Jazz is still gnawing at the pile of salty rope he's found, seemingly contented as his alley-toughened teeth attempt to destroy a decent section of it. Surely philosophers have waxed poetically about what it is pets dream of — and here Jazz is, chewing on dream-rope, purring loudly as he does it. Or perhaps there's nothing more poetic and life-reflecting than a cat destroying something.

"Of course. Only fair," Fortescue chuckles, her smile looking slightly more like a smirk for a moment. "Though I might have to do some appropriate wide-eyes if you put your hand through me like a ghost."