“You always were a sour grape, always singing to me off-key...” the floor quips awkwardly as the Valeshard turns and presses the door call button, shutting the sliding entry of the frozen Storage Room.
He turns again, raising the fingers of his free hand and waving them about in slow motion, over joyed to hear a familiar sound.
“Ah, Flamina. Or should I say, the underdone, undersalted, generally under-everything pretzel walking around looking like Flamina? Such a shame you didn’t join the party downstairs,” he says, dropping the frozen little boy on the slick cold ground. “I heard he ate Jennifer.”
The child’s head makes a little plopping sound, then slides to one side.
Flesh Flamina rises in a spin from the shiny silver material of the floor, in a spinning billow of white fabric and skin and raging hair, not bothering to retain any color.
“Didn’t he tell you, Valeshard?” she murmurs, smiling without blinking, holding her hand out to the smaller form silent and clinging behind her leg, “... the cake is a lie.”
The Valeshard kicks the frozen boy to one side, cupping an ear as the child smashes gently against the opposite wall. Then he bends down, and holds out his hands, cooing to the little Flesh girl.
“Now Susan, clever girl, come to Grandfather! You can live if you come! Come on! I got the milk machine up and running again!”
Her dark brown eyes plop wide and wet on him as she murmurs, “No. Doctor.”
Then she runs, her hands outstretched, her mouth opening... body toddling forward like a wobbly cannon.