Blood smears in the crook of her arm, byproduct to Crichton's laceration. A spread of oil across a smooth surface. A stain. She drags her palm through the coating in an attempt to rid herself of it and finds she's made matters worse. From elbow nook to palm to fingers and suddenly she's accosted by blood. Oh, well. It doesn't matter. Fever's the same. They'll survive.

"You did ask," She says, an unhelpful reminder.

Now there's blood on her rifle, too. She adjusts it over her back, scans the bodies littered across the grass, disinterested. Ready to move from one thing to the next. Moving, moving, always moving. You're going to quit now? Right as you're getting started? No, never.

It doesn't have to be me. But it could be.

Her tongue darts across her lip, tastes blood, recoils a little.

"Some party. We should move out, find higher ground."