There is a headline: "Jake Olivier, Billionaire Parking Garage Maven, Dead at 67".  

She almost scrolls past it, because celebrity death announcements are never relevant to her life, then does a double-take and says "FUCK" very loudly and clicks through to the article.

Jake Olivier, reclusive billionaire and owner of Olivier Limited Parking is dead at 67 this week of pancreatic cancer. OLP is the largest parking garage chain in North America, and the main source of his wealth. Olivier died peacefully in his bed Sunday morning.

There's not much other information about Jake specifically in the article -- there's just another couple paragraphs about the company itself and how, as a private company, the owner's death shouldn't affect their business at all. 

did YOU know Uncle Jake had pancreatic cancer

no...?

fuck

my thoughts exactly!

did you tell your mom yet?

for all I know she's already seen the news

I'll text her

I read on the news uncle jake died

oh fuck

indeed

If April listens carefully, she might hear some gentle scratching at the bedroom door. 

"Breakfast will be late due to family emergency," she calls. And then starts a group chat with her mom and uncle by telling them she has to go feed the cat. Her phone bloops repeatedly from her bed as she scrounges up a pair of pants, then bloops repeatedly from her pocket as she opens the door.

Pippi is outside the room looking up at her when she exits. She tentatively takes a step forward to rub against her legs if April is amenable. 

"Hey, Pippi. I'm gonna be worse company than usual today, my Uncle Jake died and I'm still trying to figure out how I feel about that."

She shuffles downstairs, plops a can of wet food into Pippi's bowl, opens the fridge and stares blankly into it for several seconds, closes the fridge, and leans her head against it.

Pippi comes over to her and rubs up against her ankles while she's leaning against the fridge, looking up at her concernedly. 

"Eat your breakfast, I'm fine." She reflects on this statement for a moment. "Okay, 'fine' is a stretch. Eat your breakfast anyway."

Pippi looks at her for several more seconds, then turns and pads off to have her breakfast. She pauses in the middle of eating every 30 seconds or so to look over at April. 

April plods slowly through the motions of pouring a bowl of cereal, including all the classics like "dropping the spoon on the floor and having to get a new spoon" and "accidentally trying to put the box of cereal away in the fridge".

Pippi continues to keep an eye on her between bites of her food. 

"I have, like, two memories of my Uncle Jake," she says. "He gave me my favourite teddy bear but I don't actually remember that part because I was two. When I turned five he got me a secretly haunted dollhouse. I loved that thing to death. There was a dumbwaiter with a severed Barbie head in it and you could turn a little crank to make it go up and down and jumpscare the kitchen, dining room, or bedroom at your pleasure. Then Aunt Mary died, and the whole family stopped talking to him, and for the next year I was convinced that they'd kicked him out over the dollhouse because nobody would explain what actually happened. They still kind of haven't explained what actually happened? He got in a big fight at her funeral, apparently, and then wouldn't apologize for whatever it was he said. I dunno. It was a really great dollhouse. He seemed very proud of himself when I opened it. I was barely tall enough to reach the top of the box."

Pippi continues eating, though she does keep turning her head to look at April to see if she needs her. She very well might. Luckily, Pippi has eaten most of the food by now. 

She sighs and pushes her bowl of cereal away so she can flop her head down on the kitchen table.

Pippi seems to decide that this is a situation that calls for Cat, and leaves the rest of her food to come over and rub up against April's legs, looking up at her to see if her lap is available. 

She sighs and effortfully drags herself upright again. "Here I am telling you to eat your breakfast and not taking my own advice," she says, snagging the cereal bowl and pulling it back toward her.

Pippi starts deliberately grooming the exposed skin on April's leg, licking carefully and meticulously. 

"Your affectionate gestures are as uncomfortable and unhygienic as ever," she says, but she does smile a little.

As if in response to her smile and relaxation, Pippi continues to lick her, grooming her to help relax her and help her feel better. 

"Stop that," she says halfheartedly. "I prefer to continue having skin."

Pippi is a cat that definitely can't understand human speech, and so has no reason to stop grooming her until she's calmed down.

That said, she does seem to be a lot calmer now, so after a few more seconds, Pippi stops licking April's leg and heads back to her food bowl to finish breakfast. 

"I grudgingly appreciate your horrible sandpaper tongue," she says, going back to her cereal.

About 6 hours later, around 3 PM, the doorbell rings. 

April has been ignoring the group chat in favour of Katamari. She tromps up the stairs and peers out the spyhole.

There is a well-dressed (for the office) woman standing outside the door, waiting patiently. 

She opens the door. "This better not be some bullshit."

The woman looks up and smiles gently at April. "It's not any sort of bullshit," she says. "I'm here on business for your uncle, can I come in?" 

"The dead one?" she clarifies.

"Oh, so you've heard? Yes, the dead one," the woman affirms. 

"I guess."

She stands back from the door.

The woman comes inside, and pauses a couple feet inside the doorway, eyeing the giant pirate ship up and down. "That is... impressive," she says. 

"Built it myself. The living room belongs to Pippi; if you want to sit down we'd better use the kitchen table."

"Ah, so you went the mythological route then," the woman says, heading around the stairs to get to the kitchen. 

"The what?"

"When people name cats," she points her head at Pippi, who is currently drinking water at her bowl in the kitchen, "they usually do it in one of three categories: food, physical characteristics, or mythology," she explains. "So you name your cat Sugar, or Smudge, or Zeus. Fiction is covered under mythology in this case." She stands at the table, leaving April with her pick of chair before she sits down. 

Pippi is acting mildly curious about this new arrival, keeping her distance but still looking in her direction occasionally. 

"That makes 'mythology' a category so broad as to be useless. Like, yeah, I'm gonna give my cat a name, and it shouldn't be the name of a real living human because that would be weird, so where am I gonna get it? Probably fiction of some kind! That's where most names that don't belong to real living humans come from! Are historical figures myths too? If I had a cat named Winston would you have been like 'ah, yes, another myth fan'?"

"After Winston Churchill? I suppose I would; he is a bit of a mythological figure even if he is historical, much like many well-known historical figures essentially are." 

She puts the kettle on. "So, essentially, Mythology is just Miscellaneous. I'm making tea, you can have some if you want. Are you here to do anything besides observe that I named my cat?"

When it's clear that April isn't about to sit down, the woman picks a chair and sits in it. "Some tea would be lovely, thank you," she says. "I'm Mathilda Morrison, I worked with your uncle," she adds. "He's left you some things, but it also comes with a request." 

"Uh-huh. What's the catch, then?"

"Your uncle did well in business, but didn't really have any family to call his own," Mathilda says. "And since you were apparently the only remaining member of his family who he felt he could still have a connection with, he'd like you to represent him at his memorial service here in town, at the Chesterfield Family Funeral Home. Do you know it?" 

"I don't really spend a lot of time thinking about funeral homes. I... guess that could be fine? Depending what you mean by 'represent'?"

"It's nothing particularly difficult," she says. "It will be this Saturday at three. Your job will be to show up, welcome mourners and accept their condolences, and then, after the visitation, be present for the cremation. Everything's been arranged. All you have to do is be there." 

"Welcoming mourners and accepting their condolences actually sounds completely excruciating but I guess I can do it if I'm getting paid."

"They'll mostly be his business associates," Mathilda says. "Attendance will be relatively small." She pauses. "As for your compensation... 5 million dollars is how much he's left to you, along with some other assets, assuming you show up to represent him." 

"Well, I'm not about to turn down five million dollars. Does this thing have a dress code? I will absolutely show up in jeans and a nerdy T-shirt if you don't tell me a dress code."

Mathilda looks April quizzically up and down. "Do you have a nice dress you could wear that would be appropriate for a funeral?" she asks. "If not, if you let me know your size, I should be able to provide you one." 

"Clothing sizes are the work of the Devil."

"I can have someone come by later today to take your measurements if you'd prefer," Mathilda says, with an understanding smile. 

"Probably for the best. I will reluctantly trust that whatever you put together will be basically reasonable."

Mathilda nods in agreement. "Perfect," she says. "I'll call Chesterfield today and let them know to expect you, and I'll send someone by in a few hours to take your measurements. If you give me your number, I can text you all the details later," she says, pulling out her phone. "If you want to call or go by before the service to get instructions from them, that's fine; otherwise they'll get you up to speed when you arrive on Saturday. Arrive a little early." 

"Sure." She pours the tea, puts the mugs on the table, and divulges her phone number.

Mathilda takes down the phone number and sips her tea. "Thank you," she says. She nods at Pippi, who is now in the other room on the back of the couch, watching them through the banister. "Have you had her long? You've certainly done a bunch of decorating for her." 

"A while. I didn't actually want a cat, she's just very persistent. Kept letting herself into my house until I gave up and put in a cat door."

"Cats are known to do that," she says with a smile. "She seems well cared for, what with the pirate ship you have parked in the living room." She sips more tea. 

"It was thematically appropriate!"

"Oh, that makes sense, given her father and everything," Mathilda says. "Still, it's a rather large pirate ship. For a cat, that is. How did you make such a thing? I don't think you can buy something like that at PetSmart." 

"Me and a buddy of mine bought some lumber, I came up with the design, we borrowed her dad's power tools to cut the pieces to shape, and then hauled it all over here and put it together. Wasn't that hard."

"It still looks impressive," Mathilda admits, looking at what she can through the banister. "She looks like she's happy here. It's always a good sign when cats like their owners." 

"I used to make jokes about how I hadn't done anything to deserve her positive regard, but they started ringing a little hollow after I built her a pirate ship."

"I would say so! I think that's the sort of thing that deserves quite a bit of positive regard." She drinks more of her tea, smiling.

"I still maintain that pre-pirate-ship she really had no good reason to hang out with me. She spent weeks repeatedly showing up at my house and all I did was insult her and tell her she couldn't have any bacon."

"And do you give her bacon now?" 

"I looked up if it's safe and apparently it is!"

"A responsible cat owner." she says, impressed. "I think there are plenty of things Pippi can regard you positively for." 

"I mean, personally I would file 'checking if something will cause death or diarrhea before feeding it to your pet' under 'basic human decency' and/or 'desire to avoid having them shit all over your floor', but, you know, sure."

"You would be surprised at how many people fail to clear such a bar," she says, and then finishes the last of her tea. "Thank you for agreeing to represent your uncle," she says, standing. "And thank you for the tea." 

"Sure. Bye."

"Goodbye." Mathilda nods at her in farewell, and shows herself out, nodding at Pippi as well as she passes her,

some business associate of uncle jake's just showed up at my house and invited me to his funeral, I don't think you guys have to do anything

they did what

idk man. apparently i get five million dollars if i show up and greet mourners. they're sending over a tailor so they can get me a dress by Saturday, I threatened to show up in jeans and a nerd shirt

is this offer open to all family members?

on second thought, don't even answer that. I don't want it

ugh...

Saturday? isn't that... two days from now?

I guess he's not getting any less dead

I don't know how to feel about this

me neither, but here we are. I'll let you guys know how it goes, I guess.

Pippi climbs over the stairs and comes into the kitchen to rub herself against her legs in a comforting fashion. 

"Hey, you. What a mess."

Pippi continues to snuggle up to April, resting against her legs. 

"I'm going to have to endure so many awkward social interactions. On the plus side, I can then immediately retire."

Pippi looks up at her, then carefully hops up into her lap to curl up for easier snuggles.

Long sigh. Tired scritches.

Pippi returns her affection with soft and gentle nuzzles. 

"My mom is a human cupcake and Uncle Jake must've done something really heinous to get her to stop speaking to him. But, I don't know, I wish I'd seen him again at least once. I wish he wasn't dead. I wish he'd have told somebody he had pancreatic cancer. I wish I had any idea what he was like as a person."

Pippi continues to curl up and be affectionate towards April. 

A few hours later her doorbell rings, as expected, and there's a short man standing there in a well-fitted suit and bow tie, holding a roll of tailor's tape. He keeps things brisk and professional, measures her in a variety of locations, including her feet, puts every measurement down into his phone, and nods professionally at her when he leaves. 

The next day, there's a delivery for her. The box, when opened, contains several items, including a very nice but simple and unornamented black dress, which could certainly be worn to other events but looks perfect for a funeral. The dress will fit her perfectly if she tries it on. Same thing with the comfortable and simple black flats that are also in the box. And the small, black, fashionable purse that should fit her wallet and keys and phone and everything goes well with both. 

She is so suspicious of the shoes, but, after trying them on, she grudgingly admits that they don't suck.

When the time comes, she shows up at the funeral home wearing the dress and the shoes, with the purse comfortably shouldered. She doesn't look happy to be there, but then, it's a funeral.

The funeral home looks very much the same as it did for her aunt's funeral a couple decades ago, if she recalls it -- green well-kept carpets, cream-colored hallways and walls, polished wooden doorways, and very quiet and gentle music. It's a calm space clearly intended to ease one into the mourning process with care and gentleness. 

To the right, as she enters, according to the sign, is the doorway to the funeral home's gathering room, where services are held. Another sign underneath indicates that the viewing room is further beyond that room.

Coming down the stairs to the left is a man in a plain dark suit. "Ms. Turnberry?" he says, getting her attention. "I'm Michael Chesterfield, the funeral director here." He gets to the bottom of the stairs, and holds out a hand for her to shake.

She shakes his hand like someone who hates every aspect of this interaction. "Hi."

"My condolences to you," he says, as he shakes her hand. 

The rest of the funeral home is very calm, but if April is paying enough attention, she can notice that the funeral director is looking somewhat nervous, though he's trying hard not to show it. 

"...thanks," she says, only somewhat grudgingly. It's fine. He has probably had to deal with people in worse moods than this. Death doesn't tend to bring out the best in people.

"Before we get started," he says, slightly apprehensively, "there are some things we need to discuss. The floral arrangements, specifically." 

"...what about 'em?"

"The flower arrangements that have been paid for your Uncle's estate are fine," he says. "The problem are... the other ones."

"...what other ones?"

"Very often, other mourners at a service will pay for flower arrangements to be delivered," Chesterfield adds. 

"The flower arrangements are beautiful," he continues. "The sentiments attached to them... less so."  

"So... a bunch of people who hated him sent flowers with nasty notes? Sounds fine to me."

He pauses. "Would you... perhaps like to see them before I put them out," he asks, tentatively. "They're upstairs, in my office." 

"Sure."

He leads the way. 

His office is full of elaborate floral arrangements in a way it is not normally meant to be, in various shapes and varieties, so many the office smells strongly floral, and the place is a riot of color. One of the flower arrangements has a sash with the words "See you in Hell" emblazoned on it. Another is a bunch of red roses and lilies, with the words "Dead? LOL okay" and a smiley-face-with-its-tongue-sticking-out emoji written on its pale sash. Yet another standing spray has the words "Not soon enough." Another is a basket arrangement of flowers, with the words "Suck it, Motherfucker" beautifully engraved near the base of the gorgeous and ornate vase. 

There are others, but those are a representative sample.

"Your uncle appears to have provoked passionate responses in his acquaintances," Chesterfield says, as April looks over the beautiful flowers and rotten sentiments. 

She surveys the chaos.

"...yeah, I'm seeing that." Slight shrug. "You know what? I think it's funny and I bet Uncle Jake would too. Put 'em out there."

Chesterfield pauses for several seconds, then smiles and nods. "All right, Ms. Turnberry," he says. "I'll have them put out shortly." He gestures his head at the vase. "Do you intend to keep any of the stands or vases when the viewing is over?" he asks.

"Now that you mention it, I might."

He nods again. "Would you might if I take some pictures of the vase before you take it home?" he asks. "I might share them on a private funeral director's site I visit. We live for this stuff." 

"Go right ahead."

"Excellent. Thank you, Ms. Turnberry, I and my associates will have the flowers out shortly, and we can begin once the guests arrive." 

Once the flowers are set up artfully (with their sentiments on full display), Chesterfield directs April to enter the gathering room, and wait for guests to arrive. They arrive in twos and threes, all male, and all of them looking like they spent a sizable fraction of their lives in the military. They make no effort to try to talk to April, or indeed any of the other groups, keeping to their own groups and talking only occasionally to one another in low murmurs. 

Hey, if all she has to do is stand around next to the Hate Flowers, that's much better than she was expecting.

Eventually, the flow of small groups of men stops, and no one arrives for several minutes. Chesterfield goes up to April and asks, "What would you like us to do now, Ms. Turnberry? Is there anything you'd like to say before we start the viewing, or would you prefer to save it for after?" 

"I don't super have anything to say."

He nods. "In that case, I'll announce that we'll be opening up the visitation room in five minutes. Why don't you go ahead and position yourself to accept condolences. That'll also give you a little time to say your own goodbyes."

"Yeah."

Chesterfield directs her out into the hall and to another door (guarded by one of his associates, who recognizes her and lets her in), to the visitation room, currently separated from the service room by only a folding panel. 

Inside the room are some of the remaining floral arrangements (the most prominent one displaying the words "See you in Hell" for all to see), and a casket containing her Uncle Jake. 

The casket is simple, made of wood and natural fibers so they can be easily burned at the on-site crematorium, and opened so that Jake can easily be seen, eyes closed and well dressed, resting as comfortably as the dead can. 

...she sighs, and crosses the room to stand next to Jake, and glances around the room to be sure she's alone in it, or as alone as you can get with a bunch of strangers waiting on the other side of a folding screen.

"It was a really good dollhouse," she tells him quietly.

Eventually, the folding partition opens, and the mourners come through. 

After about a minute they queue up in their groups, and the first two come through. They're bald, stocky, and haven't bothered to take off the overcoat that many of the mourners seem to be wearing (and most of the rest are still wearing also). They look at April briefly, then look back at Jake. They talk to each other in a language that sounds of Slavic origin, then one reaches into the casket, and puts two fingers on Jake's neck, as though trying to take his pulse. 

...

The other one takes a fancy-looking camera out from his overcoat, and starts taking careful pictures of the body. 

Are these people for fucking real? Whatever, she does not need to make this her problem. She can just keep giving them judgmental looks until they go away.

After a few seconds of this, the first man looks back at April, takes his fingers away, and says to her, Slavically, "Sorry for your loss."

"Thanks."

The photographer takes a couple more shots, then one of April, and the two of them back away to make room for the next person in line. 

This time the person is only a single person, no others with him. He goes, stands over Jake, looks for a moment, and then reaches into his overcoat and pulls out a knife, raising it high in the air to stab the corpse with it. 

"Absolutely the fuck not," says April, stepping in front of him.

The man is larger and more muscular than April, and could certainly push her out of the way if he chose to. This fact is made very clear by his body language as he clearly chooses to allow her to get in his way, as opposed to doing something about it, stepping back casually to make space for her between him and the body. 

"Get that shit out of here," she says, with an indicative jerk of her head. (Her own body language displays that she has noticed how big he is and has chosen not to factor that into her decision of whether to get in his way, though it may factor into her choice of tactics if it comes to that.)

"I am here to stab your Uncle," he says to her, simply. "He has faked his death before. I was told to confirm it had taken this time around." 

All the other men in the room are clearly watching this conflict, to see what happens next. 

"The last guy took his pulse. I will also accept honking an air horn in his ear. Stabbing is a no-go."

"May I inject him?" one of the men says, holding up an empty syringe. He looks like he's humoring her. 

"No! Listen, do you know the kinds of gross shit they do to bodies to make them look this pretty? The man is already full of staples in uncomfortable places, we are not introducing any more foreign objects to his corpse today."

Another man holds up a cotton swap wrapped in plastic. "I'm just here to get his DNA, to make sure it's him." 

The man with the syringe snorts. "Can be faked." 

"At least I'm not murdering anyone with three dozen witnesses, empty syringe boy," the man with the cotton swab says. 

"Acceptable," she says, pointing at DNA guy. "You can still fuck off," she continues, pulling her hand in to gesture at the man with the knife standing in front of her.

He looks at her. "Why do you care, Turnberry?" he asks. "You never knew your Uncle. He means nothing to you, and you sure as hell meant nothing to him. In life, he never went out of his way to help you. What do you care if I stab him, or George here pumps air into his vein? If he's dead, it won't matter. And if he's not dead, then he's played you for a fool. Either way, there's no reason to stand in our way." 

"Hey you!" she calls out to the funeral director, past the crowd. "How full of staples is my uncle right now?"

Chesterfield has been standing at the partition between rooms, amazed at the events transpiring before him. "Many," he says. "You probably do not wish to know how many. I also personally drained his body of its fluids and replaced them with embalming solution. If he wasn't dead before I did that, he was dead after. You don't come back from formaldehyde and methanol." 

"Yeah, that's what I figured. So! I haven't seen my uncle since my fifth birthday, but he asked me to represent him at his funeral, so that's what I'm doing. If you want to go over the records with So-and-so back there to verify the thing about the fluids, that's not my business. I will also grudgingly accept checking his pulse and swabbing his DNA. But I really gotta draw the line at stabbing. There will be no stabbing. If the only way you can be sure he's dead is to stab him then you will just have to endure the mystery."

"Sorry," he says. "I need to make sure."

"No! You don't! You literally do not need that! Go home!"

He sizes her up, brandishes the knife, and smiles. "All right then," he says. "This could be fun." 

"Enough," says one of the Slavic men, the one who took Jake's pulse. "He's dead." 

Not breaking eye contact with April, he asks, "And you know this how?"

"I was medic in Chechnya," the Slave says. "I know dead." 

"And I have thermographic camera," says the other one. He pulls it out and turns it around to show everyone present a multicolored photo. "Corpse is corpse temperature. You see Andrei's hand for contrast." 

"He's dead," the first Slave repeats. "If it's good enough for us, it's good enough for our boss, and it's good enough for you." 

"And who is your boss?" the man with the syringe asks. "Dobrev," Andrei replies. The room murmurs. 

He smiles in a deeply unnerving manner, having not broken eye contact with April the entire time. "You should have led with that Andrei," he says. "Save us all some time." He backs away and puts the knife back in his overcoat. "We're done here." 

'This could be fun' gets a slightly incredulous eyebrow, but she hasn't broken eye contact either. If the man with the knife meant to intimidate her, he has failed.

"Great!" she says brightly. "Bye now."

They all depart. In two minutes the room is empty, except for her and the funeral director. 

She looks over at him. "Hell of a story to tell all your funeral director friends, huh?"

"One of the more memorable visitations I can recall," he replies. 

"Yeah, I'll bet."

He nods and smiles slightly. "Now, Ms. Turnberry. Your uncle paid for the option of you being a witness to the cremation if you like. But after the events of today, I think you might be ready to go home." 

"Y'know, I hear what you're saying, but I actually think I do want to witness the cremation. Just to know I saw it, you know?"

He nods again and smiles. "Understandable," he says. "If you give me a moment, I'll be back with a cart and a few of my associates, so we can take the body down to the cremation chamber and put him in together. 

He leaves and returns with a few other people, one of whom has a cart. All of them are looking a bit shocked and whispering among themselves. They pick up the body, coffin and all, put it on the cart, wheel it over to a large elevator, and ride it downstairs. From there, it's a short hallway until they get to a room with a big metal machine and a sort of conveyer belt leading up to it. The machine has a closed doorway on the front of it, with warnings about heat, and a few buttons and indicator lights. With April watching, they move the body onto the conveyer belt, and then everyone leaves except for Chesterfield. "Would you like to do the honors?" he asks, pointing at a big green button.

"Sure."

She pushes the big green button.

The door slides upwards, revealing a dark and empty and chamber. The coffin is pushed by the rollers into the chamber, the door closes, and the sounds of gas fires lighting can be heard. 

"It will be a few hours before everything is done cremating," he says. "Feel free to head home now if you'd prefer, I can make arrangements for you to pick up the ashes tomorrow." 

"I'll wait. In for a penny."

He nods understandingly. "Very well. There are a few folding chairs here, please don't hesitate to come upstairs if you need anything or change your mind. I'll be back in three hours to rake out the coals." He pauses. "I can also wrap up the vase for you, if you still wish to keep it, and any of the other flower arrangements you wish to take with you to commemorate this occasion." 

"Definitely the vase. I don't need the flowers."

He smiles. "Then I will be back in a few hours." He looks for a moment like he wants to add more, but decides against it, and leaves April alone with the machine burning her uncle to ashes. 

where I come from it's polite to warn people before they have to fistfight huge dudes with knives

What happened? Are you alright? 

I'm fine, he backed down, but for a minute there it was really looking like I was going to have to go for the balls

also, 100% of the alleged mourners cleared out as soon as the one guy who went first showed everyone the images from his thermal camera proving uncle jake was actually dead

so, you know, I feel like I was a little underinformed about how this funeral was going to go

My apologies, I hadn't realized things would go like that. In his line of work he competed against some very strong personalities, but I didn't realize they would want to make sure he would be dead with a knife. I'm glad you're alright. 

there was also a guy with an empty syringe and a guy with a DNA swab

apparently my uncle jake was the single most hated man in the entire parking garage business

Your Uncle's business could be rather cutthroat. Though perhaps not usually to such an extent. Regardless it sounds like everything ended up fine despite all of that, yes? 

yep! me and uncle jake are both totally stab-free

Excellent. Then you've done what was asked of you, and more. I'll see you tomorrow about arranging the details for delivering your Uncle's bequest to you. Thank you very much for all of this, I know it must have been difficult for you. Besides just the fistfight, I mean, though that as well. 

hey, he asked me to do it, I did it

Regardless, both he and I appreciate it. I'll talk to you tomorrow. 

sure

hey uncle chris guess what

i'm going to guess zombie jake

no, but close!

thanks, that was definitely the most unnerving response you could've made to that

the answer is: you were right, you didn't want to be here

all the people who showed up to the funeral were there to make sure uncle jake wasn't faking

one of them went for him with a knife and i had to play defense

i did not literally fistfight the guy but i came closer than i would really prefer

anyway now i'm superstitiously watching the cremation. did you know watching cremations is very boring

I could've guessed

are you okay???

totally fine! not a scratch on me!

are you PSYCHOLOGICALLY okay

never in my life

OK

I love you

love you too mom

And now we wait.

Eventually, the machine turns itself off.

About fifteen minutes later, Chesterfield comes into the room. "It looks like everything went smoothly," he says. He reaches down underneath the area where the body was put, and pulls out a deep metal tray, blackened and full of ashes. "Your uncle's estate made arrangements for placing these in an urn, if you'll give me a few minutes, I can have that out for you and ready to take home." 

"Yeah, sure thing." She gets up and stretches. The folding chair was not really a three-hour kind of chair. It's fine.

He nods at her, takes the tray with him, and leaves. 

As promised, he's back in a few minutes later, with an urn and vase, both wrapped in light blue tissue paper. They're both in a nondescript brown bag, large and wide, with thick and reinforced handles. "This should be everything, Ms. Turnberry," he says. "We hope your time with us was not too painful." He hands her the bag. "I can show you out, or you can leave on your own, if you'd prefer."

"I will take the escort to the front door, I feel like nobody wants me accidentally getting lost in your death basement."

"Very fair," he says, and leads her to the elevator, which feels much emptier without a coffin in it. And then he takes her from the elevator to the door. "My condolences on your loss," he tells her, and offers her a hand to shake once more. 

"Thanks." She shakes his hand again, with much less resentment this time.

All right. Now to get this large bulky paper bag home... at least the shoes held up to the walk here and will probably also hold up to the walk back.

A hundred feet or so from April's house, on the other side of the street, there is a familiar cat, head pointed upwards, looking around. She's pacing a little. When she sees April, she meows to get her attention. 

"...you okay there, Pippi?"

She heads catward.

Pippi's tail swishes back and forth, a little frantically. When April is close enough, she meows again, looks directly at April, then looks again at the upper floor of her house. 

"...oh for fuck's sake," she says, following the cat's gaze. "Let me guess, some sketchy motherfucker broke into my house while I was out?"

There is, as she predicted, the silhouette of someone through her bedroom window, moving around and doing something.  

hey guys i think somebody broke into my house while i was waiting for uncle jake to finish combusting

wtf

omw

"All right, Pippi," she says, hoisting the paper bag up onto her hip, "scale of one to ten, how scary did he look? You can't answer, you're a cat. Fuck it, can't be worse than the guy with the knife."

She heads toward the house.

Pippi meows insistently, moving in front of her to block her path. 

"—that bad, huh? You sure?"

"Meow." 

The figure in her bedroom looks out the window, sees April standing there and disappears from visibility.

A few seconds later her bedroom explodes, a blossom of heat and light and fire.

The fire catches surprisingly quickly, traveling through the hallways and rooms of her house, spreading everywhere she can see.

house exploded

I'm fine

turn around

excuse me???

I don't think she's gonna turn around

I wouldn't

Mom if you show up I'm not going to be here. my house exploded, I'm LEAVING

Pippi is in fact following behind her, staying close and looking around warily. 

She wishes she had her real clothes and not this stupid dress. She wishes she had her laptop. She wishes a lot of things.

At the corner where her street meets the next one, she hoists the paper bag over a stranger's backyard fence, lets it down as gently as possible into their overgrown grass, and breaks into a jog.

Pippi follows close behind, hair raised, head still turning from side to side warily. 

Yeah. Yeah, sounds about right.

She alternates jogging and speed-walking, checking her phone whenever she hits a walking phase.

April you can't just tell me your house exploded and expect me not to come pick you up

April

no I absolutely can

what are you going to do, take me home?

come on

fuck

fuck

okay

stay safe

do my best

April is distantly aware that humans are endurance freaks and cats spend 80% of their time napping. How's Pippi doing?

Pippi seems to be keeping pace, at least for now, though she might be flagging a little. She'll perk up alert when April looks her way, though. 

Somewhere behind the both of them, there is the sound of sirens. 

"I'm gonna have to figure out how to carry a cat, aren't I," she says, slowing down a little. "...man. I need somewhere to sleep tonight. Can't stay with anyone I like because they might explode. Can't stay in a hotel because that might explode..." She looks doubtfully at her phone.

Pippi sticks close by, coming right up to her leg, still looking around warily. 

"To text the sketchy lady who bought me this dress, or not to text the sketchy lady who bought me this dress..."

Pippi meows once and rubs up against April's leg a little. Not that she's a person and certainly can't understand human speech or communicate at all (certainly not with just meowing at her at least), but if one were to interpret her one might consider that she's positive about the idea of texting Morrison. Or she could just be being worried and affectionate after something harrowing happened to her, that's much more likely. 

so, speaking of things I didn't expect to have happen today

She a response relatively quickly. 

What happened? 

my house exploded

gonna be real with you i do not think i have it in me to tolerate being dicked around any more today

Are you all right? Are you safe? Is Pippi with you? 

I'm fine, so's Pippi, we did have to ditch Uncle Jake's ashes in a stranger's backyard

I don't super have a place to stay because there is not really anywhere that I both want to sleep and also don't mind if it explodes

We can put you up somewhere safe. 

Tell Pippi to take you home. Tell her I told you to say that. She'll take it from there. 

She looks at her phone.

She looks at the cat.

She looks at her phone.

She looks at the cat.

"Sketchy lady says to tell you to take me home."

Pippi meows back at April affirmingly, pauses to think for a moment, then turns to head down a neighboring street, neither in the direction of April's former house, nor in the direction they were just going. She looks back behind herself, as though checking to see if April is following. 

She is absolutely following, yes.

Pippi walks the rest of the way down the street, and makes a right, heading down another road. She looks behind her when she gets to the crosswalk, sees April, then looks both ways and crosses the street. She heads north and east on smaller roads, until she gets to a house near the end of one road, and starts heading up a driveway. 

The house she's gotten to is smallish but well-maintained, the grass short and well-manicured. The house is painted white, and the curtains are drawn. The only mildly novel thing about this house is that the front door has a cat door set into it, one that Pippi is clearly strolling towards. 

Pippi looks behind her, meows once, and then heads through the cat door, inside the house. 

...and is the door... open... to humans?

The door is currently locked, but instead of a doorbell there's a camera-and-buzzer combination attached to the door, much like one would find at an apartment building. 

"Pippi, you're a monster," she mutters under her breath, but she buzzes in.

The door buzzes to let her inside. 

The inside of the house is dim due to curtains and very little in the way of artificial lighting. The entranceway is devoid of most furniture save a large and comfy armchair covered in cat hair. The walls, however, are festooned with cat stairs and cubbyholes. There's a very small pirate flag pinned up in one of the corners of one of the cubbyholes. 

...is there now.

Pippi peeks her head from around a corner, meows at April, and then turns and heads back in the direction she came from. 

She follows the cat.

The living room is full of more cat stairs and cubbyholes, a squashy couch covered in cat hair, and a couple of cat trees. 

In the center of the room, though, dominating the space, is a large desk with a strange shape, and an even larger and more strangely shaped keyboard and monitor. 

...she looks between the cat and the desk. It's not hard to connect the dots.

Pippi hops up onto the desk, and presses a button, which turns the monitor on. She presses buttons on the keyboard with all four of her feet, and the letters she type spell out words, which appear on the monitor for April to see. 

HELLO, APRIL. SORRY ABOUT YOUR HOUSE. WELCOME TO MY OTHER HOME. I HAVE A ROOM WAITING FOR YOU UPSTAIRS. 

"I claim no credit for talking to you like a human this whole time, I had no idea, I'm just deficient in cats."

ON THE CONTRARY, YOU WERE AN EXCELLENT ROOMATE. NOT DEFICENT AT ALL. AND I APPRECIATED YOU TALKING TO ME LIKE A PERSON. IT WAS HELPFUL. 

"Okay. So... what's the story? I have noticed that Uncle Jake probably didn't make all that money in the parking garage business. Did he, what, send you to keep an eye on me? Why me specifically? I guess I am his only niece, but like... he could have just spoken to my mother at any point in the last couple decades... I guess unless he was afraid that having any contact with his family would invite the attention of the people who blew up my house."

I WAS SENT TO KEEP AN EYE ON YOU, YES. MORRISON CAN SPEAK MORE TO THE SOCIAL SITUATION, WHEN SHE ARRIVES. SPEAKING OF WHICH, I SHOULD LET HER KNOW YOU'RE SAFE. GIVE ME A MINUTE. 

Pippi presses another button on the keyboard, and another window opens up, one that looks suspiciously like an email window. She puts an email address into it that starts with "MMORRISON" at the top, though it changes to her full name faster than April can see the domain at the end. 

SHE'S HERE, SHE'S SAFE.

Pippi writes in the body, and then sends the email. 

"Soooo she could totally have guessed what was going to happen at Uncle Jake's funeral, and she didn't tell me. Yeah?"

WHAT HAPPENED AT THE FUNERAL? 

"I had to get between Uncle Jake and some huge dude with a knife who wanted to stab him. I was pretty pissed about it. Then as soon as somebody verified to everyone else's satisfaction that Uncle Jake was actually dead, they all left."

OH. 

I DON'T THINK MORRISON EXPECTED THE GUY WITH THE KNIFE. I'M GLAD YOU'RE OK THOUGH. 

"What about the part where the sole concern of anyone in that room was making sure he wasn't faking, do you think she expected that?"

PROBABLY. YOUR UNCLE FAKED HIS OWN DEATH ONCE, FOR BUISNESS PURPOSES. IT SOUNDS LIKE HIS BUISNESS RIVALS WANTED TO MAKE SURE IT WAS REAL THIS TIME.

"And despite his business rivals all being incredibly sketchy people, she didn't figure they might get feisty with me about it?"

I DON'T THINK SHE EXPECTED THEM TO TAKE THINGS THIS FAR. I THINK

Pippi is interrupted by a notification noise. Pippi presses a button and another window opens. 

Good. Thank you, Pippi. I'm on my way. 

The email is unsigned, but it's reasonably obvious who it is from from context. 

"...did you have a different name before Pippi?" she wonders. "—I mean, finish your sentence first, I don't wanna interrupt."

Pippi is already answering her question, though. 

TECHNICALLY MY DESIGNATION IS LANGBROEK F 621, THOUGH SINCE I DID TEND TO SLEEP MORE THAN EVERYONE ELSE I ENDED UP NICKNAMED CATNAP. I LIKE MY CURRENT NAME MUCH BETTER. 

"...that's adorable. I'm glad you like the one I gave you, though."

IT FELT MORE LIKE AN ADMONISHMENT THAN ADORABLE AT THE TIME. I WAS NOT EXACTLY THE BEST ONE IN MY CLASS. PIPPI IS A LOT MORE FUN OF A NAME, GIVEN THE ORIGIN. AND YOU WENT WITH THE THEME, TOO, WHEN MAKING AND BUYING THINGS FOR ME. I LIKE MY CURRENT NAME A LOT. 

"I'm really mad that your pirate ship exploded."

She yowls.

ME TOO.

I MANAGED TO SAVE THE KATAMARI, AT LEAST. AT LEAST, I THINK SO. IT'S IN THE BACKYARD, NEAR THE CORNER OF THE FENCE. IT'S PROBABLY FINE. 

She steps up to the desk and gives Pippi scritches.

"Nice work," she says, only a tiny bit choked up. "I hope we manage to get it back."

Pippi arches her back under the scritches and purrs a little. 

ME TOO. 

For a moment, all she does is enjoy the scritches, purring a little sadly. Then she types again:

MORRISON SHOULD BE HERE SOON. KNOWING YOU, YOU WANT TO GET CHANGED. THERE'S CLOTHING UPSTAIRS IN YOUR ROOM THAT WILL FIT YOU. 

"...oh, man... yeah, you're totally right. Thanks." Scritch scritch. "BRB."

She heads upstairs.

There is a a bathroom and two other rooms upstairs, their windows all becurtained. Only one actually has a bed and things in it. 

There is a lightswitch by the door that actually works. The room is done up simply and neatly, with simple solid color bedsheets and blankets. There's also a chest of drawers and a closet, as well as a large desk with some drawers down one side and a pretty mediocre office chair underneath it. Sitting on the desk is what looks to be a pretty medicore last-generation laptop. 

Everything is very neat and clean, but slightly dusty, like it was set up some time ago and then never used. 

She wrinkles her nose at the dust and ventures into the chest of drawers.

The top drawer contains socks and underpants in a style that she's purchased before, all her size. The middle drawer contains t-shirts, all her size a couple of which she might recognize as exactly the same as some of her current (well, former, since they're now all ashes) t-shirts, as though someone went and figured out where she purchased them and bought an extra copy. The third drawer down contains a few pairs of blue jeans, all of which are in her size. 

Most of the clothing is in its original packaging, though there are some loose shirts and socks. 

...well that's not creepy or anything.

She grabs a pair of jeans and a shirt and heads into the bathroom to get changed, in the hope that perhaps the bathroom will be less dusty.

The bathroom is less dusty, but only by virtue of it not being full of textiles (though there is a regular towel and hand towel in there). It's a reasonably normal tiled bathroom, with a shower/bathtub combo, a sink, and a toilet. The windows, like all the other rooms in the house, are covered in curtains, but the lightswitch works in here too. 

She'll take it.

Leaving the dress and purse on the dusty bed, she heads downstairs, feeling much more like herself.

Pippi hears her coming downstairs, and comes to greet her, rubbing up against her legs and purring. She then pulls away and heads towards the desk, looking behind her to see if April is following. 

Yes, definitely.

She gets back up onto the desk and turns the monitor back on. 

FEELING BETTER, I HOPE?

"Yeah. ...it is pretty creepy that you have a whole set of clothes in my size, but, like, hard to complain, under the circumstances."

THE ROOM UPSTAIRS IS SUPPOSED TO BE JUST IN CASE YOU NEEDED SOMEPLACE SAFE TO GO IF SOME SORT OF TROUBLE HAPPENED. IT WAS MOSTLY INTENDED AS A PRECAUTION, IT WASN'T REALLY EXPECTED TO BE USED. BUT IT MADE SENSE TO HAVE CLOTHING IN YOUR SIZE, JUST IN CASE.

"It remains kind of creepy that you have like, exact copies of my shirts and underwear and stuff."

IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE A TASTE OF THE FAMILAR. I CAN SEE HOW IT WOULD BE DISCONCERTING THOUGH. SORRY ABOUT THAT.

"Yeah I see where you're coming from and I'm, like, glad that I get a second chance to own this shirt," it's got the Triforce on it, "but still, pretty weird that you've been going through my stuff. And... you know, I can't exactly say 'eavesdropping' when I've been just saying shit to you constantly, but... I dunno, still weird to find out I have a friend where I thought I had a pet?"

THAT MAKES SENSE. IN THIS CASE THOUGH YOU'RE LUCKY THAT

There's an email notification sound. Pippi opens the email.

I'm two minutes out. See you both soon.

COULD YOU GO GET THE DOOR FOR HER, PLEASE, SO SHE DOESN'T HAVE TO BUZZ IN? I'M NOT REALLY TALL ENOUGH TO GET THE DOOR MYSELF.

Pippi arches her back a little, nearly standing up on her hind legs (though not quite managing it) to demonstrate her point. 

"Yeah, sure." She heads for the door. Note to self: cat typing is easily interrupted.

A minute or so after April gets to the door, an expensive black sedan car pulls up next to the driveway. Morrison gets out of the backseat, and the car drives off. She strolls down the driveway towards the house. 

She opens the door just as Morrison is walking up the steps.

"Sup."

"Let me guess," she says, stopping at the porch. "Sentient cats a bit overwhelming." 

"I already basically treated her like a roommate, it's chill. The espionage was the harder pill to swallow."

"In your case there wasn't really espionage going on. She was just keeping tabs on you, in case of, well, unforeseen circumstances."

She pauses for a moment to consider. "Okay, yes, I suppose there was a little bit of light espionage. But it was for your own protection. Not for anything nefarious." 

"If you say so. Are you coming in or what?"

"Sure, thanks. Let's go meet up with Pippi," she says. 

However, before she goes inside, an expensive black sedan car pulls up next to the driveway. A familiar man gets out of the back seat of the car, and the car drives off. The man strolls down the driveway towards the two of them, hands empty. 

"The fuck do you want?"

Morrison looks at April, confused. "You know Tobias?" She also puts her body in front of April, as thought moving to protect her. 

"Remember how I said I nearly had to fight a guy with a knife?"

"And it was Tobias?? He could have killed you!" 

She pauses. 

"Stay behind me." 

"Hello, Til," Tobias says. "Nice of you to put your girl up in an Airbnb. Considering what happened to her house." He tries to step past her to get to the doorway and get to April. 

"Don't you even," Morrison says. She shifts her weight as though preparing for a fight.

"Relax. If your girl was supposed to be dead, I'd have knifed her at the funeral home. That's better than others can say." 

He turns to look at April. "Condolences on your house, Turnberry. And your uncle. Seeing that he is actually dead and all. 

"Thanks!" she says, brightly sarcastic.

"Don't talk to him," Morrison says. 

"You should get used to her telling you what to do," Tobias says to April. "Bit of a family tradition, that." 

To Morrison, she says, "Sorry, no power on this earth can stop me from making sarcastic remarks."

"Are you here for a reason?" Morrison asks Tobias. 

"You mean, if I'm not here to here to end your friend here and now?" He smiles. "I come with an invitation." 

"For whom?"

"Well, if it were from me, it might depend, wouldn't it?" Tobias says. "But since I'm just the messenger, it's for your new friend here. I'm going to reach into my coat now." 

"Do it slow."

"Of course. I remember that's how you like it, Til." He reaches into his coat -- slowly -- and takes out an envelope from a coat pocket. The envelope is made of heavy, handmade paper, and sealed with wax and a cord. "See? Just an envelope." He reaches out to hand it to April. 

"Don't take that!" Morrison says to April. 

Oh, so it's like that, is it.

She does not in fact take the letter.

"I already told you I wasn't here to kill her," Tobias says. 

"It's not you I'm worried about." She nods at him. "You open it. Take a step back, first." 

"You think it's going to explode?" 

"If it does, I want it to be your fingers on the yard." 

"I don't remember you being this paranoid before your employer kicked off." 

"Less talk, more fingers," Morrison says at him. 

"Hear, hear."

Tobias shrugs, takes a step back, and gets a better grip on the envelope, before yanking down the cord. It bisects the wax seal, and the flap of the envelope pops open. 

"Take the invite out," Morrison says to him. 

He reaches in and pulls it out. It's a thick, handmade card, showing elegant writing written with what was probably a very expensive fountain pen. 

"Now lick it." Morrison says. 

Tobias' smile disappears. "The fuck you say."

"Lick it," she repeats. "Both sides." 

"You have plain lost your mind." 

"And you're wearing gloves." 

If April takes a closer look, it's true. He is, in fact, wearing gloves. It's hard to notice because they're clearly made of some incredibly expensive leather, dyed to exactly match his skin tone. 

Tobias, acknowledging Morrison's observation, held up the invite in front of his face. "Only for you," he says, mock theatrically, then sticks out his tongue and runs it across the card, first one side and then the other. "Not dead yet," he says, when he's finished. 

"I'm willing to wait." 

"That's nice. I'm not. I have other places I need to be." He puts envelope and card in one hand, and thrusts them at her. "Take these." 

"No." 

"Fine. Then how about I hold it up, and you take a picture of the damn invitation with your phone. Then I can say I delivered the invite, and we can all go on with our lives. Deal?" 

Morrison considers it for a moment. "April, take a picture of the invite with your phone," she says, keeping her eyes on Tobias. 

"You're not going to do it yourself?"

"I want to keep my hands free."

"Now you're just putting on a show for the girl." 

She rolls her eyes and pulls out her phone to get a picture.

He turns the card over, to make sure she gets both sides. "Good. Now, just a reminder. Now that she's got the invite, you know she has to show up for it. If she doesn't, it's not going to end well for her. Or for you." 

"I thought you had other places to be," Morrison says. 

"I'm going," Tobias says. He turns to look at April. "Good luck, Turnberry. You're going to need it." 

"Leave," Morrison says. 

"Good to see you too, Til." He turns and walks away, invite still in his gloved hand. 

"Now will you come in?"

"Yes. We have some things to discuss, and we probably shouldn't say them in the open air." She heads inside, letting the door close behind her. 

April leads the way back to Pippi's desk and announces, "Mr. Stabby from the funeral showed up to invite me to, uh," she looks at the picture on her phone to find out what it was he invited her to exactly.

The title of the event (though the ink on the card has run slightly due to saliva) clearly reads "Lombardy Convocation." 

"...the 'Lombardy Convocation', whatever that is."

IT'S ESSENTIALLY A CONFERENCE FOR PEOPLE IN YOUR UNCLE'S LINE OF WORK. 

"Hoo boy." She looks at Morrison. "Also, was that general-purpose sexual harassment, or do you have a history with this guy?"

"We dated briefly." 

"Well, truly who among us has never dated a large violent weirdo. Anyway! What the fuck is happening, generally?"

"Where would you like to start?" She glances at Pippi. "With the cats? Or something else?" 

"I am pretty curious about the cats, yeah."

She nods. "Essentially, they are useful to your uncle's business. Human and electronic intelligence gathering are difficult, but no one suspects a cat." 

"...ooookay. So. My uncle's business was crime?"

"I wouldn't say that," Morrison says. "Your uncle's vocation was to seek out, fund, and create the sort of technologies and services that bring disruptive change to existing industrial and social paradigms, and offer them, on a confidential basis, to interested businesses and governments." 

"So, crime."

I BELIEVE PEOPLE IN HIS BUISNESS SOMETIMES PREFER THE TERM VILLIAN.

"We don't use that word in public," Morrison says, looking slightly pointedly at the screen, "But essentially, yes." 

"I guess that explains the spy cats. Okay. So. The only aspect of this whole situation that I in any way give a shit about is Pippi, but I do like Pippi quite a lot, so I will provisionally refrain from googling 'where is the best place to become a lumberjack'. That having been said, I'm going to need self-defense lessons, because apparently when a huge dude comes at me with a knife I lose all sense of fear and if this kind of shit is going to keep happening I'd better start being able to back that up."

"Hiding in the woods as a lumberjack might confuse them for a while, but they're very good at finding people. As you can see by how Tobais just showed up here with an invitation." She frowns unhappily. "They're after you because they think you're going to be running your uncle's business, and are likely to ignore evidence to the contrary at this point. You will be a lot safer coming with us, and running your uncle's business." 

WE HAVE A VOLCANO ISLAND LAIR, WHICH IS PRETTY SAFE GEOGRAPHICALLY. THERE ARE ALSO ADDITIONAL PROTECTIONS AVAILABLE THERE THAT ARE NOT MOST OTHER PLACES. 

"...a volcano island lair is admittedly pretty cool but civilization was a mistake and there is no amount of cool lairs that will convince me otherwise."

"Sorry, civilization was a mistake?"

SHE'S STILL CONSIDERING BEING A LUMBERJACK. SHE'S NOT BEING LITERAL.