**"Won't you just be a darling and sell the toy? Brutus recently lost his favorite toy, tore it right to shreds, this thing would make a fine replacement You can always get a new one?"** The teacher who wishes to deliver you into her rottie's maw says, the overpowering teacher holding your string, her tone midway between a pity-earning plea and a barked order. The other women, too, clamor over the possibility of buying you just for the chance to deliver you into the possession of their chosen monstrosity. Bulldogs. Rottweiler. Cats. Toddlers. This is not the sort of fate you can allow yourself to fall into. As the host of women peer pressure Miss Hensley to the brink, you begin to half wonder if one of the ladies is a plant, a spy serving on the staff to protect Gamell's daughter. If this hunch is true, the odds of a forced sale are staggering. You will likely die a plaything if you don't think fast.
But you simply cannot think of a way out of this that won't also compromise your position. The best option you can think of is to put your faith in the system, and to rely on the resources that Miss Hemsley has granted you. Namely, the ability to play dead. You'll need it to maintain your cover. You click your tongue three times in succession, and you are quickly meant by a warm, tingling sensation starting first at your bottom and soon spreading to the rest of your body. You lock up, and you find yourself incapable of moving even if you so chose, pretending to be an unthinking plaything as if you were a Toy Story character.
And so it is that you throw your freedom aside, at least for the time being, and allow the giant schoolteachers to decide your fate as if they were some all-female pantheon. Miss Madison, the one with the rottweiler, dangles you by the string, gently swinging your body back and forth as if you were a pendulum. "Come on. What do you say we bid on it? It could be a lovely bonding experience. Besides, you'll make some money on it and we can all put in a good word for you." The other teachers affirm with MHMs and nods a 'that's right.'
You are soon handed to the brunette, Mrs Burnett, who proceeds to test your arms as if you were a puppet, likely gauging your range of motion to see if you'd be suitable for her 2 year old. "This is one of the best dolls I've ever seen. Are you sure it's meant to be a chewtoy? Could I at least borrow it? I have a three year old who loves dolls and she'd probably love this. And my little Dylan is so imaginative with the games he plays" She says, setting you down and showing Miss Hemsley a photo of a 1, 2, and 3 year old on her phone. Having willfully paralyzed yourself, you are powerless to run, even now that you're set down.
The cat owner, Miss Kimura, lowers a manicured fingernail down and gently scratches at your chest before resting the tip of her fingernail right above your neck. You silently wonder if she could decapitate you. "We could buy a new one together Wednesday. There's a pet store right by the Mexican place. This is your first time subbing here , right? You ought to join us on margarita night!"
Miss Hensley's resistance is clearly at a minimum. She stammers and attempts to justify her reluctance to sell you, but her defense is unraveling, like strands of an over-stretched rope fraying away by the second. As you ponder the metaphor, it dawns on you that there was another way. You could have snapped the actual thread attached to your body. Staged it to look as if one of the teachers 'broke' you, and given Miss Hensley an easy out. As it stands, your decision to rely solely on your handler lead to her getting overwhelmed by the socializing teachers. You would have probably broken if you were in her position! Alas, having paralyzed your own body, you're forced to deal with the consequences of committing to being a toy
Miss Hensley's lips quiver as she looks at your tiny body, now dangling from the clutches of Mrs Thompson, the attractive young black woman. As she tugs at your right leg to test its stretchiness, you catch a glance at Miss Hensley's face. Her eyes are filled with an unmistakable look of guilt and regret and you feel a surge of dread as you realize the worst is about to come to pass. The metaphorical rope snaps.
"Ok. Fine. I'll sell him...er... it..."
The words somehow pass from Miss Hensley's stressed lips. The ladies all cheer and perk up. All but Miss Hensley, who stoically accepts what is to come. She is no doubt pondering what to do next. She will likely be forced to disable you to preserve the cover story, and then what? Send out a new agent and just neglect to tell them that the last spy is currently a petrified barbie doll in a 3 year old's dollhouse or, worse, a steaming pile of rottweiler shit in a suburban teacher's back yard? Perhaps she has a rescue plan. Yes. Surely that's it. She'll disable you for a few days, scout out the buying teacher's house, then un-disable you at just the right moment.
That's what you tell yourself anyway. For now, all you can do is wait and watch helplessly as you are quite literally auctioned into slavery (or 'toyhood?') by your handler.
"I'll be doing it as an auction. The bids start at $40. And I expect you all to put in a good word for me, you here? The next time a substitute job is open I expect you all to vouch for me." "Why of course! I'm sorry for giving you so much trouble dear, but I know a good chewy when I see it."
The ladies all concur with the idea, and soon an auction for ownership of your tiny self begins.
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