Chapter 2

[thenine]

Who: OTA
Where: Quad
When: Week 2, Day 5 - Week 4, Day 6
Summary: Chapter 2 prompts!
Restrictions/Warnings: Violence, blood, et cetera. For anything surpassing 'R' on a rating scale, please create your own log.
Notes: Please title your subject line in the following format -- Open / Closed | Date. OOC event information can be found here.

Quick Navigation
The Nine
The Company
Westies
True Leithians
Leith
Resistance
The RAC

The Nine: Poisoned Well

With the heir delivered and Lady Derrish returning to health, balance has been maintained amongst the Nine. Swift and efficient - and, some would say, unbelievable - medical attention administered may have steadied the Lady's life, but for those in the ruling houses, the atmosphere of tenuous peace only grows thicker. Land Kendry has launched an investigation - with particular focus on Land Hyponia - into the source of the 'attack' on Lady Derrish's health. Of course, that is only the surface, and some suggest, with hushed voices, that there may be more to Land Kendry's goals than to weed out an assailant. Land Hyponia has long since been in support of maintaining the Seventh Generation Accords, which it defends staunchly against any opposition. One of the most agitated among those in disagreement with the Accords is Land Kendry. Now is the perfect opportunity for them to rearrange the pieces in their favor, and with the information they've fabricated, they'll be able to replace the head of Land Hyponia with someone who is - at least hopefully - more pliable to their agenda. The Derrish have their own suspicions, the cure surfacing all too conveniently timed to have been a coincidence. When Land Kendry's investigation procures evidence pointing to Land Hyponia as the culprits, inflaming the crime with implied - yet vague - ties to the resistance, the Derrish publically accept the accusation. Behind closed doors, the solution seemed to have come as uncannily easily as the cure, and suspicions only rise. But for now, the two houses remain allied - ready to use one another for their own interests. For those among the nobility, it's the time to reevaluate alliances, assuring the old and gathering the new. The more support you have, the safer you are - unless, of course, you chose the wrong friend. Some turn to other members of the nobility, some to the RAC for hired guards, some to the Company to mandate investigations unsuitable for Killjoys, and some may even turn to the underbelly of society to accomplish anything necessary to stay on top. Or to simply stay alive.

The Company: Cleaning House

There will be no accolades, and no rest, for the hard working Company officials following the response to the True Leithan attacks. Assignments shift from one thing to the next, moving from bureaucratic nightmare to bureaucratic nightmare. While there’s always busy work to distract from the intrigue behind the scenes, it’s not liable to be any safer. Some officials will be charged with maintaining peace and order on Leith, as the outbreak of a pandemic slowly spreads over the moon. From helping the afflicted find their way to a place of treatment, to safe and efficient body disposal—burning corpses by the hundreds—to attempting to track down the source of the virus, it's best anyone assigned here take heed ‘lest they find themselves falling ill as well. Westerley, on the other hand, is a different kind of headache. With Harvest Week in swing, most company officials will be reaching for a drink of their own at the end of their shifts. Rowdy workers celebrating their time off, spending their hard earned Joy frivolously, and citizens whisked away by the atmosphere of celebration all mingle throughout Old Town. Property damage, fighting, less than subtle illegal activity, and crowding all become more of an issue than they usually are during this time. It's the perfect setting to lay down the law, or to not be noticed by it. On top of it all, each and every member of the Company's workforce can expect to have their documents double and triple-checked. Those with any suspected ties to Leith are likely to undergo a more serious investigation. One-on-one interrogations become common practice, and whether you're trusted or suspect, you may come face to face with a companion in your duties. True Leithan sympathizers are what the Company review is after, but anything else unturned will surely not be ignored. Cover your bases.

Westies: Harvest Week

Harvest week is in full swing throughout Westerley - visa workers have been shuttled back in droves from their time on Leithian farms, many of whom were willing to take some of their observations to information brokers for a price. Most had superficial information to sell (the state of unease on the average farm due to the impending Accords, the increased suspicion that the migrant workers were forced to endure, the fear of retaliation by the rebellion for the True Leithian attacks), others with reports of increased security and weapons caches on the farms of those whose sympathies lie with the “heroes” of the attack in Old Town. Old Town, however, is even more of a chaotic mesh of humanity with the mass influx of returning bodies. Bars stay busy day and night, the hokk and ale flow almost faster than most can keep up, and many Enforcers and Killjoys alike can make a good bit of extra joy (or free drinks) by moonlighting as security at the more popular locations. Despite all of the fun to be had, there is still the undercurrent of unrest, because Company checks have increased even more and Intake has become a revolving door of petty criminals being held for the smallest infractions. Everyone is on edge as the Resistance grumbles and the Nine search the shadows for something or perhaps someone. The unrest only worsens once Leith is placed under quarantine. And through it all, criminal activity is on the rise. Somehow, despite the strict regulation and transport of migrant workers, there is an increased access to Jakk and Bliss. Norn has an ever growing market, and weapons dealers are in high demand both in Eulogy and by private buyers alike. Something is brewing beneath the revelry, and no one wants to be caught unable to defend themselves, it seems. Not that any amount of firepower can defend against disease when P43X shows up on W3D7--but it can certainly make the symptoms worse.

True Leithians: Second Stage

Wounded and pressed to a corner, the beast rears its head and bares a maw of teeth and ruthless pursuit. The True Leithian organization does not take pause to mend wounds left in the wake of last week’s retaliation, no. They do not seek the comfort of safe haven and recovery. Instead they turn their anger and fear inward, sacrificing their own for what they believe to be the greater good. On Week 2, Day 6, three individuals slip into the crowds of Leith, mingling with the revelers and the families celebrating Harvest Week. They share smiles and laughter, they share conversation and drinks, but most importantly, they share infection. Each of the three is responsible for disseminating P43X, a viral bioweapon designed by Zan Nikora on behalf of the military in years past. During its conception, the aim of P43X was simple: to create a weapon which could demoralize and destabilize an entire population within a matter of days. To create madness that builds in the blood and eats into the brain, spreading through every tier of society. And though its use has long been out of commission, its engineer has lingered. Zan Nikora, kidnapped and held under threat of death not to himself but to those he holds dearest, is made to choose between the lives of his family on Westerley or the strangers on Leith. His choice is obvious, though far from easy. Reassembling the buried curse takes time, supplies, and testing. He is provided amply with the last two but scarcely with the first. But still he complies. When his madness maker is complete and his existence becomes a potential loose end, it’s not freedom that Zan Nikora tastes, but the poison of his own medicine. Only once the voices in his head have risen above whispers and turned to screams, when his mind can no longer hold secrets worth sharing, does he see his family again. It takes six days*. Six days and Zan Nikora stumbles through Old Town, eyes unseeing, mind riddled with disease—infection spreading. Mod Note: *W3D6. Cure and vaccines will be developed and disseminated beginning on W4D3, but will not be fully administered to all locations until W4D5.

Leith: Pocket Posies

Harvest Week in Leith marks a period of joy and relief. Bazaars are open longer, the ordinary bustle of the business day replaced with celebration and festivities throughout the evening hours. Vendors offer games for adults and children alike, the sky is a constant wash of soft pinks, purples, and greens from holographic firework shows, and music fills the air from different stages. All walks of life are welcome to join in the merriment, just so long as they have the right to be there. Anyone suspected of an invalid visa or citizenship papers are dealt with harshly, but quietly. Tucked away into the darkness of a holding cell like all of Leith’s more problematic elements. It is a time of peace and relief, this week, and they will not abide disruption. But within the hallowed days of celebration, a sickness grows, incubating. Spreading. First, it begins with an ache deep within the muscles. The body tires too quickly, the flesh burns with a blanket of rising fever. Whispers skirt at the edge of hearing, unintelligible but audible, filling the audio cortex with illusions and lies. Food loses its appeal, though the body yearns dearly for energy it cannot hold, and breathing becomes tighter, harder. Next the tide of high fevers, of lethargy. The brain devolves into paranoia and mania, the mind races with delusions and hallucinations. Pain follows, a pain that seems to emanate from every nerve without relief or pause, seeping through the muscles and aching within the very bones of a person. Some may wish for death, and for many, that wish will be granted in an unending sleep when the fatigue pulls darkness across the mind, plunges the last thoughts of a person into static slumber. But not all will succumb so readily, and therein is the weakness that ultimately shelved P43X during its initial creation. Its impacts are not uniform—while much of the population suffers dearly, most are sustained with timely medical interventions, and many others recover with the prowess of their own immune system. For Leith, bountiful in money and supplies, most of P43X’s more fatal properties are circumvented or delayed. But even in this lush world of affluence and peace, there are the poor, the underprivileged, and the weak. They are not afforded the same haste of care, the same salvation. Instead, they’re given graves of sanitizing fires, and their bodies turn to ash.

Resistance: Sleeping Dogs

The chaos of the festivities that go along with Harvest Week provides the perfect cover for the Resistance to begin moving once again. New cells need to be formed in the wake of so many executions and new members need to be recruited. Info brokers with Resistance-leaning sympathies have an opportunity to make a little extra joy by putting the disconnected sympathizers in contact with one another, aiding the vetting of Company insiders that need new handlers within the organization. For Resistance members already embedded within, they need to work now to find new locations to store what supplies remain and to begin rebuilding the stockpiles of weapons and supplies re-confiscated by the Company. Some may have heard of abandoned mines or facilities that can be retrofitted out in the Badlands while others are needed to track down rumors of Company made fallout shelters located within the under-city tunnels. For this, Company moles are essential - the only hope of accessing these shelters is with long forgotten Company passcodes. And the Scarbacks, well. Everyone’s heard rumors that there are many within their ranks willing to help with recruitment and contraband transportation, though there’s little the Company can do to restrict their movements at this time. Because of this, Scarbacks may also be the only ones that have a chance of getting into Leith once the quarantines go into effect. Those already aligned with the rebellion will be tasked with coordinating supply movements, making a deal or three with the devil on behalf of those unwilling to back down from the promises of the Accords. Caution and purpose should drive their movements because if the True Leithian attack is any indication… those nationalists are not going to let go of their precious land and status without a long, bloody fight.

The RAC: Holding Pattern

Warrants still flow in with a regular consistency - enough to keep the average team or agent quite busy. Every harvest season there are visa jumpers that need to be caught and low-level warrants claiming petty theft from farms by Westie migrants. The increasing number of disturbances and crimes in Old Town guarantee a plethora of local warrants to capture criminals across the moon or those that managed to escape an Enforcer’s arrest. Some, however, have either been requested by Seyah Kendry herself or volentold by their seniors within the RAC to conduct investigations into the attack on the Nine. And not all of these investigations are on the Lady’s behest. Some of the Nine aren’t quite willing to take Land Kendry’s word as law and have quietly requested their own investigations into the attack in Old Town and the Land Derrish misfortunes. (MOD NOTE: There will be a comment thread for teams to sign up for the specialized plot related warrants on the monthly warrant post, located HERE. Once teams have posted for a plot warrant, the mods will give them a location and focused assignment.)

Comments

[homonka]

[ Appraising the weight, moving the blade with practiced ease across her palm in a quick spin that has its hilt angled down and its grip reversed, Sui Feng smiles. The curve of her lip isn't manic or overt, but the change, subtle though it might be, brings a dark light to her features, creates shadows where ordinarily none exist.

If she'd noticed the hesitation, she lets it pass without remark.

Stepping around him, slow and circular, she regards the kneeling figure like a shark might regard its future prey, blade still pressed towards the inside of her wrist.

Its poison isn't meant for her; its edge offers no threat.

But for the human-skinned creature? For Giovanni?

One step brings her to his back, free hand reaching out to nest in his hair and wrench his head back to meet her icy glare again. ]

Don't be fooled. It isn't human.

[ Even as she stares the dog down, her voice is raised, meant for someone else. The dagger rises, hovers at his neck without making contact.

Softer now, words meant for him, head bowing slightly to whisper at his ear. ]

You know that, don't you? You are just a tool for my disposal. The moment you cease to be useful, I will end you. Do you understand, Unit 68?

[ofobedience]

[He sees it from behind the fall of his pale hair, the dark little smile that cleaves her face, the shadows lurking around its edges. It's not a pleasant thing, and the subtle change that comes over her sends small sparks racing the length of his Spine, a cold sharp feeling welling up inside of him.

She starts to circle, and he keeps his breathing calm and even, face devoid of all emotion even as his anxiety spikes exponentially, the concern that they've given him to some sadist who - with her rank, with her bloodlines - he'll have no choice but to endure come what may. An honour then, or some kind of double-edged sword, praise laced with punishment? It's difficult, right now, for him to say.

Then she's behind him and even before her hand snaps out there's the prickle of awareness in him, the knowledge that she's going to act, to strike perhaps, and it takes all the restraint he has (speaks volumes, even if she can't discern it, in regard to his self-control, the very thing that so many of his 'kind' sorely lack) to prevent from moving, from countering her action and gripping her wrist and attempting to slam her to the ground. He succeeds though, and so he's rewarded with the sharp tug of fingers buried in his hair, head yanked back and flesh shifting against the metal collar buried deep into bone (it wakes up the ache of it, the dull pain that never really goes away). He makes no sound and gives no indication of discomfort or fear aside from the quick glitter of his red eyes as they meet hers once again.

When she speaks, he knows the words aren't for him. He's the 'it' she's referring to, that much is clear, though who the words are for remains an unknown. Vaguely, the thought unsettles him.

Though not as much as the dagger's quick rise, its presence so near (too near) to his exposed throat, and there's that flicker in his eyes again, distant but discernible-- the faintest trace of fear. Still he doesn't look away. Does nothing to defend himself even as, internally, that fear blossoms like the spread of blood from a stab wound. Will she do it? Will she cut him? The truth is, he doesn't know.

She moves and her lips hover close to his ear and though he remains still and submissive in her dangerous grip there's the slight raising of hair where her breath susurrates against his skin, a subtle sign of his anxiety. Still, to his credit, when his voice comes it's smooth and calm and controlled.]

Yes. I know that, and I understand. Ma'am.

[He's not sure if it's the title she'd want to go by, but it's the only one he's heard used in her presence and, in this moment, she doesn't strike him as the sort who'd appreciate him speaking out of turn.]

[homonka]

[ While not a particularly kind individual, Sui Feng is also not needlessly cruel. The dog is pliant to her, bending at the grasp of her unkind hand, hovering obediently at the precipice of life and death beneath her blade.

Her point, she feels, is made to him.

But he is not the only one who need bear witness or glean a lesson from this introduction, so for now, her dagger stays steady, edge kept precisely within range so that the slightest pivot of her wrist could split the smooth skin of his throat.

Sui Feng lifts her head, speaks louder again for that unseen third party. ]

This blade is called a "Dog Bite". A cut will debilitate it, but it will not die.

[ The dagger moves, drawn up and around his neck like the bow of a violin, still not making direct contact. Wrist angled up, the tip of the knife hovers above the "spine implant". ]

This will kill it.

[ Sui Feng releases his hair with a shove meant to send him to the ground, a bare hint of her augmented strength behind it. She has no need to show her full colors--that would be ego, not necessity. Stepping around him as casually as if they'd just shared tea, she returns the blade to its sheathe, hilt clinking faintly with contact. ]

But that shouldn't be necessary. He's going to be a good dog for me. Isn't that right?

[ofobedience]

[Again, she raises her voice, speaks about him rather than to him and, again, there's that feeling of dislocation, mild disquiet over not knowing who she's talking to, who else is observing this display. Because that's what this is, isn't it? She has made her point, or so he hopes--

--because when her hand moves and the blade goes with it there's the tremour or renewed fear in him, the half-expectation of brief pain followed by something exponentially worse (he's felt it before, knows how it'll be should she cut him, the exquisite agony of it, the weakness that follows for a good few hours). It never comes though, just more words and the dagger's presence felt as a tingling somewhere beyond his skin but not quite cutting into it, never making contact.

It's because of this, then, that when she releases his hair and shoves him with a force that speaks of strength restrained (he takes note of that, the power there, something more than he'd expect from someone without his particular augmentations), it comes as a relief. Even though the force of it sends him sprawling against the ground, hands moving under him to prevent his face from taking the brunt of the blow (not that it matters much, but it's a reaction that kicks in all the same), it's a small thing, comparatively. It could have been so much worse.

She keeps talking, he discerns that the latter part of her sentence is meant for him, and so though he remains where he is in an undignified sprawl, he answers her all the same.]

Yes, Ma'am.

[And he decides it best to wait for permission before he chooses to move, falls silent and still with his heart still hammering in his ears and that vague sense of relief rushing over him.]

[homonka]

[ Total compliance is not, generally, something she likes out of her subordinates. A commander and her crew should be at odds; the competition between them drives improvement, keeps both parties sharper for it.

But Giovanni is not her subordinate. He is at best a pet she never asked for, and while she'll fulfill her obligations to her orders without fail, she will not regard him with extraordinary care because of how dangerous he is.

In fact, it's quite the opposite. The potential volatility of his make invites her darker tendencies. Should she get him to snap, she could rid herself of this burden with a simple stack of paperwork.

Unfortunately, he appears compliant without fail, not so much as rising to pick himself up after she's thrown him down like debris. Tongue clicking lightly, she stashes the now covered blade inside her coat, stepping to his side.

One hand, twisted like the fingers of a conductor or puppet master, motions him up. ]

You may have been given a name from your prior masters, but you will receive no such thing from me. A name must be earned, even by pets.

[ Her thoughts drift off course, linger at the ceremonial blade she can always remember having but never remember acquiring. It too has a name--she knows this instinctively--but it's not something Sui Feng has yet earned knowing. ]

Questions?

[ofobedience]

[In truth, it's probably one of the reasons she's ended up with him-- he's good at what he does, can kill with both ruthless brutality and quiet discretion, whatever is required of him (for all that he prefers the former, is fond of a bit of mess), but he also holds on to his impulses better than the rest. There are at least one or two among the Dogs who would have already snapped, by now.

In theory, it should make him perfect-- one must have control to be controlled, and he is, as she's discerned, compliant without fail. And yet, where his creator is concerned, he remains a disappointment (it never quite connects for him that what She wants is raw brutality, likes to see the civilised facade come undone, watch them break-- his unfailing submission, in Her eyes, is a flaw, an offense) and so once again as Sui Feng moves to his side and motions him up with the twist of her hand, he wonders how much of this is honour and how much is subtle punishment.

It doesn't feel much like honour, in this moment.

His face remains wiped clean of emotion as he rises, not quite looking at her, from hands and knees to knees, then feet and he's dusting off his uniform, smoothing down his hair. One should always strive towards elegance-- it's what Mother says, and even though there's little of elegance in this, he'll still carry himself with what poise he can despite what just happened, even whilst being spoken to in such a way.

At least she's made it clear what she thinks of him. Gives him some idea of how he ought to proceed from here on out. How much - or how little - he can get away with. She's hardly the first, and won't be the last, to refuse to call him by name.]

No, Ma'am.

[He has questions, has things he wants to say, but it seems to him that it's better to wait, to give her only blank submission, for now.]

[homonka]

[ Another moment to watch him, gauge him, her gaze not unlike the researchers who were probably responsible for his existence: critical, clinical, without human affections. He's done well not to react so far, but she will not be so easily pleased or offer reward for duties expected.

(His subservience is not to his credit for a job well done, but it is beneficial to another day lived.)

That he should withhold his questions or truly lacks any speaks to either an unwillingness to be intelligent or an overabundance of as much, a mind attached to those fangs when none need be.

Just which it is will be discovered soon enough, she expects. ]

I see.

[ Whatever edge might've been present in her tenor is gone now, steady and emotionless. She goes to turn on her heel and lead him out, but pauses, eyeing him warily.

To turn her back on an enemy is against everything she's trained to do, but the true crime is in allowing an enemy to live at all.

Not an enemy then, she decides, completing her turn without preamble and motioning him behind her, not yet. ]

I've no interest in getting to know you, so that's just as well. My second in command will meet us on the ship. Do you have any personal belongings?

[ofobedience]

[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.

[homonka]

No.

[ She stills, a phantom of white and black at his side, small enough to match the faint shadows cast by his stature, but too silvered and staunch to disappear within its gray. As much as she walks with the gait of one who has toiled through corpses and deposited them in the wet soils of her forebears, she is also crafted by the hands of court, taught to hold her neck at a crane so as to emulate the grace of creatures long since fled from the waters of her world.

If she's any indication of those dark thoughts pulsing through him moments before, she shows nothing for it, swan-like neck twisting slightly to regard him again. Still cold, still assessing, predatory, but with the edge of restraint now. Considering.

Yes, she's certain they would bring what she asked for, tidying it away within the confines of their Company ship, but they are not her people, and she no more trusts them than the pet they've leashed to her wrist. What they might deem acceptable could well become a hidden blade in dog's hand.

He will have no secrets, not from her. Not so easily. ]

I will see them with my own eyes before I trust the judgment of a stranger. Take me to them.

I'm sorry for the length ;;

[ofobedience]

[No, she says, and in the bright-lit white corridor he pauses, looks at her. Waits. There's a jumble of varying discomforts in him as she continues, makes it clear she intends to be taken to his personal space. Personal space-- it's hardly that, really, a room assigned to him and the closest thing he has to privacy, but the fact is that anyone with the right clearance can enter whenever they like, not needing his permission. He's equipment, ultimately, and that room is where this particular piece of equipment happens to be kept.

It only locks from the outside.

Still, there's a moment of visible hesitation in him whilst he wonders whether permission from elsewhere should be sought, whether it's permissible for her to enter that area of the Kennel. It's a thought he quickly dismisses-- there are some who'd be unhappy about it, no doubt, but her rank and standing, the fact that he belongs to her now, all give her the right to enter that space. There are the other things too, though, the vague feeling of wanting to keep her out, that it isn't for her to see, that it's his, but with an effort he tries to shake loose of it-- he's not entitled to that level of privacy and if she wants to check over his belongings herself, that is her prerogative.

His lips part as though on a protest or a question, close again. Then finally, he nods.]

This way, then.

[And he'll start moving in the opposite direction from the one he'd initially intended, leading them further inside rather than out, footsteps tap-tapping quietly against the cool white tile of the floor, his thoughts occluded from her. Vaguely, he hopes they won't run into any of the other Dogs, one or two in particuar - Arthur, for example, who's instability is more obvious than most, inclined to bite, to say things (come on, Giovanni, if we all left together there's nothing they could do we can overpower them we should kill them all we could join up with the RAC we could get away from this shit this isn't right and you know it), who wouldn't hold his tongue even in the presence of someone like Sui-Feng. But they see no-one aside from another Handler or two (brief nods, curious looks) as they traverse the winding white corridors and swishing electric doors of the Kennel.

Eventually they reach the right hallway, lined with doors bearing the number belonging to their occupants, and Giovanni stops when they reach the one marked '68', palm pressing flat to the panel beside it and watching with feigned detachment as it opens. Steps inside. The room is small and the same clinical white as everything else, empty save for the low-slung bed (neatly made, also white) in one corner and the further panel on the far wall. He crosses the short distance before pressing his palm to that, too, waits as the alcove beyond it is revealed-- the space where his belongings are kept. He stands to one side to allow her to enter should she choose to, and though his exterior remains impassive there's a fraught tension in him that he doesn't really understand. He hasn't done anything wrong. And yet.

Inside there are the uniforms, black and bearing the Company's insignia on both shoulders, the Cerberus Unit identifier on the chest. There are clothes for 'blending in' on both Westerley and Leith, harnesses and holsters for various weapons-- things that feel, to him, more like accessories that come with 'the equipment' rather than things that belong to him, personally.

Then there are the two Walter P38s, cleaned and obviously cared for, the only weapons he keeps with him and that mean something to him that he can't accurately convey in words. Concealed behind the rows of clothes she'll find, if she's looking, the small stack of books (Qreshi revenge tragedies, two slim volumes of poetry - one Qreshi, the other Lethian in the pastoral style - one book on the identification of Lethian wild flowers), and then the other things. The suit. The glasses. The full-body straight-jacket.]

...there's an armory if you require more weapons. Although, of course, they're not really needed.

[He is the weapon, after all.]

And you'd need to request clearance. Unsurprisingly, I don't have free access to it myself.

[And it's potentially useful information, yes, but there's a part of him talking out of nervousness, for all that it fails to register in the cool flat tone of his voice.]

shhh i'm sorry for the wait!!

[homonka]

[ Each of his hesitations prior to now have been nearly imperceptible, subtle to a degree that their articulation is only apparent because she’s looking for their specific markers -- the draw of breath, the twitch of hands, the erroneous stalling tactics of human communication. Yet this time, she need not study him like some relic to discern the moment of hesitation, for it is overt, clear.

(A sense of self, then, for this dog. How useless that trait in a weapon.)

He leads the way and she turns, watching the whisper of hair and cloth as it sways in the circulated air, tracing the veins and lines of the implant at his nape. How long, she wonders, before she plunges a knife into him and ends his pathetic existence?

Would it be a mercy if she did, or vengeful?

Such thoughts can wait for another time, she supposes, when more data is available to compile. It’s the emptiness of the walls, she suspects, that inspire this introspection now. Every hallway and tile they cross is as barren as a bleached tomb, and the very clap of their footsteps feels an affront to the sterile silence of the Kennel.

His room has a similar sense of clinical coldness, its corners impeccable, its walls gleaming like freshly laid snow. She pays it little mind, warily regarding the threshold (chokepoint, good place to attack here, but he doesn’t--) for a moment before allowing the door to close behind her. They will share many such cages like this, contained and unto themselves, and it would serve Sui Feng to abandon any sense of her own hesitation sooner rather than later.

(But it’s not, for even a moment, hesitation out of fear. While she’s certain it would be a grueling fight, she’s also without pause about the prospect of fighting against him with her own hands, because indeed, weapons really aren't needed.) ]

I don’t care for weapons. [ Plainly said, she steps around him to inspect the uniforms, leaning in slightly to get a better look at the guns but impassive to them, if mildly affronted. ] Tools that have a propensity to backfire are liabilities.

[ Him, firearms--she offers no further detail to distinguish which she might mean, but it’s most likely both.

Sui Feng pushes through the clothes with a stiff hand, trying to limit as much skin contact with the materials as possible, delving deeper into this small little trove of personality. The books she glances over with disregard, amused at their apparent subjects (not that she shows it), stalling only upon the discovery of the straight jacket.

To this she glances back to him and the straight jacket to indicate where her attentions are directed, chin canted in question once more. ]

I assume this is sentimental rather than functional?

no worries! <3

[ofobedience]

[Again, her momentary wariness is something he's distantly cognizant of, although this time there's no silent rising of violent inclinations, no thoughts of snapping the pale stem of her neck, no visions of teeth and blood. His concern, for now, is on her reactions and moods, on whether she'll find the small indicators of personality here intolerable (laughable), the small signifiers of a guilty pleasure taken from beautiful things.

And the other items too, the ones that leave him with vague ghosting feelings that he doesn't quite understand and which - perhaps because of this - both unsettle yet draw him in.

Perhaps some of his tension is palpable as she rifles through his small collection of personal belongings, a bone-deep thrum that he feels like an overloud heartbeat, somehow giving him away. What it gives away he isn't sure, but there's the vague sense that it's something, and when each object passes beneath her gaze or avoidant touch he watches with a sickened kind of alertness.

And her comment isn't lost on him, the implication there, that he is the unreliable tool she deems distasteful. There's a feeling inside him like a fist closing tight, but he says nothing. Stands steady and still. Keeps watch.

The small measure of relief he feels when she all but bypasses the books is short lived, her glance back to him and the small inclination of her chin making it clear what she's referring to, and again the tension vibrates through his bones because that item is one of the few that he can't adequately explain, that leaves him with strange uncertain feelings.]

In truth, I'm not sure. I didn't put it there.

[He can't remember when it got there, or how, but knows it's been with him a long time, at least the last five years.]

It's made from reinforced materials, I checked. As such, I suspect it could hold me if it was ever put to use. But to my knowledge, it never has been. Perhaps it's there for emergencies, or when in transit...

[But his words tail off because this is nothing but conjecture, and the fact is that none of it feels right. There are other, simpler (nastier) ways to incapacitate him, and when moving him from one point to another no-one has ever insisted on that level of restraint-- he knows how to behave. But more concerning is the sense of nostalgia and dread that comes from looking at it, things he can't explain or even put into words.]

Perhaps Professor Einsturzen could more accurately answer your question, Ma'am, or one of the long standing Handlers. My apologies.

and then short ... as short can be..

[homonka]

[ Like a sense of self, she deems the item ultimately pointless. If he should require restraints, they will be provided at the end of her knife, a quick end for an even shorter career under her tutelage.

Her first instinct is to tell him to leave it here--it is, after all, neither sentimental nor practical in his new leave as her subordinate.

But keen as she is to rid him of his pointless layers, she's equally mindful that an unnecessarily heavy hand can snap a perfectly viable tool.

Not all attachments need be discarded. Perhaps some measure of twisted humanity will make his edges sharper, his aim truer.

And perhaps he will remember his place all the better for having that quiet, clearly unsettling reminder in his possession. ]

Should I find myself in need of restraining you, I have many other methods at my disposal.

[ Not, for all that the words purr coldly, a threat. Merely an objectively, calmly provided fact. Dusting her hands off on her uniform as if she's touched something particularly distasteful, she straightens her spine, turning away from the broken treasure trove. ]

But bring it, for all I care. Even mutts need their toys. Is this all of it?

ahaha it's all good

[ofobedience]

No doubt.

[He says it quietly, his voice a soft murmur, but there's no hint of concern or fear in it, nothing to suggest he finds the comment in any way out of the ordinary. The blade she's been given along with him is all one ever really needs, he thinks. Anything else is just for show-- the few occasions he has been restrained he'd consider cosmetic at best, a way for those of a nervous disposition to put their minds at ease. Mostly during his brief stints on Qresh, but it's not something he'd say to her. Wouldn't overtly imply that the people she belongs to need those kind of surface-level assurances.

There's a little twist in him, though, at the way she dusts off her hands, that small indication that she finds him and the little collection of belongings to be some kind of contaminant all too clear. That feeling though, like a slender blade pushed in between the ribs, it doesn't show in his demeanour at all. There's only the continued impassivity, his quiet subservience.

He'll just have to show her. Prove to her that he's something worthy of being kept.]

Yes. This is all of it, Ma'am.

[The way she says it, it makes him aware, suddenly, of how small and pathetic a collection of items it is.]