The green holographic glow streamed onto the puddles on the old cobble stone of les rues de Paris, to attract the attention of some of the wealthier inhabitants of the rustic French city. It was funny, thought Leighton, that a few blocks away people carried on their business after hearing a massive explosion. Perhaps nowadays, it was so commonplace in the metropolis, that while deadly, explosions were an unavoidable part of life.
A pharmacy, identifiable in Paris by a green cross above its doors were of course more frequent in the last century, as the access to drugs either prescription or recreational seemed a steady enterprise in the world, no matter how dystopian the region, used either as an escape for the relatives of the dead and dying, or a godsend for the casualties of the global warzone. While they were a normal fixture, Leighton was pleased one was so close by.
As she limped toward the sanctuary, blood continued to sap from her leg, and she struggled more and more to breath. She felt a sudden pain on her forehead, and then felt the blood dripping from there. It seemed one of the abrasions from the explosion was more injurious than she initially believed. Enough blood had dripped from that wound, it had filled up her right ear with the stuff. While the thought was frightening to the point of making most people frantic, she continued hobbling, toward and inward the druggist's, where she was immediately met with aid. One of the employees stationed behind the counter was quick to leap over it, and he barked French instructions at the other two, who were equally fast to obey.
The man said informally, “Tu vas bien?” putting his arms around her as he asked, and slowly lowering her onto the ground, as Leighton lost her strength to stand.
"Bien," she lied, "Tres bien," though she had no idea why.
The other pharmacists circled around with armfuls of the essentials, and the last thing Leighton remembered was the first doctor at her disposal telling his colleagues what she already knew of her injuries in a clinical manner, “Traumatisme de la tête. La perte de sang. Trois ou quatre côtes cassées…”
Leighton stopped paying attention in that instant, her mind moving to other things that was not translating. Her eyes grew heavy, and eventually sounds around her became muddled, and then muted. The people around her became unfocused, and lost perspective, and the light turned dim...