Re: [Quicklog: Jack/Dahlia]
[Dahlia just stares him dead in the eye and, like a petulant child making a point, just wipes her nose on the fitted sleeve of her athletic-thin hoodie. Sleeves are totally effective, Jack. She glances down at her ugly-looking hand when he mentions ice. Ice sounds real good. Morphine sounds better, but she'll have to make do. Her shoulders drop a little from their hiked-up defensive position, tiredly.] Uh—gauze, too. [Rubs an eye with her good hand, sniffs.] And wraps. Uh. Ibuprofen. In the kitchen. [There's a little cabinet in there, and ice in the freezer. He'll figure it out. That's permission enough.
If that satisfies him, Dahlia doesn't really watch him go. She should see the tightness practically mirrored back at her as he moves, but she misses it. Once he comes back, she ain't moved an inch—still curled up against the wall, one boot on—but the pitbull in the flat has slipped out of the door to join her. Hiro lays next to her, head on his paws, as her un-busted fingers stroke the dog's ragged ears. He looks up dolefully at Jack for a second, his knob of a tail wagging half-heartedly, but it's clear dude is gonna have to step 'round. The dog ain't moving from his concerned perch.]
You, uh— [Dahlia starts and stops, voice halting.] Yoy believe in reincarnation, man? I ain't never been spiritual or whatever. But— [She's babbling, wild on pain and the last dredges of adrenaline, but whatever. Lacking better painkillers than over-the-counter shit, it's distraction.] You ever get like, fake memories? Where you thought you said some shit one way, but everybody says nah, you said different. Or memories that—feel like yours, but don't. Like, they still gotta be yours, right? From a—a past life or some shit. [Pause. If that was true, her past lives suck just as much as the present.] H-hah. Fuck. [Dropping her face into her knees again, mournfully.]