Not everyone works well in a group setting. Shit, I wouldn't wish me on the rest of these poor bastards getting ported in here.

[It's pretty matter-of-fact for Sal, that she's not really built for being around people...like this. But she's fascinated by it, and while Anathema is rooting around in the bathroom, Sal does her best not to paw through everything that catches her eye.

By the time she gets back, and has that familiar gleam in her eye that Sal knows far too well (an honest hazard when you're this reckless), she allows herself at least one dramatic sigh. Nevertheless, she does this dance by muscle memory; not one to be body-shy, she peels off the torn up shirt with a few deft movements, holding it in her lap.]

It doesn't hurt so bad. Shit, I can't even remember when this happened.

[Look, she's so well-behaved she hasn't brought up whiskey at all as an alternative. She's improving as a fucking person, thank you. Leaning over a bit, the cuts along her side seem surface level, halfway healing. Some monster must have taken a lucky swipe.]

Yeah, so you live and work here then? What the fuck kind of job did they give you, anyway?