What Jon finds when he reaches the site of the mystery crash landing is not quite a bloodbath, but blood is certainly present, and in a significant amount. Said vital fluid appears to have previously belonged to a person currently struggling to right himself and not having much success - a young man of slender build and shaggy brown hair. He’s dressed in freshly ripped clothes - a tan button-up jacket with black trousers and shoes - with one black-gloved hand pressed to the dark stain of blood covering his midsection and the other clutching a fistful of shattered black and red plastic that used to hold the shape of a gun, one resembling something from a sci-fi film. He kneels on the snow-covered ground, trapped between attempting to breathe and suppressing cries of excruciating pain as he continues his futile attempts at climbing to his feet.

Jon skids to a stop when the sight before him comes into view, with a panicked shout of his trademark good lord escaping from behind the hands clapped over his mouth in horror. The other man - boy, really, he can’t be much more than a teenager - snaps his head up in alarm at the interruption and levels a feral scowl at the intruder in front of him.

“Don’t. Come. Near me,” he growls through clenched teeth, arm extended out in front of him with the shattered plastic grasped in his shaking hand pointed at Jon. He is cornered, frenzied, searching in desperation for an escape.

It just hurts too much to move.