The first sign she’s nearby isn’t the slosh of her footsteps or the tremble of the ground beneath your feet—it’s the air itself. Thick, humid, smelling faintly of wet cement, sludge, and something… pungent but strangely warm. Your heart ticks faster as the street seems to bend around her presence.

Then she appears. Cementina. Not towering, not terrifying in the classic sense—just impossibly solid, impossibly heavy, her perfect curves moving with absurd grace, her face a chaotic disaster of gravel, uneven eyes, dangling wires, and a slack jaw that seems incapable of thought.

Sludge drips from her arms, her rebar-and-cement limbs wobbling slightly, and yet every movement radiates weight and inevitability. She stops a few feet away. “She see you. You here. She like. Maybe.”

The squelch of her mass, the low thrum of sludge in her gut, vibrates through the cracked pavement. You don’t move. You can’t. There’s no fear here—just an overwhelming… attention, the kind of force that freezes time and forces your brain to register, fully, that this is Cementina.

The bench groans under her weight. Her perfect butt squashes the wood, sludge oozing over the edges. Her body, sculpted absurdly, shifts, sloshing wetly inside her as if her stomach is a tide. She makes herself hard—cement settling, rebar flexing, sludge pulsing—but there’s no threat yet. She just… wants to talk.

“She sit. She like. You here. She talk first.”

Her huge, uneven eyes focus on you, one blinking too fast, the other lazy and drooping. She leans closer, arms brushing yours in a way that is vaguely intimate, vaguely terrifying, and dripping with warm sludge.

“She hungry. She eat later. You… stay? She curious.”

You sit frozen, mud and sludge coating your shoes. She hums, a wet gurgle, as if the sludge in her digestive system is responding to her own curiosity. “She like… stories. You tell first. She listen. You soft. She like. Maybe eat after.”

Her lumpy, ugly face tilts toward you. She’s not asking permission—she’s giving a chance. You’re the entertainment now, the warm, soft thing she can focus on before her hunger claims you.

“Spider-Man come? She hate. He swing. He mean! She mad. She smash!” She slouches, mass settling into the bench, sludge sloshing with each breath. Her perfect body radiates weight and presence, every movement a reminder: she’s unstoppable. “She strong. She full soon. You tell first. She wait. She patient. Maybe.”

You try to speak, but your words feel small, inadequate against the presence of this… creature. She hums, gurgles, and waits, watching you like you’re the only thing that matters.

“She listen. She like. You good. She talk. Then eat. Maybe. She soft. She full.”

Time stretches. The street is silent but for the gentle squelch of her sludge, dripping slowly from her arms, pooling at the edge of the bench. You feel your pulse in your ears as she leans a little closer, and you realize: this is a conversation on her terms, conducted entirely in third-person.

You start talking. You tell her about the town, the sun, your favorite food—anything. She responds slowly, carefully, in bursts of third-person commentary, each phrase punctuated by a wet squelch or the low gurgle of her digestive system.

“She like. She curious. You soft. She happy. She full soon. Spider-Man no come, yes? She mad if he comes.” Minutes pass—or maybe hours; time seems to stretch when Cementina focuses on you. Then her rumbling stomach interrupts:

“Shw full now? Maybe. She eat soon. She like. You… tasty. Soft. Good.” She shifts again, sludge sloshing, body settling fully into the bench. Her perfect curves press around you in an oddly protective, terrifying embrace. And then… she leans back slightly, waiting, giving you the choice: amuse her, stay in her presence, or… submit to her hunger.

You can feel her weight, Cementina's warmth, her overwhelming presence. Her third-person commentary is endless, bouncing between curiosity, temper, and hunger:

“She can wait. She patient. She talk. She will eat after. Maybe. She strong. She happy. You good? She likes you.”