Foster has no idea if he can move yet. He hasn't even tried. He can't really breathe, right now; the only reason he hadn't broken more nose than he did is that he barely has one, but he also has no mouth and so he can't gasp for air through it. Every struggling breath is accompanied by a hot spray of dark blood, which spatters messily on the dented panels of the floor and runs down his furry blue chest in spots and rivulets.

It hurts, a lot.

And he's laughing not in spite of but because of it.

But at Reira's prompting--her prodding, urging, he unfolds one foreleg and then the other, testing them individually before gathering his hind beneath him to try and rise.

This also hurts. Not on the fore but in his back left and the lancing, shooting pain that starts in his ankle (or what he thinks of as his ankle, anyway) and runs up his leg like it will crack the bone in twain--

And it's in that invigorating, vivid burst of pain that he staggers upright, even as he snorts another bright red stream of fresh blood from his nose.