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.

zadano.

“Only the good die young, they say. Such a fucking user-friendly equation: be a dick, live a long life. Works for me.”

Sphinx files her nails as she spews her justifications.
Skeeter doesn’t mind, so long as she cleans up after herself.
Literally and figuratively.

“This is bullshit.”

She looks up, only playing at surprise.

“Yeah.”

He yawns. 

“I mean, not like I care, y’know? But it is.”

She doesn’t even glance at him this time, instead working determinedly at changing the shape of her pinky nail from square to round.

“I know. You don’t care about anything.”

He can’t argue, so he throws a shrug her way.
Lady has a point.

etkezo.

Sphinx is one sly dog, and fully aware of the contradiction embodied in that statement. 

Contradictions are kind of her thing.
Her life is basically a bad syllogism.

She waits for The Master to figure out what he wants, flipping the pages of her notepad impatiently. 
Personally, she doesn’t think that’s ever going to happen.
Probably not even possible.

She’d pity him, but he’s a jerk most of the time. 
He comes in weekly, and only ever orders coffee.
It’s gotten old.

God, he takes forever.
She plots her next conquest in the down time, until he speaks the words she already knows he’ll say.

Fucking French roast.
Minus the expletive.

catallanma.

Chimaera scoffs.
His derision isn’t directed at anything in particular.
He just scoffs.

His mother used to say he was neither flesh nor fowl nor good red herring.
She also used to say his father wasn’t drunk, he was tired.

Sphinx inspects his expression with a weathered, but curious, eye.

“You in there, hon?”

He grimaces. A linguistic paradise Long Island is not. 

“...So?”

Not even bothering to look at the application she’s already thrown aside, Sphinx blows a bubble at him and pops it with her tongue.

“You’re good. But something’s missing.” She cocks her head at him, sizing him up. “You need a stage name.”

The answer comes immediately.

“The Red Herring.”

Ingenious.