He comes to to a very peculiar kind of discomfort as instead of sensory input his brain is receiving only error messages. Neither conscious nor poetic enough to translate the sensation into something comprehensible, Tump attempts to open his eyes - they won't, or rather, they glitch between the few set states they've been programmed to assume, flickering like the image in a zoetrope.
When he blindly attempts to sit up, his body rebels, bowing in the wrong direction and favouring him with a sharp pain shooting up his spine. It's the kind of pain that should render one insensate and paralyzed, but Tump.exe is not merciful enough to allow ones brain to simply overload.
At the very least, even as a horrible raw whine is squeezed from his throat, his eyes are wide open now.

There, sitting over him, both hands clutched around his torn up right arm and looking down into his astounded face with her trademarked flat expression, is Lia.
(She's as beautiful as he remembers, even hollowed out and dressed in the white shroud they put her in.)

Tump is earnestly surprised when he manages to rasp out her name, but she barely reacts. Is she here to rid herself of him once and for all? To mock him? Or more to the point, why didn't The Follower finish the job in the first place?

She blinks, then uses one hand to lift his head off the blood streaked floor and scoots over to place it in her lap. Her other hand keeps a death grip around his shredded forearm, which probably isn't necessary. Moving sounds like an exceptionally bad idea right now. Whatever she wants with him, he'll probably just lay here and let her do it; his mind feels as blank and white as the ceiling above and after he went and left her behind, he deserves whatever is coming to him anyway.

"Don't move," Lia instructs, spreading his arm out like a bird's wing, surprisingly not making it crumble into pixels. The pain is awful, but he can't do much more than groan pitifully through clenched teeth.
She doesn't look down at him. Rather, her other hand settles on his shoulder joint, feeling around gently at first before she pushes three fingers into the abused flesh, above and beneath his collarbone, and her thumb on the opposite side between the bones. Another spike of pain sears through him, and then... nothing.
Tump watches despondently as she methodically reconstructs his fingers, one by one, moves onto the destroyed wrist, covers his haphazardly skulpted untextured humerous in a new sleeve of skin. He feels none of it.
(She used to tell him how nice his hands were, artist's fingers, made to create something. Although between the two of them, the one with the real talent was always her.)

She's healing his injuries. At the realization of what is happening, he sags in relief and turns his burnt cheek into her warm thigh with a sigh. It's not exactly human contact, but it's a hell of a lot better than nothing. Tentatively, her hand begins to comb through his blood matted hair, and in that moment Tump would give anthing to be able to forget about the shitshow that is his life and stay like this forever.

He drifts in comforting warmth until Lia says, lowly, "brace. I'm doing your leg now."

It's the same sensation as before - careful fingers on his hip joint followed by the awful sting as she knocks out the neurofeedback - but he keeps his eyes closed. His legs are a ruin he would rather not see; although he isn't physically able to throw up in the system, the nausea is no less potent for not having an outlet.
Twice more she does this, before she instructs him to keep his mouth and eyes close and her fingers dance lightly over his face, repairing the skin there, then the cracked bone in his cheek and left temporal.

"Why are you helping me?" he asks softly when he's given the all clear to move his face again.

Tump's eyes open to Lia staring down at him, jaw relaxed and dangerously soft looking.
(Her blue eyes regard him like he's something precious, like he holds all of her focus. He soaks up the sensation like a sponge.)

After just a second Tump is forced to break the eye contact when her hand comes down on his sternum as she abruptly realigns his ribs.

She makes use of the moment he is still too dizzied by the pain to register he can move again to place his head back on the floor and stand.

"I couldn't watch it," she says simply, and, "get up."

Without question, Tump obeys. Then her arms are around him and her head on his shoulder, his blood staining her white dress a yellowish brown down her front. He hugs her back with embarrassing desperation, and for a while at least, she lets him.
(He's missed her so terribly much, maybe even while he didn't remember who it was he was missing. Even more so when he did know, but didn't know if she was still in any sense of the word alive.)

Far too soon she pulls away. Pixels of him flake off her dress like a tiny rusty flurry of snow when she smoothes a hand over the fabric, and, once more pristine, she nods to him and vanishes. It's so quickhe can't be entirely sure if he saw tears in her eyes, but there are definitely tears in his.
In her wake Lia leaves a dusting of brown on the already blood smeared floor and small, fragile looking red butterfly hovering where she just stood.