Compulsive. The word strums a dissonant cord. Clarity hits her in a brief flash of alien white. She scarcely considers why she'd felt a pull toward the mines, for it's a brutal and unrewarding job so few volunteer for. Now, the answer seems obvious. Compulsion. A squeezing into familiar fears; perhaps in an effort to control them. Or rather, a form of self-torture.

Compulsion. Expecting change-- this time, this time things will be different-- and finding none.

Ripley leans forward, elbows braced on either leg. She listens intently. A body. A well, like a gut set deep into the earth. Cults and rituals and a raising of barriers. It leaves a foul taste in her mouth (or maybe that's the rock grime).

"Sounds nasty. Hard to believe something so fantastical could actually happen." She raises a leveled curiosity, bordering on incredulity. "What did you see?"