I let out a muted, dark chuckle.
"Oh, I'm used to that," I croon with a bit more enthusiasm than the situation warrants.
I should probably tone down the intensity, but I've built a social interaction system on the basis of putting my bad habits on display and letting people decide whether to turn tail and run or to lump me in with the rest of the sociopathic community and, you guessed it, turn tail and run.
Two peas in the same decision-making pod.
Oh my god, Kira, enough with the fucking metaphors, I berate myself.
I'm not at my best, but this is ridiculous.
Fortunately, or maybe, unfortunately, the woman is too distracted to appreciate my dark humor.
Her attention is back to the slimes.
My gaze follows her lead, and I pay attention to their conversation as well. They're sharing nasty jokes and I wrinkle my nose.
"They aren't speaking English."
Ree shakes her head. "No, we have translators."
I resist the urge to give her an incredulous stare, at this point, weirder things have happened since the beginning of this whole mess and I need to move past the little stuff.
"What else?"
She turns her attention back to me and takes a deep breath. "We heal faster. Adapt to new environments. We'll keep changing, somehow, depending on who we're around. Who, uh, buys us."
I don't need a mirror to see that I am making a face. Change into what? A giant dripping blob?
Fuck.
I've got an entire crew of choice words sitting on the launch pad that is the tip of my tongue, but the effort would be wasted ranting to the equally-victimized woman.
I'll have to save the vitriol for any of the slugs providence deems fit to leave at my mercy.
A thrill shoots through me at the thought of it.
Ree takes my silence as her cue to go on. "That belt around your waist will expand to clothes, but if you do it, they punish you. You'll be aroused and can't control it. There's a live feed."
I look toward the camera, and she follows my gaze.
The one in the middle moves forward to smash itself against the glass, leaving disgusting pink smudges. I want to kill him forlooking at the rest of the women that way, especially since they aren't even fucking conscious.
My hands are itching to hold a knife.
The mucus should make me wretch, but the reflex is gone. Like a gap in my mind that has always been there but has been over-flooded to the point of being useless.
No... not gone, just switched for another impulse.
I feel the outer edges of my labia peel open slightly, like a flower in bloom at the intense look in its, frankly, stupid-looking eyes, and my brain jerks to a stop at a sudden realization.
I'm turned on.
The sight of these pink cum-covered pieces of shit is turning me on.
Motherfuckers.
She said it, but I just dismissed it as not something that would happen to me.
