(Sophie spends the morning a little frantic, as one might notice by her painstakingly counting how many beverages are in each cooler, and what kind, making sure all the water guns are charged, everything is organized — maybe that table should go over there. No, actually? Then that's not optimal running space. Did they get all the cushions out of storage? Is the music connecting right? All the fire hazards double-checked? She's just gotten new fire extinguishers. Are they all replaced? Oh, she doesn't settle one bit, up, down, perfect here, move something just an inch there... Apologies will be sent to the NYX Staff later.

And done. Okay. This is what she can do with her morning brain, ridiculous amounts of coffee, and a dream.

Once all is done and the meat is cooking, she can be found in her cute outfit and makeup look, the latter now almost part of her molecular structure, given how waterproof and immovable it is. It better be; she spent way longer than a person possibly should on it.

With a little smile, a little ✨ in her walk, she hides something behind her back as she approaches a party person and sits at their table.)

Mango, lemon, peach, or orange?

(She probably should have chosen to do this when she was more sober, but no, obviously she chose to do it after she was already past tipsy. Thing is that she shares her alcohol impairment with a certain cook, who unfortunately, due to alien, is unable to get his own. Usually, no big deal; Sophie's actual nature is to share her brain in every aspect of it, except that's an alien brain, and she's not all there, so the effort is enough to make her eyes do their very creepy glowing thing — no iris visible, bright white and pink shine only.

A situation that oftentimes, she doesn't even notice it's happening, but it becomes relevant as the balloon she pops reveals the following dare: give a handshake to the person across from you and make intense eye contact.

She leaves out an ugly snort before she shakes her head to get the chuckles out. The first person she sees gets stopped by her, eyebrows furrowed and a grip on their hand as she shakes it.)

It is crucial to me that I shake your hand right now.

(She seems to be making incredibly intense eye contact, at least, because she is, so she stretches this interaction a little more than she should. For the bit.

It's a dare well dared!)

(Night time. 'Exhausted' doesn't cut it, but out of sheer party host will and stubbornness, she stays up. Poorly. Barely. Sophie tends to limbo-wake in the middle of the night, state something that is completely nonsensical, perhaps hold a conversation — and not even remember it in the morning. She's halfway through that state of being, on top of the alcohol, drinking some water as she warms, sitting by one of the fire pits.

Nothing she says will make much sense. She's fighting drowsiness with the fierceness of a thousand warriors. She's tough. She's greater than biology. She's a telepath; brains should bow to her will, not tell her what to —



She dozed off for a second there, oopsie daisy, she regathers her limboed composure before she blurts out:)

No?? I am not the snitch. Celeste is the Emma snitch. I know we all look identically the same, but come on.

(Sophie will never say that she is in struggle herself, but there are signs. For someone as sensitive and aware about how she looks, so deeply affected by how she's perceived and whose appearance holds such weight in her history and lore, the fact that she leaves her office in the morning looking exactly like a normal person would in her condition is telling of the massive hangover she's experiencing right now.

Eventually, she does manage to gather enough strength to leave her office with Adrian, straight to the coffee machine. She's so tired, almost a zombie, and she has been kind of a zombie for the duration of one misadventure. She somehow feels even more dead today, and her arm had fallen off and everything back then. Go figure.

At least she's brushed her teeth and hair, miraculously managed to remove her makeup the night before. She's in her sunglasses to filter the light, a shirt so long that it's past her knees, loose to the point she's disappearing in it.

Dramatically, once she has coffee in her gigantic mug of choice, she pulls a chair for herself to drop and rub her face behind the dark lenses. In twenty-year-old, head cheerleader, sorority girl fashion:)

I'm never drinking ever again. Seriously, what the fuck. Never. Again. I need everyone to stop thinking. Why does everyone have feelings so loud? Ugh.