hirmutada.

The patients are silent.

Something must be afoot; the patients are never silent.

The Doctor supposes it must be her presence here.

They don’t like her.

They don’t trust her.

He’s not sure he does either.

She hasn’t spoken a word since she arrived.

Perhaps she simply brought the silence with her.

“...list this woman as armed and dangerous.”

The Doctor flicks off the television, shaking his head sadly.

“This is what happens when treatment goes rogue.”

He forgets where he is.

The passing mumbled admonishing remark elicits a glare from her.

Hate. Then, mockingly:

“I know. The apothecary always knows best.”

He sighs.

There’s much work to be done.

This will be one for the books.

gauner.

WE INTERRUPT THIS PROGRAM TO BRING YOU BREAKING NEWS.

According to our sources, a woman known only by the moniker ‘The Mistress’ is now wanted by federal authorities for attempted murder. 

The victim, a man called The Master, was found earlier this afternoon.

Details of the crime have not yet been released, but authorities have already declared Mistress their prime suspect. On the screen is the number of the tip line police have opened specifically for this case. Any information regarding this crime, The Mistress, or her whereabouts should be directed there. Be warned: police list this woman as armed and dangerous.

ferino.

Life in the dark takes some getting used to.
After the first week or so, the eyes adjust.
A month into it, total acclimation is achieved.

At this point, it would not be inaccurate to compare The Often Orphan to a raccoon. 

Surprise is the natural reaction when light pierces Orphan’s pitch-black normality. 
The tall, fair creature standing in it is even more of an intrigue.

Orphan’s sister, ever-trusting and curious to a fault, gives in and breaks from his side.
Stupid female.
There were lessons about this.
Never trust the blonde ones. 

The Often Orphan readies his javelin hand, in case the fair one produces a lollipop.

inesperado.

Lazy southern Sundays aren’t always a bowl of cherries.
There comes a time when a body just needs a little mayhem.

Honora fidgets. 
This rocker is not, in actuality, anywhere near as comfortable as it looks. 
In fact, after calculating in the mosquitoes, the decidedly un-comfy rocking chair, and the muggy heat, the only really enjoyable part of this stereotype is the sweet tea.

She takes hers to the cellar.
The comfort of the underground chill always wins.

Sprawled on the floor next to the drainpipe, she isn’t prepared for it.

“Who are you?”

Honora jumps approximately 4.6 feet.
The little girl just cocks her head.

Since when do good Southern families keep small children in cellars?

terga.

Honora entered in the middle of the story.
Now she gets to be the one who works everything out via an oversized narrative monologue.

Read:
The Mistress won’t be heard from for a while.
She’s off listening somewhere.

The Master is licking his wounds in the recovery ward.
Hedge helps him get the bandage fuzz off of his tongue. 

Liege still plays in his sandbox, bubbling and brandishing his ever-peaceful beam of a smile at the world.

Swivel hides in dark corners.
With The Mistress gone, his confidence has been reduced to ashy flakes.

Elsie & Enna thought they owned their new house.
They were incorrect; they’re still in escrow. 

The neighborhood needs a newspaper.

ata.

Skye is dancing.

Liege leads.

It works perfectly, despite his small stature.

The Mistress stares in open astonishment.

Skye hasn’t danced a step in almost five years.

Her waltz is flawless.

The diamonds on her character shoes glint in the studio light as they glance off The Master’s broken limbs.

Hairline fractures.

For now.

His hands clutch tufts of Hedge’s feathers. 

Neither are completely incapacitated as of yet; the applicable phrase is “in hot water.”

Skeeter’s been bound & gagged- he’s old news.

Swivel will be his cellmate. 

All characters accounted for, the dance whirls on.

Skye is has been will be

^ dances.

ocito.

CAST: The Mistress
         Grier

SETTING: the unassuming street corner in Everytown where these uncomfortable-though-well-meaning confrontations inevitably occur.



“Obviously?”

“Yeah...? Obviously.”

“Obviously!?”

“God, yes, OBVIOUSLY. It’s an adverb. Get the fuck over it. That’s not even the point. Stop side-stepping.”

[Scathingly]“You don’t know shit about me, alright? JESUS H. CHRIST. Obviously. Hell. ”

[After watching her stalk away, he now knows that heels were meant to be turned on. He runs his hands through his hair and expels his responsibility with his air, but can’t quite manage to expirate his frustration. It begins to rain. He doesn’t notice, and lights up again. Contemplative/concerned look: he knows something is off. Knows.]

“Obviously...”