[Guilty Gear] The Golden Chain
Title: The Golden Chain
Fandom: Guilty Gear
Characters: Venom, Ky
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: Not mine, etc.
The Golden Chain
The hum of the force field flickers and dies, two uniformed men stepping inside. They don't speak a word, but Venom knows what they want, regardless.
He rises from the cot as gracefully as the restraints allow, hands and feet locked together in front of his body. Unlike the bindings used in the guild, these aren't made of metal, producing no sound when he moves, a neat, clean counterpart that allows people to feel better about themselves, more civilized. It is even more ironic that the cell is precisely four by four, to the centimeter, the same size as the cells in the depths of headquarters, reserved for traitors and enemies.
The two men fall into formation as they step out into the corridor, one in front of him and one behind. The thin organic coils connecting his wrist cuffs with the cuffs on his ankles have been pulled tight, and are forcing a peculiar walk where he can barely lift his heels, shuffling at a slow pace. It gives him time to map the place, and to observe the men, the apprehension rolling off them almost thick enough to taste.
They put twice the amount of restraints on him and are still nervous. If he concentrates hard enough, he can feel the back guard's gaze flickering up and down his body, searching for an indication of when he'll snap the bindings and then snap their necks. The knowledge of that makes him smile.
A long time ago, someone else had the power to make others fidget and tremble in his presence, and used that power as his greatest asset. Zato once said that it is enough to be able to make men think of what you might do, instead of what you can. Their imagination will betray them.
Down another corridor, up a flight of stairs and then another flight of stairs.
By the time they are crossing the inner courtyard, he is quite certain that he is not being taken to the interrogation rooms. He was fully prepared to spend the next couple of days in there, silent and calm with the blood pressure rising around him, questions turning to threats and, if he stayed like that long enough, maybe even violence. They certainly took their time, which is a disappointment in itself. A week in a cell is hardly an intimidation method, and they seemed so eager to have him talk at first.
The journey ends in an office, sunlight streaming in through a front of tall windows, providing a view of most of the complex. In comparison, the desk and the person behind it appear quite small.
"Thank you. Please, leave us."
The sound of feet as the guards salute and retreat from the room, but Venom hardly notices. All his attention is fixed on the man before him, trying to calculate the things to come. He supposes they would have met in one way or the other eventually, simply because of their respective status, but he didn't picture that meeting taking place in a nice, clean office.
Never engage an enemy in home territory, Zato used to say. It gives them too much to use against you.
A room can reveal more of its owner than the owner ever would, and Venom can't quite believe that this man would not know, that he isn't aware of the fact that right now, the understated antiquity of the furniture, the alphabetized bookcases, the almost mathematically aligned supplies and papers on the desk, the silver tray with the embellished tea set… that all of these things are speaking to Venom, telling him what to watch out for.
Here is a man who can appreciate subtlety, and will use it when it suits, and a relentless pursuer who will seize upon details. This might take quite some time.
"Good morning, Mr. Venom. I apologize for the wait, but I wanted to speak with you personally." A small pause as Ky Kiske rises, his stance betraying no discomfort as he walks around the desk. "I trust things have been acceptable?"
"As well as one could expect," Venom says, caught too off guard by the question to reign himself in. Sincerity is a dangerous thing, meant to blindside and disarm. There are few people who can treat a prisoner as they would a guest, without pretense or mockery.
"There is that," Kiske agrees, and then takes things even further off cue.
By the time Venom recognizes the gleam in his hand for what it is, the cuffs on his ankles are snapping open together with the ones on his wrists, the restraints dropping uselessly to the floor.
"Are you sure you want to do that?" he asks, not quite able to stop himself from rubbing his wrists. The question is purely rhetorical, not even a taunt. This is a gesture of confidence, one that has very little to do with the fact that they are on the top floor of a building filled with IPF personnel. If the stories are to be believed, Kiske has taken on much worse in the past.
A small smile. "In my opinion, there is something simply barbarous about holding a conversation with a man in chains."
Venom arcs an eyebrow, amused at the choice of words. "A conversation."
"A conversation," Kiske reiterates, crossing to his desk again, and it isn't until he motions towards a visitor's chair that Venom realizes he wasn't trying to be sarcastic. "In my job, one rarely has the opportunity for a polite talk. I would imagine… that it is much the same for yours. Tea?"
And it is then, as he slips into the seat, that he realizes why Kiske has no need for restraints. There are two cups sitting on the silver tray, as if he expected this outcome all along.
Zato, Venom thinks, would approve.
"Please," he finds himself saying, the quiet snap of the chains of politeness mingling with the clink of sugar cubes.
---
A/N: I hope this finds your approval, Tania. C&C is generally appreciated.
<< Return to Guilty Gear Index | Return to Fanfiction Index >>
Fandom: Guilty Gear
Characters: Venom, Ky
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: Not mine, etc.
The Golden Chain
The hum of the force field flickers and dies, two uniformed men stepping inside. They don't speak a word, but Venom knows what they want, regardless.
He rises from the cot as gracefully as the restraints allow, hands and feet locked together in front of his body. Unlike the bindings used in the guild, these aren't made of metal, producing no sound when he moves, a neat, clean counterpart that allows people to feel better about themselves, more civilized. It is even more ironic that the cell is precisely four by four, to the centimeter, the same size as the cells in the depths of headquarters, reserved for traitors and enemies.
The two men fall into formation as they step out into the corridor, one in front of him and one behind. The thin organic coils connecting his wrist cuffs with the cuffs on his ankles have been pulled tight, and are forcing a peculiar walk where he can barely lift his heels, shuffling at a slow pace. It gives him time to map the place, and to observe the men, the apprehension rolling off them almost thick enough to taste.
They put twice the amount of restraints on him and are still nervous. If he concentrates hard enough, he can feel the back guard's gaze flickering up and down his body, searching for an indication of when he'll snap the bindings and then snap their necks. The knowledge of that makes him smile.
A long time ago, someone else had the power to make others fidget and tremble in his presence, and used that power as his greatest asset. Zato once said that it is enough to be able to make men think of what you might do, instead of what you can. Their imagination will betray them.
Down another corridor, up a flight of stairs and then another flight of stairs.
By the time they are crossing the inner courtyard, he is quite certain that he is not being taken to the interrogation rooms. He was fully prepared to spend the next couple of days in there, silent and calm with the blood pressure rising around him, questions turning to threats and, if he stayed like that long enough, maybe even violence. They certainly took their time, which is a disappointment in itself. A week in a cell is hardly an intimidation method, and they seemed so eager to have him talk at first.
The journey ends in an office, sunlight streaming in through a front of tall windows, providing a view of most of the complex. In comparison, the desk and the person behind it appear quite small.
"Thank you. Please, leave us."
The sound of feet as the guards salute and retreat from the room, but Venom hardly notices. All his attention is fixed on the man before him, trying to calculate the things to come. He supposes they would have met in one way or the other eventually, simply because of their respective status, but he didn't picture that meeting taking place in a nice, clean office.
Never engage an enemy in home territory, Zato used to say. It gives them too much to use against you.
A room can reveal more of its owner than the owner ever would, and Venom can't quite believe that this man would not know, that he isn't aware of the fact that right now, the understated antiquity of the furniture, the alphabetized bookcases, the almost mathematically aligned supplies and papers on the desk, the silver tray with the embellished tea set… that all of these things are speaking to Venom, telling him what to watch out for.
Here is a man who can appreciate subtlety, and will use it when it suits, and a relentless pursuer who will seize upon details. This might take quite some time.
"Good morning, Mr. Venom. I apologize for the wait, but I wanted to speak with you personally." A small pause as Ky Kiske rises, his stance betraying no discomfort as he walks around the desk. "I trust things have been acceptable?"
"As well as one could expect," Venom says, caught too off guard by the question to reign himself in. Sincerity is a dangerous thing, meant to blindside and disarm. There are few people who can treat a prisoner as they would a guest, without pretense or mockery.
"There is that," Kiske agrees, and then takes things even further off cue.
By the time Venom recognizes the gleam in his hand for what it is, the cuffs on his ankles are snapping open together with the ones on his wrists, the restraints dropping uselessly to the floor.
"Are you sure you want to do that?" he asks, not quite able to stop himself from rubbing his wrists. The question is purely rhetorical, not even a taunt. This is a gesture of confidence, one that has very little to do with the fact that they are on the top floor of a building filled with IPF personnel. If the stories are to be believed, Kiske has taken on much worse in the past.
A small smile. "In my opinion, there is something simply barbarous about holding a conversation with a man in chains."
Venom arcs an eyebrow, amused at the choice of words. "A conversation."
"A conversation," Kiske reiterates, crossing to his desk again, and it isn't until he motions towards a visitor's chair that Venom realizes he wasn't trying to be sarcastic. "In my job, one rarely has the opportunity for a polite talk. I would imagine… that it is much the same for yours. Tea?"
And it is then, as he slips into the seat, that he realizes why Kiske has no need for restraints. There are two cups sitting on the silver tray, as if he expected this outcome all along.
Zato, Venom thinks, would approve.
"Please," he finds himself saying, the quiet snap of the chains of politeness mingling with the clink of sugar cubes.
---
A/N: I hope this finds your approval, Tania. C&C is generally appreciated.
<< Return to Guilty Gear Index | Return to Fanfiction Index >>