Middle of the Lobby
Unlike Ella, Joanie had never fallen asleep. Though her entire body was seemingly falling asleep in slow motion, she staved it off out of sheer stubbornness and resolve. The Witch prattled on about her resolve and strength, but Joanie didn't want to hear it. Despite the blanket, she was freezing. She didn't have the energy to fix her clothing, which was currently limited to a slashed-to-hell dress that barely counted as covering now and a jacket that had been ripped and abused. Her legs were curled beneath her, covered in goosebumps from the frigid night air.
When the headaches started, she had expected another horrible leap into something even less pleasant than 1917 Russia. Nazi Germany, perhaps. But instead of the mud of Auschwitz ground, Joanie felt the smooth lobby of Bellum Letale beneath her legs. Though her entire body was quaking, she slowly stood. Her knees shook beneath her, and she pulled the blanket tightly around her shoulders as she looked around.
Her temples were littered with tiny scrapes and scratches, and her chin had born the brunt of several angry blows. A bruise was beginning to form over the bridge of her stubborn nose, and that was just the tip of the iceberg. The rest of her body was wrung with exhaustion from the beating it had received, but she was focused on one thing only: finding her friends and making sure that they were alright.
Standing on her tip-toes as best she could, she awkwardly began to stumble around the others. "Luther?" she wheezed, voice barely loud enough to constitute a loud talking voice. "Sam?" Coughing at the char that remained in her lungs, she turned, running a hand through her matted and blood-soaked hair. "Russell? Micah? Aiden?"