[ she's heard how the stories go, the whispers they tell between ghost stories in the first army.
your life flashes before your eyes — that's the myth they've always perpetuated, isn't it? that one final mercy when you're staring death down the barrel of a rifle, waiting to gurgle out one last prayer. that one sliver of light before everything goes black, wrapping you up in warm memories before the world goes cold around you.
it's just another pretty lie, alina discovers, as newt's skull sets itself on a collison course with her head. there's no glimpse of clara's bright eyes, or that colorful grin that saturates newt's eyes — no chemical smell of nail polish as yelena makes artwork out of alina's nails, or rhys' voice rumbling beneath her ear in late hours of the night, or mal's fork relentlessly stabbing food off of her plate. there's just —
pinpricks of white starbursts in her vision, narrowing down into a tunneled view of newt. through the throbbing in her head, she registers the blood filling behind her teeth — no one but hers, this time. with a choked groan, her scrabbling hands loosen from newt's throat, sealing over her side.
trembling, they come away with a tacky red glaze. her blood, too — though the searing pain in her side is secondary to the betrayed realization he's stabbed her. a small incision through her ribs that could have been deadly, with enough precision. with enough force.
her second realization comes quick on the first's heels: she can only hope rhys hasn't seen it, hasn't changed courses from putting a pin in newton's plans. without the luxury of checking if he's gone, taking (not) newt's final key far from him, alina uses her wavering strength to latch onto his suit jacket and pull with clawing hands, twisting them around on the floor, in a desperate bid to clamber on top of him.
as one final insult, she spits, a glob of blood splashing across his face. her own defiant refusal to die quietly or quickly, if he plans to kill her here and now. what would be so different about taking her last breath here when she's always suspected she'd die a martyr's death? ]
It's over.
[ breathless, the words grind out behind her teeth. newt's suit is a gory canvas now, her palms dragging her blood against its lapels — but alina doesn't fare much better. a splotch of red bleeds through the black of her dress, tiny cuts on her arms bubbling up with blood from where she's rolled them into debris. ]
Why don't you — [ she tries to plant her knee firmly into his knife-wielding hand as she uses the leverage on his lapels to lift and slam him back into the floor — but it's a weakening attempt. the skin on her ribs pulls, splits further to send out a fresh burst of blood, pushing out a whimpering breath between syllables. ] — get out of him?
[ her sapped strength isn't nearly enough to push him into unconsciousness, despite her best efforts — wouldn't be, even if she were at full bodily strength. her grasp begins to slacken bit by bit, heaving out pained exhales through her flaring nostrils. ]
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your life flashes before your eyes — that's the myth they've always perpetuated, isn't it? that one final mercy when you're staring death down the barrel of a rifle, waiting to gurgle out one last prayer. that one sliver of light before everything goes black, wrapping you up in warm memories before the world goes cold around you.
it's just another pretty lie, alina discovers, as newt's skull sets itself on a collison course with her head. there's no glimpse of clara's bright eyes, or that colorful grin that saturates newt's eyes — no chemical smell of nail polish as yelena makes artwork out of alina's nails, or rhys' voice rumbling beneath her ear in late hours of the night, or mal's fork relentlessly stabbing food off of her plate. there's just —
pinpricks of white starbursts in her vision, narrowing down into a tunneled view of newt. through the throbbing in her head, she registers the blood filling behind her teeth — no one but hers, this time. with a choked groan, her scrabbling hands loosen from newt's throat, sealing over her side.
trembling, they come away with a tacky red glaze. her blood, too — though the searing pain in her side is secondary to the betrayed realization he's stabbed her. a small incision through her ribs that could have been deadly, with enough precision. with enough force.
her second realization comes quick on the first's heels: she can only hope rhys hasn't seen it, hasn't changed courses from putting a pin in newton's plans. without the luxury of checking if he's gone, taking (not) newt's final key far from him, alina uses her wavering strength to latch onto his suit jacket and pull with clawing hands, twisting them around on the floor, in a desperate bid to clamber on top of him.
as one final insult, she spits, a glob of blood splashing across his face. her own defiant refusal to die quietly or quickly, if he plans to kill her here and now. what would be so different about taking her last breath here when she's always suspected she'd die a martyr's death? ]
It's over.
[ breathless, the words grind out behind her teeth. newt's suit is a gory canvas now, her palms dragging her blood against its lapels — but alina doesn't fare much better. a splotch of red bleeds through the black of her dress, tiny cuts on her arms bubbling up with blood from where she's rolled them into debris. ]
Why don't you — [ she tries to plant her knee firmly into his knife-wielding hand as she uses the leverage on his lapels to lift and slam him back into the floor — but it's a weakening attempt. the skin on her ribs pulls, splits further to send out a fresh burst of blood, pushing out a whimpering breath between syllables. ] — get out of him?
[ her sapped strength isn't nearly enough to push him into unconsciousness, despite her best efforts — wouldn't be, even if she were at full bodily strength. her grasp begins to slacken bit by bit, heaving out pained exhales through her flaring nostrils. ]