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Summary
Their fingers twist together, a pretzel of biting nails and scrubbing skin and tendons gone too tight to turn much more. Bubblegum’s arm is a lance of pain. So’s the rest of her. Marceline’s eyes are closed again and the room is harpsichord-polish bright, pewter everywhere shining spitsharp on the windowpanes. Trainwreck, for real. No survivors.
