Abby grins humourlessly. "Yeah. You'd have to be blind for me to try sell you on that." Even her hands, down to her fingertips, bear old marks and scars. Not all of them are directly from other people — she's caught herself on environments, wrecked arms and legs in the process of running from something — but a lot of them are.

Keeping him distracted is going to be the best thing for him now. She wipes her bloody hand off on her trousers, uncaring. "What made you start mercing at thirteen?"