A/N: This is an idea dump that probably won't be updated often (like, months in between; just look at my other sh*t). The scenes here are scattered, and the whole thing is more of an experiment than a serious thing. I'm slowly returning to being actively active (yes, there is such a thing as being actively active; before I had been passively active), so baby steps.

And this will probably be my only Author's Note, so yeah.

Here, have an SIOC!Sakura. I don't own anything except the OC.

Chapter I

"Send him in, Doc,"

The ceiling was pink.

I blinked blearily for a moment before checking again, squinting up to make sure. I wasn't color blind as far as I knew. I've been seeing colors okay.

And I'm pretty sure my ceiling wasn't pink.

I rolled out of the bed that wasn't mine—it was too soft to be—and stumbled into an equally pink carpet, helplessly flailing for a frozen moment before I fell on all fours. The long fringe selvage of the Persian rug had tangled and caught around my bare toes.

My knees ached upon the smacking impact. It was a pretty pathetic sight; one second I had been standing, the next I tensed and fell like some sort of newborn foal.

Hissing, I flopped down and groaned into the velvety rug, right into the big geometric weave of what looked like a diamond. It was embarrassing to be me. Whatever was happening, I hoped there were no hidden cameras installed around the room. I would die of humiliation.

My knees were relieved of the pain by my shift of position, but the chin took their place with the discomfort. My jaw was beginning to ache.

Scowling, I decided that I felt lacking. Like I was missing a limb or two, though I was pretty sure I was physically complete. I wiggled all my fingers and all of my toes. Five digits on each appendage, check!

Despite the room's tremendous size (it was huge), I felt terribly claustrophobic and lost.

Frowning, I looked around me.

For starters, I did not own a closet—I owned two hulking wooden drawers and folded all my clothes.

Second, there were never any full-length mirrors in my room; I had been frightened away from the notion after watching too many horror movies.

Lastly, my little haven never smelled like this, like citrus and fruit. I was asthmatic, and the tiniest scents set me off almost immediately.

Was this a prank?

Had I been kidnapped?

I turned so that I was lying on my back. Something pink strayed into my eyes.

Taking the single strand of pink, I tugged on it in fascination and blanched when my scalp protested.

I looked down on my body, and a scream stuck itself into my throat.

It wasn't mine.

"Sakura-chan," someone—male, forty years old, throat hoarse from laughter, naturally boisterous—called from the outside. His voice was muffled by the wooden door. I could make out his silhouette from the blurry painted glass. His head looked like a star. He was very tall.

Or maybe, I realized slowly, horrified, I was just very short.

"Sakura-chan," he called again, knocking. I scrambled up and dashed to the mirror, squeezing my cheeks and stretching my skin. Was this a joke? Was I dreaming? I opened my mouth and stared at my tonsils.

My eyes were green.

My hair was pink.

I touched my chest. I was a child. I bent my feet up and touched my toes. They were tiny as f*ck. I pulled the hem of my nightgown up (who wears nightgowns?) and watched my stomach rise and fall.

I smacked my face and felt the resulting sting. I cupped the space between my legs and came up with flat.

I released that scream.

"Aaaand, he's in. Knew he could do it, brave boy,"

"I hope someone caught that fall on tape. That was just priceless blackmail material, I hope you know."

End of Chapter I