[ Charlie watches the beginning of this exchange through a kind of haze. His head is still swimming, and while having Peter up and moving and talking to him had helped to keep him focused, helped to keep him from slipping into unconsciousness, it hardly helped the way everything hurt.
But then Peter has his hands free, an he's fighting and he's losing. And all Charlie can think is no, no, please no, not him. Not again. Not again. His heart is pounding, adrenaline making things sharpen. He strains against his bonds, even as pain shoots though his hands like lightning. He needs to move. He needs to do something, anything.
He thinks he screams Peter's name, but he can hardly tell with the way his blood is roaring in his ears. It's like a nightmare, watching in slow motion as Peter's struggles become weaker, as his arms drop uselessly.
Not again.
I won't lose him.
Not again god damn it.
And Charlie's mind reaches for a spell, hidden in the tattoos that adorn one of his shoulders. He's only used this spell once in his entire life, out of desperation, out of fear. And now it's with grim determination he casts it again, mentally flipping the switch that brings it to life.
The room hums with power, the sheer force of the magic enough to make the hair on Charlie's neck prick. Crates vibrate where they sit, shelves rattle, fixtures creak, almost in nervous anticipation-- and in the blink of an eye, all hell breaks loose.
The box cutter on the floor flies upward with starling speed, slashing at the Kree's face in brutal, violent strokes. Crates literally tear themselves apart, nails and screws and splinters of wood going driving themselves into whatever bits of soft flesh they can find. A shelving unit bends itself, the steel screaming in protest, twisting to swing itself around and slamming itself into the Kree, sending him flying. An instant later, the shelves tear themselves apart, the pieces flying across the room to wrap themselves around Peter's attacker, squeezing, crushing, until flesh rends and bones break.
A pipe tears itself from the wall, plummeting downward and skewering the Kree through he chest, pinning him to the floor. Then boxes, crates, carts, anything nearby, even the ropes from Charlie's wrists, hurtles itself at Peter's would-be murderer, burying him, bearing down on him with relentless force, crushing, smothering, impaling, until there's no life left in him. The Kree goes still, blue blood slowly oozing out from beneath the pile of things on the floor. All at once, life drops out of the objects in the room, and they still. The pile settles, and everything goes deathly quiet.
After a moment, Charlie finally rasps out, ] Peter?
no subject
But then Peter has his hands free, an he's fighting and he's losing. And all Charlie can think is no, no, please no, not him. Not again. Not again. His heart is pounding, adrenaline making things sharpen. He strains against his bonds, even as pain shoots though his hands like lightning. He needs to move. He needs to do something, anything.
He thinks he screams Peter's name, but he can hardly tell with the way his blood is roaring in his ears. It's like a nightmare, watching in slow motion as Peter's struggles become weaker, as his arms drop uselessly.
Not again.
I won't lose him.
Not again god damn it.
And Charlie's mind reaches for a spell, hidden in the tattoos that adorn one of his shoulders. He's only used this spell once in his entire life, out of desperation, out of fear. And now it's with grim determination he casts it again, mentally flipping the switch that brings it to life.
The room hums with power, the sheer force of the magic enough to make the hair on Charlie's neck prick. Crates vibrate where they sit, shelves rattle, fixtures creak, almost in nervous anticipation-- and in the blink of an eye, all hell breaks loose.
The box cutter on the floor flies upward with starling speed, slashing at the Kree's face in brutal, violent strokes. Crates literally tear themselves apart, nails and screws and splinters of wood going driving themselves into whatever bits of soft flesh they can find. A shelving unit bends itself, the steel screaming in protest, twisting to swing itself around and slamming itself into the Kree, sending him flying. An instant later, the shelves tear themselves apart, the pieces flying across the room to wrap themselves around Peter's attacker, squeezing, crushing, until flesh rends and bones break.
A pipe tears itself from the wall, plummeting downward and skewering the Kree through he chest, pinning him to the floor. Then boxes, crates, carts, anything nearby, even the ropes from Charlie's wrists, hurtles itself at Peter's would-be murderer, burying him, bearing down on him with relentless force, crushing, smothering, impaling, until there's no life left in him. The Kree goes still, blue blood slowly oozing out from beneath the pile of things on the floor. All at once, life drops out of the objects in the room, and they still. The pile settles, and everything goes deathly quiet.
After a moment, Charlie finally rasps out, ] Peter?