Hitzel looked up at the girders, holding her breath as the link was established. Her mother had gifts very similar to Hitzel, though they manifested in a slightly different manner. Where as Hitzel had been government trained to realize the full potential of her environmental awareness, as well as it's source in her inhuman attenuation to the gravitational fields of the earth, her mother had simply felt the tug and flex of it all without knowing precisely what it was that was pulling at her. One of the original test group, codenamed "The Hound", her mother had utilized her environmental awareness for one purpose that made her particularly invaluable to the fledgling psychic arms race.<br/><br/>Tracking. Psychics in particular. It wasn't that she was well suited to the task, so much as she was acutely allergic to the vibrations common to psychic phenomenon. Hitzel had never developed this particular gift, at least not in the capacity her mother had. Despite that... allergies were not something that required much in the way of practice. She felt the salty tang at the back of her throat immediately as she felt the link establish itself in the back of her cranium. Breathing deeply and rapidly, she upended one of her vials of stomach remedy, counting backwards from ten as the pink chalky substance settled into her guts like a brick.<br/><br/>She had taken the precaution she always did before a mission... and skipped lunch. The last training session she had forgotten, had ended with her expelling the contents of her stomach all over the dashboard. It was three months before the smell of the mess hall's lasagna was bleached away entirely. Maybe Sentinel could still smell it, but he'd never been rude enough to mention it. Balling up her gloved fist, she banged on Ratchet's shoulderpad, "Oi... Take it out and get me some air, please."