Quintus casually laid his heavy blaster on his big shoulder, striding forward and watching the ensuing hijinks with a mild interest. He exuded the philosophy of 'not my problem unless I'm getting paid,' however the Ur-Bot escaping did meet that criteria. He was about to take a shot before Ijin hit it in the leg.

"Noooo, that's not racist. Now callin' him a Clanker on the other hand..."

He noted Silas didn't seem too concerned about Cho, and with that problem more or less solved, Quintus began to whistle as he meandered on over to the Ur Bot. The thing tried to drag itself like a wounded animal, but it was clear it couldn't get far. Meanwhile, Quintus's movements were slow and languid, as if he enjoyed it and didn't much care if there was more of a chase. However, his eyes were locked on the small android. If it made any sudden movements, he would be on it in a flash. "Well, I'm not a veterinarian, but I think your pug needs an oil change, Cho." He placed his boot on the side of the small bot, and tipped it over so it had even less ground to find purchase on. It scrabbled helplessly, and he had to fight the urge to crush it. With one, strong hand, he grabbed it by one of its legs and lifted it up to hold at arm's length.

"Better be something valuable about this guy. If not I can scoop 'em out and use 'em as a money pot."

Silas, the good news is that Cho is probably going to make it. He's got some serious contusions, some cuts and scrape--including a particularly gnarly one above his eyebrow--and a clearly broken arm, but none of that seems life threatening. He almost certainly has a concussion, given his lack of a helmet; unfortunately for you, without a head scan, the symptoms of a brain injury and the effects of being pumped full of psychoactive drugs and tranquilizers look pretty similar.

Can you transport him? If you're careful. Will he make it? Probably. That's about as much as you can realistically say here, doing your examination in a trash-strewn alley under the cover of dark.

Quintus, the small 'bot wriggles in your grasp, but the fight has gone out of it. Cho-Tyrek's head moves, slightly--the first movement you're seen out of him since he fell off the bike.

"Lmgo." The noise fell out of his mouth like a dead fish. "Pm dn." The index finger of his unbroken arm twitches slightly. His attempt at speech draws the attention of the ur-bot; its single optic turns to regard the mangled assassin, and you hear the whrr of servos focusing. It stops struggling, then looks up to you, meeting your gaze for a wordless moment before going limp.

In the distance--though not as far as you might like--you hear the sirens of the district's fire service. House Malklaith sector security is likely not too far behind them; in a district this rough, they're as likely to be dirty as not, but either way, it's going to be annoying at best if you don't clear out before they find you.

You catch a glimpse of the truck behind you, just in time to see a roof-mounted sign advertising the "FIREY INFERNO NOODLE BOWL" curl up and blacken from the blaze that has engulfed the whole vehicle.

It's probably best to find some other way out.