shadow medicine

isadora moved with purpose around the dimly lit room of the hollow,  her gloved hands steady as she tended to illyana’s wounds.  she’d seen it all before — too many injuries,  too many desperate situations — but this was different.  something about illyana’s body seemed to resist the healing,  her aura pulsing with an energy that made isadora pause,  though she couldn’t be sure.  still,  she didn’t falter.  pressing a cloth to the gash on illyana’s side,  she glanced down,  her expression unreadable.  ❝you should’ve come sooner, ❞ she muttered,  her voice calm  &  confident.  ❝but don’t worry,  we’ll make it work.  we always do. ❞ she moved with certainty,  the quiet assurance of someone who knew exactly what she was capable of. 

isadora sits back for a moment,  her hands tired but steady,  her gaze fixed on the bloodied mess that was once a clean surface.   frank had been careful this time,  waiting until the chaos had died down before letting himself through the door,  just as he always inevitably did.   ❝i swear,  frank,  one of these days you're gonna stop walking in here like you're invincible, ❞ she mutters under her breath,  her fingers working swiftly over a bullet wound on his shoulder.   she doesn’t expect him to answer;  he rarely does.   but it doesn’t stop her from talking,  from keeping the words flowing like a steady stream between them,  filling the space where his silence leaves a hole.   it's the closest they get to communication these days — her voice,  his stillness,   &  the work they both know too well.  

isadora focused on the delicate task of stitching up hope's side,  her hands steady despite the tension in the room.  the woman hadn’t said a word since she arrived,  her body trembling slightly with each press of the needle,  but isadora had learned to read the signs — hope was strong,  the silence more of a defense mechanism than a sign of weakness.  she couldn’t blame her.  ❝you’re lucky you’re not bleeding out, ❞ isadora muttered,  her voice low  &  calm,  almost like a soothing chant.  she wiped away the blood with a practiced hand,  feeling the weight of the moment settle in her chest.  the hollow was no place for soft words,  but there was a certain quiet comfort in this:  the way she could heal,  the way she could help,  even when everything else around them was chaos. 

isadora worked swiftly,  the sharp sting of the needle threading through skin as she patched up the deep gash along dr.  robby’s side.  the hollow was quiet,  the kind of silence that always seemed to follow a trauma,   &  her hands moved with practiced efficiency,  though her mind kept drifting.  ❝you know, ❞ she said,  her voice low  &  steady,  ❝you’re one of them.  why didn’t you go to the pitt instead of dragging yourself here?❞ she paused,  her fingers momentarily still as she met his gaze.  ❝it’s your people,  robby.  they should be the ones fixing you up. ❞

isadora’s hands moved with practiced precision,  dabbing antiseptic across the jagged gash on emil's shoulder,  the metallic scent of blood sharp in the stillness of the hollow.  her brow furrowed as she worked,  lips pressing together before parting with a quiet sigh.  ❝you always come back worse than the time before, ❞ she murmured,  not expecting a reply.  ❝one of these days you’re going to bleed out before you make it down here. ❞ her voice was steady,  but there was a flicker of something softer beneath it — worry,  maybe,  or the echo of something she hadn’t let herself name.  the gauze in her hands trembled just slightly,   &  she pressed it firmer than necessary.  ❝i’m not going to patch you up forever,  emil. ❞  but still,  she did. 

isadora worked in silence,  her hands steady as she stitched the jagged gash along benny's side,  the smell of antiseptic clinging to the air like a ghost that refused to leave.  she didn’t know much about him — just that he showed up bloodied  &  quiet,  always with that same distant look in his eyes,  like he was watching something only he could see.  ❝you ever think god gets tired?❞ she asked,  not looking up.  ❝like … not of us,  but of the noise.  the begging.  the pretending. ❞ benny didn’t answer,  of course.  he never did.  there was something strange about him — calm in a way that didn’t feel quite real — but it didn’t set her on edge.  just made her curious,   &  a little cold,  like standing near an open door at night. 

isadora’s hands moved with quiet precision,  the sting of antiseptic sharp in the air as she pressed gauze to the gash along lois lane’s ribs.  the journalist’s silence wasn’t unusual — shock could mute even the boldest voices — but isadora filled the void anyway,  her voice soft,  steady.  ❝this one’s deep,  but clean, ❞ she murmured,  more to herself than to lois.  ❝you’re lucky.  another inch  &  we’d be arguing with god. ❞ she didn’t expect laughter,  didn’t want it.  she just needed the sound to ground her,  to keep the weight of blood  &  bruises from settling too deep in her bones.  the hollow buzzed faintly above them,  a distant reminder of the world still spinning,  but here,  in the low hum of emergency  &  aftershock,  isadora only saw the rise  &  fall of lois’ chest,  a fragile metronome she wasn’t ready to lose.