Incomplete.

[pseudism]

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.

Comments

[pseudism]

That answer wasn't half as interesting as what he'd been hoping for. Giovanni's mouth pressed in a thin line, neutral, almost conveying his disappointment; as the can was put down, he extended a foot, hooked his heel around it and drew it closer to inspect. He made no move to pick it up with his free and wounded hand, but seemed content to let the tin sit there, contents to the open air.

Cold, precooked, processed meat. His stomach felt hollow at the smell, a feeling that wasn't exactly hunger.

"... Are you sure? I think Heine would be thrilled." He tipped his head back again, tried to imagine how his dear brother might look if he heard that Giovanni had been executed.

Or perhaps he wouldn't be thrilled. Perhaps, in some form, he'd find it unfair that Smoker was the one who got to kill Giovanni after what he'd subjected Heine to - but somehow, somehow, he doubted it. It was personal, of course. It was personal between all of them, by their own judgment. Smoker had said the same. Heine had said the same. And Giovanni could hardly say it was just business on his side, either, not when he had his nails furrowing in white skin and teeth tasting blood. He didn't have to get close to Heine. He didn't have to touch Heine. And he'd never had any practical reason to give Smoker the rematch he so greatly desired. The professor, he was sure, would've been disappointed in him.

Even then.

Heine was hardly the type to get possessive over a kill. Particularly one that, with the stalemate they were in now, he wasn't able to break on his own. He might even appreciate the Commodore's intervention, taking the decision - the indecision - out of his hands.

But maybe he'd miss the opportunity to vent that wrath. Giovanni couldn't pretend to understand what Heine thought, not when he wasn't the dog he was speaking to, the only thing that really spoke Giovanni's language. The only part of Heine he didn't want to crush.

"I'm in this room all the time, you know. You should really learn to lie better about things like that." A flash of teeth. "I can't read the responses, but I think it's strange that I haven't heard one protest about my execution. Maybe you just didn't ask."

Which was all well and good, at least if he wasn't mistaken. It left him back at square one with trying to find out what the point was - but that didn't matter too much, did it? Smoker's motives didn't matter. Not really. Not to him. He could gather enough information to satisfy him just from the knowledge that Smoker didn't yet intend to kill him.

Anger. The absence of lawyers to see through his case. Pity.

He didn't need to know.

He kicked the can across the floor. It toppled, rolled, spilling out, and Giovanni's tongue darted out to wet dry lips as he watched it thud to a stop on the opposite side of the room. He'd behaved the last few days; if anything, it was long overdue.

Coming to think of it, he was pretty hungry.

"I want to go to the restroom."

[brandedjustice]

A frown fell hard on Smoker's face and he ground deep into his cigars, splitting them into useless halves. He spit out the remain pieces and pushed the useless buds into an overflowing tray. The ashes hissed and bubbled as he pushed the stubs deep into the glass, purely out of frustration of having to deal with Giovanni on a regular basis.

Tendrils tore from his face as he stood and it was only mere seconds before most of his face was gone in wisps of churning smoke; he was pissed off, but not enough to cross the line. He would obey the law of this backwards country, even if it ended up killing him.

A few steps forward and his features solidified again; two cigars were back in the left-corner of his jaw, unlit. "I'm not going to force feed you Giovanni and that's the last meal you'll be seeing for a good, long time." Dark eyes fell like stones on the other man, but Smoker didn't move. He just stood there, examining, watching how the younger man moved. He was a thorn in his side and a problematic issue that couldn't be rectified with a proper execution. Thus, the Commoodore was stuck between a rock and a hard place, unsure of where to move next and unsure of what to do with the specimen known only as Giovanni.

"I want to go to the restroom."

It wasn't a demand, but Smoker didn't feel obligated to give the bastard any leg room. He was a menace, a murderer and twisted mother-fucker that needed a long, hard march to the gallows. At least, that was the Commodore's opinion on the whole subject. Would it happen though? Probably unlikely - the people here were too soft, too sympathetic to bullshit and, had he had the choice, he would have gone over their heads by now.

But he didn't have that choice and he had made a promise to uphold justice, no matter the cost.

Smoker reached behind him and snagged the handle of his jitte. It felt soft under the leather glove and it was so simple for him to pull out; silently, it slipped from the strap on his back and the Commodore appreciated its silky transition. It always made things easier when a weapon was cooperative.

The sea-stone end shone brightly as Smoker extended the blade and nudged it under Giovanni's chin. "And why the fuck should I give you anything?" He snarled, teeth showing despite the cigars. "I don't give pirates any leeway, why should you be an exception? No, you get to stay right the fuck there." He tested the waters and pushed the metallic tip deeper into Giovanni's chin.

"If that's too hard for you to understand, I am sure we can rearrange a place for you to be chained up. Ten leagues under water sounds like a good spot to me."

[pseudism]

Well. He'd never live to a good age with that sort of temper.

Giovanni watched the cigars as their light flared and died, the tips of the Commodore's fingers going white there they pinched the bitten length of them. The smooth metal tray reflected, distorted the twisting motion of his wrist, bent Smoker's fingers like he wanted to, stretched the skin beyond recognition like he wanted to. No blood, no blood, but there should be, would be if he got his hands on him.

His attention slowly drifted to Smoker's face as the smoke logia, shifted, reformed. Always changing while Giovanni's smile was constant, consistent, utterly unmoved by the sudden violent movements of the considerably larger man. Even when the smoke was enough to make the normal man's eyes burn and weep, he didn't so much as cough.

Violence was fine, after all. Violence, that was what he was looking for, what looked best, smelled best, and the anger that rolled off Smoker in clouds ran a cold chill down to the base of his spine like a long-nailed finger, like her words whispered like poison into his ear. Just what he wanted. Just what he fucking loved, and his battered body hummed with it, with energy, with bloodlust.

And then came the blade.

Giovanni's felt the sharp edge press in, felt cold metal and a threatening pressure against the bone of his jaw. He slowly complied with the force Smoker forced on him, head tipping up, moving, moving, and he could smell the metal, the threat, the sterility. Yet his attention was immovably on Smoker, on his pale eyes, pale skin, bared teeth through the thickening, sweetly bitter haze that swelled in the room, heated it.

Giovanni's lips crept upward, a smile that was almost a snarl, teeth bared like a sneering dog. His damaged arm raised, aching, the ruined skin and bone making the movement twitch, jerk, making the skin below the orange glasses tighten.

So defective, these days. Einstellsehn had made him better than this, and how disappointed she would be to see him now, how unfortunate it would be for him.

His hand slid from the sling to slowly, painfully curl each and every digit around the blade, holding it against his throat. His words vibrated up the shaft. The blood dripped from between his fingers thickly, the smell making his nostrils flare for a moment.

"I'd be taking you with me."

Then, slowly, he let it go, and the smile faded to something a little subtler, a little less vicious.

"Don't get upset over a little spill like that. Isn't there plenty of food in the storage?"

sorry about being so late sir

[brandedjustice]

Smoker withdrew the jitte from Giovanni and shoved it back into the strap on his back again. It was pathetic, really, how much leeway he was giving the piece of shit. He wasn't worth his time and he never really cared about sob stories but.

Giovanni was fucked up because of some stupid bitch millions of miles, and worlds, away. And that was something that crawled under Smoker's skin like nothing else. It burned, hot, like fire and smoke was the result. After all, if where there is fire...

Fingers of silver broke from the Commodore's arm, up onto a shelf, and around a bottle of a rum. It was opened in the same manner and placed in front of Giovanni. "Don't spill that one." He grunted. Maybe, just maybe, if Giovanni was trashed enough, he'd learn to shut up.

That was Smoker's hope, anyway.

Moving away, his logia followed until it solidified back into flesh and the white of his coat. He continued his stroll, deeper into the room. His jacket slipped from his shoulders and it was none-too-soon before both jacket and jitte were grasped in thick fingers and tossed onto a make-shift bed in the corner.

Scars, bandages and metal stitchings dotted his skin; almost everywhere, there was a piece of him healing, a bruise still trying to turn white, but failing in a whirlwind of green, brown and purple hues. Silver metal, crudely sewn into his flesh, poked out through the white and bits of browning blood flaked from the edges.

He was a mess and he knew it; hell, he didn't even need a mirror to know that the shadows across his chin weren't from the dim lighting at all. And that was the least of his problems.

A grunt sounded as Smoker leaned into the bed in the corner. Inhaling sharply on his cigars, the Commodore leaned back and closed his eyes.