<ul>It felt good to have the cool water on her skin. Long fingers trickled over the surface of her neck and throat, the droplets of water zigzagging their way down the length of her body. The security droids had shot at everything on sight, sending dust splattering everywhere, coating her body in a thin film of grey. Zilah took her time with it, glancing every so often up at the camera, wondering what the patrol officer was doing out there. <br/><br/>Finally, she settled down onto the mattress, safe in the knowledge that her knives were there and that the opportunity would eventually present itself. She had nothing against him -- he was likely a decent human being simply carrying out commands and doing his job, however she was a survivor, and it didn't matter who she had to step on to keep herself alive.<br/><br/>When Quen came in, she was drifting off, one arm buried under her head, the other hugging her stomach. Zilah had not bothered with her clothing, leaving it in a blood-soaked pile by the door. When he handed her the new set of clothing, she pushed herself up into a sitting position and noticed the logo first. "A Corps uniform? How cruel." <br/><br/>She was slightly amused, appreciating the fact that this man was capable of a sense of humour. Scrunching up her nose in distaste, she stepped into the stiff material, regardless, doing up the zippers and buttons that would hold it in place. It was a little too roomy, but it would do.  <br/><br/>Folded into the uniform had been her lunch. Tearing away the packaging with her teeth, Zilah nodded over to her clothing. "It's sitting right there for you. Did you want to keep them as a little souvenir of what you've accomplished today?"<br/><br/>Zilah was teasing him. He truly had not accomplished much. Their ships had crashed, and instead of riddling him with bullets, she had come willingly. She had needed any medical help he could provide, and he had provided it. Her ship was a hunk of junk, his wasn't. In the long run, she was sure Quen would rue the day he met her. <br/><br/>"Chess?" Biting into the Buz, Zilah eyed it for a moment with suspicious eyes. The food the Corps provided these ships with was awfully questionable. Swallowing it down with the water after some difficulty, the woman shrugged her shoulders. "I did, once." <br/><br/>Her father had loved chess. He'd had a library of books upon books on openings dissecting each and every move. He had tried to teach her, but she had been young and she had little patience for it. "Space making you lonely, Quen?"<br/><br/>He must have been. She wondered when he'd last had someone to talk to that wasn't the AI system onboard, the last time he'd seen his family, the last time he'd held a woman in his hands. Space patrol work was not to be envied. Despite herself, she almost felt bad for him.<br/><br/>"I'll gladly play a game with you, if you can bring yourself to break a few rules and fraternize with a fugitive," she presented him with her wrists then, "Here, lock me up if you like, I promise to behave if you let me out of this containment bay for the duration of the game."<br/><br/>More than anything, she wanted him as far away from her hidden weapons as possible.<br/><br/></ul>