WHAT IF I TOLD YOU I'M A MASTERMIND, no one has ever accused kendra of being particularly lady-like, and that is never more evident than when she snorts at @thefixer- words framed as if a question, but the inflection of her tone implying a cryptic subtext that kendra is simply not sober enough to analyse right now. " not what i'd call'ya but t'each their own, " kendra hauled her ass up from where she'd sat herself down on mia's living room floor, shuffling on her knees toward the table where their shit was splayed out in a messy array of photographs collected over a period of two months, hastily scrawled notes on paper and the occasional take-out receipt. because kenny was old school, and she didn't fucking trust computers. " m'impressed, alright? s'that what y'wanted me t'say? fuck, y'ego's bigger'n mine and that's fuckin' sayin' somethin' " the slur of her words makes her southern twang almost impossible to understand anything kendra said, but they've been up thirty plus hours straight and she's running on fumes as it is. it's drink, or sleep. and kendra's a competitive sonovabitch- she'll pass out when mia does, and no sooner. whether the other realises she's at silent war with her or not, she doesn't know. and whether mia'd care as much about it as kendra, she couldn't say. but kendra wolfe is petty and stubborn and she's determined not to tap out first. that'd just be fucking embarrassing. " ... y'know, we still've gotta find the blind spot in his schedule, mastermind- fucker doesn't even take a minute alone to jerk off. " which is fucking weird, by the way.