Erin's Night (VI)

Sam was still on the couch. Not in the way people “wait” on a couch: no phone, no magazine, no attempt to look busy for the sake of dignity—but just there, boots off and heels tucked up, giving the couch back its shape. The light in the living room was a tight pool, the rest of the suite all dark corners and the blue wash of terrace windows. The bedroom door was closed behind Andy, and when he came out, Sam looked up and let her eyes hold him without saying a word.

He stood there for a second, waiting to see if she’d talk first. She didn’t. Her gaze flicked to the closed bedroom door, then back to him, one eyebrow asking the question her mouth was not going to ask.

He went to the opposite end of the couch and sat down, elbows on knees, hands knitted together. The quiet that followed was so deliberate it felt like the room itself was holding its breath.

Andy broke it. “I can’t show you the letter,” he said, voice low. “It’s in her mother’s book, and it belongs to her.”

Sam nodded, eyes steady. “Didn’t ask to see it.”

He swallowed, then said, “I can tell you what it says.”

Sam said, “Okay,” and folded her arms tight, like she was bracing for a punch.

Andy kept his voice down, not just because of the door, but because saying it out loud was already making the furniture vibrate under him. “It’s a letter to Laura, from her mother. It’s the last entry in the baby book. She wrote it the night she won the wish.” He paused. “She says, basically, that she couldn’t leave it to chance. She wanted Laura to be loved, so she asked the show to guarantee it.” He looked at his hands. “There’s a paragraph where she admits she doesn’t know who it’s going to be. Says she grabbed someone she’d never seen, pointed them at Laura, and that neither of them had a choice in it.” His mouth was dry. “She says ‘He’ll find you. He won’t be able to help it. And you won’t be able to help it either. I did that part too.’”

He watched Sam for a reaction. She kept her arms folded and didn’t blink, her whole attention on the ground just in front of Andy’s shoes.

“There’s more,” Andy said, feeling himself rushing toward it now. “She says she could have wished for money, or beauty, or anything else, but none of it mattered if Laura ended up alone. That was her only metric for success.” He tried to smile. It didn’t make it past his teeth. “She tells Laura she decided her whole life in four minutes.”

Sam nodded once, not looking up. “That’s a hell of a wish.”

“Yeah,” Andy said, softer than he meant to.

He waited for Sam to tell him it was bullshit, or that Laura had read it wrong, or that the letter didn’t actually say what he’d just described.

She didn’t. She just sat with it a moment, chewing it over.

When she did speak, her voice was like cold water in the dark. “You want me to talk you out of it?”

Andy felt the question land. “No. I want to know what it looks like to you.”

Sam finally looked at him. “It looks like what Laura said it looked like. Maybe worse.” She kept her voice low. “If I’m going to lie to you, I’ll at least do it after sunrise. Right now, it sounds exactly like a person deciding her kid’s soulmate at three weeks old and not caring if it’s a good idea.” She paused. “Or if you wanted it.”

Andy nodded. “That’s what Laura said.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, staring into the dark behind his eyelids. “She said every time I thought it was real, that’s what it would feel like. That’s what the machinery is for.”

Sam was silent again, then said, “If you want the rest, it’s this: She’s not wrong. Or if she is, I don’t know how to prove it. It would take the actual wording of the wish,” Sam said. “Whatever Sarah Williams said in the room, the exact wording. As far as I know, only two living people got that, and one is inaccessible.”

Andy didn’t answer.

Sam's voice went quieter, not softer. “You could go to Arabella. She's probably the only person in the world who can say exactly what the wish was. I'd do it in the morning.”

He let himself imagine it for two seconds. “I don’t think I’m going to,” he said, and was surprised to find it was the truth.

Sam raised her eyebrows. “That’s not like you. You don’t avoid a room just because it’s bad news.”

He tried to explain. “I asked Arabella, on the beach this morning, if it was going to get worse before the wedding, and if she knew what. She said yes to both, and then she wouldn’t say more. Said it wasn’t hers to say.” Andy felt the words stick behind his tongue for a second. “I’ve been carrying that all day, thinking she meant something dangerous was coming for the wedding. That maybe one of us was going to get caught up in it.” He met Sam’s eyes. “But now I think she already knew about the letter. That this was it.”

Sam let out a slow breath. “So she let you walk into that blind.”

He nodded. “If I go to her and she confirms it, there’s no way back from that. And I think I’d rather have the version where it’s a maybe, not a machine.”

Sam sat with that for a while. “I get it,” she said, finally. “But I’m not going to lie and say I think Laura’s wrong about what it feels like.”

He almost smiled. “I wasn’t asking you to.”

She leaned back, arms still crossed. “Then I’m only asking one thing.” She waited until he looked her in the eye. “Does any of this change what you’re going to do?”

He almost said no. Stopped himself. Took a second to run the check on it for real.

“No,” he said.

Sam nodded. “Say it properly.”

He took a breath. “I’m marrying Laura in two days.”

“Good,” said Sam, and her whole face unclenched, just a little. “Then the rest is admin.”

He felt his throat go tight. “It’s not fair,” he said, and was surprised how much it hurt.

Sam looked at him, all the sarcasm gone. “Life’s not fair,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not real.”

He didn’t answer, and neither did she. The quiet was companionable this time, not dangerous.

Sam glanced at the closed bedroom door again. “Does she want me to stay tonight?”

Andy nodded. “I think so.”

“Then I’m here.” Sam’s voice was matter-of-fact. “I’ll be on this couch if she wants to talk, or not talk, or just yell at somebody for a while.” She let the quiet stretch, then added, “You should go. Erin’s been sitting in your rooms for an hour with a cat.”

Andy smiled, almost a real one. Then: “Will you not tell anyone about the beach? Or the letter, or that I’m… worried?”

Sam rolled her eyes. “Of course not. We’re not animals.”

He laughed, short and bitter. Then he stood and offered her a hand up, but she shook her head and stayed put.

“Thank you,” he said.

Sam’s face went gentle, a smile with no teeth in it. “Go,” she said. “You’re overdue for a night with somebody who makes sense.”

He nodded, and left her there, watching the door, already carrying the next three hours for someone else.

---

Erin was on the bed with her back propped against the headboard, Fluffernutter curled at her hip like a hot-water bottle that shed, the cat carrier open on the floor beside her and the inside blanket already half-shredded into a nest. Erin’s feet were bare, and one heel pressed into the pillow at her side, toes flexed like she was keeping count of seconds. The light in the room was low, a single lamp on the nightstand and nothing but city-dark through the window.

She looked up as Andy entered, but didn’t ask what happened or if he was okay. Just took him in, head to toe, her eyes moving slow enough to say she was ready to handle whatever followed.

Andy shut the door behind him, then stood in the middle of the room, not quite ready to cross to her. He could feel the white static of his own thoughts, no longer sharp but dense and clotted, impossible to sort. For a few seconds, neither of them moved.

Erin didn’t force the first line. She just let her chin rest on her fist and waited.

After a while, she asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head, and his voice surprised him by being full. “No.”

She nodded, like this was exactly the answer she expected. “You don’t have to.”

He let his hands go loose at his sides. “I can’t stop thinking,” he said. “I can’t take another minute in my own head.”

Erin’s mouth did a small thing, sympathy but not pity, and she gently lifted the cat off her lap. Fluffernutter blinked once, then let herself be deposited onto the chair by the window, sprawling into the warm patch of seat and going instantly boneless. Erin turned back, leaned on one hip, and held her right hand out to him.

Andy crossed the room and took it.

She used that grip to pull him down onto the bed, and he came down harder than he meant to, landing on his knees. Erin got a hand into his hair and brought his mouth to hers, and there was nothing tentative in the kiss. He met her, full force, and felt her set the pace and hold it there. Inside about two seconds she’d read the whole scene: this was not about comfort, not about being held or forgiven, just about finding something louder than the noise.

Erin made it so.

“Don’t apologize,” she said, and he hadn’t even started yet.

He took her jaw in his hand and kissed her hard, and she had to brace herself against the headboard with the other arm to keep from losing ground. She bit his lip, and he made a noise, low and involuntary, and Erin smiled against his mouth before using both hands to work his shirt up and over his ribs. He leaned back long enough to strip it off and drop it somewhere, and by the time he looked up she’d already taken hold of his belt.

She got him out of the rest of it in practiced motions and pulled him over her, both hands at his waist, no question in any of it. Andy braced one arm beside her head, the other getting around the back of her thigh, and Erin said his name once, low and direct. He went into her with no preamble, her hips coming up to meet him, and her head thumped the headboard. Her nails dug into his shoulder and she held there, not to hurt but to anchor herself.

It was fast from there, no art to it, no pretense of romance, just the urgency of two people finding the only thing that worked and using it like a tool. Andy’s forehead pressed into her collarbone, his hand gripping her hip hard enough to leave marks. Erin didn’t tell him to be gentle. She hooked one leg around him, heel digging into the back of his thigh, and pulled him in deeper. Then her free hand slid down his back, fingers tracing the ridge of his spine before settling on the curve of his ass, squeezing just enough to make him gasp against her skin.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said, voice sharp and clear, and the words hit him like a current, straight to the center of him.

He lost the thread about a minute in, drowning in the feeling instead of the thoughts. Erin’s hands framed his face, holding him steady, and when his rhythm faltered, when his mind slipped somewhere behind his eyes, she tightened her grip on his ass and growled, “Keep going,” and he did.

He did, this time holding her gaze through it, like she needed him to be here with her and not lost in whatever had almost snapped his head off at the root. He stopped a second time, deeper in, forehead pressed to hers, and this time Erin said his whole name, slow and with weight, and it brought him back into the room.

He shuddered, blinked, and she told him to look at her. He did, and after that he never went anywhere else.

She got hers first, and it was not a subtle thing. She made no attempt to be quiet about it, one hand fisted into the sheet and the other still holding the back of his neck. When it took her she said something into his shoulder that he only half heard, but it had his name in it, and that was enough.

Andy came not long after, with her name and nothing else, and his whole weight dropped down onto her for a second before he caught himself on his elbows. For a stretch of time in the middle of it, he thought about nothing at all, which was exactly what he needed, and Erin noticed the exact moment it happened and never said a word.

They lay there for a while, breathing heavy, the sweat drying off their skin. Erin had both hands pressed to his back, holding him tight, her heart pounding a metronome under his ear.

Neither of them said anything for a long time.

They didn’t move far. Andy’s breathing slowed, but the rest of him still hadn’t found a place to land. He was hovering just above his own skin, nerves still crackling, eyes locked on the ceiling and seeing nothing in it.

Erin noticed before he did. She pushed him gently onto his back, rolled astride his hips, and settled her weight on her knees so nothing rushed. She cupped his jaw, thumb stroking the angle of his cheek, and kept his head steady until his gaze actually focused on her and not somewhere past the ceiling.

Only then did she move again, rocking slow, nothing at all like the first time. The measured pace was a message, not a negotiation: They were going to do this her way now, and there was no place for panic in it.

She took his right hand off the tangled sheet, pressed it to her ribs, and then drew it up over the curve of her breast, holding it there with her own hand on top until she felt him stop being careful with her and start being real. She tipped her head back, exposing the paler mint green of her throat, and when he ran his fingers there, over the pulse and along her jawline, she didn’t flinch at all.

She held him like that, unmoving for a long minute, letting him feel the shape and reality of her, then brought her eyes down to his again and said, “Do you remember the gazebo?”

He nodded, wordless.

“Two months ago,” she said, “right after round two. Audience voted for a transformation that took my clothes for good. They stripped me in front of the whole harem, and for a few seconds it wasn’t even me that was on the beach anymore. It was just a thing, a problem to be managed.”

She moved against him, slow, insistent. “I walked off that platform and didn’t make it three steps before you put your hand on my arm and told Arabella, right then and there, that I was staying in your suite that night. No discussion.”

He remembered. He could see it, even now: the pink of her ears, the way she’d held herself like a statue on display. “You hated it.”

Erin shrugged, a muscle rolling under his hand. “I hated what they did. I didn’t hate that you wanted to keep me safe.” Her mouth softened. “I haven’t once since then wondered if I was a problem you were managing.”

She rocked forward, and this time he met her halfway. Her hands found his and guided them down, but instead of stopping at her stomach, she brought them up to cup her own breasts, full, warm, the nipples already tight under his palms. She arched into the touch, her breath hitching as she pressed his hands harder against herself, rolling her hips in slow, deliberate circles. “One month later, after round three,” she murmured, her voice thick with something between memory and want, “they made me a plant.” She guided one of his hands lower, tracing the curve of her belly before letting it rest there, fingers splayed. “You remember that?”

He did. He remembered the pale green skin, the way she suddenly radiated a different kind of beauty, equal parts alien and familiar.

“I thought it was a joke,” she said, voice rough at the edges. She flexed her hands against his, then lifted them to her own hair, winding it tight in her fist like she was testing its roots, proving it wouldn’t come away. “I thought it was the show’s way of telling me I wasn’t even a person anymore.” Her fingers trembled as she let go, and then, slowly, she brought both hands to her breasts, cupping them, lifting them slightly as if weighing them for the first time. Her thumbs brushed over her nipples, already hard, and she watched Andy’s face as she did it, her breath hitching when his gaze darkened. “I told you, that night, I didn’t know what I was anymore.” She squeezed, just enough to make herself gasp, and her hips rolled against him without her meaning them to. “Do you remember what you said, on our date night that round?”

Erin sat back on her knees, hands braced on his chest, taking her time. She looked down at him, studied him, really, with an expression that was half a smile and half something else, something like hunger but not for anything physical. The room around them blurred down to just her, to her skin and her eyes and the pale line of drool she wiped with the back of her hand without embarrassment. Erin never looked more real than when she was naked and out of air and talking about something that happened months ago.

“I was in my own head,” she said. “I thought you’d hate what they made me. I hated it. I was sure you would too. But you didn’t. You just looked at me, for a long time, and I had no clue what you were thinking, so I assumed the worst.” She paused, breathing steady now, and ran her fingers through his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. “And then you asked if I would marry you.”

He felt the truth of it bloom in his chest, and for the first time in hours, it was not a wound.

She pressed his hands more firmly to her belly, and her own hand over his, and the motion stilled both of them. “I said yes,” she said, “already knowing I would never again have to compete for a place at your side.”

He reached for her, just to have something to do with his hands, and touched her cheek. Erin leaned into it, eyes closing for just a second. “You never told me any of that,” he said.

She snorted. “You were barely housebroken. I didn’t want to spook you. I’ve never been good at wanting things, Andy. I always end up wanting what I already have, or what’s easiest to get. But you made me want something harder.”

His hand went still under hers. He pressed, gentle, and found what he had not noticed before: a faint, unmistakable curve, not there a month ago.

“Is it—?”

She nodded, eyes unreadable. He went quiet. Sat up enough to put his mouth to the spot, one slow kiss, and her hands came into his hair and held him there, a second longer than the moment strictly needed.

She let him go, then brought her face close to his ear. “Do you remember the morning after our date night, last round?”

He nodded.

“I told you in this bed I’d stopped bleeding and stopped being hungry. I was sure it meant I was becoming less and less of a person.” Her voice was so quiet it barely made it through the air. “And you were the one who said maybe I was just pregnant instead. Before there was any real reason to hope.” She put her hand flat over his heart. “You’ve been right, three times now.”

She eased him down, settled into the rhythm again, faster this time, her huge breasts swaying before his face, her hair falling over her shoulder to brush his chin. She braced one hand on his chest, laced her fingers through his at his side, and rode him out, her spine arched, head back, eyes open on him the whole way. She made no effort to keep quiet about any of it.

When she was done, she didn’t move for a long while. Then she leaned down, pressed her mouth to his, and said, “Ten days ago, Dinah told me five months. Both babies healthy. Perfectly normal humans, unless you want to change that for one of them.”

Andy blinked, brain slow to shift gears. “Change it how?”

Erin smiled, a thing that was not quite shy, not quite confident. “Dinah said the girl can be born like me, or not. Once set, it’s permanent, unless she joins the show herself.” She let that sink in. “I don’t know if you have to decide either way, or if there’s a default mode. I thought I knew what I wanted, going in. But now I don’t.” She shrugged. “Some days I want her human, no questions asked. Other days I find myself hoping she’ll never have to unlearn the things about her own skin, the way I did.” She laughed, a low and private sound. “I like being what I am more than I thought I would.”

Andy, still under the haze of the last five minutes, found himself saying, “I always assumed you'd want her to be human.” He laughed, a broken sound. “I never actually asked you.” His hand was still flat on her stomach, and for a second he couldn't make himself move it, the same four words running under everything else: nobody asked her either.

She shook her head. “Neither of us has to answer tonight.”

He nodded, and that was enough. She let herself ease off, then curled into his side, one leg over his, and let her head come to rest on the bare skin of his shoulder. She was already settling in for the talking.

——

They ended up where they always did: Andy on his back, Erin on her side draped over his ribs, her leg thrown over his. She ran her fingertips along the edge of the mark she’d already left on his shoulder, not like she was checking for damage, but like she was underlining a point she wanted to be sure he didn’t miss. She didn’t apologize for it, didn’t even slow the motion when she circled it twice and then let her hand flatten over his chest.

For a while, neither of them said anything.

Andy came apart about ninety seconds later, with no warning and no dignity. Erin saw it half a second before it hit. She got both arms around him and rolled her weight over, so when it came, he wasn’t alone in it.

It came out all wrong and out of order. He started in the middle, then had to double back for the beginning, and the first thing that made it out was, “She was on the floor for four hours.” His voice cracked, so he stopped and started again. “Laura finished the book and then just… sat. Didn’t move. Sam got there first, said she didn’t cry or get mad or do anything. Just read it, and after that, just existed.”

Erin’s hand moved up to his face, thumb smoothing over his cheek. “Did you know what it was before you went in?”

Andy shook his head, then pressed his cheek into her hand. “No. But it was in the bond, even before I opened the door. Everything was baseline. Location, intensity, nothing else. Just this huge… thing. And I couldn’t read it.”

Erin made a small, thoughtful noise. “That’s new.”

He nodded, squeezing his eyes shut. “No. It’s how it used to be, before she came back. Before Inanna married us on the footbridge, and she started believing she belonged.” He stopped.

They lay there a minute, the quiet between them not empty but weighted. Andy could feel the arc of Fluffernutter’s tail against his calf, the heat of her body, and the shifting of her tiny weight as she repositioned in the blanket nest by his feet.

He drew a breath, then exhaled, and tried to find the next piece of the story. “The letter wasn’t just a letter,” he said. “It was a confession. Sarah told Laura she’d won the wish, and that she could have made her rich, or happy, or anything, but she asked for something smaller. She asked for Laura to be loved, always, by someone who wouldn’t let her disappear.” He felt the words break inside his throat. “She wrote that the wish reached out into the world and found somebody, and pointed them at Laura, and that neither of them had a say in it.”

Erin was silent for a while. Then: “What did Laura actually say?”

He tried to remember every line, every tiny shift in Laura’s face and voice, but it was hard to keep them in sequence. “She said… She said she never had a chance. That she didn’t know if anything she ever felt for me was real, or if it was just machinery. She said that’s what it would feel like if it was real, and there’s no way for either of us to ever know.”

Erin was quiet. She didn’t fill any of the silences, just waited.

He kept going. “She said she’s not going anywhere, and that she doesn’t want to go anywhere, but she also can’t stop thinking about whether the love was ever real. Or if it was just some code installed in both of us at birth.” His hands shook a little. “She said that she’s the thing it runs toward.”

A pause. Then Erin, still soft: “That sounds exactly like her.”

Andy exhaled, trying to make himself smaller. “I don’t know how to argue with somebody who’s already decided everything I say is just more proof of the opposite.”

“Did you want to argue with her?” Erin asked, like it wasn’t rhetorical.

He tried to answer, then heard how it sounded and stopped. “I don’t know.”

They lay there a while, the only noise the faint hum of the city behind glass and the cat’s occasional sigh.

Eventually he said, “Sam didn’t say she was wrong.”

That landed. Erin’s head turned, cheek to his chest, so she could look at him straight. “She didn’t?”

Andy shook his head. “She said it sounds exactly like what it is. And that she’s not going to tell me a nice lie at midnight to make me feel better.” He heard the words in his own voice and wanted to crawl out of his skin. “I keep hearing it. Even now.”

Erin pulled him in tighter, her hand at the back of his neck. She didn’t try to argue that Laura had it backward, didn’t try to disprove the idea that the wish built the wanting into him. She let the silence fill in, waited for him to actually finish before she spoke.

When she did, it was simple, direct, and not advice at all. “I spent six years certain I folded too fast in a library. I told myself that every day, that I should have been stronger. That I should have made you wait, or made you prove it, or at least pretended I didn’t want it as much as I did.” Her thumb stroked the side of his face. “I wasted so much time thinking my wanting was a defect, when it was just how I was made. And this morning, when we got up, I decided to stop. I decided the question of where a want comes from isn’t the one that matters.”

Andy let the words sink in. “What’s the question, then?”

She smiled, not with her mouth but with the whole of her, the kind of smile that comes from bone. “Whether you want to want it.”

He thought about that, really thought, and then said, “I’m not sure that’s true for everybody.”

Erin shrugged, unconcerned. “I’m only talking about me.” She left it there, and neither of them needed to say anything else about it.

They lay like that for a while, just skin and the smell of each other and the small sound of a cat shifting her body weight around the end of the bed.

Erin said, “Do you realize Fluffernutter has been staring at us for twenty minutes?”

Andy laughed, and it came out bent, like he’d meant to say something and ended up making a sound instead. “Maybe she’s running a diagnostic.”

“She thinks you’re not the problem,” Erin said, and Andy believed it. She propped herself up on her elbow, eyes searching his face. “Are you okay?”

Andy looked at the ceiling, then back at her. “I don’t want to think about it tonight.”

She nodded, and let it go completely. “Come here,” she said, and pulled him down onto her chest, one hand at the back of his head. The minute his ear landed over her heart, he started to drift. He felt the tension slough off, the engine in his skull finally running to idle, and the deep, restful sleep her touch always gave him caught hold inside a minute.

He said, just before he dropped out, “I don’t deserve this.”

Erin said, “Shut up,” but it was soft.

He smiled into her skin. “I mean it.”

She said, “Shut up again,” and this time it worked.

Fluffernutter made her move, too, padding over to settle into the crook behind Andy’s knees, as if she’d been waiting the entire time for a safe place to land.

---

Andy surfaced once, very late, Erin’s heartbeat under his ear, her arm across his back, the sound of the room dark and absolute. Erin was asleep, dead to the world, her whole weight anchoring him to the bed in a way that felt permanent, even if it wasn’t.

For the first time in six hours, there was no dread anywhere inside him. Just quiet.

The letter came back to him, but this time he wasn’t reading it from scratch. He had Laura’s voice over the top, four hours of it, every line arriving already charged with what she told him it meant. He went through it anyway, because he couldn’t stop himself: her mother in a room on this island, three-week-old Laura asleep on her arm, deciding the shape of two lives in four minutes. “He’ll find you. He won’t be able to help it.” “I decided your whole life. It took me about four minutes.” “Nobody asked you. Nobody could ask you.” “He wasn’t asked either.”

He thought about it. He let the sentences run again, slower. Then he caught something on the way past, and it wasn’t in what the letter said, but how it was written.

The letter didn’t run in order. It doubled back on itself, started things and abandoned them and came back again three lines later from a different side. Sarah told Laura twice, in different words, that she was sorry and also not sorry. She wrote what she asked for in one place and what it would do in another, with other things in between, the two never quite joined together on the page.

She was writing fast. She had little time and a baby asleep on her arm, and she was putting things down as they came to her, because if she didn’t, she was never going to get them down at all.

Andy wondered if that mattered.

Laura had spent four hours reading every sentence as though it were precise, and it wasn’t a precise letter. It was a frightened woman emptying her head in the order things arrived. Andy tried to make that into something. He wondered if any of it would mean different things if the order was changed. If the harm could be unjoined from the intent. If the wish could have been spoken in panic but not measured in code.

He let his mind drift through that, searching for what Laura would say to it, and found the answer before he finished the question. Laura would say that a woman writing in panic still knew what she had asked for. Sarah had stood in a room an hour before she wrote it and said the words out loud, and been told it was granted. Maybe she wrote it badly, but that didn’t mean she wrote it wrong.

He had nothing to put against that. He knew he was going to have to stop trying to prove any of this, but the thought wasn’t finished before it slid away from him again.

He told himself to remember it in the morning.

Erin’s hand moved in his hair without her waking, just a little, the fingers curling and then settling again. Andy went under with nothing settled at all, and for the first time in a very long time, he was okay with that.

Erin: Groped the Master’s Ass! +1 VP
Erin: Groped by the Master! +2 VP
Erin: Played with boobs in front of Master! +2 VP
Achievement Unlocked! Team Skin