Christ in a bucket. I usually don't comment this much on a fic, but I just can't believe how much emotion your writing has brought out in me. Literature doesn't do that to me, it just doesn't, but I'm flooded with an overwhelming sense of helplessness when I'm reading this story. It's that feeling where you can't do anything but sit back and watch things happen and wish they could have gone another way, complete with that amazing, mesmerizing, captivatingly grotesque character who's always there to help you fall faster. It's like you wrote--Sniper had the sense of a thing greater than himself, looming into the room--that, there, is what I'm getting. He's so bloody pitiful I just can't tear my eyes away, and I feel like I'm right there with Sniper as he loses himself. I absolutely hate the feeling, but at the same time I can't get enough of it. At the beginning of your latest installment, I was genuinely begging Sniper, inside, please don't go, please don't, and when he took Spy's hand my world came crashing down. I'm not sure what this is supposed to mean to me, exactly, but I know that it means a lot. Toxo, thank you so much for this story, and never, ever stop writing.