Bastille was a bit late to the party, one might say. He supposed that was what happened when you were expected to check in with Rin periodically and prove signs of a pulse and/or sobriety. Sure, the Cleric had authorized him to have a little bit to wean him off, but Bast was determined to sweat it out of his system without being forced to cave. He'd been in pain before -- he was certain that he could tolerate this, but fuck, did it burn. It was harder to combat when his mother's arrival seemed to have shocked his emotions back into operational conditions, and with that came the ambient noises of his souls. Which was fine, except for the fact that Zaniel was a grouchy fucker about second-hand withdrawal, coaxing him to just give it up. Bast was in a bit of a mood, frankly, tired of trying to argue that he wasn't Zaniel when his addiction to begin with was a pretty fair argument against that statement.

He had just shaken off another impulse to throw up, and was padding idly towards the nearest source of warmth, distractedly noting that it was likely going to lead him to Hazel. Sure enough, he saw her first, a crackle of warmth flooding his system and easing some of the unrest as he approached. There was something else there, though -- a flicker of disruption, something just a bit jagged and nasty, but he couldn't quite place it. All he got were strange flares of warring emotions, irritation tangled with something that felt smug, and the flash of she's hot sliding briefly through the bond before fizzling out. Bastille stopped short, startled by the clarity (Hazel never used telepathy back, even if he'd tested it with her), but more so startled by the commentary. He stared at her briefly before his attention snapped up and to the source, gaze finally locking on Margy.

Or... not Margy. There was a flash of confusion as he stared at her, for two reasons: first, what the hell was that, directed at Margy, and secondly, this was clearly not their Margy. Her aura was the same, her soul the same, but there were varying fluctuations and flashes of something... else. He scowled slightly as he stared, picking at her aura and studying it critically, because he would have known if Margy was sharing a body with someone. There was no sign of possessions or ghostly visitors. It was... Margy, through and through, but she carried herself differently, spoke differently, and as he finally shook himself and reminded him to move forward, stopping absently beside Hazel, he noted that she called herself something different, too.

Don't say anything you're going to regret, Margy, he thought, ironically, electing to remain silent as his attention flickered between her and Suiteheart.