"Thread-needle," Phalanx mumbles, while they struggle to follow Robin's direction. "Thread and needle..."
Like they had when confronted with sewing before, Phalanx focuses up (in some sense) more quickly than they usually do. One hand autonomously roots around for the pocket that supposedly has pins in it, while the other one checks a sleeve for where they remember them being at a some earlier point.
Once they do find the right pocket, they pull out a handful of sharp objects and ignore a few small stab-wounds in order to look for a needle. And without a better source of thread, the next order of business is to start picking at the ripped edge of the shirt to try and unravel a string or two out of it, entirely focused on the task...
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Like they had when confronted with sewing before, Phalanx focuses up (in some sense) more quickly than they usually do. One hand autonomously roots around for the pocket that supposedly has pins in it, while the other one checks a sleeve for where they remember them being at a some earlier point.
Once they do find the right pocket, they pull out a handful of sharp objects and ignore a few small stab-wounds in order to look for a needle. And without a better source of thread, the next order of business is to start picking at the ripped edge of the shirt to try and unravel a string or two out of it, entirely focused on the task...