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⠀ ⠀ ⠀ Maybe had Clonefies been any other mob she’d had known how to function outside of this shell that she’d built for herself. The illusion that she’d so carefully placed together often blurs with her reality to the point where she questions whether it truly is an illusion or if her own vessel has merged into one with the face dog features she’d crafted from corpses. The mask of a new being has grown so comforting she can no longer stand looking at the husk of herself without these fake features.
Clonefies is no dog, she hardly even acts as such. The only possible attribute she’d share with a dog is perhaps loyalty. However, even that runs on a rather thin line— she’s done nothing but harm and betrayed those close to her. With the exception of maybe Wiicoded. But, Wiicoded knew vaguely of her true nature, so did that even really count?
Clonefies is starting to believe she’d trade her life to be quite literally, any other mob than a spider. That way she wouldn’t need to feel the constant heavy weight against her back. Or the poorly hidden antenna against her head. Or the way her hair barely covers the insect arms that are just too short to hide beneath her coat. A zombie would be more preferred than this, a skeleton wouldn’t be too bad, a drowned would be somewhat fascinating.
She’d always been rather fond of dolphins, chickens aren’t quite interesting but still better than a spider, dogs are so loyal and so cared for— innocent little creatures that would never think illy of their owners, the people they care for. She remembers when she used to be that way, though maybe it was always in her blood to thirst for power given her species.
The point of the matter in all of this, is that she would give anything to be a different species than the one she’s stuck with.
Maybe she doesn’t need to, though. Maybe the answer has been hidden within her eyes this whole time. Why need to go through the effort of changing her species, of developing a way to infuse other-mob dna with her own when she can simply.. Get rid of the attributes that make her such a horrid creature?
Yes, that’s her perfect solution. She doesn’t need to force another mob name on herself if she simply gets rid of the one she’s already cursed with. It’s decided, then. If she can not simply change her mob species by will, then she’ll get rid of what remains of it. Nobody knows she’s a spider, anyhow. Nobody but Wiicoded, Mpreg, and… No, no. She can’t be thinking of her right now, she’s gone. She isn’t coming back to Exitium, maybe that’s for the better, honestly.
It's taken a lot of thinking, considering and weighing the options before truly settling with this ideal solution. The perfect solution to her troubles, her worries. Something that will surely fix and finally put an end to all of these twisted irregular feelings she's had since the start. So, with shaky hands, she unbuttons her blouse. Tries to ignore the faint thought as she thinks to herself: She advised you to be more careful with binding. She’d be disappointed.
But quickly hushes that thought, she isn’t here, she won’t know. Besides, what else is she supposed to do? The bandages make due, even if they’re rather tight against her skin. Her bindings aren't what she’s meant to be focused on right now, though, she’s supposed to be dealing with those sickly spider limbs protruding from her back.
Carefully, sat along the edges of her bed, potion of healing in one hand— shears in the other. Hands reach towards the back of her body, running along one of the appendages. She grabs onto the spider limb tightly, bringing the shears resting in her other hand. Sharp blade presses against the limb and— SNAP. A sickening slick crunch, she can feel the weight of something wet running down her back.
She tries not to focus on the agonizing ache pressed against the back of her ribs now. Focus on the task at hand, Clonefies, it isn’t finished yet. Even as she bites down on her bottom lip, willing herself to stay still so she can focus on the other protruding limbs she can’t do it. She can’t when every ache in her body is screaming to stop.
She isn’t quite willing to waste a healing pot yet, though. Neither does she want to waste a gapple on something so insignificant. She takes a deep breath and lets out a shudder, reaching back with shaky arms to move onto the next appendage. When she grabs at it, presses the blade, already prepared for the next ache of harm.
It hurts far worse than the first one had, felt like it’d cracked off even. Feeling the tear of a limb that should not have been removed because that is a part of her very being, her essence. What is she without the attributes of her mob identity? But nobody knew it then, so it shouldn’t matter now. She’ll shed her skin to become something new.
The next hours are a mess of blood and gore, the bedsheets painted red with her own blood. She couldn’t get far without a gapple after the next two limbs were ripped off, health rapidly depleting even as she tried to quickly aid the wounds. And yet she still had four more, four more horridly ugly limbs— not including the antenna she still has yet to cut from her head. And certainly not including the sharp limbs protruding from the back of her skull.
The process was far from pretty, apple cores from multiple gapples lay on the floors of the makeshift room. She’s sure Mpreg won’t be happy with the mess but she can’t find it in herself to care when all she feels is pure agony. Pure agony and yet she doesn’t feel even an ounce close to redeemed for her sinful nature. Oh how she so wishes to be pure again, to be pure to the world.
Her small, makeshift corner of gear and junk is painted in red. Had anyone walked in, it’d appear as a murder scene with her as the victim. Excess limbs littered on her bed and the floor under it. Blood still aching from the freshly made wounds ‘pon her head. She thinks this would be such a pathetic way to die, she forces down another flavorless gapple, they’re starting to taste painfully bitter and the buzz of a healing potion against her skin leaves her feeling more irritated even as wounds seal over themselves (they shouldn’t be doing that, not when her appendages are no longer there—). She forces down a shudder.
She’d done it, accomplished her goal. She feels no better than she had ten hours ago, just what exactly had she done? Mutilated herself for the pure belief that once she’d shed her spider-attributes she would no longer be cursed with the sin that radiated around her? A truly, indescribable lost cause she has made herself to be.
She’s still in so much agony, but she can’t risk using all her gapples. She would also not like to go through the few healing pots she has left. So with great effort, she wills her body up from the mattress. She fixes her bindings and lazily throws back on her blouse, the blood quickly staining through both her binds and the back of her outfit. Wincing at how the cloth of bandages rubs against her wounds.
She grabs her science coat and slips it on, at least something will help her feel more natural— more normal, even, if she could even call herself that when she’s like this. The empty feeling against her head is ever so present, she’s regretting having torn those off. Oh well. Maybe if she’s lucky, she’ll die soon and respawn and the effort will have been for nothing.
Or maybe she’ll respawn and still be missing them. Either way, she’s truly messed up.
She knows she can't stay here, wallowing in her own guilt and self pity even as the blood soaks through her attempts at binding the wounds and the clothes she'd just once more put on. The mess in the room is more prominent, more noticeable. The sickening sent of iron is also more present, she's starting to wish she did bleed out now. At least had she died, she wouldn't need to deal with this horrid aftermath she'd forced upon herself.
Having pushed herself up from the blood soaked mattress, not quite holding enough energy to even bother cleaning up the mess of gore— she just hopes Mpreg won’t log online anytime soon, when she heals enough she’ll deal with this. For now though, she focused on opening her communicator.
Hands itch to write out a specific name, the name of a player who’d long quit before she could even say goodbye. The one person she feels safe with, nearly secure with, the only person who’d know what to do in this scenario.
Instead, she types in the username Mcrninglories.
You whisper to Mcrninglories: R u there?
You whisper to Mcrninglories: Can I come ovr pls.
You whisper to Mcrninglories: I promise i womt do anythign.
You whisper to Mcrninglories: I’m kind of. Hurt. I gues.
You whisper to Mcrninglories: I don’t wantto burden Morge.
You whisper to Mcrninglories: I’m sorry if this makes me a liability.
You whisper to Mcrninglories: This’l be theonly time i promise.
She doesn’t know whether to expect a response or not, she’s starting to think this may have been for nothing. Voids, how foolish is she to reach out to someone whose life she’s tried to ruin? Someone she’s harmed, perhaps even more than herself just for some silly fairytale of finding a creator who has long since perished.
Clonefies slumps on herself, and for a second she considers leaving it alone. Because as usual, what reason would Mcrninglories have to even accept this? To allow her over, all because of what? Because she got herself hurt? Because she went too far, as always?
Mcrninglories: U know the coords.
Mcrninglories: Tell me when u get here.
Unexpected, but, thankful none the less. She fastens her elytra (she wonders if life would be more merciful had she been born a bird.) rockets in her offhand, and she finally sets on her way to spawn (at the same time she remembers the tales of birds with clipped wings stuck in cages, maybe she’s rather happy she wasn’t a bird now. Though sometimes she thinks the freedom of soaring is still a pleasant thought.)
She tries not to think about the disappointment of not seeing a familiar name log on. Tries to not to think about the tight bindings against her chest, or how increasingly hard it’s gotten to get air into her lungs— blames it on flying, surely.
Ignores the pang of guilt, she’s not supposed to be thinking about her right now. She’s not here. She isn’t coming back, she doesn’t know why she wants her to so badly.
Instead she focuses on reaching Mcrninglories.
She doesn’t know when she started trusting him.
She knows he’d be a fool to trust her, he knows that too.
She knows he’ll never extend what she has, she’s content with that.
She wouldn’t be fond of trusting herself, either.