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Perhaps the emotion he felt was misplaced. From an objective perspective, he was eagerly, enthusiastically leaping into circumstances that would bash his skull against his own past stupidity repeatedly with unrelenting force, all the while keeping him on a leash, utterly helpless to stop a repetition of the scenario. It was the cruellest thing to do to a man who'd just discovered empathy for himself: The ability to see the world from other people's perspectives, without ever needing to be those people. Even the psychological ramifications notwithstanding, what he was about to embark on for the first time was dangerous. He had no doubt that he'd be found out repeatedly, and he couldn't imagine tribal Sehto to react to such a revelation with an insignificant chance of violence.
And yet, he smiled. None of that mattered, after all - he could make himself useful. It wasn't redemption, or anything so mundane. A purpose was hardly an excuse for his past actions; it merely shaped his present ones. Rather than desperately clamour for death, he could cling to life, knowing that if it was lost, he might have to be replaced. An inconvenience. Not much of one, perhaps - he didn't feel it was fit for him to judge it - but an inconvenience nonetheless, one he sought to keep from his superiors.
He didn't require love. He didn't require appreciation. He was wholly content simply knowing that he was providing an objectively useful function and preventing them the tedious trouble of having to find someone else to do the same. The fact it would gently carve into him on a day to day basis, twist knots into his gut until his innards were tightly and neatly braided, was only a further selling point, even if it was delegated to footnote status.
He was standing beside the dining room table, the room empty but for his own presence, staring pensively at the contents of his rucksack. He had to pick his inventory with care - he wasn't going to be given any money, not for his first run around the gym circuit in his new role, not for his next. He would rely entirely on the charity of gym leaders - most of which, while he had hardly been cruel to them, would probably not be pleased to see him. There was a romantic notion of living off the fruits of the earth should all else fail, revert to a hunter-gatherer lifestyle squarely homed in on the 'gatherer' aspect, but his knowledge of edible plants was minimal. It was nothing he couldn't fix, but Jagdish had no botany book (though some of the better cook books almost made a decent substitute) and so he was on his own for this first run.
A quiet part of his psyche observes that the thought of starving in the streets isn't bothering him as much as it should be.
An outrage.
That was the only way to adequately describe it. How could Jagdish possibly think this was a wise idea? How could the Council have agreed with him? Allowing him to live was one thing, but this? Setting him out on the world, with nothing but an abstraction to keep him from turning around, murdering Iris, and running free across Sehto? How was that remotely sane?
Vendetta turns the weapon over in his paws, examining it with visceral disgust. He could still recall the lancing pain he'd suffered from it during their battle, darkness lashing brutally across his fur. A shudder passes through his form. He'd like to destroy it. It would be so trivial, breaking it into pieces… But no. Destroying it would give Dakarai closure, tell him that that particular crime was forgiven. The thought of doing that revolts him far more than the weapon itself ever could.
Jagdish could have done this himself, certainly. But he'd handed the weapon to Vendetta, specified the ultimate outcome but not how it was reached. Whatever happened in between, Jagdish would do him the favor of turning a blind eye to it. It was the least he could do to try and soothe his rage at the situation in general.
The soft 'pop' behind Dakarai, followed by the faintly charged atmosphere raising the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck, are the only warnings he's given. A telekinetic grip bites into his shoulders, pressing on the inside of his skull, wrapped around his spine. ~Leaving already, human?~ the Legendary's voice sneers into his mind, that last word dripping with contempt.
A thunderstorm brews at the edge of his perception, a mere moment the canvas for the manifestation of a powerful cyclone. For a split second, he wonders how he can sense the weather. But that makes no sense, of course. Neither does searching for a cause - it's obvious the moment the question so much as occurs to him. The small triumph of realisation is quick to be extinguished by the reality behind it. Eighteen claws crush against his vertebrae - he can't count them, the number arbitrarily assigned, but clear to his mind.
For a moment, he simply holds himself still, closing his eyes, trying to calmly banish the train of thought he was having before. Some obsessive part of him clings to the task despite the imminent danger, struggling to recall whether he's packed his toothbrush. The surreality of the thought punctures through the thin haze of fear that's settled across the rest of his psyche, presenting itself for ridicule. Instead, it merely wanders amongst the scape, lost and alone, trying to prompt him to be responsible - it was going to be a long journey. Dakarai? Dakarai, where are you? Listen to me, boy!
Something pulsed strongly in his chest, abruptly wakened from its sluggish pace; his heart. He forces himself to breathe slowly, finding it surprisingly effortless… only to speak: “Don't worry, Vendetta, I'll return soon, you'll barely know I'm gone.” It's not even flippantly intoned, however cynical the remark may be; a part of him scolds him for losing his edge, but he's invested a lot into his good mood today, and it's not trivial to adjust it, even to fear.
And then, for an instant, prophetic clarity, adrenalin spiking uselessly through his body: 'He's going to kill me.' There was no buffer zone, no probability for reprieve. This was the pokémon he'd driven off the battle field with his weapon - what else would he do? He already had the twig that was his spine in his grasp - he just had to snap it.
Vendetta lets out an animal snarl. The psychic grip tenses around his throat, pressure more than enough to assert itself, but not even close to the point of closing his windpipe or cutting off blood flow to the brain. Moments later, he can feel his bones being dragged upward; weight is slowly pulled off his feet until he's being suspended in midair, hanging from his spine and shoulderblades, his arms and legs freely able to move, but nothing else.
If he's going to kill him, he's certainly not opting for the 'swift and decisive' strategy. He'd have had plenty of opportunities to do it by now. Instead, Dakarai finds his view turning to the right, skull locked forwards as it is, until the Legendary pokémon swivels into view. Vendetta's coated in an iridescent blue sheen radiating outward from his eyes, glowing a magnificent and terrifying cobalt blue. His left forepaw is held in front of him, positioned as if holding an invisible doll mimicking Dakarai's current orientation; in his right… rests an object that Dakarai is all too familiar with.
Eyes narrow, and a smirk plays across Vendetta's muzzle. ~I sincerely hope you haven't forgotten about this,~ he says, holding up the device to make it more visible to his captive. ~Because I certainly haven't,~ he hisses, tail flicking sharply to the side before resuming its usual, infinity-sign orbit.
He's not dead yet. For an instant, Dakarai is convinced that his heart has stopped beating - then it lurches back into motion as a vice closes around his throat, seeming strategically placed to simply make itself known, and to manipulate him like a doll. Reflexively, he drags in a breath, but he's hardly short of it. Not yet. A wire of nausea lashes through Dakarai's gut as he's lifted, the familiar grasp of gravity turning into distant wisps. In his clarity, he realises he's far from panic, but the list of ways this could turn into an awful, bone-snapping nightmare just keeps getting longer. Nothing he hasn't felt before. Nothing he doesn't deserve. The visceral rejection is still there, though, of course, strong as ever, petulant, unregenerate. He pleads with himself, trying to just let the whole thing run its inevitable course. Fear wasn't going to get him anywhere. A lack of fear would at least let him conserve some energy for his tri-
The part of him narrating the things he should be doing to prepare for the journey abruptly flees as Vendetta reveals the ace up his sleeve.
He wants to feel physically sick, a mixture of self-loathing, shock and animal fear constricting in his gut. He wrestles with it in silence for a moment, still holding himself still, impossibly, now staring at the item as if he had to convince himself it wasn't just some elaborate, sadistic illusion. But of course it's real. He made it. “It's difficult to forget,” he says softly, with neither arrogance not humility, just a barely tangible sliver of regret. Some part of him finds itself surprised that his voice came out sounding quite so even - the rest of him has long since scattered into dust, there's nothing in him that could lend that smooth touch to his vocalisations, but apparently it had just found itself amongst the fragments of his thought.
The Legendary's expression distorts into a scowl. ~Really,~ the psychic voice intones venomously, as he takes two steps forward. ~You think so?~ he adds mockingly. ~I think you lack the experience to judge that. Here, let me give you some context.~ With a flick of his wrist, the three prongs of the whip spill out, glowing a neutral beige.
>Crack< - The three tendrils smack against his chest in unison, stinging at him even through the layer of clothes. Vendetta shifts a setting on the device, and the glow turns red. >Crack< - The cords come down at an angle now, leaving in their wake burning lines from his right elbow to his left flank. The settings change again, the glow turns icy blue. >Crack< - Another trio of lines, mirroring the last, slice along him, spreading freezing cold through his body. Another adjustment, the glow turns a bright yellow. >Crack< - The lines whip partially along his back this time, catching his abdomen, electric shock running through his system, limbs convulsing uncontrollably for a moment before it dissipates.
The instant those three lines surface, the knot in his gut recedes in instinctive panic, nuzzling desperately against his kidneys as if hoping to escape out past the small of his back and into freedom. Tension grasps his entire form. A desperate urge to flee crowds itself against the inside of his skull, manifesting as a light vertigo in his eyes, transparent fireflies across his vision. As the first proper motion touches those strands, a curt breath is drawn in, then held as if some part of him were wholly convinced that maybe if he didn't breathe, he'd automatically submerge in enough water to act as a comfortable buffer zone.
Of course, there's no water anywhere in sight. The first strike laps at him like strands of fine needles, by themselves individually inconsequential, but in combination like a crude blade each, slashed across his ribs by someone hoping to draw blood. The shock of the strike predominates his perception, silencing him.
There's no reprieve, of course. Panic flares up his gut in the brief moment he has to become lucidly aware of that, eyes wide, only to snap shut in reflex. A low cry escapes him as the burn flares up across his perception, in part crossing over the light prior bruises, overlap point feeling like a dagger stabbing him between the ribs. His breath escapes him, flimsily and swiftly, both, expelled by a ribcage twitching itself out of the way in a futile reflex.
He barely has time to catch another breath to make up for the one he's lost. Ice bites at his skin, and a vice-like, punishing, crushing and splintering grip seems to seize his delicate bones, pinching them dangerously. His breath hitches, a single, toneless sob, without thinking. His spine twists to the side, shoulders struggling against the invisible grip that seems to gentle in comparison.
Another cry lurches from him as the yellow lines lick around his body, single, meaningless syllable torn to tatters by the effect they bring, shredded into staccato fragments as the tension of his body becomes unbearable and painful, tendons of his fingers trying desperately to tear themselves free from the joints that hold them.
Coherence has largely left him - there's about enough of it left that he's lucidly aware of that, at least, effortlessly torn back down from his carefully, meticulously constructed rational framework into the abyss of primal reactions. He wanted to divorce himself from them. This behaviour was neither dignified nor respectful. Not caring to listen to that speck of reasoning, his legs kick at the air, seeking purchase. He feels like he's been set on fire. It wouldn't be the first time, but there's no flame to go with it this time, just the realisation that he was helpless against a potential further layer of agony. There were plenty of settings to go through, and nothing to suggest Vendetta would be pleased with the application of each of them just once. Driven by some urge he can't pin down, he struggles for breath - again without any obstruction to warrant it.
There's a pause in the assault, Vendetta studying his captive victim for a long moment, judging his state of mind. He certainly doesn't want him to completely lose his conscious thought; that would defeat the entire point. It almost starts to look as if he's decided to stop, when the setting changes again and strikes him with another lash, and another, and another, each intensely painful, each distinct from the ones that came before. The whip rakes claws across his psyche. The whip slices into his skin like sharpened knives. The whip slithers under his skin, drinking a helping of his blood. The whip causes his gut to wretch and twist, his body to spasm, flushed with fever.
In that pause, the tension holding him becomes apparent - and falls apart, no one single guided thought to hold it in place, dispersing into a shiver travelling through all of his limbs, intense, not in the least camouflaged. There's enough of an interlude for reality to seep back into his senses, now hyperaware, his surrounding a uselessly sharp image, the brush of each lightest gust of air apparent against his unwittingly levitated body.
There's a brief, stupid urge to bring his arms forward and cross them across his abdomen, press his legs and feet together, minimise the surface actually struck by those lines - but from the depths of his reclaimed thoughts rages a visceral rejection. He redirects the overwhelming urge to act into a sabotage of his instincts, pushing his shivering arms behind his back, grasping at his wrists with his hands, pulling at them a moment later to hide as little of his upper arms behind him as he could, a resolute glare infecting his expression; it's not directed at anyone in particular, though.
Then it's upon him again, biting at flesh, driving a sensation like a feverish nightmare across him, a primal unease, trapping itself briefly in his skull, threatening never to dislodge. Before it can flower into a particular mental image, it's gone, leaving him to briefly gasp - then another strike splits his skin, drawing bright, crimson lines, in part destroying the fabric of his shirt. The lone part of him that's displeased with this distraction points out he was doing a marvellous job of undoing his preparations, and if he could please stop sabotaging his own mission, clearly oblivious to that none of this was his own choice.
Was it?
What level of acceptance, exactly, did one have to feel for the matter to be considered one's choice? The greatest burn he felt was still the one to endure, not out of spite, but out of sheer necessity. The longer he endured, the longer it would prevail. He wasn't sure who that served - in this case, a part of him meekly hoped it was an acceptable sacrifice to offer Vendetta for his plight, a fragment of an apology that would only insult the pokémon's intelligence if it were directly spoken.
Another strike touched him, morphing to his perception. The open wounds grasped at the tendrils as if some part divorced from his own volition begged for their attention, the twisting lines bifurcating again and again, in a split second, only to tear from his flesh, taking an airborne spatter of blood with it. It didn't work that way, a part of him insists; the whip channelled energies, it didn't possess a life of his own. His skin, his flesh, was unconvinced, feeling both freshly afire with frayed wounds and the violation of having something taken from them, something more substantial than just the droplets scattering uselessly on the tiles, as if the device had briefly seduced his biological clockwork into accepting those wires as part of its circulatory system.
His breath rasps, spine arching, teeth gritting, eyes squeezing shut, a pitiful sound suspended between a groan and a whimper wrenched from his body. Then the final lash of the set drives it home, an unwelcome, nauseating heat spiralling tightly up between his lungs, gut briefly inverting, rumbling with no care for what his self-consciousness thought of such a sound. The shivers are back, then, and it takes all of his willpower not to bring his arms around to the front again.
The the set is over, leaving him in a breathless, shallow pant, regarding the open wounds with a numb, passive horror - he was getting blood all over the place. Any of those might get genuinely infected. He might die. And yet, he didn't care, on anything but the most abstract mental plane. His animal mind decreed: All of this was just fire by another name. An invisible flame was eating him up, chest and upper arms first. It was only a matter of time before it spread like wildfire and he was reduced to ashes, surely.
A trace of disappointment crosses Vendetta's features. He's taking this all far too much in stride. No pleading for mercy, no begging for his life, just the sense of writhing in that psychic grip and cries of pain all too often subdued. 'It doesn't matter,' he reminds himself coldly. He didn't need to hear him cry out his name in agony to feel vindicated. This could do just fine.
The pause is shorter this time, before another set of lashes cracks against his broken body, in quicker succession this time. Searing white engulfs the whip, scalding against his skin, burning into his retinas. It blurs into a deep, rusty tone, coming around to crash into him with the force of a sack of bricks. It shifts again, into a brilliant emerald hue; this time effortlessly reminding of long, thorny vines hooking into his flesh. Finally, the last of the set strikes him with a brutal sting, as if someone had decided to rub sand in all of his wounds.
As the light descends upon him, it becomes increasingly difficult to maintain his grip on his wrists, keep himself still. Sweat threatens to make his grasp on himself slippery, while the tension in his arms pulls at his wrists as if to disconnect his lower arms from his elbows, violently wrenching at his frame as the strikes hit him. A temporary blindness pulses up along his vision, smearing a near all-encompassing shadow across the landscape as he moves his head, desperate to see.
Abruptly, a hysteria wrenches at his gut like a passerby tugging with nervous energy at his sleeve: This is never going to stop. The panic constricts his gut tighter, pleading with him to ask for an end to this - all of this, preferably. It's like an unpredictable perpetual motion machine, going through all iterations of possible pain in random sequence, keeping him impossibly alert to each strike, monotony not forthcoming, nothing to wrap himself into numbly, nothing to take solace in.
The next lash makes him feel like it's cracked his ribs. His breath lurches unsteadily, but finds itself unobstructed still, with no torn diaphragm to sabotage that most vital function. His side feels like it's flowering into a massive bruise.
It's a shame, the distant part of him observes, that he'd never designed the implement with damage in mind. A regrettable oversight in retrospect, given this situation. It existed to maximise pain, to force obedience, not to render its victim unconscious. Between the strikes he's already felt, he'd be long pushed well beyond lucidity by now if it had been. A part of him is convinced he'd be nothing but a decaying, broken body if it were, splintered bones and raw skin.
The next strike burns like fine, cellulose hair against him, as if poison ivy had driven its invisible barbs between his cells, a fierce sensation suspended between an itch and a burn - fortunately dissipating before the urge to tear his skin off overwhelming his ability to keep himself still. Through clenched teeth, split skin aching, protesting at the impossible treatment, he gives a wavering, near-pleading whine, eyes once more squeezed shut.
His grip on his arms slips. A tone of distress escapes him, an abrupt, almost violent lash of volition jerking his arms back together, fingers angrily grasping for hold, crescents of his nails sinking into copper skin, anchoring him to himself with pinpricks of inconsequential, dwarfed pain.
The final strike of the set nearly peels his last resolve to keep himself together away from him. 'Don't beg.' It's not a question of dignity - the inhabitants of Taqnateh own his soul in scattered fragments, there is none he could possibly preserve - just a question of sparing Vendetta the disgust it would prompt. Disgust was not nearly as nice an emotion as precisely channelled, white-hot rage. Disorientation sinks its claws into his synapses, his breath ragged. He's not sure where he is any more - but he's still present, whatever that means.
He could easily keep this up for as long as he wished, carving into Dakarai with his own weapon. If he thought it would have any chance of actually working out his aggression towards the pitiful human, if he didn't think it would eventually get repetitive and predictable, and if Jagdish hadn't explicitly asked him to carry out the given task, he might have done just that. This had been a good exercise, but it was time to actually do what he'd come to do.
The sheen of brilliant cobalt dissipates from Vendetta, his left forepaw dropping to his side – and with that motion, the force levitating Dakarai dissolves, depositing him unceremoniously into a heap on the floor. Vendetta closes the distance between them, placing a hindleg firmly on Dakarai's back without putting significant weight on it, rolling him to be face-down. ~Now that that's out of the way,~ he says, dragging the weapon so the blood-stained tendrils rest inches from his face. ~Tell me, what do you think we should do with this fascinating little device of yours?~
The floor rushed up to meet him. The impact itself was barely perceptible on its own terms, a dull jolt through his joints, left shoulder and elbows in particular, left knee and hip enough for him to register them, delicate bones of his hand trapped in raw discomfort under the bag of flesh that had been deposited on them with downward force. The base of his thumb rests against the edge of a gash, tugging the wound ajar for a moment, until reflex saves him from further accidental self-harm. He winces through a scrunched up face down onto the tiles, a distorted keen escaping him.
The question rings through his skull, shapeless, more like an abstract blade than an attempt at communication. He grits his teeth, willing himself to assess them on their own terms. He's not going to ask for them to be repeated. But he doesn't have to - they're so viscerally connected to him that they're easy to decipher even just a few steps into the parsing process. Another mangled sound escapes him, before morphing into no more than a weak exhale.
Communication. He can do this.
“You seem to be doing quite well with it, why don't you keep it?” he finds himself asking. It's a semi-automatic response - there are many things he'd rather be saying, but none of them have won the other out. The reasonable one, the one asking for it to be ground to dust, destroyed, as that it may never be used to harm another was silenced by the one that in its masochistic solipsism begged for it to be kept and treasured as a tool to remind him, constantly, physically, of the wrong he's done. Of the crime he's committed. But no, in light of neither plea having more strength than the other, snark would win out. Snark always won out in the end; it was an inhabitant in his skull that had always moved effortlessly, after all, resilient part of his identity.
Given the irritated hissing sound spilling from above him, the Legendary doesn't find his response amusing. A telekinetic yank tugs his arm out from under him, nearly dislocating the shoulder in the process. His palm is pressed to the floor, fingers splayed out in all directions. A moment later, Vendetta's left forepaw grabs at it, taking over the pressure from his telekinesis as it shifts to a new target. Discomfort, followed swiftly by distressing levels of pain spill in from the joints of his knuckles, as his fingers are lifted from the floor, bent backwards to a horrifying degree.
Alarm signals up his arm twofold, gallopping up his senses, extinguishing the submissive streak in him for one, vibrant thought: 'You idiot, don't, I need those to travel.' It's a shout in his skull, filling the entire space of his being for a moment of sharp, angry clarity… but it's not vocalised, some miracle holding him still. 'Calm. Stay calm. Don't struggle, you'll break your fingers before Vendetta does.' He stares at the tiles, then squeezes his eyes shut, the assault mingling into the pain criss-crossing his chest and abdomen from the abuse he's gotten, making his eyes water. The sound that spills from him almost forms a word. “Ughnn,” he comments, shapelessly, the sound one of frustration and despair, both. “Please,” he says, a moment later, panting into the tiles. “Please stop this before you render me incapable of doing the task I've been ordered to do,” he pleas, words escaping him rapidly but entirely coherently, angle of approach disconcertingly authorative for someone utterly at the demonstrated whim of another sapient creature that clearly wishes him harm. His scent is still thick with fear, though - he's speaking in spite of it, not without it.
For a long moment, nothing changes, Vendetta's psychic grip still holding Dakarai's fingers at the same painful angle. Aside from the slowly steadying sounds of his breathing, the Legendary pokémon is silent. It's true, he certainly couldn't get away with completely crippling the human's hand; Jagdish wouldn't stand for it. A single finger, perhaps, but even that would likely involve a talking-to that he's not sure he wants to deal with.
Still, Dakarai's attitude has only dug him a deeper hole as far as Vendetta is concerned. With a snarl, his forepaw releases its grip, only for the telekinesis to reassert itself along the length of the entire arm. In a single motion, his arm lifts off the ground, twists, folds at the elbow, and presses against his back, wrist dragging its way up his spine until it comes to rest pinned just below his shoulder blades. Vendetta's foot shifts down to Dakarai's tailbone, pressure increasing subtly. ~Are you really going to make me repeat the question?~ he inquires venomously.
The cool of the tiles stings against the cuts from the bladed whip, tension holding Dakarai borderline painfully still. As his arm lurches around, his face scrunches up, shoulder aching furiously at the mistreatment, but not bothering to do something obvious like dislocate. His legs shift, motion born of some instinct, knees angling outward slightly as if some part of him was hoping to discover some leverage to push himself up - but no chance, of course.
Usually, Dakarai was not one to go back on a statement, however ill-conceived or -timed it might be; he'd uttered it, he had to stay true to it. Normally, his disregard for his own well-being wasn't balanced out by a desire not to be a pain in the ass, however. Vendetta might not be in charge of his life, but he was a good friend of Jagdish's, which meant he deserved significantly more respect than any one run-of-the-mill thug.
Dakarai snorts into the tiles, abrupt sound the result of a mangled gasp, eyes squeezed shut for a moment. “What are you fishing for?” he asks, part accusatory, part warily. “It would be selfish, were I to advocate you keep it simply for the-” He winces at an inconveniently tightly bundled cluster of barbs of pain. “For the poetic justice of suffering that infernal thing's bite. So why ask? Destroy it.”
A soft, coldly amused snort escapes Vendetta's nostrils. ~'Destroy it,'~ he repeats, mockery in his tone. ~Of course, what an obvious answer, why didn't I think of that before,~ he adds, as he drags Dakarai's trapped and twisted arm up a centimeter or two. ~Destroy the last visceral, physical reminder of all your atrocious crimes. You could put the past behind you and go about doing whatever chores Jagdish asks of you, and never again have to dwell on what led you here. Wouldn't that be so nice and easy.~
Vendetta's left forepaw reaches down, digits interlacing with Dakarai's hair and gripping at his scalp. ~Not that you would, of course,~ he adds, anticipating Dakarai's reaction to that accusation. ~No, not Dakarai N'Sehla; you're far too fond of torturing yourself in the vain hope it'll lead to your eventual redemption. Your pride couldn't stomach the notion of giving up such a perfectly good opportunity.~
Somewhere in between the indivisible fragments of sound making up the brief yelp of protest, on an altogether more fine-grained mode of existence, a numb realisation punches into him like a brick: He's made a mistake. It's wrapped in disorientation: Where did he misstep? Where's the flaw in his logic? What has he overlooked, what has he not said? He feels dangerous out of touch with the reality around him all of a sudden, the sting of the shallow, open wounds background noise. He remembers the last time he felt this way - the last time he questioned his fundamental understanding how the clockwork of everything around him functions.
His eyes close, a feeble part of him directing its attention to his aching shoulder. It's barely a distraction, though. Perhaps if he didn't consider Vendetta's word more valid than the average person he stumbled across, this would be trivially resolved, but as it is, he's simply acutely aware of the discrepancy between his line of reasoning and that of Vendetta's.
And yet…
“…is that a personal or an official opinion?” he asks, numbly.
A low growl resonates in Vendetta's chest at that question. His left forepaw tightens and grips at Dakarai's hair, twisting his head to the right. The right forepaw, still gripping the weapon, comes to rest its knuckles on his right shoulder as he looms over the corner of Dakarai's vision. ~Whose good graces are you so desperate to be in?~ he replies venomously. ~The Council's? Jagdish's? Solalon's? Mine?~ He scoffs at that last option, and the unsettling sensation of claws dragging lazily across his synapses grips his psyche. ~If it were my decision, I'd have ground both you and your toy to dust by now.~ The trapped arm slides up another centimeter. ~If you want everyone else's opinions, ask them yourself.~
Staring at the weapon is like staring at a train wreck - he can't quite bring himself to look away, despite the pang of revulsion it prompts in his gut. The grasp at his skull throbs lazily with the beat of his own heart, providing a rhythmic discomfort. As his arm is twisted up a little further still, however, instinct overwhelms him long enough for a cry to escape him, and a spasm travelling through his pinned body, struggling to relieve the alarming strain of his tendons. A thin whine follows almost instantly after, result of the rake across his synapses, twisting the rhythm of his breath into something erratic and hastened.
For a moment, he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to think despite the pain and despite the disorientation. “Just,” he comments, abruptly, before pausing briefly and awkwardly as if uncertain how to conclude the statement. A breath escapes him, eyes fluttering ever so slightly as he pries them back open, gaze trying to find Vendetta. “I just wanted to know if you were being serious or spoke purely with insult intended,” he explains, words more of an exhale than anything else, physiological strain distorting his voice. By the looks of things, a fine layer of gooseflesh is creasing his skin, as if his body were struggling with the hints of a fever, perhaps some reaction of his biological machinery to perceived inflammation, knitting the discomfort in his skull and gut together with the physiological pain of shoulder and chest and misinterpreting the symptoms as something it had a chance of dispelling. “I respect both but can only act on one in good conscience,” he adds across a shallow pant.
Vendetta bristles at the implied question, visible tension threading into his grip on the weapon. The air surrounding Dakarai seems to adopt an oppressive aura, every square inch of his skin suddenly keenly aware of just how easily the psychic pokémon could crush him to death. The thought of it dances at the edge of his psyche, vivid images of the breath being forced from his lungs, of his blood pressure rising to the point his heart can't keep up with it, of bones and muscles crumpling under their own weight…
No such grisly fate comes, of course, but the images are difficult to ignore, and impossible to shake entirely. ~I'm not one to make hollow insults,~ he replies, psychic voice no louder in tone than usual, but carrying much more mental weight, echoes of the thought spreading through his psyche.
For a brief moment, Dakarai finds himself wondering if it was possible for the psychic Legendary to crowd out his thoughts entirely and simply replace him as the spark of consciousness that inhabited his skull. Without the pressure to do so, his breath nonetheless finds itself squeezed out like of his lungs at a speed befitting a soft paste more than a gas, motion born of tension. Non-existence clung to his skin as a palpable threat, as if he'd merely have to twitch to undo himself in his entirety. “Okay,” he acknowledges thinly, any further speech seeming physically implausible. His shoulder and chest are both still on fire, each pulse of his blood willing him into motion, infecting him with a rhythmically returning urge to squirm out from under Vendetta.
They weren't going to destroy the weapon. It's still a foreign concept to him, bringing with it a sudden, near-overwhelming urge to crawl over to Jagdish to have it explained. If he were someone, if he could claim social connections or influence, he might understand the decision - anything hovering over him as a tangible reminder of his deeds would only shackle him to good behaviour all the more, or at least his captors would think so, but there's no one he can impress with it, no one he could pass the knowledge onto. In fact, in a roundabout way, he's forbidden from passing it on - the only people he'll be coming across regularly either already know or need to figure it out by themselves.
What good could it do? What was he missing? His recurring chore alone was a potent reminder of everything he'd done - it might not carve into him quite so viciously, but surely it sufficed? A sound balanced somewhere between one of panic and one of frustration spills from him, barely audible in its own right, but plainly apparent in the silence he's holding himself in. “Can I- can I talk to Jagdish?” he asks, tone the closest to pleading that Vendetta has likely ever heard him speak.
A spike of increased pressure flowers into existence at the small of his back as Vendetta shifts more of his weight to that leg; a moment later, the psychic grip on his trapped arm gives it a violent twist. Muscles and joints scream abuse to him, the bones in his forearm and wrist twisted as far as they will go, fingers crushed together, the entire arm pressed against his spine, pinning his chest to the floor. ~No.~
For a moment, it looks as if that's the only reply Dakarai's going to get, before Vendetta elaborates: ~Not until you've given me an answer to what to do with this thing…~ - he gives the weapon a small jerk, causing the tendrils to swerve closer to Dakarai's face - ~…that I deem acceptable.~
The wrench is enough to make him cry out, some part of him worn impossibly thin from the continued assault and now petulantly claiming control of his vocal chords. He wrestles with it through the haze of pain, wail trailing off into a stutter of sounds, only to end up reduced to a mere laboured breath. He's not sure if cold sweat is beading his forehead or if it's just his imagination supplying the light chill it would bring with it, but he feels a rapidly onsetting weakness he could do without. He can't stem himself against this forever - though he's far removed from lacking the lucidity to reflect on his speech.
Three lines dance across his vision, like a trio of impossibly thin serpents dancing not from the charm of a flute, but to spirit his own grasp of reality away in their stead. He resists the compelling call, prompting him to refuse all cooperation and egg Vendetta on until he thoroughly regretted it; it's a desperately appealing notion on some level, but it's not constructive, and it would only undermine his desire for loyalty. Vision swimming slightly from the continued pain, he tries to relax as much as instinct lets him, accepting his state as a puppet in the hands of the psychic Legendary.
He stares at the wires.
He stares at the wires… and doesn't know what to say.
Surely he's used up his quota of being able to decide anything about the component parts of that machine? Surely he's used up his quota to decide anything at all. Rasped: “I don't know what you want to hear. Why don't you spell it out for me? You know I'll accept whatever you decide.” But of course, it's not a game, then. It's more fun to thread the clues into his synapses and then tear it back out of them, isn't it? More compelling. More just. But he's disoriented and he doesn't know what course of action would be best - owing to that his genuine belief of the best course of action was simply demolished.
A hiss spills from Vendetta, and a moment later, his fingers release hold of his captive's hair, and his posture straightens. He raises the whip high into the air, and a moment later red wires strike against Dakarai's face, burning across his cheek. ~Why should I care!~ The words scream through his mind in white-hot rage. ~If I had something specific in mind, do you really think I'd waste my time playing twenty questions with you?!~ The whip strikes him again, fire lashing through the shallow cuts. ~Who knows? Maybe I might even feel generous enough to keep it in a box on the mantle with your name on it, if you ask nicely enough.~ The thin layer of venom in his tone suggests that by 'ask nicely' he really means 'grovel and beg'.
Eyes squeeze shut in protective instinct, but that's the full extent of how much he knows to brace himself, and it doesn't suffice. It feels like his face is being alternately seared and torn off, a nauseatingly intense sensation driving into his cheek bone, digging itself into his perception with sharpest claws. Reflex yanks his tenuous control away from him with an inner shout, tearing his free arm around to shield his face in disregard for any notion of 'deserving' the onslaught. He can thank it later, it informs him.
For a moment, coherence finds itself wholly crowded out, making him only distantly aware of the words spoken - but their meaning isn't lost to him, only slow to seep through to his conscious perception.
A knot of helplessness ties itself into his gut, erratic shiver seizing him, making his shoulder weep fresh agony, but he can't bring himself to hold still - it's self-reinforcing. He wants to shout at Vendetta, to demand a path that would prove to the Legendary's satisfaction; but to at least equal part, he has no desire to upset him further. Perhaps right at this moment, that's in part self-preservation, but it runs far deeper than that.
Then, abruptly, something abstract that feels like an inconsequential, acorporeal fragment nonetheless entwined with his spine snaps. “I don't know! I don't know what to do with that stupid contraption! It shouldn't even exist. It has no right to exist; but apparently it isn't going away. What do you want to hear? You told me you won't destroy it. Do you want me to? Or do you want me to beg for Jagdish to keep it as some sort of compromise?” He's not even sure what that would be compromising with, but he's ranting desperately, he's not as stubbornly set on making sense as he would normally be. “I've no interest in upsetting or insulting you, but if you have an agenda, you have to tell me. If you want to play some game, you have to tell me. I can do whatever you want me to, but I cannot read your mind.” Despite the meaning of his words, his tone is pleading, hovering just shy of a sob, subtly distorted by the shiver. “If you just want to hurt me, go ahead - but drop the pretense, then I can shut up and leave you with a blissful silence but for the cries of pain you evidently cherish.” He's shaking, the tension that's trying to keep him still falling short of its goal.
And then it's one motion too many. The shoulder of his pinned arm jerks from its socket; a instant later, through gritted teeth, he howls, sound once more born from unbidden instinct. “Fuck,” he comments, like someone who'd broken some item of importance as a form of collateral damage while acting, at wit's end, huffing a breath. “I'm sorry,” he tacks on, struggling not to let his voice distort to some desperate whine, though the sincerity of the phrase is gut-wrenching, doubly so given that it was so rarely spoken. “I'm sorry for being such a thorn in your side, but I don't know how to stop. I don't know; I genuinely don't know.”
Dakarai's immediate reaction to the flames of the whip - the unthinking animal terror, the lack of snarky feedback - is mildly soothing. At last, Vendetta's managed to break through the human's frustratingly thick filters. For a moment, he stands still, observing the quivering, broken, terrified shape beneath him. For a moment, it feels like the human's finally gotten what he so sorely deserves.
It lasts until the moment Dakarai opens his mouth again. Fresh tension bleeds into Vendetta's form, fresh rage at the human's words. Dakarai doesn't understand. He hasn't even processed anything Vendetta just said. ~Do you ever listen?~ he hisses, tone too furious to register as the intended mockery. A long moment passes, and then weight shifts to his left foot, off of Dakarai. ~No, of course not,~ he answers in a cold, venomous sneer. ~You never did. It's no wonder it took you so long to realize what you were doing.~
Perhaps it's merciful that Dakarai's accidentally dislocated his shoulder; at least there's something there that he can focus on, physical pain to distract him from that emotional barb. Evidently, Vendetta's also decided to use the accident to his advantage; the pressure on Dakarai's tailbone abates as the held arm is dragged upwards. The muscles in his shoulder strain and scream abuse, but they refuse to tear; he's lifted into the air again, weight supported by the dislocated arm to the extent it can bear without causing irreparable damage.
~You want to stop being a thorn in my side?~ Vendetta asks idly, moving to within a few inches of the suspended Dakarai, tail describing an elegant, complex orbit. His left forepaw snakes up and grips at Dakarai's neck, thumb digit pressing against his larynx. ~You can start by not making me listen to your pathetic whining.~
The barb of pain in his arm turns into something vicious, slicing through his synapses as if his dislocated joint had spawned wires that had leapt into his mind of their own accord and were proceeding to slice his dark matter into ribbons. Gravity's lurched and Vendetta is speaking, but he's barely lucid of it, the pain in his arm like a sharp, high-pitched sound in his skull. As fingers touch his throat, a shard of conscious thought pierces through the haze: 'Hold still.' It seems like an impossible request, his spine itching to twist and writhe in desperate attempts to find a way to relieve the strain on his shoulder, lessen the thrum of overwhelming nausea in his gut. He's sure up until the touch of his neck, he'd been making a noise - some drawn out, wretched whimper, some uneven groan of agony - but he's silent now and whatever noise he'd uttered a mere abstract memory. Maybe he just imagined it. “Okay,” he says, voice barely audible, nonetheless trying to carry as much respect in its flimsy tone as it can. It's the sum total of how many syllables he can bring himself to utter - any more and he'd come apart, while a part of him felt that was more literal than usual. Or he might just be physically ill - it certainly wouldn't take much prodding for his stomach to heave as if in desperate attempt to dislodge the cause of a fever. He feels like a part of him is burning up slowly.
A hint of satisfaction glimmers in that inhuman expression. ~Better,~ he comments. For a moment, it's almost good enough. He's done what Jagdish asked of him, at least in a letter-of-the-law manner - he's made Dakarai aware of the situation, and politely informed him that destroying the weapon is not an option. He's perfectly free to do whatever he pleases at this point, perhaps short of killing or irreversibly maiming this pitiful excuse of a human. The temptation to simply drop him and let him fester in his own thoughts, and find some other way to occupy himself, has presented itself, but ultimately, it's not quite strong enough. The device is still in his hand, palpable reminder of just how much worse he deserves. Worse than anything he can hope to inflict on him, unfortunately, but that can hardly stop him from trying.
Vendetta raises the weapon again, gaze sweeping over it lazily, barely concealed revulsion dancing across his muzzle. ~Since you don't seem to have any ideas for what to do with this,~ he muses, gaze shifting back to Dakarai. ~I'll just have to see if I can inspire you.~ That lone warning given, the wires in the device spring to life, moving of their own accord in imitation of live snakes.
The left forepaw releases its grip on Dakarai's throat, only for two of the beige cords to take its place, winding around opposite sides of his neck in opposite directions, once, twice, before the last of the remaining length curls behind Dakarai's earlobes. The third wire finds a different use in the meantime; Dakarai's jaws are effortlessly pried open, and the cord wanders in, catching hold of his tongue and coiling around it once before sliding back towards his throat. Nausea grips at his gut, but by some miracle or manipulation, his gag reflex is suppressed as the tip of the wire comes to nuzzle against his larynx.
Disorientation has claimed all available space inside his skull. Gravity isn't where it should be, a part of him insists. His arm certainly isn't where it should be, proprioception informs him. There should be something in his stomach other than creasing acid, something to expel, his gut insists, but there is nothing. His eyes should be open and seeing the world, but they're either closed or his brain has stopped bothering to process the outside world visually; not like it's any use. And now, like the cherry on the cake, something that is probably the weapon is wrapped around his neck like two twin, anorexic serpents, with the third lash crept along his tongue, tickling at the edge of his perception within his throat. He's not sure what purpose the setup is meant to serve, but right now he's not sure of anything; or so it seems to him. He's shivering lightly from the subjective fever the strain on his shoulder is smothering him in, that rough-surfaced, metallic pain digging up along his muscle fibres like flesh hooks.
Vendetta releases the weapon, letting it hang where it is like a particularly morbid necklace. He takes a step back, examining the hanging Dakarai as if studying some abstract sculpture. There's a mildly disappointed snort - then the human's right arm is jerked upwards, roughly mirroring the left's position, balancing the weight more evenly, the pain in Dakarai's shoulder reducing to an almost-manageable roar.
Apparently satisfied, Vendetta reaches forward to grasp the weapon once more, and adjusts the settings. A deep blue glow swallows the strands of the device; the coils around his neck feel like narrow, high-speed jets of water cutting across his skin; the third, in addition, sends a clear, visceral message to the subconscious, animal part of his brain: He's drowning.
The yank on his right arm is barely noticed except by proxy of lessening the agony in his left. Vision and perception struggle up to the surface, swimming amongst the featureless darkness that had held him moments ago. A pang of lucidity grasps him - what is he doing? He can't hold himself still if he's not present, if he's not conscious. Tension creeps up along his spine in spite of the pain he's in, curving ever so slightly to the side, born mostly of instinct, and he breathes through his nose with a regular, slow pace. His terror feels distant, like a tangible layer atop his skin, not burrowed deep within him but nonetheless all-encompassing.
When the sensation of water in his windpipe registers to his psyche, however, all bets are off. In blatant disregard for the pain of his arm, he wrenches back, unable to will himself to hold still, head twitching to both sides in a disoriented, alarmed shake. His tongue wills the wire out of his throat, trying to push it out, identifying it at the cause even on instinct alone, but not making the right connections - the ones that would let him calmly assess the situation as technically harmless. His legs kick uselessly beneath him - then a sudden motion flares the pain of his shoulder into a fresh sensation that knocks into him like a mallet. Air escapes him… and the reflexively drawn in breath extinguishes the last of his conscious grasp on the situation.
Unaware of the damage he's doing to himself - not caring in light of the perceived struggle for sheer survival - he twists and bends and attempts to escape the hold that his animal mind is certain is keeping him underwater. He's trapped. He has to break the surface at all costs.
A psychic grip latches around Dakarai's body, suppressing the majority of his motion but doing nothing to prevent his continued writhing. Keeping him levitated, maintaining the balance of support on his arms and torso, reducing his movements and suppressing the urge of his stomach to heave out all of its contents requires a sizeable amount of concentration, but is still not overly taxing. Vendetta stands there, watching Dakarai twist and struggle for a full half minute, before he reaches forward and switches the setting to 'ice'. The sensations shift, the jets of water turn frigid, then solidify against his neck and skull, chill spreading through his blood; the wire sticks to the inside of his throat, and starts to freeze all the water in his body.
Before it gets the chance, the temperature inverts itself; his neck is burning, his tongue and throat are burning, his lungs are on fire, he's going to burn to a crisp any moment now - but he doesn't. A subjective eternity later, the sensation shifts again, and… it's over. The wires have switched back to their ordinary beige, he's not drowned or frozen or burned, there's just the exceedingly uncomfortable wires wrapped around, and inside, his throat - and Vendetta, standing in front of him, arms crossed, watching him expectantly, waiting for him to find his way back to lucidity.
The shapeless pressure holding him comparatively still is like a tangle of kelp, knotted by nature into an unwitting net, keeping him down - then abruptly his plight ends, as if some godly fist had seized him from the depths of an ocean, displacing him with no sense of motion to go with it at all, for a moment dizzying. A sharp pain drags itself along his skull a moment later, lashing at his temple and around the back of his head like a strike of a tendril from within him rather than delivered from outside. He's barely managed to identify the source, clawing at the inside of his throat like a metal hook, registering as sharp and hard rather than cold until a subtle shift of perspective reveals its true nature, when it changes. An almost violent twitch travels through him, eyes cast upwards, wide, a broken sound of alarm thick with animal fear escaping him despite the tip of the wire nestled against his larynx. Gasped breath drags through his nose, seemingly just drawing the fire deeper into his vital organs rather than doing any good and his eyes flutter lightly in the beginning brush strokes of a panic.
Then the three-part torment dies down. He's still, held in that levitation, still staring more at the ceiling than anything else, circumstances gradually becoming apparent to him once more.
He closes his eyes, focussing on his breathing, trying to slow his heartbeat and erratic breath back down to levels approximating normal, or at least a pace befitting his dislocated, abused shoulder only.
Of course, this wasn't over. He knew it wasn't over, but that hardly mattered. For a moment, he simply extrapolated the tail end of his struggle through the time he'd felt distinctly… absent - and determined that he must have wound and twisted himself like a fish on land and with similar futility.
…of all emotions to feel in response to the mental image, embarrassment is the one to stick. He should be able to stay conscious in the truest sense of the word throughout an assault like that. He should be able to keep it together. Hadn't he only just promised Vendetta to keep his whining to himself? How much pitiful, pleading noise had he made? He doesn't know, but it feverishly hopes it's a forgiveable amount. A frightened, uneasy gaze leaps down to Vendetta, trying in vain to determine what the Legendary thought of his struggles.
Whatever noises he'd made while mentally absent, they don't seem to have made Vendetta any more furious with him. The expression on the Legendary's muzzle is difficult to read, but buried beneath the focused hatred is a hint of satisfaction. He'd considered simply letting him continue writhing in animal terror and pain, perhaps switching the form the pain would take at random… but a different idea had occurred to him.
~So kind of you to rejoin us,~ the Legendary sneers, uncrossing his arms and placing his right forepaw gently under Dakarai's chin. ~I thought you might want to be lucid for this part.~ If there was still any doubt in his mind that this might finally be over, that quashed it. He lifts his forepaw, tilting the human's head back, and a light scratching in his throat indicates the tip of the wire slipping backwards. For a long moment, Vendetta simply glares at Dakarai expectantly, before a wicked smile distorts his features, and a single command echoes through his psyche. ~Swallow.~
Not over. He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to find some abstract timeframe to anchor this to. He was supposed to be doing something; this was a distraction, wasn't it? But that feels like an eternity ago. Of course, if that had been eternity, then he could deal with another, and another. He's not sure how he'd feel about a third looming at the horizon, but two is enough for a sense of finite torment.
The idea to swallow any part of that wire, however, is difficult to accept. Of course he wants to obey - what else is there, after all? That's his only remaining purpose. So, of course he wants to do as he's told, but there's a nagging, wholly rational objection - it would have to go back out later, and there was only one way that could be reasonably done, and he was genuinely not sure whether that wouldn't damage him in a way that he should be objecting to.
The ache of his shoulder mutes his thoughts enough that exploring his options becomes impossible through the haze. A soft sound akin to a distant plea escapes him - perhaps the closest to a 'would you not rather reconsider?' that he's going to let himself utter - and he tips his head to the side subtly. Then his eyes drift closed and he follows the instruction, tracing his tongue across the roof of his mouth, acutely aware of the thin obstruction in the way, resisting subtler instincts to dislodge it, and instead tries to trick the biological machinery in him to accept it as a mere contaminant of his saliva. A twitch bordering a tense spasm seizes him for a moment as the tip touches the very back of his throat and drags down uncomfortably. His legs twist beneath him slightly, struggling to get rid of some futile energy for struggles, feet locking against each other, pressing against each other as if both where convinced the other was holding it down.
A pang of pain and nausea escapes his dislocated shoulder, very nearly undoing that first step - then, as if some part of him is aware the urge to act will overtake him in the one or other way, instinct finds itself twisted to his purpose and he swallows a second time. His body rebels, but not nearly enough to stop him.
A chill's crept up within him, like something abstract clawing at the inside of his face, but he stubbornly tunnels past the deeply unpleasant sensation, focussed on his task. He could be violently ill after all this was over, whenever that was. And so, with the last of his resolve, he tells his body to fuck right off already with its complaints and swallows a third time, making it impossible to trivially reverse the wire's descent, be that by instinct or conscious decision. That'll do. It's also making his skin crawl to feel that alien pressure inside his throat… but it'll do. The gooseflesh that's spread near-evenly across his skin is hardly a tangible objection. His gut twitches once in soundless protest and by some miracle he manages not to utter a sound of shapeless distress.
The cord's descent is relatively smooth, horrifyingly uncomfortable and distressing as it is. The tip doesn't quite manage to reach his gut; the wire runs out of slack before it does, though in doing so it manages to contort his tongue into a position where it could easily slip out. Vendetta watches the spectacle, momentarily surprised at his sheer willpower to do as he's told, before that dissolves into disgust. Did he really think that just by following orders in a desperate attempt to please his new masters, he could atone for what he'd done?
The hand under Dakarai's chin takes hold of the device instead, turning it over idly in his hand, pondering over its settings the way one might browse through the songs in an old jukebox, trying to choose just which tune he's in the mood for at the moment. 'Steel' catches his eye. With a brief hum, the wires take on a metallic hue and stiffen into place; the cord lodged inside him turns rigid and straightens, defining - rather than defined by - the curve of his esophagus. A cruel smirk plays across Vendetta's features, and, driven largely by curiosity, he gives the weapon a twist.
The subtle motions are more than enough to lance an intense alarm up his spine, instinct threatening to overwhelm him again. He catches himself with a keen, more exhaling that startled, terrified sound than forming it by any act of volition, and wide eyes stare up at the ceiling as if something up there (and no further) might have the ability to enact mercy upon him. For that moment of barely subdued panic, he's sure he's about to die - Vendetta is going to lose whatever respect he has for Jagdish's plans and simply kill him. It wouldn't be a great loss, the jaded part of him rationalises. They'd regret it, but only as one would regret breaking china in a fit of anger: The emotional state excuses most of the vandalism.
There's no time for him to form a more informed opinion, to battle that pointless insight, much less to tell his self-preservation instinct that it should have caught on by now that it wasn't welcome - the strand twists.
In a single motion, it feels like nails rake along the delicate membranes, shredding into muscle. It doesn't matter that it's an illusion - he's convinced. A caterpillar of metal spines is lodged in his throat and he's dying to its disoriented motions. It's going to take half of him with it if it leaves, he's sure of that, though he wouldn't find words to describe those thoughts if his life depended on it. He's still, paralysed by the shock of it more than anything tangible, innards converted to fire that is only slow to abate.
He's dying. It's over. He screwed up, he failed, Jagdish will not be pleased. That he'd not be around to experience Jagdish's disappointment if he did die doesn't bother the part of him fretting about this notion - rational thought has left the building and doesn't seem inclined to return. Why bother returning to a dying mind, after all? He can understand that.
The strand comes to rest, Vendetta pausing to take in his victim's reaction, weighing it mentally for a long moment before, evidently, deeming it insufficient. He focuses his telekinesis on the buried wire, giving it a gentle tug forward. It's certainly more than enough to spell out the rest of that hypothetical action, to make the mental images of a piano wire torn out through his chest by raw telekinetic force clear in his mind. But the action doesn't follow, and instead the tendril begins a lazy clockwise roll around the inside of the esophagus wall.
On perfect cue, a spasm travels through Dakarai's body, the notion of his innards split by the wire turned blade entirely comprehensible to his animal mind. Instead, the spiny caterpillar in his throat twists itself, dragging fresh fire in its wake. There's no contemplating this pain - it's too close to his core. He's not sure, if pressed, that he could honestly claim he's feeling it; that presupposes someone is present to perceive the agony. But his body emits an agonised cry, spine twisting to the side, arms pushing upwards, struggling to push away from an imagined source of the tendril lodged within him. His tortured shoulder protests, but finds itself reduced to a mere footnote.
The rolling motion continues for a few revolutions, then slowly grinds to a halt. No, now he's going too far; the human's barely even aware of what's happening to him, if he's aware at all. He's not Jagdish, the fine line between 'ridiculous amount of pain' and 'conscious thought shutting down' isn't quite so familiar to him. ~Wake up, Dakarai,~ he coos in a saccharine tone, free hand waving lightly in front of the human's face. ~Wouldn't want you to miss your favorite pastime.~
Little soft, uncoordinated, erratic sounds of distress spill from the human at the psychic invasion, before the intended effect sets in, reeling in his conscious perception from the deep reaches of his psyche that it had fled to. His awareness of the world is swimming; he feels disconnected. Something is happening to his body, something unpleasant, something awful, but in a way, it might as well be happening to someone else. With some effort, his gaze struggles its way down from the ceiling, finding Vendetta at an angle. He's not sure what he's expressing with his gaze - it feels like it could both be a desperate plea to stop and let him rest for a while, or the expression of someone who feels slighted. Either way, its pleasantly devoid of the purposeful strength that usually makes him such a frustrating handful.
A satisfied expression dances on Vendetta's features, his tail lashing through the air with greater vigor than usual. Compared to all the frustration Dakarai's given him so far, this is practically getting him to beg for mercy, silent as it may be. The wire trapped inside him wriggles randomly for an instant, then does so again some time after that. Finally, deciding he's had enough of this particular part of the game, the telekinetic grip on Dakarai's head and torso tightens, and Vendetta pulls on the weapon's handle, drawing the wire agonizingly slowly out of its fleshy home.
The wiggles of that bladed abstraction in his throat nearly push him back out of lucidity. The slow, steady tug, on the other hand, does the opposite for no reason he can discern - a visceral clarity grips at him, making him acutely aware of every imagined blade dragging along the inside of his esophagus as if it was wholly inclined to cut the entire passage to ribbons. If the sensations were grounded in reality, that's what it would be doing - destroying him, shredding his ability to eat from him, consigning him to death by internal bleeding or, at the very least, starvation. He's not sure if he's lucky that it's only a compelling illusion; if it weren't, his captor might be having second thoughts before the application of something so crass, after all.
As the tip of it lashes lightly against his tongue, escaping the tense grip of his throat, his body decides it's had enough. In some frantic, dumb gesture, his stomach spasms, and a spoonful of acid spatters up his tortured gullet and escapes into an unappetising freedom. A fevered shiver grips him again as he curses the useless reflex - now his throat has an actual reason to burn, thank you for nothing, biology. An urge to bring either hand down to wipe at his mouth makes his arms shiver, but of course he's powerless to move them that way. Instead, he simply closes his eyes, willing the taste away, trying in vain to ignore the fire in his throat, trying not to feel like he can't even get something as passive as 'getting tortured' right.
The lines of the whip skitter along the ground, sound of steel clacking against stone, line of saliva traced along the floor. A derisive snort escapes Vendetta as Dakarai vomits, nose wrinkling in disgust. ~Weak,~ he comments, tone filled with contempt. He steps forward, grabbing hold of Dakarai's shirt and twisting it to wipe the human's mouth free of residual acid. ~Let's try that again, shall we?~ That said, he raises the weapon again; the same metallic tendrils that were wrapped around his neck before coil around his temples, and the third inserts itself into his mouth again, cold, sharp, metallic, though it doesn't go into his throat this time. ~Swallow,~ he repeats. Time to see if he still has that force of will to follow orders.
Silence. The reactions are subtle, his eyes betraying the extent of his lucidity - he's quite present at the moment, no matter how sick his body seems to be feeling, faux-fever and all, occasionally twitch touching his form. Ludicrously, he doesn't seem to be afraid - he's not averting his gaze, after all, he's looking straight at Vendetta, with only minimal plea expressed.
However… nothing happens. The tip of the wire, registering as some barbed monstrosity, rests at the back of his tongue. He struggles with himself, trying to find a way past the solid wall of rejection his body's stemming against the notion of letting a selection of razor blades travel in the other direction. His breath, surprisingly, is slow and steady, but his entire ribcage is tense regardless.
Grimacing, he traps the wire between his lower lip and the upper row of his teeth, swallowing to rid himself of some saliva, then untenses his jaw and tongue. His gaze wanders. This should be no different, he reasons. He managed earlier; he has some experience in wringing compliance out of his body. Surely that must count for something?
His eyes close, squeezing shut lightly for a moment. Desperation knits itself against his revulsion, trying to wrestle it down. Instead, a moment of tense concentration later, a sound to equal parts of distress and frustration spills from him, quick to be muted by a mouth clamped shut. When he opens his eyes again, a chill's crept up along his spine again, this time refusing to be quite so easily ignored or dislodged. He decides his stomach feels faintly like it's imploded in on itself, withering pitifully. He still feels ill, however benign that sickly flame within him might be lapping at his synapses right now.
The next time he closes his eyes, a different tension creeps though his expression. His chest constricts as he forgoes obeying that instruction one more time, again trapping the wire as he swallows. Insomuch as it's in their ability, his shoulders sag… and the barest hint of tears appears at the edges of his closed eyes.
He can't do it.
The silence, and Dakarai's reactions, slowly whittle down the Legendary's patience. When he sees his shoulders sag, the hint of tears streaming at the edge of his eyes, it snaps, and his fury at Dakarai finds itself renewed. ~You pathetic, lying little shit.~ Vendetta's hand snaps up, gripping tightly at Dakarai's neck. ~What, giving up just like that? What about that stubborn urge to follow orders? Where's that disregard for your own well being now, hmm?~ The coils around his skull wind tighter. ~Or was that all just an act to weasel your way into freedom?~ he asks, voice seething with white-hot rage.
His breath papers out of him, fluttering flimsily, thrumming in the melody of fear. Tension grips his entire body, conspiring with the telekinetic grip to keep him still, but if it weren't for those psychic shackles, instinct would be driving him to back away or drive teeth and nails into Vendetta's skin. Ptooey. There goes the end of the wire, freeing his tongue to speak, which immediately seizes the opportunity: “I want to, but I can't!” Fuck, there's that whine again. Sincerity, clarity, but that same pathetic undercurrent that he'd only just squashed in this waste of skin, frustratingly resurfaced, strong as ever. Why can't he just shut up?
With only the slightest delay, it even continues a little further: “I can't, I don't have that much control over my instincts, I'm sorry! I just can't.” He's shivering, eaten up by tension - he's not sure when that started. Sometime during the blurted out speech, he's started trembling like a leaf; and now he can't find a way to turn it off. Tears trickle down his cheeks, with the energy he might normally use to stem them back diluted and dispersed by his frantic attempts to communicate and the intense quiver of every muscle fibre he can consciously locate.
The urge to simply snap the human's neck and discard his worthless body is rising, kept in check only by the knowledge that such a death would only be doing him a favor - a notion disgusting enough that even having to listen to Dakarai's whining doesn't hold a candle to it. Slowly, the burning hatred in Vendetta's eyes cools and hardens into a venomous, disdainful glare, followed by the glint of a sudden idea.
~You know what I think?~ the Legendary asks, as the dangling cord comes back to life under his telekinesis, snaking into his mouth and finding the back of his throat once more, rendering the question obviously rhetorical. ~I think you just need to be properly incentivized.~ The cord nuzzles itself against Dakarai's larynx, seemingly unconcerned for his shivering, weakened state. ~How about I give you a choice,~ the voice echoes in his mind. ~You can swallow the cord, or I can shove it down your windpipe.~
The numbness that grips him does nothing to significantly stop the flow of tears. That both options would weigh similarly in the strength of the rejection his gut stemmed against it seemed like a cruel joke, spinning him between the choices as if he were chasing his own tail, not out of some quaint habit, but because his life depended on catching it. His eyes squeeze shut, and with a tremble still claiming his right shoulder, he resigns himself to what's about to happen.
For a long moment, nothing happens, Vendetta examining his victim's body language, as if waiting to see if Dakarai would suddenly change his mind. Then the respite is over, and the wire of steel has slipped its way into the human's windpipe. It only takes a fraction of a second for his body to start protesting, wholly convinced that a blade is drawing down the inside of his trachea, and trying unsuccessfully to cough the wire up. Before there's enough time for him to spiral into a blind panic, the psychic grip around his chest tightens in a vice-like manner, holding him steadily in place as the wire continues its steady descent.
The measly remnants of his conscious perception crowd to a pinprick, an ocean's worth of instinct frothing around it. It's good that Vendetta is holding him perfectly still - otherwise, he'd seriously damage himself in the frantic struggle this is driving him toward, his spine trying desperately to arch itself, arms aching, trying to draw themselves around to the wire's imagined counterpart to tear it out, pain of his dislocated shoulder paled to insignificance. The wire may not be sharp, but it would still slice at his innards if he could writhe as he sought to. His neck stretches in futile reflex, to no soothing effect, merely jostling the foreign item slightly. The sound of distress which that prompts, of course, thrums around the offending item and only makes its existence more apparent.
The wire comes to rest after a short distance, tip nestling itself at the branch point of Dakarai's trachea, undecided as to whether it wants to continue towards his right lung or his left. The hand at Dakarai's neck idly massages at his throat, a steady reminder of just how easily he could end up in a bloody, discarded mess in one of many ways if Vendetta so chose. For a long moment, that's all he does - briefly content to simply watch Dakarai squirm against his own reflexes - before he speaks again. ~I've changed my mind,~ the voice in his head comments, a cruel, vicious smile emerging in Vendetta's features. ~We're going to do both.~
One of the twin cords wrapped around Dakarai's skull lazily unwinds from its grip, instead deciding it would rather trace along his bottom row of teeth, wriggling against his gums and lips, past the inside of his cheek, cutting down into his throat. It winds once around the cord lodged in his windpipe, but rather than following its path, it splits off towards his esophagus. The tip pauses in its descent, before an alien presence asserts control over the muscles in his throat, and before he has the ability to protest even in theory, he's swallowing the second wire.
Without the control the psychic grip is exerting, the scene would quickly become more morbid and grisly by far. Trapped between the part-tangible hold on him, his shoulder with its dull, background ache, and the dual assault, some part of Dakarai - the one that's been trying to redirect his energy into some semblance of escape - gives up. Only the tension remains by necessity; sagging limply would be a change to the status quo, after all, and he's quite beyond any change whatsoever. Tears trace down his face, unnoticed, gaze itself hollow, barely taking notice of the world his eyes are partly open to. Stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the wire lodged in his windpipe, a series of broken whimpers spill from him, awkwardly distorted by the obstacle.
✘ IN PROGRESS