[b]November:[/b]
[b]Red/White/Orange:[/b]

Muffi thinks for some time. With how she’s focused on the screens in front of her, you could be forgiven for thinking she just hadn’t heard you. Finally, she says; 

“You like purpose and challenge. Even now, you’re treating my home as another job to be taken seriously, even though you know this is an easy ten for you.[i] Grazie [/i]again.” She shifts. “It’s a cleaning job, with more socially denigrating aspects. Most people want this to be easy. Make the money they need, and get out. Not you.”

She points at her screen. “Molly and Daveed hover around 9, because they’re squeamish, but they love how they look in cat ears and like being told. I try to keep them away from God’s favourite jobs - children and drunks. They never ask, they don’t want to look weak, but wanting to be able to handle it doesn’t make it so.”

“Felicity can only stay at 9.4 because I can ensure she only works with female clients. She doesn’t want to believe it, but she can’t handle male attention. She gets hostile. Felicity doesn’t see the pattern, only a lot of isolated incidents where she was justified. I have to account for needs she can’t admit she has.” Muffi considers that, and picks Slaughterhouse V from between her feet, scratches the calico cat underneath its chin.

“It’s not Felicity’s fault that the cleaning she’s good at is tied to a service that implies flirting. And it’s not Molly and Daveed’s fault that the flirting they’re good at implies cleaning. I have to discover that, without being told.” She shrugs. “You? You know I give you the harder cases. It’s not just that I can rely on you for them. It’s because that’s what [i]you [/i]need. Problems to solve. Something to justify your attention.” 

“Your ‘emergent property’?” Muffi snorts. “You’re dangerous when you’re allowed to get bored.”

[b]Persephone:[/b]
[b]P/B/B:[/b]

Fucking_Skelator holds the heavy metal door open for Persephone. Heavy metal in the sense of its construction, though also in the sense that it was one last barrier between the streets and the physical force of the music blasting inside. It can be [i]felt[/i] as much as heard. 

“FUCKING_SKELATOR, A PERVERT?!” Fucking_Skelator’s aware that a highly detailed skull isn’t the best at conveying the deep, rich and expressive emotional language he needs it to. To compromise, he’s adopted very expressive eyebrows. Thick neon green and highly mobile. He raises both of them as far as they’ll go. “YOU HAVE MADE ME VERY UNCOMFORTABLE. THAT YOU THINK I MIGHT TAKE ADVANTAGE OF ANY OF THE VULNERABLE FRIENDS WHO COME HERE. KICK ROCKS, MA’AM.”

Fucking_Skelator pointedly closes and latches the door behind Elodie as they lead her to the workspace, shaking their head, unbelievable. 

“SORRY IF THEY ARE A FRIEND TO YOU.” Fucking_Skelator says as they assist Elodie on to the table. “BUT…” a four-armed shrug. What else is there to be said? 

Whether you’d call them a doctor or a mechanic, they’re good at what they do. There’s a sling hoist here, for friends with even less mobility. It’s exactly what it says on the tin, made for anyone who has no strength below the neck. You get wrapped in essentially a split-open baby-onesie, hooked up to a person-scale crane, and scooted about ass-out in a sack. There’s a rail thin line between it feeling like a carnival ride and like the most humiliating and degrading experience of your life, and all of that comes down to the bedside manner of the operator. 

Unlike most hoists, Fucking_Skelator’s painted theirs a matte-black, added high-gloss blue-and-green flame decals to it, called it THE CLAW, and replaced the horn sound with the victory music from an arcade grab-a-prize game, because anyone at the receiving end of it’s “THE BEST PRIZE”.

It’s not all clown shit. Some people prefer solemn dignity, and they get that. What’s important is Skele means it when they say they treat friends here, and they treat their friends as friends. Fucking_Skelator is not a professional, and makes the most of that. 

“LET ME THINK.” Skele checks the bindings around Elodie’s waist, around her shoulders, the routine to make sure she’s not going to slide off the table when the tentacles are pulled off, “THERE’S THE BLACK SITE IN WALT DISNEY. I DON’T KNOW IF THAT COUNTS AS RECENT.” Skele shrugs with the top two arms while the bottom two work on decoupling. “THAT’S STILL A THING.” 

The tentacles don’t go all the way off, and never all at once. Just enough to check the internals. Skele’s eyebrows shoot right down at something, and the technician crashes through boxes on pig iron shelves looking for something. They find it, something that looks like a masochist designed a dremel - except this one’s painted bright pink and covered in unicorn stickers. The music’s still louder. 

“GOOD THAT WE FOUND THIS EARLY. YOU HAD A BURR PRESSING AGAINST SOME CABLING, WAS CUTTING THROUGH THE INSULATION. THAT COULD HAVE CAUSED A NASTY SHORT.” Simulated nerves turned off, the experience is best described as getting dentistry from your gynecologist. The pink tool carves away at the metal of the prosthesis housing. 

“THE BLACK SITE IN DISNEY, MODERN HERMES, I MEAN. THERE’S A BIG RED BRICK FACTORY LOOKING BUILDING, ALL THE WINDOWS ARE PAINTED BLACK AND THERE’S A BARBED WIRE FENCE AROUND IT. KNOW TWO FRIENDS TAKEN THERE, COULDN’T SEE THEIR LAWYERS FOR A WEEK, HELD WITH NO CHARGES. BEEN GOING FIVE OR SIX YEARS NOW. ALL INTERROGATION CELLS, OFF THE BOOKS, NO ARRESTS. NEVER SEE ANYONE TALK ABOUT IT THOUGH, EXCEPT HERE.” 

“POLICE FUCKUPS THOUGH? TRYING TO SQUARE OFF AGAINST YOU, APPARENTLY. FUNNY MISTAKE. MAYBE THAT WAS HOW YOU GOT THESE BURRS, HUH?” 

How does Pink make the most of waiting? And do Black and Brown have a plan for Elodie's return?