Big Damn Hero #2, on the verge of going starkers
"That is not a weapon," Bryant returned in a curiously flat tone. He tried to hold onto the anger, tried to conjure up the image of Marcus in that tube, the purest picture of eternal agony that Bryant could've never conceived of before this nightmarish existence they were all attempting to endure.
But having just set aside anger in favor of logic, it was slow to boil and his best chum fear was bubbling up in its stead. For as much hope as Bryant contained in his huge frame, there was at least as much fear.
Even then, Bryant was having a hard time processing. Why couldn't he bloody stop shaking?
"It's... it's not a-a-a-a... w-weapon." Oh, merciful God, were his teeth chattering now? Terribly inconvenient, really, when he often had a hard time in his nervousness to use his words succinctly. There really wasn't time for him to bumble about like this. The two of them were supposed to be doing something; he shouldn't be gawking at the monstrous thing like this.
But Bryant couldn't help it, any more than he could help the fear and the shaking. "K-Kessie, that thing... or, ah... or things like it... it... me... cut... standing, standing over... I... leg--" With that last word Bryant brought his chaotic spew of words that just wouldn't connect to a halt.
He understood what Kessie meant, on a purely intellectual level, and Bryant was trying desperately to get all of the other levels in him to get in line. But this had to be one of the looming figures of his lost time between the first time the walls had gone down to when he woke up in a cell with Kessie. Maybe this one operated on him. Maybe this one took Marcus' leg from him.
Bryant O'Neill was about five seconds away from losing it entirely, even as his rational mind screamed itself hoarse that Kessie was right, that they could arm themselves from this thing and, better still, that Bryant would be able to wield these particular tools with skill.