stripping flowers at a petal pace

Before anything else registered, as Faye Valentine slowly emerged from sleep that morning, she became distinctly aware of a mattress under her back. Of a down-filled pillow pressed up to her cheek. Of sheets, warm and smooth, and wintry air teasing at her cheeks where they peeked above the covers. Thinking it a dream, she tried to coax herself back to sleep, furiously burying her nose further into the pillow and enjoying, for once, what it felt like to sleep in a proper bed again.

But the very moment she began to try, she found herself growing increasingly alert, until she finally sat up with a disgruntled sigh, a hand scratching at an uncomfortable woven collar as her eyes blearily blinked open, only to fall on a dimly lit room and a crackling fire in the distance. Eyes traveling from one end of the room to the other, Faye leaned forward, her back in a hunch, as she tried to parse out what had happened. Obviously, she wasn't on the island. And this wasn't anywhere close to Bebop. The only real friend she'd made from an era like this was James Norrington, who had left the island long ago. So what had happened?

Ruffling her hair with one hand, Faye's free hand slipped under the pillowcase, until she felt the cool, smooth surface of metal and closed her fingers around an unfamiliar pistol. Loaded, she noted thankfully, checking the barrel. And through the shiver, she lowered herself to the floor, gripping the weapon tightly in hand as she decided to check the next room over, prepared to knock out an opponent if need be.