CHAPTER 214: RESPITE PART 2

He let a breath go that he didn’t know he’d been holding, then another, then checked Lyra again because that was the only ritual that mattered. Pulse: there, warm and quicker than before. Skin: cooling now that the worst of the day’s fury had walked off. A small line between her eyebrows made it look like she was scowling in her sleep, which was entirely on-brand.

"Okay," he told her. "He’s gone. It’s just us."

He blinked the Shop pane up and pushed past weapons on habit. He went where he always left for last.

Freedom Shop — Medical & Field Care

A list rolled by that smelled like bleach and bad coffee: IFAKs, trauma kits, airway packs, splints, IV setups, analgesics. He could feel the sting of emergency room lights just reading the options.

– IFAK Pro (Bleed/Respiratory) — Tourniquet, hemostatic gauze, pressure bandage, chest seals, NPA airway, shears, nitrile gloves — 3,200 Tokens → Buy.

– Trauma Medic Pack (Advanced) — 2× pressure dressings, 2× hemostatic rolls, 2× occlusive chest seals, SAM splint, triangular bandages, elastic wraps, irrigation syringes, 2L sterile saline, burn dressings, thermal blanket, vitals monitor (basic), penlight — 9,800 Tokens → Buy.

– Analgesic Module (Non-narcotic) — acetaminophen, ibuprofen, oral rehydration salts, instant cold packs — 800 Tokens → Buy.

– Cervical Collar (Adjustable) — 600 Tokens → Buy.

– Pelvic Binder — 1,200 Tokens → Buy.

– Stretcher, folding w/ poles — 1,400 Tokens → Buy.

Tokens ticked down without drama. Crates and pouches thunked into the world with the satisfaction of good zippers. Inigo snapped on gloves because that kind of ritual makes hands gentle, cracked a saline bottle, and set about work he trusted.

"Airway, breathing, circulation," he told the air, because saying it out loud steadied the part of him that wanted to sprint in circles.

He pinched Lyra’s jaw, lifted gently. Air in, air out—ragged, yes, but regular. No gurgle, no snore that said tongue—he left the NPA alone for now; head injuries and guesswork were a bad mix. He peeled her helm back with care, penlight quick across pupils; unequal earlier, reactive now, both narrowing under the light’s nagging. Good. Not perfect. Enough.

He irrigated the scalp cut with saline, Lyra’s hair sticky and stubborn beneath the blood. She flinched once and he paused and let a breath go through his teeth. "Sorry," he said, and meant it. He wicked the blood aside, laid butterfly strips loose to keep edges honest, then a clean pad and a wrap—not too tight, not too proud.

Her shoulder worried him most: lamellar caved in, clavicle likely yelling; swelling coming in like late company. He slid the armor away in sections, whispered apologies to leather as if it were a living thing, and breathed only when the last buckle gave without cutting her more. The shoulder had that awful roundness it shouldn’t. He palpated gently along the clavicle and felt that gritty give that means later will be unkind.

"Alright," he said, making the world small enough to manage. "We’re parking that."

He shaped the SAM splint into a broad U, padded the edges, and tucked it under her arm, forearm against belly, wrist supported. He built a sling from a triangular bandage, then a swathe to pin upper arm to chest and make the whole broken mechanism someone else’s problem. He slid the adjustable c-collar on, not because he was sure, but because "just in case" is a faithful church.

Ribs. He tested lightly and found two spots that hissed opinion under his fingers. Not flail, thank gods. Elastic wrap across the lower chest to discourage heroics, loose enough to allow breathing to do its job.

He peeled back lamellar along her flank and checked for the angry hiss of a sucking wound. None. He laid a chest seal close anyway—insurance is cheaper than regret—and taped corners with hands that finally felt clever again.

Shock. He tucked the thermal blanket over her like a promise, slipped a cold pack under the swelling at the shoulder, another at the temple, and tucked a third under the back of her neck when the collar allowed it. He hooked the basic vitals monitor cuff to her forearm and let it tell him what he already knew: pulse high, pressure low-ish, oxygen acceptable, all of it trending in the right direction now that the day had stopped trying to be clever.

He didn’t touch the analgesics. Head injury plus pills was a dance for later. He dribbled a wet cloth across her lips. "You don’t get the good drugs," he told her softly, "because your brain took a hammer’s opinion. You get my charming bedside manner instead."

He slid the stretcher open in the lee of the Black Dragon’s stabilizer, then decided he wasn’t moving her yet. The ground under the pad was the most honest surface in the square, and he liked honest today. He tucked pads under pressure points, checked the sling again, checked the scalp again, checked the breathing again, then sat back on his heels and let the quiet tell him he’d done enough for the next five minutes.

He took the collar off his own neck—figurative—and reached for water. Two swallows. He let the canteen rest on his knee and stared at nothing until nothing blinked first.

He set up the vitals monitor to chirp at him if numbers misbehaved. He strung a trip line across the narrow approach, not a weapon—just a bell he’d found in the "field odds and ends" box months ago and bought because it had a nice ring. He nudged the 105’s trail a degree, because fussing is how you stay standing. He slotted one last VT fuze, chalked "9 m, cone" on the shell with a charcoal nub, and felt better for having written a plan on metal.

Then he sat back down in the place his body had already warmed and rested his forearm across Lyra’s good one.

"Casual chat with a walking furnace," he said, mostly to convince himself it had happened. "He says I bested him. Says he’s leaving. Says he’ll be back hungry."

The bells in Elandra settled into a long, stubborn note that said hold. The river agreed with a hiss. The Black Dragon hummed because it never stopped humming, not really. Somewhere beyond the ruined granary, a pigeon decided life might be worth risking again, landed, and looked very disappointed at the aisle selection.

"Yeah," Inigo said to the bird, to the river, to the armor at his back, to the sleeping woman with the scowl that dared the world to try again. "Me too."

He blinked the Shop pane open one more time, thumb hovering over "Comms" out of reflex. He could buy a sat rig, key the guild, put words in the air that would become orders in men’s mouths. He could also wait exactly five more minutes and make sure Lyra’s numbers didn’t decide to be dramatic.

He waited.

The monitor held its peace. Lyra’s chest lifted, fell, lifted again. A puff of breath moved a strand of hair across her cheek like a hand.

He exhaled. "Okay," he said, and this time it wasn’t to fill the air. It was a decision. "You nap. I’ll make the world less stupid."

He stood, knees arguing, and set himself to neat, ordinary things: policing brass because that’s how you keep track of what you spent; propping the Mk 19 on a chunk of wall at just the right pettiness; rolling bandage wrappers and stuffing them into an empty smoke can because litter is a sin; tucking the empty Javelin tube under the Black Dragon’s deck where he wouldn’t trip on it in the dark; counting the Carl G rounds one more time; wiping the M4’s ejection port again because love looks like maintenance.

When the chores ran out, he came back to the only job that hadn’t: watching. He sat where steel made his spine honest, kept Lyra’s hand in his, and let the valley try on quiet again.

Not safe. Not finished. Just quiet enough for a casual talk to echo in his head:

You bested me. I’ll be back. Keep your iron singing.

"Deal," Inigo said to the smoke, to the seam that wasn’t there anymore, to the next hour he intended to buy. "But dinner’s on you."