@mettamorph
She is... not looking good. It's evident, and was when Carla first found her, that the message sent wasn't a cry for help so much as a light thrown into the future. Emily had been completely sure this was the end of the road and, as such, had to pick somebody to take possession of all the dirt she'd dug up over the years. Black market connections, possible bioweapon fanatics waiting in the wings, the fate of already-buried operatives who might some day rear their head again.
A number which, technically, now includes her. She's woozy. Barely knows what's happened, other than the fact that she's currently breathing and wasn't expecting that to be the case when she was last... conscious. A blood-mottled eye manages to fix on the face of her saviour, though the other, optical nerve still possibly disconnected, isn't focusing on anything at all. Emily's silent for several moments, either working up the energy for another sentence or having passed back into that greyish-brown fugue.
"...'m sorry. It can't help it."
Another second or eight of relative quiet, her head lolling with the motion of being carried.
"What d'you mean... die. Back together...?"
