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Paul’s head always hurts whenever he thinks too hard.
Sweat drips from his forehead. It’s always so hot in Tokyo. Valerian had said it’s because all of the cars put a ton of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere. Unfortunately for Paul, he’s stuck in the dank back alleyway of some random street in the dead of summer, at high noon his full set of armor is practically a death sentence.
His brain feels like mush and thoughts are so hard. So then why does his head hurt so bad? The overwhelming smell of hot blood on metal overrides anything else. The stench makes his headache unbearable. It’s disgusting and sharp, making his stomach churn and roll into a nauseating mixture.
The sounds of people walking, cars honking obnoxiously, motorcycles and sports cars revving up and speeding off, overwhelmingly loud music, it all swirls and scratches inside of his skull making his vision swim. It’s all too much. Even his own panting is making him want to rip his damn ears off.
The graffiti on the wall starts to become a fading colorful blob. His body desperately tries to relive some of the overbearing heat with copious amounts of sweat that’s growing saltier and saltier with each passing minute. He can vaguely feel the area where his armor meet his skin start to get a bit too hot. He tries to inhale through his nose to settle his stomach only to remember why he was breathing through his mouth when he’s bombarded with the sharp metallic sent of blood, as well as something horribly gross that reminds him of bacon being burnt.
Paul’s vision blurs even more with his own, equally hot tears. He can’t stop the small hiccup from leaving his throat as the warm tears drip from his eyes, offering nothing in the form of relief from the overbearing sun.
Paul really wishes that Valerian and Sayuri were here. A wave of sadness hits him like a truck as the tears come even faster. His hiccups and sniffles barely do anything to ease the other overpowering noises that flood his brain.
He can barely even feel the charred burns that were oozing blood spread along his already scarred arms. They’ve probably already stopped bleeding by now. It doesn’t help the fact that somehow a low tier criminal somehow had a fucking homemade flamethrower, his armor is probably scorched from the asshole.
Air rushes down into the alleyway with a whoosh. The thump of boots accompany the rushing air. The wind provides nothing in the form of relief from the scorching sun. A somewhat familiar voice loudly cuts through the city's background noise.
“Hey tin can. How are you holding up? I know you’ve got to be boiling alive in that man.” The blob of tan and bright red says as he walks closer. “If I remember right you can only speak English right? You didn’t say anything the first time we met, I thought you were mute but Eraserhead said that you only speak English.”
The older man crouches down in front of the armored teen. He probably has a stupidly large grin, Paul finds it somewhat amusing, but all that comes out is a choked wheeze. The blob, that now has a black spot where his blonde hair used to be, pauses.
“Hey, tin can, can you hear me?” A hand is placed against his helmet, only to be quickly removed after a few seconds.
“Holy shit.” The bird hero says, his shocked tone even registers in Paul’s delirious brain. “Fuck this is bad we’ve got to get you out of that.” Paul can faintly feel a hand tugging on his glove. There’s a wet ripping sound accompanied by a foggy stinging in his right hand.
The smell of blood overwhelms Paul’s senses.
“Oh shit.” He hears in front of him. “Holy fuck, I did not expect that to happen.”
Paul wonders what’s going on. Why does his hand hurt? It takes him longer than he’d like to admit to look down at his hand.
His palm is red.
The black spots in his vision make it hard to see but he thinks the palm of his right hand is gone. That’s not good. Paul can make out some call for someone that the bird hero makes before the ringing in his ears gets too loud.
The world is spinning into a gross mix of colors. Paul closes his eyes to stop another wave of nausea hits him. He smacks his mouth together. Hating the way his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth.
God he’s so thirsty.