The syringe is clean, deadly efficient, simple, elegant -- just looking at it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Since Freelancer he's always been uneasy around that kind of thing, but especially knowing what's in it, knowing what it can do, seeing how easy and casually Zahal uses it.
The threat that the woman directs at him sounds surprisingly steady given her situation, and even not knowing her, Wash knows that tone of voice. Not dripping with malice or seething hatred, just the calm, unwavering determination of someone giving their word. She means it. She means every word of it.
Wash has been so focused on thinking about the mental effects of the drug that he hadn't stopped to consider what it would look like, hadn't thought about being able to see it take hold on someone, and god. He can see it rolling over her like a wave, a sudden tension and then all of it just washing away with the tide. She stretches as much as she can in her bonds, rolling back her shoulders, and when her eyes reopen all Wash can think of is Zahal's words, from moments before. Suspended in bliss.
She looks content. And even in that state, there's something in her eyes, something in her smile, something confident and bold, a held-back ferocity, a predator surveying their realm, immediately reminding him of how she'd fought the night he and York had gotten her captured. Small wonder that Maine might've taken a liking to her.
He tries to catch her eyes, as if to try and send her some unspoken signal that he's still trying to help her, that he's on her side, but she seems barely aware there's anyone else in the room at all -- and what can he do? Nothing, not here, not now. Wash has always been calculated and careful, has always ended up sitting back whenever he needed to do something, and he can't help but feel something sink in his chest. This is different, he tells himself. He'll help her. He's here to help her.
Wash looks back to the dragon, to Zahal. He hates to admit it, but part of him is -- interested, to see Zahal's methods.
no subject
The threat that the woman directs at him sounds surprisingly steady given her situation, and even not knowing her, Wash knows that tone of voice. Not dripping with malice or seething hatred, just the calm, unwavering determination of someone giving their word. She means it. She means every word of it.
Wash has been so focused on thinking about the mental effects of the drug that he hadn't stopped to consider what it would look like, hadn't thought about being able to see it take hold on someone, and god. He can see it rolling over her like a wave, a sudden tension and then all of it just washing away with the tide. She stretches as much as she can in her bonds, rolling back her shoulders, and when her eyes reopen all Wash can think of is Zahal's words, from moments before. Suspended in bliss.
She looks content. And even in that state, there's something in her eyes, something in her smile, something confident and bold, a held-back ferocity, a predator surveying their realm, immediately reminding him of how she'd fought the night he and York had gotten her captured. Small wonder that Maine might've taken a liking to her.
He tries to catch her eyes, as if to try and send her some unspoken signal that he's still trying to help her, that he's on her side, but she seems barely aware there's anyone else in the room at all -- and what can he do? Nothing, not here, not now. Wash has always been calculated and careful, has always ended up sitting back whenever he needed to do something, and he can't help but feel something sink in his chest. This is different, he tells himself. He'll help her. He's here to help her.
Wash looks back to the dragon, to Zahal. He hates to admit it, but part of him is -- interested, to see Zahal's methods.