[ At first, Amos is left to helplessly listen, fully aware of just how close he is to death. Of the way Set taunts Gen. Of Yima's every word, of the way Set so freely converses with her, and he knew that Set had claimed some level of relationship with her before but this—
He wants to reject it. He stares up at the centipede, because he has no choice to wait.
Shuts his eyes against Gen's pain hitting his senses, because he just wants good things for the kid. He really does. If he could just do something to help, if they had a way out of this—
Amos' eyes snap open as Gen's rage floods in, and his first thought is, That's bad, not because of its foreboding signal of what he might do, but because Amos knows what it is to feel like that, helpless and lashing out for it. Beyond the rage of a berserker, it's something that's all too familiar to him — a poison he does not want Gen to carry with him.
And then everything goes sideways, and Amos' heart lurches as he is dragged away amidst the rocks and debris and grass, his wings instinctively fluttering as he tries to get away from the chaos, get the higher ground, get himself into position to attack Set from above—
Set smashes something across Gen's face, and for a second, his heart stops again.
And then he roars, aiming to divebomb Set, wrench the weapon from his hands. That is his gun. He has lost track of the last time he held that gun in his hands; it has to be something like two years by now. That is his gun, in Set's hands. That is his gun, with Gen's blood on it. Amos does not believe himself capable of loving people, but he loves Gen; Amos does not hate people, but he hates Set. ]
What the fuck!
[ It's too personal an attack. Immobilizing him was one thing, and that had the potential to be its own nightmare, but this— This—
He crashes into the spot where Set previously stood, claws barrelling into the grass and soil and sand where he's supposed to be. The vibrations from the impact rattle up his arms, fur doing little to absorb something so direct; he ignores it, grasping for every bit of sand he can, tearing up the ground beneath his feet as though that'll bring Set back, snarl and spittle from his lips as he digs and punches and claws and blunts himself in the process. ]
You fucking coward! [ These are not things he normally yells. ] Get the fuck back here! [ He would have done almost the exact same thing as Set, would he share his abilities. ] You piece of fucking shit! [ He is as angry as he's ever been without blacking out — and seeing the red creeping in on the edges of his vision, he knows he has to stop.
Because it's just Gen here now. And he can't lose it. His shoulders slump uselessly. His fur is matted and covered in dust now. A lone rivulet of blood runs down a claw where he probably broke something.
He takes a deep breath before turning to Gen, previously wild gaze holding a cold fury. But even that fades as he looks at Gen's face — at what his gun did to it, and thank fuck that Set apparently only knows how to use it as a blunt weapon — and his voice softens. ]
no subject
He wants to reject it. He stares up at the centipede, because he has no choice to wait.
Shuts his eyes against Gen's pain hitting his senses, because he just wants good things for the kid. He really does. If he could just do something to help, if they had a way out of this—
Amos' eyes snap open as Gen's rage floods in, and his first thought is, That's bad, not because of its foreboding signal of what he might do, but because Amos knows what it is to feel like that, helpless and lashing out for it. Beyond the rage of a berserker, it's something that's all too familiar to him — a poison he does not want Gen to carry with him.
And then everything goes sideways, and Amos' heart lurches as he is dragged away amidst the rocks and debris and grass, his wings instinctively fluttering as he tries to get away from the chaos, get the higher ground, get himself into position to attack Set from above—
Set smashes something across Gen's face, and for a second, his heart stops again.
And then he roars, aiming to divebomb Set, wrench the weapon from his hands. That is his gun. He has lost track of the last time he held that gun in his hands; it has to be something like two years by now. That is his gun, in Set's hands. That is his gun, with Gen's blood on it. Amos does not believe himself capable of loving people, but he loves Gen; Amos does not hate people, but he hates Set. ]
What the fuck!
[ It's too personal an attack. Immobilizing him was one thing, and that had the potential to be its own nightmare, but this— This—
He crashes into the spot where Set previously stood, claws barrelling into the grass and soil and sand where he's supposed to be. The vibrations from the impact rattle up his arms, fur doing little to absorb something so direct; he ignores it, grasping for every bit of sand he can, tearing up the ground beneath his feet as though that'll bring Set back, snarl and spittle from his lips as he digs and punches and claws and blunts himself in the process. ]
You fucking coward! [ These are not things he normally yells. ] Get the fuck back here! [ He would have done almost the exact same thing as Set, would he share his abilities. ] You piece of fucking shit! [ He is as angry as he's ever been without blacking out — and seeing the red creeping in on the edges of his vision, he knows he has to stop.
Because it's just Gen here now. And he can't lose it. His shoulders slump uselessly. His fur is matted and covered in dust now. A lone rivulet of blood runs down a claw where he probably broke something.
He takes a deep breath before turning to Gen, previously wild gaze holding a cold fury. But even that fades as he looks at Gen's face — at what his gun did to it, and thank fuck that Set apparently only knows how to use it as a blunt weapon — and his voice softens. ]
You okay?
[ Outside of, you know. The obvious. ]