Platelet

"No, no, don't, it's all right." She reaches for the Ghoul, half wild, the colour of a scab but sheening in liquid, seeping and dark as blood. "No, no, let me help." She cradles the pearlcatcher's face in her claws, her nails pricking just under their jaw, around their face. "It's all right. It's all right, I'm not here to hurt you. Let me help."

His eyes, wild, reeling, fix on her face, the feral snarl not dropping even as she holds him still. He's smaller than her, which she's grateful for, but it doesn't make it easy to hold him still without hurting him. "Servus," he hisses.

"Yes," she says, emphatic and honest, because this creature is as badly treated by the system as she is. "Let me help."

He stills in her grip, staring and confused, but for all her claws pricking around his jaw, his skull, along his throat, she hasn't yet hurt him. Let me help, she thinks, and presses curing plague into his body.