entrancelogs | knocked the wind out of my soul [open]

The doctor half leads half drags George away. She glares at him. "I can walk, you know." She knows Tim is right, that she should just take the path of least resistance and do what it takes to wait out this shitty event or get away. She just... isn't good at not resisting. Not on her best days, and being stuck in a hospital again does not make this one of her best days.

The doctor shakes his head. "You don't seem to be in a very cooperative mood today, Georgia. You can walk unescorted when you prove you can handle the responsibility."

She wants to laugh. She doesn't, which is probably a good thing. She doubts it'd help. "Can you take me to my brother first? I'll be a lot more cooperative if I can see him."

The doctor stops in the hall and gives her a sad look, shaking his head. "You really have relapsed. Georgia... you don't have a brother."

Tim's doctor tuts disapprovingly.

"You really ought to be more careful, Timothy. You and her...you're not a good mix."

His teeth grit hard enough for his molars to feel ready to crack, but he allows his shoulders to slump with the pretense of disappointment. Just...play along. Play the game. The voices haven't faded into the distance; he can still hear Georgia, and the doctor's morose, ridiculous claim.

Oh, shit.

That's not about to go over well. Tim slows, dragging his feet - craning his neck to glance back at her as he tenses for the invariable explosion.

George goes deathly still. "Excuse me?"

The doctor shakes his head and resumes dragging her along by the arm. "This 'Shaun' character you've made up. I understand the lack of support coming from your parents would lead you to create an imaginary friend. It's just that most people grow out of it rather than continuing to project more and more roles onto him."

When George was being held in the CDC, they had an armed guard to escort her whenever she left the room. They'd also kept her handcuffed. She'd always been torn between laughing at how excessive it was for one blogger and being offended that they thought handcuffs would stop her. She'd known how to pick locks since she was six. Men with guns, on the other hand... well, she knew first hand she wasn't bulletproof.

Right now, it doesn't seem like the CDC was being excessive at all. This is just one doctor holding her loosely, completely unarmed. Which means the second they turn a corner, she can break his grip and slam her elbow into his nose in one smooth motion. The doctor breaks off in telling her how fucked up her relationship is with her imaginary brother (she knows) and staggers back, grabbing his face. That moment of confusion is enough. She slams his head into the wall as hard as she can and he crumples.

She doesn't have much time, but still she pauses to check his pulse. Not that her actions will change if she accidentally killed him, but she'd still rather not. It's still there. Good. Not that it would prevent him from having a concussion. Not that that matters when he might not even be real. Then she yanks his lab coat off and raids his pockets for keys and ID badges. After another moment's thought, she steals his shoes. They're too big, but they'll do. She tugs the doctor into the nearest room, then hurries back the way they came, walking with as much confidence as she can muster. She has to find Tim, and they're getting out of here.

She wishes she had her gun with her. She hates being unarmed.

Her ever predictable Achilles'. He knows it's coming the instant before it happens, the whipcrack sharpness of that immediate, powerful motion that rams him into the wall with an earsplitting break.

Tim twists on the spot. The doctor, clearly unprepared for that abrupt show of violence after so much placid cooperation, is wholly taken aback when he snaps his hands around his throat and squeezes. The struggles leave a battering of bruises across his sides and a shiner just below his cheekbone - death throes or the final moments consciousness before everything goes dark, he can't exactly say.

(This is what he's made himself into.)

The doctor goes down after mere moments, silent but for the choking gurgle. There are no orderlies, but Tim has to check with a cautious sweep of both sides of the halls before seizing the doctor beneath the armpits and dragging him across the sweep of tile to the nearest closet, cramming him hastily within.

After a moment's consideration, he snags the keycard from the doctor's pockets, shivering at the ghosting sensation of rooting through a hooded man's pockets.

It'd be pretty damn stupid to go running around the halls screaming George's name, but he doesn't have a lot of choice here. What he does have is access to a supply of scalpels.

It's better than nothing.

He crams two into his pockets and clenches bruised knuckles around the third and sets off, darting frequent glances over his shoulder.

You know what happens when you have two people moving rapidly towards where they hope each other are, looking everywhere but in front of themselves?

Exactly what you'd expect.

George slams into Tim and stumbles backwards, reaching to steady herself on the wall before she looks up to see where she is. "Oh. There you are. How do you feel about getting the fuck out of here?"

"God, you really couldn't wait, could you?" One hand shoots out to steady her shoulder before he thinks better of it, and elects to lean onto the wall instead. He turns the scalpel over and over in his hand, breathing heavily.

"I was gonna say we should try and bide our time and sneak out slowly," he mutters, pushing sweat-slicked hair from his forehead, "but this works too."

Which is Tim's sarcastic way of saying yes, please, how soon and how quickly can we make this happen? His eyes rake about the surrounding hallways.

"I say we've got maybe five minutes before people figure out what we've done and we're stuck here for the rest of...however long these things last. You find an exit yet?"

"He wasn't even armed." Because it's a mental hospital, George. Most mental hospitals don't need their workers to carry guns. She wrinkles her nose and starts moving back the way she came. No, she couldn't wait. Because being here was already making her feel like setting everything on fire before they started trying to convince her that Shaun isn't real. No, she couldn't wait.

"It can't go on forever. These rift events only stretch out for a few yards. If we go far enough in any direction, we should make it out."

"No, because he was a doctor, not a security guard," says Tim, his tone landing somewhere between exasperated and incredulous. Not that he hasn't learned why she would assume people would be carrying those sorts of weapons - CDC and all - but the fact that this is clearly a product of a time even before his own might've been a pretty decent indication that this was not the same kind of building she thought it was.

There's the clatter of footsteps down white-tiled halls, shouts growing closer. He cranes his neck only briefly before making that snap decision.

"Fine. So let's pick a direction and go before they find us."

"I'm just saying, he clearly wasn't equipped to deal with me." Apparently they weren't equipped to deal with Tim either. She's not complaining.

She points away from the shouts. "Right. I vote that way." There might still be people, but there'd probably be fewer and maybe they'd be too surprised to stop them. And they probably don't have to go very far.

Either they had a fabricated history of Tim being a generally pretty docile patient, or his cooperation was enough to lower their guard. Whichever it is, he's not complaining. One glance back in the direction from which he came compared to from where George came, and their options are pretty limited. He nods shortly.

"I'm sold."

And starts sprinting without a second thought.

Georgia's in good shape. She's not sprinting because she knows if she sprinted, she'd outpace Tim before too long. She refuses to do that. They're getting out of this shithole.

As they make their way down the hall, a doctor turns the corner and sees them, her eyes widening in surprise.

"Keep running!" George shouts.

Maybe if he weren't already cough-hacking his lungs up from the effort to keep up this pace - his respiratory system has never been fond of him, and the chain-smoking certainly didn't help - he would've snapped that her advice is so very helpful, because he was really thinking of slowing down right about now.

Right now, he's lucky he can still find the breath to continue. There's a branch diverting from the main artery they're tearing through now; he catches the corner with one hand and skids into it. It terminates in a door.

Maybe it's a way out. Maybe it's a dead end. Given the way that they're being pursued from all angles, do they really have a choice?

"Through - " he wheezes between gritted teeth. "Now!"

One of these days she's going to fucking make him start working out. She's always been in favor of being healthy enough to run for your life, and even if his lungs will keep him from being a marathon runner, he can still be stronger.

And that's a good thing to dwell on later, cause there's a door and if it's not their salvation it's their doom. She doesn't know if she can last here for a whole hour. She doesn't know if she's strong enough to go back.

She slams through the door and stumbles into the familiar Wonderland hallways. She's not in hospital whites anymore, but her usual comfortable black clothes. She's got the sunglasses she both doesn't need and can't function without. She has shoes. She has her gun and her cameras. She's herself.

She exhales, bracing herself against the wall, and looks over to check on Tim.

The hope he'd been holding to pulls through. The door slams behind them, and the cling of white pajamas falls away to the nondescript shirt and jeans he usually wears. No scalpels buried in his pockets - just a lighter and a phone and a wallet and a flip-knife, and Tim breathes out, head thumping back against the wall in telegraphed relief.

"Thank god," he mutters. Almost immediately, he glances at George. "You okay?"

He made it out. Good. George straightens as she catches her breath, the panic from before melting away now that she has all her familiar armor back on. It's not gone. But she knows how to hide it. "I need to find Shaun."

She'll be okay once she's seen him.

"Yeah." After hearing something like that, it wouldn't surprise him that she does. Honestly, he thinks he needs a couple hours of just - some external stabilizing influence to remind him that it wasn't real. That none of it was.

He eyes the door behind them as his heart finally starts to slow.

"Go find him. I'll put up a...sign or something, I guess. Just so no one else walks in here."

She nods, straightening, and turns to walk down the hallway, then hesitates, glancing back at Tim.

"Are... you okay?"

Sometimes it's hard to remember to care about people outside of the circle she and Shaun have made for themselves. That doesn't mean it's not important, and as desperate as she is to find Shaun, she knows she isn't the only one this was hard on.

If he's surprised by the question, it only shows briefly - in the lift of an eyebrow, the stillness that arrests his posture for half a second at the most.

He certainly hadn't expected that. Maybe that's just her way of issuing thanks.

"I'm fine," he says. The words are almost wry, and one corner of his mouth twitches. "Real hospitals aren't like that."

"Same with real CDC labs." She dips her head, a half nod. "Thanks."

Then she's gone. She doesn't know if he really is fine. She sort of doubts it. She sure as fuck isn't. But they made it out. That's fine enough for now.

Thanks.

She's the one that was most proficient at getting them out, but he can't exactly fault her for assuming he had some kind of...vague hand in it. Maybe it means something that she stuck around for as long as she did at all.

It's not his job to think too deeply into it. So he doesn't.

He starts looking for a sign.

knocked the wind out of my soul [open]

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