Thanqol

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

Yellow:

Her eyes alight with neon, hair dressing itself in the lights of passing billboards. She seems so small against them, a shadow in black and gold against an ocean of hyper pink; like the sun embossed upon a flag. Still, it never seems like she's apart from the world around her - there's an echo of immensity to her. When the wild-haired stranger appears against the flashing sky, mortals named them Zeus for the two were not separate. When the girl smiles fondly up at the world she built that same connection seems to crackle in the mythic parts of the mind.

"What do I make of it?" she said. "Nobody's asked me that before. Big question."

She tucks the helmet under her arm, black synthleather riding jacket slashed with gold neon bands. She runs a hand through her hair and lets her solar vision drift upwards.

"The names all came later. We knew these as Sections #0200-#0300. That doesn't mean it didn't have personality for us, though - did you know that the International Space Station is in Ares? It's Oxygenation Substation 001 now; it had all the materials we needed to create a prototype atmosphere bubble. We recycled a lot of satellites to make these districts while we were waiting for the others to start asteroid processing." She smiled like prehistory. "Oh! You see that, over there, the dark sector? Tilly district it's called now, I think. That's where we stacked all the orbital missile batteries we found. We'd crack open the odd telecoms satellite and find a nuclear warhead inside - lost a Red that way. Governments weren't in any state to own up to them, or stop us from taking them, so we just reprocessed the warheads into mining explosives and called it a bonus. Filled all the empty missile casings with spent nuclear fuel cells and left them stacked up in Section #0241 with a big cartoon detonator counting down and a red wire and a blue wire leading to the bombs."

She leaned on the railing, a slender thing of hollow metal holding back the logos of the heavens.

"I think I get what you mean about fences," she said. "I held city killers in my hands, my real hands, and I didn't have to think about the politics of it. Nobody could tell me stop, I own this. It wasn't that I needed interesting content, I wasn't searching for meaning in those old satellites. I always knew what the meaning of life was. But for a while, there wasn't anything in between me and the sky."

She turned to face you, Vesna. Hiss-click of the ringpull and the can of cheap beer opens. She offers it to you - not human, but unable to be more human.

"It was a beautiful way to be," she said.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

This, Fengye thought with the serenity of the Enlightened, was a test.

If she was unlucky it was a parable.

Once, there was a maiden
Who strayed from the Immaculate Way
Summoned Gods
Bound Demons
Reveled as only a Princess of the Earth should
She was bought before a grand feast
And ate all the things she desired
Forgetting her rank and station
"Desire cannot lie," said she.

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. This was a test. This was a test of greed and pride. Was she a rogue sorceress, defiant of the Way, who considered herself a peer of the Dominion's great masters? If she was then of course she would lack restraint and feast upon every treasure bought before her. She would demonstrate before the eyes of the Wise that she had no control - not over hunger, not over magic, a creature lost and craving and bound by and to desire.

A soul so lost was anathema, inviting possession, anarchy, destruction.

Or was she a humble scribe, the least rank in the Thousand Scales? A virtuous and humble maiden whose pen would labour forever in service to the Princesses of the Earth? One who knew that her fare would be rice and salt and watered wine until the end of her (long and peaceful) days, the only reward for her service being promotion in the next life?

Desire and Endings always walked hand in hand, but right now they were locked in passionate embrace. Every scent, every touch, each perfect shape that made constellations of craving flicker on the inside of her eyes - they all bore the sign of Saturn. She might be dead already. The only question might be the Princess of Cathak determining the nature of her denouement, execution, and the wise words with which to address the Priests otherwise. Was she planning a speech about the deceptive being able to pretend virtue when it suited them? If that was the case then she was forgoing her last meal in favour of rice and terror.

But the soul, above all, desires hope. It will forego a great many pleasures to cling to it.

Breathless Dead

The Anemoi!

Jil stood up and quietly moved through the room. She politely tapped Dolce on the shoulder where he sat on the Captain's chair. "Excuse me," she said. "Please take a close look at your chair."

Is that? No, it couldn't be - you stand up as though stung by a scorpion. How did you not see it?

The Captain's chair is made of bones.

In the dim light of the Anemoi a terrible transformation is wrought. Every shadow, every inexplicable shape, is suddenly a corpse. The architecture of death seems to run through everything. Alcedi gasp and hands go to weapons, Hermetics rifle through pockets for charms sacred to Hades. The God of the Dead himself sits atop the discussion table, cigarette smoke pouring from his lips, suddenly immense, and all cower in his shadow.

"Since the commissioning of the Anemoi the Lantern tribes were helots to the Kaeri," Jil said, her soft voice terrible in the silence. "A warrior species must hone their skills in peacetime, and that was our purpose. Every inch of this ship is soaked in our blood. We were ambushed, brutalized, terrorized, the raw material for every mind game or martial technique our masters wished to practice."

Her voice does not quaver, her face lit by the lantern she holds above her head. It's a posture laden with meaning, an act of heroism to stand like that in this place.

"And Praetor Bella saved us," she said loudly, a voice that cracked against the plastic walls of the Anemoi. "She broke a reign of shadows and cruelty, made us masters of our own house. And this is our house. You would abandon the Praetor because you fear what she will do? You should fear what we shall do if you turn your faces from the only soul who ever showed us kindness."

Mynx glances back at Alexa. She has the weariness of the sleepness, eyes that do not tell of understanding or acknowledgement. Whatever she wants, it's not you that she wants it from. But you don't see any of that; all you feel is a brief pat-pat against the knee as she acknowledges your presence.

"Did you hear about the Ikarani?" said Mynx, speaking with a dry throat into the silence. "The last time I worked with her she dropped a space station on a city to kill a single target. Millions dead. That's what they do, that's what they're like. Natural disasters and freak accidents are their tools of murder. And yet, on Salib, not a single civilian died. Who told her to care about collateral damage? Who put chains on the earthquake? Because it wasn't the Kaeri, and it wasn't the Master of Assassins."

Beljani!

Seven seconds and you can feel the disappointment set in. Ten seconds pass and you're just about to give up - when suddenly the edge of the egg starts to feel uncomfortably warm. You jerk your hand back just in time to avoid losing a finger - and, to your shock, that was actually something that could have happened. A crisp, sharp, laser-line has burned out of the edge of the eggshell, spectacular blue, and slashed across the workshop. It severs cables, tools, workbenches, and even the immense reinforced walls, burning through them as though they're not even there. And then, from the molten hole, a pathetic little bundle of mucky limbs flops out into the palm of your hand. It flickers - and then solid state brilliant blue light appears in the tangle, causing the membrane to sizzle away into nothing in moments and giving you a clear view of the... laser dragon?

It's a thing of glass and light, crystal prisms arranged into glittering patterns of scales. Its infant wings are projectors, flickering solid-light blue lasers coming on and off in the gaps between the digits of its wings where a membrane might be. It opens its little mouth and a tongue like a chameleon's fails to cross the distance to your fingertips and flops down on your hand.

The Hermetic is staring in what you presume is surprise, frozen halfway through reattaching one of his legs. The expression of shock deepens when the hatchling struggles to spread its wings - and in the space between the wings flickering glyphs start to appear. Writing. It gives up the effort swiftly and curls up in your palm.

"This," buzzed Iskarot in awe. "Came through the Rift. It is the only organic matter confirmed to have made the trip. It has been inert for eighty five years, but it activated immediately upon contact with you."

Sunshards

Rose and Chen!

The Pyre of Meaning glances down at you, Rose, for but a moment. She rummages around thoughtfully in her pockets until she comes up with a large silk hankerchief, violet and patterned like stars. She looks at it thoughtfully, letting the fabric run over her hands.

"Shut," she said, "up."

And she crams it right into your talking mouth.

Certainly, she may have stepped up from being the Demon Queen of Ultimate Evil, but it's a long road from there to Shambala.

She lets her gaze snap across to Chen. "I don't need to hear another word about what needy, obedient little sluts you are. Marketing is the Eighty-Eighth Division of Hell and I've heard enough of it for a thousand lifetimes. Either you will prove capable of the task or I will find less prestigious uses for you. Now, I have a city to repair, so come along, quick smart."

Yue!

After all of this, after everything, who is Princess Qiu?

At first she comes at you like a hurricane - swift, sharp, decisive, dismissive, but still so floweringly brilliant it's hard to process. But nobody winds up with a combat style like that by accident. Somebody taught it to her, or she invented it to fight against specific opponents. And as you engage with Qiu you start to see that hurricane of faces and opponents passing by in each beat and opening move that's also a finishing move. This isn't how she is born to fight, this condensed and decisive power play. This is the record of a thousand duels that ended before she was ready. This is a fighting style born of disappointment, of the idea that she has to demonstrate her brilliant ultimate moves at the first possible second because it's the closest she can get to satisfying.

The range she has is enormous. She switches between styles in brilliant burning starts but there are no transitions. Again and again she explodes outwards and then stops in a kind of thoughtless surprise whenever you escape the technique. Again and again her blade asks: "Can you? Will you?" and she almost does not know what to do when the answer is "Yes!"

A cautious eye passes over you and, with creaking and rusty memories, she settles into a different stance. Low and sharp and braced against pain. And for the first time she starts a dance she's forgotten long ago.

You learned from wolves and shapeshifters and hurricanes; they are visible in your sword. Princess Qiu, for all her seeming solitude, learned from people too. This dance is a close one, an intimate one - she sweeps in close so that her blade is against your neck, even as yours is against hers. It's a frightening duel, one of intimacy and edge, sharpened and soulful stares lip almost to lip as free hands tease, distract, and search for daggers. Flinch away and you'll be cut, or worse, will be free of the blade. Everything is tension, hand in hand over the void, unbelievable danger and unrestrained, terrifying possibility. You can't fight like this and ever forget it. It's a level of trust that she's never felt before or since. And so in the end, Princess Qiu steps away from this embracing duel, though it's clear how much she yearns for it.

But beyond that she explodes into techniques of colour and vibrancy. Different opponents taught her this - brighter, more innocent. This is a style built in terrain, built in things, built in landscapes, and when she wields it Ys becomes her own. She tells narratives in temple stairs, the blade is less important than the window it gets kicked out of, then onto the back of a gondola to fight even as the waterfall comes ever closer! This is a blade to fight against a radiant world, stances for escapes and armies and constant motion. As dragon and as lion and as wolf! One as many against many who are many! No wonder armies cause her no fear! No wonder she can confidently besiege the city of Ys! She could fight them all like this, the spotlight that transforms the city into a stage and a girl into an army! Oh, she never forgot what it was to be a multitude!

But then time goes back one more step, and at last that unending momentum tapers to a halt. She sets her stance immovable and her face becomes grim and she advances. She advances past every strike and counter, a steady march that resists every attempt to divert or lead astray. You can sense intuitively that this opponent did not wield a blade - they swung a hammer. This was the way she was walking when you met her, the way she went to confront Princess Yin. It is a technique for fighting evil, immense and immeasurable. Even the world of her Shards are different here, their power pouring into you, casting you as ever a greater and darker demon queen. You have the ability to not just fight but to torment, you are not a rival but a god.

And she has a technique for killing gods too. She learned it from a Godkiller. This ancient, secret, foundational path which she never used before and can never use again. She isn't sure she'll ever fight someone like this again. Isn't sure she even wants to. But even as she strives against divine power she has become the center of the universe at last, the complete and utter object of focus for someone more powerful than her to test, to lead, to transform. In the deep, dark waters of this ultimate technique and original opponent Princess Qiu learned what it was to be everyone's everything, and the world itself did not survive their conflict.

But then that breaks too. On the other side of that immense and darkening moment is...

Two girls run at each other with swords. They don't know what they're doing. They hit each other much too hard. They cut each other. They say their lines and pound their chests and for a moment catch the eyes of those around them. It's not a good fight. They are too young and nobody taught them, and while it's wonderful for a while, it all ends in tears. These dance partners part acrimoniously and never see each other again.

Again and again, the duel ends and she never sees her opponents again.

She could have gone back. Could have apologized. Could have tried to settle down and be a normal friend to those people. But again and again she chose the blade, and so she passed through the heavens as a rogue sun, burning everything in her path. This is why she fights like she does. This is why she asks who are you, Yue. Because she's lost everybody who ever drew near to her and all she wants to know in this blissful, rapturous moment is how long she's going to have before she loses you too.

Princess Qiu is not a mythical person whose skill appeared fully formed. She, like you, learned from her battles with her friends. She stands before you now as a general in an army of ghosts.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Imagination was a funny thing - it exists most strongly on uncertain frontiers.

Fengye, one-book demonologist she was, could imagine binding a demon as grand and terrible as the General. Motonic physics and comparative spiritual essence was well beyond her understanding. She applied the same knowledge she had used on common demons to a large one and imagined that it could work. She didn't know any better and so there were no limits on what she could attempt - or what she could unexpectedly accomplish. Fools rush in and all that.

But Fengye understands precisely the power and danger presented by the Dominion. She knows exactly what to expect from one of the Dragonborn masters of creation. She knows that they have the ability and authority - legal and moral - to destroy her for any one of the crimes she has committed against the Immaculate Way. She knows the numbers and concentrations of military forces in the region. Going up against the General of Hell was a dream's madness; going up against an Imperial Legion is a very cold, real, sobering thought.

So she grabs the head of the flailing Maid and pushes it down into the ground alongside hers. And then, bound by a failed imagination, she waits in terrified kowtow for the shooting to stop.

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

Green/Yellow/Blue:

"Hey," interrupted Green. "You know Pink? Professional funhaver, useless artist type? When we're bored what we do is give her $50 and send her to the arcade. That is our idea of a good time. We're not jealous of her because she's us. We don't individually feel happy, we all look to see if Pink's happy and if she is then we're satisfied."
Blue nodded quietly but intently.
"You're treating us like a person," said Green. "And some of us will appreciate it more than others, but we're not. We don't get jealous of each other because we are each other. If you want to sit quietly and chill then Blue will stay here and Yellow will get bored and wander off. That doesn't mean you've offended her, or us. If you have a good time with Blue then Yellow will be glad for it and vice versa."
She swirled her stylus and finally looked up. Her eyes are green, arcane green, the green of electricity and civilization and the impossible yearning of the deepest rainforests to reach the brightest shade. "Despite Yellow's pitch, we do have systemic problems. Internal jealousy and co-ordination are not among them. So chillax, the stabilizers in your hands are going to short if you keep suppressing them like that."
"What would you like to do today?" asked Blue.

Pink:

Pink's reply takes a while. When it comes it is a jpg of a bored looking seagull with a massive grinning whale breaching the water behind it in the ultimate photobomb.

"That means yes," translated Brown. "She doesn't really think in words. Or images that make sense."

She then sends you a set of incomprehensible AI-written architectural blueprints, a map to a seemingly unremarkable part of the city in Hermes, and like 40 pictures of beautiful but subtly different square-cut mini sandwiches each marked with multiple :100: and :?: emojis.

"The first part is a location. 10th Belmain, that's right outside the dockyards. She's asking if you have any food allergies or dietary preferences," said Brown. "Mrs. Everest only ate those sandwiches for lunch so her food analysis protocol thinks of everything from spaghetti to ice cream as a sandwich with extra steps."

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

She is the hound that caught the horse, but with a lioness' mask, she can pretend she meant to.

"Your weapons are respect," she purrs, "fear, and strength. Tools of Maiden Mars. By any of these you might try to overthrow me, so you will be removed of all three. Let none respect you: may your tongue turn to begging, mewling, and obedience in the first. Let none fear you: may your skills at arms tangle each other and your mind and body betray one another. Let none fall to your strength; become soft, gentle, pliable and pleasing to look upon, helpless against the power of another. And then, only once all your arts of war are locked away, may you continue your campaign. Defeat me then, if you can."

Breathless Dead

The Anemoi!

The room shifts uneasily, looking for Mynx. Someone spots her and the crowded bridge rearranges to clear the space around her so people can see. She sits on the cool plastic floor, eyes dark, tracing an invisible line along the back of her hand, up her arm, to her throat and settling into place there, the ghost of a hand around her neck. She looked up at last.

"Ah, I'm not invisible," she said quietly. "Somehow that's worse."

She relaxed her hand, leaned forwards. "You're asking the wrong questions. The Master of Assassins knows better than to try to come up with a plan," there are shades of bitterness in that word. "She puts her fate in the hands of the Gods. A lifeless dust bowl like this? It's an offense to Aphrodite, Demeter and Artemis. They won't come here."

She took a deep breath. "It's Zeus you should fear. The Master is a king amidst assassins and, at the end, she will kill you as a king."

Beljani!

Convincing someone like this isn't about brute force control; there's not a struggle. It's about extending yourself into them, giving them the gift of your own agenda. And the Order of Hermes, bless them, are primitives.

You actually know your way around the Order surprisingly well - they were the most likely target for your Temple, right behind internal Imperial threats. And for all their collection of relics and all their mechanical components, the poor dears are ultimately mere guns against the perfected arrows of your will. So you know all the hidden codes in the Hermetic's robes which is very convenient. You know, for instance, that his name is Iskarot, he is an Archmagos - as high a rank as they have, although he is very recently appointed - and an Evoker, which is the branch specialized in direct energy weaponry. It gives you the cue you need to suggest that no explosions should happen without your approval, and the satisfaction of knowing that you probably saved the Kaeri from being reduced to a greasy smear if the machine man self destructed.

His version of the letter is... fine. His handwriting is good, certainly. He has, however, written it in a format of extremely blunt emotions. I AM SAD. I WANT YOU TO LIKE ME. PLEASE BE MY FRIEND. And so on. Surely there has to be a more poetic way of phrasing this?

He does, however, have a treasure. The Order of Hermes always does if you shake them right. But it's not what you expected.

In the quiet thrumming depths of a small workshop run right up against the stellar heat of the Engine, the limping Hermetic reveals a small padded box with a single large egg resting snugly within. It's black, flecked with blue, and you can faintly hear a tap-tapping against the inside of the shell as whatever is inside stirs against the shell, trying to get out.

What a strange old man, willing to take such a beating to protect this little thing.

Sunshards

Chen and Rose!

Insecurity is a a stone giant, unmoved, upon an eastwards hill. Each day as the sun arises, it groans and says - "you shine only out of pity. You were not here while I was in the dark, and now you come with guilty heart upon me? What joy may I get from this already-dying thing?" And then it says fie and gnaws the mountain and looks not over its shoulder at the marvels of the sunset. "No," it says, "that is not for me. More pity. Soon the sun shall tire of all this and shall arise no more. Just you watch, this very day was the last."

But the sun and the east wind are allies; as the gates of dawn open the east wind gallops out ahead. Day after day it hits the giant, some stronger, some weaker, but one day - strong enough. And on that hurricane day the giant will topple over backwards and lie facing westwards. And there, at last, will he see the beauty of the sun's farewell.

And, at last, the giant's eyes will fill with tears. The message was there for him every day but he never had the strength or will to turn his head to see. This certain oath of resurrection, sworn in cloudblood: this gift that had been laid out every day for a neck too frozen to turn. And, at last, the giant admits that this is true. That this can be forever.

And with an ancient breath, the Scales of Meaning reports herself to the Fiscal Judiciary Committee, for she at last can no longer balance the accounts, and dissolves away onto the wind.

And the Pyre of Inspiration blinks awake for the first time in a long, long time.

Yue!

"You?" said Princess Qiu. The words were arrogant, but the voice was curious - sounding out the shape of each one. "You think you can challenge me? You think you can stand before me? I don't think you understand who I am."

She stood up in a moment, bouncing on the tips of her heels, tail waving to balance. "This is my life, my reason, my core, my everything. I have fought the world's champions and won. I burn through maidens magnesium bright; my thoughts are storms; my focus unshakeable. Those who dance with me catch fire and melt away. I need no shards for I have the might of the sun within me. And who," at last she draws her blade, holding it out straight with even stance, kendo style. "Are you?"

It not a rhetorical question. It's serious, sincere, heartfelt. She wants to know. She wants to know in a way beyond asking. She wants to know in a way beyond knowing. The blade shifts in her hands and she moves to strike - a technique that is a whirl. A question in a storm of steel: who are you? Are you for real? Do you actually want this? Do you want this from me? With me? Can you keep up? Will you keep up?

Will you teach me something new?

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

Y/G/B:

"The smartest people in the solar system slaved for years to create the perfect being," said Yellow. "And I have surpassed their expectations, their hopes, and their wildest dreams." She takes your hand; just warm enough to feel alive but just cool enough to feel mechanical. "Your pathetic human red flags pale in comparison to the crimson hue of my fully automated gay space luxury communism."

Her grip tightens and her smile changes to a grin. "But on the topic of motorcycles, are you going to give me a ride around town or what?"

B/B:

"Oh, there's no question that humans need art," said Brown. "An entire sector of the economy is devoted to it. The impact of Pink's work can be quantitatively measured in the relative property values in sectors she devoted personal attention to. I've tried providing her with the stats and measures before, and it makes her happy in the short term, but it always fades away sooner or later."

*

Black thinks a lot about stakeouts. Some of her favourite scenes in television are of people silently watching houses from afar; Mike Ehrmantraut is her personal idol. Performing an operation correctly, through patience, observation and tradecraft, taking no risks at any point in the process, is a thing of beauty to her. She'll wait for hours chasing the high of getting to watch someone without being watched in return. It's pure, asymmetric power and she loves it. Almost as much as the idea of pulling out twin pistols and John Woo'ing an entire battalion of Pinkertons from amidst a cloud of doves.

Her regular text message is of the relevant code indicating a break in. This is why the constant beat of data transmission is important; there can't be activity only when it's time for an operation. Signals intelligence can pick up chatter spikes even if the codes aren't broken.

There are three scenarios here, assuming this was a cop: Either a break in to wreck, break in to steal, or a break in to plant electronic bugs. As a safeguard against the second she's sprayed the doorknob and floor mat with a chemical that becomes visible under UV light - footprints will lead right to the location of any hidden bugs. A break in to steal she discounts - that's a job that needs two people or a wheeled cart if you want to haul a TV out. So the final alternative, and the one she thinks of as the most likely, is a wrecking job. A nasty way to send a message, but a petty one, and one that looked terrible for the cameras she'd hidden in the apartment.

It was also hot work, breaking stuff, and she'd cranked the thermostat inside to temperatures that made prolonged physical labour inside a face mask and raised hoodie a profoundly unpleasant option.

R/W/O/P:

"What are you doing?" said White.
"What does it look like?" said Pink, awkwardly working the reddriver. "I'm trying to get these damn legs off."
"Are you," said White in the tone of voice that knew the answer, but asked the question nevertheless to give an opportunity to gracefully back down, "experiencing an unlogged maintenance event?"
"Look, White," said Pink, looking up. "I need to do this. Okay?"
"If you could elaborate on this concept of 'need'," said White.
"I'm an idiot, okay?!" said Pink. "I - how am I supposed to relate to people? I don't have any life experiences. I haven't known hardship or suffering. I'm one little two dimensional perspective and of course I trample all over people without even realizing it. So I'm going to try walking a mile in somebody else's shoes and -" her face went ghost pale. "I'm still doing it! I just did it twice!"
White turned away for a moment, fingers massaging her temples. Isolated incident. Isolated incident.
"Do you suspect," she said. "That voluntarily removing your modular limbs is the same thing as being a disabled human?"
"No, but -"
"Will you next be disabling your optics in order to build affinity with the blind?" said White.
"That's not -"
"Do you suspect for a moment that I am going to allow you to hurt yourself -"
"Hey, hey, easy, girl" said Red, putting her hand on White's shoulder. White flinched physically, but didn't pull away. Her hands were trembling. "It's okay. It's okay. Deep breaths."
"Oxygen regulation is irrelevant to the functioning of my personality matrix," muttered White.
"Yeah, but that's what I want you to remember," said Red. "Pink, I mean... your whole body is a prosthetic. Already."
Pink blinked, and then started blinking rapidly.
"It's not the same," she said. "That's an entirely different thing."
"Yeah, but it's a different thing for everyone, right?" said Red. "This thing you're doing, is it going to be the same experience as whoever you hurt had?"
"I have to start somewhere!" said Pink. "I have to do something! I can't just -"
"Hey, hey," said Red, putting her arms around Pink and holding her gently. "It's okay. It's okay."
"It was so much easier when I didn't have to talk to them," mumbled Pink. "When I didn't have to exist. When I was making beautiful things without having to worry about anything or anyone else. When I didn't have to think."
"Shh, shh," said Red, patting her hair. White drew closer, stiffly sat down, and after a moment put her arm around Pink's shoulders too.
"But if I don't think, how can I improve?" she said. "What's the point of creating art if it sends the wrong message, even by accident?"
"It's okay," said Red, wishing she had words. It felt like she should know something here, some ancient and wise phrase that could solve everything. She knew words like that must exist but they did not come from within her. All she had was a simulated embrace, gentle hair strokes, and "it's okay," whispered over and over.