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Convalesences

In the Bingo Hall

Subdued calliaphone wakes, lion-warm but whimpering, ready for pain-meds please.

Sister Penelope Anne Murgatroyd, passing through with a junior nurse at her elbow, takes a look. “Now then, let's not have all this fuss, goodness me.”

Subdued calliaphone says, bottom lip wobbling, “but s'huuuurting” snif “an' i need a peeeee an' i's huuuungry an' an'. . .” whine

Subdued calliaphone clings to the lion, and makes big doleful eyes at

Sister Penelope Anne Murgatroyd, who (entirely unfazed), nods briskly. “Come along then. Let's get you organised.” she brandishes the crutches.

Subdued calliaphone does not look like she wants to be organised. She looks like she wants to be mollycoddled and spoilt and given cigarettes and sweets.

Subdued calliaphone is possibly barking up the wrong tree, here. Before she knows it,

Sister Penelope Anne Murgatroyd has her up and making wobbly progress towards the ground floor lavvies. Very wobbly progress indeed, and accompanied by a continuous, snivelling protest.

Sister Penelope Anne Murgatroyd, presumably, is used to this. And soon enough,

Subdued calliaphone is safely installed back on the sofa beside the lion, with a bowl of semolina pudding. She flicks at it dispiritedly with her spoon. But the promise of pills persuades her.

Sister Penelope Anne Murgatroyd, while her patient devours a helping of pain-meds for dessert, tidies up. And by the time she's finished,

Subdued calliaphone is fast asleep again, and snoring into the lion's mane. Sister Murgatroyd leaves her to it. Nothing more to be done for now.

Time passes. . .

Subdued calliaphone wakes up.

Subdued calliaphone is confused.

Subdued calliaphone finds a cigarette in her pocket. When did that get there? She can't quite remember, the last few days are a muddle but a cigarette is a cigarette it's quite straightforward really.

Subdued calliaphone is just finishing her smoke, when there is a rustle of starched aprons from outside, and

Sister Penelope Anne Murgatroyd sweeps in, with her arms full of supplies.

Subdued calliaphone stubs out the cig quick, and hides the evidence in a nearby plantpot. You never know with these medical types.

Sister Penelope Anne Murgatroyd either does not notice the smell of smoke, or (more likely) has other fish to fry. That is to say, other chefs to bully. She sweeps past Callia, through the door to the kitchens.

Subdued calliaphone listens to the sounds of brisk instructions and then prima donna head-cheffy sobbing, and tries to look inconspicuous, as. . .

Sister Penelope Anne Murgatroyd returns. Apparently, Callia isn't very good at looking inconspicuous.

Sister Penelope Anne Murgatroyd says, “Now, my girl, let's see about that ankle.” She scrubs up, and inspects. “Excellent excellent. I'd say it's about time. I've got the plaster of paris here, so up you get.”

Subdued calliaphone, apparently under the impression that she's going to do plaster-modelling of some kind, meekly gets up on her crutches, and makes her very wobbly way into the hall, after Sister Murgatroyd.

Subdued calliaphone returns, hopping awkwardly on crutches and crashing into just about every solid object along the way. Gone are the splint and bandages, and her ankle is encased instead in a gleaming white cast.

Subdued calliaphone does not look happy about this. Or perhaps it's more accurate to say, she just doesn't look happy. In fact, she is moping, noisily, at Sister Murgatroyd.

Subdued calliaphone says, “huuuuuuurts i don'LIIIIKEit. . ..”

Sister Penelope Anne Murgatroyd is proof against moping. She conducts her patient back to the sofa. “Well, if you will insist on throwing yourself about like a rag-doll, sometimes it will hurt. Now, sit. Leg propped up. . .”

Subdued calliaphone does not stop moping, but she does as she's told. The plaster cast is propped, pristine, on cushions. And the patient is given meds and instructions to keep still. A face is pulled.

Sister Penelope Anne Murgatroyd laughs, dusts off her hands, and goes to fetch some beef tea.

Subdued calliaphone eyes this concoction with great suspicion . . . but, finding it to be free of any vegetable contaminant, acquiesces to drink it. Mmmm. Actually quite nice, although she won't admit it.

Subdued calliaphone's cheeks pink a little with the nourishment, and her eyelids start to droop.

Sister Penelope Anne Murgatroyd leaves her patient to sleep herself into a better mood.

Grand Master Badass of Rage Wongo the Sane spots Callia sleeping peacefully and Lion Free. He smiles, and pulls a marker pen from his sleeve.

Grand Master Badass of Rage Wongo the Sane draws a smiley face on Callia's cast, and writes under it - facing towards her and in mirror writing (He's pretty sure that's how blueprints work) - Get Well Soon!

Time Passes. . .

Subdued calliaphone wakes up.

Subdued calliaphone fidgets.

Subdued calliaphone looks for Sister Murgatroyd to give her looks of Extreme Put Upon-ness, about being confined to sofa. But Sister Murgatroyd is nowhere to be seen.

Subdued calliaphone tries to get up and go for a walk, with them crutches. In the process of which, she knocks over the coal-scuttle and a magazine rack, and nearly comes a cropper on the parquet.

Subdued calliaphone gets herself safely back onto the sofa, it's not entirely clear how. But she does it. And there, sore and irritable, shesulks.

Subdued calliaphone glares at her empty bottle of pain pills, scowls at the door to the Great Outside, and glowers at her cart on the far side of the room. Her pedal cart full of toys. Buggerit.

Subdued calliaphone digs out her catapault, and retrieves the bit of putty she shot G with last night. Reloads, and looks round for a suitable target.

Subdued calliaphone decides. And takes careful aim, at Bernard's slippers, by his favourite armchair.

Subdued calliaphone lets fly. There's a whistle of putty flying through the air, and then . . . KER-SPLONK-CRASSSSH. A vase shatters on the mantelpiece.

Subdued calliaphone cringes. Then stuffs the catapault into a back-pocket, whistling innocently.

Subdued calliaphone, when no-one comes to yell at her, sighs deeply, and settles back on the sofa to count bits of dried-up tangerine stuck to the ceiling. Whoever got those there will have to give her shooting lessons.

Subdued calliaphone nods off. Too much excitement is the problem. It's worn her out.

Time passes

Subdued calliaphone is awake. Restless and irritable, trying to scritch inside her cast with a screwdriver. Grrrr. They oughta make screwdrivers longer. scritchscritch.

Johnson slips in, looking around. Her eyes light on a Calli and her expression sharpens, keen and intent, mouth pressed tight. Makes her way over, fists shoved into her pockets. “Calli. Are you okay?”

Subdued calliaphone looks up. “Johnson!” scritchscritch. She offers a rueful grin. “I would be okay if i wuzn't stuck here an' my ankle wuzn't itchy an' that BOSSY NURSE” voice raised, meaningful look over shoulder to where Sister M isn't . . .

Subdued calliaphone continues, “wuzn't mekkin' me sit here all the time with nothing to DO.” she glares, vaguely, around the room. And then focuses on Johnson. “whassup, y'look a bit. . .” pause, “funny.”

Johnson says, “Oh. Well. That's good. Nothing to do is. Good.” She sits on the edge of the couch, flicking her eyes over Calli for no sign of awful. “I'm fine. You're sure you're not- gone- wrong.” A pause. “What happened to your ankle?”

Johnson glances over Calli's shoulder at the space where no-one is standing, medical bag in hand and no-nonsense look on face. Johnsonlooks mildly confused a moment, before looking back down at Calli. With a screwdriver. In her cast. “You're a robot?”

Johnson clarifies, “You- have a robotic ankle? You're trying to- to- screw the itch away?” She would smirk, but she's still recovering from apocalyptic visions of- of, terrible drama, and now that she thinks of it, Calli looks fine, other than the cast.

Subdued calliaphone says, “i'm a robot?” and peeers at her ankle, hopefully. “i don'tihnk they did that. they jus'pinned it i think.” she doesn't really know, she was drugged to the eyeballs.

Subdued calliaphone adds, “it got broke, y'see. but Sister Murgatroyd says it ain't like a piston. y'can't just weld'em, they take time.”Ridiculous, but what can you do.

Johnson says, firmly, “Post-apocalyptic crap,” and then lets it go because now is now, and now is now is now. And she likes being now. You get things like Calli, and screwdrivers, and not being afraid of Things That Happen In The Future.

Subdued calliaphone says, “blessyou.” and looks for a hankie to offer Johnson

Johnson peers over at Calli's ankle, and brightens. She's never held much truck with The Future, anyway. “Hey, has anyone started drawing on your cast yet? Anyone?” And she's trying to turn the ankle over without turning Calli over, and this is a bit hard.

Johnson blinks, mid-cast-search. “Yes, well, it's a bit hard to weld bone. But if you chopped off your leg and replaced it with metal, then you could weld it like a piston!”

Subdued calliaphone says, “drawing on it?” blinkblink. she peers at her cast. there is, indeed a picture on it. of a smiley face. and (in mirror writing) “Get Well Soon”. Wongo can't do blueprints.

Subdued calliaphone says “i thought this just grew on it.” Wongo can draw on casts without waking Callia up, apparently. Even if he can't do blueprints.

Johnson blinks again and finds the smiley face, and 'Get Well Soon'. “Some grow,” she says mysteriously. “Others have to be. . . introduced. Like plants, yeah? Native plants and- and overseas plants, and you breed them together to make- more plants.”

Subdued calliaphone says, “hey, no vegetables on the leg.” and no jokes about legumes either. that would require medication.

Johnson whips out her green marker. “No vegetables. Promise,” she promises, and begins drawing without a by-your-leave. She assumes Calli agrees. What starts growing in green is machinery, a complex and probably unworkable blueprint x-ray drawing of what

Johnson imagines Calli's ankle would look like if it was made of robot parts. This involves cogs. Lots Of Cogs. Probably more cogs than actually necessary. If calliaphone's foot was actually that coggy, she could probably bend it into a small circle on itself.

Subdued calliaphone says, “oooh” and boggles at the artistry.

Johnson practically has a degree in doodling. Almost all of her course notes were covered with intricate swirls and designs, pre-Island, and they've flourished in the improbable air. Calli's foot develops a little knife that springs out from the heel.

Subdued calliaphone wriggles to get a better look at the heel, and knocks the remains of her bowl of porridge and a pack of cards off the coffee-table. “buggerit.”

Johnson makes the big toe a capsule for engine grease, the little toe a lighter and the toes in between dispensers of toothpaste. They are all labelled, in tiny green block printing. The ball of the foot apparently has jet-booster capabilities.

Johnson eeps and grabs for the bowl with one hand, catching a handful of cards instead. The bowl clslooops onto the floor and she looks down. “What is that? It looks like. . . snot.”

Subdued calliaphone is up-ended, not keeping terribly still, while she gropes about, half upside-down, under the coffee-table. not for the porridge, but for the cards. some of which are now somewhat porridgey.

Johnson then transfers her gaze to the cards, and blinks. There are machines on these cards. No aces, no jacks, no numbers. Machines. A glance at Calli, and she decides that this is understandable.

Subdued calliaphone is stuck. “halp, i can't sit up” she has both hands full of cards, and is getting a rush of blood to the head. “haalp?”

Johnson dumps her handful on Calli's lap- “Stay still, woman, I'll get them-” and attempts to retrieve slightly gloopy cards from the floor. She picks each one up fastidiously- “Is this snot? Have you been eating ogre snot in milk?”

Johnson turns herself upside down, braid swinging- out of the gloop- and looks at Calli. “What are you doing this way up, woman?”

Subdued calliaphone says, muffled-like, “porridge. gross.”

Subdued calliaphone was picking up cards. now, she's just trying to right herself. A pinned-and-plastered ankle is not a good counter-weight. she grabs hold of Johnson for leverage.

Johnson says, “Yes. Yes, it really is. Why you even have the substance is beyond me.” She swings herself back upright and attempts to extricate the calliaphone. This is difficult. This involves lifting ankles higher in the air than the head.

Johnson is grabbed ahold of. For leverage. She yelps and swings backwards, stumbling into- “EUGH, OGRE SNOT AND MILK-” and slipping on- “WAS THAT A DUMP TRUCK?”- and trying not to fall on- “MOVE YOUR FACE, WOMAN!”

Subdued calliaphone, curled up from having her ankle grabbed and yanked, may or may not be out of harm's way. She is too busy whining to move.

Johnson does not like whining. She also does not like porridge- or oatmeal, as she insists it is, when she isn't calling it furious gloppy names- and she, moreover, doesn't like dancing the cancan on mechanical cards. Back go

Johnson's boots. Up goes a spoon, flinging ogre-snot-and-milk into a fabulous arc in the air. Up goes a bowl, sideways go cards, other-sideways goes a whining Calli and down goes a Johnson, limbs a-flailing.

Subdued calliaphone yalps at the sudden movement.

Sister Penelope Anne Murgatroyd is, quite suddenly, in the room. “What is going on in here?”

Johnson is upside down, tangled in Calli and blankets, somewhat drenched in porridge, and there is a bowl and a spoon somewhere in the atmosphere. She is, understandably, unable to answer the steely-eyed gorgon who appears, suddenly and gloriously upside-down.

Sister Penelope Anne Murgatroyd does not look impressed. “calliaphone, i told you to rest quietly. And keep that ankle propped. Did I not?” She turns to flailing Johnson, arms akimbo, eyebrows raised.

Subdued calliaphone whimpers. And snivels.

Johnson is unable to see the eyebrows, which is quite possibly beneficial for her sanity. She is, however, able to see the very capable-looking walking shoes. The very clean, capable-looking walking shoes. There is a card for a Mini right underneath a toe.

Sister Penelope Anne Murgatroyd says, in quieter (but no-less steely) tones, “Johnson, I believe. Well then. If you are here to amuse calliaphone, all well and good. But quiet play, not horseplay.” She looks down at the card. “What's this?”

Johnson says, “Yes'm.” And then, “A card, I think. Calli's. There was a bit of an. . . accident. And ogre-sn- porridge, porridge got a bit. In the way. Is all. Sorry ma'am.”

Subdued calliaphone sniffs abominably. “s'top trumps o'course.”

Sister Penelope Anne Murgatroyd says, “I see. A card game. Well, so long as it's not Snap, or Spit, I suppose there'd be no harm in that.”She gives calliaphone a clean handkerchief and instructs her on nose-blowing, while waiting for Johnson to disentangle.

Johnson attempts to manoeuvre herself upright again, and fails miserably. “Um,” she says. “Could I,” she says, and then, “help? Please?”

Johnson has also never heard of Spit, and is quite glad of this, with one hand in og- porridge and the other on a mess of gloopy cards and her feet somewhere about her ears or someone else's ears or, or, something, she's not entirely sure at this point.

Sister Penelope Anne Murgatroyd tsks. And then, briskly capable, she bends down and rearranges the two, separating Callia from Johnson, and propping the cast comfortably once more. Then, she doses Callia with pain meds, and scrubs porridge traces from Johnson. “There.”

Johnson blinks as she is whirlwindedly unwound and scrubbed, submitting obediently, if rather blindly, in the face of all this Capableness. It is, in fact, rather terrifying. Sparklingly un-porridged, she sits on the couch next to Calli and watches in awe.

Sister Penelope Anne Murgatroyd says, “If you think you can be trusted to behave like civilised beings for a little while” i.e. until those meds kick in, “I'll leave you to it.” she regards the pair, with some skepticism.

Johnson says, still rather awestruck- “Th- thank you, ma'am.” Even the cards have been re-stacked and un-glooped. It is horrifyingly efficient.

Subdued calliaphone says “Trypsies honour, Sister.” and crosses her fingers behind her back. What? It's the Trypsy salute, I swear it.

Johnson says, “Yes ma'am. We can, ma'am. We'll behave. Ma'am. Scout's honour.” She is still regarding the nurse the way some older civilizations regarded goddesses of war. She may have just found Who She Wants To Be When She Grows Up.

Sister Penelope Anne Murgatroyd either does not see or chooses to ignore the crossed fingers, and departs as suddenly as she arrived, with just a final warning look at the miscreants.

Johnson significantly enough, was never a Scout. But Sister ain't gonna know that, right? Right?

Sister Penelope Anne Murgatroyd knows more than you think she knows. She didn't grow up with seven disreputable brothers for nothing. She also knows when enough said is enough. And so, she is gone.

Subdued calliaphone sniffffsnoOOoorts defiantly, and then looks at Johnson. “y'wanna play then?”

Johnson glances sideways at Calli, still in a state of deep awe. It's almost trancelike. She has no doubts about the Sister's omnipotence, frankly. “Huh?” she says, turning to look at Calli. “Oh. Yes. Sure. Why not?”

Johnson still has an expression of shocked wonder in her face, but she is returned to herself enough to warn, “I am terrible at cards. Terrible. It's like a dyslexia.”

Subdued calliaphone perks up a bit at this. She combines all the cards, and shuffles them inexpertly. Then, holding them in an awkward fan, she offers them to Johnson. “alright. pick one and look at it. don'showme . . . yet.”

Subdued calliaphone says, “s'alright, top trumps is . . . loads better'n ordinary cards.” a thought strikes her. “wait wait, what we gambling for?”

Johnson looks mildly more relieved as she sees calliaphone's shuffling skills. Deliberates, and then picks one, sliding it out from the centre-right of the pack. She peers at it, cupping it in a hand. “Okay.”

Johnson blinks over her hand. “What? What, we're gambling?”

Subdued calliaphone investigates her pockets and finds . . . dogends, beer-bottle caps, epoxy resin, chewing gum (some unchewed). Treasure, in other words.

Johnson pats her pockets, hand clenching a moment, automatically, and then relaxing as it disappears into the endlessness of the space inside her coats. “I don't know what I have on me. . . no req. Paper bags. No. Hm.”

Subdued calliaphone says, “isn't that how it works?” she's seen jokers playing. they gamble. but she's flexible. “we could call it a practise run, if you like.”

Subdued calliaphone is busies herself picking her card, while waiting for Johnson to decide.

Subdued calliaphone extricates a coupla letters from the pack of cards, which have got glued on with porridge, and feeds them to a gremlin. Then, she peeks at her own card. And starts to GLOAT. “oh man, that's badass that is.”

Johnson grins. “Eh, we can gamble. I have. . .” out comes a handful of crumpled paper bags, some grease-stained napkins, a wilted daisy chain, five yellow buttons made of cardboard, two hairties and a slip of paper with remember to tell Ochris! written on it.

Johnson blinks at Calli and then looks rather dubiously at her own card. “Um. Okay,” she says. And then, “So- what happens now?”

Johnson peers suspiciously at Calli over the card in her hand. “And yes, that's how it works. For Jokers.”

Subdued calliaphone is abruptly brought round from her gloating spell, and says, “huhh? oh, yeah, right. SO. Now watchagottado is . . . turn your card over so we can both see what you got”

Johnson blinks. “Will you turn your card over at the same time?” she says, still suspicious. She wasn't sure she liked the gloating. She's not even sure what she's staked yet, but by garn, she's keeping it!

Subdued calliaphone says, “in a minute i will. but you gotta make a choice first. if you know what i've got, there's no gamble. so, show your card first.”

Johnson blinks, still unsure, but puts her card down anyway. She doesn't get cardgames. At all. It's like her brain switches off the moment the little card enters the room. “Okay. . .”

Subdued calliaphone peers at Johnson's card, and her face falls. “Oh. Holy Mackerel, a Hurricane. That's pretty badass too.”

Subdued calliaphone eyes the picture of the fighter plane, and zones out for a moment, imagining take-off, air-battles, victory rolls. And then focuses again, on the data.

Johnson looks cheered at this. “Um. What's your card? Or am I not meant to be seeing it yet? What happens now?”

Subdued calliaphone says, “i'll show you mine in a sec. But first, you gotta choose the category. See how your plane's got all them numbers.” she points to the specifications on the card. The weight, length, engine size, and much more. “you gotta choose one”

Subdued calliaphone says, “then, when i show mine, if yours is better, you win!”

Johnson rounds her mouth in an oh.Well, she understands that. She peers at her card, thoughtful, and then glances up. “Wait, what're we betting?”

Subdued calliaphone figured it was the contents of their pockets. But perhaps “the winner can choose something from the other one's treasures?”

Johnson blinks at Calli's selection dubiously, and then more dubiously at her own. “Treasures?”

Subdued calliaphone says, “aye, treasures” gesturing the not-entirely-appealing contents of her pockets, and adding what looks like (and probably is) a well-chewed piece of string to her pile.

Johnson blinks at the well-chewed piece of string. “In which case, good luck to you!” she says cheerfully, and then bends to prod a finger at the category labelled 'Special Features'. “I choose this one.”

Subdued calliaphone also locates a toffee, and a fake req token in another pocket. “there. that's all i got.”

Subdued calliaphone peeers at the category, struggling to read it. “eh? Whassitsay?”

Johnson peers at the category also. “The Power of Flight! Plus, Mythic Badass!” she reads, and then flicks her gaze up at Calli, thoughtful. “That's right, it's blueprints only for you.”

Subdued calliaphone says, “i can read!” and proves it by revealing her own card. “looksee? It's the Mallard!” it is indeed (although possibly she knows this just from the picture - of a gleaming steam locomotive).

Johnson os, blinking at the locomotive. “Pretty,” she says, quite appreciative. “Shiny.”

Johnson remembers something, suddenly, and looks guilty. “Er. Calli?” she says. And then, in a smaller voice, “where were those forms of yours supposed to be dropped off, do you know?”

Subdued calliaphone then reels off, as if from memory, “LNER Class A4 4468, ain't it. 104 tons, 21 metres long, top speed 126 mph. . .” but then she recalls, they're meant to be comparing Special Features. She peeeeers at the words. “Vin . . . Vint . . .”

Subdued calliaphone looks up, showing Johnson her card, with the words “Vintage Charm!” displayed under the Special Features heading. “my forms? i dunno! didn't you do it?”

Johnson blinks. “Vintage?” she offers, rather helpless in the face of all these numbers. She's glad she didn't compare any of those, those are- are long.

Johnson says, even more helplessly, “I was going to! Only I couldn't find where, anywhere! There are no drop-boxes, nowhere, and no offices! Who am I supposed to hand it in to?” and the last is a wail worthy of Cordy.

Johnson unwails long enough to read, “Vintage Charm!” off the card, and looks unimpressed. In her opinion, Powers of Flight, Plus Mythic Badass totally beats Vintage Charm. More Words, see.

Subdued calliaphone frowns. “well i dunno! gotta ask someone official, i guess.” and she scratches her hatless head. “Is Vintage Charm! better'n Mythic Badass?” she is inclined to think so, but . . . “you'd think a Mallard would have The Power of Flight. . .”

Subdued calliaphone wonders if mallards can actually fly, when they're not roaring down their 1435mm gauge tracks, belching steam and breaking rail-speed records.

Subdued calliaphone says, reluctantly, “i think yours is probly a bit more better, really. Mine can only go in straight lines, see.”

Johnson glances at the much-chewed string and says, rather unenthusiastically, “Do you think so?” She peers at the Mallard again, and brightens. “But wait! It's charming! Charming is good, yeah? Much nicer than Badass. Gets along better with people.”

Johnson frowns. “But we're not comparing straight lines, Calli. We're comparing the Power of Flight, Plus Mythic Badass, versus Vintage Charm. Which- which-” she gropes for inspiration- “Is three syllables. Which is short and snappy! Easy to remember!”

Johnson adds, quite hopefully, “And Vintage is like wine, yeah? Whereas Mythic. . .” well, she likes the word Mythic. She also likes the word Flight. Quick, quick, change the subject. “Besides, it probably has wings there.” She taps the shiny picture.

Subdued calliaphone looks at Johnson curiously. “i think you're the worst gambler i ever met. even worse'n me! don't you want one o'my treasures?”

Johnson blinks, opens her mouth to affirm eagerly that she Wants Those Treasures, and then is kicked in the stomach with blunt honesty. “No,” she says. “Not the string, anyway. It's a bit. . . used.”

Subdued calliaphone says, “aye, it is that.” the pride in her voice is evident, if inexplicable. she says, “well, how'sabout, you have the toffee instead? an i'll have one o'them buttony-things. and we'll call it a draw?”

Johnson looks sheepish. “Sorry.”

Johnson blinks again. “Alright!” she says cheerfully. “I call that fair. Spent ages cutting them buttons out. S'pretty hard cardboard, that.” She looks reminiscent. “Hadta use a chainsaw.”

Subdued calliaphone recalls the earboxing she got, stealing that toffee from a pick'n'mix, long ago in Frinton. (you only have to look at the toffee to know it was, indeed, long ago). And says “it's a deal, then!” and hands over the confectionary.

Johnson scoops up the toffee and unwraps it, plugging her mouth with it quite happily. She looks back down at the cards again, rather impressed. “Sho,” she says, only slightly sticky, “wherejh you ged deesh fwom anyway?”

Johnson is dead, she's not particularly afraid of deceased, or at least elderly, items of candy. Ripens'em, as it were. She peers down at the cards, shuffling them about under her fingers.

Johnson adds, suddenly back on track- “And whoshe offishall aroung here? To ashk, I meang.”

Subdued calliaphone is not dead, but she is a little drugged. Those pain-meds are kinda powerful, and they're starting to exert an effect. Her eyes droop, and she jerks awake with an effort.

Subdued calliaphone mumbles, “Coleslaw, his name wuz. No. . .uh. . . Whips. . .nade.” she focuses on Johnson, “Uncle B . . . knows him.”

Subdued calliaphone adds, for clarification, “. . .he wuz a fish, effishen. . .official. . .” and her head sinks into the sofa cushions.

Johnson blinks, and then shoves the toffee into her cheek in order to speak clearer. It bulges the way a chipmunk with a hidden nut bulges. “Whips-nade? You mean the ex-clan administrator?”

Johnson says, awkwardly, “Althea left me a note saying she wants me to be clan administrator. . .” and then sees Calli is out for the count. She hrms, uncheeks the toffee and stands.

Subdued calliaphone murmurs, “yas . . . lucky dip. . .” Her eyes close. And this time, don't re-open.

Johnson flips the blanket over Calli and makes sure she's properly tucked in, before shuffling all the cards back together and placing them gently on the couch-side. She shovels her items carefully back into her pockets, leaving Calli two yellowy buttons.

Johnson blinks a moment. Yas? Lucky- oh. Elias. She shrugs a shoulder, eyes the sticky pile from Calli's pocket, and decides Do Not Touch is the order of the day. A quick grin, a hand to push Calli's hair out of her eyes and a “-goodnight, hon-” and then

Johnson is whipping back around the sofas, sucking her toffee and exiting in a decidedly more cheerful mood than when she entered.

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