Dot slammed her whole weight through her arms, picturing the heels of her palms driving right through Overkill's body armor and into the concrete. The Bee-Gees buzzed in her brain, "Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh, Stayin' alive! Stayin' alive!" the most infuriating and metrically helpful earworm she could imagine.
It could be anywhere from five to thirty minutes until the ambulance got there, and Dot was taught to switch out after two. There was no one to switch with. Just her and her dead cyborg--who had, apparently, already been dead for eight minutes before he'd actually passed out.
Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh, keep him alive, keep him alive. "Come on, come on," she panted. Now would be a great time for Spontaneous Return Of Circulation. She paused every thirty seconds to give him a breath, palpating under his jaw for his carotid as she tilted his jaw up. He tasted like her parents' mouthwash, with a hint of protein powder.
Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh, gettin' kinda tired, gettin kinda tired. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Now he was almost certainly dead, surely her compressions weren't doing enough, she didn't have oxygen, she wasn't heavy enough--he was dead and all she was doing was waiting for the real paramedics to confirm it--
She bent and gave him a breath, much sharper than she'd meant to because it was really a sob, a sob into his mouth where no one could see, and then she felt--under her fingers, she felt it--a jump--she gave another breath and it kept jumping, a pulse, it was, and she gave breath after breath like she was pumping a meaty, Listerine-scented air mattress, and then a hard gloved hand gripped her forehead and pushed her away.
She blinked back tears as Overkill opened his blue-and-black gridmark eyes.
"How long was I out?" he rasped. "Ow. Why didn't you use the defib from my backup hip pocket? Where's The Terror?"