Incomplete.
Who: Smoker brandedjustice and Giovanni pseudism.
What: Dogs make good wallpaper.
Where: Commodore's Office.
When: Ohhh, how about now. Now's good. I like now.
Giovanni sat, lips pursed, a low tuneless whistling penetrating the thick blanket of smoke that lay low across the floor, and comtemplated how he was going to kill Smoker.
It wasn't something to take lightly, after all. Given that here he was, wrist to the wall and very little wriggle room to speak of, given that Smoker had even gotten this far. He supposed he owed him something worthwhile, something to adequately represent how impressed he was with him, how genuinely he appreciated the challenge that had been put to him. Nothing too thoughtless, either. He'd have to take his time, draw it out, nice and slow and. Slow. That was the challenge, really. How would he keep him in place for long enough to carve him apart? How did you tame smoke, the intangible, with solidity? He didn't even know where his guns were, at that.
Wind. Pressure. Even gasses could be compressed. Crushed. Compartmentalise the smoke. Trap it between two spaces and blast one part away, scatter it to the wind. Eliminate it and watch him die. Would the rest of him reform to some bloody mass? Or would the smoke simply dissipate as smoke ought to?
Too bloodless, still, no suffering. No carving. No taste of fear. He couldn't read the face of smoke, couldn't know Smoker's emotions in that form, and there was no entertainment in that.
The tuneless whistling upped a pitch, and the back of his head rolled languidly against the wall, his attention moving to the man behind the desk. He could make out his shape somewhere in the sickly-sweet cigar-smoke, pale hair and the white of his eyes, the creases on his brow that were a mark of decades of irritation. He wondered if the bullet wounds still ached. He wondered if it made his breathing shallow, if he tried to keep it down so that Giovanni wouldn't know his weakness. A chill crept, cool, into the heated metal of his spine, and ran down the scar along his back.
It was a pleasant thought.
His attention drifted to his own mauled arm, cradled up against him in a makeshift sling. It was still black with bruising, but the blood was drying, flaking away, the filthy, ragged wound cleaning itself and knitting slowly back together. Inside, the bone knitted and stitched with agonising slowness, and his patience for his own body was growing thin.
Heine was out there somewhere. Getting too comfortable, perhaps, idling his time away meaninglessly without him. A stray dog without an owner.
He'd have to put him out of his misery soon, or he'd get boring, again; couldn't do much while he was here, so he couldn't stay, could he? Couldn't be idling his time away dreaming of killing the Commodore, keeping him company all the while.
Giovanni stretched his better arm until the chain pulled taut, clenched his fist against the resistance, and stopped whistling.
"... You should open a window, Commodore. Let some fresh air in."
What: Dogs make good wallpaper.
Where: Commodore's Office.
When: Ohhh, how about now. Now's good. I like now.
Giovanni sat, lips pursed, a low tuneless whistling penetrating the thick blanket of smoke that lay low across the floor, and comtemplated how he was going to kill Smoker.
It wasn't something to take lightly, after all. Given that here he was, wrist to the wall and very little wriggle room to speak of, given that Smoker had even gotten this far. He supposed he owed him something worthwhile, something to adequately represent how impressed he was with him, how genuinely he appreciated the challenge that had been put to him. Nothing too thoughtless, either. He'd have to take his time, draw it out, nice and slow and. Slow. That was the challenge, really. How would he keep him in place for long enough to carve him apart? How did you tame smoke, the intangible, with solidity? He didn't even know where his guns were, at that.
Wind. Pressure. Even gasses could be compressed. Crushed. Compartmentalise the smoke. Trap it between two spaces and blast one part away, scatter it to the wind. Eliminate it and watch him die. Would the rest of him reform to some bloody mass? Or would the smoke simply dissipate as smoke ought to?
Too bloodless, still, no suffering. No carving. No taste of fear. He couldn't read the face of smoke, couldn't know Smoker's emotions in that form, and there was no entertainment in that.
The tuneless whistling upped a pitch, and the back of his head rolled languidly against the wall, his attention moving to the man behind the desk. He could make out his shape somewhere in the sickly-sweet cigar-smoke, pale hair and the white of his eyes, the creases on his brow that were a mark of decades of irritation. He wondered if the bullet wounds still ached. He wondered if it made his breathing shallow, if he tried to keep it down so that Giovanni wouldn't know his weakness. A chill crept, cool, into the heated metal of his spine, and ran down the scar along his back.
It was a pleasant thought.
His attention drifted to his own mauled arm, cradled up against him in a makeshift sling. It was still black with bruising, but the blood was drying, flaking away, the filthy, ragged wound cleaning itself and knitting slowly back together. Inside, the bone knitted and stitched with agonising slowness, and his patience for his own body was growing thin.
Heine was out there somewhere. Getting too comfortable, perhaps, idling his time away meaninglessly without him. A stray dog without an owner.
He'd have to put him out of his misery soon, or he'd get boring, again; couldn't do much while he was here, so he couldn't stay, could he? Couldn't be idling his time away dreaming of killing the Commodore, keeping him company all the while.
Giovanni stretched his better arm until the chain pulled taut, clenched his fist against the resistance, and stopped whistling.
"... You should open a window, Commodore. Let some fresh air in."