[ no anesthesia no knockouts we operate on dream logic here

it's almost enthralling to watch—that artificial growth, the bloom of something, wrong though it is. and she can smell that rich red—it's right there, calling to her—

okay. okay she has to fucking focus, thanks, and the flower has helpfully shown her where it grows from. very gently, in the dream logic way, she peels back the flesh around its bud, carefully pressing her knife in to get at where the roots ought to be. ]