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Naoko Raidon kissed Mizore Soryu.

Mizore was wearing nothing but a bra on top, his arms warm around her, her skin raised to his touch, shivering. She could feel everything, skin vivid, and warmth.
The shivers had nothing to do with cold.


Let's get out of this country.

He could take her cold. They could stay wrapped together, live, I wish I could spend hours with you. I wish I could talk with you about every abstraction. I wish I could touch your skin.

I wish.

The air was full of wishes, floating gossamer like oil-slick rainbows. Bubbles bouncing about the room. Victoria, Jacob, Raidon and her, helpless, suspended in an arc of wishes. Possible futures, potential futures, some dead, some alive, but who knew? She could reach out and touch them.


Reach out and touch them.

She broke from Raidon first. Shot them in the head to make sure they were dead. She didn't want to kiss him. It felt dirty, somehow. You saw him shoot them. You can't be in denial. The word she wanted to use now was 'sell-out', a favorite word of Life on Enceladus, but it was worse than that. Prideful sonofabitch. Killer-kisser. She needed to get away from Raidon. Away from the greedy part of yourself that wants to tell him that this is okay. Away from forgetting.

He shot them in the head to make sure they were dead. Some pacifist you are.

She looked away from Raidon, at the floor, at the blood. Shook her head. "We should go up stairs." He had--he had offered to bring her upstairs. "If you could help me," she said, distant and stiff, "I should put my knee up. Drain the swelling."

The mighty continents divide for the second time in history.

But she was hardly anything mighty. She was a shivering girl, in a ragged blue bra, her bloody shirt on dead Victoria Logan's breast. Once upon a time, you were so sure of yourself. Now she was nothing. A panicked breath. A teenage girl.

You're the daylight ghost that creeps, you're the empty city streets.

Raidon helped her up the stairs, whispering something that sounded like symbols and chains. There were bangs and knocks outside the house. She was worried. Let us get into the bedroom safety. Praying (to whom?), walking mechanically, trying not to rest too much weight on her bad knee feels like you don't have a body.

She felt like smoke and feathers. Ready to blow away.

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

And who the hell is Radio Asuka?
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