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Deep breaths. Stop shaking. No-one can know.
She's vaguely aware of the couples dancing on the floor, surrounding her. She feels like a caged animal waiting to be led to the slaughterhouse – or perhaps it is her, about to send her own lamb to the abattoir. There's blood on her hands, and it's more than just Yates’. It's scorching through her gloves and biting her flesh, acid burning through her veins and into her throat. The Ether scientists promised her she wouldn't get hurt, but she can already feel the scars forming on more than just superficial skin.
What are you doing?
What if he doesn't come? What if the dose is wrong – what if he's already collapsed? If this goes wrong, she hasn't just killed him. She's condemning herself as well.
Maybe you deserve to suffer.
But he doesn't.
He's followed her blindly. Perhaps too blindly. He trusts her.
Do you trust him?
She trusts him with her life.
But you haven't told him the truth.
Judas.
She prays to a God she doubts exists that he'll come walking up to her soon.
Let him be. Let him live.
The music is beautiful, but it feels like a cruel joke. One last dance. A final meal.
She wonders whether the people around her can see the blood.
The guilt.
The desperation.
She wants to scream.
She wants to run back in and kiss him senseless.
She wants to tell him everything. Her plan. Her love.
She remains where she is.
He will come.
In the Argentine tango, the lead steps backwards first, unable to see where they're going. They have to trust the follow to warn them of incoming danger.
I'm so sorry, 47.
It has to be done.
Deep breaths.
Stop shaking.
Stop shaking.
Stop shaking.
He walks up to her and touches her back, and it's by the grace of God that she doesn't collapse on the spot.
One step forward, and 47 moves backwards. Salida.
Another forward, preparation of the cross.
It's a crucifixion.
Their only shot at rebirth.
She completes the cross.
Forgive her, though she knows what she does.
Forgive me.
I'm sorry.
I love–