Office # 12, Tuesday

[electrocynic]

Electroclash (yes, in uniform) had just come into the office to collect her belongings, really. God, she'd practically been humming as she came in. Coz, you know, she was getting out of this hellhole and off this stupid island, and was intending to pester her friends into throwing her a birthday/welcome home party on Friday. So, good riddance,

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[halfman_lion]

Tyrion had been trying to sort through the warren of books he now called an office, and he heard Electroclash's outburst on the way back from taking a box to the trash. (The lack of servants in Fandom still occasionally struck him as fundamentally unfair.)

"You sound overjoyed," he observed dryly, leaning his head in from the hall. "Anything anyone else can help with?"

[electrocynic]

Electroclash scowled at Tyrion, but it was fairly obvious it was not really specifically targeted at him. Since it didn't represent any kind of a major change in her expression, or anything.

"Unless they can convince the SPA that four months is four fucking months, then no."

[halfman_lion]

"Likely not, as I've no idea who they are," Tyrion admitted. "And if they're denying months are months, they sound hard enough o reason with."

[electrocynic]

"It's some multidemonsional bollocks," Electroclash complained, flopping carelessly down into the chair behind her desk. Her desk. She didn't want a desk anymore. Ugh. "I can't believe they sent me somewhere where time moves quicker."

Well, no, actually she could believe it. The SPA were pricks.