The crowdfunding is the easy part. Download the screenshots, get a really good picture of Persephone, make her the new face of the regular donation drive. [i]Hey, really hate to bother you, but…[/i]

[i]We’re committed to being the only journalists who’ll get right in the line of danger to get you the truth, but…[/i]

[I]Any little you can give really helps. And we appreciate it so, so much. Thank you.[/i]

You learn a little bit about what a good begging post looks like when you’re a celebrity, even a minor one. [i]3V, please. Can we get 1000 retweets for my boy Jackson? 3V, please. Shoutout for Megan Nbana, she’s fighting and being so strong but she needs a little help. 3V, please. We’re trying to get out and move in together, but we need a little help. 3V, please.[/i]

(It’s one reason she’s involved. You listen long enough, you either go numb or you have to do something. Maybe it’s not dismantling healthcare singlehandedly, but it’s something.)

But there’s only so much time she can waste on that. Okay, not waste, it’s objectively a better use of her time, but the entire time that terror’s rearing in the back of her head. Fucking Proverbs! Ha ha fucking [i]ha![/i] [i]Cowards![/i] You string [i]twenty-seven[/i] people along, each of them thinking they’ve got a shot— well, no, not WhiteEagle44, but that’s just some internet comedian’s banter, imitating her, taunting him like Bugs Bunny and the bull, doing their best to make him regret the weird lumpy potato of a dick he sent a 3D print code for. And Novembers, but they don’t count, she knows she’s definitely being ribbed by those clever chucklefucks before she even opens their messages.

Options: just delete it. Delete everything. Leave twenty-six people (the ones who got past the “collecting cringe for the montage” stage) ghosted. Then hide underneath a desk until she’s convinced none of them will try to doxx her. Or, worse, they might try to reach out via social media, ask what they did, beg her to explain, refer to conversations she’s got no context for, and—

She relaxes her jaw. She [i]relaxes[/i] her jaw. The red diodes on the sides of her hands fade and blink out.

Options, continued. She tries to get to know them. Maybe there’s actually someone… you know, somebody who isn’t star-struck, and doesn’t expect her to move in with them after three dates, and who’s better than variable-speed fingers with precision inputs and a phone on incognito, and isn’t hiding all of their red flags until she’s in too deep, and who won’t figure out that she’s a futureless has-been doing nothing but chasing interesting diversions, and—

Absolutely not. That leaves the need to write a message to each one, explaining (without the sterility of a form letter) the situation, how very sorry she is that their chains got pulled, and that she hopes they’ll have better luck with their other matches. Let [i]her[/i] do the job the spineless motherfuckers flaked on.

…later. That’s a later job. She’s got to get back to Aevum, can’t juggle that and travel. And then she’ll need to keep on top of the donation drive and handle November’s sitch and set up a special event of some sort for the cafe next week and turn her interview into a published article and keep the archival experts in the loop and, really, it might be a bit, but that’s fine, actually, as long as she intends to let everyone down easy (for which she will need all of her attention and intelligence) it can’t hurt to let it simmer a day or two. It’ll be fine. It’ll be [i]fine.[/i] She can fix their fuck-up and go back to being perfectly fine and happy as a permanent bachelorette.

She’s [i]fine.[/i]

***

“Well! Good to hear from you, Yellow!! You’re lucky I got my hands on this, I nearly didn’t (long story, I’ll tell you the whole thing later!!) but! Yeah! Let’s get Thai at the Thai Go in Laozi, up in your neck of the woods! Not a date, don’t worry (tell Blue that she is [i]hilarious![/i])!”