"He doesn't think he's dead," Corliss says flatly, becoming annoyed. He focuses on the scan. "Almost there, Asda, you're doing fab."
He grips the bullet slug and carefully pulls it back out, setting it into the sterile tray. "Put pressure on that wound, Morgan," Corliss asks quietly, pausing to wipe his forehead with his jacket sleeve. "Vitals are coming back up. She's very lucky, the bullet just missed her pyloric sphincter, at the base of her stomach." He sets the metal pincers down and sheds one of the bloody latex gloves, grabbing his ship's familiar black glue gun device. He cleans the wound with his gloved hand, and sets the putty gun over the gushing opening.
Greyish, oatmealy stuff melts out of the end of the device, sizzling and smoking disconcertingly. It cleans the wound and seals it temporarily, so it can heal. On top of the putty he places a wide strip of gauze, which he tapes onto Asda's stomach.
"It might take a while for her to snap out of the daze, and she'll need antibiotics," says Corliss, eyes tracking again. "There was no poison in the slug, just a standard bullet." He exhales and sits back on the floor, leaning against a chair leg, exhausted. "Well, that was fun, wannit?" He makes an attempt to smile.