[ the first of her whispered words filter through heine's consciousness without being absorbed, as focused as he still is on wresting himself back into some type of control. it's alarming in a deeply primal way, to hear so much from kerberos now after six years of letting sleeping dogs lie—every whisper from him touches the black hole of rage inside heine, the event horizon past which no mercy escapes.
he breathes slowly, gripping the windowframe so hard the wood creaks under the force of his fingers. cold sweat prickles the back of his neck, and heine's other hand comes up to curl against the unforgiving metal of his collar, like that physical gesture will somehow help keep the beast contained.
when vanessa speaks, he turns his head, but doesn't turn back to face her. not immediately. despite their brief acquaintance, heine can tell that in many ways he and vanessa are similar. damaged, uncertain if beyond repair; driven beyond the point of sympathy or pity. to be coddled for his past would disgust heine too, and so he recognizes that the reason vanessa tells him this is not because she seeks his pity, but rather so he will understand that this is another point of resonance. "a torment where i could only pray to drown for an escape."
heine exhales a humorless laugh and turns to lean against the window instead. he's only recently started to come to terms with the reality of who he is—of what he is—and so the words stick some in his throat as he forces them out. ]
My mother made us underground. [ how else to tell her but to just... say it, as cold as the truth may sound? heine's voice is flat and affectless. ] Me and my brother, and the other kids she'd kidnapped for her tests. We were supposed to be weapons.
[ something about the way he says mother perhaps suggests that he doesn't mean it the way most people do. most people say mother and mean comfort; heine says mother and means the reason a woman's touch makes him feel like he's asphyxiating. ]
She made us perfect, then she made us fight. By the time we could walk they had us in death matches. Against each other. Against the poor fucks they'd turned into dumb beasts for our slaughter. [ heine looks at his hands like he can still see the blood on them. then, slowly, he reaches up to loosen the bandages wrapped tightly around the column of his throat. when they fall, they reveal the metal that climbs up his spine and wraps partway around his neck. ] We can't die, after all. Not easily. And we were strong. Fast. Scared all the fucking time.
[ red eyes slide upward to look directly at vanessa for the first time since he started speaking. ] You know how feral animals fight when they're caged?
[ rhetorical question. his fingertip traces the familiar scar tissue around the collar where it digs into his throat. it aches, but not with any new hurt. ]
I killed them all before I ran. My brother. My mother. ...Or I thought I did. I ripped Lily in half with my bare hands. [ his breath shudders once, involuntary. ] I wish I could say she died screaming, but she didn't. She died telling me it was okay.
[ he looks back down at his hands, fingers curling loosely into fists. ]
I'm getting out of here. And when I do, I'm going to rip my cunt of a mother's throat out with my teeth if it kills me. [ teeth bared, more of a grimace than a smile. there they are: his cards out on the table. ] I hope it does.
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he breathes slowly, gripping the windowframe so hard the wood creaks under the force of his fingers. cold sweat prickles the back of his neck, and heine's other hand comes up to curl against the unforgiving metal of his collar, like that physical gesture will somehow help keep the beast contained.
when vanessa speaks, he turns his head, but doesn't turn back to face her. not immediately. despite their brief acquaintance, heine can tell that in many ways he and vanessa are similar. damaged, uncertain if beyond repair; driven beyond the point of sympathy or pity. to be coddled for his past would disgust heine too, and so he recognizes that the reason vanessa tells him this is not because she seeks his pity, but rather so he will understand that this is another point of resonance. "a torment where i could only pray to drown for an escape."
heine exhales a humorless laugh and turns to lean against the window instead. he's only recently started to come to terms with the reality of who he is—of what he is—and so the words stick some in his throat as he forces them out. ]
My mother made us underground. [ how else to tell her but to just... say it, as cold as the truth may sound? heine's voice is flat and affectless. ] Me and my brother, and the other kids she'd kidnapped for her tests. We were supposed to be weapons.
[ something about the way he says mother perhaps suggests that he doesn't mean it the way most people do. most people say mother and mean comfort; heine says mother and means the reason a woman's touch makes him feel like he's asphyxiating. ]
She made us perfect, then she made us fight. By the time we could walk they had us in death matches. Against each other. Against the poor fucks they'd turned into dumb beasts for our slaughter. [ heine looks at his hands like he can still see the blood on them. then, slowly, he reaches up to loosen the bandages wrapped tightly around the column of his throat. when they fall, they reveal the metal that climbs up his spine and wraps partway around his neck. ] We can't die, after all. Not easily. And we were strong. Fast. Scared all the fucking time.
[ red eyes slide upward to look directly at vanessa for the first time since he started speaking. ] You know how feral animals fight when they're caged?
[ rhetorical question. his fingertip traces the familiar scar tissue around the collar where it digs into his throat. it aches, but not with any new hurt. ]
I killed them all before I ran. My brother. My mother. ...Or I thought I did. I ripped Lily in half with my bare hands. [ his breath shudders once, involuntary. ] I wish I could say she died screaming, but she didn't. She died telling me it was okay.
[ he looks back down at his hands, fingers curling loosely into fists. ]
I'm getting out of here. And when I do, I'm going to rip my cunt of a mother's throat out with my teeth if it kills me. [ teeth bared, more of a grimace than a smile. there they are: his cards out on the table. ] I hope it does.