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"Think this stuff is safe to drink?"

Kari Nichols dipped her water bottle into the stagnant water at the bottom of the cave. Mizore winced before the lip of the bottle touched the surface.

"Don't do that." She made a motion with her hand as if to block the curve of the bottle. "That water's been likely sitting here for weeks." She rummaged through her bag, found her remaining water bottle, and rolled it toward Kari. "Have mine."

She could likely pick up another bottle from a corpse around here. There were corpses near here, right? How many people had died?

Some shuddering to think of it.

And I have been so safe this whole time. I was rude to players, almost put myself in the middle of a murder, and yet I've seen the minimum of actual violence.

No shootings, falls, bloody scalpel-cuts. Just shadows. Raidon's bloody resolve, clutching his gun, Janet's justifications, Samya crying in the recreational center, and now, redheaded Kari Nichols who wouldn't let go of her gun.

How long before the violence comes to me?

There was an odd edge of almost hysterical excitement in that question. Mizore wanted to know how she'd react to actual violence. She'd been brave in the face of protests turned violent, police raids, and anti-graffiti sweeps, but SOTF was different.

Because no one expects me to live.

Kari Nichols was looking cockeyed at the water bottle. Paranoia Mizore was lucky to be without. "If you want me to take a sip to prove it's not poisoned or something, I will."

I've been lucky.

Alice Boucher was a liar.
Liz Polanski played with fire.

And who the hell is Radio Asuka?
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Ghosts · The Tunnels