Jul. 9th, 2010

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[Dist wakes up in agony.

He practically stumbles out of bed, shaking hands moving to gently prod at the entirely new wound in his jaw. It's been broken, he can tell; as if the burns and the shrapnel slices weren't enough, now his face is throbbing. It only makes him angrier as he makes his way over to what functions as a closet, taking out a shirt and tearing it into strips. His legs are badly injured and while he has removed the shrapnel from them, he never had a chance to clean them.

Vodka would do the job nicely.

He can't hold back some of the screams, but by the time he's done he's confident that the uncomfortably large lacerations won't get infected immediately. He inspects the bruising on his jaw in the reflection on the back of a spoon; the marks are deep, but still somehow deceptively minor. He gets dressed and makes his way outside; he needs to find someplace with ice to keep the swelling down. Burn cream for his back was probably too much to hope for.

Why yes, Dist is very much used to dealing with extreme injury. Why do you ask?]

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