quietplace | un: nishizono

g u i l t y

...babies?

yeah he was talking about cherubs and shit, they're the floaty valentine babies, right?

does this mean i get to come along now

do whatever the fuck you want, i'm leaving now

WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU

[ tetora will get a ping to his device with frank's location, he's already at the edge of the sandpath leading out of the village. ]

Edited (i can spell ur shitty name whatever) 2018-02-23 17:04 (UTC)

[ running quietly takes some effort. it's effort better spent on other things, like— like something else, all right, he doesn't know what else but he knows that playing catch-up isn't what he wants to be doing.

(he doesn't want the debt. no matter how small it may seem, he doesn't want debts to other people. he's had too many times getting the shit end of it to trust in the kindness of strangers.)

when frank's silhouette comes into view, a few things click into place that had only been vague before: it's that guy. hotdog. weiner. something. seemed close with that other guy with the sharp observation skills. ]

you really are an asshole.

[ frank gets it. he likes to pretend he doesn't but he hates owing people too. and he owes a lot of people, which is maybe why he's so eager to help around this place. but he's trying not to paint a target on the people he cares for either, and it's a tightrope act he's not prepared for. ]

you noticed [ he turns a tired smile on the kid, an empty bag thrown over his shoulder with wads of cotton inside so the pills they take won't rattle. he's made this trip a few times before, and he really could have gone it alone and quickly too. but he's exhausted. bone-tired. let's get this over with. ]

[ he's bright and bushy-tailed compared to hotdog, tetora surmises, keen eyes taking in the man's form despite the poor light of their surroundings. the slouch of his shoulders, the language around the creases on his face, the blue-black that seems forever lingering just under the flesh of his skin — tetora can recognize jaded tiredness when he sees it.

he was friends with someone just like this man, once upon a time, when friends didn't always mean people waiting to get crossed off a list of names. he relents. just a little; just enough to fall in step with the man and pull at the bag slung across his back.

let me carry that, he tries to communicate. let me do something so i'm not useless. ]

[ when he turns his head there's also a deep red-purple bruise high on his cheek. to be expected as well, sure, but it's new; the rest of his face clear for a change. he's dressed in a black jumpsuit, a thick hoodie over it and his ever-present combat boots. he's so tired he doesn't even protest, shoving the backpack at tetora and putting his device and his hands into his sweatshirt pockets. ]

Edited 2018-02-23 17:49 (UTC)

[ he almost - almost - bites out an angry noise, at being so roughly handled around like the slight-bodied teen that he is. physical reminders of his mortality are rarely welcome, despite tetora's own inclinations to be as self-destructively violent as possible. it's a contradiction, just like everything else that's important about him.

slinging the bag, tetora can't help but notice the bruise raised high and angry on hotdog's face. it's shiny and red at the edges - it's fairly new. the purple hasn't even fully set in yet, and there's no sign of green or yellow lingering at the points of impact. ]

what happened to you?

[ wow, touchy. not like frank's really any different, he can be a drama queen about simple shit too so it's easy to pass over. he's sick of the devices, so so sick. and isn't it obvious by now anyway that frank likes to get himself punched? he shrugs, taking a hand out of his pocket to mime a fist to his face. it goes right back in his pocket after and he doesn't offer any further commentary, spoken or otherwise. ]

[ sign language it is, then. tetora hooks a finger in the air, while holding a fist under said hooked finger; why? in a place where fighting is in itself a racket, what was the point behind it? violence is what it is, and sometimes it's a random, senseless thing with the worst timing, but tetora doubts it'd be anything so simple with a man so... brusque.

he repeats the gesture with more insistence when he doesn't get a reply, going as far as to pinch hotdog's sleeve. ]

[ JAYSUS why can't anyone leave him be. he does ignore the motion, not even catching up to what tetora is asking until a moment later anyway. the pinch to his sleeve gets an annoyed flare of his nostrils and he turns in the sandpath, effectively stopping their forward progress. the force with which he yanks the device out of his pocket is palpable, a whoosh through the air the younger of the two will feel on his skin. frank castle has had enough, apparently even he has a breaking point. ]

i get hit a lot. that's the hazards of being a douchebag in this place. can we go get your shit now?

i can't fucking lift you.

[ he cuts hotdog off - literally making chopping gestures here, big guy - when it looks like he's about to roll his head along with his eyes in annoyance, because whether the both of them like it or not, tetora has A Few Points to make about this trip that he can't just leave alone before they proceed.

which is why tetora is reaching up and jamming a thumb to hotdog's neck. skin on skin, baby. seeing as he can't talk, he's just going to broadcast the fuck out of his dialogue straight to your brain. ]

I can't lift you if you have a concussion and it's bleeding into your brain. That'll kill you dead, and I'm not keen on explaining why some dude who went off on a trip for MY drugs didn't make it back, you get me? You have people that know you. I'm fucking new, I'm not up for getting mobbed up on my first week.

[ don't give me charity, is the desperately buried afterthought. he really doesn't want it this early, just as he really doesn't want the first person to stick his neck out for him to be the walking dead in better clothes.

he pulls away, back on his heels because hotdog is tall, and mimes the approximation of: ]

How bad are you hurt?

[ he freezes at the jab, one giant hand closing around tetora's wrist. fuck, he's not supposed to touch this guy. fuck, fuck. but he started it. and now words are being pushed into his head and he feels nauseous. remembering kilgrave, his heart fluttering wildly. his gaze darts around before he can focus on the words. try and respond. he isn't sure if it's a two-way line. it hadn't been for rey, but at least this guy isn't giving him orders. if this is a trap, it's the dumbest one he's ever stumbled into so he's chalking it up as a loss.

it's laughable really, and he's almost amused for a minute. this kid thinks he's dying because someone punched him? he would really hate to see him on most days back home then. there aren't even bullets here, but that doesn't matter, not when someone can push into your mind and make you do his bidding. he swallows back the rage and disgust and tries to make this as clear as he can with thoughts whirring by of how he failed jess, of how he can't care about these kids and put them in danger. but he can't stop, especially when he might be the only one who might have given a fuck about them in their lives. and that ends up winning out, pissing him off more than kilgrave and the whole fucking ordeal he's been living for the past six weeks. ]

I'm a lot harder to kill than one punch to the face. Get your fucking hand off of me.

[ his eyes flash, but all he does is let go of tetora and take a step back. he shakes his head to the question and marches on again. he's not fine, he's never fine. so in essence this is his baseline. take it or leave it, kid. ]

[ he hates what he can do.

it's funny, in a way. he was created for the express purpose of being a perfect killing machine, and all of his skills are proof to the efforts. his mind-control abilities, the telepathy, even the regeneration that he inherited from his frequent abuser. every murder he's committed was equal parts training and paving the way for the intended new world order bullshit the gakuso motherfuckers loved to preach about.

tetora hates all of it, because hatred is the only thing he has left that they haven't carved out of him. anger is the one thing that's his - not even his name is his own, after all. he's a second-generation nishizono, a copy of a copy.

their whole lot deserves to burn in hell for simply existing. he just has to burn the rest of them first.

(he does take his hand off hotdog, but not before he catches glimpses of a man with a knife-slick smile, the inseparable oily aftertaste of disgust, the distinct imprint left behind by his type. it's like an ugly, mangled handprint on a jagged bit of rock.

there's only one way he knows to get his point across.) ]

I won't do it again. [ they're said so quietly he might as well not have said anything, but it rings out against the wind, and it's a risk he doesn't care about. tetora knows how to die; he's done it more times than he can count. ] I know what it's like to have someone in your head. I'm sorry.

You should kill him.

[ he's pissed, he's so pissed. this fucking kid is going to get himself killed and make frank watch. like he hasn't seen enough kids die? like he didn't just watch someone he thought was his friend taken by those fucking monsters after the real monster had already sunk his claws in? he remembers bleeding out, how serene it had felt to finally be at peace. to rejoin his family at last. and then to be rudely awakened with red dust in his lungs and with no recollection as to how he got there.

the first words get a sharp glance of warning and alarm, though they're soft. but when tetora goes on he's launching at the kid, covering him and holding a heavy hand over his mouth. not on his watch, not on his fucking watch. in his mind, he screams out, Nooooo, the splash of hot blood on his face as his babygirl is murdered in front of him. next is his son, his likeness, and finally, his beautiful wife maria. the shot he takes doesn't even register, still bleeding from his head as he holds them all close and cries. he's holding tetora just as close as he waits for the inevitable. he hopes he can get the sound eaters to just take him. he can't do this again. he can't be here anymore. he's so tired. ]

I'm not letting you die, you fuck. Don't ever scare me like that again.

[ it registers belatedly that he knows. tetora fucking knows about kilgrave because frank must have given it away. there are tears stinging his eyes now in the present, though it's hard to separate it from terrible memories. here and back home. he wants to kill him, pop that slimy bastard's head off and laugh the whole time. he wants to bathe in his blood and relish in him never being able to hurt jessica, faith or kara ever again. he wants to punish him for all that he's done and ever thought about doing. but he can't. the mechanics of this place leave kilgrave in the power seat and he hates playing this waiting game.

speaking of waiting, the longer the silence goes on around him, the closer frank gets to realizing the monsters aren't coming. he narrows his eyes, but doesn't risk letting go yet. ] Are you gonna stay quiet?

Edited 2018-02-24 18:48 (UTC)

[ it's suffocating.

it's not just the hand over his mouth and nose; he's gotten choked out enough times in his life for him to have a functioning muscle memory on how to deal with it. what's choking him is the overwhelming sensation of drowning in someone else's emotions. flashes of red cover the sight of his mind's eye - yells ricocheting around his head, the sensation of dead, limp bodies bleeding out in his hands, the shape of memories that aren't his own cutting through his body.

tears fall unbidden from the shared pain. hot tears blur his vision more than the lack of air, memories of miwa surfacing from when she gave him humanity and taught him what tears are for.

miwa, on the ground, comatose from the echo of a bullet meant for him.

miwa, his twin, his sister, the one person in the whole world who was made like him - made for him - finally dying by his hand, when he pulled the trigger on her prone form. freeing her from the prison machi made her live through, her mind trapped in a body that can't function without the help of machines.

he put her in this state.

he had to get her out.

she was the only person in the world that he'd done anything good for.

this man is dragging it right back up, right out of him.

(he nods, feebly at first, then angrily when he realizes the bleedthrough is unavoidable. he nods his assent to hotdog, gives the man's wrist a hard yank to take a silent gasp. dust fills his lungs but he takes it as it comes; the burn in his lungs remain all the same.)

In the silence, as his heartbeat returns to something less loud, tetora taps out in morse against hotdog's wrist. He's crying and he hates it but the anger has fused with the taste of sand and copper in his mouth. ]

I'm sorry.

[ he realizes he's holding on too tight when tetora shoves at him, and his hold relaxes minutely. frank's not letting go, there's no fucking way. not after what he just saw. the bracket of his arms go from that of a protectorate to something much gentler, an attempt to protect the boy from enemies foreign and domestic -- even if they're only thoughts trapped in his mind. hot tears track down his cheeks unnoticed by him as he rests his chin on tetora's head. without meaning to, he pushes soft, tearful comforts into the boy's mind, like he would his own son or david's. ] Shhhh, it's okay. Shhh-- I've got you. You're safe.

[ the morse code is well-received, letting him know that tetora is becoming more lucid; though frank has all but forgotten where they are. blind eyes blink water from his eyes and try to take in their surroundings. they were on the way somewhere. the hospital...? jesus christ. he doesn't make a move to pull away yet, rubbing tetora's back in soothing circles, pushing the pack out of the way so he can smooth a broad, flat palm over the young man's jacket. he just rests there, it's hard to say how long. tetora's heartbeat and his own sound like one drumbeat, heavy and echoing even as they begin to even out. in the fore of his own mind is the secure knowledge that he would never let this kid get hurt again, not here. not as long as frank castle drew breath into his lungs. ]

[ he doesn't know when he let his eyes shut out the world around him, but he knows when he realizes that he's being held like something precious. something to be protected instead of used, bartered, butchered. the strangest thing of all is this: he doesn't struggle his way out of it.

knowing that hotdog's mind has no intentions of harm is part of the reason why, certainly. tetora knows the colors of familial protectiveness, even if he's never witnessed it firsthand before now. he's never had a birthday party (clones don't have birthdays), never had a proper education (why teach a weapon to be human?), and he's definitely never had a positive figure in his life that didn't come along as dead or dying. kitou would have been, if he lived. inuhiko might've been, if machi didn't throw a wrench into their relationship before things to get far enough for trust to find its roots in the both of them. all of this is strange. being held like this is strange.

tetora can't get enough of it, especially now that the only points of contact are through their cloth-covered bodies.

he can ignore the dampness clumping up strands of his hair, and wetting his cheek. no one's ever cried for him. no one's ever held him like this before.

if you could see me now, miwa, he thinks. the thought tastes bittersweet, like fruit left overripe. i found someone who cares. ]

We have to go, [ he taps out eventually. The taste of copper is starting to flood the back of his throat; he knows it's not just the sand that's causing it this time. ]

[ frank lets the other cling as long as he wants to, though the way he holds him becomes slightly more lax as his own tears wind down. he has no family of his own left to care for, and he's always searching to fill that void in others even when he shouldn't. he can't help but think that maybe that's why he's here. his mission is done back home -- really done. he's done. so what did he have to lose? he may as well help the natives and everyone here; he's unconsciously made them his new mission rather than prioritizing getting back. ]

I know, [ he taps back, reluctant to pull away, though he finally disentangles himself and pushes out a heavy, silent sigh. this time, he starts down the path and pulls out his device, much more willing to talk than he was at the beginning at least. he's still a little shaken, but feeling lighter somehow. like the pressure in his skull has finally been allieviated after that dickbag tried to take everything from him. joke's on kilgrave, frank castle has nothing left to take. ] you weren't kidding about needing those drugs

[ his eyebrows shoot up. it wasn't that he doubted tetora before, but now he's going to scour every inch of that hospital until they come up with what he needs. ]

[ snot is ugly. tears are ugly. pain and suffering are ugly when externalized, and maybe it's just the bullshit that he's been fed as a child that makes him think this, but it's a little piece of opinion that he believes in. pain is for keeping, and suffering is for bearing, both meant to be carried until they calcify into bombs that scorch the earth in their wake upon explosion.

tetora wipes his face swiftly with the sleeve of his jumper, careful to avoid the rivets and to muffle the sound of his breathing; he's ugly. he's an ugly, unlovable piece of shit for suffering so much through his skin, and he hates that this man's warm embrace feels like a beautiful thing. ]

i've been getting drugged since i was ten, i'm practically immune to rehab.

[ the candyman, ever so aptly named, made sure of it. tetora isn't joking around when he says he could die without the drugs; his immune system is so fast-paced it compromises itself, and slowing his heartrate down to keep it from overworking itself into a seizure is just par for the course. getting drugged up was part and parcel of living for so many years that when tetora finally got forced to live clean, he acted out as if he had a psychosis.

he can't bring himself to look at hotdog just yet, too; his gaze is to his feet when he types out the rest of his response: ]

i wasn't the easiest kid to handle.

[ empathy and sadness (and love) are quickly trumped by the indignant rage boiling up inside him. frank's fist clenches at his right thigh, his lefthand side still open and angled towards tetora. he hates kilgrave, he hates agent orange, okay. but he hates the people who made tetora feel like this more than even them right now. maybe it's the remnants of having the boy inside his head, but all he wants is to kill each one of them in gruesome, bloody ways. slowly, very very slowly. ]

it's okay i'll get you what you need.

[ he should probably be more worried about a kid, no older than he was when he was sent out for his first tour, being hooked on drugs. but he isn't. he'd do anything to help tetora feel even a fraction better. what comes next is even harder to stomach, and it revolts tellingly a moment. so violently frank's steps slow before he's able to pick up the pace again- ] they're the fuck ups. not you. doesn't matter how difficult a kid is, it was their responsibility to protect you. to love you. [ they failed and for that frank will never forgive them. ]

i don't have parents. i never had them.

[ it's a basic truth among them. some of the clones had been given to families that had at least tried to raise them somewhat humanely, despite knowing what they're for and what they can do. the ones who were raised unaware never knew any better, not until their charges were triggered and spilled blood that shouldn't, turning on their guardians and the rest of society along with it. no, tetora was raised well-aware of who and what he is. a tool. a weapon. a means to a world-changing end. ]

i'm not saying this for pity.
this is what i've always known.
people don't need to love the things they use, they just have to know how to use them well.
i'm a weapon.

that's how i was taught, and that's all i know to be.
you don't need to be kind to me.

[ death is his normal. murder is what he understands - the intricacies of it, the nooks and crannies of how to pull a man apart limb from limb by hand.

tetora's never hidden of it. ]

does it bother you? what i am?

Edited 2018-03-01 14:45 (UTC)

[ he's never been so invested in another person's story here before, and frank finds himself swept up in his device -- walking with his head buried in it like a millenial. as ever he'll wait for tetora to get to the end before replying, too many things whizzing through his head to pluck them out before then anyway. he thinks of rawlins, what he turned frank into. he thinks of kilgrave and how he'd done the same to jess. and then here... frank and tetora have more in common than he ever would have thought, and the realization breaks his heart.

you don't need to be kind to me. his gaze jumps over to the boy then, nothing but concern writ over it. he doesn't have to read frank's mind to know he's squarely in his corner. it isn't as though he can deny who he is when tetora saw it with his own eyes, or at least what frank suffered as a consequence. he swallows back the familiar dryness clogging up his throat and tries to articulate his feelings. hard enough with words, but near impossible over text. ]

i was a weapon too
the thing is
i thought i was a weapon for the good guys

[ he was wrong. ]

un: nishizono

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super encrypto private;;

super encrypto private;; > action;;

action;;

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itt two emotionally constipated guys

holy fUCK

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cw: mentions of death/murder, suicide etc.

cw: assisted suicide, murder

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supaa short i'll make it up to you next round

i'll show u short!!!!

huffs!!!

u brought this on urself

i have regretti (for the record he's taking his pills in this icon too)

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and DONE.