[u](Collaboration Post Featuring Ghost Shadow's Henry Carlyle and Major Ursa's Sherry Attar)[/u]

Henry eventually got out of the booth after he began to think even his bones were getting soggy. It seemed people were becoming more and more accurate, and he'd catch hypothermia soon if he didn't at [i]least[/i] dry off a bit. 

He went behind one of the nearby stalls, ensuring himself at least a bit or privacy as he began to dry himself off fervently, sighing as he knew he must look absolutely dreadful at the moment. 

Of course, Sherry didn’t blame the waitress for spilling the mug of hot water onto her notebook...easily replaceable, and most of the important notes were memorised to every word. The journalist did end up paying and rushed home to get the biggest, fluffiest towel to fold the book into…dumb idea, there wasn’t much to be saved.
 
Childish, really, trying to save something that could be easily moved on from. Just about folding the big, hardly used towel into her tote bag, she tenderly peeled through the pages. Sad, she could see where she originally wrote word after word, and then where the ink ran. Well, there wasn’t much use dwelling on wet paper.
 
Walking in front of the stalls, Sherry looked around for a garbage bin. Swivelling her head right, then left, she caught sight of a bin just behind a stall. Lightly treading on over, she tentatively peered down at the notebook…before dropping it in. Well, at least it was still sunny. Turning to get back—ah! Just one stall away from the one she stood behind, wasn’t that…?
 
Weaving past the bin, she made her way to the man dripping with water. Tentatively, she gave her sunniest smile, “Hello, aren’t you [i]that[/i] Mr Carlyle?”

Henry turned at the strange voice that called to him, his mouth twitching slightly. "It appears my reputation precedes me. If you have any questions, you'll have no luck getting an answer from me." He said almost coldly, immediately becoming defensive. 

The journalist didn’t seem at all phased by his coldness, instead seemed to pause to herself for a moment to consider the idea, before reaching into the tote back to bring out the dry, folded towel, “Say, do you like Jane Austen?” Unfolding the big, fluffy towel… [i]‘If a book is well written, I always find it too short.’[/i] was printed along the length of it in big black font, Sherry’s arms were spread out wide to show him the quote on her custom towel…before she bunched the whole thing up, and tossed it to him.
 
Her smile was a little bit wider, and that much cheekier, “I’ll have you know, you very much look the part of a wet cat right now!”

Henry nodded in thanks as he took the towel, raising his eyebrows slightly, quite impressed by the quote. When she compared him to a wet cat, he stopped, seeming to tense up sharply. "A...wet cat, you say? Why on earth would I look like that?" He asked with a slightly nervous chuckle, masking it with feigned amusement

“Well, you are sopping wet. As well, moments ago, you had the ‘fuck the world’ sort of expression on your face, when you looked over at me…it’s pretty popular with wet cats.” Sherry giggled, with an easy smile on her face as she crossed her arms, her tote bag swaying at the motion, “When, if I were you, I’d just be glad that the weather is better today. If it were cooler, cold water would be a death sentence upon you, and a towel couldn’t save you.” The presence of her smile confirmed the obvious, she was only joking.
 
Tilting her head, “Do well to dry yourself, you wouldn’t want to catch a cold…you need the strength to hold your head up high when others see you.” She gestured to the towel, now in his hands, "Go on."

"Oh...thank you." He said courteously. This woman was nice...almost [i]too[/i] nice. Most people would have simply sneered or whispered something venomous before walking off. But this woman had approached him with benevolent intention. It couldn't be that simple, people were cruel...

With a mental shrug, he got to work drying himself off more, the towel the woman provided being much more useful in its job than the previous one. "Well, you know who I am...but what do I call you?" He asked affably enough. 

Fidgeting a little bit, somehow her smile hadn’t worn down even a little, as Sherry turned around to leave…giving Henry one last look over her shoulder, “Sorry…you can call me very, very sorry.” And she left without another word.

Henry could only stare at the woman as she left, perplexed. Why was she sorry? What had she done? Henry couldn't help but feel a pang of pain in his heart, as if he was empathizing...but for someone he never knew...Henry could only shake his head, as if to clear his thoughts before returning to the dunk tank.