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Mirabelle was going to let her sleep.

She didn’t know why she put herself under Mirabelle’s command like that—Mirabelle would let her go to sleep. Perhaps she could logic it out—Mirabelle had helped her, Mirabelle was more deadly than her, Mirabelle was taking risks that would have made Liz choke—but mostly, she figured, she wanted someone to give her orders now. She was exhausted. In her current state, she was unintelligent, useless. And someone had seen it. Someone was going to let her sleep.

It was a relief, really, right now, to take orders. To have someone talk sense (she should parse what Mirabelle was saying, Mirabelle could be off her rocker, but God, she didn’t want to) and to listen, and to obey.

Liz, you’ve got to have more faith in other people.

Mr. Kwong. God.

She needed sleep.

She knelt on the rocks where Mirabelle had spread out a blue dress, thin cotton cloth blurring the stone. Mirabelle had orders. Mirabelle had a plan, or at least a goal. And Liz right now was—no, she was not aimless. She would think of an aim tomorrow.

She was tired. And Mirabelle had helped her. She was grateful. And her natural distrust, her much talked-of inability to have faith in others, was nothing compared to her goddamn helplessness.

There was a relief in someone telling her that she had been pushing herself too hard.

She dropped her head. “Thank you.” Whispered, hurting throat.

Some kid was depending on her, yeah. But someone would guard her now. Guess breaking a collar makes alliances.

Yeah. It was hard even to be cynical.

Sleep, yeah.

She curled up on the blue cotton dress. Nodded at Mirabelle, pointlessly. And closed her eyes.

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

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