[ It takes a little while for the world to come into focus, longer still for her eyes to adjust to the dim light, and perhaps even more startling than the wreckage is the fact that she has no idea how she got there. She doesn’t remember hopping on a shuttle off Pandora to… wherever this place is. Logically, she knows that the crash could have rattled her brain enough to give her mild amnesia, but she still finds that gap in her memory disconcerting. What she does remember is that this is the second time she’s come to after whatever transport she’d been on has crashed or blown up or been otherwise destroyed. Twice was enough to start constituting a trend, right? And it’s a trend she would rather not see continue.
As it is, she’s battered, bruised and her neck aches something awful. A healing hypo would be more than welcome right now, but she doesn’t spot any immediately in the debris, and she’s never been able to use her own healing abilities on herself. Figures.
Maya works her safety harness off, fumbling in the low light, when the lights go out altogether. Figures.
She’s able to get the damnable thing off and wriggle out of her seat, pointedly ignoring her various aches and pains as she does. She brings a hand up, and the blue tattoos that snake down the length of her left arm, from shoulder to fingertips, begin to glow bright cyan. The Siren conjures an orb of blue-purple light in her palm, illuminating what’s left of the ship’s interior as she takes mental stock of herself. No digistruct device. No weapons. But her powers seem to be fine. Better than nothing, she decides, and takes a better look around. Her eyes land first on the backpack beneath her seat, and no Vault Hunter worth their salt can resist loot of any kind, even a battered backpack. Maya tugs it free and slings it over her shoulder.
Only then does she turn to her fellow survivors, holding her hand up higher to offer them light if they need it. ]
maya | borderlands
As it is, she’s battered, bruised and her neck aches something awful. A healing hypo would be more than welcome right now, but she doesn’t spot any immediately in the debris, and she’s never been able to use her own healing abilities on herself. Figures.
Maya works her safety harness off, fumbling in the low light, when the lights go out altogether. Figures.
She’s able to get the damnable thing off and wriggle out of her seat, pointedly ignoring her various aches and pains as she does. She brings a hand up, and the blue tattoos that snake down the length of her left arm, from shoulder to fingertips, begin to glow bright cyan. The Siren conjures an orb of blue-purple light in her palm, illuminating what’s left of the ship’s interior as she takes mental stock of herself. No digistruct device. No weapons. But her powers seem to be fine. Better than nothing, she decides, and takes a better look around. Her eyes land first on the backpack beneath her seat, and no Vault Hunter worth their salt can resist loot of any kind, even a battered backpack. Maya tugs it free and slings it over her shoulder.
Only then does she turn to her fellow survivors, holding her hand up higher to offer them light if they need it. ]
Are you okay? Let me help you with that.