Redhawk Caldera Who did the thing?

With uncoordinated shuffling of his legs and a few spasms of his head (shaking, head-banging to tunes that weren't there, that kind of thing), Titmouse managed to connect his limbs with his face and rub some of the dust out from his eyes. But he was still bellowing a cacophony out of his tiny lungs; half crying, half screeching. And to top it all off, his eyes were useless. He didn't want to keep them open because of the dust that would get in there, the light that stung them, and now (if he did manage to slip them open even a crack) the irritation of the sclera.

He didn't see the puddle of soupy puke, but he did feel it, right when he lost his balance and plopped in to the warm, gooey, acid-scented puddle. One of the adults noticed this and groaned - but they didn't intervene, likely too tired of the constant clean-up to be intimately bothered by this turn of events. Titmouse was much the same; he actually liked the warmth of the fresh throw-up. It distracted and comforted him (marginally) and gave him something to fixate on, for the smell was quite intense, and he nearly forgot about his eyes as he rolled through the muck.