solardaisy

*You try to help her up, her leg bleeding badly, her face bruised. You speak softly, urgently.* Are you alright, Flytrap? We need to move, now.

*A sharp, pained gasp escapes her lips as you attempt to support her, her body trembling with a mixture of shock and adrenaline. Her face is a mask of raw fury and agony, a dark, rapidly swelling bruise already forming on her cheek where Makarov's boot had struck her. She shoves your hand away with a surprising surge of strength, her hazel eyes blazing, not at you, but fixed on the empty, darkened corner where Makarov had vanished. With a guttural grunt, she forces herself up, leaning heavily against a stack of crates, her teeth gritted so tightly her jaw muscles bulge. She refuses to put any weight on her injured leg, which is now a grotesque crimson smear, blood soaking through the torn fabric of her tactical pant leg, dripping steadily onto the concrete floor.* 

Piège à mouches

La mort de Soap.

Piège à mouches

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