dmwl | continuum
title: continuum
fandom: deadman wonderland
characters: karako / nagi
rating: t [ violence ]
word count: 1,494
notes: spoilers up to ch. 13. 10-things-style.
summary: gamefowl meets owl in the wonderland cage.
ONE. Gamefowl first sees Owl through a television screen, where they're showing the ongoing ring fights. Watches with cold eyes -- apathetic, uninterested -- as he detonates the floating bombs with machine-like precision. Never aiming to kill, always to disarm.
By the time Owl wins with a merciful knockout -- slamming the poor bastard's head into the floor with a well-placed explosion -- Karako's already lost interest.
TWO. Because she doesn't fight gently -- she fights to win. She takes thirty seconds in her next ring match, flips around, blood plating her hands in a hard armor shell -- and slams hardened knuckles into the soft flesh of stomach in a split-second blur of movement.
There's the crack of bone, a wet gasp, a weak grap at her wrist -- pathetic -- and Karako whirls around, deals a sharp heel-kick to the jaw, heralding a spray of spittle and blood on the ring floor. Staggering footsteps, swaying shoulders, glazed eyes -- Karako knows that she's already won.
But she doesn't bother to stop. (Not only because of the rabid cheering from the crowd, though that certainly doesn't hurt.)
A second kick, this time to the neck -- the poor sucker's limbs are already limp, consciousness fading -- and Karako gets in one last straight sucker-punch to the sternum -- doesn't even get a response, just the dull thud of body hitting the floor -- before deciding this is a waste of energy.
The next day she watches the Carnival Corpse punishment game with blank eyes, seated alone in her room before the television, arms crossed over her chest.
And through the crack in her door, she hears the whispers
-- oh my god, it's -- left arm, he's losing his left arm --
-- and he has four ribs broken, too --
-- I saw, that Gamefowl, that ruthless bitch --
Karako turns the television off and sits back in her couch -- that little bell around her neck rings, but it barely drowns out the whispers from the hallway.
THREE. The next time she sees him, it's fleeting, for half a second, in the hallways -- long hair, lanky limbs, a gentle laugh, quiet words -- and a second figure -- smaller, slighter, dark hair cut short and movements graceful -- a soft smile.
The two pass by -- Karako doesn't give them a second glance, just takes quick, steady steps, one after another --
Leaves them behind.
(Their soft, happy voices aren't so easy to ignore -- even in a place like this, where blood and violence and strength are everything, they sound so irrationally naive. Hopeful. Loving.)
FOUR. Owl's a strong contender in the Carnival Corpse, and so she keeps an eye out for him, watches all of his matches -- never knows when she might have to fight against him. (She thinks it might be fun. Dodge the explosions, dash up close -- break his bones, knock him down. Adrenaline powers her. She's addicted to it.)
But then, she sees him on the television screen one day -- yet another Carnival Corpse match -- but something is different. Wrong. Completely and utterly wrong.
Stilted, hesitant movements --explosions set off in all the wrong places, completely at random, uncalculated, with too much energy wasted.
And she finally notices the opponent -- the same short hair, the same checkered shawl, the same slight frame -- but also completely wrong. Shoulders hunched, hands clasped tight -- and, after a long hesitation that's almost painful to watch --
A barrage of attacks that are completely unblocked. Owl's left himself undefended, open, vulnerable -- no signs of resistance, it's all wrong -- and then it's over. A gaping, bloody wound to the side. Another to the shoulder. Blood splatters bright against the floor, then the collapse of narrow limbs -- and the winner's declared.
Owl gets dragged off for the punishment. And the referee walks up to the winning girl and -- Karako loses interest, turns the television off, goes off to train.
Except, rumors start going around that night, through the hallway.
They killed her.
Owl's girl?
You hear? The match was rigged.
It was too obvious. But to do that just for a girl --
Not just a girl, they were married, I think.
Married, huh.
Must suck for him.
But what do you expect here.
A conversation completely irrelevant to her. (He lost his wife, so what. He's probably sunk into depression by now. She's already seen more than a few of those types -- people who shrivel up and die once they lose something important.)
FIVE. She forgets about him.
SIX. At least, she does for a while.
Because it's not long before she hears rumors start boiling up, whispered words between a select few of the prisoners, something that reaches her ear.
Anti-establishment group?
Yeah. Owl's been gathering people.
That's never going to work.
I dunno, maybe --
Then they realize that she's watching them, and shuffle off, glancing over at her with narrowed eyes. She's never lost in the ring. People fear her. She's fine with that. And she's fine with that -- she's not going to make friends and die, she'll fight and live.
Then, it changes.
She's standing in one of the common rooms one day, watching a round of the Carnival Corpse punishment game -- some poor bastard is losing his right leg -- when a figure approaching from the right catches her eye, and she glances over. Actually pauses for a moment.
Owl. And he almost looks the same as before -- same lanky limbs and polite half-smile and bright violet-gray eyes. Except one thing, and it's the checkered shawl wrapped around his neck. No doubt to hide the surgery stitch-scar. He speaks up, and she's startled for a moment -- a synthetic voice, cold and mechanical despite all obvious attempts to make it sound natural.
But it's his words that catch her attention next, because, he asks her,
-- will you fight with us?
(It won't work.)
That isn't decided.
(Why me?)
You're a very strong, determined person.
(That's it?)
I felt that you would understand our cause.
(You judge people to easily.)
Do you think so?
(Everyone here's scared of me.)
I trust you.
-- and it's that moment that surprises her most. Three words, ones that she hadn't heard in so long -- such a difference from the whispers and glares she'd grown so used to -- and he gives her a bright smile.
So she answers,
I'll think about it.
SEVEN. Then, she gives in. Lets him lead her to a secluded room on one of the bottom cogs of the G-Ward, low down underground. There's the faint sound of laughter and light conversation from across the door -- and it falters the moment that she walks in. A small group of people, seated around a round table, drinks in hands -- eyes turning towards her, and myriad whispers -- until Owl gives a nod in their direction, and they return to their conversation.
They don't trust me, she says, matter-of-factly.
And he apologizes, with a weak sort of smile. I'm sorry.
For what?
Many of these people have lost something, and are wary -- and you've got a formidable reputation in the ring.
It doesn't matter, she says with a shrug.
But he shakes his head. If we are to fight together -- then we are companions, aren't we? She gives him a hard stare, even as he gives her a smile. Please give them a little time.
EIGHT. She doesn't really count on it, at first.
But he proves her wrong. Because the way he talks to everyone, gathers people together and really talks to them -- not whispers behind their back or wary side-glances -- is something that seems so out of place in this prison.
(You cannot survive this gambling game unless you fight. Something like trust and friendship won't save you.)
But he proves her wrong. Because the Scar Chain grows -- looking up to him as the leader to break them out of this twisted garden of insanity. And they also look to her as the sub-leader. Somehow, she's let her guard down, without realizing it. She finds herself smiling, laughing -- a friend to the other members, no more traces of fear from them, no more defensive glares from her.
She realizes, she's losing the edge she'd gained through intimidation.
NINE. But it doesn't matter any more, she understands, because beating down the other Deadmen and establishing herself in the system is not the point -- they're going to break out. She still loves a fight, loves the rush of adrenaline and pumping of blood in her veins, the fast movements and pounding heartbeat in a fight, but it's no longer about tearing people apart.
It's about freedom.
Because everyone has their freedoms -- she hears them talking about all the things they want to do when they get out, and it's all the little things, the things that make them feel alive.
Like, I just want to meet my brother.
Like, I want to see the ocean again.
Like, I wanna go running across that bridge.
Like, I want a good meal without paying with cast points.
Like, 'I want to hold my child.'
TEN. And she knows, what she's fighting for, too.