Welcome to Gaia! ::

The too-rapid transition from kitten to human found Mimsy with her fingers curled up like claws, nails scraping against an indiscernible blur's shield. It was not, however, the feeling of nails against shield that took precedence - her body went tense at the sensation of her skin against skin. Against a lot of skin, if all of the splotches of varied flesh colors in front of her eyes were any indication.

Her notable lack of clothing was the least of her concerns: a body was just a particularly fleshy machine, after all, ultimately no better than their golems. The absence of her glasses was far more problematic, because it meant a tremendous disadvantage in a situation that was already terribly unfortunate.

It was with a weary, wide-eyed look of betrayal that she squirmed away from the pile, tripping over herself as she tried to find somewhere safe. Somewhere she could feel less vulnerable.

She groped her way into a room and hurriedly closed the door.

The small closet was dark and smelled of dust and chemicals, and she had to push past several containers and a wastebin to find room to sit. She didn't try to find a light; darkness had always been a comfort, and it was beneficial now in its ability to distract her from her inability to see. The less she had to concern herself with, the better, because her mind still raced with a thousand other thoughts and broken equations without it.

She hugged her knees to her chest and propped her chin up on them, one shaky hand passing over her face. This was manageable. She'd had worse, she reminded herself. It didn't make this pleasant, by far, but it was certainly survivable.

As the door opened, Mimsy held her breath, waiting for the intruder to identify themselves. When he did, she exhaled through her teeth and counted to the twentieth digit of pi to calm herself.

It didn't help.

"What?" she irritably grumbled, rubbing at her eyes like she had as a feline. That didn't help either, but she couldn't stand feeling so powerless. This was better than nothing.

"You should do that regardless. Preventative measures. Press your thumbs in until they rupture. Or continue to apply even pressure, and allow the muscles to tear. Dislodge them from their sockets and sever the optic nerves, one at a time. " The suggestion brought a smile, the first hint of a laugh following soon after. It was a nice visual to imagine, and she let it linger as long as it would. It might cleanse her palate, at least.

But it was gone too soon, and the thought of being so exposed to so many potentially dangerous enemies readily returned. The probability of a catastrophic event after offering that advantage was much too great, and face after face compiled themselves in her thoughts, ranked from least to most unsettling.

"I do not like whatever physical activity that was. Hugging or cuddling or...ugh." She finally moved, just enough to portray her disgust, then stilled again. "Distasteful."

Considering her current position, her statement was an odd one; she didn't seem to recognize as much.

"No, you did not," Mimsy concurred, plainly stated - simply factual, nothing more. Still, failing to think was the kind of mistake that required an apology, so she didn't stop him from expressing his guilt or offering reparations.

"Might your method include the immediate retrieval of my glasses and clothing?" she asked, hopeful.

Probably not.

Frankly, in spite of all previously gathered data, she could not begin to imagine that would have been his first thought, which drove a particular curiosity to learn what it was. It felt safe to explore this time, in the confines of a closet. It wasn't as if they were in the Sahara, or a universe where proper physics and the rules of reality did not apply. Statistically, this was one of the least risky of all of the questions that she'd been intrigued about in a long time. What could go wrong?

"All right." She reached over her shoulder and poked his chin up with the tip of her finger. "You may attempt to make it better."

The promise to bring what she'd asked for was nice, albeit unexpected, and Mimsy remained silent as he progressed through his mental checklist (or blueprints, or pictures, whatever it might be). It took an immense amount of restraint, but she didn't even count the seconds that he was gone to prove him wrong if the count passed three hundred. Discouraging him after he did what she asked was not the correct message to send.

Instead, she waited as patiently as she could, fidgeting with the corners of her nails to prevent her hands from idly bothering the materials in the room. It wasn't a lab, thank goodness, but that didn't mean she could throw away her safety for a few minutes of busying herself. Accidentally covering her hands in corrosive chemicals would definitely prevent her from remaining in this closet, if she wanted to retain motor skills. Or her hands in general.

When he returned and placed something on her shoulder, she cautiously ran her hands over it. Clothing. She breathed a relieved sigh into the nylon as she pulled her dress over her head, and waited expectantly to see if he'd brought anything else.

"A game?" All of the curiosity that had been in her voice before he left was now magnified tenfold. "Certainly. I must caution you, though: if I play, I will win."

She tugged down on the hem of the dress so it sat at the correct length before resting back onto her heels again.

"Explain the premise. And the rules, if there are any."

It felt a little strange to be presented with the challenge of a game that she was meant to win, but the pursuit of victory wasn't discouraged by the abnormality, so Mimsy made no mention of it. The first puzzle needed to be solved, anyway; she focused on the box in her hands, and began the process of determining her answer.

The process was a very meticulous one.

She first examined every inch of the exterior with her fingertips, brushed thumbs over the edges, tested the weight, and formed a rough estimate of dimensions based on her findings. With that established, she lifted the lid and set it aside.

The scent of the roses should have cautioned her to the potential of thorns, but the scent was not necessarily indicative of anything floral, so she touched them anyway.

<NNNOOO, the present is OUR DEAAATH-->

Svensyl's screeching startled her more than the thorns along the stem, and she almost threw the box aside before the panic subsided.

"Roses," she blurted out, tone wavering from residual adrenaline. "There are roses inside."

"What? No, I like them. Their evolutionary hybridization is especially intriguing. Thank you." She liked them as much as she liked anything, anyway. Why had he thought that? Maybe it was her reaction. It was understandable that it would require an explanation, when she considered how much of the problem had been inaudible. "I was just startled by the--"

Then Robert found the thorns, and it didn't seem nearly as imperative to finish her sentence.

Mimsy paused for a moment before attending to the next box, both to process what just happened and to allow Svensyl to calm down, hoping that it was now clear that they were not dying. When she was satisfied that the deluge of whining was over, she examined the second box as she had the first.

Its texture was strange - not quite fur, not quite cloth - but did seem synthetic. The box was not uniform, either, and she laughed to herself when she recognized the (anatomically inaccurate) shape. The interior seemed to rattle as she lifted the lid, so she was especially careful as she slowly touched the contents.

"Oh! Confections!" She stifled more laughter at a joke she hadn't even made yet, and almost prevented herself from getting it out at all. "Presumably lacking in thorns, correct?"

In the silence, Mimsy touched each of the chocolates, counting them, cataloging their shapes and textures, a twitch of a grin when she found one missing. She didn't pick any up to eat them, nor did she lick off the bit of melted chocolate that the tactile investigation left on her fingertips; consuming any food products while she was not hungry was a concept so strange to her that it didn't cross her mind.

The change in his voice urged her to close the box of candies, so she did, absently rubbing the excess chocolate off of her hands as she set it aside to listen. This was strange; the actions and verbalized sentiments were not anything close to what she had accounted for. Valentine's Day appeared so simplistic from what she knew, but this had a curious depth to it. Much of it had a surprising level of thought placed into it, and the rest - like the fact about her impressive skill level - were the sort of compliments that were critically important to maintaining her ego. His words were so purposeful, spoken with specific intent.

From Robert, that was a very peculiar anomaly.

She put one hand on the box, and hesitantly placed the other on his hand, because it seemed like something that she should do.

"Thank you," she murmured, tone more inquisitive than gracious. "You do not have to thank me for not 'giving up' on you, however. I was under the impression that I had already established that abandoning this in any capacity was, and is, simply not an option. That will not change, and you need not be thankful that I am doing what is the most logically sound thing to do. Of course I would not purposely opt out of something that I need to such a significant degree."

Her thumb moved over the box on her leg, and she wedged her nail into the crease in the middle, testing how easily it would open.

"Continuing with your metaphor, for example: upon discovering the correct fit, you would not separate the pieces that connect, nor would you thank the puzzle for being complete. It exists to be. That is its purpose. Ergo, upon our discovery, we identified a purpose that was more than a fleeting hypothesis. This is correct, and is congruent with your feelings of connecting pieces. I am of the opinion that we should extend congratulations instead of thank-yous, so...congratulations on your exceptional achievement. I hope for continued success in this endeavor."

With that, she opened the box, just enough to touch what was inside.

After all that she said, Mimsy expected a very different reaction. It was a positive series of statements, as far as she could tell, and 'oh' didn't quite make sense here. That was becoming a trend; though she decided long ago that this was essentially equivalent to venturing into a nonsensical wonderland, she had never quite been this far.

It made her feel a bit lost.

To avoid that feeling (and the doubt it tended to bring), she tried to focus on what she knew, and returned her full attention to their game. She tipped the box for its contents to fall into her palm, allowing her cupped hand to warm it as it sat. Its relative temperature was indicative of some things and negated the possibility of others, so she tested its texture to continue ruling options out.

"One guess," she quietly repeated, turning it with her thumb. "Is it a functional object? Something that can be worn? A decorative item?"

Only one guess, but he'd said nothing about questions. With the introduction of this rule, she had to be certain beyond reasonable doubt before she would feel comfortable suggesting what it might be.