Fucking.
Shit.
It could've been worse. That was what she kept playing in her head over and over as she sank back into the mountain of pillows and plushes, staring up at the ceiling. It could've been way fucking worse. They stopped the bombs - both bombs - and nobody outside of the terrorists were dead.
Wouldn't stop the tongue-lashing she'd probably get now that she was out of the medical wing. Lifting her hand, she ran her fingers over the raw nubs where fingers should be. They'd grow back fully in a few days, probably. The minor cuts and scrapes had already knitted themselves together, and her broken ribs, while sore, were at least in the proper place again. She healed. She got better. No harm, no foul.
Iris had been hurt pretty bad too - him, she was less sure about. She hadn't tried to find him, speak to him, hadn't looked at him at all. If he was hurt really bad, it was her fault, and she didn't really want to deal with fucking - fault, or blame, or mistakes any more than she was already going to.
Grabbing a Ditto, she held it to her chest, squeezed tight, and buried her face in the top.
It could've been worse. It could've been worse.
Shit.
It could've been worse. That was what she kept playing in her head over and over as she sank back into the mountain of pillows and plushes, staring up at the ceiling. It could've been way fucking worse. They stopped the bombs - both bombs - and nobody outside of the terrorists were dead.
Wouldn't stop the tongue-lashing she'd probably get now that she was out of the medical wing. Lifting her hand, she ran her fingers over the raw nubs where fingers should be. They'd grow back fully in a few days, probably. The minor cuts and scrapes had already knitted themselves together, and her broken ribs, while sore, were at least in the proper place again. She healed. She got better. No harm, no foul.
Iris had been hurt pretty bad too - him, she was less sure about. She hadn't tried to find him, speak to him, hadn't looked at him at all. If he was hurt really bad, it was her fault, and she didn't really want to deal with fucking - fault, or blame, or mistakes any more than she was already going to.
Grabbing a Ditto, she held it to her chest, squeezed tight, and buried her face in the top.
It could've been worse. It could've been worse.