Her voice is a soothing background to the misery, like rain on a window. The blanket is ignored for the first minute or two, until finally Soldat's hand comes up to blindly grope at it and pull it closer around them while they rock and sob on the floor. Only once or twice do they even try to talk: abortive fits and starts of "so many people" and "what is wrong with me" and "how could I" and "oh god Steve". Even when they run out of room between great gasping breaths, it keeps going around and around in their head. Not even the Sergeant or the Asset try to get a word in around Soldat's fractured thought processes.

Finally they run out. Of tears, of energy, of air. Something. They subside into hitched breathing and little shudders, the plates of the metal arm continually rippling along their arm under their (currently singular) sleeve, face pressed into the flesh arm, resting atop their knees.