A very bewildered-looking Crimson was lying in between two machines of undefinable purpose, on her back while trying to extricate herself from innumerable wires and cords and bundles of rope which had been used for God only knows what. Handy himself, soaking wet and now free of every drop of clone blood, mind you, was sitting propped up against an upturned table and beside a pile of broken glass, sitting in a puddle of colourful fluids as papers and manuscripts floated down to earth from where they had been blown into the air. He genuinely looked completely and utterly shocked, rendered speechless.