"Some day, they'll find out about you too."

She liked being stroked under the chin. That was it. She owed it to pressure points, and the sensitive nature of her skin. Under it, neurons sat close to the surface.

Inflicting pleasure. Inflicting pain. It was a fool whim to desire pleasure. The clammy skin always grew back after each finger had torn through her. If they'd ask, she'd tell it was from a tussle over territory, a familiar dispute, realigning a worker who had stepped out of the quo. Her knuckle claws were itching from disuse.

They inflicted pain. They inflicted pleasure. Twenty-five ellipses around a distant sun had brought enough scars to bring the look of a seasoned veteran. Six-hundred seventy-two of something, a close analogy on an ice planet, or a boiling crust.

For . Haven't gotten a reply about the lineart yet .__.