Woe’s followers - their followers - cluster around their Lady and their Saint in consternation. The young girl with her finished braid is especially distraught, her youthful face pinched and paled with fright at 2B’s ghastly appearance, her hands hovering close to her Lady as if touching her might cause her to truly come apart.

“You are done,” Woe insists, heated and rushed, waving off her would-be attendants exactly as 2B anticipates. This is not an argument to have in front of any of them - but this is not an argument, and she does not care, in the glistening, taut bubble of her certainty, what anyone else thinks.

“You are in no condition to continue. I forbid it. You are going back with-” and her hurricane eyes affix on the girl with the braid “-Amity.”

(She will not, does not, remember their names. The glittering pink thing stuck to her like a gaudy brooch shall, and so what is the difference?)

Her fingers are still clinging. She yanks them away, impatiently, or like 2B is still as heated as a stove top, and folds them to her chest as if yet burned. There is something clanging in her skull. Her teeth do not suit her mouth. Her teeth do not suit the interior of her bones.

“I am referring you,” she says, absurdly, “To a specialist.”