Chapter Text
That’s not me, Penny realized.
It had her face, hair, clothes. Her mannerisms, perfectly and utterly. The genie had made such an exact, perfect replica of her—squishy guts, rather than nuts and bolts—and yet, Penny still knew, it is not me.
The genie, in stories, was often a cruel being. One would wish, and the wish would be twisted, and what came may have followed the word of the wish, but certainly nothing that the wisher wanted. That must be here, then.
Penny had wanted a new body. A real body, one that would be hers, one that nobody could take from her.
Instead, Ambrosius had cut her strings, and let her, the limp puppet, fall to the ground. Instead, proudly walked a doll wearing the name, the mantle, and the very soul of Penny Polendina.
That’s not me, Penny thought. Don’t leave me, she pleaded.
Moment by moment, the virus took further hold. It seeped deeper into her self. With the help of the genie, it had severed her every movement.
Arms. Legs.
Tongue, throat.
Eyes and eyelids, for the world was cruel, and would not grant her even blindness.
The puppet could only watch and listen.
“Do hugs always make you feel this warm inside?” the genie’s doll said.
“Yes,” Ruby, her friend, answered, without knowing even the difference.
To her conscious mind, there was a sharp, prolonged buzzing—one that would be painful, were she truly hearing it. The virus had progressed, and it had cut her ears away from her. Soon, then—it would take her eyes, and then it would take her thoughts from her.
Then it could be over.
And yet…
something felt wrong.