"The hell are Reavers?" Sawyer asked in confusion, the hand holding the gun to his chin loosening slightly, coming and going with the amount of attention he was diverting away from it. The fact that he was living a nightmare still had yet to sink fully in for him— it was all too real, too vivid, and more than anything else, it hurt. Maybe it was a common misconception that dreams contained no level of pain, but when he was swimming in and out of consciousness to begin with, logic wasn't precisely the greatest guiding force.

But he did manage a measured breath, suppressing flashes of memories and experiences that passed through, flickering through both of their minds. A mother, grabbing tightly at his arms, telling him to hide. The underside of a bed, dusty and cold. Gunshot. Slow, steady steps sounding on the floor. Gunshot. Thirty years ahead, the sizzle of shrimp in a wok. Gunshot.

The gun broke free, but Sawyer backed down a couple of steps.

"Ain't got anythin' other than a gun with a single clip," he replied.