Changeling corpse:
"Jesus, Kelly, what the hell is that?!"
The sheriff continues to stare down at the mangled body. Frozen dew has frosted on the hair and eyelashes like icy dandruff - the poor bastard's been out here all night, at least, left to cool on the roadside like so much roadkill. His looks are another thing he has common with a squashed raccoon - it's an unkind thought, and one she squashes into the corner of her brain.
"It's a body, Mason, you've seen them before. Call in an ambulance."
The deputy in question completes his jittery, disgusted about-turn and peers back down the little verge.
"Sheriff, I'm no doctor, but I don't think an ambulance is gonna help. An ice-cream van looks like it'd be better fit, don't ya think?" He takes a second look. "Or a pick-up truck. Jesus, but he's a big bastard."
He responds to her flat, unimpressed look with a sigh. It's been a long, otherwise boring night, and this doesn't look nearly as exciting as he thought it might be. As he tugs a radio from his belt and adds a deliberately-irritating nasal twang to his voice, she shuffles her way down off the roadside, to the side of the body. There won't be much in the way of evidence, unless the body's got a dented license plate clutched in its stiff fingers, but she still wants a closer look.
Yeah, she confirms, leaning over and not-quite-actually touching the corpse. One eye. It's not like the other was damaged - it's just not even there, and the one he does have is big and bulging, almost centered in his face, locked in a surprised stare above a nose that was clearly broken several times even before this final tumble.
Poor bastard. Born a freak, then you die.
Alternatively the Mask stays on or whatever.
Or the changes inflicted by your Durance are undone, and your Fetch suddenly has a doppelganger to explain to themselves.
