Will Graham (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mirrortouch) wrote2014-07-27 02:12 am
mirrortouch) wrote2014-07-27 02:12 am
03 | 🕒 | spam
( spam for riddick / open )
[ He stalks Level Two because it has become his territory, the place that belongs to him, of stags and mirrors and something in the air that keeps him primal, sharp, and it shouldn't be something he enjoys but, oh, how it's something he enjoys.
Sometimes, maybe, the wisps of black smoke trailing behind him - frenetically, he constantly keeps checking behind himself for anything, anyone, and it's almost better off in his cell. Where he knows the cracks and he knows the cot and it's slanted and broken now but at least it's better than this, walls of funhouse mirrors that each echo something beastly and unlike himself.
He's upgraded his weapon, from a hanger to a knife won from one of the games a level up. It's difficult to stay out of here too long, the gas in his system; too many bright lights and noises and things crawling, he feels the comfort of the second level as though it's cradling him in his arms. A large mirror shard sits in his other hand, clutched tight enough to let blood pool up underneath his fingers. He gathered the idea from a friend. He's keeping it, for now.
The hall's been quiet, save for the sound of the whispers that surround him - over here, Will, look this way, I can see you - and none of them in his own voice. It's not safe here. The Barge is not safe here, and he can feel it to every fiber.
If he looks a bit deranged as he makes his way down the hall one more time, it's because he hasn't eaten, hasn't slept, hasn't done much but sit and watch and let plans as they are unfold.
It sits sick in his stomach, like a pint of blood. ]
[ He stalks Level Two because it has become his territory, the place that belongs to him, of stags and mirrors and something in the air that keeps him primal, sharp, and it shouldn't be something he enjoys but, oh, how it's something he enjoys.
Sometimes, maybe, the wisps of black smoke trailing behind him - frenetically, he constantly keeps checking behind himself for anything, anyone, and it's almost better off in his cell. Where he knows the cracks and he knows the cot and it's slanted and broken now but at least it's better than this, walls of funhouse mirrors that each echo something beastly and unlike himself.
He's upgraded his weapon, from a hanger to a knife won from one of the games a level up. It's difficult to stay out of here too long, the gas in his system; too many bright lights and noises and things crawling, he feels the comfort of the second level as though it's cradling him in his arms. A large mirror shard sits in his other hand, clutched tight enough to let blood pool up underneath his fingers. He gathered the idea from a friend. He's keeping it, for now.
The hall's been quiet, save for the sound of the whispers that surround him - over here, Will, look this way, I can see you - and none of them in his own voice. It's not safe here. The Barge is not safe here, and he can feel it to every fiber.
If he looks a bit deranged as he makes his way down the hall one more time, it's because he hasn't eaten, hasn't slept, hasn't done much but sit and watch and let plans as they are unfold.
It sits sick in his stomach, like a pint of blood. ]
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Last time he did this, he ran into Fucking Lecter, and has a few bandages for his trouble. He's quiet, angry.
When he sees Will stalking the halls, his eyes narrow behind the dark lenses of his goggles.]
I'm just passing through. Please don't make me have to handle you.
[Isn't that polite. Isn't that... wardenly. His teeth are grinding against each other, and he can feel the adrenal spike of fear gas infiltrating his system.]
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He's bandaged, weakened; Will finds himself picking out weak points as soon as he's telling himself he needs to get out of here, he never should leave, he never has to leave, he should leave -
With a few advancing steps, his own teeth grit together, and he speaks as tensed as he holds himself. ]
Delegating yourself to food distribution. And you're so sure any of it's safe.
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I'm not going to make you eat it. [He starts forward again; he's just going to muscle past, all unconcerned-like. But he's hyperaware, despite his casual stance, of Will's movements.]
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Did I -
[ He pushes himself right back in the way, that knife suddenly up and pressed against Riddick's stomach - the man is easily larger than him, could easily take him in a fight, particularly as close quarters as this is. ]
Ask if - Tell me why you're really here.
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I'm kitchen staff. I'm taking food for Zero.
Move.
[It's a growl, a little inhuman, a little wrong-sounding.]
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[ He's seen him around. Impossible not to, the man's built like a truck and certainly has a formidable advantage over Will. He doesn't want to chance the dangers of someone that brusque getting the best of him.
And he doesn't like the sound of that voice. To his addled ears, it sounds predatory. ]
I'd really rather you leave this hall. [ More of a hiss than anything, a careful warning as he presses that knife in deeper, nearly enough to draw blood. Distrust, like a caged animal, reads in his eyes. Dangerous. ]
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[He's in basically no mood. The wounds he got in his tussle with Hannibal still sting. The lingering gas still makes it hard to think on a conscious level. His hand flashes between them, closing like a vice on Will's wrist, and he starts to squeeze.]
Let's. Resolve this. Like civilized people. Before I get uncivilized.
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[ He inhales sharply at the hand on his wrist, reacting viscerally and nearly immediately raising his other hand to slash the glass quick across Riddick's arm, in the hopes of getting him off and away. The next slash will be aimed for his chest. Let go, let go, it says.
There's a wild look in his eyes. Paranoia mixed with the kind of fury that Hannibal's tea has given him. He should know better. He doesn't. ]
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Will's fist jams back into his stomach, nearly knocking the wind out of him, and it occurs to him just how much stronger this man is than him, inordinately so. He inhales a gasp and tries to straighten his breathing. This time, when he slashes with the glass, it's at the same arm, a few attempted hacks at his skin - the glass can only do so much, but he needs to let go.
Fleeing isn't exactly one of Will's favorite activities. But there's a paranoia seeped deep into his bones that does not want - will not let - him to die here and now.
Then the glass draws back again, trying to drive into Riddick's own stomach, Will's breath still coming out in panicked inhales. ]
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[ Which hurts when it's twisted at that angle; he can feel his tendons twist and his wrist start to pop and it's not until it does that his fingers automatically release the knife - it clatters to the floor, and Will instinctively jams up the piece of glass underneath Riddick's chin.
Manic, threatening. He should be running. ]
Lmk if I should edit this
no man totally aokay 8D
Rather than show fear, Will's mouth twists into a wicked smile and he freely drops the piece of glass onto the ground - it shatters, a broken teacup unable to be pieced together again, and his freed hand reaches up to plant against the top of Riddick's head. ]
Go ahead.
[ He dares, nastily. Getting his throat bitten out wasn't the way he was expecting to go, but it's not as if it matters here. ]
I'd like to see if you're even capable.
Re: no man totally aokay 8D
The guy who taught me gourmet cooking said that human flesh was an irresistible addiction, a craving. Not my experience at all. I've never been that impressed by it, myself-- it's quick protein, but mediocre as a gourmet dish.
But I'm a warden these days. And you need to cool the fuck off. [There's an empty room nearby, the door blank and standard and concealed behind a mirror-- he drags Will toward it.]
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And he laughs as he does, a low chuckle in his throat that probably doesn't help ameliorate the whole 'crazed inmate' image that Riddick has probably superimposed onto him. There's some small part of him that's fully aware of how he's acting right now, but it's completely overcome by the rest of everything else, the overwhelming feeling of his brain on fire again.
It's not unfamiliar. ]
Tell that to my therapist. [ He practically spits his words, and he does struggle a bit then, pushing back against Riddick to little avail. Why an empty room, what's going to happen? ] Long pig, I'm certain it's unlike anything else I've ever tasted.
Cw yet more cannibalism refs
Get over yourselves. [An irritated growl as he plants a boot in Will's back and shoves him into the room. ]
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Funny who they let be the wardens in this place, if your track record is as you say, if you're so much more dangerous than I am.
[ His look sinks more into a glower. ]
The plan? Just going to leave me locked up in here until you see fit?
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And basically yeah, consider this time out.
[He's got a little control back, but he's only hiding the feral urge to kill. It isn't gone. He's forcing his tone to be casual and hoping his hind-brain will get with the program sooner or later.
Will can eventually break out of whatever barricade he sets up, and it makes him itch leaving a loose end like that. ]
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[ Will takes a few steps further towards Riddick and the door, a challenging sort of cockiness to his walk. ]
Struggle. Imagine if I didn't submit. Imagine if I made you kill me.
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You know what, Graham? You've got more free time than me. You fantasize. [He steps back and shuts the door.]
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He merely folds his hands, sets them in his lap, sits on the edge of the bed left in the room.
And he waits. ]
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Fucking barge.]
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Who are you hunting?
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In other words, he's looked better. ]
Those who hunt me.
[ Potentially anyone on this level, anyone who might want to find him and - That's the short of it, but he approaches slowly, glancing her over. His glasses are on, sliding down the tip of his nose. ]
Why are you here?
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[Not the way the monster belongs in the maze; that's Hannibal. She belongs here the way the walls do, fades in and out of her own reflections, all the paper dolls she's been. A face and a pair of hands. One of these is a luxury.]
Why are you?
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[ The Barge still hasn't sat right, probably never will particularly sit right with him so long as he's attached to the idea of home, the things he was doing, the things he needs to do. They all feel so far away and yet so intimately familiar to him.
He hasn't backed down yet, stepping in closer and trying to use as much of a height advantage as he can manage. ]
But I'm not dying. Not because of - [ the words come out vehement, poisonous ] this place.
[ He points the knife towards her, and his eyes are a bit crazed. It's clear he's been breathing in this gas for far too long. ]
So I'll ask you again: What are you doing here? Really?
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I'm waiting for something to happen.
[Mouth open, teeth flashing, breath shallow. The edge of her neck as she tilts, bare above the high collar of the armored dress. Try it try it fucking try it.]
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[ He corrects cockily, knowingly, chin tipped upward and knife still pointed very much in her way. It's almost pressed against her gut, how close he is now. ]
And you're looking for that someone to be me.
[ She's looking for a fight? He can feel it tensed in her muscles as though in his own, but then again he does mirror her, teeth nearly bared, heart rate quick in his throat. ]
So if I asked you one more time to leave?
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Waiting for them -
[She jerks her head at the mirrors.]
- to crawl out and tell me how many times I betrayed them, maybe. Waiting for the Gods to speak. Waiting for anything. But here you are.
And you haven't asked me to leave a first time. You're the one who doesn't want to die here. You should leave.
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[ Or apparently he's proclaimed it so. He glances idly to a room not too far down from where they are, prison bars and a slid-open door that's so scarcely closed. ]
That's my room.
[ He looks back to her and suddenly the knife is curved up high, blade pressed tight underneath her chin as he shushes and lets his own chin tuck downward to see her better. ]
Why would I leave?
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[A gesture, her hand like a sprightly brown bird, fluttering in a flock with a thousand reflections.]
I belong with them. I'm a copy of a copy of a copy.
Are real? Or are you a copy too?
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[ The stag exhales deeply over his shoulder, a heavy huff of breath that heats and lingers in the air, and when Will peers over sideways, he can see it reflected in the mirrors. Large, overbearing, its antlers stretched high as it throws its head back and Will twists his fingers around the knife. ]
- much more real than I have in a very long time.
[ But he doesn't just say it; there's a vehemence there, and it grinds out between his teeth as he brushes a hair from her face, the hand with the knife, fingers messily tucking some behind her ear. ] You should really go.
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How? What makes you feel real?