There's lacking comprehension in Nadia's face at the first warning; when the backlash of energy buffets the helicopter, she jerks like a rag doll against the secured straps of her seat, leaving her airless. In her struggle to compose herself, she's left unguarded for the second wave, again thrown about in her seat by the force of impact to face the open side of the aircraft.

Her bottom lip quivers. She's not unfamiliar with the emotional numbness that comes after loss, eyes glazing over to see past the wreckage of what she considered "home" in her tidy, hygienic quotation marks. The silence she's persisted through since boarding doesn't change now; she prefers to listen, instead. It's attentive, at the very least.

Dylan's voice is answered in a slow blink and more silence. Weighty, pensive silence. It ends with the lingering ambivalence of American teenagers in the shrug of her narrow shoulders, head turning to face away from the direction of what was once "home".

"High-powered explosives and improving aim lowers the odds of any fighting our way back at any number," she answers her older peer - and the uniformed peoples who collected them. The vagueness is alleviated when she tacks on a more succinct, "Sure. Let's chance fate."