Chapter Text
Benjamin had to cull his bitterness as he came to the realization that, while there was an Arbiter placing a hand over his thigh, Carmen and Ayin must be drinking champagne.
The woman—Garion—squeezed his thigh, and it could have been good-natured, if it didn't make Benjamin jump. Internally, he cursed himself. That was not the plan. He would have to hold himself together until dawn lest it all have been in vain.
“Now, now. Don't be a coward.”
Like a finger snap, her voice demanded his attention.
The Arbiter was a woman of average height and slim build, with a lean face and upturned eyes. That, although accurate, was awfully misleading. In her pitch-black clothes adorned with gold and the cloak detailed in fur, she carried herself like someone twice her height and thrice the spite. Black hair with blonde highlights, the tips just brushing her jaw. Her gravitas warped the room around her. Her dark eyes, although tracked on Benjamin, seemed as though they could see for miles past him.
When she smirked, it looked like a menagerie snake swallowing a meal.
In the dim lights of this fancy hotel room, Benjamin was excessively aware of the presence of a bed behind them, where he surely would spend the next hours until daybreak. Unaware or indifferent to his nervousness, the Arbiter tapped her fingers along his thigh, and her hand felt unnaturally cold.
“Oh, do not fret. I take no pleasure in being cruel to bedmates: it is distasteful. Violence such as ours is meant to impose our will over another's, and, as for me, I would much prefer to maintain good relations, for I am occasionally a repeat customer. Now, drink, yes? This wine has been aged so long, it would be a disservice to its time not to savor it.”
Garion—Benjamin actively tried not to call her the Arbiter—took her hand back and gestured towards the wine bottle, yet to be touched. It wasn't a suggestion. With a hard swallow, he couldn't help but think that this was a poor idea. Hm. The thought was fleeting. If it must be so, it would be so. He had come this far. He wouldn't stop now because of one odd, frightening woman. Underneath it all, she was still human, right? Clearing his throat, Benjamin sank into the cushioned chair. It was best to be a lamb. Maybe she would sink her teeth in quicker then.
“No, thank you. I cannot help but notice that you're not indulging.”
When she smiled, she leaned slightly forward. It was almost imperceptible, and he only noticed the quirk right then, when they were so close under the moonlight. As she did, her hair fell forward, obscuring her empty gaze.
“It's not my vice of choice, I'm afraid. But if it soothes you…”
Right.
Instead of continuing to speak, Garion leaned forward, taking the wine bottle. When had the cork been opened? He didn't know, hadn't seen. All he knew was that the cork was nowhere to be seen, and she was pouring the deep purple liquid into the glass. His hand twitched to tell her to stop at the halfway mark, yet he stayed still, swallowing hard at the prospect of drinking all of that at once in such dire circumstances.
Once she placed the bottle back on the table between them, she licked her lips, and Benjamin couldn't help but stare at her red tongue, darting out.
“My preferences are not what you expect, mind you. On the contrary.” Benjamin must have reacted plainly, for her mouth curled up in a sardonic smile. “Surely you don't require it stated. All of us are dancing at our masquerade ball, with our masks prim and proper covering our faces. If one lets it drop, they are promptly hidden away, taken to the grimy backstage.
“If one behaves strangely, they mustn't do so for long. Tripping along the steps may be acceptable, but eventually the whispers will accumulate, even at the summit. To be strange, even in a useful way, will gather attention. As such—”
Garion took the glass in her hands—she had small hands, nails filed short and practical—swirled it around near her nose and took it to her lips. Another would, perhaps, close her eyes to savor the taste, but her gaze was fixed on him as she tilted the glass, her throat bobbing as she drank liberally.
By the time she set the glass down, it was half empty.
“—We play along. Even partaking in vices we otherwise would not, if only to feed into the foolish idea that in this world we are all dancing along to the same tune, the same tune that has always been played, yes? Now, don't look so surprised. You live in the Nest, you're not a Backstreet rat. You know this as well as I do, deep in your bones. Now then, this wine was naturally aged, a luxury few can afford and many will praise, surely you will not do me a disservice.”
He knew. At first, it had been hard to follow the thread tying her words, but Benjamin was nothing if not a specialist in reading between the lines. It was like a room full of mirrors—it only reflected the truth, all that one must do was to follow the unbending path of light even beyond the darkness.
If it were as she said, then there would be none of the violence he expected, only a scale to weigh in their sins at the end.
Very well.
Benjamin took the glass in his hand and drank.
“Are you sure about this?”
Benjamin knew a guy, who was what he had told Carmen and Ayin. They were full of ideals, while Benjamin was forever grounded to the earth to gaze upon them. In their very different ways, they both were storms brewing up in the clouds, ready to shower the world.
Benjamin was no such thing, nor did he aim to pierce the heavens the way they did. No, he was happy to be nestled in Ayin's shadow, where he could witness the way the rain made this barren land flourish again. What he did think, albeit hidden beneath quiet words, was that their project would need money. Not the kind of money they would need.
So, Benjamin knew a guy.
Said guy was a weaselish man, tall without the build to back it up, leaving him as all limbs and a gaunt face with small eyes. Like many others, he feared for his place in the Nest. So, like many others… Said guy made himself useful to the elites, providing them with whatever services they needed.
“You do, y'know, know the kind of people I'm dealing with, right?”
People will do anything to keep their places in their Nest.
“Yes, of course.”
Even then, to be appointed to an Arbiter of all things, that he could not have expected.
It was sweet, but that just masked the alcohol underneath. Nevertheless, despite his better judgment, Benjamin swallowed to the last drop, only setting the glass down once it was all warm inside his belly. There was a heat to it, a daze. So little of it wouldn't cloud his senses, but, nevertheless, Garion nodded her approval. Benjamin swiped with a thumb a stray drop rolling down the corner of his mouth, awaiting for her to reveal the next step.
“There you go,” she encouraged, but he couldn't help but notice a hint of mockery.
The chair creaked as she stepped up, the cloak billowing past her knees as the black fur framed her shoulders and face with an air of grace. With a flourish, she extended her hand towards him, while the corner of her lip twitched upwards in a half smile.
“Let us go, then. You were bought and paid for, were you not? I shall make good on that,” she said, but there wasn't a thirsty, hungry enthusiasm to it as he expected, just a hint of amusement and, if he dared to think in such a manner, of the pragmatic transactional nature of their arrangement.
If asked why he had chosen such a path and not any other, Benjamin could not tell.
All he could say was that he never failed to answer the call of his intuition and, even as he took the Arbiter's hand—oddly warm—he was certain this was the correct decision somehow. Benjamin got up, maintaining eye contact with the woman. With that cloak, she was every bit the intimidating beast she presented herself as. His heartbeat thrummed in his ears as she tightened her grip and—it didn’t feel intentional, although he was sure it was—rubbed her thumb on the back of his hand.
“Surely your nerves won't get the best of you,” she said, enunciating each word with a distinctive noble lilt. “Come now.”
As she goaded him, her hand drifted upwards towards his wrist, tugging him along until they were standing next to the bed. Even then, Benjamin had to force himself to lift his chin, relax his shoulders. The fur of her cape framed her face, giving her the appearance of a true beast. Her eyes were half-lidded, and a strange smile tugged at the corner of her lip.
“What?” Benjamin mumbled, having an inkling of what she meant.
With a quick gesture of her chin towards the bed, Garion raised an eyebrow, examining him.
“Lie down, yes? Still clothed, if you will. Each to their preferences.”
Benjamin's eyes darted from her face to the bed and back to her in a moment. Very well. Determination surged in him; in her eyes, just careful observation. Waiting to see what he would do next. Her hand was still loosely wrapped around his wrist. With delicate, measured movements—it would do no good for him to go too fast, to provoke her prey drive—he did as she did, wrapping his hand around her wrist for support. If Garion was surprised, she didn't let it show. Instead, all the answer she gave him was a positive hum.
Her wrist was bony and warm, like any other person's, as he leaned on her to keep his equilibrium so he could slip out of his shoes. Benjamin pried each of his shoes off with his feet, delicately pushing them aside next to the bed. The Arbiter silently observed, keeping her face straight. Calm. Placid. Bored.
Once Benjamin was done, he slipped his hand out of her grasp, laid down. Despite himself, he let out a gasp. What a soft mattress! The thought assaulted him and, for a moment as he adjusted himself in place, he could almost forget the strange situation he had put himself in. With his head resting on the pillow, it was easy enough to relax, legs slightly spread.
Although that only lasted a moment.
Garion chuckled, a low vibrating noise that rang in the air like a finger snap, bringing her attention towards him.
“Do you like it? It is something truly quite fine. Keep yourself relaxed.”
Benjamin started to notice that Garion enjoyed asking questions. He must play along, then.
“It is indeed very soft,” he murmured. Despite her order, she was yet to move, looming over the bed. With only the light from the outside window illuminating them, she looked like shadow taken flesh, pitch black disturbed only by the yellow of her hair and clothes.
In response, she hummed appreciatively and then and only then did she sit down, planting a palm over on his side, near his ribs. Even though they were still fully clothed, a mix of nervousness and expectation threatened to boil and spill inside his chest. Something in the atmosphere had shifted, the initial pleasantries bowing out to make way for the main course.
Her hands hovered above him for a moment, then they swooped in near his face. Instinct came first. Benjamin flinched, neck tensing as he sank into the pillow.
The Arbiter delicately took his glasses off, folded them, and placed them on the nightstand.
Garion leaned over him and his eyes were still adapting as she started tracing his features. The sharpness to her gaze wasn't immediately apparent; there was something approaching laziness in the way she traced the shell of his ear, the line of his jaw, the curve of his collarbone. Yet he could feel it, as much as he could feel his heart beating inside his chest and the strange warmth pooling down his lower belly, he could feel the way her gaze stripped him down to the bones, like a hawk tearing chunks of meat off from a carcass.
“You have placed yourself in this position. Bathed and dressed and perfumed for my pleasure, isn't it?” Garion said, her mouth barely moving as she kept her tone low. Benjamin swallowed hard. He had been wearing cologne, yes. She hadn't commented until then, so he thought it had been for naught, but clearly not. As if reading his thoughts, she smirked, “The pleasures of the powerful are often to the detriment of the weak. You must have known that, must have been told that before even having the thought to come here. And yet, even though you're inexperienced, you placed yourself at my table. I brought my hunger to match what you offered. As such, if you came here expecting easy work, you are sorely mistaken.”
As she dragged her hand along his chest, stopping right above his heart, it was as if her palm had suddenly grown much warmer, energy vibrating just under the skin. Her expression didn't change, waiting for his reaction, yet it was only then in the dim light that he noticed that she had a beauty mark just under her left eye.
“Now, I have a guess that you already knew this and came here regardless, even though you never did this before. So tell me: what brought you here tonight?”
He couldn’t say she hadn’t been polite. Civilized. Three days after agreeing to sell his services, Benjamin received an email, attached with a first-class Warp Train ticket. A number address, a name (Garion), and a request for discretion.
The latter, of course, was the oddest. It hadn't struck him as anything unexpected at first, although later he would question himself if the warning was as fake as the name. An appointed date and a silent trek took him to one of the higher establishments in J Corp's Nest.
As he stepped inside, Benjamin was promptly warned that there was already someone waiting in the room. He hadn't gone so far by being slow on the uptake. He had been requested discretion, but this place was fancy, standing above the grime and the fog, with pristine carpets on the floor and garish paintings on the wall. As if the entire affair hadn't been suspicious enough until then, this only made it stranger.
Not that it mattered. His vision was as straight as an arrow; he would not falter. If this were the path that took him to his future, he would not hesitate to take it. Even if what awaited him was strange and uncomfortable, in his heart of hearts, there was no hesitation.
Determination renewed, he straightened his back as his hand landed on the doorknob, but the door opened before he could turn it and a steely voice beckoned.
“Come in.”
“Money,” Benjamin blurted out.
She chuckled, deep from her throat, no less sinister than a growling wolf.
“Good instincts,” she praised. “I appreciate a good dose of the truth, although don't go around attempting this stunt with your next clients. Not all of them will appreciate it as I do.”
Benjamin would keep that in mind. However, she did not wait for a reply before her wrist flicked.
“Strip,” she ordered.
Perhaps it was the conversation that had left him primed for this, but Benjamin felt oddly calm. He took off his red tie, then moved down towards the buttons of his shirt. With each one undone, her eyes never strayed, watching him with mild interest. If nothing else, Garion seemed almost bored, like this was the bit that lost her, which was both a blessing and a curse.
On one hand, her stare was most unsettling when truly focused; on the other, her disinterest made the entire affair resemble a pitiful performance—which, he supposed, it was—as her eyes picked him apart like shredding chicken with a fork and knife. As such, when he slipped off his shirt, revealing his pale, thin body, Benjamin couldn't help but shift his gaze towards her again, awaiting new orders.
At least she didn't waste time. While her face remained impassive, her hand settled on his chest. While he had expected it to weigh on him, to bear all the tension he felt, her touch was featherlight as she rubbed circles on his pectorals, pointedly avoiding his nipples. It only lasted a moment before she stilled, her palm settling right above his heart.
Could she feel it? This unceasing hammering in his chest? Was that why she stopped? Her eyes, black whirlpools, gave him no answer. If anything, they seemed as indifferent as before, staring at his lithe body.
“Am I displeasing you?” he said, his voice still even.
Her hand shifted, rolling his nipple between her thumb and forefinger. Benjamin inhaled sharply, his bottom lip catching between his teeth. He had arrived with the idea that he would need to play pretend, but her touch was precise; her eyes, piercing. She looked at him like she wanted to hang, draw, and quarter him, and, most importantly, she looked at him like such savage desire was meant to be high praise. Yet even Benjamin, inexperienced as he was, could tell that all she was doing was evaluating her next meal, with no greedy haste or particular want. Garion hummed appreciatively—and it brought him a sting of shame to know that such undivided attention, paltry as it was, made him shiver—pulling him away from his thoughts.
“You're perfectly serviceable. Proceed.”
As quickly as she had touched him, she withdrew her hand, yet the heat lingered on him. Despite the way he could feel himself blushing, Benjamin narrowed his eyes, meeting her gaze with his own.
Gravity warped around her, pulling him in.
“You seem uninterested,” he pointed out. Benjamin hardly considered himself good with people, no, that was always Carmen's realm, with her chest full of anguish and hope. However, he had seen enough of the Arbiter—Garion—to know that her attention had an energy that was simply absent at that moment.
His probing, instead of a clear answer, made her tilt her chin up, looking down at him and making him feel painfully aware of his nakedness.
“Is my lack of interest or not of any consequence to you? If nothing else, I would think you would prefer me to leave you to your own devices, is it not?”
Benjamin considered the question for no more than a moment. In a flash of inspiration, he already had his answer.
“That would make for a poor performance, don't you think? You've said so yourself, we are all dancing at a ball. Surely you will not leave the spotlight for me alone.”
Garion's expression remained impassive, yet that which she could not hide, the glimmer in her eyes, emerged from the calm surface of those deep dark waters. Ever fox-eyed, the slight upturn to her eyes gave her a look of cunningness, dark promise and a thrall to a strange meeting at the depths of solitude. Then, she smirked.
A smile full of malice.
“Very well. In that case,” she said, getting up. With light steps, she stood over him and tapped lightly on his thigh. When he didn't move, confused, Garion took it upon herself to tug him by the ankles, pulling him in her direction and parting his thighs for her to press her knee lightly against his crotch. “You will keep up with me until I'm satisfied.”
Were he a man with more dignity, Benjamin might have felt offended by the sudden rougher treatment. Instead, arousal shot up his spine, curiosity leading the way instead of fear. Undivided attention, he had asked for it and he had gotten it. He let out a soft groan and wondered, for a moment, what would happen if he were to say no at that point. Was she the kind to take pleasure in overriding another's will?
Benjamin did not think so, if only by how she spoke. If she wanted to devour him, she would do so with a fork and knife. Her hand toyed with his belt buckle idly, as if she had no intent of undoing it. Her voice, soft and rich, called back his attention.
“What is the money for, then? No one wants Ahn weighing their pockets; everyone wants possessions and people and pleasures.”
His breath caught in his throat. Careful, now. Even if what they were doing was far off in the Outskirts, even if they had no such intent, Benjamin was well aware that anything that could become a Singularity was a threat to the frail equilibrium of the Wings.
“A project,” he whispered and, perhaps as an instinct to distract her from what he himself had provoked, his hands settled on his belt, undoing it slowly. Fluid like water, she withdrew, standing over the bed again, as if satisfied with the answer.
Of course, that was too hopeful—too naive a thought.
She stared at him still, that unerring gaze. This time, however, instead of a cold command, she hooked two of her fingers on the hem of his pants. Garion wore two black rings, middle and pinky fingers, both hands. Details, details, Benjamin swallowed hard; he had always been the one to cling to details, relying on Ayin to show him the big picture. Setting the thought aside, he slipped out of his pants, only in his underwear now.
“Of course. It is what most young, well-educated people want to do, isn't it? One would think, however, that said ambitions would have you joining a Wing. Are you chasing dreams instead?”
She had taken so long to answer that, in his nerves, Benjamin had almost forgotten what he had said.
She is an Arbiter of the Head. Do not tell her anything.
“Do you have a little pack of friends trying something new?”
He didn't answer and seemingly didn't need to, for she tilted her head slightly to the side and her smirk came back, just as sinister as before. It might have been his vision, but the edges of her blurred in the darkness, like smoke, just as she leaned forwards slightly, her hair obscuring her empty eyes. Her hands—for the first time, that hunger reared its head, like she had found a soft spot of his flesh to chew on—spread out across his torso, running down his ribs to his waist.
Were he a stronger man, Benjamin perhaps would have shied away from her touch.
Then again, were he any more sane, he would not have placed himself in such a situation to begin with.
Her touch was like silk rubbing on amber, creating sparks that ran up his spine. Despite her dignified posture, she was rather coarse, not for a lack of finesse, but for an excess of cruelty, and Benjamin found that he didn't mind that as much as he thought he ought. He wasn’t one for too soft, too lovable things. Her nails lingered on his skin, her thumbs dug into the dips of his hips so hard he was sure they would bruise, yet he found himself blushing, staring at her delicate hands as they kneaded his flesh indiscriminately. Once more, he thought he would have to coax himself into something more, but, as her hands teased his chest, thumbs rolling his nipples into firmness, heat pooled in his lower belly.
“So responsive,” she praised in a growly tone of mockery. His hands, hovering at his sides, balled into fists as he clutched the sheets.
Her touch wandered lower, and Benjamin's breath caught with anticipation. Once again, fingers on the hem of his clothes, yet this time she tugged lightly, allowing the elastic band to slap his skin with a slight burn. This time, he had enough of a presence of mind to take off his underwear himself, but, just as he clumsily slipped it off while sitting up, it came to him that maybe he ought to have made a spectacle out of this disrobing, rather than this vulgar display, his sticklike limbs and the downy hair of his nether regions and his half-hard cock laid against his thigh.
A blush crept to his cheeks, shame coming too late, but he buried it all the same with the idea that this all had a motive. It would all fade away, forgotten, once their plan came to fruition. So a practiced apology came to him, expecting Garion to still be standing over him. A slip of annoyance sneaked into his tone, just as he drew his eyes up.
“I'm sorry, I am not too practiced at this—”
She was standing next to the table.
Quietly, as if her footfall was muffled by snow, Garion had moved back to the table and, had he not looked up, Benjamin would have been surprised by the sound of wine pouring down that same glass they had left forgotten. Her eyes never strayed from the glass as she spoke.
“Pretend, for a moment, that you've just come home from a long day. A long, tiring day doing what it is you do, it matters not to me. It is enough that you pretend that you've just come home and decided to indulge in a victimless sin.” She paused, and Benjamin knew it to be deliberate. “Indulge in your own flesh.”
Another moment of silence, this time, not so intentional. She took a sip, slow this time, savoring the taste.
“Pretend that I am not here at all. I will simply watch you.”
The impossibility of that flashed through his mind, but only so.
A clear, direct order. That, he could follow, or, at the very least, strive towards it. It was something to keep his mind away from the conflicting emotions this encounter was stirring, to anchor him to a reason and a purpose. This is for the project, to bear its weight and protect it from this city of rust, to help quietly the best way I can. Make it work. Make it good enough.
And so he thought. He could think of Ayin, but the idea was discarded quickly. Not the place for this, no, the light of his life had no place in the realm of shadows. If not him, then what? Benjamin swallowed hard as he lay back down, taking himself in hand. Nothing, then? Leaving his mind empty of all but this spectacle.
Yes, that would do.
He closed his eyes, listened to himself breathe as he stroked himself slowly. The focus was the sensation and the sensation alone. The tightness between his legs. The sensation of heat and pressure that came with it. The slow but steady cadence of his strokes. Had he the time, he could have spent a good while just in these initial stages, a muted slow pleasure reaching a trancelike plateau.
Benjamin could feel her eyes upon him. This is a performance. A play for an audience of one.
He opened his eyes again.
This time, it did not surprise him to see her looming over him, holding her half-drank glass of wine in one hand. The laziness in her stare hadn't fully left her, but it had changed to resemble more like a cat resting on a cool windowsill. Ears up, like she knew she was hunting but did not quite know what yet.
His hand sped up into a steady pace as he tossed his head back, letting out a sigh. It felt like being watched under a microscope, but he could set his mind aside, letting the heatwaves wash through him. His back arched, the motion inciting pleasure just as much as it was derived from it. A little quicker, a twist to the wrist at the tip and it was easy enough to let himself go—
“Stop.”
He let go of his cock and it slapped pathetically against his belly. With a sharp inhale, Benjamin looked up, swallowing down his frustration, only to see her looking down on him, eyes brimming with comfortable arrogance.
“I did say you would have to keep up with me. Surely you didn't forget…” She allowed her words to drift in the air, lingering like smoke.
Her fingers brushed his torso, following along the invisible line that bisected his body. A shiver ran up his spine, smothering the bodily frustration at being pulled from the edge just as he was about to fall. Pointedly avoiding his leaking cock, her hand gripped his thigh. Benjamin swallowed hard. Was this what she was thinking of when she touched him at the table?
Garion let out a sigh, gently parting his thighs before sitting between them. With frightening ease, he picked up one of his legs, placing it on her lap as he gasped. Her dark eyes, half-lidded, appraised his body without reticence, with none of the ceremony that he had deemed lacking. Instead, she stroked down his leg, from the protruding bone at his hip down to his knobby knee and thin ankle, only to start from the beginning like one would a cat.
“A kindly, well-learned young man, seeking money for a little project with his friends,” she intonated slowly, her heavy cadence jumping from syllable to syllable as if pondering their meaning.
Nervousness crept back on him, a crude reminder of the danger he was in. An Arbiter. Boogeyman of grown men and fairy tale monster of the most radical realists. As if picking up on his growing unease, she tilted her head to the side as if to pick up sound better.
“Have any of them touched you like this?”
She punctuated her phrase by gripping the base of his cock. No haste to it, but she compensated with a firm grip, pushing a gasp out of his throat. Her eyes flicked to his face, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.
“Has anyone?”
“N-no,” he managed to groan, trying to get his bearings as she stroked him.
“The silent song of unknowing,” she muttered, eyes running over his form. Taking the new information into account to analyze his every action until that moment. “That is not a tune I have the pleasure of hearing often. I should reward you for this, no? For this generous gift, freely given.”
Benjamin screwed his eyes shut, taking in a deep breath as her hand worked him. The touch of another—both too much and not enough, this pace that was not his own. Searing hot sensation ran up his spine as he squirmed, his only focus being on keeping himself together. His heart quickened as she cupped his balls, toying with them and intensifying the sensation up his cock.
“Attend to your breathing,” she warned, but her voice was so far away. “Lest you unravel yourself too fast.”
Breathing!
Until then, he had been holding his breath, tensing his every muscle as if it would stop the inevitable, but Benjamin was nothing if not a listener. He attempted to relax against the rising waves, taking deep breaths as she played with him, focusing on the tip of his cock. Garion let out a hum, an ironic cooing noise low in her throat.
He gritted his teeth, keeping his eyes shut as he squirmed. As if Benjamin had incited her prey drive, she rubbed her palm on the tip of his cock, circling—
Then she let him go.
He whimpered despite himself, feeling the brisk air hitting his warm skin. Her hand gripped firmly at the base, making him pulse into nothing as his body begged for release. With his jaw clenched, he narrowed his eyes at her, like a wounded animal, as she held his reddened cock.
Her dark eyes shone with arrogance as she smirked.
“Money, projects, friends. Your heart in your mouth, without a doubt. So much so that you've decided to sell your body for it. Was it worth it, you think? Now that you're in the beast's maws. A project, you said,” she repeated and with every repetition hammering it home, the mockery grew even as her tone remained unchanged. “Is this worth it, to hand yourself to another? How much can you afford to lose for this little win?”
“Yes.”
The answer came to him before his rational mind caught up to her words. It came to him before he even thought of thinking of the answer—that much seemed to have caught her eyes, for her expression receded back into neutrality as he swallowed hard.
“I truly believe in this,” he said, trying to reconcile his indignation at her implications and his prudence in his situation. “I believe that it can be done, that we can make it through. It is near and dear to my heart—”
Garion scoffed and it was the first time he saw her openly offended rather than staring down at him from her perch. With a deep breath, Benjamin found it in himself to push himself up on his elbows, meeting her intensity with his own.
It was hard to look at her. Her eyes were always half-lidded as if in boredom, but they had a magnetism of their own and trying to escape their draw was a futile struggle. This time, however, something filmy and rotten had drawn its curtains. Looking at the sickly inquisitiveness of her gaze, Benjamin remembered Carmen's words—the disease of the mind.
Even there, Benjamin wasn't sure if it was the same as the terror Carmen warned them of. That one always had a solemn characteristic to it, like it was pervasive and perverse, something that afflicted the whole of humanity. This was not it. Garion's eyes had a diffuse dissatisfaction, a vague depletion to them. Someone who yearned to devour that which should only be looked at.
He would most certainly not tell her this, but part of him pitied her.
A scoff, a movement, a tightening grip on the waist to keep him still, and she reached for the nightstand—when had she opened the drawer?—and took a small bottle from it.
“Be a darling—” The pet name dripped with venom— “and hold your legs up for me.”
Gulping hard, he placed his hands on the back of his knees and pulled his legs up, thoroughly exposed. Her eyes drew downwards, lazily, and she let out a sigh. Benjamin wasn't sure what to think of it, if this was her subdued disappointment—
His thoughts came to a halt as she opened the bottle, tipping it over to spill its contents in that most intimate crease of him.
With a gasp, he recoiled even as he willed his body to remain still, feeling the cold touch of lube right where he was most sensitive. Her lips curled up in a cruel smirk, and in a moment, the tenuous grasp he had on the conversation was snatched from his hands as her fingers drew down his thigh just so, making his fair hair stand on end.
With just one finger, she pressed his entrance lightly, as if staking her claim. Her smirk had all the gloating of someone who knew their place in the world.
“A man's body has secrets, the same as a woman's. Hidden pleasures if you will.” She was talking all too idly for someone prodding his asshole with the pad of her finger. “Most men live their entire life crawling on their bellies so unaware of their own flesh. So unknowing of themselves. But not you, now. Certainly not anymore.”
The sensation was wholly new, invasive yet pleasurable, and his heart pounded on his chest as she leaned over him like a gargoyle, pulling back for just long enough to take that bottle again, pouring its contents liberally over his aching hard cock. The cold made him twitch pitifully at the jolt of sensation, but she made a mocking-cooing noise deep in her throat and took his cock in her firm grasp, stroking him as heat pooled in his lower stomach.
As her fingers trailed down again, his breath caught in her throat and she admonished him gently with a grunt. So he found it in himself to train his breath, attempting to relax into this gentle intrusion. Her hand worked his cock slowly, focusing on the sensitive tip, rubbing her thumb just under the head as she probed one finger inside of him up to the first knuckle, easing into the tight ring of muscle. How is she so dexterous, the mad question came to him as he let out a long exhale and she took the opportunity to probe a little further inside, only to pull back fully, teasing him, and with each cycle it grew easier as she kept at it, soon adding a second finger and he let out a weak whimper, this strange invasive pleasure hazing his mind. As Garion let out an appreciative albeit condescending hum, Benjamin felt himself throbbing in her hand.
“That's enough experimenting for today, don't you think?” She spread out her fingers like opening a pair of scissors, stretching his hole open, and he whimpered, dizzy with arousal. “You've been so gracious, I suppose I should allow you your little death.”
And then she—Garion, this awfully cruel woman, she penetrated him with two fingers, plunging as far as she could, with no warning—
She fucked him with her fingers, there was no other word for it. The back and forth motion, the grip of insides, the way she stretched his hole experimentally. Benjamin felt used, but not in the pragmatic if animalistic way he had come to expect from her, but more like a prized toy she played with. His breath quickened as he found himself biting his bottom lip, muffling his noises as she fucked him in tandem with the strokes of her hand on his cock, a loud wet sound filling the room with each twist of her wrist.
“I will do you more, even. I will give you one secret, as a gift. A little observation I've made over the years.” As she paused, the only noises in the room were the wet rub of flesh and his own breathless whimpers. “All of us— from the lowest scum to the brightest star—we are all soft on the inside.”
It came to him that this was her vice of choice: prying people open until their insides bloomed. Until they showed their soft bits to her sharp fangs. Until—
Benjamin moaned, loud and unabashed, as her fingers curled, pressing a soft spot inside of him like a button.
His body tightened, his hands begging for something to touch. In his blind desire, he pulled his legs further back, debasing himself further by bending himself in half to give her better access to his hole. In response, she let out a nasty chuckle, mean and— it was mockery, most certainly, but had she not been who she was, Benjamin would have thought it good-natured, the light-hearted gloating of a skilled lover. For a second, he closed his eyes and it was as he dreamed and her burning touch was just rough enough to denote want, that this laughter was a moment of prideful affection. Soft whimpers ripped through his throat at the thought and her hand quickened, never hasty in its steady grip.
“Look at me,” she ordered and his eyes opened, only to see her consuming his field of vision, leaning over him and staring into his eyes intently like an animal.
He wasn't going to last long like this.
“I—” Whatever he wanted to say got caught in his throat as she curled her fingers just right, rubbing the spot and sending sparks up his spine, sensation rising to a crescendo. He squirmed in place, letting go of his legs involuntarily.
His toes curled as he trembled, setting his legs down, but she didn't relent, and for a moment, he thought he saw the tip of her tongue darting out, wetting her lips. Her eyes remained half-lidded, but there was a haze of self-satisfaction that coated that empty gaze with languid pleasure. As his back arched, his heels dug into the mattress and the motion made him thrust himself into her hand, into her fingers, and a jolt of pleasure shot up his spine.
The violent crescendo came in waves and he couldn't tell if this spiral was taking him up or down and he tossed his head back into the pillow—
“Look at me,” came the growl, the growl of a sphinx, so dignified and no less savage for it.
Ever so obedient, he looked up, chin to his chest as he whimpered, and her eyes threatened to overwhelm him. Black, intense eyes like looking into the abyss. Her lips were slightly parted and—and she stroked him fast, working him with that coarse touch, coarse like sand, too rough and yet, it was like fire running under his skin, the pressure building—
Benjamin held her stare as he spilled himself into her hand, strong spurts as he twitched. A moan ripped from his throat unbidden as her gaze held his with an intensity he couldn't help but be attracted to. As she kept stroking him, lengthening his pleasure, Garion let out a short sigh, tilting her head to the side to inspect him better. The pleasure waned, but she kept pumping her fingers into him, until the aftershocks made him twitch and tremble.
She slipped her fingers out of his hole with a wet noise, a brief sensation of both relief and emptiness washing over him as he whimpered.
But then she cupped his balls and began stroking him in earnest again and Benjamin noticed it very much wasn't over. A flare of pleasure so sharp it bled into pain shook him from his haze. She leaned over, those charcoal eyes aflame with the thrill of the hunt.
He made an undignified, sobbing noise, and she leaned in, one hand planted on his side while the other pumped him with none of the finesse or rhythm from before. An one-sided struggle, for her deathly composure had retreated into a deadly mask of empty eyes and prey drive. In the madness of pain, he held her wrist between them—it didn't stop her, this overstimulation clouding his judgment as his abdomen flexed, his upper body rising from the mattress and getting closer to this beast of shadow and death he had chosen to bed.
He leaned in, and, for a moment, they were close enough that their noses brushed and, even amidst the haze of pain, he could feel her warm breath on his lips, the dizzying sensation of inhaling another's air. And—she didn't do it hastily, no, but she let him go with a heavy sigh, her brows furrowing in strangeness as if he had truly caught her off-guard.
The relief that settled in his bones didn't allow him to do more than note on her shift, however, as he blinked away tears that had budded in his eyes. He felt a light brushing of her knuckles along his side, and, despite himself, he shivered with this gentle caress. Closing his eyes, he caught his breath, his body used like a well-loved dog toy.
When he opened his eyes again, she was standing over him, with one hand settled on his knee.
It occurred to him, then, that she could disappear with him if she wished to. There would be no consequences, not for her. Garion could, with no reproach, do as she wished with him. Instead, she merely stood there, silent, pensive. Her eyes, which had been so focused on him mere minutes prior, had turned empty. Her gaze was fixed on the wall, staring at the air as if she could decipher the empty space between the atoms if she glared at it hard enough.
“Have you had wine before?” Garion asked, her voice strained, although she hadn't strained it much.
Huh?
Stunned between the fall from his own high and the strangeness of the sudden question, Benjamin blurted out his answer, tongue heavy as he recalibrated himself.
“Yes, a couple of times.”
She nodded.
“Many will swear by the heart of their dead forefathers that naturally aged wine tastes different. Me, I've never felt the difference. It was all the same, even though I can tell apart the nuances of aroma and taste. Yet tonight, I can say that it was a tad sweeter than usual. Fascinating.”
Her eyes drew down to her own fingers. The stickiness of lube still clung to them, the only physical proof that she was in any way involved with the disheveled state he was in. His limbs still felt leaden as he remained splayed on the bed, his spent clinging to his belly and fingers. Taking in a deep breath, Benjamin quickly realized that the night was not done yet, which could only mean she wanted more of him and that felt impossible, he was a young man fairly fit but he would come apart at the seams if she tried to do it all again—
She got up in one smooth motion and turned her back to him, no more ruffled than when they started. The contrast between them both must have made for a pornographic display. An Arbiter, in her golden-lined furs and impeccable dress. This young man, utterly undone in body and mind, naked with his sex curled against his thigh, soft and reddened and vulnerable. Perhaps knowing this, she let out a sigh and flicked her wrist in dismissal.
“This hotel room has been rented for today and tomorrow, but I do not think I will be coming back so soon. You may make use of the facilities as you please, room service included. I will pay for whatever you wish,” Garion said, and, although he could not see her face, it was easy enough to imagine her vacant expression, staring at something far beyond him.
“Are you leaving?”
“I need to release this pent-up energy.”
With a flurry of furs, she walked towards the door, steps light as a spring breeze. Benjamin could do nothing but gawk as she so easily slipped away. Yes, he hadn't expected to be pampered, but this? As if picking up on his confusion, the Arbiter stopped at the door, hand on the doorknob.
Leonine in her manners and posture, she looked over her shoulders, squinting her eyes.
“Do you like pheasant?”
What?
After a brief moment, Garion must have noticed how he had been stunned by her words, for she simply shook her head.
“They have a lovely dish of roasted pheasant with plum sauce, this place.” Nothing in her expression denoted any particular preference or pleasure. “You could use gaining some weight. I will ask the kitchens for it to be delivered here on my way down.”
Pheasant! Benjamin had to hold back an incredulous laughter. She had used him as she deemed fit and now this? The cold air brushed his skin like the touch of death.
“If you so desire, I may acquire your services again. I imagine we could have many productive conversations.”
He could not bring himself to utter any goodbyes.
And so she left.
Still undone in these unfamiliar sheets, Benjamin did not plan on seeing her ever again.
The Arbiter was still awake when they came to retrieve the bodies.
“Her amygdala.”
When Ayin spoke, Benjamin listened. When Ayin spoke of Garion—he couldn't betray that he knew her name—Benjamin hesitated.
“What?” Benjamin said, pretending as if he didn't understand what Ayin meant just by the frown of his eyebrows and the slight downturn of his lips.
“Her amygdala isn't firing.” In a rare moment of elaboration, Ayin pointed at the real-time brain scan showing on a 5-inch-wide monitor. A knob at the center remained steadily in shades of gray, even as other areas flared with colors as muscles twitched with every shock of electrical stimulation.
While physiology wasn't either of their specialties, the implications were abundantly clear. One's amygdala was what most drew close to animals and humans—dare he say Abnormalities as well—the center of one's strong emotion, liberating reactions, to the point that it could overrun one's own conscious will. A hijack.
“It must be hurting,” Benjamin pointed out. He spared a glance towards the monitor. With its smaller resolution, perhaps the sight would be more bearable.
He lasted about three seconds before his throat spasmed with a retch.
“Maybe.”
Ayin's words were final in a way that wasn't easy to comprehend, but that his ever-present companion knew well. If her amygdala wasn't firing, either she was too out of it to feel or she didn't even react to the blood eagle state of her body. Either possibility made Benjamin's heart ache. Nevertheless, he trusted Ayin with his life and his will. He had laid with the Arbiter for this reason and he would defile her body for no less. This wasn't worse than how she had left Kali.
Pulling Benjamin back to reality, a loud buzzing noise blared in the room.
In the corner of his eyes, he could see it, the flare of gold lasting only a moment, cutting through the grain of the dingy monitors. Both men held their breaths, waiting to see if something else would happen, if their captive would finally stop playing with them and bare their claws once again. The jarring sound faded, leaving only the tap of a pen on the desk.
Ayin was always a quick thinker.
Had this happened a couple of years prior, Benjamin was sure that he would have had the pleasure of seeing one of Ayin's contained smiles, a left-sided upturn to his lips that made Benjamin's heart flutter. Yet, then, there was no such glimmer of cleverness, only a mad glint to his yellow eyes—which, no doubt, Benjamin shared—as they both formed the same hypothesis together.
There was no need to say it out loud: Ayin knew and Benjamin knew.
“I will go inside.”
“I must insist you don't.” Instinct dictated that Benjamin grab Ayin by the arm, but that was something that he could never bring himself to do, for touch could so easily betray him.
The fine-tuning required to reproduce these results without further damage to the brain mass would most likely demand human interference.
“I can program a control system, one that can fine-tune the stimuli enough to produce the desired result.” It would take too long. Garion was kept alive by a thread: the longer it took, the more labored her breaths became. Not only that, but, with every step down this path they chose, they were falling until they couldn't rise.
Ayin did not answer.
His mentor, his dearest mentor that made his heart ache, was always so scant with words. If he gave Benjamin no answer, it was because he didn't consider his argument worth rebutting. Biting the inside of his cheek, he started concocting other excuses, other reasons, but he was not Ayin, he didn't have the revolutionary spark of thought. All that consumed his mind, leaving his whole body tense, was the thought that he must stop this madness, nip it in the bud.
I could go.
No.
That he could not bear.
Benjamin had many limitations.
As if reading his mind with those pale yellow eyes, Ayin tugged his arm out of Benjamin's grasp. Frozen in time, always too late, Benjamin's hand remained grasping the air as Ayin placed a communicator on the table before darting out of the door, down, down that dark chamber.
All Benjamin was left with were his chopped thoughts. The Arbiter and his lab partners and Carmen and Ayin and the scorched earth they were leaving on their path and all the other things he refused to think about. The walk down towards the Arbiter's chamber felt infinite, but, soon enough, Ayin's grainy lab coat appeared in the monitors.
“Ready?” His voice through the comms was grainy, too many walls between them now, yet to Benjamin, it couldn't be clearer.
Their sin began anew.
From the six monitors perched over the scene from every possible angle, Benjamin could watch the entire altercation. Every probe and every tube and every twitch of bound muscle. Her auditory cortex and brainstem, which, most puzzlingly, didn't stop flaring even when she was on the verge of death. From his faraway perch, all he could do was watch as Ayin provoked bodily reaction after bodily reaction. Despite her mauled body, whatever The Head—another name to the list of names Benjamin refused to think about—had infused her with still kept her going. As her heart rate increased with stimuli, as her blood pressure steadied with time, as temperature stabilized at—
The brain scan bled with new colors.
Her brain functions were activating.
Yet Garion was painfully still, no change in the pace of her breath from her left lung and her right lung had been beyond saving. The open wound, hastily patched together, its flesh quivered with every breath. As Benjamim forced himself to stare—never looking at her head, that he could not bear—he couldn't help but realize the situation. The silence. The way her head swayed forward so slightly.
She was conscious again.
Ayin was probing her brain and she was conscious again.
She was conscious again and she was biding her time—
“You need to leave, now,” Benjamin blared into the comm.
Ayin was always quick to think, but not as quick to act. Her eyes, pitch-black, snapped towards the camera as an orb of light swirled in her left palm.
Benjamin froze.
Before he could absorb the scene before his eyes, three monitors went pitch-black and two were obscured by golden smoke. His eyes desperately searched for the last one, only to watch, a mix of relief and revulsion simmering to a boil as the fog subsided.
Ayin was hopping out of the door in a moment. Garion's hand, bound to the chair as it were, shredded through the thick metal like it was made of jelly. Splotches of bright red dirtied the floor, mingling with the brown of old blood, as Benjamin realized, with mounting horror, that Garion had minced through the meat of her own left thigh to free herself as the rest of her body hung from its bound seat, syringes broken and tubes pulling at her skin. All his muscles were frozen and it was as if a dam had broken, for he could not stop staring at this beastly woman, opening her jaws to gobble up one last meal in her dark, lonely belly.
Ayin's voice, Benjamin's anchor, brought his horrified gaze to a stop.
“She can be made to remember,” he said, breathing labored as he ran from her chambers back to the control room.
Benjamim should have celebrated the emotion in Ayin's voice, but all he could see was the brain scan in the monitor, the activity in her frontal lobe firing electrical impulses. She was awake. Somehow, she was awake and—curse his heart—it must be an unbearable pain.
Benjamin was fast to think and, curse his amygdala and his heart, faster to act.
He opened the vents in her chambers, cycling gaseous Enkephalin into the room.
The effect was immediate. Her brain scan signaled the diminished activity, the amygdala remained ever gray, even less oxygen being absorbed as her heart rate decreased back into a steady thumping and then lower. The green gas covered all the remaining monitors, mixing with the sickly yellow smoke, making it impossible to distinguish anything but shapes inside the chambers. His only solace was seeing Ayin's fast gait along the corridors.
Except that the entire array of Garion's measured body functions was still before Benjamin's eyes. That auditory cortex flaring in bright colors, despite her—or because of her failing senses. If some were failing and others were missing altogether, the remaining brain scan, oxygen rates and heartbeat were enough to tell him: between the damage from Kali and what she had just done to herself, she would die if left unassisted.
His first thought was to raise the flux of Enkephalin.
However, to allow her to sleep was not an option. She was tethering close to death, body receiving fluids and basic nutrients just enough to keep her alive. To activate the vents, fill the place with more gaseous Enkephalin, enough to make her fall asleep, which would be like attempting to put a sick animal under anesthesia. Maybe she would wake up, maybe not.
Ayin was too far away.
Benjamin was the one with the controls to the substances connected to her systems.
[Inject her heart with adrenaline]
[Inject her heart with adrenaline]
[Inject her heart with adrenaline]
That was the only time Garion reacted at all. Eventually, Benjamin found it in himself to enter her room, but by then, she could barely be called alive, that mauled body kept barely stable through much effort. She was still watching, though. Her eyelids fluttered and her pupil contracted under the garish Enkephalin-fueled lights. By the time her heart stopped beating, a sound faded into the background, he still couldn’t look her in the eye. He knew she was looking at him, though.
For the Head—perhaps fitting to the name—the quintessential part of a human was the brain. It was the brain activity that determined whether a person was dead or alive. No matter how many pieces of them were remade and substituted, as long as there was enough brain matter—to their ever-shifting, arbitrary standard—the person could still be deemed the same. By the Head's standards, she was still Garion. Were she to be found, they would put her back together good as new. Those thoughts, as logical as they were, did not assuage Benjamin as they placed her still moist patchwork brain into the full-body prosthetic.
When it came down to it, it had been Benjamin's idea to give her new metallic body the furred cloak, the gold of the stars.
Later, when they were placing brain after brain into hulking machines of stainless steel, silicon carbide, and preserving fluids, Benjamin asked if Ayin regretted anything.
His answer had a fire to it as he said never.
That much was enough to renew Benjamin's spirits. Although that only lasted so long.
When his lungs filled with smoke, he persevered. When he laid in another woman's bed, bought and paid for with steel and gunpowder, cleverer yet still naive, he persevered. When they built their castle upon kneeling corpses, he persevered. For ten years, he persevered.
When it came down to him to recruit those who would work in L Corp, he persevered.
He chose them, he convinced them and each day more of a liar he became. Benjamin drew a ballot on those who would be encased in the Pillars, those with no hope of ever coming back—those meant to be vessels. He chose them and he remembered the other pairs of listless eyes he had stared at, all of those they had left stranded in the limbo between life and death. He watched as someone, whom he thought would be no more than a machine, blossomed into a confused young woman.
It was no big moment that made him break. Instead, it was a very mundane day in which Ayin, his dear beloved Ayin, his light so dimmed by blood and smoke and guilt, simply failed to listen when Benjamin called. In the dredge of mud and loneliness, he did that which he promised never to do: turn his back on him. Perhaps had it been something more meaningful, he could have convinced himself to stay away.
The truth is that he could never have done it. Never. He would never stay away.
That was his downfall, in the end. Benjamin was cast into the deepest depths, where everything sank—and so Hokma was born.
Chapter 2
Notes:
its binahs birthday and as such i put her in the meat grinder
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Behind his back, she called him coward; to his face, she spared him no words at all.
Mostly, anyway.
It was all well for him. After all, she could have her share of endless paradise.
“Lucky you the brain was all it needed, for you didn't have the guts nor the spine.” These were her latest words to him and that had been at least fifty cycles prior.
Her contained mechanical voice called his attention.
“Now, now. Where were we?”
Binah didn’t unsettle him the same way she once had. While she had lost none of her arrogance, her cape hardly billowed in the wind so far down, where the air was stale with enkephalin. The hexagonal patterns—although impeccably kept—did not have the same glimmer in the low light. Nevertheless, from time to time, her sole unblinking eye, a camera, would focus and unfocus on him, like she was watching.
Not that it mattered. She didn’t unsettle him anymore. They would meet on neutral ground under the pale glimmer of the Cogito-filled well.
“These are the assigned personnel for the next extraction. We’ve expanded with a new side branch over at U Corp.’s Nest,” he uttered, tapping a file with ten new names, ten names to be awoken from their slumber and sent to the eternal graves in Extraction. It was a shame, but it was as it was meant to be. “They need their own set of Abnormalities and gear.”
The last part was redundant, but Hokma was nothing if not attentive to details. He had to be, after all. It was, admittedly, rather impressive how she managed to keep a nonchalant air of arrogance even as she tapped her metal hand on the desk.
“How many children will crawl out of the well, then?”
“Ten.”
If the number surprised her, there was no indication. The metal boxes gave them little in the way of facial expressions, but Binah, in particular, seemed to be even more encased by their metal husks. Still, that time, instead of surprise, all she had for him was disdain in the lax lean on her desk, on the tap of her hands. When he gave her the list, he kept her at arm’s length as she took it. That single, glowing eye ran across the pages, painfully, slowly. Lingering. Taking her time. However, Hokma was patient. Binah had her role.
For every Abnormality extracted by her own two hands, there was also a need to extract the E.G.O Gear, for no other could do the things she did.
A flare of pride swelled inside him, running with the energy that fueled him. If even she, who had cleaved their lives in before and after, could have a place among them, a role to serve in this endless place, then surely all would be well. Given an infinite amount of time, his beloved Ayin’s precision could grow so great that there would be no more slumbering children.
Her voice, as it tended to do, pulled him back from his thoughts.
“Very well.” The cadence of her words signaled that this conversation wasn’t done. How could he tell in the stainless steel visage, painted pitch black to match her former life’s robes? Hokma could not answer that question even to himself. Maybe, in this endless span of time, he had seen her enough to predict her reactions by the twitches of her chassis.
Nevertheless, Hokma did not bring it up. His mentor, so near and dear to his chest, still struggled with the plight of those dead before the Arbiter’s raid. With faith and eagerness, this would be the cycle he could convince Ayin to stay. To close his eyes and rest. He would take care of the rest.
By the time Hokma looked away from the green-tinted walls, Binah had already left.
It was only later that same cycle that Hokma realized a pointed discrepancy between his own Records and this cycle’s reality.
Eden.
There stood a quiet, worried looking fellow. Eyes vacant, as was par for the course for an agent of the Extraction Team. If nothing else, the fact that he still gritted his teeth and grumbled while dodging away from the swipe of a howling wolf’s claw was indicative that he still had his wits about him, which was more than what could be said of most who perished under Binah’s jurisdiction. Saddled with steel in one hand and gunpowder in the other, the agent held a matchstick between his lips and yellow eyes littered his head like a crown.
All things considered, a perfectly ordinary young man. That was, of course, if not for the fact that he just brought to Hokma’s hands a report, on behalf of his mistress, that was utterly, completely wrong. The register, the record of the living dead inside Extraction’s walls, was one of his many duties and only of the few that he effectively had to share with Binah, which was not only unpleasant, but also had provided many difficulties.
Hokma, although he ought to have, did not bring the young man to heel where he stood, as the manager still trudged through expanding the Central Department and therefore could be none the wiser of what laid underneath the surface, not until the time was right. Angela, too, probably was already well aware of the discrepancy. While she could see all that happened in the facility, she would, more often than not, turn a blind eye to its depths.
His metal hand tapped his pen, clicking it on pace with the clocks. He felt like he could not miss a beat, even if he wanted to.
This version of him, this manager, he had come further than before. Gebura could be ruthless, but her demands were necessary for his mentor's path. There was a high chance that this version too would crumble before the next trials, restarting the cycle anew. Yet Hokma could not think that way, for that could only result in sloppiness. He ought to think like victory was the only choice. To let it go? Anathema.
Of course, that would hardly be a problem with any of the other Sephirot. They were children, guided by the same impulses they had always been guided. Only when their urges were quelled did they calm down and only when the cycle began anew did the fire burn again.
Not the Sephirah from the Extraction Department.
Binah, as it went her new name, was the same as he was. Their human minds had not been made to withstand infinite time, yet their sanity remained due to their metal bodies. That being said, perhaps the former Arbiter's grasp on reality had long slipped from her hands.
As such, he ought to treat her same as he would any of the others.
When the day ended, the night shift began. Cleaning up the corpses, maintaining the Qliphoth Deterrence at its peak, writing out every note from every new work and every detail from every ruthless Abnormality. With the pitiful children set to slumber and the TT2 protocol left at rest, Hokma could, if he so chose, leave his plaster-white walls and allow the night agents to do the necessary work. While he enjoyed his duty, for it was an essential role that no other could fulfill in this eternal theater, being required elsewhere was no shame, even if it rattled him.
As such, that did not justify his hesitation. Hokma stood, motionless, at the end of the Abnormalities’ hallway. The hum of the Qliphoth Deterrence echoed in the hallway, only undercut by the occasional twitch and rumble. Yin's containment cell was oddly silent.
Binah was no different from any other Sephirah.
For any Sephirah—including her—he wouĺd go personally convey his categoric complains, curt and simple. There was no reason to treat her differently. As such, Hokma clutched the evidence of the adulteration of registers in a folder and strode down towards Extraction.
If the grey and white of Record was nothing short of sublime, a gently clouded sky, there was something earthly to the Extraction Department that only its mistress could comprehend—and maybe not even her. With its pitch-black walls covered in runes of gold, the copper in the air stifled even movement. Copper and iron. There was no more sense of smell for him, no more human repulsion, but the information still told enough of a story about what happened in these depths.
As he stepped out of the elevator, all the workers’ heads turned towards him. Hokma thought, with a hint of amusement, that the sight of another Sephirah that was not their mistress must have been a rare one.
“I came here to speak to Binah,” he enunciated. With such a tall, cavernous ceiling, his voice echoed, like light shining through a thousand mirrors.
With remarkable synchronization, four heads turned to one another silently, only for one of them to step forward without a word, a tall woman with a high-ponytail and small pupils. With a shrug, she gestured deeper into the section before taking the lead.
Very well.
He only had words for their Sephirah either way.
Extraction was silent when its Abnormalities were contained. In other departments, even with the strictest of them, talking could be heard in the corridors, about one or other Abnormality or perhaps about the cafeteria's pasta. Even in his own section he could catch glimpses of them looking over their shoulders before whispering to one another.
Not Extraction.
In this black cave, carved out from the earth with its symbols of gold, the walls had ears. There was nothing to be said, only felt. The agent guided him further down this graveyard without saying a word.
It suited him enough.
After a couple minutes of walking, their steps echoed by the impossibly tall ceiling, they came into another hall. In these depths, there was a strange moisture to the floor and the walls and Hokma hardly felt compelled to knock on the nondescript door that the agent had brought him to. As if to spare him, however, the agent took it upon herself to raise her hand and rap on the door first.
A posh, raucous voice, made synthetic by the strain of the voice box, answered, “I imagine only something truly unusual could have brought one of you here at a time like this.”
Nyalurat’s eyes grew vacant, as if waiting for her mistress to properly direct her a question. Instead of trying to decipher whatever intricacies Binah had imposed over employees—her and her odd displays of power swiftly left a lasting mark on whoever dared to work here—Hokma piped in first, cutting through the pleasantries.
“I’ve come here to talk to you. It should be brief, provided there are no complications.”
“You.” There was no disdain, no growl. If nothing else, her voice seemed to have picked up. “What a rare occasion. If you insist, then, come on in. I will not stop you. Be careful, however. You wouldn’t want to see something that would result in an undesirable outcome.”
Hilarious, wasn’t she?
As soon as the door opened with a golden-black glimmer, the agent scurried back like a rat, meek and nervous. Annoyance sparked inside Hokma as he fiddled with his clock. If Binah thought herself that clever, then she was wrong. Without losing even a second, Hokma strode in, shuffling his legs inside. The door closed behind him.
Only three agents were inside, alongside the cloaked figure of their Sephirah. The trio were more experienced in this loop, if his memory served, but there was no wit or strength that could save them here. Blindfolded and equipped with heavy industrial headphones, they did not even twitch with the metal steps that echoed in the cave. The same could not be said about their mistress.
“So you’ve graced me with a visit.” Her voice, garbled by the strain of their voice boxes, didn’t sing with the same lofty grace, dragged down to earth with venom and vitriol. “Since you insist on my presence, take a seat. It will take but a moment.”
As she stepped out of the shadows, gait straight and pointed even in these prosthetic substitutes, she guided another by hand. One of the poor, slumbering children, the living dead. At the beginning, ballots were drawn, those who would work and those who would sleep. The unlucky enough to have been chosen for this remained in stasis, they peered beyond the veil and were sent to sleep inside the black monoliths that made up the walls in this place. Here, where reality was thinnest, he could see the silhouette of the dormant, already having been injected with Cogito to start their final transformation.
“What I have to say will not take long either,” Hokma rebutted, unwilling to stay longer than needed. “You’ve sent me a report that was discrepant with the register. I’ve come here hoping that it was but a mistake of relayed information.”
“It was not.”
It could never be so simple. He already knew that. As Hokma had attested many times, this prosthetic body could still feel something akin to a headache. Binah, without a lick of shame, blinked that camera of hers. Her cloak, or what remained of it, dragged on the floor, its fur matted with disrepair.
“Let us skip the pleasantries: wait a moment. We have all the time in the world, while the drawn flail in anguish. The ones you requested have already been pulled, but work never ends.”
“I am under the impression that my answer will not impact your decision,” Hokma bitterly answered.
A metallic growl-laughter echoed in the room. Her metal hands were not as agile as they once were, yet a succession of swift taps to the shoulders of two agents was enough to make them move. They took eight synchronized steps ahead before standing right in front of the monolith. As if smelling the warm human bodies so very close, the thin barrier of the pillar shifted and yielded. Hokma blinked and, for a moment, the world wavered. His vision struggled to fill in the gap of existence, constructed images from incomplete information swayed and droned with a sibilating ridge of the wall.
That was the only way he could describe the scene.
A pitch-black tear in reality, lined in gold, as the pillar ruptured open, released foamy water in a rippling surge into the unexpecting agents. Meanwhile, Binah, her remaining assistant and the drawn stood quietly, blind, mute, deaf. From the gaping hole, a smooth, thick snout poked out, like a reptile breaking from an egg, pushing more water out like a gaping waterfall. From it, the Abnormality—and now Hokma knew it to be an Abnormality—wiggled, as if struggling from the canal of reality. A double maw filled with human teeth revealed itself and an earsplitting, humanlike wail pierced through the air.
Unamused by this display—no doubt a consequence of his mechanical mind sheltering his humanity from reality—Hokma stood still, watching his pocket clock tick as the creature groaned and whimpered, its body pushing itself out in a pitiful writhing.
Pallid dorsal fins and blown-out eyes poked out, but Binah remained still. Only when the creature flopped over, half of its body slumped heavily on the floor, did Binah raise her hand and a pair of chains sprouted from the floor like thick, wizened roots, tying themselves around the Abnormality’s thick body. As if compelled by impulse, the two assistants standing near the monolith turned over and held on tight to the chains with both hands while the sad creature blubbered choke-out noises like a baby. With every flop of its clumsy body, a pair of rainbow-colored tongues lolled out and more water poured out with a deafening crash. While it had first appeared to be a shark, as more and more of its body got pushed out, truth made itself evident in a pair of stubby, chubby legs kicked vigorously, like a toddler having a tantrum.
Hokma observed, with marked detachment, as Binah tapped the shoulder of that third agent.
At ready, they drew their sword—long, blunt, bandaged fully—just as the Abnormality darted out in an euphoric rush of bubbles. The agents let go of the chains as they rattled and tightened, drawing taut as the beast wailed. Binah’s skills, ever unfolding, proved themselves essential over and over again: the two agents near the monolith drew still as the third fought off the beast alone, aided only by the thrall of the E.G.O gear they wore and the Arbiter's chains. And the wailing—
—cut short by a sharp hiss of a sword cutting through the air.
The creature swirled into itself, an egg as tall as an agent, made of a cyan gem and scales the color of the ocean in a fine morning.
Hokma wondered, for but a moment, if these blind-deaf agents knew the scope of their mistress’ power. If they wondered why couldn't she help them, why couldn't she take them all under her wing. His musings, however, were cut short by another flurry of movement. The two other agents had taken the living-dead by the arms, the poor soul utterly divorced of their will, shoved into the gaping hole of the monolith. The water, which had spilled in gallons, sucked itself back, seemingly consuming the drawn, closing around itself. In a flash of digital snow crackling his view, it rebuilt itself, once more simply closed.
As the agents carried the Abnormality egg off to its new containment unit, Binah finally approached him, wholly unfazed. Even in this mechanical form she retained a serious gaze, although at the moment she seemed to be using the remainders of her expressiveness to convey what he could only describe as a sarcastic drawl.
“Isn't it funny, how these sights that are now so mundane to us would have driven any of them mad?” she prompted. “Still, even our views are muted, muddled to protect us. For you more than me, naturally. But even I have the barest of protections, a spider’s thread holding me to this reality. To keep me sane, yes? What a laughable shield.”
Hokma thought of the digital snow, of the flashes of strange water as he realized the floor wasn't damp.
“You swim in the waters I can only wet my feet in,” he conceded out of politeness. “Regardless, I see nothing to be amused about.”
Her annoyance was evident by the slight pause, but he couldn't care less.
“It is for the best, these metal bodies. Otherwise I would have chewed my legs to escape this snare.” A gratuitous and utterly useless remark.
He took his pocket clock, looked at the time.
“Luckily you cannot,” he pointed out. “I did not come here to listen to your pointless drivel, however. You and I both have our own posts that cannot be abandoned. I am here merely to ask: your agent has brought me a record. However, the contents of it are not in agreement with what I’ve sent you.”
“That is true indeed.”
Of course. Hokma had long found out that this body could have a headache, yet it still surprised him every time.
“May I ask why then?”
She visibly shrugged, even without shoulders—the cape billowed behind her in a distinctive gesture of indifference.
“The tombstones of the dead, they have their own will. And so do I. If one calls to me more than the other, it is pointless to attempt to silence the wanting wails of the dead, they never tire their throats. It would result in nothing but those creatures, all of that existed, exists and will exist thrashing in our hallways, sowing death once more. Not that it matters to me or to you, but I myself much prefer the more interesting sights of a fully formed child of the Well.”
What a small, petty rebellion! Hokma looked at the monoliths once more, a strange contempt filling his chest. But wasn't it natural? With a sigh, or the closest approximation to it his voice box could produce, he closed his clock. No need to extend this. It was what she really wanted, after all, with this display and this disobedience. What was even the point of this display, of this foolish endeavor to show him the reality of this Abnormality, if any sight he would have of it was muddled by the cameras, if her hatred and bloodlust were long caged? Then again, he was the one to blame, to think her one to be reasoned with.
“Don't do that again. There is no point to it. Just deliver me a corrected version.”
That yellow camera of hers blinked slowly and he wondered, for just a moment, if that might of hers would surface again. Instead, she merely shrugged once, her cape like the pelt of a cat with its back raised.
“Naturally. Simply one more of my duties to be done.”
He did not say his goodbyes before turning his back on her.
The day Binah sprouted from her metal cage, she did not pay him a visit. They never truly paid each other a visit. That misplaced register was not the last time they saw each other, but, truthfully, it might as well have been. All the other times, scant as they were, it was as if they were two strangers.
So, when she did stretch her legs, freeing the Abnormalities with her, she did as they always did: ignored his presence. The ripples of her tidal waves, however, reached him all the same. Screams from the wounded, silence from the dead. Locks shattered open and the foul scent of burning metal. Death incarnate: nothing more and nothing less.
From the security cameras, it was hard to see her if one didn't know what they were looking for—that was, until a spray of blood colored the Central Command's halls, and then there was no blur of black or red to mask her. Desecrating the facility, floor to ceiling, death itself come cloaked in a rune-etched cape, she swooped in causing disasters with every step.
Her descent came with a flare of pride in Hokma.
The waves that dragged the employees beyond the undertow, this too was planned. Not once had he ever come so far and so that could only mean that the end was approaching. Although, why must it end, either way? The Sephirot were appeased and, by the end of the day, even Binah too. Her thirst had to be quenched in blood and perhaps she would never truly be happy, but, ah, was it a possibility for her?
Deathbringer, earthshaker, all these devastating things she may have been, but this too was only a moment in this performance.
A long overdue performance that brought back memories.
A cloaked figure, an eternity ago during another life. The despair searing in the heart of a young man, laced with the guilt of having brought a fox to the henhouse. His path laden with regrets to be ignored, one more to the list it was, as he watched a woman, with whom he had shared a bed, turn a friend into fragments so thin they scattered in the wind. All of it with a light step. Only so much of it had been watched during the occurrence, for he and Ayin had to escape together. While Kali had managed to save them, the security cameras, which Benjamin would later watch in a state Hokma could only describe as a self-imposed torture so pleasant as to justify the horrors, had captured in film the cruelty of an Arbiter.
Words couldn't describe it. Daniel's torment, Lisa's demise, even Kali, mighty and proud, too ended up far too similar to her namesake. The rampant Abnormalities, the swipe of the Claws, the eventual fall of the Arbiter—slumped over as if in slumber if not for her ever observing eyes and the E.G.O protruding from her chest.
This massacre was hardly any different.
Over 80% of active personnel were sent back to their gentle sleep and not a single person without an E.G.O suit survived. Hokma would have to work throughout the night shift to bring back more of these slumbering children, but that was hardly trouble. He was elated, even. Binah had been subdued. Tomorrow, the light of his life would visit again and, basking in his glory forever, Hokma too could simply remain in this newfound peace.
Forever.
Madness came for him too.
It was embarrassing, at the end. Hard to discern anything other than shame from the mess of emotions swirling in his mind. There was something contradictory in his feelings, he could tell, but his wounded heart could not be so easily soothed, gazing at his crumbled sandcastle once more, watching sand run through his fingers like in that faraway beach. The mutuality he for so long sought, he was the one to falter on it over and over again, even here. Nevertheless, Hokma would rebuild his house of cards again and again.
Even as he put himself together from his moment of weakness, the same thoughts still swirled in his mind. Yet he swallowed them back and deferred, once more, to his bright mentor whom he should never have doubted.
He watched, through these hallucinatory camera lenses, as Ayin’s eyes brightened for only a moment. Not the sharp glimmer of cleverness—that, Hokma feared he would never see again, perhaps he should have resigned himself to that a long time ago—but at least the gravity and grace of days long gone were there reborn and that would have to be enough proof that it was time to put an end to this play.
A few days later they would meet once more, the final stroke. Finality too added weight to his steps, for he knew what waited at the end. By then, his beloved mentor’s eyes had changed so much, so fast, Hokma found that he couldn’t keep up. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but share all the emotion in his heart. It was his last opportunity to do so and, at this point, he wondered what would have happened had he not kept his words to himself. At least, from there on, he wouldn’t need to.
This too was living, Hokma supposed. Living with an ever present scythe. If for a moment he had thought that the blade would finally fall, that their heads would roll in a line with his at the end, then that fleeting new glimmer of hope too was taken from him like all the others.
Of course, however, he always knew.
If asked, Hokma couldn’t quite tell how. He could provide reasoning. He could speak of Angela’s anguish and of Ayin’s aversion. He could even convince himself that the pieces had been laid out all along and that he simply happened to be the one that held them in his hands. However, the truth was that the signs he could now use to point towards this weren’t a sign of inevitability and attempting to rationalize this pain by telling himself that he could have predicted this would only induce more pain. In the end, he simply knew, the same way he always did in that human body: a churning feeling in his gut whenever something was about to change.
“So, I need you to fall asleep…What’s with those faces? It’s the rest you all longed for.”
A machine born of desires was bound to have desires of her own.
“This must be yet another consequence of his actions. I simply acknowledge all events as valid.”
And her? That beast of a woman?
Binah was unpredictable. So he supposed her rebellion was no surprise either.
Sephirah Protocol: Malkuth
Researcher: Benjamin
Results:
- Signs of instability upon being shown sepia photographs.
“Hokma and the Architecture Team, please stop Angela from taking over all the systems!”
As Malkuth rattled off instructions, Hokma found himself moved only by inertia once more. Like a marionette controlled by pulleys and strings, it was only automatism that moved him, the desire to push through one more hurdle, just this last hurdle until he could finally shed the weight of sin off his back. Control over both the Record and Architecture Teams was in his hands and he knew these systems better than almost anyone.
For every breach Angela knew, Hokma could dispute and fix it. Binah, however, was someone he could not contest. That job was for the others.
If he were to look at her for too long, he would see it again. In the back of his mind, there floated the memories of a young man that was no more, memories of a black-clad shadowy figure, seen through a pixelated monitor as the Executioners of the Claw flashed through so fast, they were just a blur. In contrast, she walked slowly. Freeing the scant Abnormalities they had, even back then they didn’t dare touch her. Exercising her cruelty with visible delight as she tore people apart into little more than a puddle of viscera. Men, women, children, it mattered not.
Right then and there, as Hokma fended off Angela’s attacks on the Lobotomy Corporation’s systems, keeping his silence and focusing on the task at hand was all he could do.
Sephirah Protocol: Tiphereth A & B
Researcher: Benjamin
Results:
- A shows no signs of instability being exposed to images of 19 different districts or images depicting the Outskirts.
- B shows rapid degradation of self upon exposure to pictures of the ocean.
- B shows rapid degradation of self upon exposure to picture books.
- B shows rapid degradation of self upon exposure to Abnormalities.
- Even while separated, A reacts to B's recalibration process.
“You’ll never get to spread the light for those seven days you all planned. It would last… hmm, perhaps four days at most? And I’d be left with only two or three days’ worth of light for myself. In any case, none of us will have won this battle.”
Hokma knew the proposal before she uttered it. A gut feeling, as ironic as it sounded. He could not tell the exact shape of her ideas, but he could hear it in Angela's voice.
Something shaped like dread coiled around his systems. Yet he knew it was so. Perhaps he could see the way the middle layer, Tiphereth and Gebura and Chesed, those with more haunting thoughts than fervent action, trembled at the thought of it all having been for naught. Perhaps he could see the tension of the upper layer, those poor fools who charged headfirst into their problems with not a thought in sight, as if they somehow could toss themselves on someone, anyone, and remedy all of this.
Binah, as placid as always, with her inane praise towards them, as if she hadn't been ruthlessly cutting down their employees. Yet that matted fur, drenched in blood, brushed the floor with the breeze.
Hokma did not give in, no. It was not giving in, it was hardly a compromise. It was a promise.
Sephirah Protocol: Binah
Researcher: Benjamin
Results:
4̵̗̿Ḛ̴̰̥̥̠̌̏ ̵̨̲̠͍̤̄̍̒̔̈͘ͅ6̶̲̳̻̠̤͋̏̀͠F̷̨̗͉̘̲̓́͆͑̄ ̵͚̹̋̈͝2̷̩͂̌̉͒͘͘0̷̢̯̝̻̮̗̮̱̓̃̀͐̕ ̸̡̛͔̙̩͎̟̃̔̔̍7̶̱̘̦̰̖͑̓͜3̴̦͍́̿̅ ̷̲̤̞͍͑ͅ6̴̡̹͖̘̯̄9̴̛̳̳̮̏͌̅́̓̉͠ ̶͍́͐͗̈̈́̕̚6̶̡̧̨̢̖͈̣̱̄́̊͑̍7̶̝̇̒̓͌͒̄ ̴̨̡͔̲̞̗̤̓̆͛͜͝6̷̡̡̫̥̜̘̑̇͛̿̍͝E̷̢̧̛̟̥̰͂͗̂̆̒̓ ̸͖̖̰̳̖̀̌́̃͝7̶̲̝͔̰͇̀3̶͕̱̣͍̖̘͎̐̇̋̉͌̈́͐ͅ ̵͔̲̥̖͖̰̪̂̒̓̓2̸̱͈͇̀̀0̷̛̝̳̠̙͇̣͚̿̐͘ ̴͍̱̹͑̓̓̓̑͊6̴̱͇̙̫̖̖̉̐͝F̵̛͇̈́̚͠ ̵̱̘̼͇̮̬̿̈̇̔6̴̢̬̹̒̋͂̄̀̾̽͜6̷̰̜͍̘̺̙͚̒̽̃͑͝͝ ̸̨̡̰͙̝̬̿̈͛́͌2̴̲̳̺͉͔̑͆̆̊̇̓̅͊0̷̡̻͚͈͈̬͐̀͛ ̸͕̻͍̌͋̎͌͋͝6̴̱͎̭͓̤̬̀̈̿̀̎͗͜4̶̝̭͂̓̓̽̈́̏̕̕ ̴̛̲̝̠̤̼̰͊̆́͋̌̈́̈6̸͓͖͙̟̹́͂̌̿̐̔̚͘5̷̟̿͒̿̂ ̵͍̼͉̗͔̘͑͆ͅ6̵̧͓̭͍̐̀̂͝7̶̢̧̓̉̈̌̒̕̕͠ ̴̢̭̙̱̜͚͈̋͜7̵̛̳̳͑̍̒̀͆͗̽2̶̜̻͎̽̓̍̾̾̕͝ ̵̲̎6̵̙̤̾́͆̇͑̑1̴̨̖͎͉͔̦̤̆̚ ̸̰̹̗̞̬̹̠̀͊̂͆̕6̵̟̹̞͚̀̋̏̎4̵̢̢͉̻̟͓͖͕̄̔͌̊̉͑͝ ̶̛͈̮̞͇̻̓͌̅̃͝6̶̙̲̀1̸̡̰̳̖̄͒̎̄̾̉͘ ̵̺͎͓͕͖͖̏̓7̶̜̮̞͓̳̯̜̿̍̍̇͌̌͜4̸̧̝̦̮͙̲̤͚͊̓͂̇̍ ̴̘̖̖̂̑̓͘6̶̢̛̒̉͌̀̔̀̕9̶̢̡̟̓͆̿͂͂̌̆ ̷̛̪̮̂̉̈́̅̑̒͝6̷̢̬̭̣̬̈́͝F̸̠̗͔̑͒̿̐͌͝ ̷̟̖̜͔̈́͠6̸̥̙͉͈̲̋͒͆̊Ȇ̸̯͇̯̘͖̾͛͗̏̓͘͝ ̵̯̹̺̤̝̟̜̍2̵̢̛̺͎̘̱̊͊̃ͅ0̵̡̛͑͐̀ ̶͓͚̻͇͇̊͗̃̈́̚7̵̧̤͙͙̤̣̌͌̄͘̕5̵̺̖͖̭̤͙̮͖͋̍̋̿̿̈́̚͠ ̴̬͔̬̤̐̚7̷̼͍̘̼̞̮̾̈ͅ0̶̨͎̝̼̄̋̈͊ͅ ̴̨̛̦͖̖͍͚̟̉́̏̊͠ͅ6̵̞͖͍̌̑̒F̴̻̱͔͎͔̘̈́̅̊̍̈̓ ̶̡̝͓̠̫͈̘̆͋̋͒̚͠͠͠6̴̪̰͋Ȩ̸̧̣̫̳͐̾̏̂͐͠͝͝ ̶͎̣̅̆̍̚2̴̭̘̰̯̻͇͕͚͂̃̓̄͘͝0̴̡̢̱͙̮͉̗̀̈́͠ ̵̧͎̱̫̥̠͉̫̒̋̃̌͂͂͒͘6̵̳̜̙͔͉̩̎͠5̵̨͙̭̒̇̓̚ ̷͕̹͚̱̲̈́̋̈̄́͝͝7̶͚̭͊̍͒8̸̮̝͉̃͛̊ ̶̙͚̲̰͕͈̀7̴̧̛̭͑̿̔͌̓0̵̺͚̙̈̉ ̵̨̭̫̤͋͌͋6̵͔̌͛͛͑͠͝͝F̷̮͚̯͚̺̣̔̑ ̵̢̗̀̓7̷̡̛̟̱͉̱̣̤̳̀̑͌́̀̕͠3̸̢̦͈̣̞͒̋̂̎͋̂̉ ̶͖̮̣͎̿̍̚̕̕͝7̷̪͛̎̿͛͝5̶̮̖͖͊̔̀̌͊̆ ̶̨̪̠̮̳̹͙͙̒̄7̵̨͔̦͈̖̜̃2̷͙̥̺̘͎̖̀̈͘͘ ̵̨̡̠̞̹̩͙̌6̷̲̊̏̐͛͠5̸̢̔̐̔̈́ ̸̪͕͎̯̽̽̍̽ͅ2̵̛̠̯̫͊̂͊̑̌̀͝ͅ0̴̳̠͔̊̏̎ ̷͋͜͠7̷̻̠͝͠4̸̛̛̹͔̺͉̮̂̃̎͘͜͜͠ ̵̳͇͂6̴̧̪̲͔͈̞̦̰̽͆F̵̧̂ ̸̫͈̭͊̊̄̌2̶͔̗͖̞͕̹͂̂̈0̷̰̗̀̂̈́̈́̓̍͝ ̸̗̥̄̋͗̕7̵̝̱̬͍̜̟̘̈̍̚0̸͙̃̕ ̷̳̗͉̗͔̔́͐̂͌̕͠6̴͔̯͚͍̺͕̉ͅͅ9̴̬̜͊ ̴̙̈́͌͝͝6̶̳͂3̴̪̤̼̀͆̓́̑̔̚ ̸͕͈̫̬̖͕̩̋͌̑̀̊͑7̴̩̤̺̱̠͂̽̆̔͌4̵̧̘̫̼̭͔̳̎̓̊̌͜͝ ̴̘̦̝̖̟͛͐̂͌̅͒7̵̢̛̛̦̘̥̪͎̻̔̊̅̒̀5̸̧̟̣̣̲͉̓̆̓͑̋͘ͅ ̸̛̙̮̘͗͂̍͑̄̈͝7̴̜̇̔̃̾̚2̵̠̎̀̀̽͋̋́͐͜ ̷̘̩̕6̷̩̬̠̓̎5̸̯̘̮͕͎̺̜̍̈́̄̇̏ ̷̻̯̒̈̊͝7̷̛̩̭̯̬̦͇̩̄̋̅̆͋̚3̶̹̀̔͊̍͠͝ ̷̡̫̂2̷͎̗͓̒̽ͅ0̷͎̼̠͕̆̅̎̀́͜ ̴̛̲̱͖̆̑̈́̆̿͝7̵̝̲̹̑4̸͚̹̭̣͌̽͛̓̌̓ ̸͈̯̠̉͠ͅ6̵̡̜͙͖̪̐͗́̔͑̆̈̾͜1̴̺̹͛̓̾̓̿̃̇͘ͅͅ ̸̘̰̰̺͎̣͚̈́͝6̸̨͎͍̘͉̫̈́̈́̀͌͂͜͝ͅB̵̡̹͎̦̯̠͍̏͂̎̚ ̵̮̤̪̹͍̦̏̐̚͜6̵̱̇̔͆̽͊͝5̷̲̙́̈́̈́̈́̆ ̶̨̳͔͕͈̖̄̓͑͊̽̈́6̶̣̹̘̦̪͉̈́̽̚͝Ē̴̼͚̭͇͙̈́̚ ̴̘̞̫̉2̶̱̻͓̣̗̻̀͒͒̀̚0̵̗̘͉̀ ̶̛͇̼̮͗̌̾̿͒̀6̵̡̺͓̗̭̪̋̿̆͌̈́9̷̰̖͐̅̂̅̓ ̸̧̧͚̜͛͗̎͑̉̏͠ͅ6̸̡̮͒͊̿͑̏̚͝ͅE̷͚̤̜̲̿̐͜ͅ ̷̨͖̃2̴̪͚̦̰͔̾̀̌͠0̵̘͙̫̟̌̀͘ ̵̥̮̘̝̯̘̇͗̍̾̑ͅ3̷̛̛̤̎̐̇̏̚1̴̠̀̿ ̶̡̝͎̝̫̚͜ͅ3̸̹͚̘̺̭̻̤̫͛̅̃̚7̷͖̙̰̊̊̚ ̷̢͕̺͖̤̪̉͗̈́̄̈͗͝ͅ2̵͇̼̠̋0̸͉̜̙̉̄ ̴̝̞̱̰̳̗͈̆̃͗̾̔͋̚6̴͇͐̋͂͘4̷̮̖̜́̃ ̸̧̟̭͖́̊̑̌̂͐6̸͕͓̬͙̌̈́̍͋̓̾̊͜9̷̜̻̫͓̦̙̤̿̕͝ ̸̛̬͂̽̇6̴̖̓̅̈́̄̏̆̏6̶̡͙̝̬́̎̇̀̌̒ ̶̟̳̻͌͑͌̋̌͆͂̚6̶͔̻̣̫̅6̵̡̳̲͇̮̘͖̤̑͐͛̂̈ ̴̨̢͕̫͖̠̏̽͛͠6̵̖̰̹̮͎͉̟̙̋̂͒͒̅5̶̢̥̤͙̱͎̲̮̾̀́͒̌̏͠͝ ̴̹̯͚̱̮̺̗͗̔̓̃̈́̐͂͒ͅ7̴̢̧̙̺̭͚̤̞͊̆̌̋͂̽̕2̶̣͉̯̙͖̌̄̎͒͌̾̀ ̷̞͇̬͔͕͂̀̉̅͘͜͝͝6̶̢̙̫̜̺͓̾͗5̶̨͈̯̖̮̘̇̇͋̀̾̕͠͝ ̵̖̱́̓̋̌̀͝6̷̨͖̺̘̰̪͚̖́̏̚͘E̸̫̫̤̖̽ ̸̙͙̠̱̚̚7̸͍̟͍̞͈̽̽̋̈̊͑̒͘4̴͓̺͎͈̺̒ ̷͇̥̆͒̈́̈́͆̈́2̸̡̦̯͎̰́0̸͇̰̙͇̒̌ ̷̡̭̪̫̋͋͑̓̈͊͂̃6̵̨̧̳̗͈͙̏͊̀̅͛ͅ4̴̨̭̝̄͑͛̔͗ ̶͓͙̟͓̟̟̻͙͝͝6̷̟́̃̽͐̾̅9̶̯̣̝͇̪̤̫͎̽̽͆ ̴̺̥̖͕̗̥͐̚7̷̜͓̪̂̈́̿̌̌͂͑͑3̸̨̮̤̬͋ ̸̨̫̼̬͒́͊7̴̛̛͎̯̥̮̬̂̂͘͘4̷̥̯͎̺̒͝ ̵̯̼͗̍̇̒͑͒̕̕7̷̱̮̰̲̬̘̥͒͗͐2̸̙͕̂̉́ͅͅ ̴̡̫͇̠̍̌́̆̓̚͠6̵̢̭̳̖̞͛͂̊9̶̥̗̪͖̙͂̓̂̉̽̑̚͝ ̸͉̆͊̑̾̔͑6̵͙̟͍̫̱͉͓̍̽͜3̵̖͈̱̠̅ ̴̨̜͎̅͑̚͝͝7̴͚̩͗͐̕4̵̝̬̦̊̐̚ ̶͔̹̭͖̬͂͒̑̿̚7̷̡̢̯̳͇̳̌̓̂͆̂̅̄̒3̶̛͓̝̾͐́̊̌̕ ̴͈̩̝̔͗͘͝͝2̵̫̯̳̲̣͊̑E̶̬̪͋̒́͊͆̿͑ͅ ̶̨̛͕̣͉̞͙̫̉2̷̯̤̗͚̺́́̅̿̈́̈́̈́0̵͙̰͓̃̅͒͋̆̀̀ ̵͖̫̱̥̦̈́͌̒4̴͉͇̬̓̅̔̆̒̚̚Ę̷̰̫͘ ̵͇͖̻̙͎̲̮̆̇͌̎6̷̩͘̚F̴̹̺̰͎͍͉̙́ ̴̝̰̄͐̏̾̕2̷̢̨̛͍̬͍͖̪͑0̶̝̟͑̈́̐ ̷̢̧̡̲̼̹͎̤̈́͘7̴̦̹̏̋̋̕ͅͅ3̶̻̏̅̓̄͋͆͠ ̸̹̃͐͒͆͒̈́̀̈́6̶̛̟̳͍̊̈̊̆͒̾9̴͕͎̀̀͂͘ ̶̻̤͖̭͗6̷̩̻̩̰͑̃̒̍̈́͗͋̈́7̶̖̰̻̬͙̅͊̐̓̍̓̅͜͠ͅ ̷͙̤̘͇͉͍̳̎̎̾̓̈́͗̚͘͜6̴̻̟̥͚͙̯͊E̷̢͖̤̪̻͂̑͝ͅ ̶̩͓̳̻͖̤̯̰̔7̴̥̠̥̯̺̏̈́̽͑́̌͜͝3̷̱̇̄ͅ ̷̗͉̣̳͓̇̈́̾2̶̧̜̞̜̱̲̤̪̐0̶̩̤̔̍̿̈́̕ ̶̢͔̹͔͓̮̺̂̓́̔̒͠6̷̹̲͖̦̣͊̊̅̉̇F̴̤̻̫͚̓͑̀̃ ̶̧̛̜̮͋͂͐͂́͝6̴̰̝͈̦͑͗̅͝6̷̜̗͚̻̟̭̃̎͐͋͛̄̕͝ ̵͚͙̆͂͗̓̾̚ͅ2̸̛̱̬͈̺̥̜̉̍ͅ0̶̤͚̱͖̥̀̽̇ ̴͍̤͕̠̹͈̱̑̔̊̊͊̾̊̓ͅ6̵̧̝̖͉̤̠̻͙̈́4̸̺͓͎͚̦͈̮̫͌̽͊͝͝ ̸̺͉̱̿6̵̙͊̂̔̏͜5̷̛̲̜̯̙̝͖̋͒̈́͐̏̏ ̶̢̛̫̻͉̼͕̼͎̉̋̍̎̓̀̕6̴̪̫̃̚̚7̴̰̘̝̞̦̈́͝ ̸̨̨̪̲̖͓̈̂́́́̇͒̕7̶̪̺͕̤̞̲̥̏̃̒̀2̶̡̌̊͋̓ ̶̫̩̦̩̲̥̊̿͋̂6̸̱͗̽͋1̷̡̬̝̳̗͒͗̓ ̷̜̪̮̳͈̻͂͑̅́̈6̴͚͚͊̅̏͠4̸̧̣̯͚̲̹͎͐́͜ ̵̼̬͚̯̪͛͐͝6̶̧̢̳͍̬̣̄̔̒͆̓͜1̷̢̯̙͙̻̩̅̉ ̶̧̛̝̳̰̟͍̄̈́͗̌̃͜7̴̙͓̯̥̉4̷̗͍͋͠ ̶̜̜͈̦̅̄̈͆6̴̟́̿̆̓̔̒9̷̡̠̻̪̮̤͕͝ ̶͇̥͉͍͉̈́̆̾̑͝6̴̧̲͚̠͈̀́͂͛̐̕F̷̨͖̏̇̄͒̀ ̷̱͈͍͕͓̦̀̈̀͛̋̒͊͝6̷̨̛̩̮̤̜́̎̽̀̄̂͜͠Ḛ̵̙̣̖̈́̈̌͜ ̷̧̠̩̟̞͐́́͂̈́̒͂2̴̫͉͍̙͈̜̤͉̀0̴̙̩̜͉̟͕̐̒͛̈́͌̉͊͝ ̷̫̜̤́̏͠7̶͇̠͔͚͈̣͔̃5̷͇͂̎ ̵̧͙̯̝̜̼͆̅̽̀7̴̩͇͖̺̼̈͂̔̓̍̚ͅ0̵̟̥̘̣̔̇ ̶̛̤̭̩͍̺͗͐̿̀6̷̝̱̺̳̾͆̈́̑̇̅͑̓F̷̛͍̩͕͓͔̺̈̈͛̓̕͠ ̷̮̀͆͋́͋̋6̴̳͆̈́̈̓͋̈́Ě̸̢̛̯̗̠̀̎͝ ̵̹͂͘2̴̨̢̦̬̥̩͖̅̿̐̋͌͋̈́̚0̸̦̣̣̑̄ ̸̼͎̞̣͌͒̍̆̈́̌͜ͅ6̴̢̮̠̫͉͙̿ͅ2̵̡͎̻̖̥̂͝͝ ̸͖̓6̵̯̮̤͚̬̗͇͕̊͑5̷͈̅̔̊̕̚ ̷͈̪͔͕͔͚̅̅̓̅̿̓͜͠͠6̵̛͎̦̰̜̪̑͑͌͘9̸̨̝̜̖̓̀̔ ̷̳̟̞̿͋̐͑̊̀6̷͉͕̒̀̐̃͘E̷̛̱̺͈̼̖̮͒̇̍ ̸̡̯̯̺̯̹̟͛́̎͗́͘6̸̨̹̲̠̠͆́7̷̢̙̠̟̜͑̏͌̂ ̸͓͈͒͒́̇͂̚͝2̷̡̪̜̙̦͕̫̿̓̅̽͐͜0̷͓͈̮̰̅̀̀͒́͊̚͝ ̸̜̒̃͂́̾6̶̝̖̱͌D̶͇̜̭̥̉̃́̕ ̸̯͑̒̃̅̋̕6̸͙͙̳͈̩͉̼͂̂͂̄̽̌͠F̸̛͕͖̖͈̮̄ ̷̺͍̯̠̓̌͒̓̀7̴̖̟̟̝̯̥͎͆4̵̡̪̱̭̩̠̟̳̎̎͝͝ ̵̛̫̹̱̰̰̆͌̇̃͌̉6̶̢̟̫̗̤̉͂̓͌̃͂͘ͅ9̵̟͔̦̲̭̣̲̱͗̽̐̊͌̃͠ ̵̞̬͙̙̳͙͖̣͝6̶̨̑̈̐̿̇́F̴̧̻̯͚̀ ̶̘̜̜̦̰̲͉̑̈̿̐̎̊͠͠6̷̻͚͇̈̓̾͋̎̈̂͝Ẹ̷̢̖̘͇̻͇̈́͠ͅ ̷͙̈̌͠6̵̹͓͉̣̪̱͈̯̆͆̊̽̽͐͠C̴̛̩̪̭͔̹̮̓̀͠ ̴̝̪͔̻͖̩̬͊̂̊6̸̭̪͍̬͂̀̅̄͛͜5̶͙̆͜ ̸̛̳̣̬̮̦͔̠́̽ͅ7̶̜͐3̷̧͈̳͕̤̎ ̵̹̲͖̑̾̿̄̓͒7̴͔͓̬̱͔̝͂̊3̶̨̤͕̦̥́ͅ ̶͔͍͛̃̆̆̂̕2̸̛̖̭̤͛̂̏̈́̚͝0̵̼͓̀͐̋̓͝ ̵̡̲́͝6̷͓̼̦̈̌9̸͚̣̑̎͋ ̵̘͂͆̈́̈ͅ6̷͉̳̜̲͍͚̋̎E̶̲̳̫̥̺̳̻̤͐̀́̚͝͝ ̷̮̪̎̊͆̈́͑̆͝2̶̢̦̘̝̂̋̈́̇̿͜0̸̨̪̻̻͔̦̪̎̌̀ ̷̧̹̞̬̰͈̤͎͐́̅̔̐6̵̡͚͔̗͈͙͎̀̈́̄͌́̅͠1̵̬͚̹̠͓̳̎̈̋͘͘ ̶̜̻͓͊2̷̛͖̯̬̞͋̇̔̇̅͘͠0̴͙̳̅̏̄̇̈́͝ ̶̜͔̙̟̭̪̖̰̆̾̈͊͌̊6̶̨͈̘̼̱͍̈́̑͒͜4̵͕͓̓͌̎̅͋̊͘ ̴̧̮͈̰̄̋̀̚̕6̴̧̢̛̩̙̺͚̉͆͒͜1̶̝̼͍͔̦͐ͅ ̸̨͇̫͙̙͑͜ͅ7̴̧̻͚̤̄̒2̵̰̀̿̾͐̒͛͑͝ ̴̧͎̞̮͈͖̗̏͛̔̌͋6̶̲̯̝́̊͠B̴̨͓̫͐̈́̓͝ ̷͈͉̟͔͗̆̽͌2̶̡͎͙̏̊͒0̴͙̭̦̾ ̷̯̎͂̾͒̾̕7̸̞̔͠2̴̝͙̰͙̺̱͖̇̒͋̕̚͜ ̵͈̜͉̩̱̬͖́̿̍͐̀6̸̡̢͕̮̘̦̥̗̍F̷̝̫̮͇̩̝̄̽ ̶̬̗̱̞̠̯̽6̸͈̻̇͐͂̄̏F̶̧̛͖̭̳̂͑͆̑̈́͝ ̶̠̬̜̦̗̝̏͐͌̽̊̈́͠6̶̢̛͈̓D̸̙̭̾̈ ̵̗̱͐͐̈́͜2̴̨̻̘̙̄ͅC̵̟͎͇̣̰͈̭̐̄ ̸̱̄͆̾̇̋̌̚2̴̺͇̔̑̅̅̌̐̔0̸̢̭̼́̕͝ͅ ̴͙̄̈́ͅ6̶̧̳͉͔̰̀͠3̶͉̻̑̑̓̽ ̸̯̘͋̀͐̀̆͒͒6̵̛̛̘̓́̍͒̍1̸̝̩͔̉ ̶̪͔̻̯͖̩̎̾̉̕6̷̡̡͔̫̬̳̯̈́͌̀̚͝D̷̢̗͍̍̅͑̆͒̀̕͝ ̸̬͖̜͕̜̣͙͐6̸̝̞̥̕̚͠ͅ5̸̡̥̺͍͚̺̇͆̓̆̌̓̈́ ̷̬͙̥̦̘̤̾̿̿͌͘͝ͅͅ7̶̢͍̜̰̭̼̫̿͑͝2̴̡̖̪̼̲̟̙̲͐͑̾ ̴̦̫̒͊̽̽͛6̸̬̝̃̀̇́̈1̴̰͎̤̺̆͐̂͋̈́͒̇́ ̸͍̺͍͚͓͗̋2̸̢͓̫̄̐̏̚͜ͅ0̷̠͔̮̝̉ ̵͚̬̐͋͗̽̑̚͝4̵̛̲͉̦͇̞̟̈́̉͑͑͆̕͝9̷̢̛̮̮͐͋̌̊̿̃̅ ̵̘͚͙̗̱̪̀̓ͅ5̸̹͎̺̭̳̀͊̋͝͝3̷̡̖̓͋ ̴̮̟̲̬̣̩̔̑͝͝4̶̡̘̱̬͙͙̍̀͆F̵̧͙̫̖͙̥͕͔̍̓͌̔̕ ̴̧̙̹͉͚̯̘̒̔̒2̴̡͇͚͈̑̍̅͒̓̓͘͝0̶̢̛̪͈̠̮̺̝̭̽̋̔̄ ̵̔̓͊͆ͅ3̶̧̨͖̘̍̒̓̆͌̕5̷̢̜͚̣̙̗̅̌̅̀̀ͅ ̵̫̞̲̫̉3̶̜͈̭̙̝̦̪̆̐̈́̅0̷͓̞̉͐͝ ̶͇̖͑́̓̓̈̐͒̚3̷͉͂̈́́͝͠0̵̡̢̜̩̬̏̓͌͗̅͘͠͠ ̵̣̖̝͖̥̜̞̎͒́̂̕3̸͙̗̰̗̜̰̒̿͐̍͆̾̇̈́0̸̖̼̗͖͕͈̿̅́͆ ̸̭͖̻̭̪̦̝̀̏3̵͙̭̭̄͑͂͋̈̏̏0̴̛͉̖͆̈́́̚͘ ̴̭̪̞̿̓̅̓̆͋̚2̸͓̣̱͙͕̯̘̽̅͜Ć̷̡͇͎͑̋̏͐̉͋ ̸͔̌̕2̷̧̡̤͈̍0̷̤͕́ ̶̮̻͗̌̾͗̋́̚͝6̴̞̥͇̳̮̀̅͠6̸̨̛̰̪́̿̄͂͆̊ ̸̯̥̜͓̈́͆̒̿̄̀̕ͅ6̷̙̫̬̯̹̬͎̓́F̴̛͇̤͈͉̻̰̆̃͒̾͘ ̸̛̹͓̾͑7̷͎͌̌̀̔́͝2̸̙̼̮̈̾̐̀͠͠ ̴̧̓̌2̸̳̙̉0̶̮̩̭̠̽́͝ ̵̡̻͔͚̐͒̎̊̊ͅ3̴̥̠̖̯̯̤͔̔̏̌̏̄͜͝2̶͓̺̪̭̤̄̃̀̈́͑̽̾ ̷̮̼̳̺̖͑̏̓̀3̷̗͙̜̺̜̺͖̀̏̂̈́̋͝ͅ4̷̲̼̘͖̟̜̺̬͆͊̈́͆͘͘ ̸̜̥̲͛̈́̏́̅̑̊͑2̷͓͊͛͒0̷̣̑̔͊͗͑̋̀̍ ̷̧̪̯̩̏̎̾͊̀̕6̵̢̗̲͙̮̑̋̾̈́8̸̢̖̞̮̠̓̎̊ ̷̟͂͌̆̍̈́̌͘6̷̗̱͕̒̏̐͝F̶̦̯͔̅́̓͆̍̑ ̶̦̌̿̅̊7̵̛̘̗͇̝͚̠̝̈́͑͗̽͗̕5̴̻̝̉̕͝ ̷̡̻̑̆͋̈́̿̄7̷̢͙̼̬̯̘̺͂̅̒2̸̟̈̓̿̓̍̈́ ̵̼͒͌̂́͋͌ͅ7̸̠͉͝3̸͎̤̠͝ ̴̻͎̔̑̈̒̿2̷̢̘͚̰̱̲̮̔͐̏͒͘̕͘E̸̥̮̅̍̓̒̾̈̽͠ ̴̥͚̖͚̫̳̗̮͒̐̑̈́̚2̵̰͖̘̪͓̠͕̤̎͝0̸̨̖̫͙͔̟̐͆͑͑͆͌̋̉ ̷̛͚̫͇̻̟̙͒̀͂5̴̯͈̘̬͈̹͋͜3̸̡͇̯̝̥̓̀ ̸̣̜͌7̴̧̧̻̺̳̭̙̰͘5̴̫͓͙̏ ̵̈͆͌͗͛͐̇̈͜6̶̩̲̠̱̗̜̉̀͗͘2̶̧͈͍̌́̈̐̎̍͆̚ ̵̨̬̺͚̠̖̅̏̽̓͐6̴̮͚͉̞̱͉͍̺͗̾̌̂̃̋́́Ḁ̵͒͝ ̴̧͇̞̄͜6̸͇̭̠̖͂͊̆̆̉͋5̷̰̗͕͔̑͌ ̶̺̯̝̆̌̿̅́̚͜͝͠6̸̠͕̣̿̈́3̷̝͖̒̇̈͒ ̷̢͔̮̭̬͚͋͝7̶͙̈́͝4̵̠̫̩̖͕̦͖̂ ̷̢̨͖͈̠̤͌̎̌̆̈̎̿͜͝2̵͍͔̩͓̭͎͔̋0̷̢̣̓͋̔̄̆͘͠ ̵̨̧̧̣̗͇́̈́̏́̈́͝͝7̴͓̺̩͒̿2̶̧̭̹̣̓͋̾ ̸̲̮̳̔6̷̺̔͛̓͑́̈́̿5̵̡͕̭͔̀̋̄̏̎͠ ̶̛̬͎̼̥͋̐̍̈́͋̐͒7̶͙͛̽̐0̶̛̣̱̬̠̪͌͊͘͝ ̶̨̻̤̮̤̭͊͜6̶̢̤͍͝F̴̮̱̳̫̓̋̇̊ ̸̤́͗̂͐7̵̢͇͍͇͚́̏͌̑̚͝͠ͅ2̶̧͈͎͂̅̌̒̾̏̚ ̴̩̝̮̰̲͐̈́̂͝͝7̸̨̰̲̓̿̓̽͜4̷̮̥̘̻̀̿͋͗ ̵̥̙̖̦̣̮͉̞̉͗͋6̶̡̗̫̞͚̺͙̖̂5̸̘̺̫̮͉̘̺̈́̀͌͛̅̒̅͂ ̷̡͇̤̬̲̦̲͋́̓̒6̸̞̄̃́͗̂͠͝4̷̙͉͂ ̴̣̳̰̹͈̎̋̂͗̍2̸̡̛̫̩͚̮͈̻̭͐͌̑̅̈̈́0̵̛̣͇̌̄̊̉̎̀ ̶̰͍̞̳̊͑̒̒̀ͅ2̴̟̱̜͙̾̊́͠2̷̛̳̲͉͕͙͕̺͉͗͌͐̑ ̶̢̛̥̟̻͕̞͐̂́̃̈́̉7̶̞̠̣͉̲͎̤͚̀̎̄̕3̸̜̩̞͙̮͛͂͗͋̑̌͝ ̴̬̭͓̈́̍̋̍͌̃̚͝6̸̖̰̥̈́̿͂͐͂̋̚͠C̵̹͗ ̴̯͕̮͕̻̻̣̬̒̂̇̂̊͝6̴̭̞̱̻̞̝̥̇͐͜9̷̼̱̯̫̫̫͙̊̈́̈͑͆̐̃̄ ̷̛̫̬̯̑̎͛7̶̛̟̖̀̈̂̾̈́͘̚4̷̨͕̥̖̼̎̊ ̶̢͙̭͎̟͋̉̊͑̉͘6̷̘̀̄̇͌͑̍̇͝8̷̣̫̦̖͍̞̮̀̒̚ͅ ̸̻̟͓̐͑ͅ6̵̧̞̜̭̈5̸̢̳͠ ̷̢̼̣̹͔̱̘̍̏̍͑̿̈ͅ7̵̣̱̱͌̐̏͑͊ͅ2̴͉̥̾ ̵͚̻̠͖̗̺̺̟̍͛́̐͐̍̇͠6̴̺̳́̂̇9̶̢̫̖̱̥͊͐̀ ̴̨̹̞̈̓̒͊̓̂͝6̴̛̺̊͗Ȩ̵̬̹̥̗̯̑̀̉̓͘͝͠ͅ ̷̤̰̲̣͉̀͊̏͗͑̕̚6̸͚́7̴̛͇̪̗̟̮͐ͅ ̶̣͆́̿̓̀͝2̴͔̫̗̪͓͈̜̾̐̕ͅ0̷̛̛̤̉̃͑̚ ̸̗͓̥̩͎̾ͅ7̷̛̫̲̻̞͇́̔͑3̷̠̩̲̠̀̿ ̴̢̢̣̹̜̝̈̾6̸̪́́Ȩ̷̗̫͕̠̠̂̈̈́̇͐̈ ̸̱̝̦͎̳͖͎̲͌̋̌̅̚̚͝6̶̺̣̮͈̾͗͊͂̕1̴̮͙̻̤̮̼͖̿̂̿͑͝ ̴͈̇̈̕6̴̢͎͕̺̖̮̈́B̷̢͚̬̟͑̈͛̍͜ ̸̣̙̳̘͈̰͓͂͐6̵̡̺͕̣͚̼̗̓͒ͅ5̵̨̺̗̏͋́͒̄̒ ̷̱̞̞̗̖͒̐̋̒̄̏͘7̵̨̻͔̝̦̼̯̈̓͗̕3̵̻̦̘̼͎̓̀̑̕ ̷̪̪͓̔̓͆̎̅̀͗́2̶̧̛͓̭̦̤̮̟͝͠ͅ0̶̡̧̢̬̪̘̙̤̊̈́ ̴̡̺͌͊̃6̵̲͎̱͍̆̄̾̿̎̌F̸̢̧̜̯͓̪̣͂̒͌̈́̆ ̸͕͕͆̂̔̊̈́̉͊̔6̷̨͇̭̘̬̥̳̪͋̊̑̏́̽6̴̨̛͈̺͈͈̩̋̍̀̚ ̷̛̹̦̤̏͗̚ͅ2̶̞̫̻̹͔̑̍̈̓͂͝0̵̛̤̩̟̞̖̓͘ ̵̝̑̐̾̏͝7̵͎̫̺̩́͌̾͆́͂̇4̷͕͎̘͔͈͑̎̚ ̴̠̣̟̉̃̍̾́̔̓̐6̶̛̙̺̙̿̉́͂͒͘5̷̗̜̓̏͜ ̴̨̖̞͍̻͔̘̋7̸̺̣̥́8̵͍̗̗̝͖̟̙̾́͛̿̕͜ ̶̹̐̀̒̈́͛̕7̵̻͕̺̮̣̓̆4̸̧̦̞̝̖̖͉̝̎̍ ̷̨͈̯̅͆̾́̅͐̊̚͜7̷̬̦͔̺̫̮͈͑͒͋5̵̹̯̣͔̗̖̮̂̒͝ ̶̟̜̙̻̤̻̬̙̈́͝7̶̨̭̰̞̦͚̗̆2̷̡̡̼̣̱͎̓̅͐̂̈́͑̈́͆ ̵͇̱͍͎̞́́́̀̽́̑̚͜6̴̨̛̫͙̦̱̽́͛̇5̸͉̼̫̠̤̝͕̾̿̋̆ ̶̡̱̞̞̣͕̈́͜6̶̰̘̓̃̓̕4̸̛̭̌̒̉͌́ ̴̡͉̼̝͔̃̏2̵̘̥͗͆̋̐ͅ0̶̢̮̺̻͖̘̖̞͌̿̅ ̴̺̼͔̬͔̻̫͑̈́͂̀͋̀͝6̴̨̤̺̻͔̥̖̈͒̂̑̍̆4̸̡̧̥͚̂͗̈́̎̓̈́̒̓ ̸͍͇̗̐̃̏̂̚͘6̵̢̹̫͌̈1̴̞̯̥̼̲͇̞̯̂̇̀̽͝ ̴̫̜́̓̂7̴̻̀͊͒̾͑͐͠2̶̢̙̟͒͌̽̾̈́ ̸̢̛̗̲̖̺̣͇̿̄̈͂̊̚6̶͕͉̺̕B̶̧̢̛̝̲̲̖̫́͗͐͛̈́̽͠ ̴̧̛͓̜͔̬̬̝̺͆̈́͐͝6̷̰̜̥͇̱͕̈̒̈́̌͆ͅE̶͕̱̓͆̈́̾͛ͅ ̷̡͕͙̣̆̉͒̓͗͒̈́̚6̷̛̩̝̣͋̏́͠5̸̪͌̌̇͊ ̸͍͕͊̋̅̀7̸̰̫͔̳͉̬̀̎͗̃̏̾̽̚3̶̧͚͉̘̳͛̈̆̀̆̇̈̀ ̸̥͙̪̀͋7̴̛͍̞̈́̑̉̑̿3̸͔̜̂̾͋̄͌͝ ̸͍̔̾͛̅͘͝2̷̹̏͝2̴̻̭̗̯̰̈́͛͐̅̌́͝ ̷̥̙̫̞̬̙̇́͑̀̎̾2̵͖̺̈́C̴͚̩̥̃̓ ̴͇̼̝̹̈́̄̋̉̈̑͒͒2̵̢̠̖͋͆͘0̵̠͕̥͍̳̗͓̏͆ ̵̼̣͐̉̿̔͆̊͝2̶̠͓͕̥̀̇͜2̶̢͕̬͍̩̗̤̽̍̀̃̋͘͝ ̴̢͍̩̻̱͇̬̍̔͘͜6̶͍̬͔̠̙̣͉̖̈́̏̀̈́̕4̶̱̋́̑̒̋̉͗ ̷̡̙̬̭̠̪̥̋̋6̸̡̩͈̟̆̒͋̚͝͝9̸̭̹̞͒͜ ̶̙̮̖̘̹̌̈́́͋͘6̸͎͈̖͇̿̌͐͂7̶̼̿̒̌̆̊̍̔̀ͅ ̵͔͑̓͌̆̀͗6̴̨̫̭̮̳̳͋̀̒ͅ9̵͎̟̗̅͂̍̐̀̓̚ ̴̢̦͎̮͖̝̤̠̽7̸̮͎̠͉͂4̶̨̺̗̥̤̝̓͜͜ ̶̮͙̹̻̰͈̻̔͛̕6̸̼̬͖͈͇̽͠1̸͈̗̚ ̶̢͎̠̤̍̈̈́́͌̆̇6̶̪͖͕̭̪̾͘C̷̡̟̗̑͂͘ ̵̨̩̠̲̀̐́2̸͔̉͛0̵̨̟̤͉̲̲̈̔̆̏͒̅͝ ̵̨̤̤̪͕̙̱̲̉̏͐͘7̸̡͉̩͈̱́3̷̧̛̘͎͕̰̦̜̬̄͐̂̈̉̅ ̵̡͍͚͔̞̠̋̑͆̈́̒̈́̿̿6̶͔̲͌͗͘Ẽ̸̯͇͈͕̐̕͜͠ ̶̢̨͇͙͉̦̗̉̚6̶̨̻͍̝̻͕̙̏͛̒̍̑̚F̷̱̍̐̓ ̷̗̞͔͔̿7̶̢̻͉̙͈̓7̵̱͗̇̑͂ ̴̤̯͈͇̆͌͐̿͗̊͘͜2̷̫̓0̷̨͚̲̩͇̫͌̈̇͘͝ ̸̥̤̟̈́̈́̅̿̓̿̕6̷̹̦̩͚̖͛̈́͘͝6̸̹̖̘͙̈́̾̈ ̶͔͓̹̞̞̣̥̤͑̊̅̇͌͌͝6̸̢̹̬̻̦̑̓͆̓̇̎̔F̴̧̟̒͑̏͗̏̑̈́͘ ̴̫̻͛͆̓́͆͠7̷̢̞̩̝͚͙̈́̒̈͝2̴͓̮̹̙̐̏̕͜ ̴̡̡̼̺̘͈͕̺́̓́͆̏6̴̼̯͈͎͖͎̓͂̄͂ͅD̵̢͕͎̺̼͗̾̾͐̇ ̸̡̧̗͓̀̾͆̈̿̓͐̿6̷̨͕͖͑̍̂͌9̵̨̢̼̯̠̬̈͛̄͋̈́̀͝ ̷̡̨̦̼̬̹̀̽̉̏̓̈̀6̵̤̫̙͖͙̖̮̼̊̊̍͛͗̔Ę̸̟̮͉̅̎̕ͅ ̸̨͈͕̍̆͘6̷̧̡̐̏͛̇̌̊͠7̷͉͈̥̅̋ ̶̮͛̒̄̈́̉̌̅2̸͙̣̥͛̃̊̋0̷̦̘͓̻̭̱͌̑͜ ̷̲̭̜͙̘̑̿̾̔̈́̐̀̐6̷̢̛͕͈͍̩̱̥͗̓͌̈́̄͌7̸̰̀̿̋̒̈́͛̕͝ ̸̧̠̜͖̈6̷̢͍̜̝̥͈̑̇͜F̷̡̰̗̻̟̝͕̩̿̂̒̉̏̿̚ ̵̧̘͇̰̜̥̹̙̅̽̔̽̅̎6̶̝͓̠͑͌͂̽̀ͅͅC̴͖͔͐̆́̈́̈̇ ̸̩͓̫̹̹̼̯̽̀̂̐̚6̸̡̪͎̩̇̔̇̀4̶̡̧͎̩̭̠̾̎̍̕ͅ ̷̠͌͂̆̐̑̚̚6̴̥͍̼͖̹̀̇́5̷̨̲͕͍͉̦̒̿̕ͅ ̷̘̮͐̆̽͊̚6̵̟̝̗͇̣̲͗̚͜ͅE̵̡͔̪͚̟͕͕̓̊͒ ̵̹͓͕̜̣̣̓͗̇́͜2̸̹͍̰̪̭̹͕͂̎̇͝ͅ0̷̬͙̟̙͈̚ ̷̛̺̝̤̙̦̙͑̽͜͝ͅ7̴̯̰̚2̴͋̔̈͜ ̴̡̺͖͉̫͈̎7̴̢̘̅5̴̡͑́̿̒̍̓͛ ̵̫͍̼̮̏͆̉̀̊̓6̷̧̭͉̬̊̓E̴̮͌͛͆̍̂̑ ̴̢͎̺̆͊͂͂͆6̴̦̮̫͕̭̬̺̞́͒̄́̐͝5̴̟͉̝̗̇̓ ̶̥͖͇̘̟̗̼̓̃̄7̴͖̓̓͘3̸̨̹͖͈̪̖͍̰̇̾̈̓̾ ̶̨̠̈́͆̌́͑͌̎2̸̘͙̓̈͊2̶̜̻̖̺͉̞͎͓̐̃̄̃̿͋͘ ̶̡̹̜̳͕̫̘̈2̵̢̯̫̮͉̹̭͙͋̈́̊̿̚͝0̸̨͍̖͉͕͍̯̼͌̍͗ ̶̧̢͓̭̦̩̲̥̓͊̆͂͒̚͝6̸͎̬̞͉͑͊̍́͂͘͝1̸̡̬̙̦͙̥̗̉͊̿̊̉̾͘ͅ ̵̢̦̬̜̇́6̸̲̖͖̤͇̪͒̇̿͋͑Ę̶̙͉̰̻̗̅͋͛̃̾̉͛ ̵̨̓͊̐͒́̆̏͠6̷̲̩̓̈̍̒̕4̵̱͖̒̀͑̈͋̔͘͠ ̶̝̬̇2̶͕̟͉͓̀̓̌̈́͐͜͜ͅ0̵̺̖̼̳̰͗̽̉́͛ ̴̦̀́̈͌2̶̜͖͇̞͎̟̀́̂̉̇͑̈́́2̴̯̇̈́͂̊̂̎͐͗ ̸̧͖̬͠6̷̹̌͐̇̈́̄͘͝1̷͇̖͇̏͌̈́̔̂͐ ̷͔̱̖͈̘̮́̏̈́̾́̚͝2̴̫̱̻̜̘̍̑̓͂̍͊̊͌0̴̨̭̘͍͍̳̰̋ͅ ̶̢̢̺̖̭̓͐̐́̃̚7̷͓̤͇̘̲͖̲̳͋̍͐̍̀̋͐͝4̶͙͍̃̈́̐̊̂̕ ̶͎̂̍͗̽7̴̡̧̢̛̤̭̱̈́̓2̵̻̲̳̼̣̣̈́ ̴͕̲͖̦͚͓͆̒̍6̵̛͚̰̥͓̱̈́̑̓́̔̿9̴̪̜͜͝ ̵͎͇̳̓͠6̷̧͎̹̯͖̯̑̈̓̇̀͘1̴̪̀́ ̴̳̯͋̆̑6̸̧̧̦̻̘̰̽̏ͅ4̸̛̬͙̞̃ ̵̢̝̳̦́̉̃̎̽2̴̥̭̞̯̌̓̋̄͆̆͝0̵̛̩̋̒̃͝ ̷̮͚͙͎̝͚̠̟̋̿͛̂̍̚6̴̛̳́̍̃̈̽̒͜͠F̸̥̲̙͍̞̜̗̿̔̍͗͜͝ ̴͍̮̟̍̌̊6̵̹̜̥͈̽̕͠6̴̜̞̯̝͊͂ ̴̞̜̹̯͈͊́̌2̷̧̧̖͇̪͚̀̅̉͝0̶̪͉̺̟̺̔̃͂͛̉͒ ̷̛̲̼ͅ6̷̜̼̼̻̱̫̞́͐ͅ4̵͖̽̆͑͋̈̓̚ ̶̠͉̻̄́̓͐̊7̸͕̩̲̺͌2̵̢̭͙͓̙̍͆̈̍͛ ̶̘̲͉̖́̈̀͆͜6̶̠̣͓͙͎̀͊̑̎͑̇́͝5̴̤̫͕̲͍̹̝͑̃͋͝ ̸̧̩̭̤̲̇͋̉̎ͅ6̴̰̰̩̘͗͌̊͒́̾́̚1̶̬̱̱͙̱͙̭̳͋̂͊͠ ̷͚̩̙͉̦̣̓̾ͅ6̵̫̟͙̯̠̃̽D̴̮̾̋̆̀̽͋͊ ̴̡̏̏͜2̷̤̗̜̗̩͚̅͘͜0̴̡̖̝̄͛̇͜ ̸̧̮͠7̷̧̧̼͕͙̫͖̄̾̌͘͝3̸̱͔̫͖͓̦̏ ̸̗̠͆͐͐̃̿6̶̫̖͠8̸̧̦̼̻̓̅̽̔̎͘̕ ̴̫̦͍̜̾̂̔̑̓̔ͅ6̴̲̗͝1̴̨̘̮̔̓̌͐͑͋͝ ̸̳̾̏̔̀́͜͝7̸͚͈̝̌͆͘0̶͕̠̠̋̅ ̵̥̗̻̦̀̎̍̽͘͜͝6̸̛̖̞̮͙̐̂̐5̷̙͚̱͓͎̣̀͗̈̊̾̄̋̿ ̷̧̱̠̝͙̐̊̿͐̿͝7̵̖̺̫̇͑͆̑͠͝3̵̡͔͔͇̾̽͂͒͒ ̵͔͈̀̾̇̆̊͐̔̓2̵͉̖̭̺̿̎̂͐C̷̫̖̏͊͛̐̈́̀͝ ̸̱̞̯̗̜̥̼́̂̌͘̚2̷̨̠̲̤̞̻̗̓̅̾͐̎͗0̸̛͕͙̫̠̭͇͗̂̒͋̃͝ ̶͓͈͌̆̾7̸̧̛̗͉́̎̀̒̾̚͝4̴̮͌̓̎̚͝ ̴̛̫͔̙̩̦̇ͅ6̴̳̬̤̰̖͇͉͕̀̄͒̌1̷̢̼̺̭̼̌̇͂͛͋͜͜͝ͅ ̷̰̠̖̯̠̫̈͛̈́6̵̖͓̜̋̉Ḇ̸̡͓͈͚͂̋̉̊͜ ̵̡͈̜̱̱̻̞̬͌̅̆̐̄̉͆̕6̷̜̱̞̘̦͊̽̂̅͊̈́9̷͙͙̮͓̘̲͚̔ͅ ̵̭̋͆̈́͌6̸̦̜̮̯̗̬͍̀͋̈́ͅĘ̵͎̟̲̖̜͈̼̀͌̈́͂̒̆ ̸̞͎̠̝̜̼̦̌͛͐̀́͠6̷̣̠̝͂͛̇͑͘7̵̢̥̫̮͙̀̊̽̓̑̈́̇͠ ̴̨̘̫̀̽̐̈͘̕2̴̮̠̥̼͕͉͌̂͜0̴̦͚͖̗̺̌̐̄̇̾̌ ̷͉͓̱͓̩͔̣͌̈̓̋͂͛͐7̸̠̱͚͚̩̽̂̽̓̅̚̕͝4̸̲̀̐̈́͌̀̔̽́ ̸̡̥̻̎͆̿̉̿͊̕6̵͖̻̪͌̂̂̈́͒̈͠8̷̢̗̥̥͂̊̃̆̐́͝ͅ ̴̗̯̭̫͍̓͂6̵̩͉̟̿͒͑͘͠5̸̗̱̬͑̚ͅ ̴̨̿̾̍̕2̷̨͔͇͕̫͓̤̯̃̑̀̉̒̎0̶̟̩̳͕̕ ̴̢̫͎̥̦̑̅̔͘͠6̴̧̗̠̒6̸̛̝̂̇̌͋͊͜͠ ̶̙̈́̔̐6̵̨̛͎͋͋̈͘F̶̳̽̿͆ ̸͔̺̤̠̥̙̀̓̀̍7̴̧͕̪̹͎͖̌͂͋͜͜2̴̗͍͝ ̸̭̰̥͍͉̝̭̥́͊̈͂̎̈̕6̸̨͔̗̥̥̂̂̓̈͘D̷̨̞̩̩͆ ̴̭̼͋͆2̴̣̅̌̎̒͠0̶̼̫͕̼̣̓̄̊͜ ̴͓̅͌6̵̨̥̲̗͉̹̎̋F̸̛̤́ ̵̛̛͙̠̼͚̄͒6̷̹̙͚̥͕̄̔̒̀6̵̡̳̰̖̥́̽͂ͅ ̸̛̛̙̮̖̹̱̮̠̔̍̏͆̍͠ͅ2̵͖̣͕̓́̈͛͝0̶̤͊̄͂̏̕͘͝͝ ̸̢͍̗̦̦̳̺̱̀͋̂̓̂͐̌͠6̶̳̲̝̦̩̊͒̑̉͠ͅ2̴̡̛̳͖̭͔̲̘͈̾͌̒͆̕ ̶̨̧̯͈̋̐̎͒̍6̵̧͉̫̤̫̮͙̄́ͅ9̴̡͇̯͎̦̖͖̈͒̆̈́́̔̚ ̴͓̫̗̼̾̇̅̽ͅ7̶̛̥̋͆͆̽̀̈͠2̸̱͎̜̺͔͐̓̄͌̉̃̕͠ ̶̘̲̞̌̾͌͌̓̽̒6̴̛̲̹̲̝͖̉̔̆̒̉̚4̶̰̝̫̺̎́͗̈̈́ ̶̡̯̠̱̦̉͌͆͒̔̈̄͝ͅ7̶̛͓̟͈͎̞̾͋͛̑̊͌̐3̵̧̨̟̻̲̯̳͖̈͝ ̴̺̙̬͚̉͆͗̿̃͆2̷̥͆̊̀͗͆0̸̛̻̜̖́̏̍͂̃̑̂ ̷̡̰̈6̷̢̊͋͆͑͝1̶̢̛̜̪̻̟͍͎̜͐̍̃̐̄̍ ̷͔̣̝̫̅̀̉͘͜6̷͕̭̰̪̝͛̎̒̽Ȇ̸͎̣͙̦͓͋̆͊̿̀̒̈́ͅ ̴̪̜͚̺̽͛̑̍̔͜ͅͅ6̶͕̟̱̱̩̯͂̐̈́̑̀̍̄4̷̢̯͚̦̺̠̅̍͂ ̷̢̛̖̯͓̮̊̄̔̆̽2̵̬̥̯̹̞̿̓̋̂̕̚͘͝ͅ0̴͚̺̯̟̎͜ ̶̛̺̯̹͇̼͗̈́͆̆̊6̴̱̼̻̪̽̐4̸͍̤̘͆͛ ̴̛̩̳̊̎̄́͝7̵̡͔͈͇̱̦̒̅̓́̔̆͑2̷͉̞̳̘͇̉̒́ ̴̡͇̙͓̺̈́̃͜6̴̙̦̑1̶̪̩͓̈̆̒͐̀̔̕͠ ̶͔̲͙͖̫͇͛̈́̏͒̿͆͋6̶͖͙̟̱̳̹̓̔̅̓̍̀͘7̴̜̖̦͉̜̲͗͆̈̈́͝ ̴̦̩̙̋͝6̷̠̤̟̬̲̜́F̵̖̫̈́͒̇̇ ̵̘̳͇͚͗̏͝ͅͅ6̵̡̺͉͍͍̙͎̼̍̍E̸͕͌̊̏̂̚͠ ̶̨̨̢̨͕̻̒͒̀7̷̛̟̜̩̪͚̖̯͛͌3̸̧̬͓͇̪͓̘̄̈́͒̄̄̋͜ ̶̨̡͔̩͕̖̀̈́̂̀̆̑̕2̸̨̼͖̘͍̟̐͊͒̄0̸̠͉̪͚̼̺̈́̍̈̈́́̅ ̷̢̢̰̰̖̆̊͑6̷̨̏̈́̒͠1̵̧̿͛̂̃́͌ ̵̢̗̻̘͠6̴̨̡̗̿̈́̍͋̔Ē̵͔̲͈̫̘̦̔ ̴̗͚̝̱̍̈́͛̈́̎̄̀̽6̵̗͉͍̣͚̋͆̅̾4̵̪̞̜̖̜̄ ̸̨̛͖̲̦̰̥͇̙͊́̈̋̔̾̔2̸̜͋͋̕0̵̭̹́̽͋̽̑̚ ̵̻̌7̷̡̦̘͍͍̻͎̞̈́̃̿̓͋̀̿́4̶̨̖̹͈̫̱̞̔̍̀̈́̕ ̵̞̝̤͓͌̋̾7̶͉͗2̸̨̭͓̓̿́̂ ̶̢̡̗͗̿͐͌́͝6̶̡̘̦̌́̂͆͘ͅ5̵̨͖͔͓͓̇͋ ̸̨͔̖̳̮̱̇́͗̑͂6̶̡̨̠͕͔̾̈͂̇̌̕5̴̜̘̞͎̜̊͋̕ͅ ̶̙̰̞͇̹̗̈͘7̶̦̐͒̈́̈͑̚3̵̠̿̾͝ͅ ̶̫̖́͂̓̍̔̈͝2̷̗̩̟͔͚̒̒ͅ2̷̪̩͔̮͓̓̆̈́̅̀̿̑͝ͅ ̸̢͔̈́͛̆̅̌̔ͅ2̷̧̿͋́̀Ẽ̶̡̘͚̘̞͓̘́̄̋͊̓͒͠ ̴̧̥̥̣̮̠̍̓̄͠2̶͈̟̜͐0̵͚͚̳̱̥͙̰̿̊͠ ̸̢̱̲͛̑͂̃͝5̴̙̞̭͙̰̟̫̞͝͠7̶̬̝̠̖̙͎͌̾͛ ̸̢͔̳̫̇̓͜ͅ6̸̡̲̰̹͔͖͔͙̃8̴̪̠͇̠̖̈́̽ ̶̨̳̣̳̺̓̄6̸̞̲̭͌̅̈́̌͘9̶̰͙͍̗̜̉̈͂̓̃̀̚ ̶̩͔̠͓̈̂̏͝6̶̪̖̹̲̱͐̐̃͊͘ͅC̷̨̀́͌̐̊̿̏͜͝ ̴͎̎6̴̨̺̗͉̟̖̼̮͝5̶̧̡͎̲̤͓̫̏̏̄̄̆̂͜ ̶͙̠̳͉͇̬͘̕2̵̱̩̺̳͖̙̹͊̌̎̀̊0̶̡͚̪̤͊͐̐͛̆ ̴̢̨̘̙̱̀̿͒̑7̷̧̲͈̄͜3̶̘͚̞̑́̄͂̏̓̀͑ ̴̛̳̖̲̙͇̔̏͆̍̅̅̑7̴̡̩͕̍̈́͛̊̆̌͘ͅ5̶̖̄́̃͊̈̀̿͛ ̶͍̹̻͂̌̊̌6̵̪͙̩̖̺̼͓͔͐̔̓͆̓̅3̸̜͎̞̠͚̪̳̪̑ ̵̛̯̮̦̪̯̈́̈́̈́́̉6̴̘͕̜̤̦̈́̿8̶͉̈́̀͂͑̕͝ ̷̛͇̊̿̅͗̊2̴̼̩͓̣͆̔͑̚͝0̵͔͖̩̜̹̠̘͒͋̽ ̷̡̛̱̘̗̞̑̚ͅ6̷̨̧̛͉̹̳̣͍̯͆̄͐̓̇͠͠1̷͇͇̋̆́͑͝ ̶̲͉͎̞̠͂̏̈̀͠͝6̵̗̦̙̠͔͚̎̈́́͋̃͠6̶̩̝͙͔̾ ̷͉̗͊͑͑͌͊6̶̺͔̭̤̔̒͑͆6̷͓̗͐̒̈ ̴̻͈̰̟̪̣̬̭͐͑́͌̑́͗͂6̵̡̯̞̿́̅͆̏̿9̶̙̗̗̙̣͓͒͌͛ ̶̹̘̲͖̹̇͘7̴̢͕̩̗͋̉̀͌͒̈͌͝2̶̫̗̬͓̊̍̈́̐͝ ̸̧͕̼̤͇̬̯̠͌́͗͠͝͠6̶͐ͅD̴̢͓̗̹͌͑̏̈̐͐̀ ̶̧̡̢͍͍̻̉̈̂̏̀̉̐̕6̵̭͈̗̪̼̼̩͓͌̉͘1̸̥́͜͜ ̵̛͚̯̩̯̬̩͛̀̀̋͒̀͘ͅ7̷͔̜͍̤̮̈̌͆̐̑͊͘͝4̷̨͈̙̣͕̣̦͗̿̓ ̶̖̰̭̱͈͝6̸̡͚̝̰̺͈͇͖̋̅̈̋̊͝9̵̧̢̯̦̟͎̜̪̂͊͆ ̶̘͕̭̞̱̱̍̍ͅ6̸͔̖̈̓͆̓̌̑͂͠F̴̧͍͙̞̣͐͋̔͜ ̸̹̑͑͗̕6̶̲̪̬̻̺̥̣̏̾̐̅͌̓̚Ẽ̶̢̛̈́͜͝ ̸͎̰̙͉͉͔͈̽̒ͅ7̷̢̫͚̈́͌̚3̴̧̰͈̫̯̣̞̺̍̓͆͒͂̎̍͠ ̸̧̛̳̪̥̰̝͓̑͐͆̆͠2̵̝̩̹̦̙̲̂͛̅0̵͚͖̈́͂͐̉͊̕ ̷̧̳̰͔̰̬͐͛7̸̩̋̉̐̓͆̈̚7̷̬̜̪̟̙̮̞̱̑͊ ̵͕̜̟͖͍̍̀̔̽̋̕6̸̢͕̦̗͍̱̺̪͐̏͊͆͘F̷̧̮͚͕̟̠̬̊ͅ ̵̬̳͒̔͐̀͂̄̕͝7̶̠͔̹̣͎̗̬̫̌̑̑͌͌5̴̫͚̥͍͚̯̦̓̊͜ ̶̰̩̹̘̜̠͎̑͒̒̆͒͑͠6̶̝͉̱̺͋C̴̻̼̓̑̇̇̉̏̕ ̸̱͖̪̈̈́͝6̷̡̺͈̮̥̬̜̠̏͒4̵̱̝̐͛́̋ ̸̧͈̲̭̝̭̙͑̑͑2̵̢͙̦̹͇͒0̴̧̢̣̖̫͙̑̾͆́ ̸͎̓̂6̶̨̣̘̹͓̳͆̂͘͝2̵̬̳̬͎̖̓́͗̑̋̓͠ ̶̛̠̗͔̅̂̿̈͗̈́6̷̡̙͈̠͇̙̙̤͠5̶̝͇̟̒̓́̑͜ ̴̮̟͚̼͚̑͆͐́̀̃͝͝2̷̮̗̹̠̲̼̩̋̋̒̆̊̊͆͠0̶̠̙͙̪̭͊͜ ̴̨̢̖̖͙̼̜̈́͆͜6̷̻̺̲̜̟̻͍̦̅3̴̫̻̎̄ ̸̦̦̳̜͈̞̒̿̋͆̕͘͜6̷̨̤̜̇̉̊̂̅̾͋͘F̴̧̹̫̰͐̑̀́͜ͅ ̷͇̙͘ͅͅ6̵͚̏E̷̞̲̺̍̎̄́͜ͅ ̶̨̭̫͚͎͑͋̋̈́͊͝7̸͍̐͊͛͒3̸̨͔̣̳̫͐͊ ̴̧̧̟̲̹̳͇͛̌̌̐̀́͝͝ͅ6̴̝͎̱̥̪͐̈́̀9̷̥͈̞͓̩͖̖̠̍́͐͑ ̵̰̰͍̀̎́̀͝6̷̪́̒̒̀͒̂4̴͕͙̬̿ ̵̛̩̲̌̕6̸̛̛̝̳̰͕̙͚̒͐́̈́̍͝5̷͙̩͓͉͖̑̆̂̀̿̕ ̷̹͒̌͆̃̚͝7̴̡̧̛̼̻̰̇̔̑̆2̸̼̯̣͎̝̜̐̿̄̕ ̸̨͇̝̜̫̓6̷͖̗̯̎̕͠5̵̲̺̙̋ ̶̨͍͛̄̀̑̽͝6̸̻͎̲̰͇̬̐͑̊̂ͅ4̴̘́͗ ̷̦̻̭̭̓̊̿͋̃̑2̷̗͙̖̤͓͍̩͗̈́̕0̵͕̬͈͆͌̑ ̴͖͗̍͗̌̐͝6̶̖͖̇̈́͐̔͘1̶͇͈̰̝̮̺͓̙͂̌ ̷̢̨͇̬̯̫̈̈́̊͊7̵̦̞̀͠3̷̨̢̢̢͍̰͉̰͆̒̓͑͝ ̶̻̘̝̠̖̣̂̓͒͘2̵̫̈́̔̓0̷̢̡͉̖̖̼͎͛͗̀̒͠ͅ ̴͍̱̮̙̓́͐͆̀͠7̷̨̡̟̭̩̮͕̻̓̃̔̾̔̎̓̕3̴̲̹̔̀͋͑͠ ̷̦̽͑̿͝6̵͍͈̬̪̳͔̳̘̿̈́9̵̨̘̹̫̲͍̓̉̄̔̉̕ ̵̧͙̬̤͉̬̲̍̇̍̽6̶̱̹͆͂̋7̵̖̰̬͖̂͊͊̊̏͝ ̶̡͍͕̰̭̩̇͒̓̕̕͘͜6̷̞̜̣́̊Ē̸̛̝͂̂͋̀̽̽ ̵̡͈̏̄̓̈́̃͐͠7̵̢͎͇͐̾3̵̛̹͔̜̞̼͍͙̈́̾͂ ̶̥̙͚̻̻̅̅͗̉̃̕͘͜2̸̙̗̣̞̥̖̙̆͗͐0̷̡̛̭̞̦̣̲̤̀́͒̉̕͠ ̵̪̳͉̂̆̉̓́̎͋͐6̷̞͇͐̀̆̄̕F̷̡͍̼͉̻̓ͅ ̴̓͒͜6̷̨̮̤͓͈̺̽̎͂͒͑͝ͅ6̷̱̥͔̩̲̮̦͌ ̴̯̺̃́͝͝2̷͔̭͓̟̊͛0̵̡̧̠͎͚͗̈ ̴̢̰͚̗͈̻̖́ͅ6̵̖̹͉̼̩͙̒͐̇͜9̵̭͍͇̗̝̈́͆̈́̇́ ̶̻̙́͘6̴̣̯͇͖͓͒̌͝͝Ḙ̸͌͑͗̕͝ ̶͖̈́̽7̶̨͉͈̼͉͙̊̈̈3̵̗̻͔̘̗̪̱̈́́̓̅̏͠͠ ̵̧̟̭͔̻̋̓7̶̘̲͙̟̂̓̒̀̎͛̈́̏4̶͔̱̪̺̩̣̇ ̷̘̲̝͙̗͍̓́͋̆͌͂͐6̸̳͉̞̰̚͝1̶͖͎̩͊̃̈̒̌ ̷̝͖͊̓̑̄̓̾6̶͇̫͍̆̀2̵̨̧̛̖̦̗̈̏͊͌̈́͐͜ͅ ̷͓̼̟̬̲̝̊̔̏̿́̕6̶̮̈͠9̴̛̣͖̮͙̇̅̀̕ͅ ̴̢̯̖̭̜̜̊͆͒̿́͘6̷̛̫͙̽̌̍̓C̶̨̘̻̑̓̑̾͑̓͝͠ ̷̛͚͂̎͛̎̆̈́6̸̪̹̥̹̬̫͆̃̓͘9̶͚͖͕͇͙̣̻̔͌̑͜ ̵̡̨̻͇̦̲̝͔̔͝͝7̷̨̦̫͔̭̰̈́̋́͒̚͝4̴̤͉̪̆̊ ̷̛̺̥͆̀̍7̷̨̨̰͎͙̹̈̀̀9̵̯̈́̓̅̈́̉͝ ̶͉̟͇̯͛̿̏̏̀2̸̺͎̳̣̓͌̈́0̵̦͚͑͐̾͂͌͒͛͘͜ ̴̛͇̫̲͖̓̿̉͊͆̕6̶̮͗̑̀̐̈͛͝9̵̻̜͎̿̇̀͆̓̽͘͘ ̸̢̛̜̹͖͕́͆̍̃͑̚̚ͅ6̷̝̒̾̕6̴̧̧͙̻̬̲̮̊͑̚ ̴̬̼̞̱̈́̍̾͗͘͘2̸̧̮̘͖͔̝̩̏̊̒͝ͅ0̴͙͓͔͚͇̟͑͆͆̿͑̈́ ̶͚͙͊͝6̷̧̖̘̰̩̏̅̕E̷̹͂̾͑͐̅͝ ̷̦̤̥̰̙̹́́͌̓̒̈̃6̸̛̖̊̆̿͋̅͗̽F̸̼̦͔̞͎̹̹͗̇̅͜ ̴̬̉̋̈́̑7̶̝̝̥̐̈́́͜4̶̢̛̮͉̜̠̝̦̒͑͗̒͘͜ ̵͍̺̱̱̰̱͙͊̏̉͌͘͜2̷̫͙̪͙̬͍͇̻͌0̴̝͉͍̰̈́̆̅̈́̐̃̅͜ ̴̗̞͚͓̼͒̌6̴̲̰̞͇͓̟̳̅4̴̟̼̗̖͐̍́̈́̆̃̄͘ ̶̢̠̩̺͈̝̼͈͌͛͆͆͗̈́͝͠6̷̞̭̭̺̣͛͌̿͌5̶̜̟̂ ̴̱̺̌͘6̸̨͓͖̳̽̽̅͑ͅ7̵̯͊́̊̿͐͂̐̕ ̸̣̮͖̲̲͛̓͑̾̈͛͐7̶̩̘͖̐̓͂͒̇͘̚2̷͎̝̈́ ̴͇͎̦̼̋̂̅̈́̽͘͝6̸̣͖̃̃1̴̟̓̏̈́ ̴̥̖̜̱̉̆͑͗̐̋͠6̷̢͙̳͈̮̔̄̋̌̓̓̂͜4̶̻̪̖̤̺͓̽̾͗ͅ ̸̧̡̞̣̩̬́̌̾̀͠6̷̞̘̎̅̽1̷̖́͒͊̾͝͠ ̴̹̺̃̒̒̔̈́̉͜7̸̜̟̗̳̼͔͍͐4̸̗̳̼̗̦̼̥̏͋͐͂͘ ̵̡̠̗̭͔͍͔̟̍͋̅̄̈́͂6̴̧͎̦̈́̎̑͂̄͝9̸̡̭̬̟̰͙̅̊̄̉ ̴̤̝̦̯̗̅̅̑͝6̷̧̨̖̭̜͔̓̐͘ͅF̷̡̗̤̲̩͉̯͒̈́͂͒̎͆̉̚ ̶̨͚̍̃͗̒͌̂6̴̡̫͎͎̮̲̜̘͑̏̆̋D̶̻̦͕̙̏̈́͌͂̿̂̋͜ ̸̢̩̞̩͕̠̐̀2̵̧̥̯̮̙͐̌̔̄C̶̤̝̳͈̥̫͊͜ ̴͕̜͍͑͊̆̿2̷̠̯̱̳̞͒͗̃̀̚0̵̢̞̝̮̠̥̳̄ ̵̖͉͈͇͈͋̽̈̂̚6̶̡̘̮̝̊̈̌̐̌̎̃͝6̶̯̟͗̈́̊̚͝ ̵̭̞͊6̷̢͍̙͉̼̈́̎̉̇̂F̵̘̲̭̘̭̖̿ ̶̧̦͕͙̼̞͆̏7̶̛̲̼̩̯̔̌́̌̈̉̕͜2̷͕̖̘̀̓̑ ̴̘̤̝̱͚͕͙͋̇̎͌͊̀̚͝ͅ2̷̻͎̙̜̃̃̉̃̎̀̀͌ͅ0̷̧̥͔̠̟̩̀ ̵̳͈͇͍͙̘̐͌̆̓͌̅́7̴̡͍̭̦́̋̈́͌4̵̡̞͍̜̮̥͍̭̕ ̴͚̞̱͙̫̈̍̓͗̅̎͋6̴̲͉̟̖̀̿̿̄͜8̸̮̙̘̐͂̕ ̷̛̜̼͉̱͖̑̿̇́̀̃6̴̰̭̫̙͇͈̮̻̔̒͊͛5̷̩̻̒̃̍͛̋͌͘͠ ̷̧̤̟͈̋̂̀̽̒2̴̢͖̜̉͊̌̿̍́ͅ0̵̭̣̳̈̆ ̶̜̀̏̀͊́̂̎̚7̶̬̏0̴̧̥̲̲͎̦̄̉͝ ̴̰̩̪͔͉̟̗̟̆͊̈́̾̉̑̕7̵̧͚̠̞̳̎͗̔̂̈́5̷̜̝͖̮͍̲͂ͅ ̵̭͊͆̀̿7̷̜͙̯̊2̷͕̯̋̈́͐͝ ̷̲̺̫̜͍̗̅̇͊7̷̢̭͇̎͂̀̀̈́̓̊͝0̸̫͗̾͒̒ ̴̦͖̞̆̊ͅ6̶̨̪̙̓͗̓͋͛̓̉͠F̵̣̥͈̞̱̩̍ ̴̡̧͇̤̋̆̉̕͝7̸̨̳̗̤͚̳̆3̷͈̗̟̰̤̹̟̦̉̊ ̴̫̞̬̘͇̭͙̗̐̽̈́̕6̶̞͉͚̟͂̀5̵͙͔͚̜́̉͆͌̎̈́͋̕ ̵̇̄̑͋͑̋ͅ7̵̲̻͖̤̳̯͆̍́͋̌͘3̴̲̥̳̙̖́͊͆͑̀́͘ ̴̨̖̜̩̊̈̊̊̍́͜͜͝ͅ2̶̢̮̝͉͈̣̌͂0̵̻̞̹͕̱̇͛͛̐̕ ̶̜͈͍̈͆̈́̂̎̏͋͝6̴̧̨̹̰̓͒̂̇̊͌̀̀F̶̢̝̳̮͍̲̳̋ ̸̨̢̜͖̄̈̈́̇͜͜͝ͅͅ6̶̠̒̇͒̾͝6̵̲͇̃̆ ̷͖͌͛̄̊̂2̵̡̢̭̐̇̉0̸̰́̃̂̽̃͝ ̸̨̢̢̟̂̎̾̎́̈́7̵̮̤͍̬͔̝̟̇͌͑4̴̨̛̆͛̔̽͘ ̸͔̺̿̂̇̿͝6̶̫͙̹̪̮̑̎8̷͖͈̄̆ͅ ̸̛̮̱̰̣̂̍̈́̊̃̏6̸̬͉͉̹͓̪̥͌5̷̮̈́̄̉́͋̃̚̚ ̵̛̲̟͉̭̉͂̊̀2̸͕̻͈̣͂͊̀̎̓̈0̴̧͍̮̫̩͑̔̿̄̑͜ ̷͈͉̰͔̰́̊͑̍͜ͅ5̶̻̑͊͌͝3̷̢͙͓͓͒͗ ̷̺͉̲̼͔̓̒̓́͗̉̚6̴͖͉̤͔̳̲͈͂͂̂̆̾́͛5̵̫́̈́ ̶̢̧̞͉͉̓͝6̵̨̡̢̞̮̙̥̾̋̃̀̋͜͝͝5̴̓̈̚ͅ ̸͔͓͙̌̇͆̈́̓͘ͅ6̴̝̩̟̖̟̠̆̊͘4̵̣͒̅̈́̅̀̍͠ ̷͕͔̞̠̼̾̇͆̇̎̃͆2̵̘̈́̆̾̚0̶̙͉̾̄̍̎͗̋̅͜ ̴̛̭̿̌̾̒̈́6̵̢͈̼̝̈́͋̏͊͐̚͜͜F̷̳̥̈́ ̶̡̗̹̞̫͆̏̋ͅ6̷͇̬̙̝̼̜̝͋̊6̸̠̜̰̬͍͓̳͆̌̋͌ ̷̛͈̂̈́̀̈̈́͆2̶̠̦̞̱̑̈́̉̑̆̃͒0̴̙͉̬̙͌̋̚͝ ̵̦̭͖͒͂͘͝4̸͍̳̽̈́͑C̴͍͚͍̔̎̈́͘ ̷̘͍̩̞̻͍̦̻͗̀̍͗͠6̸̹̺̙̉̒̀͑͌̈͠9̸̨̧̹͂̒̚͝ ̴̮̖͑̒6̵̳͔̤̈́̒7̴̭̍͂͒̐̃́ ̶̨̯̺͈̤͕͇̦̌̈͘6̶̡̛̼̫̣͎̊͂̍̾̊8̴̧̧̼̻͍͕̱̝̍͆̔ ̶̹͒͐̏̓̓7̶̳̜̤̼̟̹̫̾4̴̖̏̇͐ ̴̜̯̠̗̄̔͝͠ͅ2̴̧͚̘͚̬̃0̵̺̖̉̀̾̊̓̅̈ ̴̰͚̣̝̩̐͘5̶̙̗̓0̸͓̙͗̎̅͊̿͛̕͝ ̵̥̼͓̗̠̖̒́̑̓̈7̵̧̙͍͓͈̦͈̎̍̿͌̓̕͝͝2̸̖̈ ̴͇̄6̴̢͎̗̲̹̤̠́́̀̑́̓̊̀ͅF̶̻̟̩̳̏̃ ̷̛̭̮͇̹͔͊̾͂̎̏̆6̸̩̩̍̊̀̔̽̄͘͠Ä̷̻́͒̉̆ ̴̨̗͇͙̬̣͙̓̓͂̀͝͠6̸̧̳͙̻̊͆̃̾͜5̵̹̥͝ ̵̨̨̱̘̟̺͊̒̆͊6̷͙̺̣̔̌͋̏́͝3̵͚̓͗͘͠ ̸͙͖̦̝̬̪̮̈́͆̔͊͊̆̈́7̸̼̮̮̜̱̻̦̤͆̉̄̇̑͆́̔4̵̪̦͓̒̈ ̸̛̪͈̦̣̻͎͎͒͑͌̏͊͋2̵̡͈̖̫͙̟͓̞̓͂̎͑͆͊̒C̸͓̤͚͓̬̞̏̀͜ ̵̨̛̺͉̣̹̯̥́̆͗ͅ2̶̻͐̓̀0̵̡͈̮̥͇̮̞́̇̉̄̔̕͠ ̵̜̝̯̣̟̯̖̫̊̀͑̐̿̈̈́̒7̸̺͋̌͒͒͘4̴͔̰̼̞̭͓͂̀̂̃̃̂ ̸̨̧̺͖̖̟̓ͅ6̸̨̡̭̺͉̍̚͝8̸̘̓̈́͂͋̃ ̴̨͖͙͆̈́́̌͝6̷̢̤͌̔͗̉͐̋̐9̵̧̛̉̓̓̈́ ̵̡̗͖̙̥̗̓͜7̴͈̬̮͑̔̒̂͋3̷̳̯̇̇̓̈̈́͐̋̏ ̸̛̺̖͖̗̋̒͗̎̈͜2̶͈͇̬̂0̴̗̗̯̟̟͉͒̽́ ̶̇̒͌͂̆͛̂͘͜6̴̩̭͓̭̻͇̓̔̒͋͒͂̕͠9̵̗̹̩̟͇̜̔̾̾̀ ̷̡͈̠͇̪̩͔͙̑̍́͆̽͛7̸̰̺̞̓͑͛͛̌̀̇3̷̯̝̖̬͖̗̏ ̴̧̝͛̈̀2̴̨̳̦̣͐̔̓͐̈́̈͠͠0̵̧͕̣̩̩͙̅͗̈̓̑͌͝ ̶̧̠͓͚̰̣͔̿ͅ7̷̗̄̊̇̀̐̚̚͠4̴̨͉͙̭̯̐̎ ̷̢̤̺̼̳̱̇6̶̟̖͔͔͍̋̋́̊̏̿͒F̷̝̙̣̬̩̝̒̂͊̍̓ ̶͕̣̪̜͊̀͘2̵̱͇͇̱̫̗̥̜̍̐̄͋0̸̞̾̓̏͝ ̷̢̨͚͔͙̐͑̽ͅ6̴͚̜̃̒̈́̎͗̃̕͝2̴͙̬̝̻̲̋̽̃̈͗̋̚͠ ̵͉̒͂6̷͈̤̦̟͎̯̑̽̓̆͊̑͝5̸̹̬̍̽̈́͐͌ ̷̡̛̖̤̖̜̻̠͌̽̊̾̊̎̚͜2̶͎̗̖̤̖̩̻͐̄̒̀̏̎́̚0̸͕͙̮̭̟̩͎̲̏̽̉̀̈́ ̷͕͈̭̯̺͎͈̅̐̄́6̷̨̼̹̹̭̥̪͂͋̓͗̐̏̔3̸͇̱̣̙̲͕̿̐ ̴͎̍͑͛̆͘6̴̮͕̻̹̺͐̒F̵͈̯̭̫̺̞̼̞̋̒́̀̓ ̵̛̗̥̹̎̾͂̈́͘͘6̷͈̹̮̝̬̐͌̽́̈́̕Ę̵̣̼͍̈́̕ ̵̤͇͍͓͎̈7̷̧͈̥́3̴̨͕̥̚ ̷̲̟͊́̓6̶̨̤̩̗̭̲̇̀̇̈́̈́͝9̵͙̤̤̿͒̉͘͝ ̶̱͇̲̝͔̳͋6̸̢̛̗̰̈̌̏ͅ4̶̢͓͕̟͐͆̕͜ ̵̧̬͖̘͑6̸̡̻̺͍͚̙̄̋́͂͗͊̕͝5̶̲͖̥̄̋ ̷̰̟̜̫͈͂̍́̉̎7̴̡̩͈̠̐̕2̴̡̡͉̣̲͎̑̑͌́̔̕͝ ̵̧̰͕͚̖̩̍̈́͋̔̄͛̚6̸͕̒̀5̶̧̫̆̿͑̂ ̴͓̍͛͋̈́6̴̗̬̖͈̫͙͆͋̔͂4̸̢̞̣̟̲̉̃̊͋́́̉̚͜ ̵̨͔͔͍̱̃̓̈́̇̐2̵̻̰͓̦͔̬̐̍0̶̦̯̿ ̷͇͛͑̐̋͐6̵̲̫͝5̴͈̪̺͇͙͋̒̾̅̏̿ ̶̢̛͖͇͍̤̾͒͂́͝7̸͙̰̪͇͚̦͔̳͐́̅̆̌͐8̷̧̘͔̺̝͉̻̳̄͝ ̴̼̼͉̞̳̗́̅͛̕͝͝ͅ7̶̢̗̺̣͖̅̂̑̓͐͆0̴̡̠͌̑̃ ̷̠̾͐̌͠6̸̨̦̪̻̣̣̘͙̆̉͛̒͆̕5̶̢̯̦̖̭̄̾̂͘͝ ̸̨̟̠̓6̷̥̜̰̳͉͍̦̿͆̂̾3̶̝͕̪̮̦̼̋̈̎͐̓́ͅ ̵̰̼͙͔̼̒̌̀͂̽͝7̷̢̧̱̙̫̋͒̈́̉͝4̶͚̖̻̳̯͐ ̴̨̛̤̤͖̃͛6̵̡̛͎̼̒͒̇̽̆̆͂5̶͇̫̝͙͆ͅ ̷̫̭̯̮͒̎͌̍̌͑̈́6̸̧̢͖͕̤̦͈͝4̷͔̣̝̤͕̏ ̴̰̞͕̪͇̺̈́̃̉̀̂͠2̸͉͋̀͂̈́͆̌̚͝0̵̬̯̲͓͗͗ ̴͚̬̝̜͉͍̬̓̓͒̕͘6̷̧͉̜̰̳̼͚̓͘͜2̴̘̏͂ ̸̲̱̰͓̰̻̱͋̃̓͐͜͝6̷̛͓̦5̵̨̟̖̪̖̺̩̆ͅ ̶̘͓̬̻̭̀͆̃́̌̓6̷͖̩̞̰̘͕̳̪͑͌͗̀͐́͝8̶̯̑͒̐̅͘͝͝͠ ̷̭̲̿6̸̫̱̅͠1̵̺͇͉̬̜͎͇͆̍̊ ̷̞̗͈̰̒̑̏͠7̸̝̓͋̽̌̚͝͝6̸̡̡̧͉̗̰̤͐̈͛͊̚ ̷̫͍̼͖͔̮̅̊͂̓̀̏͜͜6̶̛͖̦͕̥̥͗̇́̔̂̄ͅ9̸̲̼͎̮̖̙̅̉ ̵̧̨͇̺̺̱̤͙͆̔̔̓̀̓6̷̨̳̯̺͒̇̃́̌͂͘͜F̸̡̢̢͚̱̌ ̸͍̗̹̼͖͕͉̉̀̾͝7̷̠̋̃̆̔2̶̧̛̰̗̯̖͈̞̤̓̋̚͝ ̵͓̼͋̂̉2̷̛͕̮̪̤͙͖͗͂͆͑C̶̰̝̹̬̝̺̈́͒̽̽̈́̉̽̆ ̷̛̠͙͕͈͍̖̍̆̀̓͋͂͘2̷̢̧̫̤̐͊̈́̕͝0̷͓͇͒̉̌͗ ̷̤̥͆ͅ6̷̡̧͉̜̓̔̀̃͐̚ͅ6̶̢̠̮͕̝̔͐̋ͅ ̸͎͑͝6̴̪̺̇͗F̶̘́̾̽̌̏͂̕ ̶̨̫͔̪́̂̀̾͘7̶̢̥̗̲̀̍͆̾̚͝2̸̡̰̰̗̆͋͋̾́̈́̔̐ ̸̥̏͑͛2̸̥̰̬͇͔̖̠͇́́̄̉͋̂0̸̡̒̿̅ ̸̡̉̋7̶̧͕̣̲͊̈́̓̑̚ͅ4̸̢̢̺̫̘̖̀͒͝ͅ ̵͇̪͚̳̻̤̇͜6̴̬̹̬̩̱́̆͂̀8̸̡̛̘̝̔́̄̌̐͒́ ̴͙͉͈̱̜̈́́̄͊̇͆̕6̵̻̄̔̉5̵̛̯̥̠͙͖͇̜̝͌̍̇̄͗ ̵̮̮̀̽͛̀̍̕͠2̵̧͎̹̠̲̘̟͚̋̀̓̈́̾0̶̻̣̙̩͆͑̓̎́̾ ̸̥̪̫͚̟͚̈́7̵̮͕̻̏̇3̶̬̦̯̝̪͎̌̈́͗͊̽̅́̚͜ ̵̢͉̠̕͝7̴̛͇̥̦̠̮̯̃́̊5̴͉͔͚͚͙̈́̾̑͊̋̍͘͠ ̶̱̥̜̠̩̿̾̍̏6̸͇̾̇2̶̲͎̱͇̯̀͆̒̈́̈̏̚ ̴̨̛͚̘̬̼̟̤̬̓͗̾6̶̨̮̗͎̖̰̣͊͗́̔͋͑̚̚Ả̸̧̧͔̹̲̮̝́̑̔͑͝ ̶͕̲͖̩̼̫̜͆̈́͂́̾͌̀͜͝6̵̹̋̓5̷͈͎̭͚̘̖̱̑̉̓̓̊͜ ̵̡͖͇̒͜6̴̢̱̻̺̱̥̾͛3̸͙̮̹̹̦̟̘͗̈́ ̸̡͇͙̻̙̹̮͛͑͜7̴̡͎̯̥̗̈́̕4̷̛͖̖͉͆̾͐̊ ̷̨̛̺̩͖͉̇̇͋2̷̝̼͑̆̿͜͝͠0̷̼̼̦͈͍̰̻̻͐͊ ̸̧̺̩̤̞̹̭̈̈́̀̎͑͌7̸̧̘̜̘͔̦̅̈́̐̕͜2̸̧͚͙̗̍̎̉̍̽̉͘ ̸̬̗͐6̵̧̦̣͕̠́̏̋̓5̶̪͌̍͝ ̵̡̲̝̟͂͆́̀́̚ͅͅ6̷̭̒̀̎͌E ̷͚̤̥̖̳͈́̂̂͒̆̕͜6̵̤͙̠̘͇̯̀̒͗͜1̴̭͂͑̋̀̌ ̵̟̹͍͖̱̰̀6̶̢͇͖̣̯͕̙̅9̴͓̮̜̰̮͌͛̅̿̉̽͋͝ ̸͎͉̱̎͑̈́̀͝6̴̙̥̼̺̜͛͐̄̀͆Ë̵̡̟̞̬̻̠̮̖́̒̎ ̸̼̱͎̫̐̽̅͐͛7̷̜͕̯̉3̷̡̟̙̼̍̆̊̿́͝ ̸̢̭̰͊́̌͝2̴̛̳̤̟̈͋̄̈́0̵̗̬̽̐͛̈́̅͗ ̵̡͚̰̝̠͇͓̪̔̓̈́͐̀6̷̛̤̱̬̥͚3̶͓̰͇͙̘̔̏̀̃͛͒ ̶̧͈̯͇̊̒̏̊͌̀̓͝6̸̡̤͎͓̘͈̗̝̾́̅͘1̶̯̫͈̪̮͍͒̎́͜ͅ ̶̦̰̪̱̺͈͍̐̍͌͂6̷͓̯̇C̷̩̒̔̍ ̴̛̻̼̬͓͓͛̈̏͊͝͝͝6̶͇̰̤̖̱̂͋̒D̴̺̤̾͑͗͛̂̑̑ ̴͎̜̱̞̬̙̖͗̃͑͝͠2̵̞̺͔̯̥͔͕͐̀͒̅͌̌̕0̵͕͖̪̮̋ ̵̭̯̼̥̭̋̽̂͘ͅ6̸̫̇͒1̵̗̗̓ ̸̛̝͓͈̠̦̖̰͇̽͑6̷̲̦̳̙̰̈́̎͌̔͊Ę̸̡͔̻̤̭̠̌ͅ ̵͔͎͇̥̼͉̈̂͛̇6̷̨͎̜̺̰̿̀͜4̶̭̖̤̬͎̬̙͛̌͐̀̎̃ ̶̘̏̇͆͆̊̿͊̈́ͅ2̴̰͖̠̦̙͖̠̝̾́̓̚0̸̬̠̰̌̔̈́̀̀ ̷͎̥̙̠̻̌́͌̾͑̎̚6̷̜̩̹͇̟̤̍̀̅͘͠3̸̧̡̝̫̼͙̣̮͗̄̓̇̑̉ ̷̨̻͖̙̆6̸̛̣̳̰̫̳͔̭̠̂̾͒̈́͋̋F̴͓̖̞̺͑̐̃̕͜͝ ̷̛̟̞̗͎̹̘͗̓͒͜͜͝6̵͙͔̫̍8̴̧̞̣̺̝̜̤̓͊̚̕ ̷̨̛̮͎̙̼͙̞̂͠6̴̛̬̬̳̤̀̀̌͝5̵̼̯̠̥̘̆̓͒̃̔͝ ̶̧̫̪̪̬͂̾̊̋̆̋͝7̵̨̽̌̉̄̈͝2̶̧̠̝͔̤͎̪̍̄̀͑̇̽̽̈ͅ ̴̢̯͕̠̙̜̓̎6̸̝͉̯̠̟̱͙̄̈́͊͂̏̑̈́5̸̨͍̬̗̝̦̓͑̈́͒͒̄̚͜͠ ̸̜̯͖͖̅6̶̢̙̦͔̤̻̀͌̆̀͑͜͝Ë̶̡̮͕̭̫͍̺́ ̶̨̖̟͕̠̰͎́̀7̸̧̜̞̫̏͒̋͊̇͝4̶̭͌̅͊̽̋̎̉̂ ̵̠̲̙̪̬̅̀̂͛͒͂̔2̸̧̱̲͍̲͙̲̊Ė̶͚̦̮̱̳̣͓́͂͘̚ ̷̹̣̳̂̆̀2̷̇̿͂̇̎͑ͅ0̴̳̙͕̟̌̉͜ ̶͔̫̅0̴̟͖̓̏̕ͅḀ̴̡͓͉̼̫͈̰̓͛̀̐͠ ̷̡̹̘̘̯̩̙̤̈́͐̔̕0̵̝͖̳̥̗̩̈́́̅̅͗̂̒̓ͅA̴̧̨̧̜͈̗̯̒̑͗ ̷̞͔͔͎͎̻̥͓̋͒̋́̾̕͝͝5̴̙̻̦̓͂̒̓͌͑̇̀7̸̤̝͓̻͋͂͒ ̵͇̪̺̝̝͑̾̈͗̍̔ͅ6̷̲̱̬̙̆́̇̊̋̒1̴̧̢̨̲̞̬̣̿̃͑̓̕͜ ̵͓͕̩͙̼͗̂̀͝7̵̫̞̙̺̤̏̓̈́̈́͝2̸̧̣̼̠̻̰̉ ̶̩̼̉̓̐͋̂̈́6̵̡͔͒̏̃̍È̶̮͍͗͛̈́̍̀̓ ̷̡̠̦͍̲̮̊̎6̸̜͉͖̘͔̭̊͗̓9̴̜̙̜̥͙͔͗̅̿̔̇͌̐̂͜͜ ̸̝͕̬̙̄̈́̓͒̑͑͗̃6̵̟̝̰̭̮͙̂͛̎Ȅ̸̮͚͇͙̹̀͗̂ͅ ̸̟̼̰͉̄̒͑6̵̟̙̭͇̇̂̈͐̀7̴̜͚̬̠͚̣̋̽͌̒͜ ̶̨̧̟̥͛́̐̑̚͝͠3̶͖̜͙̥̀A̵̢̓͛̄͛̔͛̈́̚ ̴̟̯̒̈́́͛̀͠͠2̵̠̠͇̍̃̔̈́͆͛̕̕0̶̰̝̍̇̃ ̵̤̳̞̀̅̈̋̆̅͝͝6̵͕̘̝̊͐̆͜ͅ4̷͇̘͓͚̗̞̺͑͠ ̵͇̫̈́́̓͘6̵̡̧̧̛̥̐͋͋͒͑̀Ḟ̵̛͉̣̰̻͕̦̤̗́̆̀̀̚ ̵̛͔̯̺̑̑͆̈́̑̀̽ͅ2̶̥͇̠̈́̋͋̒̃̎̌͝0̵̯̥͖̫̯̽̇́̾̎́̉̉ ̶̳̪̹̫̱̗̗̋͝6̸̖̳͂͜E̷̻͎̙̻͒̊̅̇̽ ̷̛͕̠̈́6̴̙̗͛F̴̢̗̤̳̥̫̻͇̉͆̏ ̸̡̺̀̄̈͋̔͊͊̈́7̴̢̧̦͔̥͒̆̚4̵̨̹̟͙͌̋̀̏ ̸̨͒̿̎̆̕͠͝2̸̡͇͖̰̬̌̑̂͂͜ͅ0̵̱̦̂̽̚ ̶̧͉̜̜̺̝͈̤̄6̴̡̝͍̿̉͌̇̇̓̃͘Ç̶̙͚̝̦̫̬̰̏͛͌̓͌͠ ̸̗̪̳͍̞̩̥͙̈́̉̃̌̌̋̂͝6̵̺̞̠̘̲̻̦͌̓̂̐̓̕F̷̡̣̦̦̈̐̈́̊̆̕͝ ̵̖͉̥̰̜̪̲̃͗͊̏͐6̸̦̞̻͕̗̣̩̅͗̽̊̂̀͝͝F̴̧̺̪̭̤͐̌͘ͅ ̵̧̗͔̟̗͖̮̂̊̓͒͌̐̇6̷̜̹̰̹͐B̴̧̨̢̤̲̙̘̘̈́́͠ ̴̢̫̪̤̻̫̎͐͆2̴̧̱͉̣̿̏̐̈̐̕0̵̢̈́̓̆̿̽̀̅ ̶̢̧̬̄̊́͛̈́̇̚6̵̧͓͛9̸̢̪̼̦̞͎̪̻͑͌̉͝ ̸̨̞̮̗̳̈́͋́̏͐͗6̶͖̘̖̰͙̕͜͠Ẹ̵̙͈͚͓̹̋̃͂̆̊ͅ ̶͓̟̟̦͈̿̀̾́̾̆ͅ7̸̡̦̍̏́̈́̋͠͠4̸̢̹̲̘̲̆̈́̏̓̀̓̒̅͜ ̸̨͍̻̦̦̞͐̃̏̈̓͐̒6̸̫̭̖̺̯̥̀̽́F̷̼̪̼̩̝͚͗̇͐̕ ̴̧̛̩̞͈͓͓̬̑̅2̸̱̩̦̬̰̬̮̂̾̋͊͗̕͠0̷̨̝͍̹̼̱͕̓̒͊͑̀͗͜ ̸̪̗̗͚̜̜̎͑̿́̐̄̾͠7̴͇̆͐̿͋̔̄4̴̬̭̈́͑̀̈́̚͝ ̵̨̟͉̳̬͕̜̎̊6̶̢̧̱̩͍͓͚͗͋͠8̷͔̣͇͈̪̻́̔͠ ̷̨̛̦͔̭̯͍̩͋̿̾͌̋͂̈́6̶̢̗̠͕͇̝̬̺͝5̵̥̱̖̣̺̰̝̤̑́́̅ ̶̬̰̓̆2̸͚̯̜͇͓͚͚̙̀̋̍̽̊̎͘͝0̷̨̢̨̬̜͇̩́̋̓̋͜ ̵̨͇̯̱̋̃7̸̧͈̤̻̬̈́̀̑̈́̃͛̚͝3̸̩̈̀̈́̿̔͆̇̕ ̴̺͕͈͇̭͑7̵̢̡̼̖̤͕̤͑͋̓̽̏̋̔͠5̶̺̝͖͇̝̭̭̝̒͒̆̋̅͗ ̷͔̩̥̳̐̏͒͠6̵̧̢͓̣̼̮̬͇̀͂̀̈̈͌̂̈́2̷̱̒͐̒ ̴̧͈̠͓̣̲̣͈̓6̴̢̂̏Ą̵̙̱͕̦̈̉̉͘͜ ̴̢̟͓̦͙͎̻̳͌̈́̊͛͑6̶͕̭͌̔̈́̓̎5̴͖̗̩͈̤̯͐̆̌̈́̀̽͜͝͝ͅ ̸̞͘6̸̧̙͍͚̮̙̝̇̈́̈́̍̈́͒̉͝3̷̧͉̗͔̥̮̆͗͌͑ ̷̭̺͇̐͋7̸̳̯̣̱̆4̷̜̲͉̘̥̞̏̒̋̔ ̷̡̻̠̟̯̭̩̿͜2̵̡̡̹̺͙̫̐͒̎̎̅̋7̸̡̠̣̪̦͙͉́́͋̈́̅ ̴̡̠̩̘̳̺̑̓7̶͇̣̪̗͍̏́̈́͝͝3̵̢̱͖͈̠̼̊̈ͅ ̶͓̰̗̻͈͠2̸̡͚̏̿̈̍̃̚0̸̛̝͈̩̦͆̄ ̵̡̢̳̹̲̘̏̆̉6̸̧͙̺̰̤̤̽͆̈́́͆5̶̡͈͇̳̮̝̔̂ ̵͕̤̩̱͈̋ͅ7̷̡͍̔̃̊͝9̸̪̱̪̠̳̟̓͋̏͑͗̂͒͝ ̷̜̦̀̀̂͝6̸̧͙̺̰̤̤̽͆̈́́͆5̶̡͈͇̳̮̝̔̂ 2̵̫̯̳̲̣͊̑E̶̬̪͋̒́͊͆̿͑ͅ
“I shall become a sentinel once more and watch your every action…”
Binah, placid—no, distant. Always, always distant. Hokma could not comprehend how he had ever mistaken her arrogance for calmness.
“It appears that we all have come to an agreement.”
Ah, how painful it was to think of Ayin now. His beloved mentor had been in his mind, yet in these discussions he appeared oddly absent, as if abstaining from giving an opinion even in Hokma's own mind. Was this how it was meant to be?
Perhaps it had been like this for so, so very long now. Between resentment and regrets, was this how it was meant to be? How long had it been since—
.
.
.
“Don’t worry, I have no plans to let this be the end. Life will call out to you once again, so take a nap until then.”
Sephirah Protocol: Hokma
Researcher: A
Results (Voice Recording):
Stability: confirmed. Polite, like always.
Minimal reactions to pictures of the ocean. Minimal reactions to pictures of 19 districts. Minimal reactions to pictures of smoke.
I don't even know why I bother.
[The voice, previously steady, trailed off into a sigh.]
[2 minutes and 43 seconds of silence]
[Record is picked up by a hesitant, female voice]
Upon change of researchers, the Sephirah showed minimal reaction.
The standard procedure will resume with a new Researcher—
[The remainder of the report seems to have become noise]
Notes:
Kudos/Comments/Bookmarks are always appreciated!!!
HylianBokChoy on Chapter 1 Wed 06 Aug 2025 02:21AM UTC
Comment Actions
YsaX64 on Chapter 1 Sun 10 Aug 2025 12:37AM UTC
Comment Actions
Melancholistic on Chapter 1 Wed 06 Aug 2025 03:06PM UTC
Comment Actions
YsaX64 on Chapter 1 Sun 10 Aug 2025 12:38AM UTC
Comment Actions
cactis (Guest) on Chapter 1 Sat 16 Aug 2025 06:19AM UTC
Comment Actions
YsaX64 on Chapter 1 Fri 12 Sep 2025 11:49PM UTC
Comment Actions
Random_valhallan on Chapter 2 Tue 07 Oct 2025 05:18AM UTC
Comment Actions
Kitty_Bitty on Chapter 2 Tue 07 Oct 2025 07:51AM UTC
Comment Actions