L's heart was going a mile a minute. He didn't perspire easily, but sweat trickled down his spine. There was something wrong, desperately wrong with this situation. Kal should have been dead. He should have been in control, not standing stupidly frightened because his gun had failed him. His stomach lurched as he watched the man crumple his gun as if it were made of tinfoil; if L had had anything in his stomach, it would have been all over his converses, the sensation of physical illness at the sight was so intense.
L stood, numb, paralyzed, as Kal all but vaporized L's gun. Then, he was right there, and L's clammy skin could feel the heat radiating from the other man. He blacked out for a split second, wavering, almost fainting and sinking to the floor, but he decided to do something else with the fear and adrenaline. Lashing out, suddenly, with uncontrolled movements that were probably more exhausting to the person throwing them than they would be damaging to the person receiving them. His blows were mostly centered at Kal's chest and stomach, his fists beating at the superhuman with futility reminiscent of a bird beating its wings against iron bars. It was a desperate, last-ditch, furious gesture, one that channeled and displayed frustration and hopelessness.