Part of her thinks she should fight this just as much as she had wanted to fight the spectral hands. After what just happened—after everything that happened—she should struggle and squirm and strike out, demand to be be allowed to move under her own power no matter how little of it she feels like she has to spare for it.

She doesn't do that. She accepts the help, no matter how begrudgingly. She lets herself be hauled through another set of doors to another space—not quiet like the pod, bustling with activity as the next acts as prepared.

Somebody else is hustled out onto the stage. A new song tailored to their troubles will start soon, she's sure.

The thread of compulsion feels weaker, now, though not absent. This place is not done with her yet, but there may be a brief reprieve. Time to try and get herself under control. Time to get out of this damn costume—

Carolina hasn't even let her go by the time she's trying to strip the damn thing off, frustrated sounds spilling into frustrated tears she's trying so desperately not to be seen crying.