Different clothes. The same clothes. Surprisingly, this was what she focused on her, blearily looking down at the fabric she had pulled away from her chest. She felt wretched, body drained of all energy. Slowly the Digimon sat up, the announcement echoing like cotton through her head. Landel? No... That sounded more like a mash of words. A pressed together transmission. And of course; today was when 'visitors' came, was it not? And Renamon would not... Even think of that.
She had only swung her feet to the ground when her door opened. The man was severe, though nodded in understanding at her movements. The near compassion from one of these people almost made her sick, and she struggled to stand under her own power. That, in itself, was a task; the instant she straightened, the heavy bandages coating her shoulder blades crinkled, skin shifting. She winced, gritting her teeth. Behind that, and the heavy wrapping and bandages across her torso, the Digimon walked--or shuffled, depending on perception--with a slouch. The man offered her a wheelchair, and she shook her head vehemently. Only once had she been in one. He nodded at her, and moved to escort her out.
Moving upstairs was too much effort at this point, and to that, she had no wanting of seeing the chapel after her failed efforts the night before. A hand across her stomach, she moved into the room, caring little about the people within it. Despite this, she saw a face she knew, and for that, moved towards him, dropping into a soft chair set at an angle to the couch he was on. Her eyes snapped closed at the effort, pain passing over her face, and then she opened them, focusing on the man with effort. "Did you hear the radio last night?"
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Different clothes. The same clothes. Surprisingly, this was what she focused on her, blearily looking down at the fabric she had pulled away from her chest. She felt wretched, body drained of all energy. Slowly the Digimon sat up, the announcement echoing like cotton through her head. Landel? No... That sounded more like a mash of words. A pressed together transmission. And of course; today was when 'visitors' came, was it not? And Renamon would not... Even think of that.
She had only swung her feet to the ground when her door opened. The man was severe, though nodded in understanding at her movements. The near compassion from one of these people almost made her sick, and she struggled to stand under her own power. That, in itself, was a task; the instant she straightened, the heavy bandages coating her shoulder blades crinkled, skin shifting. She winced, gritting her teeth. Behind that, and the heavy wrapping and bandages across her torso, the Digimon walked--or shuffled, depending on perception--with a slouch. The man offered her a wheelchair, and she shook her head vehemently. Only once had she been in one. He nodded at her, and moved to escort her out.
Moving upstairs was too much effort at this point, and to that, she had no wanting of seeing the chapel after her failed efforts the night before. A hand across her stomach, she moved into the room, caring little about the people within it. Despite this, she saw a face she knew, and for that, moved towards him, dropping into a soft chair set at an angle to the couch he was on. Her eyes snapped closed at the effort, pain passing over her face, and then she opened them, focusing on the man with effort. "Did you hear the radio last night?"