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Maxine blinked first; snerked second.

"Gawain," she said, resting a lazy arm over the back of the couch, "you were mirror walking to the Mansion and you ended up in my studio? Now I admit, I'm not the expert on your power... but isn't that impossible? Don't you usually straight-line it?" She grinned. "There's this crazy new thing that kids are doing these days. It's called a 'practical joke.' I don't suppose you've ever heard of good little Mansion-mutants ever pulling one of those, have you?" She didn't suppose any of them had been sitting in the living room, laughing as he stumbled out, either.

She grinned even harder, and sidled a little bit closer. "You know what we should do? Mirror walk on back, find out who did it, and haunt their reflection. Or maybe just drop Rex on their head."

Her guess was an illusionist. Or some kind of mind-manipulator: they'd certainly done a number on the Prince of Orkney, here. Which had led to her getting chocolate and a boy on her couch... Really, these Mansion kids weren't so bad.

"All right, that should stay on," the redhead said, adjusting a clip-on microphone to the esteemed Mr. Vice's suit lapel. "Say something."

He flashed a smile, with sharper than average teeth. "Something."

She smirked a little; a that's cute. "A little more. Give us a sound bite. How long have you worked with Edict?"

"You could say it runs in the family." His smile got wider, if anything.

Maxine turned to Vicente. "How's that sound?" Re-adjustments and more sound bites followed, stopping just before it became absurd. Her own microphone was awfully tricky, too—they used a different model out here on the West Coast, you know. Not at all like in New York. This was clearly not a stall tactic, as her endless stream of casual banter clearly demonstrated.

"All right, you're all set. Let's get your friend hooked up—"

The man waved both hand and monkey tail in joint dismissal. "Don't worry about Minstrel. I'll be doing the talking."

The other man, still at his spot by Vicente and the door, hummed a little louder as if in reply. The song sounded familiar—it wormed its way into the back of her mind, like something half-remembered.

"Well," Maxine said, her stalling at an end. "I suppose we can get started—"

Tail and one finger twitched upwards. "A moment," the black haired man said. "First, a few questions for you, Ms. Ralls."

She raised an eyebrow, but could see nothing particularly sinister in his smile. Or his first question.

"What's your full name?"

"Maxine Ralls," she said, bemused.

His tail gave an ah-ah-ah twitch where it lazily draped over the back of his chair. "I said your full name, Maxine."

She rolled her eyes. "Maxine Meredith Ralls." Meredith: some great aunt's name, who had died before she was old enough to remember. She'd never really liked the name—too old fashioned.

"Is the sky green?"

Her lips quirked. "Not usually. Is this going somewhere...?"

"Just one more," he smiled back. "Where's the Morris child that flew in with you?"

"In the building," she answered, "looking for his mother. Will that be all, Mr. Vice, or is it my turn now?" She asked, with an indulgent sort of tone. His smile really was cute; those teeth could be a problem, though. Note to self: be careful when frenching.

His tail lazily curled from the tip. "By all means, Maxine. I'd say this interview is ready to begin."

Minstrel's low hum wrapped around the room. Her mind reached towards it, twined with it—if only she could place it. It was such a nice song.

Oh, his harsh tone; oh, her poor weaker sex self. His words were completely unjust, as anyone could clearly see from the indignation that showed through her tears.

"At the time, dear—" She began her scathing rejoinder.

>> " I don’t know what you’re differences are but I do know that the two of you came together for a reason, and if you can’t remember that reason then you have no business being here!”

Well that shut them up. And the rest of the church, too. Who'd have thought the old man had it in him? Maxine counted herself impressed.

She turned back to the young man in front of her. His own words were cold, but a good actress didn't need extras to carry the show. Her green eyes softened; impish lines creased at their edges, squeezing the last tears out.

"I say screw it. Let's go to Vegas."

She took her man's hand, and made to march him straight out of that church and down a rent-an-alter. Or as far as she could get him past the doors, before she burst out laughing.

"...For tonight?" She repeated, taking the chocolate in her hands and turning it over and over. Brand: within acceptable price range. Not too cheap, not 'you owe me a baby' expensive. Recommended serving size: one piece. Pfft; she could write her own recommendations, thanks. She was a professional.

"For toni... Ha!" Box and arms leapt around his neck. "Wasn't it great? They're going to replay it on the seven o'clock news. And the ten!" Which was a fantastic time slot, really. It already felt nostalgic.

She wiggled back to the floor, took a second to steady herself on his shoulder (his nicely firm, manly-until-midnight shoulder), and grinned.

"I'm not drunk, I'm victorious." She corrected him, with a pat on his growing-boy chest. "Stay! Watch! Celebrate! It's all thanks to you, you know."

As questionable as that Seattle trip had been for useable journalistic results, it had been written down on her quarterly performance review as showing bold initiative. It was that kind of praise that landed a girl her first prime-time segment.

Maxine thought of them as professional runners. Like professional bikers—the ones that went peddling past on bikes with ergonomic handlebars, in skin-tight black-and-neon clothes, wearing aerodynamic helmets and wrap-around sunglasses. That type. Runners had their own parallel. The uniform wasn't quite as codified, but there were some common signs, if a girl new what to look for.

Specially marketed jogger's utility belt, available at your local sporting goods store? Check.

Carried their own water supply? Reverse osmosis in sleek aluminum water bottles on the high end, plastic bottles of spring water on the low? Check and check again; the blonde had more than one. A regular camel, she was. (Camels—they were blonde and leggy, too.)

Jogged compulsively everyday for a week—sometimes more than once a day—then disappeared again until after the next Turkey Straight-to-Thighs Day or New Doomed Resolution Year? Survey results were still out on that one, but this was the first time Maxine had crossed paths with this gal, and it was suspiciously soon after a certain holiday.

Honestly, she was surprised the woman didn't have one of those little ipods strapped to her arm, too.

For herself, Maxine was completely proud of her ratty, worn-every-day scrub pants and old-boyfriend-theft hoodie. Her little fanny pack with its camera, pepper spray, and apartment keys was a purely practical accessory. She didn't carry water—she wasn't too good to drink from the fountains that littered every park in New York City. Not like the professional runner, here.

And what was this? A pleasant conversation?

The redhead could play that game, too. "Oh, now and again," she answered with cheerful modesty. "You're not so bad yourself," camel woman,. "When did you start?" Yesterday?

Something professional runners just didn't get: running wasn't about had work and breaking past walls. It was about doing that so regularly you made it look easy.

She felt a sudden cold wind on the back of her neck: Rex had grabbed her ponytail, and was braiding it together with the hat's tassel strings on top of her head. ...There was no easy-looking way to stop him mid-stride, so she just smiled the pleasant smile of a woman who didn't want to kill her mutation, and pulled just a little bit further ahead.

The five o'clock news. The time of day when America's average man-woman-and-child were just getting home from the office, play rehearsals, soccer games. The time they were just turning their televisions on, looking for something to gently anesthetize their brains before Autistic Doctor, Singing High School, or This is the Best America Can Sing. Where did they turn? To TVs original reality television: Wolf News.

The five o'clock news, live from New York. Not the ten o'clock news, with a pre-tapped segment. She wasn't dressed up like the poster girl for fan service, but was wearing a tastefully tailored skirt suit with a tastefully flashy blue blouse. This was it. She'd wedged her foot into the door of real broadcast journalism. She'd made it: now she just needed to convince the rest of the world to let her in.

The redhead took a deep breath. The cameraman—a professional, not an intern she'd dragged away from making coffee, or a lion shifter who got car sick—flashed her a thumbs up. You can do it.

Of course she could. She was Maxine Ralls, and she was going to nail this thing to the church doors.

"—now to Maxine, for a surprising development in our ongoing coverage of the M epidemic."

She smiled; she put her papers down, and folded her hands over them; she positively oozed confidence over the table and into homes all over the East Coast. "Thank you, Gerald. In tonight's top story, I present to you a torrid drama of love and betrayal, murder and drugs, unanswered questions and—Gawain?"

Maxine stared. Cameras stared. Gawain stared. In the sudden silence, all she could think to say was, "You're standing in front of my camera."

"...You know him?" Her co-anchor asked, with the sound of her career sliding back to the 10 o'clock slot.