[There are rules when it comes to moving from world to world — or apparently there are, at least, for Connor certainly has no idea what those would be. Perhaps there’s a prerequisite he doesn’t meet, some sort of hidden rule that he has no hope of coming to terms with. Perhaps some can be transitioned from one universe to another — easy as you please, simple as walking down a street in the middle of the late afternoon — without any trouble at all. No injury, no issues, just turn a corner and you're there.
For whatever reason it might be, Connor does not qualify.
He’s passed from one world into another, and though the streets look similar enough, there is something oddly retro about the buildings, the homes, all that he can see out of the corner of his eye as he stumbles into a remote alleyway somewhere. The transition was sudden, unexpectedly, tearing at his body — his shirt, his uniform, stained with blue blood. He can’t see the wound there, and the pain is not something he experiences fully, but he’s already lost too much; his biocomponents becoming sluggish and unresponsive, a warning flashing in his mind’s eye that only he can see — white-on-red numbers, a timer, until critical internal failure.
It’s hard to know what happened, hard to tamp down something rising within his chest that feels like panic wrought from the unknown. A hand presses against the alleyway wall, leaving streaks of blue where his fingertips have brushed by. He had learned that putting pressure against his new wound, deep across his chest, did nothing to help.
Maybe somewhere he can find help, if his body didn't feel so sluggish from the blood loss.]
I'ᴍ ᴄɪʀᴄʟɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇsᴇ ᴠᴜʟᴛᴜʀᴇs;
For whatever reason it might be, Connor does not qualify.
He’s passed from one world into another, and though the streets look similar enough, there is something oddly retro about the buildings, the homes, all that he can see out of the corner of his eye as he stumbles into a remote alleyway somewhere. The transition was sudden, unexpectedly, tearing at his body — his shirt, his uniform, stained with blue blood. He can’t see the wound there, and the pain is not something he experiences fully, but he’s already lost too much; his biocomponents becoming sluggish and unresponsive, a warning flashing in his mind’s eye that only he can see — white-on-red numbers, a timer, until critical internal failure.
It’s hard to know what happened, hard to tamp down something rising within his chest that feels like panic wrought from the unknown. A hand presses against the alleyway wall, leaving streaks of blue where his fingertips have brushed by. He had learned that putting pressure against his new wound, deep across his chest, did nothing to help.
Maybe somewhere he can find help, if his body didn't feel so sluggish from the blood loss.]