You are ten years old and desperate and furious and terrified and none of that matters anymore, because you're standing in front of the portal to another world. Even the miraculous gateway itself has ceased mattering, just like the shouts and murmurs of the scientists behind you. There are only two things that matter now, and one of them has stolen all your breath and soul away.
The girl who has just appeared from the ether is otherworldly, as she must be. As she was meant to be. In this moment, you allow yourself to focus solely on her: something new and miraculous and something that n̵o̸ ̷o̵n̶e̴ ̴c̵a̸n̸ ̴t̷a̶k̵e̷ ̷a̸w̷a̶y̶ ̴f̷r̷o̸m̶ ̶y̴o̸u̷.̴
There's a girl crying, somewhere. You hear it in your dreams, the impression of her tears, like the pooling of water on lashes must have made a sound. You remember chasing it, the moon through the trees, the rustle of the bushes and the branches against your knees: you were never made to run outside the way others were.
But you ran anyway. You ran anyway, and you found her all on your own. This girl that you'd never seen before, a girl with no name. It's been so long, you don't remember what you said to her, but you do remember bringing her home with you.
You were inseparable from that day forward.
Yes, that was t̴͇̖̾̐h̴̢̖̮͖͓̅̇̋͋̾͘e̸̳̤̲̪̔̓̔̾̅̚͜ ̴͉́̊̅͝f̴̪̖̘̫̤̐i̵̝͇̥̿̈́̈̓̚r̶̡̖̆s̴͓͗t̸̼́̉͊̔͠ ̷͖̈́̀̒̎̃̋͜ẗ̴̻̝́i̶͈̔̈́̾m̷̨̤̫̈͋̈́̏ë̶̖́́̂̌͌̚ ̵̨̩͉̙͇̈̽͐̊ͅý̷̰̘̳̒̓̃͜ͅơ̷̹̠̪͕͖̆͋̇͜͝û̵̪̯̹͙̔̎̿̀̒ͅ ̶̢̧͖̲̽̏͊̚m̸̧̥̗͍̲͆ē̴͎̗̄͝t̶̫͓̆̍̋̈́̈͝.̶̻̯̭̮̈̎͋̃͘͝
You run, run, run like the wind because your father has summoned you. He wants to meet you now, has a use for you, and you'll be allowed to meet her too: the girl you haven't seen since that night by the gateway -- you haven't been allowed to see her yet because, because...
You're not sure.
But it's okay. Because today -- today you run into your father's office without being stopped or turned away, and today Maia too is waiting for you. You take her hands exuberantly like this is some kind of playdate (it isn't, of course it isn't) and finally take a moment to get to know her in the light of day.
"It's been a while! Hey, remember me? I brought you into this world!"
Maia. The girl you created. The doll made with the power of Verbalism, your hopes and your father's. All together.
She stares at you like you're perfect strangers. That can't be right, even if you haven't had the chance to talk properly.
"What's wrong?"
She doesn't respond until she's pulled away, all at once: "You're yucky."
Oh. You're not sure what you've done wrong, and you still can't think of anything as you watch her march away without a backwards glance. Behind you, your father and Hayashi-san murmur knowingly, like they've seen the result to some minor experiment; you're too preoccupied to listen closely just now. Maybe it was something you did. Maybe the ritual didn't go well. Maybe you just weren't strong enough, still. What if--
Tsukigane Maia. Vessel. Replica. The doll upon which NESTA has staked its hopes. The doll upon which Nesta has staked her hopes. Someone who was never meant to exist.
Someone that ẅ̸̡̡̡̧̛̘̻̯̫̩̹̭͉̱̫̗̭̘̼̥͎̬̞̰̤́͋̑̉̒́̾̇̆̈̐̔͂̒̈̒̅͆̆͑͊̃͂͊͜͜͠a̵̢̨̟̙̪̬̼͎͍̠̘̮͓̘͐͗̊̓͒̈̓͛̆̀͛͛̽͌̽̓̋́̏͆̑̍͊̄͋̆̚͝s̶̢̢̡̧̧͍̭̪̮̘̣̣̹̯̹̬̤̼̠̯͎̳͚̲͍͈̖̗̞̙̝͗̅͑̀̉͗̋́͒́͝͝ ̴̨͓̹̬͈̝͚̽̏̽͐̈́́̊̊̍̎͂͛̃̄̿̊͌̓̂͆̑̅̓͌̋̈́̑̚̕͝á̵̛̛̞̥͎͕͉͓̪̲̝̬̟̮̫͔̏̑̾̄͌͆̈̊̋̆͌̆̆̊̈̆̐̀̍͌̿̚̚͠͝͝͠ͅͅͅl̴̨̛̠͓̜̱̦̦̟͙̥͚̣̭͓̣̲̹̩͈̻̦͙̳̑̑͆̑̈̄̊͐̈͆̔̾̔̌̋͛̔͆̆͆͊͜͜͝w̵̨̢̧̧̘̖͉̠̰̺̙͕̠͖̹͙̖͇̥̰͚͍̠̮̱̞̅̒̏͒͐̈́́͋̀͛̈́̿͋̂̿̃́̔̌̑̚̚͘͘̚͜͜͠͝a̷̡̧̢̨̡̠͙̬̫͔̬͎͓̯͙̲̙͖̥̯͔̮̗͎̼͓͙̙͕̙͌̆̀͐͋͆̊͌͋͜͜͠y̶̛̲̰͚̱̝̤̰̳͓͕͖̭̰̼͚̹̹̻̲͓͉̱̻̯͇͙̗͊̓̽̽̔̈́̔͋͑̀̆́͋̏́͌̔̈́̔̌͊͑̆̆̍͆͘̚͘ͅs̶͕̰̖̰̮̭̙̀̿̊̂̈́̿͑̑́͛̑̀̒̾̋̆̓̈̇̀͐͋̈̂̚͘̕͘͝͝ ̷̧̡̲͓̭̳͎̟̪̤̦̝̤͕̱̮̦̤̰̯̰͇̺̘̹̲̟̳͐͜ą̸̨̡̛̞̤̼͙̮͙̞͓͉̻͚̫͚̰̯̩̣̖̜͕̪̙͉̌̈̂̒͗͛̎͛̈́̋̉͌̒̿͌̈̇̉̋̈́͋͘̚͜͝ ̸̼̬̇̈́̅̈́̅̿̇̿̍̄̋̚͘r̵̡̛̛̺͕̜͍̭̺͇͒̇̌̌̀̏̋̍̀̽̃̑̓́̈́͛́̀͊̓̎͛́̓͒̿̚̕͝͠͠ȩ̵̺̳̏̋͆̈́̈̏̓̑̀̊́̽̄̈́̋́̈́̀̓̎́̍̿̔̏̽̊̏̑̕̕͘͜ṗ̵̡̢̨̢̛̜̬͓̩̩͈̖̞̭̱͕̺̜͈̬̂̾̅̃̽̈́́͐̈̂̐͐̑͑̔̑̈̇̃̿̊̅́̀̌̌͘͘̚ļ̸̨̗̝̮̗̙͖͈̖͕̼̖̩̼̗̮̼̞͎̯̙͈͎̦̲͎̠͍̈́̈͐̉̔͒͐͂͆̅̃̆͋̍͛͊̕͠ä̷̢̢̮̗͉͚̼̟̦̲̗̲͖́̏͗͂͂̋̽́͒͊̂̌̚͘ͅc̶̛͈̥̲̗͇̠̙͚̫̟̞̹̺̯̪̥̗͗̋̄̓͛̃̕͝ę̷̞̺͉̯̟̪̥̥͈̯̣̩̝̰̦̈͛m̷̢̧͇̟͉̝̗̖͂͑͜e̸̢̙͓̻̘̱̭̎͂̔͂͆̈́̎͗̽͌͐̔͋̀̔͌̌̃̓̒̈́̀̅̚͝͝͠n̸̮̪̯̺̣̺̠̳͔͙͚̉̂̽̒̐̇̍̆̈́̉̂̓͌̅̋͐̈́̈́̽̏͐̓͌͑́͘̚͘t̷̨̡̞̳̜̪̦͕̜̞͕̜̥̫̫͉̺̭̗̘̝̳̲̒̀̇̔̈́̀̓̎̆͑̓͐͊̊̐̋͘͝ͅ.̴̢͓̰͉͔̺́̅͆͊̃͊̇̂͊̏̓̔́̓̉̏̑͑̋͘̚͠
You trust your father, of course you do, but sometimes (most of the time) you don't understand the things he says and does and he has no time to explain them to you. He's a busy man, they say. He has the weight of the world on his shoulders. Just now your own feel a little heavier than they should -- you don't understand this machine, but Hayashi-san is always coming up with new prototypes to show you.
You don't understand why you're here, either; normally you'd be happy to be in the same space as Maia for once, but... but who is that next to you, on the other side? You don't recognize him at all. The more he yells the less you understand.
"Let me go... Let me go!"
Oh. That's right. None of you can leave the seats because you weren't meant to. You hesitate, because you trust your father, but the metal is cold and heavy across your forehead and your ears hurt from the boy's yelling and you-- "Dad! What is this?"
He won't answer, even if you recognize what he says next: "Verbalize."
The machine hums to life; the boy next to you yells about becoming a savior, yells about Maia, yells that his name is Akira, does he ever shut up? (You don't care to know his name, you think, but Maia is yelling back, so you don't have a choice.) You're still trying to make sense of things, but you weren't meant to, and then you can't think at all because it hurts. Thoughts and movement run like static shock between the three of you, brighter and brighter, until it burns all the thoughts straight out of your head.
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2/2 writes you a novel..... cw: memory alteration, experimentation on children
Date: 2020-03-13 07:58 am (UTC)You are ten years old and desperate and furious and terrified and none of that matters anymore, because you're standing in front of the portal to another world. Even the miraculous gateway itself has ceased mattering, just like the shouts and murmurs of the scientists behind you. There are only two things that matter now, and one of them has stolen all your breath and soul away.
The girl who has just appeared from the ether is otherworldly, as she must be. As she was meant to be. In this moment, you allow yourself to focus solely on her: something new and miraculous and something that n̵o̸ ̷o̵n̶e̴ ̴c̵a̸n̸ ̴t̷a̶k̵e̷ ̷a̸w̷a̶y̶ ̴f̷r̷o̸m̶ ̶y̴o̸u̷.̴
T̴̫̙̳̿̔͘ḧ̶̛̟̦̼̞́̇ï̷̡̻͕̪͛s̵̗̾ ̸̢͓͎͇͑͠i̵̲̳͚͑̌̉̈͜ş̷̗͚̓͠ ̷̱̋͘ã̶͓̼͈̕ ̶̧̠̋̍̔p̷̮͎̎́͒͝e̸̪̩͛r̸̫̱̭̓̉m̷͔͚͝a̵̗̾̃͑̿n̸̢̼̝̿ḙ̷̝͉̀͗̕ń̶̲̰̊t̶̗̥̾́ ̵̰͋͜m̵̟̀̋͐̔a̷͖̹͈͈͝r̵̛̻̈́́k̶̞̘͓͕͒͛̇ ̴̼̯̑t̸̫͍̯̂͝h̸̯͓̭̒a̷̲̻̙̟̓̚t̵̛͈̱̍͜ ̷̹͍͌̕y̸͓̹͎͕̑̐o̷̭̽̌̚ư̸̹̠͈͒'̷͍̲̺̮̉ṿ̶͌̐̃ë̴̻̼͗͆̕ ̷̞̗͍͉̃̀m̵͍͚̩̂̎̇ͅa̷̘̞͚̓̓͊͝d̶̛̪̋͛ë̵̻͈̞̱̾̅ ̶̮̇̕o̸̯͙͛n̸̨̂̈ ̵̜͒ţ̸͚̣͑̕h̴̡͍̏̅̈͝ȩ̷̙̀͂̂̎ ̶͍̮̖̠̔̈́͛w̵͎̩͉͙̔́̎õ̶͕̞̂̿̉r̴̜̅̔̄̕ľ̷̞̾͛̄d̶̙̬͉͛.̶͕͖̭̩̅
̸̹̞̈́
̶̹͕̃͛Ḭ̸̅́̈́̅ẗ̸̙́̈́̚ ̷̾̎ͅc̶͓̫̆̆͌͝ͅa̸̹̾̿͐n̴͈͇̝͌͑̈n̵̛̮̂̆͝ọ̴̮̔̑̑̑t̴͚̜́͆ ̷͖̙̝̭͗b̶͔̱̉̌̔͝e̶̱̺̦͂ ̶̯̓c̵̫̎̅̃͝ĥ̵̹̲̰̑̀ȁ̴̯͔̥͈̔͒͘n̵̤̬̮̹̕g̴͚̬̊̌͐ę̷̣͎̀͂̉̕ḑ̵̱̖̭̃͝.̸͕̺̩̱̏
̸̺̘̊̈́̕͠Ï̵̧̠͕̄̃ţ̸̛͚̟ ̸̜̞͑̿͌͘ć̷͚̪͚͙̦͖̃̊͆͗̚ă̶͉n̴̦͈̰̦̏ń̶̨̼͕̙͙̱́̽͗̃̚o̵̢̟̤̥̜̓̄͘ț̵̭̇ ̶̯̩̳̯̈͆͝ͅb̵̟̽͒e̴͍̝͛̂ ̴̹͍̤̬̙̩́͑̿t̴̀̚͜͝á̵͇́͘ͅk̸̭̦͒e̸̢̳̜̍n̶̗͍̏͂͊̍ ̴̧̛̻̩̙̭̝̂̑̀̅̕b̶̮͙͇̻̞̈́̇̕̚ȧ̷̲̼̠̈́̉c̸̛̩͉̻͇͎͒̈k̵̨͍͉̬̠̘͒̋͒̄.̵͓͖̞͍̊̕
̶̤͆̇̆̂
̴̩́Ȅ̵̠̈́v̵̤̝̦̰̼̾͋e̴̝̠̹͇̱͂̐͛̓̊ͅr̸̖̗͙̯͖͙̅y̸̰̾̏̉̈́t̶̛͓̎̕͜ḧ̷̳̠̖̞̻́̇͑̈̂i̵̛̭͗̒͛̑n̵͍̝̩̲̽̍̐g̵̬̐̋ ̵̩̞̻͎̹̬̓č̷̙͈͉h̵̳̮̃̾̂͝a̸̛̛̪̪̞͉͇͒͗͒͠n̴̖̿g̶̨̢̣̰͚̲̐̽̈̈́̔̋e̷̟̙̭̮͖̋̈́̑̏͌̀d̴̢̲̗̠̠̦̒ ̶͚͇̊͂t̷̗͒͂͝͝͝o̴̹͗̎̋̚d̶̢̢̛̺̟͓̑̇̈́̚a̵̡̜͇̯͑̆͝y̸̨̻̞͋̃͗̕̕.̵̧̘͌̾
There's a girl crying, somewhere. You hear it in your dreams, the impression of her tears, like the pooling of water on lashes must have made a sound. You remember chasing it, the moon through the trees, the rustle of the bushes and the branches against your knees: you were never made to run outside the way others were.
But you ran anyway. You ran anyway, and you found her all on your own. This girl that you'd never seen before, a girl with no name. It's been so long, you don't remember what you said to her, but you do remember bringing her home with you.
You were inseparable from that day forward.
Yes, that was t̴͇̖̾̐h̴̢̖̮͖͓̅̇̋͋̾͘e̸̳̤̲̪̔̓̔̾̅̚͜ ̴͉́̊̅͝f̴̪̖̘̫̤̐i̵̝͇̥̿̈́̈̓̚r̶̡̖̆s̴͓͗t̸̼́̉͊̔͠ ̷͖̈́̀̒̎̃̋͜ẗ̴̻̝́i̶͈̔̈́̾m̷̨̤̫̈͋̈́̏ë̶̖́́̂̌͌̚ ̵̨̩͉̙͇̈̽͐̊ͅý̷̰̘̳̒̓̃͜ͅơ̷̹̠̪͕͖̆͋̇͜͝û̵̪̯̹͙̔̎̿̀̒ͅ ̶̢̧͖̲̽̏͊̚m̸̧̥̗͍̲͆ē̴͎̗̄͝t̶̫͓̆̍̋̈́̈͝.̶̻̯̭̮̈̎͋̃͘͝
Y̶̨̧̩̗̏̋̔͗͊̾̍͗͝ò̴̦̈͂̏̏̄͊̿͋̀̍͆̋̆̓̕̚͠u̶̧̟͎̦̯͕̻̙̣͎̼̞̬̣̺̣̪͆͛̔̽ͅ ̷̧̨̡͉̣̟̗̠̤͙̬́̅͜a̸̢̧̡̛̖̞͔̙̩͕̹͕̻̺̻͖͙̰̒̀̄̏͗̅̀̀̈́̈́̄̈̕ͅǹ̵̢̛͍̺̳͕̞̣̖̦̌̄̈́͋̅͂͋̓̒͒͐͆̚͜͜͠d̸͈͕̝̟̙̠̖̫͖̟͍͕͙̘̙̪͔̋ ̸̡̢̧̩͖̜̤̬̙̫͔͍͎̮̯̓̽̊͂̏̾̓́͗͊̍̋̆̈͘̕͠͠ͅẗ̷̤̠̖̫̳͚̩̬̝̺́͌̐͑̓̔̀̐̇͐̊̄͠͠͝h̴̡̡̦͗̋̃̐͒̂ẽ̴̯͉̜̭̣͌̄́̋̓́͛͐͗̍̋̈͜͝ ̴̛̰͍̮̙͉̬̳̮̩̼̍͂͒̚̚g̵̣̻̘̭̘̹̖̒̈́̈́́̅̓͒͂̾́̔̒í̷̛͓̥̻̬̼̤͓͔̊͒̉͆̍͊͑͐͌̀̚͠͝r̴͓̝̪͉̈́͋͗̎̿̚͘̚͘̕͝l̷̰͙͔̯͆ ̶̡̨̝̺̪̤̻͇͙̲̞̍͐͊̒̍̃̎̄̌͌̃͗̂͘w̷̡̠̥̙̜͇̱͇̘͖̘͖͆̈́͛̓͝e̷̩͛̿͛̈́̉͋̎̚̕͝͝r̶̢̙̼̫̪͕͗̽̊́̈̑̈́̾̄̾͜ͅê̵̜͕͍͚͓̝͕̤͗̏́͌̃͝͝ͅ ̴̨̨̦̺͓͔̲̹̗̘̮̟̇̋̈̓͝͠f̴̝̳̝̫̣̑̈́͋̐͋͌̊̅̔̓͝͠͝a̴͕͇̰͚̰̘̫̦̝͎̣̰̱͇̣͉̻̎̀̈́̌͊̚͜͠t̸̡̢͓̲̥̮͈̞͌̅̓͌̈́͋̽̔̆̿͝ę̵̼̰͙͉̬̯͔͉̝̭͊̌́̒͑͋̚̚͝͝d̶̡̛̯͗̄͂͛̄͒̓͆̎̌̓̄̚ ̶̨̧̝̬͍̲̙̱̝̹̗͈̦̼̰̇͒̃͋̿̒̚ͅţ̸̧̨̛̫̰̳̈́̈͐͊́̐̆̀͋͛̾̚̕̚͜͜͝o̷̡̱̭̯̥̯͉͑͑̍͂̿̏̊ ̸̩̺̝̤͈́̆̄̌͆̈́̈́m̸̩͖̟͙̺͉̫̪̥̂̂̂̽͌͗̃̆̍̓͋͛͗͘͘ͅe̸̛͔͈̳̱̗̞̳̗̰̐̈́̆͋͌͒͜͜͠è̶̩̥̣͈̺̖̮̀t̸̞͇͔̘̙̩̙͍̍̈́̇̾́̏̾̒̊͒̊͂̉̋̽.̴͉̪͒̈́̃̿́̔̈́̊̚͠
T̷̡̖̰̟̜̞͍̙̰͚͚̕ḣ̶̨̜̟̙̤̰̝͆̐̐̀́͋̀̌̐̚̕͜͝i̸̘̳̊̋̑̈̆͂͌̓̌͐͌̆̿́͒̓̉́͗͝͝͝ş̴̬͎̤̩̥̬̥͈̘̲̖̞̖̥̖̞̘͎̀̀͑̓̏́̈͐̇̽͑̒̽̑͊́̌̓̂̊̆͊̅̈́́̀̀̈́͘̚̕͝͝͝͠͝͝ͅ ̷͖͓͇͓̫̩̝̥͖̗͈̈̚i̵̧̡̡̢̩͍͙̠̦̳̞̥͎͉̤͈̙̥͗̽͌̀̀̽̄̔͗̇̔̇̂͘͘̚̕͠ͅͅs̵̢̡̧̡̖̤̹̞̠̥͈͈̝̤̄͋̇̈́̀̂͆̑̊̂̄͗́́̓̄̐͆̑̎̾͐̌̀̔̀̀̐̕̕̚͝͠ ̷̢̛̝̗̗̩̤͈̯̻̬̩̠̰̥͎̖͖̜͇͔̈́͐̇̈͆̀͒̋̿̈̿̽̐͛̇̈́͒͒͌̇̚̚̕̚ͅa̷̡̨̻̰͉͔̣̮͙̪̟̗̬͖͎̫͍͖̺̜̹̗̤̘̰̘̹̼̐́͊̈́̾̈́͂̏́̈̅͐͆̔̐̎͛̍͆͆̍̽́̚͜͝ͅͅ ̶̨̨̡̡̨̛̝̺͕̣̝̱̫͈̲̠̭̥̬̗͕̯̼̜̘̯̙̼͎͍̝̜͔̺̗̳͎̠̆͑̈̉͒̎̍͗͐͂̓̃̓̐̐̈́̿̊͐͐͛̿̆̅́̚̕̕̚͘͠͠͠t̷̛̥̪͊̏̑͂̀̒͐́̿̒̽̀͊͠ŗ̶͎̙͎͚̪̻̺͇̪̗̗̠̮͔̺̻̲̪̫̤͔̣̭̭̜̼̜̙̤̽̉̈͜û̸̡̨̨̡̨͍͔̗̹͔̘̯̥͇̱͉̙͍̭̣̘̱̺͍͎̳̘̜̲̫͎̽̓̊͊̐̍̅̐̑͌͑́̀̉̄̆͑̂̏̄̿̑̑̿̽̈́̓͌͝͝ͅé̸̥͖͚̻̻͇͔͚̳̙͇̘̱͖̝̤͚̓͌͋̋͊̔̔̽͛̏́̓͒̂̈́́̌̑̈́̂̐͌̀͛͑̄̕͝ ̴̤̠̥͂͌̍s̷̢̛͇̺̩̮̖͚̫̈͌͂̀̐̊̏̈́̎͑̓̽̉̀̀̋̐́̑̍̔̕͝ţ̶̨̟̳̬̗̥͔͓͕̬̲͉͖̻̝̰̑̈́̈̽́͊̔̍̄̓̽̿͘ͅͅo̵̡̨̧̡͉͔̣͎̱̭̗̻͔͉̫̪̗͕͎̩̳̱̺͎̫͓̻̻̣̖̬̮̗̖̻͙̐͋́͜ȓ̵̨̩̣͇̤̜͚͕̻̥͎y̵̨̡̡̧̱̳̰̹̭͇͚̜̫̹͚̟̘͕͓̭͉̯̖̼͍͋́͊̈́̎̒̿͋̃̇̏̈́̊͊́͘̕͜͝ͅ.̸̨̨̢̼̞̜̮̰̩̹̠͚̦͕͍̠̪̲̗̲͇̩̥̮̹̖̥̫͇͒͐̆̅̇̎̓̎͑́̽̍̾̓̀͘͠ͅ
You run, run, run like the wind because your father has summoned you. He wants to meet you now, has a use for you, and you'll be allowed to meet her too: the girl you haven't seen since that night by the gateway -- you haven't been allowed to see her yet because, because...
You're not sure.
But it's okay. Because today -- today you run into your father's office without being stopped or turned away, and today Maia too is waiting for you. You take her hands exuberantly like this is some kind of playdate (it isn't, of course it isn't) and finally take a moment to get to know her in the light of day.
"It's been a while! Hey, remember me? I brought you into this world!"
Maia. The girl you created. The doll made with the power of Verbalism, your hopes and your father's. All together.
She stares at you like you're perfect strangers. That can't be right, even if you haven't had the chance to talk properly.
"What's wrong?"
She doesn't respond until she's pulled away, all at once: "You're yucky."
Oh. You're not sure what you've done wrong, and you still can't think of anything as you watch her march away without a backwards glance. Behind you, your father and Hayashi-san murmur knowingly, like they've seen the result to some minor experiment; you're too preoccupied to listen closely just now. Maybe it was something you did. Maybe the ritual didn't go well. Maybe you just weren't strong enough, still. What if--
What if she's just going to hate you this way?
What if--
W̶h̸a̶t̴ ̴i̷f̸-̶-̸
̶͕̬̎͌W̶͔̊̌ḥ̶̹̂a̵̖͝ṭ̸͛́ ̷̡̈́̚i̵̫̻͌f̶͕̙̾-̸̧͎̃-̴̛̙͒
̸̻̱̳̬̀̌̇̓W̴̟̬̜̺̉͛̍h̵͉̠͔̏̀a̵̡͙̬͠t̸̞̼̹͓̀ ̷̧̖͙͎̈́ï̶͙̤̆̄f̴͚̮͛-̴̯͊̈́̂-̶͖̚
Tsukigane Maia. Partner. Childhood friend. Someone who was always by your side.
Someone that ǹ̵͔́o̴̟͒́ ̵͉́o̸̻̓̅n̴̳̹̑e̴͍͐̓ ̸͙̍̄c̸̩͔͛̇ò̴̰̪u̸̦͓͌ĺ̴̳ḓ̶̵͕̎̿̕͠ p̸̨̛̦̮̭͒̈́o̶͚̯̔ş̶̡̫̳́̐̔s̴͎͕̬̔̒̒͜i̷̛̟̫̦̙̾͆̎b̶̬͖̮̙̕l̵̲̅̈̓ͅy̴̲̏̌̒̊ ̶̢͉̱̮̈́̈͘ȓ̶͚́͌ḛ̵̝̯̤̾̃͠͝p̶̹̺̱̲̌ľ̶̼a̶͕̯̘͑͛́̇c̴̬̜̦͋̓̚e̸̹͔̲͆͛͝.
Ả̶̢͖̮̱̠̞̽̋̃̈̈́̔̍̇̀́͒̕͝ͅņ̵̤̟̖̮̺͌̈́̈́̔d̸̯͉͕͆̀̇̌̇̉̕ ̷̛͕̟̻̠̜̲̠͖͊̈́̊̐̾̽̉͜͜͝͝y̸̢̡̨͚̖̝̩̺͓̮͓͕͓̤̻̹̺̘̺̑̊̅́̆͌̐̂̆̚͠͠͝ę̶͔̗͙̟͔͉̪̜̖̻̺̲̜̠͚̀̔̎̽̉͂̈́̿̂͊̚̕̕ͅt̴͈̙̠͇̦͙̩͙̹̣̮͇͚̀̐͜͝,̴̻̱̥̪̎̄̇̆̎̽ ̷̥̟̮̖̞̉̇̌̒́̈́̂̌̓̔̈̈́̅͛͜͝͝s̶̢̳̲͙͍͈̺̽̄̒̿̒̊͊̈́͋̊̽̀͘̚͜h̶̳̝̥̜̹͉͔̩̉̔͠ẹ̵̛̝̜̯̰̲̥͊͊̉̔͆́͘ ̷̯̗͕̹͇̼͖̜͊͐̀͝ẃ̵̛̲͑̓̆̆͐̅a̴̧̨̬̤̣̤̤͓̳̘͓̻̝̹͌̊͒̒̆̋̍̀̓̉̌̓̾̿̅͜͜s̴͉̩̪̑̀̌͒̈̐̾̾̓̉̔͑̐̓̊̏̾́͝ ̴̡̼̫̰̈̏̒͊̏̌̇͒̓̽̅́͝ń̵̡̧̛̘̱̟̼̭͓̗̔õ̸̢̠͇̺͇̭̭̩̜̺̭̜̤̙̰̒̒͊̿̄͌͛̔͋̌́̔́̕͜ͅt̸̢̻̃̒̏̽̊̌̋̍͗̽̒̒̀̍́̕͠͝h̶̟̬̣̺̦̀̄̂͐̉͂͌̈̿̔̕̕͜í̸̡̟̤͒̽̌̓̀̑̌̌̐̈́̆͌̑̕̕͝n̴̛͓̬͕͉̠͚̼̥̲̪͈̲̼̘̈͑͛̈́͗͋̉̾̍̃̂͂̚͜g̶͔͕̲̺̬̟̀̾͑̈͆̂͒͜ ̷̛͙̫̹̜̹͈̻͕̬͖̯͔̲͔̝̠̗̫͊͐͘͜͜b̴̠͓̟̻̼͖̻͎̝͚͈͕̱͓̣͈̂̉̓̽̆͋̾̆̓͂͒̆̃͘͘ư̸̺͇̻̖͙̖̯̻̠̙̝͈͇̂̍́͂͒̓͊̇͊͘͘̚͝t̵͚̮͍͗̀́̽̀̑̅́͒̈͌̂̈́͜ ̵̧̮͕͍̣̤̠͖̫̪̥͉̇̎̃̃͠ͅą̸̡̛̦̤̻̼̫̩̻̫͇̬̥̟͚͐̀͌̓̒̋̓̕͜͝ ̵̫͍͈̠̺̪͊͐̓̽͝d̴̯̹̦͉̱̳͚̺̓̏̈́̅͌̈́̓̿̃̿̀͘͝ô̷̭̫͔͍̱̲̅̑̿̂̓̂̓͛l̵̫͍͇̺̱̣͕̠̲̙͖̩̹̙̞͖͖̭̞̉̏͒̌̂̐͛̈͘ͅl̸̡̢̗̫̝̳̦͓̿͊͗̓͜.̴̢̮̱̰̟͙̂ͅͅ
Tsukigane Maia. Vessel. Replica. The doll upon which NESTA has staked its hopes. The doll upon which Nesta has staked her hopes. Someone who was never meant to exist.
Someone that ẅ̸̡̡̡̧̛̘̻̯̫̩̹̭͉̱̫̗̭̘̼̥͎̬̞̰̤́͋̑̉̒́̾̇̆̈̐̔͂̒̈̒̅͆̆͑͊̃͂͊͜͜͠a̵̢̨̟̙̪̬̼͎͍̠̘̮͓̘͐͗̊̓͒̈̓͛̆̀͛͛̽͌̽̓̋́̏͆̑̍͊̄͋̆̚͝s̶̢̢̡̧̧͍̭̪̮̘̣̣̹̯̹̬̤̼̠̯͎̳͚̲͍͈̖̗̞̙̝͗̅͑̀̉͗̋́͒́͝͝ ̴̨͓̹̬͈̝͚̽̏̽͐̈́́̊̊̍̎͂͛̃̄̿̊͌̓̂͆̑̅̓͌̋̈́̑̚̕͝á̵̛̛̞̥͎͕͉͓̪̲̝̬̟̮̫͔̏̑̾̄͌͆̈̊̋̆͌̆̆̊̈̆̐̀̍͌̿̚̚͠͝͝͠ͅͅͅl̴̨̛̠͓̜̱̦̦̟͙̥͚̣̭͓̣̲̹̩͈̻̦͙̳̑̑͆̑̈̄̊͐̈͆̔̾̔̌̋͛̔͆̆͆͊͜͜͝w̵̨̢̧̧̘̖͉̠̰̺̙͕̠͖̹͙̖͇̥̰͚͍̠̮̱̞̅̒̏͒͐̈́́͋̀͛̈́̿͋̂̿̃́̔̌̑̚̚͘͘̚͜͜͠͝a̷̡̧̢̨̡̠͙̬̫͔̬͎͓̯͙̲̙͖̥̯͔̮̗͎̼͓͙̙͕̙͌̆̀͐͋͆̊͌͋͜͜͠y̶̛̲̰͚̱̝̤̰̳͓͕͖̭̰̼͚̹̹̻̲͓͉̱̻̯͇͙̗͊̓̽̽̔̈́̔͋͑̀̆́͋̏́͌̔̈́̔̌͊͑̆̆̍͆͘̚͘ͅs̶͕̰̖̰̮̭̙̀̿̊̂̈́̿͑̑́͛̑̀̒̾̋̆̓̈̇̀͐͋̈̂̚͘̕͘͝͝ ̷̧̡̲͓̭̳͎̟̪̤̦̝̤͕̱̮̦̤̰̯̰͇̺̘̹̲̟̳͐͜ą̸̨̡̛̞̤̼͙̮͙̞͓͉̻͚̫͚̰̯̩̣̖̜͕̪̙͉̌̈̂̒͗͛̎͛̈́̋̉͌̒̿͌̈̇̉̋̈́͋͘̚͜͝ ̸̼̬̇̈́̅̈́̅̿̇̿̍̄̋̚͘r̵̡̛̛̺͕̜͍̭̺͇͒̇̌̌̀̏̋̍̀̽̃̑̓́̈́͛́̀͊̓̎͛́̓͒̿̚̕͝͠͠ȩ̵̺̳̏̋͆̈́̈̏̓̑̀̊́̽̄̈́̋́̈́̀̓̎́̍̿̔̏̽̊̏̑̕̕͘͜ṗ̵̡̢̨̢̛̜̬͓̩̩͈̖̞̭̱͕̺̜͈̬̂̾̅̃̽̈́́͐̈̂̐͐̑͑̔̑̈̇̃̿̊̅́̀̌̌͘͘̚ļ̸̨̗̝̮̗̙͖͈̖͕̼̖̩̼̗̮̼̞͎̯̙͈͎̦̲͎̠͍̈́̈͐̉̔͒͐͂͆̅̃̆͋̍͛͊̕͠ä̷̢̢̮̗͉͚̼̟̦̲̗̲͖́̏͗͂͂̋̽́͒͊̂̌̚͘ͅc̶̛͈̥̲̗͇̠̙͚̫̟̞̹̺̯̪̥̗͗̋̄̓͛̃̕͝ę̷̞̺͉̯̟̪̥̥͈̯̣̩̝̰̦̈͛m̷̢̧͇̟͉̝̗̖͂͑͜e̸̢̙͓̻̘̱̭̎͂̔͂͆̈́̎͗̽͌͐̔͋̀̔͌̌̃̓̒̈́̀̅̚͝͝͠n̸̮̪̯̺̣̺̠̳͔͙͚̉̂̽̒̐̇̍̆̈́̉̂̓͌̅̋͐̈́̈́̽̏͐̓͌͑́͘̚͘t̷̨̡̞̳̜̪̦͕̜̞͕̜̥̫̫͉̺̭̗̘̝̳̲̒̀̇̔̈́̀̓̎̆͑̓͐͊̊̐̋͘͝ͅ.̴̢͓̰͉͔̺́̅͆͊̃͊̇̂͊̏̓̔́̓̉̏̑͑̋͘̚͠
Ȃ̸̡̧̰̳̭̣̬̰̪́́̐́͛̎̀̌̂̌͊͐͊͐͌́̀͌̎̔̌̀̄̈́̀̾̀̔̃̇̈́̑̅̔͂̉̒̀̇͂̚͘͘͘͝͝͠n̷̢̨̨̧̢̧̠̪͔̩̰̪̙̤̞̥͉̻̪͓̩̣͖̻̲͉̯̞̻̼̻̠̱͍̟̭͕͓̘͎͙̬̥͖͖̝̞̦̣̬̟̼̣͔̰̋̾̊͊̐͆̍͛͛̈́̄̚͠͝͝͝ͅd̵̢̧̻͓͕̣͙̦̥̰̠͉̘̱̫͊͌͋̈͋͗̓͒͑͑̃͘̚͝ ̷̢̨̢̭̖̳̰̖̭̹̟̫͍̟̖͓̻͔͈̗͙͓͖̠̮̰̦̙̯̥̗͇̱͕̝͍͉͈̬̫̄́̈́͐̅̏͆́͑̌̈́́̎̿̂̍̓̕̚͝͝y̶̧̧̼͉̠̟̺̱̗͖͕̲̣̦̼̠̗̘̮̯͙͓̹͉̖̻͇̠̩͇̠̮̻͊͠ē̷̢̢̛̖͔̭̼̝̜͈͎̯͉͖̙̖̗͍̯͓͎͙̱̖͕̭͎̯̪̺̟͍̯̭̲̰̩͉͍̤̑̔͗̇̊̀̒͋̌̋̑͒̐̊̊͗̓̂̈́͘̚͝͝͝ͅͅţ̷̧̨̨̧̡̟̥̰̣͚̱̱͔͕̬͉͍̰͓̯͙͔̘̜̫̭̺̠̹̬̩̪̩̼̥̜͕̗̗̬̻̝͕̖̲͚̰̮̦͉̜̤̇̎̋̿͌̇̉͛͛̂̉̽̉͜͜ͅ ̴̨̨̧̡̧̛̛̛̯̻̱̩͉̮͉̹̼̳̳̦̯̟̦̩̣̖͍̥̲̮̤̹͇͔̰̞̤̎́͗̽̊̔̊͂͌̈́̇͋̂́̽̂̋̊̓̓́̈̌̊̿̋͗̉̎̋͒͊̓͐͗̋̒͘̚̕̕͜͠͝s̴̢̼̝̼͈̠̫͎̘̯͎̞̩͇̩̜̘̘̪͚̟̺̳͍̜͓͙̺̖̹̬͙͓̮͎̀̊͗̈̿̚͠h̶̢̛͔̮̪͕͉̬̱̬̗̏̉͆̽̈́͋̏̉̽̂̉͌̎͌̄̔̔̀͂̀̇͌̑̔̒̋̏̓̉̀̎͗͐̿͐̒͌͘̕̚͠ẽ̸̛̱̃̾̍̃̀̇̏̄́̑͑̎̽̿̇̍̒̐̔̀̒͌̂̾́̉͝ ̵̡̡̧̛̲͉͇͚͕̹͍͈͚̬̮̹̝͇̖̱͚͍̜͇̦̔̇͗͊͌͌̽̈́̈͂̒̂͋̏͆͊̅̈́̏̄̆̌́̚͘͘̕͝w̵̧̢̧̢̨̡̧̤̳̮̠̝̭̜͇̣̺̝̥͓̬̤̭͎̣̙̹̖̦̝̰̫͈̲̱͖͉͕̳̞͇̲͙̭̯̙̣͔̠̖̩̺͔̥̆͛͐̊̐̎̾̈́͒̀̎̆͌̃̀́͂́̎́̎̇͑̀̎͌͑̇̂͑͛͑͛̒̃̉̂͗̿̒̆̑͑̒͘̕̕͜͜͝͠ͅͅͅa̷̧̢̨̛͉̟̭̺̤̩̱̳̖̜̠͉̟̖̠̬̓͋̆́̒͂͋̆̔̄͊̎̐̓̆̍̏̽͌͂͗̂̽͒̐̒̋̉̂̉̊̾́̉̍͌́̅̏̓̐̄͛̋͘͘͘̚͜͠͝͝͝͝s̴̨̱̝̺̱̮͕͈͈͚͓̻͉̟̳̼̜̣̲̥̫͋̒̈́̓̐͌͒̊͂́́̉̏̋́̅̏̐͜͠ ̸̨̢̧̟͍͕̝͔͚͈̟͈̭͕͇̟͓̜̪̖̹̗̱͎̠̬͇͉̺̤̖̝̦̩̮̤͋̃̏̔͌̌̒̎̍̓͆̂̓̈́̚͜͜͜͜͠ͅͅm̷̱͇͙̺̦̫̱̝͖͉̠̣̯͔̦̘̳͍͖̖̘̹͖̩̖̱̗͍̦̟͕͉̜̖͍͇̝͙̖̂̎̇͐̃̆̍̃̾̒̅̎̊͆̔̾̽͊̾̒́͆̇̈͒́̇̀͛̄̊̍͒̇̿̈́̆͋̓͛̎͊̓̂̒̾̅̉̈̊̏͐͛̓͘͘̕̕͜͝ͅͅͅͅư̶̡̛̛̦̳̥̭̞͕̼̭̜̭̥̯͎̹͎̫̩͖͔͗̓͌͆͒͆̈̓̆͊̆̆̑́̿̓̃͛̏̎̑̀̔͘͘͠͝ç̷̢̧͍͕̳̳̹̠̥̝͎̺̤̙̮̫͖̩͔̪̘̯̳̠̬̲̯̻̫̅̇̊͛̊͛͜͝͝ͅͅͅh̴̛̛̛̛̬͇͕̭̼̠̗̤͈̪͙͍̱̩̗̅̍̀̈̔͊̽̐͌̽̑͌̑̇̅̃͐͂̐͂͛͆̿͐̎̓̽̏̄̇̕̚͘ ̶̧̢̢̨̢͚͈̰͎͔̯̼̖̰͓̙̱̟͇̠̦̰̜͚̘̥̤̞͍̭̠͎͉͉̠͈̝̜̠̜̰̩̀͂̏̓̒̉̈́͛̍̈͂̒͆̄̑̈́̀͑͜͠͠ͅm̸̡̢̢̢̪͇̩̩̠͕̰̫͉̻̜̭̭̠͓̯̜͙̪̘͍̙̣̦̼̟͎͓͎̺̣̰̯͈̫̻͇̔̍̑̉͂̕͘͠ͅơ̴̧̧̛̩̖̟̺̣͚͙̩̩̹̙̆̈́̋͒́̂̂́͗́̄̽͐͋͠͝r̶͎̫̼̜̥̘̜̣̰͖̪̩̠̀͜e̶̢̨͈̺̤̟͚̗̥̼̔̿͆̔̽̌̋͒͑͑̀̆̏̈̈́̈́̾̋̊̐͑͒̎̾͊̓̈́̔͑̋̇̓͒̉̒̂͗̂̑̔̇̆̿̇̅̾̂͐͜͝͝͝ ̶̧̧̨̛̗̱̺̭͉̣͔̦̮͈͈̦͚͙̹̞̖̖͙̠̮̹̭̦͖̖̰̭͉͓̺͓̫̙̭̫͈̫͇͙̬̩̗̟̹̜͚̱͓̔͛́̈̐̌̿̽̍͑͋̈́͌̀̿͊̀͆̑̎͊̔̄̃̍̆̊̾́̽͒͛͌̀̓͗̈̂̂̚̕͘̕͜͝͝t̴̡̰͖̼̜͖̣̖̰͈̫̦͉̜̜̂̀̐̈́̈́́̚ĥ̴̨̢̨̨̡̛̛̬̠̬̮̹̲̭͇̩͈̟̻̭͉̟͕̲̖̣̳̗̮͉̦̯̩̹͉̤͓̯̩͇͍̺̖̮̖̜̻͔̫͈̲̳̮̹̈̍͆͛͆͗̄͋̇̈̂̆̽̅̌̉̅̆̊͆̾͋̽̀̍́̈́͌͒͌͛͊͘̕͘̚͘͘͜͜͝͝ͅa̵̢̛̛̛̛̻̙͚͚̞̤̲͇̬̭̹͓̞̬̮̩͇̰͔͖̎̂͌̏̍̎̌̑̃͌̄̾́̅̿̾̂̇̃̽̌̀̎̔̀̑͐͒̈́̋͑̌̀̉̎̌̾̂͛̊̿̑̾̎̈́̐͘̕͠͝n̶̛̛̩̹̱͓̪͖̱͕̱̠̝̺̫̱̗͍̣̭̦̰̗͚̻̻̭̓̍̑͂͊̈́͑̊̄̒̓̀͊̆̈́́̓̾̐̾̂̆̈́̊̀͊̃͐͆̒̌̉͋́͂̌͒̈́̂̎̆͘̕̕͜͝͠ ̴̛̰̻̬̙̫̣̰̜̫͎͖͈̖̮̭̳̞̖̪͉͚̫͚̟̮̥͇̘͙́͋́̀͂̓̆̔̾̐͂̒̈́̎̃͗̆́͋̈́̒̄̈́̅̓͘͠͝͝͠ͅä̶̡̢̧̲͔̗͚̣̞̻̹̱̘̳̞̘̪͔̱̰̤͕͙̯̤͎̳̗̯̤̰͇̭̻̜̯̤̪̲̫̭̓̓̽̑̂̑̽͂͑͂̀͛̉͒̒̐̍̐͜͜ͅͅ ̷̧̡̢̨̨̛͖͚̣̣͖̣̪̟̦̪̜̻̟̻̬̗̜̤̘̮̳̳͉͖͚̦̖̗̭͈̅̓͊̈́̐̒͋͛̒̉̑͋͛͛̍̑̐̿̎͑̀̈́͐̓̔͒̋̒̈͋̊̀̀͌̀̈͂̕͘͜͠ḑ̸̧̧̢̛̠͇͍̤͉̦̯̗͎̝̹̫̬̤͕̖͚̪͔̘̦͖̠̰̱̹̞̗̼͔̳͉͖̗̠̘͓͉͎̣͓̫̜͍̮͊̏̉̉͊͆̈́̑̀̋̈́̏̌̉͋̈́͛̾̓́̏̉̊̚͘̕̚̚͜͠͝ͅớ̸̡̡̨̡̨̢̯͓͎͈̥̼̯͓͈̘̖̲̜̝̰͇͖̯̙̻͔͓̓̐́̂̉̏̎͒͂̈́̔̒̍̒͌͊̏̈́͆̾̇́̆̃͒̇̈́̔̈́͂͌̿͌͋͒́̉̉̅̈̿̀́̈͋̀͘͘͘̕̕̚͜͝͠͝͝ͅͅl̸̛̺̦͕̞̫̋͒̐̆̋̀͐̍͒̅̿̌̐̉̆̉͌̈́͌͂̽̒́̎̍̉̀̍́̈́̃̉̂̏̋͘͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͝͝l̵̡̧̢̨̛̖̥͕̱̰̰̳͖̲̱͕̗̟̬̯͎̤͍͉̜͈̯̪͕̠̻̼̔̉̓̒͌̆̑͌́͋̓͗̓́̅̄͂͑̐̓͌͊̓̄̀͊̅͑̊̃̆̑͊͐̍̕̕͜͠͠͝.̶̧̨̛̛̛̣͕͎̘̳̫̱̮̙̝̰̗̲̫̖̪̞͉͎͓͇͎̃͂̄̔̓͆͂̒̊̌͊̊̍̈́̈́̿̌̆̅̔̆̒̈́̏͊̇̑̔̅̈̌̇̚̕͜͠͝͝͝
You're scared.
You trust your father, of course you do, but sometimes (most of the time) you don't understand the things he says and does and he has no time to explain them to you. He's a busy man, they say. He has the weight of the world on his shoulders. Just now your own feel a little heavier than they should -- you don't understand this machine, but Hayashi-san is always coming up with new prototypes to show you.
You don't understand why you're here, either; normally you'd be happy to be in the same space as Maia for once, but... but who is that next to you, on the other side? You don't recognize him at all. The more he yells the less you understand.
"Let me go... Let me go!"
Oh. That's right. None of you can leave the seats because you weren't meant to. You hesitate, because you trust your father, but the metal is cold and heavy across your forehead and your ears hurt from the boy's yelling and you-- "Dad! What is this?"
He won't answer, even if you recognize what he says next: "Verbalize."
The machine hums to life; the boy next to you yells about becoming a savior, yells about Maia, yells that his name is Akira, does he ever shut up? (You don't care to know his name, you think, but Maia is yelling back, so you don't have a choice.) You're still trying to make sense of things, but you weren't meant to, and then you can't think at all because it hurts. Thoughts and movement run like static shock between the three of you, brighter and brighter, until it burns all the thoughts straight out of your head.
It hurts.
İ̸̂́͜t̷̡̠͍͉͕̹̂ ̸̳͈̜̟̽h̵̙̹͔͎̮̐̐͜ǘ̶͕̻̜̭̃͒͝͝r̵͓̘̲͇͗͠t̶͇̄̀s̸̳̼͈͔͉̦̏̐̿̔̀.̸̤̺̺̞̀͗͌̔͜͝
I̵̼̹̽͒̽͛͠ţ̵̡̡̦̟̫͍͖̟̪̪̰̜̤͒͗̈́̇͋͒̚͜͝ ̸̧̡̨̢̡̢̡̨̛̫͍̠̳̥͇͕̖̓͗̀̑̂͌̈̌̓̎̋͝͠h̶̠̺̭̜̫̒̿ṵ̵̱̮̘͍̻͖̼̘̄͐̔͒͘͠r̷̢̛̜̳̣̣̼͙̈́̉͊͆͗̕t̷̡̧̤͉̘͇̝̲̱͓̳͙̋̿s̶̜̺͔̯̼̼̖̼̘̫͇̞̩̽̌̆͊̌̐͊͌͛̈́̓̓͆͜
̸̧̧̗͕̠͈̱̬̜͇̭͓̜̮̓͊̀̈́̈́̉̉̿͌͜ͅ
̵̧̤͖͖̹͉̿͑̐̿͆͗̓̔͋̚͘̕i̸̗̺̞̗̱̲̩̱͕̦͚̬̠͕̐ṭ̸̨̩̣̮̩̤̀́ͅͅ ̴̢̜͚̤̜̠͖̖͕̝̦͚̐̀̈́̽̈́̃͒̚͜ͅh̴̛̲̗̾̒͗̅̉͒͜u̸̧̧̦̗͚̟͓͓̦̖͒̇͋̃̎̅́̈́̈́̄̂̐ͅr̵͓̬͉͕̮͂̀̽̇̇̓̃́̔͂̑̏̾̐̏͘ţ̶̟͓͈͇͖̦̰̞̫̜̜̂͑̉̑̿͛̆͑̕ͅs̸̯̗̎̈͂̍̂̄̆̌
̸̨͍̦̦̜̺͔̼̎̿̆͑̉̀͌͋̊̍̄̈́̋͘͘͜͠
̷̱̹͌̚͜í̷̧̦͉̺̤̦͚̐͊̐͂̍͆̃͊͝͝t̶͉͍͙̗͈͇̊̄͋̅̾̌͝͝͝ ̸̪̙̖͍̖́̇̄̎̃̔̌͆̔̇̋ḩ̶͉͈͖̖͇̘́̈̾̓̔͜͠u̷͔̺̥̖̙̥̹̼̩̫̎͑̉̀̐̏́̌͒̈̆̎̾r̸̥̗͈̹͓̦͈̥̬̦͔̙͚̘͙̊͗̑̓͌̕ẗ̶̡̝̠̰̩̞͎̻́̐̅̍̉̄̒͒̕ș̵͖̀͊̊͌̉̔̆͜
̵̥̳̞͔̝͍̰̱̗̣̆̌̽̀̄̍̇́i̵̢̳̟̳͎̩̟̙͋̓̎̑͊͂̇́̀͗̐̆̚͘t̴̡̡̫͎͈͎̥̝͎͙͗̓ ̴̛͇̰͇͆̅́͐̊̔͒̏͊̀́̚̕h̵̟̗̭̄̽͂̈́͝u̴̬̭͇̱͕̮̘̮̩̲̟̐̈́̈̈ṟ̷͔̬̳̙̥̥̦͋̔̀͋̈́̀͑̂͋̑̚̕ṭ̷̠̠̰̲̱͇̪͓̪̔̓͌͜͝͝ͅs̸͕̪̠̳̥̼͗̋̋͗̋͆̿͆͑̀͆͘͠
̵̹̬̈́̉̌̒́̕i̶̛̝t̸̛̪͓̙̞̗͙͂̂͗͐̃͛͊͌͆̃̑̀̃ ̵̛͚̣̼̦̣̥͔̣͈͆͊̒̔̒̀̎̔̒͐̽͜͠͠h̴͉͙͇̬͛́ư̴͍͚̤̙̬̟̭͑͆́̉͆̀͐́̄͋̈́̅͝͝ŕ̸̜̜͔̣̯̣̲͈̖̰̩̼̏̐̇͆̿̽ț̷̦̝̩̖̲͎͔̳̊̂ͅs̴̡̖͓̫̠͇͇̫̰̝̓͆̾͒́̍]