[fic] you got wires coming out of your skin
title: you got wires
characters: John Callahan, Lena Austen, mentions of Sonny.
summary: Rizzy wanted backstory for some of the Original Characters we play at beyondtherift. She wanted a peak as to how they spent last year's Christmas. And she wanted horrible. I fused it all together. :|
warning: Rated R. Violence, abuse, triggery stuff, SERIOUSLY, IT'S CHRISTMAS, DON'T READ THIS. Also wrote this at six-thirty in the morning. So, you know. Typos galore.
notes: One of... idek how many gifts I have for varymydays, who is my RP partner and my wifette in every sense of the word. We create stories, we build worlds, we pit characters together, and it's always the most wonderful thing in the world to me. I FEEL BAD GIVING HER HORRIBLE FIC FOR A CHRISTMAS PRESENT, BUT SHE ASKED FOR IT, OKAY. ;__; I... hope you like it. :x The rest of the requests are coming along, I promise! Just maybe not by the deadline.
After smoothing her long hair into a pony tail, she slips a pair of black pants on along with a black turtleneck shirt. Camouflage is one of the most important part of any operation.
An art gallery. Sonny has given her the directions and the instructions.
Filter through the vents--he's also given her the blueprints to memorize.
Behind a particular painting--Moonlight Repose--is a personal safe.
The combination is burned into her memory.
She's ready to go. It's a quick job and it's a one-man mission. She never does ask Sonny why he usually gives those to her. Lena wears a parabolic microphone that lets her communicate with Tim, and night glasses that serve as a camera she is to take pictures of.
The art gallery contains a prized painting. Behind the painting is a safe that contains information crucial to the Organization's files via the Thieves Guild. Sonny didn't delve into specifics, and Lena accepted despite her curiosity. Taking a deep breath, Lena stands on top of the building, her eyes fluttering shut. Gates had studied the security system of the building to exhaustion, and every night the rounds begin at ten. The security guard is asleep by twelve, and thanks to her mother's teachings, Lena easily puts the alarm system to sleep before she can retrieve the files.
No harm, no foul.
Lena makes it through the vents, keeping her leather glove-clad hands placed flat on the metal of the vent while carefully gliding in, inch by inch. She takes a left turn--she's memorized the blueprints by heart--until she finally reaches the destination point. Having found the surveillance cameras, she cut the wires soundless. She doesn't have anything to worry about. She deactivates the alarm system and soon enough, the surveillance cameras are broken down.
Using the rope attached to her waist, Lena Austen drops down from the vent, until she is hanging fifty feet above the ground and staring at the painting in question. She put the small flashlight in between her lips, gently removing the painting hung on the mustard-colored walls.
"Bingo," she whispers as the vault built in the wall stares back at her.
Lena punches the numbers in without hesitation. The safe springs to life, opening easily underneath her fingers. The files contain important names of select members asked to infiltrate organizations like Sonny's.
And she doesn't know it yet, but one of those names belongs to the man she thinks she's going home to.
---
Light sifts in and out of wherever he is.
It takes a while for John's vision to focus, but when it does he is startled by the fact he doesn't remember how he got here. He tries to move, not entirely surprised he's pinned down by metal cuffs. John looks at either of his arms, strapped down at the wrists, keeping him locked in place.
He fights against the dizziness swirling inside his head. Like there's a game of ping pong being played inside and he wasn't warned of the match. John closes his eyes again, the lone light shining on down the obscure room making his eyes flinch.
"You okay there, Johnny boy?"
John winces at the darkness of the voice. Refusing to let him know of this discomfort, John ignores the burning at his eyes, the sheer strength it takes to open them, and locks gazes with his ward. "I'm strapped down to a chair and I'm stuck in this filthy basement. What do you think?"
"I think," the Saint begins mildly, careening his own chair to face John's, "that you would be a little more pleasant, taking into consideration your predicament."
The Saint flips his chair backwards, slinging one leg on either side and plopping down. His eyes linger on the bruise swelling over John's temple. John's hand immediately tries to jerk free from the restraint to touch the wound, but there's a gauze covering his forehead instead.
Eyes narrowed, John wonders if the Saint expects gratitude at cleaning it up when he caused it.
Tilting his head, he purses his lips into a sneer. "Is there a reason you knocked me down and brought me here? Besides having this terribly uninteresting conversation. Because, it must be said, I have places to see, people to meet, an enemy of yours to terminate, you know the drill."
"What's your mother's name?"
John stops fighting his restraints. "What?"
"Your mother's real name," the Saint prompts. "What is it?"
John is stunned momentarily when he finds his mother's real name is about to roll off the tip of his tongue. John worked months to build up a tolerance to lying. To protect Sonny and the others. That was the deal if John went willingly. Not that he had a choice, anyway. "You sick son of a bitch," he says as the realization hits him. Eyes narrowing, he spits out, "What did you give me?"
"A truth serum," the Saint replies honestly, unfazed by John's reaction. "I'm not in the mood to cause myself pain to get you to cooperate. But I will if you force me to. Her real name, John."
---
Lena lights another vanilla scented candle, placing it at the center of the long rectangle table. It joins the rest of the smaller white candles, creating an intimate setting. She isn't the best cook, but she's prepared the feast for the evening. It's still in the oven so it doesn't get cold.
She blows out the flame at the end of the match in her hand, before surveying the scene before her. She ignores the fact her hand is shaking, ignores it in favor of smoothing down the long of her hair. Rick's always said he loves her hair, loves it when it's carelessly down to her back, closer to red than brown. She lets it tumble through her fingers, creating waves where the tendrils meet at the end.
Her gaze falls on the presents from her friends she placed underneath the tree.
Lena hasn't answered the five voicemails on her phone. One of them from Gates. Two of them from Zoe. The rest are from Max. The Crowbar is celebrating Christmas Eve tonight but then, so is Lena with Rick.
Rick's persona non grata at the bar, and she wants to find a balance with both. They're giving it another go, and she wants this Christmas to be perfect.
She sits down at the table, smoothing the ruffles of her blue dress.
She sits and she waits.
For two whole hours, she waits.
---
Gritting his teeth, John remains silent. The silence doesn't last for long. The more the Saint asks the same question and the more John tries to keep quiet, his system starts to shut down. Closing his eyes momentarily, he gives the only answer the toxin allows--the truth. "Her birth name is Sophia Lockwood."
"And she is half-Italian."
"Yes."
"Your father is John Callahan."
Jaw clenched, he looks away. "Yes."
"Your mother was first married to a man named Anthony."
"Yes."
"He was a demon."
"...Yes."
"He was a conman."
A hiss escapes his lips. "Yes."
"How old was your brother when she had you?"
"Ten."
"And what's Sonny boy's real name?"
John bites into the insides of his cheeks. Bites hard, hard enough blood drips down the corner of his mouth. Breaths quicken sharply until they strangle his throat, and he is looking everywhere but at his ward.
"Johnny boy." The fact that his voice is so quiet and void of his usual antagonism angers John even more than his stoic brand of danger would.
"You know what happens when you lie."
---
Lena's almost dozing off at the table when Rick comes home.
The abrupt and loud slamming of the door has her sitting up straight.
His eyes are nearly black.
It comes swiftly.
Rick's hand rises almost by its own will, and a crack, thick and painful, pierces the air. It's only until Lena feels the five harsh imprints on her cheek she feels the sting of the slap. The fact that Rick used his left hand, the one that he wears his uncut ring on, makes the attack all the more cutting in turn--the stone creates an open wound at her cheek, a blazing trail of blood dancing past her neck.
"Where are they?"
"What?"
"The files."
"I don't--"
Lena's wings slide out her back instinctively and she's already backpedaling, hoping to reach the door.
Rick gets there first, slamming it back shut from behind her, pinning her there.
"You're on my side. Not his."
---
John's mouth clamps shut again.
His head turns to the side.
It takes a while, but he finally lets out a miserable sound when the Saint cuts his hand. His ward is in pain. His ward is a horrible son of a bitch that deserves to die. The two beliefs never reconcile, because John's Calling won't let them.
This is the greatest weapon that can be used against you.
And the Saint has not had to touch him. Not even once.
"His name, John."
---
The tables have all been flipped over.
The one she tried to huddle into is lit on fire in one swift movement and she screams, crawling out of it before the flames catch up with her.
He lifts her up by the arm, fingers digging into the skin there, pushing her back into the wall.
"Are you sleeping with him?"
"Rick, stop."
"Are you--" he cuts himself off when she doesn't answer, his hand stretching out, palm aimed toward the presents at the table.
Flames burst from his skin. The ribbons turn to ash.
His hand curves over her throat. "Where are they?"
----
"And who is Sonny closest to? Now that you've told me his name, I understand why he'd go for Sonny."
John's mentally exhausted, has half the mind to beg the Saint to just pull the trigger. He closes his eyes and bites back a cry.
"Who's Sonny closest to, Johnny boy?"
"Christopher Gates."
"And Christopher Gates is a profiler, isn't he?"
"Yes."
"Has he got any family?"
His head feels like it wants to explode. John says nothing. The Saint lifts up a knife and presses it directly over his own heart. No.
"This... bar your brother lives in with his little... trashy family. It's got a lot of security, doesn't it?"
One hour later, and John's chair has fallen to the ground. The binds keep him there, and his face remains pressed against the cool ground.
"Good work. You've finally been useful. I'll give you a break, come back later."
The Saint pats him on the head. The light sifts in and out.
Before it leaves completely. "We'll be doing this forever, John."
---
"Lena, come on. I didn't mean to. Open this door."
His voice is plaintive. Almost apologetic. Until she doesn't open the door.
Lena picks up stuffed teddy bear, ripped in half, holding it in her hand as Rick punches the wall on the door at the other side. Lena's face crumples into the stuffed animal's belly, and not for the first time, hates herself for not leaving when she said she would.
Her hands are covered in blood, black enough to look like oil, and the dress she was wearing is in pieces, barely holding together on her skin.
She crawls over to the window despite the fact every bone in her body hurts. She manages to open it the exact moment Rick manages to open the door.
His hand snaps around her waist, yanking her back. "We'll be doing this forever."
characters: John Callahan, Lena Austen, mentions of Sonny.
summary: Rizzy wanted backstory for some of the Original Characters we play at beyondtherift. She wanted a peak as to how they spent last year's Christmas. And she wanted horrible. I fused it all together. :|
warning: Rated R. Violence, abuse, triggery stuff, SERIOUSLY, IT'S CHRISTMAS, DON'T READ THIS. Also wrote this at six-thirty in the morning. So, you know. Typos galore.
notes: One of... idek how many gifts I have for varymydays, who is my RP partner and my wifette in every sense of the word. We create stories, we build worlds, we pit characters together, and it's always the most wonderful thing in the world to me. I FEEL BAD GIVING HER HORRIBLE FIC FOR A CHRISTMAS PRESENT, BUT SHE ASKED FOR IT, OKAY. ;__; I... hope you like it. :x The rest of the requests are coming along, I promise! Just maybe not by the deadline.
After smoothing her long hair into a pony tail, she slips a pair of black pants on along with a black turtleneck shirt. Camouflage is one of the most important part of any operation.
An art gallery. Sonny has given her the directions and the instructions.
Filter through the vents--he's also given her the blueprints to memorize.
Behind a particular painting--Moonlight Repose--is a personal safe.
The combination is burned into her memory.
She's ready to go. It's a quick job and it's a one-man mission. She never does ask Sonny why he usually gives those to her. Lena wears a parabolic microphone that lets her communicate with Tim, and night glasses that serve as a camera she is to take pictures of.
The art gallery contains a prized painting. Behind the painting is a safe that contains information crucial to the Organization's files via the Thieves Guild. Sonny didn't delve into specifics, and Lena accepted despite her curiosity. Taking a deep breath, Lena stands on top of the building, her eyes fluttering shut. Gates had studied the security system of the building to exhaustion, and every night the rounds begin at ten. The security guard is asleep by twelve, and thanks to her mother's teachings, Lena easily puts the alarm system to sleep before she can retrieve the files.
No harm, no foul.
Lena makes it through the vents, keeping her leather glove-clad hands placed flat on the metal of the vent while carefully gliding in, inch by inch. She takes a left turn--she's memorized the blueprints by heart--until she finally reaches the destination point. Having found the surveillance cameras, she cut the wires soundless. She doesn't have anything to worry about. She deactivates the alarm system and soon enough, the surveillance cameras are broken down.
Using the rope attached to her waist, Lena Austen drops down from the vent, until she is hanging fifty feet above the ground and staring at the painting in question. She put the small flashlight in between her lips, gently removing the painting hung on the mustard-colored walls.
"Bingo," she whispers as the vault built in the wall stares back at her.
Lena punches the numbers in without hesitation. The safe springs to life, opening easily underneath her fingers. The files contain important names of select members asked to infiltrate organizations like Sonny's.
And she doesn't know it yet, but one of those names belongs to the man she thinks she's going home to.
---
Light sifts in and out of wherever he is.
It takes a while for John's vision to focus, but when it does he is startled by the fact he doesn't remember how he got here. He tries to move, not entirely surprised he's pinned down by metal cuffs. John looks at either of his arms, strapped down at the wrists, keeping him locked in place.
He fights against the dizziness swirling inside his head. Like there's a game of ping pong being played inside and he wasn't warned of the match. John closes his eyes again, the lone light shining on down the obscure room making his eyes flinch.
"You okay there, Johnny boy?"
John winces at the darkness of the voice. Refusing to let him know of this discomfort, John ignores the burning at his eyes, the sheer strength it takes to open them, and locks gazes with his ward. "I'm strapped down to a chair and I'm stuck in this filthy basement. What do you think?"
"I think," the Saint begins mildly, careening his own chair to face John's, "that you would be a little more pleasant, taking into consideration your predicament."
The Saint flips his chair backwards, slinging one leg on either side and plopping down. His eyes linger on the bruise swelling over John's temple. John's hand immediately tries to jerk free from the restraint to touch the wound, but there's a gauze covering his forehead instead.
Eyes narrowed, John wonders if the Saint expects gratitude at cleaning it up when he caused it.
Tilting his head, he purses his lips into a sneer. "Is there a reason you knocked me down and brought me here? Besides having this terribly uninteresting conversation. Because, it must be said, I have places to see, people to meet, an enemy of yours to terminate, you know the drill."
"What's your mother's name?"
John stops fighting his restraints. "What?"
"Your mother's real name," the Saint prompts. "What is it?"
John is stunned momentarily when he finds his mother's real name is about to roll off the tip of his tongue. John worked months to build up a tolerance to lying. To protect Sonny and the others. That was the deal if John went willingly. Not that he had a choice, anyway. "You sick son of a bitch," he says as the realization hits him. Eyes narrowing, he spits out, "What did you give me?"
"A truth serum," the Saint replies honestly, unfazed by John's reaction. "I'm not in the mood to cause myself pain to get you to cooperate. But I will if you force me to. Her real name, John."
---
Lena lights another vanilla scented candle, placing it at the center of the long rectangle table. It joins the rest of the smaller white candles, creating an intimate setting. She isn't the best cook, but she's prepared the feast for the evening. It's still in the oven so it doesn't get cold.
She blows out the flame at the end of the match in her hand, before surveying the scene before her. She ignores the fact her hand is shaking, ignores it in favor of smoothing down the long of her hair. Rick's always said he loves her hair, loves it when it's carelessly down to her back, closer to red than brown. She lets it tumble through her fingers, creating waves where the tendrils meet at the end.
Her gaze falls on the presents from her friends she placed underneath the tree.
Lena hasn't answered the five voicemails on her phone. One of them from Gates. Two of them from Zoe. The rest are from Max. The Crowbar is celebrating Christmas Eve tonight but then, so is Lena with Rick.
Rick's persona non grata at the bar, and she wants to find a balance with both. They're giving it another go, and she wants this Christmas to be perfect.
She sits down at the table, smoothing the ruffles of her blue dress.
She sits and she waits.
For two whole hours, she waits.
---
Gritting his teeth, John remains silent. The silence doesn't last for long. The more the Saint asks the same question and the more John tries to keep quiet, his system starts to shut down. Closing his eyes momentarily, he gives the only answer the toxin allows--the truth. "Her birth name is Sophia Lockwood."
"And she is half-Italian."
"Yes."
"Your father is John Callahan."
Jaw clenched, he looks away. "Yes."
"Your mother was first married to a man named Anthony."
"Yes."
"He was a demon."
"...Yes."
"He was a conman."
A hiss escapes his lips. "Yes."
"How old was your brother when she had you?"
"Ten."
"And what's Sonny boy's real name?"
John bites into the insides of his cheeks. Bites hard, hard enough blood drips down the corner of his mouth. Breaths quicken sharply until they strangle his throat, and he is looking everywhere but at his ward.
"Johnny boy." The fact that his voice is so quiet and void of his usual antagonism angers John even more than his stoic brand of danger would.
"You know what happens when you lie."
---
Lena's almost dozing off at the table when Rick comes home.
The abrupt and loud slamming of the door has her sitting up straight.
His eyes are nearly black.
It comes swiftly.
Rick's hand rises almost by its own will, and a crack, thick and painful, pierces the air. It's only until Lena feels the five harsh imprints on her cheek she feels the sting of the slap. The fact that Rick used his left hand, the one that he wears his uncut ring on, makes the attack all the more cutting in turn--the stone creates an open wound at her cheek, a blazing trail of blood dancing past her neck.
"Where are they?"
"What?"
"The files."
"I don't--"
Lena's wings slide out her back instinctively and she's already backpedaling, hoping to reach the door.
Rick gets there first, slamming it back shut from behind her, pinning her there.
"You're on my side. Not his."
---
John's mouth clamps shut again.
His head turns to the side.
It takes a while, but he finally lets out a miserable sound when the Saint cuts his hand. His ward is in pain. His ward is a horrible son of a bitch that deserves to die. The two beliefs never reconcile, because John's Calling won't let them.
This is the greatest weapon that can be used against you.
And the Saint has not had to touch him. Not even once.
"His name, John."
---
The tables have all been flipped over.
The one she tried to huddle into is lit on fire in one swift movement and she screams, crawling out of it before the flames catch up with her.
He lifts her up by the arm, fingers digging into the skin there, pushing her back into the wall.
"Are you sleeping with him?"
"Rick, stop."
"Are you--" he cuts himself off when she doesn't answer, his hand stretching out, palm aimed toward the presents at the table.
Flames burst from his skin. The ribbons turn to ash.
His hand curves over her throat. "Where are they?"
----
"And who is Sonny closest to? Now that you've told me his name, I understand why he'd go for Sonny."
John's mentally exhausted, has half the mind to beg the Saint to just pull the trigger. He closes his eyes and bites back a cry.
"Who's Sonny closest to, Johnny boy?"
"Christopher Gates."
"And Christopher Gates is a profiler, isn't he?"
"Yes."
"Has he got any family?"
His head feels like it wants to explode. John says nothing. The Saint lifts up a knife and presses it directly over his own heart. No.
"This... bar your brother lives in with his little... trashy family. It's got a lot of security, doesn't it?"
One hour later, and John's chair has fallen to the ground. The binds keep him there, and his face remains pressed against the cool ground.
"Good work. You've finally been useful. I'll give you a break, come back later."
The Saint pats him on the head. The light sifts in and out.
Before it leaves completely. "We'll be doing this forever, John."
---
"Lena, come on. I didn't mean to. Open this door."
His voice is plaintive. Almost apologetic. Until she doesn't open the door.
Lena picks up stuffed teddy bear, ripped in half, holding it in her hand as Rick punches the wall on the door at the other side. Lena's face crumples into the stuffed animal's belly, and not for the first time, hates herself for not leaving when she said she would.
Her hands are covered in blood, black enough to look like oil, and the dress she was wearing is in pieces, barely holding together on her skin.
She crawls over to the window despite the fact every bone in her body hurts. She manages to open it the exact moment Rick manages to open the door.
His hand snaps around her waist, yanking her back. "We'll be doing this forever."