<strong>Emily Fitzgerald</strong><br/><strong>Location</strong>: The apartment, living room<br/><strong>Tag</strong>: John<br/><hr/>Emily peers at John as she finishes with her shoe.  "You were thinking about raiding Renault's office?  I couldn't think about anything-- couldn't even think straight about what to do about Sully."  She stands and smooths her shirt.  "I don't know that we'd be able to pull off something like that in a police station, honestly."<br/><br/>She retrieves her water glass and drains it back, then silently realizes she didn't put on makeup... she usually wore little, but some eye work is always a necessity, so she slips off toward her room. There's a soft, musical rattle of eyeliner and brow pencil against ceramic, and she calls out-- sounding just a little farther away.  "But... the idea is pretty tempting."  It doesn't look like this morning's effort is a complete loss, so she breaks routine and adds a touch of lip gloss, watching her own face in the mirror still seeming like an alien act-- like the face staring back isn't hers, and she's gently applying tints and lines to the face of someone else's creation that she will plagiarize and call her own.<br/><br/>A glance over her shoulder, just to be certain she is alone.  Not alone from John, or from Mori, but alone from one of the 'others' that, sometimes, she sees in the most odd places.  Their 'out-of-placeness' sometimes the only indication at all that they aren't still alive.  It's no wonder she avoids mirrors.  "How could we pull off something like that?" she asks, returning to the main living area to rinse her glass and leave it to dry.