The south in the memory South doesn't answer North's calls. She only takes a deep breath, so deep its visible in the dramatic rise and fall of her shoulders, and stays silent, still. Her fingers scrape across the metal body of her rifle as she grips it tighter. It's almost like she's waiting for something, poised for action and yet not taking it.

North calls for her again, telling her he needs help, that something's here, asking if she's alright—because something must have happened to her if she's not coming, right?

But South just stands there, ready to move but not moving. A pillar of purple armour caught in a moment between action and inaction.

The real South, looking the kind of exhausted that doesn't come from a lack of sleep, is sat on the floor, this time, her knees pulled up to her chest. She didn't want to relive this even once, but a second time might kill her, she feels it in the pit of her stomach.

She's not sure if York being here is worse or better than Washington. Maybe it's about the same, for different reasons. Whatever good will she's earned with him... well, it won't last long, she's sure.

"I had a plan," she says, her voice much steadier than she feels. "That's... that's why she's not answering him."