The bags of bruise-like tiredness under Jeanvieve's eyes punctuated her pale face like little hammer blows and somewhere along the way a vein had popped in her eye, coloring the white background pink for the dark green of her iris. She stared into her phone's screen, miraculously existing beyond the "incident" when so much hadn't. There was some resentment for that fact welling up in her, but the instant Miles' slow, smooth sound poured into her ears her tension eased for the briefest fractals of a second and that made it worth it. Somehow. 

The red of her rugged, sporty in-ear earphones was a splash of color against her faded, overlarge tanktop and the flat crimson cord trailing a snake path down the baggy front of her shirt. A black sports bra kept her decent enough, not that that really mattered to her. Was life long enough to be ashamed of your body? No, especially not when most of the people she cared for weren't around anymore to appreciate theirs. 

Her shirt almost covered her shorts but for the phone's clipped position, bunching up her tank top around it for easy access. Jeanvieve stretched her right hand down to her left foot, matching lavender nail polish going unappreciated on her toes beneath the electric blue running shoes. Her back creaked and popped and she stretched, working out any unnecessary strain her morning's typical work out might've caused. 

What looks like self-abuse to some is necessary to others; varying reasons accompany this, of course, but the most common being (at least in this instance) her need to prove her strength to herself. The opinion that mattered most, yet was challenged ceaselessly by some internal demon seeking to spread turmoil in a once-peaceful head. 

The room was mostly empty, which is why she chose it, but smaller than her typical practice area. She'd moved most of the stuff out to appropriate rooms, hoping to hoard this little corner to herself. Only a table and a single chair remained. With little to no strain she placed her heel on the table and stretched a diagonal sort of split; she exhaled placidly as the muscles in her leg tightened and burned that unmistakable burn of a worked muscle struggling to push past its acidic limit. 

She switched legs and started over.

After her myriad of stretches concluded she dropped into her opening kata's stance, fending off imaginary foes with slow, fluid motions. During her first few years here she'd only practiced killing maneuvers. As, truthfully, those were the only ones she believed she needed. Jeanvieve saw not the limits placed upon herself; trying to control a fight through force went well for one opponent, but not usually multiples. A mutant's shortage of enemies usually only occurs in one's dreams. 

Jeanvieve twists and arcs around her imaginary foes punches, kicks and clubs. She produces a knife from, seemingly, nowhere. It's small, not even a traditional handle as such, but a place to put between two fingers. With precise, perfect slashes she tears into nothing as sweat collects and rolls down her elegant visage like so much rain. She feels her body loosen, each individual muscle having been tight from her tenacious morning. 

With a practiced balance she kicks off the chair and inverts herself over the table, throwing the knuckle blade with frightening precision as she presses her palm onto the cold, black wooden surface and pushes right back off as if this were some natural process that all sentient life could perform at will. The two inch blade bit deep into a cupboard door pock-marked with a colony of gashes tightly huddled in the center of it. 

Jeanvieve placed her hands on the table and leaned, supporting her weight as droplets fell to its surface. Her breathing was hardly labored, but noticeably harder than her usual silence. Her eyes closed tight and she inhaled, standing straight up and exhaling slow and deep. She dotted her forehead with a few presses of her workout towel and turned to leave. 

Careful fingers traced a memorized pattern that unlocked her phone, which remained clipped to her hip, and switched to some more upbeat music. As much as she loved Miles Davis she was wont to sit in silence or generally wish to be alone when she heard his trumpet's song. With the deep bass resonating in her head against light synths she set off to find any sign of life that might indicate a need of assistance.