The dragon was slayed. The frozen pond was tread without a thread puncture by a heel of the trespasser, or a crack to split and swallow the adventurer into an icy pool. The marionette splintered; she had smiled. Not only had she smiled, but the maniac lodged inside of her, at detecting the repulsive unfurl of that joyous, unwanted instinct, laughed. And laughed, and laughed.
Freckles had never heard Mo laugh before, and appeared more hued with worry for the ghost-girl than tinted in curiosity. Over a vague and misdirected conversation, Mo had convinced her that it was nothing. She'd only recalled the distant, lingering memory, of a scene in an episode from a television show she had unfortunately forgotten the name of. The explanation did not suffice at first, but at length the hour hand crept past the last steal minutes of her servitude. A fuller truth would have to be extracted tomorrow, that is, if Freckles had the ability to be persuasive. Freckles seemed to think she did. Mo was slipping on jeans behind the counter while Freckles begged, implored, and pried. Mo was shrugging her hooded-jacket on as she clasped her hands together and said she would never be the same if she didn't tell her what happened. Mo excused herself once she was dressed and insisted she'd already told the truth, but when the money was used to pay, otherwise became evident.
"Awwwww! Someone drew something on here. I wonder who it was?" There was no hope for Freckles.
As Mo swiftly made her way home in the dark, she wondered why anyone would do something that kind. She also wondered why he seemed familiar, but as she opened the Pax door and walked in, squinted underneath the bright lights (were they always so bright?) reaching up to block their glaring, the thoughts fell back to their usual stale.