[ There are plenty of little cuts over his hands; some on his face. He's also pretty sure there are bruises forming under his clothes, and there's a persistent soreness nagging at his right arm that'd almost be fascinating to aggravate, except for the part that he's still in a hostile environment, regardless of who this guy actually is.

So when Voryn does announce himself, it's all Amos can do but to blink at first, mind connecting name with aggrandizing speech. He's still letting it connect in his head when Voryn continues, as though he hasn't just announced himself not just an enemy, but an immeasurable jackass.

Amos looks down, sighing for a moment before matching Voryn's posture — less about standing proud, more about getting ready to fight. ]

They were single-minded dipshits that had nothing to lose. Makes sense they'd get some blows in.

[ God, he really wishes this was a fellow Zenite he'd been fighting alongside. It'd make things so much easier. ]

Good to know you're that asshole though. So. [ He rolls his shoulders, once. ] How do you want to play this, Vern? 'cause I don't think we're both walking out of here.