Against my direct orders, my hands moved toward her neck, two fingers stood at attention ready to assess her pulse. Tracing from the bottom up, they encamped beneath her jaw. For someone so recently using herself as a human flamethrower, she felt rather cold. A reserved bump brushed past my finger servicemen. Alive, but not for much longer.
Unless however, I intervened.
She would not have done the same. The opposite rather. Torched me, or failing that: used her hands to strangle me. I was not her. I was not the Issacary. I was not about to let a human being bleed out in the brush.
Tattered leaves gave way from the trees, and within moments the rain descended through the slits in the green canopy overhead. With an unsteady hand, I stirred through the soup which constituted the items of my satchel. Not the Psycanvas. Not the gauze. Not the provisions. Ah, but yes, the blood potion of healing.
It would take some time distil more. And I had hoped to used the potion to bring my legs back to working order. So, my legs or her life? But why her life? Why save the one who wouldn’t save me?
My mind was already set on saving her. I had already answered the first question. So, the natural answer to the latter two was: because it’s the right thing to do. But I didn’t have to be happy about it. I was to be less happy about how to administer the potion.
I had deliberately paralyzed her. She was not about to be drinking anything. Even if she was, it may not take hold in time. Dripping the solution onto her open wounds was a surefire way to ensure the potion would be ineffective. Back to the bag.
In the light, and not altogether unpleasant, rainfall I produced a midsized syringe. Given my discomfort with them, it might as well have been a large one. For something made of plastic which was hollow, it weighed heavy enough. Pushing Potions, as it was once so aptly nicknamed, is the practice of intravenously using potions to reap the effects quickly and intensely. Not something I had to do since…
As the water mixed with the dirt mixed with the blood to form a repugnant brown, as my once sterling soldiers of fingers fretted with the needle in hand, as the enemy I was to save lay dying in the mud, I knew things were about to get messy.
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