Normally he'd laugh about knives and guns and the whole 'you brought a knife to a gun fight' thing, but not now. Right now he swore, jerking his arm back and instinctively pressing his forearm to his chest. He would've clamped his other hand over the wound if that arm hadn't been broken. Blood seeped into the material of his shirt, spreading quickly for a moment before the waxy skin on his arm shifted and melted back together, sealing up the wound.

It still hurt. His hand felt weak. He couldn't tell how bad the damage was right now; he wasn't a doctor and people weren't supposed to have skin the way he did. Sweat prickled on the back of his neck, both from the fire and from stress. Fear, maybe. But it was anger that burned in his eyes even as he took a step back, out of reach. He wondered if he'd have a scar there, something to go with the other one on his wrist.

It wasn't often he was filled with boiling rage so complete that he wanted to commit murder. Even when he'd killed his father it hadn't been out of anger. He knew he was useless right now though, more of a liability than an asset, with one busted arm and a semi-out of commission hand. The pain, at least, reminded him he was still alive.

His lip curled in either a sneer or a snarl. "Fuck, man. I was just screwing with you."