"Monster. Bully. Cretin. Tyrant. Stop it. Do not. I am [i]fine[/i], give me the mmgblgh!" she slops water down her chest, but swallows obediently, "Please, I... I can still... where are you going? This is not what I meant!"

Madeleine's body is heavy. It's heavy in the way that inert cybernetics are heavy, or dead bodies are heavy, like her arms and legs and chest and even her hair and tail are being grabbed and pulled by spectral limbs whenever Machia isn't there to sweep them away. She strains, but it is like commanding a puppet without strings. She does not shift: she flails. She [i]convulses.[/i] It is like a slow, torturous seizure. One that happens while she watches from outside her body.

But then she feels the warmth of those hands upon her flesh. She is posed and it forces her inside herself again, and after every sip of water which she does not control the pace of the bottle is taken away from her again. She is not even trusted to hold it. Weak. Weak. Pathetic. You are [i]weak[/i], Madeleine Cross. You are incapable of taking hold of your dreams, no matter how small. It was pointless to ever believe that any help would be enough. 

There is not enough water in her body to manage tears. She hiccups violently, instead. Every one of them squeezes an undignified squeak out of her typically low and cool voice as they heave her shoulders up with enough force to jerk her arms out of her lap. She gathers a breath and holds it in her mouth, willing it to stop. HIC! She twitches hard enough that it almost tips her over. She grits her teeth and pulls herself into the position Machia left her in again, the way a proper doll should. 

If she could just HIC! stop HIC! this HIC! stupid HIC! spasm!

...HIC!

She smacks her head against the table in frustration. The smell of sweating onions wafts across the room, and her stomach starts to howl at her and then... and then nothing. Now that she has to acknowledge how hungry she is, the fight leaves her completely again. Her body is heavier than ever, though no longer with the creeping sensation of the ghosts that have tried to twist it to their purposes since she was young. 

She is hollow. She is heavy. She is here. She is with someone. The lights are on and the floor is a mess and she can smell a [i]mirepoix[/i] building in the kitchen. There is a presence about everything, and more importantly an irritation that is forcing her to be present. The rhythm of Titanomachia's knife cuts is different from Madeleine's, and it's very stupid to fixate on this because she realizes she has no idea which one is more correct. But why shouldn't that perfectly honed body be capable of finer dicing than her self taught nonsense? Ah, it makes her want to scream. 

But she merely sits where she is placed. Where she is posed. She drinks her water when it is given to her and she swallows with all the poise of the woman who figured out on the first attempt how to drink through a bit in her mouth. She waits for food to cook, and to be fed.

"Machiaaaaaaa~" she whines, "When is it going to be ready?"

She hiccups again. Once, and louder than any previous time. As her chest bounces she feels the corners of her eyes start to sting and grow hot. Her neck slumps down and she begins to flex her fingers: curl, then uncurl. Curl, then uncurl. Flex, then relax. Flex, then curl. Relax. Now the wrists. Prove you are not weak. Prove that you are capable of at least this much.

She sniffles.

"Please... do not give up on me. I can... still... get stronger."