Beasts of Burden - Quarfield, orphan_account (2024)

Chapter 1: Fire

Chapter Text

The sun is down, and Miles is in hell.

In the real world; the hell he never bargained on, Miles Quaritch stands in a thicket not two-hundred feet from his sleeping gaggle of grunts and daydreams of the metaphorical. If he were in hell, at least there would be far more to worry about than the imaginary eyes he feels at his back and the very real ones picking him apart from the front.

If it's one thing he's always known about Wainfleet, it's that he's crazy. Not so much a state of mind as a philosophy. Shoot your parents and say the devil did it? That's mental. Put yourself in front of a cornered animal? Do it a hundred times? That's crazy.

Which is all fine, of course. Miles just so happens to be crazy himself. It's a binding trust; scratch my back, I'll scratch yours. Place my skull between your jaws, bite me bloody, and manage not to kill me? I'll return the favor. Few understand it. Fewer still as well as the two of them—Miles and the wolf in front of him. That, at least, is intact.

So by all goddamn logic, this sh*t should be f*cking working.

Rising from the felled tree he’s been staked out on, Miles' wolf saunters over with an ease bordering on casual.

"You ready?"

It is not, in fact, f*cking working. 'It,' being the 72-point, bolded, and underscored asterisk hanging over his friendship—if it could even be called such—with Lyle Wainfleet.

The asterisk, that they're f*cking.

They're f*cking, and they have been f*cking—screwing, in the sack, making the beast with two backs, every iteration of the act conceivable—at every possible opportunity excluding the risk of being tripped over, for three months. They have now arrived at such a point, a point sitting squarely at in the pits of Hades.

He folds his arms in response, masking unease with annoyance. "Should be asking you the same thing."

Wainfleet's eyes narrow. It could be anger on his face. Amusem*nt, maybe. Miles doesn't know. He stopped trying to figure it out weeks ago.

"Remember," he warms, "this goes down exactly as discussed; no more, no less. Once this sh*t is underway, no stopping. Not 'till we're done or dead. You got that?"

Wainfleet's eyes darken. "Loud and clear."

Too fast to track, his legs are being kicked out from under him. Miles barely hits the dirt before Wainfleet’s got a hand on his queue, yanking spots in his eyes as he grinds down. They're hard. They've been hard. Miles would know whether or not he caught the subtle tell of Lyle squirming on his inseam at dinner. It's no different than it has been, night after night after night.

Miles bites down on a groan as Lyle straddles his hips, forcing his legs open to grind into the bulge between his thighs. Beneath their rapid breath, his sensitive ears pick up the subtle creaking of damp fabric grinding together. His head tips back.

Three months.

Three months, two weeks, and sixteen days they've been at this, and Miles is nearing a cliff edge. A plunge the bottom of which lies insanity, he's sure.

His legs jerk, breath catching as the zipper hooks his slit.

Miles pants, bucking into damp heat trying to seep through the fabric. "Come on," he hisses as loud as he dares. "You here to f*ck around, or are you here to get a job done?"

For the brief moment before he bruises him, Lyle's eyes flash with something like hatred. It only reminds Miles of why he's here. Why he has to be here. A strangled cry cuts up his throat as he claws glowing lines in the grass.

f*ck—

“A job,” Wainfleet’s eyes burn like coals, hollow laugh forced through clenched teeth. “A f*cking job.”

Squinting, Miles nods. Several pieces on the chessboard his life’s been reduced to came together to make this happen. Two hoot-owl shifts to start; keeping watch over the camp back-to-back. Four hours between them, plus an additional two when Lyle will “lose track of time” and "forget" to wake Prager for the dawn shift. Had to wait for a light day, too. No crazy errands, no long-range tracking, no hunting wild animals. Perfect for laying around, sore and exhausted. They even took care to eat from the same tin yesterday, each of them bellyaching by nightfall about feeling sick.

Lyle lifts Miles' thigh for a better angle, putting his full weight on their erections with a deep roll. The pressure makes him see stars, spine arching. He’d been the one to posit a third caveat; one that had him cursing himself by midday, but he hopes it works.

f*ck—

For nearly two days, he's been fighting the urge to fist his dick—thank God for the sheath. If there is one ounce of credit Miles can give the ratf*cked state of his genome, it's that this body doesn't announce when he’s got a raging hard-on to anyone who happens to glance down. There had to be compromises, of course. Miles wanted results, Lyle wanted risk.

The latter’s hips snap harder, ragged. Shallow. Hips stuttering as he hunches forward with a groan.

“Get your goddamn voice down!" Miles hisses. "You want everyone in camp to hear us?"

"Wouldn't worry about that. May've ground up an Am—Ambien for ‘em at dinner… hah—"

"You drugged my f*cking son?" spits Quaritch.

"Jesus, take a joke. Goddamn loudmouth…” Wainfleet rolls his eyes. “Like I'd really waste that sh*t on a k—"

Miles snaps his hips, teeth bared at the strangled moan Lyle’s forced to choke down, glaring daggers as he gnaws on one of his knuckles. No doubt—he's made the right call. There's only so much crazy even Miles can f*cking stand, and this is it. They have approximately six hours to break each other of whatever indomitable three-month rut has them in its clutches. Six hours to find their limits and break through. Swan song. Showstopper.

Because they've been f*cking like animals, and it’s not enough. None of it has ever been enough, and yet he keeps telling himself there has to be a limit. All that’s ever gone up must come down.So there it is, and here they are—rested up, pieces in place. No bullsh*t, no mercy, and no stopping; not until they're done or dead.

Lyle's hips stall with a shuttered gasp as the fabric goes warm against his co*ck, and the slight tack of spunk seeping through is all it takes to drag him off that cliff. Eyes rolling back, Miles spills into the heat—

And they're off.

Dimly, through the cotton haze in Miles' head, he feels Lyle yank his cammies down, shivering as they come unstuck. He's still hard. He's always hard. He can’t remember the last time he wasn’t.

Miles gasps, biting his lip as Lyle tongues the mess seeping from his opening. It doesn't take many laps before he tenses, slipping from his sheath with a low grunt. He hardly wastes a breath before he takes him down. Miles bucks, tasting blood. He figured as such. Lyle's trying to break him first—probably given one of Miles' more inconvenient turn-ons.

"f*ck," he hisses.

Lyle glances up as he kneads his perineum with a knuckle, and Miles’ vision blurs. The last forty-eight hours are jammed up in his abdomen, trying to push their way out all at once. One deep swallow to nip his swelling base, and Miles feels himself being dragged right back to that cliff. sh*t. Lyle really took this to heart.

What gives him away, Miles doesn’t know—but Lyle homes in on it like a bloodhound, hollowing his cheeks and working his taint till his hips are shifting on the grass. Then Wainfleet pulls back, fist tight on his base as he drags his tongue over the slit, and the thread snaps.

For the second time in five minutes, Miles breaks. Lyle takes him down to the root. When he swallows a little further to get get a mouth on his knot, Miles nearly passes out. The slow clench of his jaw is sharper and tighter than any hole, dick twitching hard with every thick pump down his throat.

When he coasts down from that one, head spinning, he isn't met by the continued assault. Instead, fingers prod lightly at his sheath, tingles shooting up his spine, but it's an oddly clinical touch that makes him cringe.

"The hell are you doing?"

Wainfleet doesn’t glance up. ”Looking,” he mutters.

Miles swallows a snarl at another poke, tail whipping. “If you wanna inspect the goods, do it between your own legs. I didn't come here for a checkup."

"Get off my dick, Quaritch," Lyle huffs. "I don’t even have to be here."

Miles' eye twitches, but he doesn't say anything else. So-so roleplay and atomic levels frustration tend to dampen the fraternity. Despite both their words, they actually do need to be here. The co*ck Lyle is so infuriatingly neglecting at the moment is testament to that; still swollen between his legs despite the circ*mstances. The corporal’s own dick is in no better state.

They had discovered, through many fruitless efforts, that taking it up the ass the good old-fashioned Terran way was strictly a one-sided affair for Pandorans. Wherever their "good stuff" is, it's not accessible by the back door. Just one in a long list of damnations Miles suffers at the hands of his present form.

The number of people who know Miles’ preferences these days is very, very low. In fact, it just so happens to be one. The same one currently inspecting his delicates like a frog in a tray. Lyle's stare brews something queasy and shameful in Miles' gut—which makes him panic—which then comes full-circle back to pissing him off.

"Wainfleet," Miles says, clipped. "Stop."

It doesn't stop. The queasiness builds, turning his stomach and clawing up his throat with the alarming tang of bile.

"Stop. Stop—goddamnit, stop! Quit f*cking looking at me!"

Lyle starts, eyes wide.

"M–" he stutters. "Colonel? You good?"

Miles doesn't know. That prickly wrong is still skittering up and down his back. Close your legs, it hisses, Coverup, cover the f*ck up—

He ignores it.

"I’m fine. Fine. But you," he growls, shifting his hips, "You had better get f*cking focused. Now.”

His friend blinks. "Is it alr—" Lyle cuts himself off, schooling his expression into something a bit more stern. "I'm going to do something," he huffs, eyes cold. "And you are going to lie back and take whatever I give you. Understood?"

Miles nods.

"Use your words."

Oh, why don't you put a f*cking cap between my eyes—

Before he can react, Lyle cracks him right on the jaw with the back of his hand. Miles blinks, stunned, texture of grass and dirt vivid against his palms.

”I said use your f*cking words,” Wainfleet hisses.

f*ck…

"Y—" Miles mumbles, thundering traitorously between his legs. "Yes sir…"

Lyle glares. Waits with icy calm for Miles to lay down, dully noting the grass lighting up around his head. If there's one thing he'll reluctantly give this sh*thole credit for, it's the lighting. A tap on his knee bids Miles spread his legs, but while the hand on his co*ck makes him gasp, it doesn't do anything he’s used to. Instead, Miles cringes with as Lyle grabs him tight and pushes—working his shaft back down into his sheath. It doesn't hurt; there's even a slight twinge that could theoretically be called nice, but Miles barely notices.

"Wait," he hedges, craning his head to see just what in God's name his subordinate is doing. "Wait, I don't think it's supposed to—"

A strike on his taint nearly has him biting through his own tongue. Miles lies back down through his shakes, begging the ground at his back to open up and crush them in its jaws.

Inch-by-inch his dick slowly disappears until Miles is again saddled with the loathsome fullness he's so well-acquainted with. He's so worked up his tip is sticking out. Squirming like an insect in the underbrush, Miles grunts as his churning muscles try to free him again, but Lyle keeps his hand steady. Traps him with a thumb on his glans that has him gritting his teeth.

He winces at a hot trickle that escapes, trailing down the crease of his thigh. He knows it's… normal. Something to keep them from chafing, that's all. But that doesn't mean he likes it. It only worsens the vague, terrible coil of apprehension in his gut he gets when he thinks too hard about what is (what should be) between his legs.

He has no idea what to expect when Lyle prods him again. This time, he doesn't stop, pressing under the crown until his sheath gives. Miles sucks in a breath, heat shooting down his legs in waves as Lyle digs into him.

"Wait—"

Wainfleet twists his hand squinting. Miles gasps.

sh*t, that's intense...

Wainfleet pries him open further, coaxing more shivers when a finger curls into the wall of his sheath. His muscles clench, and the feeling wrings a sound out of Miles he promptly claps a hand over.

f*ck.

Lyle pores over his reaction like he's reading the paper, pistoning in and out until Miles begins to shake. He can't hold in a groan when he feels another finger push in beside the first, muscles rippling pleasantly.

f*ck...

Between his dick and his oversensitive insides, it isn't long before the shallow-f*ck of Lyle's hand has him squirming. Every push inside comes out smoother, soft squelching just audible above the muffled whimpers he desperately pretends he's not hearing.

He should hate it. He should hate every bit of this, but he's so hard it hurts. What the f*ck is he so worked up for? Why can't it just f*cking end?

Lips seal around his glans. Arching, Miles kicks and tries not to yelp into his hands. Between the suction and the maddening tongue swiping up his slit, he's shaking in seconds. A warning jet of pre makes him twitch, groaning a sh*t attempt at a warning through his fingers. Wainfleet must hear, because the constant pressure of his mouth vanishes.

Miles chokes as his co*ck springs from his sheath, but it's only free for a moment before Lyle takes him down to the root.

Miles' vision cuts. There's not a force on this or any planet that can keep him from bucking once—twice as he unloads down Lyle's throat. The bastard is of absolutely no help, unfazed by the fireworks as he works his taint with a bent knuckle. Miles almost bites through his lip trying to keep the groans in, chin tickled by a rivulet of blood. He tries to wrench away, but Lyle just chases him down again. Digs hard circles into the tight flesh under his sheath as he sucks the tip of his dick without mercy.

Another trickle of blood joins the first when the onslaught doesn't let up. In fact it accelerates—Lyle alternating between swallowing him and tonguing his slit with inhumane pressure. All the while, the pressure on his perineum shoots straight to his core, wringing him out with brutal efficiency. The aftershocks have barely faded, and already Miles feels the next one coming, gasping in ragged bursts.

This is what you wanted, isn't it? he thinks, fingers teasing what he so desperately wishes could be reached. This is why you're here.

The thread snaps and Miles trembles as he empties into Lyle's mouth again. Even now, he can't believe how fast the turnaround is, and this time, the barest hint of a sting towards the end of his climax sends crazed chills ripping up his spine.

Yes, Miles thinks, bucking off the ground with a grunt. f*ck, yes. Soon…

When the aftershocks simmer down, Lyle releases him, and he spasms at the rough hand that's already cramming him back into his sheath.

Miles shuts his eyes, bracing for more punishing fingers, but they don't come. Instead, he cracks one eye and sees Lyle crouched over, lining himself up with—

Miles groans, so dizzy he can't keep his head up. The sane part of him cringes, begging him not go into cardiac arrest tonight. Every nerve in Miles' body ignites with a hard twitch between his legs. If the camp weren't so goddamn close, that hard dick rubbing against his own would have him moaning like a bitch.

Mostly, it's always just one waiting on the other to finish. Never both. Not how it's supposed to work. But this…

Miles' brain splits fifty-fifty between his groin and the mammoth task of not howling as Lyle begins to inch inside, glans lurching past each other with a press and stab that has them gasping for air.

This could be a game changer.

Miles' co*ck is desperately trying to evert, and the pressure has him shaking before Lyle's even bottomed out. Panting, he raises a desperate hand to halt him before he flies over the edge.

He's still hard as granite, certain his heart must have defected to his pelvis at some point. There's no way Lyle can't feel it—not how he's twitching.

Halfway there, and Miles is starting to worry he's bitten off more than he can chew. Lyle isn't much longer than average, but he's thick. And the narrow gap between Miles' co*ck and the walls of his sheath provide much less give than his ass—especially when it's still straining to push everything out.

Miles' hips jerk involuntarily, pulling a gasp from both recoms as their dicks scissor past each other inside him. He's sensitive enough to feel a hot burst of pre—which Lyle is quick to spread with quick, aborted thrusts. The movement only wrings more from both of them—and soon the squeeze that seemed uncomfortable at first has Miles' toes curling.

Goddamn...

The tight squelch of their dicks inside him produce the uncanny feeling of f*cking oneself. The amount of sensations packed into such a small pocket of himself is insanity-inducing. He has to bite his bleeding lip again when the heat in his gut begins to boil again.

Then Lyle shifts, and the simmer erupts into a volcanic goddamn inferno when his co*ck nudges something at the very back of his sheath. A subtle bulge tucked behind his knot.

White rips through Miles' nervous system, locking every muscle in one deep, paralyzing quake. He doesn't know how he manages not to scream, nearly missing the cruel gleam in Lyle's eyes.

"sh*t," he huffs. "Think I just found something important." He snaps his hips, skewers that little swell, and Miles barely manages to clap his hands over his mouth as lightning forks his spine. Pre hits his stomach in shining streaks with every pleasured spasm, recoil punching more and more air from his lungs until his vision blurs. Slowly, the world begins to shrink. Down, down, down, until all that's left is the cudgel hammering his prostate—one Miles didn't know could even be touched.

Heat floods his sheath with a gush of pre that has him reeling. so hard he wonders if he just came. The tide doesn't stop—coiling tighter and hotter in the pit of his stomach until he's thrashing. One second, trying to grind his spot into Lyle's co*ck; the next, clawing to get away from torture so euphoric—inhumane—addicting. He's not even that deep yet, but the very atoms holding Miles' body together are near-splitting as static creeps into his periphery. He's dimly aware of the p*rnographic sounds kept barely, desperately contained by his hands—but there's only so much Miles can do about it here at the mercy of his basal instincts.

Lyle pants, shivering against Miles' clammy skin as his taint tightens. His sheath throbs at the immense pressure all inside and around him, pelvic floor quaking. The squelch of slick being forced out is foul, but it makes him groan, body rebelling against mind with a hot shudder.

f*ck.

Any remaining blood in his head rushes south, and Lyle snakes his free arm around his skull. Muzzling him.

God—f*ck!

Miles reels on the knife-edge, sheath milking them both as everything swells and tightens. It's too much. He's heading for that cliff at two hundred miles per hour, gonna shatter to pieces at the bottom—

He wrenches out of Lyle's grip with a rough gasp. Half-blind, muscles barely responsive, he signals Lyle to slow down. Stop. Anything. He's sure it won't be sem*n that comes out of him this time, but tongues of flame.

Can't, he mouths—a word which only enters his vocabulary when he's dead or taking dick. Tears cut down his cheeks when Lyle impales him again, chills tingling down his legs while heat surges up his spine. f*ck, he's close—

A girlish whimper catches in his throat, mouthing becoming a shrill, shuddering plea.

"Can't—can't. f*ck—L-Ly—!"

"You tapping out, bitch?" Lyle growls, eyes burning with scorn. Miles nearly spits in his face.

You son of a bitch.

There is but one universal constant he's aware of, and it's that Miles Quaritch does not back down from a fight. Lyle knows it, too—the f*cking dog.

"Good," hisses said Corporal, "'Cause I'm not f*cking letting you."

Their moment of coherence shatters as the bestial rutting resumes, obscene impact only muffled so much by their fatigues. An animal yowl bubbles up in Miles' chest, trapped by the arm still crushed to his mouth. Almost against his will, he arches until the angle has his legs kicking out. He can't tell whether he's trying to meet the brutal pistoning inside of him or escape it until Lyle raises his free hand, and with a look that makes Miles feel like a bug on a pinboard, and and chops the air over his head.

It's a blatant command. The only literal translation they have from combat to midnight affair:

Come.

Miles explodes.

At first, he doesn't even realize it's happening; spasming in sporadic bursts, but it ramps to meteoric intensity in seconds. Miles groans into his hand, seizing up with each wave. It's like being tazed. As if he wasn't one foot in the grave already, he nearly bucks his assailant into the bushes when he grinds his goddamn fist into Miles' taint.

f*ck!

It's difficult to describe what, exactly, his dick is doing—but without all three hands muzzling him, Miles figures you'd be able to hear him screaming back on Earth. The double-sided assault has him shooting so hard he feels the overflow seeping around Lyle's knuckles. Every time he thinks surely—surely, it must be ending—his co*ck kicks with a spasm like he's being punched in the gut.

Then it stops, and he chokes on a gasp as Wainfleet pulls out.

Miles meets the animal lust in the Corporal's eyes with confusion until Lyle's eyes roll back. Thighs twitching, he grunts at the gorged mass popping out of his slit, and Miles realizes what's about to happen with a rush.

Oh, sh*t...

There's nothing civil or hesitant about what happens next. One moment, he's Colonel Miles Quaritch, recombinant. The next, he's just a nameless, fleshy thing split in half and filling with magma. Wainfleet hilts right his bruised spot, but it doesn't matter. Even pressed flush, every scalding pump of sem*n has him grinding in punishingly tight circles as if no depth could satisfy him.

Miles convulses in a torturously long climax, co*ck pulsing with one last weak release. It's nothing compared to the biblical event raging inside him, and that enchanting burn strengthens.

Well, Milesthinks airily. Tank's nearly empty. Won't be long now...

He's still trembling from the aftershocks, Lyle pushes him flat on his back with firm hands. He's still hard and hilted inside, and when he angles the tapered head of his co*ck just so, Miles groans.

How many rounds was that? Gotta be getting close...

Oblivious to his reeling thoughts, Lyle continues carrying out his orders, seemingly eager to play with the new 'toy' he's unearthed.

The next round is a less like being smashed to pieces by a locomotive and more like being gingerly rolled over by one. Lyle f*cks him so shallow he's almost still, but that slow, steady weight kneading Miles' spot is enough to make his spine shudder and his dick weep.

"f*ck," he grits through his teeth. "Unh—hah."

He's so sensitive he feels Wainfleet's pulse from inside. Miles shifts in a desperate attempt to gain extra pressure, but Lyle forces his hips down. He nearly snarls.

"Goddammit, move."

Unsympathetic, his torturer shakes his head.

"We agreed," Miles hisses, loud as he dares, "to do this until we can't." Fighting against the hold, Miles manages to arch his hips enough to thrust his erection against Lyle's. "Does it feel like I can't yet, Wainfleet?"

Lyle groans low in his chest, eyes pressed shut at the wet slide of their dicks. Miles can feel him twitch, warmth drooling down his shaft. "Just getting some insurance," he grunts.

"I gave you your goddamn insurance four f*cking loads ago. Now, if you don't start trying for five, I'll make sure you never cu—ungh!"

Miles clamps his jaw shut, cursing their proximity for the hundredth time as Lyle finally f*cking moves.

Yes… God… f*ck, yes…

Their range of motion is limited considering they're still locked together, but that only seems to aid his goal. With the smallest gyrations, he grinds the tip of his co*ck into his gland with the precision of a surgeon, and doesn't let up.

Miles squirms, tail lashing uncontrollably as Lyle holds him by the waist with bruising fingers. If it weren't for the rock-hard giveaway throbbing inside him, Miles would think Lyle was hating this.

Hiking up his superior's legs, the Corporal presses deep as he can, shimmying in place when he can't bore any further. Miles mewls, throbbing deep in his hole as a long string of pre spurts onto the ground from his tip.

f*ck, he wants it. He wants it ten times over, and then he wants it again, just to be sure. That pesky voice in his head that screams this is wrong has finally shut the f*ck up, and God damn Miles if he won't take every moment of silence he can get.

Lyle deepens his thrusts, and Miles nearly whines. Shakily, he manages to sneak a hand around his ass to rub his glans, but he barely touches himself before Lyle smacks it away. Miles would f*cking skin him in any other situation, but he can't. Not while his biggest weak point is being wailed on like this. He just tips his head back, dazed and slack-jawed.

"f*ck..."

Lyle switches between quick jabs and slow, tight rolls of his hips that abuse him without respite. The near-constant dribble of pre is a tease all its own. Miles squirms, so hypersensitive he could probably count the beads leaking from his slit. This slow, sultry heat isn't like the rest. It's not a building explosion, or a flame stoked to flaring. Instead, it feels like Miles is being filled with molten lead. Slowly. No fireworks. No bursting pleasure. Just a hot, heavy fullness that has nothing else to do except come out.

Miles humps weakly at the air, whimpering when the movement rams his spot into Lyle's tip. His neglected co*ck jumps, spurting more pre, and a convulsion ricochets up and down his backbone. Before it's even past, it happens again, and—

Miles' jaw goes slack, gasping a faint "Oh," before Lyle claps a hand over his mouth. Another hot spurt makes his eyes roll back.

God. f*ck.

It's not pre.

A strangled creaking erupts from somewhere around Miles' tonsils as Lyle hilts inside him and stays, milking him with more endless gyrations.

Miles is going to die here. Ten minutes ago, he didn't know where the goddamn thing even was and he can't survive this, he's going to f*cking die—

Lyle hums at the unseen pulse of white that hits the grass under Miles' twitching co*ck, but he doesn't f*cking stop. The constant, agonizing pressure only deepens, and Miles can hear himself pattering onto the ground. The filthy realization only makes the sound grow louder as he clenches with a sob.

At some point, he starts rocking back to meet the sweet assault, breath hitching as he writhes slowly in the dirt. Wainfleet allows it. It's coming out of him in sporadic dribbles now, and either way, Miles is doing half the work.

"f*ck," he chokes, "Yes—f-f-u-uck—nnh-hh, hhh—"

The raw, stabbing ache in Miles' ass only ripens the fire between his legs, and he chases it with wild abandon, whimpering at every shooting twinge. It's hell, and it's f*cking perfect. And of course, perfect doesn't last.

All at once, the cresting wave crashes in on itself as Lyle pulls out, and Miles wriggles after him with a strangled whimper.

No—no, no, no, no—

Dry or not, it doesn't matter. If something isn't happening to Miles' co*ck in the next ten seconds, he's going to lose his f*cking mind.

Miles relays this by yanking Lyle down by the collar and rutting against the nearest available surface of his body.

"Please," he chokes, shaking. Clenching around nothing—which only forces his weeping co*ck to slip further out. "P-leas-se…"

Lyle doesn't move an inch, hunched so casually and infuriatingly near where Miles needs him. "You're going to need to be a little more specific," he remarks, tongue flicking his tip again.

Miles chokes, spasms radiating from his co*ck to rattle his body to pieces. If nothing else, he will never have to worry about being outranked; the bastard probably gets off on this even more than himself. The nigh-deranged gleam in Lyle's eye is as clear as the evidence throbbing between his legs.

"Please, what?"

Miles nearly breaks down sobbing.

"You son of a f*cking rat bitch,"he chokes through his teeth, not caring who the hell hears him. "f*ck me. Break me. Rip me apart. I don't care how you do it, just f*ck me, and that's a goddamn order from your CO."

With that, he closes the infuriating distance to rut a shiny stripe across Lyle's cheek.

Miles sees his eyes flicker predator-dark, and everything turns slow motion.

He sobs, spasming when firm fingers slip inside him. They're more nimble than a co*ck—stroking and clawing and milking another spurt that f*cking burns. A surprise flick of Lyle's tongue to his leaking slit has him arching like he's been shot, grass stuck to his sweat-soaked back.

Suddenly emptiness and a tail flagging over his colleague's head is the only warning he gets before Lyle slams inside.

For a moment, he thinks he died a second time. The aftershocks from his last org*sm flare like cinders in kerosene. It's so intense he almost thinks about tapping out. Then Lyle ghosts his prostate again, and every higher process in his head reroutes to the task of grinding back into his thrusts.

"Yes," he sobs, quaking off the edge with one final drip. "God—f*ck—yes yesyesyesyes—"

At long last, he feels it. That chapped, used burn only won through complete and total emptiness. The sweet burn this body so desperately lives, dies, and f*cks for. Miles' co*ck spasms again. Again. Trapped in a cycle of coming from having nothing left to give.

Through the static in his head, he feels Lyle's fingers on his ass, swiping through the mess he made.

"Attagirl."

Miles goes blind. A moment later, teeth clash with his own, and a bitter tang tells him Lyle must have licked his fingers clean. He's never liked the taste of spunk, but right now, it goes straight to his co*ck.

It's not a kiss; only a fool would mistake the frenzied gnashing to be one. Lyle submits to his oral fixation with gusto, biting and tongue-f*cking his jaw like it's just another hole to be defiled. Miles lets him. Not really his thing, but it's nothing compared to what he's getting in return.

In the back of his fractured mind—careening off the edge for what must be the tenth time—it occurs to Miles that he's just handed Lyle Wainfleet orders to go crazy as he f*cking pleases. One part of him recoils.

The other groans, throbbing deep in his groin.

A strange, soupy calm begins to saturate his mind as Lyle rides him into oblivion. With the vague sensation that he's sinking into steaming Bisquick, the shapeless mass that is Miles floats out of his ears and congeals in the canopy high above them.

He thinks he might be dying. It's hard to tell if it's just a chain of multiple climaxes, or if Miles has even stopped once since Lyle began his final assault. If it felt like tides before, now it feels more like a wave pool. A drowning machine. An endless hydraulic of heat and pain and ecstasy. It feels like floating. Dry and boneless and so...

So…

Miles can't find the words. He can only manage to breathe, convulsing again as more sweet fire surges through him.

The next time Lyle knots, it isn't long before he's dismounting with a pop that pulls a whimper from somewhere in Miles' gut.

Lyle easily flips him on his stomach—boneless as he is. The manhandling stokes another low, hot swoop in Miles' gut; as does the new angle, which traps his junk between Lyle's dick and the hard ground.

This kneading of Miles' insides isn't enough to keep his rolling boil of org*sms going, but the teasing, inconsistent angle is a nice change of pace. At this angle, his oversensitive bundle of nerves gets a much-needed break, and a host of new spots begin to make themselves known.

The double-sided massage may not make Miles forget his own name, but it still has him punch-drunk and dribbling into the grass. It's all pre, but even this wrung out, Miles still finds himself ripping up clumps of turf as the occasional climax shudders through him. Loath as he is to admit, it's a bit nicer when they're not being ripped from him every sixty seconds.

At one point, they make another discovery when Lyle yanks his tail for leverage. Miles expects it to hurt, but instead it pulls a whorish whine out of his chest which he prays nobody hears. It's like a cord from the base of his spine to his dick, and Miles feels himself wet the topsoil every time it snaps taut.

Lyle spends the next however-long punishing him with that trick—presumably for blowing their cover. Ironically, it only makes it harder for Miles to keep quiet when he's using the goddamn thing like a bullrider's rope. He comes twice like that, and Lyle doesn't ask before he starts trying for three.

He slides his hand underneath, pressing on Miles' lower stomach with the heel of his palm. Between the added pressure and the sly fingertips teasing his slit, Miles clears three in seconds. Four comes when the pressure slides even lower—rocking into that firm hand. Miles doesn't even whimper that time. He just shakes, breath catching in his throat as Lyle rubs him over the edge without mercy.

Dimly, he starts to wonder if he even has a limit to break—or if they could keep f*cking like this until one of them eventually drops dead. Miles feels close to that point as it is. He's sure if he turned his head, the slurry that was once his brain will leak out his ears and into the unholy co*cktail they've made.

He can't say how many rounds they burn through, but whatever the tally—Lyle is making good on his agreement. Miles respects the effort (and maybe a little bit more than just that—considering the soggy patch of grass he's humping).

But when the flames start to feel a bit less sweet and a bit more like flames—the graymatter in Miles' skull that hasn't melted yet suggests it might be time to slow down.

He shoves the thought aside as Lyle knots him for the umpteenth time, squirming with a rough exhale. There's far less coming out of him, too. Maybe nothing at all. Miles isn't sure... He's gone a bit numb below the belt; anywhere that's not actively being touched is all fuchsia static.

Two more rounds, and that surviving clump of neurons is starting to sound really compelling. Miles hasn't stopped seizing for at least two minutes since his last org*sm, and icicles shoot through his core every time Lyle reaches down to rub his taint. Soon, Miles' grimacing starts to feel less pleasured. His groans, less wanton.

Gotta… be... getting… close…

He vaguely hears Lyle mutter something about trying a change of scenery before pulling out. Miles shivers at the sound of it—a squelch that would have two-cent whor*s clutching their pearls.

Needless to say, Lyle definitely doesn't need any lube when he enters his backside.

Miles recovers the ability to lift his head, but Lyle tuts. Like a showoff, he waits until he's metaphorically balls-deep to flip Miles (who's almost annoyed when the manhandling still gets him hot and bothered) onto his back.

"Save your damn breath," Lyle hisses. "I didn't f*ckin' forget you—Scout's honor."

He lifts a hand, making a Scouts' salute as he begins rocking into his ass. Usually, Miles curses his lack of use for it, but now the dearth of sensitivity is his oasis in a fiery desert.

"There is no way you were in Boy Scouts," he shoots back. Lyle shrugs.

"Well," he grunts, "you're half-right. Kicked me out when I was ten. Lit–hah—L-lit one of the Webelos' tents on fire…"

"On purpose?"

Lyle shrugs again. "Happy accident. Kid was a dickhe*d... sh*t—Sh-sh*t was a waste of time…" His eyes go distant for a moment. Then they flash back to Miles, wide and lit up with impish glee. "Good for one thing, though."

Before Miles can blink, Wainfleet takes his three-fingered salute and crams it up to the knuckles in his neglected sheath.

He chokes, legs kicking out of their own volition as a shudder like TV noise drowns him. Whatever women Lyle slept with in life must have been on cloud-f*cking-nine. His dick is only half-everted, but Lyle makes a 'V' with his ring and index finger and scissors them up and down Miles' shaft with brutal speed. It's better than every handy he's ever had, and when Lyle extends his middle finger to jab his prostate, it surpasses the realm of handjobs entirely.

Miles' head lolls back, quaking head to toe as he ruts Lyle's hand like a bitch in heat.

It hurts. It hurts so f*cking much. It feels like he's covered in cheese graters he's so goddamn sensitive, but if Miles doesn't ride those fingers till he f*cking squirts, he'll die.

"Hah—Fuh-hhaahh…"

Lyle mashes a finger to his lips, glancing over his shoulder, but Miles doesn't care; he almost wants them to hear. Maybe they'll get so turned on listening that they all come run a train on him, and then this can just be his life. Day in, day out. f*ck the mission, f*ck his paycheck, f*ck Jake goddamn Sully. Miles just wants to turn this thicket into a mud pit. He wants to do it until he's dead.

(God-f*cking-dammit, alright. Fine. He might be a bit of a voyeur.)

"sh*t," Lyle hisses, thrusting so hard he has to yank his fatigues up just to muffle the slapping. "That snatch just—turns you into a—little f*ckin'—pervert, huh? f*ck I'm close—Jesus Christ, you need to dir—ah—dirty-talk m-more—often..."

sh*t. He must have not kept those thoughts entirely to himself, but no matter. Can't blame Miles when he's very literally having his brains f*cked out. Besides—Lyle seems to appreciate the sentiment, given that he's reaming his ass like it's a goddamn contest. If only it f*cking did anything.

Admittedly, Miles is sorely missing that erogenous zone right now, but all thoughts of his ass are wiped when Lyle's fingers adjust their target. His co*ck jumps, and he reopens the cut on his lip with a delicious shudder (God, he's so glad they found this f*cking thing).

Like Lyle's read his damn mind, he crooks his fingers in time with his thrusts. Miles' eyes roll back as he desperately chases the burn. He doesn't care if he's dry; he wants Lyle to keep wringing him out till he's f*cking begging him to stop. And then he doesn't want him to stop.

Lyle's hand covers Miles' mouth again, and only then does he realize he was whimpering. He takes advantage of his newfound muzzle, moaning as Lyle's finger crooks hard into his spot. Miles watches his dick strain in a thick daze, pre swinging from the tip like a metronome.

"Think you can take it again?" Lyle grunts hoarsely. His pupils are blown and unfocused, muscles tensing subtly in-time with the pulsing in his ass. He's on the edge, too.

Miles nods, and a moment later Lyle pulls out of both holes, unleashing a deluge of slick that's oddly transparent...

(Miles blinks. Why, exactly, this strikes him as unusual doesn't present itself. Fragments of information sit scattered in his head, and Miles realizes with a muted jolt that he can't make them move, nor connect together.)

After a few failed attempts at standing, Lyle swears, sagging back on his elbows to pull his pants off.

"You too," he hisses, waggling a finger at Miles. "Off."

Miles blinks at him, so thoroughly f*cked-stupid that getting his clothes off seems an ironically daunting task.

Lyle rolls his eyes, tail lashing angrily as he lurches forward. Miles shivers from the force of his fatigues being yanked off, unkind fingers scrabbling at the hem.

"Spread," Lyle grunts, voice ragged.

Miles tries, really tries—but it only earns a hard slap to his inner thigh.

"More."

It still must not be enough, because Lyle digs hard nails into the meat of his thighs and crushes them flat to the ground (thank God this body is flexible).

"So you want me to make a bitch out of you, yeah?" he slurs, wincing as he gingerly pokes himself up into his sheath. "That's what this is all about. Me, making you my bitch. Nothing else, nothing more. Ever. I speaking f*ckin' clearly enough for you, Colonel?"

His belt buckle clinks softly as it unclasps. Miles nods.

"And what was that other part?" Lyle drones, tugging it out of its loops. "You wanna squirt like one? I hear that right?"

The traitorous, enthusiastic twitch of his co*ck should suffice to answer—but Miles nods anyway, ears burning with shame and delirium.

"Alright," Lyle huffs. "Alright..." He swings a leg over one of Miles' thighs, dipping his fingers into the sopping mess of his sheath to spread around his own slit. "You want it that goddamn bad, motherf*cker? Fine. We'll walk like bitches do…"

Miles grunts, tensing as Lyle's belt cinches tight around his mouth. He doesn't have the foggiest idea what Lyle means until he hooks a thigh around one of Miles', lines up, and drops. In one obscene, divine glide, their pelvises slot together like they were made for each other. Neither one of them can keep a groan in when Lyle bears down, grinding with a slickness so good it shouldn't be f*cking legal.

Miles isn't particularly thick, but he's long, and Lyle snaps back with a telling shudder.

"Oh, f*ck..." he chokes, walls quivering on his co*ck. "Jesus f*ck, that's good—"

Miles' legs start to shake as Lyle's thrusting quickens, spearing himself where the magic happens. Miles' skin is on fire. Everything is on fire—but he's too wet and too goddamn far gone to care anymore.

Lyle grinds the heel of his palm into the subtle bulge under his navel, wringing a gasp out of both of them. There's so much. So many layers of pleasure and pain, and at the center of it all—f*cking up into Lyle, crushing down on his prostate, rolling between their cores—he's swelling. He's close—

"Do it," Lyle rasps, bearing down hard with a hard pinch to the glans through his abdomen. He whimpers at a strange tickling that begins to build in his tip before it suddenly shoots down to his prostate. Then it's back again, ricocheting up and down his shaft with suspiciously heavy heat.

"Rrgh—Right there—Right there, you f*cking bitch—I wanna feel you gush right on my f*ckin' spot—f*ck—"

Lyle yanks his tail so hard Miles feels a joint pop, and with the reaping of his psyche, Lyle gets his wish.

He can't scream. For once, he wants to, but Miles can only seize, mouth wrenched in a silent scream as the cosmos falls in on him. It must do something good, because Lyle's sheath crushes against his, high-centered. Miles doesn't even realize he's been bucking until a pop sends shockwaves spiralling down his legs. Heat pools in the cleft of his hips as he sprays, and with an animal growl—

"Oh, good f*ckin' girl—"

Lyle sinks his fangs into his nape.

Time slows.

And unlike anything he's ever felt, the heady, sharp pressure that's been building in Miles' core erupts up and out.

His dick—his prostate—f*ck—whatever it is, Miles' whole body seizes, heat bursting from him like a geyser. It's not cum—it's not of this world. With the force of a gatling gun, it pressure-washes Lyle's channel as Miles screams behind his gag.

"f*ck, baby—oh!"

Again, Lyle's sheath clenches as he shudders down to his tailbone. Then, Miles is treated to the sight of him plunging a hand into his own sheath to wrench his still-spurting co*ck out.

Faster than he can process, Lyle's sheath is gone—and his lips are wrapping around him. Miles squeals like a girl as Lyle suckles his tip hard, tongue working the underside until that bright, thundering somethingspikes again.

He's too far gone to notice his teeth snap Lyle's belt in two before he collapses, every muscle not attached to his pelvis paralyzed.

Then thesomething hits his glans, and Miles' body jerks like a sprung trap. When he spurts, Lyle drinks him like a straw, which only wrings more world-tilting spasms out of him.

Lyle's right arm is a blur; the source of the soft, wet sounds between his legs as he works his sheath. The tantalizing mental image of his subordinate fingering himself mixed with his relentless mouth coaxes a straggling, agonizing spurt from his co*ck. The pain doesn't fade at all this time. It never will. Miles knows that now, and he's fine with it.

"Want… t'see," he croaks. Somehow, he can still speak.

"Hmm?" Lyle hums (oh, God) around his co*ck.

"P-playin' withyerself," he slurs. "Wanna see…"

Lyle gives him a strange look. Miles can't say how it's strange—it just is. It takes him a minute to reply.

"Oh."

He shudders at a glinting thread stretching from his slit to Lyle's bottom lip. "Okay..."

He lets Miles go, sitting where he can see and spreading. He watches, dazed and hungry as Lyle works two fingers into himself, every sigh and shiver adding to the ache between his legs.

Miles whines, unable to leave that sore pulse alone, and soon the slick sounds of Lyle's masturbating are joined by his own.

Fire rockets up Miles' spine, knocking around the inside of his skull like a raquetball. Miles whines louder, arching into his hand.

"Hey," Lyle grunts. "Are you alright…?"

"H-mm?" whines Miles.

"Like, does anything—hah, sh*t… Anything feel off to you?"

Adding a fourth, Miles whimpers. He's forgetting something. Feeling something. Doesn't matter. He just slams his hand into himself harder. Harder…

"Why-y-y do you talk so m-mu-u-uch."

"Shh! Dude, keep your damn voice down—"

"Rhngh— Can't... c-can't—I- I'm…!"

His c*nt latches, and fire rips through him with a strangled sob. It feels like ages before he crashes down, spasming without end.

He's on fire. He's made of fire. He'll always be fire. Fire and brimstone. That's what they say, isn't it—fire and brimstone. Feels that way…

"… Quaritch?"

He sobs.

"Hells-s-s not so ba-a-ad."

"Quaritch! Hey!"

Something yanks his hand out of himself. Covers his anguished wail with a sticky palm.

The heat keeps bouncing—more like a tracer than a raquetball, now. Nuclear warhead ricocheting in his skull. Splitting atoms. Melting down.

"Miles, look at me. Look—"

...

Why?

("—es…Miles, can you hear m…?")

... Why is this happening?

("…iles, I'm gonna let go of your mouth … eed you…ell me what you feel… Okay?")

Why is he like this?

("Want you on top 'f me—")

Is that his voice? Is he the one saying these things?

Who is he?

("… iles I don't like th…")

Who was he?

("Lyle, f*ck, f*ck it hurts—I need…!")

[Someone weeps, and it sounds like him.]

("I need you…")

What's his name?

[The man in front of him stares back for a long, long time. Looks strange, and he can't say why. Just looks how he shouldn't. Doesn't know. Everything is in smoldering pieces at the bottom of his skull, and he can't make the connection.]

("Okay…")

[The nameless thing with his voice sobs.]

He doesn't know anymore. Then he realizes he doesn't care, either.

("… –kay, okay. But one round—that is it. No m…"

Nodding... nodding... nodding…

And the other man is flipping him over. And the other man is pushing inside.

Crying, crying, crying—

Then fire.

Fire

Fire

Fire.

Something sways—catches his eye—and suddenly there's an idea. Where it comes from, he can't say. But it's a very good idea; he's certain. There's something he has to do.

His arm feels and functions uncannily like Jell-O, but eventually he manages to locate the frayed, sweat-damp soma with numb fingers. His skull is all alight now—no bouncing. Thank god someone installed a heat valve.

It's a Herculean struggle to drag his queue over his shoulder, eyes barely tracking the other disheveled braid swinging in front of his face. By some miracle, he manages to gingerly snag it between two fingers.

He has to do this—too much smoke. Burning. Has to he has to—has to—open the flume—

Through fog of pleasure-pain, he dully notes pale dendrites poking free. Waving to him like little flames. He may not have the strongest grasp on what (or who) he is, but rote knowledge—implicit, more muscle than memory—provides him some insight.

Of the ways to clear a forest, two options present themselves; one slow, and one fast. You can waste your time hacking away at the treeline like a puritan, or you can raze it to the ground and get it over with.

Sue his ass, but he's always had a thing for flashy endings.

In slow motion, the nameless thing watches two furred tendrils brush. Then a spark jumps, and—

IT HURTS

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̷̏ͅH̷̗̆U̸͍͂R̶̮̎T̶̹͝S̶̯͌ ̸̺͆I̴͜͝T̶̰̉ ̵̧̒H̵͙̑Ų̷͝Ŕ̶͖T̴̤̈S̷̞̒ ̵̳̒Ȉ̶̞T̵̙̎ ̷̫̆H̴͚͂U̶͎͗R̴͚̒T̴̰̑S̷̛̘ ̸̨̕Ị̷̌T̸͓̄ ̵̤͊H̴͍̔Ú̴͓R̶̟͌T̷͕̈S̸̜̉ I̷̔͜T̴͕͗ ̶̱̇Ȟ̸͖Ṵ̶͝R̴͈̚T̷̺̈́S̷̼̐ ̷̟͛I̶̭͗T̴͍̉ ̵͕͝H̵̱̎U̴͚̚R̶̭̂T̸̳̀S̵͖̊ ̷̗̄I̸̭͂T̶͓͗ H̶̢̕Ư̵͓R̵̖̎Ț̷̔S̶̎͜ ̷̦̽I̶̗͗Ṫ̸̳ ̷̰̽H̴̼͆Ů̶͉R̵̨̿T̵̖͊S̷͕̀ ̸͈̐I̸͔̐T̶͚̃ ̶̢͠H̸̜̊U̷̲͊R̸̰̄T̶͚̿Ś̶̮ ̸̪̎I̵̞̿T̷͕̃ ̷̨̈H̶̤̽Ṷ̴̀Ṛ̷̓T̶̨̉S̷̻͗ ̴͚̿Ö̶̠H̵̯̿ ̴̫̐G̷͕̾Ò̶͉D̸̙͑ ̷̤̽I̵̢͑T̸̲̓ ̶̘̑H̷͖̆Ṷ̶͗R̷̰̔T̵̼͊S̶͙̑ I̶͎͠T̸͚͑ ̸͚̈Ĥ̴̝Ū̴̩R̴̨̃T̴̙̓Ș̵̕ ̷̩͘I̶̮̎T̶̠̓ ̵̫̈H̸̢̽U̸͓̓R̶͍̅T̶͇̓S̷̢̎ ̶̫̿Ḯ̷̮Ṯ̴͌ ̷͔̉Ḫ̶̈Ù̶̖R̷͖͂T̷͉́S̶͖̾ ̵̙̎I̵͖͒T̵̖͝ ̶̫̍H̸̬̔Ú̸͕R̸̬͂T̴̬̚Ṡ̵̳ ̷̟͐I̸̳͠T̸͈̄ ̵̯̓H̶̗̉U̸͍̐Ŗ̵̈T̸͔͗S̵̫̓ ̶̧͒I̶̊͜T̷̰̆ ̷͇͝H̸͓̑U̵̟̍R̸̫̽T̶̨̽S̴̝͋ ̵͇͋I̷̬͝T̸̝͆ ̴͕͑Ḫ̶̈U̴̡͆R̷̫̅T̸͚̂S̵͇̄ ̵̨͝I̸͐ͅT̶̤̈́ ̵̙̏H̷͈͐Ú̶̹R̶͉̒T̴̼̈́S̷̤̈́ ̷̛̪İ̴̠T̷̯́ ̷̏ͅH̷̗̆U̸͍͂R̶̮̎T̶̹͝S̶̯͌ ̸̺͆I̴͜͝T̶̰̉ ̵̧̒H̵͙̑Ų̷͝Ŕ̶͖T̴̤̈S̷̞̒ ̵̳̒Ȉ̶̞T̵̙̎ ̷̫̆H̴͚͂U̶͎͗R̴͚̒T̴̰̑S̷̛̘ ̸̨̕Ị̷̌T̸͓̄ ̵̤͊H̴͍̔Ú̴͓R̶̟͌T̷͕̈S̸̜̉ I̷̔͜T̴͕͗ ̶̱̇Ȟ̸͖Ṵ̶͝R̴͈̚T̷̺̈́S̷̼̐ ̷̟͛I̶̭͗T̴͍̉ ̵͕͝H̵̱̎U̴͚̚R̶̭̂T̸̳̀S̵͖̊ ̷̗̄I̸̭͂T̶͓͗ ̸͇̕H̶̢̕Ư̵͓R̵̖̎Ț̷̔S̶̎͜ ̷̦̽I̶̗͗Ṫ̸̳ ̷̰̽H̴̼͆Ů̶͉R̵̨̿T̵̖͊S̷͕̀ ̸͈̐I̸͔̐T̶͚̃ ̶̢͠H̸̜̊U̷̲͊R̸̰̄T̶͚̿Ś̶̮ ̸̪̎I̵̞̿T̷͕̃ ̷̨̈H̶̤̽Ṷ̴̀Ṛ̷̓T̶̨̉S̷̻͗ ̴͚̿Ö̶̠H̵̯̿ ̴̫̐G̷͕̾Ò̶͉D̸̙͑ ̷̤̽I̵̢͑T̸̲̓ ̶̘̑H̷͖̆Ṷ̶͗R̷̰̔T̵̼͊S̶͙̑ ̶͚͠I̶͎͠T̸͚͑ ̸͚̈Ĥ̴̝Ū̴̩R̴̨̃T̴̙̓Ș̵̕ ̷̩͘I̶̮̎T̶̠̓ ̵̫̈H̸̢̽U̸͓̓R̶͍̅T̶͇̓S̷̢̎ ̶̫̿Ḯ̷̮Ṯ̴͌ ̷͔̉Ḫ̶̈Ù̶̖R̷͖͂T̷͉́S̶͖̾ ̵̙̎I̵͖͒T̵̖͝ ̶̫̍H̸̬̔Ú̸͕R̸̬͂T̴̬̚Ṡ̵̳ ̷̟͐I̸̳͠T̸͈̄ ̵̯̓H̶̗̉U̸͍̐Ŗ̵̈T̸͔͗S̵̫̓ ̶̧͒I̶̊͜T̷̰̆ ̷͇͝H̸͓̑U̵̟̍R̸̫̽T̶̨̽S̴̝͋ ̵͇͋I̷̬͝T̸̝͆ ̴͕͑Ḫ̶̈U̴̡͆R̷̫̅T̸͚̂S̵͇̄ ̵̨͝I̸͐ͅT̶̤̈́ ̵̙̏H̷͈͐Ú̶̹R̶͉̒T̴̼̈́S̷̤̈́ ̷̛̪İ̴̠T̷̯́ ̷̏ͅH̷̗̆U̸͍͂R̶̮̎T̶̹͝S̶̯͌ ̸̺͆I̴͜͝T̶̰̉ ̵̧̒H̵͙̑Ų̷͝Ŕ̶͖T̴̤̈S̷̞̒ ̵̳̒Ȉ̶̞T̵̙̎ ̷̫̆H̴͚͂U̶͎͗R̴͚̒T̴̰̑S̷̛̘ ̸̨̕Ị̷̌T̸͓̄ ̵̤͊H̴͍̔Ú̴͓R̶̟͌T̷͕̈S̸̜̉ I̷̛̲͉̮̯͓̽̉̆̈́̾̍̓̑̇̑͂̃̀̿̓̈́̓̂̔͑̋̓͆̽͌̎̾̉̌̃̀̀͊̇̌̌͘̚͘͝͝͝Ţ̸̦̠̰̩̟̬͚̹̭̠̤͓̠̟̘̪̄̈́̋̍̏̒̐̈́́̾̐̐̓̈̀̓͛̕̚͠͠ ̶̡͇͎̣͉͈̱̰̑̌͋̽̾́̆͐̃͋̕͠Ḣ̶̢̨̨̧̨̖̠̝̗̳̗̫͈̤̪̠̫̆̑̈́̈́̓͒̎̐̔̐̒͛͆̒̓̃̈̾̀͗̿̀̕͝ͅŲ̷̛̛̛̛̰̜̰̮̱̆̃̈͛̂̈́̿̄̉̌̿̂͊͑̎͆̍͛̑̈́̔̎̒̄̒͂̈́̓̉͑͆̽͋̓̚͘̚͘̕͠͠͝͝͝͝Ṙ̵̡̡̡̛̼̯̜̘̠̣̱͓̟̬̹̦͔͍̺̲̖̙̦̗̺̣̳͈̲̬͎͎̬̬̥̞̯̣͍̺̮̞͙͖͓̃͒̄͊̓͊̐́̽̿̽͑̈̾̀̏͒̒̈́̇̕̕͘̚͜͝͝ͅṰ̸̢̨̙̙̫̹̺̰̼̱̰͖̦͕͊̚͜ͅS̴̢̧̛̰̜̥̹̮̗̠̞̳͎̳̥͙͚̞̳̥̪̪̖̩̟͎͈̻̳̮̯͓̦͙̑̄̓̈́̑͌̋̔̿̐̏̑͊̍͋̽̊̉̈̄̍͛̑͒̓͑͌͌́̕͘̚̚͜͝͝͝ͅ ̵̘̹͓̰̼̙̼͖̰͔̣͔̺͍͎͔͓̬̩͕̬͐̔̈́̐̍̈̊̌̓͆͐͂̃̾̌̄͊̏͒͑͐̀̈́̿́̿̒͛͗͆͂̈́̿̚̕͘͝͝͝Į̴̛̪̫̲̭̯̦̖̄̍̈́̇̈̊̈́͂͊͒̂̾͝ͅT̶̻̠̄͆̅̈́̌̒̋͂̓̉̒̂͒̄̎̿͋̈́͊̂̊̉͐̓̀̈́́̓̃̏̀̈́͋̓̿̀̄̐̄̀̂͛̾̀̊̕̚̕͠͝͝ͅ ̷̡̡̧̩͎̼̟̣̺͙͖̤̗̥̖̝̦̼̖͇̓͜Ȟ̴̡̧̢̫̦̻̣̬̻̭̮͔̍͗̌͋̑̑̈́̇͘̚͝͝Û̶̦͓́͂̀̍̅͋̉̀͂̏͂̔͗͊̆̌̔͌̾͑̈́͊̄͛̚̚̚͠͝R̸̡̨̧͉͎͓͈̭̪̤̭̙͉̮͎̝̪͚̻̮͍̞̞̤͕͔̭̮̦̹̠̥̠̮̩̜̺̪͕̬͉͕̼̫̜͈̬̺̃̽͑̂͂̓̌̅͊͐̓͐̔̆́͒̐̆̏̇͂̊̾͆̑̉̂̂̌͛͘T̵̡̡̲̤̲̬̯̥̰̪̝̩̥͇̖͉̭̣̰͙̱͖̗͈͓̜̘̩̬̗̩̺͈̝̤͎͉͈̰̠͎̊͗̏͆̓̓̀͘͜S̷̤͑̑͝ͅ ̸̧͉͈͚̭̼͎̿̋̏̓͐͒́̓̈́̍͑̉̎̄͐̀͠ͅI̸̧̛͙̬̱̬̯̱͖͕̜̥̜͚͚̲̱̪̙͙̝̬̤̝̦̤̯̲̭̘̒͑̓͋̀̈́̓̅͊́̽͂̿̄̒̉̊̉̋̃̎͊͑̇̐̽͑̈̔͌͗̈̾̒͆̃́̀̑̽́̕͜͝͠ͅT̵̨̡͇̲͙̞͚̟̞̘̩̹̺̦͇̠͊̒́͐̓̀̄̈̑͋͑̌̄̀͂̔̉̈͗͘͘͝ ̷̨̨̗͇̬͚͚̮̱͉̥̬̼̜̳̬̯͕̝̰̖͌̎̿͊̃̐̉̓̄̿̂̾̓͂̓́̓̄͗͛̀͊̌̎̌͂̐́̉͗̂͐̅͌͗̿̇̈̾̊̓̂̑͛͘̕̚͜͝͠͝͠ͅH̸̨̧̡͓̲̺͈̙͉̼̱̞̺̺̠̥͖̦̲̜͍̦̦̹̤̫̗͔̱̦̹͍̦̠̘̠͙͚͔̲̲͍̻̋̇͆͜͜ͅU̶̧͇̫̼͚͉̭̲͍͚͈̹̞̮͎͔̭͈̖̪̫̖͖̭̼͓̭̣̖͈̯͙͙͈͚͓͉̳͇̭̰̼̟͚̤̝̒͌͌̇̅̈̌͌̌̑̓̊͜͜͝͠ͅṞ̷̟̪̣̞͓̤̦̈͋̀́̃̾̃̅̆̿̆͋͛̾͋̓͌͂̏͘͝ͅŢ̶̢̡̲̺̤̦̖̜͎̣̻̯͚̠͚̄͋́̈͐̃͘͝S̸̨̢̧̧̧̢̢̛̲̗̖͕̦̱̤͎͚͉͉͖̹̳̞̤͔̝̗͖͉͎̲̳̝̹̗̙͔̩̫͎̩͚͕͇̺̝̦͍̪̋̊̆̈́́͒̑̑͗̓̑̈́̋̒͆̒̈́̍̒̊̍̀͐̆̀͌̕͘͘͜͝͝ͅ ̵̧̢̢̛͎̟̰̲̣̖̰͖̜̹̗͇̦̝̬̥̂̓͆̇̔͛̀̔́̈̅͌͛͛̓̒́̎͋̓̐̿̓̓͆͗́́̈́̈͐̎́̃̆͛͛̐̃͐̂̌̈́͂̚͘̚͜͝͝͠Į̶̛̗̠̱̳̦̓͑̏̎̅͋̉̋̌̀͂T̸̡̨̢̡̧̺̙̝̞̣̪̣̣̗̠͖̘͍́͑͛̑̋̀͐̈͊̊̓́̅́̇̋̓͋̀͐̕͠ ̴̧̨̱̩̩̟̬̗̺͆̌̇͒̆͗̑̈̒̍͑̔̕͝͠H̵̨̛̝̖͈̻̰̟̭̹͕͙͎͍͓̻̮̩̼̪͙̠͈͔̩̝̦͎̞͉͇͍͖͓͖̞̥͖̤̻͚̜̖̮̲̜̏̈͌̓͛̏̓͛͊̇̑̔͊̈́͆̍̓̆̅̓̒͑̋̅̂͂̇͋̌̃͗̀͛̌̆͂̂́̈́̚͘̚͘͜͜͝͝͝U̷̡̨̗̞̩̟̞̪̤̗̖͈̤͈̒̌͒̉̈̊͑͘͠R̵̢̛͎̰͕͎̰̙̝̺͈̣̟̻͇͇͒̓̈́̈́́̾̇̽͆̆̀͌͂̾̋̎̓̿̏̂̀̌̈͗͑̅͆̆̈͐̌̓̐̄̍̀͒̆̔͒̆͗́͆̿̋̕͘͜͜͝͠T̷̡̡̢̧̢̨̢̡̢̛̛͚̹̠͔͕̺͓̪̘̥̻͈͇̞̮̞̣͔̟̳̲͔̥͍̈̒̄̂̈́́̂̒͋͑̆̆̆͂́̀̇̿́̾̎̉̍̎́̀̕͝͠͝͠͝Ş̷͍̪̮̙̲̈́̃́̂͐̈́͒͒̀̑̾̃̾̓̚͘͝͝͠͠ ̵̨̛̟͕̠̮͉͈̺̻͕̖͕̠̜͔̟̣̟̺̩̗͖͓̺̝͍͈̒̋͌͒̋̑͐̉̾̐̐̒̃́̒̇̆̋̿͗̂͗̏̂̂̍̈̉̈̑͒̚͝I̵̬̹̙̮̖̠̳̻̯̳͔̙̙̯̫̘̺̫̥̬̜̲̰͇͙̱̮̜͎̐͜Ṯ̶̡̢̢̧̢̡̘̯͖͍̞͔͉̳̣͇̫͉͚̦̻̭͚̦̯̪̭͙̝̪̦̰̩̲̦̜̹̗̈ ̸̡̨̧̡̨̟͔̰̰̻̭͕͓̙̱̠͉̹̩̥̰̰͇̤̤͖͈͔̩̼̗̟̯͓͎̙͓̭̙̿̄̈́́͑̋͛̈́͜͜͠͠ͅͅH̵̢̛̛̙̯͕̠̺͖̫̤͍̣̣̥͖̙͔̫̰͔̝̺̙͇̙̖̣̠͇̼̮̺̟̥̀͒̎̓́̂͛́̃̀̉̀͊̐͌̆̑́̊̒͂̈̾̈́̃̔͘͘͜͜͜Ǘ̴̧̡̨͙͕̗̲̘̠͉̱̮̜̗̼̬̰̪͇̜͕͓̹̙̦͔̬̪̩̠̙̪̳̮͓̏̓͛͂͛̇̐̌̈͋̄͆̐͋̐̅̂́͂̾̕͜͜͠ͅͅR̶̢͇̬̠͕͉̦͖̱̲̰͕͍̣͔͔͉̟̲͈͔̫̯̉̐̃͆̓̿̋̇̓͆͐̂͋͑̀͋͐̋̅̾̀̆͝͝͠͠͝͝ͅT̵̨̢̛̰͎̭̝̻͎͚̫̤̻̤͍͎̪͉̲̝̮͕̣̠͕̙̬̈̎̒͛̓̿̊̄̍͌̇̉̈́̈̿̃̓̆̕͝͝͠S̷̰͎̹̹͙̲̺̥̫͗̔̋͝ͅ ̶̧̨̛̬̥͎͚̭̱̲̻̤̹̜̪̫̻̤͈͇̪̣͙̺̝̎͊̋̀͊͑͗͆͑͗̏̍͊͛̑̔̐̊͑̌̑̎͒̚I̴̛̞̟͇̙̟̩͚̱̲̳͍͌̅̽̽̋̇̃̊̎̍͑͑̑̓́̾̄̏̐͂̔͋̑̂̄̇̈́̊͊̑̋̓͒̔͋̓̀̿̈́̓͘̚͘͝Ţ̷̢̧̢̛͍̞̭̫̦̺͙͔̟͔͈͙̼̳̮̠͇̳͎̥̠̠̤̤̘͎͎̗͔͉͈͉̹̖̱̼̳͖̗̪̥̱̾̆̿̈͒̇͋͛͂̑͆̽̓́̊̈̈́̋̿̍͊̕̕̕͜͜͝͝ͅ ̵̡̛̜͖̭̘̓͒̈́̈́͒̐̕͝͠H̵̢̡͕̗͔̳͖̙͒͆̈͆̌͆̃͒͒͗̇̈́͘͠U̷̢̧̝̬̳͙͙̦̥̲͓͍̟̜͖̳̣̣̮̺̩̗̾̍̆̈́͌̋̔̇́̈́̔̾͒̾̍̀̀͐́̌̉̈́̑̑̂̉̑̃̿̀̑̏̂̕ͅͅR̵̢̡̡̢̛̛̰̺̰̟͉͍̻͈͓̬͔̪͍̳̩͚͓̫͙̗͕̭̣͓̤͂̒͛͛͒̍̇̅́̆̅̚̕͝Ṫ̷̨̡̧̡̧̡̹̩̻̠̪̜̳̺̩̖̦͓͕̫̫̘̹̣̯̥͓̬̭͜ͅṢ̶̡̡͙̞̲̪͉͖͔̭͉̱̗̂̈́̌̂̽̋͌̓͌͂̋͋̋̆̐̈́̾͜͠ ̷̢̢̛̜̙̖̻̗̼̝̙̖͔̪̭̞̳̙͙͔̖̮̗̮̜̜̹̌͐͒͐̚͘̚ͅI̸̢̨̢̨̢̮̦̠͓̣̬̻̱͈̠͖̣͍̰̭͕͕͙͈̱̥͕̣͍̱̤̙͎̞̪͓̜͌́̍̆̽̎̐͋̈́̓́̈́̇͋͜T̴̢̛̜̯̘̼͖̭̜̩̲͉̼́̍͐̇̀̈́͗̾͌͛́̄̅̅̓̉͊̾̚͘ ̴̡̛̛̟̗̩̙̹̄͒̇̔͋̀̏̒͂͌͊̍̈́̂͆̅̈̿͒̊̓̅̿̊͑͒͗́̎͗̈́͐͋̋̊̀̅̆̕͘̕̚͠͝͠ͅḨ̸̧̧̢̡̛͕̪̗̦̰̰̭̮͙̫̯̱̼̲̠̰̦̮̙͖̯̖̦̞͙̟͙͓̠̹̤͈̺͚̤̦͓̮̦͚̦͍̟͙͔̯̆̈̎̃͛̇́͆͒̽̏̈́̀̊̇̀̆̑́̏̓̅̇̆͛͂͋̐̓̆̿́͐̾͘͘̚̚̕͝Ữ̶̡̢̧̡̧̡͉͙͙͈͈̞͈̹̗̲̼̣͎̠̫̣̦̜̯̳͈̰͙̯͔̭͍͚̪̼̜͇͔̻̅̔̐͑̅̿́͆̐̔̓͆͌͆̑͐̍͋̕̕̚͜͜͜͝Ŗ̸͔͓̼͙̹͇͓̦̝̤̬̬͇͍̭̲̰͔̼͙̙̜̏T̴̨̧̢̢̡̢̰̯͚͙̻̱̣̪̰̯͕̖͈͍̳͕̫̹̦̜̱̳̩̖̟͚̞̩͖̰͓̩̙̮̞̪̼̟̱̥͊̔̀̀̐̾́̒͑̏́̓̒̐̋̾͊̐̀͆̄͒̐̒̆̿́̏̈́͒́͗̆̄͊̏͑̔̕͘̕̚͠S̸̢̡̡̢̢̨͚̜̮͙̲̺̟͈͈̳̹͍͙̠̤̬͇̬̣͙̜͚͈̖̯̱̪̬̬̭͍͉͉̪̱̳̖͖̫̖͍̤̾̿͛̀̃͑̄̓̎͑̉̉̒̔̾̆͆́̈̈́̿̌̉͑͒̅͆̒̌̈́̈́̾͋̇̄̐͒͋̈́̅͐͂̾͂̅͂̊͌̕͝͝ͅ ̶̢̨̨̢̬̦̥͎̞̥͙͇̣͖̜͈͚̯͇̹̜̙͇̭̮̗̻̩͓̠̭̗̯̤̬͔͈̒̈́͊̑͜͝͝Į̴̨̨͇̘̺͕̝̗̗̞͈̫̯̜͆̋̐̋̏ͅT̴̨̢̨̨̛̛̲̝͈̹̱̜̬̣̤̬̙̼̹̺̜̗̤̳̱͓͍̤̹͈͍͗́͊͂̈́́̔̇̔́̽́̈́̊́̏̐̃̋̒͋̑͊̉̌͑̕͘͝ͅͅ ̴̧̛̛̛̦̣̦͕̩̞̝̫̮̗̹̱͕̩͍͔̥̫̠̘͈̺͙͙̼̌̑͗͌͂̽̎͛͑̀͒̀́͒͐͛͑̒̄͒̇̏̐̊̉̈̎̒͌̃̐͌̉̈̽̂́͛͊̌͘̕̚͘͝͠͠H̷̡̢̡̛͚̩͙͕̭̬̰̗̺̮̻͕̪̞̘̝̱̳͓̆̍͒̀̐͂̈́͐͑̑̏̈́̉͊̀̈́͒̆͊̐͆̈́̿̔͆͆̆́͊̏̄̇͋̎̈́̐́̂͋́̽͊̋̚̕̕̚͜͠͝͝͝U̸̧̨̧̧̡̦̩̬̻̪͈̣̞͉̥̜̞̞͎̰̳̩͍͚͈̱̬̳̯͔͓͔̗̣͕̭̹̯̜̻̭̜̞̗̹̫̠̯̝͎͐̈̓̄͒͐̍̽̋̚͘͜R̶̛̙͙͖̩̻̭͓͕̼̮̅̍̾͛̓̌͆̍͒͊͑̏͛͛̌̊͒̇̆̈́̈́͜ͅT̷̢̧̛̺̰͎͚̱̞̙̘̤̲̥̙̺̭̤̜͈̻̫̘̝͓̫͕̰̗̰̪̱̰͙͓̝̖̰͉̟̖͈̀̒͛̈́͂̃̂̒́̅̉͆͆̂̀̈́̂̅̔̄̒̀̌͐͘͜ͅS̸̛̛̯͔̯̦̖͕̪̘̬͚̤̠̠̦͚̬̗̖̮̾͊̿̐̄͌͋̈́̓̅́͑̓̇̈́͆̎́͒̋͐̅̑̌̃̈́̆̆̿̏͂̾̄͊̅́̈́͊̂̒̑́̋͐͘͘̕͝͝ͅ ̴̡̢̛̩̰̪̪̭̠͔͈͈̹̱̠̹̪̪̮͎̣͕͎̮̳̽̂͆̈́͂̿͑̇̀͊͒̏̈́̊͑̌͒̄̍̄̌̕͘͘̕͘͠ͅͅĮ̶̧̛̛͍̺̘̙̖͕̟̬̗̞̺̟͎͎̤̰̺͍̖̭̠̱̖͔̖͖̮̥̼̞̪̮͙̹̳̪̠̜̣̯͖̬̗͎̠͆̓͋̄̒̈́͛̉́̔̍̃̎͒̓͌̂̋͛̊̐̅͑̉̆͌̚̚̕̚ͅͅͅT̶̨̯̰̝̬̺̘͖̟͉͕̐̃ͅ ̶̨̧̢̢̨̝͓̫͔̣̬̲̤̜̞͚̘͈͓̠̩͕̩̖͇͎̙̖̼̤̗̘̰̩͓̫̪͙̱̮̰̻͎͓̮̩͆͆̐̽͌̀̂͋̐͛̄̈́͆̑̄͆̈̄̐̿̅̕͘͠͝͠͝ͅͅH̵̡̡̝̙̮̹̭͎̥̗͇͇̠͚̀̉͗̽̂̿̐̿̿́́͂̏̓͗̅͘U̷̢̢̡͕̘̦̝̥̝̺̘̦̮̺͚̥̣͉̝̤͕̜̖͍͕̟̯͚̮̣̲͚͍͓̬̳̲̺̣͔͙̯̝̹̪͇̭̫͂́̍͊͌̅̽͆͑͗͆̇̾̈̌̋̊͋̄̈́̈̓͝͠͝ͅȒ̴̹̻͑́̏́͊̅̎͌̐̓͌̌̇̕͝͝͝͠͝T̷̛̤̰͍̻̫̺̘͖̪̜̗̦͛̈́̄̀̐̑̐̒͆̉͑̍̈́̃̈́̎͌̂͂̒͗̎͘̚̕̕͘͝͝͝S̸̨̡̧̨̡̡̢͍̯͉̜̟̦͉̭͇̹̜̣̫̣͇̙̞̖̹̣̮͔̥̪̺̙̗̠̦̰̮̗͔̓́̌̅͑̈͋͒͒́̐̂̀̀̈́̚͜͝ͅͅ ̸̛̛̻̠̤̳̝̹̥̦͉̔̄͆̊́̄̇̈́͂͒̆͑̀̐̃̓̌́̋̇͋̅̏͒͛̉̒̆͑͂̕͘͝͝Į̷̡̡̨̧̙̰͇̪̱̟̟͙͓͖͚̭̼̖̱̞̟͔̖̪͚̤̳̗̮̟̯͖̩̭͖͚͙̩͈̰̳͉̭̩̘͖̐̇̏̾̂̔͑́̂̏̆́̓̀̌̽̐̂́͗̊͜͠͠ͅT̸̢̢̡̧̡̲͉͍̥͎̱̤̼̰̯͉̤̭̥͙̗͔̻̜̼͔͙͚̻̱͍̖̫̲̺̍͆͗̎̾̋̀̏͂̒͊͒̈̍̐̈̎͐̽̀̆̎̈́́̆̑̐̍̍͒̆̒̉̿̚ ̸͓̭̳̞̎̒͌͌̊̈͝Ȟ̸͇͚̻̙͎͉͖̫̿͗͊́̀̋̉͌͊́̍̈́̿̈͂̈́̆̚͝ͅṴ̵̡̢̡̼̙͍̖̝͔̬̫̦̬̦̤̺̯̼͔͔̹̘̟̞̤̂͐͑̀͊̓̈́́͂̐̈́̍̌͐̒̾̍̐͌͑́́͋̿͊͆̈́̃̇͌̿͗̉͆͛̆̕͘̚͜͝R̵̨̧͓͎̜̙̜̤̹̙̖̫͚͓̥͙͇̟͈͓̰͔̍̾̈̾̿̒̆̈́͋̓̄͂̐̅̓̑̉̓͆͜͝Ţ̴̭̠̺̲̳̖͕͇̦̯̯̊̔̊͑̍̐̾̾̄̃͒͝ͅS̴̡̹̖̫̣̞̲̼̠̜̀͋͝͝ͅ ̴̢̢̛͖͉̦̘̥̈̒́̅̌͌̿̓̒͒͒̋̃̇͗̄̈́͋̓͆́͂̒͐̂̋̀̿͊͆͆̓̉̿̌̔̐͊͗̈́͂̇̈́̈́͘̕͝͝͠ͅĮ̵̝̫̱͓͔̤͙͙̜͙̗̳͈͇̝̫͈̙̳̻̹̞̭̺̞͈̘̻̳͓͔̭̬͇͇͍̰̙̣̯̞͍͖̦͒͒̄̔͆̾̍̑̓̊̏͗́̾̐̌̒̒̌̈́̓̓̉̀̋̉̇̾͂̓̉̆͗͌͊͆̀̕̕͝͠͝͝T̶̡̡̨̡̡͓̗̼̺̪͕̪̲͇͍̗̫̫̏̿̀ ̶̢̢̧̨̤̪͖̠͚̜̞̩͉̼͉͚̣̯̣̤͈̖͉͚̫͈͕̺̰̰̣̮̳̮̦͕͕̻͚̲̦̟̱̃͂́̐͑̍̈́̋́̿̽̈́̅̾̋̕̚͝͠͝ͅͅͅH̵̭̤͔͇̝̮͎̻̰͙̥͇̹̐̎͑͋̄̾̈́́͊̄̾́͐̋͐̔͆̇̈́͛̈́͗̄̓͒͐̉̉̆̈́̈͒͐̋̌͗͆̌́͑̏̌̚̚̚̚̚̕͝͝Ư̴̢̧̧̡̧͚̘̣̞̻̝̺̦̦̘̲̤̦̹͖͙̯̜͓͈͇̮̰̥̗̻̭̝̩̣̠̥̻͚̭̜͇̩͈̓̅̐́̀̇̇͊̉͒̋̅͒̓́́̃̑͋͌͒͐͗̒̃̈̉̄̽̋͒̔̎͑͗̆̀̊̑̌̾̾͘͘̕̕͜͜ͅR̶̡̨̗̜̤̳̝̖͉̱̜͇̬̤͖̦̩̩̼͉̱̟̱̙̟̪̪̙͔͈͉̱͇̳͒̽͒̾̏̅̉̿̋͒͋͘͜͝T̸̢̡̢̛̛̖͔̬̥̯͓̟͔̮̯̯͕̰̲̗̝͖̥̖̱̤̭͓͙̟̦̮͓̪̤̱̖̹͇̼̣̫̤̠̥̳̱̤̻̍̌̀̈́͑͆̈́̐̅͛̈́͑̆̀̉̋̑́́̍̔̓̈̊͒̂͗̿̅̋͗̃́̀͐́̂́̂̈́̅́̂͘̕͝͝͠͝Ș̵̨̧̨̛̖͇͈͙̻͔̲̞̜͓͎̲̩͔̺̟̬͎̲̯̺̺̰̟͕̫̥̤͓̥͔̦̯̯̞̯̝̳̺̲͎͐̊̆͆̿̅̅̊̓́̇̈́̀̈́̔̽̈́̇͗̔̿̄͂̔̒́̍̿̌̈̅̓̋͂̄̃̔̂̂̓̒̐̓̀̚͘̚̕͜͜͠͠͝͝ ̸̢̧̢̢̧̨̛̱̩̰͉̩̳̬̻̟̦̞̣̥̪̝̥̗̫̺̦̗̺̜͚̮͈͍̰͕̞͎̞̫̜͔̹̓̌̋̓̈̏̉͂̀̏̈̂͌͐̔̏̎̌̃̒̈́͛̄̽̇͗̍̈́̓̚̚̚̕I̷̫̘̬̠̦͚͉̹̓̅́̈̋͋̾̀̃̾̇͜͝͠Ţ̵̧̢̛̛̘̮̗̲̻̹͎̩̥̭̙̫̫̳̼̮̘͔̗̰͕͎̻̖̖͕͋̅̇̈̂́̋͐̾͑̀̀͐̑̀͆̎̋͌̈́̂̈̿͐̒͗͋̒̄̐̓̆̍̿́͒͛̋̓̓͘̚͝͠͝ͅͅͅͅ ̸̢͚̦̭̱̭͇͕͖̙͉̞͖̻̹̩̩̲̻̄̓̉̐̌̌̓̓̒̀̑̃͋͛̀̎͑͋̑̓̈́́͋̊̾̈́͑̅́͒̄̔͂͌͘͘͝͝͝ͅḨ̸̢̢̛̠̪͈͎̺̰̬̹̹̺̳̞͓̥̤̥͎͎͚̘͎̹͔͕͍͚̻͎̺͖̮̹̼͕̣͇̲̉̔͛̓̐̑̈̿̀̇̒̎͗́̽̑̏̽̽͒̂͂̿̕͘̚͘̕̕͜͜͝͠͝͝͝Ŭ̴̩̞̫̻̺͖͉̄͊̍̀́̈́̍̂́̓̎͛̓̐̈́͆̆̈́̈́͊̍̄̀̕̚̕̕͝͝Ṟ̵̛̠̗͍͉̱͐̒̈́͗͑̇̇́͐́̈̄̾̀̄͌̆͋̇́̈́̇̓̒̚̕̕͘̕͠͝T̴̛̜͔̼͙͕͕̜̮͐̆́̂̾̍̿̔̀̓͒͑̔̅̀͆͗̆͗͒͋̽̀͒̚̚͝ͅS̵̢̧̢̛̞͕͇͓̬̖̖̳̝̲̗̜̣̖̙̖͉͙͇̮̟̘̥͔̳̹̗̣̹͚̬̪͓̼͓̥͕̖̅̐̒́̀̓̓͌͊͗̑͋̒̓͋̓̉̈́̈́̀͂̋͛̅͛́̅̆͘͘͜͜ͅͅͅ ̸̢̨͖̯̰̖̮͓̥͍̟̩̳̠̜̙̿͊͋̆̒́͒̾͐̐̌̈́̐̔̅̃͆͋͑̎͘͘͠͝Ị̸̢̡̢̛̼̠̱̳̰̮̖̳̞̣̺͒̔̇̎́̍̂̊́͒̽̈̄͛̽͛̓͐̆̔͌̈́͆̒̔̓̆͒͌̇͒̏͛̈́̿̏̋̈́͐̅́̋̚̚͜͜͝ͅT̸̜͖̰̰͍́̀̀͛͆ ̸̡̛̛͕͔̺͇̦̭̠̱̯̥̜̮̉̅̔̇̑̒̓̿̆̏̈́̈͌̌̋̌͑͆̍̒̄̂̿͌̊͑̃̈́͐̄̅̚͘̚͝͠͝H̸̢̨̢̨̧̨̢̢̧̢̛̖͍̰̻̣̯̥̝͔̫̬̹͇͙͔̦̬̺̝̼̱͚̲̪̩̻̪̮͎͈̞͍̃̃̾͌̀̀̒͆͑̉́̋͗͗̏͒͒̽̀̽͆̌̿̀̒͒̔͂͛̌̓͂͑͋̽͊̿̀͆͒̐̕͜͝͠Ư̴̢̨̡̹̺̰͙̫͚͕̙̦̝̘̠̼͍̼̹͍̮̦͕͙͖̫̥̤͓͕̠͇̗̣̳̰̲̞̝̱͒̀̋̀͑̓̃̎̋͒̅̾̊͗͌̓́͘͜͠͠͠ͅŖ̴̡̛̛̬̗̞͌̉̾̀̑̀͌́̾͑̃͗̑͒̂̄̆̓͝Ţ̶̡̧̛̛͇̗͙͓̰̹̖̮͚͓̺̭͈̘̗̺̦̟̪̭̭̺̜̳͙̩̤̦̰̗̞͑̎́́̆͛͌̄̔͊́͂̇̾̈͂̊͌͗̈́͊̍͆̔̉̽̓̍̇̅̔̆̃̀͗̌̕̚̚͝͠͠͠ͅŞ̴̨̣͕̤̟̻͒̋͌̇̎̊̓̑̔̐̔̍̒̅͊̅̈́̓͆̉̈́̈́́͗͋̀́͆̎̌̌̋́̀̈́̀̀͛́́̅̚͠͝ ̸̡̡̛̠͉͔̳̲͕̬͎͇̦͈͓̟̭͖̹̬͔̙̫͚̘͓̭͉͚̣̺͈̲͇̘͖͈͇̈́̀̒̔̓͆̅̆̊͌̇͑̔̍̀̍̚̚ͅͅI̵͓͈̤̻̰̻̫͐̀͛̽̆̋̂͂̎̃͊̈́͘T̶̛̺̪̙̺̗̜̗̈́̓̆̿̀̈́̓̑́́̃̑̓̌̂̀̂͑̇͐̐̀̃̑̃̑̓͌͗̿͂̔̀̌̚͘̕͝͝ ̶̨̢̨̡̟̣͇̱͉͍̠͉̺̮̹͎̭͔̩̺͎̻͕̫͎̥̲͔̽͗̽͆͗͑̌͊̈́͛̆͑̅͋͒́̃̊̿̆̿̄̈́̀̆̐͒̄̍̌̑̿̊̊͊̚͜͝͝͝͠ͅH̷̢̨̢̧̢̳͈̪̪̬̙̻̮̥͙̮͉̣̙̫͉̖̬͍͈̹̻͎̳͕͈͍̙͕͍̘̹̙͎̥͔̝̖̰̀̓̊̐̇͆͂̓̕͜͜͜͠U̴̡̡̩̘̯̗̮̚Ŗ̵̡̛̫̼̳̼̹͓̩̟̙͇̞̬̲̮͔̠̣͇̬̙̥̦̩͍̄̄̎̀͆͋̃̆̃͋͛̈̈͑̈́͌̏̇͗̆̽̒̎͗̓̽̃͊̊̇͑͊͑̆͌̓̍͌̄̑̽̆̈́̅̕͘͝͝͝ͅT̷̨̧̨̧̢̘͕̫͍̟̯̗̤̗̱͕̭̲̖̖͇̰͇̻̠̲̮͕̜͍̼̩̠͕̲̥̬͇͙͔̳̣̖̗͈̻̒̂͂̂͗̍́́̑̋͛̒̒́̋̓̒̈́͛̾̔͑͊͝ͅS̴̛͚̫̺͑̄̾̈́͋́̉̈͗̄̐̽̎͗͒̈̅̇̽̌̋͗̐͋͐͗̈͝͝ ̷̨̢̛̛̛̼̜̰̥̲̬̞̙͇̠̭̹͙̫̞̣̘̹̯͖̗͍̞̝̲̘̺̇͗̍͋̓͒͐̉̿̅̈̀͆̆͌̀́̾̾̈́̽̂̓̓̌͛̎̐̀́̍͒̃̎̈́͗́̅͘̚͜͝͝Í̵̢̡̨̧̧̢̛̪͓̙͇̪̫̣͔̞̲̙̲͓̫̦̣͓͍̺̯͇̣̺͈͕͍̬͓͇͔̺̹̜̲̟̟̪̞̟̬͙͗͛̄͂̎̓͋̚͜͜͝͝ͅͅͅT̶̨̺̩̼͍̗͎͋͌̓͊̍͛̿̐̅̇͐̋̏̌͗̐̔͛̌̌̌͆͗̍̿̓̈́̔̒́̃̈̉͒̅͑́̊̓̿͂̅̚͘͘̕͠͝͝͠ ̴̬͓̦͒̋̋̑̑́̒̎̽͆̆̓͐̇́̅͝͠H̴̨̛̠̼͙̤̮̝̯̳̰̲̫̘̬̩̻̫͖̝̓̾͋͊͊̇̀̍̈́̊̓͒̀̋̈͆̆̽͌̀͒́́́̉̌́̏̀̿̕̕̕̕̕͜͝͝͝U̵̡̨̨̧̝͚̯̝̥̘̺͉͖͔͈̝̳̹̮̘̖͖̖͎͚̯͖̮̬̬͚̰̠͓̾͒͛̃̄̾͠͝͝R̷̡̢̛̛̰̩͕̮̳̦͍̺̭̮͖̼̞̗̹͈͎̱͕̔̾͛̿̋̋̂͂͂̀́̅̅̑̋̍͗̂̾͗͛͆̅̊̽̚ͅT̸̡̛͓̪͎̥͖̰̹̬͕̳̯̪̝̝͖̅̿̌̏͒̈̕͘S̷̢̨̡̨͙̘̥̗̘̰̜̦̞̜͖̫̤̥̦̱͚̼̭̘̖͍̺̤̜͚̬̖̠͍̩̯̜̺̪͓̬͇͔̗̺̞̎̉̌̐̐̇́̇͋̽͐́̍͋̇̌̈́͆͌̎̓́͒̓̓̋̈́̄̀͋̏͒̓̕̕͘͝͠͝͠ ̴̡̢̨͎̝͕̭͚̝̹̜͉̙̜̤̹̩̻̬̜̠̜̲͖͓̞͙̤͎̹̤̖̼̘͕̠̗̱̯̘̝͚̗͕̯̮͔̱̟̋͐́̓̔̾́̍̈́̾̓͑̋̂̎̇͑̒̒̏̆̓̒͘̕̕͝ͅĮ̶̡̨̧̬͔̙̫̲͉̰̪̻͙̬̺͎̘̩̱̜̰͓̙̖̝͉̱̲͎̪̟͕̪̟̉̓͐͌͜ͅͅͅŢ̷̛̟͇̤̥̙͙̙̫͇͎̠̭̫̠̈́̒̓̊̓͊́̆̔̑̑́͛̈́ͅ ̸̢̨̨̡̰̳̙̯͕̞̮̪͔̞̘̼̙͈͚̫̙͙͇̌̂̈̿̍͗̐̊̑͆̂̇͆̓́͛̓́͜H̴̛͇̬̞͔̾̌̃̓̀͒̅̈́̎̓́́̊͊̀̆͘̚͘͝͝͝U̵̧̧̥̗̲̥͇̱̱̞̦͇̺͙̰̱̯͓͋̈́̍̈́̌͊̽̀͋̆͊̓̈́̊̋̉̈́̓̿̈́̍̆̔̂̓͂̽̀̓́͌́̈́̆̆͆̈́͗̒̈́̃̾͝͠͠R̶̨̨̡̛̛̜̮̖̤̪̰̖̬̱̠̣̙͕̺͔͚͉̼̻͎̩͙̯̘͆̓̐͒̎͋͋̈́̀̔̽͛̈́͑̔̍̾̀̀̿̒͆̀̕͜͠ͅṰ̶̯͚̫͎̦̠̈́̿̄͊́̈́̉̀͌̏̇̅̑̂̽̂̐͛̅̏̒͛̈́͜͜͝͝S̵̢̡̡̛̤͎̘̤̤̜̤̖̯̼̱͔͈͍͖̼̳̮̘̩̺̫̘̯̬͙̈̓̓͋͗͒̃͒̐͊͆̑̏́̊̽̿͒̋͒̓͋͛̅̏̕͜͜͠ͅ ̷̨̡̩̪̟̫̘͉̞̮̠͇̦̭̲͔̘̪̭͎̱̝̤̼̙̺͚̺̣̦͖̲̜̻̹̼̺̝͑̓͗̎̔͊̍͒̆̄̌͋̉́̓̊́̽͑̇̀͛̒̋́̈́̚̚̕̚͜͜͝͠ͅͅĮ̴̧̢̢̨̛̛͈̠͕͚͙̺̺̲̞͖͇̰͓͚͍̺̠̣̞͍̓̍̿͗̾͒̊̽̈̇̽͌̐̊͆͐̍̃̔̀͋́̒͊͐̈̍̃̏͛̀͆͛̃̀͂̈́̽̃̑͑͘̕͜͜͠͠͝Ṱ̸̨̢̛͇̱͔̗̜͚̰͚̲͓̜̜̝̣̱̙̯͍̟̳̥̍̅̃̌̿̏̒̍͐͒̌͐̀̾͒̀̉̒͗̾̎̌͆̈̋̄̋̇͒́͛̽̋̂͌̚̚͜͝ ̴̢̡̧̢̢̧͔͈͚̥͍̺̹͓̠̤̻̦̥̜͉̜̙̠̬͓̥̳̬̪͎̳̮̟̪̫͖̘̩̝͕͈̣́͑̇̄͌͛́̉̎̃̊̍̇̑̀́̅̔́̐͒̅̌͆͌́̓̉͑͋͑̎̉̃̃̐̓̾͐̃͐͘̕͝͝͠ͅH̴̢̨̨̢̡̛̛̦̰̯͙̦͙̱̤͕̭̠͓̞̺͕͎͉̭̫͓̠͖͉̬̦̤̹̤̝̪͕̖̱͇̗̩͓̩̤͚̞̟̘́̆̉̋͗̿͋̂͆͑̈́̏̽̈́̃̾̀̔̈́́̈́̒͆̏̽̐̋̄͆̿̉͒́̓̐̑͘̕̕̚̕͜͜͝͝͝͝U̷̢̢̢̨̧̖͚̻̜̲̣̠̪͉͖̝͇̞͕̫̙̤̞͖̥̙̘̬̝̝̪̘͔͂̔̌̅̄̇̂̃̓̿̌͋̽̃̈́̍͆̈́͆͂̐̇̆̈͋̅͘͘͝͝͝͝͠ͅŖ̵̛͎̥̤͍̲̤̼̦̻̬͙̭̳͕̤̩͙̲̞̼͈̹̱̖̥̜̳̮̘͚̺̲͈̘̞͚͈͎͉̩͖̔̓̽͗͌̈́͗́̍̃̄̆̈́̎̍̋̑͋̏̏̔̃́̏̋̔͐̿̔͘̕Ţ̵̢̛͔͙̣͚͕͓̦̙̼͎͒̏̓̍̏̈͐̉͒́̆̈͆̓̂̒͐̽͗̏̔̾̒̏̏̈́̕͘̚͘͝͝ͅS̴̛̛̱̜͚͇͍̗͉̩͇̻̙͕͛̑́́̒̽̔̄̀͐̒̎̌̓͋̓̽̎̅̀͊̈̏͒́̓̇͌͑́̚̚͝͝ ̶̢̧̢̢̛͈͈̬̖͈̦͖̳̗̯̦͕̩͍̳͈̖̠̜̻͍̜͔̭̦͕͖͖̟̤͎̘̩͙̞̻̹͍̖̠̺͑̈̇́̾̈́́̈́́̄̔̀͋̉̈́̀͗̿̽́͒̆̏̌̒̀͌̕͘͜͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅĮ̷̛̛͖̘̤͉̜̮͔̲̭̲̙͚̝̞̟̩̫̦͎̖̼̦̙̝͕̻̳̤̘͔̣̥̪̮͎̪̼̲͍͖̩͇̟͓̯͛̏̏̐̎͆̃̋͗̾̓͆͗̈͊̍̉͑͗̌́̌̇́̆̆̊̿͆͒̐̒͑͐̆͆͒͂̂͑̃̈̓̌̚̚̕͝͝ͅͅͅŢ̸̛̛̪͍̮͍̭̦̪͚̈́̂̊̿̍́͌̌̎́̽͆̋̂̒̈́̓͒̂̋́̓̀͐͋͛̽͂̚̕͘͝͠͝ ̷̨̨̡̢̧̧̢̨̛͎̹̣͕̰͖̪͓͓͕͚̙͚̬̖̟̤̟͉̥͈̝͈̠̘̟͈̬̀̂̄̈́̂̏̔̓̓͊̌̋̒́̀͌̎́͛̾̈́͂̂͆͋̄́͒̌̅̅́̀̀̚̕̚͘͜͜͠͠͠͝ͅH̶̡̨̢̡̢̡̛̗̹̬̥̲̝̩͚͓͓̯̞͚̯͓̯̪͕̞̱̩̠̙͇̣̝͎̖͙̫͕̦̩͈̰̩̹͍̱̥͙̳̰͛̑͌͆̈̏̏̒̌̎̌́͑̍̃́̋̿́̈̈́̇͛͑̉͂̔͝͠͝Ư̵̢̰͇͚͕̰̼̩̹̝͕̰̯̬͔͙̹̹͓̱̹͔̭̻͚̜͔̮͛̓̈́́͋̀̔̄̈́̌͂̊͐̇̏̈́̎̄̍͛̿͂̋̓͋͊͊̑̐̀͐͊͛̔̑͛̅̋͂̈̇̿͆̚̚͜͜͠͝͝͝ͅŖ̷̧̢̛̩͉̤̞̹̖̱͈̼̼̖̞̙̺̫͙̰̹̩̖̱̬̝̥̩̮̞̜̮̟͖͙͖̖̻͎͔̪̤̂̈́͋̈͑͒̓͛̾̃̑̔̓̓̈̈́͛͑̅̆͆̇́̆̂̎̈́̐̿̆́̀͐̆̾͛̃̑́̓̓̏͊̎̅̕͜͜͠͠͠͠͝ͅͅT̷̨̤͖̝̻͎̲͙͍̙̤͓͖̝̳̞̰̳̫̜͔͚̲͚̽̊̆͗̏͌̍̆̃͐́́́̊́͐̾͑̄͒́̽̉͒̎̊̓̓̽̋͛̃̐̓̎̏̈́̓͐͂̒̆̎̑̀̓̽̏͜͝͝͠͝ͅS̶̡̬̥̣̰̍̈́̊͂̓̀̓̔̈́̕͝͠͝ ̵̢̡̡̪̙̫̟̺̩̞̖̣̘͓̤̠̭̘͎͇̗̓̔̾͗̈̅͊̒̂̈́̍̇͜͜͝͠Į̷̢̝͓͙̬̝͈̙̦͎̙̖̬̻͕̲͚̳̥̭͇̤̳͇̯͍͈͈̰̘̺͔̻̰͈̙͕̘͕̯̘̥̀̈́̾̔̈̈́͌́̌̓̂̏̆̒̀̾͆̈́͒̈́̔̃̅́̓͒͊̈́͂̎̏̔̉̅̂͂͂́́̑̌̔͑̆̿̒͋̕͜͜͝ͅͅͅT̶̨̡̢̧̨̨̨̢̧̢̛̻̤̜̺͖͚͇̟̘̤͎̳̯̙̣̟̳̼̫̭̯̟̰̭̞̬͍̦͉̥̝̥̺̩̫̣̘̫͊̿̒͊̈́̽͐̍̀̓̿̂͋̆̒̑̈́͂̐̓̎̐͐̂̑̎̎͜͜͠ͅ ̴̯̿H̸̨̨̛̟̪͇͚̲͕̫͔̰͔͙̙͇̺͖͙̯̻͙̹̤̽̈̎̓͆̾̇͐̓͒̅́̌͊̊̊̔̓̃̒͐̂͂̆̀͐͐͂̀̀̒̆̄̔̈́̀͆̇̈́͛͑͑̈́̔͘͝͝͝͝ͅỨ̵̡̧̛̛̭̙͈̘̠̖̭̗̜̬̯̙̙̻͉̌̏̒̊̃̐̔̈̋̎̈͗̇̆̓̆́͌̓̃̐̄̽̓͒̃̅̄̚̕̕͠͝Ŗ̵̢̢̡̳͉̗̗̺̹͔̖̯̳͍̖͙̣͖͚̠̫̲̭̲̳͉̞̼̙̝̲̺̪̲͕̤̖̬̝̖͓͙̬̆̍̇͂̕͝T̷̛̛̼͔̘͓̹̤͙͛̌͗͌̂͛͑͆̄̿͗̀̀͋̉͐̿͋̔̍͋̋͊͑͆̔̔̓̃̎̋̇͑̃́̇͒̍̚̕̚̕͝S̵̨̧̨̞̮̝̰͉̖̮̟̰̮̼͉̳͇͚̟̦̼̮̺͇͈̟̥͇͔̖̺̎̈͒͗̕͜͜͠ ̶͚͠I̶͎͠T̸͚͑ ̸͚̈Ĥ̴̝Ū̴̩R̴̨̃T̴̙̓Ș̵̕ ̷̩͘I̶̮̎T̶̠̓ ̵̫̈H̸̢̽U̸͓̓R̶͍̅T̶͇̓S̷̢̎ ̶̫̿Ḯ̷̮Ṯ̴͌ ̷͔̉Ḫ̶̈Ù̶̖R̷͖͂T̷͉́S̶͖̾ ̵̙̎I̵͖͒T̵̖͝ ̶̫̍H̸̬̔Ú̸͕R̸̬͂T̴̬̚Ṡ̵̳ ̷̟͐I̸̳͠T̸͈̄ ̵̯̓H̶̗̉U̸͍̐Ŗ̵̈T̸͔͗S̵̫̓ ̶̧͒I̶̊͜T̷̰̆ ̷͇͝H̸͓̑U̵̟̍R̸̫̽T̶̨̽S̴̝͋ ̵͇͋I̷̬͝T̸̝͆ ̴͕͑Ḫ̶̈U̴̡͆R̷̫̅T̸͚̂S̵͇̄ ̵̨͝I̸͐ͅT̶̤̈́ ̵̙̏H̷͈͐Ú̶̹R̶͉̒T̴̼̈́S̷̤̈́ ̷̛̪İ̴̠T̷̯́ ̷̏ͅH̷̗̆U̸͍͂R̶̮̎T̶̹͝S̶̯͌ ̸̺͆I̴͜͝T̶̰̉ ̵̧̒H̵͙̑Ų̷͝Ŕ̶͖T̴̤̈S̷̞̒ ̵̳̒Ȉ̶̞T̵̙̎ ̷̫̆H̴͚͂U̶͎͗R̴͚̒T̴̰̑S̷̛̘ ̸̨̕Ị̷̌T̸͓̄ ̵̤͊H̴͍̔Ú̴͓R̶̟͌T̷͕̈S̸̜̉ I̷̔͜T̴͕͗ ̶̱̇Ȟ̸͖Ṵ̶͝R̴͈̚T̷̺̈́S̷̼̐ ̷̟͛I̶̭͗T̴͍̉ ̵͕͝H̵̱̎U̴͚̚R̶̭̂T̸̳̀S̵͖̊ ̷̗̄I̸̭͂T̶͓͗ ̸͇̕H̶̢̕Ư̵͓R̵̖̎Ț̷̔S̶̎͜ ̷̦̽I̶̗͗Ṫ̸̳ ̷̰̽H̴̼͆Ů̶͉R̵̨̿T̵̖͊S̷͕̀ ̸͈̐I̸͔̐T̶͚̃ ̶̢͠H̸̜̊U̷̲͊R̸̰̄T̶͚̿Ś̶̮ ̸̪̎I̵̞̿T̷͕̃ ̷̨̈H̶̤̽Ṷ̴̀Ṛ̷̓T̶̨̉S̷̻͗ ̴͚̿Ö̶̠H̵̯̿ ̴̫̐G̷͕̾Ò̶͉D̸̙͑ ̷̤̽I̵̢͑T̸̲̓ ̶̘̑H̷͖̆Ṷ̶͗R̷̰̔T̵̼͊S̶͙̑ ̶͚͠I̶͎͠T̸͚͑ ̸͚̈Ĥ̴̝Ū̴̩R̴̨̃T̴̙̓Ș̵̕ ̷̩͘I̶̮̎T̶̠̓ ̵̫̈H̸̢̽U̸͓̓R̶͍̅T̶͇̓S̷̢̎ ̶̫̿Ḯ̷̮Ṯ̴͌ ̷͔̉Ḫ̶̈Ù̶̖R̷͖͂T̷͉́S̶͖̾ ̵̙̎I̵͖͒T̵̖͝ ̶̫̍H̸̬̔Ú̸͕R̸̬͂T̴̬̚Ṡ̵̳ ̷̟͐I̸̳͠T̸͈̄ ̵̯̓H̶̗̉U̸͍̐Ŗ̵̈T̸͔͗S̵̫̓ ̶̧͒I̶̊͜T̷̰̆ ̷͇͝H̸͓̑U̵̟̍R̸̫̽T̶̨̽S̴̝͋ ̵͇͋I̷̬͝T̸̝͆ ̴͕͑Ḫ̶̈U̴̡͆R̷̫̅T̸͚̂S̵͇̄ ̵̨͝I̸͐ͅT̶̤̈́ ̵̙̏H̷͈͐Ú̶̹R̶͉̒T̴̼̈́S̷̤̈́ ̷̛̪İ̴̠T̷̯́ ̷̏ͅH̷̗̆U̸͍͂R̶̮̎T̶̹͝S̶̯͌ ̸̺͆I̴͜͝T̶̰̉ ̵̧̒H̵͙̑Ų̷͝Ŕ̶͖T̴̤̈S̷̞̒ ̵̳̒Ȉ̶̞T̵̙̎ ̷̫̆H̴͚͂U̶͎͗R̴͚̒T̴̰̑S̷̛̘ ̸̨̕Ị̷̌T̸͓̄ ̵̤͊H̴͍̔Ú̴͓R̶̟͌T̷͕̈S̸̜̉ I̷̛̲͉̮̯͓̽̉̆̈́̾̍̓̑̇̑͂̃̀̿̓̈́̓̂̔͑̋̓͆̽͌̎̾̉̌̃̀̀͊̇̌̌͘̚͘͝͝͝Ţ̸̦̠̰̩̟̬͚̹̭̠̤͓̠̟̘̪̄̈́̋̍̏̒̐̈́́̾̐̐̓̈̀̓͛̕̚͠͠ ̶̡͇͎̣͉͈̱̰̑̌͋̽̾́̆͐̃͋̕͠Ḣ̶̢̨̨̧̨̖̠̝̗̳̗̫͈̤̪̠̫̆̑̈́̈́̓͒̎̐̔̐̒͛͆̒̓̃̈̾̀͗̿̀̕͝ͅŲ̷̛̛̛̛̰̜̰̮̱̆̃̈͛̂̈́̿̄̉̌̿̂͊͑̎͆̍͛̑̈́̔̎̒̄̒͂̈́̓̉͑͆̽͋̓̚͘̚͘̕͠͠͝͝͝͝Ṙ̵̡̡̡̛̼̯̜̘̠̣̱͓̟̬̹̦͔͍̺̲̖̙̦̗̺̣̳͈̲̬͎͎̬̬̥̞̯̣͍̺̮̞͙͖͓̃͒̄͊̓͊̐́̽̿̽͑̈̾̀̏͒̒̈́̇̕̕͘̚͜͝͝ͅṰ̸̢̨̙̙̫̹̺̰̼̱̰͖̦͕͊̚͜ͅS̴̢̧̛̰̜̥̹̮̗̠̞̳͎̳̥͙͚̞̳̥̪̪̖̩̟͎͈̻̳̮̯͓̦͙̑̄̓̈́̑͌̋̔̿̐̏̑͊̍͋̽̊̉̈̄̍͛̑͒̓͑͌͌́̕͘̚̚͜͝͝͝ͅ ̵̘̹͓̰̼̙̼͖̰͔̣͔̺͍͎͔͓̬̩͕̬͐̔̈́̐̍̈̊̌̓͆͐͂̃̾̌̄͊̏͒͑͐̀̈́̿́̿̒͛͗͆͂̈́̿̚̕͘͝͝͝Į̴̛̪̫̲̭̯̦̖̄̍̈́̇̈̊̈́͂͊͒̂̾͝ͅT̶̻̠̄͆̅̈́̌̒̋͂̓̉̒̂͒̄̎̿͋̈́͊̂̊̉͐̓̀̈́́̓̃̏̀̈́͋̓̿̀̄̐̄̀̂͛̾̀̊̕̚̕͠͝͝ͅ ̷̡̡̧̩͎̼̟̣̺͙͖̤̗̥̖̝̦̼̖͇̓͜Ȟ̴̡̧̢̫̦̻̣̬̻̭̮͔̍͗̌͋̑̑̈́̇͘̚͝͝Û̶̦͓́͂̀̍̅͋̉̀͂̏͂̔͗͊̆̌̔͌̾͑̈́͊̄͛̚̚̚͠͝R̸̡̨̧͉͎͓͈̭̪̤̭̙͉̮͎̝̪͚̻̮͍̞̞̤͕͔̭̮̦̹̠̥̠̮̩̜̺̪͕̬͉͕̼̫̜͈̬̺̃̽͑̂͂̓̌̅͊͐̓͐̔̆́͒̐̆̏̇͂̊̾͆̑̉̂̂̌͛͘T̵̡̡̲̤̲̬̯̥̰̪̝̩̥͇̖͉̭̣̰͙̱͖̗͈͓̜̘̩̬̗̩̺͈̝̤͎͉͈̰̠͎̊͗̏͆̓̓̀͘͜S̷̤͑̑͝ͅ ̸̧͉͈͚̭̼͎̿̋̏̓͐͒́̓̈́̍͑̉̎̄͐̀͠ͅI̸̧̛͙̬̱̬̯̱͖͕̜̥̜͚͚̲̱̪̙͙̝̬̤̝̦̤̯̲̭̘̒͑̓͋̀̈́̓̅͊́̽͂̿̄̒̉̊̉̋̃̎͊͑̇̐̽͑̈̔͌͗̈̾̒͆̃́̀̑̽́̕͜͝͠ͅT̵̨̡͇̲͙̞͚̟̞̘̩̹̺̦͇̠͊̒́͐̓̀̄̈̑͋͑̌̄̀͂̔̉̈͗͘͘͝ ̷̨̨̗͇̬͚͚̮̱͉̥̬̼̜̳̬̯͕̝̰̖͌̎̿͊̃̐̉̓̄̿̂̾̓͂̓́̓̄͗͛̀͊̌̎̌͂̐́̉͗̂͐̅͌͗̿̇̈̾̊̓̂̑͛͘̕̚͜͝͠͝͠ͅH̸̨̧̡͓̲̺͈̙͉̼̱̞̺̺̠̥͖̦̲̜͍̦̦̹̤̫̗͔̱̦̹͍̦̠̘̠͙͚͔̲̲͍̻̋̇͆͜͜ͅU̶̧͇̫̼͚͉̭̲͍͚͈̹̞̮͎͔̭͈̖̪̫̖͖̭̼͓̭̣̖͈̯͙͙͈͚͓͉̳͇̭̰̼̟͚̤̝̒͌͌̇̅̈̌͌̌̑̓̊͜͜͝͠ͅṞ̷̟̪̣̞͓̤̦̈͋̀́̃̾̃̅̆̿̆͋͛̾͋̓͌͂̏͘͝ͅŢ̶̢̡̲̺̤̦̖̜͎̣̻̯͚̠͚̄͋́̈͐̃͘͝S̸̨̢̧̧̧̢̢̛̲̗̖͕̦̱̤͎͚͉͉͖̹̳̞̤͔̝̗͖͉͎̲̳̝̹̗̙͔̩̫͎̩͚͕͇̺̝̦͍̪̋̊̆̈́́͒̑̑͗̓̑̈́̋̒͆̒̈́̍̒̊̍̀͐̆̀͌̕͘͘͜͝͝ͅ ̵̧̢̢̛͎̟̰̲̣̖̰͖̜̹̗͇̦̝̬̥̂̓͆̇̔͛̀̔́̈̅͌͛͛̓̒́̎͋̓̐̿̓̓͆͗́́̈́̈͐̎́̃̆͛͛̐̃͐̂̌̈́͂̚͘̚͜͝͝͠Į̶̛̗̠̱̳̦̓͑̏̎̅͋̉̋̌̀͂T̸̡̨̢̡̧̺̙̝̞̣̪̣̣̗̠͖̘͍́͑͛̑̋̀͐̈͊̊̓́̅́̇̋̓͋̀͐̕͠ ̴̧̨̱̩̩̟̬̗̺͆̌̇͒̆͗̑̈̒̍͑̔̕͝͠H̵̨̛̝̖͈̻̰̟̭̹͕͙͎͍͓̻̮̩̼̪͙̠͈͔̩̝̦͎̞͉͇͍͖͓͖̞̥͖̤̻͚̜̖̮̲̜̏̈͌̓͛̏̓͛͊̇̑̔͊̈́͆̍̓̆̅̓̒͑̋̅̂͂̇͋̌̃͗̀͛̌̆͂̂́̈́̚͘̚͘͜͜͝͝͝U̷̡̨̗̞̩̟̞̪̤̗̖͈̤͈̒̌͒̉̈̊͑͘͠R̵̢̛͎̰͕͎̰̙̝̺͈̣̟̻͇͇͒̓̈́̈́́̾̇̽͆̆̀͌͂̾̋̎̓̿̏̂̀̌̈͗͑̅͆̆̈͐̌̓̐̄̍̀͒̆̔͒̆͗́͆̿̋̕͘͜͜͝͠T̷̡̡̢̧̢̨̢̡̢̛̛͚̹̠͔͕̺͓̪̘̥̻͈͇̞̮̞̣͔̟̳̲͔̥͍̈̒̄̂̈́́̂̒͋͑̆̆̆͂́̀̇̿́̾̎̉̍̎́̀̕͝͠͝͠͝Ş̷͍̪̮̙̲̈́̃́̂͐̈́͒͒̀̑̾̃̾̓̚͘͝͝͠͠ ̵̨̛̟͕̠̮͉͈̺̻͕̖͕̠̜͔̟̣̟̺̩̗͖͓̺̝͍͈̒̋͌͒̋̑͐̉̾̐̐̒̃́̒̇̆̋̿͗̂͗̏̂̂̍̈̉̈̑͒̚͝I̵̬̹̙̮̖̠̳̻̯̳͔̙̙̯̫̘̺̫̥̬̜̲̰͇͙̱̮̜͎̐͜Ṯ̶̡̢̢̧̢̡̘̯͖͍̞͔͉̳̣͇̫͉͚̦̻̭͚̦̯̪̭͙̝̪̦̰̩̲̦̜̹̗̈ ̸̡̨̧̡̨̟͔̰̰̻̭͕͓̙̱̠͉̹̩̥̰̰͇̤̤͖͈͔̩̼̗̟̯͓͎̙͓̭̙̿̄̈́́͑̋͛̈́͜͜͠͠ͅͅH̵̢̛̛̙̯͕̠̺͖̫̤͍̣̣̥͖̙͔̫̰͔̝̺̙͇̙̖̣̠͇̼̮̺̟̥̀͒̎̓́̂͛́̃̀̉̀͊̐͌̆̑́̊̒͂̈̾̈́̃̔͘͘͜͜͜Ǘ̴̧̡̨͙͕̗̲̘̠͉̱̮̜̗̼̬̰̪͇̜͕͓̹̙̦͔̬̪̩̠̙̪̳̮͓̏̓͛͂͛̇̐̌̈͋̄͆̐͋̐̅̂́͂̾̕͜͜͠ͅͅR̶̢͇̬̠͕͉̦͖̱̲̰͕͍̣͔͔͉̟̲͈͔̫̯̉̐̃͆̓̿̋̇̓͆͐̂͋͑̀͋͐̋̅̾̀̆͝͝͠͠͝͝ͅT̵̨̢̛̰͎̭̝̻͎͚̫̤̻̤͍͎̪͉̲̝̮͕̣̠͕̙̬̈̎̒͛̓̿̊̄̍͌̇̉̈́̈̿̃̓̆̕͝͝͠S̷̰͎̹̹͙̲̺̥̫͗̔̋͝ͅ ̶̧̨̛̬̥͎͚̭̱̲̻̤̹̜̪̫̻̤͈͇̪̣͙̺̝̎͊̋̀͊͑͗͆͑͗̏̍͊͛̑̔̐̊͑̌̑̎͒̚I̴̛̞̟͇̙̟̩͚̱̲̳͍͌̅̽̽̋̇̃̊̎̍͑͑̑̓́̾̄̏̐͂̔͋̑̂̄̇̈́̊͊̑̋̓͒̔͋̓̀̿̈́̓͘̚͘͝Ţ̷̢̧̢̛͍̞̭̫̦̺͙͔̟͔͈͙̼̳̮̠͇̳͎̥̠̠̤̤̘͎͎̗͔͉͈͉̹̖̱̼̳͖̗̪̥̱̾̆̿̈͒̇͋͛͂̑͆̽̓́̊̈̈́̋̿̍͊̕̕̕͜͜͝͝ͅ ̵̡̛̜͖̭̘̓͒̈́̈́͒̐̕͝͠H̵̢̡͕̗͔̳͖̙͒͆̈͆̌͆̃͒͒͗̇̈́͘͠U̷̢̧̝̬̳͙͙̦̥̲͓͍̟̜͖̳̣̣̮̺̩̗̾̍̆̈́͌̋̔̇́̈́̔̾͒̾̍̀̀͐́̌̉̈́̑̑̂̉̑̃̿̀̑̏̂̕ͅͅR̵̢̡̡̢̛̛̰̺̰̟͉͍̻͈͓̬͔̪͍̳̩͚͓̫͙̗͕̭̣͓̤͂̒͛͛͒̍̇̅́̆̅̚̕͝Ṫ̷̨̡̧̡̧̡̹̩̻̠̪̜̳̺̩̖̦͓͕̫̫̘̹̣̯̥͓̬̭͜ͅṢ̶̡̡͙̞̲̪͉͖͔̭͉̱̗̂̈́̌̂̽̋͌̓͌͂̋͋̋̆̐̈́̾͜͠ ̷̢̢̛̜̙̖̻̗̼̝̙̖͔̪̭̞̳̙͙͔̖̮̗̮̜̜̹̌͐͒͐̚͘̚ͅI̸̢̨̢̨̢̮̦̠͓̣̬̻̱͈̠͖̣͍̰̭͕͕͙͈̱̥͕̣͍̱̤̙͎̞̪͓̜͌́̍̆̽̎̐͋̈́̓́̈́̇͋͜T̴̢̛̜̯̘̼͖̭̜̩̲͉̼́̍͐̇̀̈́͗̾͌͛́̄̅̅̓̉͊̾̚͘ ̴̡̛̛̟̗̩̙̹̄͒̇̔͋̀̏̒͂͌͊̍̈́̂͆̅̈̿͒̊̓̅̿̊͑͒͗́̎͗̈́͐͋̋̊̀̅̆̕͘̕̚͠͝͠ͅḨ̸̧̧̢̡̛͕̪̗̦̰̰̭̮͙̫̯̱̼̲̠̰̦̮̙͖̯̖̦̞͙̟͙͓̠̹̤͈̺͚̤̦͓̮̦͚̦͍̟͙͔̯̆̈̎̃͛̇́͆͒̽̏̈́̀̊̇̀̆̑́̏̓̅̇̆͛͂͋̐̓̆̿́͐̾͘͘̚̚̕͝Ữ̶̡̢̧̡̧̡͉͙͙͈͈̞͈̹̗̲̼̣͎̠̫̣̦̜̯̳͈̰͙̯͔̭͍͚̪̼̜͇͔̻̅̔̐͑̅̿́͆̐̔̓͆͌͆̑͐̍͋̕̕̚͜͜͜͝Ŗ̸͔͓̼͙̹͇͓̦̝̤̬̬͇͍̭̲̰͔̼͙̙̜̏T̴̨̧̢̢̡̢̰̯͚͙̻̱̣̪̰̯͕̖͈͍̳͕̫̹̦̜̱̳̩̖̟͚̞̩͖̰͓̩̙̮̞̪̼̟̱̥͊̔̀̀̐̾́̒͑̏́̓̒̐̋̾͊̐̀͆̄͒̐̒̆̿́̏̈́͒́͗̆̄͊̏͑̔̕͘̕̚͠S̸̢̡̡̢̢̨͚̜̮͙̲̺̟͈͈̳̹͍͙̠̤̬͇̬̣͙̜͚͈̖̯̱̪̬̬̭͍͉͉̪̱̳̖͖̫̖͍̤̾̿͛̀̃͑̄̓̎͑̉̉̒̔̾̆͆́̈̈́̿̌̉͑͒̅͆̒̌̈́̈́̾͋̇̄̐͒͋̈́̅͐͂̾͂̅͂̊͌̕͝͝ͅ ̶̢̨̨̢̬̦̥͎̞̥͙͇̣͖̜͈͚̯͇̹̜̙͇̭̮̗̻̩͓̠̭̗̯̤̬͔͈̒̈́͊̑͜͝͝Į̴̨̨͇̘̺͕̝̗̗̞͈̫̯̜͆̋̐̋̏ͅT̴̨̢̨̨̛̛̲̝͈̹̱̜̬̣̤̬̙̼̹̺̜̗̤̳̱͓͍̤̹͈͍͗́͊͂̈́́̔̇̔́̽́̈́̊́̏̐̃̋̒͋̑͊̉̌͑̕͘͝ͅͅ ̴̧̛̛̛̦̣̦͕̩̞̝̫̮̗̹̱͕̩͍͔̥̫̠̘͈̺͙͙̼̌̑͗͌͂̽̎͛͑̀͒̀́͒͐͛͑̒̄͒̇̏̐̊̉̈̎̒͌̃̐͌̉̈̽̂́͛͊̌͘̕̚͘͝͠͠H̷̡̢̡̛͚̩͙͕̭̬̰̗̺̮̻͕̪̞̘̝̱̳͓̆̍͒̀̐͂̈́͐͑̑̏̈́̉͊̀̈́͒̆͊̐͆̈́̿̔͆͆̆́͊̏̄̇͋̎̈́̐́̂͋́̽͊̋̚̕̕̚͜͠͝͝͝U̸̧̨̧̧̡̦̩̬̻̪͈̣̞͉̥̜̞̞͎̰̳̩͍͚͈̱̬̳̯͔͓͔̗̣͕̭̹̯̜̻̭̜̞̗̹̫̠̯̝͎͐̈̓̄͒͐̍̽̋̚͘͜R̶̛̙͙͖̩̻̭͓͕̼̮̅̍̾͛̓̌͆̍͒͊͑̏͛͛̌̊͒̇̆̈́̈́͜ͅT̷̢̧̛̺̰͎͚̱̞̙̘̤̲̥̙̺̭̤̜͈̻̫̘̝͓̫͕̰̗̰̪̱̰͙͓̝̖̰͉̟̖͈̀̒͛̈́͂̃̂̒́̅̉͆͆̂̀̈́̂̅̔̄̒̀̌͐͘͜ͅS̸̛̛̯͔̯̦̖͕̪̘̬͚̤̠̠̦͚̬̗̖̮̾͊̿̐̄͌͋̈́̓̅́͑̓̇̈́͆̎́͒̋͐̅̑̌̃̈́̆̆̿̏͂̾̄͊̅́̈́͊̂̒̑́̋͐͘͘̕͝͝ͅ ̴̡̢̛̩̰̪̪̭̠͔͈͈̹̱̠̹̪̪̮͎̣͕͎̮̳̽̂͆̈́͂̿͑̇̀͊͒̏̈́̊͑̌͒̄̍̄̌̕͘͘̕͘͠ͅͅĮ̶̧̛̛͍̺̘̙̖͕̟̬̗̞̺̟͎͎̤̰̺͍̖̭̠̱̖͔̖͖̮̥̼̞̪̮͙̹̳̪̠̜̣̯͖̬̗͎̠͆̓͋̄̒̈́͛̉́̔̍̃̎͒̓͌̂̋͛̊̐̅͑̉̆͌̚̚̕̚ͅͅͅT̶̨̯̰̝̬̺̘͖̟͉͕̐̃ͅ ̶̨̧̢̢̨̝͓̫͔̣̬̲̤̜̞͚̘͈͓̠̩͕̩̖͇͎̙̖̼̤̗̘̰̩͓̫̪͙̱̮̰̻͎͓̮̩͆͆̐̽͌̀̂͋̐͛̄̈́͆̑̄͆̈̄̐̿̅̕͘͠͝͠͝ͅͅH̵̡̡̝̙̮̹̭͎̥̗͇͇̠͚̀̉͗̽̂̿̐̿̿́́͂̏̓͗̅͘U̷̢̢̡͕̘̦̝̥̝̺̘̦̮̺͚̥̣͉̝̤͕̜̖͍͕̟̯͚̮̣̲͚͍͓̬̳̲̺̣͔͙̯̝̹̪͇̭̫͂́̍͊͌̅̽͆͑͗͆̇̾̈̌̋̊͋̄̈́̈̓͝͠͝ͅȒ̴̹̻͑́̏́͊̅̎͌̐̓͌̌̇̕͝͝͝͠͝T̷̛̤̰͍̻̫̺̘͖̪̜̗̦͛̈́̄̀̐̑̐̒͆̉͑̍̈́̃̈́̎͌̂͂̒͗̎͘̚̕̕͘͝͝͝S̸̨̡̧̨̡̡̢͍̯͉̜̟̦͉̭͇̹̜̣̫̣͇̙̞̖̹̣̮͔̥̪̺̙̗̠̦̰̮̗͔̓́̌̅͑̈͋͒͒́̐̂̀̀̈́̚͜͝ͅͅ ̸̛̛̻̠̤̳̝̹̥̦͉̔̄͆̊́̄̇̈́͂͒̆͑̀̐̃̓̌́̋̇͋̅̏͒͛̉̒̆͑͂̕͘͝͝Į̷̡̡̨̧̙̰͇̪̱̟̟͙͓͖͚̭̼̖̱̞̟͔̖̪͚̤̳̗̮̟̯͖̩̭͖͚͙̩͈̰̳͉̭̩̘͖̐̇̏̾̂̔͑́̂̏̆́̓̀̌̽̐̂́͗̊͜͠͠ͅT̸̢̢̡̧̡̲͉͍̥͎̱̤̼̰̯͉̤̭̥͙̗͔̻̜̼͔͙͚̻̱͍̖̫̲̺̍͆͗̎̾̋̀̏͂̒͊͒̈̍̐̈̎͐̽̀̆̎̈́́̆̑̐̍̍͒̆̒̉̿̚ ̸͓̭̳̞̎̒͌͌̊̈͝Ȟ̸͇͚̻̙͎͉͖̫̿͗͊́̀̋̉͌͊́̍̈́̿̈͂̈́̆̚͝ͅṴ̵̡̢̡̼̙͍̖̝͔̬̫̦̬̦̤̺̯̼͔͔̹̘̟̞̤̂͐͑̀͊̓̈́́͂̐̈́̍̌͐̒̾̍̐͌͑́́͋̿͊͆̈́̃̇͌̿͗̉͆͛̆̕͘̚͜͝R̵̨̧͓͎̜̙̜̤̹̙̖̫͚͓̥͙͇̟͈͓̰͔̍̾̈̾̿̒̆̈́͋̓̄͂̐̅̓̑̉̓͆͜͝Ţ̴̭̠̺̲̳̖͕͇̦̯̯̊̔̊͑̍̐̾̾̄̃͒͝ͅS̴̡̹̖̫̣̞̲̼̠̜̀͋͝͝ͅ ̴̢̢̛͖͉̦̘̥̈̒́̅̌͌̿̓̒͒͒̋̃̇͗̄̈́͋̓͆́͂̒͐̂̋̀̿͊͆͆̓̉̿̌̔̐͊͗̈́͂̇̈́̈́͘̕͝͝͠ͅĮ̵̝̫̱͓͔̤͙͙̜͙̗̳͈͇̝̫͈̙̳̻̹̞̭̺̞͈̘̻̳͓͔̭̬͇͇͍̰̙̣̯̞͍͖̦͒͒̄̔͆̾̍̑̓̊̏͗́̾̐̌̒̒̌̈́̓̓̉̀̋̉̇̾͂̓̉̆͗͌͊͆̀̕̕͝͠͝͝T̶̡̡̨̡̡͓̗̼̺̪͕̪̲͇͍̗̫̫̏̿̀ ̶̢̢̧̨̤̪͖̠͚̜̞̩͉̼͉͚̣̯̣̤͈̖͉͚̫͈͕̺̰̰̣̮̳̮̦͕͕̻͚̲̦̟̱̃͂́̐͑̍̈́̋́̿̽̈́̅̾̋̕̚͝͠͝ͅͅͅH̵̭̤͔͇̝̮͎̻̰͙̥͇̹̐̎͑͋̄̾̈́́͊̄̾́͐̋͐̔͆̇̈́͛̈́͗̄̓͒͐̉̉̆̈́̈͒͐̋̌͗͆̌́͑̏̌̚̚̚̚̚̕͝͝Ư̴̢̧̧̡̧͚̘̣̞̻̝̺̦̦̘̲̤̦̹͖͙̯̜͓͈͇̮̰̥̗̻̭̝̩̣̠̥̻͚̭̜͇̩͈̓̅̐́̀̇̇͊̉͒̋̅͒̓́́̃̑͋͌͒͐͗̒̃̈̉̄̽̋͒̔̎͑͗̆̀̊̑̌̾̾͘͘̕̕͜͜ͅR̶̡̨̗̜̤̳̝̖͉̱̜͇̬̤͖̦̩̩̼͉̱̟̱̙̟̪̪̙͔͈͉̱͇̳͒̽͒̾̏̅̉̿̋͒͋͘͜͝T̸̢̡̢̛̛̖͔̬̥̯͓̟͔̮̯̯͕̰̲̗̝͖̥̖̱̤̭͓͙̟̦̮͓̪̤̱̖̹͇̼̣̫̤̠̥̳̱̤̻̍̌̀̈́͑͆̈́̐̅͛̈́͑̆̀̉̋̑́́̍̔̓̈̊͒̂͗̿̅̋͗̃́̀͐́̂́̂̈́̅́̂͘̕͝͝͠͝Ș̵̨̧̨̛̖͇͈͙̻͔̲̞̜͓͎̲̩͔̺̟̬͎̲̯̺̺̰̟͕̫̥̤͓̥͔̦̯̯̞̯̝̳̺̲͎͐̊̆͆̿̅̅̊̓́̇̈́̀̈́̔̽̈́̇͗̔̿̄͂̔̒́̍̿̌̈̅̓̋͂̄̃̔̂̂̓̒̐̓̀̚͘̚̕͜͜͠͠͝͝ ̸̢̧̢̢̧̨̛̱̩̰͉̩̳̬̻̟̦̞̣̥̪̝̥̗̫̺̦̗̺̜͚̮͈͍̰͕̞͎̞̫̜͔̹̓̌̋̓̈̏̉͂̀̏̈̂͌͐̔̏̎̌̃̒̈́͛̄̽̇͗̍̈́̓̚̚̚̕I̷̫̘̬̠̦͚͉̹̓̅́̈̋͋̾̀̃̾̇͜͝͠Ţ̵̧̢̛̛̘̮̗̲̻̹͎̩̥̭̙̫̫̳̼̮̘͔̗̰͕͎̻̖̖͕͋̅̇̈̂́̋͐̾͑̀̀͐̑̀͆̎̋͌̈́̂̈̿͐̒͗͋̒̄̐̓̆̍̿́͒͛̋̓̓͘̚͝͠͝ͅͅͅͅ ̸̢͚̦̭̱̭͇͕͖̙͉̞͖̻̹̩̩̲̻̄̓̉̐̌̌̓̓̒̀̑̃͋͛̀̎͑͋̑̓̈́́͋̊̾̈́͑̅́͒̄̔͂͌͘͘͝͝͝ͅḨ̸̢̢̛̠̪͈͎̺̰̬̹̹̺̳̞͓̥̤̥͎͎͚̘͎̹͔͕͍͚̻͎̺͖̮̹̼͕̣͇̲̉̔͛̓̐̑̈̿̀̇̒̎͗́̽̑̏̽̽͒̂͂̿̕͘̚͘̕̕͜͜͝͠͝͝͝Ŭ̴̩̞̫̻̺͖͉̄͊̍̀́̈́̍̂́̓̎͛̓̐̈́͆̆̈́̈́͊̍̄̀̕̚̕̕͝͝Ṟ̵̛̠̗͍͉̱͐̒̈́͗͑̇̇́͐́̈̄̾̀̄͌̆͋̇́̈́̇̓̒̚̕̕͘̕͠͝T̴̛̜͔̼͙͕͕̜̮͐̆́̂̾̍̿̔̀̓͒͑̔̅̀͆͗̆͗͒͋̽̀͒̚̚͝ͅS̵̢̧̢̛̞͕͇͓̬̖̖̳̝̲̗̜̣̖̙̖͉͙͇̮̟̘̥͔̳̹̗̣̹͚̬̪͓̼͓̥͕̖̅̐̒́̀̓̓͌͊͗̑͋̒̓͋̓̉̈́̈́̀͂̋͛̅͛́̅̆͘͘͜͜ͅͅͅ ̸̢̨͖̯̰̖̮͓̥͍̟̩̳̠̜̙̿͊͋̆̒́͒̾͐̐̌̈́̐̔̅̃͆͋͑̎͘͘͠͝Ị̸̢̡̢̛̼̠̱̳̰̮̖̳̞̣̺͒̔̇̎́̍̂̊́͒̽̈̄͛̽͛̓͐̆̔͌̈́͆̒̔̓̆͒͌̇͒̏͛̈́̿̏̋̈́͐̅́̋̚̚͜͜͝ͅT̸̜͖̰̰͍́̀̀͛͆ ̸̡̛̛͕͔̺͇̦̭̠̱̯̥̜̮̉̅̔̇̑̒̓̿̆̏̈́̈͌̌̋̌͑͆̍̒̄̂̿͌̊͑̃̈́͐̄̅̚͘̚͝͠͝H̸̢̨̢̨̧̨̢̢̧̢̛̖͍̰̻̣̯̥̝͔̫̬̹͇͙͔̦̬̺̝̼̱͚̲̪̩̻̪̮͎͈̞͍̃̃̾͌̀̀̒͆͑̉́̋͗͗̏͒͒̽̀̽͆̌̿̀̒͒̔͂͛̌̓͂͑͋̽͊̿̀͆͒̐̕͜͝͠Ư̴̢̨̡̹̺̰͙̫͚͕̙̦̝̘̠̼͍̼̹͍̮̦͕͙͖̫̥̤͓͕̠͇̗̣̳̰̲̞̝̱͒̀̋̀͑̓̃̎̋͒̅̾̊͗͌̓́͘͜͠͠͠ͅŖ̴̡̛̛̬̗̞͌̉̾̀̑̀͌́̾͑̃͗̑͒̂̄̆̓͝Ţ̶̡̧̛̛͇̗͙͓̰̹̖̮͚͓̺̭͈̘̗̺̦̟̪̭̭̺̜̳͙̩̤̦̰̗̞͑̎́́̆͛͌̄̔͊́͂̇̾̈͂̊͌͗̈́͊̍͆̔̉̽̓̍̇̅̔̆̃̀͗̌̕̚̚͝͠͠͠ͅŞ̴̨̣͕̤̟̻͒̋͌̇̎̊̓̑̔̐̔̍̒̅͊̅̈́̓͆̉̈́̈́́͗͋̀́͆̎̌̌̋́̀̈́̀̀͛́́̅̚͠͝ ̸̡̡̛̠͉͔̳̲͕̬͎͇̦͈͓̟̭͖̹̬͔̙̫͚̘͓̭͉͚̣̺͈̲͇̘͖͈͇̈́̀̒̔̓͆̅̆̊͌̇͑̔̍̀̍̚̚ͅͅI̵͓͈̤̻̰̻̫͐̀͛̽̆̋̂͂̎̃͊̈́͘T̶̛̺̪̙̺̗̜̗̈́̓̆̿̀̈́̓̑́́̃̑̓̌̂̀̂͑̇͐̐̀̃̑̃̑̓͌͗̿͂̔̀̌̚͘̕͝͝ ̶̨̢̨̡̟̣͇̱͉͍̠͉̺̮̹͎̭͔̩̺͎̻͕̫͎̥̲͔̽͗̽͆͗͑̌͊̈́͛̆͑̅͋͒́̃̊̿̆̿̄̈́̀̆̐͒̄̍̌̑̿̊̊͊̚͜͝͝͝͠ͅH̷̢̨̢̧̢̳͈̪̪̬̙̻̮̥͙̮͉̣̙̫͉̖̬͍͈̹̻͎̳͕͈͍̙͕͍̘̹̙͎̥͔̝̖̰̀̓̊̐̇͆͂̓̕͜͜͜͠U̴̡̡̩̘̯̗̮̚Ŗ̵̡̛̫̼̳̼̹͓̩̟̙͇̞̬̲̮͔̠̣͇̬̙̥̦̩͍̄̄̎̀͆͋̃̆̃͋͛̈̈͑̈́͌̏̇͗̆̽̒̎͗̓̽̃͊̊̇͑͊͑̆͌̓̍͌̄̑̽̆̈́̅̕͘͝͝͝ͅT̷̨̧̨̧̢̘͕̫͍̟̯̗̤̗̱͕̭̲̖̖͇̰͇̻̠̲̮͕̜͍̼̩̠͕̲̥̬͇͙͔̳̣̖̗͈̻̒̂͂̂͗̍́́̑̋͛̒̒́̋̓̒̈́͛̾̔͑͊͝ͅS̴̛͚̫̺͑̄̾̈́͋́̉̈͗̄̐̽̎͗͒̈̅̇̽̌̋͗̐͋͐͗̈͝͝ ̷̨̢̛̛̛̼̜̰̥̲̬̞̙͇̠̭̹͙̫̞̣̘̹̯͖̗͍̞̝̲̘̺̇͗̍͋̓͒͐̉̿̅̈̀͆̆͌̀́̾̾̈́̽̂̓̓̌͛̎̐̀́̍͒̃̎̈́͗́̅͘̚͜͝͝Í̵̢̡̨̧̧̢̛̪͓̙͇̪̫̣͔̞̲̙̲͓̫̦̣͓͍̺̯͇̣̺͈͕͍̬͓͇͔̺̹̜̲̟̟̪̞̟̬͙͗͛̄͂̎̓͋̚͜͜͝͝ͅͅͅT̶̨̺̩̼͍̗͎͋͌̓͊̍͛̿̐̅̇͐̋̏̌͗̐̔͛̌̌̌͆͗̍̿̓̈́̔̒́̃̈̉͒̅͑́̊̓̿͂̅̚͘͘̕͠͝͝͠ ̴̬͓̦͒̋̋̑̑́̒̎̽͆̆̓͐̇́̅͝͠H̴̨̛̠̼͙̤̮̝̯̳̰̲̫̘̬̩̻̫͖̝̓̾͋͊͊̇̀̍̈́̊̓͒̀̋̈͆̆̽͌̀͒́́́̉̌́̏̀̿̕̕̕̕̕͜͝͝͝U̵̡̨̨̧̝͚̯̝̥̘̺͉͖͔͈̝̳̹̮̘̖͖̖͎͚̯͖̮̬̬͚̰̠͓̾͒͛̃̄̾͠͝͝R̷̡̢̛̛̰̩͕̮̳̦͍̺̭̮͖̼̞̗̹͈͎̱͕̔̾͛̿̋̋̂͂͂̀́̅̅̑̋̍͗̂̾͗͛͆̅̊̽̚ͅT̸̡̛͓̪͎̥͖̰̹̬͕̳̯̪̝̝͖̅̿̌̏͒̈̕͘S̷̢̨̡̨͙̘̥̗̘̰̜̦̞̜͖̫̤̥̦̱͚̼̭̘̖͍̺̤̜͚̬̖̠͍̩̯̜̺̪͓̬͇͔̗̺̞̎̉̌̐̐̇́̇͋̽͐́̍͋̇̌̈́͆͌̎̓́͒̓̓̋̈́̄̀͋̏͒̓̕̕͘͝͠͝͠ ̴̡̢̨͎̝͕̭͚̝̹̜͉̙̜̤̹̩̻̬̜̠̜̲͖͓̞͙̤͎̹̤̖̼̘͕̠̗̱̯̘̝͚̗͕̯̮͔̱̟̋͐́̓̔̾́̍̈́̾̓͑̋̂̎̇͑̒̒̏̆̓̒͘̕̕͝ͅĮ̶̡̨̧̬͔̙̫̲͉̰̪̻͙̬̺͎̘̩̱̜̰͓̙̖̝͉̱̲͎̪̟͕̪̟̉̓͐͌͜ͅͅͅŢ̷̛̟͇̤̥̙͙̙̫͇͎̠̭̫̠̈́̒̓̊̓͊́̆̔̑̑́͛̈́ͅ ̸̢̨̨̡̰̳̙̯͕̞̮̪͔̞̘̼̙͈͚̫̙͙͇̌̂̈̿̍͗̐̊̑͆̂̇͆̓́͛̓́͜H̴̛͇̬̞͔̾̌̃̓̀͒̅̈́̎̓́́̊͊̀̆͘̚͘͝͝͝U̵̧̧̥̗̲̥͇̱̱̞̦͇̺͙̰̱̯͓͋̈́̍̈́̌͊̽̀͋̆͊̓̈́̊̋̉̈́̓̿̈́̍̆̔̂̓͂̽̀̓́͌́̈́̆̆͆̈́͗̒̈́̃̾͝͠͠R̶̨̨̡̛̛̜̮̖̤̪̰̖̬̱̠̣̙͕̺͔͚͉̼̻͎̩͙̯̘͆̓̐͒̎͋͋̈́̀̔̽͛̈́͑̔̍̾̀̀̿̒͆̀̕͜͠ͅṰ̶̯͚̫͎̦̠̈́̿̄͊́̈́̉̀͌̏̇̅̑̂̽̂̐͛̅̏̒͛̈́͜͜͝͝S̵̢̡̡̛̤͎̘̤̤̜̤̖̯̼̱͔͈͍͖̼̳̮̘̩̺̫̘̯̬͙̈̓̓͋͗͒̃͒̐͊͆̑̏́̊̽̿͒̋͒̓͋͛̅̏̕͜͜͠ͅ ̷̨̡̩̪̟̫̘͉̞̮̠͇̦̭̲͔̘̪̭͎̱̝̤̼̙̺͚̺̣̦͖̲̜̻̹̼̺̝͑̓͗̎̔͊̍͒̆̄̌͋̉́̓̊́̽͑̇̀͛̒̋́̈́̚̚̕̚͜͜͝͠ͅͅĮ̴̧̢̢̨̛̛͈̠͕͚͙̺̺̲̞͖͇̰͓͚͍̺̠̣̞͍̓̍̿͗̾͒̊̽̈̇̽͌̐̊͆͐̍̃̔̀͋́̒͊͐̈̍̃̏͛̀͆͛̃̀͂̈́̽̃̑͑͘̕͜͜͠͠͝Ṱ̸̨̢̛͇̱͔̗̜͚̰͚̲͓̜̜̝̣̱̙̯͍̟̳̥̍̅̃̌̿̏̒̍͐͒̌͐̀̾͒̀̉̒͗̾̎̌͆̈̋̄̋̇͒́͛̽̋̂͌̚̚͜͝ ̴̢̡̧̢̢̧͔͈͚̥͍̺̹͓̠̤̻̦̥̜͉̜̙̠̬͓̥̳̬̪͎̳̮̟̪̫͖̘̩̝͕͈̣́͑̇̄͌͛́̉̎̃̊̍̇̑̀́̅̔́̐͒̅̌͆͌́̓̉͑͋͑̎̉̃̃̐̓̾͐̃͐͘̕͝͝͠ͅH̴̢̨̨̢̡̛̛̦̰̯͙̦͙̱̤͕̭̠͓̞̺͕͎͉̭̫͓̠͖͉̬̦̤̹̤̝̪͕̖̱͇̗̩͓̩̤͚̞̟̘́̆̉̋͗̿͋̂͆͑̈́̏̽̈́̃̾̀̔̈́́̈́̒͆̏̽̐̋̄͆̿̉͒́̓̐̑͘̕̕̚̕͜͜͝͝͝͝U̷̢̢̢̨̧̖͚̻̜̲̣̠̪͉͖̝͇̞͕̫̙̤̞͖̥̙̘̬̝̝̪̘͔͂̔̌̅̄̇̂̃̓̿̌͋̽̃̈́̍͆̈́͆͂̐̇̆̈͋̅͘͘͝͝͝͝͠ͅŖ̵̛͎̥̤͍̲̤̼̦̻̬͙̭̳͕̤̩͙̲̞̼͈̹̱̖̥̜̳̮̘͚̺̲͈̘̞͚͈͎͉̩͖̔̓̽͗͌̈́͗́̍̃̄̆̈́̎̍̋̑͋̏̏̔̃́̏̋̔͐̿̔͘̕Ţ̵̢̛͔͙̣͚͕͓̦̙̼͎͒̏̓̍̏̈͐̉͒́̆̈͆̓̂̒͐̽͗̏̔̾̒̏̏̈́̕͘̚͘͝͝ͅS̴̛̛̱̜͚͇͍̗͉̩͇̻̙͕͛̑́́̒̽̔̄̀͐̒̎̌̓͋̓̽̎̅̀͊̈̏͒́̓̇͌͑́̚̚͝͝ ̶̢̧̢̢̛͈͈̬̖͈̦͖̳̗̯̦͕̩͍̳͈̖̠̜̻͍̜͔̭̦͕͖͖̟̤͎̘̩͙̞̻̹͍̖̠̺͑̈̇́̾̈́́̈́́̄̔̀͋̉̈́̀͗̿̽́͒̆̏̌̒̀͌̕͘͜͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅĮ̷̛̛͖̘̤͉̜̮͔̲̭̲̙͚̝̞̟̩̫̦͎̖̼̦̙̝͕̻̳̤̘͔̣̥̪̮͎̪̼̲͍͖̩͇̟͓̯͛̏̏̐̎͆̃̋͗̾̓͆͗̈͊̍̉͑͗̌́̌̇́̆̆̊̿͆͒̐̒͑͐̆͆͒͂̂͑̃̈̓̌̚̚̕͝͝ͅͅͅŢ̸̛̛̪͍̮͍̭̦̪͚̈́̂̊̿̍́͌̌̎́̽͆̋̂̒̈́̓͒̂̋́̓̀͐͋͛̽͂̚̕͘͝͠͝ ̷̨̨̡̢̧̧̢̨̛͎̹̣͕̰͖̪͓͓͕͚̙͚̬̖̟̤̟͉̥͈̝͈̠̘̟͈̬̀̂̄̈́̂̏̔̓̓͊̌̋̒́̀͌̎́͛̾̈́͂̂͆͋̄́͒̌̅̅́̀̀̚̕̚͘͜͜͠͠͠͝ͅH̶̡̨̢̡̢̡̛̗̹̬̥̲̝̩͚͓͓̯̞͚̯͓̯̪͕̞̱̩̠̙͇̣̝͎̖͙̫͕̦̩͈̰̩̹͍̱̥͙̳̰͛̑͌͆̈̏̏̒̌̎̌́͑̍̃́̋̿́̈̈́̇͛͑̉͂̔͝͠͝Ư̵̢̰͇͚͕̰̼̩̹̝͕̰̯̬͔͙̹̹͓̱̹͔̭̻͚̜͔̮͛̓̈́́͋̀̔̄̈́̌͂̊͐̇̏̈́̎̄̍͛̿͂̋̓͋͊͊̑̐̀͐͊͛̔̑͛̅̋͂̈̇̿͆̚̚͜͜͠͝͝͝ͅŖ̷̧̢̛̩͉̤̞̹̖̱͈̼̼̖̞̙̺̫͙̰̹̩̖̱̬̝̥̩̮̞̜̮̟͖͙͖̖̻͎͔̪̤̂̈́͋̈͑͒̓͛̾̃̑̔̓̓̈̈́͛͑̅̆͆̇́̆̂̎̈́̐̿̆́̀͐̆̾͛̃̑́̓̓̏͊̎̅̕͜͜͠͠͠͠͝ͅͅT̷̨̤͖̝̻͎̲͙͍̙̤͓͖̝̳̞̰̳̫̜͔͚̲͚̽̊̆͗̏͌̍̆̃͐́́́̊́͐̾͑̄͒́̽̉͒̎̊̓̓̽̋͛̃̐̓̎̏̈́̓͐͂̒̆̎̑̀̓̽̏͜͝͝͠͝ͅS̶̡̬̥̣̰̍̈́̊͂̓̀̓̔̈́̕͝͠͝ ̵̢̡̡̪̙̫̟̺̩̞̖̣̘͓̤̠̭̘͎͇̗̓̔̾͗̈̅͊̒̂̈́̍̇͜͜͝͠Į̷̢̝͓͙̬̝͈̙̦͎̙̖̬̻͕̲͚̳̥̭͇̤̳͇̯͍͈͈̰̘̺͔̻̰͈̙͕̘͕̯̘̥̀̈́̾̔̈̈́͌́̌̓̂̏̆̒̀̾͆̈́͒̈́̔̃̅́̓͒͊̈́͂̎̏̔̉̅̂͂͂́́̑̌̔͑̆̿̒͋̕͜͜͝ͅͅͅT̶̨̡̢̧̨̨̨̢̧̢̛̻̤̜̺͖͚͇̟̘̤͎̳̯̙̣̟̳̼̫̭̯̟̰̭̞̬͍̦͉̥̝̥̺̩̫̣̘̫͊̿̒͊̈́̽͐̍̀̓̿̂͋̆̒̑̈́͂̐̓̎̐͐̂̑̎̎͜͜͠ͅ ̴̯̿H̸̨̨̛̟̪͇͚̲͕̫͔̰͔͙̙͇̺͖͙̯̻͙̹̤̽̈̎̓͆̾̇͐̓͒̅́̌͊̊̊̔̓̃̒͐̂͂̆̀͐͐͂̀̀̒̆̄̔̈́̀͆̇̈́͛͑͑̈́̔͘͝͝͝͝ͅỨ̵̡̧̛̛̭̙͈̘̠̖̭̗̜̬̯̙̙̻͉̌̏̒̊̃̐̔̈̋̎̈͗̇̆̓̆́͌̓̃̐̄̽̓͒̃̅̄̚̕̕͠͝Ŗ̵̢̢̡̳͉̗̗̺̹͔̖̯̳͍̖͙̣͖͚̠̫̲̭̲̳͉̞̼̙̝̲̺̪̲͕̤̖̬̝̖͓͙̬̆̍̇͂̕͝T̷̛̛̼͔̘͓̹̤͙͛̌͗͌̂͛͑͆̄̿͗̀̀͋̉͐̿͋̔̍͋̋͊͑͆̔̔̓̃̎̋̇͑̃́̇͒̍̚̕̚̕͝S̵̨̧̨̞̮̝̰͉̖̮̟̰̮̼͉̳͇͚̟̦̼̮̺̎̈͒͗̕͜͠ ̶͚͠I̶͎͠T̸͚͑ ̸͚̈Ĥ̴̝Ū̴̩R̴̨̃T̴̙̓Ș̵̕ ̷̩͘I̶̮̎T̶̠̓ ̵̫̈H̸̢̽U̸͓̓R̶͍̅T̶͇̓S̷̢̎ ̶̫̿Ḯ̷̮Ṯ̴͌ ̷͔̉Ḫ̶̈Ù̶̖R̷͖͂T̷͉́S̶͖̾ ̵̙̎I̵͖͒T̵̖͝ ̶̫̍H̸̬̔Ú̸͕R̸̬͂T̴̬̚Ṡ̵̳ ̷̟͐I̸̳͠T̸͈̄ ̵̯̓H̶̗̉U̸͍̐Ŗ̵̈T̸͔͗S̵̫̓ ̶̧͒I̶̊͜T̷̰̆ ̷͇͝H̸͓̑U̵̟̍R̸̫̽T̶̨̽S̴̝͋ ̵͇͋I̷̬͝T̸̝͆ ̴͕͑Ḫ̶̈U̴̡͆R̷̫̅T̸͚̂S̵͇̄ ̵̨͝I̸͐ͅT̶̤̈́ ̵̙̏H̷͈͐Ú̶̹R̶͉̒T̴̼̈́S̷̤̈́ ̷̛̪İ̴̠T̷̯́ ̷̏ͅH̷̗̆U̸͍͂R̶̮̎T̶̹͝S̶̯͌ ̸̺͆I̴͜͝T̶̰̉ ̵̧̒H̵͙̑Ų̷͝Ŕ̶͖T̴̤̈S̷̞̒ ̵̳̒Ȉ̶̞T̵̙̎ ̷̫̆H̴͚͂U̶͎͗R̴͚̒T̴̰̑S̷̛̘ ̸̨̕Ị̷̌T̸͓̄ ̵̤͊H̴͍̔Ú̴͓R̶̟͌T̷͕̈S̸̜̉ I LOVE YOU I̷̔͜T̴͕͗ ̶̱̇Ȟ̸͖Ṵ̶͝R̴͈̚T̷̺̈́S̷̼̐ ̷̟͛I̶̭͗T̴͍̉ ̵͕͝H̵̱̎U̴͚̚R̶̭̂T̸̳̀S̵͖̊ ̷̗̄I̸̭͂T̶͓͗ ̶̶̶̶̶̶̶̶̢̢̢̢̢̢̢̢͠͠͠͠͠͠͠͠H̸̜̊U̷̲͊R̸̰̄T̶͚̿S ̷̤̽I̵̢͑T̸̲̓ ̶̘̑H̷͖̆Ṷ̶͗R̷̰̔T̵̼͊S̶͙̑ ̶͚͠I̶͎͠T̸͚͑ ̸͚̈Ĥ̴̝Ū̴̩R̴̨̃T̴̙̓Ș̵̕ ̷̩͘I̶̮̎T̶̠̓ ̵̫̈H̸̢̽U̸͓̓R̶͍̅T̶͇̓S̷̢̎ ̶̫̿Ḯ̷̮Ṯ̴͌ ̷͔̉Ḫ̶̈Ù̶̖R̷͖͂T̷͉́S̶͖̾ ̵̙̎I̵͖͒T̵̖͝ ̶̫̍H̸̬̔Ú̸͕R̸̬͂T̴̬̚Ṡ̵̳ ̷̟͐I̸̳͠T̸͈̄ ̵̯̓H̶̗̉U̸͍̐Ŗ̵̈T̸͔͗S̵̫̓ ̶̧͒I̶̊͜T̷̰̆ ̷͇͝H̸͓̑U̵̟̍R̸̫̽T̶̨̽S̴̝͋ ̵͇͋I̷̬͝T̸̝͆ ̴͕͑Ḫ̶̈U̴̡͆R̷̫̅T̸͚̂S̵͇̄ ̵̨͝I̸͐ͅT̶̤̈́ ̵̙̏H̷͈͐Ú̶̹R̶͉̒T̴̼̈́S̷̤̈́ ̷̛̪İ̴̠T̷̯́ ̷̏ͅH̷̗̆U̸͍͂R̶̮̎T̶̹͝S̶̯͌ ̸̺͆I̴͜͝T̶̰̉ ̵̧̒H̵͙̑Ų̷͝Ŕ̶͖T̴̤̈S̷̞̒ ̵̳̒Ȉ̶̞T̵̙̎ ̷̫̆H̴͚͂U̶͎͗R̴͚̒T̴̰̑S̷̛̘ ̸̨̕Ị̷̌T̸͓̄ ̵̤͊H̴͍̔Ú̴͓R̶̟͌T̷͕̈S̸̜̉ I̷̛̲͉̮̯͓̽̉̆̈́̾̍̓̑̇̑͂̃̀̿̓̈́̓̂̔͑̋̓͆̽͌̎̾̉̌̃̀̀͊̇̌̌͘̚͘͝͝͝Ţ̸̦̠̰̩̟̬͚̹̭̠̤͓̠̟̘̪̄̈́̋̍̏̒̐̈́́̾̐̐̓̈̀̓͛̕̚͠͠ ̶̡͇͎̣͉͈̱̰̑̌͋̽̾́̆͐̃͋̕͠Ḣ̶̢̨̨̧̨̖̠̝̗̳̗̫͈̤̪̠̫̆̑̈́̈́̓͒̎̐̔̐̒͛͆̒̓̃̈̾̀͗̿̀̕͝ͅŲ̷̛̛̛̛̰̜̰̮̱̆̃̈͛̂̈́̿̄̉̌̿̂͊͑̎͆̍͛̑̈́̔̎̒̄̒͂̈́̓̉͑͆̽͋̓̚͘̚͘̕͠͠͝͝͝͝Ṙ̵̡̡̡̛̼̯̜̘̠̣̱͓̟̬̹̦͔͍̺̲̖̙̦̗̺̣̳͈̲̬͎͎̬̬̥̞̯̣͍̺̮̞͙͖͓̃͒̄͊̓͊̐́̽̿̽͑̈̾̀̏͒̒̈́̇̕̕͘̚͜͝͝ͅṰ̸̢̨̙̙̫̹̺̰̼̱̰͖̦͕͊̚͜ͅS̴̢̧̛̰̜̥̹̮̗̠̞̳͎̳̥͙͚̞̳̥̪̪̖̩̟͎͈̻̳̮̯͓̦͙̑̄̓̈́̑͌̋̔̿̐̏̑͊̍͋̽̊̉̈̄̍͛̑͒̓͑͌͌́̕͘̚̚͜͝͝͝ͅ ̵̘̹͓̰̼̙̼͖̰͔̣͔̺͍͎͔͓̬̩͕̬͐̔̈́̐̍̈̊̌̓͆͐͂̃̾̌̄͊̏͒͑͐̀̈́̿́̿̒͛͗͆͂̈́̿̚̕͘͝͝͝Į̴̛̪̫̲̭̯̦̖̄̍̈́̇̈̊̈́͂͊͒̂̾͝ͅT̶̻̠̄͆̅̈́̌̒̋͂̓̉̒̂͒̄̎̿͋̈́͊̂̊̉͐̓̀̈́́̓̃̏̀̈́͋̓̿̀̄̐̄̀̂͛̾̀̊̕̚̕͠͝͝ͅ ̷̡̡̧̩͎̼̟̣̺͙͖̤̗̥̖̝̦̼̖͇̓͜Ȟ̴̡̧̢̫̦̻̣̬̻̭̮͔̍͗̌͋̑̑̈́̇͘̚͝͝Û̶̦͓́͂̀̍̅͋̉̀͂̏͂̔͗͊̆̌̔͌̾͑̈́͊̄͛̚̚̚͠͝R̸̡̨̧͉͎͓͈̭̪̤̭̙͉̮͎̝̪͚̻̮͍̞̞̤͕͔̭̮̦̹̠̥̠̮̩̜̺̪͕̬͉͕̼̫̜͈̬̺̃̽͑̂͂̓̌̅͊͐̓͐̔̆́͒̐̆̏̇͂̊̾͆̑̉̂̂̌͛͘T̵̡̡̲̤̲̬̯̥̰̪̝̩̥͇̖͉̭̣̰͙̱͖̗͈͓̜̘̩̬̗̩̺͈̝̤͎͉͈̰̠͎̊͗̏͆̓̓̀͘͜S̷̤͑̑͝ͅ ̸̧͉͈͚̭̼͎̿̋̏̓͐͒́̓̈́̍͑̉̎̄͐̀͠ͅI̸̧̛͙̬̱̬̯̱͖͕̜̥̜͚͚̲̱̪̙͙̝̬̤̝̦̤̯̲̭̘̒͑̓͋̀̈́̓̅͊́̽͂̿̄̒̉̊̉̋̃̎͊͑̇̐̽͑̈̔͌͗̈̾̒͆̃́̀̑̽́̕͜͝͠ͅT̵̨̡͇̲͙̞͚̟̞̘̩̹̺̦͇̠͊̒́͐̓̀̄̈̑͋͑̌̄̀͂̔̉̈͗͘͘͝ ̷̨̨̗͇̬͚͚̮̱͉̥̬̼̜̳̬̯͕̝̰̖͌̎̿͊̃̐̉̓̄̿̂̾̓͂̓́̓̄͗͛̀͊̌̎̌͂̐́̉͗̂͐̅͌͗̿̇̈̾̊̓̂̑͛͘̕̚͜͝͠͝͠ͅH̸̨̧̡͓̲̺͈̙͉̼̱̞̺̺̠̥͖̦̲̜͍̦̦̹̤̫̗͔̱̦̹͍̦̠̘̠͙͚͔̲̲͍̻̋̇͆͜͜ͅU̶̧͇̫̼͚͉̭̲͍͚͈̹̞̮͎͔̭͈̖̪̫̖͖̭̼͓̭̣̖͈̯͙͙͈͚͓͉̳͇̭̰̼̟͚̤̝̒͌͌̇̅̈̌͌̌̑̓̊͜͜͝͠ͅṞ̷̟̪̣̞͓̤̦̈͋̀́̃̾̃̅̆̿̆͋͛̾͋̓͌͂̏͘͝ͅŢ̶̢̡̲̺̤̦̖̜͎̣̻̯͚̠͚̄͋́̈͐̃͘͝S̸̨̢̧̧̧̢̢̛̲̗̖͕̦̱̤͎͚͉͉͖̹̳̞̤͔̝̗͖͉͎̲̳̝̹̗̙͔̩̫͎̩͚͕͇̺̝̦͍̪̋̊̆̈́́͒̑̑͗̓̑̈́̋̒͆̒̈́̍̒̊̍̀͐̆̀͌̕͘͘͜͝͝ͅ ̵̧̢̢̛͎̟̰̲̣̖̰͖̜̹̗͇̦̝̬̥̂̓͆̇̔͛̀̔́̈̅͌͛͛̓̒́̎͋̓̐̿̓̓͆͗́́̈́̈͐̎́̃̆͛͛̐̃͐̂̌̈́͂̚͘̚͜͝͝͠Į̶̛̗̠̱̳̦̓͑̏̎̅͋̉̋̌̀͂T̸̡̨̢̡̧̺̙̝̞̣̪̣̣̗̠͖̘͍́͑͛̑̋̀͐̈͊̊̓́̅́̇̋̓͋̀͐̕͠ ̴̧̨̱̩̩̟̬̗̺͆̌̇͒̆͗̑̈̒̍͑̔̕͝͠H̵̨̛̝̖͈̻̰̟̭̹͕͙͎͍͓̻̮̩̼̪͙̠͈͔̩̝̦͎̞͉͇͍͖͓͖̞̥͖̤̻͚̜̖̮̲̜̏̈͌̓͛̏̓͛͊̇̑̔͊̈́͆̍̓̆̅̓̒͑̋̅̂͂̇͋̌̃͗̀͛̌̆͂̂́̈́̚͘̚͘͜͜͝͝͝U̷̡̨̗̞̩̟̞̪̤̗̖͈̤͈̒̌͒̉̈̊͑͘͠R̵̢̛͎̰͕͎̰̙̝̺͈̣̟̻͇͇͒̓̈́̈́́̾̇̽͆̆̀͌͂̾̋̎̓̿̏̂̀̌̈͗͑̅͆̆̈͐̌̓̐̄̍̀͒̆̔͒̆͗́͆̿̋̕͘͜͜͝͠T̷̡̡̢̧̢̨̢̡̢̛̛͚̹̠͔͕̺͓̪̘̥̻͈͇̞̮̞̣͔̟̳̲͔̥͍̈̒̄̂̈́́̂̒͋͑̆̆̆͂́̀̇̿́̾̎̉̍̎́̀̕͝͠͝͠͝Ş̷͍̪̮̙̲̈́̃́̂͐̈́͒͒̀̑̾̃̾̓̚͘͝͝͠͠ ̵̨̛̟͕̠̮͉͈̺̻͕̖͕̠̜͔̟̣̟̺̩̗͖͓̺̝͍͈̒̋͌͒̋̑͐̉̾̐̐̒̃́̒̇̆̋̿͗̂͗̏̂̂̍̈̉̈̑͒̚͝I̵̬̹̙̮̖̠̳̻̯̳͔̙̙̯̫̘̺̫̥̬̜̲̰͇͙̱̮̜͎̐͜Ṯ̶̡̢̢̧̢̡̘̯͖͍̞͔͉̳̣͇̫͉͚̦̻̭͚̦̯̪̭͙̝̪̦̰̩̲̦̜̹̗̈ ̸̡̨̧̡̨̟͔̰̰̻̭͕͓̙̱̠͉̹̩̥̰̰͇̤̤͖͈͔̩̼̗̟̯͓͎̙͓̭̙̿̄̈́́͑̋͛̈́͜͜͠͠ͅͅH̵̢̛̛̙̯͕̠̺͖̫̤͍̣̣̥͖̙͔̫̰͔̝̺̙͇̙̖̣̠͇̼̮̺̟̥̀͒̎̓́̂͛́̃̀̉̀͊̐͌̆̑́̊̒͂̈̾̈́̃̔͘͘͜͜͜Ǘ̴̧̡̨͙͕̗̲̘̠͉̱̮̜̗̼̬̰̪͇̜͕͓̹̙̦͔̬̪̩̠̙̪̳̮͓̏̓͛͂͛̇̐̌̈͋̄͆̐͋̐̅̂́͂̾̕͜͜͠ͅͅR̶̢͇̬̠͕͉̦͖̱̲̰͕͍̣͔͔͉̟̲͈͔̫̯̉̐̃͆̓̿̋̇̓͆͐̂͋͑̀͋͐̋̅̾̀̆͝͝͠͠͝͝ͅT̵̨̢̛̰͎̭̝̻͎͚̫̤̻̤͍͎̪͉̲̝̮͕̣̠͕̙̬̈̎̒͛̓̿̊̄̍͌̇̉̈́̈̿̃̓̆̕͝͝͠S̷̰͎̹̹͙̲̺̥̫͗̔̋͝ͅ ̶̧̨̛̬̥͎͚̭̱̲̻̤̹̜̪̫̻̤͈͇̪̣͙̺̝̎͊̋̀͊͑͗͆͑͗̏̍͊͛̑̔̐̊͑̌̑̎͒̚I̴̛̞̟͇̙̟̩͚̱̲̳͍͌̅̽̽̋̇̃̊̎̍͑͑̑̓́̾̄̏̐͂̔͋̑̂̄̇̈́̊͊̑̋̓͒̔͋̓̀̿̈́̓͘̚͘͝Ţ̷̢̧̢̛͍̞̭̫̦̺͙͔̟͔͈͙̼̳̮̠͇̳͎̥̠̠̤̤̘͎͎̗͔͉͈͉̹̖̱̼̳͖̗̪̥̱̾̆̿̈͒̇͋͛͂̑͆̽̓́̊̈̈́̋̿̍͊̕̕̕͜͜͝͝ͅ ̵̡̛̜͖̭̘̓͒̈́̈́͒̐̕͝͠H̵̢̡͕̗͔̳͖̙͒͆̈͆̌͆̃͒͒͗̇̈́͘͠U̷̢̧̝̬̳͙͙̦̥̲͓͍̟̜͖̳̣̣̮̺̩̗̾̍̆̈́͌̋̔̇́̈́̔̾͒̾̍̀̀͐́̌̉̈́̑̑̂̉̑̃̿̀̑̏̂̕ͅͅR̵̢̡̡̢̛̛̰̺̰̟͉͍̻͈͓̬͔̪͍̳̩͚͓̫͙̗͕̭̣͓̤͂̒͛͛͒̍̇̅́̆̅̚̕͝Ṫ̷̨̡̧̡̧̡̹̩̻̠̪̜̳̺̩̖̦͓͕̫̫̘̹̣̯̥͓̬̭͜ͅṢ̶̡̡͙̞̲̪͉͖͔̭͉̱̗̂̈́̌̂̽̋͌̓͌͂̋͋̋̆̐̈́̾͜͠ ̷̢̢̛̜̙̖̻̗̼̝̙̖͔̪̭̞̳̙͙͔̖̮̗̮̜̜̹̌͐͒͐̚͘̚ͅI̸̢̨̢̨̢̮̦̠͓̣̬̻̱͈̠͖̣͍̰̭͕͕͙͈̱̥͕̣͍̱̤̙͎̞̪͓̜͌́̍̆̽̎̐͋̈́̓́̈́̇͋͜T̴̢̛̜̯̘̼͖̭̜̩̲͉̼́̍͐̇̀̈́͗̾͌͛́̄̅̅̓̉͊̾̚͘ ̴̡̛̛̟̗̩̙̹̄͒̇̔͋̀̏̒͂͌͊̍̈́̂͆̅̈̿͒̊̓̅̿̊͑͒͗́̎͗̈́͐͋̋̊̀̅̆̕͘̕̚͠͝͠ͅḨ̸̧̧̢̡̛͕̪̗̦̰̰̭̮͙̫̯̱̼̲̠̰̦̮̙͖̯̖̦̞͙̟͙͓̠̹̤͈̺͚̤̦͓̮̦͚̦͍̟͙͔̯̆̈̎̃͛̇́͆͒̽̏̈́̀̊̇̀̆̑́̏̓̅̇̆͛͂͋̐̓̆̿́͐̾͘͘̚̚̕͝Ữ̶̡̢̧̡̧̡͉͙͙͈͈̞͈̹̗̲̼̣͎̠̫̣̦̜̯̳͈̰͙̯͔̭͍͚̪̼̜͇͔̻̅̔̐͑̅̿́͆̐̔̓͆͌͆̑͐̍͋̕̕̚͜͜͜͝Ŗ̸͔͓̼͙̹͇͓̦̝̤̬̬͇͍̭̲̰͔̼͙̙̜̏T̴̨̧̢̢̡̢̰̯͚͙̻̱̣̪̰̯͕̖͈͍̳͕̫̹̦̜̱̳̩̖̟͚̞̩͖̰͓̩̙̮̞̪̼̟̱̥͊̔̀̀̐̾́̒͑̏́̓̒̐̋̾͊̐̀͆̄͒̐̒̆̿́̏̈́͒́͗̆̄͊̏͑̔̕͘̕̚͠S̸̢̡̡̢̢̨͚̜̮͙̲̺̟͈͈̳̹͍͙̠̤̬͇̬̣͙̜͚͈̖̯̱̪̬̬̭͍͉͉̪̱̳̖͖̫̖͍̤̾̿͛̀̃͑̄̓̎͑̉̉̒̔̾̆͆́̈̈́̿̌̉͑͒̅͆̒̌̈́̈́̾͋̇̄̐͒͋̈́̅͐͂̾͂̅͂̊͌̕͝͝ͅ ̶̢̨̨̢̬̦̥͎̞̥͙͇̣͖̜͈͚̯͇̹̜̙͇̭̮̗̻̩͓̠̭̗̯̤̬͔͈̒̈́͊̑͜͝͝Į̴̨̨͇̘̺͕̝̗̗̞͈̫̯̜͆̋̐̋̏ͅT̴̨̢̨̨̛̛̲̝͈̹̱̜̬̣̤̬̙̼̹̺̜̗̤̳̱͓͍̤̹͈͍͗́͊͂̈́́̔̇̔́̽́̈́̊́̏̐̃̋̒͋̑͊̉̌͑̕͘͝ͅͅ ̴̧̛̛̛̦̣̦͕̩̞̝̫̮̗̹̱͕̩͍͔̥̫̠̘͈̺͙͙̼̌̑͗͌͂̽̎͛͑̀͒̀́͒͐͛͑̒̄͒̇̏̐̊̉̈̎̒͌̃̐͌̉̈̽̂́͛͊̌͘̕̚͘͝͠͠H̷̡̢̡̛͚̩͙͕̭̬̰̗̺̮̻͕̪̞̘̝̱̳͓̆̍͒̀̐͂̈́͐͑̑̏̈́̉͊̀̈́͒̆͊̐͆̈́̿̔͆͆̆́͊̏̄̇͋̎̈́̐́̂͋́̽͊̋̚̕̕̚͜͠͝͝͝U̸̧̨̧̧̡̦̩̬̻̪͈̣̞͉̥̜̞̞͎̰̳̩͍͚͈̱̬̳̯͔͓͔̗̣͕̭̹̯̜̻̭̜̞̗̹̫̠̯̝͎͐̈̓̄͒͐̍̽̋̚͘͜R̶̛̙͙͖̩̻̭͓͕̼̮̅̍̾͛̓̌͆̍͒͊͑̏͛͛̌̊͒̇̆̈́̈́͜ͅT̷̢̧̛̺̰͎͚̱̞̙̘̤̲̥̙̺̭̤̜͈̻̫̘̝͓̫͕̰̗̰̪̱̰͙͓̝̖̰͉̟̖͈̀̒͛̈́͂̃̂̒́̅̉͆͆̂̀̈́̂̅̔̄̒̀̌͐͘͜ͅS̸̛̛̯͔̯̦̖͕̪̘̬͚̤̠̠̦͚̬̗̖̮̾͊̿̐̄͌͋̈́̓̅́͑̓̇̈́͆̎́͒̋͐̅̑̌̃̈́̆̆̿̏͂̾̄͊̅́̈́͊̂̒̑́̋͐͘͘̕͝͝ͅ ̴̡̢̛̩̰̪̪̭̠͔͈͈̹̱̠̹̪̪̮͎̣͕͎̮̳̽̂͆̈́͂̿͑̇̀͊͒̏̈́̊͑̌͒̄̍̄̌̕͘͘̕͘͠ͅͅĮ̶̧̛̛͍̺̘̙̖͕̟̬̗̞̺̟͎͎̤̰̺͍̖̭̠̱̖͔̖͖̮̥̼̞̪̮͙̹̳̪̠̜̣̯͖̬̗͎̠͆̓͋̄̒̈́͛̉́̔̍̃̎͒̓͌̂̋͛̊̐̅͑̉̆͌̚̚̕̚ͅͅͅT̶̨̯̰̝̬̺̘͖̟͉͕̐̃ͅ ̶̨̧̢̢̨̝͓̫͔̣̬̲̤̜̞͚̘͈͓̠̩͕̩̖͇͎̙̖̼̤̗̘̰̩͓̫̪͙̱̮̰̻͎͓̮̩͆͆̐̽͌̀̂͋̐͛̄̈́͆̑̄͆̈̄̐̿̅̕͘͠͝͠͝ͅͅH̵̡̡̝̙̮̹̭͎̥̗͇͇̠͚̀̉͗̽̂̿̐̿̿́́͂̏̓͗̅͘U̷̢̢̡͕̘̦̝̥̝̺̘̦̮̺͚̥̣͉̝̤͕̜̖͍͕̟̯͚̮̣̲͚͍͓̬̳̲̺̣͔͙̯̝̹̪͇̭̫͂́̍͊͌̅̽͆͑͗͆̇̾̈̌̋̊͋̄̈́̈̓͝͠͝ͅȒ̴̹̻͑́̏́͊̅̎͌̐̓͌̌̇̕͝͝͝͠͝T̷̛̤̰͍̻̫̺̘͖̪̜̗̦͛̈́̄̀̐̑̐̒͆̉͑̍̈́̃̈́̎͌̂͂̒͗̎͘̚̕̕͘͝͝͝S̸̨̡̧̨̡̡̢͍̯͉̜̟̦͉̭͇̹̜̣̫̣͇̙̞̖̹̣̮͔̥̪̺̙̗̠̦̰̮̗͔̓́̌̅͑̈͋͒͒́̐̂̀̀̈́̚͜͝ͅͅ ̸̛̛̻̠̤̳̝̹̥̦͉̔̄͆̊́̄̇̈́͂͒̆͑̀̐̃̓̌́̋̇͋̅̏͒͛̉̒̆͑͂̕͘͝͝Į̷̡̡̨̧̙̰͇̪̱̟̟͙͓͖͚̭̼̖̱̞̟͔̖̪͚̤̳̗̮̟̯͖̩̭͖͚͙̩͈̰̳͉̭̩̘͖̐̇̏̾̂̔͑́̂̏̆́̓̀̌̽̐̂́͗̊͜͠͠ͅT̸̢̢̡̧̡̲͉͍̥͎̱̤̼̰̯͉̤̭̥͙̗͔̻̜̼͔͙͚̻̱͍̖̫̲̺̍͆͗̎̾̋̀̏͂̒͊͒̈̍̐̈̎͐̽̀̆̎̈́́̆̑̐̍̍͒̆̒̉̿̚ ̸͓̭̳̞̎̒͌͌̊̈͝Ȟ̸͇͚̻̙͎͉͖̫̿͗͊́̀̋̉͌͊́̍̈́̿̈͂̈́̆̚͝ͅṴ̵̡̢̡̼̙͍̖̝͔̬̫̦̬̦̤̺̯̼͔͔̹̘̟̞̤̂͐͑̀͊̓̈́́͂̐̈́̍̌͐̒̾̍̐͌͑́́͋̿͊͆̈́̃̇͌̿͗̉͆͛̆̕͘̚͜͝R̵̨̧͓͎̜̙̜̤̹̙̖̫͚͓̥͙͇̟͈͓̰͔̍̾̈̾̿̒̆̈́͋̓̄͂̐̅̓̑̉̓͆͜͝Ţ̴̭̠̺̲̳̖͕͇̦̯̯̊̔̊͑̍̐̾̾̄̃͒͝ͅS̴̡̹̖̫̣̞̲̼̠̜̀͋͝͝ͅ ̴̢̢̛͖͉̦̘̥̈̒́̅̌͌̿̓̒͒͒̋̃̇͗̄̈́͋̓͆́͂̒͐̂̋̀̿͊͆͆̓̉̿̌̔̐͊͗̈́͂̇̈́̈́͘̕͝͝͠ͅĮ̵̝̫̱͓͔̤͙͙̜͙̗̳͈͇̝̫͈̙̳̻̹̞̭̺̞͈̘̻̳͓͔̭̬͇͇͍̰̙̣̯̞͍͖̦͒͒̄̔͆̾̍̑̓̊̏͗́̾̐̌̒̒̌̈́̓̓̉̀̋̉̇̾͂̓̉̆͗͌͊͆̀̕̕͝͠͝͝T̶̡̡̨̡̡͓̗̼̺̪͕̪̲͇͍̗̫̫̏̿̀ ̶̢̢̧̨̤̪͖̠͚̜̞̩͉̼͉͚̣̯̣̤͈̖͉͚̫͈͕̺̰̰̣̮̳̮̦͕͕̻͚̲̦̟̱̃͂́̐͑̍̈́̋́̿̽̈́̅̾̋̕̚͝͠͝ͅͅͅH̵̭̤͔͇̝̮͎̻̰͙̥͇̹̐̎͑͋̄̾̈́́͊̄̾́͐̋͐̔͆̇̈́͛̈́͗̄̓͒͐̉̉̆̈́̈͒͐̋̌͗͆̌́͑̏̌̚̚̚̚̚̕͝͝Ư̴̢̧̧̡̧͚̘̣̞̻̝̺̦̦̘̲̤̦̹͖͙̯̜͓͈͇̮̰̥̗̻̭̝̩̣̠̥̻͚̭̜͇̩͈̓̅̐́̀̇̇͊̉͒̋̅͒̓́́̃̑͋͌͒͐͗̒̃̈̉̄̽̋͒̔̎͑͗̆̀̊̑̌̾̾͘͘̕̕͜͜ͅR̶̡̨̗̜̤̳̝̖͉̱̜͇̬̤͖̦̩̩̼͉̱̟̱̙̟̪̪̙͔͈͉̱͇̳͒̽͒̾̏̅̉̿̋͒͋͘͜͝T̸̢̡̢̛̛̖͔̬̥̯͓̟͔̮̯̯͕̰̲̗̝͖̥̖̱̤̭͓͙̟̦̮͓̪̤̱̖̹͇̼̣̫̤̠̥̳̱̤̻̍̌̀̈́͑͆̈́̐̅͛̈́͑̆̀̉̋̑́́̍̔̓̈̊͒̂͗̿̅̋͗̃́̀͐́̂́̂̈́̅́̂͘̕͝͝͠͝Ș̵̨̧̨̛̖͇͈͙̻͔̲̞̜͓͎̲̩͔̺̟̬͎̲̯̺̺̰̟͕̫̥̤͓̥͔̦̯̯̞̯̝̳̺̲͎͐̊̆͆̿̅̅̊̓́̇̈́̀̈́̔̽̈́̇͗̔̿̄͂̔̒́̍̿̌̈̅̓̋͂̄̃̔̂̂̓̒̐̓̀̚͘̚̕͜͜͠͠͝͝ ̸̢̧̢̢̧̨̛̱̩̰͉̩̳̬̻̟̦̞̣̥̪̝̥̗̫̺̦̗̺̜͚̮͈͍̰͕̞͎̞̫̜͔̹̓̌̋̓̈̏̉͂̀̏̈̂͌͐̔̏̎̌̃̒̈́͛̄̽̇͗̍̈́̓̚̚̚̕I̷̫̘̬̠̦͚͉̹̓̅́̈̋͋̾̀̃̾̇͜͝͠Ţ̵̧̢̛̛̘̮̗̲̻̹͎̩̥̭̙̫̫̳̼̮̘͔̗̰͕͎̻̖̖͕͋̅̇̈̂́̋͐̾͑̀̀͐̑̀͆̎̋͌̈́̂̈̿͐̒͗͋̒̄̐̓̆̍̿́͒͛̋̓̓͘̚͝͠͝ͅͅͅͅ ̸̢͚̦̭̱̭͇͕͖̙͉̞͖̻̹̩̩̲̻̄̓̉̐̌̌̓̓̒̀̑̃͋͛̀̎͑͋̑̓̈́́͋̊̾̈́͑̅́͒̄̔͂͌͘͘͝͝͝ͅḨ̸̢̢̛̠̪͈͎̺̰̬̹̹̺̳̞͓̥̤̥͎͎͚̘͎̹͔͕͍͚̻͎̺͖̮̹̼͕̣͇̲̉̔͛̓̐̑̈̿̀̇̒̎͗́̽̑̏̽̽͒̂͂̿̕͘̚͘̕̕͜͜͝͠͝͝͝Ŭ̴̩̞̫̻̺͖͉̄͊̍̀́̈́̍̂́̓̎͛̓̐̈́͆̆̈́̈́͊̍̄̀̕̚̕̕͝͝Ṟ̵̛̠̗͍͉̱͐̒̈́͗͑̇̇́͐́̈̄̾̀̄͌̆͋̇́̈́̇̓̒̚̕̕͘̕͠͝T̴̛̜͔̼͙͕͕̜̮͐̆́̂̾̍̿̔̀̓͒͑̔̅̀͆͗̆͗͒͋̽̀͒̚̚͝ͅS̵̢̧̢̛̞͕͇͓̬̖̖̳̝̲̗̜̣̖̙̖͉͙͇̮̟̘̥͔̳̹̗̣̹͚̬̪͓̼͓̥͕̖̅̐̒́̀̓̓͌͊͗̑͋̒̓͋̓̉̈́̈́̀͂̋͛̅͛́̅̆͘͘͜͜ͅͅͅ ̸̢̨͖̯̰̖̮͓̥͍̟̩̳̠̜̙̿͊͋̆̒́͒̾͐̐̌̈́̐̔̅̃͆͋͑̎͘͘͠͝Ị̸̢̡̢̛̼̠̱̳̰̮̖̳̞̣̺͒̔̇̎́̍̂̊́͒̽̈̄͛̽͛̓͐̆̔͌̈́͆̒̔̓̆͒͌̇͒̏͛̈́̿̏̋̈́͐̅́̋̚̚͜͜͝ͅT̸̜͖̰̰͍́̀̀͛͆ ̸̡̛̛͕͔̺͇̦̭̠̱̯̥̜̮̉̅̔̇̑̒̓̿̆̏̈́̈͌̌̋̌͑͆̍̒̄̂̿͌̊͑̃̈́͐̄̅̚͘̚͝͠͝H̸̢̨̢̨̧̨̢̢̧̢̛̖͍̰̻̣̯̥̝͔̫̬̹͇͙͔̦̬̺̝̼̱͚̲̪̩̻̪̮͎͈̞͍̃̃̾͌̀̀̒͆͑̉́̋͗͗̏͒͒̽̀̽͆̌̿̀̒͒̔͂͛̌̓͂͑͋̽͊̿̀͆͒̐̕͜͝͠Ư̴̢̨̡̹̺̰͙̫͚͕̙̦̝̘̠̼͍̼̹͍̮̦͕͙͖̫̥̤͓͕̠͇̗̣̳̰̲̞̝̱͒̀̋̀͑̓̃̎̋͒̅̾̊͗͌̓́͘͜͠͠͠ͅŖ̴̡̛̛̬̗̞͌̉̾̀̑̀͌́̾͑̃͗̑͒̂̄̆̓͝Ţ̶̡̧̛̛͇̗͙͓̰̹̖̮͚͓̺̭͈̘̗̺̦̟̪̭̭̺̜̳͙̩̤̦̰̗̞͑̎́́̆͛͌̄̔͊́͂̇̾̈͂̊͌͗̈́͊̍͆̔̉̽̓̍̇̅̔̆̃̀͗̌̕̚̚͝͠͠͠ͅŞ̴̨̣͕̤̟̻͒̋͌̇̎̊̓̑̔̐̔̍̒̅͊̅̈́̓͆̉̈́̈́́͗͋̀́͆̎̌̌̋́̀̈́̀̀͛́́̅̚͠͝ ̸̡̡̛̠͉͔̳̲͕̬͎͇̦͈͓̟̭͖̹̬͔̙̫͚̘͓̭͉͚̣̺͈̲͇̘͖͈͇̈́̀̒̔̓͆̅̆̊͌̇͑̔̍̀̍̚̚ͅͅI̵͓͈̤̻̰̻̫͐̀͛̽̆̋̂͂̎̃͊̈́͘T̶̛̺̪̙̺̗̜̗̈́̓̆̿̀̈́̓̑́́̃̑̓̌̂̀̂͑̇͐̐̀̃̑̃̑̓͌͗̿͂̔̀̌̚͘̕͝͝ ̶̨̢̨̡̟̣͇̱͉͍̠͉̺̮̹͎̭͔̩̺͎̻͕̫͎̥̲͔̽͗̽͆͗͑̌͊̈́͛̆͑̅͋͒́̃̊̿̆̿̄̈́̀̆̐͒̄̍̌̑̿̊̊͊̚͜͝͝͝͠ͅH̷̢̨̢̧̢̳͈̪̪̬̙̻̮̥͙̮͉̣̙̫͉̖̬͍͈̹̻͎̳͕͈͍̙͕͍̘̹̙͎̥͔̝̖̰̀̓̊̐̇͆͂̓̕͜͜͜͠U̴̡̡̩̘̯̗̮̚Ŗ̵̡̛̫̼̳̼̹͓̩̟̙͇̞̬̲̮͔̠̣͇̬̙̥̦̩͍̄̄̎̀͆͋̃̆̃͋͛̈̈͑̈́͌̏̇͗̆̽̒̎͗̓̽̃͊̊̇͑͊͑̆͌̓̍͌̄̑̽̆̈́̅̕͘͝͝͝ͅT̷̨̧̨̧̢̘͕̫͍̟̯̗̤̗̱͕̭̲̖̖͇̰͇̻̠̲̮͕̜͍̼̩̠͕̲̥̬͇͙͔̳̣̖̗͈̻̒̂͂̂͗̍́́̑̋͛̒̒́̋̓̒̈́͛̾̔͑͊͝ͅS̴̛͚̫̺͑̄̾̈́͋́̉̈͗̄̐̽̎͗͒̈̅̇̽̌̋͗̐͋͐͗̈͝͝ ̷̨̢̛̛̛̼̜̰̥̲̬̞̙͇̠̭̹͙̫̞̣̘̹̯͖̗͍̞̝̲̘̺̇͗̍͋̓͒͐̉̿̅̈̀͆̆͌̀́̾̾̈́̽̂̓̓̌͛̎̐̀́̍͒̃̎̈́͗́̅͘̚͜͝͝Í̵̢̡̨̧̧̢̛̪͓̙͇̪̫̣͔̞̲̙̲͓̫̦̣͓͍̺̯͇̣̺͈͕͍̬͓͇͔̺̹̜̲̟̟̪̞̟̬͙͗͛̄͂̎̓͋̚͜͜͝͝ͅͅͅT̶̨̺̩̼͍̗͎͋͌̓͊̍͛̿̐̅̇͐̋̏̌͗̐̔͛̌̌̌͆͗̍̿̓̈́̔̒́̃̈̉͒̅͑́̊̓̿͂̅̚͘͘̕͠͝͝͠ ̴̬͓̦͒̋̋̑̑́̒̎̽͆̆̓͐̇́̅͝͠H̴̨̛̠̼͙̤̮̝̯̳̰̲̫̘̬̩̻̫͖̝̓̾͋͊͊̇̀̍̈́̊̓͒̀̋̈͆̆̽͌̀͒́́́̉̌́̏̀̿̕̕̕̕̕͜͝͝͝U̵̡̨̨̧̝͚̯̝̥̘̺͉͖͔͈̝̳̹̮̘̖͖̖͎͚̯͖̮̬̬͚̰̠͓̾͒͛̃̄̾͠͝͝R̷̡̢̛̛̰̩͕̮̳̦͍̺̭̮͖̼̞̗̹͈͎̱͕̔̾͛̿̋̋̂͂͂̀́̅̅̑̋̍͗̂̾͗͛͆̅̊̽̚ͅT̸̡̛͓̪͎̥͖̰̹̬͕̳̯̪̝̝͖̅̿̌̏͒̈̕͘S̷̢̨̡̨͙̘̥̗̘̰̜̦̞̜͖̫̤̥̦̱͚̼̭̘̖͍̺̤̜͚̬̖̠͍̩̯̜̺̪͓̬͇͔̗̺̞̎̉̌̐̐̇́̇͋̽͐́̍͋̇̌̈́͆͌̎̓́͒̓̓̋̈́̄̀͋̏͒̓̕̕͘͝͠͝͠ ̴̡̢̨͎̝͕̭͚̝̹̜͉̙̜̤̹̩̻̬̜̠̜̲͖͓̞͙̤͎̹̤̖̼̘͕̠̗̱̯̘̝͚̗͕̯̮͔̱̟̋͐́̓̔̾́̍̈́̾̓͑̋̂̎̇͑̒̒̏̆̓̒͘̕̕͝ͅĮ̶̡̨̧̬͔̙̫̲͉̰̪̻͙̬̺͎̘̩̱̜̰͓̙̖̝͉̱̲͎̪̟͕̪̟̉̓͐͌͜ͅͅͅŢ̷̛̟͇̤̥̙͙̙̫͇͎̠̭̫̠̈́̒̓̊̓͊́̆̔̑̑́͛̈́ͅ ̸̢̨̨̡̰̳̙̯͕̞̮̪͔̞̘̼̙͈͚̫̙͙͇̌̂̈̿̍͗̐̊̑͆̂̇͆̓́͛̓́͜lH̴̛͇̬̞͔̾̌̃̓̀͒̅̈́̎̓́́̊͊̀̆͘̚͘͝͝͝U̵̧̧̥̗̲̥͇̱̱̞̦͇̺͙̰̱̯͓͋̈́̍̈́̌͊̽̀͋̆͊̓̈́̊̋̉̈́̓̿̈́̍̆̔̂̓͂̽̀̓́͌́̈́̆̆͆̈́͗̒̈́̃̾͝͠͠R̶̨̨̡̛̛̜̮̖̤̪̰̖̬̱̠̣̙͕̺͔͚͉̼̻͎̩͙̯̘͆̓̐͒̎͋͋̈́̀̔̽͛̈́͑̔̍̾̀̀̿̒͆̀̕͜͠ͅṰ̶̯͚̫͎̦̠̈́̿̄͊́̈́̉̀͌̏̇̅̑̂̽̂̐͛̅̏̒͛̈́͜͜͝͝S̵̢̡̡̛̤͎̘̤̤̜̤̖̯̼̱͔͈͍͖̼̳̮̘̩̺̫̘̯̬͙̈̓̓͋͗͒̃͒̐͊͆̑̏́̊̽̿͒̋͒̓͋͛̅̏̕͜͜͠ͅ ̷̨̡̩̪̟̫̘͉̞̮̠͇̦̭̲͔̘̪̭͎̱̝̤̼̙̺͚̺̣̦͖̲̜̻̹̼̺̝͑̓͗̎̔͊̍͒̆̄̌͋̉́̓̊́̽͑̇̀͛̒̋́̈́̚̚̕̚͜͜͝͠ͅͅĮ̴̧̢̢̨̛̛͈̠͕͚͙̺̺̲̞͖͇̰͓͚͍̺̠̣̞͍̓̍̿͗̾͒̊̽̈̇̽͌̐̊͆͐̍̃̔̀͋́̒͊͐̈̍̃̏͛̀͆͛̃̀͂̈́̽̃̑͑͘̕͜͜͠͠͝Ṱ̸̨̢̛͇̱͔̗̜͚̰͚̲͓̜̜̝̣̱̙̯͍̟̳̥̍̅̃̌̿̏̒̍͐͒̌͐̀̾͒̀̉̒͗̾̎̌͆̈̋̄̋̇͒́͛̽̋̂͌̚̚͜͝ ̴̢̡̧̢̢̧͔͈͚̥͍̺̹͓̠̤̻̦̥̜͉̜̙̠̬͓̥̳̬̪͎̳̮̟̪̫͖̘̩̝͕͈̣́͑̇̄͌͛́̉̎̃̊̍̇̑̀́̅̔́̐͒̅̌͆͌́̓̉͑͋͑̎̉̃̃̐̓̾͐̃͐͘̕͝͝͠ͅH̴̢̨̨̢̡̛̛̦̰̯͙̦͙̱̤͕̭̠͓̞̺͕͎͉̭̫͓̠͖͉̬̦̤̹̤̝̪͕̖̱͇̗̩͓̩̤͚̞̟̘́̆̉̋͗̿͋̂͆͑̈́̏̽̈́̃̾̀̔̈́́̈́̒͆̏̽̐̋̄͆̿̉͒́̓̐̑͘̕̕̚̕͜͜͝͝͝͝U̷̢̢̢̨̧̖͚̻̜̲̣̠̪͉͖̝͇̞͕̫̙̤̞͖̥̙̘̬̝̝̪̘͔͂̔̌̅̄̇̂̃̓̿̌͋̽̃̈́̍͆̈́͆͂̐̇̆̈͋̅͘͘͝͝͝͝͠ͅŖ̵̛͎̥̤͍̲̤̼̦̻̬͙̭̳͕̤̩͙̲̞̼͈̹̱̖̥̜̳̮̘͚̺̲͈̘̞͚͈͎͉̩͖̔̓̽͗͌̈́͗́̍̃̄̆̈́̎̍̋̑͋̏̏̔̃́̏̋̔͐̿̔͘̕Ţ̵̢̛͔͙̣͚͕͓̦̙̼͎͒̏̓̍̏̈͐̉͒́̆̈͆̓̂̒͐̽͗̏̔̾̒̏̏̈́̕͘̚͘͝͝ͅS̴̛̛̱̜͚͇͍̗͉̩͇̻̙͕͛̑́́̒̽̔̄̀͐̒̎̌̓͋̓̽̎̅̀͊̈̏͒́̓̇͌͑́̚̚͝͝ ̶̢̧̢̢̛͈͈̬̖͈̦͖̳̗̯̦͕̩͍̳͈̖̠̜̻͍̜͔̭̦͕͖͖̟̤͎̘̩͙̞̻̹͍̖̠̺͑̈̇́̾̈́́̈́́̄̔̀͋̉̈́̀͗̿̽́͒̆̏̌̒̀͌̕͘͜͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅĮ̷̛̛͖̘̤͉̜̮͔̲̭̲̙͚̝̞̟̩̫̦͎̖̼̦̙̝͕̻̳̤̘͔̣̥̪̮͎̪̼̲͍͖̩͇̟͓̯͛̏̏̐̎͆̃̋͗̾̓͆͗̈͊̍̉͑͗̌́̌̇́̆̆̊̿͆͒̐̒͑͐̆͆͒͂̂͑̃̈̓̌̚̚̕͝͝ͅͅͅŢ̸̛̛̪͍̮͍̭̦̪͚̈́̂̊̿̍́͌̌̎́̽͆̋̂̒̈́̓͒̂̋́̓̀͐͋͛̽͂̚̕͘͝͠͝ ̷̨̨̡̢̧̧̢̨̛͎̹̣͕̰͖̪͓͓͕͚̙͚̬̖̟̤̟͉̥͈̝͈̠̘̟͈̬̀̂̄̈́̂̏̔̓̓͊̌̋̒́̀͌̎́͛̾̈́͂̂͆͋̄́͒̌̅̅́̀̀̚̕̚͘͜͜͠͠͠͝ͅH̶̡̨̢̡̢̡̛̗̹̬̥̲̝̩͚͓͓̯̞͚̯͓̯̪͕̞̱̩̠̙͇̣̝͎̖͙̫͕̦̩͈̰̩̹͍̱̥͙̳̰͛̑͌͆̈̏̏̒̌̎̌́͑̍̃́̋̿́̈̈́̇͛͑̉͂̔͝͠͝Ư̵̢̰͇͚͕̰̼̩̹̝͕̰̯̬͔͙̹̹͓̱̹͔̭̻͚̜͔̮͛̓̈́́͋̀̔̄̈́̌͂̊͐̇̏̈́̎̄̍͛̿͂̋̓͋͊͊̑̐̀͐͊͛̔̑͛̅̋͂̈̇̿͆̚̚͜͜͠͝͝͝ͅŖ̷̧̢̛̩͉̤̞̹̖̱͈̼̼̖̞̙̺̫͙̰̹̩̖̱̬̝̥̩̮̞̜̮̟͖͙͖̖̻͎͔̪̤̂̈́͋̈͑͒̓͛̾̃̑̔̓̓̈̈́͛͑̅̆͆̇́̆̂̎̈́̐̿̆́̀͐̆̾͛̃̑́̓̓̏͊̎̅̕͜͜͠͠͠͠͝ͅͅT̷̨̤͖̝̻͎̲͙͍̙̤͓͖̝̳̞̰̳̫̜͔͚̲͚̽̊̆͗̏͌̍̆̃͐́́́̊́͐̾͑̄͒́̽̉͒̎̊̓̓̽̋͛̃̐̓̎̏̈́̓͐͂̒̆̎̑̀̓̽̏͜͝͝͠͝ͅS̶̡̬̥̣̰̍̈́̊͂̓̀̓̔̈́̕͝͠͝ ̵̢̡̡̪̙̫̟̺̩̞̖̣̘͓̤̠̭̘͎͇̗̓̔̾͗̈̅͊̒̂̈́̍̇͜͜͝͠Į̷̢̝͓͙̬̝͈̙̦͎̙̖̬̻͕̲͚̳̥̭͇̤̳͇̯͍͈͈̰̘̺͔̻̰͈̙͕̘͕̯̘̥̀̈́̾̔̈̈́͌́̌̓̂̏̆̒̀̾͆̈́͒̈́̔̃̅́̓͒͊̈́͂̎̏̔̉̅̂͂͂́́̑̌̔͑̆̿̒͋̕͜͜͝ͅͅͅT̶̨̡̢̧̨̨̨̢̧̢̛̻̤̜̺͖͚͇̟̘̤͎̳̯̙̣̟̳̼̫̭̯̟̰̭̞̬͍̦͉̥̝̥̺̩̫̣̘̫͊̿̒͊̈́̽͐̍̀̓̿̂͋̆̒̑̈́͂̐̓̎̐͐̂̑̎̎͜͜͠ͅ ̴̯̿H̸̨̨̛̟̪͇͚̲͕̫͔̰͔͙̙͇̺͖͙̯̻͙̹̤̽̈̎̓͆̾̇͐̓͒̅́̌͊̊̊̔̓̃̒͐̂͂̆̀͐͐͂̀̀̒̆̄̔̈́̀͆̇̈́͛͑͑̈́̔͘͝͝͝͝ͅỨ̵̡̧̛̛̭̙͈̘̠̖̭̗̜̬̯̙̙̻͉̌̏̒̊̃̐̔̈̋̎̈͗̇̆̓̆́͌̓̃̐̄̽̓͒̃̅̄̚̕̕͠͝Ŗ̵̢̢̡̳͉̗̗̺̹͔̖̯̳͍̖͙̣͖͚̠̫̲̭̲̳͉̞̼̙̝̲̺̪̲͕̤̖̬̝̖͓͙̬̆̍̇͂̕͝T̷̛̛̼͔̘͓̹̤͙͛̌͗͌̂͛͑͆̄̿͗̀̀͋̉͐̿͋̔̍͋̋͊͑͆̔̔̓̃̎̋̇͑̃́̇͒̍̚̕̚̕͝S̵̨̧̨̞̮̝̰͉̖̮̟̰̮̼͉̳͇͚̟̦̼̮̺͇͈̟̥͇͔̖̺̎̈͒͗̕͜͜͠<İ̴̠T̷̯́ ̷̏ͅH̷̗̆U̸͍͂R̶̮̎T̶̹͝S̶̯͌ ̸̺͆I̴͜͝T̶̰̉ ̵̧̒H̵͙̑Ų̷͝Ŕ̶͖T̴̤̈S̷̞̒ ̵̳̒Ȉ̶̞T̵̙̎ ̷̫̆H̴͚͂U̶͎͗R̴͚̒T̴̰̑S̷̛̘ I̵̞̿T̷͕̃ ̷̨̈H̶̤̽Ṷ̴̀Ṛ̷̓T̶̨̉S̷̻͗ ̴͚̿IT H̴͍̔Ú̴͓R̶̟͌T̷͕̈S̸̜̉ I̷̔͜T̴͕͗ ̶̱̇Ȟ̸͖Ṵ̶͝R̴͈̚T̷̺̈́S̷̼̐ ̷̟͛I̶̭͗T̴͍̉ ̵͕͝H̵̱̎U̴͚̚R̶̭̂T̸̳̀S̵͖̊ ̷̗̄I̸̭͂T̶͓͗ ̸͇̕H̶̢̕Ư̵͓R̵̖̎Ț̷̔S̶̎͜ ̷̦̽I̶̗͗Ṫ̸̳ ̷̰̽H̴̼͆Ů̶͉R̵̨̿T̵̖͊S̷͕̀ ̸͈̐I̸͔̐T̶͚̃ ̶̢͠H̸̜̊U̷̲͊R̸̰̄T̶͚̿Ś̶̮ ̸̪̎I̵̞̿T̷͕̃ ̷̨̈H̶̤̽Ṷ̴̀Ṛ̷̓T̶̨̉S̷̻͗ ̴͚̿THIS WAS MISTAKE I'M SORRY MILES I̷̤̽'M SO SORRY I̵̢͑T̸̲̓ ̶̘̑H̷͖̆Ṷ̶͗R̷̰̔T̵̼͊S̶͙̑ ̶͚͠I̶͎͠T̸͚͑ ̸͚̈Ĥ̴̝Ū̴̩R̴̨̃T̴̙̓Ș̵̸̪̎̕I̵̞̿T̷͕̃ ̷̨̈H̶̤̽Ṷ̴̀Ṛ̷̓T̶̨̉S̷̻͗ ̴͚̿Ö̶̠H̵̯̿ ̴̫̐G̷͕̾Ò̶͉D̸̙͑ WHY ̷̩͘I̶̮̎T̶̠̓ ̵̫̈H̸̢̽U̸͓̓R̶͍̅T̶͇̓S̷̢̎ ̶̫̿Ḯ̷̮Ṯ̴͌ ̷͔̉Ḫ̶̈Ù̶̖R̷͖͂T̷͉́S̶͖̾ ̵̙̎I̵͖͒T̵̖͝ ̶̫̍H̸̬̔Ú̸͕R̸̬͂T̴̬̚Ṡ̵̳ ̷̟͐I̸̳͠T̸͈̄ ̵̯̓H̶̗̉U̸͍̐Ŗ̵̈T̸͔͗S̵̫̓ ̶̧͒I̶̊͜T̷̰̆ ̷͇͝H̸͓̑U̵̟̍R̸̫̽T̶̨̽S̴̝͋ ̵͇͋I̷̬͝T̸̝͆ ̴͕͑Ḫ̶̈U̴̡͆R̷̫̅T̸͚̂S̵͇̄ ̵̨͝I̸͐ͅT̶̤̈́ ̵̙̏H̷͈͐Ú̶̹R̶͉̒T̴̼̈́S̷̤̈́ ̷̛̪İ̴̠T̷̯́ ̷̏ͅH̷̗̆U̸͍͂R̶̮̎T̶̹͝S̶̯͌, ̸̺͆MAMA, I̴͜͝T̶̰̉ ̵̧̒H̵͙̑Ų̷͝Ŕ̶͖T̴̤̈S̷̞̒ ̵̳̒Ȉ̶̞T̵̙̎ ̷̫̆H̴͚͂U̶͎͗R̴͚̒T̴̰̑S̷̛̘ ̸̨̕Ị̷̌T̸͓̄ ̵̤͊H̴͍̔Ú̴͓R̶̟͌T̷͕̈S̸̜̉ I̷̛̲͉̮̯͓̽̉̆̈́̾̍̓̑̇̑͂̃̀̿̓̈́̓̂̔͑̋̓͆̽͌̎̾̉̌̃̀̀͊̇̌̌͘̚͘͝͝͝Ţ̸̦̠̰̩̟̬͚̹̭̠̤͓̠̟̘̪̄̈́̋̍̏̒̐̈́́̾̐̐̓̈̀̓͛̕̚͠͠ ̶̡͇͎̣͉͈̱̰̑̌͋̽̾́̆͐̃͋̕͠Ḣ̶̢̨̨̧̨̖̠̝̗̳̗̫͈̤̪̠̫̆̑̈́̈́̓͒̎̐̔̐̒͛͆̒̓̃̈̾̀͗̿̀̕͝ͅŲ̷̛̛̛̛̰̜̰̮̱̆̃̈͛̂̈́̿̄̉̌̿̂͊͑̎͆̍͛̑̈́̔̎̒̄̒͂̈́̓̉͑͆̽͋̓̚͘̚͘̕͠͠͝͝͝͝Ṙ̵̡̡̡̛̼̯̜̘̠̣̱͓̟̬̹̦͔͍̺̲̖̙̦̗̺̣̳͈̲̬͎͎̬̬̥̞̯̣͍̺̮̞͙͖͓̃͒̄͊̓͊̐́̽̿̽͑̈̾̀̏͒̒̈́̇̕̕͘̚͜͝͝ͅṰ̸̢̨̙̙̫̹̺̰̼̱̰͖̦͕͊̚͜ͅS̴̢̧̛̰̜̥̹̮̗̠̞̳͎̳̥͙͚̞̳̥̪̪̖̩̟͎͈̻̳̮̯͓̦͙̑̄̓̈́̑͌̋̔̿̐̏̑͊̍͋̽̊̉̈̄̍͛̑͒̓͑͌͌́̕͘̚̚͜͝͝͝ͅ ̵̘̹͓̰̼̙̼͖̰͔̣͔̺͍͎͔͓̬̩͕̬͐̔̈́̐̍̈̊̌̓͆͐͂̃̾̌̄͊̏͒͑͐̀̈́̿́̿̒͛͗͆͂̈́̿̚̕͘͝͝͝Į̴̛̪̫̲̭̯̦̖̄̍̈́̇̈̊̈́͂͊͒̂̾͝ͅT̶̻̠̄͆̅̈́̌̒̋͂̓̉̒̂͒̄̎̿͋̈́͊̂̊̉͐̓̀̈́́̓̃̏̀̈́͋̓̿̀̄̐̄̀̂͛̾̀̊̕̚̕͠͝͝ͅ ̷̡̡̧̩͎̼̟̣̺͙͖̤̗̥̖̝̦̼̖͇̓͜Ȟ̴̡̧̢̫̦̻̣̬̻̭̮͔̍͗̌͋̑̑̈́̇͘̚͝͝Û̶̦͓́͂̀̍̅͋̉̀͂̏͂̔͗͊̆̌̔͌̾͑̈́͊̄͛̚̚̚͠͝R̸̡̨̧͉͎͓͈̭̪̤̭̙͉̮͎̝̪͚̻̮͍̞̞̤͕͔̭̮̦̹̠̥̠̮̩̜̺̪͕̬͉͕̼̫̜͈̬̺̃̽͑̂͂̓̌̅͊͐̓͐̔̆́͒̐̆̏̇͂̊̾͆̑̉̂̂̌͛͘T̵̡̡̲̤̲̬̯̥̰̪̝̩̥͇̖͉̭̣̰͙̱͖̗͈͓̜̘̩̬̗̩̺͈̝̤͎͉͈̰̠͎̊͗̏͆̓̓̀͘͜S̷̤͑̑͝ͅ ̸̧͉͈͚̭̼͎̿̋̏̓͐͒́̓̈́̍͑̉̎̄͐̀͠ͅI̸̧̛͙̬̱̬̯̱͖͕̜̥̜͚͚̲̱̪̙͙̝̬̤̝̦̤̯̲̭̘̒͑̓͋̀̈́̓̅͊́̽͂̿̄̒̉̊̉̋̃̎͊͑̇̐̽͑̈̔͌͗̈̾̒͆̃́̀̑̽́̕͜͝͠ͅT̵̨̡͇̲͙̞͚̟̞̘̩̹̺̦͇̠͊̒́͐̓̀̄̈̑͋͑̌̄̀͂̔̉̈͗͘͘͝ ̷̨̨̗͇̬͚͚̮̱͉̥̬̼̜̳̬̯͕̝̰̖͌̎̿͊̃̐̉̓̄̿̂̾̓͂̓́̓̄͗͛̀͊̌̎̌͂̐́̉͗̂͐̅͌͗̿̇̈̾̊̓̂̑͛͘̕̚͜͝͠͝͠ͅH̸̨̧̡͓̲̺͈̙͉̼̱̞̺̺̠̥͖̦̲̜͍̦̦̹̤̫̗͔̱̦̹͍̦̠̘̠͙͚͔̲̲͍̻̋̇͆͜͜ͅU̶̧͇̫̼͚͉̭̲͍͚͈̹̞̮͎͔̭͈̖̪̫̖͖̭̼͓̭̣̖͈̯͙͙͈͚͓͉̳͇̭̰̼̟͚̤̝̒͌͌̇̅̈̌͌̌̑̓̊͜͜͝͠ͅṞ̷̟̪̣̞͓̤̦̈͋̀́̃̾̃̅̆̿̆͋͛̾͋̓͌͂̏͘͝ͅŢ̶̢̡̲̺̤̦̖̜͎̣̻̯͚̠͚̄͋́̈͐̃͘͝S̸̨̢̧̧̧̢̢̛̲̗̖͕̦̱̤͎͚͉͉͖̹̳̞̤͔̝̗͖͉͎̲̳̝̹̗̙͔̩̫͎̩͚͕͇̺̝̦͍̪̋̊̆̈́́͒̑̑͗̓̑̈́̋̒͆̒̈́̍̒̊̍̀͐̆̀͌̕͘͘͜͝͝ͅ ̵̧̢̢̛͎̟̰̲̣̖̰͖̜̹̗͇̦̝̬̥̂̓͆̇̔͛̀̔́̈̅͌͛͛̓̒́̎͋̓̐̿̓̓͆͗́́̈́̈͐̎́̃̆͛͛̐̃͐̂̌̈́͂̚͘̚͜͝͝͠Į̶̛̗̠̱̳̦̓͑̏̎̅͋̉̋̌̀͂T̸̡̨̢̡̧̺̙̝̞̣̪̣̣̗̠͖̘͍́͑͛̑̋̀͐̈͊̊̓́̅́̇̋̓͋̀͐̕͠ ̴̧̨̱̩̩̟̬̗̺͆̌̇͒̆͗̑̈̒̍͑̔̕͝͠H̵̨̛̝̖͈̻̰̟̭̹͕͙͎͍͓̻̮̩̼̪͙̠͈͔̩̝̦͎̞͉͇͍͖͓͖̞̥͖̤̻͚̜̖̮̲̜̏̈͌̓͛̏̓͛͊̇̑̔͊̈́͆̍̓̆̅̓̒͑̋̅̂͂̇͋̌̃͗̀͛̌̆͂̂́̈́̚͘̚͘͜͜͝͝͝U̷̡̨̗̞̩̟̞̪̤̗̖͈̤͈̒̌͒̉̈̊͑͘͠R̵̢̛͎̰͕͎̰̙̝̺͈̣̟̻͇͇͒̓̈́̈́́̾̇̽͆̆̀͌͂̾̋̎̓̿̏̂̀̌̈͗͑̅͆̆̈͐̌̓̐̄̍̀͒̆̔͒̆͗́͆̿̋̕͘͜͜͝͠T̷̡̡̢̧̢̨̢̡̢̛̛͚̹̠͔͕̺͓̪̘̥̻͈͇̞̮̞̣͔̟̳̲͔̥͍̈̒̄̂̈́́̂̒͋͑̆̆̆͂́̀̇̿́̾̎̉̍̎́̀̕͝͠͝͠͝Ş̷͍̪̮̙̲̈́̃́̂͐̈́͒͒̀̑̾̃̾̓̚͘͝͝͠͠ ̵̨̛̟͕̠̮͉͈̺̻͕̖͕̠̜͔̟̣̟̺̩̗͖͓̺̝͍͈̒̋͌͒̋̑͐̉̾̐̐̒̃́̒̇̆̋̿͗̂͗̏̂̂̍̈̉̈̑͒̚͝I̵̬̹̙̮̖̠̳̻̯̳͔̙̙̯̫̘̺̫̥̬̜̲̰͇͙̱̮̜͎̐͜Ṯ̶̡̢̢̧̢̡̘̯͖͍̞͔͉̳̣͇̫͉͚̦̻̭͚̦̯̪̭͙̝̪̦̰̩̲̦̜̹̗̈ ̸̡̨̧̡̨̟͔̰̰̻̭͕͓̙̱̠͉̹̩̥̰̰͇̤̤͖͈͔̩̼̗̟̯͓͎̙͓̭̙̿̄̈́́͑̋͛̈́͜͜͠͠ͅͅH̵̢̛̛̙̯͕̠̺͖̫̤͍̣̣̥͖̙͔̫̰͔̝̺̙͇̙̖̣̠͇̼̮̺̟̥̀͒̎̓́̂͛́̃̀̉̀͊̐͌̆̑́̊̒͂̈̾̈́̃̔͘͘͜͜͜Ǘ̴̧̡̨͙͕̗̲̘̠͉̱̮̜̗̼̬̰̪͇̜͕͓̹̙̦͔̬̪̩̠̙̪̳̮͓̏̓͛͂͛̇̐̌̈͋̄͆̐͋̐̅̂́͂̾̕͜͜͠ͅͅR̶̢͇̬̠͕͉̦͖̱̲̰͕͍̣͔͔͉̟̲͈͔̫̯̉̐̃͆̓̿̋̇̓͆͐̂͋͑̀͋͐̋̅̾̀̆͝͝͠͠͝͝ͅT̵̨̢̛̰͎̭̝̻͎͚̫̤̻̤͍͎̪͉̲̝̮͕̣̠͕̙̬̈̎̒͛̓̿̊̄̍͌̇̉̈́̈̿̃̓̆̕͝͝͠S̷̰͎̹̹͙̲̺̥̫͗̔̋͝ͅ ̶̧̨̛̬̥͎͚̭̱̲̻̤̹̜̪̫̻̤͈͇̪̣͙̺̝̎͊̋̀͊͑͗͆͑͗̏̍͊͛̑̔̐̊͑̌̑̎͒̚I̴̛̞̟͇̙̟̩͚̱̲̳͍͌̅̽̽̋̇̃̊̎̍͑͑̑̓́̾̄̏̐͂̔͋̑̂̄̇̈́̊͊̑̋̓͒̔͋̓̀̿̈́̓͘̚͘͝Ţ̷̢̧̢̛͍̞̭̫̦̺͙͔̟͔͈͙̼̳̮̠͇̳͎̥̠̠̤̤̘͎͎̗͔͉͈͉̹̖̱̼̳͖̗̪̥̱̾̆̿̈͒̇͋͛͂̑͆̽̓́̊̈̈́̋̿̍͊̕̕̕͜͜͝͝ͅ ̵̡̛̜͖̭̘̓͒̈́̈́͒̐̕͝͠H̵̢̡͕̗͔̳͖̙͒͆̈͆̌͆̃͒͒͗̇̈́͘͠U̷̢̧̝̬̳͙͙̦̥̲͓͍̟̜͖̳̣̣̮̺̩̗̾̍̆̈́͌̋̔̇́̈́̔̾͒̾̍̀̀͐́̌̉̈́̑̑̂̉̑̃̿̀̑̏̂̕ͅͅR̵̢̡̡̢̛̛̰̺̰̟͉͍̻͈͓̬͔̪͍̳̩͚͓̫͙̗͕̭̣͓̤͂̒͛͛͒̍̇̅́̆̅̚̕͝Ṫ̷̨̡̧̡̧̡̹̩̻̠̪̜̳̺̩̖̦͓͕̫̫̘̹̣̯̥͓̬̭͜ͅṢ̶̡̡͙̞̲̪͉͖͔̭͉̱̗̂̈́̌̂̽̋͌̓͌͂̋͋̋̆̐̈́̾͜͠ ̷̢̢̛̜̙̖̻̗̼̝̙̖͔̪̭̞̳̙͙͔̖̮̗̮̜̜̹̌͐͒͐̚͘̚ͅI̸̢̨̢̨̢̮̦̠͓̣̬̻̱͈̠͖̣͍̰̭͕͕͙͈̱̥͕̣͍̱̤̙͎̞̪͓̜͌́̍̆̽̎̐͋̈́̓́̈́̇͋͜T̴̢̛̜̯̘̼͖̭̜̩̲͉̼́̍͐̇̀̈́͗̾͌͛́̄̅̅̓̉͊̾̚͘ ̴̡̛̛̟̗̩̙̹̄͒̇̔͋̀̏̒͂͌͊̍̈́̂͆̅̈̿͒̊̓̅̿̊͑͒͗́̎͗̈́͐͋̋̊̀̅̆̕͘̕̚͠͝͠ͅḨ̸̧̧̢̡̛͕̪̗̦̰̰̭̮͙̫̯̱̼̲̠̰̦̮̙͖̯̖̦̞͙̟͙͓̠̹̤͈̺͚̤̦͓̮̦͚̦͍̟͙͔̯̆̈̎̃͛̇́͆͒̽̏̈́̀̊̇̀̆̑́̏̓̅̇̆͛͂͋̐̓̆̿́͐̾͘͘̚̚̕͝Ữ̶̡̢̧̡̧̡͉͙͙͈͈̞͈̹̗̲̼̣͎̠̫̣̦̜̯̳͈̰͙̯͔̭͍͚̪̼̜͇͔̻̅̔̐͑̅̿́͆̐̔̓͆͌͆̑͐̍͋̕̕̚͜͜͜͝Ŗ̸͔͓̼͙̹͇͓̦̝̤̬̬͇͍̭̲̰͔̼͙̙̜̏T̴̨̧̢̢̡̢̰̯͚͙̻̱̣̪̰̯͕̖͈͍̳͕̫̹̦̜̱̳̩̖̟͚̞̩͖̰͓̩̙̮̞̪̼̟̱̥͊̔̀̀̐̾́̒͑̏́̓̒̐̋̾͊̐̀͆̄͒̐̒̆̿́̏̈́͒́͗̆̄͊̏͑̔̕͘̕̚͠S̸̢̡̡̢̢̨͚̜̮͙̲̺̟͈͈̳̹͍͙̠̤̬͇̬̣͙̜͚͈̖̯̱̪̬̬̭͍͉͉̪̱̳̖͖̫̖͍̤̾̿͛̀̃͑̄̓̎͑̉̉̒̔̾̆͆́̈̈́̿̌̉͑͒̅͆̒̌̈́̈́̾͋̇̄̐͒͋̈́̅͐͂̾͂̅͂̊͌̕͝͝ͅ ̶̢̨̨̢̬̦̥͎̞̥͙͇̣͖̜͈͚̯͇̹̜̙͇̭̮̗̻̩͓̠̭̗̯̤̬͔͈̒̈́͊̑͜͝͝Į̴̨̨͇̘̺͕̝̗̗̞͈̫̯̜͆̋̐̋̏ͅT̴̨̢̨̨̛̛̲̝͈̹̱̜̬̣̤̬̙̼̹̺̜̗̤̳̱͓͍̤̹͈͍͗́͊͂̈́́̔̇̔́̽́̈́̊́̏̐̃̋̒͋̑͊̉̌͑̕͘͝ͅͅ ̴̧̛̛̛̦̣̦͕̩̞̝̫̮̗̹̱͕̩͍͔̥̫̠̘͈̺͙͙̼̌̑͗͌͂̽̎͛͑̀͒̀́͒͐͛͑̒̄͒̇̏̐̊̉̈̎̒͌̃̐͌̉̈̽̂́͛͊̌͘̕̚͘͝͠͠H̷̡̢̡̛͚̩͙͕̭̬̰̗̺̮̻͕̪̞̘̝̱̳͓̆̍͒̀̐͂̈́͐͑̑̏̈́̉͊̀̈́͒̆͊̐͆̈́̿̔͆͆̆́͊̏̄̇͋̎̈́̐́̂͋́̽͊̋̚̕̕̚͜͠͝͝͝U̸̧̨̧̧̡̦̩̬̻̪͈̣̞͉̥̜̞̞͎̰̳̩͍͚͈̱̬̳̯͔͓͔̗̣͕̭̹̯̜̻̭̜̞̗̹̫̠̯̝͎͐̈̓̄͒͐̍̽̋̚͘͜R̶̛̙͙͖̩̻̭͓͕̼̮̅̍̾͛̓̌͆̍͒͊͑̏͛͛̌̊͒̇̆̈́̈́͜ͅT̷̢̧̛̺̰͎͚̱̞̙̘̤̲̥̙̺̭̤̜͈̻̫̘̝͓̫͕̰̗̰̪̱̰͙͓̝̖̰͉̟̖͈̀̒͛̈́͂̃̂̒́̅̉͆͆̂̀̈́̂̅̔̄̒̀̌͐͘͜ͅS̸̛̛̯͔̯̦̖͕̪̘̬͚̤̠̠̦͚̬̗̖̮̾͊̿̐̄͌͋̈́̓̅́͑̓̇̈́͆̎́͒̋͐̅̑̌̃̈́̆̆̿̏͂̾̄͊̅́̈́͊̂̒̑́̋͐͘͘̕͝͝ͅ ̴̡̢̛̩̰̪̪̭̠͔͈͈̹̱̠̹̪̪̮͎̣͕͎̮̳̽̂͆̈́͂̿͑̇̀͊͒̏̈́̊͑̌͒̄̍̄̌̕͘͘̕͘͠ͅͅĮ̶̧̛̛͍̺̘̙̖͕̟̬̗̞̺̟͎͎̤̰̺͍̖̭̠̱̖͔̖͖̮̥̼̞̪̮͙̹̳̪̠̜̣̯͖̬̗͎̠͆̓͋̄̒̈́͛̉́̔̍̃̎͒̓͌̂̋͛̊̐̅͑̉̆͌̚̚̕̚ͅͅͅT̶̨̯̰̝̬̺̘͖̟͉͕̐̃ͅ ̶̨̧̢̢̨̝͓̫͔̣̬̲̤̜̞͚̘͈͓̠̩͕̩̖͇͎̙̖̼̤̗̘̰̩͓̫̪͙̱̮̰̻͎͓̮̩͆͆̐̽͌̀̂͋̐͛̄̈́͆̑̄͆̈̄̐̿̅̕͘͠͝͠͝ͅͅH̵̡̡̝̙̮̹̭͎̥̗͇͇̠͚̀̉͗̽̂̿̐̿̿́́͂̏̓͗̅͘U̷̢̢̡͕̘̦̝̥̝̺̘̦̮̺͚̥̣͉̝̤͕̜̖͍͕̟̯͚̮̣̲͚͍͓̬̳̲̺̣͔͙̯̝̹̪͇̭̫͂́̍͊͌̅̽͆͑͗͆̇̾̈̌̋̊͋̄̈́̈̓͝͠͝ͅȒ̴̹̻͑́̏́͊̅̎͌̐̓͌̌̇̕͝͝͝͠͝T̷̛̤̰͍̻̫̺̘͖̪̜̗̦͛̈́̄̀̐̑̐̒͆̉͑̍̈́̃̈́̎͌̂͂̒͗̎͘̚̕̕͘͝͝͝S̸̨̡̧̨̡̡̢͍̯͉̜̟̦͉̭͇̹̜̣̫̣͇̙̞̖̹̣̮͔̥̪̺̙̗̠̦̰̮̗͔̓́̌̅͑̈͋͒͒́̐̂̀̀̈́̚͜͝ͅͅ ̸̛̛̻̠̤̳̝̹̥̦͉̔̄͆̊́̄̇̈́͂͒̆͑̀̐̃̓̌́̋̇͋̅̏͒͛̉̒̆͑͂̕͘͝͝Į̷̡̡̨̧̙̰͇̪̱̟̟͙͓͖͚̭̼̖̱̞̟͔̖̪͚̤̳̗̮̟̯͖̩̭͖͚͙̩͈̰̳͉̭̩̘͖̐̇̏̾̂̔͑́̂̏̆́̓̀̌̽̐̂́͗̊͜͠͠ͅT̸̢̢̡̧̡̲͉͍̥͎̱̤̼̰̯͉̤̭̥͙̗͔̻̜̼͔͙͚̻̱͍̖̫̲̺̍͆͗̎̾̋̀̏͂̒͊͒̈̍̐̈̎͐̽̀̆̎̈́́̆̑̐̍̍͒̆̒̉̿̚ ̸͓̭̳̞̎̒͌͌̊̈͝Ȟ̸͇͚̻̙͎͉͖̫̿͗͊́̀̋̉͌͊́̍̈́̿̈͂̈́̆̚͝ͅṴ̵̡̢̡̼̙͍̖̝͔̬̫̦̬̦̤̺̯̼͔͔̹̘̟̞̤̂͐͑̀͊̓̈́́͂̐̈́̍̌͐̒̾̍̐͌͑́́͋̿͊͆̈́̃̇͌̿͗̉͆͛̆̕͘̚͜͝R̵̨̧͓͎̜̙̜̤̹̙̖̫͚͓̥͙͇̟͈͓̰͔̍̾̈̾̿̒̆̈́͋̓̄͂̐̅̓̑̉̓͆͜͝Ţ̴̭̠̺̲̳̖͕͇̦̯̯̊̔̊͑̍̐̾̾̄̃͒͝ͅS̴̡̹̖̫̣̞̲̼̠̜̀͋͝͝ͅ ̴̢̢̛͖͉̦̘̥̈̒́̅̌͌̿̓̒͒͒̋̃̇͗̄̈́͋̓͆́͂̒͐̂̋̀̿͊͆͆̓̉̿̌̔̐͊͗̈́͂̇̈́̈́͘̕͝͝͠ͅĮ̵̝̫̱͓͔̤͙͙̜͙̗̳͈͇̝̫͈̙̳̻̹̞̭̺̞͈̘̻̳͓͔̭̬͇͇͍̰̙̣̯̞͍͖̦͒͒̄̔͆̾̍̑̓̊̏͗́̾̐̌̒̒̌̈́̓̓̉̀̋̉̇̾͂̓̉̆͗͌͊͆̀̕̕͝͠͝͝T̶̡̡̨̡̡͓̗̼̺̪͕̪̲͇͍̗̫̫̏̿̀ ̶̢̢̧̨̤̪͖̠͚̜̞̩͉̼͉͚̣̯̣̤͈̖͉͚̫͈͕̺̰̰̣̮̳̮̦͕͕̻͚̲̦̟̱̃͂́̐͑̍̈́̋́̿̽̈́̅̾̋̕̚͝͠͝ͅͅͅH̵̭̤͔͇̝̮͎̻̰͙̥͇̹̐̎͑͋̄̾̈́́͊̄̾́͐̋͐̔͆̇̈́͛̈́͗̄̓͒͐̉̉̆̈́̈͒͐̋̌͗͆̌́͑̏̌̚̚̚̚̚̕͝͝Ư̴̢̧̧̡̧͚̘̣̞̻̝̺̦̦̘̲̤̦̹͖͙̯̜͓͈͇̮̰̥̗̻̭̝̩̣̠̥̻͚̭̜͇̩͈̓̅̐́̀̇̇͊̉͒̋̅͒̓́́̃̑͋͌͒͐͗̒̃̈̉̄̽̋͒̔̎͑͗̆̀̊̑̌̾̾͘͘̕̕͜͜ͅR̶̡̨̗̜̤̳̝̖͉̱̜͇̬̤͖̦̩̩̼͉̱̟̱̙̟̪̪̙͔͈͉̱͇̳͒̽͒̾̏̅̉̿̋͒͋͘͜͝T̸̢̡̢̛̛̖͔̬̥̯͓̟͔̮̯̯͕̰̲̗̝͖̥̖̱̤̭͓͙̟̦̮͓̪̤̱̖̹͇̼̣̫̤̠̥̳̱̤̻̍̌̀̈́͑͆̈́̐̅͛̈́͑̆̀̉̋̑́́̍̔̓̈̊͒̂͗̿̅̋͗̃́̀͐́̂́̂̈́̅́̂͘̕͝͝͠͝Ș̵̨̧̨̛̖͇͈͙̻͔̲̞̜͓͎̲̩͔̺̟̬͎̲̯̺̺̰̟͕̫̥̤͓̥͔̦̯̯̞̯̝̳̺̲͎͐̊̆͆̿̅̅̊̓́̇̈́̀̈́̔̽̈́̇͗̔̿̄͂̔̒́̍̿̌̈̅̓̋͂̄̃̔̂̂̓̒̐̓̀̚͘̚̕͜͜͠͠͝͝ ̸̢̧̢̢̧̨̛̱̩̰͉̩̳̬̻̟̦̞̣̥̪̝̥̗̫̺̦̗̺̜͚̮͈͍̰͕̞͎̞̫̜͔̹̓̌̋̓̈̏̉͂̀̏̈̂͌͐̔̏̎̌̃̒̈́͛̄̽̇͗̍̈́̓̚̚̚̕I̷̫̘̬̠̦͚͉̹̓̅́̈̋͋̾̀̃̾̇͜͝͠Ţ̵̧̢̛̛̘̮̗̲̻̹͎̩̥̭̙̫̫̳̼̮̘͔̗̰͕͎̻̖̖͕͋̅̇̈̂́̋͐̾͑̀̀͐̑̀͆̎̋͌̈́̂̈̿͐̒͗͋̒̄̐̓̆̍̿́͒͛̋̓̓͘̚͝͠͝ͅͅͅͅ ̸̢͚̦̭̱̭͇͕͖̙͉̞͖̻̹̩̩̲̻̄̓̉̐̌̌̓̓̒̀̑̃͋͛̀̎͑͋̑̓̈́́͋̊̾̈́͑̅́͒̄̔͂͌͘͘͝͝͝ͅḨ̸̢̢̛̠̪͈͎̺̰̬̹̹̺̳̞͓̥̤̥͎͎͚̘͎̹͔͕͍͚̻͎̺͖̮̹̼͕̣͇̲̉̔͛̓̐̑̈̿̀̇̒̎͗́̽̑̏̽̽͒̂͂̿̕͘̚͘̕̕͜͜͝͠͝͝͝Ŭ̴̩̞̫̻̺͖͉̄͊̍̀́̈́̍̂́̓̎͛̓̐̈́͆̆̈́̈́͊̍̄̀̕̚̕̕͝͝Ṟ̵̛̠̗͍͉̱͐̒̈́͗͑̇̇́͐́̈̄̾̀̄͌̆͋̇́̈́̇̓̒̚̕̕͘̕͠͝T̴̛̜͔̼͙͕͕̜̮͐̆́̂̾̍̿̔̀̓͒͑̔̅̀͆͗̆͗͒͋̽̀͒̚̚͝ͅS̵̢̧̢̛̞͕͇͓̬̖̖̳̝̲̗̜̣̖̙̖͉͙͇̮̟̘̥͔̳̹̗̣̹͚̬̪͓̼͓̥͕̖̅̐̒́̀̓̓͌͊͗̑͋̒̓͋̓̉̈́̈́̀͂̋͛̅͛́̅̆͘͘͜͜ͅͅͅ ̸̢̨͖̯̰̖̮͓̥͍̟̩̳̠̜̙̿͊͋̆̒́͒̾͐̐̌̈́̐̔̅̃͆͋͑̎͘͘͠͝Ị̸̢̡̢̛̼̠̱̳̰̮̖̳̞̣̺͒̔̇̎́̍̂̊́͒̽̈̄͛̽͛̓͐̆̔͌̈́͆̒̔̓̆͒͌̇͒̏͛̈́̿̏̋̈́͐̅́̋̚̚͜͜͝ͅT̸̜͖̰̰͍́̀̀͛͆ ̸̡̛̛͕͔̺͇̦̭̠̱̯̥̜̮̉̅̔̇̑̒̓̿̆̏̈́̈͌̌̋̌͑͆̍̒̄̂̿͌̊͑̃̈́͐̄̅̚͘̚͝͠͝H̸̢̨̢̨̧̨̢̢̧̢̛̖͍̰̻̣̯̥̝͔̫̬̹͇͙͔̦̬̺̝̼̱͚̲̪̩̻̪̮͎͈̞͍̃̃̾͌̀̀̒͆͑̉́̋͗͗̏͒͒̽̀̽͆̌̿̀̒͒̔͂͛̌̓͂͑͋̽͊̿̀͆͒̐̕͜͝͠Ư̴̢̨̡̹̺̰͙̫͚͕̙̦̝̘̠̼͍̼̹͍̮̦͕͙͖̫̥̤͓͕̠͇̗̣̳̰̲̞̝̱͒̀̋̀͑̓̃̎̋͒̅̾̊͗͌̓́͘͜͠͠͠ͅŖ̴̡̛̛̬̗̞͌̉̾̀̑̀͌́̾͑̃͗̑͒̂̄̆̓͝Ţ̶̡̧̛̛͇̗͙͓̰̹̖̮͚͓̺̭͈̘̗̺̦̟̪̭̭̺̜̳͙̩̤̦̰̗̞͑̎́́̆͛͌̄̔͊́͂̇̾̈͂̊͌͗̈́͊̍͆̔̉̽̓̍̇̅̔̆̃̀͗̌̕̚̚͝͠͠͠ͅŞ̴̨̣͕̤̟̻͒̋͌̇̎̊̓̑̔̐̔̍̒̅͊̅̈́̓͆̉̈́̈́́͗͋̀́͆̎̌̌̋́̀̈́̀̀͛́́̅̚͠͝ ̸̡̡̛̠͉͔̳̲͕̬͎͇̦͈͓̟̭͖̹̬͔̙̫͚̘͓̭͉͚̣̺͈̲͇̘͖͈͇̈́̀̒̔̓͆̅̆̊͌̇͑̔̍̀̍̚̚ͅͅI̵͓͈̤̻̰̻̫͐̀͛̽̆̋̂͂̎̃͊̈́͘T̶̛̺̪̙̺̗̜̗̈́̓̆̿̀̈́̓̑́́̃̑̓̌̂̀̂͑̇͐̐̀̃̑̃̑̓͌͗̿͂̔̀̌̚͘̕͝͝ ̶̨̢̨̡̟̣͇̱͉͍̠͉̺̮̹͎̭͔̩̺͎̻͕̫͎̥̲͔̽͗̽͆͗͑̌͊̈́͛̆͑̅͋͒́̃̊̿̆̿̄̈́̀̆̐͒̄̍̌̑̿̊̊͊̚͜͝͝͝͠ͅH̷̢̨̢̧̢̳͈̪̪̬̙̻̮̥͙̮͉̣̙̫͉̖̬͍͈̹̻͎̳͕͈͍̙͕͍̘̹̙͎̥͔̝̖̰̀̓̊̐̇͆͂̓̕͜͜͜͠U̴̡̡̩̘̯̗̮̚Ŗ̵̡̛̫̼̳̼̹͓̩̟̙͇̞̬̲̮͔̠̣͇̬̙̥̦̩͍̄̄̎̀͆͋̃̆̃͋͛̈̈͑̈́͌̏̇͗̆̽̒̎͗̓̽̃͊̊̇͑͊͑̆͌̓̍͌̄̑̽̆̈́̅̕͘͝͝͝ͅT̷̨̧̨̧̢̘͕̫͍̟̯̗̤̗̱͕̭̲̖̖͇̰͇̻̠̲̮͕̜͍̼̩̠͕̲̥̬͇͙͔̳̣̖̗͈̻̒̂͂̂͗̍́́̑̋͛̒̒́̋̓̒̈́͛̾̔͑͊͝ͅS̴̛͚̫̺͑̄̾̈́͋́̉̈͗̄̐̽̎͗͒̈̅̇̽̌̋͗̐͋͐͗̈͝͝ ̷̨̢̛̛̛̼̜̰̥̲̬̞̙͇̠̭̹͙̫̞̣̘̹̯͖̗͍̞̝̲̘̺̇͗̍͋̓͒͐̉̿̅̈̀͆̆͌̀́̾̾̈́̽̂̓̓̌͛̎̐̀́̍͒̃̎̈́͗́̅͘̚͜͝͝Í̵̢̡̨̧̧̢̛̪͓̙͇̪̫̣͔̞̲̙̲͓̫̦̣͓͍̺̯͇̣̺͈͕͍̬͓͇͔̺̹̜̲̟̟̪̞̟̬͙͗͛̄͂̎̓͋̚͜͜͝͝ͅͅͅT̶̨̺̩̼͍̗͎͋͌̓͊̍͛̿̐̅̇͐̋̏̌͗̐̔͛̌̌̌͆͗̍̿̓̈́̔̒́̃̈̉͒̅͑́̊̓̿͂̅̚͘͘̕͠͝͝͠ ̴̬͓̦͒̋̋̑̑́̒̎̽͆̆̓͐̇́̅͝͠H̴̨̛̠̼͙̤̮̝̯̳̰̲̫̘̬̩̻̫͖̝̓̾͋͊͊̇̀̍̈́̊̓͒̀̋̈͆̆̽͌̀͒́́́̉̌́̏̀̿̕̕̕̕̕͜͝͝͝U̵̡̨̨̧̝͚̯̝̥̘̺͉͖͔͈̝̳̹̮̘̖͖̖͎͚̯͖̮̬̬͚̰̠͓̾͒͛̃̄̾͠͝͝R̷̡̢̛̛̰̩͕̮̳̦͍̺̭̮͖̼̞̗̹͈͎̱͕̔̾͛̿̋̋̂͂͂̀́̅̅̑̋̍͗̂̾͗͛͆̅̊̽̚ͅT̸̡̛͓̪͎̥͖̰̹̬͕̳̯̪̝̝͖̅̿̌̏͒̈̕͘S̷̢̨̡̨͙̘̥̗̘̰̜̦̞̜͖̫̤̥̦̱͚̼̭̘̖͍̺̤̜͚̬̖̠͍̩̯̜̺̪͓̬͇͔̗̺̞̎̉̌̐̐̇́̇͋̽͐́̍͋̇̌̈́͆͌̎̓́͒̓̓̋̈́̄̀͋̏͒̓̕̕͘͝͠͝͠ ̴̡̢̨͎̝͕̭͚̝̹̜͉̙̜̤̹̩̻̬̜̠̜̲͖͓̞͙̤͎̹̤̖̼̘͕̠̗̱̯̘̝͚̗͕̯̮͔̱̟̋͐́̓̔̾́̍̈́̾̓͑̋̂̎̇͑̒̒̏̆̓̒͘̕̕͝ͅĮ̶̡̨̧̬͔̙̫̲͉̰̪̻͙̬̺͎̘̩̱̜̰͓̙̖̝͉̱̲͎̪̟͕̪̟̉̓͐͌͜ͅͅͅŢ̷̛̟͇̤̥̙͙̙̫͇͎̠̭̫̠̈́̒̓̊̓͊́̆̔̑̑́͛̈́ͅ ̸̢̨̨̡̰̳̙̯͕̞̮̪͔̞̘̼̙͈͚̫̙͙͇̌̂̈̿̍͗̐̊̑͆̂̇͆̓́͛̓́͜H̴̛͇̬̞͔̾̌̃̓̀͒̅̈́̎̓́́̊͊̀̆͘̚͘͝͝͝U̵̧̧̥̗̲̥͇̱̱̞̦͇̺͙̰̱̯͓͋̈́̍̈́̌͊̽̀͋̆͊̓̈́̊̋̉̈́̓̿̈́̍̆̔̂̓͂̽̀̓́͌́̈́̆̆͆̈́͗̒̈́̃̾͝͠͠R̶̨̨̡̛̛̜̮̖̤̪̰̖̬̱̠̣̙͕̺͔͚͉̼̻͎̩͙̯̘͆̓̐͒̎͋͋̈́̀̔̽͛̈́͑̔̍̾̀̀̿̒͆̀̕͜͠ͅṰ̶̯͚̫͎̦̠̈́̿̄͊́̈́̉̀͌̏̇̅̑̂̽̂̐͛̅̏̒͛̈́͜͜͝͝S̵̢̡̡̛̤͎̘̤̤̜̤̖̯̼̱͔͈͍͖̼̳̮̘̩̺̫̘̯̬͙̈̓̓͋͗͒̃͒̐͊͆̑̏́̊̽̿͒̋͒̓͋͛̅̏̕͜͜͠ͅ ̷̨̡̩̪̟̫̘͉̞̮̠͇̦̭̲͔̘̪̭͎̱̝̤̼̙̺͚̺̣̦͖̲̜̻̹̼̺̝͑̓͗̎̔͊̍͒̆̄̌͋̉́̓̊́̽͑̇̀͛̒̋́̈́̚̚̕̚͜͜͝͠ͅͅ Į̴̧̢̢̨̛̛͈̠͕͚͙̺̺̲̞͖͇̰͓͚͍̺̠̣̞͍̓̍̿͗̾͒̊̽̈̇̽͌̐̊͆͐̍̃̔̀͋́̒͊͐̈̍̃̏͛̀͆͛̃̀͂̈́̽̃̑͑͘̕͜͜͠͠͝Ṱ̸̨̢̛͇̱͔̗̜͚̰͚̲͓̜̜̝̣̱̙̯͍̟̳̥̍̅̃̌̿̏̒̍͐͒̌͐̀̾͒̀̉̒͗̾̎̌͆̈̋̄̋̇͒́͛̽̋̂͌̚̚͜͝ ̴̢̡̧̢̢̧͔͈͚̥͍̺̹͓̠̤̻̦̥̜͉̜̙̠̬͓̥̳̬̪͎̳̮̟̪̫͖̘̩̝͕͈̣́͑̇̄͌͛́̉̎̃̊̍̇̑̀́̅̔́̐͒̅̌͆͌́̓̉͑͋͑̎̉̃̃̐̓̾͐̃͐͘̕͝͝͠ͅH̴̢̨̨̢̡̛̛̦̰̯͙̦͙̱̤͕̭̠͓̞̺͕͎͉̭̫͓̠͖͉̬̦̤̹̤̝̪͕̖̱͇̗̩͓̩̤͚̞̟̘́̆̉̋͗̿͋̂͆͑̈́̏̽̈́̃̾̀̔̈́́̈́̒͆̏̽̐̋̄͆̿̉͒́̓̐̑͘̕̕̚̕͜͜͝͝͝͝U̷̢̢̢̨̧̖͚̻̜̲̣̠̪͉͖̝͇̞͕̫̙̤̞͖̥̙̘̬̝̝̪̘͔͂̔̌̅̄̇̂̃̓̿̌͋̽̃̈́̍͆̈́͆͂̐̇̆̈͋̅͘͘͝͝͝͝͠ͅŖ̵̛͎̥̤͍̲̤̼̦̻̬͙̭̳͕̤̩͙̲̞̼͈̹̱̖̥̜̳̮̘͚̺̲͈̘̞͚͈͎͉̩͖̔̓̽͗͌̈́͗́̍̃̄̆̈́̎̍̋̑͋̏̏̔̃́̏̋̔͐̿̔͘̕Ţ̵̢̛͔͙̣͚͕͓̦̙̼͎͒̏̓̍̏̈͐̉͒́̆̈͆̓̂̒͐̽͗̏̔̾̒̏̏̈́̕͘̚͘͝͝ͅS̴̛̛̱̜͚͇͍̗͉̩͇̻̙͕͛̑́́̒̽̔̄̀͐̒̎̌̓͋̓̽̎̅̀͊̈̏͒́̓̇͌͑́̚̚͝͝ ̶̢̧̢̢̛͈͈̬̖͈̦͖̳̗̯̦͕̩͍̳͈̖̠̜̻͍̜͔̭̦͕͖͖̟̤͎̘̩͙̞̻̹͍̖̠̺͑̈̇́̾̈́́̈́́̄̔̀͋̉̈́̀͗̿̽́͒̆̏̌̒̀͌̕͘͜͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅĮ̷̛̛͖̘̤͉̜̮͔̲̭̲̙͚̝̞̟̩̫̦͎̖̼̦̙̝͕̻̳̤̘͔̣̥̪̮͎̪̼̲͍͖̩͇̟͓̯͛̏̏̐̎͆̃̋͗̾̓͆͗̈͊̍̉͑͗̌́̌̇́̆̆̊̿͆͒̐̒͑͐̆͆͒͂̂͑̃̈̓̌̚̚̕͝͝ͅͅͅŢ̸̛̛̪͍̮͍̭̦̪͚̈́̂̊̿̍́͌̌̎́̽͆̋̂̒̈́̓͒̂̋́̓̀͐͋͛̽͂̚̕͘͝͠͝ ̷̨̨̡̢̧̧̢̨̛͎̹̣͕̰͖̪͓͓͕͚̙͚̬̖̟̤̟͉̥͈̝͈̠̘̟͈̬̀̂̄̈́̂̏̔̓̓͊̌̋̒́̀͌̎́͛̾̈́͂̂͆͋̄́͒̌̅̅́̀̀̚̕̚͘͜͜͠͠͠͝ͅH̶̡̨̢̡̢̡̛̗̹̬̥̲̝̩͚͓͓̯̞͚̯͓̯̪͕̞̱̩̠̙͇̣̝͎̖͙̫͕̦̩͈̰̩̹͍̱̥͙̳̰͛̑͌͆̈̏̏̒̌̎̌́͑̍̃́̋̿́̈̈́̇͛͑̉͂̔͝͠͝Ư̵̢̰͇͚͕̰̼̩̹̝͕̰̯̬͔͙̹̹͓̱̹͔̭̻͚̜͔̮͛̓̈́́͋̀̔̄̈́̌͂̊͐̇̏̈́̎̄̍͛̿͂̋̓͋͊͊̑̐̀͐͊͛̔̑͛̅̋͂̈̇̿͆̚̚͜͜͠͝͝͝ͅŖ̷̧̢̛̩͉̤̞̹̖̱͈̼̼̖̞̙̺̫͙̰̹̩̖̱̬̝̥̩̮̞̜̮̟͖͙͖̖̻͎͔̪̤̂̈́͋̈͑͒̓͛̾̃̑̔̓̓̈̈́͛͑̅̆͆̇́̆̂̎̈́̐̿̆́̀͐̆̾͛̃̑́̓̓̏͊̎̅̕͜͜͠͠͠͠͝ͅͅT̷̨̤͖̝̻͎̲͙͍̙̤͓͖̝̳̞̰̳̫̜͔͚̲͚̽̊̆͗̏͌̍̆̃͐́́́̊́͐̾͑̄͒́̽̉͒̎̊̓̓̽̋͛̃̐̓̎̏̈́̓͐͂̒̆̎̑̀̓̽̏͜͝͝͠͝ͅS̶̡̬̥̣̰̍̈́̊͂̓̀̓̔̈́̕͝͠͝ ̵̢̡̡̪̙̫̟̺̩̞̖̣̘͓̤̠̭̘͎͇̗̓̔̾͗̈̅͊̒̂̈́̍̇͜͜͝͠Į̷̢̝͓͙̬̝͈̙̦͎̙̖̬̻͕̲͚̳̥̭͇̤̳͇̯͍͈͈̰̘̺͔̻̰͈̙͕̘͕̯̘̥̀̈́̾̔̈̈́͌́̌̓̂̏̆̒̀̾͆̈́͒̈́̔̃̅́̓͒͊̈́͂̎̏̔̉̅̂͂͂́́̑̌̔͑̆̿̒͋̕͜͜͝ͅͅͅT̶̨̡̢̧̨̨̨̢̧̢̛̻̤̜̺͖͚͇̟̘̤͎̳̯̙̣̟̳̼̫̭̯̟̰̭̞̬͍̦͉̥̝̥̺̩̫̣̘̫͊̿̒͊̈́̽͐̍̀̓̿̂͋̆̒̑̈́͂̐̓̎̐͐̂̑̎̎͜͜͠ͅ ̴̯̿H̸̨̨̛̟̪͇͚̲͕̫͔̰͔͙̙͇̺͖͙̯̻͙̹̤̽̈̎̓͆̾̇͐̓͒̅́̌͊̊̊̔̓̃̒͐̂͂̆̀͐͐͂̀̀̒̆̄̔̈́̀͆̇̈́͛͑͑̈́̔͘͝͝͝͝ͅỨ̵̡̧̛̛̭̙͈̘̠̖̭̗̜̬̯̙̙̻͉̌̏̒̊̃̐̔̈̋̎̈͗̇̆̓̆́͌̓̃̐̄̽̓͒̃̅̄̚̕̕͠͝Ŗ̵̢̢̡̳͉̗̗̺̹͔̖̯̳͍̖͙̣͖͚̠̫̲̭̲̳͉̞̼̙̝̲̺̪̲͕̤̖̬̝̖͓͙̬̆̍̇͂̕͝T̷̛̛̼͔̘͓̹̤͙͛̌͗͌̂͛͑͆̄̿͗̀̀͋̉͐̿͋̔̍͋̋͊͑͆̔̔̓̃̎̋̇͑̃́̇͒̍̚̕̚̕͝S̵̨̧̨̞̮̝̰͉̖̮̟̰̮̼͉̳͇͚̟̦̼̮̺͇͈̟̥͇͔̖̺̎̈͒͗̕͜͜͠

“… idn't … ell you…?”

the sco … mbulance wai … randon … he sobs.

“Didn' … arn yo … play with fire?”

Chapter 2: Water

Chapter Text

In bits and pieces, Miles comes back to himself. There are undoubtedly more dire matters to focus on besides the fact that he's lying on his back, but Miles can't help it. He doesn't sleep on his back. He will never again sleep on his back. Because then he will wake up on his back, and that's a feeling he simply can't stomach. Not anymore.

Numb, disoriented, cold, hot, Miles lies still and panics. Not yet lucid enough to realize that if he was, in fact, waking up on a different table—on a different back, he wouldn't know to panic. He wouldn't know his own name.

Someone touches him (they're touching him they're touching him—)

Miles thrashes against the walls of his mind, and something twinges at the base of his skull where something should not be. Static. Hands on his face, bright—

"Oh."

Miles blinks, slow and stupid, while shapes and colors slowly knit together. Night. Polyphemus. Cliffs—

"Oh. sh*t—holy sh*t!"

Lyle.

Again, something twinges in his temple. Flashes back to namelessness and light. He’s been here before.

Miles blinks again, slower and stupider the second time. Tongue too big for his jaw.

"L… Ln…"

Something cold floods his mouth, and that’s when Miles realizes, sputtering and thrashing, that he is not lying on his back at all; he's floating.

"Whoa, Col— Hey!"

Sometimes the most dire feats of strength aren’t the result of a trained mind—but its total absence. Miles doesn’t remember moving. One moment, he’s a numb, fleshy mass—the next, he’s on his feet in shallow water, tail lashing as he whips his head around.

They're in a pool.

A glowing, swirling pool of water carved into a soaring rock face. Everywhere, moss and lichen spatter the cliff like glowing viscera. A thin dune covered in faintly purple grass of some sort faces a narrow crevice. Beyond, outside, more water slides past.

A river?

"Quaritch," Lyle snaps, splonking through the water behind them. He hasn’t stopped jabbering since he opened his eyes. "Look, I really think you should sit do—"

A wave of static crashes through Miles, prickling through his bones. Despite the sandy buzz, he manages not to topple in the center, where the water's deepest. As soon as it comes, it’s gone, and Lyle’s hands are on him. Miles shakes him off.

For some reason, the first thing to fall out of his mouth is, "Where’s our clothes?"

Lyle blinks.

"Uh,” he illuminates.

Slowly, Miles follows his finger to the far wall where a stick juts out of the water. Whatever is making the water glow lights dark, undulating shapes that must be their uniforms.

"I found this place last night,” Lyle mumbles, circling warily about him to the wall. "Figured we’d be pretty gross. I…" he trails off with a huff. "sh*t, man, are you really alright? You were prett—”

"Wainfleet. Drop it."

Lyle shoots him a look, tail skating a miffed arc of water as he turns.

"Think this'll be a cave someday," he muses, grabbing something from a ledge. "Or canyon. Or one of those—those…" Trailing off, he sighs, replacing whatever he was looking at. His shoulders tense, square as scaffolding. "Whatever. Figured you’d want private after—you know.”

Miles rolls his eyes.

"So we're being chaste, now."

Lyle doesn't turn, shoulders making an even harder line before he settles. Mutters something too low to make out.

"That'd better be something positive," Miles mutters.

"Yeah. Real f*ckin' peachy."

Scoff. Flick.

Skate. Splash.

It wasn't like this before

God, it wasn't even like this two months ago—

Miles snaps the thought off like a rotten limb. Recites rebuttal like a prayer; he's doing what's best for both of them. For everyone.

The thicket creeps to mind, and he stamps it down like a roach that found its way through the eaves of his skull.

No— Ear flicking again. Stop. f*cking stop.

The space between his legs is oscillating between pins and needles and the phantom warmth of numbness. Miles hasn’t moved an inch since he stood. He knows that prickle can only be a prelude to dazzling pain, but so be it. It’s not need, and that's what matters.

A third infernal f*cking time, his ear flicks, and Miles grits his teeth.

God f*cking—!

He swats the goddamn thing like a gnat, half a mind to hack it off when something snags his fingers.

"What—"

Miles rips his hand free with a hiss, strands of soapy hair clinging to his skin.

"Lyle," he says. "What the hell is this?"

Lyle grumbles something unintelligible, wading through the sluggish vortex in the center of the pool.

"Look, we were f*cking filthy. I waited to see if you'd wake up while I washed off, but you didn't. I wasn't gonna sit on my ass all night, let alone while I thought you up and kicked it."

Miles is still processing the first half.

"And what else," he says, trying to keep his voice level, "did you wash?"

That pick-apart peer and prod of Lyle's fingers comes back, and Miles folds his arms, hoping it reads more pissed off a gesture than uneasy.

"Hair," Lyle grumbles, stomping over. "No funny stuff—Scouts' f*cking honor. Unless you want to grill me for lying, too." He stops, scoffs, head swaggling like he walked nose-first into a glass wall. "I mean for God's sake, Quaritch, give me an ounce of credit, I'm not some f*ckin' rapist—Here." In his palm, Wainfleet slaps four soap tablets. Miles jerks his hand back.

"Just my hair?" He nocks the bare cord of his spine—his nervous system around a finger. "Just?"

Lyle rolls his eyes. "Christ, give me a f*cking break—You were head of security, you know what I f*ckin' flew. And you know I know more about this sh*t than any of you assholes. Hell, it's one of the reasons they even put me in—"

"No," Miles snaps. "No. Not like this, and don't you dare act like you don't know just what the hell I mean."

The pressure of his own grip on the axon sends tingles down his spine like chilled ants. The thought of Lyle up that close and personal with the most sensitive part of his body isn't comforting—especially after being in that godforsaken thicket.

Lyle's voice is stiff. "You sayin' that's bad?"

"Well. It is certainly a touch familiar," Miles audits, cool and slow as the leading edge of a knife. "Don't you think, Corporal?"

Lyle shuts his eyes and inhales for the barest fraction too long. Like he does when he's pissed off and trying not to show it.

"I guess."

"You agree."

"That's not—"

"You agree."

Lyle tucks his chin, ears flat.

"I..." Looking skyward. White flag, deep sigh. "Sure. Whatever."

"Good. I'm glad we could settle the matter." Miles intones, unblinking. "Corporal."

Lyle flinches, but he perks up just as quickly, eyes a bit too wide. Hiding rage, no doubt. "Yeah," he says, clipped. Shoulders shaking. "Yes sir. I'll just—deal with the clothes."

Miles watches him return to the rushes, movements wooden as he pulls up the stick to sit cross-legged with their clothes. Only when he's sure Lyle isn't looking does he begin to wash off.

The longer the silence, the more his gut begins to twinge with buried guilt. Miles tries to shake it, but the roots plunge roughly one career deep. Not easy to shake.

There are certain times, fleeting though they may be, when the chain of command doesn't apply. If not for that thin hour between dog and wolf (whatever that means to the individual) you'd go out of your mind. Man is a pack animal. Doesn't matter if you're f*cking or just shooting the sh*t—sometime or another, the wolf will appear, and showing your underbelly is just common courtesy. Anyone who doesn't is either a greenhorn who thinks they're in the movies or a jackass. And Miles is certainly not a greenhorn.

Some CO he makes. Here they are, naked as jaybirds from being in the goddamn act—and he's pulling rank. What a f*cking joke.

Miles winces at the bruises already starting to form on his hips, but the pain isn’t as blinding as he’s been expecting. On one hand, Miles is thankful that he might not be wincing with every step tomorrow.

On the other, it means he can still feel the unwanted twinges and thrills his soapy hands send down his spine. Miles sighs.

At first, he tries to push the slight nuisance out of his mind. From experience, he knows that acknowledging it—thinking about it—will only make it worse. Scrubbing as fast as he can (which isn’t much at all right now), Miles dares to hope that it’s oversensitivity. Just fried nerves, bound to go quiet once he’s dressed and out of this river.

He’s not aroused. He is not. He can't be…

That doesn't mean he's about to tempt fate.

Miles rushes, not even bothering with his hair, back, or anyplace not defiled by their rendezvous. He can clearly see Lyle focusing on one of their shirts out of the corner of his eye, but despite that and their stone cocoon, the itch of being watched sticks to him, chest tight and overfull at once. By the time he realizes he’s got nowhere else to wash but between his legs, the noose that's been tightening slowly around his throat cinches shut.

God.

Knuckles white, Miles squeezes his eyes shut and thinks of anything else. His parents, his skull splitting like tissue paper, funerals he’s attended. Anything but the rough scrubbing over his sheath.

He always f*cking does this. Always thinks he's the one fool motherf*cker who finally outwits the Basilisk. Of course it doesn't work. It's not supposed to work. Why else would bullsh*t intellectuals entertain bullsh*t thought experiments but to make lesser men sh*t themselves over paradoxes and impossible odds.

Impossible—and yet their basilisk exists. Made of nerves and veins instead of cold, easy circuitry. Impossible to fight; living somewhere inside the rest of him. And despite everything Miles keeps telling himself there's even a 'rest of him' there to find. To excavate the real from the fabrication. Truth from lies.

But not tonight.

At the first heated throb, Miles chokes, clapping his hands over his eyes. He crouches until the water covers his hips, struggling not to scream. They've just f*cked for God knows how long. God knows how many rounds. He f*cking blacked out, and yet.

And f*cking yet.

Miles' throat spasms, and he gulps. Blinks till he can't see the static. It’s there—hovering around him like a fog—but if he can keep it from touching him, he’ll be fine.

"Quaritch?”

Miles flinches.

Don’t. Don’t talk to me. Don’t f*cking look at me—

"Hey, if you need me to—"

"No!” Miles snarls, splashing down up to his shoulders. "I don’t. I don’t f*cking need your help! I need—I need…! Just leave me the hell alone! That's what I goddamn need, Wainfleet, can you manage that?"

Lyle's head snaps up, but silence smothers what should be retort." Are you okay?"

f*ck.

Miles huffs one long, bitter wheeze of a laugh. It must sound worse than he thinks, because soon the river is clapping his neck as Lyle slogs through the gurge to him. Miles curls further into himself. He wishes he could open his mouth and tell Lyle to shut up. Go away. Shove Miles under the surface and say it was an accident. Anything.

But the noose is far too tight, and Miles is far too close to the edge of something he has no name for. He can only sit in a trembling ball, tense as stone. The cold doesn’t even help. If anything, it just makes the heat between his legs feel more intense.

"Quaritch, are you hurt?”

Oh, if only. If-f*cking-only.

Miles reels, surrendering to the fact that he’s not going to go away. If nothing else, Lyle’s always been a stubborn motherf*cker.

Pain is normal; uncomplicated. Admirable, even. Miles has never been double-crossed by it. It’s far easier to admit to than the inverse.

Slowly, dishonestly, he nods.

"Did you finish washing off?”

Miles glares at him.

"Where’s the tabs?” Lyle asks without the slightest pause. "You got ‘em still?”

Miles shrugs, rolling his eyes in spirit as he is clearly not holding anything besides his own skull.

"Uh, okay. I should still have two or three…" Lyle wades off. It feels like a matter of seconds before he's back. "Can you stand?"

Miles cringes at the hand that settles on his shoulder, ears flat. Normally he would just bat Lyle away, but all his focus is on keeping himself from spilling over the edge. Still got a handhold, but it’s dodgy.

Shrugging Wainfleet off, Miles stands—forcing himself to meet Lyle's eyes as he stiffly holds out his palm. Predictably, the stubborn-ass doesn’t hand over the tablets. Because why would he? Why would he f*cking make anything easy for him?

Miles glowers, jaw ticking out a warning. Despite Lyle's cringing, it’s not enough.

"Quaritch,” he sighs. "Honestly. It's not a big deal. I mean, sh*t, look at what else I've 'helped' you with—"

Don't, Miles thinks. He wants to shake his head, but he can't move. Don't goddamn remind me.

He doesn't answer, gesturing again for the tablets. When Lyle eventually gets a pinched look on his face—Miles knows some manner of big guns are coming.

"Are," Lyle mutters. "Quaritch, are we still friends?"

Goddamn it.

Miles slouches, eyes squinting shut with a long-suffering sigh.

God f*cking damn it…

He can't answer that. He just can't. Because deep down, he doesn't know. Hasn’t known much of anything, lately. At some point he just folds his arms around himself, bracing for impact he knows isn't coming, but it feels better regardless.

"Just do what you're gonna do."

It's not a yes, but it's not nothing.

Lyle is quiet for a long time, but eventually Miles hears him dip his hands in the river. Miles cringes, uncomfortably aware of the fact that that he's not sure what to expect. Without question, the most startling thing is the gentleness of it. Miles even forgets to keep his eyes shut, baffled as Lyle gingerly sweeps hair and queue over his shoulder. Then he looks up, and shame catches up with Miles. He snaps forward, ears burning.

The touch isn’t brusque like one could expect from someone who’s angry at them (Hell—the way Miles expects from himself). He doesn’t even seem to be moving at pace, let alone rushing.

"How does this not hurt?” Lyle mutters.

Miles slants an ear. "What?”

"This.” What feels like an ice-pick jabs the tight cord between Miles’ spine and shoulder blade. He yelps, spitting curses.

"sh*t, Lyle, quit jacking around."

"What?'"

"What you mean, what? When I say do what you're gonna do, that doesn't make it a damn free-for-all.”

"f*ck are you in such a hurry for?" Lyle huffs. "We got nowhere to be.”

Miles’ tail twitches. He doesn’t have an answer; not one worth his breath, at least. The only readily available excuse is sleep—and claiming that would get him laughed right out of this hellhole. Sleep is a fickle bitch neither of them can seem to keep around. The truth, of course, is not an option either.

But what's the point of strategizing? Lyle's sharp; he’s probably figured him out already. Might have known before he even asked, the bastard. Miles' jaw ticks harder, and he gets the vague urge to clamp it around something till it either breaks or stops moving. Grim curiosity flashes through his mind about how much bite force it would take to go through a hand; whether he could do it till his teeth touch.

He never does answer.

Just as Lyle doesn't ask, wordlessly undoing the knots in his back with his thumbs. The gesture gives him that curdled, frog-in-a-tray feeling. Eventually Wainfleet sighs and gives up, going back to scrubbing his back. This proves to be almost worse, because when he works his way down to the base of Miles' spine, a more urgent problem presents itself.

There’s another reason he was so opposed to this, and it grows thicker and heavier with each pass of Lyle’s hands. If pressed, Miles swears he could count every sud, callous, and trickle of water running over his charged skin. Not to mention the goddamn soap. The tablets are mixed with pumice. Gritty for scrubbing off all the crap one typically encounters in the jungle.

Not that he’d be able to say so—the noose around his throat has never been tighter. Miles can’t even open his mouth to protest when Lyle reaches under his arm to lather the most sensitive part of his ribs. The jolt of heat that shoots to his groin makes his eyes burn.

Stop, he snarls inward. Stop, stop—f*cking stop. There is nothing racy about this! There is nothing nice about this, f*cking leave me alone. Just once…

Predictably, Miles' body doesn’t listen. And in some frightening benthic depth of himself, he knows it bears truth. There’s an intense undercurrent to what they’re doing that,though foreign, cannot outwit the older, baser creature housing him (were he less utilitarian, the word, "erotic" might come to mind).

By the time Lyle sidles around him to scrub his torso, Miles is flushed down to his chest. Arms crossed tight, he fixates on one clump of moss on the far wall and imagines turning to stone. His pulse thuds like a bruise between his legs when one of Lyle’s fingers catches his navel, and even his spirited calcification attempt can’t stop the way his stomach seizes up. To Miles’ dismay, he realizes he’s having to hold himself in.

There’s no way Lyle can't feel him trembling. Not when the evidence is literally at his fingertips, but the man doesn’t comment on it. Miles narrows his eyes, unsure whether this silence is courteous, or just Lyle f*cking with him.

He gets his answer when the bastard hunches over and proceeds to scrub his f*cking thighs. Miles has to hook his tail around a calf to keep it from lashing, breath catching in his throat.

f*ck.

The southbound surge in his veins makes Miles feel faint, and it's becoming immensely difficult to hold his statuesque pose; the shakes that initially started in his gut have reached his knees, and they're making a strong push for the rest of him.

"Can you move this?" Lyle drones, pausing to brush Miles' tail out of the way—or at least, he tries. It's practically cutting off the bloodflow to his goddamn foot, not that Lyle f*cking points it out. Miles has half a mind to smack him with it.

Lyle doesn't wait for that, though—opting to pry it off himself. He doesn't pull, but Miles is sensitive enough that it doesn't matter. Fire licks up his spine at the motion alone, and he can't hold in the barest of whimpers.

"Something wrong?" Lyle asks, as if the jackass can't smell it. Can't see him growing slick and swollen in front of his f*cking eyes. This oblivious act is practically a sport to him, and Miles doesn't dignify it with a goddamn answer.

Maybe that pisses Lyle off, because he shrugs, scrubbing the tablet from the dip behind his knee all the way to his inner thigh. Miles shudders with a sigh, sheath scalding inside as pre bathes his channel. When Lyle scrubs back down his thigh, he feels a hot trickle through the foam.

Oh, goddamn it.

Lyle finally f*cking stops, completely expressionless except for his eyes—locked between Miles' legs with lethal intensity.

Slowly, like he's in a trance, he reaches up and swipes the soap away. Miles grunts, shivering as more slick creeps down his heated skin.

"Seems I am lacking a washcloth," Lyle says, ogling with half-lidded eyes of an eagle who's just spied a vole.

Miles' reply is hoarse. "S-Seems you are."

Lyle purses his lips in faux contemplation, eyes simmering.

"I could do a tongue bath," he remarks, swallowing. "If you want."

Christ. Kill me.

"Whatever you think is best…"

Just go with it, Miles thinks, legs starting to shake as Lyle kneels down in the shallows.f*cking go with it.

Same as always. What's he supposed to f*cking do? He's all worked up, now; it's not just going to go away. Maybe it'll never go away. Nothing else in this life has been kind to him, so why should this.

The shakes spread, rattling his whole body.

Anticipation, he rationalizes. Just excited.

When Lyle’s tongue rasping Miles' inner thigh sends chills throughout his body, he tells himself it’s fine. It feels good. This is just because it feels good. His throat isn’t closing up, and he’s not about to shake apart into pieces on the floor. He's just excited.

Tongue ghosting his slit, he isn’t hyperventilating. He’s panting. It’s hot. It’s hot, and it’s slow, and it’s good, and Lyle is dipping into his sheath tongues him laps at his tip and—

It’s fine. This is good. This…

Something breaks.

Somehow, somewhere—a tiny cornerstone starts to slip, and suddenly he’s choking. Throat blocked, fighting for oxygen, it takes Miles a few moments to register the sounds coming out of his mouth as hiccups.

His eyes go molten-blurred, and Miles goes blind with panic. He barely manages to knock Lyle away.

"Ow!" his friend yelps. "Man, what the hell?!"

Miles barely hears him, filling with static like a drum. He sucks in a hitching breath. Then another.

Another, another, another.

"Oh, sh*t, are you good? You feeling tense, or dizzy or like you're gonna…" Lyle trails off. "Look, if I need to go get help—"

Miles shakes his head. It feels robotic; like he's not even the one doing it. His face is all cobwebs.

No, he thinks. No—f*ck no.

Anything but that. They can’t f*cking see this.

Can't see me like this…

The water goes choppy as Lyle stands, concern weathering his face.

"Was it too much?" he mumbles. "I swear I wasn't—I thought you were…"

Miles' jaw is welded shut. Before his waking eyes, a glinting line down Lyle's Adam's apple buzzes with snow.

"Quaritch, talk."

Somehow, Miles snaps back into himself long enough to speak, static receding to the edges of him.

"No, it's good," Miles snaps. "f*ck—it's perfect. That's the f*cking problem!" His voice catches. "What's the point of perfect if it's never enough? What kind of perfect doesn't ever f*ckin' stop? Is that not just—just another kind of torture?"

Miles plants his face in his hands, burning with rage and shame.

"Oh, sh*t," Lyle breathes.

That little cornerstone slips further, and the static crawls past his shoulders to colonize his torso in cancerous, buzzing patches. His lungs feel full of flies, chest heaving to expel them. Dimly, he registers his back hit stone like a sheet of ice.

Lyle's voice punches through the fog. "Whoa, Colonel, Jesus! You've gotta stop breathing like—"

"Stop," Miles gasps. "Stop. Please."

"Huh?"

"Stop!" Miles hisses. "I want it… to f*cking… end. For just one goddamn day, I don't want to be looking for the next rock to duck behind so I can get a hand down my goddamn pants—I'm tired. But I can't f*cking turn it off, and now I can’t even tell if I want to!" Miles scrubs a hand down his face, panting faster. The static spreads. "You were there—I probably came twenty f*cking times! For Christ's sake, I passed out. And yet here I stand! Fighting the urge to hump your goddamn leg like some—like some dumbf*cking animal!"

The stone comes loose. Foundations crack. And just like that, Miles bursts into tears.

"Do you know," he sobs, "How it f-feels to be s-stuck like this all the time? No matter what I—do…? Who—I’m–with? I h-have to wonder if they hit some kind of wrong—k-key that f*cked me up… or spilled something—in whatever petri dish they s-scooped me the f*ck out of!"

Hiccupping, Miles hunches; legs clamped, into the water.

Well,he thinks dimly.I did tell him to break me.

"S’not enough I got this f-f*cking body," Miles chokes. "It's not enough I nev-ver asked to be switched on like a f-f*cking appliance… but now I feel like it's tryin'a make me d-different in here, too—" Miles jabs a finger at his temple, "and then it tells me I like it?! I don't want to—I don’t like any of this sh*t! But then, the next minute, it's like I… I don't know.”

Miles hiccups, ears flat to his skull as he drags his hands down his face.

"What if I really am just their f*ckin’ dog? How am I supposed to tell what's me and what's not?"

Breath hitching, he hacks a peal of sobs that sounds like a coughing fit. Dimly, he feels water lap against his thighs, and he figures it's probably Lyle leaving the river at last—not that Miles blames him.

"I thought this would work," he weeps; partly to Lyle, partly to no one at all. "What am I doing wrong? It was—This was supposed to f*cking work…"

"Quaritch…"

Miles jumps out of his skin when Lyle touches his arm. Then his hand. And then his fingers are being pried away from his face. He squeezes his eyes shut, stomach turning. Every tear track that touches the cold air is a gaping wound slashed in his pride—whatever the hell it's even worth, at this point.

"Quaritch, look at me."

Miles jerks, shaking his head. He doesn't want Lyle to see him like this. He doesn't want anyone to see. Not his eyes. Not the only defensible part of himself he's got left—

"Miles."

Something squeezes the one hand Wainfleet managed to wrestle free, and Miles blinks, staring through his fingers in shock.

He remembers the first time he ever held someone's hand; a redheaded girl in third grade.

Then Miles tries to think of the last time he did that.

He can't.

Even though his clothes came off hours ago, he doesn't feel naked until he's staring down at his hand in Lyle's. Something about it gives him the strength to look up, and what he sees is such a shock that Miles forgets to be embarrassed about the eye contact.

Right here in front of him, Lyle Wainfleet has tears pouring down his cheeks.

Slack-jawed, Miles stares.

Ten years, but he's never seen so much as a tear out of Wainfleet.

Is this over Miles?

Lyle opens his mouth like he's about to speak, wavering, before it shuts again. He shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut like he's also trying not to lose it.

If the crying was startling, Miles is utterly dumbfounded when Wainfleet leans forward to pull him into his arms.

For a moment he just stands there, stiff and unyielding as a wooden board. He can't help it. Much like crying, much like holding hands—this, too, is foreign. He fools around all the time, but Miles hasn't been touched in years.

Lyle hiccups against him. "I thought it was me," he breathes, so faint Miles barely hears him. "All this time… All this time, I thought it was just me…"

Miles' vision blurs, and like a puppet cut from its strings, he sags in his friend's arm and shatters. Whether he's hoarse from earlier or simply out of practice, his voice breaks like glass as one long, thin wail echoes off the stone around them.

"I hate this! I hate this place—this goddamn body, I don’t want—" he hiccups, "I never f*cking wanted this! f*ck!"

Lyle's only response is the hand that comes up to the back of Miles' head, laying it to his shoulder with a gentleness that wrenches another choking sob out of him.

"Keep going," he croaks. "Know you've got more sh*t rolling around in there, Q-ball—just keep going. S'okay…"

sh*t. It's been a long time since he's heard that dumbass nickname. Didn't even know he missed it.

"I feel so gross," he hisses. "I'm not thi–this—f*ckin'—thing... I'm a man! I'm a man, I'm a man, I'm a man. I'm a man… I'm a man…!"

Lyle hiccups, hand on his head again. The touch makes him shiver. Not in a bad way, not heated—but a far-too-much kind of way that makes his whole chest ache like it's splitting at the sternum.

"I'm sorry, Miles," Lyle breathes. "I'm so sorry."

Miles can't answer, sniveling into his shoulder for a bit as the sobs start to run their course. Lyle, always the quieter between them, never progresses past shaking shoulders and the odd hiccup. Slowly, almost timid, he begins to comb his fingers through Miles' unkempt hair, touch tingling down his queue.

What the hell is happening? They're just friends. It's all they've ever been. Not this. This is mushy. Weird. So why does it make Miles want to start sobbing again?

There's a fine but imperative line which separates screwing and intimacy, and that's a boundary Miles has always taken great care not to cross. Surely, surely one freak-accident of a meltdown can't be all it takes to muddy that. Surely they're not… involved.

Right?

God, what the f*ck's wrong with me?

The great, heaving sobs may have subsided, but the simpering has not. Miles honestly doesn't care; it's not like he can debase himself any further than he already has. He doesn't know how Lyle can stand here with his arms around him, head leaned up against his neck like he thinks he's some kind of housewife. Like he actually wants to be there.

Was he always there?

Miles tries to remember the mornings after. Who stood first and who stayed.

He can't. In fact, Miles doesn't remember looking back at all. Maybe there's an answer in that.

God—is he hopped up on some kind of post-f*ck hormones? Either linking up cooked their brains, or the months of constant frustration have cost Miles his sanity at last.

He doesn't know who he's kidding; it's not like he's pulling away from this. He doesn't want to dry his eyes, put on his clothes, and go back to camp. Camp—where he'll lay down, pretend to sleep, and go on suffering. Camp, where he'll go about his day like nothing's happened. Never touching, never touched.

And isn't that what all of them have been doing since they woke up: carry on as if nothing happened? As if nothing is happening?

At least Lyle also doesn't seem to be in any hurry. His right hand never left Miles' head, but when the left leaves his back, his heart sinks for the briefest moment. Until it rises to meet the other at the crown of his head.

What?

Lyle fiddles with his hair for a moment before one of his fingers hooks the axon and tugs his queue around a segment. Miles jolts at the contact, and when he puts together that Lyle is braiding his goddamn hair for him, the tears that have just begun to subside come back with a goddamn vengeance.

Miles weeps. There's nothing else he can possibly do but weep. These feelings—this—this tenderness—they're things that just don't happen. Not to him. Never him.

It's too much. It has to be a dream, or a cruel joke. Maybe he died of a stroke when they linked queues, and this is his true Hell; an elaborate rug woven by Lucifer to be ripped out from under from him any second now.

It would be a good punishment. It would dash whatever parts of Miles still remain to be broken, but deep down, he knows it can't be fake. Not when it feels more real than anything else has since waking up on a back that wasn't his.

Suddenly, the truth Miles has been dancing around is more obvious than the gas giant hanging over him.

He's been carrying on as if nothing happened.

As if nothing has been happening.

As if Lyle hasn't been there from the moment Miles opened his eyes.

Groping him, because he couldn't hold him.

Biting him, because he couldn't kiss him.

f*cking him, because he couldn't…

He can't. Not yet.

Right now, all Miles can manage is to return the embrace. At the timid squeeze, Lyle chuffs out a few sobs and leans his head further into him.

God…

"M’sorry I pulled rank," Miles whispers suddenly. He's not even sure where it comes from. "Was a chickensh*t thing to say… Didn't mean it."

Lyle's hands slow a bit, huffing a fond sound as he leans closer, tail looping around Miles' ankle. Somehow, that chokes him up more than any verbal forgiveness might have.

He supposes it's fitting. After all, is there a single thing in this new life that has not been sudden and bizarre? Are they themselves not sudden, bizarre beings? Strange birds who shouldn't—didn't exist, until they did? Feelings can't be half as strange as they are.

Miles wishes he could say half as much. A quarter as much. Hell, just one damn word that isn't booor hoo would suffice—but he can't. He never learned how to talk about things like this. Things that matter. All he knows is action.

It's pleasant agony waiting for the man to be finished. The rhythmic tug and weave around, around, and around the most sensitive part of his body has Miles' eyes slipping shut more than once. The slope of Lyle's neck where it meets his shoulder makes a good pillow. He could fall asleep like this.

At some point, a quiet, almost imperceptible rumbling kicks up in his chest, and he feels Lyle smile against his neck. Maybe he imagines it, but he swears he feels a peck there. Slow, so he doesn't notice. Miles can't think about that too hard.

By the time Lyle reaches the soma, Miles is fighting to stay awake. Before Lyle began doing his hair, he dreaded the moment they would have to let go. Now, it's the only hurdle standing before what he has to do.

If all he knows is action, then oo-f*cking-rah, and so be it.

His queue barely touches his back before Miles scrambles to get out of the hug, all but throwing Lyle's arms off to grab his face.

"Miles, what—"

And pull their mouths together.

Lyle locks up completely, sucking a gasp through his nose that doesn't come back out.

In a tiny corner of his brain, Miles fears he may have just made an ungodly miscalculation, but he doesn't f*cking care. His heart thrums, lip wobbling against Lyle's as he silently begs.

Understand, understand…

When they finally part for air, Miles' heart jumps to his throat, wishing he'd paid that corner more mind. He was expecting shock, but this far exceeds that.

Oh, sh*t.

"Wainfleet," Miles sputtters. "Look, that… I wasn't—"

He barely registers the pain when teeth smash into each his own, desperate sounds tearing from Lyle's throat as he all-but drives him back against the wall.

Miles shuts his eyes, dimly aware of a tear slipping down his face, but it's nothing compared to Lyle. The man is hiccupping so hard he keeps having to break the kiss just to breathe.

"You," he gasps, "f*cking moron."

Miles denotes only three seconds of guessing before he shrugs it off.

Fair, he thinks, as Lyle crashes their mouths together again.

Slowly, the shock ebbs into relief. Then heat, parting for air before diving in again. Lyle groans around his tongue, clawing into the meat of his shoulders. Miles cups his face to kiss him deeper, and Lyle heaves another sob or two into his mouth.

Dimly, Miles can tell all the touching and kissing is starting to do a bit more than make his knees weak. It isn't long before the roaming hands and Lyle choking on his tongue has Miles pulsing in his sheath. He's bricked up faster from how Lyle's fingers brush up the underside of his jaw than he usually gets from direct groping.

And he must not be alone, because soon Lyle's hands get a little less tender and a lot more exploratory. Miles shudders, equal parts excited and uneasy.

Exploring is… not his wheelhouse. Not like this. They didn't even touch each other's chests before this instant. Even without the line-not-to-be-crossed, it's something that's never done much for Miles in the past.

This body clearly has different opinions on that. A thumb swiping over his nipple startles an absurd, shrill giggle of a noise from Miles' throat.

Lyle snorts against his mouth, breaking the kiss to mutter, "Noted," with a foxlike smirk.

Miles flushes at the new feeling, and a tide of panic swells around him. Before he knows what's happening, he's pushing Lyle's hand away.

"Hey, let's… Look, just stick to the fundamentals, alright?"

Lyle pushes right back, clapping heavy hands on Miles' shoulders with an intense stare.

"Quaritch," he rasps in a new, sultry way that raises the hair on the back of his neck. "We have hours. There's nobody around for half a f*ckin' mile. I am giving you explicit goddamn permission to enjoy this, so just… stop. Let me—"

Lyle's hands trail down again, pull another embarrassing noise from his throat, and Miles thrashes.

"Lyle," he warns.

"But you're… Don't you want—"

"Yes," Miles says. "I mean, no.It's not—I didn't—" Blood pounds in his ears. "f*ck!"

Lyle pulls back, and his expression makes Miles want to claw his own face bloody.

"No," he snaps, "I don't. I didn't—I don't like these things!"

"Now or then?"

"When else?" Miles crows. "The only time that matters! When I was—was all me. Before everything got all f*cked up…"

"Miles, it's not about what's you or not you," Lyle says. "You think my sh*t didn't change around?"

"Well—no, but… Dammit, I don't get it, how can you be so—so fine with this? How can you not worry?"

"I don't know," Lyle hedges. "It's just. Nice. And right now... I guess I just I wanna hold onto anything nice I still can."

"Nice?" crows Miles. "f*cking look at us! This sh*t is not nice. Tell me one thing that's f*ckin' nice!"

Lyle huffs, one ear ticking.

"Alright, fine. One thing," he chimes. "You. I think you're hotter this way."

Miles chokes.

Well. As if he knows what to say to that. He's not sure he'd be able to come up with a response if you gave him another fifteen or so years to mull it over.

Then again, Lyle's a perceptive bastard. If anyone knew how to kiss up to him…

Miles' eyes light up.

Sly dog.

"Heh… Hell of a way to find out you've got a fetish for the locals…"

Lyle flinches, eyes widening a fraction. To anyone else, it would look like nothing, but Miles sees the hurt plain as day.

f*ck. Guess he wasn't kissing up.

You piece of sh*t, he hisses inwardly.

(Wait, that means—Lyle is serious?)

For several heartbeats, they stare at each other in deafening silence. Miles is uncomfortably aware of his own transparency—at least, when it comes to Lyle. This is a flag on the play. A dreadful pause while the man figures how to speak without drawing blood.

Not that Lyle would be at fault. Not when he's showing his belly like this—only to get teased by Miles' cowardly ass.

(God... He really is a piece of sh*t.)

"Why is it so impossible to you?" Lyle whispers. Miles winces at how wounded he sounds; something entirely bizarre in Wainfleet's voice. "Why's it so f*cked in the head a concept that I would like you? Now?"

"Because this—how I am… is not me," Miles hisses.

Lyle doesn't speak. Instead, his head co*cks just so to the side, squinting ever so slightly. Miles cringes when that frog-dissecting shine returns to his eyes.

The man's not much of a talker. Doesn't think too hard before acting—but he has a way of picking you apart with nothing at all but a look. Sometimes it feels like playing tag. Only Miles is always it, and Lyle's in a tree—saying nothing, hands folded as he waits for Miles to piece together what he's known for ten minutes. A wolf with eagle's eyes. Patient; inevitable.

It's precisely why Lyle is the only man Miles trusts to watch his six. Unfortunately, that also puts Miles squarely in the crosshairs of that look.

"Miles," Lyle murmurs, "Have you ever—sh*t, how the hell do I put this... Whenever you've been with me, or," his voice lowers, "or touched yourself, has it ever been just to… feel good? Figure out what feels good?"

Miles bursts out laughing. He can't help it—what kind of question is that? He doesn't even like to think about this sh*t, and Lyle's asking if he pokes around down there for fun? What does he think this whole charade has been for?

Lyle's stony expression doesn't falter.

"Have you even tried?" he drills.

"Did my busting a damn gut not answer?" Miles asks, wiping his eyes. "Why the hell would I?"

Lyle blanches.

"Why would—? What kind of crackpot sh*t is that? Same reason anyone should! Same reason people do."

"Oh," Miles intones, nodding slowly, "Saying the quiet part loud, now, aren’t we. So’s this second 'life' just a big sexploration for you, then? Some type of wacky vacation?"

Lyle shoves him so fast and so hard, stars fill Miles’ eyes as his queue smashes against the wall.

"f*ck you!"

Lyle wrenches away from him, tail lashing as he storms around in a circle, jaw clenched tight. Like he’s holding in something he’ll regret.

"You conceited son of a f*ckingbitch. It’s just a big goddamn race to the bottom with you, isn't it? All or nothing! God! Just ‘cause I don’t push myself till I can’t feel anything below my hips, or—or have a f*cking crisis every time I shoot off,doesn’t mean I asked for this sh*t! It doesn't mean I’m not scared. How f*cking dare you! I am s-so…"

Lyle clenches his fists, quaking with a visible tremor.

"They woke me up first. Did you even know that?" he snarls, eyes bright. "Couldn’t even have the techs in there, yet. It was just me inside something that wasn’t me—strapped down so I wouldn't I split my trillion-dollar f*cking skull open on something! Just walls and mirrors and s-some f*ckin' stranger talking at me through a speaker—"

Lyle's eyes bug out, damp and baleful as he quotes in lifeless singsong;

"‘Lyle Wainfleet, can you hear me?’"

A chill runs up Miles’ spine.

"‘Your name is Corporal Lyle Wainfleet. Do you know that? Can you understand that? Tap the floor twice if you can understand what you're hearing… Remain calm. Remain calm, or we’ll f*ckin' sedate you…’ Like I—Like I was a—!"

"An animal," Miles breathes.

Lyle shoots him a scathing look before he wraps his arms around himself, twitching all over. His eyes are so wide they almost look human; rings of white-pink choking gold.

"Y-You know, when you're a kid—when you're born, it's not like you really know sh*t... You don't—You can't remember…"

Lyle's eyes cloud over.

"But that's—We aren't… like that. There was a few minutes where my name—my name... was just noises. I didn't know what they were... What I was. They didn't even feel familiar; I just had this—this f*ckin' siren in my head saying something was wrong. Something was s-so f*cking wrong… And then I—"

Lyle swallows hard, eyes downcast and shameful.

"Then, I was me again, but not—myself. It's like a version of me that didn't ever grow up past not knowing sh*t. Can't forget those thirty seconds when it wasn't anything... I feel like the siren never even shut off—it's just blaringwrong, wrong wrong, all the time, and I don't know which half! Sometimes it goes away, but…"

Lyle trails off, shrugging despondently.

"You know what—forget it," he huffs. "Just f*ckin' forget it..."

Miles is stunned silent.

His own waking was quick. Chaotic. Lost in the loud stupor of fight or flight. He fears the long dark prior to wakefulness; the muted sensations, the sounds…

Most of all, the still, silent abyss between his last moment and his first.

The feeling, just before waking, that something is off, only to realize you aren't where you fell asleep. The awful flicker in his memories that—despite all evidence to the contrary—contains nothing.

But even the smokelike terror of a nightmare is still a nightmare Miles got to wake up from.

"Lyle..." he breathes.

"I can't even think about it at night," Lyle snaps, fire returning to his eyes. "That voice… Th-That room. Even now, my hands're s-shaking… But you can't f*cking see that, can you? Speakers make me wanna hurl—can’t even listen to radio traffic too long without breaking into a damn sweat—"

"Lyle—"

"But hey! I was sure there for you, yeah? So what the hell's it even f*cking matter?"

"Lyle, I'm sorry!"

"God forbid I try to hang onto what feels nice when everything else is so f*cked! God forbid I deal with my sh*t, instead of shoving half of it in a f*cking box and heaping the rest on others!"

"I said I'm sorry, goddamnit, I'm sorry!" Miles shrieks, "I get it! I'm a natural f*ckin' disaster! Just a goddamn tornado that does nothing but hurt people. That's why you probably hate me now!"

The moment he says it, something comes loose for the second time. Only it isn't static that fills Miles' head—but numbers.

One thing nobody considers about this particular line of work is how much quick math it requires. How essential it is, but also how second-nature it becomes.

Rounds, klicks, range... How many men on your side—how many on the other. How those digits tick down—how fast—how far—how wide the gap… Every second, crunching.

After thirty-odd years, it might as well be a sixth sense. A background program. Miles doesn't even think about it anymore.

At least, not until the damn thing goes rogue.

The downside about senses? They can't exactly be switched off.

He sees it ticking, up and up and up. Deaths. Dollar signs. Percentages between genomes. People he used to talk to. Talked to just a couple months ago. Years. God, the years… He's counted up the same fifteen years so many times he could tell you their worth in minutes.

It's been nearly two decades for everyone else—every living person Miles used to know. Even more years if he miraculously managed to get back to earth (a pipe dream of a notion he factors anyway. Why? Who the hell can say). Two decades, and not even one whole year of his own life lived in that time.

Like a runaway algorithm, the numbers build and build. At the center of everything, the number that most overwhelms Miles... is one.

One man. One friend. Not a drinking buddy, not a squadmate, not a fling—but his friend.

His friend. The man he trusts. Who happened to get picked alongside him—die alongside him... And most miraculous of all, be reborn with him.

And he's just pissed it all away.

Miles hides his face, doubling over in the shallows as he quietly falls apart again.

God. He really did just… go and do it, didn't he.

Miles—a beggar, fifteen years, billions of dollars, and approximately one soul past the realm of choosing. And he's just wrecked the strongest tie to another living soul he still miraculously had.

There's only one time in his entire life he can recall seeing his old man cry, and Miles realizes with a shock that he sounds just like him. Raspy and quick—like everything's trying to flood out before the breach dams up for another quarter-century.

(He realizes, with far greater shock, that he now technically outlives the man by two years.)

Miles feels more water lap against his thighs. This time, surely, Lyle is leaving.

Instead, more warm arms circle around him. Miles sags immediately this time.

"Not hate," Lyle mumbles. "Confused at you, hurt by you, or mad as f*ck at you, sure. Not hate. Can't hate you... Gave up askin' why…"

Lyle’s guilt is thick as the weepy gunk in his voice. He drew blood, and he knows it. Miles may trust him more than anyone presently breathing—but nobody’s perfect.

His palm trails down Miles' queue again; makes his lip tremble something awful. Miles lets his face fall against his shoulder, shaking with silent sobs.

"Never even f*ckin' asked," he hisses, voice thick with hatred. "Never even thought to ask! Not what I’d be comin' back as, not when—! Inever thought…” Miles trails off, a furious roar splintering in his throat. "God, why?!Why'd we ever get into that godforsaken machine?"

Lyle presses his face to Miles' neck, tears hot against his skin. He doesn’t answer. Who could possibly answer?

"What the hell're we doing, Lyle? Is this even... Are we just pretending? Are youpretending?"

"No," Lyle whispers immediately. "The last thing I remember before… Before. Was being glad I had a friend going with me."

Miles bites his lip till he tastes copper, tears cutting down his face.

f*ck… Goddammit.

"Well," he laughs bitterly, breath hitching. "S-Sorry for that letdown, then. We’ve got enough sh*t to deal with, and I just…" His throat closes up, tears seeping between their skin. "Just 'heaped the rest'…"

"Miles," Lyle breathes. "Christ, I’m… If I could take any part of that back—"

"But you meant it," Miles croaks. "You meant it. Don't lie to me."

"No—sh*t—Yes, but not how you think!" Lyle pulls back, eyes blazing. "Dammit, I don’t care how much sh*t you've got! But day after day, I have to sit there and watch—f*ck, I—I have to helpyou just—torture yourself! Before tonight, you never so much as let me lay a goddamn hand on you if it wasn’t to beat you! I hate it! I hate it so f-f*cking much..!"

Lyle hiccups, composes himself.

"So, I know it's just one big goddamn cliche," he waves a hand, eyes rolling. "But if you want to help me, help yourself. Please."

Miles isn’t often stunned into silence, but Lyle’s going for the record tonight.

"I just don't want…" he wavers. "I'm not…"

"Miles," A dreary note enters Lyle's voice. "Do you think I'm a dog?"

Miles blinks.

What?

"Am I... gross to you for liking this? For wanting this?"

"Wh—? No," Miles says thickly. "'Course not..."

"So, why? Why do you have to hate it?" Lyle whispers. "Look, life dealt us a dogsh*t hand. Shouldn't we take all the good we can get?"

"Good," Miles chuckles, hoarse and bitter. "Tell me how this is good."

And like it’s the simplest thing in the world—

"Because it feels good."

Long as he's known the man, Lyle's been this way. Committed to hunches and his gut with an almost sage audacity. The sort of person who—if presented with Theseus’ ship—would likely shrug, declare that it beats swimming, and be on his merry way.

Maybe it's just the deadeye in him. Maybe something older than that.

Either way, it's that laser-focused confidence which Miles both envies and laments.

"I don’t want it to feel good," he hisses. "I don’t want to feel like anything."

"For God's sake, why?"

"Because then it f*cking wins!"

Dead air swamps the grotto like an airlock.

Lyle pulls back, and Miles wishes he could look pissed off for once, instead of worried. Like pain, anger is the less complicated of the two.

Flat and heavy as stone, Lyle says;

"'It?'"

Miles stares into the water, panting (ringing ears—cold showers—storm drains—he’s been here before).

"Miles, do you like being hit?"

Good ol’ Lyle; delicate as a mallet.

As with everything, Miles' flinch and pause is blood in the water.

"Miles," Lyle grits out. "Answer the goddamn question."

Why f*cking bother? he wants to scream. You already know! You’re putting it together right now, and I’m not even f*cking saying anything!

"Did you even like it as a human?!" Lyle crows, shrill with reverb from the water. "Any of it?"

"Yes!" lies Miles. "He—I—No. I-I don’t know! It doesn’t matter!"

"Bullsh*t."

Miles feints, blowing past him. He's fast, but Lyle is a brick wall, and the water makes Miles slow and clumsy either way. He doesn’t make it a yard before a steel-clawed hand slams him back into the wall (queue narrowly escaping this time, thank God).

Miles considers drowning himself when the impact jars a whimper out of him. He bites down on the sound, clamping his legs together.

No! No, no, no, no, no, goddamnit!

It’s useless. Between the crushing forearm at his chest and Lyle's hawk-eyes carving him up, Milesaches. He snaps the other way, ears flat.

No more—I said no more! f*ck! God—f*cking—f*ck!

He wants to bite something. Flay something. They don't even have true claws, but by God it doesn't matter. He's so—so everything. The world grows thunderous and arclight-clear as his pupils contract.

In one fluid process, something with neither face nor form shoves Miles to the backseat and slips behind the controls. In another life, if pressed to theorize what "primal” felt like, the last thing he would ever guess is how mechanical it is.

One moment, he’s Miles. The next, he's neither man nor beast, but a fanged radar—ears swiveling to catch tunnels of sound where they cross. Of two things he becomes instantly aware: a convergence of arteries. One in Lyle's wrist, one in his neck. Both within reach...

Air touching his gums, Miles feels his neck swivel to stare just under Lyle's eyes. Never at, something hints.

In a poker game, the man is untouchable—uncanny control of his finer reflexes despite their limited time dealing with them. But just as Miles can't hide his tells, neither can Wainfleet. He wagers nobody else alive would catch the subtle tightening of pupils that say Lyle's spooked.

But when a long, flinty hum lilts out of his chest—one that screams stop, get back, danger... something equally primal makes Lyle reel away—eyes and ears down.

Then everything flickers, and he's Miles again.

"God…"

He trembles into his palms for the second time as the water moves.

Slow, like he's gentling a feral dog, Lyle’s fingers brush his forearm. The contact is supercharged; every contour of his palm wide as a canyon against Miles' flushed skin.

He clamps down on a whine—unable to tell whether the heat surging through him is shame, or what he’s ashamed of.

Even more chaste, Lyle’s other hand grazes around his waist, settling on the small of his back. Miles nearly cuts his lip again. He wants to hiss at Lyle to stop—ask if he’s heard a single goddamn thing he’s saying—but Miles can't open his mouth. If he opens his mouth, it may not be words that come out.

(And if it was words... Lyle might actually listen this time.)

"Miles…"

God, why does he keep saying everything so blasted-f*cking gentle?

"Miles, let me help you…"

He can feel Lyle's breath on his chin. Something seeps between his thighs, and Miles considers slamming his skull back until he passes out.

"What do you even get out of this?" he spits.

Lyle just rolls his eyes. Huffs a dry, sardonic thing bordering on a chuckle.

"Don't you f*cking laugh at me!" Miles snarls, alight with rage, pain, and every shadowed thing between the two. "Am I speaking Chinese? What the f*ck do you see?! Look at me!"

Miles swipes a hand up his leg, catching some of the slick on his thigh.

"Just what the hell is manabout this, huh?!" he bellows, thrusting his hand in front of Lyle.. "What's me about this?! Like a goddamn f*cking virgin—You think I was always this way?! This sissy, simpering, neutered bitch of a pillow princ—"

Lyle snatches his hand, pinning Miles with a silencing gaze as he brings it to his lips. In one slow, lewd motion, he seals his mouth around Miles' fingers and sucks, tonguing his fingertips for good measure before swallowing.

Miles short-circuits as a hot cord between hand and groin snaps taut. When Lyle's teeth graze his fingertips, he comes dangerously close to tensing out of his sheath.

Miles opens his mouth—shuts it. Opens.

"You think I care about that?" Lyle spits, voice quavering with intensity to match his eyes. He tightens his fingers around Miles' wrist, knuckles white. "Do you know—Do you have any f*cking idea what you do to me? What you've been doing to me all these months?! Fine! If you're really that goddamn blind, here!"

With a tremor, Lyle jerks Miles' hand down and presses it between his own legs. Miles chokes, eyes ballooning.

Holy f*ck.

Just from kissing—even with the argument—Lyle is so soaked that Miles feels a warm line trace between his knuckles to bead at his wrist. The rocket-hot flesh taps against his palm with every throb of Lyle's heart. Miles swallows hard at the glinting streaks darkening the other man's inner thigh, unsure how he missed them before.

"I don't like you 'cause of your body," Lyle groans, quivering on his hand. "I like your body because it's you. Not your soul—not your dick—not the idea of you—or the memory—or the stone t-top—or whatever the f*ck you've been stewing to death in there! Just… you. 20-years-ago-Miles isn't who I want. The guy right in f*cking front of me is!"

Squirming on his palm, Lyle bellows, "T-Tell me how else I'm supposed to get it through your thick skull, because I'm running low on ideas!"

Miles is certain he must be having a stroke. That slick, engorged mound seeping down his forearm with every grind and twitch bleaches more of the English language from his brain. His only available commentary is an eloquent "G—Gh—Ghk." from somewhere in the back of his throat. His face is on f*cking fire.

It doesn't help when Lyle yanks his hand away, ripping a shudder out of Miles. Before he can recover, he slips half-sticky hands under Miles' jaw and pulls them together, sighing like he's taking hits off a drug.

"You—nearsighted—f*ck," he breathes between kisses, hands trailing chills up Miles' back. "Think you're—" kiss, "the only dickhe*d—" kiss, "who's got nobody—" kiss, "else?"

Miles swallows.

"Look, I f*ckin' like you. A lot," Lyle pants, eyes blown. "So just—stop this hating yourself sh*t! And that includes not taking care of things..."

"I've been trying—"

"No!" barks Lyle. "No you haven't! Whipping something till it does what you f*cking want it to isn'tcare."

Miles grits his teeth, looking away. Finally, the words come.

"Lyle, for f*ck's sake, I didn't get what you got!"

Lyle pulls back, brows furrowed.

"... What?"

"The break," Miles says. "The break in continuity. When—When you said you started out something else. You got that! Not me. Not that I remember…"

Lyle goes very still, eyes drifting somewhere Miles can't follow. He looks almost guilty.

"You called it 'right' before," Miles continues, "But to me it—it just isn't. Can't ever be... Because it's—I don't know how to feel any different! I still feel like nothing happened at all! like something's wrong every time I feel different than I should!"

Lyle caps Miles' words with his mouth, wrapping his arms around his waist. It feels like sympathy is bleeding through his very skin.

"Why do you have to understand why you like something?" he asks, parting. "Do you think this hard about your favorite food?"

"Those aren't even comparable!"

"Do you?"

"Lyle, how do you know?" Miles bellows. "How do you know good means right?"

Lyle says nothing for a long time

"... I don't."

Miles' eyes widen.

"I don't know," Lyle mutters. "But I just don't see how it matters that much. Even if they were just flings, I... When I'm with you, the siren stops. And I just feel like me again. Whatever that means... I'm not even talking about screwing around. I'm—it's–it's the other stuff. In-between stuff. Like w-walking back and forth to camp, or—or lying next to you, or..." he clears his throat, ears tinted, "or right now…"

Miles stares.

sh*t.

He's involved.

"Damn it…" Lyle sighs. "Miles, I won't make you do anything, but I don't know what else to do. I'm not gonna leave this with you punishing yourse—"

He yelps softly as Miles pulls him forward, sealing his words with his mouth. Slowly, Lyle sags into it with a sigh, tremor cascading through his body. Without any talk or sobbing fits to break them up, it feels like whole minutes before they part, gasping for air.

"You," Miles rasps, low and husky. "You've got my six… right?"

Lyle gets a faintly sappy look about him that Miles has to glance away from before he's chased down with another searing kiss.

"Till I'm f*ckin' dead," Lyle growls, licking into his mouth with a zeal that has his eyes rolling back. Sliding a bit down the wall, Miles groans as eager hands begin to map his torso. It feels like there's a blast furnace in front of him.

"Let me show you," Lyle gasps between them. "Let me show you how you make me feel—"

Miles surrenders, pushing into the kiss with a desperate whine. What he's even desperate for, he isn't entirely sure yet. All he knows is the 'Yes. Yes, please show me…' that sinks Miles' brain into steaming honey.

Timid and shaky as a fawn, his legs fall open.

Chapter 3: Strange

Chapter Text

Pleasantly, Lyle doesn't go for the kill outright. He doesn't even touch him—not how Miles is expecting.

Instead, he goes back to making out, hands trailing up and down Miles' back. A wandering touch ghosts the base of his tail, startling a groan out of him, and Lyle rewards him with a slow dig of his thumb into the spot. At the same time, his other hand stops at his chest.

Lyle opens one eye, asking silent permission, and despite the nervous swoop in his gut, Miles slowly nods, gasping at the first brush over his chest.

f*ck…

Lyle goes at a painfully slow pace—making tightening circles with his fingertips until both are pebbled and aching. When he finally tweaks one, Miles arches up on the balls of his feet, twitching in his sheath with a yelp.

"That's it," Lyle growls appreciatively. "That's it…"

It's been a long time since his last foreplay proper. Miles doesn't remember it being this long—or even half as good. Lyle hasn't laid one finger below the waist, and he's already throbbing.

Miles must be too braindead to move his arms, because Lyle slowly slips his fingers around his wrist and pulls Miles' hand to his abdomen.

Oh, he thinks, fingers flattening over Lyle’s ribs. Right.

Suddenly, Miles remembers the other reason he doesn't do foreplay. Objectively, he knows what places make most people tick, but there's a finesse to it; a je ne sais quoi Miles is not privy to. He can get it done, but he can't play people like fiddles the way Lyle's been doing. No window dressings; that's his style.

Still, duty calls. Feeling somewhat clumsy, Miles gives one nipple an experimental tug, and Lyle yowls like a fire engine.

Okay, Miles notes, wide-eyed, maybe I can play him like a fiddle.

He tugs again—then tweaks one in each hand. He feels like one of those chimp monkeys you see in old videos, ogling whatever it's just dug up with a twig. Lyle's hanging halfway out of his sheath, though, so Miles figures he's doing something right.

If he thought his hands were good, he isn't prepared for the way the world tilts when Lyle cranes down and sucks a nipple into his mouth. He yelps so loud it echoes back at them, hot prickles erupting in his gut.

"sh*t," he hisses. "sh*t—nhah—Is this is how—mhm! How it f-feels for most people?"

One citrine eye gleams up at him. Instead of answering, Lyle nips the one he's working on, twists the other, and with a lewd moan, Miles is dropping from his sheath.

Lyle switches—mouthing the nipple he was just tweaking and vice-versa. The static shock it sends to his groin has Miles biting his lip. He’s still so oversensitive that the air alone feels solid against his pulsing skin. The last push of his pelvic floor—the slick almost-pop of his base turning out—that alone is enough to have Miles whimpering and seeing stars. He isn’t even sure if it’s in a good way.

"Touch yourself," Lyle grunts.

Miles shivers at the flint in his tone, hand reaching down almost with its own accord to palm his throbbing length. The moment of jaw-grinding soreness is only a concern for a moment, before—

"Good boy."

Miles twitches in his hand, eyes rolling back with a soft, shattered moan.

Lyle doesn't usually have much voice to his laugh, but it rings clear as a bell now, bouncing around the walls of the alcove. Miles goes a bit weaker in the knees.

"Sounds like ol' Colonel's got the opposite of a pain kink," he jokes.

Miles ignores him, catching the pre drooling down his shaft with shaking fingers.

"Hey, I like a little pain,” he pants, “s-spices things up…"

Except when I’m on round twenty-something within two goddamn hours, maybe

No matter how slick he gets, his skin is beginning to twinge the more he jerks himself. It's neither pleasant nor satisfying. It just hurts.

Miles doesn't even realize he's grimacing until Lyle lifts his head, brows furrowed.

"You okay?"

Miles shrugs.

"It's jus'…" he pants, co*ck slipping from his shaking hand. "S'just—a bit much… right now… Sore…"

"So, touch other stuff."

Miles hesitates, face warming irksomely. Even now, unease snakes up from the pit of his stomach, constricting. When was the last time he got off distraction-free like this? There's a reason he doesn't make a habit of it.

Lyle heaves an exasperated-teacher sort of sigh, sliding out of the embrace to lay firm hands on Miles' shoulders.

"Quaritch," he says—clipped, like he's at attention. His eyes burn holes through him. "Do you want to be a woman?"

Miles sputters, face warming.

"Wh–? No."

"Do you feel like a woman?"

Miles opens his mouth. Then his thoughts slam into a ten-car pileup.

"I'm not talking about sex stuff," Lyle adds.

"No!"

"Okay! Well, that's that figured out. Good talk."

"Wh–?” Miles sputters. “That can't be it."

"Why not? Everything's fifty-fifty anyway."

"Fifty-fif… The hell you talking about?"

"Like binary! I took computer science, you know," Lyle says. "Everything's either on or off in that. T, or F."

"Bullsh*t; there's not just two of anything. And when the hell’d you take computer science? You never went to college."

Lyle shoots him a sore scowl, one ear slanting back.

"Took it in highschool," he grumbles. "Jackass... And it's not about what—it's about whether. Like—okay, you know Schrödinger's cat, right?"

Miles blinks at him, slow and sardonic.

"Do I look," he deadpans, "like I know Schroeder's cat."

"Schrödinger. Some quack puts a cat in a box, breaks a tube of pois—sh*t, was it poison or radiation…? Either way, cat's dead. Or is it? The idea's that it's both, since the box is closed, but it's all a crock of sh*t! It can't be both—everyone knows that. They're just too much of a puss* to crack the damn thing open and see!"

Miles stares, ears askew. How dead cats and computer jargon are connected, he can’t begin to fathom. He’d give Lyle sh*t for turning coat to the Poindexters, but even Miles can’t call this sh*t science; it just sounds like nonsense. Even more of it than the amount that usually constitutes 'science' in his mind.

"You… are a piece of work, Lyle."

“Pot calls kettle.”

“Oh, damn straight it does,” Miles needles. “So’d they just have you all lined up killing cats in the classroom? Sure that memory cooked up right?”

Lyle rolls his eyes.

“First off, I never said I got the cat thing from some stupid elective, and second off—it’s not real cats, dipsh*t. It’s a theory. Or a hypothesis, or…”

“Lyle," Miles groans, "for God's sake, I want to get off—not go impotent.”

"Hey, you asked. And besides, I don't care if it's right. It's just what works for me."

"Fifty-fifty?"

Lyle shrugs.

"Narrows stuff down."

"How?"

"I ever tell you how I joined the corps?"

"Needed the house money…" Miles hedges. "Eviction… Mom couldn't work—somethin' like that…"

Lyle shakes his head.

"You're talking reasons. I'm talking how. Do you know how I chose."

Miles shakes his head; throws his hands up.

Lyle's grin goes crooked.

"Coin toss."

Miles barks out a laugh that echoes off stone.

"Oh, bull-sh*t."

Lyle doesn't move, and his gaze turns clear and steady.

"…You're serious?" Miles asks, smile giving way to puzzlement.

Lyle shrugs.

"Couldn't figure out which sounded worse—getting shot up, or wasting away in some packing plant. So…"

"So you went to war on a coin toss?"

"Hey, it's not like I had a lot of options! Figured if nothing else, I might get some stories to tell," Lyle's eyes flash, "I’d say I got a hell of an interesting one. Wouldn’t you?"

“Maybe, but…” Miles blinks, unable to hide his bafflement. “Your first tour?”

Lyle shrugs.

“But you were just—”

“Yep,” Lyle cuts in, popping the ‘p.’ He folds his arms, glancing increasingly off to the side. “… I was.”

“And your family didn't have anything to say about it? Teachers? Anyone?”

“Ma never knew. Never told her… Or anyone else. Till now, I guess. The choice was left up to me, and I was tired of that responsibility, so…" Lyle sighs through his teeth. "Passed it onto ol’ G.W.”

He pantomimes flipping a coin. For some senseless reason, both of them look up, and when Miles' eyes come back down, Lyle's do not.

He gets like this, sometimes. More often than most might catch. For all the brash candor of his words, to Miles, it's the voids between sentences that speak louder about Lyle.

He just can't tell what they're saying.

Miles may have decoded more of this wordless language than anyone else, but that doesn't mean he can speak it.

Staring into Lyle's eyes, still lost in that middle distance, Miles wishes he did.

The dim light ripples as Lyle leans against the stone beside him, and a wave of deja vu nearly bowls him over. Suddenly, he's not caught in a gurge in the middle of some river. He's not in the jungle at all.

They're leaning on a wall by the helipad at Hell's Gate, smoking and watching a storm roll in.

Miles doesn't remember what they were talking about; probably nothing important—but he remembers the feeling. A moment of respite; smoke and petrichor.

They're not allowed cigarettes—not with these bodies (can't go damaging company property unless it asks). But despite the fact that he has now, technically, never even smelled tobacco, Miles itches for a smoke to share.

He isn't sure he even wants it. There's just the itch: that Miles-before-Miles which points to hindsight and says, "Here. This is you. This is how to be you."

Compulsion—that's what they called it. Compulsion.

“It was tails, by the way,” Lyle murmurs, pulling Miles down from orbit. “I still remember."

Curiosity picks Miles' brain. Lyle doesn't talk much about his life back on Earth—not even with the rest of the squad, barring war stories. Even the scant trivia Miles does know are still tied to the military in some way or another.

Despite being closest to Lyle, Miles suddenly realizes he knows the least about him.

"And this coin toss…" he hedges, attempting to probe. "Do you ever—"

"Regret it?"

Miles huffs, ears flat.

Up that damn tree.

Lyle stares into the empty for a long time before his eyes drift back down, landing on the back of his hand.

"I used to."

Miles follows his eyes, seeing nothing but a few scabs between his striated knuckles.

"… Since the recom?"

Lyle shakes his head.

"When?"

"Heh... Minus when I was dead?" A smile tugs at his lips. "I'd say about ten years ago."

It takes Miles a moment to put it together.

Oh.

He looks away.

Ten years ago—twenty-five in reality—one Lyle Stanton Wainfleet stepped off a Valkyrie and into his life.

(God … Miles thinks. God. A quarter-century.)

"That doesn't have anything to do with me, does it?"

He hears that fox grin in Lyle's reply.

"Could be…"

Miles chuckles. He intends it to be coy, but it ends up coming out sheepish.

Christ, this is weird… flirting with Lyle. Lyle.

But it's not a bad weird.

It's middle school weird. Jittery, sweat-palmed, in-between weird that begs to be poked and prodded till suddenly it’s not so strange. Like a river you can't see the bottom of. Like frogs, cold in trays.

They stand there for a moment, watching the water coil and rejoin the river.

More deja vu—another storm, even. But this one is much, much older. And in a way—heavier. Neon on pavement and a voice he doesn't remember so well.

("What were you thinking, Miles?!")

Another voice breaks through his reverie:

"What do you think makes it glow?"

"Lyle, do you just say every little thing that pops into your head?"

He must not be able to see the smile on Miles' face, because out of the corner of his eye, Lyle winces.

"sh*t… Guess I'm a big damn hypocrite, then—working you up and blue-balling you..."

He frowns, one ear co*ckeyed. "So to speak."

"Oh, please, Wainfleet, I was giving you the business," Miles huffs. "And bein' honest, I—"

He clears his throat, eyes flitting to a clump of lichen across the pool.

"It's…nice. It's been nice. Talking."

The 'again'goes unsaid.

Out of the corner of his eye, Lyle grins like a fool; tail swishing in the current.

Miles turns to smile back, and if he didn't see with his own eyes how quickly that grin drops off Lyle's face—he would never have guessed it was there. For some reason, it pricks at something in Miles' chest.

"I mean that," he says, eyes narrowing a fraction.

Lyle smiles again. Not bashful or unbridled, like the first one. Just a smile. Like always.

Miles frowns. Knowing Lyle's thoughts are spinning somewhere he can't follow is one thing, but actually witnessing him conceal himself is another. And this is over an expression, for God's sake.

Why're you hiding from me, Wainfleet? he thinks, tail flicking. … And how often do you do it?

Miles crosses his arms, staring again into the fluorescent whirlpool.

He could say something. Open up that door. Wouldn't be wrong... And it'd be simple as, Why aren't you talking to me?

Something stops Miles anyway.

Instead, he mutters, "I think it's plankton."

"That's the ocean, dipsh*t."

"Same difference." Miles' canines flash. "I'm beginning to suspect my second-in-command is labcoat-leaning… Might just have to do away with him."

"Or... " Lyle intones, sidestepping till his arm brushes up against Miles'. "You could remind him where his loyalties lie…"

Miles slides a hand around Lyle's waist.

"There's an idea…"

Lyle shivers under his palm, yelps softly as Miles takes him by the hip, and then they're on each other.

Miles grunts around Lyle's tongue, just barely managing to keep his queue from smashing the wall. It feels like they're only lip-locked for a moment before Miles yelps, spine arching as Lyle tweaks one of his nipples.

The bastard's eyes gleam like the devil as he chases down Miles' mouth, tail whipping to and fro. Despite the fog in his head, he gets an idea.

It takes a few tries, but Miles eventually manages to snag Lyle's tail. With one good, twisting yank, Lyle snaps upright with a yelp. The sound becomes a moan as Miles keeps pulling.

"Oh, f*ck," he grunts, shifting his weight from foot-to-foot. "f*ck. No wonder you were clenching so—hah! S-So hard… Thought it was just a pain—ah… p-pain thing!"

Miles laughs breathlessly.

"Happy accident," he pants, forcing his arm out straight. Lyle mewls, reacting precisely as intended, rolling his hips forward to yank himself in Miles' grip. The smile on Miles' face is downright fiendish.

Gotcha, he thinks, throbbing.

Slowly—ever-so-slowly—Miles loosens the slack on his tail, and Lyle keeps humping forward, pre landing on Miles' thighs. Closer… closer…

Then both of them jolt, hips stuttering with a moan as their groins meet in the middle.

"Oh, you jackass—" Lyle hisses, grinding his drooling tip into his sheath. Miles grins like he's won the lottery.

"Must be another happy acciden—hah! F-f*ck!"

His shriek echoes off the stone walls as Lyle ceases slamming his hipbone into Miles' twitching core.

"Serves… you right…" he pants, pressing his own sheath flush again.

Miles splays his legs as wide as they can go, eyes rolling back as a hot, deep shudder cascades down his spine. Then his torso contracts, co*ck lurching forward to meet Lyle's.

Every brief, aching moment their tips grind head-on throbs deep in his base, but what really makes him writhe and mewl are the moments Lyle's tip catches his opening.

As always, Lyle notices immediately, zeroing in with co*ck and words alike.

"f*ck, you're wet."

Miles clenches, circling tighter with a shaky gasp as the words light a flame.

He is. The filthy slicking sounds between his legs are testament to that. He can feel it running down his leg.

"Yeah," he rasps, eyes blazing. "Yeah, I'm wet. And just, hah… Just what're you gonna do about it?"

Lyle growls, shuddering against him.

"Never did finish cleaning you up..." he rasps. "You still interested in that tongue bath?"

Miles answers with a low groan, pulse thundering in his sheath.

"Yes," he whines, hips snapping forward. "f*ck, yes… Yeah…"

"Alright," Lyle says, sobering for a moment as he slows, "but in case you start having any doubts in that thick skull you've got," his voice lowers a tad, "I don't care what they say. You're the manliest bastard I ever met."

Miles rolls his eyes.

"Lyle," he rasps, clapping both hands down on his shoulders. "Your fussing's very endearing and I appreciate it. But right now, I need you to make better use of that mouth and eat me out."

Lyle pants, nodding with a rabid look.

They don't even bother getting out of the water. Lyle just drops to his knees right there in the current, pushing Miles' legs open.

"Christ," he pants. "Christ..."

Miles concurs, throbbing at the sight. Between his own slick and Lyle's, he looks like a proper bitch in heat.

A string of him drizzles onto his thigh, and Lyle catches it, licking a long stripe up to its source. Just as the tongue reaches his sheath, Lyle pulls away.

"Think you can hold yourself in while I take care of this mess?" he says, raw with heat.

Miles swallows hard. His abdominal muscles have been tensing this whole time, desperately trying to force his co*ck out, but a co*ck isn't what Miles needs right now. Right now, he needs Lyle's tongue coring him open in all the places he's softest.

Miles nods, sucking in his gut and tensing as hard as he can.

"Good girl."

His vision goes fuzzy around the edges, and Miles can't hold in his whimper. Distantly, he feels even more slick run down his thigh—which Lyle dutifully takes care of.

Miles snarls, which becomes a groan as that tongue begins to do as advertised. Some nips and hickeys peppered in nearly have him slipping out, but he barely manages to keep his pulsing co*ck under control.

Not without great difficulty, however. Miles begins to quake as the licks rove higher and higher. When Lyle finally pulls off of his thigh, his breath turns ragged as Lyle exhales over his raw, sopping flesh. He only stays there for a moment before flattening his tongue over his opening.

Miles freezes, breath shuttering as every muscle locks up. Then Lyle breaches him.

"Hah!" Miles hisses, pelvis jerking back. "sh*t, Lyle..."

Each slow lap just makes more seep out of him; a conundrum Lyle addresses by sealing his lips around his sheath. He doesn't eat Miles out the way he eats dick. Instead, suction comes in the form of a vacuum, seal tightening when Lyle drops his jaw to lick deep.

Miles gushes, clapping a hand over his mouth out of habit as his hips snap forward. Lyle pushes deeper, igniting whole constellations of nerves that make him writhe and moan into his palm. When he starts tonguef*cking in earnest, it's so f*cking good that Miles doesn't notice the fingers curling into his arm until Lyle yanks his hand off his mouth.

Miles' heart skips a beat.

Then Lyle lathers the underside of his co*ck, and the night rings with a shrill wail Miles doesn't initially realize is coming out of his own mouth. It's debased. p*rnographic.

Ungodly hot.

Miles bucks even harder, chasing the heated buzz beginning to swell in his gut with another lurid bay. He's almost too distracted to notice the hand that manages to find his own, knitting their fingers together.

When Lyle pulls back to lap the underside of his tip, Miles jerks with a near-girlish shriek. Lyle homes in like a shark to blood, alternating between swirling his tongue around the glans and tonguing the pre from his weeping slit.

"Oh, f*ck," Miles gasps, pulse thudding in his tip. "f*ck—Lyle, I'm close!"

Lyle pulls back, replacing his tongue with his fingers before Miles has a chance to complain. They must have been in the water (or maybe they weren't, and he's just so f*cking gone that everything else feels cold). Either way, Lyle's chilled skin in his snatch sends tingles down his legs.

Those fingers hold Miles on the knife-edge, petting up his channel at a glacial pace. He grits his teeth, tail lashing.

"f*ck..."

Somehow, this caress is almost more intense than something rougher. The soft, slow graze never ends. Never hastens or presses. It just sits maddeningly between too much and not enough, and Miles' oversensitive nerves have no escape. No distracting overstimulation, no break in pleasure—no option at all except to feel it. All of it.

"You wanna finish now, babe?" Lyle grunts, stroking his prostate so gently it stings. Miles is slicking so hard he'd think he were pissing if he wasn't staring at the tip of his dick.

In the end, he doesn’t get to answer. The next words out of Lyle’s mouth make the choice for him.

"Such a wet little c*nt... Whatcha gonna do with it, huh? You gonna be good? You gonna squirt on my tongue like a good girl?"

Miles locks up, co*ck jumping so hard he feels the recoil in his diaphragm.

He only manages to choke, "I—!" before everything tilts, and Miles watches from a thousand yards away as one watery rope of cum hits Lyle between the eyes, and then he's empty again. At the same time, Lyle snaps his hand up, and he goes blind.

Once, twice, Miles spasms before pursed lips seal around his tip; still straining to evert even as it twitches out blanks. When Lyle sucks, he shrieks like he's being butchered, nails splitting on the stone beneath the moss he's shredding.

Lyle doesn't use anything else—not even his tongue—but there's no need. The slight, swallowing pressure directly on his slit drags out Miles' climax with monstrous force. Maybe it even triggers a second. He's not sure. All Miles can process is c*ntand good girl as his subordinate cl*t-sucks him past insanity.

Then, just when he thinks he's hit the stratosphere, Lyle pinches between his lips and Miles' sheath, thumb working his frenulum.

Miles throbs deep, eyes rolling back as that bright, tickling pressure spurts from his core. Lyle groans around his cl*t, vibrations clawing another out of him. Cum? Pre? He doesn't know. To be honest, he doesn't even care. He just knows he never wants it to f*cking stop.

"Good girl," Lyle growls into his c*nt. "That's a good f*ckin' girl…"

Miles squirts again.

And again. And by the time it finallyf*cking ends, he's surprised he's still flesh and blood. Not a drift of ashes scudding down the river.

For once, he almost feels sated. Not because the arousal is gone, but because he's almost too horned up to process individual sensations. It's just that haze of sugary fuschia. Like he could float off into orbit.

A two-toned whistle gets Miles' attention as someone lightly taps his temple.

"You still in there?"

Miles manages a nod, slack-jawed. Christ, he's still shaking.

Lyle nudges his calf with a knee, warning, "Better unlock these before you faint."

Miles wheezes out a laugh. As if locked legs are the thing that would knock him out right now.

Shakily, he manages to straighten up from where he's sagged halfway down the wall, bits of lichen sticking to his clammy skin. One of his knees buckles—flimsy as rubber, and Lyle grunts a quiet 'whoa' as he catches him.

Miles shivers, technicolor everywhere their skin is touching.

"How you feeling?" Lyle asks.

Miles gives a shaky thumbs-up. Lyle's eyes don't lose their firmness.

"Yeah?" he asks, raising a brow. "You came pretty hard, there."

Miles wheezes another laugh. What an understatement. Were it not for recent events, he would say he died and came back to life—but resurrection is shockingly dull in comparison.

"You're not bullsh*tting me now, are yo—mmh…"

Lyle's words become a sigh of bliss as Miles drags his lips to his own.

"You have no idea how f*cking hot you were, coming for me like that," Lyle sighs. "Thought I was going to shoot off, sh*t…"

Miles doesn't doubt it. Lyle's fully dropped, co*ck brushing against his inner thigh. f*ck, Miles did that; and despite having one of the most intense org*sms in a night already full of them, all he can think about is the next, and the next, and the next.

Only this time, he wants it. Not at the manic behest of his body, but for himself.

And ain't that a strange feeling.

A dull hurt swells in Miles’ chest. For once, Lyle doesn’t seem to notice him slowing, sighing into his mouth as he presses flush to Miles again, shallow-f*cking between his thighs.

"Wait," Miles grunts, gasping at the friction on his sensitive flesh. "Wait, don't…"

"Huh?" Lyle lifts his head, brows knitted in hazy confusion. "Don't you want—?"

"No," Miles snaps. "I don't."

Lyle pulls back, eyes wide.

"You wanna stop?"

"No!" Miles claps a hand over a temple, reeling. "No—God, it's the opposite."

That godforsaken thickness in his throat is trying to come back, and Miles’ words are pouring out before he can stop them.

"Lyle, for God knows how long, I've been fooling around just to shoot off. To skip to the end! And I forgot—"

He snaps his head skyward. Counts to three with a deep breath.

"I forgot how it feels when you don't want it to end…"

Lyle deflates.

"Look, I was a jackass earlier, alright?" he sighs, eyes uncomfortably hot. "I'm sorry. Everything from the rank-pull, to the fighting you, to the vacation sh*t—I'm sorry."

Lyle's eyebrows shoot up, recoiling as if Miles' apology has taken form and backhanded him.

Then he shakes his head, pinching his brow.

"Quaritch," he sighs. "Don't apologize. I'm sick of the mopey sh*t—I get it, I do. But I just…"

He bites his tongue, arms folded tight.

"Miles, there's not a doubt in my mind you feel like sh*t, but seeing you all bummed out like this—it makes me feel the same, you know? So can we just… drop it? Move on, or whatever?"

Miles stops. Takes Lyle in. Eyes aloof, tail twitching, heavy between his legs…

Now, he may be thick when it comes to talking, as he's newly discovered—but he's never seen a bigger, brighter sign for, 'Shut up and f*ck me,' in his life.

It jogs something.

Spine cast in steel more befitting his station, Miles steps forward spine straight and eyes blazing. Lets some of that steel trickle into his voice; "You listen to me, and you listen damn well," he rumbles, leaning over Lyle with steel authority in his voice. "We can talk whenever. But as you pointed out earlier, we have a schedule to keep. Now, you've been worrying about me all night…"

Lyle grunts, stumbling against his chest as Miles slots a thigh between his legs. Curling his fingers under Lyle's jaw, his voice drops to something low and promising as he raises the corporal's chin.

"So just say the word," he whispers into one quivering ear, "and I will 'worry'about you. Right now. Until you either tell me to stop or a goddamn search party comes storming through that treeline over there…"

Miles watches a deep quake ripple down Lyle's spine to match the shaky exhale against his neck. Something tickles down his thigh, and Miles' grin goes manic. Message received.

"So what'll be, sugar?" he purrs.

He's expecting some kind of hesitation, but—

"Letmef*ckyourface," Lyle spits out all at once. He writhes as he claws up his shoulders, whining high in his throat; "I want your mouth on me, I want you inside me—f*ck me—God, I need to come at least four f*cking times—"

His eyes fly open, startled and unbearably turned on by the pushiness. sh*t—recom or not, if Lyle asked like that, Miles could go till the goddamn end of time. He chuckles, growl low and sultry in his ear.

"Sweetheart, I'll give you five."

Chapter 4: Beautiful

Chapter Text

Lyle chokes, hips stuttering in a way that doesn't feel voluntary. Miles tenses up his thigh for him, and the whimper he gets is music to his ears.

"So, you wanna get out of the river first, or—"

"Miles," Wainfleet huffs, "I have been waiting God-knows how goddamn long for this. If this water turned to acid right now, I'd f*ck myself dry before wasting a second getting out. Please."

Miles' pulse quickens, thudding low in his groin. "Slow or fast?"

"I don't care," groans Lyle. "I don't f*cking care. Just make it good…"

Miles swallows, buzzed as a live wire. Say no more, Mr. Wainfleet.

"C'mere."

Lyle slams his mouth into Miles' so hard it nearly splits his lip, but he doesn't feel the pain. All he feels is hot—heavy. Soft in his chest and hard on his thigh, groaning into each other as Lyle's hips quicken their pace. He's already f*cked himself back into his sheath, hot slick leaking down his leg with every thrust.

"Mmrf—whoa, Butch," Miles grins against his open mouth. "Don't wanna go into that sunset too fast, now."

"You f*ckin said… whatever—feels good…"

"Lyle, you said that. Not me."

Jesus, he must really be gone.

Miles hears the clinging wetness, glans rutting a hot line up and down his quads. Churning the water at their knees.

Goddamn…

Lyle's breath hitches, and at last his hips stutter to a halt, curling forward as convulsions take him. Three—four times, he glazes Miles' thigh in thick heat before he sags against him in a sweaty heap, aftershocks twitching down his body.

"Lyle, Jesus Christ."

And Miles was worried about humping his leg?

If nothing else, he's definitely not worried about stamina anymore.

Lyle finally lifts his head; flushed, f*ck-drunk, and cruelly easy on the eyes that way.

"May wanna up your count," he groans, humping lazily through his own spend. "So f*ckin' backed up—May have s-skipped a round or five back there. sh*t…"

Well, Miles doesn't need to be told that. He's not sure there's another being on either planet that could do what he did in that thicket. He knows Lyle didn't get there near as much—but his memory is so muddled. How many times did Lyle climax—twice? More than twice? Less?

The disquieting realization that Miles has no idea prods a question that's been sitting in the back of his mind since their spat.

"Lyle, I gotta ask you right quick… Are you into the more… aggressive sh*t at all? Yourself?"

"What—domming?" Lyle grunts, grinding forward again. God, he's still hard as a pike.

"Yes, that."

Miles steadies him. Lyle barely seems to notice, sweat cutting a line down his temple as he tips his head one way to the other. "Hitting you and treating you like you're j-just a hole to be filled? No. Watching you come all over yourself when I do it? Yes. Christ, I said talk later—"

"Alright, alright," Miles chuckles. "But I'm gonna need my leg back. You mind…?"

Lyle nods, huffing as he dismounts. For a moment Miles sees silvery threads of slick and cum stringing them together, so lightheaded he could just fall the f*ck over.

Oh, he is going to enjoy this.

Lyle's barely got both feet on the ground again before Miles drags him right back, lapping into his mouth. A startled hum deepens into a moan when he flattens his palm over the swell between his legs.

"f*ck," Lyle grunts, breath speeding up as Miles' kisses trail lower. Grinds his hand harder. "Yes, f*ck—"

Miles purrs, making a pit-stop at his chest ans putting to good use the demonstration Lyle so generously gave him earlier. The whine he gets when he seals his mouth around a nipple is intoxicating. He spends a good while there, lapping up every gasp and quiver before moving on to the other side. When Wainfleet tries to shove him down further, Miles grins against wet skin.

"You rushing my artistic process?"

"Man, f*ck your process!" Lyle pants, wet and squirming in his hand. "Christ, I'm dying, just get the f*ck on with—"

"Hey, hey! You're the one that said to make it good, smartass," Miles snips, trying to keep the amusem*nt out of his voice. "Just let me work. I promise it won't take any longer than it'll be worth."

Lyle has a few choice words at that, but he releases Miles' shoulders with a punched-out yes, and Miles thanks him for his cooperation with his mouth. He takes his time nipping and kitten-licking each, relishing every little sound.

"Wait," Lyle grunts. "Wait. I should— We should…"

Water sloshes around Miles' legs as Wainfleet staggers back, knees wobbly as he sags against the enclave wall. "Just in case," he pants. Miles stands with a low chuckle, sauntering close.

"I'll be taking that as a challenge, thank you."

Lyle huffs a shallow laugh where he's being boxed in, trapped between the moss and stone and his CO's arms. "Not gonna be much of a challenge…"

"Mm," Miles hums. "Maybe not. Lucky for you," He trails a finger up one of the shining streams decorating trembling inner thighs. "I'm not really playing to win right now."

Lyle groans, co*ck jumping in his sheath. "God… God—"

"Really think I'd let you be such a teasing little sh*t without a taste of your own goddamn medicine?" Miles taunts, curling his middle finger against his drenched opening. Lyle's chest spasms against his cheek, torso flexed in an effort to evert.

sh*t… Maybe he's seeing things, but he swears Wainfleet's lower gut is filling out a bit. His own swollen co*ck throbs sympathetically, swallowing saliva that echoes the constant drooling of his sheath. Given how rushed a lot of their hookups usually are, Miles doesn't waste a lot of time dragging things out, but he can see why Lyle does.

"Gotta be getting awful cramped in here," he murmurs, slipping his finger just far enough inside to stroke the glans. Lyle's hiss bursts out of him so hard he coughs. "There she is. Whatcha thinking, then? Should we bring her out to play?"

He rubs a slow line up and down the slit, throbbing at the sound that gets him. Lyle's ears scope him, but he doesn't answer. He just pants and squirms against the lichens, pulsing against his finger.

"So quiet all of a sudden," Miles purrs, eyes blazing. "What's wrong? Cat got your tongue, or maybe you're just not as interested in this as I thought?"

A growl rumbles against his ear, and Miles stops it by sucking a bite into a sore nipple. Lyle's dick spurts so hard he feels precum dribble down his knuckles.

"Yes," he gasps. "Yes, I do—I want it. Miles, I want it. f*ck, please!"

In one fluid motion, Miles yanks his hand out and swallows Lyle's cry with a raunchy kiss. Miles grunts appreciatively, kneading his nipples before taking the one he hasn't bit into his mouth. The long stream of pre that drizzles down his leg matches the moan pouring out of Lyle. Soon he feels rhythmic tensing against his cheek, and a glance upward treats Miles to a hell of a view. Lyle's got his head tipped back, hand over his mouth as he yanks his tail like a ripcord. His co*ck flexes in time, weeping like an open wound.

"f*ck," whispers Miles.

Could you come like this? He wondersFrom this?

Lyle hisses as thumbnails drag slow circles around the peaks of his abused tit*, already a shade of red that's sure to bruise. Miles watches another drop fatten and drop from his twitching dick. They're coming faster. Leaking like a tap. His own co*ck drools, aching and heavy.

Lyle's ragged panting picks up speed when Miles kneels down in the shallows, grateful for the cool water that comes up over his hips. Easier to focus that way. He's committed to making Lyle's legs give out, now. It's only fair, and if there's any mathematical constant in this universe, it's that Miles Quaritch doesn't half-ass payback.

He leans forward, tongue in reach of Lyle's dick, but just barely. The poor motherf*cker is staring at him the same way Miles imagines a castaway might at every speck that comes over the horizon.

He tweaks a nipple again.

"f*ck!"Lyle snarls.

At the moment his hips jump off the wall, Miles takes his co*ck into his mouth at last, and he's barely started to swallow when he feels heat burst across the back of his tongue.

"Oh, sh*t," Wainfleet . "sh*t, sh— Ungh…"

His dick pulses, shooting as Miles groans around him. He feels Lyle's nails rake his scalp when he begins to bob his head, catching a few more loads before the man finally has to yank him off.

"Christ," he pants, little spasm shaking him. "f*ckin' Christ, Quaritch. sh*t…"

Miles drags a hand across his mouth, frowning. "Dammit… Still hard."

"You f*ckin' think?!"

Miles laughs. "Well, no reward without a fight, I guess." He leans forward, elbows posted on his knees. "Now, how'll you have me?"

The comedown must be hitting, because Lyle stares at him like a drugged steer. "You whuh?"

sh*t, must've really shorted him out…

Miles drops his jaw, pointing toward his tonsils (if they even have tonsils).

"Suckin' or f*ckin'? Which first?"

Slowly, Lyle's eyes clear. Then his nose wrinkles, lips pulling back in a look Miles can't quite parse. "How," he says, "can you be so suave, and then so f*cking sh*t at dirty talk?" A snort. "S'kinda fascinating."

Miles frowns. "Hey, you don't like it, you got a working right hand."

"No good," Lyle taunts, shaking his head. "Think I'm going soft."

"The hell you are!"

Lyle grins. "Guess you're not working hard enough, then."

"I'm trying," huffs Miles. "You're the one that won't tell me what the hell you want me to—"

"Just quit flapping that goddamn mouth and put it to better goddamn use!" Lyle snatches him by the jaw, eyes bright as the flash off a rifle. "You'll throat me as long as I goddamn want! You'll know I'm ready to f*ck it when you start choking on my dick! That explanation f*ckin' work for you?"

Miles sits stock-still, a little zip of electricity shooting to his groin. f*ck.

"Yes sir."

Scooting forward, Miles ogles his prey, opens his mouth, and it hits him like a sledgehammer. That spiked 'come here' type of perfume that makes him slow and plastered and so hard he's almost numb. Miles has to swallow before he starts drooling, feeling a twitch underwater.

God, come to papa—

But Lyle said to make it good, and Miles just barely has the restraint not to go for the kill just yet.

Instead, he starts his payback with a tongue bath.

Just two nips to his inner thigh, and Lyle is back to a shivering mess. Whimpers real sweet when Miles works around to the inside, tugging Lyle's legs apart to suck a love bite into the supple flesh. Another wave of that perfume has him feeling like a bruise between his legs. He's shocked the water around his dick isn't f*cking simmering.

A hot thread of slick practically runs into his mouth, and Miles feels a low burr kick up in his chest as he reaches underwater to palm his aching sheath. He's so worked up his dick is lodged inside, but this isn't a pressing issue.

Lyle sags a little more down the wall, seeps a little more down his leg. He's still flushed that scary purple, co*ck thick at the root already.

"God," Miles breathes, sinking a finger into himself. "God, I'm gonna f*ckin' ruin you…"

Despite his appearance, he still considers himself at least somewhat of a gentleman, and as such he doesn't hork him down all at once. He doesn't want Lyle to get there too quick, so he also neglects the tip for now. Lyle sighs when he mouths his flaring base, spreading his legs a little more as he licks up the length of him.

"sh*t, Quaritch…"

His hips twitch forward, when he starts back down tonguing the seam where the lips of his sheath meet. Lyle grunts, grinding harder into the spot. Miles opens wide, content to let him ride his tongue for the moment—but it's not what Lyle asked for.

Slowly, he works his way up again, massaging the supple flesh of his sheath. Lyle is purple up to his chest, and Miles' co*ck jerks underwater when he shakily reaches up to play with his own tit*.

Deciding Lyle's earned a reward for that little display, Miles hollows his cheeks and takes him down to the root—swallowing when his nose meets the peach fuzz around his sheath.

Now, Lyle's not typically much of a moaner. Pants like a dog when it's good, whimpers if it's good-good—and if he's really in a state, you might get a shout or two when he comes.

So when Miles hears deep, guttural 'oh's coming from low in Lyle's gut, he can't get a hand on himself fast enough.

Yes, he thinks, fingers curling inside himself. God, yes. Sing, little bird—

It doesn't take much. Miles swallows twice more up to the tip, tongues the pre from his slit, and Lyle pitches into an honest-to-God p*rno moan as he comes. Miles' eyes squeeze shut with a cry of his own that comes out as a deep hum, which only hastens the deluge.

Dropping his jaw, Miles swallows him down again, and Lyle barks his name so loud it barely sounds like anything. Miles stuffs two more fingers in his sheath, sting of water only feeding the flame in his gut.

The moans, so lovely while they lasted, run their course quick, and Lyle is back to his normal panting—at least, save one whine, when he rolls his knot between his fingers. A final, deep twitch of sem*n pushes down Miles' throat, which he dutifully swallows.

Lyle touches his head, and that's the only warning he gets.

The panting turns into frenzied grunts, rough and wild to match the scene that occurs next: clawing into Miles' scalp, he curls in from his bowed-up stretch against the wall, plants his feet squarely astride his shoulders, bends at the hip, and makes due on his promise.

Miles barely has time to scrabble back into a better position before Lyle is jackhammering him, punching all that can be jostled from his skull—tears, air, unholy squelching, and arguably even less holy moans.

Miles can't really see. It's all just sound and touch:

Lyle's raw panting, the pike hammering his tonsils (if present), the deafening clamor of his throat getting cored, Lyle's last round getting f*cked further down his throat, water splashing around his hand as he drives three fingers into his—

"f*ck," Lyle groans, "f*ck, are you good?"

Miles tries to remember to breathe as he raises a shaky thumbs up.

Miles' lungs try to create something resembling a moan that gets clubbed to pieces in his throat.

Is he good.

Asking the bottom bitch if he's "good" getting his windpipe eviscerated. Hilarious.

Miles f*cks himself on his fingers, spit trailing down his neck as he gags. It must be goddamn good, because Lyle's panting quickens as he f*cks harder, punching another gag out of him.

"Oh God," Lyle moans, clawing his scalp, twitching in his throat. "f*ck, I'm—"

Yes.

Miles angles his wrist, crams his hand up into his sheath as Lyle screams his name. Sharp, rough thing that echoes once before it's gone.

Inside himself, Miles grazes his sweet spot. Stroking—clawing till fire burns through him. He pats up Lyle's leg with his other hand. Feels his hips jump when he finds the softness behind his dick.

More.

Miles digs in, magma filling his throat. He forces his lips down around his teeth.

Give me more.

Lyle howls a third time as Miles folds lips over teeth, clenching jaws around his knot Molten ambrosia and Lyle singing. f*cking him shallow despite the grip Miles has on his dick. It hurts. It hurts so f*cking good.

"Fu-uck. Oh, f*ck—good girl, Mi—hah!"

The fingers scissoring his hole stutter, and the moon itself splits open, plunging Miles into a lake of fire. It's a good thing he pulled his lips over his teeth, because Lyle would be down an asset if not. He tries to work his prostate through it; God knows the pain's not a problem; instead, the sheer intensity of pleasure is what does him in.

Everything goes thick and soupy. Then, ever-so-gentle, the thing that calls itself "Miles" slips out of his head and drifts off, hanging in space above himself. He softens, bendy and weightless as a ribbon as the ghost of his body convulses somewhere below. This has only happened a few times before—enough that it doesn't worry Miles anymore, but it's the first time he's ever gotten to this state without Lyle slapping, kicking, ripping into, or giving him the back of his hand. It doesn't feel like escape. This time. This time, it's just a warm quilt of numbness. Wrapped up, Miles floats there, made all of pink mist.

Then he's blinking, sitting on the sand as Lyle sways. Not here enough yet to catch him, but Miles manages to break his fall. He would gloat about his getting even if his throat wasn't f*cking wrecked.

But as much as Miles' head is spinning, Lyle is on another planet.

Boneless, the corporal flips over and over in the water until Miles staggers to his knees, tugging him to a shallow rise against the wall. Even then Lyle doesn't stop. Not even when Miles tries to pull him into his lap. Plastered on his face is a squint-eyed look of pure bliss, humming high in his throat as his tail throws arcs of spray off the water. Then another cascade of shivers sets him rolling again, and Miles isn't even sure Lyle knows he's doing it.

"Better?" he chuckles. God, his voice is f*cked.

Lyle rolls again, and Miles catches him by the cheek before he can plunge his head underwater. The contact only makes him thrash again, mouth open in another trilling whine that rings off the walls like a siren. The sound worms its way into his skull, lighting up corners of Miles' brain he didn't know existed. For a moment, everything goes thick and fuzzy as it tingles down his spine.

What the hell…?

Ears twitching, Miles shakes the fog from his head, just in time for Lyle to grab him by the shoulder. Pulling—climbing him like a jungle gym. Ladder out of the deep end.

"Uh," Miles hedges, leaning back against the wall. The sand banks up in a drift against it; water barely deep enough to cover their hips. "Lyle, whoa, I don't know if I'm ready to go that quick—"

"Oh, shut the f*ck up for once, old man," Lyle pants, sliding his arms around him. Sidesaddle in Miles' lap, he goes limp, cheek to neck. "Not always about sticking somethin' inside something else."

"Okay?" Miles mutters. "So what do you want to do?"

"We're doing it."

"And what exactly's that?"

Lyle sighs. "We're doing what you do."

"Ah," Miles fights the urge to cringe. "Got it."

Slowly, puts his arms around Lyle, waiting. Soon there's another sigh huffing in his ear.

"You are just not the guy to go to if you want aftercare, huh?"

Quaritch almost laughs. Because yes, he's just oh-so-synonymous with the word cuddly.

At the same time, a dull ache fills the space between his lungs. "Never learned," he mumbles. "Never needed to…"

The beat after that feels like an eternity.

"Dude, I was just f*cking with—"

"No, you weren't."

An even longer, even more awkward pause, and just like that, the f*cking lump in his throat is trying to come back. There has got to be some hormonal sh*t going on—Miles is certain.

"Don't even know why," he whispers, "If it was just who I was sleeping with, or… or me."

Lyle clears his throat. "Well… I'm not sure about all that," he says, a bit more strained than his usual ribbing, "But hey; you know what they say about old dogs."

Miles rolls his eyes. "I'm not dignifying that with a response."

"What, I can't be into older men?" Lyle snorts.

"First off, you're only a few years younger than me—and second, we're technically the same age, thank you."

"Yeah? Thought you hated that technically-the-same-age body."

"I thought you were supposed to be gettin' me to stop."

"You saying I win?"

Miles shakes his head, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. "We'll see…"

Lyle purrs.

"About the other thing," says Miles, "if you know so much, why not teach me, wise guy?"

Lyle pauses for a moment, breath slow on Miles' neck. "That's kind of f*ckin' pathetic, man."

"Never said I wasn't."

Lyle sobers. "Uh… sh*t—I don't know, man. There's no method. Or f*ckin' formula, or whatever. Don't overthink it, just loosen up. Shut your brain off and let your hands go."

"Go where?"

"Wherever—and for Christ's sake, quit hugging me like you're at a church potluck. You can be amorous beyond just f*cking."

"Oh, big-boy words."

Lyle swats him.

Somehow—eventually—Miles gets with the program.

Nuzzling under Lyle's jaw, playing with his hair, kissing the dip of his collarbone, tails entwined, Lyle kissing down the goosebumps on his neck—all of it has Miles feeling warm and muzzy in a way that has almost nothing to do with what's between his legs. Like so many things, Miles doesn't know how he's lived this long without it.

Slowly, amorous becomes playful. Then playful becomes suggestive, and suggestive turns into Lyle gasping as he clenches around Miles' fingers.

"Some trick you had in the woods before," Miles rasps. "How'd it go again?"

Making a vee, he slowly scissors his fingers up and down Lyle's shaft, relishing in the whimper he gets. By the time he traces torturously light circles around his spot, Lyle is all-but clawing up his back.

"f*ck, get in me."

Miles' tail jitters like a catfish. "Loud and clear."

He lays back against the dune, neither of them worrying much about the water. They're more than slick enough.

Still, Miles thinks, better safe.

Lyle groans, clenching as he hooks another finger in his sheath, nudging his half-everted co*ck aside. Slowly, he prods quivering walls until he finds an almost silky spot tucked away near the top of Lyle's entrance.

"Oh," Lyle grunts. "S-sh*t."

"Mm."

Since Lyle had him soaking the ground in the forest, Miles had become increasingly aware of where it was coming from. He relishes in the throaty whine he gets, massaging the spot as heat swells, and then Lyle is dripping down his hand.

"f*ck," Lyle pants. "Oh, f*ck."

"Just a precaution," Miles purrs, throbbing hard underwater. "Don't want you getting uncomfortable, now."

Another good dribble from some particularly deep stroking, and Miles decides that's enough—though mainly because he's f*cking aching. That drunk, honeyed stupor fills his skull again as he licks his fingers clean. f*ck, he'll have to let Lyle ride his face at some point.

Lyle looks near tears by the time he slides down his length with zero resistance. Miles watches, lightheaded, as the skin below his navel budges out.

"f*ck," Miles growls, hips bucking involuntarily, and Lyle scratches down his chest as he rams home. For a moment, they sit paralyzed with wracking shudders before Lyle starts to rock and God, if Miles makes it out of this without a Pavlovian response to splashing water, it'll be a f*cking miracle.

He throws his head back against the sand with a liquid moan, hips rolling up. Lyle hisses as he ghosts his prostate, twitching as their co*cks grind and press past each other. Then he starts to bounce, and Miles watches with one long, creaky moan as Lyle's stomach budges out again and again.

If he tried, he figures he could come from that sight alone. Might not even have to touch himself. Miles claws Lyle's hips with a low growl, slamming him down even harder.

Lyle gasps, tail cinching tight as a garter around Miles' thigh. He reaches up to tug one of his nipples, rolling it between his fingers, and Lyle gushes around his co*ck.

"Harder—"

Miles obliges, sucking in a deep breath before bracing against the dune. He straightens his back, and Lyle gasps a soft 'oh,' as Miles lifts him partway out of the water.

"f*ck. May wanna—brace—yourself," he grunts, dropping his hips before snapping up again like a trebuchet.

It sounds like Lyle's been punched in the gut. He's barely caught his breath before Miles does it again. And again.

Very slowly, Lyle starts to walk his hands back, spine arching higher and higher until he suddenly spasms with a frenzied growl. His co*ck jumps, painting a hot line up Miles' flexing stomach.

There you are, he thinks, wild-eyed as he swings his hips up harder. He swipes some of the pre off his gut, licking his fingers clean as he enjoys the view. With Miles spearing Lyle's core on roughly his entire body weight, it doesn't take long—knot pressing sweetly against Miles' glans as he writhes on top of him.

"Miles—" he wails, clawing up his back. "Nngh, Miles, it's comi—I'm—!"

Miles drives deep with a roar and stays hooked inside Wainfleet, digging in deep until the first hot rope hits his stomach.

"That's it!" he barks.

Lyle seizes, painting him up hot in time with Miles' thrusts. His eyes shine as he reaches down to stroke him, thumbing circles in a slit that's still weeping. Lyle spasms with a choked , coating his fingers. Folding.

"Good boy," Miles purrs, and the sound out of Wainfleet's mouth lights him up, feral charge. Canines itching at the root. He needs to knot. Needs it so f*cking bad, but even if Lyle wasn't latched up tight as a safe, Miles isn't sure he could do it without knocking the poor bastard unconscious. Still, he rams him again and again, instinct fighting him. Winning.

"f*ck, you wrung me out so f*ckin' good tonight," Miles growls, eyes swallowed up black. "Got me so f-f*ckin' close—what you think, baby? Gonna let me get you back? Show you some good f*ckin' karma?"

He punctuates the word with a brutal snap, and Lyle whimpers trying to clamp his legs shut. Dick flushed, weeping white as it's f*cked out of him. Lyle's squirming, whimpers louder and louder

"No," he whimpers. "No, no—ah—nhhah! f*ck! Ease up, Miles, ease—hah—f*ck! Stop!"

Miles freezes, water sloshing over his thighs as he sits back on the berm. Lyle chokes at the subtle impact, and Miles realizes he's too long to stay hilted at all without hitting his core.

Lyle shudders with a soft 'oh,' as Miles wraps careful, strong hands around his waist and lifts him off of his erection. He's a bit more purple when Miles sets him in his lap, lifting his chin to meet intense gaze.

"Talk to me."

Lyle swallows, blinking hard.

"Yeah," he pants, shaking all over, "Yeah, I'm good… You're good. That—That was… I mean, sh*t—" Lyle pushes a wheeze through his teeth, eyes wide. "Just didn't want to finish all at once, you know?"

Slowly, Miles nods.

"You sure?"

"Yeah…"

"Well alright," Miles hedges. "Good. Glad there were no, ah…"

"Blackouts?"

Miles swallows, looking the other way. "Mhm…"

The awkward silence only lasts a moment before he tilts his chin with a smirk.

"Didn't want to finish all at once, huh?" he intones, mirth saturating his tone, "What kind of quitter talk's that, Wainfleet?"

Lyle rolls his eyes. "I don't know how to tell you this," he sighs, "but most guys just don't get off on making raisins out of their nuts. sh*t hurts."

"Look, you people can explain it to me as many times as you want," Miles teases, "but it'll never make me understand."

Lyle snorts.

"Although," he grunts, "if you're really good to keep on, I'm—I'm kind of dealing with something at the moment."

Miles' hips twitch up, erection skating the heat between Lyle's legs. Both of them gasp.

"You—hah. Y-You sure you're still good to go?"

"Hell yeah," Lyle huffs, grinding back. Miles bites down on a whimper.

"Oh, thank God. So what'll it be? Gentle?"

Lyle slows to a stop in Miles' lap, and the air shifts immediately. A little heavier; a little colder. All the while, his amber eyes grow fogged and distant.

"Lyle?"

And out of nowhere, those eyes fill with tears. Miles balks.

"Lyle—Jesus, we don't have to keep going."

Lyle just shakes his head, biting his lip so hard it turns white.

"sh*t. Oh sh*t, don't tell me I hurt you—"

Miles pulls back to check. He doesn't even know what he'd look for besides blood or bruising, but he doesn't see anything strange.

Lyle sniffles, waving him off.

"No, f*ck, it's—I'm good," he croaks, scrubbing his eyes. "I'm f*ckin' good. Everything's fine—just… J-just keep going. Please."

Miles frowns.

"Well you don't look fine. I mean it, I can take care of myse—"

"No!" Lyle barks. "No—I'm f*ckin' telling you, I'm not… f*ck!"

He swings his legs around to straddle Miles' waist, crossing his legs around his back. Like he doesn't have the strength to stay upright, he sags until they're pressed chest-to-chest with each other.

Miles tenses, face warming. They're so close he can feel Lyle's pulse against his skin, and somehow that feels more intimate than anything else they've been doing.

"Look," Lyle sighs, "I'm not really feeling the assertive sh*t right now. Can you just—" he shimmies in Miles' lap, hard against his stomach. "Please?"

Miles lays a tentative hand over his back. Eventually, he nods.

Schooling his expression into something more attentive than concerned, he circles his other arm around Lyle's waist. "Any requests?"

"Slow," mumbles Lyle. "Gentle. I…"

He trails off, shoulders tensing under Miles' hand. Eventually, he pulls back to look at him.

"What?"

Lyle looks away again. It's a long, long time before he answers, voice barely above a whisper. "Promise you won't make fun of me."

"What?" Miles gawks. "Lyle, why the hell would I—?"

Lyle hisses—really hisses at him. Then slowly, his head falls into his hands. Miles' jaw drops when he sees a tear trail down the side of his nose.

"Lyle, what on—"

"Just promise, goddammit!"

"Okay" Miles blurts. "I promise. On my life, I won't say anything!"

Lyle tucks himself against his neck, and Miles is so stunned at the warmth of another tear meeting his skin he nearly misses a choked whisper in his ear, so quiet it's almost unintelligible.

"Make love to me…"

Miles stops. Waits for the rest, but it doesn't come.

That's it?

… That's it?

"Uh," Miles hedges, hesitantly relieved. "Alright. Don't know what all the fuss is about; we already—"

"No," Lyle hisses, pulling back. "No, it's… This is different."

"Different how?"

Lyle tenses, and Miles feels utterly lost at another tear.

God, was it something I said?

"I don't," Lyle breathes, swiping a hand across his cheek. Eyes anywhere but Miles' own. "I don't know. That's part of the damn problem—I don't know how… And I don't know how to ask in a way that's not… that doesn't—"

Lyle's jaw snaps shut. For a moment, he stares blankly forward, hands wringing. Glances at the woods every other second like some nervous tic's taken him over. This is weird. Lyle clams up about certain things, but screwing has never been one of them.

"For God's sake, Wainfleet—what?" Miles snaps. He can't help it; stress is not something he's used to dealing with if it can't be fixed with his finger on a trigger or some very choice words. "If you've got something to say, just say it."

Lyle swallows hard, curling forward until his chin is resting on Miles' shoulder. When he wraps his arms around his back, his hands are shaking.

"Miles," he breathes. "You were married, right?"

Miles cringes. Christ, not that disaster. If Lyle's trying to narrow down what to ask for, he will find no help there.

"Briefly," he hedges.

Lyle swallows thickly against his shoulder, voice hoarse and unsteady. "Active duty, too?"

Miles chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. God,

"That would, ah, be what led to the divorce, y—"

"Did you come home to her?" Lyle blurts.

And it hits him like lightning.

Oh.

Oh, God. sh*t.

This isn't an anecdote—it's not about the past at all.

Lyle wants Miles to make love to him. He wants him to do it like he's coming home from war.

"Just once," Lyle breathes, whisper more fragile and quiet by the second. "Whatever the hell it is, I want it. Just once, I want—I want to feel special. Like I'm not just… convenient. I don't want to be a means to… Just pretend. I don't give a f*ck if it's real. I don't—just please pretend for one minute like I'm not just another—"

Miles yanks him back so fast Lyle tries to wrench out of his grip in shock, pupils tight with worry.

"I do not," Miles hisses, eyes blazing, "I do not have to pretend."

He watches the words sink in as Lyle's face breaks in slow-motion. In an instant, every bit of hesitation melts away, leaving nothing but a tender ache.

Miles catches him. Folds him to his chest as he trembles in his arms. He expects a breakdown, but Lyle is silent as a ghost.

"Oh Lyle—yes," Miles murmurs, kissing his shoulder. "Yes… I can do that."

The words must jog something, because a tremor runs through him. Miles pulls back, sharp ache thudding between his lungs at the fog in Lyle's eyes. God, he looks f*cking shell-shocked.

Miles kisses him. Not starved or intense, just a kiss for longer than necessary. Lyle barely reacts, but Miles shoves the pang in his chest aside.

"Let's get out of this puddle, huh?"

Mechanically, Lyle moves to get up, but Miles is faster. In one fluid motion, he scoops an arm under his legs and hoists him out of the water.

"I can walk…"

Miles shakes his head, snagging the CamelBak he brought from the ledge.

Lyle goes very still as he carries him bridal-style to the rushes, but when they leave the water—tall stalks parting as if to welcome them—it must trigger something. Without a sound, Lyle presses his face to Miles' chest, tears hot on his skin.

This shore works well enough as a threshold. The grassy dune, a bed.

Miles lays his friend—his lover down on that bed. Ignores a flurry of seedheads that billow up and wheel away. Right now, Miles' only concern is stopping those tears.

"Pretend," he scoffs, shaking his head. Lyle's hand trembles as he brings it to his lips. Kisses his knuckles, his upturned palm. "Lyle, you know me better than that…"

Wainfleet hiccups, fresh tears creeping down his cheeks as Miles kisses a trail to his shoulder.

His neck.

Every inch of him.

"You think you weren't my first choice?" he murmurs, swiping his thumb across a damp cheek. "My only choice?"

More tears. Miles hooks his tail around Lyle's, eyes locked together as he kisses him for a good, long while. Until he's flushed and trembling on the grass.

"Never did tell you, did I. How much I trusted you. Needed you."

Lyle sniffles.

"‘Pretend you're wanted?’"Miles reiterates.

It's too much to go into. At least, for now. Now, Miles just kisses down his chest, hoping the meaning gets across: Lyle's wanted.

He is extremely wanted.

Lyle when Miles seals his mouth over the fluttering pulse at his neck. There's a telling heat against his leg when he cups Lyle's face in his hands and kisses him. Chaste, then deeply—passionately. Lyle shivers, too preoccupied with Miles' tongue in his mouth to notice the hand snaking down to cup his sheath.

He pants in Miles' ear as he rubs slow circles, kneading the growing hardness inside with the heel of his palm. Soon the moans deepen, liquid heat coating his fingers. Low throbbing answers in Miles' own loins, and soon they're both wet and panting.

"Look," Miles gasps, rolling a frictionless stripe up Lyle's thigh. "Haven't even laid a hand on myself, and look Think you don't dish out what you take? Look what you… hah—"

Miles bites his lip. Gives himself a moment, rolling his hips until fire quakes up his spine.

"God," Lyle gasps, bowing up off the grass.

Miles nips and lathes until he's hard and pebbled in his mouth—doing the same to the other for good measure before moving on. Lyle shivers as he kisses down one of the star trails on his waist. They have a name, but Miles can't remember it right now, and he doesn't need to. They're an easy enough map to read.

He glances up about halfway down, tail whipping when he sees Lyle's face. The tears are gone, and flushed, dizzy euphoria has moved in. Only a thin ring of amber surrounds his pupils, striped violet with the dim glow of the rushes. Miles stares, cheek pillowed on his stomach, and the longer he looks, the more he doesn't want to stop.

"Hell are you doing?" Lyle pants, smile slight and crooked.

Warmth surges through him, and before Miles can keep it from falling out his mouth, he hears himself murmur, "Goddamn, you're pretty."

Lyle flushes so deep his stripes all-but vanish, bursting out a dumbfounded guffaw.

"Pretty!"

Miles deflates at all the bafflement, crawling forward to give him another good, long kiss. Lyle is bug-eyed when he pulls back. Nods.

"Beautiful."

Lyle gawks, and then some of that rolling, squint-eyed bliss comes back. He looks away, squirming in the grassy tendrils like he just can't keep the giddy in. f*cking smitten, Miles flashes a grin back.

He says it again. Kisses a trail back down Lyle's torso, every peck another beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. The bashful chortle that bubbles out of Lyle touches something old, tender, and so long-neglected it stings to feel again. He could almost cry.

Anyone who's spoken to him for two minutes knows Miles is not a gentle man. He would tell you as much himself—thought it all got scsred out of him before he was even old enough to date—but it wasn't.

It's been sitting right here in his chest the whole time. Untouched. Hiding in plain sight till Lyle came along and pulled all the gentle right out.

Lyle, who was also hiding in plain sight.

Miles reaches blindly for his hand, running a thumb over scabbed knuckles as he mouths his inner thigh. Lyle's legs squeeze together with a quiet moan, and Miles sees a telltale twitch in his sheath.

Just as his lips begin to part, Miles stops him. Lyle gasps, twitching against his fingertips as Miles gingerly pushes him inside and up. Lyle groans softly, slick drooling down a hand he promptly licks clean.

Miles exhales over heated flesh, drunk off that scent. He's already dripping—watching with a head full of slush as a thread of Lyle's slick also drizzles onto the grass.

"God," he murmurs, reverent as a holy man. "God, look at you."

Miles leaves maybe a dozen kisses in the stickiness coating Lyle's thighs, so close to where he needs it. He doesn't know how many he leaves. He just worships at that altar until Lyle is whimpering and shuddering under his mouth.

"Miles… Miles, God—"

It's not desperate in an unsatisfied way; not a frustrated way. No, this is desire incarnate. Miles purrs like rolling thunder, powerless to refuse.

"I got you."

Slick fills his mouth as he plants a deep, claiming kiss directly over his opening. When he starts to lick into his sheath, all his sweet little noises pale in the face of the longest, lewdest sound he's ever heard out come of the corporal's mouth.

"f*ck, there you go…" Miles groans, slick stringing from Lyle to his bottom lip. A similar string dangles between his thighs. "Come on, baby, lemme hear you…"

Lyle obliges, moaning again as Miles licks from his sheath to his thigh, sucking a quick love bite there before he returns to his core. The moans pitch sharply when Miles seals his lips around the swollen opening and sucks hard.

"f*ck!"

Lyle's thighs crush either side of his head, and Miles can't keep his own legs from squeezing together, twitching in his sheath. Groaning, shifting lower to lap into him as the tip of Lyle's co*ck strains forward. Miles shakes his head, nosing the glans till his nose is streaked with precum.

Lyle's moan shoots to his groin when he licks up his hole to suck it. It twitches violently, and Miles laps his weeping slit until it sounds like he's about to hyperventilate. When his tongue accidentally slips underneath the glans, Lyle shrieks.

"Oh! O-oh—there! There, there, Miles—God, keep doing that!"

Miles shudders, delivering hard laps to the spot till Lyle's pulsing and jumping so hard he has to keep nosing him back in. When he kitten licks Lyle's frenulum with the roughest part of his tongue, the moans break into a full-on scream. Not a sexy one—but butchered. The kind of scream people run to with a tourniquet and a shell to bite.

Startled, Miles pulls off his twitching member with wide eyes.

"Lyle? What's—"

Lyle's eyes snap open, face slack in a soundless moan before he suddenly spasms.

What Miles can only describe as a f*cking fire hydrant blasts him in the eye so hard it nearly hurts.

Lyle wails, and another scalding jet sprays Miles in the face. After that, they hit faster and faster. Sputtering, Miles tries to sit up, to escape from f*cking drowning—but frantic nails rake his scalp before he's even out of range.

Lyle's groaning turns to guttural snarls as he slams Miles' jaw into his sheath. He does it with both hands, all-but smothering him as he grants Miles' unspoken wish to have his face ridden.

And when a telling twitch has him shrieking, "f*ck, Miles, lick. Lick me—!" Miles has no choice but to obey.

Taking what breath he can, Miles laps that scalding, tasteless nectar to the source. Lyle's taint draws in tight as oak as he assaults that spot under the glans, and Miles draws back a bit. His tongue barely rasps his slit before Lyle floods his mouth again, but the stream only stays tasteless a moment before it thickens with the unmistakable tang of sem*n.

Lyle screams bloody-murder.

Miles groans, slick trailing down his thighs as he suddenly drops from his sheath. Lyle jerks from the vibrations, flooding his throat again. Were it not for the ragged choking sounds, Miles would think he fainted. Ever-so-slowly, he kneads his taint with a knuckle, making his legs kick out and his co*ck jump. Needless to say, it's a shock when Lyle slams into the back of his throat so hard he gags on the next load and f*ck—f*ck, he's coming. He's coming just from Lyle f*cking his face he's f*cking—

Miles quakes, voice breaking on a yell so loud Lyle's co*ck buzzes in his mouth.

"Ah, God! Miles—f*ck yes, just like— Fu-huck!"

It feels like minutes. Even when Lyle finally goes limp, Miles isn't done. He knows Lyle's little trick, now, and he's going to use it till the man can't move his goddamn legs.

Just as the aftershocks start to fade, Miles slides up and hollows his cheeks around the tip, suckling relentlessly as he alternates between slit and frenulum so fast he's drooling down his neck.

As he suspected, it doesn't take much. Lyle's eyes roll back, croaking as his co*ck spasms. Again, Miles swallows. Sucks. Licks.

And Again, Lyle comes on his tongue with a throaty howl.

A few mouthfuls later, a shaky hand settles on his forehead, weakly pushing Miles off his thoroughly-wrung co*ck. Miles lets go with a farewell kiss on his slit; if nothing else, just to feel Lyle twitch against his lips one more time.

He's back in that humming, f*cked-out stupor when Miles crawls up and drapes over his twitching body like a blanket. For a while, they purr into each other's mouths, two hands knitted while the other two roam where they please.

Lyle is, of course—hard as a rock. They both are.

Oh well, Miles thinks, smothering him with more nuzzling, panting kisses. The unshakeable arousal is starting to feel less like a chore and more like an endless opportunity.

"You," Miles purrs, tonguing salt from the dip of Lyle's collarbone, "are somethin' else."

Lyle just sighs, raising his chin for better access as his hips roll lazily upwards. Miles purrs louder, rasping and nipping even more. Even his sweat is rank with sex, seeping up through his Jacobson's to flood his brain with static.

By the time he completes the impromptu tongue bath, Miles is light and airy and plumb-f*cking-stupid. Head full of nothing but the vague feeling of spun sugar and Lyle, Lyle, Lyle.

Elsewhere, his loins tingle with the familiar heat or shivering at a particularly stout hit of pheromones that gets his tail coiling.

"f*ck—st… status report?" Miles slurs, sucking a dizzy love bite over Lyle's pulse point. Lyle just groans, arching into his thigh. "Mmh. That's what I like to hear." Rumbling loud as a Humvee in his chest, Miles tenses a thigh to give him more friction. "Sorry 'bout your soft and gentle—got caught up in the moment."

Breathless, Lyle undulates in what resembles a shrug.

"Yeah… I'm thinkin' you didn't mind too much, though," Miles croons, slipping a finger under his chin. "That right?"

"Mmh…"

Wet heat skates up his thigh as Lyle whimpers, tail quivering with arousal. Miles chuckles low and lustful, gnaws open-mouthed kisses under his jawbone until Lyle gasps in his ear.

"S… Still have—ah, f*ck," he whines, squirming stickily against him. "S-Still have one or two more chances for you to deliver, I bet…"

"Aw," Miles hums, resting his chin atop Lyle's flushed chest with a pout. "One or two? That really all you got left in you, hon?"

The gloominess is only half-playful. Miles has been trying his best not to think of the ticking clock above their heads. It's no surprise Lyle catches it, sobering a little himself.

"Q, It's not like I'm going anywhere."

Miles shrugs. His voice sounds somewhere far-off, even to himself. "Maybe…"

"Oh, good God," Lyle groans. "You are not whipping out some goddamn KIA bullsh*t on me right now. You f*ckin' serious?"

Miles cringes, startled by the laugh that bubbles out of him. Lyle laughs with him, jostling Miles a bit with the rise and fall of his chest. "Hate to break it to you," he murmurs, tugging on Miles' arm with a sleepy smile, "but there's any eternal damnation I'm headed for, it's being backed up for the rest of my goddamn life."

Miles chuckles, closing the last few inches until they're nose-to-nose.

"Oh, I dunno, I don't really see it that way. I did, but a little bird in the tree," he pecks his nose, "has been making some very convincing arguments." Lyle shivers, thighs squeezing around a hand Miles slips between them. "Might just feel a big fat change of heart coming on."

The smile on Wainfleet's face is small. Exhausted.

It could light up the entire hemisphere.

Purrs and rustling fill the alcove as they roll, kissing and cuddling everything within reach. It doesn't take thirty seconds for those touches to turn frisky again. "Now," Miles grunts, tracing a circle on Lyle's flushed chest as he rubs his slit on the hipbone he's straddling. "Are you ever gonna tell me what in almighty God that mess is? Or am I just gonna be wondering for the rest of forever?"

Lyle blinks airily up at him, brows knitting together. "Huh?"

"Oh come on—show me your hand a little! I'm not much of a watersports guy, myself, but—"

"No, no, wait. What?"

Miles' ears flick in mild annoyance.

"Just spit it out, Wainfleet."

"Are you talking about squirting?"

Miles squints. "Beg pardon?"

"This?" Lyle smears some of the sticky, leftover mess off Miles' face.

He nods.

"Uh," Lyle chuckles. "Yeah, that's—sh*t's different for us. Well—for us now."

"So you mean we… with these?" Miles points at his dick. "That wasn't just chick roleplay?"

"I thought that was what you were wanting me to do."

The events of the whole evening flash through his mind, and he f*cking aches. He can feel himself throbbing all the way up in his stomach, c*nt slicking so much it seeps out to pool in the trough of Lyle's hip.

"Might wanna do something with that thing before it explodes," Lyle chuckles, rocking forward. Miles swallows, pulsing hard at the friction. Every frayed nerve is screaming at him. Demanding he mount and claim. At the same time, it begs him to flag his tail, puss* bared for Lyle's use.

Then he blinks, shaking his head.

This ain't about you.

"Hey, you said slow and gentle." Miles puts a hand on Lyle's chest, laying him down on a bed of tendrils. "You're gettin' slow and gentle…"

He covers him like a blanket. Sucks a few more bruises under his jaw before kissing him proper—tail snaking up his calf. "That still what you want?"

Lyle is already purple in the face, looking aside. Miles can feel the heat coming off his cheeks. He returns to his neck.

"Gonna need an answer, sugar…" Miles murmurs, worrying tender skin with his teeth. Lyle shivers, receding even deeper into his collarbone, but this time when Miles looks, he's violet down to his chest with a shaky, enormous grin on his face. Miles chuckles, smile only a bit more fiendish than it is fond.

"That's lookin' like a yes to me…" He leans down to nip at a quivering ear, whispering, "That a yes, sweetheart?"

Goosebumps erupt under his chin before Lyle nods ferociously. Miles' lips are on his in an instant, eating up Lyle's quiet moan as their hips slot together. He purrs, pulling more of those sweet sounds from his throat as he grinds against Lyle's peeking glans with his own.

Little by little, his chokehold on that soft, wizened animal they dressed his soul in has been slipping. It's talking now—and Miles realizes with a jolt that what it's been saying and what Lyle needs to hear are the same. There is a fine line between desire and want, and Lyle needs to know he's wanted.

At long last, Miles drops the rope.

And it speaks.

"I like your voice," he pants, Lyle fluttering around him as he inches inside. "I like hearin' your voice. I like your laugh."

Lyle's eyes snap open, blinking up in shock, just like when Miles called him pretty. Like he's hearing something for the first time.

Miles' ears fold, forcing the words past the tangle in his chest.

"I like your jokes," he grunts, setting a pace, "And your not-jokes. And I like your smile—"

Lyle beams. It's small and shaky, but it's his favorite out of all of them. Miles can't help but smile back.

"I like this," he chuckles, thrusting along the underside of Lyle's length. They both groan, legs shaking.

"Hah," Lyle laughs. "Yeah, it—oh. It's pretty f-f*ckin' fond of you, too…"

Miles laughs, and the sound sinks into a rumbling purr when he bends to kiss him.

They don't part for a long time; soft slicking sounds filling their pocket of grassy tendrils as they find a rhythm.

"I like… your shoulders…" Miles gasps when they eventually part. "And that you—you always keep me guessin'. Never know what's gonna come out of your mouth next. I love that. Even when I give you the business, I… I love it—"

A tear tracks down Lyle's cheek. Miles swipes it away, hands gentle as he touches his forehead to his lover's. Forces those big, teary eyes nowhere else but his own.

"I like," Miles groans, sidetracked by the swelling of his base and the sap coming out of his mouth. He's never uttered a mushier string of schlock in his life. It's f*cking exhausting.

"I like—"

His voice breaks in a low moan, throbbing as he tenses up. The chapped emptiness shoots right to his co*ck, and he hunches with a pleasure-pained hiss.

God—

Gasping, Miles taps on Lyle's chest.

"I love…" he pants, hips stuttering, "I love—"

Lyle sobs, and then Miles is there.

"Oh, sh*t," he whines, bucking. "sh*t, I'm—"

Hands grab his face, giving him the go-ahead when Lyle drags him down into a desperate kiss.

Miles' vision burns white. He sinks in with a throaty moan—fire quaking down his spine as everything swells, spasms, and locks them together with a frenzied thrust. Every dry twitch wrings a cracked whine out of him, sinking him deeper and deeper into fogged ecstacy. Lyle isn't far behind—breaking the kiss with a keen as he rakes down his back.

"Miles," he sobs, shaking, "Miles, I'm— I can't…!"

"Let go," Miles grunts. "Just let it go, sugar…"

Lyle f*cking sings, and that bestial other seizes control of Miles body as heat streaks across his belly. Almost mechanically, his eyes roll back. He sinks his teeth into the meat of Lyle's shoulder, copper tang on his tongue as he f*cks him through it. Grinds his knuckles into the base of Lyle's tail, pelvis pressed low for him to rut against.

"That's it," he rasps. Breathy, the way he knows gives Lyle the shivers. Nudging him just right inside. Again and again, until his little bird is singing for him, and God damn, if it isn't the best song he's ever heard.

"f*ck—f*ck, there you go," Miles grunts. "Take what you need, baby. Everything…"

"Was never—about—need…"

Miles shuts his eyes, strange guilt choking him before it passes. A shallow sob from Lyle accompanies one last pulse of warmth in the valley of his hipbone as Miles kisses the marks he left in his shoulder. At last they slump together in a heap—motionless except for twitching limbs and Lyle shaking like a leaf.

"God, you were so good," Miles breathes, craning close to his ear. "So goddamn good…"

No answer.

"Lyle?"

He raises up to check on him, momentarily distracted by a rush of static. For a moment, the world almost seems to smear. His nose twitches. Sulfur? Smoke? Has he been here before? Christ, he must be dehydrated.Miles comes to when he hears a quiet sob. Lyle.

"Oh, hon…"

That's all it takes. Dumbfounded, he stares with a sinking feeling as his friend (asterisk) curls up beside him, tears pouring down his cheeks. The rushes light a violet frame around the edges of his vision. Something in Lyle's eyes breaks when he opens his arms, not quite clapping a hand over his mouth before a sob can slip out.

"Lyle…"

Miles closes the distance himself, pulling him to his chest, and what comes out of Lyle's mouth next is unlike anything he's ever heard. Not even when he was injured. Furious. Scared out of his damn mind. It's not even like when they hugged in the shallows that first time. God, he's weeping. Big, heaving things against his neck like storm surges striking a seawall.

Jesus, was Miles' own meltdown this hard to watch? He wonders if this is the other side of the coin—if Lyle's just as foreign to this sort of thing, but he isn't so sure. If there's one thing tonight has taught him, it's that there's a lot of things he's not sure about. hen Lyle starts to swallow his sobs, gulping deeper breaths.

"Uh-uh," Miles says, shaking his head. "Don't even think about it. If I had to keep going, you do." He gives him a squeeze. "Just let go."

Hacking another hard sob, Lyle crumbles all over again. Unlike Miles, he doesn't say a word. He just cries and cries, face hidden. Even their sobs don't sound alike. Miles' were loud. Explosive; taut hair-trigger just like the rest of him.

Lyle sounds like he's being strangled. It's visceral and quiet. Quiet is worse than loud. Unnerving; like he doesn't even have the strength to voice his sobs. Like death. No sonorous lament, no artful tragedy. There's just pain. It's ugly, and it's harsh, and Miles has no f*cking idea what to do about it.

But something else does. That worming, electric buzz in his head comes back, and without thinking—Miles takes the base of Lyle's queue between his thumb and forefinger. Slowly, he tightens his grip. Lyle flinches at first, but it's not long before. Miles doesn't even hear his own purring until Lyle's breathing slows, sobs ebbing into hiccups.

When he stops fighting for air, Miles lets go and reaches behind them, rummaging for the CamelBak he threw into the brush. "Sit up for me, babydoll," he coaxes, nudging his shoulder. Lyle does—flushing through his tears when Miles slips a hand under his back and plucks him off the grass.

The berm is narrow; all Miles has to do is swipe the glowing pink stalks aside to lean back against the stone wall. Lyle goes quiet and still as Miles settles him in his lap, uncapping the mouthpiece.

"Doin' way too much loving and crying to keep skipping out on this…" he mutters, bringing it to Lyle's mouth. At the first sip, a frenzied spark lights up in his eyes, and a smile ghosts Miles' face as he snatches the skin.

"Don't choke, now."

Lyle glances at him, ears flicking with embarrassment as he guzzles half their water. The minute he stops, gasping for air, his breath hitches sharply, pressing the heel of his palm to an eye as more tears spill over. Miles sighs.

"Right back out again," he huffs fondly, pulling Lyle to his chest. "Guess I did tell you to let go."

Lyle just hiccups, leaning into him.

"Thank you," he says weakly. Then he says it again. Then over and over, like a broken, blubbering record. "Thank you, Miles… Thankyou…"

"Lyle, you don't have t—"

"No!" his voice breaks. "No, you don't get to—Y-you have no idea what it… What you…" Lyle's ears flatten as he chokes on another hiccup. "Just… Thank you—thank you so much…"

"Hush," Miles whispers. Kissing his shoulder, his own breathing wavers. "It was overdue."

Long overdue…

They sit like that for a long time, hand-in-hand as Lyle's hiccups finally run their course. Even then, neither of them speak, silence wrapped around them like a blanket. Miles blinks heavily and glances at the planet above them, wondering what time it is. He could check his watch, but he doesn't want to know.

Late, he hopes. Late, and not early. Miles doesn't want night turning to day. Forget the damn mission. Deep down, he wishes they could just stay here, wrapped up in each other—making up for years of loving they've missed out on. Lyle especially.

Miles remembers the desperation in his plea—the confusion. He honestly didn't have any idea what to ask, or how.

He may be a rough man, but even Miles can't deny the small, sinking part of himself that went out to those waiting on nothing but bags and taxis while spouses and children flocked around the luggage carousels. There were always a few. Regardless of who was there to claim him, Miles was glad never to be one of them.

But Lyle never talks about anyone. Least of all himself.

Out of nowhere, something like radio static washes over him with a wave of gripping terror. Vision blurred. Unblinking, building snap—

His head drops.

Miles is made aware of this when his chin strikes his sternum. He jolts like he's been electrocuted, and then it's gone. In its wake, some slushy sort of fatigue heavies his head, dragging at him—no doubt from being up all night. Miles just tries to shake it off.

"Said we could talk later…" he murmurs, thumb circling scabbed knuckles.

But Lyle is already shaking his head, and Miles feels a ball of ice sink in in his stomach.

It's about me, isn't it," he mutters at last. "Whatever you're not saying."

Lyle flinches.

The cold becomes a sharp, deep ache. Well. If he's going to get over it later, might as well get over it now.

"Lyle, if you're angry with me… sh*t, even if you hated me—"

"I love you."

Miles stops. The world stops. He never imagined it hitting so hard. Worse than a bullet—worse than flint-sharp arrows cutting him short in the woods somewhere. Miles wilts, eyes squeezed shut, weathering a tide of emotion.

He can't say it.

He can cuddle and kiss and sappy-talk till the sun caves in, but he just can't say it back. The second he utters that L-word, that'll be it. The last free plot on his soul—his xeroxed and serial-numbered soul—the only thing left that's even theoretically his own will be bought and sold. Left without one shred of himself to his own name.

When Miles can breathe again, he leans back to pull Lyle into a deep kiss. One last tear hits his thumb, and Miles swipes it away, not too far from that point himself.

Shakily, he whispers, "Why?"

Why love me? Why choose me?

Lyle actually takes the time to ponder this, irises washed almost silver from the lavender stalks cocooning them. God. He really is beautiful.

Somehow, Miles doesn't expect the first thing out of his mouth to be, "You're funny."

Miles blinks hard, guesses scattering like ants. What.

"What?"

"You make me laugh," Lyle murmurs thinly. "Hell, you've always made me laugh. You're funny, and you're weird. And you hate everybody, and… and I don't know."

His eyes never leave Miles, intense and distant at the same time. Like he's caught in a daydream.

"To be honest," mutters Lyle, "I've never really thought too hard about why. It's always just been about the… the somehow."

Miles purses his lips, trying to add all of this up in his head.

Weird. Hates everybody. Funny.

Of all the adjectives people used to stroke his ego with, he's definitely never heard those.

His nose twitches, and just like that he's laughing. sh*t—he's dying.

Lyle tenses, gawking, ears flared out like a big blue owl, and Miles has to wrap his arms around his middle. He can't remember the last time he laughed till his stomach hurt. The canned echo of the alcove makes him sound almost deranged, howling until he can't anymore.

"Well," Miles sighs, wiping his eyes. "That's about as Lyle a response as I could've hoped for, I guess…"

Lyle deflates. "Is that a good thing?"

Miles scoffs fondly, like the dumbass can't see it in his eyes.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Near about perfect, I think."

Lyle bites his lip, glancing the other way, but even the best poker face in the squadron can't do anything about the blush darkening his cheeks. Miles smirks, tail flicking.

"It's weird," Lyle mumbles. "The 'I like you' bit. There's not really parts, like all the stuff you said. I know you're funny, because… Well, everything has to start somewhere. But the bigger sh*t—the important sh*t—isn't really sh*t at all. Not the way you're asking for. I think of you, and my mind's just, 'Oh, it's Miles. I like Miles…'" His eyes clear. "It's just you."

If pressed, Miles would say the tears in his eyes are left over from laughing.

He doesn't know who moves first, pressing cheek-to-cheek in the grassy cocoon. Maybe it shouldn't surprise Miles when he feels more tears on his neck.

"Oh, s—"

"Don't," Lyle snaps. "Don't. I'm fine." He pulls back, wiping his eyes. "They're not—I'm n-not sad, it's just… I just—It's almost too…" He swallows, Like I'm dreaming or s-some sh*t. I can't—part of me just… God, I can't believe this is real—"

"It's real," Miles shushes, thumb catching a straggling tear. "It's real."

He'll give Lyle one thing—this does feel a bit like a dream. Before tonight, he never would have guessed the man had this side to him. He's Miles' 2IC for a reason—strong in all the places he isn't. Lyle's always been the immovable object. The house on the rock. Hands every bit as bloody as Miles'.

It feels impossible. So impossible that all these years he's had such a tender stranger by his side.

And something spits from the back of his mind; Whose fault is that?

That's all it takes for it to hit Miles like a truck.

This whole time.

This whole time.

The air drains out of his lungs along with the blood in his face, ears flattening.

All this time…

Ignoring him, berating him, slapping him away—

… God.

Insulting him, making fun of him, using him—

Oh, God.

"Miles?"

Lyle watches him, worried.

Him.

Miles covers his mouth, unable to meet those eyes. The same eyes, he realizes, that looked so wrong when he was losing himself in the thicket. The same eyes when he had to beg Miles to let him help bathe him. The same eyes that have been watching him—worrying about him—wanting him—for months. Desperate glances he looked at, always looked at, but never saw.

His hands. How many times has Miles slapped those away? Crushed them white while taking him? While making Lyle take him? How many times can he not even remember?

He doesn't know. God—he doesn't even know. He just sees pictures flashing in his mind. Lyle's hands reaching. Miles batting them away. Awkward pauses gone ignored. Winces, ignored. He's bruised. Right here in front of him; dusky splotches on his arms, clotted blood between his knuckles. Did Miles do that?

Has he been hitting him that hard?

… Has Lyle been reaching out that much?

The world turns, wobbles, tips off its axis as Miles mumbles, "‘M'gonna be f*ckin' sick—"

"What?"

Lyle jumps up, stalks flaring white-pink around them as they pull back from each other.

Miles doesn't answer.

God. God.

He was going to let him go.

No wonder Lyle keeps falling apart. How many times has Miles been taking him right back to that terminal? How many times a week—hell, a day, has he been breaking his goddamn heart?

"Lyle…" Miles whispers, eyes burning as he drags a hand down his face. "God damn it… Goddamn it, how bad was I gonna have to hurt you before you f*ckin' said something?!"

Lyle freezes, poker face at war with a strange, hunted panic that looks out of place on him. The extinction of deer in the wild far predates him, but he thinks this must be what they looked like—frozen to the roadways at that last blinding moment.

Miles folds, white-knuckled, nails dug deep in his scalp.

"Miles…" Lyle breathes. He waits for the rest, but there isn't any.

For what feels like hours, neither Lyle nor himself can break the silence strangling them.

"You…" Miles whispers, thick and gray. "I don't even know how long you… in that thicket. These past few months—God, and you're the one who offered! And I—I just k-kept telling you to go faster. Hit harder."

Shut up and f*ck me how I tell you, Lyle… shut up, shut up, shut up…' Like you were… Like you're just some toy I can put away after I've used you—"

Miles drags one hand down over his eyes, tries to hide the way his face contorts, but its useless.

"God, and you," he hiccups, tears boiling over as his voice splinters. "You did my hair…"

The word breaks off at the end, and Miles has to stop talking for a moment to keep himself together. Lyle doesn't make a sound. He hasn't made a sound since he said his name and trailed off.

"You carried me here," Miles croaks. "Washed me… Held me when I cried—made love to me... I mean, how—how do I even…?"

He tries to swallow the lump in his throat. Quits hiding behind his hands. For God's sake, the least he can do is meet the man's eyes.

When he does, he feels naked again.

… No. More than that—Miles feels dirty. And for once, his disgust has nothing to do with his body. This is worse than that.

He thought the shock of Lyle's affection was what made him fall to pieces before. Now—he's thinking it was guilt. Shame. Some hindbrain awareness of what's been happening.

"sh*t…" Miles laughs bitterly, "I've been worrying so much about if I'm a dog that I—" he bites his lip till he tastes metal. "I didn't even notice I was treating you like one..." he scoffs. "sh*t. I'm no f*ckin' dog… I'm worse."

Lyle just stares, paler and paler with every passing second. He doesn't even blink when Miles lays heavy, shaking hands on his shoulders.

"You are," Miles chokes, "the best friend—the best whatever this is—I could ask for. In either life. You're one of the only pieces of me—of what still feels like me... That I've got left. God, and I didn't even… !" Miles' voice warbles like a kettle as a tear breaks free. Then another. "D-Didn't even notice that—that you…"

"That I love you," Lyle mumbles.

Miles' face crumbles. Without a sound, he curls forward until his temple is resting on Lyle's shoulder.

"I wanna say it," he rasps, silent between consonants his broken voice can't bridge. "I want to, but I…"

Lyle is already leaning into him, brutally succinct. "I've waited this long."

Miles flinches, guilt compounding.

"I don't get you," he chokes. "I don't get you at all. How, Wainfleet? How can youlove me?"

"I said before, I don't know," Lyle hisses. "I don't care how much it hurt! never think about hurt—and maybe that's bad! I don't know—there's so much sh*t I don't know… I don't give a f*ck!"

He hiccups quietly against Miles' neck.

"I can't give a f*ck… I can't afford to give a f*ck… My whole goddamn life, it's like I've been stuck on a raft, going who the hell knows where, everything slipping through my fingers—I'm used to it! S'no big deal…" His voice lowers, threadbare. "Till it was."

"And you weren't ever gonna tell me? Miles hisses. "What if everything went my way tonight? What if I never found out any of this? What the f*ck then?!"

Lyle looks away, eyes gleaming. "How the hell was I supposed to know?" he mumbles; shaky, fearful. "I told you before, these things don't happen to me…"

Miles pulls a hand down his face.

God damn it…

"I'm like a hotel, y'know?" Lyle chuckles weakly. "People come into my life, and they're gone. Some go quicker than others, but the more I try to keep them, the more they want to go…" He breaks off, eyes fluttering shut with a pained swallow. "I just try to enjoy it while it lasts."

Somewhere, an animal cries.

"I just thought it was your turn to—mph!"

The grass flares as Miles crushes Lyle so tightly it squeezes a cough from his lungs.

"Life," he hisses, choking on the lump in his throat. "I am checked in. For life. Okay? This is a f*ckin' apartment now. Or house. Whatever goddamn analogy you want—just quit spewing that sh*t. I don't ever want to f*cking hear it again. Hear me?"

Miles can't even hear him breathing.

"25 trillion miles," he breathes. "25 trillion miles and fifteen years in the Styx—You think I'd walk out on you? You think I'm so much of a jackass I can't see anything in that?"

Lyle is still silent.

"You are stuck with me," Miles hisses. "Stuck. Unless—" He glances up, eyes slipping shut for a moment. "Unless you walk out on me first."

Lyle looks like he's about to shatter, but in an instant, it's gone.

"Alright, but…" he swallows thickly, wiping his eyes. "But what exactly am I stuck with? What do we call…?" He makes a vague gesture. "This."

Miles stops.

"Y'know, I've never really been much of a labels guy. Not with the whole…" he waves a hand between them, ears skewed. "Look, we can brainstorm when we're not f*cked out half to death. You good with that?"

Wainfleet smiles weakly. "And dehydrated."

"Mortally. Pruny, too—Bastards up top'll make us redo our prints, I bet."

Lyle snorts, laugh hoarse, and Miles decides he kinda likes being funny.

He kisses him, slow and adoring. At once, Lyle's grin contorts into another pained grimace. Miles presses him deeper, hands slipping behind his jaw. Besides a hitch in his breath when he thumbs a tear away, the man is silent as a ghost.

"I wanna make it up to you," Miles whispers when they part. "Wanna be good to you…"

"You are," Lyle croaks. "You are—Jesus, have you been asleep the past hour? I'd put up with it all again for just ten minutes—"

"Shouldn't have had to put up with sh*t."

"Christ, you just can't get it through that patched-up goddamn skull, can you? For f*ck's sake, I want to put up with you. I want you to let me. That's what I've been trying to say this whole goddamn time."

"Yeah…" Miles huffs one reedy chuckle into Lyle's shoulder. "Yeah, I know. I'm a jackass."

"Yes," Lyle sighs, planting a kiss on his neck. "You are. But so am I. And so is everyone—so will you stop it already with this pity party bullsh*t? It's weird."

"Thought you liked weird."

"No." Lyle swats him lightly with his tail. "Not like this. This is just f*ckin' sad."

Lyle's tail stays there, twining loosely around his arm, and Miles' throat threatens to close up again. Even after everything that's happened, that crushing, weepy pressure in his chest threatens to come back.

"I still don't understand…"

"Understand what?"

Looking away, Miles taps the tail around his forearm with a shaky hand. Lyle looks away.

"Do you really have to understand?"

"I want to…"

Lyle closes the distance this time.

"f*ckin' ," he teases, trilling with the buzz in his chest. "You know you're gonna have to drop this crybaby sh*t before we head back, right?"

"I don't want to go back," Miles hisses. "Don't want the sun to come up…"

The purring stalls.

Miles shakes his head, breath hitching. "It's just… You're so… "

Unexpected—Wonderful—Important—Sad—

Jaw grinding, Miles can't force anything out.

"I just can't believe I never… All this time—"

"Don't." Lyle tenses, ears pinning. "Knock it off. You didn't know."

Well, at least Miles knows he's telling the truth. It's far too uncomfortable to be anything else. Not very comforting when it sounds like Lyle's got a gun to his head, though.

He knows he can't avoid the elephant in the room forever. Miles could chock up all the waterworks to Lyle simply being overwhelmed—but he would have already said so if that was it.

Instead, his rejected offer yawns between them like a grave. Lyle isn't what you'd call a reserved individual. He talks freely and bluntly about everything—be it screwing, the weather, or taking a man's life. Whatever he doesn't want to talk about, it can't be good. But what the f*ck could be bad enough that Wainfleetdoesn't want to touch it?

And sure, maybe Miles could ask. It couldn't be out of line. Not anymore—but a small, sore part of himself cowers anyway.

The silence doubles. The tears stop. And for a long time, they sit slumped against one another, hand-in-hand. Unspeaking. Through gaps in grass and stone, Miles watches eyes glimmer at them from a sliver of treeline.

At his lowest, he almost envies that son of a bitch, Sully, for escaping what he could not. Loathes the cowardly lurch in his gut whenever he sees taloned handprints in the mud. There's a reason he forbade night ops, after all.

Just as quickly as they came, those gleaming wolf eyes vanish into the night. Nobody getting mauled tonight—or any night, now. Sometimes Miles almost wishes the damn things would surprise him. Make him feel like his old self again. The intruder—the enemy.

Alien.

For as long as he's—as he lived here, the amount of night Miles has actually seen beyond fences and co*ckpits is slim by comparison. Since before recombination, he's never been able to pin what it is about night on Pandora that disturbs him besides the wildlife. Now, here, it finally hits him. Crickets.

There are no crickets.

Home for him may have been no more a pastoral idyll than any other hellhole on Earth, but there are some things even man can't cure. Dismal, creeping things that carry on in storm drains and seams between pavement. Small things; survivors that will inherit what man leaves behind.

Miles' gaze sours the longer he stares at the wall of life across the water. It's funny. The longer they range this Bizarro-world, the more he remembers the one he left behind. Idly, Miles wonders what the Earth will look like in another twenty years—thirty years. Some vague, after, where bugs, bacteria, and empty cities alone will remain.

Plug-f*cking-ugly, he figures.

Then Miles feels air on the side of his face which should be numb. Remembers the nauseating sound of bone carving bone—and he decides he'll take the goddamn insects any day. He wants road noise. Neon. Cricket-jeweled pavement and puddles every color of the rainbow. Maybe it's homesickness, or maybe it's just pining for a life he never lived. Sights and sounds that exist only in the film reel of hindsight.

He was never a nostalgic man, but that was before memories were all that existed of "him." As Miles is, they're skewed; blurred by time and severed of context like the world through a frosted window. It could be a farce for all he knows, world pulled over his eyes.

He thinks of poor Lyle; fully matured, yet unaware of himself or anything else. Nature loathes a vacuum. Miles may not relate to the experience of being empty like that, but he feels the skewing. The massive distance between him and himself. How is he supposed to be what he never was to begin with?

Why does a life he never lived make him feel like this? How can he miss crickets he never heard?

The silence beyond the treeline still isn't as concerning as the one warming his side.

Dull hurt bruising the inside of his chest, Miles shuts his eyes and makes an attempt at connection.

"I told you about Jo, right?" he says, injecting levity into his voice. "Joseph? Had to have, at some point—"

"Your brother?" Lyle hedges. "...The hell brought that up?"

Miles gestures to the vortex, turning its slow shape through the grass.

"That whirlpool," he says. "I've been staring at it this whole time, thinking..."

Miles massages his temple, eyes crinkling at the edges. He huffs something between a sigh and a laugh.

"When I was five, or four—hell, I don't know… There was this storm drain by my house. Big ol' thing. The kind a little kid could get sucked into, you know. Don't know how the city didn't…" Miles trails off.

"Anyway. It'd rain, and you know—all that cement made our street like a river. And one day, I figured I'd just…"

Miles shrugs, eyes distant.

"Go out and play. Dad was gone, my mother was—" he chuffs a bitter laugh, rolling his eyes. "Could barely reach the handle, but somehow, I got the storm door open. Guess someone left it unlocked. I dunno.

"So, I'm running down the road—got my daddy's coat on, and I slip."

Lyle doesn't move. Doesn't speak.

"I slip…" echoes Miles. "Don't remember how—just after. I'm little, and that fast-flowing water's no joke. Before I know it, I'm halfway in that culvert. Water pushing down on me… hanging onto the edge of it for dear goddamn life. Car went by, never even saw me. Bet I was there five minutes like that—screaming and crying. Hell, could've been seconds, but five minutes was how it felt."

Eyes empty, Lyle's tail drifts through the grass to drape over his leg. Miles squeezes his hand.

"I don't even think I knew what dying was," he says. "Not then… I didn't know what was going to happen if I got sucked into that tube, under all that water, where I couldn't breathe. All I remember thinking was, I can't fall. I can't fall, no matter what I can't fall…"

He swallows, chest tight.

"Then this hand comes down, and it grabs me. And it's…"

Miles shuts his eyes.

"To this goddamn day, I don't know how he knew I was out there. Where I was. It was on our street, sure, but," Miles shakes himself. "Anyway... Can't see so much as a spiral without thinking 'bout that culvert—J.J.'s hand round my arm. Think it's why I've never liked swimming so much."

Miles leans back, craning his neck to look at Lyle; the reason for this entire anecdote.

He takes the shot.

"You ever have siblings?"

And he sees it.

Deep in Lyle's eyes, something changes. Shuts off, like a vault door slamming tight.

"No."

Miles plays dumb, pressing harder.

"Well, you've mentioned your mother. What about the rest of your family?"

Come on. Come on, Ly, you can trust me…

"Miles. Stop."

Lyle's voice, so full ofwell, himself, usually—is dull and lifeless in a way Miles has never heard. It almost sounds like a different person.

"Just stop. I know what you're doing. You think I don't know what you're doing?"

Miles wilts, eyes falling shut. The ache deepens.

"No," he sighs, defeated. "Guess I should know by now, huh. I'll always be ten steps behind."

He doesn't know why the hell he's even disappointed. Lyle talks freely about everything. Everything, so long as it isn't his goddamn self.

Like the culvert, another age passes that could easily be seconds. Miles watches the river, trying to solve the equation in his head that is Lyle.

But of course, people aren't numbers—f*ck what the whitecoats say. Who gives a sh*t if they have souls made of ones and zeros. Whatever the computer science of their brains—Miles can't tell the difference. Lyle is still Lyle, and the Lyle that's made of T's and F's is no easier to calculate than the original.

He doesn't even mean to say it. Like leaves in November, it falls out. "Why won't you talk to me?"

Lyle doesn't react at first. He's quiet for such a long time that just when Miles thinks he's dozed off—

"Miles," his voice is nothing more than a breath. "What if I could make you understand?"

Miles opens his eyes. Doesn't even know when he closed them.

"What?"

Lyle finally unsticks from his spot under Miles' cheek, wiping his eyes.

"I… I can't," he murmurs, "I can't talk. I don't. I can listen to this kind of sh*t all day, but I just… I've never—" He swallows. "L-Look, it was hard enough getting all the other sh*t out—!"

"Hon."

Lyle's jaw snicks shut, wilting at the term of endearment, but not as much as when Miles takes his hand.

"I'm not askin' one more thing of you," he murmurs, thumb stroking a knuckle Miles must have bitten at some point. "Not one thing." He plants a demure kiss over the scabs, lacing their fingers together. Rests his cheek on the back of his hand. "What's the plan?"

Lyle stares at him, eyes unreadable as ever, but intense. Then he looks away, and it's gone.

"It's kind of crazy… Could kill two birds, though."

Miles wheezes. "Lyle, you know how I feel about crazy better than anyone," he chuckles. "Lay it on me, now—c'mon."

Instead of answering, Lyle swallows, eyes squeezed shut as he reaches behind himself.

When they open, the locked door—the wall is gone. No, Wainfleet's eyes are blazing like coals, piercing and familiar.

Between them, a flame of dendrites unfurls, reaching for him from the business end of his queue.

Miles stops breathing.

Chapter 5: Footnote

Chapter Text

The scientific community is in uproar this week, following a disturbance at 2145's annual AAAS Summit held in New Seattle last Friday.

According to attendees, a representative from the Resource Development Administration's neuroscience division sparked pandemonium at the conference when they revealed their latest development: the extraction, codification, and transplantation of the host's memory into a genetic clone.

In layman's terms, the RDA has developed theoretical immortality.

We are legally prohibited from sourcing quotes, but the process appears to involve a 'deep scan' of the hippocampus, as attendees paraphrased. The mirroring process is allegedly derived from RDA's own Avatar Project, in which artificial transference of the body is reached via "linkstate," which itself is derivative of the neurological web of individual organisms that make up the moon's biosphere.

For older members of our community, this scene should be reminiscent of those from decades past—when the first Link Unit prototype was unveiled on the very same stage.

Rather than simple transmission of neural impulses, allocation takes this "linkstate" a step further. Rather than transmitting, the scan records—converting electrical data from the hippocampus into a form of markup language. This digital memory bank can allegedly be archived and reuploaded, if the 'hardware' is suitably compatible.

According to interviewees, the speaker presented a lofty and distant vision of humans not having to worry about Pandora's caustic atmosphere and radiation. They would not even have to endure the long, rigorous, and costly flight through space.

Before the speech could even conclude, they were quickly ushered offstage by officials, and have not been available for comment since. We are prohibited from publishing their name at this time.

Shortly after, AAAS officials were approached by RDA Security Operations personnel.

The Administration revealed that their representative had broken nondisclosure agreements, and that the Administration had no plans of species-wide recombination. Rather, they stated that this was a simple act of subterfuge, and demanded all official transcripts of the announcement be stricken and redacted from conference record.

They then took to the media, doing the same to major news outlets and all who had reuploaded the contraband. The copyright war is still waging all over the internet, with researchers of every discipline in a state of frenzy. One only has to look to any STEM community to see pleas in all languages for the RDA to declassify their research on what is being called the second discovery of fire.

The news is even making waves in RDA's own wheelhouse. One sophom*ore at Carnegie Mellon spoke out against the very administration considering him for its most elite and experimental project. We were pleased to speak with him directly over video-chat following incendiary social media posts calling the media blackout a circus, and the recombination proposal a "corporate pipe dream.”

"To be perfectly frank, I'm not worried about [the RDA] kicking me out," says Avatar Program-hopeful Thomas Sullivan. "It's not cheap work, growing aliens, and it's harder to find someone with the right specs to drive them. You think about how many things you do...just walking to the grocery store that only humans do. The way [we] hear sound. The way [we] process feelings. Stimuli. Think about the parts of your brain. You think those are all the same size and layout in-link?

"People don't realize that aside from studying, until you're "rigged," the only training you really do is psychological. You have to condition your mind out of its physical identity, or you'd crack. You're not just operating a vehicle—you have to become something...that humans share zero taxonomy with. Not just anybody off the street can do that.

"As a Driver, you always have that shutoff switch. At the end of the day, you're still just a guy in a box somewhere, and there's some safety in that, I think...I don't know what's going to happen if you take that away. There's just not a reality in my mind where a one-way trip would work."

When asked what his peers think of his bold words, Tom laughed.

"My classmates have been freaking out for days, asking how I could endanger my position," he said. "The truth is, I've probably got more job security than anyone else at [Carnegie]...Even without the training, I'm sequenced. They've already got me growing in a jar somewhere...I'm not expecting any future bosses to come at me in a dark alley is all I'm saying."

The RDA has issued no formal statement at this time.

(Algernon, Chen, "Cats Out of the Bag: RDA and the Second Fire," Scientific American, February 2145)

Field Incident Report

RDA SCIENCE AND TECHNOLOGY

DATE AND TIME OF INCIDENT: September 30, 2143, 15:10 TT – Sol 43-273 PT

LOCATION(S) OF INCIDENT: RDA Institute of Exobiology, Lawson Park Research Station, Lawson Park Massachusetts — Atmospheric Control Lab, LS Exam Room 815

REPORTED BY: ▇▇▇▇ Preterius

DIVISION: Biological Engineering

BRANCH: Biotechnology

DEPARTMENT: Neuroscience

SUPERVISOR AT TIME OF INCIDENT: S▇▇▇▇ P▇▇▇▇▇

SUBMITTED BY: S▇▇▇▇ P▇▇▇▇▇

STATEMENT OF FACTS:

On September 30, at approximately 13:00, we decanted Phoenix Live Subject (PLS) 07, ▇▇▇▇▇ ’s recom and began preparation for transplant.

▇▇▇ ▇▇▇▇▇ was a volunteer for recombination testing, and at his personal request—was administered the lethal injection in the Price Daniel Unit two years ago, while his mind and recombined body were growing inside our facility.

Upon final bootup, parallax was present as expected, however unlike the prior two assets, ▇▇▇▇▇ did not achieve refocus within the average timeframe. We observed and spoke to ▇▇▇▇▇ from the control room for thirty-one minutes, during which he remained alert and mobile, but clearly not within possession of his faculties. Unlike attempted conversation, he responded physically to his name (tension, looking at speaker, ears/eyes trained on ceiling, etc.), but at no point did ▇▇▇▇▇ show any sign of understanding or repeating what was being spoken.

After approximately ten minutes, ▇▇▇▇▇ rose from the table and began to pace the width of the room. He displayed signs of unease; miosis and flattened ears, particularly, and would alternate between wrapping his arms around his torso and groping himself. At times he leaned against the wall.

However, at no point did ▇▇▇▇▇ become agitated or attempt to harm himself, so no sedation attempt was made. We continued our efforts to trigger refocus, repeating the candidate's name as well as other hypothesized trigger terms; such as "▇▇▇▇▇," "parole," "late," "gun," "yard," and the candidate's cell number. All garnered reflexive reactions, but none were relayed or otherwise understood.

Throughout the next ten minutes, ▇▇▇▇▇ ceased pacing and laid down facing the right anterior wall of the exam room. He did not sleep; muscle tension as well as other reflexes continued, but he would not move from the wall.

In effort to rouse him, Doctor Goodner proposed playing a recording of a morning alarm at Las Cruces Detention Center, which he found online.

Upon hearing the alarm, Subject ▇▇▇▇▇ became agitated. He did not rise from the floor. Again, we played it, thinking the agitation would trigger symposium. The fourth time we played the noise, the subject stood and walked to the door of the exam room, where he did not move for several minutes, despite repeated playbacks of the alarm. We noted advanced miosis.

We began calling his name again, and the subject took to pacing once more, this time brushing more firmly against the walls (he grunted twice, but we have no reason to believe this utterance was speech). Subject 03 was clearly agitated, now.

The order to sedate was given, and upon the technician and anesthesiologist's entrance, Subject retreated to the far corner of the room. When they approached, Subject began hissing and snarling.

A standoff lasting almost five minutes ensued. Eventually, the technician was able to draw close enough to prepare 0.02 mg/kg detomidine. However, upon presenting the hypodermic, the subject threw her halfway across the room and began to sprint at random from wall-to-wall. The technicians took cover under the table, and before SecOps could be called, subject began to repeatedly ram its head into the wall. It did so with increasing force, at which time myself and my colleagues rushed in.

Even with all nine of us, there was no hope of detaining the subject. The gulf between the physical limits of our species is simply too great.

Subject hit its head eleven times. Nine against the wall and twice against an instrument counter; where the position of a corner was unfortunately optimal.

Time of death was approximately 15:26.

PLS 07 was incarcerated for the repeated abuse of methamphetamine and various narcotics, all of which are being examined as possible causes for this phenomenon, but no further speculation can be made until an autopsy is performed. We had hoped that volunteers arrested for nonviolent crimes would prove stable enough candidates, but it appears all we have done was create a microcosm of Alexander's caged rats.

All recombination efforts are on hold at this time. The incident has been put on tight lockdown, and we are asking by personal request of Mr. Moreau that this report not be shared laterally, and stricken from company record once cremation is complete.

We have much to learn. I can only pray the executive committee will heed our request to tighten restrictions on elegibility, but I fear that t

Field Incident Report

RDA SCIENCE AND TECHNOLOGY

DATE AND TIME OF INCIDENT: Sol 44-286, ~05:00 PT – October 15th, 2144 TT

LOCATION OF INCIDENT: Hell's Gate Block 12 — Sier Center of Horticulture — Adjunct Dormitory 2

REPORTED BY: Paige Montclair

DIVISION: Exobiology

BRANCH: Exozoology

DEPARTMENT: Avatar Field Research Program

SUPERVISOR AT TIME OF INCIDENT: Grace Augustine

SUBMITTED BY: Grace Augustine

STATEMENT OF FACTS:

At approximately zero-hundred on Friday, the 15th October, Sol 55-230, Dr. Paige Montclair states that she and fellow Driver, Morgan Alcott (Exobotany), left their quarters and met in the link bay for an unauthorized session—logged 00:12 and 00:13, respectively.

Dr. Alcott will not be cited in this report, as she is presently dead.

Fig. D.1

Fig. D.2

Fig. D.3

Fig. D.3

"Lyle…" Miles breathes, "I don't think this is—"

"I know," Lyle says, "but I think it'll be different this time."

"How do you know?"

Lyle pauses, staring at the writhing, furred tendrils between his fingers.

"I don't," he murmurs. "I dont... I just feel it. Do you trust me?"

Miles shouldn't.

He shouldn't, and he does. Hasn't he always?

Lyle rolls his eyes fondly before pulling him to his feet. Without a word, Miles lets himself be led by warm hands into the shallows. He stares down his hands in Lyle’s. All the parts of his brain whispering doubt fall silent. There's only an immense, velvety weight in his chest, and Miles suddenly realizes he's not afraid.

He doesn't question it when Lyle leads him to the whirlpool's center, spiral of pebbles underfoot in still water. He's not even sure, in the end, who leads who. Miles isn't thinking much of anything right now. He just knows that somehow, it’s right.

They meet in the middle, kissing almost sleepily. Then Lyle looks up at him through half-lidded eyes.

"What if it doesn't work?"

Lyle pauses, blinking.

"Then I guess we'll just have to do this more often."

Cut-and-dry, as per usual. Miles huffs, rolling his eyes with a smile.

"Doesn't sound so bad, I guess," he trails off, smile faltering. “And if it kills us?"

Miles is mostly joking, but Lyle's answer is straight from the heart.

"Then we die happy."

Miles has no reply to that. None at all—save watery eyes and the shaky hand he fumbles behind himself for his queue. No amount of instinct or stimulus could move him so wholly to do so. He doesn't know any of that stuff. Never read the papers—couldn't stomach the thought just hours ago.

And maybe he still can't. Miles doesn't know any of that science crap, but he knows he's happy.

He's happy, and he would rather die here, in this moment, than live another second the way he's always remembered living. The only life he thought there was—until it ended.

And at that moment, Miles stops giving a sh*t about what he is, who he was, or whatever he thinks he should be. All the senseless things fall away, and away, until all Miles sees is the man in front of him.

Whatever he is, it doesn’t matter. He Lyle's.

No whys, no somehows.

I like you, something far, far older than himself hums.I like you. I want to be with you.

It’s just Lyle.

And for that moment of clarity, Miles almost understands.

"You ready?"

Miles nods, and like magnetized yarn, the dendrites tucked into the tail-end of his queue slither out. They point toward Lyle, true as a compass, and he wonders whether that's a coincidence, or the machination of a body he'll never understand. Miles supposes it doesn't matter.

Taking a deep breath, he stares at the exposed wiring of his being and tries to steady his hand.

I like you. I want to be with you.

I like you.

I want to be with you...

He doesn't remember anything past this point from the last time. There's just a blurred snapshot; synapses cloying in a twisted parody of the Sistine Chapel ceiling. Then black.

Terrible, awful, nothing-black.

Miles holds his breath.

If you're there, God… Just let this be an insane move. And not another stupid one.

Hands shaking, Miles makes the connection.

Chapter 6: Asterisk

Chapter Text

Time stops the moment two dendrites make contact, and Miles isn't sure whether he's speeding up or if the world's halted on its axis. All he knows is that it's not working right. Spends hours watching their synapses knit together. Nothing like taming a banshee—it's nothing like anything.

More tendrils brush past each other, and a deep, furred crackling squeezes through Miles' skull in kind.

It's deafening in an oddly plush way; skull the inner shell of a microphone. Miles realizes the pressure isn't drowning everything else out: it is everything else. The harder he listens, the longer it settles, the more he's able to pick things out of the creaking. Wind in the grass. Water over stone. Lyle, breathing in front of him. Rustling through his skull, blood and oxygen.

It's something like a range headset—piping sound in instead of neutralizing it. Slowly, the dry crackle begins to deepen, fogging into a low hum.

Lyle's eyes are wide, stock still except for his ears. One of them flicks, swivels, and Miles' field of hearing smears down the middle.

Lyle snaps his attention forward as the vertigo transmits, and Miles jumps at the sound of some startled gasp. His eyes dart around the grotto, panting growing louder from in front of him. Lyle's mouth is closed.

What the f*ck?

Feeling echoes through his mind, and the breathing vanishes in another wave of vertigo as Lyle's ears flatten against his skull.

Miles' jaw snaps shut.

Again, Miles stutters. He's heard his voice played back over radio traffic, heard it countless times, but not like this. This is clear and instant. Trying to speak through his own voice is like trying to push through a moving wall.

It's not going away either. The sound just thins; dithers like snow until his voice is nothing more than a thin sheet of noise atop countless other leaflets of dissonance.

sh*t, that's—

"Intense," Lyle breathes, "I know."

Miles blinks, but the corporal isn't looking at him. He watches what's in his hand, queues still docking in slow-motion. Again and again, synapses lit up like lightbulb filaments. Miles always figured the glow came from himself—body sparking up with the same sh*t plants and photophores have, but time's so dilated he sees that it's not coming from their bodies at all. They bridge the empty air between them, light flooding out in either direction as the dendrites connect.

"How do you know?" Miles murmurs, unable to tear his eyes away.

"Remember before?"

Miles remembers.

"I was only there—here for a second," Lyle continues , voice not quite patching through just yet. "But a second was enough…"

Miles nods, and his brain smears with the movement. He feels the layers stacking. Sensations no thicker than the thinnest chain of neurons, but there are uncountable points of contact between them. Uncountable currents opening. Leaflets coming together to be bound.

Miles blinks, and something—

Something is happening. That's the only way he can put it; anything objective evades description.

The world's been hooked to a dimmer switch, and now someone is turning the dial. From no one place—from everywhere, the something-everything builds.

It builds, and it builds, until the very last fibers of the very last nerve weave light into their seamless spinal cord.

And time, like a whip, snaps taut.

Miles jumps.

"What the fu—"

It's not audible. Not exclusively.

The Thrum (and Thrum is the only thing Miles can possibly call it) charges through every one of his senses. Slow fast deafening climbing his nervous system stacking up again, again—

Miles feels his hair stand on end as the glowing foliage around them splits double before his eyes, flaring bright before their purple-green halves slip slowly back into each other. The earthshaking reverb only heightens the blood pounding through his ears. Skin sharpening in waves, nerves breaking their banks, he's spilling over—

f*ck, f*ck he sounds f*cking pathetic—

Hey, no—knock it off. Lyle's voice bleeds through his mind. Psych sh*t's as freaky as it gets. Always is—just keep your eyes on me, yeah? Only me…

Lyle threads his fingers through his—

fingers through

his fingers

through

his

fingers

Miles pants. No control, ears flat, pinpricks for pupils. Should he know what his eyes look like?

Quaritch, look at me.

Miles (... Miles?) jumps out of his skin at a voice ringing everywhere and nowhere. Inside—out—

Lyle hasn't let go of his hands since they entered the water, but now he brings one to Miles' face, tracing his thumb under an eye, and he feels phantom skin slithering under his own. Clenching his fist does nothing to stop it. Clawing nails, nothing. He shuts his eyes, and instead of black—

Miles snaps them open, panting, shaking, stranger with his face burned into his mind.

Just breathe, man.

Hand on his sternum, air filling his other lungs. Miles swallows, struggling for air. In Lyle’s hand, in his own, he feels himself shake. Even the tremors double back, pattering across his skin like a tarantula—two tarantulas. Four. Eight, sixteen, thirty-two—

Muscles locking up. Maybe if he doesn't move—

Hey, it's—

Miles, you're panicking. Just—

Miles whimpers.

Aw, Q… sh*t, man, we can stop if you—

Palm pressing on his chest.

Breathe…

Lyle squeezes his hand, and like someone's turned a key his lungs come unhitched. In and out, Miles gulps shallow breaths until his skin doesn't feel so sharp anymore.

Slow down,Lyle sends. Same as I’m doing. Slower…

At some point, the rhythm starts to shift.

And it hits him.

It sounds like a heartbeat.

It sounds a lot like a heartbeat.

THRUM

He supposes it makes sense. What could be more amplified by a pulse than the one constantly ticking away inside them?

THRUM

It's only us here, yeah?Lyle says, drawing his attention back. You and me. Just like two mirrors.

Lyle flicks his own arm, and sure enough the feeling ping-pongs between them.

Weaker and weaker—until Miles can't tell the feeling apart from the—

Snapping fingers produce the same effect; tiny echoes fraying the edge of the sound. His eyes widen as it bounces ear to brain to brain to brain, and back again. Slowly this too disappears, echo taking so long to come back around it doesn't even sound like a snap anymore; just a whisper that melds into the flood.

Just you and me,Lyle continues, voice smoothing over the pulse. For the brief moment Miles blinks, he sees himself—eyes shut. Frame in a film reel. Mirror in a tunnel of mirrors.

Just us…

(Isn't it?)

Wariness tug from his right-side brain, but it's gone in an instant.

THRUM

Huh…

THRUM

The Thrum isn't interrupting the ambience—it's stirring it. Sustaining it. Miles can almost envision it revolving around them but it has no shape. It just is.

Swallowing, he attempts to speak the way Lyle is speaking. Mentally, without all the reverb.

Got it…

It doesn't feel like speech. Not like thinking either. This is something else. Something between. Held breath, lightning-flash, twitching of a jaw as words unspoken die.

But they don't die.

THRUM

Lyle squeezes his hand, and for some reason that nearly undoes him.

f*ck, I don't deserve y—

THRUM...

There's lips on his—

Told you to knock the pity party sh*t off, Lyle sends.

Oh. Guess it makes sense his actual thoughts would bounce back. The Thrum's catching up with the echo, or maybe he's just getting used to it. Maybe it doesn't really matter.

Miles kisses back, rush of it doubling till his knees go weak.

That is not "pity party sh*t," he huffs mentally. It's me sayin' I like you.

He feels Lyle grin against his lips, tail flicking in faux annoyance.

Smartass—you knew what I meant.

Hey, cut me some slack. Two hours ago I was thinking I'd never hear it in a million years.

Well two hours ago I was still a f*cking idiot, so—

Pity. Party. sh*t.

Miles rolls his eyes.

This man…

Well, I'll just say it again, then.

Pulling back from the kiss, Miles speaks aloud, unbothered by the reverb.

“I like you. A lot."

A whipping tail ghosts through him, and phantom touch cocoons them in waves as Lyle drags him into his arms. Miles flashes back to when they did this the first time, leaning further into the hold.

Two hours, and Miles doesn't know how he could live without him.

The Thrum turns warm as sunlight.

"Ditto," Lyle mumbles, cheek warm against his neck. "Liked you for a damn long while, too."

Miles is loath to pull back, but he wants to look him in the eyes—even now.

"Can I ask how long a while is?"

"Why just not look? You know you can just look, right?"

Something probes the bubble-shaped network of Miles' mind (a sensation that should be far more disturbing than it is) and sinks in like Jell-O. Before his mind's eye, Miles sees static erode imagination. Some unseen bulb melting through the film reel of his mind. Anyone else and it would be terrifying, but the peaceful intent filtering through and the fact it's just Lyle keep him calm.

From the static in his head, what looks like a crudely-drawn cartoon steps through the breach.

Miles snorts, waving mentally with an eye roll.

"Hey, this is kind of like VR!" Cartoon Wainfleet pipes up. Then, of course,"Damn, wonder if we could bang in here…"

With that thought, his pants are gone, and a crudely drawn penis replaces them.

Miles snorts again—and then he can't stop.

"Now, that's just sad," he chuckles. "Looks like a goddamn locker room wall!"

One-line eyebrows appear above Cartoon Wainfleet's eyes, giving a simple, indignant glare before his sh*ttily-rendered dick balloons in size. Miles laughs even.

"What kind of f*ckin' condition do you have, Wainfleet?"

The cartoon duplicate shrugs.

"One condition? Couldn't f*ckin' tell you." Eyes closed, Lyle shakes his head before he grins. "Must be 'cause I've done—"

In real time, neon-flashing letters at least ten feet tall appear in Miles' mind:

"If you're tryin' to distract me from the weird sh*t happening, it is both not working at all and working very well."

"Damn—red handed."

On cue, Cartoon Wainfleet's hands turn red and drippy. On a nonexistent wall behind him is a sloppily painted:

"Much obliged," Miles purrs.

"There it is."

"I'm just being honest!"

"Very mature."

"Square. Come on in—the graymatter's fine!"

"Oh, alright, alright..."

Miles closes his eyes and imagines himself standing next to Lyle, and... That's it. There's no step two.

Cartoon Wainfleet makes a face Miles can't parse—and bad rendering is only half the reason.

"Hey, do you have aphantasia too?"

"Aphantasia...?"

"Where you can't visualize sh*t well."

Oh. Guess that explains Cartoon Wainfleet.

"No?"

Not that Miles is aware, that is. It's not everyday you get to compare imaginations like paint swatches. He's always figured his memory is sharp enough.

Cartoon Wainfleet squints, eyes little more than lines.

"Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure."

The cartooniness melts away as he lays on his stomach in the fading gantry, resting his chin on folded hands.

"So why not just look?" he reiterates.

With a tail that jitters between paintstrokes and one line, he points at the top of his head, where a scribbly eyeball opens. It winks at him, and Miles sees a glimpse of bright crimson.

In the blink of itself, the illusion is gone. It happens so fast Miles wonders if it was just his imagination; a very plausible explanation, here.

"I..." he hedges.

"I'm sure if we tried, we could just leaf through each other's brains. Like—like a file cabinet," Lyle says, eyes darting around. "W-Why not just do that? Would save a lot of time."

Miles' nose rumples up.

"What's that face for?"

"You invite me into your head to go through file cabinets?" Miles jeers lightly, poking his temple. "Damn, who hijacked the ol' Wainfleet?"

"Nobody..."

"C'mon, quit pulling my leg."

"I'm not!"

"Well that certainly doesn't sound very romantic to me. It's not—not—"

Miles snaps his fingers, swearing under his breath.

"Intimate...?"

"Exactly."

"Oh come on. What's your idea of intimate, then?"

Miles answers in their minds. He doesn't even have to consciously make it happen; it's done.

Gone is the vague, gray-brown void they've been talking in. Instead, both their little doubles are inside of a steel-caged catwalk (pardon the expression), a good two-hundred feet off the ground.

"Holy f*cking sh*t!"

Both Lyles reel in shock, turning stunned circles.

"Holy sh*t—holy sh*t. This is what some people canimagine?!"

Miles is a little taken aback himself. It's one thing to remember it. It's entirely another to be able to cut himself out and place himself directly inside the memory. It's so vivid he can still feel the clammy night breeze stirring his hair. A deep pang lands in his stomach. It's like he never left.

"Wait. Hey—Hey, I recognize that!" Cartoon Wainfleet pipes up, stripes writhing as he points at the fiery skyline in the distance. "That's your wallpaper—your desktop wallpaper at Hell's Gate! Holy sh*t, it looks just like the picture!"

"I took that picture," Miles mumbles. Then he blinks. "You remember that?"

"Sure," Cartoon Wainfleet winks. "Was only a few months ago, Colonel. Keep up."

Miles chuckles faintly, watching 'Lyle' pace the causeway, amusingly agog.

"I can't believe this—it's so clear! It's so—like—it's f*cking real," the physical version orates, hush with awe. "God, are all your memories like this?"

"Oh no," Miles chuffs, leaning on the grate behind him. "Hell no—I was fifty-one before they stuck my brain in a thumb drive. This one's just..."

Just what? How do you describe a moment like this in so few words? How do you do it without showing the whole picture?

Miles doesn't try.

"What made you think I had that—that 'Fantasia?'" he says instead.

"Aphantasia."

Rather than simply telegraphing the image, Cartoon Wainfleet pulls out a giant mirror out from behind him, standing it up in the gantry.

Miles' eyes widen.

"Oh."

He's looking at a kaleidoscope. A vaguely-humanoid mass that flickers endlessly from cobalt to tan and back again. His features are caught in the same loop. Like a magic trick, Miles' tail manifests on his body as he gives it an experimental wave. As soon as he stops, it's gone.

The only consistent thing on him are the scars. Miles runs a strobing hand over them, feeling nothing.

"Huh..."

His rising discomfort must be transmitting, because the mirror suddenly vanishes.

"So where is this, anyway?" Lyle asks.

Miles' ears tick down.

"Where was..."

Up to this point, everything past the end of the walkway has been intentionally kept out of focus. Lyle follows his gaze to the empty hemisphere, jitters slowing. Miles closes his eyes before he opens the aperture.

Everything becomes clear.

"Oh," Lyle breathes, somber. "Oh. Yeah."

Miles' inner self shrugs, letting the tide of diffusion creep back in before he opens his eyes. Lyle's depiction has sobered into something almost painterly, proportions very near to accurate.

He crosses the causeway to (once again) hold up the wall beside Miles.

"I'm sorry, man."

"Hey—if I didn't want you to see, I wouldn't've shown you."

Lyle just nods.

Miles' eyes glaze over the longer he looks at those high rises. Part of him wishes the sun would rise behind them. That tomorrow would come like normal, so they could go on living here in this ghost of home. An alternate version Miles wasn't stupid enough to leave.

It's a mirage. One moment stretched out and looped into thousands. The elevator beside them probably doesn't even go anywhere; countdown clock above it stuck permanently on, "–01:07:32"

Miles blinks hard, heel tapping as he takes a drag from a cigarette that must have appeared in his hand at some point. Flashback inside a flashback.

That goddamn lump again.

"Why do we do it, Ly?" Miles murmurs.

"Do what?"

"This."

With glum grandeur, he sweeps his arms out—horizon to horizon. From the fluorescent thread of Galveston to the fires of Deer Park.

"Look at how you're standing—how I'm standing! I've never smoked! I was never on that tarmac. Or this one. I never set foot here, so why do I have to remember it? Why do I miss everything so goddamn much?"

Miles swallows, blinking hard. "What is it about the worst-feeling sh*t that makes it so f*ckin' hard to let go of?"

Lyle chuckles.."You know, I've been asking myself that question pretty much my whole life... I'll let you know if I ever find out."

Wordlessly, Miles passes the cigarette, watching Lyle's eyes light up when an imagined breeze carries the smoke away. It helps.

Lyle speaks again. "Same reason people pinch themselves when they're dreaming, I guess," he murmurs, passing it back. "I think it's the reason they gave us our memories back at all. Why waking up all hollow in that room scared the f*ck out of me..."

Miles watches more smoke dissipate over the horizon.

"And what reason's that?"

Lyle shrugs.

"Think you've gotta have both. If nothing hurts, nothing feels good. And then," His vision clouds. "Then you're just a thing,l, laying on a table."

Lyle closes his eyes.

"I want it to hurt. I wish it hurt. If it hurt, then... Then I'd feel like I lost something worth bein' hurt over. Something to miss. Why do you think I signed those papers? I knew what was gonna happen, but I had to go. You were going. If I didn't..."

Neither of them say anything for a minute. Lyle takes a sheepish drag.

"Or. Well—that's the working theory," he mutters. "And for the record, even if it hurts to think about, this is..." He takes another once-over of the landscape, scoffing in bewilderment. "It's a hell of a lot better than anything I've got. Just don't take it for granted, man. Memories're better than—"

In a fluid motion, Miles plucks the cigarette out of his mouth and plants one on him. It's so real he hears the clatter of chainlink as Lyle's backs against it. It feels so real he feels him flushing against his own cheeks. Can almost taste the cheap tobacco in their mouths.

Maybe it's the cold, but they've gained clothes at some point. Lyle hums with a flurry of goosebumps as Miles runs a hand under his shirt. When his hands sweep lower, the goosebumps turn into tremors. Lyle sighs around his tongue, and when it slithers out of his mouth, they're both out of breath.

"Okay," Lyle pants, pupils blown and very, very real. "Okay. sh*t—you win. This is pretty intimate..."

Miles chuckles, canines flashing in the distant firelight. He finishes off the cigarette in one go, flicking it through the bars before diving in again.

He doesn't know when making out becomes frotting, nor when frotting becomes Lyle's fingers turning white in the grate as Miles takes him from behind. He must have rearranged the furniture to something more homey, because every thrust has him clenching around Miles like he can't keep him there long enough. Before long, their org*sms wash over them in that airy, dreaming way.

The skyline blurs as Miles hilts, reaching around. "Say, 'Hello, Space City,'" he grunts, jerking until Lyle follows him over the edge. They both groan as he clenches, spilling down his hand through the grate.

They sag against the wall for a minute, Miles' arms around Lyle as they catch their breath. "Son of a bitch," he pants. "Guess that answers your question."

Lyle nods breathlessly, pulse still fluttering against his cheek. He's purring so loud every exhale trills. Miles steals a glance at the countdown clock (–01:07:32). When they slowly begin to soften and recede, he barks a laugh.

"Well, now I know I'm dreaming."

Lyle nods, eyes wide. "Jesus. Almost forgot what it felt like."

Something inching across a pipe by their feet catches his eye, and Miles lights up.

"Hey! You have these guys in Omaha?"

"Guys...?"

Kneeling down, Miles tries to cup it in his hands, swearing when it nearly hops through the grate.

"It was Omaha, right? Slippery bastard—c'mere!"

"What in the hell are you after?"

"You'll see in a sec, just, dammit—ha! Gotcha, you little—"

"Got what?"

Lyle tries to pry his fingers up, and Miles swats him away with his magic-reappearing tail.

"Hold on! I don't want 'im flying off—"

"Can't you just make it stay still? It's your head."

"Aw, now where's the fun in that?"

When he's sure it's calm, Miles opens his hands like a jewelry box containing something priceless. Lyle's nose scrunches.

"A grasshopper...?"

"f*ckin' Yankee—knew it," Miles snickers.

"Hey, we couldn't all live below the white line, moneybags."

"Yeah, yeah."

Miles pauses, covering the live memento again with a furrowed brow.

"You've really never seen one before, though?"

"A grasshopper?"

"Cricket, wise-ass."

"Same stupid legs. What's the difference?"

Miles scoffs.

"What?"

"Now that's weird. What grown man doesn't know the difference between a grasshopper and a damn cricket?"

Lyle's ear ticks.

"Men who grew up in a polar vortex. And by the time I got out, had bigger sh*t on my plate than bugs."

"Well you had to have something—didn't you see 'em in picture books or whatever as a kid? Cartoons? I had this weird movie—"

"No! I didn't have any f*cking cricket books!"

Miles jumps so bad he stumbles, watching as strobing color swallows Lyle up. From red stripes to mottled gray he flashes—red, gray, red—like a spazzy television set, until he's himself again. Jittering and rougher around the edges than ever.

"Lyle?"

Amber eyes snap open, ears smearing as they drop. Even skewed, Lyle looks like he's seen a ghost.

"I'm sorry," he breathes.

"It's fine, I—Are you good?"

Before his eyes, Lyle breaks up like a reflection on troubled waters.

"I don't know—God... Sorry. I'm sorry, I—We probably shouldn't—sh*t, how do we... C-Can we go back?"

THRUM

Before Miles can even nod, they're back in the river—everything as real as can be.

"Lyle," Miles urges, grabbing his arm, something sticky makes them both wince, and Lyle withers.

"Oh, sh*t."

In the palm of Miles' hand, the cricket is nothing more than a nasty smear.

"sh*t—Damn it, I just—k-keep f*ckin' ruining everything—!"

"Hey. I don't care about some damn bug," Miles interjects, wiping cricket guts off in the water. "You're the one I'm worried about."

THRUM

"Well, stop. I'm fine. It's—It's normal."

"Normal?"

"I freaked out! Okay? Don't you ever just—just freak out?"

"Well can we at least talk about—"

THRUM

"No. I don't. I did this for the express goddamn reason of not having to talk."

"Lyle, don't you think talking's kind of a big part of knowing someone?"

Lyle's ears drop.

"I don't want to just—figure all this sh*t out off the bat. How is that special? How's itreal?"

THRUM

Lyle stares, speechless.

Then, slowly, he sands down his reaction with a hum—as if subtlety does anything for him at the moment.

"sh*t," Lyle chuffs, more than a little purple in the face. "Didn't know ol' Miles went all Robert Burns on you when he's sappy…"

Under the ribbing, Miles doesn't miss the phantom tightness in his throat. The anxiety in some of those butterflies.

"Lyle. I'm serious. I don't wanna dig through your head and piece together who Lyle Wainfleet is. That's so—so clinical. Need I remind you, we've already done that once, and after that we woke up dead. I want something to remember fromthis life."

"And what's the alternative?" Lyle laughs bitterly. "My busted-ass head? Even the stuff I do remember is gonna look so sh*tty compared to yours..."

"Hey," Miles scolds gently. "Don't you badmouth Cartoon Wainfleet... I like that guy." He lets slip the ghost of a smile. "Like-like 'im, even."

For once, Lyle doesn't laugh, and Miles sobers with him. He doesn't force eye contact no matter how much he wants to.

"I wanna know you, Lyle... I want to get to know you. If we've gotta start small, I can do that, but I want the getting there. And I want you to show me. Tell me if it's too hard. Any little thing; even if you think it's dumb."

Lyle swallows hard.

"Like what?"

"Well..." Miles hedges. "Well, okay—you never answered my question."

"Question?"

"'Bout how long you've liked me."

Lyle's smile is crooked." sh*t. You're really serious about this..." he hedges, rubbing the back of his neck.

Miles doesn't take his hands off his shoulders. Lyle looks away, muttering again.

"Uh–A while. How long is a while..." He bites his lip. "Romantically? Guess I've—Guess it's been since you socked me in the jaw on the ISV."

"Oh, so day one, then," Miles quips. He can't hide the smile trying to break through. "What a touching way to disclose that you didn't find me attractive as a human."

"Oh, now look who's being a fake asshole," Lyle snarks back. "Besides—feelings or no feelings, I said Iliked you for a while, didn't I? You were my friend first."

"Oh, yeah? And how long ago is that?"

Lyle cuts his eyes the other way again, ears tinted purple.

"Well," he hedges, "... Day one."

Miles' eyes widen.

THRUM

"You... No kidding?"

That grin again. Lyle's hand slides up to meet one of Miles'.

"Told you, dumbass," he murmurs, kissing his palm. "You've always made me laugh…"

THRUM

Miles doesn't say anything for a long time, lost in memories and brimming eyes. He pulls Lyle in for a kiss that lasts ages, sliding his hand up the base of Lyle's skull.

Locked in the Thrum, it's more arresting than any they've shared before this point; even in the mindscape. The heat cycles and compounds like a convection oven until Miles is groaning into his mouth. He's almost soupy with the input flooding his head, not to mention the leftover arousal from fooling around inside it. They're more than a little dizzy by the time they separate.

"Alright, dammit," Miles says, almost shouting over the Thrum. "You win this round—but only because you buttered me up, capiche?"

Lyle chuckles, all worry gone from his dilated eyes. He's already poking out of his sheath, and Miles isn't far behind.

I don't think talking out loud's gonna go much further in here,he interjects mentally. Especially when we get busy… You feeling it too?

Lyle nods.

THRUM

It's getting harder to keep their thoughts together. Ten minutes(?) ago, Lyle Wainfleet was a separate entity pressing against the wall of his mind. Now the wall is weakening, and Miles can't tell at a glance what's him and what's not. It's all starting to feel like 'him.'

There's something else, too.

Do you feel like we're being watched? he asks.

Maybe. I think it's like—an optical illusion or some sh*t…

Hm.

THRUM

Miles assumes he's right. Technically they're watching each other—and the crazy part's that it's not scary. Not like the Thrum was. Not even like closeness used to be.

It's just Lyle.

At least… it feels that way.

Miles jolts to the rippling shockwave of Lyle snapping his fingers in front of his face.

Hey! You gonna stand there till sunup, or are we gonna put your little Houston test drive to good use?

Miles answers with his mouth. More specifically, his tongue—and it feels like plunging into a pressure cooker. Suddenly, the impromptu wet dream feels nothing like a test drive at all. The two aren't even on the same hemisphere as the Thrum.

Was this what it was like for you before?Miles asks, marvelling at the feeling ghosting up his back as he trails his hand up Lyle's (and how handy it is, being able to talk and tonguef*ck his mouth at the same time).

Lyle shrugs.

Pretty much.

Lyle slips his arm around Miles' waist. The touch ghosts between them in echoing zings—faster and faster, till it simply bleeds back into the Thrum. The feedback coats his nerves, strengthening every sensation like an amplifier.

Of course, there was a lot more going on when you did it,Lyle continues, a wry smile in his non-voice.

Miles winces.

No wonder Lyle was so calm. If making out feels this good, he can't imagine what it must have been like while they were in the act.

Hey, it's not like you knew, Lyle says. Can't say I've ever passed out flying a banshee.

Miles cringes. Jesus, he forgot all about the banshees. That's going to be a bitch-and-a-half.

Oh, Lyle remarks. Yeah, guess our asses'll be pretty sore. Worth it, though.

Get out of my head.

Sorry—can't.

So you should know exactly what I wanna do now,Miles says, low heat darkening his tone, Shouldn't you?

The heat bounces right back.

Maybe, Lyle taunts, canines showing as he gasps for air. But a stubborn-ass little bird in the tree just told me talking's better than just knowing. So…

The meaning behind the words is already circling back, and it suddenly banks down—smothered by one last wave of fear Miles doesn't expect.

Lyle's face falls.

"Bastard…" Miles croaks with his voice. "You're really gonna make me beg now? When we're—Even when you already know?"

Lyle squeezes the hand he hasn't let go of since leading him into the water.

"No," he breathes. "I won’t make you do anything. I just asked because I—" he breaks off, but the sentence goes on in his mind:

… because I wanted to hear it.

And who is he to ignore that?

Lump in his throat, Miles bows his head and says four words he's never uttered in any life. The thrum swells—deafening, excited, terrified.

"Make love to me," he breathes. "Please."

The look Lyle gives him makes him go light and fuzzy. His head is full of clouds; his body, sparks, and as their mouths meet, Miles finally caves.

He's in love. He is suddenly, bizarrely, and hopelessly in love.

He feels the ghost of Lyle's tail whipping back and forth, and that bright, fizzy joy echoes through the Thrum. Miles squeezes him closer.

So, how are we gonna do this?he asks silently.

Well… the way we normally would, I suppose. Let's just—

"—take it slow," Lyle murmurs against his lips. He pauses. "Real slow. It's potent sh*t."

Despite himself, Miles' nerves come creeping back.

Hey, don't worry! We got this. Lyle lifts their clasped hands. Besides, there's something I've been wanting to try.

What?

Lyle grins. Then Miles jumps as something other than the Thrum or Lyle's voice pipes into his hearing like amplifiers in a dance hall. It fills the same part of his head that conjures images from nothing.

Memory.

(Sitting on his bedroom floor, blocking out the yelling downstairs—)

Miles shakes himself, blinking hard.

('Let me show you everything …')

Does this help?asks the soundless other in his head that is Lyle.

Yeah… Miles answers. His ears swivel, trying to catch soundwaves that just aren't there; the call is coming from inside. "Still freaky, but… yeah.

Hey, if we're stuck with freaky bodies, may as well have fun with 'em, right?

He's nodding before he realizes what he's doing.

Yeah. Yeah, I think you are right…

The music is everywhere, but just like the dialogue in their head, it doesn't warp. It just rolls atop the Thrum like thunder—soothing him with nostalgia that isn't even his.

(Hazy flings in dorm rooms and fast cars he can't afford—phone speakers blaring on a steam-fogged dashboard—)

Lyle shakes his head—supposing it really isn't all that weird.

… Miles.

Miles supposes.

('Spinning round my head and I …')

The Thrum crests. Then—hands still clasped, Lyle takes him by the hip and—

And…

Miles blinks as water arcs in slow motion around his legs.

Oh sh*t—

"Whoa!"

Lyle snags him before he can topple into the shallows.

Okay, yep. I had a feeling. sh*t's ramping up, I guess...

I thought we were taking it slow! Miles snaps.

Well I didn't expect your legs to give out that quick.

Cut me some damn slack! All we've been doing is standing here.

Lyle grins.

All the more reason to practice.

Practice?

Lyle jerks him by the arm before he can stop it, pulling him into a stumbling gait.

C'mon, shake it out! Lyle carols as he grabs Miles' other hand, hopping ungracefully from foot to foot. Dance with me, Q! Let's move—we're having fun here! Sex is fun, remember?

Beyond his control, memories flicker through Miles' mind as if pulled from a magician's hat. His first time in highschool—the hooker who sussed out he wasn't entirely straight—more jarheads than he can count—his ex-goddamn-wife—

"Lyle, Jesus Christ!" Miles shrieks aloud, flushing to his roots. If his hands weren't caught in this ridiculous jig, he'd clap them over his skull.

What? Lyle asks. You can see all my stuff, too.

And I am not slapping it up in front of you like a goddamn clipshow, am I! he huffs. And I don't dance.

Nacogdoches High School prom begs to differ.

f*ck you.

Trying. But not till I see it for myself. And not while you're spinning out.

No.

C'mon...

No.

He pouts. Corporal Lyle goddamn Wainfleet pouts over this.

"You are so childish…" Miles mutters aloud (his inner voice just isn't huffy enough). "Look—I'm fine."

Water sloshes around him as Miles jogs in place, rubbing his palms up and down his arms and smacking his cheeks. The echoes are still there—just not so overwhelming.

Y'see? he cajoles mentally. No spinning out. And last I checked, dancing's not sex.

Lyle's eyes light up, taking the bait hook line and sinker, and it feels like the very air around them turns to steam. Miles grins like a wolf at the slaughter.

Unless you'd be willing to prove me wrong…

Miles means it as a euphemism, so when Lyle suddenly whips around and starts grinding on him like a stripper, it's a bit of a shock. A good shock.

Both of them stagger, gasping as pleasure punches through the Thrum like brisance off a grenade.

"Ngh.. Take it… back… yet? Hah…" Lyle pants, movements hindered by knocking knees. He doesn't get any reprieve, though; Miles just takes the opportunity to thrust into the cleft of his ass, growling.

"Not… f-fully convinced… Can you—hhf*ck… g-give me another demonstration?"

Lyle turns again. Latches his arms around his neck, panting in his face and staring into his eyes as he puts his hands on Miles' waist.

What commences next is a particularly aggressive box-step which shoves Miles backward and Lyle's hips pleasantly forward. When his back hits the wall, this does nothing to deter Lyle's 'dancing.' He just keeps pushing forward, swaying his hips to the tempo—and into Miles' erection.

Lyle swallows his moans with his lips, flattening himself against Miles' torso without stopping. Soon there's a slick pocket around their lengths, crushed between heaving stomachs.

"Mmh!"

Atomic waves of pleasure crash through them, doubling back and back…

Lyle…

Their tips grind together, and Lyle's frenulum rubbing against his sends precum streaming down Miles' hipbone. Lyle groans into his mouth with a welling of his own, and Miles' stomach clenches.

sh*t, sh*t I'm close—

At once the pressure vanishes, taking the air in his lungs with it. Before he can process it, they're spinning—crashing through the water like a couple of drunks. Miles, thoroughly dazed and weak-kneed—has no choice but to stagger along to what has to be the worst few steps of the tango yet attempted by man.

Lyle is the only thing keeping him upright, yanking him around by the waist with the queen mother of sh*t-eating grins.

Oh well, Miles thinks, surrendering. He did prove his point.

Jelly-legged, they spin around and around. The Thrum is deafening, but Miles doesn't hear a thing. It's all just music. Music and Lyle.

C'mon, sing! Lyle crows.

Is dancing not enough for you?!

Quaritch.

But I don't even know the—!

Miles freezes.

Wait.

He does know the words. He's always known them.

Oh, what the hell…

Spinning Lyle's stubborn ass by the hips, Miles takes a breath from his diaphragm and belts.

Lyle whistles, low and impressed.

Damn—Q-ball's got more pipes than the one I was acquainted with!

For God's sake, and you tease me about killing the mood! Miles fires back, laughing.

Lyle hooks his arms around his neck, kissing him deep with a smile as they wheel again and again—

(Dancing on the mess hall tables dancing in the baggage claim dancing on the shower ceiling dancing on their own graves—)

God…

He's having fun.

He's having fun.

He's in love, and someone loves him back—undeniable proof ringing everywhere, inside and out, like the hallelujah chorus. For the first time in three months and fifteen years, Miles feels like himself again—forget the damn recom. He likes it. The sex, the banter, even the stupid goddamn dancing—he likes it. He feels young and sexy and happy, and…

And…

Alive.

Lyle's eyes open.

He feels alive.

Cupping his cheek, he stares into Miles' soul. Half-lidded, mouth open—

More alive than before he died.

Lyle kisses him, and Miles can't tell who the lump in his throat belongs to. Probably both…

They don't part for what feels like minutes—tails and everything else twined together as if trying to osmose into one body. The Thrum is so supercritical it almost feels like they could, if they only tried…

Unfortunately, they do have to breathe.

Lyle—his Lyle—gives him a grin that makes Miles melt.

"I'm glad," he croaks, wiping his eyes with a sudden burst of laughter. "I'm so glad… And this is pretty much the b—the best goddamn day of my life, but you—"

Lyle laughs again, and Miles decides it's his new favorite sound in the world.

You can't keep making me f*ckin' cry every time we try to get busy!

Miles guffaws, giving the hypocrite a shove.

Well I guess we'll just have to get busier!

Lyle shrieks a wild laugh Miles has never heard him make before when he scoops him up without warning. For a moment, the world goes magenta as they spin one last time.

Hands on his hips—

If you think you're alive now…

There's pressure at his groin. Sweet. Slick. Moving with the music—

I'd hang onto something.

Smirking, Miles loops his arms around Lyle's neck, eyes blazing.

Lead the way, Corporal.

The song bleeds into another—maybe two. Maybe more. It's overwhelming and loud and somehow, it’s perfect.

Then Miles feels stone at his back, and Lyle is kissing him—tongue in his mouth, hands sliding down—

Miles stiffens. f*ck, that's…

Lyle sinks three fingers into his sheath. His back arches—

"God—"

Fingers scissoring, up, down—

Bends to Miles' chest, seals his lips, makes him scream—

Something is different.

This doesn't feel like ignition—like a fire stoked in his belly. Instead, Miles feels something being extinguished. Balming the itch instead of scratching it raw.

That's not to say it's mellow.

Lyle licks the shine from his lips and chin. He's shaking too. How could he not, when he's also tonguing himself?

You ready, baby?

Miles nods, punch-drunk, sagged against the rock wall. God, he sees himself in his mind's eye—Lyle's real eyes—and he looks—he looks—

Good,Lyle says.

So f*cking good…

A tidal wave of feeling slams into Miles' brain, and he doesn't know whether to giggle like a schoolgirl or burst into tears. Dazed, he touches his burning face.

Is this how Lyle sees him? It can't be… It's too…

The kiss he gets is tender.

"Didn't I say I'd show you how you make me feel?" Lyle purrs against his lips.

"Oh, now look who's lousing up the mood, you big damn hypocrite…" Miles hiccups, wiping his eyes. Lyle kisses him there, too.

"We've been bawlin' all night," he murmurs. "May as well go for broke."

Miles kisses him back, laughing through his tears.

God, he does wish one thing, though.

He wishes he couldn't see into Lyle's thoughts.

So he could be surprised when—

"H-hah-ahh!"

The element of surprise makes no difference. Miles still arches against the wall with a howl when Lyle lifts him clear out of the water (God—God, the manhandling. Always the f*cking manhandling—).

Posts him on a thigh, spreads Miles' to a straight line—

Pets up the sopping seam at his core—

Pushes Miles in—

Lines himself up—

Nose-to-nose, bedroom eyes—

Tip pulsing against his—against his—against his—against his—

"Lyle," he gasps, almost sobbing. "Ly–le!"

Tell me what you need.

Miles wails.

—e do this why does he do this why does he why the f*ck does he always do this—

Without any warning, mental or not, Lyle thrusts, and then everything is gone. Even the water disappears from around Miles' legs.

It's just him and them, silhouetted against sublime oblivion.

There's not even the Thrum anymore—no cycling, no rhythm. There is just one reality piercing, mind-shattering screech that never comes or goes. Here—there—everywhere—it f*cking sings.

Through his screaming—Lyle's screaming—they can still speak, albeit distractedly. No notion of things such as "tone," or "inflection," or "basic grammar."

you

mother

f

f*cker how

did you manage

manage

manage to sneak up on me

Lyle answers:

s

simple really

was going to wait f

was

f

for you to say

want

but i

you

no

want

need

you said make

said

love

did

without thinki

first

surprise you

thought you

thought

thought you w

would

like

it.

... Good?

At that moment, Lyle strikes there, and the tip he's been furiously thumbing erupts.

Miles answers with his lungs.

(Half a mile away, Viktor Mansk jolts awake to the shriek of another goddamn animal getting butchered somewhere. Cursing this sh*thole and every beast of f*cking burden therein, he clams his CamelBak over his ears and rolls over.)

Good.

f*ck, it's perfect.

Miles called it perfect before, but to compare any other romp to this would be an insult.

This is perfection; intense, incomparable, and unanimous as the color white. There is no analogy or sensation in the English language befitting. Not everything feels like something else, and this is everything. All five senses, all in-between, and still more.

And suddenly, he's there.

Swan song—

Showstopper...

Time unspools again.

It's not f*cking. It's not a fling. No ranks, no dynamics—none of that.

It's just them.

Having fun.

Making love.

And it feels good.

It feels so good…

But even more than that—it feels right.

And under his breath, Miles can't stop it from slipping out...

Lyle's eyes snap open.

The Thrum is long and deafening, but Miles feels his lips forming the words. Even if they can't hear, it doesn’t matter. Here they’re flatfish, open and raw. Nowhere to hide and no need. His words don’t have to reach Lyle's ears—not when they’re already thundering there and everywhere else.

But… something about it just doesn't sit right.

Talking is the best part of knowing. And Lyle—

(I just asked because I wanted to hear it...)

At the memory of himself, Lyle shrinks back; recedes like the tide, until he's almost entirely drowned out by the—

Miles' eyes open. He's glancing to make sure their queues haven't undocked somehow, when he feels it.

A whisper of disbelief—wary and still, like Lyle is holding his breath.

Like Lyle is holding his tongue.

And far beneath that—hope.

Bright. Warm. And so ineffably fragile it breaks Miles' heart.

Love him or hate him, Lyle’s always been the antithesis of frailty—charging through life with his strange, unshakable candor and the highest caliber of force.

He’s the man who brings a shotgun to a knife fight. The man who has his back. The man who laughed in the face of death, oh so many years ago.

Who cries when nobody’s looking. Who carries sleeping pills for his night terrors; broken glass, white rooms, and mirrors. Who's never been the favorite. Who wanted to feel special.

The man who held him, cried with him, washed and never left him. Who prayed for just one minute to lie next to him. Who loved his mama once. Who loves Miles more than his own mother did. More than anyone he can ever remember. Who followed Miles into hell, suffering through fields and forests—untouched. Unseen.

(To his knowledge, unloved.)

Miles wilts.

This isn’t just Lyle showing his underbelly… He might as well pry his ribcage open, pull out his beating heart, and place it in Miles’ hands. This is bloodletting, and it almost feels wrong—like he's seeing something nobody was ever meant to.

…

No.

Realization pricks Miles' heart like a sewing pin. Lyle looks down shamefully as it echoes, eyes brimming.

Something, he thinks, you thought no one wanted to see.

Lyle starts at the thought. Miles feels the ghost of his own hand as he brings it to his cheek. Lyle flinches, blinking in a distant, prey-animal kind of way, and Miles hardly touches him before a hot tear runs against his hand.

Miles swipes it away with his thumb. And the next, and the next...

He doesn't venture far, but he feels a dull, deep pain hanging over Lyle's head like a thousand-and-ten-pound albatross. Lyle doesn't seem to notice, but it's been pressing down on the back of Miles' throat since they joined.

Even before, it was there—hanging over them as the months passed. Lyle, too afraid to look up. Miles, too blind.

"I see it," he whispers. "I promise, see it. I see—"

He chokes, catching himself at the last second. This, however, means jack sh*t in the—

The unsaid just echoes back—and despite everything, Lyle snorts.

"Careful," he teases through his tears. "Don't go native on me, now…"

The laugh may cover his brittle voice, but it doesn't cover Lyle. Not this time.

This time, there's nowhere he can hide. No poker face good enough to mask the open wound in Miles' hands.

He feels it happening in real time: learned reactions firing like birdshot in Lyle's brain. Implicit thought, rote and invisible—so ingrained he doesn't even know it's there. Nobody knows it's there… until it bounces back at itself.

Miles' eyes burn. Is this what's been happening all this time? The whole time?

It's startling at first, because it's—this is Wainfleet.

But on the other side of the coin… he's been there before.

"Lyle…"

Lyle shudders, and what feels like a massive crack ripples through the feedback.

The gap widens as he steps forward through fracturing white. Wraps his arms around him. Cradles him to his shoulder—just as Lyle did for him, all those minutes ago.

"Don't hide," Miles whispers above the flood. "Don't hide… You ain't ever gotta hide from me…"

More cracks. Less white. That pressure at the top of Miles' throat begins to spread, coiling around till it closes up.

C-Come on... I've been crying for hours.

The pressure is above them, too. That glass albatross is silent and invisible, but the thread suspending it is fraying and they can both feel it.

"And how long've you been holding it in?"

Lyle freezes. For one moment, the Thrum drops away.

Then far, far below—where everything is pitch black and silent—something stirs.

Lyle Wainfleet breaks.

And with him, everything.

Chapter 7: Nothing

Chapter by Quarfield

Chapter Text

At least eight different ways, the ground splits beneath their feet, and that’s when it reaches them.

"Wh—Jesus!"

Through every fissure, gaseous ice pours into the enclave. Lyle wrenches out of his arms. Eyes wild, he starts to yell, but his voice and all other sounds drown immediately with the cacophony of a rainforest shattering.

Lyle’s face falls, pupils drawn to a distant, petrified point.

"No… No."

Miles barely hears him. Everywhere, absolutely everywhere, an invisible predator he’s never faced is attacking. Its fangs cut straight to Miles' lungs, diaphragm paralyzed. Even cryo wasn't like this. Not by the time you were out. Not at all. Miles barely registers a flicker out of the corner of his eye before big, scared, cartoon eyes appear in front of him.

Behind Lyle, Pandora is gone.

The world is split down the middle. Below, an unbroken plane of white. Above, the starless underbellies of snow clouds. They glow unnaturally, awash with orange from a city Miles can’t see. He tries to turn around, only to realize his skin's already fused to a frosted pane of ice.

Incensed howling rings across the frozen plain like a spirit risen from slumber. Like ambulance sirens. A garage door squealing on its tracks.

“LYLE!”

"What…" Miles pants. "What's—"

Something heavy drops over his shoulders—a coat?

"Sorry."

He whips around, struggling to process that Lyle’s voice is where it shouldn’t, by all logic, be.

Then the ground buckles again, and whatever's at Miles' six clubs him over the back of the head. This time, there's no one to catch him. Nothing waiting beneath the ice. The last thing he remembers is Wainfleet’s ashen pastiche as he plunges into liquid death.

Underwater, Miles screams. Muscles locked. Flesh burning. No feeling in the legs. Cold. Above, shadows clash and tangle like raging fauve; animal, man, and everything between. He tries to breathe, and his lungs won't listen. Longing to rest. He’s falling. He’s falling.

Desperately, he claws for the light, blood pounding like floodwater in his skull. Miles loses track of how many times the silhouettes break and converge, watching him drown. Never reaching. Cold. Cold.

He's going to die.

Lyle…

Cold. Sinking. Bitter, choking dark...

He doesn't remember where, how, or at what point he's fished from an icy womb. Somewhere along the way Miles hears voices in the near distance. And that's when he knows he's either left the river or succumbed to it.

"… ently. Watch his …"

He assumes he flinches. Instinct echoes through his neurons, but the rest of him is unliving matter. Foggy pictures flash in front of his mind's eye. Dim. Colorless. Heels dragging across desolation.

"… won't make it all the way to my …"

A flash of blue grabs his attention. Misshapen. Scared.

Lyle.

Everything tilts, and—

Miles jolts.

They're on a road. A road in a city unlike any he's ever seen. No noise. Where's all the noise? Racket to a city is every bit as integral as cement—and its absence, a sign that something is horribly wrong.

On either side, deep gutters churn with runoff Miles can’t determine the source of. The street's different too—hexagonal pavers lain so sh*ttily they're all at least an inch apart. No mortar. On either side, strange, glassy walls flank the avenue like a canyon. The floes remind him of the seawall he and Jo used to run along. Daring the other to skirt closer and closer to the edge. Has he finally gotten too close? Did he find the bottom of that cliff-edge when he wasn’t looking?

"… ow it’ll be the best thing for him. I mean, how are you even sure he can integrate with …"

His temples throb. Squeezing his eyes shut doesn’t stop it. Miles has a feeling nothing will. Cold is supposed to numb you. Inlanders always say you go out in a warm, lush fog, naked and batsh*t crazy. It isn't supposed to hurt. It isn't supposed to feel like knives carving the flesh off your body.

Above, spectral high rises tower over the palisades of ice. No lights. No windows. No discernible texture. The whole frozen pastiche of a city looks like a bad memory. Not jittery, like Lyle’s little mental caricature, but smoothed over. Ossified.

Dead.

The arms around him tighten subtly, and Miles realizes it isn’t just the city that’s off. Gone is the warmth he held on the shuttle gantry in his own mind. Lyle's body is cool as glass, shimmering strangely in the flat gray light of this world.

Miles blinks, but his eyelids stick. He tries to open his mouth. Ask what’s going on. Where are they, what is this—but his head is already lolling. Tumbling down, down, down the drain and into the black again.

When he opens his eyes, he’s in a tent, ice well-set in his bones. Someone has all-but strangled him with a blanket, and Miles presumes that ‘someone’ is the same recom wrapped around him like a strange boa. Lyle's in a gown. Medical—just like the one Miles was wearing the second time he was born. A hissing gas lantern burns spots in his eyes, blinding glare cold and white as everything else.

"L… yle… ?"

Pins and needles prick his nervous system as Lyle runs a hand down his queue. Are they still docked? Is he even feeling with his body right now, or is it all his mind playing tricks?

It's a useless question. Miles couldn’t tell you sh*t about what’s wired different other than the obvious, extra appendage in Lyle’s hand—but he knows what somatic tracking is. Did it for years with the median nerve they had to reconnect in his right shoulder—did it right up to the day he died. And since that point, Miles has been thinking more and more that life is a trick by default. Currents and chemicals pulling the wool over his eyes.

A dream.

"Wake up!" someone snaps.

Miles jerks awake to the needling burst of a hiking boot jamming him in the leg. Then, squinting like a drunk, he watches a cerulean arm reach over to sock his assailant in the arm, nearly bugging out at what he sees.

It’s a kid.

A skinny, red-haired kid. Ten years old, tops.

"Ow!" he barks. "Hey, what the hell’d I do?"

The kid swats Lyle’s hand away, Lyle swats back, and Miles blinks until the lantern’s afterimage becomes a green starfield on the backs of his eyelids.

How goddamn hard did he hit his head?

"Knock it off, both of you."

Miles’ ears twitch. This voice, he knows.

A woman watches them from across the lantern, so gaunt and sunken it looks like a stiff breeze would carry her away. Despite this, her eyes make the riverbed seem downright cozy in comparison.

"You," Miles breathes.

Squinting at him, the woman lifts one thin eyebrow.

"You were… walking with us. In that—Well. I hesitate to call it a city, but—

Something pops in his throat, and Lyle grabs Miles by the shoulders as he doubles over with a barrage of racking coughs. Big, shredding ones—the kind that have you retching over the nearest sink, half-waiting for blood to come up.

"Here," the kid sighs. Miles blinks the blur away before a styrofoam cup is thrust into his hands—like touching him at all is a chore the brat hates.

"The hell’d you get that…?" he rasps.

"The hell do you care? Drink it."

Miles’ jaw ticks.

"You're a lippy one..." he grumbles, swirling the beverage inside. His nose is running too much to tell what it is. Coffee, God-willing. "Reminds me of another smart-mouth we know, eh, Lyle?"

Lyle just shrugs.

Immediately, the warmth sinks under his skin, and it's a surprising feat not to drop the thing like a coal. It may as well be one—searing his frostbitten fingers with a bite that rivals a banshee's. God, is there anything here—wherever the hell here is—that won’t cut him to the f*cking bone?

But then, it’s also the first real warmth he's encountered since the world shattered, and Miles takes a scalding sip before he even knows what it is. He gags.

"Christ, Wainfleet—you can’t dream up a damn cup of coffee?" he snaps.

"The hell you asking him for?" the kid mouths off. "Do I look like I drink that crap? Swiss Miss—that's what I got."

Miles doesn't dignify him with a response.

"I'd start explaining if I was you," he mutters, shooting Lyle a withering look. He expects the man to deflate. He doesn't.

Instead Lyle glares right back, and Miles freezes in a way he's never been compelled to do by that.

Something’s off.

His eyes (mind’s eye?) projects the same recom he remembers: every feature sits exactly where and how it's supposed to, but something is skewed. Something Miles must be too human or too ignorant to decode—but it’s there, needling the same part of his brain that recoils when he catches his reflection at just the wrong angle. When Miles can almost see the pink, dead thing in his memories pushing through to the skin.

Almost.

That twilight zone is all over Lyle right now. But then his eyes are normal again—wide and worried. Warm, even. Miles tries not to look outside of them.

Did I imagine it?

That's when the woman pipes up. "You won't get any explanations out of him. He can’t speak like this—mentally or otherwise."

Lyle shuffles, eyes darting anywhere else as Miles rounds on her.

"What?"

She shrugs.

"Call it an embargo."

"Oh!" Miles guffaws, ears pinned. "Oh, sister, we are well past the time for analogies."

His tail should be slapping the wall of the tent, but whoever's running this psychotic break must not be keeping tabs, because it isn't. The broad hits him with a stink-eye to rival one Grace Augustine. At least, until a very un-Augustine sigh takes the fight out of her.

"Analogy... is the best I can do for you right now."

"Take a look at my face," Miles spits, teeth bared. "You think I don't have sh*t going on that I couldn't make another damn soul alive understand? Try me."

The woman's face darkens, twisting like the funnel at the center of a supercell. "You think this is about the difficulty of explaining a concept? This isn't about f*cking minutiae, this is about pain. Pain so crushing one person couldn’t dream of carrying it, even if they area Marine—"

"And how about two Marines?!" he fires back, jabbing a finger at Lyle. "This one went on and on about how I wouldn’t let him in on my bullsh*t. What the hell do you call this? Because I'll tell you what I think—I think I’m not get—that I have never once gotten the whole goddamn picture here! That's what this sh*t looks like!"

"Guys—"

"Well you just keep on prying, then, since it's clearly working so goddamn well for you!" she shrieks. "Tell me—really, I want to know how much of an idiot you take him for! He knows how you feel. He hates it! You don’t know how much it kills him not to tell you he's—"

"Oh my God, will both of you shut the f*ck up?!" The kid hollers. "Christ—you’re really fighting over him when he can’t even f*ckin' say nothing?"

Miles blinks, taken aback by such language from a child so young, and then he notices it. A big, translucent blob hanging in space right where Lyle was just sitting. Beneath it, his parka lies crumpled like the shed skin of an insect.

"Lyle?"

Miles reaches out—then jumps when his hand swipes right through the middle of the blob; his own blue, misty hand jutting back out at him like a mirror. He falls backward in shock, and the wispy limb collapses back into itself without a trace. Something like numbness ghosts through him; muddles his mind like a stout shot before Miles shakes himself.

"What the hell?" he gasps. "Where’d—What—What is this?!"

The woman’s already got her hands up. "Calm down," she says—proposal so dogsh*t in its effectiveness it’s absurd. "CiCi, is he gone?"

"CiCi?!"

Infuriatingly, she waves him off, more fixated on the amorphous mass. Out of nowhere, a shimmer flashes through it. Then it's shifting, segmenting, reshaping before his eyes into floating lines of text—

C

C

CONVOCATION CONDUIT

YOU CAN STILL SAY CARTOON WAINFLEET THOUGH I DONT REALLY CALL MYSELF ANYTHING

And Miles reels like he’s been slapped.

It’s the exact same presentation. Same lack of punctuation. The letters are already rearranging, motion differing only in lack of flair as it answers the woman's question:

LYLES STILL HERE HE JUST STEPPED BACK FOR A MINUTE SAYS EVERYTHING IS KIND OF A LOT RIGHT NOW

In one swig, Miles pounds back every ounce of scalding, sugary sludge, because maybe—maybe if he burns himself badly enough, he’ll wake up from whatever batsh*t pipe dream he stumbled into. Are they even still in the river? The real river in the real world—locked in shared subconscious? Or has their second link gone like the first—choking to death on his own tongue—with a damnation of eternal questions?

Then Miles actually processes what he just heard.

"‘He?’" he snaps. Everything sways. Slowly—like a ship drifting into a storm. "You mean he—this... Cartoon… Conduit… thing isn’t Lyle?"

The woman’s brows draw together.

"At this moment? No."

If Miles blinks any goddamn harder in this conversation, he’ll sprain something.

"Not," he echoes, fighting to keep his breathing under control, "at this moment." His jaw feels like going to snap off if it gets any tighter, but he can still motion for her input. "Expand."

The woman's frown deepens, glancing at the blob. "It could be a bit of all of us, or it could be its own entity. Personally, I don’t think it knows any more than we do. Or cares."

CORRECT

"But I suppose a body double is the best shorthand. Or a window."

Miles rubs his temples, thumbs mashed into his eyes.

"Girl," he pants, composure teetering, "I don't think you're hearing me if you think I'm asking for a shorthand version of anything. And even if you did, you're not exactly doing stellar explaining this sh*t—!" Fuming, Miles slaps at the mist as if it's a piñata he can beat Lyle out of. Reflective trenches billow through it, phantom arms swatting back at him, but that's all. Miles doesn't stop. What the f*ck else is he supposed to do but not stop?

Beside him, the kid huffs. "Dude, knock it off..."

Miles whips around. The woman is faster. "Yes—please, we've been here way too long as it is. Now look—"

"Hey, don't you tell me to look—"

"Lyle surrendering himself was the only way to buy us enough time," she says through her jaw. "As far as they know, you haven't even left the water yet."

"They?!" Miles shouts. "Who the f*ck is ‘they?’"

Together, woman and child share a sidelong glance, and no matter what they look like, Miles sees the same closed-off eyes he knows and hates so well.

"Don't everyone talk at once, now!" he barks. "Explain what you mean by Lyle surrendering himself. He's…" Miles glances at the blob, "He's here. Window, stunt-double—whatever the hell you wanna call it, call it! But I know Lyle's hands when I feel 'em, and that—"

Quick as lightning, another smokey hand seizes Miles’ from out of the blob, only this one is stunningly, scarily real. If he wasn't looking right at it, would he be able to tell? Would he even suspect?

Only then does Miles realize this hand is smaller than Lyle's. Fine-boned, missing callouses where they should be. He looks up to see the woman staring through him. When she doesn't react, Miles narrows his eyes. Waves. Snaps his fingers. Waves again. Nothing.

He even tips the lantern toward her face, much to the foul-mouthed chagrin of the kid—but Miles doesn't hear it.

"What the hell...?"

He's done his share of triage work—he knows what to look for, but he finds nothing. She may as well be dead.

Then, to his shock, he sees the seams of the tent showing through her flesh.

"What is this?!" Miles snaps. Unsurprisingly, the brat doesn't look concerned. "What the hell's happening to them?" He waves the lantern back and forth again and again, searching for any movement in her translucent pupils.

Then she blinks, and his hand goes cold. The arm is gone. Only colorless mist remains.

"Do you understand?" She asks Miles.

Somehow, reluctantly, he does.

"So he," he murmurs, "Lyle wasn’t… He's really g—He's really gone somewhere else? Those things on the ice got him?"

"Objectively," she replies. "But whatever it is, Cici is... Helpful to have around, to say the least." To the blob, she says, "Lyle? Are you there?"

Nothing happens for an unbearable number of seconds.

Then slowly, Miles notices the mass’ color is off. Changed—crept a little closer to something that could be called blue. Another minute, and a wispy tendril spills out to coil around his hand. Miles gasps, flinching.

"It's alright—this is normal. Just talk to him," instructs the woman.

"To... this?" Miles nods to the mist.

"Yes."

Miles looks hard into featureless aggregate, unsure where his eyes should even land.

"Lyle?" he breathes. "That you?"

Instantly, the mist solidifies, segmenting into calloused fingers in his hand. It squeezes, and Miles’ whole chest aches. It’s him, alright—even if it… isn’t.

The rest of Lyle fills in before his eyes, reshaping and condensing until he’s staring into big, sad, scribbled ones. The ache spreads, pushing up his throat until Miles has to swallow. He didn’t realize until this moment how silent everything is. How much he wishes he could hear Lyle’s thoughts filter through his own.

"Wainfleet, where the hell are you?" he urges. God, he sounds so weak. "Nobody'll give me a—Look, you have to tell me what the hell’s going on!"

Lyle squeezes his hand again, eyes somehow even sadder. She said he isn’t able to speak, but part of Miles hoped something would click. That things would be different—thathewould make things different. Lyle must not even be able to make his little floating letters, or Miles knows he would have done it already.

"Lyle, for God's sake, at the very least tell me you’re alright. Here, look! You can tap on my arm. Tell me where to go. You remember morse. Can’t you? Can’t you do that?"

Lyle’s (Cartoon Wainfleet’s? 'CiCi's?') façade of a mouth is barely more than a pitying squiggle. Dread sweeps through Miles like a fallwind. What the hell happened out there on that ice?

"Hand signals," he breathes.

Does he even want to know what happened?

Another no.

"Nod," he breathes. "Lyle, Just nod. Blink twice for yes. Anything."

Pupils wavering like troubled waters, Lyle shuts his eyes, tucks his chin, presses his forehead to Miles’. But he doesn’t do anything else. He just sags like a marionette—and that’s when Miles remembers.

Big eyes—impact— voice, where a voice shouldn't be.

"Dammit," he hisses, folding his arms around him. "God damn it, Lyle, that was you behind me back there, wasn’t it! You're the one who knocked me into that ice!"

Lyle snaps into sharp, jagged shapes, startled out of structure itself. Miles' jaw drops.

"Oh, you f*cking— Lyle, I would have helped you! I'd have helped you no matter what. What, you—you just forget your ? How could you do that?"

The woman inhales sharply, spine arching like a cobra out of the corner of his eye. Miles doesn’t care. Eyes wide, Lyle shrinks with a full-bodied ripple. It looks like he's literally about to come apart at the seams. Whether from worry or anger, Miles isn't sure. Then the brat is in his face, voice hush with anger.

"Step off."

"Oh, what," Miles scoffs. "What?! So Lyle can comfort himself, too? f*ck no. That is not how this works. Not in a fight, and not—not with us." He rounds on Wainfleet. "Lyle, if you’re not telling me what's going on because you don’t want me getting , you can forget it!" Back around to the ginger brat, he jabs his finger into a scrawny chest. "And who are you to tell me to step off, you little sh*t? Ain't anyone ever teach you to respect your elders?"

The lantern gutters.

All of them freeze. Even the kid.

Curled into a ball, Lyle dissipates before their eyes in the corner of the tent. Miles is already moving.

"No, sh*t—"

Lyle's skin is only the faintest suggestion of matter against his fingers, but rather than crumpling like tissue paper, it solidifies against his fingers.

"Don't," he pants. "Don't." He pulls what remains into his arms, skin seeping into the air against him. Quieter, he hears himself murmur, "Don't go, baby," before a hand curls into his coat lapel. Lyle surrenders to the embrace

"Gross," the kid mutters.

Without looking, Lyle flips him off, but it doesn't hide how bad he's still shaking.

Miles doesn’t notice the other two have sidled over until a cold hand slides against his own. When Lyle pulls back and ducks into her arms, he feels a sharp jab of outrage before a silent hiccup dissolves it completely.

God, what do I do?

Miles rubs shaking shoulders as the woman strokes his hair. Hell, the kid looks like he's about to cry. Miles may not know who they are—to Lyle or in general, but at that moment, the three of them are a unit. That's when he realizes what's felt so off about them: they're the same size.

Miles, Lyle, the woman—they can't have more than five inches' difference between them. Miles never thought looking down at people like toddlers would feel like second-nature, but now that he's realized, being the correct size again feels bizarre.

It’s hard to tell how much time has passed, but when Lyle finally stills at some point, the woman finally tears her eyes away, only to share another one of those looks.

"It’s time."

The kid nods, oddly somber as he pulls away from the huddle. Lyle's hand falls, limp.

"Lyle?"

The woman grabs him, raising a finger to her thin lips. He looks again. Lyle’s stripes bleed together, blending slowly into one muddy shade of cyan. His gown's gone just as fuzzy and vague, like someone spilled seafoam on him. Miles’ stomach sinks.

"Is he going away again?" he whispers.

The woman shakes her head. "You don't have to whisper here—as long as it’s not directed at him, he won't wake up." She shifts Lyle in her arms. He looks... small like this. Fragile; edges blurred like ink in water with hers. "He’s worn out," she mutters. Miles’ ears flatten slightly, anger needling him again. He rubs Lyle's back, briefly satisfied with the way he seems to melt away under his hand.

Someone taps him on the arm, and Miles looks into the gray-blue irises of the kid. Acting his age for once, he glances at the woman, voice unexpectedly meek.

"Can I talk to him?"

She jostles Lyle, who sharpens from a blot of blue and hospital mint back into himself, colors rippling as he stirs. "I know," the woman says, a sudden, syrupy undertone in her voice catches Miles off guard. "I know, but it's time to give this a go."

Lyle perks up, sharpening further into his usual self, and Miles’ heart sinks at tear tracks striping his cheeks. He spins on his haunches to sit cross-legged, tail still looped around the woman's arm like a docked ship. Dragging a badly-rendered hand across his eyes, he blinks hard and flashes a weary grin.

"Hey, dickhe*d," the kid says. Lyle’s smile this time is more genuine, shoulders bobbing with a silent chuckle. He waves back, pointing at his groin and head in kind. The woman rolls her eyes. Raising a brow at her, Miles’ lips purse in the beginning of a silent, ‘Who…?’ But she chops a hand across her throat. Frowning, Miles turns back to the odd little ritual.

"Crap," the kid mumbles. He shoves his hands in his pockets. "Crap, this sh*t’s hard."

Lyle’s smile sobers. Then he shrugs, pointing at his own mouth. The kid huffs once through his nose.

"Yeah," he mumbles. "Yeah, I guess…"

He's quiet for a minute after, wringing the hem of his shirt as his shoulders draw to a slight, shaking line. Unexpected pity hits Miles in the chest when he sniffles and drops his curly head. He may not have any experience dealing with children his age, but he remembers how it felt. The shame and ache of sobs desperately held.

"Crap," he squeaks. "Crap… Crap! Why’ve they gotta be such dickhe*ds? All of them! Why can’t I fight ‘em off and stuff like they can? I don’t care if you’re different. Or put-together, or whatever. They’re the ones who f*ckin' started it!"

Lyle’s ears drop. In his lap, his hands are wringing. He shakes his head.

"I know you don’t know," the kid huffs. "Or maybe you do. Whatever. I’m just so pissed off."

Lyle points at himself, ears flat. His eyes flicker red for the briefest moment.

"Yeah, yeah, it’s not a contest," the kid chuckles. "But you should totally still kick his dick in."

"Alright," the woman sighs, pinching her brow. "A little less vulgar, please?"

Both of them snicker behind their hands while Miles watches, mesmerized. Lyle sways slightly, tail making ‘S’ shaped arcs behind him. He looks… happy.

And this kid is so familiar—

"Just don’t forget me?" he asks in a small voice. Face scrunched, Lyle shakes his head so hard his ears smack his cheekbones, waving a hand in the air, but when he opens his eyes, they’re watering. Then his lip curls in, and before he can do anything else, the kid hisses, "Quit it. Just quit it, when are you gonna let that sh*t go? It was my stupid idea, not yours! One of our asses would have done it, doesn’t matter which. That’s just your dickhe*d of a—"

"Enough with the language!" the woman barks. Her voice breaks at the end, and both of them flinch. Light dances on the gloss of Lyle’s eyes as his head droops, staring into the orange grille like a kicked puppy. The kid steps in front of it.

"Just once," he says. "Before we do this, I wanna see you admit it."

Lyle doesn’t look up. He doesn't move at all.

"It doesn’t even have to be true," he hisses, voice wavering. "But you have to do it. I’m not budging till you do."

For what feels like forever, the only sound is canvas flapping and the endless hiss of the gas heater. Miles expects the woman to cut in at some point, but she’s staring at Lyle, too. An amber tear slips off a sketchy cheek, plopping on the floor of the tent with a plasticky plat. He looks so small.

And at last, without looking, Lyle gives a shaky thumbs up.

The kid tackles him.

"f*ck yeah!" he hollers, laughing and bouncing with his arms around Lyle’s neck. He keeps on, but Lyle just looks dazed. In and out, he shifts out of focus, like he’s struggling not to vanish to wherever he went before. Beside them, the woman watches with an unreadable expression and misty eyes as the two finally part.

"Um. Guess I’ll see you around," he mumbles, holding out a fist. Lyle’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. They do some little handshake, and to his surprise, the kid walks up to Miles next.

For a moment, a silent staredown occurs, and then the kid says, "Do you really love him?"

Miles straightens, nonplussed. Like drills, his eyes bore through him so sharply Miles tilts his chin to the side, frowning.

"Do I… love him?"

The kid does not repeat himself, freckled face hard as cut stone. In his periphery, Miles feels the others’ eyes on him.

"Well…" he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. It's hot. He clears his throat. "Think that's pretty easy to infer, ain't it?"

In the corner of his eye, Lyle's ears drop. The kid's frown deepens. "And you won’t hurt him?"

"Will—?" Miles hedges. God, what even is this? His interpersonal business is a private goddamn matter. "I, ahm," he hooks his lip on a fang, "No."

The kid stares at him an unspeakably long while, reaches into his coat pocket, and pulls out a square of plastic. Miles squints, unsure what he’s looking at.

Then the kid places it in his hands.

Memory slaps him like an icy wave. Miles stares, bewildered at lush illustrations faded by time. "That’s where I know you from!" he exclaims. "You were the one who had that box of—!"

Miles looks up. Stops. Scans. Scans again, but there are only two other people in here with him.

He scratches his palm. "Where’d the kid go?"

One indifferent, one misty-eyed—the remaining occupants of the tent stare at him. Waiting. His hand itches again. He scratches it, hissing at a stinging trail his nails leave, and then it spreads. Like cancer, the burning crawls up his arms and down his throat, and he’s only just begun to panic when Miles bursts into flame.

Helpless, he clutches at his chest, writhing on the icy plastic with a guttural yell that scrapes through his teeth, eyes so wide they’re surely close to falling out. Again and again he paws at his face, certain the skin there is peeling, but nothing helps.

Another long, croaking howl tears out of Miles’ throat, clawing at his head. His chest. Both lungs melt, sealing shut, and Miles realizes his skin is stuck to the floor when he thrashes, spine arching off the tarp as the most bloodcurdling scream he’s ever heard. It’s not him. It is him. Too shrill. Too young. He's burning. He's burning.

"Help!" he shrieks, sobbing. "Help me!"

Through the roar in his ears, another scream answers as mindless wailing overtakes him. Endlessly, Miles screams for someone. Anyone. His friend. God. Mama. Mama. Mama. Mama.

Then Miles coughs, and he can't stop, and time loses all meaning. He’s just pulp. Molten, bleeding pulp that can’t even breathe, because his lungs are pulp. And the air is pulp. And some time after he can no longer move or feel or think or breathe, the fleshy mass stops caring—

And Miles is right back where he was. Sitting in front of a lantern. Holding a CD case. Only now he’s shaking so hard it slips out and clatters to the floor.

Miles’ other hand, he realizes, is clawing Lyles’ arm so hard blood streams down his fingers. Even when Miles sees it, he can’t make himself let go. He just stares at the jittering, blurred face of the woman, struggling to even mouth the words. His lips purse over and over, going no further than the first shape of a ‘W.’

What was that? he wants to scream. What the f*ck was that?!

But Miles just trembled, unable to tear his eyes from the lantern, or his nails from Lyle's flesh.

He watches the woman’s mouth move, but no sound is coming out. Her pale hands press against his chest (melting, melting), and he realizes he’s swaying. His stomach is swaying too, and Miles doesn’t notice how sick he is until his insides lurch and everything he drank comes up in Lyle’s lap. He reels, mumbling what's supposed to be an apology, but Lyle barely seems to notice the mess. He just rubs Miles' back, watery eyes knowing and miserable.

The woman snaps her fingers in front of his eyes.

"Didn't you hear me? Grab it! Grab the disc!"

When Miles finds his voice at last, it comes out small and shaking. "You're out of your goddamn mind if you think I’m touching that thing again—"

"Just do it!"

Then something has him. Lyle, eyes huge, shakes him by the shoulder and points frantically at the other end of the tent—which is disappearing. Stunned, Miles watches a corner devolve into flat planes of color. Then, lines. Then nothing.

He grabs the case.

A sound raises the hair on his neck, and just as Miles catches the grinding flash of a lighter, the tent vanishes.

Tick. Tick.

Tick. Tick.

For several seconds, there's only breathing.

Then something taps him on the arm, and Miles opens his eyes to a dusty tower fan swiveling in front of his face. Beside it, an equally dusty porcelain cat lies curled as if sleeping on the carpet. Again, Miles is tapped, and he finally drags his eyes over to Lyle’s shifting, pinched face. He tugs his hand, and finally Miles puts together that his nails are still embedded in the man’s arm. "sh*t," he breathes, unclamping. "sh*t, Lyle, sorry."

Immediately, the bleeding stops. The vomit is gone too, and as Miles’ gaze drifts around what appears to be a dingy apartment, he realizes how calm he suddenly feels. There’s nothing immediately strange or threatening about this place other than how cluttered it is. In fact, it's the single most real-looking thing Miles has seen so far. Even Lyle looks more like his old self. Some features refuse to keep still, and the light doesn't sit on him quite right, but at first glance it’s like he’s really in the room with him.

Miles sags against his arm, sticky with sweat. An old analog clock hangs on the wall. 8:15.

"You can breathe now."

The woman stands on the far side of the room, peering through a set of dented blinds. They must be on an upper floor if she can see anything out that window.

"Sky’s still dark…" she mutters. "But I don’t think we were tailed." She glances over her shoulder at them. "If you want to keep sitting in the corner, you should at least get on the right side of the heater."

Miles has a feeling she isn’t really talking to him. He crams the CD case as far down his coat pocket as he can while Lyle stands. When he gives Miles a hand, the lingering sting in his skin turns his stomach, and he nearly topples over a cluttered coffee table when Lyle lets go. A plastic cup tumbles off the edge as Miles slams his palms down on the wood, puffing like he’s run a marathon. His legs don't move.

"What?"

"Lyle, couch," calls the woman.

Strong arms heft Miles onto his feet like a drunk, shouldering him over to a threadbare sofa. It’s so strange being human-sized again—thoughts Miles never imagined he would find himself thinking.

"Get him out of that coat."

Lyle does, and the stale apartment air hits him like a bucket of ice. Miles snatches the thing back, teeth chattering as he tugs it over his shoulders. He's got a hospital gown now, too. No idea where it came from, but his concerns are well-exceeding wardrobe choice by now. He's just glad he isn't hanging dick in front of some random girl.

"C-Christ, Lyle! Wouldn't shut up about how ph-photorealistic my head was—" he breaks up coughing, shivers wracking him, "when yours is givin' me the goddamn flu?!"

"It's the fusion," the woman says. "Falling through the ice was enough—if we'd known you would feel anything we'd have gone with something else."

"The hell're you talking about?" Miles slurs, teeth chattering.

"You're integrating. Memories and personality won't cross over. Not to you—if Lyle's any benchmark, but sensory data can't be repressed as much, especially in context. You're as weak as a fifth-grader right now."

Miles blanches. "I what?"

"Stop shouting. Your lungs are scorched, you don't want to make it worse.

Miles wheezes a stunned, rusty laugh. She wants him to not f*cking shout? At this, she tells him to stop shouting?

"I know it's a lot, but you're going to have to wait."

"For what? You said somethin' kidnapped my beau, I'm not sitting here like a—" he hacks. "Li-hike a goddamned infirm!"

"Oh, for the love of God—look, your 'beau' would not even be here right now if he was in any immediate danger."

Lyle, ears tinted, nods. She turns on him next. "You're not out of the woods, either," she hisses. Back to Miles: "If you think you'll make it one quarter-mile down the road with that crap in your lungs, I'll just put you out of your misery here."

"Woman, what the hell do you think this is?" Miles snaps, rounding on Lyle when he bows up. "Don't you start with me. Look around! We are sitting in a pipe dream. None of this is real! S’not like we can just die."

"Lyle can’t die," she interjects coldly. "You? So far, odds are looking pretty rough."

Miles rolls his eyes. "Yeah, and I bet people just barge right in every other day, right? I 'pologize, I forgot I'm talking to the expert, here."

"Christ, it never f*cking ends," she growls, pointing at Lyle. "Look at us. Do you think it’s just a coincidence that you're the only one who's cold? For God's sake, Lyle's in a hospital gown."

"You’re Yankees."

Jaw clenched, the woman scrutinizes Miles like one might an especially strange bug. Disgusted, likely contemplating murder, but in a way that borders on fascination.

"I can't deal with you," she huffs. "Lyle." Even scaled down, Lyle's at least a half-foot taller than her, which admittedly makes it amusing when she whips around. "Out with it."

Quailing, Lyle shakes his head, hands raised.

"Well you must have let something slip, or that idiot—" she jabs a finger at Miles—"wouldn't be keeling over on my couch. Spill."

Baffled, Lyle throws up his hands before they thwap back down, stripes writhing like irritated worms. Miles swears he sees the inked dragon on his forearm gnash its teeth. "Yeah, what’re you talkin' about?" he adds, clutching his sternum. "Lyle didn't tell me jack. Why you think I'm in here to begin with?"

Lyle withers, but the woman puffs up like a cassowary. For a moment it looks like she’s about to let him have it. Then she deflates again, rage smoothing into exhaustion.

"Yes, he did," she sighs. "He must have. Mild pain is to be expected, but you didn’t just feel something, you checked out. All the way out. Even if you can't remember it at the moment, you had context. Your brain connected dots that shouldn't be there. You wouldn’t be in this condition if it didn’t—just like you can’t dream about a person you’ve never seen."

"So, what?" Miles says. "Why's that matter to me now?"

"Because you’re going to have to do it again. And because the integration you just went through was probably the tamest. We need to know what you know, or we could be sending you to death or insanity."

Miles’ mouth goes dry.

"Tame," he says. "What, by any stretch of reason, was tame about that? What was it I even did?"

"You can feel it, can’t you?"

Miles huffs, still struggling for air. But he isn't just struggling, he's straining.

"I feel—tired…"

One looks at him with pity. The other does not. Miles strains harder, weight growing heavier. Heat. Pain. More pain than can be imagined. Flesh sloughing off. Smoke. Fire. Mama.

Miles shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut till he sees spots.

"sh*t. I feel so tired, but what… But what did I…?" He shakes his head again, face contorting in a growl. "Goddammit, it’s there, I can feel it. I know where it is! But I just—"

"Can’t force it out?"

Miles’ eyes snap open.

"Like a locked box in your head? A word, unspoken, stuck to the tip of your tongue?"

"Yes…"

"And the more you dig, the harder you push, the worse you feel—the more it refuses to come forward?"

"Yes."

The woman stares at him for a long time, middling between derision and intrigue. "Well," she sighs, glancing at Lyle. "At least we know it works."

"What does?" Miles begs. "My God, someone say something that makes sense. Anything!"

For a long time, they don't say anything sane or otherwise. They just keep staring at him like some lab animal.

"Well, Ly," the woman relents. "What do you think?"

Lyle shrugs, head bobbing in a nod that looks less assured and more like surrender.

"Alright," the woman concedes. "I don't know if it'll work, even with you here—but I can try."

She takes a deep breath, both of them tensing like they're about to squeeze the trigger of a very powerful rifle.

"You see…" she begins. "Lyle—"

Her mouth snaps shut. Miles shakes his head, ears flared like an extant stag. What?

"Ugh," she huffs, crossing her arms. "We—"

Snap.

"He’s a—"

Snap.

"This is—"

Snap.

"When somebody—"

Snap.

"There's a—"

Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap—until she finally slings her arms up above her head with an incensed yell. "Oh, God f*cking dammit, L—!"

Snap!

Lyle’s shoulders droop in a soundless sigh, shaking his head and gesturing in a way that says, There, you see?

"Alright," Miles says. "Alright, I get it. Someone's clearly very tight-lipped around here."

He shoots Lyle a look, and the other recom sulks harder, shoulders hunched. For what feels like a solid minute, everyone just stares stupidly down at the coffee table like the answers to the universe are written there. The heater putters away in the corner, clicking every time it turns. Must be crooked. At some point, Lyle starts gathering cups into his arms—at which the woman raises a brow. "You know those are just gonna go back to the way they—"

Lyle blows her off with a flick of his hand. Then in one sharp stroke, he knocks half the contents of the coffee table to the floor.

"Whoa, hey!" she blurts. "What the hell is this? You can’t go trashing my house just because you're—!"

Feverishly, Lyle shakes his head, waggling his hands at her like he’s trying to take off as he plops down on the carpet.

"Lyle, what are you—" Miles chokes, hacking wetly into his elbow. "What—the hell're you doing…?"

Lyle shushes him too, tail thwapping like a windshield wiper on the carpet. When he shoves everything off the other half of the table, the woman groans. Watching her rub her temples, Miles can't say he doesn't empathize. She isn't the only one getting a headache from all this. He nearly jumps out of his skin when Lyle slams a blue cup down in front of him.

"Uh."

Lyle snaps his fingers, eyes boring through Miles as he gestures from the cup to himself. His stripes, his ink—hell, even the dots on his scrubs all buzz like wasps.

"… You," hedges Miles, pointing at the blue cup.

Lyle nods, picking through the rest of his assortment on the floor. Slowly, the woman perches on the other side of the couch, watching with equal scrutiny. He picks out seven or eight other cups and glasses, setting them out in a row behind the blue cup. Emphatically, he points at Miles’ lap.

"What?"

Lyle sighs. With his finger, he makes a circular motion, pointing even harder. Miles blinks. Squints.

"My jewels?"

The woman makes a face. Lyle does too, but his is less put off and more, ‘Are you f*cking stupid?’ Miles shrugs, and after even more pointless miming and bickering, Lyle finally huffs, trudges over, and jabs a finger into the plastic stretching out Miles’ coat pocket.

"Oh."

When he offers up the CD, Lyle shakes his head, tapping a green cup in the lineup instead.

"Oh—That kid," Miles says. "Redhead."

More nodding, thank God.

To the woman on the sofa, Lyle assigns a yellow cup with the scratched-up logo for something called "Kilgram Thermal Solutions, LLC." For 'CiCi,' a scotch glass (especially difficult to sus out, since Lyle is still having to point at himself). Miles gets a purple cup with white hearts on it—a detail he declines to acknowledge. The yellow and purple go closest to Miles' knees, with Lyle's blue cup in the center of the table. He picks up the scotch glass, pointing to it before dropping the blue cup inside. Then he pushes it over to join Miles' and the woman's.

"So… You’re just this 'CiCi' thing right now. Cartoon Wainfleet. Like a video call."

Yes, nods Lyle. Then it's right back to fiddling with his collection.

"How is he doing this…?" the woman murmurs, never taking her eyes off of him. "Communication is… how is he…?"

Miles scoffs, shaking his head. "I guarantee you that man is fixed solely on playin' with the sh*t right in front of him. He's a one-track mind. Always has been."

"Are you sure?"

Miles rolls his eyes even though deep down, he isn't. Not anymore.

More cups. Between the apartment trio and the carrot-top kid, Lyle places a china cup, a shot glass with a bulldog on it, a Styrofoam cup, a camo travel mug from some gun range (of course he would remember that), a black coffee mug, and a red thermos. Eleven in all. Nine, excluding Lyle and himself.

"They not have dishwashers in this place?" Miles mutters, and Lyle shoots him a look—to which Miles just fires one right back. "What, I ain’t the funny one anymore?"

He says it playful. Snide grin and everything, but Lyle just keeps glaring at him, ears flat. Blowing through his teeth, Miles crosses his arms and slumps back on the cushions. "Alright, be that way."

Lyle goes back to his cups, notably less jazzed than before. Setting the blue one in the center, he stacks all the others into it until he's got a tower. A little crooked, but the meaning still translates. Miles glances at the woman, speaking very slowly in case, God willing, she corrects him (she doesn't).

"So," he murmurs, "people. Other people, in…"

It's not like he's panicking. He's not. He's fine. But for some reason, Miles just can't get the words through his teeth. He taps his own skull. "In… here."

And Lyle—who nods his head as though this is a twee little icebreaker—goes right back to playing with his f*cking cups. No explanation, no nothing. Miles just watches him dismantle his tower in a daze.

Into the purple cup go green, yellow, and camo. Beside it, everything except the red thermos and coffee mug go into the blue cup. Lyle sets one each in front of the two stacks, but Miles hasn't gotten past the first bit. He keeps staring at it. Everything, somehow, at the same time, while his mind reels like a washing machine.

Lyle. No-Name. Seashell wallpaper. Clicking heater. Leaning tower of Lyle. Leaning tower of Miles. Narrow walls. Dog bed. Storage bins. Clock on the wall. Nine cups. 8:15. It's been 8:15. Wilting roses. Dark blinds. No sound. Dust bunnies. Narrow walls. Cups. Cups and cups. Nine cups. No sound. CD case. Nine cups. Calendar. Bookshelf. Nine cups. Popcorn ceiling. Nine cups. It's so loud. Nine cups. Porcelain cat. Nine cups. Lyle. Nine cups. It's so loud. Nine cups. Walls crushing. Why does it feel so loud? Nine cups. Nine. Nine. Nine—

"Alright, alright, pause!" Miles blurts, throwing his hands up. "Pause."

Lyle stops, head and ears co*cked, and a surprise pang of fondness kicks Miles' anxiety into goddamn overdrive for some goddamn reason. Dragging his hands down his face, Miles hunches forward with a drawn out whoosh through his molars as he steeples his fingers against his forehead.

"Okay."

Heel tapping—bouncing his head in his hands. Regroup, Miles. Regroup.

"Okay. So." He gestures to Lyle, tapping, tapping, tapping. His tail jitters like glassbound plasma. "People."

Slowly, Lyle looks at the far wall. Nods. Nauseated, Miles nods back.

"People. People. Not imaginary friends or—hallucinations, or… None of that."

Lyle gets a rumpled-up look he can't pin. Nods. Miles looks at the woman again. How long has he been here? When, exactly, did they leave that river? Where are they?

"Okay," he chirps, tapping like a maniac. "Okay. Yeah. Yeah, Ly, I think I got it. Lima, Charlie. Got that one." he licks his lips, cracked and raw from the cold (how is this possible? Is it possible? Is any of this really happening?). "So," Miles continues, running his tongue over sharp canines. Unfortunately, it hurts. "So. The thing I'm still missing is the how and the why. How and why, Lyle. It's funny, see, you—you keep skipping over that part."

The woman’s hands ball up in her lap as Lyle stiffens, whacking a clean streak in the ceramic cat’s coat of dust with his tail. Miles can't tell if the crack on its head was there before, but it's a hard hit either way.

"Yes, we have addressed that hurdle, thank you," the woman says, jaw wound tight. "And to be blunt, you don't need to be worrying about it. The how and why is irrelevant right now. Lyle, you can keep go—"

CRASH!

Both of them jump as chips of porcelain scatter across the table like shrapnel. Lyle white-knucklees the coffee mug, throwing it down like a blacksmith’s hammer until only a bit of the china cup's base is left. Swiping it aside, he dashes the shot glass next. Then the foam cup—shredding its flattened form with his hands after. When all that's left is scraps, Lyle drops them, sweeping his arms out with an incensed smile.

Finally, he scoops up the debris and dumps it into the blue cup before slamming the whole thing against the table's edge. It explodes, chunks of dishware raining down on Miles like ticker tape from a parade before Lyle hurls a handful of blue plastic at him.

Silence.

Panting rage, Lyle pins Miles with a glare that’d have thanators running.

Then his lip wobbles, and Miles just barely catches the façade break before Lyle snarls, clapping a hand over his eyes as he flees his little plastic graveyard.

"Lyle," Miles gasps, jumping to his feet. "Lyle!" A chip of plastic underfoot almost sends him tripping over the coffee table just in time to see him disappear around a corner. "Lyle, hold on, I—GYAH!"

Miles stumbles, hissing and spitting as the woman drags him by the ear.

"f*ck! Ow—f*ck! You f*cking bitch, let go!"

"Outside," she says, deathly calm.

Miles just barely wrestles the trenchcoat back on, before the exhaustion hits. He catches himself briefly on a stuffed cube shelf before she jerks him agonizingly forward again, snarling curses every step. This time, there’s no shoulder to lean on. No concerned eyes above. The wind isn’t blowing, but the cold still bites like a ripsaw as Miles stumbles onto an enclosed balcony. She refuses to look at him even after she slides the door shut, pointing to a pair of plastic chairs by the wall.

"Sit."

This bitch's stoicism is getting to him, loath as Miles is to admit it. He's used to shouting. Swearing. Degenerate filth. He has no idea what to do with this.

Like he’s off to the gallows, Miles shuffles across the square of cement. When he sits down, she does not. She just stands over Miles with her arms crossed, watching him sniffle and shiver like a whelp. His nose is already running. Another minute and he clears his throat, bloodshot eyes flicking from her stormy face to the empty chair.

"Ain’t you gonna sit dow—"

SMACK!

Miles coughs, too stunned to move. All across his cheek, hot needles burst and bloom deep. Between the cold and the sheer force of her hand, he can only blink.

"That’s for tonight!" she pants.

Before Miles can even recover she hauls off and does it again, tears springing to his eyes as her palm cracks his right cheekbone like an aluminum bat. He snarls a vile swear, but his throat is too gunky to really get it across.

"That is for breaking his heart. Every goddamn time—"

The third strike has Miles crawling up his seat-back, chair tipping against the clapboard. Involuntarily, a hot tear leaks from his eye. Then another.

"And that one," she hisses, "is for me. Just because I can!"

Miles pants like a dog, jaw on the floor, struggling to string one word together—let alone a sentence. He must be more f*cked than he thought if getting smacked around a little stuns him like this. Mercifully, some of the fury drains from her posture as she trudges to the other chair and sits, ankles crossed.

"J–Jesus Christ!" Miles finally gasps, cupping his left cheek, "Lady. I don’t know where the hell that came from, but tell me you got it out of your syst—!"

"Shut up!" she brays. "Shut up, shut up, just shut the f*ck up, and I'll consider not breaking that chair over your head!"

Miles shuts up.

Well. At least he’s not worrying about the cold anymore. Thankfully, she doesn’t follow through on her threat, rubbing her temples over and over. At least by her posture, the immediate threat of getting his skull bashed in seems to be lower than it was. By the time his extremities are fully numb, Miles feels desperate enough to take a gamble.

"So…" he mumbles, "ex-wife, I take it?"

"I’m his mother."

Miles’ eyes fly open.

For a full ten seconds, he forgets the cold, the pain, and the general, baffling strangeness of the turn this night has taken, blood ringing in his ears. A baffled laugh bubbles in his throat. Then slowly dies the longer he looks. And the longer he looks, the more he can’t unsee it; eyes, chin…

Oh.

sh*t.

sh*t, he’s not just getting his head bitten off, this is the goddamn shotgun talk. Plus interest. And considering whose place this is, Miles very well might get his head blown off. Every word he’s said in the last thirty minutes replays in his mind, sweating bullets despite the cold.

"Oh God," Miles breathes. "Christ, I don’t— I didn’t… Oh, sh*t, ma’am, listen—I-I apologize. I apologize for everything, I have made a complete and total ass of mys—"

"Oh!" she gasps, eyes wide. sh*t. Holy Jesus, Miles really does see it. Even blue and spliced, that bug-eyed, pissed-off grin is a carbon copy. "Well, look at you. How cordial all of a sudden, now that you know who I am."

Miles wilts like an insect in a microwave. If his tail wasn't tucked into his coat, it would be tucked between his legs.

f*ck. f*ck.

"I," he stutters, "I, I don’t even know what to say, Mrs. Wainfleet—"

"Nothing. You can say f*cking nothing, and it’s Miss! Not Mrs. Never Mrs."

"Miss Wainfleet, I—"

"Shut," she breathes. "Your goddamn. Mouth. Please. For two minutes, just two minutes—would you resist the need to hear yourself regurgitate whatever bullsh*t pops into your head the fastest? It's sad!"

Mouth dry, Miles folds his freezing hands in his lap. It feels like he swallowed his tongue. When was the last time he felt anywhere near this level of shame? Has he ever been this ashamed?

"God. You really don’t have the slightest idea what a horse’s ass you’ve been, do you."

Miles wants to say that his default state is being a horse’s ass, but he doesn’t. Instead he stares at the ice-dusted cement, wishing it would crack open like the Pandoran riverbed and devour him. His hands are shaking. He's not sure it’s from the cold.

"Well?"

Oh, sh*t—

"No!" Miles blurts. "No, I don’t. I don’t know anything, but what the hell do you expect? I’m an Old war dog, I can’t help goin’ full-blown jackass when I’m scared."

Miles’ voice breaks, and he clams up so fast he nearly bites through his tongue. Oh, f*ck no. Crying in front of Lyle is one thing, but anyone else? He’d throw himself off this balcony.

Eventually she murmurs, "Then you might understand things a hell of a lot better than you think you do."

One minute stretches into two. Then three, and four. He’s shivering, but he doesn’t dare say anything. He can’t tear his eyes away from her, now. Some things are different, some unique, but some are almost identical. Replaying the events in his head, he’s more than a little self-conscious that he didn’t put it together sooner. Not that Miles is keen on this sort of thing. If you’d swapped his own mom with a floor lamp, it probably wouldn’t have left that much of a dent in his childhood. He’s just glad Lyle thought to give him boots, or his feet would have fallen off ten times over.

How does anyone live in this sh*t? Miles laments inwardly, sniffing as he sags on creaking plastic. One little walk, and it feels like he’s been hit by a truck. His breath billows in great clouds striped by the light coming through the blinds.

"Don’t gulp like a fish," the woman snaps. "You’ll lose body heat."

Miles sulks harder, sagging down slippery plastic. "Y'say that like I got any left..."

"God, you’re insufferable."

"So I'm told."

"You're exactly the kind of person he would like."

Miles frowns, dragging his sleeve across his flat nose. "What you mean?"

She snaps around. "Assholes!"

Miles leans back. Frowns. "Hey, now, Wainfleet is no saint, either."

"Of course he isn't! But he can’t help himself. He worships the ground you walk on, no matter what the hell you do to him. Jesus, you’re like a tick!" You're heroin!

Miles growls. Instinct tells him to bite back, but when he opens his mouth, nothing is there. No retort except the kind of mushy crap he wouldn’t be caught dead saying to anyone.

"And if you want to know how I know that," the woman continues, quieter. "I’ll tell you now that what you’re getting is not the same thing Lyle did. She loved him. Oh, she loved him, but she was too f*cked up. She never owned up to it, and he can't even admit it to himself—but I can. I do."

Shivering, Miles sinks into his collar like a turtle.

"They were best friends, too."

His ears prick up, staring through frosted railing at the strange matte painting of a distant skyline.

"He and Brandon, I mean. Brandon Tod—that was his name. Did Scouts together after school. I don't know as much about him, but I think his family must have been…" She sighs. "Lyle was always a rough kid. Talked rough. Played rough. Knew too many words he shouldn’t've. If he didn’t scare the other kids off, their parents did. But that Brandon—he didn’t care. His parents didn’t care. Should’ve told her as much..."

An ashtray would fit just right on the table between them. Miles sorely wishes he had one, and the smoke to go with it.

"I saw something when we linked up," he says. "That kid. That box. Is that what you're…?"

She shakes her head.

"No."

It takes her a long time to speak again.

"First camping trip rolled around, and they come up with this scheme. Wanna smoke cigarettes for the first time together, in a tent. Outdoors. Like men. That’s what we thought. Like real men."

Miles shifts, stomach slowly bunching up inside him. He doesn't like this.

"Didn’t want to get caught," mutters Lyle’s mother. "Gotta do it smart, we said. Gotta be even. Brandon took two menthols out of his dad’s truck, and Lyle…" She digs in her pocket, pulling out a lighter. "Lyle stole this from my purse."

A flash of white-gold, and the lighter sends up a flurry of sparks as it flares to life.

It hits Miles like a train.

Happy accident. Kid was a dickhe*d.

She doesn’t speak for over a minute, little light waving to and fro. "There was a leak," she whispers. "In the lantern. Butane. They had no way of knowing. And Lyle, he—"

Her voice wavers, and the flame gutters out with a click, plunging the terrace into blackness before their eyes can adjust.

"Lyle was out of his sleeping bag when he sparked it. He was able to get out through the flap—no idea how he found it. But Brandon…" Miles swallows hard, staring at nothing, 'tame' a warning klaxon in his head. "His body was so burnt they threw the whole sleeping bag in the ambulance. They had to cut him out of it."

"Whose," Miles murmurs, half-caught in a dream. "Whose memory did I see?"

She shrugs morosely. "He heard the screaming. And he heard it stop. Imagination filled in the blanks, same as you."

Miles closes his eyes, shoulders heavier than ever.

"He pretended not to care. Couldn't drag it out of him with a winch if you tried. But he held onto that CD. From that boy's room all the way to Hell's Gate."

Speechless, Miles shakes his head.

"He carries so much," she murmurs. "So much with him. Pieces of people. Pain they felt. Pain they caused. Both." Her eyes lance him like rapiers. "No matter how much, or how little we deserve it."

"Which is me, I'm guessing," Miles says without a hint of accusation. After that display in the living room, it feels more like a fact. "I’m one of the ones who doesn't deserve it."

Her mouth snaps shut when she tries to speak, growling, "Goddamn it."

"Talk cups," Miles says. "Just try it. Nothing else, nothing less. We’re just talkin’ about cups."

She blinks up at him, jaw ticking thoughtfully before she shuts her eyes.

"The 'cups' are… Ugh, God, this is ridiculous—"

"Hey, as long as you’re not bitin’ through your tongue. Keep going."

She tugs on a sleeve.

"Some 'cups'—like mugs," her voice dips, "or… bottles… if you want to get technical… don't agree with all of the others in—the 'cupboard.' They have different ideas about who—what the best… 'shelf' for the blue cup would be."

Miles faces the glass, ears back. "And that's why whoever-it-is came after Lyle? Cause they think I'm gonna do something stupid?"

“No.”

“No?”

“The blue cup is... Complicated, but internally. Not a threat. The problem,” she sighs, “is you. You've already done something stupid. Several things, actually. I don't know. I'm not the one keeping score.”

Miles winces. "And I take it someone in here is?"

She barks a single, cynical vowel of a laugh.

"Hass, I'm not even technically protecting this joint. You were already on thin ice, but now? You’re not just a threat or an outsider—you're a very unwanted visitor on a home field that doesn't exist. It's open goddamn season for you.”

Well. He's had worse field reports, he supposes.

"So... They wanna kill me," Miles posits.

"No idea. Up until now, this was impossible."

“So what do I need to do?”

“I’m not the one you should be asking."

Miles drags a hand down his face, trying to process it all.

"Alright," he sighs. "I'll talk to him."

"Just don't expect a surefire plan. He's a good strategist, but he's improvising."

"Got it," Miles says. Then he shifts, turning in his seat until he's facing exactly the opposite direction from her. "And what does the, uhm... the 'yellow cup' have to say?" he mumbles. "About all this?"

"It…" She takes a deep breath. "I say that years ago, a morbidly lonely man in a war he couldn't quit wanted to see his mother. The version he should've gotten. And I say that man gave her a home she could grow old in. One that was always warm, and full of everything she could ever need. One with a balcony, and a view. And a big window, because she always complained that nobody around here built them that way anymore."

Slowly, Miles' head sinks into his hands. He can't breathe.

"So whatever that man wants out of life, I say that’s fine. What I think doesn’t matter—I just have to be here to pick up the pieces. But not everyone sees it that way." Her eyes pierce him. "And some… dishes… like mugs, bottles, and thermoses—are much stronger than a cup."

Miles nods, staring through at the weather stripping in front of his nose. He remembers the two stacks left standing inside. The ones Lyle was putting together when things went to sh*t. The unbroken. In Miles’ pocket, numb fingers prickles as he traces the corner of the CD case. Fire and screaming and impossible pain in the periphery of his mind.

Stronger than a cup…

The incomplete stacks were a little taller than the mug. A few more, and they’d be taller than the thermos, too—but not so much that they’d tip over.

"Oh," Miles blurts, jumping up straight as an arrow. "Oh my God. That's it."

Without explaining, he throws open the door.

"First door on the right," sighs Lyle's mother. "But don't get too comfortable in there—you're on the couch."

"What?"

She crosses her arms. "You heard what I said. Couch."

Miles rubs his warm neck without making eye contact. "Well, that's… kinda up to Lyle, ain't it?" he hedges.

"You're an unmarried couple in my house. You're not bringing that crap in here, either one of you."

Ears hot, Miles excuses himself, stopping short in the living room. Sure enough, the coffee table is right back to the way it was. No towers, no broken pieces. He grabs everything. The door to his room is cracked, and Miles barges in without a second thought.

"Lyle! Lyle, I get it!"

Facing the wall, Lyle lies curled up on a twin bed like a dead animal. Only the cadence of his breathing tells Miles he's awake.

"Didn't you hear me? I get it now. The thing you were trying to tell me. I figured it out. You're stacking cups!"

Lyle's breathing doesn't change. Not when Miles sits on the side of the bed, and not when he presents his own little cup tower, rapping it with the mug.

"That’s why you had that red-haired kid give me that disc," he says, squeezing a slack shoulder. "You were doing it to—to stick him to me. Bulk up, somehow. Fight the bad guys—that's it, isn't it? You were letting me help the whole time…"

Lyle may as well be an ice sculpture, denying him so much as a tail-twitch. Miles sighs.

"Lyle." He runs his thumb over a new scar on his bicep, no idea what it's from. "Look, I won't bullsh*t you—I'm worried. She— Your mama told me a lot of things out there. About how I been behaving. And about..." Miles' hand slides down to cover one of Lyle's where he's wrapped them around himself. "About your friend."

Nothing. Miles deflates at the same listlessness. Maybe Lyle's just used to this—like that isn't worse. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, boxsprings creaking as he leans down. "Sugar, I'm so sorry…"

Cold fingers stop him in his tracks, pushing him back by the lips with disproportionate strength. Miles stumbles back, landing clumsily on his ass as cups scatter everywhere.

"Lyle?"

The arm that shoved him folds methodically around himself again. Lyle still doesn't move, until slowly—very slowly, he rises and slips off the bed. Miles frowns.

Something's off. His gait is all over the place, legs wobbling here and there. Behind him, his tail drags on the carpet like a dead thing, ears jerking this way and that out-of-sync. Uncoordinated. Like—

Like…

Like he's never used them before.

On the back of his neck, movement catches Miles' eye, and Lyle turns just far enough to see his tattoo flickering rapidly as a film reel:

NOT

HIM

NOT

HIM

NOT

HIM

NOT

HIM

"Bad guys," Lyle's voice says, staring right through him. "Interesting."

Before it even registers that Lyle should not be capable of speaking, the door slams, and every hair on Miles' body bristles. Nothing is right. Not his eyes, not a single thing.

"Who are you?!" he hisses. "Where the hell's Lyle?"

"You mean Sugar."

Miles snarls, ears flat and burning against his will as slimy, seen unease crawls through him. Unperturbed, the stranger flips through a book they plucked from a cluttered shelf.

"Hm," they drone, inspecting dog-eared pages with little interest. "He was right. No crickets."

Miles barely reacts in time when they abruptly pitch the book, barely catching it before the spine can bust his lip open. Above its grim cover, the title all-but shouts him down:

BEYOND SURVIVOR
Rising from the Ashes of —

Miles drops it like a coal, chills racing up his spine.

"Who are you?!" he caterwauls. Somehow, he hopes Lyle's mother will hear, but a part of him knows she probably can't.

"I think you know," they reply.

"Well I don't! And if I wanted a goddamn riddle, I'd ask! What the Christ have you people given me except more questions? I need answers. Right the f*ck now, because I am done with this hush-hush bullsh*t!"

To Miles' shock, they actually nod.

"Alright."

He blanches. Holy sh*t. Did it actually work?

"Normally I’m against divulging anything, but f*ck it, you're here. Scratch my back, and all that. Guess I should start with the dog crate since you probably just figured out we got rap—"

Miles claps his hands over his ears hard enough to bruise. "Stop!" He shrieks, heart hammering. "Stop f*cking talking, now!"

"I'm cooperating. You just said you wanted—"

"Lyle," Miles pants, throat tight. f*ck, he’s shaking—why the hell is he shaking? "I wanted Lyle to talk. My Lyle. Not..."

The stranger stares. Waiting.

"Not this."

They nod like they've heard it a hundred times.

"This," they say. "Explain."

To his horror, Miles feels a lump in his throat as he nods back. It's hardly noticeable, but he feels it, and that's bad enough.

"What's there to exp—You don’t go around spilling people’s private business like that, what the hell is the matter with you?"

"And what if it wasn't 'your' Lyle's business to begin with. What then."

"I don’t give a f*ck!"

"Ah."

Their eyes are black pits. Just two lightless wells swallowing every shred of empathy in that wrong, wrong face. They bore into Miles further and further, twisting into his mind like meathooks until he can’t stop panting.

"So you were lying before. There is a limit on affection."

His tail lashes, voice soft with warning. "I would never hurt him," Miles breathes. "Never."

The stranger sighs, shakes their head, ears flopping discordantly—but they don't blink. Not once since he walked through the door has Miles seen them blink.

"That's exactly what concerns me. There is nothing in the English language that gets my guard up quicker than that word. Anyone who spits absolutes like that is bound to f*ck you over—and here you are."

Miles shakes his head, reeling. Again and again, he opens his mouth, but no argument comes out. How do you argue with this? He's a recom. An ex-mite. He's used to weird—but this? This is insane.

"Please," he murmurs.

"Here we go."

"Please, just let me talk to him."

"And what," they drone, "is wrong with speaking to me."

Miles cringes, cupping a hand in front of his chest. The stranger just stares at him. God, are they really going to make him say it?

"I…" Miles swallows, cheeks burning. Why? He's not a damn prude, and yet. "You weren't—I didn't… give myself… to you."

"There it is."

"You know what I mean."

They nod. "You love a body."

"Dammit, I love Lyle."

"You keep saying that word. Like it’s a spell. Tell me, what is this 'Lyle,' exactly. To you, what is he."

"I… I don’t—"

"No. Wait. Stop." They start to shimmer, colors rippling. "I think I know."

Suddenly, he's naked. Lyle—not Lyle—whoever is wearing his lover's body steps forward with everything hanging out. Miles slaps his hands over his eyes.

"Stop!"

They don't. If anything, if such a thing is even possible—it only gets bigger and realer like before—when it was coloring book Lyle joking around with him. Not… Not…

"Stop," they say, tilting their head. "You want me to stop."

Miles turns away. Hides in his hands like a frightened child. "Yes."

"Strange. This is nothing you haven't seen."

"Bullsh*t, it wasn't you! Lyle chose this. He wanted to!"

"And who do you think 'wanted' to strip right now."

Miles seethes, glaring through his fingers. "Don't you give me that sh*t! It's still his!"

"'Your' Lyle."

"Yes."

"Hm…"

They say nothing for a bit, rocking back and forth on their heels. Lyle's. No one's. Miles doesn't know anymore. He doesn’t know what the f*ck is happening. Where he is. Where anyone is. Tail limp as rope, the doppelganger turns back to the bookshelf, veiny co*ck branding his mind's eye. Miles tries the door, but the knob won't turn. It may as well just be part of the wood.

"Why are you doing this?" he breathes. "Do you hate me that much?"

"No," they reply curtly, leafing through some other book. "I don't 'hate' anything. But screwing around with his heart? His mind? Not gonna work."

"Oh, give me a goddamn break," Miles says. "I love that man, and you know it. You—All of you clearly know a lot of sh*t, so you don't get to act like you missed everything that's been going on tonight. I love Lyle, and you f*ckin' know it!"

"Mhm," they muse, deadpan as ever. "And I guess I just had my back turned when you told him that."

"f*ck you," Miles spits. "You wanna talk knowing? Fine. Lyle loves me. I defy you to tell me otherwise!"

This gets their attention. Returning the book, the stranger faces the window, medical gown restored as if it never left. "Lyle… loves… a lot of things," they say. "And yes. You're one of them. I have been watching you. Very closely, really. Part of my job. But the most pressing thing I've learned is that you and I have very different ideas about what constitutes love."

"'Constitutes?'" Miles barks. "Christ, you sound like one of the goddamn quacks—You think I got a formula for this sh*t? Look where I'm at! You think I'd be in his dreams, his memories, his, his—whatever the hell you wanna call this place—if Lyle didn't let me?"

"He didn't. Let you."

Miles deflates, jaw grinding. Even he has a point where he can admit sh*t just isn't going to work out. A point that lies somewhere between this moment and the head of an arrow. "Just say whatever the hell you came here to say and get it over with, then."

For all the circular talking, the stranger goes straight and clean for the throat now. "The Romeo and Juliet crap ends here. You're done."

"Yeah, on whose goddamn authority? What Lyle does with his life ain't anyone else's choice but his. Who says you get to push him around?"

"None of your business. And as far as having a choice, no. That's not his call to make. He loves a lot of things, and I'm the one who has to be his eyes when he's too blind to see the worms for the fruit. I've given you way more leeway than usual already, but you of all people should know there's a limit to what someone can put up with."

"f*ck you—you don't know a damn thing about m—!"

"Your name is Miles Quaritch. You grew up on 1421 Barnes Street. You graduated from SFA and enlisted as a commissioned officer, where you served, retired, and died in action. And I was with you. I was with you when they woke you—no matter whether it was me who took the tags off your corpse or whipped you like a dog in the bushes. Then you opened a box. You're my friend. And I know you. And it hurts to do this, but you do not belong here. Here, you're a foreign body—and you know what an immune system has to do with those."

Images flicker through Miles' mind faster than he can process. Tumors and MRIs and sweat-soaked sheets. A white room. Two rooms. Straps on the bed, transplanted soul scrambling in its host like a roach under a cup. Worms, black and twisted, bursting from the belly of a cricket on Dad's porch. Miles, terror in his eyes as he watches himself shake against a wall in Lyle's bedroom—

"Stop!" he barks, clawing at his temples. Desperately, he presses his palms to his eyelids, and still the images come. Over and over. "Get out of my head! Get the f*ck out of my head! It's not for you!"

Cups shattering in cupboards. Skulls shattering in-hand. In reticles. Blood, all over the kitchen floor. Rage. And rage and rage and rage—

"I am not your enemy!"

"No, you aren't. You're a good friend, and I respect you. Snowbird's been relaying everything to me tonight. I was hopeful. I was willing to let sleeping dogs lie—see how this would all play out. But you forced my hand when you forced his. I'm sorry. I am."

"How was I supposed to know?" Miles gasps. He doesn't even bother asking what the hell 'snowbird' is. "How was I supposed to know this would happen?"

"You weren't. Ideally, you wouldn't have found out at all."

"But I can do that," Miles pleads. "Look, I'll leave! You're the one who's got the place on lockdown, right? Just open up. You can go back to letting Lyle do his—his thing and I-I was never here! I'll never speak of this, not to anyone—"

"Stop." They step forward. Voice dead. Eyes, dead. "Stop saying that goddamn word. You can't just put this back in the box. That is not how this works. Not with me. This was the happiest he’s been since kicking it. Maybe since we can ever remember. And at the height of it—the most he's ever opened up to anyone—you got greedy. Just couldn't take no for an answer, could you."

"I just—"

"You. Would not. Listen. You pushed too hard, and you broke him. Again. And now you're giving me ‘never.’ You don't have the slightest idea what it is you've done."

"What?" Miles balks. "The goddamn hell I don’t! Look, I get it. I f*cked up, you made that part very clear! But I can't just… Lyle's my…"

The stranger is already shaking their head.

"I don't want this any more than you do. But him hating me for the rest of our life is no comparison. External forces ripping you away is a loss, it hurts but we've survived that kind of hurt. Betrayal, rejection—those are the real unmakers. He can't handle it. Not from someone he loves, it would destroy him."

"Yeah, I'm not perfect. I get it," Miles snaps. "What're you gonna do about it? Kill me?"

"The only thing you should be concerned about is what I have to say to you now."

Miles swallows.

Unsettlingly nonchalant, they shove their hands in their pockets. Pockets the gown inexplicably possesses, now. "Thing is," they say. "I have a lot more on my plate right now than just you. Evidently, running brains through a translator means new problems. Ones we don't know how to deal with. There might be a way to fix them. It'll cost you, but I'm going to let you have one chance to make me an offer. Quid pro quo."

"Offer?"

Wintry eyes pin him again. "For Lyle."

Miles' heart skips like the archaic disc in his pocket. "What do you want?" he gasps immediately.

"Irrelevant. Giving you the answer would defeat the purpose. I'll just say it had better be an offer I can't refuse."

"And what if it's not? What then?"

"If you knew, would it change your decision?"

Miles' face sours. Goddammit…

"Purpose," he blurts. "Alright. I think I get it. You want the old guard back. This new Lyle—the recom—he's the one rocking the boat, right? Screwing things up. You're trying to take control back from him."

Their tongue clicks against sharp canines. Canines they have no right to. "Not a strong start," they drone. "Courtesy tip, don't talk to your benefactor like he's a supervillain."

"So quit f*ckin’ acting like one!” Miles crows. “How can you stand there and barter his soul? Haven't we had enough of that horsesh*t lately? How f*cking dare y—"

"Strike two,” they say, cement-voiced. “Run your mouth one more time. I dare you."

Miles doesn’t.

"God, you are so childish off the field," they say evenly. "You think I'm doing this for you. You think I let this go on so long for you? You come into this place. This place I didn't tell my own mother about—and start barking orders like I’m still a jarhead jacko*ff for you to push around. What, exactly, are you wanting to hear. You just expect me to nod my head. Forget all you've done like you clearly have. Give you and your chew-toy a happily ever after—and for what. Because you’re just so sorry?"

"Stop," murmurs Miles.

"’Don't hide,’" they parrot, dead monotone. "’Never hide. You ain't never gotta hide from me. You could never be too much.’ There's that 'never' sh*t. Didn't even take an hour to break your word."

"Stop."

"No."

Miles' back hits the wall. Wall—when did the door become a wall?

"You opened the box. Now you get to lie in it. You don’t get to dissect, take out what you want, and tell me to hand over his heart. It's a package deal. So open your f*cking eyes. Stop barking orders at your dog. And listen."

Those eyes never leave him, black as the deepest pit of Hades. Black, like the coffee mug they stoop to collect from the floor. Even if Miles wanted to interrupt again, he couldn’t. His throat is swollen shut, sobs piling up inside, and he doesn’t know why. He expects something—anything else, but all he hears is impact as in a practiced swing, the stranger brings the mug down hard on the crown of Lyle's skull.

Time slows. Can’t blink. His brain won’t make the connection. It’s not real. This can’t be real. It has to be something else, some trick. It’s wrong. Everything is wrong…

"Wait—!"

CRACK

In slow motion, their body regresses into a web of shape and color. Just like the river, just like his world, Lyle's shell abstracts and abstracts until there's barely enough left to form a final message:

BY E

Miles leaps, but it’s too late.

Something splinters underfoot as Miles careens right into the middle of the bookshelf. He doesn't right himself quick enough, crashing gracelessly into it as tiers snap off their pegs. Immediately, heaps of books and other sh*t rain down on him, but Miles barely feels it. He just reels, scanning the little room over and over like the definition of insanity—same outcome every time: CiCi, the stranger, Lyle—his Lyle—is gone. No sound, no scent, no lingering body heat that says Lyle was ever there at all. Nothing but a sickle of blue plastic jutting out of his heel. The door is there again, still standing ajar like a sick joke.

Miles doesn't know how long he lays there watching blood ooze onto the carpet half-buried in books on things he can't think about. The second one the stranger picked up lays open-faced on the carpet beside him. Miles didn't realize what he was looking at earlier, but it's not like he ever took Lyle for the Bible-reading type. An assumption that must hold water, because right there in the Book of Job, yawns the carved-out shape of a handgun.

The out-of place pockets flash in Miles' mind, grimacing. f*ck, Lyle would have noticed that. Lyle sees everything he misses—and it seems Miles has missed more than he can he can even comprehend.

Like he’s in a daydream, Miles picks up the Bible, only to drop it with a hiss. On his ring finger, a sliver of glass echoes the plastic embedded in his heel, blood beading around the puncture. A couple others got nicked, too. Miles picks the fragment out, sweeping tea candles, a now-headless glass terrier, and the hollow Word of God aside to see what him.

Miles stops dead.

About thirty years younger, Lyle stares back through a broken picture frame. Miles sits up, missing pistol forgotten as he carefully fishes it out. In this place, the print between his fingers is almost completely textureless; a background detail never meant to be free of its glassy shell. Pale, small, shockingly baby-faced, Lyle scowls through time and space as he yanks a blurred jacket hood over his head. Like he's disgusted with whoever’s holding his picture. Miles' thumb leaves a crimson smudge on his cheek.

The photo is still in his hand when he finds himself at the back door, heel threading blood on the carpet—doesn't remember removing the shard. Doesn't remember walking. And maybe he didn't. Maybe he's asleep. In the glowing river—maybe they're dreaming. He hopes so.

She's still sitting right where he left her. Whatever expression Miles is wearing must say it all, because hers sure as hell does.

"What happened?"

Miles opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

He doesn't know.

He doesn't have a clue what happened, what he's gotten himself into, how to get himself out. How to get Lyle out. He's got nothing. Absolutely f*cking nothing except that it’s scaring the sh*t out of him. That this isn't a dream. It's real, real, and he can’t wake up.

Sick with dread they stare at each other, not even wind to ease the terrible silence.