"I'm well aware of the problem, Dr. Jackson. I was stolen, raped and enslaved for seven years. I'm pretty sure that's what's causing all the symptoms." She's curt. She wraps her arms around herself, as if cradling that tentative little body as close as she can to herself. "And it's going to remain the problem no matter what I do, whether I'm in this cell or not."

She doesn't think Daniel knows. Why would he? He's an archaeologist. It's so easy to stand at the outside and say that there's a problem, but to actually fix it? It's like a Gordian knot you can't take a knife to.

So why would she look to him now to tell her what to do, except that she doesn't know what to tell herself? The last time she took charge of a situation, she made bad calls, bloody calls, and now she's here. That was part of why she was so easily incensed by the cultist. She'd wanted to assert that she was in total control of the situation and he kept denying her that one thing, and she lost control of it all.

"You don't know what to do with me, Daniel. No one does. No one ever did back home, either. We shuffled the hosts off into asylums and therapy groups and special schools for the children and cut their funding as soon as we thought they'd be fine. Set time tables for them to get jobs and have psychological evaluations. But never once did anyone know what to do with us."