Things get damaged, things get broken...
{{OOC: This happens, fairly obviously, after the ginormoshowdown and the megarescue.}}
It's a good chunk of time after the explosion when a searing blue light flashes in the lobby, depositing a pile of bodies in the middle of the floor. There's no ceremony to it, no reassuring poise and dignity: a good half of them are unconscious or tranqed out from tranquilizer guns, everyone is bloody, some are missing articles of clothing or wrapped in each others', and if there was a Hell and it had chewed them up and spat them back out they'd hardly look worse.
Jack disentangles himself, standing up and backing a few quick steps away. "We need help in here!" he bellows, full-volume, his best Get the fuck in before this gets worse! voice. "We need medics, stretchers--" his throat is so dry and he hadn't even noticed, or maybe it comes of keeping all the emotion he can't realize, can't show, tied up so tight he thinks he might shatter if anyone touched him. "I need Charlie Walker, Sam Tyler, Gwen Cooper, I need them five minutes ago, people, move! Move now!"
And then he's on his knees again, laying out the ones who can't move and helping the ones who can, nameless and unutterable curses and prayers coursing through his mind behind his eyes. They're a mass of blood and bones and flesh and wounds and he's nowhere near enough to keep them all together--and he's going to try, God damn it, he's going to try until it kills him and he's going to keep trying even then, because the people looking after these people down here are him, the Doctor, and Martha, and the Doctor and Martha are down.
It's a good chunk of time after the explosion when a searing blue light flashes in the lobby, depositing a pile of bodies in the middle of the floor. There's no ceremony to it, no reassuring poise and dignity: a good half of them are unconscious or tranqed out from tranquilizer guns, everyone is bloody, some are missing articles of clothing or wrapped in each others', and if there was a Hell and it had chewed them up and spat them back out they'd hardly look worse.
Jack disentangles himself, standing up and backing a few quick steps away. "We need help in here!" he bellows, full-volume, his best Get the fuck in before this gets worse! voice. "We need medics, stretchers--" his throat is so dry and he hadn't even noticed, or maybe it comes of keeping all the emotion he can't realize, can't show, tied up so tight he thinks he might shatter if anyone touched him. "I need Charlie Walker, Sam Tyler, Gwen Cooper, I need them five minutes ago, people, move! Move now!"
And then he's on his knees again, laying out the ones who can't move and helping the ones who can, nameless and unutterable curses and prayers coursing through his mind behind his eyes. They're a mass of blood and bones and flesh and wounds and he's nowhere near enough to keep them all together--and he's going to try, God damn it, he's going to try until it kills him and he's going to keep trying even then, because the people looking after these people down here are him, the Doctor, and Martha, and the Doctor and Martha are down.