The most hideous revolting being alive is washing her hair in the sink. Her neck is sore pressed against the rim, the faucet digging into her hair.

She lifts up and looks in the mirror. (Acne-ridden, double chin, hairs she’s too tired to shave, massive forehead, non-existent eyebrows, substantial overbite, a nostril bigger than the other, grotesque vitiligo, fat lips, chubby cheeks that make her think of a pig.)

Tinges of mana sink into Anastasia’s fingers as she keeps her eyes fixed on the reflection, nails digging bars of white into her palms. The spell that carves a her-shaped blind spot in any brain nearby is efficient, but it needs a constant drip to keep going. If she lets it run down it's a Herculean chore to kick up again.

Being seen is actively painful, even if it’s just by herself. Pushes her to the brink of panic, to a desperate tense place where she wants to just drop dead. She would like nothing more to spend all four years invisible. But at some point she knows it’s not going to be possible so the bullet needs to be bitten now.

Anastasia is missing a shower today because a toad is sitting in the tub (if toads were twenty pounds and forty percent eyeballs by body mass). She considered dropping the microwave on it, but then she’d still have to take the shower standing in its ooze and fluids, and ugh.

She steps onto the bathroom scale (sixty-nine-point-six) and lets out a breath, backpack strapped over her shoulders. Her bag is brimful with things lifted from Sephora and Walgreens, packaging thrown out to fit as much as possible.

She’s not going to make enclave, she’s resigned herself to that. Not if she had eight years instead of four. She’s ugly and stupid and only knows English, Russian expletives, and donde es la biblioteca?

But there are going to be people who are stronger than her but still under the cut to get in, and those guys will be desperate for edge. She doesn’t have magic stuff to bring, but she does have deodorant.

And breath mints and lip balm and nail clippers and razors and conditioner and towelettes and contraceptives and lotion and moisturizers and stain remover and perfume and pretty cashmere clothes. She went in the back of the pharmacy a week ago and picked out adderall and ambien and isotretinoin and morphine and buproprion and phentermine, all dumped unceremoniously in the same ziploc.

The only thing meant for her are seven little glass bottles used to store mana. Trade or die. No need for it to be more complicated than that.

...she doesn’t think it will and has no idea why it would work like that, but in theory the blind spot seems like a thing that could keep her from being inducted. She toggles it off. The toad in the shower twitches as it notices a person burst into shape. It ogles her trying to figure out if it’s big enough to eat a fourteen year old or not.

Before it can decide either way, there’s a sharp tug.