"I don't know." Semantics; they're a what and not a who in her mind, human-enemy-Prometheus, people whose names she never knew who talked around her as though the idea of talking to her never occurred to them to discard in the first place. She knows Finnegan's name and she still wakes up some nights trying to forget it, reminds herself where he is now and remembers how to breathe.

It grates, every time somebody looks at her like it disturbs them that she isn't what they are, like she should expect that. It feels, every time, like a reminder of how something like Prometheus could happen. So easily.

"I hate that smell," she says, instead.