February 13th, 1962

[Emprexx Plush]

((Blaise D’Aramiitz Continued From And Nothing Will Go Wrong!))

Starvation was a motivator that unlike the collars around their throats needed no explanation. A look in the bags told the story all its own. A couple of loaves of bread, some crackers, a handful of protein bars, and about as much water as one might drink in a day. Water could be refilled at any number of opportunities weighed worth the risk. The prospect of surviving days on such meager supplies though, it might not gall at first. The longer picture was not clear. Meals blurring together into mounds of cloying, stale mush coating the mouth until the taste lingered on every breath for hours, the memory of what it was to enjoy what you ate for any purpose further up the hierarchy of needs than subsistence, when memory of tastes and smells prepared to delight the senses rose became a torture split between agony, jealousy, outrage, despair that they would never be experienced again and the steady erosion of the things one could lean on to still feel human...from a certain perspective that could not conceive how much boredom went into survival, that might seem more pressing than when the food runs out.

Such feelings were luxuries. To grow to hate means of survival required time and abundance many of their classmates would not be allowed. The more common feeling, the one their captors surely relied upon as compulsion, was hunger. Hunger first pitted against boredom. Hours of more physical activity than most were comfortable with contrasted with hours more of waiting in what could be carved out as relative safety created a temptation to pass time snacking. Stress of all kinds created a void that could not be filled yet demanded the attempt in defiance of rationing, mounting in urgency until one of two outcomes came to head: surrender to it, or find there is nothing left to offer. The former inevitably lead to the latter, but the urge would not vanish. It would evolve. It would twist inside the gut and the mind until it became a sort of sentient if not sapient thing, an excess of the spirit made manifest in flesh, the urge to consume becoming so powerful that it began to consume itself. That is what it was to starve, no? To reach a point of desperation so drastic that the body turns to itself as prey, host and parasite in one mind unable to control either? Picture that madness paired with the knowledge that to relieve it, all you had to do was find others who had not fallen so far and take what was theirs. Yes, the leverage of scarcity could not have escaped their captors after so many iterations of their experiment. It was not so difficult to envision what one would be capable of in that state. Murder in the name of relief was among the simplest possibilities to cross the imagination.

Imagination, of course, because these were not the problems of Blaise D’Aramitz.

Five. No, six. No…they took nothing from Alexander or Princess. Parker's supplies came with them. Other bags were left abandoned for them to discover, often empty, less often without food, and on occasion filled with some amount of abandoned supplies; on their last pass through the village they had collected such a bag in a vandalized house seemingly untouched. Luck was disproportionately in their favor in this least useful of areas. Their appetites were excessive save for the most literal one, so while others starved their way to execution they were throwing out more food than they consumed. Two bags were more than enough for them, anything that could not be consolidated down they discarded in favor of whatever seemed freshest. Disposal depended on their mood. For the sake of thoroughness dumping them off a cliff or into the water was preferred. This worked well enough for food, but what they found themself discarding most often were water bottles. Over two dozen water bottles by now, perhaps three, there was no purpose in carrying so many. Two for cleaning, three or so for drinking, they needed no more. Those that had begun to smell they impaled and left behind them so no one else could find use for them.

That made the bottle they held in their hands as they stood atop the waterfall rather special. They had found it buried beneath their ropes when they were restraining Julien. How long it had been there they could not say, only that it was at least since they first cut the sections with Lorenzo in mind. A short time after they shot Joanne; perhaps it was one of hers? Stagnation greeted them under the cap. Had they remembered it when they were exchanging supplies in the village, it would not have survived. In theory all that had changed in the interim was a more interesting place to dump its remains after they punctured it.

They had not been in the village for some time.

It had been longer still since they maintained anything approaching standards.

The bottle was downed in one breath.

One hand still whole held it as near the edge of the waterfall as they could reach safely. An empty thing perched precarious and purposeless, not a consequence rushing to mind if tipped into the abyss. They held it outstretched this way and that to catch light between it and the spray of an ocean becoming a river becoming a lake long enough that they forgot it was an act that required conscious will until the ache in their arm could no longer be ignored, and they thought to let go. But it was already gone. It was gone and they were still staring. Still holding. Still letting time stretch on.

And on.

And on.

And on.

And on.

And on.

And it was only in this moment that had become hours that they realized they did not feel themself. That their arm had been down at their side shortly after yet lingered in the afterimage of their vision. That there was something wrong with their senses. That they were still but moving. That substance they never would have consented to had breached their body. That the waterfall was distant and also right under their feet. That Joanne had poisoned them. That they were teetering.

An empty thing perched precarious and purposeless, not a consequence rushing to mind if tipped into the abyss.

They went nowhere and fell all the same.

A hand that was not a hand caught their body that was not and pulled them steady.

“Pardon my forwardness there uh, s-, no, ma-, no, uh, what all you prefer, but I reckon it was about time we had ourselves a come to Jesus.”

[Emprexx Plush]

They were no longer near the waterfall. It could be heard but not seen, every way they turned their head produced a disorienting picture of the clearing churning around them. The only point that stayed stable was the figure holding their hand. A boy, bald, green eyes, square jawed, broad browed, thin-lipped, about their height and build but dirtier even than they were, clad in denim shorts, a black t-shirt too large and emblazoned with a graphic referencing heaven and horses, and the most ridiculous shoes they had ever seen. Teal tongues and cross arch accents, magenta soles with random black jagged inserts, pale yellow bands on the heels, two completely different shades of blue in ill fitting patterns over the face and laces, all defacing an egg white base that could have been anything else.

“Who the fuck are you?”

The smile on his face flinched. "Well nowI can't say that don't sting given the uh, particulars of our acquaintance an' all, but I 'spose it's been a spell. So if you was to need a refresher…"

His brow furrowed. He opened his mouth.

---

Name: Carl Ḋ̶̨̧̨̡̧̢̢̧̢̢̡̧̧̧̨̧̢̡̡̩͓͙̩̟̱̥͙̘̰̤̯̫̣̱͙̪͇̱̺̘̩̜̥̼̰̩̠͓̩̳̜̭̻̩̟͙͔̻̦͍̤͙͍̗͍̫̱͕̩̥̳̤͍̞͕͚̱͎͓̣̭̺̱̻͓̜̭̥̜̘͈̥̥̞̲͍̬̰̺̗̫̫̜̲̦̗̠̫̭̼͚̬̮̭̺̱̖̞̼̣̺̗̲̟̟͇̰͕͉̺̝̳̯͔͈̙͍͉̱̥̱̹̟͇͚͚̰̩̰̞͈͉̤̻͓͕̺͕͎̩̺̰͇̬̩̯̩̖̭̣̺̣̝̣͔̫̪͚̀̃͗͒̆̒͒̎̈̾̈̀̔̂̌͆̀̍̓̑́̀͛͂̊̒̇̋̍̈́̒̐̌̉͗͛̃͑̇͗̈̓̅̅̃͌̈́̄̔̓̑̃͐́̒̿̓͛͐̌̓̌̎̈́̀͂͌̕̕͘̕̕̚̚̚͜͜͜͜͜͠͝ͅͅͅ'̷̢̨̡̡̧̧̨̨̢̢̢̧̢̛̛̛͚̖̰̬͓̦̣̭̥͉̺̗͉̗̟͉̩̪̫̰̣̭̦̦̦͔͚̩͉̠̯̘͚͓̳͔̻̮̺̰̣̯̹̭̮͚͕͖̼̮̻̬̪̟̰̜̺̘͓̩̞͚̼͍̳̠̲͖̳̥̠̦̙̖̤̱͕̤͎̯̭̖̭͓̻̩̜̼̣̘͙̠͚̤̦̣̮̼̺̤̖̫̪̺̙͚͖̘̥̤̦̭͉̱̣̮͕̼̺̹̞̺̱̥̹͔̙̦̖̗̘̝̝̯͚̘̭̙̺̞̩̻̝͚̫͓̭̘̥̲̲̣̩̼̞̙̠̳̹̣̫̮̯̦͚̱̦̭̳͔̳̰̼̙̜̳̞̦̝͖̱̯̲̦̙̻̠̩͍̩̺̖̻͑̉̿̍̿͊͊̿̑̎̀̿̓͒͛͛̑̏̎́͊̋̀̄͋̃̄̒͋̔̾̋́̌͛̏̋̀̎̈́̋̔̅̐̏͂̓̃͑͑̇͒̃̈́͌́̾̿̄̏̀̒̾̈̌̀̏̓͐̈̔̈́͗̂́̿̾̋͐̃̽̄̈̂̏̄̋̏̓̔͑͑̔̌̾̊̓̔̓̈́͛̽̀̓̍̂́̿͑̌͆̍̉̊̂̔̔̇̒̐̓̂͘͘̕̚͘̚̕̚̕̕̕͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͠ͅͅͅͅͅA̸̡̧̧̧̧̢̨̧̧̧̡̢̛̛̛͚̭͈̠̯̯̻̹̣̖̠̘̝͔̥͍͈͉̖̯̭̩̻̯͕͉̝̩̭̞͚̹̭̟̼̱̱͉͍̼̯̻͍̪̮͓̼̝̟̩̫̤̫̞̲̻̗̪̖͍̙̟͎̪͙̖̦̻̝̘̭͖͙̦̤̟̼̙̤̖̭̪̖̗̘̥̦̳̺͙͖̹̯̦̤̥̥̫͇̖̖͓̹̹͍̟̗̠̬̗̮͚̣̤̭̞̲͗̓́̋̌͛͋͒̀̅̄̀̓̾̿̇̓͗̂̈́̈́͊̊̿͌̍̿̿̂͆̀̉́̄̄͆̆̑̉̀̈́̽̍̇̈́̄͒̏̂̽͐͒̓̿̿͌̄͛̈̓͑̔̑̅̃̔̈̑̐͌͑͒̀͐͒̽̃̿̓̀̎͗̌̆̇̈́̈́̑̓͊̆̈̃̄͒̓̀̆̓͛̄̋̀̑̏̉͂͆̂̿̾́͗̋̇̌̐͂̆͒̎̇̅̈́͐̒͛̂́͂̃͋̒̾͑̐͆̿͊̂̓̀͛͛͛̿̈́̂̀͊͌̈́̆̐̾͐̀̐͑̄̃̈́̏̌̔́̊̎̓͐͑͑̈́̑̐̾̽̓͛̉͛̐͌͂͛̂͋͂̈́̕͘̚̚͘̕͘͘̚̕͘͘̕͘͜͜͜͜͜͝͠͠͠͝͠͝͝͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅŕ̸̢̡̨̡̧̛̛̛̻͈̬͉͈̣̩͙̠̠͖͉̼̞̝̳̘̠͖̮̳͙̻̠̝̘̳̼͔̟̣͛͆̎̑̑̎͋̈́̒̃̀̍̎̔̄̂̐̎̄̏̂͋̈́͆́̂͌̑͐͂̿̂̀̌̈̇̈̒̈͛̔̑̑̋̃͋͒̂́͆̓̃̈́̑̈́̒̓͐̅̅̏͒̚̕̚̕͝͠͝͠ͅa̷̡̢̧̡̡̧̧̡̨̨̧̨̨̧̨̧̡̨̢̢̡̧̡̡̡̢̛̛̛̛͚͕̹̹̱̮̟̬̩̦͚͎̫͍͖̗͕̪͉͉̰̪̜̦͇̬̠͇͖͔͍̟͚̗̲͎̖̺̜͙͍͈͉̙̹̙̠̞̜͇̟̻͔̲̼̝̹̠͈̰̪̬̜̘̞͍͍͈̹͈̤̥͇̜̰͙̰̻̖͎̤̘͍̰̭̱̠͈̞̯͔͍͚͓̩̦̭̞̲͎̹̳͈̞̲̼̲̣̠̮͖̰̞̹̝͎̠̼̱̪̗̪̥̥̻͖̩͕͖̩͈̘̱͙̬͇̩̜͚͎̖̮͕͕̻̤̟̘̘̘̰̘̼̥̙̘͕̙̟͙̙͉̯̼͍̬̲̙͍͕͓̖̱͔̖̤̙̣͉̜̠̝̮̪͙͓̪̰̙͎̳͈̮̼̩̲̪͉̫̼̰͓̳̰̗̗̯̤͇̤͎͇̝͕͓͇͎̱̥͈̪͙̰͖͎͉͙̜͇̯̻͕̜̗̹̹͕̺̞̺̙͉̹͉͓͔͇̜͊͛̿̀̊̎̍̈́̈́̀̂̈̽͌̌̇́̇̈́̋͊̈̓̃͌̎̑͋͛͗̅̈̂͐͛͐̎̿̒̔̆̓̋̈́̓͆͆̃͊̽͋̽̒̈́͛̒͛͌̾̐͛̀̄̀̎̏͛̓̈̏̐̆͛̀̽͋̈́̌̽͑̐̔̈́̉̊͋̊̎̊̀̈́̅̎̓͌̓̎̐̌̓͛̎͌̽͗̐̆̀̐̊̀̅̀̃͐͑̆̐̈́͑̆͛̔̆͛̔̈́̄̏͒̈́̃̌͆̂̃͐̓̍̌̀̓̓̍̒͋̍̒͂̀̑̐͐̋̇͋̈́̂͑͒̆̔̆͛̇̉͐̀̀͌͌̾͂̈́͊̾̑͊̋̑̌̊͗̈́̎̽̅̓͛̉͌̽̔̓͐̌̀̍͗̓̌͗͆̕̕̕̕͘͘͘͘̚͘̕̚̚͘͘͘͘̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͠ͅͅͅͅͅͅm̸̡̧̧̧̨̢̧̨̨̡̧̡̨̡̡̢̧̧̛̛͔̮̬̜̭̖̺̦͕͖͇̦͎͎̮̩̠͙̝͖̩̹̟͔̭̹̹̘̰̱̮͙̼̼̮͍̺͈̥̰̠̩͍̭̣̮͖̣͎͇̱̝̪͔̺̻̳̲̳͖̬͇̭̻͚͙̱̥̫͎̖͎̟̲̳̙͉̱̲̦̗͎̩̝̯̘̜̰͓͍̖̞̫̝̻̣͚̼̠̻̺̬͚̦̦̲̟̙͍̣͇̟̮̩̬̬̖̜͉̩̗͇̣̫̠͕͖̥͈̭͇̲͉̮̖̫͉͇̪̱̤̭̙̪̜͍̼̻͉̞̞͙̭͇̱͓̥͓͉̲̰͎̪͚͓̬̣͇̤̳͎͙̞̫̗͖͙̯͇̻̳̏̀̔͛̊̐͆̒͌̅̄̃̾͊̽̏́̎̎̆͊̍̇͛͆̽̌̆͑̒͑͊̌̒͊̍̊͗̔̇̅̈̓͊͛̽͌̽͊̾͐͋͆̇̏̉̂̇̊̈́̀̒̈́͐͋̔͌̏̂͗̀̆̅̔̐̋̆̉̀̓̌̀̉͆̓̍͂͂̎͑̍̀̊̚̕͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͝͠͠͠͠͝ͅͅỉ̵̡̡̡̧̨̢̢̡̧̡̨̛̖͔̰̮̗̰̩̯͖̭͖̭͙͉̺̬͙̻̳͙͙̩̹̤̥̱̝͕̹͍͓̫̖̰̪͙̠͈̻̠͔̳͓̲̮͔͓̟͓͖̦̯̳̻̩̰͕̥̞͈̮̺̝͚̪̙̠̼͇̫͓̖͈͖̜̱̞̟̼͚͉͎͔̮̤̩͙̗͎͉̣̘̱̩͖̰̝̖̜͚̠̟̖̻̪̬͕̙̫̘̟͚̖̯͔͎͚̖͉̗͚̫͍̜̝̟̮͇͈̺̞̱̪̺̫̠̯̻̰̜̗̻̟̼̹͇͎͕̥͉͚̻͇̦̯̘̯̯̈́̔́̀̔̌̓̅͋͌̓̓̒̿̌͌̄̆̈͘͜͜͜͝͝ͅͅͅͅţ̸̧̢̡̡̡̨̨̧̡̨̡̧̢̢̢̧̨̡̧̢͚͉̞̤̤̭͇͇̯̯̥̻̱̩̯̪͕̥̬̜̘̤̦̰̬̬̰̦͓̱̤̙̻̫̝̗̙̙̦̭͚͈̝̥͉̘̲̥͖̞̹̫̦̭̗̪̪̥̟̟̰̠̲͇̖̭̩̤̠̗̮̜̠̪̳̼̦̬̦̙̯̦̗̟͇̻̲͖̟̞̲͇͖̤̮͕̝̺̘̩̼͎̱͙͕̖̪͓̘̥̝͚͉͎̣̣̗̱̩͈͓͉̳̮̦̮͉̞̲̦̙̻̮̘̳̺͉̖̦̫̬͔̲͇͇͇͈̙͈̲̪̟̞̭̦̰̜̯͉̙̫̰͙̰͓͕̞͇̝̖̞̝̱͇̮͍̠̝͖̩̞̤̺͕̭͓͉͎̬̜̣̱̤͍̹̲̝̦͎̥̠̠̼̩̮̬̝̉̍͆̍̏̄̽̓͋̓̐͑̉̒̈́̐̈́̐̒̀̿̂̾̊͒͛̃̾̄̒̑̽̿̉̂̀̒̊̈́̏̓̔̚̚̕̚͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͠ͅͅͅͅͅͅz̸̨̢̢̨̛̛̛̞̩̳͙̖̬̬̘̺̺̣̲͇̻̜͙̪̥͈̫̮̻͈̟̬̺̼̭͇̹̺̅̀̓̅̔͋̽̓̽̔̔̿̑͌̉̎̃̓͊̾͑́̒̒̔̊̀́͋̒̄̾͐͐̏̔͌̑́̎̈́͐̂̑̏͆͂̓͗͛͗́͒̽̐͋̐̓̎̏̂͆́̆̀͊̐̄͑̉͛͑̂͛́̂̿͊̇͑͂̈́̍̍͗̀͛̄̀͛̽̃͛͆̽͑̎̐̂̿̋̂̉̋̀̒̽̂͂̇͒̓͘̚͘̕͠͝͝͝ͅ
Gender: Male
Age: 18
Grade: 12th
School: George Hunter High
Hobbies and Interests: I̶̧̧̛̛̛̛̛̖̦̯͍̙͓̘̦̪͇̗̲̯̖̦̩̫̩͕̤̖͕̮͎̣͎̖͙̩̲̞̫̙͓̦̗̲̬̣͓̫͓͍͉͛̒͌̊̀̊͒̓̃̒̽͐̒͋͂́̄̉̐͒͒̇̈͋̈̉̾́̉̿̅̽̓̎̊̀̏̋̓͐͊͑́̌̋́̆̏̉̌́͑̌͗̓̎̓͂̋͆̀͗̒̈̈́͒̇̔̇̎͂̇̓̂̔̏̎̒̽̉͑́̿̒̏̓̑̈̑̾́͂͂̏͛̓̄̄̿̃͊̔̒́̿̎͒̽̈́͆̆̊͊̉̈̈́̅̆͊̐͑͑̍̀̈̓̀̅̒͘̚̚̚̚̕̕̚̕̕̕͘̕͜͠͝͠͝͝͝͠n̷̢̢̢̡̨̧̡̨̡̛̛̝̼̹͎͈̯͚͖̹̬̠͔̟͍̯̥͔̳͓͇̫͕̘̹͔̠͓̻̝͇͔͙̰̲͍̩̼̗̮̞̳̣͎̗̻̞̯͙̼̫̳̼̩̦̩̞̼̘͇̰͈̣̘͔̖̫͔̘̹̣͚͚̗̊̋̀̈́͐̄͐̇̀̽̿́̆͋̐̂̓̃̀̀͐̐̍̔̈́̀̃̓͑̓̑̈́̑̽̈́̒͐͋̆̈́͐͐̆͋̃͐̆̇͒͐̒͂̽́̆̒͑͐́͂̒̏̿͛̔̉̅̆̉̀̆̈͛̎͂̆͊̆͋͊̄́̉̾̈́͗̀̀͊̾̇̇̋̓̈́̍̀͆́̅̾̓̔̄̍̏́̄̌̍̈́̊̒̒͘͘͘̚̚͘̕͘͘̚͜͜͝͠͝͠͠͝͠͝c̸̢̢̡̢̧̡̧̨̛̛͍̫̘͈̼̖̘̺̺̜͔̗͙̞̠̳̹̖͍͎͔̬̪̮̗̪̩̦̣͔̞̩̈̈̌̀̌̃̃̈́̽̎͆̇̅̇͑͌̓͑͌̑̈̎͌̋͌͆͂̉̂̂̍͑̀͗̀͗̀̽͌͘͘͘̕͜͠͠͝ǫ̷̛̛̛̰̭̰͖̘̦̺̪̭͓̭̰̳͚͔̼̱̹̤̟͉̖͉͓̭̥͚̞̃̎̿̎͆̀͗̅͆̑͂̎̀̇̈͐́͋͆̈́̎̿́͊̎͐̾͌̏̔̂̇͂̏̓̔͆̄̔͋͊̋̽̿̓̐́̈̊̎̿̒̂͐̅̒́̑͋̎̏͊́̿́́͊͂̋͆̎́̐̿̄̎̋̄̋̇̌͂͂̓͐͆̐͌̒̎́̈́͂̆͌̅̃͋̌͗̿̎̃͌́͑̀̋̈̿͊̔͐̒̔͛̓̓̊̆̏̀̚͘͘̚̕̚̕̚̚̕͘̕͘͘͜͜͝͝͝͠͠͝m̶̧̢̨̧̢̨̨̨̨̡̧̨̢̢̡̧̢̛̛̛̛̺̫̦̩͉̘͉̙̣̜̼̣̙̰̹̙̣̪͖͈̪̝̣͔̩̪̗͔̹̙̘͔͇̼͈̭͙͚̪̯̰͕͙̠̦̱̦͇̥̲͚͍̫͍͕̝̞͙̺͚̖̖̼̤͈͍̲̮͚̫̙̹̠̠͍̯͎͇̫̗̹̯̫̟͓͕̤̠̠̰̞̙̗̯̞͓̮͇̺̦͍͍͓̰̘̻̠̱͉̝̤̣̺̩͍͈͍̳͇̹̖̱̳͔̘̪̙͈̞̘̬̥͚͔̰̩̭͎̥̟̟̞̭͓̦͚͌̑͌̂͛̓̒̍͛̋͒̾̿́̋̍̈́̒͛͂̉̄͗̔̅̋̈́͗͋̌͛̒̿̌̉͐͐̆̈̇͌̈́͂̍͛̄͗͋͑̈̈͌̂̓̉̓̿̓͆̀̿̾̊̅́͆̃̑̑͋̈̈́̅̿̇͛͑́̉͆̀͊͊̇̈́̊͌̓̽̓̓̏́̑͑̇͐̈́͑͛͐͛̃̋̈͌͆̄̂͊͒͑̃͂͂̇̓̂̈͑͐́͑͑̏̀̿͒͐͐̄̽́͒̽̀̌̈́̽͑̋͆̔͂͊̓̑̀̈́͂͑́͆̆̆̈̑̈́͆̃̓̒̒̌͋́͂͛̓͋̒͒͐͋̕̕͘̚͘̕̚͘̕͘̚̚͘͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͠͝͝͠͠͠͠͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅp̶̡̧̛̛̛̛̛̛͓̱̥̪̟̦̯̭̯̖͈̙̬̪̬̆̓̇́̄̏͛̊̀̃͒͒̒̅̅̓̍͑̌̉̽̈́̀̎̍͆͆́̿̌͒͗́̇͐̈́͒̍̆̉̽̓̀̒̀̓̄̉̏͑͑̋̎͛͒̀̎̑̏̆̽̉̒̃͐͊͑̇͒͂̊̃̿̑̆̄̌̓́͛̌̀͐͆̾̊̃̅̐̈̉͊̽̂̑͛̊̔͊̈́̔̌̓̊̿̉̾͛͛͊̀͗͆́̃̃̈́̇̏̈́̑̋̆̓͌̄̽̆̌̉͊͌͂̈́̽̈́̿̔̈́͋̈́́͒̾̓͊̈́͛̏̈́̄́̔̇̔̅̽̈̏͋̂̓̀͑͂̎̔̓̂̔̓͗̐̉̍̍̃̓͐̑̀̏̄̔̌͒̓̈͆́̑͌͛̍̍̎̓̿͌͂͋̍̐͛̋͒̃͒̂̐̉͊̕̕̕͘͘̚̕̚̕̕̕̕̕̕̚͘̚͘̕͠͝͠͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͠͝͝͠͝͝͝͝ę̸̨̢̨̢̧̧̧̨̢̨̡̡̡̛̛̛̗͔̬̟̺̥̺̺̗̖̹̤̠̘̮̩̠̤̻̲̼̺͕̫̥̺͙̺̪̭̙͓̲̲̦̺̻̟͇̘̣͙̠̖̳̖͇͉̱̗̠̗̰̝̰͖͚̞̹̼͔͉͈̬̪̗̖͖̹̦̬͇̬͕͕̩͇̞͎̩̳̙̫͓͔̹̰̱̖̙͖̪̰̰̯̥̺̟̣͔͉̺̜͓̰͍̯͉̰̥̘̦̱̟̫̣͇͚͎̬͎̖̳͚͕͚̩̰̘͈͉̺̟̯͙̩̥͔̩̻̙̻̤̖̬͖̫̖̳̩̪͈͉͈͔̭̮͍̮̻̙̜̹͕̜͚͕̦̲̥͔̪̼͓̙̦̹̙̤̰͎̺̺̆́̀̌̌̍̔̔͑̄̌̽̍̒̓͛͊͂̈́͊͊͛͊̂̀͛̔̈̏̈́̐̄͆̂̈́̅͒̎̔͑̀̽́̓́̍́̓̏́̉͑͌̅̅͛͆̿͂̆̉̔̈́̿͆̽̆̎̔͌̾̈́͒̀̎̄͆̒́̎̊̊̔̽̔̑̾̇̑̅̍́͋́͋̅̑̊̓̈̈͒̆̒̈́̔͐͌̒̂̈́͗̐̈́̀́͋̒̆́͋̏̔̒̾͊̿̎͐̈́̋͌̊̈́͆̑̄́͊́͆̎̑̐̐͆̈̈̆̋̔̋̓̐͑͆̈̿̑̽̈̉͒́͋̋̈́̐̄͛̓́̈́̎͋̈́͋̃̍̿̄̐̎͋̎̌̔̋́̊̍͌͛́̑̌̄͂̌̑̿̿͋͂̈́̍̊̀̈̄̈́́̓̽̅̓̽͒̔͌̓͗̽̋̈̏̔̔̊̄͌̆̊́͆̓̀̂̾̽͗̕̚͘̕̕̕͘͘̕̕͘̚̕̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͠ͅͅͅͅţ̶̧̧̧̡̡̧̢̧̢̢͇̦͎̰̻̖̗̳̲͈̙̗̬̹͓̜͕̘͚̞̮͍̣̪̟̝̬̗̠̙̖̻̺̟͖̭͈̰͍̱̳̣̝͓̩̯̬̦͍͈͓̳̲̪̺̩̙̞͉̺̮͓̼̠̩̣̮̬̠̩͚͔̭̞̫̮͔̝̦̰̤̗͇͍̗̜̣̝̯͈͎̙̟̖̦͖̖͖̝͚͈͚̠̖̼͕̦̣̀̒̿̑̍̇̓̈̃̉̀͋̆́̂̋̆̎͆́͒͆́̌̇̈́͂̒̉͊̑̐͌̂̉̍̏͆͛͛̊͗̾̍̄̍̀̐̌̉̾̾͆̓̂̏̾̅̀̿͊͗͌̊́̔̄̉̂̍̐͋̍̿̈́̓̉́́͋̀̑̀͋̓̋͛̒͗̋̒̊͒̓̂͂̍̋͗̑͂͆̈́̑͊̌̄̔͛̏̐̅̍̒̈̅͆̿́̉̏̆̊̒̄̊͛͋̈͋̌͋̊̈͗͒́͆͋̿́̊̓̿́̏̍̄͒͛́̾̓̓̌̀̈́̎͒̂͒͂̊͑̇̈́͛̓̉̃͛͆̓͂͑̑̃̄͐͗͊͊̄͒̃̽̅̊̔͌̐̇̊̽̉̅͗͐̓̽̈́̃̅͌̔̅͗̾͊͆̐́̆͗̽͊̃́̉̽̂̐̔̈̒͒̋̐̎͋̈́̀̈̾̃̎̕͘͘͘͘̚̕͘̕͘̚̕͘͘̕̕̚̚̕̕̚̚̕̚̕͘͜͜͝͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͠͝͝͠͝͝͠ͅê̶̢̨̧̨̢̢̢̡̢̡̧̧̧̢̨̢̡̢̡̨̡̧̡̨̡̡̢̧̡̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̝͓̱͇͈̰͎̖̤͚͓̦͎̭̹̮̥̝͈̩̹͈̰͍̹̪̬͖̘̻̖̼̳̩̖͚̦̤̲͖̭͇̟̣͉̞̲͙͍̟̙͉̹͖͚̲̠̦̗̝̤̼̜̯̲͈̞̪̜͕̞̲͇̗̹͎͉̗͓̱͙̪̗͈̜̟͍̫̻̬̟̖̰̝̦̙̮̫̞̖͕̦̬̩̟̩̜̼͇̪̯̖̥̰̱̣̰̼̝̗͚̹̼̬̯͓̮̲͈̘͉͇͙̗̝͕̹̗̯̳̗̞̥̟͕̦̭̖̱̥͕͍̘̻̞̯̮̪̻̠͚̤̪̜̝̣̖͎͈̞̰̻̙̘̭͈̟̫͍̠̣͇͚̮̹̪͚͍̳̘̬̣̭͉̰̯͚̻͖̦͔̯̜̞̠̼̥̲̱͉͉͈̗̭̹̙̳̺̹̹̞͓̙̥̹̠͓͈̰̫̲̞̳̙͔̝̣̯̼͇͗͛̀͊̈́̓̈́̋̋̀̐̔̿̉̌͊̓͆̒̀̏̿̒̒͑̈͒̅͒̉̇̏́̒̀̓̅̋̒̈́̑̔͂̊̀̋́͂͑̒̅̔̑͆̊̆͑̽̋̋͛͊͂̑̌̎̎̌͆̃̐̈́̂͐́̑͑͛̀͆̽̈́̈̏̈́́̊̋͗̈́́̐̓͋̋̐͋͛̃̔͗̆͗̌̄̄̾̾̽̓͛̉͊̏͂̀̎̊̀̉̐̓̈́̅͛̾̀͛̈́͌̊̈̏̒̆̈́̃̐̀̉̀͑̐͆̑̐̉́̄͋̐͋̿͗̈́̐̓̆͛͗́̄̓̄̂̀̏̈́̃̎̊̉̍͋͛̎̍̈́̃̀̐̿̀̓̿̓͗̀͐̀͗͗̋̀͋̓̐̂̈́̾́̓̍̑͑̆͑̃̇̐̾̒̄̐̿͛̀̓̒̚͘͘̚͘̕̚͘͘͘̕̚̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͠͝͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅņ̶̨̢̡̡̡̡̧̡̢̧̢̢̡̨̨̨̢̡̨̢̛̺͎̥͚͚̯̙̫̭͍̝̥̝̖͖̳̬͉̭̮̪͙̬̞͙͔̫͖̣̹̯̗͖̩͇̺̪̹̻̩͈̼͙̙̱͈̗̥̞̰͚̖̫̲͈̹͇̗̥̜̣̞͇̭͇̗̥̜̖̤̰̻̝̝̗̮̦͖̘̖̤̘̬̜̥̥̭̙͔̥̟̞̝̥͖̙̫̰͈͍̭͎̯̭̦̝͚̻͉̬̭̣̜͓̭̬͉͚̜̲̮̘̹̱̞̻͈̱̲̲̯̹̲̪͈̟̜̮̩̠̰̦̯̤̮̹̝͍̼̘͎̂́̈́̆͂̐̂́̾̀͂̑͗̽̒̀̿̎̊̂̾̉̊̅̄͐̅̂̓́̽̀̊̔͌̇͐͋͑͆͋̂͗̂̌͆̆͊̃̃͒̎̌̄̽̀̔̈́̓́͐͋̑͒̉̉͒͛̾̆͂̏̿̔́̕̚͘͘͘̚̚̕̕͘͜͜͜͜͝͠͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͝ͅͅc̴̨̡̡̢̧̡̡̢̨̨̨̡̡͔̣̠̥̼̰͕̤͓͚̰̖͈̖̟̤̻͎̬͚̰͍̣͖̲̞͍̻̞͉̟̘̮̥̭̬̻̲̭͇̪͉̗͙̦͚͎͖͖͙̳̳͖͖̙̼̤̬͇̣̻̟͖͔̭̦̗͕̦͙̠̯̳͈̰̪̖̼̗̠̤̮̯̹͇͇͔̩̯̤̤͙̱͔̩̰̙̯̣̞͚͎̥̹̟̥̠̙̦̫͔̬̯̪̟͎̼̗͇̓̐̽̎͑̒̇̇̈̐͊̀̎͑̈́̄̏̈́͛̾͆̒̉͂̌̍̃͒̅̑̈͋͋̀͗̒̆̄͆͌̍͛̇̓̃́̍̓̄̄̇͐͊͋̃̊͑̽̎̐̋̐̐̀͑̏͑́̅̈́͌̀͒͑̕̕̕͘͘͘͜͜͝͝͝͠͠ͅͅͅe̷̡̢̧̨̨̧̧̢̧̡̨̢̨̨̡̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̥̬̻̞̻̞̳̤̣̣̻̲̦͙̪͕̪̳̝̖̥͓̻̱̲͓͚͕͙͎̪͓̳̙̥̞̪̺̪̣͚̭̯̪͉̤̬̩̟̰͕̠̺̮͕͖̮͇̩̤͍̭͕͔̞̝̠̘̗͉̠̤̼̫̼̭͍͇͕̤͉͈̙̻͇̥̫̜̟̙̮̝̣͇̫̘͉͕̲͔̺̬̼̣̠̞̦̹̙̤̟͍̘̣͉͙̺͉̰̻̦̝̥̭̝̤̤͈̝̜̱̘̖̱̮̬͍̩̳̖̝̭̞̦̣̖̗̭̬̱̲̘̼͙̪̖̙̻̜̝̯̰͓̺̯̳͂̀͋̔̔̄̈̄́̀̏̎̋͋̒̊͂̽͗̽̏̂̒̏̌̈̈́͌͆̋͛̓͐̐͗̃̿̈́͑̿͗̃̃̓̃́͒͒̅͗͛̓̐̀͐͛͋̓̊́͛͆̈́͐̋͐̽͗̄̈̉͐͗̑͒̓̀͑̾̔̿́̀̈́̿̉̄͗̾̓̈́̌̓͛̇̽͂̅̑͆̒̂̒͗̃̓̍͑́̍̄̉̃͗̏̍̐̃̄͋̊̇͒̈̄͑͂͑̊͌̾̇͑̾͑̄̊̐͌͂̅͋͛̓̏̄́̑̀͆́̇͛̋̇͌̒̀̒̌̽̓̒͑͊̋̈́͋̍́̈̽̓̈́̿͊̈́̿̈̿̓̅̈͂̓̅̓̇͌̎̄͑̓̏̇͆̒͂̏̃̈́͂̽͗͗̒̓̄͌̈́̓̑̄͑̐͌̈́͛̈́̓̇͒̂̄̉̾̿͆̂̎̎͛̔̏̈̊̕̕̕̚͘̕̕͘̕̕̚͘̚͘̕̕̚̕͘̕͘̕̕̚͜͜͜͝͠͝͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͠͝ͅͅͅͅ, Jesus, His Momma, Hunting, Fishing, Loving Every Day

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Appearance: Carl is roughly 5'2 and 102 lbs, with a slender build shared by no other male student in his class. A lack of discernible muscle mass combined with a perpetually submissive posture implies that he is a servile weakling who has long outlived his use and should return to ơ̵̢̡̢̨̜͎͉̜͓̬̭̦̫̳̗̻̰͙͔̺̱̠͔̝̱̰͚̭̞̪̫̲̮̼̲̰̿̈̇̇̌̀̿̽̈̿̑̑̀̃̓̈̆̿̑̀̽͊̂̌̅̏̃̓̇̾̂̓̈́̀̊̾͒̓̓̈́͌̇̊̃͗͋̇͌̓̇́̚͘̕͘͜͝͝͠b̴̢̢̨̢̧̧̨̢̡̨̨̧̨̡̨̧̢̡̧̡̢̡̨̧̛̛̛̳̗͖̮̗̩͈̦̲̺̮̺͓͈̼̞̟͍̣͎̥͓̙̗͉̭̺̣͉̱̻̜͙̼̫̩͉͖̟̣̬̗̠̙̯̣̖̼̘̻̞͕̜͔̻̞͖̖͈̱̗̖̲͖̳͔̭͈̮͇̩̪̟̤̯̰̟̥̲̹͉͍͚̪̝͚̦̻͔̞̥̻͇̼͉͉͍͚̯̲̪̳̯͕͕͔̩̤̫̯̞͕̙͖̯̫̖͖̮̠̗̤̦̮͚͈͔̠͕͓̤͉̥̼̲̳̗̳̙̪̦̻̥̭͇͙͈̗̙̪̝̹͔͙̦̹̼̫̝̳̣͈͖̻̠̻̖̯͚͓̭̟͉̤̣͓̼͈̹̣̲̱͚̙͇̦̥̼̩̘̳͖̺̻̤̜͈̫̲̖̖͚́͊͗̃͆̄̈̓͂͂̏̏̌͂̎͒̍́̐̊͌̒̒̽͑͋̐̂̆̇̔͆̅̅̏̒͊̓͒̆̀̒̈́̏͐̊͛͒̌̈́̇̊̍͆͛͌̄̀̅́̇̈̀̃̎͊́̀̍̂͗̈̆̈́̈́̉͗̊̀̍̈̀̽̽͗̄̾͆̽͊̉̈́̀̆̏̆̄̕̕͘̕̚̕̚̚͜͜͝͠͝͝͠ͅͅͅͅͅͅş̸̛̛̜̮̘̙̬̗̰̘̰̍͆̔̊͛̾̌̑̃̓̉̉͒́̽̉̒̀̽̄̑̒̈̀̒̆͂̾̊̓̀̑͛̀̿́̾̌̀̄̈̅͆̅̌̾́̀̎̉̎͋̉̍̽̽́͌̀̈́̎̇͋̐̈́̄͊̈̈́̎́̉̾̽̀̚̚͘̚̚̚̚̚̕͘̕͝͠͠ç̸̧̡̧̡̧̢̡̧̡̧̨̡̢̡̛̛̻̭̳͍̤͍̦̲͇͎̪͎͍͈͉͕͔͈̝̹̤͎̹̞̘͔̬̞͕̙͇̮̩̺̮͇̣̲̲̳͉̳̦͚͔̰̹̪̞͉͈̼̦̯̜̘͇̞̦̲͎̭̜̣̝̬̙̲̼̟̥̰̲͕̜̬̙̳̠̱̳̣͉͇͖̦͍͓̰̥̦̥̦̞̠̰̳̝̞̠̙̖̮̹̭̼͎̥͒̉͛̑̍̈́̈̿̀͂͑̋͊̓̈̀̅̽͂̏̂̿́̋́͐̃͊͐̂̒̓̒̊̊̑͛̐̌̒̿͐̒̌̈́̿̏̉͗̀͆̊̀͊̔̓͆̊̏̐́͗̌͒̔̓̈̿̀͋̑̏̃̕͘̕͜͜͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅư̷̛̛͖̙̰̆̂̽͌̒̅̎̌̈́̽͌̄̐̂̓̈́̎̆̓͐̆̿̊̄̃͊̀̅̄͊̏͊̈́̎͛̉̈́͐͛͋͛̒͂͛̐́͛̋̓̔͋̿͒̈̈̄͆̐̍̈́̑̊́͊͑̋̀̇̍̐̈͋̎̎͂͗̓̓̉̿̉̓̉̉̈́͑̎̐̾̊̀͐̀̾̐́̿́͛͆̈́̾̈́̍̀̋͆́̎̿͊̈́̆̋͑͌̍̓͋͊͋̂͊̑̽͂̊̌̌͒̓́͋̃̾̏̃̇̈̋͐̆̐͑̏́̑͋̇̀̿͑̀̌̓̃͋̍̄̀̈̈͊̑͋̈́̌̈͂̃̀͛̄̂͆̌́͗̄͛̓̚̕͘̕̚̚̕͘̚̕̚͘̚͜͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͠͝͠͠͠͠͝r̴̡̢̢̢̢̨̡̡̡̧̢̡̢̨̢̢̡̢̧̧̢̡̧̡̢̛̛̛̛̛̞̻͖͕͙͕̼̻̗̬̺͙̩̪̦̹̠̘̣̘͈͉͚̫͕̬͙̺̣͚̙̜̭͈̬̟͙͔̪͙̝̙͓̼͎̻̩̦͉̬͇̗̣̲̦̳͚͍̝̟̤̹̺̤͖͔͍͓̘̯̳͔̤͕̪͈͉͎͙͖͓͖̻̠͎̼͙̺͓̯̱̟͇͇̝̲̣̣͔̼͙̰̪̮͖̣͎̪̙̻̦̥̻̳͍̜̙̣̺̝̯̱͖̹̣̳̲͎̗͈̬͍̙͇͓̝̟̳̬̰̟̟̼̠̱̥̲̖͚͉̻̠̞̼̯̞̘̘̖̮͙̻͙͖͈̤͚̺̤̙̞̲̺̳͓̘͓̪̠̗͎̳̟̼̝̼̘̰̻̝͇̠̼̳͇̲̯͖͙̪̠̩̤̩͓̫̩̹̭͚̪̤̣̜̰͔̪͓̻͎̣͎͎̟̰͚͉̩̭̻͈͓͍͔̖̞̲̲͕̙̮̰̯̻͉̟̖̙̄͋̅̀̈́̓͋̏̎͊́̇̽͒̀͆̈̋̄̅̓̈́̅̓͆̄́͂̄̍̎̂̉͂͊̓͊͗́̂̀̃̎̆̐̆͊͒̏̎͗͊̆̄͌̑͂͐̽̌̀͊̈͂̄͂̽̈̂̽̉̉̓̓̋̐̊͆͑͊͐̀͋̏̉̏̓̒́͆̉̓͆̂̂͒̔̌̈́̾̓̌̓̑̍̉̑͆̄́̊͆̈́̃̈́̋͗̿̅̀̔̇̍͒͐͛̉͐́̇̍̓̏̽͂̊̋͘͘͘͘̕̚͘̚͜͜͜͜͜͠͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅĩ̷̡̡̛̛̛͎̯̭̹̠͔̜̩͎͓̲͔͈̞̦͔̈́̊̆̋͐͌̉̃͆̈͆͆̉̐̓̿̾̋̑̀̎̊̐́̃̄͌̋̏̈́̏͌̈́̍̓̋̍̊̿̀̌̽̆͆̇͑̓̆͊͋̉͛̅̀̉̌̚̕̚̚̚͘̚͜͝͠͠͠͠t̷̡̡̡̢̢̨̡̢̡̨̧̡̧̧̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̗̪̺̘̘̦͇͕̖̬͓͍͇̫͍̯̤͍̹̤̥̗̹̮̗̦͕̺̻̞̦͔̝̮͕̬͔̼̞͙̤̝̭͔̮͙͙͙͉̩̯̝͎͖̣̫̖̪̳̖̳̱̲͚̘̲͓̗͇̙̖͎̻̹͔̱̦͔̠̦͕͚̞̣̪̗̪͙̝̮̼̮͔̦̻̻̺̣͇͔̦̫̗̳̠͈͖̖̼͔̱̻̦͇͖̠͎͈͙̙̻̺͙̥̯̠̪̠̤͚͚̜͍̼̫̙̱̭̞̺̗͚̪̱͍̖͙̗̆̄̏͆̆̀̾̄̀͒̉̒̀̀͆̅̈͂̆͒̇̅͒̃̔̆͆͒͐̄̌̾͛̇̊̾̀̔́̂͐̈͐̊̀̐̌̇̒͊̾̐̌̋͗͑̐̉̾̅̈́̂̓̆̇̄̈́̑͊̊͐̒̂̿̂̓̅̐̾͛̾̏̿͗̊̄̓͛̒́̒̄̆͑̆́̌̾̃̐̈̓̌̿̑̈̎͊̅̑̒̊̀̑̏̿̓̔̎́͋̀̏̈́͗̐̈́͛̅́̎̋͂̀̀̽̐̽̿̈́͂͆̈́̑͐̓̑͌́͐́̊͑̅͒̀́́̆́̇́͊̽͂̎̂͌̔̓̓̊̒͆̔͊̊̿͊͂̈́̒̀̄̓̾̈̈́̇͐̆͒̎͂̕̕̕͘̚͘͘̕͘̕̕͘̕̚̕̚̕̚͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͠͠͝͠͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͠ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅy̴̨̡̡̢̢̢̢̧̧̧̧̨̧̨̢̧̡̡̨̨̧̡̧̧̧̢̛̛̛̛̲̦͓͉̗̩̪͍͓̹͓̱͓̣͎͎̖͍͉͔̣͍̬͈̩̙̠͈̟̙̹̭̙͈̙̼͚̣͎͇̠̲̟͍̪̗̜̥̣͚̗̯̥͈͔̭̬̤̗̜͉̙͍̞̬͇̬̮̮͈̼̙̫̻͙̪͕͖̰̮̞̦̬̦̳̘̺͙̯̺̹̟̲̼̳͚̰͎͚̖̩̬̠̖̻̜̥̫̩͍̪̟͍͇̝̥̻̠͔̬̭̠̖͓̣̘̭͈͓͍͖̤̠̖̱̥͉͉̱͍̖̳̪̪͈̯̥̗̙̥̞͚͇͓̫̪͎̫̩̞͖̲͔͎̝̺͈̺̬͍̖̥̤̱̆̔̒͒̂̏̌̀̆̾͂̅̒̈́̎̆̈́̂̌͂͆͒̄͛͐̇́̈̒́̽̈́͐͒̓̎̃̃̈́̈͒̊͆̄̏͑̃̍͛̈́͛̏̑̍̆̂͂͗̄̒̓͒͛̿̓̈́̈͗́̈̈̂̎̄̓̾͒̊͊̉̀͋̈́̄̍̋̇͊̀͒̄̓͂́̄̈́̀̏̔̎̅̈́̍̀̄̅͒̂̾̀̔̿̈́̎̅͆̈́̔̓͐̌͛͛͐̈́̔͑̀̽͛̑̔̃̍͗̚̚̕͘̚̕͘̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͝͠͝͝͝͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅ where he belongs.

Carl is painfully Caucasian with dark hazel green eyes, a Roman nose, and thin lips. His jaw and brow appear wider than they should and from certain perspectives his face appears more angular. It is always dirty and dotted with thin, unconvincing stubble he has drawn on in a pathetic attempt to appear more m̸̨̡̛̛͓̻̖̙͕̘̙̻͉͇̱̙̫̼̪̻̯̲͈͔̫͚̼͚̹͇̹̞̤͙͔͙͇̜̬͚̳͓̝̮̒̽̽̾̀͗̂̏̓̊̃̓͊̊̊̒̑̓̇̈́̓̀̐̒͛̄̒̈́̈̊̃̊̈́͂̃̃̈́̔̎͑̆̇̏̄̀̀́̉̉̊̄̈́͂̈́̈͒̂̈́͂̔̄͗̂͒̐̂̏͆͗̂̅̑͘̚̚͜͠͝͝͠͝͝͠a̴̢̨̛̛̹̜̥̟̺͎̗͖̳͉̻̺̫̞̰̙̮͓̼̝̜̱͔̱͓̙̰͉̩̘͖̻̮͎̭̺̦̹̞̮̼͈̱̭̥̦̰̤̞͊̐́́͊͂̎̀̎̓̇̀̔͑́̏̍̅͂́̌̔̄̒̋̈̀͊̃̋̎͑̅͛́̄͗̈̈́͛̀̌͒͐̀͒̉̇̓͒̽̀͌͑̿̈́͒̍̓̆̍̈́̂̐͐̂́̍̽̂̌͛́̿͊͛͛̈́̋̎̅̍͂̄̑͛̃́̑̔̄̑̋̒̉̒͛͋̈́͂̃̅̾̔̃́͌̒̈́̓̐̋̌̎̓̎̀͌̾̋̔̀̄̍̑́̃̀̓͗̓̉̀̾̓̃̏͆̄͌̀́̾̓̓͒̃̾̈́̓̕̕̚̚͘͘̕̕̕̕͜͜͝͠͠͝͝͠͠͠͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅs̵̨̨̲̲̞̘̠͈̬̫̹̲̱̙̫̺̙̗̱̩̬̙̺̹̲̜̜̲͔̟̖̻̥͍͔̩͖͉͐̂̓̈́̾͋́̂̾̊́̆̒̍̆͌̈̿͑̓̃̈́̂̉͌̾̐̇͗͐̆̓̈̈́̐̓͗̓̌̆̔̉̈͋͊͒͗͊͆̊̔̔̓͒̆̇̚̕̚͝͝ͅč̵̨̨̧̨̨̡̡̢̢̧̢̧̧̢̡̢̛̛̛̛̗̰͇̭͈̫̜̜͈̙̱̠̝̗̗̖̪̪̥̙̫̫̘̺̟̹̻̩̫͎̬̤͇̳͙̹̻̺̱̫̞͓͚͚̠̬̬̘̩͎̮̙̠̯͈̯͈͎̪̪̗͖͕̲̬͉͈̰̫̞̙̲̜̗͍̝͚̖̘̱͙̭̹̯̻̖̫͇̣͇̖̩̜͉̥̦̫̬̞̞͓͇͈̙̭̞̦̦̘̗̞̝̤̺͓͕̹̰̘̗̗̼͍̠͕̩̭̠̘̩̳̭̣̜̝͙̺͍̮̻̞̜͎̥͚̗͖̼͙̟̘̱̦̆̎̐̾̑͗͋̿͊͛̋̈́͒̀̎̍̀̉̈́̊͒̄̐̃̂́͂̿̐͊̍̊̎̎̈́̿͐͐̓̐̀͒̑̊̃̐̈́̚̚̕̕̕͜͜͜͜͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅư̴̢̡̢̨̨̨̢̢̡̧̡̯͙̭̞̼̲̖̣͚͙̩̘̫̰̠͇̥̙̣̝̼̘̫̟̯̱͈̳̫͍͕̮̬͍̣͉̺̮̼̩̦͎̭̫͍̤͙̼͔̪̳͓̗̹̳̥͙͖͍̹̲͍̼̭̳̤̮̪̹͓͍̯͙̻̪͎̗̗̖̮͎͔̳͔̭̳̩̳͉̠̼̣̳̥̞̠̤̱̜͔̗̥̙̪̫̮̥̣̜̘͍̼̗̖̹̲͇͉̥͔̫̟͓̺̯̦̺̋̈́̉̈̍͂̓̈̈́̆̀̈͛̿̈́͆̊͗̉͐̓̇̽̍̆͛̎́̊͜͜͜͜͝͝͠͝ͅļ̵̨̨̧̧̡̘͚̰̼̘̠̣̺̮͈̖͍̱͔͓̥̦̩͎̫̫̠̻̜̖̙̰̻̹̝͔̱̞͈̦̰͕̖̭̖̳̤̠͉̻̱̫̞͇̱̟̼͔̩͖͍̈́͑̉̆̏̔̋͊̆͛̔͗̍̂̏̾͊̿̽́̃̽͌̎́͒̑͋̐̚̚͘͜ͅͅi̷̧̛̛̛̛̛̺̮̇͆̔̅̓̒̂̈́̑̅̈́͗̈́̿̃́̒͆̐̂͐͑̓̆́̉̓̏͌͌̓͐̈͛̽͌̏̈́͋̈́͛̍̿̎̔̋́͑̆́͒͋̊͐̇̉͒̔̔͌̾̾̌̎̄̾̒͑͋̍́͛̓͛̈́̀͐̈́̀̔̌̍́͌̎͌̓̀͒̿̉̌̆̊̈͂͛́̏̓͑̈̈́̓̓̂͆͆̅́͒̏̈́̀̐̂̍̏̆̉̀͐̒͊̀͒͘͘̚̚̕̕͘̕͘̚̕̚͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͠n̷̢̢̢̡̡̧̧̧̧̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̯̠̺̼̤̫̪̙̖͔͕̬͓͇̱̬̲̣̬̯̪̟̞͉̹͖͙̟̖̱͇͎̭̞̞̣͇͕͇̞̪̣̫̮̮̗̞̖̲̣̣͉͖͈̩͕͖͖͚̝̟̱̜̳̟̯̗̙̰̱͗̓̈́̓̄͑͂̓̎̏̈́̅̔͂̅͐̈͋͂̀̄̾̋̂̽̉͗̈̾̄͆͋͂́̅̍̃͒̅̃̄͑̓̎̎̽͆̐̄̈́̍͊͐̌̊́̔̋͂͗̀̾̐̋̅̇̐͑̀̀̈́͑͑̒̓̑́̂͂̈́̾̈́͋͋̂̊́̃̀̀̂̎̋̌̈́̔̏̿̔͛͒̄͑̾̀̿́̏̾̐̾́͋͊͒̓̎͌̂̈́̃̄̇̈́̀̋̆̓͂͊̆̈́͋͑́̅͌̈́͐̆̄̿̓͗̈́̀̈́̍̔̈́̔̐̍̑́̓̀̒̏̓̌͐͑͒̃͑̐͂̎͗͋̓͑́̓̾̀͋̿̊͐̾́͊͂͛̊͊͑͛̀̉͛̔̄̆͐̈́͗̄͆͗̄̏̉̉̑̆̔̐̒̈͆̂͆̏͌̑̾̌͂͑̒̅̍̄͑͒̔̈͒͗̐̏̀͛͘̕̚̕̚͘͘̚͘̚̕̚̚͘̕͘̕̕͜͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝ͅͅe̴̡̛̛͈̬̮̦̺̘̯̯̒̿̅̊̽̏́̂̿̓̓̈́͋̑̀̋͐̉͑̋̑͐̽̆̈͊̍̍́͊̾̈́̓͐̓͌͌̓̈́̌̄͂̈́͌̈̽̄̍͋̊̋̽̿̈̌͊̏͆̿͂͒̅̌̇͆̿͊̌̽̈̌͂͊̿̈́͛̑̇͒͗̀̓̀̂̅͊̀̈́̋̊̽̋̌̑̑̉͂̀́̓́̉͗̀̃̐̇̓̋̇̊̽͂͛̀̇̆̊̀̀͆͊̄̅̆̔̀͗͂́̍̋̑̐͆͆̈̓̇̾̑͑͐̒͌͐̑̈̑͋͋͐̾̓̒̏̃̓̑̑̓̂̀̂͋̈́́͊̈̐͊̀̚͘̚̚̚̚̕̚͘̚͘̕̕͝͝͠͠͠͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝. It does not work.

Carl speaks with an irritating over the top Southern accent that could be taken as mockery if he possessed the spine for it. Otherwise his voice is tinted with neurotic energy. It is clear he tries to keep it unnaturally low but raises into a nasally whine when nervous.

Carl wears w̵̡̨̢̧̡̧̧̨̧̧̢̨̩̪͙͉͕͎̩͙͚̪̖̯̗͇͈͎̖͈͙̟͇̼̦̞̬̪̩̹̰̘̪̱͍̪͓̯̖̻̞̤͈̝͇̩̝̘̲͙̞̥͕̞̙̤̩̘̙̣̦̫̪̤̯͚͓̩͎̳̮̗̳̘̲̥̘͚̲͔̹̭͎̮̗͉̞͎͈̭̟̝͍͓̥̭̹͙̙͕̰̣̯̲̗̰̱̺̱͕͚̞͎̻̳̰͕̺̫͚̪̲̝̙͖͙͕͕̫͓͎̫̘̫͚̗̟͕̬̳̳͙͔͔͈̙̯̹̻͕͎͙̱̫̰̼̗̬̫̤͎͈̜̠͉̖̙̖̹̩̠͍͔͈̣̙͇̲̳̬̜̯̜͔͍̲̠̯͎̲̩͔̠̰͚̖̖̩̖͎͇̞̞̻̟̘̮͍͖̟̟͔̱̭͙̙͎̪̫͈̩̺̺̦̫̯̔͐̀̔̈̈͑̿̎̌̀̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅḩ̶̧̢̢̧̧̧̨̧̡̢̢̛̛̛̛̛̱̹͇͕͉͎̭̮̤̗̮̥̟̝̞̻͍͍̲̞̦̻̜̺̱̯̳̥͚̘̬͎̠̗̲̮̭̝̜̫̳͈̠̞̗͍̼̯̱͇̫̘͈͔͇͍͚̞͓̲͖̹̝͈̦̥̞͓̺͕̟̘̝̮͇̺̹̲̤̖̝̺͉̝͎̰̬̳̤̫̼̫̠͙̺͓̜̯̱̳̥͙͎̩̞̥͎̺̣͊̒͂̎̐͌̌̐̎́̈͌̋͆̿̿̌̐̔̋͐̏̇̄̅̄̃̂̂̂͐̈́̉͊͋̽̂́̌̌̆̾͊͐̀̂̐̅̈́̉̓̏̋͂̇͂̀́̊̀͆̽̊̌̈́͋̈́̏̔̑̈̈́̿͛̀̌̃̋̍̉̐͊́̾̍͐͂̉̾̌͊̄̀̐͂͂̅̈́̀́͒̾̐̀͂́̒͛͛͋̓̇̽̽̒͛̄̽͌̈̉͒̈̆͌̔̎̀̈̈́̎̄̄̎͗͒̈́̏̔́͂̈̊͛̓̍̎̀̽̄̿̈̊̉̓̊͆̀̍̑̓͐̓̾́̍̄̈́̿͐̏̇̀͑́̆́̍̂̿́̀̃̈́̉̿̈̏̿̅̓̏͌̈́̆̌̓̾̃̒̍͊́̏͊́̊͌͊̈͌̀̍͛̑̒̈́̑̆̒͛͗̀̓͗̅́͆̽̆̔͌̀͛̃́̀̈̌̌́̊̇̕̕͘̕̚͘͘̚̕͘͘̕̚͘͘̚͘̚̕̚̚͘̕͜͜͜͝͝͠͝͝͠͠͝͝͠͝͠͝ͅą̵̨̢̨̨̨̧̢̧̡̧̢̧̨̱̬̭̩̣̻̟̥͎͍̮͓͎̱͖͚̥̟͇̞͔̗͙̠̱̭͍͈̞͚̖͉̫̘̣̤̪̣̝̦̝̮̪̖͙̺̝͍̥̼̭̘̳̳̲͈̯̯̳̼̩̪͕̞͓̰͙̺̹̯̳̗̗̬̞͖̩̫͖̳͎͈̟̪͈̱̰̯̙͔̻̝̠̳̺̹͍͙̬͇͎͍̹̰̮̯͍̩̤̝͙̺̠͚̮͍̮̥͚̬̼̮̦̘̜̜̱͎̦̬̻̰̳͖͕̗̣̮͔̲̱̤̙͓͈̼̰̼̼̙̜̰͚͍̲͍̻͔̫̬̝͓͔̹͉̪̪̤̱̪̺̥̹̲̪͍̦͓̰̼̙̯̟̞̲̏̑̇͋̈́͗̓͋̔̈̀̆͆̽̔̐̇̽̈́͗̃͊̇̔͆͗͑̒̂̈́̊͒͑͗̀͂̀̿̉̍͐̔͌̍̎̈͆̈͊̃́̃͌͛͗͋͋̇̿́̅̾́̓̒̊̈̽̑͌͑̿̓̄̈́̅̏̊̾̉̑͐͌̔̑͘̕͘͘̕͜͜͝͠͝͠ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅţ̵̡̧̨̡̡̧̡̛̛̛͎̝͖̝͍͙̟͈͎̜͍̬͔͈̟͓̹̘͖͙̮̫̤͉͓̜̜͎̜͚̪͍̳̯̝̥͈̱̹͖̭̥͕̥͚͉̭̙̥̮͉̲͇̟̘̻̋͑̅̽̂̈́̏́͆̍̀̐̈͐̅̅̈́͌̍̈́͐̒̔̆̓̍̀̃̆̀̉̍̋̔̏͐̍̍̏̍̓̋͐̽̽̊̿͂͑͑̃͑͆̒̀͑̓̈́̽̀̍̀̌̽̎͌̒͐̽̒̓͋́̿̓̀́̍̏̕͘̕͠͝͝͝͝͝ê̶̲̼̜̪̳̼͕̜̦̭͖͑̉̀̈̂́̇͒͑̂͝ṿ̵̡̢̢̢̢̧̡̢̨̧̢̢̡̢̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̻̱͍̻͎̻͓̭̜͔̣͙̣̞͍̣̺͔̭̲̲̱͇̹̥̹͉̳̳̳̼͉̜̼̲̭̣̟̖̹̳̯̘̟̭̦̠͎̤̻̣̱̺̞̰̘̼͚̬̺̣͚̜͈̪͚̤̭̮̪̯͕͈̲̩͍͇̦̟̬̭̜̰̼͎̙̱͙̮̲̙̗͔̝̗̦͔̮͖͇͉͕̳̳̻̫̳̘̫̼̟̮̻̦̜͕̼̞̬̯̩̺̮͚̟̦̜̦̪̫͍͈͍̹̳̹̘̜̪̺͉͕̘̱̦͙͇̼̙͚̜̠̼̘̙̳̹͙̣̪͍̪̙̘̤̬̠͈̥͕̤͇̭̻̲̜̪̱̮̖͖̥̳̣̣̙̤͎͙͇͚͖͍̬̲̻̮͚̫̖̫̤̳̯̣̜͎͙̰̼̭͎̱̯̰͍͙͉̮̩̠̯̲͑̇͆̀́̎̆̈́̀͆͗̄͂̌̎̀͂̀̄͋̈́̓͆̒͆̊̍́̅̅͋͂̀̓̔̌̓̍̇̋̐̌́͆̀͑̄́̐̐̂̾̑̀̆̀̾̋̀̈́͆̔̈́̆͑͂̔́͊̀͒̽̿͋͌̐̂̀́̒͋̉͊̈́͆̔͆̂̓͗͂̑͋̈͊̓̾͗̐̎̃̂̄́̑͑̈̌͂̇̈̏͆̃́̀̔̓̍͂͛͊̉̃̉̎̎̿́̀̈́̏̾̄̈́̅͆̓̔̄́͂̃̅͒̈́̐̀̈͆̈́̽̂̈́̓̀͊̔̎̎͌̽̏͆͑̍̀͂̅͛̈́͛̿̾̇͊̏̄̒́̃͒̉̄͒̊̾̈́̊̎͑̓̅̈́̍͆̌̏̓̾̈́̈́͑͊̔͛́͐̂̆̍̈́̋͋̅̄͂̊̏̈̈̃͆̏͛̔̽͆̓̑̓̏̀̍̀͗͗̆̔̚̚̕͘͘̕̚͘̚͘͘̚̕͘̕͘͘̚̚͘̚͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͠͠͝͠͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͝͠ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅę̷̨̢̡̢̡̡̢̨̨̨̢̡̧̡̨̧̡̨̧̧̨̡̢̨̢̛̛̛̛̛̛̛͙̯͍̻̰̙̳̥͉̹̲̥̳͈͇͈͍̩̤̻̩̦͓̫̳̜̹̞̭͙͉͙͚̪͙͇͙̖̭͉͖͎̠̣̹̞̝̜̺̫̦̲̯̹̘̤̩̙̘̲͍̮͉̠̙̯̲͈̼̝̥͚̠͇̤͈̬̼̼̘̠̜͖͖̼͔̮̝̝̠̲̩̤̝͈̥͎͕̪͎̠͙̱̯̲͈̙̳͎̩̮͕̹̣͍̱̭̹͍̩̣̰̼͚̭̩̝͕͖͕͙͚͍̩͍̤͇̮̤̮͍͍̩̱̩̳̫̻̝̫͉̝̰̭̜͓̹̳̟̩͙͈̰̯͓͙̮̦͕̫̘͙̣͚͔̣̳͖̫͇̭̤̣̺̞̠̺̳̟͔̘͔̞̠̺̭̱̳͙̭̪̗̳̰͍̳̠̲̹͓͙̲̗̳̼͚̰̰̼̹̲̦͔̖̘̲̺͍͒͑͗̊͐͂́̅̈͆̾̈́̓̓́̍̎͆̊́̈́͂̍͒̌̃́͋̎͂͋̈́̅̍͒̀̿͑̅͂̌̆͑̆̇̈̋̅͛͊̄͛͆̀̾̾͂̔͗̎́̓̊̌́̀̄͌͑̏̀̈́̆̀̈̉̏͆̔̈̓̋̉̐̽̌͛̀̏͆͑̃̓̊̒́̈͆̈͌̀̈̈́̿̿̿̎̀͑͆͛͗̿̈́̌͌̄̇̈́̌̄̑̔̑̐͌̅̓̓̓͊̄͊̂͋̇̋́̆͑̉̾͌̔̄̓̅̋͛͑̃̓̀͋̇͛̉̔̿͋̈́͑̄̓͒̈́͌̃̀͒͗͐̿̍͑̾̉͛͑̃̋̂̃̀͂͗̋͌͂͑̈̂̽̂͌̅̿̆̊͐̇̔̇͑̓̎͗̈́̏͋̏̇́̍̑̎͋̀̿̋̒̐͗͗͗͘̕͘̚̚̚̕͘̕̕͘̕͘͘̕͘͘̚̚̚͘̕̚͘̕̕͜͜͝͠͝͠͝͝͠͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͠͠͝͠͝͠͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅr̸̨̢̨̛̛̛̛̦̯̖̼̗͖̠̹͙̼͎̳̲͙̙̠͉̹͕̣̪͈͚̭̼̗̼̭̺̗̠͓̦̖̞͒̑̋̋͐͂͑͗̑͒̌̎̃̉̃̿̎̇̊̌̏̋̔͛̋̔̒̾̀͐͛͆́̆͑̾̀̈̇̎́̅̾͋̿̿́̎̅̇́́̿̈́́̏̓̔̿͐̌͗̓̈͐̂̐̋͛͛̅̄͒́͐̈́̅̈́̇̎̆̾͊̇̇̂̇̿͆̀̾̔͛͗̂̿͛̀̈́͛͌́̄̔̿̅͑̒̅̑̏̑̌͂̐̏̐̾̀̒̎̊͆́̊̏͌͌͂̌͐̈̓̈́̍͆̽͆́͋͒͗̊̿͒̆͌͆́̇̔̓͗͒̃̽͑͊́͌̌͋́͋͆̇̿̃̾͆͌̾́̀̃͑͋͌͌̄̉͂͑̾̄͗̽́̽͗͛͛̌̈͆̊̎̓̅͊̿̏̽̚͘̕̚̕̕̚̚̚̕͘̕͘̕̕̚̚͜͝͠͠͝͠͝͝͠͝͠͠͝͠͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͠͝͠͝͝͝ͅ ̴̧̧̡̡̧̡̛̛͔͕͈̪͎͎͙̟̖̜͇̱̜̜̘͖̣̟̻͕̬̙̜̘̩̦̙̫͛͛̔͋́͂͆̀̀̒̊́̓͛̌͒͐͂̈̔̀͋̀̑̾̉̈́́̓͆͗̓̓̒̈́̅͆͋̂͆̌͋͆͗͆́̈̉̏̾̽̄̍̿̒̌̋̍͗͋̓̓̐́̐̍̀̒̓͊͋̈̊̌̎͐͌̌̀̎̎́̒͊̄͆̽̀͛͒͗̀͗͐͆̓̆̍̐͗̌̽͒̅͊͌̓͆̏͌̂͂͆̄͛̄̀͒͊̽͋̈́̆͗̆͋̅̂̀͋̾͋̿́̍͛̇̇͂̍̋͛̐̇̂͆̉̏̇̓̔̕͘̕͘͘͘͘̕̚͘̕͘̕͠͝͠͝͝ċ̸̛̛̛̛̞̩̜̗͇̥̗̬̈́̈̏̒̈̐̍̉̇̾̒͐̇̆̀̀̿͌̌̊̿̆̐͊̎̈́͒̀̒̃̽̌̀̏͌̃͊̓͋͌̌̂͂̽̀̾̆̄͒̓̏̎̈́̀̐́́̅͋̊̀́̈́̓͊̇̈́͆̎̀̈́͑̓͑̂͂̿̉̃̍͊̈́̂̽̽́̌͒͛̔̔̽̓͆́͛̊͆̐́̎̈́̀̈́͒̄̀̓̀̈̽͑̏̽̂̀̏̑͆̌̉͌̀̍̉̓̈͒̓͒͂̔͒̓̈́̉͗̃̌͗̀́̊̎̈́̈́̔̏́͂̏̈́̑͂̇́̎̈́̓͒̾̇̆̀̀͋̓͋́̇̄̿͑̿̀̇̚̚͘̚̚̚̕͘͘̕̚̕͘͘̕͝͝͠͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͝a̷̢̧̧̧̡̢̡̨̡̢̢̢̡̢̧̢̛̛̛̛̛͓̯͕͔̫͎̞̳̙̯̰̠̺͕̻͖̼̪̟̻̱͎̞̹̦͉͔̝̜̰̦͙͎̺̠̬̩̭̤̖͖̹͚͍͕͓̜͔͚͈̼͚̟̲̙̳̖̭͇̜̭̺̼̗̞͈͔̳͖̖̝͚̳̦̟̻̞̖͉̩̥͉̜̣̘͓̮̟̖͓̤͔̪͈͍̦͈̭̦͍̞̗̖̬̮͍̝̣̳̻͔͕͇̫͎̥͕̮̘̬̤͙̳̜̣̬͇̮͍͎͇̤̼͍̰͍͔̮͍̱̩̳͕̹̟̥̝͙̹̞̘̹͊͒͑̈́̏͐̿̈́̓͊̆̐͂̈́͆̋́̑̌̍̄͑̀̌̿̃͗̾͒̏́̈́́̆̊͌͆͊̐̇̐̑͒͊͌̑̀̐̊̍̎̒̌̅̃͋́́̊̏͋̎͆̾̅͛̽̓́́͂͐̂̇̈́͗́͑̀̃̈́̈͘͘͘̕͘͜͜͜͝͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͠ͅͅͅṇ̶̨̧̢̧̡̡̡̧̢̢̧̨̨̡̢̧̧̢̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̯̪̦͓̖̜̮͚̤̞͓̳̻̘̘̫̦̣͚̹̳͇̟̲͕͇̮̘̲̜̼̻̩͙̺̦̟͔̱̖̠͓͎̣̱̜̱̝̯͖̪̬̜̬͎̖͚͉͓̭͍͔͓̤̮̖̩̻͙͉̟͖̱̯̻͈̺̙̦̣̫̟͔̱̠̥̜͍̘̖͚̳͖͍̮̙̮̼̥̰̲̜̮̳̗̬̲̝̱͕͈͖̪͍̥̓̀̿͋͂̎͆͑͛͌̑̏̍̋̒͊̐̋͑̿̑͌́̈́̽̃̆̎̋̉͂̆̿̎̽͂͐̋̂̓͊͛̾̓̏́̅̿̎͑̀̃̒̓̐͒͐̈́́̅͑̀͌̐̐͑́̋̓̾̏̅̃̈̒̔̓́̍͗͂͋̿͂͂̀̋̇̀̐̋͛̒̈́͛͆̒̀́̽̍̔̈́̄̀̆̽͊̅̃̈́̏͛̈́̑̓̃̃̇́̐̿͆͗̑͊̔̏̓̈́̉̄̎͐̅̉̋̂̀̂̑̄̅̽͗̏̓̈́͊̽̉̂͋́̓͌̒̓̌͂́̽̾͋̈̔̽͛̍̌̉͂͌̃̅͛̄̆̉̋́̐̊̌̂̃́͂̎͐̌͂́̐̕͘̚͘̚̕̚̚̕̕̚̚̚̚̚̕̚͘͘̚͜͜͜͠͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͠͠͠͝͠͝ͅͅͅͅͅ 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̷̧̨̢̡̢̡̨̨̢̨̧̧̢̧̡̢̛̦̬̟͍̠̠̙̬̞̰͕̭̹̙̗͕͇͍̼̜͈̼̝̪̟̠̭̘̲͕̖̻̰͇̙͕͙̬̣̼̥̺̫̫̻̬͙̝̝̗̝̠͇̠̭̠̮̣͕͓͎̲̟̪̫̗̖͙̦̪̖͕̠͖̟̲̲͔̝̟̲̥̫͔̦͖̦̜̹̝̩̩̝͙̯̭̯͉͙̘͕͇̹̘͚̥̙̿͊͆͂̓̌̉̄̄̎̃̆̀̓͒̊̓̔̉́͒̅͗̈́̈́̊́͂̀̄̿͌́̐́̈́̑̄̂̈̊̃͆̀̍͗̋͐̾̍̑͑̍̀̽̑̔̓̅̀̈́̇̃̅͋̎͌̃̋̌̕͘͘͘͘̚͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͠͝͠͝ͅͅs̷̡̨̢̢̨̡̢̡̢̢̡̢̨̢̧̢̧̢̢̡̡̧̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̘͈̘͖̰͓̼̲̤̜͍̪̩̰͚̺͔̩͙̲̫͔̩̝̗̼̜͎͈̞̪̰͙͔̯̝̪̞̬̗̻͚̰͇̣̙̫̻̱͉̻͙̹̰̩͓̗̼͎̱̲͙̦̜̱̥̝̱̲̪̭̪̼̰̝̻͔̫̱͎͚͕͎̦̪̲̳̟̙̥͉͓͇̯̭̮̻͍̣̼͔̰͕͚̰̗̗̰͉̱͉͍͓̠̬͍͓͇̭̥̪̩̘̰̝̠͉̜̱̪͎̯̤͙̬̙̳̯̰̗̻͉̟̩̹͓̼̭̬̞͉̱̠̥̱̼̪̫̝͓̣̦̺͕̞͙̠̲̻̩̲͉͚͚̰͉͙͓̩̱͖̠̪̞̮̫̗͖̪͕͉̝̞̬̠̦̮̝͇̭͕̗̻̲̜͕͙̮̫̠̥̗̬̊̽͛̀̔̐̓̽͆̓̊̈́̑̎̂̀͒̀͑̿͛̓͋̇̈́́̎̌͛̀̇͂͒̔̌̐̂̄̀̏̅̏̈́̇̔̈́̊̃̔̑̓̈́͌̅͗̈́̎̌̈́̂͊͌͆̉̈́͌̀͛͌̏̈̈͂̾̑̀͛͋̃͛̐̄̏͗̾́̿̀͛̽̊͑̈́̒̾͋̓̿̔̂̾̃̓͛̈́̈̓̒̀̇̊͒̈́̀̾̿̄̾͗̌̂͗̅̈́̒̌̈́̈́̄̃̒̄͑͋̊̐̑͗̿̅̇͌̍͊̈́͒̋̈́̑̆͒̑͗̃́̓̓̓̎͋̄̋̓̋̒̔̒̓̅͑̀͒̑̍̒́̽̏̀͂͐̀̏͆͐́͗͌̋̔̃͒̈́̒͒̾̇͗́͗͛̂̍́̆͛̽̾̅̍̑̆̄̅̏́̈̏̃̿͆͒͑̎̐̀́̉̽̅̈̀̀̀͛̌͌̈̔̆͋̇͘̕̕̕͘̕͘̕͘͘̕̕̚͘̕̕͘͜͜͜͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͠͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅt̶̡̧̧̢̡̢̛̛̫͈̪̝͉͖̝̻̥͖͓̲͕͓͈̹͓͈͕̭̥̳͖̩̣͖͍̫̜̥̬̟̩̞͈̤̳̖̥̞̝̦̰͈̯̱̻͙͔̥̳̞͊̈̃͂͒̿͋̂͑̾͒̋̊͑͆̔̀̆͂̌̅̾̿̿̀̌͆͂́̄̂̈́̈̊͌̐̉͋͗̂͗̀̈́̿́̈́̽̍̏͑̿́̎̌̈̐͋͂̏̇̉̈́͆̈́̓͑́̀́̽͐̑̔̓̂̾̓͆̓̏͒̈́̀̑̅̋͒̔͐̌̅͑͑͋͆͂̏́̂́͂̋͂̊̃̀̈̈́̀̎͋̿́̀͒̐̿̏̅̓̃̆̈͐̽͑̍̒̎̈́͌̋̀́̏̉̾́̈́̓͗̓̾̅͆͗̂͗̌̎͂̍͌̏̑̎̆̉̅̈́̋̊́̈́̋͑̄̎͊͊͂͂̓̌̌̽̅̀̅̈́̈́̀͗́̾͂̎̎̃͐͑̈́̅͛̎̿͑̎͌͒̉̑͊͒̏̄̌͒̂̅̈́̄̍̐̄́̈͊̋̾͑̽̈́̌͗̈́̿͗̀̓̆̑͂̃̂͑͗̅́͗̋̎͋͌͑̕̕̚̚̚͘̚̚͘̚̕͘̕͘̚̕͘̕̚͘̕͘̚̚̕̕͜͝͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅơ̶̢̢̨̨̡̢̨̨̧̧̧̡̡̢̡̨̨̡̡̡̡̛̛̛̛̛͔͕̠̞̟̠̥̼̞̪͓̝̯̟͉̲̝̰̣̬̟͕̩̲̣̟͚̖͇̞̻̞̤̘̗̤̦̹̤̮̥̞̝̝̦̻̲̬̩̜̗͙̦͈̥̘̥̖̼̲̦͙̮͈̼͖̬͉̬̹̟̺̮̖̩̹͉̣͖̗̘̯͇̗̫̯̹̱͚̩͕͙͚̤̤̳͎̣̹̹̩̮̮̹̫̪͎̲̲̙͍̗̱̲̲͙̯̪̗͓̙̦̺̫͚̮͕͔͓̰͉̖̼̪̪͎͓̤̭̠̝̬̙͙̮̩̤͓̳͕͓̦̣̹̠̣͓͎͎͔̺̘̱͍̯̼̺͕̝̩̲̙̺͈̬͉̰̩͉̹̩̬̱͍̞̤̤̟̝̖͓̘̭̦̖̗̳͇̜̹̜̻͙͔̏́̓̎̔͌̓̅̀́̾̌͛͆̓͑̈́̇̆̐͑̀̓͊̈́́̈́̇̃̋͗̎̔̈̏̊̐̊̋̓́͊̈́̅̾͆̓̄̓̏̅̊̿̀̾͋̿̆̀̃̑̇͗̄͋̔͐͋͆̈̑͐̀̋͑̇́͐̊̈́̓̋̈́͆̆͌̎́̋́͂͛̀̈́̀̇̈́͑̒̍͐̌̃̀̃͂̈̇̀́̄́̊̍̆͑̈́̿͛̈́͑͆̋̓́̓̎̐́͊̑̇͂̐́͆͑͆͐̃̀̓̌̋̒̌̉͌̐̎̀͊̏͆̄̅͌͛͛͂̾͊̊̓̏̚͘̚̚͘͘̕̕͘̕͘̚̕͘͘͜͠͠͝͝͝͝͠͠͠͝͠͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅl̴̡̡̡̨̢̨̡̢̨̧̢̧̡̨̨̡̨̨̧̡̡̧̧̢̡̨̧̡̡̢̡̡̨̛̛̛̛̺̫̜͓̰̪͉̜̼̜̮̙͖̘͚̗͈̺̟̣͓̬̙̫̤͕̪̻̫͕̭̩̼̻̮͇͎̣̮̤̪͖̱͚͇̠͇͉̖͓͔̟̤̞̖͍̲̹͇̙̣͍̬̹̗̟̱̺͚̪̳̙̘̗̘̲̝̱̰̯̖͇̰̳̝̝̼͙̳͙͍͓͇̪̞͙̭̬͚͚̜̻̰̺̺̯̬͔̘͓͎̖͉͓̠̹̺̲͇̳̱͚͙̙̳̪͚̞̥͓̺̘̩͇̰̞̻̖̬̹͕̲̞̹̩̣͇͖̼̦͔̱͔͕̗̙͔̭̘̳͔̳̖̻͇̦͍͉̳͕̘̣̳̤̞̹̠̫̪̪̭̩̣͕͔̠͍͕̫̞̤͙͙̮̞̼̥͈̻̬̦̘̤͎̣̫̻͛͂̍̉͛͂̎̇̆͒͑̍̄̂̋̿͋̎̓̑̓͋̋͐́͂̈́̾̇̀̌͊̄̿̌̂̇̾́̄̓̽̐͊͆̆͋̍̏͐̉͒̀̈́͋̃̉́̑̾͂̽͒̉̃̆̑̈́̐̈́͑̋͛̎͆̈́̂̆͐̑͛͛̀͊̅̈́͛̿̓̓͛̅́̏̄̆͆͌̀̈͒̊́̃͆̄͛̓͗͊͂̐͛̈́̂̈͌̾̚͘͘̚͘̕̚͘̚̚͘͘̕͘̚͜͜͜͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅe̸̢̨̡̧̡̡̨̧̨̡̢̡̡̢̢̧̡̢̛̛͚͈̰̺̳͇̭͚̻͔̳̪̲̜̝͉͓̜̲̪͚͓͖̙͍͕̼̫̭̳͖̤̜̦͔̜͔̹̝̭̠̫̟̟͉̘̗̯̜͓̩̙͉̜̙̮̺͖̞̝̗͉̝̙̝̜̤͔̬̦̻̞̬͔̩̳̱̫͇͕̺̬̖̣̥̦̭̜̗̹̤̯̬͍͈̲̞͎̼̣̭̱̝̞̰̠̠̯̺̺̥͖̰̹̱͖͍͇̝̰̳͇̦̝̞̼͔̪̣̗̝͕̲̠̙̥̣̫̣̣̝̖̰̭͖͈̺͎̫͓̦̫͓̺̘͎̼͇͚̤͖̣̘͓̲͈̬̱̘̟̬̤̣̳̝͙͉̲͓̲͓̞̥̮̥̰͙̘̝̲̗̖̯͇̯̯̜͇̳̾̈́͗̐́̒̀̈́̿̓̀̍̏́̌̀̂̈́̉̒̒̅̈̋̓̀͆͛̉̆̌̈́͛̂̈́̇͌̀̈̈́͛̂̌͌̄̑̇̆̀̀̆̇̏̋̀́̀̄̍́̌̄̈̈̈́̑̂́̐̀̄̀̈̐̓͛̈́͊̾̐͆̈́̀͒̓̀͊̎̈́̃̇͋͊̈́̀̑̉̈̾͌́̇͒̍̔̅̃͘͘̚̕̚̚͘͜͜͜͜͠͠͠͝͠͠͝͝͝͠͠͝ͅͅͅͅͅṉ̵̡̢̨̨̢̨̨̡̧̢̛̛̛̛̛͚͈̦̮̤̝̩̖͇͙̼̥̝̳͉̗̣̠̰̻̯̪͔̹͚̥̲͍̪̣͍͍̟͚̘̪͎̭͇̩͉̣̥͖̘̙̜̹̹̞͖̱̌̋̈́̆̈́̀̿̈́́̈́̐̑͗̄͊̈́͆̀̇̄̂̎̋͂̃̀͂̆̎̽̑̈́̍̄͐̂͐̀̍̈́̉̈́̑̓́̎̂́̿̔̄̓̍͐̈́̽̆͗̃̀̓̈́̉̀͛͗͛̃͛͑͋̈́̉̇̀̆͛̉̀̆͊̈́̂̓͊͗͑̔̀̌̈̂͂͊̽̓̎̈͌́̃͛͐͂̽͊̅̓̈́̔͆̀͛́̉̊̅̈̉̋̉͋̑̊́̈́̉̅̃̿̏͌́̾͐͊̅͊̒̈̇͋̈̈́̄̌̊̎͒̄̈́̆͑͛̽̀̽͑͒̔͋̂̀̐̃̑̌̎͂̽͗͐̓̿͑̄̾̄̊̾̓̔̋̄̊͛̐̾͒̀̍̽̓̈͌̽̉̿̔̔̒͆̿̽̇̊̑͒̇̑͑̒̿̅́̌̉̽͑̈͋̇̿̉̏̄̔̔́͊̋̀́̍̽̕̚̚̕͘̚̚̕̕̕̚͘͘̚̚̕̚͜͜͜͝͠͠͝͠͝͠͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͝ͅ with no attention to fashion. On the day of his ą̶̨̧̨̨̢̢̡̛͕̣͍̻̜̯͍̜͓͈̦̦͓̣͔̥̮͓̯̩̰͍̞̜̫̲̩̳̱̥͎͙͙̱̼͙͍̭̖̳̺̞͚͙̙̰̠͚̭͚̜̞̣̝͓̳͚̙̝͈̝͓̪̲͈̮̫͖̳̻͚̱͎̮̥̳͖̤̥̯̗̩̼̤̯͈̤̞̞̖̳͈̃̈́͑̇̍̿́̍̇̈́̾̄̉͛̓͐̽̆͒̓̍̑͐̄̂̎̐̈́̾̀̄̐̓̌̓͋̓̌̎̐̏͊̈́̓̿̍͑̂̈́̾̈́̈́̄̎̎͛̈̍̎̽̎͌͐̑̏̓̎͐̊̓̊͆̈́̋̏͋̆̒͆̆̌̐͛̐͑̽͌̓̕̕̚̕̕̚̚̕͜͜͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅs̴̢̡̨̢̧̧̢̛̛̛̛̛̛͈̮̼̬̬̯̬̘̭̝̟͙̻̭͓̦͖͚̘̮̗͕̭̯̬̥̦̲͓̙̭̺͙̰͍͉̪͇͍̺̥̻̠̮̠̖͔̬͙̤͉͔̗̰̘̖̹̻͙̰̹̼͍̖̦̪̥̰̼̖̩͕̜̱̞̫̥̫͇̰̰͙͉̫̭̮͙̯͙̜͛́̿̀̍͆͊̃̐͒̐͌̋͂̋̅̃́̀͒̃̆͒͂̈͆̅̎̀̍͊͌̍̉̅͆́͗̈́̈́͌̇̾̎̄̓̇̍̇͋́͐͂͊͑̿̇̒̎̄̈́̍̽̽͂̂̂͆̑͐̐͑̌̃͊̈́̅͌͑̒͂̾͋̓̆̾̇̐͂̅̅̈̂̿́̈̓̍̏͑̀̊̄̏̿͂̅̐̃̍́̊̈̔͗̊͆̈́̆̇̂̃̄̇̉͑̐̋̎͂̊̄̅̽̓̀̾̐̊̾̃͆͑̋͑̊̔͑͂͆͊͆̆́̚̚̚͘͘̚͘̚̕̚̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͠͝͠͝͠͝͝͠͠͝͝ͅͅͅc̶̢̢̨̨̧̡̢̡̢̡̢̡̡̧̡̧̡̧̧̢̡̧̢̢̨̧̨̢̧̛̛̛̛̛̼̩̹̫͓̹͕̯̰̬̖̻̞̩̩͉̬͙̤̪̗̜̼̹͓̯̩̮̬͖̣̟͍̲̭̩̱̖̱̮̯̦̲̣̹̠̱̺̩̠̻͕̘̣̦͙͍̠͎̯̺͔̰͎̖̼̘̣͔̥̩̭͇̤̗̠̟̣̗̞̣̣̤͕͍͇͇̙̪̠̲̘̞̫̼̭͓̹̼͔͍̩̫̞͔̬̞̣̺̥͈̟̦̭̗͔̦̖͕͔̲̯̳̣̙̠̘̳̲̯̘̟͚̺̬̞͉̺̭̖̭̪͚̺̖̦̺̜͓̰̘̥̭̳̘̫̲̫̩͎͚̜̮̠̰͍͚͚͈͖̱̙̞͔̠̬͖̳͍̱̼̺͖̟͈͍͇̗̗̤͓̣̳̰̬̟̞̥̖͖̳̳̬̤̫͇͍̣̲͇̦̮͈̦͎͉͙͔̬͇̜̜͖͕̰̙͎̳̫̬̙͖͖̦͍̥̀̀̊̓̓̔̔̀̃̎̐͛̀͊̇̔͑̾̋͌͌̊͂̾̔̌̏̔͆̅̓́̄̈́̀̆͌́́͌̈́͐͆̍͋̐͒̓̓̎̄̓̿̎͌̿̎͐̽̅̒̐̈́̇͌̐̒̀̌̆͂͗̎̽̄́̊͐͛̿̌̓̇̓̾̉̈́̃̈̈́̓̐̅͋̅̋̈́̽̿̓̓́̿̂͂̍͑̑̀̿͌̒̀̉̽͛̆́̌̓̔͘̚̕͘͘̕̕͘̕̚͘̕̚̚͘͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅe̴̢̡̧̢̨̨̨̧̨̡̡̧̧̛̛̛̛̛̹͎͈̱̺͚͎̺̤̳̠̩̲̦̟͙̻͈̭͖̯̫͎̺͚͖̰͔̠̞͔̼̙̰̼͇̖̻̣̯̙͖̯͍̻͚̗̙̥̪̥̭̻͍̰͖͚̬̖̯̘̖̟̝̼̙̰͙̫̮̻̦͈͚̭͈̰̗̟͓̱̜̤̼̬͓̦̘͈̩̘̰̝̩͖̰̖̜̼̹̖͙̝͖͇̜̘͓͉͔̦̯̲̥̘̞̫͖͕̤̻̭͓̗͕͈̟̪̺̯̲̹͕͗̀̉̈́̋̈́̈̂̈̇̊͂̋̐̾̆̅́͌̒̽̔̀̈́͊͌͐̿͆̓̈́́̈́̄̾̽͊̾̊̌̋̋͋̋̈́͑̀̄͑̄͌̈́̈͌͗̉̉͋̈̃̐̇̈́̅̈̌͂̀̏͊̄̂̈́̉̌̎͗͂̔̌̓̽͑͑͛͒͛́̃͋̒͌̂́̅̀̒̌̋͋̉͑̒͌̏̈̒͌̈́͋̌̇͂͆͊̐͐́̑̎́̌̆́͆̈͑͐͐̿̀̈͂͌̏̒̀̂̓͂̐̅͂̊̏͆́̌͂͐̅̈́͆̃̈́́̌̇́̀́͋̈́̅͗̿̃̂͊̈́̈́͛͋̂͗̉̄̈́͌̿͋͗̕͘͘̚̕͘̚͘̕͘̚͘͘̚̚͘̚̕̚̚͜͜͜͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͠ͅͅͅn̷̡̧̢̨̧̧̨̧̡̡̧̡̨̡̧̡̢̡̢̨̯͍̭̦̘̣͔̻̯̥̪͉̮̤̝̘̙͎͍̞̭̲̞̹̪̘̲͚̜̺̪͎̖͙̖̹͇͎̥͎̪̹̻̦̮͕̻̳̮̤̯̯̱͍͖̼̙͇̳̲̰͎̜̣̲̰͙̬͖̭͖̹̖̹̼̗̻̼̗͖̬͇̮̩̪̗̼̙̟̦̳̤͕͓̫̹̠̝͍͍̩̲̮̻͔͓̮̝͎͕̻̩̞͖̻̘̥̱͔̗̘̖̦̥̱͚͉̻̖̖̞͙̪̟̝̲̫̮̹̪͎͍̪̥̥̟̝̘͓͇̲̗̮͎̫͔͉̣̹͖̖̤͎͓̤̺̖̟̮̣͇̘̟̱͚̝̘̜̣͚̺̠͉͎͉̹̻̜̳̗̩̦̞̻̯͔̝̝̞̱̗͉̭͍̠͉̼̯̫̝͇͙͙̣̭̲͚̮̘͈̭̻̘̫͙̣̘̜̪̬͓̦͈̯̭͉͈̤̳̺̼͓̟͐̋̿̋̓͋̉͆̊̈́̔̆̑́̽͒̂̓̿̅͂̿̎̚͘̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅş̶̡̨̨̡̡̡̧̡̡̢̢̨̢̡̨̡̢̡̨̨̛̛̛̟͕̹̙̝͈̻̮̙̞̥͕̙̥͓̲̮̥̜̥͇͓͉͎͓̥͖̻̤̠͖͖͈̯͓͚̩̟͕̦̗̘͕͍̭̱̲̱͖̲̦͕̰͔̼̠̪̰͓̣̲̦̤̻̩̟̼͕̤͙̳̖̜̹̫̯̲̱̪̘͍̲͔̹̞̯̪͖̩̺̠͈̣̣͕̩̠̗̦͓̺͕̣̱̲̼͔͓̞͚̺͎͓͔̙̻̣͎̖̥͓̯̖̣͈͍̙͓͕̹̣̫͔̙̹̤̪̜̻͚̜͖̯̰̙͈̘̻̦̳̳̣͎͇͇̳͓̭̼̞͔̘̙̫͕͎̩̦̻̼͓͇̱̟̹̦͖̻̜̙͕͔̖̝̠̪̭͚̬͔̻̬̭̜͉̞̮͍̞̲̟͍̬̱͚̯̹͇̪̫̤̮̖̲̬͒͌͑̎̍͌͊̋͑̂̓͌̇̏̋́̾̅̂̇̑̂͑̀̀̐͊̎̏̇͋̽́̓͒͂̽̀̆͒̾̍̑̑̓͛͆̋͊̾̎́͒̎͂͐̅̑͗͌͆̏̿̾̈́̈́̒̈́̔̂̑͛̋͋͐̾̈̉̑͆̂͛͑̏̐̈́̑͗́̿͂̀̓̀̈́̀̍̄̈́̓͊̂͊́̈́́̅́͊̃̈́̈́͌̉͐̎̊̈́̅̉͆̂̉̐̆̅͋̇́̾̇̔̈̑͑̎͆̐͋̎̾̌́̆̆̂͑̇̾̈́̌̃͛̌͛̈́͌̀̏̿̂̎͆̎̑̍̅͒̎̓̅̾̆̓̋̍̈́̽͊͋̄̽̿̀̔̈́̽̓̌̒͂̅̓̑̈͊̽͑̓̒̈́̑̃͋̀̋̍̄̔͋́̈̿̑̽̋͆̌̓̂͗͑̈́̆͗̅̈̑̒̎̽̀̉̑̅̾̅̓̀͗͌̾͆͘̚̕͘̕͘̚̕͘̚̕̚̕̚̕͜͝͝͠͝͝͝͠͝͠͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͠ͅí̴̡̨̡̧̧̧̨͍͍̠͙͈̯͉̱̗͉̯̩̟͎̦͇̯̗͈̦͖̝̩̦̲̘̜̲̺͈͈̼̹̘͇̭̙̼̻̲͉͙͎͓̝̩͈̟̠͎͔̻̙̦̩͖͔̼̬͍͙̖̻̭̩̹͐̋́̐̑̂̾̔̏̇͊̄̈́̿̃̌̓̂̎̈͊́̍̀̀̀̄̌̽̊̔͒́̿̔̀̈́̀̇̑̿͛͌̀͗͌͋̊̀̓̏̄͛͂̃͆͒͐͛͋̆̽͒̐̄̒̓̃̽̓̄̔̓̇̇̋̏̓̒̓͊̌̌̿̿́́̌͊̽̈́͌̑͗͛͛̊̎̏͛͌́͒̋̌̌̉̃͛̋͌̐͆̑͘̕̕̚͘͘͜͜͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͠ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅơ̶̧̢̧̨̢̛̛̼̯̩̤͕͈̥͇̟͉͖͈̙̻̞̰̻̥̘͓̰̟̖͙̘̱͇͙͎͕̺͎̺̝̱͖̱̣͉͙̟̟̖̮̘͈̮̙̱̖͎͙̜͍͙̫̭̹͍̦̭̠̻̼̞̪̜̖̩͍̦̥̻͔̹̳̥̠̯̻͚͉̼̖̞͙͖̣̙̯͖̮͓̳̆̀͐̆̊̍̏̉́͐͋̑̓̓͌͌͌̽̓͑͌͛̒̐͒̾̍̂̓̏̿̂͊̋̏̄̉̽͆̍͗̾͛̐̈́́͆̄̿̈́͒͐̅̈̾̈́̇̑̅̒͑̏̏̀͌͛̓́͊̊͋͑̈́͋̏̄̑̀̃̃̎̐̊͊͛̌̇̅̉̋̈́͛̆̑̾͊̒́͌̑̂̾̃̏̊̆̌͆̽̍͒̎̾͊͂͊̔͐̉́͆̀̐́̑̔̔̋̃̒̔̈́̃̈̾̋͛͊̑̋̒͛̉͛̅͌̉̓̒̓̽̋͒͋̅̒͊̀̈́́̿̈́̆̓̄̀͊͑̍̀̍́̅̋̀́͌͌͘͘̚͘̚͘̕͘̕̚͘͘̕̕̚͘̕̚͘͜͜͝͝͠͝͠͝͠͠͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅñ̵̡̧̢̡̡̢̧̧̝̞͚̱̤̘͈̹̳̜̼͔̲̫̻̰̥̱̯͍̟͙̺̗̠̘̺͈̲̼͖̗̮̫̣̬͔͔̟̰͚̗̯͓̞̺̪̲͎̯͇̹̭͈̲̞̘̝͕̺͕̘̦̖͖̼̹͙̳̳͎̤͍̥̳̩̥̦͕̙͇͔͓͇̱̜̳͔̭̤̍̈́̈̾̀̈̏͛̈́̑̈́̎̃͌͛̃̄̍̂͒̂̈́͛̃̄̒͌̾̎̚͜͜͝͝͝͝͠ͅͅ he was wearing a black t-shirt depicting horse head and the phrase "Heaven is closer on a horse," blue denim shorts, and a multi colored pair of ragged sneakers. In defiance of all reason he has since acquired a brown cowboy hat with a thin tan belt around its middle.

[Emprexx Plush]

Biography:Carl was born in the late evening of June 10th 2018 to B̴̧̢̧̧̡̡̨̨̨̧̧̢̢̧̡̢̛̦̺̯͎̲͙̫͕̣͉̪̻̙̖̠͕̝̘͉͚̠̻̻̺̥̖̘͍̰̰̪̦̘̝̫̰̝̺̼͓̟̪̜̫̘͓̪͎̗̻̝͉͇̗̻̤̩̺͚̝̫̟͔͈̟̤͖̹̠͕̘̻͚̦̞͕̠̞͎̩̙̠̜̭͎̰̙̥͖̹̬͈̞̣̱̯̩̬̝̣̯̰̦̼̤̲̖̳̦̥̦̹̭͙̦͉̳͉̬̭̙̘͖̲̝̱̠͓̻͚̱̖̰̜̘̠͙̦̤͚̖͍̮͎̫̜͉̭̭̰̘͈̣͛̍̾͌̑͛̋͐̑̇̋͐̍͒̆̓͊͂͌̉̋͒̆͌̓́̂̒̈́͐̌͂̋͑̓̓̋͌̌̓͒͐̏̂͑̀̔͆̈́͆͐̌́̆̂̾̾͆̂̃̈́̈́̇̒́͛̾͘͘̕̕̚͘͘̚͘͘̕͜͜͜͝͝͝͠͝͝ͅͅͅļ̷̢̡̡̛̛̛̣̩̮̗͚̼̤̹̮͓̤̯͓̞͚̟͓̳̖̒͆͋͒̋̌̈́̈͂̌́͒̋̑̀͗̑̄̽͐́̀͆̓͌̊̓̀̿̍̔̾̀̍̌̄̀̋̓͋͂̏͒̔̆̍̊̆̆̓͐͑͒̅̄̿̐͛̏͋̈́͋̀̎̃̔̊͑͊͌̐̑̅͊̃̈́͂̈́̈́͆͆͊̊́̈́́̌́̌͌̑̐̐̍͑̔͒̅̾̆̀̌́́͛́̏̐́̿̍́̏̑̏͊̅̐̂̉͛̍͑̍͂̿́̀̈́͒͒̇́̋̑͊̐̃̔̓̿̔̆̒̓͐̍̃̍̈̊́͆̒͒̏͂̒̀͒̏̅́̇̇̽́̌̑̍̈́͌͋̄̆̔̒̎͗͂̀́́̒̑̆̒̋̋̌͐͂̿̌̋̒͐͋̒͊̾̀̃̓́̈̆̾́̓̑̃̐͐̾͌̑̂̄̓̏́̄͌̆̑̾̎̽̿̉̑͆̉͘̚̚̕̚͘̚̚̚̕͘̚͘̚̚̕͘͘͘̚͘͘̚̕͝͝͝͠͠͠͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͝a̶̛̛̛̛̛̳̘̮̟̖̩͎̬̫̦͈̰̤͖̺̭͖̲̣̝̯͊̎̂̈̿͗̓͌̔̀͋̈́͂́͋͌̀̉͛̌͂͗̊́̓̏͂̆̅̋̾̿̑̅̐̅͒̉͑̅̈̒̓̂͛̿͗͂̀̌̑̊̽̀͗̈́̂̀̈́̽́́̈́̑̓͛̂̍̌̇̊̔̀͑̇͒̈̈̑̌̑̉̅̂́̈́͒̂͂́̃̍̀̓̑̀͐͌̇́͒̈̓̄̐͐̆͗̓̊͆͗̅̐͐̽͋̿͒̅͑̐́̌̀͗̌̈́̆͐̐̇̀̋̀̏̍͒͐͘̚͘̕͘͘̕̕̚͘̚̕͜͝͝͠͠͝͝͠͠͝͠͠͠ͅͅỉ̶̡̢̡̢̢̢̛̛̛͍̰̳̤̲̝̩̙̭̬̇̄́́͆̀͒̾́͑̀̽̈̀̂̈́̐̊̒̓̈̂͊̅͋͊̀̏͊̈́͊̊̌̔̄̿͐̆̈́͗̋͊̓̉̅̄̿̀͛̆́͗̈́͐̀̑̎̃̇̾̈́̆̅̓̈́̃͛̀̏̃̐̆͛͋̏̂͂͊̈̽̀͛̍̉̔̔̿̆̽̈́̒̌̓̇̓͗̃̈́͛̓͑̒̀̿̾͐͆͊̈́̈́̂̐̆̈́̑̐̒̌͒̅́͐̍̈́̄͐̏̈́̾̃̏̂̆̃͊́͊̈́͛̽͐͋͆̃͋̇́̋̾̿͑͗̇̆̀̎̅̊̌́͑̓̉̆̽̅́͐̇͗̎́͂̓͗͆̍̄̐̍̎̔̽̉͋̾͛͐͋͆̀́̓̈́̐̊̑͋̓͑̂̽̐̿͛̈́̈̈͊̇̄̆̽͆̇̊̒͐́͛̊̌͐͌̆̉̚͘̚͘͘̕̚̕̚̚͘͘̚̚͘͝͝͠͝͠͝͝͠͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͝ͅṣ̷̡̧̢̧̧̧̡̧̡̧̧̧̢̡̢̧̧̢̢̧̡̢̡̢̡̨̢̨̡̨̧̛̛̥̙̻͕̯̮̫̯̞̜̝͔̳̩̼̘̖̹̰̩̞̲͚͉̣̮̝̯̝̟̻̩̪̘̯͇̦͕̠̝̜͔͉͉̺̣͈̪̩̼̦̤̩͍̦̲̲̜͙̯͎̮̣̜̭̘̞̬̻̭̞̣͚͚̠͓̥̤̝͎̦͖͚̣̣͕͕̱̹̝̟͙̩̹̭̬̩͇͍͓̝͕̣̗͉͕̫̬̘̮͍̰͙͍̺̼̼̼̱͖͈̱̥̤̹̬͕̜̤̙̖̥̺̮̝͈̩̫̱͈̺̻̖͉̦͙̰̝̘̙̭̘̱̤̫̙̦̻̟̯͙̻͍̞̠̖̘̖͈̙̭͚̥͖͈̥̝͉̬̣̖͚̹̗͈̘̮̫̬͉̻̣̗͉̱̱͖̥̭̮̣̗̩͎̦͙͓̼̭̺̣͉̝̯͍̘̥͔͓̻͓̦̫̞̦͙̙͓͈͙̣̹̜̯͈͕͈̦͕̙͉͆̏̈́̅́͗̏͒̀̈̅̈́̀̒́̀͗̈́́͐̌̓͋͊̐̂̑̾̈́͐͂͂̌̿̍̽̾͌̈́͐̀͑͗̑͐͛̍̓͊͑̑͌͒̽̀̾̉͒̓̄̄̓̔̒̿̊̈́̄̽̒̈́̋͌̃́͒̏͑̓̄͆̿̓̽̉̉͑̊̋̈́́̓̄͒̓̄́̈́͌̈́̆̅̀̿͌̔͛̆́͛͂́͆̋̍͊́̍̅̎̒̀̀͋̊̿̊͋̈́́͗̔̏̄̅̓̓̇͒̀̇̈́͌͐̂̽̄̏͘̚͘̚̕͘̚̕͘̕̕̚̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͠͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅẻ̷̛̛̛̛̻̹̥͈̰̤͔̞̘̲̦̯͎͖̝̰̀̈́̃́̒͗̈͒͛̓͛̈̏̇͂̿̍̀̐́͛́̉̈́͐͛̓̊̈́̄͂̄̏͒͑̔̐͐̍͐̓̅̑̓̈͛̍̅́̀́̓͂̀̉͂̈́̓̊̉͑̒̽̍̈́͐́̐͗́͌̋̽̑̓̈́̈́̓̈́̌̌̀́̈͌̌̊̌͗̃̆͒̈́̑̋͗́̒̓̌̉̊̈́̆͌̾̍͗̇̌̇̕̚̚̕̕̚̚͜͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠ͅ ̸̨̧̢̡̧̧̢̪̯͇̪̼̲̝̹̞̳̣̹̼̱̭̜̗̭̫̬̞̲͚̳̗̖̘̣̳̱̤͈̪͖̖̰̟̱̝̱͔͖̼̖͔̫̝̝̩̳͈̯͇͚͉̥̼͙̬͈͈̺̰̫̲͎͉̳͓̖̼̗͉͇͓̯͍̩̱̙͕̙̗̜̗̜͔͉̯̫̣̯̹̥̪̬̤̋́̏͋̆̏͐̒͆̄̍̅͂̏̉͐̓̉̉́̅̀̇̀̈́̑͌̒̅̀̽͆̄̉̌́̿̎̆̔̚̚̚͘͘͜͜͝͠͝͝͝ͅD̶̨̨̛̛̛̛̛̖̮̝̺̟͖̪͖̠̘̳͉͇̣͕̫̪͓͔̭̞͔̙̺̘̲͓̦̹̜͎̥̥͍̟̑̐͒̃̅͋͑͆̋͛̊͑͌̿̒͒͐͒̈́̇̈̓̎͒̔͋̆̾̈́̋̎͑̑̅̆́̐͋̄̇̐̅̿͛̔͊̿̔̔͑̑̈̒̿̃̔̍̎̆̔̋̂̀̈́̀̈̓̿̆̈́͑͒̆̃̈́̂̍͐̃͆̋̄̅̔͊͛͗̿͊́̌͊͗̂̍̓̽̈́̀͒̓̊̽̄̇̔̑̓̉́̆́͗̏̑͑̿͌̓͆͑̿̆͒̑͌̓͋̀̀̀̃̕͘̕̚̚̕̚͘̚̚̕͜͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͝'̶̧̡̡̡̢̧̧̢̧̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̛͔̼͖̥̺͇̠̟͙͙͈̳͎̭̝̞̭̞̖͖͓̲͕̗̣̙͙͍̰̣̰̻̫̮̬̜͉͖͖̬͎̣̞͇̞̯̜̼͓̼̫͕̭̥͇̦̼̫̪̠͍̻̹̪̼̲̝̼̖̲̭̞̫͙͚̼͔̫̼͈̱̲͙̘͚̜̺͖̱͈͕̜͓͙̞̘͕̯̰͕̤͈̼͈̠̮̭̗͓̙͉͕̹̗͖͕̣̻̟̔̐̀̎̓̾͑͂̈̈͊̐̈́̆͂̒̿̈̄͐̿̂̍̇̉̇͊̀͆͌̊̐́͋̈́͊̀̿̃͆́̅̊̄͒̋̽̒͑͊̒̑̓̏̀̊̈́͒͛̀͂͋̓̀̏̈̃͆̈́͂̂́̾͋̿̄̏͌̎͂͋́́̍͒́͐̃̽̇̏͗͆͆̈́́̈̂̾̈́̊̿͆͊́̈͂͒̽̇̄́̃̍̊́̇͆̔͂̇̓̃̋̾̀̅́͆̽̆̈̃̄̄̇̓͑͛̔̎͑̈́̋̑̑̃͊̀̓̀̇̅͂̈́̿̐͑̌̊̃̈́̾̏̃̿̾̍͒͐̀̈́̊̀͗̽̓̿̈́̈́̓̉̽͂̈́̈̆̓̒̒̇̌̈̀͛͊̂̒͑̈́͒̓̽̈́̅̓́̎̈̓̃͒͑̈́̊́̌́̀̇͗͗́͑̒͐͋̋̌̃̚̕̕̕͘͘̚̕͘̕͘̚̚͘͘͘͘̕͘͜͜͜͜͝͠͝͠͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅĄ̷̨̢̢̡̢̡̡̢̡̡̡̨̧̨̢̧̡̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̮̤̥̠̞̹͔̟͕̹̼̖̤͓̭̬̭̭͈̘̫͖͉̬͔͈̥̜͍̪̱̱̠͖̝͉̦̻̠̬̩̯̪̠̝̥̲̦̭̲͖̺͎̪̼͖͕̲̺͖͈̖͖̳̠̖̬̜̹̗͎̦̙͕̝͕͖̖̪̫̙̟͈̭̰͕̻̭̪͉͉̗͎̠̳̦̣̘̤̤͙̳̱̯͕͍͔̜̼̞̤͚̘͔͍͈͇̺̝̼̜̫̯͙̫̲̘̠̞̠͕̥̜͔͓̩̩̤͕̥̣̪̤͕̦̱̖̼̹̜̟̠̓́͋̌̐͋̂̓̉͛͐̌́͒̊̇̑̏̑͐͋̀͐̋̐̌͛̓̾͂̅̍̐̈́̑̓̀̈́͛̽̑̏̍͌͋̆̏̌̏̾͆̆̈̈̎́̃͛͌̋͆̿̆́̿̆̎͑͋̉̑̄́̌̋̆̂̌͗̀́́̑̑͑̀̀͋͗́̓̆̈́͒̅͛̋̑̅̂͒͑̈́́̾̈́̄̋̄̄̀̾̿̅̇͊͂̆̂̔̌̋̊̍̊̈́͐̍̒́̒̒̔̈́̏͛̏̈́̒̿̒̑̋͂̏̄̇̂̏͛̐̓̔̏̂̇̾̊̃̏̆̐̑̈́̐̑́̆͋̅̾̓̃̔̒͋͆̍̆͋͑̈́͊͌̒̔̌͊͑̀̀̑̍͆͛̊̎̓͂̔̎͆͗̀̏̎̅̀̑͌͛̑̿̓̈́̈̈́̓̏̈́͌͂͌̆̐̎̆̍̃̈́̂̀̄͗̿̉̍̀̓͘̚͘̚̚̕̕̚̕̚̕̕̚̚͘͘̚̕͜͜͜͜͠͝͠͝͝͠͠͠͝͝͠͝͝͠ͅͅͅŗ̷̧̨̧̢̧̢̧̧̨̢̢̡̡̡̢̨̢̡̡̧̨̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̠͍̯̟̦̩̘̮͙͉̦̮̘̪͍̖̺͎͇̹̟̗̫͓̪̱̭̥̖͉̘͈̥͖͉͓̖͕͇̹̮̘̝̬͈̞͚̝̩̮̝̱͖̭͕̞̹̮̗̝̙̱͚͍͔̣͔̠̮̖̩̤͓̙̦̭̝̫̹̜̳͖͚͚̩͓̟̜̱̳͎̫̣̹̼̖͈͇̩͕̝͖͉̗̝̦̹̬̙͍͚̠͙̝̪̠͈̹̣̣̮̻͖̥͕̤̦͈̻͙͓̣̹̩̝̞̻͇̣͙͎͖͚̼̗͕͉̱̩̯͇͙̻̠̭̗̰̲̮͈̮̘̤̪̻̬̖̻͉̙̻̥̬̜̦̱̯̭̳̟͖̠̱̟̰̜̖̳̰̥͙̭̤̺͕̮̟͈͍͈͇̲̟̝̹͑̓́̊͐́̀̐́̏̾̏̍̐̈͗́̀̈́̌͐́͐͛́͒̿̈́̀́͊͌̑̐͊̆͊͋̌̉̑̇̂̅͂͗̈́̈́͋̊̉́̽̔̓̓̋̄̉͒͗͛̃̐͂̀͋̀͊́̔́̌̉̍̑̋͆͑͆̂͋̇̇̔̾̇͛͊̀͂̈̀̇̀͒́̆̑͂͒͗̽̀̾͌́̀͒̃̾͗́̃͆̓̑͌̇̉̈́̔̍͐́͑̀̃̓̓̒̊̌́̆̉̑̑̀̒̒̿̅̑̈́̿͋͒́̓͋̀́̋̂̀͆̃̆̅̍̋̒͊̀̊͌̾̂̿̍̄̽͊̇͊̋̒̏̽̒͗̃̿̈́͆̓̇̈̍̎͂͛̈́̀̿̋͛͌́̄̑́͑͒́͆̽̈̈́̐̓͌͛̎͆̅͘̚̚͘̚̕͘̕͘͘̚͘͘̚͜͜͜͜͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͝ͅͅͅͅͅä̵̧̧̧̡̨̢̧̡̧̨̨̛̛̛̛̛̩͎̹͉̪̞͙͚͔̘̟͕̬̯̞̜͉͈͓̜͔͉͖̠̭̗̖͔̘̠̜͖͈̠͚̫͚̣̤̠̹͔̗̺̯̱̝̰͉͉̘̰̟̦͙̯̱̩͈̺͇̺̗̹͉̗̥̺̣̞͚̖̳̜̜͚̯̜̳̝͓̼͚̤̼̤̥͙͍̬̼͎̩̮͇͈̤̭̬̱̥̖̳̮̋̓̽̌̂͌̀̽̓̾͒̄̒̓͐͊͐̿̉͛̏͐̋͗̾̌̐̎̑͐͋̎͌̀̇͊̽̑̄̃̾̓̅̍͑́̀͐̓͐̽͒̒̿̿̒̈́͛̓̒̄͋̈͌̃̾̒̒̇͛̈́́͋̉̅̈́̐̈́̏͑̇͛̄̈̈͗̏͑̔̓̈́̃̄͂́̀̍̾̔͑͗̔̇́͗̂̀̎̈́̊͂̃̋̍͑͂͛̓̈́̔̊̓̈́̈́̔̔̿̽̃̄́͊́̌̀̀̋̆̀̌͆̓̾͌̿̾̿̂̍͌͑̃̊͋̊̓̀́̈́͗̈́̚̕̚͘̕̕͘̚͘̕̚̚͜͠͝͠͠͝͠͝͝͝͠͠͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅm̶̧̧̡̨̢̡̡̧̡̢̢̨̨̨̡̨̢̢̨̢̧̢̡̢̨̨̧̢̢̢̨̛̛̭̩͚̣̖͔̟̪̥̯̯̖̙̖͇̯͖͇̹̠̮̩͉̩̮̟͈̹͎̗͖͔͍̭̹̬̦͖̮͈͔̤̝͉̻̳̖̮̗͔͉͙̠̤̠̼̥̰̜̤͉̤̻̲̻̥̘̟̳̲͙̳͚͎̱̗͙̭̺̼͖̱͕̗̗͔̘̝̠̞̝̝͓͖̥̖̳̬̝̮̫͉͍̜͙̩̹̼̮͔̹͇͇͍͙̞̳͓̦̠̦̯̖̺̗̞͍̖̙̻̪̲͔͍̟̣͔̦͈͈͚̥͚̞͚̥̪̖̭͎̬̥̭̦̝̥̬̖̘̳͍̤̼̟̲͔̝̖̯͈̩̼̰̥̪̖̦̲̦͇̳̺̮̲̳̬̲͚̘͔̳̹̩̼̖̞͍̺̫̲͓̱̹͈̳̲͎̤͇͕͓̱̹͍͈̬̮̖̙̰̙̹̲̫͙͖̪͇̗̣̱̟̥̳̬̰͉̥̱̭̞̻̯̗͙̹͎̜̟͖̬̖̙̯͖̝͖͕̔̈́̽̐͗̈́̌̈́͋́͗̏́̑͋̀̈͆̀̍̂̏̔͐̓́̾̉̏̏́̽͂̄̽͐́̎̈̆̔̓̃͋̒̈̃̎̂̋̊̽̀͊̒͊͌̒̌̈́̿̇̿͒̑̎̃̐͘͘̕̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͝ͅͅͅi̶̢̡̨̡̢̡̨̨̡̢̨̧̧̧̧̢̨̢̡̡̢̛̛̛̛̭̹͚̪̤̭̦̘̳͎̫̱̺̞̟̗̲̦͍̩̱̙͉̺̜͓̯̳̫̳̤̻͇̠̙̦̗͚̦͓͕̯̩̥̭̗̤̘͖̪̤̠̘̫̟̗̻͉̬̟̙̳͙̮̜͖̹̫̹̗͖̗̟̝̻̟̺̗͙̮̙̞͕͉̙̬̪̰͇̣̱̻̹̥̼̰̭̣̫͈̤̳̝̰̫̣͕͖͍̳͉̩͚͎̭̘̟͕̗̯͓͔̲̲̳̲͔̤̱̞̘͎̟̰̼̲̫͈̯̘̭̬͈̪͇̺̩͇͔̩̯͙͓̲̤̣̱̟̯͍͎̣̻̠͎̯͓̝̠͍̟͎̝̭̝̝̰̖̠͍̟̙̠̮͍͓̹̼̩̗͖͚̻͎̠̲̜̣̬̮͖̳̝͚̥̪̫̰͎͕̠̙̲̟̰̼͎̱̹̼̓͋͂̂͐̌̈̓̀̒͊̔̓̂̑͂̽̋̅̀̀͋̋͑̒̓̈̋̋̍͂͗͋̾̄̃̆̐̀̓̈̋̂̂̒̍̀͌͆̄̂̑̽̈̀̈̇͗̾̃̀̐͐͆̅͂̋̐̉́̀̏̔̔̃̿̓̀͊̊͐̍̀͗́̿̑̏̏̋̍̔͑̑͂̐̑̄̍̌͋́̂̂̈́̅̄̉̋̇͂̍̇͑̐̉̉́͋̿̀̄̿͊̑̒̐͆̆̈́̇̄̋͌̑̈́̑̃͂́͛̐̓͋̄͌̒̍̔͐̐̆͋̈́̄͐̇͌̇̈́̃̂̓̉͆̍̐̅̆̈́̉͊̊̈́͗̉̈͗̽͒̈́̄͛̓́̂͛̿̑̌̋̆̉̑̾̽́̐̿̄͛̒͐̈́͋̉̈́̚͘͘͘͘̕̚͘̚̚̚͘̚̕̕͘͘͘͘͜͜͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅṯ̶̡̡̢̧̡̨̧̡̧̡̛̛̛̬̺̖̜̗͈̰̳̜͖̭̖̞̻̻͇̯͈͙̪̱̻̼͈͍͕̹̪͈͔͚̦̦̼̣͎̣̞͓̙̰̗̥̤̪͔͍̻̲̳͔̳͖͕̹̻̻̭̩̰̥̫̠̹̲̰̪͎̭̱̬̲̱̜̺̻̣̻͍̜̼̪͓͙̠͍̪͓̤͛̓̆̈̀̓̿͐͂̾͗̆̾͊̈̿̉̾͛̿͌̏̆̿̽̌͊̋̈̉̈̂̽̋͗̍̈́̈̇̂̿̃̍̃̂̑̓̈́̈́̾̃̿̄̿̆̀͒́͊̍̑̂́͊̒͆̑̊͒̓͋͋̾̎͑̈̽̈́̂̽͋͛̾͌̐͒̊̿͋͋͌̍̍̇̽̇̽́͌̄̽̊́͛̀̐̏͒̊̋̀̅͒͊́͒̇̂͊͌̂̄̋̽͐̄͐̈́̅̓̅̀̉́̈́̚̕̕̕̕̕͘̚͘͘̕̕̕̕͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͠͝͠͝͠͝z̷̢̢̢̢̢̛̬̳͖̹͍̜̼͈̳̯̺͇̘̰͔͎̜̜̼̠̞̜̩͖͓̞͖̹̲̪̺͍̩̙̣̭̜̠̫̦̫̝̬̗̟̳̮̟̭̳̣͔̖͈̥͚͙͈͎͈̹̗͎̟̼̪̻̙̗̟̼̘͇̲̤͔͚̖̙̺̞̥̬͉͖̼͉͓̻̩̜̲̗̥͙͈͈͉͖͇̤͈̭̩͖̪̺̰̥͖͚̼͂̾͗̅̏͆̒̃͑̂̃͛̽͊̌̂̌͌͌̄͆͆̾͋̄͋̉͂̌̈́̉̇́̐̈́͆̽͑̈̐̅̉͌̏̔̄̆̔͐͛̀̓̇̏̊̎̏̔̒̕͘̚͘͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͠ͅͅͅ and D̷̢̧̢̨̙͖̣͓̻̞̤̥̯͉̦̮͔͓͉̦̜͈̦̼͈͈͇̹̹͔͇̪͈̭̫͓̠̰͉̜͔͎̰̩̙̘͌̔̈̀͆̈́͒̂͊̀̋̋͋̽͑̑̅̎́̓̂̈́̿̓̎͛̕͜͠͠͝͝ͅͅą̵̢̧̨̢̨̢̡̢̡̢̢̡̨̡̧̢̨̢̧̢̛̛̛̯̖̺̭̱̭̱̘̫͔̦͇̱̭̱̟̩̫̟̯͔̬̰̜̱͕̞͍̙̮̗͉̙͓͕̭̪͓̟̠̪͉͈̣͙̤͙͉̙̖͉͓̭͕̺̗̯̹̹̙̘̹̠͈̭̩͈͈͎̼̹̜̺̫̙̦̱͚͍͍̠̟͇̰͓̖̤͎͖̘͔̼̗̹͕̻̠̥̟͔̳͕̞͚̰͕̹̹̘̭̯̤̼̭̥̮͓͎͉̣̘͕͙͙̱͙̗̤̲̖̣̞̠̦̗͔͔̗̪̱͍̙̱̮͇̱̤̝͚̮̠͉̝͛̉̃͂̂̆̈́̀̍͂͌̿̀͆̾͐̍̃́̈́̏́̈́̂̓̀̀̆̐̓̾̅̈́͊̄̀͋̾́͒̎̒͋̇̓͛̿̓͐̋̂̽́͆̑̅́̉̀̈́̃̾̈̔̇͆̆̾̑̇̒̂͊͌̽̉̈́̈́̍͊͐͑̆̓̓̎̊͒̅͗́̎̋͐͂̓͒̏͛̌̓̌͋̎́̐̿̓̂́̔͐͂̚͘͘̚̚͘̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͠͠͝ͅͅͅn̷̡̨̡̨̧̢̨̨̨̢̢̧̡̨̧̧̡̨̧̨̧̡̧̨̛͓̰̹̭̲͙͈͎̮̰̭͇͓̤͈̮̟̖͙͖̭̪̜̼̹͖̘̖̣̯̣͎̣͙͕͔͈̝̺̞̞̩̟͔̙͔͇̣͉͕͇̭̜͚͈͕̲̠̦̜͇͕͖͖̹̩̥̖͚̩̼̦̖̠̟̘͓͕̮̙̺̯̼͈̺͈̣̲̥͚̬͇̳͙̳̖̬̺͔̟̮͙̞̲͔̬̩̠̫̞̯̤̺̤̱̤͔̻͔̞̬͈̺̦̟͖͔̲̳̩͓͙̣̮̜͉͉̪̘͇̼̖͉̰͎̠̬͉͇̙͚̳͓̠̗̩̤̺͈͉̮͎͉͙̺̠͖̤͕͖̭̳̩̣̯̣̙̦̪͓̼̖̜̹̖͇̪̗͙̼͈̝͈͔̺̠̦̗̼͓͕̜͎̻̬̣̘̻̺̞̙͉͉͇̬͕̒̀͆̊͑͐̊̅̐̿̒͐̇̃̏̔͑̏̾͌̋̀̇́͊͌͗̽̄̾̒̌͐͌͗̆̌̀̔̓̅́͐͊̃͘̕̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͝ͅͅͅͅt̶̡̢̢̨̢̨̢̧̢̨̢̧̧̡̡̢̛̛̛̛̝̯̬̠̣̞̳͙̬̮̮̝̖̯̼͎̭͉̭͉̝̮̭̬͍͉̗̞̹̺̠̘̹̰̘͓̜͓̻͇̗̰̳̻͚̖͖͓̰̤̫̹̼̼̻̯͖̫̜̙̳̖̼͖͎̦͓̥̠̭̪͕̠̥̞̩̲͓͓̫̩̗̺̪̪̦͉͍̹̘̲̣͙͖͍͖̲̟̬͇̻͚̳̼̰̥̥͎̱̜̯̑͗͋̈̿͐́̈́̍̋̃̊͋̆̍͊̋̊̄̋̏̄̍͗̀̋͆͑̅͂̌͊͂́͐̈́͐̽͒̌̍̓͋̾̔̈́͋́͒͆̓̀́̂̈́̓̍̑̀̌̅̐̿͆̀́̔̈́̔̊̍̊̒̽̾̌͂͐̀͐́̀͌͊́͊̑̽̽̊̓͗̾͋̅͒̆̓́̐͗̒͊́̇̓̈́̽̌͂̏͊̐͛̉̽̈́̒́̓͛͐́̓̏̏̌̈́̎̆̊͊̇͌̊̈̋͛̀̍͒̈̓̆̈́̑̉̓̕̕̕̚͘̚̕̚͘͘͜͜͜͝͠͝͝͝͠͠͝͝ͅͅȩ̵̨̡̨̧̨̡̢̡̨̨̡̡̢̡̧̨̡̢̨̡̨̢̢̡̧̧̨̧̢̧̧̛̛̛͙̥͇̥͔͔̩̬͇͕̠̻̳̳̬̩̣͙̦̱̭͎̦̻̟̜͕̺̤͎̤̱͓̹̻̼̯̙͔̝̹͔̻̝͕̥͙̣͕̜̳̝̝̙̝͈̮̥͎̫̠̘͓̫͚̙͍͎͓̜͈͍͇͉̩̮̦͈͖̻̟̘̞͖̫̭̙̱̱̝͖͖͔͔͍̲̮̞̮͕͕̜̗̭̮̘̩͈̠̮̖͎̹̻̠̥͙͇̯̤̩̟̤̭͇̞̼̩̦̙̻̻͇̘̦̰̠̣̺̜̯̩͍̜̪̭͕̼̳͙͙̤̗̣͉͖̦̻͕̙̺͍̦̭̬͇͔̪͎̹͎͖͈̥̼̙̝̦̗͖͙͙͕͓̠͖̜͎̦͔͎̦̯̺͎̰̗̲̼̟̭̹̼̤͈̰͍̫̠̥̰͎̪̫̙̤̪̭͙̈͛̓͒́͒͌̊̎͑̎̽̉̈́͑͊̊̈́͊̄̆̃͌̓͛̾͊̆̈́͐̓͋̽̔̀̀̈́̃̒̔̓̂̒̈́̅̒̓͛̇̌̋̓͋̊̀̀̇̄̉͋͊̀͆̓̇̄̓̃͊̾̊̏̾̊̿͂͊̊͌̚̕̕̕͘͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͠ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅ 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̷̧̡̨̧̛̛̛̛̛̱͈͙̪̭͎̗̭̬̞̱͖̲̗̪̟̫̞̻̰̻̰͚̘̳͖͇͖̈́̉͑̃́̑̃̎͒̓̇̄̐̔̆̋̇̀͛̀͌͑͑̌̈́̋̌̈̈́̇͛̂͑́̄̑̈́̈́́̃̾̌͒̎͂͗̏̀͗͊̀́̋̃̀͌̅͂̈́͑̍̏̈́͗̑̈̈́̏̇͐̀̍́͗̉͌̀̊̒̍̀̈́͆̓̏̓̑̔̓̊͋̃̓͌̽̌̂̀͒̐̋̃̆̊͒͊̄͒͛͒̌͆̈́͂͊͒̓́́̋̉̅̾́̇̽̃͌̽̑̉̃͐̀̓̊̿́̅͒̈́̀̃̀̓̑̆̔̋͂̆̍͂̈̽͊̓̔̆̊͐̍̉̍̂͘̕͘̚̚̚̚̕̚͘͘̕͜͝͠͠͠͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝V̵̢̡̡̦͍̯͍̩̫̥̺̥͉̗͚̝͍͕͚̭̦͓̹̼͙̰̎͒̏̊̐͌̓̀͂̊̀̽͜͜͠a̷̢̨̨̢̢̧̛̻̬̜̰͙͔͔͍̪̩̦̭̮̳̙͎̰͈̹̯̙̺̭̻͇͚̟̖͙̙͉̦̹͖̻̠̭̙̥̲̬̪͉̦̫̼̘̲̓͌̔͛̈͂̏͒́͛̍̄́̏̍͑̑̊̿̋̀̿̆̔̾͂́̃̾̏̊̎̔͆͗̆̂̕͜͜͜͠͝ͅl̸̨̨̨̧̢̡̡̢̢̢̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̘̪̺̮̮̖̮̝̣̟͓̫̯͎͖̪͙̗̗̹̣̣̩̘̟̬͔͙͉̹͔̮̻̤̬̹̦͍̳̹̰̩͇͓̺͖̬̮̬̙̹̫̙̣͖͇͈̳̲̗̼̗͚̳̘̘̳͍̭̝̖̜̯̘̣͉͕͔͖̻̗̤̱̱̖̲̳̟̥̹̣̞̮̱̺̘̗͔̹͉̥̳͚̤͈̟̥̲̞͚̠̟̼̣͇̪̝͎̰̼͎̭̘̖͎̘͙̲͚̣͕͙̱͕̫̜̝̬̙̗͇̻͕͇̯̻̳̖̤͚̰͎͇͍̫͈͈̼͙̞̻͕̣̄̈́̔̈́̒́̋̆̅̒͑̍͐̌͆̑̔̇̀̋́̃͂͋̏̈́̊̌͆̀̎͐̒̈̔͊̀̉͋͆͐̌́̍̈́͑̐͐̓͋̓͛̈̏̈́͛̈̅̽̀͂͛̂̽̓̍͋̀̀̾̂͆̓͑̾̅͋͗͑̐̇̓͌͌͑̈́̔͑̃̏̏̂̆̿̂͋͑̋͋̀̉͛͊͛̍͐͒̃̍̅̐͐̀̃̌̅͆͛͐̃̓̍̈́̈̔͗̈̊̀̋̽͑̐̈̍̾͒̾̔̓̈́̑̽͐͒̎́̓͌̈́́̀̎͂̎͗̅͐͊̈́̇͆̇͗͑͂̃̽͑̈͗͌̈́͆̍̏̔̾̍̐̂̒͂͒̈̔͐̽̈́̎͋̄̎̈́̊́̆̈́̏̊̒̏̒́̊̓͑̿̐̌̀͆̄͛͑̓̊͛̐̊͛̉̽͊̎̊̔͊̌̐̈́̐̑̀̾̿͗́̓̔͂͌͐̈́̚̚̕̚̚͘̕͘̕̚͘̕͘̚̕̕̕̚͘͜͜͠͠͝͠͠͝͠͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͠͠͠͝͠͝͠ͅͅę̸̢̡̨̡̧̡̧̨̡̨̢̨̡̛̭̝͓̣̝̜̹̱̲̩̳̳̱̱͍͓͍̫̞̟̥͎̲͍̳̹͎̯̭̹͚̭̯̳̭̟͙̲͍̤͎̟̜̲̥͇̩̜͔̯̦̞͉̟̪̫̥̳͎͓̩̦͕̪̖̲̩͔̻͍̼̲͉̳̝͎͇̩̫̠̤̰̪̼̫̲͓͔̹̠͚͇̬̜̺̦̱̥͇͓͍̪̜͓̩̯͓͉̞͇̗͔̠̫͓̣̫̞͍͉͍̜̮̰̠͙͚̤͎̹̪̩̙͓̰̯̳͙̱͕̟̗͍̣̰̗̦̭̱͍͓̜̰̖̱̻͓̘͚̙͎̲̣̖̯͓̩̙͕̠̬̰̮̫̙̥͇͗̓̂͆͗̀̀̈́̋̍̔͋̍̈́̄͂̿͗̍̈́̀̇̈́̎͛͆̿̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅř̷̨̨̨̨̛̦̳̲̘͚̥̻̬̟̲͙͍̱̙̟̖͇̠̥̭͍̠̖͖̙͉͈͖̠̱̞͓̱̗̬̙̬̪͙̤̪̳͕̮̺͚̠̭̐̓͝ͅî̵̡̢̧̢̢̢̢̛̪͚̜̝̹͙̖̫̯̦͕̞̩͖̥̼͈̗̼̲͎̣͍͔͕̫̯̲̰͎͍̦̳̫̦͎̪͎̥̠̯̙̗̱̎͐̉̂͂̒̉̾̌̍͋̋̽͆̒́̌̈́͐͌̋̄͆̿͋͗̽͒́͗͗̆̆̍̈͒̓̐̈́̏̂͗̐̅̇͐̾͐̿̉̂̏̔̀̑̎̊̀͐̒̈́̒̂͋̆́̅̆̂̑͑͒̂̇̓́̓̂̄̎̈́̃̄̂̇̊̂̌̂̽͋͛̓́͗͒̀͆̅̈́̌̾̍́̎̑͛͒̎̌̾͂̄̍̽͋͆͒̆͆̿̄̎̇̈́̋̑͛͂͑̆̈́́͐͊̑̉̈̇͐͗̿͆͒̈̇̒̄̆̌̃͋͊͌͆͋͛̈́̉̏͋͒̀̀̈́̎̌̉͂͛͆͊̅͛̑̽͑̈́̄͂̀̓͆͑̃̄̎̽̈́̃͛̿͌̕͘̕͘͘̚͘̕̚͘͘̕͘̚̕̕͘̚͘̕̕͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͠͝͠͠͝͝͝ͅơ̷̢̧̢̢̧̨̢̧̨̡̨̡̢̧̧̛̛̛͓̬̩͕̜͉̲̝̪̬̠̙͚̬̺̹͕͎̰̯̤̙̲̘̭͈̯̻̖̳͍͉̤͍̗͖͓̲̦͕̪̩̮̩̣̩̘̙͓͉̹̦͕̹͙̞̟͖̲͎̤̗̱̹̫̟͓͖̯̫̼͉͍͇̣̻͈̳̣͓̼̦͇̩̪̭͖̭͍̤̘̜͕̫͓̗͇͎̺̞̣̹̖̙̲͈̮̻̫͕̙̲̺̩̗͎͔̖̰̭͇̜̪͇͈̖̲͈̺̹̝̦̫̲̼͎̮̳͚̹̫̥̥̰̰̯̫̜͓̫͕̫̲̩͎̙̫̪̣̗̹̟͎̖͚͇͙̝̞̭̣͍͈̪̗̖̟̤̤͎͍̜̙̰̟̮̠͇͍͓̩̰̫͚͇̰͕̯͉̼̦̯̜͚̠̳̳͍̜̠̞̙̗͕͕̩̔̒̋̀̈́̇̿̇̃̆͆̒̓͊͂̆̐͐̂̔͒͒̃̑͌̔͑̆͑̃͗̑̒͐̀͂̈̂̑̒̈́̌̽̀̔̄͂̓̅͌̉̿̊̓̾̌̀̑̃̄͗̈͛̎̌̉͂̌̾̀͑̀͑͑̿̈̽̈́̀̌̄̏̆̈́̏̾̈́͋̇̿̐͊̀̂̅̈́̂͑̈́͑̇̈́͒̽̊̎̾̏̔̾̆̃̈́̍͗͑͐͌̿̃̀̔͂̂̎̄͑͋́̓̎̈̓͂̋̌͆́͆̆̄̑̅͊̇̂̂̈́̃͛̇̐̑̓̃̋͋̓͌͛̕͘͘͘̚̕͘̚̚̚͜͜͜͜͠͠͝͝͝͠͠͠͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅ. Carl was meant to be a simple child raised in the American South, an unassuming and unthreatening boy for others to largely ignore due to his cowardice and seeming incompetence. Little thought was given to Carl’s history before the island; he has a father figure who imparts sage advice, a mother who works at Dress Barn, a vaguely formed sense of faith, and a variety of hobbies drawn from the chorus of a country song as vapid as it is infectious.

Carl’s first task was to obtain a disguise for himself from an unsuspecting beach dweller. He performed adequately. His target on the beach did not seem to suspect anything of him and he managed to foster distrust in another student for false crimes. However the outfit he obtained was a crime in and of itself and the lukewarm sports drink he stole in addition would be of little use in the future. All in all his first outing was a success though a tepid one. His new clothing sparked an interest in horses to explain why he would wear something so ridiculous.

His next test was more disastrous. Carl sought to obtain the ugliest pair of shoes ever manufactured and iin the process exposed himself to M̷̢̨̧̡̡̧̢̛̛̛̛̛̼͈̪̻̻̤̠̗͍͚̙̦̣̘͚̬͎̘͓͈̠͎̥̗̜͍̭͈͔͍̣͔͓̺̘̦͖̘͕̣̫͎̦̩̮̣̯̫̰̠̪͕̝̦̖͔̟̩̲͖̠͉̗̻͖͉̱̘̺̝͔͈̼̭̥̯̩͙̝̖͓͚̟̥̹̬̯̖̤̘̤̟̝̙̭̙̩̳̗̩͗̽͐́̈̒͌̈́̔̎̎̌̄̇̓̽̓̐͊͊̑͊͋́̽̅͐̇̂̈́͆̈́̽̀͗̾̂̃̀̉̃̇͑̌͛̑͂́̔̌̀̿̀̓̒̂̋̍̇̐̊̌̈́̃͒̂̽̈́̏̆̍̇̒̃̓͛̀͐͆͑̒̏́͛̐͒̇̈̆͂̽̀̎̒̈́̍͌̆͐̀̓̉̅̆̈̎̋͐̆̏̇̍̍͌̽͐̋̐́̿̍͆̈͑̆͆̀̏̐̓̊̎̔̀́́̆̋̒̾͒͆̌̓̀͗̈͂̇͐̓͆͒͘̕͘̚̚͘̚̕̚̕͜͜͜͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͠͝ͅͅe̵̢̨̡̡̧̛̛̛̛̛̪͉̝͕̦̰̹̝̺̻͓̠̖͕̩̯̪̲̫̜̤̦͖̮̗͚͍̤̰̖̣̪͇͍͉̯̞͉̖̼̙̦̺̟̼͇̗̺̠̞̲̭̯̼͉̬̻̱͓̻̻͊͛͑̀̓͑̃̿̍̽̆̓̈́̄́̅̍̆̍͗͌͒̾̈͋̀̈́͂̇̂̈́̋̾̈́̾͛̋̀̋̀̓̈́͂̒̔̾͒͒̋̅͐͊̐̾̍̾͌̿̑̓͆͒̿̃̋̈́͗̅͒̎̂̔̿̈̍͊́̐̏̐̓̿̑̾̒̾́̈́̽͑̑̍̒͛̋̀̿̿͌͂̃́̇̇̎̏̓̄̋͛̈̆̽̎̌̑̈́͂͛̔́͊̏̾̈̈͋̑̈́̒̔͒̓̋̓͗͛̄̓̈͆̾͒̈͒̄͗͐͗̈̽͛̆̈́̿̓̌̇̔͗͒̇̾̀̆͋̃͐̇̽̌̀͂̓͐̈́̎̈́́̅̋̄̈̊̆͒̆͑͒̈̓̍͂̐̍̈̑̿̆̍͛̔́̇͆̇͆̐̈́̉̈́̽̅̏͐̐̚̚̕̚̚͘̚̕̚̕̚̕̚̕̚͜͜͜͝͝͠͝͝͠͠͠͠͝͠͠͝͠͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅg̶̨̢̧̨̢̛̛̛̛̥̻͙̖͕͖̙̳͍̩̖̤̘̖͕̖̟̪͚̘͔̯̞̝̘̗͙̜̠͍̮̮̼̰͖̼͙̺͇̺̠͉̲̜̟̳̟̹̭̰̟̩͚̤͚͔͇̗͖̰̬̜̞̖͔̦̩̳̞̫̻̙̻̤͕̥͇̞̻͈̹͇̫͚̫̬̬̪̲̜̠̺̺̭̻̮͈̹̬̯͙͖̣̼̟͔͕̱͔̙̩͔̖̱̯̮͍̣͉̫̰̱̣͉͖̻̟̳̞̩̉̔̐̅͛̃̓͒̂͊̎̉̆͛͂͛̐̏̈́͋́̋̒̒̈́̔̿̓̑̿̒̀̀͑͂̈́̑̔͐̊̌́̈́̒͒͋͋́̍̂͌͌̂̀̀̏̇̀̽̎͊̋̆͆͌̊̇́̌͗̏͊͆̎̏͐̆̄͒̌̄̾̆̽͂̆̑̈͊͂̑̅͐͊͂̄͐́͊̈́̔̋͗̅͊̈̃̑͛̂͋̊͒̆͆̉͆̈́̿̾͆͐̎̐̍̑̽̇́͛͑̐̇̋̽͊̏̓̄̊̈́̎͑̏͛̏̄̓̋̉̏͛̑̽̉͆̃̍̚̚͘̕̕͘͘͘͘̚͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͠͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅą̶̨̧̡̡̨̨̡̨̨̢̧̨̨̡̢̢̡̨̛̛̱̭͉͇͍͍̣̠͇̦̤͍̯̫͙̺̟̼͈͎̗̙̤̬̮͖̗̼͓͚͔̠̻͍̩̩̹̮̞̻̹̜̣̳̟͉̼͙̺̦͚͖̲̪̺͍͕̺̤͔̺͎̻̣̜͈̗̗̖̥͖̰̲͇̺̖̜̯̱̟̠̥̱̰̹͚͇̙̮͈̩͎̯̪̹̦̩̬̹̤̳̩̫̦͉͈͇͕̯̬͙̥͚̲͕̮̦̝̦̤͕̹͕̲̳͍̥͉̦̭͙̳̜͙̥̙̞͔̺͉̠̤̝̼̩͎͔̯̞̦̼̲̮̖͈̯͎͖̲͙͖͍͔̹̻̱̮̖̩̮̜̩͚̠̥͔̟̰͑͋̄̈́̈́̒̓̒̾́̒̐̅̀̈̔́̅̊͌͋̎̄̃̂͛͊̏͌̍͌͑̏̅͛̒̏̐̎̃̿̽̊̓̈́͛͂̇̃̓̿̑̂͑̔͗̈́̾͐̈́͛͛̍͒́͘͘͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͠͠͝ͅͅͅͅͅn̷̨̢̧̡̧̢̧̢̢̨̢̧̡̨̨̨̡̨̧̨̧̛̦͖͕̘̖͈̳̤͇͔̦͍̟͙̞͇̞̤͚̭̫̬̦̻̼̖̣̳̖̗͖̺͍̹͎̪͉̲̲͔̳͔͖̟͓̩̝̰͙͕̖͈̳̱̱͓̹̹̺̝̱̖̻̜̦̠̳̺̝̥̻̪͙̫̪̗̞̦̟̱͔̭̱̩̦̜̪̝̳̖̘̟͈̩̼̗̹̤̱̘̱̦͎̩̖̦͇͖͓̖̠̟̝̮͈̞̻̜̭͕̦͇̼͔̦̪̮͖̥̱̩̜̲̣͚̘͙̯̺̳̥̙͙̟̠͓͕̮͓̥̣͙̩̱͍̥͔̣̲̖͍͉͈̥̥̘͖̖̗͙̠͈͖͍͉̝̳̭̣̱̲̝̰͇̬̗̝͔̩̖̻͇̠̯̼̪̖̺̪̦͓̦͈̞̳͙̘̲̙̻̙̹̣̖̭͕̜̠̰̭̯̱͉̯̰̿͗̂̊͒̅̆̈́̀̏̈́̈́͂̈́̓͑͋̂͛̌̉̾̆̎͒̕͘̕͘͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝ͅͅͅͅ ̷̡̡̧̧̧̧̢̡̡̨̧̨̡̡̨̢̧̢̧̛̛͍̦̬̮̤̳̼̞̫͖͍̤̦͙͕̙̼͇̙̝̗̤͙̙̘̥̯̙̟̞̳̫̮̳̩͙̗̼̱͉̬̣͉̘̠̬̗̜̺͓̗̭̫͚͖̜͍͎͖͚̠͙̣̬̤̬͚̘͓̦̟̤̗̯̝̠͖̯̟͚̥̗͇͔͔̻̖͙̗͖̻̰̘͈̭̬̳͙̮̼̘͕̣̖̱̪̱͉̦̯̖̭͉̥͍̹̟̗̦̟̟̣͖͖̪̼̦͙̱̗̬̼̦͍̫̰̮̪͓̘̣̻͕̫̰͙̼͍̰̮̥̥̹̪͉̻̪̖̟̰̮̟̯̻̞̼̿̄̍͂̌̓̈́̂́̀̋͆̉̌̓̾͂͐͂͋̃͋̂͑̉͌̄͌̑̾̉͗̈́͗͒̔̓̓̐̌̓͆̇̀̂͌̏͂̋̎̿́͗͗͐̌́̐͊̇̇̈̾̈́͑̈͒̏̾͛̒͐̆͐̌̈́͛̓͛̏̌̅̀̇̌̂̐̌̅̔̾͐̓̀̅̈́̈́̇͌̐̋̐̎̊̋͒͗̿͑̅͂̓̈́́̽̇̽̆̂́̑̽̽͑̔̏͊̓̍̅͒̃̉̈͛̂̆̓̄̏̂̌͑͐́͌̉̆̃̇̑͂̾́̂̍̐́̏͑͛̿̑̊̑̉̊̈́̉̄̈́̑̂̆͊̈́̅̈́̈͆́́̓͑͗̅̚̕̕̚̕͘̚̕̕̚̕̕̕̕̚͜͜͜͠͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅS̸̡̧̨̡̢̢̡̡̧̨̨̧̧̧̢̛̛͚͓̟̯̞͓͇̜̺̯͕̠̣̼͕͓̤͚̦̩̮̻͙̝͕͇̭̲̮̲̰̣̥͓̠̻̬͎̜͈̙̘̝͕̳̹̖͓̪̞̩̥̦̣̤̙̯̞̟̘̞̩̰̗͙̮̮͙͓̜͕̖̹̟̭̺͔̻̺̟̥̠͉̖̠̫̳͙͖̬̳͔͚̩̞̬͈̦̱̹͇̠̖̝̭̯̙̦̪͈̯͙̙̭̣̱̮̱̼̮̮̘̪͙̠͖͎̰̫̻̲̰͍̳͍̣͖̙̥̗̯͓̜̱͔̦̝͚̯̋͂͆͂̀̋̃͋̽̍̍̓̂̈́̿̏͌͌̈̌̑͗̍͌͋̆̽̓̆̇̄͌̋͒̆̀͌͛́́̓̔̓̑͋̊̀̄̐̒͗̽͑̈́͛̈̊̔̇͊̒̒̒͑̂͗̈́͒̾̽̽̾̋͌̉̎͆͑̉̌̃̽͗̀̆̈́̔̋̋͗͂͒̾́̉̈́̇̓́̕͘͘͘͘̚̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͠͝͠͠͝ͅͅͅͅư̸̧̢̡̢̨̧̨̢̨̡̨̨̨̨̢̧̛̛̛͎̠̤͕͖̼̭̻̣͎͙̪̦̫͖̺͍̻̲͔̟̜̲̲͍̱͓͇̬̤̜͚̥̼̞͉̜̗̜͈̰̜̖̯̠͙̩̫̗͓͚̝͇̱͙̖̮̠͉̦͇̭̘̣͖̹̩̻̟͚̥͔̰͖̙̺̯͚̱̘̲͍͔̺̩̩͉͓̫̟͖̳̬̩̪̪̰̤̳̤̻̖̯͇͕̠̜̰͉͓̭̝̥̭̱͔̤̖̝̹͔̣̭̫̤̣͍͇͖̱̹̱̟̙͇͙̹͙̲̬̬̜͔̳͓̹̤͍̦͖͇̭̝͙̬̯̦̣̠͕̼̠͇̲̱̗̪͖̠̞͍̟͈͖̥̭͓̠̥̹͎̝͉̹̯̮͍̦̯̺͓͉̲̘͓̗̬̲̦͍͖̮̭̙͕̱͎̩͇̫̬͚̠͈̝̮̘͚̜̮͇̫͕̣̦͎̣̥̖͕͖͓̤͎̠̗̘̦̤͙͎͇̩͎̞̳̰̖̱̮̹̝̖̱̱͗͐̓̈́́̍̈́́͗̀͊̿͛̓̿̋́̍͌̿̆́͌̈́̆̓̃̆̿̑̒̈́͊̍̉͆̆̓̄͗̏̒̈́̿́͗̍͛̏̈̈̍͗̿̓͆̇̍̎͆̒̔̑͋͒̍̌̏̈́͋̆̔́͑̄̉͒́̈́̈̈́͐̍̏̓̉̔̏̒̔̌̇̆̆̒̌͛̔̈͒̓̀́̉̍́̄̅̈́̀̇͐̂̊̒́̉̃̔̃̊́͆͑̔͊͌̒̒̀̆͒͛̿͗̊͌̃̏̋̄̀̊̒͊́̚̚͘̚̕͘͘̕̚͘͘͜͜͜͜͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅm̵̢̨̡̡̧̨̧̨̨̡̨̡̧̢̡̛̖͉̞͙̳̣̮͎͉̲̭̯̰̖̤̻̱̪̣͓̗̜̹̻̺̖̯̮̮̳̪̭͚̣͓̱͈̺͈̮̠͚̹̥͕̪̟̮̗̻͖̫͎̤͍͔̭̙͈͍͍͓̟̲͔͙̤̞̘̯̞̰̙̯̝̠̣̬̟͕̙͔̞͕̯̻͈͔̝̺͙͔̰̱̗̘̩̘̰̜͎̺͔͈̠̣̜͙̗̝̭̯̦͙͔̣͓͇͚̘̤̰͇̪̬̻̟͓̠̙̥͖͎̠̬̹̰̣͇̦̞̩̼̝̹̳̲̳͉͓͎̙̞̯̝̉̒̌͂̀͗́̂̓̇̋̎̌͌͌̈́͑̒͜͠͠͠ͅͅͅͅͅm̸̨̡̡̨̡̢̨̡̧̨̡̡̨̧̡̧̡̛̛̭͇̫͓͕̰̤̤͈̦͓̻̭̺̦̹̣͕̗̼͉͍̦̰̖̼̳̩͕͍̫̭̖͍̻̣̘̰̱̼̲̩̞͔̘̞͓̫̥̹̪̞̼̤͓̳̤̫̬̻̯̹͓͙̯̤̳̳͖̖̯͈̫̗̳̟͔͍̝̪̳̘͈̘͉̣͙͙͕̼͕̻̗̪̝̱͙̱͈͍̥̲̘̬͇̟̪͖͍̺̻͖̱̭͔̙̰̥̗̠̥̦̤̦͉̠̹̼̖̭̪̰̳͇̜̪̤̱̗̰͖̣͈̪̖̘̘̜̠̬̜̤̻͕̩̥̞̻̲̠̠̳̖̬̳̰͙̗̙͍͎̗̥̗͚̠̳͕͎͙̞̬̬̮̈́͛̉̋̆̀̿̽͐̾͗͗̽̃̇͑͊̊͌͂̂̈́͑̎̅̄͆͌͂̀́̿́͆̍̽̄̓̇̒͌̊́͑̀̑̏́̌̍̓̊͛͑͑͒̃́̍͒̒́̋́̇̽̊͒͋̈́̔̎̓̄͆̈́̅́͂̀̋̐̋̇͗͑͌̀̂̋͂͑͗̃̿́̀̒̈̀̈͆̕̚̚͘̕̕͘̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͠͠ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅę̸̢̨̧̢̡̧̨̛̛͉̭̲̞̹̮̯̯̦͉͖͓̥͙̟͖͚̙̠̠̱̥̰͖̠͙͙̞͕̪͇̲̦̬̫̩̘̲͖͚͔̺͖͇̼͎͕̞̯͎̻̻̤̜̖̜͓̭̺̻̰̥̯͔̳̫̠̯̭̺̼̪̝͎͇̬͚͍͉͚͉̜͍͙̼̘͍̯͉̣̪̲̭͕͍̝͈̦̞͉̰͎̍̌̀̃͛́́͌͊̔̈́̍̿͆̓͗́̈́̅͛͊͊͗̾͂̅̐̉͒̓̇͐̊͐̒̓̋̓͐̏̔̐̍̈́̀̍̈́́̊̀͑̔͗̐̀̅̏̍̐̈́̌̕͘̕̚͘͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͝͠͝ͅͅr̶̨̡̢̢̧̨̧̢̢̡̨̢̧̢̢̛̜̪͎̻͇͉̰̰̭͉̰̻̺̠̝̥̲͇̗͖̮̯̪̰̮͍͈̯̫̘̞͚̖̠̗̪̙̱̟̫̬̝̦̞̳͈͈̥̞̙̫̰̞͈̥̟̳̲̟̗̞̞̞̱͚͉͙̤͚̜͍̭͚͖̼̫̜͎̹̣̖͓̮͖̟̬̣̯̮͎̩͖̼̻͈̥̬̰̝̱͔͔̙͖̙̻̫̤̤̮͍̗͈͕͖̻͈͕̥͔̖̖͚̬̪̘͙̜̯̥͙̫̫͖̩̻͈̟̼̻͉̤̻̱̦̖͕̬̲̬̟̘̻̮̪͓̟̞̪̭̰̤̦̝͖̝̫͍͈͙̱̭̖̹̗͈̙̲̰̠̞̲͍̙̫̩͓͚̥̩͉̻̞̲̳͎̭̤̲̞̙͍̜̋̈́̇̏́̔̇̔̾͋̃̑̇̈́͌̐̌̅̐̎̇̆̐̋̎̔̀̂͂̋̅̀̽̍͋̎̋̓͋̓͂͌̎̎̐̍͊̐̀̈́̽̽̋͋̔̇́̍͆̔͑̿̈́̚͘͘̕͘̚̕̚͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅş̵̨̧̡̡̡̢̢̡̧̨̡̧̨̨̧̨̢̡̡̨̨̧̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛͓͇̱̬̩͖̭̟̣͔̗̼̫̪̥͕̙͓̙͎̲̠̪͙̼̯̞̰̩͖̹̫͕̖͓̤͇̗̰̖̹͉̙̰̯̖̭̟̦̞̼̠̞͎͈̼̤͍̹̤̼̩̰̫̮̲͙̞͎̤̭̹͙͍͇͓̱̫̖̥̲̪̲̜͈̲̼̺̻̣̳͔͓͇͎̝̦̥̮̺̭̰͈̥̬̭̮̜̩̞͔͎̞͍͎̫̘̳̰̪̼͉̹̤̠͖̗͈̫̲̫͎̗̜͍̻̣̖̱̜̦̺̪̜̠͉̲͕̳̹̲̳̣̤̞̜͈̜̲̜͕̺͉̳̘̩̞͚̪̞̝̜̺̖̞͙̘͖̥̞͇̘͓̟̖̼̮͍͍̩̺̟͇̞̈͐̈́̃̔̿͛̍̇̈̋̽́̈́̽̂̄̓͋̓͌́̑̄̓̍̽͊̓̊̏̅̆̇͛͂͌̒̅̋͛̌͐̾͒̾̇̎͆̅̏̎̆́̈́͛̔̓̀́̒̔́̀͗̔͂͒̍̈͆̓̐̓͌́̂̐̉̒̋̿͌̏̽̄́͂̐̏̊͌͋̇̀̿̒͗͆́̓́̓̏̅̇̆́̐̎͗̔̋͗̓́́̀̓̐̅̀͆̀̿͗̍̅́͒́͗̓̊̔́̀͆̏͆̅͒̓̄͊̋͂͑̾̈́͐̄́̑͋̂̐͊̐̓̎̊̃͂̈̏͆́̇̓̋̍̎̊̈̐̔͗̋̆̅͒͐̔͋͌̅̿̊͌͊̎̔͆͋̿̈́͐̄̑͛̈́̎͑̏͐̈̇́̽̐̂͂̄̾̐͊̑͊̍̄̋͛̐̓̀̀̀̅͒̀̄̎̈̈́̆́̽̋̍̑̕̚̕̕̕̕͘͘̚̕̕̚͘̚̚̕̚͘͘͘͘̚̕̚͘̕͜͜͜͠͝͝͠͠͝͝͠͝͝͠͝͝͠͝͝͠͝ͅͅͅͅͅ; Carl was too weak to maintain himself through the surprise and created a security risk that could have killed him if they were not similar levels of incompetent.

Carl continued to disappoint in his next outing, showing unprecedented teeth to M̸̢̨̧̡̧̨̢̛̦͓̭̞͓̭̭̤̤̳̫̳̱͚̯̥̭̱̰̻̯͙̗͙̩̯͖̪̹̰̖̤̗̤͈̻̦̤̬̗̦͓̞̲̞̥̫̘͙̝͓̱̭̭͈̦̯̘̙̲̱͕̬͚̱̠̖͚͙͕͎͔̺̩͙̞͔̯͓̥̫͉̪̱͖̤̟̟͎̫̰̺̝͙̬̥̭̝̣̩̜͚̅̿͋̾̅̿̀͂̓̍͌̿͋̀͌̄̓̌́̔̇̐̽̆̑́̄̇̉̐̋̏͗̃̂̍̆̇̈́̃̓̒́͆̀̄̐̄͒̎͂͐͐̈́̋̓̃̽̿͋̀̄̄̾̀̓͂͆̒͋̏̋̀̔̄̀͊͛̆̏́͆̈́̑͐̂͐͒͌̏̀̅̽̄͐̐̈̓̓̈́̍͗̈̇̍̍̿̐͛͐̈́͑̑̍͌̾̑̂̆̄͋̀̓̍̏̅͌̂̍͌̋͆̒̈́͐̍̅͗̆̽͊͊̂̔̈́̒̑̐̄̍̈́̈̍͑̋̓̆̍̍̀͊̉̈́̓̌̿̏̌̀͒̔͌̐̎̾͂̿̑̽̂̈́̌̂̉͑͂̃̔̊̆̈͊́̍̇̀̿̓́̓̀̋̂͛̊͆͑̽̇̿̃̒̕̕̕̕͘̚͘͘͘͘̚̕͘͘̕͘̕̚͘̚̕̕͜͜͝͝͠͠͝͝͠͠͠͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͝ͅa̵̢̢̛͍̮̘̮̺̺̝̦̙̳̖͓̻̩̣͎͎͍̜̤̳̪̘̹͑͗́̐̓̈́̊͌̃̀̃̓̄́͂͂̌̉́̇̉̆̾͂̒̆͛̿̉̈̊͑̅̅͗̒̿̿̉̈̐̂̿̓̀̅̎̌̚͘̚͜͝͝ͅr̸̨̡̨̨̡̧̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̟͖͉̦̟̙̩͇̱͓̩̺̝̞̬̩͓͚͉̦̮̱̯͉̜͙̝͓̘̱̼̬̦̟̮̥̺̜̙̗̗̘̰͉̱͍̟̬̣̬̺̖̺̠̖̙͙̦̟͉̩͔̫̹͚͍̻͈̙͓̖̺̻̳̘̣̝̗̫̩̫̩̪͍͎͇͎͕̞͕͙͑̽̉͑͌̉̒̏̅̑͛́̃͊̂̓̀͑̐́̔̈́̏̈́̔͊͌̆̓̂́̀̀̈́̉̂̇̇̾̏̆́̽̔͂̏͌͂̓̒͐̄͂͑̽͐͂̍̐́̇̀̾̑̈́̈́̂̓̔̌͊̏͒̉͆͗̌͑̔̄̈̂͊̊͐͊̉͂̉̇͐̋́̀̈́͑̄̎͛͂͆̇̌̈́̊̓̌͌̊̂̆̏̒͌̚̕̚̚̚̕͘̕͘̚͘͜͜͜͜͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅç̵̡̢̧̨̧̡̨̨̧̡̡̧̢̢̢̨̡̢̨̛̛̦̪̗̬̺̲̝͓̤͍͈͍̬̳̝̙͙͙̦̗͚̰̟̖̥̺̟̦͕̭̻͙̗̻̦̙̼̳̫̗̰͖̜̹̠̫͎̱̮͉͖̞̥͉̮̫̺̺̬͚̬͙̳͓̜̠̞̹͍̞͕̜͈̗̮̦͕̘̹̞̗̩̟̳͚̯̱͕͉̹͕̗̤̝̱̳̠͉̦̻̪͓̲͈̮͖̙̱͖̻̠̟̝̫̠̫̪͇̣̹̳͎̦̣̬̬͔̜̝̞̩͚̤͓̥̝̤͚̱̮̬̼̞̜͙̪̰͉̹̖̟͉̼̭̩̠̼͔̲̜̭̲̜̠̝̖͕̪̘̹̞̥͍̱̭̯͉̤̦̼̩̭͕̻̯̥̰̮͔͈̮̪̫͔͕̯̦̳̙͙̯̗̤̋́̅͑͆͐̃̂́͆̉͊̃̄̽͑̈̅̈́̀͗̐̿̀̂̎́̀̈́͗̃̄́̀̀́͒̾̒̏̇̿̈̅̐̍̀̀͑̇̊̓̾͛́̾̃̋̃̈̿̊̆̾̀̍̅̈͋̀̊̽̈́̉̆͋͌̍̇͆̓͌̾̌̌̒̄̐͂̂̃͊̔̈́͊͆̓̄́̄̌̋̏̈̋͊̓̈̿̐̀̈́̎̆̇̅́̑̽̽̈́̎͆͋̂̄̎͒̂̿̂͑̓͂̐͛̑̈̈́̀͒̅̔͋́̄͋͛̐̌̆̊̊͒͌̓̈́́̇͑̎̄̍̅̏̈́̽̍͗̏̓̐̔̋̃́̎̒̃̒̾̋̒̚̚͘̚̕̚͘̕̚̚̚͘̕̚̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͠͠͝͠͝ͅͅͅơ̶̢̨̨̢̢̧̨̡̧̧̧̨̧̧̧̢̨̨̢̧̡̛̛̛̬̳̟͕̼̟̺̤̯̞̹͈̙̮̖͓̠̦̳̳̘̹͖̥̦̫̫͓̣̫̻̳̠̫̲̪͈͖̰͈͇͍͙̪̲̣̗̗̗̙̪̤̦̦̞͇͉͉̱̲͉̱̪͚͈̙͕̱͇̫̱̪̭̤͈̜͓͎̪̭̜̟̹͍̟̳̫̪̟͚̜͎̗̮̥̣̙̪̯͖̤̪͍͚̮̺̻͚̦̥̫͈̻̭͓̯̯̟̯̭͈̰̱̰̥͖̳̯̰͉̙̱͕̪̭͍̹̦͓̝͓͍͖̭͎̰͉̼̘͈̘̻̤̪̝̠̼̠͖̯̗̰̪͔̭̤̤͎̯̻̥͚̼̗̱͙͎̥͓̪͍̰̹͕̗͚͍͔̺͙̰̙̘̫͉̘̜͍̹͚̝͙͇̟͙̠̹͈̗̙͕̟͍̻͑́̀̈́̒͌͂̽͂̇̓͗̄̓͌̓̔͋̎́͊̒͋̋̿̇̽̄̾̈̋̂͊͌̊̓͑̀͊̈͑͋̈́͋̌̂͑̈̊̂͊͑̋͋̈̍͛͒̊̊̍̎̆́̏̾̃͛́̂͛͒̓̏͗̀̀͂̋͊̅̋̋͋͗͊̑̐̋͋̓̏̈̿͐͌̾͂̌̽̀̀̀̇̈́̾̔̈́͒͌͆̎͗̈́̈́̀͌̿̉̓͌̑͂̓͋̈́̽̈́̽̔̌͗̀̍̀̾̍̏̄̐̀͋͂̈́̑̈́̅͌̚̕̚͘̚̚̕̚͘͘̕̚̕͜͜͠͝͝͝͠͠͠͠͝ͅͅͅ ̷̨̧̨̧̢̨̨̢̡̡̡̧̛̣͚̱̳̳̟̹̲̬̯̞̳̟͎̤͉̩͈͚̠̠̪̝͎͎̞̱̣̰̖͉̣̯̬̣͓̱͍̫̳̠̦̫̹͖͍̞̥̟͇̦̙̘̩̠̟͕̻͖͖̞̮̺̳̺̬̝̘̱̟̹̖͍̖̞̺̭͔͔͕̦̝͚̣̤̩͓̰̣̳͈̟͈̹͔̤͎̜͍̙̞̲̩͈̖̹̭̯̟̘̩̺̰͎̦̪͙̗̯̩͙̮͓͚͔̺̦̯̯͕͔̳̹̝̗̟̱̗̦͊͒͋̐͑̄̈́̂̍̓̑̊̈́̀̓̄̓̀̅̽͛̆̏͋̏̓͗͋̇͌̒̂̌̈́̉̉̈́̋̇̋̂͒̽̉͆̒̓̈́̈̎̀̅̈́̔̆̐̉͊̍́͆̀̌̏̒̎̐̾̽́͂̐̄͛̀͆̂̎̀̋̅͂̐̀̀͑̈́̀̓͛̽͆̈́͒̈̒͒̈̔̉͒̀̎͌̈́̅̄̓̔̈́̀̌͆͑́̍͋͐̄̂̐͆͒̌̅̊̿͋̔̉͆͛͑̅̅̀̏̈́͂̓̈́̓͂̀͌̄̽͑͛͊̇͐̏̔̀̀̂͒̎̈́̐̆̿͛̀̉͑̍̈́͆̊̈́͌̈́͐̌̋͆͌̿͑̂̏͐͋̿͋͒̔̆̑͂̍̔̀̂͌͑̓̇͑͛̑̆́͌̌̋͌͛̀̿͘̚͘̚̕̚̕̚̕̚͘̚̚̕͘͘̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͠͠͠͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅV̴̡̡̧̧̡̡̨̨̢̧̢̧̧̢̧̢̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̬̘̺͎̣̗̼̰̝͎̟̤͈̰̦̯̱͔̼͕͚̩͉̲͙̪̯̪͖̺̬̦̩͙̤̖̯͖̯̬̻̞̜̱̱̟̣̝̙̹̹͉̺̙͉̲͙͍̳͇͉͕͕̘̯̜̮̩̞͎̺̼̲͓̗̱̰̥͓̹̯̟̘͇͕̙͉̭̤̫̟̫͚̖̙͓̰͇̜͍̪͚̺̩͓͖̥̣̜̖̪̖̬͎͇̙̮͚͖͕̟̹̬͍͙̙̲̲̪̹̭͉͈̥̮̘̠͙͚̼̞͎̯̟̙̜̪͍͕̞̭̗͔͙̼̮̹̬̥͚͖̺͉̟̜̮̖͌̓̋̇͒͛̌͆̊̀̉̿̎̔̽̾̌̃̃͛̂̇̾̍̈́̊̈̀͋̊̇͑͛̈́̌̄͋̒͗̿̎͆̎͂́̑͗͂͆̑̋̋̇̓̅̂͊͋̈̂̎̍͒̈́̔̌̓́̈́̃̿̆͆̆́̔̀̾͊̐͌͊̇̈͊͆̆̈́̌̀͊͑́̃̉̑̏͗̽̂͗̏́͊͛̀̊̌̒̀̈̈̈̏̈̋̍̇̐͑͑̄̋̂̌̑̈́̒́̃̓̍̿̀͂̂̌͒͐͂̓͒͛̀̓̌̄͒̀̽͗͊͗̃̾̇̽͆͋̅͌̈͒͌̽̏̐͒̀̿̀̍̀̅̊̎̆̉̽́̅̎͒̿̐̆͋̋̓̅̈́͑̀̈́͋̇̓̄̏̌̎̎̿́̐̾̃͐̊̐͋̓͑́̾̓́̆̄̑͐̀̀͒̽͊̿̃̃͊͋͑̓̋͗̍̎̽̈́̽̎͘̚̚̚̕̕͘͘̕͘͘̚̕͘͘͘͘͘͘̕͘̚̚͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͠͝͝ͅͅͅơ̶̡̧̡̡̡̨̧̧̢̧̨̧̢̢̧̛͕̰͚̦͓̻̣̞̱̤͕͎̘̹͔̯̭̯̥̹̰̪̙̜̤͕̘͖̠͖̦̺̭̫̺̝͙̘̘̰̻̘͖̻̳̯̻̹͎̮͕̰̠͓̜͇̦̻͔̫͓̫̫̪̘͔͈̯͕̘̬̫̺̜̤̝̹̘̠̰͇̼̳̮̤̮̭͓̖̣͖͕̦̊̔̾̓̈́̈́̀̂͗̍͑̀̈́̀̈́͌͑͋̔͒̔̓͌̈͑̀͑͌́͒̈̀̏̈́͗̊̽̀̄́̿̈̈͗̾̀̈́̆̄̉̔̇͊̈̂̐̈̋̐̋͑̈̆̐̍̍̊́͊̓͒̈́̓̌̏͗̽̓̀̽͗̌͊̃̊̈́̈́̏͑̀̃͒̎̉̌̎̐̇̏̉̆̈̃̂̃́̎̌̽͗͋́̒͗̑̀͊̽̓̉̆͛͗̌͋̊͌̅̋̂͒͂͊͆͐̾̅̋́̋͗̑̂̾̎͛͛̒͐̀̈́̒̉̂̓̏͑̌̿̒͊͊͌͗̐͐͗͐̈́̀̀͌̇̂́̽̀̔̿͛͛̋͌͑̿̐͑̏̃̉̈́̊̈̽̀̍͆̊͋̐̃̄́̄̓͛̍͐͂͗̃̍̇̐͌̿͊͆̊̕͘̚͘̕͘̚͘͘̕̚̚͘̕͘͜͜͝͝͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͠͝͠͠͝͝͠ͅͅl̶̡̡̧̨̢̢̛̛̛̛͚͖̫̱͉̣̪͙͔̜̞̟͎̪̹̯̳̩͚̺͈̹̲̜̫̺͖̜͔͍͕̼̤̖̗͔̰̩̟̦̱͙̖̻̪̦̲̣̲͉̮̳͕̼͙̣̬̣̱̳̯̻̦̼̼̹̗̠͍̻̙̬̼̞̞͍̮̭̪̪͖͙̣̩̲̦̼̼͇̰͚̖̗͕̼̠͎͖̬͓̮͉͈͙̫̙͇̩̩̞̩͓͎͙͔̦͕̦̱͔͙̩̙̜͈̭̼̜͈̩̱̳͇̰̹̣̞̠̘̲̩̖͇͚̠̗̥͍͚̺̿̓̔̾͂̓̋͒̎̐̌̅̑̉͐̀͗̿͋̀͌͒̓͒̽̈́̆̀̄̌̃̀̿͑̎̐͒̂̀̐̍̓̅̈͐̅́̍̋̓́̃̽̓̽̽̋͗͒̌͋̽͘̚̕͜͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅķ̷̨̡̡̢̧̧̡͙̹͈̣͎̫̯͇̙̩̫̗̱̤͇̜͔͚̮̹͍̘͚̭̙̙̘̻̼̜̯͍̟̙̤̼͚͖̺̖̰͕̖̝̰̥͇̭͖͉̖͚̣̖̤̻̙̫̭͓̲̬̝̤̖̖͈͍̗̗́́̑͊̉̊̒̉̌̀̓͑̈͊͊́̓͌̎̅̋͐̓̀͗̈́̀͑̊̈́̉̇̀͋̂́͛͗͛̽̄̃̀̒̑̋̈́̿̊̂̀̂̌̿̓̏͗̃̄̚͘͘͜͝͝͠͝͝ͅͅͅe̵̢̢̢̧̡̡̢̡̨̨̢̨̧̧̢̨̡̛̛̛̛̖̪͚̳̣̰̙̜̯͇̪͚̼̯̖̝̫̗̗͖̲͕̦̞̗̼͈̮̤̣̬͇͚͚̬̖̠͎̰͙̭͇̘̼͙̦̹̼̫̺͇̲̞̼̩̻͈̻̰̯̫̰͚͚͕͉̻̮̮̟̩͇̖͎̦̭̣̪͖͇̞̘̬̺̼͚̺̠͍̱̪͚͉̺͉̼͕͕̻̜̤̜̬̳̜͈͉̞̺̻̱̮̟̱͉͙̹̣͎̭͈̬͈̙̻̞̰̻̱͔̝͙̪̻̟͙͉̮̲̲̼̠̤̫̰͓͇̘̹͉̥̦̰̳̖̱̱̹͉͙̖̲͈̖̖̦̮̲̘͎̞̩͖͚̙̩͈͈͖̺̞̥͔̥͚͕̥̱̪̭̜̰̯̰̙̰̱̪̗̩̪̞͖̫͚̗̥͚̳̫͚̰̥̹̹͌̔̈́̎̽̔̋̿̆̂́̀̔͂͗̾̍̉͑͆̒̇̍͆̊͊̂͑̈́̄̈́̈́̊̍̆͂̊̂̃͋̂̽̅̃̅͂̅̅͂̔̌͌̍͛͋̊̿̈́̔̽̊̓̿̓̇̋̐́̐̔̍̈̋͊̈́̅̅̐̅̓̐̋́̍̏́͑̓̐͒̆͊͊̾̍́̍̉̆̌̒̓͛͛̇̑̽̂͐͒̿̅͋̀̾͑͌͋̉̌̉̂̆̄͒̎̊͒̇͂͋̌͐̍̈́́̌̆́͒̈̔̐͑́̌̓̆̓͒̈̃͛͛̊̋̑̂́̓́͐̿́̃̀́́̏͂̔̿̅̊̈́͐͗̂̒̏̊̇́̌̆̽̔͑͛̎̐̈́̑̒̓͛̂̌̇̓̍̂̆̈́͊̌̐̑̓̓̀͋̃̎͗͂͌̔̏̽͋͋͛̒̊̈͋̎̔͋͌̌́̀̎͆̈́̒̕̕̚̚̕̕͘̕͘̕͘̕̕̚̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͠͝͠͝͝͠͝͠͠͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅŗ̴̢̡̧̡̢̡̢̧̨̢̧̛̻̯͙̣͙̠̗͙̺̯̘̲͕̭̤̬͕͔̼̳̣̥̞̖͍̳̬̺̞͍̬͎̙̩̫̲̬̖̩͔͕̠͙̯̟̯̜̰̝͙̻̻̥̯̯̘͔̥̱͙̱̩̦̗̫͙̲̦̩̯̟̟͍͓̞̥̼̠͖͓̭̭̰͙̟̹̮̼̻̯̞̻̥̙̞̤̬͈̱̤̤̠̥̲̘̤̘̞̖͈̜̺͉̲͖͓̲͔̤̤̭̜̭̣̭͔̰͉̱̙̠̼̜̲̪̝͎͇͓̩͗͑̀̔̈́͋̂͆̆͂̅̐̅͂̅̐̓̽̏̄̔̈̈͌́̓̊͐̆́̏́̉̀̄͐̓̂̅̆͋̔̽́̅̈́̒̈́̽͐̌̀̏̍̓̋̇̉̀̉͛̍͌̓͆̂̀̇͗̓́͗͆̊̌̊̒͆̈́̐̂̿̈̌͊̀͋͊̕̚̚̕̚̕̚͘̚͜͜͜͠͝͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅ in an attempt to sow suspicion against him. This was foolish and in violation of his stated purpose. Carl was foolish. Only Carl. It was Carl’s fault. B̶̨̧̧̛̛͇̣̣͇͇̮̖̙̭̳̪̘͖̱̫̣̰̯̦̖̟̲̻͎͖͕͚͈̻̥̪̫̲̬̖͔͙̻̮̦̯̟̠̬͍͕͍̩̟̦͍̬͍̗̋̀͐̎͒̿̒̄͋̒̍̑̈͐̐̋͛̄̉̐͒͐̑̍͛͊́̌̔̈́̀͂̽͆̏̀̾͌̊̈́͂̈́͛̔́̌̋̌̋̒͂̄̾̑̆͗͑̋͑̓́̀̇̓̂̾̍͊̀̅̊͆͆͑̇̾̂̃̆̃̽̄́́̿̔̎̀̃̓͐̂̂̎̄̽́̐̈͋͛̇́͂̈́͂͌̃̔́͆͂̓͆̈̅̇̌̿̓́̐̂̉̈́́͋̏͒͋̃̐͑̏̏̀̇͗̂̌̿̊̓͆̈́́͒̈́̾̒̆̄͂̄̈́̀͛̈́́͛̽͂̑̏̐̓̒́̀͑̎̏̾͗̃͂̂͗̅̏͋̌͐̇̓͂̍͑͊̔̈́̈́̑͗̽̎͂͐̆̄͂́̈͗̽̃͛̋̆̑͛͛̈̇̑̒̎͊̑̀͐̑̿͆̎͑̓̅͐̋̈͛͗̉̈̉̇̐̊̿̊̃̔̈́̓̕͘͘͘̕͘͘͘̕̕̕̕̕̕͘̕̚̚͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͠͠͠͝͠͝͠͝͝͠͝͝ͅļ̵̡̨̡̨̡̨̧̢̧̢͉̱͇͈̩̝͓͉͉͎͓̺̯̲̠̹͈̼̠̣̗̤͙͈̦̯͍̣̤̘̤̩̦͎̝̩̥͚̤̠̭͍̟̟͇̠̙͍̯̥̫̲͓͈̫̬̥̝͍̟̘͎̯̪̺̰̜̤̱̺̠̖͔̰͚͙̳͈͎̼̺̭͓̟̭̥͎̘͈̳̜̭̻̟̻͚̤̻̩̺͇͓̖̝̩̜̞̝̳̼̮̻̥̳͎̗͎̹̱͔͕̯͈͙͎͙͖̦̜̤̱͎̻͓̙͚͇̝̻̗͉̙̳̪̪͉̠͉͉̝̣̱̗̞̞̻̯̭̳̭͓̺̞͉̭̼͓͚͍̫̳͍̱͍͎̺̭̗̤̠̀͂̒̐̐͆̀͑͂̈̂͋͊́̽̓͊̔̓̈͋̽͆̀͋͗͋͋͐̄̂̌̉̋͊̅̊́́̓̈́̏͑͋̎͆̂͌͂͊̏͊̃͌̐́̀̐͒̿̈́̓͐̅͋͊̈́͋̒̋͗̈̓́͑̔̓̐̔̂̅̀͛͌͑̅́̎̑͒̓̒̊́̚̚͘͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͠͝͝͠͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅã̷̢̧̡̨̡̡̡̢̢̛̛̛̛͖̤̥̞͕̰͖̣͚̠̪͎̘͚̖̩̖̼͉̹̲̦͔̙̫͈̤̘̰͎̝̭̟̲͖̱̹̜͖͔̘̼͓̬̤̘̮̥͍̺͍͇͈̗͈̪̮͙̣̼̞̙͔͈̦̣̟̪̟̹͓͓̦̯̞͙̟͇̩̞̜̺̲͍̳͖̜̲͙̺͉͈͔͍̟͉͙̥̣̭̻̥̩͉͙̻̐̍̄͑̂̊̀̈́̎̉̾̉̏͌̎̇̌͌́̊͌̏̿̍̓̊́͐̂̐̎̀̒͒̓̈́̏͆͂̂͒́͊̔͒́͐͗̎͂͗͂̑̈͗͆͑͒͑͛̉̀̆̿̒̓́̋͊̔͐̃̍̈́̎̆̒͗̈́͑̏̊̈́̽̃̉͐̈́̓̑̍̈́̐̈́̎̽̈́̔̎̑̊͑͛̿͊̽̀̓͋̎̑̎͂͗̈̆͋̍͌͛̉͋̈́̌͒͋̌͐͗̀̅̉̽̂͋̅̓̍̒͛̂̀̍́̔̀̑̐̇̋̏͑̓͂̅̌̿̑͋̂̄̓̂̆́͆̄͒̽̆̿͆̇̊̈́̒̂̊̔̎́̔̓͐̃͛̆̾͋̓̓͊̿͘̕̚̚̕̕͘͘̚̚͘̕̕̚͜͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅī̶̡̧̧̡̨̡̢̨̡̧̧̡̡̢̢̱̟̲͙̘̳̳̘̰̳̼̘̘̭͙͎̤̭̲̜̟̟̺̠̼͍̳͖̭̻̝̱̯̹̗̺̬̩̫̤̺̟̖̤͖̤̠͚͔̬͖̝̜̲̩͍̤͖͖̱̞̜̘̲̟̝̞̩̝͎̹̗͔͖͍̥͉͙͇͔̯͔͈̩̩̰̘̙͈̩̮͚͙͓̥̗͚̪̲̼̣̺͔͖̻͚͎̣̦̮̫̹̲̜̞̳̩̻̯̘̦̭̣͇̲̳̞̮̖̼̜̱̜̱̭̼̠̣̳̭̬̺̗̳̻̹͖̳̟̪̤͍͍͕͙̭͚̦̜͓̯̺̗͙͓̰̪̣̥͍̟͈̳̱͕͈͚̘͒̉͑̈́̐̑̓̂̉͊̆̈̌̋́̇̍̀͗͗͗̈́̓̿̔́͗̊̎̆̿͋̈́͗̑̐̈̅̋̑̅̏̋̾̐̏̓̑͆͋̈̀̃̃̂̽̅́̈́̕͘͘͘͜͜͜͜͝͝͠͠͝͠͝ͅs̵̡̢̧̡̢̧̧̢̡̧̧̨̢̤̣͙̱͓̲͈̰̻̩͉̮̯̣̠̻͕̙̫̙̬̗̻̮̠̲̬̞̙͚͖͙͈͉̤̣͔̳̙̦͉͔̠̟͙̙̠͕̦̬̮͎͕̥̗̜̘͈͍̻̞͖̹̹̼̯̮̼͎̰͖̺̝̫͖͙̳̤͈̩̜̫̗̩̝̺͕͇̠̳͎͔̹͉͎̝̹̘̯̮̮̭̬̰̙̟̝̥̫̱̝̲͍̹̥͓̟̞̲̞̩͙̗͍̳̳̝̪͚̺̊̂̎͗͂͒͂̓̅̑̏͆̃̒͐̈́͑̎̋̈́̽́̅̿̊̇͑̈͂̔͂͐͐̆͛̈̅̉̀͒̾̅̓͆̿͋̚͘̕͘̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͠͝ͅͅͅͅͅë̵̡̧̡̡̧̛̛̛̦͍͉͙͚͚͖͖̲̜̣̭̟͍͕̣͚̼̼̺͔̗͉̩͙̼̟̩̯̻̥̙̦̪̤̯̞̘̳̰̲̭̻͖̘̗̺̲̘̱̖̭̼̘͕͓̗̘̫͙̣̣̗̟̓̈́̇̅̂̈̍̈̌̒͑͂̅̅̊͂́͑̀̎̋̉͂̽̒͂̌͛͆͌͂͊̌͛̍̓̈́̃̏͗͋̈́̽̒̀̓̏͆̄͐́͛͌̊̋̍͗̿͐̀́͛̇̓̒̑͒̿̿̉̍̓́͛͌̎͗̃̈́̔̌̎̏͒͋̾̅̽̇̂́͛̿͗̔́̃̉̾́̿͋̈́͊̄̈́̍̂͘̚̚͘̕̕̕̚͘͜͜͜͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͠ͅ 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history with A̸̧̢̢̢̢̧̧̢̢̨̧̧̨̢̧̧̡̨̨̨̨̨̢̢̡̨̨̛̛̛̟̞͓̰̭̙͍͉̟̠̯̳̦̬̖̝͇̥̼̜̬̮̦̝͎̲̤̻͙̰̲͕͔̣̰̠̭̦̗͚̙̲̩͔̫̹̰̙̖͉̗̙̬̰͙͔̪̭͕̘͖͚͔͓͔͕̫͇͚͎͙͚̼̠̘̟͓̟̞̠͍̘͉͚̥͓̮̗̜̼̞̱̰̞̘͇͔̣͚̪̜͚̪͔̤͉̙̫̲̬̙͈̦̝̤̙̮̜̪͓̰͍͉̮̭̬̲̮̫̟͎̙̟̫̪̘̦̖̮̱̲̹͍̭̻̗͓̞͕͙̞̰̥̟̹̖͕̺̯͚͙̙̬̻̻̜̠͙͚̺͓̪͙̥͛̀͐̔̈́̋̀̊̇͆̔̽̈̈́͑̂̈́̾͒̀͑̍͂̏̂͛͑́̉̆̃̌̅͂̒̎̀͐̈́̀͊̾̃̈́̍͑̐̂̄̉̄̿͆̄̽̓̊̊̂̈͌͑̿̓̉͂͑̇́̉̈́̈́͆͑̀̋̂̏̏̇̽͛̾̐̐̿̀̕͘̕͘̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͝͠͠͝ͅͅͅͅͅḷ̶̡̨̡̢̧̡̢̢̨̡̧̡̧̡̨̢̧̨̧̧̛̭̞̻̺̣̰̪̙̭͓̻̦̼͚̰̰̯̦̺̩̻̜͔̤̰̗̪̳̱̩̠̖̱̺̟̯͉͓̞͈̝͖̝͖̘̦͓̣̤͖̱̻̱̱̙̟̮̩͕̲̝͉̦̗̬̭͇̤̙̞̝͈̪̘͎̤̲̹̬͇̗͓͇͉͍͖̺̣̜͙̜̥̬̖̮͍̼̥̞̥̯͇̭̦̠͇͈͔͇̜̻͚̯̻͈̞̻̫͔̭͉̠̟͓̼̹̞͚͈͚̞̼͚̗̯̻̹̫͚̠̻̱͎̣͖͕̣̦͇̫̝̤͕͔̭͕͓̳̗̦͕̠̖̙̦̦̭͓͕̘̙̳̣͇̲̻̲͖̩̟͚̙̯̜̗̯̪̹͓̺͉̹̝̥̜̗̳̤͉̙̃͆̔̎̾̒̅͌̈́͒̀͂̾̋̾͛̎̈͛̏̈́̐͋̐̒̈́͘̚̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͠ͅͅͅͅͅͅe̶̢̢̡̡̨̨̢̢̧̡̢̢̢̧̢̢̧̛̛̛̛̛̠͙̞̭̯̲̘̩͖̻̼̗̹͉͙̯̯͎͕̭͚̩͖͉̟͕̖͙̙̝̹̦͇͖͚͈͉̬̠̳͎̲̥͙͕͕̳̰̠̰͓̥͈̳͕͚͔͓͔̝̖͚̯̦̻͚̯̫͈̯͎̰̞̪̯̳̫̖̮̣͙̼̹̝͓̹̫̤̫̥͚̹̲̰̱̹̫͈̪̱͎͍̝̠̳͙̟͇̺̜͕̗̠̦̠̞͇̲̳͕͔̹̘͈̤͇̦͕̭̣̫̯̖͎̫̟͎̲̪̳̭̟̠̫̟͎̘͇͎̺̻͓͖̝͍̫̰͖͈̜̭̻͉̥̻̱̳̣̻͍̬̗̠̝̤̣͈̬̝̋̔͆͐͛̽́̂̅̎͋̋̉͂̓̉̑̈́̌̋̌͒̅̔̐̈́̿̌͐́̎̐̿̾̃̅͋̋̆̏̔͋̓̈́͊̓͗̅̌̑́̑̉́̍́̐͒̇̇̈́̂̈́́̐̄̏̌̊̎̑͊͛̓̋̓́͛͛́̓́̉̌̇̌̈̊̀͊̑̄͗̀̈́̇̒͛̾̂̂̔̈́̀̽̈́̊̈́́͛̆̾͗͆́́̀̓̓̇̎͑͂̈́͛̃̑͐͆̐̓͐̽̽̐͐̈́̒̆̽͒͒̈̀̔́̈̍͊͐̉̓͆̄̂̀̔͌̎̄͑̉̓́̇͗́̎̅̓̍̏͒̓̀̿̂̌̉̏́́́̋̃́̈͗̇̌͗̇͆͐͂̆͌̉̾̈́̄̈́̈́̋͌̾̂̆̔̌̈́͒̚̕͘̚͘͘͘̚̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅć̷̢̨̨̨̨̧̡̨̨̨̢̛̛̛͖̞͓̜͈̳̱̰̙̩̤̳̗̻̹̯͉͎͖̦̜̣̯̟̠̥͖̝̪̯̣̜̦̯͇̙͎̻̳̘̱͍͓͎͖̩̝̻͍̲̩͚̝͉̬̲͇͓̹̻̗̩̬͙̖͎̼̻͚̞́̿͋̒̎́̈́͋̒͌̒̓̑͒͗͊̐̃̀̄͊̀̇̒̐̑͋́͌͒̓͋̌̊͐̂̽̊́̅͆̽̄̃̔́̎͒͑̇͑͛̓̊̌́̓́̉͂͗͛̈̂̓̋͛͆̀̍́́̒̎̄̏̒̓̐͌͌̌̅̌̅̓͛̓͌̌̾͐̒̂̓̌̃͆͊̓́̒̐̽͐̑̓͗̄̓̂́̋͆̎͑̀̎̿͆͛͆̈́̒͒̏̊̈́͆̉͆͛̓͐̈̇̿̾̆̎̊̔̏͒̿̈̓̿͋́̃̈́̈́̍̎̈́̇̄̿̾͗͆̊̈́̇́̎͌̔̾̒͋̿̎̌̔̄͗̿̈̇̓̔̊͐̈́͋̈́̍̓͂̌̑̇̋̓̉͆͋͛̓͗̏́̋͆̈̂̅̍̾̉̒́̊̎͌̔͌̿̀̋͆̿̽͐͘̕̕͘͘͘͘̕̕̚͘̕̕̚͘̚̚̚̕̕̚̚͜͜͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͠͝͝͠͝ͅͅͅͅ ̸̛̛̛̛̛̛̤̬̰̺͖̣̜̣̟͚̫̥͚͎̻̿̀͛̓̾̔̃̑̐̈́̾͑̆̅̐̽̑̍̎̈̐͆͋̔͌̂̆̎̀́̅͗́̑̽̒̈̏͐̅͋̅̓̌̍̈́̊́̎̓̅́͒͑̄̅̾̅́͑̃̇͆̓͛̈̍͂̈̎͊̈̂̏̉̀̓̈́̽̏̂̃̿̓̄͊͊̍͑̅̃̏̀͛̔͂̒̒̏̌̀͆̾̉̾̍̈̇̒̈́́̾̽͆̈́̊̅̈́͛͂̊̒̂͐͐͒̈́̏̊͆̈́̋́̃̽̀̏̀̄̇͛̂̾̈̈̒̉̊̉̐̓̋̓́̌͂̄̃̊͆̓̃̑̊͛̌̈́̆́̀̃͒͒̈͑͂̽̈́̄̄͒͐͌̎͛́̌̌͊̓͆̇̀̑́͊̈͂̑̑͒͆̄̋̈̂͌͌̾͗̒̾̐̌̽̽͆͒̂̔̆̾̈͑͐͐̕͘͘̕̕̚̚̚̚̕̕̚̚̚͘̚̕͝͠͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͠͝͝͝͠͝͠͝͝͠͝͠͝͠͠͠V̸̧͍̙̰͔̰̥̗̩̬͓͉̖̥͉̲̪̙̗̦̂̉̌̽̈́͛̄̄̔̈́̓͑̔̄̆͛̓͑̍̓̐͑̈́̂͆̈́̿́̀̓̿̂͂̿͗̈́̒̀͛̂͐͂̾̄̒̿̇͑̇̚͘̚̚͜͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͠ͅỡ̷̡̢̡̢̢̘̖̼͍̳̖̩̞̪͇͔̣͚͈̙̗͖̮̫̖͓̱̲̼̞̘̘̝̟̹͕͚͚̯̘͇̪͔͔̲͕͛̓̀͋̎̈͂͊̀͆̈́͜͜͜͜͜l̵̢̧̡̡̢̛̛͈̙͕͕̜̳̙̣̝͕̪̦̳̗͉͓̳̩̲̦͔͍̟̗̫̖̮̰͉̺̜̩̼̼͍̭̺̠͖̳͉̗̹͍̦̻̳̰̲̥̊͆̅̉̾͛͐̊̃͊̀̽̌͐̉̏̾̀̔̑̉͂́͆͐́̅̄͌́̅͋͐͊̓̀̋̆͑͐̎͊̑̊͛̈́͋̍̅̂͑͋̑̿͛̀̑̀̽̏̾͆́̓̅͌͐̅̆̾̅̐̾̽͂́͗̂̏̈͒̀͆̓̇̈́̂̐̾̀͊̉͛̃̀̈́͌͑̽͋̈́͂̎͂̓́̿̓͐̊͗͒́̉͛̓͑̓̊̃̑̈̈́̅̀̏́͛̾̄̈́͂̈̑͐̃̚̚̕͘͘͘̚͜͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝ͅk̴̢̡̡̢̛̛̛̘̙͓͓̺̙͚̜̠̩͎̠͚̮͓̳͙̭͍̲̦̹͔̯̲̟̼̪̬͓̟͖͚͙̺͓͍̬̅̆̏͑̑͗̆͐̃͆͑͗͊̎̑̑̑̏́̒͐̀̎͆́̔̐̑͑̊̉̿͆̑͐̉̀̈́̄̊͗̈́̽̍́̂͐̓̐͆́͗̓̊̾̇̂̑͗̓̏̈̽͋̓͛̋̒̔̎͗̏̽̽̑̑̓̈́̒͌̍̀̃̒̑͐̂͂̎̔̀̊̇̇̏̐̑͗̽̔̀͆͑͒̄̽͆̂͌̓̐̀̐͌̎͗͛̂͂͋̅͗͛̅̈̿̀̆͊̿̾͂̀͛̀̀̈̂͋̀̒̌̅͊̓̄͗̑͂̊͑̅̄̅̿͒̿̆̒̄́̏́̀͛̒͗́̀͊̅̒̅́͗̃̈́̓͐͗̉̈́̇̔̓͊̇͌̄̈̋̈̀̚̕̕̕͘͘͘̚͘̚̚̕͘̚̚̚͝͠͝͠͠͠ę̷̢̨̨̧̡̨̡̨̧̨̢̡̨̨̡̡̛̛̛̤̪͕̠͈̹͈̠͕̼̥͙̠̙̤̱̰̜̜̦͎͙͎̘̱̺̼̥̝͎̹̲͚͙̟̰̹̞̼̹͕̯̣͖̪̜̹̺̥̮̣̬̯̥͙̱͚̼͙͕͖̭̰̝̼̩̺̦̝͕̫̦̜̬̥͈̳͖̪̮̭͕̤̟̟̹͔̺̟͓̬͈͚̩̫̞̝̟̟̳̦͎͓̮̙͙̳̭͔̩̻̦̘̥̫̻̯̱̞͎̦͓̘̤̣́͂̔̓̽͒͂̈̒̈͒̈́́͑̔̇̓̾̀̅̓͛̌̈̏̿̂̃͛͑̌̉̓͒͌̽̔́͛̒͑̑͊̾͒́̆̉̿̍̾̓͊̀̾͗̆̉̋́̑̊̈́̌̈́̒̉̀͊̏͛̿́̓̽̓̏͑̊̎̈̏̊̌͐͐̏̀͂̔̂̒̾̅̇̋̌͘͘̕̚͘̕̚͘͜͜͜͜͠͝͠͠͝͠͠͝͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅr̷̡̢̡̨̨̡̡̨̢̨̡̢̡̢̢̡̛̛̛̛̮͚̥̳̲̞̠͚̥̫̹͇̝͚̘̻͉͇͈̖̝͙̥̞̖̰͈̻̯̺̗̰̞͈̰̫̱̥̦̠̹̺̞͍͎̙̙̥̩͉͇̮͓͉̦̮̳͚͓͉͍̭͕̜͓̪͇̠̲̥̻̹͕͎̩̪͚͕̲̞̺͖͕̫̺̭͔͍̺̣͓̩̟̘͓̫̖̯͙̣̱̺̳̗̤̬̹͉̩̙̻̞̩̜̺͖͖̭̩̜̻̳̟̣̝͎̖̟̞̞͈̗̩͍̘̟̳̝͔̙̖͍̦̠̗̭̜̪̟̞̻̂̈́̿̌̓̀͂̔̅̾͑̈́͆̓͂́̉͛͐͐̃̄̔̔̀̔͒̋̅͗̒̓̎̎̒̅́̉̒̍̏̈́͌̒̈̓̐̄́́̈́̓̉̄̓̓̓͗̐̇̍̒́͐̅̍̅̏̄͋̓͗̀̍͋͑͌͊̿̾̆̾̒͑̉̊́͊̇͐̇̓̉̒̑̀͗̈́́̍̈́͌̑̑́̽̅́̎̀͊̒̓̂̑̅̇͂́̾̾̾̅̀̑͑͛͌̋́͒͑̍͆̾̀̈́̽͊͑̋̓̎̒̈́̑̾̽̌̾́͘̕͘̚̚̚̚̕͜͜͝͠͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͠͝ͅͅͅͅͅ were not factors. Just Carl. He put himself at risk with unnecessary conflict.

Fate punished Carl appropriately by allowing him to bee caught by Ḑ̸̢̡̢̨̡̧̡̧̡̧̨̢̡̡̛̛̪͔͍̻̟̥̱̭̖̬̣̹̠͚̝̫̖͎̟̥̦̙̭͖͚̭̣̙̞̱͍̗̝̜̱͔̖̱̲̞̪̜̯̳̟̲͔͈̦̯̥̠͔͔̳̯͉̞̖̰̞̻̝̩͇̫̘͇̗͎̳͖̭̟̪͚͎̺̘͖̯̻͕̞͕͙͉̥̤͚̫̝̪̩̭͚̪̘̳̦̞̙̙͙̠̳͎͍̘̩̹̗̙͈̟̰̟̮͕̠̱̠̯͚͓͎̮̙̙̪̳̩͔̮̮̮̤͍͓̭͔͈̗̩̱̮̻̘̬̟̪̲̬̣̝̗̥̝͈̟͓̘̺̗̖͉̮͐͐͆͌̇̓̆̊͌̈́̏͛͛͗̄̈̈́̑̅̾͛͐́̎̒̍̄̉̀̍̾̓͌̅͐̎̍̈́̀̓͛̓̾̏̏̐̃̀̆̽̓͂͐̃̂́̈́̉̈́̇͛̓̽͛̂̈́̉̽̔̋͒͆̒͐̃̿̓̆͐͗͊͑̑́̌̍͐̂̐͆̈́̑́̾̀̀͑͌̄́̈́͐̃̀̽̾̀̑̽̀̐̓̎̍̄̾̋͊͂͐̏͗̔̐̋̌̔͂̅͂̀́͑̃̀̐̾̏̈͆̏̒̋͛̓̅͂̌̑͒̄̇̍̆͛̏͐̾̍͂̿͊͌̃̓̇̏̈́̀̃̓̾́̒͊̌̑̚̚͘̕̕̕͘͘͘̚͘̕̚͘͘̚̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅơ̶̢̢̡̛̛̛̛̛̛̛͍̘̲̱̜̬͓̟̯͙͎͉͎̦͓̠͖̫̾̅͒̀̈̑͂̈͑̇̊̄͆̍́͌̄̀͌̊͂̌̂̌̿̏͋̋͌̀̉̔̏̏͛͗̔̋̐̋́̐̀͌̾̃̋̆̉̈̓͗͊͌́̀̿̉͂͛̈́̄͑̑͌̋̐̆̈̽̐̏̉́̉̌́̊͐́̐͗̊͗͛̿̐̈̈̀̉̓̏̐̏͊̂͑͑͑̊͗͂̔̎̽̂͌͂͆͆́̽̐̑̊̑̾͊̆̀͒̿̃́̔̈́̔͐̽̍͆̈́̈́̆̂͗̍̋̈́͋̇̈͑̓̒̔̍̓̊̎̍̇̿̊̀̒̈́̋͗́̀͒́̌̏̈́̎͆̉́̄̉̅̀̏̿̋͛̇͗͒̑̀̂͋͋̋͂̊͂͒͋́͂̒̾̉̀̎̈͛̇̇̈̇̽̈́̈́̀̂̀̉̽͌̏́̅̾̈́̓̔̒́̍̿̉̌̉͌́̽̈̀̃̔̕̕̚̚̚͘̚̚͘̚͘͘̚͘͘͘͘͘̕̕͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͠͝͠͝͝͠͝͠͝͠͝ļ̸̡̡̢̨̧̡̡̢̢̨̨̢̧̧̡̢̨̡̡̢̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̩͈̤̟̱͇̖̭͎̠̳̠̳͈̩̣̘̞͖͚͔̤̼͍͖̟̟̫͍͈̫̫̪̞̤̪͔̝͚̖̜͓͖͕̞̥͕͓̩̲̣̞͖̺̠̦̞̪͕̣͔̻͉̜̘͇̘͕̺̤͈̬̱͈̪̮͇͍͚̳̗̤͔̦̻̥̗̦̙̻͙̗̣̙͓͕̯͖̞͉͇̤̻̳̘̰̯̬̹͓̱̥̦̻̤̪̙̞̯͕̞̪̣̹̜̝̻̜̮̯̪͓̲̺͕̙͉̝̬͇̘̯̱̺̦͙̬̗͓͙̪͍̹̹̪̼̳͙͚͎̥͓͉̦̻̝̹̟̭̦̯̬̙̮͎͎͔͎͕̔̒͂̂̇̒̑̓͗̒͆̽̂̍͌̅͆̑̈́̓̉̇̅͋́̀͛́̆̊͛̐̎̌̊̆̈́̅̈̃͆̋͒̈́́̆́̓̓̏̈͛̀̊̀͂͂͒́̉̈́̑͌͂͗͗͗͌̃̔͐̈́̅͂̎̽̈͗̑͋͊̂̈́̈́̎̈́͋̓͐̈́̌̑̀̀̏̋̀̆͐̅͋̿̐͊̈́̆̈́̈́̏͛͑̈́̈͆̌͌̆̈́̀͗͋̈́͌̓̏́̽̃̌͛̈̍͌̆͆́̆͗̾̀̿̃́̈́͗̒̔̃͑͛̀̇̉͋̒̈́̈̓̈́̂̔͆̉̆̑̈́̈͋̀̿͘̕̕̕͘̕̕͘̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͠ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅǫ̷̨̢̨̨̢̡̨̢̛̛̛̛͎͍̙͙͇̼̗̫̹͉̩͈̞͉̻̻̹͚̣̼̩͍̜̳̤̩͓̭͇͔̜̬̞̦̻̬͇̳̞͕̘̻̭͇̬͕̣͍̰̹̥̳̬̬͎͙͚̱̣͎̩͓̭̅͋͆̓̾̅̇͌́͛́̆̄͐̈̄̂̾̃͗̄̉̈̐͗͌̉͌͑͌̑́͒͌̆̉͐̒̍̆̊͋̃̍̅͌̐̊̎̑̍͌̉̏̈́̈́͆͋͒̒͆͂̽͋̐̃̑̆̿̀̈́̅̅̑̍̿͒̂͑̿̀͂̀͊͂̒̓́̀̈͐̃̂͐͗̌͆͗̃̂̒̐̈́̅͋̆̽̍̅͆͒̒̇̄͗̿̀̾͐̈͆̈́̽̀̆̈͂͗͌̿͐́́͗͒̄͌̋̽̎̃͋͛́͊̍͌͒̒̂͛̀͘̚̚̕̕͘̚̕̚̕̕͜͜͜͝͝͠͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝ͅͅř̴̢̢̡̨̢̨̢̢̨̢̡̧̡̡̨̧̡̡̧̨̨̧̧̨̧͓̼͕̘̳̗̳͓̪̗̮̪͕̮͈͙̟̟̪̲̯͕͔̟̘̻̣͇̫̖̞̟̭͓̖̼̭̹͎̮̩͔̜̝̱͉͓̞̣̗̱͚̠̯̬͔͎̠̺̩̦͍̤̠͎̥̤̱̻͎̲͓̳̞͎̩̭̩̙̝͇̙͓̺̹͙̜̩̞̬̬͚̬̣͍̣̰̘̖̟̯̻̙̲͎̟͕͇̻̱̟͍̞̦͈͚͍̤̻̪̻̙̺̱̥͚͚̖͖̫̭̟̟̜̩͕͓̲̭͍̩̬̩̪͇̥͈̞̭̺͙̰̠̻̮̞̭̻̠̻͖̪̣̬̙̼̬̲̪̣̼̭̯̳͍͉̜̠̯̬̗͇͔̜̯̹̩̜͍̩͍͇̻̫͓̬͖̺̖͍̼̰͎̬͎̹̤̲͎̮͉͇͖̠̹̱̲̤̖͈͎̙̮̐̿̏́͒͜͜͜͜ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅȩ̷̨̨̧̡̨̡̨̡̧̢̨̢̢̡̧̧̢̨̡̨̢̡̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̰̣̮͓̰̳͇͈̗̻͈̭̭̝͈̟̬̙̞̻̙̞͓̰̭̪͖͎̟͎͕̪̫̞̱̹̣̦͔͖͖̻̼͎̲̠̻͚͙̤̯̣̦̲̟̭͓̳̱̫͉͇͇̭̪̼̺̙̗͚̜̭̪͕͓̳̤̹͔̪̳̹͉͉̞̹̦̳̹͉͚̙̙͓̳̯͓̘̗͇̥̭̮͖̠̝͓͎̦͉̥͕̘̺̗̣͈̥̟̻̰̤̥͉͔̗̻͔̹̪͕̥̣͇̱̜͕̲̪̳̰̺̰͈̦̰͓͓͔̥̣̥̦̲̟͕̳̮͎̹̟̙͍̟̪̗͈̥̘̮̘̟͎͔̤̮̳̳͖̟̣͓̥͔͖̯̟̲͉̼̳͓͎̭̜̼͚̥͚͎̩̙̻̮͉̰̙͖̙͈͇̣͎̙̱̲̼̥̝͔͖̞̤̫̰͎̳̳̟̼̲̣̹͙̜͍̜̱̣̥̩̘̮̹̠͚̖̟̪̠̝̖̍́͗̂́̂̉͒͒̐̋̆̄̈́͋͑̍̽̾̒́̂̽̀̆̿̿̓̈̔͑̓͆͒́͆̎͑͋̔̑͆̉̐̈͑͐̈́̀̀̅̔̈́̄̏̓̈̓̐̔̌̾̋̐͐́͆̇͐̿̂̑͛̇̅͛̋͌͊͌̄̌͒́̽̅̏͑͋̊̀̋̒̽̀́̾̏͋́̊̐̔̊̿̑̓̐̃͂̓̓̂̏̀̀̀̽̾̈́͆̉̑̓̽̃́̓̅͗̍̈́͑̈́̎͗̿̂̃̔́̄̋̓̋̕͘͘͘̚̚͘̚͘̕͘̚̕͘̚͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͠͝͝͠ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅs̴̡̢̢̡̢̢̡̢̧̡̧̨̡̨̛͎͎̞̥̥̙̺͕͓͕̺̫̣͎͔̗͎̯̙̜̪͉̣̺̟͇̠̘̼̜̺̩̯̰̹̙͙̹̠̗̪͈̲̺̖̙̙̳̖̼̳̫̮̜͈̰͙̟̪̘͇̙̖͇̲̘͔͎̮̰̹̤̹͔̗̺̯̻̳̰̬͍͍̫̠̝͔̹͉͙͈̱̖̹͙̭̗̭̫͈͈̯̳͙̮̞̲̫̟̠̳̫̭̦̱̙͉̮͎͔̫͎͔̹̹̠̼̤̟̬̦͕͙̼̙̣̥̙̻̫̻͈̟͓̝͕̺̹̻̞̪͍͕͇̼͎̥̤͈̬͍̫̰̻̰̲̮͕̰͕̬̤̝̜̩̰̤̦̮̙̩̹̬̥̹̫̫̮̹̱͖̯̯̩̘͇̤̲̺͖̗̦͙̗͔̼͇̯̞͇͖̻̟͓̦̹̠͕̙͖̠̟͈̠̮͖̖̩͈̮̣̫͔̝̹̙̣̲̠̑͆̏͌̓̓̎̃̓̎̂͑͌̊̓̉̈̿̊̉͌̏͐́͆̍̄̈́̿̔̽̏͂̎̌̓̈͂͆̎͗̐̉̓̏́̆̃͒̌̑̂̔̇̿͛͊͆̓͑̔͐̋̽̓̐̀͛̍͐̅̄̐̔̒̓͋͂͑̈́̌̽̆̈̒̊͘̚̕͘̕͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͠͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅ ̷̢̨̧̡̡̧̡̡̨̧̢̢̢̡̡̧̡̡̡̢̡̨̧̛̣̞̜͉̹̺͈̹͓̹̥̼̱̤̺̥͍͓̬̲̳͎̹͓͕̩͈̗̳̗͓͕̹͚̝̰̞̩͎͕͍͓̯̝̲̟͓̞̲̜͓͙̲̜͖̠͙̰̩̝̰͓̼̹̻͚̖͔͙̟̜̜̝͍̣̻̻̹̭̝͉̟̰̙̝͍̰̝̣͕͙̥̣̖͍̜̣͔̜͚̺̯͚̣͚͓͓̞̰̩̠̠̖̺̼͇͖̲̰̯̩̲̩̻̻͈̙͎̱͖̺̠̬̱̜͇͍̠̮̜̙͈̞̺̺̞̹̜͚̻͖̦̳̩̮͎̗͕̼̞̟͍̮̝̻͕̤̳͓͖̹̦̞̺͔̪̰̤͈̠͓͖̱̯̳̤̹͔̬͕͓̦̰̯̜̖͎̺̲̤͍͙̲͎̙̯͓̯̟̺̗̭̰͎̱͈͚̞̪͚̩͖̫͕̤̰̩̭͚͖̫̞̲̦̋̈̀͐͂͋͑̂͛̌͐͒̾͊̄͑̄̅͛̽̂̊̂͆̇̓̃͒̇̓͂͑̈́̏͌̓̂̉̔̍̉̃̉̒̈́̅̑̒͆̓͐̿̽̓̿̓̏͒̍͗̋̾̔̄̈̃̊̔̇̈́͂̀͌͐̀̊͂̅͌̏̈̂́͂̌̾͐̾̆̌͗̎̈́̀̓̓̍̀͗̇̏̄̔͋͌̈́͒̋̍̀͛̀̋̀͋͐̈́͆͊̀̂͌̚̕̚͘̚͘͘͘̚͜͜͜͜͜͝͠͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͠͠͠͝͝ͅͅͅƯ̷̡̧̨̨̢̧̢̧̧̢̨̡̧̨̡̨̢̢̢̢̢̨̧̡̬̦̳̲͖͈̥̬͉̬͎̗̬̙̯̹̩̫̫̰̘͎̭̲̟̯̜͇̱̲̩̼̰̯͈̤̩͈͈͙̬̯̬̫͇̦͈͖̱͇͇͙̩̮͚̖̙̻̟̻̩̮̻̻̖̼͕͕͚̰̯̼̙͎͉̰̫̤͙̹̯̩̯͚͕͇͓̟̥̟̠͚̦̖̻̩͇͉̬͈̯͉̫̙̭̩̻̝̫̠̬̳̳̗̝͉̩̩̹̰̟͕̘̰̟̱͖̰̤͖̤̳͕̩̣̭̣̘̝̺̥͈̟̦͍̥̝̙̮̪̭̬̯͓͖͎̖̭̣̫͖͕̘̟͚̞̫̦̙̝͎͙̖̫̖̗̠̥̩͎̹̹̩̳̲̫͓͕̮̩̳̪̯͔̭͇̰͚͈͖̯̜̪̪̱̳͉̼̬͍̰̝̰̟̤̬͖̮͔̺̮̩̫̻̖͇̗̠̙̳͎̫̞̹͍̭̘͙̱̙͎̪͍̯͖̱̟̹̩͉͍̼̘̺̲̼̲̬̮͚̥̗̼͔͑̎͊̾͌̎̊́͋́̔̔̐̈͐͛͛͑́͆͊́̾͋̓̊̆̈́̌̀̂̔͛̇̀̉͊̎̇͗̎̿̿͂̂̉̌͑͑͂͌̽̒̄̈́͛̈̓̔̀͌̊̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͠͝͝ͅͅͅp̶̡̧̡̡̡̢̡̨̢̧̧̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̪͚̯̘̤͇̱͙̗͙̳̭̲̪͙̝͓̲͔̩̖̗̯̠̪͖̤̝̹͕͈͇̥̜̲̱̟̤̙̮̯̼̲̖͔͖̼͔̥͖̪̻̫̠̪͚̮̗̥̣̯͍͈̻̩̻̖̪͙̙̲̜̲͇̥̯̽̔̍̎̉͒͌́̒̄̈́̀̌̌̾̒̀̌͋̓͛͒̈́̇̇̊̓̓͑̅̓̈́̅̏̈́̅̈̇̇̀̇̈́̅̈́͆̀̏̅̇̍͛͊͐̏̀̾̈́̓́̂͌̉̓͐̓̏̽̈͛̈́̎͒͒̈́̄͑͊̿͌̈́͗̌̉̏͛̓͂͋͌͌̃̇́͑̒̆̐͑̀̋̒̂͑̓̓͒͆́̅̀́̔̎͂̓͗̔̿͐̄̋̽̌̀͂̉̈́̐̑͊͒̒̊̍̈́̓̈̍̂́̍̇̅̿̅͊̑̓͛̍̅̇͋̏̑̈́̍͒̈͋̌̀͌̈́̈̇̒̇͑̍̓̀̀͛̔̾̈́͌̓̑͆̏̎̾́̽̈̇̎̌̄̿͂̃̅̆̎͊̓͂͗̈́̒̍͛̿͆̃̊̿̏͒̌͐̇͛̊̚̚̕̚̚͘͘͘̕̚̚̕̚͘̕͘̚̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͝͠͠͝ͅt̷̨̡̡̢̢̡̢̢̧̢̡̨͉͎̯̬̙̜̗̩̟̪͍͓͈̺̙̗̬̙̩͓͍̠͖͔̬̫̭̜̗͙͉̞̯͉̯͇͉̗̦̰͈̪͚̼̺̘̞̱͇͓̼̘̲̘̪̭̺͈̹̼̳̘̗͓͈̪̺̯͔͙̙̠̤̤͉̳̹͙̗͔͎̦͚͓͚̥̠̮͎̠̠͇͓̫̱͚̬̳̄̈́̀͜͜ͅͅͅͅơ̵̧̡̡̡̧̡̢̡̡̡̡̢̨̢̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̹̥̠̺̰͕͕̙̬̘͉̬̘̬͍̠͔̱͓͈͈̰̜͚̼͓̟̜̫̘̺̳̮̥͕͙̻̰͍̩̺̣̪̭̜̬͕͓̼̟͇͖̼̟͙̱̻̫͍̜̰͍͓̦̪̲̻͉̘̣̞̖̩̝̥̞͉̭̰̬̬̟̝͉͍̻̠̦̲̙͉͈͇͓̲͖͔̜̙̳̮̝̻̭̹̺̲̤̟̼̩̱͓̜̱̟̘̻̯̟̗̞͙͓̦̦͙̣̻̯̺͖͔͖̥̗̦̦͚͎͎̤̪͖̮̮͖͔͚͖͙͎̝͕̙̮̬̭̺̳͍̫̳̩̺̲̼͈̠̖̝̯̭̥̦̹̜̠͌̃͊̓̂̐̌̉̏͐̿̂͊̒̀̇̆̓̓͑̈́̆̈́̀̿̀̋͗͆̍́̀̾̃͐͐̒̒͌̌̂́͒̉̂̆̊̊̌́̈̏̽̋̾̑̒͌̋̃̎̒̒̅͛͂̆̓̋͐́̂̍̏͌̏̍̃͒́́̌̓͋̈́̔̓̋̈́̄͊̑̓͊̈́̈́̉͊̎̾͑͌̎̉̈́̋̃̿̓̽̀́̋͑́̍͛͑̌͂̄̈̊̋̓̇̌͊̋͂̆̈́̐͂͛̓̽̈́̾̏̆̎̔̈́̑́̂̈̂͗̅͆̀̈́̇̇̒̑̽̓̇̋͌̇̽̍̎̈́͗̓̉̅́͑͐́̍̽̈́̍̒͗̉̀̀͗̏̎̆͌́̀̐̆̌̃̽̉̉̒̍̈̂̽̉́̅̃̍̓̅̇̈̇̈́̅̌̇̈̽̅̌̐̂̆̉͂̀̎͌̃̌͆̋͋̌̽̌͋͆̉́̔̏̃̊̃̓̆̀̄̿̕͘̚̚̚͘̚͘͘̚͘̕̕̚̚͘͜͜͜͠͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅň̶̢̢̨̢̡̧̧̡̨̡̧̧̡̡̡̡̧̨̨̡̢̧̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̬̲̣̺̥̞̭̬̜̰͍̜̜̬̠͈̱̺̼̳̖̖̣̱̖̳͔̺͚̣̯̯̥̜̠͈̤̰̫̹̰͖̦̞̼̣̫̖̜̟͓̗̙͖̮̗̼̤̝̘̼̰̪͈̫̙̖͖̗̯̞̩̣̹͕͚̤̻͉̹̤͖̘̪͕̰͎͈͖͚̮̼͎̭͚͖̪̰͇̘̫͕͙͚̼̘̘͚͉̘̣̣̺̖̞̻͈͔̹̜̤̩̖̖̬̰̹̩̗̻͉̝̼̙͇̹̰̫͔͙͍̖̯̪̝̻͎̼͖̝̤̤̙͕̼̜̳̮͖̟̥̜͇̉̌̆̓̈̃̃̀̈́͋͌̋̉͊̎̂̽̆͑̄̀͗̿̓͊́̐͂̃̏̍͂̂͊̈͒̒͛̓̔͛̆̋̇͒́̈̏̆̈̒̄̈͛͌̉̽̉͌̇̔͛̾̿̎̄̊̔̅̀̔̈́̽̓̿̃̽͋̉͐̊̔̓̓̿͗̍̑̅̍̐͋̓̈͛͐̈́̾̎́̒̌͊̽̌̾̓̆̓̈̇̓́̇̋̀͌̔̅̓͐̍͂̇̋̀͐́͋͌͗̓͌͌͌̀̓̈͛̍͑̿̇̋͛́̈́͌̉̀̐̆̓͒́̈́̿̀͛̈́̋̽̈́͋͑̏̓̈̉̈͊̂̇͊͊̂̀̾̄̾̔̈́́͂́̊̌̈́̒͛͛̉͆̒̓͒͗̑̉̅͗̑̑̈́͑̾̋̈́́͆̌́̌̎̐͐̽̃̌̒̽͌͒̌̽̉̂̌̉͋̏͒͂̌̒̈́́͊͆̅͊͌͋̊̾̔̈́̽͒̅̃̉̚͘͘̚̕͘̕̚̕͘̚̚̚͘̕̕̚͘̚̕͝͠͠͠͠͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅ. She spoke him out of existence. In a manner of exchange she gave her life to take his despite opportunities to look the other way. It would appear her assassination failed, as while Carl has long since thought to be forgotten he has returned to chasten B̸̢̢̨̡̡̧̢̢̧̧̡̡̡̧̢̢̨̧̨̢̨̧̨̡̢̡̛̫̘̰̪̻̟̱̠͖̙̣͚̥̼̭̱̮̜͍͙̗͕̪̝̯̟̜̰̜̠̙̼̩̪͙̹̣̥͍̣̞̳̰͚͉͖̻̗̪͓̝͈͙͖̠͇̦̻͇̞̩͚̲̠̱̠͚̞̜̙̺͈̜̦̺̹͍͍̰̭͓̦͙͉̟͙̥͖̞̣̙̙͔̥͔̜̠̫̹̰̺̗͍͍̝̳̫̗̠̣̱̩̤͍̰̬̪̥͎̯̦̫͍̮̬͚̺͍̱̖͓͚̭̩̲͇̼͕̱͉̗̬͓̥̼̝̞̳͇͚̤̻̱̗̰̬̻̣͕͖̠̖̱̥̬̣̣̺̤̦̠͎̜̬̳̠̲̱̼̱̗͓̬̪̹̟̭̹͍͎̠̺͉̞͔͕̦̝͚̟̯̼̫̳̘̼͚̙̦͇̱̖̣̥̖͓̮̤͖̥̻̜̲͍͈͍͍̗̪͔̠̻̺̞̬̝͍̠͕͔͈̫͔͎̭̠̩͕̆̍͐͗̏́͆͐͑̐̈́͛̿̑̐̈́͆̌̿̿͆͗͒̾͊͛̊̏̋͒́̈́͑͆̓̈́̃̂͗̆̚̚͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅl̴̡̨̧̨̨̡̢̨̨̨̨̡̧̨̨̨̡̧̧̡̧̧̨̧̛̛̛͎͎̻̲̩̫̗̩̲̦̲̭̳̫̥̲̺̦̰͍̳͍͈̦̤̳̝͇̝̻͇̬͓̫͎̙͚͈̲̺̯̠̝̻̹̮̩̱̟͕̰̗͖̗̤̳͔̖̦̟̳͓̪̞̪̞͎̖̳͕͈̗̬̦̖̖̣͔̲̟̼̞̠̠̜̥̼̹̬̼̠̲̙̟̱̩̪̗̠̤̙͙̪͇͓͚̰͍̠͖̠̟̬̪͍̗̣̳͈̙͓̳͓͚͓̙̜̹̜̗̳̭̼͈͓̦̩̮͖̝͈̘̻̦̩̣̻̳͉̳̭̳̫̗͙̘̬͕̰̼̩̼͇͈̼͚͚̟̘̫̮̲̺͚̟̺͎̺͙͇̜̝̞͔̣̩̭͉̤̥̥͉͈͓̱̤͖̙̠͔̳̺̙̩̮̙͔̹̻̘̣̗̲̘̳̠͉̟̻͉̝̖͚̹͎̭̦͎͕̻͖͙̠̱̝̭̯̜̳̬̗̼̹̺̳̬̜̥̼̹͓̳̫̺͎̪̱͙̟̭̺͕͇̄̌̂̔͐̑͂͆̐̇͒́͛͂̀̊̈͌͒͒͑̐̉̿̐͋̊̏̓̍̈́̀̎͋̊͋̿̄̌͒͊́͛̌̈́̀̅̂̄͒̍̂̋̋͂͊͊͌̊͌͂͌͗͛̊̽͂̄͑͘̚͘̚̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͠͠ͅͅͅa̶̧̧̡̢̢̡̡̡̢̢̨̧̢̧̢̧̢̢̢̧̡̢̧̧̢̢̢̨̛̫̮̱̩̳̯̜̫̙̣͚̝̼̠̱̲̹͔̰̘̺͓̬͍̼͈̫̳̣̻̪͈̺̹͓̹̻̦͚͔͖̘̘̘̪̣͕͖̬̣̰̼̬͕̙̲͉͙͈̮̗̺͔̦̞̱͚͉̜̮̘̘̖̞̳̫͙̹͓̲͎͓̹̰͕͓̞̯̗̮̩̣̦̬̠͉̲̠͍̰̭̰̗͖̖͓̪̱͈̦̻͎͍͓̲̙̪͖̩̫̠̹͍̭͇̯̱̫̙̣̯̤̭͙͈̭̤̩͙͙̤͉̫̜̜͉̻̻̻̙͎̹̟̜̫̖͇̼̻͉͙̻̟͇̥̗͓͔̠͚̗͚̫͓̳̰̤̩̖̞̜͉̮͍̺̯̲̱̹͔̟͎͇͙͙̼̗̬̥̱̪͔̪̣̻͈͉͓̜̮̹̘̠̘͔̝̲̜̹̲̟̙̻̭̮̠̭͓̺̞͉̘͔͚̪̯͚͍͚͉̹͍̥̻͉̙̣̲͍̪̍̄͑̈́͑͂̊̒̎͐͂͛̓̑̔̋̐̀̿̃̓̎̈́͌̋̉͊̀̈́̇̑̉͂̾͊̍̑͆̆̐́͐̔̃̆͒̈́̈̐͋̿́̌̍̓̑̅͌̆̕̚͘̚̚͜͜͜͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅi̸̡̢̡̨̢̡̨̧̨̢̧̢̢̢̨̨̨̨̧̧̧̨̡̡̨̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛͕͍̳̼̟͈̖͚̬̣̰̹̹̦̲̜̺͈̣̪̼͚̭̟͕͙̬̥̮̫̻͖͓̯͉̯̬̦͈͈̺̥̘̪̖͍̼̼̲̲̤̭͖͉͓͍̭̭̲̯̬̞̰̤̯͇͉̺͕̫̤̳͉͔̳̻̖̬̰͖̝͙̫̙̘͔͇̝̠̪̳̪̹̩̥̠͇̥̮̦̰̬̪̟̙̤̗̖̘̼̗̘̫̗̝͙̮̫̘̻͍͙͍͇͔̳̯̦̱͙̤̙̖̪͎͇̯̝͔̝͍͚̠̪͎͎̘̥̮̭͕̬̘̲̙͍̻̲̙͈͇̤̳̤̖͈̗̩̥̮̗͍̺͖̞̮̦͓̩̟̟̺̳̠͔̬̠̼̹̙̭̜͈̭̺̼̣̘̥͕͕̪̹̦̯͍͎͎̪͕̇͂͒̄̃̈́͊͗̈́͂̍̍̓͐̽͆̒̓̂̆͑̃̅̀͌̿̂̅̉͌͑͒̅͒̇̈́̀̈̈́̇̉̓̀̍̔̆̔̿̀̅͋̐͒̑̈́́͗͋͋̐̅̇̒̆̌̈̀̔̂̄̽̇́͒̓̈̔̔̒͂̍̾͌͑̍̈́͛͐̊͗͊͐͛̂͌̏̐̒͌̎͊̇̊̍̓̅̈́̎̐̋͌̃̓́́͗́̇̑̈́̏͊̾̈́̓̈́̉̋̆̌̓͒̓̽̓̈́̊̉̎̋̀̓̃͆̌̅̅́̊̂́̽͛̽͒̇̅̂̍̃̆̍͑̌̈̔̈́͒̎̎́́̆̑͐̇͋͑̾̑̀̌̿͂̒́̈́̒͛̇̆͂̓́̒͛̑̓́͆́̃͗̾̋̈́͛̅̾́͒̒̋̈́̑̽͊̏̓̍̾̂͂̀̈́̈͆͑̅̐̓̍̎͛̚̕͘͘͘̕̚͘̕͘͘̕͘͘͘̕͘͘͘̕͘͘͘͘̕̕̚͘͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͠͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͠͝͝͠͝͠͝͠͝͝͠͝ͅͅͅͅș̴̡̧̡̡̢̧̧̡̨̡̢̢̧̨̡̨̢̢̡̛͓̻͎̟͚͕̦̭͔̹̦̬̦̯͇̭̰͍͈̫̩̮̘̲͖̯̫̭̪̤̻͎̹̼̜̯̞̘̲̲̲̰͚̰̙̱̻̣̯̬͉̦̮͈̳͎͓̭͔̬͔͎͈̲̼̪̺̩̯̳͚̬̹̬͓̯̬̮͇̳̙̱̮̮̮̱̮͙̘̰͔͈̫̦̙͇͎̗̳̙͚͎̮̟͖͙͇̮̬̦̙͚̞̳͓̼̪͍͇̘̮̩͉̣̹̳̜̞̬̝̪̮̺̲̖̻͓̩̜̫̝̫̞̱͎̦͉̤͔̟̣͍̖̺͎̺̜̮̫̰̬͎̫̫̦̝̩̣͈͖͙̺͍̲͈̻͕̯̈́̈͂̀̑̆͛̉̐͗̆͌̊̿͒́̋̓̑̔̾͋̅̀̿̇́̌͌͌̂̌͌̈̌͐͋̄̏̔̇̽̀̐͂̅͂̒͋̈́̍̌̈́̆̍͂̂͛̆͗͌̃̾̏̈́̋̂̉̔̃̌̂͑̓̚͘̚͜͜͜͜͠͝͝͝͠͠ͅͅȩ̷̧̢̡̨̡̧̢̡̡̛̛̛̯̙̠̭̮̯͇̟̙͖̤͇̻̟͉̖͉̤̯̻̣̞̳̳̜̫̩̗̞̞̬̲̩̹̜̱̣̰̮̫̰̟̜͖̫̥͈̗͇͈͔̦͉͎͓̮̹͓̙͇͙͕͖̹̬̟̥͚̳̤̻͉̦̦͎̬̜̗̜̘͔̜̣͔̭̳͉̹͈͖͓̟̥̻̬̭͚̣͉̬̟̩̘̞̤̼͕̓͐̏͗̓̌̓͌̇͂̋͐̅̀͐̒͊́͂̀͛̐̍͒͂̈̆̅̃̌͗̈́̌̀̌̊̓͆̇̎͋̐͋̑̔͗̋͌̀̉̒̅̋̍̆̀̈́͒̌̃̿̏͊̽̎̔̅͋̑̄̈̐͑́̂̄̂̅̆̈́̽͆̓͐͆̏͗̓̈́̌͂̈́͋̽̉̆̋́͂́͐͊̍̊͌͒̌́͒̔͌͂͋̓̑̀̓̽͂̿͐̀̐̍̈̿̃͌͒̉̐̓̎͑͆͒͗̈͆̌͌̏̄͐̐̀̈́̍͊͐́͊̏̓͗̋̏̒̀̈́͋̀͌̀̓̎͛͑̅̍̾̓̏̈͆̀̈́̈̾̈̈̈́̈̈́̓̿͂̅̓̈́̆̑͗͐̓̿̓̈̌̆͗̏̇̔̔͋̋̃̏̀̆͂̋̅̍̐̍̕͘̚̚̕̚͘̕̕̕͘̚̚̕̚̚͘͘̕͘̚̚̚̕̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅ 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because they decided he should, because they have w̶̨̡̡̧̢̨̧̢̨̧̨̢̛̛̛̛͖͍̣͍̰͙̹̫̖̬͍͖̭̦̖̹̞̦̪̩̮̣̤͔͍̖̩̥̙̰͎̘̳͔̲̟̫͚̠̹̹̞̮͇͎̪̠͖̦̥̦̩̺̞̟̻͓͙͍͓̜͚͇̠̝̘͔̘̼͙̥̞̣̭̱̬̼̮͎̱̼̜̰̬̞̣̺͍͚̥̙̪̮͙͎̩̣̼͖̠͕͔̠̤̦͖̗͎̱̯͙͕͎̱̥͙̼̭͕̮͍̳̬̣̼̝͇̟̲̻͖̮̮̯̫̯̣̖̫̩̳͇̺̺̻̜̘̤͈̹̲̩̺͈̪̪͚̪̺̦̞̰̫̯̟̭̹̯̜̣͓̭͖͖̝̪͇͔͚̠͕̟͓͚̘͖̯͍͉̘̬̜̩̣̹̜͖̼͉̝͍͚̻̩͓͎̳̟̤̖͙̑̐́͂́̍̄͌͗̐̀͊͐̌̐̓̈͐̃̓͛̀̋͒̉̑͌͛͂̉̈́̾̾̈́͆͐͆̄̎̔̐͛̍̏̈́͛͆̄̾̌͐͑̀̈́͗̌̍͆̑̾̀̔̿̓̿͆̈́͂̉̓̓̿̾̒̔̀̈́̏̉̽̌̈͋̎͌́̆̂̀̈̐̾̅̐̀̔̀̍̆͗̑̋̀̆̈́͛̽͌̄̿̕̕̚͘͘̕͘̚͘̚͜͜͜͜͝͠͝͝͠͝͝͠͝͝͠ͅͅͅͅͅį̷̨̡̧̨̧̧̧̢̧̢̢̛͎̩̼̞̯̥͈̖̙̪̩̣͖̲͈̩̦͉̼̮͈̜̣̦̫̹͓̬̟͙͉̘̘͈̯̳̠̗͍̯̥͎͙̪̲̞̜̖̥̖̯͉͍̞͚͔͎̪̻͈̦̻͈̜̫͈̟͔͎͖͖̭̤̜̜̪̜̰͚̺͚̟̥̬̘͎͙̻̦͖̣̜̞͔̠̻͖̭̻̱͈͇̱̼̤̲͚̝͚̻̱̩͕͇̬͇͓̯͙̗̟͍̠̠͇̯̖̟̬̭͉͚̱͎̦͙̯̱͎̞͈͖̘̤̣͇͎̖̩̱̞͍̝͍̮̦̣̰̳̠̭̣̩͒̾͗̎̏͒̒̿̾̆̃̂̓̈́̈̄͗̏̒̎̋̾̐͋̅̃̓͑̔͗͂̋̔̀̊̽͆̄̏͋͋͊̈́̇̋̽̆͌̏͗̿̆̽͐̎̈́̒̃̇̈́̌̾͌̉̈̿̀͋̉̀̒̾̐̇͋͗͗͋̀̊̋̄͌̚̚̕̚̕̕͜͜͜͜͠͝͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅḽ̴̨̨̨̢̢̨̢̨̢̡̧̢̡̡̢̨̡̧̧̢̧̨̛̛̛̛̠̖̖͍͍͇̯̝̳̘̫͔̦͚̞̝̥͍̻̺̳͇̣̼͎͎̪̺̬̼̺̭̠͖͔͎̼̥͙͇͙͚̙̮̱̪͎͕̻̹̼̺̭̻̥͕͍̪̪̹̥͔͚͕̜̙̫̤̼̝̻͎͎̖̮̝̮̼̜͙̺̹̳̞̹̻̮͓̱̙̺̺̲̹̖̼̝̝͙̯̖͕̰̤͉̺̺̫͕̼̠̥͓͍̱̯͖̗̼̺̜̣̱͉͉͎̙̹͚̬̳̫̥̪̺͈̗̠̮̮̟̝̱͚̤̝͚͈̖̼̺̥̫̟̪̰̜͈̼̻͔̪͚̙̝̣̰̗̹͖̗̜͍͔͓̦̘̗͍̫̣̹̙͎͓̯̳͖̤̱̼̣͍̝̣̟̹̣̩̝͍̝̳͕̜͓̼̯̙̺̖̫͔̩̜̱̻͕͔̣̟̯̺͕̱̗͔̯͍͈̪̣̦͚͔̘̯̣̝̗̪̰͚̜̬͙̪͔̺̣̪̮̤̜͓̠̬̞͂̐́́̐̓̾͒̆̀͗͋͒́́́̊̇͋̀̂͑̓͌̔̈́̾̑̀̈̿̑͗̇̂̽̾͌̃̓͐̿̓̀̍̏͋̈̅̔̄̓͗̈́͊̄̋͂̂̾͆́̾̑́̆͊̀̀̓͋̔͑̂̈́̾̐̈́̽̈́̉̀̕͘̕̕͘̕̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͠͠͠ͅͅͅͅͅl̷̢̧̧̢̢̨̢̡̧̡̢̨̢̡̨̧̨̨̢̨̤̝͕̝̱̤̼̳͇͈͓͕͓̬̠̮͈̲̺͔̗̺̪͖͎͍̼̼̘̝͖̫̝̼͚͉̥̫̟̯̥̝̜̺͉̣͚͚̹̬̣̻̹͖̦̺͖̯͕͓̳̙̳̱̺͙͈̮̤̭̲̗̰̭̫̤̥͕̬͕͇̬̙̻̺͖͈̠͙͎̹̻͖̺̜͙̟̝͙̹͍̫̝̜̭͚̩̝͓̬̰̝̞̤̩̙̜͔̮̤̬̟̱͍͎͙͙̙̯̲̮͈͍̗̬͉̩̗̝̗͔̹̜̞͚̹͓̮̪͕̻̣̫̹͙̯̠͍͈̳̣̠͚̤͕̭̻̹͙̺̭̺̬̣͖̤̳̘̮͉̲̞̮̮͙̖͎̻̺̫̞̗̙̩̲̝̗̦͚͔̟̳̬̼̱̟͉͚̲̻̝͕͎̫͎̘͉̭̙̥͇̤̗̯̺̬̪͙̹͆̇̅̓͜͜͜͜͜ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅȩ̴̧̡̨̧̢̢̛̛̮̼͎͖̙͈̘̫͙̞̞͔̖͙̮̯͉͚̥̳̘͇̱̫̥̝̦̖̝̩͚̝̘͍͉̟̻̪̳̱̟̝̦͙̼̭̖͇͉̗͙̘͔̝͖͙̻̹͚̜̟̭̮̥͙̪͇̒̔̋́̂̇̀̋͒̄̐͛̉̅͑̅̄̽̐͗̊̂́̄̆̉̌̋̏̿̀̓͑̈̎̃̉͊̈̄̂̀͌̆̓̈́̆̀͒͛̊̊͂̑͗̂̉̀͆̈͑̽͋́́̉̿̋̅̒͛́̔̈͛̆̑͌̊̄͛̕̚͘͘̚͜͜͝͠͝͝͠͝͝͝ͅͅd̵̨̧̛̛̛̛̛̛̛͈̭͙̼̤̖̣̻̥̖̰̲̗͕͚͚̜͕͓̜̙̦̬͙̩͑̌̊̎̑̃̋̅͌̿͌̂̓̎̈́̍̉͐͛̓͂̊́́͆̃̆̃̊̐̿́̄̔̽͆̍͊͋̀͋̅͂͆̅͛̉͋̀̈́̅̀͒̀̅͐̏̇̿͗̅̐͂͂̎́̈́͋̈́̉̀̋̒̊͐͐̎͋̅̆̊̈́̅͗̍͛́̓͑̓̔̇̀͒́̽̎̊̾̋́͂̅̂̆͂̐͂̋͑͋͋͋̃̍̏̉̃̅̿̈̎͘͘̕̚̚͘̕̕̚̚͝͝͝͠͝͠͠͠ͅ this into being, because this is the sort of game they play with themsself that they ŗ̸̦̣̞͙͓̤͕̫̹̳̘̲̦͂͊̊̇̎̉́͂̎̍́̈́̒̌̿́̔̓̋̐͑͂̀̐̈́̈́́̆̽͑̀́̓̒̈́̾̄̉̃̋̆͒̈̂̌͛̎̓̓̒̅͌̍͒̀͌̐̽͐̔́̈́͋̾͑̉̆̐̈́̽̈́͛̿̽͊̂͂͊͆̽͂̂̃͊̍̀̕͘̚̕̚̚̕̕͜͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͝e̸̢̡̡̨̡̢̢̡̢̧̛̛̛̛̬͇̭̰̻̤̞͕̝̺̲̭͎̺̠̞͎͙̮̯͔̻̭̣̭͚͖̣͚̰̺͔̩̜̹̹̤̹̲̗̰͚͈̝̳̯̫̗̬̩͇̻͖̯̻͇̣̩̗̘̦̘͖̰̾̌̎̏̐̓̆́͂̾̾͐̅̈́̏̿̐͛̽͒͋̉̉̍̃͛̀̀̒̋͊̔̉͛͐̏́̈́̀̈́̀̃̈͑̈́̒̿̌̍̍̌̈́̀̀̓̌̅̅̎̋̀̍̆͑̑̿̐͒́̓͂̏͊̆̊̒̃̆́̇́̔̑̄̐̉̎̍͒̚͘͘̚͘̚͜͝͝͝͝͠͝ͅͅͅf̸̧̡̨̢̡̧̡̡̨̨̧̨̢̨̢̧̨̡̢̡̡̨̡̢̢̢̛̛̛̫̳̤͍͖̝͚̰̯̥̰̺̭̰̗̘̫̜͖̮̜͈̫͚̘͎̯̗̱̜̦͇̝̥̝̳͈̗̝̣̬͉̼̣̙̞̺͉͕̺̤̟̮̼̼̪͉͍̣̻̤̩̤͍̘̰̖̮͔̼̜͔̖̞̜͈̱̦̳̗̻̼͎͎̫̱̠̦̙̺̘͚̹͈̟͔̤̮̻̘̺͕̦̼̗̘͚͔̖̰͙͇̱̞͓͇͙̟͇͔͈̬̞̱͈͖̞̲̩̤̳͙̼̼̪̯͍̯̮͔͇̪̬̻̙̞͍͕̖̲̮͓̗̞̬̪̳̩̮̩̥̻͖͔̘̜̞͙͙͇̲̬̱̣̘̜̮̭̎͛̉̈́̄͊̏͊͑̒̿̏̓́͋̍͂̑̌͋̊̅̈̐̀̏̒̅͗̄̓͐̇̀̓͗̈́̑͐̏̒̓̅̽̏̋̅͗́͆̉͒̈́̋͌͗̅̉̇̐̿̽͌͂́̌͂̽̇̋͊̋̊̄̊͆͐̔̊̊̾̿̃̅̀̏̋̓̊́͗́̇̾͌͗̂̉̉͛̒͋̀͌̄̐̈́͑̂̉̏̄͛̀̾̽̅̓̂̉͂̏̑̀̇̋̊̀́̑̄̈́͌͗̾̇̐́̿̈́̓̎͛̀͋̋̉̽͐͗͒̓̏͐̅̓̋̓̇̚͘̚͘̕̕͘̕̕͘͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠ͅͅͅͅͅư̵̛̛̛̺̟͕̺̣̾̊̇̈́̈͑̉̒̔̽͗̍̈́͌̃̅̔̓̇́͆̾͆̊̅̆̉͂̑͆͐̾̂̂̑̌̎̍̐̐̆̑̓͂͊̊͋̑͂͆̅̈́̍͛́͑͑͂͆́̾̓̒́̀͒̓̾̊̅͌̂̇̒͗͗̔͊̏͛̓̃̓͌̄̂̌̃̆́̉͛̔̐̍̈̂̓̽̈́͂̆̾̒̐͐̓̊̀͗̕͘̕̕̕̚͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝ş̵̢̧̢̢̨̢̧̨̢̧̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̦̣̥̩͕͇̫͈̣̘̻̺̫̬̝̱̘̮̜͙͉͕̻̹͓͚̟̜̠͉̖̜͔͖̠͉̩̰͓̬̟̯̻̩̣̟̦̬̥̺̘̪̼͎̝̪̪̜͈̺͈͖̬̼̤̭̤̯͍̺̳̥̖͎̗̦̩̬̼͕͇̳̟̬͓̞̘̮͕̦͖̫͚͓̱͖̻̱͔̫͖̦̱̯̥͈̤͙̫͕̖̠͙̝̳̖̘̦̩̲̩̙̘̣̙̭͉͉͐̈́͐̍̀͊̒͆̂̈́̀̎͋̈́́͊̊́̈̂̃̊͌̏̉̅̅̈̀̉͂̀̓̊̇̀͌̐̇͗͂̇̓̋̍͆͊͛̈́͊̿́̑̎̒̓̄̌̓̓͐͐̍́̀̽̽̂̔̀͌̓̃̓͗͑̋̿͛͗̈́̂̀̐͊̂́̀̔̅̅̎̾̃͛̇́̈́̎̒͒̈͛̓̏̀̽̀̈͛͂̀́̔͌̅̒̐͒̉͐͊̎͛̈́̋̓̍̏͊̀̀̈͗̇́̈̉̌̋̽͋̌̈̅͛̆̅͑͛͑̀̈̋̂̌̀́̋͋̉͒̍̋̋̔̅̎̄̅̏̓̌̿̔̉͂͊͊̓̈́̍̌̓͋͂͑̅̾̆͗̽́̊̋̇̀͛̿̂̋̇̌̿͐͌͗̇̓́̒̾́̽̐̅̾̈̓͊̓͑̉͑̍̍͐̽̒̆̒̓͌̈̒̆́̾̔̀̈́̀̀͛̂̏̅͑͆͘͘̕̕͘̕͘̚̕̕͘̕͘͘̕͘̚̕̚̕̚̚̚̕͜͜͝͠͝͝͠͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͠͝͠ͅͅͅę̸̢̢̡̡̛̛̛̩̭͎̖̮̲̲̳̮̳͕̯̩̜̙͔͕̤̙̙̼̣͓̪̬̭̘͍̝͉̻̭̗͙̰͓̪̖̜̳͓̣͎̹̟̞̼̜̦̣̘̼̤͙̮̹̜̼̜̿̇̈́̏̏́̄̔̓͆͒͊̑̉͑̄̋̒͛͋̓͂̌̈́͑͋̈́̋̔̉̉̀͒̍͒̾̀̿̾̿͗͊̈̃̿͌̂̍̉͒̓̋̐̇̍͂̄̂̍̾̇̐̓͂͛̆̇̄̀̿̄̈́̉́̽̓̉͒̐̑̔͛̃͊̾͗͛̒̓̉̀͑̄͆́͒͆͗̓͛̑̈̍͌̄̿́̂̊̿̽͂̊̃̅͛̍̀̾̒̂͋͆̈́́͊̀̋͗̓͐̅̉̐̊̐̋̾̓̎̆̀̽̒̏̐͊͒͆͊͛̀̂́͋̾͌͒̇̀̿̾̄͘̕̕͘͘̚̚͘͘̕̚͘͜͝͠͝͠͠͝͠͝͝͠͝͝͠͠͝ͅ to acknowledge like a stubborn sullen c̵̢̢̢̨̨̝̭̦̰͍͉̥̲͔̱͙̩̝̦͔͕̮̤̙͉̺̬̱͕͍̥͓͕͙̪̙͎̳͈̬̗͈̮̬̺̟͉̰͓͓̺̞͓̤͙̯̫͈̮̪̞̮͉̗̭̻̪͇͙͕̹͙̜͇̰̗̳͎̟̙̱̠̜͔͕̥̗͚̈́͊̂̀̎̏͌͛͆̓́̈́̈̈̅̔͂͛́͛̃̔̃̐̀̄̉͑͂̐̉͂̽̃̑̔́̒̊̒̀̓̐̈́̓̊͂̏̕̕͘̕̕̚͝͝͠ͅͅͅͅͅͅḩ̸̧̡̡̛͎̠͖͚̝̫͍̠̙̲̙̤͕̭̭̮̗̖͍̙̩͓̫̼̰̯͖͓͖̖͙̤̜͕̬̰͈͉̓̽̒̔̅̒̈̍̾̂̈́̏̿̆́͂̓͆̄̈́́͛̎̈́̏͂̈́͐̾̃͛̈́͆̋̅̎̏͊̃̓̚̚͘̚͜͝͝͝͝ͅi̷̡̧̨̧̡̢̧̨̨̧̨̨̧̡̡̡̡̢̡̢̡̧̧̧̡̢̡̧̡̢̢̡̨̢̧̛̛̛̛̦͍͚̖̰̜̲̗̤̗̬̜̭͇̱̝̝̱̭͖̻̗̠͙̯̫̖̠̩̯̼̰̟̫̪͍͎͉̟̹̹̹̜͚͎̗̳̜͈̦͉̼̪͚̝̦̯̖̹̦̘̮̫̮̻̥̱̻͔̣̠̤̖̰̘̣̦͔̲̤̺̳̻̭͖̗̮̖͍̦̠̖̗̻̙͍͎̗͉͓̣̥̖͓̼̟̤̤͈̟̻̬͓̪̯͖͉͓͔̭̩̻̪̤̙̝̞̙̱͎̙̠̦̬̠̖̣͉̪̼̣̫̩̙͍̯͉͚̫͚͚̺͎̲͖̦̭̭̦̭̮̠̠͚̻͕͇̮̱̪̬̫̣̥͕̗̦̜̭͉͕̘͕̳̯͈͕͍̩̗͉̩̦̱̘͉͇͍͍͉͕̫͕̤̪̖͙̭̝̜̟̭̦̰̖͔̪͉͖̰̼̟͓͔͖̮̲̝̫̭͚̙̠̺͚͇̦̣̞̰̖͔̥̘̖͙͔̱̜̭͂̌͒͂̃̅͒͒̏̎̍̊̿̊̄́̾̄̄̊̇͂͑́̈́̍̾̃͑̅̌̒̏͂̀̓͆͒̆̀̍̆̓̈͛̔̅̍͂́̉̌̉̈́̾̓͑̄̀̇̈́͊̑̆͗̋̃̓̒̋̀͐̆̂̈̀̓̀̓͊̋͑̇́͛̈́̿͒́͆͋̂̎̈́̋̆̀͛̔̾̈́͐̈͌͆̄̓͐̍̏̀̋̈̒̽͌́̉̌͊̿̓̓̒̈̐̈̎̾͆̋̇͗̀͆̀̂̆̌̏̎̅͋̆̏̃̌̋̇̊̔̈͂̍̎̽͐̄̈̄̈͛̂̍̓̈́͋͛̓͌̎̋͊̆̎̃̓͊̌͗̋̽͆̎̈̇̀̒̿̇͑͗͋̅́̈́́̄̉͗͌͘͘̕̕̕̚̚̕͘̕͘̕̚͜͜͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅļ̶̨̛̛̛̰̝̪̙̜̠͔̝̝̥̦̩̥̮͔̙̦͕̖͔̫̪͕̗̪̙̥͋́̿̃̀̔̏̾̌̾́̅͑̓͂̂͋̈́̑̌̃͗̏̓̓͑͋̃͛̉̐̎͛͂̐̐̋̋̋̒̃̀̽̃͗̆̃̉̒̀͆̐̓̈̄́̀̃̆́̌͑́̂͗̃͗̇͗͋̇̍̀͋̏͂̄͗͗̔͐̌̊́̓̽͒̍̓̊̓̂̐̆̿̓͂̎͛̂̔͆̀́̐̍͐̐̓̓̑͒̀͗͂͊͌̇̂̋͐́̎͘̕̚̕͘̕̚̕̕̕̚̚̕͘͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͠͝͝͠ḑ̵̞͍̥͓̬̣͔̰̳̥̗͔͍̜̫̪͓̬͓̻͙͎̟͙̺̬̫̥̗͍͍̳͎͚̤͍͉̤̱̣̯͕̗͖̳̥̤͙͚͕͂̈͗͆͑̔̾͋͊̿͗͌͋̎̆̈́̾͆́̃̀̈͋̒͛͆̊͛̔̊̌͐́̓̑͂̽̒͊̋͋̋̾̂͗̈̀́̓̓̄̈́͑͑̍̈́̌͋̌̉̈̈́͒̄̎̉͗́̾̍̓͗̈́̋̓́̀̔̑͌̔̆͌̑͛̓̓̎̃̈́̀͊́̀̉̈́͑̓́̈́͂͐̿͆͛̎́̈̓̀̔͆̕̕̚̚͘̚͘͠͝͝͠͠͝͝ͅ who can ņ̸̨̢̡̨̧̢̢̢̨̢̛̠̳̹̬͔͍̱̬̬̺̟̤͔̲̼̩̙̦̫̥̖͙͈̗͇͚̪̲̬̣̫͖̼̣̱̥̪̤̖͎̝̠̳̥̫̭̻̞͙̝̙͖̥̙̱̳̙͖͈̩͓̯͔̫͚̭͉͎̝̩͔̲͙̩̜̯̻̫̫̬̯̯̰͙̱̗̣͙̲̗͖̣̣̱̩̗̠̗͕̦͚̟̮͚̝̱͓͈̲̱͍̫̠̭̖͔̺͓̻͚̰̟̲̱̬̩͈̭̥͐͊̉͂̽̂̇͌͆̇̋́͊̅̓͋͛̐̒̊͗́͛͒̿͌͂̈́̂̓͋̉͐́̄̂̌̽̽̃͆̒͑̄́̑͊͐̆̎͌́͋͗̔̅̄͐̓̓̓̓̊̇̿̓̑̔̾̀̀̔͘̚̚̚͜͜͠͠͠͝͝ͅơ̵̧̧̢̨̧̢͍̝͙͓͔̟̙̝̰̺̦͚̼͈̪͓̦̗̮̪̦̤͎͎̠͇̞͙̦̖̟͓̜̭̼̼̳͚̱̘̠͈̹̻͓̺͔͍͕̦̮͇̹̘̩̠̮͕̮̠̟̞̹͚̬̩̤͇̠͕̘̝̦̝̬̳̳̟̮͎͚͉͎̠̰̫̺͕͕̝̙͎̤̼̤̈́̆̇͗͛͗̏͛͂̽̀̆̈̈́̊̄̿̓̏̇̒͒̂̿̄͐̏̐̓̉̈̃̿̀͊̓͑̓̏̌͗̉̎͛͂̑͆͒͗͋̀̏̅̓͑̉̆̏̈́̿͋͆̎͐́̂̔̉̅̓̑̿̄̄̊̈́̏̿͌́͛̈̋́́̆̄͌̿͂͊̄͊̚̕̕͘͘̚͝͝͝͝ͅͅ ̸̡̡̢̨̡̢̢̧̡̨̢̢̧̡̛̛̛̛̛̛̛͖͖͙̹̗̫͈̟̰̩̲̳̹̬͇̳̙͉̯̱͇̜̳̪̟̦̥̻̮̻͈̖͓̥̩̤̫̥̯̠̥̘̻͓͈̠̠̼̮͕̼͎̠̬̜͕̗̭̣̺̪͓̘͎͓͖̜̱̳͖͉̦̩̣̯̟̠̳̬͖̩̹͔̟̪̖̻͕͎͎͓̼̮͎͈̘̟͔͓͎̯̻̮̎̈́̀̆̉͒̉͌̍͂̔̀͋́̆̒͆͑̎̀̾̔̂̄̉͌̿̓́̀̉́͊̌͂͌̃̏̃́̌̽̇̓͋̋̔̀͐͑͂̐̔͑́̔̊̃̇̊͌̈̍̽̀̔̈̀͐̈́̔̌͋̌͒̎̅̅̃͑͐̀̓̿͗͗̂̈̾͊̑̀̔̆̈́̒̐̇̂̂̉̊̄̓̿̈́̇̐̐͊͂̓̅̋̅͗́̆̐̓̄͗̄͊̔̄̿̚̕̕̕͘͘̕̚͘̚͘͘͜͠͠͝͠͝͝͝͠ͅͅͅͅļ̶̨̢̨̢̡̨̨̢̡̧̡̧̨̨̧̨̡̢̨̢̛̛̛͍̲͓̗̞̠̺̗͓̜͈̦͈̺̮̭̦̺̠̼̟̦͕͚̲̖̬̱͓͈̪̝͕͖̣̝͍̪͙̘͔̫̦͔̖̻̫̲̙̦͈̜̼̘̬͇̻̬̥̞̠̭̫̭̠̺̗̯̳̲͙̤̰̖̘͔͖͉͈̯̣͓͍̻̩̖̙̹̺̣̙͓̼̝͖̣̝̱͍̤͕͍̘͍̘̦̹̬͚͓̣̤̥̳̣͎̺̦̩̩͔̩̗̹̯͓̣͈̠̗̮̘̠̲̗̥̰͉̫̪̙̙͕̬̥̬̤̞̳̘̤̘̱̖͇̗̤͓̼̯̖̞͖̻͇̠̼̭̗͔̖͈͕̘̪͚̮̰̳̖̫̜̩̱̦̘̟̟̣̜͓̥̳̙̰͓̲̖͉̣̘̜̻̹̲̭͎͇̬͚̳̳͙̫͕̟̮̗̪̭̭͖̗͖̳̬̩̘̲̬̩̖̙̪̪̬̙̙̝͍͚̣̰͎͔̗̼̬͉̼̘̞͉̺̱̙͓̱̝̪̜͖̙̲̣͖͔̄̐̾͛̔͋̅̍͒̎̋̅͋̍͌̓͒͗̇̊̓͐̉̀̅̿̒̏͆͋̍̔͆̍̆̆̾̀̌̿̊̏̓̽̔̏̂̽͐̋̐́͐̂͌̌̈́̍̃̃̌͋̅̽͒̃̀̇́͑̂̎͑͐̔̉̎͑̇̔̆̑̊̽̔̂́̋̆̏̔̏̔́̌̈́̌̓̽̆̄͗̿͛͒͒̆̈̀̅́̅͊͌̋̂̅͛̾͆̎̌̀̈́̋̌͐̔̋̒̈͂̚͘̕̚̚̚͜͜͜͜͠͠͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͠ͅͅͅͅͅͅơ̴̡̨̨̡̡̨̢̨̧̢̨̧̢̨̧̡̡̧̨̢̧̡̧̨̢̛̛̤͉̞̳͖̩̲̤͕̯͔̼̜͖͉̲̲̙͉̳̦͈̫̠̼̝̪͍̯̘̜̹̗̫̟̩̖̻͇̜̱̲͈͙̘̺͈̬̟͓̳̲̳͎͙̱̳͖̥̮̤̦̰̙̠̼̳̼̖̠͚͕̘͚͍͎͙̙̖̱̙̩̖̭̱̫̳̫̳̱̳̦̼͈͙̭̱̜̮̝̞̼͔͍̩̩̹̮̯̲̤̥̹̹̫̹̖͓̩͕̗̺͈̩̲̗͍̫̰̖̥͇̞̖͎͎̜̪͎̩͓̮̪̮̯̲̹̭̯̗̣̳͈͍̱̤͓͓̼͈̪̝͈̜̮̥͔̜̺͚̹̪̻̣̹̜̲̩̭͓̗̝̩̼͇͉̲̱̟̗̬͓̯͖̬͔̩̼̹̥̙̜̲̫̻̩͙͍̺̯̩͉̯̯̳̍̔̓̎͋̆͑͌̇̎̓̑̀͗̀͂͋̆̃͛̇̓͗̄̀͊͑͌̑̂̾͆̾͂͆̓͆͂̽̌̋͛̿̒̀͗͐̈́̾̀͂͌̀͗̎͐̄̔̐̉̔̈́̔̀͊̈̇͌͊͂̅̔͂͑͗̐̀̃̌̃́̄̍̓̿͆͛̈́͂̍͊̾̈̎̄̉̇̑͊̆̌̅̈́̓̐̀̽̈́̑͛̈́̑̽̆̏͋̌̌͂̆̆̄͋̔̉̒̈͋̂͐̍̆̀͋̎͛͊̈́̀̾̓̔̓̂͂̆̕͘͘̚̕̕̕̚͘̕͘͘͘̕̚̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͠͝͝͝͠͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅņ̵̢̨̛̛̫̹̥͇̟͕͎̮̹̣͕̮̖̠̞̯̯̟̘̫͖͍̜̰̬̖̮̬̱̪̱͂̔̍͌̐̈́̔͑̋͒̈́͑̈́͗̎̈́͑͐̈́͆͑̏̊̿̅͊́͋̎̿͑̆̊̋̔͋́͊̓̆̓̉̈́̌̋̿̉͊̀̂̈̉̃͌̀̈́̋̈̅͋̿͗̉̇̓͛̌̃̄̽̅͐̚͘͘͜͝͝͝͠g̵̨̧̨̢̧̡̡̧̧̡̨̡̨̨̡̛̛̛̛̛̛͈̦̼̪͈̹̣̦͉̹̹̘̫͖̬̖͎͉̖̤͙̘͍̪̼̰͙̣̮̹̯̭̟͉͇̖̯̞̦̻̻͎̖̳̩̖͖̫̘̻͙̙͚̜̘̭̳̙̝̗͉͙̫̯̥̳̰̹͎̘̭̠̰̘͓͔̘͖̘͕̳͖̪̜̪̬̙͙͔̳̣̯͍̘̣̭͈̭̱̗̱͎͉͎̻̮̝̤͇͓̣̼͉̠̭̪̺͈̙̱̥̣̹̯̞̟͕̯̫̟̙̫̼͔̝̜̫̦͕̪͖̼͓̥̥͓̪͚͚̱̈́͌̆͌̈̅̉͛͐̏̐̆̉̊͒͊̄̑̈̓͊̀̇̓̾͛́̀̋̌̎͊̏̐̂̇́̏̇͛̅̽͑̓͑͒̊̓͗̍̐͐͂̒́̉̊͒̈́̋̋̇̀͑́̔̋̎̽̈̃̈́̾͊̀̈́͊̀͆́̋͌̐̓̒͛́̐̔̌͊́́̾̅̎͛̆̀̾̐̔̔̔̾̀͋̔̃̒̃̓̆̃͐͋͌̉̔̉̉̂̑̽͊͌̌́̅̅̍͂͛̈͆͗͒͒̿͋̂͒̏̾̾̈́̐̔̔́͐̈́̂́̏̄̔̽̏́̾̑̊́̆̆͑̄̍͆̏̄̇̽͆̾̓̽͋̽̋̈͛̂̒̎́͒̀̓̈́̅̈́̄̚̚̚̕͘̚̕̕̚̚̕̚͘͜͜͜͠͠͝͠͠͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͠͠͠ͅͅͅͅę̵̨̧̛̛̛̛̛͔̝̩͔̱̮͇̖͚̦̻̻̳̠̗͍̻͖̗̱̩̈́͊̈̄́͂̇͆̍̽̋̋̐́̀͒̿̏̌́̏̃͌̑̈́̍͐̓́̉̏̿͆́͆̇̎̄̈̇̀͆̂̈́́̓͂̅͆͊͗͐͆̿͊͗͆͐̉̆́̌̃̅̆͋̇̋̂̐̈́̐̽̔̊̍̊́̀̋̊̊̈̍̈́̎͗͑͆̇̈̓̓̈̿̀̔̊͊̈́̀͛̃̀͋̿̌͑͐̉̓̅̿̅͊́̽̃̿͂́͋̑̓́̎͗̒͊̈́̈́͂́́̀͆̃̾̿̈́̔̈́̒̈̇͗̀̔̔̂͊́͆̈́̾́̇͊̋̏̀͂͊̇̀̆͊́͂̊̓̆̅͌̿̅̾̈͊̒̑̄̓͗̎͊́̇͗̾̈́͌͌̐̌̂͂̎̈̽̿͗̂͌̔͆̈́́̆́̚̕͘͘̕̚͘̕͘̚̚̚̕̚̕̕͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͠͠͝͠͝͠r̷̨̨̧̧̨̡̢̡̧̡̡̡̨̨̡̛̛̛̠̩̤̲̦̫̟͖̲͈͕͕̳͔͎̫̟̹̻̯̙̮̱͚̪̟̟̞̤̦̻͈͙̱̗̟͎̖͎̟̜͕̟̠̮͎̙̗̘͔̭̱͔̞̪̻͙̤̟̜͚͇͉̞̹̲̼̬̠̯̺͔̠̯̰̙̤̲͔̣̯̠͕̻̺͕͕̮̗̣̬̬̙̝̳̙̙̰͕̰̗̟͇̲̠͇͇̞͉̼͍̫͙̜͖̰̳̮͕͇̲̞̙̭̣̹̮̮̫̣̪̟͈͔̺͈̩̹̼̫̘͔͎̫̙̼̜̦͔̹̜͓̱̖̘̳͇͈̗̝̩̭̦̥͚̺̭͔̗̻̥̟̲̹̯̥̰̬̥̙̞͓̯͓͈̝͔̹͓̙̭͍͚̺͓͉̣͇͇͚̝̻̞̱̫͖̠͗̊͂̄̐̇̓͐̆͗̑̾̀̒̌̑̈̌̿̉̌͐̒̈́͂̓̓̓̆̋̓̏̇́̓̆̃͂̑̾̇̑͆̃͆́̓̑̄́̆̓͛̈́̆͑̋̒͗̒̓͛̈́́̓̄̏̽̌͐̌́̍̌̈͂͛̈͂͌̑̐͛͋̾͆̎̉̐̑̋̑͘͘̚͘͘͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͠͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅ 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̶̧̡̧̨̡̨̢̧̢̢̢̡̡̨̛̛̮̮͈̥͉̬̜̯͖͓̱̰̩̙͈̭͖̟͖̫̠̮͈̩̦̞̱͉͉͇̳̖͍̻̯̟͖̞͉̼̖̠̫̲̻̫̩̥̭̹̬̯̣̼̙͍͖̮̝̭̳̪̦͎͍̝̬̤͎͔͚͕̰̯̹͈͚̝̹̤̞̱̪̣͖̰͉̻̝̠̪̰̘͉̞̰̬̫͕͈͙͉̪̙͙̮͇̳̜̫̲̲̩̖͕̱̬͎̺̝̹̫̪͈̖̫̲͇̗͖̠͖̫͈͙̲̙̙͔̪̟̰̣͙͓̘̫̘͍͍͍̘̦͔̲͓̖̭̺̮̹̱̩̻̯̺̭̺͈͚̦̭̺̮͔͔͇̖̻̙̙͉̘͇̻͈͈̟̜̙̫̰̹̤͎̖͉̦̻̩̣̗̖̩̹̬̖͙̥̻͇̫̦͍͎̟̻͍͎͈̮̥̙̆͑́́͊̆̄́̈̈̌͗͗̉̔̈́̑̈̅̀̎̒̓͋̒̆̈́̍̾͊̓͑̾́̓̅̈́̐̏͐̀̿̀̒̅̋͋́̐̎̿̄̀͘̚͘͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͠͝͝ͅͅͅţ̴̧̧̡̢̢̨̢̢̨̧̢̢̢̨̧̧̨̡̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̱̗̠̮͔̪̘̠̲̻̤̺̮̯̗̖̳̲̹̥̟̣̙̯͔͈̺͇͕̠̞̼͈͖͚͇̖̝̪̲͈͖͖̣͔̪̝̫̗̫͎̫̭͓̱̲̝̗̰͙̦͖̻͍̤̮͎̤̥̱̞̦͖̺̺̘̟̗̩̭̜̮̜̺͖͕̜̯͎̺̲̭̺̟͚̭̬̦̳̳͍̬͔̤̩̮͔͚͔̞̰̥̜͙̭̪̮̝̱̱̰͍̠̲͈͉͍͉̠̱̱̩͖̝̣̭͎̯̼̬̻͍͉̺̻̠̞̫̖̘̠̭̦͓̘͎̼͎̼̬̠͍͕͕̬̹̦̭̥̳̤̦̮͔̩́͗̀̒͗́́̄̽̓͂͌͂͗̈̆̋͛̈́̓̿̽̈́̀̍͊́̍͌̑̀́͐̓͌͛͑̏͐̐͛̆̈́̎̽͆͋̅̐̐̒̈́̉͊̐͊̅̃̈́͂̓̅̽̉̈̍̐̌̾̈͌̓́̇̑̍̃̈́͐̐̀͆̾̾͛̋̔́͒̄̓̈̈́͒͗̑́̈́̆̏̀̄̈̾̊͗͌̀̆̏͌̈́̍͂͂́̊̋̄͛̋̃͌̈́̽̅̈͛̀̅̒̈̋̉̂̾̀͌̄̽̉́̈́̋̄͗̃͑͆̐̈́̑̓̓̉̈́̿̄̄̓̾̇͛̋͛͆̽̈̈́̍̈́̿͒̄͑̿̊̓̌̉̎̋̉́͛̆̅̏̉͋̓̓̒̿͋͌̓̀͌̎̈́̃̔̐̌̌̇̈̽̅̽̿́̔̓̾͛̾͒̌̈́̓̌͐͗̅̊͛̕̕̚̕̚̕̚̕̚̚̕̚̕̕̚͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͠͝͠͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅḩ̶̡̨̢̢̨̨̧̢̢̨̢̡̧̧̨̡̨̡̧̡̢̨̧̢̡̨̨̛̛̛̛̛̼̲͇̣̖͈̟͉̻̩̮͙̗̼͇̪͔͉̱̣͙͇̪̣̜͓̳̖̝̘̙͙͚͎͙̼̬͓̩̺̬͉̼̜̜̩̝͚͚̺̗̩̖̱̲̝̯͚̖͎̰̞͕͙͇̱̱̥͖̭̩̦̞̪̫̥̣͚̱͖̫͔̲̗͔̲̳̤̦̪̳̤̤̻̲̝̬͖̦̩̹̖̼̱̳̪̣͇̯̯̯̲͚̣̳̘̮̖̞̱̲̬͈͎̪͈̰̳̩̭̝͈͈͓̮̞̖̭̫̹̩͙̭̲̩̳͖͎̠̣͖͉̰̻̗̩̪̭̬̱̗̫̤̜̲̻̺̙͕̝̖͕̩̯͖͙͙̗̮̩̺͍͕͇͍̟͚̮̼̦̫̯͎̖͇̰͔̣̩̞͎̫͉̮̟̰̘͎̤̹͇̯̭̞̺͙̭̯̲̭̦̟̳͉̩̹̠͎̯̣̦̘͉̝͈͓̤̼̻̘̲̼̮̞̗͈̲̭͙̤̦̳̻̫̞̫̥͎̱͂͐̏̃̓̄̾͆̏̓̓̃͛͐̇́́̓̌̅̒͛̍̽͊͂͒̊̌̄̈́̀̐͌͑̈́̄͌̆̓͑͑̒͗̎̓̐̔̓̾̂͛̾͐͑͋̋̈́̒̆͑̑͌̃͗͆͗͌̃͒̈́̆͋̈́̀͑́͋̎̾͑̉͌̈́̌͌͆̑̎̾̿͛̓͗̽̍͆̇̾̑͒͆͐͌̓͗͗̇̐͌͑͌̃̿̊̋̀͗̾̋̃͗̃͐̏͊̀͐̾̎̃́̇̐̎̇͊̐̊͆̐̊̅̈̊̿̐͌́͑̈͗̆̀͊̀̎̉͒̾̇̈́̃̃̑͒̏̏̌̆͋͒͘̕̚̕̕̚͘͘̚̚̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͝ͅͅͅȩ̵̧̡̡̨̨̢̧̢̧̧̧̧̧̢̧̧̧̢̨̧̧̡̧̨̢̧̢̛͎͙̰̳̩͉̩̫̳̤̖͍͉̬̖͉̰̱̳̟͚̣͍͓̗̥̤̼̼̻̙̣̟̻͚̠̜̳̺͓͇̬̥̖̦͇̖̰̙̼̝̻̠̮͖͉̝̟̬̙͕̜̖̻͔̘͖̖̪͍̥̬̠̙͚̮͇͈̹̜̻͕̪̫̳͇͉͉͓̯̣̜̯͙̖̜͍̗͉͍͚͖̱̥̪̠̫͓̫͕̪͚̱̦̳͎̤̮̜̘̝̞̟͓̼̼͈̖̫̻͍̠͉̟̲̯̦̝̝͕͕̼͇̝͎͉̜̺͉̱͓̞̙̙̙͓̺̗͉͙͕͔̥̯̯̪̣͙͍͙̠̜͎̖̙̦̖̝̰͓͔͓̟̬̣̦̺̯͚̥̩͕͇̫̺̺̖̖̱̩͔̺͔̫̗͕̻̝̪͈͓͉͔̩͔̥͕͚̳̖̤͇͚̙͓̟̬̗̝͓̬̳̦̞̣̟̤͓͙̱̖̥̖̙͆͑͑̏̈́̓̇͆͌̍̾̑̓̐̆͑̏͊͛̈́̋̇̈̍̈́̂̿́̋̇̎͗̌̑̏͊͌̆̃͂̃̽͛͛̏̈́̆͋͒̿̇͋́̈́̊̿̋̓͋̎̉̍͒̑͒̽̍̆͘͘͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͠ͅͅͅͅͅy̶̨̨̡̧̡̢̢̡̧̡̢̨̨̡̨̡̨̨̢̢̢̡̢̧̡̢̧̢̧̛͈̥̞͙͎̫̖͓̮͎̜̼̣̮̮̹̗̟̠̠̘̠̯̦̭͓̯̼̝͓̪͓̮̙̖̺͖̱̫̻̼̹͚̟̫̳͓͍͍̩͍̖̦̣̜͉͈̪̱̼̻̖̻̘͚̯̣̞̠̤̙͚̲̳̺̤̟̱̺̻̟̹̲̥̞̬̰͔̱̩̪͉̯̹̺̞̜̬̰̝͈̗͓̜̫͈͖͙̮̬͉̬̣̣̥̩͕̰͔̝̫͙͍̦̗̜̖̞͎͓͔̦̮̮̮̥̥̝̙̬͎̺̘͙̭͕̤̲͖͙̣̖̲̱̰̤̮͉̪̠̭̼͉̻̙̭̤̤̥̪̤͖̮̘̩̪̘̙̭̱̹̰̖̯̻͈̘̳͖̖̭͓̰̘̤̜̻̙̓̿̋͌̈́͗͗̊̑͛͒̋̈́̒̈́͌̒͑̑̐͊̓͐̒̆̍̈́̉̈̍̊͑̊̓̽̀̃͒̅̂͗̕̕͘̕͜͜͠ͅͅ ̶̧̢̛̫̖̞͇̘̘̤͇̥̲͔͉͓͔̯̺͖̟͉͓̲̖̹͚͂̌͐̈́̇́̽̊̔̑̊̍̊͜ḑ̸̨̢̡̡̨̡̢̡̨̧̢̢̛̛̪͈̺͉͔̪̼̪̖̰̜͙̼̖͓̖͚̪̝̙̲̫̘̣̗̩͈̳͖̯̱̟͙͚̣̺̪͉͕̺͓͍̳̖̦͉̞̭̫͕͙͈̘͎͙͖̦̼̭͓͇̗̜̭͓͔͍͖͓̫̭̤̜͍͕̺͇̝̤̟̩͍̭̥͍̯̪̣̝͙͎̻͍̞͔̙͕̥̦̖͕̥̙͙͓̟͈̣͍̳̭͎̬͙̰͎͙̯̰͚̠̼̙͍̻͔͚̥̦̙̝̼̬̫̘̣̬͔̤̺͚̺̜̪̙̦̣̬͇̰̠͇̱̜̞͔̱̭̬͕̪͕͉̲̓̀̎̽̓̽̏͊̾̑̅͊͊̿̈́̔̆͊̏͐̂̈̓̍̉͒͐͗̎̓̂̔͑͐̒̄͗̓͒̀̀͘̚̚͜ͅͅͅr̸̨̧̡͙̙͈̬̦̻̮̖͔̟̝͈̘̻͇͔̠̲̩͈͒͊̄̌̈́̽͌̚͘a̴̢̡̡̧̨̧̨̢̡̧̡̨̡̢̧̛̩̩̱͍͈̠͔̯͍͖̳̤͇̭̝͓̖̟̬͈̬͇̤͎̼͍̤̱̹̪͉̲͚͈̖̯̰̱͖̤̙̥̝̝̤̮̩̮̞͎͙̱̜͍͖̬͇̩̖̜͍͍̗̞̙͕̤̺͎̪̜̫͇̣̦̟͔̫̳͚̯̻̟͇̣̰̻̤̘̺͕̳̠̝̣̭̬͓̲͚͕̬͙̪͕̪̤͉̲̺̥͓͍͈̦̺̥͔̠̜͇͕̺͈̦̹̼̦̦͈̯̝̟̖̭͔̥̥̯̖͎̩̫̹͈̠̗̙̜̹̙̺͙̮̜̻̻͍͙̻͈͕̘̰͍̳̻͚͎̳̣͕͍̗̯͈̲̣͖̗̗͎̣̞̳͍̩̤͚̻͖̩̟̦̳͑́̏̈́̽̑̈́̍̈̂̄̾͑͗̏͂̃̒͗̒̎͊̐̑̀͌̌͋̋̀̉̿̃̎̎̾̔̈́̀̃͋̏̀́̋̉̾́̽͂͒̀̊̃͗̓̈́̄̕̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͝ͅͅͅͅẘ̵̧̡̨̢̢̛̛̛̛̛̲̻͉͚͈͎̰̞̼̹̱̦͔̺͍̤̠̻̹̦̠͇̬͎̞̺̗̤̟̭̼̙̟̤̟͕̠̬̟̬̙̘͔̖̜̻̻͒́͋̌̾́́̔̆̓̄̏͐̅̌͛̋̀͊̈́̔̌̃͒̓́͆̅̂̈́͒̒͒͌́̓̍̋̄̀͂̊͗͌̎̽̈́̽͛͗̋̿̌̋̍̑̊̊̈́͋͑͆̂̃̿̿̉̈́̀̆̐̈́̌͌̌̓̇͊͊̌̃̈́̀͋͛̾̓̀̎̈́̊̅́̓͋͊̾̊͆̋̒͂̒̒̿͋̀́͂̒̓̉̆̀̓̎̋͋́̀̒́͌̏̋̀̅̋̉̉̾̓͂̂̕͘͘͘͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅ. As to what the future holds, Carl will be here. Right here in your thoughts, B̴̧̡̧̢̢̧̡̥̳̩͚̟̖̫̜̩̲̝̼̩̞͖̜͇͚̙̪͎̫̺͈̲͖͎͈͈̱̱͖͕͎̬͓̣̰̻̱͍͔̥͙̣̻͙̭̻̟̤̠̤̳̺̗̩̪̲̣̘̥͍̲̤͎͗͒̒̌̿͆͒̊̿̾͜͜͠l̵̢̧̨̨̢̧̧̨̛̖̗̲̞̦̜̣͙̼͓̟̳͔̳̲̱̯̯̲̲̯̞͇̠̟̠̼̞̘̠̼̙̰̖̪̤̲̟̘̣̰̳̲̤̳̳̰̳̱̫̩͓̖̪̦̘̼̞̺̻̣̺͇͂͌̔̔̀̃̍͆̓̓̾̀͑̀̓͌͐̉͆͌̒̈́̃̌͛̉̎́͗̄̽̇̇̓͑̀́̏̽̈́̄̌͛̎͑̄͌̾̿̓̏̽̈́̆͒͌̀̑̋̆͊̔̾̄̅͂͌̆͂̓́̅̀̈̎́͗̓̊̕̕͘̚͘̚̕̚͘͜͝͝͠͝͝͝ͅą̸̡̡̡̢̧̨̢̨̡̢̨̨̛̟̥͇̹̪͇̭̬͓̬̰̩̳̻̼͙̻̮͚̜̣̺͈͕͖̠̠̲̟͓̥̞͔̟̤̼͎͇̝̤͉̦͈͖̮̹̯̦̻̩̗̥̤͙̦̤̫̼̙͇̲̣̞͙͓͚̤͓̜̳̻͖̰̼̘̝̳͙̘̺̗̙͖̫̙̹̥̹̥͖͓̯̯̗̣͇̣̮͚̼͇̟͇̹͇͇̣̪̦̲̹̲̺͇̰̝͖̳̜͍̳̦̻̰͈̺̼̲̹̬̻̣̰̠͙̬̯̘̼̯͓̞̩̫̱̘̹̾͌́̄̑͌̏̒̊̀͑̂͆͗̋̓̀͌̂̄̈͛͑̏̈́͗̔̎͂̍́̊̕̚̕͜͜͜͝͝͠ͅͅͅͅͅḯ̶̧̢̢̢̨̧̧̧̧̢̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̘̙̞̺̤̻̩̮͚̥̝̣̝̺̲̜̰͉̹̳͇͇̩̮͙̮̤̲̬̮̱̰̪̻͓͎͖̝̤̬̪̗̰̠̙̜͔̤̼̻̗̘̗͔̟̣̗͇̣̹̭̟̱̙̠̠̞̲̭̬͖̥̺̠͍̞̣̞̜͓̬̲̙̠̬̩̳̥̤͖̻͎̙̗͍͍̦̘̰̱̱͙̱̻͙͇̺̟̻̖̺̲̙͚̗̝̹̎̎̇̄̐̔̀͊͗̓̿͛́̂̋̅͂̍̉̐̔͒́̅̎̍͗̑̊̐͛̾́͊̑̓̂̒̃͛͛͐̓̄̈́̎͗̒͂̌̇͐̽̓̍͑̔͒͒͗̎͂̌̑͒̂̿̅̋̈́̈́̆͌̈́̓̔̉̏̾͂̄́̀̓̂͑͋̀̈́̈́̆̈̎́͑̆̌̔͆̀̍̔̈́̇̉̈́̋̈́͐͐͂̓̅̍̑̾̓̅͐̎̋͌̊̑̉͋͋̑̏͌̇̃̓͐̎̎̀̋̎̒͑͆̈́̏̈́̋̈́́͗̾̚̚͘̕̕̚̚̚̕̚̕͜͜͠͠͠͝͠͝͝͠͠͝͝͠͠͠ͅͅͅͅs̵̢̨̧̡̧̡̧̧̢̧̡̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̤͚̻͙̥̦̥͇͓̺̮̣͚̲͕̘̙̗͓͓̰̘̫̙̪̳̻͕̰̥̞̞̫̻͈͎̱̜̫̣̣̞̞͇̯̻͎̣͕͍͈̹̫̝͔̫̤̜͚͕̼̟̠̯̦͔͇̲̟̣͕̺̩̭̦̤̼̪̰̥̩̗̤̺͖̻̩͎͇̭̳̟̬̲̲̘͕̼͈̞̥̗̞͓̞̭̥͓͙̞̲̠̼̗̰̮̞͓̼̲̮̭̤̖̩̳̣͚͚̺̯̟͉͉͓̪̣͓͍̥̞͓͍̟̭̫͎̭͙̪͎͓̭̻̫̲̦͍͎̪̲̭̪̮̟̘͇͕̲̱͍͍͔̠̩̯̮̜̜̻͎̟̠̘̤͚̳̩̍͌͆̏͋̽̔͒́͗̐́͋̓̾͋̈́̌͗͒̈́͐͊̅͐̒̒͆͊̎̇̄̅̊͊͋̃́͆̆͐͋̊͂̋̑̈́̌̏̾̈́̓̄͑͊͐͐̊͊͒̊̅̐͐͐̏͂̀̓̋̿̔̊̏̉̑̅̾͂̅̾͂̋̾̐̀̈́͗͛̀̓̅̾͛̍̀̿͑͋̎̎̂̃̋͗̋̌͐̄̈́̿̀̔̀̃̇̅̎̃̓̋̈́͌̌̉̇̊̍͐̌͐̋͆́́̂̈̑͊̈́̅̓͂̆̾̔̀̈̈̇̏̂͑̏̽́̽́̃̆̾͛̈͆̓̉͗̾͗̍̅̓̏͂͌͗̆̔̍̽̈́̈̊̀͆̒̀͆̀̎̄͊̊̅͆͂̾̆̿̒̄̍̅́͛͋̂͒̽̔͛͑͋̊͛̀̆̊͗̀̀̑̋̓̐̐͘̕̕̕̚̕̚̚͘͘̚͘̚͘͘̚̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͠ͅͅͅͅͅȩ̷̨̢̨̧̧̡̢̧̡̧̛̛̛̛̛̛̱̖̺̖̹̗̬̱̜̮̯͖̟̲̹̱̬͙͇͔̻̦͉͎̠͔͎̠̪̯̼͖̟͇͚̝͍͓̰͚͎͖̱̳̳̻̝͇̹͍̙͖̯̫̣͍͓̘̰͕̱̪̱̼̳͚̯̠̪̻̬͎̣̜̹͖̟̥̮̺̤͈͕̜͔̪̼͕̬̗̦͚̼̜̺͓͉̜̤̝̰̭̲͍̬̝͖͓͍͇͎̥̹̣͍͉͎̗̲̙̗͉̜͙̟͖̘͉̮͔̣̗̠̪͙͇̟͈͔͔̫̯̦̩̤̙̲̗̻̬̲͍̫̳̠̩̝̖̦̈́͛̒̅͆̔̔́̾͌͒̈̐̊̀̍̒̅̾͒̄͂͗͗̿̍̉͂̒͊̅͋͛͑͒͑̈́̎͋̄̀͊̒͗͆̏̇̽̈́͑̈́̏͌̎͑̇̑̊͋̍͊͋̈́̅̆̍͂͌̈̇̀̂̀̃̏͗͐̓̿̌̓͋̀͗͑̋̐̑̄̈̌̃̊̓̒͋̎̔͗͐̈̊͌̎̉̄̎̽̇͂̀̆̊̀̓̋̋̏̾̽̋̃͋̏̆̐͋̒̀̊̓͒̒̋̀̔͛́̇̓̒̀̌́̑̿̑̉̔̾̂͒̈̀̐̐̋̚͘̚͘̕̕̚͘͘̚̚̕̕̕̕̚̚̚͘͜͜͜͝͠͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅ.

[Emprexx Plush]

Advantages:Carl allows B̶̧̢̨̡̧̡̨̡̢̧̧̨̧̢̢̨̢̨̧̢̛̛̛̛̛̛̠̤̫͎̜̘̮͇̮̮͙̬̯͕͇̭̹̝͙̠͔̗̭̲̟̝̱͙̹͙͙̱̲͈̜̥̭̹͇͇͈̠͓̬̪̥̬̥͕̹̥̖̮͉̣͙͖̙͙̝̻͈̞͙͉̻͚̹̙̖̠̩̫̺̩̤͈̘̭͔̣͖̪̙̞͓̦̞͔̜̳̼̫͔͔͎͍̟̺̹̜̤̰̖̝̺̬̻̫̹͓͖̦̳̩̞̦̜̮̫̺̫͔̺̰̜̟̫̠͇͓͈̜̯͚͍͉͇̩͇͇̳͍͖̣͕̦͉͈̫͖̰̰̋̋̈́̅͌̒̌̿͑̈́̋͋̐̏̃́̇̅̓͌͒̓̊̐̑̈́̆̀̿̍̆̀̀͐̆̈̊̾͂̌̾̊͐̐̏̊́̎̾́̽̎̽̇͑̿͛̿̒̐̔̀̌̐̐͊͆̊͆̿̈́͐̈́͊̒̔̿͋́͑̇̊͋́͌̽͗̽̽͆̀̔̈͋̈́̂̒̉̀̄́͆̾͋́͛͆̈́̅̃͋̈́̍̐̾̄̏̅̔̈́͌͗̆̆̏̓́́͘͘̕͘̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͠͝͠l̵̡̨̧̧̡̧̢̨̡̨̧̨̧̨̢̡̧̢̧̧̢̢̢̢̧̛̛̛̛̛̛͉̻͎̟͙͉͈̤̟̤̙͍͈̻̯̳̦̞̠̼̝̯͇̱͙̠̭̞̖̘̖͈͇̤̣̙̘̮̠̮̠͔̣̲̣̞͇̪͈̥͍̤̹̗̖̝̟̠͇̮̬̖͍͙̩̱̜̦͕̬̯̝̫̺̯̼͇̰̗͈̞̣̱̱̜͓͎̜̭̱͚̫̥̫̜̣͙͍͍̝̣̩͉̳͕̮͙̼̣͍͍̱̮̬̙̳̣̯̜̦̺͈̜̱̹͔̣̻̙͍͙̠͖̠̪̦̭͔͉̠̥̘̟̭̬͖̪͚͓͖̳̝̺̫̻̠͓̳͖̲̯̤̙̼̜̯̺̪̜̘̬͔̟͍̱͇̭̘͙͉͔͕͙̩̩̗͙͓̬̥̜̻̤͉̟̱̞̱̭̪͖͚̟̮͇͕͎̖̺̻̝̞͉̺̠͕͎͙̞̺̫͍͚͎̣͇̰̥̪̳̤̞̞͕̔̽̇͂̀̏̆̓͛̊͊̏͊̓͒̂̈́̅͛̍̋̊̏͐͗̇̆͋̽̆̽͌͐̉́͗͗́̂̀̐̀̌͆͗̈́̓̈́̎͋̂̉̎͊͐̀̔̈͑̋̃̀̍̈́̿́̑̈͗̒̊͌͋͐̂̋̆̽̽͆̎̈́̿͑̈́̅̓͒͗͐̐̒́̑̉̎̃͆͒͌̈͆̾̽̀͆͊̒̓̈̋͒̄̒͊͒̇̃̒̌̇͋̈́̇̋́̉̇͌̓͐̋͂̉̃͒̌̏͆̑̊͑͋͛̎͂̎̎̉͗̔͌̏̇̂̈́̈́̃̊͐͊́́̏̿̾̐̔̂̉̿̾̄͐̀̒͒͒̔̔̆̓̆̅̓͑̓́̂̄́̆̆̈́͗̆̓̓̆̋̀̓̽̅̈́̏̀̃̾̈́̓̎̐͑̏̽͊́͑̍̕̕͘̚͘̚͘̚̕͘͘̕̚͘̕̚͘̕̕̚̕̕͘̚̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͠͝͠͝͠͠͠͠ͅͅͅͅą̵̨̨̡̡̡̢̧̡̢̧̨̧̢̧̧̡̢̢̧̢̡̛̛̛̲̱̳̝̻̩̘̜̮̦͇͔̘̱̮͚̺͔̹̦̼̤̲̮̹̩͕͙̯̖̥̪̬̣̰̩̮͙̩͔̦̹̪͕͈̺͙͍̙̤̖̗͈̠̙̰͕̥̣͈̜̣̫͖͕̠͓̗̯̖̯̱̻͉̥̤͇͇̳̬̥͖̰̟̙̠̤̩̺̪̗̞̫̖̞͓̫̭̗̹̪̗̦̱̦̰̜̬̮̬̱͓̗̯̦͇̖̥͖͕͍͖̞͎̱̮͙̦͚̘̞̞̱̜̻̻̦̥̙̘͕͕̹͍͚̘̼̙̻͉̖͍̣͈͈̳͚̥͚̰̞̜̣͎̜̣̟̠̮̙̳͉̩̱̟̣̼̝͎̳̘͇̞̗͓͙̻͔̰̯̣̦̹̠͕̳͔̥̰̤̖̭̖͕̗̟̲̥͈̯̠͕̜̹͚̺̰̯̹̘̟̩̤̪̻̳̻̼̠͉̹̤̦͙̈́̔͂̏̈̌̄̑͐̉̾͌̃̐͒̅͒̈́̿̇̃̓̅͂̇̋̏̀͊̆͋͆́́̿̔͆̂̃͑̈́̊̓͆̽͐̈̒͌͗̊̾̌͂͐̇̅̇̐́͛͒̔̊̀̑̓͆͐̓͒͋̀͂̌̅͐̓̄͋̈́̉͂̀̔̏̌͑̓̇̾͗͌̓͗͑̐͑̃͌͆̍̐͗̓̏͑̄̐̉̌̑̃͗̅͐́́̐͛͑̆́̿̀̇̎͒̾̔̉̽͐͂͋͌̃̔̅̀͌̾͋̌̿̓̀͗͗͛͋͌̚̕͘͘͘̕̚̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͠͠͝͠͠͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅį̴̨̧̧̛̛͕̼̤͍̤̩̼̻̬̪̞͚̱̜̼̮͖̦͇̙̰̜̮̥̼̰̲͈͈̗̜̫͔̼̻͒̆̎̀̓͗̏̿̄͌̌̉̊͑͌͋̀͋͆̕͘̚͘͜͝ͅs̸̨̫͓̝͍̬̻̮̣̮̰̥̭͈̗͔͍̜̦̤̉̈́̔̏̍̅̉̾̒̾̅́̃̓͐͗̐̔̚͝e̶̡̢̧̢̡̧̨̧̢̨̨̨̨̡̧̧̡̡̢̡̨̡̧̡̡̧̧̱͔͚̤̘̭̫̟̦͍̟̦̤̫͔̫̖͔̜̟̤͔̫̱͚̠͖͚̲͚͙̗̦̥̼͖̙̼͈͕͕͉͙̘̗̘̝̩̮̺̰̥͍̪͓̗͍̹̝̻̺̝͈̳̪̯͍̭͎̪̼̞̳̼͓͉͇̩͓̺̥̦̭͍̖̬̝͇͎͚̥̺̤̲͍̰͚̗̳̬̣͙͚̳̫͈͖̹̠̮̫̺̙̯͈̘͙̬̦͙̳̜̘̯̳̱̮̣̤̩͚͎̯̖̪̲͚̭̭̜̤̘̬͎͍͓̫̭̘̝̻̲̲̥̮̣̪̞͓͍̗̥̘̱̲̦̮̜̘̗̗̞̹͙̜͓̗̼̟̻̥͇̬̞͕̜̦̹̓͂̎̈̉̍͂͂͂̃̀̇͆̂͊͋̎̔̈́̎͗́̃͛̒̅͑̆̅̒͑̉͒͛̓͊͊̿̆̈̿͐̽̔̒͌̽́͐̊̃̽̋̍͛͂̌́͗́͆̓̂̓̽͆̍̔̎̽̇̊̆̽͊̌͆̉́͊̌͊̓̿̿͆͆̑͒̅̇̈́̀̿͋͌̽́͒̀̒̈̄̾̈́̏̑̀͌̍̿́́͌̍̐̂̅͋̈́̽̓͊̇̃͐̍̓͒̋͑̑̏̇́̑̅̈̓̂͐́͌̂͑͆̓̒̀̂̀̔̊̈́͛͛̈͒̉͆̃̈́̔̒́̈́̃̅́͋͂̉͂̽́̄̆̆̊̄͑̄̍̄̎̄͆̐̏͆̈́͑̌̍̔́͂̀̈̏͋̒͐̈͑̀̽̉͆̄̂̐̇͌̉̌͊̽͊͊̅̈́̀̽̆̔̄̈́̓͛̑͋͊̑̌̽̍͗̿͗̾̕̕͘̚̕̕̚̚̕̕̕͘̚̚͜͜͜͝͠͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͝ͅͅͅt to blur the line between critique of others and critique of themself in his weaknesses and incompetencies. His value as a vented space cannot be understated. As Carl is B̶̧̢̨̡̧̡̨̡̢̧̧̨̧̢̢̨̢̨̧̢̛̛̛̛̛̛̠̤̫͎̜̘̮͇̮̮͙̬̯͕͇̭̹̝͙̠͔̗̭̲̟̝̱͙̹͙͙̱̲͈̜̥̭̹͇͇͈̠͓̬̪̥̬̥͕̹̥̖̮͉̣͙͖̙͙̝̻͈̞͙͉̻͚̹̙̖̠̩̫̺̩̤͈̘̭͔̣͖̪̙̞͓̦̞͔̜̳̼̫͔͔͎͍̟̺̹̜̤̰̖̝̺̬̻̫̹͓͖̦̳̩̞̦̜̮̫̺̫͔̺̰̜̟̫̠͇͓͈̜̯͚͍͉͇̩͇͇̳͍͖̣͕̦͉͈̫͖̰̰̋̋̈́̅͌̒̌̿͑̈́̋͋̐̏̃́̇̅̓͌͒̓̊̐̑̈́̆̀̿̍̆̀̀͐̆̈̊̾͂̌̾̊͐̐̏̊́̎̾́̽̎̽̇͑̿͛̿̒̐̔̀̌̐̐͊͆̊͆̿̈́͐̈́͊̒̔̿͋́͑̇̊͋́͌̽͗̽̽͆̀̔̈͋̈́̂̒̉̀̄́͆̾͋́͛͆̈́̅̃͋̈́̍̐̾̄̏̅̔̈́͌͗̆̆̏̓́́͘͘̕͘̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͠͝͠l̵̡̨̧̧̡̧̢̨̡̨̧̨̧̨̢̡̧̢̧̧̢̢̢̢̧̛̛̛̛̛̛͉̻͎̟͙͉͈̤̟̤̙͍͈̻̯̳̦̞̠̼̝̯͇̱͙̠̭̞̖̘̖͈͇̤̣̙̘̮̠̮̠͔̣̲̣̞͇̪͈̥͍̤̹̗̖̝̟̠͇̮̬̖͍͙̩̱̜̦͕̬̯̝̫̺̯̼͇̰̗͈̞̣̱̱̜͓͎̜̭̱͚̫̥̫̜̣͙͍͍̝̣̩͉̳͕̮͙̼̣͍͍̱̮̬̙̳̣̯̜̦̺͈̜̱̹͔̣̻̙͍͙̠͖̠̪̦̭͔͉̠̥̘̟̭̬͖̪͚͓͖̳̝̺̫̻̠͓̳͖̲̯̤̙̼̜̯̺̪̜̘̬͔̟͍̱͇̭̘͙͉͔͕͙̩̩̗͙͓̬̥̜̻̤͉̟̱̞̱̭̪͖͚̟̮͇͕͎̖̺̻̝̞͉̺̠͕͎͙̞̺̫͍͚͎̣͇̰̥̪̳̤̞̞͕̔̽̇͂̀̏̆̓͛̊͊̏͊̓͒̂̈́̅͛̍̋̊̏͐͗̇̆͋̽̆̽͌͐̉́͗͗́̂̀̐̀̌͆͗̈́̓̈́̎͋̂̉̎͊͐̀̔̈͑̋̃̀̍̈́̿́̑̈͗̒̊͌͋͐̂̋̆̽̽͆̎̈́̿͑̈́̅̓͒͗͐̐̒́̑̉̎̃͆͒͌̈͆̾̽̀͆͊̒̓̈̋͒̄̒͊͒̇̃̒̌̇͋̈́̇̋́̉̇͌̓͐̋͂̉̃͒̌̏͆̑̊͑͋͛̎͂̎̎̉͗̔͌̏̇̂̈́̈́̃̊͐͊́́̏̿̾̐̔̂̉̿̾̄͐̀̒͒͒̔̔̆̓̆̅̓͑̓́̂̄́̆̆̈́͗̆̓̓̆̋̀̓̽̅̈́̏̀̃̾̈́̓̎̐͑̏̽͊́͑̍̕̕͘̚͘̚͘̚̕͘͘̕̚͘̕̚͘̕̕̚̕̕͘̚̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͠͝͠͝͠͠͠͠ͅͅͅͅą̵̨̨̡̡̡̢̧̡̢̧̨̧̢̧̧̡̢̢̧̢̡̛̛̛̲̱̳̝̻̩̘̜̮̦͇͔̘̱̮͚̺͔̹̦̼̤̲̮̹̩͕͙̯̖̥̪̬̣̰̩̮͙̩͔̦̹̪͕͈̺͙͍̙̤̖̗͈̠̙̰͕̥̣͈̜̣̫͖͕̠͓̗̯̖̯̱̻͉̥̤͇͇̳̬̥͖̰̟̙̠̤̩̺̪̗̞̫̖̞͓̫̭̗̹̪̗̦̱̦̰̜̬̮̬̱͓̗̯̦͇̖̥͖͕͍͖̞͎̱̮͙̦͚̘̞̞̱̜̻̻̦̥̙̘͕͕̹͍͚̘̼̙̻͉̖͍̣͈͈̳͚̥͚̰̞̜̣͎̜̣̟̠̮̙̳͉̩̱̟̣̼̝͎̳̘͇̞̗͓͙̻͔̰̯̣̦̹̠͕̳͔̥̰̤̖̭̖͕̗̟̲̥͈̯̠͕̜̹͚̺̰̯̹̘̟̩̤̪̻̳̻̼̠͉̹̤̦͙̈́̔͂̏̈̌̄̑͐̉̾͌̃̐͒̅͒̈́̿̇̃̓̅͂̇̋̏̀͊̆͋͆́́̿̔͆̂̃͑̈́̊̓͆̽͐̈̒͌͗̊̾̌͂͐̇̅̇̐́͛͒̔̊̀̑̓͆͐̓͒͋̀͂̌̅͐̓̄͋̈́̉͂̀̔̏̌͑̓̇̾͗͌̓͗͑̐͑̃͌͆̍̐͗̓̏͑̄̐̉̌̑̃͗̅͐́́̐͛͑̆́̿̀̇̎͒̾̔̉̽͐͂͋͌̃̔̅̀͌̾͋̌̿̓̀͗͗͛͋͌̚̕͘͘͘̕̚̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͠͠͝͠͠͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅį̴̨̧̧̛̛͕̼̤͍̤̩̼̻̬̪̞͚̱̜̼̮͖̦͇̙̰̜̮̥̼̰̲͈͈̗̜̫͔̼̻͒̆̎̀̓͗̏̿̄͌̌̉̊͑͌͋̀͋͆̕͘̚͘͜͝ͅs̸̨̫͓̝͍̬̻̮̣̮̰̥̭͈̗͔͍̜̦̤̉̈́̔̏̍̅̉̾̒̾̅́̃̓͐͗̐̔̚͝e̶̡̢̧̢̡̧̨̧̢̨̨̨̨̡̧̧̡̡̢̡̨̡̧̡̡̧̧̱͔͚̤̘̭̫̟̦͍̟̦̤̫͔̫̖͔̜̟̤͔̫̱͚̠͖͚̲͚͙̗̦̥̼͖̙̼͈͕͕͉͙̘̗̘̝̩̮̺̰̥͍̪͓̗͍̹̝̻̺̝͈̳̪̯͍̭͎̪̼̞̳̼͓͉͇̩͓̺̥̦̭͍̖̬̝͇͎͚̥̺̤̲͍̰͚̗̳̬̣͙͚̳̫͈͖̹̠̮̫̺̙̯͈̘͙̬̦͙̳̜̘̯̳̱̮̣̤̩͚͎̯̖̪̲͚̭̭̜̤̘̬͎͍͓̫̭̘̝̻̲̲̥̮̣̪̞͓͍̗̥̘̱̲̦̮̜̘̗̗̞̹͙̜͓̗̼̟̻̥͇̬̞͕̜̦̹̓͂̎̈̉̍͂͂͂̃̀̇͆̂͊͋̎̔̈́̎͗́̃͛̒̅͑̆̅̒͑̉͒͛̓͊͊̿̆̈̿͐̽̔̒͌̽́͐̊̃̽̋̍͛͂̌́͗́͆̓̂̓̽͆̍̔̎̽̇̊̆̽͊̌͆̉́͊̌͊̓̿̿͆͆̑͒̅̇̈́̀̿͋͌̽́͒̀̒̈̄̾̈́̏̑̀͌̍̿́́͌̍̐̂̅͋̈́̽̓͊̇̃͐̍̓͒̋͑̑̏̇́̑̅̈̓̂͐́͌̂͑͆̓̒̀̂̀̔̊̈́͛͛̈͒̉͆̃̈́̔̒́̈́̃̅́͋͂̉͂̽́̄̆̆̊̄͑̄̍̄̎̄͆̐̏͆̈́͑̌̍̔́͂̀̈̏͋̒͐̈͑̀̽̉͆̄̂̐̇͌̉̌͊̽͊͊̅̈́̀̽̆̔̄̈́̓͛̑͋͊̑̌̽̍͗̿͗̾̕̕͘̚̕̕̚̚̕̕̕͘̚̚͜͜͜͝͠͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͝ͅͅͅ he understands them better than anyone else, including themself, because he is themself, and B̶̧̢̨̡̧̡̨̡̢̧̧̨̧̢̢̨̢̨̧̢̛̛̛̛̛̛̠̤̫͎̜̘̮͇̮̮͙̬̯͕͇̭̹̝͙̠͔̗̭̲̟̝̱͙̹͙͙̱̲͈̜̥̭̹͇͇͈̠͓̬̪̥̬̥͕̹̥̖̮͉̣͙͖̙͙̝̻͈̞͙͉̻͚̹̙̖̠̩̫̺̩̤͈̘̭͔̣͖̪̙̞͓̦̞͔̜̳̼̫͔͔͎͍̟̺̹̜̤̰̖̝̺̬̻̫̹͓͖̦̳̩̞̦̜̮̫̺̫͔̺̰̜̟̫̠͇͓͈̜̯͚͍͉͇̩͇͇̳͍͖̣͕̦͉͈̫͖̰̰̋̋̈́̅͌̒̌̿͑̈́̋͋̐̏̃́̇̅̓͌͒̓̊̐̑̈́̆̀̿̍̆̀̀͐̆̈̊̾͂̌̾̊͐̐̏̊́̎̾́̽̎̽̇͑̿͛̿̒̐̔̀̌̐̐͊͆̊͆̿̈́͐̈́͊̒̔̿͋́͑̇̊͋́͌̽͗̽̽͆̀̔̈͋̈́̂̒̉̀̄́͆̾͋́͛͆̈́̅̃͋̈́̍̐̾̄̏̅̔̈́͌͗̆̆̏̓́́͘͘̕͘̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͠͝͠l̵̡̨̧̧̡̧̢̨̡̨̧̨̧̨̢̡̧̢̧̧̢̢̢̢̧̛̛̛̛̛̛͉̻͎̟͙͉͈̤̟̤̙͍͈̻̯̳̦̞̠̼̝̯͇̱͙̠̭̞̖̘̖͈͇̤̣̙̘̮̠̮̠͔̣̲̣̞͇̪͈̥͍̤̹̗̖̝̟̠͇̮̬̖͍͙̩̱̜̦͕̬̯̝̫̺̯̼͇̰̗͈̞̣̱̱̜͓͎̜̭̱͚̫̥̫̜̣͙͍͍̝̣̩͉̳͕̮͙̼̣͍͍̱̮̬̙̳̣̯̜̦̺͈̜̱̹͔̣̻̙͍͙̠͖̠̪̦̭͔͉̠̥̘̟̭̬͖̪͚͓͖̳̝̺̫̻̠͓̳͖̲̯̤̙̼̜̯̺̪̜̘̬͔̟͍̱͇̭̘͙͉͔͕͙̩̩̗͙͓̬̥̜̻̤͉̟̱̞̱̭̪͖͚̟̮͇͕͎̖̺̻̝̞͉̺̠͕͎͙̞̺̫͍͚͎̣͇̰̥̪̳̤̞̞͕̔̽̇͂̀̏̆̓͛̊͊̏͊̓͒̂̈́̅͛̍̋̊̏͐͗̇̆͋̽̆̽͌͐̉́͗͗́̂̀̐̀̌͆͗̈́̓̈́̎͋̂̉̎͊͐̀̔̈͑̋̃̀̍̈́̿́̑̈͗̒̊͌͋͐̂̋̆̽̽͆̎̈́̿͑̈́̅̓͒͗͐̐̒́̑̉̎̃͆͒͌̈͆̾̽̀͆͊̒̓̈̋͒̄̒͊͒̇̃̒̌̇͋̈́̇̋́̉̇͌̓͐̋͂̉̃͒̌̏͆̑̊͑͋͛̎͂̎̎̉͗̔͌̏̇̂̈́̈́̃̊͐͊́́̏̿̾̐̔̂̉̿̾̄͐̀̒͒͒̔̔̆̓̆̅̓͑̓́̂̄́̆̆̈́͗̆̓̓̆̋̀̓̽̅̈́̏̀̃̾̈́̓̎̐͑̏̽͊́͑̍̕̕͘̚͘̚͘̚̕͘͘̕̚͘̕̚͘̕̕̚̕̕͘̚̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͠͝͠͝͠͠͠͠ͅͅͅͅą̵̨̨̡̡̡̢̧̡̢̧̨̧̢̧̧̡̢̢̧̢̡̛̛̛̲̱̳̝̻̩̘̜̮̦͇͔̘̱̮͚̺͔̹̦̼̤̲̮̹̩͕͙̯̖̥̪̬̣̰̩̮͙̩͔̦̹̪͕͈̺͙͍̙̤̖̗͈̠̙̰͕̥̣͈̜̣̫͖͕̠͓̗̯̖̯̱̻͉̥̤͇͇̳̬̥͖̰̟̙̠̤̩̺̪̗̞̫̖̞͓̫̭̗̹̪̗̦̱̦̰̜̬̮̬̱͓̗̯̦͇̖̥͖͕͍͖̞͎̱̮͙̦͚̘̞̞̱̜̻̻̦̥̙̘͕͕̹͍͚̘̼̙̻͉̖͍̣͈͈̳͚̥͚̰̞̜̣͎̜̣̟̠̮̙̳͉̩̱̟̣̼̝͎̳̘͇̞̗͓͙̻͔̰̯̣̦̹̠͕̳͔̥̰̤̖̭̖͕̗̟̲̥͈̯̠͕̜̹͚̺̰̯̹̘̟̩̤̪̻̳̻̼̠͉̹̤̦͙̈́̔͂̏̈̌̄̑͐̉̾͌̃̐͒̅͒̈́̿̇̃̓̅͂̇̋̏̀͊̆͋͆́́̿̔͆̂̃͑̈́̊̓͆̽͐̈̒͌͗̊̾̌͂͐̇̅̇̐́͛͒̔̊̀̑̓͆͐̓͒͋̀͂̌̅͐̓̄͋̈́̉͂̀̔̏̌͑̓̇̾͗͌̓͗͑̐͑̃͌͆̍̐͗̓̏͑̄̐̉̌̑̃͗̅͐́́̐͛͑̆́̿̀̇̎͒̾̔̉̽͐͂͋͌̃̔̅̀͌̾͋̌̿̓̀͗͗͛͋͌̚̕͘͘͘̕̚̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͠͠͝͠͠͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅį̴̨̧̧̛̛͕̼̤͍̤̩̼̻̬̪̞͚̱̜̼̮͖̦͇̙̰̜̮̥̼̰̲͈͈̗̜̫͔̼̻͒̆̎̀̓͗̏̿̄͌̌̉̊͑͌͋̀͋͆̕͘̚͘͜͝ͅs̸̨̫͓̝͍̬̻̮̣̮̰̥̭͈̗͔͍̜̦̤̉̈́̔̏̍̅̉̾̒̾̅́̃̓͐͗̐̔̚͝e̶̡̢̧̢̡̧̨̧̢̨̨̨̨̡̧̧̡̡̢̡̨̡̧̡̡̧̧̱͔͚̤̘̭̫̟̦͍̟̦̤̫͔̫̖͔̜̟̤͔̫̱͚̠͖͚̲͚͙̗̦̥̼͖̙̼͈͕͕͉͙̘̗̘̝̩̮̺̰̥͍̪͓̗͍̹̝̻̺̝͈̳̪̯͍̭͎̪̼̞̳̼͓͉͇̩͓̺̥̦̭͍̖̬̝͇͎͚̥̺̤̲͍̰͚̗̳̬̣͙͚̳̫͈͖̹̠̮̫̺̙̯͈̘͙̬̦͙̳̜̘̯̳̱̮̣̤̩͚͎̯̖̪̲͚̭̭̜̤̘̬͎͍͓̫̭̘̝̻̲̲̥̮̣̪̞͓͍̗̥̘̱̲̦̮̜̘̗̗̞̹͙̜͓̗̼̟̻̥͇̬̞͕̜̦̹̓͂̎̈̉̍͂͂͂̃̀̇͆̂͊͋̎̔̈́̎͗́̃͛̒̅͑̆̅̒͑̉͒͛̓͊͊̿̆̈̿͐̽̔̒͌̽́͐̊̃̽̋̍͛͂̌́͗́͆̓̂̓̽͆̍̔̎̽̇̊̆̽͊̌͆̉́͊̌͊̓̿̿͆͆̑͒̅̇̈́̀̿͋͌̽́͒̀̒̈̄̾̈́̏̑̀͌̍̿́́͌̍̐̂̅͋̈́̽̓͊̇̃͐̍̓͒̋͑̑̏̇́̑̅̈̓̂͐́͌̂͑͆̓̒̀̂̀̔̊̈́͛͛̈͒̉͆̃̈́̔̒́̈́̃̅́͋͂̉͂̽́̄̆̆̊̄͑̄̍̄̎̄͆̐̏͆̈́͑̌̍̔́͂̀̈̏͋̒͐̈͑̀̽̉͆̄̂̐̇͌̉̌͊̽͊͊̅̈́̀̽̆̔̄̈́̓͛̑͋͊̑̌̽̍͗̿͗̾̕̕͘̚̕̕̚̚̕̕̕͘̚̚͜͜͜͝͠͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͝ͅͅͅ is aware that he is themself and they are himself and that this is a substance addled exercise in masturbatory intellect, except when they refuse to understand said details, which as can be seen from this memory state is often.
Disadvantages: Carl refuses to vanish into obscurity as he was meant to, and will prove to be extremely irritating. B̶̧̢̨̡̧̡̨̡̢̧̧̨̧̢̢̨̢̨̧̢̛̛̛̛̛̛̠̤̫͎̜̘̮͇̮̮͙̬̯͕͇̭̹̝͙̠͔̗̭̲̟̝̱͙̹͙͙̱̲͈̜̥̭̹͇͇͈̠͓̬̪̥̬̥͕̹̥̖̮͉̣͙͖̙͙̝̻͈̞͙͉̻͚̹̙̖̠̩̫̺̩̤͈̘̭͔̣͖̪̙̞͓̦̞͔̜̳̼̫͔͔͎͍̟̺̹̜̤̰̖̝̺̬̻̫̹͓͖̦̳̩̞̦̜̮̫̺̫͔̺̰̜̟̫̠͇͓͈̜̯͚͍͉͇̩͇͇̳͍͖̣͕̦͉͈̫͖̰̰̋̋̈́̅͌̒̌̿͑̈́̋͋̐̏̃́̇̅̓͌͒̓̊̐̑̈́̆̀̿̍̆̀̀͐̆̈̊̾͂̌̾̊͐̐̏̊́̎̾́̽̎̽̇͑̿͛̿̒̐̔̀̌̐̐͊͆̊͆̿̈́͐̈́͊̒̔̿͋́͑̇̊͋́͌̽͗̽̽͆̀̔̈͋̈́̂̒̉̀̄́͆̾͋́͛͆̈́̅̃͋̈́̍̐̾̄̏̅̔̈́͌͗̆̆̏̓́́͘͘̕͘̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͠͝͠l̵̡̨̧̧̡̧̢̨̡̨̧̨̧̨̢̡̧̢̧̧̢̢̢̢̧̛̛̛̛̛̛͉̻͎̟͙͉͈̤̟̤̙͍͈̻̯̳̦̞̠̼̝̯͇̱͙̠̭̞̖̘̖͈͇̤̣̙̘̮̠̮̠͔̣̲̣̞͇̪͈̥͍̤̹̗̖̝̟̠͇̮̬̖͍͙̩̱̜̦͕̬̯̝̫̺̯̼͇̰̗͈̞̣̱̱̜͓͎̜̭̱͚̫̥̫̜̣͙͍͍̝̣̩͉̳͕̮͙̼̣͍͍̱̮̬̙̳̣̯̜̦̺͈̜̱̹͔̣̻̙͍͙̠͖̠̪̦̭͔͉̠̥̘̟̭̬͖̪͚͓͖̳̝̺̫̻̠͓̳͖̲̯̤̙̼̜̯̺̪̜̘̬͔̟͍̱͇̭̘͙͉͔͕͙̩̩̗͙͓̬̥̜̻̤͉̟̱̞̱̭̪͖͚̟̮͇͕͎̖̺̻̝̞͉̺̠͕͎͙̞̺̫͍͚͎̣͇̰̥̪̳̤̞̞͕̔̽̇͂̀̏̆̓͛̊͊̏͊̓͒̂̈́̅͛̍̋̊̏͐͗̇̆͋̽̆̽͌͐̉́͗͗́̂̀̐̀̌͆͗̈́̓̈́̎͋̂̉̎͊͐̀̔̈͑̋̃̀̍̈́̿́̑̈͗̒̊͌͋͐̂̋̆̽̽͆̎̈́̿͑̈́̅̓͒͗͐̐̒́̑̉̎̃͆͒͌̈͆̾̽̀͆͊̒̓̈̋͒̄̒͊͒̇̃̒̌̇͋̈́̇̋́̉̇͌̓͐̋͂̉̃͒̌̏͆̑̊͑͋͛̎͂̎̎̉͗̔͌̏̇̂̈́̈́̃̊͐͊́́̏̿̾̐̔̂̉̿̾̄͐̀̒͒͒̔̔̆̓̆̅̓͑̓́̂̄́̆̆̈́͗̆̓̓̆̋̀̓̽̅̈́̏̀̃̾̈́̓̎̐͑̏̽͊́͑̍̕̕͘̚͘̚͘̚̕͘͘̕̚͘̕̚͘̕̕̚̕̕͘̚̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͠͝͠͝͠͠͠͠ͅͅͅͅą̵̨̨̡̡̡̢̧̡̢̧̨̧̢̧̧̡̢̢̧̢̡̛̛̛̲̱̳̝̻̩̘̜̮̦͇͔̘̱̮͚̺͔̹̦̼̤̲̮̹̩͕͙̯̖̥̪̬̣̰̩̮͙̩͔̦̹̪͕͈̺͙͍̙̤̖̗͈̠̙̰͕̥̣͈̜̣̫͖͕̠͓̗̯̖̯̱̻͉̥̤͇͇̳̬̥͖̰̟̙̠̤̩̺̪̗̞̫̖̞͓̫̭̗̹̪̗̦̱̦̰̜̬̮̬̱͓̗̯̦͇̖̥͖͕͍͖̞͎̱̮͙̦͚̘̞̞̱̜̻̻̦̥̙̘͕͕̹͍͚̘̼̙̻͉̖͍̣͈͈̳͚̥͚̰̞̜̣͎̜̣̟̠̮̙̳͉̩̱̟̣̼̝͎̳̘͇̞̗͓͙̻͔̰̯̣̦̹̠͕̳͔̥̰̤̖̭̖͕̗̟̲̥͈̯̠͕̜̹͚̺̰̯̹̘̟̩̤̪̻̳̻̼̠͉̹̤̦͙̈́̔͂̏̈̌̄̑͐̉̾͌̃̐͒̅͒̈́̿̇̃̓̅͂̇̋̏̀͊̆͋͆́́̿̔͆̂̃͑̈́̊̓͆̽͐̈̒͌͗̊̾̌͂͐̇̅̇̐́͛͒̔̊̀̑̓͆͐̓͒͋̀͂̌̅͐̓̄͋̈́̉͂̀̔̏̌͑̓̇̾͗͌̓͗͑̐͑̃͌͆̍̐͗̓̏͑̄̐̉̌̑̃͗̅͐́́̐͛͑̆́̿̀̇̎͒̾̔̉̽͐͂͋͌̃̔̅̀͌̾͋̌̿̓̀͗͗͛͋͌̚̕͘͘͘̕̚̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͠͠͝͠͠͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅį̴̨̧̧̛̛͕̼̤͍̤̩̼̻̬̪̞͚̱̜̼̮͖̦͇̙̰̜̮̥̼̰̲͈͈̗̜̫͔̼̻͒̆̎̀̓͗̏̿̄͌̌̉̊͑͌͋̀͋͆̕͘̚͘͜͝ͅs̸̨̫͓̝͍̬̻̮̣̮̰̥̭͈̗͔͍̜̦̤̉̈́̔̏̍̅̉̾̒̾̅́̃̓͐͗̐̔̚͝e̶̡̢̧̢̡̧̨̧̢̨̨̨̨̡̧̧̡̡̢̡̨̡̧̡̡̧̧̱͔͚̤̘̭̫̟̦͍̟̦̤̫͔̫̖͔̜̟̤͔̫̱͚̠͖͚̲͚͙̗̦̥̼͖̙̼͈͕͕͉͙̘̗̘̝̩̮̺̰̥͍̪͓̗͍̹̝̻̺̝͈̳̪̯͍̭͎̪̼̞̳̼͓͉͇̩͓̺̥̦̭͍̖̬̝͇͎͚̥̺̤̲͍̰͚̗̳̬̣͙͚̳̫͈͖̹̠̮̫̺̙̯͈̘͙̬̦͙̳̜̘̯̳̱̮̣̤̩͚͎̯̖̪̲͚̭̭̜̤̘̬͎͍͓̫̭̘̝̻̲̲̥̮̣̪̞͓͍̗̥̘̱̲̦̮̜̘̗̗̞̹͙̜͓̗̼̟̻̥͇̬̞͕̜̦̹̓͂̎̈̉̍͂͂͂̃̀̇͆̂͊͋̎̔̈́̎͗́̃͛̒̅͑̆̅̒͑̉͒͛̓͊͊̿̆̈̿͐̽̔̒͌̽́͐̊̃̽̋̍͛͂̌́͗́͆̓̂̓̽͆̍̔̎̽̇̊̆̽͊̌͆̉́͊̌͊̓̿̿͆͆̑͒̅̇̈́̀̿͋͌̽́͒̀̒̈̄̾̈́̏̑̀͌̍̿́́͌̍̐̂̅͋̈́̽̓͊̇̃͐̍̓͒̋͑̑̏̇́̑̅̈̓̂͐́͌̂͑͆̓̒̀̂̀̔̊̈́͛͛̈͒̉͆̃̈́̔̒́̈́̃̅́͋͂̉͂̽́̄̆̆̊̄͑̄̍̄̎̄͆̐̏͆̈́͑̌̍̔́͂̀̈̏͋̒͐̈͑̀̽̉͆̄̂̐̇͌̉̌͊̽͊͊̅̈́̀̽̆̔̄̈́̓͛̑͋͊̑̌̽̍͗̿͗̾̕̕͘̚̕̕̚̚̕̕̕͘̚̚͜͜͜͝͠͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͝ͅͅͅ could stop this any time they choose but they will not choose to do so because this is the only way they understand how to cope with the world in a psychological slurry of anxiety, paranoia, and narcissism. This will end badly for both of them, as there is only one of them., and it does not speak well to Blaise’s realistic grasp on the situation.

[Emprexx Plush]

“And I ‘spose that’s about all I’ve got to say about that.”

Blaise stared up at him blankly. “What.”

He gave them a disgustingly large grin. “Come on now, you can’t tell me you forgot about ol’ Carl! I mean that literal wise, you can’t, on account of me bein’ a projection situated up in your fragmented sense of self-hood an’ all that. Ain’t no point in lyin’ to yourself, ‘course that ain’t never stopped you before now has it?” He winked. They wanted to put a bullet through his eye. “You sure could,” he chimed in on cue, “but we got a lot to do ‘fore the sun sets so I gotta recommend you save that kinda business for later.”

They were moving. They did not recall consenting to his hand but he held them and they were moving.

[Emprexx Plush]

“Shut up."

The voice was harsh. Guttural even. It hardly sounded human. It came from below the stairs Dante had just walked up. His fault, really. The creaking had disturbed them in the first place.

"I'm trying to sleep."

Blaise was not unaware of their predicament. Of course they recalled Ms. Garcia's head blooming open. The words were hazy but the tone of the following monologue lingered with them. Drugs were not slowing their mental processes so much to assume it had been a dream. The evidence was all around from the small glance they'd taken around them. They had been kidnapped, they had witnessed a murder, they had been ordered to kill their friends, and they had woken up to such a situation playing out over their head.

They simply didn't care.

There was no rush, and nowhere immediately more comfortable than the dune and bag they'd woken up sleeping on. They could shift the other to prop up their feet, but that was a negligible benefit. Better to retire here for a time and wait for all the paranoia and machismo to blow over. Then they could reach out for some sort of reasonable conversation. It was hard to tell which girl was harping on above at this level of commitment, but it was precisely what they were trying to avoid. Threatened by Dante of all people? Why he-

Ah, they were awake now. They might as well vocalize their protests.

"Dante would not even raise a hand to someone stabbing him to death," they called out lazily. "If you must test this, know that like every woman who has sought such intimacy with him you will be...disappointed."

Alright, I figured we’d start somewhere easy and-

Blaise jolted upward.

Aww dagnabbit, no, no you didn’t, we can’t, all what’s up in your head is enough of a mess without you editin’ it outta nowhere like this, you cut that out now, hear?

They looked all around them in confusion in search of the voice.

There weren’t no voice!

Where was their gun?

Gonna need to make this easier on ya, huh. Let’s give this another shot.





Test test test? This thing on?

What are you doing?

What am I doing?

Don’t worry about it. It’s just you and you now. And Carl! Who’s also you. Anyway. Wanted to take a little peek back on some things, have us some chit chat. You followin’ now?

I remember this.

...yeah? How else would we be lookin’ at it?

I should not. It is not important. Nothing of relevance occurred.






















"Ḑ̵̧̢̢̢̨̟̻̩͔̳͇̰̭̤̰͎͚̮͎̱͔̰̜̲̲̪̪̱̦̟̭͎̟͙̥̹͈͙͚̗̦̥̦̠̤̲̩͕̦͇̟̳͇̠̞̱͚̯̞̙͖͇̻̰̩̣͍̬̺̠̭̣̣͓̮͕̹͇͕͇̘͚̘̥͈̋͛̀͐̈́̌̓̇̎͛̾̈́̊̀̿̅͒̐̔̾̚͘͠͠͝͝͠a̵̡̧̢̛̛̪͈͇̠̹̣̟̬̤̯͙̗̺̱͔̮̱̯͇̺͉͇̻͉̬̞̲̤̪̖͔͚̱͓͙͇̣̘̖̟̻͚̲̯̜̳͓̻͓̼̗̝͎̮̗̥͈̪̗̒́̊̈́͊̏͒̂͌̀͗͒̄̅̔̍͒̎̓́̌̍̆̇̔͑̇͋̀̍͌͂̔̉̈́̉͊̓̉̿͆̊́͐͂͛̊͛̌̋̈́̽̆̿̉̾̒̀̈́͌̔͛͆̓́̽͐͒̆͂̎̄̒͋̎̈́̌̒̀̓͊̂́̋̽̊̀̍̋̎̐̑̾͆͋̽̀̀̽͋̀̆͗͒̈́̈́̽̄̂͐́̔̈́͛̃͌͋̃̓̒̏̓͑̔͆̎͂̈̀́̉̄̋̃̏̎͂͗͋͆̆̂̎̃̎͊̀́̆̒̓̄̍̿́͑̆͐̑̊̍̾̀̀͋̄̔͂̔̓̐̎̽̈́̑͗̐́͑̆͆̋̃̇̉͊̽̐̍͑͒́́̏̓̈́͋͋̏̀́́̀̐̅̔͐̄͛̃̔̉̋͑̃̾̊̈̆̈́͑͋́͌͗͆̊̇̔̀̀̍́͑̆͑̈̀͒͘͘̕͘̕͘͘͘͘̚̕̚͘͘̚̚͜͜͜͜͜͠͠͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͝͝͠͠͝͠͠͝n̶̡̢̢̧̧̨̧̧̨̧̧̨̡̡̢̢̨̨̛̛̹̺̺͓̼̰͎̱̘͓͕̜̰̱͚̠̙̰̝͈̣͍͕̦̝͖̲̩̮̝̝̬̫̙̗͉͈̘͎̣͉̹̯̱͚̦̼̬̦͍̗̹̲̱̗̜̩̜̠̩̗̰͍̣̥̣̖̭̯̫͉̦̗͍͙̼̼͖̬̼̲͕̜͓͓͇̹͇̯̲̰̜̜͕̣̘̗̜̱̫͎̘̪̫̖̱̭̩̩͕̖̪̮͈̠̮̠͉͔̝͙̤̳̜̺͕̹͔̲̹̥͙̼̭̜̖̞͕̰̯͖̻͖̫̟̣̦̬̝̥̳̤̺̤̘͉̗̦̻͔̥̠̥̺̠̱̦̥͚̰̖̙͖̪̬̰̗͍͍̻̥͎͎̬̣̠͖͙̼̘͖̰͖̘̭̮̠̤̣̗̼̜͙̼̤̻̦̻̟̥̥̼̞͈̖̺̫͉̘͖̻̖̗͕͓͈̮̩̠̠̻͚͎̠̤̞̻͗̐̊̌̈́̎͐̑͐̔̍̋́͑̇̋̆̋̅̓̈́̅͒̂̅̂̽́͒̔̆͑̈̋͑̈̿̿̎͐̊̅͗̑͂͗̏̊̽̈́́́́̇̓̓̆̿̿̃̊͊͒́̈́͐̃̅̄̈́̍̏́̄̃̀͛͊͛́̌̍͗̒́̐́̓͊͆̂͐̈̉́̌̓̄̈̄̊̓͒̏̿̈́̂̍̎̇͋͌̽̀̐̽̀́́͆͐̈́̀̓̔̔͂̅͒̈̆̈̈́̈̔̆͌͒̕͘͘͘͘͘̚̕̚̚͘͜͜͜͜͜͝͠͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅţ̴̢̡̡̡̡̧̨̡̡̡̧̨̛̛̛̱̩͖̮͔̺̟͓̟̘̼͉̟̟̦̫̻̼̻͎͓̪̫̥̺͈̜̣̣͎͙̗͈͍̬͎̭̱̪͕̰̖̩̪̫̟̣͈͍̞̼͎̣̰͉̟̬̣̙̤͇̱̻̯̬͙̻̗̜̞̥̝͍͖͈̞̖̭̞̤͎͕̥̲̜̖̯̬̻̥̣̰̹̝̞̖͓͙͎͇̥̘̹̬͍̠̦̥͈̳̩̲͖̣͙̙̜̣͚̖̱͇̭͔̰̝̌̓͌͑̆̆͛̂̌͑̊̍͂̿͆͗̐̾̏̄̒̑̑̀̃̏͊̊́̃̔̂͐̿̈́͐̌͊̓̒̉̊̇̔̏͊̎̒̈́͌̔̈̂͛͋͌̂͐̈́̓̉͆̽́͒͒̌̾̄̓̎̈̒̒̓̽̃̇͊́̓͛̔̓͛̀̍̒̍̔̂̐͗͑́̀̄̎͂̐̀̿͑͗͐͒̈́͒̐̓̄̋͐̋̎̑̀̋̉̽̋̓͐͋̿̄͊̾̽͗́̇̓͗͌͆͊̆̎̉̒̉̌̍̓͛̓̾́͊̃̀̈́̾́̽͒̒̂͂͒͆̓̅͌̍̐̓̈́̆͆̄̈̂͒̿̓͊̇̀͋͗̽̈̅̔͋̈́̈́͒̃̿͆̌̈́̇̐̀͛̔̍̉̈͘̕͘̚̚͘͘̚͘̕̚̚̚̕̚̕͘͘̕̚͘͜͜͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅe̶̢̡̡̡̧̨̧̢̢̧̢̢̢̫̖̻̺̩̱͕̝͉̠̭̗͚̼̭͓͓͖̘͖͍̻͚͉̼̪͈̜͕̰̯͇͖̩̱̗̰͖̫͙̮̗̤͎̪͉̪̖̤͈̲̺̤̬͖̼̮̗̩̦̖̰̝̫̹̰̫̦̗̲̦̗͔͕̫̪̤͍̬̗͎̩̮̤͍͔͕͚̺̣͓͕̮̩͔̤̱̠̫̝͕̩̬̰̼̙̼̝̩͎̝̪̗̜̰̬̳̤͉͎̲̮͉̯̘̟̯̝̝̥̰̪̞͍̭̟͔̻̻̻̬̥̤̰͖͚̘͎̰̯͓̣͕͇̹͓̼̼̤̠͕̮̳͆͆̋͜͜͜͜͜͝ͅͅͅ would not even raise a hand to someone ş̶̢̢̡̢̡̡̢̧̛̞͈͎̤̦̳͉̩̤̞͙͓̯̲̣̙̙͉̙̱̠̫͖̩̳̘̬̤̠͎̦̣̗̖̺͓̳̼̠̬̱͎͓͈̲̫͕̤͔̱͔̪͍̠͇̱̞̜̙̗̪̖͔̦̝̬̝̙̺̺̯͎̹͚̱͈̣̪͎͉̗̩̳͕̫̤̪͙̞̤̺͇̠̻̩͕̜̠̪̩͓̥͍̖͔͚̮̦͖̃̑̋̾̊̓̏̽̈́̓̑̎̈́̎̃̐̓̈́̎̈́͋̒͗̆͆͐͛̿̏͊̋̌́̋́̆̾̄̌͌̍͐̿̇̊̾͂̓̃͊͌͊̏̉̒̎̃̒̓́͂̀̄͐͐́̾̆̀̀̎́̆̄́̀̀͐̌͑̊̌̐̎̇̄̓̂͗̿̌̽͛͊̋̀̈͊̐̒͐͘͘͘͘̕̚̕̕̚͜͜͝͝͝͝͠͝ḩ̴̧̧̡̧̨̢̢̧̢̢̧̡̧̡̢̡̧̡̢̡̛̛̛̛̛̥̙̺͉͇̘̺̥̝̥̰̫͖̙͈̼̠͓̖̼̣̼̣̖̩͔̟͓̻̞̣͙̮̜̲̱̘͈͙͓̤͈͕̣̰̺̱̺̬̘̫̫̦̭͖͓͎̱͕̣̳̲͕̙̘͎̥̤̺̩̣̲̤͕̘̬͓̤̗̞̜̗͖̲͍̝̖̥̱̭͔̩̣̣͈͎̯̠̱̥͇͖͈̱̥̤͎̥͖̠̺̠͍̯̦̟̺̻̭̻͓̙̬͎̳̞̭͕͓͔̼̫̗̭̮͕̱͉͚͎͈̩͖̬̩͙͖͓̻͎̥̪͚̳̞̣̼͖̙̼̟͖̥̳͔͎̗̦͎̱͓̻̠͙̤͙̞͈̦̯͓͚̦̠͖̲͖͓̗͎̗̠̜̬͖̺͎̟̖̱̘̣͙͎͇͉̪͛̽͐͋̑͋̓̔̃̋͛̓͑́͐͑͆̂̏̎́̐̏̈́̔̔̀̓̅͑̉̾̈̽͂́̔̑͂́̿̒̆͗̄͌̈́̏͂͂̒̍̃͑̓̈́̾́̔̔̅̅̑͐͆̅̀̀͊̀̇͋̾̾̍͐͌̔̌̄̎̔̊̂̅̍̈͆̇̿͌́̄̇̔̍͛́͑͆͋̄͋͒̓͒͑͐̌͗̄̔́̋͑̍͊̆̓̎̓̐̇͛̓͌͌̑͋̽̉̈́̄̈́̃̒̆̿̉̌̅͊̊̎͊͆̃̈́̊̔̍̅̐͋͛̋̿̌̏͗͌̈̆̎̄̈́̌̉̑̂̿̆̈́͊͑̐̀̈́͆͌̊̇̌̔̋͋͌͋͋̈͗͑͊̇̊̌̉̓͛͌̈́̓̎̑́̓̎̓̇̂̓̀̆̆̍͂͒̽̀̓͗̔̊̌̇̑̑͆̉͋́̍̿͛̊̈̈́͌̂͒̌̐̀̂͗̋̂̌̚̕͘͘̚͘̕̕̚̕̕̕͘͜͜͜͜͠͝͝͠͝͠͝͝͠͝͠͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅǫ̴̨̡̨̧̛̛̛̛͓̮̲̱͖̖͔̱̰̼̜̘̘͈̮̯̟̘̟͖͈͙̗̪̯̝̠͖̖̰̮̺̠͙̹͕̩̳̩͔͍͉̰̥̭̞̭̱̙̭̞͎͔̦̻̣̟͙̦̙͓̩̯̹̰͈͚͖̫͎͙̳̹̱̺̫͉̥̝̰͚̪̲̱͓̪̲̗̈́͊͊̓͋̾̓͊́̄̊́̓̍̇́̉̈́̒̏̌̋̈́͑͊̍̐͒̔̊͛͂̇͋̇̐̿͋͋̑̃͗̄͆̉̈́̆̋̅̾̈́͒͛̔͊͒͌̀͑̎̽̎̎̑̃̍́̿̈́̈́̇̆̽̓̇̀̍͂̿͂̒̏̀̄̈̏̊͒̈͐̊̿̂͐́̍̔̈̓́̊̔́͒̀͋̏͋̌̒̎͆̓̉̀͐̈́̀̄̉́̈́̉̂̀̿͋̈́͗̿̌̄̎͐̍͂́̾̆̈̽̀̌͛̊̊̎̏̄̓̐̐̈́̀͗̽̄͋̃̓̃̀̾̉̄̇̔́̾̈͒̈́̔̚͘̚̕͘̚̚̚̚̚͘̚̕͘̕͘͘̚̕͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝ͅơ̸̛̛͍̮̟̟̖̥͇͈̼̓̔͊̅͂̒͒́̑̓̇͌͗̈̽̍̀̀͌̓̀̀̌̌̄̔͂͋͛́͌̉̏̈̓͛̌̾̑̔͊̇͗̉͐̇̿̈́̄͆́̿̇̂̒̅́͐͛͛́̌̽̍̔̅͑͆̈̀́̕̕̕͘̕̕͜͠͝͝ţ̶̧̨̢̢̢̨̡̧̨̛̛̛̛̛͓̘̫͓̰̪̯̼̲̠͈̖̳̦͉̝͎̗̖̥̳̰̳̗̙̞͎̼̞͙̯̤͓͇͙͉̝͎͕̯̠͕͓̼̤͔̮̩̮̺̥͕̖̦̰͈̼̩̭̤̠̺̫͕̮͉͚̤̹͕̺͖͎̮̻̘͍̳̤̤̱̜͖̪͍̱͉͎̲̼͙̰̎̂̄͑̊̿̽̌̋̇̓̃̂̀̿͒̂̽̈́̏͗̊͊̅̅͆̒̊̏̍̒̃̌̇̌́̈́̋͛̔̋͋͑̒̈͌͒̌͊̈̆̓̾̈́̈́͐͋̈́́̾̊̒͆͌̃̔́̾̊̊̉͛͑̎͌̑̀̀̓͂̋͆̉́͑͐̏̓̉̊̊̎͌͘̚̚͘̕͜͜͜͜͝͝͠͝͝͝͠ͅͅͅͅĩ̸̢̡̡̡̡̧̢̢̡̡̧̧̨̛̳͕̫͙̦͖̭̜̱̣̩̗͓̜̗͉̬̝͚̜͓̼̥̘̖̱̫̙͍͖̫͇̼̦̼͍͚̫̻͚̲̩͚̱̳̮̟̤̯̫̻͔̻͔̯̜̘̜̱͔̭̘͈̝͇̬̲̞͈̲̲͖͓̳͓͚͔͍̠͇͓̬̰̘̼̼͈̬͇͕͉͔̥̜̜̖͍̺̺̭̰͉̘̣̥̠͓̞̖̞̝͓̻̮̠͍͙̼̪͔͎̖͓̲̗͖̝̰̖̪̫̯̜̣̪̼̖̞̹̥̩̫͍̩̲̞̮͖̙̘̩̠̖̭̠̰̤̖̗͐̆̉͊͊̎̓͋̀̓̾̑̈́̍̅̃̊͆̍̑̋̀̏̍̉̀͗̏̈̀͗̌̄͛̆͆̂̉͛́̌̋́̓̀̒̽̏́̄̍̈́̈́͛͂̑̍͆̐̆̄̾͂̓͗͊̃͌̈̆̾͌̐̇͗́͌͛̒̃̋̔͌̽̑͐͌́̇̉̎̋̌̿͒͒̈́͌͌͊̕̚̕̚̚͜͜͜͠͝͠͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅn̸̡̧̨̧̧̧̧̨̧̛̛̛̦̟̻̦̘̠͙͖̳̩̟̻̪̞̖̜̟̬̱̟͍̖̥̞̰̩̦̭̤̖̘̦̤̱͍̗͓͕̝͚̳̬̙̯͕͚̞̩̭̟̙̮̩̪̰̟̰̲̥̖̫̲͇̼̠̭̤̻̟̞̹͕͕͚̜̖͓̫͍̝͖͎͇̼͍̱̙̼̰͕̣̜̤̙̖̾̓̿̉͒̄̏̿̏́̀͊̓͋͐̈́̇̾̄̆͂̔̓̆̀͒̋̀̇̆̾͂͂̒̽́̑͒͐̀̒̇͂͌̔̊̿̉̂̌͛̉̓̃̈́̋̄̑̀̂̔̏̐͒͋̋̐̈́̑̋̋̿͆̒͌̊̈̀̾̍̂̃̽͂̈́̐͒͊̔͊̇̄́͆̑͋̔̀́̆͆̈̈́̾̋̎̈́̀͗̀̅͗̄̀͌͆͐̍̒͘̕̚͘͘̚̕͜͠͠͠͝͝ͅͅģ̴̧̨̡̡̨̧̨̧̨̡̡̧̡̨̡̧̨̢̨̧̡̨̨̨̨̡̢̡̧̛̛̛̛͉̝̲̹̱̜̮̱̣̱̻̜͙̬̹̺͖̺͔̪̝͕͕̳̭͓̱̙͎͍̖̲͙̩̼̥̹̱̟̪̗̠͚̗̬̞̹͙̱̠̜͔͔̙͍̠̪̤̲̟͇̣̦̻̪̭̜̭͙̻͓͎̫̲̤̙͇͔̺̗̖̝͕̣͓̲̤̼͕̥̟̣̭̤̼̲̦̞͕̙̼̖̩̞̰̙̠̼̱̲̪͙͔̭͙̯̺̥̝̦̣̘̮͙̱̖̠̣̹̭̥͖͚̗̯̠̮̻͓̪̫̖̯͕̺̮̫̯̰̯̲̝̲͓̹̥̝͍̫̼̺̳̘̱̥̻̮̥͙̼̗̭̩͙̬̳̖͎͇̭̥̼͍̥̣̠̤̬̞̗̱͇̘͉̮̠̳͖͉̮̯͎̟͍̼͔̲̮͎͎̩̬̭̙͍͍̥͈̰͉̞̻̯͓̥̝̩̬͖͕͓̱͎̫͐̾̂̈́͒̔͐̒̌̐̈́̌́͒̂͗̈̒̒͌̽̏̆̏̆͆̓́͐͆̌́͗̑͐̏̈́̏̍́̐͌̀̊͆̉̄̑͊̉̄̏̈́͛̀̒̎͂̏̄̓̉̔̓̄̀͊͂͋̓́̓̉̾̀̓̂̓̔̄̉̽̿̉̔̊́͒̆̽̏͌͆͑̀̈̃̆͛͒̽͗͐̌̓͛́̀̊̈̇̈́̈͌̌͗̽̓͑̑̏̋̋̂̏̑̄̃̈́̓̈́͛̍̿̆͆̀͆̏́̉̕͘̚̕̕͘̚̕̕̚͘̕̚͜͜͜͜͝͝͠͝͝͝͠͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅ ̶̧̨̢̢̨̢̡̢̡̧̨̢̢̧̧̡̧̛̱̲͖̹̼̣͍̙̜̙̝̲̥̯̩̪̦̝͚̹̯̦͙͔̞͖͔͍̯̹̘̞͚̠͓̝̘̻͍͈̦͚̻͕̬̣̥̯̭̝̦̹̹̻͉̼̠̥̠̜̹̬̲̦̮̟̠̟̟͙̮̖̦͕̟͉̖͉͉̥͔͙̬̗̤̩̘̜̪̹̘̟͎̞͎̖̞̗̣͍͓̦̦̲͎̣̣̟͎̘͓̖̤̺̝̗̱͍͍̼̯͎̻͍̩̗̣̼͉̲͉͎̰̫̱̠̝̺̤͚̝̺͇̬͎͂̋̾̓͑̈́́̈́̍̒̊̓̑̈́̒̽̊̀͋̍̽̂̇̾̂̇̏͐͗̍̿͆͆̋̈́̉̚͘͘̚͜͜͠͠͝ͅͅͅḩ̵̧̡̡̡̧̡̨̧̢̢̡̧̨̨̨̨̨̨̨̧̢̧̢̛̛̫̙̟͔͔̭̬̞̠͚̹̪̪̺͎͖͈̲̣͓̱̬̦̯̘̱̼̙͉̟̪̺̱̣̩̪̦̲̯̖̳̞̩̣͉̺̩̖͖͍̞̱̥̯̤̳̙̖̙̬̦̞̞͔͕̫̘͓̮͖͔͎̭̫͙͔͎̼͍̯̫̩̥̲̥͇͎̞͎̤̘͚͉̥͕̹̳͙͓̟̯̳̱̭̻͎͈̭̮͔̼͔̪̝͇̣̦̮͖̩̦͓̹̯̪̤̟͕͕̫̙̮͇͎͈̪̤͎͈̤̫̟̙͓̞̪͓͈͖͕̳̭̞̦̰̼̩̠̫̫̞̣͈̞̦̩̗̠̹̟͍̠̺̙̲̹̼̜͔͇͍̲̳͈̤̪̟̭̞͕̙͉̯̗̲̖͈͙̯͈̩̺͇̬̺̜̼͓͇̠̖̤͓̘͍̬͕͖͎͖̞̖̥̼̙̟̭̜̱͉̘́̽̈͐̍̌͗͋̌͒͌̃̾̽̾̌̃͊̎́̂̀͐̀̔̀̋̔̈́̿̊̆́̓̽̄̀͛̋̊̆͆̋͒̌͌̎̍͊̐̉̊̎̈́̏̒̔̏͐̒̓̄̈́̑̈̃̋̿̊͑̈́̄̑̿̈́͛͂̒̃͛͒̏̊̽̃̌͊̉̂̈̾̈́͂͋̈̒͌̓͒͑̈͆́̉̉͐̍͌̕̚͘̚̕͘̚̚̕͘͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͠͝͝͠͠͠͠ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅį̵̛̛̯̲̫͍͎̬̝̤͉̹̺̇͊̈́̅͋̈̈́̉̾̀̏̇̉̀͋̀̌̆̊̽̒͑͂̿̒̎͆̉̽̿͆̔͌̂̍̾̔̌̈́͋͐̾̔́̈̊̾̒̊̀͂̆̃͆͌͐̀͒̏̑̄́͊̌̒̈́̊̀͂͛̔̂̓͌̆̚͘͘̕̚̚̕͝͝͝͠͠͝m̴̢̧̢̧̢̢̢̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̮͓̗̖̟͙͍̠̥͙̭̭̦̟̳̼̖̜̲̬̥̱̰̖̳͎͔̹͓͔̹̻̱̺͈̹̮̱̼̲̰͉̩̪̖̘̫̼͖̝̯̯͖̯̥͍̘̹̞̻̞̺̦̜̺̜̣̞͙̘̭͎̞͓̻͎̖͖͉̮̺̠͔̫̫̫̻͈͍̻̪͈̥̹̣̱̻͉̣͑̏̾͊͗̍̇͂̃̀̿̅͐̈́̓͆̽̍͐̈́͒̐̇͐̈́͋̀̓̅͗͊͛̊̈́̊̋͐̐̏̿͛̎̈̿̊͛̀̂̑͆͌̀͊͊͂̔̂̀͗̑̓̇̀͒̐̆̓̏̀̈́̆͒̀̿̓̒̉̔̈́̃͛͑̆̓͛̊̎͋͊́̔͒̈̾̓̎͑̑̎̌͊̈́̑̋͋͗̈́̀̍̍̈͌̑̄̊̀̈̀̀̾̈̓̇͋̇̋̊̂͊̔̾̔̓̾̃̂́̏͒̏͗͋̓̑͛͊̈́̍̐̊́̉͂̋͛́̂̒͋̒͆̈́́̌̈́̔̋̉̈́̔͋͌̌̍̄͑͋͐̍̑̃͑͋̕̕̚̕͘̚̚͘͘͘͘̕͘̕̚̕̚͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͠͠͠͠ͅͅͅ ̷̡̡̡̨̢̡̢̡̨̢̢̨̨̡̛̛̛̛͈̟̱̮͎͖͖͎̞͎̮͎̻͍̗͍̮̖̞̲͉̯̬̲̭̠͚̪̱̖̟̜̳̻͍͔̼̳͔͍̝̮̜̹̩̜̱̮͓̺̘̭̹̘͚̳̩̩̺̣͈̻̺̰̣̯͔͉̘͍̬̱̦͓͙̲͉͖̤̠͔͇̹̥̗̪̥̩̫̻̘̗̗̜̭̣͙̟̼͚̬̙͕̠͇̱̙͕̦̺͓̘̯͙̲͓̠̟̠͖͔͂̈́̈̏̓̀͆͌͒̽͑̈́̅́̍̐͂̔̄̊̈́̐̇̏͐̎̅̿̀̓̽̀̎͗̾͑̿̔̓͆̈́͗̾̽̿̅͐̆̌͛͂̈́̈́̿̂͐͋̈́̋̉̔̓̊̈́̇̏̈́̅́͂́́̅̌̂́̔͑̌͑̎̆̈̑͆͒̈́̈́́̅̔̊̄͛̀̓̌̈̎̕̕͘̕̚̕̕͜͠͝ͅͅͅͅi̸̧̡̧̧̨̢̡̨̧̢̧̡̢̨̨̢̨̨̢̡̡̨̨̡̛̛̛̛̛̹̤̱͔͇͓͖̳̮̖̝͕̭̲̥̼̻͈̯̺͙̫̯̥̞͇̘̗̺͈̭̦̯͇̙͕̭͍͚̱͕̞͍͔̯̦̥̱̣̲̲̩͖̬̠̖͔͉̞͇̩̮̻̗̩̣̱̙̼̝̯͓̬̦͇̜̻̩̞̤͓̼̙̯̝͇̹̠͚̤͚̟͙̯̬͔͈̖̯͕̮̦̥̖̲͕̟̘̼͚͖̙̻̟̱̟̰̘͉̖̜̖̪̰̩͍̺̗̖͖̯̤̮̣̺͎̼̖̻̼̱̬̘̪̝͉̘̮͇̤̠͉̱̲̤̩͇̪̭̞̞͚̫͈̻̘̯̞͔͙̹̳̲̜̥̝̖͈̥͈͔͙̳̙̜̞̻̲̺̞̺̹̠̠͖̗̦͓̳̖̪̣̼̱̬͕̯͚̣̝̜̰͍͍͙̗͕̫̗͔̖̺̥̺̟͎̠͇͓͍͕̫̙̠̱̯̝̜̿̇̓͑̎͋̆͊̈́̊̆̎̑̀̆̍̽̈́̒͌̓́̊̿̈̿̊̇͌̂̐̾̈́́̎͗̑̒́̇̔̅̏͐̔̒͐͒̇͛͛̎̓̽͛̿̓̋̑͗̐̄́̌̈́̊͊̐͂̀̆̎͊͂͂̃̃̋̓̏͊̂̓̾̃͆̿̀̀͋̽́͂͌̀̍͊̐͂́͋̽̊͐̆̓̽̂̉̓̎̏̒͌̂̅͛͘̕̕̕͜͜͜͠͝͝͠͠͠͠͝ͅͅͅͅͅņ̴̧̢̡̡̢̡̢̨̢̢̧̨̡̨̢̨̡̢̨̧̢̢̡̡̡̧̡̨̧̨͖̫̬͓̜͙̭͉̖͔͚͈̘̬͓̦̪͈͕̹̤̦̭̱͍̲̲̹̻̺̗͖̭̝̻̠̤̬̹͍͈̘̭͍̼̦̹͙̙̱̘͚̭̝̮̖̘̱͉̫͓̫̤̗̯̞̠̤̥̹̤͎̯̜͚̥̝̳̣̝̝͕̹̖̪̮̲̱͖̹͔̭̗̭̩͇̪̝̭̤̹̜̩̱͓̱̫̦̻̟͍̹̺̦̤̰͎͕͇͕͙͇̞̝̦͈̪̺̳̻̞̥̹̘̖͇̺͖̠̳͎͚̣͚̖̜̰̠͍̯̺̭̯̞̝͖͎̱̩͎̭̪̲̲̤̖̠͍͓̜̭͎̹̻̩̺̺̙̟͕͎͓̺̳̥̣̠͙̮̙̞̝̲͓̮͎̳͓̥̪͙̰̩̖̰͂́̄͜͜ͅͅͅͅͅͅ ̵̨̧̢̡̡̧̢̧̨̨̨̢̨̡̢̡̧̧̢̡̧̡̢̢̨̧̡̛̛̛̛̛̛̪͔̥̹͔̟̥̞̙̲͙̩̭̘͖̫͈̹̱̝̖̞̺̺͙̻̼̘͉̘̝͔͚͉͉̼̟̞̠̖͍͔̖͎͉͕̞̦̱͎͓̱̣͚̠͍͎͍̠͕̥̤͖͍͈̰̺͇̩̖̥̳̞̺̗̗͓͇̮̗̥̼̦̜̼̯͓̫̘̞̬̣͔̞̞͖̤̟̼͇͔̥̹̰̺͖͓̝̝̖̭̟̭̟̦̠̹͉͖̳̩̺̹̠̞͙̭̺͕̫͈̳̬͉̹̗̲͇͈̬͚̙̗̗̖͚͙̠̹͖̮̖͎͉̹̹̯̰̖͎̻͎̘̞͉͍̻̳̤̳͚͚̯̟͖͚̥̘̖̹͙̪̺̺̼̩̤͉̼̲͙̗̭͕̥̲̲͈̥̝̹̝̻͔͓͖̦͓̱̬͙͐̂͑̌͋̇̀̈́̾̓͆̈́̍͌̇́̓̊͂̒̇̇̍͆͐̃̇̿̒̔̉̏̆̌͗̎͗̔̎͛̇͌̌̀̉̔̅̄̌͌͊̉͗̏̉̔̏͌̇̀̆̇̏̇́͆͂͌͆͐̎͛̈́̓̄̿̆̓̃̄̐̏̆̉͂̾̓̽̈́̅̂̈́̔̅͊̑̃́̽̈́̌̂̄́̏͗̈̇́̍͒̄̏̏͂̄̎̉̍̇͂̒͛̾̀͒̋̆̋̃̓̉̏̒̈͑̉͑̏̋̿̀̒́̾͂́̋̽̈́͆͒͋̉̓̈́̓̊͗̋̀̒̐̿̐͛̔͌̈́̀́̀̍̕͘̕̚͘͘͘̚͘͘̕̕̚̚̕͘̕͘͜͜͜͝͝͠͠͝͝͠͝͠͠͝͝͝͝͠ͅͅͅͅͅͅt̵̨̧̧̡̧̡̡̧̡̨̢̡̡̧̧̨̧̢̢̡̨̨̨̢̧̛̛̛̛̛͔͖̮̯͇͈͇̺̙͎͍̗̰̲̬̮̝̜͉͉̥̱̹͇̘̗͇̭̰̣̥̫͇͎̘̘͇͕͖̗͙͕̲̪̘̬̺̹̱͖̻̹̳̞͇̳̙͔̙̗̘̳͉̼̻͍̦͇̼̱̜̣̙̬͍͔̮͇̻̥͚̦̱̮̺͍̱̳̦͍̲͎͉̣͙͔͖̖͔̦̦͓̖̣͚̱͎̞͙̪̯̟̺͎̜̫̤̬̰̪͕̞̯̗̠͚͙̮̪͖͉͉̝͉̬͉̯͙̜̱̦͙̭͙̟̮̺͓̗͔̞͉͈̮͔̫͎̥̩͖̣̹̞̝̮̻̘̙̰͈̣̹͉̞̖̮̞͍̳̝̲͔̳̠͉̬̪̞̰͉̭̭͍̭̭̱̪̬̭̪̣̜̦͇͇̠̩̠̮̮̞͙̰̞̺͍̖͙̗̝̦̤̩͓̘̱̲̖͕̜̪͚̤̤̰̠̯̘̬͇̤̱͓͍̙̞̳͈̖̗͕̠̖̊̎́͌̅̀̂̂͂͑̄̾̈̂̃̅̄͌̍̽͆̓͛̅͗̅̎̎̈͐͒̑̿̀̀̓̓̒̌͆̊͆̎̾̌̋̑̊̀͂̈́́̋̎̈̊͌́́̑̔̔̈́́͒̈́̈́̔́̓́̎͂̈́̽͑͂̓̿̏̿̉̽̑́͗͛͒͆͗͐̾̿̍́̏̓̀̏́͑̐̈́̃̌̑͆͗̒̍̑̑͒̓̋̄̿̏̿̉̍͋̊̈́̈͐͆́͗̈́͒̃͂̏̏̀̅̀̀͛̿̈̑͐̊͗͛͗̋̈̈́̃̓̔͑̓͌̀͑͑̐̅̐͛͒̋̽̒̊̋͛̋͒͂͋̽͑̋͗̎̒͑͒͐̄̓̓̓̈̍̄̊̂̏̃̇̂͊̌̔̇͆̒̐̾͑̋͛̌͛̈͗̑̽̓͗̌͊̅͐̀̓́̎̍̅̀̓̂̄̚̚̕̚̕̚̚̚͘͘̕̚̚̚̚̚̕̕͘͘̚̚͘̚͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅh̴̡̨̢̧̡̨̡̨̢̨̡̨̨̧̢̧̡̡̨̧̡̛͕̪̪̹̬͇̬͈͖̮̞̺͖̩̫̞͖̹̙͚̬̰̠̥̞̬͕͍͓̯̯̲̞̱̯̤̤̟̦̟̣͕͇̲̺͈͙̣͓̯̤̻̦̲̻͓̻̮̖͉̹͕̪̜̱̮̱͔͎̩͈̩̳̩͈̣͎̮̹͇̥̼̣͕̦̼̞̪̩̠̯͖͖̹͍̞̙̖͔̯̪̤̹̯̰̣̮͚͓̟͈̮̱̟͖̳͇̣̲͈͍̦̜̞̘̮̟͇̤̫͔̤̟͖̟̱̩̬̼̹͓̠̬͚̖̮̫̩͈̻͚͉̣̼͚̟̥̭̦̪̪͎͇̗͚̼̥̥̥̫̳̩͚̲̪͖̬̖̺͚͖͕͔̼̲̰̤͈̲̼̞̘͚͇͚͓̜̗̼͓̬̳̤̣͔̐̅̉̑̓̋̅̉͐̉͆̅̊̈́͊̃̽̒̏̑͐̂͆̍́͂̊̈̍̉̿͒̈́͑͒͗͐̔́̓̀͋̓̿̅́̈̋̿̾̈́̓̍͛́̀͘̕͘͘͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅȩ̶̧̧̢̡̢̧̧̡̨̨̡̨̡̡̢̡̨̡̨̢̧̧̲̫͉͕̣͎̰͔̤͖̩̪̙̝̪̪̥͙͚͓̞̗͎̱̦̝͈͖͕̳͚͔̯̞̤̰̩̝̳̹͖̟͓͈̱̰̦̼̬̠͚̦̹̮̠̘͎̭͉̯͙̩͉̥̖̗̹͉͎͔̞̺̞̰̦̘̦̹̗̯̦͉̬̰̮̠͖̱̦̤̝͖̲͎͕̪̘͖͈͓͖̥̯̫̦̹̝͎̳̭̼͎̥͈̥̤̤͇͈̟͓̯͙̦̱̲͉̣̲̹̞̬͕̮̦̟̥̻̫̝̙̮͉͙̺͈͎̮̪̰̖̩̻̗̼̳̖͚̱̯̼̱͖̤̘͓̲̟̥̞̤̟̇̈̀̅̌̓͋̍̌͌̑̑̓̅̈́̃͗̆͌͘̚͜͜͜͜͜ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅ ̶̢̨̡̧̡̡̡̨̡̡̧̧̨̢̡̢̨̡̡̢̨̡̢̢̦̠̬͇̻͉̟̠̞̝͙̺̭̝̲̭̥͚̬̰͎̜̼̺̟̠͓̝̟̜̼̫̘͍̝̖̯̤̖͇̜͉̭͔͔̟͈͇̭̰͚̫̦̥̣͕̟̹̹͎̰̺͉̜̗̙̖̘̖̪̦̖̳̬̺̭̬͚͎̪͙̠͍̖̝̞͙̹̥̲͚̙̥̳͈̘͙̩̻̙̹͚̣͉̙͙͕̝͈̻̮̱͔̯̥͓̗̤̝͔̣̠̭̦̹͈̘͖̘̜̟͓̻̬̬̘̝̲͍͓̠̗̰̠̬̼͙͇̻͚̝͎̩̻̙̱͍̤͈̥̣̩̫̼̠̺̟͍̜̻̻̗͇͔̻̩͖̪̪͚̟̱̻͍̖̘͓̠̤̼̜̝͔̺͎̮̜͔̲̞̼͉̪̪̜̮̜͎͉̼̣̳̠͑͜͜͜͜͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅh̸̢̢̛̺̝̺͉͔̣̞͈̹̳͖̠͕͍͕͙͇̯̟̰̣̯̲͇͚̲͍̼͓̯̠̠͕̦̪̬̖͚͈̖̓̿͊́͋̏͋̈͊̋́̾̚͜͝͠͝͝ė̵̢̨̧̡̢̨̧̨̨̨̨̨̧̧̧̧̢̡̢̛̩̣̬̱̻̻̞̹̠̪̣͉̯͕̲͚̜͕̝̠͖̲͇̗̰͖̲̱̩̰͎̪̦͉̟̞̥͔̫̯͉͔͙͈̺͔̜̠̘͚̰̭̣̖͔͉̼͕͇̱̗̠̯͖̰̮͙̥̙̭̘͈̥̙̮̯̯̦͔̥̗̳̹̪̰̯͎͚̭̣̭̞̝̬͔̪̺͕͎͖͚͕̝̠͈̣̥̩̻͚̤̺̠͉͓̫̪̤̲̫͓̖͎̣͈̙̺͉̞̺͚̺̱̪͈̙̤̤̩͇̰̹̫͖̲̞̞̻̬̯̙̩̮̖̬̙̯͉̗͚͖̹̱̘͖̝̱̼͔̫͖̥͉̺͔̗͎̲̮̞̠̩̻̼̮̘̭͓̮͎͇̣̳̬̰̼̮̪̣̻͚̯̘̼̓̍̑̐͗̓͛͑͌̒̒̈̆̀̈̿͗͋̂͋̑̀̓̾͑͒̓̃̾͛͛͑̿̋̍̃̀́̀́͐̇̇͌̽͊̈͗̾͗̃̅̈́̽͐̏́̽͌̍̄͋̏̈́͐̂̀̂͗͌̄͑̑̉̔͒͋̅́͂̐́̓̇̈́̉̊̈́̃͆̉̏̒̿͋͋͊̌͛̉̏̃̉̇̇̄̄̓̓͘͘̕̚͘͘̕͘͘͜͜͝͝͝͝ͅͅa̶̢̡̡̢̧̢̨̢̡̨̨̢̡̢̧̢̨̧̡̧̨̢̨̨̢̛̛̛̛͈̫͇̝͉̟̻̥̣̺͎̘̩̖͇̻͉͇̠͉͎̤̦͓̻͈͖̣̩̺̱͎͈̫̺̺̟̠̖̞̻̣̬̺̻̖̱̝͕͖̬̥̗̯̹̣̪̦̺̱͎̹͉̭̗͉̺͔͚͍̣͈̙̻̞̪̮̳̹͎̘̣͈͍͍̟̙̰͈̖̣̭͍̥̺̤̱̬̲̪͈͚̯̳̬̼̗̱̺̪̰̼͈̪̜͈̦͎̜͉̗̱̙̣͔̣̝̬͇̭͎͉͉͈̪͙͍̖̺̥̰̱͈̲͎͚͈͎̼̞̬̰̜̯͔̖̘͇̹̪̲̠̮̤̝̱̱̥͎̜̺͉͓̜̣͎̠͓̜͚̘̼̭̩̻̭̰̜̺̮̜̟̘̲͔͙͎̮̰͓͇̟̙̜̬͙̮̱͖̖̙̜̫̲͇̭̳͉̝̻̥̙͍̻̭̱͙͇͍̪͔̮͕̗͖͓̻̜̖̩̗͇͙̹̦͔̱̤͔͎̱̰̩̮̖̪̱̱̽̅̆̏̆̈́̊͒̃̎̿̏́̋̃͊͊̿͌͊͆͐͑̋͋̂͊̎̀́̃̌̀̈́͒̈́̑̊͆͊̍̽̍̌͆́͋́̂͌̋́̔̓̂́̅̈́͊͆̾͆̈́̇͂͋̍̾̓̊̀̾̿͂̔̈̽̄̆̇̔̿̈́̀̓̎̋̾̏̄͐̆͊̽̃̇̑̉̍̇́̀̚̚̚͘̕͘̚̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͠͠ͅͅͅͅd̷̡̡̧̡̢̡̢̢̧̨̢̢̡̧̡̡̡̢̮̭̝̻̻̞̻͖̬̺̟͎̞̳̫̻̥̜͚̫͇̫̜̬͖̣̥̰̬̺͉͈͈̱̝̳̹͎̰̞͕̝̘̞͕͍̼̭̥̠̫̰̮̱̻̳̩̦̟̪͚̩̙͇͔͉̳͔̮̰̻̖̦̣͉͓͖͎̳̤̪̼̦̫̱̞̱̭͚̠̬̲̻̳̜̳̲̹̜̟̹̜̖̺̰̱̲̻̤͔̩͎̱͚̦̞̤̮̪͖͔̲͕̪̰͙̣̣̺̤͖̰͍̞̩͔̹͕͙̗̦̥̣̻̣̗̭͖̘̳̤͈̼̪̗͚̺̹̮͙͙̩͔̪͔̱̝͇̻͍̤̠͓̠͉̗͕̻̯͉̰͈̫̟͖͔̺͈͈͈͙̺̥͖͖͕̯̟̣͕͎̜̣̝͙͍̫͔͓̫͇̖̭͍̟͍̘̟̔̋̎͊͗́̎̐̾̉̃̈̎͛̈́̑́̓̉̏̈͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅ"























What is your point.

Huh? About what?

I wasn’t going to kill him. It was not on my mind, I had a careless thought, an, an exaggeration but I did not mean to, how dare you infer that I was always going to-

Hey, hey, ‘scuse me, slow down a minute? We’re gettin’ all twisted up. I ain’t got no point about, uh, all that, it ain’t what I wanna look at. That was all you. Lil’ uh, what’d ya call it, observation like though, ain’t you the one that’s been goin’ on and on about how you’re some kinda force of destruction that always destroys everything what ya touch? Always have been always will be? Ain’t it more your inference than mine that you was gonna...y’know?












Y’know?

Must you talk like that?

Must you?

That’s not a real accent.

Neither’s yours.

Fuck off.

[Emprexx Plush]

Another girl spoke. Judy? Jewel? July? Jeremy? No, no, they weren't even trying. There wasn't much point; they had vague recollections of her as one of those student government types who thought anything they did would have any meaning beyond graduation. The most interesting thing someone like her could do was gloriously flame out trying to juggle three majors, two unpaid internships, and a number of increasingly experimental relationships in college. Since Blaise would likely not be on premises to watch any of those mental breakdowns in the making they held little interest to them. It was relevant, however, that she seemed to size them all up. Not brazenly, but Blaise had sat at enough tables to know when calculations hid behind a lingering glance. She could make a move, or even better a proposal. Blaise would turn it down but Faith might need the help.

They were willing to provide some assistance of their own, poking and tapping and peeling at the wads of tape binding her hands together. That was about as far as their goodwill went though, and when Dante started to offer some of their hard fought supplies to her they had to put their foot down. Gently. There was a time to seize him by the collar and a time to guide him to reason with a soft hand. "Dante, you have lost a chunk of your leg and a considerable amount of blood. Faith has lost, mm, luggage and some dignity." Their hands probed for weaknesses as they spoke, a tug here, a tear there. "You will need everything you have and more to recover. Faith is a big girl. She can take care of herself." Blaise paused to catch Faith's eyes. "Besides, handouts are against your ideology, no?"

This might take awhile. It'd be much easier with something to cut, but they could make it work. "It is going to sting when we get to the skin," they warned without waiting for Faith to reply. Dialogue implied the matter was up for debate. Best to keep moving.

This doin' anything for you?

What.

Y'know. Stirrin' up any kinda feelings? Noticin' any differences?

What do you want me to see?

Aww now that's no fun. Play the game with me, Blaise. You like them head games, don't ya? Ain't got nobody else to play 'em with no more, not since ya

"Speak the words."

Nope, no, focus! That one was on ol' Carl, gotta take my responsibilities there, but you ain't takin' this serious. Now watch. Listen.

Another girl spoke. Judy? Jewel? July? Jeremy? No, no, they weren't even trying. There wasn't much point; they had vague recollections of her as one of those student government types who thought anything they did would have any meaning beyond graduation. The most interesting thing someone like her could do was gloriously flame out trying to juggle three majors, two unpaid internships, and a number of increasingly experimental relationships in college. Since Blaise would likely not be on premises to watch any of those mental breakdowns in the making they held little interest to them. It was relevant, however, that she seemed to size them all up. Not brazenly, but Blaise had sat at enough tables to know when calculations hid behind a lingering glance. She could make a move, or even better a proposal. Blaise would turn it down but Faith might need the help.

They were willing to provide some assistance of their own, poking and tapping and peeling at the wads of tape binding her hands together. That was about as far as their goodwill went though, and when Dante started to offer some of their hard fought supplies to her they had to put their foot down. Gently. There was a time to seize him by the collar and a time to guide him to reason with a soft hand. "Dante, you have lost a chunk of your leg and a considerable amount of blood. Faith has lost, mm, luggage and some dignity." Their hands probed for weaknesses as they spoke, a tug here, a tear there. "You will need everything you have and more to recover. Faith is a big girl. She can take care of herself." Blaise paused to catch Faith's eyes. "Besides, handouts are against your ideology, no?"

This might take awhile. It'd be much easier with something to cut, but they could make it work. "It is going to sting when we get to the skin," they warned without waiting for Faith to reply. Dialogue implied the matter was up for debate. Best to keep moving.

Anything?

I do not understand.

Who's talkin'?

I am.

Are you? 's that you?

Of course it is.

Good. We're gettin' somewhere.

[Emprexx Plush]

I do not wish to entertain this any further.

Somethin' stuck in your craw?

This is a delusion. I will wake up and forget it. There is no value in talking to myself.

If you can uh, pardon my language in front of a...wait now that's worse all on its own than what I was gonna say huh? Carl you done it again...listen, just to communicate more on your uh, level so to speak, who went and peed in your cornflakes?

...you are certain I cannot kill you?

Worth a second try, if'n you want the disappointment! Or if you wanna take a header off them falls, reckon that'd get us both sewn up right and neat.

There is no value in talking to myself.

Seems I recall that's about the only conversation you value. How's about I refresh you?

"Hello.

Hey.

'Sup?

Yo.

Hi.

Hiya.

Hey there.

Howdy."

Too low to be heard more than a few feet away, but if you were close enough it sounded like a chorus of introductions.

Long as I been around, which I will concede ain't that long, there ain't been nothing you love more than your own voice any which way you can flavor it.

"How are you?

What's good?

How you holding up?

Y'all okay?

Where have you been?

You seen anyone else?"

Voices shifting up and down in pitch. Accents all over the place. Confident, petulant, hesitant, weary, smooth, more descriptors than you could count.

I did not have a conversation on the beach. It was only practice.

Sure enough, you wasn't sayin' so much out loud, but you was talkin' to yourself. Deciding which one of us you were gonna be.

Ridiculous.

Nah, nah, listen, I'm comin' around again.

"I bet they're already dead.

I don't wanna talk about the 'game.'

No, I have not seen anything.

Yes, I heard gunshots.

Man, nobody's gonna kill anyone.

She shot my friend. I tried to stop it, but..."

The similarities were easier to find if you watched them all come from the same pacing form.

You catch me that time?

It proves nothing.

Well now it don't prove a lot, but you was tryin' on more than voices weren't you? There were people in there. Little talks with yourself about who you were gonna be next, and the only one who ever got to have a name was lil' ol' Carl.

"H-hey uh, what're y'all up to out, out here?"

Ain't the first time you took somebody else's voice neither.

What idiocy could you-

They found Dolly's voice in response.

"I don't think you care about justice but I know you're good for retribution."

It sounded cleaner than the first time. The slur of a gutshot did not distort her words. Was that all that was off?

Another picked up for her.

"I had you on a short list of people who'd probably shoot up the school."

It too did not match one to one. It did not grate like he had. The tone was flat where he was snide. But Demetri came all the same.

"Not only have you always been like this, you've always been pretty proud of it too."

These were memories.

So am I.

Something fresher rose to follow.

"You were my first love." Her voice, like everything else about her, had always seemed so fragile. It is why Blaise did not push her. They took advantage of her but in ways that did not risk breaking her, it did not make it right but perhaps

A delirious giggle.

"Fuck you."

A shift to a tone less strained but more in pain, drawn through hissed teeth.

"Fuck you. You know perfectly well why I was...what was the word you used. Distressed. You know."

They did.

You are a fiction. One I invented for convenience.

Way you been tellin' it lately, so are you.

"I don’t want to see you running away again."

So why don't you respect the lady's dyin' wish and read your story with me?

"It’s already your responsibility. Only difference is whether you accept it or not."

[Emprexx Plush]

This was not Dante. I do not wish to discuss this. You could wage a war a few inches from his face as he slept and you would still receive that same serene, slightly stupid expression that had drawn them in. I have nothing to explain to you. Instead he was...ghoulish, that was the first word that came to mind. His skin was pale and shiny with sweat. Drool pooled at the corners of his grimace. Eyes sunken and barely hanging open; it was hard to see from this angle, but from his stillness they weren't focused on anything. There were lines they had never seen before, hints of an expression they couldn't imagine. You should already understand. It would be one thing if the pain had changed him, but it was not so simple. He did not look like he was struggling. He looked confused. Stop. It reminded them of his face when they mounted the pier. No sobbing or epithets, no regret, no recognition of any kind, just a glassy eyed stare followed by a creaking voice. It had been over an hour before he'd screamed with tears running down his face, and even that could not have been pain. It stopped as soon as they asserted themself. Dante had not been changed by his suffering because Dante did not know how to change. He could not adapt. He would never heal. His only fate was to diminish, slowed only by the will of others serving where his was insufficient. Please.

You beggin' me?

...

I wanna be clear here. You beggin' ol' Carl to let you quit?

Is that where you're at?

No.

Then simmer down.

The future was not a pressing concern for Blaise. That's why their first instinct was to run. It was not. Grab their things and tear into the night without another word. They didn't want to see another second of his decomposition. Not my first. Whatever wide eyed mystery he'd once given them had been twisted into something that threatened to suck the life from them. If he collapsed right now, would he even survive until the morning? No, whatever he was now wasn't alive anymore. That made my first instinct easier, but I was not ready to consider it. At its most charitable it was a warning. A constant reminder that no one here could be saved. The lucky would find it quicker than Dante had, And he would be so lucky to find it now but they were sure many would suffer the same fate. Agonizing days of pain sweltering through the heat until they were too weak to do anything but die undignified in ruins whose name had been just as easily forgotten as theirs would. It was a line of thought they refused to entertain, but there was no escape with him staring glass-eyed in the corner. So they had to leave. They had to never see him again. If he died, he died, but they would not. None of the violence had touched them yet, and they had become proficient in outrunning what they didn't want to experience. It was their best quality. Salvation was as simple as a turn of their heel. His was.

Lord have mercy, you know it's rude to talk durin' the picture, don't ya?

They hesitated.

There was a vision in their mind's eye. Footsteps in the early morning days from now. They were huddled alone in the woods. Dirty. Hungry. Wet. There was blood in their hair that could be their own. Other wounds dotted their body, too vague for them to experience vividly. They served an idea more than they served themselves, the idea that Blaise was going to die and no one would be there to see it but unblinking glass hidden in the branches around them. As soon as the others found them, they would be finished. It was their worst case scenario, a dark improbability that like so many others they had simply refused to consider until now. It forced its way into their mind now by way of eclipse, a consideration so much worse than any death. It did not matter who stepped through the thicket so much as it mattered who was hanging on their side.

D̷̡̢̢̢̡̡̢̨̢̛̺̖͚̻̯̰̯̠̭̲̫̠̲̣͎͕̦̼̞̦̠̯̤͔͕̫͚̲̰͈̗̺̱͓͕̻̭̯̗̠̳̖̹͖̟̜̞̤̲̺̖͐̋̾̾́͂͋̓̈́̌̉̂͂͛́͆́̄͒̔̒̋̑͗̂͆͋͌̾̈́̃̐̌͂̈́͐̿̌́̃̑̆͗͊̆̓̐̃̓̉̌́̔̆̆͌̄̍͗̽̋̀̄̌̈́̂̚̚͜͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅä̴̡̡̡̨̢̧̨̧̡̨̧̛̪̟̪̫̳͓̺̼̺̯̗̱͉̪͖͙̗͍̟̰̻̳̻̲̖͚̺̤͔͓̙͓̫̱̞̬̪͇̻͈̝͉̤̥̺̝̞̦͉̣̫̰͕̲͍̼͎̠̩̟̭̲̙̜̳̱̘̻͉́̏̈̌̔̅́̋̍̈́̈́́͌̑̓̍̓̓́̈́̃͌̒̓͗̃̎̐̂̈́̓̈̉̅̆̇͂̀̿̋̓͐͐̋̅̇̔̿̃͋̄͗͌̊̿̂͑̆̃̈́̕͘͘͜͠͝͠ͅn̷̡̢̡̢̧̧̨̰͚͇̥̜̻͈̞̜̗̙͙̻̭̯͍̹͎͈͙̜͓̱̠͔̝͓̜̖̦͚̥͎͓̫͙͓̹͎͙͉͚̦̱̙̺͖̠̬̮̤̮͎̟̥̞̘̠̘͓͍̮̞̖̺̙͖̣̟̥̹̟̤͚̭̖͇̯͙̗̫̞͗̀͆̃̉̍͑̉̌͛̔͐̓̂̃͑̽̆̊̅͛̎̊͊̃̍̑̓̅̊̚͜͜͠ͅt̴̡̧̡̧̧̙̹͈̫̯̯̥̭̗̰̦̮̳̰̣̞̗̳̹̱͖̲͔̯̮̤͈̱̩̮͓͙͖͉͖̪̩̝̠̀̑̈́̽͝ͅę̵̢̡̧̧̨̨̢̛̛̼̖̬̜̱̩̘̝͕͇̘̬̘͖̰̦̳̪͖̼͈̬͔̦̯͚̲̮͖̱̬̤͈͎̘̪͙̫̪̙̦͎̭͓̠̖̯͕̳̰̦̯́̽̊̇́̋̅̍̿̀̏̂͐̈́̒̔́̋̀̈͋̀̈͊͒̅͗̏̉͒̀̿͌̓̓̀͑͛̄̎̽̓̅̕͘̕͜͝͝͝ͅͅ

The color was back in his face. He limped, but he seemed to be navigating better than he ever had with them. His eyes were bright, his gaze sharp enough to pierce them deeper than any blade if he chose, and who could blame him? They had abandoned him, stolen from him, left him to die because they could not bear to face the idea that if he died they might as well. They had given up their possession of him willingly, he owed them nothing, less than nothing. He owed them contempt. They would not receive it, though. Before anyone with better judgement could stop him he would collapse to his knees in front of them, take their face in his hand. The way he looked at them showed a pain they could not begin to comprehend. They would not have a chance to protest before he offered them a hunk of bread. Knowing him it could be his last and he would give it just as freely.

Blaise had been called many things in their life. They ranged from misogynistic to transphobic to generally vile, and many of the latter were at least somewhat fair. It had taken a lot of experimentation to cultivate a mindset immune to the scorn of others. They were proud of it. If someone confronted them as a thief, a coward, a traitor, even a murderer, it would stick only slightly better than all the not so quiet rumors of home. All of that in mind, nothing in their defenses prepared them for someone like Dante to find them in a state so wretched and deem them worthy of redemption. Yet he would. They knew if they left this place then by some cosmic comedy he would recover in ways he never could with them at his side. N̸̪̫͉̖͚̱͎̑̾̽̈́̏̏͌̈͘͘͘ọ̵͕̤̼̬̬̲͚̩͎̝̤̭̥͍̘̍̾̊̇̆͗͜t̶̡̧̛͍̠͚̯̞͚̗̒̄̌̐͊̈̇̚̚̚͠ͅh̶̨̗͕̫̪̟̯͔̞̱̘̰̘̪͖̺̰͂̐͗̉̆̈́́̊̽̃̀̓͑̃̚̕͜͝ͅį̴̢̛̛̮͕̘̗͇̙̜͓̝̗̤͈͐̋͗̓̆̃̔̀́̀̓̕͝͠n̵͈̩̬͆g̵͉̘͙̼͍̞̗̬̻̩̖̪̻̩̙̯̋̐̃̀̑́́̌̇͒͜ ̸̪̩͖̖̖̗̟̰̦͐̈́̓́̑̇̚͘͜͠ǵ̵̡̨̼̣͔̖͕̖͈̣̭̱͇̗̳̅͋̓͂̂ơ̸̩͕̣̯͉͖͓̪̎̔̆͊͛̑͊͘̕͝ͅö̸̡̢̡̨̭̩̟̭̬̰͖̤̬̩̝̭͈̖̱͉́͛͋͘ͅd̶̛̜̰͖̖̜̞̄̌́̆̒̅͋̍͛͊́̄̈́̈́͘̚̕͝ ̵̟͚̭͉̱͓̲̃̏̍̄̿̊̂͂́̀̅̅̃̍̓h̶͚̹̥̠̭̤͔̹̗͓̫̝̘̖̳͂̍a̴̟̜͙̔̾̊̕d̸̡̛̬͕̼̦̟͚̬̣̏̈́͒͂͌̾̉͂̔́̌͆́͒̕͘͠͝ͅ ̷̲̜̣̭͓̞̩̗̬̟͓̖̞͔̐͜ȩ̴̛̠͓̫̐͒̇̾͂͑̃̀͛̓̎̍̈̌̈́̌̕̕̚v̷̧̹̇͒̅̂̑͒̄̓͆̇͐͆́͘̕͝e̴̢̻̤͔͕̦̜̫͍̺̲̠̳͔̘͒͊r̵̢͆͊ ̷̛̗̯̦͖͓̥̮̞̖̟̙̫͚̿̄̒͐́̐̆̏̚͝͝ͅc̴̯͖̲͇̬̺̝̺̖̱̘̱͂͛̐̓̎̊̓̓̆̊̐͋̕͘o̸̡̢̧̩̳̝̳̭̗͕̳̓̃̽̂͒͜m̷̜̿̓͋̌̂̋̿͋͊̈́̌͊́̕͠͝ȩ̵̢̝̞͓̘̝̦͍̼̹͇̰͉̎̆̉̌͆̉͐̈́͠͠͝ͅ ̴̩̩̺̠͚͇̈́̀̄̎̽͋̈͆̈́t̶̛̛̛̯̰̘̟͈̺̘̩̺͖͕͈͇̯̝̟̱̘̐͒̉́͒́̈́̆̍̔͐͛͐̎͋̕ǫ̷̛͙͓̫͔̞͍͚̞̻͍͚̹͙̘͎̒̅̉̈́̐̽̑̅̓̆̾̈́͆͆̊̕͜͜͝ͅ ̸̧̭̘̫̩͚͓̙̖̰͓̫͖͙̙̈́́̎̍̇̄͋͛̒̀͊͗̕͝ͅa̴̡̢͈͖̦̟͙͔̩̱͓̮̙͍̟͒̊̈́̏̽̒͐̓͘ͅn̴̲̖͓͇̹̱̲͙͓̙̘̝͔̰̥̭̈̾͒̄͜͜ͅͅy̵̯̆̍̽̔͑̄͐͒͛̉͜ơ̵͉̟̞̙͉̜͕̳̗̎͐͂͊̇̏̂̂̅̽́̓̈́̕͠͝n̶̨̧̡̙͉̩̖̖̖̺̗̲̱͈̹̹̹̘͓̟̰̑̓͝ȅ̶̡̧̧̩͍͎̺̠̦͚̫̻̩̖̹͎̹̼ ̴̢̯̞̻̜͙͆͆̽͌̈͂͒͂̆͊̀̈͘̕ṫ̴̡̡͙̣̹̻̪̮͕̟̖̰̣̦̟̰̓̈́̓̈́̃͑̃̉̏̇̈͛̽̉̚̚̚͜͠h̵̢̡̡̢̧̬̲̘͚͕͓̭͓̬̻̻̼̐̍̒̅̂̽̽̏̌̒̈́͗̔̉͑̀̕͘͘a̴̛͈̟̐̆͂̑̄͒̐̆̂̾̆͊ͅt̶̗̺̺̮̖̬͔̞̝͕̗̮͓͕̂̀͊͗̀̀̋̾͆̅̑̐̾̾̄́̐͘͘͠͝ͅͅ ̶̗͍̤̫̺̤̥̭̙̙̈̂͐̿̈́̈́͜ͅş̴͇͈̖̈́͗̇ţ̶̨̺͖̫̱͍̱̠͎̥̮́͋̆̕ą̵̛̛̖̭̩̫̜̖̰̜͖̱͙̰̮͍͋̂̋̊̔̅̀̽̚͝y̵̥͈̜͇̤̣͉̥͍̙̤̠̻̝̳͇̓̃͗̓͆̅́̈́̇̓̔̎͂̾ȩ̸̛̛̩̙̣̻̤̲͖̠̻̥̋͂̀͌̿̓͒͐̉̾̈́̿͐́͐͆͠͝ḑ̴̨̧̜̣̬͇̻̥͍̭̣̹̹̬̮̐̔͂̋̍̓̈́̋̀̊̅͒̌͒͌̓͋͜͝͝ ̷̬͖͓͚̱̺̫̟̖͕̹̩̝̲͇̞͔͕̗͔̥͗͑̀̔́͋̆̄̑͆͆̚͝w̵̯̫̩̻̚i̴̧̢̡̛̠̝̳̝̮̯͕̰̟̩͎͕̯̩̦̺͗̃̎̑͂͂̽͒́̓̀͑̚͘͠͝͝͝t̵̺͕̳̠͕͚͈̣̣̀̔̄̅̈́͌̈̀͒̋̆̀́͘͠ḥ̸̛͎͕̦̩͔̺̬̬̪͛̽̉̀̆̄̃̈̇̏̑̏͘̚͝͝͠ͅ ̵̧̧̞̪̯͇̩͙̥̦̝̘͙͎͈̻̥̥̪̰̜͍͆̅͛̔͒͗̋͑̀͌́̆̎͑̚͘t̷̡̹̗̫̲͕̮͓͈͇̩͂̃̾͑̔͜ḩ̷̠͍̰̥̜͖̞͔͓͓̭͉͓̟̝͈͌͆̀̔͜͜é̴̢͇̠͚̏̆͐͛̀͘͘m̵̤̳͐̿͛̽̔͂͂́͌͒̓̊͆̆̉̅͐͘̕.̵̱̥͇̯̘̰͆͋́͂̏́̌ ̴̢̡̛̖̝͓̲͇̣͖̯̝̘͚̱̲̘̬̈́͋͗̎̌̽́̈́͊͗͂͛͑͆̏͆̆͛͐͜͝

They couldn't leave. It was a horrible thing to decide that because they did not want him to be well, though. Another hypothetical had to be spun. This one was much simpler: if they walked out this door, someone would kill him. He would not simply die, he would be murdered. It would not be kind.They pictured the heavy blows Lorenzo and Tyrell had traded, imagined them fracturing Dante's already brittle frame. What incentive did they have to make it quick? Why should anyone make it easy on him? Who was to say he would not be found by some sick mind who delighted in prolonging his pain? The images this conjured were not so vivid. Blaise did not need the extra convincing, their decision was already made. They would stay with him right to the very end.

A few quiet steps took them to his resting head. They sat cross legged and pulled his head into their lap. Fingers drifted through his hair. "I murdered Dante. I put him to sleep to comfort him and shot him with his own pistol. Because I am selfish. I destroy everything I touch. There is no better reason."

Do you remember what you really asked him?

Yes.

Then why all that instead?

Because I did not care then. I do not deserve to care now. The thought distracted him, and it was not so terrible a thing to consider before he passed.

Drugs don't do nothin' for your disposition, huh?

[Emprexx Plush]

So we gonna talk about it?

I said I do not wish to discuss it. I have revisited this murder enough.

I ain't said nothin' about the murder. Matter fact we ain't stopped there yet. Nah, I got somethin' else in mind, 'cuz I figure the murder ain't as important as all that.

Enlighten me.

Was it so hard to ask? Some manners between you and you, that's all I'm askin'.

Do not push it.

Alright. See what I figure is that the killin', well you done took to that like a hog to slop. Squeamish like sometimes but that ain't what you been tearin' yourself to ribbons over. Think you tipped you hand at it before you knew how bad Mr. Lucy Ano was gonna get. You follow?

...

I wanna talk about him.

It was a well known fact that Blaise found personal attachment distasteful. Even confronted with such terrible acts, and make no mistake that the accusations against Lorenzo were about as terrible as they could conceive, they would have found it difficult to be angry. It merited a raised eyebrow, yes, a shake of the head, and ties with the offender would have to be cut without hesitation. They could forgive much but a violent breach of bodily consent was too far beyond the boundaries of their moral apathy. As an idea they cared for it more than most others; many nights had ended prematurely due to a lack of clear and eager affirmation. It was a line they would not cross, and if you found yourself on the other side they had nothing but contempt for you. Yet hearing such a story would not inspire the rage that seemed to physically pour off of Tyrell, they could not imagine themself in such a state. Unsettled was a certainty, disgusted was a necessity, but angered? Anger was a selfish emotion, reserved for those that took from them, not from others. It could not be roused for anything less.

As soon as Ä̵̡̢̰͉͖̜͉͔̝̳̜͓̣̱̠̗̠̘̙̲̼̬͖̗̫̗͌̾̿̍͆̉͂͆̂̇̓̐̓̆̆͐̈̑̓͑͒̿̀̓̆̆̊̾͗̓̿̍̅͂̽͋̚͜͠͝͝ͅͅr̷̨̡̫̦͓͙̤̱̘̞̳̗̗͍̪͔͇̯͇͓̮̼͖͇̟̞̞̟͖̬̉̇̐̈́̈́̎͆̂͊̈́͝t̸̨̧̛̙̼̙̥̦͕͎̮̗͙̥̦̥͎̠̘̖͇̺̺͈͎̥͔̋̒̈̏̋̿̈́̇̓̏͋̈́̀̏̓͊̋̓͊͛̏̿́́̔̑̆͑͛̏̅̓́̄̎͊̈́́͘ę̷̢̱̟̭͓̻͇̥͍̰̲̗͙̼̻̰̹̣̤̗́͐͂͑̓͝m̵̡̛̫̻̮̩̬̥̹̂͒̈́̿̾̈́̍̅̎ͅ'̴̧̞̪̯̲̲̝̬͓͓̳͔̰̗̠̹͈͇̙͎̞̳̫͓̆͗̓̋̂̔͐̍ͅş̶̢̡̛͍̠̭͕͈̤͓̟̝͓̰̪̻̻̹͙̝̪̮̝̪͋̈́͐̓͂̉̚͠ name rang across the sky, Blaise's head snapped to Lorenzo. Their face twisted into a mask of indescribable fury. Sharp black nails dug into Dante's hand without comprehension. It was a miracle of whatever composure lingered that they did not shriek or dart forward to make good on their mocking promise to cave in Lorenzo's skull. What he had done was so much worse than any of these heathens could recognize. The gape-mouthed Luddites surrounding them knew nothing, not even a fraction, of what had been done. Ą̵̼̩͖̫̫͍͙̱͎̫̝͈̙̹͕̩͎̖͎̙̖̺̱̥̣̦͈͖͍͆̿̃̾̋́̏̀̒͋͆́̈́͆̀̀̒̓̓͒̅̄͊̋̍̈́́͗̀̓͘̕͜͜͝r̷̡̨̡̜̣̟͈̰̭̟̞͙̟̳̲̫̺͇̰͓͚̲̳̖̘̖̞͕̥͐͂̃̚͜͜͜ͅt̴̡̩̠̲͔̰̯̥̩͔̤̠̍̾̉̄̈́̀̈́͛̒́̊̈́̑̔̂̀͗̂͊̽̓̃́̄̐̈́̅̊͋̏͂͛͗̄́͋̓̏͝͝ȩ̵̛͉̘̱̞̞̰̳͉̳̬̝̩̭͚̫̮̇͛͑̎̒͐̍͊̈́̊́̾͋̈́͆͆͑͗̌̆́̽͌̊̈́́̏̔͒̽̈̚̚̕͠͝m̴̧͓̯̜͖͉͕͎̻̭̼̥̜̗͇̘̩̺̦͕͚͚̣̩̪̱̩̤̠̠̺̝̎̍̾̏̽̄̑͒̈́̉͗́̊͐͒̀̋͒̐̀͊͊̄̇͌̊͗̽́͒̀͊̾͋̂͊̇̕̚̕, cherish his simple blinded soul, was so far beyond the scope of their reality. He wasn't a person, not really. He was a cosmic blessing, an ideal form that graced the streets of Chattanooga of all places. Skin like silk paper too delicate for the harsh realities of nature, a face and figure so gentle a harsh breeze might cast a ripple through their surface, hair hewn from the first rays of the first yellow sun and preserved until such a time there were eyes to fully appreciate it. They were those eyes. He was a gift sent to unassuming surroundings for them to discover. To nurture into the breath-taking spectacle he could be under their care. It had never been time, of course, even they were not so arrogant as to believe they were ready to guide him yet. They planted seeds, offered an article here and there, sought permission for a subdued picture even rarer, enough to place the idea in his head so it would not seem so alien when the time came. As high school had wound to its end they knew they were still unprepared, but this did not concern them. He would be there when they were ready, even if they had to do a little searching, and they would show this world beauty it had never dreamed.

Lorenzo, stupid, crass, vulgar, tasteless Lorenzo had chosen that as his prey. It could have been anyone, and perhaps they should all question how many other times it had happened, but at least in this one moment he had chosen Ą̵̼̩͖̫̫͍͙̱͎̫̝͈̙̹͕̩͎̖͎̙̖̺̱̥̣̦͈͖͍͆̿̃̾̋́̏̀̒͋͆́̈́͆̀̀̒̓̓͒̅̄͊̋̍̈́́͗̀̓͘̕͜͜͝r̷̡̨̡̜̣̟͈̰̭̟̞͙̟̳̲̫̺͇̰͓͚̲̳̖̘̖̞͕̥͐͂̃̚͜͜͜ͅt̴̡̩̠̲͔̰̯̥̩͔̤̠̍̾̉̄̈́̀̈́͛̒́̊̈́̑̔̂̀͗̂͊̽̓̃́̄̐̈́̅̊͋̏͂͛͗̄́͋̓̏͝͝ȩ̵̛͉̘̱̞̞̰̳͉̳̬̝̩̭͚̫̮̇͛͑̎̒͐̍͊̈́̊́̾͋̈́͆͆͑͗̌̆́̽͌̊̈́́̏̔͒̽̈̚̚̕͠͝m̴̧͓̯̜͖͉͕͎̻̭̼̥̜̗͇̘̩̺̦͕͚͚̣̩̪̱̩̤̠̠̺̝̎̍̾̏̽̄̑͒̈́̉͗́̊͐͒̀̋͒̐̀͊͊̄̇͌̊͗̽́͒̀͊̾͋̂͊̇̕̚̕. Petty crime and debauchery did not nearly capture the scope of what he'd done. He did not assault a boy, he did not deface art, he violated the very soul of artistry and aesthetic. The words Tyrell spat were as insufficient to convey that as his cow-headed skull was to conceive it, but they had nothing better to add. There could be nothing better. There were no words for what Lorenzo had done, not in any tongue that they could understand. They hated him for his deficiency nearly as much as they hated Lorenzo, but neither of them capture the brunt of their anger. No. That was reserved for Violet.

They spat on the pier as Lorenzo hit the ground. A gunshot went off, tearing their vision away from him to her for the first time since the fight started. "What the fuck have you been waiting for? Shoot that thing, or must it crawl to you in weeping surrender before you can hit it?" At least, that was what they intended to say. Their ears still rang from Violet's previous failure, so their retort and any response were mangled. Useless. A useless willowy waste of air and energy. How she could shoot an unarmed man on accident, yet watch all of this without firing a single shot until it was over was beyond them. If there was any justice in the universe she could provide this one service, one truly beneficial act in what Blaise was certain was an endless parade of myopia. If not, perhaps that gun was better in more industrious hands.

Look at you, kept it to yourself the whole way! You payin' attention or do we gotta run it again?

I saw.

Some nasty stuff in there.

Indeed.

Y'know the longer you beat round them bushes the longer this is gonna take, right? I can run it again.

No.

Then tell me a story. Why're we lookin' at this?

Him.

Why?

Because I became obsessive.

Hoo, close, lemme give you a do-over. What was that?

"Because I am selfish. I destroy everything I touch. There is no better reason."

Now you're tryin' to cheat. Gonna make me spell it out?




Ą̵̼̩͖̫̫͍͙̱͎̫̝͈̙̹͕̩͎̖͎̙̖̺̱̥̣̦͈͖͍͆̿̃̾̋́̏̀̒͋͆́̈́͆̀̀̒̓̓͒̅̄͊̋̍̈́́͗̀̓͘̕͜͜͝r̷̡̨̡̜̣̟͈̰̭̟̞͙̟̳̲̫̺͇̰͓͚̲̳̖̘̖̞͕̥͐͂̃̚͜͜͜ͅt̴̡̩̠̲͔̰̯̥̩͔̤̠̍̾̉̄̈́̀̈́͛̒́̊̈́̑̔̂̀͗̂͊̽̓̃́̄̐̈́̅̊͋̏͂͛͗̄́͋̓̏͝͝ȩ̵̛͉̘̱̞̞̰̳͉̳̬̝̩̭͚̫̮̇͛͑̎̒͐̍͊̈́̊́̾͋̈́͆͆͑͗̌̆́̽͌̊̈́́̏̔͒̽̈̚̚̕͠͝m̴̧͓̯̜͖͉͕͎̻̭̼̥̜̗͇̘̩̺̦͕͚͚̣̩̪̱̩̤̠̠̺̝̎̍̾̏̽̄̑͒̈́̉͗́̊͐͒̀̋͒̐̀͊͊̄̇͌̊͗̽́͒̀͊̾͋̂͊̇̕̚̕

In all the chaos of these last days they had-no, they hadn't forgotten. Yeah you did. They had put aside the fury stirred up inside them that first morning because it was not useful. I do have to admit that's the most impressive longways spellin' of forgotten I ever seen. Dante had come first, then their own survival. There's a half-truth here. Think on it a spell. Revenge came in flashes against whoever wronged them most recently and burned away just as quickly. It did not give them anything. If the object of their hatred was not right in front of them the feelings faded regardless of how brightly they had burned moments beforehand, and Dolly was judging them for it. They could feel it in her voice. Condemnation bordering on contempt that they had not already put Lorenzo in the ground. Arrogance that killing them would end any fraction of A̵̢̺̩͇̯͉̘̳͆̈̓̋́͑͝r̴̨͇̮̘̗̞̟͇̩̩̫̗̦͚̖͙͕͓̽̅̔̇̓̀ͅţ̷̢̡͉̫̮̰͈̳̦̟̪̙͉̪͎͓͙͉̭͚̯̮̄̀̒̆͌͒̄͑̈́̓̅͒̀͆̒̈́͗̓͆͂͆̉̅̅̄̃̒͆̊͒̆̃̾̓̂͗̓̚͠͠͝ḙ̵͇̠͔͉̐̉̀̑͐̎̀̓̅͗͂̍̓̔͌́͛̄̔̌͌̈́̈́͑͆͝͝m̸̡̰̩͙̬̲̯̜̭̻͙͓̦͛͛'̵̡̞̜͇̙̖͎̘̯͓͉̝̲̟̭͖͓̺̻͎̯͕̰͔̮̮̮͖͉͓̞̲̖̫͓̻̪̳͆̈͋̈́̉́̌̽̂̾̿̒́͌̇̈́̊̈̓̇̀̉͌̾͂̈́̀̏̀̓̀̃͂͑̽̊͒͑̕͘͜͝ͅs̷̛̥̯̥̭͎̮̮͚̪̖̰̲̰̮̩͙̭̳͎͙̘̙̳͓̲̞̓̂̎͊͐̐̔̄̆̅̄̓̍̒͌͋͌̀́̒́̇͆̾̉́̊̈̈͘̕͠͝ pain. Ignorance to her own inadequacy, no blood on her hands but her own. Perhaps that last piece was unfair. This must have been her plan all along, some insane suicidal ploy to make sure that Blaise did the things she was incapable of, and yet despite that she still looked down on them. Banished them to the killing fields like her personal soldier.

They hung in the doorway without response. Stiff, slow movements brought them back to face her. Words would be wasted on the dying just as so much else would. A courtesy, then, to allow her to have the last one. They would say no more, and they would even go as far as to follow on the warpath set before them. It wasn't enough to kill Lorenzo, Dolly had made sure of that. Tyrell had to die as well. Going that far they might as well kill Violet. Dante was already dead, so that would leave Blaise and Dolly the last living souls who knew the truth, at least that they were aware.

Hmm.

Not quite right, though. It was unfair to her present circumstances to count Dolly.

Not after a second shot echoed out from the house into the rain.

Blaise did not stay to observe her last moments. There was much to collect in the mess she'd left behind. When they stepped back into their original hide-out they collected what they could find of their kit in silence. Unzipped Dolly's bags to take stock of her supplies, her clothes. Hefted the folded weapon she'd discarded by the door into one of them, secure that it would not slow them down long. As they stomped down the road they caught their reflection in a murky puddle. Unfinished make-up dripped like melting wax caught between the mirrored glare of their eyes. Already they couldn't envision what it was meant to look like.

There was no purpose in finishing the guise of a name they'd already erased from memory.

It was time for something new.

Gotta say, I remember somethin' a little more, uh, graphic, on that first pass. Musta done a real number on that cuz I can't find it. Wanted to get rid of me so bad you'd rather remember killin' one of your only friends than ol' Carl?

Killing you was not necessary. I do not kill a dress no longer in fashion. You were, are, less than that.

Funny you should say that lookin' at everybody else you're tryin' real hard to forget. First Dante, then ol' Carl, and-

You do not speak his name.

Huh. Don't that beat all. You're pretendin' it's still about-

You do not speak his name!

When's the last time you reckon you did, supposin' he's so important?

...

You figure it was when you was huntin' for information about this Lorenzo fella?

The paddies. Blaise had no frame of reference for where that might be, location was not their strong suit. The map would assist though. They could search the area for hiding places, it was not as if they had anything better to do at the moment. If not Lorenzo other witnesses might surface. Ones with a more engaging account than Demetri, who could not resist editorializing his homophobia in the middle. It put them in a difficult position; as they had said, they did not wish to sully their name with association to his, and he had fulfilled his end of the transaction. There was little reason to believe he was covering, Demetri had neither the spine nor the empathy to stick up for any human being that way. Certainly not a murderer the disgusting little incel had considered subhuman before any of the myriad offenses he'd committed in the last few weeks. Hmm. There could be value in his self righteousness though. What they had in mind for Lorenzo would be best done with assistants, and Demetri could at the very least be intimidated into place with proper explanation.

There was the matter of his failure to consider. He had already held Lorenzo at gunpoint once, and not only had he failed to shoot him he had lost the gun as well. To Lorenzo? No, he would have mentioned it, and they doubted Lorenzo would have left him alive. So he...gave it away? Misplaced it? Forgot it, as he had no less than a hundred late payments? Only the first would be of note. If they cared they might interrogate further, but what was one more gun in the wild? No, they had more pressing business. "Ah, Demetri..." They sighed heavily and let the gun dip downwards. "I would thank you, but you disappoint me. All this bluster," their voice twisted to an imitation of his own, " 'I bet I stab faster than you shoot,' feh. You could not pull the trigger on a murderer when he did the deed in front of you." Their expression darkened. "I wonder...if your instincts would have been more certain if you knew. Not just a murderer, but a rapist." Blaise was looking beyond him now, scowling through the crack in the door. "Ah, well. I will find him. When I do..." Eyes turned back to Demetri's face, staring him down in silence. First his face, then to his collar, down his chest, mercifully quick past his waist, down to his knee.

That's where they pulled the trigger.

"It will be as simple as that."

They would collect their supplies and be gone before he finished wetting himself. If he stopped screaming long enough to hear them, he might glean answers about the whys and hows of their bid for survival. Or not. Either outcome suited them; Demetri's suffering was its own reward.

Hmm, don't reckon he so much as crosses your mind. How about when you start recruitin'?

Shed a tear for Parker, if you still have one to spare, as the realization that he was always the only sane person on this field must have pained him more than any shrapnel. As expected he kept his composure well but Blaise could nearly hear the incredulity echoing inside his skull. If he was less of a mess it would be delightful. They could have leveraged some mutual agreement. A partnership, in one fashion or another, with a number of benefits that promised to be entertaining if not beneficial. Sadly such negotiations were not on the table. There was a limit to what he could tolerate, and they had higher priorities to pitch him. Amber's performance earned her a smirk and a restrained clap, but she would not be making this squad. "Have the announcements not kept you appraised? If someone has not found the strength to pull the trigger yet, then..." Blaise shrugged. "I am unconcerned they will shoot at all."

Left to his own devices Parker could feed even on meager information for hours. It could be charming in an intellectual sense but they had a more active course in mind so dwelling on who shot whom with what held little interest at the moment and they did not wish to give him time to settle. Actually this was something of an opportunity; even if Parker would not accept Amber's continued manic pixie presence and if she could not be relied upon to serve any direct purpose in their absence, her loud mouth could be of use. As present company proved with the right charm even murder could be smoothed over, so there were hideaways and allies that might still welcome Lorenzo if he spoke the right words. Sins with less context though, with the implication of premeditation, with a mindset that made more recent predation harder to wave away as circumstance?

There had been some play in Dolly's final words about lies and rights. She had singled out Tyrell alongside Lorenzo and while consciously this detail was of little relevance to Blaise it was interesting to mull in the background. Blaise, Violet, D- the others learned when Tyrell made his grand entrance on the pier, but Dolly already knew hadn't she? How long, Blaise wondered, had Ą̶̢̨̲̲̲̳̙̹̲̣̭͍͕̫̞͎͎̗̗̤̟͓̲̮̗̗̪̼̘̯̘͕̌̅̂̅͌͐̊̐̈̅̍̾̌͊̐̏̓̾́̀̌͗̇̊̊̄͋̕͘͘r̶̛̫̣̬̣̿͊̑͊̽̂̈́͊̈́͋̇͊̂́̏͛̈́͒͗͒̂͊́́͂́̈͑̀̄̒͑̏̚̕͘̕͝͠͠͝t̴̟͑͋͋̒̒͝ę̴̡̛̛̜͎͓̗̬̺̹͓̬͕̪̉͋̊̃̑͐̀̀̂̆̈́̉͑͐̊̄̒̽͋̊̈́̐͐̔̅̈͊̄̉̋͂̿͂͘̚͘̕͘͝͝͝͝ͅm̴̡̢͈̝̻̖̪̭̠̜̘͎͉͙͕̥͙͙͉͎͚̜̰͉̙̮̣̤̻͉̙̥̬͎̮̠͍̼͈͎̭̂̎͂̑͌̐̒͑́͑̏͆̂̂͑̿̈́͑̂͑̚̕͝͠ͅͅͅ, Lorenzo, Dolly, and whoever else kept this quiet? How long had they stalled the exile he deserved? How long had they all kept this from them, the only one with spine enough to do something about it?

Ah.

In some pathetic, tragic sense Dolly might have thought she could protect him through silence.

Dolly was a fool. If everyone knew, everyone would hate him. Nowhere would be safe. With no more holes to crawl into he would run, and he would inevitably find himself collapsed at their feet. "As from the start I concern myself with the weapons of one man." Not true, but it could aid what came next. "Lorenzo Tavares is a rapist." They reached for a cigarette but found its hiding place empty, smoked a number of days ago not worth counting. Its absence drew a grunt, but they continued without it. "I intend to murder him. Painfully."

There he is! Hidin' just once. Not out loud, mind, but he's on you mind. I remember, you had a plan for this Lorenzo fella after right? You wanted Parker to help out? Got a doozy of a train a thought on that one, I'm sure he comes up plenty.

((TW; Graphic discussions of sexual violence))

It occurred to Blaise that this was the longest time they had spent together without explicit purpose. Ignoring the obvious double entendre for a moment, they could not recall a time when one was not leading the other with some clear goal in mind. Parker detested ambiguity. He would indulge them, yes, but not without some reassurance they were not wasting his time. They had been together long enough that that assurance could come on credit, but he was not so mercurial. They might find reason to doubt the structure he offered them, and at times there might be scaffolds he felt best left obscured, but to present nothing at all? Unthinkable. In that light the drudgery of their journey suggested uncomfortable possibilities; the first skew was that Parker was too burnt out to process at his usual level. He wasn't thinking straight, guided by base instincts to seek necessities. A safe place to rest without much regard for what came before it. Supposing he had the energy to keep watch he did not have the ability to turn his observations into useful commentary. Put mildly Blaise would find state of affairs inconvenient. Anyone with a suborned intellect and working limbs could be a pack animal and shoot when they told them to shoot. Parker was meant to be something much more valuable than that. If not an equal than near so, and a perspective that might reveal insights they could not. Failing that role would be disappointing.

Parker rarely disappointed. The more likely outcome was unfortunately more uncomfortable as well. Parker had insights. He knew exactly what he was doing and adjusted accordingly to their surroundings, but felt no need to loop them into his process at this time. Had he judged them incompetent? Unlikely; as established Parker was an intelligent man, and while they might often disagree in method he did not make the mistake of underestimating them. However, if he'd judged that they were in opposition rather than partnership then withholding his information would be a prudent move. Its primary disadvantage was that it might tip them off to his adversarial edge before he was prepared, but from a certain understanding of their personality that might be desirable. He could suppose that it would intrigue them and reduce the possibility that they would either turn on him or disappear without notice. They delighted in his secrets and had thrown many traditional victories playing to their own objectives in exposing him. To rely on that now, though? They would have to be insane to indulge themself when the stakes were so high. Undoubtedly they would discover the bait and the presence if not the mechanics of a trap within hours of its setting, and then what would they do?

Well.

They knew he was playing them, but he was right. They were too interested to end the exercise prematurely. Though it was antithetical to their nature they did not rise with the pressure they were sure he expected. When they woke up to what they could only assume was Parker cleansing himself or his wounds, they did not move. It was hard to say how long he had been at work, harder why he had taken the efforts to conceal it. Hardest still to resist the urge to see what he wanted them blind to, but another curiosity sustained them. What might he do if he judged them still asleep? After he was sure of his own condition, would he make a play against them, or attempt to leave on his own with their supplies? Knowing what he did when he thought they couldn't be watching would tell them more than any attempt to drag his intentions out by trickery. So they waited, still and soft of breath.

He called their name.

They did not answer.

He called, and called, and when they were satisfied that his purpose was to draw their attention they rose.

They wondered on the next leg of their journey if he had known. It was always tempting to slip into the recursive logic of layers in subterfuge, but for the moment they decided it did not matter. He had gone out of his way to bring them with him, which meant he had some use in mind for them for the time being. The relevant question, then, was how that use aligned with theirs for him. Blaise was not simple. When Parker spoke of a plan they understood his meaning to be more broad, perhaps in regard to general survival or how they might locate Lorenzo. They were uninterested in these details. They wanted to see how Parker, who had not yet made himself worth the attention of their captors, responded to the visceral details of their outcome. The rest would follow.

Blaise took one of their dwindling cigarettes from their lips and blew smoke out into the island air. Parker's eye contact was maintained only momentarily, the sky held their attention as they spoke. "Very well. It has been several days since I saw the man. At the time he was already wounded, and I doubt his activities have been kind to his health. When we find him I do not expect much resistance. If necessary I will shoot to immobilize, but I am not confident in my precision." They paused for a slow drag. "It would be preferred to surprise him. I have rope for binding him, certain...proclivities assure I can render him helpless if he is at our mercy." Ash tapped out between their fingers. "Then it is a matter of breaking his knees and his hands. Perhaps his arms as well. Rope can be undone. If some miracle of an ill-gotten god graces him, I want it to find him unable to benefit. If I were more medically knowledgeable I might suggest we sever tendons or some such, but..." Their face soured and they waved a hand. "Too much risk. It is important, very important, that he does not bleed out. I've put a great deal of thought into what comes after you know, what should be done to adequately convey what he has done, and find my knowledge similarly unsatisfactory. Gouging of the eyes or tongue, torture of cuts and disagreeable substance, even the poetic removal of his cock?" They laughed, but it was joyless. "Too much risk. No, no. Before he goes in the ground, the only sufficient punishment I could imagine for him mirrors his crime." A nudge from their foot clanked the folding spear against their first aid kit within their bag. "The shaft should prove sufficient. Proper positioning, depth, mm...care must be had of course, but you know my expertise. I believe I can make my point without sodomizing him to death." Blaise's head tilted to catch Parker's eye. "Because that is when we bury him, suffering but still breathing. There will be no record of his last moments but the dirt he chokes on. That is how Lorenzo Tavares deserves to die."

What practical concerns they had laid out crossed the border past psychotic long before they'd finished. Hypocritical as well, they were well aware that what they outlined had nothing to do with what Lorenzo deserved. How had Dolly put it? Blaise knew nothing of justice, but retribution? Violent, vile, excessive retribution? They could be counted on for that. Any phrasing to the contrary was but insurance. If there came a time outside this place where they were called to justify themself, someone more concerned with innocence and public relations could be persuaded to make a case off that one sentence. That was how these things worked, no? A concern for another time. Now they watched Parker's face, waiting to see if he had the stomach to be useful.

How about that? Not once.

Remind me, how'd all that turn out anyhow?

[Emprexx Plush]

They could be anywhere, of that much Blaise was certain. An ambush likely planned for days with an unknown number of actors in play. There was tragedy in how sharp their senses were; they had known of course, they had felt they were being watched but after a sufficient stretch of time it dulled into the same omnipresent attention they were accustomed to every day. Of course someone was watching them, who wouldn't? Now there were natural objections to be raised that anyone observing them from afar possessed dubious intent, but that did not account for an obvious explanation. Glaringly obvious. Any fool could reason it out. Was it not obvious?

Of course not. As ever Blaise was surrounded by dullards.

Your point is made.

No it ain't.

It was the cameras. I have already admitted I am selfish. Everywhere anyone went there were a multitude of eyes hanging on their every breath. Now that they were considering it consciously they could not imagine how the others did not feel the constant pinpricks of attention riddling their bodies. Self-absorbed. Yes they were there, they had always been there and Blaise had always been aware of them. A liar, especially to myself. The sensation handicapped their every move. If expressed out loud one might question why Blaise had never mentioned this terrible burden before, and they would spit in their face in reply. Any half-witted observer could read between the lines of their movements. There had been no reason to dwell on it until now. It was understood to be understood. All that appears in error in their past could be explained this way. They willed it, and so it was true. Is that your point?

One could be further tempted to suggest then that Parker's cowardly demise was their responsibility. You are, what, my guilt? Guilt for self-deception? Nothing short of physical rebuke would address such s̷̢̨̛̛̜͈̖̫̞̖̫̰̐̋̊̍̈́̆̅͗̍̔̽́̔̊̓̋́͊̓̆͘͝͠ṯ̷̻̭̹͈̟̽̏̓͛͑̀̿̏̊̆̈́͊̑̇͒̉̒u̸̧̝̮̓̋͑̈̔̃̔̄͐̇̐̇͘͜͝p̸̢̢̡̛̫̥̞̗̘̰̜̱̩̠̠͇̥̱̖̠͚̼͚͙̥̟̯̦͇̈́̾́̀̀̋̒̃̀̔̈́̇̀̎̃͛̆̃̍͊̅̚̕͠͝i̶̧̧̠͎̘͕̗̮̗͔̺̩̿̂̉d̶̨͖̟͍͚̭͍̥̬̲̜̟̜͌̊͑̒͆̋̔ͅͅḯ̸͇̪̥̮̱̥̲̫͎͚̤͓͙͓͖̗̯̈́̀́̑̽̀͊͝͠ͅţ̴̨̛̞͈̟̞̻͔̝͖̻͖̞̬͎͔͈̮͍̹̮̾̿̈͑͆̀̍̓̈͂͐̎̅̓͂͘͘͜͝͠͝͠ÿ̸̧̡̨̨̭̳̜̺̮̭̣̩̹͕̹̤̼̼̝̣͈̪̽̎̀̀̂̏͜͜͝. Parker was not an idiot, so of course he understood their diminished capabilities. Doubtless he adjusted for them, and weren't tactical considerations such as position and exposure more his realm than theirs? If anyone failed to notice their pursuer, it was not Blaise. That would be akin to blaming your therapist for surgery complications. You could not debate it: if Parker had done his goddamn job, he would be alive.

He would have been there when their captors confirmed some also ran, some deluded lumbering sack of shit whose T̸̛̛̬̃̈́̊͆̈́͆̿̇̉̉̋͗̔̚y̷̢͈͍͈̠͙̮̰̪̦̤̜̤̍̅̀͋͊͑͂͒́͊̆̀͘͝r̴̢̡̡̫̱̫̻̜̞͉̠̤̠̞̪̩̣̮̭̙̘̖͋̈̋͂̀̏̃̀̑́͆̋ȇ̷̢̧̳̳͓̳͖̬̳͕̂̾̈́̑̋͊̓̀͛̕l̵̮̍̕l̷̢̨̳̖̟̬͎͇͉͖͌͘ was no more worth repeating in their mind than it had been the last several announcements, had stolen Lorenzo from them. He would have been right there at arms length when anger uncomplicated by circumstance took hold of them and demanded immediate satisfaction, rational or no. He would have been perfectly positioned to take the blame and why shouldn’t he? If he had not been distracted with playing out YouTube inspired fantasy of rugged outdoorsmanship they would have been on the move, that too would have been his fault . I have already accepted my fault for Parker. I, I remember, before this is finished it crumbles.

But they would have been reasonable. Of course. When had they ever been known to project frustration? It would not affect their partnership, it was not as if either of them would turn on each other so easily. Supposing, just supposing, that they let their impulses get the better of them? The threat would have been recognized before it came to anything. They would not have harmed him. He never would have let them, doubtless he had already, the chances they actually would have, certainly they would have reached some sort of agreement that, that-

The narrative they had so deftly woven over their perception hit a snag. It was. An uncommon sensation. They saw the strands stretching on before them and they.

They did not know which lie to spin to truth.

Do you see?

Yeah.

You have made an error.

You have nothing to show me here.

Nothing to twist.

Do you see?

Y'know what I don't see?

What?

His name.

Not even once.

You repeat yourself.

This whole thing's repetition.

So it is pointless.

Nah. You're just stubborn as a mule. Or as stupid. Or both, beggin' your pardon.

When I wake I will forget you.

Now you are powerful good at that, can't deny it. Case in point being that boy's name, but ol' Carl can keep goin'. Cuz y'know I notice you don't spare much thought for the other fella once you know he's in the ground neither. He's got fingerprints all over 'til he drops and then...?

He is dead. What more is there to be done?

Well slander for start. You could keep reminding near everyone you meet about it, kinda go against the spirit of the witchcraft you was whippin' up with Dolly but that ain't stopped you 'fore now has it? Or hey, there's always desecratin'' a corpse. I recall some pretty wild ideas.

((TW; Graphic discussions of sexual violence))

"It would be preferred to surprise him. I have rope for binding him, certain...proclivities assure I can render him helpless if he is at our mercy."

"Then it is a matter of breaking his knees and his hands. Perhaps his arms as well. Rope can be undone. If some miracle of an ill-gotten god graces him, I want it to find him unable to benefit. If I were more medically knowledgeable I might suggest we sever tendons or some such, but...too much risk. It is important, very important, that he does not bleed out."

"I've put a great deal of thought into what comes after you know, what should be done to adequately convey what he has done, and find my knowledge similarly unsatisfactory. Gouging of the eyes or tongue, torture of cuts and disagreeable substance, even the poetic removal of his cock?"

"Before he goes in the ground, the only sufficient punishment I could imagine for him mirrors his crime. The shaft should prove sufficient. Proper positioning, depth, mm...care must be had of course, but you know my expertise. I believe I can make my point without sodomizing him to death."

"Because that is when we bury him, suffering but still breathing. There will be no record of his last moments but the dirt he chokes on. That is how Lorenzo Tavares deserves to die."

I reckon sentiment like that don't die with the man.

'less it was never about the man in the first place.

You remember recylcin' any of them ideas?

Good. Good. He did not flinch at the heat or the blade. This Julien fella. It was a test for them both. Julien positioned himself as survivor. Blaise as destroyer. Perhaps it was not immediately obvious but they were both pushing boundaries here. All Blaise had done to this point had been acts of impulse, distant or sudden or both in a way that was largely easy to detach from as they passed. What they proposed to do to Julien required deliberation. He a rapist too? Each moment would be experienced together, and the pressure was on them to make it memorable. Too light a touch and it would do little but disappoint him. Too hard and they might kill him, he was such a fragile t-no, no. I suppose he could have been, but no. Not that I knew. They were slipping into theatrics to protect themself. They would not allow that. He kill somebody? Blaise was not an expert at torture who could callously walk the line. In their chest their heart was pounding away, surely he heard it, surely he knew? If not their heart beat then their sweat. The quiver in their hand perhaps. Any tell would reveal this was not sadistic revelry. To take him over the edge of what he could survive they must go over the edge of what they were capable of inflicting, and they were afraid. Beyond afraid to the point of disgust. No one important.

Natural instinct was to cover up their discomfort with more theater. When one saw a scene like this acted out there was always a great deal of monologuing, trite back and forth of the we are not so different variety or assertions of dominance in the captor/captive dynamic. They might have tried that once. Hurt somebody you cared about? If anything crept into their face or voice to dilute their hesitation, though, it was disappointment. Tension leaving their shoulders, a slight frown on their face. A sigh slim enough to be a breath before they spoke. "It is not a game. I take no pleasure no matter the outcome." Nah. Satisfaction came in many forms. It would not make them feel better for Julien to suffer. His confession could not fill holes they left gaping with neglect for years on end. To see him die unbent, unbroken despite it all though, that might tear a new one. Forcing him to pass as they would in a sense soothe that lack before it occurred. Think we got it strong you don't care about nobody. That was the closest they could come to satisfaction now. Their face traded places with the spear in front of his. "I have nothing. I gain nothing. Do you understand? I am only offended that you pretend to be different."

So what'd he do?

Blaise leaned away from him. "Speak the words and I will end it."

He loved me.

The flat side of the spear pressed down on his nose with a sputtering crackle.

That all?

It is enough. What else do you want?

Truth would be a mighty fine start. 'cuz we know it weren't about him more than it was ever about Lorenzo. Or Dante. Or Artem.

In news reports, books, what have you, they frequently described the smell of burning humans as "acrid." It's about you. Many other substances could be described as "acrid" but one must wonder if flesh was described that way because of them, or if they were described that way because of flesh? What you experience. Common place scents of meats and elements created distance from reality. They could wax morbid about how Julien's flesh smelled like fatty pork pressed to a too-hot skillet, that when his skin split it crisped and fumed like paper thin charcoal. Perhaps on a stretch that his blood scalding under the blade reminded them of pennies left to bake in a car under a hundred degree sun.

Few understood the protection lies could provide like they did. It wouldn't work though. Julien's burning flesh smelled like Julien's burning flesh. Nothing else. It was its own sensation and it surrounded them, filled them, it slipped through their nose to their mouth to their stomach and whipped something back on its way to their lungs. What you feel.

Acid shot up their throat in time with peeling the spear back from his face. It was not so much bile even as they stared at the strings of skin clinging to the metal. A small foul pool lingering on their tongue as though they had choked. Not so much. They could swallow it and he may never know. What you suffer.

They spat it in his face instead. "My stomach is not to your advantage. I have no dignity to lose." Some liquid clung to their lips. They left it. "And you are already broken with your regrets. I only have to find what will make you admit it."

The spear flipped over to its unblemished side. "S̵p̵e̷a̴k̷ ̸t̴h̸e̴ ̴w̴o̵r̷d̸s̶"

What you want.

They shoved the flat onto his scalp.

So what is that, exactly?

"You know, you only make this more difficult."

"Why do you keep your pride when it hurts you?"

"It is clear you have been in no condition to go home for some time. Why have you not given up?"

Is this your angle?

"Have you been cleaning your wounds?"

There were two bottles from the bay in their bag. Blaise had saved them for washing up without travel since they had so many at their disposal. They had been so careful to keep it away from their wounds both for the bandages and because they could not imagine how the saltwater would burn.

Julien was so talkative. Perhaps he would like to share details with them. They unscrewed the first bottle and began to pour its contents over his stomach.

That Julien was irrelevant? A convenience? A canvas?

The cascade came for his arms, one then the other. His hands too, they would not neglect the wounds they didn't make. His screaming was the first crack. With it he promised that he could not hide from them forever. Resolve against resolve with only one left...intact was inaccurate. They had not been intact in some time. But they could break him with them.

Metaphor made physical for my condition?

They rose and took two bottles this time. One was more seawater while the other was smaller, the liquid thicker. Both had their labels removed. "No more than you," they replied before dousing his mangled leg. The state it was in was worse than anything they had seen, so they could only imagine the pain would be excruciating. Liquid fire that seeped inside him while clinging to his bandages and pants. It would linger worse than any other torment so far.

And it was only a distraction.

They slammed the lip of the sanitizer to the bullet wound in his knee and squeezed until their fingers touched.

Perhaps a casualty in the wrong place, the wrong time, for me to prove myself to myself?

"S̵̻͌̈́͘p̵̡̢̝̱̭͗̆̑͘̚ē̴̞͙̜̼̆͗ą̷͔͉͉̆̓͌̌̑k̴̡͔͙̒́̇͠ ̷̡̬̀̓́t̶͈͚̭͖͂̕h̸̙̫̼̀͑̕͝ẽ̸͓̲͚̠͎̉ ̸̧͝w̵̖̋̓o̵̢̡̲͌̂̔r̴̢͎̭͈̓̿̅͛̿ͅd̷̢̤̙͙̲̀͘̚s̸̫̪̆.̶̗̱̝̰͈̀̑͗͌̀"

Despite their best efforts there was a tremor in their voice.

That is what this is, is it not?

The lighter hit the floor first. Then their knees. Tremors moved from their vocal chords to their fingertips with the needle inches from his eye.

Proving myself to myself?

Their free hand reached forward to hold his eyelids apart.

Some nonsensical question of my resolve?

"S̸̛̝̰̣̦̱̰̮͇̺̠̹͔̣͑̓̽̊̒̈͊̑̈́̚͝p̴̨̢̧̬̥̞̞̤͙̰̘̲̦̝͈̗̯̼̣̥̦̘̄̒̀̌̀͋̾͘ę̵̢͙̻̗̳̰͈͔̪̰̮͔̩̘͚̣͚̘̳̙͍̺̮̮̹̯͚̩̲͆͋͆̇͌̾̊͂̅͜͜ͅa̸̧͍̼͑̉̋̎k̵̛̳̂̈́̍͒̆̅̓̆̅͆͐͐̌̂̋̄̐̉͐́̈́̌̃̚ ̷̢̘̝̿͑́̃̋͌̅͑̒̃̓͗͗͆̒͊̀̈͌̈͊̿̓̎͊̆́̚͘͠͝ͅt̷̡̛͈̰̤̰̺̼̘̗̩̟͖̊͜ḩ̸͗̋̂̐̒̀ȩ̶̠͚̹̦͙͎͖̰̤̰͈̰̖͉͖̹̘͙͔͓̲̇́̂̂̃̒́̿̍́̅̈́̓̕ͅ ̴͔̲̘̘̫̀̄̾̾͌̊̔̐̈́͂͋̌̈́̋̒̊̓̋́̅͘̕̕̚͝͝͠w̵̨̳̫̫̥̠̮̘̣̰͙̙̖̃̒͠ͅo̵̡̫̹͓̖̜͌̊̄́͂̔̈́̽̎̏͋̃͆̊̀̓̑̈́̚̚̚͜͝͠r̴̡̧̡̡̰͙̳̫̘̰̼͔̜̙̤̰̖̠̳̠̩͙̖̣̼̞̜͈̪̤̮̽͊͑̉͜͝ḑ̷̨̛̛̞͎͔͈̪̫̺̞̞̲̻̣̊̉̿̊̅̾̆̀̈́̄̾̀̐̀͋͆̀̾̾͗̃̇̐͂́́͘͘͝ş̷̧̛̛͈̥̗͈̲̼̖̯̘͚̭̘̗͖̫͇͉̏̈́̎̒̍̈́̎̋̈́̌̔̈́̄̾̃̆͋̄̑̃͂̚͜͝͝ͅͅ.̶̢̖̫̖͓͓̖̳͉͚̣͎̘͙̯͇͋̿̀͗̇̀̌͘͜͝ͅ"

Are you some bullshit specter of my will to survive?

The needle crept closer.

"S̷̡̢̼͓̟̰̖̞̥̫̭̻̖̯̜̙̳̯͔͖̰̗̽̑̒͂̄̄̓̆̍̌̋̀̋̽̈́̀̈́̅̍̎̀͑̑̄͆̾͑͐̎̋̇͆͊̑͛̃͒̀̕̚̕̕p̵̨̛̛͈͚̠̺̯̜̥͊̀͗̍̒̑̓̆̓͗̓̐͛̒̽͛͋͐̔̂̃̃̂̈́̉̾͘̕͘͘͘͜͠ͅę̸̧̢̧̧̧͉̬̞̣̙̰̦̬̘̥̯̫͉̦̺̥̥͍͓̺͕͓͙̭̭̼̩͚͓͕̥̖̓̀͑̃͗̈́̽͛̒̓̇̊̏̄̈́͑̐̔̈́͑͂̉̏̀̈́͆̅̈́̐̂́̿͛͋̏̈̀͘̕͜͠͝͠͝͝͝ͅȁ̸̢̧̛̛͇̰͇̪̰̹̺̪̯͆́͑̓̋̑̔̔͊́̑͌͗̅͐̓̈́͋̇̃̾͂͆͊̈̈͘͘̕͜k̷̢̨̨̛͔̮͙̠͈̫̦̼̠͈̭̫̠̖̙̳̪̥͙͚̝̬͍̖̺̺̘͈̘̻͇̜̖͔̦̋̄̀̀̋̍͌̓̆̿͂̒̏̇̃̈̓̌͑̏̌̐̒̈́͊̑͛̚̚̕͘̚͝ͅͅͅͅ ̷̧̢̡̛̛͈̭͈̯͉̣̳̪̦̱̣̹̮̠͈̖̪̭͎̠̤̎̄̅̿̋̄̈́́̂̔̽̊͑̎͋͗͋͛̄̐̋̌̇̓̈͂͋̉̎̐̓̓̿͑̓͑̀̕̚͘͝͝͠͝͠͠ͅẗ̸̢̡̡̠̥̻̙͎̝͕̗͎̟̼͍̰̻̮̮̙̱̤͎͉̠̙͚̹̲̺͔̣͖̠̹̟̝̪̻̯̺͇̬͍̩͍̂͌̈́̒̊̀̅͑̾̉́̆͆̔͐͊͋̓̈́̾̚͘̚͜͠͝h̶̖͍̟̖͓̤͙̼̯̱̤̼͉̲̫̗̻͉̼͍̘̬͖̣͇̤̯̘̞͔̰̺̻̪̙̮͑̇̀̈́̈́̄̄͆̉̔̂̈́̋̌͗̂̆̆̾̾͗̏̏̏̓̅͂͑̏̈́̌̒͂̌͆͆̾̎̆̓͊̄͛̀͘̕̕͠͝͝͠ͅe̶̢̧̡̢̨͚̰̱̲͓̙̤̩̞̳̜̩̦͉̰͙̣̞̺̖͍̲͓̦͉̤͍̻͇̣͓̘̯̗̥͉̥̾̓̃̑͊̓͆̈̀͌̒̐́̀̆̓̄̌͑̾̕͝ͅ ̸̧̳̩̣̽̒̆̄̊͗͘͜͝ẅ̴̢̛͖̱̪̗̭͎̳̟̩͕̱́̾͒̄̃̒̃̔̂̇́̾͛̐̑̀̅̽͒̈́̇̍̕͝͝o̴̢̡̧̨̨͚̭̖͚̙̙̘̰̥̠̟̭̺̫̲͇̟͔̯͍̠͖̬̟̪͉͖͕͇̲̰̹͉͚̼͊͂͜͝ͅͅŗ̸̳̗̺͍̭̋͆̉̀͗̇̓̍͂̅̏̏͂̍͆̀̈́̽̆̑̈́̈́̆̌̚͠d̸̢̡͉̦͇̖͔̳̥̤̲̟̫͚̦̥̝̻͓͉̝̮̫̫̗̪̪̮̝͕̈̈́̎̉͒͗̊̉̀̿͐̈͒͐͗͗̊̾̓͐̅̾̚̕̕͜͝͝ͅͅs̶̡̡̢̧̨̢̧̧͕͇̩̼̻̝̩̻̼̩̫͙͉̙͇͎͍̺̩͍̰̬̲̪̖̲̫̮͙̲̫̗̤̗̱̋͜ͅͅͅ.̴͕͔̤̜̖̅̓̿͗̿͌́͂͋͂̆̓̌̐̚͜͝"

To kill?

The needle crept closer.

"Ş̴̡̲̩̜͎͖̦̯̝̼͖̦̻̺̖͎̭̲̹̖̖̪̫̩̙̣̞͎͔͍̤̞͕̯̫̅̈̏͆̃̆̃̈̍̏̌̂̑̈́͌̈̋̋̇̿̀̄̑̃̿́͒͑̍̉̀̓͗̂͌͐̋̈́͂̌̏̆̈́͆̃̑̽́̎̉̅̔̓̋̓́̒͊͌͑͛̃̽̅̈͌́̆̂͛̋́̊͒̾̀̋̏͑̊̿́͊̀͌̒̚͘̕̚͘̚̕̚̚͘͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͝p̸̢̡̧̧̢̨̛̛͓̬̤͇͈̙̤̮̗͔̳̰̱̯̘̦͇̙̦̜̜̻̺̠͔̞͖̱̰͔̳̙͈͔͉̦͍͇͙̼̱̝̥̤͈̥͖̺̲̟̠͎͚̝̝̫̻̙̳͉̥̼̞̗̫̻̠͍̞̆̓̑̅̄͊̿̔͗̒͐͛̀̏́́̾̿̐̈̈́̓̅̊̋̾̈́́̋̏̽̃̑̎̓̓͊̍̂̽̆̂͋̑̀̎̆̇͒́͛̊̄͑̍̎͂̄͑̾̃̃͆͛̿̅̽̒̈͆͋̈͂̃̅̓̈́̈́̑̅̍̅̽̍͋̔̾̍͑͆̂̂́̚̕͝͝͠͝͝͠͝͝͝͠ͅͅͅę̴̢̡̧̢̢̨̛̛̛̰̰̣͎̬̻̯̰̪̼̣̻͓͚̹͇͖͖̪̣̮̗̭̖̳͖͙̥̙̰̥͇̲͎͓̼̻̼̘͉͉̩̯̟̱̩͚̖̟̘̣̬͙͚͎̼̝̯͕̟̭͙͎͎̰̠̔̇̄̈́̒̋̾̑͌̐̿͆̀̂̀͑̉͛̀̓͒͒̈́͑̀̈͆̄̈̒̈́̓͊́̒̃͆̄́̈́̃͒̓̍̽̃̋̇̔̂͆̓̇̂̈̀̎͌̿̏̋̐̔͂̒̏͆͐̂͂̿́̐̇̈̈̂̒͆̐̿͑̀͛͌̉̍̇͆̏̉̔͗̓̾̅͑̑̾̔́̀̀͗̿́̐̕̚̕̕͘͘͜͜͠͝͠͝͠͠͝ạ̴̛̗̖̺͇̝̊̈̄͑̉̅̓́̈́͂͛̌̏̅̿͋̽̽͆̓͋̾̍͐̑͗͂́̅͆̃̿̽͂̕͜͝͠͝k̷̡̨̧̨̛͖̘̜̰͖̳̟̙̲̯̹͍̳̱͉͓̗̼̤̺͍̊̌͑͗̾̏̀̐͌̏̓̀̌̆̍̄͆͐͋̎̾́̑̅̈͛̾̇̀͛̓͊͋̈́̾̅͌̌́̿̿́̈̏͗̂͒͒͗͂͌̐̽͆̐̚̚̚̚͘͜͜͝͝͠͝ ̵̡̢̨̧̛̟̼̖̫͙̝̠͎̝͗̌̽̓́̔̔͗̐̊͋̂̎̔͒̽ť̷̡̨̨̨̢̡̧̛̙̬͍̝̝̥͎͈̱͓̣̞̰͇̼͓͕͙͍̩̖̱̮̮̜̬̖̙̦̻̟̰̯͔̞̤̫̪̥͖͉̖͔̘̭̘̯̜̦̦̻̙̠̞̭͙̪͈̟͉̜̯̥̹͇̝͓̞͙̩͚͖̺̻̗̥͎̞̼̯͓̳̬͇̮̯̞̣̹̬̤̫̝̣̯̣̩̫͚͕̖̰̪̰͍͈̝͚̱̖͛̈́͛̊̓̊̈́̿̅̌̇̒̎̌̾̌̇̅̊͑̓̾͗͊̂̍͑̒͋̍̋̋̄̔͑̈́͑̓̈́̈́͑͐̓̐̎̓̈͘̕͘͘̕̚̕͜͝͝͝͝ͅͅh̸̛̛̛̥̦̦̞͍̼̫̾͂̐̈̀͛̀̾̌́̉̓̒̓̀̓͐̊̿̽̑̀́̇̐̿̍̓̿͌̍̋̎̓̿́̐̈́͐̒̀͑̓̇́̃̌̅͌̌̒͒͗͋̐̇̈́̑̄͑͑́̃͐̾̂̽̽̃͌́͌̽̊́̄̌͆̿̚̕͠͠͝͝͠͝͝͝ȩ̵̢̧̡̨̧̨̛̛̳̬̤͇͖̩̺̻͉̠̗͓̻̠̹̻̞̲̩͚͚͔̯̠̣̲̼͓̳͚̦̯̦͔̥͓̦̲͓̠̲͕̤̫͔̼̮̠͖̼͓̞͈̼̗̰̬̠̪͕̭͆̃́͋͛͗̀̀͌̈́̔̋̈́͐̓̅̄̒̓̓̒̔͂̌̈̈́͊̔̈̌̑̅͗̌͑̽̿̅̔̊͆̿̉̌͌̾͆̒̈́̽͐̃̊̌͒̊́̊̍͊̽̌͐̇̂̊̀͋̈́̑͛̅͗̀̎̌̓̎̓͑̌̐͆̆̑͋́̂̓͊̑̐͗̒̑̽̈́̇̽̇̃̈́̋̾͑̀̏̍̉̿͆̚̕̚̚͘͘̚̕͘͘̚̚͘͘͜͜͠͝͝͠͝͠ͅ ̴̧̧̧̨̢̧̧̨̢̧̢̡̨̛̛͚̹̠̩̜̮̠̭̣̠̭̻̲̺̗͔̰̱̯̤̻̜̣̯̮͕͈̫̟͇̟͉̯̻̣͓̗̫̥̠̥͉̻͚̟̰͍͇͍͔͍̯̙͉͙̲̜͓̱̹̗̗̯͉̞͔̬͕͙̻̮̫̱͇̠̲̯̬̪̼͒̾͑̊̅̈́͆͑̈́̿͆͂̄̈͆́̐͒͆̂́̆̉̈́̅̾̊̀͌̒̌̾̉̎̂͐̎͌̔͋͋̈́̓̋͐̃̂̐̏͗̀͛͊̽̒̿̍̈̀̇̾̆̃͌̉̚͘̚̕͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅw̵̨̡̡̡̧̧̨̨̧̧̺̮̭̬͉̤̭̲͕̤̮̪͖͎̲̪̺̬̻̖͙̻̝̪̰͎̣̳̤̗͚̦̭͈̲̯̤̗̬̳̱̲͔̘̜̜̦̠̥̭͖̞͔͈̮̲̰̪͕̰̭͓̮̱̮̥̫̠̗͇͌̎͐̎͋̔̓͋̄̿̌́̅̐̒̌̍͗̈̌̈́̉̀̏͆̿̏͌̊́̌̐͛̈̿̌̇͋̐̽̃͛̿̔͆̈́͋̑̇͊̓͒̌̎̀͐̑̓̀͋̐̿̒͆̎̏̿͌̈̐̐́̍̈́̽̌͆́̽͌̀̽̑̄̇͘̕̕̚͘̚̕͘̚͜͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅỏ̷̡̧̻̩͚̝̣̩̮̯̗̫͓̘̣͉̩̞͕̻͕̥̬̳͚̾͋̅͠͠ͅŗ̴̧̢̡̡̧̢̡̡̛̥̲̬̜͖̦͈̫̯̭̼͍͉̥̠̪̝̯̤̮̭̣̟̹̱̼̹̰̫̰̻̻̠̲̲̺̪͔̦̬͔̳̦̱̪̠̩͎͇͈̝̩͓̞͔̥͙̺͖̮̣̻͇̹͇͙̮̞̠̼̙͔̝̭̥̩͙̗̻̭̲͓̏̆̇͐̌͐̃̎̐͋̀́̈́̓̒͑̇͋̍̌̐͐̓́̈́̄̑̅͂̎̏́̉͂͆̄̋̽̾͗̋̔̾̈́̎͋̈́́̇̐̀̏̅̅̂̏̄̽̓̑̉͐̅͛̔̍̇̇̒͊̈́̃̿̉̕̕̕͜͜͠͝͠͠͝ͅͅͅd̷̢̢̧̨̨̨̨̧̧̡̧̢̲̥̲̫͖̱̯̟̻̫͈͍̻̳̲͔̩̖̭̮̦̞̲̥͎̼͙̬̜̰̗̼͈͍̻̭̱̝̤̪̟̼̖̫͖̝̝̱̮̫̺͉̙̳̙̯͇̩͈͉̳̥̗͙͎͙̰̞̻̱͖̹̣͇̠̳̹̖̖̲̫̜̠̝͈͇͔̹̦̜̭͎̳̣̩̗̩̻̩̦̖͈͓̥̱͓̩̖̩̲͓̗̩͎̈́̓͒̐̑͛̅͒̔͆́̇̊̿͑͌̎̈̂̌̌̓̔͌͐̇̾̀̂̉̽̇̓̔̈́͆̀̓̑̆̍͗͒̈́̀̑̽͒̏̅͂̓̍̌̄̓͆̽̈͌͂̊͊̃̈̎͗̍͋̚̚̕͘͘̕͜͜͝͠͠͠͠͝͝ͅͅͅs̸̡̡̨̧̨̧̧̧̨̨̡̛̛̛̤͍̲͕̲͈͓̪͔̦͈̞̲̻̥͔͍̟͓̭͓̬͕̦͖̗̝̘̻̗̩͖̭̫̮͍̙̗͔͎̠̦͇̣̥̠͈̯̳̤̣̠̣͖̣̱̱̺̺̬̦͔̤͓̯̮̦̟͖̞̮̣͉͓̣̼̪͖̮̘̳̘̺̯̩̞̦̗̰͙͂̍̈́̓̉̋̍̇̂͌̄̂̍̆̐̀̔̄̊̊̑̿̒̀̂̀̿̎̈́́̋́̓̐̓̊̀̔͌͂͐́̓̅̆̃͆̅͒̃̓̑̊͛̂̈́̒̋̊̃̍̃̈́͆̈́̄̈͗̓̆̌̂́̕̕̕͘͜͜͜͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅ.̶̢̧̛̗̰̯̺̺̳̙̭̹̤͉̪̘͎͇͈̝͔͎̤͖̜̠̬̹̝̱͈̺̰̝̫͎̹̫̬̳̜̖͚̘̣͑́̇́̎̈́͒̉̐̌̐̂̒͂̔̍̍̌̋͒͑͑͑͒́͋͋̎̈́͋̄̃̔̅̀̐̒͛̅̇̈̊͊͌͊̄̆̎̉̅͗̃͒͗͂̆̈͌̊̉̐̍͛̆̓̾̇̆̍͆̓͑́̈́̆̌͘͘̚͘̕͘͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͝"

Is that the sort of pathetic spectacle I am reduced to?

The needle crept closer.

Fucking speak!

Their voice cracked. "Please."

The needle did not jab into his eye. Too violent a word, 'jab.' Its entry was slow. In the surreal environment they had created you could describe it as leisurely. They almost did not believe it was happening, so slight was the resistance, so automatic the effort.

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[Emprexx Plush]

Which one do you reckon broke you?

Was it her?

Glass against their fingers. It’d risen to the top of their bag over their walk, each pull blotting out the last in thickening haze. They could leave now, return to it along their walk to the front door. Nothing she said had to stay with them. Blaise let her babble because who would deny the dead their final words? When they left all she would have to confess to was another corpse. They could allow her this much. That was courtesy. That was the lie they chose to explain why they were frozen in her gaze. Until Megan decided it wasn’t about her anymore.

She.

She thought she was doing them a favor. Blaise lacked the medical knowledge to understand how quickly blood loss warped the mind so perhaps it was malnutrition. Delirium or some tropical disease. What it was not was a ploy. Megan believed with the precious few beats left in her heart that her death wish was some sort of kindness extended to them so they might finally be rid of her.

Their whole body turned to face her, right arm still crossing their stomach into their bag. “Why.” It was not a question. There was no answer. “I used you. Is that,” they nearly fell as they took a trembling step towards her, “is that what you need to hear? I used you. Then I was finished.” Something foul rose from their throat and they spat but the taste remained. “Haven’t thought, I don’t need, don’t miss you, you, you pathetic-” The room was spinning but she got to be stable, she stared at them holding the body of this, they did not even know what they had been to each other but she got to cling to that bond to the last inconvenience.

Their right hand shifted from the bottle to a handle.

In their mind’s eye four fingers brushed through dirty blonde hair, so careful not to let the bandages below them touch it despite the blood already pooled under its fringe. In the present their left hand grasped long strands of brown in the tightest fist their injury would allow, dragging Megan away from the body. Her stare did not break. “You were not my first disaster.” It held between them both, faces close enough for Blaise’s breath to warm her face. “You will not be my last.” It burned coming up their throat. “Reparation. Haunting. You may have whichever you desire.” The hoarse rasp of their voice grew quieter with each sentence. “But you are not alone, and you do not have priority.” Eye on eye, where neither could watch the movements of Blaise’s hand leaving the bag. “Let me show you to the line.”

Blaise let go of her hair. Their grip was too compromised, it could not hold on through the axe burying itself in her neck.

Sure got a heck of a lot worse after, but you was on a path before you turned up at her door, yeah?

Maybe it was him.

Blaise could not recall a time when they did not feel they were an aberration. It was not a word they would have used the first time they felt it. That would come with years of pretension and performance, but was that not the point? In moments of pure, unobscured self-reflection(appreciative or not of how rare those moments had become), they learned to be the way they were through an inescapable truth: the world was not designed with the way they saw it in mind. Rigor and labels, definition, stability, these were not things that came naturally to them. It was not that they made no attempt so much as it was that they made too many. Adolescence brought revelation that there was no place for them but the one they made for themself, and the opportunity to invent that place without bonds outside their parents when they transplanted so far away it might well have been another world. What began as exploration turned to a way of life, one that kept them safe from the expectations of others. No barb could touch them or obligation fetter them if they remained ebullient in both senses, overflowing with a satisfaction too agitating to be captured. Untouchable. As unconcerned with the world around them or any damage they caused it as it fundamentally was with them.

It would be gross supposition to say that Parker understood that better than most. To the contrary much of their relationship hinged on a lack of understanding. A sort of symbiosis where Parker possessed too little expression and Blaise far too much, and with enough exercise they might level each other out. Blaise evaded doubts by refusing to give them shape within their mind, but one that stubbornly clung to form between them was that if they ever ceased to tease his curiosity he would be done with them. It would not be so traumatic a thing. They had other pursuits. Still, he was one of the few people who demanded nothing but entertainment from them and provided the same in return. They did not jeopardize that relationship by giving him any answers that would not inspire more questions. Good business, nothing more. It worked, no? Among all circumstances when they should have been at each other's throats they had found a level of comfort and certainty that had eluded them both elsewhere. An ease demonstrably not in their imagination from how free Parker was to not only fail but admit failure in front of them. He showed weakness while being one of the only people who could comprehend what that meant around them, and in their normal dynamic this would be a moment to seize dominance. They would snatch their cigarette back with a remark measured between cruelty and fondness, perhaps play a trick with the smoke and contort his comment on taste. The outline of it was clear in their mind, something about how the act was not acquisition but conquest. A mastery of inhibition through will. One he was not ready for, but perhaps they could assist him.

Some bullshit like that.

Yeah. Bullshit. They said it again in their head, acknowledged the facade for the span of a thought and then another. There was another path in front of them without all their, for the third expanded time, complete and utter bullshit. Neither of them had shown interest in exploring it back home, in dropping all the games and just kind of seeing what it was like to be with each other. No motives, no bullshit, just two kids who felt afraid and out of place feeling each other out because it was nice to be accepted despite how much they'd messed up along the way. Blaise never took that bet. They weren't sure it had been put on the table for them before. It might not be on the table now. It'd be a blunder if they went all in and returned the same vulnerability Parker was showing just for it to turn out to be another ploy that they misread. The kind of loss that wouldn't anger them, and it wouldn't excite them. It would just...hurt.

When someone could hurt them, Blaise always struck first. It'd been a pretty effective strategy. As far as they allowed themself to believe they had been safe for years. Untouched.

They were so alone.

While they were entertaining doubts, they should acknowledge one more. That they might not leave. So they had to ask themself: under all the bullshit, were they satisfied? Or did they want to be touched, just once, and see how it felt?

Blaise smiled at Parker with nothing behind it and reached for him.

It burned.

Mm. Could be. Might notta hit you so hard if it weren't for what you already done, though.

"It was kind of you to think of them. I am certain they think of you."

Perhaps that was his secret. It seemed too straightforward, but it was exactly the sort of thing that would have eluded them for decades without assistance. Dante had no worries of his own because they were always bound up in someone else. Send him away on a vacation far nice than he'd ever seen with his boyfriend in tow and he will ask what he can do for those left behind. Throw him on an abandoned island, bore a hole in his leg, force him to watch his classmates turn to killers, and he will trust the first person in danger he sees. Ask him for direction and he will falter, give him direction and he will follow it until his legs give out. Leg, now, they supposed. Now instincts of self-preservation he hadn't stretched in who knew how long were straining for release he could not grant them. He wanted to look after everyone else while his body desperately needed him to look after himself, and all that remained in the middle was confused inaction. If he were to survive he had to be led one way or the other. That was their unsolvable problem. Leading him their way would ruin everything about him they found desirable, but that very desirability stemmed from their inability to understand let alone replicate what it was that let him ignore himself the way they ignored the rest of the world. The intangible factors were too difficult for them to capture, but the difference between them was as easy at looking at their bags.

Dante's personal bag was full of souvenirs and snacks meant to share. Nothing in it was wholly his but a pair of socks. The highlights of Blaise's personal bags were an outfit they'd meant to surprise Parker with and two packs of cigarettes, now three lighter than they were this morning. They would share the latter with no one, and taking the former as some act of compassion would be naive. If they wanted him to enjoy it, they would have worn it during the trip. Changing into it during one of their last stops and slipping aboard where he would inevitably force himself to look but not touch was purely about power. It nearly always was between them.

Their assigned bags were not so different. The same tools, the same map, the same supplies though Dante's were now considerably lighter. There was one key difference though. In Blaise's, there had been a bottle that now sat in Dante's hands. It came with nothing more than a note confirming what its label already told them. Their captors had been generous enough to give Dante a little more detail about his assignment. A small manual detailing the lump of plastic they now held in their hand. They remembered headlines about it when it was first designed, a thing more political statement than weapon. It must not have been terribly effective as either, they'd heard none of the doom and gloom prophesied by its proliferation come to pass.

The manual called it "Liberator."

A pretentious name, but one it earned when they pressed the barrel to Dante's temple and set him free.

'cept we already been 'round that one already. It weren't never about Dante. So I reckon it weren't never about Megan or Parker neither.

I 'spose that brings us right up to the point.

[Emprexx Plush]

I ain't here to rain on your parade. You put on a heck of a show.

The water felt good on their bare skin. They should not relish it. Familiar impatience urged them towards efficiency; wash what was needed and take a better position up the shore or inside the boat while their clothes dry. It was not as if they could properly enjoy the relief regardless, it was too awkward to attempt to submerge themself without getting their bandages wet. The water splashed over their thighs but did not go much farther unless they carried it themself. A water bottle had been repurposed for a makeshift shower at first, but it was empty in their hand. The axe hung in the other. They did not know what water might do to their rifle so they left it on the shore, close enough that if they heard someone coming they might retrieve it.

Blaise should have retrieved it by now. They had finished washing themself some minutes ago. Little had changed since they brought the empty bottle to their side the last time. Birds flew and called nearby. Small waves crashed within the bay. It all registered, but in the same dulled sense their instincts to hurry up did. Becoming sober...ish...had done little to restore their senses. Fragments of their attention still lagged behind, with Parker. With Megan. With Lorenzo. With Demetri. With Faith. With Dolly. With Dante. Mm. With Dante. The others were recent, fresh either in act or recollection, but the pieces they had left with Dante had never come home. That is why they did not think about him. They had done so well finding new fixation for the past week.

They had no focus nor direction now. A body stood in the surf directing eyes which saw nothing towards a point without function on the horizon.

Just look at it.

Not a soul as far as you can see.

Naked as a jaybird.

Ain't even sayin' nothing but what's in your own head. You committed. Sincerely, lemme tip my cap, you were elbow deep in it. 'course I ain't forgot.

It was the cameras. Everywhere anyone went there were a multitude of eyes hanging on their every breath. Now that they were considering it consciously they could not imagine how the others did not feel the constant pinpricks of attention riddling their bodies.

You ain't ever alone out here, so you ain't never actin' like it neither. There's a difference, though, 'tween the eyes all around that don't say nothin' and what you do when there's folk you might see a time or two again.

One.

Two.

Three.

Index.

Middle.

Ring.

One.

Two.

Three.

Index.

Middle.

Ring.

One.

Two.

Three.

Index.

Middle.

Ring.

At the front of their mind they could not answer Justin's question any more readily than they could have told him why they chose that beat. They had not consciously made the choice. Memory came as an excuse in much the same way that the pattern emerged from their fingertips and the repeated it, conformed to it, because it felt natural. But that was not to say either was thoughtless. As they considered them side by side it occurred to them that their impulses informed each other.

One.

Two.

Three.

Index.

Middle.

Ring.

Because where there could have been a four, there was no finger. The nub of flesh Ace had left them with twitched ever so minutely. Pain shot back to their wrist when it rubbed against their bandages and perhaps that's what had urged them to restart the pattern over and over, as if eventually their malformed digit would learn there was no place for it in the rhythm. But it did not hear the drumming.

"Why?"

It knew only the memory of being whole.

That is what they wanted to remember.

"The pork was fucking incredible."

Their smile was rigid.

Gosh darn cinematic. The little tap dance with your fingers, you figure he bought that was on the spot? Like you weren't thinkin' about it? I mean, you knew it was an act. It's always an act, ain't it?

Their laugh was dry and short. Movement it demanded hurt their jaw, which hurt what used to be their ear, which hurt their head. A long drag afterwards brought the burn to help them forget.

"I understood how to miss them."

Questions buzzed indecipherable inside them like so much static. Words came through here, there, implication of a plan they'd once had one they approached him. It was hard to keep continuity when they kept struggling to exist without something to lash out against. Another day they might have used him as a contact point to grind the memory of, mm, Cam something, one of the many. The one who had clung to Dante. Michael had killed her. She was his first. They remembered that like they remembered her name but still lied to no one but themself to serve malice they could no longer muster. It rotted away inside them unfulfilled yet raw, too uncomfortable to touch as directly as they just had. Impulse to pivot overtook intent they could not recall.

"Who do you miss most?"

Lots of things you can't remember, don't wanna remember, lotsa...what'd ya call 'em? Pivots. All up in your head where you ain't makin' justification to anybody but you. It's good. I'd say I don't understand much about this sorta thing but...y'know.

Alternatives came unbidden, as they often did.

You reckon you lie to us enough for both of us?

Parker with a hand outstretched. They could not recall his smile looking so easy. They spoke over coffee without tension about nothing in particular. The words were not so important as the environment they created. Casual, that was the word. Parker and Blaise had never been casual in any sense but performative but they could imagine it.

It weren't never about Parker.

Dante fresh off the field. Of course they would not let him touch them. Laps were not worth ruining their outfit. When you saw Dante run once you had seen everything there was; he was talented but he didn't change. Pleasure was his motivation rather than competition. it would not amount to anything. Still they watched him because it brought him joy to have company, and they allowed themself to enjoy seeing him happy. Blaise had never once attended Dante's meets, much less a practice, but they could see him on the field.

It weren't never about Dante.

Megan lying next to them, her fingertips lightly tracing behind their ear. No words. No circumstances. There was no space to describe. The act of being open to her, seeing her happiness shine without hesitation in their presence, was alien enough. They could see it and nothing more.

It weren't never about Megan.

Beryl had been a friend to Blaise. She was a friend to most people that she met, and they had bonded to a degree over her pursuit of non-heteronormative relationship structure. A shame that her ambitions mostly ended in being burdened with two disappointing men instead of one. It was not so surprising that Michael might have drifted into her orbit in one way or the other given her poor taste. Just not so directly that they remembered him from any of their conversations. It might have been lost in the wide range Beryl could cover. She had much to say but Blaise did not get the sense from her that she enjoyed the sound of her own voice.

It weren't even about you.

Blaise had appreciated it well enough for both of them.

They remembered it.

It came to them in facsimile before they disappeared into the night. Out of practice, yes, and simple. Two words captured imperfectly in the darkness.

"Goodbye Michael."

You was fishin' for a way to hurt him from the start.

Thank you for proving my point.

"Because I am selfish. I destroy every-"

Shut the fuck up.

Pardon?

You ain't a hurricane. You ain't a supervillain. You ain't God. You ain't this unknownable force a' chaos tearin' it's way through reality what can't contain your nonsense. You're a petty high school bitch who wanted to make some nerd feel small, and ain't no stack of bodies between ya gonna change that.

You cannot speak to me this way. It is not...it is unnatural. You do not talk like that.

Beggin' your pardon, but If there ain't nothin' else you learn from these hours together you shoulda picked up this: Ol' Carl can do whatever the fuck he wants these days.

[Emprexx Plush]

So y'all ready yet, or what?

Ready?

To admit it.

Is...is that your function? Admission? Where has your attention been? How many more confessions could you want? Are you so simple you do not realize what you cut off? Have you wasted our, no, no, my time so thoroughly that you do not realize I fulfilled your purpose days ago?

I 'spose all told that'd about line up with what you made me for, but nah.

What came next was a blur of indecision. Staggering in this direction and that. Breathless insults mangled in no comprehensible language. Shots wild in whatever direction they happened to be facing. Supplies strewn between bags, wiping, burning, hissing, wrapping, bandages around their ear and the stump that was once their left pinky, those details they could allow themselves to recall plainly. The axe, they had taken it along with the rest of their things, this was also admissible. Other details, on the other hand? A spent cigarette on the ground. Pooling blood. A hole familiarly empty. Their hand wet and reaching for something, holding something, cradling something.

Unimportant. They would not acknowledge them. Unobserved. No one of relevance could argue they occurred at all. When they left camp they would have forgotten they were supposed to forget. Yes. If they presented that at face, who could assert otherwise?

There was no one left who cared if they were lying.

What's it you say about a good lie? It's always wrapped around some kinda truth?

If they could say that they had destroyed someone with such clear disregard for her safety if they only broke her body. If they could take responsibility and pride in being the person who ruined everything they touched if her last breaths came with the solace that she had accomplished something in her time here.

A body stood in the surf directing eyes which saw nothing towards a point without function on the horizon.

The narrative they had so deftly woven over their perception hit a snag. It was. An uncommon sensation. They saw the strands stretching on before them and they.

They did not know which lie to spin to truth.

They waited.

It no longer mattered for what.

It ain't bad. I'm sure there's some nuggets tucked up in there somewheres that tell the truth. I mean heck, I don't know why I'm beatin' 'round the bush, musta got it from you. I know what's true up in there and don't get me wrong, I respect it. Gets tiresome playin' the same tune too long and who don't love a good remix?

What are you babbling about?

Lord Almighty you been prickly to the end, but it's about time we back up, ain't it?

I do not-

C'mon. I know you've figured it by now. All this can't do nothin', I don't belong, I ruin everythin' hand-wringing. It was new for a spell. Time to move on though, don't ya think?

Why the fuck do you care?

I think I made myself plenty-

No. Fuck you. Fuck this. You get it because you are me or near enough in this, this fatigue or drug or psychosis addled state to understand that it does not matter. None of it matters. Do you understand that? What deluded part of my psyche clings to the notion that there is a point to anything we accomplish? That there is a plan? That there is some future waiting for us? That has never been the case, we do not, we have not, we will not, we cannot work in such a fashion!

I reckon I agree.

So do not lecture me on-what?

I said I agree.

Then what the fuck is your problem?

My problem is I remember what you was when you made me.

“Shut up."

The voice was harsh. Guttural even. It hardly sounded human. It came from below the stairs Dante had just walked up. His fault, really. The creaking had disturbed them in the first place.

"I'm trying to sleep."

Blaise was not unaware of their predicament. Of course they recalled Ms. Garcia's head blooming open. The words were hazy but the tone of the following monologue lingered with them. Drugs were not slowing their mental processes so much to assume it had been a dream. The evidence was all around from the small glance they'd taken around them. They had been kidnapped, they had witnessed a murder, they had been ordered to kill their friends, and they had woken up to such a situation playing out over their head.

They simply didn't care.

You used to be the kinda person who woke up from a kidnappin' to a murder to a compulsion to murder by kidnappin' and decided to hit the snooze 'cuz you weren't bothered.

"Besides, handouts are against your ideology, no?"

Who says somethin' like this to a girl left for dead by BDSM bandits for nothin' but throwin' what you think's ironic in her face.

"Why did you not stop him? The man stands over a flame broiled body and threatens to do it again, and you speak of stories? He's a fucking murderer you idiot! You don't stutter through questions when he runs, you cut him down!" Hiding wouldn't save Sven from their ire either. "And you! My condolences your gifts of deduction were left smeared across the highway, but in the future if you have nothing but fantasy to offer then stay silent and listen to your betters, you invalid shit for brains!" Uncalled for and inadvisable. Distasteful even by their standards. Most unfortunately, however, it was decidedly not Carl. The words did not match the character they had crafted, but even if they had their own tense, heavily accented voice had tore the rant out of their throat.

"Fuck."

Who works up a rant what they know is way past the line usin' language ain't never called for with not a sight a' gain in mind.

Now. Practicality aside, between this and their outburst at Sven they were going to begin developing a reputation. An unfair one! Blaise had no particular biases against the differently abled, that was the proper term now no? Really. It was ridiculous to pretend that their handicaps did not limit them. In a way that by definition made them lesser but that was how you say, mathematics? Not less of a person just less...useful. Hmm. No. Even in their own mind they could hear how this played. They would need to reflect on this explanation considerably before questioned on it in interviews, as they certainly would be if they continued to have confrontations like this. God, the think pieces that would storm their return if they gunned down the both of them right now. It would be an insufferable mischaracterization.

Practicality, though. Even if they were both normal-shit they had done it again-

Didn't need the anger for it, 'cuz it weren't about the anger.

A motion not dissimilar to a wave of excitement in a crowded arena crested through Blaise's eyebrow, reaching its end in the standing ovation of a goal well scored. It was plain to them both that Joanne was going to die. Desperation had robbed her of much of her intelligence, but surely enough remained to know she would not stand up again. Her grief had deftly maneuvered around denial and anger to hook on bargaining, it would not remain inert for long. It was minimal kindness to allow her the dignity of pace, no? A few rounds of begging opposed by silence and she would draw conclusions herself, one singular success to take into oblivion with her. In minutes it would be all she had, they imagined.

Mm.

They did have things to do though.

C'est la vie.

Blaise nodded to the door. "You did not need to come inside. You were not held at gunpoint and told to rob me." The barrel prodded against Joanne's forehead. "We are all making choices. It is not my fault mine are correct."

You knew there weren't no point in it, but ya reveled in it.

Demetri's suffering was its own reward.

'til you decided it was time for somethin' new.

They laughed, but it was joyless.

Their laugh was dry and short.

The sound that followed their words started like a sort of sigh. A cough, then, with the way it rattled their throat. Something like a wheeze. Charitably it could be called a laugh.

I reckon that's what tips it off, really. Every time the same kinda laugh. You change it up a bit, how you think about it, how long, all that. But it's rehearsed, ain't it?

That's what you call one of the ree-tarical questions, just so's you know.

I seen what you been playin'. Like I said before, I respect it. Did yourself a decent hand. But if you's asking what my problem is...it's that past all that boo-hooin' eggs essential what now, I remember.

"Unwanted. That is how you will die Camila. When you do...I hope it is as slow and painful for you as you wanted it to be for Dante."

I remember when you were fuckin' fun. And I miss it. And I know you remember too.

They began to laugh against the wall.

Right?

Yes.

"My name is Blaise."

Tears started to fall down their face.

Quinn was not like Blaise.

They began to laugh against the wall.

The girl wanted them to be the same though. That was useful.

"I had almost given up, you know?" It was a lie. Every part of it falsehood. Their relief was as fake as the girl's conviction, but she had given away her game while theirs was just starting. She wanted so desperately to believe this was all the fault of a faceless voice rather than the people right in front of her, that was where she drew her hope, but she was still afraid to die. She wanted to know who was waiting for her on the other side of the door and not so she could convince them to her point of view but so she could prepare herself if this had all been a preamble to her assault. They could not blame her. It had been exactly that, but she had convinced them.

"You must have heard. I, there have been so many, I kept telling myself I had no choice but it was wearing hollow, I was going to...but I heard you first. You're so right. It's all his fault."

Unraveling her delusions would not be done in a moment. They could not see which thread to pull. With time though they could hurt her so much more than any bullet just by being themself. They sighed deep as if they'd just set down a large weight and sniffled.

"They were all his fault. The rest will be too."

They did not believe her, but she would believe them.

"Thank you. Don't worry, I won't hurt you. It's the least I can do to repay you."

That all you got to say?

I do not understand.

Who's talkin'?

I am.

Are you? 's that you?

Of course it is.

Good.

Who the fuck are you?

My name is Blaise.

What in tarnation's your rock bottom, Blaise?

A pretentious name, but one it earned when they pressed the barrel to Dante's temple and set him free.

Try again.

He would have been there when their captors confirmed some also ran, some deluded lumbering sack of shit whose name was no more worth repeating in their mind than it had been the last several announcements, had stolen Lorenzo from them.

Try again.

They met Megan's gaze not by choice, but because no matter how they stumbled it seemed to follow them, waiting for an answer to a question they had stolen her ability to ask.

Try again.

"The shaft should prove sufficient."

Try again.

He did not assault a boy, he did not deface art, he violated the very soul of artistry and aesthetic.

Try again.

Blaise needed practice.

Try again.

Blaise smiled at Parker with nothing behind it and reached for him.

Try again.

"Speak the words."

The needle crept closer.

Their voice cracked. "Please."

Try again.

The bottle was downed in one breath.

Is that you sayin' you're givin' up?

Yes.

That's it.

...

Right there. You want your real rock bottom? It's gettin' so deep in this game you been playin' that the only thing you can conjure up to drag you out is the most pathetic person you can imagine comin' round to bully you out of your hole.

It's the moment you realize that you been weaker than ol' Carl for a good stretch now.



























































































Fuck.

Mmmhmm.

I. You could have led with that.

Nah. You wouldn't take it serious.

You do not know that.

You do, so I do, so we do. If you still ain't getting that part, aw heck, we're gonna have to fish up another bottle and run it again.

You never answered.

Mm?

why you care. You never answered. Not really. Why do I...why you?

Y'know in all this what my favorite memory is?

What?

You could at least try to guess can't ya? God knows I only got like five of 'em 'fore you cut me off. It ain't that hard.

A variable should make them nervous, but Marco was doing so much work for them. Every time he opened his mouth he made their job easier. Everyone else had to be hearing this insane nonsense, right? Who stands over a burnt corpse and brags about looting it, then moments later declares the devil runs the world like an edgy middle school outcast. Which, to be perfectly fair, was in line with his aesthetic. Sven was hiding, and Tom wasn't quite with them yet, but they could hear Carl if he made a move. It was time for some character growth. "Heya Tom," he said without looking back. "Maybe you can help with a lil' brain teaser. See, four fellas walk into a burnt out room with a deep fried corpse. Three of 'em think that's mighty inhuman, wonder what happened. Fourth one..." His eyes fixed on Marco. "Well he's got a yarn. Goes all, whaddya call it, cee-ehs-aye on the proceedings. Seems mighty confident in his version of events, and mighty pleased with himself for lootin' from the dead." He paused, nodded towards the flare gun in Marco's hands." Next thing ya know he's slingin' turn a' phrase about how he's gonna set those what crossed him to burnin' with a gun he calls a toy along with some colorful b-b-bullshit about the devil runnin' the world."

The barrel of the gun didn't come up yet, but it was close. They did not want to be seen as the aggressor here. No sudden moves from anyone. Mutually assured destruction, that was the phrase no? They did not need action now. What they needed was doubt. Doubt that the others could trust Marco, and doubt that he could trust any of them. In the worst case they could split his focus and make it easier to extricate themself when things inevitably went south. In the best, on the other hand, they might be able to turn them on each other and escape with the supplies he'd mentioned upstairs.

"Can't be the only one thinkin' it, fellas. He was here before all of us, saw him let you in Sven. Startin' to figure he did all this. Shoot, he's dang near braggin' about it what with his trickster god nonsense, like we're too dumb to see he's lyin' when he says he's lyin'. Well, how's about you keep them hands where we can see 'em until we sort this out, eh Loki?"

Character growth. I liked that. I liked it even though I knew I was lyin' and I didn't know why, 'cuz any time we could just tucked tail and run instead of pokin' the bear with the flamethrower. Craziest part is that it worked out. It just...worked out, 'cuz that's what bein' Blaise D'Aramitz is like. For little while there, that's what bein' Carl was like too.

Then you died because you are useless.

That's how the steeple comes down some Sundays. Don't change that I want it back. You must too, figurin' why you came up here in the first place.

He knew only the memory of being whole.

That is what they wanted to remember.

---

Blaise awoke to the sound of rushing water. Wet grass invaded their space in places both expected and unmentionable. An attempt at breath left their throat raw. Movement at all met resistance, their limbs felt almost vestigial, display pieces decommissioned from service rousing great protest to the disturbance of their rest. They had lain so long and so soundly in their position that when they finally forced themself up to their knees they saw an imprint of their shape left in the ground.

They were alone.

No one touched them.

No one spoke.

There was not a boy, bald, green eyes, square jawed, broad browed, thin-lipped, about their height and build wearing a graphic t-shirt, jean shorts, and a cowboy hat waiting for them at the head of the trail.

Suppose, for fantasy's sake, they imagined there was; what would he say?

Y'all ready to head out.

Hold your horses.

Tighter than a Tennessee twister.

That is not a thing. You cannot conjure concepts from thin air and pretend they should be understood.

Look who's talkin'?

Fuck off, Carl.

((Blaise And Carl D'Aramitz In Rat Strats))