It's a Graves thing (soundofwings) wrote in rooms, @ 2014-04-18 16:04:00 |
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Entry tags: | !dc comics, !marvel comics, *narrative, death |
Who: Death (Emily Smith)
What: A "rescue" mission
Where: DC --> a hospital in Marvel
When: Today
Warnings/Rating: Sickness
She'd opened the door for Doctor Banner and then sunk down to the floor next to it, an ear out for anyone that would approach up the hotel hallway. She was only barely aware of the time, still not quite used to the way it passed for her now, but she guessed that his estimate of ten minutes had been about accurate, when she heard his careful footsteps on the old carpet.
When she looked up at him through the doorway, her eyes were sunken more than they had been last time they'd met, and her skin was still that sickly grey that was better suited to a body days dead. Only the fact that she blinked up at him and smile wryly showed that she wasn't quite as dead as she appeared. And then she was using the wall at her back to push herself up, a struggle to get to her feet, but she didn't ask for help. She accepted it gratefully, however, when Bruce came through the door to offer that sturdy shoulder he'd mentioned.
She took a moment to brace herself before taking that step that brought her into the hotel. Other than the hotel's hijacking to put her in those strange, unavoidable parties, she'd never ventured out of her door, admittedly too scared what might happen when she was no longer within the confines of her own world. And perhaps before it wouldn't have been a problem. Before. But now that first step brought with it a trembling shiver that made her steps hesitate. She leaned harder on Doctor Banner's shoulder as he led her to his own door. It seemed innocent enough, looking like any other they passed in the hotel's hallways, but she still hesitated once they were face to face with it.
But she had no other choice than to follow through with what was maybe a foolish plan. She couldn't go back to her own door and continue with the sort of existence she'd had for the last months. And her only other option was to go forward into that lab that she could see once the door was opened. She braced herself and took the last step through, escorted by that still-steady shoulder.
It was like the world fell away and twisted at the same time. It wasn't the sort of painful that encounters with the Lazarus Pit had been, but it had the same nauseating heave to it. She was suddenly even more grateful for the support that Bruce provided, as her legs gave out completely, watery and weak. The trembling continued, and at first she thought that was the worst problem. After a few seconds, trying to pull a breath that she hadn't needed before and finding it nearly impossible, she realized that the trembling was far from the worst thing. It felt like her chest was being crushed, the way it had with green in her lungs, unable to get air to lungs and blood that suddenly needed it. The coughing started.
Later that day, she couldn't remember how they'd gotten from the lab to the hospital, only that she was in a bed, hooked to machines, IV, oxygen. She felt awful, each breath a struggle greater than she could remember ever having before. The chart at the foot of her bed said that she was Emily Smith, and that she was suffering from malnutrition, dehydration, and a vicious case of pneumonia. Her doctors weren't yet saying what her prognosis was, or how long she would be there, but that wasn't her most pressing thought. That was devoted to sleep. Which she did. Almost constantly, with the low drone of a television on in the background.