He is made of screaming. Wrenched and twisted metal doesn't glow hot but it should, presses the smell of burnt skin against the inside of his nostrils, and there is the trickle of blood that flows over the hollow of his cheek. He's there, slumped against the fractured window of his truck's cab as the glass spider-webs out from the spot where his temple has slammed through, and he's somewhere between unconsciousness and the tin-can clatter of fired bullets on the other end of an imaginary line.
Doesn't matter that Marta hasn't actually been shot, because all that he knows is a dark-haired girl with a foul mouth and a streak of bad luck and a hole in her chest. So he's there, and the only movement that runs through the length of his frame is a seizure: just a few seconds, just a writhing bolt of neural electricity and there is light-pink blood foaming at the corner of his mouth. Blood pooling in his lap. Coagulating against the back of his tongue like a thick, wet clot of copper.