[The fabricated heart Mary might have had once is gone, and she doesn't know what she is anymore. Somehow, she is less real than she was before she came here. How far can one remove themselves from being a person before they no longer even pass as one? Is the ghost of a painting anything at all like a feeling, breathing girl anymore?
Mary has hardly enough existence left to hold onto Ib when she tackles her, but she does as best she can, and she hugs Ib as tight as she can with everything left of her and she cries and cries and cries.
They'll stay like this as long as they can—and eventually her ghost fades, and Mary feels something pulling her away, and she cries out Ib's name but by the time she realizes what's happening well enough to speak the sound is distant and lost.]
[this is such a serious fucking tag but she's just going into the goddamn zombie mustard vat]
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Mary has hardly enough existence left to hold onto Ib when she tackles her, but she does as best she can, and she hugs Ib as tight as she can with everything left of her and she cries and cries and cries.
They'll stay like this as long as they can—and eventually her ghost fades, and Mary feels something pulling her away, and she cries out Ib's name but by the time she realizes what's happening well enough to speak the sound is distant and lost.]
[this is such a serious fucking tag but she's just going into the goddamn zombie mustard vat]