She takes three things out of the bag, slowly, carefully. The first two are obvious-- the tubing (repurposed from some rich dead guy's fish tank) and the ketchup bottle. The third is her last gun, with its three remaining bullets. She takes it out real slow, picturing in her head that she's doing it, again, for some wild animal you didn't wanna get mauled by. She doesn't hold it right, doesn't try to hide it either. Not even putting her finger on the trigger, she holds it awkward until she can fit it into her belt. Never should have put it down to begin with. Fucking stupid, but she likes to think she's lived through the mistake well enough not to make it again.

Only then does she crouch down to crawl under the car and get to work.

"My name's Joan," she says, and there's still that strained note of contention in her voice. 'Princess' is annoying, but it's definitely one of the nicer nicknames she's ever been saddled with. "You sure ain't Prince Charming."

That could have been nastier, she thinks, mentally patting herself on the back. Could've been real goddamn mean with that comment, and she wasn't. Good job, maybe you won't get dumped in a ditch today.