[ Misa's voice seems to be coming from a million miles away, and those tearful words barely register as more than a faint buzz in his ears. Instead, it's that tug at his sleeve that finally punctures through the dizzying haze that had overlaid his thoughts -- and everything comes rushing back at once.

Gen jolts to a halt with his mace still halfway raised for another blow. He's suddenly far too aware of the stench of iron in the air, the damp sensation of blood tracing thin lines down the shaft of his mace to wet at his fingers, the feel of still-warm splatters cooling against his face. The momentum and weight of his movements forces one last swing of the mace, but its head only whiffs through the air -- Gen's instead made sharply aware of the way it paints a lurid cobweb of blood against the cracked ground in its wake. And when he dares to look -- properly look down at the grand display of gore spread out beneath him --

The pale, pale white of Amos' shattered skull and scattered teeth, the delicate pink of exposed brain, the brilliant red of ravaged flesh. Blood continues to pool from that fully-bloomed display of carnage where Amos' head should be, spreading across the ground. Gen finally stumbles back a step as his gaze frantically skips from one patch of gore to another, his breaths still stifled at the back of his throat in choked, shallow gasps.

(An image comes to mind, just for a split second. White bathroom tiles seen from the point of view of a child, everything looming large. Blood lashed across the walls, all over the floor. The corpse of a man still twitching against the bathtub, littered with stab wounds and painted red. And a knife clutched in small hands, trembling. -- maybe the others see it too, with how violently Gen's mind fixates on it, just for that split second. Though he hopes they don't.)

-- Gen retches, and that desperate twist of his stomach paradoxically helps him take control of his breaths and snaps him back to his senses. His lungs are awash with pain, his cracked sternum aflame with every breath, but at least he feels like he's been forced to crash-land back into reality. It takes some effort but he tears his eyes away from the sight of Amos' body as it starts dissipating (trying not to think of the way he'd been gently urged to look away from his body six years back, too, had that knife carefully eased away from his hands) and instead looks to Misa. ]

Misa.

[ His gaze is still wild, darting a little too quickly from place to place as he looks Misa over -- her tearstained face, the unnatural twist of her arm, the pained shiver that wracks her frame -- but at least he sees her, now. Not Amos, not a simple threat he has to eliminate, not the phantoms of his past. And though his movements are clumsy and jagged, his hand shaken by tremors that he can't seem to control, he does promptly fumble to replace his mace at his belt. ]

You're -- [ hurt. His words come stuttering between still-shallow breaths. ] -- we gotta ... get you. Emet-Selch. Or someone else. Who can heal. [ Right. Misa was the one he was trying to protect, so she's all that matters right now. He fulfilled his duty, he played his role. His boots almost slip on the pavement as he starts to kneel down to pick her up. It's only after he starts reaching for her that the flutter of his empty sleeve reminds him that he's not even capable of that anymore. ] -- ah -- [ Pain, anger, frustration sizzle through the air, a hot frisson of emotion that fades out quickly as he tries to refocus. ] ... wait. -- Kaeya. Kaeya!

[ The name is barked sharply as Gen looks to the other. And though that far-off look in his eyes still lingers (it won't fade for a long time, he already knows) at least there's a stern focus to his voice as he holds his hand out for Amos' shard. ]

Pick her up. We gotta get inside. Find someone who can help her. I'll carry -- ... him.

[ Amos. His shard. That precious remnant of the man he'd been forced to kill. ]