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KENOS IC CONTACT
© TESSISAMESS
[ Communion with Silco is like being doused in cold, polluted water. It feels like taking a breath is difficult, like there's fingers around your throat, pain all over. The water is too-slick like it's almost more pollutants than water, and the water crashes against you, inescapable, even if you were to somehow find the ability to breathe, there is still no escape from the sickening undertow. Somewhere, perhaps deeper in the water, or something else, is a simmering, vile hatred, resentment, and it feels like it should be hot enough to make the water around you boil, even if it's almost too-placid, and too cold. Like all of this hatred is buried deep. Then again, the fact that it feels so close means it must burn so hot. ]
baseslides in
He could go earlier, certainly. But why would he?
The more Silco suffers, the better it is for Sebastian’s purposes. He knows that Silco loathes having to draw on their Covenant, since it makes him feel weak. And Sebastian knows his master well at this point. There’s little more he hates than that. Whatever trouble he’s facing will fester the sort of vicious, snarling hatred that Sebastian so loves to taste. So, he laughs when he feels that magical pull, though it’s too soft to hear in the noise.
It's only moments after Silco calls for him that the floor underneath Silco darkens as a shadow slips quickly past as if there were something overhead. That’s not the case, of course. Silco will know the cool, ethereal feeling of the shadows brushing over skin, but it’s only a flicker. Those shadows form themselves behind Gen where Silco can see, but to Gen, it’s as if Sebastian simply appears out of thin air.
Sebastian presses his body flush to Gen’s back, but it’s solely because there’s not many options with how the three of them are positioned. One hand darts down Gen’s flesh arm to grab his wrist with tight, near crushing, but still warning force. His other shows a glint of metal as Sebastian sets his head on Gen’s shoulder and presses the blade of a knife to Gen’s throat with just enough pressure to draw a hairline of blood. He’s careful and precise enough that he won’t cut further even if Gen struggles… Or at least not without giving the young man a chance to relent. ]
Dear me… You have been getting into so much trouble recently. You really cannot play nice with anyone, can you?
[ His voice is velvety as he teases Silco, but the command that follows comes low and dangerous into Gen’s ear. ]
Release him.
😳
Sebastian might have prepared for a struggle, but Gen freezes first and foremost. Pressed close like this, Sebastian must be able to feel the way Gen's body ratchets so tight with tension that he shivers briefly, muscles pulled cable-taut until they hurt. His shoulders jerk with a halting inhale, his nerves all crackling with uneasy tension; he isn't aware of it, but his canine ears are canted sharply back when he risks a glance over his shoulder towards Sebastian, his face just a touch pale.
He's never liked knives, after back then. And he's never liked people touching his back much, either. Too similar to his worst moments. It feels like an ice-cold hand's gripping tight around his lungs.
With his thoughts tangled in that brief, violent burst of shock and tension, it takes Gen a solid moment to even realize what's happened and who's showed up. To properly feel the knife's blade pressing ever so slightly harder against his throat when he gives a hard swallow. His mouth suddenly feels dry, and it's a little hoarse when he forces himself to speak. ]
This ain't your business.
[ The tendons of his wrist shift when he squeezes harder at Silco's throat, thumbs starting to press into the soft of it to block off his windpipe. -- but not hard enough to properly throttle him, and definitely not hard enough to break it, even if his prosthetic arm could muster the strength for it. Gen's much, much too aware of the threat literally pressed against his skin to make that move. That subtle push is all he can manage as he glares at Sebastian, speaking through gritted teeth. ]
This is between me and him. Fuck off.
[ Silco is the only Zenite who needs to bleed. Gen just wants to make sure it happens. ]
no subject
But this time wasn't his fault. He hadn't done it! ]
I told you — [ He rattled, before he tried to take in another breath, forcing as much air as he could get in, around Gen's still-warm fingers. ] — That you shouldn't have made me call security.
[ His eyes flick to Sebastian now, behind Gen, as if to say: get his hands off of me, but with only a glance to Sebastian, then down at Gen's arm, and then back at him.
He'd explain later that this one was not his fault. ]
yeah ok silco sebastian definitely believes you
Mr. Silco is my business.
[ His response is calm, but firm, even if there’s a few meanings to the statement just for Silco himself. As Gen’s hand flexes, so too does Sebastian’s, and he lets out a warning tut. He glances to Silco to see that unsaid command, and he laughs just a few soft notes. Well, at least it’s Gen, he thinks. The young man never liked him anyways, so there’s nothing to lose here.
There’s a quick, but precise flurry of movement from Sebastian. The flesh arm is one that he can easily deal with, but the prosthetic is both an unknown and likely able to exert more force, so the prioritization is simple. The knife leaves Gen’s throat, but it’s so that he can drive the knife into a gap in the prosthetic arm’s elbow joint. Sebastian may not know how it works, but he can at least make a guess. He drags the knife as much as he can in hopes that he’ll sever cords or whatever else inside. He imagines it’s functionally like tendons, after all. ]
no subject
His thoughts are instantly dragged back to a certain dark evening, where one swipe of a swordblade from Kim Dokja had taken his arm. The pain of that moment, and of the following weeks and months, have certainly left their mark on him. Gen's body reacts before his conscious mind does -- metal screeching on metal as he violently jerks back his prosthetic arm, ripping it out of Sebastian's grip, and out of the range of that blade.
Then Gen vanishes.
-- or rather, he seems to vanish. A sharp eye might catch the fact that he'd simply melted into the floor, near-instantaneously disappearing from view; gone are the hands that had been crushing around Silco's throat, leaving behind only slowly-blooming bruises. And when Gen appears once more, it's a short distance away, with Silco's desk parked between him, and where Silco and Sebastian are.
His prosthetic arm is definitely damaged, judging by the way his thumb and one finger seem caught in a claw-like grip around nothing, the other three fingers hanging limp. Gen's face, too, is pale; though pain doesn't transmit fully through his prosthetic, he also isn't immune to the sensation of damaged 'tendons.' But that's fine -- he only needs one hand to do what he's about to do. Which is: swipe across the desk's surface to grab at one very important object, before hooking a hand against its underside and yanking. Hard.
Whatever paperwork and other objects Silco had out on his desk go flying in every direction, followed by the loud crash of the desk itself toppling over as a distraction. And before those scattered papers have even settled on the floor once more, Gen is gone once more, this time for good.
He'll have to find some other Zenith to bleed. But at least he managed to rattle Silco and fetch what he'd been meaning to procure. Time to find some other target to hunt down. ]
no subject
So, so angry. It's coming off of him in droves, like waves of fury, a tempest in a man and he wants to order Sebastian to kill him — crush his shard right then and there — but he can't find the voice to do so. His breaths are wheezing, one eye ever open, dancing to try and see what Gen's doing, even as his vision blurs, and he tried to swallow the thick coating that he felt in his throat, from trying to breathe through his mouth, and he coughed.
Gen, Gen wasn't done causing destruction, though.
He watched, as Gen started to hook his fingers under his desk, and start to lift it.
There were more than just papers on the desk. More than just a decanter of fine liquor, a few hatch rocks glasses. More than a trinket or two Silco had gotten from one conquest or another — they were gray, and old, standing out in that they were not fine. Covered in paint markers, like a child's drawn-on art, it's almost comical how much they do stand out, and how much everyone ignores the precious ashtray he keeps on his desk.
As soon as the desk starts to tip up, Silco starts to scramble, uncoordinated though it is. His feet scrape the floor, a single hand tries to get himself up in the same moment that he is also reaching out with — nothing. He has no hand there. Nothing to catch the cup that falls to the ground, or the ashtray.
They are not particularly delicate, they look like they're made out of some sort of sturdy stone. But stone can fracture, when dropped, even over time, those fractures can grow larger. And growing up raising Jinx means that plenty of things have fallen over the years, and cracked and fractured.
The cup cracked, as it hit the ground, and hatred was all Silco knew. ]