Sam's vodka still looked like something out of a Rube Goldberg drawing. There were pipes and tubes and glass jars and jugs. Everything was rigged up by string over burners and counter tops. The whole thing had to be disassembled and reassembled every time she used it, or no one would be able to use half of the kitchen. As a whole, Sam tried not to be that person. A dick. Admittedly, it was a habit that came to her naturally in most arenas of her life. But she had surprisingly excellent kitchen etiquette.

Especially for someone who couldn't eat.

She was working on her second batch of the day, her eyes following the clear, shining bubbles as they traveled along her patchwork distillery. To be perfectly honest, her heart wasn't entirely in it today. Or, at least, her mind wasn't.

The tubes--the ones underground--were obviously weighing heavily on everyone's minds, of course. But on top if it all, Sam couldn't get the specimen library out of her mind. It felt so...Ordo Dracul. Not for the first time, she wondered if the Overlords were somehow connected to the Predators. The implications of which were, of course, staggering.

"Fuck," she sighed, tapping on one of her beakers.