“Vitals looking good- spike in heartrate settled out already, she’s dropping back into the seventies.”
She can smell a medbay which.. Makes sense. She was hurt, she knows she was hurt- but nothing.. Feels wrong. Her tongue is heavy, and it’s hard to swallow. Her eyes don’t want to open.
“Take it slow there, Scanlan.”
Scanlan? No one calls her that. She’s not on the Normandy.
Fuck, how bad off was she? Awake. She needs to be AWAKE.
Green-blue eyes snap open, and Sarya jerks upright, gasping like she’s been drowned. Her gaze lands on the medic- human, male.
But that’s not the Alliance logo. And this is NOT a hospital.
There’s a roaring in her, like something’s crashing apart, because everything automatically feels wrong. This isn’t right. She’s not supposed to BE here.
She moves without needing to think about it- the throat of the medic is in her hand, and she twists, so he’s on the bed, and she has a knee on his chest. It’s fluid- a motion made with long practice and a hell of a lot of training.