Mikhaila looks down at the floor. "I've been trying not to think about them," she says softly. "I'll try."
"That's all I can ask," you say, hoping she'll remain calm if she feels less pressured to produce results.
"I hid under the table and watched for an opening to run. There were at least five different people, but none of the faces were familiar," she says finally, "and I've been coming here for a while now. Most of them weren't, you know, the type. They were dressed in jeans, scruffy beards. When they attacked, I swear they grew claws. Like their fingers just…turned into knives and they started stabbing the regulars. The…uh…VIPs, if you know what I mean." Her gaze snaps to a location behind you, where you'd ducked through into the collapsed room.
"And who do we have in here?" a familiar voice calls from the other side of the fallen sheetrock. "I hear voices." Vivian Maier pushes the debris out of the way with a strength that belies her lithe feminine frame. She steps forward, grimacing as she dusts her hands and sweeps an errant piece of crumbling drywall from her bone-white suit's crisp lapel.
"Vivian!" you exclaim. Her sudden appearance has caught you off-guard. "I found a survivor. Her name's Mikhaila." You pause and look down at the injured young woman. "We should probably get her to a hospital as soon as we can. She's been badly burned."
"The poor thing." Vivian sweeps down toward the cowering woman in a graceful arc, a white dove lighting gently upon a mottled field of red, latching on with tiny talons—a grip much too strong for a gossamer creature. "We'll have you mended in no time, my dear," Vivian says. She cranes her neck down to look into Mikhaila's eyes. "You've decided to come with me. You feel safe by my side." She stands abruptly with a sharp jerk, all sense of grace abandoned in the interest of expediency. Mikhaila rises with her in a similar fashion.