[ When she shuts her eyes later, she'll count watching Maine's face as the last thing she sees before it goes to pieces so damn quickly. Isn't that always the way? Flicking between him and Wash and the half made plan to get out of there. Apparently they've got company now. That'll be a thrilling thing to explain to Count Piotr on the return. Already forming how she'll need to say it, even if it's none of her business, but if they were offering to stand by their side through this, then she could do the same -
Washington shoves her. Feels his hands harsh into her shoulder, feels the shot hit the ground as it goes whizzing over her head. The rest, the rest comes without forethought or even consideration after she's shoved hard and the otherwise silent, snowy night is ripped apart by gunfire and the shouts of soldiers. Churning the ground muddy under their footfalls. A lifetime fighting outgunned means it comes naturally at least; swords to the best of the British Empire and their armaments. Then less than that again to the finest guns that Tesla could give the Black Coats as they came charging down the slums of Whitechapel. Barricades and broken bottles to hurl at them until she could get her hands on something worthwhile to put into theirs.
Up until then, the rules had always been simple, which: never bring a knife to a gun fight, but never let an enemy use his range if he has it and you don't. To that, she doesn't waste the time, charges to crash into the nearest soldier as soon as she gets her feet under her. It's ugly, harsh spat war cries as she rams into the nearest man with her shoulder. Might be more effect if she could feel the blackwater - but it isn't coming, that strength, the violent quiet that made them monstrous as the things they fought, doesn't come up into her limbs.
It's like knowing she's already lost this war in the same breath as she started fighting it. She's a woman again, she's a woman alone fighting an Empire.
It doesn't mean a damn thing, it never had, and now isn't the time to consider what that means, even as she tries to get back to Maine's side as she grabs another soldier by the arm, wrenches it back so they go down with a sharp cry and a quickly slit throat. One second where she's alone and the next she's reaching for Maine in the transcendent breaths, taking a fistful of his jacket and her scarf to yank him to face her. Close, exhaled words between them and brief, they have seconds before someone hits them, sitting targets that they are - ] Get out of here, as soon as you can - and tell Miles where I am. We're no good both captured.
[ She shoves him hard away from her. Half a step and she feels a yank and she swings in a circle, wider, forcing the man that thought to sneak up behind her to use the gun he's holding to block the blow that would have shattered his skull instead of shooting her. Doesn't look back from then, can't afford to, there are more and more of them. Ants out of cracked ground, maggots teaming on a corpse. Her blood and heart beat so loud in her ears as she kicks hard into the closest man's chest to send sprawling backwards, her head snapped up, readying to follow him down in a broad stroke of blade to the flesh that his armour exposed. A swing that will cut him across the belly, he'll bleed like a stuck boar. All bright red like his fellows on the white, white ground and in the morning he'll be nothing but another body along with the others. Unseeing, in the heat of it, that she's surrounded and that she'll be just the same, soon enough.
The blow doesn't land, and she feels herself wrench with the force redirected as York grabs her arm, yanks her down and under. Hitting her knees to the cold ground in a wave of rage that washes up. Betrayed, shouldn't have trusted him, shouldn't trust him with Maine, should have just shot them down where they stood - this is what she got, always the way, isn't it? -
She looks up and takes gulping breaths of freezing air into her burning lungs. A mess of hair over her face, blood hot and red mattered into it, tacky against her skin. Sweat that stings as it cools in the frigid wind. Sees for herself, just what he's saved her from by shouting that 'she's down'. A dozen or more, armed and ready to shoot whoever is in their base. Blackwater wouldn't help her with that.
Maybe she should thank him, and maybe later, she will.
Right now, her face scrunches, better dead than a damsel, better going out with blade in hand than being captured, but if she's captured and where-ever Vortala has gone - then they won't be looking at anyone else, will they? Makes a show of it, a wounded animal fights harder and so does she, ugly undignified noises and words worse than a sailor on his first week back dockside spewing out of her. ]
- whore son's bastards. Go to hell - [ He twists, she yanks, pulling hard. Setting her jaw, clenched and harsh. Looking, desperately between the soldiers' faces for Maine, for the other of his friend that she lost sight of in the fight. Doesn't see him so clearly with the sting of sweat in her eyes and the burning off adrenaline. Looks for the slash of gold that is her scarf he's wearing. Good, it had been her favourite, she will want it back, and if the enemy has it, she might not be to take it with her then, so better he give it back when she sees him again.
Because she will, she can promise that in arrogance and desperation, she will because she must but the only chance of that, is if he tells someone she's here. Another shove up, more desperate, that they keep their gaze on her and York, whatever she has to do to get their attention, looking up over her shoulder, back up at York and it's to draw deliberate attention. ] I am so pleased to know Cetagandan hospitality lives up to its reputation, here I thought they were exaggerating being spineless dogs that don't know how to fight honourably.
[ Drawls it out ugly and mean, good at that. Pitching to be insulting to anyone near enough to hear her. ]
no subject
Washington shoves her. Feels his hands harsh into her shoulder, feels the shot hit the ground as it goes whizzing over her head. The rest, the rest comes without forethought or even consideration after she's shoved hard and the otherwise silent, snowy night is ripped apart by gunfire and the shouts of soldiers. Churning the ground muddy under their footfalls. A lifetime fighting outgunned means it comes naturally at least; swords to the best of the British Empire and their armaments. Then less than that again to the finest guns that Tesla could give the Black Coats as they came charging down the slums of Whitechapel. Barricades and broken bottles to hurl at them until she could get her hands on something worthwhile to put into theirs.
Up until then, the rules had always been simple, which: never bring a knife to a gun fight, but never let an enemy use his range if he has it and you don't. To that, she doesn't waste the time, charges to crash into the nearest soldier as soon as she gets her feet under her. It's ugly, harsh spat war cries as she rams into the nearest man with her shoulder. Might be more effect if she could feel the blackwater - but it isn't coming, that strength, the violent quiet that made them monstrous as the things they fought, doesn't come up into her limbs.
It's like knowing she's already lost this war in the same breath as she started fighting it. She's a woman again, she's a woman alone fighting an Empire.
It doesn't mean a damn thing, it never had, and now isn't the time to consider what that means, even as she tries to get back to Maine's side as she grabs another soldier by the arm, wrenches it back so they go down with a sharp cry and a quickly slit throat. One second where she's alone and the next she's reaching for Maine in the transcendent breaths, taking a fistful of his jacket and her scarf to yank him to face her. Close, exhaled words between them and brief, they have seconds before someone hits them, sitting targets that they are - ] Get out of here, as soon as you can - and tell Miles where I am. We're no good both captured.
[ She shoves him hard away from her. Half a step and she feels a yank and she swings in a circle, wider, forcing the man that thought to sneak up behind her to use the gun he's holding to block the blow that would have shattered his skull instead of shooting her. Doesn't look back from then, can't afford to, there are more and more of them. Ants out of cracked ground, maggots teaming on a corpse. Her blood and heart beat so loud in her ears as she kicks hard into the closest man's chest to send sprawling backwards, her head snapped up, readying to follow him down in a broad stroke of blade to the flesh that his armour exposed. A swing that will cut him across the belly, he'll bleed like a stuck boar. All bright red like his fellows on the white, white ground and in the morning he'll be nothing but another body along with the others. Unseeing, in the heat of it, that she's surrounded and that she'll be just the same, soon enough.
The blow doesn't land, and she feels herself wrench with the force redirected as York grabs her arm, yanks her down and under. Hitting her knees to the cold ground in a wave of rage that washes up. Betrayed, shouldn't have trusted him, shouldn't trust him with Maine, should have just shot them down where they stood - this is what she got, always the way, isn't it? -
She looks up and takes gulping breaths of freezing air into her burning lungs. A mess of hair over her face, blood hot and red mattered into it, tacky against her skin. Sweat that stings as it cools in the frigid wind. Sees for herself, just what he's saved her from by shouting that 'she's down'. A dozen or more, armed and ready to shoot whoever is in their base. Blackwater wouldn't help her with that.
Maybe she should thank him, and maybe later, she will.
Right now, her face scrunches, better dead than a damsel, better going out with blade in hand than being captured, but if she's captured and where-ever Vortala has gone - then they won't be looking at anyone else, will they? Makes a show of it, a wounded animal fights harder and so does she, ugly undignified noises and words worse than a sailor on his first week back dockside spewing out of her. ]
- whore son's bastards. Go to hell - [ He twists, she yanks, pulling hard. Setting her jaw, clenched and harsh. Looking, desperately between the soldiers' faces for Maine, for the other of his friend that she lost sight of in the fight. Doesn't see him so clearly with the sting of sweat in her eyes and the burning off adrenaline. Looks for the slash of gold that is her scarf he's wearing. Good, it had been her favourite, she will want it back, and if the enemy has it, she might not be to take it with her then, so better he give it back when she sees him again.
Because she will, she can promise that in arrogance and desperation, she will because she must but the only chance of that, is if he tells someone she's here. Another shove up, more desperate, that they keep their gaze on her and York, whatever she has to do to get their attention, looking up over her shoulder, back up at York and it's to draw deliberate attention. ] I am so pleased to know Cetagandan hospitality lives up to its reputation, here I thought they were exaggerating being spineless dogs that don't know how to fight honourably.
[ Drawls it out ugly and mean, good at that. Pitching to be insulting to anyone near enough to hear her. ]