Zam is, generally speaking, a pretty easy-going individual. When faced with insults or anger, her most common reaction is a quip and a laugh—which always gets under the skin of any would-be antagonist more than responding in kind would, anyway. But right now, already pushed to her limit by the past hour's events and frustrated by a lack of answers, Zam's temper flares with uncommon heat.

"Oh, I'm sorry, next time I'll wait for you to fall on your fucking face again before I ask you a question." 'Fuck' is a new and alien vocabulary word to Zam, but she's always been quick on the uptake when it comes to profanity—and if he's going to try and curse her out, she'll do her best to return the favor in his native dialect. "Which, I don't know if you heard me the first time: I think we're fucking dead. What the hell do you think there's even left for me to do to you here?"

She doesn't even have her blaster. The one weapon she has left to her in this place, in some hilarious cosmic joke, is her garrote. You know, the one weapon that absolutely requires two hands to use.

"Fierfek, she mutters. "Maybe this really is hell."