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Falling

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Falling. Falling. Falling.

A part of her wants to struggle on.

The wind whirls her hair into knots.

The other wants to just give up. Let in.

The air screams in her ears.

Falling, falling, falling.

She closes her eyes.

Razor.

Falling; falling; falling.

No. Alex.

Freefall. Falling… Falling… Falling…

You're free, he whispers.

Ringer squeezes her eyes shut.

Do something… Do nothing…

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Clothes whipping around in the whirlwind.

Falling.

Tears flying up off her wet face.

...falling.

Keep fighting… Surrender…

Alex. Razor. Alex and Razor.

His bright smile and perfect laugh echoing as he moved the chess pieces, as he threw his hands up in victory. Chaseball. Chase-baseball.

Created by Vosch, of course…

Hands curling up into fists.

The bullets smashing into his chest. Flying backwards. Run, she could hear his voice whisper. Run.

She is.

 

F
a
l
l
i
n
g.

 

R
u
n
n
i
n
g.

For him. For herself. For Teacup. For anyone else left on the planet. For the billions of souls sucked up by the black hole known as Vosch.

Falling.

She lands.