(@pilotofstorm) "Wolf..." The voice was surprisingly weak coming from the amphibian. But, once the lupine looks at him, it's easy to see why. There were a few cuts on his face, but the most alarming was on his abdomen. Gashes caused by big claws had raked through his abdomen. He's shaking, as if he can barely stand. "I... Feel dizzy.." Then he fell.
Ear flicks, turning into the direction the weak voice comes from; hearing has begun to fail the aging pilot – especially when sounds he needs to listen to are mixed with the hustle and bustle of Sargasso Space Station: the clanking of metal, tight crowds of talkative people, the overhead intercoms that fail to communicate important information due to the muffled, weak audio that sounds as though the speaker has a sock in their mouth, and most egregiously, the never-ending sound of running engines that serve to keep this place powered, oxygenated, and safe to inhabit.
It’s as though there’s a lag from the moment the lupine lays that eye upon the amphibian and the moment he truly sees what he’s looking at. The moment when it registers is visible in that single eye of his; when the light turns on and fear erases any other emotion that might have been readable upon features now speckled with the white fur of age. Skippy is damn-near unrecognizable to the older man; the usual pride that the seems to bleed from the amphibian is missing; there’s no snarky remark and Wolf can’t pick up that sense of self-confidence that usually accompanies the younger man.
Slippy’s kid was in serious trouble, and if this wasn’t already real enough, then the dartfrog’s sudden collapse was definitely what sold the lupine on the urgency of the situation.
With Skippy on the floor, the lupine moves quickly. It isn’t a particularly difficult task to scoop up the smaller man; he drives his shoulder into the torso of the amphibian and wraps an arm around one of his legs. With his leg trapped within the lock of Wolf’s arm, a hand grabs a tight hold of Skippy’s wrist and with a careful adjustment of his shoulders, Wolf uses his knees to push himself upright. With Skippy on his back and shoulders in what is commonly known as a fireman’s carry – a technique he learned while training in the army – he can feel a hot liquid seep through his trench coat and meet his fur and already it is beginning to pool and sliver down the curve of his spine like a slippery waterslide of red.
He has to hurry.
The slam of boots meeting metal floors fills the air as he rushes down the long hallway; the only thing competing with the sound of running is his booming, commanding voice that demands the people he approaches either get out of the way before he runs them down or assist the emergency by preparing a room in the medical wing.
“WE’VE GOT A MAN DOWN!”