quietplace | un: nishizono

[ 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. ]

[ it's what brings him up short, has him stopping in his tracks along the dirt and dust on their path.

for the good guys.

tetora grew up where the only choices were the bad and the worse, with only glimmers of hope caught in between. and those glimmers often died, violently, often at the hands of those sworn to protect them. it's the naivete of the world that protects their little skirmishes from the public eye, creating the illusion that there's a better world to look forward to, but tetora knows not to have that kind of optimism.

the world has cut into him too many times to fool him. shame on it for pretending otherwise. ]

no one makes weapons for the good of everyone.
maybe someone, sure.
a group of people, definitely, why not.
but there's no true good.

i like to think i'm living proof of that.

Edited (i can code good) 2018-03-01 18:05 (UTC)

[ he frowns, letting it simmer and deepen into more of a scowl. what hurts is that tetora is right. he hates that more than the rest, that he was so naive; that he ignored his better judgment and got his whole world taken away from him. ]

i know that now

[ frank picks up the pace as they approach the hospital, checking the door before silently easing it open for the other. ]

[ he slips right under hotdog's wide reach, and they fall into tandem like they've been doing this for a long time.

in reality, it's just muscle memory and trained responses. at least that's the case for tetora. he was brought up to be a weapon, and with that came training to be adept at adapting, be it to an environment or a person. hotdog isn't the hardest to read; his body language is too big for the space his body occupies, and so his every gesture speaks to the power he has in his muscles. every step is efficient, yet naked; every curl of his fist and silent lifting of stray objects is so clearly defined he might as well be speaking out loud.

tetora marvels at it. how a man who is so much can contain himself in something as flimsy as a human body.

it's as tetora's stripping the tubing from a smashed ventilation machine that he decides: i would kill for this man. ]

[ frank doesn't have to know what tetora is doing, he merely helps any way he can. the boy knows best what he needs, frank is just here as the muscle. it's a role that serves him well, even in covert ops, somehow completely silent despite his mass. like so many others here, tetora is more than he appears. he's a slight teenager, but by no means weak. even without his crazy powers, frank knows what he's been through; he knows who he is. and he does accept him exactly that way, no modification needed.

even though he knows it's been picked over, he still ducks into the first floor pharmacy, leaving no stone unturned. he eventually comes out with about six bottles worth of shit tetora may or may not be able to use. then he comes back over and gestures for the boy to turn around so he can stash them in the bag. ]

[ if there's anything childlike left in tetora's frame, it's reserved for moments such as this. the candyman had always called his drugs as sweets, or related to them in those terms. it's a disgusting piece of conditioning, but tetora hasn't gotten over the pavlovian instinct to perk up when presented with pills.

this instance is no different. tetora bounds up to hotdog, hands held out to read the label, and his mouth twists in triumph at the fine print. the bottle with clonazepam, first and foremost among the benzodiazepines hotdog found, is popped open carefully. hotdog gets to witness tetora swallow five pills in one go. after a few moments the effects kick in as tetora's metabolism goes into overdrive and processes the drug. the tension in tetora's shoulders ease out, and he looks at hotdog like he's only really seeing now, for the first time.

it might as well be the truth, really.

then, cheekily, he makes the OK sign. ]

[ he watches the whole process with a cool calmness reserved for battle. he stows the rest of the bottles in the backpack and leaves the klonopin with tetora, then gestures that they should go up a level. if he's taking that many at once, what he found won't last long. he lets out a tiny, relieved breath at the OK sign. then returns it, pushing at tetora's shoulder gently to get him moving. once in the stairwell, he'll take out a device to ask a question weighing on his mind, expression still neutral. ]

do the pills help
with
what you can do?

they do the opposite.

[ he touches a finger to frank's wrist, because it's easier to communicate telepathically than it is to keep typing. better now while he's still lucid than later, too. ]

Imagine a clock that runs three times as fast. Everything's going faster than actual time does, so the threads on the clock's hands just... wear down to nothing, and then the whole thing falls apart. The drugs calm down all the science-y shit in me.

Back home, there's a specific cocktail I'm supposed to take, in a specific order, and it's supposed to keep me alive for longer. These do in a pinch, but...

[ tetora shakes his own head. ]

The better we are, the quicker we die. [ then, with a wry smile: ] That, and I'm too hooked up on the side effects that the shit won't wash out.

Edited 2018-03-03 17:17 (UTC)

[ he starts at the touch, even though he shouldn't. even if he knows what's coming. he braces himself, but then focuses on the words. he has no choice as they flit into his mind like a projector cast behind his eyes. at least they're just words this time, it's okay when they're just talking. when no one is giving him orders. Be polite with me, Frank. nausea curls in the pit of his belly, but he nods his understanding anyway. ]

That's what I meant.

[ and it really had been. frank's no dummy, even if he doesn't mind when people think that. he might even encourage it. "Look, it's the retard!" it doesn't bother him when he's underestimated. it only gives him the upperhand in the end. but here he isn't trying to best tetora, he's only trying to understand. trying to relate, in the most fundamental way possible.

by 'help' he had meant subdue. if his abilities really are like symptoms then these drugs dampen them. something like that, even if the rest of what the boy says isn't comforting. frank gets that more readily than the rest, and so he wouldn't think of countering. ]

It must feel like a lot, all the time. In your head. [ frank had enough of his own bullshit thoughts and memories without adding in everyone else's. and then another person's agenda -- something he'd just made it through. only barely. he's trying to push down the rage and the violence and the pure heartbreak so he doesn't inflict that on tetora, but in the end all he can do is yank his hand away and start walking again. the last thing this kid needs is to deal with his shit on top of everything else. ]

[ tetora follows in hotdog's steps, slowly at first, then at a matching speed as they make their way out of the hospital. it's a quiet clip, as much as anything can be quiet in a world of sound eaters, but there's a companionable weight to the silence now that wasn't present before.

still, the frown on hotdog's face remains, and it tickles something ugly in tetora's mind. it's like a bruise, at this point - surfacing at times, blending in with the red and green at others, but always so present on the man's entire existence. it never seems to leave. what's going on in his head? what's wrong? what is he thinking?

tetora shushes that part of him. it's needless, harming, unwanted by the both of them at this point.

they're halfway back to the residences when tetora reaches out, and taps on hotdog's sleeve: ]

thank you

[ he doesn't say that often. if at all. ]

[ frank is grateful for the silence, even if it leaves him alone with his thoughts. jessica and kilgrave, all the children who have come to rely on him, and now david is here too. there are so many people turning to him and it's all he can do not to fall apart.

the taps get the briefest tensing and frank looks back at the young man's face. his lips press in a thin line and he nods. it's as good a 'you're welcome' as tetora is likely to get. even if frank doesn't feel like he's done enough to help. maybe it's best if no one else looks to him for guidance. he'll drop tetora off without communicating another word or sentiment. ]

[ it's something, at least. tetora's used to men who don't say much with words, who were more comfortable with their fists or their guns, letting actions speak for them. this is familiar, the way the back of one's hand is familiar, and something dangerously like friendship erupts in bright red colors at the back of tetora's mind.

he tacks a note to his memory of hotdog, scribbles "one of the better ones" under his picture, and follows his lead back to the community.

it's been a good trip. ]

un: nishizono

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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.