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((ooc: This has the potential to be a big ol' brawl thread, so methinks we should do the usual brawl/large party posting system. That is: don't worry about posting order. Every character can post once per day. That way the fast posters won't run loops around everyone else, and the slow posters won't hold anyone up. Feel free to break off into side threads once we get going if you'd like to rapid fire with someone in particular; just post the link here so everyone can follow along. <3))


Her boots were worn out.

They were a good pair, too—they'd cost her an almost-matching set of earrings and her favorite mouser, over at Celeste's. It had been Isabel's idea to toss the spotted cat in a bag and bring it along for bargaining: for some reason, the bonemancer had always preferred rats to cats.

They'd been really nice boots. Black leather: genuine pre-apocalypse mint, still in their somewhat weathered box. And now, just look at them: covered in gray dust, scuffed near to pieces under that, soles worn down, cracking, and—and was that a nail? Seriously?

When she made her way down to breakfast, it was with a boot in one hand. Her knife was in her other, digging the stuck nail out with a passion. Breakfast smelled like... smelled like...

Uck. What was worse: the fact that that was in the pot, or the fact that she could recognize it with a whiff? Supplies. They needed new supplies. And boots.

The redhead didn't bother with good morning or lovely dust clouds today, wouldn't you say? She just dropped her boot on the table. It made a dull thud: rubber on bone. The whole fortress was bone: walls, stairs, even the fireplace, done in unnaturally wide beams that fit together with a perfection that proved they'd been made for each other, in the most literal way. The table was an entirely different creature, though: it was clear that human hands had set each line and joint. Isabel might be the one with the natural talent, but it was Aura who made it art.

There was a time when the redhead would have been bothered, having at a table of human bones in her kitchen. Especially when she could picture the men they'd come from. That leg bone, the small one towards the middle—he'd had freckles, and a broken nose. The one over there, to the left—he'd had an even bigger tab at Zephyr's than she did. And that one, the one she'd dropped her dirty boot on—he'd had been a regular asshole. That had been the night she'd met Aura.

Good memories.

"Ladies," the redhead announced, "we're going shopping."

((ooc: I'm thinking one round in the fortress for any initial scene setting you fine ladies would like to set up, and then I'll get us to the town gates with my next post. <3))

He might or might not have a name, but he at least had some brains. The redhead took the phone, and made a show of turning around for some privacy on her call.

"Sorry," she said, in her most adult voice. The one she used when arguing the virtues of getting a computer for her room, not just the family room. "There's a man in my apartment being a jerk."

"Tell me something new," the voice on the other end said. Before she could process that, it went on: "We need you down at the station an hour ago. As in, right now. There's a live segment in it for you if you make it in the half hour. This chibi-thing, the de-ageing, the midget kiddies, whatever you want to call it—you know what's going on, right?"

"...Other people are suddenly younger, t--?"

"Of course you do. Why do I even bother to ask. You catch a cold, Rawls? You sound a little off."

"No—"

"Good. Now get down here."

The man on the other end hung up. Maxine resolved right then and there to be the sort of woman who hung up before the other guy had the satisfaction. She turned back to the boy in her apartment, and lifted her chin importantly.

"I," she said, "need to get to work. Take me there."

She had to do a report on herself. Live. Maybe being a reporter was a little cool, after all.

"Medical situation," the voice on the other end drawled, "right. Well, Doctor, you can tell her that—"

"Mphm!" The girl protested, squirming away from the hand. The man—who still hadn't told her his name—had no idea how close he'd come to getting a hand full of perfect white teeth. If he tried that again, though, he might figure it out. Her green eyes flashed.

"That's for me, isn't it?" She said, reaching her hands out in a clear give it to me I am a mature person capable of handling my own calls give it give it give it gesture.

"Sounds very serious," the voice on the phone snipped.

The man wasn't the only one turning red. Red wasn't a good look on a redhead: it only made matters worse. Especially her freckles: they stood out in horrid brown pin-point blotches, all over her cheeks and across her nose.

"No," the twelve year old said, "you need to get out, and I need to find real clothes." The rest could come later, because... because smooth. And lacey. And red. "Out." The girl said, pointing one hand towards the bedroom door as she wrapped the other over her chest. "Out out out!"

Somewhere in the living room, and cell phone was ringing loudly to the tune of Once Upon a Dream.

"Staplers," Maxine repeated. "And paperclips." The repetition deserved a deliberate pause in the middle, and one was given. Deliberately. Don't even get her started on pens. That was Clark's ability. "The pens don't turn into bugs, do they?" Maxine asked, her nose crinkling up. If they did... Ugh. She was switching to pencils, from here on out.

As to her future job...

A nosy reporter. One that always got into trouble, for being where she shouldn't be. Probably had to get rescued, too, because her powers were lame. As evidenced by the tentacles that where now dragging themselves aimlessly over the sheets with the shoe stuck on their top, like some kind of nightmare hermit crab.

In short, she was Lois Lane, guest starring in Little Pet Shop of Horrors.

He'd better be lying. He'd better be.

An even more mortifying thought hit her mind. The girl eyed the man in her room—the man sitting on her bed with no compunctions, who'd come to visit her before she'd even been awake, and who'd gotten into 'her' apartment without her letting him in.

"Are we dating?" The vile word rolled off her tongue, scathing hot.

Maxine's smile twitched just a hair wider; her eyebrows climbed a touch higher. The redhead had gotten her fair share of compliments in her life: compliments about her hair (thank you), her freckles (no thank you), her legs, her—well, that wasn't appropriate for present company. Sincere compliments, spontaneous compliments, premeditated scheming rat-faced compliments from men who wanted what all men—but really, Michael was years away from thinking like that.

And that's what made his compliment so sweet. He was just complimenting her to compliment her. No ulterior motives, no carefully weighed sugar sentiments, just...

Just her shoes. Making a different noise that his father's.

"Why thank you, Sir," the redhead graciously grinned. "And might I add that your suit is a better cut than my prom date's." She accepted the rose, though it took her a step further out the door to do so; it shut behind her, with the strange slowness than handicapped entrances had, and surveyed her date more properly.

His cut little hankie-pocket bulged—she could just see the edge of a puzzle sticking out. No real eye contact, hand compulsively working its way through his hair, and actually shaking as he mumbled out his answer.

D'awwww. He reminded her of Bruce Wilkins, on their first date. But he'd been thirteen. And she'd been rather younger herself, then; a tender fourteen.

Well. Let it never be said that older women didn't know a few tricks.

"That," the redhead said, with an approving nod, "was a very detailed and accurate answer. But," she held up the rose like a forestalling finger, "you left out one very key element of this architectural arrangement. If the designer's sole purpose was to keep out drafts, a double door arrangement would have been equivalent and reduced the need for extraneous doorage." Yes, extraneous doorage: witness the door she had just come through, as well as the similar entrance flanking the revolving door's other side. "So why choose a revolving door instead?"

She left him a moment to puzzle this problem, before offering her palm to him. "I believe a demonstration might be beneficial. May I have your hand?"

If the hand was given, she would lead him through the revolving doors, with a careful hand on her own skirts to keep them from getting caught. They would go into the building.... in, oh, a rapid spin or two.

Revolving doors were the best. Girls who were all grown up might not have the excuse to play around in them... but girls who were all grown up with a kid in tow sure did. It was like taking a toddler trick-or-treating: everyone knew who really ate the candy.