At first Lexa was grateful that Jack read the mood well enough to keep quiet. She walked alongside him, hands in her pockets. The blood was starting to dry, rusty flakes crusting on her skin. Foreign blood splattering onto her hands, the wide eyes of a doomed man staring back at her. Shards of pain splintering her bones, the way the glass splintered as cracks spun out from where she smashed his skull into it, his wide eyes, [i]their[/i] wide eyes, petrified at the sight they'd seen, blood on her hands, metal forcing more blood on her hands as pain consumed her like an inferno and she punched at the locker because there was no one else, no one left to hurt her she was hurting she was crying she was [i]dying[/i]–

Jack stopped in front of a door and Lexa blinked herself back to reality. She was freezing. There was a slight, almost unnoticeable tremble in her still-dirty hands. Her breath was silent, but a little quicker, a little shallowing. Lexa forced herself to swallow, trying to calm herself as she stepped into the bar.

It was a typical bar, not as well-kept as it could've been, not as disgusting as it could've been. A few of the bikers' eyes lingered on her, but most paid her no mind after the initial once-over. Lexa walked up to the bar where the barkeep, Luca, was already placing two clean glasses and readying a drink for each of them. She sat in a stool beside Jack and Luca slid a full glass of amber liquid towards her. She didn't look up as Jack asked his questions. It seemed he was back to rambling.

[color=crimson]"Old enough to know what that question actually means. You're not getting lucky."[/color] Lexa regretted the words, the ice in her voice, almost immediately. Sighing, she closed her eyes and took a sip from her drink. It burned in her throat, the unmistakable aroma of alcohol drifting up to her nose. [color=crimson]"Sorry,"[/color] she said, her voice softer. She opened her eyes to look back down at her hands wrapped around the glass. A smattering of pale scars lined the skin memories of fights, accidents, life woven into each. Lexa couldn't even remember all of them, there were so many. A side effect of her advanced healing, she supposed. She knew the cuts on her knuckles were already beginning to knit themselves back together.

[color=crimson]"Lexa. My name's Lexa."[/color] A voice above her head caught her attention and she looked up to see a surprisingly nice TV playing the local news.

[i]"Onlookers were shocked today when the local nighttime vigilante known as Trick not only came out in broad daylight, but took a life."[/i] 

The rest of the newscaster's words were lost on her as footage taken from a shaky phone played on the screen. Below it the headline, [i]VIGILANTE OR VILLAIN?[/i] sat in bold letters. Lexa looked down before she saw a figure in black, standing just outside a glass wall dropped her arms, pulling the man's blood stumps with them. She took another drink, unable to tell if the acrid weight in her throat was alcohol or guilt. So the man was dead.

[color=crimson]"Trick's never killed before,"[/color] she said, almost to herself.