[i]Don't meet her eyes, or you'll feel sorry for her.[/i]

But that's the rub, innit? When you're not looking at somebody's face, you see everything else. The way the clothing probably used to fit, but now dangles off of too-guant ribs. The blood under the nails--hers, or somebody else's? But that jacket has his entire attention.

See, the color's faded, but he recognizes that cut, that pattern. Last he remembers, it was the uniform for the [i]Sly Weasel,[/i] and he's racking his brain to try to recall the last rumors he heard about them. Did they crash here like he and Sasha? 0-6-0 freight hauler, he thinks. Not too dissimilar from [i]Mighty Natascha[/i]--although, of course, infinitely worse in every way. Crew didn't even care enough to polish her.

What happened?

The carabiner ratchets again and digs into his throat, the wolf obviously impatient. "We both want out," he chokes out, "but you hurt me and Sasha won't help. And we can't leave til I find the rest."

[Talk Sense: 8-9 depending on whether this is Sense or Wisdom. Partial either way.]