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Vox had never met anyone who took to their hellform as well as Velvette did.
Vox himself had certainly grown to appreciate his body's… capacity for customization, but it'd been a decade until he stopped going to bed wishing he'd wake up the next day with a human head on his shoulders.
Velvette hadn't been around that long, though, and yet, Vox had only ever heard her describe her new body as better. No body hair, no stretch marks, no sagging, no wrinkling–qualities that any one of her followers could list–clearly no getting fat, either, even if that didn't stop her from counting calories.
She had her measurements on all her bios.
"I-I don't–" Velvette sobbed, her entire body shaking, curling in on itself–but there were no tears she could shed, "–want n-new parts." Her legs laid folded between them on the bed, her feet the permanent arch they can never rest from. Vox could change them. He could help–if that was all it was. "I want to be a person again." The word came out choked, like she could barely get it out of her throat.
Suddenly, Vox was struck with the fear that she'd hurt herself–peel back the plastic on her arms and try to find skin. It's illogical, but his hand shot out to grab hers anyway.
He laced his claws through her fingers, and she let him, even if she didn't look up–didn't stop clutching her own nightgown and panting onto her chest.
His claws–sharp, reflective neon metal–are far more monstrous, artificial, than Velvette's delicate fingers–so close to a human's. But plastic is harder than what she used to be and the palms of her hands and soles of feet, where her skin was once lighter, were now the exact same shade of brown as the entire rest of her body. A static, flawless, perfect inhumanity. She still moisturized religiously, a hand-cream on her purse everywhere she went.
The hand that wasn't on his came up to her widened, frantic eye, her red-green-and-white nails tapping on the glass over her corneas–harder and harder.
He took her other hand without a plan. He just didn't want her to break herself.
He brought her fingers to his own screen.
Sometimes, his eyes would flinch as if they were real–but they didn't work like his mouth did. It was only glass.
She was still breathing heavily. Only one fingertip over the image of his eye, first. Then all her fingers splayed on his screen. They slid down, her nails gently scraping the glass. He didn't mind. He felt nothing. She knew.
"You are," he told her, hushed. "You are."