Lace had spent forty-eight hours on the nightstand. To Ash, he was just a piece of clothing she’d "worn out" for the moment. To Lace, it was two days of sensory deprivation, staring at the same water glass, feeling his fibers grow stiff and dusty. He could hear her living her life—the strumming of her bass, the laughter on the phone, the sound of her getting dressed in other underwear.
The "Dampening" setting was still on. He was a ghost in her room. He knew that if he didn't do something now, the "Michael" part of him would simply evaporate into the cotton.
On Wednesday morning, Ash was frantic. She was late for a final performance—the one that decided her grade for the semester.
"Where is it? Where is it?" she hissed, tearing through her dresser. She was wearing a pair of raggedy black boxers, but she looked pale, her hands shaking. "I can't do the solo without the luck. I'll choke. I know I'll choke."
She glanced at the nightstand. She saw the crumpled heap of lavender.
"Ugh, you're dirty," she muttered, grabbing him. She sniffed the fabric. "And you smell like taco sauce."
She went to throw him into the hamper, but Lace gathered every ounce of his remaining will. He overrode the dampening through sheer psychic effort, pulsing a rhythm so violent it made Ash’s hand jerk.
The Desperate Gamble
Lace didn't pulse "Yes" or "No." He pulsed a melody.
It was the bassline to the song she was performing today—a complex, syncopated riff that she always stumbled on. He pulsed it perfectly, the vibrations hitting her palm in time with the ghost of a metronome.
Ash froze. She looked down at the lavender fabric. "Lace? You... you're doing the bridge?"
Lace pulsed a single, heavy Yes.
Then, he did something he had never tried before. He used his "Durable" status to manipulate his own elasticity. He shivered, his fibers warming up, physically shedding the dust and smoothing out his own wrinkles until he looked pristine, despite the stain. He made himself feel "ready."
"You want to go?" Ash whispered. "Even though I haven't washed you? Even though I've been a bitch?"
Lace pulsed a rhythmic Yes. Yes. Yes.
The Performance
At the music hall, Ash was backstage, her heart hammering. She was wearing Lace under her stage pants. He could feel her anxiety—it was a cold, sharp vibration that made her muscles twitch.
I've got you, Lace thought, pushing his consciousness into his trim.
As she walked onto the stage, Lace didn't just sit there. He became a metronome. Every time she started to rush the tempo, he pulsed a steady, calming beat against her hip. When she reached the difficult bridge, he tightened his grip, a physical "hug" that reminded her of the fingering for the notes.
She aced it. The solo was flawless. The luck wasn't magic—it was Lace, acting as a living, breathing component of her own body, guiding her movements through textile feedback.
The Aftermath
Back in the green room, Ash was glowing. She was sweaty, exhausted, and triumphant. She reached into her waistband and felt the warm, vibrating lavender cotton.
"We did it," she whispered.
For a second, the "object" mask slipped. She saw him. She felt the person inside the garment. She pulled her phone out and looked at the Vibration Dampening setting.
Her thumb hovered over the "Disable" button. If she turned it off, she’d have to hear him again. She’d have to deal with Michael’s feelings, his needs, and his humanity. If she kept it on, she kept her perfect, silent tool.
She looked at the lavender panties, feeling the rhythmic, hopeful pulse of the "bridge" still echoing in his fibers.
"You're a good pair of panties, Lace," she said.
She didn't disable the dampening. Instead, she turned it up to 90%.
"I think I like you better when you're just... music," she murmured. She leaned down and kissed the fabric, but it wasn't a kiss for a friend. It was a kiss for a lucky charm. "Let's go home and get you in the wash. You've earned a premium cycle."
Lace felt the "Michael" inside him shatter. He had saved her, and in return, she had perfected his prison. He stopped pulsing the melody. He stopped pulsing at all. He just waited for the water.
