It doesn't hurt. It's barely a motherfucking thing. It don't even compare to the bites he's placed on his own palms in the past, the undersides of his hands so scarred up there's not hardly any grey flesh left-- and that hadn't been for nothing important as this. Just for painting. Just because he liked the color and the pain could clear his head. Which is, ironically, part what's all fogged it now.
He's urged to listen and he does. He grasps those voices like they're his lifeline. They're speaking to him. They're getting for tones all easing him in. No cold voices. No mutterings about him in words as like subject two-oh-one-B or sample ten, words over his head not for him to answer. He can talk, if he wants to.
"SAM. ...Mitu..." The Psiioniic mentions Kankri's watching in, and the guilt of that pierces through. But winds up only leave room for the clarity needed to laugh, even if it be weak. "WORRYIN'... WHAT 'E WORRIESSSON... S'GONNA GIVE YOU TWO." The laugh becomes a sharp breath and then shuddering exhale as the morphling floods his veins. Miracle that human sedatives even work on trolls. "'M sorry Kankri..." What's he sorry for again? For their failed escape attempt, for now, for further back?
Sam's hand is that same overwhelming heat that Kankri is. Bright red like flowing fire, especially when all he's being so damn cold, and not just because blood this time. The Psiioniic is just that little bit cooler, more bearable and not all the same.
The morphling works fast. He can feel the world going softer. That's reward ain't it? They called that drug something, it was the nice one, the one for doing right, not the one what made it feel like his insides were boiling, or was that the shock, it was so hard to remember... Sam needs him. They need him?
"...NEED... WHAT...? Sssir-- SAM. Brother..." He grits his teeth, reaching for sense as all it gets further and further away from him. "CAN HEAR YOU..."
no subject
He's urged to listen and he does. He grasps those voices like they're his lifeline. They're speaking to him. They're getting for tones all easing him in. No cold voices. No mutterings about him in words as like subject two-oh-one-B or sample ten, words over his head not for him to answer. He can talk, if he wants to.
"SAM. ...Mitu..." The Psiioniic mentions Kankri's watching in, and the guilt of that pierces through. But winds up only leave room for the clarity needed to laugh, even if it be weak. "WORRYIN'... WHAT 'E WORRIESSSON... S'GONNA GIVE YOU TWO." The laugh becomes a sharp breath and then shuddering exhale as the morphling floods his veins. Miracle that human sedatives even work on trolls. "'M sorry Kankri..." What's he sorry for again? For their failed escape attempt, for now, for further back?
Sam's hand is that same overwhelming heat that Kankri is. Bright red like flowing fire, especially when all he's being so damn cold, and not just because blood this time. The Psiioniic is just that little bit cooler, more bearable and not all the same.
The morphling works fast. He can feel the world going softer. That's reward ain't it? They called that drug something, it was the nice one, the one for doing right, not the one what made it feel like his insides were boiling, or was that the shock, it was so hard to remember... Sam needs him. They need him?
"...NEED... WHAT...? Sssir-- SAM. Brother..." He grits his teeth, reaching for sense as all it gets further and further away from him. "CAN HEAR YOU..."