(no subject)
After almost four months on the island, Chase had given up any ideas that the whole thing was in her head. At this point, even if it was, it didn't matter. As such, she was trying to get back to some semblance of normalcy, but around here, that was easier said that done. Even the few patients she had were a far cry from the kinds of cases she'd thrived on in D.C. and Gotham, and she hadn't yet had any luck getting any of the former caped heroes to open up to her.
... well, except Tony Stark. She smirked at the thought. That wasn't really the type of opening up she'd had in mind in that regard, though.
She had, however, put in a request to take over one of the abandoned huts. If that didn't work she'd see about getting her own, but she didn't have any qualms about "pre-owned" living space, not in this environment. She just wanted to get out of the confinement of the Compound.
And speaking of which... she was doing just that right now. Getting out, that is. She was going for a jog along the path leading to the beach. A great way to clear her head, in theory. Clear it of things like Bruce who wasn't here, of Dick who wasn't Batman but kind of was, of impromptu Robin weddings and ill-advised vinyl catsuits.
Of course, she wasn't doing a very good job of the head-clearing, so she wasn't sure what was at fault - her own distraction or maybe an inconvenient rock or upended tree root. But suddenly she tripped, catching herself on her palm and one knee on the ground.
"Fuck," she hissed, the swear completely involuntary as pain lanced through both. Though it was just some nasty scrapes, most of the injury done to her dignity.
... well, except Tony Stark. She smirked at the thought. That wasn't really the type of opening up she'd had in mind in that regard, though.
She had, however, put in a request to take over one of the abandoned huts. If that didn't work she'd see about getting her own, but she didn't have any qualms about "pre-owned" living space, not in this environment. She just wanted to get out of the confinement of the Compound.
And speaking of which... she was doing just that right now. Getting out, that is. She was going for a jog along the path leading to the beach. A great way to clear her head, in theory. Clear it of things like Bruce who wasn't here, of Dick who wasn't Batman but kind of was, of impromptu Robin weddings and ill-advised vinyl catsuits.
Of course, she wasn't doing a very good job of the head-clearing, so she wasn't sure what was at fault - her own distraction or maybe an inconvenient rock or upended tree root. But suddenly she tripped, catching herself on her palm and one knee on the ground.
"Fuck," she hissed, the swear completely involuntary as pain lanced through both. Though it was just some nasty scrapes, most of the injury done to her dignity.