|: 004. Spam/Video : Tell Me I'm a Bad Man, Kick Me Like a Stray :|

[andyougoleft]

     [ Infirmary Spam: Initially for Chris D'Amico, OPEN Later ]

     [OOC: Following this thread and this post.  CW for eyesquick, gore, and potentially cannibalism in this post and the previously linked posts.]

     [Slevin wakes up all at once.  There's a brief, blinding moment where everything hurts - everything - and then the stern voice in the back of his head.  "Everything" is a useless generality.  Only details matter.  Details make or break the job.  And then Slevin opens his eyes, and even though the bright white of the infirmary hurts too, he's so goddamn grateful to have eyes again that he doesn't even care.

     His chest is the worst of it, and a sharp, deep pain he can't describe somewhere in his abdomen, but he can't make sense of any of it.  He doesn't realize he's rolled over in the infirmary bed, dry-heaving, the noise catching in his throat; when he does realize, he forces himself to go still and groans softly, fighting to make sense of it, to control his own panic, though it's currently overwhelming him as much as the pain.

     He'll be here for days.  He may even be willing to talk after some of it.  But not right now.]


     [ Filtered to Inmates : The Next Day ]

     [It's difficult to make a transmission from the infirmary, what with being in the bed beside his warden, and with the other people attached to Chris hovering around.  But it's important that he does it as soon as he can lest he appear weak to whoever did this, and it's important to use video, so he does find the time, takes the opportunity the moment he has it.  He keeps his voice low, and though he's paler than usual, his dark eyes are bright and steady.  This is not the grinning, smarmy man the Barge as a whole has seen thus far.]

     My name is not Slevin Kelevra, but it's the only name that matters to anyone here.  Back home, I'm an assassin.  It's probably what landed me as an inmate.  I kill people for money, but money's no good here, so here's the deal: I kill for whoever has been killed, now.  You contact me when you can speak through the death toll, or when your friend or warden or inmate or whatever has been moved to the infirmary, and I'm on the job and you're out of it as far as I'm concerned.

     Warden or inmate, I don't care.  That's it.  That's the deal.

Comments

[mistconduct]

[If he wasn't so blinded by anger and self-loathing and even a little grief, Chris would have marveled at how startlingly quick the Admiral is in resurrecting inmates. He lies in his own bed not a few feet away, curled up on his side and staring at Slevin.

God damn it, he can't think of a thing to say. He just knew he didn't want his inmate waking up from death alone.

As Slevin starts to dry-heave, Chris sits up in alarm, nearly falling off his bed again as he reaches out, stretching his hand across the gap between beds to just narrowly miss Slevin's arm]

Jesus christ, Slevin! You're alive! You're safe, asshole, okay?! It's okay, no one's going to touch you, I swear!

[andyougoleft]

[The kind of death Slevin had, the kind of pain now sunk deep into his muscles and his bones, has brought out the part of the man that once took the form of a cold-blooded, temperamental snake coiled in the hollow of his throat; Chris is beside him but what registers first is not familiarity but movement and noise, and there is no recognition in the sharp, dangerous glare he fixes on the outstretched hand a breath away from his arm.

Then a violent shiver runs through him and he buries his face behind his arm again, and forces the moisture blurring his vision back and back through sheer force of will. Chris hadn't wanted him to wake up alone, but he's been alone since he was nine, except for the one man who isn't here and the one woman he doesn't want to be; for a moment, he feels that more keenly than he has since he woke up from being shot dead in the cabin on level seven.

He doesn't open his eyes again or uncurl from his position, though he's at least facing Chris by sheer dumb luck.] What- ... ?!

[mistconduct]

[As Slevin curls up, something primal ignites inside Chris; a fierce, furious protectiveness that's born from how pissed he is. Someone on the Barge managed to turn his self-sustaining, kick-ass assassin inmate into a wreck of a man curling up in a ball on a hospital bed.

Pulling his arm back, Chris uses the edge of his own bed and his nightstand to more or less gracelessly slip down to the ground and sort of half-fall in the space between his bed and Slevin's. It's painful as fuck with the way his legs are and he'll have a hell of a time getting back into bed on his own, but here now he's able to kneel, his elbows on the edge of Slevin's bed as he stares back at the other guy]

Fuck. Fuck. It's. Jesus, Slevin. You're alive. You're away from it, from whatever the fuck, it's not here. You're gonna be okay, man, I swear it. I've got you.

[patheticvillain]

[Cassel put a surprising amount of care into considering what face he'd wear to meet Slevin. There are several that might be (at least temporarily) safe, ending in broken bones and maybe another death. Months ago, Cassel would've taken the option. Now he's stone-cold and sour when he enters the infirmary days after Slevin wakes up, his mouth a tight, bitter line. He's angry, furious, vengeful, simmering. There is a piece of poster board folded up under his arm.]

[He pulls up a seat beside Slevin's bed. He does not look in his eyes.]

Morning, Kelevra.

[andyougoleft]

[Now that Slevin has gotten used to the death toll and all the discomforts that go along with it, the part that pisses him off the most about all this is that his cover is pretty much blown. There's no way he can keep a low profile now, and it's surprising how many people have been talking to him since he woke up. He blames Chris. It's not as poisonous a blame as it could be.

He's alert, now, for the particular series and quality of movement that signals someone is coming to visit either him or Chris; when he sees the expression on Cassel's face, he knows it's him. He still feels like absolute and utter shit but though he's still too lightheaded to trust himself up and about the ship - especially when they still don't know what even happened or why, this is the only safe place until he's back on his feet and able to defend himself - he draws himself up straighter and holds the slow glower of his temper in seamless check. He's not looking forward to it.

And then Cassel says Kelevra and a part of him is solidly grateful and another part is even more angry: he doesn't need concessions. He doesn't need favors. Here and now, though, he does need allies, and even though he's pretty sure that he can count Cassel Sharpe among them - to a certain extent anyway - as long as he's assigned to Chris, it's the gratitude that wins out.

His expression is still blank and hard in return, no attempt at a replying smile.]

That it is, Sharpe. Did you forget how to get here? [Quite frankly, he'd expected him sooner.]

[patheticvillain]

[Well. That's enough to crack through the vicious anger just a touch, a half-snarl of a smile curling at the corners of his lips. Frankly, he's surprised he's managed to resist coming this long. But there have been other things that needed his attention. Primarily (always) Chris. Being a distraction. And trying to figure this shit out. Fruitlessly.]

You've got some kind of ego, man, thinking my life revolves around visiting your ass.

[He swings one leg over the other and leans back in the chair. Now he looks at Slevin right in the eye, not challenging but - measuring.]

Anyway. I know how this goes, I've done it. The people who come to flutter come in the first couple of days. Example: Iris. I mean, she's great, but the fluttering, I can't do it. So. This is the post-fluttering stage. My time.

[Even though there is a part of him that wants to fret. It's become his nature, partially grafted from the affection of those he's gravitated towards as loved ones and partially intrinsic, his natural clinginess. But Chris is probably fretting and cursing enough for six people. Cassel prioritizes.]

Chris had a shitfit, you know. [Bland, and an understatement; then he moves on.] You bored?

[private]

[halftheman]

Good showing.

You need a hand out of the infirmary? Death tolling is better where not everybody's watching you take a piss.

[private]

[andyougoleft]

At least here it's everyone, not just whoever thinks this is a fun and profitable pasttime.

Tomorrow I think I'll be ready.

[private]

[halftheman]

I'll come and get you.

Do you have a gun? Or even a shiv. Anything for arming yourself?

[filtered]

[deadliestviper]

Are you doing this out of love or bloodlust?

[filtered]

[andyougoleft]

Why are those the only two options?

[filtered]

[deadliestviper]

Because you're not going to admit to the third.

[infirmary spam - as soon as he's up for it]

[routemistress]

[Iris turns up as soon as she can. She's not shocked, not tearful; an observer might think she's less empathetic for Slevin than she is for others.

It's not that, and she knows Slevin will know it. She lays a hand lightly on his arm, and there it is for the seeing: a cold, coiled righteous anger for the pointlessness of the cruelty, for the gross indignity of his splayed corpse. It's too concentrated, too close to the bone to display itself in tears or threats. Nor does she offer platitudes or caresses.]

Mister Dent and me are investigating. Among others. What can you tell me?

[infirmary spam - as soon as he's up for it]

[andyougoleft]

[Slevin does not know what to do with tears, threats, platitudes, or caresses; he knows exactly what to do with the cutting edge of clean, vengeful anger. He doesn't, necessarily, know what to do with it when it's source is him, but it does help.

He doesn't want empathy anyway. Or worse, sympathy. Or anything.

She lays a hand on his arm and he does not tense up, but neither does he smile. He looks up at her from where he's managed to sit more or less comfortably upright in the bed, and closes his book. His eyes are starting to ache anyway.]

I didn't see anything. The second I knew he was there was the second before he hit me.

He's strong. Definitely male. Average build.

[infirmary spam]

[routemistress]

[She makes a small, wordless noise of tired discontent.]

Thought so. That's why the eyes. Arsehole. So 'e's a planner; but not enough of one to 'ave a sensible reason for pickin' on you. Am I right?

[She keeps her hand touching him. It's not love, protectiveness or even friendship she feels for Slevin; there's nothing tender in the way Iris claims him. One of her own, whether either of them like it or not.]

I can't promise we'll catch 'im before 'e does anyone else. I won't be killing 'im for you, for this, either. I don't work that way. I'll promise you this much: this gobshite'll be sorry.

[soliterraneous]

And they would be revived.

So what would be the point?

[andyougoleft]

The point is there are consequences for actions.

If there's a solid consequence, the action had damn well better be worth it.

[soliterraneous]

It is not a lasting consequence, it is a week of discomfort and physical annoyance.

It would not be enough to stop anyone.

Private

[fire_punk]

I'm going to to kill him. Once we know who did it.

Private

[andyougoleft]

...Kevin, isn't it?

Private

[fire_punk]

Yeah.

Private;

[anewlanguage]

How good are you?

Private;

[andyougoleft]

Good.

A bit reckless, but I'm good.

[Private]

[wecanavenge]

And who's taking a hit for you?

[Private]

[andyougoleft]

Who isn't?

Though it's more for Chris than for me.