[Trying to hold the smallest version of him is like trying to hug the air. There's resistance that gives the figure a feeling of substance, but it gives away too easily, her arms passing through. Touching it sends out a sixth projection, this one of him at Refuge, wearing the BoB bracer and a skirt, looking down at the ground in horror as something emerges from below. The first image of him is completely gone, the second nearly eaten completely away. The third still stares at a patch of static where its hands used to be. The fourth is still pointing at the counter full of objects. The one she's holding hasn't moved, hands over its ears but still mostly itself.

The roar of static is louder than ever, deafening in the small space. It repeats after awhile, a single word, over and over.]


W̵̨̨̢̮̦̣͔͈͇̭͈̥̽͋̋͗̈́̃͋̑͆̓̄͊̈́̌ ̶̰͉͚̲͖̩̯͛̓͆̑̇̓͒̏͝h̶̢̛͇͉̣̗̯̰͈̤̼̱̣͇͎͛̉̈́̽̀͊̚͝ ̵͍̅́͗̀̑͗͘ơ̵̧̧͉̘̹̙̘̙̜̫̟̟̱͙̐̄̏͗̔́́̓̒͐̽͑̐̀ ̸̭̳̟̎͒̀̄́?̵̳̤͆͊͗