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The distress is there before the awareness. The scream bifurcated by the transition sounds high-pitched and yet somehow not altogether human, but is clearly his, as if the state he'd just woken from were running largely on instinct, enamoured by its animalistic existence. Hoarse. There's something hoarse about it.
Something has grabbed a hold of him with distinctly too many limbs - sharp claws pinch against his skin through the thin fabric of his clothes, crushing his wrists to the tiles and his legs by the calves to the ground. Impossibly long fingers have wrapped around his head, the back of his skull pressed against the alien palm, those tips nipping at his forehead, pulling his head back, off the ground, effortlessly.
From the corner of his eye he can see only a slab of darkness as the source of all of this, disconcertingly sharp-edged, politely suggesting that perhaps the darkness was all there was to the creature, there was no further texture - and teeth, white, in his fleeting impression of them undecided whether they arranged to form a vaguely canine or shark-like maw. But the eyes are the worst part. With the light off, the only light comes from those eyes, those swerving incandescent pinpricks.
It's clear that the creature cannot be seeing him through those - and yet equally clear that he's got other priorities than to ponder that. Adrenaline's punched him in the gut and is dragging its own claws through the coils. 'How did I get here?' is an important question, just as 'How am I only really aware of this now? Is this some waking-world, manifested nightmare?', but both pale relative to the instincts screaming at him to fight, to twist free, to save himself, to run, run, run!
But it's too late for that.
Awake. That's how it feels, as if suddenly waking up from a half-remembered dream, though with the scenario unfolding into clarity around him he's not quite managing to convince himself this isn't some vivid nightmare. Escape. He has to escape. The details and their meaning can wait until later, right now he has to flee from whatever this is and get as far away as possible.
His first instinct is to try and curl up, get at least some of his limbs free from this… whatever it is. Maybe if he can get his head free, or one of his legs…? He takes a deep breath, and then a second, and then, hoping to catch his captor off-guard with the motion, he twists to the right, attempting to jerk his right leg upwards and twist his head out of the creature's grasp, straining against the grip on his wrist.
His hair and scalp protest at the treatment, but thankfully enough of the strands are caught in the creature's grasp as not to sting. His leg spasms from the attempt to wrench it around, smothered by an inhuman strength, muscle fibres aching from the futile strain. The creature pulls his head further back, his spine protesting in alarm, a deep-seated panic lancing through his gut at being handled like this. The talons gripping his arms seem to branch out or otherwise multiply, leaving shallow, bloodless furrows in his skin as the grip expands. A moment later, two sharp tips each pierce through his skin. Adrian's instinctive wince turns to a howl as they widen to a small finger's width within the puncture wound, lightly splitting his skin, stabbing agony through his senses. Mid-howl, something slips between his teeth, grasping at his jaw as if his assailant were pondering to tear it off, two claws stinging on the underside of it, three or more scratching across his tongue and forcing themselves past his gag reflex, into his windpipe, sealing his breath into his lungs.
His leg doesn't even budge, held in place by an impossible strength, his efforts rewarded only with muscle strain. He lets out a cry of pained desperation as his head is pulled further back, panic writhing in his gut. Something's happening to his arms, the creature's grip… expanding, somehow, in some way that shouldn't be possible. None of this should be possible. He can't make sense of the creature pinning him down, its body seemingly made of darkness, the maw of far too many sharp teeth, the baleful glow from its pinprick eyes. He's woken up into a nightmare; that's the only thing that even comes close to making sense.
His thoughts are cut short before they can adequately grapple with that, twin sharp punctures in each of his wrists dragging his attention to them, a hiss turned into a howl of pain as the claws bury themselves into his flesh, eyes squeezing shut in an attempt to block the pain out. Then there's a hand grasping his lower jaw, a spike of intense fear coupling with the pain at the mental image of it wrenching his jaw free; but then the digits are scratching back against his tongue, into his throat, his howl cut off mid-breath. His eyes shoot wide open, staring ahead; his body spasms in the monster's grip, pain and terror and panic mixing together. He's going to die.
Like wax, the tasteless talons in his mouth seem to melt and remould, settling against his tongue and teeth, spreading outward in the same stroke as downward, until the substance comes to rest as an unwelcome, alien sensation against his vocal chords, making his body struggle against it in instinct, spasming motions bearing some semblance to retching. Then the pressure shifts outward, splitting down the middle, letting air in, while keeping him firmly muted.
With that complete, the pain in his arms expands under his skin, for a moment giving him the impression that the amorphous creature with the incandescent eyes might be trying to scissor his skin apart from the inside - but that never comes. Instead, pins and needles slowly spread through his fingers, a sensation with only the meaning of discomfort to his animal mind. If his rational mind had a moment to shine, it would be now, to question what might be causing the sensation and to reason that his blood was draining out of him through those puncture wounds, still hot pain with frayed aching fibres at the edges, dominating his perception.
His body rebels against the substance flowing into his throat, instincts alternating between trying to swallow and trying to retch, but unable to do either. Then it settles into his vocal cords, pressing against them, hardening and then hollowing, letting him breathe again, with difficulty. He spasms, attepting to cough the construct out, then tries to scream – resulting in only a painful buzzing in his throat and a heavy exhale.
It's only after long moments of increasing agony in his arms and numbness in his fingers that a part of Adrian notices, with some surprise, that he's still alive, and that this is a bit mysterious. Surely this monster could've killed him five times over by now. Which means either it's deliberately drawing his death out, or it's trying to do something else. Both options sound far too terrifying; if the latter, what is it doing to him? Draining blood? Oh god is this a vampire, does this mean vampires are real? (If it is, it's nothing like any stories he's heard.)
While there is some dizziness beginning to gnaw at his crisp, adrenaline-fueled thoughts, it's only his fingers that seem to be suffering from blood loss. The rest of him seems - while weak in relation to this surreal, amorphous monster - quite fit. Confused, terrified, displaced into a nightmare, but fit, and not starkly waning. Not like someone being hungrily drained of blood by their wrists, at least.
The construct around his head shoves him down onto the tiles, straightening out his spine. A bit of spittle leaks past the not-a-hand in his mouth, forming a hesitant line of drool down his chin, insignificant against the stabwounds in his arms, siphoning his blood away in some way that somehow left enough for him to live. Before he can get used to the pressure-pain, something slashes down his spine in a single, brutal motion, in its descent grating against his bones, parting skin like a scalpel.
If it weren't for the pain and the intense clarity of this entire scene, he'd classify this experience purely as a nightmare – he'd wake up soon, drenched in sweat and heart racing, but otherwise alive and safe. It makes about as much sense as a nightmare, the fear and adrenaline and helplessness, at the whim of a monster that can't possibly be real, built from night terrors, figments of imagination. Maybe this is all an elaborate hallucination. But what would cause it? Why is this happening to him? How much of this is real?
His thoughts are interrupted by the splitting pain of a knife clawing down his spine. Another aborted attempt at a scream, his body pressing against the tiles, trying desperately to evade whatever's doing this to him, all in vain. 'I don't want to die' is the only thought that can manage to get a hold in his mind, all other thoughts scrambled by pain. Hot tears spill from his eyes, scarcely noticed.
It's all he can do not to pass out. A sensation suspended between a gentle, painful wiggle under his skin and against his spine, and a repeated punch into his back, ache flowering outward from the unnatural pressure point, spreads up his spine as the creature handles him. A thought lances through his mind: This is some kind of sick experiment. Maybe it wants to know what happens if it snaps his spine - then what? Instead, an inverted crushing sensation blossoms between two vertebrae between his shoulderblads. For a moment, that's all there is - then, like a paintbrush dipped in water, wiping across a painted canvas, he can feel control of his legs wash away like stripped layers.
At this point, passing out would undoubtedly be a welcome change to the pain burning through his synapses. And yet some part of him still clings to his consciousness, terrified that if he loses it now he'll never get it back again. Why hasn't it killed him yet?! That's clearly where this is going, right? There's no way he's going to survive being handled like this. It's going to snap his spine or rip him to shreds or something, the least it could do is get it over with quickly.
The sensation between his shoulderblades is difficult to place, the cause unclear aside from obviously related to the pressure that's wriggled up his spine. He doesn't have the mental bandwidth to imagine it either. For a few moments he doesn't even notice that he can't feel his legs – or, no, that's not quite right, he can feel them, just not do anything about them – but once the thought's found space in his brain, the mental image unfurls. Paralysis. No, he's definitely not getting out of here alive.
Something about the sensation announcing his loss of control adopts a life of its own. In a lazy ripple, it rolls up along his torso, then eases itself into his arms. A sudden rupture splinters his proprioception, making it difficult for him to tell where the different sources of pain are coming from, how they relate to each other, where his limbs are. A vague hint of fire laps at his displaced fibres. The disconcerting lack of self-cohesion buds into a strange numbness in the back of his skull. It's like something's eating up his nerves, some kind of flame he can only barely feel, like a disembodied fever or some impossible efficient virus.
A few moments after that realization, something inside him moves. Flowing up his spine, spreading out into his arms, devouring his control. It doesn't feel like the creature's claw, but it's hard to tell what it feels like. Something else? Is it even connected to his assailant?
Then, in an instant, his proprioception splits, coming undone like the layers of a sliced onion. He's in pain, that much he's sure of, but 'where' doesn't quite seem like it has meaning. He's pretty sure it's his arms and spine, but only because that's what hurt before. Something inside him is eating away at him, only scarcely noticeable. The back of his skull feels numb. It's in his nerves, it has to be, that's the only thing that makes remote sense, oh god it's going to go into his brain isn't it it's going to –
Like a painless fist full of needles, the numbness slams into the rest of his cognition, the transition curt, palpable out of some strange hesitance. It's as if a chain reaction grasped his mind and converted his thoughts into hard crystals, as if his skull were full of water being flash-frozen. His consciousness shrinks to a pinprick, swallowed up by a black hole.
And then it's gone. It's gone, but he's still thinking. The pain is still registering. There's still a disembodied awareness of his surroundings, of the pinprick eyes, of the impossible darkness wrapped around him. A greater awareness, by some measure, an almost infinitely more numb one in another. Not quite fully there. Not quite fully self. But enough to know that self was missing.
Some of those fragments of pain abruptly relent, replaced with an awkward pressure. It might be his arms. It might be his spine. There's a strange symmetry to it, that much is obvious even without any sense of direction, as if symmetry were a fundamental value to observe, outside of space and time. So maybe it's his arms that are being left alone now?
He can feel his train of thought screeching to a halt, all thought, his mind crystallizing into numbness around him. It closes in on him, on some essential spark of self, freezing and starving it out until it has nowhere left to run, even his own mind unsafe.
And then it's just… gone. His body is still alive, still functioning; he's still aware of his surroundings; he can even still think – to the extent there is a 'he' to do the thinking, at least. But Adrian – or, the thing that would consider itself Adrian – is gone, irreversibly destroyed. Perhaps he should be sad about that; the loss is certainly noticeable, at least. And there doesn't seem to be anything comparable to replace it in what he is now.
It's interesting, the kinds of thoughts that come up after a transition to an entirely different mode of existence. In this case, bits of memory of a time when Adrian, the human, had been struggling with the words of some long-dead human philosopher. “Cogito ergo sum” – it had always seemed a bit suspicious to Adrian; why should the process of thinking entail being? At best, if one thinks, then one thinks one is. Others had given him answers of their own, but now another comes to mind: “I think” presupposes an “I” to think. If there is thought with no self, does being necessarily follow?
Philosophy aside, there's something pleasantly symmetrical about the pain coursing through this body – wherever it happens to be coming from. He can appreciate that, even if the sensation itself is far from pleasant and he can't quite work out how it's embedded in spacetime. Probably spine, since it has more potential symmetries? Maybe he can use that to orient himself. He's not sure; things are still new and fresh.
The trouble with the I in the sentence is that it's not entirely clear what that should be. The identity seems a bit borrowed, like it's the only one that happened to be lying around. These rags of flesh seem a bit borrowed, for that matter. As time drags on, the whole of it feels increasingly like a glove ve's manipulating… although there's not a lot of manipulation, of course. That's reserved for the other, the one fully formed, the one ve can sense at the periphery of ver narrow existence. A non-descript pressure laces itself through ver perception; with the absent proprioception it might be a purely mental strain, or due to a physical pressure. How would ve tell the difference? Ver flesh rags have eyes, but they are not pointing at anything useful…
For all the information currently at ver disposal, so little of it is actually useful for anything. Adrian's memories might be interesting to peruse at a better time, but things still seem so precariously balanced right now. His instincts are useless, wracked with adrenaline. The senses that still work properly aren't able to tell ver anything useful. Maybe ve could try moving parts of this body around, but in this disoriented state, there's no way of accomplishing anything useful. A frustrated snarl ripples through… something. Communication? Could ve simply ask the other what ve wants? For help, at least in finding ver bearings? Could there be common ground shared?
Ver meat puppet is getting significantly weaker now, it seems. That's not good - ve's threaded into its system. If the flesh dies, it's likely it'll damage ver, too. If ve's lucky it's just because its will has been taken from it, and if ve can just find a way to connect in a way to give it ver own meagre volition, ve might be able to stave off the decay-
Abruptly, a searing pain burns through ver, central for all its lack of further information, seeming everywhere important at once. It feels as if something is tearing a strip out of ver, a layer of fragile thought.
A realization threads into ver thoughts - frustrating as this flesh body is, it doubles as a prison; ve's entangled with it too deeply to simply discard it. And it's already beginning to fail, borrowed flesh on borrowed time. Perhaps there's some way to help keep it running, though with everything else new about this situation ve isn't quite sure how that would work. Maybe the other could give advice, if ve would just communicate–
That thought process runs into a wall of searing flame, forgotten in the sudden pain raking through ver perception, rendering all else moot. A scream fills the void. Fear, terror, pain. Adrian's instincts flare up in tandem with vers: Escape or fight. Random noise flails through ver puppet's limbs, uncertain whether there are even degrees of freedom for them. Ve needs to flee, but where, and more importantly, how?
The flesh rags point out to ver that there is a sound - an angry hissing. The pain dims and the pressures disappear. For a long moment, ve's alone with ver flesh on the tiles. Everything is aching, but at least there are no new sources of pain. Now if ve can focus on getting a hang of merging with what's left of the neurology of this body, maybe ve can get ver proprioception back and do something about the part where ver flesh is bleeding all over the tiles again.
As the pain finally abates, things finally start to make sense. Ver body is losing blood. The higher-level information encoded into Adrian's memories tells ver this is a bad thing for humans to be doing. The danger hasn't passed; ve can still detect the other here, and it stands to reason that ve's responsible for the recent burst of pain. But before ve can escape, stopping this bleeding thing is high on the list of priorities. Getting working proprioception is required, if only to get a better sense of where exactly the worst damage is.
It occurs to ver that higher-level thought is consuming resources that could be better spent integrating with the tattered neurology at ver disposal; ve's trying too hard to think like a human. With that, the locus of thought disperses, spreading verself across the canvas of ver meat puppet, locally taking stock of the systems at ver disposal.
Oh! Some of the bleeding is because of what ve has been doing! That was silly. There's a chunk of flesh missing in the body's back, the size of two human fingers, where ve's been absorbing the associated baryons. At least it's easy enough to twist parts of ver essence to block the bloodflow, both from the wound in the back and the more pressing wounds in the arms. Ve would benefit from being… more of ver, as a next step. That would perhaps grant ver enough leeway to not need the flesh as part of ver identity - ve's borrowing large chunks of the biology for that at the moment, after all. At the very least it would grant ver more leeway to act. If ve decided ve liked being this chunk of flesh - and truth be told, it did feel like ver responsibility - ve could fix it up better once there was more of ver.
…oh, well, that's unfortunate. If ve's going to be using this body ve'll have to be more careful with it. Integrating nociception with proprioception should also help with future accidents. But yes, expansion is certainly a good plan. These tiles are conveniently available, filled with tasty silicates. Adrian would probably protest, something about a landlord being upset, but that's so incredibly far removed from ver problems that it's not even worth considering. More concerning is that weakening the integrity of the floor supporting ver body may be a poor idea, but there's enough thickness that removing a few layers from the top shouldn't adversely impact the floor's stability. Ve reaches out, and inhales, gradually disassembling ver surroundings for spare parts.
And then something yanks ver budding self off the tiles by the flesh, jerking her back. And of course, the donation would have enough self to try and eat, and not enough awareness to realise it's screwing up the experiment. Ve isn't sure if that communication is verbal as the hiss was before, ver flesh ears ringing a bit, or if it's been submitted on a different level. Something reaches into the bag of organs and flesh that is Adrian's body and touches ver. It's a bewildering sensation, completely divorced from the context of flesh. It's threading something inert through ver, something- oh. Oh, that's the flesh itself. Ve'd been coasting through it previously, passing through it like a phantom. But the other is trying to knit ver to it somehow. It's disconcerting, leaving ver with a feeling that this was gross, but… on reflection, it might even help ver.
The sudden jerk is disorienting, ver notions of space twisting in an attempt to compensate for the shift in proprioception. Oh! Good, that means ver proprioception's starting to work now! Now if only things would line up again with ver new posture.
The next sensations register as speech, though ve isn't quite sure what form it's taking. Adrian's brain doesn't seem to be able to handle it well, though, so whatever it is, it's not like human speech. The content is confusing, and only raises more questions. Donation? Experiment? It's clearly in reference to ver, but… whose donation? (Not that ve'd be able to make sense of the answer, in all likelihood.)
Then there's something inside ver body, in here with ver, touching ver. It feels deeply wrong, unsettling, and it takes a long moment to discern the source as what it is. A sense of claustrophobia worms its way into ver, partially terrified of being knitted into this flesh. Ve squirms uncomfortably in place. …Although, on reflection, maybe this isn't such a bad idea? It might help ver get a sense of how this body works… at the cost of making it that much more difficult to discard it should it break down.
But, perhaps more importantly, the other communicated with ver. Maybe that could help, though given the pain the other caused earlier ve's naturally wary. Ve clings to that form, tries to imitate it. Icks pair mint? Ve winces; that was awful. Another try. Whut spare mint?
The threading motions turn into something more punishing, almost as if the other was trying to crush ver in the same motion as it was trying to tie ver to the flesh and keep ver separate. It doesn't quite want to register as an act of malice, even if her fleshthoughts insist it must be. The absence of that association feels like an error, as if perhaps ve simple didn't have enough of a grasp of the world to have that feeling. Or is the problem that a sense of betrayal was, in fact, a feeling? Was that a flesh thing? ~Stay. Still.~ It's not words as much as it's clear concepts. It's ver fleshthoughts that are translating them to words, though it's ver acorporeal perception that's aware of the communication.
The discomfort mounts, approaching something more like pain, though nothing like the sensation ve felt earlier. The flesh feels like it's constricting around ver, the interplay between thoughts and neurons suggesting malice or betrayal. An odd feeling, confusing to ver, not quite able to fully register. The other's words – no, not words, thoughts, concepts – strike into ver, instincts listening and doing as told. The other's obviously vastly more powerful, opposing ver seems foolish at the moment. Still, ve's hungry for information. With great effort, ve manages to distill and package an idea, ~What is this experiment?~ and push it out across the void, 'aimed' at ver visitor. Then another, ~Whose donation? Yours?~
Another moment of searing pain interrupts the semblance of a conversation they're having. This time, the pain doesn't fully go away - it's like the flesh ve's tied to is in itself toxic to ver in some form, refusing to let ver heal at a normal rate, or at all. It's hard to tell that subtle difference right now. Then, an answer: ~Collecting data. Do yourself a favour and do away with your consciousness. It serves neither of us.~
Another wall of fire spreads through ver thoughts, burning everything in its path with searing pain. Another cry of pain and terror fills the gaps in the void, this time echoed in Adrian's vocal cords. Except this time it doesn't subside, there's still a burning sensation laced into ver perception, something about the way ve's knitted to this flesh making things even worse. What is the other one doing?!
Ve doesn't get an answer to that, not directly at least – but the response is chilling. 'Do away with your consciousness.' It's certainly possible; ve could try to spread verself thin enough to render conscious thought impossible, or even disable the higher functions entirely. But some borrowed fleshy instict revolts at that idea. Perhaps before getting knitted into this body ve might have been willing to comply, but it feels impossibly wrong now. Ve likes ver consciousness, awkward and unwieldy and half-borrowed as it is. Discarding it because it doesn't 'serve either of us' seems like a waste. Ve holds very still, torn, before replying: ~No.~
~Suit yourself.~ The other seems unbothered by the defiance - but then, it had said that it was a matter of 'doing verself a favour'. Presumably it doesn't really care if ve makes verself miserable.
For a moment, that's all there is to it - there's not another flash of pain, no punishment, not even of ver flesh body. Ve's alone long enough in ver awkward flesh tomb to begin patching it back together. Ve has an idea where everything is now and a vague idea what every part of ver flesh is for. It seems wasteful and inefficient in design, but some part of ver can't help but find it elegant.
Then the same touch that had threaded ver though the flesh twists, rending part of ver battered perception through space and- oh! That's why ver proprioception is screwy! There's another dimension here.
The other's reply seems like it should herald another burst of pain, but thankfully that doesn't actually occur. It's probably only ver fleshthoughts causing ver anxiety; ve certainly doesn't have a sufficiently well-formed model of the other's behavior to be able to make any kind of predictions. Most of ver behavior-modeling comes from borrowed human thoughts anyway; they're hardly applicable here.
Regardless, the relative quiet gives ver some more time to patch up ver flesh. Ve's starting to gain a rudimentary understanding of how the various systems work and what they're for. It's remarkably well-ordered, considering the complete lack of thought that went into 'designing' it. For the most part, it's just a matter of focusing the body's efforts on the holes in its back and arms, rather than on attacking ver anchors to it. Perhaps with enough time and practice, ve could make sufficient modifications to the underlying system to improve it–
A sudden jolt tears ver focus out of ver current task, the space around ver spinning and twisting and–
Wait.
Suddenly, something clicks, and the reason for ver disorientation becomes clear. Ver flesh is stuck to a surface, the structure bound to itself by forces that will only travel along those three directions. (Well, okay, and also forward in time, ve supposes.) Whereas most of ver, aside from the anchors, has been floating just off that surface, hanging gently 'underneath' it, and is now being pressed into it, or against it, tied to it.
Which raises a question: Could ve pull the flesh towards ver? The forces holding it together would work just as well on a parallel surface, after all; but the matter of pulling it off at all – especially without damaging it further – is more difficult. …Well, so long as the other one's doing experiments, why shouldn't ve do one of ver own? Now that ve understands ver environment better, manipulating it should be easy. Ve wriggles a bit of verself through the human's skull, into the long strands of dead protein – ve's certain by now they don't do much useful, and their loss wouldn't harm ver flesh – and experimentally tugs at the tips, seeing if ve can pull them off their current surface.
The geometric motion succeeds with some effort, turning those tips into obstacles ve has to flow around, somehow less convenient to work with than before. Some of ver rotated self that the other had manipulated could maybe reach toward them and pull them back, but those parts of ver are trapped between a lot of matter
Interrupting any of ver potential ponderings on the matter is another punch of sharp pain, this time easy to identify in the source - one of ver fleshself's battered arms has been breached anew and an agonising pain radiates through the parts of ver that are nearby, part from the borrowed sensations of ver fleshself, but far more so due to what the other one is doing. Water! In this form, it's not even healthy to ver fleshself. If ve wants to survive the other's experiments, it appears as though there was no way around fighting back.
Success! …of a sort. Of course, now there's electromagnetic matter ve has to negotiate around, making the end result more of an obstacle than anything else. Still, perhaps with enough effort ve could use this as an escape measure… except that putting everything back onto the three-dimensional surface in the right orientation would be tricky, not to mention ve's pretty sure ver fleshbody needs oxygen to continue functioning, and will quickly deteriorate without it.
Before ve can spend much more thought on that matter, another spike of pain interrupts ver, a scream spilling from ver throat as ver attention shifts to the pain's source. (Oh, working proprioception, how much ver fleshthoughts have missed you.) …Water?! Pain intermingles with ver fleshthoughts' confusion, and a budding sense of outrage at the other one's apparent insanity. Is ve trying to kill ver?!
Escape gets shunted up to a higher priority, and it looks like the only option is going to be fighting back. Fighting back against an enemy that's significantly more well-developed, and more powerful… but, advantageously, probably isn't prepared for an 'experiment' to turn on ver. And the other's almost entirely focused on the arm ve's mutilating. Ver fleshbody twists for a few moments, writhing in pain, before a well-timed twist manages to pull his less-recently-mangled arm forward, then twists back, jabbing ver elbow towards ver assailant's head.
Ver elbow connects with the avatar of the other one and it jerks back, the motion also disturbing ver own posture, given its hold on her. A deep hiss accompanies its reaction, which is to reach toward ver elbow in an attempt to grasp it and crush it down against the ground in disregard for the shoulder joint - after all, it's not relevant to its experiment that its sample can in turn move its limbs. Breaking the shoulder would be a welcome side-effect, even, by impeding future motions.
The sudden shift in posture is a bit disorienting, but this time ver sense of direction is quicker to adjust. Ver elbow twists away from the incoming grasp, managing to avoid it this time at least, then ver arm shoots up to the right, powered by adrenaline and guided by a sudden idea. Ve reaches for the bottle of water in the other's grasp, fumbling to do something with it – maybe knock it away, maybe grab it and twist it from its grip, maybe just try to spill some of that awful substance on ver attacker. Fight water with water, isn't that how the human saying goes?
The other one jerks its hand away, but not quite rapidly enough - ver flesh fingers find the bottle and scratch against it sufficiently to tear it out of the older one's hand. Stray droplets flick through the air, but the majority of it spills away from them both as it clatters against the ground. The stray droplets are enough for the other to let ver go for a brief moment, though, rearing back.
Now's ver chance! Ve lunges forwards, fingers grasping at the bottle as ve puts some much needed distance between verself and the other. There's not much left inside it, but it's enough to at least be a deterrent. Ve swings ver arm in a wide arc behind ver, splashing water in the other's direction as ver fleshbody scrambles to its feet.
An idea sparks in ver thoughts - this is Adrian's kitchen. There's a sink, with all the water ve could possibly need. Ve lurches towards the sink, one hand turning on the faucet as the other holds the bottle under the stream of water, careful not to let the droplets come too close to ver. Meanwhile, ve keeps as much attention as ve can spare on the other one, preparing to run once it regains its composure.
Behind ver, the darkness recedes from the broken line of water ver motion paints into the room, blotches of avoidance puncturing a consciously dissolved avatar, turning the other one's corporeal appearance into a pattern, an inkblot, a surreal shadow. Only for an instant. Then, with anger yelled soundlessly into ver conscience, pummeling ver thoughts, the other sweeps toward ver like a crashing wave, sharp-edged sheets of black converging toward ver flesh hands.
✘ IN PROGRESS