In spite of the shock of it (and everything else), he somehow just isn't surprised that this is happening. It just seems about right, somehow. There's a long and groggy moment between when he hits something (or is hit by something, he can't even recall) and when he tries to sit up in a daze where all he can wonder is where the hell that damn clock is coming from.
It is, in fact, the only thing he can hear with any clarity. Everything now is muffled at best, and it isn't just head trauma talking. It doesn't get any better as he really comes to and starts attempting to move, but he isn't in a position to question that right now. One arm is busted, forearm snapped in a manner as to be bent in a way that forearms do not. His face is hot and wet, and to others it's at least half a sheet of blood from a head wound. He's covered in all manner of cuts even through his couple of layers of clothes, including the hand of his other arm now when he sets to pushing himself up among the shards of glass and scraps of metal that once held chairs in place and, y'know, were walls and floor. He tries not to think too hard about an entire wheel axle lodged into the ceiling from another car. Get up. Get the fuck up.
There's smoke, and so in spite of trying to get up, he stays low, finds a window--frame bent at a jaunty angle--and climbs through it, stumbling onto the burning grass.]
Hey! Hey! [He pokes his head back through, waving his good arm to anyone inside. He can barely hear himself.] This way! A way out!
[He will do his damnedest to, instead of making his way away from the wreckage or seeking help for himself, help others out of the car he was in, and hell, other cars if he can see other disoriented passengers struggling to escape a bad situation.]
assimilation [He doesn't notice when a bit of black finds its way through one of the tears in his shirts and rests against his torso in a cozy manner. What he does notice is when his steps, having become more solid and sure in spite of new surroundings, growing wobbly. The world spins, and, aw shit, this is a concussion, isn't it? The adrenaline's wearing off, and his brain's starting to shut down. His arm's still several shades of busted, and he's probably going to break something else like this, and he should find someone else to make it better.
Is that what he needs...? There's an unbidden thought, feeling, memory(?), like being pulled under and inside of himself, trapped. It's so very fucking familiar--and then. Yes. Yes, that's what he needs. He's sure of this now. The only thing he's sure of. (Right?)
He grabs the first person he can see without preamble, tight.] Hey, [and his mouth feels like cotton, like everything's drooping] help? Please. Dunno what I'm doing. [But it has to involve this person. Or other people! He's...pretty sure.]
party games [Hi guys, guess who, it's ya boi, hawkeye bc who has time for creativity in first thing usernames, coming at you with a goo-ified network post.]
1. I fought my best friend about who got to sacrifice their life. 2. My preferred weapon is a retractable katana I made myself. 3. My family's existence was top secret for many years.
clint barton | mcu
[The world explodes into heat and pain.
In spite of the shock of it (and everything else), he somehow just isn't surprised that this is happening. It just seems about right, somehow. There's a long and groggy moment between when he hits something (or is hit by something, he can't even recall) and when he tries to sit up in a daze where all he can wonder is where the hell that damn clock is coming from.
It is, in fact, the only thing he can hear with any clarity. Everything now is muffled at best, and it isn't just head trauma talking. It doesn't get any better as he really comes to and starts attempting to move, but he isn't in a position to question that right now. One arm is busted, forearm snapped in a manner as to be bent in a way that forearms do not. His face is hot and wet, and to others it's at least half a sheet of blood from a head wound. He's covered in all manner of cuts even through his couple of layers of clothes, including the hand of his other arm now when he sets to pushing himself up among the shards of glass and scraps of metal that once held chairs in place and, y'know, were walls and floor. He tries not to think too hard about an entire wheel axle lodged into the ceiling from another car. Get up. Get the fuck up.
There's smoke, and so in spite of trying to get up, he stays low, finds a window--frame bent at a jaunty angle--and climbs through it, stumbling onto the burning grass.]
Hey! Hey! [He pokes his head back through, waving his good arm to anyone inside. He can barely hear himself.] This way! A way out!
[He will do his damnedest to, instead of making his way away from the wreckage or seeking help for himself, help others out of the car he was in, and hell, other cars if he can see other disoriented passengers struggling to escape a bad situation.]
assimilation
[He doesn't notice when a bit of black finds its way through one of the tears in his shirts and rests against his torso in a cozy manner. What he does notice is when his steps, having become more solid and sure in spite of new surroundings, growing wobbly. The world spins, and, aw shit, this is a concussion, isn't it? The adrenaline's wearing off, and his brain's starting to shut down. His arm's still several shades of busted, and he's probably going to break something else like this, and he should find someone else to make it better.
Is that what he needs...? There's an unbidden thought, feeling, memory(?), like being pulled under and inside of himself, trapped. It's so very fucking familiar--and then. Yes. Yes, that's what he needs. He's sure of this now. The only thing he's sure of. (Right?)
He grabs the first person he can see without preamble, tight.] Hey, [and his mouth feels like cotton, like everything's drooping] help? Please. Dunno what I'm doing. [But it has to involve this person. Or other people! He's...pretty sure.]
party games
[Hi guys, guess who, it's ya boi, hawkeye bc who has time for creativity in first thing usernames, coming at you with a goo-ified network post.]
1. I fought my best friend about who got to sacrifice their life.
2. My preferred weapon is a retractable katana I made myself.
3. My family's existence was top secret for many years.