[ He's too furious to speak but his glare speaks volumes as he rushes towards Clara's side. He's a petty enough person to press the sonic once again, sending more sparks flying as it messes further with the inner working of the Sylphid's gun. It's the least of what he'd like to actually be able to do to the person in front of him but he has more pressing matters.
He's so furious at himself that he can't even bring himself to crack an ill-timed joke. He had known it was a bad idea but he had thought that they'd had more time. It hadn't even crossed his mind to consider that Tech's scan wouldn't have picked up on other possible distortion magitech either.
When he locates the wound it's thankfully a clean shot but he's quick to apply pressure to the wound in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. The soldier had aimed to kill but was either a lousy shot or had wanted some sick validation in one final blow. The thought sends another surge of anger through him but he shoves it aside before he can be blinded by it.
He has yet to heal a wound, but if he can bring equilibrium to minds surely he can stabilize wounds. There's a moment of hesitation, a niggling voice of doubt that tells him he can't save her - there's an awful lot of blood from one wound after all. Her skin is clammy to the touch and his hands tremble against the wound now slick with Clara's blood but the thought of needing her to be okay, to at least stabilize, courses through his veins. A golden, dust-like energy emits from his hands and he watches with baited breath waiting for Clara's breath to even out feeling the tug of tissue trying to stitch itself back together. ]
Come on, Clara. You haven't fought zygons to go like this.
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He's so furious at himself that he can't even bring himself to crack an ill-timed joke. He had known it was a bad idea but he had thought that they'd had more time. It hadn't even crossed his mind to consider that Tech's scan wouldn't have picked up on other possible distortion magitech either.
When he locates the wound it's thankfully a clean shot but he's quick to apply pressure to the wound in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. The soldier had aimed to kill but was either a lousy shot or had wanted some sick validation in one final blow. The thought sends another surge of anger through him but he shoves it aside before he can be blinded by it.
He has yet to heal a wound, but if he can bring equilibrium to minds surely he can stabilize wounds. There's a moment of hesitation, a niggling voice of doubt that tells him he can't save her - there's an awful lot of blood from one wound after all. Her skin is clammy to the touch and his hands tremble against the wound now slick with Clara's blood but the thought of needing her to be okay, to at least stabilize, courses through his veins. A golden, dust-like energy emits from his hands and he watches with baited breath waiting for Clara's breath to even out feeling the tug of tissue trying to stitch itself back together. ]
Come on, Clara. You haven't fought zygons to go like this.