sixthiterationlogs | (no subject)

WHO: Shiro
WHERE: The Hospital
WHEN: 12/1, morning
OPEN TO: Liv the zombie doctor
WARNINGS: Voltron S7 spoilers, otherwise n/a atm

It's the flash of white-blonde hair that catches Shiro's eye, and even though he only spots her for a moment as she ducks into the building Altair had pointed out as the hospital, he knows that has to be the woman from the broadcast on his communicator. He'd watched it, then the conversations that spiraled out from it, and hadn't felt compelled to comment: He didn't know her, had only a vague idea of what a zombie was outside the sort of comics and games Lance and Pidge had liked, and while Shiro couldn't readily imagine any comments he could make that would offend her due to her condition, the fact that she was managing one at all had piqued his interest.

He steps into the building, absently tapping the toe of each boot against the threshold before crossing it, to loose any excess dirt from the treads, then pauses a moment to take the building in.

The hospital. Right.

Like the rest of the village, it's fairly quiet, and he easily follows the light sound of her own footsteps, making sure to step a little heavier as he does and clearing his throat so he doesn't startle her, or give her time to get the impression someone's following her who doesn't want her to notice.

"Excuse me. It's - Liv, isn't it?"

Threaded | Flat

There's this understanding when you work in an emergency room: It's butt-crazy busy, or it's dead. There's not any real in between. If you were new here, like really new, you might think the same — Until about a week ago, we were dealing with nearly half the village sick, including me, and now it's quiet as a church.

But no, it's actually just quiet as a church in here 99.99% of the time. Maybe someone will come in with a minor burn or a scrape, just wanting to make sure it doesn't get infected in a place with a dearth of antibiotics. If it's a really exciting day, somebody's been bitten by a purple alpaca.

So you can't really blame me for probably seeming a little eager when I turn around, eyebrows already arched, pale face the picture of hope.

Except them I kind of screw it up by faltering at the missing arm situation, eyes darting down and then up again, for reasons that have zero to do with what this poor guy is probably thinking.

"Hey," I reply, and sweep another quick, assessing gaze head to toe. Not bleeding anywhere, damn. "That's me."