once upon a time in morocco...
Jun. 25th, 2019 08:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
postpartor[ The safehouse doesn't have air conditioning.
It's a stupid thing to fixate on when she needs stitches from her right hip to her navel and her whole left side looks like an apple that's rolled down a cobblestone street. The left side of her face is a solid bruise, one eye swollen and her vision on that side a little fuzzy.
She keeps her eye shut as she holds herself together with both hands and watches the news, aware of every track of sweat and blaming her dizziness on the baking air of this little motel room.
Things are only just starting to make sense to reporters, which means the MIA has known for hours exactly how it went down. A crashed car, a very important man with his throat gashed open above the carotid and his fat stomach slashed from hip to hip for kicks. Messy, messy. The only thing the MIA probably doesn't know is which of those injuries came first.
She knows.
Shannon hasn't heard from anyone since she reported in. They'll have sent someone for her, or at least to clean her up. She needs to prepare herself. Needs to break out the medkit under the bed and stitch herself up, maybe ditch this room all together and look for somewhere to lay low for a week or two until this very important man's bosses forget her cover's name.
She lifts one hand, peeling back the reddened bandage she's kept pressed against her side.
Yep.
That still needs stitches.
With a quiet groan, she lifts herself off of the couch near the TV and sways toward the bed.]
It's a stupid thing to fixate on when she needs stitches from her right hip to her navel and her whole left side looks like an apple that's rolled down a cobblestone street. The left side of her face is a solid bruise, one eye swollen and her vision on that side a little fuzzy.
She keeps her eye shut as she holds herself together with both hands and watches the news, aware of every track of sweat and blaming her dizziness on the baking air of this little motel room.
Things are only just starting to make sense to reporters, which means the MIA has known for hours exactly how it went down. A crashed car, a very important man with his throat gashed open above the carotid and his fat stomach slashed from hip to hip for kicks. Messy, messy. The only thing the MIA probably doesn't know is which of those injuries came first.
She knows.
Shannon hasn't heard from anyone since she reported in. They'll have sent someone for her, or at least to clean her up. She needs to prepare herself. Needs to break out the medkit under the bed and stitch herself up, maybe ditch this room all together and look for somewhere to lay low for a week or two until this very important man's bosses forget her cover's name.
She lifts one hand, peeling back the reddened bandage she's kept pressed against her side.
Yep.
That still needs stitches.
With a quiet groan, she lifts herself off of the couch near the TV and sways toward the bed.]
