Desmond awoke feeling sickened. Scrambling frantically out of the smelly sleeping bag, he staggered for a few feet, fell to his knees, and vomited into the abyss.
"What the fuck, mate?" Shaun was already up - did that man ever sleep in the first place? - and was staring from his workstation.
He spat a final fetid remnant over the edge and wiped his mouth. "Bad dream..."
"So bad you had to puke?"
"Yeah." Desmond would have liked to give a more witty reply, something like "Well, I did puke, so obviously it was bad enough to make me puke," but his mind was still grappling with the brutal scene that had bubbled up from the past. Dead soldiers... so much blood... Whose memory was that, anyway? I didn't recognize any of it. Must have been something Clay relived. Great. As if bleeding from my own ancestors wasn't bad enough, now all of his skeletons are in my brain-closet too.
Shaun's mouth was moving but Desmond didn't catch the words. He rubbed his head, trying to coax away the pounding within. "Uh, can you repeat that? I've got some sort of weird genetic memory hangover thing messing me up here."
"I was saying, you better not be expecting any sick leave. We need to find that key. Tick tock."