In the Bingo Hall

Johnson trots back in, armload of paper and fistful of pens, faceful of papercuts and the ever-present almost-panic underneath the surface of her expression. “Ohgodwhendidilasteat,” she says to the couches. “When did I- what- more paper-”

Johnson pounces, automatic and dazed, on the half-stack of forms. Reads the note on the top. “On the- on the l-am?”

Johnson is scrabbling at papers, clutching them into her arms, pens going everywhere. “1-am- what is the l-am- feck- whatisthat-” as something squishes beneath her foot. She swoops for it, comes up with a stepped-on cigarette.

Johnson blinks. Why is the- whatisthat. The cigarette is inked-over, familiar words across the side and the back and around the bit that happens to be leaking tobacco. Bacco, rance, registr-

Johnson says, “Calliaphone!”

Johnson drops the whole armload of papers on the paisley couch and, with frantic fingers, unscrolls the cigarette. Tobacco-bits spill everywhere, disappearing down the back of the couch, across her pants, into her hair. Johnson's hands are shaking.

Johnson reads names of- netary valu- instrum- and then the paper disappears into her hands as they fist over it, and Johnson dives for the papers again and scrabbles them up, scoops them together, shuffs them back into the safe curve of her body.

Johnson grabs for pens, grabs for loose sheets, hair unwinding around, coming loose, ink spilling everywhere. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry- I shouldn't have let her- I'm sorry- it happens, it happens, paper dies, I'm sorry- I promised-”

Johnson flees, stray pens bouncing along behind her, long hair spilling out, coming loose, shedding across the papers and the couches and the sleepers, pulled out by panicky hands. The papers go with her, whispering and rustling in her arms. Behind Johnson, a note flutters down, blue ink, Ari's handwriting. Dave, on the l-am, menagerie

sometime after that

Head of House Althea awakens from her slumber, having come back from a sojourn to Ace High and collapsing on a couch. She discovers some very important papers from Johnson.

Head of House Althea mumbles“Kitchen licenses, gotta find Bruce, sweets distribution, and diabetic muffins? Blinking hell.”

Head of House Althea blearily rereads. “Oh, diabetic disclaimer and muffins. Not much better, but slightly more sensical, I suppose.”

Head of House Althea didn't realize we had to be licensed. Have we been operating illegally? Of course, the cloakroom is not exactly, ahem, kosher so to speak.

Head of House Althea folds the paper up and pockets it away. She heads downstairs to attempt to find the appropriate paperword. Bloody bureaucracy.

Head of House Althea emerges from wandering about the hall. The kitchens are absurdly hard to find. Perhaps that's why Bruce's recipes are all secret. It's damned difficult to spy on him.

At the Common Grounds

Miss Hellebore walks into Common Grounds looking frazzled. Well, more frazzled than normal. Her hair wild and tangled and clutching fistfuls of paper.

Kestrel stands, sidesteps, offers Alex a wink and her seat in that order. A few more steps - drink taken with her - and her gaze also goes walkabouts. “Cozen,” she acknowledges, surprise clear in her voice. “Are you-? oh. You got the memo.”

June, who seems, much like Joe, to be drifting in and out of reality, nods a 'hello!' to those who've entered.

Miss Hellebore turns her wild gaze on Kestrel, shaking papers at her, “What does it mean?!”

Awkwardly Eared Alex MacMillan lifts a hand in a wave to both June and Hellebore. He purrs contentedly.

Kestrel states, matter-of-fact, “It means that GERM is in just as much financial crisis as usual, but now someone's noticed. We've got to fundraise. And- well, raise funds in any way possible, or so I gather.”

Kestrel objects to having papers shaken at her. “Listen,” she says quietly. “It won't be that bad. We'll not starve, or be in any more trouble than we are already, and I promise you you'll always have a place to sleep.”

Fuzzy Felix Astivio keeps scritching, but glances over to Miss Hellebore and Kestrel. Miss Hellebore stutters, “Bu-bu-but she wants to know about the House and… and my–” She chokes a little on the word,“Relationship status?!”

Awkwardly Eared Alex MacMillan moves into the offered seat, his tail continuing to slide along Felix's leg as he settles happily beside him.

Miss Hellebore spares a momentary, confused wave at Alex.

Fuzzy Felix Astivio says, “So, good hunting today?”

Fuzzy Felix Astivio's tail twines with Alex's.

Kestrel pauses, blinks once, colours slightly as realisation sets in. “Oh- you, you mean the paperwork, not the- okay. Um.” She opts for frankness. “I didn't do the paperwork, but I think it'd make Johnson's life easier if we did.”

Awkwardly Eared Alex MacMillan nods, smiling. “Yeah, not today, but- before I found the drive I had good hunting. Today… not feeling so good, weak..”

Kestrel says hesitantly, “Just… tell her about the house. Say that you're… with someone but not married, and- and- oh, for goodness' sake. And if Johnson asks then we have to help her torch these dratted things.” Paperwork, ungh.

Miss Hellebore says, “Yes, but what's this it about 'abysmal headgear' and I don't think that my rela- I'm sorry, what about being broke?”

Kestrel curses silently and fluently and with much imagination for a moment, opening her eyes again to regard Cozen with trepidation. “There- was a note in my pigeon hole. We're broke. In debt - heavily. And… we need money, basically.”

Miss Hellebore stands there in shock, “Well, I, ah… That is to say–err, umm-” At a loss, she finally decides on tremulous, rallying smile. “It can't be that bad.”

Kestrel takes the note out of her pocket and it's crumpled, rumpled, clothing after a night in the streets or the wrinkles on the face of someone who's very, very old. “Here,” she says, and smoothes it as best as possible before offering it to her.

Miss Hellebore asks softly, reading it, “And, uh, how much is a–” she adjusts her spectacles. “Gagillion zillion?”

Kestrel shifts her weight from one leg to another, eyes down and in the grass. “I don't even think that a gagillion's a real number, so, suffice to say that it's more than we have. Far more than we have.”

Miss Hellebore chews her lip, “Oh, okay. Well, I uh– can understand the desperation there in.” Her eyebrows knit together, “I still don't know I should be expected to relay my relationship status, of all things!”

Kestrel shrugs one shoulder, folding her arms not as a barrier but to prevent from fiddling. “Had the same thing when an officer and member got together, few months back - they had to fill out forms.”

Kestrel offers her frank opinion, “It's stupid that they have to know. But that is- the sole nature of forms, isn't it. It's your choice whether you want to put down the truth or something entirely different.”

Miss Hellebore says, “Well, I'm not, I mean to say-” She sticks up her nose, “I've no idea what you're talking about.”

Awkwardly Eared Alex MacMillan leans against Felix's shoulder.

Kestrel is not one to be subtle this late in the day. “It's okay, Miss- it's okay, Cozen.” But her voice is gentle. “It's- it's perfectly okay. I mean, that things are like that, that we know, and also that you want to keep it quiet, if you do.

Kestrel clears her throat, the sound deliberately rasping. “So we can put a not applicable in that box, if you like? Better thannone of your business when it comes to an irascible Johnson leafing through forms.”

Rykar pads into the grounds, looking around.

Awkwardly Eared Alex MacMillan waves to Rykar. “Hey!”

Miss Hellebore creases her papers, murmuring, “Haven't the slightest idea.” She blows her hair out of her face, “So. Money then.” She coughs, politely into her hand. “What shall we do, madam?”

Rykar spots Alex. And an unfortunately asleep Felix. He heads over. “Hey there!”

Kestrel offers a brief grin to Rykar, fingers wiggled in some semblance of a wave. “I honestly don't know,” she replies, then, to Cozen. “We- we've gone fundraising before, but I don't think those methods can be repeated. Do- do you have any ideas?”

Awkwardly Eared Alex MacMillan's ear twitches, blushing lightly. “Hey, how'd you sleep?”

Rykar waves back similarly to Kestrel, sitting down next to Alex. “I slept well! And not too long, either. Heh, I see you brought your boyfriend.”

Awkwardly Eared Alex MacMillan blushes. “He's not my boyfriend,” he murmurs. (4h36m) <GERM> Miss Hellebore cleans the lenses of spectacles in an overly stern manner. “Yes, well, I do have a small talent at money raising. Mostly for museums, obviously, but I believe I could adapt.”

Miss Hellebore, with a final look at her (broken) watch, swears under her breath, “Oh, bother.” With a grimace, she nods to Kestrel, then Alex, then Rykar, “Yes, well, I'll get right on that.” And with a spryness that belies her petticoats, she is gone.

Rykar chuckles and scratches Alex's ears. “Of course not. Nooothing could lead me to say that.” He drags the last part into a sarcastic, if friendly drawl.

Kestrel claps both hands together, a brisk movement all business and no mirth. “Well, then - take care, Cozen.” Then in a murmur, “we probably should get to it.” And it's only a moment, a depositing of glass-on-bartop, before Kestrel is following after.

<note>Part the Ninth

The Index</note>