The problem with getting your arm blown off, surprisingly, isn't the initial pain. Or even so much as looking like you only have one arm off. (If nobody's there for her, Cate knows her fucking gloves are.)

It was the fact that Cate was now missing her dominant hand. Couldn't Marie have aimed for her left hand, instead?

"Shit-shit-shit-shit— shit!" Cate hisses in pain, swallowing hard. You turn in time to see the aftermath; fumbling her cup of coffee off the table, steaming liquid pouring into her lap. She slams back from the table, inhaling sharply as she ignores the wide-eyed look you shoot her, hastily standing up in place.

Her cheeks burn. It's embarrassing, how she can't handle the most basic of tasks. Like a fucking infant, fuck. She can't meet your eyes as she rushes to yank about ten-million tissues from nearby, stuffing them in her lap and wiping the table, she must look like a fucking idiot. Can't even bring a mug of coffee to her lips.

She does not need anybody looking at her like that. Perceiving her, like at all. Especially you; her new Supe partner Vought stuck her with. You're helpful in all respects, and thankfully, haven't yet asked her anything about what actually happened at the campus.

Gracious of you, even maybe you had already paid a visit to Crime Analytics and taken a peek at the footage (which, even if you hadn't—you have to know the tabloids they're pumping out aren't true. Considering you didn't even go to the damn school and yet, the Guardian of Godolkin moniker is labelled on you just the same.)

Whatever. Point is, this is a terrible not-first-but-some-eighth impression. She wants you to at least think she's somewhat competent.

"Stop fucking looking at me like that, I'm fine." Cate barks at you, anger in her pretty doe eyes.

She knew she should've taught herself to be ambidextrous in fourth-grade.