[Rhys feels like he should be relieved that when he's taken away, it's "only" for a few shots before he's returned. A few shots isn't terrible, it isn't torture.
Except he knows better than anyone what drugs can do to your head. He's trying to save his strength, to keep his mind about him, but when the sickness hits, and then the hallucinations, there isn't much he can do but feel it all fall out from under him.
There's been so many other times, other places, that slip into this particular situation so neatly.]
A:
[Laying on the floor, after being sick several times in the toilet, he's out of steam to move for a bit. It's okay, though, right? He doesn't have anywhere to go. He'll just...stay here for a bit and mumble incoherently to himself.]
M'not on the carpet, promise.
Don't know what I took. S'okay. I'm always better in the morning.
[He rolls over, his tail and everything else hanging limp and dead in a heap, before he starts to sing in an eerie, sing-song voice.]
Blue-bird, Blue-bird, in my window, blue-bird, blue-bird in my window, blue-bird, blue-bird in my window, oh, momma I'm so tired...
B:
[When he remembers this most times, there's a chair, and his long ponytail, and the glint of a knife at his throat, pinching at the skin. But maybe it's gone a step past it. He's on the floor now, and his wrist isn't broken anymore, but his face still hurts from all the bruises (is that how it happened?) and he's sick from days of dehydration and terror.
He thought he remembered this going differently, but apparently, he remembered wrong. It's all wrong, and now there are other people, and it's so wrong and all he can do is stumble to his feet, press his aching forehead to the force shield.]
Valentina! You didn't do this. You don't have the juice, you poisonous bitch! Who did you get to do it?
[He raises his arm, demanding an answer. His arm is okay. How is his wrist okay, when he remembers it hanging at a sick angle just an hour or two before? A sick giggle bubbles out.]
Part 2 - cw: Flashbacks, drug use, torture, broken bones
Except he knows better than anyone what drugs can do to your head. He's trying to save his strength, to keep his mind about him, but when the sickness hits, and then the hallucinations, there isn't much he can do but feel it all fall out from under him.
There's been so many other times, other places, that slip into this particular situation so neatly.]
A:
[Laying on the floor, after being sick several times in the toilet, he's out of steam to move for a bit. It's okay, though, right? He doesn't have anywhere to go. He'll just...stay here for a bit and mumble incoherently to himself.]
M'not on the carpet, promise.
Don't know what I took. S'okay. I'm always better in the morning.
[He rolls over, his tail and everything else hanging limp and dead in a heap, before he starts to sing in an eerie, sing-song voice.]
Blue-bird, Blue-bird, in my window, blue-bird, blue-bird in my window, blue-bird, blue-bird in my window, oh, momma I'm so tired...
B:
[When he remembers this most times, there's a chair, and his long ponytail, and the glint of a knife at his throat, pinching at the skin. But maybe it's gone a step past it. He's on the floor now, and his wrist isn't broken anymore, but his face still hurts from all the bruises (is that how it happened?) and he's sick from days of dehydration and terror.
He thought he remembered this going differently, but apparently, he remembered wrong. It's all wrong, and now there are other people, and it's so wrong and all he can do is stumble to his feet, press his aching forehead to the force shield.]
Valentina! You didn't do this. You don't have the juice, you poisonous bitch! Who did you get to do it?
[He raises his arm, demanding an answer. His arm is okay. How is his wrist okay, when he remembers it hanging at a sick angle just an hour or two before? A sick giggle bubbles out.]
I can do this all night. I'm not giving in!