( It's a combination of strenuously held restraint and long experience that he doesn't drop those shears in shock, taking the Precursors' sneering barrage like so much water rolling off a duck's back. The lump rising in his throat goes swallowed down.

There's a kind of relish he takes in cutting off the filthy shirt, all schadenfreude and icy anger– that these things care more for an article of clothing than another's life, for any life. He doesn't respond for a while, just pulls away the tattered remnants of cloth and trades the shears again for a regenerator, for Newt, wherever he is in there. )

Newt did that all on his own?

( McCoy asks quietly, finally. He's since passed a sterile-field wand over them, and draped them right back up in a hospital gown, pressing fasteners over their shoulders, and tugging it gently closed over their back to keep them warm.

Taking a knee beside their chair, he sets out to find a vein under the sleeve of colorful kaiju, Yamarashi's tight snarl bouncing lightly beneath his fingertips. McCoy continues in his slow drawl, while he places the IV cath, )

That one little guy, one single, fragile, beautiful human outlasted a battering from all of your multitudes, for months.

( Satisfied with his work, he sticks the dressing into place, following up with a saline flush as he finally looks back up at them. )

What do you think the other fifty-nine of us are gonna do?