At one stop, a young woman slinks her way onto the train. She's dressed in her usual trousers, cropped top, and leather jacket combination, which works well to hide most of her weaponry while still making a vague offering toward fashion and performative gender identity.

She's also in the process of bandaging a cut on her wrist, which means she's barely looking at anything else when she settles down in the seat across the aisle from Apollo. It's healing, but was jarred badly in training, and now she thinks some of its progress has been undone. (Thanks, fog eels.)

...it occurs to her that this is relatively unsettling train-going activity, and spares a glance upward to check and see if she's attracted any skeptical stares.