"You need something in your stomach to absorb all that bullshit," Pyrrha chides Augustine in friendly fashion. Her whiskey is nearly drained—she solves that problem—and she stands to solve his. Even if he doesn't get them until the next day, he'll handle the dishes.

Casually, she taps John on the shoulder as she walks by. "You're with me, lightweight," she says. Then she looks across at the shrike, someone particularly interested if confused to some degree in taking care of Augustine, "Watch him for me. I'm trusting you."

That all sorted out she heads to the kitchen and a corner of quiet.