#hopecaptive

« Oh—I'm sorry, am I interrupting you? »

The polite question comes not from Scarah's mouth, but from her mind; her long and extensive lessons in telepathy have at least allowed her to use it for casual conversation, though detecting others by their thoughts alone is still unreliable.

The snakelike girl in the otherwise empty club room doesn't seem particularly like someone who'd get angry at an unexpected interruption, but Scarah knows better than most that in a school like this, surprising people can have unintended consequences. All the more when the ghoul doing the surprising is someone like Scarah—though she's explained time and time again that she'd have to scream to make herself a herald of oncoming death.

« I was hoping to study in here, » Scarah continues wordlessly, motioning down to the textbook and notebook clutched in her arms. « It's usually empty… You don't mind, do you? »

The persistent and steadily growing creep of disjointed outside thoughts into her mind tells Scarah that the answer, at least, is not going to be a negative one. She tries to push aside the intrusion, but as usual, it proves a fruitless endeavor—the insides of the minds of her fellow students are becoming more and more unwillingly open to her the longer she dedicates herself to the study of speaking through them.

Well. It's better, at least, than being feared for the simple act of opening her mouth. She smiles, indicating with her head once more, this time towards the other girl's work spread out on one of the tables.

"Not bad!"

The offered compliment comes with a click from Bond'a handgun, a reapplication of its safety as he spins it once in hand—to cool it, but also for the flair he knows it gives him. His impromptu ally on the other side of the alley doesn't seem nearly so showy, nor does he look especially impressed with Bond's showmanship, but Bond isn't doing it for him.

His brief return to America hadn't been for the sake of business, and this little detour couldn't really be called business, either. Actually, it was Bond who'd stuck his nose into someone else's business, although finding his way into the business of others has always been a specialty and a hobby of his.

Besides, he hadn't been intending to engage in a firefight. It was the other man who'd pulled a gun on him when he'd posed a few well-timed questions about his intentions, stalking this block the way he had been.

A few seconds pass wherein Bond allows the hot metal of his gun's barrel to cool, then he delicately but smoothly slots it back into its holster inside of his suit jacket. His attention turns wholly to the man further away from the main street, raking his eyes up and down the moderately close figure of someone who is very clearly not the sort of person who makes their living honestly.

Not that Bond's judging. The presence or absence of such remains to be seen.

"Sorry—I don't mean to be so distracted."

Farrah turns her attention away from the rest of the class and back towards Haruka, who's been royally patient with Farrah's uncharacteristic forgetfulness. She puts on a smile, eyes downturned towards the small collage of concepts the two of them have been collecting—though, inspiring much guilt in Farrah, it's been Haruka who's pulled most of the weight between the two of them when it comes to formulating ideas for their Princessology presentation.

It's just difficult to focus when there's something weighing as heavily on her as the secret she's been keeping for Ashlynn, and the way it collides with her own wants.

Not that she needs to have wants.

It's just that it can be difficult, sometimes, to know that there are things that she'll never be able to do. Farrah likes her destiny—is looking forward to it, really—but it's not as though a Fairy Godmother is ever going to get her own happy ending. She won't get a bad one, but she knows the story won't ever be about her.

Hunter is just one more piece of evidence in that puzzle. Farrah had attached to him precisely because he wasn't a prince—because he wasn't promised to anybody. And then Ashlynn had quietly confided in her that the two of them were seeing eachother, were in love, and Farrah had smiled and congratulated them. But it had been a somewhat dour reminder of the way things were always going to be.

"I like the idea of doing a diorama," she says, trying to shake herself back on track. "If we can design something physical, you could wish it into existence and I could make it just before class, next week. I'd say the morning of, but my magic will stop working at noon if we do it too early."

It's a quiet, feeble attempt to drag herself back into normalcy. She wouldn't mind the hard work of putting together something by hand—but all the same, Farrah's very used to the way everyone around her tends to jump at the chance to make their lives just the slightest bit easier for the less-than-twelve hours her magic can actually do much.