Dyssia takes the bottle, and immediately feels foolish.

It's like, she just wanted to feel it, right? Run her fingers down the bottle, sniff at it, feel her sinuses clearing from the amount of alcohol wafting through the cork. It's heavy, and the liquid doesn't quite follow gravity like you'd think it oughta. 

But now it's in her hands, and it's heavy because it's the kind of thing you can't--

It's not like you can just press it back in his hands and go "oh, sorry, I just wanted to look at the bottle, it's such a pretty color," right?

Well, that is, theoretically she could, but also it would mean losing face in front of Iskarot if she can't do it gracefully, and words are hard at the best of time and right now she just took a [i]bribe[/i] when people's safety was on the line and--

Oh fuck, people are still on the line. 

She stares at Iskarot a second longer, mouth agape, before rushing past him. She has to warn, has to let them know!--

She freezes, panting, halfway down the hall. In her white-knuckle fist, the liqueur in the bottle sloshes gently.

No, no, she has to be smart. She could run herself ragged running to each vent, checking for the yellow marks, persuading each of the people clustered around them to vacate the premises for somewhere hotter but safer.

But she has friends. She has people she can rely on. 

She sprints down the corridors, recruiting poeople as she goes.

Because she's not in this alone.