Shards of Life

He didn't smile anymore, however. It wasn't appropriate, given the topic of discussion.

Her gaze is drawn to the cup by his hand movements — but only for a second. The next moments are spent considering the stranger's windpipe, jugular and left eye in quick succession.

"A reasonable conclusion to make, seeing as you've assumed my occupation." She wants to grit her teeth, tense herself enough to fight or flee if needed, but decides to keep things under control for just a moment longer. Better to find out a little more about the man who seems to have found out plenty about her already before she acted.

I don't always like what I have to do, but I know I have to be the one to do it.

“Wait – please, don’t ask how I found you just.... --”, Kumari rattles her words, her gaze not meeting the woman’s yet, though it’s obvious she tries to – it’s hard not to look directly at the scars and Kumari doesn’t want to be disrespectful – this is a fear she didn’t always possess. She used to hold her head so high, to believe in herself... “ -- I need your help....”

Anywhere but the rest of Miriel's face, the ridges that are much more apparent a table-length away. The knowledge that someone was trying their hardest not to stare would have made her hackles raise if not for the fact that her companion screamed desperation from her eyes and posture and nervous fingers clasping and unclasping around her cup.

What sort of monster was she if she denied another woman in need?

oh, mapplethorpe was known by the majority of the emergency department. rather it be a skateboarding mishap, miscalculation practicing his parkour or even a tussle with some of his peers--... he always had some kind of injury. ( with an overexaggerated story to go with it. ) whilst he was pretty compliant, he was also known for--... well, a prior trip to the psych unit as a sixteen year old.

Miriel classified most people into patients or prey.

"I assume it must be injected. Aerosol or topical things normally come in different packaging from what I have seen of Umbrella." She looks down at the box and tries to maintain her hopefulness, but it's more difficult than it was a moment ago. "I have nothing else to try. This cannot hurt more than doing nothing."

Her brows furrow as she scans the fine print packed on a folded manual that opens to a size of a standard credit card — then a spark of recognition.

"There. Small box here at the end. 'Speak to your nearest Umbrella representative about how to inject…'. Mm. Still so much unimportant waffle in the limited space they have. Ah — 'Administer full dose into muscle over anterior thigh or gluteus then discard safely.'"

Miriel glances back up at Bertha, whose previously hopeful tone had dampened just a little. The surgeon didn't feel too apologetic. One of them had to be realistic.

"Would you like to hear his screams, or do you prefer him gagged?" Bertha knows which she would prefer, but this is for her possible employer. Whatever the surgeon wants, it is Bertha's test and duty to provide.

The theater is impressively bright and well kept. The medic can't help but wonder what kind of work has been going on. She hopes it's fun. But at this point, she will be happy to take anything so long as it offers her something to focus on and serve.

She considers his best to wake him as she answers. "Arrogant in the way men are when mildly competent." No real emotional inflection beyond what might be given to the weather. A statement of fact. "He treated his job like an interruption." She doesn't know how else to put it. "As if he could be doing better with his time. But I never saw him do anything more worthwhile than his job."

"And where's the fun if he's gagged, Bertha? Might as well anaesthetise him. Then the theatre will be a tad too quiet."

The surgeon prepares a syringe of propofol anyway, and readies a few tools that would be needed: scalpels, skinhooks and drillbits laid out in neat rows on a sterile cloth. She keeps an eye on Bertha the whole time, the necessary prep work already second nature to her.

"They always are, aren't they?" Her tone is dismissive with a tinge of disgust, same way it always was when she spoke about certain men. Though, to Miriel anything other than her job or her main hobby was an interruption. Time that could be better spent in the theatre, cutting and cutting and cutting.

It wasn't that she didn't enjoy a good steak. But nothing came close to the giddy power of having a scalpel or bipolar in hand for someone who couldn't do anything about it.

Oh my god where to begin. I'll start by saying that I read SO many of your threads and greatly admire your prose. Like, seriously, you have no idea how much creeping I do just because I enjoy having Miriel on my dash that much. You are incredible at bringing her to life in all of her (bloody, bloody) glory and there is nothing I love more than a character so sure of herself, her power, and her place in the world. And that's Miriel, to me. Competent, vicious, intelligent, multifaceted. She is so real, she is so engaging, and I am so honored to get to write with you. You have a gift for fleshing out a scene, too, that inspires me to add more small details to my own responses. You've actively pushed me to work HARD on that, actually, and I will 100% say it's all thanks to you.

Long short: you are so crazy talented and I want you to know that, above all else, I am such a fan of your OC but your prose in generals.

Not so little anymore.

"We finish the job." Mox nods to Claudio, who gladly takes the larger package. These little finishing touches, the white glove service? It's important to Mox, to their reputation. This much, they can do.

Claudio could, indeed, drag both along just fine. Has, on many occasions, but today he lets Mox assist. While his boss grabs the son, Claudio's got the father and closes the van doors with a gentle shove. Then it's behind Miriel to the drop-off with a minimal of grunting from the boss. Mox's bum elbow is giving him shit, and it figures- today's been a hell of a lot. He wouldn't show that weakness around just anyone, but Miriel already knows...so there's no harm in the honesty. If anything, it might lend him more credibility.

"This was good," he says. "What we've accomplished. How it went. I hope you'll consider us the next time something comes up. Repeat business is the best kind."

Soon they'd be far beyond the reach of anyone but her. Her lips tug briefly at the giddy thought.

Mox has his arms folded, hand subconsciously supporting his bad elbow — the surgeon could have sworn the swelling was just a little more pronounced from the last time she'd seen him. The little job tonight, smooth as it had been overall, probably didn't do any favours for it. Something would have to be done for the joint, sooner rather than later.

"How can I not, when my first experience has been such a smooth delivery? I'll be in touch for any other matters that would benefit from you and your friends'…delicate touch." The briefest flash of mirth, before her lips thin as she turns her gaze back to the closed chute. "I'm sure I don't have to tell you to keep your guard up the next few days still. Though, if there turn out to be any unfortunate injuries as a result…you can bring them to me. I'll take care of it as well as you've taken care of this matter for me."

“ huh?. . . oh, right. ” a valid question. stelle finds herself asking this more often than she can count, but eventually, you get used to the chaos.

running into visitors from across the galaxy has become something of a ritual. the guest book is already filled to the brim — verification logs, scattered messages left behind by each visitor, small offerings of remembrance collected over time. . .

it's strange, she thinks. every arrival follows the same pattern, and yet! none of them ever feel the same. @brokenbladesandfaces is just another unfamiliar face from a different world, likely with her own reasons for stepping aboard the train.

She'd reserve judgment for now. Leaving the planet was not a decision she had taken lightly, and while the surgeon would have preferred less chaotic environs, beggars couldn't be choosers. The Astral Express was the only train with seating available on such short notice, and Miriel was beginning to see why that might be the case.

Beyond barley functioning lights and what looks like a few dark smears on the ground, the hallway is clear. Maybe nothing with an interest in the elevator made it so far. Umbrella is secretive; Bertha cannot say exactly what used to happen in this facility. She hums softly. No visible gashes from large claws. But hardly any clue as to what they'll find. Light giving away their position does not sound as bad as walking in blind.

"Torchlight. If we are lucky, whatever might remain here is light sensitive." If they were very lucky there would be nothing alive enough to attack them at all, but she doubts that too much to say it. "If we are not lucky, I will save two bullets." One for each of them in the event of a quick death being their best possible choice.

Bertha has considered the possibility that they may not make it out in one piece. That dying by their own hands would be a better outcome than succumbing to whatever remnants of Umbrella research remained down here. Logic dictated that Miriel should agree, but survival instincts that had kept her alive for the better part of a decade railed against it. She had fought for too much and too long to end up as some sort of snack. But her reply was a simple, "That bad, huh?", before continuing down the hall in relative silence.

The surgeon sees the same dark maroon streaks that Bertha considers. Tries to stay close to where walls meet the floor so her footsteps are suppressed with nary a creak. And then — after half a dozen rooms she picks up a strange snuffling barely louder than the low drone of the coolant system. Something else she is surprised still works.