There weren't many times that Tygan could say he was honestly surprised by what he found in the garbage heap behind the Red Goblin, but this... He couldn't even come up with an adequate word for it. 'Horror' fit, but so did 'impossible.'

She was lying face down, a small mountain of last night's trash covering all but her head and one pale, outstretched hand.

Tentatively, more than half convinced he must be imagining what he was seeing, he reached out and touched the girl's hair, lightly tracing one wavy honey-blonde lock.

Startled, he drew in a breath and yanked his hand back, his heart skipping a beat. Her hair didn't feel like the artificial stuff the Manaqui street women wore. There was a weight and silkiness to it that not even a high-shelf protein printer could master.

So. Real hair. He swallowed hard. If her hair was real... he couldn't finish that thought. He took a deep breath, trying to steel himself for what was coming, and reached out his hand again, slowly drawing the girl's hair away from her face.

He ground his teeth, an involuntary groan escaping his throat.

She had been beaten. Badly.

Grimly, he began scooping away wilted greens and slimy nanicci peels, gently uncovering more of her, revealing the awful fact that she was naked, and that the bruising didn't stop at her neck. "Aw, sweetheart," he breathed, grief breaking his voice as he saw the pain she must have been in. Then he found the brand scar between her shoulder-blades, and sat back on his haunches, fighting a sudden wave of nausea. That particular scar wasn't unexpected, given the location of her body, but his stomach still cramped up at the sight of it. He had found the victims of a Fenghir rudmargha'a celebration before, but never a human.

After a moment he raked his hands through his hair and swiped at his eyes, scrubbing himself back into reality. There was no sense in imagining what she must have suffered before she died. She was free now. Nothing could hurt her again. All he could do was give her a better burial than this rotting, stinking gutter.

He was about to begin digging the rest of her free when a low, rasping cough brought him whipping around to look at her face again.

"Aw, no... no," he whispered, horror ripping through him again as her uncovered fingers flexed, curling into a fist before fanning out, as if she were testing their ability to move. Then she brought her hand jerkily up to her head.

It had been awful enough believing that the only other human he had seen in nearly a decade had suffered a terrifying death. That she was still alive was infinitely worse. Yet there she was, pushing herself up on trembling arms like some sort of moving nightmare, living when she had to be broken somewhere.

For a moment Tygan held perfectly still, dumbly observing the girl pull her legs unsteadily beneath herself and then try to sit up. Her indrawn sob of pain finally snapped his stupor, and he quickly began unbuckling his junker jacket.

"Here, wait, don't move," he said, bending to cover her. Instead, he wound up catching her as she toppled toward him, her whole body wracked by uncontrollable shaking.

Tygan gazed down at her. She was going into shock, right there in his arms, and for one, awful split second, he wanted to leave her there, to run and not look back, to flee the pain of surviving when, yet again, someone else did not.

But experience apparently hadn't taught him a thing because instead of running, he gathered her onto his lap, cradling her as carefully as he could, trying to give her his body heat while he fished frantically through his pockets for his canteen of fieshenvasser, keeping up a quiet a litany of whatever popped into his head while secretly wondering if he had finally gone insane. "Shhhhhh, Princess... you're alright. You're safe. I've got you. Stay with me. Alright? Just stay with me."

˚˚˚˚˚˚˚

Orange. That was the first thing Sierra became aware of. The color orange.

Then her eyelids lifted, and she was looking up at something that glowed a dull yellow. After a moment she frowned. Which led to the discovery that her face hurt. A lot. Especially the left side. Moving her hand to investigate her face led to the discovery that her left arm wasn't in much better shape than her head.

But she could move. She needed to move. No. She needed to run. Right now.

But sitting up quickly led to the discovery that her stomach was empty. Very empty, because no matter how viciously it contracted, nothing came up her throat but the sour taste of bile.

"Yo, slowendoon, sistamiss. Ya can'na move jaunty-like."

Reeling, Sierra stared around. The rough looking gutter-dog in front of her didn't understand. She had to run. They would find her, and if they did she wouldn't make it out.

She got up and stumbled forward over a floor that pitched and warped. She felt fingers grab at her arm, and swatted at them. She had to find the garbage chute. Didn't he understand?

Something bit her shoulder, and instantly she was back in hell, surrounded by pale, leering faces with needle-sharp teeth.

˚˚˚˚˚˚˚

The spent infuser cartridge hit the floor and rolled into the space beneath his bunk, the light tinkling of carbonate metal absurdly loud in the sudden silence.

Tygan held perfectly still, holding the girl's limp body, listening hard, waiting, his heart in his throat. But nothing happened. Apparently, by some miracle, the girl's piercing screams had gone unnoticed by the Noxvalkyr patrolling the tunnels. After several moments had passed, he lowered the girl carefully onto his bed again. Then he collapsed into his chair, sat back, and let out a long breath on a low whistle. Frowning, he touched the corner of his mouth and glanced at his fingers. There was blood on his thumb. He quirked an eyebrow and looked askance at the girl. It had been a while since anyone had head-butted him in the face.

He sobered, watching her. She was unconscious again, thanks to the dose of wyrm he had managed to hit her with, but she wasn't resting. He could see her eyes moving rapidly beneath her eyelids, which meant she was hallucinating in her sleep.

She needed real medicine. She needed a real doctor, and a real bed. And judging from the level of crazy she had just pulled, she needed some seriously intensive post traumatic event therapy. All he had were discontinued street drugs, no real medical experience other than what he had been forced to learn to stay alive, and a literal hole in the wall. He was also pretty sure he needed therapy as much as she did.

He closed his eyes and took a breath, pushing away the defeat threatening to land on him like a ton of bricks. Somehow she had made it through the night, and now, unfortunately, he was the only chance she had of surviving on this rock.

With a grunt he pushed himself back onto his feet, then shrugged into his jacket and grabbed his knapsack on the way out the door.