[ This is definitely not how that confrontation was supposed to go. In fact, there wasn't even supposed to be a confrontation on this excursion. Cal isn't sure if Cere's information was bad or they were just incredibly unlucky, but either way, he's currently nursing a deep gash in his side that is bleeding freely—his ribs might be involved too, considering how strongly they're protesting his every shallow breath—as well as a searing headache slash potential concussion from a very solid hit to his temple from a security droid's very metal fist.
It's why he's leaning a little more heavily onto Merrin than he normally would as they limp up the gangplank together, since he trusts her balance far more than he does his own at the moment. Greez already has the Mantis running and ready to go, as usual, so Cal calls out as soon as they pass through the doorway. ]
We're on! Let's go!
[ Now that they're inside, BD-1 hops off of his back, beeping in tones of clear distress. There's some more shouting from Cere and Greez as they take off, but Cal barely registers it—he almost immediately turns to Merrin and asks, his voice strained: ]
[ How many times has Cal come running onto that gangplank, snatching a desperate escape from his pursuers and enemies? She'd seen it often enough from the other end, the Mantis taking off in a hurry from Dathomir while the resurrected dead clawed after it. This time, however, the Nightsister is hurrying onto that ship right alongside him as the Empire gives chase: Cal's weight against her shoulder, his hand pressed to the bloody mess of his side, her hand tangling with the fabric of his shirt as she helps drag him over the threshold, right before the walkway retracts behind them and the doors snap shut. The ship rumbles in takeoff and then skews beneath their feet, tilting messily to the side as blaster fire patters off its hull.
The tiny droid is beeping and jumping up and down, and some of the plates in the galley are sliding on their surfaces as the ship bucks. Merrin latches onto the edge of the table for balance, and stares at Cal. He's literally bleeding all over her and yet he's still more concerned for her.
(Dummy, she thinks, not without fondness.) ]
Me? I'm fine! Are you all right?
[ She sounds almost— annoyed? angry?— but there's concern buried somewhere beneath it. It's easier to sound frustrated than to let on exactly how worried she is. Still hanging onto the table while the ship yaws, she looks over at the droid: ]
[ As the ship rattles its take off, he leans against the table—sags against it is more accurate, really, one hand splayed for balance and the other still clutched tightly to his side. One sharp list is enough to make him squeeze his eyes shut, trying to force the lightheadedness aside—from the blood loss or the maybe-concussion, he's not sure. He opens them again to find Merrin's unhappy face hovering in front of him, and that ends up being a much better distraction.
The tone of her voice sounds irritated, but it still somehow lodges a funny little shard of something warm and lustrous right into his chest. ]
I'm okay. Just—
[ He grimaces. It's a knee-jerk response, and obviously underselling things. A bad habit he picked up on Bracca, when missing shifts for an injury meant missing out on pay too, and so he'd learned to shrug off anything short of dismemberment.
When BD-1 launches the stimpak, he snatches it out of midair by habit too, almost perfunctorily applying it directly to the gash in his side. The effect is immediate, and better, but still not great—when he lifts his hand a little away from the wound, blood runs down his shirt and drips onto the table underneath. Deliriously, all he can think of is— ]
Greez is going to kill me for getting blood on his table.
[ He doesn't sound too broken up about it, though. In fact, he flashes Merrin a wry little half-smile, even if the effect is somewhat ruined by the pain creasing his brow, then tips his chin towards the galley. ]
There should be a medpac. Down below. Can you, uh. Grab it?
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It's why he's leaning a little more heavily onto Merrin than he normally would as they limp up the gangplank together, since he trusts her balance far more than he does his own at the moment. Greez already has the Mantis running and ready to go, as usual, so Cal calls out as soon as they pass through the doorway. ]
We're on! Let's go!
[ Now that they're inside, BD-1 hops off of his back, beeping in tones of clear distress. There's some more shouting from Cere and Greez as they take off, but Cal barely registers it—he almost immediately turns to Merrin and asks, his voice strained: ]
Are you okay?
no subject
The tiny droid is beeping and jumping up and down, and some of the plates in the galley are sliding on their surfaces as the ship bucks. Merrin latches onto the edge of the table for balance, and stares at Cal. He's literally bleeding all over her and yet he's still more concerned for her.
(Dummy, she thinks, not without fondness.) ]
Me? I'm fine! Are you all right?
[ She sounds almost— annoyed? angry?— but there's concern buried somewhere beneath it. It's easier to sound frustrated than to let on exactly how worried she is. Still hanging onto the table while the ship yaws, she looks over at the droid: ]
Stimpak, BD-1.
no subject
The tone of her voice sounds irritated, but it still somehow lodges a funny little shard of something warm and lustrous right into his chest. ]
I'm okay. Just—
[ He grimaces. It's a knee-jerk response, and obviously underselling things. A bad habit he picked up on Bracca, when missing shifts for an injury meant missing out on pay too, and so he'd learned to shrug off anything short of dismemberment.
When BD-1 launches the stimpak, he snatches it out of midair by habit too, almost perfunctorily applying it directly to the gash in his side. The effect is immediate, and better, but still not great—when he lifts his hand a little away from the wound, blood runs down his shirt and drips onto the table underneath. Deliriously, all he can think of is— ]
Greez is going to kill me for getting blood on his table.
[ He doesn't sound too broken up about it, though. In fact, he flashes Merrin a wry little half-smile, even if the effect is somewhat ruined by the pain creasing his brow, then tips his chin towards the galley. ]
There should be a medpac. Down below. Can you, uh. Grab it?