Neal looks at Malcolm, then at John, trying to focus on the question of when it would be best to slip the restraints and losing track of that thought in chasing down a dozen other half-formed avenues.
He shifts--and then winces sharply at the pain in his abdomen, looking down at himself and spotting the somewhat ragged, formerly nice button-up he had on. It's bloodstained and slashed open at the gut, and he's injured underneath, though not terribly.
Neal stares at the wound, shock rolling through him in little chilly waves. None of this makes sense. This doesn't make any sense. This doesn't make any sense.
"This doesn't make any sense," he murmurs, the words only half-intended to be spoken aloud, his eyes burning at little as he forces himself to keep from tearing up. He looks at John, then at Malcolm, then at their surroundings in general again. "Where. Where are we? What..."
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He shifts--and then winces sharply at the pain in his abdomen, looking down at himself and spotting the somewhat ragged, formerly nice button-up he had on. It's bloodstained and slashed open at the gut, and he's injured underneath, though not terribly.
Neal stares at the wound, shock rolling through him in little chilly waves. None of this makes sense. This doesn't make any sense. This doesn't make any sense.
"This doesn't make any sense," he murmurs, the words only half-intended to be spoken aloud, his eyes burning at little as he forces himself to keep from tearing up. He looks at John, then at Malcolm, then at their surroundings in general again. "Where. Where are we? What..."
His voice breaks a little on the last word.