When thinking back on the incident in retrospect, Clarissa would find herself impressed by Enis' straight-forward thinking. Her own approach to dealing with groups of people who were standing directly in her way tended to be a little less elegant: smash 'em, grab 'em, out-dash 'em, or else spook 'em off by firing a couple of rounds straight up into the nearest ceiling. So far she's still standing, finesse or no. The smash-grab-shoot-run approach must be working out peachy for her. But the face-slapping simplicity of using her hostage as a distraction piece beyond human shield forces her to wonder what other beats she's been missing.
What kind of smash-grab-shoot-run lifestyle she's been living up to the moment she woke up in her hospital bed is the bigger mystery, but the call of freedom just beyond the window frame says this line of questioning can wait. Clarissa's eyes damn near pop out of her head as Enis hits the ground. The ease of that roll made her look as though her weight were as inconsequential as that of a scrunched-up paper ball. The metal right angles of the window frame dig into Clarissa's bare soles as she crouches within the frame, swallowing the lump in her throat as she visualises her ankles splintering like twigs on impact.
What was that about never needing finesse to get her through?
The fingers grazing the back of her gown aren't willing to let her hesitate. As Clarissa springs from the frame, the flex of the muscles in her legs shoots a spark straight up her spine and kills her anxiety before it can stiffen her limbs. She doesn't roll when she hits the ground. Clarissa's feet strike flat against the curb, knees bending to cushion her weight before she straightens up easily. Broken ankles? Clarissa doesn't so much as wince.
What. The. Fuck...?
The yelling faces looking down upon them from above breaks her out of her surprise. Darting forward she grabs Enis' wrist once more, pulling her along as she breaks into a run, unable to resist flipping the bird over her shoulder at the stunned nurses who hadn't yet broken from the view to either chase or call for backup.
"So I have a hundred and one questions. But let's put this shithole behind us, first!"
no subject
What kind of smash-grab-shoot-run lifestyle she's been living up to the moment she woke up in her hospital bed is the bigger mystery, but the call of freedom just beyond the window frame says this line of questioning can wait. Clarissa's eyes damn near pop out of her head as Enis hits the ground. The ease of that roll made her look as though her weight were as inconsequential as that of a scrunched-up paper ball. The metal right angles of the window frame dig into Clarissa's bare soles as she crouches within the frame, swallowing the lump in her throat as she visualises her ankles splintering like twigs on impact.
What was that about never needing finesse to get her through?
The fingers grazing the back of her gown aren't willing to let her hesitate. As Clarissa springs from the frame, the flex of the muscles in her legs shoots a spark straight up her spine and kills her anxiety before it can stiffen her limbs. She doesn't roll when she hits the ground. Clarissa's feet strike flat against the curb, knees bending to cushion her weight before she straightens up easily. Broken ankles? Clarissa doesn't so much as wince.
What. The. Fuck...?
The yelling faces looking down upon them from above breaks her out of her surprise. Darting forward she grabs Enis' wrist once more, pulling her along as she breaks into a run, unable to resist flipping the bird over her shoulder at the stunned nurses who hadn't yet broken from the view to either chase or call for backup.
"So I have a hundred and one questions. But let's put this shithole behind us, first!"