[ Reno opens his eyes to the flaming wreckage of what used to be (the Sector 7 plate, the slums underneath it, a city crushed under the fire of a Meteor) a train and for a dizzying, terrifying moment, has no idea who he is. all he knows is pain and fear and heat, the unrelenting, ravenous heat of flame fed by gasoline or something like it. he can smell it in the air, the oily scent of it, can taste it in the ash that clings to the insides of his mouth and the back of his throat. he feels like he's suffocating. he has to get up.
trying sit up results in a sharp, stabbing pain in the left side of his chest, signs of a broken rib or at least a fracture. to the side it is, then. Reno rolls slowly onto his side, avoids the sharp jut of mangled steel around him, and burns his hand on the piece of metal he uses to haul himself first to kneeling, then to standing. he can still stand. that's a good thing.
inventory: a fractured rib. a burned hand. a twinge in his right knee that feels like it might be a strain, probably not a break. but he can stand, and he can walk, and for now that's enough. things come back to him in bits and pieces. his own name, first, and then the train car he'd been in before, the backpack in the cubby above... the crash, not quite as simple as a train hopping the rails. Reno will think on that later. there's something urgent beating his chest, a need to find—someone, someone important, a flicker of white and gold in the corner of his mind and a name that's floating below the surface of his consciousness.
the backpack, he finds a few steps away, half-crushed under a smoldering cushion. a few steps beyond that, his e-mag rod (this strikes him as strange, for some reason he can't quite put a finger on). and then onward, away from the wreckage and toward what looks like a large stone building—probably the safest place to be, when half the fucking world is on fire. ]
no subject
trying sit up results in a sharp, stabbing pain in the left side of his chest, signs of a broken rib or at least a fracture. to the side it is, then. Reno rolls slowly onto his side, avoids the sharp jut of mangled steel around him, and burns his hand on the piece of metal he uses to haul himself first to kneeling, then to standing. he can still stand. that's a good thing.
inventory: a fractured rib. a burned hand. a twinge in his right knee that feels like it might be a strain, probably not a break. but he can stand, and he can walk, and for now that's enough. things come back to him in bits and pieces. his own name, first, and then the train car he'd been in before, the backpack in the cubby above... the crash, not quite as simple as a train hopping the rails. Reno will think on that later. there's something urgent beating his chest, a need to find—someone, someone important, a flicker of white and gold in the corner of his mind and a name that's floating below the surface of his consciousness.
the backpack, he finds a few steps away, half-crushed under a smoldering cushion. a few steps beyond that, his e-mag rod (this strikes him as strange, for some reason he can't quite put a finger on). and then onward, away from the wreckage and toward what looks like a large stone building—probably the safest place to be, when half the fucking world is on fire. ]