Roscoe was flooded, with pain, with noise. "What?" he cried. He noticed that the mud below his visor had taken on a reddish tinge.
Chen's voice in his earpiece. Screaming. "Don't move. Don't move, for God's sake."
Pain shot up through Roscoe's right side, momentarily deafening him. He felt Chen's hands underneath him, a jab, a sudden stranglehold on his thigh. Chen put a strap into his hand.
"Hold this tight, as tight as you can." Chen's voice was a yell, booming on his eardrum with exploding static. "I need to get help."
Then he left.
Roscoe leaned back, into the pain, and into the cradle of his failing body, clinging with all his might to the makeshift tourniquet. His wipers were working, pushing muddy water into the lazy flow that point five gravity produced. Oblong drops collected on his visor momentarily, then were swept away. Roscoe looked up into the mudsphere. It reminded him of something, something not quite within his grasp.
(from Fighting Fish)