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Apologize for Collateral Damage
Sep. 4th, 2018 08:15 pmSeptember 8th, 2018:
It might as well be some sort of magic, the way it happens.
Greta's out shopping on a Saturday morning, Saoirse in tow. Window-shopping more than anything else; people are starting to put out their autumnal displays. It's a little premature, but after the long, sticky summer they've had, she really can't begrudge anyone a little wishful thinking. And Saoirse is understandably excited for the season that includes her birthday.
(With any luck, she'll actually have able to have it on the day, this year. If there's to be another Purge, no one's whispered of it, yet.)
Not that she has any business invoking luck. Her own has been in rather short supply for the past few weeks. Nothing dramatic, just a steady trickle of inconveniences and little accidents. Things she could brush off if they spaced themselves out more, or if she still wasn't leaving out offerings for Sweeney, as if they might do any sort of good.
So she's a little on guard, though there's really no guarding against what happens. They're headed down the sidewalk, Saoirse's hand in hers, when Greta registers a few odd, metallic pinging sounds, like a pebble tossed into a tin cup, and then a hiss not far from her left ear, as if a fast-flying insect had gone past. She turns toward the sound with a reflexive start, frowning. Then she registers the tear in her sleeve -- when did that happen? -- and as she frowns at it, bewildered, the blue of her dress begins to slowly bloom with crimson.
She's bleeding.
Only then does the pain kick in, as if her nerves were waiting for her to work out what had happened before sounding the alarm, and she stops short with a little squawk of dismay. Her grip on Saoirse's hand tightens. Without thinking, she tries to shift her arm to get a better look at the injury. The pain flares. "Wh--?!" she squeaks, appalled. What happened?
It might as well be some sort of magic, the way it happens.
Greta's out shopping on a Saturday morning, Saoirse in tow. Window-shopping more than anything else; people are starting to put out their autumnal displays. It's a little premature, but after the long, sticky summer they've had, she really can't begrudge anyone a little wishful thinking. And Saoirse is understandably excited for the season that includes her birthday.
(With any luck, she'll actually have able to have it on the day, this year. If there's to be another Purge, no one's whispered of it, yet.)
Not that she has any business invoking luck. Her own has been in rather short supply for the past few weeks. Nothing dramatic, just a steady trickle of inconveniences and little accidents. Things she could brush off if they spaced themselves out more, or if she still wasn't leaving out offerings for Sweeney, as if they might do any sort of good.
So she's a little on guard, though there's really no guarding against what happens. They're headed down the sidewalk, Saoirse's hand in hers, when Greta registers a few odd, metallic pinging sounds, like a pebble tossed into a tin cup, and then a hiss not far from her left ear, as if a fast-flying insect had gone past. She turns toward the sound with a reflexive start, frowning. Then she registers the tear in her sleeve -- when did that happen? -- and as she frowns at it, bewildered, the blue of her dress begins to slowly bloom with crimson.
She's bleeding.
Only then does the pain kick in, as if her nerves were waiting for her to work out what had happened before sounding the alarm, and she stops short with a little squawk of dismay. Her grip on Saoirse's hand tightens. Without thinking, she tries to shift her arm to get a better look at the injury. The pain flares. "Wh--?!" she squeaks, appalled. What happened?
