( loaded gun to his head and he has the nerve to ask for seconds. this bitch.
he inhales slowly, chest hitching on a shudder that drags his spine taut. focus. fuck. )
You're feisty.
( wildly tenacious, too. credit where credit's due.
there's no guarantee that sharkface won't come at him the literal moment felix drops the gun. he's a live-wire ready to fry felix 200 milliamps deep, and that kind of mercurial unpredictability makes him uncomfortably dangerous. his finger flicks over the trigger, squeezing feather-light and lifting away. killing him would be smart, except he's by himself in strange and foreign territory, with no way to measure the present consequences of shooting him dead over the eventual consequences of just letting him walk. no allies, either. no ortez, no fucking nothing. alone.
good, is his first thought, hot and bitterly vicious. fuck ortez and everyone else on that hellspawn of a planet.
stop. stow that for later, gates, you're hurting yourself. he swallows around the acrid taste of blood in his mouth and unclamps his teeth from his tongue, holstering his sidearm. the knife next, yanked from the wall as he edges around sharkface's body and kicks his own knife — spattered in felix's blood — in a corner of the cab, out of reach. he has others, too many others, overcompensating for his lack of a firearm, probably. whatever. it's hard to think.
the drugs, licking through his nerves like an open flame over gasoline. he's high as a kite. )
We're done.
( not nearly as disdainful as he feels.
he wedges his back against the wall closest to him and hikes his weight onto the steel railing. common sense and his training dictate he keeps the helmet on, but he's fucked for the foreseeable future anyway and the suit is unbearably oppressive. his thumb slots in the crevice under his chin, pushing up until the seal pops and hisses, and he's free, helmet wedged between the loose spread of his thighs.
it certainly doesn't help. with his seal busted, it also doesn't hurt. he pinches his thumb and forefinger into his eyes, wiping the sweat from his lashes, then gropes for his injured shoulder and squeezes, allowing the pain to anchor him. his glove comes away red, slippery wet. asshole stuck him good, stabbed right into his suit through layers of gel and mixed composites. )
We can talk round two if you ever get your rig back.
( because he's sure as fuck not getting his unless he takes it off his corpse. )
no subject
he inhales slowly, chest hitching on a shudder that drags his spine taut. focus. fuck. )
You're feisty.
( wildly tenacious, too. credit where credit's due.
there's no guarantee that sharkface won't come at him the literal moment felix drops the gun. he's a live-wire ready to fry felix 200 milliamps deep, and that kind of mercurial unpredictability makes him uncomfortably dangerous. his finger flicks over the trigger, squeezing feather-light and lifting away. killing him would be smart, except he's by himself in strange and foreign territory, with no way to measure the present consequences of shooting him dead over the eventual consequences of just letting him walk. no allies, either. no ortez, no fucking nothing. alone.
good, is his first thought, hot and bitterly vicious. fuck ortez and everyone else on that hellspawn of a planet.
stop. stow that for later, gates, you're hurting yourself. he swallows around the acrid taste of blood in his mouth and unclamps his teeth from his tongue, holstering his sidearm. the knife next, yanked from the wall as he edges around sharkface's body and kicks his own knife — spattered in felix's blood — in a corner of the cab, out of reach. he has others, too many others, overcompensating for his lack of a firearm, probably. whatever. it's hard to think.
the drugs, licking through his nerves like an open flame over gasoline. he's high as a kite. )
We're done.
( not nearly as disdainful as he feels.
he wedges his back against the wall closest to him and hikes his weight onto the steel railing. common sense and his training dictate he keeps the helmet on, but he's fucked for the foreseeable future anyway and the suit is unbearably oppressive. his thumb slots in the crevice under his chin, pushing up until the seal pops and hisses, and he's free, helmet wedged between the loose spread of his thighs.
it certainly doesn't help. with his seal busted, it also doesn't hurt. he pinches his thumb and forefinger into his eyes, wiping the sweat from his lashes, then gropes for his injured shoulder and squeezes, allowing the pain to anchor him. his glove comes away red, slippery wet. asshole stuck him good, stabbed right into his suit through layers of gel and mixed composites. )
We can talk round two if you ever get your rig back.
( because he's sure as fuck not getting his unless he takes it off his corpse. )