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She sounds like a robot, but hey—at least she’s a moral one. Beep-boop, my conscience is clear.
“We’re scientists,” Kat says. She stands. “All we do is teach people how sausage is made.”
The world’s so big and mean, and we’re so small in it with our hands and feet fettered. Little tiny helpless things, who can’t do a damn thing but cry and rage most days at the way the game’s rigged against us.
Death decayed into history decayed into poolside anecdote. Francium wishes it had a half-life as short as tragedy’s.
You’ll be lightning. You’ll burn and you’ll strike and then you’ll be gone. It’s up to you. Dying’s a personal thing.
For the briefest blip of a second she hesitates and Regan thinks maybe she won’t take the bottle, that she’s sadder than she is angry, that her execution will amount to nothing more than a pitiful sentence in a history book swollen tick-tight with so many injustices the poisoning of a factory full of girls and the mean public death of a small god don’t even register as particularly noteworthy.
To be is to be wary, and so there is still fear in her heart, balking wide-eared at what lies coiled at the end of the walk.
