4 The bell invites me.

𝘋𝘳. 𝘌𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘦𝘥.

"𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘐 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘻𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯… 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘢 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘰𝘵𝘺𝘱𝘦—𝘧𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵—𝘴𝘰 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦-𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦, 𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴."

"𝘖𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘐 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘢 𝘸𝘢𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘦𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘦𝘸 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘱 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘴."

"𝘉𝘶𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯—𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘵, 𝘋𝘳. 𝘌𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘯."

"𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘰𝘤𝘶𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵. 𝘕𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘒𝘰𝘤𝘩, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦. 𝘐𝘧 𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘢𝘺, 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘴. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘺."

"𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦—𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘴!"

"𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘦𝘳," 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥.

"𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘦𝘳—"

"𝘐 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘨𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰. 𝘋𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘦'𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘥? 𝘞𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨." 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩. 𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘸. "𝘈𝘴 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭. 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘢. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴—𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘦𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘤 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘴. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘺."

"𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘌𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘯. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦."

𝘏𝘦 𝘨𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘨𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘥. "𝘚𝘩𝘦'𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘭𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘳 𝘻𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵—𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘺𝘮𝘣𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘻𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘩𝘦—𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦'𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘶𝘴. 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘪-𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘭𝘺. 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘨𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭, 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬," 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘯𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴. "𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴."

"𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵?" 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘦𝘺𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘵. 𝘙𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵, 𝘪𝘧 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦.

"𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰 𝘪𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺, 𝘒𝘰𝘤𝘩. 𝘝𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺."

Mischa lied down on the couch, twisting until she found a nice crevice to put her face in. Maybe she wanted to struggle a bit, maybe just suffocate at this point. It was building too much and it wasn't even Oktavia's fault—she knew what happened. She knew, but the undertones of trauma and tribulation curled at her chest, and as much as she hated to admit it, she was afraid. She couldn't throw herself between memories, she could only remember the days when they were discovered, how naive she was then; she curtly shook her head, feeling guilt for what she had thought.

She sighed as she turned over, blinking away the tears from her eyes. Mischa was drained.

It was never Oktavia's fault.

* * *

"𝘋𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵, 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢?"

"𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵—𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵—𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴?"

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩. 𝘐𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦, 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘤'𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘧 𝘬𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨, 𝘪𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘴𝘺𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘧𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘰𝘳, 𝘋𝘳. 𝘙𝘰𝘭𝘬. 𝘌𝘤𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤.

"𝘚𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘴𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨," 𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘦𝘥, 𝘱𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘹𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘴𝘦. 𝘐𝘵𝘴 𝘫𝘢𝘸𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴, 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘰𝘭, 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩. 𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢'𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯.

"𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥, 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳?"

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘵 𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢. "𝘚𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴."

𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘔𝘦𝘥𝘶𝘴𝘢, 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘫𝘢𝘸 𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. "𝘐𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵? 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦. 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘐 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥."

"𝘐𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵?" 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘤 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴, 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯—𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵. 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘬𝘺 𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢'𝘴.

𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘴𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭—𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘥 𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯; 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘱 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘤'𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘺𝘦𝘵 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯. 𝘉𝘶𝘵, 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺, 𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘶𝘯 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳.

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺.

What possessed her to remember more? What possessed her? If it turns out that each fragmented memory was only a piece to ensure her instability, it was working. Oktavia savored the feeling of the memory—refracted in her mind—the tingling to her lips, the buzz she felt flood through her was euphoric.

She stared into the interspace as Mischa slept soundly on the divan, memories flooding her—repeating, shattering, dissociating. But it was all the same in their intensity and tinge that followed her as a blemish in her programming, each tinge and recollection.

Everything was off. Nothing felt real to her. The air was cold against her face as she sat there for a time, watching each motion of Mischa's figure. "No, I won't do it," the human mumbled, voice dulled with sleep.

She tilted her head, amused, but in some way she thought she could reach what was truly itching at Mischa. Oktavia crouched down, and in her deception—"Do what, Mischa?"

"Don't want to."

"Mischa, just do it. What is the worst that can happen?" She pushed harder to the point goosebumps rushed throughout her spine.

"Everything will be lost—please, please, leave us alone."

"What would be lost, hmm?"

"Oktavia."

What? What was she even dreaming about? Her brow furrowed until she felt the pressure squeeze her forehead. She dragged her feet back to the chair she was in, her eyes languid as she tried to decipher what that meant. It was just a dream—you have your own at times. You create them too in the dreamscape. They mean absolutely nothing most of the time.

But they also use what is hidden in the subconscious; thoughts humans are not aware of left revealed only in the dreamscape. Is this an escape or is this a warning? Her gut churned when she thought more about Mischa hiding from her. This was not the woman she knew. She was gone.

Oktavia purported herself with logic, but her thoughts became unwarranted. She could dismiss them as they appeared, but they followed the emotional stimulation that would push her over the edge. Blanking, she shoved the space away from her almost as if it were tangible; while the air grew thicker in her lungs, while the windows darkened the glade. She wasn't herself. She felt like another person.

No. No. It was happening again—again—again—again. She could break apart the word until it no longer made sense and she was gone—she was—

𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢 𝘢𝘥𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘶𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘨𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘺'𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘳𝘴—𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘮𝘦𝘯. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘊𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘈𝘺𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘱 𝘨𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘶𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘪𝘥𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵.

𝘈𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴, 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘤𝘴𝘪𝘯—𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥, 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘴𝘸𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘬, 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘪𝘯 𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨'𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘺. 𝘈𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳, 𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘷𝘢𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘦𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦—𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘺𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘰𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥. 𝘐𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘻𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘬𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘧𝘰𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘬𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘨𝘯𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘵. 𝘈 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦—𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘺, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯.

𝘌𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢, 𝘦𝘩—𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘴-𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘴, 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘹𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 (𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘥—𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨). 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦, 𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥, 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘳—𝘯𝘰, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘵𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘈𝘺𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴'𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘧𝘦, 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦—𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩-𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴. 𝘈𝘺𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘯𝘦𝘸𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘺𝘢𝘬.

"𝘞𝘩𝘺, 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘦!?"

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬. 𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘢𝘴𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘥—𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘦𝘯'𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦, 𝘩𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳, 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘱𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥— 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥, 𝘴𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘵.

"𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢!" 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦-𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥. "𝘋𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘦. 𝘐𝘧 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦!"

𝘈𝘺𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘬𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩. "𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘦, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘭," 𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘨𝘰 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥'𝘴 𝘥𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵, "𝘈𝘭𝘪𝘢, 𝘈𝘭𝘪𝘢!"

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘭𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘩, 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯—𝘈𝘺𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴'𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴, 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.

Her eyes withdrew from their technicolor abyss; the glow had died down. She made herself shudder, made herself feel chills but still felt a limited capability in such response.

She was made to be human-like, but not to enact on it—all in retrospect it added up. The training, the war simulations, the flattery—but there was no love or emotion behind it from her father. Dr. Eaton was sure to proclaim of her human qualities and capabilities, but he never came to love or care about her. He put her, time and time again, on the back burner—She trembled both in grief and rage.

She allowed herself to be human now (whatever that meant), and perhaps Dr. Eaton defined that as her illness.

She stared at the woman, ire dissolving, studying each twitch in her aging features, each movement her limbs made, what words she would murmur (they were now silly nonsense, pushed with the occasional, "No, no…"), and how drool would pepper down from her lips.

Oktavia grabbed a tissue to wipe it up this time, unexpectedly waking Mischa up. Her hospitality was greeted with screams derived from horror, until it too chiseled down into nothingness. "What were you doing?" The woman tried to calm her heartbeat.

"You were drooling, Mischa. I didn't want you to stain the good couch for company. I know how you like to make everything seem nice."

The human was at a loss whether to take it as a compliment or passive insult. "Oh, uh… Thank you, I guess?"

"This feels domestic," Oktavia smiled.

Mischa was hesitant before nodding back. "It—it does, yes, it does."

"Shall I make you dinner this time?"

"No, no," Mischa stretched out her back. "I'll do it, why don't you just—"

"Why are you afraid of me, Mischa? Every time I say something, it's almost as if I'm cracking egg shells."

"What? You mean walking on egg shells, hon—it's walking on egg shells."

"Another diversion to what I actually meant. I knew you were going to correct me, I wanted to see if you would focus on that or address the issue head on—go figure."

"Alright, arrogant ass, what do you want me to do?"

"I've missed you," Oktavia sighed. "Why do we have to be like this, my Mischa? Why do you keep hiding from me? What is it?"

"Because I have to be like this, Okta. It's for the greater good."

"But… I love you."

She shut her eyes when she walked away. "I know you do."

* * *

Mischa trembled her hand as she dusted the dirt into the pan. She withheld the tears at the thought of Oktavia, trying to let her mind drift to each minute task.

It had to be done. It was for the best.

On her knees, she swept further under the couch, ad nauseam, that she almost didn't catch the small pin-hole device. Flipping it over in her hands, brushing off the dust, she bit her lips—she knew she had a reason to worry from the start; she brought it over to the sink disposal—crushing it into oblivion until the only static left was from the electric pig.

She could feel the blood rush to her skull.