The number pulsed red like a dying star. As soon as Beck saw it, his stomach dropped. A feeling crept over his head, jolting the hairs bolt upright, a feeling unfelt since the day he'd torn apart another kid's jigsaw in Kindergarten. A feeling that said justice was currently homing in on him like a missile.

"Well, shit," he said.

Nobody paid him any mind as he slunk out of the chamber and up the stairs, because they were busy watching Kari. The kid perched on the podium, voice crackling with menace. It wasn't a voice that a ten-year old had any business using.

THEY CAME BEFORE I WAS OLD ENOUGH TO SPEAK, Kari was croaking. I KNOW NOT MY MOTHER TONGUE.

Yeah, yeah, thought Beck. Come out with your life story just before the audience votes. If it had been anyone else, Beck would have knocked them down, but who hits a kid?

He came to his lodge and almost prised the door off the liquor cabinet. Poured himself a nice whiskey in a plastic cup. The bitterness soothed his throat, and he didn't so much mind his cheeks going rosy. He sat in his camp chair by the window, staring at the clouds.

Some kind of view, Beck thought. He felt like he'd just finished running a marathon.

Behind him, boots clanked on wood. It was Haralda, clutching her clipboard with white knuckles. She'd put on another cardigan.

"Come to gloat, I bet," said Beck.

"No, Beck." Haralda extended her hand. "Your methods were questionable, but I appreciate what you were trying to do."

He stared at her awhile, then slapped her hand away and got her a whiskey.

"Alright," he said. "See you on the other side, Madame Gunmetal."

"Mr. Miller." She nodded, raised her cup.

"Only, I'm not going how those fuckers want me to," he said.

And he opted out of being healed.