Private Hey There Alana

[Alana Calloway]

Warning, This is a very, heavy read. Proceed with caution.

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Hey There Alana​

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Location: Unknown​

Tag: None​

Gear: Aquilia-Boreal Cry, Slicing Glove, K-22 body armor, CRP-01 Revolver, Wrist Mounted Weapons (Hekler'Kok WMMW-01), DS-102 "Aegis" Personal Energy Shield​

The air shimmered like heat rising off a forge, bending and twisting, distorting the abyss that Á̷̪̳̐̀̆̃l̶̬̄ả̷̭͛ñ̵̨̺͔̗̓̋̈â̷̧̲̬̠͙̅̈́̊͋ found herself within.

Á̷̪̳̐̀̆̃l̶̬̄ả̷̭͛ñ̵̨̺͔̗̓̋̈â̷̧̲̬̠͙̅̈́̊͋—no, ̸̙̂̒̅̓͝Ş̷̓̊̕ã̸̭̹b̷̛̗̩̣̪̫̈́́ḷ̸̩̺̦̋͆͘͘e̸͈̜̎̏͂, no, C̷̰̺͓͂̋̿̓͊ă̸̖̣̥̿͊̽l̷̻͔͖̾͊͊̋l̷̫͇͇̉̈́͌ó̸̫̻͉̗̋̇̚ẅ̵̹̮͍́̿̾͝a̵̩̎̐̂̀̈́y̷̨̦̱͋͋͌ ̵̮͇̯̽͋, no, ̶̛̠̾͐̂̊M̵̡̪̅̉̈́̕o̸̡̓̇̇̆͒ṛ̸̈͒n̸̟̽̈́̍͠ȃ̴̘͠m̵̪̰̘̬̖̏ì̵͓̪̥̖̖̈́̀͝—stood in the shifting fog, boots pressing into something that felt like both solid ground and endless void. Her breath hitched as echoes whispered around her, familiar voices bleeding into one another, memories clawing their way to the surface.

A neon haze flickered to life, casting sickly blues and reds against rain-slick pavement. Nar Shaddaa. The stench of spice, rust, and desperation filled her lungs as she turned, watching the scene unfolding on a holovid. She had no control over it, but the figures involved were known immediately..

Her mother. Silver hair tangled, knuckles bloodied, pinned beneath the weight of a Jedi's shadow. Sakadi Marathi Sinvala stood over her, saber ignited, face unreadable. ̴̜̔A̵̰͗l̷̞̀ā̸͎ṇ̸͌a̷̧̔—no, she was still M̵̡̪̅̉̈́̕o̸̡̓̇̇̆͒ṛ̸̈͒n̸̟̽̈́̍͠ȃ̴̘͠m̵̪̰̘̬̖̏ì̵͓̪̥̖̖̈́̀͝ back then—wanted to scream, wanted to reach out, to change something, anything. But all she could do was watch as her mother lunged, a dagger flashing—

A blue blade cut through flesh.

The holocamera panned, cries were heard. Her father, it was his voice, he told her not to look but she couldn't pull herself away as her mothers body fell into view of the-

The world twisted again.

Blaster fire rained down. The cantina burned. The acrid smoke filled her nose. Her father was running—no, fighting—no, bleeding. His face twisted in pain as he shoved a datapad into her hands. "Run, Á̷̪̳̐̀̆̃l̶̬̄ả̷̭͛ñ̵̨̺͔̗̓̋̈â̷̧̲̬̠͙̅̈́̊͋." His voice was hoarse, choked with something she couldn't name. Then—

A bolt struck his back.

She turned away before she could see the body fall. She could see the burning building through the hole in his chest, her face frozen in terror, his white hair stained crimson. He reached a hand out, as shadows advanced towards, rapidly, aggressively.

Then the darkness surged forward, swallowing the scene whole.

Dantooine. The rolling fields. The safehouse. Alfonz Calloway's hand resting on her shoulder, steady. "You got a good heart, kid," He murmured, voice full of a warmth she had never quite learned to trust. "You just gotta decide what to do with it."

She opened her mouth—to say what? To ask him not to leave?—but the memory fractured, splintering like broken glass.

Now she was standing over his corpse.

His badge lay beside him, stained with blood.

The swamps of Nal Hutta had claimed another wayward soul, the rain poured, dripping loudly against shanty shacks erected in defiance of the decaying world.

As if the bulbous cyst of a planet had to shower her in it's contempt...let the moment burn into her memory.

̴̜̔A̵̰͗l̷̞̀ā̸͎ṇ̸͌a̷̧̔'s breathing turned ragged.

The world shifted again.

A durasteel cell. Chains on the walls, no, not walls- a bed. Not a cell-a room-

Pain laced through her skull. Dark voices hummed in the background, cold and methodical. Hands restrained. Wires. Wires in her wrists, in her legs, in her eyes-she could feel it. The jolts, the pulses. She opened her mouth to scream, but couldn't feel her jaw. A name being unraveled, unwound, pulled apart until all that was left was—

Nothing.

A mirror stood before her.

̷̹͘A̶̙͆ḻ̶̐a̸̺̋n̴̤̽a̶̡̓ C̶̢͐a̵͙͠ḽ̶̄ĺ̸̲o̷͇͗w̴̡̉â̸͔y̴̰̌ ̵̖͝ was gone.

̷͔̓S̴͓̏ą̵̔b̸̲̏l̶̝̎e̶͖̅ ̴͘͜V̸͎̏a̸̮̋r̴͍̊r̷̼͑o̷͕͊ stared back.

She stumbled away from the reflection, but there was nowhere to go. The walls closed in. The voices swelled.

Y̸͓̮͒́̓̅ở̵͈͙̥̎͜u̴̖͖͒͆ ̴̝̥͐͂̓̓â̶̱͂l̶̤̘̼̋̚͝r̴̳͒͂͆e̶͎͔͖̲̎͋ă̶̫̲̓̿d̴̝̟͙̈́͒́́ỷ̶̗͔͑͗̔͒ ̷̥͈̼̀̉ȟ̵̲̻̄̂̄à̵̢̢̗̺v̵̡̠̗̪̒̀̄̎͝ͅe̸̝̗͉͇͑͜͝.̴̤͓̦̘̔̈͌

R̵̗͓̰͛̌ͅǘ̶̜̳̑̕n̶͕̞͍̥͆,̶̛͎͔̖̪̽̋̍ ̷̛̞̮͌̓̈́́A̷̛͈̥̱̓̀̅ͅl̵͉͝ã̵͚̭̝̏͂̐n̴͓͕̬̺̏̍ͅa̶̡̹̲͙̎̾.̸͖͖̿̆

Ŷ̷̧͚̙͇̃̇̈õ̴̝̼̼̉̿u̷̞͇̙͗̊ ̴̻̘̟̓̋̋́̄g̴̲͍̲̳̈́͆̓̚ó̶̗̞͖̰̓̓͆t̷̲̹̼̹̋̒̕ ̷̮̲͑͛̃̀͝a̴̯̙͐ ̷̤͋̏͠g̵͇̺͗̃͝ͅơ̷̲̙ô̸̞̆̎͑͝ḏ̷̺̦͇̥̅̑̂ ̸͕͗͋͋h̴̙͇̪̓̾e̵̬͑ä̶͙̟̭͎́̿͂͠r̴̳͙̘̍͒͒̈́ͅt̶͈̏͆̃̕͠,̷̛͔̲̹̣ ̴͖̞̠͑̃̓k̶̟͔͕̾̐̓i̶̢̐̑̎̔͜d̷̢͔́͑̌.

Ņ̵̩̀͆̈́̾ô̵͓̠̳̳͛ ̸͇̥̹͖̓̐̾͘o̸̞̝̳̊n̶̫͍̦̲̓́̾̍ͅe̷͓͉̾̔̌ ̴̢̍̃̍ẅ̴̼̤́͗͜a̴̬̼̞̱̬̎̎̕n̷̰̘͔̤͉̓t̴̟̻͑̀͘e̷̘̐̔d̸̦͚͔̽̇͌̑̄͜ͅ ̸͙̼̖̟̀̓h̷̫̪̜̣̀͊e̴̙̔r̸̖̜̣͓͑͆́̕̕,̷̧̛̳͉̙̩̓̾̽ ̷̧͓̖̃d̴̨̖̜́̇a̵͗́̇͘͜͜r̵̰̤͉̿̎̈̿͗l̵̛͙̓͆i̸̭̤̟̗͍̓͗̑n̷̢̰̩̺͆́̑͐͠g̸̦̚̚.̸̫̘̀̕͘͜

Ḇ̴̃͝ŭ̴̢̝̜͕̓ͅt̴̟̜̬͎̦̏͑̕̚͝ ̴̙̞̕Į̵̛͎͓̹̩̄ ̷̨̳̻́͊̌w̵̨̘͎̄a̴̙̫͈͛̑̽̄̈́n̷͔̳͔͎͒̆t̴̤͋͒͝ ̵̘̀̑̑̒́ỳ̵͉̥͍͑ǒ̷̫u̵͚̟̣͋̎̍̀.̵͔̩̀͋̓̽͒

Á̷̪̳̐̀̆̃l̶̬̄ả̷̭͛ñ̵̨̺͔̗̓̋̈â̷̧̲̬̠͙̅̈́̊͋ squeezed her eyes shut, but the voices wouldn't stop. Her pulse pounded in her ears, her breath coming in sharp gasps as the memories clashed, blurred, overlapped—until she wasn't sure who she was anymore.

Then—

A hand touched her shoulder.

Not cruel. Not demanding. Not trying to reshape her.

Just there. Steady.

She turned.

And found herself in a free fall.

She fell into the abyss, her mind reeling, arms and legs grasping into the thin nothingness, trying, hoping, praying for salvation-for even a thread of hope to save her.

Only for a new chorus of voices to rain down upon her.

"Sweetheart, the only reason you're still breathing is because I allow it."

That...was...Serina?

"̷͔̓S̴͓̏ą̵̔b̸̲̏l̶̝̎e̶͖̅ ̴͘͜V̸͎̏a̸̮̋r̴͍̊r̷̼͑o̷͕͊."

Who was she?

"I get it, names ̴̜̔A̵̰͗l̷̞̀ā̸͎ṇ̸͌a̷̧̔ by the way,"

That...was her voice...right?

 

[Alana Calloway]

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Hey There Alana​

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Location: Unknown​

Tag: None​

Gear: Aquilia-Boreal Cry, Slicing Glove, K-22 body armor, CRP-01 Revolver, Wrist Mounted Weapons (Hekler'Kok WMMW-01), DS-102 "Aegis" Personal Energy Shield​

She closed her eyes, awaiting for an oblivion that never would.

For what felt like a life time, it was still, quiet. Not even the sound of her own breathing could be heard.

But then.
The sounds of gunfire reverberated through the dark tunnels beneath Tilrinn, the cracked and broke crust of the planet hinted towards the sky above. ̷̹͘A̶̙͆ḻ̶̐a̸̺̋n̴̤̽a̶̡̓ stumbled back, finding herself coated the shadow of an overhead frigate; one of the Silver Jedi's, stuck on a collision course with the planet. The dying engines of the ship thundered, vibrating the grey matter between her ears, forcing her to cover them, as the ship soon vanished behind an epitaph of rock.

Was this a dream or-

The place reeked of smoke, sweat, and desperation. It was a labyrinth of forgotten paths and hidden pockets, used by the undercity's denizens for years. Yet, tonight, it was more than just a hideaway — it was their last stand. Her last stand, wasn't it.

The dim glow of her rifle's scope illuminated her face briefly, casting sharp shadows across her features as she realized where she was. She was the only one who hadn't hesitated. She had moved first, cutting through the darkness, Aquilia Cry, ready, her mind set on one thing: survival. She didn't care for glory. She didn't care for the city. She cared for what she was paid to do. And right now, that was holding back the oncoming wave of destruction. She had gone in to help, against her own interest. Too many of the Silver Jedi had been spread out, the under-city needed help.

That help happened to just be Alana.

A voice crackled over her comm.

"̷̹͘A̶̙͆ḻ̶̐a̸̺̋n̴̤̽a̶̡̓, we're getting overrun! The Bryn'adûl are pushing through the streets!"

The voice was trembling, a mixture of fear and disbelief. Some of them had never fought anything like this before. The invaders were relentless, their sheer presence a threat. But ̷̹͘A̶̙͆ḻ̶̐a̸̺̋n̴̤̽a̶̡̓ was different. She had faced worse. She...she had lived through this already-the reply are already in her throat, though where they came from she had not clue.

"Then hold your ground," She replied, voice cold and unwavering. "We don't back down. You stand or you die. I don't care which."

There was a beat of silence on the other end, a pause where her words lingered, before the voice crackled back, firmer this time. "Understood. We're with you."

̷̹͘A̶̙͆ḻ̶̐a̸̺̋n̴̤̽a̶̡̓ moved quickly through the corridors, her boots clicking softly against the concrete, blending in with the sound of distant blasts. Her rifle was already primed, ready to fire. She would give them hell. She didn't need a group of civilians or criminals to make a stand with her. They would fall, one by one, but she would make the invaders pay for it.

Reaching the edge of a junction, she ducked low, listening. The ground shook slightly as something massive moved above. The Bryn'adûl were coming, and it wasn't long before the shrill, warbling call of one of their warriors echoed through the tunnel. They never fought fair, always looking for a cheap way-

Then came the thundering stomp of their war machines. Massive, armored beasts that could crush anything in their path.

̷̹͘A̶̙͆ḻ̶̐a̸̺̋n̴̤̽a̶̡̓ grinned under her hat. Too easy.

She checked the charge on her rifle, then peered around the corner. There, in the distance, the Draelvasier warriors were storming the tunnel, their massive forms silhouetted against the flickering lights of the lower city. They were everywhere, pouring in like a tidal wave.

"Hope you're ready for this," She muttered to herself, gripping her rifle tighter. Then, without hesitation, she raised it and fired. Aquilia Cry, sang as it chambered another round, and ̷̹͘A̶̙͆ḻ̶̐a̸̺̋n̴̤̽a̶̡̓ delivered it through the skull of an oncoming Bryn. Again, and again, the thump of it's internals continued to sling plasma down range. She felt the combat high, her confidence soared.

She was on fire.

A crackling bolt of energy shot from the rail rifle, hitting one of the Bryn'adûl square in the chest. It staggered but kept moving. She had expected it. The Draelvasier were tough. But that didn't matter. She was tougher.

One after another, ̷̹͘A̶̙͆ḻ̶̐a̸̺̋n̴̤̽a̶̡̓ fired, her shots landing with precision. The Bryn'adûl continued their relentless march, but each step they took cost them. One dropped, then another.

The rest of the group had arrived, taking up positions behind her. They were still a ragtag bunch, but they were firing back, their shots adding to the chaos. ̷̹͘A̶̙͆ḻ̶̐a̸̺̋n̴̤̽a̶̡̓ barely glanced at them. This wasn't about them. It was about the fight, about the thrill of making sure they knew they weren't going to walk all over her.

The Bryn'adûl kept coming, their armor heavy and their numbers vast. But ̷̹͘A̶̙͆ḻ̶̐a̸̺̋n̴̤̽a̶̡̓ wasn't ready to back down yet. Not when the price was so high. She couldn't afford to. Not for her, not for them.

"Don't stop shooting!" She found herself shouting, voice rising with the charge, "Hold the line, or-"

Their war cry echoed, filling the air, but ̷̹͘A̶̙͆ḻ̶̐a̸̺̋n̴̤̽a̶̡̓ was unwavering. There was no fear in her. Not for these invaders. Not from anyone. She was ̷͔̓S̴͓̏ą̵̔b̸̲̏l̶̝̎e̶͖̅ ̴͘͜V̸͎̏a̸̮̋r̴͍̊r̷̼͑o̷͕͊ .

Reality shuddered.

"Sable Varro."

No that wasn't-

"Sable Varro."

No, no that isn't-

"Sable Varro."

That isn't my-

The weight of a Bryn'adûl creature slamming into ̷̹͘A̶̙͆ḻ̶̐a̸̺̋n̴̤̽a̶̡̓ sent her crashing to the ground, her breath knocked out of her as she struggled to regain her bearings. The chaos of battle blurred around her, the screeches of the invaders mixing with the shrill sound of her pulse echoing in her ears. She rolled, narrowly avoiding a deadly strike, but her body refused to respond as quickly as her mind demanded. Her vision swam, and for a brief moment, the world around her faded, she felt her head bounce off a deck plate, pain flashed again. Her disorientation only grew, unsure what in the hell was even happening, when she heard it-

"Look, I don't even know what your plan is here. You'd need me to find the data core anyways and I'm not giving it to you."

She...she knew that voice.

 

[Alana Calloway]

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Hey There Alana​

​

Location: Unknown​

Tag: None​

Gear: Aquilia-Boreal Cry, Slicing Glove, K-22 body armor, CRP-01 Revolver, Wrist Mounted Weapons (Hekler'Kok WMMW-01), DS-102 "Aegis" Personal Energy Shield​

The weight of the Bryn'adûl creature slamming into ̷̹͘A̶̙͆ḻ̶̐a̸̺̋n̴̤̽a̶̡̓ sent her crashing to the ground, her breath knocked out of her as she struggled to regain her bearings. The chaos of battle blurred around her, the screeches of the invaders mixing with the shrill sound of her pulse echoing in her ears. She rolled, narrowly avoiding a deadly strike, but her body refused to respond as quickly as her mind demanded. The voice sounded again. It was different this time, but more familiar...it was her own voice.

Her mind drifted to a conversation that felt distant now, like it had happened ages ago. She slowly got to her feet, her rifle still in hand, the corridors...it was familiar all right, she had been here before-

"My plan, is that you need that core. I need that core. You can't get it without me seeing you get it."

She could hear her own voice again, the sharp edge of frustration cutting through the air. The girl, Delphine, standing there in that same damned smug stance, thinking she could talk her way out of this. It was all the same – that back and forth, as if time wasn't a luxury. She couldn't see herself, but she could hear herself. It was all coming back-

This was...a crashed ship. They needed the datacore. That was the whole reason they had come.

They had been running out of time, and ̷̹͘A̶̙͆ḻ̶̐a̸̺̋n̴̤̽a̶̡̓... ̷̹͘A̶̙͆ḻ̶̐a̸̺̋n̴̤̽a̶̡̓... had to decide. Was she really going to walk away empty-handed?

"Remember when the reason you came in here was to find something to treat my injuries?" She heard herself, the words curling in her mind like smoke. "Should have seen that coming, huh?"

The itch in her skull grew again, just like it always did in moments like this – a constant reminder that she was never really in control of her own mind. She wanted to leave, but she couldn't.

"Damn it, girl, you're really going to make me do it?"

It was Del, of course. Stalling her. Thinking she had more time. ̷̹͘A̶̙͆ḻ̶̐a̸̺̋n̴̤̽a̶̡̓ hated this, hated the constant game, the endless back and forth. But there was no going back. It had always been this way in her line of work – nothing was ever simple. No, Del didn't get it. Alana could have killed her, then and there. The blaster was in her hand. Del stood, almost eager to face death.

And yet….

Del still came away-
Something struck her from behind. The Bryn was still with her, its arms crushing her sides, smashing her into the plate of the ship. She twisted herself about, teeth gritting, hand moving for her vibro-dagger when-

It shifted again.

She was watching Del, her form departing, Datacore in hand.

̷̹͘A̶̙͆ḻ̶̐a̸̺̋n̴̤̽a̶̡̓ had caved back then, too.

In place of her vibro-dagger, was a death stick. Something she used to treat herself to. A lighter clutched in her other hand. It had been a sour note to end her job on, mission failed, letting Delana walk away.

She let out a sigh, easing back, as she raised the deathstick to her lips, pressing on the ignition of the lighter when she caught it.

The scent of hyperspace fumes.

She was still inside the wreck-

The flames engufed her.
The world around ̷̹͘A̶̙͆ḻ̶̐a̸̺̋n̴̤̽a̶̡̓ blurred, her body ached and her breath ceased. But it didn't stop, the memory slammed back into her like a storm.

The explosion.

There was an explosion.

The ship had erupted in a blaze of fire and metal, a searing shockwave of heat that tore through her chest, flinging her body across the hull like a ragdoll. ̷̹͘A̶̙͆ḻ̶̐a̸̺̋n̴̤̽a̶̡̓ remembered it clearly, as though she had lived it a thousand times. She walked away from this...she was going to live-

The pain was the first thing that struck her—the fiery heat of the blast as it consumed everything around her. The pain in her chest, like her ribs were being torn apart. The metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth, and her body felt weightless as the ship's structure buckled and groaned around her.

Then the chaos.

She could hear the scream, cries of something, but they were distant, muffled by the roaring flames. Were they hers? No, no it couldn't be-

She could feel the heat of the fire licking at her skin, the overwhelming heat that threatened to turn her into nothing more than ash. It felt like an eternity, that moment between life and death. Her heart pounded, her limbs feeling like they were made of stone, as if every movement was a struggle against the world crashing down around her.

Then came the moment of acceptance.

The ship tore itself apart, the screech of metal twisting and breaking echoing in her ears. She remembered thinking she wasn't going to make it, that there was no way out. No escape from the fire, no escape from the explosion that would consume everything in its wake.

But...she had survived-hadn't...she?

The pain vanished. The fire was gone. The chaos fell silent.

"There was a pretty big explosion. What remains of the wreckage is even less salvageable now than it was before, but you seem to have made it out well enough. The doctor thinks that it'll be alright"

That voice....Del...had come back for her...had taken her to get help.

She recovered.

She made it.

She opened her eyes, slowly at first. They...stung for some reason, feeling as if something was being cut across them. When she did mange, she did not find the memory of Del within the medbay.

It was far worse.

ḻ̶̐a̸̺̋n̴̤̽a̶̡̓'s breath caught in her throat as she glanced down at her body, the hazy blur of the world around her pulling at her senses. There was something wrong. Something was missing. It wasn't right.

Her hands—no, not her hands—twisted, wrong, almost unfamiliar, and the realization hit her like a physical blow. The skin, or what was left of it, was charred, flayed, almost completely gone. The bone beneath her ribs, exposed, gleamed in the dim light. Her chest, her arms, her legs—all burned away, leaving only smoldering remenants of what was, with islands of still connected flesh. Machines were connected to several patches of somewhat living skin, keeping her alive. Keeping her awake.

̷̹͘A̶̙͆ḻ̶̐a̸̺̋n̴̤̽a̶̡̓ recoiled at the sight, or tried to, but there was nothing to recoil with. Her body, her mind—it was fractured. She tried to dismiss it, dreams, nonsense, she would wake up. This would all be gone. She couldn't feel pain. It wasn't real. Nightmare. Nightmare. It was a NIghtmare. Her flesh was twisted, melted away in places, shards of metal fused into her form like a pin cushion. It was as if the explosion had not just burned her, but erased her very existence.

This... isn't how it was- She thought, but the words barely made sense even to her. Her voice didn't sound like her own, and the memory of the fire was starting to warp, to melt, as though it had been reshaped by something far more dangerous than a mere explosion.

The world was folding in on itself—her limbs, her vision, the sounds, all distorted. This wasn't how it had been. It couldn't be. Her memory flickered like a corrupted datapad, and the lines between the present and the past started to blur, the sense of reality flickering.

She could hear Del in the background, but it sounded wrong. The words were muffled, disconnected, like the sound of an old recording being played over a broken speaker. There was no more comfort in them, no safe distance. There was a beeping of several machines, droning, static, enroaching on her like a prison.

This...wasn't....what...happened....

She tried to tell herself this, but the nightmare only stretched on.

 

[Alana Calloway]

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Hey There Alana​

​

Location: Unknown​

Tag: None​

Gear: Aquilia-Boreal Cry, Slicing Glove, K-22 body armor, CRP-01 Revolver, Wrist Mounted Weapons (Hekler'Kok WMMW-01), DS-102 "Aegis" Personal Energy Shield​

She gazed at the smoldering shards of her life, the shock settling in, her mind crashing against the scene before her.

It couldn't be real.

It can't be real.

A cold voice spoke, though she could see nothing.

"Vital signs remain unstable. Subject is deteriorating. We have the reserve ready, start the next study."

Then it all went quiet again.


The sterile hum of medical droids, came to her mind this time, as she awoke, again strapped to a medical table.

She looked down, and saw it. She saw herself—no, the thing that was once her—being torn apart by the Sith's cruel hands. Their experiments, endless and cold, were a blur of invasive procedures, artificial limbs replacing what was lost, and chemical treatments that twisted her biology. They didn't care about the woman beneath the scars, the shattered pieces of her former self. Machines remained connected into her skin, down to her nervous system collecting data, processing it until she felt the world go black, only for fourteen words to start the process anew.

"Vital signs remain unstable. Subject is deterorating. Reserve is prepped, start the next study."

In one memory, she saw herself lying on an operating table, tubes running into her body, her blood replaced with some vile, glowing liquid. Machines whirred, their cold lights casting harsh shadows across her face as she felt herself slipping into unconsciousness, her body breaking apart—her limbs twitching as they were forcibly reattached or replaced. It was like she wasn't alive anymore, just a puppet, strung together by whatever technology they chose to impose on her.

Another moment—another death. She stood on a battlefield, the flames of war roaring around her. Her vision was blurry, her legs weak as she staggered from one skirmish to the next. The explosions rang in her ears as she heard the sound of her own voice—screaming, pleading for something, anything to stop it. But it never stopped, it was on going. A blaster shot to the chest, a cry of pain, and she fell.

Then she was lying on a cold slab once again, her body opened up, dissected and reconstructed. Her blood poured out onto the sterile surface as the medical droids scrambled to save her. She could hear their mechanical voices, their cold observations.

"Vital signs remain unstable. Subject is deteriorating. Reserve is prepped, start the next study."

She wanted to scream, to fight back, but her mouth wouldn't move, her body unresponsive. They didn't need to save her—they needed to correct her, to rebuild her into something she wasn't.

And then there was fire. Fire everywhere. Blinding, searing heat as her body was engulfed. Her skin—gone. Her face—burned. She remembered every second of it. The agonizing heat, the crackling of flames as they tore through her body, and the utter darkness that followed. The nothingness. She died again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and a̸g̴a̷i̷n̴,̴ ̶a̸n̶d̷ ̵a̵g̸a̶i̵n̷,̸ ̴a̴n̵d̷ ̴a̵g̵a̷i̵n̸,̸ ̴a̸̛̙g̷̝̋a̷̖̥̍̔ĩ̸̦̱̾n̸͚̈́͂,̶̪̇ ̷̠̗́̅ä̶̘́̾n̴͓͊d̷̻̟́ ̴̲̾̾a̵͇̫͌̕g̷͍̑͋ả̸͇͌ȉ̵̡̤n̴̯̄,̴̨̆̓ ̶͎̤̑̓á̷̳̱̏ṉ̵̓ď̵̨ ̸͎͆͜ȧ̸̯̦g̸̢̥̒̔ă̴̯i̷̢̫͋ṉ̷͔̾,̶̱͝ ̸̗̈́͂, and a̸̛̙g̷̝̋a̷̖̥̍̔ĩ̸̦̱̾n̸͚̈́͂,̶̪̇ ̷̠̗́̅ä̶̘́̾n̴͓͊d̷̻̟́ ̴̲̾̾a̵͇̫͌̕g̷͍̑͋ả̸͇͌ȉ̵̡̤n̴̯̄,̴̨̆̓ ̶͎̤̑̓á̷̳̱̏ṉ̵̓ď̵̨ ̸͎͆͜ȧ̸̯̦g̸̢̥̒̔ă̴̯i̷̢̫͋ṉ̷͔̾ and a̸̛̙g̷̝̋a̷̖̥̍̔ĩ̸̦̱̾n̸͚̈́͂,̶̪̇ ̷̠̗́̅ä̶̘́̾n̴͓͊d̷̻̟́ ̴̲̾̾a̵͇̫͌̕g̷͍̑͋ả̸͇͌ȉ̵̡̤n̴̯̄,̴̨̆̓ ̶͎̤̑̓á̷̳̱̏ṉ̵̓ď̵̨ ̸͎͆͜ȧ̸̯̦g̸̢̥̒̔ă̴̯i̷̢̫͋ṉ̷͔̾ and, a̸̛̙g̷̝̋a̷̖̥̍̔ĩ̸̦̱̾n̸͚̈́͂,̶̪̇ ̷̠̗́̅ä̶̘́̾n̴͓͊d̷̻̟́ ̴̲̾̾a̵͇̫͌̕g̷͍̑͋ả̸͇͌ȉ̵̡̤n̴̯̄,̴̨̆̓ ̶͎̤̑̓á̷̳̱̏ṉ̵̓ď̵̨ ̸͎͆͜ȧ̸̯̦g̸̢̥̒̔ă̴̯i̷̢̫͋ṉ̷͔̾, a̷̰̲͓͚̼̞͍̺̥͇͚̪̯̍͌͗͒̅̒͆̋̉͜g̸͓̤͕̫̼̬̫͂â̷̡̫͓̱̟͕̟̤̝̫̺̐̿̑̍͋͋͛̆̃̾̂̚͜͜͝i̴̺̜̖͕̗̊̑̃̕ͅn̶̢̡̧̛̛̞͙̠̝̟̮̪͉̥̗͗̏̀̃̆̽̊̉̈́̈͜͠,̵̨̡̣͉̥͚͔̦͍̈́̒̏ ̸̛̺̤̬̽̄͂̂͛̈́̚a̷̧͉̠̬͔̺̣͔̮̳̽́͋͊͂̽̍̉ņ̷̨̰̭͍̤̯͉̦̙̘͙̋͊͋̒̑̑͑̂̉͠d̶̖̝̈́̆͛ ̵̹̀̈́͆̐again, and a̸̛̙g̷̝̋a̷̖̥̍̔ĩ̸̦̱̾n̸͚̈́͂,̶̪̇ ̷̠̗́̅ä̶̘́̾n̴͓͊d̷̻̟́ ̴̲̾̾a̵͇̫͌̕g̷͍̑͋ả̸͇͌ȉ̵̡̤n̴̯̄,̴̨̆̓ ̶͎̤̑̓á̷̳̱̏ṉ̵̓ď̵̨ ̸͎͆͜ȧ̸̯̦g̸̢̥̒̔ă̴̯i̷̢̫͋ṉ̷͔̾, and a̸̡̱̺̦̯̝̖͇̭̤͋͂͋͂̚͘ģ̵͋̔͊͊̂̏̓͛͂̽̆̎̕a̸̺͖̩͎̣͈̩͉̘̥̤̰͔̪̓̾̈́̆̈́̃̐͗̓i̸̠̻̯̋̿͛̃n̸̯̤̜̄̓͂̓̐̈́͑͒,̸̘̘̩͈͊̾͗̓͆̇̍͝ ̵̖͍͎̍̈́̃͒̉̋̇̄͑̊̚̚͘̕ͅa̶̢̖͉̞͋̉͆̓̂̈́͊̌́͐̈́̕͠͝n̶̮͙̏ͅd̶̡̙̻̹͇̋͗̉̈́̾́͂̚ ̴̻̈́à̴̱͈͉̮̗̹̲̩̟̮̣̌̆̔́͂̄g̵̰̯̬̜̀̃͛̎̌̉̀̚a̶̺̘̞̔̂͂̆̈́̿i̸͙̲̮͔̗͖͓͍̙͚̺̺̔͗̀ņ̶̤̟̩̗̟͖͙̥̯̥̙̑̍̓͋̕͝,̴̧̙̲̠̟̙͈́͛̓̃́̅͝ ̷͎͖͙̭̭͓͇͎̆͊̅̆͘ͅá̷͖̻͉͚̭̳̙͋̎̍̐̈́̽̓͑́͐̑ĝ̷̨̾̆̋̂̀̔̈́́͝͝à̸̧̢̧̢̧̮͔̺͕̳̻̣̞̞̥̼͎͙͙̦̤͗̈̇͂̉͛̂̉̅͝ͅi̶̙͕̟͎̭̲̼̟̬͎̮̯̫͈͎̱͕͈̾̉͂̐͆̏͆͑́̀̈͆́͐̌͊̕͝͝n̸̨͚̰̝̤̹̰͍̗̯͍̺̑̀̃͆,̶̢̨̛̗͔̮̝̼̱̲͕̪̻̤͎̘̘͓̝̣̓͐̐͛̿̒̽̓̇́̏̈̿́͑̍ ̶̨̺̣̘̣͇̥͓̞̝̲̘̲̬͍̌́̒̇̾͊̇͜ͅa̸̡̢̢̧̪̝͉̹̱̟̗͔̠̰͙̘̞̖͈͐̈́n̶̢̧̫͕̪̯̤̟͙͕̟̠̝͍͇̘͍̈́͆̈́̀͋̓͜d̴̡̮̰̤̲̤̠̟̖̹͍̘̳̬͔̞̾̆̀̔̃́̅͋̈̓̑̍̐̈͆̈́̏̊̋͋͜͠ͅͅ ̴̧̧̤͚͔̼̫̦̲̣̮̞̤͓̾̽͌̀̈͝ͅa̸̻̱͍̪̟̩̤̲͛̏̑̔͆g̸̳͕͎̭̺͛̈́̌͊̈̌ą̵̢̧̨̯̪̫̺̻̠̦̗͎̤̖̻̬͊̈̋̓͛̈́̃͆̋͗͋͑̓͌̅̃͂͠i̶̡̨̧̨̻͍̼̘̜͔͚͎̳̪̳͒̍̋̔̄̅̇ͅͅn̸̛̛̝̖͚͈̫̙̑̾̾̑͗̅̏̔̆̊̋̉͊͆͐̾̇̅͋,̴͔͚̲̗̝͉̰̤̭̇̈́̀̅́̋̋̑̆́̏̐̇̕͝ ̶̫͎̮̘͙̪̪̖̦̑̆͊̄͌̃̌̽̽̇͝a̷̪̙̟̯̠͋̐̑̏͐͆̇͛̚̕͜n̴̛͈̹͑̿̉̾͂̽̾̇̊̀̊̚̕͝d̵̡͚̣̱͔͚̞͎̥̳͇̤̣̮̮͙̯̩̀̐͗̅̈̏͂̕͝ ̷̧̠̯̗̼͙̘̞̳͖̭̼̥͈̗̠͉̥̂͛̈́̒̈́̀͆́͜ą̴͚̦̘̲̗͓͔̳̹͉̠̬̣̫̟̒̐̇̓̌͊̈́̆̆̋̉̿̌̋̂̉̀͗̀͠g̴̨̮̖̥̭̹̭̝̞̈́͗̅́̑ā̵̞̳̗̼͔̙͙̮͖̞̱̤̘͎̟͉̯̰̳̗͝i̷̢̡̯͔̬̔͑̈́͛͛̕͘̚ͅn̸̟͙͕͉͎̭͙̙̩͔̈́̅,̵̡̛͙̞̗͓͚͖͈̖̠̖̗̣̼͔̃̂̈́͆̔̂̾͑̈̔̐̓̉̿̄͊̿̾͘͘͘ͅ ̶͙̦́̅̍̆̃̿͊͐̈́̓̅̉̑̓̆̕a̶̹̩̙͚̗͎̜̬̘͍̤͑́̾̆̔́͑͛̏̔́̉̆̿̅̊̾̀͝͝g̵̛̝̦̰̳̲̹̩̑̽́̊̍͒̍͑̓͌̅̏̕͠͝ͅą̷̧̛̛̟̯͖͈̙̲̣̜̩̥̫̣̗̗̮̬̦̤̱̲̒͛̂̂̈́̾͋̽̏̈́̍͛̏͊̕͠͝į̸̛͙̠͚̟́̓̋́̆̄̕n̴̡̢̛̛͇͍̯̻̯͇̰̰͉͇͓̙̥͓̘̻͛̇̓͂͗͛͑̔̋̂͑̔̚͘̕̕,̶̛̹͍́̌̽͋̌̇̎̍̂́͝ ̷̢͓̫͓̟̤̰͔̲̣̼̦͔̫̼̹̼̮̫́̈́͛̉̽̆̉̇̆̽̔̾̍̕͝á̷̢̢̛͕̺͇̗̦̥͙͚̰͍͎̹̝͓͎͚͇̞̩̳̳̰̥̒̏̊̈́̎͋̿̋̑ͅn̸̢̧̡̢̼͔̱̟̪̞̜̣̹͖̻͈͉̭͉͔͕̮̺͇̫̑̈́̈́͋͜ͅd̵̢̧͓͚̙̟̳̠̠̪̣̗̟̞̲̯͖̘̫͓͚̩̖͆̇̎̓̏̀͌̋̌̾̾̐͛̀̄̀͗̀̕͜͝͠͝ ̶̡̡̦̝̻͕͕̳̘̟͙͔̭̬̘̯̰̤̘͔͕̻͔̹̄̔͆͂̔̃͑̄̉̄̀̆̒̀͜͜͜͝ͅͅḁ̵̧͚̣̫̙̹͗̋̍́́͗̇͊̐͘͝͝g̶̖̐̋͌́̈̔̇͑̎͋̿͌͊͑̒͛́̈́͆̉̍̂̕̕͝͝ą̶̡̩͓͇̦̼͓͖͚̭̦̙͈̌̅̈́̍̄͗̀̍́̓̀̏̒̏͌͑̅̿͘͜͝͠͠͝ǐ̷̛̗̟͕͇̯̣̙̤̞̰̉͋̃́̓́̌͛͂͂̄̒́͑̓̈̓̈́ͅņ̵͕̗̱̬̹̥̲͇͈̪̱̻͙̬̃̐ͅ,̷̢͔̘̻͔̝͓̰̜͔̭̳͕̘͓̰̼̟͎̞͉̄̀͂͂̔̊̏͊̌͗̾͝ ̴̨̗̪̰̪͈̭̣̜͈̘̫͙̞̟̜̿̈̅̀̆̈́̈̈́̾́̉̌̕͝ͅa̷̡̮̩̞̚n̴̢̦̪͔̤̲̺̮̲̳͚̘͉͙͍̦͙̦̜̎̇͆̄̃́̃̾̽͆͊ͅḑ̴̛̛̳͇̫͙̩̙̹̽̃̐́͋͛̈̅̐̇͂̓̀̄̈́͝ ̵̡̨̬̯̣̳̬͚̤̟̗̮̤̩̟͕͙̫̦̺̫̭̲̱̰̱̯̹̆̇̾ͅa̴̛̛̛͙̦̘̪̲̼̺̤̻̳̺̓͋͑̑͗̾̄͒͆̓͗̾̈́̓͋̆̉̈̒̃͛̕͜͝͝g̸̤̲͉͎͖̭̪̦̫͈̝̿͐̎̀̄̿͐̕͜ͅͅa̶̧̧̨̞͉̲̘̮̰͔̖̥̰̞̗̤̝͖̲̖͈̫͕͍͙͈͌̑̅ͅi̶̧̧̨̡̖̘͓̯̣̳̫̺̫͖̝̳̥̩̹͈͎̳͎̥̠̬̽̄̆̉͊̓̀́̂͑͌̈̀̈́͝͝n̸͕̯̦̺̪͓̙̮̣̘̹͓̙̂̾̽̃̿̿̆̂̌̚͝ͅ,̵̡̺͓̦̼͙͉̖̠͚̻̱͙̣̣̟͕̻͚̞̪̩̬̅͘͜ ̶̧͕̫̦̮̳͍͖̬̦̘̯̗̞̟̈̓͊̾̍́̈́́̆̅̅͒̾̈́̍͌̍͂̾͘̚̕͜͝͝͠á̷͚̤̤̝͖̪̣͍͎̖͈̍̃͘ġ̴̡͖̩̳̲͉̪͖̈́̈́̏́ấ̴͉̓̀͂͐͛̈́̇̂͠i̴̱̭̹͈̭͍̍͠ͅń̴̛͖̰͚̜̰̞͗͊̅͘,̶̧̣͖͓̏͗̐̈́͆̋̑̅́́͋͝ ̸̦̣̱͙̖̃͊͊̒̽̈͝a̵̢̢̬̹̺̰̠̗̥͇̬͋͜ñ̶̮̳̦̹̙̝̣̣̈d̷͙̻̹̩̤̤̥̩̠̟͎͋̄̌͊͌͆͘͘͝ ̵̧̢̞͉̙̖̱̘̠͇̰̀̒͛ä̸̢̺̫̟̖̲̔̑͋̀̎́̒͝g̸̥͔̈́a̴͍̘̜͎͙̖̱͌̒i̴̧̬͍̪̜̯͌̍͑̆̍̈́̔̑̎͝͝ń̷̢̺͇͉͜,̷̡̛̙̖̩̪͠ ̶̬̯͎͙̼͇̼̝͕̽̄̐̔̄̓̍̍͌͜͝͝͝a̸͎͚̗̘͓͕̜̥̩̒̈́̄̈ṅ̵̢̻̖̗̖̖̭̅͐̓̂̑̇͒͒͜d̶̰͓͉͖̄͒̐̀̂ ̵̬̪̤̝͚̠̻̀̒̅̏͊͋͑̍̕͜a̴̢̡͚̰͓̝̗̥̰͑͊̓̿̽͒͒͋̄̔̉g̸̥̲̙͔̬̓͒͝a̶͍̓̑į̶̡̘̰̣̲̠̝̝̣̳̀n̶̟̝͇̞̙̜̰̯͊̎̈́͒̆͆̍̋́̊̚͠,̵̲͛̐́̑͋͆ ̷̨̢̬̳͙͓͚̭̝̫̬̺̾̔͌̅͊a̸͈̳͓̬͖͐͂͂͘͝g̴̛͎͊̐à̴̺̪͆͛i̶͕̫͌̑̑͘n̶̢̙̬̻̫̬̔̔͘,̵͖͚̞͈̒̂͑̆̚ ̵̯̼͙̙̼̟͙̘̀́͛̆̎͑͐̑͝͠a̷̛̪͊͆̋́̄̈́̇͗͠n̷̙̖͂̒͆̄ḑ̶̝͇̫̗̭͉̭͉͇̓̾̉̊͑̆̂̓̓̎́ ̴͚̫̃̇ą̴͉́̂̏͑̈́͘͜͝g̷̣̺͔̿͐͊̓́͗͆̈́͐́̚͜a̵̧̭͓͎͔̓̈́ḯ̸͔̱͒̀̄̐n̶̢̮̬͍̪̙̈́,̴̢̮̰̹̹͉̿̀̅̇́̆̓̽̊̿̚͜͜͝ ̸̙̫̊̋a̶̛̻̗̞̺͇̘͔̟͒́̂̑̆̇̕̚n̸̺̟̂̋̉̂͌d̸̢̯̭͔̆͆̏͐̋ ̸̡̖̝̋͒̿̈́̿́͑̕͜͝ͅͅa̵̘̭̹̫̣͙̩̺̟̐̀̀̅̀̾̐͜͜͝͠g̶̢͕̠̀̊͌̾́͒͜͠à̴̳̄̓̈͆̆͑͝͝ị̷̟̦͓͚̃́̎̂͛̊̀͝͝ņ̶̧̡̖̭͎̪͎̫͍͒̇̀̑̏̈͘͝,̷̯͇͚̟͉̆ ̵̖͖͙̫͎͗̇̇ͅá̷͚̤̤̝͖̪̣͍͎̖͈̍̃͘ġ̴̡͖̩̳̲͉̪͖̈́̈́̏́ấ̴͉̓̀͂͐͛̈́̇̂͠i̴̱̭̹͈̭͍̍͠ͅń̴̛͖̰͚̜̰̞͗͊̅͘,̶̧̣͖͓̏͗̐̈́͆̋̑̅́́͋͝ ̸̦̣̱͙̖̃͊͊̒̽̈͝a̵̢̢̬̹̺̰̠̗̥͇̬͋͜ñ̶̮̳̦̹̙̝̣̣̈d̷͙̻̹̩̤̤̥̩̠̟͎͋̄̌͊͌͆͘͘͝ ̵̧̢̞͉̙̖̱̘̠͇̰̀̒͛ä̸̢̺̫̟̖̲̔̑͋̀̎́̒͝g̸̥͔̈́a̴͍̘̜͎͙̖̱͌̒i̴̧̬͍̪̜̯͌̍͑̆̍̈́̔̑̎͝͝ń̷̢̺͇͉͜,̷̡̛̙̖̩̪͠ ̶̬̯͎͙̼͇̼̝͕̽̄̐̔̄̓̍̍͌͜͝͝͝a̸͎͚̗̘͓͕̜̥̩̒̈́̄̈ṅ̵̢̻̖̗̖̖̭̅͐̓̂̑̇͒͒͜d̶̰͓͉͖̄͒̐̀̂ ̵̬̪̤̝͚̠̻̀̒̅̏͊͋͑̍̕͜a̴̢̡͚̰͓̝̗̥̰͑͊̓̿̽͒͒͋̄̔̉g̸̥̲̙͔̬̓͒͝a̶͍̓̑į̶̡̘̰̣̲̠̝̝̣̳̀n̶̟̝͇̞̙̜̰̯͊̎̈́͒̆͆̍̋́̊̚͠,̵̲͛̐́̑͋͆ ̷̨̢̬̳͙͓͚̭̝̫̬̺̾̔͌̅͊a̸͈̳͓̬͖͐͂͂͘͝g̴̛͎͊̐à̴̺̪͆͛i̶͕̫͌̑̑͘n̶̢̙̬̻̫̬̔̔͘,̵͖͚̞͈̒̂͑̆̚ ̵̯̼͙̙̼̟͙̘̀́͛̆̎͑͐̑͝͠a̷̛̪͊͆̋́̄̈́̇͗͠n̷̙̖͂̒͆̄ḑ̶̝͇̫̗̭͉̭͉͇̓̾̉̊͑̆̂̓̓̎́ ̴͚̫̃̇ą̴͉́̂̏͑̈́͘͜͝g̷̣̺͔̿͐͊̓́͗͆̈́͐́̚͜a̵̧̭͓͎͔̓̈́ḯ̸͔̱͒̀̄̐n̶̢̮̬͍̪̙̈́,̴̢̮̰̹̹͉̿̀̅̇́̆̓̽̊̿̚͜͜͝ ̸̙̫̊̋a̶̛̻̗̞̺͇̘͔̟͒́̂̑̆̇̕̚n̸̺̟̂̋̉̂͌d̸̢̯̭͔̆͆̏͐̋ ̸̡̖̝̋͒̿̈́̿́͑̕͜͝ͅͅa̵̘̭̹̫̣͙̩̺̟̐̀̀̅̀̾̐͜͜͝͠g̶̢͕̠̀̊͌̾́͒͜͠à̴̳̄̓̈͆̆͑͝͝ị̷̟̦͓͚̃́̎̂͛̊̀͝͝ņ̶̧̡̖̭͎̪͎̫͍͒̇̀̑̏̈͘͝,̷̯͇͚̟͉̆ ̵̖͖͙̫͎͗̇̇ͅá̷͚̤̤̝͖̪̣͍͎̖͈̍̃͘ġ̴̡͖̩̳̲͉̪͖̈́̈́̏́ấ̴͉̓̀͂͐͛̈́̇̂͠i̴̱̭̹͈̭͍̍͠ͅń̴̛͖̰͚̜̰̞͗͊̅͘,̶̧̣͖͓̏͗̐̈́͆̋̑̅́́͋͝ ̸̦̣̱͙̖̃͊͊̒̽̈͝a̵̢̢̬̹̺̰̠̗̥͇̬͋͜ñ̶̮̳̦̹̙̝̣̣̈d̷͙̻̹̩̤̤̥̩̠̟͎͋̄̌͊͌͆͘͘͝ ̵̧̢̞͉̙̖̱̘̠͇̰̀̒͛ä̸̢̺̫̟̖̲̔̑͋̀̎́̒͝g̸̥͔̈́a̴͍̘̜͎͙̖̱͌̒i̴̧̬͍̪̜̯͌̍͑̆̍̈́̔̑̎͝͝ń̷̢̺͇͉͜,̷̡̛̙̖̩̪͠ ̶̬̯͎͙̼͇̼̝͕̽̄̐̔̄̓̍̍͌͜͝͝͝a̸͎͚̗̘͓͕̜̥̩̒̈́̄̈ṅ̵̢̻̖̗̖̖̭̅͐̓̂̑̇͒͒͜d̶̰͓͉͖̄͒̐̀̂ ̵̬̪̤̝͚̠̻̀̒̅̏͊͋͑̍̕͜a̴̢̡͚̰͓̝̗̥̰͑͊̓̿̽͒͒͋̄̔̉g̸̥̲̙͔̬̓͒͝a̶͍̓̑į̶̡̘̰̣̲̠̝̝̣̳̀n̶̟̝͇̞̙̜̰̯͊̎̈́͒̆͆̍̋́̊̚͠,̵̲͛̐́̑͋͆ ̷̨̢̬̳͙͓͚̭̝̫̬̺̾̔͌̅͊a̸͈̳͓̬͖͐͂͂͘͝g̴̛͎͊̐à̴̺̪͆͛i̶͕̫͌̑̑͘n̶̢̙̬̻̫̬̔̔͘,̵͖͚̞͈̒̂͑̆̚ ̵̯̼͙̙̼̟͙̘̀́͛̆̎͑͐̑͝͠a̷̛̪͊͆̋́̄̈́̇͗͠n̷̙̖͂̒͆̄ḑ̶̝͇̫̗̭͉̭͉͇̓̾̉̊͑̆̂̓̓̎́ ̴͚̫̃̇ą̴͉́̂̏͑̈́͘͜͝g̷̣̺͔̿͐͊̓́͗͆̈́͐́̚͜a̵̧̭͓͎͔̓̈́ḯ̸͔̱͒̀̄̐n̶̢̮̬͍̪̙̈́,̴̢̮̰̹̹͉̿̀̅̇́̆̓̽̊̿̚͜͜͝ ̸̙̫̊̋a̶̛̻̗̞̺͇̘͔̟͒́̂̑̆̇̕̚n̸̺̟̂̋̉̂͌d̸̢̯̭͔̆͆̏͐̋ ̸̡̖̝̋͒̿̈́̿́͑̕͜͝ͅͅa̵̘̭̹̫̣͙̩̺̟̐̀̀̅̀̾̐͜͜͝͠g̶̢͕̠̀̊͌̾́͒͜͠à̴̳̄̓̈͆̆͑͝͝ị̷̟̦͓͚̃́̎̂͛̊̀͝͝ņ̶̧̡̖̭͎̪͎̫͍͒̇̀̑̏̈͘͝,̷̯͇͚̟͉̆ ̵̖͖͙̫͎͗̇̇ͅá̷͚̤̤̝͖̪̣͍͎̖͈̍̃͘ġ̴̡͖̩̳̲͉̪͖̈́̈́̏́ấ̴͉̓̀͂͐͛̈́̇̂͠i̴̱̭̹͈̭͍̍͠ͅń̴̛͖̰͚̜̰̞͗͊̅͘,̶̧̣͖͓̏͗̐̈́͆̋̑̅́́͋͝ ̸̦̣̱͙̖̃͊͊̒̽̈͝a̵̢̢̬̹̺̰̠̗̥͇̬͋͜ñ̶̮̳̦̹̙̝̣̣̈d̷͙̻̹̩̤̤̥̩̠̟͎͋̄̌͊͌͆͘͘͝ ̵̧̢̞͉̙̖̱̘̠͇̰̀̒͛ä̸̢̺̫̟̖̲̔̑͋̀̎́̒͝g̸̥͔̈́a̴͍̘̜͎͙̖̱͌̒i̴̧̬͍̪̜̯͌̍͑̆̍̈́̔̑̎͝͝ń̷̢̺͇͉͜,̷̡̛̙̖̩̪͠ ̶̬̯͎͙̼͇̼̝͕̽̄̐̔̄̓̍̍͌͜͝͝͝a̸͎͚̗̘͓͕̜̥̩̒̈́̄̈ṅ̵̢̻̖̗̖̖̭̅͐̓̂̑̇͒͒͜d̶̰͓͉͖̄͒̐̀̂ ̵̬̪̤̝͚̠̻̀̒̅̏͊͋͑̍̕͜a̴̢̡͚̰͓̝̗̥̰͑͊̓̿̽͒͒͋̄̔̉g̸̥̲̙͔̬̓͒͝a̶͍̓̑į̶̡̘̰̣̲̠̝̝̣̳̀n̶̟̝͇̞̙̜̰̯͊̎̈́͒̆͆̍̋́̊̚͠,̵̲͛̐́̑͋͆ ̷̨̢̬̳͙͓͚̭̝̫̬̺̾̔͌̅͊a̸͈̳͓̬͖͐͂͂͘͝g̴̛͎͊̐à̴̺̪͆͛i̶͕̫͌̑̑͘n̶̢̙̬̻̫̬̔̔͘,̵͖͚̞͈̒̂͑̆̚ ̵̯̼͙̙̼̟͙̘̀́͛̆̎͑͐̑͝͠a̷̛̪͊͆̋́̄̈́̇͗͠n̷̙̖͂̒͆̄ḑ̶̝͇̫̗̭͉̭͉͇̓̾̉̊͑̆̂̓̓̎́ ̴͚̫̃̇ą̴͉́̂̏͑̈́͘͜͝g̷̣̺͔̿͐͊̓́͗͆̈́͐́̚͜a̵̧̭͓͎͔̓̈́ḯ̸͔̱͒̀̄̐n̶̢̮̬͍̪̙̈́,̴̢̮̰̹̹͉̿̀̅̇́̆̓̽̊̿̚͜͜͝ ̸̙̫̊̋a̶̛̻̗̞̺͇̘͔̟͒́̂̑̆̇̕̚n̸̺̟̂̋̉̂͌d̸̢̯̭͔̆͆̏͐̋ ̸̡̖̝̋͒̿̈́̿́͑̕͜͝ͅͅa̵̘̭̹̫̣͙̩̺̟̐̀̀̅̀̾̐͜͜͝͠g̶̢͕̠̀̊͌̾́͒͜͠à̴̳̄̓̈͆̆͑͝͝ị̷̟̦͓͚̃́̎̂͛̊̀͝͝ņ̶̧̡̖̭͎̪͎̫͍͒̇̀̑̏̈͘͝,̷̯͇͚̟͉̆ ̵̖͖͙̫͎͗̇̇ͅ
á̷͚̤̤̝͖̪̣͍͎̖͈̍̃͘ġ̴̡͖̩̳̲͉̪͖̈́̈́̏́ấ̴͉̓̀͂͐͛̈́̇̂͠i̴̱̭̹͈̭͍̍͠ͅń̴̛͖̰͚̜̰̞͗͊̅͘,̶̧̣͖͓̏͗̐̈́͆̋̑̅́́͋͝ ̸̦̣̱͙̖̃͊͊̒̽̈͝a̵̢̢̬̹̺̰̠̗̥͇̬͋͜ñ̶̮̳̦̹̙̝̣̣̈d̷͙̻̹̩̤̤̥̩̠̟͎͋̄̌͊͌͆͘͘͝ ̵̧̢̞͉̙̖̱̘̠͇̰̀̒͛ä̸̢̺̫̟̖̲̔̑͋̀̎́̒͝g̸̥͔̈́a̴͍̘̜͎͙̖̱͌̒i̴̧̬͍̪̜̯͌̍͑̆̍̈́̔̑̎͝͝ń̷̢̺͇͉͜,̷̡̛̙̖̩̪͠ ̶̬̯͎͙̼͇̼̝͕̽̄̐̔̄̓̍̍͌͜͝͝͝a̸͎͚̗̘͓͕̜̥̩̒̈́̄̈ṅ̵̢̻̖̗̖̖̭̅͐̓̂̑̇͒͒͜d̶̰͓͉͖̄͒̐̀̂ ̵̬̪̤̝͚̠̻̀̒̅̏͊͋͑̍̕͜a̴̢̡͚̰͓̝̗̥̰͑͊̓̿̽͒͒͋̄̔̉g̸̥̲̙͔̬̓͒͝a̶͍̓̑į̶̡̘̰̣̲̠̝̝̣̳̀n̶̟̝͇̞̙̜̰̯͊̎̈́͒̆͆̍̋́̊̚͠,̵̲͛̐́̑͋͆ ̷̨̢̬̳͙͓͚̭̝̫̬̺̾̔͌̅͊a̸͈̳͓̬͖͐͂͂͘͝g̴̛͎͊̐à̴̺̪͆͛i̶͕̫͌̑̑͘n̶̢̙̬̻̫̬̔̔͘,̵͖͚̞͈̒̂͑̆̚ ̵̯̼͙̙̼̟͙̘̀́͛̆̎͑͐̑͝͠a̷̛̪͊͆̋́̄̈́̇͗͠n̷̙̖͂̒͆̄ḑ̶̝͇̫̗̭͉̭͉͇̓̾̉̊͑̆̂̓̓̎́ ̴͚̫̃̇ą̴͉́̂̏͑̈́͘͜͝g̷̣̺͔̿͐͊̓́͗͆̈́͐́̚͜a̵̧̭͓͎͔̓̈́ḯ̸͔̱͒̀̄̐n̶̢̮̬͍̪̙̈́,̴̢̮̰̹̹͉̿̀̅̇́̆̓̽̊̿̚͜͜͝ ̸̙̫̊̋a̶̛̻̗̞̺͇̘͔̟͒́̂̑̆̇̕̚n̸̺̟̂̋̉̂͌d̸̢̯̭͔̆͆̏͐̋ ̸̡̖̝̋͒̿̈́̿́͑̕͜͝ͅͅa̵̘̭̹̫̣͙̩̺̟̐̀̀̅̀̾̐͜͜͝͠g̶̢͕̠̀̊͌̾́͒͜͠à̴̳̄̓̈͆̆͑͝͝ị̷̟̦͓͚̃́̎̂͛̊̀͝͝ņ̶̧̡̖̭͎̪͎̫͍͒̇̀̑̏̈͘͝,̷̯͇͚̟͉̆ ̵̖͖͙̫͎͗̇̇ͅá̷͚̤̤̝͖̪̣͍͎̖͈̍̃͘ġ̴̡͖̩̳̲͉̪͖̈́̈́̏́ấ̴͉̓̀͂͐͛̈́̇̂͠i̴̱̭̹͈̭͍̍͠ͅń̴̛͖̰͚̜̰̞͗͊̅͘,̶̧̣͖͓̏͗̐̈́͆̋̑̅́́͋͝ ̸̦̣̱͙̖̃͊͊̒̽̈͝a̵̢̢̬̹̺̰̠̗̥͇̬͋͜ñ̶̮̳̦̹̙̝̣̣̈d̷͙̻̹̩̤̤̥̩̠̟͎͋̄̌͊͌͆͘͘͝ ̵̧̢̞͉̙̖̱̘̠͇̰̀̒͛ä̸̢̺̫̟̖̲̔̑͋̀̎́̒͝g̸̥͔̈́a̴͍̘̜͎͙̖̱͌̒i̴̧̬͍̪̜̯͌̍͑̆̍̈́̔̑̎͝͝ń̷̢̺͇͉͜,̷̡̛̙̖̩̪͠ ̶̬̯͎͙̼͇̼̝͕̽̄̐̔̄̓̍̍͌͜͝͝͝a̸͎͚̗̘͓͕̜̥̩̒̈́̄̈ṅ̵̢̻̖̗̖̖̭̅͐̓̂̑̇͒͒͜d̶̰͓͉͖̄͒̐̀̂ ̵̬̪̤̝͚̠̻̀̒̅̏͊͋͑̍̕͜a̴̢̡͚̰͓̝̗̥̰͑͊̓̿̽͒͒͋̄̔̉g̸̥̲̙͔̬̓͒͝a̶͍̓̑į̶̡̘̰̣̲̠̝̝̣̳̀n̶̟̝͇̞̙̜̰̯͊̎̈́͒̆͆̍̋́̊̚͠,̵̲͛̐́̑͋͆ ̷̨̢̬̳͙͓͚̭̝̫̬̺̾̔͌̅͊a̸͈̳͓̬͖͐͂͂͘͝g̴̛͎͊̐à̴̺̪͆͛i̶͕̫͌̑̑͘n̶̢̙̬̻̫̬̔̔͘,̵͖͚̞͈̒̂͑̆̚ ̵̯̼͙̙̼̟͙̘̀́͛̆̎͑͐̑͝͠a̷̛̪͊͆̋́̄̈́̇͗͠n̷̙̖͂̒͆̄ḑ̶̝͇̫̗̭͉̭͉͇̓̾̉̊͑̆̂̓̓̎́ ̴͚̫̃̇ą̴͉́̂̏͑̈́͘͜͝g̷̣̺͔̿͐͊̓́͗͆̈́͐́̚͜a̵̧̭͓͎͔̓̈́ḯ̸͔̱͒̀̄̐n̶̢̮̬͍̪̙̈́,̴̢̮̰̹̹͉̿̀̅̇́̆̓̽̊̿̚͜͜͝ ̸̙̫̊̋a̶̛̻̗̞̺͇̘͔̟͒́̂̑̆̇̕̚n̸̺̟̂̋̉̂͌d̸̢̯̭͔̆͆̏͐̋ ̸̡̖̝̋͒̿̈́̿́͑̕͜͝ͅͅa̵̘̭̹̫̣͙̩̺̟̐̀̀̅̀̾̐͜͜͝͠g̶̢͕̠̀̊͌̾́͒͜͠à̴̳̄̓̈͆̆͑͝͝ị̷̟̦͓͚̃́̎̂͛̊̀͝͝ņ̶̧̡̖̭͎̪͎̫͍͒̇̀̑̏̈͘͝,̷̯͇͚̟͉̆ ̵̖͖͙̫͎͗̇̇ͅá̷͚̤̤̝͖̪̣͍͎̖͈̍̃͘ġ̴̡͖̩̳̲͉̪͖̈́̈́̏́ấ̴͉̓̀͂͐͛̈́̇̂͠i̴̱̭̹͈̭͍̍͠ͅń̴̛͖̰͚̜̰̞͗͊̅͘,̶̧̣͖͓̏͗̐̈́͆̋̑̅́́͋͝ ̸̦̣̱͙̖̃͊͊̒̽̈͝a̵̢̢̬̹̺̰̠̗̥͇̬͋͜ñ̶̮̳̦̹̙̝̣̣̈d̷͙̻̹̩̤̤̥̩̠̟͎͋̄̌͊͌͆͘͘͝ ̵̧̢̞͉̙̖̱̘̠͇̰̀̒͛ä̸̢̺̫̟̖̲̔̑͋̀̎́̒͝g̸̥͔̈́a̴͍̘̜͎͙̖̱͌̒i̴̧̬͍̪̜̯͌̍͑̆̍̈́̔̑̎͝͝ń̷̢̺͇͉͜,̷̡̛̙̖̩̪͠ ̶̬̯͎͙̼͇̼̝͕̽̄̐̔̄̓̍̍͌͜͝͝͝a̸͎͚̗̘͓͕̜̥̩̒̈́̄̈ṅ̵̢̻̖̗̖̖̭̅͐̓̂̑̇͒͒͜d̶̰͓͉͖̄͒̐̀̂ ̵̬̪̤̝͚̠̻̀̒̅̏͊͋͑̍̕͜a̴̢̡͚̰͓̝̗̥̰͑͊̓̿̽͒͒͋̄̔̉g̸̥̲̙͔̬̓͒͝a̶͍̓̑į̶̡̘̰̣̲̠̝̝̣̳̀n̶̟̝͇̞̙̜̰̯͊̎̈́͒̆͆̍̋́̊̚͠,̵̲͛̐́̑͋͆ ̷̨̢̬̳͙͓͚̭̝̫̬̺̾̔͌̅͊a̸͈̳͓̬͖͐͂͂͘͝g̴̛͎͊̐à̴̺̪͆͛i̶͕̫͌̑̑͘n̶̢̙̬̻̫̬̔̔͘,̵͖͚̞͈̒̂͑̆̚ ̵̯̼͙̙̼̟͙̘̀́͛̆̎͑͐̑͝͠a̷̛̪͊͆̋́̄̈́̇͗͠n̷̙̖͂̒͆̄ḑ̶̝͇̫̗̭͉̭͉͇̓̾̉̊͑̆̂̓̓̎́ ̴͚̫̃̇ą̴͉́̂̏͑̈́͘͜͝g̷̣̺͔̿͐͊̓́͗͆̈́͐́̚͜a̵̧̭͓͎͔̓̈́ḯ̸͔̱͒̀̄̐n̶̢̮̬͍̪̙̈́,̴̢̮̰̹̹͉̿̀̅̇́̆̓̽̊̿̚͜͜͝ ̸̙̫̊̋a̶̛̻̗̞̺͇̘͔̟͒́̂̑̆̇̕̚n̸̺̟̂̋̉̂͌d̸̢̯̭͔̆͆̏͐̋ ̸̡̖̝̋͒̿̈́̿́͑̕͜͝ͅͅa̵̘̭̹̫̣͙̩̺̟̐̀̀̅̀̾̐͜͜͝͠g̶̢͕̠̀̊͌̾́͒͜͠à̴̳̄̓̈͆̆͑͝͝ị̷̟̦͓͚̃́̎̂͛̊̀͝͝ņ̶̧̡̖̭͎̪͎̫͍͒̇̀̑̏̈͘͝,̷̯͇͚̟͉̆ ̵̖͖͙̫͎͗̇̇ͅá̷͚̤̤̝͖̪̣͍͎̖͈̍̃͘ġ̴̡͖̩̳̲͉̪͖̈́̈́̏́ấ̴͉̓̀͂͐͛̈́̇̂͠i̴̱̭̹͈̭͍̍͠ͅń̴̛͖̰͚̜̰̞͗͊̅͘,̶̧̣͖͓̏͗̐̈́͆̋̑̅́́͋͝ ̸̦̣̱͙̖̃͊͊̒̽̈͝a̵̢̢̬̹̺̰̠̗̥͇̬͋͜ñ̶̮̳̦̹̙̝̣̣̈d̷͙̻̹̩̤̤̥̩̠̟͎͋̄̌͊͌͆͘͘͝ ̵̧̢̞͉̙̖̱̘̠͇̰̀̒͛ä̸̢̺̫̟̖̲̔̑͋̀̎́̒͝g̸̥͔̈́a̴͍̘̜͎͙̖̱͌̒i̴̧̬͍̪̜̯͌̍͑̆̍̈́̔̑̎͝͝ń̷̢̺͇͉͜,̷̡̛̙̖̩̪͠ ̶̬̯͎͙̼͇̼̝͕̽̄̐̔̄̓̍̍͌͜͝͝͝a̸͎͚̗̘͓͕̜̥̩̒̈́̄̈ṅ̵̢̻̖̗̖̖̭̅͐̓̂̑̇͒͒͜d̶̰͓͉͖̄͒̐̀̂ ̵̬̪̤̝͚̠̻̀̒̅̏͊͋͑̍̕͜a̴̢̡͚̰͓̝̗̥̰͑͊̓̿̽͒͒͋̄̔̉g̸̥̲̙͔̬̓͒͝a̶͍̓̑į̶̡̘̰̣̲̠̝̝̣̳̀n̶̟̝͇̞̙̜̰̯͊̎̈́͒̆͆̍̋́̊̚͠,̵̲͛̐́̑͋͆ ̷̨̢̬̳͙͓͚̭̝̫̬̺̾̔͌̅͊a̸͈̳͓̬͖͐͂͂͘͝g̴̛͎͊̐à̴̺̪͆͛i̶͕̫͌̑̑͘n̶̢̙̬̻̫̬̔̔͘,̵͖͚̞͈̒̂͑̆̚ ̵̯̼͙̙̼̟͙̘̀́͛̆̎͑͐̑͝͠a̷̛̪͊͆̋́̄̈́̇͗͠n̷̙̖͂̒͆̄ḑ̶̝͇̫̗̭͉̭͉͇̓̾̉̊͑̆̂̓̓̎́ ̴͚̫̃̇ą̴͉́̂̏͑̈́͘͜͝g̷̣̺͔̿͐͊̓́͗͆̈́͐́̚͜a̵̧̭͓͎͔̓̈́ḯ̸͔̱͒̀̄̐n̶̢̮̬͍̪̙̈́,̴̢̮̰̹̹͉̿̀̅̇́̆̓̽̊̿̚͜͜͝ ̸̙̫̊̋a̶̛̻̗̞̺͇̘͔̟͒́̂̑̆̇̕̚n̸̺̟̂̋̉̂͌d̸̢̯̭͔̆͆̏͐̋ ̸̡̖̝̋͒̿̈́̿́͑̕͜͝ͅͅa̵̘̭̹̫̣͙̩̺̟̐̀̀̅̀̾̐͜͜͝͠g̶̢͕̠̀̊͌̾́͒͜͠à̴̳̄̓̈͆̆͑͝͝ị̷̟̦͓͚̃́̎̂͛̊̀͝͝ņ̶̧̡̖̭͎̪͎̫͍͒̇̀̑̏̈͘͝,̷̯͇͚̟͉̆ ̵̖͖͙̫͎͗̇̇ͅá̷͚̤̤̝͖̪̣͍͎̖͈̍̃͘ġ̴̡͖̩̳̲͉̪͖̈́̈́̏́ấ̴͉̓̀͂͐͛̈́̇̂͠i̴̱̭̹͈̭͍̍͠ͅń̴̛͖̰͚̜̰̞͗͊̅͘,̶̧̣͖͓̏͗̐̈́͆̋̑̅́́͋͝ ̸̦̣̱͙̖̃͊͊̒̽̈͝a̵̢̢̬̹̺̰̠̗̥͇̬͋͜ñ̶̮̳̦̹̙̝̣̣̈d̷͙̻̹̩̤̤̥̩̠̟͎͋̄̌͊͌͆͘͘͝ ̵̧̢̞͉̙̖̱̘̠͇̰̀̒͛ä̸̢̺̫̟̖̲̔̑͋̀̎́̒͝g̸̥͔̈́a̴͍̘̜͎͙̖̱͌̒i̴̧̬͍̪̜̯͌̍͑̆̍̈́̔̑̎͝͝ń̷̢̺͇͉͜,̷̡̛̙̖̩̪͠ ̶̬̯͎͙̼͇̼̝͕̽̄̐̔̄̓̍̍͌͜͝͝͝a̸͎͚̗̘͓͕̜̥̩̒̈́̄̈ṅ̵̢̻̖̗̖̖̭̅͐̓̂̑̇͒͒͜d̶̰͓͉͖̄͒̐̀̂ ̵̬̪̤̝͚̠̻̀̒̅̏͊͋͑̍̕͜a̴̢̡͚̰͓̝̗̥̰͑͊̓̿̽͒͒͋̄̔̉g̸̥̲̙͔̬̓͒͝a̶͍̓̑į̶̡̘̰̣̲̠̝̝̣̳̀n̶̟̝͇̞̙̜̰̯͊̎̈́͒̆͆̍̋́̊̚͠,̵̲͛̐́̑͋͆ ̷̨̢̬̳͙͓͚̭̝̫̬̺̾̔͌̅͊a̸͈̳͓̬͖͐͂͂͘͝g̴̛͎͊̐à̴̺̪͆͛i̶͕̫͌̑̑͘n̶̢̙̬̻̫̬̔̔͘,̵͖͚̞͈̒̂͑̆̚ ̵̯̼͙̙̼̟͙̘̀́͛̆̎͑͐̑͝͠a̷̛̪͊͆̋́̄̈́̇͗͠n̷̙̖͂̒͆̄ḑ̶̝͇̫̗̭͉̭͉͇̓̾̉̊͑̆̂̓̓̎́ ̴͚̫̃̇ą̴͉́̂̏͑̈́͘͜͝g̷̣̺͔̿͐͊̓́͗͆̈́͐́̚͜a̵̧̭͓͎͔̓̈́ḯ̸͔̱͒̀̄̐n̶̢̮̬͍̪̙̈́,̴̢̮̰̹̹͉̿̀̅̇́̆̓̽̊̿̚͜͜͝ ̸̙̫̊̋a̶̛̻̗̞̺͇̘͔̟͒́̂̑̆̇̕̚n̸̺̟̂̋̉̂͌d̸̢̯̭͔̆͆̏͐̋ ̸̡̖̝̋͒̿̈́̿́͑̕͜͝ͅͅa̵̘̭̹̫̣͙̩̺̟̐̀̀̅̀̾̐͜͜͝͠g̶̢͕̠̀̊͌̾́͒͜͠à̴̳̄̓̈͆̆͑͝͝ị̷̟̦͓͚̃́̎̂͛̊̀͝͝ņ̶̧̡̖̭͎̪͎̫͍͒̇̀̑̏̈͘͝,̷̯͇͚̟͉̆ ̵̖͖͙̫͎͗̇̇ͅá̷͚̤̤̝͖̪̣͍͎̖͈̍̃͘ġ̴̡͖̩̳̲͉̪͖̈́̈́̏́ấ̴͉̓̀͂͐͛̈́̇̂͠i̴̱̭̹͈̭͍̍͠ͅń̴̛͖̰͚̜̰̞͗͊̅͘,̶̧̣͖͓̏͗̐̈́͆̋̑̅́́͋͝ ̸̦̣̱͙̖̃͊͊̒̽̈͝a̵̢̢̬̹̺̰̠̗̥͇̬͋͜ñ̶̮̳̦̹̙̝̣̣̈d̷͙̻̹̩̤̤̥̩̠̟͎͋̄̌͊͌͆͘͘͝ ̵̧̢̞͉̙̖̱̘̠͇̰̀̒͛ä̸̢̺̫̟̖̲̔̑͋̀̎́̒͝g̸̥͔̈́a̴͍̘̜͎͙̖̱͌̒i̴̧̬͍̪̜̯͌̍͑̆̍̈́̔̑̎͝͝ń̷̢̺͇͉͜,̷̡̛̙̖̩̪͠ ̶̬̯͎͙̼͇̼̝͕̽̄̐̔̄̓̍̍͌͜͝͝͝a̸͎͚̗̘͓͕̜̥̩̒̈́̄̈ṅ̵̢̻̖̗̖̖̭̅͐̓̂̑̇͒͒͜d̶̰͓͉͖̄͒̐̀̂ ̵̬̪̤̝͚̠̻̀̒̅̏͊͋͑̍̕͜a̴̢̡͚̰͓̝̗̥̰͑͊̓̿̽͒͒͋̄̔̉g̸̥̲̙͔̬̓͒͝a̶͍̓̑į̶̡̘̰̣̲̠̝̝̣̳̀n̶̟̝͇̞̙̜̰̯͊̎̈́͒̆͆̍̋́̊̚͠,̵̲͛̐́̑͋͆ ̷̨̢̬̳͙͓͚̭̝̫̬̺̾̔͌̅͊a̸͈̳͓̬͖͐͂͂͘͝g̴̛͎͊̐à̴̺̪͆͛i̶͕̫͌̑̑͘n̶̢̙̬̻̫̬̔̔͘,̵͖͚̞͈̒̂͑̆̚ ̵̯̼͙̙̼̟͙̘̀́͛̆̎͑͐̑͝͠a̷̛̪͊͆̋́̄̈́̇͗͠n̷̙̖͂̒͆̄ḑ̶̝͇̫̗̭͉̭͉͇̓̾̉̊͑̆̂̓̓̎́ ̴͚̫̃̇ą̴͉́̂̏͑̈́͘͜͝g̷̣̺͔̿͐͊̓́͗͆̈́͐́̚͜a̵̧̭͓͎͔̓̈́ḯ̸͔̱͒̀̄̐n̶̢̮̬͍̪̙̈́,̴̢̮̰̹̹͉̿̀̅̇́̆̓̽̊̿̚͜͜͝ ̸̙̫̊̋a̶̛̻̗̞̺͇̘͔̟͒́̂̑̆̇̕̚n̸̺̟̂̋̉̂͌d̸̢̯̭͔̆͆̏͐̋ ̸̡̖̝̋͒̿̈́̿́͑̕͜͝ͅͅa̵̘̭̹̫̣͙̩̺̟̐̀̀̅̀̾̐͜͜͝͠g̶̢͕̠̀̊͌̾́͒͜͠à̴̳̄̓̈͆̆͑͝͝ị̷̟̦͓͚̃́̎̂͛̊̀͝͝ņ̶̧̡̖̭͎̪͎̫͍͒̇̀̑̏̈͘͝,̷̯͇͚̟͉̆ ̵̖͖͙̫͎͗̇̇ͅá̷͚̤̤̝͖̪̣͍͎̖͈̍̃͘ġ̴̡͖̩̳̲͉̪͖̈́̈́̏́ấ̴͉̓̀͂͐͛̈́̇̂͠i̴̱̭̹͈̭͍̍͠ͅń̴̛͖̰͚̜̰̞͗͊̅͘,̶̧̣͖͓̏͗̐̈́͆̋̑̅́́͋͝ ̸̦̣̱͙̖̃͊͊̒̽̈͝a̵̢̢̬̹̺̰̠̗̥͇̬͋͜ñ̶̮̳̦̹̙̝̣̣̈d̷͙̻̹̩̤̤̥̩̠̟͎͋̄̌͊͌͆͘͘͝ ̵̧̢̞͉̙̖̱̘̠͇̰̀̒͛ä̸̢̺̫̟̖̲̔̑͋̀̎́̒͝g̸̥͔̈́a̴͍̘̜͎͙̖̱͌̒i̴̧̬͍̪̜̯͌̍͑̆̍̈́̔̑̎͝͝ń̷̢̺͇͉͜,̷̡̛̙̖̩̪͠ ̶̬̯͎͙̼͇̼̝͕̽̄̐̔̄̓̍̍͌͜͝͝͝a̸͎͚̗̘͓͕̜̥̩̒̈́̄̈ṅ̵̢̻̖̗̖̖̭̅͐̓̂̑̇͒͒͜d̶̰͓͉͖̄͒̐̀̂ ̵̬̪̤̝͚̠̻̀̒̅̏͊͋͑̍̕͜a̴̢̡͚̰͓̝̗̥̰͑͊̓̿̽͒͒͋̄̔̉g̸̥̲̙͔̬̓͒͝a̶͍̓̑į̶̡̘̰̣̲̠̝̝̣̳̀n̶̟̝͇̞̙̜̰̯͊̎̈́͒̆͆̍̋́̊̚͠,̵̲͛̐́̑͋͆ ̷̨̢̬̳͙͓͚̭̝̫̬̺̾̔͌̅͊a̸͈̳͓̬͖͐͂͂͘͝g̴̛͎͊̐à̴̺̪͆͛i̶͕̫͌̑̑͘n̶̢̙̬̻̫̬̔̔͘,̵͖͚̞͈̒̂͑̆̚ ̵̯̼͙̙̼̟͙̘̀́͛̆̎͑͐̑͝͠a̷̛̪͊͆̋́̄̈́̇͗͠n̷̙̖͂̒͆̄ḑ̶̝͇̫̗̭͉̭͉͇̓̾̉̊͑̆̂̓̓̎́ ̴͚̫̃̇ą̴͉́̂̏͑̈́͘͜͝g̷̣̺͔̿͐͊̓́͗͆̈́͐́̚͜a̵̧̭͓͎͔̓̈́ḯ̸͔̱͒̀̄̐n̶̢̮̬͍̪̙̈́,̴̢̮̰̹̹͉̿̀̅̇́̆̓̽̊̿̚͜͜͝ ̸̙̫̊̋a̶̛̻̗̞̺͇̘͔̟͒́̂̑̆̇̕̚n̸̺̟̂̋̉̂͌d̸̢̯̭͔̆͆̏͐̋ ̸̡̖̝̋͒̿̈́̿́͑̕͜͝ͅͅa̵̘̭̹̫̣͙̩̺̟̐̀̀̅̀̾̐͜͜͝͠g̶̢͕̠̀̊͌̾́͒͜͠à̴̳̄̓̈͆̆͑͝͝ị̷̟̦͓͚̃́̎̂͛̊̀͝͝ņ̶̧̡̖̭͎̪͎̫͍͒̇̀̑̏̈͘͝,̷̯͇͚̟͉̆ ̵̖͖͙̫͎͗̇̇ͅá̷͚̤̤̝͖̪̣͍͎̖͈̍̃͘ġ̴̡͖̩̳̲͉̪͖̈́̈́̏́ấ̴͉̓̀͂͐͛̈́̇̂͠i̴̱̭̹͈̭͍̍͠ͅń̴̛͖̰͚̜̰̞͗͊̅͘,̶̧̣͖͓̏͗̐̈́͆̋̑̅́́͋͝ ̸̦̣̱͙̖̃͊͊̒̽̈͝a̵̢̢̬̹̺̰̠̗̥͇̬͋͜ñ̶̮̳̦̹̙̝̣̣̈d̷͙̻̹̩̤̤̥̩̠̟͎͋̄̌͊͌͆͘͘͝ ̵̧̢̞͉̙̖̱̘̠͇̰̀̒͛ä̸̢̺̫̟̖̲̔̑͋̀̎́̒͝g̸̥͔̈́a̴͍̘̜͎͙̖̱͌̒i̴̧̬͍̪̜̯͌̍͑̆̍̈́̔̑̎͝͝ń̷̢̺͇͉͜,̷̡̛̙̖̩̪͠ ̶̬̯͎͙̼͇̼̝͕̽̄̐̔̄̓̍̍͌͜͝͝͝a̸͎͚̗̘͓͕̜̥̩̒̈́̄̈ṅ̵̢̻̖̗̖̖̭̅͐̓̂̑̇͒͒͜d̶̰͓͉͖̄͒̐̀̂ ̵̬̪̤̝͚̠̻̀̒̅̏͊͋͑̍̕͜a̴̢̡͚̰͓̝̗̥̰͑͊̓̿̽͒͒͋̄̔̉g̸̥̲̙͔̬̓͒͝a̶͍̓̑į̶̡̘̰̣̲̠̝̝̣̳̀n̶̟̝͇̞̙̜̰̯͊̎̈́͒̆͆̍̋́̊̚͠,̵̲͛̐́̑͋͆ ̷̨̢̬̳͙͓͚̭̝̫̬̺̾̔͌̅͊a̸͈̳͓̬͖͐͂͂͘͝g̴̛͎͊̐à̴̺̪͆͛i̶͕̫͌̑̑͘n̶̢̙̬̻̫̬̔̔͘,̵͖͚̞͈̒̂͑̆̚ ̵̯̼͙̙̼̟͙̘̀́͛̆̎͑͐̑͝͠a̷̛̪͊͆̋́̄̈́̇͗͠n̷̙̖͂̒͆̄ḑ̶̝͇̫̗̭͉̭͉͇̓̾̉̊͑̆̂̓̓̎́ ̴͚̫̃̇ą̴͉́̂̏͑̈́͘͜͝g̷̣̺͔̿͐͊̓́͗͆̈́͐́̚͜a̵̧̭͓͎͔̓̈́ḯ̸͔̱͒̀̄̐n̶̢̮̬͍̪̙̈́,̴̢̮̰̹̹͉̿̀̅̇́̆̓̽̊̿̚͜͜͝ ̸̙̫̊̋a̶̛̻̗̞̺͇̘͔̟͒́̂̑̆̇̕̚n̸̺̟̂̋̉̂͌d̸̢̯̭͔̆͆̏͐̋ ̸̡̖̝̋͒̿̈́̿́͑̕͜͝ͅͅa̵̘̭̹̫̣͙̩̺̟̐̀̀̅̀̾̐͜͜͝͠g̶̢͕̠̀̊͌̾́͒͜͠à̴̳̄̓̈͆̆͑͝͝ị̷̟̦͓͚̃́̎̂͛̊̀͝͝ņ̶̧̡̖̭͎̪͎̫͍͒̇̀̑̏̈͘͝,̷̯͇͚̟͉̆ ̵̖͖͙̫͎͗̇̇ͅá̷͚̤̤̝͖̪̣͍͎̖͈̍̃͘ġ̴̡͖̩̳̲͉̪͖̈́̈́̏́ấ̴͉̓̀͂͐͛̈́̇̂͠i̴̱̭̹͈̭͍̍͠ͅń̴̛͖̰͚̜̰̞͗͊̅͘,̶̧̣͖͓̏͗̐̈́͆̋̑̅́́͋͝ ̸̦̣̱͙̖̃͊͊̒̽̈͝a̵̢̢̬̹̺̰̠̗̥͇̬͋͜ñ̶̮̳̦̹̙̝̣̣̈d̷͙̻̹̩̤̤̥̩̠̟͎͋̄̌͊͌͆͘͘͝ ̵̧̢̞͉̙̖̱̘̠͇̰̀̒͛ä̸̢̺̫̟̖̲̔̑͋̀̎́̒͝g̸̥͔̈́a̴͍̘̜͎͙̖̱͌̒i̴̧̬͍̪̜̯͌̍͑̆̍̈́̔̑̎͝͝ń̷̢̺͇͉͜,̷̡̛̙̖̩̪͠ ̶̬̯͎͙̼͇̼̝͕̽̄̐̔̄̓̍̍͌͜͝͝͝a̸͎͚̗̘͓͕̜̥̩̒̈́̄̈ṅ̵̢̻̖̗̖̖̭̅͐̓̂̑̇͒͒͜d̶̰͓͉͖̄͒̐̀̂ ̵̬̪̤̝͚̠̻̀̒̅̏͊͋͑̍̕͜a̴̢̡͚̰͓̝̗̥̰͑͊̓̿̽͒͒͋̄̔̉g̸̥̲̙͔̬̓͒͝a̶͍̓̑į̶̡̘̰̣̲̠̝̝̣̳̀n̶̟̝͇̞̙̜̰̯͊̎̈́͒̆͆̍̋́̊̚͠,̵̲͛̐́̑͋͆ ̷̨̢̬̳͙͓͚̭̝̫̬̺̾̔͌̅͊a̸͈̳͓̬͖͐͂͂͘͝g̴̛͎͊̐à̴̺̪͆͛i̶͕̫͌̑̑͘n̶̢̙̬̻̫̬̔̔͘,̵͖͚̞͈̒̂͑̆̚ ̵̯̼͙̙̼̟͙̘̀́͛̆̎͑͐̑͝͠a̷̛̪͊͆̋́̄̈́̇͗͠n̷̙̖͂̒͆̄ḑ̶̝͇̫̗̭͉̭͉͇̓̾̉̊͑̆̂̓̓̎́ ̴͚̫̃̇ą̴͉́̂̏͑̈́͘͜͝g̷̣̺͔̿͐͊̓́͗͆̈́͐́̚͜a̵̧̭͓͎͔̓̈́ḯ̸͔̱͒̀̄̐n̶̢̮̬͍̪̙̈́,̴̢̮̰̹̹͉̿̀̅̇́̆̓̽̊̿̚͜͜͝ ̸̙̫̊̋a̶̛̻̗̞̺͇̘͔̟͒́̂̑̆̇̕̚n̸̺̟̂̋̉̂͌d̸̢̯̭͔̆͆̏͐̋ ̸̡̖̝̋͒̿̈́̿́͑̕͜͝ͅͅa̵̘̭̹̫̣͙̩̺̟̐̀̀̅̀̾̐͜͜͝͠g̶̢͕̠̀̊͌̾́͒͜͠à̴̳̄̓̈͆̆͑͝͝ị̷̟̦͓͚̃́̎̂͛̊̀͝͝ņ̶̧̡̖̭͎̪͎̫͍͒̇̀̑̏̈͘͝,̷̯͇͚̟͉̆ ̵̖͖͙̫͎͗̇̇ͅá̷͚̤̤̝͖̪̣͍͎̖͈̍̃͘ġ̴̡͖̩̳̲͉̪͖̈́̈́̏́ấ̴͉̓̀͂͐͛̈́̇̂͠i̴̱̭̹͈̭͍̍͠ͅń̴̛͖̰͚̜̰̞͗͊̅͘,̶̧̣͖͓̏͗̐̈́͆̋̑̅́́͋͝ ̸̦̣̱͙̖̃͊͊̒̽̈͝a̵̢̢̬̹̺̰̠̗̥͇̬͋͜ñ̶̮̳̦̹̙̝̣̣̈d̷͙̻̹̩̤̤̥̩̠̟͎͋̄̌͊͌͆͘͘͝ ̵̧̢̞͉̙̖̱̘̠͇̰̀̒͛ä̸̢̺̫̟̖̲̔̑͋̀̎́̒͝g̸̥͔̈́a̴͍̘̜͎͙̖̱͌̒i̴̧̬͍̪̜̯͌̍͑̆̍̈́̔̑̎͝͝ń̷̢̺͇͉͜,̷̡̛̙̖̩̪͠ ̶̬̯͎͙̼͇̼̝͕̽̄̐̔̄̓̍̍͌͜͝͝͝a̸͎͚̗̘͓͕̜̥̩̒̈́̄̈ṅ̵̢̻̖̗̖̖̭̅͐̓̂̑̇͒͒͜d̶̰͓͉͖̄͒̐̀̂ ̵̬̪̤̝͚̠̻̀̒̅̏͊͋͑̍̕͜a̴̢̡͚̰͓̝̗̥̰͑͊̓̿̽͒͒͋̄̔̉g̸̥̲̙͔̬̓͒͝a̶͍̓̑į̶̡̘̰̣̲̠̝̝̣̳̀n̶̟̝͇̞̙̜̰̯͊̎̈́͒̆͆̍̋́̊̚͠,̵̲͛̐́̑͋͆ ̷̨̢̬̳͙͓͚̭̝̫̬̺̾̔͌̅͊a̸͈̳͓̬͖͐͂͂͘͝g̴̛͎͊̐à̴̺̪͆͛i̶͕̫͌̑̑͘n̶̢̙̬̻̫̬̔̔͘,̵͖͚̞͈̒̂͑̆̚ ̵̯̼͙̙̼̟͙̘̀́͛̆̎͑͐̑͝͠a̷̛̪͊͆̋́̄̈́̇͗͠n̷̙̖͂̒͆̄ḑ̶̝͇̫̗̭͉̭͉͇̓̾̉̊͑̆̂̓̓̎́ ̴͚̫̃̇ą̴͉́̂̏͑̈́͘͜͝g̷̣̺͔̿͐͊̓́͗͆̈́͐́̚͜a̵̧̭͓͎͔̓̈́ḯ̸͔̱͒̀̄̐n̶̢̮̬͍̪̙̈́,̴̢̮̰̹̹͉̿̀̅̇́̆̓̽̊̿̚͜͜͝ ̸̙̫̊̋a̶̛̻̗̞̺͇̘͔̟͒́̂̑̆̇̕̚n̸̺̟̂̋̉̂͌d̸̢̯̭͔̆͆̏͐̋ ̸̡̖̝̋͒̿̈́̿́͑̕͜͝ͅͅa̵̘̭̹̫̣͙̩̺̟̐̀̀̅̀̾̐͜͜͝͠g̶̢͕̠̀̊͌̾́͒͜͠à̴̳̄̓̈͆̆͑͝͝ị̷̟̦͓͚̃́̎̂͛̊̀͝͝ņ̶̧̡̖̭͎̪͎̫͍͒̇̀̑̏̈͘͝,̷̯͇͚̟͉̆ ̵̖͖͙̫͎͗̇̇ͅ

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̷̹͘A̶̙͆ḻ̶̐a̸̺̋n̴̤̽a̶̡̓ felt herself shoot up from her bed, cold sweat glistened her form, her hand already holding a humming vibro-knife, as she tried to catch her breath.

She was intact. Safe. And after a long and cautious look about her room, she allowed herself, to slowly settle back into bed. She gripped the knife harder, the images still flickering in her head, trying to work out what had happened, what was done, what it meant. She tried to settle on some sembalance of peace.

Yet, there was no peace to be had. No end to her torment. The Sith had taken her, and they kept her. It didn't matter how many times she died, how many pieces of herself were lost, they resurrected her, reshaped her, remade her into a weapon of war. But...had it happened?

Was it...really her?

Who was she even?

But each time they brought her back, they forgot one thing: ̷̹͘A̶̙͆ḻ̶̐a̸̺̋n̴̤̽a̶̡̓ was still there. In the pieces, in the cracks, in the fractures of what they had made her into, she was still alive. She felt it. She felt the rage, the pain, the fear—but most of all, she felt the hunger.

She...felt...an understanding, of all of it.

It wasn't just for survival anymore. No. She was done being their experiment. Their broken soldier. She would make them remember her. Every death, every tear, every scar—they would all be paid for.

She recalled, the voice of Serina, gently at the back of her mind. Connections, sense, a measure of understanding slowly fell upon her, that allowed her to finally relax.

̷̹͘A̶̙͆ḻ̶̐a̸̺̋n̴̤̽a̶̡̓—S̸̥͈̝̕a̴̛̜͒̈́́b̷̡͔̱̐l̷̢̧̛̛̠͒̑ͅe̶̞͊̆͛͌—wasn't a tool to be used. She wasn't their creation to bend and break. They...had failed, and now, the way forward all made sense.

She was their nightmare to have.

By the force, did she desire to be just that...