Nothing penetrates the film of smoke surrounding her. She stumbles down the stairs, coughing. She opens the window. The brilliant red of her hair is replaced with writhing flames that, somehow, haven't set anything on fire.

Brigid doesn't know what's going on, but she hates it. Everything is dim, unaccented, flat. All her senses are removed; the world feels like it's far, far away.

She wants a cup of coffee. Maybe after a jolt of caffeine, something she rarely indulges in, she'll be able to focus and tell what the heck is going on. Hearing something, Brigid twists around. "Charlie?" She tries to wave her hand to disperse the smoky wings that are following her around.