(no subject)

[runmakitarun.livejournal.com]

[OOM: History will one day remember it as the last major offensive of the war, but for those who live through it there is only one thing to remember: death. So much death.]

The Makita who trudges into the bar today is almost unrecognizable as the girl who left only a few days ago. Her clothes and face are still spattered with the blood and grime of days of fighting in the streets, but that isn't uncommon for her.

No, the difference is that this Makita is hollow-eyed, almost empty. Her steps are slow and heavy, her eyes are blank, and she doesn't even appear to be aware that she's back in Milliways at all. A close look at her face will reveal the twin streaks of oddly clean skin running down her cheeks; the path the tears have scoured out.

She's not crying now. She has no tears left.

Makita has been many things in her life, but broken has never been one of them. Until now.

[This post open for days and days as it's sort of important to Makita, and likely to go slowtime since I'm still traveling. But don't let that deter you from tagging.]

Comments

[and-far-away.livejournal.com]

There's a man. A big man, a soldier, but kind when it suits him and it's needed. He held a young girl once as she cried after her first kill, and more than that, he knows what it is to see just one death too many. He knows what it does to people.

He approaches, carefully, and drapes a blanket around her shoulders.

[runmakitarun.livejournal.com]

Her entire body twitches, shudders really, as the blanket settles over her. It's a reflexive move, one that would normally involve pushing away the unasked for help. But today... she's too tired. In fact she's not even conscious of the additional weight and warmth.

To those who know Makita it's that utter lack of awareness that screams something is very, very wrong.

[and-far-away.livejournal.com]

He doesn't know her that well, but the utter lack of awareness isn't a good sign in anyone.

"Can you hear me, lass?"

[runmakitarun.livejournal.com]

The sound of a voice, especially one with an odd accent, startles her into awareness. Makita shudders one more time before looking up, eyes blank.

"Yes," she answers flatly.

[and-far-away.livejournal.com]

"Good. Now, you're not well. You need me to find anyone?"

[runmakitarun.livejournal.com]

Her bright green eyes blink slowly, emptily, as she tries to process his question. Eventually she figures out what he wants to know, but she's too tired to shake her head so she simply mutters, almost inaudibly, "'m fine."

That's clearly a lie.

[and-far-away.livejournal.com]

"No, lass, you're not. You need a good night's sleep, if nothing else."

He's considering carrying her to the infirmary.

[fighting_mad]

"--Kita," says Plourr, and she's up and swiftly headed toward the girl, abandoning her table and her datapad and her lunch. "Hey, Makita."

[runmakitarun.livejournal.com]

Makita's working on auto-pilot. One foot in front of the other, and each step the long, high movement one uses to get through snowed terrain.

[fighting_mad]

Four long strides forward and Plourr is an immoveable force directly in Makita's path; she puts big hands on Makita's biceps, bends down to her eye level, and says, "Makita, I need to know if you can hear me."

Kriff are her arms cold under Plourr's fingers.

[runmakitarun.livejournal.com]

The voice penetrates the fog wrapping Makita's mind, even if the words don't seem to make any sense. She looks at Plourr blankly, eyes cloudy with the fatigue of intense exertion and lack of sleep. To whatever degree the girl is conscious, it's sheer willpower keeping her going. Most people would have collapsed by now.

And judging by the subtle tremors running down Makita's arm, even she's close to that point.

[fighting_mad]

Plourr makes a snap decision.

She scoops Makita up into her arms as if she weighs nothing, and heads straight for the bar.

[runmakitarun.livejournal.com]

Makita struggles against the unexpected grab. It would be violent if she weren't tired and hungry and completely drained of adrenaline. Instead it only makes her look more pathetic.

[gotham-knocking.livejournal.com]

"Kita?" He hasn't seen her in a while. In fact, he's given her a lot of room, knowing that he can't replace her father, that sometimes it's better to let others keep an eye on someone you care about. But the way she looks...he can't leave it for Steph or Mel or Goldie.

[runmakitarun.livejournal.com]

The blood spattered across her isn't her own, but the shell-shocked look in her eyes might not make that immediately obvious.

[gotham-knocking.livejournal.com]

He runs through the questions he could ask. "Are you okay?" No, she's clearly not. "What happened?" War. "Can I do anything?" No.

He steps closer and just stands there for a moment and finally says, "do you need anything?"

[runmakitarun.livejournal.com]

His voice draws her attention, but the look she turns on Alex is utterly devoid of recognition. Her eyes are bloodshot from lack of sleep and the pupils over-dilated from too much stress.

[gotham-knocking.livejournal.com]

"You poor kid," he mutters. He moves closer but doesn't dare touch her. "It got worse, didn't it?"

[runmakitarun.livejournal.com]

She doesn't respond. It's not clear that she can.

Now that she's stopped moving forward she looks even more lost. Just standing there staring.

[aimedforthemoon]

Esfir Shostakovna was just a little girl when the Nazis came to Stalingrad. But she lost her father, her mother; she remembers being hungry and cold; she remembers that look, with the mud and the blood.

Stalingrad had not been a happy place in the winter of 1942-43.

So the small woman is up and walking towards her, a hand just gently touching her arm.

[runmakitarun.livejournal.com]

Makita doesn't respond, or even stop her blind trudge forward. That, more than anything else, suggests just how messed up she is at the moment.

[aimedforthemoon]

It really does.

Well, probably not harm in attempting to steer her to a table. Table means a seat, which means get at least the outer garments off and new ones on and warm food.

[runmakitarun.livejournal.com]

Makita doesn't let herself be steered if only because she's not nearly aware enough of what's going on to 'allow' anything, but Esfir's firm touch is enough to get her to automatically follow where the other woman leads. She's still moving her legs in the awkwardly high steps of someone trudging through snow.

[aimedforthemoon]

Softly, and in Russian because she isn't thinking,

"Hey, hey, honey, can you hear me?"

[runmakitarun.livejournal.com]

That, at least, provokes a reaction. Makita's heavy-lidded eyes snap wide open and her hand moves toward the pistol on her hip. The movement is odd. It looks as if it's been practiced enough to be lightning fast and smooth, but Makita's body can't produce anymore adrenaline and her fingers are too cold to work properly, so she jerkily fumbles at the grip on the gun and ends up dropping it to the floor.

Then, as if that moment had never happened, she stands numbly, making no attempt to retrieve it or draw the pistol on her other hip.