[OOM] Eiattu - Priamsta Base

The floor is cold and dirty and she cradles her arm close, trying to raise herself up on her knees and her good elbow. A boot hits her in the ribs and something cracks; she’s sent sprawling again, crying out as she lands on her arm.

“Get up,” hisses Baron Aronnse, and she hears his footsteps as he crosses the room to her. She’s already trying, moving weakly, and she’s on her knees when he slaps her hard across the face, with enough strength to knock her down. “Get up!” He grabs her upper arm and hauls her almost to her feet and she hardly recognizes her own voice in the high-pitched noise that she makes, her vision wavering at the edges.

He holds her there, not quite standing, and he laughs and bats her hand away as she scrabbles at him for purchase. “See here, boys? Not so t—”

She has his blaster from its holster before he even realizes it.

His eyes widen. Plourr’s are narrow in a bloody face. She pulls the trigger.

Aronnse stumbles back with a gut wound, and she puts a green bolt between his eyes for good measure. Her arm rises and she shoots and three guards, three men who spent hours, days causing her pain, are down. A fourth rushes at her from behind and she shoves her elbow into his solar plexus. Doubled over, he is easy to hurl headfirst into a wall.

Plourr Ilo is hurt. She is battered and beaten and bloody and she stumbles rather than walks, sways drunkenly when standing still; she stays up due to sheer force of will. But she is a big woman. She is well-trained. And she is very, very angry.

The final noble -- oh, and she remembers this one, remembers the look on his face when he set the vibroblade on a low setting -- blanches and steps backward, reaching for his forcepike. Plourr takes two unsteady steps forward, the floor cold on her bare feet, and her fist makes hard contact with his face with a meaty sound. The pain that flares in her hand is blinding but it's worth it, Sith, it's worth it to see him crumple. She kills him. It's merciless and quick and not at all what he deserves, but there's no time to do more than put a bolt in his throat.

Plourr looks around, searching for movement, but there is none among the men sprawled across the floor, not even any death twitches. She leans against the nearest wall a moment, closing her eyes and breathing shallowly, each breath stabbing at her ribs. But she has places to go, people to see. She won't allow herself to rest; doesn't trust that she'll be able to keep going if she does. A man's tunic makes a makeshift sling for her broken arm and she gathers up a few blasters and holsters, giving a vibroblade a long look before tucking it into her waistband.

She glances over the windowless room one last time, with its unfinished floor, the chair lying on its side in a corner, the bodies splayed across the ground, and then she steps to the door and moves out.

[OOM] Eiattu - Infirmary

Plourr is thoroughly sick of floating in pink goo. There is bacta, she thinks, trapped in her sinuses. She's just thankful that she was unconscious for the first few days. As it is, after four days with nothing to do but float, heal, sleep, and stare at the tubes running in and out of herself, she is going out of her mind. Rial visits, though, and that helps make it bearable; he talks to her even if she can't hear a word she's saying. For the first few days, when she's in and out of consciousness, she only has one memory, of him laughing as he says something. When she's more with it, they carry on a few conversations, Rial with gestures and inaudible words, Plourr with a range of facial expressions that is fairly impressive considering that the breathing apparatus is covering most of her face.

Still, she is going mad with boredom. So when the tech appears and points upward, and she hears someone pulling the top off of the tank, she is kicking upward even before she's told to.

A shower, a robe, some new bandages, and a whole lot of mouthwash later, she begins to feel halfway human again. She tests her body, her muscles, as the techs usher her around. Her arm is in a combination cast-sling--the cast is a noxious, horrible shade of bright green. somebody thinks they're really funny--and her right shoulder--which had had a low-set vibroblade taken to it--wrapped up in bandages. Her ribs are wrapped, too, and they're still aching; enough that she doesn't complain too much when the staff insist on the repulsorchair. Her knee is in a brace but she's not too concerned about that one; it's an old injury that tends to recur if she twists her knee. Her face, from what she can tell, is largely healed; they've taped up a few cuts on her fast left by shrapnel or nobles' rings and the majority of the swelling and bruising has gone down, leaving her eyes bright and clear.

When she's ushered into the hall outside the private medbay room, Plourr talks the tech into letting her get out of the chair and take the last few steps by herself.

"A few hours, Princess," the tech reminds her, removing the chair. "Then you've got to go back in."

"Yeah, yeah," she says impatiently, and--with one hand on the doorway for balance--she steps through the door.