Scene #8335: Friendly Fires

Owner	Pose
Metaphor	Standard After Action Report Form D-016a COMMONWEALTH PALADINS For internal use only. Contact your handler to fill out form E-016b for distribution. Timestamp: 09:00pm CST 04/01/XX Involved Locations: Townsville, CA; IMV "No Practical Applications" Persons of Interest: Contact your handler for further info. Metaphor 0xD9; Dragonfly; Ishirou; "Incredible" Petra Soroka Brief: ... A starship hangs in orbit above Aegis Astray. It spends much of its time there; simpler calculations for the dispatch officers down planetside, or so the captain likes to think. That, though, is not the actual reason, as with many things she tells herself. In truth, it's more likely a mixture of fear and routine keeping it there, always within a stone's throw of her competent coworkers. The ship is relatively small; likely no larger than a house, and certainly has none of the gleaming sensibilities of its futuristic tech. The hull is utilitarian, yet some sections diverge from 'dull' towards 'overengineered', with no discernable rhythm. Though a few utility airlocks seem to have practically fused shut with unuse, a loading bay remains open at just a simple radio handshake - one diverged to a scant few likely to bring work with them. Ishirou is one of those people. His rapid entry would be met with a lobby, once glanced over, now obviously full of devices that even a read of labels would designate as "triage". IV stands; medicine lockers; roller beds and two slabs with resting surfaces that glow a dull cyan under the fluorescents. Blood drips on sterile tiling. The captain has already scrambled out into the room - forewarning was given, after all. She looks she stepped halfway out of an assembly video: most external plating missing, components not curently mounted within hooked up externally by wires trailing across the room, a debug readout on her face. Only one arm is attached; it, however, is perfectly and immaculately reassembled, as if special care was taken towards it first. There is no word given as a maimed imposter is practically thrown to her. Tension already mounted. A gesture guides to one of the stasis beds; another movement has already pulled a medical scanner from a nearby bag. Unnecessary diagnostics flash; Metaphor can obviously tell what's wrong with her patient, but breaking routine would be death. A bass tone as the bed turns on; Petra hovers an inch above it, pain suddenly ceasing, bloodflow halted. Systems integrated into the device keep her mind running, though, awareness maintained through as many procedures as she cares to remain conscious for. The work begins. Tools fly between hand, body, and table, only just barely contacting the surface as they're set down before they're once more claimed for use. A grotesque dance. Bleeding has been completely stopped (though the stasis never let it happen) and bone fragments have been removed by the time Metaphor consciously acknowledges the readouts and the body in front of her. Everything is together a bit wrong. It's like working on a legion. Is this normal? I need more flesh. A slight nod at where Dragonfly has set up in the room; Metaphor didn't see her enter, but it's a guarantee that she will present. "Synthflesh." And then it's back to reassembly. Work comes before questions.
Ishirou	Ishirou was not looking good himself. In the fight with both Morebucks and Petra herself, Ishirou pushed himself to the breaking point, as he wasn't recovered from pushing himself against Evehime. The moment he handed Incredible Petra off, he collapsed himself. Though his injuries were less severe. In fact, most were just reopening other injuries. Basic first aid would be enough to get him back up, which is why when and if I. Petra wakes up, he'll be awake too. He'll be spending this time eating and taking in fluids that he had lost in the fight. Also groaning, because everything hurts a lot.
Powerpuff Girls	'Incredible Petra', henceforth 'Betra', had come to the slab in a sorry state. For a certain definition of functional, Ishirou's assist units had kept Betra's insides on her general inside enough that she didn't suffer a general failure and collapse. Shock was inevitable, but it happened at a laggard and damaged top speed away from danger rather than any worse location. Princess Morbucks carried off the Mark II into space to become a star, and Betra wasn't awake to see it. She felt it, though. It was hard to miss, even in a black sea of emptiness. A lack. A missing piece. It had been large, in her and in space, and now it was nothing, and she was smaller. Hovering in stasis - she chose to be conscious for 'no' procedure, and greedily dropped into a coma the second she was 'allowed' such a bliss, parted from pain. She is dressed as she fell - a burned white shirt, sliced open and stained dark red and soot black, mostly on one side, under a bomber jacket. A belt, nicked in the scuffle, sags by degrees across the waistline of her jeans. The patch across her shoulder features NASA in gold thread and SPACE CAMP blacked out with a marker. The stars glitter white and splotched dark red. Betra wears her hair a little longer than Petra. The size of her jeans is correct and the belt serves no function but to add leather to her profile and go with her watch - they both feature silver metal - and her boots - the soles are linoleum streak black. She normally wears a harness, and its loss can be intuited by the shape of blood-smear and pooling across an odd line. She didn't come back with more accessories or armaments than a watch. Mark II, on her wrist, is an oversized round-faced heavy metal watch that currently displays the time on a digital face. It makes regular, and unsuccessful, handshake attempts on a specific frequency, but does not accept anything local without cajoling and working at it. Synthflesh isn't all she will need - several organs have disintegrated during transit and their loss is slowed in failure to her systems by being poorly hooked up in the first place. Her body operates more on the suggestion of working and an unbroken circuit somewhere inside of her keeping her running than things as foolish as a consistent anatomy. It's like working on a cartoon and needing to make up for the hackjob of a person with organs made out of plastic sprue and packing peanuts. Under the stress of Petra's assault, Betra's lower left ribs had dragged secondary injuries into the meat and it was only not 'this girl is dead' because for some reason there wasn't that much important stored in her sides. In its place is a sort of muscular stuffing, like bodyblows had been built in as expected, but only the core had been reinforced, and only against blunt kinetics.
Dragonfly	The ship's mechanic looks like she was woken up by the sound of the loading bay doors opening- she's all askew in an oversized t-shirt depicting some kind of cyborg dinosaur, and her screen has taken the care to depict a groggy-looking face. Despite that, she apparently went out of her way to find a filled toolbelt on the way to the triage room (or was sleeping wearing one in the first place?), and is responsive enough to register the captain's request for synthflesh, back over to another room and returning pretty fucking quickly with a large beaker of something pink and a first-aid kid. The first, she throws in Metaphor's direction, apparently having some level of trust in the fact that Metaphor will notice and catch it. The second she takes to Ishirou, after briefly considering simply throwing it in his direction and hoping that it hit hard enough. He's clearly not in his senses enough to appreciate the gesture, though, so Dragonfly just... frowns and very shoddily applies some sort of science fiction nonsense first aid patches to him until he's conscious enough to glare at. While she does so, she attempts to establish contact with an excessively focused surgeon. "Do you... need a hand with that. Because, you know." A buzz. "Anyways. Should I start on- on fabricating anything mechanical. Non-recoverable pieces and all." She pauses for a bit. "Is it even worth it to ask why these people are here, actually."
Metaphor	Betra's shirt and jacket have been removed to aid in the procedure; easier due to the slight hover. They're gingerly- no, no they aren't. They're haphazardly tossed on the ground next to the bed. Wash later. Her work halts for only a second as she grabs the beaker out of the air, applying a small amount as she works. Flesh mends. Mass is reintegrated where it was once lost; after skin and muscle have closed somewhat with the alternative filler, Metaphor has already selected a bloodbag out of a wall freezer and hooked it onto an IV. Only a scant few minutes have passed, yet the patient is already more visibly entire person. The surgeon has never consciously acknowledged why her anatomical expertise still extends to poorly assembled humanoid facsimiles. I've simply practiced on a lot of them, she deflects. It's natural. That, though, does not explain how smoothly the reassembly of a person comprised of 40% microplastics by mass has been going. Ostensibly mundane procedures. They obviously should be fixable, therefore they are. The introspective reverie is broken as Dragonfly acknowledges her. Her hand pauses (two seconds, longest since this started) before she checks the medical scans again. She attempts to tap along her belt with her missing arm; the status of both as missing somehow fails to factor in to the action's success. "Lungs, liver. Rest are fixable by hand. Right." Clipped, but not terse. Someone well-acquainted with her could discern a tinge of satisfaction, in the way these are stated. She begins shifting the stated organs out, pushing others in as they're provided. Standard replacement. Additional synthflesh is carefully applied, shaped, sculpted; far less work than if she was putting someone together who actually had a gallbladder, of course. It's less than twenty minutes before Betra's chest cavity is sealed with a cautery, IV is pulled, final scans run. Right. The cybernetic components are hooked up as effectively as they can be; yet, within this body, that likely violates every user's manual. A patch applied (salve-based painkiller); a switch on the bed flicked off to another bassy drone; a step taken back as consciousness is re-applied. Blood coats tools, hand - but only for a second, as an automatic sterilization system enables, the ichor draining between plating to be disposed of. She does not notice that the system hasn't been re-added yet. "Set."
Ishirou	Dragonfly stabilizes Ishirou's with science! He's appreciative! Ishirou frowns at Dragonfly's continued very passive-aggressive frowning at him, once he's awake enough to do so, and not in pain himself. When the Surgeon says 'set', he's waiting outside the operating room with his bottle of water while POD hangs around him. Unlike at the time, he's not also concerned with 'who' or 'what' Betra is. His scanners, from the room next door, attempt to try and make sense of her biology. Try to give some sort of clue as to how she's animated and running, or what phenomena was used to create her. "Would you stop glaring at me..?" he asks Dragonfly.
Powerpuff Girls	Gallbladders are truly optional when you have this much gall in your every action. Difusing the bile throughout the body is much more efficient, argues crazed cartoon geneticist with googly eyes that prints people wrong out of junk on purpose. In THIS blorbo, they will-- And so on. Stabilized and even having bionic replacements of her guesstimated organ-analogues with actual, real organs provides an unheard of return: The patient is genuinely more healthy now than before they were eviscerated and shot nearly to death! Generally. Their health bar has been restored to a higher maximum. With a groggy, yet ultimately comfortable pausing breath of awareness, Betra regains consciousness with a gentle. . . "Professor. . ?"
Dragonfly	"This is just my face," Dragonfly states flatly, though that face relaxes into a softer expression. Something you'd still classify as a glare, but definitely less of one than it was moments ago. She settles cross-legged on top of a glass table that has decent view of everyone in the operating room, almost defensive in posture. "... Okay. Who is this- I know who that one is," gesturing vaguely at Ishirou, "the one you're operating on. And should we be expecting... anything to show up because of whatever caused any of this. Or are we good here, besides the fact that you still need severe repairs. Of which I am more than happy to get started on at any point," she says to Metaphor.
Metaphor	Tools are being put away. Metaphor's end-surgery statement caused her to practically deflate; she's lost a few inches from her stature to the reduction in tension alone. She rummages in her bag for two patient gowns and her cloak; one set pulled on in some appeal to modesty, the other gently put on Betra before she awakens. The dirtied clothing is set on a table, once the surgical implements are cleared. Metaphor pauses at the feeble awakening question. Just shock. A button is pressed on her monitor as the display clicks back to her ECG; not exactly any more friendly, but more recognizable. "Not... whoever you're asking after. I'm sorry." She pauses for a second to let the patient get her bearings. "You've just been through a... big shock," she slowly states as she stares at Ishirou for a second as if seeking for him to elaborate later, "but you're safe now. How are you feeling?" A seat is dragged over to the bed from the bar, and Metaphor slowly lowers herself onto it. At the comment about repairs, she glances at one hand, then at the lack of the other. She sighs. "Good... questions. Ishirou, could you please give a brief on the situation?" She considers something, as she looks at Betra, hair still flecked with blood. "...though maybe just you two, for a bit. We'll catch up." Post-op is a common time for panic. Keep it calm for now. She nods towards the door into the bar proper; the insinuation of "out of earshot" is clear.
Ishirou	Ishirou sighs, and nods, heading out into the bar and sitting down almost immediately. Though less sitting down and more almost collapsing into a chair. Even that hurt. "Sooo..." he says, to Dragonfly, though DOES notice she glares at him less. How can he tell? Body language. "This is...another Petra. I don't know the specifics, actually. But another Petra was acting in Townsville as a super hero. Fight between her and another local named Morebucks caused a fight.." "Then the Petra we know and hate arrived and attacked her murderously. Also saying a few slurs on the way...nearly killed her. I managed to get her out of there, but Petra got more than a few licks in on me during the situation. To answer your other question.." "She might? However, Petra doesn't know where this Petra is, and I'm not about to say anything."
Powerpuff Girls	"Bad, but not in a bad way. There's definitely a bad way to feel this kind of stuff." Betra confirms, trying a sarcastic chuckle and predictably failing with a sore exertion of her lungs. Put back together, she barely has the socialized shame to appear surprised at her state of dress, and then settles her eyes on Metaphor - clearly the Primary Helper in this situation, and then tracking a bit glassily to Dragonfly. Finally, Ishirou, who is narrating an explainer that she was present for most of. With a dull reflex, Betra brings her arms over her front, and her right hand toggles the watch face on her heavy wristwatch-device. The 'Mark II' control watch ceases to try and make handshake requests at its steady interval, switched to passive mode. Now, it is mostly a smartwatch. "I'm Petra. I don't know a lot. I woke up, and the Professor greeted me, and he told me about what I should do for the city, and what I'd do for the other girls. I think I was caught in an... explosion?" She explains, her tone toggling from full, direct, lived experience to a dazed sort of recitation at the end. Woozily, Betra wobbles from the lingering shock that Metaphor had already warned her about, and something else. "Did you... put something in me? I feel different. Still bad, but a different-and-bad mix."
Dragonfly	It's eerie how similar yet how disparate Dragonfly and Metaphor's respective styles of body-repair are: concentrated focus, steady hands, and uncanny ease in the incredibly different mediums of flesh and metal. Dragonfly starts on superficial repairs to Metaphor's plating upon convening in the bar, rather than settling into a seat or on a table, tools slowly mending surface damages. Wires replaced, hinges realigned- she even welds a few sections of metal into more useable shapes, squinting like doing this without a visor hurts, though not a single spark lands on either of them. "I'm going to assume I know who Petra is from whatever context you're giving here," she says while working, even though she follows the radio and knows pretty damn well who Petra is at this point, "and I'm guessing that means it's not fantastic to have two of them running arou- here- that's everything besides the arm that I don't need to open you up in front of company in order to fix."
Metaphor	Metaphor nods, her tone remaining slow and even. "You had some... extensive damages to your torso. I've had to fit synthetic replacements for some organs. Now- please note that they will function exactly the same as your organic ones, and have minimal long-term side effects. There is no hazard or additional cost to receiving them, but if you wish we can organize for organic replacements in the future." The whole statement sounds rehearsed; the insinuation that many have had unpleasant reactions to the news lays thick in the air. She shifts in her seat, and sets the medical scanner on her lap. Her screen remains unexpressive as ever - but a certain anxious energy has re-entered her movements at the proclamation of feeling 'bad'. "I have also given you a small amount of miner's salve as a painkiller. This doesn't have side effects at your dosage, but might cause minor vertigo if you have an allergy." Another shift. Does she know she's put together like this? "If you're feeling nausea, pain in your chest or stomach, or lightheaded, please let me know." These are counted off on her hand. "I have other medications to assist with that." Don't inform her that it might be organ rejection. I'm not certain she can use normal ones. It should be fine. The scanner is somewhat surreptitiously checked again, for more specific ailments at this point. Her health is far better, right? It's probably just the shock. This is normal. But the thought that something might be capital-w Wrong refuses to exit Metaphor's mind. She tries to not let it show; she only gets about halfway. She gives a grateful nod to Dragonfly as components are reattached, though her focus doesn't drift from Betra for long. "...thank you, Dee. Sorry about the... timing." There's no verbal response given to the debrief; Metaphor's ECG slows to a crawl, though, as the involved parties are identified. We knew this was going to happen eventually. We need to do something. Her leg starts bouncing as she sits.
Ishirou	"One is a psychotic, hateful, traitorous, and disgusting person...and the other one has just recovered from surgery," Ishirou points out to Dragonfly. "If anything, I say keep this one.." he says, though the words ring a little hollow. He doesn't like hurting people, even if they /are/ disgusting people like Petra. "You...mentioned a 'Professor'. Can you...tell me more about them?" he asks, Betra, trying to put something together more than a guy and 'this Petra's body is made out of microplastics'. Metaphor has to know something isn't quite right here, but... "If she does come I'll help pro-" he groans, sinking back into his chair. He can barely stand nevermind actually get into a fight.
Powerpuff Girls	Betra winces again in mild discomfort, sensing out something in her stitched up guts with tender finger-pokes. Bits in her are firmer than she remembers. She doesn't feel any worse, though. In fact? "Well. Whatever you did?" She leads, talking carefully. Breathing the wrong way - working tender and uncertain pieces in her diaphragm - caused a pain that was concerningly new. Betra is not used to prosthesis and replacement. "It was a lot better than getting the stuffing put back in me." She explains, a little wry. Smirking is unbecoming, but it's difficult for her to become anything but a little compromised in the state Betra is in. So she wears a 'missed me' smirk across the pained mask of her face, the drone of disclaimer sounding more like medicine than anything that had gone on inside her. To a sense: She really was a Townsville native. Unlike the 'real' Petra, outside and about, maruading the radiowaves. "Light headed. That's like when all your blood is shot out of you, right? If that happens, doc, I'll let you know."
Powerpuff Girls	There's a hollowness to her worn smirk when Ishirou really gets into which Petra he's liking to keep, but the smirk diesn't go anywhere. Which one to keep. Even Betra doesn't really like the topic. It's going her way, but she doesn't really like it. "The Professor is who woke me up, after the explosion. We had a few weeks together, he gave me some money to help get me on my feet, and re-united me with Mark II. He said I could be a hero in Townsville, that my friends the Powerpuff Girls would be proud of me. That people like Princess would get in my way, but it was okay." Betra exhales nasally, slowly. She can't help but force out the last bit, still forceful, still just a little bit in a hurry. She can't kill it all. It writhes in her. "It really wasn't." The smirk does on her face. The pain remains. "I don't even know how to get back to the Professor. I left, and started walking, and then forgot where I was. There were rows of these houses, that went on forever, all the same." "I think there's something wrong with me."
Dragonfly	Dragonfly's fussing with Metaphor's detached arm and empty shoulder, making sure they're ready to reattach, as Betra explains herself. She's putting effort into looking like she isn't paying attention, but something about Betra's backstory gets to her. It's familiar, almost, in conflicting, merged-and-opposite ways, to people she's tried really hard to not care about before. Which means that Betra, despite failing to be sufficiently Petroid, is a threat of a different kind. Best just to not think of her at all. Turning thoughts back to Metaphor, Dragonfly takes hold of the severed arm and shoulder, and says curtly, "Brace, might be sensor feedback," plugging the arm back in toollessly with gentle force. It's gentleness intended to double as both repair ethic and comfort- Metaphor is clearly not doing well (when is she ever?), and to be frank she thinks it's a little funny seeing Ishirou struggle to figure out what the nature of their relationship is. So she double and triple checks that the arm's seating is intact in the shoulder, which is entirely unnecessary, since robotic limbs are supposed to be reattached that easily anyways.
Metaphor	Metaphor starts turning to say something to Ishirou as he begins rattling off insults - but at the statement that he prefers this one, she stops cold, hand dropping to knee and suddenly monopolizing the entirety of her attention. She doesn't know why that statement made her suddenly want to scream; or, more likely, she doesn't want to know. He shouldn't say that. I should tell him he shouldn't say that. She remains silent. Something forces her within the recesses of introspection as Betra explains a backstory full of more holes than she had when she came in on a gurney. It only vaguely registers; broad strokes. Can't go back. Someone else's image. Stop thinking about this. The intensity of her focus on the back of her hand could melt lead. Told to be a hero. Everyone prefers one of the two. Am I the pre- Click. Arm reattachment coincides with the sound of a drive quietly skipping from within Metaphor's chest. She flexes the newly-attached fingers on reflex; head clearer and body more in line with the norm. She straightens her back once Dragonfly finishes fussing with it. Long seconds have passed since touchy statements were levied; she's still silent, past an ever-so-soft hardware grinding emanating from somewhere deep inside herself. What was I thinking about? Keep this one. Right. She stands, deliberately making her way over to Ishirou, rudely blowing past Dee. A hand on a still-sore shoulder; a lean bringing monitor towards head. Whisper-quiet yet sharp with intensity, "Don't dehumanize... her, like that. Comparison. It's-" She halts in the middle of the statement. Why did this make me feel so terrible? Someone else's image. Everyone prefers one of the two. Am I- Click. A few long, silent seconds passed between the vocal hitch and the drive skip. She awkwardly pulls back, taking her seat again, rudely blowing past Dee. What was I thinking about? Something wrong with her. Right. Metaphor leans towards Betra, slightly, attempting to put forward reassuring body-language. She manages to get about... oh, halfway or so. Her voice is soft. "Not... remembering things, it isn't something wrong with you as a... person. It's probably just shock, okay? I can help you through memory excercises, if you want." "Do you want that?"
Ishirou	There was a one-two punch of 'maybe I shouldn't have said that' when Betra's body language changes, and then when Metaphor touches his shoulder. He looks away, maybe slightly petulantly. Why shouldn't he prefer this Petra? This one tried to be a hero, this Petra didn't betray him, this Petra didn't dig up his past to hurt him so she could hurt someone else, /this/ Petra didn't treat him as subhuman. Though when Betra starts revealing something might be wrong, he looks up. Memory exercises..? "...There might be an easier way...if she'll let me. I have a way to interface with information that isn't...normal. I might be able to find...things, both things that are unclear and things she doesn't know from what is there..." he pauses, looking at Betra. "But it's up to you." He does watch the arm get reattached...and Dragonfly's tenderness. What /is/ their relationship???
Powerpuff Girls	Betra's expression sags with her neck. She doesn't really want to look at anyone. It's safer to look at herself. She's not looking at anything that isn't hers - so her eyes fall into a pit at her lap. The computerfaces engage in intimate reassembly. Weren't they doing the same to her? And now they're done. Don't ask for more. That's not why she's here. Ishirou offers to expose the truth, to dive in, and Metaphor offers memory exercises. Betra's hesitation is rocked by a cavalier shrug, automatic. Expected. "Sure. If you've got a... fast way." Ishirou's setup has only one problem: There is not anything to find. Not one scrap. To search the entirety of Betra a scan at the deepest level reveals. . . Exactly what she said. Like a single note-pad called Readme in a single folder labelled 'Past'. >> There was an explosion. Before about three weeks ago, Betra didn't exist.
Dragonfly	Oh. So Metaphor's going all in on this one. That... makes sense. That she'd take this that personally. Meaning she's not going to be able to keep away from this one. God fucking damn it. On Metaphor's return to her seat, she just keeps an arm around her, no more pretense of repairs. Trying to keep her tone casual and detached, she says simply (ostensibly) to Betra, "... You are where you are now. Try not to let... any of this stuff affect you, with the other her. Where you are now, and who you are now. No matter what you do and don't remember. Make sense?"
Metaphor	"There...isn't anything here. Her life...literally started three weeks ago." The period of time that Metaphor is silent for could have been anywhere from two seconds to two minutes. All at once, her demeanor shifts, a collapse inward that seems to be only further punctuated by that violently blank lack-of-expression. I wanted to be seen. What do I do to help? I've thought about this? A thousand thoughts run through her head, all discarded. Was that directed at me? Obviously not. She's the one with the issue. She needs to help Betra. She needs to help (?). What does she want to hear? What did she want to hear? Metaphor suddenly blurts, "You can stay here. If you don't have a place. Or you don't want to." It takes a second before her words suddenly dawn on her, and she quickly shrinks a little in her seat, leaning into Dragonfly's wrapped arm. The hell was that?
Ishirou	Ishirou finds... A lot of nothing. He frowns, thinking about this. He looks to Metaphor, gets a clear answer, and then looks back toward Betra. "This...might be a bit trickier. I might have to do deeper scans and I'm..." he looks at himself. "Can I get some rest first?" he asks, slinking down trying to make a good excuse. He looks between Betra and Metaphor. "You...should take her advice and stay here for at least a time. Until you heal back up...if you go back now Petra might...come after you again."
Metaphor	An arm is flailed in Ishirou's general direction. She hastily adds, "Not just for- safety. There are safer places. If you, uh." She stumbles over her words, shrinking just a little bit more. Quieter, "If you need... time. In general." There are obviously better places to be. We should be worrying about the other Petra. A pause. She doesn't matter compared to the person here. What am I doing?
Powerpuff Girls	Betra undergoes the scans as a fully compliant patient. There's a glassy-eyed trance she enters under examination, the inward sort of gaze. The falls quickly into being the object of examination rather than the subject of it. It is not 'for' her benefit. She intuits this, it makes sense to her. The scans are blank. Her 'file structure' itself is as dummied out and flimflam as her insides. 'Stuffing'. There is a greasy kind of awkward throat-clear, phlegmy as she lifts her neck, eyes tracking Metaphor, the offer. Soulful, weary, something in her shifts and she looks past Metaphor, around, at the ship. They're in space, aren't they? And there was no need for a blackout pen to hide the substitute. Warm, in the deeply honest way that people can't summon with their minds, and only with their heart, when something unexpectedly gentle happens. There's not the energy of joy - the electricity of action. Faded and tawdry, saw-dust where wood never was, there's just a certain kind of warm. "I..." Don't have a place. Don't have anything. Threw it all away for seconds, and now with a heady prospect of whole days, can't summon the energy to be whelmed, much less over. "... guess I could stay..." Her little 'missed me' smirk breaks the delicate moment. It is not at Ishirou's expense. "At least for a little while."