>"Sure, sure. Goodnight, Archer."
>Let's put this away and go get some well-earned rest
> Might be in vain... but try to not think too much on what happened some hours ago, specially Rider and Koch's deaths. The least we need is a night full of nightmares and not being well-rested.
>You conk out not long after your head hits the pillow, you barely have time to even reflect on the day.
>Snowflakes lazily make their way down the crystalline surface. With each moment, it the motion becomes slower, lazier. This is good, it is as it should be. Bit by bit, they approach an asymptotic stillness, growing ever closer, yet not quite reaching it. As it should be. This is the correct way of things. A young woman toils on the other side of the curved surface of the glass, in a dry and dusty place. The grass is brown, the trees are small huddled things. Dryness fills the air. The young woman swings a hammer at the side of a rickety trailer house, securing loose siding into place. The wind blows, disturbing the dust and kicking it into the air in sharp, unpleasant spirals. Then they slowly drift to the earth, losing the momentum that the wind imparted. This is better.
>The woman only barely knows what she is doing, but this does not bother her. She is confident in her work. There is no need to get anyone else involved. There are neighbors, but they are not welcome this deep into her life. She does not need them, they do not need her, and she is content with this. There is little hope here, but that is fine too. It is an illusion, something to be taken away at the merest whims of greater forces. This cannot be helped, this cannot be changed. All that can be done is adapt to it.
>Snowflakes drift along the glass, carried by the the whims of the world. They float aimlessly, coming closer and closer to perfect stillness, never quite reaching it. This is good. A woman in rough leathers chants in a thick forest, invoking a song to please the land in a tune that the ears of no human can decipher. Soon the time will come again, but for now all is peaceful. This is all she can ask for.
>Morning light streams through your window. It's hard not groan as you perceive it through blurry eyes. For a moment your mind grasps to remember where you are, who you are, before you can really understand that you've waken up.
>_