pyroprincess (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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nextgenerationmarvel2013-04-15 09:14 pm
pyroprincess) wrote in nextgenerationmarvel2013-04-15 09:14 pm
Entry tags:
Up And About (And Shouldn't Really Be)
WHO: Stephanie Shaw, other person
WHERE: The Mansion, near the infirmary
WHEN: Early evening, four days after she was attacked
WHAT: Stephanie should not be out of bed, but she doesn't care. She's going to try that whole walking thing.
Moving hurt.
But Stephanie didn't care, pain was something she could deal with far better than enforced inactivity. As nice as everyone had been, as accomodating as they had been, it was grating as hell to have to rely on others to do basic things, to get help to use the bathroom, not to be able to go to classes or check in on Shaw business. Especially now that the assets had been unfrozen (thanks to a crack legal team, the best money could buy), she had a lot of work to do, with the mutant shelter and soon-to-be community centre in the city. She knew that she wouldn't be out for a little longer yet, not for a week at least- which was a minor miracle, aided by the excellent medical resources available to the Mansion and a constitution built to endure massive amounts of punishment.
A normal person's joints would likely have been shot for life. They were tentatively anticipating a full recovery, though there was the possibility of residual joint pain.
She'd taken the nearest stick-like object and used it to support herself as she rolled out of bed and limped down the hallway. First, she'd just gone to the bathroom, because she'd be damned if she was going to get help for that again. And then she decided that she was going to just go for a little walk, down the hallway. Nothing too ambitious. She'd turn around and go right back, smug in the winning of a small triumph. And it'd started quite well.
But the pain had gone from significant (but manageable) to just this side of intolerable and freshly aligned joints screamed out protest. She leaned against the hall, propping herself up on her impromptu crutch and trying to will her eyes not to start watering. She was a Shaw and something as plebian as pain should not make her want to cry. She was better, tougher than that. She'd been shot, fallen off of tall buildings, been hit by a car going 100 mph. Got up and walked after all of those. And now she was having trouble with a goddamn hallway. Her face set in a determined mask and she got up and continued to hobble along.
She was a Shaw, in many people's eyes, the Shaw. She could not be what she needed to be, what the world needed her to be, whimpering in a bed, attended by students.
WHERE: The Mansion, near the infirmary
WHEN: Early evening, four days after she was attacked
WHAT: Stephanie should not be out of bed, but she doesn't care. She's going to try that whole walking thing.
Moving hurt.
But Stephanie didn't care, pain was something she could deal with far better than enforced inactivity. As nice as everyone had been, as accomodating as they had been, it was grating as hell to have to rely on others to do basic things, to get help to use the bathroom, not to be able to go to classes or check in on Shaw business. Especially now that the assets had been unfrozen (thanks to a crack legal team, the best money could buy), she had a lot of work to do, with the mutant shelter and soon-to-be community centre in the city. She knew that she wouldn't be out for a little longer yet, not for a week at least- which was a minor miracle, aided by the excellent medical resources available to the Mansion and a constitution built to endure massive amounts of punishment.
A normal person's joints would likely have been shot for life. They were tentatively anticipating a full recovery, though there was the possibility of residual joint pain.
She'd taken the nearest stick-like object and used it to support herself as she rolled out of bed and limped down the hallway. First, she'd just gone to the bathroom, because she'd be damned if she was going to get help for that again. And then she decided that she was going to just go for a little walk, down the hallway. Nothing too ambitious. She'd turn around and go right back, smug in the winning of a small triumph. And it'd started quite well.
But the pain had gone from significant (but manageable) to just this side of intolerable and freshly aligned joints screamed out protest. She leaned against the hall, propping herself up on her impromptu crutch and trying to will her eyes not to start watering. She was a Shaw and something as plebian as pain should not make her want to cry. She was better, tougher than that. She'd been shot, fallen off of tall buildings, been hit by a car going 100 mph. Got up and walked after all of those. And now she was having trouble with a goddamn hallway. Her face set in a determined mask and she got up and continued to hobble along.
She was a Shaw, in many people's eyes, the Shaw. She could not be what she needed to be, what the world needed her to be, whimpering in a bed, attended by students.