It was difficult to ignore his instinctual alarm that rang in his gut - Taqnateh was not a safe place, regardless how much he felt like he was securely in Jagdish's good graces, and the texture of the walls invoked a deep unease that seemed immune to rational attempts to dispel it. Still, it was a background emotion and little of it leaked into his demeanour at all, but it made him skittish, the notion of meeting the maker of the device, while exciting his curiosity on the one hand, seemed like he was being asked to step into a cage holding a towering, hulking monster with gnashing teeth intent on tearing him limb from limb.
Jagdish, having offered to bring him up here (and it had seemed like such a good idea from Tatenda's perspective at the time, a way to glean information directly from the source), evidently had no such associations. “I don't know if he's going to be forthcoming with anything useful,” he was commenting as if they were having a wholly casual conversation about the weather. “But I imagine it's worth a try. Do you want to talk to him in private or would you rather I maintain my presence and interject should he get all too smug?”
Tatenda glances over the ruins, which he had not seen for a too long time, it seems, since he somehow remembers them more mysterious and kind of romantic instead of scary, like they feel now. He slightly shivers and takes a deep breath to gather himself.
Part of him wants to have Jagdish with him, part of him is sure about being able to handle this 'Dakarai' by himself. He once had been a gym leader and faced a lot of different people. But well… never someone, who managed to beat him in such a special way. “I'll talk to him in private, I think. …is there a way for you to pop in, when things get out of control?”
That prompts a chuckle from the Arbiter. “I'm not psychic,” he comments, bemused. “I can stay in shouting distance, though, if that would put your mind at ease?” he offers, smiling lightly at the ex-gymleader, a trace of mischief in his demeanour despite the serious subject matter. Dakarai was going to be chained to a corner, he didn't pose a danger to anything but perhaps Tatenda's moral outlook.
Mew, purring gently against Jagdish's hair, half coiled about his neck and shoulders, half draped across his skull depending on perspective, stirs a little, ears twitching lightly, wide, attentive eyes casting their gaze forward to the cell they're approaching. The tip of her tail twitches in eager anticipation.
A black eyebrow gets lifted, when Tatenda 'comments' this statement with nothing more but a serious look. The nod is almost too late, but still within the polite time period for an answer. That has to do. The way the black hands wrap the thin braids around themselves again to keep them out of the harmonious face as a gesture of getting ready for a serious matter, reveals Tatenda's tension to Jagdish, who knows well about this habit.
At least there's still some excitement for this particular man, who managed to solve his personal riddle.
Abruptly, Mew launches herself out of her coiled state and into the air, tail whipping about excitedly behind her. A moment later, she's playfully, deliberately impacted with the door, perching beside the keyhole impatiently, briefly glancing back at Jagdish and Tatenda as if undecided if she should be better behaved or not. Then the inner workings of the lock click and rumble softly, and the door springs open an inch, a delighted expression infecting Mew's feline face.
“Patience,” Jagdish tells Mew. “Besides, we're not here to torture him just yet,” he adds, tone deliberately, exaggeratedly saccharine, smirking at the small creature condescendingly for a moment, before reverting to his baseline of fond appreciation for her with a soft, exasperated exhale. Then he's glancing at Tatenda, nodding once in prompt, before extending his left hand to pry the door open silently. “He's all yours,” he says, softly, as if it were a secret between them.
Within the cell is a copper-skinned man clad in dust- and sweat-stained, decoration-free black, a tangle of short hair on his head, eyes currently closed, posture awkwardly curled against the stone to accommodate for his chained wrists, a tinge of bitter defiance in him even as he naps, a hint of venom that makes it hard to feel any sympathy with him. As Tatenda steps to enter the cell, Mew sets down on his right shoulder, soft purr sounding against his right ear.
Prepared for a lot of things that might be behind this door, it takes a brief moment for Tatenda to sort things out until he clearly sees the man altogether, while unimportant preparations get pushed aside - though not be fully abandoned.
A few calm steps take him closer to that human being, which he attends with his look from head to feet until his hand rises to gently pet Mew on his shoulder. Finally he crouches down in front of the prisoner. “Dakarai N'Sehla? Are you awake?”
For someone sentenced to torture and death, with former queued for delivery shortly, the calm reaction that Tatenda's enquiry prompts, devoid of even the slightest twitch to cringe, is almost unnerving. A slow, almost lazy motion peels those eyes open, gaze dragging along Tatenda as if with scepticism, that slightly bitter expression not bothering to soften now that he's been woken from his nap. “I am now,” he chuckles sardonically but softly. “Which one are you? Good cop? Bad cop? Cop that does the gym leader's dirty work for him because he's gotten cold feet?” he asks, lips creasing to a grin. Then the expression drops to something subzero. “What do you want?”
Dark eyes with golden veins in them, as if the black surface might break open every moment to reveal a shiny treasure, measure the stranger while Tatenda is listening to his words and just lifts a black eyebrow in the end, one corner of his mouth rising in a mixture of surprise and amusement about this reaction.
“No cop,” he answers briefly. “A scientist.” Now that the other's eyes are open, he beholds them separately. “You created a weapon, which is based on my invention. And now I'm curious what sort of guy you are.”
The immediate reaction to Tatenda's comment is silence. In Dakarai's mind, his perception of Tatenda shifted to something else entirely: A vulture. Someone here to ram a fork into his gut and twist it just to behold the spectacle it brought. Watching, waiting, lurking, a voyeuristic foreign body inserted into the scene simply to cause him a maximum amount of humiliation.
He sobers up quickly from the miserable, unspoken thought, posture unaffected - the visitor could hardly know how he felt, the Arbiter didn't even know, not given the great pains he'd gone through to ensure as much. A venomous chuckle spills from him, distorted, but without the distortion's source being in any way apparent. “A scientist,” he echoes, flashing a toothy grin. “I'm a celebrity now, am I? I'm flattered.” In truth the better word was 'nauseated', but he wasn't going to start changing his spiel now, not while he was on such a delightfully sardonic roll.
“As for the sort of person, fairly regular if you ask me, other than the part where I don't have the plucked feathers of six rainbow turkeys stuck up my butt like your friend back there,” he nods toward the doorframe. Jagdish is out of view, but his vicinity is unimportant. It ought to be clear who he means. “Do you prostrate yourself before the Fantastic Six of pokémon, too, or can I talk to you like someone who hasn't sacrificed their common sense to Gaia?” His pulse feels like a complete giveaway of the game he's playing, frantic in his chest, a far smarter part of him bracing for some kind of abuse, a rigid framework of rules refusing to let it bleed into his posture, maintaining a tense pride that he simply didn't feel.
Tatenda's head is leaned to the side, when he slightly smiles in an inscrutable way. “Totally depends on how you define common sense,” he comments calmly, though his inner self had to chuckle about that mental image of Jagdish with some coloured feathers sticking out of his butt. “You seem to like my invention. What made you creating a weapon out of it - also this special kind of weapon?”
…this part. This part was difficult. He had no desire to talk about that infernal contraption and Tatenda didn't seem deterred by his vitriol. He wasn't sure if he had the strength after hours and hours of solitude to find that persona within him again to construct that delicate card house of lies again, given cautiously positioning every proverbial card made his skin crawl. If he started crying, could he convincingly pass it off as the mere stress of a prisoner awaiting the execution of his grim sentence? If his voice cracked, could he pretend to simply be resigned that his views fell on deaf ears, imbued with traces of desperation about an unjust world?
It didn't matter - he had to risk it.
“Pokémon don't always listen,” he says, dryly. “Recalling them into their pokéballs has minimal educational value, since time doesn't pass for them in their little prisons. So if you want to educate the dumb little beasts, you have to be a little more firm about it.” The whole thing is smoothly delivered, much to his own surprise, like a well-rehearsed, internalised script, without the hollowness of obvious practise and with all the (fake) conviction encoded into the tone that he could think to ask for. “If they don't know how to listen to good advice, it's their own bloody fault.” …he didn't have enough roll to the fictional vitriol for step two of his construction, not without prompt, so he simply regard Tatenda with bitter scepticism.
Deep inside the kernel of truer thoughts, a whimpered plea was ignored: Please go away, I don't know if malevolent stupidity is contagious.
Listening to every single word, Tatenda's eyes simply stay directly focused on the others, regardless they look back or not. When Dakarai was done with telling his - very extreme - reasons, which also seem so very stereotypical, Tatenda took a deep breath and held himself back from looking over his shoulder to that door frame. He just carries on petting Mew a little, as if he were thinking about what he heard.
“If this is true, you must be a really bad pokémon trainer and never experienced the subtle abilities of pokémon,” he then states, surprisingly calm. Well there's no point in showing anger or any other emotion to this misrouted man.
“So… this was reason enough for you to build a punishing weapon out of my invention using the pokémon's energy against itself?”
The attempt to bruise his ego merely prompts a genuinely derisive chuckle. “I'm sure my inability as a trainer is what let me win this gym's rigged battle,” he sneers sarcastically. Those words, at least, come easily - he knows his technical knowledge is flawless and that was one scrap of pride no one could take from him, regardless how much they tried. He was simply too well-informed about the level of his own skill - even if it was an illegitimate skill, one that he should never have embarked on acquiring, it was still unmistakable what he'd achieved; even if 'what he'd achieved' made him ill now. The question, meanwhile, strung itself out between his constructed persona and an equally constructed urge not to respond to similar questions twice that sought to be advertised. Instead, he's simply silent, waiting to see if this visitor would pick up on his ludicrous - but truthful - claim.
Tatenda is aware that he asked similar questions, but that these weren't the same. he just wants to know, if there are any other reasonable thoughts leading to construct a weapon like this. It was just too… hm… too narrow-minded for Tatenda's fancy.
One corner of his mouth rises a little. “I know the gym circuit and its nature very well. Still I think you could get better results from your training, if you changed your methods entirely. Given this fact you are indeed successful enough to be able to make your way this far, but you are still a bad trainer - in relativity to the one you could be.”
The claim threaded itself through his carefully constructed exterior and into the depths, the fragments that were still left from before he'd even come up here, triggering the intense desire to set ludicrously incorrect claims right by proving himself an expert. For a moment, his lips part - then his posture freezes but for the subtle motions of life as he pauses.
He can't do it. A cognitive dissonance wedges itself desperately between his factual knowledge and the sliver of empathy valiantly upholding all his faux-vitriol in an effort to damn himself. It's too much at once. He's sure he could argue the specific facts with Tatenda until the stars burnt out, but not without gradually, steadily dying in the meanwhile. Not while having to endure everything about himself that he hated.
“You don't know what you're talking about,” he comments, softly, the mutter almost more to himself than to his visitor - earnest, but difficult to detect as such, given the lack of vehemence. He's scared his voice might crack if he tried to speak any louder, though, or a twitch betray deeper thoughts.
Dark eyes again behold the young man, who maybe would be able to adapt this special change of methods. 'Don't let your feelings take control over your thoughts, Tatenda. That's the wrong place and definitely the wrong time for it,' he admonished himself. 'You are no longer a gym leader and no longer in charge!'
“Maybe I don't know. It's just… once I had been in your place, a young man on the gym circuit. I trained pokémon, made them fight for me. I also made mistakes and went through… hm… ugly situations. But the only living beings, which always had been with me and… kind of supported me in every situation, were my pokémon.” He shakes his head slightly, laughing lowly. “Maybe that's not of interest for you, but… I learnt a lot from them. They helped me to become a gym leader.” His shoulders twitches briefly. “And in fact they gave their energy voluntarily so I could embed it in those crystals, which are used in your weapon that is made to punish them.” A deep sigh moves the dark chest hidden beneath a dark red, thin cloth. “It's just not fair and I myself feel bad about it. I feel bad for being in some way responsible.”
A light palm rises, a gesture of excuse. “I'm not here to judge you, not even to plant bad feelings into your chest. …I just wanted to understand and maybe reconstruct your way of thinking that leads you to the idea of this weapon. Your goal is fully understandable, but the path is too painful to follow it for me.” He smiles in a bitter but still warm manner. “You are a genius, but misguided. And I'm very sorry for you.”
“The feeling's mutual,” some automated part of Dakarai churns out as the hollow antithesis of a platitude. Within, he desperately, frantically wished for Tatenda to go away - not because his words were painful, given that was a wholly acceptable sacrifice to be making, pitiful punishment compared to what he ought to be getting, but punishment nonetheless - but because fragments of his speech resonated with his new perspective dangerously. He couldn't afford to lose his composure. He'd played his role during the Council session - he owed it to Jagdish and the Legendaries to continue playing it until his life found its inevitable artificial end.
Tatenda's head leans to the side, when he just looks at the chained man, who will probably be dead in a relative short period of time, while this time might be horribly long for Dakarai himself. A thin braid gets coiled around a dark finger in a pondering, absent way. Tatenda is not that stupid to think it is all his responsibility that this will happen and happened, but he is convinced that he at least is in part guilty for the degree of possible cruelty some pokémon went through.
“Despite what you've caused, I… also have to thank you,” he then lowly admits, taking a deep breath. “At least I learnt how to use the energy crystals. Though I'll try to build something to protect rather than to harm.”
The notion of his work contributing to something peaceful seeps through his synapses like stray drops of balm - something impossibly soothing through a tangle of heat, of burning up in a fever, only making its own absence all the more tangible as it passes. As the last of it evaporated by necessity, simply overwhelmed by the rest of the emotions violently tossing anything pleasant aside as undeserved, an abrupt, vicious barb pushes through his mindscape - what are his motives? Why is Tatenda even here? To gloat, to goad him into cracking?
It's ludicrously paranoid, of course, he can tell that with minimal self-reflection - but a part of him clings to the superstition. Encoded in it is a hope, after all: If they've seen through his ruse already, maybe they won't be so hard on him. He may not be fond of those base instincts that flirt with such possibilities, but nonetheless he has them; a deep-seated desire to stay alive and near-equally deep-seated desire to stay unharmed. It takes a lot of willpower not to let those hopes surface. It takes an even greater willpower to actively undermine them… and his body protests about his callous disregard for his own life and safety more than about anything he's done. That's the worst of the nausea.
The silence between them reveals none of the turmoil: The benefit of being dehydrated, hungry and battered by anticipation of punishment was that it was plausible regardless of one's personality, and he could allow himself some misery in his posture without giving the game away. But he has no experience where to draw the line, erring desperately on the side of caution, overstraining himself in the presence of this visitor.
Venom enters his tone, milked from a genuine source: Like an animal backed into a corner, aggression's leaking into him. The words spoken stem from unrelated rational thoughts, constructed - flimsily, but constructed nonetheless. “How nice that you can feel good about yourself. Do you actually have any technical questions or are you just here to waste both my time and yours?”
For a moment silence again lingers between them, but if Dakarai's goal had been to alienate Tatenda, he just failed. Dark golden veined eyes just look at him. “I have your whip, nothing more required to learn the technique,” he then states calmly finally straightens up. “You just gave me the very last answer I needed. Thank you.”
Almost at the door he turns around again with a slight, bitter smile. “Have a safe journey.” Then he leaves him. Once he said this to all the circuiters that passed his gym test.
A useless emotion flares up briefly amongst the others: Thief. Invisibly, the hair on the back of Dakarai's neck have risen at that advertised violation of territory. Tatenda had his whip - illegitimately acquired, about to dissect it and carve its secrets out of its depth. The misplaced instinct is over almost as quickly as it arose, a strangled, single-syllabled chuckle silenced completely by strength of will, if only at the very last possible instant.
The emotion that replaces it doesn't last long, either - he can't disassociate with it. It's his, he made it, he poured time, effort and energy into it, regardless how misguided it was. It's his. He's just… going to have to come to terms with that somehow.
Tatenda's scorn, so calmly delivered, barely leaves an additional mark - but nonetheless, he's looking after Tatenda, a part of him trying to reason with the rest of him, imploring him to call out something like 'Wait!' and explain the whole situation, but he just sets his jaw, redirecting his focus into tension.
When Tatenda finally steps out of sight, he closes his eyes, forcing his breath to stay slow while he waits for his heart to make that very attempt less of a chore.
It's Mew, having floated off of the ex-gymleader's shoulders just as the doorframe threatened to eclipse her shape that closes the door again, although not before a pausing curiously in a gravity-defying side-on perch on the frame, peering at Dakarai, one ear twitching slightly. Soon. Soon you'll be systematically rended into shards - and I'll be there watching you.
Jagdish is sat on the tiled ground in the corridor outside, right hand's fingers handling those of his left, posture and idle habit a jarring contrast to the inhuman, dominant air he usually wore. His gaze creeps up to Tatenda as he approaches. “So, how much did he make your blood boil?” he asks, hint of amusement in his voice. “Did you get all your questions answered? Or did he just petulantly deny you answers?”
Still pondering about what was said in that room, which he just left, Tatenda is absent for some moments, until he blinks, then glances down to Jagdish. A tiny smirk reaches his face, but not yet his eyes, when he shrugs. “To be honest… I'm not sure,” he explains his gesture, then sighs deeply. “There's something about him that… - hm… I cannot think of the right word.”
Jagdish's grin widens into something with a subtle predatory flavour at that phrasing, and one of his hands rises to the edge of his jaw, dragging the nail of its thumb against the pale skin at that boundary. Then he leans forward from his sit, pushing up from the same. “Well, I've certainly not seen someone that's quite as terrified as he is maintain that much stubborn, destructive pride,” he comments. “But don't worry. Give me ten seconds with him and I promise it'll… evaporate.”
The dark eyes follow this gesture with some sort of fascination deep within them, which is hidden well when his look jumps up to the other's eyes, while Tatenda leans his head to the side, arms folded laxly in front of his chest.
“So you want to force him to show… remorse and ease his judgement?”
The notion amuses Jagdish, his head shaking in light dismissal, fond smile creasing his lips. “No,” he says. “No, no, I'm sure he's well beyond such civilised notions as 'reasoning' or 'redemption',” he chuckles. “Be glad you didn't witness his trial.” There's a pause as Jagdish looks at Tatenda like he might an equal - before realising he's forgotten to answer the question in full. “No, in his case, I'm genuinely only interested in retributive justice, everything else is a waste of everyone else's time.”
The dark skinned man nods slightly and bites his own lower lip for a brief moment. “Of course that wouldn't make any sense,” he admits lowly, then abrupty changes the topic: “Did he use that whip a lot? How are his pokémon?”
It's the second question that creases Jagdish's expression with a fresh and significantly warmer smile. “Why don't you talk to some of them?” he offers. “I could introduce you to Salt, he can probably answer most of your questions earnestly. He's certainly not inclined to speak badly of N'Sehla out of vengeance… he's still a bit intimidated by him currently, but it's probably the closest you could come to an objective account of both the ordeal and the aftermath.” Of course, 'talk to' was not trivial for Tatenda - especially not if subjects adopted such a complexity. His ability to communicate with pokémon reached as far as complex but physical tasks - to discuss abstractions such as personality traits, motivations and past feelings with them, would require a better connection. Of course, Jagdish could bridge that gap, but it meant it wouldn't be a strictly private conversation.
At first Tatenda is surprised about this indirect offer, his eyes widen a little and for a brief moment he is staring at Jagdish. But then he's returning this warm smile and nods lightly. “It would be an honor, so… yes, please.” He has no objections against the Arbiter partaking in a conversation. Also he really wants to be able to create his own image of the circumstances.