Subject: Physical therapy.
Author:
Posted on: 2011-07-21 05:30:00 UTC

Suicide considered responding to that--maybe by pointing out that she'd picked a brain-damaged, 11% artificial man who had just mentioned his plan to follow up the pleasantry of the last twelve hours with a spot of trying to get himself killed--but something told him sarcasm, however lighthearted, wouldn't be appreciated at that moment. Furthermore, something very peculiar seemed to be happening to his verbal facilities: attempts to form words were being stifled halfway and turned into something approaching a moan.

Anybody who's suffered the pain and indignity of a major injury knows that, healed or not, that injury will be with you for the rest of your life. Break an ankle at ten, and it will still be aching sixty-five years later. This goes some way towards explaining why Suicide, who hadn't gotten eight hours in his-or-any-other-gods-only-knew-when and couldn't count all his collected injuries on both hands and feet, was having trouble expressing himself. He knew about working out muscle knots--a squire had to--but modern medicine had added some tricks even the Bacchan whores hadn't had.

Somehow he wound up lying on his stomach, Jenni leaning over him. He could feel the warmth of her breath on the back of his neck as she worked, smoothing out the aches and dodging neatly around the green-and-purple bruising still leftover from the gods-damned Archir incident.

"You know," he managed to say after a long pause, his voice hoarse, "this isn't going to guarantee you getting to work any faster." She hit a particularly sensitive spot, and he hissed between his teeth. "Perfect. Perfect. Gods, tell me you need something killed . . . I'll have its head on your desk by noon."

((Charming as ever. eyeroll Incidentally, Jenni's last line made me think of this famous scene-- http://youtu.be/kawnOGZb48o . Was that intentional?))

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