operation robodachi

[sloshing]

Who| HK-47, Eridan, Dave, Clara, and OPEN
What| Catch-all: HK gets shot in the shoulder, has to treat his wound, and then ends up dying anyway a few days later.
Where| Multiple locations: Lockers, A Touch Of Class, Centurion Cineplex
When| Week 2
Warnings/Notes| Injury (gunshot) and death (tbd). The open prompt is for anyone who'd like to show someone from a futuristic universe how to work an archaic first aid kit. Operation Robodachi.

[If you'd like a specific thread starter somewhere else, let me know via private message or on plurk: assbanditkirk.]

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[sloshing]

When he sees the gun first, he doesn't even care. He's pretty done right now. When he sees the familiar face, he becomes a bit more relaxed. If Molotov killed him, it'd be worth it.

"Sarcastic Reply: Oh, this? No, I was playing with ketchup bottles in the food court." His stare says Thanks Captain Obvious, but the small grin on his face is a dead (haha) giveaway that he's happy to see her. He picks up the backpack and holds it up.

"I have a kit in here, but I'm having trouble with my hands. Faulty wiring, I guess," he says with a little laugh at his joke. Nerves are the wires of the human body though, it is a true enough statement as well as joke.

[molotov]

"Watch your tone or I won't help you," she snaps at him, glaring, but picks up his saber anyway and hangs it on one of the hooks on the wall. She takes his backpack and opens it, shifting through for the first aid kit (and taking inventory of everything else he has). Molotov kneels down in front of him when she finds the kit, and goes into her own duffel bag for a swiss army knife.

"You owe me if I take this bullet out," she warns, sitting on her haunches and holding the knife casually, like she isn't offering to stab it into his shoulder. "You do know that, right, Robot?"

[sloshing]

"Aside comment: Master liked my tone. Master thought calling everyone meatbags was funny too." His reply is less directed at her and more like muttering out loud, eyes wandering off, a corner of his mind always alight with his devotion to Revan, even in this moment.

In his backpack, she'd find there's fishing line, a few different things for making homemade explosives but there are things missing from the equation and no actual bombs, a small knife, some binoculars, and an almost empty bottle with fountain water in it.

His attention returns to her and he takes a second to reflect on what she's saying. He offered and he was a being of his word, honesty a stronger trait in him than deception. Galactic laws regarding the programming of droids and whatnot. "Statement: I am aware, and I will accept whatever your terms are when I am in a better state of mind and body. If I do not, you can retract the assistance provided."

Meaning you are welcome to shoot him should he not agree to whatever you want of or from him.

[molotov]

"Well, I am not your master," she grumbles back, her dismay with the contents of his bag evident, then sighs and dives into her own kit bag. She's been stockpiling from the sporting goods store since day one, and her sponsors were apparently far more generous than his. "But that does explain a lot."

She uses a hunting knife to slice off a strip of leather from a pair of shoes she didn't like all that much anyway, then throws both shoes to the side, since now they're no good. "Bite down on this," she tells him, placing the leather at his lips, "because this is all going to hurt like hell and a half." A splash of gin from one of her bottles is used to disinfect the knife, which she immediately plunges into the open wound, not giving him time to dread it or tense up.

[sloshing]

Sorry to disappoint, but he preferred to travel light. At no point to argue or be contrary anymore, he takes the leather between his teeth. A moment later, he realizes how good it is that he did. Between the penetration of the knife itself to retrieve the bullet and the residual sting from sanitizing, it's everything he has in this moment to focus on other things. The taste of the leather in his mouth, the creak of it between his teeth, her red hair (his favorite color).

Just focus on something else while she works. He keeps his eyes on her though, instead of on blank space. He was afraid that if his mind wandered, he wouldn't find a way back. Afraid, that was new.

[molotov]

It takes a moment of fishing before she finds the bullet, and she bites her bottom lip as she draws it out, close enough to the surface that she can at least use two of her fingers to pull it out. It's not like she's got tweezers, sorry. When it's out, she sort of absently hands him the bullet to hold before working at cutting away his shirt, so the wound can actually be cleaned and bandaged without a bunch of bloody fabric getting in the way.

"You're okay," she says, focused more on her task than on him, but she figures he probably needs to hear something. If he goes into shock, he probably will die, and it's not that she really cares, but she is actively trying not to kill him at this moment.

[sloshing]

"Thank you," he speaks softly, words almost a whisper on an exhale.

He holds onto the bullet, moving it between his fingers as some point of focus. This bullet could have been a quick end for him, and it spoke little of his talents if he were to die so soon with no blood on his own hands to show for it, save his own maybe.

At this point he wondered if all that mind over matter Jedi meditation actually had something to it. He hated to sit on the other end of their hippie preaching but when they actually engaged in battle, he knew firsthand that they were trained to be machines of death. Note to self: investigate meditation further.

[molotov]

When he speaks that way, Molotov pauses and glances at his face -- he isn't going to be thanking her in a minute, that's for damn sure.

She stays crouched, reaches up to touch his cheek, and grabs her bottle of gin. "Bite back down," she tells him, her eye focused on his, then twists his shoulder to pour alcohol in the wound, so that it doesn't get infected from the inside. She immediately wipes it back out with gauze from the first aid kit, sops up blood and gin that's run pink, discards pad after pad of gauze until she reaches the last one. She tapes it over the hole, dries his skin with a clean part of the pajama pants.

Then she stands and sort of disappears, only to return a moment later with a questionable tee shirt and a skirt she's already tearing open to make a better sling.

"Think you can change shirts?"

[sloshing]

There is only one possible reaction to the sanitation of his wound, teeth clenched down on the leather: "FHHHCK!" Afterwards, he was sure to take deep breaths as she finishes cleaning it up and taping on the gauze.

When she returns, he isn't sure what a "twerk team" is but it sounds ridiculous. He takes the bit out of his mouth, wiping the leather taste out of his mouth with the back of his hand.

He could answer seriously, but his nature was not necessarily inclined that way.

"Oh, I absolutely doubt that. Please, assist me so that I might feel the light caress of your hands once again upon my body and I can become filled with awkward sexual interest."

[molotov]

Look, it's been a few weeks, and pickings on shirts have gotten slim. It was either 'twerk team' or a shirt that said 'gay is the new awesome', so Molotov went with the better option, she thought. Don't be picky, buddy.

She glances around when he says that, and while she thinks that's sarcasm, she's actually not one hundred percent sure about a robot's capability to be properly sarcastic. Is that something they're programmed with? The only robot she knows talks mostly in beeps and only a small group of people really know what it's saying, so.

Molotov doesn't have the time or patience to figure this shit out. She's barely slept for the past few days, she's kind of grungy, and she just saved someone instead of killing them. So she just shrugs and starts tearing the remainder of his shirt off, so that he doesn't have to lift his hurt arm.