She’d lived long enough to remember when the bruises left by hurtful, angry fists were always readily visible, when society thought them commonplace.

As humans congratulated themselves on becoming more civilized, though, decorum prevented the exposure of such evidence to prying eyes. 

Carefully applied concealer.  Large sunglasses.  Long sleeves and dark tights.

She enjoyed being summoned by women tired of these devices, wiped clean of the make-up that attempted to silence male abuse.  She always did her best to dole out justice as thoroughly and vigorously as possible in those cases.

People thought she was a monster.

Anya knew better.