Between the echo of the voice and the tiniest of pressures against my temple, I can't help wondering where we are. Underground, most likely. Somewhere far from notice, where scans don't normally reach. That the voice continues, coming to an end with a request, slows my movements down. Deliberation is key. Flexing my fingers, moving each arm and leg slowly until I'm able to test the restraints, no fast movements for how he might have a gun in hand. (Another example of how sometimes, arms are too easy to bear.)

"No," I reply, the only answer to an unreasonable request, and a warning that I only give because of the man behind the voice. With a sudden tilt of both the suit's weight and mine, the machine topples. It was a gamble, of course— there's only so much that one can glean from weight shifted under such restraints, but it proves to be enough, and I brace myself for the shock of impact as the metal clangs loudly against a hard surface. Stone, possibly, or concrete. The lighter sheets buckle in the back, and it's just enough, my knees pressing against a cool surface as I duck enough to free my eyes from the cover.

I spot a pair of eyes, and I don't have the time to wonder.

One cuff happens to be loose enough to jar, my hand slipping through with relative ease. A moment later, and I'm picking at the lock of the other, hoping the rest of the machine serves as enough cover for now. It strikes me that I haven't considered the other possibility. Would Jason— would he— anything to bring them closer to where I was inevitably going to fall—

About ten seconds left.