Katina Choovanski

After Emma's funeral arrangements had been taken care of, Katchoo had headed straight back to Fandom, too preoccupied with moping feeling sorry for herself formulating a way to explain this to Francine to be aware that she'd been spotted.

She felt like her suitcase looked, and from the looks of it the trip through baggage handling had been rough (and what the hell was that black greasy looking stain, ew). In a stellar example of brilliant social interaction skills, avoiding Francine for a couple of hours seemed like a good idea, so here she was. Sitting on a bench in the park where it is not snowing despite the icon with her feet propped up on the suitcase, staring off at the duck pond in the distance.

Totally not moping, except she was.

[OOC: Expecting one, conversation NFB.]

Doing the dance of Redeeming Airline Vouchers (bought on your last trip to Toronto and within, as it happened, days of expiring) at the airport ticket counter for a same-day flight was a gigantic pain in the ass for someone in a good mood, much less the mix of frantic, sick, and miserable that was Katchoo today. Several hours and some creative wrangling later she'd finally managed to book a ticket . . . on a flight that didn't leave until late afternoon.

With a sigh, Katchoo pocketed the little envelope containing her plane ticket, trudged away from the counter, and headed out over the shiny-slick white tile floor, through the automatic sliding doors, to the center island smoking area so she could . . . sit on her suitcase and smoke for a while. Maybe while she was at it she could call Francine -- except no, her phone was giving her a glorious zero bars of signal. Fabulous.

[OOC: NFI/NFB for distance. I totally have that signal problem at BWI. Post for . . . certain people-types what know who they are.]

Katchoo plugged her phone in to charge as soon as she -- Clocky trailing out of kicking range behind her -- got back to her room after work, then headed for the shower. Upon returning to the room, she tossed her towel onto the floor, changed into a pair of sweatpants and paused in front of her closet mirror, staring at her unfamiliar (except for that one day last year) reflection. And the lily-shaped tattoo on her chest, over her heart -- the one that now had an on-island twin in the burn scar Francine had come home with from her trip to Firekeeper's world.

Layers on layers of evasion and lies, now. Francine had no idea why she'd freaked out so much upon seeing that scar, or why she'd taken off to Toronto unexpectedly over the summer, or what had gone down in that jail cell in Baltimore last week. What had gone on in the two intervening years that had passed for her between running away from Houston and coming to Fandom, things that Arthur and Merlin now both had more of a clue about than her own best friend. And now Katchoo was wondering how much Ino might have pieced together, too.

God, she felt tired. Still staring at her reflection, Katchoo tried to trace back through everything to see if there was even a good starting point to ease into the story. (The beginning, maybe, you dumbass.) It was far too easy to get lost in thought this way, and the thoughts weren't, for the most part, fun.

[OOC: For the roomie. Specifics of convo NFB, please?5]

It was sort of like hunting, if you squinted at it the right way. Actually, Katchoo would be perfectly prepared to argue that any given bar was a sort of hunting ground.

The general concept was pretty much the same, anyhow, at least insofar as one of the two certain bitchy blond Fandom students had in mind tonight; it was something you did when everything was too goddamn &*^@!ing complicated and you had to let off some steam. Beating up on a lump of clay lost its charm pretty quickly, there were too many people who liked the punching bags in the gym, and nobody wanted Katchoo in possession of anything pointy or ballistic when she was in a mood like this anyway.

. . . a bar would be so much better, obviously.

Nonetheless. Bar. Booze. Well away from the island and any stupid squirrels. It was just to let off a little steam, anyway. ( What could possibly go wrong there? (Bit o'violence back here.) )

[OOC: NFB and NFI for mainlandiness, OOC okay. Preplayed with the always fantastic bitch_prince! To be continued in a couple of hours . . .]

She still had several hours to kill before her flight back to New York and subsequent portal back to Fandom, so Katchoo was spending it the best way she knew how: sitting atop her duffel bag in a corner of the departure-level sidewalk outside the terminal, smoking her way systematically through one cigarette after another, trying to find some kind of amusement in the gigantic bilingual health warnings on the latest pack of Export As she was rapidly depleting.

All the money she'd managed to squirrel away from her job at the art store this past year, which admittedly wasn't much, was pretty much gone now, having been handed over just yesterday to St. Mary's Hospice for Emma's care. The hospice's number was programmed into her phone now, and they had hers, and said phone was in Katchoo's non-cigarette holding hand, the slider being snapped open, shut, and open again. Francine's number was still highlighted on the Contacts screen, but Katchoo's thumb was nowhere near the dial button.

( Her thoughts were about two and a half years away. )

Katchoo jarred herself out of the memory with a sardonic laugh. God, that was ironic now, and not in a fun way, huh? And how was she going to explain this to Francine? How the hell did you tell your best friend that you'd taken off unexpectedly to take care of the dying woman who'd brought you in off the streets of L.A. by recruiting you as a call girl, when all that time she thought you'd been living with a nonexistent aunt in Cleveland? Promises of I'll still love you, no matter what sounded great, but unfortunately, doubt was what happened when Katchoo's cynicism mixed with her awareness that Francine's life had been so sheltered.

And so she sat on her duffel bag, burning cigarette after cigarette into ashes, looking at Francine's name on her incredibly short phone contact list and keeping her thumb well the hell away from the Call button.

[OOC: NFB, NFI, OOC okay, flashback dialogue from Strangers in Paradise Volume 2, Issue 1.]

Katchoo was perched on the roof of the cabin, having a cigarette and idly sliding the new cell phone that Francine had given her open and shut.

Katchoo had, in point of fact, lied when she told Francine it wasn't like anyone else would call this phone, because nobody else had the number; one other person did. Which was why, when the phone rang and she recognized the area code on the caller ID as originating in Toronto, she snapped the slider open so fast the phone nearly went flying.

( Why, yes, there would be a phone call. )

A quick call to Portalocity booked her a trip to LaGuardia airport, and she planned to get a plane ticket to Canada from there -- it close to Fandom, but not quite close enough, just in case, because no way in hell was she trusting the full trip to a portal. Not for this.

Duffel bag slung over her shoulder, Katchoo headed out like the situation was bad. To all appearances, it just might be.

[OOC: Establishy! Details of phone call NFB, please. :) Also, OMG, PEOPLE, THE ICON IS NOT DIRTY OKAY. I KNOW IT LOOKS LIKE IT.

ETA: Cabinmates, since blondecanary asked, are more than welcome to spot the note, yes.]