She can almost smell the incense with the lid of the jar open, almost but not quite. The sensation is there, like a tickle in her nose, but her brain does not know how to parse what washes over the slime into an actual response. The tapping on the jar is like someone poking her in the eyeball and Annie lets her head fall back with a sigh.

She hadn't thought this would be such a giant pain in the ass.

She lingers, trying to stabilize herself through the handling, the nausea heating up in the pit of her stomach as she is sloshed back and forth. It makes it hard to listen to the conversation.

Something numbers. Something something suspicions. Something something participation. She can feel herself nearing the edge of puking, fucking again, and stops.

( That one says participation counts. )