*stares in momentarily bewilderment at the swollen, crooked things in his lap, hardly recognizing them as his own hands* *hears the valve wheel ping to a stop somewhere off in the darkness, and abruptly realizes that it must have flown free after that last particularly urgent yank* *shoddy workmanship, that--they should have some maintenance done or something*
*doesn't clearly recall undoing the cords at his ankles, but thinks he must have done so, because suddenly he is on the floor, curled up and panting and trying to muster the strength to get to his clothes (the phone, the gun)*
*tries to keep his face clear of the white dust on the floor (???), because the few times she forced him to sneeze, the pain was enough to drive him halfway to oblivion* *even so, can't help a weak, stifled cough (and the blood splatter kinda looks like a harp with a broken string--Salgant would probably make a song, huh?)*