tampered | Log [ongoing]

Log [ongoing]

When; Last month.
Rating; Anywhere from PG to R. Depends on your taste pov anyway.
Characters; Heine [

weisshaar] & Giovanni [

60_08]
Summary; Details their vacation from the City last month, when they went back home to "settle things." ~~shh cover up for hiatus.~~
Log;

Though outdated and painstaking to retell the exact reasons and exact setup for their journey back Home, there is a simple way to explain why Heine, known for his aggressive denail and stubborness, just finally gave in to all the nagging of his pinstripe "brother," Giovanni, and that is wanting to make him "shut the fuck up." Direct quote.

So, humbling himself, he followed suit as they--well, one of them anyway--bid a bon voyage to the City, but only for more or less a month's time, enough in his seasonless world of the Underground to let tensions precipitate momentarily (until someone else came to stir the shit up again).

Underneath it all, the red-eyed gunner wanted to take the bastard away from whom he loosely considered his "friends," but most especially from the angel girl. In fact, before he stepped through the rare City Exit (which was quite boring, actually), he glanced back, frowning, almost concerned for her well-being; but he huffed and turned away, deciding that his leaving was for the better despite the fact that he knew she'd get hurt either way.

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It was, rather amusingly, a welcome return to his living cycle for Giovanni. To step back into the dirt-smut asphalt of the Underground, to smell its pungent scents of street waste again. Nothing like returning home, as some would say, and as he gracefully raised a hand to form an arched way of good riddance to a place that was, in everything awkward, a temporary home, he set foot down and gun out.

Well, mostly the former.

Mostly he was just damn happy Rammsteiner actually acquiesced to his... request. So often has that man been as stubborn as a mule that he was more stymied than happy for the first few moments after Haine had agreed, before his smile fixed itself and led on to home.

Cheshire cat, leading Alice. Or something like that.

Haine didn't bear the softness needed for lace.

They'd passed the street, walking under the titanium beams that supported the metal and cement sky of the city, when Giovanni, in his oft-pretended politeness, voiced a question he felt he should ask:

"Would you mind coffee before we actually shoot each other infinity, Haine?"

"Tch," he snorted. "Fine."

He agreed again. What was this? Certainly madness. Giovanni must have felt some kind of surprise, receiving so many willing yes's and less willing no's. The repulsed face was an unchanging factor, only increasing or decreasing in hate. Right now the hate hit a number 7 on a ten-dashed scale.

Been forced to listen to cheeky melodies whistled by his gayesty all morning, Heine wanted to breath a little. He just came back to his lifeless, violence-soaked world on a cold day after such a long time and with the worst company ever that the scenery hurt his eyes like neon yellow through headlights. Surely there was some way he can convince the blonde pest to get off his tail for at least an hour, that way he can sneak off and maybe pay the Bishop a visit...

"You go this way and I'll go that. I'll meet you somewhere. Bye."

Brisk walk exit; no faster escape short of running.

"Surprised" seems to be the mode of today. Followed by the close second of "very fucking pleased". Except the other was parting ways and that was rather not part of today's agenda, but we might as well be humored.

"So eager to go home," Giovanni threw over his shoulder, "And we're not even here for more than a while.

"Do stay, Haine," he asked, with the only version of "polite" he could muster, going so much as to offer a hand for the other to take. "The coffee here still is best."

Mister White Hair knew better than to turn his back on Giovannin unarmed. He was quick as he spun his heels, pulling the safety lock open of his chained pistol and waving it in the air as if to say, "Let me go or a bullet's going through your teeth and tongue; then you can't taste any coffee."

Not even bothering to rhetort with his own opinion about the place claimed by an enemy to be the best, Heine kept his feet going and found a crowd to slip into. Now, he fucking hoped that Giovanni wouldn't hack his brain and screw him up before due time.

Screw. To turn a bolt into its place; a piece of metal used to hold things together; to fuck something up. Three definitions and it's clear which one Giovanni preferred more over the others.

It was fun, to put things plainly.

Waving a gun with his back turned really did get his message across - a city that converses in violence was bound to plant its dialect rather firmly in its people, if not for the obvious safety reasons, then at least for intimidation and self-preservation.

Not something you really care about when you can't exactly die the same way others do.

So Giovanni huffed, and puffed, and stuck his hands into the pockets of his slacks, creasing the pristine surface of the cloth in the process. Worth it?

Should he?

Maybe too soon?

Unfinished thoughts. Broken line of thinking.

But it was all about feeling the moment.

And that was how Giovanni made his move - by whimsy and little amusement - stepped forward, moved on, lunged and with the momentary sliding cold of slipping from one consciousness to another--

There we go.

Time to play.

Unaware and slightly too relaxed, Heine raced (habit) down the subway steps to catch a departing train to a lower level. The car was nearly full, so he had to stand. His leather gloves squeaked as his grip tightened on the plastic support rings dangling from the ceiling. The man's face was indifferent, disconnected, vulnerable. His thoughts were wandering too many placed and not focused on keeping a mind barrier which was otherwise up and reenforced.

It was peaceful, if you muted the loud chugging and chattering in and out of the transport, until the cheshire dog's smile hovered in his vision like a mirage. Heine's eyes shot open and he flicked his head, scowling.

"Can't fucking leave me alone, can he?"

The rocking back and forth of the train was rather soothing, when you thought about it. Not that Giovanni would have risked riding the same train as Haine and lose his life - on most occasions anyway. As it were, it ws simply a matter of following, like a servant, as Haine had callously put it, who invited tears in his wake.

Was Giovanni that pathetic?

Hmm.

As it were, he had only gotten a touch comfy with his seat, a few feet away from where Haine stood, his back to his pursuer, and Giovanni's to his, and neither needed to turn in this parallel mindverse to acknowledge each other. Even as the people around them swarmed and swirled with their lives unfairly endangered, unnoticed and ignored.

"I doubt he really can, Haine."

"He's rather attached to you."

Why yes, he was pathetic in an obsessive way. The clothes and attitude he carried were just a way to elevate his esteem, probably, always being the one to crave attention when the one who wanted it the least was cooed and coveted. The two were more alike than pickles and cucumbers (one was sour, obviously), but more opposite than fruits and vegetables (savory when seasoned with salt, pepper, and rage); neither would admit that although they knew it.

The back of Heine's neck tingled and stung, attempting to auto-rescusitate itself to life at the signal of another with a Spine, but Heine grabbed at it, teeth grit, and sought the culprit with keen, glowering pupils, dilated with the tunnel shadows. Up, down, left, right, around.... There. Scope locked; he directed dissonant and threatening thoughts at the man.

It was that peculiar balance of similarity and difference that made them fit so very well together, in Giovanni's mind.

And when they resonated, when they sent electric fires down the other's nerves with equal parts of hate and brewing blood-eyed glee...

Oh, the fun.

I would suppose you're doing your best to threaten, Haine? Synapses, conversation, never spoken out.

Their connection swerved, curled, twisted around their fellow train passengers, the occasional push and tug rattling down the vinetails of their system. Giovanni yanked.

And that really would do it - like a movie scene where the world bottomed out into a great darkness, Giovanni locked them together in that place called nothing, that niche in the mind that held peace and quiet and the occasional psychological horror to torment and make toast with.

Alone.

That's what matters. They're alone, now, here, even if on the outside they really weren't. Poeple can deal with it when they were dead.

"Set the stage, Haine. I'll place up the melody."

Puzzle pieces are shaped differently in order to connect and lock in. They were designed to fill in what the adjacent piece lacked, and that is the connection between Giovanni and Heine. The latter abhorred puzzles, so he either avoided them entirely or shot holes in them; one led to the other eventually. Sometimes he didn't waste his effort and took it straight to the trigger.

...STATION 5, please, disembark. We have reached STATION 5, please, dise--

Some times such as now.

Heine's psychotic system interpreted only one entity. In a black space, it was the only standing being, pure white and still (at the moment). It was a nifty feature, formulated along with the rest of his nifty features associated with the cursed spinal prosthetic, that made aiming as easy as breathing.

What happened to the bystanders? Well, they were still there, only they were washed-out static of no importance. Only disadvantage was that noise was more difficult to filter, since they were flooding out of the cabins in hordes, screaming, yelling, shouting 'til their heart stopped with a bullet in the chest.

Heine moved backwards, with the flow of panic, into a wider arena. Spectators were welcome, but they'd have to watch for the rain.

A step backward.

A step forward.

Dance.

As the people lurched around and away from them Giovanni lunged forth, hands going for the guns in their respective holsters, and in a split moment - half of a second, even - both guns were aimed forward, muzzles ready to howl with bullet-smoke.

And it did, with simple squeezes of the trigger; Giovanni's aim found true, stray bullets ricocheting and breaking window-glass.

This was one of the things he'd missed about the Underground. Something no city could ever replicate the feeling of. Something that, innately, as dictated by the spinal cord long-embedded into him like the metal ring around his neck, told him of home.

Home, where one could fire a gun so freely as though it were an extra limb.

"This isn't another breakdown of negotiations, now, is it, Haine?" Giovanni asked giddily, as he closed into the albino's form. "I'd hate for us to bring business into this.

Spin, slide, pivot behind a column. Discard all the used shells; jump out and bang bang bang. Sounded like the artillery was out; the air was on fire.

There was a pause. Hard breaths and stomping feat scratched the sick green walls, and the last few passengers exited at the thunk and shatter of objects, living or nonliving. It was a beatiful disaster all too common in that area. Alarms were of no use and justice was long buried.

Sweat trickled down his jaw. He loosened the jacket collar in a rough pull; then he laughed hoarsely, feeling his enemy's dangerous proximity.

"Some fucking business. We're the worst agents in history. Let's just finish this."

Metal punctured the ceiling. He was aiming for bringing it down.

The joy of freier frei, Giovanni thinks. One foot apart, twelve inches of distance, one single breath barely felt that keeps them from - and let me say it and humor our dead audience - biting range.

All it takes is a single motion to tip the balance to one side - never mind who falls first, who reaches out first, whose teeth come close and grip all bloody first.

"You make it sound like we're both undercover."

Giovanni moved.

It was a blur of white and black and steel and teeth and Heine didn't know if he was on top or at bottom until his back collided with an aluminum wall, unbolted by momentous force.

Giovanni was over him, grinning savagely, for he had victoriously disabled an arm and drove a slim silver neck into Heine' collarbone. Strained eyes twitched; Heine jerked a knee into the other's abdomen while he tightly held an arm between his face and his neck. There was no softness in his attempts to throw the suited man off. Emphasis on "attempts."

Heine could only pull his lips thin, teeth displayed.

Shit.

If one couldn't bite through its intended - and rather misplaced - tether, then one attempts for the closest thing.

Which would be, in this case, Haine's limb.

Giovanni dug deep, and dug in, ignoring the hurt of a knee driving into his guts. It was bearable pain, and even then it was the kind of pain he savored most - selfish, indulgent, completely self-serving.

Giovanni had learned the tastes of every possible sense of avarice, of greed and bloodlust and so many things that most people were wont to have.

It was a cultured nature.

And Giovanni had no compunctions in fighting unfairly. No such thing as a fair fight, after all - something that, indirectly, Haine Rammsteiner himself had taught him, a long distant past before.

I'm going to fucking bite this hand off you, Haine, Giovanni mind-murmured, and then I'll kill your little bird friend with it.

Unfair fights meant no honor. Just the simple grit of violence.

Now his teeth were bared, fangs long and sharp, but he stayed soundless. His thoughts, however, blared violently.

I won't let you touch her.

His arm quivered. If he pulled or pushed that would mean losing flesh and bone. He had high pain tolerance and didn't care for the tear, but a wound like that would take a week to heal. He didn't like to tich. Heine was almost completely disabled, save for his head which he was defending at the cost of his arm. With his guns inaccesible, he might as well use what was.

He drew his head back and gave Giovanni the hardest headbutt of his life.

How do you fucking like that?

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Log [ongoing]

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my brain is vegetating. forrealz.

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