lostwithoutmyblogger | once upon a universe hop

Wyatt himself is little more than a mess, dried blood in his hair and a wide, blood-red leather collar in place around his neck. There are bruises on his jaw, but he grins despite the pain, hands in his pockets.

"Please what?" he asks, in that destroyed voice.

The funny thing is, once asked, he has absolutely no idea. His eyes flick over the collar, the smile, the bruise, the ears, the smile again, the hands, the hem of his clothes, searching out every stray stitch, each hint of wear, the way he holds himself on his feet, how clean he may or may not be despite the dirt, the shape of something under his clothes.

"Where am I? How do I get out?"

The clothes are different. A crisp white shirt, black slacks, boots. Simple but made of impeccable material, obviously tailored specifically for him. There is a knife in his boot and the handle is made of tooled metal, dagger, beautifully made. It's hidden between his pants, so Sherlock will need to wait to have a good look at it.

The clothes have been worn and washed many times, and he's carrying a coin purse in one of his pockets, another sewn into the ankle of a boot.

The Agiel is present but tucked beneath his shirt, attached to the collar by that thin gold chain.

His hands are scratched and his clothes are dirty, as if he's been thrown to the ground. The ear is still missing but the injury is newer. The blood in his hair is at least a day old.

"Hell -- we've got a new one."

He rocks backwards, as though scalded, on the defensive at the words. Something about the phrasing suggests prey to him, and his lip curls, teeth baring unconsciously.

There's no rational reason for it to feel like betrayal. If he had a tail like Wyatt's, it'd be lashing.

Wyatt's smile gentles, though his eyes are still bright and wry and knowing.

"You're at the Nexus. It's only a matter've time before someone gets lucky enough, catches you. If you find a way out, lemme know."

"Is that what you are? Caught?"

Hand circling his own throat, defensive and cautious. It doesn't bear thinking about.

Wyatt doesn't answer. Instead he seems to be thinking. Finally, he turns and makes his way from the room, hands still in his pockets.

"Stay close. No eye contact, not with anybody. Somebody talks, ignore 'em."

He makes it way down the hallways. There is screaming coming from down one hall- the repeated sounds of impact. The dull murmur of distant voices.

It's easy enough to do as he says, to flinch subtly to the side and into Wyatt's step when they're passed in the hall by authoritative bodies with broad shoulders.

His eyes stay on the backs of the heels of his peculiar savior.

Wyatt reaches out to take a steadying grip on Sherlock's arm as the guards pass, where they can't see it.

He slips into a side room. Supplies. Tags. Ropes. Boxes. Filing cabinets. Wyatt closes the door behind him and starts rooting through the boxes quickly, putting everything back precisely as he left it.

He comes up with a worn leather collar, tags still attached. There's blood on it.

"Here's your ticket," he tells him in a whisper, turning around to hold it up.

"I don't understand."

He confesses, but low and sympathetic to his urgency, coming closer to him, looking at the collar, the tags, then at Wyatt's hands.

"The person who wore this is dead now, aren't they?"

Wyatt taps his own nose, and holds it out.

"Put it on, eh? You'll stop drawing double takes. Not master material, not you, but you could look a bit more broken down."

"If I put it on and I'm caught, I'll be returned to the person whose property is now lying dead in a ditch somewhere."

But he steps forward anyway, not quite willing to reach out and touch it, looking up at him.

"Who are you?"

"Wyatt."

That's all he says, before he rips off the part with the address. "Dun get caught, problem solved."

"Then collar me."

He agrees, with a thin smile, lowering his head slightly to him.

Wyatt reaches up, briefly rubbing his thumb against his cheek, and quickly buckles the collar. He settles it on Sherlock's neck.

"Need to act broken. No fight in you, just duty." He looks down at his clothes.

"Need to change."

"That-"

That's impossible. It's Sherlock. His eyes flash again and he glances down at what Wyatt's wearing.

"Who are you? I know your name- but you're enslaved- to who? What makes the red different? What is the Nexus?"

Wyatt frowns. He's jumbled, not all there, and he has to fight to remember things at times.

"... not here," he decides. They don't have time. He takes his arm again, drawing him through the door.

"Eyes down."

He staggers, and stays even closer to him this time, actual anxiety showing through his posture this time. They fit in even better- he looks like he's being led to suffer, and the looks they get are frankly appreciative.

There are violent looks, too, predatory, and Wyatt draws the Agiel from his shirt with his free hand, gripping it hard as they advance down the hallways, out of the main rooms. By the look of the signs, they're heading toward the medical bay.

For a time, it seems they'll be left alone. Then a large, hulking creature with horns, scales, pale yellow eyes slips from a doorway. Wyatt's fingers dig into Sherlock's arm. He stops in his tracks.

"Now which are you," it hisses, coming close to Wyatt's face. Wyatt's eyes are fixed on the ground.

"Little twin kitten. Where's your brother? What have you got?"

Wyatt's fingers tighten on Sherlock's arm, as if to warn him.

Sherlock is quietly, quite suddenly but with no perceptible change to him whatsoever, positively vacant. Disinterested and disinteresting, slumped at an angle that conceals not only his high but his strength, renders crooked the already peculiar angles of his face.

One stolen glance through lowered lashes at whatever that thing is.

Twin. Storing that away.

The thing twists in the torchlight, the misshapen, reptilian face coming close to Sherlock's. The breath smells acidic.

"Human. Not something you see every day... has she already broken his mind, your Mistress?"

"Gonna make us late," Wyatt tells the thing, tonelessly.

Claws scrape against Sherlock's skin, to tip his head up. The creature's eyes are yellow, wickedly intelligent, dead as a snake.

"I'll be wanting another," the thing whispers, a hiss to the words.

Looking dead in the eye, it's a good thing Sherlock generally is hard to read. Combined with the interspecies translation problem, it'd be hard to hide the utter scorn he feels at the uninvited contact.

"We can't be late." He murmurs, tonelessly, as though the obedience goes bone deep, appealing to whatever higher authority Wyatt's mistress represents. But as though he doesn't quite dare jerk away from his fingers.

The thing laughs, out of surprise and pleasure, and Wyatt's face twists, sharp teeth gritting.

"Talking," the thing whispers, twisting to look back at Wyatt, to get in close to him. "Those clothes, wrong collar- Oh, Kitten. Kitten. You are going to be in so much trouble. Don't you remember the last time you tried to help some poor, lost little th-"

Wyatt has pressed the Agiel to the thing's chest. It begins to tremble, seizing. Choking.

"How many hearts you got?" Wyatt whispers back, his voice low and silken.

He gives the Agiel a twist, and the thing crashes to their feet, dead before it hits the floor.

"... oh, just one."

"No talking."

Sherlock notes, dazed, stepping back into the cave wall with a thump. Valuable performance notes, all right. Also, no touching the stick.

"Understood. Should we tuck the body out of sight, or do things die down here all the time?"

"Heart attack," Wyatt says with a sharp soft of cheerfulness, flipping the Agiel in his fingers, then slipping it back into his shirt. "Leave it."

He steps over the body, tugging Sherlock's arm again.

"But yeah, no talking unless somebody asks you a straight question. Even then, look at me for permission."

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