In some ways, it feels like she's talking about someone else. The horrible things she'd endured here... perhaps they happened to someone else. They were someone else's nightmares come to life, someone else's home turned into hell. But when she looks down at her arm, tugging back her left sleeve, the tattoo is still there, ink still marring her skin with the symbol of so much suffering.

"I was here for three years," she continues, the words flowing out of her in a way they never had during any of the support group sessions she'd held back on their shared Porter Earth. "They turned this into a lab. They built another platform under this and that's where I slept when they weren't cutting me open. They brought in healers for me to absorb... They wouldn't give me blankets because they didn't want me to kill myself."

She turns then to finally look back at the door, at the slim opening he'd made for her that he filled with a view of red and white metal. Her jaw trembles and her voice wavers slightly as she says, "This was my home, Knock Out. Why did they have to take away the only home I had left?"