He doesn't need telling twice. The man with the sword seems of sounder mind and body than the man with the pipe, but that's hardly cause to dawdle. Wrench still in hand, Charles clambers to his feet, wondering if he shouldn't pick up the gun in its stead, but knowing himself uncomfortable with the notion of shooting a person (even one only in form, for the assailant's spirit seems long gone). Regardless of the fact that he might have been killed mere seconds ago, Charles himself is not a murderer.
Watching the two with wide eyes, he keeps his distance, wanting to help, but not knowing how. He's useless, a state of being that doesn't sit well for its unfamiliarity. Again, he lifts his his hand to his temple, tries to reach out for their minds to quiet them or call for a return to reason. Again, he finds the exercise fruitless. There's simply nothing there. He's breathless from the exertion, his heart caught in his throat, the beginnings of panic trying to grab hold of him, but he fights it off with his own advice. Calm your mind, he
( ... )
Charles cries out in protest as the blade cuts through the attacker's chest as smoothly as though it were warm butter. On blind instinct, he starts towards the fallen figure, but knowing already that it's a lost cause, he stops short of kneeling next to it; checking for a pulse is unnecessary when so much blood has already been spilled. Turning his attention instead to the man who's both saviour and killer, Charles confirms his initial observation that he's never seen this man before in his life; tall and solidly built, with pale hair and a scar that demands inquiry, he's a perfect stranger. (An American stranger, Charles notes, which might be good news, were it not for the situation he's only just left behind. He prays someone stopped that Erik, that his own disappearance might have steadied his friend's hand rather than push him further over darkness' edge.)
Grip tightening around the wrench for lack of sense to hold onto, he nods, sharply; there's nothing to be done about the dead, but Charles himself is unharmed. He does not,
( ... )
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Watching the two with wide eyes, he keeps his distance, wanting to help, but not knowing how. He's useless, a state of being that doesn't sit well for its unfamiliarity. Again, he lifts his his hand to his temple, tries to reach out for their minds to quiet them or call for a return to reason. Again, he finds the exercise fruitless. There's simply nothing there. He's breathless from the exertion, his heart caught in his throat, the beginnings of panic trying to grab hold of him, but he fights it off with his own advice. Calm your mind, he ( ... )
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Grip tightening around the wrench for lack of sense to hold onto, he nods, sharply; there's nothing to be done about the dead, but Charles himself is unharmed. He does not, ( ... )
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