1.2.2 Stuck in the middle with you (Patreon)

1.2.2

(Revelations sketch 5300 words. Broken legs, Ranger's capture, no rescue coming. Rough draft. Few minor variables)

You shouldn't have tried to get out of bed again, but in your defense you were dreaming. Were you chased? Your heart's refusal to slow down gives an indication of that, but you can't remember anything but sliding backwards down the hole. Hole? It's already fading. Good. You've got enough baggage in the waking world. 

You look up at the dim panels of light in the ceiling. They won't let you sleep in darkness, which right now is a small mercy. You don't think you would have stayed sane then.

With a pained grimace, you twist yourself back into position, choking down a cry. One of the restraints keeping your leg elevated has broken, or perhaps slipped off. Impossible to see from your position. Your therapeutic cast makes your leg a dead fish on the crisp sheets, and you're grateful for the pain. It makes it belong to you in a way it wouldn't if they'd put you on an epidural. 

It's still yours.

*if ((blinded) or (argent_marks))

  *if blinded

    Unlike your eye. The ache there is dull and you wish you could pretend that the compress covering it was the only thing that kept you from seeing. The remains have been removed now, everything cleaned up. You don't like the lack of peripheral vision this gives you, but your neck aches too much to keep twisting your head. Maybe that's where the nightmares come from, the sense that something could sit there next to the bed, in your blind spot.

  *else

    Unlike your face. You know it's just damaged nerves, delicately snipped by silver scalpel claws. Lady Argent slit the side of your face open, and while you know it will heal well, right now it makes you feel like you're wearing a mask. No. The stitches don't even itch under the compress, the skin feels numb and plastic. The pain is surface level enough to be wiped away by the painkillers, you suppose. 

    And yet something there crawls on your nerves like ants. Like there's someone there, at the corner of your eye. A prickle of sensation like a threat, and then it is gone as if it never was there.

    Maybe it wasn't.

  You wouldn't know. Not with the dampeners.

  Sometimes you imagine breathing. A warmth on your skin. And then you need to turn, too fast, with a fear only the cameras register but there's nothing there.

  Nothing.

  *fake_choice

    #Lady Argent will pay for this.

      Lady Argent will pay for this. You don't know how yet, but you've added her to your long line of grudges. Once you're healed. Once you're out.

      She'll pay.

    #I know I should blame Argent, but I'm over it.

      You know you should blame Lady Argent for taking your eye, but you've already left the event behind. You lost, that's all. She won and decided to rub it in.

      You'll live.

    #I deserved what Argent did to me.

      You can't pretend you didn't deserve what Lady Argent did to you. What you did to her might be from necessity, but you can't say you're proud of it. You hurt her. She hurt you.

      Some would call that fair.      

Bodies are strange. You don't think humans realize that, how much of their self is tied to their physical form. As if it's one and the same. You know better. Separate pieces held together by will, like your broken bones are contained by their casts. You remember the newly decanted, the newly implanted, rigid with AI-chipped memories don't belonging to their bodies. Soft faces racing with expressions but no emotional maturity to understand.

You. Did.

You shouldn't be thinking about this. About the Farm. But maybe it's inevitable, to dig your fingers into that particular wound. 

You feel...

*fake_choice

  #Afraid.

    You're afraid, and here in the loneliness of your room, your prison, you're not afraid to admit it. 

    Of course you're terrified.

    They'll come for you eventually, and you don't think the Rangers will stop them. You don't think they can. Even if they wanted to.

    Can you?

    You make an attempt to push yourself up towards a sitting position, but the pain is gravel on raw nerves and you choke back a frustrated sob.

    You should be used to pain, but your body betrays you all the same.

  #Empty.

    You know you should be terrified, but instead you feel unmoored. Empty. It is as if all adrenaline has been wrung from your body, leaving you wrecked in a pool of icy water. Not floating. Not sinking.

    Just.

    Just.

    You force yourself to take a deep breath, deep enough that your ribs hurt. That, at least, is real. Must have broken them in the fall. No. Not fall. Crash. The least you can do for yourself is to stay in the present.

    Gritting your teeth, you push yourself back, trying to get into a more upright position. It hurts enough to cut through the chill, is real in ways that makes you bite back a curse as you abandon your attempt. 

    You should be used to pain by now, but your body still reacts. 

  #Angry.

    You know you should be terrified, but you're too furious to cringe in the face of your past ghosts. So let them come. Let them try to take you back. Didn't work out for them the last time. 

    Miscalculated. Badly. Thought you. Thought you.

    Heh.

    You might have messed up enough to land you here, your body might be broken but you are not helpless. Not again. Never again.

    Show them.

    You bare your teeth in a snarl and push yourself backwards in bed. Not exactly sitting up, but close enough. Breathe through the pain. Accept it. It's yours like nothing else is.

    You should be used to it by now.

You never knew how good you had it 'growing up', coddled by the pain-gate turning agony to discomfort. You doubt the Farm truly knows what power it gives to their Re-Genes. The pain-gate allowed you to exercise will over your body's involuntary functions, to let you destroy yourself in measured intervals rather than collapse in protective shock. Did it make things worse on occasion? Yes, of course. Pain is there to protect your body from breaking further, but broken bodies can be fixed. Death is permanent.

*if gate >= 4

  Right? 

Did the pain-gate break with you against the hard asphalt below that room full of nightmares that was the Heartbreak Incident? Perhaps. Was it taken out or sabotaged while the Farm was stitching your broken body together afterwards? Equally likely. All you're certain of is that after the fall, you had to go through every agonizing breath afterwards. Local anesthesia can only go so farm and the blissful darkness of sleep was denied you. Were they afraid to put you under?

*if gate >= 4

  They were. And rightly so.

You've blanked out most of those first months, there was nothing there worth remembering, even in your nightmares. A second birth, more traumatic and painful than your first decanting. The farm. Your creators.

Did they put you back together wrong, all those years ago?

*fake_choice

  #They put me together wrong, this is their fault.

    *if motivation = "fate"

      They did something to you, of that you are sure. Put you together wrong. Set you on this path.

      It's only right they get to reap the whirlwind of ${villain_name}'s wrath.

    *else

      Did they put you back together wrong? Is this the Farm's fault? 

      Probably. $!{villain_name} is their creation, like it or not.  

  #No, they set me free, finally.

    *if motivation = "fate"

      They did something to you, alright. They set you free. Set you on this path. Birth is always painful, but you hold no gratitude for your cruel midwives.

      It's only right they get to reap the whirlwind of ${villain_name}'s wrath.

    *else

      The farm didn't do anything but set you free. Whatever bonds you had with your past were cut on that operating table, and what remained shriveled during the captivity afterwards. 

      The farm might have messed ${name} ${surname} up, but they set ${villain_name} free.  

  *selectable_if (motivation != "fate") #Maybe. I don't want to think about it.

    Maybe the Farm messed you up, but didn't they do that back when they decanted your mewling teenage form all those years ago? You try not to think about it. 

    What's the use? $!{villain_name} is here to stay.

  #The farm has nothing to do with this. This is all me.

    *if motivation = "fate"

      The Farm has nothing to do with this, this is fate. You were always meant to walk this path, you can feel the weight of inevitability with every step.

      ${!villain_name} was always your destiny.

    *else

      The Farm has nothing to do with this. They're a painful memory, an obstacle in your path. Nothing more. You've crafted ${villain_name} from past mistakes.

      Let nobody say you're not responsible for where you go from here.   

"$!{swear}." It feels good to say the word out loud. A sign that you are real. That this is not a dream. You've slept too much already. Lost track of time.

You don't like that.

Time is an easy linchpin to hang your life on. There's not even a clock in here.

*if tech_savvy

  You think they have removed things from the room. Did they do that because they feared what you could do with it? Even the monitoring systems are at the far end of the wall, out of reach of your clever fingers. 

  Cold you pull them here if you tugged at the cords? Probably not without triggering an alarm.

*else

  Are they trying to soften you up? Make you lose track of everything outside these walls? It would make sense, if they want you to crack, this is a good way to start.

  Too bad for them you're used to worse.

You think it's been a couple of days, going by the food. Not more, the wounds are still too fresh. You can judge time surprisingly well by how cuts and scrapes heal. Not by bruises, they are too variable. You've had staff here to treat you, a doctor with kind eyes and a troubled smile. She didn't say her name, and you couldn't dig it out from behind her brainpan. The dampeners must be running hot, their static is a constant roar at the back of your mind. Only the fact that everything hurts enables you to forget it.

She asked you how you felt.

*fake_choice

  #I laughed. Not kindly.

    She asked you how you felt, with that kind little smile. You laughed in return, harsh enough that she pulled back. As if you had proven something to her.

    It was interesting that she repeated the question, this time specifying parts of your body. Medical interest. Checking for circulation. Those you answered, you have no wish to have your legs go gangrenous.

  #I kept my silence, not meeting her gaze.

    She asked you how you felt, concern written all over her face. You didn't answer at first, because what use would that be? Nothing you said would change your position, only give them more ammunition against you.

    You did answer when she asked about your legs, though. She needed to know what you could feel. Circulation. Pinched nerves. You were short but truthful, because you want to heal.

  #I answered truthfully, this is not her fault.

    She asked you how you felt, as if you were just another patient. As if you were human. You have to give her that, you didn't get any feeling that she treated you differently because of what you were. Re-Gene or criminal. You suppose to her you were just a patient.

    Her concern was your legs, she wanted to know about circulation, pain management, pinched nerves. You were glad she seemed to be on the ball.

  #I was glad for the company, even joked around.

    You were glad to have company, staring at the walls made you feel worse than any bruises or broken bones could. Besides, she treated you decently, just another person, not a Re-Gene or a criminal. She even laughed at your jokes.

    Bad as they were.

    She focused mostly on your legs, she wanted to know about circulation, pain management, pinched nerves. You were glad she seemed to be on the ball

You need to get back on your feet as soon as possible. The new casts you were fitted in after cleaning is supposed to help with that. Gentle vibrations to assist bone healing, temperature controlled cycling for comfort and circulation. You suppose she's used to working on the Rangers, at least you appreciate that she's using the same skills on their enemies.

*if blazedead

  You wonder if this is Ortega's doing, you think Steel would rather have left you to rot.

*elseif ortega_relationship = "Re-Gene copy"

  You wonder if this is Steel's doing, you doubt Ortega would have wanted this kind of money spent on a Re-Gene.

*elseif monster

  You wonder if this is Steel's doing, you doubt Ortega would have cared after what ${he} called you. Nobody spends this kind of money on a monster.

*else

  You wonder if this Ortega pulling strings. It feels like it. Too soft to let you rot, even after this.

*if ((ortega_relationship != "Re-Gene copy") and (not(monster)))

  *goto ortegafirst

*elseif ((not(blazedead)) and (savedcivilians))

  *goto chenfirst

*elseif heraldrelationship != "nemesis"

  *goto heraldfirst

*else

  *goto ortegafirst

*label ortegafirst

*page_break A Knock On The Door.

"Go away," you say, because you're in no mood for visitors. It's late, if not in the middle of the night, at least too late for doctors. You've had your evening meal, you're supposed to be asleep now.

You was. Until you woke up, one restraint broken. 

$!{swear}. Of course someone would come. But why did it have to be Ortega? You recognize that knock, especially the way it repeats. The little jaunty rhythm.

Would ${he} go away if you told ${him} to? You know better than that, so you remain silent. Pretending to sleep, though your eyes are open. You hear the click of locks, the handle turning. Interesting. Electronic, not key. Good to know.

"Can't sleep?" Ortega asks, looking more tense than sheepish as ${he} closes the door behind ${him}.

*fake_choice

  #"Just a nightmare," I admit with a shrug.

    "Just a nightmare," you admit with a shrug. It hurts, which is why your eyes sting when you look up at ${him}. "What are you doing here?"

    "I saw..." Ortega gestures to the wall, which at least lets you know where the cameras are. "You looked like you were having a bad time."

    "You don't say." You can't stop the wheezing laugh, but the funny part wasn't that ${he} said it as a joke. It's that ${he} didn't. "And what are you planning to do about that?"

    "I..." Ortega flounders, trapped on neutral ground, halfway between door and bed. "I just wanted to check in."

    "To see that I'm okay?" You look down at yourself, gesturing to your legs. "I'm obviously not. I'm a mess, distracting myself with bad dreams and painkillers, waiting to be pick up for execution." 

  #"Here to sing me a lullaby?" I joke, same as always.

    "Here to sing me a lullaby?" It's as if Ortega's tension makes you relax. What do you have to lose at this point? $!{he}'s the one that's got to live with ${his} conscience and the knowledge what ${he}'s doing to you by keeping you here.

    "No," ${he} replies, unusually short for Ortega. Did you hit a sore spot? Did ${he} expect something different from you? $!{he} should know better.

    "Worried that I had a nightmare?" You tilt your head despite the soreness and pain. The dampeners don't affect your read on ${him}, if anything it clarifies. Reminds you that there's nothing but what that face gives you. The twitches. The way ${he} won't meet your eyes but looks over ${his} shoulder. At the camera? That ${he} was spying on you with?

    "Makes sense that you would, considering..." Ortega gestures to your surroundings, trapped on neutral ground, halfway between door and bed. 

    "Considering that I was in a terrible accident?" Your voice is light as cyanide pills. "Considering that I can't move without my bones grinding together?" A small exaggeration. "Considering that I'm laying here waiting for my extraction? For my execution?" There it is, the truth laid bared.

  #"So what?" I say, confrontational to the end.

    "So what?" you say, chin up, voice hard, staring Ortega down as if you could do something about ${his} intrusion. It works, ${he} stops halfway to the bed, unwilling to close the distance between you.

    "So what maybe I care?" It's ridiculous that a grown ${ortega_gender}, the former Marshal of the Rangers, can look so much like a teenager caught in a lie. You know it's an act, but it's a good one. That look over ${his} shoulder. Was that aimed at the hidden camera? Interesting, now you know where it is.

    "If you did, you wouldn't keep me trapped here. All you care about is your own precious feelings of guilt." You don't look away, not this time. Eye contact can be a weapon, and it's one you wield rarely enough to be effective.

    "Why should I feel guilty?" The shrug is confrontational, but you know you won that round. "You're the villain here."

    "Touched a nerve, didn't I?" You smile, trying to look like you're the one in control here; 

    *if suit_imposing

      a broken conqueror on ${chis} throne, broken but not beaten.

    *elseif suit_terrifying

      a monster outside ${chis} shell, but no less terrifying.

    *elseif suit_mysterious

      face as blank as your helmet was, revealing nothing but more questions.

    *else

      two old friends talking, nothing more, nothing less.

    "Don't tell me you're having second thoughts about letting me be cared off back to where I came from?" Hell. Or close enough. 

"That's not going to happen." Ortega takes a step forward, approaching your bed at last. $!{he} doesn't sit down, maybe ${he} likes the height advantage.

"Not this again." You roll your eyes. "You've kept me hidden so far, I'll give you that. But it's not going to last. Someone will talk."

"Maybe you should be the first to do that." $!{he} walks over to the side, dragging a chair close before sitting down on it backwards, like ${he} was a delinquent and not a Ranger. Slightly distant, not close enough for either of you to touch. Is that suppose to make you feel at ease?

"Not sure what you want me to say." How often can you repeat yourself? "Nothing's going to change the truth." You pause, but ${he} doesn't interrupt, so you continue...

*fake_choice

  #"I can't let them get away with this. Not again."

    "I can't let them get away with this," you say, sounding as tired as you feel. "Not again."

    "You keep talking in riddles." Ortega runs ${his} fingers through ${his} hair. "Don't you get tired of being cryptic?"

    "I'm not tired of being alive." You're too aware of the camera to do anything but add a soft chuckle. "You need better interrogation equipment than a pair of puppy-dog eyes if you want to get anything out of me."

    "This isn't an interrogation," ${he} admits, probably too avoid letting you score a win. 

    "So what is it then?" 

    "You were my friend..." Ortega looks away, leaning awkwardly on the chair. ${he}'s turned away from the hidden camera, perhaps ${he} doesn't want it to record the way ${he} looks now. A personal kind of agony. "I guess I do."

  *selectable_if (thief) #"So I'm a thief and worse, get over it."

    "Sure, I'm a thief. 

    *if knownkill

      Sure, people have ended up dead. 

    Sure, I beat you up. Get over it, you've done the same and worse." You give ${him} a stern glance. 

    "Get over it?" Ortega looks like you dumped a glass of water over ${him}. 

    *if knownkill

      "You didn't use to kill people."

    "But you did," you remind ${him}. "When it was neccessary."

    "Was this?" There's a crack in ${his} voice.

    "Did you think I did it for fun?"

    "I..." Ortega looks away, leaning awkwardly on the chair. ${he}'s turned away from the hidden camera, perhaps ${he} doesn't want it to record the way ${he} looks now. A personal kind of agony. "I don't know."

  *selectable_if (hunter) #"You of all people should understand the lure of a good fight."

    "You of all people should understand the lure of a good fight." You meet Ortega's eyes, quick, and you are not the one who evades.

    *if prepare_them

      "Maybe I do," ${he} admits softly.

      *if knownkill

        "But you're killing people."

      *else

        "But does that matter?"

    *else

      "Like hell that matters if you're fighting the wrong people." $!{he} looks upset.

      *if knownkill

        "Killing them."

    "Oh grow up," you say, voice hard and filled with the pain of your broken body. "You're lucky enough to got goverment sanction and a media team. That's all."

    "You know there's more to it than that." Ortega matches your energy word for word.

    "Is it?" You feel the wave of anger build underneath you. Good. You'll need it. "Is it really? Mr. Military project? They built us both to be killers, the only different is that nobody stamped goverment property on your ass!"

    "What..." Ortega looks shamed by your anger, leaning awkwardly on the chair. ${he}'s turned away from the hidden camera, perhaps ${he} doesn't want it to record the way ${he} looks now. A personal kind of agony. "What makes you sure they didn't?"

  *selectable_if (anarchist) #"You were never interested in politics before."

    "You were never interested in politics before" You sound more tired than angry, not a look you want to go for. "What makes you think I should bother explaining things now."

    "Maybe because I'm asking?" Ortega smiles, just the faintest echo of a past you've both tried your best to bury. "Maybe because I want to get it? Get you?"

    "You don't." You ignore the smile. "You just want to hear something so you can write me off for good. Something to justify to yourself that you're keeping me in here."

    "That's not..." Ortega looks away, leaning awkwardly on the chair. ${he}'s turned away from the hidden camera, perhaps ${he} doesn't want it to record the way ${he} looks now. A personal kind of agony. "That's not why I'm here."

  *selectable_if (boss) #"Are you jealous I built my own team and didn't include you?"

    "Are you jelaous I built my own team?" The question is only half mocking, because you can see from the lock on Ortega's face that you might not be far off. "Are you jealous I didn't include you?"

    "Of course not," ${he} snaps. "I'm a Ranger. You're a villain. A killer."

    "So are you." You give ${him} a stern glance. "You think killing people is alright just 'cause you're a Ranger?"

    "That's not what we're talking about here."

    "You started!" You lower your voice again, forcing stillness down your throat. "You get it if you dare to think about it. Why I'm surrounding myself with people who are actually on [b]my[/b] side."    

    "I..." Ortega looks away, leaning awkwardly on the chair. ${he}'s turned away from the hidden camera, perhaps ${he} doesn't want it to record the way ${he} looks now. A personal kind of agony. "I guess I do."

  #"I'm sorry, I suppose. But saying that doesn't change anything."

    "I'm sorry, I suppose." You let out a sigh and looks at Ortega. Neither of you look happy about the circumstances. "But saying that doesn't change anything."

    "Maybe meaning it would." $!{his} smile is tired but familiar. "You're not pulling my leg, are you?"

    "No," you admit. "I could have handled this better."

    "So could I." $!{he} sucks on those words for a minute, dragging out the silence. "I wish I understood."

    "I'm glad you don't." Glad Ortega haven't been dragged through what you have. You doubt ${he}'d survive.

    "That's an asshole thing to say." The offense look half pretense, a familiar dance between you.

    "I put you in the hospital first," you retort, trying to break whatever camaraderie that was building. You can't afford hope.

    "You did, didn't you." Ortega looks away, leaning awkwardly on the chair. ${he}'s turned away from the hidden camera, perhaps ${he} doesn't want it to record the way ${he} looks now. A personal kind of agony. "Me and Herald."

  #"You're my enemy now." I glare at ${him}. "We're through."

    "You're my enemy now," you say with a harsh glare. "We're through." What ${he}'s aiming for coming back here, you have no idea. The fact that you're stuck here is proof enough of what you are.

    Enemies.

    "So I am supposed to do what?" Ortega sounds upset, which isn't surprising. Never could take rejection. "Ignore the fact that you're here?"

    "Why not? You did your part, you caught me. Leave the rest to Steel and get out of my room." Your eyes meet, and for a moment you think ${he} will do something stupid. Like trying to reason with you.

    "You really have changed." Not a question. Not this time. $!{he} looks away, awkward, like he wasn't prepared for this.

    "What did you think? That there was some magical explanation for all this that would make it okay?" It feels so good to say it out loud, finally. To end this charade. "Why did you think I didn't come looking for you when I returned?" You catch Ortega's eyes, holding your gaze steady like a blade at ${his} throat. "I didn't want to."

    "Ah." $!{he} looks down, and there's a short laugh of something that might be relief, but sounds terribly adjacent to panic. "Guess there's no use for me here."

    "None." Steel would be a relief in comparison. No illusions of a shared past making things uneasy.

    "I'll be going then." There's still a hesitation as ${he} heads for the door, as if ${he} can't quite believe this. You shutting ${him} out.

    $!{he} should have thought of that before sending you here. You keep your eyes on ${him} but doesn't say anything.

    Finally, the door closes with a slam, leaving you alone once more.

    Hopefully you can go back to sleep.

    *set ortegabreak true

    *goto firstnext

"This is stupid." You can't call it anything else, a repeat dance with nobody to lead. A fight without a winner because neither of you will lie down and admit defeat.

"It is," ${he} admits, fidgeting with ${his} sleeves. Long, for once. Hiding the bruises. You watch ${his} fingers doing their familiar restless dance, and it takes you a moment to realize that ${he}'s pulled out a small handwritten card and is showing you it in ${his} hands, out of sight of the camera. "I just wanted to check in on you."

[You will get help.]

"I can handle a few nightmares," you say, keeping your face tired but impassive. "There's nothing you can do."

"I know," ${he} admits, clever finger disappearing the card up ${his} sleeve as if it never was there. "But you know me, I'm a sucker for trying." A new card, equally surreptitiously presented.

[Tomorrow night. Take all the painkillers you can.]

"If you really want to do something for me," you say, catching on. "Tell them to up my painkillers. Maybe I can get a good night's sleep then."

"Don't overdose," ${he} cautions as the card disappears. Looks like that wasn't the plan then.

"Just tell them to fit me with an epidural at bedtime." You catch the hidden wink before ${he} adjusts his position to a more relaxed one, so the camera once more catches ${his} sad face."It's not like I need my legs for anything at the moment."

"I'll do." Ortega says, awkwardly getting to ${his} feet. As an afterthought, he bends low to reattach your leg to the support wires. "I think Chen is getting ready for a more through interrogation in a few days. You might want to come up with a better story to him. He's not as patient as I am."

*fake_choice

  #"Bold of you to think they won't have picked me up by then."

    "Bold of you to think they haven't picked me up by then." You say the words with a grim expression, if Ortega truly is serious about helping you out of here, you might as well try to distract from ${him}. Make this about you.

    "This place is secure," Ortega repeats. "You know that. We won't let them take you."

    "Famous last words." You let out a sigh, allowing yourself to relax once your leg is raised once more. "Now get out of here and let me get some sleep."

  #"Steel can go fuck himself, same as you."

    "Steel can go fuck himself, same as you." Harsh words, but it's easy to fall into that mask. "I have even less for him than for you."

    "He's the Marshal." Ortega sighs and straightens his back, looking down at your legs. Both raised once more. "He can't just ignore the fact that you're here. You know that."

    "Would be better for everyone, wouldn't it?" You bare your teeth in a snarl. "Just drop me in a hole and throw away the key."

    "Get some sleep, ${name}." Ortega doesn't even have to pretend to sound tired.

  #"Everybody's more patient than you," I lie.

    "Everybody's more patient than you," you lie. Sure, Ortega can't sit down for long stretches of time, and is liable to jump into trouble head first, but ${he}'s also frighteningly focused when ${he} wants to be. You learned that lesson by now.

    "Yeah, yeah," ${he} says with that lazy grin you can't believe you fell for. How long had ${he} been suspecting you and just played along? "Don't fall out of bed again."

    "If I do, don't come playing nurse. Send someone who can actually do the job." You sink back against the pillow, clinging to irritation so your relief won't show. "Now get out and let me sleep."

    "Sure," ${he} says, keeping it short and annoyed.

The door closes with a slam, leaving you alone once more.

It is the hardest thing you've done to close your eyes and try to go back to sleep. To ignore hope. To ignore friendship.

To go to sleep.

*goto firstnext