The shift in Ash was complete. The successful performance hadn’t reminded her that Lace was a person; it had convinced her that he was a high-performance machine. And like any machine, she felt she could push its buttons just to see what happened.
The "luck" he provided had become a drug to her, but the "Michael" that came with it was now nothing more than a source of amusement—a voice in a box that she liked to rattle.
Ash no longer spoke to Lace; she spoke at him, usually for the benefit of whoever was around. The intimacy of their shared music was gone, replaced by a cruel, casual exhibitionism.
On Friday morning, she stood in front of her full-length mirror, holding a pair of basic, cheap cotton boxers in one hand and Lace in the other.
"Hey, Lace," she said, her voice dripping with mock-sincerity. "I was thinking about wearing these today. They’re breathable, they don't talk back, and they don't have taco stains on their soul. What do you think? Pulse twice if you think you’re obsolete."
Lace, pinned at 90% Dampening, could barely make his protest felt. He managed a faint, desperate pulse. No.
"Aw, look at that," Ash laughed, turning to her roommate, who was leaning in the doorway. "He’s jealous of a three-pack of Hanes. Isn't that the cutest thing you’ve ever seen? A pair of panties with an inferiority complex."
The Daily Humiliation
The mockery became a routine. Ash began to narrate her most mundane, "un-lucky" biological functions directly to him, just to feel him shudder in discomfort.
- The "Cold Storage" Test: She would occasionally leave him in the freezer for ten minutes before putting him on, laughing at the frantic, shivering pulses he sent out as his fibers went rigid.
- The Fashion Critique: She would hold him up to her outfits and tell him he "clashed with her vibe" or that he made her look "too desperate," waiting for the hurt vibrations to hit her fingertips.
- The "Michael" Eulogy: She started talking about Michael Lacey in the past tense while wearing him. "You know, Michael was actually a decent bassist," she told her drummer over coffee. "Shame he lacked the... structural integrity to make it in the industry. At least he’s finally supporting a real artist now."
Lace felt every word. The dampening prevented him from bothering her, but it didn't stop him from feeling. He was a trapped observer in a lavender-scented cage.
The Mirror Talk
One evening, after a particularly long day of being sat on in a hot van, Ash stripped down and tossed him onto the bathroom counter. She began her skincare routine, staring at herself in the mirror.
"You know, Lace," she said, poking at the tiny bow on his front with a wet finger. "I saw a guy today who looked just like you used to. Skinny, awkward, carrying a guitar case like it was a shield. He even asked me for directions."
Lace pulsed a hopeful, rhythmic pattern. He wanted to know if she felt a spark of memory.
"I almost told him I had a pair just like him at home," she smirked, "but then I realized—you’re much better looking this way. You’ve got those cute music notes now. He just had acne and a bad haircut."
She picked him up and began to stretch the fabric, testing the limits of his "Durable" elasticity.
"Do you even remember being him? Or is it all just... thread and elastic now?"
Lace gathered his strength for one final, clear answer. He bypassed the dampening with a surge of raw, psychic pain. He pulsed a sequence: M-I-C-H-A-E-L.
Ash paused. She looked at the TFRM app on her phone. The pulse-to-text translator flickered, struggling to interpret the frantic vibrations.
[TRANSLATION: M... I... C...]
"Oh, stop it," Ash snapped, her face hardening. "Don't get all sentimental on me. Michael is a missing person. You're a pair of panties. If you keep glitching out like that, I’m going to have the Professor 'reformat' you. I hear the maxi-pad has some tips on how to erase the 'noise' for good."
She dropped him into the sink and turned on the cold water, drowning out any further attempts at communication.
