Soma was quiet for a moment after the door shut behind Link. She'd never been the type to think before acting, but she did now. The circumstances demanded it.
There was something out there that was killing patients. Something that had already killed someone who'd looked like a fighter, if her memory was anything to go by. And if it was loose, it would only kill more people before the night was over. And there was no guarantee she'd be safe here. Not with the wheelchair as unwieldy as it was, with no maneuverability to speak of and all the furniture getting in the way. She was a sitting duck if it came for her in here.
Frowning, she pivoted carefully, opened her closet doors, and received her second surprise of the evening. Her old uniform.
It was the last thing she expected to see hanging in front of her--something she hadn't even considered. Of course there were people here who had their own outfits, and if anything it made Special Counseling patients that much more difficult to identify--but she hadn't thought she'd get her own clothes back. She hadn't seen the point of it. What would be the use? There was no tactical advantage to them.
And yet she couldn't bring herself to leave the clothes in the closet. Even if they were only a convincing facsimile, they were a reminder of home. Of everything waiting for her back in the HRL, and everything she'd been.
Cautiously, she pushed herself to her feet, testing the limits of her strength. She was pleasantly surprised when she stayed upright, a slight twinge in her abdomen the only sign that she was better off not pushing her luck. After that, shrugging off the loose-fitting grey sweats was easy, and it was impossible to deny that she felt a little better once she was back in the familiar uniform. At the very least, she wouldn't have that stupid smiley face on her chest anymore.
Then she sat back down in her wheelchair, moved back to her possessions box, and field stripped her pistol for cleaning. If anything was coming tonight, she had better be prepared.
no subject
There was something out there that was killing patients. Something that had already killed someone who'd looked like a fighter, if her memory was anything to go by. And if it was loose, it would only kill more people before the night was over. And there was no guarantee she'd be safe here. Not with the wheelchair as unwieldy as it was, with no maneuverability to speak of and all the furniture getting in the way. She was a sitting duck if it came for her in here.
Frowning, she pivoted carefully, opened her closet doors, and received her second surprise of the evening. Her old uniform.
It was the last thing she expected to see hanging in front of her--something she hadn't even considered. Of course there were people here who had their own outfits, and if anything it made Special Counseling patients that much more difficult to identify--but she hadn't thought she'd get her own clothes back. She hadn't seen the point of it. What would be the use? There was no tactical advantage to them.
And yet she couldn't bring herself to leave the clothes in the closet. Even if they were only a convincing facsimile, they were a reminder of home. Of everything waiting for her back in the HRL, and everything she'd been.
Cautiously, she pushed herself to her feet, testing the limits of her strength. She was pleasantly surprised when she stayed upright, a slight twinge in her abdomen the only sign that she was better off not pushing her luck. After that, shrugging off the loose-fitting grey sweats was easy, and it was impossible to deny that she felt a little better once she was back in the familiar uniform. At the very least, she wouldn't have that stupid smiley face on her chest anymore.
Then she sat back down in her wheelchair, moved back to her possessions box, and field stripped her pistol for cleaning. If anything was coming tonight, she had better be prepared.