[His trenchcoat sleeve hangs loose around his right arm when he tries to move it, fabric pulling around where his bicep had been cut short. It's a reflex, trying to reach with a non-existent limb as he pulls himself to his "feet". One a prosthetic, barely functional on its own as it's basically a false foot attached by thin metal (betrayed in shape by the half-sea-salt-wet pants that cling to it).]
[He hates asking for help, or accepting it. But the man is... offering? Maybe? It's hard to tell.]
I don't know where I am.
I've gotta get to a phone. Anywhere off the beach.
[Kaz's tone is rough, general life exhaustion seeping into it as well as this... place.]
[Then there's that nasty word. One he hates using because it's usually attached to moments of weakness, memories he has contempt for.] Please.
He always needs more Medics to haunt him
[He hates asking for help, or accepting it. But the man is... offering? Maybe? It's hard to tell.]
I don't know where I am.
I've gotta get to a phone. Anywhere off the beach.
[Kaz's tone is rough, general life exhaustion seeping into it as well as this... place.]
[Then there's that nasty word. One he hates using because it's usually attached to moments of weakness, memories he has contempt for.] Please.