There was one person in the merry band of damned soldiers who had consumed approximately a third of the alcohol they had brought along with them, and her name was Zimmy. Through what was probably a terribly complex form of black magic, she was still conscious, chatty, and energetic. Maybe she had a magical liver. Who knew? It was the only explanation anyone had ever come up with, and it was a half-assed one at that.

That wasn't to say she was totally...functional. For the past fifteen minutes, she had been staring out the front window, leaning-cross-standing in the door between the driver's side and the cabin. She had been humming tunelessly and tapping the empty bottle in her hand. Like the rest of them, she was torn free of her peaceful reverie by the right turn, so sharp it almost metaphysically stabbed her in the gut.

"Oh shi--" she didn't get to finished before being thrown to the side. Her arm smacked [i]hard[/i] on the opening, and she howled with indignation. "Son of a BITCH! Setzer, I swear I'm going to [i]waste[/i] you." Luckily for her, him, and the rest of the truck, the pain was dulled somewhat by the alcohol in her veins, otherwise she would have paid them all hell. As it was, all she could afford was some semblance of reality, and hell was well out of her pay-range.

She stumbled over to the bench, trying to cradle the throbbing limb in her lap. Of course they let the stupid playboy drive. She had offered, but no, why let a logical, safe person drive? That would have made too much sense. She stayed there for the last few minutes of the trip, trying to preserve her meager pride by cracking lots of jokes and punching anyone nearby in the shoulder, all in good fun.

If anyone asked, yes, she was [i]fine[/i]. No, she did not need anyone to coddle her. She glared at anyone who came close. It was just a little bump. By the time they finally stopped, it had more or less faded away. That was good: Zimmy hated asking Theta for medical aid over shitty small things like this.

Now they had to move. She sighed and closed her eyes. A colorful world of Astral sparks opened up before her, and she reached out to grab some of those pinpricks of light with both hands. When she brought them close to her and set them spinning, she felt friction's hold on her lessen, then disappear, and a fierce grin stole onto her face. 

After Daryll had finished unpacking, she just barely let him get out of the way before she slid across the bench and kicked off from the ground. In a flash, she had zipped out of the truck's cramped interior, ignoring the chilly shock across her face. "Hah! We are [i]in[/i] this, kids!" She whirled around as she spoke, once again reaching out to Mist as she skated backwards across the ground. She dropped a ball of light from her hands as she went.

Next she pulled down on the Mist from above. Everyone interacted with magic a little differently, and Zimmy saw a sea of sparkling light when she closed her eyes. By manipulating the light, she manipulated the real world in turn. She bent her knees and exploded upward. Gravity's hold on her [i]streeetched[/i] thin as she climbed higher, before finally holding firm as she began to descend.

She landed on a thick limb of one of the trees. "WHOO!" she crowed, the alcoholic courage giving her voice. She dropped a crackling ball of energy in the tree limb, mentally pointing it toward another tree. Then she kicked off again, arcing above the trees as she aimed toward another branch. When she landed, she dropped another magical firecracker.

This was just a taste. "How many of these do you think we can set up in a row?" she called down at them all.

Zimmy dropped off the branch lightly, catching it with her hands and swinging herself to the ground, some thirty feet down. As she fell, she snapped her fingers. The ball of energy on the ground blasted off in the direction of the first branch, which in turn set off the firework resting there. In a pinball effect, the whizz of light and sound traveled from the ground, to the tree, across the clearing to the last one, which shot up into the sky with a scream of freedom. It all took only a few seconds: she hadn't even hit the ground yet.

If she had been sober, she would have landed perfectly. As it was, she slipped, planted her hands poorly, and rolled end over end for a good fifteen feet. Eventually she came to a stop, face down and grumbling. "Fuck me," she muttered, before rolling over to admire the aftereffect of her handiwork. Louder she said, "Well. That was unpleasant."