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She was in ecstasy.

Andre had been suppressing the grander urges for so long, the soft chattering in the back of her mind demanding a wreath of smoke and a billow of flames, demanding the grander concussions as buildings fell and fire ate at bodies and supports alike. The explosion at the Shielded Mind earlier had both sated and whetted her appetite, their appetite; now, now she could glorify in the smell of charred skin from the proto-drake they’d downed and the crackling spatters of blazegrease as it sent boiling drops of oil flying out from the roiling puddle of blackened void.

None of the other’s daggers had any effect on the lake of shadow, but fire? Fire made it flinch and writhe like a living thing, fire caused it to rage and boil. For once, for a whole day, her urges had been useful, useful like she hadn’t been for so many months. Pure elation made the blood sing in her ears, drowning out any warning shouts that those with her might have loosed. She didn’t even realize what was happening until she was upside-down, mid-air, mid-swing. There was a flash of recognition-- and then, at the impact, nothing. Her ribs crushed inwards with the force and, more importantly, the bits of shrapnel that had been tucked into the folds of her brain for years were sent tumbling through the bundles of memories, recipes, thoughts, and fears. The voices were silenced, and so was she.

Where am I?

There was a great white void surrounding her-- him? It? Her, she, those felt the most correct. They resonated with...something. Who was her? Who wa she? There were no answers, so all she could do was observe. Long, thin-- things, stretched out far, far above, but what they were she couldn’t say.

Strings.

Confusion rippled through her consciousness at the sudden appearance of the thought. Where had it come from? Still, those things-- those strings, they were trembling far, far above her. Two of them suddenly made an appearance, far shorter than the others, the ends were frayed, tattered, not right. Yet, even as she watched, the threads were drawn closer and closer together by some invisible force until, with a resounding snap she could almost feel, they latched together and re-formed. Abruptly the white void around her trembled, and then everything went black.

Noise.

There were strange, rhythmic noises coming from somewhere far, far away. It felt like she was climbing through a thickened molasses-- what was molasses? -- as she tried to approach them. They became louder and louder, until she felt something about her eyelids (eyelids?) change, and suddenly the white was back, a bright flash of it, but it faded quickly and revealed...

...two things. One was white, like the void-- the other was a motley of mixed colors, hard to focus on. The strange noises were coming from both of them, one after the other, never at once.

How do I...

She tried to tell them how confused she was. She tried to ask Them what was happening, but all that came out of her was a strangled mish-mash of vocalizations. It was enough to shut her up, the surprise of not being able to...to what? Another mystery, but even as she tried to pin down the feeling of not, the tall one in white turned and, with a sudden certainty, was no longer there. She felt her eyelids make the strange gesture again, down and up. The motley thing looked at her, then moved to--

Touch.

Touch...? That felt right. The motley thing touched her on the-- skin? Skin. It helped her to become...taller? The ground was farther away now, and there were two strange things sticking out below her, holding her up. Somehow, though, this felt right. Her muscles knew what came next. One foot had to be put in front of the other, and suddenly, she was no longer motionless. Elation flitted through her mind and she exercised this new ability, not noticing the shakiness. There was nothing not shaky, not sturdy, to compare it to.

Motley made more noises and she turned, trying to see what it was doing.

“Theron.”

The noise sounded just as strange to her as the rest, yet Motley kept repeating it over and over. She repeated it as best she could, but that did not seem to soothe it, as it began to repeat a different noise.

“Andy.”

The noise, to her, was equally odd. There was no sudden explanation from the strange Corrector, the Word Maker that was inside of her. Still, she liked that noise well enough, repeating it for Motley until he was happy.

“Andy. Andy. Andy.”

(Mentions: Theron )

( Plot Mentions: the-handmaidens-collective we-the-faceless )

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