Hey! Down here! No, down. Yes, all the way down. Keep going. Almost, and... Yeah, hi! Uh... Say "Cheese!"
This is a picture + (super) short story + notes compilation book for those with a liking for extreme size differences aka G/t (giant/tiny), mac...
A/N UPDATE: I liked this prompt too much to just keep it as a one-time thing, so it's becoming its own story, a universe, and the like! It probably won't update frequently (because reasons), but it will update! Follow the story of the same name when I set it up, and let me know if you like the cover!
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A/N: I got the picture to appear!But you can still also see it on:
An esper of sorts, seemingly against her will, wanders various worlds and locales, with that instability pushing her to be more-or-less exiled from her home. She eventually finds herself on Earth on occasion where her supernatural outbursts there grab the attention of a certain 'public health service', or so they called themselves, that wants to research her.
Bartering times and areas of freedom in her lonesome for it, she accepts, and life goes on.
Sometime later, in an overly prideful, post-outburst, solo excursion amid a storm, the mystic is stuck weakened, soiled, and in need of sustenance by the acts of nature. Not in condition to survey and scrounge the surrounding land for plausible flora or fauna, the wills leading her lead her back to a familiar spot: a human's home.
Having frequented the trash since her first pop-up there, she knows the victuals left by the owner, while usually few, are generally more than satisfying. However, her wounds and aches take prominence over her hunger, screaming that she needs medicinal care immediately.
By her own choices, going back to the Service or someone from it finding her before collapsing are both impossible. Her fair awareness of Earthly customs pushes her to assume that gaining sympathy in her state is hard to come by. So, she decides to use her last bits of attainable psychic energy to go out-of-sight, shrinking herself to go through a vent to go inside the house.
She is, in no way, an expert on the floor plan or the dweller of the place, but she knows where rooms are, where pipes and wires lead, and, most importantly, where what she needed probably is. Persevering through pain and the coldness of metal on her soles and palms, she makes it up to the second floor where a particular bathroom was: one that, at some point, had a first aid kit.
Peeking through the grates, able to see in the dark, she's relieved to see she's alone in the expanse though confused by a slight scent of something burning. Squeezing through the lattice-like wet clay, nonetheless, she wedges a hand through the slit in an above cabinet door, opening it enough to scan for the kit or any loose fixers but finding none.
