[The first sensation is a queasy mixture of guilt and vicious satisfaction. Mission accomplished.
That feeling quickly fades, leaving her suddenly cold and trembling. She stares at Chekov, at the blood in the sand and the knife in his back, uncomprehendingly.
[Why isn't she responding? Why isn't she telling him what happened? It had to have been her, but that's impossible. Korra might shove him around, but she would never do this.
And then the world tips sideways as Pavel topples to the sand like a puppet with severed strings. Pavel tries to feel his back, determine how severe it is, but his limbs refuse to lift, leaving his fingers to claw at the sand. His vision swims again--
The world steadies when he rolls onto his stomach. He doesn't dare move more than that.
[He topples over and time begins to fast forward. There's no time for curses or regrets or panic or guilt. If she had her waterbennding-- But she doesn't. She doesn't and she never will and Chekov is dying.
Her mind feels focused and clear. (It's not. If it was, she would run into the house, grab bandages and call for an ambulance. She would know better than to move him. Terror has given her an illusion of clarity.) She rips off her shirt and tears it into long strips that she wraps around his chest as she shouts for Naga. There's not nearly enough fabric to stop the bleeding.
Naga charges over, and Korra has to stop the polar bear dog from licking at the wound (the animal's attempt at healing). She gets Naga to lean down and carefully loads the teenager onto her back.
[Any and all remaining rational thought seeps away and Chekov's ability to comprehend what's going on is deteriorating. Korra is still there, he knows that. The blood's still there.]
Я не понимаю. [The words are slurred and, even to a native Russian speaker, too choked by blood and pain to be easily comprehended. Pavel is still trying to address Korra. He doesn't understand what's going on.] Что...?
[His futile attempts at communication draw to an abrupt halt when someone--Korra--begins moving him. Agony floods his senses and, even though his eyes are open, all he can see are shifting colors and an ominous blackness that pulses with every movement.
It's cold.
Everything goes dark and, for a moment, all Chekov can feel is a thousand fiery stings that sear his back and insides. There's nothing he can do. He can't even scream.
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no subject
That feeling quickly fades, leaving her suddenly cold and trembling. She stares at Chekov, at the blood in the sand and the knife in his back, uncomprehendingly.
What did she just do?!]
no subject
And then the world tips sideways as Pavel topples to the sand like a puppet with severed strings. Pavel tries to feel his back, determine how severe it is, but his limbs refuse to lift, leaving his fingers to claw at the sand. His vision swims again--
The world steadies when he rolls onto his stomach. He doesn't dare move more than that.
There's blood on the sand.
It's hard to breathe.]
no subject
Her mind feels focused and clear. (It's not. If it was, she would run into the house, grab bandages and call for an ambulance. She would know better than to move him. Terror has given her an illusion of clarity.) She rips off her shirt and tears it into long strips that she wraps around his chest as she shouts for Naga. There's not nearly enough fabric to stop the bleeding.
Naga charges over, and Korra has to stop the polar bear dog from licking at the wound (the animal's attempt at healing). She gets Naga to lean down and carefully loads the teenager onto her back.
They need to get to a hospital.]
no subject
Я не понимаю. [The words are slurred and, even to a native Russian speaker, too choked by blood and pain to be easily comprehended. Pavel is still trying to address Korra. He doesn't understand what's going on.] Что...?
[His futile attempts at communication draw to an abrupt halt when someone--Korra--begins moving him. Agony floods his senses and, even though his eyes are open, all he can see are shifting colors and an ominous blackness that pulses with every movement.
It's cold.
Everything goes dark and, for a moment, all Chekov can feel is a thousand fiery stings that sear his back and insides. There's nothing he can do. He can't even scream.
Awareness dims entirely as pain fades to black.]