A trail of blood leads to the spot between the lootbox and the wall where Lyta lies dying, crumpled and soaked like a dishrag fallen behind the sink.

It's a problem, that trail of blood, dark red against the orange sands. She can hear gunshots in the distance, and the shooting's coming from the same direction that the ring's closing, so whoever survives that fight will be moving this way. There's zero chance a squad coming from Thunderdome doesn't path straight through Skull Town. Wraith's banner is in her pocket, and there's little to no chance of Vantage on her own being able to find a resurrection beacon this late in proceedings.

Everything hurts, of course, as well.

But that's not important; she's used to that. Weakness of the flesh. She tells herself she overcame far worse in the war, but of course at this point she barely remembers the war, and the thought's turned threadbare from overuse. If she can't stand the thought of holding her guts in with one hand while using the other to try to throw sand over that blood trail... well, if the disgust she feels is weakness of the mind then that's worse. Just do it, Lyta. 

Her trembling, blood-soaked fingers scrabble for a second at the zipper of her jacket before finding the right angle to drag it down. There's a pounding in her head that is only getting louder, and darkness at the edges of her vision, and she thinks one of the fingertips might be missing, but there it is. In her inner shirt pocket there's a handkerchief that has miraculously stayed mostly clean. She holds it by the one filthy corner and carefully drapes it over her shoe. 

Now if she ignores the yanking tearing feeling in her guts, she can kick one leg out and sort of.... badly, clumsily scrub away at that patch of sand.

It's pathetic. But that's not important, either. 

A trail of blood leads to the spot between the lootbox and the wall where Lyta lies dying, crumpled and soaked like a dishrag fallen behind the sink.

It's a problem, that trail of blood, dark red against the orange sands. She can hear gunshots in the distance, and the shooting's coming from the same direction that the ring's closing, so whoever survives that fight will be moving this way. There's zero chance a squad coming from Thunderdome doesn't path straight through Skull Town. There's little to no chance of Vantage on her own being able to find a resurrection beacon this late in proceedings. Wraith is fast and sneaky, and might be her only chance, but she's out of radio contact. 

Everything hurts, of course, as well.

But that's not important; she's used to that. Weakness of the flesh. She tells herself she overcame far worse in the war, but of course at this point she barely remembers the war, and the thought's turned threadbare from overuse. If she can't stand the thought of holding her guts in with one hand while using the other to try to throw sand over that blood trail... well, if the disgust she feels is weakness of the mind then that's worse. Just do it, Lyta. 

Her trembling, blood-soaked fingers scrabble for a second at the zipper of her jacket before finding the right angle to drag it down. There's a pounding in her head that is only getting louder, and darkness at the edges of her vision, and she thinks one of the fingertips might be missing, but there it is. In her inner shirt pocket there's a handkerchief that has miraculously stayed mostly clean. She holds it by the one filthy corner and carefully drapes it over her shoe. 

Now if she ignores the yanking tearing feeling in her guts, she can kick one leg out and sort of.... badly, clumsily scrub away at that patch of sand.

It's pathetic. But that's not important, either. 

King's Canyon

A trail of blood leads to the spot between the lootbox and the wall where Lyta lies dying, crumpled and soaked like a dishrag fallen behind the sink.

It's a problem, that trail of blood, dark red against the orange sands. She can hear gunshots in the distance, and the shooting's coming from the same direction that the ring's closing, so whoever survives that fight will be moving this way. There's zero chance a squad coming from Thunderdome doesn't path straight through Skull Town. There's little to no chance of Vantage on her own being able to find a resurrection beacon this late in proceedings. Wraith is fast and sneaky, and might be her only chance, but she's out of radio contact. 

Everything hurts, of course, as well.

But that's not important; she's used to that. Weakness of the flesh. She tells herself she overcame far worse in the war, but of course at this point she barely remembers the war, and the thought's turned threadbare from overuse. If she can't stand the thought of holding her guts in with one hand while using the other to try to throw sand over that blood trail... well, if the disgust she feels is weakness of the mind then that's worse. Just do it, Lyta. 

Her trembling, blood-soaked fingers scrabble for a second at the zipper of her jacket before finding the right angle to drag it down. There's a pounding in her head that is only getting louder, and darkness at the edges of her vision, and she thinks one of the fingertips might be missing, but there it is. In her inner shirt pocket there's a handkerchief that has miraculously stayed mostly clean. She holds it by the one filthy corner and carefully drapes it over her shoe. 

Now if she ignores the yanking tearing feeling in her guts, she can kick one leg out and sort of.... badly, clumsily scrub away at that patch of sand.

It's pathetic. But that's not important, either.