Who: Cat & Jack & Matt
What: A group narrative of triage
Where: The Capital, some clinic
When: Immediately after thisWarnings/Rating: I for Injury. B for Blood.
Cat wasn't conscious.
The knife to the gut had nicked the aorta, and it was just
luck that the nick was small. Another millimeter? And she would've been dead there, where she'd fallen at Jack's feet in soaked wine that left her fishnets dripping fat droplets of blood on the filthy floor of the undercity. As it was, she was pale as summer-bleached sheets against that dark and filthy ground, blood trickling without stop.
She was entirely unaware of anything that happened beyond that fall. She was unaware that Jack had called Matt, that she'd been moved, that Matt had arrived. She was unaware of all of it.
The amount of blood lost was
impressive, and she wouldn't be walking away from this without a transfusion from somewhere.
No pressure, heroes. She didn't make a sound. She didn't so much as shift throughout the process. She was dead weight and doll's limbs hanging heavily. Legs akimbo and breath shallow, skin cold, pressure low and heartbeat quiet and growing quieter.
Beat.....
beat...
bea...t.