overjoyed_logs | [closed] various prompts

[Expensive equipment, he says, and everything suddenly makes sense, leaving her feeling a little sick.]

People can't be equipment it doesn't work like that.

[He shrugs then, smiles a brief, glacial smile with just the hint of teeth. His expression, it's one of infinite indifference.]

Dogs aren't people.

[Maybe that should be unsettling, but she's too angry to really register it.]

Am I gonna have to go buy a damn philosophy book to make a point?

[He doesn't know much about philosophy-- they'd received no formal education, after all, nothing beyond what was deemed necessary for them to adequately execute their role. A lot of what he knows has been gleaned from books that he technically isn't encouraged to look at, and as such it's limited to the things that interest him or which he's been able to get hold of.

Still. He has his own ideas about things. Or perhaps more accurately, the ideas that have been drummed into him by those who made him.]

Would you call that a person?

[And he motions with one pale hand towards the discarded blade.]

I'm really no different. Don't let appearances deceive you, now.

A knife doesn't have feelings.

[It's so obvious to her, but something tells her that simple facts aren't going to undo whatever the hell has been done to make him think like this. The Bite made her think of conditioning, negative responses, and she has to wonder if this is the same.

(She has to wonder how a pilot knows all this, but now isn't the time).]

[Feelings-- well, he certainly has them. But they're something strange and largely disconnected unless they're reduced down to the most basic parts, cold hard fear, animal joy. The rest are at something of a remove from him, nothing he can accurately name or identify. And if there's a big blank feeling at the centre of his chest, something that hurts sometimes, like an open wound, it's been there so long that, more often than not, he just takes it for a state of existence, there in everyone, perhaps.

Again, he shrugs.]

You're welcome to think what you like, I suppose. But it doesn't change anything.

Giovanni--

[The anger softens; there's no use getting angry when it's just Giovanni here, because he isn't the one who did this, so it's replaced by something almost gentle.

But she's cut off by the sound of footsteps echoing on the floor of the ship as the Handler appears at the entrance to the cockpit. She has to bite her tongue to stop from saying anything at the way he eyes Gio.

The Bite, he says, and she wonders how badly it would hurt this asshole if she ran him through.]

Right here, sir.

[Having to defer to someone is never enjoyable for her, it's just an unfortunate side effect of the job. It doesn't stop her from picking the blade up from where she dropped it and handing it over, hilt first, hands steady.]

We're ready to leave when you are.

[She wants to just get this over with, but she can't help the slightest dig at the fact they were held up waiting for this douchebag.]

[That softness in her voice, the blurred edges of it around his name, it has him looking up at her quickly, something sharp there in his face, a little confused. But whatever she's going to say to him is cut off by the arrival of his Handler, and when the man walks in Giovanni's expression flattens out into something dead and cold. Perfectly blank.

The look the man gives him is much the same as the kind Giovanni would use when examining his Walthers, only with an undercurrent of distaste, and though the Dog has the urge to smirk when Steph makes her little dig, he holds back on it. Maintains his perfect coolness. Knows better.

The Handler frowns slightly, takes the weapon, gives Steph a long steady look.

You shouldn't have brought it in here. It belongs in the cargo bay, with the shipment.-- and it's clear he isn't talking about the Dog Bite.

Let's get a move on then, shall we? as though it hadn't been him they were waiting on at all, and he turns sharply then, makes a small motion with his hand that indicates Giovanni should follow, Come, 68..

Remaining a respectful two paces behind the man, Giovanni does as he's been bidden.]

Suck my dick.

[The words are muttered under her breath, not loud enough for the Handler to hear but maybe Gio will catch it, as Steph stares daggers at the man's back until he's out of sight. She's still angry and unsettled, but there's a job to do, so it's going to get done.

In the pilot's seat, Steph hooks a comm device over her ear, preferring to have the ship's AI speak directly to her rather than over the loud speaker, and gets the ship up in the air.

The flight itself is relatively boring, with Steph's thoughts occupied by worrying about Giovanni and annoyance at the Company, she's glad that she doesn't have to pay a whole lot of attention to the trip. It isn't until they're coming in over the Badlands (high enough to avoid any technical issues) that the AI issues a warning of incoming fire. The first few volleys are dodged with quick thinking and the speed of her ship, but eventually one of them makes contact with the ship. It's worse than the last shot it took, she can tell by the way there's alarms blaring around her as they quickly lose altitude.

There's no chance of them staying in the air, but Steph has the AI broadcast a hold on as she does her best to get them to the ground safely.

They hit hard, but on a gentle enough angle that the ship skids for a few yards before finally coming to a stop. Steph's gut reaction is to run to check on Giovanni, except there are more important things to do, which means shutting down on her concern and focusing on checking the ship. A quick back and forth with the AI reveals a damn hole in the hull and more than a dozen figures fast approaching.

This is more than just bad luck. Someone was expecting them.

Now she can run towards the cargo hold, looking for Gio, though she makes sure to grab her gun first.]

We've got company, half a dozen vehicles from the east.

[Oh, he hears it. Has to bite back on a barking laugh, but he maintains his silence and poise as he follows the Handler out of the cockpit, heads down to the cargo bay 'where he belongs'.

And if Steph is bored during the flight, Giovanni is most likely moreso-- smooth sailing, nothing but silence and inertia for hours at a time, and the shipment doesn't exactly make for lively company. His Handler doesn't address him at all, only coolly observes him now and again with that same look of detatched distaste, and the initial buzz and thrum in him from earlier in the day begins to flatten out into numb indifference, the sense he'd had before - that this would be interesting, that it'd be something - slowly bleeding out of him in the wake of the continued monotony.

And then it starts.

There's the difference in speed, in movement, the signs of evasive action, and suddenly all that had been flat and dull in him starts to spark into fervent life again, the panting clattering thing in his Spine stirring and moving and seeming to murmur yesyesyes. The command to hold on comes through just a moment before that rocketing blast, the Handler curses low under his breath and again, Giovanni chokes down a joyful laugh as he does as instructed, holds on.

And down they go.

The impact is bonejarring, sends his Handler scudding across the ground despite his attempts to hold on but Giovanni's increased strength at least allows him a firmer hold then that, means he stays on his feet even as the ship slides across the dusty ground of the Badlands.

By the time Steph reaches them, Giovanni's hauling the Handler to his feet-- the man looks dazed, unsteady, whilst the Dog flashes her a razorblade smile. There's an animate joy in his face that's unlike anything she'll have seen on him before, awake and alert and ready.]

Show time.

[That smile, that joy, it isn't something she's seen on him, but it cuts through her like a blade, sending a shiver down her spine as she can't help but echo it, fear dropping away to be replaced by adrenalin.]

There's a hole in the hull, starboard side. They'll try to get in through there.

[The words are directed at Gio rather than the Handler, who she a) hates and b) has decided is useless if he can't even keep his wits about him during a small crash.]

[It's interesting, the reaction in her, the answering rush of adrenaline, and there's the brief tilt of his head as he aids the Handler to his feet, the man looking around almost vaguely for a moment before his eyes settle on Steph.

Get back to the cockpit. Stay out of the way. Stay out of the Dog's way, no matter what--.

But Giovanni, at least, is already moving, and the man doesn't try to stop him, knows what to expect in a situation like this, the iron grasp of his command loosening at least enough to give Giovanni free reign to do what he was created to do.

When the Dog speaks, it's to Steph.]

Then that's where we're going.

[Far be it from him to reiterate the Handler's warning to stay put if what she wants is to get out and play.

He starts to run then, and it's fast, too fast to be called human, movements slick and fluid and full of preternatural grace.]

With all due respect, they shot my ship.

[So the Handler can shove his instructions up his ass for all she cares, since he seems far more scared of Gio than of a bunch of Westie criminals.

He tries to protest but she's already moving, nowhere near as fast as Gio considering the fact she's only got her regular human legs to carry her through the ship towards the hole. It means that when she makes it, the vehicles have already pulled up, people spilling out of them, and she doesn't hesitate to lift her gun to shoot the first one she gets clear sight of. Gio's already in the thick of it, and she wonders if maybe he can handle it on his own, except that doesn't sit right with her, and not just because she really wants to hit someone.

The next few shots are taken as she moves closer, until another vehicle pulls up from behind, nearly running her over, but more importantly she loses her gun as she scrambles to get out of the way.

Focus.

The voice in her head isn't hers, a flash of a memory accompanied by a woman's warm smile and the smell of sweat, before the vehicle swings around to take another shot at her.

This time, she doesn't dodge.

Clearly the hood is surprisingly easy, holding her balance as the driver swerves is easy, running forward to kick said driver in the head is a little trickier, but not impossible. When the vehicle starts to get out of control, she leaps off, landing in a roll and bouncing to her feet as soon as she's clear.

And then she's in the fray.

There's something thrumming in her blood, more than just adrenalin, more than just the exertion of the fight. It feels like home, ducking punches, flipping up and over crooks (she didn't even know she could do that), delivering hard kicks to where she knows it'll hurt this most. Whatever this is, it feels like home.]

[And Giovanni-- well.

It's carnage.

The people spill out of their vehicles but no doubt regret will soon pulse hot in them because he reaches them with swift predatory movements, decides in a moment to forgo his guns, to treat them to the full extent of his terrible brutality and he clears the last stretch of distance between them in one graceful leap--

--slamming down into the first hijacker and driving him to the ground. It's in him now, the rattle and shake and the fast ascending animal joy as every nerve in him screams fight and he pulls his hand back, smashes it down, tearing in through flesh and muscle and bone until his fingers curl around the man's still beating heart, yanks it free with a sick sucking wrench and he's laughing, high and sharp and piercing.

Shots are fired, three bullets thudding into his shoulder and chest but he barely takes any notice as the smoke begins to rise from him, as the wounds heal over with a sizzle and fizz of fierce kinetic energy and he's on his feet again then, whirling, tearing through them with inimical glee. There's the crunch and twist of breaking bones, shouts of panic, the screaming begins and he rips the throat right out of a man who tries to rush him, teeth sinking in deep and wrenching free, the wound bloody and open and raw and the copperhot taste of it fills his mouth, makes him spark with something euphoric, something good.]

[It's the screams that draw her attention, or at least part of it, as she won't fully take her eyes off an enemy, but she knows there's a difference between the shouts of a fight and a terrified scream. Even when Steph breaks a man's arm, hearing the snap of bone, the scream from his mouth is still nothing like what Gio wrenched out of that hijacker.

There's too much blood, too many bodies, for her to see exactly what's going on. She just has to trust that Gionvanni is handling... whatever the fuck is going on, and deal with her own shit. She clocks the Handler out of the corner of her eye, too, but pays him little attention. It seems more important for her to stay focused.

She doesn't think too much, knowing that if she gets caught up in the how, she'll end up dead. A knife grazes her thigh, pain spiking briefly before something in her shuts it down, moves on, disarms the woman who stabbed her and turns the knife on her opponent.

Steph realizes at some point that she hasn't killed anyone. Hurt, sure, there's a couple broken bones, a dislocated shoulder, and a handful of nasty knife wounds left in her wake, but if the hijackers get medical attention soon enough, they'll live. Not that she thinks they will get that medical attention, but she files away the lack of killing moves, wondering what it means.

It's definitely a though for later though, even if she has a feeling there isn't much longer for this fight, not with the way Gio is moving through their enemies. All she has to do is keep doing what she's doing for a little longer.]

[And she's right-- he doesn't pause even for a moment, tears through one hijacker and then onto the next leaving a slew of mangled corpses in his wake. It's brutal and raw and ugly and yet each of his movements have a fluidity to them, something elegant, the aesthetic Angelika had been aiming for when she'd begun her 'pet project' to begin with.

(and he's not even the best of them, not by a wide margin, though the best of them turned tail and ran and so should it matter anymore? It still does).

The screams and shouts, the bright splatter of blood, the crunch and clatter of broken bones, it's like dark exquisite music to him and Giovanni's laughter continues to ring out across the dusty landscape as he whirls and spins and crushes them, one woman's skull shattering in his grip, fingers punching through bone into the soft grey matter hidden underneath.

More shots ring out, bullets catching him in the thigh, the knee, and there's a stumbling awkward moment as he fights to regain himself, another hijacker bearing down on him, but the wounds, they close over again in the blink of an eye, that smoke rising up from him in thick grey plumes, and he pushes out of his stumble to slam upwards, knock their head back with a sickening crack, neck broken and body dropping to the ground.

The Handler-- he does join in eventually, though he gives Giovanni a wide berth, shots fired from the pistol at his side, trying to 'help' Steph with her cluster of attackers.]

[The moment she realizes the Handler is shooting near her, is the same moment a bullet barely misses her, embedding instead into the arm of a man trying to grab her and not having much luck. He's having even less luck, now, with his blood on Steph's face and his arm useless at his side. She kicks him in the balls for good measure.

And then decides that vaulting over the hood of a vehicle, thereby putting a nice big hunk of metal between her and the Handler is a good idea, because he's either a very good shot, or a very bad one who thought it was a good idea to aim in hr general vicinity. There's only a handful left where she is; two of them rush her at once and she jumps up without thinking, landing a kick square in each of their chests, using that momentum to flip up and over to tackle another woman to the ground. A quick blow to the woman's chest, breaking a couple ribs. Someone takes a swing at the back of her head that she dodges, grabbing the crowbar out of his hands and flipping herself up to her feet before taking a swing at his legs.

When he falls, she hits him again in the shoulder, then lifts the crowbar up to strike at whoever else is closest, only to met with a heap of groaning bodies and no one except her, Gio, and the Handler on their feet.

She's panting hard, but she doesn't feel worn out, only energized, the fight filling the emptiness that's been in her since she woke up a year ago.]

[It's over all too quickly. Giovanni makes short work of the remaining hijackers closest to him, one lunging for him with a kamikaze scream but he steps to the side in a smooth fluid movement, grabs them by the neck and twists, the sound of it ringing loud in his ears and vibrating through wrists and elbows and down to the murky core of him, his grin a wide gash across his face.

The last two, they try desperately to scrabble back into their vehicle, make a panicked getaway, but Giovanni spins on his heel and leaps for them, slamming into one and bringing her to the ground, hand punching through her chest and crushing her lungs and the blood rises black from the open wound of her mouth and it's so beautiful, all this red, all this carnage. The last one manages to make it inside, slams on the accelerator, but it's only a moment before Unit 68 is on his feet again, and this time he reaches for the pistol holstered at his thigh, aims with terrifying precision, pulls the trigger. It catches the would-be escapee in the throat, leaves him gurgling wetly and slumped over the wheel as he bleeds out. With a look of manic excitement in his eyes Giovanni spins round, sees Steph and the Handler, steps forward--

--but he catches himself. Holds still, even before the Handler pointlessly raises the Bite, takes a small step back. Giovanni, he's breathing hard, but not from exertion no, just from the electric thrill that still pulses through him, knocks hollow behind his ribs and yes he's still smiling a wide and terrible smile, teeth smeared with blood. Yet he makes no attempt to harm them.

When he speaks, his voice is a calm, even thing.]

Well, that was fun.

[There's a second where she tenses again, watching Gio as he seems to evaluate whether or not they're enemies, and she can understand why they think the Bite is necessary. She still hates it, won't ever use it, but the logic makes slight sense, at least with the Company the way it is. But then he stills, although the Handler still looks on edge.

A part of her still blares a warning signal, telling her not to get too close, but she wonders whether it's so much because of Gio himself, or that her mind knows that she doesn't want to see the carnage he left behind up close. There's the violence that sunk into her bones, and then there's whatever wreckage Giovanni has caused, and she knows there's a difference.

Right now, there are more pressing concerns, even as that thrill sticks with her, a grin warring with that edge of unpleasantness when faced with Giovanni's destruction.]

We're gonna need to call a ride.

[It feels final, somehow. This is over, back to the real world.]

[Giovanni's breathing gradually slows, the manic light in his face beginning to fade out into something approaching his usual calm, though clearly it's all still jumping in him, the violence, his love of it, something big and wide and open in his chest and he feels good, euphoria still lingering in his bones and nails and eyeteeth. Bright sparks of terrible light.

Finally the Handler settles a little, though there's a tension in him that shows in the way he grips the Bite, the wary glance he gives Giovanni, but then he's clearing his throat, standing straighter.

Heel, 68, and Giovanni begins to move as directed, still under the Handler's assessing stare, blood staining his arms up to the elbows, his teeth, his face, his hair-- he's drenched in it. Doesn't seem to care at all, and though there are a peppering of circular holes in his uniform from where the bullets entered, the flesh underneath, it's perfectly unmarred.

The Handler turns, begins to walk back towards the ship with Giovanni walking his usual two paces behind (the stiffness in the Company man's shoulders, his whiteknuckle grip on the blade, all things that suggest he's uncomfortable turning his back on the Dog, but he forces himself to do it all the same).

They're approaching one of the abandoned vehicles when it happens. Sudden movement, the report from the gun clanging loud in their ears, and suddenly the Handler slumps, hits the ground, the back of his head a bloody smoking mess from the bullet's exit. Giovanni doesn't so much as look up, just raises the pistol still held in his red-stained hand, pulls the trigger, and with a muffled thump the remaining hijacker drops dead to the dusty earth.

The Dog takes a few steps forward, looks down at the dead Handler with an expression of infinite indifference, glances over his shoulder at Steph.]

He was incompetent, anyway. No big loss. Hahah.

Edited 2017-02-04 16:53 (UTC)

[Steph ducks at the first gunshot, but by the time she sees the Handler and clocks the shooter, he's already dead.]

Shit.

[It's more of a welp than anything, despite the cruse word, because she can't find it in herself to actually care about the Handler living or dying, not when he's treating another human being like a tool.

She stands back up, wincing when it pulls at the gash on her thigh, but decides it's a problem for later. The adrenalin and thrill of the fight is wearing off as everything that she just witness sinks in.]

Let's give that back up a call, I wanna get the hell out of here before more people turn up.

[If she walks a little quicker back into the ship, well, maybe Giovanni won't point it out.]

[A human being-- he'd have something to say about that, were she to voice it aloud. It's not how he views himself, it's not what he is, and the way the Handler had treated him was nothing different or new or out of the ordinary. He'd been somewhat incompetent, yes, showing too much reticence, too much fear, but the Handler's conduct towards him had been nothing short of normal. Standard protocol.

But Steph says nothing of that, and so neither does he, slipping into his usual impassive silence despite all the thrumming action of moments before, following her back to the ship passively enough.

If he notices her swift movements, he's good enough not to say anything about it.]

[Inside the ship, she gives the hull a brief inspection of the chunk out of the metal so that she'll know what kind of damage report to give to whoever picks up on the other end of the comm line. She lingers by the hull at the moment, hand resting on the ship with an expression that almost looks like regret before she gets back to business.]

You, uh... [That sure is a whole lot of blood.] There's a shower in my quarters, if you want to get clean. And I can find you a change of clothes.

[They'll be her clothes, but it's better than clothes soaked in dried blood.]

[He stands by silently as she examines the wreckage made of the ship, holsters his pistol, his expression returning to one of impassive indifference now that the fighting is over, although with it's coating of fast-drying blood he no doubt looks more imposing than he had done before. More feral. He makes no move to try and wipe it away.

All the buzzing, jumping life in him, it's still there. The thrill of the hunt, of the ensuing carnage, the quick hot pulses all along his Spine and singing satisfyingly through his bones, but it's controlled now. Concealed. Out of sight.

His eyes go to her when she addresses him, though, and very slightly, he tilts his head.]

It isn't necessary, Ma'am. You don't have to do that.

[She considers correcting him on her name, he knows it, she knows he knows it, but she has a feeling that she could tell him a million times and he'd still default to ma'am.]

It's not a big deal, and we could be here a while. You might as well be comfortable.

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