Fortunately, Clarissa appears to derive some useful sort of meaning from Enis's warning. Perhaps not the exact meaning Enis was intending (however subconsciously) to convey, but hey—if it works, right? It made enough sense: If these hospital drones aren't willing to let her leave now, then they're certainly not going to give way if she actually kills her hostage. For one hairy second the silver sheen of the scalpel edge tightens against Enis' flesh and bites into her skin...not deep enough to draw blood before the metal judders back. The motion is more like a flinch, a snap—like getting the muscles in her elbow and wrist to slacken the blade just enough for those few meagre but blessed inches took monumental effort from its wielder.
Clarissa takes another step backward, blue eyes wild and darting. From her perspective Enis might not be able to see how the look within them borders on mania as they sweep the room, snatching detail faster than her capricious captor can decide what to do with it. There are five medical personnel within immediate radius. Ignore the hysterical patients. Many are losing their shit witnessing the situation unfolding in front of them, but none of them are coming closer while she's brandishing her blade. They're too scared. The med staff appear reluctant to engage directly while she's angling so close to slicing another patient's head off, but that fact is only useful up until the moment Clarissa twigs that she'd cornered herself the moment she got too deep between the beds.
Yeah, way to go. She spits a word she doesn't know the meaning to, in a language that certainly isn't English. She doesn't know where it comes from, but its vulgarity is sweetly familiar as it snaps off her tongue. The breeze hitting her back (as well as places too distracting for her to consider right now) through her hospital gown reminds her how vulnerable she is without her clothes or any of her usual firepower.
"I...I... Shit. I didn't think this far ahead."
Clarissa's grip on the scalpel convulses and the previously straight handle gains a fresh 40 degree angle. Clarissa doesn't notice it.
"Your turn on the good ideas, Sleeping Beauty. Otherwise, I have approx. zero-and-a half workable ones left. It's called winging it."
no subject
Clarissa takes another step backward, blue eyes wild and darting. From her perspective Enis might not be able to see how the look within them borders on mania as they sweep the room, snatching detail faster than her capricious captor can decide what to do with it. There are five medical personnel within immediate radius. Ignore the hysterical patients. Many are losing their shit witnessing the situation unfolding in front of them, but none of them are coming closer while she's brandishing her blade. They're too scared. The med staff appear reluctant to engage directly while she's angling so close to slicing another patient's head off, but that fact is only useful up until the moment Clarissa twigs that she'd cornered herself the moment she got too deep between the beds.
Yeah, way to go. She spits a word she doesn't know the meaning to, in a language that certainly isn't English. She doesn't know where it comes from, but its vulgarity is sweetly familiar as it snaps off her tongue. The breeze hitting her back (as well as places too distracting for her to consider right now) through her hospital gown reminds her how vulnerable she is without her clothes or any of her usual firepower.
"I...I... Shit. I didn't think this far ahead."
Clarissa's grip on the scalpel convulses and the previously straight handle gains a fresh 40 degree angle. Clarissa doesn't notice it.
"Your turn on the good ideas, Sleeping Beauty. Otherwise, I have approx. zero-and-a half workable ones left. It's called winging it."