{003: Recognition
Who: Jill (zerosuitjill); open to warriors of Chaos.
When: Present day, early morning
Where: Edge of Madness
What: Jill finally emerges from her lonely angst time quarters; naturally, her body's state doesn't agree with her.
Type: Starting with prose, but either's fine.
Notes/Warnings: Here be a very bloody Jill, and the language to go with it.
After everything she'd been through, the only thing that could have pissed Jill off even more was being forced to take orders.
And that was exactly what she had to do.
Her wounds could hardly be called healed. The long cut across her stomach was doing the best, although that wasn't saying much; it still bled from time to time, her shoulder not as badly if she avoided moving it, but the slash in her forearm remained the deepest and most troublesome, often saturating her bandages--some gauze she'd fortunately found in her bathroom--in less than an hour. It probably needed more serious attention, if not stitches, she was aware, but this was the most she could manage after cleaning them up as well as could be done. And that had been before being thrown around by Wesker, which had only served to agitate her injuries further.
She hadn't been able to do a thing for the stains, though. Both her blood and River's still spattered her sleeves and gloves and front, now so dark in places that it was almost black. The thin slices in her suit remained, and with the glimpses of scarlet gauze beneath them, Jill looked a mess, to say the least, not even including the obvious fatigue she was bearing or the large bruises on her throat. She was paler than usual, her movements noticably slower and pained, and Chaos' effect had left her slightly short of breath on top of it all.
Regardless, she'd finally left the (small) comfort of her room with the reluctant acknowledgement that she had to. Wesker's unforeseen presence aside, there was no telling when they'd all be thrown into another battle; in the the worst case scenario, she didn't need to be half-dead on top of her blood loss, soreness, and hindered movement.
That bastard Chaos wanted her to train? Fine.
She'd taken to the Edge of Madness fairly early in the morning--or what she could guess was early morning--hoping to avoid a crowd, and for a while she'd been granted that much. Her room was too small to do any sort of exercise other than what would rip open her stomach wound again, so her next safest bet was jogging around the base's common area, sticking as close to the outside walls as she could manage. It was a far cry from the morning runs she'd always taken as routine--prior to her life going to hell after the Spencer Estate, anyway--but, again, this was a severe case of beggars can't be choosers.
By the time a frustratingly short half hour had passed, though, Jill slowed to a pained walk, and then something slower than that. Everything seemed to hurt, inside and out, and it was no exaggeration to say that she was finally, completely miserable, her heart and chest still heavier than anything and unable to even be distracted by the innumerable pains that grasped at her, now only made worse by the push she was giving herself to go on.
But she kept moving, because she certainly wasn't going to give in at this point.
She wasn't going to have let these gods force her hand just to die soon after.
When: Present day, early morning
Where: Edge of Madness
What: Jill finally emerges from her lonely angst time quarters; naturally, her body's state doesn't agree with her.
Type: Starting with prose, but either's fine.
Notes/Warnings: Here be a very bloody Jill, and the language to go with it.
After everything she'd been through, the only thing that could have pissed Jill off even more was being forced to take orders.
And that was exactly what she had to do.
Her wounds could hardly be called healed. The long cut across her stomach was doing the best, although that wasn't saying much; it still bled from time to time, her shoulder not as badly if she avoided moving it, but the slash in her forearm remained the deepest and most troublesome, often saturating her bandages--some gauze she'd fortunately found in her bathroom--in less than an hour. It probably needed more serious attention, if not stitches, she was aware, but this was the most she could manage after cleaning them up as well as could be done. And that had been before being thrown around by Wesker, which had only served to agitate her injuries further.
She hadn't been able to do a thing for the stains, though. Both her blood and River's still spattered her sleeves and gloves and front, now so dark in places that it was almost black. The thin slices in her suit remained, and with the glimpses of scarlet gauze beneath them, Jill looked a mess, to say the least, not even including the obvious fatigue she was bearing or the large bruises on her throat. She was paler than usual, her movements noticably slower and pained, and Chaos' effect had left her slightly short of breath on top of it all.
Regardless, she'd finally left the (small) comfort of her room with the reluctant acknowledgement that she had to. Wesker's unforeseen presence aside, there was no telling when they'd all be thrown into another battle; in the the worst case scenario, she didn't need to be half-dead on top of her blood loss, soreness, and hindered movement.
That bastard Chaos wanted her to train? Fine.
She'd taken to the Edge of Madness fairly early in the morning--or what she could guess was early morning--hoping to avoid a crowd, and for a while she'd been granted that much. Her room was too small to do any sort of exercise other than what would rip open her stomach wound again, so her next safest bet was jogging around the base's common area, sticking as close to the outside walls as she could manage. It was a far cry from the morning runs she'd always taken as routine--prior to her life going to hell after the Spencer Estate, anyway--but, again, this was a severe case of beggars can't be choosers.
By the time a frustratingly short half hour had passed, though, Jill slowed to a pained walk, and then something slower than that. Everything seemed to hurt, inside and out, and it was no exaggeration to say that she was finally, completely miserable, her heart and chest still heavier than anything and unable to even be distracted by the innumerable pains that grasped at her, now only made worse by the push she was giving herself to go on.
But she kept moving, because she certainly wasn't going to give in at this point.
She wasn't going to have let these gods force her hand just to die soon after.