[center]> ???[/center]

Something is supposed to hold her and it doesn't anymore. 

It's hardly a thought at all, just this barely-there understanding. An observation that occurs just as quickly as all the rest: she's cold, it hurts to breathe, something's in her eye, [i]this place is beautiful...[/i]what she can see of it as she lays there scrubbing at her ash-stung eye, anyway. Pawing at [u]her[/u] cheek, [u]her[/u] ear, [u]her[/u] shaved scalp ([u]???[/u]). Waiting for it to dawn on her why these things seem so strange when it is, after all, [u]her body[/u] and no one else's ([u][i]???[/i][/u]). She'd long since rubbed the irritant out by the time she stops touching her face for good, pulling her hand sheepishly away like she'd been caught up to no good. She's no closer to understanding what that kneejerk apprehension had been all about than she is to understanding anything else that's happening, except that the sky is a very lovely color right now and she is not alone and, [i]oh[/i], how that hooks her attention better than all the rest. 

One eye is squinted, still red, still watering as both turn to the others. She shifts up onto one elbow. She is expectant, [i]waiting[/i], though she doesn't know what for anymore. Something, perhaps, to be done about the distnce between them and her—[i]it's immense, isn't it?[/i] They might as well be standing at the other end of a very long corridor, impossible to make out save for what is now lit by firelight. She stares, unblinking long enough for tears to well up in both eyes now. Waiting for something that doesn't come. The distance is still there and she still cannot place what is so wrong about that. Briefly, it occurs to her that if she were to somehow pry them open and climb inside then there would no longer be that distance, and something would hold her again. 

But that would hardly be practical. 

So it's a problem for later, then. [i]Maybe.[/i] Thumbs brush over her closed eyelids, wiping again. There are voices that, like the people they belong to, seem too far away for comfort. She starts getting herself to her feet but the process is stiff, awkward. It's odd that she would want to crawl into another's body when she can hardly seem to get the hang of her own for those first few minutes. [i]Well, but then they could do all this walking for me,[/i] she reasons brightly to herself. [i]Easy. Easy-peasy.[/i] Way easier and peasier than doing it herself, but she puts on a brave face about it and shambles onward, staring in awe down at her feet, then the sky again, then her—[i]their[/i] surroundings with a more critical eye. Razed buildings, the bristling walls around them, distant mounds of...bodies. [i]The poor dears.[/i] 

These people, this beautiful, awful place...they need help, clearly. The responsibility to [i]try[/i] keeps her standing for the time it takes to assess a few of the closer individuals; a man, speaking and then not, with the [i]nicest[/i] way of presenting himself. She's clapping before she realizes what her hands are doing, soot-stained palms beating cheerfully against one another. [i]Bravo! Aren't you so dashing![/i] 

The clapping stops when another speaks. She has the [i]prettiest[/i] hair, and this woman is certain that that other one is [i]good,[/i] but she's clearly not as entertained by his posturing as this one is. This woman's fingers curl around themselves as she contemplates whether to butt in with a light admonishment...[i]nah.[/i] The man, by his own admission, does not break or falter. He can stand to be teased for being a ham. [i]If their days have gone anything like mine then I'm sure everybody's a li'l out of sorts. So long as—[/i]now, hold on a minute. 

Have they even been hearing any of this? 

She works her tongue around the inside of her dry mouth. No...no, they couldn't have, could they? What they are doing is talking. What she is doing is thinking. Right now there is a difference between those things and she cannot help but relate that back to how exposed she feels at the moment, like someone's gone and taken the shell off of some creature that sorely needs it ([i]and this isn't just a feeling—she looks the part of some kind of shucked, soft-bodied animal too; wax-skinned, feeble, and unfortunate to behold[/i]). How silly, that she'd gone and mixed those things up. No matter! She'll just talk, now.

"[b]Gh—[/b]" A thick swallow, jaw working, lips twisting unpleasantly. She knows how to do this, but she gets the impression that she doesn't do it often. [i]Not like this.[/i] It's supposed to be different, easier, but it can't be right now. She laughs dryly, waits for another strange face to say his piece (the blind man says, in essence, what all she's about to; she could stand to learn how to convey it as succinctly as he has...she will not, but she could) and takes another stab at the whole [i]talking[/i] thing, voice creaky with disuse but no less enthusiastic: 

"[i][b]Good morning![/b][/i]" Is it even morning? She's giggling again—still—[i]uncontrollably[/i], now. [i]Goodness gracious.[/i] A fist to her mouth, the other hand held palm-first apologetically. She's not laughing at them. She's not laughing at anything. She's just suddenly so, [i]so [b]happy.[/b][/i] Whenever she thinks the fit is done, another has her cracking up again, making it difficult to breathe (which also makes her laugh). 

"[b]I'm s—sorry, nothing's funny.[/b]" she wheezes, cheeks aching from a wide and manic grin. "[b]I shh—ouldn't laugh. It's impolite.[/b]" Nobody else knows what the joke is, after all. Neither does she, but [i]still.[/i] "[b]Wha—[i]ha![/i]—t happened, in this place? Why'm I standing in it? Why're you? Does the sky,[/b]" she points, as if anybody might need help knowing what she's talking about, "[b]always look like that? I love that. Don't you just love that?[/b]" Her pointing finger traces a path downward to the brave man, the sharp woman, and the blind man. She really wants to know if they just love that, though her expression catches and crinkles around the nose; she's just now been able to get a better look at the last to talk's eyes and it doesn't seem as though he'll be remarking on the color of [i]anything[/i] any time soon. She blinks and decides that, if she must apologize for the mistake later, she shall. But she won't do it now. Her hand continues, then, pointing toward the pikemen and their hut. Her body follows, wobbling closer for a better look. 

"[b]Do you live here? Do you like it? ...Do I live here?[/b]" She [i]highly[/i] doubts it, but she'll ask anyway. Something about their manner of dress seems so absurd to her, [i]costume-y[/i], but she doesn't know what that judgement is based on. A glance down at her own attire leaves her no closer to the answer. "[b]Does everyone?[/b]" All her guesses are a hand reaching out into a dark place and coming back empty, but she's now realized that she has no issue at all with asking questions. 

The hand stays pointed, her body turns. Another distant voice had been there just a moment ago, the noise soft and short ([i]why?[/i]) and matchable to a person standing in the ash. The angel gets their turn being pointed at, now, and a short acknowledgement of, "[i][b]Hello, dear![/b][/i]" Before that pointing hand and the owner's attention goes meandering along to the next thing. Now that she's really engaged, she finds it's difficult to focus on one thing when there's just so much to take in. It's irritating that she must tend to all these things so slowly, though, and only one at a time. It brings to mind thoughts of a nightmare where one is stuck running through quicksand; all this urgency and only a fraction of the speed required. [i]Exhausting.[/i] 

Another quick point at another woman that she'd totally not noticed before. She doesn't hold it against either of them. There appears to be a good handful of strangers waking, wandering through the war-smog; perhaps once, she would have been able to count and follow each one with ease, but right now, she is stuck doing things in this odd, too-slow fashion for now. "[b]And you, too. You get to be [i]dear,[/i] also. Hello![/b]" She makes a point of calling this one out over the other quiet ones only because she'd gone and made eye contact with her nervous staring and figured an acknowledgement was in order. It's right about now that she realizes just how unspeakably rude she's being, [i]pointing[/i] so much, and that thin, useless hand drops down quickly.