[b][center][h2]Paige Kennedy[/h2] [/center][/b]

The small safehouse the Marshal service had offered Paige after the [url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4653916]attack at her apartment[/url] was really nothing more than a cottage hidden down in a fairly ordinary neighborhood not far from the university. With just one bedroom, a living room, a galley kitchen and full dining room, it was very awkwardly layed out, feeling both big and small at the same time. Tucked at the end of a slowly curving street inside an alcove of trees, it was inconspicuous and easily defensible and though that was the point, Paige absolutely hated it. 

The furniture inside was no less unassuming and bland. Many of the few items she had brought over from the apartment were still in boxes in various places on the floor, some still marked with her writing from Florida having never even been opened since her move to Sol. The whole house felt like the refuge of an aged recluse and the loneliness therein made her spend more and more time at Milo’s shop. Even if he wasn’t there, his shop still felt more like a home and the aromas of molten metal and gun oil just carried an air of familiarity. While on the surface, she had no doubt in her abilities to defend herself, she couldn’t deny, down deep, that being around him satisfied an innate need to feel secure. 

Her phone sat on a small wooden vanity that she was sure was much older than her, hooked in from the charger playing another familiar [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uCGD9dT12C0]80’s list[/url]. Fresh out of a shower, she sat in front of the mirror brushing out her hair. Her lips moved with the words and though there was no one else around, she couldn’t stand the sound of her singing voice. Fleetwood Mac wasn’t really her favorite, but while her hands were busy she let it play though. She could handle the soft harmony of Christine McVie, but the raspy echoes of Stevie Nicks were something else altogether. Still, being a female from the South, there was some mandatory ritual about not dissing the most coked-up and scandalous “rock” band in history. She couldn’t help but sing a long a little bit louder, just over as whisper as her hand pulled the brush through a tangle.

Siobhan was over at the university. She could swing by, pick her up, go by the office downtown for a bit and then have dinner with Milo somewhere. After the impromptu party down at Joel’s, she was holding on to every minute, seeing in her mind the time that was coming after which nothing would ever be the same again. Her hands worked blonde lockes into a loose braid that hung over her shoulder while for a moment she looked at herself in the mirror, her own stoic expression staring back at her as the music played and her fingers worked. Her eyes glanced away and she shook her head, finishing the braid with her hands. 

Throwing on her leather jacket, she dug in the pocket and pressed the keyfob hearing the car chirp happily outside. The driveway, like the rest of the house, was oddly placed, wrapping around the back of the house at an angle that hid the car from view. The old concrete step was uneven out the back door, but she was used to it glancing down at her phone, not expecting the sharp blow that landed across her head.