In truth, at the time, there hadn't been much thought to it. Things were manageable, even if there was always an element of risk in these engagements. It was risk they could handle, and had handled dozens of times already. Rosinante took no enjoyment in raiding Marine ships, but he understood the benefits, and so stood back, keeping his ability active and occasionally firing off shots just to keep the soldiers from finding ways to turn the tide. Nothing lethal, at least not intentionally.

But obviously they'd had other goals. Some marksman had wanted to make a name for himself, or had just gotten lucky. And Rosinante, well, he can't snatch bullets out of the air, so he'd done the only thing he could, as one big, durable target.

Same weak spots as anyone else, though.

Unconscious doesn't always mean completely unthinking, it turns out. For what feels like a very long time, he thinks he's swimming. Did he fall overboard? No, there's no water here, no light. The gunshot echoes in his ears, haunting him like a wisp of a memory, and he dreams of his father.

Eventually, the sounds of the operating room reach him. He screws his eyes shut against the light coming in through his eyelids, then coughs, mouth dry. His head feels like it's full of cotton.

"Law?" he croaks, and manages to open his eyes. Is Law all right?