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You think you told him to shove a gator wrench up his ass, that go-around. (You didn't have the guts to ask if he was speaking from experience.) But it stuck and it stung and even now you're hard-pressed to find evidence against it. It's been less than a week? Something like that. Less than a week, and you're already struggling to recognize yourself. You're on a <span class="mu-i">suicide mission.</span> For a woman you still— still!— hardly know.
But also, Richard can go fuck himself. In the ass. With an alligator wrench. His slimy condescending horseshit was blatantly designed to screw with your head, and even if it's factually true that doesn't make it <span class="mu-i">actually</span> true, does it? Maybe it's not such a horrible thing to be molded, if the sculpter is skillful and the raw material is really shit. Uncertain, yes. Terrifying, sure. But you trust Lottie. You don't think she means you any harm.
So under her bleary, befuddled gaze your beetles warp and pop into <span class="mu-i">you.</span> You, with arms and legs and a chest and neck and everything else welded securely together. You, with a mouth and nose full of water. You, blue like a star. You, made of solid clay, sinking through the water like a— a brick of solid clay. Shit! <span class="mu-i">You can swim easily</span> you can swim easily back up to catch Lottie, to cradle her onto your shoulder, to fight your heavy way upward. Except <span class="mu-i">you can carry Lottie easily</span> and she melts into nothing, only your arm wrapped around her reassuring you she's still there, but progress is slow and you <span class="mu-i">can swim quickly</span> are blitzing out of there, surrounded by red froth— you don't fully understand what for, or where you're going, but you don't plan on staying in murder water any longer than necessary. You scissor-kick one last time and breach the surface, spot land—
<span class="mu-i">You're both there</span> and you are. You're lying stretched across crystal-white sand. Lottie is nearby, dripping wet, hair strewn all over her face. She's breathing shallowly, but not otherwise moving. You sit up gradually. "...Lottie?"
She makes a noise.
"Lottie... um, hang on." You walk stiffly over to her side and crouch down, hesitating. (You pussy.) You brush a few strands of hair out of her eyes. "Those were, um, blocking your—"
"...Gil..." She tries to lift her head, but plonks it back down. "...Gil... you..."
"I-I-I-I didn't do anything!" you say heatedly. "I-I-I didn't— we're just <span class="mu-i">square</span> now— not even square, I-I just owe you one now, not two, but— and we're not even safe yet! This is still some stupid <span class="mu-i">mind</span> beach, or something, and—"
With a massive effort, she levers up her whole upper body and pincers her arms around your ribcage. It feels the way a rat-trap might. "Ow," you say, which does nothing to loosen her. Just the opposite. You're contemplating taking back the 'meaning harm' thing when she puts her chin on your shoulder and you realize— oh. Oh <span class="mu-i">shit.</span>
(2/3)
