Giovanni 'Sarcastic Little Shit' Rammsteiner (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ofobedience) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
overjoyed_logs2017-02-16 12:37 pm
ofobedience) wrote in overjoyed_logs2017-02-16 12:37 pm
[closed] The flesh is weak and without reason
Who: Giovanni, Kanda, and Lavi
Where: Noah
When: W5D5 - W5D7
Summary: a bad dog gets time out
Restrictions/Warnings: idk, restraints and mentions of graphic violence?
[His head hurts. Consciousness comes up on him like a white detonation behind the eyes and dully he makes an animal sound of pain, a low grunt through gritted teeth. He knows if he opens his eyes it's only going to increase and so he puts it off, remains floating in the dark pit of himself, scrabbling for an explanation as to why he feels like this. It's not something he's well aquiainted with, the kind of pain that lingers after the cause of it has ended, body healing rapidly around whatever's inflicted against it but the head, of course it would be there. Of course it would.
It takes a moment, that blinding whiteness that rattles through him temporarily eclipsing the other things, the thudding ache in his arms, the strain in his wrists, the fact he can't feel the ground. There's a moment of panic then, something fierce and raw opening up in his chest and he flexes his hands within their restraints, feels out the shape of his containment. Struggles to remember why he's here and what's going on and whether he'd done something wrong and is now facing some kind of disciplinary action or--
--something else.
Slowy, with some trepidation, he opens his eyes. And there it is, the increased acute flare in his head as the light stabs ruthessly into him, makes him choke out another kicked-dog sound before he can stop himsef. He blinks, onetwo, waits for the world to come into focus, for order to reassert itself, but no. He doesn't know where this is. Looks around, slowly. The cargo hold of a ship, perhaps, based on scent and what he can see beyond the blue glow of the holding cell's forcefield-- because that's where he is. Chained by the wrists in some holding cell and quickly now it comes flooding back to him in an unsteady rush, the riots and the blood and the exquisite abandon, how good it had been right up until the moment he'd been shot in the head.
Beyond the scent of the blood that still covers him, the industrial whiff of the cargo hold, the electric buzz of the forcefield, he can - faintly - smell lotus blooms. The sound he makes, this time it's all pent-up frustration as he pulls himself up with his inhuman strength, begins the tedious process of trying to yank himself free.]
Where: Noah
When: W5D5 - W5D7
Summary: a bad dog gets time out
Restrictions/Warnings: idk, restraints and mentions of graphic violence?
[His head hurts. Consciousness comes up on him like a white detonation behind the eyes and dully he makes an animal sound of pain, a low grunt through gritted teeth. He knows if he opens his eyes it's only going to increase and so he puts it off, remains floating in the dark pit of himself, scrabbling for an explanation as to why he feels like this. It's not something he's well aquiainted with, the kind of pain that lingers after the cause of it has ended, body healing rapidly around whatever's inflicted against it but the head, of course it would be there. Of course it would.
It takes a moment, that blinding whiteness that rattles through him temporarily eclipsing the other things, the thudding ache in his arms, the strain in his wrists, the fact he can't feel the ground. There's a moment of panic then, something fierce and raw opening up in his chest and he flexes his hands within their restraints, feels out the shape of his containment. Struggles to remember why he's here and what's going on and whether he'd done something wrong and is now facing some kind of disciplinary action or--
--something else.
Slowy, with some trepidation, he opens his eyes. And there it is, the increased acute flare in his head as the light stabs ruthessly into him, makes him choke out another kicked-dog sound before he can stop himsef. He blinks, onetwo, waits for the world to come into focus, for order to reassert itself, but no. He doesn't know where this is. Looks around, slowly. The cargo hold of a ship, perhaps, based on scent and what he can see beyond the blue glow of the holding cell's forcefield-- because that's where he is. Chained by the wrists in some holding cell and quickly now it comes flooding back to him in an unsteady rush, the riots and the blood and the exquisite abandon, how good it had been right up until the moment he'd been shot in the head.
Beyond the scent of the blood that still covers him, the industrial whiff of the cargo hold, the electric buzz of the forcefield, he can - faintly - smell lotus blooms. The sound he makes, this time it's all pent-up frustration as he pulls himself up with his inhuman strength, begins the tedious process of trying to yank himself free.]
no subject
...sluggishly, he tries to dredge it up, make sense of the clipped flashes of memory that skitter behind his eyes. The riots, the ripping and the tearing and the blood (the blood the blood the blood so much of it so much), the terrible rattleflash of pain in his head as the weapon had gone off, the distant ache as he'd hit the ground and everything went dark. That's all there is, no memory of specific faces or even singular acts, all of it coming together in a dark red rush.
(Something in his head and all through the Spine, almost a whispter, a kind of echo Come on now, hit the switch).
Fear fills him suddenly, washes over him in sickening waves because those scattered memories, their fragmentary parts, that isn't how it usually goes. Even in the thick of it there's always a cold bright kernel of self that he holds to, the thing that prevents him from turning on just anyone who happens to cross his path, to discern the difference between friend and foe. Had it gone out of him, towards the end there? Had he lost control of himself? Or is it just the shock to the head that leaves things so muddled and unclear?
Whatever the case, he can't accurately recall.
Despite that his fear is a hard gripping thing that twists and thrusts at his insides, none of it shows as he faces Kanda now. There's only the savage glint of his eyes, teeth bared, his face and hair caked with drying blood and it leaves him looking feral, inhuman to the extreme. He takes a breath, then another, and gathers himself to speak.]
You did this? Let me go. Right now. This is theft of Company property, obstruction of Company orders. This is outside your jurisdiction, killjoy, let me out right now.
[And he jerks again on his chains, hard enough to rattle his bones and rip at his flesh, sending thin wisps of bluegrey smoke rising upwards as the torn skin of his wrists quickly heals.]
no subject
[Tone dry and words almost lazy, Kanda pushes up to his feet and steps closer to the containment field to stand directly before Giovanni. Hands in his pockets, he cants his head to the side, more thoughtful than anything else because Giovanni does have a point.
There’s no warrant here to use as a means of justification, no official directive to step in and meddle in the Company’s affairs.
But as he watches that tendril of steely smoke curl into the air, watches flesh knit back to smoothness in a way that he’s all to familiar with.
You too, then. Guess it’s not all that surprising.
Both of them modified, body and persona, but as he’s thought before – in such opposite extremes. Sighing, he snaps out a sharp command, his words threaded with an impatient annoyance.]
Fucking hells, Giovanni. Knock that shit off already, quit bitching, and prove to me you’re capable enough of sound thought and I’ll let you down at least. As you are now, you’re a danger to yourself and anyone – and I do mean fucking anyone – around you, including your fellow Company lackeys.
So until you can prove you’re not a rabid fucking beast, you’ll stay there, like that. Up to you how long that fucking takes.
no subject
There's something rising up in him and almost he wants to scream or laugh but instead he tries to anchor himself around the command in Kanda's voice, the grounding sound of his name, at least enough to keep all the fractured parts of himself from flying irrevocably apart. One more hard yank at his restraints, and then he grows reluctantly still.
His breathing comes quick and heavy, though it's not from the physical exertion, no, but from the roiling expanse of feeling in him that he's struggling to contain. There's a moment of silence, and then he cuts his eyes at Kanda, something hard and fierce and bright in them, something calculating.
All that violence-- it's still there. Biding it's time.]
I'm perfectly capable of sound thought.
[Ha ha. Hahahahah]
no subject
[Leaning forward, cerulean eyes narrow, his gaze hard as granite as it locks with crimson, face mere inches from the force field surrounding the containment cell. Because someone like Giovanni?
Not exactly well versed in hiding the finer nuances of body language that give him away in so many different ways. There's tension coiling his entire frame tight, as if he's struggling to contain the riot of emotions that chase across his expression, war in flickering bursts in that fierce gaze. And with the way he's breathing - one would have expected this after a rigorous workout, or a pitched battle.
Not so much from someone only recently returned to consciousness.
Time to push then, before whatever he's trying to contain in order to appease Kanda shreds the remnants of humanity that debating resides deep within the recesses of this man's conditioning.]
I told you already, didn't I? An animal's body language gives him away every time. But then, so does a human's.
[Slow steps start to bring him around the cage, his gaze never breaking contact beyond a quick blink.]
Can you even remember what you were like when I found you? Look at you. Covered in blood but still craving more, huh? Tell me I'm wrong, Giovanni. I fucking dare you.
no subject
If he can just get him to drop the energy field, if he'll just come close enough, he can kick him hard in the chest until his ribs cave in with a beautiful sound, puncture his lungs and leave him there gasping on the floor of his own ship. Get a lock on his neck with his thighs maybe, twist, break his neck in one slick movement. Wouldn't that be something, wouldn't that be--
--But Kanda asks his question, and briefly it punches down into the thick red haze of his thoughts, plucks again at the cold hard core of fear in him, causes a sickening lurch from stomach to throat like the moment before a fall. Because he doesn't remember it clearly, nothing besides the bright hot feelings that had raced through his bones, the scent of blood, the echoing sound of screams.
And that's all right, that's okay, it's what he's supposed to do-- but there's something wrong and he knows it. He hadn't been in control, wouldn't have stopped no matter who had happened to be in his way. Company or civilian, friend or foe, they would have been one and the same.
Unsteadily, he makes a sound like laughter only it's hollow and strange and threatening to spill over into something else. It takes him a moment to bite it back, to shut it up, to from coherent words instead.]
I don't know what you want. What you expect me to tell you. This is what I am. I'm a Dog, and things like me-- we'll always bow down and obey our masters, tear apart their enemies with our fangs. You want to hear me say I'm still craving more? Well, of course I am. Always. It never stops.
[His voice, it's both vicious and desolate all at once.]
no subject
[This man reeks of bloodlust. The scent of it cloying, the waves of intent to kill skittering over his flesh nearly enough to make his skin crawl.
Oh, not out of fear, or even the vague sense of anticipation that it brings - but because he recognizes this kind of conditioned madness.
He's seen it in the endless parade of other test subjects pitted against him, each conditioned to throw away the shredded traces of their humanity and become the monsters the researchers were trying to cultivate.
The perfect weapons, ready to be unleashed with a mindless abandon.
This - this is what they'd tried to make him.]
Not always, idiot. Things like you don't always bow down to obey.
[Stopping near the side of Giovanni, Kanda's expression darkens, twist with self-mocking loathing for just a moment as he turns that chilled gaze on his prisoner with a piercing intensity.]
Some fight back, every step of the way. They snarl and bite and use those fangs to pierce the hand that tries to beat it down. Some prefer to become a self-evolving monster instead of a mindless attack animal. Some would use those teeth to tear out the master's throat.
[Like that boy tried to do. Like Kanda had wanted to do but never truly followed through with, beyond those smaller rebellions. And the realization of that, that he'd bent, but that boy and this man bad both been broken - It's enough to finally crack the cool detached facade, enough to have him practically snarling at the man ensnared before him.]
But you? You let them point you to chaos and lost yourself in the kills. You might be a conditioned fucking dog, but you should still be some fucking degree of human. [His voice lowers into a snarl, each word meant to cut, to wound, despite himself.]
But that was fucking pathetic. Less than a base instinct, less than a predator catching prey. Not even worthy of being called dog, much less human. Welcome to being a fucking demon, Giovanni.
[Reigning himself in, Kanda cuts his gaze to the side, draws a slow breath to tamp down his temper.]
...I won't make this mistake again. I'll kill you before I let that madness out, and call it a damned mercy. For you.
no subject
(Put down like her like Lily Lily Lily unhinged and full of burning desperation her face as the blade went in the sight of her there in the thick of it with blood dripping from her limbs from her face that smile splitting open wide and mad and full of such exquisite joy, and the moment she knew she was done for something sad and bittersweet and glad like relief it doesn't hurt anymore it doesn't hurt--)
But that's not what he means, is it? There's a roiling anger in the man's words, in that glacial blue as he pins him with his eyes, and distantly Giovanni is aware that this isn't all meant for him, that there's something beneath all that, something personal maybe (vaguely, the memory of Kanda keeping stride with him that time, down in the tunnels), but it's a hard thing to hold on to. An impossible thing.
There's still too much heat in him, too much bone-jarring violence, and underneath it all a yawning pit of fear that opens wide and threatens to swallow him whole.
The words, in a way, they shake him.
Kanda looks away, finally, takes that steadying breath, and Giovanni slips through the gaps in his words to find the core of truth in them, the truth as he sees it, anyway. That perhaps he had, for one ugly glittering moment, become something else back there. Something beyond all control or reason. Less than the sum of his parts. Something that needed to die.
(And there's something small and sharp in him like a splinter slim but deep cutting right down into the core of himself, the tiniest faintest whisper-- and it says perhaps it would be better that way, perhaps it would. Let it all come down. Let it end.)
He is pathetic. Worthless useless weak. One must have control to be controlled and if he loses that, where is he?
Slowly, he bares his teeth in a smile that isn't a smile at all.]
Then get on and kill me, will you? Kill me, or let me go. I'm not in the mood to play this game with you. Show me that merciful side of yours and have done with it. Whatever it is you're looking for, you won't find it in me. I'll go on killing. Endlessly. It's all there is.
no subject
Canting his head to the side, he sights down the barrel, his gaze every bit the soldier - the killer - he'd once been, utterly devoid of emotion or indecision as icy blue clashes with crimson.
But even as his finger begins to shift, to curl against the trigger...
There's something lingering in Giovanni's gaze, the shadow of something human clinging to the edges. And he's not sure if he wants to see it or if Giovanni even knows it's there, but.
But.
It's enough.
Snarling out an enraged curse, Kanda snaps his hand up, flicked the safety back into place and leans forward, his own expression almost feral as he glare at his prisoner.]
Fuck that. You don't get an easy fucking out, Giovanni.
[Drawing a breath, his expression settles into a sneer as he steps back, away from the cage he's put this man in.]
I'll be the judge of that - of whether or not 'what I'm looking for' is fucking there or not.
no subject
Put down like a dog in a holding cell while he's strapped by his wrists and unable to move-- well. Perhaps it's fitting. Perhaps it's what he deserves.
That roiling fear though, it doesn't make it all the way into his face (just a shadow of it, a shiver, going off like a flash in his eyes and then gone again), and instead he just raises his head, meets Kanda's gaze, doesn't blink or look away. Waits for the world to go dark.
But it doesn't come.
Instead there's just the killjoy snarling at him and he's flooded with relief and despair in equal oversized measures. Of course he doesn't get it that easy. Of course not.
As always, the decision is out of his hands.
Kanda steps back, and Giovanni gives him an empty scimitar smile.]
You'll regret that. Hahah. The moment you release me from here, I'm going to tear you apart.
[And his words are heavy with threat, yes, but there's something else lurking behind that hot violence, something resigned and infinitely tired.]
no subject
[Shrugging, Kanda reaches back out to re-activate the field even as he slides the firearm firmly back into the holster, his expression utterly stoic as he steps further back.]
Seems like you'd still rather bite, though, so you're staying as you are. Once you're less homicidal... we'll see.
[That said, he spins on a heel and strides swiftly out of the cargo bay, doesn't bother to look back. And he doesn't stop until he reaches the kitchen, until he can stand there, head bowed, breaths slow and deliberately even because Giovanni is dangerous.
Not because of his feral behaviors, but because he stirs too many memories, bring to bear too many 'what if's'.
What if he'd let them break him, when he'd still been a child?
What if he'd stayed - how long before he'd stepped past the threshold of what he'd been and what Giovanni had become?
What if Sion hadn't released him?
What if he's crediting Giovanni with an ability to adapt that had, in fact, been beaten out of him long ago?
Shuddering at the thought, Kanda pushes off the counter to disappear into his room, to fold down into a meditative seat. Control.
He just needs to find his center, armor himself with a rigid control.]