[hr][center][img]https://txt.1001fonts.net/img/txt/b3RmLjEwNi43NjY3NjcuVTJ4dllXNWxJRVpoY21sei4w/bachelorette.regular.webp[/img] [img]https://i.imgur.com/r7scdkh.png[/img][/center]
 [right][b]Interactions:[/b]  Anya  [@Fernstone] Trevor [@Punished GN]
[code]The Halloween Festival[/code][/right]
[hr]


Her ploy failed as Anya was forced to sit with Trevor, yet Sloane never imagined that the feeling of failure would come with such sweet relief. The realization that she couldn't possibly deal with Trevor alone had hit her only after the invitation had come out of her mouth, reinforced by his disgusting and crass vaudeville performance of Father Wolf. She lightly bumped her shoulder against Anya’s as her friend thanked her, sheepishly muttering under her breath a nearly inaudible apology. She lowered her eyes as her nail picked at the table. One of the agents had the nerve to laugh at Trevor's antics. 

The thought that their safety was in the hands of a pack of professional baboons was absolutely terrifying. 

She began to shake. Blame the rain. She scooted closer to Anya. Together they could get through this. Together they were—Sloane flinched as Anya invited Meifeng along, her nail scratching so deeply against the wood that it lodged a splinter underneath it. In quiet panic Sloane began to suck on her finger, trying to pick the splinter with her teeth in a desperate effort to keep her mouth preoccupied. Her finger was soon joined by the rest of her fist as Meifeng denied Anya’s request and tried to get them to sit at her table. A classic power play. 

She noted how only Anya got offered a drink as her teeth sunk into her knuckles. Soon Meifeng and her cronies were gone, heading off to deal with Emily. Wait, Emily? Was Emily here? And was she somehow considered less annoying than Sloane? And did Emily even know what was happening? She could be in danger. Vashti could be in danger. Regardless of what they were like, they were as much a part of Sycamore as everyone else.

Sloane blinked. Bow-bow! A flash of lightning sparked a phantom image of Trevor stabbing at the air, the air filling out into the shape of Emily as a knife was plugged into her chest. Maybe the PRA were going to protect her. ‘Aaaaaaah! I'm getting stabbed!’ screamed an imaginary Vashti, blood gushing from her mouth. Maybe the PRA were going to protect her? They couldn't even protect one of their own. 

Plus, they were drunk. They were all clearly and obviously drunk. Like that woman with Meifeng had just given away a perfectly wonderful tropical drink that went down easy and soothed the pain in Sloane's finger and—huh, when had she started drinking Anya's margarita? Sloane rapidly blinked again, taking another sip of the marg to clear her head. The rain didn't show any signs of slowing. 

Sloane, who had sunken into a state of drunken silence like a monk who had the keys to the Communion cabinet, gasped loudly and suddenly. Jasper's painting! The weather would ruin it! She jumped to her feet, torn between two equally important priorities: saving 8th Street from a psycho killer and a group of inept bureaucrats or saving a blank canvas that served as the ultimate proof to confirm the suspicions she had held onto for years.

[Color=silver]“Anya! We need to…urk…”[/color] Sloane was hit by a wave of vertigo induced solely by jumping up to her feet too fast and absolutely nothing else. Definitely not due to any of the drinks sloshing around in her otherwise empty stomach. She turned her head and held her hand up to show that she was okay. One, two, three, okay, breath and now one, two, three, okay, release.

She bet nobody even noticed. She'd just sit down, close her eyes, wait for the world to stop spinning, and give it another go in a second. Sloane sat with a heavy thump and slouched forward, folding her arms on the table and resting her head up on them. She closed her eyes as the comforting sounds of the storm wrapped around her like a warm blanket.

[color=silver]“Anya…where's Jack?” [/Color] asked Sloane, her mind doing a one-eighty. She reached out blindly with her hand to grab for the margarita, threatening to wipe out everybody's drink. Suddenly, she stopped reaching and started pointing with her finger, violently stabbing it in the air with the finesse of a musketeer. [Color=silver]”Shouldn't be alone. So stupid…”[/color]

[color=silver]“[I]Trevooooor[/I], save Jack,”[/color] said Sloane, continually prodding him under the table with her foot. [color=silver]”He's our ride home.”[/color] She kept sliding lower in her seat so she could continue to kick at Trevor's shin. [Color=silver]”Bianca’s got us. Prove yourself and go [I]saaaaaave [/I]him…”[/color]