Michael stood, shaken. He'd been in fights before, he'd even been shot at before, but nothing quite like this all-out brawl. He looked down at the bodies around him: the man he tackled, the other he lunged at, the others who had all tried to take the lives of the others. One of them, a woman, lay lifeless on the hard floor. He took a few steps back, grasping a bench for support. He'd seen death, but all this senselessness? It was almost too much.
There was something else, too: out of the corner of his eye, he swore he saw the red-headed Brit fire a shot at the last thug before disappearing. The same red-headed Brit that had stopped the "Eric" character from throttling Michael. What was he doing here? It was too convienent to be "right place, right time." Did he know that the gang was coming to attack? Had - God forbid - he arranged for the attack to take place? The punk "Eric" was after happened to show up at just before the gang. Perhaps it as a hit. And where was that punk anyway?
Snap out of it, Mike, he thought. It happened, now there's work to do. Shaking his head, Michael reached into his cassock pocket to pull out a small vinyl case. Unzipping it, he removed a folded purple stole, kissed it, and draped it around his neck. Removing a metal water sprinkler from the case, he placed the bag back in his pocket, blessed himself, and began to anoint the bodies with the water. "Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine," he prayed softly but firmly, "et lux perpetua luceat eis. Requiescant in pace. Amen." The blessing done, Michael quickly stepped over to the unconscious punk.
The priest knelt down and looked over the punk. Blood flowed steadily from his abdomen with no apparent sign of slowing. "Saints Cosmas and Damien, pray for us," he murmured. Tearing a piece of cloth from his cassock sleeve, Michael pressed it onto the wound to try and slow the bleeding.
(OOC: Unskilled First Aid check, I reckon)
