Elodie places a kiss on the forehead of her very, very sleepy (at the moment) daughter, nods a goodbye to Matilda, and goes inside to get to work. The kettle's whistling when she gets back in, and shortly she's got a chipped mug of steaming joe in tentacle as she sits at her desk, getting ready for the day.

First: messages. She's got them auto-sorting into one of a number of baskets, based on subject, and she cares about two of them right now. Elodie taps one that should be empty and has a good thirty-seven DING thirty-[i]eight[/i] messages. Her PassTheHat account. Usually pretty steady but very slow, a lot of recurring drip payments. Seems her usual mix of anarchists and activists donating liked her being headliner news. She'd be more mad about it if she didn't immediately tally up the bills she could pay now; as it is, she sets that aside for a quieter day to work through.

She leans back in her chair, sipping coffee, and opens up the other important one, the work chat. She scans through and it's... yeah it's about what you expect.

Persephone: in no particular order
Persephone: @ProvocativelyFickle i'm alive, unbeaten, and not arrested. doing fantastic.
Persephone: @JuntaSThompson if you have any way to track police attention, now's the time. i want to know where they're acting squeaky clean around to find out where to dig
Persephone: @all in case the above doesn't make it obvious i'm not dropping this. i already got burned and i refuse to let this fuck up my life with nothing to show for it. that being said... i'm also low on leads. i've got one name and police behavior to go off. so i'll be in my hole digging.
Persephone: and @NumbToNothing *sprays with water* no shit-talking your own work

The time is now 7:00, and November has showed up. Black and Brown find coverage. Pink... talks.

"... and then Black brought up this would be an execellent use of her motorcycle that she's been after, and Red was on board. And White tried to shoot it down immediately because of the budget and the fact that it'd only carry one of us. Black and Red fired back that it was about the look, which, I mean, it does look like fun? You'd have to find a good long straight stretch of road to get up to speed though. Also Blue worked out that we could probably get four of us on the motorcycle with a side car but then Red made "thhhhbbbtttt" noises at her for ruining the look. What are you doing?"

Elodie lifts another cushion of her couch and checks under it. The time is now 7:37. There are baked goods in her kitchen. "The police are going to be searching here today. I want them to not find anything interesting." Picking up a sheet of notes from under the couch, she waves it in the air at the kitchenette area before adding it to the folder. "This is interesting." She's been sweeping the area for notes: after years of prison and warden access to everything electronic, it's a hard-worn habit to write anything worth hiding down instead of typing. Satisfied that she got all the notes, she shuts the folder and tosses it in her bag, where it goes on top of Sasha's forgotten hoodie, a small box of tools, and a slightly larger box of legal things that she still didn't want the police poking around in. "I need to get my tentacles recalibrated today, since I can afford it now, did you want to come with for that?"

To Headpattr, right now all that's happened is Elodie had hired Heca. The station government had a large subsidy in place for disabled people using Headpattr, as an alternative to actually providing the social services themselves. Elodie, as a lady with no legs, was disabled, though getting that status had driven more than one administrator to tears as they figured exactly how [i]to[/i] classify her: last she'd checked she legally wore light industrial equipment as mobility aids.

The next text, "Th4837!95", arrives. The time is now 7:42 and the first reporters are showing up and double-checking their phone's navigation. A few of the brighter ones are asking neighbors for the same thing. Carnegie District had sprouted eyes. She doesn't do anything as crass as peek out the windows: that'd tell the reporters (the smart ones, at least) something. The point was doing exactly not that. So out comes the wheelchair with a glare and a sigh. Dip into the bedroom, grab a scarf and non-prescription glasses. Text Brown and Black to send headshots of the reporters. Sit in the wheelchair and wrap a blanket tight around the tentacles, all curling in on themselves, and the improvised disguise is done. Now all that's left is gritted teeth as Elodie sits and is pushed about by Pink.

The reporter hurrying out of the way of the poor lady in the wheelchair coming the side door, eyes still focused on the building to make sure Elodie doesn't slip out the side, is at least a reasonable consolation prize.

*

The time is now 10:07. Elodie and Pink pass into an unlabelled storefront with a few stools, a dusty countertop, and a closed door that doesn't do much to quiet the speed metal pounding from the back. It takes all of a minute for a four-armed android with a elegantly engraved skull for a face to barge out from the back, roaring a greeting. "PERSEPHONE! AND YOU! I DON'T KNOW YOU!"

Skels is an experience the first time.