poly_chromatic | (no subject)

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oc - saya wallace

(no subject)

These days come around and all that happens is that everything gets loud. But there are so many interesting people.

You may come into the Garage as long as you don't touch. Sticky fingers make enormous messes.

[ooc: do what you will!]

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[She's moved away from the door, which really leaves him inclined to take that route instead of the one she's trying to lead him on.]

Do you truly expect me to follow you without question?

[She looks down at the door, and then at him]

You create art in bodies, and I do the same. You could leave, but then I would follow, and you'll find me more persistent than the bird.

[He rolls his eyes at the threat of her persistence, but the mention of her creating art anything like his own is almost an insult. He looks at the door one more time, then turns to follow her.]

You had better not be wasting my time.

[But it's clear in his tone that he already thinks she is.]

[She leads him down a hall, and then another, and finally opens a locked room with a combination of numbers in a number lock, and the door opens.

It's not as big as her gallery in the warehouse, but it's big enough; body parts perfectly preserved in glass or liquid or crystal - a pair of perfect eyes, or breasts, or an ear; a pair of lips, fingers, just the nails on this one. Displayed like a museum, on black fabric. Saya makes sure he goes in, that he's inside the room when she closes the door behind them.]

[He has fast enough eyes, for all that the rest of him is ageing poorly - aching bones, poor muscle tone, bad digestion. He knows what it is she's showing him quickly enough, and doubts the methods of her obtaining them are legal or humane. A hypocrite, in that respect, but he distanced himself from the process of obtaining his subjects (pieces, artwork in themselves) as much as possible. And he doesn't like or trust that locked door.

Trapped in a room with a murderer, and he quietly resigns himself to his day being unable to get any worse as he examines the preserving methods used - the only part that truly interests him in the display.]

Yes, how impressive, you've joined the long line of Da Vinci's poor successors.

It was never really meant to be art.

[Her preserving methods are perfect]

I just wanted to break your arms.

[He only glances over at her from the display he's examining - the lips, and what a grotesque image it makes, removed from the rest of the body. No, there was no art here, no respect for the true beauty of the human body, not with the way she divided it up like something to be catalogued.]

Touch me, and I will have you killed.

[It wouldn't be an idle threat, were he at home. He had the protection of the most powerful gang in the city at his back - the only way a weak and utterly abrasive man like him could survive.]

I'm harder to kill than that.

[She waits, because well, he's looking, she has manners.]

And I am harder to scare than that.

[It might be something of a challenge. Anyone else might try to persuade her against the idea, or stall until some sort of escape reared its head. But Barbet has always been incredibly impatient, even when threatened.]

[Saya shrugs]

I'm not trying to scare you.

[She just leans against the door, quiet. If she wanted to scare him, she could, she has that gift. She just wants to break his arms and call Blonde to finish the job. No sense in getting worked up over it]

[He turns from the display, finally, to look at her, lifting his chin and looking down his nose at her.]

Yet you continue to talk, and do nothing.

I'm hardly in a rush. Take your time.

You have me trapped in a room with a pointless 'exhibit' of body parts. You are wasting my time.

[Her smile stretches, and she walks across the room to him. She moves fast - and it's not normal, whatever it is, like she should fall, like there should be other limbs supporting her, but it doesn't matter, because she grabs one arm, stronger than she looks, stronger than anyone her size has the right to be and-

-crack-

And then spins him, and the other snaps open under her hands.

And she moves away.]

In retrospect, I should have gone for the legs.

[If she was expecting him to scream, she was going to be disappointed - and she definitely shouldn't have told him what she had planned. He might seem weak, withered, even, body worn down into aching joints and bad posture by a lifestyle of little food or sleep and far too much caffeine, but he had experienced plenty enough pain. Broke his arm once falling off the back of a tram, and her actions now forced that bone to snap in the same weakened spot.

And there has been more in the past year, since Carla's life had returned to her, since she had felt the need to start punishing him for all the work and care he had put into her. There had been no broken bones, but there had been deep bruises, cracked ribs, a torn muscle. He never screamed for any of it, and he did not scream now - low grunts of pain instead, as he drops to his knees with it and forces himself not to catch himself on his hands.

It's disorientating, dizzying, takes deep breaths to pass into anything manageable, and the rush of adrenaline leaves him lightheaded. But he looks up to her eventually, glare present if losing some of its sharpness with the swell of pain.]

Hindsight, they say-- [An inhale, slow, and exhale.] une chienne.

[The fact that he didn't scream is curious, but far from disappointing.]

Should I wait for you to have me killed now?

[The tone isn't mocking, even though the words might suggest it.]

[He very awkwardly gets his feet back under him, a stilted set of movements, grimacing whenever his arms move with the shift of his body, but unable to tense them to keep them still, either.]

No, now you step aside. Allow me to return to Facon with your... message. Start this war you appear to be set on. [Though she sounds as if she's never done this before. Amateur, he doubted she and whatever forces she had would stand long against Facon's operations.] You can do your waiting once I've left.

[He'd be surprised]

You're not leaving.

[He sways on his feet slightly, pale with pain, fighting the urge to curl back in on himself and his arms. It won't make them stop hurting.]

Then what, exactly, was the point of all this?

It's a favor. To the bird.

[He's shocked into silence for a moment - quite an achievement - wondering if the pain has gone to his head, messed with his hearing.]

The bird? [Well, maybe he shouldn't be so surprised, considering he's stood in a room full of carefully preserved body parts.] You're insane.

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