<strong>Emily Fitzgerald (mid 2008, age 16</strong><br/><strong>Location</strong>: The apartment<br/><strong>Tag</strong>: Sully<br/><hr/>From the room Emily's claimed, there's a constant beam of twinkling light under the door.  Her lights go on when she returns from class, they go out when she leaves mid-morning.  If the morning hour is too early, and the stars are still up, her light stays all day.<br/><br/>It's no surprise that when her door opens, there's a long, spreading arc of paper-shaded light spilling out, lancing across the room like an unbidden guest.  Then a click-- a flashlight joins in.  She doesn't cut on the lights in the main room, for fear of waking the others... the flashlight's limpid pool flashes over the corners of the room, and the lanky girl's silhouette emerges from the light.<br/><br/>Her bare feet softly pad into the room a couple steps before she freezes, her breath a little gasp like an accidental tear in precious paper-- her light seeking out Sully's huddled space in the corner, blinding him from the warm glow of his game, from the tiny screen that serves as a gateway to mental detachment.  She fumbles a moment to switch off the flashlight, her breath rapid and shallow as she calms herself.  "Sorry," she hisses in a stage-whisper, "sorry Al.  I... um, sorry."<br/><br/>She steps a couple feet forward, not leaving the pool of light from the door she's left ajar.  "It's... I just needed to..." she gestures awkwardly, hangs her head a moment, "sorry."  She dips away and there's a hum of the bathroom fan, more invasive light, both cut off by the closed door for a minute or so.  Running water, then, some faint rustling, before the fan goes silent and she slips back out into the living room, closing the door behind her in an evident hurry.<br/><br/>Staring like a curious animal, she gradually edges closer, working her flashlight as if to rediscover its purpose and design.  "Can I sit out here... just a minute or so?  Just, I mean, if it's not going to bother you..?"