I made my way downstairs, unlocking the door that led between the second and third floors.  The second floor was relatively unscathed – the metal shutter had kept the floor-to-ceiling windows from sending their contents indoors, and the terrariums were hard plastic rather than glass.

Oh, nice. I actually did spare a stray thought for the terrariums at some point last chapter, but I don’t remember why and I don’t think I wrote it down.

Knowing Shatterbird was in town, I’d been reluctant to spend much time in a room with sixty or seventy sturdy glass cases, and I was glad to have one less room to clean.  Still, there was no shortage of mess.

Yeah, good call there.

…wait, sixty or seventy??

I was picturing, like… twelve at most.

I guess they’re smaller than I thought.

Sierra and Charlotte were downstairs, talking at the kitchen counter.  They fell silent as I appeared.

Hi there. Are we about to deal with the issue Charlotte brought up over the phone, that Skitter should’ve informed them that she was aware of the Slaughterhouse Nine being in town, and more generally that there needs to be more open communication?

They didn’t speak as I walked over to the cupboard.  Tea.  Tea, maybe some toasted breakfast pitas, some bacon, an egg…

Whatever they were talking about, they probably don’t want Skitter to hear them talking about it. It’s most likely either that or they’re distracted by watching her moves.

Shuffling over to my bathroom, I groaned quietly at the sight of the shards of mirror and shower door that were carpeting the floor.

“Oh come onnn.”

Yeah, gonna take a bit of work before this bathroom can be used.

I made my way back to my room and put on some slippers, grabbed a shirt I didn’t care much about and dropped it on the bathroom floor.  I kicked it around enough to get the worst of the shards out of the way, brushed the glass out of the shower and onto the tiled floor, and then cranked the shower on.

I suppose that’s good enough for now.

The water pressure wasn’t even half of what it should be, and it was cold.  It didn’t warm up over the thirty seconds I stood there holding my hand under the flow.

I guess something’s broken in the water heater. Maybe it’s advanced enough to use a computer chip? Or maybe there was a glass window on it or something.

I jumped in anyways, in the hopes of waking myself up and getting my hair wet enough that I could make myself look somewhat presentable.

If this is the result of glass involved in the heater system, better hope shards of it don’t come through the pipes.

I knew from experience that not washing my hair had a way of making it frizz out hardcore.  Not that I’d be able to tell, with every mirror within a thousand miles in pieces.

Hehe. Sounds like major fanart potential.

Also, imagine if Shatterbird were superstitious about mirrors…

My injuries and the general aches from running barefoot and fighting Mannequin had all melded together into one giant, stiff bruise.

This is how the name Bruce came to be. “Hi, I’m a bruise.”

It would be easier to name the parts of me that didn’t hurt.  My chest was the worst, each of my breaths drawing a stab of pain from the lowermost ribs of the right side of my body.

No wonder. She kept getting knocked back by hits to the chests, if I’m not mistaken.

It took me two tries to get up from my bed and stand.

Ow.

A quick investigation showed that bruises had spread across my abdomen, yellow and blue.

This reminds me of the aftermath of Hive.

Some careful prodding showed that the tissues beneath the bruises weren’t rigid or particularly tender.  That meant there was no serious internal bleeding, if I was remembering right.

Well, that’s good at least.

If this kept up, I was going to need another go at the first aid courses, to refresh my memory on the particulars and brush up on my skills.  February felt so very long ago.

A lot has happened since then, yeah.

So much had happened in the last few months.

Yes, Taylor, I already said that. :p