[The short version is it's not good. Gabriel's still argumentative, still mouthing off to the people above him. He knows playing nice with Talon is gis best shot; to find out what happened to Overwatch, what happened-- is happening to him, but some part of him can't help it. He's always hated Talon, and now that they're all he has, it's hard to treat that with anything but contempt.]
[The room he's kept in is airtight, little more than a prison cell at this point; though he suspects most of the rooms in this facility feel the same. If anything he's glad not to be sharing. They don't tell him much of anything, he doesn't even know what country they're in, at night they give him a sedative so he can't act out when their doctors and scientists study him. He can't claim to feel bad about the one he managed to injure though.]
[There's been no luxury of things like mirrors, Gabriel has no idea what he looks like. He doesn't especially want to either. When the door opens, he looks up from where he's sat on the edge of the cot, a tight frown at the guard in the doorway. His skin is pallid, ashen almost, gold undertones replaced by the cool blue of a corpse. Mottled with the odd patch that looks healthy, but they never last, something in his body fighting a losing battle. Eyes bloodshot and sunken, wisps of smoke rolling off his shoulders.]
What is it?
[It's less a question than a demand for the guard to leave. He hates being bothered by nonessential staff the most.]
no subject
[The room he's kept in is airtight, little more than a prison cell at this point; though he suspects most of the rooms in this facility feel the same. If anything he's glad not to be sharing. They don't tell him much of anything, he doesn't even know what country they're in, at night they give him a sedative so he can't act out when their doctors and scientists study him. He can't claim to feel bad about the one he managed to injure though.]
[There's been no luxury of things like mirrors, Gabriel has no idea what he looks like. He doesn't especially want to either. When the door opens, he looks up from where he's sat on the edge of the cot, a tight frown at the guard in the doorway. His skin is pallid, ashen almost, gold undertones replaced by the cool blue of a corpse. Mottled with the odd patch that looks healthy, but they never last, something in his body fighting a losing battle. Eyes bloodshot and sunken, wisps of smoke rolling off his shoulders.]
What is it?
[It's less a question than a demand for the guard to leave. He hates being bothered by nonessential staff the most.]