Log Date: 12/6/98 Log Cast: Neva, Tance Log Intro: Working as a Singer in the Heptite Guild invariably means that you're going to get physically damaged at some time or other. And even if you're a young Singer and not yet prone to crystal degredation in your memory, there's the risk of injury-induced amnesia. This, however, is a fact that generally eludes Tance Vokrim these days, and thus, when he runs into a young Singer by the name of Neva who claims to be suffering memory problems, he finds himself oddly sympathetic to her plight. Even when she starts, bizarrely enough, harping about the state of his hair... ---------- You walk into the lounge. Singer Common Lounge This is where Singers can meet and relax after a hard day of work. Chairs and sofas are scattered around in conversational groupings. Several bright stripes lead off to the various Singer accommodation quadrants. Contents: Tance, just standing there Neva, just standing there Shepherding Manual Online Terminal Shepherd Board Planetary Brochure Catering Unit Obvious Commands ("." for list): .wander .look .wait .pace .couch .pillows .table .catering unit Obvious Exits: Level 11 Level 10 Level 9 Seated on a couch, Neva idly studies the brochure from Markianali, frowning slightly. "Fine /dinning/?" she mutters. "I'm supposed to consider going anyplace for fine /dinning/?" She pushes the brochure aside again, and glances over to Tance. "Hey, there." Lowly muttered, confused words herald Tance's presence before he comes into view, moving tenatively along one of the colored stripes that marks the wall. He's fingering the blue band with uncertainty, and he can be heard to be mumbling, "Nah... that ain't it, I'm sure... kark it... wha?" He starts, snapping out of his apparent reverie, at the sound of his name. Turning the rest of the way, Neva leans an elbow against the back of the couch. "Are you okay? Need help?" she asks, gently. Tance blushes, dropping his gaze towards the blue band along the wall, and then dropping his hand slowly down from the textured stripe. "I, uh, I'm fine... just... kinda lost," he mumbles. Ever the helpful one, Neva offers, "Where were you trying to go?" "Quarters," mutters Tance, looking halfway up, towards the younger Singer. He pauses, and then his gaze comes further up, his brow furrowing. "Met you, didn't I?" he gruffly inquires. You can hear crystal resonance coursing gently through your body. A smile brightens Neva's face; she is, apparently, quite glad he actually remembered /that/ much. "Yes, you did. We had the biscuits, remember? My name is /Neva/." She stresses it carefully. "Maybe you could check a terminal, or your wrist unit?" Biscuits. At that word, Tance's brown gaze swings round to the catering unit, with a resurgence of that hungry wistful look he'd worn before. He nods his grizzled head a time or two; perhaps the man has an easier time remembering people who feed him. But her further words give him a little jolt, and he steps further into the room, glancing about for the nearest terminal. "You have go be on one of the four Singer levels, right? Probably not nine, since that's us newer people. Or ten, for that matter. So check out the occupants of eleven and twelve?" suggests Neva, smiling slightly. "Twelve's the Infirmary," mumbles Tance absently, though with a possibly surprising certainty. He approaches the terminal and settles into a chair near it, frowning a little before setting a hand to the thing to turn it on. "Oh, right." Neva shakes her head slightly. "Sometimes, I still can't get the numbers right. So that must mean eleven, right?" A slight sheepish smile quirks one end of Tance's mouth; that's his only reply, as the terminal beeps at him. Using two fingers, he slowly types out a request to the thing, grimacing at the screen's display. "Can't find it," he mutters then. "Really?" Neva frowns, stanidng, and moves over to peek at the screen. "How strange. Try searching by your name?" Somehow, Tance has managed to wander off into a menu of assorted guild departments. He blinks up at Neva with a bit of startlement. "Oh," he mumbles in tones of embarrassed enlightenment; then, he hunt-and-pecks out the command to bring up his personnel record. The terminal obediently bleeps, bringing up a display of publically accessible information out of his file -- including the location of his quarters. "Ocher," he mutters, glancing around the room to the stripe of that hue leading off down to level 11. "Ocher?" Neva blinks, once, peering down at the screen again, although she doesn't seem to be attempting to find out any fine details besides verifying this. "What kind of color is ocher to live in?" A small holo of the lost Singer might be noted at the top of his file, though the image that looks out from the screen is of a Tance Vokrim with rather better trimmed hair; the expression on his face, however, is still akin to that of his live counterpart. Tance Vokrim, Senior Crystal Singer, does indeed live in Ocher Quadrant, though all the man seems to have to say on the matter is "That's... where they put me." He rises slowly, frowning now as if he can't quite remember why he wanted to go to his quarters in the first place. "Now, see?" Spotting the hologram, Neva points to it, smiling. "You'd look much nicer with hair like /that/, instead of like, well..." She gestures to the current hairdo. Tance turns, startled again, blinking at the young woman. "What?" he asks in distracted tones, before realizing what she meant. His features crinkle disconcertedly, and he runs a self-conscious hand through the disheveled mop that crowns his head. "Oh. Um..." "Especially with Passover coming..." Neva tilts her head, then, peering at him. "Where're you going?" If you pay attention to it, the crystal resonance can be heard coursing through your body at all times. "Who the kark cares what my hair looks like?" mumbles Tance, towards the floor. Then he blinks a few more times. "Going?" he repeats blankly. "For Passover," repeats Neva. "Offplanet? Where are you going?" Tance lifts and drops his shoulders in a shrug, still more or less looking at the floor. "Shankill, prob'ly," he mutters. Frowning a little bit, Neva nods, and then moves back to sit down again. "I haven't decided where I'm going. They... said I have credit to go anywhere I like. But I don't know where I like." Tance stares over at the young woman, his own frown lingering a little on his lined countenance, before he abruptly advises, "Don't... go hiking." Perplexed, Neva asks, "Why shouldn't I go hiking?" Not that she has any idea whether she even /likes/ hiking, but it seemed a strange thing to say. The older Singer turns uneasily away, repeating, "Just don't... go hiking. In the mountains. Don't... do that." Deciding not to press the issue, Neva nods. "Okay. I won't go hiking," she assures him. Tance nods his graying head once, almost decisively, his expression growing intent for a moment with something like relief and approval. Then he turns away again, towards the ocher stripe on the wall, mumbling, "I wanted... something, I wanted..." The younger singer leans forward. "What'd you want?" she asks, softly, as if trying to coax the memory. "Something to eat?" she suggests. "I gotta eat," Tance agrees after a moment, the intent edge leaving his expression, his eyes turning rueful. Standing, Neva moves over to the catering unit. "What would you like?" she asks, as she scans the menu. Tance glances down at his boots, then back up again, muttering humbly, "I... ain't picky, gir..." A pause. "Neva...?" Neva spins the menufax around to display the snack selections. Neva spins the menufax around to display the sweet selections. "Neva," she confirms. "What about something sweet? I've been craving sugar all day. Not sure why." Tance blinks, once, then twice, and then an odd little hopeful look peeks out through his eyes. "I, uh... ice cream?" he suggests tentatively. "Ice cream?" Neva studies the menu for a moment, and nods. "What flavor do you like? They have chocolate royale and fresh peach." She glances back at him. No doubt about it, that's a distinct brightening of Tance's expression, though it is with the gravity of lengthy years of experience that he pronounces, "Peach is good." You feel the resonance tingling in your blood. Neva peruses the selection of sweets, and orders fresh peach icecream. Ordering two bowls, Neva returns, and offers him one. "I'll trust your opinion. If I've ever had it... I certainly don't remember." "I remember this," Tance affirms. He accepts the bowl, gratitude quite apparent in his expression, and begins swiftly downing spoonfuls of the stuff. Neva is somewhat more cautious, taking a small spoonful and tasting it first, before taking another. "It's good," she agrees. "Very... cold." Another spoonful. "Ice cream's supposed to be cold," Tance points out earnestly. "I don't remember ever /having/ ice cream before," admits Neva. "Although, I suppose I must have. Thank you for the suggestion." Tance proffers a small sheepish smile, and mumbles something that might be a you're-welcome, though it's hard to tell with the rate he's putting down that ice cream. The younger Singer giggles, taking another bite of hers. "My, you really /do/ like this!" She grins, taking another bite, and then wiping upper lip lightly on the back of her hand. "A bit hungry?" "Yeah," Tance affirms, peering down into his bowl and realizing that he's already inhaled his share of the ice cream. Having gotten halfway through hers, Neva looks down at it, then over at his empty bowl. "Would you like the rest of mine?" she offers. It's probably no wonder she never gains any weight. To that, Tance blinks, peering with undisguised longing at the bowl, but then peering up at the young woman's face with visible concern. "You gotta eat too," he observes. "Passover." "I ate earlier," Neva protests. Liar. "Anyway, I'm not /that/ hungry, not at the moment. I'll probably have more later." "Young girlie," mutters Tance, his voice growing gruff again. "Need your strength, symbiont's gotta stay strong..." But he trails off and swallows, eying that peach dessert in Neva's bowl. Sniff. "I'm twenty-eight," Neva protests again, feebly. Not that that's anything, but hey. "My symbiont's fine, anyway." She pushes the bowl towards him. It doesn't seem to take much persuasion to get this Tance to accept peach-flavored ice cream, anyway. He trades off his empty bowl for Neva's own, and starts inhaling her remaining ice cream as quickly as he'd gulped down his. Somewhere in there, though, he mutters, perhaps feeling compelled to make some kind of conversation, "I'm... um... old." You can hear crystal resonance rushing between your ears. Setting the bowl aside, Neva smiles a little. "You don't look it," she offers. "Or you wouldn't, much, with a different haircut." Again with the hair. Tance looks up, one end of the spoon in his hand, the other in his mouth. He swallows, then lowers the spoon and demands in almost brusque tones, starting to look suspiciously pink, "H-how come you keep talkin' about my hair?" "Well, it looks terrible like that. If you just got it trimmed, you'd be a decent-looking man," suggests Neva. "As it is, you look like you just got hauled in from the 'Ranges five minutes ago." Tance's rate of ice cream inhalation goes down a little, though he does keep eating it. But in between bites, he looks downward again, long unkempt locks of gray-streaked brown half-hiding his face. "I washed it," he protests. "You did that," Neva agrees. "It'd look worse if you hadn't." She chuckles softly. "Don't make a difference then, does it?" Tance answers uncomfortably, pushing the spoon around the bowl to glean bits of ice cream off its sides. A moment of pondering this; then, Neva shrugs. "Well, I suppose it doesn't, that much," she admits. "Ain't... nobody 'round to look at it," mumbles Tance after a moment, very lowly. "No credits anyway." "Who needs credits for a haircut?" asks Neva, critically. "All you need is a pair of scissors." Tance can be seen to blink, as if that notion hadn't ever occurred to him. "Scissors?" he echoes. "Scissors? Y'know, snip-snip? Sure. It's not complicated," offers Neva. "You wouldn't have to worry about a lot of styling or anything; just evening it out a little bit, making it a little less ragged." He doesn't actually _say_ "Oh yeah! _Scissors_!", but he might as well for the look of dawning enlightenment that flares across his eyes for a moment. But the flare goes as quickly as it had come, and Tance grimaces. Holding a now empty bowl, he muses, "Prob'ly poke myself in the eye or somethin'. Cutter slips all the time, too..." "Have somebody else do it?" Neva suggests, smiling. "They'd be less likely to, anyway. I bet I could." Luckily, she doesn't remember the fingers. Or the half-foot. Or... Tance blinks again, looking up at the younger Singer with eyes gone slightly wide in his surprise. "You wanna cut my hair?" If you pay attention to it, the crystal resonance can be heard coursing through your body at all times. "Why not?" asks Neva earnestly. "It'll be easy, and won't take long, either." It would seem that Tance can't come up with an easy answer to that. "Um... 'kay," he finally mumbles. Trapped, huh? Neva, however, frowns slightly. "If you really don't want to..." she begins. "I, uh... just that... um..." Tance trails off, blushing crimson now, avoiding Neva's gaze. He mumbles something else, mostly unintelligible save for a word that might be 'girl' somewhere in there. "It's not," Neva informs him frankly, "like it's that big of deal. Anyway, where do you think would be a good place? It can be kinda messy." "Guess... wherever's there's, um... scissors," mumbles Tance, still blushing. If you pay attention to it, the crystal resonance can be heard coursing through your body at all times. "Well, I can fetch those from wherever." Neva shrugs a little. "I've either got a pair in my quarters, or in my sled. 'S what /I/ usually use." Tance nods slowly, murmuring in diffident tones, "Whatever you say, gi... er, uh... Neva..." He gets gingerly to his feet, looking unsure of what he ought to be doing, now. "You want me to wait, or, um...?" "I s'pose we can do it here," says Neva, slowly, glancing around. "It'll be a pain to clean up, though." Tance is silent for a very long moment. Then, he finally awkwardly offers, "If... it'd be messy, we could... um." He pauses. And he's just as awkward as he makes himself continues, "Mess up my quarters, ain't nobody gonna care..." "That works!" chirps Neva. "You said 11-Ocher, right? I'll go fetch the scissors, meet you there?" The older Singer nods gruffly, and creeps away, his gaze flicking between the younger Singer and the wall stripe that leads down to the Ocher Quadrant. Forgetting that he's still carrying the empty bowl, he wanders off in that direction, periodically glancing back Neva's way as he goes. [And shortly, in a suite on Level 11...] The door slides open, and you step inside. Tance's Suite(#3189R$) This large central suite seems comfortably airy, and by the stylish decorations and sheer size of the area, it obviously belongs to a senior Singer. The walls are a pleasant shade of forest green, the carpeting a neutral beige shade that compliments the other nicely. Trim in rich polished wood here and there -- in picture frames, railings and bits of furniture -- give the place a more natural, fresh feel. Though you can see several doors leading off into still more rooms, this one has been split into multi-levels to allow for greater function. One side is partitioned off by a low, polished wooden rail, one step leading into a modest dining area. At the opposite side of the room, a dark green couch and a few large, over-stuffed chairs of the same color rest in a circle, perfect for friendly conversation. The art on the walls is all tastefully done, mostly pen and inks and oil paintings of landscapes. Although the room is currently spotless and comfortable, there are subtle indications -- to the very observant -- that it may not always have been so. A few cheerful throw rugs cover old stains on the floor, as do some oversized pillows that rest against the wall here and there. Obvious exits: Out You hear a soft chime and an electronic voice announces that Neva is in Ocher Quadrant and is knocking on Tance's Suite. To Ocher Quadrant, Tance's voice comes relayed through the door controls: "Open..." Neva steps in from the hall. Neva has arrived. Although the suite Neva enters is fairly sizeable and fairly nicely furnished, most of the pieces of furniture in immediate view appear to be wearing coverings protecting them against dust, giving the place an only half-lived-in look. Tance is pacing back and forth a bit in the middle of the main room, and he looks nervously to the door at his visitor's arrival. "Um, my... suite," he says gruffly, waving a hand around. Stepping in, Neva holds the scissors carefully pointed away from her. She pauses just inside the door, holding them in both hands. "Wow," she comments. "Lot nicer than mine." An appreciative nod, and then she takes another step. "Okay, then... where?" The older Singer looks decidedly more nervous now. He's shrugged out of the blue jacket he'd been wearing, leaving a rumpled white shirt visible beneath, and he gives another gruff gesture at one of the chairs beside the table in his dining area. "Guess I oughtta sit, um... just sweep up later or something," he mutters, more or less in the direction of the floor. "Do you have a towel or two? Makes it easier," suggests Neva crisply as she makes her way over. The crystal resonance is zinging through your body. "Uh... yeah..." And he wanders off, ducking momentarily into the bathing room, re-emerging with a couple of largish, light green towels. They look a bit threadbare in places, but still more than serviceable. Tance offers them for inspection, like a child presenting his homework to his mother. Nodding, Neva examines the towels, and nods. "These'll work fine," she offers, laying one across the floor and tucking it a bit beneath the chair, and then gesturing. "Sit?" "'Kay," comes Tance's muttered reply. He sinks down onto the chair, casting a single shy glance over his shoulder, and then fastening his gaze on his apparently quite restless hands. It might be concluded that he's at a loss as to what to do with them, as he keeps twining his fingers together and then separting them, over and over again. Neva pats his shoulder gently. "Just a haircut," she reminds, before draping the other towel across his front. "Nothing to worry about." The shoulder, patted, twitches ever so slightly. But at Neva's assurance, Tance seems to make an effort to regain his composure, forcibly holding his hands still in his lap. He utters another tiny "Okay," and then adds shyly, "I just... sit here?" "Not much else /to/ do," Neva admits, squeezing the shoulder again. Then, she starts, lightly coming his hair out with her fingers. Then, she takes a strand between two fingers, and snips. More follow, the gray and brown falling down, mostly to the towel below, but a few down over his shoulder. For all that Tance claims he's old, he still possesses a credibly thick head of hair. Sunlightened locks on the top give way to somewhat darker strands beneath, though the gray streaks are fairly well scattered throughout. Tance pulls in a breath as his visitor goes to work at her self-appointed task, involuntarily closing his eyes to keep loose bits of hair from getting into them. More trimming, the wisps floating downwards. Gradually, the mop of hair becomes something a little more distinguished-looking, and Neva lightly brushes a clinging clipping down to the floor. "Now, see, this will look /much/ nicer." The scissors set to snipping again. "You say so, girlie," mumbles the seated man, still sounding as if he can't quite grasp why anyone would concern themselves over the state of his hair. Stepping around him partway, Neva sets to snipping those bangs a bit, to an even length. Then, she runs her fingers over his hair again, brushing the last remains of the trimming away, and sets the scissors aside. "Got a mirror? Tance's eyes stay quite solidly shut for as long as the younger Singer's hands are in contact with his hair. Only when she steps back from him does he put forth an uncertain peek and the hesitant mumble, "In the bathroom..." Carefully, Neva pulls the towel off, making sure to catch all the cut hair. "Go check," she encourages. Reflexively, Tance lifts a hand and shoves it through his trimmed locks, the altered state of them more than enough to be perceived by Singer senses... even his. Bemused, he obediently gets to his feet and approaches the bathing room, stepping in there as if not at all sure what he'll find. The door down the little corridor stays open. Although Neva takes a step in that direction, she doesn't quite follow, folding her hands as she waits. "Well? What do you think?" The crystal resonance is zinging through your body. After a moment, Tance moves back out into view. He doesn't answer Neva immediately; instead, he steps back out into the main room, his gaze odd, swinging preoccupiedly towards one of the paintings on the wall. One of the two figures depicted on that canvas is obviously him, and he stares at it longly. Neva watches, examining the painting as she does so. "That's... her?" she questions, gently. "Jade," Tance whispers. His brown eyes begin to turn liquid, their gaze still riveted upon the work hanging upon his wall. No approach, no movement at all; Neva merely stands a few steps behind him, looking. "You look very... happy, in that picture," she comments softly. At that, Tance starts, looking like a man adrift, glancing in a random direction or two about the room. His hand comes up to shove through his newly shortened hair, and he blurts hoarsely, "I... hair looks kinda like that again, I guess..." To Neva's observation, he offers no commentary. Instead he practically babbles, "Stay outta my face that way. In the Ranges. Prob'ly better..." A half step is taken in his direction, before Neva thinks better of it. "Yes, I'm sure it will," she agrees hastily. Framed by a border of rich, dark hardwood, this oil painting seems almost to come to life. The shoulders and backs of two people can be seen at the right, obviously soaked and disheveled -- but what really attracts the gaze is what those two are obviously looking at. A reflection stares back at them, and you can see in it the room they're standing in; a boathouse, sails spread to dry in the background. But this is not what the artist was painting. The gaze of the two in the reflection captures and holds yours, the expressions on their faces jubliant and completely carefree. A green-skinned woman, dressed in a soaked wetsuit, disheveled hair swept back from her delicate face, has one arm looped around the waist of an equally soaked man. He though, has a slight spattering of grey in his soaked and messy hairdo, his face seeming a bit more weathered. Though he also seems just in from a sail, his expression is what captivates the picture, and what evidently has captivated the two being painted as well. One of surprise, delight, and pure happiness, the artist has somehow managed to capture this pair in a wonderful moment... just looking at it makes the observer want to giggle aloud, for it tends to convey the same feeling right into the room. "Datapad," Tance blurts then, fumbling at his pockets and then glancing with that half-helpless gaze of his around the room again. "Better record... remember to do somethin' for you, girlie... favor and all..." Tance(#3209POQce) This man stands at about 5'10" in height, though the way he seems prone to slouching over often disguises how tall he actually is. His height is further confused by the state of his undernourished frame; from the look of him, he probably hasn't eaten decently in several days. Despite a deep coppery tan to his weathered skin, there's an unhealthy pallor beneath it, suggesting recent illness or injury, and the brown eyes within that face meet the galaxy with a wild, disoriented, and frequently anguished gaze. His hair, a peppered mix of dark brown, lighter sunstreaks, and myriad strands of grey, has been trimmed to a short but oddly flattering style, with even a thick lock in the front to dangle above one eye and give him a more youthful look. His face is clean-shaven. He is currently clad in a pair of form-fitting, dark blue trousers and a comfortably rumpled white shirt, the collar of which is open at his throat to show a bit of tanned, leanly muscled collarbone. Over the shirt he is sporting a dark blue jacket, also form-fitting, with a short collar around the neck and several pockets on the front and sleeves. If you happen to be near Tance, the hair on your arm stands on end. "Remember /me/," corrects Neva firmly. "You don't need to do anything. But I'd rather you were still able to place my name to my face in a week." Ah, a datapad. There _is_ one in the suite, a small, battered black affair lying on a table. Tance seizes it almost desperately, then activates the little device, flicking it open and poking at some of its tiny keys to bring up the recording program. "This is, um, recorded on..." And he reads off the day's date, helpfully provided by the hand-sized computer's display. "A girl cut my hair, and, uh... her name is Neva..." Neva sinks into the chair formerly used for the haircut, hands clasped and smiling quietly. She doesn't say anything, merely listens as he records the entry. "Prob'ly better to keep it outta my face in the Ranges, see what I'm doin'. Uh, that's it..." Tance trails off, then adds gruffly into the datapad, "I live in Ocher Quadrant. Forgot again." _Now_ he turns off the device, looking decidedly sheepish. "I needed to be shown to my quarters after I hit my head," proffers Neva, sympathetically. "I live in Yellow. Next to..." A flicker of memory--but it passes, just the same. "I can't remember." You feel the resonance tingling in your blood. "It'll come back," Tance says, turning around to face his visitor again, his eyes more visible now that his hair can't get into them, reflecting shyness and nervousness, but also a palpable amount of sympathy. "Young... you're... too young to forget for very long." Neva chuckles softly. "And at least it's only a fixed amount of time, until it /does/ come back. I won't forget you, or tonight, for a good while at least." That seems to affect Tance strongly, somehow. A smile starts threatening to show itself round the corners of his rough-hewn mouth, and he blurts, "Y'won't?" Never mind the claim he'd just made about the younger Singer's injury inevitably healing due to the ministrations of the symbiont. "I won't," assures Neva, grinning broadly. "And I'll be sure to put it in my log, so once my memory /does/ go, it'll always be in there still." To this, Tance's reply is to just stand there for several moments, seeming deeply touched. But inevitably, he blushes, and the brown gaze drops down again. "Nice," he mumbles. With a gentle smile, Neva regards the older Singer. "I know you'd do the same if you could," she tells him. "So it's no favor." "So.... do I, uh... " Tance pauses, blushing even more brightly. Into that uncomfortable pause, she offers, "Neva?" The young woman smiles. "You'll get it one of these days. We'll just have to stay friends until you remember." "Neva," Tance obediently repeats, though he's still addressing the floor. He clears his throat, but this doesn't keep him from sounding quite gruff as he manages to finish, "D'I look, uh... younger?" "I think so," Neva replies. "Certainly a little more... distinguished." Tance makes a small snort of a noise, a bit at odds with the typically shy demeanor he's thus far shown in Neva's presence. He fidgets with the datapad, turning it around and about in his workworn hands, while commenting brusquely, "Don't think anybody ever called me _that_ before..." "I don't know that you /act/ it," admits Neva with a wink. "But you certainly /look/ less like a total wreck." Crystal resonance is humming pleasantly in your body. An expression that might almost be a smirk curves Tance's mouth. "_Am_ a wreck," he mutters. "Crazy old karker." "I'd be a wreck, too. I... ah... think I was, once." Neva blushes a little bit--okay, a lot bit, since it's hard for one with such pale skin to turn anything but totally scarlet. She glances around... and then sighs. "I should let you go... and get a bit of sleep, myself." Tance lifts his gaze again, perhaps alerted by something in his visitor's voice. He ponders, and then offers solemnly, "Girlie... uh... _Neva_... thanks. I... I forget people can be... nice. Forget real easy." His gaze comes up a bit more squarely as he speaks, showing hints of conviction under that bashful exterior, though he's blushing again. "Need remindin'." Softly, Neva chuckles. "And I need a friend. Maybe we can help each other out a bit, hmm?" She picks herself up, and the scissors as well, and smiles at him. "See you soon, I hope. If you decide to go anywhere but Shankill, let me know, huh?" "I'll try," the older Singer promises plaintively. "That's all we can ever do. Try." With that, Neva makes her way out of the room, humming something very softly. Neva goes through the Out exit. Neva has left. [End log.]