It was about two in the morning. Gardner Presley spun around in circles in her chair, leaning back, her computer screen casting a glow across the otherwise unlit room. Her headphone cord caught on the chair's lever, snapping her back against the chair. She winced, and cursed along with the kung-fu voice actors of the martial arts movie she was watching. It was partly a comedy, mostly copious gore and fighting. Too bad watching enough of these didn't make you a natural fighter, or Presley would have it covered. Usually, she preferred horror films, but in this particular mood only martial arts masters with their cheesy monologues would do. This one in particular was about a fighting crime solving ex-samurai.

Presley flipped on the desk light and took her compact out of her drawer, opening it to stare into the reflective surface. She mouthed the words to the next line in the movie, which translated to something like You will pay for the crimes of your ancestors, and the stolen monkey treasure! Presley had always doubted the integrity of that translation, however. There was a heavy bruise blooming around her eye and another on her cheek. She pursed her lips and reached into the desk for a corrective pen and some thicker liquid coverup. She had to practice applying this so that tomorrow it wouldn't be a problem. She used the soft pad of her ring finger to dab the thicker solution onto the bruise, wincing lightly.

This was what happened when you got into fights. Or, more accurately, someone picked a fight with you and you didn't know how to fight back. Presley wasn't particularly strong, nor was she exceptionally intuitive when it came to sudden brawls. For most of her life, her parents had been permissive but otherwise protective, making sure that her environment was a solely positive one in their eyes. Regardless, she had been walking back to the Academy in her school uniform, instead of her civilian clothes, and apparently someone had a particular vendetta against her school. Who didn't, anyway? They were stuck up, a lot of them; Presley was no exception. She blended the foundation in and took out a thick, stubby brush. With that, she applied a matte powder over the makeup. In this lighting, at least, her work was pretty convincing. At least they hadn't hit her eye dead on.

She would have to wear higher stockings for a while, too, given the bruises on her shins. Ideally, next time, she wouldn't fall so pathetically. Her palms were scraped up, but she had already cleaned those out and applied a foul-smelling ointment. The screen flickered bright white as the main character had a flashback, temporarily blinding Presley. She shifted in her chair, pulling her feet up so they rested on the fabric, and wrapped one arm around her knees.

One day, maybe she could be strong. She'd have to learn how to fight, obviously, or at least how to run faster. It was strange she hadn't learned already, really. In her civilian attire, she could be so much more at ease and aggressive. For some reason, being caught in her school uniform had locked her inside her sweeter persona, keeping her from really standing up for herself.

She exhaled in disgust and irritation, snapping the compact shut and digging for a cloth to wipe the makeup off. The credits rolled on the screen after a dramatic scene which followed the flashback, marking the ending. Presley ejected the disc, shut the laptop down and put both away. She cleaned up her work surface, the room immaculate apart from this recently created mess, and pushed herself towards her bed on the rolling chair, flopping on top of the covers. Her bruised skin pulsed. "I'll show them next time, right?" she mumbled, looking up at the plastic star fixed to her ceiling. Just one of them, a small one, because they were supposed to be a sign of immaturity. It was the one personal item which Gardner allowed in her room. Because of the nature of her personal life, she tried her best to make her room at the school as innocuous as possible.

Maybe she could take up fencing, or something. Anything, at this point. If her mother had called her up just then to say, Ballet would really help you escape tough situations, Gardner Presley would have taken up ballet the next day. Perhaps kendo would be a better choice? Or Aikido. Maybe she could master the nunchuks, the bo-staff, a chainsaw... Presley listed weapons in her head idly as she crawled under the covers, leaving the lamp on her desk on, as she had turned it towards the wall and minimized the light pool. Sometimes it was comforting to sleep with a bit of light.