The side of Gil's hand has been pressed tightly against her brow, warding off the sun as best it can, for so long she's almost afraid it's going leave an imprint. A massive pale line in a sea of sunburnt betrayal, because she's not pointing fingers or naming names, but she wouldn't exactly have to worry about her hand leaving a mark were the sun not raining its blazing fury down from above like a lover scorned. Or someone who hadn't been called back after a long night. 

Her lips curve down into a frown, and she tilts her head. Aren't those interchangeable? Technically, they overlap, but it's a metaphor, so - actually, okay, no, wow, she's severely off-track. As in, her train of thought just derailed and leveled an entire town off-track. Probably blew up a small village along the way, too, because apparently, her attention span's worse than her next-door neighbor's son's, and that little bundle of regret and snot's not even five months old. 

A sigh drifts out from between her lips, and she shakes her head. Time to forge onward. She's got a massive (okay, average) hill to scale and only today to do it, because she's pretty sure today's the last day for league registrations. (Unless she already missed her chance, in which case she's got a backup plan: lob the nearest rock at the presiding professor, steal a license, and bolt. Classic, but effective. Considering the massive trainwreck that comprises her time-management skills, it's actually a pretty sound idea.)

"[color=red]Char[/color]," says the aforementioned Wukong, almost critically, as if he knows what she's thinking and doesn't exactly approve. It's almost uncanny - she's had him for, what, a week and a half, maybe? He can't be predicting her actions yet.

"Dude, don't even look at me like that. It'd be sick as all hell," she argues, swiveling her head around to shoot him a reproachful glare, and probably guaranteeing her inevitable stumble over a stray twig in the process. "Like if a train heist and an explosion had a not-ugly baby. And that baby came out casually shredding a wave while playing, like, eight guitar riffs. Level 8 cool." 

She's not sure why she's rambling, but it's not nerves. Can't be nerves, because why would she be nervous in any way, shape, or form? It's not like her entire future depends on this, or anything. Not like she'll have to slink back home like a dejected little mutt, tail tucked permanently between her legs.

"Yeah," she mutters, quickening her pace, Wukong scampering along behind her, complacent in his cheerful ignorance, "no biggie. No pressure. yeah."