"Sure is," Sal says, sounding perfectly unconvinced. She recognizes the tension in the woman's body language; you don't go marching through the imperial armies without watching your fellow soldiers look harried, haunted, or shellshocked. Everyone's got their limit, but at least this isn't Sal's; not even with the sometimes-nightmares that have her plummeting from high above, flightless and helpless.

Determined to keep on moving, she knows there's a few options she could take. Another asshole might try to shove their way past, endangering them both likely, and surely leading to an unfavorable outcome in one way or another. And the other option? The sympathetic kind?

Well, fuck, there's that too. "Here, I'm not kidding," she says roughly, trying to dig deep down to that place where her better character lies — bloody and wounded, but never really dead. Sal isn't the touchy-feely type, typically, but she gingerly reaches out and touches her gloved hand against the woman's forearm. Not too much and not enough to startle her more. "I've got you, alright? Just breathe and take another step."