Masks 2

...Huh.

So she wasn't dead.

That was just starting to sink in. Finn had spent a lot of time thinking about death - or, trying not to think about it, maybe. When you were a P.I. in the grimdark cyberpunk future, you had to be ready to not wake up, or to get shot in some dark alley, or to be blackbagged and thrown in the sea, or used as a horrific science experiment. So in that moment - so close to death - she had been prepping for the end. Hoping this worked out; hoping Orla would be alright; hoping the revolution would make something better soon. Half-heartedly lamenting the fact that she wouldn't be there to see it. Half celebrating the fact that she could finally fucking rest.

...But here she was. Still breathing. Still able to fight.

Well... no use mourning a dirtnap untaken. There were things to do, now.

She lifts herself to her feet, takes her claymore in her hands, and grins. "Alright! Back intae the fray, then! Fer all the folk who've had their lives ruined by this bloated-ego elder-fuck! Fer all the folk we've got tae save still! I won't be stopped until I've bled all I can bleed!"

And she charges, swinging her blade wide, trying to channel lightning and ice through it in varying bursts!!!