The aftermath of a Nox battle didn't go well for anyone. After surviving an encounter by the skin of his teeth, Greg himself had a difficult time remembering how exactly he got home. The last day was spent in a blur of trying to sleep off the bone-wearying exhaustion of magic overuse, combating with the incessant, searing pain shooting out of his side whenever he moved too much or too quickly. Something was definitely broken, in there.

It had made for fitful rest at best, and though the supernatural exhaustion had worn off by this morning, the regular sort still clung to him. In the end, all Greg could do what he usually did, after his life went bananas: act like everything was still normal. Eat some food, play some music, wait for things to blow over. It had served him well, over the years.

When a tiny voice mumbled into his ear, Greg's first instinct was to sputter and look wildly around his apartment for an intruder, then to think he was hearing things, then that there was some magic craziness happening again. And then he remembered the communicator.

"Uh--is that--Wash?" He had to fiddle a moment before getting the thing to unfold right. "Boy, you sound like I feel. What happened?" Wait. No. He probably knew what happened. "I mean... are you okay?"