[He'll attempt to stand. Why does the window seem so far away? He doesn't feel any different from normal, but trying to sneak up to the window makes him suddenly aware of how small he is.
He hears the muttering. He hears breathing. Frightened, but forcefully tempered breathing. The haze of the space shows someone else on the bed.
A little boy, hair a shocking white and clothes incredibly plain, staring down into the covers with his knees tightly hugged to his chest. Unaware of Akira, but very aware of the noises, given how anything louder that approaches gets him to try and press himself as close to the wall as possible, in the shadow that is cast over them both from what little light shines in.
He listens. He's frightened. But he listens. He listens.
There's moaning and wailing in the distance. A sound like horses, like passing soldiers. The knocking on distant doors forces a flinch. The acrid scent persists.]
[No matter how tall Akira stands, the window seems no closer. Getting up on the tips of his toes feels so pointless. It's when he turns his eyes off the window that he jolts, realizing he's no longer alone, or... had there been someone with him from the start?
Akira pads over to the boy, his hair a familiar snow white. His chest tightens. His stomach flips. I know this boy. Why does he look so sad?
Akira settles on his knees beside him, dropping into a whisper. His hand finds the boy's shoulder.]
...Hey. What's wrong?
[Quiet, so the passing soldiers don't hear them. Quiet, so his words reach only the one they were intended for.]
[Duh. So says his tone. He can't be more than seven, maybe eight, though he's a scrawny little twig of a boy and very pale.]
It's easy to tell if it's just for the sick ones. If you use your ears real good. 'Cause you can hear the wheels of the carts. They're heavy.
They don't break the doors for those ones, though.
[There's the muffled sound of raising voices above, perhaps from another building. Wood being slammed with forceful hits before a door gives way. A panicking scream, bargaining tones with no clear words, the whinnying of horses.
Solomon glances up towards the window, the same brassy colored eyes that show such intense emotion, bright and vibrant. Like it's a different person entirely that sits before Akira.]
I... I wanna see whose house they broke, when they go. It sounds too close.
[...Hah. Cheeky from a young age, eh? There's little time to dwell on that when the black death is deathening just beyond the window, but if it were that simple, Solomon wouldn't be hiding away in this ramshackle space, would he?
Who else would they be taking away alongside the dead, and for that matter, why? He recognizes that look in Solomon's eyes, bright and deep, and it fills him with dread. The words that follow solidify that fear.]
No, Solomon.
[Even if he weren't a pale slip of a boy, barely old enough to sass him properly, Akira wouldn't want him taking that risk. He's hiding for a reason, isn't he? And what is a child going to do to defend himself if he draws the eye of one of those soldiers?
Akira's hands settle on Solomon's shoulders and hold him firm.]
Don't. You can look after the soldiers leave. I'll go with you, alright?
[Out of this hovel and away to a place free of danger. Dream or no, that's what this boy deserves.]
[He'd feel better if Solomon were only pouting, but the likelihood of him being sequestered to this miserable space whether he likes it or not is high.
What would it hurt to allow him a taste of freedom? Something more than he's been afforded in this tired old cellar? Akira weighs the pros and cons and ultimately caves to the sight of that petulant face, palm coming down to ruffle that shock of white hair. Beneath his hand, Solomon is so, so small.]
...Who is keeping you here? Is it too dangerous to leave?
[Where are the goddamn adults here?]
Edited (buries nik's inbox in edits) 2024-05-08 01:54 (UTC)
[Mama and Papa, spoken as if parental abuse is only to be expected, perfectly normal. Oh, Solomon. Have you been suffering from the start?
Akira is quick to temper his reaction, trading out disgust and shock and the cold pangs of needles stabbing into his heart for an expression firm and unflapped. He can't let it show how shaken he is by that simple, damning answer, leave of all in front of such a young child. Least of all in front of Solomon.
Despite himself, Akira loops his arms around Solomon and embraces him tightly.]
Would you feel better if you looked out the window? Would that help?
The boy doesn't answer at first, stiff under Akira's arms as though he doesn't know what to do with the gesture. His expression tightens in thought.]
Oh. You're warm...
...
[He tilts his weight to rest a little more against Akira.]
Mm-hmm. I like to think about nice stuff. Like how big the sky might be. I like to watch the people talk.
One of my scrolls says that a fish that you eat comes from a place they call an "ocean". And I like to look outside and think about what kind of place it is, and how the fishes live.
[Solomon's parents have gone beyond simply failing the kid. He doesn't even know what the ocean is, for god's sake. Akira is reluctant to let go of the boy, and so he doesn't, but he's well aware that he's being selfish. Who is he really comforting here?]
Why don't I take you? To the ocean. I can even teach you how to fish.
[He wants to take that risk. He wants to believe everything will be fine, that he can get away with it, that they can outrun any repercussions that may follow.
Akira wants to believe he holds the keys to the world in his pocket, but it's not quite so simple. Confidence will only get him as far as Solomon's dream will let him, and that's enough to give Akira pause.
He clicks his tongue. Damn it. Loosening his hold, he seeks out those brassy eyes.]
[He puts a finger to his lips, not unlike his ancient counterpart, before turning around to climb on top of a small worn table next to mattress with a jump of effort, filling the air with the smell of damp straw. It must be what his bed is stuffed with.
Successfully on his new perch, the boy once again checks the window, then the line of where the shadow stretches the room, before bringing his hands together, palm up and cupped carefully .]
I'm here. Come to me.
[There's an immediate shimmer of sparkling lights, a pleasantly glowing water forming above his hands in a swirling, playful ball. He immediately breaks out into a grin, but he works his best to try and stifle it in concentration, lip back between his teeth despite the obvious joy.]
Let's go for a swim again today. Okay?
[His hand drifts up and out, fingers outstretched, and the water follows suit, multiplying over itself into rippling, glowing streams that start to dance around the shadowed space like ribbons. Here and there flutters the shape of fish, of bubbles, an aquarium made of pure imagination.
The child jumps back down from the table with a quiet giggle to run into the midst of the shallow, circling line, the subtle colors dancing along the white of his hair. Letting his hand follow the flow of the water as it moves, letting it change colors under his hands.
There is no spell, no seal, no pacts. There is only a pure, natural talent, and unbridled curiosity.]
[How lovely. How brilliant. It isn't the least bit surprising that Solomon has had a talent for magic from a young age, but the degree of artistry, of imagination and creativity, renders Akira silent.
He extends a hand to run his fingers through those spooling ribbons of laminar water, utterly transfixed. Who would see this child as anything but a treasure? A miracle? He shudders to imagine. He refuses to believe.]
You're amazing. Not to disappoint you, but this is even more beautiful than the real ocean. How'd you learn how to do this?
Papa says it's called magic. But... he doesn't sound happy when he says it.
[He raises a hand, and the water lowers just a little. Away, away from the window. Stay away from the view of the world. His eyes stay trained upwards as he talks - lost in the temporary wonder.]
The soldiers say magic makes you bad. It makes your whole family bad. They call people "heretics". And when people get called that, the soldiers take them away, and all their family.
They set big fires somewhere where everything smells like smoke, but... nobody ever comes back from them. And everybody acts scared of the soldiers, but they're scared of the heretics, too.
Papa says it's cause it's not right. It's not... um... it's not something a person does.
[He turns towards Akira, hurt in his eyes, but a smile on his face.]
[What a time Solomon was born in. What lunacy, looking at magic like Solomon's and seeing only evil in it. Not much has changed in the four thousand-odd years since Solomon was born, and even between worlds, people continue to condemn those who hold powers well beyond their comprehension. Humanity, both for better and for worse, clings on to stubborn old habits.
Akira rises to his feet and the straw mattress strains and groans. He wanders to Solomon's side with slow, measured steps, and takes his small face in his hands.]
...People fear what they don't understand. They turn others into monsters without ever knowing if what they do is right or wrong. A gift like yours? It could never be wrong.
[He'll tell you about bigots when you're older, little boy.]
I hope you keep honing that gift of yours. Keep making people happy. You won't be trapped in this place forever, and... one day, you'll meet people who will love and admire you for your unique talents.
[Parroted, as though he's never heard it called that before. But his expression draws downward in thought, small hand clenched into his shirt.]
I don't know if I can make anybody happy. But... I like how it feels. I wish people that aren't like me could feel it, too.
[A beat, once again looking to the window.
...]
I don't hear them anymore.
Quick, quick-- [He'll grab for Akira's wrist with one small hand, while his other extends in front of them. Their little aquarium display converges and reshapes, aquatic platforms messily shoving them both up off their feet and straight up off the floor. Try not to fall over too badly, Akira.
Solomon giggles as he's jostled around, dropping to a seat with crossed legs and patting the platform underneath him like it's a dog.]
There's gotta be room for both at the window. So I want you to look, too.
[Pardon him if he stumbles a little, but he's never walked on water like Jesus before. A bit of fumbling and flailing and he manages to keep himself upright, padding up the platforms to settle beside Solomon.]
...Alright.
[Apprehension takes him by the throat. This is a dream, only a dream, he reminds himself, but what will he see when he looks beyond the window...?]
[The stench of death hits immediately. But, perhaps mercifully, there are no bodies to be seen.
The scene itself is vague, like a smudged painting. Maybe a house there, maybe another there. Murmurings that can't quite be heard as words, as though there's not enough of the memory to patch the pieces.
But what does stick out is the color... and the people.
It's all far more vibrant than it should be, enough to be noticeable. But the light is bright, the colors of plants vary in their weak sway of the wind. Though they're too low to see the sky, there's blue that still sticks out - reflections off a pot, off flowing water, off glass and metal. It seems to stretch forever, from this tiny vantage point, remembered only in the mind of a child.
And despite how muddied it all is, despite how fuzzily it comes together, every person's face is crystal clear. Nuanced in their exhaustion, their fear, their happiness, their relief. They do not look towards the window. But they are still seen.
Solomon keeps his peeking very cautious, very practiced, peeking just barely high enough through the hard edges of the latticing with his fingers curled around the window's edge. A longing sigh escapes him as his cheek settles against his hand.]
It's pretty today.
...
You know... I've got another secret. [His eyes dart to Akira as his voice drops to a whisper, very Serious.] But you can't tell nobody, okay? Nobody at all.
...
I made a friend. Not a made-up one like you or the fishes. A real one.
[What a small, small mercy. Akira doesn't need to see rotting, festering bodies to know this place is steeped in death. This is hell without the brimstone, without the cackling demons and the licking flames. This is the hell Solomon was forged in, and it disgusts Akira. Sickens him to the pit of his stomach.
He clenches his fists tightly to keep the nausea from crawling up his throat. No storybook colors or gently swaying plants could make the scene any easier to stomach. Only a child could see a world like this, the only world they've ever known, in a bright and favorable light.]
...Tell me. Tell me about your friend.
[What friend has Solomon made in the bowels of hell?]
The air suddenly turns cold, and from outside the stretch of the muddy scenery, Akira might very well spot the shadow of something. Something. There, quiet, looming.]
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no subject
He hears the muttering. He hears breathing. Frightened, but forcefully tempered breathing. The haze of the space shows someone else on the bed.
A little boy, hair a shocking white and clothes incredibly plain, staring down into the covers with his knees tightly hugged to his chest. Unaware of Akira, but very aware of the noises, given how anything louder that approaches gets him to try and press himself as close to the wall as possible, in the shadow that is cast over them both from what little light shines in.
He listens. He's frightened. But he listens. He listens.
There's moaning and wailing in the distance. A sound like horses, like passing soldiers. The knocking on distant doors forces a flinch. The acrid scent persists.]
no subject
Akira pads over to the boy, his hair a familiar snow white. His chest tightens. His stomach flips. I know this boy. Why does he look so sad?
Akira settles on his knees beside him, dropping into a whisper. His hand finds the boy's shoulder.]
...Hey. What's wrong?
[Quiet, so the passing soldiers don't hear them. Quiet, so his words reach only the one they were intended for.]
no subject
He glances up at the window, the over to the door, a very tense pause, before the boy's shoulders relax with a pouting look to Akira.]
You gotta be careful. They're takin' people away again.
no subject
But... why?
[And are they after Solomon too? He won't abide by that. He won't let them take him. But this is a dream, not reality, isn't it? What can he do?
...That's thinking too far ahead. For now, Akira focuses only on what Solomon has to say.]
no subject
[Duh. So says his tone. He can't be more than seven, maybe eight, though he's a scrawny little twig of a boy and very pale.]
It's easy to tell if it's just for the sick ones. If you use your ears real good. 'Cause you can hear the wheels of the carts. They're heavy.
They don't break the doors for those ones, though.
[There's the muffled sound of raising voices above, perhaps from another building. Wood being slammed with forceful hits before a door gives way. A panicking scream, bargaining tones with no clear words, the whinnying of horses.
Solomon glances up towards the window, the same brassy colored eyes that show such intense emotion, bright and vibrant. Like it's a different person entirely that sits before Akira.]
I... I wanna see whose house they broke, when they go. It sounds too close.
no subject
Who else would they be taking away alongside the dead, and for that matter, why? He recognizes that look in Solomon's eyes, bright and deep, and it fills him with dread. The words that follow solidify that fear.]
No, Solomon.
[Even if he weren't a pale slip of a boy, barely old enough to sass him properly, Akira wouldn't want him taking that risk. He's hiding for a reason, isn't he? And what is a child going to do to defend himself if he draws the eye of one of those soldiers?
Akira's hands settle on Solomon's shoulders and hold him firm.]
Don't. You can look after the soldiers leave. I'll go with you, alright?
[Out of this hovel and away to a place free of danger. Dream or no, that's what this boy deserves.]
no subject
His brows furrow.]
Huh?
Are you gonna lift me to the window?
[Despite the sounds above, those bright eyes shine, framed by a boyish grin.]
You don't gotta. I can do it allll on my own.
no subject
[Akira's smile skews apologetic.]
Aren't you worried about being seen? I understand the temptation to look, but I don't want you getting hurt. Stay put.
no subject
I though imaginary friends were supposed to be nice.
[With a squirm away from Akira's hands, the boy draws his knees up to his chest, resting his head against them, fingers picking at the thin blanket.]
'M not going anywhere. I always gotta stay put.
[It sounds less like sulking and more just resignation.]
no subject
What would it hurt to allow him a taste of freedom? Something more than he's been afforded in this tired old cellar? Akira weighs the pros and cons and ultimately caves to the sight of that petulant face, palm coming down to ruffle that shock of white hair. Beneath his hand, Solomon is so, so small.]
...Who is keeping you here? Is it too dangerous to leave?
[Where are the goddamn adults here?]
no subject
[Said as though Akira just asked if the sky was blue.]
It's cause the soldiers are gonna come if they don't. They said it's better if people think I'm sick, too.
no subject
Akira is quick to temper his reaction, trading out disgust and shock and the cold pangs of needles stabbing into his heart for an expression firm and unflapped. He can't let it show how shaken he is by that simple, damning answer, leave of all in front of such a young child. Least of all in front of Solomon.
Despite himself, Akira loops his arms around Solomon and embraces him tightly.]
Would you feel better if you looked out the window? Would that help?
no subject
The boy doesn't answer at first, stiff under Akira's arms as though he doesn't know what to do with the gesture. His expression tightens in thought.]
Oh. You're warm...
...
[He tilts his weight to rest a little more against Akira.]
Mm-hmm. I like to think about nice stuff. Like how big the sky might be. I like to watch the people talk.
One of my scrolls says that a fish that you eat comes from a place they call an "ocean". And I like to look outside and think about what kind of place it is, and how the fishes live.
no subject
Why don't I take you? To the ocean. I can even teach you how to fish.
[We just need to get you out of here.]
no subject
[No second thought to it - his face tilts up like he's just heard something beautiful. But it settles, morphs back into hesitance.]
But... if they catch you, you'd die. Just like my family would die.
I... don't want that. [His lip worries between his teeth.] But the ocean... I'd like to meet a fish.
[He glances back up towards the window, licking his lips, before lowering his voice even further.]
I've gotten better. Even better than Mama and Papa think. But they don't wanna see.
Can I show you?
no subject
Akira wants to believe he holds the keys to the world in his pocket, but it's not quite so simple. Confidence will only get him as far as Solomon's dream will let him, and that's enough to give Akira pause.
He clicks his tongue. Damn it. Loosening his hold, he seeks out those brassy eyes.]
...Yeah. Go ahead and show me.
no subject
Successfully on his new perch, the boy once again checks the window, then the line of where the shadow stretches the room, before bringing his hands together, palm up and cupped carefully .]
I'm here. Come to me.
[There's an immediate shimmer of sparkling lights, a pleasantly glowing water forming above his hands in a swirling, playful ball. He immediately breaks out into a grin, but he works his best to try and stifle it in concentration, lip back between his teeth despite the obvious joy.]
Let's go for a swim again today. Okay?
[His hand drifts up and out, fingers outstretched, and the water follows suit, multiplying over itself into rippling, glowing streams that start to dance around the shadowed space like ribbons. Here and there flutters the shape of fish, of bubbles, an aquarium made of pure imagination.
The child jumps back down from the table with a quiet giggle to run into the midst of the shallow, circling line, the subtle colors dancing along the white of his hair. Letting his hand follow the flow of the water as it moves, letting it change colors under his hands.
There is no spell, no seal, no pacts. There is only a pure, natural talent, and unbridled curiosity.]
no subject
He extends a hand to run his fingers through those spooling ribbons of laminar water, utterly transfixed. Who would see this child as anything but a treasure? A miracle? He shudders to imagine. He refuses to believe.]
You're amazing. Not to disappoint you, but this is even more beautiful than the real ocean. How'd you learn how to do this?
no subject
[Plain and simple.]
Papa says it's called magic. But... he doesn't sound happy when he says it.
[He raises a hand, and the water lowers just a little. Away, away from the window. Stay away from the view of the world. His eyes stay trained upwards as he talks - lost in the temporary wonder.]
The soldiers say magic makes you bad. It makes your whole family bad. They call people "heretics". And when people get called that, the soldiers take them away, and all their family.
They set big fires somewhere where everything smells like smoke, but... nobody ever comes back from them. And everybody acts scared of the soldiers, but they're scared of the heretics, too.
Papa says it's cause it's not right. It's not... um... it's not something a person does.
[He turns towards Akira, hurt in his eyes, but a smile on his face.]
I don't get it.
no subject
Akira rises to his feet and the straw mattress strains and groans. He wanders to Solomon's side with slow, measured steps, and takes his small face in his hands.]
...People fear what they don't understand. They turn others into monsters without ever knowing if what they do is right or wrong. A gift like yours? It could never be wrong.
[He'll tell you about bigots when you're older, little boy.]
I hope you keep honing that gift of yours. Keep making people happy. You won't be trapped in this place forever, and... one day, you'll meet people who will love and admire you for your unique talents.
[...]
People like me.
no subject
A gift?
[Parroted, as though he's never heard it called that before. But his expression draws downward in thought, small hand clenched into his shirt.]
I don't know if I can make anybody happy. But... I like how it feels. I wish people that aren't like me could feel it, too.
[A beat, once again looking to the window.
...]
I don't hear them anymore.
Quick, quick-- [He'll grab for Akira's wrist with one small hand, while his other extends in front of them. Their little aquarium display converges and reshapes, aquatic platforms messily shoving them both up off their feet and straight up off the floor. Try not to fall over too badly, Akira.
Solomon giggles as he's jostled around, dropping to a seat with crossed legs and patting the platform underneath him like it's a dog.]
There's gotta be room for both at the window. So I want you to look, too.
no subject
...Alright.
[Apprehension takes him by the throat. This is a dream, only a dream, he reminds himself, but what will he see when he looks beyond the window...?]
no subject
The scene itself is vague, like a smudged painting. Maybe a house there, maybe another there. Murmurings that can't quite be heard as words, as though there's not enough of the memory to patch the pieces.
But what does stick out is the color... and the people.
It's all far more vibrant than it should be, enough to be noticeable. But the light is bright, the colors of plants vary in their weak sway of the wind. Though they're too low to see the sky, there's blue that still sticks out - reflections off a pot, off flowing water, off glass and metal. It seems to stretch forever, from this tiny vantage point, remembered only in the mind of a child.
And despite how muddied it all is, despite how fuzzily it comes together, every person's face is crystal clear. Nuanced in their exhaustion, their fear, their happiness, their relief. They do not look towards the window. But they are still seen.
Solomon keeps his peeking very cautious, very practiced, peeking just barely high enough through the hard edges of the latticing with his fingers curled around the window's edge. A longing sigh escapes him as his cheek settles against his hand.]
It's pretty today.
...
You know... I've got another secret. [His eyes dart to Akira as his voice drops to a whisper, very Serious.] But you can't tell nobody, okay? Nobody at all.
...
I made a friend. Not a made-up one like you or the fishes. A real one.
no subject
He clenches his fists tightly to keep the nausea from crawling up his throat. No storybook colors or gently swaying plants could make the scene any easier to stomach. Only a child could see a world like this, the only world they've ever known, in a bright and favorable light.]
...Tell me. Tell me about your friend.
[What friend has Solomon made in the bowels of hell?]
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The air suddenly turns cold, and from outside the stretch of the muddy scenery, Akira might very well spot the shadow of something. Something. There, quiet, looming.]
H̴̨̡̨̨̻͖͙͖̳̤̺̳͍̯͔͙͎̻̻̹̫̮̉̍̀̆̌̃̾̋̃̚͜͝î̷̧̧̟̥͈̫̳̻̗̯̹͕̫̖̙̪͙̞̘͔̗̫̳̩̩͉̥͙͚̞͈͈̣̲͍̻̣̘̼̘̬̘͔̱̹͙̟̺̞̥͕̭̔̈́̓̒͒͆̊̕͘͜͠ͅͅͅͅͅs̸̨̛̲͕͍͎͚̘̖̖̬͍̲̱͎̱̮̪̿̋̍͌̀̒͛̐́̽́͑̂͆͛̈́̽̉̂͆̌̾̀͌̎̄͘̚̕͠͝ ̸̡̡̨̢̡̢̫̗̲̹͎͍̤̠͚͎͈̻̳̖͕͍͈̞͖̭̭̺̩̺̟͎̙̮̣̳̤͚̯̝̪̟͕̯̰̘̺̲͇̜͙̖̳̉̒͜͜ͅn̵̨̨̛̮͓̗̼̳͉̽̀̔́̀̐̈́̒͆͋̑͗̋̔͑̈́͑͂͑͐̀͐͐̊̈́͑̆̄͂̓̃̊̅̂͛̌̎͂̏̇̎͊͘̚͘̕͝͝͝ã̴̧̢̢̟̥͉̬͈̜̮̜̥̘͕̘̻̣͍̯̳͉͕̯̖͚̖̣̞̎̎͂̾̓̀̈͌̿̌̃͑̎̒͛̌̕͘͜͝͝ͅm̸̢̡̨͈̺͚̭̼̣̭̠̖͓̲̙̤͕̟̩̖̺̬̬̥̦̦͙̭̅̋͋̈̇̔͑̿̅̓͑͋̓̋́͋̂̉̋̋́͘͘̕͠͠ę̶̡̝̞͈͉̼̮̝͍̘̳̫̩̙̀́̀̽͊͂́͐̇̾̉̋̉̃͂͌͑̀̉͌͆̀̓́̀̒̔̌̍͋̓̉̊̀̒̂́͐̒͑̚̕͘͝͝͠͝͝ͅ ̵̧̨̢̡̧̨̪̤̬̠̰̘̟͖̞̬̩͙̦̙̯̰̜͎̜̺̣̞̟̟̦̘̝͖̯͈͈̰̺̱̟͛͊̏̀͛͛̏̄͐̏́̍̀͒̿̓̓̈́̄̒̄͋̏͂͗͛͌̅̇̕̚̕͠͝į̴̡̧̢̧̛̛̮̮̪̭̜͇̱͙̟͉͎̖̫̰̩̲̤̘̻̤̗̠̮͚̘̼̮͕̜̗͇̮͍͙̈́̈́͊̿̈́̉͐̈́́͋̃̽̎͐͂̓̓̔̅̈́̏̃̌́̏̃́̾͛́̉̏͗̀͒̋͘͘͝s̵̠͎͎͆̏̌̐̾̐̑̈́͐̀̌̽̉̎̚͘͜͝͝ ̷̭̠̿́̇̐̅́̆͊́͂̋͑͛̉̉̒͒͋͐̅͊͝͝ ̸̨̞̞͌̌̎̓͆̊͑̈̐̎̏̍̀̓̌̆́͛̿̃̓̌͌̔̂̆̔͒̓͂̒́̚͘̚͘͘̚͘͠͠͝͝͠N̵̨̪̗̰̬̮̝͎͎̪̯͔̟̪̫̘͙͙̫̯͑̅͂̑̈́̍̈́̿̇͆̾̔͗̊̀͆̒̇̋̈́́̈̃͋̓̈́̀̒͊̐̌́́̈́͊̇͘̕̕͜͝Į̴̨̛̛̛͙͇̝͎͔͖̝͇̠̜͍̪̼͚̠̳̗̮͕̭͇͂̊͆̒̌̔͋̂̔́̊̒̀́͒̌͑͂̽̓͛̉͊̿̈́̔̀̔̍̀͌̿̅͒͒̆͑͌̀́͊̏͑̐̀̇͗͘͠͝͝͝͠ͅǴ̴̨̯̰̘͙͎̭̯̪̬̫̊́́͗͋̌̓̑̔̉̓̆͌̆̔̓̽̇͂̑͛̍͛̑͊̎͐̕͝͝͠Ḩ̵̨̧̧̨̧̡̡̨̡̛͉͚̝̟̯̯̬͕̱̖͖͈̰̺̜̱̫̬̺͔͕̜͉̫͉͎̦̤͙̤̭̦̰͇̰̺͖̣͕̳̩̗̥͚̝̺̳̓̌̽͗̀͌̽́̽̏͒́̑̎̒̚͜ͅT̵̪͎͎̮̩͕̦̬̺̪̺̹̥͊̉ͅB̶̧̨̫̬̼̥̤͎̘͍͍̲̦͓̤͍̱̦̱̲̰̣͔͎̲̜̺̪͖͕̳͗͂̂ͅŖ̵̧͖͎̟͖̪͉̝̩͗̿̆́͑̃́̒̂͊̋̈̌́̆̑͗̌̄͋̒͒̋͐̋͛̐̊͋͆̌͐̈́̿͌̽͋̍̓͊̋͆́̄͊̃̃͘̕͜͝͝͝͠ͅḮ̶̧̛̛̛͕̜͖̺͕̣̜̞̖̪̦̣̰̠́̈́͐͋̿͗͂͊̆̀͒͒̈́̋̾̓̅̔̈̄̃̉̌͂́̎͒͊̅̓͛̇̇̉̂̍͂͊̈̍͒̀̈̆̆͊̕̚͘̚͘̕̕͠͝͝͝N̶̢̡̢̧̡̛̛̪͓̠͎̩̦̰̫̥̞̱̩̯̜̭̝̭̱͚̞̻̹͙̱͉̹̼̝̤̝̥̦͐̑̊́̈́̉̀͊͑͆̏̃̊̿̒̍͋͋͑͂̍̉́̎̈́̏̆̓̏̚͘͠ͅͅͅǦ̷̢̧̼̲̜̜͖̞͎̲̘͍͙̣̤̱͔͉͚̻͕̜͔̪̼̯͔͖͙͙̗͖̦̤͗̀̇̓̆͋͂̏̐̀̒̈́̂͗̀̓͆͘̚̕̚͜͜͜͝͝͝Ę̸͔͍̼͈̹̯̼̦̰̺̱̞̞͕̞̱̟͚̩̗̆͌́̎͋̂̓̋͌̚͜ͅR̶̡̛̛̳̹̼͈̮͖͉̭͎̗͙͕̻̗̠̮͙̗̞̱͂͆͑̈́̂̆̿̋̒̊͗̊͊́̈́͗̈́̄̐̏̏̑̑͊̀̅́̒̅̀͌̆̄͐̓̿̕̕̚͘̕͝ͅ.̴̡̣̣̞̝̝̺̱̓̑͐͐̔́̅̏͑̏̾̀̋̌̋͂̏̾͑̔̏͂̅̂̿̽̒͗̌͌͐̿̐͌̋͛̽̀̈̊̑͘̚̕̚͜͠͝͝͝͝
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