She accepts the cup, curling her hands around it and letting the warmth leech into her fingertips while she looks over at the drawings. There's no flicker of disgust - she looks at them as a student does the great masters in a museum, analyzing and absorbing the subject. When she sips the coffee, it's a motion to disguise the spark in her chest, behind her bones. A sick, contemptible drop of envy that etches its way in like acid does flesh, dissolving with a lingering ache in its wake. She can't live on the Green Dome alone.

"What happened?"

It is, after all, the most natural thing to ask. Soft and almost concerned.