[Narrative] Who: Cat What: Licking her wounds Where:Her place in the Capital When: Immediately following ninjas Warnings/Rating: Nope
Cat could've asked for assistance with her injuries. She could've called Matt, and she could've called Isaiah. She could've stayed. Oh, sure, she wasn't a member of Bruce's little clan, but they would've patched her up. Still, asking for help, it seemed somehow pathetic. And staying? That just felt desperate. And, so, she'd gone. Eddie was going to take care of Sasha, and Helena was alright, and nothing else really mattered.
She took Steve's bike, big and reliable and old, easier to ride than the Wainright prototype she'd borrowed eons earlier, and she took it slow. She could've taken her truck, big and powerful and likely much safer, given the circumstances. But she was running warm, and she wanted the frigid night air. And it was frigid. But she was bundled up, and even the wind biting her cheeks red was a good thing. It made her think of Russia, and perhaps that knock to the head was causing her to be slightly nostalgic. Whatever the reason, she didn't mind the cold.
By the time she reached the Rex, she was exhausted, and her rooms upstairs were too garish for her wan complexion. But it was warm and tawdry and loud, and it was every bit the girl she'd created when she'd escaped the Egorovs back home. It was constructed, crafted, the girl and her walls built from slinky black. It wasn't Johnny Cash and plaid, and there was nothing whatsoever small town about it.
It was perfect.
To her credit, she tried to handle the arrowhead in her thigh alone, but it was too pesky for fingers that weren't entirely steady. But Cat didn't need to call home for help. No, she just had to send someone downstairs.
The Rex, named after her illustrious father, was the Capital's favorite mafia haunt. Just like her gaming hall back home, different families came here to play, and it was considered neutral ground. Any of the families below would be glad to help the proprietress. Oh, Rex was still in jail, and he was across the country, but Cat had deliberately claimed his last name when she left the Egorovs, and she proudly wore it here. Here, people still called her Selina.
An hour later, and with bruises awakening vividly along the side of her face and body, she was tucked into her bed. Stitches at her thigh, and the wound would heal more quickly than the stitches would take to fall out. The serum had its finer points, and even she could admit that.
The steam that danced atop the teacup beside the bed smelled of Russian Caravan, and the scent made Cat think of cold nights in a cold place. Fitfully, she slept.