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An entrance fit for a queen: Biff arrived in a rust-bucket of a Voltswagen Pinto, a rental from a shady dealer who operated without proper identification. There was no red carpet rolled out, no fanfare, no choir of angels, but all of those things were old-fashioned now. She would settle for Chas, her driver (and Dear Old Dad's most stalwart of friends) exiting the car first to open the door for her, fetching her rolling suitcase from the boot like a manservant or experienced taxi driver. Chivalry hadn't kicked the bucket yet.

[color=d3d3d3]"All good?"[/color] he asked, returning to the driver's seat of the car as quickly as possible. It must be all the teenage hormones in the air, like a smog.

With the slight raise of an eyebrow, she nodded in confirmation. [color=9A7DA8]"All good."[/color] Chas rolled down the window so as to lean out of it, and they shook hands. Biff cursed a grip that was weak and limp and embarrassingly unpracticed. Nobody did [i]handshakes[/i] anymore. They were old-fashioned.

[color=d3d3d3]"If you need an escape route, give me a call, alright? John would kill me if I didn't pick up."
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[color=9A7DA8]"Won't you be in London?"[/color] Biff asked quizzically. They were already a world away; there was no way that the man would stay so far away from home just on the off-chance that she needed a getaway driver. [color=9A7DA8]"Don't want to impose, or– or anything like that, I guess. Dear Old Dad's got enough friends this side of the pond."[/color] She was not talking about Papa Midnite and his like, for once. She didn't count frenemies.

Chas shrugged. [color=d3d3d3]"Give me a few days notice, then."[/color]

[color=9A7DA8]"Fair enough."[/color]

There was very little to say after that that hadn't already been exhausted on the drive there, and for two [i]un[/i]-talkative folk, that was like the death knell of conversation. Biff decided to call it quits at that point, offering a salute from her eyebrow piercing up. He was a good guy. Now that he had left, however, she turned her attention towards the menagerie of creatures great and small cluttering up the gates.

[i]Hope they're paying someone to take care of the lion shit.[/i]

Biff had been promised a library, one that likely had the tomes and texts that only the rich were able to access. So far she had seen no such library––only a lot of kids and a long wait. Drawing a loose cigarette from a crumpled carton, she lit it up as she pulled her luggage along with her. It was heavy, because it was mostly books.[/justify]
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