She plunges the baton in her thigh. She winces and groans. She casts the baton aside, flipping open the red book in front of her, settling on a bookmarked page. She procures her standard issue dagger, presses it against her left index finger, neatly and swiftly cuts into it, then presses it into the book as blood erupts, draws out three crimson symbols—those on the crest of the Shu'ulathoi she had born witness to. She squeezes her finger every-so-often, allowing the blood to emerge before continuing. Wipes the dagger on her sleeve, inserts it back into its sheath and reaches behind, withdrawing a ceremonial knife with distinct markings of Order-make. She lifts the fabric of her uniform up and anchors it, grasps the handle with both hands, presses it against her exposed stomach, eyes closed, shut tight, teeth gritting. She quivers, attempts to breath steadily as the knife trails, hovering, across her abdomen. She memorizes the movement, then returns it back to the far right of her lower torso. Lets out an exasperated sigh. Pulls her garb back down, tucks it back in, lifts her right sleeve, turns her arm over. She presses the knife against her forearm, makes an incision, clenches her teeth. She produces a series of symbols, one by one, blood trickling down her arm. A grunt escapes her and she drops the ceremonial blade. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Tries to pace her breaths. She stares at the open book, reads off of it in a hushed tone, inaudible to all else. She finishes some time after, stumbles to her feet, goes to find bandages.