There's not a chance in hell Blake's going to make it on his own accord, and as much as his pride drives him, he leans on Jayden's assistance rather heavily. The desperation is slowly beginning to fade, the fog starting to clear as the worst of the sting recedes behind the rest of the injuries screaming for attention. He fights to orient, to clear away the muzziness, but it's tough.
"Viktor," he mutters and reaches across himself to grab his upper arm. He stumbles, but Jayden is there as they continue to move. "It's a— I've got somethin'. Brought it." He's trying to express the importance of the tracker Viktor's implanted under his skin, particularly that it shouldn't be be recovered by the Acolytes, but he doesn't get that out. Maybe he's afraid of these walls having eyes, maybe he's just concussed and exhausted and in shock.
Will it matter for long? Probably not the way there's an occasional lull to Blake's head, like his neck's a loose joint, like he hasn't slept in a month. Forced to stop not twenty-five feet later as he's overtaken by both emotions and pain, Blake reaches out to steady himself on a wall. Disengaging, he wheezes at the end of a deep breath and then he's coughing quietly, little airy puffs escaping.
"Viktor— Viktor sent me," Blake further explains in a brief moment of clarity.
(Does he know Viktor? Is he from the Free Cities? Is he one of the Summoned? How does Blake know this guy's not an Acolyte pretending to be helpful? They wore masks. He can't know for sure. He has to trust, but trusting is so hard.)
no subject
"Viktor," he mutters and reaches across himself to grab his upper arm. He stumbles, but Jayden is there as they continue to move. "It's a— I've got somethin'. Brought it." He's trying to express the importance of the tracker Viktor's implanted under his skin, particularly that it shouldn't be be recovered by the Acolytes, but he doesn't get that out. Maybe he's afraid of these walls having eyes, maybe he's just concussed and exhausted and in shock.
Will it matter for long? Probably not the way there's an occasional lull to Blake's head, like his neck's a loose joint, like he hasn't slept in a month. Forced to stop not twenty-five feet later as he's overtaken by both emotions and pain, Blake reaches out to steady himself on a wall. Disengaging, he wheezes at the end of a deep breath and then he's coughing quietly, little airy puffs escaping.
"Viktor— Viktor sent me," Blake further explains in a brief moment of clarity.
(Does he know Viktor? Is he from the Free Cities? Is he one of the Summoned? How does Blake know this guy's not an Acolyte pretending to be helpful? They wore masks. He can't know for sure. He has to trust, but trusting is so hard.)