Fish Oil
Hoax’s treatment was, as always, invasive. It was a kind of dialysis, where her blood was cycled through a machine for hours to rid it of toxins her natural form couldn’t keep up with, for hours on end. It was lucky enough it could be done in her midform to similar effect as her natural state, otherwise it would have been impossible. Not just to rid her of the toxins, but to also perform the other therapies necessary to flush out her organs of their build up.
She often vomited, at least once. Several doctors accused her of doing it on purpose, so she made sure she got it on their shoes when it happened.
But this one, Hoax liked. Doctor Fuhrman, the one in the helmet with the brisk mannerisms who seemed unbothered by Hoax’s brand of “humor” (as the charitable called it). So when she stopped by to check on progress near the end of the dialysis, Hoax merely scowled at her.
“Am I dead now?” she asked, accusatory. “Are you here to finish me off?”
