As Amanuel worked himself, the dials and knobs of the vehicle's radios turned of their own volition. The radio crackled to life, and ever so softly, music came from the speakers. It was an old tune, but it suited the moment.<br/><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Chris Isaak - Wicked Game</div><div class="spoiler_body">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UAOxCqSxRD0</div></div><hr/>As Rez contemplates the sun, one of her own circles close. Softly, quietly: when she is like this, it is known that she should not be disturbed. Newt ambles, as close as he dares, to Rez. His face is sewn back together wrong, and his dilated pupils show that Cat gave him something to keep him up on his feet after the adrenaline high wore off. But he had a metal cup in one hand, and it was filled to the brim with an amber liquid and foam had dripped over one side. The contents were a brew of some sort, and many of the Buitres had drank of it. If it had been hog piss or rotgut they would have just drained it all amongst themselves with their typical lack of care. But the way Newt shifted from one foot to another and waited to give Rez a taste said something else.<br/><br/><hr/>"So do I," came an unamused, dry voice. "There's some fucking asshole screaming like a bitch while I'm working and-" Footfalls accompanied this, and it came to an abrupt stop. "No. No. You didn't just . . ." Q could not see it, face down on the floor as he selfishly was, but the source of that voice was a face now distorted in gross displeasure. "Get this fucker out of here. Now!"<br/><br/>There were faster footfalls, and two pairs of hands grasped Q by either arm and hoisted the USMC-er up bodily. The hands belonged - assuming Q cared to look, and like so much about the hold and the people within, was probably assuming far too much - to men clad in dirty coveralls wearing blood-stained rubber animal masks. Pig had Q's left and Cock had the right. The pair were eerily silent, and they said nothing as they carried Q out of the clinic and unceremoniously dumped him on the black tarmac like a piece of garbage. There was no reason to regard Q as anything else: Q himself had not given anyone in the hold any reason to give half a dogshit about him, and now he was reaping it.<br/><br/>Cock stayed out in the street, squatting down in front of Q. The man rested easily on the balls of his feet, and flicked a folded straight razor from his left sleeve into his palm with one smooth motion. With a flick that was imperceptible to Q in his current state, the clean, polished blade of the razor was out and glinting in the sunlight, tilted just so to direct the caught light into Q's eyes. An equally imperceptible flick followed, and the razor was folded up again. Cock cocked his head to the left in silent question, wondering at all if Q got the message. If Q even<em>could</em>get the message.<br/><br/>The sound of hug-softened sobs carried from the open door of the clinic. Within, out of Q's sight, Pig had the doctor - such as he was - in a gentle embrace, patting and rubbing the old man's back in a soothing way as tears fell onto dirty coveralls.<br/><br/>What was the source of all of this grief? Q's blood was all over the carpet. And even savages knew you could not get blood out.