[center][h3] [/h3][/center][h3][hr][color=#38547C]Keaton Plasse[/color][/h3][hr]
“This ship’s interesting, that’s for sure,” Keaton said, flashing Lynn a grin. They [i]were[/i] overdue for a meeting, but that was mainly because the past month had been pretty quiet. Before Homecoming, it’d been all about finding Arianna and hearing her side of the story. Now, she wasn’t so sure. What she was sure about, though, was the ship and the children on it, and that’s what she’d chosen to focus on. 

Keaton was mid-thought when the doors opened, and she glanced over, her grin slipping off her face as she registered the guns—[i]civilians[/i]—[i]terrorists?[/i]—[i]big guns[/i]—[i]they’re going to[/i]—

The staccato beats of bullets ricocheting off steel dropped her to the ground, and she vaguely registered wet ‘thcks’ as her eyes darted between the crimson splotches staining her friends’ clothing. Eli’s leg—[i]bone?[/i]—Lynn on the floor, her chest pooling red, Amelia’s neck, blood seeping through her hands. Lynn was up first—scrabbling first, reaching back—[i]her spine[/i]—[i]she healed fast[/i]—[i]was that enough? [/i]An acrid smell indicated cauterization, and Keaton watched, transfixed as Lynn dragged herself towards Amelia. Her lips moved, and Amelia screamed, a trail of smoke flowing from Lynn’s glowing hand.

Sounds melded together as Keaton looked back to Eli, staring at the girl as the pounding of her heart or the gunshots—both—[i]both[/i]—reverberated inside her head. There was too much going on for her to focus on a thought, and instead things streamed by her as she watched, the quiet part of her mind prodding her, telling her that this was no more blood than other times, easily drowned by the noise around her. 

Lynn’s voice summoned her, and she looked over in time to see part of the girl’s face burst open. For a moment, everything was—[i]was?[/i]—silent, the mangled chunks of Lynn’s face merely a pale pink against the shards of bone. Then, the moment was gone, Lynn falling, hitting the floor in a splat of growing red. Keaton barely registered her own voice as she lowered her hands from her ears, reaching, crawling for Lynn, a sear of sharpness grazing her side that she didn’t mind, but which blazed into pain that shot through her side, arms—[i]rib[/i]—as she moved, fell, slipped on blood, looked down and tried to distinguish her blood from that of the pool she’d landed in. A hole was visible in her jacket, black against the blue, and the pain forced her to still for a moment, her neck craned. She wouldn’t die of it—[i]not enough blood[/i]—[i]did it hurt as much as when she dislocated her kneecap?[/i]—[i][b]Lynn[/b][/i].

She looked back up, but Lynn and Amelia were gone, and she sat there for another moment, her mind blank. Lynn was injured, pale, cold, expended too much energy, needed to get to heat—but she wasnt’t here anymore. Death—coma—healing—answers—

A scream—[i]Eli[/i]—prompted her to look back, an ebb of nausea rolling over her as she trembled, shook her hands, scrambled to her feet, the pain beginning to become tolerable—[i]adrenaline[/i]—[i]pressure[/i]—[i]wouldn’t bleed out, wouldn’t die quickly[/i]. She rushed to Eli’s side, looking her over, only somewhat aware of the groans and shallow splashing around her. [i]Leg[/i]—[i]calf[/i]—[i]can’t walk[/i]—[i]not fatal[/i]—[i]bleeding[/i].

“W-we need to go,” she said, her voice shaky despite her best efforts to steel herself as she spoke. Her hands trembled, her knees trembled, everything was a bit blurry, doubled—[i]tears[/i]—but they needed to go while the gunmen were still reeling from Eli’s attack. “H-help me hold her,” she said, grabbing Eli’s free arm and wrapping it around her neck. Pain lanced through her side, but she squashed it, looking to the girl when she didn’t move. She was younger—[i]a child[/i]—[i]scared[/i]—[i]frozen[/i]—[i]wasting[/i] time. 

Keaton fixed her with a glare, anger bubbling. “[i]Help. Me.[/i]”

The girl was equally—[i]more[/i]—trembly than Keaton, but she did as asked, attempting to support part of Eli’s weight by attempting to push up from where her hands were wrapped around the taller girl’s waist. She was barely helping, but her grip left Eli’s other hand free to hold her gun as they maneuvered over bodies. A gunman up ahead shook his head, looking around, and Keaton bit the inside of her mouth.

“Go,” she said, releasing her hold on Eli so the girl’s good foot touched ground again. A glance around and she located a gun—[i]the handle dented[/i]—[i]still operational[/i]—and she picked it up—[i]pain[/i]—staring at the gunman, at how he gripped the gun, how he raised it, cocked it, mirroring what she saw best she could, her power pushing her to lower the hilt of the gun below her collarbone, fully extend her left hand, press the hilt of the gun against her face, slick smearing off against her cheek as she hunched over further. His gun went off, and Keaton’s did too, her head bouncing with the motion, the gun slipping, shifting, the bent side rapping against her cheek and chest with every jolt. Pain seared through her side—[i]bone moved[/i]—[i]poking something[/i]—and she dropped her arms, breathing, trying to cycle air as she stared at the man she’d shot, who wasn’t dead, was far from dead, was scrambling for his gun. He moved to raise it, and Keaton beat him to it, her power guiding her through the same motions, improving her hold here, her grip there. This time, the man fell, and pain whipped past her shoulder, prompting her to whirl around, adjusting her grip and firing at the man who’d shot. Her side, chest, shoulder all burned, her side the worst, though she was unable to distinguish where each spike of pain came from. [i]Rib definitely poking something[/i]—[i]not lung[/i]—[i]liver?[/i]—[i]muscle?[/i]

She backed into a wall, down it, the gun clutched in her hands as she panted, her breaths short, shallow, shaky—[i]hyperventilating[/i]—[i]panic attack[/i]—[i]deep breaths[/i]—each breath more of a gasp than the last, her mouth tasting of blood and metal. Could she fire the gun again? Her whole body burned, her toes cold, wet, numb as her eyes flicked around the scene again. How many gunmen were there? This wasn’t The Promise staff. Arianna then? Someone else?

She slid down the wall, her pants soaking up the blood under her as her eyes flicked to the bloody, lifeless, hollow body of a girl she thought—[i]had seen[/i]—[i]architecture class[/i]—[i]barely talked to her[/i]. Pain and cold were the only feelings as she sat there, the gun in her hands and the girl’s blood-matted hair beside her foot. Her breaths were quick, erratic—[i]trying[/i]—[i]not working[/i]—[i]blood, nauseating[/i]—as she rested her head against the wall, staring at what remained of the welcoming crowd and gunmen.

[i]Archie[/i]—[i]Natalie[/i]—[i]D's headless body[/i]—her eyes picked them out of the crowd—[i]Eli[/i]—[i]Amelia[/i]—Lynn. And herself—[i]definitely bleeding out[/i]—[i]internal[/i]—[i]slow and steady[/i]. Her heart pounded, though she could only feel it over her breaths.