Back when she first woke up, when the shock of breathing hadn't yet worn off and Maketh could swear she could still feel the heat of the explosion, hear the roar of it, she'd checked herself for injuries. Just because she didn't feel any didn't mean there was nothing wrong. She remembered quite clearly the mess on Empire Day and how she'd found two inches of shrapnel embedded in her arm hours later, when she'd finally held still long enough to notice the ache. The medics had gotten rid of the scar. Appearances and what not.

No shrapnel this time. At least, none that she could find.

But this - this is different. There's no ignoring it.

Maketh tries to slow her breathing, control it, find the center. Focus. Remember the protocol. "Ribs," she manages. "I'll--live."

Maybe. Hopefully.