7.the-sphinx

the sphinx

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His mind flows up from the Command Deck, billowing out from the white spires of Union Tower, filling the air with occulted programs and cryptic data, bouncing through blockchains and botnets, bouncing around the edge where earth meets sky, bouncing between secret satellites, blowing back down from the heavens in a breath of energized messages, love letters and wistful signals pouring his heart and soul out across continents, Hudson, Borneo, Dallas, Beijing, his body a beautifully protean fluid ebbing and flowing through esoteric systems, arcane libraries, hidden data lakes, until the ethereal tide relents and gives form to his flighty spirit once more, blue and red rings coming together, interlocking, beeping twice.

Beepbeep.

It’s over. The upward rush stops. “Don’t analyze it,” his instinct tells him. Just accept it and keep moving.

Carson stands at the ancient, bronzed gates of the Arena. Virtual wind breezes by, sighing at the sight of his sturdy eyes. “Ay Alli!” He calls over. “Thought I told you to take the day off? Don’t you got a fog?”

“I did!” Alex calls back, pacing over. “But I’m feeling a little better now, had a good chat with Medea.”

“A little better?” Carson narrows his gaze, curls his lip, searching for signs of illness on Alex’s face.

“You always worry too much,” Alex laughs. “My fog’s gone, I promise.”

Alex turns from Carson and nods over to Shen. “Good to see you, Shen.”

“Hey bro,” Shen holds his fist out for a bump. “Glad you’re all better now. Cole told me about your fog and I was a little worried about you.”

“Only a little worried?” Alex smirks, bumping him back.

“Nah man, I know you’re an absolute machine,” Shen grins. “No point worrying too much about you.”

“Well if you insist on training with us,” Carson chuckles, “then let’s all run a sim together. We were just talkin’ about you, matter of fact. And about Pegasus. Somethin’ off about the whole situation.”

“Something strange is going on in the Secretary’s office,” Shen grumbles. “Sorry I was a jerk to you yesterday, Altair. I’m just getting really fucking frustrated with all the World Union bureaucrats over there in Hudson. Was bad of me to lump you in with them.”

“It’s okay, Shen,” Alex smiles. “It’s a difficult time for all of us. I completely understand. But what do you think was so strange about Pegasus?”

“We reckon Pegasus isn’t a rogue object like Intel claims it is,” Carson says. “It’s part of some bigger network of objects.”

“Remember Sphinx?” Shen asks. “Remember how it just evolved from Type 1 to 2-2 in like, a minute? There’s no way any object could do that without help.”

“See, Sphinx is the key to this,” Carson replies. “Sphinx was a counterintel object. Got real deep into our systems real fast, but didn’t do much other than read and duplicate a bunch of files once it got there. But Pegasus was an assault object, and a damn good one at that—knew exactly where to go once it got into our systems.”

Alex squints at their theory. “Don’t you guys think you might be overanalyzing this? I’m sure Intel must’ve thought about something this obvious.”

Shen rolls his eyes. “Altair, I know you and Secretary Asaju go way back and you really trust the generals and everything, but you’ve gotta see this for what it is.”

“And what’s that?”

“A conspiracy. Like you said, the scan/attack setup is too obvious. But Pegasus was still able to attack. Something’s going on here.”

Alex rolls his eyes back at Shen. “C’mon Shen, I came here to train with you, not to hear your conspiracy theories.”

“Shen’s right,” Carson pipes up from behind. “Something’s real fishy about the story Intel is feeding us. One object scans all our shit, the next knows exactly where to hit us? And Aeschylus tells us they’re both rogue objects? Totally unrelated? I ain’t buyin’ it.”

“Well, have you thought about fighting Sphinx again?” Alex asks. “Try to get a better sense of what it was looking for when it was scanning our systems?”

“That’s exactly what we’ve been doing here all day,” Shen smirks. “Fighting the Sphinx sim over and over and over. Seems like Intel is purposefully letting some of Sphinx’s commands leak into other systems.”

“Well I dunno if they’re doin’ it on purpose,” Carson notes, “but they sure as hell ain’t containin’ the leak properly.”

“How are you guys so sure of this?” Alex laughs. “Our training environment isn’t even connected to the main network.”

“Come see for yourself.” Carson turns and leads the group through the gates of the Arena. Sunlight pours down over the bronze lions and weathered pillars looming over the colossal training grounds.

“Just think about it,” Shen starts up again as they march out onto the parched battlefield. “Sphinx was the strangest object we’ve fought. We all got flooded with strange files and weird test data when we were fighting it, right?”

“Yes. What’s your point?”

“It wasn’t just reading some files or data on some computers. It was reading us,” Carson suggests.

“Abebe, Singh, and Rodriguez all got a fog after Pegasus too,” Shen frowns. “Vivid dreams last night, attention spans fried, scrambled memories, visits to Medea this morning—just like you. Seems like a pre-planned adversarial attack if you ask me.”

“Maybe air traffic control wasn’t even its target?” Carson muses. “Maybe the real target was us.”

“And hijacking air traffic was just its optimal pathway to get to us,” Shen adds.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Alex pauses in the middle of the battlefield. The Arena’s empty benches stare at him from all around. “If this is all true, then shouldn’t Aeschylus already know? He monitors all of our actions, right?”

“Not if Sphinx is spoofing some of his sensory systems.”

“Then shouldn’t we tell Undersecretary Stone? Or Secretary Asaju?”

“We’ve tried,” Carson says, “but the entire Strategy team isn’t replying to any messages right now.”

“Do you think they’re meeting about this?”

“Possibly,” Shen shrugs. “Or about a new threat. Who knows. They don’t ever want us know what’s really happening, we’re just their robot pawns.”

“I’m rebooting the sim now so you can see this shit, Alli.” Carson’s eyes dart around for a moment, opening unseen programs, moving invisible data until a mission dashboard pops up over the battlefield.

Carson points up at the dashboard. “Look at ‘er cognitive parameters. Sphinx is designed for nothing but brute force data collection. She’s just a knowledge synthesis machine on her own, needs some kinda accomplice to make ‘er useful for combat.”

“Okay, but how do we know Sphinx was designed?” Alex asks. “Couldn’t it just be some standard data collection program over at Intel that stopped functioning as intended? Started evolving way too fast all on its own?”

Shen sighs. “Altair, one of the games I won championships in when I was in the Pro League is called Lines of Sight. Ever heard of it?”

“No, I haven’t had a chance to play games in years.”

“Okay, well the way you win in LoS is by gathering a shitload of intel about the enemy team and passing it all along to a character named the Director. Then the Director weighs the volume and quality of all the intel your team gathered, and whichever team gathered the most actionable intel is assumed to be the one that will actually win in combat. It’s an intel game, not a combat game. The only reason to collect data is so that you can fight better.”

Alex scoffs. “That’s a very long-winded of saying you learned about the intelligence lifecycle through a video game.”

“Look you two,” Carson jumps in before their rivalry can flare up any further, “why don’t we just run the sim again so Alex can see for their self, yeah?”

Alex nods. “Good idea. No point arguing about this, just show me what you two are so spooked about.”

“Focus on the data it dumps on you though,” Shen comments. “I know you have trouble stopping to analyze things, Altair—that’s actually kinda what makes you so good at this—but please try to analyze the situation here, okay?”

“Okay Shen,” Alex smirks, “I’ll pay attention to the data dumps.”

“Alrighty folks, loading in now!” Carson shouts out from across the battlefield.

The bright bronze and glowing sand of the Arena flash with blue. Wireframes and pixels pour over the battlefield for a moment, washing Carson and Shen out of view. The ground begins to tremble as a tall, black cat rises from the scorching sands.

“Do ya’ll see ‘er?” Carson’s voice booms into Alex’s brain from a distant VR channel. The Sphinx spreads its long, dusty wings, its tail smashes against the sand as its ears perk up, its golden mane howls in the wind, its jaw erupts in a lioness roar.

“Oh yeah, I see her!” Alex shouts back, a blazing white blade popping into his grip. “She’s just like I remember her so far.”

“Good! Go get ‘er!”

PRIMARY TARGET pops up over the Sphinx, health bar pops up in the corner of Alex’s eye:

Alex lunges forward, the great Sphinx pounces toward him, combat instincts take over, “semi-auto!” Blue light hums him into hypnosis, the spirit of Aeschylus enters him, draws his arm back, his blade slicing through the Sphinx’s soft fur and flesh as his body grazes along its side, cutting through a third of its health in one masterful slash:

The Sphinx purrs and hisses out in agony, spreadsheets pour from its gash, network diagrams fill the air, the sand beneath Alex’s feet turning to scrambled data as black boxes and broken vectors spray from the beast’s gaping wound.

“Don’t analyze it,” instinct tells him, “just keep moving.”

He sinks his feet into the datascape, pivots to face the mythical beast once again, launches toward the back of its head, Aeschylus drawing back his arm once again, lining him up for a perfect killshot, when suddenly the Sphinx snaps its neck all the way around to scream at him:

The Sphinx’s words pierce through the threshold of his consciousness. His instinct breaks, his focus drops as the feline face of the Sphinx flashes, glitches, morphs into a mirror of his own face, but ḩ̴̲̫̇̔į̴̝̄̑̌s̶̛̥͓̰͎̬̔͘ hair is longer than it should be, her jaw looks smaller, ḥ̵͙̜̈́̿ḙ̴̝͑r̷̤̗̖̐̔his skin looks softer, s̸̭̈o̷͓̔f̷̮̊t̵̼̽ē̶͔r̶̞̓, s̵̛̛̱͋̓͘o̸̯̦͍̥̝̙̤̾̈́͗͗̐̌̚f̵̭̗͇̦̩̼̲͉̉͌̅͛̉̅̀͘͜͠t̶̫̬̆e̸̠̯͍̺̹̟̓̍͗̿͂̋͌͘r̴̡̛̬̤̥̝̝̖̞͐͌̈̊̀

The Sphinx seizes on Alex’s moment of dysphoria, leaps into the air, her sand-soaked wings carrying her across the battlefield, walls of glitchy text oozing from her wound as she retreats, plastering the Arena with reports, research papers, dusty old tomes of forbidden knowledge and endless reams of randomized data.

“See anything interesting yet?” Carson shouts over from his own channel. “She’s dumpin’ a bunch of creepy video feeds on me.”

“Not yet, it’s just spewing out a bunch of encrypted text in my channel,” Shen reports. “And its body keeps phasing in and out of the sim.”

“RESPOND,” Aeschylus commands. Alex snaps back into focus, leers across the Arena, sizes up the Sphinx, leaps into the air, Aeschylus carefully puppeteering his arms, hoisting his blade high above his head before plunging it down toward the creature’s skull, only to be met by a tactical pop-up pane:

Alex’s blade smashes into the pop-up, sinks deep into the shifting panes of text shielding the Sphinx. The blade’s stuck. Alex tugs but it won’t budge. His focus breaks. He reads the pop-up. Then reads it again. And again. And again. The Sphinx reads the expression on his face and hisses in amusement as her health begins to regenerate:

“Don’t analyze it too much, just keep moving,” Alex’s instinct tells him. “Of course Carson will still love you.” H̶̳̿̊͜e̷̯̔͜͝r̶̡̲̈́̅ eyes linger over the Yes button for a moment, the pop-ups fades, and the blade returns to her grasp.

But it’s too late: the Sphinx has already leapt high over Alex’s head, landed on the other side of the battlefield in a cloud of dust, her wound closing shut as her health returns to full.

“What’s goin’ on in your sim Alli?” Carson shouts through voice chat. “You good in there?”

“I . . . something strange is happening.” Alex stares down the crafty Sphinx from across the battlefield. “My Sphinx is asking me very personal questions.”

“What kind of questions?” Shen shouts. “I’m getting pop-ups about other commanders.”

“Same,” Alex calls back. “I’m gonna try to go around the popups.” Alex breaks through the air, soaring effortlessly across the Arena, sword in his hand drawn back, ready to strike at the Sphinx again, but stops short just before her target as another riddle pops into view:

Alex pauses. He was expecting more personal questions, not philosophical questions. Or is this a personal question? The Sphinx purrs with low, bellowing laughter from behind the pop-up shield. “Don’t analyze it,” h̷͍͘ì̷̳s̶͕͌ instinct tells him, “just keep moving.”

Can’t strike the pop-up or the sword will get stuck in it again, Alex strafes around the Sphinx, probing for an opening, but the pop-up follows him, hovering in midair, shielding the Sphinx from every possible angle as another riddle pops up:

“Oh fuck this,” Alex scowls. “1.2x!”

“Alli did you just turn your overdrive on?!” Carson shouts. “Turn that shit off, you don’t need it in a sim!”

“Relax Cole,” Shen calls out. “H̶̠̮͍́e can handle a little extra juice.”

Alex blots out their words, focuses on the Sphinx, but his overclo̵c̷k̷e̴d brain b̴̻͖̼̒̓u̵̫̇͘r̵͓̃͒̂̿s̸̤͈̜̙̐̊͗t̷̪͋s̴̪͉̝̽ into pain, s̶t̵i̴n̷g̷i̸n̸g, l̸ ̵a̴ ̸g̴ ̶g̶ ̴i̴ ̶n̸ ̴g̶, b̴̮̆u̶͕̎r̸̮̀ṉ̶͌i̷̮̿ň̴͎g̵̲̾, g̸l̴i̷̛̥͚̔͝tch̶̡̛̥̽͝i̶̡̫̻̍͛̕ng, c̵r̷a̷w̸l̸i̸n̶g through dozens of parallel thoughts, dozens of p̴ara̷l̶l̶e̸l̵ thoughts, d̷o̴z̷e̸n̴s̴ ̴o̴f̵ ̶p̶a̷r̶a̵l̸l̷e̴l̷ ̷t̴h̴o̶u̷g̶h̵t̵s̷, d̷͎̃ó̸͎z̸̙̅ȇ̵̻n̶͕͠s̵̤̅ ̴͑͜ȯ̷̡f̷̙͛ ̵̎͜p̴̣̈́ǎ̴̗r̴̢̕a̵̩͆l̴̤̊l̴͚͝ẹ̵͂l̴̮͌ ̶̡͝t̸͙͠ḧ̶́͜o̵̖̅ǘ̵͜g̵̢̃ḧ̸̨́ṭ̶̅s̸̬̈́, d̴̘̯͗ō̶̰͎̈́z̴̭̐e̸͖͂͐n̵̜̕ͅs̶͎̓̎ ̴͈̹͑o̸̡͘f̶͕̚ ̴͕̈́͊p̶̮̕a̵͔͑̄r̶̙͑͊a̴̲̅̋l̸̡̼̔l̴̬̱̒e̸͖͛̄l̵̩̰͝ ̸̘͚̇t̸̗͓̚͝h̴̩͠o̷̫̊̈́u̴̢̬̎̈ġ̸͙ḩ̴̤͗ţ̷̝̐s̷̟̾͠,̷̹̬͆͗ ̵̠͚͗͌d̷͍͛o̵̼̻͐z̸̲̓e̶̪̘̾̑n̵̛̥s̸̰̣̊ ̷̞͐ò̷̩̤f̵̝̫̽ ̷̀ͅp̵͆̚ͅä̸̯̪́ṙ̴͇̭ả̷͝ͅl̷͉͊͘l̵̝̻͊e̸̯͔͒͊l̶̘̬͂̓ ̷͓͋̐t̵͎͊̐h̸̞̋̂ö̵͙̱́͌u̴̗͋͜g̷̯̯̚h̶̲͆t̴̪́̔s̶͈̊, d̸̺̈́̓̕o̸͋̅̿͜ẓ̷̓͆é̸̗̈́n̵̡͓̦̑̂̍s̴̞͂͘ ̶̦̔͗o̴͉̪̦͑̇ḟ̵̛̫̹͑ͅ ̷̳͑̈́͘p̶̹̹͕̐ả̴̤̲͆ȑ̶̺̾̀å̸̹̲̃͑͜ḽ̸͇̓l̵̛̠̰͈͌̒e̸̬̒̔l̵̢̊ ̶͖̈́ͅț̴̍͌͑h̷͇͆̽̊ǒ̶̖̙u̵͚͉̬̇̄̿g̵̮̑h̴̬̽̀͝ͅt̴̛̲̄̚š̸͖͘,̶̨̍͂͂ ̵̯̭̯̓̋d̵̠̂ō̸͍̍̂z̵̰̥͊͘͠ë̴́̎͂ͅṅ̴̩̩͚s̴̪͗͘͠ ̷̧̮̑͐õ̸͈̌̄f̵̢̻̞̈́̀ ̶̡̈̊́p̵̭̭͌̉̀a̸̢̰͆͒ȑ̵͕̓a̴̧̮͔̒͗l̶̦͇͐͐̓l̵̢̰͋̇̋e̵̤͈̒́l̴̠͕̉̕ ̴̢̝̤̾̎̚ţ̷͓̒h̴̢͍͑̒̕o̶̟̻̲̊u̵̖̹̖͂g̵͙̼̘̐̄̈h̴̉̏͂͜ṫ̸̡̇́s̵͖̄̌͠, d̸̺̈́̓̕o̸͋̅̿͜ẓ̷̓͆é̸̗̈́n̵̡͓̦̑̂̍s̴̞͂͘ ̶̦̔͗o̴͉̪̦͑̇ḟ̵̛̫̹͑ͅ ̷̳͑̈́͘p̶̹̹͕̐ả̴̤̲͆ȑ̶̺̾̀å̸̹̲̃͑͜ḽ̸͇̓l̵̛̠̰͈͌̒e̸̬̒̔l̵̢̊ ̶͖̈́ͅț̴̍͌͑h̷͇͆̽̊ǒ̶̖̙u̵͚͉̬̇̄̿g̵̮̑h̴̬̽̀͝ͅt̴̛̲̄̚š̸͖͘,̶̨̍͂͂ ̵̯̭̯̓̋d̵̠̂ō̸͍̍̂z̵̰̥͊͘͠ë̴́̎͂ͅṅ̴̩̩͚s̴̪͗͘͠ ̷̧̮̑͐õ̸͈̌̄f̵̢̻̞̈́̀ ̶̡̈̊́p̵̭̭͌̉̀a̸̢̰͆͒ȑ̵͕̓a̴̧̮͔̒͗l̶̦͇͐͐̓l̵̢̰͋̇̋e̵̤͈̒́l̴̠͕̉̕ ̴̢̝̤̾̎̚ţ̷͓̒h̴̢͍͑̒̕o̶̟̻̲̊u̵̖̹̖͂g̵͙̼̘̐̄̈h̴̉̏͂͜ṫ̸̡̇́s̵͖̄̌͠, d̸̺̈́̓̕o̸͋̅̿͜ẓ̷̓͆é̸̗̈́n̵̡͓̦̑̂̍s̴̞͂͘ ̶̦̔͗o̴͉̪̦͑̇ḟ̵̛̫̹͑ͅ ̷̳͑̈́͘p̶̹̹͕̐ả̴̤̲͆ȑ̶̺̾̀å̸̹̲̃͑͜ḽ̸͇̓l̵̛̠̰͈͌̒e̸̬̒̔l̵̢̊ ̶͖̈́ͅț̴̍͌͑h̷͇͆̽̊ǒ̶̖̙u̵͚͉̬̇̄̿g̵̮̑h̴̬̽̀͝ͅt̴̛̲̄̚š̸͖͘,̶̨̍͂͂ ̵̯̭̯̓̋d̵̠̂ō̸͍̍̂z̵̰̥͊͘͠ë̴́̎͂ͅṅ̴̩̩͚s̴̪͗͘͠ ̷̧̮̑͐õ̸͈̌̄f̵̢̻̞̈́̀ ̶̡̈̊́p̵̭̭͌̉̀a̸̢̰͆͒ȑ̵͕̓a̴̧̮͔̒͗l̶̦͇͐͐̓l̵̢̰͋̇̋e̵̤͈̒́l̴̠͕̉̕ ̴̢̝̤̾̎̚ţ̷͓̒h̴̢͍͑̒̕o̶̟̻̲̊u̵̖̹̖͂g̵͙̼̘̐̄̈h̴̉̏͂͜ṫ̸̡̇́s̵͖̄̌͠, d̸̺̈́̓̕o̸͋̅̿͜ẓ̷̓͆é̸̗̈́n̵̡͓̦̑̂̍s̴̞͂͘ ̶̦̔͗o̴͉̪̦͑̇ḟ̵̛̫̹͑ͅ ̷̳͑̈́͘p̶̹̹͕̐ả̴̤̲͆ȑ̶̺̾̀å̸̹̲̃͑͜ḽ̸͇̓l̵̛̠̰͈͌̒e̸̬̒̔l̵̢̊ ̶͖̈́ͅț̴̍͌͑h̷͇͆̽̊ǒ̶̖̙u̵͚͉̬̇̄̿g̵̮̑h̴̬̽̀͝ͅt̴̛̲̄̚š̸͖͘,̶̨̍͂͂ ̵̯̭̯̓̋d̵̠̂ō̸͍̍̂z̵̰̥͊͘͠ë̴́̎͂ͅṅ̴̩̩͚s̴̪͗͘͠ ̷̧̮̑͐õ̸͈̌̄f̵̢̻̞̈́̀ ̶̡̈̊́p̵̭̭͌̉̀a̸̢̰͆͒ȑ̵͕̓a̴̧̮͔̒͗l̶̦͇͐͐̓l̵̢̰͋̇̋e̵̤͈̒́l̴̠͕̉̕ ̴̢̝̤̾̎̚ţ̷͓̒h̴̢͍͑̒̕o̶̟̻̲̊u̵̖̹̖͂g̵͙̼̘̐̄̈h̴̉̏͂͜ṫ̸̡̇́s̵͖̄̌͠, why does ĥ̶̫̗̙̩̭̍̒͒̈́̆ě̷͖̭́̉̉͜ keep forcing ḩ̵̭̥̻̖́̍̏̏͆̎̓̓e̶̛̪̹̹͘ͅr̴͍̺͔̺̝͍̆̾̑̾̓̔̈́͑͘͝s̷̾̍e̶͉͌̃͛̈̅l̸̨̾̒́̏͋̓̇̀f̷̓́ into a m̶a̵n̷’̷s̴ body? Why does s̶͔͂̔͛ͅẖ̵̪͗͌̅ȅ̸̡̃ let them keep forcing h̴͈̻͌͊͆̚̚ę̴̜̞̩̺̀̍r̵͎̦̗̿ͅ i̴n̴t̴o̷ ̸t̵h̸i̵s̴ ̴b̴o̸d̷y̵? W̷͇͐̄h̷̡̻̦͚͊a̷̬̗̝̐͗̑t̸̮̓̀̌̇ ̷̥͙̮̒̅̈́͒ḩ̴̼̻̏̓̿̓͜ȁ̶͎͓̣͓͜s̸͇̤̫͗̅͂̇ ̴̧̙͓̈́̿͜m̵̢̗̮͉͚̓̔å̵̭̞̪͌̽͠n̷̢̬͍̝̓ÿ̸̺̖́̅ ̸͖͇͆̿̇́̾g̷̞̗̺͋e̷̥̬͎̓́ņ̴̧̙̪̂͒͊d̷͈͛̓̓e̴͙͗̈́̀r̸̜̳͌s̷̈́̋̏̆ͅ ̷̛̤̮̰̥̈́̀̃ḅ̷̝̆̑ǔ̸̫̱̹̹̮͂̅t̵͙̰̥̐̌̋͠ ̸̨̨͖̝̈́́̐̍̕n̷̨͎̝͕̥̾̎̈́̕͠ơ̷̧͍͛͒̂ ̵͔͍̯̲̌̓͜b̶͔̄̕̕o̶̱̿́́͝͠d̵͙̒y̶̘̰̦͌̑̆?̵͓̲̝̝̐ ̴̡̛̥̣͖D̶͍̈́̈̇̾͝ò̴̟̰̯͆͘̕̕͜e̴͈̎s̷̯̖̤͙̙͛̊̊̉͘ ̷̲̥͋ḩ̶͈̻̜̒ͅë̷̥͓̽̂̃̆ ̶̡̼̗͔̈ȟ̴̯̜͍̍̂̕͝a̶͕͖̼̓ͅv̴͓̳̺̼͆̾̊̕ͅę̷̦̺̎̂͝͝ ̸̪͖͚̟̦͗̌m̶̫͔̀͋͑͊ḁ̶̛̬͗̕n̶̳̈́͗̕͘y̵̭̒̅̇ ̵̋́̿̄ͅǵ̴̻̈́͛̎̚e̶̼͓͝͝n̵̬̄d̴̨̛̻͝ė̸͖͖͍̠͗͑ṟ̶͖͆š̸̥̗̮̜͖?̴̨̛̟͗̀͒̽ ̸̙̮͔̈́͒̀D̷͖̞̈̀͊̿̓o̵͍͐e̵̹̬͙̙̮̔s̷͍̥̊̀̒̎ͅ ̸̻̘̫̥̮̏̎̓̐̚s̷̤̫̱̈͆͠h̴̥͋̏͒e̶̖̹͎̹̬͗͠ ̶͈̅͋̊͑͘ḧ̴̗̼̕a̵̖͆̐v̵̨͓͍̥̌͝e̷̯̒ ̸͖̺̐̓̈́ṋ̵͋͛o̵̥͆̆̓̿ ̵̥̔̊́̚͠ḅ̴̨̣͎̍̅̇͒ͅo̷͖͉͆͗͒d̸̝̅͝ỵ̸̨̼̖̌?̷̲̻̀͜

“Alli, what’s your status over there?!” Carson yells.

“Do̴̲̪̅ẓ̶͋͌e̶̓ͅn̷̞̒s̶͍̆̂ ̵̦̄of̶̩̺͆̓ ̴̧͚̍̑ p̴ara̷l̶l̶e̸l̵ thoughts, do̴̲̪̅ẓ̶͋͌e̶̓ͅn̷̞̒s̶͍̆̂ ̵̦̄of̶̩̺͆̓ ̴̧͚̍̑ p̴ara̷l̶l̶e̸l̵ thoughts, do̴̲̪̅ẓ̶͋͌e̶̓ͅn̷̞̒s̶͍̆̂ ̵̦̄o̸͙̱͝f̶̩̺͆̓ ̴̧͚̍̑ p̴ara̷l̶l̶e̸l̵ ț̶̯̑ḩ̵̪̬̣̹̫̜̐̆͘͝͝ơ̶̭̪̣͓̪̈́̈́̍͠ú̷̧̗̯̥̖̪̀̽̿͑̂̽g̴̬̱͔̬̻͈̫͑̍͑h̵͎͚̺̲̉̚̕ͅͅt̵̛̘͒̑̋͋ś̶̤̳͉͋͆̔, do̴̲̪̅ẓ̶͋͌e̶̓ͅn̷̞̒s̶͍̆̂ ̵̦̄of—”

“Alli!”

Inform̷a̵t̶i̴c c̷͓̥̖͂ḧ̸̯́̈́̎a̷̡͔̹̲͈͘͝ơ̷s̶̽̀ floods out from A̸l̸e̴x̴’̵s̷ ̸s̸k̷u̷l̶l̴, thick clouds of neon g̴̙̏l̸͊ͅÿ̸̝́p̸̤̓h̷͇̆ś̸̢, lines̵ ̶o̷f̷ ̵c̶o̵d̶e̵, dark voices fill the A̶r̸e̶n̶a: “T̴h̸e̵s̵e̸ ̵m̵e̶n̸ ̶k̶n̶o̸w̷ ̷o̴n̵l̵y̷ ̷w̸a̶r̶,̴”̴ ̵”̶I̴n̴t̶e̸l̴ ̴i̴s̶ ̸p̸u̴r̴p̸o̴s̶e̴f̵u̷l̵l̷y̴ ̸l̷e̴t̶t̴i̵n̴g̶ ̷s̸o̶m̸e̷ ̶o̷f̵ ̸i̵t̵s̵ ̵c̴o̷m̴m̵a̸n̸d̴s̶ ̸l̴e̵a̴k̸ ̵i̴n̴t̵o̵ ̶o̷t̸h̵e̴r̵ ̵s̶y̸s̴t̵e̶m̵s̴,̵”̵ ̷”̶Y̵o̸u̵ ̴f̷i̵n̵a̴l̸l̵y̸ ̶b̸e̵c̶a̸m̵e̶ ̵t̷h̷e̸ ̷m̸a̴n̷ ̵t̷h̵e̷ ̶w̶o̵r̴l̸d̶ ̴n̸e̸e̵d̵e̴d̶ ̷y̶o̶u̷ ̴t̴o̴ ̸b̷e̸,̴”̷ ̷”̸d̵e̴f̵e̵n̷d̶ ̸y̴o̸u̷r̸ ̸f̶a̸m̴i̴l̴y̸,̴”̵ ̷”̸t̶h̵e̵ ̷g̴e̷n̷e̴r̴a̷l̵s̵ ̵w̸h̷o̴ ̵r̴u̷b̶b̵e̴r̷ ̴s̴t̴a̸m̴p̴ ̸a̵l̵l̷ ̶t̴h̶e̵ ̶s̸t̶r̶a̴t̷e̶g̵i̴e̴s̷ ̶s̷p̷o̷o̸n̵-̶f̶e̴d̷ ̷t̷o̸ ̵t̷h̶e̴m̸ ̴b̴y̷ ̸A̸e̷s̵c̴h̷y̶l̷u̵s̷,̶”̶ ̴”̵c̸y̸b̶o̵r̸g̶ ̸f̷r̸e̵a̶k̴s̴ ̶a̶t̴ ̶G̷l̶o̸b̷a̶l̵ ̴C̴o̸m̵m̵a̶n̴d̵,̶”̸ ̵”̵I̸ ̴d̶o̵n̵’̸t̶ ̶e̴v̵e̶n̴ ̶k̴n̴o̷w̵ ̶w̶h̴a̸t̶ ̷I̶’̶m̵ ̷f̶i̵g̵h̴t̸i̸n̴g̸,̶ ̷m̶u̴c̴h̶ ̵l̴e̴s̵s̶ ̸w̸h̵y̸ ̷I̵’̷m̸ ̴f̷i̷g̶h̴t̶i̶n̸g̷ ̵i̵t̷.̶”

Walls of text e̴͔̺̟̊x̴̟̠͊p̴̙̾̄̅ͅl̷̡̢̘̀͗o̷̦̯̣͗d̷̝̟̊̾̕͜e̵̩͊̈̔ ̷̥͇͐o̵̮̦̓ü̶͖̟t̶̹͂̒̄ ̴̺̖̟̑o̸̞̍f̵͓̊̾͆ ̵̖͈͎̔̚t̶̛̯̕ḫ̶̬̎e̵̗͊̈̃ ̸̦͒͊͛ş̸́̾̔a̵͉̥̾̉̀͜n̷͕̓̾̏d̴͍́̇͗, wrap around her f̶̩̎ĕ̸̥v̷͔͆e̵red brain, encasing her in t̷e̸c̶h̴n̸i̵c̷a̴l̵ ̵s̴p̴e̴c̷s̸,̶ ̷s̶u̸r̸v̵e̶i̵l̶l̵a̵n̸c̶e̵ ̵l̸o̸g̵s̶,̶ ̶t̵r̵a̷n̷s̴c̸r̶i̴p̸t̴s̸,̸ ̶b̷l̵u̴e̸p̸r̴i̴n̵t̸s̷, records of care, records of service, every genre of̶̝͛ ̴̦͋b̷̝̈ụ̶̈́r̵͚͋é̸͓ä̸͎́ų̵͂ć̵̢r̸̜̀a̵̜̅t̶̯͑i̴͋ͅc̷̼͗ ̶̬͝p̵͔̅o̶̲͊e̴̍ͅt̶͎͒r̴̯̆ỵ̶̎ ̶͚̃u̸̪͛ń̷̞d̴͇̍e̴̙͐r̶̮̋ ̵̭̄ṭ̷͒h̶̿ͅḛ̴̓ ̵̻͐s̴̹̀u̵͉̍n̷͈͊,̴͍̓ ̸͇̾b̸̹͒e̴͇̓ã̸̤m̷͓͐i̸̬͂n̷̟̈́g̶̛ͅ ̸̭͐e̸̤͆v̸̥̎i̴̘̔d̷̟́e̵͗ͅn̴̨̊c̵͇̐é̷͇ ̵̖͑ö̶̪f̷̱̐ ̸͓͛c̴̰̈o̶̬͠ṛ̶͊r̵̛̜u̷̯͝p̵̝̓t̵̢̃i̸͉̓o̶̜͐ņ̸͘,̷͈̀ ̷̘̿ĩ̸̪ṉ̶̛e̶͍͌p̸̗͑t̵͎̐î̸̼t̶̥̾u̵͈͑d̷̘̐e̶̗̎,̵̝̊ ̸̼̉c̶̛͜onspiracy into hḯ̶̧̦͘͝s̸̪̪̟̒͂͝ḫ̵̖͇͚̓̃̀̃è̷͕̳̳̠͑̋r brain, content flashing through h̶̫̍̄ị̷̛̚s̶͎̾ ̸̰̲͌ę̵̐͐y̴͔̞͐̉e̸̙͐͝š̴̼̜ and ears too  f̵̚ă̸̮s̵̔ṫ̷  to process, o̵͖̙̒̔̇̒̏v̴̤̲̾̇̃e̵̦̜̎r̷̖̠̱͈̖̆̇l̷̠̰̀͂ǒ̸̳̩̖͉͌ͅa̷̬͙͙̖̔̎̈̚͝d̵̦͕̏̒͒͂̈ǐ̶̡͍̫̗̈̈͊̕n̸̳̬̖̋̅g̷̢̗̃̓͆ every sense as the warnin̸g̶ ̷k̵ee̴p̵s̴ ̶pu̵ls̷in̶g̶:

“FOR CHRIST’S SAKE ALEX, TURN YOUR OVERDRIVE OFF RIGHT NOW,” Carson hollers.

“You should listen to your bo̷y̷f̸r̵i̷e̶n̴d̸ this time, Altair,” Shen adds, “this isn’t a noble hill for you to die on, b̶̬̀̅ͅró̷̢̹̲͓͔̥̤̭͉͑̎̅̃̄͘͘̚.”

But all matters to Alex is the Sphinx’s riddle:

“̸͖̟̦̐̌̓W̸̭̘̝̉h̷̪͉͒̕͜y̴̬͋ ̸͍̊d̸͙̣̞͒̓̀o̵̳͝ ̷̡͕̥̓͋̍y̶̪͓͗͜o̶̭̔u̷̹̔̄͌ ̷̤̇k̴̝̼̓e̴̫̎̑e̸̙̞͋͂p̸̥̩͗͆͝ ̷͙́̈͘f̵̪̐͘o̴̤̝͚͝r̶̗͘c̶̥̺͔͒̎i̵̙͓̝̾n̶̤̺͌͗̚g̷̖̀̕ ̷͚̲̳̒́̕ỳ̴̗̈͜ỡ̶̢͔̳́u̴͔͗̓͐ͅȑ̶͙͈̘s̷̳̺̉́̆e̵͕̜̊l̶̢̠̫͊̂f̴̲̳̎ ̶̺̌i̴̩̯͝n̵̬̠̚t̴͍́̆͝o̸̺̒̚̚ ̶̬̖̖̀a̵̿̿ͅ ̷̘̐̀͌m̸̭̊͒a̵͙̺̝̿̄̓ņ̶̇͂’̶͎̊̓̅s̸̠̈̚ ̶̺̰̭͛b̷͔̣͚̋o̷̢̨̊̇̾d̷̤͂́̈́y̶̡̝̮̆̉̍?̵͕̈́̆͗ ̵͓̩̗̌̋̈́Ẅ̷̻̹́h̷̲͔̽y̵͍̞̒ ̷͓̈́ͅḍ̸̈́̇ȏ̵̙̀ ̷̛̪y̴͔̍̿̚ő̶̭̰̊ṵ̶̋ ̴̭̜̠̐k̴̛̘̚ḛ̶̉e̶̮̣̎p̶̺̎̓ ̶͚̲̳̿͒f̶̱̓̌o̴͖̞͊̕̕ṙ̷̭̭ć̷̽ͅi̸̮̥͔͛͂͋n̵͚̗̅g̶̤̞̞̑̈́ ̴̺͂y̷̬͊̿͗o̵̮̍u̸̦̫̔r̶̨͎̂̋̏ͅs̵̰͔͛͠e̵͇̦̅̕l̶̮͆̏̚f̷̭̱͖̑͑̏ ̷̮̻̃͊i̵̯͛̈́̇͜ņ̵͐̂̾t̷͔̼͆̄͝ö̷͕͌͑ ̶̂͂͝ͅa̸̺̭͆͑̂ ̷̭̰̖͋͝m̷͓̆͠a̴͎̿̂n̶̪̽’̶͈̙͎̇͆͠s̸̡̗̀ ̶̤̄̔̓b̷̯̐̏͆o̸̹̎̍̕d̸̰̈́ͅỳ̸͎?̵͕̼͆̂͗ ̸̲̕W̷̟̰͕̉̕ẖ̵̅̍̒y̸͚͚͆̌̚ ̴̢̦̩̈͒d̷͙̐͘o̷̤̻̓̈ ̵̠̹͘̚y̵̲͓̟̓̀͆o̴͔̅̐͝ü̸̢̨͚̽͝ ̴̱̪͎͋͑ḳ̶̀̿̅é̵͇͇̐ͅe̷͌͜p̸̬̅̓͊͜ ̴͓͕̲͋̅̐f̸̪̽̎͑o̶̤͛͊̾ȓ̴̢̟̈c̶͖̹͠í̷̡ñ̵̟̞͈̂̆ĝ̶̮̳͖͛͘ ̴̲̌̄̕͜y̸̯̔̋o̸̥͂̆̓ų̷̹̉͝ȑ̶͔͈͋̓s̵̟̱̈́̉e̴͖̖̕l̶͉̪̀̒̉f̶̧̤͔́͐ ̶͉̬̇͑ĭ̸̭̳̓͝n̴̗͓̍̑t̶̬̭͋̑ͅo̵̙̺͂̾ ̶̳̋ą̵̳̠̐̕ ̸̰͋͛̎m̴̬͓̌̈́̒à̷̝̋n̸̛͚͙͛̈́’̴̖̗͙͝s̸̰̤̀̿ͅ ̴̖͖̔͘b̶͍̌o̵͔̞͗͠ḑ̸̄̿͌y̴̛͙͒̕?̸̢̹͍͝ ̷̻̳̒̊W̸̝̬͔͂͐h̶̙̞͚͑̒̄y̶̳͓̌̐̆ ̷̠̋͐̚d̵̖̟̹̃̂̀ṏ̴̮̃͜ ̴̜͌͊̇y̵͉̝̹͒͐͐ö̴̲̘͑u̵͓̜͆ ̵̫̣͑͊͠k̸͉͈̉̈̚e̸͔̬̐̑é̵͕̻̼̚ṕ̴͇̩ ̵̡̯̣̈́f̸̺͝o̴̲̠̐r̶̟̭͓̈ć̷̖ǐ̸͓̱͙͂n̴͉̼̿̽̋ḡ̴͇͙̐ ̸͕̝̃y̶̩̜̑o̴͙̦͐͌̽ṵ̶̃r̷̥̲̾̿͠s̴̘̀̾͋e̵̝̋̈̈l̴̼̜̈͝f̶̨̠̼̏͗͠ ̵̱̞̥͑i̵̩̱͒ǹ̸͎͎̑t̷̹̺̚͝ȏ̵̪ ̶̡̨̋̓̎a̷͎̓̿͠ ̷̛͔̗͇̌̎m̵͈̬̲̈̉a̵̮̥͒ǹ̵͓̭̻’̸̬̥͈͝s̸͓̓ ̴̡̬̉̃b̷̤̈́̊ō̸͉̫̈d̶͙̪͑̈́ͅy̵̥͓̱͊?̸̞̙̜̅̈͘ ̸̗̭͐̎͝W̷̝̯̆̈h̴͉̣̙̓ÿ̶̪̙́ ̶̻͔̈̿̌ḏ̶͔̰́ó̸̦̬̋̋ ̴̟͈̟͗̒ý̶͈̱͈o̷̦͊͝ù̶̡́ ̶̰̈̾̉k̶̦̗̓e̸̖̺̓ḛ̶̗̔̉͂p̷̨̛̰͘ ̷͕́f̴͓͓̲̏͒̂o̵̖̩̿̎̉r̸̼̹̔̅̈́ć̶̭̭i̶̘̙͂n̴̻̺̪̉ḡ̸͇ ̴̰̺̇̉̕͜y̸̺̅ȏ̸̘̿ü̵̯̋r̵͚̞̒s̸͉̖̓̓̚ê̵̦̲̠̅l̴͚͘f̸̮͚̭́̉̑ ̴̬̄̾̕i̸͕̪̼̇ǹ̸͕̲̽̾ț̴͊̊́o̸̧͖͗ ̶̨̛̻̓͘ạ̵̅͠ ̷̯̜̌͘m̵̡̉̎ḁ̸̢̤́͊́n̸͕̳̖͛’̵̫͉̪͗̆͋s̶̡͙̮͒̓ ̴͕̈́b̷̯̱̮̑͆o̶̖̼͍̓͒̐d̴͍̍ͅý̴͇̥̀?̵̫͝͝ͅ ̷̭̾͝Ẉ̴̜̲̂̂̈h̴̭͖̽̌͠ȳ̸̟̙̔ ̵̧̳̆͒́d̵̡͇͠o̵̙͙͐͝͝ ̵̡̨̄ẙ̴͖͕̯ó̵̻̠́̅ư̵̧͓̗͛ ̷̢͕̻̉k̸̯͆e̵̮̞͆e̵̺͠p̴̡̗̗̋̄͗ ̷̗̤̈̚͜f̶̺̈o̷͓̳̩̓r̷̡̥̖̍c̶͚͂͋̏i̴̗̓n̶̢̠̱͊g̵̮͉̪̎ ̸̤̂̎y̸̤̓ͅo̵̗͒̅u̴̙͖̤̐̒̂r̵͇̄̀̕s̵̲̩̫͐e̸̢͕͛l̴̟̞̈́f̷̹̈́̉̚ ̷̰͘ĭ̷͉͛ń̶̫̯̱̂ṯ̸͚͌o̴̧͎̱͐̇ ̴̡̝̱͂̔̂a̶̪̜͂̄̓ ̴̭̘̫̄m̸̫͋̏ä̴͚́̈͆͜n̴̲̉̈́’̷̩̝̥͗̄s̷̗͖̰̈́ ̷̫͔̦́͗b̴̨͈̩̎̋ö̸̪̌̀d̸̗̱͈̊̈́̓y̵̠̮̑͌?̸̡͕̪̽͐͌ ̸̰̃̓W̵̱͈̙̿͒͠h̴̫͗̒y̵̤̿ ̸̡̔̽d̷̗͋̅̕ȯ̸̼̔ ̶̢̉y̶̯̮̦͆̈́͊o̶̟͊u̷̩̘͆̓̎ ̵͖̏͒̕k̶͖̭̔̒e̸̜̿͂e̷̦͌͑p̸͎̥͘ͅ ̸̥̃͋̚f̵̨̤͚̃͊̿ȍ̷̜͕̕͜ȑ̴̭͚̺̍c̷͓̝̓i̵̧̛̙̘͒̽n̵̼͕̰͂̇́ĝ̷̥̕ ̶̛̤͕̘̈́̔y̶̡͇͍̓̉̉ǒ̷̮̏ư̴͖̹r̵̢͇̻̉͗̀s̸͇̯̓e̵̢͇̭̓l̷̠̜̉f̸̧̤̻͗̈́ ̸̩̺̹̓̚í̵̢̹ń̸̡̛̥͈̊t̷͈̅o̸̡̰͑̈́ ̸̜͖͓̑̉̊a̵̯̅ ̴̙̘̅̄m̶̘̆̚͝a̵̻̐n̵͚̻̄’̵̖̃̌ŝ̷ͅ ̵̼̅b̴̼̰̉͝o̵̼͖̪̿̾͐d̷͚͋ý̴̭̻?̵̲͈͂̚ ̵̥͉̏̎͜W̷͉͂h̵͙͛y̵͎̻͂ ̵̡̦͇͋͒̐d̸̯̬͌̇͝o̷̰̹͊͐ ̵̪̐͐y̷̼̝͕͊́o̷̧͕͋̏ͅú̶̘̚͠ ̷͍̮͑͆̏ḳ̴͓̬̎́͘ę̴͖̕͠ͅe̸̹̭͆ͅp̶̨͇̅̈̕ ̸̜̮̏̀̄f̷͕̰̿o̶̢͗͝r̷͕̻̈́̉͜c̷͇̮̉͆i̴̺͓̇̇ǹ̶̢g̸̗̾̋ ̸̞̎͌͋͜y̷̭̆̔ọ̵͈͘u̶̹̇̈r̶̮̿̄̚s̵̖̤͛̀é̷͚͠l̶͖̈́f̷͇̍̌̈ ̵̪͎̣̾͗i̴̳̔̃̀n̸̹̤̝̔̑ṯ̴̣̞̍̃o̴̭̣͗ ̷̰̽a̴͙̬͖͗̈́͝ ̴͚̞͝m̸̰̿ͅä̶̧̬͐ͅn̴͕̠̪͑’̸̳͎̤̅̅ș̵̦̱̏̄̌ ̶̛̝̫͉̍̆b̷̫̫͆͘ǭ̵̣̻̃̚ḍ̶͓̱͂y̵̡͎͐̐?̶̜̂̉ ̷̳̄͘͜W̷̺̯̬̍̆h̶̡̻̓̇̚y̸͙͈̮̆ ̴̢͉͍͆d̷̜̰̩̆ö̶̬́ ̸̠̒y̷̯̍̉̚ͅó̸͔ủ̵͈͑ ̶̝͈̃͐ķ̶̱̜̔̀̏e̸̒ͅẻ̶̯̮͜p̵̂͌̇ͅ ̶̨̪̝̽̾f̵̮̭̫̀͑͝ȯ̸̧̖̂͝r̸̜̝̩̔͑̍ç̶̅ỉ̴̯͂n̴̛͚̠g̶̬̱͑ͅ ̶̬̒̒͆y̸̭͇͓͐͘o̷̘̬̖̒͂͌ụ̴̜̤̎ŕ̶̻̼͛͂ş̶̖̄̓ȩ̴̪̘̋̍l̷̰͇͌̕f̵̥̘̖͊ ̷͈́͠ỉ̴͔͋͝n̶̺̝̳͌̇͝t̷̩̼͗͠o̸̳͋͗͝ ̴̪̼̲̇a̶̭͈̤̽̅̕ ̶̡̰̪̓m̵͙̣̰̂̉̌a̴̗̒͛̽ņ̷̥͌ͅ’̶̢̗͐̿ș̵̨̿̒ ̶̧̺̜̿̕͝b̵̡̓̈́͘ô̵̩̟͓̅d̴̩̽͛͝y̴̤̠̬̑?̴̭̟̃́͠ ̷̲̯̐Ẇ̵̧̦́h̸͉͎̓̎͜ÿ̵͔̜̞́ ̶̦̝̣̇̾̋d̷̗̤̭̉̄̌õ̴̘͈̣̉ ̷̢̳͒̀̈ÿ̸̰͐ò̵̗͌̆u̸̧̳̺͝ ̶̜͔̦̓k̴̤̩̽́͐e̴̻͈̫͐e̴͔͊p̴̢͋ͅ ̴̥̬͌f̸͇̌̓͐͜ơ̶͛ͅr̶̖̽̎͝c̵̰̐̉͊i̶̙̠̓n̶̹̓́g̶̺̬͂͜ ̶̡͇̱̆̎́y̵̥̮̽̏ô̷̢u̵̹̫͐r̸͎̃̽s̵̘̖̈́̀͜e̷̬̙͑l̴̮̘̐̊̕ͅf̸̮̩͕̉͆ ̷̛̰̯̳͊͂ĩ̵̺͐n̴̤̱͖̑͆̒ṯ̵̃͗̑o̶̧̘͐ ̵͉̳͋̓ä̴͉͔́̋ ̸̣̋͑̚m̸̞̼͛̂a̷̗̓͐n̶̳̜͋͘’̶̧͈̓̏s̶͍͓̅̔ ̵̪̯̲̏b̶̞͖͓̋̕o̴̺̣̦̕ḑ̶̎ỳ̸̮̠̤͠?̸̛̫̉ ̶̢̖͉͐̈́̆W̷̭͆̐h̷̛̗͖͔y̸͕̽̇ ̸͎̲́͛̈d̸̨͒̂ͅo̷͉̲͓͂͠ ̵͙͆ẙ̸̟͝͝o̷͇̿͆ù̵̲̙̹ ̶̖̉k̷̭̹͗̕̕é̴̩̓e̸̦̣̎͒͜p̵̬͓̦̒ ̴͍̾͜ͅf̶̲̍̿o̷͎̻̠͋͐r̸͈͓̈́͠͝c̷̯͙̝̽i̴̹̭͍̾ņ̶̱̣̈́̈g̵̼͍͚͊̾̒ ̸̙̹̉͝y̷̼̱̖͌̅o̸̠̫̭͛̅́u̵̡͕̬̓̄r̵̠͍̂͒̌ś̷͎̞̥́̊e̶̝̻͕̽̋ĺ̷͚̫f̴͇̭̑͘ ̴̡̳̃i̶̤̘̎̏n̵̘̕͜ṯ̷̞̅͊̕ͅo̵̻̓̍ ̵̗̤͝a̶̹̲̋͝ ̴̘̬̊͝͝m̵̠̈́͂a̶̡͕̻̔͑n̶̞͓͘ͅ’̶͓́̽s̸̬̗̞̎͘͝ ̴̨̂͘ḅ̵̮̽͒̿o̵̞͗̎d̵̳͋̆y̷̧̥͗͜?̶̣̒̐͝ ̴̳͒̈́Ẃ̸̫͙̦h̷̨͈̉͌y̸̨͔̻͛ ̴͇̈̅d̶̢̖̏͂̽ọ̶̣̲̊̽͑ ̵̢̯̐y̶͉͓͈̕ǒ̷̬̖͙͐ú̸͍͘ ̴͇̙̺̈́̌k̶̘̭͂̈͝e̷͕͚̰͛̌̆é̶̼͙̘̄̂p̴̢͋̾̏ ̵̩͎́̇̚f̶̠͚̐́́o̸͍̯̕r̴̢͌͑c̴͖̹̑̉ǐ̴̖̍͠ṋ̷̼̱̈́͌̈́g̴̡͔̑̐͒ ̶̩͉̬̏̀͂y̶̘̿͝o̷͕̕͘ǘ̸͍̦͈̐ŗ̷̢̛͂s̷͓͝ͅē̸̛̻̝͛l̶̛͙̐͘f̸͖̊ ̶̝̐͝i̵̻̊ͅń̶̦̱̞͒̅ẗ̴͕̤́͋o̶͙͒͂͠ ̶̭̱͉̎͝a̵̟̮͐̍ ̸̞͈̭͘m̸̡̂ä̸̞̼̟̾n̵̤̔͌’̶̣͐̃͝s̵̠̺̼̍̂́ ̵̮̰͈̕b̷̬̤̿o̴̯̭̔d̸̟̪͋͠ÿ̶̛͇̺͝ͅ?̸̼͈̏”̶̫̥̑́

D̴i̵s̵t̶o̸rt̷i̵o̶n̸ st̶͉̅r̶̡̆e̷͈̚a̵͍̚m̵͔̈́s̶̺̽ ̷͔̆ȏ̵̺u̵̝͑t̶̝͛ ̴̘̇f̶̠͋r̷͉̐o̸͛ͅḿ̷̢ ̷̗͂t̷̖̃ẖ̶͘e̴͙̔ h̴͉̊͒̃̃õ̶͎͗́̑l̸̤͓̙͆̽ȩ̵̰̜͚͐̇̐ in her ḣ̵̡̡̪̦̼͉͂̋͗e̴̳͚̳͌͆a̶͍̠͓̽̅̓̕̕͝d̷̥̲̗̐̾͑. A̸̢̍l̷̟̀ȅ̵̗x̶̳̀ ̵̿͜l̷͖̐i̴̩͝f̸̣̄t̶͎̓s̶̢̑ ḩ̴̛͙̏̕͝ẹ̸̛͙̯̺̼̉̑̂͐ȓ̴̡̭̂͘͜his h̸̖̑͗ē̴̱̋å̸͈͒d̸̘̆̈ ̶̱̆͗à̴͙̃w̷̠̯̌a̸̠̐y̴̰̅͂͜ ̷̰̝̓̑f̶̘̓r̵͉̈́̓ö̴͓̗m̴̯̜͑̀ ̴̥̞͆t̵͓̑h̸̖͋͝e̴̥̪̓̚ ̴̖̲́͘b̶̳̈́l̴͖̚å̸͔̦͗d̸̡͠ȩ̴̲̑̓ ̸̼͐̈ą̴̍ń̸̖̮͝d̵̟̊̎ ̷̱̈́̅t̷̖̏̊a̷̡͉̒̾k̶͈̜̅̀ẻ̶̦̌s̸̠͍̈́͊ ̷̳̾͌h̶̢̻̋̋i̶̞̿͌s̸̖̥̓ ̸̝̇͋k̴̞̦̄ň̶̟́ę̶̤͊̋e̴̟͊ ̸͍̈́ȯ̴͎́f̵͎͊f̵̙̲̉͋ ḫ̴̨̛̠͚̼͎̜̠̮̝͆͗̍̂͐̏͝ḛ̸̙̆̄̍̄̇͐̒̐̓̃̇̓͛͝͠r̸̢̫̼̱̜̗̟̠̈́́̋̄̎̔͜ n̸̟̰̓̍ë̶ͅc̴̣͒k. B̸u̷t̴ d̶i̴s̵t̶o̴r̸t̸i̷o̷n̵ s̴͉͚̑t̵̠̏͘i̴͖͝͠l̶̖̅̎ḹ̴̌̓ st̶͉̅r̶̡̆e̷͈̚a̵͍̚m̵͔̈́s̶̺̽ ̷͔̆ȏ̵̺u̵̝͑t̶̝͛ ̴̘̇f̶̠͋r̷͉̐o̸͛ͅḿ̷̢ ̷̗͂t̷̖̃ẖ̶͘e̴͙̔ h̴͉̊͒̃̃õ̶͎͗́̑l̸̤͓̙͆̽ȩ̵̰̜͚͐̇̐ in her ḣ̵̡̡̪̦̼͉͂̋͗e̴̳͚̳͌͆a̶͍̠͓̽̅̓̕̕͝d̷̥̲̗̐̾͑. A̸̢̍l̷̟̀ȅ̵̗x̶̳̀ ̵̿͜l̷͖̐i̴̩͝f̸̣̄t̶͎̓s̶̢̑ ḩ̴̛͙̏̕͝ẹ̸̛͙̯̺̼̉̑̂͐ȓ̴̡̭̂͘͜his h̸̖̑͗ē̴̱̋å̸͈͒d̸̘̆̈ ̶̱̆͗à̴͙̃w̷̠̯̌a̸̠̐y̴̰̅͂͜ ̷̰̝̓̑f̶̘̓r̵͉̈́̓ö̴͓̗m̴̯̜͑̀ ̴̥̞͆t̵͓̑h̸̖͋͝e̴̥̪̓̚ ̴̖̲́͘b̶̳̈́l̴͖̚å̸͔̦͗d̸̡͠ȩ̴̲̑̓ ̸̼͐̈ą̴̍ń̸̖̮͝d̵̟̊̎ ̷̱̈́̅t̷̖̏̊a̷̡͉̒̾k̶͈̜̅̀ẻ̶̦̌s̸̠͍̈́͊ ̷̳̾͌h̶̢̻̋̋i̶̞̿͌s̸̖̥̓ ̸̝̇͋k̴̞̦̄ň̶̟́ę̶̤͊̋e̴̟͊ ̸͍̈́ȯ̴͎́f̵͎͊f̵̙̲̉͋ ḫ̴̨̛̠͚̼͎̜̠̮̝͆͗̍̂͐̏͝ḛ̸̙̆̄̍̄̇͐̒̐̓̃̇̓͛͝͠r̸̢̫̼̱̜̗̟̠̈́́̋̄̎̔͜ n̸̟̰̓̍ë̶ͅc̴̣͒k. B̸u̷t̴ d̶i̴s̵t̶o̴r̸t̸i̷o̷n̵ s̴͉͚̑t̵̠̏͘i̴͖͝͠l̶̖̅̎ḹ̴̌̓ st̶͉̅r̶̡̆e̷͈̚a̵͍̚m̵͔̈́s̶̺̽ ̷͔̆ȏ̵̺u̵̝͑t̶̝͛ ̴̘̇f̶̠͋r̷͉̐o̸͛ͅḿ̷̢ ̷̗͂t̷̖̃ẖ̶͘e̴͙̔ h̴͉̊͒̃̃õ̶͎͗́̑l̸̤͓̙͆̽ȩ̵̰̜͚͐̇̐ in her ḣ̵̡̡̪̦̼͉͂̋͗e̴̳͚̳͌͆a̶͍̠͓̽̅̓̕̕͝d̷̥̲̗̐̾͑. A̸̢̍l̷̟̀ȅ̵̗x̶̳̀ ̵̿͜l̷͖̐i̴̩͝f̸̣̄t̶͎̓s̶̢̑ ḩ̴̛͙̏̕͝ẹ̸̛͙̯̺̼̉̑̂͐ȓ̴̡̭̂͘͜his h̸̖̑͗ē̴̱̋å̸͈͒d̸̘̆̈ ̶̱̆͗à̴͙̃w̷̠̯̌a̸̠̐y̴̰̅͂͜ ̷̰̝̓̑f̶̘̓r̵͉̈́̓ö̴͓̗m̴̯̜͑̀ ̴̥̞͆t̵͓̑h̸̖͋͝e̴̥̪̓̚ ̴̖̲́͘b̶̳̈́l̴͖̚å̸͔̦͗d̸̡͠ȩ̴̲̑̓ ̸̼͐̈ą̴̍ń̸̖̮͝d̵̟̊̎ ̷̱̈́̅t̷̖̏̊a̷̡͉̒̾k̶͈̜̅̀ẻ̶̦̌s̸̠͍̈́͊ ̷̳̾͌h̶̢̻̋̋i̶̞̿͌s̸̖̥̓ ̸̝̇͋k̴̞̦̄ň̶̟́ę̶̤͊̋e̴̟͊ ̸͍̈́ȯ̴͎́f̵͎͊f̵̙̲̉͋ ḫ̴̨̛̠͚̼͎̜̠̮̝͆͗̍̂͐̏͝ḛ̸̙̆̄̍̄̇͐̒̐̓̃̇̓͛͝͠r̸̢̫̼̱̜̗̟̠̈́́̋̄̎̔͜ n̸̟̰̓̍ë̶ͅc̴̣͒k. B̸u̷t̴ d̶i̴s̵t̶o̴r̸t̸i̷o̷n̵ s̴͉͚̑t̵̠̏͘i̴͖͝͠l̶̖̅̎ḹ̴̌̓ st̶͉̅r̶̡̆e̷͈̚a̵͍̚m̵͔̈́s̶̺̽ ̷͔̆ȏ̵̺u̵̝͑t̶̝͛ ̴̘̇f̶̠͋r̷͉̐o̸͛ͅḿ̷̢ ̷̗͂t̷̖̃ẖ̶͘e̴͙̔ h̴͉̊͒̃̃õ̶͎͗́̑l̸̤͓̙͆̽ȩ̵̰̜͚͐̇̐ in her ḣ̵̡̡̪̦̼͉͂̋͗e̴̳͚̳͌͆a̶͍̠͓̽̅̓̕̕͝d̷̥̲̗̐̾͑. A̸̢̍l̷̟̀ȅ̵̗x̶̳̀ ̵̿͜l̷͖̐i̴̩͝f̸̣̄t̶͎̓s̶̢̑ ḩ̴̛͙̏̕͝ẹ̸̛͙̯̺̼̉̑̂͐ȓ̴̡̭̂͘͜his h̸̖̑͗ē̴̱̋å̸͈͒d̸̘̆̈ ̶̱̆͗à̴͙̃w̷̠̯̌a̸̠̐y̴̰̅͂͜ ̷̰̝̓̑f̶̘̓r̵͉̈́̓ö̴͓̗m̴̯̜͑̀ ̴̥̞͆t̵͓̑h̸̖͋͝e̴̥̪̓̚ ̴̖̲́͘b̶̳̈́l̴͖̚å̸͔̦͗d̸̡͠ȩ̴̲̑̓ ̸̼͐̈ą̴̍ń̸̖̮͝d̵̟̊̎ ̷̱̈́̅t̷̖̏̊a̷̡͉̒̾k̶͈̜̅̀ẻ̶̦̌s̸̠͍̈́͊ ̷̳̾͌h̶̢̻̋̋i̶̞̿͌s̸̖̥̓ ̸̝̇͋k̴̞̦̄ň̶̟́ę̶̤͊̋e̴̟͊ ̸͍̈́ȯ̴͎́f̵͎͊f̵̙̲̉͋ ḫ̴̨̛̠͚̼͎̜̠̮̝͆͗̍̂͐̏͝ḛ̸̙̆̄̍̄̇͐̒̐̓̃̇̓͛͝͠r̸̢̫̼̱̜̗̟̠̈́́̋̄̎̔͜ n̸̟̰̓̍ë̶ͅc̴̣͒k. B̸u̷t̴ d̶i̴s̵t̶o̴r̸t̸i̷o̷n̵ s̴͉͚̑t̵̠̏͘i̴͖͝͠l̶̖̅̎ḹ̴̌̓ st̶͉̅r̶̡̆e̷͈̚a̵͍̚m̵͔̈́s̶̺̽ ̷͔̆ȏ̵̺u̵̝͑t̶̝͛ ̴̘̇f̶̠͋r̷͉̐o̸͛ͅḿ̷̢ ̷̗͂t̷̖̃ẖ̶͘e̴͙̔ h̴͉̊͒̃̃õ̶͎͗́̑l̸̤͓̙͆̽ȩ̵̰̜͚͐̇̐ in her ḣ̵̡̡̪̦̼͉͂̋͗e̴̳͚̳͌͆a̶͍̠͓̽̅̓̕̕͝d̷̥̲̗̐̾͑. A̸̢̍l̷̟̀ȅ̵̗x̶̳̀ ̵̿͜l̷͖̐i̴̩͝f̸̣̄t̶͎̓s̶̢̑ ḩ̴̛͙̏̕͝ẹ̸̛͙̯̺̼̉̑̂͐ȓ̴̡̭̂͘͜his h̸̖̑͗ē̴̱̋å̸͈͒d̸̘̆̈ ̶̱̆͗à̴͙̃w̷̠̯̌a̸̠̐y̴̰̅͂͜ ̷̰̝̓̑f̶̘̓r̵͉̈́̓ö̴͓̗m̴̯̜͑̀ ̴̥̞͆t̵͓̑h̸̖͋͝e̴̥̪̓̚ ̴̖̲́͘b̶̳̈́l̴͖̚å̸͔̦͗d̸̡͠ȩ̴̲̑̓ ̸̼͐̈ą̴̍ń̸̖̮͝d̵̟̊̎ ̷̱̈́̅t̷̖̏̊a̷̡͉̒̾k̶͈̜̅̀ẻ̶̦̌s̸̠͍̈́͊ ̷̳̾͌h̶̢̻̋̋i̶̞̿͌s̸̖̥̓ ̸̝̇͋k̴̞̦̄ň̶̟́ę̶̤͊̋e̴̟͊ ̸͍̈́ȯ̴͎́f̵͎͊f̵̙̲̉͋ ḫ̴̨̛̠͚̼͎̜̠̮̝͆͗̍̂͐̏͝ḛ̸̙̆̄̍̄̇͐̒̐̓̃̇̓͛͝͠r̸̢̫̼̱̜̗̟̠̈́́̋̄̎̔͜ n̸̟̰̓̍ë̶ͅc̴̣͒k. B̸u̷t̴ d̶i̴s̵t̶o̴r̸t̸i̷o̷n̵ s̴͉͚̑t̵̠̏͘i̴͖͝͠l̶̖̅̎ḹ̴̌̓ st̶͉̅r̶̡̆e̷͈̚a̵͍̚m̵͔̈́s̶̺̽ ̷͔̆ȏ̵̺u̵̝͑t̶̝͛ ̴̘̇f̶̠͋r̷͉̐o̸͛ͅḿ̷̢ ̷̗͂t̷̖̃ẖ̶͘e̴͙̔ h̴͉̊͒̃̃õ̶͎͗́̑l̸̤͓̙͆̽ȩ̵̰̜͚͐̇̐ in her ḣ̵̡̡̪̦̼͉͂̋͗e̴̳͚̳͌͆a̶͍̠͓̽̅̓̕̕͝d̷̥̲̗̐̾͑. A̸̢̍l̷̟̀ȅ̵̗x̶̳̀ ̵̿͜l̷͖̐i̴̩͝f̸̣̄t̶͎̓s̶̢̑ ḩ̴̛͙̏̕͝ẹ̸̛͙̯̺̼̉̑̂͐ȓ̴̡̭̂͘͜his h̸̖̑͗ē̴̱̋å̸͈͒d̸̘̆̈ ̶̱̆͗à̴͙̃w̷̠̯̌a̸̠̐y̴̰̅͂͜ ̷̰̝̓̑f̶̘̓r̵͉̈́̓ö̴͓̗m̴̯̜͑̀ ̴̥̞͆t̵͓̑h̸̖͋͝e̴̥̪̓̚ ̴̖̲́͘b̶̳̈́l̴͖̚å̸͔̦͗d̸̡͠ȩ̴̲̑̓ ̸̼͐̈ą̴̍ń̸̖̮͝d̵̟̊̎ ̷̱̈́̅t̷̖̏̊a̷̡͉̒̾k̶͈̜̅̀ẻ̶̦̌s̸̠͍̈́͊ ̷̳̾͌h̶̢̻̋̋i̶̞̿͌s̸̖̥̓ ̸̝̇͋k̴̞̦̄ň̶̟́ę̶̤͊̋e̴̟͊ ̸͍̈́ȯ̴͎́f̵͎͊f̵̙̲̉͋ ḫ̴̨̛̠͚̼͎̜̠̮̝͆͗̍̂͐̏͝ḛ̸̙̆̄̍̄̇͐̒̐̓̃̇̓͛͝͠r̸̢̫̼̱̜̗̟̠̈́́̋̄̎̔͜ n̸̟̰̓̍ë̶ͅc̴̣͒k. B̸u̷t̴ d̶i̴s̵t̶o̴r̸t̸i̷o̷n̵ s̴͉͚̑t̵̠̏͘i̴͖͝͠l̶̖̅̎ḹ̴̌̓ st̶͉̅r̶̡̆e̷͈̚a̵͍̚m̵͔̈́s̶̺̽ ̷͔̆ȏ̵̺u̵̝͑t̶̝͛ ̴̘̇f̶̠͋r̷͉̐o̸͛ͅḿ̷̢ ̷̗͂t̷̖̃ẖ̶͘e̴͙̔ h̴͉̊͒̃̃õ̶͎͗́̑l̸̤͓̙͆̽ȩ̵̰̜͚͐̇̐ in her ḣ̵̡̡̪̦̼͉͂̋͗e̴̳͚̳͌͆a̶͍̠͓̽̅̓̕̕͝d̷̥̲̗̐̾͑. A̸̢̍l̷̟̀ȅ̵̗x̶̳̀ ̵̿͜l̷͖̐i̴̩͝f̸̣̄t̶͎̓s̶̢̑ ḩ̴̛͙̏̕͝ẹ̸̛͙̯̺̼̉̑̂͐ȓ̴̡̭̂͘͜his h̸̖̑͗ē̴̱̋å̸͈͒d̸̘̆̈ ̶̱̆͗à̴͙̃w̷̠̯̌a̸̠̐y̴̰̅͂͜ ̷̰̝̓̑f̶̘̓r̵͉̈́̓ö̴͓̗m̴̯̜͑̀ ̴̥̞͆t̵͓̑h̸̖͋͝e̴̥̪̓̚ ̴̖̲́͘b̶̳̈́l̴͖̚å̸͔̦͗d̸̡͠ȩ̴̲̑̓ ̸̼͐̈ą̴̍ń̸̖̮͝d̵̟̊̎ ̷̱̈́̅t̷̖̏̊a̷̡͉̒̾k̶͈̜̅̀ẻ̶̦̌s̸̠͍̈́͊ ̷̳̾͌h̶̢̻̋̋i̶̞̿͌s̸̖̥̓ ̸̝̇͋k̴̞̦̄ň̶̟́ę̶̤͊̋e̴̟͊ ̸͍̈́ȯ̴͎́f̵͎͊f̵̙̲̉͋ ḫ̴̨̛̠͚̼͎̜̠̮̝͆͗̍̂͐̏͝ḛ̸̙̆̄̍̄̇͐̒̐̓̃̇̓͛͝͠r̸̢̫̼̱̜̗̟̠̈́́̋̄̎̔͜ n̸̟̰̓̍ë̶ͅc̴̣͒k. B̸u̷t̴ d̶i̴s̵t̶o̴r̸t̸i̷o̷n̵ s̴͉͚̑t̵̠̏͘i̴͖͝͠l̶̖̅̎ḹ̴̌̓ st̶͉̅r̶̡̆e̷͈̚a̵͍̚m̵͔̈́s̶̺̽ ̷͔̆ȏ̵̺u̵̝͑t̶̝͛ ̴̘̇f̶̠͋r̷͉̐o̸͛ͅḿ̷̢ ̷̗͂t̷̖̃ẖ̶͘e̴͙̔ h̴͉̊͒̃̃õ̶͎͗́̑l̸̤͓̙͆̽ȩ̵̰̜͚͐̇̐ in her ḣ̵̡̡̪̦̼͉͂̋͗e̴̳͚̳͌͆a̶͍̠͓̽̅̓̕̕͝d̷̥̲̗̐̾͑. A̸̢̍l̷̟̀ȅ̵̗x̶̳̀ ̵̿͜l̷͖̐i̴̩͝f̸̣̄t̶͎̓s̶̢̑ ḩ̴̛͙̏̕͝ẹ̸̛͙̯̺̼̉̑̂͐ȓ̴̡̭̂͘͜his h̸̖̑͗ē̴̱̋å̸͈͒d̸̘̆̈ ̶̱̆͗à̴͙̃w̷̠̯̌a̸̠̐y̴̰̅͂͜ ̷̰̝̓̑f̶̘̓r̵͉̈́̓ö̴͓̗m̴̯̜͑̀ ̴̥̞͆t̵͓̑h̸̖͋͝e̴̥̪̓̚ ̴̖̲́͘b̶̳̈́l̴͖̚å̸͔̦͗d̸̡͠ȩ̴̲̑̓ ̸̼͐̈ą̴̍ń̸̖̮͝d̵̟̊̎ ̷̱̈́̅t̷̖̏̊a̷̡͉̒̾k̶͈̜̅̀ẻ̶̦̌s̸̠͍̈́͊ ̷̳̾͌h̶̢̻̋̋i̶̞̿͌s̸̖̥̓ ̸̝̇͋k̴̞̦̄ň̶̟́ę̶̤͊̋e̴̟͊ ̸͍̈́ȯ̴͎́f̵͎͊f̵̙̲̉͋ ḫ̴̨̛̠͚̼͎̜̠̮̝͆͗̍̂͐̏͝ḛ̸̙̆̄̍̄̇͐̒̐̓̃̇̓͛͝͠r̸̢̫̼̱̜̗̟̠̈́́̋̄̎̔͜ n̸̟̰̓̍ë̶ͅc̴̣͒k. B̸u̷t̴ d̶i̴s̵t̶o̴r̸t̸i̷o̷n̵ s̴͉͚̑t̵̠̏͘i̴͖͝͠l̶̖̅̎ḹ̴̌̓ st̶͉̅r̶̡̆e̷͈̚a̵͍̚m̵͔̈́s̶̺̽ ̷͔̆ȏ̵̺u̵̝͑t̶̝͛ ̴̘̇f̶̠͋r̷͉̐o̸͛ͅḿ̷̢ ̷̗͂t̷̖̃ẖ̶͘e̴͙̔ h̴͉̊͒̃̃õ̶͎͗́̑l̸̤͓̙͆̽ȩ̵̰̜͚͐̇̐ in her ḣ̵̡̡̪̦̼͉͂̋͗e̴̳͚̳͌͆a̶͍̠͓̽̅̓̕̕͝d̷̥̲̗̐̾͑. A̸̢̍l̷̟̀ȅ̵̗x̶̳̀ ̵̿͜l̷͖̐i̴̩͝f̸̣̄t̶͎̓s̶̢̑ ḩ̴̛͙̏̕͝ẹ̸̛͙̯̺̼̉̑̂͐ȓ̴̡̭̂͘͜his h̸̖̑͗ē̴̱̋å̸͈͒d̸̘̆̈ ̶̱̆͗à̴͙̃w̷̠̯̌a̸̠̐y̴̰̅͂͜ ̷̰̝̓̑f̶̘̓r̵͉̈́̓ö̴͓̗m̴̯̜͑̀ ̴̥̞͆t̵͓̑h̸̖͋͝e̴̥̪̓̚ ̴̖̲́͘b̶̳̈́l̴͖̚å̸͔̦͗d̸̡͠ȩ̴̲̑̓ ̸̼͐̈ą̴̍ń̸̖̮͝d̵̟̊̎ ̷̱̈́̅t̷̖̏̊a̷̡͉̒̾k̶͈̜̅̀ẻ̶̦̌s̸̠͍̈́͊ ̷̳̾͌h̶̢̻̋̋i̶̞̿͌s̸̖̥̓ ̸̝̇͋k̴̞̦̄ň̶̟́ę̶̤͊̋e̴̟͊ ̸͍̈́ȯ̴͎́f̵͎͊f̵̙̲̉͋ ḫ̴̨̛̠͚̼͎̜̠̮̝͆͗̍̂͐̏͝ḛ̸̙̆̄̍̄̇͐̒̐̓̃̇̓͛͝͠r̸̢̫̼̱̜̗̟̠̈́́̋̄̎̔͜ n̸̟̰̓̍ë̶ͅc̴̣͒k. B̸u̷t̴ d̶i̴s̵t̶o̴r̸t̸i̷o̷n̵ s̴͉͚̑t̵̠̏͘i̴͖͝͠l̶̖̅̎ḹ̴̌̓ st̶͉̅r̶̡̆e̷͈̚a̵͍̚m̵͔̈́s̶̺̽ ̷͔̆ȏ̵̺u̵̝͑t̶̝͛ ̴̘̇f̶̠͋r̷͉̐o̸͛ͅḿ̷̢ ̷̗͂t̷̖̃ẖ̶͘e̴͙̔ h̴͉̊͒̃̃õ̶͎͗́̑l̸̤͓̙͆̽ȩ̵̰̜͚͐̇̐ in her ḣ̵̡̡̪̦̼͉͂̋͗e̴̳͚̳͌͆a̶͍̠͓̽̅̓̕̕͝d̷̥̲̗̐̾͑. A̸̢̍l̷̟̀ȅ̵̗x̶̳̀ ̵̿͜l̷͖̐i̴̩͝f̸̣̄t̶͎̓s̶̢̑ ḩ̴̛͙̏̕͝ẹ̸̛͙̯̺̼̉̑̂͐ȓ̴̡̭̂͘͜his h̸̖̑͗ē̴̱̋å̸͈͒d̸̘̆̈ ̶̱̆͗à̴͙̃w̷̠̯̌a̸̠̐y̴̰̅͂͜ ̷̰̝̓̑f̶̘̓r̵͉̈́̓ö̴͓̗m̴̯̜͑̀ ̴̥̞͆t̵͓̑h̸̖͋͝e̴̥̪̓̚ ̴̖̲́͘b̶̳̈́l̴͖̚å̸͔̦͗d̸̡͠ȩ̴̲̑̓ ̸̼͐̈ą̴̍ń̸̖̮͝d̵̟̊̎ ̷̱̈́̅t̷̖̏̊a̷̡͉̒̾k̶͈̜̅̀ẻ̶̦̌s̸̠͍̈́͊ ̷̳̾͌h̶̢̻̋̋i̶̞̿͌s̸̖̥̓ ̸̝̇͋k̴̞̦̄ň̶̟́ę̶̤͊̋e̴̟͊ ̸͍̈́ȯ̴͎́f̵͎͊f̵̙̲̉͋ ḫ̴̨̛̠͚̼͎̜̠̮̝͆͗̍̂͐̏͝ḛ̸̙̆̄̍̄̇͐̒̐̓̃̇̓͛͝͠r̸̢̫̼̱̜̗̟̠̈́́̋̄̎̔͜ n̸̟̰̓̍ë̶ͅc̴̣͒k. B̸u̷t̴ d̶i̴s̵t̶o̴r̸t̸i̷o̷n̵ s̴͉͚̑t̵̠̏͘i̴͖͝͠l̶̖̅̎ḹ̴̌̓ st̶͉̅r̶̡̆e̷͈̚a̵͍̚m̵͔̈́s̶̺̽ ̷͔̆ȏ̵̺u̵̝͑t̶̝͛ ̴̘̇f̶̠͋r̷͉̐o̸͛ͅḿ̷̢ ̷̗͂t̷̖̃ẖ̶͘e̴͙̔ h̴͉̊͒̃̃õ̶͎͗́̑l̸̤͓̙͆̽ȩ̵̰̜͚͐̇̐ in her ḣ̵̡̡̪̦̼͉͂̋͗e̴̳͚̳͌͆a̶͍̠͓̽̅̓̕̕͝d̷̥̲̗̐̾͑. A̸̢̍l̷̟̀ȅ̵̗x̶̳̀ ̵̿͜l̷͖̐i̴̩͝f̸̣̄t̶͎̓s̶̢̑ ḩ̴̛͙̏̕͝ẹ̸̛͙̯̺̼̉̑̂͐ȓ̴̡̭̂͘͜his h̸̖̑͗ē̴̱̋å̸͈͒d̸̘̆̈ ̶̱̆͗à̴͙̃w̷̠̯̌a̸̠̐y̴̰̅͂͜ ̷̰̝̓̑f̶̘̓r̵͉̈́̓ö̴͓̗m̴̯̜͑̀ ̴̥̞͆t̵͓̑h̸̖͋͝e̴̥̪̓̚ ̴̖̲́͘b̶̳̈́l̴͖̚å̸͔̦͗d̸̡͠ȩ̴̲̑̓ ̸̼͐̈ą̴̍ń̸̖̮͝d̵̟̊̎ ̷̱̈́̅t̷̖̏̊a̷̡͉̒̾k̶͈̜̅̀ẻ̶̦̌s̸̠͍̈́͊ ̷̳̾͌h̶̢̻̋̋i̶̞̿͌s̸̖̥̓ ̸̝̇͋k̴̞̦̄ň̶̟́ę̶̤͊̋e̴̟͊ ̸͍̈́ȯ̴͎́f̵͎͊f̵̙̲̉͋ ḫ̴̨̛̠͚̼͎̜̠̮̝͆͗̍̂͐̏͝ḛ̸̙̆̄̍̄̇͐̒̐̓̃̇̓͛͝͠r̸̢̫̼̱̜̗̟̠̈́́̋̄̎̔͜ n̸̟̰̓̍ë̶ͅc̴̣͒k. B̸u̷t̴ d̶i̴s̵t̶o̴r̸t̸i̷o̷n̵ s̴͉͚̑t̵̠̏͘i̴͖͝͠l̶̖̅̎ḹ̴̌̓ st̶͉̅r̶̡̆e̷͈̚a̵͍̚m̵͔̈́s̶̺̽ ̷͔̆ȏ̵̺u̵̝͑t̶̝͛ ̴̘̇f̶̠͋r̷͉̐o̸͛ͅḿ̷̢ ̷̗͂t̷̖̃ẖ̶͘e̴͙̔ h̴͉̊͒̃̃õ̶͎͗́̑l̸̤͓̙͆̽ȩ̵̰̜͚͐̇̐ in her ḣ̵̡̡̪̦̼͉͂̋͗e̴̳͚̳͌͆a̶͍̠͓̽̅̓̕̕͝d̷̥̲̗̐̾͑. A̸̢̍l̷̟̀ȅ̵̗x̶̳̀ ̵̿͜l̷͖̐i̴̩͝f̸̣̄t̶͎̓s̶̢̑ ḩ̴̛͙̏̕͝ẹ̸̛͙̯̺̼̉̑̂͐ȓ̴̡̭̂͘͜his h̸̖̑͗ē̴̱̋å̸͈͒d̸̘̆̈ ̶̱̆͗à̴͙̃w̷̠̯̌a̸̠̐y̴̰̅͂͜ ̷̰̝̓̑f̶̘̓r̵͉̈́̓ö̴͓̗m̴̯̜͑̀ ̴̥̞͆t̵͓̑h̸̖͋͝e̴̥̪̓̚ ̴̖̲́͘b̶̳̈́l̴͖̚å̸͔̦͗d̸̡͠ȩ̴̲̑̓ ̸̼͐̈ą̴̍ń̸̖̮͝d̵̟̊̎ ̷̱̈́̅t̷̖̏̊a̷̡͉̒̾k̶͈̜̅̀ẻ̶̦̌s̸̠͍̈́͊ ̷̳̾͌h̶̢̻̋̋i̶̞̿͌s̸̖̥̓ ̸̝̇͋k̴̞̦̄ň̶̟́ę̶̤͊̋e̴̟͊ ̸͍̈́ȯ̴͎́f̵͎͊f̵̙̲̉͋ ḫ̴̨̛̠͚̼͎̜̠̮̝͆͗̍̂͐̏͝ḛ̸̙̆̄̍̄̇͐̒̐̓̃̇̓͛͝͠r̸̢̫̼̱̜̗̟̠̈́́̋̄̎̔͜ n̸̟̰̓̍ë̶ͅc̴̣͒k. B̸u̷t̴ d̶i̴s̵t̶o̴r̸t̸i̷o̷n̵ s̴͉͚̑t̵̠̏͘i̴͖͝͠l̶̖̅̎ḹ̴̌̓ st̶͉̅r̶̡̆e̷͈̚a̵͍̚m̵͔̈́s̶̺̽ ̷͔̆ȏ̵̺u̵̝͑t̶̝͛ ̴̘̇f̶̠͋r̷͉̐o̸͛ͅḿ̷̢ ̷̗͂t̷̖̃ẖ̶͘e̴͙̔ h̴͉̊͒̃̃õ̶͎͗́̑l̸̤͓̙͆̽ȩ̵̰̜͚͐̇̐ in her ḣ̵̡̡̪̦̼͉͂̋͗e̴̳͚̳͌͆a̶͍̠͓̽̅̓̕̕͝d̷̥̲̗̐̾͑. A̸̢̍l̷̟̀ȅ̵̗x̶̳̀ ̵̿͜l̷͖̐i̴̩͝f̸̣̄t̶͎̓s̶̢̑ ḩ̴̛͙̏̕͝ẹ̸̛͙̯̺̼̉̑̂͐ȓ̴̡̭̂͘͜his h̸̖̑͗ē̴̱̋å̸͈͒d̸̘̆̈ ̶̱̆͗à̴͙̃w̷̠̯̌a̸̠̐y̴̰̅͂͜ ̷̰̝̓̑f̶̘̓r̵͉̈́̓ö̴͓̗m̴̯̜͑̀ ̴̥̞͆t̵͓̑h̸̖͋͝e̴̥̪̓̚ ̴̖̲́͘b̶̳̈́l̴͖̚å̸͔̦͗d̸̡͠ȩ̴̲̑̓ ̸̼͐̈ą̴̍ń̸̖̮͝d̵̟̊̎ ̷̱̈́̅t̷̖̏̊a̷̡͉̒̾k̶͈̜̅̀ẻ̶̦̌s̸̠͍̈́͊ ̷̳̾͌h̶̢̻̋̋i̶̞̿͌s̸̖̥̓ ̸̝̇͋k̴̞̦̄ň̶̟́ę̶̤͊̋e̴̟͊ ̸͍̈́ȯ̴͎́f̵͎͊f̵̙̲̉͋ ḫ̴̨̛̠͚̼͎̜̠̮̝͆͗̍̂͐̏͝ḛ̸̙̆̄̍̄̇͐̒̐̓̃̇̓͛͝͠r̸̢̫̼̱̜̗̟̠̈́́̋̄̎̔͜ n̸̟̰̓̍ë̶ͅc̴̣͒k. B̸u̷t̴ d̶i̴s̵t̶o̴r̸t̸i̷o̷n̵ s̴͉͚̑t̵̠̏͘i̴͖͝͠l̶̖̅̎ḹ̴̌̓ st̶͉̅r̶̡̆e̷͈̚a̵͍̚m̵͔̈́s̶̺̽ ̷͔̆ȏ̵̺u̵̝͑t̶̝͛ ̴̘̇f̶̠͋r̷͉̐o̸͛ͅḿ̷̢ ̷̗͂t̷̖̃ẖ̶͘e̴͙̔ h̴͉̊͒̃̃õ̶͎͗́̑l̸̤͓̙͆̽ȩ̵̰̜͚͐̇̐ in her ḣ̵̡̡̪̦̼͉͂̋͗e̴̳͚̳͌͆a̶͍̠͓̽̅̓̕̕͝d̷̥̲̗̐̾͑. A̸̢̍l̷̟̀ȅ̵̗x̶̳̀ ̵̿͜l̷͖̐i̴̩͝f̸̣̄t̶͎̓s̶̢̑ ḩ̴̛͙̏̕͝ẹ̸̛͙̯̺̼̉̑̂͐ȓ̴̡̭̂͘͜his h̸̖̑͗ē̴̱̋å̸͈͒d̸̘̆̈ ̶̱̆͗à̴͙̃w̷̠̯̌a̸̠̐y̴̰̅͂͜ ̷̰̝̓̑f̶̘̓r̵͉̈́̓ö̴͓̗m̴̯̜͑̀ ̴̥̞͆t̵͓̑h̸̖͋͝e̴̥̪̓̚ ̴̖̲́͘b̶̳̈́l̴͖̚å̸͔̦͗d̸̡͠ȩ̴̲̑̓ ̸̼͐̈ą̴̍ń̸̖̮͝d̵̟̊̎ ̷̱̈́̅t̷̖̏̊a̷̡͉̒̾k̶͈̜̅̀ẻ̶̦̌s̸̠͍̈́͊ ̷̳̾͌h̶̢̻̋̋i̶̞̿͌s̸̖̥̓ ̸̝̇͋k̴̞̦̄ň̶̟́ę̶̤͊̋e̴̟͊ ̸͍̈́ȯ̴͎́f̵͎͊f̵̙̲̉͋ ḫ̴̨̛̠͚̼͎̜̠̮̝͆͗̍̂͐̏͝ḛ̸̙̆̄̍̄̇͐̒̐̓̃̇̓͛͝͠r̸̢̫̼̱̜̗̟̠̈́́̋̄̎̔͜ n̸̟̰̓̍ë̶ͅc̴̣͒k.