He and Eggsy are picking their way around the ballroom, eyeing up the display that's been left for them.
"I was told about flowers and gifts in the month before we arrived, and it made me wonder, but...I think we can safely assume now that this is April by the hotel's calendar, and it speaks to something that the management adhere to a calendar we'd recognise. Happy Easter, Eggsy."
So dry. He reaches for one egg, holding it at arm's length, somewhat cautious - it's plastic. And, it emerges, filled with what appear to be peanut M&Ms. This may yet be a good thing. Though he's made his peace with the lack of variety in their food, a little change might be nice, even in the form of cheap confectionery. (And cheap confectionery keeps better. He has very little confidence in magically replenishing anything. Having been previously kept prisoner by haphazard jailers, he adheres to the 'eat half, store half' rule.)
Much more careless is the way he picks up the next egg. Expecting it to be harmless. Like an idiot.
There's something that happens too fast for him to register - a spark of ignition, a violent split in the shell - but it gives him a fraction of a second to jerk his body away, reflexively shielding Eggsy from the explosion. The flash is a violent phosphorus white; the noise deafens him, briefly, so all he can hear is a high-pitched ringing.
For a moment he's just dazed, floating.
Then reality reasserts itself, and the hurt becomes a known quantity. There's tiny points of pain - shrapnel, he'd guess - punctuating his right cheek and the side of his neck. His vision is still blurry.
"Shit. Fucking - idiot," he mutters to himself, hand hovering over his face where he instinctively feels pressure would help but intellectually knows he'll just be grinding the shrapnel into the wounds.
[Open]
Harry Hart, Walking Wounded, Part 3 of Too Goddamned Many, Probably.
After a short turn in his bathroom spent picking shrapnel out of his cheek with a pair of tweezers, he's back in the ballroom. One side of his face looks like something exploded at it. The bleeding has mostly stopped but the shockwave bruising has started to rise and he just looks awful, really.
He's in his suit now, moving around the ballroom, playing minesweeper: that is, prodding the various eggs with the tip of his open umbrella.
He knows it looks ridiculous but if he can spare a couple of people from losing an eye then that's more than worth the small cost to his dignity.
Harry Hart | Ballroom | Eggsy & Open
"...this is actually very useful to us."
He and Eggsy are picking their way around the ballroom, eyeing up the display that's been left for them.
"I was told about flowers and gifts in the month before we arrived, and it made me wonder, but...I think we can safely assume now that this is April by the hotel's calendar, and it speaks to something that the management adhere to a calendar we'd recognise. Happy Easter, Eggsy."
So dry. He reaches for one egg, holding it at arm's length, somewhat cautious - it's plastic. And, it emerges, filled with what appear to be peanut M&Ms. This may yet be a good thing. Though he's made his peace with the lack of variety in their food, a little change might be nice, even in the form of cheap confectionery. (And cheap confectionery keeps better. He has very little confidence in magically replenishing anything. Having been previously kept prisoner by haphazard jailers, he adheres to the 'eat half, store half' rule.)
Much more careless is the way he picks up the next egg. Expecting it to be harmless. Like an idiot.
There's something that happens too fast for him to register - a spark of ignition, a violent split in the shell - but it gives him a fraction of a second to jerk his body away, reflexively shielding Eggsy from the explosion. The flash is a violent phosphorus white; the noise deafens him, briefly, so all he can hear is a high-pitched ringing.
For a moment he's just dazed, floating.
Then reality reasserts itself, and the hurt becomes a known quantity. There's tiny points of pain - shrapnel, he'd guess - punctuating his right cheek and the side of his neck. His vision is still blurry.
"Shit. Fucking - idiot," he mutters to himself, hand hovering over his face where he instinctively feels pressure would help but intellectually knows he'll just be grinding the shrapnel into the wounds.
[Open]
Harry Hart, Walking Wounded, Part 3 of Too Goddamned Many, Probably.
After a short turn in his bathroom spent picking shrapnel out of his cheek with a pair of tweezers, he's back in the ballroom. One side of his face looks like something exploded at it. The bleeding has mostly stopped but the shockwave bruising has started to rise and he just looks awful, really.
He's in his suit now, moving around the ballroom, playing minesweeper: that is, prodding the various eggs with the tip of his open umbrella.
He knows it looks ridiculous but if he can spare a couple of people from losing an eye then that's more than worth the small cost to his dignity.