He comes to with a sharp half-breath he then releases in a measured exhale. Doesn't open his eyes. His head aches dully; he can feel his pulse at his temples. Wrists pinched, arms wrenched, mouth stuffed with some kind of cloth. No walkie. Belt and pack gone.

Barefoot. Clothed. Alright.

He listens a while to De Guzman's steps, the scrape of his boots on rocky ground. The cheerful whistling. Not enough grunts or groans for his liking: should've kicked him in the balls. Ten minutes or so of this and Rust cracks an eye open, discovers he's in the shadow of a tent.

He doesn't know what the fuck this is, but he takes his cue from the gag and lets out a long, low moan, eyes fluttering open.