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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]