The touch runs through her body and out into her fingers so sharp she snaps her chopsticks. She hasn't been touched in... 

She's in relation to someone, physical, flinching, reactive, combat routines sent to limbs that didn't exist, small, hot, powerful, listening, attentive. The mental bubble around her body collapses and she rushes into a dazed, tense, physical awareness. Questions well to the surface, fragments of the TC language, warnings and theories, scattered remnants of perfection spilling over the floor and she doesn't have the time to pick and choose the right one.

A movie? A girl? Her, filmed? Like an anime? A... a [i]girl[/i]?

She's conscious of her matted hair, her oily scales, all the concessions that perfection demanded from her self care routine. She gives a wide-eyed fish stare and slurps the remainder of her noodles down all at once. <Movie girl yes> she signed, barely remembering how to move her hands.