The winged girl did not heed the warning, and watched the action. Not only was she unshaped, but she [i]smiled[/i] as if amused during the more gruesome parts.

Zesiro, on the other hand, frowned. He held out his hand to accept the gift. "Yeah... I have no idea what you just said..." He held part of his radio in one hand and the silvery ball in the other hand, perplexed as to what was expected of him. "Why don't you show me?" Zesiro didn't actually have any faith in this device.

Yet, with some time, the two technicians were able to find TRIDENT frequencies. The skeptical Zesiro was plesantly surprised to be in touch with HQ and have a rescue mission on the way...

~~~~

Twain. "My services are needed. Almighty then." Twain continued down the stairs past Herbert. It wasn't long before he beheld Rozalind in her wretched state. 

"Good afternoon." Twain knelt beside the woman inspecting her burns and wounds. He kept a smile plastered on his face. 

"Tell me how it is Twain. Don't sugar coat it. If it's bad, don't you dare try using that disgusting magic on me. I'd rather die than be... be..." Rozalind tried to growl and scowl, but didn't have the strength. 

"Oh shush you. I'm good for more than just necromancy! I'm a doctor! I have a degree and everything."

"Who would give you a medical license?" 

"That is classified." Twain touched Rozalinds shoulder, she twitched but did not put up much of a fight against the pain. She closed her eyes. "Just go to sleeeeeep for awhile. I'll see you in the morning, sweetie." Rozalind did not stir, seeming to obey the command to sleep. 

He began to pull a few things from his pockets, some were recognizable as first aid supplies... Tape, bandages, alcohol, scissors... Some things were a bit odd for a doctor to have on his person, for example there were a few unlabeled jars of odd colored goo, there was a small bit of white chalk, a harmonica, smokey quarts, and a pincushion full of pins was also produced from the pockets. Most was left on the ground beside the girl. He rested the smoky quarts on her forehead, then Twain used the goo-jars and the bandages first, slathering the burns and pressing the gauze upon the wounds. Rozalind began to resemble a mummy, and smell like one, the goo from the glass jars was pungent. 

"Hey you... guy..." Twain called out to Herbert. "Lend me a hand?" He tossed Herbert the pincushion. It was shaped like a tomato. "Hold this for me juuuuust in case."

"And ah... The number guy... XIII? Can you get me a light? It sure is dark down here..."

At one point during the wrapping, Twain frowned. The woman's breath and heartbeat were beginning to slow... "Nooot so fast you." He beckoned for the nail in Herbert's hand. He took the metal point and pressed it into her palm. She didn't stir, only bled a few red drops of blood. He began to hum and mutter quietly. The rest was... difficult to remember... 

The sound of approaching helicopters announced the end of their internment in the Russian mountains. 

They were all scooped up, the wounded taken on stretchers, the healthy escorted into cockpits and passenger seats. Eventually everyone would find themselves fatigued... sleepy... and then asleep. 

They would each wake up in a small room on a hospital cot. Their wounds bandaged and their bodies cleaned. They would find that they all had their own room but were all housed in the same hallway. 

At the end of the hallway, there was what looked like a meeting room in a fancy office. It was a wide dark room with a glass table. The base of the table doubled as a glowing blue fish tank. There were also several fish circular tanks set into the walls to make it seem as if they were in fact portholes and the room was underwater. It was a clean, tasteful, and expensive looking design.

Where were they now?