koerant.

Honora: a success story.

Liege: visible, cloak gone.

Chimaera: present, always, but forgiven.

Skeeter: was here, is gone- chased out of the room by M.P.’s better half.

Grier: in town.

Coggs: discovering the joys of collaboration.

The Often Orphan: appears from time to time; watches, silently; disappears.
Fractal follows suit, doppelganger in tow.
It’s not a big deal.

Albertina & The Rolling Thunder resolve their differences, Resolve themselves.

The Banshee has screamed off elsewhere.
Her ghost will haunt, but will no longer hurt.

The Mistress leaves her mess on the table.

Yvaine wears the boots.

Dr. Physician: The Mistress is reflected in his every diagnosis.
She sure is an intimidating act to follow.

The Man With the Blood-Red Eyes dogs her steps & marrs her nights.
When she shivers, it has little to do with the cold.


Day in, day out...

snyde.

Honora cheated.

Sort of.

Honorably, at least.

She repeats her little autobiographical tongue-twister a few times before entering the building.

Honora evades honorably.

Honora evades honorably.

Honora evades honorably.

The peppy posters accost her vision immediately.

God.

This is going to be a long...

She stops mid-thought, frustrated at the current impossibility of any form of temporal quantification.

Ugh.

Where’s Coggs when you need him?

Everyone says this is the hardest part.

She doesn’t know Everyone personally; in light of her current surroundings, the trustworthiness of Their opinion has become dubious in her mind. 

Her mind.

Enter The Reason, stage left. 

Deep breath.

She steps up.

Time to face the music.

Oh, goody.

boira.

The Mistress doesn’t know what to do with her head.
M.P. doesn’t know what to do with her eyes.
Swivel doesn’t know what to do with his feet.
Skye doesn’t know what to do with her smile.
Grier doesn’t know what to do with his soul.
Coggs doesn’t know what to do with his cerebrum.
Skeeter doesn’t know what to do with his shoulders.
The Master doesn’t know what to do with his clouds.
Elsie doesn’t know what to do with her inclinations.
Enna doesn’t know what to do with her cells.
Mismatch doesn’t know what to do with her hands.
Sphinx doesn’t know what to do with her answers.
Liege doesn’t know what to do with his pulse.
Chimaera doesn’t know what to do with his research.
Hedge doesn’t know what to do with Its alterations.

Uncertainty is entirely underrated.
Uncertainty is entirely overrated.

sadar.

It’s Sunday in the Opus household, and M.P. is vexed with her father.
Not all of summer recess can be beautiful.

Coggs Opus is a difficult man to reckon with.
His grasp of argument is iron-clad,
and he’s not given to the premature release of that which he captures.

M.P. exhales at him over toast and orange juice.
Serenely applying a thick layer of marmalade to his slice, he acknowledges her displeasure with a steady glance.

“Yes?”

She stages a mini mental chess game to judge the potential outcome of an altercation.
Conclusion: she will not be named victor.

Another sigh.
Loaded.

“Nothing.”

He returns to chewing, infallible.