Description: Marise, we /seriously/ need to find you a pair of nice Prada stilettos. This title is just not cool. :|
Consciousness is heralded by the world's greatest contender for the worst headache known to man.
Cracking his eyes open does little to illuminate his situation as the lighting in..wherever this is.. is dim. The air possesses a clammy, mold-ridden smell to it. The feeling of being somewhere under street level and far and away from anywhere someone can hear you scream for help.
A single crackling lightbulb dangles from an ancient fixture, hanging by a thread of wire from the cement ceiling.
The boy finds himself affixed to an old wooden chair. Arms bound behind the backrest, ankles tied to the legs beneath him.
The only company in this dreary place? A nearby long table.. Upon which is a water basin and several impliments that just can't quite be made out in the poor lighting. Along with what appears to be... Her.
That dark-clad woman, seated casually on the edge of the table.. Long pale legs crossed one over the other as she's currently turned away from him. Concerning herself with matters of arranging things on her table beside her several paces away. Hardly making a sound save for the faint clatter of metal on metal..
Great. Just what he needed. Another encounter with this freaky soul-eater (or maybe Marise just happens to have a taste for flesh like Hannibal Lecter). Well, whatever she is, it ain't pretty, and we're not talking about the peripheral here. And when Reed does crack his eyes open? It takes a helluva long while for him to adjust, considering the long and drawn-out beating he got from Elle Bellmounte the other day. Nonetheless, he had a choice, and his highstrung attitude landed him in this murky place, reminding him of those colorful bedtime stories that Antonio used to tell him when he was behaving like a delinquent.
But that was six years ago.
And Marise isn't Interpol or the CIA.
"Neerrrf," is pretty much his first reaction to this once he realizes that he's still alive and kicking. The last thing he remembers is falling clumsily down on his face, sapped of strength, the recollection somewhat embarrassing. Even in his current situation, where he should be worrying about the very outcome of his life, he's grouchy, twisting against the wires that bind him back, feeling sharp pain along the biting ties. Looks like this little torture session is about to begin...
"Oi!!" His raw voice pierces silence like laser through smoke, and no doubt it's there to annoy the hell out of Marise, or capture a bit of her attention. He wriggles against the binds again, gritting his teeth.
Like most of his recent endeavors, the youth fails in his bid to get the woman's attention.
The shadowy figure seems to ignore him. Not so much as twitching at his annoyed bark. Fiddling with yet another set of impliments upon the table at her side. The ghost's smooth back mostly exposed for view with her locks arranged in a neat formal hairstyle, held in place by a pair of gold needles.
Slowly, the ominous woman holds aloft what seems to be a pair of tongs. Glinting dimly in places where rust hasn't overtaken the finish. Inspecting the device with eyes hidden behind a veil of bangs, the Devil finally deigns to speak. Possibly to him, or it may well be rhetorical for all the concern she shows.
"... Boys like you believe death is so simple. So easy.. So painless.. To give in? To bow and swallow ones pride? Worse than death... Yes?"
Slowly shifting her position to face him proper. Settling a long-sleeved arm upon her perfect knee. Lips holding a whimsical, amused smile.
The Devil of Koga was never the most pleasant sight to behold, even in the form of such a lovely young woman. But it's not the exterior that Reed sees --- Marise's preternatural cruelty is just too plain, especially beneath the single lighting above the ceiling...casting shadows all-too uncomfortable for the likes of young boys like him.
"Heh. You see, I have a theory," the kid retorts, whether Signora Diavola wants to hear it or not. "You back down from people in our business, and you'll never earn respect. From my experience, they'll just keep treating you like a dog, unless you step up to the plate and stick-up for yourself. Doing otherwise would just make you look like a pitiable fool, and quite frankly, yes, that IS worth than death." With that, his green eyes burn with toxic anger, "And as I've told your friend 'Hell Bellmounte' up there, I don't come cheap. I'm not gonna sell myself short, and ain't NO ONE gonna buy me out just so I can be their fuckin' whipping boy for the day. If I wanted be some hotshot's mongrel, I would have crawled down on all fours a loooong time ago."
"Ressspect..." The Devil breathes as the word is intoned.
For a moment the Ninja becomes a touch wistful. Head tilting back in the manner of recalling some fond memory from long ago. Clicking her rusted tool once in contemplation before gently setting it back down amidst the other devices, always in proper place and proper sequence.
For here, there is a way of doing things. A system, a method. Right down to folding ones clothes and ending someone's life. Instilling even a vague sense of propriety may well be the greatest gift this boy could recieve.
Only question is.. If it'll take.
"Aaaah.. Once children knew that word. Sadly.. it has become a lost art."
The Devil slips her legs from the edge of the table. Slowly rising to her feet as she approaches. Her dark, feminine symmetry slowly eclipsing the boy as she walks before the flickering, dim lightbulb. Shadow engulfing him all but completely as she continues, "You had earned Miss Elle's respect. Boy. Bravado goes so far. Giving.. and taking.. Is the essense of respect. Even for people such as you .. and I."
Calmly, the Devil leans forth. Settling a knee upon his lap as she looms over him. Cold hands resting upon his shoulders as he can -feel- the chilling sensation of her nearness. Face mere inches from his own.. Occasional glints of gold barely seen beneath the veil of her ebon bangs.
"You know only half of it.. Miss Elle has comissioned I to instruct you in the other half of this truth. If you understand this.. do say so. It may make your future existance.. perhaps a bit more bearable.."
When Marise gets too close for comfort, Reed outright grimaces, tilting waaaaaaaaay back into his chair. Were it not for the fact that he had a solid background in manipulating balance, that chair would have tipped back and resulted in a minor concussion for him. Luckily, he's got it under control. Sorta. "JESUS, lady. The shade of your lipstick is creeping me out more than your icy temperature."
Her sudden commentary, however, gives him room to pause. And for a long moment, he is /silent/. "Well, since you've put it that way," his eyes narrow slightly, "Maybe I am being an ignorant dumbass. Mercs like Ms. Bellmounte don't invest their precious time in wasted retards if they don't think they can get something profitable out of it." Considering this, he then adds. "So what has she decided to put me up against...oh no, lemme guess. You're gonna cut my body parts into seven different pieces, then put me back together like some folkloric Frankenstein. Hate to break it to ya, but I don't fancy myself a brain-dead zombie right now. That's in another life."
She has his attention. Looks like the little shit decided to back off, for once.
Choosing to acknowledge only his second and third sentence, the Devil murmurs, "I am glad you agree."
Then pushing off from him. Rising once again to her full height over him as she issues the youth a side-long look as he keeps talking.
Always with the talking.
"Silence... is golden." The Devil comments idly as she turns to her table once more. Busying herself as she readies the first of several tools. Virtually speaking over him amidst his denials and diatribe as she further comments, "Silence is the surest, and easiest means to get what you desire most. You have been taught to.. abuse words."
Lifting up what appears to be a long needle with a strangely screw-like tip. Inspecting it a moment before dipping it in a small cup, "Words come far too easily to you. You wield language as a foolish child would swing his father's sword. As such.."
The Devil turns to him once more. Holding aloft that long drill-needle and what appears to be a spool of wire, "..Your speaking privledges will be revoked."
Oh no, she didn't!
Oh yes, she did.
As Marise holds that drill up to his face, Reed scowls. "And just what do you plan on doing with that? Humor me, for a second, Ms. Devil in a kimono. You'll find that I lack the imagination needed to make this far more interesting on your part." There's certainly no posturing here, and what childish discourse that had previously made its way to the devil's ears is long but gone. Not that it matters to this spectral female, but the sudden change in the boy's disposition marks something unusual, if not downright suspicious.
The Devil's free hand reaches forth to clamp on the underside of the boy's throat. Her thumb pushing his head back as she looks down to him. Other hand yet holding aloft that dreadful thing as she adds in a slow, sincere tone, "You'll find that I do not answer your questions. It humors me to inform you that this is simple." Brandishing the thing aloft over his gaze.
"I will pin your tongue to the roof of your mouth. Wire your jaw shut and sew your lips closed." The Devil describes in exacting detail, as she furthers, "Then.. living that way for awhile.. You'll come to appreciate the subtleties of not speaking unless you truly have something worth listening to. Hm?"
The ghost's grin flashing a little too deeply. Unlike Elle... she truly enjoys the things she does. Oh yes..
Being at the mercy of one such as this devil is quite a foul quandary. Were he a normal, sane boy, he'd be crying in a heap, begging to be freed.
But lucky Marise, she gets to play with one of them stubborn hotheads. "Fine." It's not like he has a choice. His response is terse, filled with just the slightest bit of edge that'll tell her that he's not one to back down from a challenge. Even if that challenge is gonna end up hurting him pretty badly.
No water, no food. Being bound to this chair until Marise deems him ready to leave. How long is he going to be able to keep up? Such a dare.
"...Do. Your. Worst."
Oh, that pride. It's unyielding, like iron. But even iron has ways of congealing into something else; Marise just has to find out a way to do it.
"So be it."
The Devil whispers quietly as she once again moves forth. Gently parting the skirt of her Kimono just enough as she calmly straddles his bound legs. Easing her weight onto him as her hand deftly jerks his head to the side.. Exposing the side of his jaw as she peers down to him closely through her hidden eyes.
"Hn Hn.. Feel free to struggle.." She whispers. Afterall.. that's the fun part.
Cruel does not begin to describe what follows.
Whatever ointment she used for her tools, it has nothing to do to ease the pain. If anything, the burning liquid makes the operation hurt even worse. Likely just to prevent infection or anything of the like. But even still.. What follows is nearly impossible to bare and remain conscious.
The sounds.. are perhaps the worst. The sensations are horrifying enough, but the sounds are the most ugly. The most terrible. All of the morbid thoughts one has while in a dentist chair, save that this is reality. Its difficult to measure how long she takes. Time seems to drag on and on.. And everytime he prays she's finished, she merely starts a new phase of the procession.
Until finally.. Finally..
The sensation of cloth sinched tightly around the lower half of his face jerks him back to the here and now. A measure to staunch the bleeding no doubt.. As the scarf-like bandage already begins to stain crimson in several places around his mouth.
And to his ultimate horror.. He finds himself completely unable to vocalize. Even TRYING is a terrible.. terrible pain.
Reed glares at Marise when its over, his expression tinged with that horrible pain. He manages to cover it up well enough with blistering anger, absinthe green eyes lurid with hate unending, his physical strength shattered. For now, he remains silent, trying to steel himself with a certain amount of patience as the torture ends.
No boy his age should go through this, and it'll likely give him endless nightmares in the coming days. /Weeks./ God knows how long he'll be strapped down to this chair, away from the rest of civilization as we know it.
"Aaaaah.."
The Devil murmurs contentedly, soothed by the blessed lack of the youth's ill-considered words. Standing before the table as she idly licks the crimson off of her remaining sewing needle, having cleaned the rest of her horrible impliments of torture and surgery in a similar manner.
Calmly setting the metallic device back with its fellows, she furthers, "Yesss.. Much better. Already your disposition has improved greatly boy!" Clasping her clawed hands together once as she admires her handiwork for a moment longer.
But lest he think the Devil was doing this JUST to be cruel, the torment has a purpose. Pain, truly useful pain, always has a purpose. A means to an end. And now that the boy is unfettered with his willingness to mouth off, he is now a properly attentive student. "So then. Shall we begin our first lesson boy?"
Obviously the question is a rhetorical one, considering the circumstances.
No. She doesn't see fit to give him a chance to recover. A chance to deal with the pain.
No.. Pain clarifies. It teaches important truths to those who listen to it. Not to mention.. it will remind him that this woman is fully capable of carrying out every threat.. every word.. that she utters.
"Apparently you have an issue with authority.. yes? Following very simple.. very clear instruction seems to be beneath you. So.. we practice."
********
"..Now.." The monsterous woman murmurs quietly as the last of the sheared wires clatters to the bottom of the blood-colored basin. Fingers maintaining their unhealthy white palour no matter how much of his blood smears over her skin. Flesh seeming to absorb the color within her abyssal complexion throughout the entirity of her sessions over the last several days. An oddity that only boosts her ageless, haunting quality as the ghost seems untired and not a thread out of place.
Unlike, of course, the ruin of her charge. His clothing tattered upon his body, the remnants sundered by the countless techniques employed upon him to present new levels of discomfort and agony the youth had never before known.
His wounds have.. mostly healed. Bandages adorn his frame in several dozen problematic places along his arms, chest, neck and face. Spoiled he may be, but recover he shall with barely a scar.
Save, perhaps, in the most vulnerable of places in his mind.
"Tell me again.. what you've learned." The Devil murmurs quietly, busying herself with cleaning her implements of torment as they're being filed away one after the other in a scroll-like length of silk cloth on the table.
The boy unbound now.. Doubtlessly unwilling to move from his spot until dismissed. A lesson he had, literally, drilled into him over the last several days.
Obedience. Duty to one's service. To at least pay lipservice and respect to these matters is the way of least pain. Perhaps the boy will always be a rebel, always be prideful and arrogant. And perhaps Marise will even encourage these things.
But pride must be cunning. Arrogance must have intellect. To know when to allow these powerful forces loose.. and when to keep them in check.. is the essence of greatness.
The question now becomes.. Did the boy even learn a hint of this through the clarity of suffering and pain?
His clothes in rags. His body bandaged and clean, but sore. Dull green eyes vaguely take in the shape of the devil at the basin, his form slumped against the very same chair that kept him hostage up until now.
Well, he's gotta hand it to Blackjack for not doing worse. The boy could have been permanently maimed, drugged, or even murdered, but seeing as his potential usefulness had eliminated those options, perhaps he should have been thankful that he wasn't some weedy or helpless whelp who could never hold his own. If there WAS one thing that Reed learned, it was to tolerate profane amounts of pain without looking like a total idiot, thanks to Marise over here.
For the longest moment, he's silent. It takes a lot for him to even emit a sound, the bandages around his jaw tightly bound as he attempts to get up and find his treasured baton.
And he stumbles. Underground, the area dimly lit, he grasps for the leg of the chair, pulling himself up to full height again as those eyes find the woman's preternatural shadow. His expression twists into another grimace as he opens his mouth to speak, "If I had my baton with me....and you..u.... attempted to do.... anything else," he pauses here, breathing laboriously, sucking in the pain. "All I would ....do is try to c...lobber the living h....ell out of you r....ight.... now." His voice sounds raw and unnatural right now, even to him. But with a little recovery, he should be back to normal.
Just give him another month or two.
"B...ut you did...n't." Again, his face contorts. "...an...d...there's gott..a be......some resss...pecttt.....in that." She took his dare for what it was, and upheld her end of the bargain.
But then again, so did he. "..Sso.....erng." His eyes close shut as pain shoots up his jaw, "I...got....what...I..de....serv..ed."
The Devil seems unmoved as the youth struggles to his feet. Using the strength of his nearly bottomless resolve to drag himself to a stance resembling that of a man's. Impressed? Perhaps she is.
But then the boy has strength. Blackjack knows this to be true. Wit, speed and fortitude. The youth simply requires guidance. A way to hone these critical talents into something useful; rather than merely a futile burst of burning rebellion, devouring itself quickly until only cinders remain of what could have been.
Sparks of that unruly spirit show through even now. Posturing. Claiming some level of equality in this matter and admitting subservience if only out of bedgruding respect.
Fair enough. The question remains.. will he walk the line.
"And why.. did you deserve it?" The Devil draws out in a low, careful tone. Turning to face him in full as she calmly stands tall, towering over the wretched youth and peering at him once more with those hellish eyes of hers. Glaring searchingly, perhaps considering if she should simply end him now should her lesson have failed.
The fate of the baton is clear for him to see.. As it rests upon the woman's palm. Balanced upright upon the surface of the table at her side.. held in place by her resting hand with long-nailed fingers spread. The weapon's fate precisely the same as his own.. balanced in her judging hand.
Class is something the kid looks for in an industry like this, if it could be called as such. Mercenaries? Innumerable. But they just as easily lack taste. And just what is it about Blackjack that Reed considers tasteful?
The boy chuckles, clutching his gut as his gaze travels the length of that baton. Someone once special gave that to him as a gift. How incongruous, then, that it should end up in the hands of this woman to mock him senseless.
Snapping his teeth shut as another wave of pain consumes him, Reed slaps his hand against the arm of that chair, his blunted gaze suddenly alighting upon the devil woman's own. "Be....cause...I....beh---avvved.....like a....moron." With more resolve, he moves his mouth to speak, its tones lighter..faster. "If I hadn't opened my fuckin' mou...th...in the firssss..t place, I w-wouldn't...haaave end..ed up...here, right? And, you...." his gaze narrows, "....you just taugghht m..e not to speaakk....unless absolut...ely necessss...sary, or else...I...I...j-just may end up...getting myself kiiillledd....or ssscrew....up...one of your incon..ssspicu...ous," he says this with much effort here, "assignnnmentsss." Is he catching on? That'll be up to them. "Y-your...boss...has my...respectt...now."
Obviously, Elle's just shown him a side of Blackjack he never thought possible. Stupid, straightforward thugs, these guys are NOT. If they were, he would have been dead by now, or be used in such a despicable way that was common among those who wished to waltz with the wrong side of the law. But, they didn't...and to Reed, that's pretty damn tasteful.
The baton whirls through the air in a slow, high arc. Speedy, but carefully enough for one in such a condition as he can catch. Besides, considering how deeply a part of him the weapon is, the result of the hand-over was preordained.
"Accepted." The Devil states in an even tone. The youth passes the wicked woman's judgement, returning his weapon to him without pause as she adds further while turning towards her table yet again, "Keep these words in your thoughts at all times, boy. Language is a weapon to be used carefully and with consideration. Brandishing such a thing without wisdom will lead to your death as assuredly as striking randomly at all those you cross with your fighting stave." The tall woman carefully rolls up the silken scroll of pain, lacing the ties with very precise and practiced movements. Reaching to the far end of the table the woman overturns a simple black plastic trash bag, doubtlessly brought sometime during the boy's extended stay.
From the confines is a fresh change of clothes. A simple black t-shirt, jeans and undergarments. Along with one of Elle's famed 'care packages' of painkillers, bandages and assorted medical supplies. As well as two bottles of water and a container of apple sauce. Which, alas, may be the best the youth can swallow for a little while.
"Our time here has ended, child." Turning to face the boy once more as her hands settle at her sides, tilting her head to regard him with an a bemused feline grin, "Dress and you may go. In three days you are to report to Elle and apologize in person, then begin your next assignment."
Dress? Go? Reed isn't fit to do either (just look at him! Ugh. Dior Homme, here he comes.), but he refuses to let Marise know just how much physical damage the demon lady has done to him. In fact, he'd rather die right then and there than have anyone assist him. So. Once his beloved baton is caught mid-air, he hobbles over and grabs the bottled water and painkillers, slumping down on the floor in a mental sigh of relief. Bodily, he'll recover. Mentally...um. That's left to be seen, really.
"Hey." Tilting his head to glance at Marise, his lips pull into a full-fledged frown. Even though frowning hurts. "You don't need to tell me I need to apologize to her; I already know. Any lady worth that kind of respect merits one." After all of that, the kid still has some fight left in him.
As well the youth should. Blackjack isn't in the habit of hiring weaklings.
That said, at least now the boy will know what will happen to him if he doesn't know when to be silent. That, and at least he comprehends the meaning of the word 'respect'.
With a simple tilt of her head, the Devil simply affirms that the boy may now do as he will. She can only hope that the boy's apology is genuine and not some measure of childish non-apology when issued.
Afterall, The ghoul doesn't enjoy wasting her time.
The tall woman then calmly slings her long silken scroll beneath one arm. The other hand clasping her bamboo parasol, which snaps open with a deliberate flick of her wrist.
"We will meet again. Boy."
To which the dark one turns in perfect silence. Upper half hidden beneath the brim of her parasol as she saunters to the decrepid, iron-bound door. The portal creaking open at her approach, and staying open in her wake.
Issuing the boy a taste of the promise of fresh air that lies distantly beyond.
That which does not kill him, can only make him stronger.
If such is true.. Reed has never been more powerful in his whole life than this very moment.
Log created on 15:32:07 07/14/2007 by Reed, and last modified on 01:14:57 07/21/2007.