Locke, though they didn't know it, was rather lucky Vivo was so much louder than them. Or... had been. The artist was rather poorly crumpled on the floor, bent at a terrible angle. Truly a broken looking thing. They felt their own chest pounding, hammering like unsteady cogs grinding together.
They couldn't find their thought process again, jerked entirely out of comfortable routine. Locke felt their skin prickle, but it wasn't the presence of death that shook them, it was pure confusion and panic at not having this moment prepared. They'd seen death. They tiredly expected death. Being humanity's gateway to time itself led one to seeing a lot of murder.
Having an attack slam it's metaphorical hammer into your day plan was another thing.
They felt their gear-powered heart speed up again, cold draining into their veins (They could barely pause to wonder if they had veins, and what would fill them) They sound of glass being smashed rewound in their mind.
It took most of their will to not clutch at their fragile torso and imagine what it would be like if they were in the path of that destruction.
They knew clocks were fragile, but they'd never considering dying before.
It seemed today was their first time for a lot of things.
Numbly, they chastised themselves for ever trying to break routine, but none of the thoughts stuck around for long, fading into the off-kilter ticking that had been drowning out most of their thoughts until now.
But it no longer felt safe or comfortable.