Mechamaru Without Bandages Novels & Stories

He grunts, his good hand cupping mine over his injury while struggling to form words. "This will hurt a lot." I sniffle back my tears. He nods. Wrapping his right arm over my shoulder, we pulled him off the metal bar. His long agonizing scream torments my heart. The wounds need to be closed to prevent bleeding until we get Maya to heal him. He holds the front fabric bundle while I pack the back, wrapping around his torso another skirt strap. Another distressed grunt shrinks my heart further. I place his good arm over my shoulder and limp us out of the rubble. Relics are stored on metal shelves; some are piled on the floor with paintings, shields, and armor pieces. One of the corners has a pi

Was he talking to some of his people about something and then forgot he was supposed to be talking to the whole pack? That’s when I finally see the first signs of him. My eyes widen as I notice him limping his way over to the middle of the stage. He has bandages covering his right arm, too. Whatever issue he had gone to take care of must have been a skirmish, and he didn’t come out of it unharmed.

Day 15 "W-What's happening to him!?" Daisuke asked as he tried to touch MJ’s back. Amber approached him and held his hand, shaking her head not wanting Daisuke to touch MJ’s back. "Don't touch it, I don't know what happened but his back is supposed to heal since it's been a few years but it didn't?" Amber said and tore MJ’s uniform open. Daisuke looks away upon seeing MJ’s back, which is currently producing blood coming from his scar.

Dojo reeked slaughter, copper-thick, tatami slick crimson pools, our chests heaving thunder-sync, indigo hakamas spattered gore. "You fight like you're born to it," he growled, scarred jaw inches, porcelain fingers banding my wrist pull-close, obsidian devouring mahogany flush. Blood smeared his cheek war-paint, dragon tattoo pulsing throat wild. No fear in his stillness—predator sated, but gaze burned deeper hunger.

The first wounded warriors from the war. Mara was already moving. "Clear the treatment room!" "Get water boiling!" "More bandages!" Everyone rushed to obey, including me. The first warrior looked young. Too young. His left arm was gone. Not injured. Gone. My breath caught painfully. Blood stained the bandages wrapped around the empty space where his arm should have been. Another man was barely conscious. Deep claw marks covered his chest. A third warrior stared blankly at the ceiling. Physically, he looked mostly unharmed.

But he did it. Méah was excited to wear it. She then went to the door and locked it. Carefully, she took off her old, tattered, and dirty clothes, to avoid hurting the wound on her back. She didn't have any problem with the wounds on her arms and legs; all of it were already on the stage of full recovery. However, the scars were still fresh and would sting a bit if a strong force was accidentally applied.

I noticed him using his left hand, his right hand bandaged, barely. Then, with brutal ease, he drove his forehead into the man’s nose. Blood spurted. Another cry, but muffled. The drunk stumbled back, clutching his ruined face, before bolting out the door, leaving a trail of blood and curses. I stood frozen, chest heaving, back pressed to the wall. Marek turned to me slowly. His ice-blue eyes swept over my uniform, lingering. Hunger flashed in his gaze. “Well,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “It isn’t red.”

He sped off the road as if someone is racing after him. I lifted up my suit a bit to check my wound that is thickly covered with dressed bandages. So far, I don’t have to worry about it showing through my suit. Blood won’t stain my suit easily with this thick bandages wrapped around it. Besides, my wound is already sealed closed. Pericles seared it up with a stainless metal heated by his fancy cigarette lighter. Performing stitches on my wound would require more time and effort, and I don’t want to go through all that especially if I wasn’t under any anesthesia.

Every window was a potential eye, every silence a held breath before the shot. Sabe was on his feet, moving with a stiff, efficient grace that couldn't quite hide the pain in his shoulder. He had shrugged on a fresh, dark sweater from his go-bag, the bulk of the bandage hidden beneath the fabric. The bloodstained jacket was stuffed into a trash bag, a ghost of the recent violence to be disposed of elsewhere.

Miyako and me, we sprang upon them unprepared, but not surprised. As I had feared, they were shoring up the bridge with semi-portable hydraulic jacks. That segment of their plan had barely reached its conclusion so the seven battle-clad types didn't have their weapons up and ready to fire. There was an eighth guy who was looking right at us and two tortured ghosts flanked him. One was the female spirit I'd seen in the caves. That guy had on less physical protection than the others for reasons I couldn't fathom. It was a combination of oriental lacquered wood, metal, ballistic cloth and silk sleeves and pants. It appeared to allowed greater freedom of movement, but left his hands and head unc