[Guilty Gear] Precipice
Title: Precipice
Fandom: Guilty Gear
Rating: PG-13
Charactes: Venom, Zato
Warnings: Spoiler if you consider Venom's backstory a spoiler.
Disclaimer: Dai-Dai is responsible for this fandom.
Notes: Giftfic for sexual_ennui, for your supreme awesomeness.
__>'>
Precipice
It is before dawn when they come for him, the dormitory still dark and filled with the stuffy warmth of more than twenty children.
"Get up," they order, hardly louder than a harsh murmur, and he sits up, rubbing at his eyes.
"Get dressed," they say, patience stretched thin in their tone. He obeys, confusion and sleepiness making his fingers clumsy as he pulls on the combat garments, the only set of clothes he owns. His fingers fumble with the boot lacings in the darkness, and he can feel their disdain, the whiplash words only held back by the silence in the room.
They lead him away, out and into the dimly lit corridor.
He wonders how long it will be until morning, if the night-lights have not even gone out yet. He wonders why they have taken him, and only him, long before the first drill. He wonders if there will be more training, and wishes there would not be-he already has to put in extra hours because he is "lacking spirit", as they say. Spirit for what, he is not sure, when all they do is teach him to kill people.
Lessons defusing traps is the only thing he likes-it requires him to think, it requires him to plan and he is good at that, quick with his mind and clever with his fingers. He likes figuring things out, solving problems. He likes that he does not have to hurt anybody.
The outer doors of the complex swing back to let in a blast of early autumn air, crisp and cold. He rubs his arms. He forgot to bring his jacket, but there is nothing he can do about it now.
The inky blackness of night has begun to recede from the sky, making way for softer hues of blue and gray, the first faint light of day touching the horizon. He hopes that whatever they need him for will be over quickly... then he might make it in time for breakfast.
They lead him to the edge of the outdoor training grounds, the earth here still soft and mushy with the torrential rains from three days ago.
Someone else is waiting for them, three dark silhouettes in the pre-dawn gloom, and as he comes closer, he recognizes the two taller figures as guards. That throws him for a moment-they are guards, no question about it, the blue stripe along their collars identifying them as such, but why are they here?
The third figure is smaller and familiar, easily remembered in the form of a bright smile framed by wild brown hair-Sai, a boy of almost excessive good nature who makes it a game to steal from the cooks in the canteen and distribute his loot among the younger children. He, too, had received Sai's kindness once or twice in the past.
Now, though, flanked by the two guards, the perpetual smile is gone, and he takes a moment to realize why the other boy is holding his hands in front of himself like that-the thin coils of organic restraints digging into his pale wrists.
He falters, dread rising in the pit of his stomach.
"Move it," they say, so he does, almost mechanically.
They come to a stop in front of the guards, leaving him to stare at Sai for a moment. But the boy's face is lowered, offering neither answers nor comfort.
"He was seen entertaining relations with an outsider," they say. "He is a traitor."
Something is thrust into his field of vision, thin pointed metal shining faintly in the light, and he does not need to see it clearly to know what it is.
"Kill him," they order, cold as steel, and something in him seizes up and starts trembling like a string.
"Kill him," they say, "or your own life is forfeit."
His blood seems to freeze in his veins at those words, even though his heart is beating so violently it might as well be trying to spring out of his chest. He does not understand. He does not understand why they want this, why this boy, why here, why now, why him, so many whys whirling in his mind-surely, Sai would not betray anyone, not when he has always been so kind-
"Do it now."
Slowly, he watches his own hand rise up and wrap around the hilt of the weapon, lifting it off that unforgiving hand.
It is so cold; he manages to wonder where they could have possibly kept it that it can be so cold, leeching any remaining warmth from his fingers until they are stiff and numb, just like he himself is stiff and numb.
The guards step back, making room for him to strike.
He lifts his arm just as Sai lifts his head to look at him, his eyes dark and huge in his white face-
Something lands in his lap and he startles, staring down in bewilderment at what turns out to be a small brown raisin bagel.
He blinks, looking up at the thrower, who is lounging on the upper bunk on the opposite site. One of the older ones. That makes him cautious.
The boy grins, wriggling his fingers in a wave at his bewildered stare.
"You wanted one, didn't you?"
"Huh?"
"At lunch. You wanted one, I saw."
It is true, he reflects, he did want one, but as a new arrival with barely 4'3" to his name, he is at the bottom of the food chain. However...
"What's the catch?"
The boy laughs. "There's no catch. Dig in, squirt."
"...Thank you."
A bright grin, revealing crooked front teeth. "Don't mention it."
-and something lands in the mud with a dull splat.
He blinks, registering his empty fingers, perfectly still in mid-air, and the weapon on the ground, lying in a dirty puddle.
"Your failure to comply leaves us with no choice," they say, flat and decisive like they knew it all along, and then there is a metallic rasp like the unsheathing of a blade, and all his instincts are screaming at him to flee-
A hand grabs him before he can so much as recoil, dragging his arms behind his back and he struggles, trying in vain to free himself from that iron grasp.
"What is that supposed to be, failure?" the man on the left sneers, lifting the blade. "At least have the grace to die like an assassin."
Dying like an assassin means dying with your eyes open, without a noise of pain, but the sheer terror is driving him to struggle further. He desperately kicks his legs and manages to land a blow on his captor's shin, and for a fraction of a second the hold on him relaxes, before it clamps down on him with renewed pressure.
"Ow, you little shit!" the man snarls. "Get it over with before he does some permanent damage, will you?"
The other snorts, drawing back the blade, and he knows that it is over now, all over, so he clenches his eyes shut and tries not to cry-at least they will be quick, but the thought is cold comfort-and the blade sings in the air as it curves down-
Footsteps, gasps from all around him, and the blade does not strike, but what makes him open his eyes is the sound of a voice, deep and powerful and chillingly cold.
"What is the meaning of this."
A tall, blond man is approaching them with the gait and air of a displeased king approaching his disobedient peasants, and he can actually feel the one holding him flinch as the others tense, stammering out a reply.
"M-master Zato! Just taking care of a reject, sir!"
"A reject?" the man says, face and voice a mockery of interest, before growing sharp and cold. "I do not recall authorizing this procedure."
"Pardon, Master Zato, but we thought-"
"You thought? If I required you to think, I would have told you so."
They fall silent as the man strides forward and takes a hold of his chin between thumb and forefinger, forcing him to look up into two piercing bright eyes. The man's stare is hard and unnerving, making someone in him tremble at the thought of what the man could possibly be looking for, and what will happen if he does not find it.
The hand releases his chin as the man draws back.
"Tossing out a fruit before it is ripe, hm?" the man murmurs, before ordering in a louder tone, "Release the boy."
"P-pardon?"
"You have understood me very well. I will handle this." A sharp smirk. "We will see whether or not he is a reject before long. And if it turns out you would deprive the Guild of a valuable asset, without authorization..."
He leaves the sentence hanging, visibly enjoying the tremor that is going through the group. Then the man bends down again, rooting him to the spot with his intense stare.
"Tell me, what is your name, boy?"
It takes a moment to get his vocal chords to agree with him. "Venom... sir," he says, and it comes out hoarsely, like the pitiful croaking of a frog.
"Venom, hm," the man says, the corners of his mouth curling up in a pleased smile as he extends his hand. "You will come with me, then?"
He knows that it is a command, but it is something in the apparent easiness of the words, of the smile, that makes it seem like an invitation and causes him to reach for the outstretched hand without hesitation, almost before he is aware of it.
The smile widens a fraction. "Very well."
He can feel the power in that hand as soon as he touches it, and knows it could just as easily crush his bones, but the fingers are curling around him loosely, almost gently, and give nothing more than a small tug in the opposite direction.
"This way."
"Master Zato!"
The man leading him turns back around, sparing the congregation a derisive glance.
"What about this one?"
"What about him? He is a traitor, isn't he?"
"Y-yes, sir."
"Then why are you asking?"
Without another word, the man turns back, leading him away from the stunned congregation. He knows what will be happening behind his back, knows that there is no way to prevent it, and he expects to hear a scream, or the sound of the blade entering the flesh, but nothing reaches him past the roaring of the blood in his ears.
FIN
-----
A/N: At least Venom's not a valleygirl? *ducks the rotten tomatoes*
<< Return to Guilty Gear Index | Return to Fanfiction Index >>
Fandom: Guilty Gear
Rating: PG-13
Charactes: Venom, Zato
Warnings: Spoiler if you consider Venom's backstory a spoiler.
Disclaimer: Dai-Dai is responsible for this fandom.
Notes: Giftfic for sexual_ennui, for your supreme awesomeness.
__>'>
Precipice
It is before dawn when they come for him, the dormitory still dark and filled with the stuffy warmth of more than twenty children.
"Get up," they order, hardly louder than a harsh murmur, and he sits up, rubbing at his eyes.
"Get dressed," they say, patience stretched thin in their tone. He obeys, confusion and sleepiness making his fingers clumsy as he pulls on the combat garments, the only set of clothes he owns. His fingers fumble with the boot lacings in the darkness, and he can feel their disdain, the whiplash words only held back by the silence in the room.
They lead him away, out and into the dimly lit corridor.
He wonders how long it will be until morning, if the night-lights have not even gone out yet. He wonders why they have taken him, and only him, long before the first drill. He wonders if there will be more training, and wishes there would not be-he already has to put in extra hours because he is "lacking spirit", as they say. Spirit for what, he is not sure, when all they do is teach him to kill people.
Lessons defusing traps is the only thing he likes-it requires him to think, it requires him to plan and he is good at that, quick with his mind and clever with his fingers. He likes figuring things out, solving problems. He likes that he does not have to hurt anybody.
The outer doors of the complex swing back to let in a blast of early autumn air, crisp and cold. He rubs his arms. He forgot to bring his jacket, but there is nothing he can do about it now.
The inky blackness of night has begun to recede from the sky, making way for softer hues of blue and gray, the first faint light of day touching the horizon. He hopes that whatever they need him for will be over quickly... then he might make it in time for breakfast.
They lead him to the edge of the outdoor training grounds, the earth here still soft and mushy with the torrential rains from three days ago.
Someone else is waiting for them, three dark silhouettes in the pre-dawn gloom, and as he comes closer, he recognizes the two taller figures as guards. That throws him for a moment-they are guards, no question about it, the blue stripe along their collars identifying them as such, but why are they here?
The third figure is smaller and familiar, easily remembered in the form of a bright smile framed by wild brown hair-Sai, a boy of almost excessive good nature who makes it a game to steal from the cooks in the canteen and distribute his loot among the younger children. He, too, had received Sai's kindness once or twice in the past.
Now, though, flanked by the two guards, the perpetual smile is gone, and he takes a moment to realize why the other boy is holding his hands in front of himself like that-the thin coils of organic restraints digging into his pale wrists.
He falters, dread rising in the pit of his stomach.
"Move it," they say, so he does, almost mechanically.
They come to a stop in front of the guards, leaving him to stare at Sai for a moment. But the boy's face is lowered, offering neither answers nor comfort.
"He was seen entertaining relations with an outsider," they say. "He is a traitor."
Something is thrust into his field of vision, thin pointed metal shining faintly in the light, and he does not need to see it clearly to know what it is.
"Kill him," they order, cold as steel, and something in him seizes up and starts trembling like a string.
"Kill him," they say, "or your own life is forfeit."
His blood seems to freeze in his veins at those words, even though his heart is beating so violently it might as well be trying to spring out of his chest. He does not understand. He does not understand why they want this, why this boy, why here, why now, why him, so many whys whirling in his mind-surely, Sai would not betray anyone, not when he has always been so kind-
"Do it now."
Slowly, he watches his own hand rise up and wrap around the hilt of the weapon, lifting it off that unforgiving hand.
It is so cold; he manages to wonder where they could have possibly kept it that it can be so cold, leeching any remaining warmth from his fingers until they are stiff and numb, just like he himself is stiff and numb.
The guards step back, making room for him to strike.
He lifts his arm just as Sai lifts his head to look at him, his eyes dark and huge in his white face-
Something lands in his lap and he startles, staring down in bewilderment at what turns out to be a small brown raisin bagel.
He blinks, looking up at the thrower, who is lounging on the upper bunk on the opposite site. One of the older ones. That makes him cautious.
The boy grins, wriggling his fingers in a wave at his bewildered stare.
"You wanted one, didn't you?"
"Huh?"
"At lunch. You wanted one, I saw."
It is true, he reflects, he did want one, but as a new arrival with barely 4'3" to his name, he is at the bottom of the food chain. However...
"What's the catch?"
The boy laughs. "There's no catch. Dig in, squirt."
"...Thank you."
A bright grin, revealing crooked front teeth. "Don't mention it."
-and something lands in the mud with a dull splat.
He blinks, registering his empty fingers, perfectly still in mid-air, and the weapon on the ground, lying in a dirty puddle.
"Your failure to comply leaves us with no choice," they say, flat and decisive like they knew it all along, and then there is a metallic rasp like the unsheathing of a blade, and all his instincts are screaming at him to flee-
A hand grabs him before he can so much as recoil, dragging his arms behind his back and he struggles, trying in vain to free himself from that iron grasp.
"What is that supposed to be, failure?" the man on the left sneers, lifting the blade. "At least have the grace to die like an assassin."
Dying like an assassin means dying with your eyes open, without a noise of pain, but the sheer terror is driving him to struggle further. He desperately kicks his legs and manages to land a blow on his captor's shin, and for a fraction of a second the hold on him relaxes, before it clamps down on him with renewed pressure.
"Ow, you little shit!" the man snarls. "Get it over with before he does some permanent damage, will you?"
The other snorts, drawing back the blade, and he knows that it is over now, all over, so he clenches his eyes shut and tries not to cry-at least they will be quick, but the thought is cold comfort-and the blade sings in the air as it curves down-
Footsteps, gasps from all around him, and the blade does not strike, but what makes him open his eyes is the sound of a voice, deep and powerful and chillingly cold.
"What is the meaning of this."
A tall, blond man is approaching them with the gait and air of a displeased king approaching his disobedient peasants, and he can actually feel the one holding him flinch as the others tense, stammering out a reply.
"M-master Zato! Just taking care of a reject, sir!"
"A reject?" the man says, face and voice a mockery of interest, before growing sharp and cold. "I do not recall authorizing this procedure."
"Pardon, Master Zato, but we thought-"
"You thought? If I required you to think, I would have told you so."
They fall silent as the man strides forward and takes a hold of his chin between thumb and forefinger, forcing him to look up into two piercing bright eyes. The man's stare is hard and unnerving, making someone in him tremble at the thought of what the man could possibly be looking for, and what will happen if he does not find it.
The hand releases his chin as the man draws back.
"Tossing out a fruit before it is ripe, hm?" the man murmurs, before ordering in a louder tone, "Release the boy."
"P-pardon?"
"You have understood me very well. I will handle this." A sharp smirk. "We will see whether or not he is a reject before long. And if it turns out you would deprive the Guild of a valuable asset, without authorization..."
He leaves the sentence hanging, visibly enjoying the tremor that is going through the group. Then the man bends down again, rooting him to the spot with his intense stare.
"Tell me, what is your name, boy?"
It takes a moment to get his vocal chords to agree with him. "Venom... sir," he says, and it comes out hoarsely, like the pitiful croaking of a frog.
"Venom, hm," the man says, the corners of his mouth curling up in a pleased smile as he extends his hand. "You will come with me, then?"
He knows that it is a command, but it is something in the apparent easiness of the words, of the smile, that makes it seem like an invitation and causes him to reach for the outstretched hand without hesitation, almost before he is aware of it.
The smile widens a fraction. "Very well."
He can feel the power in that hand as soon as he touches it, and knows it could just as easily crush his bones, but the fingers are curling around him loosely, almost gently, and give nothing more than a small tug in the opposite direction.
"This way."
"Master Zato!"
The man leading him turns back around, sparing the congregation a derisive glance.
"What about this one?"
"What about him? He is a traitor, isn't he?"
"Y-yes, sir."
"Then why are you asking?"
Without another word, the man turns back, leading him away from the stunned congregation. He knows what will be happening behind his back, knows that there is no way to prevent it, and he expects to hear a scream, or the sound of the blade entering the flesh, but nothing reaches him past the roaring of the blood in his ears.
FIN
-----
A/N: At least Venom's not a valleygirl? *ducks the rotten tomatoes*
<< Return to Guilty Gear Index | Return to Fanfiction Index >>