the sound of her feet on the pavement is ringing like gunfire in her ears, breaths come in sharp and hollow gasps with each step. she's got to run, got to climb, got to jump. she is single minded, with one goal in sight, one end game. the arrow looses, shoots high above her head and the grappling hook latches on to a ledge. with one fluid motion, she pulls herself up, swinging from one rooftop to the next and dropping to her feet. she curls, hits the ground with a precise tumble and rolls onto her feet without skipping a beat.

she doesn't expect to catch up with her, she doesn't care to. that isn't the point. frankly, she has bigger things to worry about right now. the point is to send a message. her eyes are sharp, unblinking as she expertly knocks the arrow into place. nimble fingers curl around the bowstring, flexing and unflexing once, twice, and she draws in a deep breath as she pulls back. there's a moment when she watches, her eyes following each of the other woman's movements from her perch on the roof. waiting, biding her time.

the corner of her lip twitches into a sideways scowl when dinah turns around. "suck on this." her fingers twitch, light as a feather and slip off the bowstring, letting the arrow fly. she watches it as it connects with her best friend's shoulder and slings her bow over her own.

4 november 2015 7:52 PM it's a humbling feeling to know that everything you have, everything you are, all that you've built for yourself can be gone in the blink of an eye. it leaves you feeling broken and scrambling to pick as many of the pieces out of the wreckage as you can. she's taken what she can carry, salvaged what she could and left the rest behind, everything she has is in a single trunk in the back of her car.

she doesn't even look back as she jams the key into the ignition and drives away from the smouldering ruins of her life.

4 november 2015 8:59 PM

the smell is still heavy on her skin. it's pungent, acrid, even. like campfire mixed with tirefire mixed with chemicals that she can't quite place. it's the smell of her whole life burning to the ground. it's in her hair, her clothes, it's burning her nostrils. it stings her eyes, her nose, she can taste it in her mouth. she can't seem to shake it off, no matter how hard she's tried. she's already washed her clothes, taken a bath, scrubbed so hard just trying to get the ash and dust off that she was pretty sure any harder would have had the skin peeling right off her bones. but no matter what she did, no matter how hard she scrubbed, the smell is still there, serving as some fucked up, spiteful reminder of all the things that had digressed that day.

it's almost funny that it seems like her skin is on fire and the thought brings a bitter smile to her face. the bruises and scrapes and burns that marr her body are a stark contrast against her pale skin, but they remind her that she's still here, that even though it seems like everything is going to hell around her, that she's still kicking and not ready to go down without one hell of a fight.

4 november 2015 10:17 PM she's tired. actually, scratch that. she's more than just plain tired. she's run down, beat down, completely fucking spent and more than over all of this. it's all she can do to just go through the motions. she doesn't know what else to do now, so she's checking the logs, checking traffic cams, touching base with the team. she's doing anything and everything she can just to keep her mind and hands occupied. because the truth is that no matter what she's telling everyone, no matter how much she insists she's okay, even to herself, she's only barely holding it together. she's at the end of her fucking rope and she's holding on for dear life. but she's not even thinking about letting go. she's afraid and doesn't know if she's strong enough to handle it. she's already lost so much and she can't bear the thought of losing anymore. she chokes on the thought but swallows it down.

her hands curl around the edge of the desk and she pushes the chair back. her eyes are heavy, but she knows that sleep isn't in the cards. more to the point, she can't look at monitors anymore, she can't sit still, but the voice in the back of her head tells her now isn't a good time to go looking for trouble. so instead she pushes herself to her feet and stuffs her hands into the pockets of the too-big hoodie that diana had brought to her just to keep them from shaking.

a moment passes where she just stands there, not moving, not blinking and if she didn't know any better, she wouldn't have even thought she was breathing. finally, she huffs, pushes a hand through her hair and bows her head as she ambles forward to tromp up the stairs to the loft, scooping up the half-empty bottle of wine from the table and knocking back another hefty swing as she passes by.

4 november 2015 10:51 PM sweat is beading and dripping down her forehead, she can taste the salt on her lips and feel the sting burning her eyes and she doesn't care. just like she doesn't care about the shallow, quick breaths as she throws another punch. just like she doesn't care about the burning in her knuckles or the blood that's staining the canvas covering on the bag. it just feels good to feel something, anything. she's been holding it all back for so long now, she doesn't want to feel anger or sadness or hurt or frustration or anything that could contribute to the foul taste in her mouth over the past few of days. she doesn't even realize that there are tears rolling down her cheeks. or maybe she does and she just doesn't care.

she throws another punch, twists her body, propelling all of her weight into the kick that sends the bag swinging back and forth, and then, in a single motion, she collapses against the bag, clinging to it, as if it's the only thing that's keeping her upright, and her body is wracked with sobs as she slips down to the ground, finally letting all those things she's been holding back, all those things she's been refusing to feel wash over her. she hates this. she hates how small she feels, how lost and alone she is, she hates knowing that people are hurting, she hates that she lets it get to her like this and mostly, she hates that she feels like this... scared and lonely and a little too numb. but mostly, she's tired... goddamnit. she's so fucking tired. she rips off her sweatshirt and flings it away, squeezing her eyes shut, hard enough that she's seeing spots when she opens them back up just in time to watch the garment hit the ground.

it's the sound of the heavy door opening that breaks her from the mess that's going on inside of her head. she knows who it is, she should have been more prepared, but que sera sera or whatever, right? it takes all her strength to catch her breath, to pull herself together and push herself back up to her feet. she wipes her bloodied knuckles on a towel and throws it in with the heap with the sweatshirt on the floor, then takes a deep breath and makes her way back down the stairs.