Vriska grins up at her, shielding her eyes from the sun. She is a poised, lipstick'd reflection of the unkempt original. (Vriska) is suddenly acutely aware of the dirt ground into her clothes and face. She flexes her hand and the dried purple blood cracks and flakes.

VRISKA: What a8out it?

(VRISKA): Yeah, I'm not feeling very parenthetical.

(VRISKA): I'm gonna need to 8e Vriska again.

VRISKA: Fine 8y me, 8ut we can't 8oth just go around 8eing Vriska.

VRISKA: If you want to keep Hanging Out, I mean. Which I assume you Do.

(VRISKA): Duh!!!!!!!!

VRISKA: That's the Right Call.

VRISKA: So, Nickname me, 8itch. And make it Cute.

(Vriska) considers her options. She needs something good, but not TOO good. What will her nickname be?