dictator ([personal profile] ex_dictator317) wrote in [community profile] meadowlarklogs 2019-08-06 07:39 am (UTC)

[ There is no hesitation in the harried move Octavia makes to untwist the cap and raise the bottle to her lips. The survivor in her is a quiet urge to ration that goes unfulfilled with the reminder she is not on the version of Earth or the prison the Ark had been, three people sustaining themselves on supplies meant for two. When the first drop of water hits her tongue, Octavia allows herself to be greedy, selfish; some droplets leak from her mouth as she guzzles, like a woman that has stumbled across an oasis in the desert.

Her throat works as she swallows, stopping only when she needs to breathe. Octavia's hand raises, wiping the excess moisture off on the back of her hand. That, too, is healed — bandaged from the scrapes the floor had dealt her when she had fallen toward it.
]

Sure. A miracle.

[ Octavia doesn't sound as convinced, as if being torn from limb to limb would be a treat. A reprieve, if anything. Thinking of Raven, the pain it had been to her more than just physically, sobers her only seconds afterward — lips pressing together as she looks away from Daenerys, shamefully casting the thought to the back of her mind. ]

Did you get the samples back here, or did I get my back ripped open for nothing?

[ For Octavia, that's the important part: that it had not been in vain. Her safety isn't the priority, refusing to linger on the subject of her injuries. ]

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