[and he's alone again. With his mind. In his rage. Turned on. Deserted. Trapped. Exposed. Pinned to the ground by his own new and strange body, bound in place by his own flesh that isn't flesh, less than helpful mental states - like bewilderment, exasperation, belligerence, and even a little fear - orbit a raging singularity, spiraling into that dense void, making it denser. And oddly, understandably, that green flail which thudded to the ground moments earlier sinks a tad into the grass as it gets denser too, the situation imploding into an instinctive burst of weapon-ability]
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