The Maximal bolted up in bed, spark pounding and processor whirring and-
And then he realised what had happened to him.
Depth Charge's first instinct was that he was going to throw up- that he'd never had a mouth or a stomach to throw up in his original body (the same body I spent all of last night--) didn't get in the way of recognising that. Maybe it was all in his head, though, because by the time he'd made a break for the bathrooms all he could do was lean heavily into the sink, breathing shallowly and staring down at the cold, hard porcelain under his hands.
At first it seemed as though his memories were fragmented into blips and images and sensations, but the more time he spent avoiding his own reflection, the more Depth Charge knew that he couldn't pretend he didn't know what he'd done. What he'd let himself do. The Scarecrow's face seemed to burn into his mind, blotted with fear and uncertainty, and suddenly he wondered if that was why he'd run from their room. Stupid, cowardly thing to do.
The only physical trace of what had happened was the taste in his mouth: faintly metallic but without the coppery tang of blood.
Probably there was something about self-pity that attracted other lost sparks on the verge of a meltdown, because when he finally managed to drag himself into the cafeteria he ended up in a seat opposite a guy who looked more or less as worse for wear as he did. Saying nothing, Depth Charge picked up his glass of juice and started to chug, willing it to wash the taste away. Then he wiped the back of his mouth and croaked, "You gonna drink that?"
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And then he realised what had happened to him.
Depth Charge's first instinct was that he was going to throw up- that he'd never had a mouth or a stomach to throw up in his original body (the same body I spent all of last night--) didn't get in the way of recognising that. Maybe it was all in his head, though, because by the time he'd made a break for the bathrooms all he could do was lean heavily into the sink, breathing shallowly and staring down at the cold, hard porcelain under his hands.
At first it seemed as though his memories were fragmented into blips and images and sensations, but the more time he spent avoiding his own reflection, the more Depth Charge knew that he couldn't pretend he didn't know what he'd done. What he'd let himself do. The Scarecrow's face seemed to burn into his mind, blotted with fear and uncertainty, and suddenly he wondered if that was why he'd run from their room. Stupid, cowardly thing to do.
The only physical trace of what had happened was the taste in his mouth: faintly metallic but without the coppery tang of blood.
Probably there was something about self-pity that attracted other lost sparks on the verge of a meltdown, because when he finally managed to drag himself into the cafeteria he ended up in a seat opposite a guy who looked more or less as worse for wear as he did. Saying nothing, Depth Charge picked up his glass of juice and started to chug, willing it to wash the taste away. Then he wiped the back of his mouth and croaked, "You gonna drink that?"