dmwl | manifest
title: manifest
fandom: deadman wonderland
characters: genkaku / nagi
rating: r [ drugs , violence ]
word count: 2,895
notes: spoilers up to ch. 19.
summary:
The thing about torture, in truth, is that it is never as effective as people would think. Victims will often relent at the first opportunity in order to escape the torment -- making up whatever information their captors want to hear, promising whatever is being asked without a second thought. Under the pressure of immense physical and psychological pain, all the victims can think about is 'escape' -- no matter how brief. As a result, torture is often used to confirm information that is already known -- any other uses tend to be unreliable.
In theory, of course. Only in theory.
Because here and now, it's clear that none of this matters -- none of this logical reasoning matters because the goal that Genkaku has in mind isn't information, or an exchange, or anything so simple. No, if it were something so trivial, Nagi would have long since given in, unable to stand any more of this torture, but he knows, he knows -- what Genkaku wants isn't something so petty. What Genkaku wants is for Nagi to betray everything he believes in.
If only it could be faked, Nagi thinks vaguely, past the haze of drugs. If only I could bring myself to speak a fabricated truth, convince him to release me, to stop this torture. Then this would all be over. But he knows and Genkaku knows, and both sides know of each other's awareness of the fact that Nagi won't -- can't -- give in to Genkaku's demands, even falsely.
That is what binds Nagi here -- more than anything else. More than the string of prayer beads coiled around his body, more than the cuffs around his ankles and the legs of the chair, more than the paralyzing chill of the drugs in his veins -- the small and simple fact that he cannot allow himself to ever give in. This is what keeps him in the clutches of this torture.
And it's torture, really, there's no other word for it, even if Genkaku cheerfully leans over him, and chides him, "Tell me, Owl." The hand on his shoulder grips tight, sending jagged shards of pain shooting through his drug-wracked nerves. "Enjoying the concert so far?"
Some morbid combination of the injections, the pain, the exhaustion, the shock (-- twenty two men, a floorful of viscera, all your work, Owl, not anyone else -- you should be proud --) is suffocating him, and he can't speak, no matter how hard he tries. For a moment, he feels like he's back there, two years ago, kneeling in the center of the Carnival Corpse ring, the stitches across his neck still fresh and bloody like the body in his arms, his throat unable to translate his grief into an audible scream.
'This isn't a concert,' he wants to say. 'This isn't a concert, your screaming isn't music. I won't give in to your demands. Let me go.' He wants to say this, but his lips won't form the words -- all he can do is turn his head away, breathing a raspy "no."
"Aw, Owl," Genkaku says too cheerfully, "You're so mean." Fingers entwine themselves in tangles of hair darkened by sweat and blood, and give a sharp tug -- Nagi feels a dull pain start to work its way through his scalp, down his temples, building behind his eyes.
How long has it been since this torment started? Nagi doesn't know -- time in Deadman Wonderland is already difficult to tell, no windows, no sky -- but between the drugs and the way his consciousness keeps slipping in and out, he has no idea how many hours he's spent here. And even so, he can't seem to remember what it feels like to be free from the pain that's flooding every last inch of his body.
And it doesn't help when Genkaku leans in close, nuzzling the nape of his neck in a way that's almost fond, murmuring, "Why you gotta be such a jerk to me, hmm?" The press of lips against the side of his neck moves up, slowly, traveling over sweat-slick skin in a painfully languid manner -- Nagi shivers when there's a nip at the edge of the scar on his throat -- and then there's the wet drag of a tongue in the shell of his ear, and he feels sick, deeply and truly sick.
Whispered words and sharp mutters that he can no longer comprehend swim about his head, and when the teeth sink in -- hard enough to draw blood, he's sure -- the sudden jab of pain, combined with the fingers that have wandered down from his hair to clutch at his throat is a bit too much. There's a low laugh lingering by his ear, taunting, teasing, as he blacks out
*
and wakes up (how much time later?) to a bottle of ethanol poured over him. He snaps out of unconsciousness with a ragged gasp, fighting to breathe as the alcohol sinks into open wounds -- into the places where Hibana had sheared off his skin, leaving red and raw flesh out open -- seeping into the bandages wrapped around what's left of his arm. The pain is immense, unthinkable, and he writhes in his seat, still biting back a scream -- and he almost blacks out again, except there's the sound of an empty bottle being tossed aside, and Genkaku's crouching down before him to stare into his face, lit cigar held between curved lips.
"Now you won't get any infections. You're welcome," he says, smoothly, pulling out the cigar and breathing a lungful of smoke into Nagi's face. It smells -- tastes -- foul, and Nagi coughs, blinking bleary-eyed. (He doesn't want this, he hates this, this, this powerless state that he's in, he hates it, possibly as much as he hates this man before him -- he hates it with every last screed of energy he has left, he hates it.)
And maybe it's too obvious. Genkaku laughs, and wiggles the still-lit cigar a bare inch away from his face. The burning end pointed at his skin. "You smell like booze. You think you'll go up in flames if I put this out on you?"
For the briefest moment, Nagi wishes this were true -- at least it would be an end. But he corrects this line of thought immediately (-- I need to fight, I will not give in, I have a purpose to fight for, I have not been broken yet--) and jerks his head away defiantly.
"Yeah, you're right," Genkaku drawls, taking a long drag at his cigar. "Wouldn't be much fun, would it." And then he's suddenly grabbing Nagi's head with both hands, yanking forward -- and forcing their lips together. Nagi chokes silently, when Genkaku forces his tongue in and breathes the lungful of smoke down Nagi's throat. This act, this violation is over in a handful of seconds, and the moment the contact is broken, Nagi gasps for air, trying to purge his lungs of the smoke, his mouth of the foul aftertaste.
Genkaku pulls away, chuckling, licking his lips. "There, now you taste like smoke and booze."
*
It's an endless cycle, this. The pain and pressure and whispering words ("come on, Owl, this is where you belong, join us,") builds up until it's just too much -- he blacks out to the tune of screeching guitar riffs and overly cheerful words -- and wakes up for the process to start again.
He remembers, vaguely, Genkaku muttering to himself, "shit, that was too big a dose."
He remembers, as the syringe was pulled out of his skin, leaking blood from the tip -- remembers the unbearable flood of ice in his veins that froze him in place, limbs locked in sensory overload, and he retched, gagging -- tasting bile but unable to vomit due to an empty stomach.
He remembers, just barely, spending the next stretch of time -- before unconsciousness claimed him again -- in a nauseated haze, feeling sick with each rasping breath.
(He remembers, faintly, past the static haze of whatever poison is running rampant in his system -- his wife, images of her flashing seizure-bright against his eyes, cracked, shattered. Remembers the Carnival Corpse maintainers taking her body from his arms. Remembers watching Genkaku walk away, all cruel smile and curved lips. Remembers, remembers, two weeks after he lost her (and one week after he unconsciously slaughtered Genkaku's men) -- the little jar delivered to his room while he slept. He woke up to look at the jar, and found it looking right back at him, a single bright eyes staring blankly at him. He recognized it instantly, and -- doesn't remember whatever happened afterwards. Only an immense hatred, seething, burning.)
Genkaku had only laughed, twirling the syringe with a flourish, saying, "don't worry, I'll get the next dose right."
No, Nagi had thought, even his thoughts turning incoherent with the harsh chill searing through his body and the way he can't stop shivering. No, he'd thought, don't. Stop. Stop this.
His silent demands, of course, hadn't worked, and he fell unconscious to the slide of the needle into his arm once more.
*
He's not sure what it is -- disbelief or exhaustion or the drugs still running rampant in his veins -- but he for some reason, he can't bring himself to move, at first, when Genkaku pulls away the strings of prayer beads, and undoes the cuffs around his ankles. He can only sit there, shivering, shaking, meeting the leering glare with a hard stare.
There has to be a catch. There has to be, he knows this. And he's right, of course, because Genkaku tosses aside the cuffs, then leans down to grasp at his shoulder with one hand. "Hey, Owl," he says, softly. "I'm going to be really, really nice. Since I like you."
Nagi doesn't answer -- can only try to breathe, forcing air in and out of his lungs in harsh, rasping breaths. And even though he already knows that whatever Genkaku is about to suggest is only a further method of torture, he still listens -- as Genkaku murmurs in his ear. "I'll give you a little rat to vent your anger on. You can do anything you want to him. Anything." The fingers dig harder into his shoulder, and Nagi cranes his neck away, hating the hot breaths against his skin, but the hissed words follow him closely, laced with sadistic expectations. "Aaaaaaall you have to do, Owl. Is give me a 'yes.'"
"No." An immediate response, thick with disgust and disdain -- Nagi turns his head away, swallowing hard. And now that he's free, he knows he should fight, knows that he should escape -- but his limbs are heavy, his legs numb -- so he repeats himself, to draw time. Forcing his words cold and hard. "No. Never."
"Awww, Owl. You're so mean." And Genkaku only laughs, a small chuckle as he straightens up. "Well, I'll call in the rat anyway. Let's go from there." Before Nagi can do anything (the feeling's returning to his hands in a flurry of pinpricks, he has to move, to escape, to flee, he has to, he has to --), Genkaku's wrenched open the door to the room, letting in slats of butter-yellow light -- and one Undertaker clad in armor.
The rhythmic clunks of booted feet on the floor, then a muttered conversation that's too quiet to hear past the buzzing of drugs in his ears. Nagi barely has time to struggle to his feet, forcing himself to stand, before the butt of a rifle catches him in the stomach, sending him staggering back, tasting vomit. It's the underling that approaches with too-eager movements as Genkaku makes a beeline for the couch, settling deep into the cushions as a second swing of the rifle catches Nagi across the jaw. "Kill him and I'll fucking rip you to pieces," he drawls, pulling out a cigar. "But other than that, go ahead and do what you want to him."
Blood, sweat, bile -- filth and grime, Nagi feels sick, nauseated, as he struggles to his feet, trying to escape this gleeful and amateur torment, but the drugs haven't flushed out of his system yet. The floor spins, and his vision blacks out for a moment when a kick to the chest sends him crashing to the floor.
(Leave me alone. Stop this. I feel like I'm going to snap.) And more than the idiotic laughter of this guard, it's the spots of blackness eating away at his vision that scare him. (I won't, he's lying, I've never -- I refuse to turn into a monster like him, I won't, I can't --)
There's a keen ringing in his ear, high-pitched, painful -- and he feels, rather than sees, his fingers suddenly grasping tight at the guard's forearm, then wrenching his grip to the side.
Bone shattering, muscle tearing, tendons snapping, a voice screaming -- too many noises, too many sounds, he feels like his head's going to burst, even as he lunges to his feet, already losing his grip on reality. (I thought that I would never be able to consciously murder another person, but here, and now, it seems all too easy, all too possible. I'll kill this man. Tear him apart. It's a simple task.
Maybe he was right about me, in the end.)
"I'm taking that as a yes, Owl," Genkaku taunts, accompanied by a screeching guitar riff. Laid over the track of smug laughter, loud breathing -- feverishly happy words. "I always knew you'd come around eventually," is the last thing he hears, drawled from the sidelines in the same amused voice. That, and the wet sound of organs bursting, as he tears his fingers into the guard's side, piercing through the armor and into the abdominal cavity. Vision blurring, breath rasping, he feels like his heart's going to explode.
Like the splatter of blood as he rips traces of intestine out of flesh.
*
The air is thick with a medley of scents -- the smoke of Cuban cigars, the sharp sting of blood, the bitter waft of brain fluid. And Nagi is having trouble breathing, staring down at the twisted form at his feet that was -- until moments ago -- a living, breathing human being. Aqueous humor and blood drips from his finger, spotting the floor with murky colors, and his vision blurs. Twists. Doubles, triples. A cough, a shudder, and Nagi sags against the wall, trying to still the tremors that wrack his limbs. (He deserved it, he deserved to die, I did nothing wrong by killing him, I had no choice, he had to die, he had to die --)
"Hey, Owl," comes the patronizing drawl from behind him, accompanied by the tap of leather boots on the floor. And the voice that he hates so much draws a little closer. "Isn't this way more fun than that Scar Chain bullshit you were wasting your time on?"
Nagi turns to look over his shoulder at the other, pale eyes narrowed into a deeply hateful glare -- one that's only met with a half-lidded glance that seems pleased, more than anything. And it's that smile, the sharp curve of narrow lips around the burning cigar, that makes him snap -- the anger floods his mind, burning, searing, purging all remains of rational thought out of his mind. (You, you, you of all people, deserve to die, you -- )
A choked snarl tears out of his throat, synthetic voice crackling with jagged spikes of static, and he lunges at Genkaku in a single, surprisingly quick movement -- single hand aimed at the bared throat, blood already swirling around him in narrow tendrils of red. (I'll kill you, I'll kill you, I'll kill you --)
Pity that it's countered just as quickly. Genkaku only smiles, and turns to bring his leg up and slam his knee into Owl's gut -- and the accompanying rustle of prayer beads neutralized the Branch of Sin in half a second. Nagi doubles over, lungs writhing, bile rising in his throat, mouth open in a desperate struggle for air -- and Genkaku takes the chance to lean forward, grasp tight at Nagi's shoulder with one hand and drive a fist into his sternum.
"It's not fair, is it, Owl?" It's a soft croon that Genkaku murmurs, as Nagi falls to his knees, shivering, shaking. "It really isn't fair." A smirk, a laugh, and he leans in close, and Genkaku pulls him into something almost resembling an embrace, save the too-tight clutch of fingers at cold skin. "The world just really isn't fair, Owl. And you know that all too well."
(Get away from me, Nagi wants to say, but his throat's closed up, his chest tight, his heartbeat a wild arrhythmic drumbeat against his ribcage. So all he can do it listen to these words that are whispered against his skin, these soft murmurs that sear into his thoughts.)
"So, Owl. Why don't you teach them all a lesson?" Genkaku laughs, hissing these words low into skin slick with sweat and blood. "Be their savior."
Strange, how these words that normally would have had no effect tear into what consciousness he has left so easily -- like a knife through air. No resistance. And Nagi shudders, eyes glazed, breathing coming in stuttering gasps. The fragile barrier between sanity and psychosis shattering.
(And maybe that's all that he ever was.)