::I am not a sparkling.:: [Dirge insists through his comm, sounding petulant. But he lets TC help him up in the cramped space. He holds a hand in front of his throat, not to spare the other seeker the sight, but to try and shield the open wound from dust.]


::I need fuel.:: [He complains, flipping open a small panel in his wrist. Dirge digs a claw into it, carefully drawing out a small, flexible pump. He looks back up at TC expectantly.]