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"A lot...?" Maxine said, poking at the ice in her new drink with the cherry's stem. One by one, she held them underwater, trapping them until they could bob their way free.

When he said it, it was such a bad thing: a lot to deal with, like it was some kind of burden.

That wasn't right.

When she'd woken up this morning, it wasn't baggage she'd been carrying. She'd felt good; she'd felt strong. Sitting here in her living room, under lights powered by reliable electricity, with the hum of cars outside, it was easy to make it out as a horror story: Young woman survives in apocalypse! Mental scaring results, but she soldiers on anyway!

What had really happened to her, though?

She'd been taught a lesson early, and she'd taken it to heart. She'd survived when most of the world crawled under rocks and died. More than survived: the Amazons had thrived. The apocalypse had been run by the big boys, and she'd been alpha bitch among them. There were things she would change, if it all came true tomorrow, but really, what the hell? She'd kept her people safe. That, she'd do again any day, apocalypse be damned.

Gawain just hadn't made it that far. When he'd died, society's corpse was still bleeding on the ground. She'd made a fortress of its bones. He hadn't been through it; he couldn't understand.

That wasn't his fault; it was hers.

"Yeah. I guess you're right," she tipped her glass back, and took a long cold swallow. Then she put the pillow she'd been hugging down, and scooched her way over to his side of the couch.

"You're a good listener. Thank you." For giving her the chance to be a Queen. Maybe one day, she'd be able to return the favor.

Maxine leaned over, and kissed him on the cheek.

'Not necessary,' her white-clad rear. This was Celeste's house. It might be a little bigger than she remembered—a little more well carpeted and catered, more spacious and better manned—but it was still Celeste's. Who had ever come to Celeste's home empty-handed?

And as a girl gave, so she would receive:

"I don't know what real is," she said. "I know it happened; I know everyone who was there seems to remember something. But it's not... it won't really happen. There have been shared dreams like this before; the last one didn't really happen." By the end of that statement, she was talking with all the confidence of a queen, or of a reporter. There really wasn't much difference between the two.

"Are these Forzieri?" She squealed, unable to resist just a little peep under the lid of her gift. "God, I haven't seen a pair of these in—"

In years? No, since last week, when she was at the mall.

The apocalypse might not have been real, but it had happened.

"Ha!" She laughed, when she'd peeked in on Rex's gift. "I think you just found the world's first octopus sweater." It was like a sweater for one of those annoying little dogs, but so much more terrifying to see crawling over the sidewalk towards you.

She hugged the girl. "Thank you, Celeste. It's good to see you."

So far, so good at this party. Isabel hadn't yet stabbed her yet; since she knew from experience just how well the bonemancer could aim her knives, that must mean that at least for now, they were putting aside their present differences. Somewhat. Maybe she shouldn't test this theory, without back up. Was Allison here yet? Or Katrina, or Kaitlyn, Kate—hold up, how many K-names had been in the Amazons, anyway? It really did sound like a dream.

...Had the giant lizard been in it? Wow. Well all right, then. Her eyes kept scanning the thin crowd, looking for others she recog—

Haaaaa. Was that...? He was shorter; more well dressed, but with the same scruffy hair. She couldn't tell from here, but she was reasonably certain his shoes matched now, as well. No dogs, no grime, no gun, but still: there was something in that boyish walk that called to her, even from across the room. That said, 'easy mark, come and take me.'

"Miles!" The redhead shouted, lifting up a hand to beckon him over towards her and Celeste.

"When you've got a cameraman that looks like that, why pick anyone else?" Maxine grinned, whispering right on back as Gabriel did the final checks. Not that she intended to get too chummy with the X-girl, just... she could appreciate a girl who could appreciate a man.

"Why don't you take a seat? Just keep your eyes on me or Gabriel when we start; don't worry about the camera. Ready?"

Gabriel gave them a thumb's up; they were good to good. Maxine tossed the skirt to him, took her own seat, and pointed a pleasant smile at the lens.

"This is Maxine Ralls, Wolf News. With me tonight is our very own hometown super hero, Lodestone of the X-Men."

"Lodestone, let's start easy, with something I'm sure all the regulars out in the audience have always wondered—how does a super hero pick their name?"

She wasn't cheerfully acting as if the world hadn't ended; she was acting cheerful because it had. And not all of them got off easy with it, either: not all of them died a hero at the very start of society's end. Not all of them stayed the person they were, right up until the end. Some of them had to live. Not just live—survive.

Would Gawain have stayed a hero, with a few more years of apocalypse under his belt?

That was exactly the kind of question liquor was made to answer.

Maxine pulled bottle after bottle out of the bags, lining them up in no clear order on the table top. Rum, vodka, scotch, tequila... it was a regular party on her table, and just the two of them invited.

"If this is the worst thing I ever do, I'll be a happy woman." She said, pulling a dusty blender out of her cabinet. "Do you have any idea how to mix drinks?"

She certainly didn't. Up until ten minutes ago, the strongest thing in her apartment was a few stray beers in the fridge. It couldn't be that hard though, could it? She had frozen fruit and ice in the fridge for all things girlie, sprite and coke for all things not, and more booze than Zephyr's bar. Drinking: it was going to happen.

Honestly, in what way was this a bad idea?

It was a bad idea. She would just turn around, and—

She was an Amazon. An Amazon Queen. Amazons didn't just run away, tails between their legs; not if they wanted something. Why would they?

Oh, right. Because she wasn't an Amazon Queen. She was just the person that everyone remembered as the Amazon Queen. The person getting funny looks on the streets from people she hadn't ever met.

...Though she did remember roughing a few of them up.

Maxine was a block from Celeste's bunker, leaning against a neighborhood fence, chewing her bottom lip. She'd gone with white: a knee length white halter dress. Very Marilyn Monroe. It seemed like the way to go. Her usual preference for parties was red—it was her color. Really, though, it didn't seem like the statement she was going for in this crowd. ("Red, boys and girls: the color of your blood, on me. Remember that? You squirmed so cute.") Black was a girl's usual fallback, if red was a no go, but it just wasn't the image she was going for tonight. ("Black. You know, like my soul?") So white it was; white like a fresh slate, like I'm-not-that-girl, like please-don't-hurt-me.

This was a bad idea.

She wasn't an Amazon. She certainly wasn't a Queen. She wasn't even sure that her girls would be on her side, if they saw her now. Isabel? Oh yeah, real big fan of hers, back in the present time. And what did she have to defend herself with? A box of paperclips in her purse and a can of mace? Her paper dogs didn't exist yet, and she'd left Rex at home—somehow, letting loose an uncontrollable paperclip octopus in a room where tensions might be high had seemed like a bad idea. Worse than showing her face here in the first place.

She would just turn around, go back down the steps, and take the next train. That's what she would do. She wasn't an Amazon.

She was Maxine Ralls.

And damn it, she wasn't going to live in fear of bumping into complete strangers on the street. She was going to get this over with, and do it in style.

Her heels clicked assertively on the concrete, all the way up to the door of Celeste's home. So that's what it had looked like, before. Swaggy place. There were guards and pop quizzes and everything.

"Really, boys? You're questioning me?" The once and future Queen said, putting on a look half remembered from a dream.

The doors were opened, and a redhead in a white dress walked in like she owned the place. First things first: she spotted their hostess for the evening, and strode over.

"Celeste, darling," Maxine said, presenting a pink shoebox with a bow on top. "I know they're not nearly as hard to come by these days, but it didn't seem right to stop buy without bringing you a little something."

Inside the box was a pair of Prada heels. They might be a little big, though.

God, Celeste was young.

It wasn't real.

But he'd had the same dream. So had... so had that other man. If it wasn't real, somehow, then how—

It wasn't real. Gawain said so. No one was dead because of her; not even him.

It wasn't real. Just this once, the reporter was willing to take his word for it.

Slowly, line by line, the redhead drew herself back together. With one last sniffle, she pushed herself away from his shirt, and got back to being Maxine Ralls, Wolf News reporter.

"So that's where your dream ended? When you—" She ran a quick sleeve over her face; just clearing up a little blurriness. "That's when you woke up? You... didn't see what happened next?"

Her voice was steady again; she was interviewing a witness, that was all.

The redhead visibly bristled as Gawain stepped closer. She drew herself up; her fists balled at her side, her shoulders squared themselves into hard lines—

She crumpled just as quickly, when his lips touched her forehead. She buried her head in his shirt. It was dry and new, fresh from a drawer. He smelled like soap.

Boys in the present time weren't so gross. She was starting to remember why she liked them.

"What was that?" She asked, her voice somewhat muffled—his shirt was comfortable, and the hand in her hair had a nice, steady weight to it; she wasn't in a hurry to leave either of them behind. "It wasn't real, was it? But..."

But she already knew of at least three people who'd shared it, and the morning was still young.

But it couldn't have been real. She wasn't like that. She wouldn't—

"That's not who I am. I would never— Maxine, wait!"

Her hands balled tightly in his shirt. Yes, she was going to just stay right here, for now. Gawain was like a pillow and a safety blanket and a tissue box, all rolled up in one.