So a few weeks ago I had a post about fuck unsolicited con crit go pretty big on here. I’ve generally at this point been ignoring the replies and reblogs but have sometimes read them.
The vast majority agree with UNSOLICITED concrit being personally harmful. A few don’t. Fine whatever, some people will change their minds, some won’t.
But I saw a reply that broke my brain. Not responding directly because I don’t want the fight and yes this is probably petty of me I don’t care.
But.
Someone just tried to argue “the main reason people write fanfic is to get/receive constructive criticism”
Wait…what?????
Ranging from aware of their existence to my bastard of a best friend, I probably know at least 50 fanfic writers. And not a fucking single one of them would list that as their primary motivation.
They would say:
Because it is fun!
Because canon is wrong and I must fix it!
Because if I don’t get this idea out of my head, I will murder everyone!
Because these two characters didn’t touch each other’s butts in the movie/show/book and they should be touching each other’s butts!
I just always break when people seem to fundamentally believe that you can’t be doing something for the sheer fun and joy of it. It saddens me.
Today (21st August) is fanfiction writers appreciation day!
I wanted to start something that would remind the entire fanfiction community how much we appreciate all of our writers and the love that you put into your creations.
So here we go. Tag writers you love, whether that’s friends, mutuals or just people you’ve never spoken to who’s work you adore. Include just a few of the fandoms they write for and I guess a reason you’ve tagged them if you like.
Reblog, don’t reply! I want to see a massive chain of appreciation and recommendations for blogs of all sizes, that readers can come to and browse through to find new stories to enjoy.
Your work matters! Your creations and stories matter! Keep going!
I’ll start:
@whovianbi The Walking Dead - heart of gold and honestly one do the most supportive people in fan fiction. Has a clear adoration for her characters that bleeds through into her work.
@michellespensctratchz Borderlands, Breaking Bad, The Witcher - full of inspiration and ideas, contributes hugely to keeping others motivated and has beautiful, eloquently written stories.
@sapphire-reverie Game of Thrones, Star Wars, Thor/Vikings - some of the most complex, well thought out cross overs I’ve ever witnessed coming together and an honestly limitless imagination. Also a well of inspiration and support for other creators.
@kaythejay Good Omens - writes like no one I’ve ever known! Kay honestly is just overflowing with ideas and the rate at which she writes astounds me. It’s clear to see the passion she has about her fandom.
@lenacarstairspotterstewart The 100 - loves her characters and is really creative in the scenarios that she puts the characters into. Very talented at adding situations that the show sorely needed.
@jawsandbones Dragon Age - honestly the reason I ever took the chance on sharing my fanfiction. I read their multi chapter fic Belong on AO3 and it absolutely changed my world! I suddenly found myself aspiring to write as well as them and they really helped me to realise that fan fiction writing could be a valuable thing for people. Their work is absolutely incredible and the way that they capture the characters is insane. Could not recommend enough!
Get tagging away and let’s show all the fan fiction writers the difference that they make! 💜
@puddygeeks -The 100,star wars , BLOODY BRILLIANT FICS, I don’t know how you manage to come up with such good OCs but keep it up. They’re awesome. She’s also an absolute sweetheart who gives awesome advice!!
@xxreysoloxx -Star Wars,she’s a beginner but her fics are adorable as hell!! She’s also my internet kid so go give her work some love!!
@gneebee -The Walking Dead, …I’m just in awe of their Bethyl fics tbh.
@kaythejay @sapphire-reverie @michellespensctratchz same as what puds said. Our space family are awesooooome!! Love you guysss. Your works are amazing and deserve more appreciation!!
I already do a fic rec every Tuesday, but general shout out to these stellar Borderlands writers (AO3 links included):
@annalyticall (AnnaLytic)
@ungenue (lucyrne)
@jakobslock (JakobsLock)
@oodlyenough (thirty2flavors)
@rosethesongbird (aewrose…Also writes for The Witcher)
Thanks so much for the tag Michelle, your work is so amazing and the patience you have for longform works is just... wow... I’m too impulsive and want to finish everything in less than a day so I admire it a lot!!
I don’t follow a TON of writers on here, but I really love the work of:
@taylortut (multifandom--The Witcher, MCU, TMA, and SO MANY more) (AO3)
@phantomrose96 (multifandom, her MP100 fic “A Breach of Trust” is absolutely LEGENDARY) (AO3)
@janekfan (multifandom, MP100, The Witcher, TMA) (AO3)
@enbetween (my friend on Instagram who I don’t think has Tumblr, lol) (MP100) (AO3)
(Of course, don’t feel obligated to tag anyone- just wanted to share some love <3)
Content warning: violence, abuse, mentions of amputation, blood, vomit (emeto), drug abuse, temporary character death... this is a rough one, guys.
Day to day life (if you could call being imprisoned in a basement with no windows “life”) was not easy, for Serizawa. Crawling around on the floor on amputated stumps with no companionship or help most of the time. One meal a day, at best. Bouncing back and forth between being so drugged up he couldn’t think straight and withdrawals that made him vomit until his throat bled. And on top of it all, living in constant fear of further violence—sometimes because of something he did. Sometimes because of something someone else did. Sometimes random, unprompted. Like he was a human punching bag. Sleeping on the floor like a dog, often in a puddle of his own blood, sweat, and tears. It was, quite honestly, hell.
Getting sick down there?
That was worse.
The first sign was the fact that he slept. Most people lose sleep when they aren’t well. However, when you’re plagued by horrifying, vivid, realistic nightmares six or seven times a night, you don’t sleep well, ever. And yet there he was, getting shaken awake by Minegishi.
“Serizawa, wake up,” he frowned. “Are you alright? It’s lunchtime,”
“Mh,” he blinked his eyes open, using his bandaged upper arms to rub the sleep from them. “Must’ve been tired,”
“Apparently. Come on, sit up. I’ve got okayu for you today.” Minegishi reached out his hand, gently lifting him off the floor, cautious when touching constantly bruised ribs. “You feel warm.”
“My head hurts.” Serizawa desperately wanted to squeeze the pressure points at his temples, strong fingertips rubbing all over his scalp, alleviating the headache. Really, that was what he missed the most about not having arms. It really made him realize how seldom he was touched.
“I’ll ask President Suzuki if I can get some medicine for you. Here, eat. We’ll both get in trouble if he notices I’m down here too long.”
He opened his mouth obediently, going through a few spoonfuls before wincing and turning away. “No more. I feel sick.”
Minegishi frowned again. “Are you sure?”
“Mm-hmm,” he squeezed his eyes shut, laying back down onto the cold concrete floor, supporting his head on what was left of his arms as he curled up into a ball. “I feel faint.”
“I-I’ll try my best, but—he’s in a really bad mood already,” Minegishi hung his head in shame. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to come back until tomorrow.”
He took in a shaky breath. His headache was getting worse. “Not your fault, M’negishi,” he whispered, slurring. “Don’ worry.”
He heard Minegishi sniffling as he rose, wordlessly, and left the room, door clicking shut behind him.
Probably nothing, he thought. Maybe a weird one-day bug or something. Mama always said it was good to sweat a fever out, anyway.
I’ve handled worse.
He lay there, face down on the floor, for what felt like hours; the only indication of his life being the slow, shaky rise and fall of his back with every breath. Focus. In and out. In and out. Don’t throw up. Focus. His head was pounding stronger and stronger, and he felt beads of sweat dripping off his forehead.
He deeply regretted the few bites of porridge as they finally came back up, burning and stinging his mouth and nose until there was nothing left in his stomach. The motion of gagging and retching ignited a burning pain in his stomach.
He slowly crawled away from the vomit, spitting in a desperate attempt to get rid of the disgusting taste. The burning pain did not subside, and he felt an intense need to rub his sore stomach—like Mama did, when I was little, Mama, I don’t feel good. A sensation of freezing cold came over him as he started to shiver, cowering in the opposite corner of the room, his back to the door. Several short cycles of sleep went by, interrupted by waves of nausea causing him to gag, his curls sticking to his sweaty forehead despite still feeling like he was in a freezer. Focus. Focus. Breathe in, breathe out. You’re okay. Mama, help. It’s okay. You’re okay. Focus. In, out. Throw up. Don’t throw up. Breathe. Mama.
He flinched, yelping at the sudden touch on his shoulder. The burning pain had graduated to an excruciating stabbing pain, with a feeling like someone twisting a knife every time he moved, and he realized his breathing was shallow in an effort to minimize it.
“It’s okay, it’s just me,” said Minegishi. “I got some medicine for you. Open up.”
“Mmmmh. Can’t,” he whined. “Throw up.”
“Just try. It’s all I can give you.”
He cautiously opened his mouth, allowing Minegishi to place a few pills on his tongue, as they had so many times before. Usually, it was a blessing, but to his fever-addled mind it was a source of barely contained panic. He swallowed anyway, hoping it would cause the pain to stop.
The back of Minegishi’s fingers brushed gently across Serizawa’s face. “You’re burning up. Where does it hurt?”
“Stomach,” he whimpered, already feeling the medication trying to rise in his throat.
“Let me see.” Minegishi went to pull up his shirt, revealing the multitude of bruises all over his body in various states of healing. It’s okay. You trust Minegishi. Minegishi won’t hurt you. Breathe. Breathe in. Breathe out. “Right here?”
Serizawa screamed, seeing stars at the light pressure. Minegishi jerked his hand away at the sudden movement as the ailing man vomited from the pain, sobbing as he fell to the ground, curling in on himself in an effort to quell the waves of pain still emanating from the sore spot.
“I-I’m sorry,” Minegishi stammered. “I… let me see if the President will let me—“
“No, no, please, please don’t,” he coughed, wincing. “Please, I’ll be fine, please don’t tell him, please—“
“Serizawa, I barely touched you and you screamed. You need a hospital.” He got up from the floor, walking toward the door as Serizawa exploded into feverish pleas of no, no, Minegishi, please, he’ll hurt me, please don’t, please, no, no no no. He began to weep as the door shut behind Minegishi.
Mama, please. Please save me. Help. I need help. It hurts, I’m dying. I’m going to die. I have to protect myself. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t trust Minegishi. Minegishi wouldn’t hurt me on purpose. I have to, I have to. I have to trust Minegishi. I can’t trust anyone else. I can’t. No one cares about me. I’m dying. I’m dying alone.
“You’re sick, Serizawa?” Touichirou crouched to the ground where he was curled up. Please. Please help.
“I-I don’t know, sir,”
“Minegishi here says you are. What’s wrong?”
“M-my stomach, sir, it hurts—“ he gasped as Touichirou pulled up roughly on his shirt. “P-p-please, please be g-gentle sir—“
Touchirou’s two fingers pressed—hard—into the sore spot. It did hurt, but not the way Serizawa had expected.
What hurt was when he let go. Excruciating agony, pulsing, burning, squeezing, he was screaming, he was wailing, he was dying, help, Mama, help me. He lost all inhibition as he continued weeping in front of the President and a horrified Minegishi.
“Huh. It’s been a while since I heard you scream like that, Serizawa. Too bad you aren’t sick more often.” He jabbed his fingers into the spot once more as Serizawa shrieked before his eyes rolled back, going completely still as he blacked out.
—
“Mama,” he cried, breaking into a sprint.
“Katsuya!”
They met in the middle, embracing, sharing tears of joy between them, his mother’s fingers in his hair.
“I missed you so much, Mama.”
“I missed you too, my heart.”
She pulled back, looking at him, confused.
“Wait…you aren’t my son.”
“Mama, I am, I’m Katsuya,”
“No,” she said, stepping back. “You’re disgusting. My son’s not like you. He’s not a cripple. He’s not a coward.”
“Mama, I’m not—“
He reached out to her as his arms crumbled into dust, starting at the fingertips.
“Look at yourself,” she said, bitterly. “You can’t comb your hair. You can’t wash yourself. You can’t feed yourself. You can’t do anything. You can’t even embrace your own mother.”
“Mama, no, please, it’s me—“ he fell, kneeling, to the ground, losing sensation in his legs as they too faded away in the wind like ash.
“You’re not my son.” She turned and walked away as he began wailing.
“Mama, no, please, please come back Mama, please—“
“Mm… m… mama… pl… m…”
“Shh, shh.” Shimazaki gently stroked the side of his face with the cloth Minegishi had given him.
“How is he?” Minegishi walked in, summoned by the small pained sounds Serizawa was making.
“Delirious. He’s not really asleep but… not really awake either.”
He crouched down to eye level with the man, now mercifully lying in a bed. “Serizawa, can you hear me?”
Half-lidded eyes flickered, blinking, struggling to open towards the voice. “Ma…ma?”
“No, it’s me, Minegishi. Can you feel this?” He began to vigorously rub Serizawa’s shoulder.
A near-imperceptible lowering of the eyebrows, a shuddering sigh. Eyes dull, blurred, still barely open.
“I think that’s a no,” said Shimazaki.
Minegishi sighed. “Okay, let’s try this. Can you feel this, Serizawa?” He steeled himself, gingerly placing a hand on his stomach and pressing lightly.
His eyes shot open, screaming until his throat was raw, sobbing, back arching off the bed, coughing, retching, pleading, stop, Minegishi, stop, it hurts, stop, please.
“Damn.”
“Can’t you give him anything else?” Shimazaki cautiously began stroking him with the cloth again.
“I’ve already given him more than the max dose. Any more could kill him.”
The excruciating touch had brought a few moments of awareness to Serizawa. After Touichirou’s rough handling, he had allowed Minegishi to move him to the infirmary as his condition worsened. The inordinate amount of pain medication he was given was enough to make his face and the tips of his stumps numb, tingling, buzzing like static—yet it still hadn’t touched the agony that had spread throughout his whole stomach.
“Is this really okay?” He flinched as the tips of Shimazaki’s fingers brushed his sore abdomen. “His fever’s worse, and look, it’s starting to swell here.” I can’t move it. It hurts to move. It feels weird.
“What do you want me to do, Shimazaki?” Minegishi snapped. “I’m not a surgeon, and even if I was the President won’t let me do anything.” Surgeon? I don’t want to have surgery. I’m scared.
“So what, then? We’re just going to let him die?”
“Don’ wanna die,” he whimpered. Scared, I’m scared. Scared scared scared scared don’t wanna die. Don’t let me die. Can’t. Can’t die. Please. Mama, please. Scared. Help me. He began to panic, his breathing growing faster and shallower.
“Shh, it’s okay, we won’t. We won’t let you die. Go back to sleep.” Shimazaki looked toward Minegishi pointedly before returning his focus to Serizawa.
“Can’t,” he moaned. “Hurts.” He would have given anything to have his hands back, or at least to have someone touch him gently, comfortingly. Mama. The ends of the manicured fingernails scrubbing his scalp. The slow, gentle circles on his chest. Anyone. He began to cry again, the sensation of tears touching his numb, overheating face almost unbearable, yet wiping them away was impossible.
“We have to at least get that fever down,” said Minegishi, suddenly. “Could you handle a bath, Serizawa?”
“Don’ know,” he said, gasping. “Could try.” Anything. Anything. Please.
“Okay,” Minegishi let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Okay. I’ll go start one. Just… hold on.”
He lay there for a moment, whining like a hurt dog, when suddenly Shimazaki spoke up.
“I’m sorry, Serizawa.”
“S’okay,” he somehow managed to choke out. “Not…your fault.”
“I just…” he sighed. “I just wish we could do more.”
“Mh, s’enough.”
“It’s not, though. One of us should have stepped in.”
“Th’ President’s… scary,” he wheezed. “Don’ blame you.”
“That’s an understatement,” said Shimazaki, chuckling humorlessly.
“Shimazaki, I—“ he started to panic, thinking of the suffering he had endured at President Suzuki’s hand— “can’t breathe,”
Shimazaki laid his hand on Serizawa’s chest, gently, feeling for the rise and fall. “You’re okay, you’re breathing fine. Just slow down. Try to stay calm.”
“It hurts,” he moaned.
“Where?”
“Everywhere,” he began to sob.
Minegishi ran back into the room, out of breath. “Okay, okay. Come on, Serizawa.” He slipped his arms under the feverish man, pulling him up quickly.
Serizawa gasped, keening, writhing in pain at the sudden motion.
“It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s just for a minute. You’ll be okay.” He picked him up with ease.
The pressure on Serizawa’s stomach from being lifted up caused him to yelp, sobbing, pleading that hurts, Minegishi, please, it hurts—
Shimazaki jumped up, interjecting “Hold on, Minegishi, slow down—slow down for just a minute—“
Serizawa began to slip from Minegishi’s grasp as the two began to argue.
“No, look, we have to hurry and get the fever down,”
“But he’s really sick, Minegishi, you can’t just grab him like that.”
“What, do you have a better idea?”
“Don’t you think he’s in enough pain as it is? Who do you think you’re helping?”
“Well, I’d like to see you try to help every once in a while—“
Minegishi absentmindedly shifted Serizawa onto his hip, trying not to drop him.
The pain pulled at every nerve ending, every synapse, building—cresting—crashing—he vomited, screaming, choking on stomach acid, pressing his overheating face into Minegishi’s neck, inhibitions lost, desperate for the human contact yet just as desperately wishing Minegishi would put him down, please, please, it hurts, help—
He heard the two men calling out for him, echoing, muffled, he was choking, hyperventilating, can’t breathe, hurts, no, no, not again, no, no more—
He closed his eyes, disordered speech trailing off, passing out.
—
It’s okay, it’s fine. It’s fine. He’s really sick. He’s overheating. The water’s not that cold but it’ll wake him up right away. I’m sure. I’m sure he’ll start complaining as soon as he touches it.
Minegishi’s thoughts seemed to echo Shimazaki’s calm, measured words. Yes, no sense in worrying. Surely, surely Serizawa would wake up from the sensation of the bath.
He did not.
The two of them gently—gently, this time—lowered him into the water, curls sticking to his sweaty forehead, old worn sweatshirt billowing in the lukewarm bath to reveal the swollen, bruised abdomen. They started to let go, reassuring themselves, see, there he is, he moved a little—as he sunk, limp, into the water, Shimazaki’s heightened senses coming through in the clutch to catch his head as it lolled to one side, mouth open, breathing through dry cracked lips (but just barely).
They sat there in silence, air in the room growing thick, heavy with the echoing thought what if he doesn’t wake up?
“If he wakes up, I—we have to take him to the hospital,” said Minegishi.
“More so if he doesn’t, don’t you think?” Shimazaki responded.
“I’m just—I don’t know how the President will react, but I can’t… I can’t sit by and watch this. I draw the line here.”
Shimazaki nodded. He dipped his hand into the water, lightly pouring handful after handful of water over Serizawa’s hair.
Minegishi approached, cautiously, uncharacteristically nervous. The pain he had caused to the man in the bath—whether by action or inaction—ate at the pit of his stomach like a parasite. He took a deep breath, steadying his shaky hands, and reached out to search for a pulse on Serizawa’s neck.
“Well?” said Shimazaki.
“It’s fast, but it’s weak,” he said, feeling around. “And something’s infected. His lymph nodes are all swollen.”
“Has he cooled down at all?”
Minegishi frowned. “Maybe a little, but not much,”
He pulled his hands away, swiftly, as Serizawa’s eyelids twitched and a low whine came from the gently parted lips.
“Ah, there he is. See, I told you. Serizawa, wake up,”
Serizawa struggled again to open his eyes.
Sensation. Floating. Floating in water? Cold water. Hot. So hot. Overheating. Dying. Not dying. Breathing. Breathing. Talking? Someone is. Water. Clean—wash—bath. Gentle. Not gentle. Hurts, hurts hurts hurts hurts hurts gone. Sick. I’m sick. Me? My name. Who is it?
“Mh,” he slurred, eyes opening, vision blurred through long eyelashes that Mama said were beautiful, so beautiful. Light. Ceiling. People, like me. They’re like me. They’re not like me. They have hands, and feet.
“Hey,” said Shimazaki. Tears fell, unhindered, from Minegishi’s eyes, overcome with relief, I didn’t kill him, he’s alive. He’s alive.
“Hhh... Shi… m…” lips slowly regaining feeling as the pain medication began to wear off still wouldn’t cooperate.
“Shh, it’s alright. Don’t talk.”
“Mm,” he nodded.
“We’re going to get you to a doctor, okay? So don’t worry. Right, Minegishi?”
Minegishi sniffed, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “Right,” he sighed. “Right. How’s your stomach?”
He shook his head, weak, as Shimazaki poured another handful of water over his hair. “Nnn. No. S’okay.” It hurt. Hurt. Hurt hurt hurt. Don’t blame you. Hurt me. Accident.
“Here, Minegishi. Let’s get him dry.” Shimazaki slipped his hands underneath what was left of Serizawa’s arms, slowly pulling, sliding him out of the bath.
He whined, weak, in pain despite the careful handling. Minegishi wrapped a dry towel around his shoulders, holding him against his chest as he began to shiver in the cool air.
“I’ll go talk to the President. See what I can get him to agree to.”
A feeling of warmth washed over the sick man’s face as he leaned back, relaxed despite the pain. Despite the uncertainty to come he was safe, for now, in the embrace of a trusted friend. His lips twitched into a smile, and he closed his eyes, sinking into the warmth.
He awoke what felt like just a moment later, blearily, groggily, gasping, every breath feeling like his ribs were grinding together, surrounded by unfamiliar faces, looking toward an unfamiliar ceiling, and light, sunlight, blessed warm sunlight just barely filtering in through a nearby window.
“That’s right, just breathe. Just keep breathing, you’re doing great, sweetheart.” A woman standing by his head was patting his cheek with her hand. Someone placed an oxygen mask on his face. Who are you? Who? Where?
A man standing above him was shining a light in his eyes. He tried to pull his head away but it wouldn’t move.
“Oh, thank God. I’ll go tell the guys who brought him in,” said a different woman, fading out of focus as she walked away.
The people still in the room worked wordlessly, like he wasn’t even there, except for the woman at his head, still gently patting his cheek, running her fingers through his hair, speaking soft words of encouragement as he struggled to comprehend what was going on.
Not… the basement? Where? Suddenly, he noticed the absence of Minegishi and Shimazaki, and began to panic.
“Shh, you’re okay, you’re okay. We’ve got you.” The woman at his head leaned over, stroking his cheek, cooing and whispering to him. “You’re in the hospital. You’re okay.” Hospital? President Suzuki. Why? How?
Will I get punished for this?
“Come on, Serizawa-san, you’re alright, you’re okay,” said the woman. “Can we get him some more? He’s getting a little agitated,” she said, turning to look at the man who thankfully had stopped shining a light in his eyes.
“Yeah, I think we can up it a little. Hold on.”
Almost immediately, his eyelids began to droop. Fine, everything’s fine.
“Try your best to stay with us, Serizawa-san. I know the drugs are probably making you drowsy, but try to stay awake for me, okay?”
Okay.
A familiar voice faded in, sobbing and hiccuping as the woman from before returned to the room.
“Thank you, thank you—I just, well, he wasn’t breathing and I, I didn’t know w-what to do—“
“I totally understand. That must have been a really scary experience for you.”
“Yeah. Serizawa really knows how to scare the shit out of us,” chuckled another familiar voice.
“Hey, stay awake. Look, see, your friends are here,” the woman at his head rubbed her knuckles into the back of his neck, massaging a knot that he hadn’t been able to reach for months.
Minegishi appeared at his bedside, eyes red, gripping a very used tissue in one hand like a security blanket; Shimazaki not far behind. He stood there for a moment, sniffling, before blurting out “I thought you were dead.”
Shimazaki chuckled. “We both did. Thank God for my teleportation. Although I think it scared the nurses.”
The woman at his head smiled. “We’ll get you fixed up soon, okay, Serizawa-san?”
She slaps his cheek lightly, and when nothing happens, she does it again with more force. At least it looks like he’s still breathing.
“Come on, I know your skull’s thicker than this.” She brandishes the stun baton in one hand. “I really don’t wanna have to use this thing as a defibrillator.”
1.5k, Rhys/Sasha missing scene from episode 3 in the [Trust Fiona] timeline. Written for @washingtubb‘s birthday!! Happy birthday 🎈🎈
Rhys tumbles over the edge of the platform, fifteen feet down with a thump that makes Sasha wince. The man is a disaster magnet dressed like a clown. How does she keep winding up stuck with him?
If he’s dead down there, she’s gonna be really mad.
With Rhys out of the way, the spores turn their attention to her, and she narrowly ducks beneath one. She jams the ‘down’ button on the world’s slowest elevator with one hand while the other digistructs her gun and opens fire. The spores pop like disgusting balloons full of bloody confetti.
Her Atlas Silver against a bunch of weird Atlas creatures in an Atlas forest. It’s poetic, or something.
Her nose wrinkles as she pulls a chunk of spore viscera out of her hair. “Real frantic” indeed. Pandora’s never let anyone have anything nice for more than ten seconds. She should have known better.
The elevator’s so slow-moving she’s dealt with the spores before it’s even half-way to the ground. Impatient, she jerks the stun baton out of the socket and jumps the rest of the way.
Rhys is sprawled on the ground a few feet away, unmoving, limbs askew. But there’s no blood, and at this point she’s seen him take so many blows to the head she reckons there’s not much brain left to damage, so she kicks his leg. Gently.
“Rhys?” When he doesn’t move, she tries again. “You, uh, you good, buddy?”
