Okay...not quite the chapter I'd intended. Once again, not much happens in this one, except for a little bit more Nomad recovery-and-angst time and Lowlight sap. Sorry...I promise, next chapter will involve a few more Joes (and more Lowlight and Nomad mush! Apologies in advance!) and some leave time in Hawaii!

Oh, and maybe that little bit of plot I mentioned last chapter...heh heh...I'm getting to it :P

So, once again thanks for the reviews, the PMs and putting up with me in general! :D


"Aww…she looks so sweet when she's asleep."

"She's droolin'. What's so damned sweet 'bout that?"

Nomad opened one eye to see a tall, absolutely stunning blonde woman punching the arm of an even taller, extremely solid man with dark hair and fierce brown eyes. "You really know how to make a girl feel special, Beachhead," she said, grinning wryly.

"Ah'll show you special, wiseass." Pulling a face, he thrust his hand out toward her. "Here. Courtney made me buy this for you."

Nomad grinned when she saw the fluffy blue teddy bear clutched in the big Ranger's hand. "Aw…how adorable."

Courtney Krieger, the ex-model-turned-tank-jockey - codenamed Covergirl, for obvious reasons - sniggered. "I wanted him to get you the pink one, but he wouldn't."

"It's bad enough Ah had to follow you 'round shoppin' all day carryin' that thing," Beachhead complained. "Ain't no way Ah was carryin' a pink bear." He paused and ran a hand through his hair, looking uncomfortable. "Look, Ah got greenshirts to beat inta shape. Reckon Ah'll get Renson today."

Nomad stared. She didn't know who Renson was, but Beachhead's tone made it clear - either the greenshirt washed out or he got kicked out. "Nice, Beach."

The sergeant major gave her an impatient look. "Kid's a smartass, thinks he's better'n everyone else," he pointed out. "Plus, he don't talk to the female soldiers right."

"Ah." Nomad - in fact, most women in the armed forces - knew the type of guy Beachhead was talking about.

The Ranger nodded. "Li'l bastard almost had Kismet in tears yesterday. Ah mean, ain't like that's unusual: girl's still too soft -"

Covergirl hushed Beach, gesturing to the curtain. Beach rolled his eyes, but lowered his voice. Slightly. "Anyway, Joe don't need guys like Renson."

"Well, in that case, make sure he bounces on his way out," Nomad said matter-of-factly.

Beachhead gave a malicious smirk that was actually a little frightening, then turned to leave.

"See you at lunch?" Covergirl asked.

He turned, glancing briefly at Nomad as if he didn't like Covergirl sharing their plans in front of her. "Sure, whatever," he said, shrugging his broad shoulders. "An' you," he added, pointing at Nomad, "you just better rest up. You're gonna need it, coz Ah ain't gonna take it easy on you when you get off your lazy bed-bound ass an' back to PT."

She rolled her eyes and shook her head in exasperation, but she realised it was Beach's gruff way of saying get well soon. "You got it, Sarge," she answered, mimicking his Alabaman drawl. "Ah'll do that. Sorry Ah'm so inconventiently injured, Sarge."

With a low rumble rising from his chest, Beach waved dismissively at her, then brushed past the curtain.

Covergirl smiled, sitting on the chair beside the bed. "He hates the infirmary about as much as you do," she explained.

Nomad nodded. "You can go after him if -"

Covergirl waved a hand elegantly. "Nah; he really does have to go train the greenies."

From beyond the curtain, they heard Beachhead's loud yell. "Kismet! What the hell're you still doin' in here? Get your ass out to the grounds, now! An' you can do ten extra laps for bein' late."

"Sergeant Maj -" Kismet's voice was a tiny squeak in comparison to Beach's awesome lungpower.

"Didja hear me? Twenty laps!"

There was a pause. "Sergeant major, please keep your voice down. Steeler's still asleep."

"Steeler can get -"

"Please, Sergeant Major. Doc said -"

"Awright, awright," Beach's voice, now quieter, answered. "But if you ain't movin' for that door in five seconds…"

"Yes, si - sergeant major. I just need to -"

"Clutch can fluff up his own fuckin' pillows. Move it!"

Nomad and Covergirl glanced at each other, but the room beyond was now quiet. The former model smiled. "Beach wants to keep her."

Nomad raised an eyebrow.

"He does. Trust me, I can tell," Covergirl said. "I think she'll make it."

"Hope so," Nomad agreed. "I like her. That, and I heard Footloose out there last night, trying to talk to her. God, it was funny. He's hopeless. I swear, every second word was 'like'."

Covergirl groaned and shook her head, holding a hand to her eyes. "Oh, I can just imagine…" She did a slightly - only slightly - exaggerated impersonation of Footloose. "'So like, Kismet, you like, trained as a medic, like, when you were like in the regular army? Like?'"

Nomad giggled. "Yep, that sounds about right."

"Oh, god." Covergirl started giggling too, which made Nomad laugh even more, and for a few minutes neither woman could say anything, because as soon as either one tried, they broke down into giggles again. Nomad realised was stupid - poor hapless Footloose wasn't that funny - but it felt good to laugh, even though it hurt her rib.

"Here, I brought you something," Covergirl said, wiping her eyes once they'd settled down. "Thought it might help with the boredom if Lifeline keeps you cooped up in here too long."

Nomad brightened as Covergirl pulled something small and purple from her pocket. "Hey, my iPod! You guys got my stuff from the apartment?"

The former model nodded. "Cobra trashed the place to make it look like a robbery gone wrong. If they cops'd got there first, they might've fallen for it…but, I mean, we knew you didn't have much to take, right? Flint, Storm and Clutch got most of it."

"Most?"

Covergirl brushed back her beautifully shiny blonde hair, hesitating only slightly.

"I can take it, Covergirl," Nomad said.

The other woman nodded. "Well…we got everything except your laptop. Cobra…smashed it."

Nomad's heart sank. It wasn't the fact that the computer was smashed - it was a few years old, slow to start up and running out of space on the hard drive. She couldn't leave it unplugged, because the battery only lasted an hour and a half. It'd been due for an update ages ago.

She didn't even use the laptop all that much - when she was at the Pit, she used the computers there if she needed to send any emails or do any research. That, and somebody (Nomad's bet was on Dial Tone) had installed Plants vs. Zombies on them all, and that game was just plain addictive. Not to mention cute.

No, Nomad couldn't have cared less about the laptop. She could get a new one. The problem was that she'd had a lot of photos on the computer…photos of her old team. It was all she had left of them, and now -

"I had some backup discs in -" she started hopefully.

Covergirl shook her head. "Gone," she said flatly.

Nomad swore. "It was Andy," she said bitterly. "It would've been him. He's the only one who would've known…"

She tried not to show how upset she was, but she knew Covergirl could tell. They were roommates: out of all the Joes - apart from Lowlight - Covergirl probably knew Nomad the best.

"We brought the pieces back," Covergirl said quickly. "Mainframe said he'd work on it in his free time; thinks he can recover some of it. And you know if Mains says that, there's a pretty good chance it'll happen."

Nomad sighed. There was no point worrying about it. What was done was done, she couldn't change it. Mainframe was a genius with computers - the older Joe vet knew more about them than Nomad ever would. If he couldn't get something back, nobody could.

And if he couldn't…well, she had her memories, and they were just as good, right? Maybe she could call Archer, he might have some photos he could send. "Yeah," she said, but her voice wasn't as bright as she'd hoped. "Tell Mains I said thanks."

"He said he'd come see you later, anyway," Covergirl said, "so you can tell him yourself." She reached over and picked up the blue teddy bear. "You know, your luck really sucks, Nomad."

Nomad gave a dry grin. "Really? I hadn't noticed."


Three days later, Lifeline let Nomad out of the infirmary again. Even though she was still stuck in the dreaded wheelchair, Nomad was glad to get out - her back hurt from lying in bed all day, and she'd been starting to get restless.

She had to admit, though, the few days in bed had made a lot of difference. It was surprising how fast you could get better if you just sat around doing nothing. Her rib didn't hurt quite so much, and most of the bruises had already faded from purple to a sickly yellowish colour. The cuts on her face didn't need Bandaids anymore, though they still didn't look very nice. Her fingers were nowhere near healed, but she was still pleased with her progress - she was working on using the broken ones work her iPod. It was only a very small triumph, but it was something.

She'd spent most of the day in the mess hall, again. She'd gleefully (albeit slowly) pushed herself around for a little while using her palms to push against the wheels rather than gripping the rims with her fingers. Duke - the six foot two blonde-haired, blue-eyed top sergeant - had put a stop to that when she rolled past him; he'd dragged her backwards to a table, put the brakes on and given her a single command: "Stay."

She'd sworn at him…once he was out of earshot. She wasn't on friendly enough terms with the stern first shirt to swear at him to his face. He'd probably throw her in detention.

So here she was. It was just after lunch, and she was sitting at a table listening to Ace talking to one of the other pilots about missile trajectories or parameters or something like that. Nomad knew the other guy, but not well…and though she was racking her brains, she just couldn't remember his name.

He flew a stealth fighter, she knew that much.

She could have just done what Jeckle did when she walked past: "Hey Nomad, hey Ace, hey guy whose name I can't remember."

The stealth pilot took it all in stride. "Hey, Jeckle," he answered with a wave.

"Doesn't it piss you off that nobody remembers your name?" the short woman asked curiously as she gathered up their plates.

He shook his head. "Nah. I'm used to it. Anyway, it's my job to fly under the radar."

"Huh." Jeckle shrugged. "Well, I guess that's one way of looking at it." She waved and ambled off back to the kitchen.

Nomad shook her head, amused, then glanced up as somebody sat beside her.

Psyche Out, the Joes' resident psychologist, smiled back at her. "Nomad," he greeted. "Feeling any better today?"

"I was," she replied good-naturedly, "and then along came a floppy-haired shrink. Nah, I'm good, Psyche, thanks."

"Well enough for a chat?"

Nomad sighed inwardly. Well…she had promised both Hawk and Lifeline that she'd go see the psychologist as soon as she could. "Yeah, why not?"


Psyche Out closed the door behind him, parked the wheelchair beside the squishy armchair that Nomad usually sat in when she was in his office, then he sat in his usual chair beside his desk. "I know you don't like me messing around in your head," he said, "so I'm just gonna get straight to the point. Are you coping with all this, Nomad?"

She thought about it. "Honestly, Psyche, I…I don't really know what to think," she admitted eventually.

"Are you having dreams again?"

She'd had one last night - this time, she'd been in the brainwave scanner, and she'd watched in horror as she'd revealed all the Joes' secrets, rather than trying to resist by thinking about Goldilocks. "Yeah," she said. "Sometimes."

Psyche Out nodded. "Lifeline told me as much," he stated. "He said you told him they're different to the nightmares you used to have?"

Nomad sighed. "These ones are different. These ones change - it's not what actually happened, it's what might've happened if I'd…if I'd told Cobra what they wanted."

Psyche Out made a note. Nomad frowned, craning her neck to try and see what he'd written. Raising an eyebrow, the blonde man tilted his notebook closer to his chest. "Any idea why that might be?"

"How the hell should I know?"

Psyche Out gave her a look.

"Sorry," she muttered, immediately feeling guilty. "Look, I don't know. Probably because I'm…I was scared. I didn't want to give Cobra anything. I -"

He waited patiently. Nomad watched him watching her as she tried to gather her thoughts. "It wasn't like the Amazon," she said finally. "There was nobody else to worry about - just me. But I was more worried about giving the Commander the location of the Pit than I was about...well, dying, or whatever."

The shrink smiled. "I think that's it, too," he agreed.

Nomad hesitated before asking something that had been on her mind since the other day when Lowlight had taken her for that walk. "Hey…am I selfish?"

Psyche Out blinked, taken aback. "What? Where'd that come from?"

"Am I selfish?" she repeated impatiently. "Everything I've done lately - resigning, breaking up with Lowlight; it was because I couldn't deal with it. Does that make -"

"No." Psyche Out's voice was firm. "No, you're not selfish. Far from it."

"But -"

Psyche Out raised a hand and interrupted. " If anyone had a reason to be selfish, it'd be you, after all that's happened to you. But what you just said - that you were more worried about giving Cobra Commander the location of the Pit than you were about your own life - doesn't that tell you something?"

"But anyone would've -"

Psyche Out just shook his head.

"But…"

"You're just going to have to take my word for it." Psyche Out's tone was final.

Nomad gave a small smile. Just the fact that the psychologist wouldn't argue about it (which was a first) with her made her feel a little better. "Um…there's something else I wanted to ask about."

"Yes?"

"Hawk said that there's a file with the Cobra report on my capture," she said slowly. "Do you think I could read it?"

"Ah. I thought you might ask about that. I do have a copy of it," he said reluctantly, "but I'd really prefer it if you waited a little while longer."

"I'd like to read it now."

Psyche Out sighed, then got up and opened one of the filing cabinets behind his desk, searched through it and pulled out a manila folder. He dropped it on her lap.

Nomad apprehensively opened it and looked at the top page. There were colour photos of her - one a mugshot, taken from when she'd infiltrated the Cobra recruitment agency, the other a still from a security camera, showing her standing in a corridor holding a pistol and an assault rifle, several Cobra troops lying in puddles of their own blood nearby.

She lifted her eyes to meet Psyche Out's. "You better show Storm Shadow that photo," she said. "He doesn't believe I offed ten Cobras on my own. There's three that you can't see, just behind that door there."

"You're stalling. I'll put it away if you don't -"

She flipped the page quickly. "No, I want to read it."


The report had been written mostly by Andy. It was almost as if he'd been her case worker…or she'd been his experiment. He'd hypothesised, he'd studied, he'd concluded.

It started out with the details of her capture - how Destro, Andy and the Cobra troops had taken out the power in her apartment, then waited outside on the fire escape. Nomad read about how she 'searched the apartment, oblivious to our [Cobra's] presence' before being ambushed in her room and 'proceeding to put up an obviously desperate and badly thought out escape attempt'. It gave her a chill to see that Andy had described the death of the one Cobra troop as 'an acceptable loss'.

What she read next didn't surprise her much. It creeped her out a little, but it didn't surprise her. It turned out that Andy had watched her the whole time; from the moment she was dumped unconscious in her cell, to when she'd first woken up, to when she'd taken out the guards. He'd watched her every move.

Hell, he'd even taken notes. Apparently, her fighting style was 'scrappy, but effective' and her 'unpredictable movement took troops by surprise'.

Nomad looked up at Psyche Out almost indignantly. "Scrappy?"

Psyche Out gave a half-shrug. "Well…you are a little," he admitted. "I've seen you training."

Damn. She'd have to work on that.

Nomad turned her attention back to the page. She was a little over halfway through.

"Are you sure you want to keep going?" Psyche Out pressed.

She nodded. "I'm sure."

"You don't have to," he insisted. "Maybe it'd be best if -"

He didn't want her to read it; that much was obvious. She glared at him.

He raised his hands defensively. "Alright," he said. "But just remember you can stop whenever you want. Nobody's forcing you."

"I know," she said quietly. "But…I have to."


It was a mistake. She wished she hadn't seen the report; she wished Hawk had never mentioned it and stirred her curiosity. She swore at herself for being so stubborn and reading the damn thing even after Psyche Out - who knew what he was talking about, for fuck's sake, he was a shrink - had suggested she didn't.

It was the details of Nomad's interrogation that got to her. Andy's clinical descriptions of his methods and her reactions made her feel sick - the matter-of-fact way he wrote, the suggestions of future methods he might have used. Nomad almost threw up when she saw how he considered letting some of the other Siegies -

God…no. She couldn't think about that. Wouldn't.

Psyche Out stood up. "That's enough," he said firmly.

Nomad pressed her hands together, ignoring the pain in favour of simply trying to stop shaking. It didn't work. "I'm not done -" she started. It was automatic - she didn't really want to read the rest. She'd just gone back to her old habit of trying to keep her emotional side hidden.

Of course, Psyche Out saw right through that.

"Yes, you are," he retorted. "I know what you just read; I don't know how many times I've been over it. There's nothing after that, anyway. No, I mean it. I shouldn't have let you see it in the first place. Damn it, what was I thinking?"

He took the report from her and threw it unceremoniously onto his desk.

"Psyche, I wanted to read it. It's my fault -"

He turned to her. "Don't give me that," he said kindly. "I'm supposed to be the reasonable one, here. Look, Nomad, we both know what you're like -"

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked suspiciously.

He shook his head. "Nothing. I'm just saying…how can I put this?"

"Bluntly," she said.

"Really blunt?"

"Go for it. I swear I won't get up and hit you."

Psyche Out took a breath and looked her right in the eye. "Okay. Nomad, don't let this fuck you up again. You have friends here who care about you, and we're worried. None of us wanna see you go backwards."

Well, she'd asked for blunt, and she got blunt. Nomad felt her eyes start to tear up a little. "I won't. Hell, I'd get the shit kicked out of me if I did."

"You'll come talk to me if you need to?" the psychologist asked. "Or even if you don't want to talk to me, you'll talk to somebody?"

She nodded. "Promise."

"That's all I need to hear."

Nomad grinned at the shrink. "You know, I don't know why you bother using all those fancy words. You get your point across so much quicker when you just say it straight."

Psyche Out sighed.


Nomad spent the rest of the day outside, her wheelchair parked near the beginning of Beachhead's obstacle course. The greenshirts on the afternoon roster were being put through their paces - she was finally able to put faces to Lockjaw and Atlas.

Atlas was tall and thin. His shoulders seemed permanently slumped, and the whole time she'd been watching, she hadn't seen him even crack a grin. Lockjaw, on the other hand, kept talking - and Beachhead was getting angrier every time he caught the stocky young kid. Eventually, he sent the whole greenshirt unit to run thirty laps of the perimeter.

"Catch 'em starin'?" Beach asked, stomping over to stand beside Nomad with his hands on his hips, glaring fiercely after the greenies.

"Kinda hard not to," she admitted.

"They know what happened," the Ranger said. "Reckon some of 'em might quit after seein' you, though."

"Thanks a lot," Nomad muttered. "You're on a roll trying to make me feel better, Beach."

The big man rolled his eyes. "Ah ain't tryin' to make you feel better. Anyway, you know what Ah mean."

Nomad knew all too well. It was one thing to think about serving your country. It was something else entirely to come face to face with the fact that you could be seriously wounded, or killed, for it. It wasn't something you really thought about when you signed up - she certainly hadn't. When she'd got out of hospital after the Amazon, she'd noticed the look in people's eyes, especially the younger soldiers, the fobbits and desk jockeys who had less experience in the field. It was kind of a mix of shock, horror, and awe - sometimes there was fear, too. People often hadn't known what to say to her. At that point, she hadn't encouraged them to say anything, which probably hadn't helped.

"Yeah, I know," she said, nodding.

"Good. You just keep sittin' there, let 'em get a good eyeful. Let 'em know what they might be in for."

"Yeah, okay. Hey, you want me to get some Post-Its and label the wounds, too?" Nomad raised her hands. "Here we go. Broken fingers: results of having hands smashed by hammer." She grinned to let him know she was joking.

"Don't make me smack you in the head, scrawny. That ain't nothin' to joke 'bout." He paused, apparently realising that for just a moment he sounded concerned. "Jus' coz you're wounded don't mean you can talk back."

She sniggered. "Sure it does. Because I can tell Covergirl you threatened to hit me, and she'll hand you your own ass on a plate. Not only that, but you wouldn't get her ass for a pretty long time."

Beachhead glared down at her. "You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I?" she asked sweetly.

Beachhead glanced down at her and cursed. "Gawddammit, you're just as bad as she is."

"Yep, Covergirl's taught me a lot."


Two of the greenshirts washed out after seeing what had happened to Nomad. Nomad felt a little guilty, but as Beachhead had mentioned as he rolled her wheelchair inside, if they couldn't be prepared for what might happen, they had no business being in G.I Joe.

Thankfully, Doc had been in the mess hall and had taken over the wheelchair-pushing duty. As soon as the big Ranger let go of the handles, Nomad relaxed. It wasn't that she didn't trust Beachhead…she just didn't like his driving. There was something unnerving about having him standing directly behind her; it made her think he was going to start shouting at her to run laps.

After dinner, Doc returned her to the infirmary, and she sat with Clutch and Steeler for an hour or so. The patch over Steeler's eye had been removed, and the gash running along his eyebrow - or at least, where his eyebrow had been before it'd been shaved off, much to the tank jockey's dismay - was being held together with suture tape. He had a gunshot wound to his right side, which was why he was still in the infirmary. Clutch wasted no time informing them - repeatedly - that he was getting out the next morning.

"I hope you get strangled by your sling," Steeler complained, gesturing to the material that was keeping Clutch's arm and shot shoulder immobilised.

"Yeah, hope you get better soon, too," Clutch answered cheerfully. "Unibrow."

"Shut up."

"That's all you got?"

Steeler raised his fist. "I got this, too," he warned.

Nomad giggled and rolled her eyes. "As much as I love this witty banter, I think I'm gonna head off to bed."

Clutch sat up straighter, grinning cheekily. "You want me to -"

"I want you to finish that sentence," a quiet voice said.

The three turned to see Lowlight leaning against the door. He was looking at the mechanic, an eyebrow raised.

"Uh…know what? I forgot what I was gonna say," Clutch said.

Lowlight nodded, pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room. "Thought so," he said with a chuckle.

"Night, guys," Nomad said, sniggering.

"Night," Steeler said, waving.

"Don't let Lowlight bite," Clutch added.

Nomad shook her head as Lowlight rolled her to her bed and pulled the curtains shut behind him. "Hey," he said when he turned back to her.

"Hey," she answered, heaving herself out of the chair and onto the bed. The stitches in her belly pulled slightly.

Lowlight hurried to help her; she brushed him away. "I'm fine," she said. "I just need a little help getting my shirt off -"

She stopped, blushing as she saw the look Lowlight gave her. "I meant because my shoulder hurts," she pointed out, but she couldn't keep the smile off her face.

"I know what you meant," he said playfully, grabbing the hem of her t-shirt and pulling it gently over her head. She wasn't wearing a bra - it still hurt too much to have the strap over her injured shoulder.

"Uh huh. Suuure."

He helped her shrug into her stripy pyjama top, then buttoned it up. "Want me to sit with you?"

He meant until she fell asleep. She felt a little embarrassed; it was like she was a little kid who couldn't go to sleep without a parent close by to protect them from the monsters in the dark.

Then again, Nomad knew exactly how scary some of those monsters could be. And after that report she'd read today, she had the feeling that tonight would be a bad night. "Um…would you mind?"

He shook his head, adjusting the blankets over her, then pulling his chair closer to the bed. "Of course not," he answered. "Don't worry about it," he continued. "I'd be more concerned if you didn't have nightmares."

Dammit. What was he, psychic or something? Did everyone in the Pit except her have some kind of sixth sense? "How'd you -"

"I know you."

"I don't like that answer. You use it too much," she grumbled.

Lowlight grinned crookedly. "Sorry."

Nomad changed the subject not-so-subtly. "So…what'd you do all day?"

She dozed off when he was halfway through complaining about Junkyard burying a bone in the trenches.


She woke up with a short scream a couple hours later, after a nightmare involving Andy and several of his Crimson Guardsman buddies. Lowlight wasn't by her side, but it didn't take long for him to appear, ripping aside the curtains and rushing over to her. He was followed closely by Kismet - the poor girl looked unsure of what to do. After a moment of uncertain hovering, she disappeared from sight and discreetly pulled the curtains closed.

"What?" Lowlight spoke soothingly. "What was it?"

"I…it was…" She couldn't tell him. She felt filthy. "Nothing. Don't -"

"You can tell me," he said, cutting her off. "You can trust me."

She wavered for a moment, caught between wanting him to know and feeling too embarrassed - no, not embarrassed, ashamed - to tell him.

"Nomad?"

She took a shaky breath. "I read the report, the one Andy wrote."

Lowlight swore. "Why? Why would you want to -"

"So you've read it?"

His eyes searched hers, and he nodded. "God, what -"

"The last page?"

It took a moment for Lowlight to realise what she was talking about. "Oh, no." He hugged her tightly, apparently forgetting her injuries for a moment.

"Uh…Coop? Little sore."

He released her quickly. "Shit…sorry."

She managed a weak smile. The nightmare was already fading away.

Lowlight took her face in his hands. "I swear to god, Nomad, if I ever see the little fuck who did this, I will kill him. I swear."

"You'll have to perform a ritual to raise the dead, and then when he's undead you'll have to kill him again," she said, keeping her voice light, "because you're about the fifth person to say that. Or something along those lines, anyway. Headshots work best on zombies. Use a shotgun, they splatter."

"If that's what I have to do, I'll do it," he promised as she lay back down.

"Ah, he's not worth it, Coop. Thanks anyway, though."

Lowlight looked at her, opened his mouth, then decided to let it go. Nomad was grateful - she didn't want to talk about it anymore. Not right now - now, she just wanted to get back to sleep. No doubt Psyche Out would hear about it and want to chat in the morning, anyway.

Oh well…she could always pretend she didn't remember.