[Villanelle is caught for a moment in shock. The way the screwdriver sunk into the cloth. It was nothing like cutting into skin, more like she imagined a slicing into a rotting corpse: the cloth skin bloated and thin, the gaseous ichor inside thick and cloying and full of decay. These things are not ghosts, these things aren't people at all.
The foul slime, so like the shit on the walls above, slicks the ground, cascading over her boots, burning her ankles. She's suddenly hyper-aware of the stretch of skin between the bottom of her trousers and the top of her boots. The eyelet holes for her laces. She wants to bend, to kick off her boots and check her skin for damage. It's on her, it's on her skin.
Don't be stupid.
She's not one for self-recrimination, but her ankles are stinging and she only has herself to blame. She catches Peter's eyes, hers shocky and wide, and then he pushes her away, the screwdriver lost to the darkness, and she's running back the way they came, hot on Bruce's heels, the beat of her footsteps no longer a steady thump, but a sticky, ominous squelch.]
no subject
The foul slime, so like the shit on the walls above, slicks the ground, cascading over her boots, burning her ankles. She's suddenly hyper-aware of the stretch of skin between the bottom of her trousers and the top of her boots. The eyelet holes for her laces. She wants to bend, to kick off her boots and check her skin for damage. It's on her, it's on her skin.
Don't be stupid.
She's not one for self-recrimination, but her ankles are stinging and she only has herself to blame. She catches Peter's eyes, hers shocky and wide, and then he pushes her away, the screwdriver lost to the darkness, and she's running back the way they came, hot on Bruce's heels, the beat of her footsteps no longer a steady thump, but a sticky, ominous squelch.]