̠͚̥̙̘̜̤͊͊̈́̒̑̐́̒̍́̍̈́͊͜͝͝ a̶̰̮͓̘͓̫̳̙̥̰͚̻͕̩̔̌̓̄̈͠s̵̅̉̅̑̐̀̊̌̓̋́̀̿̎̕͝ n̶̛͍̦͈̫̝̪͎̮̾̏͂̈́̉̋͆͝à̷̧̢̡̛̛̗̹̩̺̙̫̲̦̝̤̭̬͆̾̅͋́̋́̉̈́̀͛̏̕t̵̓̋͐̇̀͊͠u̷̢̢̞͈̬͎͔͆́͒́̍̏͑̓̂͘͝͝͠r̸̞̯̦̜̜̞͐́̈́̏̂̈́̊̎̽̀̿̑̊̕͜͝͝͠͝â̵̧̢̡̡̜̻̦̣͔̌͋̈́̊͌͐͂͋̿͜͠l̸̢̛̬͔̤̯̟͓̮̠̘͇̰̲̹̯̗͊̓͋͝͝l̶̢͉̰̞̬̦͍͔͕͖͖̟̙̖͐͐̈͌̑̇̂y̷̧͔̺͇̮͈̼̫̍̈͂́̾͋͋̉ a̸̛̮̤̓̐̈́̀̃̀̔͋̊͐̑̅̈́͌̈́͗͠s̵̟̓͑̃́̌̇ į̴̧̩̤͚͉͔̲̥̞̗̯̰͎̯̗͑̂̋̈́̅̈́̄̿̐̋̾̏̍̊͘͝͝ţ̴̪̬͎͓̳̞̭͈͔̫̳̣̝͓̬̓̍͜͠ ḍ̴̗̬̮͙̟̥̖̯͍͚̥̩̬̬̬̈͒͊̐̈͂͒̂̚ͅoe̵̗͍̮͙̩̭̩̘͙̟͖̊͆̈̽͜s̶̝̫̊͒́̋̊̍̈͌̐̅̚͝ ̸̨̛̬̗͓̰̟͚͉̈́̔̔͌̈̓̍͊̎̌́͘͝t̴̨̩͉̘̮̘͔̳̠͗̉̽͑͌̃ö̷̜̜̣͇̥͓͈̤͉̟͗͗̽̀̈̔̌̈́̇̂́̐͒͠ͅ yò̵̝̈́͒́͊̓̓͗̔̒̑̍u̵̇̏̍̾̋̂͒!
B̴̳̥̐̈́̅̒͊̍͆̒͑̚͝ę̶̡̬̝̮̩̗̻̗̮͊͂ͅs̶͓͔͉͐i̵̛̼̻̰͖̒̽̑͒̃̄̌̚̚͠d̴̗͈͕̘̲̦̞̄̀̓͊̽̔͝ḙ̸̠͇̝̩̅́̊̇͝s̸̢̱̹̗̯̜̭͌̈́̈, i̶̻̼̙̫̩͉̭̥͖̓͗̍̏̕t̸͔͕̤̬͊̏ͅ'̵͚̦̜̞̯͙͌͗ͅs̴̮̙̘͙̼̞͔̯͒͠ ó̷̢͍̬̟̙̝̲̫̼̑̀̈̍n̵̡̙͈̺͕͓̯͙͓͉̝͉͙̆̎ḷ̷̛̬̱͉̖̥͇̤͎̝̹̜̇͋͑͐͆̄̎̈̕͠͝͠y̷̞̳̠̻̓̓̀̏̍͗́͌͌͘͘̚ri̷̲͕̮̩͕̇͋́̀̄̀g̶̱̬͈̭̩̙̩̰̳̉̽h̶̡̧̰̥̭̜̱̖͙̼̝̅͑͋̾͛̈́̆͒̍̎̕ẗ̸̢́̊̏͂̎̐̏͛͠ t̶̒͝h̵̛̫͉̤̏̀̀͋̈́̈́̇͌̕͝͝aṱ̶̺̽̾ õ̴̧͖̝͕̳̭͖̮̱ͅn̴̎͋ĕ̷̞̫͔̆̒͋͑̈́͝ͅ ̷̢͚͍̠̘̊̇͛̉̆̆̈́̈́̉̒͐̆n̸͎̥̘͌a̵̢̦̩̩̰̼̙̝̖̹̮̩̋̐̃̿̀̑̓͛̀̓̊͊͝m̸̥̤̘͍̞͒͐͋̔͊̉̓̓̐̄͠e̴̢̛̝͚̳̎̈́͆͐̀̚̕d̸̃͆͑ ą̷͈͔̬̫̤̗̫̠͍̞̺̭̌͠f̶̓͐̅͋͛́̀̍̈́̚̚͜͠t̵̟̟̟̻̰̙̠͚̀̓̌̄̏̎͆̎̓͝e̶̺̙̅̈́͌͐͠r̷̺̦̥̼͙̺̦̮͕͚̐̋͌́̋͆́̅͐̀́ͅ ẗ̵́͌̎͠h̵͔͎͇͑̽̆̽̀̓e̷͍̗̲̖͉̟͖̼̰͔͚͙̫̓̅̾̒̓̚͝ s̶̩̟̠̠̗̞͍̬̰̻̬͕̒͂͑̈̅͂͜tą̶̢̼̜̝̲̦͕̜̠̫̅̂͒̐͗͋̀͘̚r̴̥͓̂̓̐̿͊̊̾̀͐͘͝s̴̜̍͗̉̀͒̊͂͗̏͐̌̌͘ͅw̷͉͔̔̾̾͑͠ǫ̷͔̠̫̜̝̼̹̔̈́̊ủ̷̪̝͎͕̘͔͌̅̔̏l̷̡̡͖̲̠̮̙̙̈̔̽͊͒̓͝ď̸̛͂̈ kn̸̛o̵̢͔͕̠̲̣̽͋́̇̓̎͐͂̒͠w̵̬̙̼̮͈͍̱̭͐̏̑̍̅͋̔͂̋͗͜͝ͅ t̸̊ĥ̷ȩ̷̩͉̘̫̙̤͙̪͈̫̒̋͗̃̉̽͒̄͂̇̐̏́m̴͖̞̀̈̉̽̎̑͝ w̴̨̩̤̗̝͗ȩ̶̘̤̪̣̜͚̟̗͖͂͑͌l̶̢̻̰̦̰̼͎̞̤̗̈̈́͜l̴̡̻̻͕̄̍̈́,̵̡̧͖͚͖̮̣̪̜̟͚̥̋̏̏͐̈́͛͌̀̋̚͘̕͠ ̷̲̥͚͍̽̈́̍͛̄͂̀͗͒̒ḯ̸̯̟̪͂̌̅̑͑̽̈́͗ś̴̢̛̝̩̘̺̼̖̬̬̺̽͐̐͂͑̂̒͑̈́͘͝n̷̖͇̓̒'̶̳̝͓̞͘t̴͗̃̚ i̴̡͉̱̯̤̬̭̟͇̾̔́́t̴̠̪̱̖̻͇̖͇̘̞̄͂?̸̥̪̯̻͙̯̝͊̌̋͆̓̅͘͝
"I̴͍̖̓̀̓͆̓̂̍̓͛̔͋̂͗̔̉̒̄͐͌̐̑̇͂̀̈̕͠͝ ̸̢̢̡̦͚̙͉̦̭̱͈̘̦͚͇͔̱͓͓͎͕̖̩̼̞͙̯͙͎̣̭̻̹̗̟͙͙͊̀͊̄̂́́̏̆̎̇̍͋̑͗̅͛̏͛̎̚͜͜͝͠͠s̸̨̡͓͓̜̹̺̰͉͇̣̬̠̩̲̗̖̦̗͎͚̘̥̺̗̜͇̈́́͛̌̐͜͜ư̶̢̛̛̺̖̫͕͖̘̹̜̥̮̲̲͈͎͒̂̇̂̐́͛̂̓̔͒̿̂͆̏͒̈́̓̌̊̀̾̀̀̚͘͘̕͜͝͠p̷̡̡̡̧̧̢̛̮̖͖̯̖̭̤͍͚̜̜̙̳͙̗̲͖̩̩̗͓͔̮͓͚̑̐̿́͂̉͊̅̾̊͛̏̇̈́͗͆̉̀͒̄̀̑̅͑́̄́̏̃̔̏̀̌͒͋͐̉́͋͘͝͠͝ͅp̵̨̧̡̳̩͖̻̞̙̰̳̭̱̤̜͇̗͓̟͓̾̉̌̌͋̓͋̔̈͘͝ͅͅͅǫ̸̛̛̛̛̩͓̔̿́̋̇̀̅̐͆̅̃͗͋͂̽̚̚͝s̶̢̙̮̪̫̩̯͔̙͎͇̜͇͕͓̠͍̗̥͍͓͕̱̦͚̹͉͉̺̥̜͉͉̹͖̮̹̈́̍͗͜͜͠ͅȩ̶̨̢̛̜̜̻̜̜̺͚̹͔͖̠͙̻͖̜̺̹̩͎̜̞̩̻̝͇̖͍͍̞̹̜̣͈͉̜̈́̈̅͐̐̈̈́̈́̌͆̓͑̿̀̆͊͂̑̄̎́̽̾͘̕͜͜͜͠͠͠͝ͅ
̸̪͖̙̺̲̥̱̙̼̥̳̲̰̈́͌̌̾̾ y̶͋̾͛̐͂̽͝o̶̡̧̮̝̖̻̱̞̭̰̰̘̰̹̪̻̥̘̥̟͇̣͕̠̿̔̇̀̈͆̕ͅȕ̶̓̒̉͊̽̀̚'ŗ̵̨̡̨̨̨̻̲̜̜̳͎̻̺͇̭̥̠͓̦̖͖̹̘͈̳̗̜͙̻̤̪̬͖̞͚̫͑͑͌̒̐̈́͌͒̍́͑͐̍̌̃͗̆̏̈́̊̒̈́́̎̃̓̔̀͑̈́̐̉̾̚͘͝͝͝͝ȩ̷̡̛̼̖̩͎͔̼̩̘̺̫̦͉̦̰̭͇̖͈͇̫͇̮̦̠͈̰͔͉̥̞̠͚̦̜̥̹͂̔͊̓̓͛̋͊͊̂͂̾̿̓̆̓̉̂̌̓́̕̕͘͠͝ͅͅͅ ̷̨̢̧̛̠̜̹͕̰̖̳̬̠͔̰̦̯͕̼̙̳̠̦͉͑̾̊̀̐̋̓̓̈̈́̈̔̐̐̀͆̽̔́͊͛̒̅͐̾̇͑̅̅̌̀̃͊̃̆͂̀̈́͘̚̚̚͝͠r̴̡̬̜̭̲̺̺̩͕͓̤̪͖̬̥̤̺̲̘͎̺͊̄̍͂͑̓̐́͆̐̆̅̂͗̅̾̆̈̉͆̃̇̑̋́̾͐̒̍̀̋̓̉͐̍͛̇̽͐͘͜͜͠͠͝ͅi̴̢̢̤̜͇̖̫͉̥̝̱̹͕̮͚̘̫͕͚̳̝̤̦͇͓͉̻͕͇̙̟͓̟̩̠̤̗̠̮͊̍̑͆̎̈́̑͗̅̓́͆̔͘͜͠͝͝ǵ̷̛͍͈̤̻̼̠̞̭̭͙̙̾͛͗̏͆̅͊͊̈́̇̄̍̃͑͂͐͗̈́̊̏̄̆̍̄̊̾̋̆̂́̀̏̕̕͠͝͝͠͝h̶̏̿̒̾͊̈͊̌̊̇͌͒̓͐͂͑͒̑͛̈́͗̒̚͝͝ ̴̧̧̛̮͈̼̦̜͈͙̘̪̖͕̱͍͖͚̪̘̺̼̪̣̳̗̹̖͓̱̟̣͇́͗̎͛̿̌͛̚̕͠ͅ
ţ̴̠͈̬̱̗̮̌́̆͑̈́̄͗̅̿́̈́͝ i̷̛̽̏̾̄̃̌́̏͆̓̌̋͋͑̋́̆́́̀͒̍͑͊̂̿̚̕͘͝͝͠ņ̶̧̧̡̨̗̜̲̪̪̻̻̦̗͉̘̟̻̝̥̙̭̽͛̐̿̈́̈́̀̍ ̴̡̦̼̻̦͍̰̟͈̤̱͕̰̰̠̬̻̰̫͕̞͎͈̩͓̖͇̟͔̥͊̇͂͒͒̐̆̈́͋͆̾͛́̿̌̃́͂͌̐̑̊̿̂̿̈̅̎̽̅̂̐̄͘͠ͅͅṫ̵̉̌̽̾͗̌̃̓͘̕͠h̸̹͗̿͊̓͛͋͋̑͗̑̈́̆̓̅̐͂́͌͝a̵̢̢̢̨̭̤̱͎̯̤̣̒̎̒̔͊͆́́̒̍̅͊̾̃́͋͌̒́̎͛̓̾̐͘̕͜͠͝͝t̵̡̨̧͉̟̦͇̩̫͉͎̫̼̖̤̜͈̯̹̯̞͚͉͓̼͖̺͌̈̅͛̋̊͂͂͂̊̽̆̓̌͐͐̎͊̓̉̄͂̃̀̀́͘͜ͅ ̷̨̧̢̙͖̠͙̫͙̘͈̙̯͉̏̈́̇͛̿͑̊̏̋́͐̽͆̒̓͛̏̓̀̈́̍͛̃̋͌͛̓̀̑̿̿͆͌͂͂̕͝͠͝ͅṟ̴̢̢̧̢͍͉͈̣̤̭͙̗̪͉̞͖͎̼͈̲̞̰̬̮͔͚̼̞̭̱̰̙̪̥͖̙̝̽͐͛̀̑͂̽́͜͜ͅe̷̢̡̩͙̦͚͉͕̼͚̹͙̱̣͓̹̱̱͌́͑͒̉͘̚͜ͅͅg̶̢̡̨̛̛̯̳̻̗͓̙̹̫͍͈̤̍̀̓́̀̏̈̇̀̉̆̓͂͋́̏̈́͊́̓̏̓̈́͊͐̐͒͒͛͐̄̈́̂̓̏̃̕̕͘͜͝͝͠ͅ
ą̴̧̡̡͖̖͖͇͉̥̺̭͇͉̮̥͕̲̱̩̟́̈́͆̆̑̎̀̈́̍̾̋̓̔̇͐̓̆͊̈́̒͑̕͘͘͝͠ͅͅr̴̢̨̧͇͍̠̝̻̤͕͋̐̋̂̆̈́͝d̷̢̰̲͎̱̮̭̪͔̰̘̰͔̼̜͔͈͉̩̲̬̬̜̦̦͇̱̐̀͒̓̆̆̆̐͂̍̃̀̋͐̊̄̈͘͜͠͠͝ͅ,̴̢̡̡̡̢̗̞̭̤̝̫̞̯̗̬͕̬͔̰̠̯͈̰̺͔͍̮̪̩͙̬̦͖͕̬̽̐͑̃̾͑͊̽͆̓̋̈́̀̀͑̈́̓͊̒̽̐́͘̚͘͘͜͜͝ͅͅ
j̷̡̨̧̛͔̱͉͕͕̮̲̰̙̳͓̻͔͚̤̠̐̍̂̅͐̽͐̐́̊͒͑̈̕͜͜͠͝͝ͅi̷̞̠͙̗̻͓͔̘̮̱̪̯̥̮̘̝̼͈͈̙̪͕͔͖̮̻̘͔͇̬̐̌́͆́͗́̉̈̋͆̋̾̏̔̉͊̃̽̎̄̇͊̂̀̕̕͜͜͝͝e̵̛̘͓̺̳͍̟̣̭͔̠̩͖̭̗̽̆̋̈́̀͌̇͊̓̅̅̿͒̍̚̕j̸̠̭̦̤̝̎̎̅̐̆͗̓̈̓̽͊͐͂̎̓͊̈́̿̏͑̿̈́̀͐̈́̕͘͘̕̚̚ī̸͛̾̂͌̉̾̈́̿͘͘͠͝e̷̛̛̛̮̞̻̳͓̙̮̎̐͊͌̐̇̎̒̑̾̿̅͂͑̿̈́̉̒̚̕̕̕͝.̷̛̘̻̮̰̜̳͙͚̰̥̠̦͇͕̈́̋̓̓͌̉̃̾̄͗̍̍͗̊́̌̚͠ͅ..̷̨̢̨̛̛̮̺͓̼̠̫͍̼̣͉̖͔̜̬̗̝͓̲̊̈̀̐̔̇͑͑́̾͋̈́̈́̊̃̀̆̆́͐̆͊̅͘͝ͅ .̸̡̧̩̯̩̭̥̺̗͇͖̰̝̥͔̥͓̱̜̟͈͚̈́͋̔̎͒̓̆̓̂̀̈͐̈́̃̿̿̈́̒͌̚̕͜͝͝"
Waking from the misty haze of dreams can be a... slow affair, sometimes.
Senses return to him in stages as he moves to sit upright, trickling in over the blanket of phantom pain that accompanies his every move. Touch comes first, in the form of a warm matress beneath his palms, and the shift of soft fabric against his skin. Next is smell; the faint notes of jasmine from a few candles he seems to have lit last night- a light scent lingering in the air, long after its source had melted away.
Sight follows soon after, and before his eyes lie three solid walls of steel blue, as well as a few blurs of colors and shapes hung up in the distance. He recognizes those as pictures in decorative frames, a gift from a certain friend of his own.
(March 7th, his mind supplies, and he breathes a relieved sigh at the clarity with which he recalls the name this time.
Perhaps today will be a good one, then.)
He waits a few more moments for sound to filter through, and finally, his ears begin to pick up some noise. It starts with a patter of fast steps approaching his room, then a skidding sound of shoes against the floor, and then-
"-ey! Open up, Ren, I know you can hear me!" March's voice yells from outside, each word accompanied with a far-too-loud knock that brings with it a familiar ache behind his eyes. "You can't sleep in on restock day!"
...Ah. Nevermind.
Ren is now mourning any hopes he had for a good and peaceful day. "Stop attacking the door." He grouses, right as March knocks on it again. The rhythmic sound rattles rather painfully in his skull.
(It is, however, a good distraction from the lingering echoes that follow from his sleep. He'd always take outside noise over those, if he had any say in the matter.)
Mercifully, March obliges to his request and starts pacing the hall instead. "Fine, but you have to come out now! We've got places to be and stations to visit- oh, and everyone's waiting on you for breakfast!"
"You can do the supply run yourself. Also, I'm not hungry." He responds. The pacing stops for a moment, then shuffles close again.
"Oh yeah? We're having strawberry muffins today, y'know~" March sings. Then, with enough mischief to conjure a clear image of her devious little grin, "If you really aren't hungry, I'll just eat your share~"
That catches his attention.
"...You wouldn't dare."
"You wanna bet on it?"
"I hate you." Ren says emphatically- and then gets up anyway, because he knows a losing battle when he sees one. He quickly goes through the usual motions -smooth out the shirt, put on the coat, tie the bracer and armband on top, scratch at a wrist and check if it bleeds- and then moves to unlock the door. The smiling bane of his existence twirls in as soon as he does, letting out a pleased hum as she scans his attire.
"Looking sharp, old man!" March grins cheekily, then reaches behind him to fix his hairclip in place (ah, so that's what he forgot this time). Satisfied with the final touch, she tugs on his arm and dashes forward. "Okay, let's go! If we're quick enough, we can finish up early and play with Peppy!"
"You can play with Peppy. The little thing keeps biting me whenever I come close." Ren points out as he trails behind her. March responds with an exaggerated gasp, and he winces at the sheer volume of it.
"How could you say that?! This is Peppy slander!"
"Slander how? It hates me, so I'm not approaching it. Simple as that."
"You just don't know how to get in his good graces! For shame!"
"Settle down, you two." A smooth voice prompts when they reach the parlor car. Cup of coffee in hand, Miss Himeko waves from her seat beside the breakfast table, so he wills away the scowl he knows is on his face in favor of a small smile and a nod at the Navigator.
"Good morning."
"Morning to you too, Ren." Himeko says, mirroring his smile with a warm one of her own. She gestures to the seats beside her, upon which he and March settle. "How are you feeling today?"
"Ignoring a brewing headache, I'm alright." He replies honestly. They'd already established that, as long as his memory was in working order and he was not physically incapacitated, then he was doing just fine- and as it so happens, both of these conditions are holding up now.
"I'm glad to hear it." Himeko hums, then hands him a muffin with a joyous glimmer in her eyes. "Now dig in; it's your turn on the breakfast wheel today, and Pom-Pom made sure the muffins are just the right amount of sweet."
He accepts the muffin and turns around to sweep his eyes across the car. As always, Pom-Pom is happily sweeping the floor.... but curiously, there is no sight of Mister Yang anywhere. He'd wager the man is asleep or still working on his newest draft- either way, there's little cause to disturb him, seeing as the day's tasks don't require his presence.
(It is somewhat unfortunate that the same can't quite be said for him. Ren is the Express guard, however, and headache or not, it falls within his duties to ensure the safe transport of their supplies.
...and also ensure March doesn't do anything stupid. He digresses.)
"Alright, done!" The pinkette in question exclaims a while later, setting down her empty cup of orange juice. "Can we make the jump now? Pleeeeaaase...?"
"You seem pretty excited today." Himeko chuckles. March proudly huffs, sending him a sidelong glance as she does, and he stares right back with his blankest look.
"Well someone has to be, and it's definitely not this sleepy cloud of misery next to me. I literally had to drag him out of his room! Again!"
Ren does not dignify that with a response (he is not sleepy, and his "misery" is March's fault for being too loud... but if he says any of that, they'll get sucked into a squabbling loop, and his head will not appreciate it at all). He bites into the muffin instead, savoring the light sourness of strawberry chunks, mixed in with a good dose of sugar and vanilla. Yes, just the way he likes it.
(Pom-Pom truly is a master in the elaborate arts of the kitchen. He'll be sure to express his thanks again when he returns from the mission.)
"To answer your question, we'll be warping in a few minutes." Himeko says after the last sip of her coffee. "You can prepare yourselves while I start the engines, or rest up a little more, if possible."
"Okay!"
He echoes March's assent with a nod, and the Navigator smiles at them both, then dissappears into the engine car. March stretches in her seat, fiddling with her camera in rare silence, and he decides to use the blessed quietude to shut his eyes for however long he can before the mission.
Here's hoping the run is fast this time....
The supply zone of Herta's Space Station is as busy as always. Researchers mill about on various quests and errands, security officers stand guard at every gate, and a helper robot stops to greet them as they step down from the Express, inquiring about the purpose of their visit for organizational reasons.
Ren elects to stand off to the side while March converses with the robot, and then he's being led away into a maze of hallways. Nobody stops them for small talk, thankfully; they simply get a few amiable waves, which he briefly acknowledges with a nod while March waves back cheerily.
One of the staff members turns around just as they enter the storage room. "Astral Express crew! Welcome, welcome- your batch is right over there. If you'd like, you can inspect the packages to confirm that everything's in place."
"Will do, thanks!" March replies, then tugs on his sleeve with a sheepish smile. What is it now? "Hey uh, you've got the list written out, right? Cuz I... might've forgotten to bring mine, haha..."
...Perhaps he had too much faith in her, earlier. He should reevaluate his estimate of March's responsibility.
Ren sighs -probably heavier than is warranted, but he can't exactly take that back now- then wordlessly hands his phone to the pinkette so she can sift through the memos for their list of items. Together they inspect the boxes carefully, and soon enough, they have them properly ordered and loaded into a wheeled cart.
"Man, I'm totally spent...!" March groans, slouching dramatically as she trails behind him on the way back to the Express. He pushes the cart a little further ahead, so as not to crash into her by accident. "These poor hands are not made for carrying boxes... I wanna go back to sleep already...."
"Didn't you say you wanted to play with the little dog?"
"Oh, right! I almost forgot!!" She straightens immediately, the perfect picture of bright alertness. Ren sighs again. He's been doing that a lot today. "If you wanna hang around until I'm back, you can... uh.... walk around here! Or go chat with Arlan, if he's free. Just don't brood in random places and scare people senseless, okay?"
"It was one time." He scowls. "And I didn't "scare people senseless"; the janitor was just surprised to see me where I was. My mere existence is not intimidating, March."
"Sure, yeah, of course. It's not like you have a permanent case of death glare or anything." She chirps. "Now as much as I'd love to prove you wrong, I have a cute puppy to play with, so I gotta hurry! Seeya later!"
"...Be safe." He replies, holding back a tired sigh. March spins around to head for the master control zone, while he makes to go back where the Express is parked, intent on delivering the supplies as fast as possible so he can mark off the mission as finished.
(....Or at least, that's the plan.
Fate hates him with the fervor of a million stars, however, so the forces of the Ruin Author themself end up ruining that plan, and the rest of his day along with it.)
Ren barely registers the shout of alarm behind him before an icy arrow whizzes right past his head, embedded into the now-frozen shell of a Baryon emerging from a portal.
Everything is deathly still for one moment, and then-
"It's the Antimatter Legion!" Someone cries, and the screams of fleeing researchers begin to sound in the distance.
Void portals open up everywhere around them- the floor, the ceiling, the very air itself. The legion's minions burst through said portals, in numbers so large they nearly block out the horizon ahead.
"March," Ren calls back over the rising din of battle, scanning the approaching horde as fast as he can. A Trampler nocks its bow and aims at him, the Reavers flanking it standing at the ready. "How many of them do you see?"
"Two hundred- three hundred- no, four- ahhh, they just keep coming! I can't count them anymore!!"
Well, shit. "We'll have to retreat and warn the others inside, then. I'll hold off the mobs here for a while- you try to call the Express for assistance."
To her credit, March doesn't hesitate for long this time (she's grown from their first expeditions, thankfully). She does cast a shield around him, though, just in time to deflect the Trampler's arrow. "Look out for the ranged ones, Ren! You're not dying on me today, you hear that?!"
I won't, he thinks as she hurries away, reaching into subspace to summon his faithful sword. The worn hilt falls into his grasp with ease- and the moment it does, a pulse of sharp cold lances through his veins.
Suddenly, there is no noise, no distractions to take his focus- the world has gone perfectly silent in one, singular instant. Now it's just him, the sword in his hand... and the steadily advancing foes in his way.
Foolish.
The Trampler is the first to rush forward, the clap of its hooves a thundering beat that heralds its own demise. He dives to cleave it in half from beneath, and the voidranger falls with a discordant howl, fading into a stream of dark stardust by the time he rights himself again.
Having lost their leading stallion so suddenly, the legion rapidly falls into disorder. It is this that allows him to weave through the rows of frenzied voidrangers, slashing this way and that to fell as many of them as the length of his blade can reach.
On the right, a Distorter throws a burst of quantum energy his way. He grabs another and throws it in time to block the blast, then twists around to stab the first through its core. A Reaver jumps over the fading remains of its kin, aiming to cut down his sword arm- only to meet the same fate as them before it can do more than slash through the coat.
The Reaver falls, and more take its place. The battle goes on.
Another pulse shoots out.
Yes.
That's right.
The battle goes on.
And it will only see its end,
When one side of it is destroyed.
You will kill them before they kill you.
You will kill them all, even if it kills you-
"You're not dying on me today, you hear that?!"
....wait-
"Wait. No." He shakes his head, barely parrying another Reaver's blades as he slowly backs out from the thick of the legion's forces. This is not a fight to the death. There's no time to kill them all with these numbers- I just need to hold out and hold them off from the rest of the station.
Breathing in deep over the sharp sting of answering thoughts, Ren brings up his sword in a defensive stance, and sends a wide arc of wind to push away the mobs that came too close in his lapse of attention. A few rangers perish in the blast, but are soon replaced by another wave. He braces himself to re-engage, intent on drawing out the fight as long as he can.
Focus.
You can't afford to lose sight of the goal.
March announces her return a while later with a volley of icy arrows shot at the nearest rows of rangers. "I got a response! Let's go!"
Ren nods, wrenches his sword out of a frozen Distorter's frame, and bolts behind her deeper into the zone. He notes the remains of stardust in some places; evidence of earlier fights against more rangers.
The lingering chill stutters in his blood, derisive. So much for none of them reaching the station.
He brushes it aside. "You found more of them here?"
"Yeah- it's really, really weird. How'd they get in here, anyway? Since when can voidrangers teleport like that?"
A shrug. "Irrelevant. We'll just have to look out for them more carefully from now on." He pauses, glancing at March from the corner of his eye. "But you didn't know they'd be there when you went in. Are you hurt?"
"Me? Psh, I'm fiiine. These guys are no match for my super awesome move!" She scoffs. Her tone turns a touch quieter when she continues, however. "That said... when I was running inside, someone else was fighting a ranger, and they- well, by the time I got to them, they were already..."
Dead, is the word she trails off on, averting her gaze. March has never taken the idea of death that well, especially when she thought she could've prevented it somehow.
"...It's not your fault." He says.
"I know that, but- ahh, nevermind. You'll just give me the whole "you can't save everyone" spiel again..." She sighs, slumping against a nearby wall. They stand like that for a moment, and then abruptly, March changes the subject. "A-Anyway, are you okay? I don't see any blood on the coat, but..."
"I'm not injured, if that's what you're asking. The noise back there made my headache worse, but I'm otherwise okay." He says. It's true; any scratches he'd sustained have already healed, but with the adrenaline from the battle wearing off, the faint ache he'd started the day with has exploded into a full migraine.
(That, and the fading cold in his system still weighs on his mind. He hasn't the faintest idea what stirred his path voice again, especially when it's been silent through far worse fights....
....He'll have to look deeper into that when they're back on the Express. For now, though, keeping a level head should ward off the battle frenzy well enough.)
March nods. "That's... that's good. Uh, Himeko's coming in a bit, by the way, but she'll need some time to clear the way first. Asta picked up too, but her comms are super jittery- I think she said something about the control zone and safety and... grouping?"
Ah. "She wants us to regroup in the master control zone. The rest of the station must've been compromised too."
"Oh Aeons, this is the worst..." March mutters, visibly distressed. "I don't even wanna think about the other zones now- I just hope everyone's still okay...."
"Here's hoping." Ren says, patting her shoulder once. It doesn't quite manage to cheer her up, but she still gives him a wobbly smile in response.
They carry on from there, eyes peeled for hidden threats as they take several turns through the winding hallways: left, left, right, an Antibaryon and a pair of Reavers- and there it is. The master control zone is within sight.
March slows down to a walking pace, so he does the same and follows her into the supposed safe zone. The security officers posted at the gate allow them passage after a quick confirmation, and soon enough, he sees the distinctive pink hair of one Lead Researcher tapping rapidly at a screen.
"Yahoo! We're here!" His friend calls, though the cheer in her voice is noticeably more subdued. The young lady in question -right, the name was Asta, March just mentioned her a few minutes ago- jumps where she stands, then spins around to face them with a relieved smile.
"March! There you are! Sorry, you caught me off guard there." She laughs. "It's good to see you safe and sound- you as well, Ren. I'm so sorry you guys got dragged into this mess...."
"Don't be; you hadn't seen this attack coming. How's the situation now?" He asks.
"Straight to the point, huh? Honestly... it's not looking good." Asta looks down, dismayed. "Most of the researchers are already here, but the storage zone is almost down, and it's way too close to us for comfort. Arlan and his men are trying to hold off the rangers there, but he's having a hard time keeping contact with me..."
March perks up immediately. "Oh! We can try to help out over there- uh, as long as Ren is fine with it, of course..." She chuckles sheepishly, throwing him a discreet, imploring look as she does. Pink-blue eyes glimmer with a hopeful sheen, practically begging him to agree... and with that, he knows his fate is sealed.
Fine. Might as well be useful while we're stuck here.
Ren nods, crossing his arms. "If you have Arlan's coordinates on hand, we'll go find him and clear out the mobs. This should make it easier to group the security force, and from there you can figure out a more concrete plan of action."
March positively beams at him, while Asta blinks, surprised. "A-Are you sure about this? It's really dangerous in the storage zone, and you've only just arrived here...."
"We'll be fine." He replies. "Waiting too long is a bad call to make when fighting the legion. The sooner you have everyone accounted for, the sooner we can end this with minimal loss."
The Lead Researcher sighs, then taps a series of keys. "Fair enough... you have a point there. I've sent a coordinate tracker through March's contact," the pinkette gives them a thumbs up to confirm receiving the message, "and if anything serious comes up, I'll call one of you right away. Please, come back safe."
"Alright." He motions to March, and they set off for the elevator. "Don't stray too far when we get there; we'll need to watch out for ambushes everywhere."
"Got it!" She says with a mock-salute, to which he rolls his eyes and sighs. The elevator door hisses shut before them, and as they ascend to the designated floor, a cold hand suddenly squeezes his own.
"Thanks, old man." March whispers, barely audible. "I owe you one for this. It really means a lot."
He squeezes her hand back, letting out a faintly amused huff. "Of course. Just put it on the tab, if you really wish to keep count."
"This is the future that Elio has foreseen. Do you like it?"
"I...Where are you going?"
"To the next stop, to pave the way for the future that is written. I'm afraid you won't see me for a while, darling, but that's okay. You'll be okay. Listen: someone will find you very soon. You should go with them."
"Kafka... don't-"
"Goodbye, Stelle. When you have the chance to make a choice, make one that you know you won't regret."
"....."
When she wakes again, a cold wall at her back, it is to the sound of two voices conversing in the distance.
"-hink this.....place he....in last...?"
"...go right first......lot closer...the bridge..."
"-right-"
A clacking noise echoes against the ground, approaching the spot where she seems to lie. She sucks in a breath, shuddering on reflex-
"Aeons!" The first voice cries, and the clacking stops close- "Someone's been left in the back! Quick, get over here!"
She opens her eyes, slow and bleary, and the first thing she sees is two people staring her down. A pink-haired girl helps her get to her feet, while a tall man observes from the side with a dark, impassive gaze.
"Hello!" The girl greets, eyes bright as she gives her a sweet smile. "Are you okay? Do you remember how you got here?"
"I..." Her brows furrow as she tries to recall- nothing. Her mind draws up a blank void, no matter how hard she tries. "No. I can't... I don't remember anything at all..."
"Oh no...!" The girl furtively glances at her partner, as if willing him to do something about the situation. He frowns, deep in thought as crimson eyes bore into her own- entirely lightless, she absently notes, despite their streaking veins of gold.
Huh. Odd combination he's got there.
"You can try to remember something specific- your name should be a good starting point." He suggests. His voice is a deep, low thing -rough and scratchy, but not as threatening as she'd thought it would be- so she slowly nods at his idea, and reaches inside for another try.
This time, something rises to meet her halfway- a bright shard of memory, twinkling in the void of her mind. She grabs onto it and pulls with full force, dragging the name up, up, up to the tip of her tongue-
"...Stelle." She manages to say, letting out a winded exhale. "I'm... Stelle. That's my name. But... where are we?"
"Stelle." The man echoes carefully. "You're in the Herta Space Station's storage zone. We should move though; it's not a secure place."
"Nice to meet you, by the way!" The girl says, one hand shaking hers while the other elbows the man in his side. "I'm March 7th, and this ancient fossil here is Ren. Don't worry, we'll help you get to safety! C'mon!"
March 7th tugs on her arm and runs up ahead, while Ren sighs and goes to follow them shortly afterwards. Stelle looks around as they move into a new room, where a brief flash of purple flits by her vision.
She freezes."Listen: someone will find you very soon. You should go with them."
"What was...?"
"Huh? Everything okay?"
Stelle blinks, disoriented, and meets March 7th's curious eyes. She looks around listlessly, and the girl follows her gaze-
"Oh hey, look at this thing here! Should be pretty easy to use- here, you should keep it in case you need to fight. Good catch, Stelle!"
Eh?
Stelle barely manages to catch the blur March 7th cheerily throws her way. It's a simple baseball bat, black in color and engraved with gold... and surprisingly light for its size, in her grip. Is this thing hollow? Does it even work as a weapon...?
"Uh...."
"Be careful." Ren warns. "This is one of Herta's curios. We don't know if it's safe to carry around."
"Oh riiiight..." March 7th laughs sheepishly, then moves to inspect the platform the bat was on. "It says here this bat is unusually resistant to all sorts of damage. Pressure, blunt force, blah blah blah- there's nothing about any dangers though. Do you still want it, Stelle?"
Stelle gives the bat an experimental twirl- yep, still very light, but its durability means it's not fragile. Maybe it'll still work if I swing it hard enough?
"Okay." She nods, and March 7th lets out a victorious whoop. Ren shakes his head, but it doesn't feel like he's making an actual objection. "Fine, we'll sort this out with Herta later on. Let's keep going."
She nods again. March 7th beams, grabbing Stelle's hand once more so the trio can resume their stride forward, and as they pass the hallways in relative quiet, her thoughts are left to wander.
Stelle.... doesn't know these people at all. She doesn't know much of anything, really -her mind still feels like a blank slate, aside from the one memory of her name- but something in the back of her head tugs her towards the pair, telling her she should stay close to them, follow them around.
Guess there's no harm in doing just that, for now. They seem nice enough to trust, and they know their way through this place, so it should be a good idea, right...?
...I wonder where this choice will take me, in the end. Here's hoping it's the right one.