Who: Charlie and Kayla What: Calling for Help Where: Bathos 201 When: About 3 am, after this Warnings: Swearing, discussion of violence, injury inspection. Will update or lock if need be.
If she weren't so determined to survive, she would have collapsed in the street and laid there to die. The pain was excruciating, felt in every step and increased by every breath. The entire scope of her universe had collapsed to focus on one thing and one thing only: the square foot of ground directly in front of her. Getting caught wasn't a worry, getting home in one piece wasn't even a consideration. She just had to make her feet go one after the other, clip-clop clip-clop down the street. Anyone that saw her would have thought her drunk, from her scattered and unsteady steps to the sheen of sweat and tears that covered her face.
After changing back into civilian clothes in her warehouse, she walked back to the Bathos. Public transportation would've been better for her legs, but she was still wearing her suit underneath the bulky jacket and jeans - her body ached too much for her to even try and get out of it on her own. Her hair was a matted mess, still held in the tight bun she kept it in while in costume though sweat and activity had teased spike-like strands out into a crown of thorns.
By the time she reached the Bathos, her skin felt cold and clammy even to her own touch. Her face was bright red and blotchy, tears still leaking out whenever she took a breath or moved a leg. The blood loss was slowing, though every movement seemed to pull at a new hole or tear she hadn't noticed before. She looked down, praying to no one in particular that she didn't start leaking on the floor. Climbing those damned stairs was torture, and by the time she reached the second floor, she was done. No more stairs. Her body couldn't take it. Wiping her sweaty brow, she turned, peering bleary-eyed down the hallway. The number 201 caught her eye.
Charlie.
Later, she'd curse herself for being so weak. But right now, in the moment, she had no other choice. Dragging herself over to the door, she propped herself up in the frame, resting her forehead against her right arm as she pounded on the door with her left. "Charlie!" she called, not caring at the moment that she was making a scene. Anyone that saw her would just see a blonde bun and baggy clothes, likely worn by a drunk woman. This wasn't anything terribly unusual to see in a big city, and certainly not in the wake of all the nonsense that had been going on over the last few months.
Sucking a sharp breath in, feeling tears roll down her cheeks, she pounded again. "Charlie!" she hissed against the door, smearing sweat and desperation on the wood. "Charlie, open the door!"