|machine give cash|

That had definitely been... something.

Sarah hadn't minded the wacky Technicolour '20s-by-way-of-'50s musical world she'd ended up in for a bit after trying to surprise a mook with a blaster a few days ago. Nor had she minded the nudity involved in the escape today because she'd been sufficiently furious not to give a single flying fuck what anyone thought of any of her wobbly bits, or who saw them.

But when you'd had your powers for about as long as you'd been getting your period, getting them snatched away even in something that had turned out not to be real (and even just for a while) was a pretty hard hit. Especially together with a very much real kidnapping.

She hadn't remembered what it was like not to be able to talk to electric things. Now she did.

She didn't like it.

And it was too late in the evening, or too early in the morning, to be calling up London to complain. At least not without getting pestered stupid fucking pointless questions like what had her calling people in the middle of the night. Which meant it was pointless to call because it wasn't as if she wanted to talk. She wanted –– something. But not that. So. No fucking calling anyone. She could sit here in her kitchen and drum the table with her fingertips until she calmed the hell down.

Bumsticks.

... Yeah, she couldn't stay still. She couldn't even stay home. She tried valiantly for a good while, but –– fuck it. Eventually she found herself in town in the middle of the night. Lighting cigarette after cigarette.

[ooc: Look, just because I couldn't brain for the BDE doesn't mean my characters shouldn't suffer consequences omg. Open, yes.]