07-25-2021, 02:56 PM
[align=center][div style="width: 450px; text-align: justify; font-family: courier; font-size: 9pt;"]At the crack of dawn, a shot can be heard. A single body falls to the ground with a faint thud, collapsing into a small pool of its own blood.
The bullet embedded in its leg feels like nothing but white-hot heat, a painfully warm sensation that slowly spreads throughout its body. It lays in place, stunned, with a blank, wide-eyed look upon its face. It slowly reaches down to touch the wound, coming up with hands full of blood. In spite of the horror on its face, lip trembling, it doesn't make a sound. Glossy eyes turn to search the face of its panicked attacker, now come to its side to tend to the injury. A hand is laid over the wound, pressing its leg flat to the ground while they use the other to search desperately through their bag and pockets. They mumble something about a tourniquet.
"I am so, so sorry—" its attacker is frantic, sounding as though they are on the verge of tears. [b]"I only wanted to scare you off, I thought you were going to attack me—oh, God, the safety was off."
Cue does not respond. It lays its head down on the ground and stares up at the sky, lips pressed into a thin line, feeling displeased. Some primitive instinct in the back of its head urges it to flail and scream, but its body is too disjointed from its own brain to follow the command. Rather it jerks with the pain, seemingly incapable of moving otherwise. Its attacker pauses in its effort to "save" it, tilting their head curiously.
[b][i]"Does—doesn't that hurt?" they ask in a shaky voice.
"Yes, it hurts," Cue says curtly, face straight.
They return to their work, opting to peel their jacket from their body to serve as a makeshift tourniquet. It's tight, and the sensation is unpleasant, but it figures it could not be any worse than having been shot in the leg. It grits its teeth while its muscles spasm around broken bone and empty space, feeling the distinct sensation of something embedded into its flesh. Its attacker makes these panicked, uncertain sounds, little whimpers here and there as they work with unskilled hands. Cue turns its head some to watch, wondering what else that they could possibly do—it seems as though all there is to do now is wait for the wound to heal. Cue knows the process of convalescence well. The memory is fractured into bits and pieces, but it remembers being bed-riden for some time (though not of its own volition.) Some protesting feeling washes over it, and it grumbles incoherently at them, not wanting to be stuck in yet another bed. However, it's too quiet to get much of a response, drowned out by its attacker's own anxiety. Suddenly, two arms slip underneath it, and with little ceremony it is hoisted into the air, thrown over the shoulder of its attacker with some difficulty.
[i]"Sorry, sorry," they say again, holding on tight to Cue's body. It may be lean, but it is certainly not light. [i]"I'm—I'm gonna take you to someone that can actually help, okay? Sorry. Please don't hate me."
Cue says nothing. It allows itself to be carried through the city, leaving smatterings of blood here and there, like a trail of breadcrumbs. Meanwhile, the person hauling it calls out for help, arms braced tight around its body as though they fear they might drop it. It feels stable in their grip, but something about the way their hands are braced against its back feels strange. It provides a scrap of comfort, but it's hardly appreciated. It occurs to Cue, even in its own haze, that it should be slightly more upset, maybe afraid or panicked, having just been shot in the thigh by a stranger in an unfamiliar town. The danger it's in is likely immeasurable, and it could easily fall prey to anyone here, but it feels no sense of panic. Just the trickle of warm blood running down its thigh, the warmth of the body it's braced against, and the soft breeze blowing against the two of them.
The bullet embedded in its leg feels like nothing but white-hot heat, a painfully warm sensation that slowly spreads throughout its body. It lays in place, stunned, with a blank, wide-eyed look upon its face. It slowly reaches down to touch the wound, coming up with hands full of blood. In spite of the horror on its face, lip trembling, it doesn't make a sound. Glossy eyes turn to search the face of its panicked attacker, now come to its side to tend to the injury. A hand is laid over the wound, pressing its leg flat to the ground while they use the other to search desperately through their bag and pockets. They mumble something about a tourniquet.
"I am so, so sorry—" its attacker is frantic, sounding as though they are on the verge of tears. [b]"I only wanted to scare you off, I thought you were going to attack me—oh, God, the safety was off."
Cue does not respond. It lays its head down on the ground and stares up at the sky, lips pressed into a thin line, feeling displeased. Some primitive instinct in the back of its head urges it to flail and scream, but its body is too disjointed from its own brain to follow the command. Rather it jerks with the pain, seemingly incapable of moving otherwise. Its attacker pauses in its effort to "save" it, tilting their head curiously.
[b][i]"Does—doesn't that hurt?" they ask in a shaky voice.
"Yes, it hurts," Cue says curtly, face straight.
They return to their work, opting to peel their jacket from their body to serve as a makeshift tourniquet. It's tight, and the sensation is unpleasant, but it figures it could not be any worse than having been shot in the leg. It grits its teeth while its muscles spasm around broken bone and empty space, feeling the distinct sensation of something embedded into its flesh. Its attacker makes these panicked, uncertain sounds, little whimpers here and there as they work with unskilled hands. Cue turns its head some to watch, wondering what else that they could possibly do—it seems as though all there is to do now is wait for the wound to heal. Cue knows the process of convalescence well. The memory is fractured into bits and pieces, but it remembers being bed-riden for some time (though not of its own volition.) Some protesting feeling washes over it, and it grumbles incoherently at them, not wanting to be stuck in yet another bed. However, it's too quiet to get much of a response, drowned out by its attacker's own anxiety. Suddenly, two arms slip underneath it, and with little ceremony it is hoisted into the air, thrown over the shoulder of its attacker with some difficulty.
[i]"Sorry, sorry," they say again, holding on tight to Cue's body. It may be lean, but it is certainly not light. [i]"I'm—I'm gonna take you to someone that can actually help, okay? Sorry. Please don't hate me."
Cue says nothing. It allows itself to be carried through the city, leaving smatterings of blood here and there, like a trail of breadcrumbs. Meanwhile, the person hauling it calls out for help, arms braced tight around its body as though they fear they might drop it. It feels stable in their grip, but something about the way their hands are braced against its back feels strange. It provides a scrap of comfort, but it's hardly appreciated. It occurs to Cue, even in its own haze, that it should be slightly more upset, maybe afraid or panicked, having just been shot in the thigh by a stranger in an unfamiliar town. The danger it's in is likely immeasurable, and it could easily fall prey to anyone here, but it feels no sense of panic. Just the trickle of warm blood running down its thigh, the warmth of the body it's braced against, and the soft breeze blowing against the two of them.