Extra reading (not relevant to the plot or Meta, but does flesh out Princess a little more. I pulled this out from the center bits and re-worded it to flow better as an end-piece) :

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I woke up as Kathy finished rolling me down the hallway and parked me in the room. I thought for a few minutes about Kathy, as a person. I didn’t know what Kathy had survived. But she had somehow made it through okay. Some company might...help me. It was hard to admit that I needed help, even after all I’d been through at the hospital already. At this point, I had some quiet realizations that I kept quiet from Kathy. I had a sinking suspicion as to the fluid that the letter had been written in, which I also had kept quiet; I wasn’t sure how Kathy’d have handled that. Also, I knew now full well that I’d been mistaken. /u/CloudyInJune was a chef. This man ate his victims raw.

Like I’d told Spootin… I didn’t want to become another /u/Spootinlaza, someone who was driven to do the things he did. I didn’t want to become the cannibal, either. I needed help. Spootin became who he is now because he lost that someone that he loved, trusted, and relied on. If I turned to another, and then lost that someone... could I handle it? Would it happen with Kathy? So many of the few people I’d known had died in the past few years, it had made me very hesitant to even consider it. Well, that and most people gave me a wide berth on reputation and the weird vibe I gave people, so it had never really been an option. But Kathy was different. She was sitting, paging through a notebook with a pen, the tip of it resting on her chin until she decided to scribble something in there.

I looked up at her, trying for my life to understand her. She’d survived the worst of the apocalypse, when everyone was struggling to survive. Captain had been a good man, but he ‘hadn’t made the cut to survive,’ as Psycho had said back then of anyone who turned. I was one of the worst fencers on the team, but one by one the others had all fallen. My survival… it wasn’t due to my being a better fencer, really. Most of them could have beaten me with their off-hand; my stance was sloppy, my form was improper. Was I just being too harsh on them for the bad luck they’d had, using a Just World Fallacy to imply that they’d died while I’d lived just because I was better than them? My ticket had come within inches of being punched, and even when death was forestalled by a stroke of fate, I doubt I’d have lasted another day without timely pickup from the FCC’s personnel, who were more numerous, better trained, and better-equipped than we had been on even Day One at Lynchburg.

I felt sleep closing back in on me, dark tendrils pulling me back under. This time, however, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time, not since my last mission. I felt safe.