Just a little closer. Just a little closer and there's an aggrieved glimmer to York's eye, a moment where his expression goes from congenial and calm to a sharp grimace, a pained furrow of his brow and curl of his lip that smooths out before he can speak.

His mouth opens to form words but no breath, no speech rolls out. Wires. Bloody, vein like cables and tendrils that pulse and twitch and throb with the beating of York's heart pour out of his mouth like stringy vomit, snapping out to curl around CT's shoulders and throat. they wrench at the clasps on her helmet and now, now she is close enough to see the rest of the wires burrowed deep into York's skin and torn outward, bursting from every joint and seam of his armor, moving him like a living puppet.