Allison had always been a bit ambivalent toward clothing. Which was good, as she hadn’t really had any say in what she wore for many years; she wore what her parents thought would make the best impression, which often meant uncomfortable, and always meant perfect condition. No worn spots, no stains, no tears, nothing that could indicate the clothes had ever before touched a human being. When she’d finally gotten the right to choose her own pajamas, she’d defiantly chosen the most worn-looking things she could find, and worn the outfit every night for the next four years. Softest clothes she’d ever had, but definitely the ugliest, too, by the time she finally gave up on them. She’d eventually moved to New York, and finally been able to choose everything she wore--at least, most of the time--and delighted in the options, even if her choices still all but matched what her parents would have dictated.

The destruction days had changed that. Clothing suddenly stopped mattering for impressions; it was for protection and protection only, and everyone knew it. Allison could wear whatever she felt like, and while the environment might kill her for it, no human would care.

…Well. Most of the humans were dead, anyway, but the surviving ones didn’t care either.

Eventually Allison began associating attractive clothing with the past, though, and purely practical clothing with the post-destruction world, though, and began missing it. Sure, the past had had plenty of problems, and the present had its benefits (mainly, not having to worry about her appearance at all times), but the past had been fun, too. And easier, in most ways. So she began figuring out subtle ways to adjust her post-destruction clothes to be just a bit nicer, mainly through the addition of loose bits of fabric. Pants and a sleeveless shirt (or vest, perhaps; who knew) were accented with what technically were just pieces of fabric, wrapped and tied to make a knee-length skirt and sleeves that might have imitated a bell shape over her hands, and then the entire mess was filled with brightly colored inks, which probably would have created much too bright a tie dye effect if they weren’t all dulled by dust.

Allison’s attempts weren’t necessarily successful, but she was at least noticeable. And the attempts gave her some kind of connection to the memories she had of the pre-destruction world, helped to reassure her that the entire thing wasn’t just her imagination, and it really had existed. Why that mattered was a question she hadn’t yet bothered to ask herself.

Still, though, Allison’s quest to keep something from history at least reassured her, and so she’d spent several days debating with herself before finally going in search of Queen Maxine. She wasn’t sure her idea was something the Queen would entirely approve of, or that Aura would if Queen Maxine did, but it was the closest she could get to what she wanted. And asking never hurt, anyway.

Well. As long as the asking didn’t involve males, or allowing said males into the fortress. That was not to be asked about.

Queen Maxine was in the kitchen, drinking what was probably coffee. Allison didn’t really bother to keep track of what there was to drink; coffee in particular she’d avoided when possible since shortly after the destruction days. It just wasn’t able to compare.

Allison waited a moment, looking over the room. The table was clean, relatively, as were bowls and cups and counters. Princess Rex… had been hunting again, and was on the ceiling, well out of Allison’s reach, with her most recent kill. Which Princess Rex was… playing with, it looked like; at least she was jerking it around oddly. Allison really wasn’t sure how paperclip princesses played. The nail was still glinting from Queen Maxine’s boot, and Allison still wasn’t quite sure that queens were really supposed to be wearing boots, with or without nails, but she was sure they were supposed to do what they decided they wanted to do. And, anyway, Queen Maxine was smart; Allison was willing to trust that she knew what she was doing.

And Allison was stalling. “Queen? Are you busy?”

Stupid question. But an easy one.

It wasn't a kill. To be a kill, it would have to be dead: to be dead, it would have to not be rolling its eyes in terror, its legs kicking out spastically now and then, its breathing the slow-labored breaths of utter exhaustion.

Octosaurus Rex tended to go missing for days at a time, these days; where it went, Maxine had no idea—it was outside of her range of sensing.

Wherever it was, they had deer.

Kick.

Cute, little deer. Like Bambi. It was spring, and she seemed to remember that fawns were the kind of idiots who curled up in a spot of grass and trusted in predators not to see them.

Kick, kick.

How exactly Rex 'saw,' she'd never figured out. But apparently little white spots on your rump weren't good camouflage against it.

Kick, kick, jerk.

Maxine sipped her coffee. It was watery; it was more off-white than brown; it was the unholy offspring of her last three beans of Colombian coffee and a packet of ground cappuccino grit she'd been saving.

Wibble.

But it had caffeine. And sometimes, that's what a Queen needs in her morning, before ordering the execution of Bambi.

"Not at all, Allison. Is Aura awake yet?" It would probably be best to have this thing skinned before Katrina woke up. Honestly, that girl was so soft, she was just waiting to get eaten alive.

Wibble wibble leg wave.

...Though not as literally as some.

“I don’t think so.” Allison was sure she wasn’t, in fact, and not inclined to question that certainty. She’d already hesitated for much longer than she wanted to. She glanced up at Princess Rex, then dragged her attention back to Queen Maxine. Cute animals had ceased to have an impact on Allison’s emotions since the destruction days, even if they looked like they’d been terrified when they died. Mostly, anyway.

“I… was wondering….” Allison had, many years ago in high school, when there was such a thing as high school, been associated with her school’s debate team. Not joined it, since that would have meant actual debating, but been associated with it, so she hung out with the club and was friends with the members and, most importantly, the teacher, so she could learn how to speak clearly and precisely and convincingly, no matter what she was actually saying. The lessons had been useful, and she’d adopted a (very) toned down version as her normal speech.

Emotions, though? Emotions destroyed all that without noticing it existed, and left her speaking entirely too fast, with words blended together or cut off, higher pitch, and the occasional stutter. Which Allison hated to think of as a stutter, her voice just… turned off, occasionally, and she had to start again. Repeatedly. “Could… I… was wondering, if I… if Aura and I could marryeachother?” And wow, Allison had thought she’d stopped blushing months ago. Apparently it had all been saving up for now. “And, um, if we can, could you marry us? Queen Maxine? Please? I… haven’t talked to Aura yet, I wanted to be sure it was okay with you… please?”

Allison was going to have to practice speaking before she asked Aura. If Queen Maxine said she could, anyway.

(Continued from [AoS] Waking Up is a Nightmare)

Katrina tried to steer clear of people on Saturdays. She figured if she just stayed in her room all day she could deal with the aftermath of her dreams on her own and the rest of the Amazons wouldn't think she had completely cracked.

Unfortunately, she still had to eat.

Pajamas askew and hair in tangles, Katrina half stumbled, half fell out of her room. The door frame had tripped her. The wolfhound that only she could see whined and nosed at her to see if she was alright.

“I'm okay, I'm fine,” the illusionist told the dog. She then gave the door frame a suggestion for keeping itself busy until she got back; it wasn't a very polite suggestion. The door frame grinned wider as if to say, But it wouldn't be as much without you.

It was just a few steps to the kitchen, where the ink manipulator and the queen sat at the kitchen table. A muscular red man with a monkey tail lounged in a chair next to them, completely disregarding the rule that boys were not allowed in the house. Maxine and Allison ignored him as if he wasn't there at all. He ignored them, too, carefully flipping through the pages of his giant tome one at a time.

Hanging from the ceiling, a paperclip octopus tortured a baby deer to death.

Katrina smiled to those whom she was fairly certain were real, namely the two Amazon women, and ignored the rest. The greyhound, being a figment of her imagination didn't care about such distinctions. He gave a liberal sniffing in the direction of the dying deer and the paperclip beast that was toying with it, then trotted over to beg for scratches from the overly large red mutant man.

The big guy closed his book, which she could now see was titled Dreams, and pouted at Katrina when she didn't give him a smile, too, “What, no hello for your old friend Morpheus?”

“Hello,” she greeted the room in general, then opened the cupboard to see what was inside.

There was a whole box of pop tarts. That. Was too good to be true. The illusionist pushed the box aside and grabbed for something more realistic for their kitchen.

Breakfast in hand, she waved her goodbyes and made her way back to her bedroom for a day of avoiding people while she waited for all the hallucinations to fade.

“Sweet dreams,” Morpheus called after from the kitchen.

Friday nights.

Still worth it.

(Back to [AoS] A Time and Place For Us)

The Dumonde girl freaked her out, on a very basic level. It wasn't an every day thing; usually, she was just like having an annoying little girl around who you had to keep earmuffs on so the big girls could talk about—gasp—thievery and murder. No offense to Kaitlyn; that was a little girl who made little girls everywhere look good. Katrina's post-apocalyptic brand of pacifism got on Maxine's nerves. But it didn't freak her out.

What sent wary cold fingers down her spine, what made her keep an eye on the girl until she trundled her way back upstairs, was the way the blonde's gaze moved around the room: the way those gray eyes seemed to give equal weight to Amazons and empty chairs, the way she walked like the ground was moving, the way she pushed air out of the way in the cabinet before grabbing her breakfast down.

Some mornings, Maxine got the impression that Katrina was more unstable than Aura. And that, ladies? That freaked her out.

The blonde disappeared back upstairs.

...So. Where were they—

Marriage. Had Allison asked her to...?

"Well it's about damn time." The Amazon kept her squees on the inside, as any proper queen would; her grin was not so easily restrained. She set her mug on the table, stood up, and tried to catch her fellow redhead up in a hug.

"Of course I will! When do you want the ceremony? Where do you want it? Do we have to steal you up a wedding dress?"

And something old, something new, something "borrowed"...