The burned woman stayed unconscious for two days. The trauma wraps would last for a week before they needed to be replaced, but it had been drilled into Natasha's head during her first aid training that the wounded should be checked on an hourly basis and be given plasma or other fluids for the wrap's protocols to work with.
If she had been a medikaster she could have done more, but as a simple trooper a trauma kit was the limit of her abilities. Checking the kit revealed she had enough wraps and plasma for at least another week. Even with the protocol expanded storage there was a limit to how much material you could contain in a palm sized case.
The end of the second day Natasha was sipping her tea and staring at the fire when a small sigh emerged from the burned woman. Putting her cup down, the trapper moved over to her patient's side to see a green eye staring back at her.
"So you're awake," Natasha murmured. The eye blinked and it was obvious that the woman heard her.
"So what happened to you?" Natasha asked as she carefully lifted the wrappings on the face to check the progress of the healing and gasped in surprise, The left eye was still gone, but the gaping hole in the cheek had filled in with shiny looking flesh. She had known trauma wraps could save lives, but this level and speed of healing was unheard of.
She looked under other sections of the wraps and saw that same incredible rate of healing had occurred. The skin looked relatively healthy on those spots though. Probably due to the fact that they had not been so seriously injured in comparison with the woman's face.
The woman mumbled something in a language that sounded like strangely accented Lion. Natasha as a prima ballerina, before she began growing to her current six foot height, had been tapped for the State's Touring Company and had actually seen something of the peaceful world outside the the Lands of the Red Star. She had visited Stone City, the capital of the Isle of Lions, and performed for their Queen and had learned a little of their language.
"Who you?" she said. Her tongue tripping over the unfamiliar language.
"Buffy," the burned woman rasped back. "Who are you? Where am I?"
"You in Vostochny Styepy. I Natasha. How you get here? How hurt?"
The green eye blinked and the brow furrowed, "I don't know what Vossnocky Steepy is so I'm really not all that sure-ish how I got here. As for hurt, I was saving the world. It's an occupational hazard," she tried lifting her arm and noticed the trauma wraps. "I'm not being mummified am I?"
"Moomifyed?" Natasha sounded out the strange word.
"Wrapped in bandages prior to being stuffed in a tomb or a pyramid."
"Mummya? Dead wrapped cloth?"
Buffy nodded and winced at the effort, "Yup, dead wrapped in cloth. That accent, are you Russian?"
"I Roossiyan?" Natasha pointed at herself. "Nyet. I Krasnaya Zvezda. Ahh...Red Star," she made a sweeping gesture with her arm, "This all Red Star."
"Oh god where am I? Where's Dawn? Willow? Xander or Giles? Oh my god, Spike!" The burned woman was starting to panic. Natasha had seen the signs often enough on troopers newly arrived in a combat zone. She tried holding the woman down but she was far stronger than her slight frame would lead one to believe. In fact if it wasn't for her weakened condition, Natasha wasn't sure she would have been able to restrain her. After a moment of Natasha basically lying on top of her Buffy calmed down.
"I'm sorry," she rasped. "I shouldn't have lost it."
Natasha was confused, "What missing?"
"Huh? Oh! My self-control. I should have stayed calm. What is calm in your language? You know, relaxed, peaceful."
"Calm? That spokoystviyeh. Peaceful? That Mirnyiy. I no know Reelaxed."
"Mirnyiy is peaceful?"
"I should have stayed mirnyiy then. I am really sorry."
"It fine. Seen when soldat. You soldat?" her being a soldier would explain a lot. Natasha thought to herself.
"Soldat like soldier?" Buffy asked. At Natasha's affirmative nod Buffy nodded as well.
"Yes I was a 'soldat. I probably still am actually. I was just in a war."
Natasha nodded knowingly, "Burns pohjahra gyel."
"Who's poor Jerry?"
Natasha pointed at the the flames in the fireplace, "Pohjahr."
"Fire gel then?" at Natasha's nod, Buffy thought for a moment then shook her head. "No, there was a blinding ball of light. No gel, jello, jelly, or jam involved," she looked at her cloth wrapped arm, "And I'm pretty sure I didn't ask the Turok-han to throw homemade burning jalapeño-apricot preserves on me."
"No understand. My skill your speech poor," was Natasha's only possible response to this bizarre train of verbiage.
"I'm sorry Natasha," Buffy sounded contrite, "I'm fairly sure you saved my life, but it seems pretty certain that I'm not from anywhere around here.