[color=708090]	From the moment that Kuremi had mentioned budgeting concerns, Maggie was knee-deep in funding. Despite being an outsider to the culture at hand, the redhead had a good feel for where the students rested their interests. It certainly wasn’t with the Occult Club; it rarely tended to be that such a club wasn’t almost at constant odd with funding to begin with, and, while that could earn sympathy from a bleeding heart, Maggie’s did not -- that, and Japanese mythologies really clashed with her Irish mythologies, so, she’d a small cultural bias. It was simply logical that she would allocate less funding to the Occult Club; personal feelings aside.

In that, she was left with the Baseball Club and the Judo Club. As it stood, Judo didn’t stand on par with Baseball; the pastime was simply grander than the sport. If she divert funding from the Baseball Club, she stood to lose profit from game -- especially, away game. Judo was played for titles, for honor, and showmanship. At least, that’s how she saw it. It was better to profit, as that brought attention and funding into the academy. As such, she would slide what was needed to repair the Judo Club equipment, and nothing more.

As she processed, allocated, and reallocated funding here and there, Maggie was tapping her fingers against the side of a rather large abacus. It was an old device of ancient wood, first stone, and old magic -- unbeknownst to anyone outside her family, or without a fair degree of magical perception. To the layman, it was an archaic device that calculated numbers with practiced efficiency, and just an odd choice for doing math in the digital age. To her, it was a calming means of thinking, flexing her magic in public, and, of course, doing hard math.

	However, her concentration was shattered, once Noboru addressed her. Looking up, she tried to pull, even a fragment, of conversation, and was falling to. Fortunately, before she had to answer him, or anyone, her hip was vibrated. Save by the silent bell, she picked up her cellphone, and answer in a near-impenetrably thick, Irish brogue, speaking at a fever pitch about... something. It was clearly distressing her, but she didn’t show it. Sighing, she hung up after several firm repeatings of the same phrase, and flopped into her seat.

Plaintively, she, clearly, swore something in a her native language, and looked up. “[color=f26522]Wait... Did someone ask me something,[/color]” she asks, having genuinely forgotten what she was asked.[/color]