Not being particularly trusting of his own medical team let alone a band of strangers, it's unlikely Kylo would take Murphy's advice— even if glaring harder at the shape of his mouth could somehow force the words of his alien language to rearrange themselves into Basic.

He is right though. About the moving. Thankfully, while Kylo's body may be suffering the effects of what concussive shock he was unable to redirect outwards, his body isn't the only part of the boundless universe he can control, and there's a medkit somewhere in all this wreckage. With one more wary glance at Murphy's face to confirm that he is, in fact, staying put, Kylo lets his eyes close and begins to search.

Which is when he discovers two things.

One, the kit in question is wedged under the remnants of one of the Silencer's wings, a couple of feet from where Murphy is standing— and two, Murphy possesses (among several other puzzling things) some kind of projectile weapon that he's chosen not to use.

His expression shifts slightly as his eyes open again. He considers Murphy's gestures, his expression, the streaked markings he recognises now as injuries of his own. He raises his hand and points, deliberately, at the twisted sheet of plasteel covering the kit.

"Under there," he calls back. His Basic is Core World clipped and clean, a galactic standard— or at least it would be, if it weren't for the pain dragging and slurring his speech. "Bacta. Nanoweave for both of us. Medicine."

He could try to drag it out himself, but he'd rather not give Murphy reason to consider him a threat.