Quoted By:
---
>[SOMEWHERE ELSE]
You are Madrigal Fitzpatrick, and you are kidnapped and trapped in a dream mansion and a goo body. You haven't hatched an escape plan just yet, having been awake and extracted from a snake for maybe a hour, but you're working on it.
Was working on it, at least, before you passed out on an uncomfortable couch: it was a long-ass hour, and you hadn't gotten proper sleep in— you don't know if snakes sleep, but if they do it's got to be shitty. And before that you were dying, or something, and kept waking up cold-sweaty wrapped in sheets of your own skin, when you weren't waking up with your elbows at improbable angles and your nails buried into your back.
Which is all to say you haven't gotten proper sleep in two weeks. (Maybe less, but you're rounding up: you deserve that much.) It's a crying shame, then, that you wake up groggy and disoriented and parched, your skin crackling under you like cellophane.
You swear and nearly roll over, but some kind of animal instinct screams at you and you narrowly avoid falling off the couch. Instead you lay sideways, staring at your fingers.
They're not blue. They're— you don't fucking know, finger-colored. Normal colored. They're still not <span class="mu-i">fingers—</span> you have neither fingernails nor that wrinkly knuckle skin— but it's something. You guess. You don't know. It's kind of uncannier now, provided you look at it long enough.
So you don't. You roll off the couch properly this time and spot the discarded jumpsuit on its opposite end. Fuck. You forgot about that: you really did pass out in the buff, huh? Well, not in the buff. You were blue. But times change, and you're wearing the fucking jumpsuit.
Contrary to what Pat said, it doesn't really fit. Okay, it sort of does. Barely. You can get it on, but the zipper jams and it's baggy in the worst places. Was she lying out her ass, or— or has your body shape changed? You pause. You tug wide the collar of the jumpsuit.
...Yup, that's— that's you. That's <span class="mu-i">weird.</span> Shit. You still have some other chick's nose, though, and absolutely superhuman cheekbones, so the face is no different. Well, your finger sticks to it, you guess: that's different. But you're sticking to everything. You've gone sort of gummy.
You don't have any excuses not to get this fucking jumpsuit on, though: you're just procrastinating. You refuse to let the biggest obstacle in your life be this fucking zipper. Can you yank it? With <span class="mu-i">what</span> core strength? Come on. Maybe you can jam your finger through the little hole? Or absorb it in—
"itS a ShamE foR a a a a a a bEauTiFuL, foR a, To havE To covER up,." You nearly leap out of the goddamn jumpsuit: somebody is standing directly behind you, behind the couch. "i i i i donT Think, iTS RighT oF sociETy, REquiRE womEn—"
(2/3)
