Fuck!!! Why is it awkward again? He fixed things. This is the worst not-date ever.
"I'd just stick it back on," he says, trying very hard to keep the conversational tone light. He's even smiling a little, pleasant, although there's not a lot to smile about in the present moment.
"—Hey," is abrupt. Maybe a little desperate to solve this problem once and for all. "Want to watch me cut off my pinky finger when we get back?"
Wow. Where's the pity-laughter for her bad joke, huh? No need to panic. This is simply a failure of Jasnah's ability to calibrate humour to the moment.
But — it's worth it (maybe) for the resulting offer. She catches her bottom lip under her teeth and has at least as much decency to pretend like she has to think it over. Like it's not an immediate, obvious, enthusiastic yes.
Eventually, Jasnah hums a curt uh-huh. Adding: "Would you mind if I took notes?"
It's still weird, for the record. But a familiar weird, so he says with a laugh, "I wouldn't dream of impeding your research." Also, he's certain that if he disallowed it, she'd just take mental notes and run to write them down the moment he looked away.
Two more bites of curry. And — in macabre fashion — she's already thinking about the columns and headers she might jot down. Time frames. Visual notes. This little plan-ahead does for her thoughts what a good reshelving does for a library. Clears it out. Sets it to order.
"If only Ivory were awake," she murmurs into her curry. "It would be worth witnessing from the Cognitive side, too."
Although he's sure that this is partly exactly what it seems on the face—an academic desire to see Verso's condition on another plane—there's also an undercurrent of worry, he thinks, of wishing Ivory were awake for another reason entirely. Not so good at staying friends echoes in his mind. She'd had Ivory, if no one else.
"We'll do it again when he wakes," Verso promises. "Once he's feeling up to it."
She ought to feel more conflicted about this than she likely does. Easy, interested plotting in how best to measure a man's ability to recover from bodily harm. Not just once — but, now, a second time. Before she's even witnessed and recorded the first.
Idle nodding. Yes, once he's awake. Yes, once he's feeling up to it — although she's quite certain once he is awake all the effort will actually be on her part.
But, rather than dwelling too long on Ivory because Verso is right to wonder if her wistfulness was more than just curiosity...
"People appear like little flames from the other side," she explains. A little out of the blue. But the Cognitive Realm is on her mind. "I could be this far away from you on the other side and all I wold see is a small light. Flickering over a sea of beads."
Presumably. Jasnah has no idea whether Verso's soul would look like everyone else's.
Verso takes another bite as he listens to her talk. The curry is unfamiliar and strange, but there's something nice about that, too. He likes new things. Until recently, there'd been so few opportunities for 'new'.
"That sounds beautiful," he says, because it does. "Can only people who've bonded with spren go there?"
"No — technically, you've already been. The Oathgates leveraged the Cognitive Realm when they transported us to Kharbranth. It's simply so near-instantaneous that you wouldn't see a thing."
Ah, she must be feeling better. There's distance in her voice again but it's the kind of distance employed by an academic at a lectern.
"But outside of an Oathgate—? Only a Radiant with access to the Surge of Transportation can initiate a gate of her own. Either to look into the Cognitive or — yes — travel there. Alone or otherwise. Getting back is far more difficult."
Hm. Verso cocks his head. There's no more interesting way for me to write this, so you'll just have to tolerate him commenting, "You make it sound harrowing."
...Harrowing? Yes. She can understand why it might sound so. But in the interest of being precise:
"It's not the travel itself that's harrowing. Difficult? Absolutely. Impossible for an Elsecaller of the First Ideal, for example. But it gets easier as one progresses in their oaths. And crossing over is easier in places where the realms are more approximated. A junction, it's called."
— She discusses it all so clinically. So intellectually. Not impossible for me when I was at the First Ideal. Not I'm an Elsecaller. Not I've progressed far enough in my oaths that it's easier now.
"But if a person travels to the Cognitive Realm without a firm plan for returning?" She sets her spoon down for a moment with a brief shrug. "That's the bit that's harrowing."
Verso stares back across their bowls of curry, trying to figure out how to say okay, but why in a way that doesn't make him sound like an absolute idiot. Again: he has a lot of reading to do when they get back. Maybe then he won't seem like such an ignoramus.
"Indescribably harrowing, it seems," he quips, because she didn't see fit to explain it at all.
Jasnah holds up her bare hand and counts off a list of possible topics.
"No stormlight apart from what you take with you. The same can be said for anything edible. There are the aggressive non-sapient spren along with the aggressive sapient spren. And a sea of beads."
Her voice softens, catches, frays a little on that last one. Her first (unintentional) descent into Shadesmar (the colloquial name for the Cognitive Realm) had been met with a near-drowning, beads filling her mouth and weighing her down and dragging her under.
"And very few people. More now than there used to be."
"Sounds familiar." Yes, he knows environments like that well—alone, without food, surrounded by an inhospitable landscape and creatures that want to kill you. He's lucky he had the gestrals. Otherwise, he really might have gone insane out there.
She nods. His descriptions of the Continent have often reminded her of the harsh living conditions in Shadesmar. And — she realizes — Verso would have more luck than most in surviving that strange space with its strange sun and inverted landscape. A sea where there's supposed to be land. Land where there's supposed to be sea.
"I've been one foot into the Cognitve Realm more times than I can count," she answers — a little airily. Provided the smallish portal remains open, she can pop in-and-out of a single spot with ease. Especially helpful when soulcasting to be able to peer in and pick exactly the right bead to try and negotiate with.
"But a full scale trip?" Well. Another shrug. "Considerably fewer. Months on months trying to find a stable junction to return through has somewhat deadened my appetite for that Realm."
Verso sets his spoon down, the metal clinking softly against the bowl. She'd been talking about the Cognitive Realm in such impersonal, academic terms. He hadn't expected her to admit to being lost in it herself.
His surprise (however mild) startles her. But maybe she's underestimated just how coyly she's circumnavigated the topic before now.
"Last time I'd been stabbed," she answers. Just as cool but a little less careful than usual. "It's when everyone thought I'd died. I made it to the Cognitive Realm but couldn't get back."
"I didn't realize." Had she mentioned it? Certainly not how long she'd been there. Months is a short time for someone like him, but an awfully long time for someone who's only been alive as long as she has.
Yes, there's a similarity to the Continent there, but he'd never been stuck on the Continent, exactly. He could have returned to Lumière, if it weren't a terrible idea. He did return to Lumière a few times, despite the fact that it was a terrible idea. And, if he'd truly wanted, he could have returned to the manor with his tail between his legs, begging for Papa's forgiveness. He'd felt helpless, but not in the way she must have.
"As you said." She holds his eye contact — as steady as though they were discussing something simple. Like the translation of a word or the significance of a glyph. "Harrowing."
The bravery only breaks when, instinctive, she licks her lips like they're too too dry. Remembering the scarcity of water — another thing that doesn't exist naturally in the Cognitive Realm, and traded at a premium — and the difficult choices that had to be made again and again in favour of another cup, another jug, another skin.
Clearing her throat, she reaches for her wine and takes a mouthful of pink.
"A journey though those territories is straightforward enough when you're well-supplied, however. The sapient spren will trade for stormlight. Or even for everyday things brough over from this Realm."
"The ones that aren't aggressive, you mean," he points out. Doesn't sound completely straightforward to him. "—Well, I'm glad you made it back." He doesn't ask for more details; seems a bit traumatizing, and he's loath to make her relive it more than she already has. So, he quickly changes the subject:
"Which do you prefer, Thaylen food or Alethi food?"
The conversation ebbs and flows from there, thankfully without any more major blunders on his part. When they're done eating, he helps her from her seat and takes her back to Jochi's the same way he'd brought her, albeit with a little more surreptitious help. A hand on her back when she seems to be tiring, more 'impromptu' pauses as he points out things around them and asks her questions about them.
Jochi's still downstairs when they get back, thankfully. Verso would rather he didn't witness his (temporary) mangling. With Jasnah on the divan yet again, he heads to the kitchenette, fetching a rag. "Probably better that you don't see this part," he calls.
Storms, but she continues to grow more accustomed to him. From lunch, to the return commute, to the requisite proximity as he helps her up the stairs. And although she requires far, far less direct support today than she has on other occasions, there is something almost more intimate about letting Verso take two or three steps ahead of her— about the way he turns, offers his hands, waits to catch her whenever she inevitably needs their borrowed stability mid-step.
By the time they reach the top stair, she is faintly out of breath, colour high in her cheeks. The divan — her plush prison bench for most of these weeks — is an immediate relief. She sinks into it in a half-seated, half-leaning sprawl, stifling a yawn behind her glove.
However. Verso's warning, offered over his shoulder, has her heaving herself back to her feet with a low groan. If she must, she will follow him straight into the kitchenette to make her intentions known — pausing only to grab her notebook.
"Dessendre," she grinds his name out in a stilted command. "I intend to see each and every part."
With a rag and kitchen knife in hand (sorry, Jochi), Verso turns his attention to Jasnah across the way. She's close enough to the divan that he doesn't rush to be near her, but he does keep a careful eye on her, just in case.
She's certain whatever he's said about sudden movements has been wise but ultimately impractical. It helps — naturally — that Jasnah's the one who gets to define practicality in this moment.
She puts a hand on the end-tables for stability and males a point of watching him from where she stands. See? No risk of falling.
"Don't spare me the hard parts," she cautions him. Knowing even as she says it how silly it sounds. The hardest part remains his.
"Hard isn't the word I would use," he says, because it isn't hard to get hurt. He's done it a million times. "—Ugly, maybe."
It's the part where you have to watch the sausage get made instead of just enjoying it; he can't imagine it being at all appealing. But he can't stop her from watching—sure, he could scurry away to do it elsewhere, but she'd just follow him and risk hurting herself—so he only sighs and lays the rag out on the counter to soak up the blood. He flattens his left hand atop it, fingers splayed out, and lines the blade of the kitchen knife up above the knuckle of his little finger.
"It's not as bad as it looks," he warns, although there's a bit of hesitance on his face as he performs a few practice swings with the knife, before—
"Fuck, fuck—" He quickly presses the rag to the wound he's made, holding his hand close to his chest out of instinct. As he ruins one of Jochi's belongings with a steady stream of blood, he turns away from Jasnah and hunches over his mangled hand, some sort of involuntary protective inclination. "Putain."
Squeezing his eyes shut, he wills the wound to stop bleeding. The gushing stream slows and then stops entirely, and with a couple deep breaths, he straightens up and sets the red-soaked rag down. There's still a little blood on the counter where his disembodied pinky lays, and he makes a perfunctory attempt at cleaning it up before raising his hand.
She drifts from end-table to chair to kitchenette doorway — a hand touching each as she passes, an unspoken promise that she has something to cling to if required. It's not lost on Jasnah that her pride has signed her up for witnessing something she's unlikely to enjoy.
He tells her it's not as bad as it looks. She can't discern whether it's reassurance or warning. Whichever it is, she doesn't believe him. But her temple tilts against the door jamb and she watches with the same cautious silence one might watch a foreign ritual. The rag on the counter. The stretch of his palm against the fabric. The knife's edge — blessedly sharp, she assumes.
It takes a heroic amount of restraint and discipline not to wince, not to cringe, not to shut her eyes against the falling blade and the dull thwock. She doesn't need a language lesson to understand the electric-hot pain and visceral instinct behind his words. Remarkably, even now, she tucks them away for future reference.
Verso angles away from her and (without thinking) she takes a step in his direction. This time, it's not selfish voyeurism but rather a twisting stomach put worry. Care and concern for his pain and how it curls his shoulders that she hadn't anticipated given the rational understanding that he'll be fine. In fact, she mutters his name — Verso, proper — before hanging back with her hand on the doorway. Swallowing down human instinct.
A glance at the rag. A glance at the little finger — severed from its host. Jasnah has watched men boil and burn to death. She and Ivory have severed the spritwebs of enemies, leaving their eyes burnt out and greyed. But all of it seems clean compared to this. This, a wound that even if he couldn't heal it would be negligible in the grander map of humane experience. A wound that — when you think about it — isn't half as severe as her own. Still, an uncomfortable anxiety roils through her blood. Her eyes watch him. Cautious.
Bizarrely, absurdly, her mind is blank except for some archaic snippet of Iriali religious belief. That just as a little finger is one part of a greater whole, each person is one piece of a divine body.
"What happens now?"
Storms, but she's fighting for her composure. It's minor and most mightn't notice it at all. But Verso has lived in her company long enough.
"Will you," she pauses, tongue rolling inside her cheek as she chooses her words, "grow a new one?"
Even after healing, there's a little lingering pain that makes him grind his teeth. It's nothing compared to the litany of hurts he's endured in the past; he's been chewed up and digested, torn apart at the torso, smashed and crushed, vomited himself to death. A little finger is nothing, really, in the grand scheme of things.
So, he laughs. A little breathless, a little raspy, but a laugh.
"I'd rather not. Regrowing feels..." It's hard to explain. Uncomfortable. Itchy. A bit painful. Like the sore discomfort of a tooth growing in, but on a different body part entirely. "Weird," he settles on.
"Besides," he says, "this finger's still perfectly good."
The disembodied pinky finger on the counter twitches a few times, then inches across the stone. Like a worm.
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"I'd just stick it back on," he says, trying very hard to keep the conversational tone light. He's even smiling a little, pleasant, although there's not a lot to smile about in the present moment.
"—Hey," is abrupt. Maybe a little desperate to solve this problem once and for all. "Want to watch me cut off my pinky finger when we get back?"
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But — it's worth it (maybe) for the resulting offer. She catches her bottom lip under her teeth and has at least as much decency to pretend like she has to think it over. Like it's not an immediate, obvious, enthusiastic yes.
Eventually, Jasnah hums a curt uh-huh. Adding: "Would you mind if I took notes?"
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It's still weird, for the record. But a familiar weird, so he says with a laugh, "I wouldn't dream of impeding your research." Also, he's certain that if he disallowed it, she'd just take mental notes and run to write them down the moment he looked away.
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"If only Ivory were awake," she murmurs into her curry. "It would be worth witnessing from the Cognitive side, too."
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"We'll do it again when he wakes," Verso promises. "Once he's feeling up to it."
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Idle nodding. Yes, once he's awake. Yes, once he's feeling up to it — although she's quite certain once he is awake all the effort will actually be on her part.
But, rather than dwelling too long on Ivory because Verso is right to wonder if her wistfulness was more than just curiosity...
"People appear like little flames from the other side," she explains. A little out of the blue. But the Cognitive Realm is on her mind. "I could be this far away from you on the other side and all I wold see is a small light. Flickering over a sea of beads."
Presumably. Jasnah has no idea whether Verso's soul would look like everyone else's.
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"That sounds beautiful," he says, because it does. "Can only people who've bonded with spren go there?"
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"No — technically, you've already been. The Oathgates leveraged the Cognitive Realm when they transported us to Kharbranth. It's simply so near-instantaneous that you wouldn't see a thing."
Ah, she must be feeling better. There's distance in her voice again but it's the kind of distance employed by an academic at a lectern.
"But outside of an Oathgate—? Only a Radiant with access to the Surge of Transportation can initiate a gate of her own. Either to look into the Cognitive or — yes — travel there. Alone or otherwise. Getting back is far more difficult."
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"It's not the travel itself that's harrowing. Difficult? Absolutely. Impossible for an Elsecaller of the First Ideal, for example. But it gets easier as one progresses in their oaths. And crossing over is easier in places where the realms are more approximated. A junction, it's called."
— She discusses it all so clinically. So intellectually. Not impossible for me when I was at the First Ideal. Not I'm an Elsecaller. Not I've progressed far enough in my oaths that it's easier now.
"But if a person travels to the Cognitive Realm without a firm plan for returning?" She sets her spoon down for a moment with a brief shrug. "That's the bit that's harrowing."
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"Indescribably harrowing, it seems," he quips, because she didn't see fit to explain it at all.
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"No stormlight apart from what you take with you. The same can be said for anything edible. There are the aggressive non-sapient spren along with the aggressive sapient spren. And a sea of beads."
Her voice softens, catches, frays a little on that last one. Her first (unintentional) descent into Shadesmar (the colloquial name for the Cognitive Realm) had been met with a near-drowning, beads filling her mouth and weighing her down and dragging her under.
"And very few people. More now than there used to be."
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"Sounds familiar." Yes, he knows environments like that well—alone, without food, surrounded by an inhospitable landscape and creatures that want to kill you. He's lucky he had the gestrals. Otherwise, he really might have gone insane out there.
"How many times have you been?"
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"I've been one foot into the Cognitve Realm more times than I can count," she answers — a little airily. Provided the smallish portal remains open, she can pop in-and-out of a single spot with ease. Especially helpful when soulcasting to be able to peer in and pick exactly the right bead to try and negotiate with.
"But a full scale trip?" Well. Another shrug. "Considerably fewer. Months on months trying to find a stable junction to return through has somewhat deadened my appetite for that Realm."
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Verso sets his spoon down, the metal clinking softly against the bowl. She'd been talking about the Cognitive Realm in such impersonal, academic terms. He hadn't expected her to admit to being lost in it herself.
"When?"
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"Last time I'd been stabbed," she answers. Just as cool but a little less careful than usual. "It's when everyone thought I'd died. I made it to the Cognitive Realm but couldn't get back."
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Yes, there's a similarity to the Continent there, but he'd never been stuck on the Continent, exactly. He could have returned to Lumière, if it weren't a terrible idea. He did return to Lumière a few times, despite the fact that it was a terrible idea. And, if he'd truly wanted, he could have returned to the manor with his tail between his legs, begging for Papa's forgiveness. He'd felt helpless, but not in the way she must have.
"That must have been scary for you."
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The bravery only breaks when, instinctive, she licks her lips like they're too too dry. Remembering the scarcity of water — another thing that doesn't exist naturally in the Cognitive Realm, and traded at a premium — and the difficult choices that had to be made again and again in favour of another cup, another jug, another skin.
Clearing her throat, she reaches for her wine and takes a mouthful of pink.
"A journey though those territories is straightforward enough when you're well-supplied, however. The sapient spren will trade for stormlight. Or even for everyday things brough over from this Realm."
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"Which do you prefer, Thaylen food or Alethi food?"
The conversation ebbs and flows from there, thankfully without any more major blunders on his part. When they're done eating, he helps her from her seat and takes her back to Jochi's the same way he'd brought her, albeit with a little more surreptitious help. A hand on her back when she seems to be tiring, more 'impromptu' pauses as he points out things around them and asks her questions about them.
Jochi's still downstairs when they get back, thankfully. Verso would rather he didn't witness his (temporary) mangling. With Jasnah on the divan yet again, he heads to the kitchenette, fetching a rag. "Probably better that you don't see this part," he calls.
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By the time they reach the top stair, she is faintly out of breath, colour high in her cheeks. The divan — her plush prison bench for most of these weeks — is an immediate relief. She sinks into it in a half-seated, half-leaning sprawl, stifling a yawn behind her glove.
However. Verso's warning, offered over his shoulder, has her heaving herself back to her feet with a low groan. If she must, she will follow him straight into the kitchenette to make her intentions known — pausing only to grab her notebook.
"Dessendre," she grinds his name out in a stilted command. "I intend to see each and every part."
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With a rag and kitchen knife in hand (sorry, Jochi), Verso turns his attention to Jasnah across the way. She's close enough to the divan that he doesn't rush to be near her, but he does keep a careful eye on her, just in case.
"What did I say about sudden movements?"
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She puts a hand on the end-tables for stability and males a point of watching him from where she stands. See? No risk of falling.
"Don't spare me the hard parts," she cautions him. Knowing even as she says it how silly it sounds. The hardest part remains his.
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It's the part where you have to watch the sausage get made instead of just enjoying it; he can't imagine it being at all appealing. But he can't stop her from watching—sure, he could scurry away to do it elsewhere, but she'd just follow him and risk hurting herself—so he only sighs and lays the rag out on the counter to soak up the blood. He flattens his left hand atop it, fingers splayed out, and lines the blade of the kitchen knife up above the knuckle of his little finger.
"It's not as bad as it looks," he warns, although there's a bit of hesitance on his face as he performs a few practice swings with the knife, before—
"Fuck, fuck—" He quickly presses the rag to the wound he's made, holding his hand close to his chest out of instinct. As he ruins one of Jochi's belongings with a steady stream of blood, he turns away from Jasnah and hunches over his mangled hand, some sort of involuntary protective inclination. "Putain."
Squeezing his eyes shut, he wills the wound to stop bleeding. The gushing stream slows and then stops entirely, and with a couple deep breaths, he straightens up and sets the red-soaked rag down. There's still a little blood on the counter where his disembodied pinky lays, and he makes a perfunctory attempt at cleaning it up before raising his hand.
"...Pinkies up."
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He tells her it's not as bad as it looks. She can't discern whether it's reassurance or warning. Whichever it is, she doesn't believe him. But her temple tilts against the door jamb and she watches with the same cautious silence one might watch a foreign ritual. The rag on the counter. The stretch of his palm against the fabric. The knife's edge — blessedly sharp, she assumes.
It takes a heroic amount of restraint and discipline not to wince, not to cringe, not to shut her eyes against the falling blade and the dull thwock. She doesn't need a language lesson to understand the electric-hot pain and visceral instinct behind his words. Remarkably, even now, she tucks them away for future reference.
Verso angles away from her and (without thinking) she takes a step in his direction. This time, it's not selfish voyeurism but rather a twisting stomach put worry. Care and concern for his pain and how it curls his shoulders that she hadn't anticipated given the rational understanding that he'll be fine. In fact, she mutters his name — Verso, proper — before hanging back with her hand on the doorway. Swallowing down human instinct.
A glance at the rag. A glance at the little finger — severed from its host. Jasnah has watched men boil and burn to death. She and Ivory have severed the spritwebs of enemies, leaving their eyes burnt out and greyed. But all of it seems clean compared to this. This, a wound that even if he couldn't heal it would be negligible in the grander map of humane experience. A wound that — when you think about it — isn't half as severe as her own. Still, an uncomfortable anxiety roils through her blood. Her eyes watch him. Cautious.
Bizarrely, absurdly, her mind is blank except for some archaic snippet of Iriali religious belief. That just as a little finger is one part of a greater whole, each person is one piece of a divine body.
"What happens now?"
Storms, but she's fighting for her composure. It's minor and most mightn't notice it at all. But Verso has lived in her company long enough.
"Will you," she pauses, tongue rolling inside her cheek as she chooses her words, "grow a new one?"
Or does the old one reattach?
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So, he laughs. A little breathless, a little raspy, but a laugh.
"I'd rather not. Regrowing feels..." It's hard to explain. Uncomfortable. Itchy. A bit painful. Like the sore discomfort of a tooth growing in, but on a different body part entirely. "Weird," he settles on.
"Besides," he says, "this finger's still perfectly good."
The disembodied pinky finger on the counter twitches a few times, then inches across the stone. Like a worm.
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