<strong>Emily Fitzgerald</strong><br/><strong>Location</strong>: The apartment<br/><strong>Tag</strong>: John<br/><hr/>Breath slowing and deepening, Emily nods in response.  "Sorry, John," she says distractedly, the cat's fur trailing her bare leg above the short, white cuff of her sneakers.  "Do what you need to do."  She's focused on the awareness of the pixies on their route to the dangerous district ahead, feeling more than seeing through them.<br/><br/>Feeling deflated, she tosses the phone book back atop the refrigerator and goes off towards the bedrooms like a street-woman eyeing a junk-heap, looking for nothing in particular but questioning the use of everything, seeking some tool or clue that will lend them leverage over this situation.  If nothing else, she'll simply hope to find clothes suitable for their destination, the task occupying what little of her attention she can spare.