She has no other way to explain it - sometimes, Vod gets an itch and, when she gets that itch, there's nothing else she wants to do but get her brains fucked out. Not just any sort of sex is going to do it.

By now, she's figured out that Charlie's a safe pair of hands.
She hopes his mate isn't home.

She's been giving it a lot of thought the last couple of weeks and, what she's come up is - why the fuck not? She loves dancing, she doesn't mind being naked, her tits are definitely a ten. Fuck, even Howard thinks she's hot. Or he used to, at least. And, honestly, without everyone else, she's bored.

It'll be better than fucking cleaning, anyway.

"Hello?"

All of it, this whole thing, is fucking mental. If she didn't know for a fact that there wasn't any acid or anything in her system, she'd swear it was one big trip, the aftermath of another overdose, but everyone she speaks to swears it's real and, well...you've got to start trusting some time, haven't you? 'Suspicious bastard' just isn't in Vod's nature - she'll leave that to Howard. Someone, some girl, took her to the clothes box, so she's managed to swap out the clothes she's been wearing for two days (clean knickers, thank God) and feels a bit more like herself, in skinny black jeans and torn cotton. She's even managed to find a passable pair of boots. It's something, at least.

Vod's always sort of thought of clothes like armour.

The sign over the door says that this place is called 'The Winchester', and it looks...a lot like a lot of pubs Vod's spend time in. It's definitely a start.
Now she just needs to get shit-faced.

And laid. Strapping one on? Would definitely be welcome.