Mila freezes. She stands stock, perfectly still for far too long. It's her, and Sir Lighthouse, the third of his name, and both are frozen.

And zoom in through the eyes (which have grown wide as saucers) into her thought process.

First the lights. Alarms, specifically, red lights blinking to wake the dead, if the dead were also deaf and worked at a nuclear power plant that was going critical and needed them right now. Speaking of which, in case said workers were also blind the alarms have a very loud wail, pulsing like a tornado siren to make sure you know that [i]shit got serious[/i]. A scattering of thoughts all try to come up with a plan for the rapidly approaching danger, but keep running into each other in the corridors of her mind and scattering the half-formed concepts to frayed imaginative wisps.

After far, far too long she moves again. Takes a deep breath, putting her hands in front of her, clasped together, pointer finger touching her chin. Lets out her breath, takes another deep, calming breath. Points the fingers towards The Sun.

"No."

Oh dear this was a terrible terrible plan and she did not introduce herself properly and please don't be mad.