My muse stumbles to yours muses door covered head to toe in blood, bruises, cuts, and what not. Send me “Holy hell..” to get my muses full condition, and reaction to the door being opened by your muse.
The mind that usually echoed facts, details, reason, calculations, the mind that couldn’t be pinned down to a single phrase; too complex in its ways to ever be fully dismissed as understood, was now degraded to one simple, repetitive noise.
A heart beat. A heart beat is what engulfed this man’s senses, from his eye sight, shaking with each thump of the muscle, to his breath, that hitched once each heavy tone sunk to the bottom of his chest, making way for a new echo to beckon. This wasn’t the paced, gentle rhythm that usually vibrated through his being, this was more of a pounding, an alarm. It was best described as if his mind took second in charge, leaving this meaty organ to lead the commands, it was instinctual. They say in times of extreme need humans resort back to their natural behaviors, except this was more pure than even that. Spock was not reacting, his body had already decided it was dying. There was no fuse in his head instructing him to keep pushing, to battle this, it was as simple as the sun setting, and rising once more. His body was separate from his mind at this point, the bulb had blackened, cracked, and a still darkness seeped through his frayed nerves. His eyes flickered down to the breathing wounds held numbly across his form. Green puss blotched his skin, shading harshly into his now sickly flesh.
He did not speak as the door opened, the man inside instantly painting an expression of horror on his features as he caught sight of the half Vulcan’s stretched skin, where his bones prodded against, he did not bother wasting the energy on whispering for help as the man’s eyes now traced down to his torn clothes, and with that torn skin. It was impossible to tell where one frayed article ended and the other began, as the emerald green of his blood clouded any hard lines, creating the illusion of one free flowing, beaten form.
Blood dripped from his lips, tongue dancing against the hot liquid sifting against his cheeks. If he had been more aware he might have vomited from the taste and excess of the liquid, but he needed to save as much energy as he could if he was going pull through this. His fingers dug obscenely into the gushing center of one of his more prominent wounds, attempting to pause the bleeding; clearly he had been like this for a while. With a blank expression he stared at the man in front of him, body swaying and shaking as it spent the last of its energy propping the man up.
His eyes clouded, vision draining as if a plug from somewhere deep within him had suddenly been yanked out, and with that, his consciousness.
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