Spook lay on her back, blinking up at nothingness as her eyes tried to focus through the agony wracking her body. The parts of her which were still flesh and blood stung and burned from myriad scrapes and bruises. Her cybernetic limbs sent similar signals to her brain, letting her know they were fucked up as well. Then everything got filtered through her PTM to downplay things enough for her mind to keep working despite it all. Synthetic signals getting dulled by an artificial pain dampener, the monks hadn't been surprised at all when she'd come to them suffering from DNS. This was exactly the kind of situation which could leave her limping for days on a perfectly repaired leg.<br/><br/>None of that was going through her conscious thoughts, now wasn't the time to dwell. She was alive, so the stupid stunt she'd just tried had worked well enough. Next thought, could she move? She needed to be able to move. Sitting up helped her to put a few things into place, both inside and out. Spook became more aware of the people nearby and the street debris which had once been parts of a motorcycle. She also found her right arm didn't respond at all. That was bad. Her left was better off, but not all her fingers seemed to be working. Two of the metal digits were clenching and unclenching own their own with a faint whirring noise. Her legs seemed alright. Maybe. She wasn't about to try getting onto her feet. The world was spinning around her enough as it was and sitting up hadn't helped that any.<br/><br/>Traffic was still going past her, she'd been damned lucky they'd hit a parked car instead of a moving one. She was out of the way here. Except for that one persistent, loudening noise. An engine getting closer. Closer. It was coming right at her, no mistake. She grit her teeth, blinking tears from her eyes and forcing them to focus on the blurry objects. It had to be one of the clowns, right? What else could it be... Cat coming back for her? Too risky to assume that. Spook's left hand moved around behind her back, unsnapping the leather straps which kept her Colt ARR-12 in place. The 'No Guns' rule had been fun for a little while, but it didn't trump living through the day. She brought the SMG to bear, pointing it in the general direction of the approaching ganger.<br/><br/>Problem was, she had no hope of landing a critical hit when she could barely make out her target in her swimming vision. It was an act of faith that she could pull the trigger at all, her pinky finger was still spasming on its own, grinding against the gun's stock. But the rider coming at her didn't know any of that. All she needed was a moment of hesitation, she assured herself. Enough time to adjust to the pain, for her PTM to find that sweet spot which would keep her lucid enough to function.<br/><br/>"Come on you mother fucker," she slurred through a split lip.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>