"Don't. Move."
A deep voice makes Washington snap his eyes open, wrenching him from a light slumber on his cot. He feels something sharp digging into his throat. He could barely see the shimmer of Active Camouflage as a gauntleted hand, a whole figure fades into view, feeling his carotid artery pulsating against the keen edge of a standard-issue UNSC combat knife. Pushing the blade any further would cause him to bleed out in mere seconds all over the dull-white sheets. Both Agent Washington and the man holding the knife know this.
Wash doesn't move, but he looks up at the merc wiith cold, angry eyes. Locus just stares back, clad in the black and green armor he was named for. The helmet he wore hid the mercenary's features, his expression and his intent unknown. All the other soldiers including Federation Army grunts, mostly shied away from the black mercenary, as if he was the Black Death or the Jersey Demon. Only Washington didn't cower away nor say anything when Locus had walked past his cell. Instead, he gave him an angry glare, possibly because he was held against his will.
Locus seemed to think it was something else.
"Don't move, Agent Washington, or I'll slice your throat open," Locus growled in his usual deep tone.
Wash chuckled, feeling a bit brave even with a knife threatening his life, "You wouldn't do that. You've been keeping us alive for this lo-NNGH!"
A large thumb hovered his shoulder and pressed into it, aggravating his rail gun wound from the firefight in the canyon. The former Freelancer hissed loudly pain as the mercenary quickly threw his legs over him, pinning him to the cot. Then he sees the knife raised, struck by the immediate realization his arms were pinned by the man knees.
Wash doesn't bat an eyelid when Locus brings the knife down, mere inches from his left ear and into the pillow. The mercenary leans forward into his face, a little too close for Washington's liking, "My boss at Control is what's keeping you alive, Agent Washington. If I had it my way, you'd be dead, nothing more than a cold corpse in the UNSC morgue."
"You think that's supposed to scare me?" Wash asked, before Locus grasped his throat. He wrapped his hands tightly and squeezed both thumbs into the Freelancers windpipe. His eyes bulge out ever so slightly, his mouth gaped open in a soundless scream, he squirms underneath the mercenary's weight, trying fruitlessly to free his arms being crushed by Locus' knees.
"I'll make you scared, David."