>>156
You make your way to the hexagonal room, and stare over the shoulder of the grunt in the midst of his passionate artistic creation. In this corner, the walls have been almost entirely shaded in solid black, punctuated with odd brown swirls that could be anything, really. In the very corner is an object - or possibly even a pile of objects - in grey and brown. It is roughly humanoid, but has many sharp, straight appendages radiating from every surface. Its head is lopsided, as though only just hanging onto the rest of it. The entire thing is floating at 45° from vertical in the black-brown void, without any indication of touching the ground.
"Well, you're not exactly Van Gogh, are you?" you quip. The grunt gives no indication of even having heard you.
>>157
Many inferior artists claim to put "blood sweat and tears" into their work, but you decide to prove your superiority by taking this to a literal level. You take the scissors and, with a deep intake of breath, pull the blade sharply across the skin of your left palm. There is a momentary stinging pain, and the skin is clearly broken, but not a singly drop of blood comes out. You try again twice, to no further effect. Cutting any deeper than you already are risks severing nerves and causing irreparable damage, so you begrudgingly concede defeat.
>>158
Upset at your body's unexpected betrayal, you choose to sleep off the malaise, hoping that you'll feel better in the morning. The heavy rain outside continues, precluding you from telling the time with any great certainty, but it is clearly not yet nightfall. You lie down on a pile of cardboard on the edge of the camp, turn to face the wall and close your eyes. You sob piteously to yourself as you await the peaceful oblivion of sleep.
You are woken up by being kicked, hard, in the ribs. You cough and splutter, curling up to protect your vulnerable midriff, but not quickly enough to escape another kick. Your eyes flash open as you reel from the blow, but you are unable to orientate yourself to see your attacker before you are kicked in the upper spine, landing hard on your front. A foot is pressed into the small of your back, preventing you from getting up.
"You useless sack of shit," says a familiar woman's voice from behind you. "Maybe I wasn't clear enough earlier: leave, right now, and get me some food. If I see you in this camp again, without food, I'll kill you."
You are released and, being badly winded and in substantial pain, are unable to respond or even move for a few minutes. When you eventually get to your feet again, the woman is once more nowhere to be found. Judging by the amount of light it is still daytime; you probably slept for less than an hour.
>>159
Your tragically incomplete profile of Dr Robotnik doesn't contain many parts that could be described as salty. Unless... Yes, that's it, you think to yourself: you need to portray the full range of emotion of this great man. You wipe the tears from your cheeks and brush them into the corners of his eyes, where they melt into the chalk and soon dry into indistinguishibility. You are struck by the significance of the gesture, showing the inner sorrow that your muse must never let show, gradually internalising it and becoming ever further embittered as his every plan is thwarted.
You cannot shapeshift into a grunt for lack of mana, and settle instead for simply mimicking your new comrades. You stand around for a while, staring into the middle distance and letting your mind go utterly blank. It is an oddly therapeutic experience, but does not accomplish much.