The hair seemed to be coming up more slowly; Depth Charge couldn't feel more than a few strands through the bile, and, even in spite of a raw, convulsing throat, he became aware that he could actually breathe again. Wait, the Scarecrow. Scrap! Was he-?

He was pulling on his arm. Relief flooded the Maximal's senses for five nanokliks of peace before he finally registered his roommate's urgency. By the time his eyes refocused on the Scarecrow's flashlight beam, though, the pile had already stopped moving and started rising.

Human biology wasn't a subject Depth Charge would ever be well-versed in, no matter how long he spent as one, but even he could tell that what he was looking at wasn't right. That bodies weren't supposed to twist that way, and that limbs and joints shouldn't look as incongruous as they did now. Six days of human activity suddenly overwhelmed stellar cycles of robotics as something primal within him wrenched at the bloody figure it was now sensing so acutely.

"By the Matrix..." he muttered hoarsely. Instinctively, he stepped in front of the Scarecrow; that thing- no way was he going to accept that there was anything of a person in those dark chasms of eyes- may not have been like anything he had ever seen, but like Pit he was going to let it get past him.