Flashing pale lights and metallic clattering.<br/><br/>To Kensaki's dulled senses, yet only awakening, they were dream-like, as if coming from a great distance. Just orbs of light above the tight gap his eyes opened to, crossed all through by his dark lashes like a view through prison bars. But slowly, they drew closer. The lights became focused and bright, shining from the neons on the high ceiling, sounds sharpened into loud clinking of metal, somewhere in the distance with the addition of Itou's voice.<br/><br/>The sensation of the cold floor under his shoulderblades, kept from brushing against his bones only by the thin layer of skin and muscle, stretched across them, awoke him completely. Sense of touch was the last sense that returned to him, but also the most present, powerful one. His entire form was suddenly pulled from the dark, warm oblivion into the brightness and sharpness of the Gift. Bloodied clothes, sticking to his paper-pale skin. All of this heap of flesh, bone and churning blood felt painful and heavy.<br/><br/>But pain was a proof that he was alive. Now, with another wave of adrenaline instinctively being released into his veins, he was clinging onto life with an almost pitiable desperation.<br/><br/>He rolled over, fingers clenching into fists as he laid his hands down onto the cold floor, and the curve of his back arched, the thin layer of cloth stretched over it not enough to hide the vertebra, sticking out like an elaborate structure. His eyes closed for a short moment, under the curtain of black hair that fell over it, to open wide once again. He drew a deep, sharp breath of the desensitized air in, and looked up.<br/><br/>Turrets.