Zimmy stiffened at the sudden outburst of Vangarian. She hadn't been expressly listening for it, only catching the words for "move" and "death", present-tense verbal form. She stood ramrod straight, her mind desperately searching back through half a decade of instruction. She'd taken [i]years[/i] of Vangarian, and she'd been good, too.

"Fuck, uh..." she stumbled to her feet, pleased that she didn't stumble. "[i]Wait![/i]", she shouted in the foreign tongue, dashing toward the source of the disturbance. Shit, had she said wait, or waltz? They'd always confused her--no, she was sure she'd spoken correctly.

Nearly clipping Galahad as she mushed her way to the front, she bent over and panted at the sudden exertion, blinking away the sudden pain in her head as much as she could. "Not...enemies," she panted in Vangarian, though her mind was alight and nimble. It danced from word to word, touching off the neurons which held the language captive within. "We're just...dear lord, okay...We're just passing through." When she caught her breath, she stood up straight again and glanced at Gideon. They'd been Vangarian study-buddies as long as they'd been in the same squad. Mister Tactical Royalty, and her. He was far better at the language than she, despite her many months of practice.

The look was hopefully enough to convey some meaning without words. Meaning like [i]how the hell, who the hell, what the hell?[/i] and--more to the point--[i]You should probably start talking now before I say the wrong word or accent and get us all blown to hell, thank you.[/i] Well, it would hopefully convey a little of that.