The soul-eating.
The epic, world-saving face-plant into unconsciousness.
Right.
That happened.
So much for the cool, hero-walks-away-from-the-explosion ending.
Mine was more of a 'hero-trips-over-his-own-feet-and-needs-to-be-carried-home-like-a-sack-of-potatoes' ending.
He sat up with a jolt, his muscles screaming a grim chorus of protest.
From across the cavernous room, he heard a low, theatrical groan.
Jax was laid out on a high-tech medical bed, his leg encased in a shimmering, blue cast that looked like a prop from a sci-fi movie.
He was alive.
He was also, apparently, very, very bored.
"Morning, sunshine," Jax grunted, not opening his eyes. "Did we win?"
"The bad guys are having a very, very bad day," Michael confirmed, his voice a rough, morning-after croak.
"Excellent," Jax sighed, a faint smile on his face. "Then my heroic, and might I add, incredibly stylish sacrifice was not in vain."
