Eden's brain, contrary to what the fuck she just did, is an intelligent machine and as such was already screaming at her while she was bolting through the door (this is what happens when she lets her heart get ahead of her head and this is why she just doesn't) that the fact that there appears to be a baby BBQ going on is the least of their problems, because the babies are wrong, they're misshapen and malformed, nothing could look like that and be alive in the first place --
And then Mohinder's fingers are closing on her wrist; for one weird second of slow time she can feel the pulse in his fingers beating against her veins. Then the carpet knocks the wind out of her and she's struggling for breath, just dazed enough that the sick scuttling scrape of whatever that thing is takes a few seconds too long to register, long enough that by the time she can think there are teeth about a centimeter from her eyes
( ... )
The sound of Eden's scream makes him want to fight things--not just for his sake, for both of them, though even if she weren't there he'd be instinctively kicking and pounding at the thing with everything he's got
( ... )
"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
( ... )
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
( ... )
He tries not to think of how unlikely it is that the ladder is going to be able to support his weight (Eden, who weights approximately half an ounce, is not nearly as much of a problem) all the way down. He isn't afraid of heights, not really, but he can't even see the crumbling wood his hands are gripping onto, and it's enough to give anyone vertigo.
He can hear Eden climbing beneath him, but that's still not enough to reassure him, because EAR HEMORRHAGING, HELLO, NOT OKAY. He is going to...keep talking at her, then, to make sure she's still coherent.
'All the way down' is turning out to be a lot longer than Eden expected. She knows she's only gone 14 rungs, because she's counting each and every one of the bastards, but it feels like hours, and she can't just be imagining that, she doesn't think even her brain could come up with anything quite this excruciating. (It can and it will but you won't think about that now, just keep climbing, girl, just keep going, you've been to lower depths than this.)
"I think it's slowing down." She's lying, she can't really tell, but sometimes there are good reasons to lie, sometimes this brand new honesty thing is at best stupid and at worst cruel. If she could see - well. She can't, it doesn't matter. And she doesn't want to ask him to put the flashlight on when they might need it later.
The blood still pooling in her ears fucks with her hearing; she hears like from inside a shell, there's roaring over everything. Her steps are muted, his voice is muted, the whispering around them is muted --
By the time her response catches up to him, it feels like he hasn't heard from her in years, and even though he can at least hear her climbing, that much is steady, he can't hear her voice, and meanwhile he's been climbing for-fucking-ever. She's not answering, oh, god, and he can't even call to her again because his voice is too faint and slow even for him to hear.
"I think it's slowing down..." By the time the words reach him, he's almost forgotten what the hell she's even talking about--he remembers that he was worried about her, but what for? Something specific, but he can't remember anything...his mind feels like things are just falling out of it, like there's a hole in the back of his head hemorrhaging memories.
"Shut up..."
...has he been calling to her this whole time? It's entirely possible. He doesn't know what his own voice is doing.
He shuts up, because he doesn't remember how to speak anymore.
Once upon a time, a little girl does her best to tune out an argument that's been going on as long as she can remember... This was back when she decided to just be quiet, which is what she's doing now; he's not talking so there's nothing to drown out the whispering - what are they fighting about now, it was never anything important or real, she thought sometimes they just liked to hear themselves
( ... )
Mohinder has a feeling that door wasn't there before he shone the flashlight over there. Just a hunch. But it's there now, and so he makes his way warily through it.
He's instantly smacked in the face by a stench like a wave--it's not an unfamiliar smell by this point; there are enough rotting corpses around Hell that its residents are probably more or less accustomed to it by now, but there's rather more to this than just the smell.
He ventures hesitantly into the room, until something crunches horribly underfoot.
..........yeah, thaaaat would be a hand, hi. He leaps acrobatically backward with a cry of disgust.
Eden steps neatly out of his way, covering her bloody face with one sleeve equally bloody. She hasn't lived in Hell long enough to be accustomed to a slew of parts strewn all over like something had fucking mowed through them. It's the kind of thing you only see on the news; she remembers bombings in Ireland and more recently Iraq, where bombs are made of glass and broken pottery and stone, where people aren't blown apart but shattered, torn, ripped like strips of paper.
That's what this looks like. Only it's a lot more surreal up close; for a long instant she just blinks - all the bizarre shit they've been confronted with so far hasn't had this level of carnage, at least not to such a human extent. The poor woman back (so far back now, hours ago) in her sad little room had made Eden want to cry or scream or blame someone, but this she can't even process
( ... )
Mohinder is more focused on that shelf he's smacked into--you know, the one with all the jars of nasty things suspended in filthy, bloody water. Mohinder's survived his fair share of gross anatomy classes, biology classes, et cetera, et cetera--if he just tries to think of this as kind of like that, maybe--
He shouldn't be feeling faint. Not because of this. He can handle this room better than he can the others they've been through; there's nothing alive in it, not as far as he can tell, only faceless parts, and he's studied those for years. But he was alert a moment ago, and now he's fading, slumping against the shelf.
"You messed it up, tampi. You were too late..."
"I--what?" The voice is soft and sweet and feminine, but far too young to be Eden's. A little girl's voice, and when Mohinder turns his head, he catches a flash of printed pink sari disappearing behind the MRI.
Tampi. Little brother. Nobody's ever called Mohinder that; he doesn't have any older siblings
( ... )
Eden was fully prepared to get the fuck out this room really fast, but she is summarily prevented by uh...Mohinder apparently losing consciousness. This would put them in a position of not just Potentially Screwed, but Really Screwed, because there is no possible fucking way she can carry him. Ever. She'd be lucky if she could drag him across the room, really, what with weighing approximately 80 lbs.
The head makes her gag, sour bile rising in her throat for one terrible instant (it can't talk, it can't talk it's trying so hard what does it want to say is it lost did someone love you once what would you say if you could), but she chokes it down, moves back toward the shelves to stand close to him amid the...the god knows what, stepping through thick squelching blood, crunching bones - shut up, don't think about it, just get over there.
"It's not real. Whatever it is, it's not real, okay?" It actually helps that she had all those whispering goodtiems recently.
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And then Mohinder's fingers are closing on her wrist; for one weird second of slow time she can feel the pulse in his fingers beating against her veins. Then the carpet knocks the wind out of her and she's struggling for breath, just dazed enough that the sick scuttling scrape of whatever that thing is takes a few seconds too long to register, long enough that by the time she can think there are teeth about a centimeter from her eyes ( ... )
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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 ( ... )
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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 ( ... )
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He can hear Eden climbing beneath him, but that's still not enough to reassure him, because EAR HEMORRHAGING, HELLO, NOT OKAY. He is going to...keep talking at her, then, to make sure she's still coherent.
"Are you all right? Has the bleeding stopped?"
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"I think it's slowing down." She's lying, she can't really tell, but sometimes there are good reasons to lie, sometimes this brand new honesty thing is at best stupid and at worst cruel. If she could see - well. She can't, it doesn't matter. And she doesn't want to ask him to put the flashlight on when they might need it later.
The blood still pooling in her ears fucks with her hearing; she hears like from inside a shell, there's roaring over everything. Her steps are muted, his voice is muted, the whispering around them is muted --
Whispering. There is whispering, she's ( ... )
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"I think it's slowing down..." By the time the words reach him, he's almost forgotten what the hell she's even talking about--he remembers that he was worried about her, but what for? Something specific, but he can't remember anything...his mind feels like things are just falling out of it, like there's a hole in the back of his head hemorrhaging memories.
"Shut up..."
...has he been calling to her this whole time? It's entirely possible. He doesn't know what his own voice is doing.
He shuts up, because he doesn't remember how to speak anymore.
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He's instantly smacked in the face by a stench like a wave--it's not an unfamiliar smell by this point; there are enough rotting corpses around Hell that its residents are probably more or less accustomed to it by now, but there's rather more to this than just the smell.
He ventures hesitantly into the room, until something crunches horribly underfoot.
..........yeah, thaaaat would be a hand, hi. He leaps acrobatically backward with a cry of disgust.
Reply
That's what this looks like. Only it's a lot more surreal up close; for a long instant she just blinks - all the bizarre shit they've been confronted with so far hasn't had this level of carnage, at least not to such a human extent. The poor woman back (so far back now, hours ago) in her sad little room had made Eden want to cry or scream or blame someone, but this she can't even process ( ... )
Reply
He shouldn't be feeling faint. Not because of this. He can handle this room better than he can the others they've been through; there's nothing alive in it, not as far as he can tell, only faceless parts, and he's studied those for years. But he was alert a moment ago, and now he's fading, slumping against the shelf.
"You messed it up, tampi. You were too late..."
"I--what?" The voice is soft and sweet and feminine, but far too young to be Eden's. A little girl's voice, and when Mohinder turns his head, he catches a flash of printed pink sari disappearing behind the MRI.
Tampi. Little brother. Nobody's ever called Mohinder that; he doesn't have any older siblings ( ... )
Reply
The head makes her gag, sour bile rising in her throat for one terrible instant (it can't talk, it can't talk it's trying so hard what does it want to say is it lost did someone love you once what would you say if you could), but she chokes it down, moves back toward the shelves to stand close to him amid the...the god knows what, stepping through thick squelching blood, crunching bones - shut up, don't think about it, just get over there.
"It's not real. Whatever it is, it's not real, okay?" It actually helps that she had all those whispering goodtiems recently.
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