Rain kept pouring down, souring my already sour mood. I shoved a few wet apples into my bindle, noting that although they were in there for sure, they didn’t seem to take up any space. I briefly thought about stripping the tree bare of fruit but decided to take only my fill.

“That’s mighty thoughtful of you,” Mr. Narrator noted.

“They stay better on the tree,” I replied absently as I slid down the tree trunk. Fearing I might lose them in muck, I pulled off my heels before crossing the stream once more.

The fishing rod.

I scooped that up on my way too, laying it over my shoulder with the bindle. With great big sloshes, I headed back towards the dormitory, which was just outside the lot. My mind was stuck on the doom setting, winding itself around the idea that I wasn’t gonna make rent.

“I think you should try thinking about something else,” Mr. Narrator observed. “Because it's funny—”

“Nothing’s funny!” I exclaimed before clearing my throat. “Sorry. Bad weather, bad mood.”

Rent.

Zero SPP.

Strike one on my first Gig.

My bad mood was earned, wasn’t it?

“Maybe not funny, exactly, but what if it's bad mood, bad weather?” he replied. “You know, the chicken or the egg?”

“Both make fine meals,” I quipped, looking for a place to get out of the rain and failing. No shelter anywhere. The sketchy path back seemed to be washing away in the hazy gray. I skittered around a few small puddles, but the battlefield ahead seemed full of ‘em.

I took a deep breath and started leaping to small patches of ground in between. During one mid-air long jump, Mr. Narrator suddenly shouted.

“Sally! Stop!”

And so I did, though I’m not sure it was of my own free will, flailing for a few moments before splash-landing in the middle of a giant pool that was deeper than what should have been possible.

After surfacing with the help of my frantic rubber hoses for arms, I spit out a mouthful of water. “What’s the big idea—”

“Just look!”

Instinctively, I looked down into the puddle I was swimming in. My reflection gave me a startled look back.

Sparkles?

Was I sparkling?

“Remarkably so!” Mr. Narrator boasted.

Several small points of silver ran along the edges of my speckles, forming pulsing diamonds. “Well now that’s more like it!” I said after stepping out and wringing my hair. “A few more sparkles and I could contend with the stars themselves!”

Oh good, the bow on my head stayed in place.

Then a flicker above caught my attention. The clouds had started nudging each other. One pointed at me in a huff, then stormed off over the horizon, with the others trudging along behind. It was still dark after they left, but now I could clearly see the stars hanging out around a thin, crescent moon.

“I uh, didn’t mean I literally could contend with you guys,” I shouted upwards.

Luckily, it didn’t seem like they could hear me, so I slapped both of my cheeks to put myself together. “Alright, Sally Sparkles. You’ve talked your way out of bigger problems. Maybe I can just offer to gladly pay her tomorrow for a room today? With interest to sweeten the deal. Or maybe…”

I reached into the pool and fished out the bindle and rod. “Maybe I could barter the fishing rod? It ain’t like I’m gonna use it.”

Nah, I know better. I need to pawn it first. Nice gals don’t cause trouble for helping hands like Madam Bovary.

Mr. Narrator coughed. “Pardon? I don’t follow.”

“Nicked knacks cause paddy whacks.”

“Sally, what were you involved with before you came here, exactly?” he asked, sounding a bit concerned.

I kept my face as straight as I could manage. “Why, Mr. Narrator, it's just common sense to know a fence.”

“Is it now?” he replied, obviously still wondering if I was teasing or not.

I couldn’t help myself from going for the triple. “And how!”

═════════ ✦ ✦ ✦ ═════════

SKILL UNLOCKED: RAZOR WIT [BASIC - BANTER]

Description: When activated during a gig or performance, Razor Wit forces targets exposed to your rhymes, puns, alliteration, or other rhetorical devices to either agree with your nonsense or spend 5 seconds doubled over, groaning.

System Says: "Oh, a wise gal, eh? Careful with that razor wit—you might cut yourself!"

═════════ ✦ ✦ ✦ ═════════

“Another skill…” I murmured. “What do these titles mean, anyway? ELASTIC RECOVERY has BASIC - STUNT at the end of it, and this one has BASIC - BANTER.”

It seemed even Mr. Narrator wasn’t immune to the skill’s effect, so I waited while he groaned it out. I reached out to grab the card, but it decided to tuck itself in my bindle.

Hope it's waterproof.

Mr. Narrator stopped groaning. “I’m told certain Gigs and Stage Performances have certain restrictions and requirements,” he eventually replied. “You can’t do a musical number, for example, without having a RHYTHM type skill.”

So skills have types.

“Well, that does make sense, I guess. Considering and comparin' to everything else here.” I then shrugged and headed off, squishing and sloshing the rest of the way to the dormitory.

As I opened the dorm's door, I took notice of the knob for the first time. It had the shape of a small film reel, with a real solid feel. I took a moment to look at its old, ivory columns, noting that it was much more ornate than I had realized.

This place was grand in its heyday, huh?

I wonder why Madam Bovary felt the need to keep a gaggle of gals around.

Speaking of gals…

“Who did your makeup?!” the cat cried from the hallway.

Shirley Squirrel thumped her way into view, pushing away the cat whose name I still didn’t know. “Did you get an audition?!”

Then June Rabbit scowled over both their shoulders. “Soaking wet and sparkling… Salamander, you’re strange!”

I shrugged, a bit smug. “So?”

June’s eyes hardened, as if my lack of reaction was a personal insult. “You think you’re so—”

“Girls?”

Madam Bovary loomed out of the shadows from the far end of the hallway, her feathery robe swishing as if it were irritated. The girls turned around in unison with an audible creak, their heads going before their suddenly rigid bodies. With a nervous titter, they mumbled their requests to be excused as quickly as possible, their bodies disappearing in swift balls of ink.

She stepped forward and looked down at me. “Miss Salamander.”

“Yes, m’am?”

“You’re back quite late,” she remarked. “Would you care to explain?”

“Well, first I went to the call board, and I got myself a Gig—”

There were several muffled whispers coming from the main dorm room.

Madam Bovary gave me a towel, then held up her hoof and pointed into the kitchen. “Dry off. And let’s talk in private.”

I wrapped the towel around myself and followed her lead through the door. The kitchen beyond smelled of chamomile, two teacups already waiting on the table. She let me through first, pulled the door shut behind her, and nodded me toward a chair. I tucked my bindle and fishing rod into a cupboard corner, then took the seat closest to the door.

After she poured me a cup of tea, I quickly rambled through the day’s events. All I wanted was to finish my sob story so I could ask for leniency, and I wanted to be able to make a break for it if the answer was no.

“And you said all that on one breath, did you now?” was her only comment at the end of my monologue.

“Well, heh, I—”

“Now about the rent.”

I grimaced, wondering if I hadn’t made it clear that I was completely broke. Maybe other transfers come with some SPP in hand?

“Well, about that,” I started, drumming my fingers on the tablecloth. “I uh… How much do I owe?”

“Twenty percent of your weekly SPP earnings,” she answered crisply. “I think you’ll find it more than fair.”

I winced. “Yeah…”

Too fair, even. I’m such a heel.

Bent over the table dejectedly like I was, I probably even looked a little like one.

“Show me your Gig receipt.”

I slowly pulled it out of my sleeve. Though soaked, it was still somewhat legible.

She put on a pair of spectacles. “The Gig was truly a failure as you said, I see…”

“Well uh, I… I understand,” I mumbled, standing up. “No hard feelings, right?”

Madam Bovary didn’t look up. “Sit.”

I sat.

“Well, at least they didn’t charge you for the damage.” She let out a low moo. “No doubt that lot was slated for destruction one way or another.” She shook her head, and her cow bell let out a muffled clang from somewhere under her robe. “Yet a deal’s a deal. Twenty percent of zero is what, Sally?”

I stared in disbelief.

“Zero!” Mr. Narrator crowed. “It’s zero!”

I know my numbers! I just don’t know why she’s sticking her neck out like this for me!

“Zero…” I said aloud in astonishment. “It’s zero?” My eyes watered a little. “Madam Bovary…”

She held out a hoof. “You think I'm kind, do you? Really, I am... not.” She slammed her hoof onto the table loudly. “I run a fair establishment. There is quite a difference between fair and kind. I offer a roof and a bed for twenty percent of Star Power Points earned, paid at the end of each week. There are no exceptions, extensions, nor negotiations. Do you understand?”

Not in the slightest.

But I nodded anyway.

She frowned. “Make sure you do better tomorrow. No more strikes.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Her eyes drifted to the corner. “And that bindle there.”

I jumped slightly in my seat. “Yes?”

She made a rueful face, almost as if she were chewing cud. “It’ll do for now. But once you have enough points, you’ll want a proper theatrical trunk like the other girls. Wardrobe. Props.” She paused again. “And security locks.”

“You really think I can get to be someone who needs a performer’s trunk?”

She picked up her tea with an air of elegance I didn’t know a cow could have. “I wouldn’t have picked you off the street if I didn’t,” she said before taking a long sip. “Now mind, you need to get to that call board earlier tomorrow. Don’t wait for the alarm.”

But isn’t that the point of the alarm?

Maybe I can just set it to go off earlier.

I just nodded again, still in awe of her kindness, oh, pardon, fairness.

“Actually, Sally,” Mr. Narrator whispered. “I don’t think you want any dormmate competition. I’ll wake you up at the crack of dawn. You’ll see. New day, new plan, new outcome!”

Thanks, Mr. Narrator.

“You got it, Sally!”

And for the first time, I believed I did, all the way through.