She can't protest through a mouthful of eggplant, so Madeleine simply listens. Ah, so this is what she was smelling. It must have... well, no. She should really try studying more. But in her defense there are always [i]people[/i] in the communal kitchen at her apartment and they are the friendly sorts who like to talk, and is there anything more unsettling or exhausting than that? It's the same reason she never takes her trash out until deep in the dead of night, which had started a rumor that a ghost had taken up residence in her room and...

"Why do you call her 'Sammy'?" she asks, voice suddenly sharp, "Do you let her call you, I mean, is she really that big of a deal? Are you so..."

Her question is lost amid fluttering eyelashes and an exquisite bite of cake disappearing right in front of her. Madeleine lowers her head to hide the sudden smile creeping over her face under the guise of looking at her own meal. This meant nothing. It was only relief. That she could bare the depths of her weakness and not have it even warrant comment. It has nothing to do with what Machia is doing on the other side of the table. Nothing to do with hearing her own name. Nothing at all. It is simply better for her professional career if she is able to maintain this relationship.

That is all. 

"Er, rather, I know she's strong. And fast. Her reflexes are..." don't say 'catlike', don't say 'catlike', don't say 'catlike', "Er, ca, uh... a match for Gata."

Phew.

Madeleine reaches for her chopsticks. She's been given the opportunity to feed herself (and being fed is humiliating in a way that makes heat rise uncomfortably in her chest), so she might as well make the attempt. The food is shockingly tasty anyway, though she's blown out her palate with so much late night takeout lately that maybe there's no real compliment to be found there. 

She's not stranger to chopsticks of course, but for all her stretching earlier none of Madeleine's fingers feel particularly cooperative just now. She abandons the pair in favor of a single-stick technique, and simply spears what she wants to eat. That means lots of peppers, onions, and bits of eggplant. She ventures demurely (as demurely as one can while eating like a spear fisherman) into the kimchi between courses, but rice and cashew are beyond her abilities tonight. 

...Help, Machia.

"Still, don't you think she's... simple? Maybe this is just armchair A! brain, but I feel like you could drive a truck through the holes in her strategy. Like, if [i]anyone[/i] needs to worry about anti-hypnosis training wouldn't it be..? Aha. No, of course you see it. You're saying I don't have my license yet."

She puts the chopstick down. After a long, slow sip of water, she collapses into a Madeleine-shaped pile in her chair. In safety, she truly is coming undone. How unseemly. 

"Hey. If I... if you really believe I can, then would you... that is... if I win? Finals, that is. If I... become a champion, like y- like we're aiming for. Would you? I would... like you to promise. That we can go on a trip. I've never cared about it until today, but I desire to see the night sky. I wish to see the scars on the Moon. Away from the city's grasp. With someone who understands. Would you..?"

She sighs, and shakes her head. Forget it. Just forget she said anything.

"Yes. The next session needs to hurt. Pain, music, pain, monsters, and then teeth. After I bleed. That's when she'd extend her hand to me, I think. So that's when I would need to endure something... pleasant."