All of that leaves Hikaru just enough time to force himself up: on his elbows first, then a push made of nothing but willpower and that stubborn need to handle what he can at the moment, to cling to what little control he still has.

He reaches for the bottle with a quiet "thanks", and cracks it open. Then he's setting it back down, and focusing on peeling what's left of his shirt off.

The wounds are no longer trying to eat him; they have gone still, and gape at the open air, silent and ugly, as wounds are wont to do. There are bruises, as well, and a few small cuts.

Now, for that kit.

"Middle East," he offers, by way of explanation. "You probably knew that already, though."