Bad Timing ࿂ Holly &
Holly needed an actual partner. Shit. She should have just asked. Holly would fight herself, if she could. And yet, she finds herself in the training room, barefoot, with no one but a marksman dummy molded from ballistics gel. Jogging over to the stereo, Holly turns the music up - it’s an odd mix between classical and trap music. The music helped her focus and stay energized at the same time. The thunder stomps even louder, and Holly turns up the bass, returning to her practice.
Step. Step. Lunge. A good 4 inches. Holly withdraws her blade. Step. Step. Lunge. A decent 6, but her arms were flimsy. Step. Step.
The power goes out. Shit.
Holly drops her blade and curses, quickly getting on her hands and knees and feeling along the floor for where it might be. Holly cries out as her hand grazes the sharp, needle edges of the weapon, and the blood that streams is warm. She breathes through her teeth, fighting the tears that were coming on, trying to gauge the damage that had been done in the dark, but her eyes had yet to adjust.
Taking her rapier in her right hand, Holly drags it alongside her, her left hand balled in a painful fist. She would first need to stop the bleeding, then clean and disinfect the wound, and then, if necessary, stitch the little bastard up before slapping a bandage on it and calling it a day. Should she cry for help? No, the others would think her a pussy. “Hello?” Holly calls instead, placing her rapier in it’s cradle on her hip, using her free and uninjured hand to guide her along the halls. Hopefully someone else would be around to give her a hand.
