[The humans never even know what hits them; Guriel tears through the place like a tornado, violence at its most raw and unrestrained. Doctors, lab technicians, assistants -- they're all dead before they have time to be properly afraid, literally torn to pieces.
Guriel is a lion, after all, and these days, he's more wild animal than person.
By the time he's cleared the place of life he's soaked in blood, it streaks his hair and his face and his clothes. His wings are a dishevelled, gory mess.
He kicks down doors with ruthless, methodical precision, rifles papers, scrolls through computers and then smashes them, breaks windows and racks of test tubes and anything else he can get his hands on. Destruction for its own sake, not to hide evidence or obscure the crime scene, just to feel anything except hopeless and powerless.
The last door in the place has a placard on it that he doesn't bother to read. It's another dead end, they're all dead ends, they always will be.
He kicks it in with the same ruthless, violent motion . . .
[Ben flinches against the back of the cage, shaking his head.] No, no, you just had me, it's not time yet, please don't, I can't-- [His voice is a bare, hoarse whisper, like he's just spent a lot of time screaming. He breaks off with a choked gasp and hides his head in his arms, or tries to, with the cuffs in that awkward position. New scars decorate the old, and cover him in places he didn't have any before. One through his left eyebrow and down his cheek is particularly bold; it had barely missed taking his eye out.]
Please. It's not my turn. Please let me stay in the cage.
[Guriel makes a broken noise, still frozen in his tracks. The words don't even really register, he's too busy trying to cope with the fact that Ben is here.
Somewhere along the line -- somewhere not-recently -- he gave up on finding Ben. He's been doing this -- vicious, brutal, animal murder, rampant destruction, mindless slaughter -- because killing is all he remembers how to do.
[Ben's not a name anymore. He's a number. The litany of name, rank, social is as meaningless to him now as Swahili; it's what he says when he's on complete autopilot.
Maybe, if he could smell Guriel, that would bring him back to himself, at least a little. But the last experimental protocol involved injected aconite -- which was a fresh horror he wasn't prepared for in the least, seeing as the needle, previously, meant relief rather than unimaginable pain. He's fairly certain that what he's seeing right now is a hallucination. It wouldn't be the first time. So he just squeezes his eyes shut and keeps shaking his head.] Please...
[Ben whimpers down low in his throat. Still shaking his head with his eyes squeezed shut. Guriel is a dream, a distant one at that, one that he's increasingly felt slipping away from him as the days go by. He used to snarl defiance at Them, tell Them that his Pack was coming for him and they'd be sorry. But They just laughed and said it was impossible, that he'd be here for the rest of his life and They'd dissect him after he died. After they put him down like the dog he was...
And sometimes, in Their psychological experiments, They'd make him think that Guriel was in the other room. It always turned out to be a cruel joke, and he finally stopped believing it.
This? Is just another cruel joke.] Please. Please just let me stay in the cage for one more day, one more hour, one more minute, please oh please why won't you let me die...
[Guriel shudders as the words finally take hold, and he sinks to his knees, his bloodied wings drooping. He keeps himself more than an arm's length away from the cage, and his voice is quiet. Timid, even.]
I . . . I won't. I won't make you do anything. I won't hurt you. I would never hurt you.
[The trickle of thought impinges on Ben's consciousness, and he frowns, even while keeping his eyes squeezed shut. It's... familiar, somehow. Comforting, in a place where there's no comfort to be had.
Therefore, it has to be a trick. Or a trap. Because it can't be real. They told him he's going to die in this place. He might not believe much else They told him. But he does believe that.
So he just hunches further into himself. He hasn't got much will left, but he makes a conscious effort and stops talking, after one last:] Please.
[Guriel flinches and reaches up a shaking hand to try and wipe the blood off his face. All he does is smear it. Hopeless. He'll never get the blood off.
He's starting to feel, a little. Not happiness, though. Just black, black despair, the kind that always settles in when he raids another place and slaughters another dozen humans and doesn't find Ben.
But he's found Ben, only he's taken so long, Ben is so broken, he doesn't, he can't . . .
He just wipes shakily and uselessly at the blood, and dredges up the memory of love and comfort and safety and pours what he can of it into the long-silent link between them.]
[More frowning. He's whining on his exhales now, because this is fresh torture, why won't They just leave him alone and let him gather the shreds of his psyche back into some semblance of order before They hit him again?
But the Pack link... They can't duplicate that, although Lord knows they've tried. Nothing else feels like that, and he finally cracks an eyelid open.]
...Guriel...? [The thought is thin and reedy and barely, barely there, and a sense of desperation permeates it.]
[Guriel reels, physically wavers and has to catch himself with a bloodied hand on the concrete, but he catches that connection and holds on hard. God, he's been so alone, so alone, he drove Rachmiel off more than a month ago, even Zethel hasn't been able to get in lately . . .]
Oh, God, Ben, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I didn't mean to take this long I'm sorry I'm sorry . . .
[He gets a grip on himself, staggers to his feet and pushes the door closed. The latch is hopeless, ruined by the force of his boot kicking the door in, but at least it's closed.
He stumbled back to the side of the cage, closer this time but still not touching, and drops to his hands and knees.]
[It's safer in the dark. When it's dark, no one's hurting him, no one's strapping him to a table or coming at him with silver or aconite or rowan, no one's clinically dictating his reactions into a recorder.
And, considering the fact that not a single person has done anything he's asked, threatened, begged them to do, since he got here, the fact that someone just did is huge. He relaxes, microscopically.] Oh, God. OhGodohGodohGod... is it over?
It's over, I'm here, I'm sorry . . . [Hot tears well up and spill over, and Guriel's surprised by them, because he stopped crying months ago, around the third or fourth time he came home spattered in blood to find Rachmiel waiting, wordless, hurting, helpless as Guri himself.
He stretches out a hand, desperately wanting to shoot back the bolts holding the cage closed, to tear the shackles loose. But scared to, because of what Ben was begging him to do, leave him in the cage . . .]
[Ben blinks, slowly, several times. There's a sliver of light coming in around the door where it's not shut all the way. Wings. The figure in front of him has wings. And no one has officiously come in demanding to know what's going on here.
Guriel is a lion, after all, and these days, he's more wild animal than person.
By the time he's cleared the place of life he's soaked in blood, it streaks his hair and his face and his clothes. His wings are a dishevelled, gory mess.
He kicks down doors with ruthless, methodical precision, rifles papers, scrolls through computers and then smashes them, breaks windows and racks of test tubes and anything else he can get his hands on. Destruction for its own sake, not to hide evidence or obscure the crime scene, just to feel anything except hopeless and powerless.
The last door in the place has a placard on it that he doesn't bother to read. It's another dead end, they're all dead ends, they always will be.
He kicks it in with the same ruthless, violent motion . . .
And stops dead.]
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Please. It's not my turn. Please let me stay in the cage.
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Somewhere along the line -- somewhere not-recently -- he gave up on finding Ben. He's been doing this -- vicious, brutal, animal murder, rampant destruction, mindless slaughter -- because killing is all he remembers how to do.
He didn't even realize that until right now.]
Ben.
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Maybe, if he could smell Guriel, that would bring him back to himself, at least a little. But the last experimental protocol involved injected aconite -- which was a fresh horror he wasn't prepared for in the least, seeing as the needle, previously, meant relief rather than unimaginable pain. He's fairly certain that what he's seeing right now is a hallucination. It wouldn't be the first time. So he just squeezes his eyes shut and keeps shaking his head.] Please...
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His steps fall heavy on the cracked, stained concrete of the floor. His mind still won't work. His heart won't beat. He doesn't feel anything.
He was supposed to be happy when this finally happened. But he can't remember what happy feels like, or how to turn it on.]
Ben? Ben. Ben, it's me, it's Guriel.
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And sometimes, in Their psychological experiments, They'd make him think that Guriel was in the other room. It always turned out to be a cruel joke, and he finally stopped believing it.
This? Is just another cruel joke.] Please. Please just let me stay in the cage for one more day, one more hour, one more minute, please oh please why won't you let me die...
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I . . . I won't. I won't make you do anything. I won't hurt you. I would never hurt you.
Ben. Ben, Ben, Ben . . .
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Therefore, it has to be a trick. Or a trap. Because it can't be real. They told him he's going to die in this place. He might not believe much else They told him. But he does believe that.
So he just hunches further into himself. He hasn't got much will left, but he makes a conscious effort and stops talking, after one last:] Please.
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He's starting to feel, a little. Not happiness, though. Just black, black despair, the kind that always settles in when he raids another place and slaughters another dozen humans and doesn't find Ben.
But he's found Ben, only he's taken so long, Ben is so broken, he doesn't, he can't . . .
He just wipes shakily and uselessly at the blood, and dredges up the memory of love and comfort and safety and pours what he can of it into the long-silent link between them.]
Ben. Zev. Pack. Family. Love. Sorry, so sorry . . .
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But the Pack link... They can't duplicate that, although Lord knows they've tried. Nothing else feels like that, and he finally cracks an eyelid open.]
...Guriel...? [The thought is thin and reedy and barely, barely there, and a sense of desperation permeates it.]
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Oh, God, Ben, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I didn't mean to take this long I'm sorry I'm sorry . . .
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Please close the door.
...is it really you?
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[He gets a grip on himself, staggers to his feet and pushes the door closed. The latch is hopeless, ruined by the force of his boot kicking the door in, but at least it's closed.
He stumbled back to the side of the cage, closer this time but still not touching, and drops to his hands and knees.]
Ben.
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And, considering the fact that not a single person has done anything he's asked, threatened, begged them to do, since he got here, the fact that someone just did is huge. He relaxes, microscopically.] Oh, God. OhGodohGodohGod... is it over?
Please.
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He stretches out a hand, desperately wanting to shoot back the bolts holding the cage closed, to tear the shackles loose. But scared to, because of what Ben was begging him to do, leave him in the cage . . .]
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That means...
He's not sure what that means.] Guriel?
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