Christ, he hadn't even seen her. What a way to go. Blinded before the starting gates open. He'd make one horrible racehorse, Hawkeye thought- ideas only coming to mind, no images, no sensations, no words. Because he felt something hit him like a truck, and saw the gray of the pavement rush up to meet him. Because he felt himself fall and hit and scrape, and wondered for a moment, idiotically coherent, if his underwear had done a good job of hiding his package or if it had been shown to the world when the robe rode up and his legs sprawled in a panic.

And then there's the whole 'you're going to die' thing that keeps playing in his mind like a broken record. It makes him gasp in a breath when it's knocked out of him, and makes him push himself up to his elbows a second later, searching for-- well, that. There. The movement away that had red hair and a figure he figured he knew and Christ, the movement was away. A second more and Hawkeye's scrambling back on his feet, hesitance refound and. Well. Hesitant for the first time in such a deafeningly and heartbreaking short time. But someone ahead just got slashed- he could see the mess alright, you know, and he half thanked the distance for it- and that meant he had to go.

"The matter with-" is all he swears aloud, brows furrowed, face contorted in confusion, before he realizes he'd rather save his breath. It might help his chicken heart, because he wasn't a soldier. He charges forward again, keeping the assailant (and if he thought Shepard had 'assaulted' him just then, wasn't he in for a rude awakening?) in view but far enough away. He hoped. The bitch.