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.*・。. FLARES! .*・。.
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They lost a lot of boys, that night. Kennedy tried to keep herself together as she glanced at the wall. They would have to scratch off a lot of names — too many. The grievers had taken so many boys; a cruel amount of boys.

Her boys.

At least, they had been her boys. Now, they were just a bunch of names etched into the wall. The only thing to prove they had ever been there, in the first place. No actual boys, but their names. The only thing they had left behind. Ten boys was already too many in her eyes. But, when adding their leader to that list, Kennedy found it an unbearable amount. The list felt heavier, longer.

She stared at his name, lip quivering.

ALBY

His handwriting was terrible; as in, really terrible. Kennedy knew she had commented on it when she had etched her own name. His reaction had been shock, then a deep laughter. He found that funny.

Kennedy couldn't recall what she had said exactly, but it got him to laugh— it was unexpected. Alby was serious, deathly so, and he didn't seem the type to laugh. But Kennedy got through to him, he cracked. According to Newt, he hadn't laughed in months. She felt proud that she had gotten it out of the leader, and from then on, it had formed a good friendship between the two of them. Sure, they butt heads often, and she was always trying to stop him from being the one to make stupid decisions when his head was foggy, and the boy was always telling her to stop telling him what to do when it was him who was leader, but Alby and Kennedy had been good friends in spite of that. Really good friends. She loved Alby, adored him. He was her leader, her friend, her brother. He was Alby. Her Alby. She wanted him back, badly.

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