[THREAD] Sound and Fury
Who: Hatake Kakashi, Hoshigaki Kisame
Where: Fight Club/The Arena, Abyss
When: Night
Summary: Kakashi and Kisame spectate fights!
Rating: R
Other: Lots of prose in this!
( The way to dusty death... )
Where: Fight Club/The Arena, Abyss
When: Night
Summary: Kakashi and Kisame spectate fights!
Rating: R
Other: Lots of prose in this!
( The way to dusty death... )
"Show-off." He sneered at the victor, though without any real malice or annoyance behind the words. It wasn't any skin off his back if this guy wanted to be an arrogant fool--parading around his satisfaction like that was just begging for him to make a fatal mistake next time, or for someone--like him--to get annoyed and knock him down a few pegs.
Kisame watched the next contestant enter to size him up, before glancing back at Kakashi as he spoke again; nothing exciting would probably happen just yet, anyway. "Just R&R, then?" He raised an eyebrow at him, tone mildly playful. "And here I thought you were going to write something actually interesting in this thing. If that's all you're going to do, why not just post pictures of the covers, and give them a couple ratings?"
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There was a method to how he smiled, like everything else he did. Kakashi was as strategic as he was calculated, and even his smiles factored into that proclivity. Rarely did he smile without intent, without a reason. Even rarer did he laugh the way children do when they still believe the world is as bright and colorful as it appears to be, the sky limitless above arms that stretch towards it. They think maybe if they reach high enough they can reach it.
Some people still laughed in that open, honest way, and smiled just the same, even after learning that the sky was unreachable.
Kakashi didn't.
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Why not? He liked to grin and not care how many teeth he showed, or how damned scary it looked. He liked to laugh. It felt good. It let him know he was still human at heart in spite of his looks, to be able to feel something like that, to be able to connect with people. If he could still smile and mean it, if he could feel that joy, it meant he was alive; it was just as powerful a reminder of that fact as it was to kill someone else, or to hurt and bleed himself. If he could laugh and keep smiling, then he could get back up and face everything again, no matter what it was. He could get up, he could face life head-on and look it squarely in the eye, and he could keep moving forward, keep reaching for the sky.
Because after all, he knew better than Kakashi. He knew that you really could touch the sky if you reached hard enough. He'd been on the ground before, just like they were right now, and he'd managed to touch the sky. He'd touched it, held on tight, and climbed right up--and now he lived in the clouds. It was beautiful there. The climb hadn't been easy, but he thought he was as happy as he could get now.
"What'll you write that's interesting, then?" He traced a finger around his beer bottle's cap, letting it dip to slide along the curve of the bottle's neck. "If you're recommending porn to people, you might as well write about something actually interesting to keep their attention too, right? Like sex. Anyone can slap down a plot summary and number of stars, after all." With the flimsy premises those books set down to get right to the sex, he suspected whatever plot review was required wouldn't be all that long, anyway.
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There was an art to it, like anything else. Taking apart the narrative and looking underneath the underneath. Figuring out what the author really means, or what the words might accidentally suggest without the author even noticing it. Or maybe that was exactly the author's intent -- there never really were any absolutes in interpretation. He always found what hid under the surface far more intriguing than anything he could directly see. He liked to rip it up, line by line, until what he had was an understanding of not only the words, but who they belonged to.
He read people just like he read his books. Picking them apart and recomposing them. Understanding what it was that compelled them -- what shaped their spines and gave them strength; why and how they functioned in their skin; what their words might really mean when they said them aloud, and trying to hear them when they didn't.
Take the men in the ring for an example. Winner number one in the ring was just a pawn who wanted to validate his own existence, like so many others crawling the streets of Abyss. He wasn't worthy of further analysis, when his exterior reflected what lay within. His fists were what defined him. Fists that would most likely not survive the next round that sounded off with the ringing of the bell.
Kakashi made a sound that was almost amused. "Well, I'm glad to see you have so much confidence in me, Kisame." He paused, watching the two men square off. The new contestant was all wiry strength and composure, nothing like the gorilla of a man who was his opponent. "Though, writing about sex as well isn't a bad suggestion."
The gorilla charged with a roar, and his opponent dodged, all speed and silence.
Kakashi wondered what the other man was fighting for. Maybe he was trying to touch the sky.
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Perceptive he might have been, but unlike Kakashi, he wasn't a genius; he preferred to read people as he got to know them, and keep the insight to himself rather than bring it to bear for any specific purpose. He let the experiences speak for themselves to give him a richer, deeper understanding of those he knew, rather than trying to form an in-depth impression immediately--first impressions were things he had found increasingly distasteful after his own appearance had been so drastically altered. After all..... what did people think when they looked at him for the first time?
What had Kakashi thought?
Obviously nothing too bad--or hopefully not, anyway--, judging by their current comfortable camaraderie. He did like the looks of this new guy's moves, though.... It suggested that this fight might be more exciting than the last one, and that was always a cheering thought. He settled back into his seat to watch the fight, casting a small grin Kakashi's direction before looking away. "Sorry, Kakashi-taichou, but seeing is believing; I have confidence in your fighting, but I've never seen you write about porn before. Maybe I'll change my mind after you put out a few posts." He chuckled, lifting his beer bottle and twisting the cap off to take a long sip. "If you're really taking that suggestion, do you intend to go out and do field research for those bits, or what?" Kakashi writing about his personal sexual escapades would be the closest thing to the man freely talking about himself and his life that Kisame had seen yet.
The idea was crass, but hey. Any information was better than nothing at all, right? Beggars couldn't be choosers. And maybe that would open the doors for more relevant revelations.
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There was a two second pause between the suggestion of field research and Kakashi's raise of an eyebrow. The corner of his eye crinkled with vague amusement as the shadows of his lips curled into something of a smirk. "Mm, I was thinking more along the lines of sex advice or tips. Not writing about my own sex life." Even though sex was something he enjoyed, and had quite a lot of experience with, Kakashi never joined in on bawdy, heated confessionals let loose by one too many drinks between missions. How and who Kakashi fucked was all very hush hush.
He planned on keeping it that way, even if they sometimes whispered about him.
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"If even half of the rumors are true, then you'd have enough material for at least a month or two, if you did write up anecdotes." He pointed out, amiably enough. He heard the whispers floating around, and not infrequently--most people did, if they went for drinks during their off-times. He liked to listen, if nothing else, though his participation was usually half-hearted at best--sometimes he mentioned his own encounters, sometimes not, but rarely in much detail beyond describing the women.
Why should he, after all? He didn't have 'exploits' like so many did--like Kakashi did, so it seemed. His stories were never especially exciting, if only because they were almost never random chance. Nobody would give him the time of day in Elysium or even Terra voluntarily, and though he might have had more luck in Abyss, he preferred not to trawl those murky waters. Instead, he simply made due with paying for a woman's services if he felt the need for it. He knew a few that he saw more often than not; not all of them were willing to put out for a guy like him, after all, even though he always paid well and tried to be gentle--there wasn't any real gratification in that kind of brutality. Besides, he always made them bleed anyway--it was almost impossible for him to touch anyone, to kiss at all, without something getting sliced or scraped. There was usually enough blood to make it exciting enough.
"Might as well do both, if you're doing one." Kisame offered, smirking. "You'll already be giving your own opinions--might as well let your readers feel included by addressing their stuff directly. And maybe it'll even do some good, who knows?" As much good as a porn blog could do, anyway.
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"Well, there isn't really anything else like it out there from what I've seen..." Kakashi had looked for quite some time to find reviews and criticism of his favored texts, only to come up empty handed. There was a certain lack of legitimacy to the stuff he read, the things that he found most enjoyment in -- labeled as trash by academic elites who turned their noses up in the air at palpitating, throbbing text framed around lackluster plots. It wasn't too surprising no one talked about it; sex was something that happened in the bedroom, not something that was talked about openly without an excuse of one too many drinks to justify the very topic.
People who talked about sex and read it so openly usually found themselves labeled as perverted, depraved.
But there was far more depravity in the world than an open enjoyment of sex. Like the unnatural hollers of bets placed on the fighters in the ring; the lack of consideration for the value of life; the scent of death and too much blood that soaked into the very molecules of the air they breathed. But no one noticed because depravity was normal here in Abyss. Even the Elysium elite who sipped cocktails out of fancy glasses and sampled hor d'oeurvres found comfort in it when they could simply observe from their posh little boxes that distanced them from it.
The audience cheered and pumped their arms as the smaller fighter became a blur of motion, fist and feet connecting, sending his opponent flying across the ring into wire fencing, not even giving him a moment to recover before he was on him -- one blow, two --
Blood splattered as the former winner found his head split open like a cantaloupe.
The new winner stepped back from the kill, tense and silent. He didn't raise his arms to the sky. Maybe he didn't think he could touch it.
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"Then put it out there and fill the niche." Kisame shrugged, though his tone was encouraging; it wasn't an issue he was especially passionate about, but he was willing to be supportive for his captain, especially if it made him happy. And more social, that was always a plus. Besides, why not do it, if nobody else was? Kakashi was certainly qualified for the job.
His attention was torn away from Kakashi soon enough, the smaller fighter's swift movement catching his eye. His voice melded into the cheer of the crowd easily enough, an inarticulate, bestial roar of approval that no words could do justice to. His hand wrapped around the arm of the chair, grasping it as tightly as though it were the hilt of a sword, ready to be drawn and sent swinging into the crowd; the wood creaked ominously under the pressure. He breathed deep, pulling in air spiked with alcohol and smoke, testosterone and sweat, pain and aggression, fresh blood and death that lingered coppery-sweet on his tongue and clung in his nostrils, begging to be drank in. He obliged, eyes flashing sharp and hot and deliriously fever-bright.
They gleamed even brighter than the rows of viciously sharp teeth lining his mouth, teeth--fangs?--that blurred the line between a grin and a snarl. They were a flash of the monster he had become, the inhumanity that lay buried deep within him now, the man-made freak that people now saw whenever they looked at him. The too-familiar thirst for blood thrummed through him, making his heart thunder and his vision burn red, muscles tense in anticipation of the killing he was suddenly craving. It was intoxicating, far better than anything drugs or alcohol could offer, a lust that ran deeper and more primal than even sex. The instincts had terrified him at first, before he'd gradually grown used to and even accepted them. Perhaps more terrifying though, was that he was more and more coming to not only understand, but actually embrace them.....
Nothing could compare with the thrill of the hunt, the fight, the kill. Nothing. Sex and porn be damned, he wouldn't miss them if he could have lives instead of love. Kakashi couldn't hope to hold his attention when brains were being spilled across the floor, when he wanted nothing more than to be in the ring down there and rain hell down on the fighters. Or maybe the audience, too, but at least the fighters might be a challenge..... A tough kill was much more satisfying than a victim that just rolled over and died. Maybe they could stop in a bar before they flew back into the clouds, so he could pick a fight or three on their way home.....
They said that angels lived in the sky. God's creatures of divine design, made not only to praise Him and manage the aspects of His Creation, but also to be His celestial army--they would fly to battle on His command, one wing dipped in blood and a flaming sword in hand. Was that what he had become? If a demon was an angel that had fallen into Hell, what happened when a demon was lifted into Heaven?
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But Kakashi knew there was nothing left in the world that was still sacred or holy; that salvation was only just the breath of dreams. He knew better; knew that boys were forced to take up weapons at too young an age, forced to kill grown men before they could even read. Knew too that angels had wings clipped in flight, that freedom was little more than the cage they lived within, dreaming of angels, of Heaven, of a paradise lost before it was ever found, because it never existed in the first place.
Kakashi didn't dream of things he knew didn't exist. He kept his eye on the earth below him, instead of the skies above him.
Blood streaked along the floor of the cage the fighters fought within, as one body was dragged out for the next round, bone and gristle gleaming in the bright lights of the stage. The remaining fighter paced the length of the ring. He seemed oblivious to the cheers that deigned him a crowd favorite. He seemed to know life was as fleeting as the fame accorded. That it was pointless to relish in triumph and glory when life still bled from his hands.
Kakashi hummed in a way that seemed to imply he approved. Perhaps they found another potential recruit.
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After all, you didn't have to leave the ground behind when you reached for the sky.
But regardless of Heaven and earth, regardless of how their own lives or souls were faring right now.... regardless of all that, there was still the blood. He reveled in it where the victor would not, thrummed with pleasure and instinct and anticipation all at once. He wanted that beauty for his own, to tear into it and expose it to the world and take from it what he could. It was so easy to hold life in his hands, he only had to shave the people a little, cut them open and rip them apart and make the blood go flying.... That didn't care whether it went to Heaven or earth, and it shone in the sun regardless, making beautiful scarlet patterns wherever it went, shining with what was and what could have been, marvelous raw potential and life in its purest state. The taste, the smell, the sight, the feeling....
Spilling it, your own or another's, was life and soul made manifest, the within brought without. The old superstitions of oracles were right--you could read truth in a creature's bloody entrails. Perhaps not the truth you asked about, but a truth of some sort, nonetheless.
The spike of bloodlust was not to last long, though; Kisame almost gagged at the strong, acrid scent of industrial-strength cleaners poured liberally into the arena, as the cleaning crew began mopping up the mess that had been made so the next match could proceed. Like a camera lens going out of focus--or into focus, he really wasn't sure anymore--, the world subtly shifted around him, ebbing back into normalcy once more. People were just people, not prey, and Samehada's siren song receded. He let go of the arm of his chair, giving his hand an absent shake to relieve the sting of such a tight grip; he hardly even noticed the way the wood had cracked.
He took a slow, shallow breath to ease himself back into the way things should be, then shifted a little to grin at Kakashi, though perhaps without the conviction that was normally present in the expression; he always felt a little subdued after coming out of moods like that, though he was never quite sure why. "That guy's the best I've seen here in a while; I like the looks of him." The implications lingered, unspoken. Guys like this one didn't come around so often. He was the best here, perhaps..... but he could be better. They could always be better. Maybe he only needed a helping hand to convince him to reach for the sky.
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Something to give him hope and faith in the possibility of what lay in clouds, ephemeral and amorphous with all of their intangibility. The kind of stuff dreams were made of, a sort of formless presence. But as long as the presence of hope was there, however shapeless, it was enough to give even a dead man conviction, to put self-worth into throwaway lives that had no other place in the world.
Even if that hope meant giving up your face and your name, pinning your identity down behind a mask of numbers, hope was hope was hope. And that alone was enough, for some.
Kakashi didn't run so much on hope as he did conviction. Even if he didn't always understand his place in the world or how it turned, he believed he had a role to fulfill. There was some kind of meaning to everything in the world; meaning that sometimes wasn't constant and other times unreadable, but present nonetheless in between the lines and all the spaces between them. He'd lived, survived, when so many others had died, and sometimes (always) he believed he lived for the boy who lived on in his left eye. Showing him the world, both light and dark, because as long as he lived, that boy could too, experiencing the world vicariously through him.
Everyone needed a reason to live.
He snapped his book shut with a press of his fingers, tucking it out of sight as the bell rang once more. "We'll see if he makes it to the end." And if he did, they would descend from their cloud to give him a little hope, a little something more than what he had here in the shit and the muck of life that people lived in Abyss, where everything smelled like dust and ash, and the air was filled with all the lack of faith and belief that there was more to life than this.
Whatever this was.
The fight would start all over again, the war drum would go on beating its timeless rhythm. Someone else would die (they always did) before the end of the night, and the winner would go on, fight after fight, until his time has come and the drums recede in the distance. The trophy, only a moment of fame -- a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more -- before the curtain falls with the final act, the script ripped up, the seats emptied.
It is a tale, told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
[credit | William Shakespeare, Macbeth]
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