Harrison, Ilad
It is, perhaps, early morning--going by the light from the narrow window--when their confinement without outside contact apparently comes to an end. After the loud and deep kashunk of the door's lock disengaging, after men in their combat gear swarm their way into the cell, weapons brandished with the promised threat of more tranqing if there is misbehavior, Harrison and Ilad find themselves forced apart from Andrew and Dante, shoved roughly out and down the hallway and leaving their fellow agents behind.
They are not taken far, turned into a room a little ways down, where they are made to sit at opposite ends of a steel table, facing each other. Their shackles are chained to heavy eye bolts underneath the tabletop to further limit their mobility and keep them more or less seated.
Harrison clamps his jaw down painfully hard against the rough handling that exacerbates the aching mess of his shoulder. He cooperates, albeit with a grim, uncooperative sort of expression, and he stays silent once he is seated and secured. He breathes in slowly and wills the throbbing in his shoulder to settle.
The stiff, uneven gait with which Ilad moves might give him away, but if it doesn't, the ashen cast that leeches color from his warmly-hued skin and leaves golden olive looking positively green might, itself, be a dead giveaway. The burst of pain at the abrupt renewal of pressure when he is forced into the seat is unsubtle. He blinks a few times, holding his breath to keep from hissing audibly, and winds both hands tightly into fists where he is bolted into place. He is silent.
Only after they are secured, with a guard at each corner of the room--the natives are learning!--their old friend Mahler comes in through the door. Hey, looks like he isn't dead. They must be so relieved and happy to see him! He regards Harrison in particular with equal parts twisted hatred and savage glee as he steps in, his movements just a little awkward. "How're we feeling today, hm?" he asks with a black cheeriness, making his way around the table. A heavy hand settles on Harrison's injured shoulder, and fingers dig in. "Well-rested?"
Harrison hisses very audibly before he can grind his teeth enough to at least catch most of the noise. He can't quite seem to muster up a response to Mahler. How strange.
Ilad is silent and still, his typical defense mechanism. His dark eyes are narrowed, tracking Mahler from his seat across the table.
"Yeah, I thought so," Mahler says, giving one last squeeze before letting go. He then gives Harrison a manly pat on said shoulder of the 'walk it off, champ, walk it off' variety, and steps just far enough away from them both to be out of grab range, should they decide to do something really ridiculous. Not that it's a very /far/ distance, but still. "How's your ass?" he asks Ilad. "Bet it hurts like a bitch. Say, you guys want a doctor? We picked up a doctor for you. She's pretty good. Could probably fix you up, right as rain. All you need to do is answer our simple questions, and I'll send her right in."
A grunt catches in Harrison's throat before he can stifle it down as Mahler gives one last squeeze; even the pat is painful. His breath comes a little more ragged in the wake of it. He doesn't reply to Mahler, but the eyes that follow the man are darkened with something dangerous.
Ilad is silent for a few heartbeats longer, and then he tips his head, leaning forward against the brace of his restraints in the chair. With a careful, narrow-eyed precision, he spits at the floor as close to Mahler's feet as he can aim.
Mahler gives an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head. "I don't know why the fuck you won't just tell us. We're finding it out, anyway. Got all your gear, you know. And everybody thinks you're dead, so it's not like you're getting out of here anytime soon. Why not make your lives a little more comfortable?" As he speaks, he moves around behind Ilad and, falling back to his favorite method of punishment, apparently, draws his sidearm to pistol whip him. "We /just/ had the floor cleaned, you know. It'd be nice if you didn't make the janitor's life more /difficult/," he hisses at him. And, after a beat, asks louder, "Who are you? What are your names?"
After taking a few rough, ragged breaths, Harrison manages to reply in a dry rasp, "Maybe I'm waiting for you to buy me a drink first." He watches, grim-faced, as Mahler pistol whips Ilad.
Ilad jerks hard against the restraints, rewarded both by the smash of the pistol across his face and the shift of his body driving a fresh stab of pain from the endless dull throb of his gunshot wound. He licks his lips, tasting the well of blood from his split lip, and grins in a feral show of teeth. "You can call me 'Rav Samal Mitkadem' if you like."
"Heh," says Mahler to Harrison. And, "I bet you'd love some water right about now, too, wouldn't you? If you'd just answer the question..." He tips a hand. So easy, really. One simple answer for a drink. Ilad doesn't get a spoken response. He gets a smile in return, and then another pistol whip for his trouble. And the repetition of, "What are your names?"
"Johnny Walker," Harrison drawls through the rasp. Yes, he really would like some water. (Or maybe he's asking for whisky. Maybe he's being a dick about names.)
Ilad spits a foam of blood and saliva onto the floor. Appetizing. He wheezes through a laugh. "Rav Samal Mitkadem Pilpel," he adds on a kind of hiccoughed grunt, blinking a few times, squinting with pain and sweat. You don't need to google that, he just added 'pepper'.
Sounding exasperated, Mahler says, "I /told/ you not to mess up the floor." This time, the butt of the gun comes down on Ilad's back, between the shoulderblades. As that occurs, the door opens, and a mumbledy voice barks out, "/Mahler/." It is mumbledy, perhaps, because it belongs to Bonilla, and his face is currently a swollen mess from being slammed into a certain doorframe the other day. He wears tape on his nose, but that doesn't do a great job at hiding the fact it is a lot more crooked than it used to be. He licks swollen lips, assessing the scene, and then says, "Get out."
As Bonilla steps further in, clearing out of the doorway, a smallish woman follows, looking lost in her lab coat and pajamas and barefeet, a bright red EMT-style bag with her. She blinks at Ilad and Harrison and asks, "Oh my God, what are you /doing/?" Mahler raises a hand and smacks her on his reluctant way out and simply says, "/Hunting/ accident, like we said." And out he goes.
Harrison bristles in a sort of automatic reaction to the sight of Mahler slapping the woman across the face. His eyes fix on her, ignoring Bonilla for the moment in lieu of the woman who is clearly /medical help/. Which would be a /good thing/.
Ilad doesn't really do much; after a strangled grunt that escapes following the pound of the weapon into his back, he leans forward against the restraints, arching his hips in a vain effort to take some of the pressure of his weight from his buttocks. His breath coming ragged and uneven, he peers fuzzily across the table toward Harrison in a kind of unfocused way that suggests the level of pain he is in outweighing his badass quotient at this point. Bloody spittle flecks his lips and one of his eyes is puffing shut. Pretty.
After the smack, the woman, who shall also be known as the doctor, holds still for a long moment. When the door closes behind Mahler, however, she pushes past Bonilla and heads straight for Ilad, her bag set on the table. "Easy," she says to him, biting her lip while she looks him over, various pockets opening up in the bag. Bonilla, meanwhile, drifts in closer as well, and asks quietly, "Would you like some water?"
"He has a bullet ricochet in his buttock," Harrison says, eyes closing, as if trying to remember a list quickly before she's gone and it's too late. "Another one of my men has a GSW to the leg. The third probably has a concussion." He takes a slow, rough breath. "I have a GSW to my left shoulder." He looks at Bonilla, dark, untrusting, but finally says, "Yes."
Ilad gives Bonilla a long and one-eyed look, which then glides slowly back toward the doctor. He says nothing, and holds himself almost perfectly still but for the rag of his breath, teeth set lightly against his split lip. His gaze flickers dark and sharp in Harrison's direction, the force of his cyclopean glare muted by a certain blear.
With a gentle but firm touch, the woman turns Ilad's head so that she can shine light in his eyes, checking for a serious concussion. At Harrison's laundry list of injuries, her expression grows more and more horrified, until she finally looks at Bonilla and asks, "What did you /do/?" Bonilla doesn't answer. Instead, he waves to a guard to go get some water. The guard looks very unhappy and reluctant about this, but he goes. "Get these chains off of them. I can't do anything with them like this," the doctor demands. Bonilla regards her passively for a very long time, and finally steps forward to Ilad, withdrawing keys from his pocket. "Please don't cause any trouble," he asks, as the manacles drop from his wrists.
"The EMPed a private plane and took the passengers hostage," Harrison says in a low, rough-dry accusation. His focus remains on the doctor and, most particularly, her sympathy.
Ilad probably has a mild concussion at this point, considering he just got smashed repeatedly across the face with something heavy and metal (right?). His hands close into fists and a tremor runs in his body, a visible quake of seething temper against the restraint of logic and control. His control held in hand as it so often is, the already bloodied and injured captive does not attack Bonilla. Instead, he growls something in the depths of his throat, resolving to syllables in his ancient tongue that probably make his hostility plain without immediate resort to violent action. (Like the state of Bonilla's face isn't adequate evidence of that.)
Bonilla used to be so pretty. :( He leaves the shackles on Ilad's feet, but unloops the chain from the eye bolt in the table and steps back again. When the guard returns with a couple of cups of water, he relieves the guard of them, and carries first one to Harrison, then the other to Ilad, saying nothing again. "This /has/ to be a bad dream," the doctor mutters. She presses a swatch of gauze to Ilad's mouth, coaxing him to hold it in place, and asks, "Stand up. Let me take a look." The jumpsuit makes things interesting, doesn't it? But in full, professional mode, she makes no bones about unzipping him so that he can shrug out of at least the upper half of it. Bonilla watches for a moment, making sure that Ilad doesn't try something, and then turns his attention to Harrison. "Please, if you would just tell us who you really are, all of this can stop."
Harrison will be a total champ at drinking that water without the use of his hands. Totally awesome. He stares at it balefully for a few moments, as if willing it to his mouth, then darts a dark gaze back to Bonilla. He says nothing.
Ilad rises stiffly from the seat and sways, just a little, on his feet. Jumpsuit falling away from his body, what lies revealed is the lean, olive-gold length of him, the ancient white knife-scar curving over one hip, the old bullet scar at the opposite side. He's got another ancient bullet hole gored in one thigh, although the only other permanent damage visible below the waist -- aside from the livid, new wound in his ass -- is the total absence of his foreskin. One hand tamping the gauze in place at his mouth, he holds the glass of water with his other hand. He does not drink, but stands, stiff and still apart from the slight uneven sway, waiting for the doctor to do her business.
Bonilla finally puts two and two together about Harrison's baleful look directed upon the water, and then sighs and moves in to undo the binding on one of his wrists, freeing his good arm so that he can drink. When he looks briefly to Harrison, his expression, mangled as it is, is all apology. "I really wish you would talk."
Meanwhile, the doctor (ttly managing to somehow overcome a need to swoon cuz omg Ilad) suggests, "Lean over the table. It can support your weight." And also give her a better view. ...for DOCTORING. She snaps on a pair of gloves so that she can try to prod as gently as possible at the wound, assessing. "It has to still be in there. This man needs /surgery/, damn it." Bonilla says nothing.
"I really wish you would let us go," Harrison replies with a dark, dangerous frustration after Bonilla has unshackled his right hand. He picks up the water, eyes it for a moment, and then sips. Slowly. Hopefully it's not poisoned.
It probably helps that it's not that pretty to be totally beat up and having trouble standing on your own. Ilad hisses like a serpent as the doctor prods around his gunshot wound. He clutches the water one-handed, and leans into its brace against the table by necessity. He still hasn't drunk any, but he's too distracted to glower at Harrison any.
"If you would just answer our questions, we would let you go," Bonilla snaps. He immediately smooths out his irritation after, however, by taking a slow, deep breath. "I don't really enjoy this sort of thing, you know. Mahler does, but I don't. If you would just--answer." At least the water is cool and sweet, in the way that only delicious well water from the middle of BFE somewhere in the Rockies can be. The doctor mutters to herself and moves back to her bag. Eventually she produces a vial and a syringe and, after glancing to Ilad, she explains to him, rather than Bonilla, "This will numb you up, so I can--try to see if I can't get it out. Is that all right?"
"Yeah," Harrison says between sips as he glares at Bonilla. "I'll bet." He takes a long gulp from the glass. Ogod water.
"No drugs," Ilad snaps, his voice thick.
Bonilla frowns at Harrison. /Frowns/. With his swollen mouth and his wrenched nose. "I can't keep Mahler out of here forever," he says. The woman, meanwhile, gapes at Ilad for a moment. Slowly, she explains, "You're obviously in a lot of pain. This will help a lot with that. You would probably pass out, if I tried to... do anything without something to numb it first."
"And if he passes out, he's not going to feel much pain, is he?" Harrison grumbles to the doctor, though his expression is now a little glowery in Ilad's direction.
"Then I will pass out," Ilad snarls, turning both his puffed closed eye and his viciously open one onto the woman. He speaks with careful precision, trying to crop the thickness back from his voice, all strain and strangled sharpness in his accented words as he talks. "Entertaining for your friends, Doctor. No drugs until I am in a hospital."
"They're not my friends," the doctor says coldly. She is here without shoes, in pajamas under her coat, with no make-up. What the hell kind of woman would she be if she showed up like this on a regular basis? Gosh. "If you want to pass out, fine. But I thought maybe you'd want to stay awake instead." Syringe set aside, she digs around in her bag, biting her lip. She pulls a few items out. The scalpel gleams faintly in the light. But first, she cleans the wound thoroughly with provoiodine (which doesn't sting, because wouldn't that just be adding insult to injury).
Bonilla watches Harrison. "Maybe we could start somewhere else. What's in Los Gatos?" he asks.
"Californians," Harrison says. He finishes his water.
Ilad holds to his intransigence, grimly. He braces against the table. For all the good that that will do. "Consider it a religious objection to drugs administered in captivity," he says. His ass is pretty tightly clenched at this point, you know, as long as she's back there. "Put it on my chart."
"Well, obviously," Bonilla says, biting back on more irritation again. "But besides that. You flew from there, and you were going back to there. Why not just go into San Francisco or Oakland? What's in Los Gatos?"
The doctor tries to be quick about things, really. She really does try. She uses the scalpel to enlarge the wound and cleanly slice through any healing that might have started. And, after that, swearing softly under her breath about the complete awkward angle and all, attempts to dig out the bullet fragment (or whatever the hell is in there) with a mosquito hemostat. It will hurt. A lot. Like a lot a lot. And she keeps her other hand as firmly on the small of his back as possible to try to keep him from moving. But! She does come out with a chunk of something foreign (uh, foreign to him, not... yeah) sooner rather than later, at least.
"Maybe we like the suburbs," Harrison says, glass on the table now. His gaze is just as uncooperative as his words, and he tries hard to ignore the surgical procedure going on at the other end of the table.
So here is the thing: Ilad thinks he is pretty tough. He may even be pretty tough. But his knees buckle more than once from the pain during the ... brief procedure, requiring the brace of the doctor's hand and the plant of both his hands on the table just to keep him upright. He doesn't quite black out, but the pain searing through him and screaming in his nerves (probably to the tune of /what the hell are you doing/) leave him seeing white, tear-tracks down his face freely amidst the dampness of the sweat. The noises ripped half-strangled from him involuntarily are pretty horrible, too. By the time she is finished, his entire body is racked with trembling. (And he'll probably never want to sit down ever again.)
Blood splatters to the floor. A couple of the guards look away while the other two stare, transfixed, by the makeshift operation and Ilad's ability to mostly withstand it. You know, like rubbernecking at a car crash. "It's okay, it's okay," the woman tries to tell him. "It's out." Here is hoping there are not other, smaller bits still lurking. She presses a thick pad of gauze to the wound, eying the men around her. "Somebody hold this in place." Eventually, only Bonilla stirs.
Eventually, working in a quiet, grim silence, the doctor has Ilad stitched up, lathered in an antibacterial cream, and bandaged. As that goes on, Bonilla continues with his line of questions. "I'm sure," he says. "But what's /in/ the suburbs that makes you like it?"
Harrison has gone a little white-faced during the length of Ilad's makeshift surgery, but perhaps that is his own pain and bloodloss and potential infection talking. It takes him a moment to answer Bonilla, and though his words are made up of the same sort of sarcasm, his tone is distracted. "Peace and quiet. That's why people move there, right?" He swallows tightly and glances, quick and assessing, at Ilad.
Ilad looks ... pretty wrecked. He scrabbles for self-control, still trembling all over, little quivers twitching his muscles in place even as he holds himself largely still. He wets his lips, and with a shaking hand, spills part of the water from his glass to splash across his opposite hand. He uses this to damp his sweaty face. It's a good thing Harrison isn't relying on him for /input/ at this point. He whispers a thanks in his mother tongue, strangled, voiceless -- but some things transcend language, so maybe she will get the point. Slowly, slowly, he straightens.
"I can give you some pills. Some painkillers. And you should take some penicillin," the woman tries, sounding as if she already knows that her attempts are in vain. She hovers, bottom lip bit upon again, waiting to catch Ilad in case he does wind up passing out. When he straightens, she works to help him redress, if he'll let her.
"Yes, I'm sure that facility of yours is quite peaceful," Bonilla comments dryly. The door opens then, and Mahler returns, grinning like an only partially subdued madman.
Harrison goes quiet at that. He is fast running out of wit, and he never has much to begin with. When Mahler reenters, his gaze sharpens and his body tenses, which is really a bad idea because he still has a bullet in his shoulder. He clenches his jaw.
Standing tall and still with his obnoxiously stubborn pride, Ilad nevertheless takes the assistance in pulling his jumpsuit back into place. Perhaps he needs it; the aftershocks coursing through him make his fingers tremble, irregularly, lending a shaky uncertainty to his certain silence. He shakes his head once, simple and quiet refusal on the subject of drugs. Poor doctor. But he speaks again, in a raw rasp, when Mahler returns. "Ah," he exhales. "Hello again, bad cop." He jerks his head invitationally, with a somewhat demented look in his singly open dark eye. "Come here and give us a kiss." He'd probably be more intimidating if it weren't apparent how close he is to just kind of falling over.
Frowning at Ilad, the woman finally gives up on trying to get him to take any kind of helpful drugs. The bag slides down the table as she pushes it along to Harrison. "Unlock him," she demands of Bonilla, who complies, removing the shackle of his other wrist.
Mahler's expression first starts to falter at Ilad, but after a quick assessment of what's going on, his features then slip into a more dastardly state of being. "Sure," he says, strolling right up to Ilad. He does not, however, give him a kiss. Instead, he slaps him on the injured butt cheek. Looking over to Bonilla, Mahler then says, "The General is going to be pretty pissed. They killed the freak."
Harrison lets out a frustrated breath as the doctor moves to him, but his eyes are on Ilad. "Take the goddamn antibiotics," he says, rough even if it is a little belated. He doesn't pay much attention to Bonilla or the doctor for the moment, and it's Mahler who soon catches his focus. He goes very, very still at his words; his face looks even more ashen.
His entire body quivering, poised to strike, the flash of triumph is visible in Ilad's expression as Mahler saunters on up; even as he jerks involuntarily at the strike of the other man's hand on the site of his recent operation. He is almost already in motion when Harrison issues his order, his arm starting to move. The reflex is caught and stilled in place, frozen for a heartbeat. Ilad glances at Harrison, open eye dark-bright. His breath hisses out an exhalation after a moment held. He says, "Yes, sir," and turns his bloodied head toward the doctor. Politely, he says: "Please."
Eying Mahler warily, the doctor zips open another pocket on her bag and pulls out a bottle of pills. It says PENICILLIN on it. Opening it, she shakes out two pills into her hand and briefly moves back to Ilad to hand them over. "You're not allergic to penicillin, are you?" Hopefully, he isn't. She goes back to Harrison after, to help him zip his jumpsuit down enough so that she can get at his shoulder. She no doubt frowns at it.
Bonilla is also frowning, but about this news that Mahler has brought. "When?" he asks. Mahler responds with, "Earlier. Shot him out of a tree. Dead as a doornail."
"You goddamn fucks--" But again, Harrison has to quiet to swallow down pain when the doctor eases the jumpsuit off of his shoulder. His eyes burn dark as he watches the two men.
Ilad glances in Harrison's direction, and pops both pills at once. He swallows them dry, too. Because he is not drinking the water, for whatever reason. He tries to catch Harrison's gaze, and shake his head; barely perceptible, though, the head motion. Maybe too subtle. It sucks not being a telepath.
Although not quite as exciting as a hot man's ass, the doctor nevertheless probes at the bullet wound in Harrison's shoulder as carefully and gently as she can. She mutters to herself about the lack of exit wound on him, as well. "I don't know if I should try with you," she says. "Shoulders are a lot more... complicated." In other words, she doesn't want to mess something up in there.
Mahler obviously enjoys Harrison's reaction. "What? What was that? Would you like to talk now? Or should I kill him, too?" His gun comes out, and he flicks off the safety, pointing it at Ilad. Bonilla, for once, doesn't stop him. Yet. Instead, he says, "If you had talked to us, your friend wouldn't be dead..."
For the moment, Harrison ignores the doctor -- as best he can when she is poking at an open wound. His attention is all for Mahler and the gun he is now pointing at his teammate's head. "If you didn't need us alive, we'd already be dead," he says, either not seeing or not comprehending Ilad's headshake. The words are firm, but there is a rising agitation behind them.
"The boy is not dead," Ilad says calmly, or with a thin, strained, strangled version of calm that tries and fails to approximate it. His fingers twitch at his sides, the quiver that runs down his body having little to do with fear but everything to do with the suppressed homicidal yearning that he holds in check.
Mahler laughs an ugly laugh. "You don't really get it, do you? We don't need all of you alive. Just one." The doctor apparently can't stand this. She leaves Harrison behind and goes straight to Mahler to shove at his gun arm. "Stop it, you fuck!" Mahler, however, does not bow to her demands like Bonilla has. Instead, he backhands her, sending her spinning out of the way. "Right, sure he's not dead," he continues, gun pointed at Ilad again. Bonilla finally says, softly, "Mahler." And the other man hesitates in his shooting stance.
Using the press of his good hand on the table to help leverage himself up, Harrison stands as quickly as his body will allow. He lifts his hand from the table and points it at Mahler. "I swear to God," he says in a low growl, "I will put enough into it that you will be /dead/ this time."
"You are as good as skywriting, bad cop," Ilad sneers into the mouth of the gun. His gaze flickers after the reeling doctor and then back to Mahler. His focus seems heightened, a brightness like battle light in his single open eye as he licks salt and blood from his lips. "What other information would you like to yield? Hm? You haven't got the boy. How many of you are there? How far are we from the nearest city? What did you have for breakfast today?"
Four assault rifles come up almost simultaneously, leveling on Harrison, the guards tense, ready to shoot. The doctor stands aside, a hand to her cheek, her eyes darting between Mahler and Harrison like the're both madmen. What the hell has she gotten into, you guys? She just wants to go home and pretend this never happened. :(
Mahler keeps the gun still leveled on Ilad, though he looks at Harrison. "And what? You die in a blaze of glory?" But his gun does lower (the assault rifles do not). "I /had/ breakfast. And I'm going to have lunch. And dinner. You won't." Holstering his sidearm, he then stalks for the door.
"At least you'd be dead, too." But when Mahler holsters his sidearm and makes for the exit, Harrison lowers his hand. He swallows, but doesn't sit.
"That's all right," Ilad says peaceably, his split lips stretching into a long, wide smile. He lifts his arm to pad some sweat from his brow on the back of his forearm. He says, "{Manna fell from the sky to feed the children of Israel, and in the desert to cure their thirst, water brought forth from a stone.}" It's not the actual quotation. He doesn't have it memorized. But it's close enough for government work. He does swallow the saliva in his mouth rather than wasting any more moisture in spitting his defiance on the floor.
With Mahler's exit, the woman works her way back around to Harrison, a light touch at his good shoulder an attempt to get him to sit back down. "I can clean it and stitch it up to try to keep it from getting worse. But you'll need surgery to get the bullet out," she explains quietly. Bonilla sighs at everything or nothing or who knows what, unleashing some of his tension. "The General won't be very happy about you not talking," he says. The rifles remain pointed at Harrison so long as he stands.
"You tell your 'General'--" And yes, the quotation marks are quite clear in Harrison's tone. "--that he can kiss my ass." But, at the doctor's touch, he slowly sits back down. "Did it go through the old scar or do I get a new one?" he asks her with dry, /dry/ humor that is wound thin and tight.
"I'm sorry," Ilad says solicitously. "What was the question?"
Bonilla frowns. He is very frowny today, even with his messed up face. He steps over to Ilad and says, "Hold out your hands." Unless Ilad does something REALLY stupid, he gets his jewelry clamped back on. Then Bonilla moves to one of the guards, handing over the keys. "Take them back to their room when she's done stitching him up," he says. He heads for the door. The doctor, meanwhile, cleans Harrison's shoulder with the provoiodine. "Looks like a new one," she reports, after a moment's scrutiny.
After Bonilla leaves, Harrison is quiet as the doctor cleans his wound. But after a long moment, eyes watchful on her face, he says in a low undertone, "You need to tell someone."
Ilad does not do anything really stupid. Maybe he has met his quota!
"Would if I could," the woman says, and there is a haunted look there to her eyes. But there is also something else, when she briefly meets Harrison's gaze. "I have this feeling they won't be letting me go home after this." After that, she works in silence, stitching his wound shut and bandaging it. The guards appreciate Ilad not doing anything stupid, ttly. When the doctor palms over the two pills of penicillin to Harrison, that isn't the only thing that goes along. Don't squeeze your hand too tightly. It is a scalpel blade replacement. "That's all I can do for them," she says, loudly, to the guards, though her eyes are back on Harrison. And the guards move in to chain Harrison back up and then take them back.
Harrison squeezes his hand and slices it all open. JUST KIDDING. He keeps it cupped carefully around the sensation of metal as the guards reshackle him. He will apparently be taking his pills later, thanks. Like Ilad, he does not do anything stupid: he stands when instructed, allows himself to be lead back, all that fun stuff.
They find the cell empty when they get back. But eventually, Andrew and Dante are returned. Andrew is stitched up and bandaged. Dante, however, has to be dragged in, because he is unconscious. Because he is /mouthy/.
Ilad would never.
(Oh God.)
GMing by Gabriel!