[Paul lies on his back and watches the same hawk, breathing slowed and deepened as he rides out the searing in his left shoulder. His ears are ringing from the blast, his whole body somehow made tender and strange by concussive force.
He had barely been in the dream before he heard the whistling, a sound he recognized instantly as that of a falling projectile. He was already running when he reached to activate his body shield and found it missing, still running when the bombshell rent the world apart. Paul has never been this close to a bomb going off, but the training for a fall is the same - the immense battering sensory overload of the explosion not enough to overcome reflex. So he hit the ground well, with only a tearing pop in his shoulder.
As he feels the blood dampening his already mud-soaked uniform, Paul thinks dizzily that at least the crystals have finally broken skin, the longest and most intact of them that had laid just along his shoulderblade now splintered and tearing into soft flesh. He'll be able to show Palamedes later.
Assuming he survives now. It's only been a few seconds since the blast, but that's already an eternity. Nothing in him wants to get up. He gets up anyway, rolling onto his side and pushing up with his right arm. The left one still works, nothing structural damaged, so he ignores the pain that runs all the way down his arm along a major nerve.
That's when he notices the other soldier still alive in this devastation. Two impulses occur to Paul, his thoughts bomb-tilted, but the kinder one wins out. With no shield (and that's a question, there are many of them, but they can wait) he moves to minimize himself as a target, half-crouched and unpredictable. He bends over the other soldier on his knees - a very young one, he realizes - and looks to see if he's going to survive.]
Come on. Get up.
[Paul supports him as he starts to pull the boy up, wrapping his right arm underneath his back so he can cup the back of his head in his good hand. He half-expects him to fall apart in his arms, for some glaring injury to reveal itself. He seems too small for anything else.]
no subject
He had barely been in the dream before he heard the whistling, a sound he recognized instantly as that of a falling projectile. He was already running when he reached to activate his body shield and found it missing, still running when the bombshell rent the world apart. Paul has never been this close to a bomb going off, but the training for a fall is the same - the immense battering sensory overload of the explosion not enough to overcome reflex. So he hit the ground well, with only a tearing pop in his shoulder.
As he feels the blood dampening his already mud-soaked uniform, Paul thinks dizzily that at least the crystals have finally broken skin, the longest and most intact of them that had laid just along his shoulderblade now splintered and tearing into soft flesh. He'll be able to show Palamedes later.
Assuming he survives now. It's only been a few seconds since the blast, but that's already an eternity. Nothing in him wants to get up. He gets up anyway, rolling onto his side and pushing up with his right arm. The left one still works, nothing structural damaged, so he ignores the pain that runs all the way down his arm along a major nerve.
That's when he notices the other soldier still alive in this devastation. Two impulses occur to Paul, his thoughts bomb-tilted, but the kinder one wins out. With no shield (and that's a question, there are many of them, but they can wait) he moves to minimize himself as a target, half-crouched and unpredictable. He bends over the other soldier on his knees - a very young one, he realizes - and looks to see if he's going to survive.]
Come on. Get up.
[Paul supports him as he starts to pull the boy up, wrapping his right arm underneath his back so he can cup the back of his head in his good hand. He half-expects him to fall apart in his arms, for some glaring injury to reveal itself. He seems too small for anything else.]