Feed Your Head

April 25, 2017:

Azalea may be in a box. Jessica may be out of the country. But these obstacles won't stop one Trish Walker from getting the answers she seeks. Trish finds herself forced into a desperate gambit, even as she learns the problem of IGH is about something much bigger than her sister's past.

A pretty suburb not far from NYC proper.


NPCs: Dr. Miriam Kelt and a sniper, emitted by Kingpin.

Mentions: Jessica Jones, Daredevil, Azalea Kingston, Captain America

Mood Music: White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane

Fade In…

Whatever else can be said about Dr. Miriam Kelt, she doesn't bother to hide her address. She lives in a nice (and therefore expensive) suburban neighborhood. It's very mundane. A Mom wearing yoga pants and a pink tank top walks her dog in one hand and balances a four-year old on a bike with the other, even as a school-aged daughter trips behind her. Down the street an old man putters up to get his mail. A middle-aged woman mows her lawn. Someone either missed garbage day or jumped the gun on it; one house has a bunch of garbage piled out front. There's that one house with a boat owner, blocking the sidewalk for everyone else.

It's a sunny day, if cool. Miriam's car, a black Lexus, is in the driveway. Her house is surrounded with gorgeous landscaping tended to by a loving hand. It's possible to see a sort of conservatory room off the back, a big glass enclosed porch which has a bunch of amazing tropical plants in it. It doesn't look like a place where someone evil would live.


Trish pulls up in front of Dr. Kelt’s house, double checking the address before she puts the car in park. She takes a moment to gather up the copies she had made of the files she wanted to ask the good Doctor about, flipping through them once more, just to be sure she had everything. She gets out of the car with everything, smoothing down her dark grey pencil skirt, with matching jacket, over a rich green blouse. Her hair is swept to the side in a trendy fishtail braid, and her make up is light, yet professional. She wanted her first impression to be a good one, so she had taken extra care with her appearance. She fixed a million dollar smile on her face, and clipped up the walk in her Manolo Blahniks to ring the bell.

While she waits for Dr. Kelt to answer the door, she wonders about the woman who had done so many experiments on her sister. Who could willingly keep an innocent young girl in a coma until it wasn’t cost effective to do so. What kind of person could alter someone so drastically without telling them? She supposed she was about to find out.

Which led to another set of questions. What exactly was she going to say about why she was there? ‘Hey, I’m just curious about why you spent millions of dollars experimenting on my sister?’ Probably just get the door slammed in her face. ‘What exactly was it you hoped to accomplish by keeping Jess in a coma and biopsying all her organs? Repeatedly.’ Same results. It would either be the concerned sister or IGH investigation avenue, depending on the Doctor, of course.


The woman who answers the door is about the age of Trish's mother. She has a cigarette in hand, and short white-yellow hair…the yellow might be from the smoking. She's still pretty in her way, with apple cheeks, bright blue eyes, and high cheekbones. She was probably stunning years ago, though she now carries the weight of a woman who has borne children too, the kind of weight that middle aged women don't always shake with any degree of ease.

Her eyebrows lift. Trish is recognized.

"Patricia Walker," she says slowly. "To what do I owe the honor of this visit?"

A bumblebee alights on the flower next to Trish's elbow, then zooms off, oblivious to the radio host's concerns. Birds sing in the background. Overhead, windchimes drift lazily in the wind, almost zen-like.


Trish manages to not wince at her full name or the cigarette smoke, mostly by kicking up the wattage on her smile a little more. She dearly hopes that being recognized is more of a help than a hindrance. She holds out her hand for a shake of introduction, even though the woman already knows who she is.

“Doctor Miriam Kelt, I presume? Please, forgive me, I’ve had a lot of coffee today. Yes, I’m Patricia, but please, call me Trish. I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time. I have a few questions I’d like to ask you if you’re free. If not, could I come back at time more convenient for you?”

Oh good lord, Trish, could you ramble more? It’s a wonder you are paid to talk to people, given how ridiculous you sound!

Despite the inner monologue of nerves, she manages to project cool and confident, like it was no big thing to show up out of the blue on a stranger’s door to ask them questions. It’s probably that ability to project ‘I know what I’m doing’ when she has absolutely no idea that’s kept her on the air for as long as she has been.


Miriam takes the hand. Her own hands are soft, worked with lotion. She eyes Trish and finally just lets her into the house.

The place is gorgeous inside, designed by a professional hand. A Nest thermostat adjusts for the new person in the house after a motion detector gently notes the presence of the newcomer, so that the house gets neither too cold nor too hot with the addition of another human. She's led into a kitchen that could easily grace an HGTV magazine cover, with all the modern fixtures and accouterments. "Coffee?" she asks, already heading to a Keurig station. Her entire demeanor is fairly neutral, though welcoming enough.

And then she drops this comment.

"I haven't seen you since you were yay high, you know. You've grown into a beautiful woman."

Yay high is indicated with a little hand to her knee.


Trish ‘s eyes wander around the space, impressed by what she was seeing, as she followed the Doctor. She could tell a professional hand when she saw one, and she briefly considered asking who Dr. Kelt had used to decorate. The other woman’s demeanor is giving Trish hope that she might be amenable to questions, provided they were the right ones. The wrong ones would end this visit as fast as it started, she suspected.

“Sure! One more cup won’t do any hurt anything.”

And then the Doctor drops a casual ‘I haven’t seen you’ that has Trish reeling. Why didn’t she remember this? And why didn’t Dorothy tell her? Scratch that, what had Dorothy let them do to her? She clamps on the rising panic, reminding herself she is there for Jessica. Thankfully, she was able to keep her outward calm, smile slipping only a little, which could be taken as slight confusion due to not remembering.

“Why thank you for the compliment. I am truly sorry, Dr. Kelt, but I don’t remember. Hopefully it was just for regularly scheduled maintenance and nothing serious, though I’m sure I’d remember if it was. You have a gorgeous home, by the way. Very classy and tasteful, without being stuffy or feeling unwelcoming.”


Miriam sets up the Keurig and lets coffee flow into it, choosing a fine cafe blend that seems to be the only one she has.

She frowns faintly. "It wasn't for a medical visit, dear. Your mother and I were schoolmates. It was just a casual visit. We never had much time between her career and mine, but we've stayed in touch off and on over the years. But if you didn't know that…"

She puts out her cigarette in a bright, pretty blue ashtray and frowns, sitting down across from Trish at last while the coffee pours. She has her own cup, half full, probably cooling. She drinks some. Blue eyes narrow.

"If you didn't know that, why are you here? I thought you were looking in on an old friend of your mother's. Though she has mentioned in our rare chats that your relationship with her is a little contentious."

Still, she's on edge now, guarded, walls slinking up; she lets the comment about her gorgeous home pass. Indeed, she looks at Trish as if she thinks Trish might just be insinuating something, when she says it.


Trish manages to look slightly sad, mixed a little with lonely, and completely guileless. A testament to her acting abilities, to say the very least, since she’s actually seething inside. How dare this woman judge her based on whatever lies her mother was telling. She keeps her voice a little sad as well, playing up the mournful regret air she was going for. Time to spin a tale about why she was there.

“I apologize for not remembering you, Dr. Kelt. It’s true that things haven’t always been the best, between mom and I, but we were going to work on that. Really try and have a real relationship. Unfortunately, one of Gotham’s worst criminals recently got his hands on mom and used us to send a message to someone in his home town on my show. The trauma hasn’t done our relationship any favors. I’m afraid it might have wrecked any chance I have to make up for being a head strong handful growing up. Not that it’s fair to dump this on you, after just showing up like this.”

She glances up at the older woman, and drops her eyes back to the table, hoping she was as convincing as she felt. She felt just gross, playing sad about Dorothy like this, and desperately hoped it would pay off.

“I came to ask you a few questions about IGH, the company you used to work for, but if you’d rather I leave….I don’t mean to impose.”


Miriam stands to pour the coffee. It's a white cup with little blue flowers on it, with green stems. She adds a few canned creamers, a few sugar packets, a spoon, a saucer. She nods sympathetically as Trish talks about the attack. She seems to relax, listening sympathetically.

And then Trish drops those initials.

Miriam finds another pack of cigarettes. She tap tap taps them against her hand and pulls one out. She lights it slowly. "I didn't work for IGH. I worked for Metro General," she says slowly.

Strangely, she doesn't ask Trish to leave, though she does glance at the door. "I did a little consulting for IGH. On the side. But I have some very firm NDA agreements in place with that company."

Still, there's something shadowed in her eyes, uneasy. There is an opening there to get her to talk, if Trish can only find it and press on it, figure out what it is that has kept her from throwing her out and exploit it a little more.


Trish inconspicuously pushed her purse a little further under her chair, feeling like pulling out Jess’s files would not be a good idea right then, if at all. NDAs can be worked around, in her experience, and she is hoping that she’ll find the right angle to work. Trish accepts her coffee with a murmur of thanks and admires the pattern while she adds a little cream and sugar before taking a sip.

“Oh, beg pardon, Dr. Kelt, I didn’t realize you only consulted. The information I was given wasn’t exactly clear on that particular point.” Time to rely on her charm, more than anything, which was worrisome given the relationship with her mother.

Her mother.

Perhaps that was the angle to work. Only one way to find out.

“If you don’t mind, can we talk a little more about Mom first? I’d like to know more about her, maybe find some common ground to rebuild a relationship with.”


Miriam takes another drag off the cigarette. "She's the type of person you have fun with. She can be a lot of fun, but you just have to remember it's all surface. You have to remember that mostly she does what benefits her, as I'm sure you already know. She can make you laugh for hours, we've had some good times, she says great zingers. And…well."

She sighs. This was apparently the right direction to take the conversation. She tap taps the ashes against the ashtray and frowns fiercely. "I was the one who tipped her off about your foster sister. Convinced her to take her on, worked the angle about your little nightclub incident."

Another slow drag. "A lot went into my decision to do what they wanted. I was dead broke. Not the life I'd envisioned when I became a doctor. The loans were killing me. They offered a lot of money. But it wasn't all the money. Her healing factor was incredible. They said they wanted to study it, see if they could figure out how to create lifesaving medicine from it. It didn't seem like such a bad thing. A bit of tissue here, a bit of blood there. She'd replenish little things like that in minutes, she felt no pain, and all she had waiting for her when she woke up was emotional pain and probably foster care. I dropped them in a little room, they collected them and shipped them off somewhere, and I got paid. An amicable arrangement for everyone. I realized the drugs that kept her under would fail eventually, but I'd hoped she'd turn eighteen and would be able to get up and get on with her life, with her medical bills at least paid and the legal ability to care for herself."

She drains her coffee. "But then one of the IGH guys mentions they have buyers. For her. I don't know who the hell they are…I have my guesses. Governments wanting another Captain America, maybe, or worse, darker things. We'd guessed at the strength in addition to the endurance and healing factor by then, though we weren't sure. I'm sure the right entities could have done any number of things with and to a young, impressionable teenager with powers. I couldn't stomach it. So I made sure a big public adoption happened to make it really expensive for them to pursue that angle, and it worked. She's fine now."

Kelt gives a wry smile. "They forced me out of medicine in response; in return I threatened to go public, and we worked out another amicable arrangement. It was fine for years, though as far as I can tell nobody ever benefited from any new medicines. But the new owner…he's changed the deal."


Trish did her best happy dance on the inside. It was always so rewarding to find that right string to pull on to get the other person talking. That one little tug had given far better results than she had expected, which was absolutely wonderful. She sips on coffee, nodding and making encouraging noises where appropriate. She almost drops her cup at the mention of someone buying Jessica, like some doll on a shelf, but catches it before it can do more than dip slightly.

“That hardly seems right, regardless of whatever arrangements were made. You did the right thing, saving an innocent young woman from further exploitation.” A small frown furrows her brow. “Who’s changed the deal? And why? It’s been working for this long so why bother?”

Aside from the frown, her expression has remained sympathetic, open, and interested, all to keep Miriam talking. She’s aching to open a window, or wave a hand in front of her face, but she resists as she’s scared it will break the spell that has the Doctor speaking so freely.


Miriam looks uneasily at the door of her house.

She exhales and tamps out her cigarette a bit more, oblivious to how Trish is reacting to it. They are Marlboro Reds, a fairly hearty cigarette with an unflavored filter.

"They got bought. They weren't working at all. Whoever ran it was great with science, shit with money. I mean think about what it took to keep those medical bills paid so the hospital didn't throw Jones out while they did what they did?"

"The focus has shifted. I'm being forced to consult on some drugs they're making. Not just from Jones' old bloodwork, which is old news by now. They're getting new samples now, all sorts of— "

And that's when this conversation ends.

The alarm system goes off with a sudden shriek as the kitchen window shatters. A sniper round goes straight through Miriam Kelt's head, killing her instantly without any warning or sign. No laser sights, no nothing…

And abruptly, Trish Walker finds herself in another dangerous situation, because whoever just took that shot probably won't want to let her walk out with the information.

This time, Jessica Jones is in Germany.

This time, the Devil of Hell's Kitchen is probably not going to appear.

She has no panic buttons, nobody she can call who can get here fast enough.

This time, if she's going to live long enough to get to safety, she's going to have to use her own wits, will, and resources.


Trish had been listening so intently, that it took a second for her to process what just happened, dropping to the floor when it clicked. Her good old standby of “SHIT SHIT SHIT!” is going on repeat, as she grabs for her purse and considers her options. After checking thoroughly for any gunshot wounds, which of course there were none. She pulled out her phone, only to find a text from Jessica.

I understand why people have therapists now. Would you please find and hire me one that doesn't suck?

“Jesus fucking Christ, are you fucking kidding me right now? You need help? I fucking need help and you’re not fucking here Jess!” Trish practically shrieks at her phone as she frantically types in her reply.

Getting shot at Jones. Will look into it if I make it out, will need one too! I went to see your Dr. Kelt. If you don’t hear from me in an hour, 911 for reals!!! Love you JIC

Not for the first time this year, she wished for a gun of her own, not that she knew what to shoot at in this particular case. Her eyes scan the space again, looking for exits, gaging slightly at the sight of the Doctor’s blood and brains before she gets control of it. It’s just a movie, this is just a movie, and you’ve agreed to do your own stunts. Now, how the fuck do I get out of here alive?

She began to inch her way out of the kitchen, hoping to find an office or something for some quick pilfering, before seriously trying to get out of there alive. A smart person would have wiped out their phone and called 911, demanding SWAT, the national guard, and maybe even the army come and rescue them. Trish wasn’t exactly smart all the time, as evidenced by the decision to put off that very call.


That text was sent quite a bit ago. Trish goes to send one now and gets a response from her phone.

'Text failed to send. Try again?'

Something is jamming the signal.

Backing out of the kitchen and staying low seem to be a decent strategy for now. She doesn't get shot at. There's eerie silence. Someone surely called 911, right? Or are they all jammed too?

Kitchen leads into dining room, but she can see an office. The office does have big windows, but they are shuttered. It might be enough to keep the sniper from seeing her and shooting her, though it means Trish can't look outside and see what's coming either.

Office and dining lead into living room through big arched doorways; a hall from the living room takes one into bed and bathrooms.

The office has a big heavy oak desk, a file cabinet, and a small lab table with a series of notes on it. The notes are all biochemical in nature and impossible for Trish to make heads or tails out of. There are a couple of random pills spread about the table though, in little petri dishes. One is bright purple, one is yellow. A red, white, and blue pill combo are grouped together. There is a light blue pill, a purple pill, a pink pill, an orange pill, and a yellow pill.


Trish lets out a blast of swearing at her phone that would make even Jessica’s eyebrows rise. Of course they were jamming the signal! Of course her phone is absolutely useless as a communication device! Why on Earth would it be that easy? She crawls into the office, carefully lifting up her head to scan the contents of the lab table. She stuffed papers randomly into her bad, thinking it might be handy to have, and no big deal if it wasn’t.

Knowing it was probably useless, she hit the resend option and even dialed 911 for good measure. Part of her wanted to just hide under the desk and close her eyes until it all went away. Which was ridiculous since whomever was shooting obviously knew she was in there. Part of her wanted to just run out the front door in a hail Mary for the car, knowing full well that wouldn’t end well either. Options rapidly narrowing, she rummaged through the office once more, as carefully as possible, hoping for a weapon of some kind. Coming up empty, she ended up back in front of the lab table, staring at the pills.

Don’t do it, Trish. Who knows what kind of crazy dope she was working on? It could kill you, stupid. What are you going to do if you take one and sprout polka dotted feathers everywhere? There’s a good look, for sure!

She can hear Jess’s voice in her mind. ‘Goddammit Trish! What the actual fuck? Haven’t you taken enough shit to last a lifetime?’

She scoops up the pills and drops most of them in her purse, with the rest of the pilfered booty. The blue, purple, and yellow pills are still in her hand. She looks at them and the debate rages on, while the silence continues, each little bump or chirp making her jump. She pulls out her phone for one last time, typing in a saved memo, hoping that it would be found with her body, should the absolute worst happen. The saved text was a goodbye to Jess, explaining what had happened to her, and how sorry she was. She didn’t dwell on it though, since it was going to make her cry.

“Alright, asshole, let’s hope my luck is holding. Miss you and if I live through this, I promise I’ll let you kick my ass.” Without any further dithering or stalling, Trish popped the pills in her mouth and dry swallowed, praying to anything and everything that was listening.


For a few moments…nothing.

Then there's a burning in her stomach and a pain in her head.

Then she feels something at her neck. It starts itching terribly.

She feels something inside her throat, burning with syrupy sweet pleasantness.

The pain explodes into light behind her eyes, some sort of force. This seems to be popping things in her brain, like grapes. The pain increases. And then she'll feel something pouring out of her as paperweights, notes, her phone, raise into the air. She'll find she can slam them back again, or move them, with a thought; the human brain being what it is she might well have the thought unconsciously in a way that tips her off.

The itching continues and then…gills. Break out on her neck. She can still breathe normally, but it seems like if she needed to fling herself into a river for this encounter she could probably breathe under the water. Hope that's not permanent, or that might make photo shoots hard…

What's going on inside her throat is hard to tell. She can smell her own sweat. It smells different.

And that's all the time she has to think about that, because she hears a step in the hallway. She hadn't even heard the gunman come in, but he's here with her now, in the house.

Good news, bad news, she has at least one totally useless superpower, one potentially useful superpower, and one ???? superpower. For however long these last.


Trish gives in to her baser instincts and cowers behind the desk when she hears the approaching person, while she tries to figure out what was happening to her. The gills weren’t exactly polka dot feathers, but close enough. The pain in her head is making her a little nauseous. Mind you, that could be the murder she just witnessed, and may or may not have splattered on her clothes. But she’s not looking right now, now she’s not, because right now she has gills, a weird smelling sweat, and the ability to move things with her mind. Which is pretty fucking sweet, except for the weird smell and gill things of course.

“Don’t kill me, don’t kill me, don’t kill me” has replaced “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!”, if a lot quieter than the latter litany. What kind of doctor doesn’t even have a scalpel or something, she asked herself, as she pulled herself further into what little bit of shadow there was.

Cursing her outfit choice for the first time, she grabs the back of her skirt on either side of the little slit for walking and ripped it almost all the way to the zipper. It wouldn’t do much for keeping her knickers covered, but it would allow her move a lot easier. Taking off her shoes is immediately dismissed. They were expensive, and even if they got destroyed, there were not getting left behind.


Her litany is repeated, over and over again.

The gunman enters the room. He is a large man wearing a leather bomber jacket, a black turtleneck, black jeans, black stomper boots, military haircut. He looks like he's ex-military.

He gets within earshot. Trish smells the slightest change in her sweat, hyper-aware as she is right now. It smells sweet, like a very nice perfume. There's a subtle timbre to her own voice that she can't even identify.

His eyes go a bit blank. He lowers the gun, which he'd been aiming towards her when he entered the room. Just stands there, gun pointing down at the ground.

"I will not kill you," he agrees, a bit woodenly.

It seems that the terribly sensible destruction of her own wardrobe was not necessary after all.


Trish just crouched there, behind the desk, staring that the gunman, finally struck dumb by the whole situation. The blank look on his face and wooden tone has chills running up her back. She’s never seen it for herself, but she’s heard it described in perfect detail. Every hair on her body tried to stand on end, which is a very uncomfortable feeling all things considered.

Trish, being Trish, has to experiment with this new hypothesis. She stands up, bravely ignoring the draft sneaking up her backside, and points to the man’s gun.

“Drop it!”

Okay, not the best command, but at least it wasn’t ‘sit’. There is a really bad moment, where she considers taking this gift and running with it for as long as it lasted. But it’s only a moment, since she knows it would guarantee the end of their relaitionship.


Instantly, the big bad man drops the gun. He doesn't lower it to the floor all professionally. He drops it.

It fires, but off towards the wall. It shatters a photograph, sending glass scattering all over the little table with its pills and supplies, and whatever notes Trish hadn't grabbed. But the gun just sits there after that.

This man, this hardened assassin who was coming in here to put a bullet through Trish Walker's heart, stares at her with growing horror. Green eyes widen in fear. "What… what are you doing? How are you doing this?" he demands, sweat trickling down his brow, down his cheeks. His eyes flick to the gills, and he groans. "Oh god, nobody told me you were a freak."


Trish shrieked when the gun went off, flinching and ducking her head down behind her arm. Like that’s going to stop a bullet, good job Walker. When she realizes she wasn’t shot, she put her arms down, with a stern throat clearing. Her eyes narrow in concentration as she looks at the gun, imagining it lift up towards her.

She almost clapped her hands at the success, but figured her bum hanging out had done enough damage to her dignity. The gun went in the purse with everything else and she fixed a cold stare on the hired thug.

“That’s right, I’m a freak, and I’m going to have some fun with you now. TELL THE TRUTH! Who hired you? Why are you here? Is that gun registered?”

Because it it’s not, she’s coming home with me. But that remains unsaid. She stands there, hands on hips, foot tapping impatiently, like she hadn’t been a quivering mass of terror a mere three minutes earlier.


"Dr. Adrian Parker," the thug says instantly. "On behalf of our employer, whose name I do not know. He is the lead researcher at IGH. Dr. Kelt has been balking for weeks; he thought she might spill eventually. I've had her bugged."

He's all but babbling in his haste to get the words out. Each one tumbles and trips over the other one, but it's understandable.

"The gun is not registered."

He looks longingly at the gun. He has interpreted dropping it as him not being able to pick it back up, but he's fighting to regain control.

Trish, meanwhile, will start to notice the pleasant sensation inside her throat fading a little. There's an itch at her…gills; she can feel them slowly starting to seal back up, to shrink.

The only thing that is truly remaining is that sensation of something popping inside of her head, as if things have been blown open. Something's not stopping there. These pills— the ones she's taken— are clearly not perfected yet, clearly not very stable, and at the moment, not very long-lasting. At least the variety on Kelt's desk.

She'll also find she's not feeling so good. Her temperature is rising, like a fever is coming on. Her stomach sloshes and roils, like it would very much like her to throw up. Maybe that's taking them in combination. Maybe that's a result of taking any at all.

Either way, she only has so much more time.


Trish rubs at her throat as she feels whatever it is start to wear off, along with the gills. She also notes the look, and pulls the gun back out of her purse. Which was tricky, because she had her phone in her other hand. She almost dropped both in the process. The telekinesis decided to ‘help’ at that moment, and flung her phone so hard into the wall it exploded into little bits, making her jump again. Her left eyeball felt like it was going to burst out of her skull, signalling it was way past time to go.

“Good, it’s mine now, so give it up. You’re going to unjam the phones and call the cops to tell them what you’ve done here. Afterwards, you’re going to sit in the chair and wait for them to come arrest you. You’re going to forget I was here after you sit in the chair and you will not tell the cops about me. I hope you rot in jail, you piece of shit.”

On that very professional, eloquent note, Trish darted towards the door, praying hard he was the only one on the house. There was so much left that she wanted to take with her, but precious seconds were all she had, and survival was more important than stealing more papers from the dead doctor. Her phone being destroyed was beyond inconvenient. It had her entire life in it, from contacts to photos. The only good thing about it was her habit of immediately backing everything up with her Google Drive.

“Dr. Adrian Parker, come on down, you’ve just made the list.”

Hysterical giggles start to bubble out, as Trish continues to sprint as much as possible in three inch heels that were never made for running. She considers the good fortune of her phone dying, since she’d be using it to call Jess as soon as she had service, and her sister had enough to deal with at the moment. An email would be sent, inquiring about the therapist though, and informing Jess of the need to replace her phone, if not exactly why.

She pauses in front of the door, hesitating before opening it up. She closes her eyes and flings open the door, thinking ‘If now’s the time, at least I got to have super powers for a minute before I go’. Maybe Dot was right, maybe she was a touch melodramatic.

Anyways…after deciding she wasn’t going to get sniped, her eyes pop open and she tries to walk as calmly as possible to her car, key fob at the ready. When she got home, she was going to have to start a diary again, so she could use it to pitch a show to the Networks.

Dear Diary, today I ate fancy skittles from the Dr and got gills, and moved stuff with my mind, and made people do whatever I said. It was the bestest, weirdest, most painful thing ever. I don’t recommend…

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