overjoyed_logs | [closed] various prompts

[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.

[She's right, of course. Using her name, it's too familiar, too informal. It isn't encouraged. Nor is utilising Company employees' personal quarters, or wearing their clothes, and he hesitates around a second refusal. The blood that covers him, his ruined uniform, they're of no real concern to him. As discomforts go, it's so small as to barely register.

But he's also partial to hot showers, to the cleansing properties of water, and so after a moment of indecision--]

If that's what you'd like me to do.

[There's a subtly here that she realizes she might have to learn to navigate if she's going to have to keep working with Giovanni, or just spending time with him. What he wants and what he's allowed are two different things, but if someone tells him what to do, then he can get around whatever they've drilled into him about what he can't have.]

Better than you getting blood everywhere, go on.

[It's a compromise, not quite an order from her, but enough to give him leeway to do it.]

[And that's right, that's better. The way she says it settling something in him, the idea that she doesn't want him dirtying up her ship sitting more comfortably against his skin than the alternative, that it's something offered. That he's taking liberties he isn't entitled to. And so he'll nod, then. Turn to leave.]

Yes, Ma'am.

[And despite his earlier protests, when he locates the shower and strips off his bloodied uniform, steps under the steaming flow, there's something good in it. The small pleasure of hot water against skin, of sloughing off the evidence of the mayhem he'd caused, the horrific destruction. It helps unwind a little of the buzzing tension in him, muscles softening under the heat, and if he lingers somewhat longer than is strictly necessary over the task of cleaning himself, it's only because it's one of the small things that brings uncomplicated contentment, short lived as it may be.

But he'll emerge eventually, towel slung around his narrow waist, blond hair slicked back and damp. And for a moment he appears almost normal, less tightly held and rigid, if not for the metal collar gleaming dimly at his neck, the uneven scar that runs from nape to the small of his back. Relaxed, almost. But then, he isn't expecting to be seen.]

[While Gio takes his shower, Steph jogs up to the cockpit and reassures the AI that no one important has been hurt, before asking her to rely the details of the attack to the Prisoner Intake Facility, since they'll be able to send reinforcements quickly.

With that relayed, she heads back outside quickly to make sure no one else is coming, as well as to grab the Dog Bite. As much as she hates it, a dead Handler is going to be a sticky enough situation, she doesn't want to explain a missing weapon.

Then she finally makes it back to her quarters to grab clothes, assuming Giovanni is still in the shower only to find him not. In the shower.]

Shit, sorry!

[Insistence that he's a tool or not, Steph still raises a hand to cover her eyes, because she's nice like that.]

Let me just grab those clothes and I'll get out of your hair.

[He glances back over his shoulder at the sound of her approach, the quick expletive, the apology. Almost, he laughs, but instead bites it back, bare feet making hushed sounds against the floor as he pads back in the direction of the bathroom. More a nod towards her comfort than his.]

I'll get out of the way for a moment, if it makes you feel better.

[The tone of his voice then, there's subtle amusement in it.]

[She can hear that amusement and makes a bit of a face in response, a little tension easy out of her shoulders because this is a lot less weird and scary than taking down a small army of Westie hijackers.

She breathes out, lowers her hand and walks over to the closet.]

I try not to perv on guests.

[Oh so mature, that response, and she knows he likely won't consider himself a guest, but he's in her quarters, having used her shower, so it counts.

Steph fishes out a pair of sweats (floral, because they're the only ones on board) and a t-shirt that's a little threadbare, but at least it sits too big on her, so it should fit across Gio's shoulders. They both get tossed on the bed for him.]

Don't rush, I'll keep an eye on our surrounds.

[And this time he does laugh, short and quick, though it's less the immaturity of the comment that gets him as the implication that he's a guest and something anyone would want to look at in a way that constitutes perving. Although, to his mind, there'd be perversion in such an act, the same way a person who derives sexual enjoyment from inanimate objects like walls or buildings would seem strange and perverse to the majority of the populace. Just another indicator of the way he's been trained to see himself, less than human. Cut loose from human needs.

But he'll politely wait until she's exited her quarters before reemerging, pulling on the clothes she's left out for him (the jogging bottoms a little loose around the hips, slung low on his waist because of it, the pattern both appealing to him and somehow ridiculous when worn by a bioweapon, the shirt only pulling slightly across the hard length of his shoulders). There's something vaguely discomforting in wearing her clothes, as though he's doing something he shouldn't, but she'd 'insisted' on it, and as such he tries to let that small thread of unease go. There's still something satisfying in having the clean material close to his skin (softer than anything he's accustomed to wearing), and he doesn't bother to pull on his Company issue boots when he heads out to find her, though he unholsters both pistols and slips them inside said footwear, carries them loose in one hand as he moves barefoot through the ship.

When she looks, later, she'll find the towel neatly hung, the room clean, his bloodied uniform (folded) the only evidence that he'd been there.

He finds her, remains a few paces back. Not wanting to intrude.]

How long until we can expect the cavalry to arrive?

[Any laugh or genuine emotion that she can get out of him is a victory in her mind, because it proves that he's more than just a thing. Objects don't find things funny, even AIs are only programmed to do so within certain parameters, can't determine their own sense of humor.

So it's a victory, one that she holds on to as she settles in the cockpit, getting a little blood on the seat but that's mostly because her thigh is still bleeding and she's going to have to deal with that at some point. For now, she chats with the AI, monitoring their surrounds for anyone else who wants to pick a fight, and finding herself a little relieved that there's only bodies and wreckage outside.

At some point, a few of the people that Steph dealt with manage to crawl into a vehicle and drive off, but she isn't too concerned. If anything, having someone relay back what happened makes a follow up less likely.

When she hears Giovanni's voice, she swivels around in the chair, offering him a smile.]

Twenty minutes. A lot quicker than I expected since they'll have to drive.

[Even Company ships can't really handle the Badlands.]

[And it's just as well, perhaps, that they manage to drag themselves into their vehicles and make a hasty exit before Giovanni catches sight of them-- it might stir things in him all over again, entice him to go out and finish the job. Had he seen to them all personally, not a one would have been left alive, after all. But he doesn't see that, and when he enters the only sight to be seen beyond the cockpit is the vast, barren expanse of the badlands, the ground redstained with blood in places. The decimated corpses he'd left in his wake.

He takes no notice of that, leans back against the doorway in a manner that's almost (almost) casual, hips slightly cocked. Again, wearing her clothes, the traces of violence washed clean from his face, he almost passes for normal.]

I see.

[His voice is smooth with indifference, and he wonders vaguely, for just a moment, who they'll send out to replace his dead Handler. Whether they'd be able to drum anyone up at such short notice, in an emergency situation. Whether any of the blame for that particular death will be directed towards him. But it's a fleeting thought of little consequence, and instead he turns his attention back to the woman in the cockpit, drawn by the heady scent of her still-seeping blood.]

Where did you learn to fight like that? It's not a standard skill, for a pilot. If you don't mind my asking, Ma'am.

[And there's a small implication in that-- even during those fevered movements of carnage and bloodshed, he'd kept her in his awareness as best he could. Hadn't been acting entirely without reason, without thought.]

[This what she wanted to avoid, hoping that maybe Giovanni would be too shackled by the rules trained into him to ask about at she'd managed to do. And she knows that if she refused to answer he'd accept it with little question, he'd still wonder, sure, but he wouldn't press it.

But she doesn't want to give him orders just to avoid difficult topics, not when it'd make her just as bad as a Handler.

Still, she can't help sighing, scrubbing a hand over her face as she looks out at the wasteland.]

Can this stay between you and me?

[She has no plans to tell him that she has no memory, but she still wants to be careful about what she says, in case it'll put him in a difficult position with higher ups.]

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