1416/Hey You're Not Dead

Hey You're Not Dead
Date of Scene:	11 July 2017
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Kid Omega, Cypher, Wicked

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Kid Omega has posed:
Kid Omega dropped the data cluster in Doug's inbox two days ago, shortly after the resurrected mutant genius began exchanging unfriendly chatter with Senator Graydon Creed. Quentin approved heartily: it both stood up for the value and dignity of mutantkind and consisted of tweaking the nose of a stuffed shirt corporatized moneygrubbing shitbag of a politician. Total win-win.

Still, he was skeptical of the idea that his old classmate might actually be back from the dead. Doug's powerset didn't exactly have the base components that one might expect to lead to resurrection: no healing factor, no Phoenix effect, no nanotech infusions (that Quentin knew about).

So the data packet was a test. To most any mind, it was garbled nonsense, data static, signal noise. The message, of course, was imbedded deep in the math, impenetrable to all but the brilliant mind of, say, a mutant anarchist boy-genius - or a mutant mind with a particular talent for translating the untranslatable.

The static, once deciphered, would have a set of coordinates, a time of day and creating a grinning, pink-haired, bespectacled digital sprite that would give Doug the finger in pixellated glory.

"Company should be here any minute, my calla lily," Quentin says, dipping by the couch to brush his lips across Wicked's forehead, "Would you mind getting the door while I get a martini for my old classmate?" he says. The penthouse in which they reside is spotless, with thick white carpet and tinted windows that keep out every drop of sunlight, the only light on the inside utterly artificial and often dimmed to suit Wicked's particular aesthetic requirements. Quentin Quire respects a consistent aesthetic, it's one of the most basic signs of a refined consciousness.

"I wonder if the undead still like cashews?"

Cypher has posed:
When Doug opened his e-mail, he was certainly surprised. It was of course easy for him to break into the packet and find the message -- he literally just kind of does these things. It's funny how you'd be quicker to frustrate Cypher with a padlock than with bleeding-edge digital encryption. Just ask Graydon Creed, ahem-hem.

But that was not the person he was expecting to hear from. Honestly he's a little surprised Kid Omega's not dead himself--or at least living in Amsterdam or something. And it's not like they ever hung out, Quentin with his rebellious, eternally-in-detention smoking-is-cool comrades, and Doug, the computer geek with the power everybody laughed at, or at least grinned at.

But, now that he's T/O negative and living a new life, he considers the invitation and then thinks to himself, 'Well... why not.'

So he took a day trip to New York, after cadging some pocket money off of Doctor McCoy -- stopped at a pizza place he remembers (still amazing), hit up a record store and found a sweet haul of Dazzler and Lila Cheney vinyl limited releases (who would GET RID of these?) and then, finally, he's outside the apartment. He buzzes in. *bzzzzzz*

Wicked has posed:
    Wicked, lounging on the couch and humming tunelessly while she 'recalibrates her clairvoyant cloaca' because she's been getting precog-seizures a lot more frequently for some reason, twitches at the kiss to her forehead. Her eyes, which had been rolled /way/ back up inside her skull, flip down as she blink-plink-blinks back into the present. "Oh," she says in a confused voice, and it's unclear whether or not she actually heard what Quentin said in the first place. But, from the susurrus that ruffles the hair at her ear from some unseen source, she inhales deeply and nods her head emphatically. "Yes, dreamboy, I /can/ and /will/ do that, yes!" she says with a determined, almost heroic cast to her frail little voice. As though answering the door is some feat to be accomplished! To his question regarding cashews, she answers seriously, "Well, it entirely depends on whether or not they liked them before they perished, precious one, but if they /didn't/ like cashews, it's probably due to some flaw in their genetics. Because, really, cashews are superior amongst most nuts."

    Then. There is a buzzing! Where is it coming from? Wicked slide-flops off of the couch, her heavy platform lift Frankenstein boots putting her off balance. She makes her way to her feet awkwardly, all bony knees and spindly limbs. Her tights can't really /get/ any more ripped, and the carpet's plush, so it's no worries! Her ghosts are there to aid her, of course, making her rising to her feet look /very/ eerie and unnatural. She giggles and waves them off, "Sillies. Now, shhhhh!" She holds up a finger. "There is a /buzzing/! Do you hear it? There! --" she follows the sound...to the door. "THE DOOR IS BUZZING, BABE," she whispers very loudly to Quentin. "I'M GONNA OPEN IT. BUT, BE CAREFUL, BECAUSE IT COULD BE A GIANT BEE." And, so, very carefully, the door creeeeeaks open.....to reveal a possibly very confused Doug.

    Wicked slowly peeks around the edge of the door, her pale hazel eyes sporting pupils like pinpricks, made all the more intense by her dark eye makeup. "HELLO?" she whispers loudly. Her black hair, painfully straight and shining in the artificial light of the apartment, falls in a gradient arc with her lean, until it's lying in a straight line from her head toward the floor. "WE DON'T HAVE ANY HONEY, BUT WE DO HAVE CASHEWS. DON'T STING US, OKAY?" she says in that harsh sotto voce. At this point, only her hair, her haunting eyes, and the bony, tattooed fingers that sport pointed, black-polished, stilleto nails...are visible from where she stands ensconced behind the door. Presumably to hide from the giant bee.

Kid Omega has posed:
Quentin, of course, is quite familiar with Wicked's peculiariaties, quirks and particularities. Some of them he helped create himself, perhaps by an overindulgent tampering with the outer edges of her consciousness. He's broken her and put her back together a few times and the only reason he's gotten away with it is because, twisted creature that she is, she likes it.

"Don't be too concerned, Douglas. This is Wicked, my partner-in-crime, ghost-riddled and beautiful and just a bit otherworldly. She's really quite friendly. The buzzing, my love socket, was just the new doorbell I had installed. I may have been overenthusiastic with the decibels," he says.

He floats into view himself, legs crossed lotus style, his pink hair flopping to one side and showing the Omega symbol shaved into the other. "Welcome to Chez Omega. This is where the troublemakers are. And you, naughty, naughty boy, have been making some trouble. If I were capable of feeling pride in the accomplishments of others, I would be proud of you."

"So please, come in, have a drink or twelve. I can provide other chemical lubrications should be be so desired. Wicked, my cobweb, attend to the comfort of our guest," he smiles.

Cypher has posed:
Doug is standing there holding his shopping bag and looking astonishingly... alive. A necromancer like Wicked would be able to tell, the touch of the Endless is absolutely upon him, but he is not dead, nor is he un-dead. He's one hundred percent alive. In point of fact, his age is what it should be, as opposed to coming back fifteen, which he hasn't devoted too much energy to thinking about. Still, dead once and dead-no-longer.

Douglas beams at Wicked, and says, genially enough, "Hi! I'm Doug." He offers her a handshake, "Quentin and I used to go to the same school." Then he looks around, taking it all in. "Nice place, I wasn't expecting its language to be so put-together."

Whether his hand is taken or if she declines, he gives her a brief smile, and then steps inside, and takes off his boots. "Oh, hey, cashews!" He says, "I haven't eaten since lunch." He helps himself to a handful, and then opens his mouth to inform Quentin that he's a minor, but then he remembers who he's talking to and scraps THAT argument on the spot. ...Do you have any coke?" Because sometimes, you set yourself up for the joke.

Wicked has posed:
    Wicked's eyes zap down to look at the hand Doug proffers, as though she had been expecting, perhaps, some sort of insect leg. But, it's just a hand! And, sure, yes, she sees the mark of Dead has touched him, but here he stands! Waiting for her to shake his hand. Belatedly, perhaps the moment Doug was about to withdraw his hand, she darts hers out and grips his hand in a frail shake. Her hand is small and slender to the extreme, seeming like it would be /so/ easy to crush, if one gripped it too tightly. "The /doorbell/," Wicked nods her head, withdrawing her hand and straightening up so she's fully behind the door as Doug enters. "Right. The /doorbell/ buzzes," she repeats to herself. She teeters around on her heavily-shod feet, looking almost as if she's about to fall quite often, but never actually losing her balance-- though, of course, it's sometimes due to supernatural, or Quentin's assistance.

    She begins rummaging around in things-- nowhere that remotely houses things that would be of use to the situation, though. "Coke?" she says, picking up the last word in Doug's request. "Coke?" she repeats, looking all over. Her Frighteners try to draw her attention to the refrigerator, though their lights are currently off and, therefore, they're only visible to Wicked. Who is still looking for 'coke' in all the wrong places. After a minute, she grabs something and walks over to Doug in that stilted way of hers...and very sweetly offers him a baby chick. It's alive, a little yellow ball of fluff that cheep-cheeps cutely as it settles in Doug's hand. "There you go," she says soothingly, as though it were just the thing he needed. She looks up at Quentin with a beautiful, proud smile. She /did/ the thing.

Kid Omega has posed:
Quentin settles on the back of the couch, balancing relatively easily. Mostly because he cheats. Telekinesis is good for looking agile as fuck without actually putting in gym time. He can high wire walk your brains out.

He watches as Wicked scoops up the warm chick from the incubator. Free range chickens on the rooftop of a hipster penthouse seemed like a good scheme for his own amusement, especially because a) free eggs b) young rich idiots love local, organic ingredients and c) he then had the options to throw chickens off of a roof at unsuspecting strangers. That's a win-win-win.

He peers at Doug, "If you were anyone other than Doug Ramsey, I would assume you meant the powdered purification of the coca and would bring forth a pile of nose candy to go with your chirper. That said, you probably want something more in the high fructose corn syrup line," he says.

He telekinetically snatches a soda from the fridge, setting the can down in front of Doug.

"So, all the king's horses and all the king's men seem to have put you together again,' he says, slinking down into the upholstery and gesturing for Wicked to take her preferred place under his arm. "I don't see any stitches or bolts in your neck. No signs of the Phoenix leaking out of your psyche, which is good because it would probably boil your brain in its own juices. "It's a pretty neat trick."

Cypher has posed:
"Do you remember my friend Warlock?" The Techno-Organic Alien, the one with the funny idiomatic speech patterns, could inflict a horrible techno-organic virus on living matter but settled for plugging hismelf into a wall outlet, the one who would occasionally form a battlesuit with Doug piloting it and stomp-stomp around. That Warlock. "Well I guess he packed me a Cheat Death card, probably without knowing it. There's a guy running around with a sample of it, though... I'm trying to find him. One thing at a time." He pops the tab on that cola and says "Yeah--" And now he's got a baby chick in his hands, and they can practically SEE the moment his heart melts. And he leans in and makes soft clucking sounds with his tongue at it, and then it's peeping back at him and snuggling in his palms. "Thank you!" He gives Wicked a HUGE smile. "...I didn't know I could speak chicken, but it turns out I can." Of course he can.

Then looks up, loses his jacket so the chicken can settle in it and go to sleep, and says, "So you figured out it was me sending messages to Graydon Creed?" He takes a slow sip of his coke, and then says, in Demonic, <That Fuck Nuts.> Then he clears his throat, and says, "He's kind of amateur hour, but the kind of amateur hour that's putting slave collars on mutants and advocating race war--" Again, he remembers who he's talking to, and adds, "...By picking on the weak Mutants first."

Wicked has posed:
    Wicked's smile is very pretty! If only her eyes weren't staring so disconcertingly when she aims that smile at Doug. "You're welcome, Bee," she replies, almost normally, straightening and watching Doug interact with the chick. "Her name is Thermidor. That's because she bested Robespierre in the Who-Will-Not-Get-Chucked-Off-the-Roof battle royale," she informs Doug helpfully. 'Course, the chick probably contests this name, but Wicked doesn't speak chick!

    At Quentin's beckoning, she trips her way over to him, falling down onto the couch beside him, sinking in against his side as his arm drapes around her. She's almost /immediately/ disconnected from the conversation as she becomes fascinated with the belt that holds Quentin's smoking jacket closed. She begins rolling it up into a cinnamon roll shape, and flicking it back out, giggling softly to herself.

Kid Omega has posed:
Quentin Quire twirls a lock of Wicked's hair around his fingers in a strange imitation of her cinnamon roll trick, almost as if it were an echo of the thoughts in her mind. Or maybe hers were an echo of his. He spent enough time in her skull that the boundaries between consciousness could become a bit fuzzy over time.

"I do remember him. He was bizarre and off-putting. Woefully cheerful, as if he'd been bumped chock full of intergalactic meth. But you did always seem fond of each other. Good for you, cheating death through friendship. How very Hollywood. You should write a screenplay," he says.

Dismissing that for the moment, he nods in response to Doug's description of Graydon Creed, even as he feels some of Wicked's ghosts wrap around the pair like boas, not quite constrictive but certainly present. He'd grown used to goosebumps.

"Graydon Creed is but the swollen, infected glans of the great cock that continues to fuck mutantkind," Quentin says, popping a few cashews of his own into his mouth. "He's sensitive and oozing and everyone keeps staring at him, but the real danger lies beneath the skin. He's a distraction from the throbbing gristle of the Deep State, the conspiracies upon plots upon schemes that swim in the murky depths of the mixed metaphors of our gosh-darn fine Amurican system," he says, spitting on the last syllable off to the side.

"You've made some noise tweaking his nose, but I wonder how much you've poked and prodded. I could investigate myself, but I'm more than happy to lean over and copy your work if you've already done it."

Cypher has posed:
Doug swirls his coke in one hand, and he looks over at the chicken, who's he's already renamed Miss Pennyfeathers in his mind. He's going to keep her. He is quiet for a long, long time, and then he looks up, and for a moment when he meets Quentin's gaze, there's a peculiar hardening to those shy baby blues. "Actually I already downloaded all of the files I could find on his private server. I'm saving them, for when I can take him down without risking someone else getting caught in the blowback."

Then he sets his soda down, and rests his elbows on his knees. "I know it doesn't have as much clout with you as some, but you're not COMPLETELY sans conscience. You were never a bully; you were mostly interested in taking the battle to the strong. He's insane, Quentin--completely off his rocker, and whatever direction you can imagine the rabbit hole going, it twists there." He doesn't reveal details for the time being. "I can already see where the conversation Creed and I are having is going. I'm going to have to kill him. And heaven help me, you might be the one guy I know who'd understand."

Wicked has posed:
    Occasionally, Doug might get the shivers, as though the place is a bit chilly especially after he's taken his jacket off for Miss Thermidor Pennyfeathers to nest in. This is not as a result of overly zealous central air conditioning, but a side-effect of being brushed up against by Wicked's Frighteners-- a trio of ghosts that she is never without, except when she wants some private time. They can be visible, if they wish to be, but they often take time to warm up to an individual. After all, their ghostly forms are quite gruesome, unless they expend extra necroplasmic energy to appear as they did in life.

    Wicked, though, is still silent, save for the giggling she does. Except, at a tense moment in the conversation, she suddenly stands up, completely rigid. Her arms are locked at her sides, and her hands twitch and flap strangely as her head snaps backwards, rocking to one side and then the other, her hair blanketing her back and shimmying with each inhuman movement. A croaking, raspy inhalation begins emanating from her wide-open mouth as her eyes roll all the way back inside her head. All of this happens within milliseconds, but the creepy-factor makes it seem like it stretches on forever as she croakingly inhales a long, slow breath... And, finally, exhales one word. A single word of great importance... "Mmm--mmmmmysss---tttiiiiiiiique," she chokes out through a taut, strained throat.

    No sooner is the word said than Wicked is released from her clairvoyant seizure, her body flopping down on the couch like a puppet whose strings have been simultaneously severed. Her head lolls toward Quentin and she smiles sweetly to him as she begins caressing his stomach--as though they were alone, as though she hadn't just created a very awkward atmosphere in the room.

Kid Omega has posed:
Quentin had been about to respond to Doug's commentary when Wicked has her particular fit. He doesn't seem deeply concerned by the fact that she seems to have a spasm, holding up a hand towards Doug as if to reassure the other boy that this isn't something he can intervene in. Quentin wouldn't go so far as to say its normal - to him, normal is an insult.

At the word, he files it away, but doesn't leap to too obvious conclusions. It's a clue, no doubt, and one worth pursuing. Or perhaps it was a suggestion - who better, after all, to kill a pesky threat to mutantkind and get away with it?

"Perhaps I'll dip into the black market and check on her rates," he muses aloud. He recognizes that isn't the only potential interpretation, but he also knows prying at Wicked to try and get her to clarify wouldn't get anything like meaningful results and would only make her feel guilty for being vague.

"You'll get no disagreement from me that permanent sanctions are what's called for in this particular douchecanoe's case," he says. "Although I bet a certain bald-headed academic would probably be weeping into his Depends to hear you speak, even hesitantly, of murder most foul. Perhaps death has changed you after all - or maybe you've just grown up. Xavier's going to have to, one of these days."

Cypher has posed:
"I don't want to kill anyone, Quentin." Doug says, "But if forced to choose between passivity or becoming violent to defend the people I care about, I'll choose violence. Only when forced." He is quiet again, before he picks up his soda and takes a long pull of it, draining it and then setting the can down. "I don't think I have anything to prove when I say that I'll do anything it takes -- anything -- to protect the people I love."

Then he sighs. "And here I am, talking about killing people after you've invited me into your home." He filed away Wicked's clairvoyant outburst, too -- and how close it strikes to the root of what Graydon Creed is really after. She's powerful... "I believe in Xavier's vision for a better world. Deep down, in a place you'd never ever admit to owning, you do too. How's that song you used to like go? 'I ain't never crossed a man that didn't deserve it; me be treated like a punk? --"

Wicked has posed:
    Once again, Wicked is disconnected from the conversation. To be honest, she's taking in what's being said... But, she doesn't have the faculties, at the present, to parse them in a meaningful way that would lead to helpful information. Her abilities kicked off and offered something the two boys didn't have, before, but it seems her usefulness ends there. At first, it seems that she's silent, but Quentin is close enough that he can hear her speaking rapidly, just under her breath. However, whether or not Quentin chooses to share that information is up to him. To Doug, it probably seems she's a terrible host, but she can hardly help herself.

    "This one time, I was at a photoshoot and they asked me to take my top off, for the sake of art, you know," she suddenly speaks aloud--too loud. "And, I mean, I was probably 13 or something. I have a real hard time keeping track of time and stuff. Anyway, the makeup artist lady asked me how my loved ones felt about me posing topless for the photographer, considering I was so young," she continues, hardly taking a breath. She's speaking in a strange, runon-sentence rhythm, like a bad actor trying to deliver important lines but failing to inject any emotion into them, and with no cadence of a storyteller. "And, I said to her, 'What loved ones?' She cried, but did my boob makeup silently. The end."

Kid Omega has posed:
Quentin Quire lays a hand quietly over Wicked's face. It's a soothing motion, meant to comfort. Fingers stroke over her kohl-dusted eyelids, black as pitch. He's often smudged around her, ink-stained as a newsie, his fingers trailing along the architecture of her cheek. She was haunted by worse than ghosts, he knew, far worse. The damage she bore came from the living, not the dead. Was it always the way?

"Shhhhhhhh, hush now, petal. We'll find that photographer later tonight. A google away. And then we'll see about giving him a looksee, then he and I and your frightening friends can have a significant talk with him about modern constructions of consent and responsibility regarding adolescent sexuality. It sounds as though the man needs a primer," he says.

He cocks his head at Doug and clicks his pierced tongue against his teeth, 'Ever the optimist, Douglas. I know you like to think that - most of the Professor's devotees do. You all seem to believe that he has some sort of mythic power of persuasion, that even those who fight against him have devotion to him in their hearts. That he is revered and respected in spite of mere differences of doctrine."

Quentin snaps his fingers rapidly.

"Newsflash, Douglas Christ. Xavier's just an old man who can read minds. Hell, I can read minds and at least I still have all my hair. He's spent his youth and his power to do what exactly? Play Dumbledore? Well, I read those books all in one sitting, once upon a time, and Xavier's long since needed someone to play Snape and shove him off the tower so the younger generation can finally get off their asses and get around to putting down Voldemort."

Cypher has posed:
Douglas looks down, and then back up, and then he says, "That's the thing about visions. They become bigger then the men who envision them, and sooner or later, those men find their devotees carrying the banner to places they never imagined, for good or for ill. I do admire Professor Xavier... but it's not just him I believe in, and am willing to stand up for. You're the last person who needs to be lectured on iconoclasm, ideology, and the germination of ideas, so I'll spare you." He looks down at Wicked, and then back up at Quentin, and he says, "It's very sweet, the way you care about her. Believe it or not, Quentin, I am happy that you finally found someone who speaks your language. You deserve it."

Then he sits there, quietly, and says, "I envy you. You seem to have it all figured out. What you want, what you're after. Me? I'm hiding in the mansion like a coward because I cannot for the life of me figure out a way to tell my mother I'm not dead that wouldn't break her."

He lets out a sigh, and says, "Since I died and came back, my powers have exploded. I've been accused of telepathy, at least once. I've read every microexpression you've got since I showed up here, and I have to say this. You have the most unbelievable synchronization between what you're really saying and what's coming out of your mouth, K.O."

Kid Omega has posed:
Quentin Quire continues stroking Wicked, toying with her hair and face absent-mindedly. Of course, it isn't. His mind is never absent. Even when he's thinking of eight things at once, his mind is utterly present in all eight, engaged in every aspect of every fragment of every task. He does nothing thoughtlessly. His mind just doesn't work that way.

"I recognize the memetic replication of the Professor's ideology is impressive. But just because something's contagious doesn't mean I want to be infected. I took in enough to develop a nice, healthy immunity during my time at the school, an impermanent dose of his particular pathogen. Just as I've dipped my head into Mageto's samples from time to time, although not when he's been looking. Mostly Youtube clips, if I'm honest. Putting yourself in reach of the man is a dangerous prospect."

"I'm just tired of the rising tide of mutant youth being put into the continuation of a lover's spat between two old men, that's all. We would be better off finding our own causes - and no, I'm not proposing I lead. Well, not everyone anyway. Most constitutions can't bear me, they need their truths cut and watered down. I'm the pure leaf."

He grins at Douglas' observation, "Clever boy. I can imagine they look at you with suspicion. You're Doug, but you're not the same, so they wonder if you're the same Doug or if you're a trick. A plant. I can lick the surface of your psyche enough to know the flavor's the same, but not everyone has that option."

"And you're right. I say what I think. I won't say I never lie. I do lie and I lie often. But I lie for my own amusement, I lie to open up horizons, I lie in service of greater truth. I lie because sometimes it gets me hard. But about the important things, the things that matter, I always speak Scripture."

Cypher has posed:
Doug says, "And that's why I always liked you. You're an asshole, Quentin, and you've got the right to be one if you want to be. You're vain, you're arrogant, and sometimes cruel--but you're not evil. Your only problem is sometimes you don't pause to make the distinction to people who aren't as keen to what's really being said as I am." He adds, "It doesn't matter how they look at me, or whether I'm the real Doug Ramsey or just something rebuilt out of his shell. I'm alive, and that's going to have to be enough. And Graydon Creed's language offends me and imperils the people I care about. So I'm going to shut him up."

"So." He says, "Are you in? Are you going to help me do this? Because there's a man who scares the absolute holy hell out of Graydon Creed, and we need to find him."

Kid Omega has posed:
Quentin Quire smiles, "The worst part, I'm sure, is that you wonder the same things they do. What counts as the real Doug, after all? If you died, truly died, wouldn't that, by necessity, mean you can't be the same? And if you're identical in every way but just made of different atoms or spirit stuff, what's the difference? It gets even messier when you remember that all memories are fungible, changeable, shifting sands in the hands of the right power. Power like mine," he smirks.

"I know you think not being evil is a complement, but it m akes my skin crawl every time you say it. Stop," he snorts. "And of course I'm in. Taking down a sitting US Senator alongside an undead mutant and my best girl, while potentially sending the government's intelligence gathering apparatus into a tailspin and exposing some of its deepest darkest secrets? You've been reading my dirty fanfic!"

Cypher has posed:
That makes a bland look cross Doug's face. "You would write dirty fanfic," He says, "You know, I was surfing on FaceSpace an an artist I follow posted a picture of a sculpture of Snow White projectile-vomiting." He says, "I think you'd like it."

"Okay then, you're in? No take-backs. Put on your best suit and get ready for a Night Trip to Gotham City."

"We need to find the Batman."

Wicked has posed:
    Wicked has been blissfully silent for at least ten minutes, now, while the two guys chat it up, talking mutant politics and other things she has no way to comment on in any meaningful way. She's just been enjoying Quentin's caressing of her face while she lies as still as a corpse in an awkward position that highlights her underweight little frame's bony angles. Her knees are pressed together while her pigeon-toed feet are splayed wide, still turned in toward each other, and her body is bent at an angle that anyone else would likely complain about, so she is resting all still-like under Quentin's gentle, makeup smudging affections.

    But, at the mention of Batman, she sits up, her makeup all smeared in interesting patterns that are probably sigils of some kind. "Hey. Batman. I can find him, no problem!" she says with a big smile. "My ghosties can find him without any problem!" she says, pointing at them in a zig-zagging motion, as they're zipping around in her excitement. "I can be useful!" she says with happiness. "Also, where's Gotham? And, also, that picture of Snow White vomiting... does she have the bitten apple in her hand?" she wonders, looking back and forth between Quentin and Doug. "When do we leave?" she asks, rocking back precariously on her too-high boots, so that her balance is only kept by the aid of her Frighteners.