To: William Foulke. From: She that believes in you.

You made me believe that the heart of a man isn’t just what they’ve done, the scars they’ve acquired, the patterns in the bone, but how we read them. How two people can take the same causes, motivations, experiences, one sees white, the other, void.

I can’t live with what I know. I can’t hide my past under a mask and a Huntian promise. The second chance became the third through the fourth till the infinite wept.

I saw you. With lenses over your eyes. Buried in the steel and ceramic. The player of the game. William Foulke, airman of the Liberty Navy, bording battleships with the expendability ticking out of you. Tramua that begets. Dharmic, over and over, the cycles of loss inverted back on itself. Till they put you in a shell, made you a crab-man, pinned a medal on you, hiding you behind metal. And in the planar polymers you wore for a face I knew then that there is no God.

Hunt’s second chance isn’t redemption. The mask is that medal, is morphine, is intoxicating yourself to hide the agony. It’s a tyrant's re-invention. Imperial clothes.

You once told me, in confidence, that the game was bullshit. All the pieces should be knocked off the board. That utilarianism should fertilize the wastes of the bonemeal of the soldiers are instructed to fertilize. Revolution.

I don’t know if Hunt briefed you on what they did to me. If you do, I forgive you. You were resisting long before I was; I barely survived, my soul intact. You? They’ve had time to work on you. Beyond the frame of free-will and reason. You might have given up on William Foulke, tin-man. I haven’t. I know you have a heart in your chest. Body and soul.

Hunt taught me utilitarianism; I never believed in it. It was too Gammu. The exact allocation of flesh for fortune; another game to be played.

God is real. Hunt calls the coin on death and life. Man is God; we have the freedom to break each other’s games.

So here’s my game: I will drag the William Foulke I believe in back to God’s own salt if I have to send the whole tribe crashing down to do it. You are my brother. For you I would move the stars. The would-be genocider in chief and his baby-mamma are not going to stand in my way of doing what I know to be right. Till I see you breathe. With your own lungs. In your own light.

I’ve had my aristea. I know where the wind takes my sails.

Forgive me if you must. I forgive you.

For I must fly towards the battleship now, though I row against the stream.

I am coming for you. Hunt, on proviso the mauled you've gutted out of the one man who believed in me, wires you this communication - I am coming for you, too. Invent your own context.

I am not Jesus. There's limits to how much you can take from me.