Shepard is a limping, bleeding mess. But she doesn't seem to care; most arenas she's fast and wary, deadly as now she walks with an economy of motion that doesn't imply coiled power so much as a joint injury. Her skates are off to serve as makeshift knives, but one hand in swollen and discolored, clearly broken. Her progress is slow, her gaze murderous, and if she doesn't have someone in better shape sitting in the wings to watch her back, then she's vulnerable as hell.

But she makes it off the ice without being killed or even injured--more than she already was. It all takes time. Time for the tributes to scatter, for the keys to be snatched up, for a lot of people to stand around making conversation, making plans. Her face is a mess of swelling and bruises, the brand a scabby scar that clips her right eyebrow from above, as if someone had pressed it to the center of her forehead, then slid it several cruel centimeters while Shepard's skin fried.

"Hey," She sounds about as tired as she looks, and it's only with effort that Jane can sit rather than fall onto the lowest of the plastic benches in the rink's stadium, "Uh... nice shirt."

Between the ruffles and the reflective tape circuits, maybe she's not one to talk.