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Namira
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Null sheen.
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Bobby's head snapped up, and he listened intently for a moment to voices coming from nearby. One sounded strangely familiar, as if he'd heard it recently, but who had he spoke to a little while ago asides from himself and whoever that had been back at the cottage? Regardless of which, it wasn't that person, since this voice was most certainly that of a girl.

Oh... wait, fuck.

He remembered.

It was the girl who had snapped him out of his original revery and caused him to look at things that little bit differently. Shit. He'd shot at her hadn't he? Bobby hoped like fuck she wasn't seriously hurt, or wouldn't run away screaming the first time she saw him anyway. Then again... it had been dark at the airfield, and besides which, he'd shaved and actually cleaned up since then, although that would do nothing if his face was recogniseable. She sounded... faint, fuck, Bobby must have hit her, who knew what kind of state she would be in?

Then somebody called out, Bobby instantly assumed he was in for another fight and tensed himself to spring, but then, the words caught up to him.

... I'm being asked for help!?

What kind of a guy just casually asks a person like me for a hand?

I-I... should I just...?

No. No more. Haven't enough people been killed?

Let's rephrase that: haven't I killed enough people?


Bobby looked over at Heath and smoothly stood, picking up his daypack and opening it up as he dashed to where Petra was lying on the ground. He didn't say a word - not trusting that they wouldn't remember his voice from earlier (although in all fairness he'd been yelling himself hoarse, so it was unlikely), and knelt beside the girl, pulling his first aid kit from his pack, in the process dislodging the SIG Sauer, which fell to the ground alongside him. As Bobby looked at the girl's wounds (which he reminded himself, had been inflicted by him) the seeming impossibility of the task struck him.

What the hell am I doing? All I know about treating wounds is the random bits and pieces I've picked up from my cutman. I don't know how to manage a gunshot wound for fuck's sake! But... I have to try! I did this! I'm not having somebody else on my conscience!

He rooted through the kit and extracted which looked like it could be used for cleaning the wounds (incidentally right, but Bobby could have just as easily been hugely off the mark) and poured a little onto Petra's arm hopefully before getting out a pad and using that to rub away the blood and dirt where he could.

Except she's still bleeding like fuck, so... you're not really helping.

"I have no fucking clue what to do..." Bobby muttered, taking care to affect a slightly different intonation than his normal voice. Shit, what was it they always did in the war movies? "I guess we need to ... uh, put pressure on that then wrap it tight, maybe that will constrict the thing and stop it from bleeding." Bobby called to Heath.

Maybe.
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