It's been a difficult transitional period. It's the kind of understatement John is so fond of, isn't it? A clever and funny little way to describe how everything's really gone to absolute shit. Very corporate in a way that Apollonia barely remembers but detests all the same. And yet, she likes to think that when she shows up on his doorstep, all her atoms turned back into the insidious molecules of unknowable rage, he'll enjoy hearing her call all of this "a difficult transitional period".

Finding the hilariously nicknamed "Bone House" isn't difficult. He's already made a name for himself, she thinks, her red hoop earrings irritating the holes caught in a perpetual state of attempting to regrow with each step she takes closer to his threshold. Her hair blows quietly in the chill of the wind, a television tuned to a dead channel hovering in the air so the long blonde hair almost makes her more obvious. She's stolen a hoodie from the wardrobe of someone she's heard actually belongs in this body, some drunkard bar patron mistaking her for this alliteratively annoying Anna Amarande, but the black turtleneck, a constant for the feeling of some thing too weak to matter trying to choke her, is her own.

Her footsteps crunch in a patch of snow that hadn't yet been cleared, and she raises a pale arm to knock at the door. Her weight shifts to the back leg, and she puts her hands in the pockets of the borrowed hoodie. John would love this space, wouldn't he? Not extravagant, not compared to some other places she'd passed on the way here, but clearly large enough to show that he has a following, that he has power. She detests it more than she has detested most things in the last fifteen minutes.

She's not expecting him to answer the door himself; no, God would have people for that. But she's equally not expecting to know the people whom God has employed, and the perpetual scowl lightens slightly. This woman's green eyes, ones that have never sit properly on her face, open wide. It's what will have to pass for a smile, but this person would know that about her.

"Mercymorn," she says, her tone flatter than her face would indicate. It's not quite her, but she supposes the reconstruction process was rough on everybody, if she's being mistaken for someone whose initials are the same letter twice. "He has you on door duty? And I thought aerosolizing your nervous system was punishment enough." It's going to have to pass for a joke. Her own glasses glint. "Well, where is he?"