Bruce comes around slowly, pleasantly and after some time, his memory of the explosion hazy through the pounding in his head and the ringing in his ears. He shifts, making a small noise at the back of his throat, and when he freezes a moment later, it has nothing to do with how oddly wrong the sound is on his ears, hollow and tinny, and more to do with the reality of what happened filtering back in slowly as his fingers brush a chunk of concrete somewhere above his head.

He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth and forces his eyes open, something in his stomach turning to molten lead as he surveys the damage. A hand goes up to his forehead as he takes it all in, fingers coming away bloody -- he doesn't need to look to tell, the stickiness enough to tell the story for him -- and panic sweeps in, replacing simple dread. It only gets worse when he realizes he doesn't quite feel right in his own skin, and his first thought is that he's in the process of a transformation. That he can still think that far ahead, that his ability for rational thought isn't being consumed by hot, red fear-anger, doesn't occur to him. His only thought is getting up, away, something before he's too far gone and he either hurts Betty or can't get her the help she likely needs if he's bleeding.

"Betty, are -- "

He stops short, dust from the debris coating the inside of his throat, and breaks into a string of coughing. It doesn't help having some sort of dead weight on his chest and when he stops, when he realizes what it is -- who it is -- his fear redoubles itself. Oh, God, no.

He puts a hand to her shoulder, shaking her lightly, all thoughts of his own unfortunate condition giving way to hers. "Betty."