Everything had gone to hell so quickly. There were too many soldiers, and just not enough time. Going in they had all known that the chances of coming out of this alive were practically nonexistent, but when Peter doubled back, that had been the point of no return for Maya. She wouldn't leave this place without the man she loved. She refused. If the bomb took them both to hell, then at least they went out together.
So when the soldiers swarmed them and cut Peter off from the rest of the group, she fought her way back to him. She fought hard and dirty, and she was so close, but the bomb had other ideas. The world jumped, and everything went white hot and bright, ears ringing and dust choking her lungs for a few agonizing seconds before everything goes black.
She has no idea how long she's been out, but she comes to face down beneath a pair of dead soldiers, their bodies charred and riddled with shrapnel. Her world is swimming, she feels light-headed and dazed, and so, so tired. It's a long while before she remembers why she's even there.
Peter.
The thought sends her into a panic, and she tries to move, to work her way out from under the corpses. Pain lances through her from so many points that darkness creeps into the edges of her vision and threatens to overtake her again. She stills and focuses on breathing. Breathing hurts like fucking hell, but not as much as moving does.
Slowly, oh so slowly, she gets her right arm under her, but her left arm is numb and refuses to obey. So she's left to do an awkward combination of wriggling and an army crawl to free herself. When she does, when she finally pulls herself out from under the bodies of the men she'd been fighting, she realizes quite a few things.
It's likely she's broken more than a few bones, but the reason it hurts so much to breathe is the shard of metal sticking out of her side. She's caked in blood, some if her own, some of it not. Also, not only is her arm unresponsive, it's been torn to shreds, mangled by the explosion. What's left is charred shreds of flesh, shredded by the same shrapnel and cauterized by the same heat that got the soldiers unwittingly shielding the rest of her. Numbly, she tries to use her powers. There's a flicker of light from whatever tattoos are left, but nothing more.
Even if she was getting out of this alive, which she most certainly is not, she'd never use her powers again.
Numb to the pain of her missing limb, she yanks the shrapnel from her side with her good hand, and clamps it over the wound as she rises to her feet. The ship was going down, she knows that much. It was only a matter of time, and in that time she had to find Peter.
She catches a glimpse of the red lights of his mask through the haze of settling dust and smoke. For a moment she feels relieved until she hobbles closer and sees the state he's in.
God, is he even still alive?
She supposes it doesn't matter. They'll go down with this ship together, regardless.
For a moment she just stands there, broken remains of her left arm hanging limply at her side, taking short, pained breaths as blood seeps through the fingers over her wounded side. ]
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Everything had gone to hell so quickly. There were too many soldiers, and just not enough time. Going in they had all known that the chances of coming out of this alive were practically nonexistent, but when Peter doubled back, that had been the point of no return for Maya. She wouldn't leave this place without the man she loved. She refused. If the bomb took them both to hell, then at least they went out together.
So when the soldiers swarmed them and cut Peter off from the rest of the group, she fought her way back to him. She fought hard and dirty, and she was so close, but the bomb had other ideas. The world jumped, and everything went white hot and bright, ears ringing and dust choking her lungs for a few agonizing seconds before everything goes black.
She has no idea how long she's been out, but she comes to face down beneath a pair of dead soldiers, their bodies charred and riddled with shrapnel. Her world is swimming, she feels light-headed and dazed, and so, so tired. It's a long while before she remembers why she's even there.
Peter.
The thought sends her into a panic, and she tries to move, to work her way out from under the corpses. Pain lances through her from so many points that darkness creeps into the edges of her vision and threatens to overtake her again. She stills and focuses on breathing. Breathing hurts like fucking hell, but not as much as moving does.
Slowly, oh so slowly, she gets her right arm under her, but her left arm is numb and refuses to obey. So she's left to do an awkward combination of wriggling and an army crawl to free herself. When she does, when she finally pulls herself out from under the bodies of the men she'd been fighting, she realizes quite a few things.
It's likely she's broken more than a few bones, but the reason it hurts so much to breathe is the shard of metal sticking out of her side. She's caked in blood, some if her own, some of it not. Also, not only is her arm unresponsive, it's been torn to shreds, mangled by the explosion. What's left is charred shreds of flesh, shredded by the same shrapnel and cauterized by the same heat that got the soldiers unwittingly shielding the rest of her. Numbly, she tries to use her powers. There's a flicker of light from whatever tattoos are left, but nothing more.
Even if she was getting out of this alive, which she most certainly is not, she'd never use her powers again.
Numb to the pain of her missing limb, she yanks the shrapnel from her side with her good hand, and clamps it over the wound as she rises to her feet. The ship was going down, she knows that much. It was only a matter of time, and in that time she had to find Peter.
She catches a glimpse of the red lights of his mask through the haze of settling dust and smoke. For a moment she feels relieved until she hobbles closer and sees the state he's in.
God, is he even still alive?
She supposes it doesn't matter. They'll go down with this ship together, regardless.
For a moment she just stands there, broken remains of her left arm hanging limply at her side, taking short, pained breaths as blood seeps through the fingers over her wounded side. ]
We're quite the pair, aren't we?
[ She doesn't expect an answer. ]