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Grace usually avoids base socializing like it's the plague--she'd rather get eaten by a thanator then willingly spend time with the trustfund brats and wannabe mass murderers--but some nights, when the lab's quiet is too much even for her, she goes wandering. It's easier when it's dark, when there's music blasting and booze flowing and a stranger's skin.
And it's important that she be pressed up against a stranger right now, that she not recognize the body touching hers, and that the body not recognize hers. It's important that they not speak each other's names, not make eye contact, keep in the shadows where they can't be seen and no one can see them.
She takes certain details into her mind: the body is smaller than hers, with soft breasts and an unshaven cunt wrapped tight around her fingers. Could be Trudy, except she can feel the faint ripple of stretch marks under the shirt, smell milk if she breathes deep enough. She's drunk, but Socorro isn't.
Doesn't want to contaminate the hellspawn's dinner, Grace thinks. She wonders who Socorro paid to watch the kid for tonight, she wonders if this has anything to do with Quaritch's oft-discussed fixation on the recently arrived Corporal Sully. Then she puts her wondering aside, shuts aside her busy mind for one night.
"Fuck." A low gasp in her ear, fingers trembling in Grace cunt. It's the only word they share, the only touch. In three months time, they’ll both be dead.