Falsetto doesn't know where she is.
She's been wandering the roads for weeks now, unable to find either a way into Forte or a way back to Andante. Everywhere she turns, there's something—another pack of soldiers standing guard, a burning wooden cart that's been dragged to the middle of the road, a little puddle of blood or a baby's rag doll that she can't stand to step over.
She's had to stop more than once to throw up in the bushes.
It feels like there is nothing sacred anymore, nothing they won't snap and stomp and rape and pillage. It feels like the whole world has gone to hell. And she wants to go back home to Andante, to Jazz, to the warm safety of their underground rebellion where she could feel like she was doing something without killing babies along the way. She wants to go back to the way things used to be.
She wants to find a way out.