Ｃａｓｓｅｌ Ｓｈａｒｐｅ. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
patheticvillain) wrote2013-10-28 10:49 pm
patheticvillain) wrote2013-10-28 10:49 pm
Entry tags:
- a series of unfortunate bodyhorrors,
- all that & a bag of chips,
- art metaphors,
- bird metaphors,
- cassel loves film noir,
- cat metaphors,
- daneca did have some influence,
- harvey douchebag i mean dent,
- king of poor life choices,
- lila who?,
- matricide for fun & profit,
- metaphors!!,
- show me how to lie,
- what if instead of that,
- you're getting better all the time
twenty-six ➢ spam + private + public
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.
[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.
Spam
[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.]
Spam
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]
Spam - CW: gore and fire damage imagery in this tag
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.]