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He lands with a thud, face-first and tasting grass.
By the time Rucks and Zia reach him, he's staggering to his feet and dusting himself off. There's the same worry in their eyes there always is when he comes back from the skyways, sharpened to a razor edge once they catch sight of his injuries. The Kid gives them a toothy one-sided grin, heart still thrumming in his chest. Blood drips down his cheek from a jagged cut, shallow but still painful and stinging from sweat.
"Had a few close calls," he says, squeezing his arm where a messy scratch is. Not the worst trip he's made, not by a long shot, but it wasn't a walk down Sundown Path, neither. And he's got little to show for it but a few new scrapes and bruises.
"I'll say. Hold on a moment and we'll get you patched up." Rucks looks him over, the concern in his gaze fading into clinical focus, then goes to grab the medical kit. It's never too far from the skyway, by unspoken agreement. Zia lays a shaky hand on the Kid's shoulder, guiding him back over to a pile of cushions. He nearly falls into it, realizing how long he's been on his feet, and by the gods does it feel good to sit down. "Where's Zulf?"
"He's asleep." Zia glances around, biting her lip until Rucks comes back with the kit. They take their places down in front of him, opening the medical kit with a metallic snap. They've done this enough times that the hesitation has seeped away, replaced by routine. Rucks gets to work, starts off with what looks like the worst of it. He works quickly, with skillfulness brought about by practice. His touch is something of a reassurance.
"You've got a mighty fine story to tell us after this, going by these." The alcohol burns in the wound, but an infection would burn worse, and he doesn't wince. "Ain't that interesting. Just got caught off guard by... by a lot of things. At once." He blames the tall grass, hiding what had seemed like every creature in the Wilds. Easy to get caught off guard when there's cover like that. It hadn't been too hard to dispatch them, but they'd roughed him up more than he would have liked.
Zia looks him over again, frowning. "How badly does it hurt?" There's a barely-concealed tremble to her voice. They're both worried, always worried every time he comes back in less than perfect condition, but Rucks has seen (and patched up) far worse than this. Zia doesn't have the same experience, hasn't seen the same kinds of things, and every new injury he brings back is unfamiliar and fearsome to her.
"Not so bad. I'll be fine." The Kid can feel every mark and bruise now, every muscle aching from overuse. He leans back into the cushions gingerly, fists clenching and unclenching at the sudden pain. It hurts something fierce, but Zia doesn't need to know that. "I didn't get very many supplies, though."
Rucks snorts. "You come back with more holes in you than a block of cheese, and you're still worried about that. Supplies can wait, Kid."
It takes a while, and a goodly amount of bandages, but they get him cleaned up. Rucks closes the kit with a click, setting it aside. Wipes the blood off his hands with an old handkerchief. "There we go. You'll be alright." He pushes himself up and goes to replace the kit. Zia smiles, the tension seeping out of her shoulders. Some of the franticness is gone from the air. The Kid lets himself relax, suddenly tired now that the rush of the fight is gone. He'd be lying if he said he didn't appreciate their concern, wasn't grateful to have someone (multiple someones) looking after him. He fiddles with a bandage on his wrist, more than a little unfamiliar with the thought. But there's still the issue of supplies to be addressed. "Is it a bad time to say I'm gonna have to go out and do it again tomorrow?"
Rucks pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath.