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The Core has her body, this much she knows.
But what she doesn’t know is the pain that comes with it, building and building until she’s back to receive the brunt. There’s a fight she doesn’t see, at least not until she demands for Aldrich to let her back into the front of her consciousness instead of living a lie. She can’t stand to be in this horrible place much longer if she can help it anyhow, the place that taunts her with its false realities, lies of things she so desperately wishes were true.
The enormous newt is enraged, staring through Marcy with his thirteen piercing eyes, and rejects her. Just like everyone else.
“I was going to allow you to suffer in eternal darkness, child. This would be far worse. But if that is what you want, then by all means; more misery.”
Marcy can hardly bring herself to care about such a small detail amidst the mass of guilt and hurt in her chest cavity, crushing her through the inside, like her head feels as she’s thrown into a shifting reality. The grassy green knolls and skies around her warp and vanish in a beat, nauseating her— and all her bones are aching and throbbing, as if rejecting her skin. She soon comes to realize just the actual cause of that, and it does no good to help the already sickening feeling.
She can see the fight now, and her mind screams but her mouth cannot. She can reach out with her mind’s hand but all she can really do is watch, watch the Core control her every physical move.
Marcy recognizes a shape. It's familiar and lovely, but right now it’s rigid with fear and energy, and she’s dodging and ducking and swinging. From her. From her, at her. Her body, the Core.
And it’s only been a moment, but oh, she wishes and her whole body aches for release from the hold the monster has on her, running her body sore and defeated with each giant swing of the scythe. She was at the brink of collapse hours ago, yet it keeps going, the timeless god with its hold on her forcing her upward still, striking and striking and striking.
And for a moment the overwhelm of the pain disappears as she remembers who’s here. She desperately wishes to change fate, to see her Sasha not as a broken silhouette through a sickly orange lens, through the thousands of souls captured here before her. It darkens ever still as the monster with her body fights to keep it from collapse. She desperately tries to protect her, fruitlessly; all she can do is see. Even her hearing catches only a muffled whisper among all the chaos reigning; only a glimpse of it bleeds through. The rest is a hollow husk, yet still maddening her with the force of a fight she fears she may actually win.
The battle passes in a daze, and Marcy can’t tell how much time has gone by. Sometimes it feels as if time skips, or moments repeat. It's a mess in her head as it feels like every part of her is burning and falling away, and all she knows how to do is scream for it to stop, stop, stop.
And then suddenly it does.
“Marcy……..”
“Marcy?”
“Marcy!”
Recognizing the voices, she creaks open her eyes, then immediately wishes she hadn’t. Anne and Sasha are sickening blurs, moving and blending into one another, both of their terribly worried and upset faces. As soon as she can register them at all, her chest is riddled with absolute guilt. In the moment she’s not even sure what for.
Marcy has to blink her eyes many times before she can even manage them open halfway, and she can already feel moisture build up inside them. She hasn’t even nearly processed the internal feelings instantly creating a second battle within her, no; it’s that her body feels as if it’s so badly broken and bruised, she’ll never be able to move again. The burning in her limbs and horrid heaviness throughout her draws a faint groan from her lips, the best she can manage. Thousands of words build up at the tip of her tongue, yet she can’t utter anything, the intensity of the pain rendering her speechless. Her girls warp and fade from her vision, and she begs them not to disappear as they gather her closer in their arms. Their faces become ever so clearer, and it’s a fair price to pay for the way the movement makes her bones and tendons grind painfully against each other.
“Marmar…”
“Marcy,” Anne sobs, and Sasha’s voice is a frail whisper as they take her in. Their faces warp still, yet she can see the tears flow down from their faces, the crease in the warrior’s brow and the wild brunette’s trembling lower lip. Her eyes flutter, not able to make her eyes focus on a thing as she fights with consciousness. Her head rolls back.
Somehow her ears are stronger than her vision, because she can hear one of them breathe sharper, then the sound of footsteps are making themselves known, stomping away and fading until she can’t grasp them anymore.
Another shift happens, making her face instinctively pinch as another wave of discomfort passes through her. When it stops she feels smaller, and somehow she feels as if she can finally breathe.
“Anne’s going to get help, so we can carry you out of here,” Sasha vocalizes softly, though it's not left without its trace of panic.
Out of here? Marcy peruses through the molasses in her brain, trying to discover just where they are. It’s not a pressing enough issue, as fire flows through her veins and weights keep her limbs chained to the floor, so her eyes stay closed.
“Focus on me, please,” the voice calls to her again and it seems so far away; it’s taking a lot of focus for her to figure out what those words mean. “Just stay awake. Just a little longer...”
A clammy hand finds its way to her hair, brushing clumped sweaty strands back from her face, and a weak hum comes out of her throat. She almost wants to lean into it and let herself fall into sleep, but she obeys the soft command eventually, letting her eyes drift up to the best of her ability.
As the shapes materialize and the fuzz begins to clear once more, she finds that she’s enclosed in Sasha’s arms, just far enough to see her whole face. The hand at her hair is carding through it now, starting with her heated cheek and ending with the back of her head, a soothing slow motion amidst the overwhelming sensations flowing in and out of her weakened body. She wants to speak again, but her mouth can open, nothing more. And she tries, oh does she try to keep her focus on her best friend’s grief ridden face, fighting to keep her own from fronting and just focusing on looking at her. It was always easy before, so she can do it right now. She lets it be her mantra for the long moments, minutes or hours she spends right there in Sasha’s hold.
Marcy doesn’t know when the chorus of voices start, or when she’s being lifted off the ground with her, but she knows Sashy doesn’t leave. She’s right there.
She did what she was supposed to, so she finally lets her gaze slip away. Instead, she finds what’s left in her strength to grasp onto her red flowing cape as she feels the concerned mechanized hums of whatever is carrying the both of them away. As her head tilts away from the blond’s face, her ear is pressed against her armored chest, and unless her teetering mind deceives her, she can hear her strong, quick heartbeat behind the metal.
Her girls are okay.
She’s going to be okay.