A hellish limbo of dark red. Lines of dark burgundy carved canyons through the formless surroundings like ropey sinews of muscle tissue. The whole place fell viscous and nauseating. No cookie was ever meant to make it here.

It was the gaps between dimensions: the layers of cement between bricks to stop them from bouncing around or drifting away. Like the tissuse around the brain protecting it from the skull. Maybe that was why it looked so fleshy.

Even being here alone made Shadow Milk feel like he was being rended and ravaged. He mind was already in shambles and disjointed signals. He valued his cognitive abilities more than anything as a clear divide between himself and the common people he hated. So this alone was uncanny.

"My friends... crumbled." His voice, as he spoke, wavered and cracked near the end like he was, witches forbid, a being with feelings. Even the word friends made him feel funny.

His body hurt too: from the fighting, adapting, and phantom shocks of pain up his spine. Even that was second place to just existing beyond matter and existence, in a place no one should ever be. His voice gained its convinction again, "And I..."

Speaking like this: out loud like some theatrical soliloquy was really the only way to think. It was the only way to part the fog and also get out of the dizzying sensory deprivation of the rift. A rush of pain suddenly came over him, accompanied by the need to heave and scream.

"Gck— It hurts..." he ground out between his jagged teeth. His eyes flitted about, the ones in his hair, and the ones where his eye sockets were, staring anywhere but his body. He knew it was wavering: either between forms or even in how put together he looked. He almost looked like he was melting.

"I... was cast aside!" it came out as a firm announcement, like an emperor spitting an insult before deciding to declare war. The anger is the final push that changed his form again, into that one with flowing hair speckled with galaxies and that burning eye; the one with the golden white right hand, covered in glitches and buffering. Any cookie dough, with that much power and under that much pressure, would be in agony too.

The colours and fire coming from his left eye seemed to kindle under his emotional turmoil. He himself was the oxygen and he himself was the fire. And as he rolled with agony from how much it burned, the frantic movements fanned the flame. Pink, green, red, white... He himself looked like an ember with the wisps twirling around him. Could he even count as cookie dough anymore?

"Cast aside; cast aside!" he sung, spinning on his heels like some dancer or huffing child. He paraded around while singing that tune, voice maniacal with bouts of laughter and howls that sounded the same that were more of pain.

He body changed again, into something ugly and crude. Like a scribbed version of himself with a wide smile. When his mouth parted, his words echoed back atop eachother into a tangled garble. To hear it come back his way was nothing short of mocking, and yet again he wanted to be sick.

Eventually, he was covered in those errors and breakages before becoming his usual self. shis regular form, no other details.

"Silence! Shut up!" each word was spat out and bestial. Shadow Milk Cookie's work enemy was himself, and despite loving the sound of his own voice, he wanted nothing more than to not hear another sound ever again. "I can't stay here any longer. Lest I lose my senses, myself."

"The ultimate cookie's dough, it's.. trying to take over." No flamboyancy. Not a joke, not even a jovial little giggle. Such clarity was stark against his own self, and it made him feel ashamed and scared. Was he already being rended into crumbs by this place? "I must leave, before it..."

He was already gone, he was distantly sure. He was stuck in a tumultuous dance against himself: mocking each idea he had while clinging to cognisance like a leech. He hated, despised each side of himself as they tore his form, pried open his scars with crowbars and lathered them in salt.