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Madrigal, on the cot, looks pretty fucked-up. You were in a nasty funk when you ditched her, you think, and you guess you were too busy being a dick to get yourself presentable: thanks a ton, past Gil. Her hair's everywhere, and she's got the bow tie back on, and most dauntingly the shirt and pants are wrinkled and <span class="mu-i">paint-</span>splattered. From the fucking paintball guns. "Aw, shit," you murmur.
"What's that?"
"I-I need to do laundry." If she comes in and sees the paint, she's going to ask questions, you're not going to be able to answer them, and she's going to flip her shit. "How the hell am I going to do laundry? I-I don't want to take her goddamn <span class="mu-i">clothes</span> off—"
"Chivalrous!"
"No! What i-i-if somebody came in? What if <span class="mu-i">she</span> came in?" You rub your face. "You don't happen to have any insta-laundry tech, do you? I-Is that a thing that people...?"
"Ah, hold on. I'll take a look." (You sense Garvin looming behind you.) "Goodness gracious. What did you get yourself into? A squabble with an easel?"
"...I-I don't want to talk about it."
"I'd imagine. Is this real paint?" Garvin bends down and rubs his thumb against Madrigal's lapel. "It isn't, is it? Completely unreal. The problem solves itself."
"What?"
"I'll be back in a jiffy. You sit tight." He pats your shoulder and leaves.
Okay. Okay. This is good, right? This is why you make friends, so they can help you with various tasks. He'll be back in a jiffy. So you need to breathe, Bug Man, and deal with the things you're able to deal with. They're not hard things, or complicated. Easy little helpful things, like taking the bow tie off. Start with that.
You do. You're a lot better at unknotting than knotting, turns out, and are able to slide it off her neck without further issue. Her eyes are closed, and her mouth a little bit open: while you're at it, you press her jaw upwards to shut it, and brush her limp hair to the sides of her face. If you were into her, this would be weirder, but as it is you're able to affect a clinical remove.
The bow tie, green and silken, goes in your back pocket stash— or goes there til you realize you don't have a back pocket, or any pockets. They're stuck closed. Goddammit! You'd think Pat would give more than a cursory mention to "your clothes are also goo, numbnuts," but here you are. Where are you supposed to put things? Do you need to carry a little <span class="mu-i">bag</span> around? You're not doing that. For now, the bow tie stays locked in your fist.
Garvin is back in a jiffy, to your relief, and brings with him a pair of rubber gloves, a toothbrush, and a jar. "One moment!" he says, gives you the toothbrush and jar, and tugs on the gloves with his teeth. Then he takes the stuff back. "Go on, sit down. I'll take care of it."
"With a toothbrush."
"The brush is merely the application method! For precision. I'd rather not use more of this substance than I have to." He unscrews the jar, also with his teeth, and shows you its sparkling contents.
(2/3)
