Rodney spun back into cover as fast as he could, but not quite fast enough to avoid being hit. The water bullet whizzed past him, slicing through the clothing and skin of his shooting arm, rendering it useless. At least as far as firing went. Gritting his teeth, he dropped his gun into his other hand-a risky move as he was far from ambidextrous-and examined the damage.

The cut was deep and raw, but thankfully stopped long before reaching bone. If it hadn't, well, then he'd have a problem. Not that the cut itself wasn't an issue already. Infection and bloodloss could kill him just as easily as the girl, after all. So, with that in mind, Rodney stuffed his gun into the band of his pants and took out his knife. Working quickly, he cut strips of cloth from his coat, and dressed the wound as best he could. It was a shitty job, and far from sterile, but it would help lessen the bleeding at least.

Returning his knife to its sheath, he pulled out his gun and bolted from cover, laying down a sort of shoddy suppressive fire with his sidearm as he rushed towards the brightly lit open field.