I sat in Sherrel's head as she headed toward her "babies". I honestly thought they were actual children, what with all the unprotected sex she's had, but I should have figured they weren't literal babies when I found out about her power.

  So, I was a little surprised to smell the distinct scent of motor oil and exhaust as she opened the door to her garage. And boy, were her babies ugly.

  Like many people who have been shown images from a coworker or an extended retive of their child, you always have to do that fake smile and nod along as they gush over their abomination to mother nature.

  Sherrel gushed just like those parents about her "babies" within her mind and even cooed to them using her actual voice.

  Her babies looked like different motor vehicles that have been left out in the elements after a nuclear apocalypse only to be found by some australian rejects and barely repaired while adding more shit onto it to ensure that just breathing in the same air as it would likely give you tetanus.

  There was more scrap turned into armor than actual pre-fab panels. I saw an armor troop carrier who's gcis, it's frontal sloped armor for those who didn't speak tank, was made from three van doors welded on top of each other. The paint from the inner yers wasn't even removed before they were tacked together!

  I had to admit though, it had a charm to it, like comparing a lego set assembled per its instruction book vs somebody using those same parts to make their own thing entirely. Sometimes it looks decent, like in the case of one of her babies that used a semi's tires for the rear wheel and a standard tire size for the steering one, giving the car a Hot Wheels aesthetic. On the other ha-tentacle, you get the abomination of a creation like the aforementioned armored troop transport that had caterpilr tracks on one side while on the opposite was tires.

  Before she got to work on tuning up her monstrosities Sherrel headed for her personal stash of narcotics. As soon as her hand touched the drawer I enacted my Pavlovian punishment. I constricted her throat more and more as she tried to open it, but as soon as she let go, I let off. Sherrel panted trying to get her breathing back, her hands on her knees as she gasped for air.

  When my brilliant host decided she was good, she reached for the same god damned drawer again, so I choked her again.

  She kept repeating her attempts to get the drug drawer open, getting more and more frustrated and freaked out as each time I repeated the simple strangution technique. Sherrel finally got the bright idea to cope with the ck of breath and open the drawer. She was successful as I could not stop her arms, but when she expected to be able to breath after releasing the handle, she found that she couldn't and started to try and call out for help, likely to alert people of a "cape" as they call powered people here. But if you can't breathe, then you can't shout.

  As she passed out on the floor, I let her breath again and let out a mental sigh. It was going to be a bit before she woke up and I had the autonomy of a purse poodle owned by dog mom, practically none.

  So I experimented with what I had access to, namely her mouth.

  First off I checked to see if I could do anything about her. less than savory dental hygiene and found that I could honestly make a great orthodontist with how I was removing cavities, sores, and all the other junk.

  I could feel some of myself be used up permanently whenever I had to repce tooth or mend an open sore, but it honestly wasn't that much and by the time I was done I was sure Mr. Skyrk would be proud.

  Giving Sherrel shiny teeth that twinkled like distant stars in the night sky took some time, but when I was finally finished, she still y unconscious on the dirty, oil-stained concrete. The drawer’s contents were scattered everywhere in a chaotic mess.

  I tapped my imaginary chin, considering the possibilities. If I had the ability to regenerate and manipute someone’s body—reshape it like putty in my hands—what else could I do? Could I, perhaps, push the limits further? Could I mold it like cy?

  The thought pulled me back to a memory from years ago, an over-the-top action movie I had watched as a child. It featured robots in disguise, with the main character, a clueless college kid, being propositioned by a stunning blonde. They got caught up in a passionate kiss in his dorm room, tongues tangling and being shoved down each other's throats, when, suddenly, the euphemism became literal. The blonde’s tongue began to stretch, elongating unnaturally, revealing the metallic and robotic underyers beneath her disguise.

  The movie never bothered to expin the strange behavior, nor did it address why the robot kept up the ruse—especially considering she’d been caught making out with the guy. But I digress.

  What mattered was that memory—the visual of that twisting, lengthening tongue. And here I was, with full control over Sherrel’s body, her mouth now pliable beneath my touch. If I could manipute her as I pleased, why not push this fantasy of mine into the realm of reality?

  So, mustering my will, I shoved myself through the base of her tongue and found my wish granted. Her tongue slithered out of her mouth like the Basilisk from that children's series, emerging from the massive statue's face. But as, I didn’t have much to work with. I got about two feet of tongue before I realized that going any further would either require hollowing out the tongue or start causing pain to myself.

  Testing the muscle’s flexibility, I searched for something to grab and found the scattered heroin needles on the floor, one of which had rolled next to Sherrel. I carefully forked the end of her tongue, gingerly angling it like some grotesque crane game, the pink flesh turning a veiny, inky bck in the process. With an effort of will, the two forks of muscle encircled the needle’s pstic body and slowly picked it up off the ground. I felt proverbial sweat running down my forehead as I concentrated on not dropping my training aid. I gained a new appreciation for cephalopods as my chosen appendage shook and quivered in effort—not due to the weight, but because it felt like using chopsticks for the first time. Only, instead of the chopsticks being made of solid material, they were floppy and only held a rigid form when force was applied.

  An abrupt smming of the door to the garage caused me to lose focus on the heroin needle, causing it to fall and ctter to the ground. I quickly retracted Sherrel’s tongue as a set of squeaky sneakers grew louder.

  "'Ey, Squealer, Skidmark's lookin' for ya. What the fu—" A Latino man came around one of the hydraulic car lifts, stopping when he saw her colpsed form. He quickly ran to her, checking for any signs of damage before noticing the needles and setting her body in a recovery position. I saw this as my chance, so I returned to restricting her airways—though only slightly.

  "Oh shit! Hey, Squealer, you alive?!? Squealer! Hey!" With well-practiced training, the man repeatedly yelled for her, tapping her face to see if she would wake. He even put his fingers on her neck and below her nose to check for breathing and a pulse.

  "AH, fuck, fuck, fuck!" He looked around, found an automotive creeper, and pulled out his phone, dialing someone while grabbing the creeper. "Boss man, Squealer's down. I found her in the garage and she's barely breathing."

  He brought the creeper over and carefully id her on it, the phone tucked between his head and shoulder.

  "I don't know. I saw her stash scattered on the floor. Looks like maybe OD," he continued, speaking into the phone. I couldn't hear what was on the other side of the call, but he nodded his head. "Yeah, I'll meet you outside. Got her on a creeper... No, Daniel was taking inventory... Yeah, I'll make sure he doesn't wake up." He paused, squinting as he carefully studied Sherrel’s body and the surroundings. "It... doesn’t look like any sort of Cape shit, boss. She was surrounded by her personal stash."

  They quickly carted her out to the curb, where she was carefully pced into the backseat of a rusty lemon. The Latino man began talking with a bck man wearing a blue scrap of cloth, who looked like some teenage mutant turtle who likely hadn’t showered in years. I quickly realized it was Skidmark as they discussed whether or not to have her "in mask." They decided against it, fearing the "PRT" would try to capture her if it became an "official" ER visit.