Sam breaks his spear and he flinches. A mistake, when as it makes him lose time and lose means to stop Sam because no, no, this ain't his responsibility he ain't got to... The tourniquet goes tight and his claws catch in the ice around the blade. He grunts, snarls coming out from him involuntary.
It's hard to keep attention outward with all such going on before him, but there'd be no way he'd miss that voice. Mituna. The snarls stop and his head turns, eyes staring wide. For a short foolish second, there's a hope in him for his Mituna, for him somehow being to remember and so thinking to help. But that second is short, and that knife is sharp and Sam's getting up to attack and he can see something of daymares unfolding if he doesn't do something.
"Don't!" He gasps, trying to pull himself into something respectable. Something what won't seem like a plea for sympathy and so anger the Psiioniic. "MITU- Psiioniic. IT'S S-SAM. He's good. HE AIN'T AT TO HURT. Trustworthy." Don't make a sound more. Don't set him off.
"SAM, THIS IS THE PSIIONIIC." He tries to catch Sam's gaze, that he might explain this all better somehow. "Remember... what I told you... THAT MOTHERFUCKER WHAT WAS BEING LIKE YOUR R-RILEY WAS?" Brother, moirail. "That's him. THEY BROUGHT HIM BACK YOUNGER WITHOUT REMEMBERING NONE." So please don't bring none of that up, he pleads with his eyes. "He ain't got tie to me but he's got allegiance still at to the Signless and--" He glances, at the Psiioniic, unsure if he's really safe to be stating anything at all. "--he's all of that cause. WON'T HARM. Please don't motherfucking fight."
And that's all what words he can manage of the now. His teeth grind together to bite back a moan, his hands pressing down on his injured leg like he can isolate the pain of it. The wave passes and then he's moving quick, snatching the backpack of his own and tearing two packs of first aid on out.
If those two are distracted with each other, now's his best chance of getting this shit down and done. His blood coated hands are going to make it hard to grab the needle and thread, but he'll have to try anyway. He ain't got a single fucking idea how at to sew, but again he thinks, if his Beforan self could do it, so can he. First comes getting the container open.
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It's hard to keep attention outward with all such going on before him, but there'd be no way he'd miss that voice. Mituna. The snarls stop and his head turns, eyes staring wide. For a short foolish second, there's a hope in him for his Mituna, for him somehow being to remember and so thinking to help. But that second is short, and that knife is sharp and Sam's getting up to attack and he can see something of daymares unfolding if he doesn't do something.
"Don't!" He gasps, trying to pull himself into something respectable. Something what won't seem like a plea for sympathy and so anger the Psiioniic. "MITU- Psiioniic. IT'S S-SAM. He's good. HE AIN'T AT TO HURT. Trustworthy." Don't make a sound more. Don't set him off.
"SAM, THIS IS THE PSIIONIIC." He tries to catch Sam's gaze, that he might explain this all better somehow. "Remember... what I told you... THAT MOTHERFUCKER WHAT WAS BEING LIKE YOUR R-RILEY WAS?" Brother, moirail. "That's him. THEY BROUGHT HIM BACK YOUNGER WITHOUT REMEMBERING NONE." So please don't bring none of that up, he pleads with his eyes. "He ain't got tie to me but he's got allegiance still at to the Signless and--" He glances, at the Psiioniic, unsure if he's really safe to be stating anything at all. "--he's all of that cause. WON'T HARM. Please don't motherfucking fight."
And that's all what words he can manage of the now. His teeth grind together to bite back a moan, his hands pressing down on his injured leg like he can isolate the pain of it. The wave passes and then he's moving quick, snatching the backpack of his own and tearing two packs of first aid on out.
If those two are distracted with each other, now's his best chance of getting this shit down and done. His blood coated hands are going to make it hard to grab the needle and thread, but he'll have to try anyway. He ain't got a single fucking idea how at to sew, but again he thinks, if his Beforan self could do it, so can he. First comes getting the container open.
"I GOT THIS," He insists one more time.