"Mmm... whzzt?" Jemma mumbles questioningly. She feels... heavy, slow, like the day after a bad lab bender, the sort where the caffeine and power were cut to force an end to the day (she says it's only happened the once, but... well. No.) The ache is still there, but dull, ignorable.

Actually, a lot is ignorable at the moment. Including the way Pam's lipstick has gotten darker (except it hasn't, except that isn't makeup, except she can't seem to work up a decent sense of worry about it). The world is more like molasses, the same slow slide of dark blood oozing from her wounds.

Maybe she'll worry about it later.

"Alright?"