"What? No, your legs--" Hahah okay, actually look, Eden has it in her to ignore a lot of things, but she's really bad with her own pain. Severely. It's a thing hedonists tend to have, don't you know; when you spend your life seeking pleasure physical injury just doesn't fit in.
There's a neat set of tooth marks visible in the fleshy part of her palm, or there would be if it wasn't bleeding a whole hell of a lot, which it is, what with all those convenient tiny veins and -- right, she's just going to not look at it now, going as far as to turn her head away with a high-pitched little noise when she gives him her hand. As soon as he's done though, she'll see about those scratches, although she can't fucking do anything.
Meanwhile, she's definitely not going to listen to the alien screeching still going on, or the blast of heat causing it or -- right, is she pale enough to be visibly transparent yet? "Thanks for coming to my rescue." There! A joke! With a little shaky laugh behind it, even. Remember New York, Mohinder? When things were...mostly normal, except for that guy? She really really really misses New York right now.
Mohinder can force a laugh at that, and does, because it's...comfortingly Eden of her. "They don't hurt that badly," he says, taking her hand with gentleness that feels a little incongruous even to him after that violent little display of spazzery. He's not trying to be obnoxiously stoic, it's just that the adrenaline of the fight is preventing the cuts from doing more than stinging a little. Once that wears off, they will indeed hurt like fuck, and probably make it a bit difficult for him to walk.
There's nothing he can really do about her wounded hand, or that she can do about his legs--they don't have any bandages or anything to wash the cuts off with. He tears a little strip from his linen overshirt from where it's already been torn by the metal in the hallways, and ties it tightly around her hand.
Even for someone who's used to the weather in India, the room is starting to get hot enough that it's difficult to breathe. It's only going to get worse until they find a way out.
He doesn't want to look at those babies any closer than he has to. He doesn't want to see the deformed little things getting roasted, but there's nothing else in the room that could possibly, somehow, lead to an exit.
Eden flexes her hand a little, wincing and failing spectacularly not to think about what the hell might be in that thing's saliva. If there's anything poisonous or contagious, Mohinder is scratched up worse than she is, which puts them both in the category of Potentially Screwed.
The heat makes it hard to think; she pinches the bridge of her nose and is surprised to feel a little metallic sting as she does, fingers drifting down to touch her septum. They come away slick with blood, which here suddenly doesn't seem so bad, it's just a nosebleed, right?
Right, until her eyes cloud and her ears fog up, the same thick liquid dripping sluggishly from them as well. She thinks sort of insanely that she's glad she's not wearing white; it doesn't even hurt, it just...won't stop. Bleeding from the ears generally means, uh, hemorrhage and death, but she feels all right. For now. Just nauseated and really, really not a fan of this place. At all. Fuck you, Wisconsin. (Later when she lets herself think her heart will cave in on itself a little but they can't now, can't can't can't, they have to get out.)
They really don't have time for this; the room is rapidly becoming hot enough to blister. She wipes away what she can with a long sleeve and frustrated, angry kitten-noise. Oh Eden, you're so threatening. "We'll worry about it later," in case Mohinder is about to, you know, freak out, as one might be, given the circumstances, "but we have to get out of here." Calm. Collected. Eden is a liar.
She starts checking the walls with her fingers, smearing blood here and there. So much for pristine.
...Eden, he may be British, but you cannot start BLEEDING FROM THE GODDAMN EARS and not expect him to flip his shit. "Worry about it later? For god's sake, Eden!" Again, it's really just that forced lack of fear that's enabling him to keep searching for an exit door while he spazzes at her. Because logically, he really can't help her if they're both being roasted alive while he attempts to do so.
Had he not already puked up everything he has ever eaten, he would want to vomit at the sickly smell of burning, rotten meat that the babies are giving off. The heat is stronger over there, radiating from some source near the cradles--if they don't get over there soon, it'll be impossible. Mohinder shuts his eyes against the heat, gets down on the floor--it's cooler down there, if only by a few degrees. He runs his hands along the burning floor, searching for hinges--THERE.
"Eden! I found it!" Under...a cot containing a bleeding baby.
Mohinder sounds like he's speaking from underwater, but really? She could be in FAR worse shape than this (oh god, don't encourage that) and not have missed that bit about finding the door.
Anything Eden could say could not so much come close to expressing her immense relief; so she just bleeds her little way over to where he's kneeling, blinking furiously all the while. It's the only way she can see.
The door opens into absolute blackness, whispers and muffled shrieks peeling out of it like wraiths, thus making it the most CHEERFUL PLACE IN THE WORLD. But realistically, they have no fucking choice whatsoever here, by now the heat is making her head swim and her knees buckle. (That could also be blood loss, Eden.) A rotting ladder is barely visible.
There's no arguing about who's going first, because again, they don't have time, and Eden's new found selflessness still has limits. She swings down onto the ladder and disappears.
There's a neat set of tooth marks visible in the fleshy part of her palm, or there would be if it wasn't bleeding a whole hell of a lot, which it is, what with all those convenient tiny veins and -- right, she's just going to not look at it now, going as far as to turn her head away with a high-pitched little noise when she gives him her hand. As soon as he's done though, she'll see about those scratches, although she can't fucking do anything.
Meanwhile, she's definitely not going to listen to the alien screeching still going on, or the blast of heat causing it or -- right, is she pale enough to be visibly transparent yet? "Thanks for coming to my rescue." There! A joke! With a little shaky laugh behind it, even. Remember New York, Mohinder? When things were...mostly normal, except for that guy? She really really really misses New York right now.
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There's nothing he can really do about her wounded hand, or that she can do about his legs--they don't have any bandages or anything to wash the cuts off with. He tears a little strip from his linen overshirt from where it's already been torn by the metal in the hallways, and ties it tightly around her hand.
Even for someone who's used to the weather in India, the room is starting to get hot enough that it's difficult to breathe. It's only going to get worse until they find a way out.
He doesn't want to look at those babies any closer than he has to. He doesn't want to see the deformed little things getting roasted, but there's nothing else in the room that could possibly, somehow, lead to an exit.
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The heat makes it hard to think; she pinches the bridge of her nose and is surprised to feel a little metallic sting as she does, fingers drifting down to touch her septum. They come away slick with blood, which here suddenly doesn't seem so bad, it's just a nosebleed, right?
Right, until her eyes cloud and her ears fog up, the same thick liquid dripping sluggishly from them as well. She thinks sort of insanely that she's glad she's not wearing white; it doesn't even hurt, it just...won't stop. Bleeding from the ears generally means, uh, hemorrhage and death, but she feels all right. For now. Just nauseated and really, really not a fan of this place. At all. Fuck you, Wisconsin. (Later when she lets herself think her heart will cave in on itself a little but they can't now, can't can't can't, they have to get out.)
They really don't have time for this; the room is rapidly becoming hot enough to blister. She wipes away what she can with a long sleeve and frustrated, angry kitten-noise. Oh Eden, you're so threatening. "We'll worry about it later," in case Mohinder is about to, you know, freak out, as one might be, given the circumstances, "but we have to get out of here." Calm. Collected. Eden is a liar.
She starts checking the walls with her fingers, smearing blood here and there. So much for pristine.
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Had he not already puked up everything he has ever eaten, he would want to vomit at the sickly smell of burning, rotten meat that the babies are giving off. The heat is stronger over there, radiating from some source near the cradles--if they don't get over there soon, it'll be impossible. Mohinder shuts his eyes against the heat, gets down on the floor--it's cooler down there, if only by a few degrees. He runs his hands along the burning floor, searching for hinges--THERE.
"Eden! I found it!" Under...a cot containing a bleeding baby.
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Anything Eden could say could not so much come close to expressing her immense relief; so she just bleeds her little way over to where he's kneeling, blinking furiously all the while. It's the only way she can see.
The door opens into absolute blackness, whispers and muffled shrieks peeling out of it like wraiths, thus making it the most CHEERFUL PLACE IN THE WORLD. But realistically, they have no fucking choice whatsoever here, by now the heat is making her head swim and her knees buckle. (That could also be blood loss, Eden.) A rotting ladder is barely visible.
There's no arguing about who's going first, because again, they don't have time, and Eden's new found selflessness still has limits. She swings down onto the ladder and disappears.
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