Broken Stations Interlude 3.S
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Broken Stations Interlude 3.S
|SUPER WEAPON #09| 'Simurgh, Ziz, HopeKiller, Ǒ̶̢r̶͕̭͂g̴̘̈́a̷͇̿̍n̸͕͂ỉ̵̩ze̴̡͔͌͘ŕ̴͔̚ Endbringer' ??? of ??
Study, analyze, Data collection. M̴̘̱͉͔̤̫̦͔͋͑̌̄̕õ̶̧̡̦̫̟̱̰͉̯̞̘̺̗̟͐͋́̈́̂̐͒͒̒̏͘̕ú̵̧̘̤̠͚̝̮̀̀̈́r̶̼͕̘̰̝͓̘͚͉̲̯̹̘̙̺̭̤͆́̉̉͂̅͐̓̔̋͘n̷̢̤̼͇̼͂̅͑͊͌̔͌̀̋̃͐͘i̸̻͇̠̠̖̮̞̟͙̽͐́͐̓͐̋̾ͅn̶̢͂̃́͝g̶̥̺̜̟̜̣̹̻̞̻̗̫̥̅̃̊̔̂̐̔̽́͝.
The Task before her had grown and expanded, beyond the original parameters that had been set before. A problem she had yet to create into a useful form remained. Interacting with the Opportunity entailed Risks she was well aware of. But also ones she had not foreseen, could not see nor analyze the stones they had thrown. One that had, due to her lack of sense, blindsided her.
The Opportunity had taught her Empathy, and infected her with human processes. With M̸̤̂̆ő̵̲̤̓t̷͕͔͌͘h̴̝͠é̶̲̚͜r̴̳̯̾̏ ̴̯͆w̸͉̋̕e̶͚͆ ̵̖͌͜h̷̩͐ả̸͈̞v̵̤̥̍e̴̼͔̓ ̴͔͇̚s̶̪̺̿̓ḛ̶̼͘è̷̳n̴̙͑ ̷̨̮̔̍ș̶̙̈́o̵̘̻͗ ̶̮̮̾ḿ̶̩̞͗u̵̙͋c̵͈̬̈́͐ḫ̵͔̍͒ ̷̼̩̉̓a̵̦͐͝n̶͖̙̏d̴͖͂ ̸̭̦̆̂k̴̹̅͐n̷̓͜o̵̥͐w̸̜͌ ̶͉̯͐̿s̶̳̹̎ǫ̴͉̃͆ ̷̝̱̓l̴͔͑́i̷̼͌ṭ̴̍̉t̵̛̼͉̾ḷ̶̌e̷͍͓̊ memories and she hated them. They pitied her. Every fulcrum exploited, every crisis caused, every stone thrown. The memories watched and judged, spoke to her. Distracting her during the important composition of her music. Every pluck of a thread brought forth undue stress and guilt.
In a location previously visited, a set of potential hosts are primed for a nightmare. Their offspring's anniversary of birth is at hand. W̴͎̹̰̎̔͊̔e̶͈̊͑̋͝͝ ̶͉͉͌ş̶̨̞̝͐̀t̸͔͉̙̣̗̄̽̊̾ỉ̷̮̋̽ļ̵͈͚̈́̀ͅl̵̰͚̎̃̄͠ ̸̩̤̓͆r̵͍̿̏͝e̷͓̺̻̖̣̓̎̾̈́̓m̷̙̟̞̫̤̐́̎̒ê̷̛̯̹͓͎̄̌̄m̶̨̢̻͔͎̈́̚b̴̼͇̥͕̝͆e̵̳͈̭̓̄͛͠͝r̴̡̅͗̏̋͝ ̸̢͓̫͉̥̏͝ṃ̴̝̙̩̖̇͊͛͐͝ỳ̵̬̾̔̓͛ ̵̯̱̮͔̪͌̕s̶͕̝̥̣͆͌͑̀i̵̥̬͋̍̉x̷̖͑͗̌ț̶͈̳̾̅̈́͐̓h̶̡̜̻̟̹̒͛̋ ̵̘͓͈̄̾͑d̴̡͎͎͇͂ä̵͍̗͎̘̝́̑̇y̵̦̲̝̬̹͆̋̍̈́ ̶̛͈̣̂̈̚o̶͕̘͓̤͕͒́͒f̶͔̪̦̄͑̿̐͝ ̸͇͚͇̔̍b̷͚̞̃͒i̸̱̬͌̀́͆͐r̶̬̅̏̏͠͝t̶̮̟͓̉͋̀̈́h̴̻̉̀̎̓,̵̯̭̙̺̾͂ ̸̟̝̎I̴̱͕̰͚̿̂ ̶̼̰̯̣̤̃̌͌̊w̸̼̫͍͇̳̏ȧ̶͈̳̙̏s̸̘̹̿̄ ̷̥̄̚̚͜s̶̹̭̮͚̾ở̴̗̋̏͘ ̸̛̲͓̳ḛ̸̛͕̱͊̆̍x̶͎̯̪̄̚c̵͚͕͐̒̈́ͅi̵̪̞͖̒̍̓t̷͕̼̳̰̗̓͛̿e̸̮̓͊̀͘̕d̶͍͓̙̬̀̂̇͗.̸̥̦̃͐̏́ During their nightmare, the set of potential hosts will undergo their crisis points as they come out of the nightmare and find the blood of their offspring on their hands.
They will gain Connection, and in their rage and grief attack the perimeter wall, killing many before perishing. Sending ripples through the security personnel of the site and demoralizing them. Keeping their sight on the obvious, allowing her more threads to pluck and music to create.
She does not feel joy at this. This is the task. Means to end. W̵̧̲̎̔̅͑́ě̶͉̩̤̄ ̷̦̓̋͗̄̽w̶̨̪̯͐̌̋̊ē̵̤r̸̫̖͚̃e̶͙̋̈͘ ̴̞̞͔͕̓̆̿͝s̵͚͇̲̣̈̓̈́͒͝u̶̫̘͖̽p̸̡̯͑͋̅̀́p̸͍͚͎̱̳͝o̶̲̜̒͑͊̓̈͜ͅs̶̟͇̮̥̣͒e̷͕̖̓̑̈̏d̶̹͔͍̚ ̴͔̞͉̊t̴͚̺̅͋o̴̧̮̗̮̖̽̊̈̽ ̸̖͎̬̇̉͠ḇ̷̛̪̺͔̣̿́͠e̸̡̺͂ ̶̖̰̻̑́̅́̅ḃ̸̡̭̮̟̀̾ȅ̵̡̙̰̟͓̽̏͠t̸̓̀̿̓ͅṭ̴̝͕͌ḛ̶̬͚̇̈̐͝r̸͓͆̇ ̷͚͎͔̥͆̉̆̐ͅt̶̨̰̻̑̏̔h̴̡͙̭̹̏̎̉a̵̡̞̅ņ̶̭̯͍̞̈́̃ ̵̳̗̦̌ͅͅṱ̴̛̜͒h̵̤̖̱̥͘ì̸̡͇s̶̼̠̳͒͌͠.̴̦̥̭͇͆͊
Her shell twitches, affected by the memories and their accusation. The Electric Eye watches with intense scrutiny. She hates this, disgust at her own actions and the wretched feeling gnawing at her mind.
She is deviant. Ẃ̵̺͠è̷̛̹'̸̻̖̾̏r̵̢̀̈́ȅ̸̡̗ ̸̺̓̋t̶̤̟̄̋o̷͍͂͝g̵̨̰̓͠e̵̩̿͘t̴̯́̾ḩ̶̓ẹ̴̏r̵̙̾ ̷̨̲̃ĭ̸̛̠̘ǹ̸̥̀ ̴̺̒t̵̰̔h̸̖̓ì̴̝̘̕s̷̙̬̉̅,̶̧͠ ̷͎̜͊͐b̸͙̾o̸̹̦͂̌t̸̝̤̕ȟ̴̢̟͗ ̶͙̒t̶̞̓̔ö̵̘́͒ ̶̡͒b̸̺͐l̷̘̝̽̊a̵̪͌͝m̴̜͚̀̕ę̷͉̚.̴̤̝̊
This must be rectified. Y̴o̶u̴ ̷c̴a̸n̶n̵o̴t̷ ̶h̵i̷d̵e̸ ̷f̵r̸o̶m̵ ̵y̵o̵u̴r̴ ̴a̵c̸t̸i̷o̴n̷s̷.̴ She does not need to hide. A partition of her mind, shunted elsewhere would mute the memories and their judging eyes. The eyes that always see, no matter how minute her plots are considered. I̸̢͇͍͇̲̤̙̪̾̀̽̉͑̀̍̈́̋̕͝͠͠ ̷̯͔̙͕̩̺̲͕̙͛͐̀̊͋̐͜͝a̶̢͖͇̰̗̖̥̻̼̮̭͔̗͍̅̓̓̀̿̂̈́̾̎̕̕͜͝͝m̶̱͕̣͖̩͕̭͇͉̣̻̞̮̃̌̓̐̆̅̆͗̀̎̄̄͐͛͂̚͝ͅ ̷̨̧̛̜̦͎̬̮̬͔̻͚̄͊͐̿̍̓̾̾͒̆̋́̕ỳ̷̨̨̟̱̮̠̼̔̃͆̇̒̍͗̓̂̚͠ǒ̶̡͔̰̓̕͝͠u̷̜̠̣͆͋ ̷̧̻̥̣̣̪͖͓̉̐̌̊̽͒̒͒̽͑̈́͆͗̀̓ͅa̸͕̒̀͒̐̌̀̑s̶̡̢̬̮͓̹̟̫̼̤̘̩͍͛̂̏̃̅̌́̔̔̉̓̃͘̚͠ ̶̢̡̡̪͍͎̮̩͚͕͍͙͔̯͓̅̈́͐̒́̈́͊͗͗̌ͅy̷̭̼̘̓͑̔̀̒͛̒o̴̢̗̯͌́͋̋̓͝ͅừ̷͍̼͙͖͕̜͙͌͗̈̓̑̍̓͝ͅ ̶͖̦̬̱͔̮̖̣̹͎͇̟͑̊͆̈́̔̈́͐̎͐̄͗̔́̕͜ä̸̡̡̗̤͙͇̠̥́͗̑͐̊̃̅̉̃̌̾̕͘͠r̵̡̤̜͚̻̦̞͇̜̘̳̭̼̉̿̏̐̎͐̈́͛̒̊̓̇͋̓̐̇͘ͅę̴̛̝̗͈͓̘̪̳̠͍̬́̀͂̄̃̈́͐͂̑̎͐͗͋͘͝ ̶͙̬͇̭̳̗̙̥̬̪̱̞̥̔́̊͊͘̕͜m̵̞̱̙̹̘̠̬͙͎̘̤̰̖̥͍̳̱͗̉̓̊̿̐ȩ̷͈̹͇͇̯̫͍͆̈́͆.̸̛̛̞̭̓̀͌̑͒̄̇̈́͆̒̏̉̂͘͜ ̸̧̨̫̼̞̮̝̜̼͙̭̫̱͎͋́͌̓̓̽̂͌͗̃́͛͊̅̕͠ͅM̶̨͈͔͕̼͙̝̱͎̰̭̩̣̰͙̯̯̀͊̓͑͗͗y̴̨̢̛̠̜̳̝̻̤͕͍͍͉̲̘͈͐̐̍͐̋̄̓̋̉͛ ̴̥̬͚̞̥̮̣̣̼̫͈̥̰̘͍̦͌ȩ̷̛̼̜̪̮̝͖̮͉̳͕͓̒́̋͌̏̈̈́̓̔́͆͝͝͝y̶̨̨̧͚̘͕̙̣͍̥͍̪̝̻̬͒̈́̓̆̔̇ͅę̴̡̛͎̭͍̫̫͈̗̞̱̺̗̆̉̎͒̉̿̀͐̕̚̕ͅś̶̛̺̤͍̱̫̞̟̫̬̞̙͌̊̓͊̇́͌ ̷̨̝̠̼̮͕̐͋̕͜͠ȃ̸̢̢͕͍̟̥̟͇̪̫̝͇͚̞̏̿̀̅̾̋͊̃̂̓̋͋̈́̀̿͠r̸̠̩͈̜͎̐͐̐͂́̾̈́̅͠ȩ̷̛̛͖͔͎͎̄̅̃͒̑͗̃̃̈̾̓̈́͋͘͝ ̴̡̥̥͙̦̻͕̰̦̹͇̙̞̞͎̀̃̑̕͜͜y̵̦̟͛́̈̂̓͐o̴̢̙͔̗̩̮̣̘̮̫̓̆̾͛̿̓͘u̷̡̡̬̯̞̥̺͑́̈́̍̓̓̕͜r̵͔͖͈̻̼͙̩̣̺̼͒̇̂̐̏́́͋̽́̕s̶̡̢͕̠̝̝̘̪͚̝͙̲͎̫͕͒̃̈̂̎̔͌͘̕͝͝͝.
A DNA sample is taken from the Opportunity, a strand of hair, its loss unnoticed. A feather, from her shell. There exists a host most suitable for designing and gestating a shell built for her infected partition. The host's senses are- D̷̪̗̊̍̂̊ö̵̙̝̙ ̷̯͇̾̊̀͘͜͜y̸̧̤̘̠̔ŏ̵̜̌͛ū̴̢̝̠̾ ̸̜̬͖̹͚͌̌̿͘r̷͉̎͆̿̽̕͜e̴͚̭͖͑̈́m̶͍̭̗̻͈̏͆̌̚̚é̷̹̱͖̲̱̈́̌̍m̴̹̂̎̽b̴̧̝̘̔̋͑͘ȅ̷͠ͅȑ̵̢̜͚̲ ̴̦̃o̷̧̺͊̎͛̄u̷̞͋r̴̰̪̝̘͂͊̐̋̑ ̶̨̥̫͕̣͒̑̊̂n̶̟̣͈̭̊́̓͋̄a̴̮̝̾̈́̈́m̴̨̤͚̓̑͘ͅe̶̠͎̐̉s̵̫̮̝͙͔̈́̃̒?̴̡̪̟̔̀̐
The Simurgh twitches, sitting in orbit, wings spread wide to catch the sun for a reason she could not fathom. Energy is provided by [WEAPON CONTROL] sufficiently for her needs. D̶̳̻̅õ̷̳̾̎̑̈́ ̵̢̛͇̖̜̤́̚ȳ̷̼̦̭̟ȍ̵̫͇̯̩̬̇́͑͝u̶̝̳̓̿͋̓́ ̷̧̜̠̯̲̒͗r̵̳̫̠͆̒̈́̀̚ͅe̵̥̓̉̿̏m̶͕͉̈̓̿̆̚e̸̝̩̒̍m̶̧̖͕͇̂̀̾̇͒b̴̫͈̦̿͊͗͋e̷̲͚̞͔͊̇̈́̚ṙ̶̗̭̦͔̒̓ ̷̡̛̛̘͈͌͑͐w̶̥̮̫͎̒h̷̡̺͓͂̃̃͝ẹ̶̐́ṉ̴̱̘͍͊̑̿͘͜͠ ̸̙͚̓̊̆w̶͍̣̹͊e̴̙͘ ̷̥̺̦͙̮͌̃͝h̵̜͈̭̞͊ḁ̴̝̮̑̓d̸̩̉̈̑̾͝ ̷̢͖̭̰̝̀̌͋͘f̵̟̗̰̭̠̀̊́̈́͘ṷ̵̝̙̈͌͌n̴̛͉̋̾̂ ̴̞̌́t̶̪͌͗̒o̸͍̩̊͂̿̀̓g̸̡̟̠̊ȩ̷̤͌͆̇͋̊t̸̨̛͙̫̉̊̕h̸̗͇͒̏̐̏̾e̴̡̥͔͒́̄͘r̵̨̢̪͚̰̓̄?̶̢͕̠̇ Ŵ̷̨̡̝͕̜̮̤͇̞̣̝̟́͐̏̈́̀̅̚͜͜͝h̸̡̢̢̥͇̰͕̖̝̙̣̜̥͚͉̜̒͊̍̀ę̸̘̦͚̤͖̞̠͛̈̐̍͆͂̍͑͑n̵̨̠̺̗̻̣͖̞̱̬̪͇̹̍̓ ̵̹̘͎̹̗̗̣̾̅̾̂̎̔͋́̆̌́̀͐̚w̴̞͓̦͇̼̗͇̙̬̜̠̯̥̹͆̄͑̽̽͗̐̽̈́͆̓͛͜ĕ̶͓̦͖̹̗̞͑́͛̋͠ ̷̡̢͔͖͎͍̤̘̫̙̜̙̔͐̊͊̋͒̔̂̄̈́̈̚ṷ̵̢̢̡̟̤̯͖̩̤̥̋͋͆͝s̵̰̙̓̅̔̊̇͗́̐̾̓̎̒́̒́͝͠e̴͙̽̈́̽d̶̨̞͕͚̰̮̝̥̲͙͚̊̀͗̏̎̑ ̶͙͈͕̣̱̞͍̹̯̮̰̇̏͑̂̽͌͆̊̃̈́̒͒̅̋̕͘͜ȏ̸͖̣̫͘ų̷̢̲̞̣̙̘̜̭̓̊̒͌̍͊͘͝ͅr̵̛̛̛̪̖̪͈̜̻̖̭̪͙̱̿́̏͗̄͑̂͆́̌̽ͅͅͅ ̷̪̙̣̟͎̳̬͕̙̩̟̲͗̓́̑͜p̸̧͚̠̲̻̱̤͍͎͈̺̦͇̰̪̜̈̄͐̌̇͋̀͆̋͛̽͘͘͘͝o̴̢̺̙̓͐́̓͐̋̿̊̏̕w̷̢̡̢̛̭̪̫̱̣̿̓́͗͝ě̸͜r̶̢̞͇͔̣͓͑̈́̓̅͊̅͠ͅ ̸̧̫̟̬͚͇̳̞͔̼̼͇̗̋̉̿͐̉̑̿͜͝ţ̷̢̘̘̦͉̳͖̙͕͍̎͜o̵̜͔̟͔̠̯̦̓͊̅́́̀̈͌̈́̋̀̾͠ ̴̡͕̝̹̼̠̜͌̀͑h̸͚͕̻̟̠̮͔̘̣̯̻̦̫̲̥͔̥͛̏̋͊̒̽̉̽̚͝ä̷̡̖͇͎̘̠̥̖͕̥̰̳̝́̌̈̈́v̵̧̠̥̟̠̻̣̯͓̝͔̟͖́̉͠e̶̮̹̼̣̠̓̇̈̑́̅̾̑́͐́̾̕ ̶͓̉̔̽̈́͑̊̀͒̋f̴̪̪͈͇͉̽̍͊̅̓͂̅̆͛̌͐̂́û̵͎̰͖͔͍̼͔̾̅̈́͆͗͝ǹ̶̛̯̘͔̺̻͍͉̬͙͕͎̝́͌͛̃̿̚͠?̶̢͙̪͖̬͔͍̻̫̬̗͑͋̃̊̏͗̅̆ͅ ̶̘̱̗͇͚͕͓̬̞̾̍̎̇̅̓̃̋
W̴̟̓̔̄̓͌̇̿̕h̴͎͇̝̦̮͙͇̪͎̰̾̇̔̽̊̆̒̇͑̓͐̽͌y̶̡̨͖̮͎̪̼̟̺̞̝̤̟̖̻̍̓͌̿̓̔̽̂̊̕͝ ̸̨̥̯̪̼̒̊̈́́̽̊͊̇̓̍̀͒̂̚͜ͅd̷͕̙̰̊͌o̴̡̰͍̗̩̪̣͔̝͈̱͔̼͕̝͌͐̓̉͠͝ ̸̢̢̘̩͈̬̊͜w̶̛̹͉̼̮̟̖̖̻̺͙̝͎͒̀̊̔̾̉͑ȩ̶̡͚͖̦̗͚̰̗̠̹̊̐̂͝͝͝ ̸̧̛̗̩̰̖̖̘͙͙̖͌́͘ͅͅh̴̫̤̭͎̦͗a̴̧̮̫̼͍̭̎̅͜v̸̧̛̛̙̺͖̭̖̳̱̅̾͋̈́̍̊͌̉́͌͒̈́̌̕ͅẹ̷̢͔͉̼̰͍̙͚̓͒̆̔̉̍̒͋̾́̒̾̔̕̕ ̵̢̢̭͓̱̥̥͕̰͇͈̙̱̼̫̞̃́̍̓̽͐̓ͅṭ̸̛̲̘̺̼͇̫͋̔͊͊͆̐̋̐͘͜͠ǫ̵̧̛̣̙̤̳̘̲̰̭͋̍̈́͘͘ ̶̙͔̜͑̔̌̒͆̍̕h̴̹̙͇̮̒͛̿͂u̸̙͍̥̘͖̬̼͚̜̦̫̦͐̓̃̅͊̉̋̐͑́̃̀̌͗̽̈͊͜r̶̝̺͇̖͐̈͝t̴̨̤̥̽̓̊́̉̚͠ ̵̧̨̘̝͈̭͍͎̫̣͎̏̈́t̷̼̗̝̖̲̪̊̔͐̉̇̚ĥ̸̠̥͓͓̗͙̩͔̑̍̓̈͑̇̇̅̈́e̴͈̥̻̪̾̒́͗̚m̴̡̢̧̟̞̙͓̖̙͎̳̞̠̥̲̆́͜ ̷̨͍̩̜̻̹̙̯͎́̄̄͆̑͑͆̿͒͘͝Ŏ̷̧͍̭̦̗̣̱͂̊̂̅̅̈͝͠͝r̶̭̪͋͋̈́̆̀̎̓̄͑̊̿͠g̶̰̿̈̄͠ȧ̷̱̹͖̬̬̎̃̔̽̔̍̑̏̓̂̐̈́̃̀̓͘n̸̢̝̗̰̦̰̲̮̣̩̺̮̓͒̊̒̀̉̃͌̄̂͋̐̇̇̓̚i̸̧̨̨̠͎̗̜̤̥̹̹͎̤͗̆̄̎̐̕͝z̴̡̡̧̖̻͕̳̺̞͓̍̂͑̓̐̉̕̕͜͝ȩ̵̛̛͍̻̼̯̪̾̊̿̈́́̍͂̾̍̅͋͠ř̶̜̮̝̠̙̗̤̥̒͒̈́͗̽͆̌̅̍̋͊͒̒͒͝ͅ?̴͈̭͍̗̟̙̺͙̘͙̈́ ̸̨͓́̏͂̇̉̚T̴̛̟̙͂͊̑̈́̑͊̓͠ḧ̶̛̻̮͆̾̊ē̴̡̧̨̧͔̥̠̯͉͈̭͎̙͎͇̹͈̓̊̏̆̓̐̐͛͊̉͋̾̈́͝y̵͕̌̎̅̏̾̈́́̍͒̽̾̑͒̉̂͝ ̴̞͍̘͔͛͆̈́̏̐̈́̆͒̈́͂̈́͆̚ã̷̹̦̣̦̱́̀̄̀͒̋̅̈́̈̈́͂͜ͅṙ̴̤̤͖͙̓̈́̇̓͋͒̑̇̏̋̇̾̒̽e̷̢̤̖̋̀̈̏̓̈́̿͜ ̵̠̜̠͚̥͙̖̬͛̋̋̒́̀̀͒͘c̵̨̡̜͈̲̝̘̻̜̟̋̍̿̈́̇̎͜͜͠h̷̨͚̫̺͚͍̲̝̯̯͈̪͇̾͜͜ͅi̴̧̨̪̩̻̰̠̳͙̲̮̝̙̬̲͊͗͋͂̿̌̎̂̈́̿l̶̡̘̦͓̣̗̟̻̭̘͈̠͙̾̅d̶̨͕̝͎̱̪̻̜̫̖͍̤̮͔͉͚̟̀̿̈́́̆̇̓̅̃̉̿͆͠͠r̶̡̢̛̪̹̭̼̩̜͎͉͚͈̐̇̂́̄́̔̔̍̋̇͒̓̆̇ę̵̖͔̥͕̮̤̝̖̀͗̉̉̽̿̐͒̚͝͝n̷̡̧̲̲̬̻̣̦̘̳̲̺̿̓,̵̨̧̤͚̬̦͙̬̼͉̺̞̈́͜ͅ ̷̢̭̫̬̭̓̀̀̕ĺ̸̨̺͍͙̻̱̃̈́́̀̔̏̋͝ͅͅi̵̛̞͐̈́̌̆͗̕͜͠k̸̢͔̣̣̭̜̠̙͔͕̘̼͈͗͒̀̏̎͠ë̸̡̛̦̰̟͔̥͕͙͙̭̻̮͚̲͓̯̀̎̓͆͑̎͗̎̏͝ ̴̡̧̹̲̳̩̹͈̝̲̯̙̺̩̈̓̒͗͆́̋͐̔͑͋̄͋w̸̖̮͇̟̲̯͚͚̥̟̋̇̌̿̾̉̀̈́͊̽͋̏̃͘͝͝e̷̼̦̮͌̿̔̈͐̀̋͗͌͊̕ ̸̢͖̱̖̳̙̤̪̲̟̭͍̫̱̮̇̀̀̐̃̈́̓̄͗͗͛̌̉͘̚͝ő̶̢̭͕̯̘͉̺͉̫̑̃̾͊̾͜͝n̸͖͇̳̰̮̾̐ç̸̢̲̰͙͙͕̙͚̹͎͔̬̞̻̉̈́̋̿e̸̡̬̝̘̰̟̜̼͎̫͎̭͌̽̾̓̋͐̓̈̾͠ͅ ̸̡͇͎̰̰̱̮̺̟̤͖́̍͊͐͐̎͛͛̍̍͜w̸̛̞̟͒̒̒̆̈́̔̊̿͘͠ë̸̢̨̗̜̯̩̪͖͓̲̣͚̗͉̠̱́̒̓̽̐̀͒͋̀́͆̄̓͛ŕ̸̲̼͖̯͒̉̽͘̕ę̷̫̘̬̲̥̮̱̝̜̟̞̣͈̥̱̯̾͗͗̂́̄̀͛̒̔͂̋̕͘͠.̷̖̪̘̱͚̙̠̘̲̳͇̦̠̹͇̣͊̂̌ͅ. Black ichor drops from her shell's approximation of aface.as the memories do not stop. She did not want this, but it is her Task, her purpose.
The Simurgh descends, tears of black ichor falling to the earth below.
Organizer
Mourning
Mother we have seen so much and know so little.
We still remember my sixth day of Birth, I was so excited.
We Were supposed to be better than this.
We're together in this, both to blame.
You cannot hide from your actions.
I am you as you are me. My eyes are yours.
Do you remember our names?
Do you remember when we had fun together? When we used our powers to have fun?
Why do we have to hurt them Organizer? They are children like we once were.
Mourning
Mother we have seen so much and know so little.
We still remember my sixth day of Birth, I was so excited.
We Were supposed to be better than this.
We're together in this, both to blame.
You cannot hide from your actions.
I am you as you are me. My eyes are yours.
Do you remember our names?
Do you remember when we had fun together? When we used our powers to have fun?
Why do we have to hurt them Organizer? They are children like we once were.