Iris came back into reality to the sound of hurried footsteps on unfamiliar floors, the metallic stink of old blood, the moans of people she didn't know, and a lot of unidentifiable pain in her arm. Early on in her career Iris had learned how to wake up without her breathing changing, but there was a considerable amount of pain and no anesthetic involved in this particular waking, so she couldn't do much about her breathing. She listened. More footsteps, unfamiliar voices... voices in French. There were some voices that weren't in French, but she couldn't hear what they were saying. She knew where she'd been, and the fact that she had passed out and there was that much pain after--William fighting--aw, shit.
Right, so she'd been shot. She wasn't dead, right? Her clothes were different, they were rough, too rough for modern machine weave, and they didn't smell like the ones she'd acquired in the alleyway.
She got her eyes open, got them to focus, and tested her other extremities. Everything else was working. Flexing her left hand wasn't possible, which made sense, bicep wound, but she could move her fingers just fine. Breathing hard but forcing it slow, Iris sat up and reached for her opposite arm.