patheticvillain | twenty-six ➢ spam + private + public

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deck spam } open

[It has been said in the past that Cassel walks like a leopard dressed up as a house cat. This is still - very applicable. It's just that he uses his claws more these days and cleans them less, and he only really makes an effort to seem nice when he wants something he can't get with threats or bribes.]

[He doesn't care about the deck, but he does spend a decent amount of time on deck even now, even with everyone milling around like assholes trying to claw their way to the top of the mountain. He has a plan. He will be living like a king regardless, when this place falls apart; it's just a matter of pressing the right buttons and getting certain stubborn assholes graduated before the end goes from nigh to right now.]

[When he isn't committing violent acts of overwrought and symbolic discipline, he arranges a folding deck chair by the starboard rail and occupies himself with one of two equally important tasks. First, mending holes in his gloves - the less-than-deliberate ones; there's a small hole in the forefinger of his left and the ring finger of his right that were arranged on purpose, bless Shandra's rotting heart. Second, sketching. He possesses a honed fascination with the human form, what it can become, how far it can be stretched - literally - before bones break. Before the psyche does. Here, he's been working on his pencil drawings for years. They're horrific. Some of them are probably familiar.]

private } anya

[Voice, to start with, sounding tired and a touch disappointed; he understands, he truly does, how humiliating it can be when your inmate doesn't do what you want them to. And he does love Anya in his way. She's calculating and dangerous and desperately important to him. He wants her to succeed in the way that he has, here; wants her to bring someone else as far as she's come.]

[And he knows, too, that she cares for Dean. Sort of. It's all very complicated. She's Anya, after all.]

Chances are you've got some things to get off your chest today, little sister. Why haven't you come to me already?

spam } harvey

[Justice is a sham.]

[Which makes Cassel wonder sometimes if he and the Admiral would actually kind of get along. Pairing him and Harvey was a master stroke. If anyone's going to teach this stubborn piece of shit to let go of his convictions, it's absolutely the kid who was indiscriminately beaten down by the justice system and then turned on his heel and ripped it to shreds.]

[This does not, of course, mean that Cassel's job has been easy thus far. With the appearance of the door, things have gotten harder. Some bullshit's floating around about nonviolent resistance, and even if he wasn't positive that shit had trickled out of Harvey's mouth by dint of knowing him excruciatingly well, he'd have verified with - god, any number of people. Loose lips all over this ship.]

[He's brought shaving equipment. Harvey doesn't get knives. Not until he's ready. Not until it's right. He knocks on the door with the handle of the straight razor, the cool metal bleeding through the hole in his glove.]

Open up. Time to get pretty.

public } video

[For those who are old hat on this Barge, this display is nothing new. Cassel did it a couple of times with Anya - a whole lot more with Harvey. He's taken time after the blowback to collect himself, to grind his teeth until the pain flies off his face, to shake it off and push his hair back and adjust the cuffs of his gloves. He looks long-suffering, though bright-eyed.]

I realize we're all really excited about the door, but I still happen to have a job to do here, so - well. You all know how this goes.

[There's a cage approximately mid-deck, on a stand as tall as a podium, with a flat shelf. Something shifts inside it, then goes still.]

[Cassel turns the communicator towards the cage and zooms in. It's Harvey - this much is obvious from small details. The teeth, in particular, Cassel has let stay, protruding from a beaklike protrusion in the center of his face; they're acid-stained and shrunken slightly, left as an affectionate gesture for Ben and Anya, who will appreciate. One of the eyes is also the same, some pained part of Harvey's soul shining through. Tear ducts have been carefully left in on that side. The other eye is beady and black, like a rat's or a sparrow's.]

[He is roughly the size of a football, though not the same shape. His head is disproportionately large, to throw him off-balance. One side of his body is a patchwork of flesh and black fur, a vestigial arm with fully-functional fingers flexing helplessly, along with something that may once have been a leg, or not. The other side is unkempt white feathers, bereft of human limbs but sporting a single dovelike wing.]

[The camera shifts back to Cassel, then pans out to display the both of them. He gestures widely at the cage, a put-upon Vanna White.]

As usual, if you have any grievances to air with Harvey Dent, this would be an excellent time to do so. If you have any frustrations you'd like to take out on, you know, whoever, knock yourself out. He'll be on deck for eighteen hours.

Just restrain yourselves from killing him, if you can help it. I know it's trying.

spam, forward dated to wednesday 10/30 } chris & slevin

[It was surprisingly difficult to get Slevin out of commission for long enough to lock him up in Chris's room. Generally learned helplessness does wonders for the guy, but by all appearances Slevin seems to think he's from somewhere else and is thus obnoxiously infused with - well, not hope. Just pissiness.]

[In the end, a blunt object to the back of the head worked fine. But it was messy and lacking in style. Cassel disapproves.]

[Anyway: he's chained to a chair in Chris's room now, slowly but surely regaining consciousness. Cassel, with a sluggishly-bleeding laceration above his eye, is rifling through some notes. College-ruled, wrinkled from frequent consideration, but in meticulous handwriting. There's a certain amount of care here, pride in his work.]

[He waves his hand, exasperated.]

I don't know, I think your boy's gone insane. Legitimately off the wall crazy, as if there's any point in fighting it at all. It doesn't change much as far as tactics, but, I mean. This might take longer than expected.

[He taps his lip.] Could always take it one limb at a time. If it's gonna have to be slow anyway - it might as well be artful as well as effective.

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[Chris backs up, completely uncaring about Slevin's threats. That's all they are; empty, meaningless words by a surprisingly brave inmate. He retreats to his desk, where Slevin's file sits; this is the key, he knows.

Picking it up, he walks back over to Slevin, enjoying the lull just as much as the torture itself. Cassel will prevent things from getting boring, allowing him to focus on Slevin's face, his expressions, the way to gauge how close he is to turning rotten.

And he's close. Chris can feel it in the way the hatred burns bright and fierce]

Yeah, Slevin. Share it with the class. What are you gonna do to me?

[The initial shock is over and now the ache of the ripped muscles is settling, burning, deeper into his body. Cassel's efforts hurt at first and then help, making it constant, making it something he understands. Slevin swallows and tries to swallow the tremor, too, that won't go away. His gut and groin are a mess of pain, too, but he's taken hits before. He can do this.

He knows it won't be this easy, but he takes the time while he has it. Chris is moving, then, and it's not like Slevin didn't know; he did. But the sight of the file - and he knows exactly what it is, knows that even if the him that exists here had managed to get hold of his file and erase parts of it it won't, by now, have gone undetected - seizes something in his chest until he has to look sharply at Cassel.

Trusting himself to have protected himself, the only part of himself that matters now, is the hardest thing he's ever done. He sneers.]
,
I'm more hands on. You should let me show you. [He won't kill them. As much as he'd like to, he has no more interest in staying on this Barge, in this world, or in adding more weight to his sentence where they came from, than he normally does.

But even though his neck and shoulders ache enough that he's not even certain he can raise his arms properly, he can make them hurt. That much he can definitely do.]

[Hands on. Cassel barks out a laugh and presses his hand companionably against Slevin's throat. Not hard enough to cut off air flow, even, just - a greeting. A reminder: he's here. He's not going anywhere. He could leave Slevin's throat a gaping hole in under a minute without use of a single tool but his hand and his mind.]

[After a moment, he sighs and readjusts his grip, taking Slevin's face in both hands and pulling it hard sideways. He forces their eyes to meet, tugs at the worn and broken tendons of Slevin's neck while he does it.]

I, personally, would be glad to take you up on that. But it's not my show. It's his.

[His own personal doubts about Chris's ability to lead aside, Cassel is crisply aware of the benefit of plays to his ego. This is Chris's inmate. Chris is in charge. Cassel assists. That's the way it goes. He's fine with this. Any contrary directives, any redirection must come from out of the target's line of sight.]

[Broad strokes and targeted barbs. He shoves Slevin's head to the side and moves behind him again, leaving his fingers light at rest on the man's temple's, directing his gaze at Chris.]

Pay attention.

[Chris is still growing into his dad's shoes; he's a mafia brat through and through, but he's always had problems enacting his authority. It's no trouble making himself heard - he's loud enough - but respect has to come from somewhere and Chris knows he won't climbs any ladders without making people fear and respect him.

He'd thought he was well on his way with that with Slevin, and then all of a sudden the rules had changed; Slevin was right back to where he'd started, almost like all those months on the Barge hadn't happened. Chris was pissed; all his hard work, undone in an instant! He seethed at it, but at the same time relished the opportunity of a crash course with a fresh-faced recruit.

He can see that distant disappointment in Cassel's eyes, and resolves to be better. No fucking way was he going to let his little creep of an inmate walk all over him. Slevin had to pay, or Cassel - and others like him - would never give him the respect he deserved.]

You're right. It's my show.

Gimme a drill, Cass.

[Slevin can't stop himself from swallowing, throat constricting under Cassel's palm, but he takes a deeper inhale and keeps it jealously, hoards it as precious as it is, just in case.

Cassel jerks his head around and Slevin hisses like a viper, neck protesting, eyes narrowing and focused where they land, pulled away from Chris.]

I'm not sure this is the role I auditioned for. I want to speak to the director.

[He has to swallow blood again at that point, jarred into facing Chris, and now the anger sharpens and darkens. He sees who he saw when he heard the announcement, a soft, spineless creature so privileged he isn't even aware of the privilege, so high above the crimes his family commits that he can claim to be blind to them. The distillation of everything Slevin has hated his entire life, responsible for him now, with authority over him now.

He'd begun to be lulled by it, by following the rules set out for him. Now he remembers that he recognizes no authority but his own, and though the words send an involuntary shudder through him, Slevin knows how this goes. Chris is easy to rile.

It'll hurt more, but it'll leave him less capable of digging for the parts of Slevin that will really hurt him, if he's angry. The assassin's lip curls, dried blood flaking, his voice full of contempt.]

If I'd known it was that kind of show, I would've dressed appropriately.

Let's see it, Capone Jr. Let's see what Daddy should be so proud of having handed to you on a silver platter.

[And this is the part where it would be easy for Cassel, specifically, to screw up. Because it thrills him - not this particular brand of pain, which isn't his oeuvre necessarily. What's getting him is the fact that Slevin is afraid, yes, but not of Chris.]

[Cassel plays by the rules. He aligned himself with someone malleable enough that he could stand following his orders, someone obnoxious enough that even being ordered around by him is hard to take seriously, someone who recognized his strength, his deftness, his vision. He allows himself to be Chris's tool, his dog, and generally he's fine with that, but - but. When life presents even a glimmer of his own superiority, Cassel appreciates it.]

[So he could grin now and piss Chris off even further, point out that Slevin's pissing his pants when Cassel touches him but not at the threats, he could call Chris ineffective and pathetic. Instead, he frowns, disapproving.]

Rude.

[Pathetic is for other places and times. Here and now is for efficiency.]

[He hands Chris a drill over Slevin's shoulder. Then he puts his hands back on Slevin's neck, feeling the warmth of slowing blood, and nods again. Best to get the tantrum out of the way.]

[There's always been a part of Chris that's been deeply resentful of Cassel's insane breadth of powers. Secretly he wonders why Cassel bothers listening to him when he could just as easily turn on him and rule himself, but these are troublesome thoughts and not worth the worry. Cassel listens, sort of; that should be enough.

He takes the power drill in hand and walks closer to Slevin, setting the metal tip against his hair but not touching his skull; trepanning would cut the game to an abrupt end]

You want to talk dads, shithead? How about your dad? Getting a little deja vu, huh? Like father, like son? Maybe I should see if there's a plastic bag lying around.

[Slevin's pulse picks up and he swallows again, involuntary, but doesn't look away. He doesn't let himself follow the movement of the drill, but forces himself to stay focused on Chris. Forces himself to imagine how this is going to feel, the generic twist and dig of the bit itself, his grip shifting from a fist to a white-jointed hold on the edge of the chair with the kind of slow, almost nonexistent movement that he had to learn the patience for.

He doesn't let his eyes roll up to see where the cold metal almost touches, tickling his forehead with the movement of his bangs. He glares, and he hates, and beneath the concealing cotton of his t-shirt he trembles in anticipation, but he does not look.]

No, see, deja vu means already seen. Those were real mobsters with real balls.

But if you want to hijack their ideas because you're too shit worthless to come up with your own, be my guest.

[Cassel keeps his hands on Slevin, his eyes on Chris. They're hard now, unforgiving. If there was a way to tell Chris to keep a lid on his temper or at least to channel it constructively other than by staring, he would. But all he has is unblinking eye contact.]

[Don't let him get to you. Don't let him rile you. Make him hurt. Make it deft. Make it count. Make it last. Make it worth it, before it's Cassel's turn again.]

[Sick of his inmate's backtalk and eyeing Cassel over Slevin's shoulder, Chris makes up his mind. He can't afford to be weak now; he has to show Slevin he means business or he'll be the one being picked off next.

With his right hand on the drill, Chris flicks the power button up, filling the air with a noisy, mechanical whine. As the drill picks up speed, his left hand grabs Slevin by the chin, holding him still.]

I'll show you what a real fucking mobster is, Henry.

[The drill is lowered to Slevin's head, but Chris is careful and doesn't let it touch the skull. Instead, it immediately zeroes in on a chunk of Slevin's hair, winding it up in a blinding pace. In less than two seconds the hair's completely wrapped around the drill and has yanked out the locks at the root, dragging up skin and blood with it]

[Slevin is all too aware of the weight of Cassel's fingertips, confining rather than steadying, framing his head; the smooth leather is cool but warming, and just beside the rougher edge of frayed wool, the deceptive warmth of skin to skin contact. He doesn't let himself get distracted by it. He levels his anger on Chris and leaves it there, heavy and dark, meticulously controlled.

He sucks in a breath at the quick movement of his head, the bent pieces of his broken nose grating, his neck burning. He swallows it back at the sound of the drill -] Oh god, he's using my real name, I'm in trouble now. [- and shouts when the hair comes loose, not enough time to really process what's happening.

Panting in harsh breaths of air through his mouth, he squeezes his eyes closed, refuses to let the blur in them become tears. Successfully, this time. He opens them and finds Chris again, and sneers.]

That's what you've got? An amateur haircut? Pathetic.

[With a quiet smile, Cassel nods. This is - actually pretty good. Better than expected, given the goading, but Chris does occasionally exceed his expectations. He presses the fingers of his right hand against the rent skin, pushes down, just for a few seconds, and then lets his fingertips rest tacky with blood against Slevin's neck.]

You don't get to call him that.

[He pulls off one glove and lays it on Slevin's shoulder, leaning his elbow companionably on the other. Technically he doesn't need to remove them, not with the holes he's made, but it's a symbolic thing, a fast route to fear.]

Keep going. [This to Chris, while he steels himself.]

[Chris shuts off the drill, the whine winding down. The hair is caught and tangled in the bit, with blood and skin sticking to the roots. Carefully with his finger off the trigger he sheds the bit from the hair, raising his eyebrows at Slevin.]

You want to see what I've got? Shave and a haircut, two bits? You sad motherfucker.

[He grins at Cassel, before setting his hand on Slevin's forehead and tilting his head down against his shoulder to expose the veins in his neck. Here, he places the silent drill bit against his inmate's cheek]

You want to think about rephrasing?

[Slevin can't help the way he tries to twist away from Cassel's pressure at his neck, a strangled sound caught and dying in his throat where he refuses to let it past; his eyes half-close with the effort and he pulls in a harsh breath when the ache of pressure becomes the burn of none. He focuses on breathing, and absolutely understands the message.

He looks back to Chris, then, and meets his eyes squarely instead of watching what he's doing with the drill. It won't help, to know. He already knows. Then Chris is forcing him to look down and away and there's nothing he can do about it, the torn muscles of his neck aren't strong enough to fight his warden's weight, and there's another sound as he feels both the sluggish renewal of the bleeding from Cassel's efforts, and the sharp, cold tip of the drill. It's soft, this sound, and he can't afford to acknowledge it. If he starts, he won't stop.

Please, please, please, he wants to say, caught between the two horrific threats. Please don't do this. His jaw tightens, eyes unfocused through what he can see of Chris's torso, and he blinks back the moisture trying to gather in them.

He speaks very clearly when he opens his mouth, belying the anxious tremor, the panic building, just beneath it.]

Think about rephrasing to what? That's what you've got? Amateur dental work?

[Please, please don't do this.] Pathetic.

[Pleading won't work. Talking back won't work. Even dying won't work; the only thing that will is giving Chris what he wants. This is the beauty of utter ruthlessness: it gets you what you want. It gets you power.]

[And in this case it gets fear, fear that Cassel can feel in the air. His fingers twitch at Slevin's neck - in his mind, the flash of scales - not yet, not yet. One more minute, and then he can do what he likes. Until then there are quiet sounds of pain and the jump of something half-muffled in Slevin's throat, the jolt of panic.]

[Slevin speaks so clearly, that word again, and Cassel just laughs quietly in his ear, lets out a harsh sound like a buzzer going off.]

Wrong.

[He's sick of the snide looks and the cheeky asides and the taunts. Chris is Slevin's warden; he deserves respect, especially for the fact that he holds the man's very life in his hands. Slevin is his to do with what he likes, and that his inmate can't seem to comprehend that concept irks Chris in the core of his rotten soul.

He's jealous of how Slevin seems to fear Cassel and not him, and he's jealous of Cassel's powers; he can cause just as much pain as his boyfriend can, if given half the chance. The palm of his hand presses tight against Slevin's forehead, keeping his head locked in position as he stares down at the man's exposed cheekbone. He'll give up Slevin to Cassel in a minute. But not yet.

Not until he hears him scream.]

Open wide, shithead.

[The drill whirrs to life, and immediately begins to bore a bloody red hole into the center of Slevin's cheek.]

[He screams.

There's no way around it, no way to stop it, no swallowing it back down. He screams without reservation, immediately, almost choking on it. Both hands are gripping the arms of the chair now and he presses back as far as he can in the restraints, tries twisting the other way when that doesn't work, mindless. He tried to imagine it. He couldn't have. He's never felt anything like this, he's never been at the mercy of someone like Chris or Cassel. Not really.

But he did try, once, to prepare for it. His will is strong, and he can't silence himself, but he shoves as though away from his own body. He does know how to manage pain, he's been shot before, he's been on the receiving end of several of Goodkat's training sessions. Just not like this. He shoves and tries to get away from it, tries to find something good to focus on, something that will keep him sane until it stops or he blacks out.

He goes to Lindsey even in his head; it's appropriate, he'll think later. He's doing this to protect her.]

[It all seems to happen at once when Slevin screams. Later it will be a whirlwind in Cassel's mind for a number of reasons, first and foremost the adrenaline, what will later become churning nausea. For the moment, Cassel is spurred on and left grinning by the scream.]

[He ducks down to unchain Slevin's legs while the pain's at its peak. One hand is bare; the other glove he pulls off with his teeth. Both come to rest on Slevin's neck, and his eyes fall shut. He envisions the future.]

[It would have been much more complicated if he'd picked a form less serpentine. As it is, he intends to pull Slevin's limbs into his body until they no longer exist, twist and pull them up and out of the back of him, make wings over scales, a caduceus-serpent. And more. There is always more to it.]

[He exhales, and starts the change, scales tripping down Slevin's arms as his fingers recede--]

[The power cuts out. Everything groans, shifts, screams, as though the ship itself is falling apart. And then brightness so sharp it feels like he's being cut.]

[His fingers clamp down on Slevin's shoulders, eyes squeezes shut too tightly; he doesn't dare to look.]

[Seeing Cassel work out of the corner of his eye, Chris at last pulls back the drill to avoid the thrashing from what's to come. He too is grinning in his manic, sadistic way that two years ago he could never imagine happening. The drill dripping, he watches in vile fascination. The whine of the drill dies down in his hand, and bits and pieces of Slevin's face fall from it to the carpet below.

Eagerness at seeing Cassel work over his inmate propel him forward to take a closer look. Chris was never one for common sense, and especially here.

The power cuts out. His head shoots up in alarm, chin tilted towards the ceiling as he's shrouded in total darkness.]

What the hell?

[And then the brightness, and the past, and nausea all rush up to meet him at once]

[Slevin doesn't even notice what Cassel is doing, of course, trying desperately to separate himself from his body long enough for the pain to stop one way or another, continually drawn back in by the spinning bit of the drill taking pieces of him with it. Jokes float across his mind, the high delirious kind, the kind that would get him into further trouble, but all that comes out is wordless, senseless screaming, all there is next is more of the same.

He feels lightheaded when it finally stops, and foolishly he's grateful, breathing in heaving, shuddering sobs with a sickening wet sound trailing them each way. It's a violent full body shiver that shows him the next thing to fear, the warm palms braced against his neck, and his screwed shut eyes fly open. Not in time.

He screams, and then screams again, higher, desperate, voice cracking and vocal cords tearing, when the changes start. Like his bones dissolving from the napalm set across his skin, crisping black into neat diamond shapes like a razor drawn the wrong way, muscles liquefying and evaporating under the heat. Crushed and rolled out at the same time, pulled until he snaps, sensation he doesn't even have words or thoughts for. He screams, pushing air out as fast as he pulls it in.

He doesn't even notice that the power has gone out, doesn't notice the light as anything separate from what's happening to him, expecting the broiling heat to come from somewhere within his sense memory, somewhere impossible, somewhere...

Whether it's the changeover or the missing stair of relief that does it, he falls gratefully back into unconsciousness, sagging bonelessly in the chair despite no longer being restrained, blood dripping from the ruin of his face.]

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