Her head hangs, blue eyes dark under dangling bangs. That half-smile is a dark edge. A sharp, bitter laugh at Vera's words. Whether you're bad or good, the end result in this place is always the same. She knows the rules. Sure, they'll bend her over in the end, but she won't reach down and touch her toes of her own accord. Speaking of rules... El's thinking of a few long dead but quite possibly relevant. The English in the Dark Ages spoke in whispers of the Fair Folk, those things we would eventually call fairies, but then they were hardly the sparkly butterfly winged little beauties you see tramp stamped on stupid little neo-pagans. No, these were dark and alien entities, with motives and intelligence outside our ken, creatures who saw humans as cattle and pets. Silly peasant supersition. But does it sound at all familiar...? Well they had a rule. If you step into the land of the Fair Folk, you never ever eat their food, or you'll be trapped there forever. She considers it a good rule to live by, still feels a sickness in her stomach every time she goes to the cafeteria for lunch. Soylent green is....

Eyes lift up off the table briefly, watching the chains bristle and dance around Steel's chair like a lion's mane. Eyes drift from the chains, to Vera, and as her hand lifts, it clumsily knocks the china tea cup over. Thick rust-red liquid trickles over the wire-work of the table, drip-drip-dripping onto the cement floor. "Uhp. Sorry. Butterfingers. Soccer player, you know. Not used to using my hands."