[Waiting by as she drinks, Beatrix takes in the other woman's wounds, from the gouges on her wrists to the ring of deep bruises around her throat. There's a flare of anger, searing inside her like ice on bare skin, and she adds it to the cold fury all this has already woken in her.

None of it shows, though, and she reaches to take the glass away once Rogue is finished.]

Not really. They say if one folds a thousand paper cranes, one's wish will come true. [She gives a wry little half-smile and shrug.] Some of the others on board tried to party the worry away. I'm not that type.