Apt. 7, night.

“Do you want to turn a light on?”

“No.” Aden smiles. “This is why they call it stabbing in the dark, silly.”

Gem makes a face. “Don’t cut yourself.”

Aden mumbles a vague intention not to, but mostly doesn’t understand why atomic fireballs don’t chop more easily. (Her intention is to chop/powderize them, then combine the bits with honey... to see what happens.)

Obviously the project fails, and Gem and Aden devote the remainder of their evening to snuggling and sipping tea while witnessing the majestic, godless gore of Gladiator, starring Russell Crowe.

Also, Apartment 7 will be eating Craisins forever.

Apt. 7, night.

Xander stands in the doorway for a long time, hating philosophy. Aden and Xander agree on all the issues... but most importantly the degree to which John Stuart Mill is a douchebag.

Siege is two parts big brother, one part prospective aspiring spouse.

“Is he still in love with you?”

“He’s not in love.” Siege & Violet roll eyes in unison. “He only used the word love once, and he was drunk... so I have no idea what he meant.” (Skye writes her beautiful poetry, which he cannot spell. For this reason, Aden will never, ever be in love with Skye.)

Sugar Grove/Big Rock/Setzuan, dawn/later/much later.

The next morning it's Renoir, still rainy as hell (as Paris in every painting you've ever seen). Xander twists around backward to draw something on her foot: a heart. He's a good driver, Xander, swiftly dodging road-blocks in the swelling flood.

She wonders about Sherlock.

Of greater interest at the moment is Mercy. In the ten minutes before this - all this, what the crowd of 25 is thronged outside the door for - happens, Aden and Mercy are alone. The room, tea light decked, windows cracked, is quiet, peace and expectation, music loud enough. Mercy smiles, and begins to dance.

The Arena, afternoon/night.

Aden, sprawled in the overstuffed corner chair, wearing a pale blue skirt, flattens her sneaker soles against the wall and smiles at something Sophos has said. He must know everything by now. Sophos loves Aden, like all complex people, and vends peace like any real follower of truth and time. They talk about April.

After the concert, Aden walks back in rain.

April stands perfect, dimlit Monet in the center of the parking lot, sad and soft-smiling beneath a very green umbrella. Weather like this, everything’s impressionistic, muddled and pretty; the whole wide world, if nothing else, aesthetically tolerable as hell.

Chaillot, daylight.

Aden, whom we might as well go ahead and call the heroine, finds her appointment in the back hall - tall, handsome, punctual. Sherlock (the tall, handsome, etc. appointmentee) procures a bare wooden stool, and Aden sets to work.

Half an hour later, she's washing his blood off her hands.

Everyone always assumes that Aden’s speaking metaphorically.
Aden never, ever speaks metaphorically.

(No one dies.) She bites her lip; he forgives her. She kisses her finger, then puts her finger to his ear. She's pretty cool about blood.

What our heroine lacks in quease she makes up for in artistic genius.