It's madness. And yet, at the same time--

Is it normal to find out, in such quick succession, that everything you've done your whole life is wrong?

She's danced before--felt the pounding of the drums in survival, in the pulse of blood, every muscle singing with the desire to live, to protect, to shield, to see tomorrow, to make sure that those with her do too, in the thrill of get and don't get got.

And she's danced, again, on the strings of the madgod's puppetry, able to do nothing but watch from the inside--

No, no, that's the wrong way to think. To watch from the [i]outside[/i], afterwards, sore and bloodied, and wonder at how everything had made sense before she woke up. To watch someone else pilot her, even while exerting the barest pressure on the threads.

Now she's dancing, and--

It's like waking from a full night's sleep after living purely on caffeine and all-nighters.

So when the music stops, it's all she can do to stop in her movement--every muscle sings that there's more, there has to be more, this is everything, this is all, and--

Not terrible? Not terrible feels like the highest praise, like every part of her is lit with fire, and not a small part of her is wondering how it would feel to get a "good girl" from that voice. It'd have to be orgasmic, right? Worth the--

Wait. Um. Referral?

"I. Um. I got a text on Tianic's phone, and, um--"

She's fighting hard to keep a straight face, but the practiced Not-A-Princess can easily see the panic welling up behind the eyes.