That’s the trouble with being the first one awake: silently wheezing and trying not to be a terrible guest. (She’s been one before; she once stood, poleaxed, as a young girl, panicking over barking dogs and unable to walk away and let the house settle back to sleep.) Every time it cuts back! Every time, it gets funnier! [i]The child![/i] She leans against a counter and tries not to pull a muscle, mouth frozen in a rictus.

Now [i]this[/i] is content. Content which absolutely needs to be sent to Persephone. Either she’ll find it [i]just[/i] as funny, or she’ll be braced for when this becomes the next big thing for… oh, maybe a couple of days. Then it’ll mostly be forgotten, except for the occasional video shitpost.

Orange juice. Toast, cut herself with a bread knife, and hard butter, the kind that has to be scraped across as a solid lump and then forced into the bread with increasing amounts of violence. The weird feeling of domesticity, not microwaving [i]anything[/i] or digging something out of a plastic wrapper. Like this is what real food is supposed to feel like.

The toast ends up in several more pieces than she was expecting. It’s the butter’s fault.

***

“So! Is that it, then?” 3V says; she can’t let it go that easily. “All about the dunk? Have you been fighting with Black again, or is this possibly a [i]contest?[/i]”

She turns to Blue and turns on the Dazzle. The rakish 3V charm, the inviting smile, the way her jacket’s feathered collar frames her face. It’s safer to unload on Blue than, say, Yellow.

“C’mon! Blue, you have to tell me if this is one of your group contests. Yellow’s making a pretty good case, but I can’t let her run away with it if you’re waiting your turn~!”