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Lin limped into her apartment and slammed the door shut behind her. "Fuck," she breathed, sliding down to the floor, head in her hands.
This wasn't supposed to happen. None of this was supposed to happen.
She had given her world that the probending finals would be safe, that the stadium would be secure. And now? The platform was blown to smithereens, Amon and his Equalists nowhere to be seen. In and out, wisps in the night.
(Screw Tarrlok for tying her promise to his name. To him the glory, to her the retribution.)
With a groan, Lin forced herself onto her feet and down the hall, tracing the smooth plaster wall with her fingers as she painfully made her way to the bathroom sink. Arms shaking, she bent her suit off. "Fuck!"
She had been cut, badly. There was an open, jagged wound, angry and raised. She didn't remember being hit—had it been from falling through the stadium roof?
Normally glass ceilings were broken from the ground up, not the top down.
With a sigh, Lin retrieved the cotton squares and rubbing alcohol from their usual place in her cabinet. Fingers shaking, she soaked the square with the sharp-smelling liquid, and hissed as it made contact with her broken skin.
This was supposed to be a good night.
Fuck.