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When she finally gets home - after the seemingly endless shift at the office, after taking all the abuse at her training sessions, after the visit to the local Zydrate dealer for provisions - Shilo leaves her things in the foyer, carelessly strewn about, and goes down the stairs behind the fireplace, the ones she didn't even know existed until well after she killed her father her father, the late Nathan Wallace, passed away.
Then she immerses herself in her cadaver work, finding herself elbows-deep in blood and gore and occasionally flipping through the medical textbooks that sit next to her on the table. It had taken some time and plenty of convincing the boss to let her do these studies in private, but she got more things done while learning at her own pace - and being in the house proved to be more comforting, just like the way her father's hand-me-down surgical tools felt in her hands as she worked on the more delicate procedures.
It doesn't bother her that much anymore. She treats the bodies like bugs, the sharp instruments like needles. Instead of opera, she uses the loudest classic rock or dance possible in order to focus on the task at hand. And she spends hours downstairs, only dragging herself back up the stairs for bed when her body simply won't take anymore.
Her comm is switched on, sitting next to the half-empty forgotten mug of tea by the textbooks. And the music - her familiar rotation of The Ramones, The Sex Pistols, and Billy Idol - is loud.
Distractions would bother her. But they would be welcome. Depending on who they're from.
Then she immerses herself in her cadaver work, finding herself elbows-deep in blood and gore and occasionally flipping through the medical textbooks that sit next to her on the table. It had taken some time and plenty of convincing the boss to let her do these studies in private, but she got more things done while learning at her own pace - and being in the house proved to be more comforting, just like the way her father's hand-me-down surgical tools felt in her hands as she worked on the more delicate procedures.
It doesn't bother her that much anymore. She treats the bodies like bugs, the sharp instruments like needles. Instead of opera, she uses the loudest classic rock or dance possible in order to focus on the task at hand. And she spends hours downstairs, only dragging herself back up the stairs for bed when her body simply won't take anymore.
Her comm is switched on, sitting next to the half-empty forgotten mug of tea by the textbooks. And the music - her familiar rotation of The Ramones, The Sex Pistols, and Billy Idol - is loud.
Distractions would bother her. But they would be welcome. Depending on who they're from.
