Re: NYC Streets: Helena/Seven
[Marta. The name is a talisman that he latches onto, even as he starts to slip into questionable consciousness. The grip on his shoulders, the sting in his face - these sensations come from far away, dulled by the alluring pull of sweet sleep even as their combined weight shifts on the bench seat of the pickup, and she starts to haul him in the direction of the open passenger door. It isn't a smooth ride by any means, and something burns along the stretch of his side where ribs protect vital organs. Slide, stop. Slide, stop. Somewhere above there are uneven breaths being panted out, but Seven is oblivion and he is pain.
What's that? Something about his eyes? Or lies? Lies. Marta. No, he has to find the gun. He starts to come back around with the final surge of motion that yanks him out of the truck, and he manages to swing his feet beneath him before they both hit the pavement. He still can't see (just red) but he is up, groping with one hand to pull himself up against the top of the open door and clutching so tight to the arm that belongs to that familiar voice.] Gun.