The morning air is cold and crisp. Ontari leans against a weathered stone wall and she takes the time to eat around the skewer covered in meats and roots. Entani sits on the ground beside her, the healer's spear laid out on the ground as she sharpens its point with a whetstone whose rhythmic scraping Ontari finds comforting.
"So," Entani says as she looks up and squints past the rising sun's light.
"So?"
"What do you think?" Entani asks as she turns back to her spear.
"I do not know," Ontari says with a shrug.
It's true, though, she doesn't quite know what to make of the things they have discovered, she doesn't even enjoy this awkward game of cat and mouse, where whoever they chase seems to be one step ahead. But, perhaps now that Clarke has forced their hand, she thinks that things will begin to move more quickly, she thinks action will be had, she hopes so, at least.
"Do you think Ilian is responsible?" Entani continues.
Ontari takes a moment to chew and to think, but as she peers down at Entani who looks up at her, she can't help but to think that the things they know line up with the Commander's suspicions.
"It makes sense," Ontari says eventually. "We will find out soon enough."
They fall silent then, and as Ontari takes the time to finish the food she eats she finds herself thinking of any number of things. She watches as people move by, warriors from other clans, traders, craftspeople and those she recognises from her time spent in Polis. She eyes a row of Polis Guards who walk by, each warrior stern faced, hands ever present on their weapons, and she nods to a group of Azgeda warriors who walk by, too.
She can't fight the sense of pride she feels at the way they move through the crowds, their furs glowing white in the morning sun, and the scars that glitter in the sunlight enough for all to recognise. Ontari cares not for the way it must look to some other clans that Azgeda warriors patrol the streets of Polis so openly, and she knows it partly due to the fact that they try to mask their true numbers, that they try to cause those responsible for the missing tech discomfort.
Most of all she thinks it important to show the other clans that Azgeda is not to be pushed around, that their place in the Coalition is stronger now than it has ever been before and that King Roan rules just as firmly as Nia had once ruled.
And so Ontari sighs, shakes her thoughts lest they start to turn sour and she takes one last big bite before dropping the skewer into the bin.
"Come, Entani," she says as she holds out a hand for her friend to take. "We must talk to Teben."
Ontari doesn't know what to think of Teben. She isn't entirely convinced that the woman is as helpless as she seems, nor does she think Teben prone to lying. But why she thinks that, she doesn't know.
Perhaps it's the way in which Teben looks her in the eyes from where she sits on the ground, perhaps it is the way in which Teben seems resigned to her fate, or perhaps it is simply because Teben has been as helpful as can be expected given her circumstances.
"You did not return yesterday," she says eventually.
"No," Ontari says with a shrug. "We were busy," and she eyes the way Teben seems to hold her arm a little more carefully against her side.
Entani steps forward then, one hand already fumbling to open her healer's pack as she eyes the wound. For a moment Ontari considers not letting Entani see to Teben but knows the game well. And she knows the best way to break a prisoner is to take away what they have come to rely upon, but only when it is necessary. For to do it too soon would lessen the loss. And so Ontari thinks it won't hurt to keep Teben as comfortable as possible. Until her uses have run dry.
Ontari falls quiet as she watches Entani unwind the bandage around Teben's arm, and she finds herself grimacing just a little at the reddened flesh that seems just a little swollen, even the smell seems just a little more intense that it had seemed yesterday.
Entani tuts at what she sees and Ontari eyes the way Teben's eyes seem to widen just a bit at the sound before she seems to accept whatever thoughts have crossed her mind.
"Will I lose the arm?" Teben asks then, and her voice comes out quiet and resigned.
Entani takes a moment to look at the wound that seems to ooze a pus and a stench that Ontari knows all too well. But Entani simply shrugs and turns to her healer's pack and begins sorting through vials.
"No," Entani says then, and for just a brief moment Ontari wishes Entani had said yes, if only so she could see what Teben's reaction would have been. "But this will hurt," Entani finishes as she turns back to Teben with a small scalpel.
At that Ontari can't quite suppress the shudder, if only because she knows Entani means to cut away the dead flesh, that to keep the wound as clean as possible she will open it once more, will fill it with a paste that burns and stings and wriggles its agony through flesh and bone and vein.
And so Entani works with a swift proficiency. She cuts away what flesh she must cut away, she mutters to herself and she ignores every grimace and sob and whimper that Teben lets free as she must feel each slice and cut of the scalpel Entani wields.
Through it all Ontari watches Teben's face, and she sees the woman's cheeks first flush with blood as her heart rate increases, and she sees the colour drain from her skin, she even sees Teben's lips tremble and her eyes fill with tears.
Ontari waits until Teben's breathing has quickened, she waits until the woman's eyes are screwed shut so tightly that even that must hurt, and she waits until even the tiniest of motions Entani makes causes her to whimper.
And then she speaks.
"We arrested Ilian last night," Ontari says and she keeps her voice light and carefree. "He admitted almost everything once he realised he would not get away."
Teben's eyes snap open, shock and surprise colour her cheeks and Ontari knows she has guessed correctly as Entani makes a prominent cut only for Teben to hardly react.
"I—" Teben swallows her voice before fully speaking, and Ontari can't quite tell if it is from shock, from being unsure of what to say, or from the pain she must ebb and flow through her mind.
"You do not need to say anything," Ontari says as she leans against the nearest wall and crosses her arms. "Ilian said as much as we need to know."
"I—" again Teben seems unsure of what to say.
"I do not blame you," Ontari continues, and she thinks she senses a crack forming in whatever resolve Teben had once formed. "You were caught up in the cause. You believed it," she pauses to let her words sink in and to give herself time to consider what to say next. "But Ilian didn't believe in it," she says and she watches as Teben takes a slow blink. "Or not as much as you did," she shrugs then. "He began talking sooner than I expected."
"No," Teben's head shakes then and a strand of sweaty hair clings to her forehead.
"This will hurt," Entani cuts in quietly as she begins brushing a paste onto the now clean and reddened and freshly bleeding wound. Teben winces and grits her teeth and instinctively tries pulling her arm away only for Entani to grip it more tightly.
Ontari lets the sound of footsteps and the dungeon gates closing or opening in the distance fade away, and she lets Teben settle once more before she continues, "we have a problem now, Teben," and she waits until Teben looks her way before going on. "It is no secret that we kept you alive because we wanted information," and she shrugs. "You have been helpful but perhaps now not so much."
Teben looks away then and seems to deflate more than she already has. "Are you going to kill me now? Is that why you have come?"
"Some think you should be put to death," Ontari says. "Others think you should be imprisoned for life, be made to work the fields until you grow old and weak."
Teben wipes her free hand across her nose and sniffles before sighing and for just the briefest of moments Ontari feels a pang of guilt and perhaps of sadness, but she kills the emotion before her min even fully registers its.
"Or you try to tell us anything else," and she knows she must speak carefully now or her gamble will fail. "Anything else you think will stop Ilian from carrying out his plans."
"He—" Teben pauses and seems to correct herself, "we have—"
An odd shuffling footstep sounds behind Ontari and her head snaps around to look at whoever had snuck up on her. Her gaze settles on the newcomer she feels her heart still.
Ilian stands at the open doors to Teben's cell, one hand in a pocket and his head cocked to the side in slight confusion and his eyes half widened in surprise. She hears Teben gasp and she hears Entani curse.
And it happens quickly.
Ilian's eyes narrow a fraction, just barely enough that Ontari isn't sure if she imagines it or not. But she knows that he knows or is realising and so Ontari kicks out as fast as she can, the violence of her attack enough to surprise Ilian for only a moment. But he moves fast, he closes in on her and absorbs the blow. Entani darts forward, too, her spear cast aside if only because it would do them little use in such close quarters.
Ilian's hand snakes out and strikes her across the face and Ontari sees stars, but the strike distracts her for little more than a second for she moves with the strike, lets her body absorb the force and she rolls out of Entani's way as she races past her and collides with Ilian.
But Ilian moves, he moves faster than she would expect, and she grimaces as Ilian's knee slams into Entani's ribs, and she grimace as she hears Entani's chocked curse. Ontari jumps to her feet, darts over Entani's body and she pulls out her knife. She sees the opening, she sees Ilian favouring one side over the other, and so she lunges, she feints left, feints right, strikes and lashes and stabs her knife as fast as she can in the hopes of distracting, of giving Entani enough time to get to her feet, to draw her own blade and to cause as much confusion as possible, if only because she knows they must take Ilian alive, must get whatever information they can from him before it is too la—
Ontari pauses mid strike, she pauses mid attack, and she pauses for only a moment, only for enough time to realise that Ilian doesn't attack, that he doesn't quite retaliate the way she expected. And it takes Ontari a moment longer to realise that Ilian retreats, that he tries to put as much distance between him and them as he can. And it gives her pause, makes her consider, makes her second guess, question and ponder.
But Ontari hears the distinctive click she hears the metallic sound that echoes out around them, and she feels her blood freeze.
Ilian dives back and around the corner, but what steals Ontari's attention the most is a cylinder of tech that clatters to the stone floor. And only for a moment can Ontari curse her angers and frustrations and furies before the metallic cylinder explodes open and releases a red smoke that clouds her vision, that burns her nostrils and fills her lungs with a substance she recognises all too well.
Ontari falls to her knees, one hand trying to cover her mouth as her vision begins to blur. But before she even fully registers what has happened she finds herself lying on the ground at the threshold of the open doors to Teben's cell.
And the last thing she sees is Ilian peering out from around the corner, a cloth covering his nose and mouth, and his gaze hard and tinged with annoyance and frustration.
Clarke can't really remember the last time she had the ability to unwind, to live without worry or annoyance or guilt for whatever actions she has taken since falling to the ground. But she remembers the little moments she has stolen, she remembers the times late at night on the side of the Mountain, or the fleeting glances she would share in meetings.
And so she doesn't quite mind that she finds herself in such a moment, that she leans back on the lone couch that dominates her quarters, and that Lexa seems lost in thought as she rests her head in her lap with her eyes closed.
Clarke's fingers trace the slightest of baby hairs that line the edge of Lexa's hair, and perhaps the motion is unconscious, and perhaps it isn't. But Clarke doesn't question why she does it, not when she doesn't quite know when next they will be able to steal another such moment.
Not for the first time Clarke finds her finger tips brushing over the single raised line at the base of Lexa's skull, the scar small, simple and a story for another time, if Lexa is to be believed. And only for a moment does Clarke let herself wonder, let herself imagine what it must be.
"This is nice," Clarke says after a moment, and she doesn't mean for her voice to come out as quiet as it does. "It's not often the ambassadors leave us alone for so long," and she can't help but to enjoy the way Lexa's lips twitch up at the corners.
"Perhaps telling them of our suspicions has scared them," Lexa says, and despite the topic Clarke knows she jests.
"Maybe it did," and she lets her finger trace the tattoo that graces the back of Lexa's neck, the pattern a familiar one to her now.
Clarke looks out the window then, to the sun that slowly rises in the distance, to the clouds that drift through the morning sky and to the birds that flit back and forth, dive and glide through the air.
"Do you ever wonder what life could have been like?" she asks, and she doesn't know why now she raises the question, she doesn't even know if she wants to hear what Lexa says. Or perhaps she simply wants to cling to the moment for as long as she can.
"No, Clarke," Lexa says and as Clarke looks back to Lexa in her lap, she finds the woman's eyes open and staring up at her with a keen intensity. "Do you?"
"I—" Clarke doesn't know why she pauses, but she thinks it could be one of any number of reasons, some she wishes weren't so true, others she juggles with for longer than she knows to be healthy, and others, too, that she thinks are purely her mind playing games with her, jeering from the sidelines, acting as a foil and as a distraction in her most uncertain moments. "No," and she believes it. "Not really," but she pauses, shrugs and leans back until her head rests against the couch's back.
"You do, Clarke," and she feels Lexa shift from her position and come to sit up beside her.
"Yeah," Clarke says eventually. "Maybe I do," and she looks at Lexa from the corner of her eye. "Maybe I find myself wondering what life would have been like if I fell in Trikru lands first, if I had made it to the Mountain, had never come across our people before the Mountain Men took me in."
Clarke can't fight the smile at the face Lexa makes at that thought.
"What would I have done if we met in battle, not as allies, but as enemies? What if I had believed the Mountain Men, if they hid the truth from me before it was too late?" the words she says don't come out as desperate or broken, but more so full of wonderment, of intrigue, of something coloured by experience tempered by fire, by knowledge, by conviction and experience.
"If we had met in battle," Lexa says, and her voice comes out just a little more quietly than Clarke is used to. "Then I would have merely noted your beauty before pulling my blade from your chest."
"Hey," and Clarke nudges Lexa's shoulder with her own, the joke perhaps just a little too close to reality than she would prefer. "I'm being serious," Clarke says. "Don't you ever wonder? What if you never became Commander? What if life had turned out so much more differently than it has?"
"I do not think of things I can not control," Lexa says simply.
"Not even a little?" Clarke asks.
Lexa rolls onto her side then, tucks her legs under herself and Clarke thinks she can feel Lexa's gaze peering at her intently.
"Perhaps," Lexa begins, "perhaps I sometimes wonder what life may have been like if you had never fallen to the ground in a ball of fire," she says. "Perhaps I wonder what life would be like if we never met," Clarke can't find it in herself to look Lexa in the eyes now, but for why, she can't tell. "But we did," Lexa says. "I never would have once imagined an Azgeda warrior, scarred and fierce would share my bed," Lexa says. "I never would have once imagined that I would allow Azgeda warriors to walk through Polis streets so proudly. I never once would have imagined that our people could see common ground, could see past age old hatreds," Lexa's hand reaches out, brushes against her wrist ever so gently before falling away. "I never would have once imagined that an Azgeda Princess—" Clarke can't help but to roll her eyes and nudge Lexa with her shoulder once more. "—would have helped bridge the divide between those of the ground and those of the sky."
"She sounds special," Clarke finds herself unsure of how to take what Lexa says, and so she settles for jest, if only to shield herself, if only to ignore the strumming in her chest at the emotion she hasn't let herself really acknowledge since she had first felt it not so long ago.
"Yes," Lexa says. "She is," and she reaches out again, tugs gently on one of Clarke's braids until she is forced to look her way. "Life would have been dull if I had never met this warrior. This leader who is as fierce as she is gentle, kind as she is brave. Fair as she is beautiful," and Clarke feels the tips of her ears burn, if only because she doesn't know where this came from, if only because she doesn't think she had ever really expected Lexa to be so open.
And so Clarke makes sure she looks Lexa in the eyes, makes sure Lexa knows that she understands, makes sure she knows she accepts.
"You care for your people, Clarke. But you care for our people, too, for Azgeda. For Skaikru and Trikru, for warrior and injured and elderly and child,"
"I'm just trying to do what's right," Clarke says, and she can't help but to lean into Lexa's body just a little, she can't help but to think the moment a turning point, a hand held out for her to take.
"I know," Lexa says with the slightest of smiles. "That is why I—" but Lexa seems to pause, seems to reconsider at the very last moment. "That is why you are you."
"Lexa," Clarke thinks she breathes the name more than speaks it, and perhaps for the first time in quite some time Clarke finds herself at a loss as to what to say, what to think and what to do. But she finds that this time, she doesn't feel the absence of word and thought to be scary, to be daunting, to be anything more than it simply is.
Clarke reaches out, lets her hand rest atop Lexa's heart, and she loses herself to the rhythmic beating of Lexa's heart, to the slow and steady drumming beneath her fingers.
And just for a short moment Clarke thinks it would be easy to live like this, to exist without worry or care, without judgement or fear of what her actions may bring.
Clarke swallows the lump she finds forming in her throat, she takes her eyes from where her hand rests atop Lexa's heart and she finds that Lexa's gaze has seemingly never left her face. She takes just one more breath, if only to steady the beating of her own heart before she continues. "I—"
Yelling cuts through the silence, the sounds of feet slapping against stone, shouts of urgency and warning echo out around them.
Clarke whips around at the sound, one hand falling to her knife strapped to her thigh, and she senses Lexa do the same. Clarke hears Torvun's voice bark out a warning to whoever approaches from outside their quarters, and as she rises to her feet and comes to face the door, she feels preparing for the worst.
The door opens and Torvun's head pokes through.
"Clarke," he says and from his tone, from the scowl spreading across his face Clarke knows she will not like what she is about to hear. "Teben has escaped."
"What happened?" Clarke hisses as she settles the panther skull more comfortably behind her neck.
"The storeroom," Torvun says as he continues to walk beside her. "It was attacked as a distraction," and at that Clarke hears Lexa hiss out a curse.
"Hegla and Tosla," Ryder adds, and Lexa looks to the man to see a scowl firmly on his face. "They were the handmaidens assigned guard duty."
"Are they hurt?" Lexa says as she begins pulling ahead, her steps long and purposeful as she makes her way down the hall as she continues strapping on her pauldron.
"I do not know," Ryder says.
"Teben," Clarke says to Torvun, "how'd she escape?"
"I do not know, Clarke," he says, but Clarke doesn't blame him for not knowing, simply because she knows he has stayed by her side at almost all times.
Clarke makes it perhaps another few steps before she pauses, thought coming to mind, "go to the storeroom, Lex," Clarke says as she turns back to her quarters, "make sure your handmaidens are ok, I'm going to make sure know one escapes Polis."
Lexa takes only a moment to consider before nodding her agreement, and with that she turns and almost begins running.
"Clarke?" Torvun asks as he slips into her quarters behind her.
"We don't have much time," Clarke says as she reaches for her pack and begins searching, "Ilian's made his move, I'm sure of it, and he's going to want to get Teben out of Polis as soon as possible."
She lets out a victorious grunt as she pulls the small radio free, and as she glances up at Torvun she sees an understanding dawning on his face.
"Jenma," he says with a nod.
"Yeah," and Clarke clicks the radio on, she lets the crackle fill the air for a moment and then she begins speaking. "Jenma?" she lets the urgency fill her tone as she waits for a response. "Jenma, it's Cla—"
Clarke?
"Yeah," Clarke says. "It's urgent. Ilian has rescued Teben. I need you to bring every single warrior to the Polis gates. I don't care what anyone else says, I give you permission to check every single person trying to leave. Let no one out."
Heda is ok with this?
Clarke hears the slightest hints of uncertainty in Jenma's voice but she knows Lexa will see reason, at least later.
"I'll deal with her, but it's important Teben and Ilian don't escape."
I understand
And Clarke is sure she hears Jenma already moving, already strapping her weapons to herself.
"Good," Clarke says. "I'll meet you at the gates."
Clarke moves fast, or as fast as she can considering the bustle of warriors flooding the streets of Polis. She had caught a fleeting look at Lexa to find her directing Polis Guards and Trikru warriors somewhere, she had even seen Azgeda warriors running back and forth, but as her feet continue to take he further and further from Polis Tower she can't help but to feel a deepening dread.
And that dread is due to the fact that she hasn't found Ontari or Entani, that none of the Azgeda warriors she has passed have seen either of them since the night before. Clarke knows Ontari though, and she knows Ontari would want to question Teben more, would want to hear for herself whatever excuses the prisoner would have had, and she knows Entani, and she knows that Entani would have followed, would have been happy to accompany as much for her own intrigue, and as much as to ensure Ontari not get carried away in whatever questioning she was to perform.
And so the dungeons is where Clarke runs.
Torvun moves almost faster than her, his steps longer, his body large enough to urge people aside, but Clarke manages to weave and wind her way through the crowds until she rounds one last corner and comes face to face with a crow of warriors, a mixture of Trikru and Azgeda and other clans.
"Ontari," Clarke can't help but to yell out her name as she begins pushing through those gathered, but the commotion drowns out her voice, it silences her with the chatter and the buzz, "Onta—" Torvun shoves a warrior aside, barks at him to back off and pushes her forward until she breaks through.
Clarke grimaces as she comes face to face with Ontari, her face reddened and seemingly sunburnt, her hair seems just a little singed and her furs, once pristine white, now look almost yellowed at the edges.
"What happened?" Clarke gasps as she crouches down beside Ontari who sits on the ground, a jug of water in one hand and a wet washcloth held to her cheek."Where's Entani?"
"There," Ontari says as she gestures to the side, and as Clarke follows her gesture she finds Entani leaning over a Trikru warrior whose nose is bloodied and clearly broken.
"Entani," Clarke calls out.
"I am ok," Entani says as she looks up to reveal her own face and her hands seem reddened, even her hair and furs appeared singed at the edges.
"What happened?" Clarke says as she turns back to Ontari.
"Ilian," she snarls. "He surprised us, used the red smoke, I could not breathe or see and then it began to burn," and she winces as she pulls away the washcloth to reveal how reddened her cheek is.
Clarke knows enough that she can tell that Ontari and Entani's wounds aren't so severe as to need drastic care, but she can see that it must be painful, that it will probably takes weeks to fully heal.
Even Torvun seems to pity them just a little from the wince she hears escape his lips.
"Did you see where Ilian went?" he asks, but Ontari shakes her head angrily.
"I was too busy trying not to suffocate and burn," she snaps, but Clarke knows she means not to snap at Torvun, that her angers are purely directed to Ilian, and she can see Torvun understands too from the way he takes the washcloth from her hands and wets it in the bucket.
"We need to move," Clarke says. "Can you move?"
"Yes," Entani says as she turns to the nearest Trikru warrior and gestures for him to care for his wounded compatriot.
"Good," and Clarke stands, holds her hand out for Ontari to take as Torvun does the same for Entani. "I'll explain on the way."
Ontari seethes with each bounding step she takes as she follows Clarke through the streets of Polis and towards the city gates. And she seethes for she wants to wrap her hands around Ilian's throat and squeeze the life out of him, she seethes for she wants to smother him with the red smoke and make him feel just how uncomfortable it is. And most of all she seethes for her body burns, it itches and feels hot, feels so very uncomfortable in places she would rather it not burn. Even the tips of her ears burn, and she can't even remember ever noticing that part of her body feeling anything. Ever.
She hears the distinct crackle of the tech Clarke uses to speak over great distances, and as she tunes into the sound she hears Jenma's voice sounding out from it, but Ontari finds it too hard to hear, too hard to discern just what is being said.
They round one last bend and they come to a stop. Before her lie the gates of Polis. But where once was the bustle of city people, is now a swarm of Azgeda warriors, far more than usual, and as she peers through the crowd she sees even more outside the city gates.
Those closest to the gates seem to be causing the most chaos though, and as Ontari continues to follow Clarke's lead she realises that every warrior seems to be pushing those to the side, seems to be checking them all, inspecting anything that they carry.
"No one is getting out of here," Clarke says over her shoulder, her face twisted with annoyance and frustration. "We're checking everyone. I don't want Ilian sneaking out."
Perhaps for just a brief second Ontari finds herself wondering what the repercussions will be of Azgeda's overstepping of Polis rule, but she dismisses it without much worry. Ontari sees Jenma waving at them as she makes her way closer, and she can't help but to think the woman seems eager for action.
"Jenma," Clarke says, and Ontari finds herself eyeing those who past them by as she listens to Jenma and Clarke's conversation.
"We have not found him yet," Jenma says. "I have warriors searching the forests already, in case he already slipped through. Echo is with those I sent."
"Good," Clarke says, "I saw the Commander ordering her warriors to patrol the streets, I want you to take however many you need and do the same, join up with them."
Jenma nods her understanding, and Ontari thinks it a blessing that Jenma is quick to react to orders without fanfare. She watches for just another moment as Jenma turns, waves Bronat and Leeton over to join her before she begins gathering the few Azgeda already not in the middle of searching those unfortunate enough to have been trying to leave the city.
"Now what, Clarke?" Ontari asks, and she looks around them and at the sea of Azgeda warriors who still flood the gates.
Clarke looks at her, the frown upon her face a seemingly permanent expression now.
"I don't know," and she grits her teeth. "We'll keep checking people until the Commander gets here."
"There is nothing else we can do, Clarke," Torvun offers, and Ontari sees Entani scoff only to wince at the pain still felt across her face.
"Torvun's right, Entani," Clarke says with a sigh and Ontari is sure the sigh that escapes Clarke's lips is as much frustration as it it forced easing of the tension clearly displayed upon her face. "If Ilian's still in the city then he won't get out, not now with all of us here. And if he's hiding somewhere then we'll find him. We know now that he's the one responsible, so all clans will be searching for him."
Ontari scowls at his name again, if only because she feels the desire to strangle him deepening with each pained breath she takes. But her anger is quickly replaced by suspicion when her gaze falls to a warrior who crouches beside a basket set near the gates.
Ontari sees the warrior look around in confusion as he searches for whoever it belongs to. It takes her a moment before she recognises that the warrior was the very same fresh faced warrior who had spoken to her not so long ago when she had been drinking with Entani.
Another warrior joins him, and it happens almost too fast for her to register.
Both men bend down and lift the lid off the basket as they peer inside. She sees the confusion, she sees the surprise and then the acceptance flash across both their faces.
And then the basket explodes.
The air is slammed out of Ontari's lungs more forcefully than she has ever felt before. Dust kicks out, it stabs into her already sensitive flesh and she feels her body beginning to move, beginning to bend and twist and fly through the air. And just before she slams into whatever hard surface she is unfortunate enough to crash against, she finds a single frustratingly annoying thought taking hold of her mind.
Not again.