Everyone stay low was good advice, but Megan didn’t feel like deigning his question with a response. From where she was kneeled, there was nothing about her that suggested she’d played catalyst to a very deadly shooting. This was not her doing; the first hostage to take a bullet had been an effective lesson in following orders.
Supernaturally inclined didn’t translate into unnecessary reckless, or so she justified as the fight continued on beyond the non-existent walls of the conference room. With the windows blasted open, the familiar blue flash of police sirens bathed what was left of the ceiling. The sirens were clearer now that the ringing in her ear had stopped.
Holding her hand over Helen’s face, Megan determined the woman was breathing too slowly. A glance at the teller’s bloodied body suggested whatever saving could be done would have to be attempted by those equipped with the knowledge to do so. Her gifts only extended to surface wounds, nothing as critical as the two bullet wounds in Helen’s midriff. Letting out a shaky sob, the sorceress crawled away from the teller in search of someone she could help. What if Helen died in the interim because of her lack of attention?
The commotion beyond the conference room fleetingly caught her attention; she reminded herself that this wasn’t her fight. If she stayed here, her chances of getting shot were less than if she ventured out there. And to use a person’s dead body as a shield… While logically she could understand it, there was a growing part of her—as she glanced at the death that surrounded her—which was disgusted. This sort of thing only happened in the news, or movies—the kind she didn’t like watching.
Hovering over a man in his forties with a bloodied wedding band, Megan looked for a wound she could potentially heal. He was holding his side, and she gently moved his fingers away from the gashed clothing. Pulling the soaked shirt free, she lifted the fabric to reveal a bullet hole swelling with blood with every breath he took. Pressing her palm to the laceration, she closed her eyes and tried to reach into her core for the magic that lived in every cell of her body.
The minutes trickled by, but nothing happened. Pushing harder, she opened her eyes when the man cried in pain.
“I’m trying to stem the bleeding,” she told him, realising that whatever she could have potentially done for him was impossible. There was an indisputable absence of cohesion between her body and brain in the wake of the stress she was suffering from. Her powers were just out of her grasp, the hardened texture of her skin already slackening as proof of her situation.
His blood bathed her fingers, her attempt at stemming the bleeding futile. Glancing around, she saw few that she could do anything for. Megan wondered whether she’d have been of more use following the two who’d ventured out minutes earlier. The man below her grunted, and she returned her attention to him, unable to make much sense of what was happening outside.
“Help’s already here,” she told him, more so for her benefit than his. Help is here. Which was just as well considering how ******* useless she was.
Supernaturally inclined didn’t translate into unnecessary reckless, or so she justified as the fight continued on beyond the non-existent walls of the conference room. With the windows blasted open, the familiar blue flash of police sirens bathed what was left of the ceiling. The sirens were clearer now that the ringing in her ear had stopped.
Holding her hand over Helen’s face, Megan determined the woman was breathing too slowly. A glance at the teller’s bloodied body suggested whatever saving could be done would have to be attempted by those equipped with the knowledge to do so. Her gifts only extended to surface wounds, nothing as critical as the two bullet wounds in Helen’s midriff. Letting out a shaky sob, the sorceress crawled away from the teller in search of someone she could help. What if Helen died in the interim because of her lack of attention?
The commotion beyond the conference room fleetingly caught her attention; she reminded herself that this wasn’t her fight. If she stayed here, her chances of getting shot were less than if she ventured out there. And to use a person’s dead body as a shield… While logically she could understand it, there was a growing part of her—as she glanced at the death that surrounded her—which was disgusted. This sort of thing only happened in the news, or movies—the kind she didn’t like watching.
Hovering over a man in his forties with a bloodied wedding band, Megan looked for a wound she could potentially heal. He was holding his side, and she gently moved his fingers away from the gashed clothing. Pulling the soaked shirt free, she lifted the fabric to reveal a bullet hole swelling with blood with every breath he took. Pressing her palm to the laceration, she closed her eyes and tried to reach into her core for the magic that lived in every cell of her body.
The minutes trickled by, but nothing happened. Pushing harder, she opened her eyes when the man cried in pain.
“I’m trying to stem the bleeding,” she told him, realising that whatever she could have potentially done for him was impossible. There was an indisputable absence of cohesion between her body and brain in the wake of the stress she was suffering from. Her powers were just out of her grasp, the hardened texture of her skin already slackening as proof of her situation.
His blood bathed her fingers, her attempt at stemming the bleeding futile. Glancing around, she saw few that she could do anything for. Megan wondered whether she’d have been of more use following the two who’d ventured out minutes earlier. The man below her grunted, and she returned her attention to him, unable to make much sense of what was happening outside.
“Help’s already here,” she told him, more so for her benefit than his. Help is here. Which was just as well considering how ******* useless she was.
