It's not the same as getting ash or smoke in his lungs, where it only hurts to breathe. It feels like an actual squeezing of them, making breathing nearly impossible at all.


get up

It's not just Voodoo's voice that rattles around in his head.

There's an echo of every voice of every person who's ever seen him go down.

Including his own.


get. up.


Moving solely on the dregs of his adrenaline, he forces himself onto his hands and knees. Just working through the pain, like he always does. Because that's what you fucking do.

Eventually he staggers to his feet, one hand grabbing at his chest as he's seized by another wave of coughs, the other hand sweeping his hair back out of his eyes. Wheezing and panting, he fixes Voodoo with a cold blue stare.