Your mind goes blank as you freeze solid. To all intents and purposes you are, completely, a dead, frozen chicken; molecularly, mentally, culinarilly. Stored on a shelf, pressed between a bag of frozen peas and a stack of fish fingers, untill the cook sees ready to use you.
Outside your frigid confines, the world turns. Your undercover mission falls of the Department's computers during a server swap out. Your desk is used to store boxes of ancient paperwork, buried, rediscovered, and eventually given to the new guy.
A hand falls on your solid flesh, lifts you, examines you. It carries you out of the sub-zero temperatures that have held your mind and body captive for so long and deposits you on the work surface of a noisy, chaotic kitchen. The intense, humid heat works its way inside, rousing a long-dead soul.
You are awake. You can think. You ache to stretch your limbs, but find them unresponsive lumps of half-defrosted meat. You are a chicken. You'd forgotten. In a kitchen. Oh no.
Through a door within your limited field of view is the dining area. Its warmly lit and festooned with decorations. Your heart leaps into your gullet. Its Christmas. That means you were in deep freeze for 7 months. At least. Something, somewhere, has gone very wrong with the mission, and you need to get out.
This time, desperation fuels your movements. Your limbs twitch, their frozen muscles creak, a few flakes of encrusted frost detaching. If only you can defrost before you're *gulp* prepared, you may have a chance to escape.
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