Well, it all starts a good six stories above where Noctis is. Aranea starts off evacuating any civilians she can find for the safehouses - reuniting families, escorting kids, occasionally getting in between UNA soldiers and their collateral damage. In a way, it makes her feel a bit more at home, even if it creates an entirely unflattering picture of home - more over, it reminds her what she's good at. (She may not be getting paid for it, but at least she'll get to keep Morningstar's supplies — or so she's decided, overall consequences be damned.)
One apartment building was a bit less lucky than the rest. Isolated, with the next closest Morningstar agent being miles away - possible, miles down - and cornered. She resorts to killing blows the moment it becomes a hindrance not to, but this armored hydra only sprouts more and more heads in answer. It doesn't matter that her shots are well-timed and well-aimed. When her clips run out, that split second of an opening is all that's needed.
A shot through her thigh. She ends up through the glass wall, down - down, colliding in a heap in the ground. Aranea knows enough to spread out, slow her descent as much as possible, land on her side when imperiled... but none of it matters when she hits the asphalt like so much rubber. Glass, blood, cartilege, viscera all fans out, lining the shape she makes on the tarmac, a grotesque facsimile of a television crime scene's chalk outline. The mess Aranea makes here and now will likely still be there weeks from now, a stain for passersby to wonder at. As it is, she's swearing up a storm, the skin of her arms torn up where they bore the brunt of the impact. Her dark trousers stain darker with rivulets of blood, fabric and flesh alike ripped open where the bone juts out, shredded muscle and sinew threatening to leak.
Her face is flushed a deep, pained red. Despite her best effort, her eyes are watering furiously, puffy with pure shock. Her expression, however, isn't upset or even afraid. No, it's pure fury, and she would be bellowing like a wounded predator if she lacked the presence of mind of their mission. Fortunately, her military discipline hasn't all fled her.
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Well, it all starts a good six stories above where Noctis is. Aranea starts off evacuating any civilians she can find for the safehouses - reuniting families, escorting kids, occasionally getting in between UNA soldiers and their collateral damage. In a way, it makes her feel a bit more at home, even if it creates an entirely unflattering picture of home - more over, it reminds her what she's good at. (She may not be getting paid for it, but at least she'll get to keep Morningstar's supplies — or so she's decided, overall consequences be damned.)
One apartment building was a bit less lucky than the rest. Isolated, with the next closest Morningstar agent being miles away - possible, miles down - and cornered. She resorts to killing blows the moment it becomes a hindrance not to, but this armored hydra only sprouts more and more heads in answer. It doesn't matter that her shots are well-timed and well-aimed. When her clips run out, that split second of an opening is all that's needed.
A shot through her thigh. She ends up through the glass wall, down - down, colliding in a heap in the ground. Aranea knows enough to spread out, slow her descent as much as possible, land on her side when imperiled... but none of it matters when she hits the asphalt like so much rubber. Glass, blood, cartilege, viscera all fans out, lining the shape she makes on the tarmac, a grotesque facsimile of a television crime scene's chalk outline. The mess Aranea makes here and now will likely still be there weeks from now, a stain for passersby to wonder at. As it is, she's swearing up a storm, the skin of her arms torn up where they bore the brunt of the impact. Her dark trousers stain darker with rivulets of blood, fabric and flesh alike ripped open where the bone juts out, shredded muscle and sinew threatening to leak.
Her face is flushed a deep, pained red. Despite her best effort, her eyes are watering furiously, puffy with pure shock. Her expression, however, isn't upset or even afraid. No, it's pure fury, and she would be bellowing like a wounded predator if she lacked the presence of mind of their mission. Fortunately, her military discipline hasn't all fled her.
So. You know.
Happy Birthday, Noctis. ]