Blai considers this and approaches the downed man. He won't project hurry about it if they don't.

The two pause their approach. "Hey, hermit guy, we've got unfinished business with this piece of shit," one Red Tread says without heat. "We're not gonna kill him."

"Fuck you. You break my leg and the desert will do it for you."

A loose shrug. "Maybe, maybe not. But you are going to hurt. We are capable of fucking pattern recognition, you little bitch. Accident, my ass. He was spouting racist shit, and 'accidentally' stepped on a tail. So, he gets a broken leg. You gonna do anything about it?"

"I don't have very good English. He stepped on you?"

"Friend of mine who wasn't bothering anybody. Reds don't stand for anti-mutant hate."

The crashee leverages himself free and stumbles to his feet.

"Does your friend need help?"

"...Eh?"

"Your friend is hurt? Need help?"

"We have med techies and don't know you from a hole in the ground no offense intended."

They start advancing again.

"Fuck you!" Shouts crashee, trying to right his bike.

"He is already so," Blai says. "To not kill him you cannot gun him."

"We're not going to kill him. Or shoot him, unless he pulls his gun. We're going to break his leg."

He taps his own leg and keeps walking. Range is closing to 20 feet. Crashed guy is trying and failing to start the bike.

Mending takes ten minutes. There is some extent to which this does not completely fail to resemble in any respect a justice process. Blai can fix the leg once they're gone. He follows at a nonthreatening distance.

The guy... Swears, asks if Blai is really going to stand aside... And gives up, and curls defensively to make the upcoming beating less severe.

But it's no beating. It's a grapple, and pulling a leg into a flat spot, and one vicious swing of a crowbar, clearly practiced, and a pained wail.

Then the two Red Treads turn and leave, with the parting words, "Pain is a great teacher."

This guy: Clutching his leg on the dusty ground, swearing up a storm. He reaches through a coat pocket for a pill bottle and swallows some pills between creative insults.

When they're not looking any more Blai lays a hand on the man's shoulder and burns a second-circle slot on a Cure.

"What the fuck? Did that codeine hit really fast, or-" He looks Blai up and down. Suspiciously. "Did you do some kind of mutie thing to me?"

"No. It is god magic."

"...Magic, huh? A miracle? Well, praise the Lord! Fuck..."

He sits up and feels around his leg.

"Praise Iomedae, Who heals," offers Blai.

"Sure. Iomedae did more for me than Jesus Christ ever did..." He sounds faintly awed now. Quieter. "I'm not hallucinating from heatstroke or anything, am I?"

"No." Blai's got his mug on his belt, he pulls it off and fills it with water and offers it.

"...Thanks."

He drinks. He feels around his head for something.

"...So is this the part where you sell me on the Path of Ome- Iomedae? Better start than most bordertown preachers."

"I don't have very good English. Tomorrow I will tell more, if you be here for tomorrow."

"Urgh. I've got nowhere better to be. I'm only going to complain about my life if you want me to though. 'M not that pathetic."

Shrug. "Food?" he asks.

He stares up at the concrete of the overpass instead of answering, for a bit.

"......If you're offering, Chainmail Jesus. Thanks. I'm a fuckup but I'm a fuckup who doesn't have a broken leg. So that's worth something."