[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/vcyTlTu.png[/img][/center][center][img]https://i.imgur.com/3R5vYYi.png?2[/img][/center][hr][center][color 8493ca]𝕊𝕖𝕡𝕥. 𝟙𝟜, 𝟚𝟘𝟚𝟘   / /   𝕎𝕚𝕤𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕕, 𝕄𝕒𝕣𝕪𝕝𝕒𝕟𝕕   / /   𝕋𝕠𝕨𝕟   / /   ~𝟙𝟟𝟝𝟝[/color][/center][hr]
Christmas had expected to just run when the large clockwork charged at them, even when he knew without a doubt that he wouldn't escape. Then a large, purple hand had shorn away almost a third of the construct's body.

He had gasped, mouth wide open in a partial scream.

That was a mistake.

The smell hit him first in a wave of suffocating heat as blood and bodies poured out of the quadruped's torso. He wanted to double over and gag, thoughts flashing to the sewers and the dumpster again with disturbing alacrity, as if his mind had simply been looking for an excuse to dredge the memories up again. Disgust shifted instantly to horror when the initial outpouring of people both dead and alive towered over him, the stumbling creature's movements heaving more bloodied stragglers out of its torso cavity.

A stray arm knocked off his helmet. A body against his legs knocked him over.

And then he was being buried alive in a mix of squirming people and bleeding corpses. Coughing and hacking only made it worse when splashes of blood splattered into his mouth and he pushed frantically against the several bodies on top of him, whimpering in half-screams and sobbing pleas as he struggled to crawl out of the mess. The panic he had been fervently holding back collected into that single moment and burst into scrabbling and tears as he tried, and failed, to move away.

Warm and cold bodies alike pressed against his hands and he managed a weak scream when someone still alive grabbed at his arm, imploring him silently with unfocused eyes to help.

He pulled desperately at the bandages around his neck, letting the blood drift outwards as a shimmering white mist again because he didn't care at that point about conserving his energy or blood or anything. He just wanted to get out. Run. Hide. Curl up somewhere and hope the world passed him by. 

Breaths came short and uneven. Rapid. Panicked. A small part of his mind recognized it as a [i]bad[/i] thing to hyperventilate, but he didn't care because he wanted to leave. He barely realized he was crying by then, face contorted with terror as his healing mist rejuvenated several of the people nearby enough that their screams joined the keening sound in his ears. The hand gripping his forearm still held firm--firmer now as the middle-aged man slowly recovered--and Christmas couldn't pull away. 

He was aware of sobbing, and thought it was the people around him at first. But the sounds heaved throughout his body and another ragged gasp exhaled proved the loudest cries were from him, not the healing survivors around.

In his distress, the healing mist had spread quickly, pulling more blood out of him than he realized. His vision blurred slightly and his thoughts seemed to flutter high above him, out of reach, out of mind.

His arms collapsed first, dropping him onto the cold body he had been trying to crawl over. The man he had healed was saying something, but he couldn't catch it and his mind was half elsewhere, unable to put together the reason to disperse the mist as he trembled and waited for everything to stop being terrible sounds and choking odors and the white noise that was his jumbled thoughts smashed apart by the unrelenting fear.

A mess to match the rest.