[It's been an hour, two hours, four, six-- hell, a day, York isn't even sure by this point. He's without his armor, without his weapons, without a clock in the room, without sunlight, without Delta above all else. There's nothing in this room to help him gauge what time it is or just how much time has passed, which is frustrating on so many levels that he can't even explain
( ... )
MY ONLY HANDCUFFS ICON lolhowkickassiamJune 27 2010, 06:13:19 UTC
[YOU'RE A DICK. At least these he knows how to deal with, and isjkfljs HNNGH frustrated look, but the idea of cooperating temporarily means that he might at least put Maine at ease enough to get an advantage of some kind.]
[ Maine ensures that they're on there tight enough, before he's grabbing York by the arm and forcing him closer, stepping off to the side to slip behind him. He'll feel the heavy weight of Maine's Magnum, loaded and ready to fire, against the back of his neck as he pushes him forward, toward the door. ]
[The handcuffs aren't heavy, but for a moment, York almost feels like they are, the cold so icy that it feels like it burns him, almost. They're not coming off, though, just like the Magnum isn't leaving where it's pressed against, so he does the only thing he can do, walks.]
The corridor outside is dark, the overhead lights from above all smashed in by something (probably the end of Maine's gun), glass littering the floor. SO, UH, YEAH. WATCH YOUR STEP. On either side of them, doors have been thrown open, and in one particular room at the end of the hall, if York glances inside, he'll see all sorts of armor strewn everywhere.
If he looks close enough, he might even be able to spot his own. But Maine keeps pushing him forward, maneuvering York off to a room on the left, flipping on the fluorescent lights as they step inside. ]
[he makes a mental map in his head, though it does little good with the jumbled mess that it is, leaving him even more confused until he stops trying to do that, and just focuses on anything else but that.
Once they pass the doorway, though, he stills for a moment, searching for any armor he does recognize (Tex, Wyoming, maybe) but it's too fleeting and too fast for him to make sense of anything just then, the colors not seeming to connect in his head to who owned them.
They arrive in the new room and York just stands there, idly fiddling with the cuffs, trying to work out any weak points]
[ SHOVING THE GUN HARDER AGAINST THE BACK OF HIS NECK at his fiddling with the cuffs. ]
Don't.
[ The lights take a second to flicker on completely, one by one, and the room they're in is decidedly cold. It's some sort of locker room, by the looks of it, with rows of beige metallic lockers off to York's side. Maine nudges him forward, past the brick divider separating the lockers from the showers. ]
[ Maine stops once they're within reach of one of the shower heads, gun still trained against the back of York's neck. He leans over, fingers curling around the faucet lever, turning it until water bursts from the shower head, gathering on the tile floor and seeping into the drain.
The Magnum returns to its holster, concealed by his shirt, and he stands just out of the reach of the water, shirt sleeves rolled up, dragging York under. ]
[makes a noise like an angry cat and goes under the water, shoving Maine back with a hiss, the bandage getting wet, though he's not sure it matters. Hopefully, Maine intends to help him fix it at the very least.
York drags his hands through his hair, and makes no attempt to help keep Maine dry, petty as it may be, shifting a little so water does possibly land on him :|]
His fingers snake back around York's wrists, squeezing hard, warningly, and stepping forward. One hand moves from his wrist to his shoulder, dragging the bloodied bandage off his wound and tossing the gauze aside. It doesn't look as bad as he thought it might have been, earlier; the wound seems irritated, but otherwise it's healing normally, and -- with one hand still latched around York's wrist, he rubs the dried blood from around it, surprisingly careful. ]
[It's quiet, but the anger is audible, voice low and soft and dangerous as he tries to back away from Maine, especially when he starts paying attention to the wound he'd bandaged earlier. Stay back, thanks, he's got this.]
[ Maine curls his fingers around his wrist tighter, jerking him back, and that hand against his wound presses in, thumb slipping and pushing against tender muscle and skin until fresh blood beads. ]
[York realizes what he's about to do just a split second before pain washes over that side of his body, shooting throughout the rest of his body, sending his knees buckling, groping to hold onto something, when the only thing there is Maine himself. Son of a bitch-]
[ When York buckles, Maine supports his weight easily, one arm slipping underneath York's arm, elbow locking against his bicep as he drags him back up. York will find his back pressed against the cool tile of the wall behind him, the water from the faucet and from York's body soaking Maine completely as he moves to pin him there.
The fingers of his other hand are fisted in wet hair, forcibly dragging York's head close to his shoulder, and he just -- stands there for a second, unmoving, his grip viselike, suffocating.
Whoa I almost respnded with the Mistress slkskfshowkickassiamJune 27 2010, 23:48:51 UTC
[He'd struggle if he could, if he didn't think that it would just make everything hurt that much more, though it wouldn't do him any damn good, not against Maine.
Hissing quietly, York tries to shove him back again, only to end up slammed against the wall and when Maine finally speaks, York tenses again like he wants to fight, and goes limper bit by bit, glaring furiously.]
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Move.
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The corridor outside is dark, the overhead lights from above all smashed in by something (probably the end of Maine's gun), glass littering the floor. SO, UH, YEAH. WATCH YOUR STEP. On either side of them, doors have been thrown open, and in one particular room at the end of the hall, if York glances inside, he'll see all sorts of armor strewn everywhere.
If he looks close enough, he might even be able to spot his own. But Maine keeps pushing him forward, maneuvering York off to a room on the left, flipping on the fluorescent lights as they step inside. ]
Reply
Once they pass the doorway, though, he stills for a moment, searching for any armor he does recognize (Tex, Wyoming, maybe) but it's too fleeting and too fast for him to make sense of anything just then, the colors not seeming to connect in his head to who owned them.
They arrive in the new room and York just stands there, idly fiddling with the cuffs, trying to work out any weak points]
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Don't.
[ The lights take a second to flicker on completely, one by one, and the room they're in is decidedly cold. It's some sort of locker room, by the looks of it, with rows of beige metallic lockers off to York's side. Maine nudges him forward, past the brick divider separating the lockers from the showers. ]
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York goes along the path that Maine pushes him to, trying to take note of everything, for what little good it does him]
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The Magnum returns to its holster, concealed by his shirt, and he stands just out of the reach of the water, shirt sleeves rolled up, dragging York under. ]
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York drags his hands through his hair, and makes no attempt to help keep Maine dry, petty as it may be, shifting a little so water does possibly land on him :|]
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His fingers snake back around York's wrists, squeezing hard, warningly, and stepping forward. One hand moves from his wrist to his shoulder, dragging the bloodied bandage off his wound and tossing the gauze aside. It doesn't look as bad as he thought it might have been, earlier; the wound seems irritated, but otherwise it's healing normally, and -- with one hand still latched around York's wrist, he rubs the dried blood from around it, surprisingly careful. ]
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Get off.
[It's quiet, but the anger is audible, voice low and soft and dangerous as he tries to back away from Maine, especially when he starts paying attention to the wound he'd bandaged earlier. Stay back, thanks, he's got this.]
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The fingers of his other hand are fisted in wet hair, forcibly dragging York's head close to his shoulder, and he just -- stands there for a second, unmoving, his grip viselike, suffocating.
And then, ]
Stop.
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Hissing quietly, York tries to shove him back again, only to end up slammed against the wall and when Maine finally speaks, York tenses again like he wants to fight, and goes limper bit by bit, glaring furiously.]
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