The reaper could use touching up, she knows. The shape is right, under the scab, but the colour will be blotchy and uneven. The spikes are sharp and jagged, and they'll be the same. So she shrugs. (This doesn't fit the image she's trying to build, a cream and peaches doll, but fuck the image. She doesn't even know if she wants to bother anymore.)
"Yeah. That'd be rad." She shrugs her jumpsuit back on and zips it up to her neck, neat and orderly. She wears it like the uniform it is, like the ENG >> 008 >> 189 on her wrist, because it used to make her feel like she could be part of something that mattered. Well, that's gone, as sure as half of her ragged band of monsters--fuck, she told Nikolai about Frankenstein, and now he's gone and probably dead and that's lost forever.
"I--sorry." She rubs her tears away. She hates this face, hates this hair. Hates the way her skin feels. She has to rip out her lockpick soon, smooth her arm over, and she's just--already sick of this. "For that. The crying. I'm not--usually such a little bitch."
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"Yeah. That'd be rad." She shrugs her jumpsuit back on and zips it up to her neck, neat and orderly. She wears it like the uniform it is, like the ENG >> 008 >> 189 on her wrist, because it used to make her feel like she could be part of something that mattered. Well, that's gone, as sure as half of her ragged band of monsters--fuck, she told Nikolai about Frankenstein, and now he's gone and probably dead and that's lost forever.
"I--sorry." She rubs her tears away. She hates this face, hates this hair. Hates the way her skin feels. She has to rip out her lockpick soon, smooth her arm over, and she's just--already sick of this. "For that. The crying. I'm not--usually such a little bitch."