#750 words
![[ from this post ]69. “Why the hell are you bleeding?!”His blood is like a parenthesis, an abrupt pu](https://64.media.tumblr.com/9235c369a19c7382a02fd9111133ce9d/tumblr_non2cs3k861us3io8o4_540.gif "[ from this post ]69. “Why the hell are you bleeding?!”His blood is like a parenthesis, an abrupt pu")
[ from this post]
69. “Why the hell are you bleeding?!”
His blood is like a parenthesis, an abrupt punctuation interjected in the midst of a runaway thought, because once Satya sees it slick and red down his ribs, all coherent contemplation slams to a halt.
A part of her briefly considers voicing the question enclosed within dripping parentheticals, why are you bleeding, but there are more pertinent words to be said.
“On your back. Now. Quickly. Good. Stay still.”
The thick shot of epinephrine spurs her hammering pulse and injects a tremor in her hands, but she forms her mudras with desperate precision and encases him in a shroud of hexagonal light: damage control.
“I’m fine. Stop your—your worrying.” Junkrat grins up at her from the hot pavement. It’s forced, strained; his countenance is tight with agony. “S’only a scratch.”
“It is far more than a scratch,” she says. Her voice is too rigid; a razor’s edge.
“Right, yeah, but it’s—” He pauses, grits his teeth, breathes, wheezing, “—but it’s not a leg. Or—or an arm.”
Satya bites at the inside of her cheek. She does not want to look at his injury (too wrong, too red, an apostrophe, an exclamation point, an indefinite rerouting pause), but she must because despite Doctor Ziegler’s miraculous nanotechnology, she will still need to anticipate treatment.
She signals distress on her commlink. Help should come soon.
“It may be a lung,” she says.
“You already leave me breathless,” he manages. “Now it’s—it’s just terminal.”
“Be silent. That is the pain talking. You are delirious.”
Setting her jaw, Satya weaves another web of light and presses it into his chest, using as much force as she possibly can. She must do something to staunch the wound because the first shield isn’t working; sanguine still wells up beneath; damage control, damage control.
Junkrat makes a harsh hissing sound between clenched teeth. His body tenses under her touch, and he half coils up beneath her as if a new position might help him navigate the anguish.
“I apologize, but this requires pressure. You must—”
“M’not delirious,” he argues, gasping, “I’m—”
“What did you not understand about be silent?”
In spite of the apparent pain, he attempts a simper. “Everything?”
“Must I put a shield over your mouth as well?” She leans her weight into her hands and presses harder against his chest because she isn’t sure this is working; she isn’t a trained professional, she doesn’t have experience in this; all she has is hard-light and that must be enough, it has to be. “You will only make it worse if you continue to talk. Captain Amari or Doctor Ziegler will be here soon, and I would prefer you alive for their arrival.”
She averts her gaze from his injury and tries to study his face. Sharp, angled lineaments, half-shuttered eyes, smudged soot, wildfire hair, a flash of gold when he sucks in a ragged, heaving inhale like he’s—
… breathless.
Satya’s pulse skips. A tight knot already exists at the back of her throat, but it wrings tighter still.
Breathless. He said she made him breathless—
She digs her hands against his ribs and channels her strength there because she cannot believe that after all these months of light-hearted banter and cordial cooperation he’s decided to do this now. Just—why now? He can barely talk, no less hold a proper conversation; he’s an absolute disaster, the bloody madman, how dare he say something like that right now—
“If you got yourself injured just to make that joke,” she says, casting him a stern glance, “I am going to be very cross with you.”
He tries to laugh, but it sounds—wrong. Wheezy. “Didn’t,” he rasps. “Cross me heart.”
In the distance, Satya recognizes the familiar sounds of her teammates. The chatter in her visor’s commlink signals their approach. Relief nearly drowns her, a palpable riptide crashing down around her shoulders, but she keeps her hands flat and her focus sharp.
“Be silent,” she says, allowing herself a tired grin, “or you truly will be breathless.”
Junkrat grimaces under the pressure, but he still cracks a crooked smile.
Post link
Crafting, I Wrote
“Wow, those earrings are just darling!”
I heard those words, and variations of them, at least a dozen times in any given month back in my old town.
Having moved here barely two days ago and hearing those same words spoken with the same awe-struck fascination, I have to hide a satisfied smirk as I turn towards my newest admirer. “Thank you! I made them - practicing my crafting!” I make sure my voice oozes sweet, saccharine pleasure at the older woman clutching a well-loved shawl around her shoulders.
Her eyes light up behind her librarian-style glasses. “Oh, I just love seeing the younger generation finding passion for handicraft!” She plays with the fringe of her shawl. “It’s so rare these days - takes too long, people say, it’s easier to just buy something. But there’s something special about making your own accessories. A little piece of your soul you get to carry around with you.”
It takes a herculean effort to keep a sharp, wicked smile off my face. “It is! And it’s relaxing, meditative, almost. Crafting, I mean. I can finally relax and let all the stress go when I pick up my needle and thread.” I reach up to stroke one of the earrings that had caught her attention. “The world’s so noisy and people can be so mean these days, but I can make a small island of peace when I work on a new project.” I look up to catch a flutter of pure joy flash across her face. “Take all that anxiety and frustration and just…work it out with something productive and meaningful.”
“Exactly,” she breaths, swaying closer unconsciously. “Making something beautiful, it helps keep the ugly of the world at bay.” For a moment, her eyes cloud over in memory, and I can see her live through whichever bit of terribleness is inspiring her current project. “I get to bring a bit of beauty into this dark world every time I finish something.”
“It must be a crafting thing,” I comment, bright and giggly. “Maybe if we try hard enough, we can make our world a bit nicer - outweigh all the bad.” I reach out a hand, keeping my motions bouncy, bubbly, easily naïve and cheerful. “I’m Terry, it’s nice to meet you!”
She pushes her handbag up her arm to return my greeting. “Beth - the pleasure is all mine. I just love random encounters with fellow handicrafters. We are in such short supply these days.” Her grip is deceptively strong - unless you knew she knit a dozen sweaters for charity, three blankets for new family members, and several dozen small toys for the youngsters at the local daycare in the past year. “I don’t go much, but I know of a small crafting community that has meetings a couple times a month, if you want to make more crafting connections.”
I grin - I definitely should have moved out here ages ago. The ease in which I got a free pass… “Oh, that sounds absolutely wonderful! Here, I have a card or something on me - I work in publishing to pay the bills.” I dig around for my personal cards, pass one over. “Doesn’t take up all my free time, and I can manage a decent house and crafting supplies on it.”
Beth looks at the card; written in wide, nearly flat looped font, my name takes up the top half of the front. “Terry Winters,” Beth says, gentle and happy. “I love the font - you don’t see this kind of simple creativity with cards these days either.”
“Oh, that’s my writing - it’s just easier for me to print my name and information, and faster,” I tell her, enjoying the way her face nearly glows in happiness. “If I could ever find someone good at computers, I hear you can have your handwriting turned into a font - I’d probably do that, given the choice.” I shrug a shoulder, a ‘maybe one day’ universal gesture. “My number is on the back, along with my email. You can send me the information there! Just stick your name in the 'About’ line, so it doesn’t end up drowning in the work emails I get every day.” I grin with my new friend - commiserating about modern corporate work culture works with anyone, at any age, in any country.
It always has.
It always will.
“I’ll get it to you this evening, Terry, and I might even try and make it out to the meeting this month! It would be nice to reconnect with the rest of the crafters around here.” Her voice is dreamy, wistful.
“I hope to see you there. We can complain about our days and trade some tips! And I’ll be able to make some new friends - I’m new in town, actually, so you have no idea how relieved I am about all this.” I lean in to whisper conspiratorially. “No one liked crafting back in my old town.”
Beth giggles, surprising herself. “Oh, Terry, you’ll fit right in!”
I beam.
As Beth heads off, errands, she explains with an exasperated eye-roll, I feel a wave of anticipation and heady excitement spill over.
“You’ll soon have some new friends,” I murmur quietly, and I can feel my earlobes tremble. “There’s a lot of bad happening here, it’ll be…fun, making this little town a nicer place.” Beth’s form disappears into a door leading to a pharmacy. “And I have my newest project right over there.”
I’m sure if I had left them their vocal chords, my little 'projects’ would be screaming.
