One man remains in the car as others slowly make their way out, seemingly frozen in place. His expression is one of pain, and those who witnessed his side of the battle might actually know why, though others may be confused as to why the typically optimistic man has such a morbid expression at the moment. Even his posture seems to radiate unhappiness, his back hunched with his face buried into open palms. Despite the fact that his positioning may imply sobbing of some sort, he is eerily still in it, oblivious to the growing temperature of the car as the sun is trapped in it. Ulric is not a fighter, one must understand, and that isn't to say that he is the sort who supports the fight from the background. He is the healer, rather, the sort of person who won't hesitate to even tend to enemies, because allowing others to suffer is against his personal code of morals. Ulric is that type of man- gentle to a fault and very non confrontational. And yet, he lost himself in anger for a moment, a rare thing for him, and allowed his own principles to be compromised. This is part of what weighs heavily on his shoulders at the moment, but not the only thing that has disturbed the man.
He has seen people die countless times, has seen his friends die and his friends kill, so one would assume that the man would have become accustomed to the sight. Yet, like an innocent, he is still affected by it every time. Perhaps this makes him weak and overly vulnerable, but it has never been something that he could help- not really. He has killed before, though only to protect others, and has allowed people to die, which he considers equally treacherous. Still his reactions are unchanged. And now, he sits in that car, hunched over like man hit by a wave of nausea, as he remembers the events of only a little while ago. Of course, little while is something of a relative term.
---
It had like a knife through tension when Cat spoke to the residents of the institute, her voice forceful as she reminded them that they had no reasons to blame the institute for an attack from outsiders. Everyone had been well aware from the beginning, after all, that danger was linked to becoming open about having a mutation. Never was a promise of invincibility given, and they could not pretend otherwise. He stood next to the little girl from before, having led her to the group, and glances down to make sure that she is okay. Her expression wa strangely calm, as if she is somehow completely at ease with the situation at hand. He found this strange, given the panic and anxiety of those all around her- emotions which she should be soaking up. Still, perhaps her ability to detach herself from surrounding emotions was a blessing. It certainly must must have been easier than being forced to constantly be flooded with the feelings of others, especially at such a young age. A familiar voice shouts out warning of the enemy's arrival, and the doors shut. He had left immediately in hopes of reducing the damages for those not blessed with powers of self regeneration. That was his job, after all- helping.
But he couldn't save them all. On a good day, on a fantastically brilliant day, no one has to die. Everyone lives. But this was not a good day, certainly not a brilliant day, and many lives were lost. He helped where he could, sprouting wings and pulling some up to the roof, where he could work on healing them, but it seemed as though every time he healed a person, they ran back into battle and were injured all over again. Watching it filled the pacifistic man with a sick sort of dread, as though he was facilitating some sort of sick, endless battle. But optimism and obligation prompted him to continue the effort, even as those people whom he had just died were gunned down, or he came too late. For all of his abilities, the man remains incapable of healing death.
Someone shot through his wing, causing the man to plummet to the ground, along with the person in his arms. He spun around while they fell, angling it so that he could cushion the blow and prevent the already injured from entering an even more critical state. His wings began to heal rapidly, naturally, but not before someone ran out to try and help him. Naturally, it was the little empath girl, the one whose mutation allowed her to absorb the abilities of others. She ran out, presumably to take away his already disappearing pain, but was gunned down- massacred, really - on her way over. Ulric watched, all of it becoming far too gruesome for his kind soul. Too much death, too much pain, and too little that he could do to help it. Frustration came over him in violent, unrelenting waves, and the normally controlled man found himself in the hair, dropping the sniper from a high elevation and watching him die, nothing more than a rag doll with his limbs splayed across the ground. What was the point of that? he couldn't help but wonder numbly, but it could not be undone. So he worked harder to try and heal others, working a losing battle as the number of mutants slowly declined even further than it already had. Everything was a blur of effort and failures, until everyone had ordered that they leave.
---
Ulric had found himself in a car with Alex, the Starks' daughter, on the way to Louisiana. He had been in and out of a sulking state the entire time, likely very poor company for the girl, who tried to maintain a sunny disposition. So had they embarked on a long and uncomfortable drive.
Only to end up where they are now, Alex having gotten out of the car while Ulric remains inside, brooding.