Anger breaks into disappointment; she'd fight him, usually, but there's other shit to worry about. She'll break his jaw after they're out of this fucking house. "Is anybody fucking home?" She yells into a comfortably beige hallway.

Looking back over her shoulder, she glowers, "yeah, because I'm a dumb skank who can't be trusted, I got it, Holy Father."

She's always wearing her metal. She only takes it off to bathe. That doesn't seem worth explaining, though she can't figure out why, and then the thought is gone from her mind, folded neatly away and unquestioned. It still itches, and the itching is getting worse, but she's used to bearing up under pain-- is it pain? No, no, just discomfort. Minor. Even easier to ignore.