Pain layers on pain layers on nausea layers on pain. It's just everywhere, a mire he lies in, so it isn't until he tries to move and all of his wing nerves try to shoot themselves that he notices that anything's been done.

His mouth is dry and metallic-tasting. Phil just lies there as he tries to shore up the strength to even so much as sit up, which is a much more difficult task when you have two massive, wounded limbs of dead weight dragging behind your back, there's something in his wings, there's something in his fucking wings and the clank of metal means chains they, well, okay, that's expected actually. But it still sucks. Familiarity with pain (and the dream rings potently with his familiarity) doesn't make it suck any less.

Lying on stone did nothing for his joints either. It's a Herculean effort to drag himself to sitting, which he does mostly by slowly rolling over and then pushing off of the floor (hands only chained together and not to a wall, count your blessings). Phil reaches out with his senses. Tries to see what his hearing can pick up.

This is new.

He hopes this is the same day, but something tells him it's not. But it's not over. It can't be over. This can't be where they're let out, where their stop is. Maybe he has to die for it to roll back.

Don't panic, Phil. All you have to do is die.

... His talons are blunt.

Better look for something to sharpen them on.

"Look at you, Connors," he rasps to the air. "Moving up in the world. Big step up from a two-cop jail."