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Cicada Days
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i can feel something inside me say
[ *  *  *  * ]
Motivation, impulse. The disinterested, evasive whirr of nuts and bolts and camera steel. The action potentials of life stole Isabel's own. Temporarily. She formed a tent of fingers, the Thinker, against a wall. Her weapon, her safety, it melted away from her form without ceremony. A weak whisper of a bell chime against the glass tiled floor.

Tina felt the median of her arm continue to splinter. Flesh oozed, syrupy, in a maple color. It was stiff, it was motile, it hurt, it didn't. Pain was a curious sensation, fleetingly real, disturbing and disgusting and cast at the wrong angle. A sketch of this form and motion would simply be wrong, unpleasant and unworthy to the eye, discarded by the hands.

What was left after Isabel's attack truly was unworthy, but there remained the smoke-dusted fragments of something greater than the one, the self. Names and faces, the few that drifted easily through the haze. Crisanto, Daniel. Safe.

Lily. She could still be offered hand, hand that could somehow help.

Tina scuttled, her legs millipedes. The room had once more returned to real time, seen through a camera lens sans focus or clarity. Blur. Even as the fingers of her arm yet whole locked over cool and crisp weave. Her fingers knitted. Heaved. She couldn't move it. Harder and harder she pulled, till her second arm would become her first arm but there simply was no motion but the anguish of breath. Shoulder, muscles too strong and distinct, unlike those on her own body. She couldn't be the effort needed.

She had to be effort all the same.

Her bones were now the floor, spine spread like a healthless, toothless ketchup. Another shield, she had another shield. Another hand that strained with all the effort she could put into it. All the nothing.

Words that meant nothing exploded into her face, hot air, nothing. Pain didn't hurt, it was nothing.

Just the hand. The hand she could no longer offer, she could no longer serve and worship with, as it's angle continued to slide, bit by exquisitely agonizing bit. Slid into her core, her lifeblood. For now, there was still one.

She could only see, darkness. Could only breathe, darkness.

Her hand wavered, on the brink of God's kingdom.
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Rückenfigur · One-on-one Therapy