"Better brussel sprouts than beets, I guess. I'm convinced that those were created by Satan. I got my tastebuds back and tried them and thought it was some sort of sick practical joke."

She picks through the scrap metal, a knit working into the corner of her mouth as she pulls sharper edges against her fingernails to check their deadliness. The white lines against her nails stand out even in the dim light, it seems. She sets the pieces that pass muster aside. "Yeah, these are useful. In case you want to bleed someone."

Going out and killing has been the elephant in the room. She knows both Jet and Albert know about Venus' reputation, her body count. She hasn't asked if she's allowed to roam free and try to hunt Molotov and Black Tom down, but at some point she will.