"What's in my head?" She frowns and it turns into a sneer. Something in her tels her that this is what being indignant feels like. It's a nice feeling, like she's justified in being upset about something that isn't a lucky shot by some tunnel-dwelling rat. "There's nothing in my thinkpan. You know that, Mustard."

She huffs and sits against the tunnel walls, crossing her arms and glaring at the ground. It strikes her as... What was the word? Immature. So she stops looking sulky at least. "What was it like? When we were all together?"

At her best times, she remembers smells and silhouettes and colors and symbols, but that's all. Everything seems so perfect besides that. So idealistic. Where did it all go wrong?