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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 contageous.
✘ IN PROGRESS