He chews his lip for a moment; maybe Sans could have better handled these things if he hadn't been worrying about protecting him. Maybe--before he can slide further into that, he shakes it off. There'll be plenty of time for a pity party later.

Slowly, gingerly, Greg sits up. It's like being covered in bad sunburns. Luck has his flashlight lying nearby, still flickering through scorched grass.

It's now that the scene around him really starts to sink in. Greg stares at the ravaged plain, and shakily pulls out his radio again.

"Hi. I think we got it. Sorry to bug you. Over."

He looks at Sans. "I can call medical, if you want." He saw that limp, man.