the dog that bit it's own tail.
Kokuyo minus Chrome. They're in prison, and Chikusa thinks he sees everything.
Chikusa is becoming quickly reacquainted with chest pain, the lip-biting kind, the kind that feels as though his ribs are converging on his sternum. Two more bootmarks; he steals a breath and it's almost bearable, but Ken is shrieking, panicked, scrabbling against the door. He curls his hands into fists, considers gasping to up the pity points - and it's over as suddenly as it started; a pinprick, more drugs, more solitary. A figure glows neon behind his eyelids; the total comes to fifty-seven kicks.
Mukuro's been gone for weeks and Chikusa fills the absence by counting, dissecting each and every small indignity. He doesn't trust in karma, kismet, any divine allotment he cannot weigh, but he has utmost belief in his own ability to pay them back tenfold. Mukuro will come. He whispers the promise around blood in his mouth; it's the only thing that hushes Ken's whines.
When he's not counting, he maps Vindice, the corridors and rooms he's sure of, clues picked up from scraps of conversation. He recites statistics and conjugations in a tone he imagines is soothing, ridiculously relieved that Ken can hear him through the wall. He wonders whose mistake it was to hold them so close together. He wonders if it's so he can hear Ken scream.
Somewhere else, they have Lancia. He is suffering without a doubt, but not from their half-baked interrogation. Lancia is too kind, ripped open, left bleeding. Even then, he is not the type to think of vengeance. His mind is steeped in mercy and romanticisms. In short, he is a man who has no business being in the mafia. Lancia-san, he wants to say, A triangle can only have three corners.
Sun Tzu wrote, All warfare is based on deception. It is almost certain that Lancia has never read Sun Tzu. But if a child knows not to invite a storm into his house, what does that make Lancia? Strung up in chains or drowning in his own saliva, Lancia will think only of Mukuro, and sadness.
Maybe that is its own loyalty.
Chikusa is becoming quickly reacquainted with chest pain, the lip-biting kind, the kind that feels as though his ribs are converging on his sternum. Two more bootmarks; he steals a breath and it's almost bearable, but Ken is shrieking, panicked, scrabbling against the door. He curls his hands into fists, considers gasping to up the pity points - and it's over as suddenly as it started; a pinprick, more drugs, more solitary. A figure glows neon behind his eyelids; the total comes to fifty-seven kicks.
Mukuro's been gone for weeks and Chikusa fills the absence by counting, dissecting each and every small indignity. He doesn't trust in karma, kismet, any divine allotment he cannot weigh, but he has utmost belief in his own ability to pay them back tenfold. Mukuro will come. He whispers the promise around blood in his mouth; it's the only thing that hushes Ken's whines.
When he's not counting, he maps Vindice, the corridors and rooms he's sure of, clues picked up from scraps of conversation. He recites statistics and conjugations in a tone he imagines is soothing, ridiculously relieved that Ken can hear him through the wall. He wonders whose mistake it was to hold them so close together. He wonders if it's so he can hear Ken scream.
Somewhere else, they have Lancia. He is suffering without a doubt, but not from their half-baked interrogation. Lancia is too kind, ripped open, left bleeding. Even then, he is not the type to think of vengeance. His mind is steeped in mercy and romanticisms. In short, he is a man who has no business being in the mafia. Lancia-san, he wants to say, A triangle can only have three corners.
Sun Tzu wrote, All warfare is based on deception. It is almost certain that Lancia has never read Sun Tzu. But if a child knows not to invite a storm into his house, what does that make Lancia? Strung up in chains or drowning in his own saliva, Lancia will think only of Mukuro, and sadness.
Maybe that is its own loyalty.