#valorbore

She has no idea how long she’s been swimming in and out of consciousness. The last thing that she remembers is blinding light. They’d been fighting, the war, Asriel. Lyra! Marisa’s eyes flickered open and she half jerks upwards. At once her body screams in pain and her arm is yanked back, cold metal cutting into her wrist. Her daemon, similarly chained, howled, tiny black hands reaching out of her. They were just far enough apart that if Marisa dragged herself off the bed she could touch him. But it hurt too much. 

Taking a breath she tried to calm herself. She had to take stock of where she was, what was happening. The room was brightly lit and there were other beds, though empty. Marisa breathed in and the crisp scent of soap filled her nose. Was she in some sort of hospital? It couldn’t have been meant for one. The beds were too close together. And she was the only one here. 

*Ooo, I'm big on free speech, not big on that pesky little," The chain rattles, metal catching a twinkle of light from overhead and bathing her wrist in a kaleidoscope of rusty whites. "Thing called entrapment. Call it old habits. Once a journalist, always a journalist. Allegedly." Cat eases up onto the bed, fingers curling around its matted sheet. White. Dusty. So much dust could accumulate thousands of government secrets underground. Far enough that six feet under seemed like another galaxy away.

Just enough to need a Stargate.

"Allegedly," A hum, nodding towards the airman nearby before focusing on the good doctor. "Something likely being redacted from official record, I'm no longer able to be trusted. Luthor thinks that toxin from PN7-6R7 is still in my system and causing me to act...erratic." The c slowly pops like a k and Grant looks utterly unamused. "I'm fine."

"Well, hmm, that's a first, you--" A hint of a strained, rolling laugh. The droll of her voice dips lower than it should, labored from breath. The feeling of sweat pooling in her collarbone. Her fingers curl, heavy, and her head lolls a little, "You want me to keep talking. That certainly means it must...be bad, hmm, Frasier? You don't--" The curling hand raises to wave before it flops down on the bed. "Have as good of a poker face as everyone thinks. I can read you like a book."

Not one of Luthors reports, maybe.

Presumably because Janet is at least two times more interesting.

"Oh, stop being so dramatic. I was only on fire for two minutes."

@valorbore

“Janet,” Cat sighs, head rolling back to rest against the headboard, pillow crumpled underneath her neck. Her aching shoulders. And, oh, if there’s something buried—flickering—in her eyes, she doesn’t say it, even as her fingers quake like the ramp leading up to a shining pool of blue does every single time the MALP blazes its path. Even as those fingers lightly brush a strand of hair behind Frasier’s ear, humming.

Cat’s pale. Paler than usual, skin gently kissed by other planets lacking its faint shine underneath the florescent lights above them. This is hardly the first time Cat’s been here—it’s not even the first time she’s been handcuffed to the bed--but it is the first time they've thought she's been assimilated into a sleeper cell spy machine. 

Never a dull week.

@valorbore

“No, of course not, fishing is just the excuse to get drunk in the woods claiming we actually care about the hours we’ve spent squinting at a crystal clear lake in the mountains, wrestling some squirming little, flopping fish fifteen feet under onto the ground next to us. Admit it,” Cat hums, snapping Luthor’s briefing report closed because she glossed over half of the science and only cares about the results, chin tipping to the side as she skims up to Frasier’s gaze and stays there. An eyebrow arches.