Slevin Kelevra (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
andyougoleft) wrote2014-01-28 02:52 pm
andyougoleft) wrote2014-01-28 02:52 pm
|: 008. Spam/Video : See Me, Hear Me, But Don't Touch Me :|
[ Spam for Hannibal Lecter ]
[Slevin has been working for several months to get to this day. This is the point of no return, the first domino, the peak of the track before the drop - once he's passed this, once he's pushed this piece, all he can do is commit to the fall and accept where it goes.
Well. Unless he doesn't.
He's taken care to come across as mostly under the radar, or if he accidentally ends up above the wire, harmless. He runs his mouth but he never does anything. In the Barge environment, that has been especially easy to do. Now, though, he checks that the Glock he picked up in Los Angeles is still loaded (it is) and clean (it is), and slides it away into his waistband; a knife, too, tucked into his pocket, also from Los Angeles, his favorite black hoodie - roomie and bulky and chosen precisely for these qualities - settled comfortably over both. He'd have liked to have the glasses, but they were traded away for another point in his favor in this long game. It's all about to pay off, or flop.
He closes the door behind him on his way out of his cabin, and moves for the dining hall to locate his target. He doesn't even hesitate.
Hannibal hasn't been out and about much, but when he does he keeps to a routine that would be difficult enough to process through the breaks unless one were watching for exactly that; Slevin has been. It's simple, when he spots him in the dining hall, to know where he'll be if he's going to be out later tonight. Slevin finishes his own dinner, and then leaves to intercept him in the hallway.
Level 2 is risky - it's busier than the deeper levels, and the infirmary being so near could save Hannibal if Slevin is interrupted - but that's never really bothered him, and it is objectively the emptiest level anyway. It will, regardless, be quick.]
[ Private to Chris D'Amico : Video : Later ]
[Chris has seen Slevin go distant and detached a few times now; this is slightly different, but related. He looks confused as well when he comes on the screen, and he's staring at something out of frame, something on the floor, expectantly; he's in a dark room that is not his. A few moments of stillness, of silence, and then Slevin speaks in a voice matching his expression, still without looking.]
Chris, I.
I think I may have made a mistake.
[ Zero Spam : OPEN ]
[Slevin was expecting to be spending some time in a cell in Zero when he started this. It's a price he's willing to pay, for what he'd expected to gain from it.
Maybe he was right. Maybe he was wrong. It's difficult to tell from where he's settled on the cot in the cell, leaned back against the bars, feet crossed on the bed and arms folded over his chest, sitting quietly in thought. It is, now, a waiting game.]
[Slevin has been working for several months to get to this day. This is the point of no return, the first domino, the peak of the track before the drop - once he's passed this, once he's pushed this piece, all he can do is commit to the fall and accept where it goes.
Well. Unless he doesn't.
He's taken care to come across as mostly under the radar, or if he accidentally ends up above the wire, harmless. He runs his mouth but he never does anything. In the Barge environment, that has been especially easy to do. Now, though, he checks that the Glock he picked up in Los Angeles is still loaded (it is) and clean (it is), and slides it away into his waistband; a knife, too, tucked into his pocket, also from Los Angeles, his favorite black hoodie - roomie and bulky and chosen precisely for these qualities - settled comfortably over both. He'd have liked to have the glasses, but they were traded away for another point in his favor in this long game. It's all about to pay off, or flop.
He closes the door behind him on his way out of his cabin, and moves for the dining hall to locate his target. He doesn't even hesitate.
Hannibal hasn't been out and about much, but when he does he keeps to a routine that would be difficult enough to process through the breaks unless one were watching for exactly that; Slevin has been. It's simple, when he spots him in the dining hall, to know where he'll be if he's going to be out later tonight. Slevin finishes his own dinner, and then leaves to intercept him in the hallway.
Level 2 is risky - it's busier than the deeper levels, and the infirmary being so near could save Hannibal if Slevin is interrupted - but that's never really bothered him, and it is objectively the emptiest level anyway. It will, regardless, be quick.]
[ Private to Chris D'Amico : Video : Later ]
[Chris has seen Slevin go distant and detached a few times now; this is slightly different, but related. He looks confused as well when he comes on the screen, and he's staring at something out of frame, something on the floor, expectantly; he's in a dark room that is not his. A few moments of stillness, of silence, and then Slevin speaks in a voice matching his expression, still without looking.]
Chris, I.
I think I may have made a mistake.
[ Zero Spam : OPEN ]
[Slevin was expecting to be spending some time in a cell in Zero when he started this. It's a price he's willing to pay, for what he'd expected to gain from it.
Maybe he was right. Maybe he was wrong. It's difficult to tell from where he's settled on the cot in the cell, leaned back against the bars, feet crossed on the bed and arms folded over his chest, sitting quietly in thought. It is, now, a waiting game.]
spam
[Irritation is probably what it is, anyway. Anything more than frustration would be unwise. Hannibal brought these deaths, this pain, on himself. Each individual humiliation would make him angry, but wouldn't break him; they must be piled on. And he does deserve it. She knows, objectively, that this is true - that he would do worse to her. Or rather, will. This is an inevitability.]
[So she's just irritated.]
[She can smell him from floors away; her nose is sharper than his ever could be, her eyes as clear and attuned to movement as a hawk's, her ears designed to note the rush of blood as well as its cessation. He is on this level. He is down on this end. He is behind this door.]
[She closes her eyes and presses her cheek to it, her ear, listening. Then she knocks, knuckles clenched and pale, barely reddening at the edges. She smiles.]
spam
He has never been an idiot.
The gun he finished Hannibal off with is on the floor well away from himself, away from anyone mistaking him for threatening them with it. The knife he used to carve out his eyes is on the floor as well, blood cooling and tacky across his fingers and palms. Goodkat would have some kind of conniption if he saw the mess Slevin had made in here, the stains on his hands, but the object here isn't to get away.
No. There's a different objective, and it begs a messy scene and a confession. One Mal will hear him in the middle of when she arrives. He falls silent - it's not Chris, he knows it's not Chris, he's on the communicator with Chris; it must be Mal. No one else, drawn by a gunshot, would knock.
He stands a moment, undecided, and clicks the communicator off. Slipping it away into his pocket, he debates a moment more; call or answer. Call or open.
The door opens. He doesn't try to move.]
spam
[The thing is, Mal doesn't hate Slevin. The other thing is - well. Jackrum was always a good one for bending the rules until somehow or other they just clean snap.]
[Mal is ready for a good clean snap.]
[She's in his face in a second, looking ready to shout him down for all that he's almost a foot taller than her, but - but - but--]
[She is easy to push. She has simple targets painted on her back, front, sides, there is blood on his hands and there was blood in her eyes well before she actually saw him; she could kill him with a snap of her fingers, easily. He wouldn't stand a chance.]
[Instead, she grabs him by the throat and squeezes.]
spam
But the murder itself, the vengeance, necessitated the blood around the room as well. His fervor let him get his hands dirty, let him lay hands on the dead best behind him as was done to him. It is unclear at best whether everything here is as intentional as it could be.
Slevin makes it no clearer. He expects to be killed, and when Mal blows through the door and throws herself right up against him, he backs a step but neither flees nor attacks. It's instinct alone that brings his hands up to hers around his throat, fingers trying to wedge into the gaps, choking on the air that can go neither forward nor back through his closed throat.
He swears but it only comes out as a cough, held spine-straight and tense-limbed, unyielding but cowed before her, wondering if she'll apply the last pound of pressure and everything will go dark. He doesn't try to stop it, but paints her skin with the blood on his instead.]
spam
[Maybe, in this moment, she should be. But she's not sorry, and she won't be sorry. She takes satisfaction in his pain and fear because maybe, maybe he'll learn something, and because it makes her less angry, and because, as he smears blood on her crawling skin, she knows that he set this scene for her. The grand production, that was for Hannibal, but this part - it was for her.]
[It's funny. When he finds out about it (when, not if), Hannibal will probably be pleased.]
[She snarls, lets go, and slaps him hard, leaving a bruising mark in her wake, then pins him to the wall again with her forearm. There are two bloody pools where her eyes should be.]
You called your warden. [This is not a question; she heard.] Where is he?
spam
[From the doorway, Chris stands, both hands wrapped around a handgun being pointed at Mal's back. He's trembling a little from having pushed himself far quicker than necessary to get over here first, but it looks like Mal's beat him there. Next to him is his big dumb St. Bernard of a guidance dog. Decidedly not looking at the mess that is Hannibal, Chris narrows his sight down his gun.
This is stupid as hell, because Mal is both a vampire and a warden and could kick his ass, but damned if he's not going to try to sort things out without everyone going psychotic on him. He sees the slap before he can do anything just yet, and for a minute he locks eyes with Slevin and sees himself]
Let him go, Mal.
[Touch my inmate like that again and I'll put a bullet in your back, bitch.]
We'll take him down to Zero and revive the doc.
Just drop him. He's done.
spam
She's almost an entire foot shorter than he is, but he can't stop the force of the blow, fetching up shoulderblades first against the wall. Every muscle in his torso tenses, and by the time she's pinning him there, he really is considering hitting her. But he sees Chris first, and he stops himself.
Is it for her? Or was it for Slevin? His eyes meet Chris's over her head - he's surprised, a little, to see his warden; to see him acting decisively, possessively - and, for a brief moment, he catches himself feeling sorry.
Then he glares down at Mal, wheezing in a breath, cheeks flushed and breathing labored.]
I'm not armed.
spam
[That the fact she is considering it means she's too close to things she shouldn't be close to. It's a victory for Slevin, and really, she has nothing to do but concede.]
[She doesn't say a word to either of them for a moment, just looks up at Slevin as he regains his breath. She still thinks he deserves it.]
[But when she turns, her eyes are gray again and she's pulled back entirely within herself. She gives Chris a thin-lipped smile.]
I'd prefer if you just took him. I need to clean up this . . . mess.
[She waves vaguely at the room, keeping both of them in her line of sight. No point responding to Slevin at all, really. Of course he's not armed. She doesn't particularly care.]
[Put your toy down, little boy. Smile, smile. The worst part is Chris is in the right. Damn him for it.]
spam
He hates drawing the short straws.
Gun lowered, his eyes never leave Mal even as he addresses Slevin behind her]
You heard the lady. C'mon, Slevin, let's go. Leave the gun.
spam cw: gore, eye squick
Hannibal is not the gory mess he'd left the assassin in so many months ago in the showers; his eyes are gone, and Slevin has left ribs broken, a collarbone, but he did not open him the way Hannibal did. The killing shot was clean, swift, and singular. The gun powder can still be smelled in the room.
Slevin steps around it, glancing at it only long enough to rekindle the bloody satisfaction in his gut, but he doesn't move for the weapons. Instead, he looks at Mal, spits] He deserved it. [and moves for the door.
He slips past Chris, careful not to overbalance him or come remotely close to touching him, and he stops obediently once he's in the hallway.]
I'll go. I won't try anything, but can I clean up first?
no subject
He stares once back at Mal and Hannibal, before turning around and grasping Lassie's harness, using her help to carefully guide him out the door]
That'd be nice.
If we use my shower, it's only one level down to Zero.
Fucking christ, Slevin.
no subject
He turns to go, shoulders tense, at least until Chris swears at him. Then he rounds like a striking snake, puffing up to his full height, eyes snapping with the violence he held in check while Mal held him pinned to the wall and, apparently, helpless.]
Don't you fucking Christ Slevin me. At least I put him out of his goddamn misery. At least I left him some goddamn dignity!
no subject
Not. What I meant.
Fucking...
Shit.
I'm not worried about goddamn Hannibal just yet. [Fuck that guy, he wants to say]
What was the mistake you said you'd made?
no subject
He grinds his teeth together, voice still tight and now harsh with the bruise already formed and still darkening.]
I don't want to talk about it here. Maybe it wasn't a mistake after all.
[It's a hiss of a statement, petulant and spiteful. He is meant to still be angry, so he is.]
no subject
When you're ready to think with your head and not your raging revenge boner, we can talk. I'm not getting in some kind of stupid pissing contest with you out in the hall where she can hear.
Right now, the plan is: Shower, then Zero.
no subject
[He turns to continue down the hallway, rubbing at his palm with the fingers of his opposite hand, watching the blood flake off. It's a stall tactic. He makes it as far as the elevator, punching the button with his elbow, and then glares across at Chris again.
Irrational is more appropriate, he thinks, than calm. So he does that.]
Don't do me any favors. All I need is a sink and I'll go somewhere you don't have to look at me anymore. [The blood is on his hands and face, some of it on his hoodie; peel the one off, wash the others, he can look like nothing ever happened except for Mal's contributions.]
no subject
Whatever you say, man.
[He resists making digs, A) because he's pissed, and B) because in part he's really worried about this new side of Slevin he's seeing. The guy is all twisted up like a broken Slinky]
no subject
[That, Slevin has learned, is the useful side of anger: it doesn't have to be rational. It allows for all kinds of words and actions to be thrown at all kinds of people for all kinds of reasons, rational and not. Slevin is very familiar with anger. This is not his normal temper.
He ignores Chris after that, still tense and brooding, willing to lash out at any target that presents itself merely for being in range, but containing it while Chris, miraculously, refuses to give him something to fight against; by the time they reach the inmate showers, by the time Slevin has washed his hands and face and pulled his hoodie off over his head, leaving him in a t-shirt and remarkably clean cargo pants - if this were the real world, he could have walked away undetected - he seems calmer, anyway. Enough that he's willing to look at him again, to speak with him, though the anger is still there, still visible.]
How long are you thinking?
no subject
He glances up as Slevin exits, and uses the wall to climb to his feet with care]
Couple of days. Until you get your shit sorted out.
Get it out of your system?
no subject
Zero won't be the worst of it anyway. Not here. He nods, then laughs.
Until he gets his shit sorted out. Like that's even his decision to make.]
Get what out of my system?
Being pissed off at Hannibal? No. [His anger flares again, and then... fades. There's the confusion again, subtle around the edges. Dissatisfied.] He'll come back, just like we did. In a week it won't mean anything.
no subject
Also it's because he's a legitimate psychopath who doesn't let anything anyone does affect him. No matter what you do to him, it's never going to be enough. Enough to stop him or enough to make you feel better.
It's bullshit.
[He walks into the elevator as it arrives, playing with his communicator]
What were you looking for?
no subject
[He says this stubbornly, still distracted, mind running in the opposite direction from his mouth, apparently too preoccupied to control his tone like he normally does. He's frustrated, limited, trapped here. Angry at the constraints the surroundings put on him, the fact that Mal will always come looking before he can get the job done right.
He pulls a hand down his face, scrubs it back up through his hair, and answers:]
Bullshit. I was looking for bullshit. [He lets it be a concession, not a blowoff. He lets it be one he's not happy about.] People like that can just get away with whatever they fucking want, and no one touches them. Even here. There aren't even any police here to protect them, and they're still sitting high and fucking mighty on the top of the shit heap.
no subject
You're basically screaming at a wall, with him. One day maybe, he'll have this great epiphany over how horrible the shit he's done is. But that's probably a long way off and it might not ever come.
You're going to spend all this time trying to break him because he deserves it but you're just going to end up hurting yourself and he'll walk away clean. You can't screw with this guy. He's not built for it.
no subject
[Slevin's jaw tightens for a moment, his eyes going hard. He is not a man accustomed to being told no, to acknowledging the rules other people set. He does not recognize others as untouchable.
He sighs.] I did say not here.
If we were both back where we came from, it would be different. But this place seems like it's designed to make everything futile.
no subject
[Chris glances to his inmate, not exactly sympathetic - he's still pissed - but understanding, in part]
This place is going to rip away every crutch you have until you have no choice except to battle your problems with just your brain. Murdering Hannibal won't do a fucking thing. Not even make you temporarily feel better.
You have to find another way. It's all internal.
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