[ the story had been familiar, in a sense. not inherently that she knew this particular one, but
the way it unfolded (... I won't stop you from having fantasies, Miss Don Quixote) the bodies twisted and skin stretched taunt, bulging with muscles not their own (Just please keep in mind that reality may not quite align with them) permeate her memories and simply listening, stomach rolling as she fights to what food she'd had to enjoy the tales down, at least affords her the chance to keep her expressions to herself.
no, this story isn't one she knows. not exactly. but don quixote's mind draws to the scenes of another life reflected in a mirror, third person for anyone else but immersive for herself, a pair of charged blade's phantom weight in hand as she squeezes her eyes shut and presses her hand to her mouth.
a train she's mentioned off-hand to a few people, but never in depth.
she doesn't like to think of it, after all.
not of the reality only those within the corporation itself should know, which begs the question of how her fellow city-dweller knew of it, and it's a nagging point. this isn't the place to ask. not the time.
sorry, sinclair. but she'll be hogging the bathroom (door slammed, lock clumsily turned) for a time, head pressed against the wall and fighting the urge to destroy the mirror in there, because all it reflects again and again and again--
...
...
...
breathe, don quixote. in and out. rule five is something they're supposed to follow in this household, but neither of them have been doing it very well. it's fine. it's fine. it's fine, a mantra that leaves crescent moon shaped cuts against her palms, pain biting into her thoughts and blood on the towel she presses them against. it's fine.
it's fine. she won't say a word now. but she's not going to leave this alone for long. ]
cw slight body horror, self harm (i'm sssorrry)
the way it unfolded (... I won't stop you from having fantasies, Miss Don Quixote) the bodies twisted and skin stretched taunt, bulging with muscles not their own (Just please keep in mind that reality may not quite align with them) permeate her memories and simply listening, stomach rolling as she fights to what food she'd had to enjoy the tales down, at least affords her the chance to keep her expressions to herself.
no, this story isn't one she knows. not exactly. but don quixote's mind draws to the scenes of another life reflected in a mirror, third person for anyone else but immersive for herself, a pair of charged blade's phantom weight in hand as she squeezes her eyes shut and presses her hand to her mouth.
a train she's mentioned off-hand to a few people, but never in depth.
she doesn't like to think of it, after all.
not of the reality only those within the corporation itself should know, which begs the question of how her fellow city-dweller knew of it, and it's a nagging point. this isn't the place to ask. not the time.
sorry, sinclair. but she'll be hogging the bathroom (door slammed, lock clumsily turned) for a time, head pressed against the wall and fighting the urge to destroy the mirror in there, because all it reflects again and again and again--
...
...
...
breathe, don quixote. in and out. rule five is something they're supposed to follow in this household, but neither of them have been doing it very well. it's fine. it's fine. it's fine, a mantra that leaves crescent moon shaped cuts against her palms, pain biting into her thoughts and blood on the towel she presses them against. it's fine.
it's fine. she won't say a word now. but she's not going to leave this alone for long. ]