05-05-2014, 03:40 PM
Torri's world was a blaze of throbbing pain. Her head was a bowling ball, but she managed to lift her chin from where it lay limp against her chest. She winced and a curse mumbled out before she could catch herself. The left side of her face felt like a giant bruised peach, and when she parted her lips to test out her jaw, she cringed at the moving of swollen skin across the sensitive bones in her skull, a swollen slug dragged over a dead log.
Pain tolerance was a trick of the mind, she told herself, and focused on breathing in and out at steady paces, keeping her throat lax, and embracing the sensations as sheer electrical activity rather than a crippling headache.
As her faculties returned, she was able to take a better stock of her current situation. Her arms were behind her, and the bite of handcuffs around her wrists kept them there. The sounds of noise from the ER were distant and muffled. The space was dark but for what light leaked around the edges of a door, but from it, she could tell she was in a small room. The floor was cold beneath her.
She tested the bonds. The ring of metal dinged a hollow, iron sound up and down what she surmised was a pipe that she was handcuffed against. A likely sewer pipe, the faint scent of cleaning solutions, and a small room added up to her being in a cleaning closet. With the bucket, ammonia, and borax likely on one of the shelves overhead she could build an incinderary device that'd give her the chance to escape, but being handcuffed to a pipe and essentially staked to the floor, they did her little good.
Shuffling revealed she was wearing only the underarmor of her uniform. That meant the Arabic robe had been ripped from her shoulders and with it, likely, went her Wallet. They'd have a hell of a time breaking into it, but the device in enemy hands worried her none the less.
Michael. Anyone carrying a CCD issued Wallet, wearing the underlayers of an army uniform, and knowing their way around a rifle was likely to raise suspicion. "You better be alive,"
she grumbled. "I'm not going to be a POW for a dead guy."
Pain tolerance was a trick of the mind, she told herself, and focused on breathing in and out at steady paces, keeping her throat lax, and embracing the sensations as sheer electrical activity rather than a crippling headache.
As her faculties returned, she was able to take a better stock of her current situation. Her arms were behind her, and the bite of handcuffs around her wrists kept them there. The sounds of noise from the ER were distant and muffled. The space was dark but for what light leaked around the edges of a door, but from it, she could tell she was in a small room. The floor was cold beneath her.
She tested the bonds. The ring of metal dinged a hollow, iron sound up and down what she surmised was a pipe that she was handcuffed against. A likely sewer pipe, the faint scent of cleaning solutions, and a small room added up to her being in a cleaning closet. With the bucket, ammonia, and borax likely on one of the shelves overhead she could build an incinderary device that'd give her the chance to escape, but being handcuffed to a pipe and essentially staked to the floor, they did her little good.
Shuffling revealed she was wearing only the underarmor of her uniform. That meant the Arabic robe had been ripped from her shoulders and with it, likely, went her Wallet. They'd have a hell of a time breaking into it, but the device in enemy hands worried her none the less.
Michael. Anyone carrying a CCD issued Wallet, wearing the underlayers of an army uniform, and knowing their way around a rifle was likely to raise suspicion. "You better be alive,"
she grumbled. "I'm not going to be a POW for a dead guy."