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Cut a chrysalis open, and you will find a rotting caterpillar.
What you will never find is that mythical creature,
half caterpillar, half butterfly, a fit emblem of the human soul,
for those whose cast of mind leads them to seek such emblems.
No, the process of transformation consists almost entirely of decay.
- Pat Barker, Regeneration
The hallway lit up with the striking precision of thunder, sudden and dreadful and blinding. Marcy’s eyes, which hadn’t had to peer past the liquid darkness she’d floated in for months, burned; the hand that hung limp by her side, useless and unused, flew up to shield her face, gaining strength in that peculiar way life-or-death situations commonly allowed.
Yunan and Olivia’s twin gasps at her side seemed to give voice to her in her stead, which Marcy envied, because whatever exclamation of surprise, whatever expression of shock and terror she wanted to let out, died in her throat. Their grip tightened on her arm like that would keep her from being ripped away again.
Marcy had known better than to hope - but they were almost out. She’d allowed herself to think of escaping from the castle and joining Sasha, wherever she was, to find their way out of this place together; of what she would do once she made it to Earth and saw Anne again, how she’d make it up to her. Freedom had seemed so close - and yet, now that it slipped from her, there was a comforting sort of weight to the echo of the king’s footsteps. Lady Olivia’s cries, so different from the secret whispers their rescue mission had required, pierced Marcy’s ears:
“Please, sire, she’s just a child-”
And Yunan roared, in the same prideful, boastful way she enunciated all of her titles: “You can’t do that to her, this is unacceptable-”
But King Andrias stayed blessedly silent. He didn’t growl, or pick a fight, or try to explain his reasons; Marcy’s sleep-ridden mind and her exhausted limbs craved nothingness, and so she felt him lifting her up and taking her away, the two newts’ protests fading in the distance, to be the sweetest reprieve. She missed the pitch black, the drowned out sounds all around that barely reached her ears, even the cold; I should’ve died was the only thought in her head, bringing with it the realization that, though her body was being kept alive, the rest of her was still hiding away, having forgotten how much being real hurt.
She thought again as he set her down, not in her tank but on his throne, and laid a helmet on her head: I should’ve died. But that had never been on the cards. Being alive and under someone else's control, so that she wouldn’t have to worry about a thing anymore, wouldn’t suffer, was supposed to be the next best thing - and yet some childish, foolish part of her that was still awake, that thrashed and kicked and screamed, made her open her eyes once more to find Olivia and Yunan’s horrified gaze, and beg:
“Help Anne and Sasha.” It was little more than a gasp, but a look of surprise crossed the two women - surprise, and understanding. “Please. Please. You have to find them.”
Andrias pressed something on her helmet, and she was quiet once more.
Marcy had once dug in her parents’ drawers, looking for her birth certificate - for a school project, she’d told them, because she wasn’t going to admit she was hoping for different names to be on it - and found out she was born a full month before her due date.
Though she was lucky enough not to have to deal with serious complications, at least according to her medical records, and turned out, all in all, to be an excitable, healthy baby, her mother would go on to say that what little time Marcy had lost being released into the world too soon, she was determined to take from others, as if in a desperate quest to make up for it.
For it was soon clear, based on what every adult in her life told her, that Marcy Wu needed a much higher level of care and attention than any one person could reasonably expend on another. Every second Marcy spent fully inside her skin, instead of being distracted by the toys and games and books her overworked parents lay in front of her, caused her great emotional distress - a sentiment she seemingly shared with the rest of the world, though unlike her, everyone else had learned to hide it better.
The thing is - Marcy had no idea how other people did it. No one had ever sat her down and explained to her how everything worked, and how she was supposed to act, and how friendships were to be obtained, like any good guidebook would - she was always just supposed to know. As a result, Marcy craved human connection to an unhealthy degree, but was left sending out paper planes into the night sky, hoping at least one of them would eventually land - throwing daggers at a bullseye while blindfolded and hand-tied. She was never successful getting what she wanted on her own terms, and so she latched on to anyone who dangled a sliver of affection in front of her, whether she was interested or not in giving that affection back.
At one point, Sasha had had to sit Marcy down after they’d had to ask Anne to break up, on Marcy’s account, with the latest guy of the week.
“You need to learn how to tell them no.”
The idea had stunned Marcy, going against every social norm she’d struggled so hard to learn. “It doesn’t hurt to give people a chance, Sasha.”
“Does it, though? You could barely look at the last guy in the eyes. If that had been me asking you out, I would have been pissed. I would have taken an honest rejection any day.”
Marcy had found it pretty ironic that this was coming from the girl who prided herself on being a heartstomper, but she didn’t comment on it. “I would never do that to you. Break up, I mean. Anne just isn’t as good as you at Super Wario Kart.”
That comment seemed to vaguely fluster Sasha, who Marcy made note to compliment on her videogame skills more often, but it was there and gone so quickly Marcy figured she had imagined it. “Look, Marcy, what’s the real reason you’re doing this?”
“I just-” How to explain to Sasha the complex workings of the human mind, most of which still escaped Marcy despite her years of study? How to explain that she just wanted to be normal, and not a burden, and for life to work for her like it did for everyone else? “I know people are gonna start to think that there’s something wrong with me if I don’t-” She let the end of that sentence die and covered her face with her fists.
She’d always known she was a handful. It was in the way her teachers would smile politely and cut her off in class when she spoke for too long, or too enthusiastically, about a topic that caught her attention, and figured giving her an A would be enough compensation; it was the way the other kids were so weirded out by her clumsy attempts at friendship, like they couldn’t even appreciate the effort; it was the way she approached the world as if through glass, screaming and screaming without ever making so much as a ripple on the other side.
It was different, with Anne and Sasha. The obsessive nature of their relationship fit Marcy’s needs to a T, or maybe her needs had evolved over time to fit the two of them; and though in their friendship it was Anne who got the shortest end of the stick, always having to make sure Marcy didn’t fall over and die while also keeping Sasha’s worst tendencies at bay, she liked to think Anne understood. Her friends provided a safe filter through which to navigate the world, and in return Marcy did all the work in group projects and de-escalated fights and fought tooth and nail to keep them together, even when the three of them would’ve been better off apart.
“I didn’t want to be alone,” she whispered, at last.
Sasha got really close to her face then. She laid a hand on Marcy’s own without trying to pry it away from her eyes or to unfurl her fingers, the other resting on Marcy’s cheek, and Marcy felt herself leaning into the rare comfort of her friend’s touch. “Do you even care what these guys think? Do you want to date them?”
Marcy thought about it, and honestly - the answer was no. She’d been telling herself that the last guy - Cary, or Gary, she couldn’t recall - had been nice enough, but he’d tried to storm into her life at a time when she was planning her biggest Creatures & Caverns campaign yet, and having to pretend to care about anything else had felt like a chore. But that had been the case for any of the other guys before, all of them gone after a couple days and a few awkward attempts at holding hands after school.
“Then don’t,” was Sasha’s final word, as she tucked a lock of hair behind Marcy’s ear. “You’re a beautiful girl. You don’t have to date anyone you don’t want to.”
That conversation would go on to live forever in Marcy’s head. She’d never quite been able to understand why.
“You’re really not going to leave me?” she asked again - the sound muffled against Anne’s skin. The time would come when they’d stop indulging her, when they would tell her off for being so clingy, and she lived, always, in fear that it would be the next; but as they’d done so many times before, her friends just hummed in agreement and held her that much tighter.
Maybe, on the thousandth time she asked, they’d hold her so tight she’d just disappear. She’d kind of like that.
“Of course,” Sasha murmured behind her. “We’re not letting you move away.”
“Even if that means staying in Amphibia forever?”
Anne scoffed into Marcy’s hair. “We’re not staying here forever. We’ve got tons of other worlds to visit.”
Marcy smiled at the thought. Her friends always knew the right thing to say when she got too into her head, and though plans to get out of bed and explore the multiverse were unlikely to be made in the foreseeable future, she saw no reason to rush.
It was all so easy and inconsequential - just her head tucked into Anne’s shoulder, Sasha’s arms wrapped protectively around her. She didn’t have to feel anything but this, and didn’t have to see anything at all; days and weeks and months would uncaringly pass by outside their window, while they stayed warm, and cozy, and deliciously, exactly the same.
So what was it that was troubling her? Was she really so unused to peace and contentedness that she kept trying to pull away from it, trusting it to turn ugly while she wasn’t looking? She felt the same, pervasive uneasiness of knowing there was something you’d forgotten, except in this case, there was something trying to resurface.
Maybe a quick walk outside would take her mind off it. Marcy tried to untangle herself, ignoring the gentle flutter in her chest when Anne and Sasha reached back for her right away; she shushed them, and kissed both of their cheeks, and told them she’d be back soon.
The little cottage house they lived in stood just outside of Newtopia, by a cliff overlooking the city gates. On a clear morning, you could see the towers and turrets Marcy had helped rebuild in the distance, glimmering gold under the light of the sun, but today Marcy thought she’d be lucky to even just glimpse the sea below. The cliff dipped down and down into thick white mist, which was rising ever so slightly towards the woods.
The feeling of wrongness grew louder with every step she took towards the edge - like something was at the bottom, waiting to drag her down.
Don't stray too far.
She flinched. Though she was used by now to having that little voice inside her head, he still managed to catch her by surprise. Her new friend had gotten pretty good at masquerading in her thoughts, and could mostly go undetected until he needed to make himself heard again.
What if I do, she wanted to ask. Not out of rebelliousness - she was truly curious about the answer. “I know,” she said instead.
You don’t look happy. Is this world not to your liking?
At first, he’d thought the best course of action to take over her mind would be to get her to let go of her friends, which, unfortunately for him, she was hardwired not to do. For someone so desperate to give up, he’d told her, you’re still hanging awfully tight, which didn't make it a weakness he couldn’t exploit.
This was the compromise they’d found. He got to keep his vessel, she got to keep Anne and Sasha, and they’d have as much of a choice in it as they did with Amphibia - which was to say, not at all.
“No, it is,” she murmured. “It’s exactly what I wanted. But-”
“Marcy?”
Marcy screamed. Heart in her throat, hands ready in a fighting position, she turned around to face a very sleepy, very confused Anne.
She hadn’t even heard her approach. Leaves hadn’t cracked under her feet at all - it was like she’d just materialized behind Marcy while she wasn’t looking.
Anne’s entire face transformed when she laughed. The soft affection in her eyes couldn’t be mistaken for anything else, even though Marcy must’ve startled her, as well. “Who were you talking to?”
“No one,” she quickly replied, still on edge. Then again, quieter - because this was Anne, just Anne, and she could breathe now: “No one. What are you doing here?”
“Bed is too cold,” Anne pouted, and wrapped her arms back where they were before, where they always were these days - around Marcy’s middle. “Come back inside.”
You’re tired, her other friend agreed, though they must have been sleeping for a while already - how long had they been sleeping? Rest now.
Anne started pulling her back. Wordlessly, Marcy followed.
Granted - Anne and Sasha didn’t always understand.
There were a couple of dreams - more real than the others, in the way nightmares are always more real than dreams - where Anne and Sasha looked a little older than she remembered, and a lot more rugged, and they wore armor and wielded swords against her like there was anything in Marcy’s head that could ever hurt them.
Her new friend always took care of those unwanted fantasies, and apologized for the scarce control he still had over the darkest corners of her mind. She apologized back - it wasn’t his fault she kept conjuring up these horrors - and watched as Anne and Sasha vanished before their pleas could reach her ears.
Marcy, they called. Their voices were barely audible amid the incessant banging of their fists; she wished it would just stop. Wake up. Wake up.
This had never happened before - them coming to her while she was fully unconscious. When the helmet was off, her only purpose was to rest and recuperate for when she’d be needed again, which could only be done by keeping brain activity to a minimum. She never dreamed during that time. Now that she was, it felt like dying again.
“Marcy, come on!” Clearer, now. “We’re getting you out.”
Go away, Marcy wanted to say, but no words left her lips. She suddenly became aware of the tube filling her mouth, allowing her to breathe but keeping her from talking - of the floating motion of her body, of the muffled sounds coming from beyond the tank. I tried to warn you. Go away.
“Anne - Anne, I think she’s waking up.”
“But what if it’s that thing again-”
“No, it’s gonna work this time.” Then to Marcy - soft and sweet, an echo from a dream: “We’re not leaving you.”
She’d never known, before, that you could cry while being already submerged in water - but of course weak little Marcy would bend the laws of physics for the opportunity to tear up some more. It felt no different to the touch, but her body knew of her sadness - knew by the way it shook, wracked by silent sobs.
Because wasn’t this what she wanted? For Anne and Sasha to forgive her, to love her as she loved them, to stay with her? Was it really fair of her to keep them trapped in that dynamic forever - Anne and Sasha always having to swoop in to save the day, too busy trying to protect Marcy from skinned knees and head bumps to ask what it was she actually needed, and Marcy always needing them too much to point it out?
She’d seen it in her head so many times. She’d never been able to make it better.
Her friends kept telling her to hold on, that they were going to fix this; she kept shaking her head, everything in her screaming No more, no more, I’m not going back.
When Marcy was young and only still learning about the bugs living in her backyard, she’d captured a caterpillar and kept it under observation for a week. She’d fed it leaves and pieces of salad and built it a nice, clean cage to roam around, all filled with soil.
One day, she’d found it perched on a leaf, perfectly immobile and unresponsive. She’d almost cried, wondering why it wouldn’t take any food, thinking she’d done something wrong; and she would have run out in tears to the nearest vet, had she not decided to take the rational approach and consult her biology textbook first.
That was how she’d found out about metamorphosis - a natural process, all her sources said, which involved nearly all living beings in some way, shape or form. It sounded terrifying in its abruptness, like all the growing aches that had woken her up at night for the past two years condensed into a week - unimaginable pain, unnecessary pain. The caterpillar she’d so loved and cared for lost forever, having to spin its own grave, some strange insect taking its place before her very eyes.
Day by day it changed, though the changes were hardly noticeable. Marcy turned it into a game: there, the cocoon looked slightly more transparent than it did yesterday; there, that thing on the bottom almost looked like an eye.
She started wondering at its future color and worried when more than a week went by and she still couldn’t guess at it. Even as a child, she wouldn’t have called herself impatient - at least not when it came to science, which took its sweet time to work its magic - but she didn’t know how long this was supposed to take. Was everything okay in there? How could she make sure? What if the caterpillar was dying of entirely preventable causes, and Marcy had already waited too long to do anything about it?
Tentatively, she tapped at the chrysalis, trying to get a feel for the wings. Nothing.
She tried not to panic. Maybe they were still too small, too underdeveloped. She tried again, daring to press in a little deeper, and she ended up puncturing the silk. Tiny droplets of liquid oozed out, fingertips immediately coming away with it as Marcy despaired.
Stupid. Her clumsiness was acceptable only so long as it hurt herself. Idiot. She’d been so afraid of the small bug changing wrong she’d almost killed it, and she wouldn’t know until the very last second that she hadn’t, at the very least, hurt it irreparably.
She held her heart in her throat as the cocoon tried to fix itself, puncture wound scarring over with new tissue. As, overtime, the cocoon started to take a more butterfly-like shape. As the cocoon eventually cracked, this time entirely on its own, and a majestic, big-winged insect crawled out. One of the wings was crooked, and slightly smaller than the others, but the other three had reshaped themselves around it, compensating in size to support the newly emerged butterfly’s weight. In the chrysalis, a rearrangement of matter had occurred, some innermost survival instinct winning out over outside threats.
Marcy watched with bated breath as, wobbling, it lifted itself up and took flight.
She felt him in her head again, trying to take control. There was no asking for permission this time, no trying to reason with her that this was the right thing to do. He didn’t need to; he’d infiltrated her mind completely, the helmet by now wholly unnecessary. He could flip a switch whenever he saw fit, and make her fade into the background.
She couldn’t go back. She also couldn’t stay as she was.
There was a special kind of grief that came with the thought. He’d been right - as much as she claimed to be done with it all, she could feel the same mechanism that had her kicking and screaming as Andrias hooked her up to a bunch of wires taking hold of her again.
Her eyelids weighed like lead. She tried to move her limbs next, unsuccessfully. He’d taken root in her like a virus, taken over her muscles and nerves, relegated her to the dusty corner of her mind that had been her home and her prison for as long as she’d been alive.
But she wasn’t just a mind; she had a body, too. And it was going to keep existing, with or without her, and be used to hurt her friends - so she might as well be the one to inhabit it. What would come after that was anyone’s guess, but if she died here and now, she would never get to find out. Marcy dared to hope it could be good.
She raised her hands, feeling for the wall in front of her, and knocked once upon it.
The glass cracked.