It takes him a while to get to Molotov, and when he finally makes it to the lab they've started their occupation in, his face is pallid, his skin nearly translucent, his lips the mottled grey of a corpse. He's left a trail of blood behind him, unfurling like an errant piece of yarn throughout the space station.

"Molotov!" he wheezes, closing the door behind him and then promptly collapsing, sitting against the wall. Blood continues to seep through his clothing, having painted the fabric down one thigh entirely and most of his abdomen. He holds his hand over it and the contrast of his pale fingers and the red blood is akin to poppies in summertime.