It'll be fine, she tells herself. A couple shots of Pewter, a bottle of elixir, and she might even recover grip strength and full range of motion in those fingers. It's just a matter of staging the magic; should she burn Pewter now to clear up the smaller hurts, making the elixir more effective, or should she wait, in case Pewter cements some of the damage done to her hand?
She can't think past the image of it, even with her eyes screwed shut against Will's shoulder. It's several heartbeats before Neph even registers Hannibal's voice, and half his words slip past before she recognizes his I Am A Medical Doctor Mostly No Really tone.
"--think applying too much pressure to your fingers is a good idea, regardless of their bleeding. They need to be set. But here" he's saying. Neph turns her face back to him, expression screwed up between pain and concentration. Sorting his accent doesn't usually take this much effort, but her brain's an overturned bookshelf right now: words and fragments and knicknacks everywhere. "'kay," she gasps. Who's she to refute a mostly-medical opinion?
Reality stutters when he begins to swaddle her hand. Do you remember? she almost says. You were so short and little and mad. And now he's tall and sharp-edged and mad. The more things change.
Will breathes in to speak, and Neph tilts her head back to try and get a look at his face. His whole face, not just his mouth. He's chalk white, lips tinged blue at the edges, eyes shriveled up in his skull. He clutches her like a pillow to his chest, brandished against the dark after a nightmare.
"We should burn this place," There's a tremor to his breathing that isn't usually there, and a southern slur to his words he normally suppresses. It'd frighten her, if she didn't agree with him down to her last atom. Left alone, these bodies -- the bodies she dropped -- are a terrifying show of power, metanatural or just pure violence. If the news connects the dead men and woman with whatever anti-mutant group they belong to, the whole east coast'll go up in a witch hunt.
Her only hope of keeping tonight from blowing back on other innocent mutants is to confuse the trail. Hannibal's not wrong that fire might seem even more violent, but that's a lot of oil at Will's back.
"Burn it down," she doesn't even hesitate. "Look, it--right now it's mostly just, just stabbings and bullets. Except for--" Neph jerks her chin at the body behind Hannibal, at the bloody stump of a wrist lying at its side and the red wrack of its face. The sight of it sets off a tiny flinch in her core, has her twitching back against Will. He'd be a reassuring bulk if he weren't trembling like a live speaker. "There's so much fuel here, I bet they always meant to set the whole depot on fire. One'v'em must'a worked here to keep it alll and let everyone else in an' out."
Like a security guard or site manager, maybe? The scenario unspools in her minds' eye, so clear she has to close her eyes against it and breathe out to keep it from swimming to life. "Lemme...lemme go real high an' drop a molotov on it. Through the roof. It'll go up like a bad movie. It'll take forever t'get the bodies all sorted out, and I bet whoever owns this place'll...they'll want it under the rug. They won't wanna be linked to any hate groups"
She's worked for enough wealthy or corporate clients to know how quickly ties get cut when something goes wrong. Serious money's on the railroad or shipping company or whoever rushing the investigation along to cash out on insurance before anybody can ask what all the oil drums were doing there in the first place.
When she blinks her eyes open again, Hannibal's watching with thoughtful intensity. Neph gives his shoulder a parting squeeze and lifts her hand to scrub her knuckles against his jaw. "Set my hand, okay? I gotta--I can't look at it, it'll get in the way anyway. Just--get the fingers straight, please? Then you guys can get inna car and I'll catch up."
It's a better deal than leaving their own blood splashed all over the place in big, congealing pools anyway. Fire oughta take care of DNA. She hopes. Will would know best, and he's the one who suggested fire.
no subject
She can't think past the image of it, even with her eyes screwed shut against Will's shoulder. It's several heartbeats before Neph even registers Hannibal's voice, and half his words slip past before she recognizes his I Am A Medical Doctor Mostly No Really tone.
"--think applying too much pressure to your fingers is a good idea, regardless of their bleeding. They need to be set. But here" he's saying. Neph turns her face back to him, expression screwed up between pain and concentration. Sorting his accent doesn't usually take this much effort, but her brain's an overturned bookshelf right now: words and fragments and knicknacks everywhere. "'kay," she gasps. Who's she to refute a mostly-medical opinion?
Reality stutters when he begins to swaddle her hand. Do you remember? she almost says. You were so short and little and mad. And now he's tall and sharp-edged and mad. The more things change.
Will breathes in to speak, and Neph tilts her head back to try and get a look at his face. His whole face, not just his mouth. He's chalk white, lips tinged blue at the edges, eyes shriveled up in his skull. He clutches her like a pillow to his chest, brandished against the dark after a nightmare.
"We should burn this place," There's a tremor to his breathing that isn't usually there, and a southern slur to his words he normally suppresses. It'd frighten her, if she didn't agree with him down to her last atom. Left alone, these bodies -- the bodies she dropped -- are a terrifying show of power, metanatural or just pure violence. If the news connects the dead men and woman with whatever anti-mutant group they belong to, the whole east coast'll go up in a witch hunt.
Her only hope of keeping tonight from blowing back on other innocent mutants is to confuse the trail. Hannibal's not wrong that fire might seem even more violent, but that's a lot of oil at Will's back.
"Burn it down," she doesn't even hesitate. "Look, it--right now it's mostly just, just stabbings and bullets. Except for--" Neph jerks her chin at the body behind Hannibal, at the bloody stump of a wrist lying at its side and the red wrack of its face. The sight of it sets off a tiny flinch in her core, has her twitching back against Will. He'd be a reassuring bulk if he weren't trembling like a live speaker. "There's so much fuel here, I bet they always meant to set the whole depot on fire. One'v'em must'a worked here to keep it alll and let everyone else in an' out."
Like a security guard or site manager, maybe? The scenario unspools in her minds' eye, so clear she has to close her eyes against it and breathe out to keep it from swimming to life. "Lemme...lemme go real high an' drop a molotov on it. Through the roof. It'll go up like a bad movie. It'll take forever t'get the bodies all sorted out, and I bet whoever owns this place'll...they'll want it under the rug. They won't wanna be linked to any hate groups"
She's worked for enough wealthy or corporate clients to know how quickly ties get cut when something goes wrong. Serious money's on the railroad or shipping company or whoever rushing the investigation along to cash out on insurance before anybody can ask what all the oil drums were doing there in the first place.
When she blinks her eyes open again, Hannibal's watching with thoughtful intensity. Neph gives his shoulder a parting squeeze and lifts her hand to scrub her knuckles against his jaw. "Set my hand, okay? I gotta--I can't look at it, it'll get in the way anyway. Just--get the fingers straight, please? Then you guys can get inna car and I'll catch up."
It's a better deal than leaving their own blood splashed all over the place in big, congealing pools anyway. Fire oughta take care of DNA. She hopes. Will would know best, and he's the one who suggested fire.