[ decide for yourself, where you want your grave to be. that about sums it up, doesn't it? even dying they wouldn't let him do, but someday he'll get too old. they'll find a better template. he'll cost them too much money in damages, and Andyr's sure he'll be put down, like Miray v5 was. Maybe he'd survive longer if he saw to it that he pandered to them and played nicely, but he'd rather have the short life, if that's the alternative.

helplessly angry as he is that that is the choice he has. and yet, what he'd said about the future - maybe not for him, but maybe for alva, for posie. for alva's kids. for the miray that alva loves, already in alaska and safe for at least the moment. isn't that what he was in the middle of, back home? raising hell to get those out, at least? so, where does he want his grave to be? ]

On the Director's desk, with his eyes in one hand, his heart in the other, and his throat in my teeth. [ because he's never going to shake that need to rip the man apart, and even if he'll be gunned down on his way there, if he can make it, maybe it's good enough. if the others can get out of the city and disappear into the arctic during the lull of the raid, that's worth it. ] While everyone else runs.

[ alva and mikal would scream at him for saying it, but they both have so much more to give, and he's already turned himself inside out with this. even if he could get out, even if they didn't hunt him to the ends of the earth, he's barely been able to function the last few days on the Moira without tearing things apart in the sims. what makes him think he could ever be just normal again? ]

Andyr. You?