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(no subject)

CHARACTERS: John Tillman, Robert Capa, Chase Kilgannon, Simon Silverton and possibly more.
LOCATION: Hallway of the passenger's quarters.
WARNINGS: Violence. Death threats.
SUMMARY: In which a new arrival takes a man hostage, gets attacked by a little girl, and is then forced to defend himself by a wise-cracking teenager.

Tillman's awakening was somewhat violent. One minute he was preparing for the final match-- he could practically taste freedom- and feeling more anxious and hopeful than he had in a long time. Without warning, there was a tube in his throat and he was naked and spilling out onto the floor.

He breathed through his nose, the sound harsh and angry in the silence of the room. His legs refused to hold his weight, so he remained on his knees on the cold tile. Drugs, he assumed. Castle did so love his theatrics-- a point made even more clear when Tillman bothered to look around. Strange. Foreign. It looked like he was on the set of some kind of science fiction flick.

It stood to reason that the administrators would not warn the cons before changing the scenery, but why now? Because it was the thirtieth match? Had Castle decided to switch it up to make it all fresh and exciting?

Turn me loose, kid. You want to win? Turn me loose. Find a way. His words echoed back at him. He debated the probability of Castle overhearing that and introducing this new hell as some kind of punishment. Or maybe the kid had ratted him out.

The attempt to reason out the why of his situation ended the moment he could stand, albeit unsteadily, on his own two feet. He was alive and he was loose, and therefore the motives of his captors did not matter quite as much as getting somewhere safe.

His right wrist was tender, the only fresh injury besides his throat that he could feel. He examined it briefly and his guts tightened with cold rage. A fresh tattoo penned beside his existing one. 'I am right here with you' was part of a mantra that kept him sane. Any time he could feel himself slipping into despair, he could look at the ink on his arm and remember what was waiting for him outside. Now he couldn't even do that without a further reminder that he was, in fact, in prison.

030. There was no way that that was an accident. More games, then. Always more games. He exhaled a calming breath. There was no point on dwelling on it. It was done.

Tillman crossed the room on unsteady legs. The rest of the pods, which he assumed contained the rest of his team, remained sealed and silent. If the intent was to make the room as creepy as possible, it had the desired effect. He was relieved to come across the rows of lockers. Different though they were, lockers were lockers. It was nice to see something familiar. He tried his old number and found it quite locked. He tried the next one. And the next. With an expectant frown, he made his way over to locker 030 and of course that one opened. Theatrics and games.

In place of his standard fatigues, there was some kind of... space suit. He didn't think too hard about it before pulling it on. His body armor fitted over it neatly. His weapons were stacked in an orderly fashion: hunting knife, SMG, pistol. He strapped them on. The firing pins on both guns were still inactive, so he drew the knife.

Everything about this was so strange. So surreal. It didn't make sense. Why give him his weapons if they didn't work? Why let him out but keep his squad locked down? Why the shift in setting?

Breathe, Tillman. There were no guards in sight which meant he was free to move around. At the request of the disembodied voice (which nearly scared him out of his skin) he took the lift up and cautiously made his way down the hallway it led to. He had walked for just under fifteen minutes before he came across another human being.

Thin, mousy, dark haired, unarmed. He didn't move like a prisoner and certainly not like an I-Con. He wasn't looking over his shoulder and almost seemed unaware of his surroundings. He must have felt safe.

Tillman theorized that maybe, just maybe, some computer error had resulted in his pod opening earlier than it should have, which made this man some kind of tech in charge of setting up the arena... It was an opportunity too good to pass up.

Tillman stalked forward silently, grip shifting on his knife. He grabbed the young man by the hair and wrenched his head back to expose his throat and keep his face angled upward. In the same motion, he brought his right arm around to rest the sharp edge along the left border of the techie's neck lightly.

“I don't want to hurt you,” he whispered in a voice that was hoarse from disuse. “I know you're only doing your job, but don't think for one second that me not wanting to hurt you means that I won't. This knife is over six inches long. I can slice through your carotid, your jugular, and your trachea in one motion. I just want some questions answered. Don't fight me. Don't test me,” he paused. “Put your hands out. Palms up.” This was not his first rodeo.

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He'd been going over some figures in his head at the time, doing a little mental math in an attempt to shore up some answers to questions that he knew would come sooner rather than later. Oxygen consumption, food intake. Nevermind security to unauthorized areas of the ship; that wasn't Capa's area and never would be, but in Corazon's absence a knowledge gap had been created, one that was the rest of the crew's responsibility to fill.

Corazon. Capa's thoughts lingered on her a moment, maybe two; useless, really, things like regret and sentiments like 'should have, could have' and so he didn't indulge either a single thought, just considered the botanist and the last time that he'd seen her. (He'd gone looking for her in those first few hours after the jump, foregoing other responsibilities in an attempt to find her; his search had turned out perhaps more pointedly than it should have been but again there was that useless sentiment, helpful to no one and nothing.)

Those lingering thoughts spared for his crewmate were all it took, really. Capa hadn't grown up in environment nor had been trained to have a naturally suspicious mind. Speculative, yes, but not suspicious and so the sound of another approaching passenger had proven to be nothing of note. That was, until, first contact — an unyielding hand in his hair and reeling backwards into what so no doubt the passenger in question. He was solid and broad, whomever he was, and before Capa could speak there was the thin press of metal against his throat and an unfamiliar voice in his ear.

"Put your hands out. Palms up," the man said and Capa did not hesitate to comply. Carefully he swallowed and felt the knife dig but not cut against the bobbing of his Adam's apple. He words came quickly, at a clipped pace, his voice lowered to something of a whisper to match the one at the shell of his ear.

"I'm not fighting you. I'm not. Listen. It's alright." Another swallow. "You've just woken from stasis and you're disoriented, I understand. You're not the only one. We've all had to go through it. It doesn't get any easier the second time around, believe me, just—"

Tillman was relieved that the man doesn't struggle or scream. Quiet compliance was a far better route for everyone involved. He eased his hold on Capa's hair, still holding him in place with it, but no longer wrenching it painfully.

"Shut up," he growled. He was disoriented, and his prisoner's input was more confusing than helpful. He went over the list of information he needed and prioritized it briefly before speaking again.

"The exit. Where is it?"

Capa huffed out a breath and, perhaps for the first time ever in his life, truly wished that he had some semblance of social grace to help this all go down a bit smoother. It didn't help that the man was panicked — perhaps much more panicked than Capa himself — but oddly enough the first thought to cross his mind was not I can't die like this so much as remember the mission. If he had his throat slit now, that would be the end of it, irregardless of time-space anomalies or worm holes or a dozen misplaced singularities.

He shook his head.

"You're on an interstellar spaceship," he said. "There is no exit."

Tillman squeezed his left hand briefly, forcing Capa's head to still so that the shifting of stretched tendons wouldn't skim the sharp blade unintentionally. Easing the knife away would have been quicker, but it would also make him seem less serious. That would have been a rookie mistake. Tillman was anything but a rookie when it came to violence.

"The space program got shut down years ago. I doubt they've kicked anything like that up in nine months. Stop bullshitting me." There was a dangerous edge to his voice, as tangible as the knife in his hand. His eyes skimmed the corridor. Just because he couldn't see any cameras, didn't mean that they weren't around. Capa was probably just buying himself time until the guards realized what had happened.

"If you're worried about what Castle might do to you, know that I can do a lot worse in a shorter time. Now, I repeat. Where is the exit?"

Capa wanted to laugh. He wanted to the man look, I've never bullshit someone ever in my life and it wouldn't be a lie, it'd be the absolute truth. Maybe as a kid growing up, sure, but as a man, as a scientist — never. Something told Capa that he wouldn't be believed, that it would probably do nothing but make the man even more angry or unpredictable. Perhaps if he knew how to deceive or connive, Capa could try to convince the man of a more believable lie, but all he had was the truth — incredulous and far-fetched.

"I'm telling you," Capa said again, the normally even pitch of his tone tightening slowly, ratcheting towards insistance. "I don't know who your Castle is or what they might hypothetically do to either of us, but this is a mistake. There's been a singularity. You're not on your homeworld anymore, you're in space."

Capa knew it was just the same thing he'd said earlier, just hashed up and dressed with different words. But there was nothing else he could offer. "My name's Robert Capa, okay? Doctor Robert Capa. I'm an astrophysicist from earth, 2053." His hands, still held out in front of him, twitched in an instinctual attempt to pull the man's hands away.

Tillman had to take a deep breath and release it through a ten-count to keep from twisting the knife and ending the conversation right there. Castle's influence was nothing short of amazing. Here he stood with a man's life at the end of a blade, and he was still getting nothing but lies. Somehow, Castle as a distant threat was scarier than the here and now.

It would have been much easier to kill Doctor Robert Capa, but he was just another unfortunate pawn and as long as he was alive, a valuable bargaining tool besides. "Let's walk," Tillman muttered. He eased up on the knife and shifted his grip in the good doctor's hair so that he could look forward once more. There were a lot of reasons military men and convicts kept their hair short. Tillman considered himself lucky that astrophysicist's didn't share the sentiments.

The slower pace was potentially dangerous, but it would give him more time to sort his thoughts. A hostage was a nice stepping stone, but what he needed next was an out.

Capa knew from experience and from walking the halls of the passengers decks that the space that it occupied was immense — corridor upon corridor, floor upon floor — but that the hallways themselves were not labyrinthine in any sense. They ran in an easily discernable pattern that was identical from floor to floor and that the rooms were numbered according to the passenger identification numbers inked out beneath each person's skin. Which meant that, if they continued the way they were going, the farther they'd be taken away from what little portion of the passenger deck was occupied by other people. And if that happened then Capa knew he had very little chance of either convincing the stranger or coming out of the whole ordeal alive.

"We're— we're going on the wrong way," Capa huffed out as he was pushed along the length of the corridor. There were no other people in this direction, no one to possibly stumble across to save him or intervene. What he needed was to convince the man to steer them back the way he'd come. It was risky, Capa knew, and there was always the possibility the man wouldn't believe him, but he couldn't simply allow himself to be marched off to certain doom.

Tillman took a moment to analyze the protest. The small stutter, the unbidden helpful input. Capa was distressed at the thought of continuing on in the direction he had chosen. Tillman smirked just a bit and a short, humorless laugh escaped through his teeth.

"Keep moving," he instructed, though he didn't press his captive to move any faster. Tillman was patient and deliberate, for all that he was a dangerous convict.

"..The Vishual, a being of immense power...."

Chase was focusing only on the things that made her feel safe. The Ghansgraad, the tiny book of Scripture, and the comforting feeling of steel mazes. She had a simple rhythm, treating it like a labyrinth. Getting lost in the Grail Arbor was something she loved doing. Until she had memorized every quarter.

She made ample care to avoid the smiling door, the place where the odd feeling was. She didn't need any more action, not after spending three nights up, checking and rechecking and checking again. But Corazon and Heatwave were gone. They were gone and Capa was still having trouble sleeping (even more, if possible), and the little girl found herself sighing, turning a corner.

And that's when she stopped, dropped the book, and narrowed her eyes, the pupils darkening somewhat.

Capa. Capa at knifepoint.

Without any hesitation, she began to roll up the sleeves, voice deathly cold. Robotic.

"You'll be letting him go now, sir. I'd prefer it if I don't have to ask you twice."

The book hit the ground, the pages fluttering briefly before the spine made impact. Tillman couldn't help the flinch that preceded him turning toward the source of the sudden sound. He was tense, coiled tight, and ready for a fight. He knew that there was nobody to back him up. He was on his own and--

And that was a little girl.

Tillman froze, eyes just a little too wide. There was something about her pale hair and the soft curve of her chin that reminded him of his own daughter back home. She was older, but then, he had been in prison for two years and his daughter certainly had grown in that time. For a moment, he lost himself in the memory and speculation, during which the little girl continued her confident approach.

He snapped himself back to the present. He didn't question why there was a little girl in the middle of Castle's latest prison arena. The madman had obviously lost a few more screws since their last conversation.

What was important now was continuing his escape. He didn't want to hurt anybody. He certainly didn't want to hurt anybody in front of a little girl.

"Stay back. Go on home," he ordered in a tone that was more of a fatherly admonishment instead of the irritable growl he'd been using against Capa.

"She's not going home," Capa said quickly and the words were less a demand of Chase as they were a warning to Tillman. He'd felt the way the grip on him had loosened, that hand in his hair giving him a little leeway in craning his head slightly, if only for the briefest of moments. He tried to appeal to his captor, hoping that simply Chase's presence would be enough to disuade him to stop. "She won't leave me here, that's—" The edge of the blade skimmed his throat as he swallowed; metal scaped against his stubble as he tried now to pull himself free from the man's grasp, however uselessly. "—that's my daughter."

It wasn't true, of course; Chase wasn't his daughter, but she was his responsibility and he did look after her and Capa knew the power of the word. He suspected it would mean something to the man, with his hesitating grap and softened voice. Both of Capa's hands, outstretched and still somehow palms up now moved to face outwards, towards Chase. A clear admonition of stay back in her advance. She wouldn't leave, that much was true, but Capa also had some inclination of what that look in her eyes meant.

I've killed thousands. She'd told him that once. And Capa had no illusions as to what Chase was capable of. (Part of him didn't want to see for certain.)

"Chase," he said, the panic draining from his voice to find not a sternness but some of that steady evenness that Capa was known for. "Chase, he's disoriented from the jump. He's confused, you don't have to—"

He's confused. He's confused, he's disoriented, it's not his fault, none of that matters because he has Capa.

Robert Capa.

And right now, Chase isn't listening. Her mind is on the battlefield of Silent Earth. Of the secrets there. She sees Sizer diving ahead of Inferno and her, transforming, becoming a horrid snarling beast. She sees many against few, she sees Wilhem Ryan's Red Army, she sees herself surrounded. And her gaze focuses in on all that once was and is and will come to pass, logic and rationality and training combining with blinding rage.

She blinks, and in the brief moment her eyes close they flicker to their natural channel: when they do open, they're a cross between lilac and a dusty rose and, more importantly, it's now obvious she's rolled her one sleeve up for a reason: She's channeling pure energy into her fist and she's going to fire it.

"I don't care." Her voice is flat and emotionless and the only reason she doesn't make the blast lethal as she hurls it towards Capa's attacker is because she doesn't want to risk Capa's health.

"You'll be leaving now. Because my next shot is going to kill you."

Tillman stood frozen. Every line of dialogue exchanged fell on deaf ears. He was equipped to deal with a lot of things-- he had fought a roomful of other prisoners just so that everyone would leave him alone later. He had spent a lot of time planning what to do if there was ever a prison riot. He had war under his belt. The world was kill or be killed. He knew that.

But Chase's appearance stopped him cold. Visions of his own daughter, toddling along, grinning at him, raising her hands and demanding to be picked up, they flitted through his frantic mind. He never wanted this life. He certainly didn't want it for her.

Tillman was too distracted to recognize any kind of danger. He wasn't seeing Chase, with her too-old eyes and her cold, emotionless voice. He was seeing Delia, harmless and innocent.

He made no effort to block or put up any kind of defense. He wasn't even braced mentally. The pain was sudden, harsh, and all-encompassing. His chest was tight and for a split second, he thought his heart had stopped. Maybe it had.

Several seconds went by before the static that obscured his vision faded. He was breathing hard and the only reason he was on his feet was because of the wall at his back.

He shook his head in a quick, compulsive twitch just to make sure that he could. The stunned expression had left his face. The pain had, ironically enough, given him the clarity necessary to continue on with his mission. The girl in front of him wasn't Delia. He had to get back to her. Recapture would delay that.

With an experienced flick of his wrist, he shifted his grip on the knife so that it was better suited to combat and settled into a good stance.

The only problem? It hadn't dawned on him that Chase was the one that hit him and his eyes were locked firmly on his escaped prey.

(no subject)

payload - 2012-01-19 17:47 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

the_vishual - 2012-01-19 19:14 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

slayer_not_player - 2012-01-19 21:11 (UTC) - Expand

NOW WITH ONLY ONE TENSE geez

payload - 2012-01-19 23:28 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

the_vishual - 2012-01-19 23:35 (UTC) - Expand

It wasn't until Simon's phone, nearly forgotten on the desk of the passenger quarters that so conveniently opened up to and corresponded with his new arm tattoo-- 029, what a fucking joke-- chimed with a notice that his Slayers account was activated and prompted him to sign on that Simon knew anything of what was going on. And since it couldn't have been a notice for upgrades, not out here, that only meant one thing.

Kable. Kable was here in space and this was real and it was too heavy for Simon to take. Somehow the fact that Kable's here, now, with him made it both better and worse--

And someone most definitely had to be fucking with them, for them to both be here and now and the nanex link still active. His hands shook as he typed in his passwords, and took a deep breath as the notification on his mobile screen flashed from red to green, and the nanex link activated.

"Kable? Kable, dude. Its me."

Deja vu, but the words were out of his mouth before he could help them as he blinked into Kable's first person view and got a look at the steel corridors his I-Con was currently retreating through.

"What the hell are you doing here, man? Didn't expect to see you of all people stuck in this gay ass space game."

He was still clinging to the thought that it was all a game, whether it was coming from one of Castle's lackeys exacting revenge or a deluded fanboy looking to gain access to Kable through any means necessary. But Simon still had the link, so whatever they wanted, they weren't getting, no way no how.

The screen on his phone was none too big, but it was detailed enough for him to have noticed that Kable's health icon was flashing yellow, with calculated damage and remaining functional health displays telling him that he'd sustained some recent damage that'd not yet had the chance for the nanties to heal. The fuck had Kable been up to?

"And what the hell happened to you? I know Castle beat the shit out of you but you look like shit. No offence, bro."

Twenty questions, Kable. You're getting them.

The link's activation was always tolerably painful. It was an unpleasant tingle, a little shock that ran down his spine and spread through his limbs. He often felt as though that brief moment of uncoordinated movement would end in him landing on his face, but he never did. There was a slight hitch and then he resumed moving forward.

This time, the pain was unexpected and it made his blood run cold. He was fleeing from a sick trap that Castle had obviously arranged for him and there was the link. Was he to be forced to end that little girl's life? That would cut deep. Please no. Please--

But then there was that voice. He never thought he would be so grateful to hear that smug teenager. Tillman breathed a sigh of relief and refocused. All those questions? Unimportant. Not going to answer them.

"Kid-- I don't know what's going on in this arena. My guns don't work, my squad is nowhere in sight, and there are kids on the field."

The questions he asked were important ones, Kable, as they concerned Kable's health, status, and more importantly, Simon's own relief that if he was stuck here, at least he had his I-Con with him. He still wasn't sure what to make of this place, with people telling him they were in space on some ship that wasn't a mockup, and completely stuck...But that wasn't important at this very moment.

"Hold up, dude."

His hands very carefully signed for Kable to stop running and hold position, the latter causing a few minor jerks as he tried to get his phone's small screen to read the command properly. Not having the full interface would clearly take some getting used to, but he could manage. At least the signal for the link was strong and unwavering, despite his cell itself not getting any reception. It was a little fucked up, but Simon wasn't going to question it.

After a second of listening intently for any signs of others nearby-- footsteps,voices, anything-- his and Kable's head cocked intently, he relaxed a little and shelved his concern for Kable's potential injuries for a moment. If they weren't in pursuit, they had a moment to assess what the hell was going on.

"I hate to say this Kable but...we're not in an arena. Or at least, its not one I know. There's no blues, or browns, or anyone so far that's even heard of Slayers.

Oh and uh, I'm here too."

That last part was what was the most fucked up about this situation. Gamers and Cons were never in the same area, much less the same field. Not like this.

Although Tillman knew it was futile, he fought the command. He couldn't even feel the turbulence caused by Simon's unfamiliar device, he was fighting so hard. "You little fucker. Let me move," he growled in a voice that wouldn't carry far. A few seconds of forced stillness, however, and he settled down.

No point in putting up a fight when he knew he couldn't win. What he needed now was information, and Simon was providing it. He steadied himself with a breath.

"Well of course you're here," he snapped before he could help it. Stupid, irrelevant information. They were talking. "Could we keep moving? There may or may not be someone on their way to kill me right now."

And then what Simon said actually registered. "You mean you're here. In this building?"

"I don't hear anyone, so hold your tits a moment. Where the hell are you even?"

He didn't even notice the fighting, concentrated as he was on holding his hands in full view of his phone so his controls wouldn't go awry. He looked around carefully within the limits of Kable's vision, trying to distinguish this corridor of passenger quarters from the one he'd found his own in. All while still keeping an ear out for possible trouble.

"And yeah I'm here, dumbass. What else did you think I meant? Something heavy is going down, and I'm on this...ship, same as you.

And you're going the wrong way."

With that, he signalled for Kable to aboutface, and cautiously start his way back in the direction he'd come from.

"Ship. You believe we're on a ship. A space ship, to clarify." His tone was dry, but not entirely disbelieving. Simon was connected to the outside world. Maybe some kind of space program had kicked up since he had been locked away? Far-fetched, but not impossible.

"No-- kid. Turn me around. We can't go that way," his stride became jerky and robotic as he simultaneously fought with and obeyed the command. "Hostiles-- civilians. Turn me around." He hissed.

"...Yeah. Sounds nuts, I know. Maybe some rich douchebag shipped us both up here, I don't know. All I know is we're both up here, though I didn't know there were any ships like this in space anymore."

The space program had been all but abandoned decades ago aside from the occasional shuttle into orbit for the rich and the bored, but right now, anything was possible. Anything made more sense than the reality he was being told by the others he'd met.

The sudden jerkiness caught him by surprise and his hands wavered, stumbling in his command to keep moving forward for a few seconds before he made the signal again, his hand steadying itself as his free hand brough Kable into a semi-crouch, knife at the ready.

"Its the only way I know to where, uh, to where I am."

He wasn't quite ready to believe that this was where he'd be living for now, but it was a room, and secure enough for the moment.

"You think I don't know how to avoid hostiles? Dude. Seriously"

He'd kept you alive this long, Kable, Have a little faith.

"That's not the problem," Tillman grated out, struggling against the renewed command. He hated this. He hadn't hated the nanex this fiercely in a long time. "I don't want to engage with these hostiles. They're unarmed and one is-- one is just a kid." His lips twitched at the waver in his voice there. He had to force himself to focus. His head was pounding.

"I don't want to be where you are. Turn me loose, kid. You said you would."

"You'll notice I said avoid, asshole."

Simon had no interest in engaging anyone without knowing the rules of whatever this was they were in, whether it was a game or something else entirely. And killing unarmed civilians was just cheating, no matter if they were hostiles or not. But as Kable's steps kept on that same robotic march and his voice grew more strained, Simon finally changed his signal to hold, just so his I-Con could actually breathe a moment.

He'd heard stories of avatars who'd resisted to the point of losing consciousness, straining every muscle in their body, injuring themselves in an attempt to defy the commands of their players. Not that it broke the link at all, but those kinds never lasted long in Slayers. Automatons didn't have good reflexes. Simon remembered that first match he'd every played with Kable, and how jerky the controls had been, how frustrating, and this felt like deja vu all over again.

"Dude, chill."

Turn him loose? Simon had turned him loose, right at the beginning of that fateful thirtieth match, the reason the number 029 on his forearm taunted him like a teabagging spawncamper, and look where that had landed him. Arrested and investigated by the FBI. Humiliated in the eyes of the world as a supposed cheater.

But then again, he'd also gotten to fix all that in one fell swoop, or rather, one fell stab.

"I did turn you loose, man. You went and stuck your dick in a truck and made me look like an idiot. But it all worked out."

Tillman closed his eyes and took a few seconds to assess his situation. He had to shut down unnecessary thoughts, filter out what wasn't important. Simplify, simplify.

Priority: safety. Standing in a straight hallway with no cover was asinine. Rushing off where an unknown quantity of potential hostiles waited was unwise. Therefore: he looped back to Simon's original suggestion. Offer. Order.

Simon was somewhere quiet enough and where he felt safe enough that he could take time to control him.

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes and grumbled: "Take me to where you are."

That was Simon's goal in the first place, to get them both somewhere secure and out of that hallway, but he's not exactly used to articulating or explaining why he's giving commands to Kable, he's just used to doing them. The walkie-talkie mod was still too new, and couldn't undo twenty-seven rounds of Simon having all the control that quickly.

"Shouldn't take long."

And once they started moving again, it was still in that wary half-crouch, every corner being checked before turning them, every doorway given a thorough glance-over. He might have been a teenager, but he wasn't stupid when it came to hostile territory, and how to navigate through it without getting his...Kable's ass shot off.

"This should be it, man."

He didn't have Kable reach for the doorpad, instead he shut off the link and got up to open it himself.

An involuntary shudder ran down his spine when the link ended. It was always strange when the buzzing presence in his head got quiet. He swiped a hand over his eyes before reaching for the doorknob, only to have it open before he could so much as touch it.

Without preamble, he pushed inside, closed the door, and threw the lock. He took in the room with a few quick, silent assessments, then went about checking the bits he couldn't readily see from the door systematically. He knew that if it had been a trap, Simon probably wouldn't have released him from the Nanex, but he just couldn't help himself. Old habits.

When everything was suitably secure, he turned his gaze on Simon himself.