He followed her into the medical wing, seriously pondering her question. He had considered it before, and many times; how long did he want to live this life? How much did he want to give of himself to this world? Would he fight until it killed him, like his parents had? Carson already had done so much, and with the war looming he would be doing even more. The difference was that on the other side of it he would be facing a very different world. A much more prepared world.<br/><br/>"Once it's all said and done, if it goes as well as it should, I won't need to be." He paced around the room, the lights of which were already lit. Letto had clearly been in here; the dust on one of the countertops showed fingerprints and marks like he'd shifted things around. "When the war is over we'll be left with a new breed of defenders--Runners who can fight like Striders. Something else altogether between our two missions." He glanced at her and smiled. "In other words, yes, Malia. I'm going to set aside this lifestyle, no matter what happens in the war, to be with you."<br/><br/>He turned and came to see a device mounted on the wall, with lettering across the side.<i>T.R.I.M. - Trauma Recovery Induction Machine - </i>was stenciled into the metal, and the device was shaped like a small cubby with a screen attached. It was almost like an archaic mailbox, Carson realized. Out of curiosity he flipped the lid open and reached inside, and the screen lit up.<br/><br/><i>"Thank you for initializing TRIM!"</i>chimed a robotic female voice. The device clamped down on his arm tightly, and Carson blinked.<br/><br/>"Uh, Malia--"<br/><br/><i>"Please hold still while TRIM scans for injury... scanning... injury found! Extensive contusions on right forearm! Two grade-C fractures in ring finger and little finger! Please hold still while TRIM administers aid."<br/>
</i><br/>"Malia!" There was a definite tone of panic in his voice as the machine whirred, and light radiated from the interior. He felt something stab into his arm--not painfully, but when unexpected and undesired as it was, it caused him to yelp anyway. It was all over as soon as it began, though, the device powering down and releasing his arm. He yanked it free, and the voice cheerfully droned on.<br/><br/><i>"TRIM has administered... ONE... dose of knitting accelerant for the damaged fingers! Monitor your contusions and if they worsen notify the Surgeon General! Thank you for using TRIM!"<br/>
</i><br/>Carson scowled at it. "Well fuck you!" he spat back, and inspected his arm. The gauze had been torn, and he grimaced as he unwound it from his arm. The spot he'd been poked was under it, just on the back of his hand, and he squinted at the skin as he uncovered it. There was no mark or puncture wound visible, not even a red dot of blood or any sign of swelling. "What the...?" He unwound it the rest of the way and curled his fingers into a fist, gingerly flexing the two that had been broken. He flexed them again, harder, and his eyes widened. All at once he punched his fist into his other hand, and his jaw dropped.<br/><br/>"It... fixed my fingers," he told her, and extended his arm for her to inspect. "I don't know how, but it did."