Freya makes a quiet, generic sort of noise that was probably supposed to be a chuckle.

"Can't get rid've me th't easy."

She inhales, relishing in Penelope's scent, even if it's muddled under the armor, dirt, and those sickeningly sweet energy drinks of hers. Together with her voice and the light banter, the familiarity's a siren call, promising warmth and safety and rest, and Freya was so, so very tired.

It's a good thing Pen was watching for it, because a few steps beyond the crest of the incline, Freya's grip goes slack, and she slips back into unconsciousness.