She's not the only one: the other inkyfaces make a tiny, chittering noise that sounds a bit like rustling paper. One of them darts forward to grab the legs of the fallen inkyface, hauling it back out onto the desk.

Its entire body stained black, it blinks open its eyes and stares dolefully up at Gaeta, who has his whole hand pressed to his mouth now.

"Poor thing," he says. "Here -- "

He starts to dig through his pocket in search of a scrap of cloth or tissue.