“Good evening. If you thought the Violet Sky was only a visual spectacle, tonight’s testimonies prove otherwise. The curtain has begun to stitch itself not just into fabric, but into flesh.”
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| DJ Bun on a Monday, hiding from the Violet Sky? |
Field Reporter: “Devon, survivors here aren’t wearing clothes made by the Violet Sky; they’re becoming clothes themselves. Look at this.”
Man from across the street, “I can’t take them off. I can’t stop walking. The pants decide where I go.”
Man from across the street, “I can’t take them off. I can’t stop walking. The pants decide where I go.”
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| Dr. Parallax, in his fashionable shirt |
“This proves my hypothesis. The sky isn’t weather, it’s a tailor. Every stitch is a contract. Every seam rewrites identity. These aren’t garments; they’re interfaces. The sky is weaving us into its own memory."
Bun: “I wore its gloves. They whispered childhood secrets I hadn’t told anyone. Then they whispered funerals I hadn’t had yet. The sky knows who I was. Who I will be. I’m just… clothing in its closet now.”
Devon (reading from a postcard, voice shaking): “Another card has arrived.
It says: ‘Every outfit is a promise. Wear carefully.’ Signed only with the letter A.”
“Viewers, I don’t know what we’re becoming, but if the sky has its way, we may all end up as mannequins in a wardrobe too vast to comprehend.”
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| Astrid: I am shutting this off |
A voice(soft, untraceable): “Try me on.”
“Do not confuse flesh for fabric.”
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