13860/After last call and before the sun rises.

After last call and before the sun rises.
Date of Scene:	17 January 2023
Location:	A hotel room in New York
Synopsis:	Veronique's assumptions on how she could cap off the night definitely do not come to pass. Instead she's brought face to face with the realities of where field work can lead to, for one of the few people she gives a damn about. Playing nurse has never been a life goal or talent, but being thrown into the situation makes Veronique try to rise to the occasion. RIP hotel room.
Cast of Characters:	Veronique Lalonde, Cecily Winters

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Veronique Lalonde has posed:
New York is one of those cities that never fully sleeps. Probably because of people like Veronique, who have been ejected from a bar and aren't ready to call it quits. The red head is nowhere near ready to admit any such thing.

The smudged card where she wrote down an address hastily is for a particular hotel. The very place she's stumbled into with some of her temporary gal pals in tow. She doesn't exactly remember where she picked up the duo, and truth be told, it's all a blur of too loud music and barely comprehensible dialogue. Roni's makeup has suffered during the evening. Many drinks and the rims of such have taken a toll on her lipstick. And her companions, who had exchanged numbers and bumbled back out the lobby, are gone into the night, giggling and cackling like the witches from Macbeth.

Veronique couldn't very well do a burst of speed to the Hotel, alcohol still saturating her, and if it were not for her temporary friends needing to slow her pace she might have wound up doing a drunk zoomie into a street sign. So now here she was, stumbling from the elevator, her hand dragging mischeviously down almost all the buttons of all the other floors as she exits. "Heee hee..." What a jerk. Focusing, turning the smudged address over and over before her eyes, a little Francophone childhood ditty is slur-sung with very inappropriate words substituted. She finds the door she's looking for after belching a cloud of foul tasting acid.

"Ouvre la porte!" Hic. Her palm slaps on the impassive looking door, sweat helping to smear some body sparkles. "Ceci! Ceeeeci! Livraison de chienne chaude! Gimmie a tip...heh."

Cecily Winters has posed:
    There's no response on the other side of the door. Not a word. There is, however, the sound of movement. Irregular thumping, someone rushing towards it. There's a hard, loud thump against the wall to the side of the door, the sound of locks being opened, and then the door is just yanked inwards. Immediately Veronique is staring down the barrel of a full-sized shotgun, held in one hand by a certain fox. A fox that looks like she got in a fight with a grain thresher and /maybe/ won.

    Her clothes are soaked in blood, what little she's still wearing. The gloves are there, the white blouse is on but the buttons are undone and her midsection is instead wrapped in crimson bandages. Her skirt is half-torn over one thigh where it looks like it was stabbed clean through with a blade six inches wide and those stockings of hers are a shredded memory. Somewhere in the room, one of her shoes lays sideways, with holes in it. Speaking of holes, she uses her free arm to spin Veronique around and pull it around her neck at the collarbone, inadvertently filling the poor drunk girl's senses with the scent of blood and antiseptic and see the scattered series of punctures in that arm.

    "Shhh..." Cecily growls harshly, leaning out of the room and pointing the shotgun down the hall one way, then the other, before she yanks the speed-bunny inside to tumble to the floor. Because she has to close the door and secure the three built-in locks as quickly as she can. When she finally does... she presses her back to the door and slumps down until she's sitting, leaving a long streak of red on the ornate wood behind her. "...fuck..." she grunts, her other arm spiraled with lacerations in a surprisingly uniform pattern.

Veronique Lalonde has posed:
The drunken girl opens her mouth, ready to start slap-thumping on that door until the whole floor knows she wants in. A stupid expression crosses her features as she realizes she can ~kick~ it pretty good. But before that, there's a blur of movement and she's staring down that circular hole that threatens to sober her up quick. Hard blinks and breathing through her mouth, Veronique is all confusion and protest. The girl is taking in all those details, whatever clock speed going on up in her brain taking in details like she does when casing a jewelry shop, albeit with beer goggles on.

A loud squawk and braying refusal, even as she was all used like a hostage to make sure the coast is clear. Her own pumps are nearly flung and ankle-twisted off when she's sucking in all those awful scents that send very clear signals in at her drunken haze like bullets through target paper. Sharp smells, coppery. Underlaying smells that smell of spent rounds. The gods damned smells of medical products that make her want to throw up. Veronique feels it is very unfair for Cecily to layer all these on, like she's right back in the rubble of a hospital on the eve of an attack.

Tumbling to the floor, Veronique lands on her bottom hard, legs splayed and arms outstretched to try and stop from bowling over. Her purse spills pills and a fan of sodden bills. It's very, very unfair to the drunken girl. "H-how...w-what...!" Crawling forward onto her hands and knees, she raises her head to stare at Cecily with red-rimmed eyes. "Merde! Tabarnak! What you doooo?!" It's a stupid automatic question.

Cecily Winters has posed:
    "Fffffffffuuuuuck..." Cecily grits her teeth even as her companion panics and squawks at her for the rough treatment. She clutches her gun arm, those spiraled lacerations seeming to have opened up from her holding and aiming the larger weapon one-handed. A weapon that looks like it's got a few additional dents in addition to the blood on it. In fact, the room is a bit of a mess, too. There's a couple of big gun cases on the bed, open. There's ammunition everywhere, loose rounds spiilled on the floor, magazines both empty and full sitting lined up on the desk, and of course the first-aid kit that's open in the bathroom where a glance in there is easily reminisent of a horror movie.

    "...Sapphy. Hush. Please... did anyone follow you? Were you followed?" she asks, voice sharp and raspy, like her throat is dry. Whatever's up with her arm must be hurting like hell. And if Veronique knows anything about Cecily's healing factor, her current state must mean either it happened recently or she was in even worse shape prior to meeting now. "What are you doing here? Why are you drunk?" She rolls her eyes before clenching them shut in pain. "Nevermind... can... just... bottle of water.. mini fridge... get one for you, too. Drink."

Veronique Lalonde has posed:
Veronique brushes her hair back from her face, the strands keep pissing her off by falling in her field of vision. A little obscuration of Cecily's wounds should be a blessing, but the tactile irritation cannot be borne for long. Her buzz is wearing off, and there's bad things beyond it. She blinks angrily, her mouth forming a snarl of disgust and petulance. She starts to shake her head and gets to her feet. Her balance is a little off, and her leg muscles flex hard to try and compensate. Her shapely lines distorting by the bulges as her flight or fight reflexes start to come home to roost. "Nuh-uh...Non...non non non." she slurs and throws her gaze around the room.

"Non. No way, not dealing with dis." She wasn't necessarily answering the specific questions, rather her opinion of whether she was going to rise to the occasion presented here. So, it's Flight that's winning over. Veronique starts to pace in a tight track, back and forth, back and forth. Her head gives twitches and shakes, her gaze always coming back to Cecily. The sight just keeps short-circuiting her and she pads towards the mini fridge. She steps upon vials of prescription pill bottles and ziplocks of less legal substances, crushing some to dust and kicking others to the corners of the room. Wrenching open the mini-bar, she drags forth the first liquid she finds. She pulls forth all the bottles, sending some cascading to the floor to roll, bundling up near half a dozen in her arms as she staggers towards the door where Cecily is slumped.

Her stupid instincts scream at her to go through the door. Cecily's form is there, and she's in pain, smells of death. Recent wounds, bad and strange and mysterious. She opens her mouth to demand Cecily move aside the only exit, her hand reaching out to bodily grab her.

She pauses, heart pounding with the sludge she's drunk, snorted or injected into herself this evening. She pauses and her lip quivers. "Are you gonna die?"

Cecily Winters has posed:
    For all of that swirling rage that Veronique is experiencing, Cecily is the complete opposite. If there's any real rage to her, it's been spent. She's focused inwardly, on the pain and on her wounds. Normally she'd just. Sleep it off for a week. But as it stands, she's stuck in this hotel room for at least another night or two. And now she's got to deal with a drunk speedster. All she can do is bite her tongue as that little tantrum is thrown, casting sidelong glances to whatever strange vices had poured out of the other woman's purse. The fox just shakes her head, ears pinning down against her head, hair sticky with blood. She's got no energy to lecture right now.

    The minibar is well stocked, mostly. It's full of water and soda, tiny bottles of alcohol. Everything for a great night, a good morning, and everything in between. All she can really do is watch as Veronique stumbles closer, closer with that bounty of refreshments. She'd only asked for one thing. But she knows that her companion is not of sound mind. At all. She holds her hand up, expectantly. It's the arm with the holes in it, like she'd caught a blast of buckshot. It's hard to tell which one is worse, the shot one or the one that more resembles a date with a spiral slicer. Judging by which arm she lifts, probably the buckshot arm.

    When that question comes, she heaves a sigh and her arm flops uselessly at her side. "...no..." she rasps, closing her eyes. "...I need rest... I need water... I..." she presses her lips together. "..I was going to ask what you've been doing tonight and where you've been but..." there's a dry chuckle, "...I realize how hypocritical it would be making that demand of you... looking like this."

Veronique Lalonde has posed:
Veronique feels a tumble of hair half-obscure her face again, tickling her nose and irritating her. No amount of blowing out helps it flop back over her shoulder. The girl smells of cigarette smoke and other scents common to a bar or live venue where the press of bodies can be expected. Your troubling project in heels jostles the bottles until one of the non-alcoholic ones is close to hand. The others are deposited close by while she considers just handing you the bottle and considering her duty done. But the more she listens and looks, even to her it seems like not just uncharitable but plain unwieldy. Nevermind she's can one-hand a shotgun like some sort of Terminator.

Veronique gets her fingertips on the lid of the bottle, freshly painted (and chipped) nails flasing glossily as she works it off, even having to resort to her teeth for a good twist to get it started. Clattering the lid to the ground, she shuffles over on her knees beside you, wincing at the spilled blood. "You need Doctor." she mumbles and paws your arm away so she doesn't kneel on it or let it get in the way while she attends to you. "I do it, don't touch, stay still, oui?" Rolling her shoulders she reaches out to touch the back of your head as if to cradle, and she moves the bottle to your lips with her other hand. The shakey spout of the water bottle brought closer to your lips. "If you drink proper and get it down I tell you what was doing, d'accord?"

Cecily Winters has posed:
    At the end of it all, Cecily would probably acquiesce to Veronique leaving, so long as she promised not to tell anyone. All it would take is a request for her to move. To slide to the side. To be anywhere but be a literal doorstop. But that doesn't come. Her eyes flutter open when she feels the approach, her tails flitting weakly but moving out of the way of those knees on the floor. "No doctor. Nobody else knows I'm here. And it needs to stay that way. At least.. at least until I'm sure I didn't get followed here..." she trails off, sighing quietly, letting her arm be moved.

    "..right... thanks..." she doesn't fight the motions. Her body sits up some, a mix of sheer force of will and Sapphire's aid. Her head tilts as bidden and she parts her lips to catch the water. That tongue peeks out and pokes, wanting to get the first taste before her mouth slowly wraps around the end of the bottle. The vixen's eyelids fall shut once more, head tilting back to the girl's touch, cradled in her hand.

    Angry red lines that glisten with blood can be seen on her throat, too, as it pulses with every slow swallow. "Mmp..." she exhales a sigh, feeling the cold water pour down her throat and into her body. It's frigid. Bracing. But also refreshing.

Veronique Lalonde has posed:
Veronique tilts the bottle back, getting better at giving some compassionate timing of tilting it back for another swallow. Not just upending it like she's trying to dump it all in, sink or swim, suck or sip. This close, Cecily's own unique scent becomes detectable, though with so much blood, it isn't allowed to be an aura for Roni's enchanced senses. But more is getting through as better reasoning gets through to her head.

A bit of perspiration is wiped away as Veronique turns her head against her bicep for a quick smear. Rapid blinking away of the salty sting as she's peering in at the phenomena at Cecily's throat. "You so worrieda bout being followed. No one followed me. I would have heard them, smelled 'em, seen 'em." she boasts watching as you drink more, hopefully finishing off the bottle. Veronique peers around and there's a brief moment when she tries to get her arms around you in preparation for a lift. It's a crazy idea and probably not practical or possible at this angle. "Can you make it to bed? I drag. Or...Wait, I can bring bed here..." The support at the back of your head tries to allow it to shift to the side so she can look more closely at the wounds and afflictions. "Cecily, I have pills. No pain, just floating. You fight the Grim Reaper or you mess with Mob?"

Cecily Winters has posed:
    Thankfully, it seems, that by this point most of the blood is less fresh and more just a sticky mess. The shower is going to look like a crime scene, though the rest of the room isn't exactly a sterile lab either. "Of course I'm worried... look at me..." she says quietly, less discounting Sapphire's confidence and more rationalizing that whoever did this to her might be out there looking for her still, or there's more of them or whatever. She does finish off the bottle to the end though, taking a long, slow breath and shivering from the chill that's filling her body now.

    Then she blinks, shaking her head. "...to the bed. Not. Bring the bed..." she manages a soft laugh, moving the shotgun to plant the stock of it against the floor. She intends to use it like a crutch to help her stand up. But she pauses, tilting her head, letting Veronique look her over. The lacerations on her throat aren't too far removed from those on her right forearm. "Worse," she answers. "...I'm on the naughty list for a corp that uses cyborg shock soldiers because I pissed in their cornflakes once or twice..." The wounds on her neck still shine with fresh blood but they aren't pouring out like one might expect. There's a faint hint of a chemical smell, too, that isn't the good kind.

    "...guns, blades, monowire... coated with.. some kind of anti-coagulant." She pushes down on the shotgun and tries to rise to her feet. The sword may explain the wide 'slot' that's piercing through her thigh. "Been seeding contract jobs with bodyguards for VIP's and sometimes the VIP's themselves. Getting real sick of this shit..."

Veronique Lalonde has posed:
Veronique at least comes forward to help support Cecily automatically, rather than trying to game it out. Instinctively making herself a kind of crutch as she gets to her feet and pushes herself up tight against Ms. Winter, pushing her head up under her armpit. She wouldn't dare try anything like a Fireman's carry, but she can hobble about like a point of leverage.

The laugh she hears doesn't make her smile, just frown again and try to take some of your weight and head towards the bed. "Forget the gun, just leave it." she mumbles wrinkling her nose at the chemical scents. "Shit, merde, crap..." she parrots after Cecily as it's explained the types of nasty things that tried to leave such terrible signatures. "Job not worth it, or you need extra hands with guns and things to balance your tab. Not worth it if you shot, stabbed, beat. Don't add up." Veronique grunts.

"You need more than a drink. I get you on the bed, and then you tell me what you need or who to call."

Cecily Winters has posed:
    The shotgun comes along for the ride, hanging from Cecily's hand as her arm dangles at her side. The other is hooked firmly around Sapphire's shoulders and she doesn't fight being hauled towards the bed. The cleaning staff are getting an extra tip after tonight, enough for a week's vacation probably. "No," the fox hisses, "...no calls. No outside... mmf... anything. Besides... you're... in danger here now too..." she huffs but doesn't say much else.

    It's not a long trip to the bed and she collapses down easily atop it, sighing, groaning a little. "...just need help cleaning the wounds. It'll... they'll fix on their own, alright?" she closes her eyes. "...you any good at.. mixing chemicals?" she chuckles, wetting her lips with her tongue now that she's had some extra hydration. "...clean it up, sleep a night... should be good enough."

Veronique Lalonde has posed:
"Pourquoi?" Veronique almost does a double-take. To aid in not breaking an ankle, her shoes are kicked off all the way so she can pad towards the bed with more stability. gritting her teeth, she bears as much of Cecily's weight as she can. It's easier with the remnants of the buzz in her head and her belly. Having overloaded on thing to imbibe has glutted her up, fortified but not any wiser.

"Mixing? Sure sure, rum an coke...screwdrivers...powder and chasers..." she mumbles and steps back to get a look at your form on the bed. "You're hurt bad, fille. Just, let me see..." Veronique totters off to collect more water, towels and containers. She sounds like a raccoon that's gotten into a garbage bin with the amount of noises coming from the bathroom, knocking over this and that. "Merde..." She provides another moment of education in Quebecois swear words.

Her hair is irritating the heck of her, and she's wound it back into a rough ponytail with the wristband from the club. Unslinging the purse from her shoulder, she digs inside to pull out a box cutter. "Stay still, your Drip ruined, oui? Can't make it worse while I clean up parts."

Cecily Winters has posed:
    "Need to be cleaned off," Cecily clarifies. "...get the garbage off that's keeping it from healing..." she grunts, flopped on the bed. Slowly, she tries to drag herslf up to the headboard so she can at least sit up. The shotgun is put on the floor, a thunk from the stock hitting the carpet and then another one from it leaning against the wall. "I'll be fine, eventually..." she waves off the concern and squints at Sapphire now when she returns. "...the clothes are fucked, I've got spares at home. But you..."

    The fox sighs, "...is.. is this normal? Going out and getting drunk and drugged up out of your mind? ..not that I'm... any better... but this happening to me wasn't exactly a conscious /choice/... I don't go out planning to get shot up and hacked up on a bloody escort job..." she admonishes softly. "But I still jump into the line of fire anyway..."

Veronique Lalonde has posed:
Veronique unscrews a bottle of alcohol. She squints at the label, comparing it to another, and seems satisfied with the greater ~proof~ of the stuff. The cap is tossed over her shoulder to add to the disaster area and she takes a quick swig before getting a facecloth and dousing it with the clear booze. "May sting." She nods, wincing at the burn at the back of her throat before getting up on the bed and kneeling beside. She starts at your arm where she can dab and then wipe with the sterilized towel. The box cutter is placed nearby for future tailoring at partially covered wounds. "Maybe you should work for better johns and jobs, yeh?" She sniffs, and thankfully the taste in her mouth overpowers her olfactory senses some with a blanketing taste/scent.

A side eye or three from Veronique as she grabs you limb to really start working on it. "What's normal?" her tongue protrudes in concentration as she re-wets the towel to use a cleaner side to try and remove the residual gunk from the battle impeding healing. "Everyone goes an gets fucked up, that's what you gotta do. Do it and do everything before the hopital or club crashes down around your ears. What am I gonna do, sit around? Can't stop, gotta go go go. Stop when time to sleep or run out of money."

Cecily Winters has posed:
    Between the medical kit that Cecily packed and the bottles of alcohol from the minifridge, there's no lack of things to mix up and clean with. It still hurts like hell, though, and clenches her eyes shut at the sensation of the cloth rubbing over that limb that seemed like it took a garrote around itself. "...believe me, I try. It's been getting worse lately..." she grunts. The lovely scents of blood and alcohol mixing are certainly unpleasant but it could also be much worse. Under it all, there's still the fox.

    "Self destructive lifestyle..." she sighs. "...hedonistic self-satisfaction... There's having fun but... just like... the broken window. You're going to reach a point where you take too much, do the wrong dose, or cross someone that's bigger than you in the process..." Eyes open into slits and she stares at Sapphy, "...same room, different window. Bullets or drugs, they hit the same, but at least I'm not doing this because I'm selfish and need a thrill."

Veronique Lalonde has posed:
Veronique shoots you a look. It's the same kind a teen would give to an adult who tell them to get off their lawn. A vein in her throat pounds and she has pursed lips as she rifles through the medical kit next. The container is opened and the contents shook out onto the bed. Aha, a pair of scissors even, along with much better antiseptic cleaning compounds and ointments. She uses her teeth on the sterile pads and other materials, her chipped nails not helping on the tear-away sections at all. She trusts her teeth more anyways, spitting out pieces of paper and detritus.

She's moving to your other wounds next, wiping her hands on the mattress blanket like a kid cleaning their hands after messy cake. "No one can catch me." she whispers, giving the door and window a quick glance, cocking her head like she had her tech-ears on. Very rabbit-like in mannerisms. She crouches back over Cecily and dabs and wipes, bringing the soiled materials up to her nose for experimental sniffs and twitches of her nose. She almost gives one a lick but her instincts say ~Don't~ for once. "It's not my fault. I need to or I will 'splode or die. I need to move and I need to feel music through me and bodies smash and bodies bounce and eyes and faces and frenzy all around. Get lost in sea of all of it until too tired and use up what needs to get out. They think I am like them? It is all for me. I drink them all. Others are glasses, and they are to be emptied." She licks her chops and grunts. "I not die on the dance floor. I outrun death." she proudly exclaims, stupidly and with bravado. "Do you see holes in me? You be with me in the clubs, and only thing to dodge is stupid meatheads asking for a dance. We can drain every club of every glass, bitter and sweet. We could ~take~ everything, powder or booze, and not even pay."

Cecily Winters has posed:
    The arm is clear and while Cecily's still in pain, it's going to start healing. She just stares at Sapphire, though, at those words. She might be there, helping her, soaked in the fox's blood and antiseptic fluid, but there's still that look. That look of disdain. That cold fire in the fox's eyes. The last statement is the last straw, though. She grits her teeth and growls, reaching out with her freshly-cleaned arm and grabs the girl by the neck. Much like she had after the window incident.

    "LISTEN TO YOURSELF..." she growls, the wounds spiraled around her neck turning an angry, shiny red as blood trickles out of them, causing her to cough. She turns her head to the side and spits a glob of red out onto the ruined covers before narrowing her eyes at Veronique. "...If I were the kind of person to use people up like empty glasses, you'd still be dead in the ruins... or worse..." another choking cough and her grip tightens for a moment.

    "If all you want to do is take take take, why are you even here helping me? You showed up wanting SOMETHING, surely you have something to GAIN from this? Is that it?" Her hand grows warmer as sparks of purple-white dance across her shoulder. In a heartbeat, there's a ghostly flame, racing down her arm, following the path of the cleansed wound. Closer, closer to Sapphire's face before it just... dissipates with a wave of heat upon reaching her wrist. Between the alcohol and Veronique's efforts cleaning it, the wound is cauterized with the fire and soon her natural healing processes will take over.

    The fox's hand releases and her arm falls limply to the bed, any hint of her foxfire is gone, a guttered flame. "Greed is why I'm sitting here like this. The greed of men in glass towers who want to live fast and have everything without a care for those they hurt or kill... You want to be compared to people like that? Who do things like this..." she gestures to herself with her other hand, "...to people that CAN'T heal? You might as well grab my gun and pull the trigger..." she makes a dismissive wave to the pistol on the nightstand and taps her temple before slumping back against the headboard.

Veronique Lalonde has posed:
As far as triggers go, having that pressure clamped onto her neck is pretty spot on. Veronique stiffens, shoulders hunching up towards her ears and an intake of breath. Freezing in place while her nervous system short-circuits and she's all ears and eyes. Muscles flinch in her face as she eyeballs the phenomena about Cecily's person. The fresh body horror of the seeping wounds and other after-effects of her run-in with the unnatural. She makes her own garbled choking sound as the pressure on her neck temporarily increases, like the punctuation of the sentences spoken to her.

She's trying to pull away from the foxfire enroute to her person, but is stricken with fear and awe. For all her self-vaunted super speed, it's hard to grasp at in this moment. A shriek and the flames are banished, leaving her unburnt and wanting to flail. She finds her voice and sits on her folded up legs. "Y-you...you didn't have to do that." she stammers and twists a facecloth between her hands like she wanted to wring it of moisture. She chews over a mess of chaotic thoughts and reaches up to rub her neck. "Like I'd pick up your gun and do that..." she murmers, sulkily. She's quiet for a time and hesitantly fetches a fresh pad to sterilize and start in on the wounds on the nearest leg. "So...so then we kill them. We kill them, and blow up their glass towers. We don't punish them, we get rid of them. Then that solves it. You have lots of guns and bullets and I'll help. We kill them before they can hurt you again."

That rather important earlier question was glossed over and deferred. But it swims murkily in her thought-space until something can dribble out. "So maybe I'm helping because that's fair. You didn't blow up the hospital but you tried to save what you could and didn't get paid none or thanked. And I came tonight because I thought the best way to end a fun night was to make it funner in the best way I thought I could. And after the club everyone wanted to go home and I don't have anything at home. I didn't have a plan it just made sense."

Cecily Winters has posed:
    "It seems to be the only thing that gets through to you..." Cecily growls, leaning hard against the headboard, eyes closing again. The hint of a glow can still be seen in them even with her lids down, though. She takes a long, slow breath, before she sighs. The nearest leg is the one that the sword had gone clean through. It's healing, just slowly. Very slowly. "...we're working on it..." she mutters. "...don't know where these guys are coming from. How they keep 'replacing' people I'm working with, working for. It's... frustrating... and... painful." she grunts.

    She rolls her eyes but it's invisible, since the lids are down, as she listens to Veronique talk about her night. "...looking for a night in an expensive hotel room, drugged and drunk, for a cheap thrill... got it... but..." she manages a laugh. "...I'm glad you think I'm fun. Sorry you have to see me at my worst..." she shakes her head and opens her eyes again. "Probably take me a week to patch all this up, that's what's waiting for me at home. A long, cold bath and a lot of hot tea and bed rest..."

Veronique Lalonde has posed:
Veronique quietly listens, not exactly subdued but feeling odd in the pit of her stomach and the back of her head. Getting chastized makes her simmer, but there's a familiarity to tap into that's almost comforting in a messed up way. Her fingers dabs around the sword wound, orbiting the incision, close enough to push her fingers into if she had a mind to. She cleans around the worst of it, trusting in Cecily's ability to heal to knit together the worst area that Veronique's touch would only interfere with if she wiped at it. At least she's a bit less squeamish about the blood. She's getting so much all over herself at this point.

"A week is too long. If they are after you, you need to avoid them." Veronique thinks, suddenly wishing she could take something or drink something strong to keep the buzz going. Her stomach lining is feeling like the bottom of a back alley dumpster. She's been in one place too long again, her brain tries to yell at her. "Okay, fuck that." she swears and practically snarls. "Easy, you come to my place and no one find you. You heal up proper and then solve other problem. I got a place no one looks for anyone, or can find them."

Cecily Winters has posed:
    It hurts. Cecily isn't one to scream or cry out, but she does grimace. The wound is deep. And she isn't exactly looking to cauterize something like that, not right now. She's keeping her eyes shut, though, showing that she's trusting Veronique with all of this. Truly all of it. She hasn't once given any kind of backseat direction to cleaning her wounds. That's got to count for something, right? Even the fox's pristine tails are not-so pristine. They were spared getting shot or cut or burnt by some miracle but the white fur is splashed in crimson. Sticky in places still.

    "...your place?" she asks, blinking her eyes open again. "...how are we going to get there? I can walk but not very fast, not until this is done..." she nods to the thigh that's being cleaned so dutifully. "...and this mess.. I need to.. get all of this stuff packed up. Last thing I need is the cleaning lady packing my guns. It's bad enough I'm leaving all this blood and garbage..." she grumbles.

Veronique Lalonde has posed:
Veronique tilts her head and uses a free hand to raise a finger and push it against Cecily's lips. The old ~shush~ gesture. Thankfully it's a mostly clean finger. "Turn off...half...no, a third of your brain." Veronique takes a deep breath and tries to let it out slowly. "Easy peasy lemon breezy. Don't worry, I find a way to wheel you out when it is time to move."

Veronique tosses used up towels and soiled bandages used for cleaning over her shoulder, carelessly adding it to the pile of mess. "Fuck this mess. Won't be hard to bundle your stuff. Will use the pillowcases if I need extra bags. I know how to empty a hotel room. Trust me on that."

Cecily Winters has posed:
    That finger pressing against her lips does make Cecily stop talking, her eyes widening. She blinks at Veronique and tilts her head to the side some. "At least..." she tries to find the words. Any words. But they just fail her and she sighs. She's always so used to doing everything herself. On her own terms. On her own power. Being like this isn't so much torture, but it's damn close.

    "...thank you..." she finally finds something to say, leaning back again, and looking over the catastrophe that is the room. And perhaps is her life at this point. Her little 'apprentice' doing all the work right now while she's stuck in bed, but at least some of what Sapphy had cleaned is no longer bleeding.

    "...god I just need a long bath when this is all over."

Veronique Lalonde has posed:
Veronique pulls her finger back and rubs it against the pad of her thumb. Bent over, she moves a bit more of collatoral damage of the fluids and stains. That finger comes back to surreptitiously rub along her bottom lip. Wrinkling her nose, she's overcome with a bit of the fidgets. Her toes curl and she gives her head a toss. It doesn't help with getting hair out of her face, merely helping to tickle herself. The latest words from your lips aren't something she hears very much, making her upset or flustered.

With a bit of a instinctual urge, she goes to lean over you as you in turn recline. Peering down her nose at you, her mouth is a frowny-face curve and her nostrils flared. Her cleaning alcohol is brought to her lips to take a swig. It doesn't look like she's steeling herself or trying to dull anything. She licks rapidly. "Stay still."

Veronique looks like she's going to kiss you, but her mouth goes to the wound on your neck. She doesn't sniff either, focused on getting her mouth close until her breath can be felt. Her tongue is out fast as can be, but it doesn't lash. It flatly ~plaps~ at the bottom of the wound itself and drags experimentally up along it. One of her hands comes down to press down on your opposite shoulder.

Cecily Winters has posed:
    It's a wonder Cecily didn't lose her head--or that arm--with the monowire wounds on them both. But she'd survived. And one could only imagine what was left of whoever did this. She watches Sapphy, though. That restless look. That 'fight or flight' or maybe just ... likes watching the redhead. Her expression is full of many things, but the most prevalent is simply exhaustion.

    When the other woman leans in close and... takes a swig of the alcohol, the fox grimaces, her ears flattening against her head. But there's no voice of protest--at least until the alcohol-coated tongue meets her neck and throat. "...what are you--" she asks, and then shudders.

    It's a mix of a good shudder, with how sensitive her neck is sometimes, and a bad one. The wound hurts. The alcohol burns. But she behaves, her hands bunching up the blankets as she balls up her fists and grits her teeth. She knows what's being done, though, and slowly, slowly rolls her head to one side to make it easier to access things as this gentle and surprisingly effective cleaning goes on. "...Sapphy..." she groans quietly, eyes clenching shut. This is certainly a new experience.

Veronique Lalonde has posed:
Sapphire can't help but be flooded with sensory information. The alcohol provides a momentary sterilizing barrier to taste and contagion. Perhaps a gauze would have worked well, but it would also be quite abrasive. Cecily's slender neck feels delicate and the wound is like a kind of ruin on a painted canvas bearing a great work. Veronique's hand ~kneads~ at Cecily's shoulder and her other hand comes to brush away both her hair, and her mentor's own. Her finger threads through the locks until both colours are accidentally woven loosely together and pushed apart so she can see to her cleaning.

It's probably audible how her mouth and tongue work. Wet sounds as the flat of her tongue does a general swiping, feeling the places where weapons have split and severed. To Veronique's tweaked up tongue, it's like a canyon if she obsesses. This occurs as she moves in with the side of her tongue and the tip to quest within to curl and arch to ferret out things that may have been left. Dirt, grime, blood and especially tissue that is beyond the help of rejuvenation. She caresses and cleans what's salvagable, drooling her beneficial saliva in the wake of her tongue's passage. Muscles under her jaw ache, responding to the injury, but moreso responding to an injured mate that needs care. A byproduct of the curious Lab work involving her and her pet rabbit, which helped give her that second try at life.

She murmers, "Yeh." She pulls back, her pupils big, cleaning her lips of excess blood and other moisture. Her flesh feels a little swollen or flushed, still in a kind of zone. Looking perhaps a little softer and kinder, or empathetic.

Cecily Winters has posed:
    It's a damn shame. Cecily puts so much work into her appearance. Every day, she's on the clock. On the job. Out in public, she's immaculate. Her clothes well pressed, her self-rejuvenating body flawless, her fluff pristine and shining in the sun. She's a beacon of hope to some, and a terrifying angel of death to others, and to yet even more--they don't even see who or what saved them or ended them from somewhere on high. And she prefers it that way, most of all.

    But right now, she's such a mess. A mess that Veronique has the unique privilege of not only seeing, but essentially that vixen's life is in her hands. The tenderness doesn't go unnoticed, not at all, and Cecily just surrenders to it. To the doting touches of that tongue, even as she hisses softly and grimaces at the prodding tongue. Her blood does not taste good, either. The chemical keeping her from healing is acrid and potent. The blood itself, a mix of coppery and sweet. Her usual scents of tea and honey and cordite are so muted that only Sapphy's incredibly strong nose can even catch them. But it's just proof that it is indeed Cecily there. ...Her Cecily.

    When the wicking of tongue stops, those eyes open, a slow panting making the woman's chest rise and fall. It hurts. So much. That burning sensation somewhere so sensitive, her neck and throat. She bites down on her lower lip, but not to stifle any cry of pain. Instead, her arms come up and she pulls them around Veronique, hugging the utterly unfathomable girl close to her. It's a tight, needful sort of squeeze, too, not that the fox has a lot of strength to spare right now. "...I'm hard on you because I love you..." she says quietly, "...thank you for trying so hard."

Veronique Lalonde has posed:
Veronique doesn't avoid the embrace at all. Though the initial reaction is a big of a ragdoll. If one to pull their velveteen rabbit to them for a squish in the wee hours of the morning, Sapphy would put up as much resistance. Her eyes remain open, staring like she's seen too much or been delivered stunning news.

She's not dazed, she's in a pure receptive mood. Her tongue curls up against the roof of her mouth, singing with the mixture of good and bad, Cecily and chemical. Her need for zoomies has a weighted blanket tossed over it. She probably shouldn't lay upon her wounded companion so much, drape or cuddle up close. It's hard not to, the information running through her still so voluminous but impossible to fully decipher. All that's important though is that it's her Cecily, and what she can't comprehend fully takes second place next to being gifted with her proximity and treasured taste.

Her own hands move up to knead gently, trying to avoid the hurt areas and turns her face to place ghost kisses with her breath and lips. She says very, very quietly. "It's okay." She adds after a pregnant pause and a swallow. "Love you."

Cecily Winters has posed:
    Cecily knows she's hard on Veronique. She knows she's borderline cruel sometimes and beyond judgemental. She wanted, and wants so hard for the girl to have a better life and not fall into the trap that neglected and abused supers and metas fall into. To slip through the cracks and become a casualty of society. Not that it helps the fox much. For all the good she does, tries to do, she's still laying in a bloody hotel room, full of holes. And who's here to save her?

    The girl she's been trying so hard to save.

    Maybe, though, she's reaching through to her. Even if her methods are harsh. And it's hard to prove what fight is right when doing what she does for the good of others has left her in this sorry state. But she's got the 'rabbit' in her arms, anyway, the Velveteen Lalonde. A close and treasured companion despite her... criticisms. She sinks back into the covers as her shoulders are massaged like that, practically melting now. Faint brushes of kisses make her sigh and those eyes stay closed.

    And then she exhales when the love is returned, perhaps surprised that she was holding a breath, or just surprised to hear it in general. One more squeeze is given, the fox's nose rubbing against her companion's before she tries to take a deep breath and grimaces with pain. "...we need.. to get out of here.. get us.. cleaned up.." she mumbles, savoring the warmth of the moment but feeling the weight of reality crashing in to break up this little bloodstained reverie.

Veronique Lalonde has posed:
Veronique pulls herself away and nods after the nose nuzzles. Her skin is a vibrant glow, like she's just been to the spa and indulged in just soaking up all the positive recuperative stuff she can soak in. A bit of a sponge in that repect. "You're right."

Dissheveled, she swats and kicks soiled towels and bandages to off the bed, giving Cecily a small pat with the palm of her hand before leaving her wounded warmth in favour of expedient preparations to go. "I'm...I'm gonna stuff your stuff that can't be carried. Your gear and equipment, the stuff you don't wanna leave behind. Can't leave behind." Her feet and legs knock over a few objects, jostling the bedside tables and scuffing up the carpet of the hotel room. She chews at her bottom lip as the thought of being found and flat-footed creeps in like the feelin of heebie-jeebies playing her spine like a xylophone.

She pats at the air before her when she half-turns to Cecily. "I can do it. I can do it real good. I can clean out a room, I can clean out your stuff. Then we'll get out and get gone be long gone, yeah."

Veronique bustles about trying to make an essential pile on one corner of the bed, with very obvious equipment being collected. She does move with a purpose, using her familiarity with having to leave a bedroom or backroom in a hurry with the essentials. It's a challenge though, seeing as she's not looking out for numero uno only.

Cecily Winters has posed:
Cecily's eyes open. That glow is palpable. That's the shine she wants to see in Veronique. That's the Sapphy she's trying to bring to the fore. And it makes her smile, to see it, that she can inspire it. Then she sighs and continues to just slump there. "...prioritize the weapons... the medical junk is disposable..." she directs quietly. "...would prefer to burn it all so my blood doesn't.. get out there.. but it's.. far too much.." she laughs. She's not about to burn down the entire hotel for it. The room would really need a full on cleaning crew to come in to do it and bleach everything.

    Good thing it's not coming out of her wallet.

    "...no loose rounds... and.. I packed light.. otherwise.." Packed light. There's two big gun cases, one with a rifle in it, the other with the space for the shotgun currently leaning on the wall. A third is sitting off to the side, likely for her handgun, to say nothing of all the stuff lined up on the desk, the mags and rounds and their own box. As far as clothes and things? There's one garment bag, one small clothing bag, and a small cosmetics bag. Bare essentials and that's really it.

    When she came in, she had a car drop her off, and a luggage cart to get things upstairs. Now, she isn't sure. "I don't..." she pauses, biting her lip again as she watches the girl hustle and move. "...if you have to take things somewhere one by one, do it. I can wait here. Just leave the .45 with me."

Veronique Lalonde has posed:
Veronique pauses to think, and she goes completely still while she devotes all her runtime to considering the carrot from all angles. When she breaks free, she collects the essentials into that one area so as to make the logistics a more visual problem than conceptial in her head. Very important to be able to see the issue. "I'm going to peek into the hall and see if I can..st-..borrow something helpful. Maybe someone put their wheeled trays and things out after some room service."

Veronique hustles over to find the handgun and offer it over to Cecily before she'll move on to making sure the rifles are ready to be zipped. "Take me to your next job." she declares and goes to a mirror to give her appearance a quick look-see. She frowny-faces at the amount of stuff smeared on her. It's not like she was expecting anything less than a write-off with her stolen dress and things. Most things exist to be used up, right?

She peers over her shoulder after the reflection isn't good enought to look upon her Cecily. "I can come back and take care of the room once you're safely away. A band showed me once how they do, when they need to leave." she says cryptically. "Once you're safe. If anyone comes after us, I won't hesitate. Someone showed me how to do that too."

Cecily Winters has posed:
    A moment is taken to pull the shotgun from where it leans and lay it across the bed so it can be stowed later. Then when the gun is handed to her, Cecily checks it, the magazine and all, and stows it in the shoulder holster that's also going to need to be replaced. "...my next job?" she asks, blinking owlishly at Veronique for a moment and then shrugging. "...I'll try. Bodyguard contracts are usually solo affairs but..." she sighs. "...maybe I can have you keeping an eye on things--and me."

    She then slowly slides her way to the end of the bed, taking her time sitting up. She can dodge bullets but she's no true speedster. She can take some hits but she's no Hulk. And right now, the only thing the poor woman seems to be, is tired. Maybe she's feeling used up right now herself, but she's not giving up. She had planned to simply wait things out overnight and take care of her own wounds. But the bunny came to see her.

    The bunny came to take care of her, even if Sapphy hadn't known that's what was going to happen tonight.

    "Yeah. I'll see what I can do. Maybe you'll.. worry a little less over me.. and see what I get tangled up in.." there's a cynical laugh and she groans as she hunches forward, not trying to stand up but at least staying upright. "...take me home, Sapphy."