ceci n'est pas une ruade
Who: Mal, and open to her warden, her friends, and the infirmary staff (i.e. anyone with a reason to see her right now.)
What: Mal ran into an Aztec warrior's maquahuitl hoping it would kick her out of the Barge. It didn't work. Now she finds out.
Where: The infirmary.
When: Monday morning.
Warnings: References to violent death, self-harm, suicide.
Note: Whoever responds first gets dibs on calming her down. Subsequent responses will be considered to occur after she's been given something to make her less destructive.
You're waiting for a train...
They hadn't been trying to kill her. Not at first. But then she'd picked up one of those heavy, obsidian-studded clubs after one of the warriors had fallen and had laid about her with all her strength, silently begging them, do it, please, here I am...
She thought she'd heard a voice cry out: no, no, not her, but then something struck her neck, impossibly hard, and just like a kick, it was over. So quickly. She thought she might have had just long enough to smile before everything went black.
A night and a day and another night passed and Mal lay unconscious and unaware of what had actually transpired. Now she blinked her eyes open slowly, and as her consciousness flickered back online, she became aware that she hurt profoundly, all over, and felt sick to her stomach.
In a hospital, was she? There was an IV in her arm; an institutional pillowcase pressed against her cheek. Why was she in a hospital? Where was her husband?
She managed to sit up, her head spinning and her stomach churning, and her blurry gaze fell on the nightstand next to her. Someone passed by the foot of her bed. She could hear voices. And slowly the pieces started to fall into place.
She was still on the Barge.
For a moment she couldn't breathe, crushed with horror and disappointment; then she drew a deep, shuddering breath.
And let it out with a scream. She ripped the IV out of her arm, heedless of the blood that streamed out, and with a burst of strength, swept her communicator and everything else off the nightstand. Her rage carried her out of the bed, two staggering steps, and then she fell to the floor, weeping.
"No. No. NO."
What: Mal ran into an Aztec warrior's maquahuitl hoping it would kick her out of the Barge. It didn't work. Now she finds out.
Where: The infirmary.
When: Monday morning.
Warnings: References to violent death, self-harm, suicide.
Note: Whoever responds first gets dibs on calming her down. Subsequent responses will be considered to occur after she's been given something to make her less destructive.
You're waiting for a train...
They hadn't been trying to kill her. Not at first. But then she'd picked up one of those heavy, obsidian-studded clubs after one of the warriors had fallen and had laid about her with all her strength, silently begging them, do it, please, here I am...
She thought she'd heard a voice cry out: no, no, not her, but then something struck her neck, impossibly hard, and just like a kick, it was over. So quickly. She thought she might have had just long enough to smile before everything went black.
A night and a day and another night passed and Mal lay unconscious and unaware of what had actually transpired. Now she blinked her eyes open slowly, and as her consciousness flickered back online, she became aware that she hurt profoundly, all over, and felt sick to her stomach.
In a hospital, was she? There was an IV in her arm; an institutional pillowcase pressed against her cheek. Why was she in a hospital? Where was her husband?
She managed to sit up, her head spinning and her stomach churning, and her blurry gaze fell on the nightstand next to her. Someone passed by the foot of her bed. She could hear voices. And slowly the pieces started to fall into place.
She was still on the Barge.
For a moment she couldn't breathe, crushed with horror and disappointment; then she drew a deep, shuddering breath.
And let it out with a scream. She ripped the IV out of her arm, heedless of the blood that streamed out, and with a burst of strength, swept her communicator and everything else off the nightstand. Her rage carried her out of the bed, two staggering steps, and then she fell to the floor, weeping.
"No. No. NO."