She's fighting now, fighting hard, but unlike in Moscow, she has a chance of winning. Slowly, by inches, centimeters, she's repairing the catastrophic damage dealt to her - ruptured organs, shredded blood vessels, bones crushed to dust, muscles flattened into uselessness.

A thin thread of her awareness, the her that was left defeated but undamaged, twines around the more powerful Other's aura.

Gratitude. Relief. Exhaustion. Confusion.

She's simply too busy and worn to project more than emotion, vague impressions.