"Roger." Saturday lunges out ahead and starts calling shots. She seems to have a knack for knowing when something is coming just a moment before it appears - like she can see around corners, almost. This is particularly useful when it seems like half the bedroom furniture has gone made with rage; on at least one occasion she catches a herd of bedsheets before they sneak up and strangles the pair.

"What a fucking place this is," she pants as they shelter in a stairwell at the end of the hall. "Christing fuck. I didn't get your name?"