For as long as Greg could remember, there was one simple tactic for dealing with monsters: run away, and let someone more capable handle it. It wasn't shameful, it wasn't cowardly. It was logic, plain and simple. People who had magic would take care of it, and those without needed to keep themselves safe and out of the way. You had to know your limits.

He'd been acting on that instinct, the knowledge that this was not his wheelhouse, he was in no place to handle this, he had to get out of here and get out of the way. Craning to look around Leonard, though, something twisted, something deeply mortified.

He had magic, and Wash didn't. It was his duty to make sure Wash was safe, one way or another, but Wash was the one back there, brawling with those things, defenseless and determined, while Greg was getting hoisted off to safety. Wash took a hit, and Greg felt it like an impact on his own body. Wash went down, and Greg felt it like a knife. Wash, who had died once already. Wash, who had come to Greg for help after dying. Wash, who he'd asked not to face things alone. Greg had one responsibility, and he was leaving him behind.

"Leonard, we have t--"

The words were lost, along with his train of thought and orientation, as he was suddenly tumbled across the pavement. Leonard may have done his best to soften the hit, but Greg had a lot of mass to hit the ground, and it didn't hit well. A whole new set of pains burst out from the asphalt to join the aches from running, leaving him sprawled and groaning in the street.

With Wash down, the Nox were already stampeding past, all too ready to tear into the fallen trio. It was like wounded prey, out there for them to take. Darkness was coming. He had to find his magic, find his feet, find his courage. None of them came to him. He was too lost.