Aza was pretty sure she was concussed. Her whiskers were singed. She tasted blood that was almost certainly her own. The rest of it slicking her feet and sides wasn't, but it was definitely Methuseld's that was dribbling onto her head now, sticking in the plaster dust and sand that pervaded her fur. She hadn't exactly intended to blunder straight into the woman's grasp, but at least it had kept Aza from dying for one more minute, even if Methuseld herself hadn't fared so well. Aza's ticket home was bleeding out beneath the remnants of a bookcase.<br/><br/>She blinked at her own clawed paws, trying to focus, as Donovan began to shift the wreckage atop them. There was no darting. She had only drug herself a few feet in the time it took him to bitch out and decide to spare and heal the General, and she only sneezed a feeble protest when he lifted her up... and called her a<em> pup.</em>She sighed, which made her ribs hurt more, and shut her blue-grey eyes, draped limply over Donovan’s arm. She didn't even have the heart to think something insulting at him, which was probably just as well, if he and Dean proved to be the winning side. That was the side on which the werefox wanted to be.