Whoa. So. The Remix story was kicking my arse all over the place, but draft one is done done done and off at the lovely beta-reader's for comments. It appears to make a reasonable amount of sense and not be ENTIRELY PEDESTRIAN so I'm cautiously optimistic.
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In the interests of not going UTTERLY MAD WAITING FOR CHILDREN OF EARTH, I need to keep
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Ianto starts thinking about his words like they're all written down on silvered paper; when he peels them back there's nothing on the other side, just a slippery, inverse reflection. He thinks about the undersides of his skin made of the same stuff. He dreams about his Torchwood employee number writing itself over the muscle of his heart, and in his waking hours he picks a bay in the morgue and lovingly writes out his name on a rectangular card with black ink.
I think this is now my favorite passage in the whole story. So gorgeous, and perfectly tailored in tone and form to the subject.
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Thanks for getting me to write this, I really enjoyed doing so!
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