One week has passed. One week, and it feels like another
week of imprisonment.
Bastion swings his legs across the bed and plants his feet firmly on the floor.
Elasticated bandages wrap tight around the scar tissue of his ankles,
increasing the blood flow. He stares down and is consciously aware of how his
vision now leans to the right; sure, he can see both feet, but his field of
view has shifted enough that he is now aware of it, and aware enough that it
makes him feel sick.
Placing both hands just behind his hips, he eases more weight on his feet. He technically
needs a medic to watch him do this, but-
There won’t always be someone watching out for him.
He pushes forward and pain sparks down the newly restored tendons and
ligaments, the feel of knives being plunged through his skin. He grits his
teeth before relaxing his jaw instead; such a movement creases his brow and has
the potential to start a catastrophic migraine, as he has found out first-hand over
the past few days.
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