[ The answer is no, definitely not. And because of more than just the physical injuries.
Gen's reflexes are good, and he should have stood a decent chance at dodging that first brutal swing of the shotgun. But when Set swirled into view, Gen had already been frozen like a rat caught before a snake, gaze barely seeing the threatening silhouette of that gun cocked back for the swing -- unable to look away from the ferocious sincerity gleaming bright in Set's eyes. In that moment, how could he possibly doubt what Set was saying? That Set really would have fought for his sake without a threat hanging above his head?
-- then the impact of the shotgun's stock against his skull rattles all coherent thought out to his brains. Gen crumples like a house of cards, those two additional blows mostly adding insult to injury, given he's already well incapacitated. The stroke of fingers against his face is barely felt in his half-conscious haze, his thoughts flickering wildly in and out of coherency past a blanket of pain.
Even when Amos' voice speaks up from somewhere close by, there's a significant moment's delay before Gen can bring himself to respond. ]
... Amos. [ His voice emerges wet and guttural, each noise coughed miserably between shallow rasps; the inside of his mouth's been torn to ribbons, and everything tastes like blood. ] You're 'kay ... ?
[ He definitely shouldn't be moving with the level of concussed he probably is; it's wobbly and weak when Gen struggles to roll over onto his side, a hand groping blindly in search of Amos. With an eyelid split and the blood gushing over his face, he can't see worth shit. ]
Where ... the prism. [ A muffled groan. ] ... 't was ours. [ His hand grasps tight at whatever part of Amos he can find, and Gen slowly buckles, ducking his (bloodied, dripping) face against the ground. It muffles his voice further when he slurs, ] ... fucker. S'not fair. ...
[ But it's not really the prism he cares about. It is, indeed, indignity and anger and upset that roil off him in near-palpable waves, even past the heavy layer of raw pain. But stronger than any of those is a frothing, anxious confusion -- that, more than any frustration about the stolen prism, is what has Gen giving a low whimper as he curls up against Amos. His head hurts something awful. His temples are ringing, his pulse throbbing in his eyeballs. And the only thing echoing in his brain is Set's last words: Why didn't you let me be there for you when you needed someone on your side? ]
I wasn't wrong ... [ The way he clings to Amos is almost childlike, like he's trying to shy away from how much those injuries hurt. ] You're 'lright. I still have Reiji. ... 'm not wrong. I jus' did what I hafta. You get it, right?
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Gen's reflexes are good, and he should have stood a decent chance at dodging that first brutal swing of the shotgun. But when Set swirled into view, Gen had already been frozen like a rat caught before a snake, gaze barely seeing the threatening silhouette of that gun cocked back for the swing -- unable to look away from the ferocious sincerity gleaming bright in Set's eyes. In that moment, how could he possibly doubt what Set was saying? That Set really would have fought for his sake without a threat hanging above his head?
-- then the impact of the shotgun's stock against his skull rattles all coherent thought out to his brains. Gen crumples like a house of cards, those two additional blows mostly adding insult to injury, given he's already well incapacitated. The stroke of fingers against his face is barely felt in his half-conscious haze, his thoughts flickering wildly in and out of coherency past a blanket of pain.
Even when Amos' voice speaks up from somewhere close by, there's a significant moment's delay before Gen can bring himself to respond. ]
... Amos. [ His voice emerges wet and guttural, each noise coughed miserably between shallow rasps; the inside of his mouth's been torn to ribbons, and everything tastes like blood. ] You're 'kay ... ?
[ He definitely shouldn't be moving with the level of concussed he probably is; it's wobbly and weak when Gen struggles to roll over onto his side, a hand groping blindly in search of Amos. With an eyelid split and the blood gushing over his face, he can't see worth shit. ]
Where ... the prism. [ A muffled groan. ] ... 't was ours. [ His hand grasps tight at whatever part of Amos he can find, and Gen slowly buckles, ducking his (bloodied, dripping) face against the ground. It muffles his voice further when he slurs, ] ... fucker. S'not fair. ...
[ But it's not really the prism he cares about. It is, indeed, indignity and anger and upset that roil off him in near-palpable waves, even past the heavy layer of raw pain. But stronger than any of those is a frothing, anxious confusion -- that, more than any frustration about the stolen prism, is what has Gen giving a low whimper as he curls up against Amos. His head hurts something awful. His temples are ringing, his pulse throbbing in his eyeballs. And the only thing echoing in his brain is Set's last words: Why didn't you let me be there for you when you needed someone on your side? ]
I wasn't wrong ... [ The way he clings to Amos is almost childlike, like he's trying to shy away from how much those injuries hurt. ] You're 'lright. I still have Reiji. ... 'm not wrong. I jus' did what I hafta. You get it, right?