"Shut up. Shut up."

She hates how much she's let him get under her skin so far, hates it. She shouldn't be this vulnerable when she knows his tricks and games. She shouldn't have even taken such a hit from the memory, she's over it, she's past caring that Tex threw two tomahawks into her torso with such force it threw her against a wall. She's not angry at Tex.

Except she's not over it, is she. Not the dying part. She grits her teeth, slams the knife blade-down into the dirt as she tries to get her feet under her. She can't stay down, Price or no Price.

"I died, and then I woke up afterwards; nothing had to come to that."

The memory flashes in pieces again, but this time it drags more from under the surface—much more recent memories, less intense but fresher. Putting her armour back on for the first time and feeling panic, freaking out so badly a young, dark-skinned man covered in scars has to pry apart the chest plate to touch her and turn her emotions off.

Dying, as it turns out, can leave quite the impression on a person.