#viralweaponry

He means to say "Just leave it," but the words die halfway through him speaking them out loud. Something drips onto the floor, and he doesn't realize until that moment when he tilts his head down that it's coming from him.

One hand is wrapped tightly around his side. Holding most of it in. But he supposes that every step he takes makes 'leaking' somewhat inevitable. There's something rather curious. In a way, he expects the weakened state he's in to be taken advantage of the instant it's noted.

"I'm not going to die. Not today, unfortunately." If he could remember which way the damn med bay had been, that would be far more believable, of course.

His reaction is not hesitant. The moment that he sees someone burst into the peripheral of his line of sight, the knife is drawn and raised towards them. The seconds that pass as the razor-sharp tip hovers a mere hair's width from Wyatt's neck feel more like hours to him. But there is no remorse after. No muttering of shame or indication that he regrets what he did: what he came very close to doing.

The only sound he makes is one of pure contempt. Annoyance seeps through the filter of his mask as he finally pulls his hand back. Spinning the blade once or twice before replacing it back in its sheath.

"Do that again, and you'll die."