Spinach puts zer hands on your shoulders. You feel your nerves begin to buzz.

You don't have shoulders. Fish don't have shoulders. You don't have shoulders.

It itches.

Like a rolling wave of needle-sharp prickles, sensation washes across all of you, outlining a topography you don't want to know, a topography you've lived in since around the time you became a man to begin with.

Spinach slices through the center of your brain with the force of a cool breeze. Part of you wants to fight back, but another part of you holds yourself still, allows her to take what she will as long as you remain alive.

Your terms flow into Spinach like it flows into you, and you feel its horror - it isn't doing this to take. You trust it not to, and its horror flares brighter. Taking that trust, you wrap it around its shaky hands, steadying your resolve so it steadies its own.

It burns.

You feel a perspective, thin and delicate as the walls of a bubble, layered against the psychological incision. Spinach's ocular inputs. The sight of you.

Another perspective layers on - Baggage's. Frankenstein's. Potato Battery's. Atari's. Rascal Nitwit's. Information Bubble's. Takoyaki's. Curtainy's, BarryCoin's. Signed's, Sealed's, Delivered's. Nozzle's. Burnt Grilled Cheese's.

You wish it was their opinions on you, instead of this. It would be easier to withstand an opinion.

It aches.

The terror wins, and you break Spinach's psychic grasp, but it's far too late to escape the truth anymore.

It stings.

You are Gareth, and you no longer know if you have the right to call yourself a fish.