〈 a shadow swoops above first. spilling air from its wings, venom dives. it snaps at finn, all but shoving him back, the slap of its wings as sharp as the rap from a switch. symbiote precedes host only by seconds. jumping beside them, gwen's blue eyes widen. she expected the worst; this is about on par. she glances briefly at finn—poor kid is a red mess, but he's holding himself under his own power—before her attention refocuses entirely upon itachi. 〉
Shit,〈 follows her professional diagnosis.
without wasting time, she sinks down next to itachi's supine form. from her bag she rips out the first aid kit. she snaps on the gloves before removing what remains of his armor. she barks orders with the quick, clinical efficiency of experience—don't move him, take this, apply pressure here—even as her heart lives in her mouth, in her ears. tears sting her eyes as she checks his breathing (shallow) and heart rate (too rapid), which she furiously blinks back. gwen all but empties the container of coagulant spray on his injuries before motioning for finn to cover itachi with the mylar blanket. the gauze she laid upon the worst of the injuries is soaked through by that time, but she keeps up a steady pressure, mentally preparing herself to start cpr the moment it becomes necessary. 〉
If you die from this, 〈 she warns, knowing he cannot hear her, 〉 I will tell everyone Uchiha Itachi is actually a little punk-ass bitch.
〈 as she works, venom curls beside itachi, its body lying gently alongside the neck where his pulse is strongest. the slender head investigates his nose every so often for evidence of breathing. otherwise, it presses against his cheek. gwen is not privy to its telepathic communications, but she can imagine what it shares: more images; more stories to fill his mind. 〉
no subject
Shit,〈 follows her professional diagnosis.
without wasting time, she sinks down next to itachi's supine form. from her bag she rips out the first aid kit. she snaps on the gloves before removing what remains of his armor. she barks orders with the quick, clinical efficiency of experience—don't move him, take this, apply pressure here—even as her heart lives in her mouth, in her ears. tears sting her eyes as she checks his breathing (shallow) and heart rate (too rapid), which she furiously blinks back. gwen all but empties the container of coagulant spray on his injuries before motioning for finn to cover itachi with the mylar blanket. the gauze she laid upon the worst of the injuries is soaked through by that time, but she keeps up a steady pressure, mentally preparing herself to start cpr the moment it becomes necessary. 〉
If you die from this, 〈 she warns, knowing he cannot hear her, 〉 I will tell everyone Uchiha Itachi is actually a little punk-ass bitch.
〈 as she works, venom curls beside itachi, its body lying gently alongside the neck where his pulse is strongest. the slender head investigates his nose every so often for evidence of breathing. otherwise, it presses against his cheek. gwen is not privy to its telepathic communications, but she can imagine what it shares: more images; more stories to fill his mind. 〉