Ever the professional, Symone wraps her arms around the runner's shoulders possessively, and lays back against the bed so that the Israeli woman can use her bosom as a pillow. She doesn't say a word, but she hums a soothing tune- something Russian, perhaps- and her fingers trail across the runner's scalp to further relax the girl, until at last they both fall into a quiet, dreamless sleep. Dreamless, but not lonely- the Ork's grip never falters, so Tzahala spends every hour in her warm embrace.