| [Jun. 14th, 2009|07:09 pm] |
It took everything he had to lever himself up onto his forearms. Even more to speak--to snarl--but he did it. "This is a stupid plan. I don't need a healer that badly, you--tracker." Tsume's snapped disagreement barely made it through the white noise in his head. She was right and he knew it, but--
Goddamn.
"If anyone gets near you, bite their fucking face off." They was all the last words he had time for before the grate swung open with a creak, and then the world drowned in darkness and silence.
He tried not to move, even when hands wrenched his arms behind his back and roped them there--Tsume's good behaviour wasn't the only thing protecting her. He was hauled up, catching his balance only by accident, and thrown over something that felt like a shoulder. The whip-nin--it had to be; no one else was big enough. Heavy muscle and bone pressed against his gut. His hand hung down, blood rushing to pound through his brain. He might have yelled, he couldn't tell.
He definitely threw up, when the whip-ninja leapt back up to the deck and everything lurched. But it splattered all down the man's back--at least, if felt like it did--and that was the closest thing he'd had to a decent victory since killing their kunoichi.
Air rushed over his skin, stinging with salt. His lash marks had already cracked wide open; moving just made them bleed more. His bound hands rested in the small of his back, scraping red-raw flesh. Movement happened quickly. Quicker when he retched again--
Light snapped back, bringing sound with it. Hands grabbed at him, tossing him belly-down onto a rough cot. He blacked out for a moment, head jarred too much to bear. When he opened his eyes again, his hands had been retied to the cot-rails, one either side of his body, his ankles lashed tightly to the base-rail, and his mouth tasted foul. His inner elbow stung with something that felt like... a... needle....
"...what's...?"
A hand turned his face to the side, sliced cheek uppermost, and pried his eyelid open. He got a dizzy view of a weathered face and a gloved hand holding a syringe.
"Chill out, bucko. This won't take long."
"...'sume..."
He faded out long before the first suture ran through skin. |
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