week #103 - sadistic
Title: Worse
Author: phoebonica
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Teru, Gevanni, Rester. Mogi's in the background but doesn't say anything, as is his way.
Warnings: Erm, see prompt? Violence, threatened sexual assault. Excessive use of parentheses to indicate mental disturbance.
Word Count: 1639
A/N: I've had the general idea of this scene in my head forever. This prompt finally encouraged me to write it out. It hasn't gone quite the way I'd expected it to, but nothing ever does... Also, writing this gave me a new appreciation for the fact that Gevanni's job sucked.
The worst part isn’t -
(the worst thing of course is the gunshots and the blood and that voice cracked and twisted screaming impossible things and he can’t even remember what they were, only knowing that God was dying and that God was nothing)
- but after that. The worst part, after he’s taken into what passes for custody, is not the contempt in their voices, in their eyes. He’s seen enough of that before. It’s not the shattering of the pattern of his days, not just for this one afternoon but forever and ever. It’s not that they had to sit down and explain to him what he’s been doing these past two months, with finger puppets and simple sentences (and do it again when he’d stopped hyperventilating, and again when he couldn’t get beyond why would I kill her, we were friends, we had dinner together...)
It’s not even that the world is ruined now, and it’s all his fault, that the thieves and thugs and murderers will all creep back in, maggots spawning in the last few spots of filth God couldn’t reach. (Not God. He isn’t -) That should be worst, the guilt and shame and horror should tear him open with each breath - they do - but in the end, it’s not that knowledge that defeats him.
And it’s not the handcuffs.
That should be such a minor thing, after all the rest. They cuff him to a chair, hands behind his back, and there are three who stay to watch him. Two of the Americans, Rester and Gevanni (and that is not his name, Teru knows that, he knew it as well as he knew his own and if he could reach in and tear it out of himself then maybe, maybe he’d have everything else back too), and Mogi, of the NPA, who hasn’t said a word in all the time that they’ve been in here. The others are elsewhere, debating what’s going to happen to him, officially. Exactly where, and how, and under whose authority, they’re going to shut him away for the rest of his life.
The restraints don’t hurt, if he thinks about it. What he’s feeling isn’t pain. But he can’t move and he can’t act and their eyes are on him, watching, just watching, and behind their solemn expressions he can tell they’re all smiling. Just like that day. They didn’t touch him, after they’d dragged him to the tree and bound him. They left him alone, and everyone stared from the corners of their eyes as they passed and the sun was so hot and his wrists were scraped raw against the bark and something was crawling in his hair and Ito-sensei hadn’t seen or hadn’t cared because she never came to rescue him, no one ever did - and there’s no good in struggling now, he isn’t fastened here with rope in clumsy knots that he can work loose if he tries for long enough, but still he twists in his seat and cold metal presses into his skin and a soft, strangled sound comes from the back of his throat. I can’t take this anymore, I can’t -
They’re all on alert the second he moves, postures straightening, Mogi taking a step toward him, and Teru draws back against the chair, lowers his eyes quickly. Stupid, stupid. They’re looking for an excuse, anything he does that can be seen as a threat. He keeps still, tries not even to breathe - maybe they’ll let it go, maybe he’ll hold off the inevitable a little longer. Maybe he’ll be safe if he just keeps quiet.
But it’s already too late for that.
“Are those hurting you, Mikami-san?” That’s Gevanni (not Gevanni, he should know this) and if Teru didn’t know better, he’d think the man was honestly concerned for his comfort. Or at least concerned that he should be treated humanely while he’s under their care. It’s a trap, of course... and, Teru sees too late, one he’s already walked into. Because there’s no right answer. If he says yes the only reply is a sneer - aww, poor baby, sucks to be you, doesn’t it? - and if he says no well, then we’d better do something about that and even if he doesn’t say anything -
- and his mouth is too dry for him to speak now, even if he wanted to -
The worst part is not Gevanni’s hand knotted in his hair, wrenching his head back as he hisses “I asked you a question, Mikami. Look at me when I talk to you.” And it’s not the gleam in Rester’s eyes or the way that his tone is still calm and professional when he says “You don’t appreciate your position yet, do you? It’s time you were informed.” And not Mogi’s nod of acknowledgement before he steps forward and grips the back of Teru’s chair and throws him to the floor, smashing his head into the ground so hard the sparks that whirl across his vision haven’t faded before he’s kicked in the gut, and then in the face before he’s stopped retching, and then they’re all three on him at once and he can’t even raise his arms to defend himself and there’s blood running into his eyes and he can hear things snapping. And not the laughter when he screams or the promises that this can be so much worse, or the hand at his throat and hot breath against his ear and the insinuating whisper of “Know what they do to guys like you when -”
None of that is the worst thing to happen, because none of that happens.
He sees it coming, that’s all. The inevitable horror, so bright and clear that for one moment he thinks he can feel each blow, each shattered bone, and see his own blood splashed vivid red across the carpet. Apparently it shows on his face, too, because when he dares to look up the three of them are looking back at him with the same expression, not smirking or triumphant yet, almost bewildered. Or so he’d think, if he didn’t know better. They must know he knows what they want.
Gevanni says, “What?”
As if there’s any question of what. Teru is suddenly sick of cowering. He can meet his fate with some dignity, at least. He hardens his face, pushes terror down and away. “Do what you like,” he says, slowly, venomous, relieved that while his voice is hoarse and quieter than he’d like it is at least not wavering. “Just get on with it.”
Gevanni steps back, eyes widening. “Y-” he says, and then oh god very quietly in English, and then he starts to laugh after all, but not the way Teru’s braced himself for. It’s faltering and broken (exactly like, but no not even a little nothing will ever sound like that) and he’s staring down at his own hand, in - disbelief, is that it? Yes. As though he doesn’t understand where that sound is coming from, as though he’s as lost as Teru is.
“You don’t, do you?” he says, after a moment. “I nearly said, do you even know how many - but you don’t, now. Well, I can give you that one back. One thousand, one hundred and eighty, okay, that - that’s how many people you’ve killed, just you, and I know, because I had to do it after you. Only I didn’t have to look them in the face, and I didn’t fucking smile over it and -” His tone is rising now, words spilling out of him from wherever they’ve built up over months. “And you don’t get to look at me like that, you bastard, you do not have the goddamn right to be scared of me -”
“Gevanni!” That’s Rester. Gevanni falls silent, abruptly. Rester says something else, but it’s quiet and fast and in English and Teru can’t follow it. But he understands Gevanni’s murmured yes, I know, I’m sorry and the shaking hand that goes to cover his face, and the way that Rester sighs and rests a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. Presumably the next thing he says is on the lines of you can go off duty now or you’d better wait outside, because Gevanni nods, and swallows -
(as if he’s trying not to)
- and then heads for the door.
He pauses in the doorway, and looks back, and this time - this time there’s no as if about it. This time Teru can see him clearly, everything that’s written on his face (for want of a better expression). The colour’s drained out of him, his eyes are ringed with dark circles, and he gazes back into the room - back at Teru, trapped in his chair and silent - as though he’s watching from behind a sheet of glass.
Teru looks up, and meets his eyes.
And that’s the worst part.
Gevanni turns again, sharply, and slams the door behind him.
In the silence, Teru’s gaze falls to the carpet, which is green and blue and will never be soaked in his blood, unless he manages to bite his own tongue out before his remaining two guards can stop him (this is the only means of suicide he can think of at the moment, and unlikely to work). He can’t feel the pain in his arms any more, not that there was any to begin with. He can’t feel much of anything.
I didn’t fucking smile over it.
You’re not God. You’re just...
He shuts his eyes, and he tries to go back to that day in high school, through fear and humiliation into the blazing, righteous fury that’s sustained him all these years. It won’t come. Gevanni’s face hovers before him, pallid and accusing.
When they finally take him away from the room, he doesn’t resist.
Author: phoebonica
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Teru, Gevanni, Rester. Mogi's in the background but doesn't say anything, as is his way.
Warnings: Erm, see prompt? Violence, threatened sexual assault. Excessive use of parentheses to indicate mental disturbance.
Word Count: 1639
A/N: I've had the general idea of this scene in my head forever. This prompt finally encouraged me to write it out. It hasn't gone quite the way I'd expected it to, but nothing ever does... Also, writing this gave me a new appreciation for the fact that Gevanni's job sucked.
The worst part isn’t -
(the worst thing of course is the gunshots and the blood and that voice cracked and twisted screaming impossible things and he can’t even remember what they were, only knowing that God was dying and that God was nothing)
- but after that. The worst part, after he’s taken into what passes for custody, is not the contempt in their voices, in their eyes. He’s seen enough of that before. It’s not the shattering of the pattern of his days, not just for this one afternoon but forever and ever. It’s not that they had to sit down and explain to him what he’s been doing these past two months, with finger puppets and simple sentences (and do it again when he’d stopped hyperventilating, and again when he couldn’t get beyond why would I kill her, we were friends, we had dinner together...)
It’s not even that the world is ruined now, and it’s all his fault, that the thieves and thugs and murderers will all creep back in, maggots spawning in the last few spots of filth God couldn’t reach. (Not God. He isn’t -) That should be worst, the guilt and shame and horror should tear him open with each breath - they do - but in the end, it’s not that knowledge that defeats him.
And it’s not the handcuffs.
That should be such a minor thing, after all the rest. They cuff him to a chair, hands behind his back, and there are three who stay to watch him. Two of the Americans, Rester and Gevanni (and that is not his name, Teru knows that, he knew it as well as he knew his own and if he could reach in and tear it out of himself then maybe, maybe he’d have everything else back too), and Mogi, of the NPA, who hasn’t said a word in all the time that they’ve been in here. The others are elsewhere, debating what’s going to happen to him, officially. Exactly where, and how, and under whose authority, they’re going to shut him away for the rest of his life.
The restraints don’t hurt, if he thinks about it. What he’s feeling isn’t pain. But he can’t move and he can’t act and their eyes are on him, watching, just watching, and behind their solemn expressions he can tell they’re all smiling. Just like that day. They didn’t touch him, after they’d dragged him to the tree and bound him. They left him alone, and everyone stared from the corners of their eyes as they passed and the sun was so hot and his wrists were scraped raw against the bark and something was crawling in his hair and Ito-sensei hadn’t seen or hadn’t cared because she never came to rescue him, no one ever did - and there’s no good in struggling now, he isn’t fastened here with rope in clumsy knots that he can work loose if he tries for long enough, but still he twists in his seat and cold metal presses into his skin and a soft, strangled sound comes from the back of his throat. I can’t take this anymore, I can’t -
They’re all on alert the second he moves, postures straightening, Mogi taking a step toward him, and Teru draws back against the chair, lowers his eyes quickly. Stupid, stupid. They’re looking for an excuse, anything he does that can be seen as a threat. He keeps still, tries not even to breathe - maybe they’ll let it go, maybe he’ll hold off the inevitable a little longer. Maybe he’ll be safe if he just keeps quiet.
But it’s already too late for that.
“Are those hurting you, Mikami-san?” That’s Gevanni (not Gevanni, he should know this) and if Teru didn’t know better, he’d think the man was honestly concerned for his comfort. Or at least concerned that he should be treated humanely while he’s under their care. It’s a trap, of course... and, Teru sees too late, one he’s already walked into. Because there’s no right answer. If he says yes the only reply is a sneer - aww, poor baby, sucks to be you, doesn’t it? - and if he says no well, then we’d better do something about that and even if he doesn’t say anything -
- and his mouth is too dry for him to speak now, even if he wanted to -
The worst part is not Gevanni’s hand knotted in his hair, wrenching his head back as he hisses “I asked you a question, Mikami. Look at me when I talk to you.” And it’s not the gleam in Rester’s eyes or the way that his tone is still calm and professional when he says “You don’t appreciate your position yet, do you? It’s time you were informed.” And not Mogi’s nod of acknowledgement before he steps forward and grips the back of Teru’s chair and throws him to the floor, smashing his head into the ground so hard the sparks that whirl across his vision haven’t faded before he’s kicked in the gut, and then in the face before he’s stopped retching, and then they’re all three on him at once and he can’t even raise his arms to defend himself and there’s blood running into his eyes and he can hear things snapping. And not the laughter when he screams or the promises that this can be so much worse, or the hand at his throat and hot breath against his ear and the insinuating whisper of “Know what they do to guys like you when -”
None of that is the worst thing to happen, because none of that happens.
He sees it coming, that’s all. The inevitable horror, so bright and clear that for one moment he thinks he can feel each blow, each shattered bone, and see his own blood splashed vivid red across the carpet. Apparently it shows on his face, too, because when he dares to look up the three of them are looking back at him with the same expression, not smirking or triumphant yet, almost bewildered. Or so he’d think, if he didn’t know better. They must know he knows what they want.
Gevanni says, “What?”
As if there’s any question of what. Teru is suddenly sick of cowering. He can meet his fate with some dignity, at least. He hardens his face, pushes terror down and away. “Do what you like,” he says, slowly, venomous, relieved that while his voice is hoarse and quieter than he’d like it is at least not wavering. “Just get on with it.”
Gevanni steps back, eyes widening. “Y-” he says, and then oh god very quietly in English, and then he starts to laugh after all, but not the way Teru’s braced himself for. It’s faltering and broken (exactly like, but no not even a little nothing will ever sound like that) and he’s staring down at his own hand, in - disbelief, is that it? Yes. As though he doesn’t understand where that sound is coming from, as though he’s as lost as Teru is.
“You don’t, do you?” he says, after a moment. “I nearly said, do you even know how many - but you don’t, now. Well, I can give you that one back. One thousand, one hundred and eighty, okay, that - that’s how many people you’ve killed, just you, and I know, because I had to do it after you. Only I didn’t have to look them in the face, and I didn’t fucking smile over it and -” His tone is rising now, words spilling out of him from wherever they’ve built up over months. “And you don’t get to look at me like that, you bastard, you do not have the goddamn right to be scared of me -”
“Gevanni!” That’s Rester. Gevanni falls silent, abruptly. Rester says something else, but it’s quiet and fast and in English and Teru can’t follow it. But he understands Gevanni’s murmured yes, I know, I’m sorry and the shaking hand that goes to cover his face, and the way that Rester sighs and rests a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. Presumably the next thing he says is on the lines of you can go off duty now or you’d better wait outside, because Gevanni nods, and swallows -
(as if he’s trying not to)
- and then heads for the door.
He pauses in the doorway, and looks back, and this time - this time there’s no as if about it. This time Teru can see him clearly, everything that’s written on his face (for want of a better expression). The colour’s drained out of him, his eyes are ringed with dark circles, and he gazes back into the room - back at Teru, trapped in his chair and silent - as though he’s watching from behind a sheet of glass.
Teru looks up, and meets his eyes.
And that’s the worst part.
Gevanni turns again, sharply, and slams the door behind him.
In the silence, Teru’s gaze falls to the carpet, which is green and blue and will never be soaked in his blood, unless he manages to bite his own tongue out before his remaining two guards can stop him (this is the only means of suicide he can think of at the moment, and unlikely to work). He can’t feel the pain in his arms any more, not that there was any to begin with. He can’t feel much of anything.
I didn’t fucking smile over it.
You’re not God. You’re just...
He shuts his eyes, and he tries to go back to that day in high school, through fear and humiliation into the blazing, righteous fury that’s sustained him all these years. It won’t come. Gevanni’s face hovers before him, pallid and accusing.
When they finally take him away from the room, he doesn’t resist.