"Seriously? Seriously?!"
Dinadan, panting as if he'd just run all the way from the monitor room, flails his hands (one hastily bandaged) at his teammates from the doorway.
"Okay!" he says. "In the future, when that happens? More intervention, less that!"
He turns on his heel and stomps off, muttering something to himself about makeovers and aneurysms. He pops back in a few seconds later, a sheepish expression on his face.
"I am so, so sorry," he says to Oksana. "I'd give you my screwdriver to use as a poking stick, but I sliced my hand on it and it's all bloody right now."
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