A million moments involving Thistle continually swirled and churned in his head, but he knew that it was time to get back to work. No one got "time off" for anything like this, but then of course few people had family connections or many loved ones anymore once they joined up. So everyone was expected to get back out there right away. So with the faint scent of Thistle's shampoo in his nostrils, Brannock headed back to the apartment, and upon arrival began pulling out supplies.
He opted for the kevlar-reinforced vest for under his shirt. It would not stop everything, and didn't do much against crushing or smashing injuries. But it might help against being bitten or stabbed, sometimes. He felt like it didn't even matter what weapons he picked, based on his earlier experience. But there were some generally good things to have.
The 117 did not appear to have any obvious armor, but even for creatures who were armored in some way, something to stab at eyes or jab down a throat was always good to have. Luckily these were small weapons, so he had several choices. A stiletto of some kind would serve that purpose. Smashing weapons were generally useful, though to get close enough to use one might be deadly in this case. He ran through his inventory in his head, and decided upon a mace. This particular one was small and modern in design, but not that different in effect from what might have been used 800 years earlier. Very useful, but the short range worried him.
Brannock was a fan of swords, but his inability to wear a coat in the warmer weather without attracting attention limited his options there as it had the other night. So he'd probably take a very short sword or a dirk for that purpose, though those were better at stabbing than cutting. Then probably the usual array of brass knuckles, small knives, maybe a staff. None of these made him feel very confident. They certainly would take care of 90% of the things he was likely to encounter, but the 117?
It had been almost a day, so he swung by the hospital on his way out to patrol (or was he "hunting" in this case?). Thistle looked so small in the huge hospital bed, her tiny frame enveloped by sheets and pillows and tubes. It was almost like she was sunken into the surface of the bed. Some of her bruises were already beginning to yellow around the edges as they healed, and her breathing was still a bit labored-no doubt due to the collapsed lung and the broken ribs.
Dr. Yan appeared behind him, resting a hand on Brannock's shoulder. "She is doing fairly well, Mr. Brannock. Nothing out of the ordinary so far. We might bring her out of the coma in a few days. We'll just have to see". Brannock nodded slowly "So you think she'll be okay?". Rubbing his chin, Dr. Yan replied, "I believe so, but she is looking at long months, maybe even a year or more, of physical therapy. I think we set the breaks alright, but you never really know if the patient lost any range of motion or anything. And, honestly, it would be a miracle, as seriously as she was hurt, if she did not have some sort of residual impacts".
Brannock thanked the doctor as he left and then turned to the petite figure in the bed. "I swear, Thistle, I will try my best to take care of this thing. It can't do to anyone else what it did to you. It's my job, and even though this thing is tough as shit, I gotta try." He leaned in close to her ear, whispering "but don't worry sweetie. I WILL come back to you."
There was actually a bit of a nip in the night air as he began his sweep of the immediate neighborhood surrounding where he had fought the 117. He would just have to assume it stayed in a confined area since he had no evidence otherwise. All of the guys in the field had been taught various ways and plans to conduct a search like this, but mostly it was "trust your gut" as to where you looked for something. There needed to be a systematic element to it, but really it was checking wherever you had a hunch you might find something. Other than another Jouster, there was nothing to report.
