（ she finally succeeds in yanking her sleeve down, overcompensating by hooking the hem of it over her fingers. it pulls her shirt down on one side, the patterned shoulder now weirdly lopsided. she lifts one muddy-water-wet hand and shoves her hair back from her face, defiance written into the stubborn set of her jaw. she regulates her breathing forcibly, pushing the reaction further down until she's almost presentably normal, even if every muscle is still tensed, even if any sound beyond them is still a greyed-out static shriek. ）

Oh, now you want to ask questions?

（ her tone is hostile, and she flips the creature off with her right hand, middle finger just peeping past the black fabric of her long-sleeved shirt. ）

How about none of your fucking business?

（ she wants to just get up and stomp away, kicking up mud with her ratty old converse shoes. but her legs don't seem to want to obey her now that the immediate danger is past. instead, a very (very) long moment afterwards, she pulls up her knees, twists her hands into a bridge between them and then: ）

Look, I'm sorry I called you a raccoon or whatever. You just look like one, is all. Back on my world.

（ upset as she is, she still recognizes trauma when she sees it, too. ）