Backdated-This takes place immediately after this fight against Wolframite/Bismuthite.

Words: 877

He was bleeding like a stuck pig, worse from his face than from the substantially nasty gash across his back. Head wounds bled, that much was plain in any first aid training and manual. He was regretting not brushing up even more on his limited field medicine as it was after the trouble with Medea and her arm.

I should go to a hospital.
These need stitches. They will ask what happened.

But as he slid down into the safe-house, blood staining the windowsill again as it had when this all began, he couldn't conscion the same old lie, I wasn't wounded by terrorists

Not the way the media meant it, or the way that it would be interpreted because of that context. He couldn't stomach supporting that lie with another notation in the affirmative. He was sick of being a little check mark to the Negaverse PR machine. He crossed the winter-cold indoors to the little sink and it's little mirror, looking at his face to assess the damage he could easily see.

It was as well that he couldn't feel much of it anymore. It came in a clean swipe from the upper crest of his cheek at his hairline along a vaudevillian makeup angle down through his lower lip. It terminated down his chin, dripping there like a slow, left-on-barely faucet. The cold at least meant that the drip was now slowed, part congealed and saving his body a good deal of trouble had he been relying on platelets alone. Helping the wound, however, needed it stopped bleeding and cleaned. History proved a better lesson on that account for expediency- Thraen crossed to the supply setup and took the bottle of classic gold Listerine. It was antiseptic, antibacterial, and anti-fungal. It had started its product life much the same way, and starting out as a surgical antiseptic that was used to clean wounds on the battlefields of World War had found accord with the low-tech, low cost, high efficiency list he was trying to muster for Court use. He braced, dumping and dabbing at the wound with a sterile cloth.

It also brought nerve life and feeling back to his face in a way he regretted, and when his mind came on again from TV fuzz he’d somehow ended up on his knees on the floor.
Five minutes. Clean, dry compress of bandage, steady pressure to stop the bleeding completely. Then I can seal it up. He fished his regular cellphone from where he’d left it in preparations with some sketchbooks and set the alarm. Making a compress from the surgical gauze took some doing, and then he laid on his stomach with his face firmly in one of the camp pillows that were part of the bedding stash. I need to not pass out

But the alarm startled him just the same after what felt like blinking. He couldn't feel any part of his body except the dullest flame through his breathing. Hands were a necessity that demanded a thorough washing and thaw in warm water from the little sink. There might not be heat in the building, but the water heaters worked on the electricity and kept the pipes in the old building from freezing- a small but helpful blessing. Butterflies from the kit pulled together the gaping skin at points in moments and left his with a choice.

I can either try to sew my face shut, and scar myself so badly I’m a walking horror film, or I can attempt the new superglue treating despite that it isn't a great idea for very thick separations or ones where skin is moved with a lot of expression. Less chance of wholesale massive raised scarring that way….but I have to really be careful not to emote for at least a week so as not to pull everything apart. A look at his hands gave him his answer- they were shaking with Shock, and wouldn't be any good for sewing another person let alone his own face. He fished out the medical super glue and set to sealing the sections between the butterflies- pinching flesh together and squeezing a chemical seal of new skin over the section, waiting 3 minutes and then moving on to the next. It took more than half an hour to do, shaking like a leaf and staring into a mirror.

He had no idea what to do about his back’s opening from the General’s chain blade. From the blows back into the bridge struts his ribs just felt broken, and prodding himself about the middle nothing felt hard as to indicate internal hemorrhage from bone lacerations- and all the ribs felt complete if pushy in places. Then his uniform just melted away and he was standing in blessedly clean pants and a t-shirt. The shirt wouldn't be so for long, but it was better than his fuku. He felt dizzy and weak, curious as to why he’d powered down without seeking it so for about five seconds before just giving up on thought. He crossed to the palette, curled down onto it, pulled a blanket over himself and knew no more.