plaster. it's not pretty but it'll do; you wince as the sender patches your wounds. (With his shaky ass hands... My bad, Tim)
[𝕻]ain is spoken before he might speak it himself, the laggard antiphon of his limb and finger as he counts his breath. Memory comes in shivers, not as recollection but as a sentence: the League never indulges. Paralysis is a pecuarious barbarity; it lets you witness your own undoing. Hands — too many of them. He remembers the laughter. He remembers being lifted, the indignity of it. Then the ground, the mock krioboly of it all. Dirt in his mouth. Blood thinned by spit. A voice placed close: 𝑅𝑎’𝑠 𝑎𝑙 𝐺𝘩𝑢𝑙 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝘩𝑖𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑔𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑠.
He swallows and tastes iron. Hands come into view — another’s hands. They hesitate before touching him. The plaster stings when it touches him. He hisses despite himself, jaw locking, breath breaking its measure. The pain is sharper now, conscious. He accepts it.
“ It’s not pretty, but it’ll do, ” says the voice. He notices their hands, they tremble. He forces himself to breathe slow; he has done this before.
Then, a lugent epiphany: his mask is gone. The realization carries more weight than the wound. He does not lift his head. He cannot afford to confirm how much has been seen. His mask is an ordinance, a partition between pledge and flesh. Its absence is desecration.
❛ You did a really good job, ❜ he says, voice raw. ❛ Do 'ya do this often? Patch up beaten-up guys that happen to be left for dead in the fields? ❜ Casual. Deliberately so. Prescited. ❛ You a nurse? This is some pretty good stitching too. ❜ He turns his head just enough to see his uniform folded nearby like a prebition: red darkened to near black, yellow dulled, green smeared beyond symbol. Robin laid pessundated. He swallows again. The room is too quiet.
At last, he risks it. He lifts his gaze, ❛ 'Ya got a name? ❜ he asks, voice quieter now, stripped of bravado. ❛ I’m Tim. ❜