Vincent needn't have wondered whether or not Dias would continue with him. Feminine screams, even faint ones, weren't something he could ignore. Aside from Lust's master (wouldn't 'mistress' be the more appropriate term?) and the woman who'd stabbed him the night before, he couldn't think of any woman in the institute who necessarily deserved to be in that much pain, and he knew agony when he heard it.
Besides, Vincent's flashlight sweeping over the room numbers suggested that they were somewhere in the F halls. If he remembered correctly, he'd found River in the vicinity of the F halls the last few nights. The possibility that it was her screaming...was, Dias had to admit, rather remote. He was slowly beginning to appreciate the fact that River really could look after herself, at least to an extent. But that the possibility existed at all was enough
( ... )
And the cavalry had come too late to punish the enemy, but it was in time to save the captive. Just in time as the earth parted and swallowed the dead.
"She's dying, and I can't stop her," came the strangled attempt at an explanation. River's eyes were wide with fear and panic, the struggle between breaking down and remaining steadfast an obvious one in those eyes. If only Simon were here. If only Simon were here.
For a moment, the girl looked beyond Dias to the other man standing alongside him. He was...
"Vincent, please. I can't. I can't! Snuffing it out. It's growing cold. So cold," she begged.
Hesitating only a split second at the other girl's knowledge of his name, Vincent darted to Elena's side. Vicious stab wounds in her chest and legs were bleeding profusely, whole strands of shorn hair plastered in the thick fluid that seeped through her shirt.
She had a pulse but was barely conscious, hyperventilating, probably in compensatory shock by now. The hypovawhatever shock training of so many years ago was flying fast and furious through his mind, and like a kid trying to recite a slew of answers on a test Vincent's thoughts were moving almost too fast for to process.
Working furiously at getting both her shirt and pants out of the way of the wounds, the crisis too dire to spare her any modesty, he paused for a moment and tore off his own shirt, using the strength his metal arm afforded him to rip at the tough fabric, tearing it into strips.
"Both of you!" he ordered, "give me your clothes and get me spares from somewhere, anywhere." He needed to bandage and get her covered, warm, and
( ... )
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Besides, Vincent's flashlight sweeping over the room numbers suggested that they were somewhere in the F halls. If he remembered correctly, he'd found River in the vicinity of the F halls the last few nights. The possibility that it was her screaming...was, Dias had to admit, rather remote. He was slowly beginning to appreciate the fact that River really could look after herself, at least to an extent. But that the possibility existed at all was enough ( ... )
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"She's dying, and I can't stop her," came the strangled attempt at an explanation. River's eyes were wide with fear and panic, the struggle between breaking down and remaining steadfast an obvious one in those eyes. If only Simon were here. If only Simon were here.
For a moment, the girl looked beyond Dias to the other man standing alongside him. He was...
"Vincent, please. I can't. I can't! Snuffing it out. It's growing cold. So cold," she begged.
Reply
Hesitating only a split second at the other girl's knowledge of his name, Vincent darted to Elena's side. Vicious stab wounds in her chest and legs were bleeding profusely, whole strands of shorn hair plastered in the thick fluid that seeped through her shirt.
She had a pulse but was barely conscious, hyperventilating, probably in compensatory shock by now. The hypovawhatever shock training of so many years ago was flying fast and furious through his mind, and like a kid trying to recite a slew of answers on a test Vincent's thoughts were moving almost too fast for to process.
Working furiously at getting both her shirt and pants out of the way of the wounds, the crisis too dire to spare her any modesty, he paused for a moment and tore off his own shirt, using the strength his metal arm afforded him to rip at the tough fabric, tearing it into strips.
"Both of you!" he ordered, "give me your clothes and get me spares from somewhere, anywhere." He needed to bandage and get her covered, warm, and ( ... )
Reply
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