[L's current world is misery, the distinct feeling that he is actually dying as he coughs and spits and reaches a trembling hand up to hold back his shaggy hair. The output is more painful than productive; his electrolytes are already unbalanced, his body dehydrated, and the result is largely an acidic bout of dry heaving that crushes his ribs and brings back vague, unpleasant memories of bruising, repetitive force against the back of his throat.
The memories are getting clearer, transmitted to him through a Bond that is stirring out the door and down the hall. The SQUIP is waking, the SQUIP is awake... the SQUIP is furious. It's sharp; it hurts, but he's already hurting, so he adds it to the substantial pile.
He pushes away from the commode, dizzy and sweating, reaching back to flush away the stale and sparse evidence. He tips over backwards, rolling over to right himself, turning on the shower and crawling into it with his shirt still on to wash off a film of grime, sweat, and... blood?
Not his... and the picture is getting clearer, ever second, and he curls his knees toward his chest as the water pelts down on his shoulders. He leans his tightly-wound frame against the side of the shower, and dully, knocks his aching head against the tile. Not enough to pull himself back into oblivion, but wouldn't it be nice?]
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The memories are getting clearer, transmitted to him through a Bond that is stirring out the door and down the hall. The SQUIP is waking, the SQUIP is awake... the SQUIP is furious. It's sharp; it hurts, but he's already hurting, so he adds it to the substantial pile.
He pushes away from the commode, dizzy and sweating, reaching back to flush away the stale and sparse evidence. He tips over backwards, rolling over to right himself, turning on the shower and crawling into it with his shirt still on to wash off a film of grime, sweat, and... blood?
Not his... and the picture is getting clearer, ever second, and he curls his knees toward his chest as the water pelts down on his shoulders. He leans his tightly-wound frame against the side of the shower, and dully, knocks his aching head against the tile. Not enough to pull himself back into oblivion, but wouldn't it be nice?]