They haven't fixed her yet. She knows they could, but, for whatever reason, they haven't. Maybe you have to be infested to heal, like Daniel - it's possible, she thinks, that the healing power belonged to Sobek and other Goa'uld alone, and if that's the case she'd much rather keep the broken bones and the puncture wounds.
Now that the rage has drained from her and she's left her warm dark go-away place, it really hits her what she's done. She knows the others are receiving equally harsh treatment, if not worse, except perhaps the Master, although she suspects he'll get what's coming to him. Turncoats usually do.
But as she thinks about the others she knows she's responsible.
It was an accident, she thinks, as if that will absolve her.
And she prays quietly in the corner, crunched up like a used and discarded piece of person. Like a tissue. The damage to her torso has made it impossible to straighten herself up; that proud head is turned and twisted at an awkward angle, neck muscles working around snapped foundations. Her spine is all crooked. Her eyes are closed, exhausted of this cell she's been in for hours. Her mouth hangs open like a perpetual scream, except instead of sound only the occasional string of bloody drool and ragged wafts of air make their way past her lips. How pathetic.
She hears footsteps and opens her eyes. Someone to take her to a round of Sobek Says? Or one of her comrades being brought from their own time as Sobek's plaything?
Jailhouse Blues: Eva and Eleven
Now that the rage has drained from her and she's left her warm dark go-away place, it really hits her what she's done. She knows the others are receiving equally harsh treatment, if not worse, except perhaps the Master, although she suspects he'll get what's coming to him. Turncoats usually do.
But as she thinks about the others she knows she's responsible.
It was an accident, she thinks, as if that will absolve her.
And she prays quietly in the corner, crunched up like a used and discarded piece of person. Like a tissue. The damage to her torso has made it impossible to straighten herself up; that proud head is turned and twisted at an awkward angle, neck muscles working around snapped foundations. Her spine is all crooked. Her eyes are closed, exhausted of this cell she's been in for hours. Her mouth hangs open like a perpetual scream, except instead of sound only the occasional string of bloody drool and ragged wafts of air make their way past her lips. How pathetic.
She hears footsteps and opens her eyes. Someone to take her to a round of Sobek Says? Or one of her comrades being brought from their own time as Sobek's plaything?