A/N: blood and death ahead. C'mon, you knew this was coming.
Thank you so much to Keyanna for proofreading!
"The list of all passengers. Now."
"Prosecutor Blackquill, you've been hurt. You should get some rest and-"
"NOW!"
Blackquill's cry causes both the nurse and several of the Interpol agents in the infirmary – those who were wounded lightly enough in the roundup not to have been robbed of consciousness, at least – to wince. He pays no mind to any of them: all that matters is that they give him that accursed list.
Athena is still missing, and he fears more than anything that Outis has her, that it's her he's using as bait for the Phantom. With Justice still out cold and Lang and his remaining men out looking for the toxin that madman has left around the ship – he has few men, and the lives of thousands have priority over one single life: Blackquill can understand that – finding her as soon as possible falls to him and him alone.
If the situation wasn't this desperate, he might find it fitting.
You'll find me easily, I trust – there is a name that by now should tell you something.
Blackquill has no clue what name that lunatic may be referring to, but he thinks he may be the only one, aside from the Phantom, who might guess. He's the one who knows the most of the Phantom's past, and perhaps he'll know what name and thus what cabin he's looking for when it's before his eyes. He must.
It's his only hope.
The deck is eerily empty as the Phantom walks down the hallway that, he knows, leads to the cabin where Outis-
Umber
-is waiting. The Interpol broadcast a message to tell all passengers to move out to the parts of the decks in the open air, so that's likely the reason why. That means it's unlikely they'll be interrupted; certainly what Outis aimed for, the Phantom thinks as he pauses before a certain cabin. Cabin 215, the one reserved by one Umber Dupont. Allowing himself no hesitation, the Phantom reaches to knock twice.
Outis' voice reaches him a moment later. "Oh, here you are! Didn't take you long. I'm impressed. Come in, the door is open. Close it behind you, please," he adds, sounding like the Phantom just showed up for a chat before a cup of tea. There is no choice but to do as he says.
When he steps in Outis is standing at the far end of the cabin, holding a gun in each hand. Only one of them looks like a proper gun, though; the other is different, made of transparent plastic. Outis smiles at him as though genuinely pleased to see him there. "Here you are. Good. Calling you Mr. Fire was getting tiresome."
Where is Blackquill?, is all the Phantom wants to ask, but he refrains from doing so. He can't let him see how desperate he is just yet. Outis already knows Blackquill is a weak spot; no point in letting him know just how much. "How could you tell?"
A chuckle. "The caviar I offered. You were the only one not to eat it; you only pretended to. You've always been allergic to it; a minor flaw and, I believed, the only. Boy, was I wrong. Take off that mask, will you?"
The Phantom scoffs. "It will make no real difference," he says as he slips the mask he's wearing off and lets it fall on the ground. He takes off the contact lenses as well; his eyes are the only thing left Outis may recognize. "My face is gone."
For a moment Outis looks somewhat disappointed, but it's so quick he almost can almost believe he imagined it. "Plastic surgery. I see. Was that your price for selling out the organization to the police?"
"No. My memories were. My past, my self, my everything. Am I supposed to apologize? They sent that sniper to end me."
Outis sighs almost mournfully. "Because you let yourself be caught. You let them break you, crack you open and take away what made you the spy you were."
"I let them fix me. They made me someone."
"They made you a flawed human being. That's why you're here. My old pupil wouldn't have put his life on the line for someone else. You wouldn't have let emotions rule you. You were perfect. No emotions, no mindless impulses. Logic and control. Don't you remember what I told you?"
The Phantom looks back at him blankly. "No. I had forgotten you even existed until today."
Outis' mournful expression changes into fury for just one instant before turning into another smile. "Well. I can't pretend I'm not hurt. And, since I don't appreciate being hurt, I believe it's time for me to return the favor. Come closer, past the bathroom, and take a look around the corner."
The Phantom does as he's told, keeping an eye on the guns he's holding. Once close enough, he may try to snatch at least one with his grappling hook... but first, he needs to make sure Blackquill is all right. He pauses just past the corner, turns to his right – and then he freezes.
It isn't Blackquill on the ground – it's Cykes. She's still tied up, as he left her, but he can tell something is wrong: she's shaking, eyes glassy, and her skin is glossy with perspiration. "What have you-"
Clack.
The Phantom lets out a surprised cry when something hits his left arm and, immediately afterward, his left leg. There is stinging pain, certainly not from bullets. He reaches to tear something out of his arm – a dart. Realization sinks in the same moment his leg gives out from beneath him and causes him to fall to his knees, the same moment Outis speaks again.
"I had her breathing in some of that lovely toxin. She's starting to feel the effects, I'd say. Numbness and some prickling, for now, but it won't be too long before it turns into pain. I hear that rotting alive is quite painful," he says, and puts away the plastic gun, keeping the real one pointed at him. "I believe you can guess what I just injected into you as well. Except that it's the fast formula, directly in your bloodstream. It's so much quicker. Pain should be on the way as we speak."
The Phantom snarls and tries to rise, but he can't: his leg is completely numb and his arm feels weak, tingling. The attempt only causes him to slump on the ground, and he has to lift himself on his right elbow to look up at Outis – who's still smiling, damn him, like they're having a pleasant chat over some tea. "What... what do you want?" he manages, some actual fear settling in his chest. He's been injected with a deadly toxin, he cannot stand and his left arm – his watch arm – is now useless.
Outis' smile disappears. Now he looks very serious and, again, almost mournful. "I'm punishing the dog who bit its master's hand. I'm putting down a horse with a broken leg. It won't take too long, trust me. It will hurt, but it will be over soo—" he trails off when the Phantom cries out in pain. "Oh. Starting already, isn't it?"
It is, damn him, it is. The tingling in his arm and leg is turning into something else, into a burning pain unlike anything he's ever felt before. It's like he stuck his limbs into a fire and can't pull them out of it; all he can do is clench his teeth to keep himself from screaming and writhe in agony, his arm and leg shaking uncontrollably. Each involuntary twitch and movement sends shard of pain up his spine to his brain, or so it feels. He's no stranger to pain, but nothing in his life – absolutely nothing – has ever prepared him for a pain like this. He finds himself wishing he could pass out, but he receives no such mercy.
"Give it a bit, and it will spread to the rest of your body," Outis is saying, watching him with odd fascination. "You should be able to see your limbs rotting soon. Unless, of course, you use the antidote. I just happen to have some. Here," he says, and lets something clatter on the ground – a syringe filled with a blue-colored liquid. The antidote – the Phantom has seen it as Harrison Fire, and he can recognize it. He doesn't know why Outis would give him a chance to save himself, but he doesn't care. With what little strength he has left, he crawls forward and takes the syringe in his right arm. He lifts it so he can stick the needle into his other arm-
"That's precisely one dose," Outis speaks above him. "Any less than that won't be effective. Now it's up to you. Who's going to live and who's going to die?"
Through the haze of pain, realization sinks in like a spear of ice through his brain. The Phantom turns, and his gaze falls on Cykes; for a moment, he forgot all about her presence. Her eyes are now wide open and fixed on him; his cries of pain must have startled her into awareness. She tries to speak, but the gag in her mouth makes it impossible. She's struggling with her bounds, her skin an ashen gray.
I had her breathing in some of that lovely toxin. She's starting to feel the effects, I'd say.
He has to choose, the Phantom knows – this lunatic is making him choose. His life, or that of Athena Cykes.
Athena Cykes, whose mother he murdered. Athena Cykes, whose life Blackquill was ready to protect with his own. Athena Cykes, who was willing to help the Phantom find his identity after he was imprisoned, who helped making him someone, who still believed his life was worth defending until the very end, who wept for him when his sentence was passed... who wouldn't be involved in this madness if it wasn't for him.
Athena Cykes, whose death would leave such a gaping hole in Blackquill's heart that the Phantom doubts he'd survive it. He was ready to die to save her, he thinks, and her death would kill him. He knows it would.
You can't let her die to save yourself. There would be no justice in it.
The voice echoing in the back of the Phantom's mind isn't his own, but it is one he knows well – one he's used for a whole year, longer than any other he can remember. It's the voice of Bobby Fulbright, the insufferable fool too blinded by his precious justice to even see his death approaching, the idealistic tool who kept believing in Prosecutor Blackquill until the very end... or he would have, if he'd lived long enough to know him. Bobby Fulbright, the one and only mask he ever found himself unwilling to shed.
You know there is only one just thing to do, right?
… Yes. He knows. Fulbright would know, and so does LaRoche.
There is another moment of stillness and silence and agonizing pain, then he lowers the syringe. There is no conscious decision, as far as he can tell: he just knows that if he doesn't act now he may be unable to do what needs to be done, that he may be too weak, too scared of death. He acts fast, allowing himself no time to think, filling his mind with nothing. He doesn't waste time trying to stand, and just puts all the effort he can in crawling closer to her, the syringe held tightly in his right hand.
It's not too far. You can do it. Keep going. You're almost there.
Cykes guesses his intention, she must, and she tries to crawl away from him, frantically shaking her head and crying out through the gag. Even now she puts other people's lives before herself – even his. But her hands and ankles are tied, and she can't put up much of a resistance.
"I'm sorry," is all the Phantom manages to rasp, sinking the needle in her arm and injecting the antidote. With a shudder, Cykes closes her eyes and stops struggling; some tears escape from beneath her eyelids as the Phantom lets the syringe fall and slumps on the floor. She's safe, at least from the toxin, and now for him there is nothing but pain before the end. Outis' voice sounds so very far away when it reaches him.
"You truly have gone soft. Such a shame. And to think I was so proud of your skills. My masterpiece," Outis says, something akin to melancholy showing in his voice. "Except that you're not without fear. You never truly were. You feared death so much you ran from it to become someone else's lapdog. A shame I couldn't see the flaws before it was too late. It seems I failed you just as much as you failed me. I should have known. I should have remembered how frightened you were the night we first met."
Despite the pain that engulfs everything, something about the statement causes the Phantom to frown. He remembers, if vaguely, the first time he and this man who now calls himself Outis met. It was the day he had been recruited for the organization, the day he had come back to the apartment he lived in at the time to find him and three other armed men inside. But he had felt no fear, he was certain of it, nor he had shown any.
"I was... not... frightened."
Outis laughs. "Oh, but you were. You tried to run, but couldn't go far. You were fast, but not fast enough."
The Phantom clenches his teeth against the pain, his mind reeling. "You're... wrong. I never... tried to run."
"Not when we met again, no. Your fear seemed to be gone, but it was an illusion. Shame I fell for it."
"Met... again?" the Phantom repeats, not comprehending. What is he talking about? That was the first time they met, when he returned to his apartment to find him there with his offer. "What...?" he starts, only to trail off as Outis smiles down at him again – a disturbing, almost fatherly smile.
But that smile is nothing compared to the words that leave him a moment later.
"Well, well. Here's our little mouse."
"Well, well. Here's our little mouse," a voice he doesn't know speaks above him, and one of the men crouches beside him to look at him more closely. His face looks fuzzy, unrecognizable to him. Robb tries to speak, tries to ask what happened, but words fail him and he has to lean his head back. He closes his eyes, the light coming from above him too strong to bear.
"It was about time. How did he and that other little shit get in? Who the hell is he?"
Robb forces himself to open his eyes again and blinks, and this time he can see with some more clarity the face of the man above him; just enough to be able to tell he has brown hair and a mustache, and that his lips are curling in a cold, cold smile. There is a low keening noise, and at first Robb fails to even realize it's coming from him. His ears are buzzing and his throat feels dry as a desert.
The man brings something up, holding it before Robb's face, and it's with a sudden flash of clarity that Robb can tell it's a gun – a gun aimed straight at his head. Its mouth looks impossibly big, and impossibly black. There is a loud clicking noise as the man cocks the gun.
No, Robb wants to say, I don't want to die – but as he open his mouth nothing leaves him but another weak, wordless noise. His body feels numb and his head heavy, and he can't manage to even move: he can only lie there and stare at the gun aimed at his head, Seymour's last words echoing through the static in his mind.
Robb! Please, come back! Help me, don't leave me here! Robb! NO! Please, don't! Robert! ROB-
"No one," the man sneers, and it's the last thing Robb hears before yet another shot rings out – the last thing he hears before nothingness claims him.
No. No, it can't be. It can't be.
Well, well. Here's our little mouse.
No!
Robb! Please, come back! Help me, don't leave me here! Robb! NO! Please, don't! Robert! ROB-
"NO!"
The Phantom's scream causes Outis' smile to widen. "Oh, I see you remember now. Now you see what I mean when I say I created you, don't you? Of course, I meant to kill you... but you were harder to kill than your friend was, apparently. A bullet to the head was enough for him. A mercy killing, I'd say. He was in so much pain while he begged me not to kill him... and you to come back for him. But you didn't, remember? You ran. But not fast enou-"
The Phantom screams again, a cry of pain and anger and grief, but it's not that that causes Outis to trail off; what leaves him speechless is the fact that, with an inhuman effort, the Phantom stands. Everything is blazing with pain, his leg can barely support him, his arm is nothing but a fiery mass of agony – but none of it matters. Not the pain, not his life, nothing. All that matters is that Outis is there, Seymour's murderer is there, and he will kill him with his own hands before he dies. He can't welcome death until he's seen him breathe his last breath, until he can face Seymour and tell him that, at the very least, he's been avenged.
The Phantom shuts down emotions, shuts down the pain, and forces his body to work.
He takes a step. Then another.
"Prosecutor Blackquill, where are you going? You're wounded! You should sit down and- oof!"
The doctor gasps as his back hits the wall, and Blackquill nails him in place with a glare. "Stay out of my way, lest you wish me to cut you down," Blackquill snarls. As far as he's concerned, he has no reason to stay in the infirmary. His leg is hurting, causing him to limp, but he's perfectly capable of walking – especially now that he knows where to find Outis... and Athena, he hopes.
Of all names on the long list, one has caught his eyes – more specifically, one surname. Dupont.
The boy, who had also a wound on his left leg and a broken arm, was not identified and is referred to with the monicker of 'Jean Dupont' in police and medical reports; their own version of 'John Doe', it appears.
Dupont – the first surname the Phantom was given after being shot, after Robert LaRoche's name was lost. It may not be a coincidence, it cannot be. If it is... then he has no idea where else he could look for Athena, and hell knows how he's wasted too much time already.
"I must insist! Whatever this is, I'm certain the Interpol can handle-"
"No," Blackquill cuts him off. "They're after something else. A friend told me that the wolf who aims to hunt two rabbits at once is bound to fail; failure is not an option. I'll go alone. You make sure he recovers," he adds, turning to glance at Justice's unconscious form. The electric jolt he received must have been more severe than his own. "When he awakens, tell him I'll be back with someone we both hold dear or not at all."
"How can you- stay back...!"
Even as she struggles to slip her hands free from her bounds, Athena can hear, over her own labored breathing and choked back sobs, the sudden fear in Outis' heart. He's still holding the gun, aiming it straight at the Phantom, but doesn't shoot yet. He can only stare, as though frozen on the spot, as the Phantom takes another step forward. And she can see why, she truly can: as he limps closer to Outis, his left arm a dead weight and the other hand opening and closing slowly, the Phantom looks more frightening than ever before – even when he loomed over her before her mother's corpse.
She has seen him wearing a blank expression more times than she can count, but this time it's different: this time there is something truly terrible beneath that blankness. His eyes seem darker and harsh, metal instead of ice; he has to be in horrible pain, but nothing shows except in his slowed movements. He doesn't make a sound, and even his heart is silent – the raging emotions entirely shut down, leaving behind something that's barely human, a living doing rather than a living being.
Then he speaks again, and it's even worse. It doesn't sound like his own voice; it doesn't even sound human. It's cold, metallic, flat. "Beg me, Umber. Beg me not to kill you."
"Stay back!"
Athena lets out a cry, muffled by the gag, when a gunshot rings out, then another, and another. Her efforts to free her arms double as the Phantom finally falls on the ground, his stretched hand only an inch away from Outis' foot; he stays still where he fell, blood starting to stain the beige carpet on the floor.
He killed him, Athena thinks in panic, he just killed him.
Outis draws in a deep breath, staring down at the body, and lowers his gun. "Look what he made me do," he mutters, and Athena is taken aback by the new emotion in his voice, one that was barely present at times during the whole exchange: grief. She has no idea by what logic, but part of this lunatic is actually mourning.
With on last yank, Athena finally manages to slip a wrist off the rope and free her hands. Her limbs still feel sort of numb and her ankles are still tied, but she pays it no mind: she reaches to get the gag off her mouth and cries out. "No! Robert! ROBERT!" she calls out, and tries to move closer to his body. Maybe he's not dead, she thinks, maybe there's still a heartbeat. She must get closer, she must listen, she must help-
Outis turns to look at her, and she finds herself facing the mouth of the gun.
"You stay put, missy. Or else I might have to-" he trails off, eyes widening in surprise, and looks back down. Athena follows his gaze to see that Phantom's bloodied hand is now grasping his ankle. He murmurs something, his voice too low to make out the words – even for her. But he's alive, she thinks, he's still alive.
"Robert!" she calls out, but Outis' glare is enough to silence her.
"Quiet," he snaps at her before crouching over the Phantom's body. He's lying face down, and Outis reaches to stroke his hair with surprising, sickening gentleness. "What is it, boy? What are you saying?"
The gurgle that leaves the Phantom only barely resembles human speech, but Athena can make out the words. "Hang in there, Birdbrain. I've... I've got this."
"What are you-?" Outis starts, and that's all he has time to say, the last words he'll ever utter. The Phantom moves again, twisting like a snake, and his right hand shoots up, arm moving in an arch. There is a flash of steel, then a gurgling cry and a thud as Outis falls back, holding his throat in the useless attempt to stop the massive flow of blood with his hands.
His throat, Athena thinks, still too stunned to really feel surprise or fear – he just sliced his throat.
As Outis writhes on the floor, the Phantom drops the knife and lets himself fall back as well, this time on his back. Gaze fixed on the ceiling, he gives the most horrible laugh Athena can recall ever hearing. It's loud enough to almost cover the sounds Outis makes as he chokes on his own blood. "Hah... Haha. HAHAHAHA! You were... you were right, Umber. You... created me. Enjoy the result. I'll... see you in hell," he snarls before his whole frame shudders and blood comes gushing out of his mouth. That's what finally makes Athena snap out of her trance-like state.
"No!" she hears herself gasping, dragging herself to the Phantom. Outis is barely moving now, clearly breathing his last, but she can't bring herself to pay attention to him. The Phantom is wounded, too, though his bloodied clothes make it hard for her to tell where the gunshot wounds are. There is one on his stomach, she can see that one, and oh God, his arm is shaking and she can see his fingers are starting to turn black.
The Phantom shudders again, and something in his heart's voice changes – the happiness fading and pain and fear settling in once more. He shudders again, coughs up some more blood and looks up at her. "Cykes," he murmurs, his voice weak, so horribly weak.
"No. No, no, no – please, no!" Athena chokes out, reaching to press her hands on the wound she can see to try stopping the flow of blood – but there are other wounds, and she knows that even if the blood loss doesn't kill him the toxin eventually will. And it's not fair, it's just not fair. She promised herself no one would ever have to save her, that no one would suffer for her sake again, but she was unable to keep that promise. She can't help him any more than she could help her mother, but somehow it's even worse, because her mother was dead already and she didn't have to watch her suffer. He's in pain, he's terrified, he's dying – and there is nothing she can do but drench her hands with his blood and scream for help. "Help! Please! Someone help!"
The Phantom opens his eyes – those pale blue eyes that are the only thing she can recognize in this new face of his – and looks up at her. "It's... good to see you're... you're fine," he manages, and the forced smile he gives her is one of the most horrible things she can remember seeing: a pained grimace showing teeth reddened with blood. It fades soon, though. "D-don't... don't look at me like... don't... look at me. This face, I... this is my f-face now, this... g-gone, my own face is..." he pauses and draws in a wheezing breath. "Leave me. You... d-don't have to... stay."
Athena fights back her tears and keeps pressing down on his wound, struggling to ignore the overwhelming smell of blood, the warmth of it as it leaks through her fingers. She forces herself to smile down at him. "No way I'm leaving. You'll be fine, too! You must, I can't let you die! Not for me, not after..." her voice breaks, and her smile fades. Something warm finally slides down her face. "Please. Please, don't."
He shudders, chest rising and falling in a sudden spasm that for a moment she can't recognize as a sob; the sound that leaves him sounds like he's choking, and some more blood comes out of his mouth, coating his chin and neck. He screws his eyes shut against the pain, causing tears to roll down his temples, leaving trails in all that blood. "P-please, leave."
She should leave, she knows as much. She should untie her ankles and go look for someone to help, but she can't bring herself to lave him alone; so she draws in a deep breath and screams again, as loud as she can, her throat burning with effort. "HELP! SOMEONE! I NEED HELP!"
"HELP! SOMEONE! I NEED HELP!"
Athena's scream reaches Blackquill's ears when he's only a few steps away from the cabin he's heading for. For one single moment he pauses, chilled to the bone, then he resumes running as fast as he can with the wound on his leg. She's alive, but her screams make him fear for her all the same: is she in danger? Is she hurt? Who is in there with her?
All questions whose answer he'll know in moments.
Ignoring the pain in his leg, Blackquill runs to the cabin's door so fast he almost hurtles past it. He slams it open and bursts inside, ready to tear into anything or anyone standing between him and Athena...
… And then he freezes, his mind refusing to elaborate what he's seeing – because it's familiar, a nightmare he's already lived through. Athena, face and hands and clothes stained with blood, kneeling next to a still body – and then more blood, blood everywhere, just like that day. Only that this time there are two bodies on the floor – Outis, he realizes, one of them is Outis, eyes glassy and throat slit – and Athena isn't giving him that vague smile, that faraway look that has haunted his dreams for years. She's weeping, and clearly scared out of her wits, but aside from that she seems unharmed.
"Simon! Please, get help! He needs help!" she cries out, and Blackquill finally realizes that the corpse she's kneeling over isn't a corpse at all: the man's chest rises and falls in a rattling breath just as she calls out for him, blood coming out of his mouth. He's still alive.
Blackquill rushes by Athena's side, and lifts the man's upper body in his arms, letting him rest his head against his chest to help him breathe without choking on his own blood. The man shivers, his breathing difficult, eyes screwed shut. "What has happened in here?" Blackquill hears himself asking, his voice not as firm as he'd like. He can see, with dawning horror, than the man's left hand is turning black, rotting on him.
Athena opens her mouth to reply, but it's another voice that reaches him first. A voice he knows.
"Pros... prosecutor... Black... quill."
No, Blackquill thinks. No, it can't be.
"What did you say?" he rasps, his eyes turning back to the man, ears buzzing and mouth dry. There is nothing familiar about that face, about the dark hair, and when he reaches to touch it he can tell that it's not a mask: he's touching skin, no doubt about it. Still... "How do you...?"
The man shudders for a moment, then he draws in another breath and opens his eyes to look at him. It's all Blackquill needs to see: he knows those pale blue eyes, he knows them well.
"You," he breathes.
"He needs help," Athena says shakily, hands still pressed on the wound on the Phantom's stomach. "He... saved my life, Simon, he did, and now he's losing so much blood, and... the toxin, he was poisoned – we both were, but he gave the antidote to me! He needs it too, he needs-" she trails off when LaRoche speaks again.
"I need... I need nothing," he chokes out, his eyes still on Blackquill, then he does just about the last thing Blackquill expected him to – he smiles. Even as his blood pools on the ground and his breathing grows more and more ragged, even as tears roll down his temples and leave tracks in blood, he smiles.
Blackquill barely has the time to register that before LaRoche lifts his right hand to his face. It's sticky with blood when it touches his cheek, but Blackquill doesn't pull back. He stares down at the man lying in his arms. Athena is right: he needs help. Everything else can be discussed at a later time.
"You do. You need medical help at once," he hears himself saying.
LaRoche shakes his head, his smile not even wavering, and brushes his thumb across Blackquill's cheekbone. It's as though the pain he was in moments ago cannot reach him anymore. "You're alive. You're safe," he rasps, some wonder showing in his voice. "And he is gone. It's... It's fine. It's all that matters. Forgive me for... for leaving you behind. I was... I was a coward. I should have stayed. I should have died. I'm sorry, Simon. Seymour. I'm sorry."
Blackquill clenches his jaw, ignoring the dull ache in his chest. "You're raving," he says harshly, but his voice softens when he turns to Athena. "Let go of him. Untie your legs and go find help. I'll stay with him."
"I... yes. Right. Help," Athena repeats, her voice firmer. It's like she's come out of some sort of trance, and she looks a lot more like herself while quickly untying her ankles. She stands, and turns to look down at LaRoche. "You'll be fine. Just hang in there. Please," is all she says before running out of the cabin, looking for whatever help the Phantom can get on this accursed ship.
Blackquill looks away from the door she just left through when he feels LaRoche pressing his face against his chest. A shudder shakes his whole frame, along with a choked-back sob. Whatever respite relief gave him from pain, it seems to be gone. Blackquill can feel warmth and wetness through the fabric; how much of it is blood and how much is tears, though, he cannot tell. He's murmuring something, his voice too low and broken for Blackquill to make out any words.
"Silence. Cease your jabbering at once, LaRoche. Spare your strength. You'll be needing it when it's time for you to give me some answers. Did you really think that I'd ever let you go?"
LaRoche looks up at him, but when his lips move again it isn't in another effort to speak: he gives the weakest of smiles and manages to lift his head just enough to brush bloodied lips against Blackquill's jaw for a moment. Blackquill opens his mouth to speak, to say something, but words die in his throat as LaRoche's eyes close and his head rolls back to rest against his chest, his whole body now still and limp in his arms.
A/N: I'll be hiding in my bunker for a while.