the_hermit | For nine

Merritt goes still when the projections do, pulling up a wall against whatever might be coming next - and then huffs out a breath as he rolls his shoulders against the remains of the strain the projections put on his arms. "Looking forward to it."

To both parts of that, actually.

"We'll see." The talk they have, if and when they get out, will not be a pleasant one, most likely.

For now, though, he tosses a glance back over his shoulder, shakes his head faintly as he seems to decide they won't be getting out that way, at least not right now, and raking his tongue over his teeth, takes another look out over the lobby. There's a hallway, not too far off of where Ben was sitting, and while he has no idea where it leads, he figures it's their best bet. Maybe, if nothing else, they'll be able to lose the swarm of tourists, who, now recovered from his sudden appearance are on the move again.

"Go," he hisses at Merritt, with a nod in that direction. He's FBI and not as ground down as Merritt is. He figures it'll take Merritt longer to get where they're going, and he'd really rather not leave him in the dust, if he takes point.

He gets that, but he brought it on himself doing this. He just appreciates the back-up, right now.

Merritt doesn't hesitate at Dylan's direction and starts down the hallway, barely registering the guest room doors he passes as he glances back over his shoulder to make sure Dylan is still able to keep up with him, that the projections aren't too close.

Dylan keeps pace easily, the projections less so, if only because that many people trying to move down a hallway at the same time creates a bottleneck, buying them time. It may have been what Dylan was counting on, but even if it was, he doesn't let himself slow, not yet. Instead, he continues herding Merritt along.

"Stairs," he calls, as they come up on the door for them. Heading up won't get them out, he knows, but having their pick of floors means they might be able to find somewhere and hide, catch their breath, decide on how to get out of here.

Merritt ducks quickly and immediately through the door to the stairs, hanging back to hold it for Dylan - and then slamming it behind him and reaching out to jam the lock into place with a burst of mentalism. Even before it starts rattling as the projections attempt to follow, Merritt turns to start up the stairs.

"Pretty sure this is what I usually yell at people not to do in horror movies," he tosses off as he climbs, though he's not actually objecting to the plan.

"You wanna stop, go back and fight, like, twenty guys while I work on the door, just say the word," Dylan shoots back as he follows. "Otherwise, pick a floor and pray we can lose 'em for a little while."

And that they don't reconvene in the lobby, if and when they can't find them.

"Pass," Merritt returns, continuing up the next flight but then stopping at the third floor to carefully pull the door open. He glances out briefly, peering around the edges. "No creepy tourists so far," he tells Dylan as he opens the door fully and steps out onto another hallway of guest rooms.

Grunting in lieu of a proper response, Dylan follows him out into the hallway, otherwise silent. He throws a glance down the hallway, hesitating, as if he expects their luck, so far, to change, and every door on this floor to open, spilling more tourists onto them. After a beat or two of relative calm, however, he relaxes, albeit marginally, and turns back to the door, pulling it shut more quietly than Merritt did with the last one, perhaps, but with the same pulse of magic at the end, effectively jamming the lock.

When he turns back to Merritt, it's to grab one of his arms and start hauling him down the hallway. "C'mmmon."

Merritt glances back as Dylan jams the door - and then lets himself be pulled a few steps. "I'm not planning on hanging around and waiting on them," he does bother to object to being manhandled, but it's not like he wasn't going to follow him anyway.

With a look torn between irritation and apology, wound up as he is and for being as wound up as he is, he lets Merritt go, then continues to move down the hallway. He stops a handful of steps later, in front of one of the many, uniform doors, and, after casting a look back in his direction, reaches for the handle, fore and middle fingers rubbing against his thumb. A spark jumps from his hand as he touches it to the handle, and when he tries it afterwards, it opens without effort.

Peeking his head in, his shoulders tense all at once, posture unmistakable as wishing he had his gun in this instance, more comfortable with it, when clearing a room, than anything else. When he finds it empty, he relaxes again but again not in entirety, and steps inside. He doesn't bother making sure Merritt follows, not after that protest, and not when there's more to check, to make sure they're alone, than just the tiny living area the room immediately opens into.

Merritt stays close on Dylan's heels, glancing back over his shoulder occasionally and staying alert for any sounds indicating someone might be following them. When Dylan opens the door, he ducks in behind him, turning to lock and bolt the door before he huffs out a breath.

"I don't think anyone's in here," he whispers faintly. He doesn't feel anyone, anyway, but he's also not going to relax too much until Dylan clears the place.

Again, Dylan responds with a sound of agreement rather than words. He's pretty sure there's no one here, either, but better safe than sorry.

Thankfully, he finds nothing, that much clear an instant before he says as much, his shoulders slumping the rest of the way and all at once. "Alright. That should buy us some time."

Merritt finally relaxes marginally, too, letting out another breath as he finally steps away from the door, moving to sink down into one of the arm chairs. He still doesn't relax fully, perching on the edge in case he needs to get up in a hurry again. He's not as young as he once was, after all.

"Sorry, by the way," he offers after a moment, still quietly. Even if they don't have this full conversation now, he wants to say that first. "I had to find out who this asshole was."

Dylan props himself against a wall, nearby, and as Merritt starts, huffs out a breath, the sound almost a laugh, and shakes his head. It takes him a moment beyond that to find his words, as he didn't exactly have a monologue prepared for this moment, even if there are a few things he's sure he needs to say.

"Yeah, well. Congratulations," he offers, to start. A beat and then, "How the hell'd you even find him again?" Seems to him like it was a little too easy.

Merritt breathes out a wry laugh of his own and then shakes his head. "Asshole knows how to get in people's heads while they're asleep somehow. I'm guessing the fact that I actually wanted him in mine was enough to summon him or whatever."

Dylan gives him a look that seems to suggest that he's not sure he thinks it works like that but doesn't actually say as much. Instead, he's silent for another long moment, thoughtful, before venturing, "Or maybe he's still watching the suite."

Merritt shrugs, too. You asked his opinion, Dylan; that was it.

His jaw tightens slightly at Dylan's suggestion. "Which is part of why I wanted to find out who he was. If I could find out who'd done all that, I could tell him to fuck off and leave the kids alone."

Also Dylan, but he doesn't particularly want to get into that can of worms right now, right here.

Dylan hums, his own expression hardening, too, though at this point, it has less to do with the idea that the kids might still be in danger and more to do with the fact that he's very obviously reading him. When he seems to find what he's looking for, he shakes his head again and reaches up to scrub a hand over the lower part of his face. When he drops his hand away again -- well, he doesn't exactly drop it. No, instead, he reaches out in Merritt's direction, and suddenly and all at once, chains spring from the upholstery of Merritt's seat, shredding it in the process, trying to wrap around him.

"You just don't get it, do you?" he asks, fingers twitching as he punctuates his question with a mental slam, trying to keep Merritt from trying to get up before the chains stop him entirely. "Hell, Bradley got it and I barely had to push him in that direction."

Merritt startles as the chains burst out of the chair, starting to push himself up. One manages to get around his chest, though, hauling him backward - helped along by Dylan's mental slam that leaves him reeling, leaves a trickle of blood dripping from one nostril.

Before he can gather himself, he's trapped. One chain pins his upper body to the back of the chair, another holding him in at the waist like a seatbelt, and he grunts as they tighten, squeezing him enough that breathing isn't easy. Others pin down his wrists, tightening hard enough to bruise and joined by more at his elbows as he struggles to pull free; another two snake out from under the chair to secure his ankles, and they throw him farther off balance when they, too, tighten as he struggles.

"I don't," he begins, looking finally from the chains to Dylan - and then he stops. He stops struggling, face going slack in dawning realization - and no small amount of horror. He does get it, no matter how much he wants to deny that he does. "I offered to leave," he says instead of whatever he might have been going to before.

Dylan smiles viciously, though the expression is a brief one before it slips into something unabashedly furious. He's taken his pleasure in Merritt's realization; time for the coup de grace. Minus the mercy.

"Not good enough," he answers, voice low, dangerous. "You don't get to make me go through this shit and just walk away. You don't get to take my father from me, make me choose." He flashes his teeth at Merritt, sneering. "So, I set you up, and God, it was easy."

Carefully, tentatively, trying to hide what he's doing, Merritt probes at the chains. Unlocking the ones on Henley's trap with his mind didn't do anything, but they're in his head, now. He might have better luck.

While he probes, he keeps otherwise still. "If you want me to argue, I've already done that. That wasn't real, Jacob."

Dylan's eyes drop to the chains, then dart back up to Merritt's face. Another slam of psychic energy follows, like a shock collar turned up to its highest voltage.

"Yeah, so you keep saying." And as he's said time and time again, it was real enough for him and he's still burdened with the memories of another forty years with his father. He's still living with the fact that Merritt all but made him murder him. Actively watching as a child was bad enough; all of this has apparently broken him, if he's turning on his family. And Merritt missed it, misjudged just how angry he really was.

"We'll see how real you think this all is, after you've been here awhile." A beat. "If I ever let you out."

Merritt jolts back hard at the shock, and then grunts again when the chains react to his movement and tighten even more, pulling him farther back into the chair.

He sees that, too, hears it like Dylan said it outloud. He missed what Wade had planned, missed that he was about to get screwed over - and now he missed this.

Merritt lets his head drop for a moment, abruptly defeated, and then tilts his head to the side to look at Dylan sideways. "Just take care of the kids," he says, simply, because he knows he can't win this. He can't talk himself out of this, magically or otherwise.

He missed again what little he actually meant to someone. He deserves this.

"I was planning on it," he answers, some of the edge gone from his voice all at once. He may be willing to leave Merritt trapped in his own head forever, but the rest of the Horsemen have done nothing to deserve the same treatment.

That said, he pushes away from the wall where he's been leaning, and turns to head for the door. The sound of the locks unbolting are deafening in the silence. "Nice knowing you, McKinney."

And then he's gone. The locks snap back into place all on their own and with a note of finality.

Merritt just nods to that - and huffs out another shallow sigh when Dylan leaves. The chains seem to settle somehow and while they don't loosen, it feels almost as though they've clicked into place, now, instead of being held ready to tighten.

"Fuck," Merritt breathes quietly - and then, so, so carefully, he lets himself relax into the restraints.

He should have seen this coming. He knew Dylan was still angry, was still holding against him what they'd had to do to break him out of his fantasy - but he'd also thought they had talked things out, that they were getting better.

It shouldn't have surprised him that he didn't have enough to offer to balance out what he had taken.

Merritt works his hands carefully as they begin to tingle. There's no response from the chains, and he carefully begins to turn his hand, trying to find a way that the metal isn't cutting off the circulation. It's no more comfortable, but it also doesn't feel like it's crushing his wrists anymore, and so he counts it as a win.

"Hm," he hums, closing his hand over the end of the chair's arm. Slowly, he begins to inch his hand and arm backward, grunting softly and uncomfortably as the metal rolls down his skin.

Just when he begins to think he's making progress, as the chain reaches his knuckles, there's a shift in the room's energy, like someone just about to take a breath, and Merritt goes carefully still. For a long moment, nothing happens, and Merritt dares to relax, dares to move -- and the chain jolts, clamping down hard over his hand, this time, squeezing his fingers together painfully.

He cries out and reflexively tries to pull his hand the rest of the way free, to stop it being crushed. All the chains immediately tighten, the snap of a finger breaking drowned out only by the sound of his scream as he struggles reflexively, pulling hard against the chains, his resignation abruptly overwhelmed by sheer panic.

He's so busy panicking that he misses the sound of a metallic rasp as another chain bursts from the chair's cushions. Before he knows what's happening, the chain wraps itself around his neck, and Merritt's vision tunnels down as he finds himself with no air.

Desperately, he presses his head back into the chair, retreating as much as he can from this last restraint, and forces himself to ignore the water rushing in his ears to go perfectly still. It's not enough for him to draw a full breath, but he can breathe if he does it slowly, and he closes his eyes against unbidden hot tears.

For nine_ofswords

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