Vox Mentis

Hahahah no fucking way.
He knows what's going on but beyond the fact that he wants to keep you alive, his team is quite obviously not looking out for your best interests.

No, no, no, no, nope.

"Trust is a two-way street."

(having said this, you'll inevitably be confronted by a situation where Tom's more experienced gun hand on the trigger will be missed, but what the hell).

"No, I don't think so," you say. "I'll be holding on to it for now; I'm not really in the mood to have shotgun pellets in my back, thanks. How about you trust me for once?"

If you've got time to argue, ask why he doesn't just "make" you hand over the gun.

"Besides," you add, "I'm sure if you really wanted it you could just-"

The butt of the gun connects with your face, and you release it as you fall to the snow. Tom's hand is on the barrel. "Right."

Ehhh alright. He's better at using it anyway

Tom climbs the grille and raises the shotgun. The driver is a woman, you see. Early forties. Glasses, kind of bookish. Not the sort of person you would expect to try to kill you with an animal truck. She looks at Tom with an expression of mild intent and reaches for a pistol that lies on the dash.

Tom fires through the windshield. You look away. In the light, the snow is diamonds. A trillion tiny diamonds.

Tom drops beside you. "Move."

You trudge through the snow. You and Tom don't speak. Beyond the reach of the transport's headlights, the snow grows waist deep. Your breath steams. Eventually, you say, "I can't keep going."

Tom looks at you. There's something off about his face. Tom looks at the cattle yard. Then, abruptly, he sits. You sit beside him, panting. The transport is perhaps five hundred yards away, its lights blazing. You can see the hole in its windshield. You shiver, and only now realize that you're still just wearing a T-shirt. Tom's head hangs as he stares at the ground, one arm across his knees, the shotgun in the other.

Anything you want to talk about?