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“Right,” Noct says as the alarm on her phone chimes. She looks down at the bowl in front of her, and three pairs of eyes look back up at her. One of them—she’s not sure which—blinks, first the right eye, then the left. To see it up close, the way the entire eye retracts down into the skull, makes Noct’s stomach give a squeamish roll.
“Right,” Noct says again, since her friends—her frogs—aren’t saying anything. “I guess, uh, it’s not wearing off?”
One of the frogs slides back into the water with a splash, and the other two begin to squirm, clambering over each other and over the sunken and probably sulking frog at the bottom of the bowl. Their feet—paws? feet? must be feet—are gripping the sides of the bowl, their long toes curling over the rim, the round, sticky pads at the ends of their toes clinging and pulling away from the bowl with sucking sounds.
“Shit,” she whispers, because it’s hitting home in an entirely new way, like the tiny pad at the end of each toe is another suckerpunch to her gut, “we are so fucked.”
———
In which a status effect goes awry, the others become frogs, and Noct has to find a way to fix her friends.