There was always a chance, there was every possibility, that his words wouldn’t hit home. Maybe Henry had already decided he didn’t want to keep going anymore, and anything said to him would just be words yelled into the wind. Aurelien… wasn’t sure what he was gonna do, if that did turn out to be the case. He’d keep going along the path of revenge, most likely. But without anybody to act as a counterbalance for his injuries. Without anyone to keep a cool head when his own blood was boiling. Without somebody to push him away from a fatal mistake.
He tried not to think about that as Henry slowly walked closer.
He almost flinched as Henry reached out, might have done so if his body couldn’t even muster up the strength to react. But as soon as Henry’s hand touched Aurelien’s chest, he felt an odd wave of calm spread over him, and he knew, thank God, that they were at an understanding. This would not be the end of the road. This had not gone off without a hitch, but the only thing they could do about it now was to learn from it. They would do better next time. They would face Blaise, or Quinn, or Erika, and when they did, there would only be one body lying on the floor as they walked away.
Aurelien nodded at Henry, taking a few moments longer to catch as much breath as he could, before he followed after the other boy. Marco’s body was a mess, to put it bluntly. Aurelien couldn’t help himself; there was a definite sense of pride, staring down at this lifeless body, this person who’d killed and harmed so many others on the island.
But he could only look at it for a moment. Staring for too long just reminded him that this was a student just like him, someone he’d gone to school with, now with his chest blown open and his face torn to shreds.
“Is that all he had on him? Worth taking, I mean. Cause if it is, we should probably fix this up-”
Aurelien slowly raised his hand, the action still causing him to wince, as he spoke.
“-grab whatever we've left inside, and get the hell on out of here.”
Our Mutual Fiend
Day 6 - Private
"bryony and alba would definitely join the terrorists quote me on this put this quote in signatures put it in history books" - Cicada Days, 2017
Henry nodded, his thoughts already drifting to how exactly to mend Aurelien’s hand, to how much he didn’t really want to go back into the Infirmary and step over Jackson’s body to recover whatever was left in his bag. They’d used a lot of their first aid supplies already. As much as he didn’t want to think of it that way, it was hard to see it as anything other than a waste. It didn’t do Jackson much good.
It was different, though; they weren’t so badly hurt. Aurelien could be helped. Henry had to remind himself to at some point dress the gash on his own arm, a narrow valley dug by a twisted piece of copper that came for him after ripping through Jackson.
“Yeah, only bullets. Figures. At least they’re our bullets. Let’s set up on the other side of the building? I don’t think we want to be sitting out in the open and - well, you’re probably not gonna want to stand.”
It seemed weird to mend Aurelien’s wounds in view of Marco’s ruined body; more than that, Henry genuinely didn’t want to be caught by surprise again. There was a decent spot behind the Infirmary that faced the woods. With any luck, there was no one lurking in the woods. Henry led the two of them around the building, and offered his shoulder to steady Aurelien as they both sat down in the dirt.
Ostensibly it should’ve been easier than a gunshot wound. Clean, sterilize it, immobilize the fingers, wrap it up, and move on. The problem was just how gnarly it looked, and their limited supplies of water and first-aid. As Henry worked away, he started to get a better picture of just how bad it was.
It definitely could have been worse. He didn’t want to imagine it, looking was bad enough.
There weren't any bones sticking out at odd angles; the breaks all seemed confined to the inside of his skin, at least. The broken fingers were easy enough to pick out, as they were starting to swell and had already changed colour. Henry worked silently, pausing only when Aurelien seemed about to pull his hand away. The first thing to do was to wrap up the cut between his index and ring finger, which wasn’t easy given how badly the fingers were swelling.
No doubt they didn’t have the time or supplies to change these too often. Henry tried not to think of how many days they needed to last.
The rest was a slow, methodical process of wrapping his fingers together as best as he could manage. As far as he could guess Aurelien’s unbroken finger had to act as something of a splint for the others. Henry managed to leave his thumb mostly sticking out of the mass of tape and gauze. Not much use for doing anything that required fine manipulation, but considering what they were going to be up to in the next little while, it wouldn’t impede them too much. Aurelien still had a hand free for Ari’s gun.
The mace wasn’t out of the question but it couldn’t be relied upon, not when the people they were going after were so heavily armed.
The people we’re going after. That still didn’t seem right.
Henry sat back against the wall of the Infirmary, and sighed. It was done. The real challenge was just beginning. Staring out at the trees, he finally spoke after what seemed like a long, tense silence.
“I wish I knew how people endured things like this. My family, it’s all a tragedy about a generation back. My Dad’s alive because his grandparents survived the Nazi death camps, but most of their family didn’t. My Mom’s Native, Piikáni. Lot of gaps in her family tree, lots of bad stories in there. It’s a lot of work just to keep their culture alive now. The US Army tried really hard to basically wipe them out. So like, I didn’t really like the stories I heard from my extended family, when we did see them. You could see the generational trauma. The bad things that happened to them didn’t stay on the reserves and in the camps.”
Running his fingers through his messy hair, a pained, wistful expression spread across Henry’s face.
“I should’ve listened to them. Maybe I’d know how to take this. Or not, I’d just like - I’d have a point of reference. I walked away from it. Sometimes I’d hear someone make a Jew joke or see some dumb charicature of an Indian on tv and I’d have to like, remind myself to get offended. If that even makes sense. Hell, I didn’t even bother to correct Wyatt when he asked me if I was ‘Mexican or something.’ I think I just let him run with it because I didn’t wanna get into it.”
His head felt heavy. It might’ve seemed abstract to anyone else, but it weighed on Henry. The why of what they were doing here and what it meant mattered just as much as their path ahead.
“All of those people went through all of that horrible shit hoping they’d get some kind of future, so that I’d have a chance to be born; but I didn’t spend enough time learning about the past. Maybe if I did, they’d still be with me. At least, I’d know better what it was that kept them going through it all. Then I’d… I’d be better at this.”
It was different, though; they weren’t so badly hurt. Aurelien could be helped. Henry had to remind himself to at some point dress the gash on his own arm, a narrow valley dug by a twisted piece of copper that came for him after ripping through Jackson.
“Yeah, only bullets. Figures. At least they’re our bullets. Let’s set up on the other side of the building? I don’t think we want to be sitting out in the open and - well, you’re probably not gonna want to stand.”
It seemed weird to mend Aurelien’s wounds in view of Marco’s ruined body; more than that, Henry genuinely didn’t want to be caught by surprise again. There was a decent spot behind the Infirmary that faced the woods. With any luck, there was no one lurking in the woods. Henry led the two of them around the building, and offered his shoulder to steady Aurelien as they both sat down in the dirt.
Ostensibly it should’ve been easier than a gunshot wound. Clean, sterilize it, immobilize the fingers, wrap it up, and move on. The problem was just how gnarly it looked, and their limited supplies of water and first-aid. As Henry worked away, he started to get a better picture of just how bad it was.
It definitely could have been worse. He didn’t want to imagine it, looking was bad enough.
There weren't any bones sticking out at odd angles; the breaks all seemed confined to the inside of his skin, at least. The broken fingers were easy enough to pick out, as they were starting to swell and had already changed colour. Henry worked silently, pausing only when Aurelien seemed about to pull his hand away. The first thing to do was to wrap up the cut between his index and ring finger, which wasn’t easy given how badly the fingers were swelling.
No doubt they didn’t have the time or supplies to change these too often. Henry tried not to think of how many days they needed to last.
The rest was a slow, methodical process of wrapping his fingers together as best as he could manage. As far as he could guess Aurelien’s unbroken finger had to act as something of a splint for the others. Henry managed to leave his thumb mostly sticking out of the mass of tape and gauze. Not much use for doing anything that required fine manipulation, but considering what they were going to be up to in the next little while, it wouldn’t impede them too much. Aurelien still had a hand free for Ari’s gun.
The mace wasn’t out of the question but it couldn’t be relied upon, not when the people they were going after were so heavily armed.
The people we’re going after. That still didn’t seem right.
Henry sat back against the wall of the Infirmary, and sighed. It was done. The real challenge was just beginning. Staring out at the trees, he finally spoke after what seemed like a long, tense silence.
“I wish I knew how people endured things like this. My family, it’s all a tragedy about a generation back. My Dad’s alive because his grandparents survived the Nazi death camps, but most of their family didn’t. My Mom’s Native, Piikáni. Lot of gaps in her family tree, lots of bad stories in there. It’s a lot of work just to keep their culture alive now. The US Army tried really hard to basically wipe them out. So like, I didn’t really like the stories I heard from my extended family, when we did see them. You could see the generational trauma. The bad things that happened to them didn’t stay on the reserves and in the camps.”
Running his fingers through his messy hair, a pained, wistful expression spread across Henry’s face.
“I should’ve listened to them. Maybe I’d know how to take this. Or not, I’d just like - I’d have a point of reference. I walked away from it. Sometimes I’d hear someone make a Jew joke or see some dumb charicature of an Indian on tv and I’d have to like, remind myself to get offended. If that even makes sense. Hell, I didn’t even bother to correct Wyatt when he asked me if I was ‘Mexican or something.’ I think I just let him run with it because I didn’t wanna get into it.”
His head felt heavy. It might’ve seemed abstract to anyone else, but it weighed on Henry. The why of what they were doing here and what it meant mattered just as much as their path ahead.
“All of those people went through all of that horrible shit hoping they’d get some kind of future, so that I’d have a chance to be born; but I didn’t spend enough time learning about the past. Maybe if I did, they’d still be with me. At least, I’d know better what it was that kept them going through it all. Then I’d… I’d be better at this.”
He nodded, and let Henry guide him round the side of his building, allowing him to shoulder some of Aurelien’s dead weight as they walked. It didn’t feel right, letting this much smaller, much less physically imposing boy half-carry him such a short distance, especially not when they were both supposed to be sharing the brunt of the situation equally.
It wasn’t like he could do much about that, though. Once something started him moving, or doing something, then he could keep doing it for what felt like indefinitely, but the moment he stopped, the moment his body reached a resting point, everything caught up with him again. He scant few seconds he’d spent looking down at Marco’s body had been enough for all of the exhaustion and bruises and scars to hit him all over again.
Besides, Henry had clearly shown how strong he truly was. That made up for any physical weakness in an instance.
He sat down in the dirt, back pressed against the infirmary wall, holding his arm out shakily for Henry to inspect the damage again. He could feel mud, not yet dried, seeping into his jeans, mingling with the filth that was already soaked into them, dried patterns of dark red across his legs. It bothered him, though he couldn’t muster up the strength to shift to a dryer spot, especially not when Henry started bandaging up his fingers, preventing him from doing much other than wincing and hissing and gritting his teeth. It wasn’t the fact he was getting his clothes dirty; he’d always been a rough-and-tumble boy, mud tracks and grass stains on his trousers were never uncommon sights. But he’d gotten Dante’s blood on his jeans, way back when. It felt wrong, somehow, muddying them up. Like he was covering Dante up. Like he was burying him.
It felt all too final. Like a memory being suppressed. A photo being erased.
Aurelien said nothing, though. He sat still, gently turning his wrist, alternating between looking down at his hand and looking across at Henry, listening to the other boy talk. It was hard to find the right word for what Henry was saying. ‘Fascinating’ came close, but it felt far too… positive a descriptor for the history that Henry’s family had gone through. ‘Absorbing’, perhaps. Yeah. That felt better.
Because, really, before this week, Aurelien had had practically zero knowledge of Henry Sparks or anything about him, and now here they were. Sat by the side of an infirmary, nursing their wounds, with Henry telling him about the history of his extended family and everything they’d experienced to get to this point in time. He supposed that in times of strife, the amount of time you spent with somebody didn’t matter so much as what you went through with them. God knows, they’d both had to shoulder burdens far weightier than they deserved.
For perhaps the first time, Aurelien was forced to look inwards from the outside, compare the reasons he was fighting to somebody else’s, and he couldn’t help but feel as though he was falling short. From what he could see, it seemed like the weight of generations was pressing down heavily on Henry, family upon family to make proud and to make something of himself. And Aurelien had family that he wanted to be proud of him too, of course, but, well… his mom was from Chattanooga. His dad was from Luxembourg City. He had grandparents in both countries, and that was about the extent of his knowledge of the Valter/Kaufman family tree. With that aside, he had a drive for revenge, and, well… then what?
He stared at his hand for a while, then spoke.
“I don’t think that any tragedy could properly prepare you for something like this. That’s why it’s a tragedy, I guess. No matter how much information you take from the past, it’ll never be enough. Never quite enough when you’re living through it personally. You just…”
Aurelien could feel, as he ran his free hand idly through the grass by his side, the stem of a flower, caught between his fingertips. A tiny daisy. He glanced at it momentarily, before moving his hand away, letting it be free.
“Nobody can ask anything more of us than to do our best. It’s all we can do. And if our best is trying to make this island as safe as possible for our classmates in their last few days?”
He tried to smile at Henry. It did nothing good, comparing traumas. It was so simple to do. So toxic, as well. Death was on the line out here. It would only hurt him, if he were to worry and wonder whether he deserved to do what he was doing, when somebody else had gone through worse.
“I don’t think anybody can have a reason not to be proud of us."
It wasn’t like he could do much about that, though. Once something started him moving, or doing something, then he could keep doing it for what felt like indefinitely, but the moment he stopped, the moment his body reached a resting point, everything caught up with him again. He scant few seconds he’d spent looking down at Marco’s body had been enough for all of the exhaustion and bruises and scars to hit him all over again.
Besides, Henry had clearly shown how strong he truly was. That made up for any physical weakness in an instance.
He sat down in the dirt, back pressed against the infirmary wall, holding his arm out shakily for Henry to inspect the damage again. He could feel mud, not yet dried, seeping into his jeans, mingling with the filth that was already soaked into them, dried patterns of dark red across his legs. It bothered him, though he couldn’t muster up the strength to shift to a dryer spot, especially not when Henry started bandaging up his fingers, preventing him from doing much other than wincing and hissing and gritting his teeth. It wasn’t the fact he was getting his clothes dirty; he’d always been a rough-and-tumble boy, mud tracks and grass stains on his trousers were never uncommon sights. But he’d gotten Dante’s blood on his jeans, way back when. It felt wrong, somehow, muddying them up. Like he was covering Dante up. Like he was burying him.
It felt all too final. Like a memory being suppressed. A photo being erased.
Aurelien said nothing, though. He sat still, gently turning his wrist, alternating between looking down at his hand and looking across at Henry, listening to the other boy talk. It was hard to find the right word for what Henry was saying. ‘Fascinating’ came close, but it felt far too… positive a descriptor for the history that Henry’s family had gone through. ‘Absorbing’, perhaps. Yeah. That felt better.
Because, really, before this week, Aurelien had had practically zero knowledge of Henry Sparks or anything about him, and now here they were. Sat by the side of an infirmary, nursing their wounds, with Henry telling him about the history of his extended family and everything they’d experienced to get to this point in time. He supposed that in times of strife, the amount of time you spent with somebody didn’t matter so much as what you went through with them. God knows, they’d both had to shoulder burdens far weightier than they deserved.
For perhaps the first time, Aurelien was forced to look inwards from the outside, compare the reasons he was fighting to somebody else’s, and he couldn’t help but feel as though he was falling short. From what he could see, it seemed like the weight of generations was pressing down heavily on Henry, family upon family to make proud and to make something of himself. And Aurelien had family that he wanted to be proud of him too, of course, but, well… his mom was from Chattanooga. His dad was from Luxembourg City. He had grandparents in both countries, and that was about the extent of his knowledge of the Valter/Kaufman family tree. With that aside, he had a drive for revenge, and, well… then what?
He stared at his hand for a while, then spoke.
“I don’t think that any tragedy could properly prepare you for something like this. That’s why it’s a tragedy, I guess. No matter how much information you take from the past, it’ll never be enough. Never quite enough when you’re living through it personally. You just…”
Aurelien could feel, as he ran his free hand idly through the grass by his side, the stem of a flower, caught between his fingertips. A tiny daisy. He glanced at it momentarily, before moving his hand away, letting it be free.
“Nobody can ask anything more of us than to do our best. It’s all we can do. And if our best is trying to make this island as safe as possible for our classmates in their last few days?”
He tried to smile at Henry. It did nothing good, comparing traumas. It was so simple to do. So toxic, as well. Death was on the line out here. It would only hurt him, if he were to worry and wonder whether he deserved to do what he was doing, when somebody else had gone through worse.
“I don’t think anybody can have a reason not to be proud of us."
"bryony and alba would definitely join the terrorists quote me on this put this quote in signatures put it in history books" - Cicada Days, 2017
That was nice to hear, and Henry wanted to believe it. Even if thinking about exactly what those watching or reading would’ve thought about their actions wasn’t pleasant. Killing Marco wasn’t something to be proud of, even if it needed to be done. Even if what Henry did was what most people imagined they’d do in a similar situation. The kind of thing boisterous people loudly proclaimed as if taking a life was impressive.
There were probably things his ancestors did that felt wrong. Levels they had to stoop to, below dignity and humanity, just to survive. That wasn’t what was so important about their stories, he figured. The most important parts were the bits of humanity they held onto, the things they refused to abandon even if their survival might’ve depended on doing so. It wasn’t just enough to keep breathing, to keep seeing the sun rise and set again a few more times.
They had to survive, and that meant more than just living. Their lives had to be more than the worst parts of them left. With that in mind, maybe there could be some good, some victory even if they didn’t make it.
No one could find a reason to not be proud of them - if they lived and died as the people their loved ones remembered.
“For the most part. If we do our best. If we take this path, you and I are both gonna find plenty of excuses to not be the people we’re supposed to be. That’s the point.”
Henry stood up, dusting off his hands as he did so.
“This wouldn’t even be a question if we all died in a bus crash or something, that would’ve been easier for people in a way; but, we didn’t. The terrorists decided to take us away a piece at a time. A day at a time. It’s worse than just killing us, it’s killing the memories of us that people had by souring them with… all of this.”
Reaching into his bag, he pulled the Punt Gun back out and slung it over his shoulder. Checking the breech, he once again saw his etching next to the datestamp: BFG1899. A childish thing written when the gun and what he’d do with it was still something of an abstraction.
He was basically still a kid, though. No one could really blame him, he figured.
Plus, this place had its share of demons. The persistent heat was fitting, in a way. A bead of sweat dripped off his brow, and he brushed it away. Henry spoke, more to assure himself that the things he said was what he really thought and not delusional, idealistic optimism. There was a conspicuous distance in his voice, like someone reciting words that weren’t really their own.
“We can turn that around. There’s a chance to let the world know who we really were. It’s the only way to beat them. The only way to save ourselves.”
Once again, Henry took hold of his psyche and dragged it back to Earth, casting himself down to the sordid task at hand. Away from abstractions and history and back to rage and resolve and all of the things that had happened to them and all the things he’d never imagined he’d have to be.
He turned to Aurelien, hoping only the better half of all that was visible on his face.
“Blaise and the rest are already damned. We’re just the ones that get to bring them the good news.”
He held out a hand to Aurelien, to help him back on his feet.
“You ready? This only ends when we do.”
There were probably things his ancestors did that felt wrong. Levels they had to stoop to, below dignity and humanity, just to survive. That wasn’t what was so important about their stories, he figured. The most important parts were the bits of humanity they held onto, the things they refused to abandon even if their survival might’ve depended on doing so. It wasn’t just enough to keep breathing, to keep seeing the sun rise and set again a few more times.
They had to survive, and that meant more than just living. Their lives had to be more than the worst parts of them left. With that in mind, maybe there could be some good, some victory even if they didn’t make it.
No one could find a reason to not be proud of them - if they lived and died as the people their loved ones remembered.
“For the most part. If we do our best. If we take this path, you and I are both gonna find plenty of excuses to not be the people we’re supposed to be. That’s the point.”
Henry stood up, dusting off his hands as he did so.
“This wouldn’t even be a question if we all died in a bus crash or something, that would’ve been easier for people in a way; but, we didn’t. The terrorists decided to take us away a piece at a time. A day at a time. It’s worse than just killing us, it’s killing the memories of us that people had by souring them with… all of this.”
Reaching into his bag, he pulled the Punt Gun back out and slung it over his shoulder. Checking the breech, he once again saw his etching next to the datestamp: BFG1899. A childish thing written when the gun and what he’d do with it was still something of an abstraction.
He was basically still a kid, though. No one could really blame him, he figured.
Plus, this place had its share of demons. The persistent heat was fitting, in a way. A bead of sweat dripped off his brow, and he brushed it away. Henry spoke, more to assure himself that the things he said was what he really thought and not delusional, idealistic optimism. There was a conspicuous distance in his voice, like someone reciting words that weren’t really their own.
“We can turn that around. There’s a chance to let the world know who we really were. It’s the only way to beat them. The only way to save ourselves.”
Once again, Henry took hold of his psyche and dragged it back to Earth, casting himself down to the sordid task at hand. Away from abstractions and history and back to rage and resolve and all of the things that had happened to them and all the things he’d never imagined he’d have to be.
He turned to Aurelien, hoping only the better half of all that was visible on his face.
“Blaise and the rest are already damned. We’re just the ones that get to bring them the good news.”
He held out a hand to Aurelien, to help him back on his feet.
“You ready? This only ends when we do.”
It would be easy, wouldn’t it? For their actions to take control of them, rather than the other way around.
It had already almost happened, after all. More than once. The desire to get revenge, seek vengeance, had overwhelmed and overpowered him. Making every slight towards him, or even in the vicinity of him, seem as bad as each other. Telling him that the only solution was violence, and stopping them permanently. If murder was a sin, then surely inaction in the face of a killer was just as bad? And if failing to stop a killer was a sin, then, of course, stopping him from finding those sinners was on the exact same level too.
It was a hard, slippery slope, one he was terrified of falling down. Theoretically, it would be easier to avoid, now that he had a goal beyond that of getting revenge, but he wasn’t willing to run that risk.
He looked up at the huge shotgun in Henry’s hands. It would almost have been comical, such a small guy holding such a large amount of firepower, if Aurelien hadn’t seen firsthand just how much damage it could cause. The thing was a force of pure fury. The mace, too, currently lying still and peaceful on the floor of the infirmary. It covered a much smaller area than the shotgun, true. But it only needed to hit something once for that thing to never move again.
They couldn’t let their weapons define them. They couldn’t let the destruction and flames that they had to cause be their sole point of remembrance. Alone? Aurelien wasn’t sure if he could stop himself. Together, with Henry’s hand on his shoulder, steadying him? They could keep themselves both focused on their task at hand. Henry wouldn’t fall into despair. Aurelien wouldn’t be consumed by fury. They’d made mistakes up to this point, fatal ones at that. Now was the time to prove they could at the very least learn something from them.
“I’m ready,” Aurelien said, taking hold of Henry’s hand, grasping it as firmly as he could. “I don’t plan on ever stopping.”
He pulled himself to his feet, still shaky, still wobbly, still feeling like he was being torn apart at the seams. He stood, doing nothing more than breathing, before he took a step forwards.
“And I have no intention of letting anyone else stop me, either.”
((Aurelien Valter and Henry Sparks continued in Sleet in June))
It had already almost happened, after all. More than once. The desire to get revenge, seek vengeance, had overwhelmed and overpowered him. Making every slight towards him, or even in the vicinity of him, seem as bad as each other. Telling him that the only solution was violence, and stopping them permanently. If murder was a sin, then surely inaction in the face of a killer was just as bad? And if failing to stop a killer was a sin, then, of course, stopping him from finding those sinners was on the exact same level too.
It was a hard, slippery slope, one he was terrified of falling down. Theoretically, it would be easier to avoid, now that he had a goal beyond that of getting revenge, but he wasn’t willing to run that risk.
He looked up at the huge shotgun in Henry’s hands. It would almost have been comical, such a small guy holding such a large amount of firepower, if Aurelien hadn’t seen firsthand just how much damage it could cause. The thing was a force of pure fury. The mace, too, currently lying still and peaceful on the floor of the infirmary. It covered a much smaller area than the shotgun, true. But it only needed to hit something once for that thing to never move again.
They couldn’t let their weapons define them. They couldn’t let the destruction and flames that they had to cause be their sole point of remembrance. Alone? Aurelien wasn’t sure if he could stop himself. Together, with Henry’s hand on his shoulder, steadying him? They could keep themselves both focused on their task at hand. Henry wouldn’t fall into despair. Aurelien wouldn’t be consumed by fury. They’d made mistakes up to this point, fatal ones at that. Now was the time to prove they could at the very least learn something from them.
“I’m ready,” Aurelien said, taking hold of Henry’s hand, grasping it as firmly as he could. “I don’t plan on ever stopping.”
He pulled himself to his feet, still shaky, still wobbly, still feeling like he was being torn apart at the seams. He stood, doing nothing more than breathing, before he took a step forwards.
“And I have no intention of letting anyone else stop me, either.”
((Aurelien Valter and Henry Sparks continued in Sleet in June))
"bryony and alba would definitely join the terrorists quote me on this put this quote in signatures put it in history books" - Cicada Days, 2017