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Taym didn't answer. There was a time and a place for righteous superhero monologues and "now, here" wasn't one of them. Instead, with that usual whip-quick ferret agility, he dropped the watch and within seconds had one hand closing into a fist in Lawrence's hair, wrenching his neck back and the edge of the knife shoved entirely harder than was strictly necessary under the angle of his jaw.

Taym did not often feel large and powerful but Lawrence was tiny and disgusting and he was shaking with rage, partially at the rampant disrespect for human life, the evidence for which was bleeding quietly behind him, and partly for the constant, perpetual, unavoidable, inevitable disruption that Lawrence was for him.

He wanted, more than anything, for things to be as normal as they could be. He had too much on his ******** plate already, too many distractions, and what he craved more than anything, more than the heroin hidden under his sink, more even than cutting this ******** head right off, was a single uninterrupted normal span of time with his girlfriend.

"Peyton," he barked. "Hands." Let America take care of Horace. Don't ******** touch her, don't ******** touch him. Keep her hands clean. Let the Sun handle it, and let him. He wrenched Lawrence's head back still further--none of this had taken more than a couple of seconds--and in a hiss only loud enough for him he demanded: "How many lives are worth your own?"

Mouth compressed, America did her best to ignore Lawrence's voice outside. Taym could handle him, if the man even bothered to put up a fight. With Lawr here now, she figured the gag could go too. Slowly and carefully she worked it out of the trainee's mouth.

That feigned drawl sent ice down the dainty Sun's spine. Peyton had never had to deal with the man directly, ago which she was thankful, but even just with second hand knowledge his very presence was enough to chill to the bone. It left her stiff, anxious. Things had just grown more complicated. The only silver lining of the moment; the soft click of the cuffs yielding. Tension gave in Horace's arms, and Peyton caught them, slowed their release into a gradual thing that would put less stress on his joints.

Taym had snapped into motion before either could have. She heard the sound of his steps as he disappeared from view, but seconds later he was barking back at her, and she jumped, eyes wide and trained on the mouth of the cave. And of course she understood why he's called for her, but that didn't mean she liked it.

Another gentle brush of fingers. Along his cheek this time, rubbing something dark and gritty that could have been dirt, but was more likely dried blood.

As she got to her feet, grabbing handcuffs and rope alike, he was saying her name, and she frowned as she glanced down at him, hesitating, before hurrying out to help Ta. It hurt to hear it, he sounded broken. Lawrence had did everything he could to chip away at the shell of him and leave him fractured, and she didn't know if there were enough stitches in the world to fix this. "I'll be back, I'm not going anywhere. Let her help you." She could promise not to hurt Lawrence, she didn't think she could keep it.

When she left the cave the hesitation was gone. Anger flared up fast and fierce, and pink lips pulled back from pearly teeth in a silent snarl. It took more will power than was pretty not to lash out, to strike that lying face with the chain of the cuffs in her hands. Instead she counted in her head, focused on the soft rumbling growl of her partner, and worked to secure to the older man.

It was hard, with only one hand, but she looped the ropes around his thin chest, and cuffed his good hand to the ropes, both as were down, both wrists drawn right behind his back. It wasn't prerty, but it didn't have to be, it just had to hold.

"You call this manhandling?" he whispered, and he shoved Lawrence ungently even further out of eyeshot of the cave entrance.

"Self-defense," he hissed at Peyton. "You see him attacking me, right?" And he gave Lawrence's unresisting body a shake via his hair.

"As many as it takes?" he repeated, heedless of the fact that Peyton wouldn't know what he was talking about. He acted like she wasn't there at all any more, with that demand made. She'd seen him angry, of course; she'd seen him shaken up and she'd seen him violent but Taym had a habit of keeping walls up around Peyton and they were all gone now. He was white-faced and shaking from head to foot, barely keeping a fingernail's grip on restraint, and he spat hard into Lawrence's face before digging the knife harder into his jaw, Fiona coruscating with an aching, righteous pleasure at the sensation of biting so deep into the other man's FEAR. "Mine? Your daughter's?"

Peyton had seen Taym angry, but she had never seen him murderous, in every literal sense of the word. There was no mistaking what his intentions were. And he didn't look, not at all, like he was going to take his time with it.

He moved, and like everything he did it was quick and sudden.

America laughed, unhappily at the plea. "Really? Don't hurt him? So you really are that ******** up." The girl tsked, and then called out, "We're ready to go when you are!"

The yelling had alarmed him, as much as he could be alarmed right now and he'd tried, faleteringly, to shamble up, to go see. But he failed and sat down heavily. Without assisstance, there was no way his legs would fully support him, not when his head was spinning from sedatives and blood-loss. Horace looked at America when she laughed. His eyes cleared, sharply blue for one brief, judging moment. He opened his mouth, decided she did not need his words, and closed it.

They all knew that if a hunter killed a hunter and was caught, there would be repercussions. Jan was smart enough not to do that here. Hopefully Taym was smart enough too. He closed his eyes again and sighed, the very act of breathing painful.

Frowning at the boy's small attempt to get up it was a relief when Taym finally responded. They should make him a stretcher, but in all honesty that would be more for Horace's comfort more than anything, something he'd get soon enough and really more than she felt like providing the twisted little ingrate. First she sent a text to the infirmary, and then she got back to work.

One arm beneath his knees, and the other supporting his shoulders, America lifted Horace in something approaching a princess carry. Exiting the cave, she ignored Lawrence entirely, instead shooting the other two a nod before walking briskly toward the most direct path back to the main buildings.