Sakaar existed in the way forgotten things exist—not quite real, not quite unreal, but suspended in that peculiar space where the universe puts things it can't be bothered to file properly.
It was, essentially, the cosmic equivalent of that drawer in your kitchen where you put things that don't belong anywhere else: batteries that might still work, instruction manuals for appliances you no longer own, that one key that definitely opens something important but you can't remember what.
Except instead of batteries and keys, it was spaceships and civilizations and occasionally people.
The wormholes opened like mouths—or wounds, depending on your philosophical inclination—vomiting their contents onto a planet that had long since stopped being surprised by anything. Debris. Detritus. The occasionally sentient being who had been somewhere else entirely just moments before and was now here, spat out by the universe's digestive system into this place where things went when they fell between the cracks.
Someone—and this was the truly remarkable part—had looked at this chaotic refuse heap at the ass-end of reality and thought: "Yes. Perfect spot for a civilization."
They'd been right, in the way that terrible ideas are sometimes right when you stop caring about conventional measures of success.
The Grandmaster ruled Sakaar with the capricious enthusiasm of an immortal who'd gotten bored with conventional entertainment somewhere around the second or third millennium and had decided that the suffering and struggle of lesser beings was a perfectly acceptable substitute for actual hobbies.
But Scrapper 142 didn't think about the Grandmaster.
Not if she could help it.
She sat where she always sat—corner booth, back to the wall, clear sightlines to both exits because habits formed in warfare don't dissolve just because you've spent centuries trying to drink them away.
The Last Resort.
The bar's name was either cosmically ironic or brutally honest, and Brunnhilde had never decided which interpretation she preferred. Both seemed equally true depending on what hour of Sakaar's endless twilight you asked.
She was nursing a drink.
"Nursing" was perhaps too gentle a word for what she was doing. She was maintaining a drink. Sustaining it. Keeping it company with the focused attention of someone who'd spent literal millennia perfecting the precise blood alcohol level that kept unwanted memories at bay without completely compromising her ability to walk, fight, or collect bounties.
It was a science.
She'd gotten very, very good at it.
Brunnhilde was beautiful.
Not in the way that beings noticed anymore—not here, not on Sakaar where everyone was either too desperate or too damaged to care about aesthetics. But beautiful nonetheless. Tall, brown-skinned, with the kind of face that suggested she'd seen things that would break most people and had decided breaking was unaffordable so she'd simply... stopped allowing things to break her.
Her hair was pulled back in tight braids—practical, yes, but also immaculate. Because you could give up on duty and honor and your entire civilization, but you didn't have to give up on looking good while doing it. Standards mattered. Even here. Especially here.
The braids were fresh too. She'd had them done two days ago at a place run by a being with seventeen fingers and an unsettling ability to discuss philosophy while doing hair. The braids were geometric, precise, a pattern that was almost but not quite military in its exactness.
She wore leather and armor—a combination that announced she expected violence but wasn't currently seeking it. Just ready for it, the way you're ready for weather. It's going to happen. You dress accordingly.
The jacket was brown leather, battered in ways that suggested experience rather than neglect. Scavenged originally—everything on Sakaar was scavenged—but modified, tailored, made hers through the simple process of wearing it through enough fights that it had molded itself to her body.
Underneath, armor. Not her old armor. Not the white and silver that sat in her closet wrapped in stasis fields and denial. This was practical armor. Scavenged armor. The kind you wore when your job was collecting beings for a bored immortal's entertainment and you needed protection but didn't want to make statements about who you used to be.
She was on her... fifth drink? Fifteenth?
Time got negotiable around hour four.
That was one of Sakaar's few genuine mercies—time here moved strangely, affected by the wormholes and the planet's rotation and possibly just the collective desire of everyone who'd ended up here to stop counting hours because counting meant acknowledging duration and duration meant confronting how long you'd been here and how long you might stay.
The bar smelled like industrial cleaning products fighting a losing battle against desperation. The music was technically music but only if you were generous with definitions. Someone was playing an instrument that might have been a stringed thing once, before whatever catastrophe had brought it here. Now it made sounds that were adjacent to melody if you squinted your ears.
Brunnhilde loved this place.
Not healthily.
But deeply.
The way you love things that ask nothing of you, expect nothing from you, judge nothing about you. The bar didn't care that she'd once been something other than Scrapper 142. Didn't care that she spent most of her time maintaining a blood alcohol level that would kill a mortal. Didn't care that she'd abandoned everything she'd sworn to uphold because upholding it had cost too much.
The bar just existed. She just existed in it. It was an arrangement that worked.
She was reaching for her glass—a movement so practiced it had become almost meditative—when everything stopped.
Not literally.
The bar continued being a bar. The seventeen-fingered being at the next table continued arguing with themselves in three different languages. The four-armed bartender continued mixing drinks with the bored efficiency of someone who'd seen everything the universe could offer and found it all mildly disappointing.
But inside Brunnhilde, something *pulled*.
Every muscle locked.
Every nerve remembered.
The Valkyrie bond.
"Oh, fuck no," she said aloud.
The bartender didn't react. They'd learned years ago—decades ago? centuries?—that Scrapper 142 sometimes talked to herself and it was best to pretend you hadn't noticed.
"No," Brunnhilde repeated, with more emphasis, with something approaching panic. "Absolutely not. Not doing this. Not today. Not ever. I am not—"
But the bond had never cared about protests.
That was the fundamental problem with oaths woven into your essential nature back when you were young and idealistic and believed in things like duty and honor. They didn't ask permission. Didn't check your schedule. Didn't care that you'd spent thousands of years building walls specifically designed to keep them out.
They just *were*.
The way gravity was. The way time was, when it bothered to function properly.
*Brunnhilde.*
The voice was Brunhilde's.
One N.
The distinction had mattered once, when there were dozens of Valkyries and you needed ways to keep them straight. Back when they'd been young together, trained together, flown together on wings made of light and certainty.
Back before Hela had killed all of them except the one who'd run away.
Brunnhilde—two Ns—hadn't thought about any of that in...
Well. She'd gotten very good at not thinking about it.
*Sister. Valkyrie. I call across the bond that binds us, across the oaths we swore when we believed oaths meant something.*
"I'm not a Valkyrie," Brunnhilde muttered into her drink. The liquid rippled slightly, sympathetic vibrations from the voice only she could hear. "Haven't been for literal millennia. I'm a scrapper. That's what I am now. That's what I've been for longer than most civilizations manage to exist. I collect things for a bored immortal with questionable ethics. I drink. I mind my own business. That's my entire life. It's a very simple life. I like it simple."
*I call across distance and time and the truly impressive walls of denial you've constructed.*
"I'm not in denial," Brunnhilde said, louder now. A few patrons glanced her way, then away. On Sakaar, talking to yourself ranked maybe fourth or fifth on the concerning behavior scale. Barely worth noticing. "I'm just... being realistic about what I actually am. Which is someone who made a choice thousands of years ago to stop being what I was. That's not denial. That's just... accurate self-assessment."
She took another drink.
Longer than necessary.
Buying time. Processing words she didn't want to process.
The bartender refilled her glass without being asked. They understood their job, which was to facilitate exactly this kind of careful maintenance drinking. It was why she came here. It was why she came back.
*I call because there are heroes who need to do heroic things, and only a Valkyrie can open the gates that keep them from their duty.*
Brunnhilde laughed.
It came out sharp, bitter, edged with things she'd spent centuries refusing to name.
"Heroes," she said, and her voice carried that particular tone that suggested the word tasted wrong in her mouth. "Right. Heroes. Very inspiring. Heroic heroes doing heroic things heroically. And you want me to help them because...what? Because I remember how to open gates I stopped opening when I finally realized that choosing the worthy and the brave just meant choosing who got to die prettily for causes that always turned out to be less glorious than advertised?"
She could feel the bond waiting.
Smart.
There was no good answer to that question.
*I call because Asgard needs you.*
"Oh, *fuck* no."
She said it loud enough that the bartender looked up, concerned.
She waved them off.
"Asgard," she continued, her voice low now, dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with physical threat, "has never needed me. Asgard needed Valkyries when it wanted warriors to die prettily for conquest. Needed us to validate warfare by choosing the worthy. Needed us to make slaughter look noble. Needed us right up until Odin decided his daughter's rebellion needed crushing and apparently a couple dozen of his best warriors was an acceptable price to pay for that particular family problem."
She drained her glass.
Signaled for another.
Her hand was steady—muscle memory, training that transcended intoxication.
"So no," she continued. "No, Asgard doesn't get to need me. Asgard made its choices. I made mine. My choice was survival. Was leaving. Was finding the furthest possible place from golden halls and divine responsibility and coming here, where nobody knows what I was and more importantly, nobody cares."
*Not the Asgard you left. Not the Asgard that disappointed you. But the Asgard that exists now—*
"They're all the same Asgard," Brunnhilde interrupted. "Shiny halls. Noble purposes. Glorious deaths for causes that serve whoever's currently sitting on the throne. I'm done with it. Done with all of it."
*—with families who need protection and children who deserve justice and mortals who require reminding that some things are worth fighting for even when the odds are terrible and the victory uncertain.*
"Children."
The word came out quieter than she'd intended.
Something twisted in her chest—muscle memory of caring about things, probably. Left over from when she'd been someone who cared.
*I call because there's a warrior here. He died protecting his family. He wants to keep protecting them even though death usually ends that particular career path. And he deserves—*
"Don't," Brunnhilde said. "Don't do this. Don't make this about duty and honor and warriors deserving second chances. I stopped believing in that. Stopped believing in all of it."
*He died protecting children.*
"Oh, that's fucking unfair."
*Since when do you care about fair?*
"Since—"
She stopped.
Started again.
"Since I decided that caring about things was too expensive and I was done paying. Since I watched everyone I knew die for someone else's definition of glory. Since I realized that duty was just another word for dying for causes you don't control."
*And yet you're still sitting here, arguing with me instead of just ignoring this. Interesting.*
"I'm drunk," Brunnhilde muttered. "Drunk people argue with themselves. It's not meaningful."
*You're not that drunk.*
She wasn't.
That was the problem.
The bond was fading now—not gone, never gone, but receding. The message delivered. The choice presented. The rest left to her.
She could ignore it.
Stay here. Keep drinking. Keep scrapping. Keep being Scrapper 142, who had no past and no future and just existed in Sakaar's eternal, negotiable present.
Or.
She sat there.
The bar continued around her—serving drinks, playing aggressively mediocre music, housing beings who'd ended up here through processes ranging from deliberate choice to catastrophic accident to quantum probability having a bad day.
Through the grimy windows—salvaged from somewhere, part of Sakaar's aesthetic of making do with refuse—the Grandmaster's palace loomed. All lights and colors and the constant distant roar of crowds cheering for blood sport disguised as entertainment.
Sakaar kept being Sakaar.
The universe kept depositing its unwanted.
And Brunnhilde kept being someone who'd been something else once and had spent thousands of years trying very hard not to think about what that something else had been.
But the bond had touched her.
Reminded her.
Pulled at foundations she'd thought she'd dismantled stone by stone, brick by brick, oath by violated oath.
*A warrior who died protecting his family.*
That mattered.
That was *worthy*.
That was exactly what Valkyries existed to honor—not the warriors who died for glory or conquest or because some king decided expansion was more important than lives. But the ones who died for love. For protection. For keeping people safe even when the cost was everything.
She finished her drink.
Stood.
Not steadily—she'd had rather a lot to drink—but with determination that suggested she'd made a decision and was committed even though it was probably stupid and definitely inconvenient.
The room swayed slightly. Or she swayed. Hard to tell. Didn't matter.
She paid her tab—dropped credits on the bar with the practiced ease of someone who did this every night and would probably do it every night until time ended or she did, whichever came first.
The bartender nodded. They'd learned not to comment when Scrapper 142 did unexpected things.
Brunnhilde walked out into Sakaar's perpetual twilight.
The planet's rotation created lighting conditions that existed somewhere between day and night and never quite committed to either—like the planet itself couldn't be bothered to make decisions about something as mundane as illumination.
The sky was always vaguely orange. The air always smelled like ozone and garbage and that particular scent of desperation that exists when too many species are living too close together with too few resources and too much history.
The streets were crowded.
Always crowded.
Beings from across the universe, scavengers and fighters and refugees and criminals and people who'd simply fallen through wormholes and were still trying to figure out what the fuck had just happened to their lives.
She navigated through them with the ease of long practice—not pushing, just moving with confidence that suggested you knew where you were going and would absolutely break someone's face if they got in your way.
Most people moved.
The ones who didn't got looks that suggested reconsidering was a good life choice.
She headed toward her room.
Small. Cheap. In the part of the city where people minded their own business because everyone had secrets and everyone understood that secrets were currency you didn't spend casually.
The building was maybe sixty stories tall, cobbled together from salvage and hope and whatever building materials the universe happened to vomit onto Sakaar that week. It swayed slightly in wind that shouldn't exist because the planet's atmosphere was technically too thin for proper weather.
She took the elevator—an ancient thing that might have come from a luxury cruiser once, before whatever disaster had brought it here. Now it made concerning grinding noises and occasionally stopped between floors for no reason at all.
Today it worked.
Small mercies.
Her floor was the forty-third. The hallway was dim—lighting was expensive, and nobody who lived here was wasting money on things like being able to see clearly.
She opened her door.
Locked it behind her.
Stood in the middle of her single room that contained everything she owned that mattered, which wasn't much because she'd deliberately chosen not to own things that mattered.
The room was maybe three meters by four meters. The bed was salvaged. The small kitchenette area barely functioned. The bathroom—a closet really—had plumbing that worked most of the time if you didn't think too hard about where the water came from.
But it was hers.
She'd lived here for...
How long?
Time worked oddly on Sakaar.
Days felt like weeks. Years felt like months. Millennia felt like bad weekends you couldn't quite remember but knew you'd survived somehow.
She stood there, breathing, trying not to think about what she was about to do.
The closet was in the corner.
She'd been avoiding looking at it.
But now she walked toward it with the steady purposefulness of someone who'd made a choice and was following through even though every instinct was screaming to stop, turn around, go back to the bar, order something stronger, drink until the bond faded and the choice became someone else's problem.
She opened the closet.
Pushed aside the few clothes she actually wore—practical things, durable things, things that could survive Sakaar's particular brand of chaos.
And there, in the back, wrapped in stasis fields that kept it exactly as it had been the day she'd stopped wearing it:
Valkyrie armor.
She stared at it.
Really looked at it for the first time in...
Centuries?
Millennia?
She'd told herself she kept it for sentimental reasons. Just an artifact. Just something she couldn't quite throw away even though she'd thrown away everything else about what she'd been.
But looking at it now, she understood the truth she'd known all along but refused to acknowledge:
She'd kept it because some part of her had always known she'd wear it again.
That you didn't stop being a Valkyrie just because you ran away.
That oaths didn't dissolve just because you stopped honoring them.
That duty didn't end—it just waited, patient and persistent, for the moment you finally stopped running long enough to remember what you'd sworn.
"Goddamn it," she whispered.
She pulled the armor from the closet.
Deactivated the stasis field—a button, simple, built into Asgardian technology that was more advanced than anything else on Sakaar by several orders of magnitude.
The metal was cool against her fingers.
Familiar.
Like touching something you'd forgotten you knew by heart. Like meeting someone you'd loved once and realizing you still remembered everything about them even though you'd tried so hard to forget.
White and silver.
The colors of Asgard, of honor, of duty, of everything she'd abandoned.
The breastplate was engraved with designs that meant things—Valkyrie marks, rankings, honors earned through service that felt like it had happened to someone else in some other life.
The cape—white, flowing, dramatic in ways that had seemed natural when she'd been young and believed in glory.
She'd worn this armor for thousands of years.
Worn it during training, during battles, during ceremonies where they chose the worthy and carried them to Valhalla on wings made of light and absolute certainty that what they were doing mattered.
Had worn it the day everything ended.
Had been wearing it when she ran.
She looked at the small cracked mirror mounted on one wall—salvaged from somewhere, part of Sakaar's aesthetic of making do with refuse.
Looked at herself.
Scrapper 142.
Drunk. Cynical. Someone who'd mastered the art of not caring about anything because caring led to disappointment and disappointment led to pain and pain led to running away to garbage planets where you could drink yourself numb for millennia.
Her eyes were slightly unfocused.
Her face was harder than it had been once, lines formed from centuries of deliberate indifference.
But underneath—
Still Brunnhilde.
Still Valkyrie.
She began putting on the armor.
Piece by piece.
The greaves first—they settled onto her legs with the ease of long familiarity, clasps engaging automatically, Asgardian technology that remembered her even though she'd tried to forget it.
The breastplate—heavier than she remembered, or maybe she'd just gotten used to wearing less, carrying less, being less.
It settled against her chest with a weight that felt like responsibility.
The bracers—weapons and protection simultaneously, Asgardian engineering that made function and form inseparable.
Each piece clicked into place with sounds that resonated through her bones, through the bond, through everything she'd tried to wall off.
Her body remembered even though her mind had been trying to forget.
Muscle memory.
The kind you don't lose just because you stop using it.
The kind that waits.
The cape last.
She hesitated.
The cape was the symbol, really. The armor you could excuse—protection, practicality. But the cape was pure symbol. Pure statement. It said: I am a Valkyrie. I serve Asgard. I choose the worthy.
It said things she'd stopped saying.
She attached it anyway.
The clasps still worked perfectly despite millennia of disuse.
The cape settled across her shoulders with a weight that was both literal and metaphorical—white fabric that caught light and turned it into something that looked almost like wings.
She looked at herself in the mirror again.
And saw not Scrapper 142 but something else.
Someone else.
Brunnhilde.
Valkyrie of Asgard.
Chooser of the slain.
The last of her kind—or second-to-last if you counted Brunhilde (one N), who was apparently in Valhalla being responsible while Brunnhilde had been here being the opposite of responsible.
"All right," she said to her reflection, her voice rough. "Fine. *Fine*. One exception. One time. I'll open the gates for this warrior who died protecting his family. I'll let him through because—"
She stopped.
Swallowed.
Started again.
"Because that's what Valkyries do. What we're *for*. Honoring warriors who die for the right reasons. Giving them second chances when second chances serve something larger than just personal survival."
Her reflection stared back, skeptical.
She looked good in the armor—that was undeniable. The white and silver against her brown skin was striking in ways that transcended simple aesthetics. She looked like what she was. What she'd always been, underneath the drinking and the scrapping and the very deliberate denial.
"But after this," she continued, more firmly now, "after this, I'm coming back. Back to the drinking and the scrapping and the very comfortable denial. This isn't me returning to duty. This is—this is one favor. For someone who deserves it. One favor, then I'm done. Back to my life. My actual life. The one I chose."
The reflection didn't answer.
But something in her eyes—her own eyes, looking back at her—suggested she didn't entirely believe herself.
That this wasn't going to be one favor and done.
That putting on the armor, acknowledging what she was, opening the gates even once—that was going to change things in ways she couldn't undo.
Some doors, once opened, didn't close again.
Some oaths, once remembered, didn't let you forget them again.
Some duties, once acknowledged, didn't release you just because you asked nicely and promised you'd only do it once.
"Damn it," she said again, with more feeling.
She took a breath.
Another.
Then she began.
The Valkyrie ritual for opening Valhalla's gates was old—older than Asgard's current dynasty, older than most civilizations currently operating in this corner of the universe, older than most languages people still spoke.
It had been written into the foundations of reality when the first Valkyries were created, back when someone had decided that warriors needed guides to the afterlife and the guides needed to be warriors themselves so they'd understand what they were honoring.
It required power.
Focus.
The absolute certainty that what you were doing served the oaths you'd sworn.
Brunnhilde stood in the center of her small room on a garbage planet at the edge of space and reached for power she hadn't touched in thousands of years.
It came easier than she'd expected.
That was... concerning.
Suggested it had been waiting. That it had never really left, just been dormant, like muscles you haven't used but that remember exactly how to move the moment you finally ask them to.
She raised her arms—the gesture feeling both foreign and familiar, like speaking a language you learned as a child but haven't used in years.
Spoke words in Old Asgardian.
They tasted like duty and honor and things she'd tried to forget. Like blood and glory and sacrifice. Like everything she'd run from.
Light began to gather.
Not the harsh artificial light of Sakaar—that constant orange-yellow twilight that never committed to being anything specific.
This was older light.
Purer.
The kind of light that existed before electricity, before technology, when illumination was divine and rare and precious.
It formed patterns around her.
Wings—not literal wings but the shapes wings leave in reality when they move through it.
Lightning—not electrical discharge but the paths that choices carve through possibility.
The patterns that oaths make when they're significant enough to reshape the fabric of things.
She felt the bond strengthening.
Not just with Brunhilde (one N) but with Valhalla itself, with the oaths she'd sworn, with everything she'd been before she'd decided that being anything at all was too painful to maintain.
The light was getting brighter.
Filling the room.
Spilling through windows.
Probably concerning the neighbors.
But Sakaar's neighbors had learned not to investigate concerning lights because concerning lights usually meant something dangerous and investigating dangerous things rarely ended well for the investigators.
"I call across the realms," she said, and her voice took on harmonics that resonated through dimensions most beings couldn't perceive.
Her voice sounded different—layered, like she was speaking with mouths she didn't have, in languages that predated language.
"I, Brunnhilde, Valkyrie of Asgard, chooser of the slain, invoke the ancient right. The gates shall open. The worthy shall walk. The dead shall serve the living when service honors the oaths they died fulfilling."
The light intensified until it was almost painful to look at directly—brilliant white threaded with silver, with gold, with colors that didn't have names because mortal eyes weren't meant to perceive them.
Power filled the room.
Ancient power.
Older than her. Older than Asgard. Older than the realms themselves, perhaps—or at least as old as the idea that death didn't have to be the end, that service could transcend mortality, that love could be stronger than oblivion.
"I choose," Brunnhilde continued, and the words felt like falling and flying simultaneously, like remembering something you'd forgotten you knew, "to honor the warrior who died protecting his family."
The bond pulled tighter.
Connected her not just to Valhalla but to something larger—the web of oaths and honor and duty that stretched across realms, across time, across the fundamental architecture of reality itself.
"Who seeks to continue protection even from death."
She could feel it now—the gates responding, recognizing her authority even after all this time. Even after she'd abandoned it. Even after she'd run and hidden and drunk herself numb for longer than most civilizations existed.
Some things, apparently, you didn't lose.
Some things were woven too deeply.
"Who understands that duty transcends mortality and love transcends convenient boundaries—"
The light exploded outward.
The gates opened.
Not physically—there was no door, no portal, no convenient glowing circle in her small room.
But she could feel them opening nonetheless, in that space between spaces where Valkyries operated, where the rules were different and oaths were living things and death was negotiable if you had the right authority and the right reasons.
Somewhere else—in Valhalla, in Asgard, in that space where the worthy dead prepared for final battles—a warrior would feel the call.
Would be given the choice.
Would be allowed to serve beyond death because service honored what he'd died for and because a Valkyrie—the last Valkyrie, the exiled Valkyrie, the Valkyrie who'd spent millennia running—had decided he was worthy.
The light faded slowly.
The power receded.
Brunnhilde stood in her small room in her armor, breathing hard, feeling more alive than she'd felt in centuries and hating it, hating that it felt good, hating that some part of her had missed this.
The bond was still there.
Still present.
Waiting to see what she'd do next.
"There," she said to the empty room, to the bond, to Brunhilde (one N) who was probably smiling in Valhalla. "Done. Gates opened. Warrior honored. Duty fulfilled. Now I can go back to—"
She stopped.
Looked at herself in the mirror again.
Still wearing the armor.
Still looking like a Valkyrie.
Still feeling the power humming through her bones.
"Fuck," she said quietly.
Because she knew.
Knew with absolute certainty.
This wasn't one favor and done.
This was the beginning of something she'd been running from for thousands of years finally catching up.
This was the end of exile.
This was—
"One favor," she told her reflection firmly. "That's all this was. One favor. For someone who deserved it. Now I'm taking this off and going back to the bar and everything goes back to normal."
Her reflection looked skeptical.
She looked skeptical at her reflection.
Because they both knew she was lying.
But maybe—maybe if she said it enough times, it would become true.
Maybe.
Outside, Sakaar continued its twilight existence.
The wormholes kept opening.
The universe kept depositing its refuse.
And somewhere in Valhalla, a warrior was being given a second chance by a Valkyrie who'd spent millennia insisting she wasn't a Valkyrie anymore.
Some doors, once opened, change everything.
Some duties, once acknowledged, don't let you go.
Some people, once they remember who they are, can't go back to pretending they're someone else.
Even if they really, really want to.
Even if they've spent thousands of years perfecting the art of pretending.
Even if going back means confronting everything they ran from.
Brunnhilde stood in her armor in her small room on Sakaar and knew, with the certainty of oaths she'd tried to forget, that everything had just changed.
And there wasn't enough alcohol in the universe to make that knowledge go away.
She'd tried.
Trust her, she'd tried.
---
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