JJ Doe

◈ 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐒 | Κάθαρσις ◈

J̶͙̝̹͖͒̅̂̏͝͝ā̶̪̘̾̇̎̕y̷̗̦̖͊̀̑ͅ’̶̢̹͇̼̠̔̒͜s̵̤̪̰̓͝ ̷̮̤̋̽C̸̭͓̤͓̘̱̑̀̾͝͠ą̸̟͈̯͖͐̉͛̾̕͠t̴̩̺͆̂̓͐̕ḣ̵͉͍̣ȧ̷̫̙̞̐͘r̴̛̛͉̟̓̌̿͛s̴̛̮̞̫̝͉͆̈̀ị̸̗͓͍́͑ș̴̛͊̐̋͝t̸̞͗͐

@silver21@Tlazolteotl@Stanifly@BaronOBeefDip

Jay’s first instinct, the moment Sirpa said bullies, was to defend the inner circle of that group, and it held right up until Jay remembered she wasn’t the first one to call them that.

At the time, Jay hadn’t thought it was malice. Careless or thoughtless, sure, but not cruel on purpose. And Jay knew there were things Jay could have done better, maybe enough that it never had to fall apart. Some of it, though, couldn’t just be waved off as careless. The group shied away from direct confrontation (at least with anyone outside the inner circle), which made them come off as wishy-washy and opaque, evasive, passive-aggressive about anything they weren’t happy with or disagreed with. Like how Not-A-Queen praised one of Jay’s characters early on, then never put that character on any of the tier lists or the wiki, and never did anything with that character’s backstory or whatever she had going on in her own IC posts. And then Not-A-Queen decided the character’s dislike of her PC was really Jay coming at her personally, even though the character had been written that way from the start, and never once asked Jay if Jay was actually angry at her.

People are complex, multifaceted, so flattening a whole group of them into “bullies” didn’t feel right to Jay. But the group dynamic had been a slow poison, and Jay couldn’t deny part of them was relieved to be free of it. The hard part was articulating all of it without it coming out like the inner group were simply the bullies. Geeze, why does communicating have to be so hard?

━━━━━━ ◈ ━━━━━━

The Quiet Part

Above Jay’s shoulder, unbeknownst to them, a display had popped up in the air without any fanfare, the glowing sci-fi kind. Line by line, everything Jay wasn’t saying out loud was being written onto it, clean and legible, for everyone else to read. Privacy, as a concept, did not apply here. It was, after all, the internet.

━━━━━━ ◈ ━━━━━━

“I don’t know if I’d go as far as calling them bullies,” they said. “To be fair, the popularity-ranking stuff and the part where they said I needed to go, for their...”—although Jay suspected that their mostly meant Not-A-Queen, and this was her sending one of the male members to deliver the message for her so she didn’t have to, like she did before—“...for their mental health happened pretty far apart.”

At some point their thumb had started rubbing at the side of their knee.

“To answer your question,” Jay said, turning toward the Moderator, “it’s kind of a mixed bag. I didn’t do much of the out-of-character stuff, something about it all just made me a little uncomfortable. Like the venting channel. You needed permission from the GM to get in, so I never saw it myself, but a friend showed me some of what got posted. And honestly, it felt like a lot of it was people talking behind the backs of whoever wasn’t in there, while the rest sipped the tea and munched popcorn.”

New displays popped up to show the screenshots, and vanished once Jay started talking again after a moment of silence.

“In general, I didn’t talk much in the server. There were so many conversations going on at once, moving so fast I couldn’t keep up, half the time I had no idea what they were even about. Not that it mattered. I always got the sense no one really cared what I did or didn’t say. And it’s not like I had anything of value to bring to the conversation anyway. So unless somebody addressed me directly, or was talking to the RP group as a whole, I assumed the conversation wasn’t for me. I did try to be active with the video gaming stuff. But eventually that died off when people stopped playing.”

For a bit, Jay glanced down at the group DM that included Not-A-Queen and Papa-Bear, her boyfriend-turned-fiancé, who went from player to GM somewhere along the way. The last message was one about how exciting it would be to start playing a game together. It never happened. However long Jay waited.

“There’s nothing wrong with a relationship that starts and ends with the hobby, that works for plenty of people, it just wasn’t what I was hoping for. ...I guess it’s because I thought friends in that inner group wouldn’t get ignored or brushed aside. I didn’t want to be an NPC out of character too, you know? But they tossed me aside in the end anyways, because to them I was just a hassle. Not worth any effort.”

Jay looked at Sirpa. “Did you ever have a relationship like that? One where you mattered way less to them than they did to you?”

Glancing around the circle, Jay noticed Silver Blade’s face had gone slack and far-off, her eyes parked on some spot on the floor without actually seeing it. “Silver Blade? You doing okay?” they asked.

━━━━━━ ◈ ━━━━━━

What is Perceived

Experienced by anyone who perceives Jay: whatever they don’t say out loud appears as text on a display, readable to everyone but Jay.

◈ 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐒 | Κάθαρσις ◈

J̶͙̝̹͖͒̅̂̏͝͝ā̶̪̘̾̇̎̕y̷̗̦̖͊̀̑ͅ’s̵̤̪̰̓͝ ̷̮̤̋̽C̸̭͓̤͓̘̱̑̀̾͝͠ą̸̟͈̯͖͐̉͛̾̕͠t̴̩̺͆̂̓͐̕ḣ̵͉͍̣ȧ̷̫̙̞̐͘r̴̛̛͉̟̓̌̿͛s̴̛̮̞̫̝͉͆̈̀ị̸̗͓͍́͑ș̴̛͊̐̋͝t̸̞͗͐

@silver21@BaronOBeefDip@Tlazolteotl

Sirpa’s question swung the spotlight back onto Jay, who had somehow not seen it coming, and for a moment Jay just sat there blinking. Their eyes drifted over to Dr. Everson, who was still standing at the edge of the circle, and it felt rude to launch into answering while the doctor was hovering, so Jay waved at one of the empty folding chairs instead. “You can, uh, take a seat, if you’d like.”

“Did it fizzle out,” Jay echoed, mostly to themselves. “I guess I never really made that clear. The RP’s still going, I was kicked out because I was ‘negatively impacting the GM’s mental health.’ You can probably scroll down and find it. I haven’t actually checked on it myself since the falling out. But, according to some people I’ve been talking to, it’s been using more and more AI, and just gotten.” Jay hesitated, because the next word wasn’t one they particularly liked. “Bland.”

“Which, on its own, isn’t a death sentence. Every RP hits slow patches; that’s just how it goes. The first major slowdown in ❀✿❁✾❁ & †‡⚔⚔⚒⛏☠ hit around six months in, and at the time I was still operating on the assumption that the GMs had storylines queued up for everybody’s characters. So I was mostly just waiting. Stalling, honestly. Most of my posts back then were foreshadowing, or seeding details for others to use and build on.”

Pulling in a slower, longer breath before going on, Jay felt the next part catch a little. “Which turned out to be wasted effort, on... kind of a lot of levels, actually. It eventually became clear that, one, almost nobody was reading the posts. Not even the GMs. At best they were skimming. One of them, Not-A-Queen, admitted to it. And two, for some reason a lot of people seemed to have gotten the idea that I had my own, like, self-contained thing going on over in a corner somewhere. So there wasn’t really any attempt to engage with my characters, or pick up on the stuff I was actually putting out there. I just............was there?”

Somewhere in there a tangent had happened, and Jay shook their head at themselves for it.

“Sorry. I’m derailing. Uh. What was I. Right. The first big slowdown.”

After a second to reset, Jay picked up where they’d left off.

“So. To get engagement back up, Not-A-Queen started trying some OOC things. Stuff like player character tier lists, favorite character polls, that kind of thing. Which. Honestly made me uncomfortable. One of my characters actually won one of the favorite character polls. But I kept thinking about what it would feel like to not even make the top three. Or worse, to not even be on the list at all. Because that happened too. That same character of mine who won the favorite character poll? Wasn’t even a selectable option on any of the tier lists. And a few other characters got the same treatment. If I’m being honest, the rankings felt kind of rigged—not maliciously, more like they were curated by the GMs and the GMs’ posse to manage everyone's feelings.” Jay went quiet for a second. “Looking back, I think what I was actually seeing was the hierarchy. Just in an early form. For a long time I gave Not-A-Queen the benefit of the doubt. I thought she genuinely believed she wasn’t playing favorites. But small moments like these kept piling up, and by the time I got kicked out it wasn’t subtle anymore.”

Across the circle, Jay’s eyes found Sirpa again.

“Have you ever been in a situation like that? Where you can see it happening, but no one else seems to acknowledge it?”

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

Here's to hoping Dolores will run into one of the other characters 😀

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝. 𝙳𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚙 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝙰 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚝. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝, 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗, 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍. 𝙸𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚊𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗'𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚗. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙳𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚔𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚎, 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝, 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜.

𝙻𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚖 𝚘𝚞𝚝. 𝙽𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚑 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚝.

𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝙼𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎, 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑 𝚞𝚙, 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚛𝚢, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚜𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜. 𝙳𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔, 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚍.

𝙾𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚢, 𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔. 𝙰𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛, 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚕𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚒𝚝—𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚆𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚛.

𝙳𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚊𝚗. 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚔𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝙾𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚛.

◈ 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐒 | Κάθαρσις ◈

J̶͙̝̹͖͒̅̂̏͝͝ā̶̪̘̾̇̎̕y̷̗̦̖͊̀̑ͅ’s̵̤̪̰̓͝ ̷̮̤̋̽C̸̭͓̤͓̘̱̑̀̾͝͠ą̸̟͈̯͖͐̉͛̾̕͠t̴̩̺͆̂̓͐̕ḣ̵͉͍̣ȧ̷̫̙̞̐͘r̴̛̛͉̟̓̌̿͛s̴̛̮̞̫̝͉͆̈̀ị̸̗͓͍́͑ș̴̛͊̐̋͝t̸̞͗͐

@BaronOBeefDip@silver21@Tlazolteotl

“Yeah, from my end this is a thread on a website,” Jay said, pulling up the Κάθαρσις page again with a flick of their hand. “It’s advertised as a safe space to talk about your burdens. Group therapy, basically. Minus the copay.” A beat. “Also minus the therapist.”

Jay had to hand it to everyone, because not a single person here broke character. For some reason that pulled their mind toward another RP, one that group of “friends” also created and eventually abandoned to Jay and two other players. One of Jay’s characters in it got isekai’d and was convinced the whole thing was just an elaborate LARP community.

“Based on the premise of this place, that means everyone here has something that needs to get off their chest.” Jay swiped the page away. “At least, that’s why I’m here. You just walked in on me trying to figure out how to talk about a falling out that happened almost a year ago.”

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

𝙼𝚛𝚜. 𝙺𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚔𝚒 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚌 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠, 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚛𝚞𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸'𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗. 𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢, 𝙳𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝙸 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝙲𝚊𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙼𝚛𝚜. 𝙺𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚔𝚒 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚘𝚑 𝚗𝚘, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎.

𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚍𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝙻𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚗'𝚜 𝚋𝚢 𝙵𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙵𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝙽𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚞𝚙 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚝𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚢𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚂𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚢. 𝙼𝚛𝚜. 𝙺𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚔𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚛𝚊𝚐 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜, 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝. 𝙳𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚐𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜, 𝚊 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚜𝚔.

𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝, 𝙳𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍. 𝙼𝚛𝚜. 𝙺𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚔𝚒 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙳𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚘𝚞𝚝.

𝙽𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚊𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛, 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚊𝚕𝚞𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚖 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚔, 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚗-𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚏𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝙻𝙴𝙰𝚂𝙴 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚠 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝.

𝙰𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚢. 𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚋𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚞𝚖𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚎𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚛 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎. 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎.

𝙺𝚂𝚂𝙷𝙷! 𝙰𝚋𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛.

𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚕. 𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚝. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚐. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐, 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚢, 𝚠𝚎𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔, 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢, 𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚝.

𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗. 𝙵𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗. 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚖 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍, 𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚖 𝚞𝚙, 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏-𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚎. 𝙱𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎, 𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚎.

𝙶𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚗𝚘𝚠.

◈ 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐒 | Κάθαρσις ◈

J̶͙̝̹͖͒̅̂̏͝͝ā̶̪̘̾̇̎̕y̷̗̦̖͊̀̑ͅ’s̵̤̪̰̓͝ ̷̮̤̋̽C̸̭͓̤͓̘̱̑̀̾͝͠ą̸̟͈̯͖͐̉͛̾̕͠t̴̩̺͆̂̓͐̕ḣ̵͉͍̣ȧ̷̫̙̞̐͘r̴̛̛͉̟̓̌̿͛s̴̛̮̞̫̝͉͆̈̀ị̸̗͓͍́͑ș̴̛͊̐̋͝t̸̞͗͐

@silver21@Tlazolteotl@BaronOBeefDip

Sirpa still hadn’t spoken, which wasn’t assuring. But something behind her expression suggested the silence was temporary rather than permanent. Jay chose to trust that, chose to believe she’d actually converse with them, not just occupy the same room while they talked at the ceiling.

Small pieces. That was the Moderator’s suggestion. Just talk, break it down, let the others ask questions. Good advice. Possibly even actionable, if Jay could figure out where to start.

Before Jay could figure that out, someone new arrived.

She came in asking whether people could see her (yes), mentioning hallucinations of someone named Will (no context), and referencing a bartender guy (even less context).

“Can anyone explain what is going on?”

Jay wanted to ask her the same thing.

“Sorry, where are my manners? I’m Dr. Charlie Everson,” the doctor said. “I’m not from... wherever this place is. I’m guessing most of you aren’t. May I ask who you are and how you got here?”

“Uh... hi, Dr. Everson. I go by Jay, and... I guess I got here by clicking the link?”

Which, to a woman who’d just led with hallucinations and a missing bartender, may or may not have sounded sarcastic. It wasn’t meant to be. Maybe the question hadn’t been about clicking links so much as how Jay came to find this place.

“I read the interest check, liked the premise, so I jumped in.”

Their gaze drifted to Dr. Everson. Then to Sirpa. Then back to Dr. Everson. From somewhere in the back of their skull, the earlier conversation with Sirpa and Silver Blade pushed its way forward: the ones who didn’t choose to come here and didn’t know how to leave.

“But... I’m starting to wonder if that’s not actually what you’re talking about…”

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

𝙳𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝙽𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚔 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚡 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎, 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛, 𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚊𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚗. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎, 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚐𝚐𝚜, 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚗, 𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑, 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚠𝚒𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚡 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛, 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚕𝚎. 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚞𝚜𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙽𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚆𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚗 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕. 𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚌𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚝𝚎, 𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚝𝚎, 𝚎𝚐𝚐𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚊𝚜𝚝, 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙳𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚘𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑.

𝙽𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑.

𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚏𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚏𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗. 𝙳𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚢, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚕, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚙, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚙 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚂𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛, 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝.

𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚘. 𝙼𝚛𝚜. 𝙺𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚔𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚋𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗. 𝙳𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚃𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢'𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚢 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚣𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚞𝚖, 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝙼𝚛𝚜. 𝙺𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚔𝚒 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙼𝚛𝚜. 𝙱𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙻𝚒𝚙𝚜𝚔𝚒 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚟𝚎, 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝙳𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚏 𝚗𝚘𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍.

𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚞𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚑, 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎, 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚛𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚊𝚢. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚆𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚝 𝙲𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎, 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝙸𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚕𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚢. 𝚆𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙰𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚊 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎. 𝙱𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚌 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝙲𝚊𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢; 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝙲𝚊𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚢 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝙲𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝙶𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍.

𝙾𝚗 𝙲𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝙶𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚢'𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗. 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚙, 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚗𝚊𝚒𝚕 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚗. 𝙵𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚘 𝚊 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚜.

𝙶𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚗, 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚝, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗. 𝙳𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗. 𝙸𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝. 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍, 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝙷𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔, 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚙. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚍. 𝚆𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚊𝚐, 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚝, 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚎𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚙𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖.

𝙽𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎, 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝟺𝙱, 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚢, 𝙶𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍. 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍. 𝙷𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚏 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎, 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚗𝚘, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝙲𝚊𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚋𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚙 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚔.

𝙰𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚌 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚎, 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝙼𝚛𝚜. 𝙺𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚔𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝙲𝚊𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙼𝚛𝚜. 𝙺𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚔𝚒 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝙼𝚛𝚜. 𝙱𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝙳𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝, 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚗. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕, 𝙳𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝙽𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚔.

◈ 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐒 | Κάθαρσις ◈

J̶͙̝̹͖͒̅̂̏͝͝ā̶̪̘̾̇̎̕y̷̗̦̖͊̀̑ͅ’s̵̤̪̰̓͝ ̷̮̤̋̽C̸̭͓̤͓̘̱̑̀̾͝͠ą̸̟͈̯͖͐̉͛̾̕͠t̴̩̺͆̂̓͐̕ḣ̵͉͍̣ȧ̷̫̙̞̐͘r̴̛̛͉̟̓̌̿͛s̴̛̮̞̫̝͉͆̈̀ị̸̗͓͍́͑ș̴̛͊̐̋͝t̸̞͗͐

@Tlazolteotl@silver21

“A conversation.” That was all Jay wanted. “Not people sitting around waiting for me to finish so they can go do what they actually want to do. An actual conversation: someone sharing their thoughts, their opinions, the odd personal detail here and there—IF they’re comfortable with it.”

The display vanished with a swipe, taking the light it had cast with it. “There’s always going to be some turn-taking in conversations. I’m sorry. It’s not like I wanted to be sad either... I just... I’m tired of talking at walls, especially when I know there’s a person on the other side.”

Their gaze settled on Sirpa’s avatar. They stared deep into her eyes, and hoped.

◈ 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐒 | Κάθαρσις ◈

J̶͙̝̹͖͒̅̂̏͝͝ā̶̪̘̾̇̎̕y̷̗̦̖͊̀̑ͅ’s̵̤̪̰̓͝ ̷̮̤̋̽C̸̭͓̤͓̘̱̑̀̾͝͠ą̸̟͈̯͖͐̉͛̾̕͠t̴̩̺͆̂̓͐̕ḣ̵͉͍̣ȧ̷̫̙̞̐͘r̴̛̛͉̟̓̌̿͛s̴̛̮̞̫̝͉͆̈̀ị̸̗͓͍́͑ș̴̛͊̐̋͝t̸̞͗͐

@Tlazolteotl

The display read:

"This has been a decent exercise, and I appreciate my mini-catharsis, but I'm dropping out. I'm more interested in a group dynamic than a turn-based battle against depression."

A moment passed before Jay looked up at the Moderator.

“Sorry. For scaring them off.” A short exhale. “I tried to engage with everyone. Get to know them… Maybe I didn’t do enough.”

Never enough.

Before the Moderator could reassure them, Jay’s gaze had already drifted to the other avatars around the room. Everyone still in their seats, still facing them, still looking like they were listening. Something behind their eyes, though, said AFK.

“How many of them are actually still here?” they asked the Moderator, then shook their head. “No. Sorry, that’s not fair to ask you. Forget I said that.”

Turning back to the blank, waiting faces, Jay pressed their hands to their knees. “If any of you are still here... you don’t need to stay on my account. I’ll understand.”

The folding chair creaked as they shifted their weight. Jay let out a long, deflated breath.

“I understand.”