[Again she watches him, and he stands straight and still beneath that gaze, unmoved, as though the restrained violence of moments before had never befallen him. It's an easy thing to brush aside and dismiss when he's been conditioned towards so much worse from the very first moment he opened his eyes. She seems critical and cold and unforgiving, but there are worse things. Sometimes, in some ways, he is one of those worse things.
But not now.
Not even when she begins to turn, pauses, something in her bearing indicative of wariness, the way she holds herself, and he has to clamp down on the impulse to flash her a knifey smile containing too many pointed teeth. It's something he might have done, had she been a different kind of Handler. One with less experience than she, or who's skin gave off the telltale reek of fear despite attempts at a flinty exterior, giving away the fact that they saw him as a threat. Her wariness, it's something different, and as such he keeps that small signifier of personality in check.
Still, it means that when she does fully turn and motions for him to follow there are all the usual crowding thoughts in him, hot and wet like blood-- the slim column of her neck seen from behind looks the perfect shape for his hands, a quick jerk and there'd be the bright music of breaking bones, filling him with a sick twist of pleasure. He knows better though, felt it in the restrained shove she'd given him, and outside of all that there are the bonds that hold him tight despite their invisible nature, the years upon years of conditioning, the compulsion to obey. He'd never do it, no matter how he might want to, and there's something in her callous treatment of him that only makes him want to please her more.
Like Mother.
So for now he continues the pretense of being a blank and empty thing, thinks his questions can be answered in other ways, at a later time. They move towards the smooth white surface of the door, the equally soulless corridor that waits beyond it (it's the way Mother likes it, cool and crisp and clean, a perfect backdrop for those moments where blood is spilled in abandon-- red on white, jolie laide), and he answers her question in the same smooth voice, cool and fluid as water.]
Spare uniforms, and clothes for blending in, when needed. Weapons, although only two are what one would call personal belongings.
[Two pistols that he never remembers being without, a little retro, not quite right, but to which he holds an unnameable attachment. There's also the pristine, expensive suit and it's accompaniments, the mirrored glasses, the straightjacket. All of which make him feel vaguely uncomfortable yet nostalgic in equal measure, something he doesn't really understand. He'd rather leave those here, out of sight. And there are the few books he's managed to acquire, Qreshi revenge tragedies mostly, things that haven't quite been forbidden to him but which he'd prefer not to mention all the same. Too indicative of personality.]
No doubt one of the other Handlers will bring them to your ship should you request it, Ma'am.
no subject
But not now.
Not even when she begins to turn, pauses, something in her bearing indicative of wariness, the way she holds herself, and he has to clamp down on the impulse to flash her a knifey smile containing too many pointed teeth. It's something he might have done, had she been a different kind of Handler. One with less experience than she, or who's skin gave off the telltale reek of fear despite attempts at a flinty exterior, giving away the fact that they saw him as a threat. Her wariness, it's something different, and as such he keeps that small signifier of personality in check.
Still, it means that when she does fully turn and motions for him to follow there are all the usual crowding thoughts in him, hot and wet like blood-- the slim column of her neck seen from behind looks the perfect shape for his hands, a quick jerk and there'd be the bright music of breaking bones, filling him with a sick twist of pleasure. He knows better though, felt it in the restrained shove she'd given him, and outside of all that there are the bonds that hold him tight despite their invisible nature, the years upon years of conditioning, the compulsion to obey. He'd never do it, no matter how he might want to, and there's something in her callous treatment of him that only makes him want to please her more.
Like Mother.
So for now he continues the pretense of being a blank and empty thing, thinks his questions can be answered in other ways, at a later time. They move towards the smooth white surface of the door, the equally soulless corridor that waits beyond it (it's the way Mother likes it, cool and crisp and clean, a perfect backdrop for those moments where blood is spilled in abandon-- red on white, jolie laide), and he answers her question in the same smooth voice, cool and fluid as water.]
Spare uniforms, and clothes for blending in, when needed. Weapons, although only two are what one would call personal belongings.
[Two pistols that he never remembers being without, a little retro, not quite right, but to which he holds an unnameable attachment. There's also the pristine, expensive suit and it's accompaniments, the mirrored glasses, the straightjacket. All of which make him feel vaguely uncomfortable yet nostalgic in equal measure, something he doesn't really understand. He'd rather leave those here, out of sight. And there are the few books he's managed to acquire, Qreshi revenge tragedies mostly, things that haven't quite been forbidden to him but which he'd prefer not to mention all the same. Too indicative of personality.]
No doubt one of the other Handlers will bring them to your ship should you request it, Ma'am.