<ul>The dream had been vivid. She had seen Quen's face and above it the fluorescent lights on the ceiling merging into one. Her eyes had felt so heavy, so very heavy as she tried to open them, her head rolling back over a strong arm. Then it was all over, and she awoke. At first, Zilah was convinced that she was back in the containment bay and that the entirety of it had been a dream. Attempting to run her tongue over her lips, all she felt was the breathing tube.<br/><br/>Still feeling the headache through her temples, she glanced down at the suit that still graced her body and peered out at the world through the green of her goggles. Information scrolled to the right of her vision, among them, Zilah noted the oxygen levels. The numbers were steadily climbing back up and it was only then that a smile broke out onto her face. <br/><br/>The first thing she did was unhook the oxygen tank, dumping it by the bedâ€™s feet, wincing at the tangible pain at her side. The suit came off next, peeled off over her hair and face as she drew her first gulps of air. It was still thin, but nothing compared to the levels earlier.<br/><br/>How long had she been out? Where was Quen?<br/><br/>The goggles were last. Long fingers pulled them off, and she used the tips to press in circular motions against her temples, attempting to quieten the pain and pressure. It was like this that Quen found her.  The sight of him brought with it confusion. She was not sure how to feel, whether it was relief or wariness. Her knives were now gone and her future was a lot less certain. Pushing herself against the wall, brown eyes studied his features, attempting to distil from them some kind of clue.<br/><br/>Then he began to laugh. <br/><br/>Perplexed by it, Zilah watched him for a long moment. Somehow, despite her emotional discomfort, her lips began to curl up into a reluctant smile. It was nice â€“ the sound of his laughter. She did not let herself linger on the thought long, however, watching as he moved to gather the bottle in his hands. <br/><br/>â€œNo, I havenâ€™t had the pleasure,â€ she finally replied, leaning forward to pluck the bottle from his hands. Uncapping the glass bottles, she allowed herself to breath in the pungent fumes. Given her physical state, that was enough to send her reeling. Bringing the rim to her lips, she threw her head back and swallowed the tiny knives back, wincing at the burn. He was right, compared to the seedy establishments she frequented, this was much better.<br/><br/>â€œWas I out for long?â€ After another sip of the alcohol, she handed him back the bottle, recoiling slightly at the pain that her open wound caused. She wanted to ask him what now. Wanted to read his mind, and rearrange everything so that he would simply let her go. She wanted to go home, again. Instead she settled for running her tongue over dry lips, â€œI think Iâ€™m going to need you to stitch me up, again. But only after Iâ€™m properly drunk. I donâ€™t want to be conscious for it.â€<br/></ul>