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by pseudocitrus

Royce leaned over to peer at the music player. "Who is it?" Sybil took a breath. She didn't answer immediately. The voice washed over her, filled all her empty spaces, rose and fell and rose again in her chest like the waves that surrounded her Sandbox: crashing, crashing, crashing. Finally, she answered. Softly. Eyes closed. "Our next candidate."

12. Still figuring things out

"Red —!"

:::

When the green light dissipates, Sybil's heart leaps to her throat.

Gone.

Both of them are gone.

And —

"Where," Royce gasps, "is the Transistor?"