#missy;thread

It's dead silent in the morgue. Well...in the office attached to the morgue. There's a quiet hum from the fluorescent lamp above her head, flickering out every now and then. Damn bulb's been dying out for about two months, worsening each time a cloud so much as threatens to cry, but Missy's just a half foot too short to get it out, even when balancing on the tightrope that is her swivel chair. Lord knows her daddy and his bad knee wouldn't be able to fix it, either. What she should do is post an ad out on the bulletin board, but having to beg for someone to change out a lightbulb of all things? She'd rather eat cemetery dirt. She'll keep working in Nosferatu's lair until it fully dies out. Then, she'll find a way to change it herself.

The papers in her hand rustle as she files the last of her work into the cabinet, the swoosh of the drawer opening and shutting filling the air for one, quick moment. She sits back in her seat with a quiet hum, eyes fluttering shut. Just a moment of quiet before she packs up, maybe stops by Granny's for a slice of rhubarb and coffee in leu of a real dinner before heading on home. Her usual Wednesday. Her phone buzzes. Her eyes flick open, a purse on her lips as she picks up the mobile and unlocks it. Her daddy, telling her about the weather forecast. Better stay put until its over...

The ellipses at the end of all his messages sure makes everything sound so foreboding. She needs to teach him to stop.

But, shit. She's a sitting duck, stuck in the figurative pond of the mortuary until Sunni or Stormee Skies says otherwise. At least there's a coffee pot and a well sealed loaf of banana bread somewhere in this building to tide her over. Is there a a blanket? Might as well get cozy.

With the thought in mind, she ambles out of the office and through the morgue, the dull thud of her boots announcing her every step to the bodies and ghosts that haunt those halls. A crack of thunder, a flicker of the light that makes Missy's eyes shoot up to the source. Damn, in here too? Maybe she will have to ask around, but that's a problem for another time. She's just about to step through the door to the main room when she hears a creak of the floorboards, another footstep from the other side. She pauses, the brass doorknob ice cold against her hand.

Huh, weird.

Missy opens the door, slow, the hinges creaking until it's cracked just enough for her to pop her head through. The damn lightbulb's dying out in the main room too -- storm must be messing with their wiring -- the light flicking off and on, off and on. Her brow furrows, another peal of thunder shaking the very bones of the funeral home before she fully opens the door, boots making the floorboards beneath her feet sigh out before she calls out --

Now, how did this damn duck get here?

Okay, duckling, but the sentiment remains the same, his-- hers? Missy doesn't know their life story, but there's a masculine energy emanating from him, so she'll go from there -- little body waddling through the cobblestone walkways. He pauses at her boot, pecking its beak against the dark leather. A furrow of her brow, and she bends down, head tilting to the side to take him in. It's a feat of bravery, she'll give him that. The amount of people he had to narrowly dodge is impressive -- how has he not gotten squashed or, more likely, taken by Miss Josephine Sutton and hidden underneath the Healing Hive Stall? A question for another day, and maybe a future present for the girl.

The walk from Swan Lake is certainly too long for this little duckling to make, so it's a fair assumption, in Missy's eyes, where exactly he came from. With a hum, she scoops the little guy up, his fuzzy body soft against the skin of her palms, and she's off. A side quest, but not necessarily an unwanted one.

And, she's off, her skirt swishing around her ankles as she's on the hunt for Big Peach himself, little apologies spilling from her lips when she almost shoulder checks people. Sorry, she has precious cargo in her hands, the yellow fella whistling in her hands. At least Greg's not a hard man to miss, about a head and shoulders taller than your average bear, and Missy makes her way over to him, seemingly no Quentin attached to his hip.

"Finch - is this fella yours?" She asks, her neck craning up, up, up to look at Greg, her palms unfurling to reveal the yellow, fuzzied head. "Saw him on a death run in the center of Town Square. Figured he waddled off your farm, or somethin'."

Don't blame Missy for the two cups of ale in her hands. That's on Miss Fortune. Well, maybe that isn't exactly what she said, something about not running from her future. But, when she bumped into the drinks stall, merely moments after stumbling out of that stuffy tent, it was clearly meant to be. Why would she run away from her future of pounding back a beer? Even if it doesn't has that perfect, sweet to bitter ratio that the champagne of beers, her faithful Miller High Life, has. Aritsan beers always taste a little too hops-y for her taste. Not that she's going to complain. A beer's a beer at the end of the day.

Besides, one of said cups is for the star of the hour, her very own Marigold Queen. Well, not in title. But, Tori Mae may as well be royalty in her eyes. There's a certain power in her gaze that Missy sure as hell views as regal. With a high chance of neither woman winning tonight, it only means that the pair can get good and drunk by the end of the night without having to trip and stumble on the stage.

Missy waltzes over to her darling friend near the fountain, a dainty hand extending out one of the cups as she takes a sip of her own. Too hops-y, just as she figured. If she dislikes it, it's not evident on her face. It is evident, however, in her words. "We'll have to have somethin' better after this one," she states, simple, holding up her own, clear cup to the sky. The amber liquid sparkles in the sunlight. "Maybe my picker's off. You'll have to hunt for the next one, Mae."