wickedchouette | (no subject)

[It's been an uneventful day, as far as Barge days ago, and Misty's spending her evening out alone on deck: phone out, earbuds in, and the faint, tinny sound of the Les Mis soundtrack audible to anyone who passes close by. Normally, she's good for an hour or so of this, but on this particular night she's feeling more restless than usual - restless enough that, after only about fifteen minutes, she heaves a sigh and switches off the music, turning to head back into the ship proper.

At which point she rounds a corner and promptly comes face to face with a bloody, half-naked woman.]

Oh my god--

[She gasps, shocked and also immediately intrigued, like someone who's spent the past half hour listlessly flipping through channels only to finally stumble upon something good. Hurriedly shrugging out of her jacket, she hustles over, intent on draping it around the woman's shoulders (if indeed the woman will let her). As she does so, she slips her brand-new stun baton out of the jacket pocket and shoves it into her jeans pocket instead. This woman doesn't look like she's in any state to attack - but, well. Better safe than sorry.]

Is all that blood yours?

[Misty's tone is concerned, but also weirdly interested, and not in the least bit judgmental - and nothing in it says that she's going to be turned off if the answer is no.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ Sandie remembers the conversation with the admiral well, although she's not exactly got her head on straight at the moment. Something about a deal, which means she's in space, which means that's probably why it's so cold--

--Ah. No. Her hands are shaking, and before she can curl them around herself a curly haired blond comes bounding around the corner with such a frenetic energy Sandie can barely register it ontop of everything else.

She's asking something, her tone is off but Sandie can't quite catch it. She knows there's a warm jacket over her shoulders that she accepts gratefully, the touch of fabric jarring her out of her mind. When she speaks, it's with a british accent, voice tired, vocal fry due to exhaustion. She asks the only thing she can really think of, not realizing the other had asked her a question beforehand. ]

Do you have a cigarette?

No, definitely not, but-- you don't need a cigarette, you need medical attention. Look at that hand. Do you think you can walk to the elevator?

[The infirmary is only a couple of floors down, but Misty doesn't even consider taking her there. This woman is her find, not Alec's or Dracula's or Tiffany's, and she has antiseptic and gauze and medical tape in her bathroom cabinet in her cabin. She can take care of her herself.]

You can lean on me if you need to. I'll help you.

[ Her head is spinning, and while she's mostly physically fine save for her hand but she's still a little out of it--and Misty?

Sandie tugs the jacket a little more closed with her free hand, naturally wide eyes assessing Misty. It's a wary suspicion that Sandie's honestly too tired to keep--this isn't a threat. This is a woman--a woman with wide curls and strange glasses and a rather eclectic sense of dress. Soft in an overwhelming place with harsh lighting and a world that doesn't make sense.

She steels herself, squaring her shoulders, keeping her posture poised and perfect in spite of her state of dress. Her makeup seems to be holding, she thinks dimly. But Sandie is confident she can do this.

...Still. She finds her hand sliding down Misty's arm, her good hand finding its place in the other girls.'

It's been a while since she's been safe with someone. ]

Let's go, darling.

[Misty A) is not remotely safe, and B) would be absolutely over the moon if she were privy to even a small part of Sandie's current thought processes. That said, she at least poses no physical danger to Sandie right now, and there's a very genuine (if maladjusted) concern in the way she hustles her into the elevator and zips her down to the eighth floor.]

What happened to you?

[She asks, giving Sandie's hand a comforting squeeze as she drops her other arm from down around her shoulders so that she can unlock her door.]

[ It's something out of Star Trek, Sandie thinks, looking at the windows and the doors, though halfway through their journey the adrenaline is finally starting to fade. Most of Sandie's wonderment--her face is carefully passive but her eyes wander--has completely been replaced by the fact that she's got a hand that's been sliced open due to grabbing a knife, first.

Not that it matters anymore. He's dead and Sandie doesn't regret it.

Could still use a cigeratte, though. Misty speaks and removes her hand from Sandies, and that seems to gently jostle the mod to actually reply. Her voice is flat, the lack fo regret clear in her voice. ]

Revenge. [ She's proud of it, in a way. She steps in once invited, looking around at Misty's cabin, and once the door is closed her shoulders square a little as she begins the process of knitting herself back together. ]

What's your name, love?

Misty. Why don't you just sit right here--

[The whole place has a clean-but-pleasantly-cluttered vibe, with makeup, picture frames, and other assorted knick-knacks scattered around the room - and if Sandie lets her, Misty will perch her at the foot of her bed, facing the dresser. ]

-- and I'll go get some things to clean you up with. Okay?

[She smiles in a way that's meant to be reassuring, but is more bright than calm.]

[ She feels completely out of place like this, the room familiar but also foreign--the objects around are just a little past what she knows and owns, time-wise, although it's all things she recognizes for the most part. She sits at the foot of the bed, crossing one long leg over the other and trying her best to keep her shoulders squared. Good posture helps.

Sandie's gaze flicks around the room, taking it in, taking the little hints of Misty's life and attempting to assemble them into a story. She's here, calmer, a little more collected--it's enough she can start to read the other girl, or at the very least pay more attention to her. That smile, for one, is slightly off. Sandie finds it familiar in a strange way, something she can't put her finger on.

What Sandie needs is insurance things will go her way. Now, more than ever, and it starts with the overly helpful blonde. Just in case, she thinks. ]

I don't know what I would have if you hadn't found me in that hallway, darling.

[ Her uninjured hand shoots out, grabbing at Misty's wrist, and Sandie purposefully makes sure some of the blood on her hands gets on Misty's skin. A nice reminder as she looks at Misty, matching the other's bright but cold smile with her own calculatingly innocent gaze. ]

Thank you.

[ She squeezes, like she doesn't want to let the other go. ]

[Oh boy, is there anything Sandie could have said or done that would have been more tailor-made to get Misty's attention? There absolutely is not. She's perceptive even though she's socially clueless, which means that while she notices that calculation in Sandie's eyes, she doesn't fully gauge its significance just yet - but even if she did, it's unlikely she'd do anything differently. The moment she heard I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't found me, she was all in.]

Why don't you come into the bathroom with me?

[She offers, patting the back of Sandie's hand, completely unbothered by the blood.]

I have antiseptic, I have bandages-- I don't have painkillers; are you in pain?

Painkillers--yes--- [ She frowns a little, more of a sultry pout than anything, looking over at Misty as she offers the bathroom. She gets up again, being sure to stay as near to Misty as she can, hovering slightly to the left of her. She's watching with rapt attention, big, wide eyes never leaving Misty's hands. She curls into herself, just a little, though she's actually knitting herself together. Time to look vulnerable. Time to look small. Time to keep this one. ]

I'm Sandie. Sandie Collins. I never gave you my name, forgive me, it's been-- [ she winces. ] --quite a whirlwind these few hours.

Oh my gosh, don't apologize--

[She shakes her head in disbelief, pulling away just enough to root through the cabinets - bringing out gauze and medical tape and antiseptic wet wipes, setting each on the counter.]

Seriously, it's totally understandable. But if you need painkillers, I'll have to take you to the infirmary...

[Which she sounds reluctant to even offer up as an option, but there it is.]

They're really assholes up there, but I think they treat their patients okay, at least.

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amazing how i get a tag, blink, and then a million days have passed