Upon seeing the fully armed guard, something in the man seemed to wilt, as if he were finally catching up, realizing where he was and perhaps recalling why. He stopped backing away—not that there was anywhere else for him to go, since he was now pressed up against the workbench—and he pivoted from Naari to take in the wide-eyed Tipp, who stood frozen with his mouth hanging open. The man peered down at his own body, noting his lack of clothes and the dressings on his wounds, including the fresh wrappings on his hand. He then, finally, turned back to Kiva, seeming to come to a decision.

“Forgive me,” he said in a calm, smooth voice. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Kiva blinked. Then blinked again.

“Er, that’s all right,” she replied, feeling unbalanced. He had woken up to her hovering above him with a bloodied needle, after all. It was she who had startled him. “You should sit down again. Let me finish with the cut on your head.”

He touched his brow, wincing when he found the bump, his fingers coming away red with blood. Kiva bit her cheek to keep from scolding him. She’d have to clean it again now, before adding the sutures.

The young man’s face paled, as if his sudden exertion had caught up to him, shock setting in. Kiva lunged forward, as did Tipp, the two of them arriving just in time to grab the new prisoner as his knees buckled.

“Don’t w-w-worry,” Tipp said, barely reaching the young man’s chest but still taking on a good amount of his weight. “We’ve g-got you.”

Kiva, meanwhile, was just trying to get ahold of him without stabbing him with her needle. She’d already done enough damage to his flesh today.

“Sorry,” the man said, his voice thinner than a moment ago. “I don’t—I don’t feel so great.” And then he groaned softly.

“Tipp,” Kiva barked, his name a command.

The boy knew what the groan meant as well as Kiva, and he rushed away, causing her to grunt quietly as she took the young man’s full weight. She managed to drag him the few remaining steps to the metal bench and forced him to sit just in time for Tipp to run back with an empty pail in his hands. Kiva shoved it into place just as the man groaned again, leaned forward, and vomited.

“That was c-close,” Tipp said with a grin.

Kiva didn’t reply. She just tightened her grip on the pail as the man continued retching.

She wasn’t surprised. Head injuries were notorious for prompting nausea. Until she could treat his wound and get some poppymilk into him, he was going to feel awful. If only he could have remained unconscious for a few more minutes, then at least he wouldn’t have to suffer through the last of her ministrations.