towerofanimus | (no subject)

Characters:

dualscars and whoever wants to pester him.
Setting: Floor 10.
Format: Starting off with brackets, but I'll match.
Summary: Dualscar copes with the Condesce's decision of equality. Poorly.
Warnings: R for Raging Douche.

Scenario A ⇨

["equality."

for anyone else, the situation that had arisen wouldn't cause as much distress as this. but this is dualscar: so naturally, it affected him ten times worse than was called for. even if many of his theatrics were intentional, a lot of them... were not.

it wasn't the fact that he was, the signless, but more the fact of how. what did the mutant -- no, monstrosity, the mutation was not favorble to his survival in the least -- think he doing in addressing the empress so forwardly?

but then she'd agreed. put him on the same level, thrown away the heirachy completely, and everything that made him better than the other with what he assumed to be a single syllable. he couldn't fathom that they were to be equals in that regard. he didn't want him to be even within the same room as her, building, land, let alone speaking freely to her, and her seemingly not minding it--

it made him sick. a feeling no amount of slaughter could alleviate, no matter the size of the enemy or the viciousness of it or just how slowly he dictated the creatures' demise, it wouldn't let up. the guns aches his shoulder now, the friction of the cutlass in hand rubbing his hand raw. the water feels heavy, not soothing as he'd hoped it would. he swims on, searching for a new target.

but red.

they all bleed fucking red.]

Scenario B ⇨

[ahab's crosshairs leans against the bench, the sword lies bloodied scarlet upon the floor. it spreads slowly across it, intermingling with the spilled salt water, and there is not only red, but drips of rich violet hues as well.

the orphaner sits at the same bench, hunched over with his elbows on his knees. presumably in rest, his bare chest heaving as he catches his breath, tiny rivulets of seawater running down his scarred face, neck, shoulders, swimshorts, legs-- finally to the floor as well.

but there are a few new gashes that momentarily halt him in his brutal excursions. scratches here and there that look to be more of an irritation than anything, but then the most noticable one along the side of his torso. from below his shoulder blade to just barely missing where his gills begin it runs; the wound itself ideep and jagged, swelling with a little more blood everytime he inhales.

not that it's of any more concern to him than any of his other wounds are; this one just bleeding heavily enough so as to need it to stop before he immersed himself in the water again. no need to attract hoards of the unwelcome, after all.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Lowering the gun a fraction did little for her nerves, although it did confuse her very briefly. Did he actually want an answer? So often when she'd been around people willing to act in such a threatening way, the only correct answer had been no answer. Anything else was only an invitation to more castigation. She almost apologized for not answering, then thought better of it.]

I... can't tell you whether or not it should mean anything to you. I meant it, [and she did, too; scary person or not, an injury was an injury. Even those with hearts clouded by darkness had the potential to do good, and even if that hadn't been the the case, she still wouldn't have it in her to wish them ill.] but whether or not it means anything to you is... up to you. [She's not one to give a dishonest answer, even when scared.]

[he can't even tell himself what sort of answer he'd been looking for from her. just that he'd wanted one, and the one she gives forces him to once again look at himself. and he'd rather not do that, because he still just doesn't. know.

the gun is lowered entirely now, the barrel to rest against one of his thighs, and he looks away from her-- as if bored by something that'd failed to entertain. two fingers go to pinch the wound at his side; a poor attempt to further stem the distracting bloodflow.

he waves a hand in the air, dismissively.]

[Dismissed? It looks that way. It's the best outcome she could have hoped for, all things considered, and she's not about to complain. She takes a moment to eye the gun before cautiously backing up, then turning to go down the stairs. She makes it down just a few of them before a sense of guilt ambushes her; she saw how much he was bleeding. Threatening or not, he's still injured. The only question is, would he hurt anyone if he ended up in the infirmary? He seemed willing enough to make good on his unspoken threat, and all she could think of that she might have done to insult him was try to be nice. And yet... couldn't he find his way there eventually on his own? There's only so much space in the tower to explore. She has no desire to insure that he suffer more before then, and if he's likely to happen upon the infirmary anyway....]

...There's an infirmary on the second floor. [It's quiet and matter-of-fact and the only thing she says before swiftly continuing down the stairs so as not to be left anywhere within the possible sight of his crosshairs. She doesn't even risk going down the whole way by foot; instead, she steps through and immediately afterwards closes a quickly and shakily formed portal once she believes she's far enough down to avoid being seen.]

[as expected. he watches her leave when he looks toward the sound of her footsteps, expressionless. what's unexpected, and causes him to grip the handle of his sword a little more tightly once more, is when she speaks again before she leaves for good.

the infirmary happened to be one of the last places he'd like to go to in this place. because one? it means that he was in such poor condition that he literally had no other choice (and if he really was in such condition, he'd think it'd be better to just die). and two? it means accepting yet more assistance from their captors. but still. he looks back to the aquarium, to focus on a colorful school of fish swimming by.

humans.]