Hot. She was so hot.
Too hot. Her hair clung to her scalp and forehead, dark strands heavy with sweat and grim. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d washed it. She reached up to push at the mass.
Her hands were shaking. She pressed her thumb and middle fingertips together, can barely feel them touch.
“One hundred and thirty microts Aeryn,” Pilot’s voice called though the comm clipped to her waist.
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