Brightberry is a beacon of day in the otherwise darkened apartment. The light spills out from her spot on the desk--marked out with tape, carefully calculated for best reception, kept reluctantly clear--and paints the room in shades of eyelid-purpling brightness. Technically, Brightberry doesn't have to do any of that. It's a waste of the laser, it's lossy, it wastes energy. But it's guaranteed to pierce the lump of blankets on the couch in the center of the room, which is groaning. Is it technically still correct to call it a couch? It started out as one, sure--one of those big plush models, oversize in every dimension, like somebody had seen a couch once and then built a yacht in its image. But by now, it's so covered in blankets, so festooned in plushies, so worn down… D'you know, some people tell her she should [i]replace[/i] it? It's worn out. The leather has lost its grip, so you can hardly sit on it without sliding around. The padding has lost its pad, so the entire thing is less cushion than imprint, matching her coils like an extended glove. It's perfect. She keeps telling Brightberry, throwing it out would be like throwing out a member of the family. Dyssia doesn't remember getting into it. The last thing she recalls… One arm snakes out of the pile of blankets, and gropes around on the desk. Okay. Book's still there. Books. Stack of books. Did she have that many books? What time did she-- "Dawn," Brightberry helpfully adds. Yeah, that tracks. One of [i]those[/i] nights, chasing a wild lead, falling into bed only once--[i]fuck[/i], she hopes she wrote down what it was. She keeps writing tools near the desk, but that doesn't guarantee that Dyssia last night will have been kind to Dyssia today. Today… How long has it been? She risks a sliver of a peek out the edge of the blanket, and immediately hisses in pain. Every time. Every time! She keeps telling people-- Well, no. No, she doesn't, because telling people gets you weird looks. No, Dyssia, we're not going to reorganize our sky to make it [i]less[/i] of a lightshow. We're teleporting clouds to make sure the perfect lightshow can happen. The lightshow is the [i]point[/i]. But still! It should be illegal to send messages like that past a certain point! Past a certain time in the day! People are trying to sleep, dammit! Could we not build a communications system that doesn't rely on every house in the city having a dedicated window open? And no, Dyssia, you can't shut a window or hang curtains, that's antisocial, how will people send you messages? Past noon. Puddle of (bright) (afternoon) sunlight, spilling light on the huddled dusty sewing machine and its spools of fifteen different textiles, sitting there, waiting for a hand to touch them. Stop that. If the one mandatory skylight is shedding light on the sewing machine, it's past noon. How long does she have until the Great Sage gets impatient? With great dramatic groans--and eyes screwed shut against the pain--she rolls out of her imprints and off the couch, and fumbles for a spacer nutrient bar. Brightberry sniffs. Yes, she [i]knows.[/i] It's not a proper meal. Yes, she had a high-quality kitchen installed. Yes, the mixer is just begging for a hand to turn it on, the oven ready to burst into flames. She knows a dozen recipes that are quick, easy, and for which the ingredients probably haven't had time to go bad yet. But in her defense, the nutrient bar is ready [i]now.[/i] It doesn't take any more energy to prepare than unwrapping it and sinking her fangs into it. That's a bigger plus than most people realize, you know? It doesn't sit there and accuse you of not using it. You just open it, drain it, and-- Brightberry sniffs again, somewhat louder. "I was throwing the wrapper away," Dyssia protests, picking the wrapper back up. She glances at the desk, and winces. She'd written… something. With time and some dedicated archeology, she was pretty sure she could reconstruct the thoughts and piece together the arcane syllables. It'd felt important, she vaguely remembers, and all came to an equals sign. But equals what? Why is it that it's never as clear the day after as it is when she's in the middle of it? In the moment, it's as clear as day. She can feel a hand guiding her, touching her mind, driving her on, as if every thought is lightning and she couldn't stop for all the enlightenment in the world. And then morning comes, and she's dumber than dirt. She resolves that this time, it will be different. She just needs to focus harder, do better. She's smart. She can do this. Tonight, she'll figure it out tonight. She pauses. "How long did you wait to share that message?" she asks, hopefully. "I didn't." "Are you sure? You didn't, maybe, take a nap? Maybe forget to pass it on for a bit?" "Is that what you'd like me to say happened?" It's an olive branch, and Dyssia almost jumps at it. It'd give her a minute to adjust, to let her eyes soften, to get ready, to take her time up the hill to the Sage's pavilion. But… [i]Your spiritual development depends upon this.[/i] The Ceronians… She stares at the bed and its lumps of comfort, waiting to drag her back down to sleep. It'd be so easy to fall back in. Just an hour. Maybe the Sage knows something that will help her? "Thank you, Brightberry," she swallows out, and bends to gently pet the dragon. Brightberry preens, and leans one crystalline horn into the hand for optimal rubbing. "But if you could please send back that I'm on my way?"