Sewing class.

So apparently, dear diary, my lovely body was built for conversations, love-making, and research. It was not built to withstand bullets. We already learned that it definitely doesn't like mind-driven, green, lightsabre-like blades. Bullets, not-so-much either.

We got into a confrontation at Langston Shipping, you see. I attempted to sweet talk the man at the front desk, but unfortunately, it didn't work out this time like I'd planned. We got information, but the information came with a heavy price. When we knew we were going to get into a fight, I immediately took cover away from what I assumed was going to be the main battlezone. Unfortunately, I'm not invisible, and those blasted men with guns saw Trance and I behind the desk. All my boys were death angels in combat. I thank sweet potatoes that Leon wasn't seriously injured with the flashbang...I could see in his eyes that he felt guilty for my wounds, but they were no one's fault but my own.

I did pull beads on two of them. One...I could've killed, had it not been for Sam's quick medicinal miracles. And speaking of that, that boy must've taken some sort of sewing class when he was younger...because Lord Almighty if he didn't stitch me up so delicately that I know my scars will be minimal. Maybe that's why Momma made me enroll in embroidery. So I could eventually stitch up people in combat. I'll have to pump that boy for information. If I'm going to get hurt in every situation we're in like this, I should at least understand how to stop my own bleeding. Such weakness and reliance upon others isn't suited for a Mitchell.

We head out soon to sea to a gunfight that won't be as small as this one. Give me strength, heart of my hearts, to stand next to these men of mine and take the blows that are dealt me.