poly_chromatic | (no subject)

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oc - saya wallace

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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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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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