He'd seen it printed on the Hallmark card on the girl's bookcase: It's the Thought that Counts. Faustite recycled the phrase mentally as he went through the motions — case the place, look for the henshin pen when the 'pen' he thought she had was something else entirely, check the laptop, search for a password, open her phone with its facial recognition and check for a password bank, then search for content involving renegade wars and magical girls. He'd spent hours there on his search and came up short.

It's the Thought that Counts. He'd done his due diligence. Acted in accordance with the procedures he thought that Axinite would want him to take. When he couldn't find definitive evidence that the girl was packing a henshin pen, or had connections to a Wonder, he had a choice: he could return the starseed to her body, or keep it.

Jet would have him return it. Something about protecting the populace from the senshi menace, or some other story. Faustite chose to keep it; he couldn't bring himself to let go of it. Better that he have one on reserve, or in case he came down with a very particular hunger.

The incident went down as he was en route to Lysithea's, biding his time with conventional travel as he tried to skim energy. It was easy enough; Generals needn't confront their targets like Lieutenants did, and Faustite thought it a useful gift for an apology. Sorry I upset you. Here's some energy for your quota so you can spend your time how you like. Instead of energy, he had a starseed, and that didn't seem like something Lysithea would like. It wasn't what Albite told him to try, either.

Albite suggested a recipe. Faustite went back through the apartment, found a handful of newly-graduated-from-college rescue-type cookbooks with a few baking offerings in the back. Wetting his fingers, he snagged a page in the back about s'mores cookies with graham cracker bits. As he was coming back through the apartment, he passed through the bedroom and found unicorn pajamas. He took those, too. On his way out, he grabbed the plastic baggie of quarters that sat by her apartment door.

Between gloves, sunglasses, and his cincher, Faustite passed for human enough at the 24-hour laundromat. The wash cycle was a half hour, with forty-five minutes to dry — long enough that he felt the stare of the clerk at the desk slowly bore into his skull.

What came out of the dryer was fresh and smelled floral, some chemical aftertaste of a cheap detergent that a nervous attendant sold to him. It did its job; the stale scent of cigarettes left the pajamas. It wasn't a pleasant smell, but… It's the Thought that Counts.