Her eyes narrow. Great. Good. Okay. Time to wake up. This interaction is going to head south unless she stays entirely on top of it. Time to pretend she's not cold, wet, lost, afraid, time to shove that itch of doubt - is she gone, did the Rift send her away, has she lost Greta and Rush forever - deeper down where she can't note it. This conversation is going to be fucking efficient, so she can spend as little time possible under the eye of this fuckstick.

"I ain't your sweetheart," she snaps, matching his slang deftly. "I'm here on accident. Wound up in the ocean, nowhere else to go. Is that normal?" Also, fuck. She should know better than to miss asking this next part. It's a question that'll show more of her hand than she wants, but it needs to be asked. "What year is it?"