Perhaps when he'd been given warning about the moon warp he should have been less fixated about gravity failing and focused more on the effects. Even then, Donnie doubts anything would have effectively prepared him for one once it actually hit.
No one's given him a very good answer as to why they were even headed towards the cursed thing, and now that they're in its shadow, his doubts have only multiplied.
He'd thought it was horrifying enough having Kraang tendrils sink into his skin and his shell. Never had he ever considered how terrible the opposite would be. Feathers had been one thing, but he feels it all too clearly, impossible appendages extruding from his back, stretching out in a canopy of matted, dark feathers.
It seems there's no time for anything. No time to process, no time to figure out how wings work or what he's even supposed to do, but freaking out doesn't seem like an option, shutting down won't help anyone.
The very landscape can't seem to make up its mind, the shifts between terrain and temperatures really pushing his limits. He wants to run, wants to curl up and hide, he wants to be home where things aren't completely insane. The appearance of monsters serves as a strange saving grace, an outlet that he can direct his frustration before he can reach a breaking point. His bō strikes are fierce, holding nothing back as he dispatches beast after beast. But it's tiring work, and there doesn't seem to be enough time to do much more, as much as he tries to look for his brother.
Panic hasn't completely abated, an inane urge to get to higher ground constantly at the back of his mind. Impossible when the ground itself isn't consistent, and suddenly he's caught in a tangle of greenery, wings flaring as he tries to maintain balance. Pain sears his legs as another creature's claws rake across them, and for a moment all he sees is white as he crashes down.
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No one's given him a very good answer as to why they were even headed towards the cursed thing, and now that they're in its shadow, his doubts have only multiplied.
He'd thought it was horrifying enough having Kraang tendrils sink into his skin and his shell. Never had he ever considered how terrible the opposite would be. Feathers had been one thing, but he feels it all too clearly, impossible appendages extruding from his back, stretching out in a canopy of matted, dark feathers.
It seems there's no time for anything. No time to process, no time to figure out how wings work or what he's even supposed to do, but freaking out doesn't seem like an option, shutting down won't help anyone.
The very landscape can't seem to make up its mind, the shifts between terrain and temperatures really pushing his limits. He wants to run, wants to curl up and hide, he wants to be home where things aren't completely insane. The appearance of monsters serves as a strange saving grace, an outlet that he can direct his frustration before he can reach a breaking point. His bō strikes are fierce, holding nothing back as he dispatches beast after beast. But it's tiring work, and there doesn't seem to be enough time to do much more, as much as he tries to look for his brother.
Panic hasn't completely abated, an inane urge to get to higher ground constantly at the back of his mind. Impossible when the ground itself isn't consistent, and suddenly he's caught in a tangle of greenery, wings flaring as he tries to maintain balance. Pain sears his legs as another creature's claws rake across them, and for a moment all he sees is white as he crashes down.