Cherie twisted in front of the cracked mirror, watching the light catch on the rhinestones stitched into her letterman jacket.
The thing clung to her like armor made of glitter and defiance. Her ripped jean shorts rode up as she shifted, and without looking, she hooked a finger beneath the hem—
Snap.
She let it fall back into place, satisfied, then lifted the studded bat and rested it across her shoulder like it belonged there.
"You know this isn't a fashion contest, right?"
Cherie's reflection froze.
She turned to find Aubrey standing in the doorway, jaw tight, rifle hanging low in her grip like it weighed more than usual.
Cherie rolled her shoulder once, unimpressed.
"…This is how I feel comfortable while fighting," she shot back. "Deal with it."
Aubrey didn't answer.
She only tightened her grip on the rifle, knuckles whitening, before turning back toward the mirror herself.
Behind her, the headquarters buzzed.
