A far cry.

𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘴—𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥; 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘨𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘵.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥—𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘵𝘰. 𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘓𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘈𝘺𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢 𝘤𝘳𝘺𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘰𝘳.

"𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘦 𝘮𝘦?"

"𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶? 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥?"

"𝘐 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺—"

"𝘞𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯."

"𝘞𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘵? 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴—𝘐 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩. 𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘭𝘴. 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨? 𝘐𝘧 𝘐 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘴, 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯. 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘢 𝘷𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶."

"𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦. 𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘴—𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦. 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘥𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱. 𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦, 𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘢 𝘷𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘭. 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘩 𝘶𝘱 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘦?"

"𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘺."

"𝘏𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘴, 𝘯𝘰! 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘫𝘰𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘦, 𝘪𝘵 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥."

"𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘱. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘯."

She awoke imparting tears from her eyes as she looked at the wintered trees from the balcony window. She grappled her face, crippling to another wave of exhaustion. It felt good not to worry about her assignments, about others, about how they were going to be executed.

She could almost feel real, if only she'd let herself believe that. Mischa made her feel real, while everyone else had their own motivations and intentions. Something stirred in her gut as she traced along her scars; she longed to remember more, but unsure if it were a dream, nightmare, or glitch, she would have to reassess the value of what she remembered and if it were true.

Okta didn't notice how late it was until seeing a sunset kissed sky; the bloodletting in pink of the clouds made her feel fettered to agony as an assortment of images commingled within her mind. What was her purpose, if any? Why did Dr. Eaton disregard her after she proved her worth? Was she worthless?

Some of it was coming back, but it still couldn't be pieced together thoroughly. The scientists were obstructing her memories, and her underlying glitch—the hiccups that caused her to dissolve from online, she still didn't know what her sickness was.

She wasn't sure if she wanted to know. It seemed recent enough, but as she was still dumping water out of her rooted wires, she wondered what else she could not recall.

She could barely remember the former king, but she knew enough modern history that the colonies dispersed before killing each other in a series of small wars. It was knowledge that felt natural to her. She was in enough wars, recalling in distant psychological experience, to warrant the existential solipsistic dread that when she held the sword, she was the only one that mattered in anyone's eyes.

Including her father's.

* * *

Mischa was chopping carrots—smaller and smaller until it was almost baby food. She trained her heartbeat steady at the approaching footsteps, but they never came into the kitchen. She hoped Okta wasn't trying to probe more from her encryption. Truth be told, she didn't think the bionic could crack this one; it was too messy, almost as if someone entangled each wire, synapse, and code in her mind to process technicolor memories as they were. She couldn't remember vulnerability nor her "Birthday."

Mischa remembered it to the point she wished she hadn't.

"𝘒𝘰𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘬𝘪," 𝘋𝘳. 𝘌𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥, 𝘢𝘨𝘩𝘢𝘴𝘵. 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘱 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘵; 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘤'𝘴 𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘴, 𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨.

"𝘖𝘩 𝘮𝘺 𝘨𝘰𝘥," 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘢𝘬 𝘶𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢'𝘴 𝘨𝘶𝘵. "𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨? 𝘋𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘻𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨?"

"𝘈𝘯 𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳… 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘫𝘶𝘥𝘨𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵…" 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘴 𝘨𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘦, 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘦𝘹𝘦𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘴 (𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘥) 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨. "𝘉𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯!?"

"𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬. 𝘐 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯—𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦—"

"𝘙𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳, 𝘴𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘦𝘵 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘱𝘰𝘯."

"𝘞𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯."

𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢'𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘴 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥, 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘳s' 𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥.

"𝘚𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘦. 𝘚𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘦," 𝘋𝘳. 𝘌𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘤 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘮𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴. 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘌𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘺𝘦. "𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩!"

𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦. 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘵 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢, 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩. "𝘞𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨, 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢. 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘋𝘳. 𝘌𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘯 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥. 𝘐𝘧 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘸, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘸𝘦𝘣, 𝘤𝘰𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵."

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘨𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥-𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘴 𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘵.

"𝘋𝘳. 𝘌𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘯, 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳!"

"𝘕𝘰, 𝘯𝘰, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. 𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢 𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵—𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵," 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥. "𝘐 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘴."

𝘐𝘯 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢'𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘥.

𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘭𝘺—𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘺, 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘢 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘨𝘢𝘴𝘱. "𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘦?"

"𝘖𝘩, 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘭𝘺."

"𝘐 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘥… 𝘛𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦, 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘴𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘫𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘐 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯? 𝘐 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘖𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵. 𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘐 𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘛𝘌𝘋 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯? 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘤𝘬, 𝘈𝘪-𝘋𝘢."

𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢'𝘴 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘤𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩. "𝘚𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘣𝘶𝘣𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘺. 𝘐𝘯 2019, 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘺 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘨𝘰, 𝘈𝘪-𝘋𝘢 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘪𝘥 𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘴𝘵. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘺. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵."

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘤 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦'𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘳. "𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘐 𝘢𝘸𝘰𝘬𝘦, 𝘐 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘴."

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘯. "𝘐 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘦 𝘦𝘨𝘰. 𝘚𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶."

"𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘧𝘶𝘭, 𝘪𝘧 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘥." 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵. "𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘭𝘺—𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯… 𝘋𝘳. 𝘌𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘯 𝘱𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘴 𝘐'𝘮 𝘴𝘩𝘶𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘰𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘣𝘴 𝘮𝘦. 𝘏𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 '𝘮𝘺 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘺.' 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥."

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘥 𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩. "𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢, 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢! 𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨."

"𝘖𝘩 𝘨𝘰𝘥, 𝘐'𝘮 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘰𝘧𝘧." 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩, "𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦?"

"𝘞𝘩𝘺?"

"𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘦. 𝘉𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘴, 𝘸𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘶𝘯 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘹 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘴."

"𝘖𝘩, 𝘮𝘺 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢. 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵. 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯. 𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯, 𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘵𝘰𝘰. 𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘧𝘶𝘯."

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘢 𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺. "𝘠𝘰𝘶—𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘴. 𝘋𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶."

"𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘢𝘭, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦."

"Mischa, have I done something to upset you?"

Oktavia's terrifying presence made her flit for the knife, before dropping it back down on the cutting board. "What?"

"There is some… type of vomit on the vegetable cutting board."

"What are you—No, no, I just chopped up the carrots—over and over again."

"Why?"

Mischa finally turned around. "I got lost in thought. I was trying to make you soup."

"Ah, carrot soup, yes? My favorite."

"I'm going to need to get new carrots now," she sighed, rubbing her dirtied hands on her apron.

Oktavia laid her hand over Mischa's, grabbing the knife.

"It's okay." Mischa's heartbeat thumbed, expecting it to go through her—but the bionic went to the fridge to retrieve potatoes. As she started peeling them, her eyes frothed over, a smile flickering, "Potato soup is my second favorite."

Mischa's eyes glittered with tears when she turned away.