Good. Sitwell did good. He could melt into the ground for a moment, letting that pain take a moment to settle and dull and not be so debilitatingly pronounced, curled up under his space blanket with the ground beneath him slowly soaking into mud. No one else was taking a break, though, so Sitwell couldn't rest on his laurels for too long; the sounds of the fight continued, and eventually forced him to crawl out from under the fountain and up onto his knees. There had to be backup somewhere, they called him in. Sitwell needed a phone.
Slowly climbing to his feet, trying not to attract attention despite his reflective blanket and sugar coating, Sitwell started to slink back toward the road, searching up and down for a lingering pedestrian-- of course not, the last were scrambling for cover. Did he really have to find a non-candied payphone in Manhattan?