Re: Quicklog, Bioshock: Elena M & Cris M
[Cris waited for Elena's eyes, soap-dull, to focus on him in the sunless corridor, brackish water bleeding onto his head from some burst vein of piping, long emptied of most of its contents—the floor, seaweed green marbled with black was slick with it: saltwater. He didn't bother moving out from under it, even as it puddled around his shoes and ran in tears down the length of the pack on his back. He looked at his ex-wife, arms around herself like it was cold, holding the gun wrong, and looking very much like she wasn't hearing a word.—Black eyes moved to the gauze on the woman's shoulder and back. Ignoring her earlier fit, against the advice of every bone in his body, he tipped her chin up toward him, two fingers pressed to the underside of her jaw.
The ink of his gaze was searching and intense, and after a minute he nodded, like they'd reached the decision together.] We're gonna sit. Five minutes. [Cris looked down the corridor they were huddled in—alone, and moved into an alcove, scooped out of the wall like ice cream from the carton, space made for something like a plant or the bust of some capitalist, but now, for whatever reason, unoccupied. He waited for Elena to join him, and when she did, he set the pack down and took off his jacket, passing it to her wordlessly.
He knew what shock looked like. Five minutes wasn't gonna get her anywhere really, but maybe it'd be enough to carry them outta here.
He looked at his watch, buried beneath the fabric of his sleeve. Five minutes. Then they'd go.—The man propped himself against the wall with his spine and dug his tablet out of the backpack. He wrote while Elena (hopefully) recuperated some, and when five minutes were up, he stood, tucking everything away, and nodded.] ¿Lista para ir?