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Ace's Shirt
It arrived in the mail, postmarked 'Armadale, Australia'. Apart from that, there were no identifying marks, but there was only one person who could have sent it. A flat box, three inches by ten by sixteen, wrapped in heavy-duty brown paper. If it was chocolates, there were a lot of them. She unwrapped it, finding a plain white cardboard box underneath the paper; opening the box revealed an expanse of rich purple material, lycra or microfibre or possibly even silk. She held it up: a shirt, glittering purple buttons carved from amethysts (she could sense the tingle as she brushed her fingers over them), balloon-sleeved, the shirt-tails hanging down almost to her knees. The material it was made of was less easily identified; it didn't have as much stretch as lycra and it felt as smooth and cool as silk. Holding it up to the light, she couldn't see any weave; burying her face in it, she detected a faint scent, amber, floral with a hint of ozone and, strangely enough, a sweetness that she associated with nitrous oxide. She searched the package for a note, a disk, anything to explain this gift (not that they needed reasons); there was nothing apart from a small slip of rice-paper with the latest version of his logo, a series of narrow slashes drawn in red ink With a smile, she recalled that the design had been based on a series of whip-marks which had been applied, virtually, to the buttocks of someone in Fidonet. Returning her attention to the shirt, she shook it out and wondered if it would fit. In her room, she removed the old work-shirt she'd put on in preparation for mucking out the rabbit cage and, after a moment's thought, removed her brassiere as well. The buttons on the sleeves of her new shirt undid smoothly; unlike most new shirts, they almost seemed to undo themselves, as did the buttons down the front. She slipped her arms into the sleeves, marvelling at the smooth, frictionless feel, shrugged it over her shoulders and around her body. The tails dangled down her front, writhed together and the shirt began to button itself up, the material drawing itself over her skin with a quiet shhhing sound. She stood there, arms out, frozen in surprise as the sleeves crawled up over her hands, sought her wrists, fastened themselves tightly and then loosened until they felt comfortable. After the initial shock wore off, she laughed with relief. "This must be a Metamorph thing." When she felt the material around her nipples bunching up slightly, rubbing back and forth over them and squeezing gently, she knew it was a metamorph thing; she smiled and hugged her arms to herself. The shirt hugged her in return. and the final twist in the tail of this gift; it appeared to act as a kind of low-level telepathic amplifier. She felt a glow of feeling from Loki, half-asleep on the window-sill; a subdued feral hunger mixed with appreciation for the tall, oddly-shaped purple-clad cat which provided food, warmth and love. She could hardly wait to try it out on a person ... |
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