Brass Gears: fragment
Then Keezik was in front of him. His hands were bloody, though Greenlin was willing to bet the blood on Keezik's hands wasn't Keezik's. Stupid idiot actually being useful in a fight. "Poopbrains. Are you okay?"
"I'm shot, Stupidface. That is the definition of not okay," Greenlin replied. The room was spinning slightly. He looked up. Cyrus was down on the ground. Greenlin couldn't tell if he was dead or not. The man who had shot him was definitely dead. And missing a hand. That looked to be the work of Keezik. So at least he wasn't a problem. Greenlin had no idea where mutton chops had gotten to and found he really didn't care right now. He had bigger problems.
Varrin was pulling off his frock coat, ripping the sleeve by the seam. He tried to approach, but Keezik wouldn't let him. The goblin hissed. His knife – and when had Keezik gotten a knife with sunstones on it? – was in his hand.
"I know some field medicine," Varrin said. He was trying to sound soothing, but his voice was a bit too tight for it. "Let me help him so he doesn't bleed out before we get him to a real doctor."
"Give me the word, and I'll put a dagger in his back for getting you into the mess," Keezik said. "He looks like a dandy." Then he, thankfully, switched to goblin. "I can't believe you have a crush on this asshole. Really, poopbrains, you don't go after the easy ones do you?"
"Put the knife up and let him help me before I die," Greenlin snarled. This was how he was going to go. Death because his best friend and his crush were too busy besting each other in a pissing contest while he bled to death.
