[Without the pin, the butterfly falls to what passes for the ground. Its legs kick in pain and if only it could scream, it surely would. The thrashing subsides after a long moment, quieted to a slow, labored waving of a bent antenna.
In that moment, the creature shimmers, and reverts to form of the label: Mercury. Her uniform is tattered and torn and burned, and the wound from the pin has become an ugly, sickening hole at her chest. She chokes on the words she tries to speak at first.]
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In that moment, the creature shimmers, and reverts to form of the label: Mercury. Her uniform is tattered and torn and burned, and the wound from the pin has become an ugly, sickening hole at her chest. She chokes on the words she tries to speak at first.]