#also: maybe we have wiggle room to pretend cars get totally submerged slower

[dutyworn]

                                            @parameddic    /    cont. from ↷

She stirs at something poking her in the back, quickly alert at at the painful strain of her arms. Her head, as well, is pounding.

‘Nancy?’

The voice sounds vaguely familiar, but Wren can’t place it. She’s lying down, hands tied behind her back (explains the strain  ⸺  the backs of her wrists against each other, someone knew what they were doing).    ❝ Sorry, ❞    she says, voice thick; she clears her throat.    ❝ Not Nancy. ❞    She doesn’t know who he’s referring to. Where does she know that voice from?

More urgently, where are they? Gauging herself in the dark, stuffy air, she assesses her body limb by limb  ⸺  head and torso hurt, the latter likely from the strain of being tied up, the former from having been knocked out, but her legs feel relatively normal, and are free. It’s  ⸺  the small space, the vibrations: they’re in a moving vehicle. How the hell did she end up here? She doesn’t remember being attacked  ⸺  whoever’s done this must’ve caught her sleeping, or been really good & managed to surprise her. Gods, she hates how much more vulnerable she is, in this version of Detroit. If she had her omni-tool, she could get them both out of this within minutes. If she had her gear, if she were working within an environment familiar to her, she wouldn’t be in this situation to begin with. She’s more angry than she is frightened.

❝ My name is⸺ ❞    she catches herself, about to go with Shepard rather than her first name. Old habits die hard, and while her gut reaction isn’t to state her rank, anymore, she has to consciously lead with her first name, rather than her surname.    ❝ I’m Wren. I don’t remember  ⸺  are you hurt? Can you get free? Do you know what happened? ❞    Her questions are asked in the order of priority.

Her fingers bump into his as she twists in her restraints, pushing against pain. Whatever is going on, working on freeing her hands is essential: else she can’t help him or herself. Fucking zipties, really? The plastic digs into her wrists, drawing blood, as she tries to force against it enough to twist the position of her hands as to have more leverage with the insides of her wrists together, rather than the outsides.

She freezes when their surroundings lurch. There’s a moment of nauseating sway, the faint noise of metal creaking, creaking in a way she knows from when she... No, it’s not the sway that’s nauseating; it’s her body knowing what’s causing it, before her conscious thought.

She knows the noises a metallic vehicle makes, adjusting to water around it.

Oh, fuck...! OK, fine, she’s frightened, now.

❝ We’re in a vehicle of some kind, ❞    she states, tone calm, but body tense.    ❝ I think we’re in a body of water. Sinking. ❞    She twists her left hand violently enough to groan from the pain, working her own blood as a lubricant to slowly keep rotating it into a better position.