The explosion had been quite loud. And now Agatha's feet hurt.
Subjectively speaking, Agatha never understood there were muscles in her feet. Objectively, of course, she knew all about them, but then objectively Agatha knew lots of things. She knew, for example, that the human foot had nineteen muscles, or twenty if one classified the extensor hallucis brevis as distinct from the extensor digitorum brevis. Esoteric knowledge even for her, but then the Institute had a lot of books, and Agatha had a lot of time to kill in detention.
Knowing a muscle group existed, however, had nothing on Agatha's new subjective understanding as she tried in vain to move her legs. Pain. Pain everywhere. Every single muscle in her body burned, twinged, ached. Even the stupid little ones she barely knew she had in her stupid little feet. She blinked up into pure darkness, felt fine rock dust shift on her eyelids, and realized she didn't even have the energy to cry.
Not that she would. When did crying ever help, after all? Tears, that was one thing. Pain drew tears like wounds drew blood. But crying? Huddling into a ball and sobbing and hoping that would fix it? Crying was what you did when you couldn't do anything else.
Crying was giving up.
She lay covered in rock and dirt. She lay on the wrong side of a door between worlds--a door just slammed shut by two tons of dynamite--and every inch of her swam with pain. It would be so, so easy to simply relax, close her eyes, and die.
Instead she raised her arms above her head, hissing at the effort, and did her best to sit up. She was Agatha Byrne, and she saw no sense in giving up.
I've been reading a lot of Terry Pratchett. Does it show?