An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
There’s something coming off of her. A tangle of thin, glassy strands, trailing from the surface of the UFO, off towards...is that a hand coming out of the wall!? Just there, on the wall of this cognitive gymnasium, blending into the gold and white furnishing. The unmistakable shape of a human hand emerging out of the otherwise flat wall, those pale strings anchored in its fingertips. “And now that Miss Sakura is out of the way,” Haru says, her voice riddled with delighted laughter, “my other self arrives just in time. She may be a diva, but Salome never falls short of her cue.” The Black Masks complete their final kill.
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