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Octosaurus Rex sliiiid (CLUNK), sliiiiid (CLUNK), sliiiiiid (CLUNK) himself (and his napkin dispenser) across the ground, clinging to the edge of the path as if he were about to sulk into the bushes at any moment. Maxine soundly ignored him. Her new found ice cream philanthropist was not so wise.

>> "Um, he doesn't want anything does he?"

“Only your soul,” she replied, with a dismissive flick of her wrist. “Don’t give it to him. He’s spoiled enough as it is.”

Then there was chocolate dipping and three scoops in a sugar cone being handed across the counter to her. The chocolate wasn’t even fully hardened yet—it still had the liquid wax look, that was so deliciously tempting to lick. She resisted, knowing full well that chocolate dips were best for crunching. Particularly when there were almonds involved. Also, sprinkles. She accepted her treat with both hands, and took a happy step back, allowing Juka room to order.

Juka did not order, though.

And something settled on her shoulder, with an affectionate nudge at her neck.

Maxine cast a suspicious look down. The purple pen tilted its cap inquisitively up. The vendor politely found something else to stare at, and Juka wibbled. Well. She should have seen this coming.

Quite literally—she had a sight, or a touch, or a feel, or a something-or-another for the office supplies she could affect. Like any other sense, though, it worked about as well as the attention it was paid. Maxine’s Good Day did not include paying attention to all the pens that passed by, trapped in purses and pockets; therefore, she’d been ignoring them.

Therefore, she now had a wild pen on her shoulder. That was life. Her narrowed eyes relaxed into quasi-innocent orbs.

“Friend of yours?” She asked, with a sweet blink at Juka.

The red head spoke not a word about her knight’s seating choice—or lack thereof. She simply returned his approving once-over with a grin, and mimed a curtsy. Just like a proper little lady.

Rex, meanwhile, was burrowing between and beneath the couch cushions. Excellent: that would keep him distracted for a while.

>> "We most definitely shall, my lady."

“Let’s be off then, Good Sir.” she proclaimed, kidnapping his hand in a march towards the door. Her fleece coat was grabbed on the way, and a school of paperclips shaken out of the sleeve and shooed off towards her bedroom. A black pen tried to settle in her Knight’s hair. That was fine—Poe was allowed to come. He was a well-behaved song pen, not a tentacled menace. Just as long as they got out of here before Rex noticed the great escape, they were golden.

With that in mind: Maxine kidnapped his hand straight out the apartment door, and over to the staircase. Stairs: they got her out of an octoclip’s range much more quickly than the elevator.

“Race you to the bottom, good Sir Knight.” The damsel gave a grin. Then she was off. Stair racing in two inch heels: only for the pros, kids.

>> "You are such a darling wonderful woman. Truly you are worthy of both my company and the ice cream which I will generously offer to buy you."

He had her at ‘offer to buy you.’ Any man-creature in a woman-dress who offered to buy her iced treats was, without a doubt, a friend Maxine was willing to keep. At least until said deserts had disappeared again, or someone she knew came along and started raising eyebrows.

Valiantly, she led the way to the ice cream stand. (Less valiantly, she felt Rex behind her, dragging himself somewhere to sulk—probably under the bench. Or into the bushes behind the bench. From the heavy way he moved, she presumed he took his napkin-teddy with him.)

So. Many. Flavors. Apparently they’d imported some kind of Japanese ice cream machine—instead of the usual American set up, where the machine came stocked with x or y flavors and couldn’t make anything else without being cleaned out and switched over, they had all the flavors in little cups, ready to be loaded in cartridge-style and twirled out in proper soft serve form. It let them keep a glorious mix-and-match of flavors in stock. Naturally, there were toppings, and a display of hard serve ice cream, as well. (With rather fewer flavors, but excellent options.)

Having already had her soft serve, it was to the display of open ice cream tubs that the red head gravitated. Something nutty? Something chocolaty? Something with caramel swirls?

Something with someone else buying, so something with three scoops?

Three big scoops.

She nodded, mind clearly decided, and turned to the woman waiting behind the counter. “I,” she declared, “will have a sugar cone with one scoop of fudge-ripple cookies and cream, one scoop of raspberry truffle vanilla, and one scoop of black walnut caramel. Dipped in chocolate, please. With almonds on top.” A moment of contemplation: “Also, sprinkles.”

A sweet smile over at her patron, as she waited to see what he would have.

>> "As such I still have no ice cream."

That was a tragedy. That was a tragedy Maxine could relate to: her own cone had disappeared, somewhere between her mouth and belly. Ice cream: it was not a subject one should take lightly.

“You poor, poor man,” she said. “Come, Juka. We shall fix this at once.”

She didn’t go so far as to wrap her arm around his and drag him off to the ice cream cart; he was still a bubbly man in a dress. There was something too perfect about him that did not invite casual pouncing: it would be like turning a Ming vase into a piñata. She did, however, take strides to lead their march.

Maxine’s checklist.

1) Octosaurus Rex tricked inside of her fish tank, along with the paperclip minnows. Tank lid sealed. Strong magnets put on bottom.

Check.

2) Camera checked and double-checked for battery life and fresh cassette. It was an old one: it still took videos. Actual videos, as in, video tapes. She was still an intern, and this wasn’t exactly a career making interview: that was all the station had been willing to comp her. The techies promised it worked.

Check.

3) Dress shirt ironed. Black nylons inspected for any runs, any starts of runs, any snags, any snags waiting to happen. Suit coat and jacket hung up in the shower, to steam out wrinkles.

Check.

4) Song pens trained. A process that had started well over a two weeks ago, before she knew how she’d pull this off.

...Almost.

“Which one, Poe?” She asked, standing patiently over the photo array. All were in color: all were arranged in a loose grid. Some were men, some women: similarities blurred, and differences jarred.

On her shoulder, a black BIC pen pointed his cap towards the array. A moment of studying: then, with a dive, he landed point-down on his target.

The police chief.

“Good boy,” she crooned, tickling his cap as he flew back to his perch. She quickly re-arranged the pictures. “Polly. You’re up.”

The red pen tucked behind her left ear took much, much longer. It bobbed up and down indecisively: then, with a flutter, it left its perch to tap lightly at a photo.

Conner Smith. Beat officer, on his second year out of the academy.

“Close, but not quite.” She tapped at a photo up towards the corner: Conner Smith, aged twenty or thirty years. Daddy Smith was a detective in the Mutant and Mutant-Related Crimes division; MMRC. The Mercy. The red pen tried scuttling to her purse; she scooped it back out, to let it know it was being silly. “Either would be interesting. Just do your best.”

The photos got switched around again.

“Zim. Which one?”

No hesitation. The green pen launched itself out of her hair, and tapped its target smugly before returning to its perch.

Her garbage man.

“...Just do your best,” she repeated, wearily.

A half hour later, Maxine Ralls parked her bike outside of the police station, and unstrapped the old camera from the basket. Four pens rode innocuously in her purse; her very normal, not-paperclip-covered purse. Poe, Polly, Zim, and one wild pen. Just in case she actually needed to write.

As she stepped into the station, every pen within twenty feet of her came alive. Some clattered, caged, in desk drawers: others took off from pencil holders, desks tops, and out of loosened hands. Her three little invaders detached themselves (Zim, only after Poe had cap-pecked him) and joined the suddenly swirling flock as they rose towards the ceiling. Her wild one lunched up to claim the coveted ear perch; she gave him a pat, and kept walking towards the front desk.

“Good morning,” she said, producing an ID and a smile for the suddenly cautious man. “Maxine Ralls. Wolf News. I have an interview scheduled with Ms. Elli Fletcher. Has she arrived, yet?”

>> "Oh, my dearest, you had me there for a minute. What a darling little creature he is though."

This guy was for real. Wow. Maybe that should have sunk in a bit sooner: the dress, the foreign accent, the floating. The expression of near-delight as Rex indirectly wished death upon him. The giggling. The believing her.

Yeah: this guy was for real.

“You aren’t from New York, are you?” She asked, in that tone it would take someone who wasn’t ‘not from New York’ to fully appreciate. Not that Maxine was, herself: she’d been born and raised outside of Philly, in Pensy. Apparently, though, she was more of a
New Yorker than this guy was.

>> "But do you think, lovely paperclip girl, that you could remove your charming pet so that I might dismiss my bubble? People appear to be staring. ...It is my absolute pleasure to meet you Maxine. I am Juka Miami."

...All right. For that bow, she could be convinced to move from her seat. Juka Miami, huh? He was cute. Like a baby rabbit in the Cat Lady’s house.

Maxine move over, and stretched up her hand. “Down, Rex.” The octoclip kept thrashing the air and its bubbly foe: the red head narrowed her eyes. “Octosaurus Rex,” she snapped, “you get down from there right this second, or I’m sticking you to the refrigerator magnets when we get home.”

The thrashing came to a wary stop. The octoclip’s tentacles wiggled against the bubble’s top. Then, with all due sulking, it slid down the back of the bubble and to the ground. Maxine dropped her hand with a glare: it crawled in a wide circle around her, and returned to its napkin dispenser to defiantly brood.

Well then. Good. She turned back to the transvestite’s bubble, with a tight smile. “All better,” she declared.