Why does nothing look like Onderon? she questions, eyes lazily, fuzzily trying to soak up the environment around her. Where's the oppressive heat? The humidity? The stinking, rotting vegetation? Where are the other insurgents? Saw? Where the kriff am I? The thoughts bleed out of her mouth like non-sensical rambles, a shoddy patchwork of some words, others skipped, volume varying with each expulsion. She feels a dull ache in her palm where she'd pierced her skin, glances down to it - can't remember how it got there. Wonders if it's a burn from the end of a blaster just fired.

Would she be foolish enough to do that?

"Onderon. Inner Rim. Japrael sector. Onderon. Inner Rim. Japrael sector. Onderon. Inner Rim. Japrael sector." Like reciting factoids from the primary school she'd never attended, the words spill through her lips in rapid succession, faster and faster until -

They stop.

A tug at her shirt. Words, distant and obscured from someone else. Someone who isn't Saw. Someone who isn't Maia, or Staven.

Unfocused eyes peer up at him. Trying to decipher his words, trying to find the meaning underneath their outer crust. Coming up empty.

Suddenly - panic - unfamiliar being, possibly hostile, preventing her from moving, preventing her from escaping, taking her captive, taking her to be tortured, taking her to end her life.

She attempts to tug herself away, stumbling over her feet and their uncoordinated, haphazard movements. Gathers herself quickly enough to clench her fist. Calculates and manages to predict its trajectory as her arm rears back, muscles and bone driving it forward along its predetermined route until it lands, squarely and firmly in an explosion of skin and bone and pain, against Kira's jaw.

"Let me go!" she screams, readying herself for a second blow should it prove to be necessary.