ca$h hotdog🌠(![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
oorah) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
quietplacelogs2018-02-28 09:54 am
oorah) wrote in quietplacelogs2018-02-28 09:54 am
III. (open-ish) i said i've been through a lot of noise
featuring: hotdog & his (close) cr
what's happening? frank is suffering from vaccine side-effects and has been ordered to go to the clinic to take care of it; meanttime max has arrived! and just undergone debarking surgery.
day: march 1 (night) & march 2 all day
content warnings: sick man, sick dog, the whine (not)heard round the world.
notes: if it's feasible that frank or micro would have told your character where he is, then feel free to show up. or if you are sick maybe you are unlucky enough to encounter this jerkbutt. hit me up if you want something specific!
march 1
[ after frank gifted jessica a lovely murder basket, she suspects he isn't feeling himself (joke's on her tbh.) since only just injecting him with the experimental drug that would (with any luck at all) make him immune to kilgrave's powers, she assumes frank's weird behavior is a side effect and sends him to the clinic to get checked out. after akira puts him on bedrest, he's open to visitors, and of course the first person he wants to see isn't a person at all. he texts hawkeye and micro furiously: ] bring me my fucking dog, you assholes.
[ okay, so he might be a little testy. once a sleepy max just out of surgery is brought to the clinic, too, the dog will lay at the foot of his bed, alternating between lazily guarding and even lazier dozing. frank hates being stationary. he hates feeling useless. the aches and pains are taking a toll on him, but not as much as the rising tide of frustration and irritability. even if he's usually not a chill guy by a landslide, today he's especially twitchy. he'll likely be up long into the night fantasizing different and creative ways to make kilgrave hurt. oh, hi kids. didn't see you there. ]
march 2
[ frank hasn't slept much. between the fever and refusing to take anything stronger than aspirin, he's sweating and out of it, an angry red rash climbing steadily up the back of his neck to peek out of his black jumpsuit collar. the blankets are on his feet, but he keeps kicking them off. he hates being sick, and he knows he's a terrible patient besides. maria always used to scold him for acting like a child; or worse than their actual children since they took being sick like a champ, just happy for the day away from school. he could endure torture and pain aplenty, max the dog had witnessed both first-hand. he lived in bunkers buried in the sand and traveled to countries that were just holes in the ground, but a little fever and nausea and he's ready to die. every time a cold shiver wracks his spine, he wishes for it even; picturing the bullet in his skull. the doctors telling him a shift in millimeter increment would have killed him. should have, even the way it is.
max is on the floor now, his big block head peeking out from underneath the cot. he watches the door, alerting frank to any new arrival with a tiny growl before shutting his eyes again. the noise little more than a rattly rumble from the dog's barrel chest. the message is clear: you take this one, dad. i'll get the next. ]
what's happening? frank is suffering from vaccine side-effects and has been ordered to go to the clinic to take care of it; meanttime max has arrived! and just undergone debarking surgery.
day: march 1 (night) & march 2 all day
content warnings: sick man, sick dog, the whine (not)heard round the world.
notes: if it's feasible that frank or micro would have told your character where he is, then feel free to show up. or if you are sick maybe you are unlucky enough to encounter this jerkbutt. hit me up if you want something specific!
march 1
[ after frank gifted jessica a lovely murder basket, she suspects he isn't feeling himself (joke's on her tbh.) since only just injecting him with the experimental drug that would (with any luck at all) make him immune to kilgrave's powers, she assumes frank's weird behavior is a side effect and sends him to the clinic to get checked out. after akira puts him on bedrest, he's open to visitors, and of course the first person he wants to see isn't a person at all. he texts hawkeye and micro furiously: ] bring me my fucking dog, you assholes.
[ okay, so he might be a little testy. once a sleepy max just out of surgery is brought to the clinic, too, the dog will lay at the foot of his bed, alternating between lazily guarding and even lazier dozing. frank hates being stationary. he hates feeling useless. the aches and pains are taking a toll on him, but not as much as the rising tide of frustration and irritability. even if he's usually not a chill guy by a landslide, today he's especially twitchy. he'll likely be up long into the night fantasizing different and creative ways to make kilgrave hurt. oh, hi kids. didn't see you there. ]
march 2
[ frank hasn't slept much. between the fever and refusing to take anything stronger than aspirin, he's sweating and out of it, an angry red rash climbing steadily up the back of his neck to peek out of his black jumpsuit collar. the blankets are on his feet, but he keeps kicking them off. he hates being sick, and he knows he's a terrible patient besides. maria always used to scold him for acting like a child; or worse than their actual children since they took being sick like a champ, just happy for the day away from school. he could endure torture and pain aplenty, max the dog had witnessed both first-hand. he lived in bunkers buried in the sand and traveled to countries that were just holes in the ground, but a little fever and nausea and he's ready to die. every time a cold shiver wracks his spine, he wishes for it even; picturing the bullet in his skull. the doctors telling him a shift in millimeter increment would have killed him. should have, even the way it is.
max is on the floor now, his big block head peeking out from underneath the cot. he watches the door, alerting frank to any new arrival with a tiny growl before shutting his eyes again. the noise little more than a rattly rumble from the dog's barrel chest. the message is clear: you take this one, dad. i'll get the next. ]
cw: lots of murder, acts of terrorism (3/3 done oh god)
tetora stops, for a moment, and for the first time he doesn't look frank in the eye because— because what do you say, in moments like this? "don't pity me" is a given. "don't treat me any differently" is almost pithy. "this is a thing that's happened to me, and i'm still angry for it" - it's written on every surface of tetora's skin, cutting all the way down to his bones. surely that much is clear.
it doesn't erase the fact that tetora has now murdered his way through every age bracket and demographic. it doesn't change the fact that he needs drugs to remain sane. it doesn't change the fact that, in his rage and burning want to escape the bonds of his creation, he's killed innocents along the way.
but man it sure is a great feeling to shoot the candyman through the throat and listen to him choke.
choke on it, his younger self says, as alarms blare above him. he'd gotten out, finally.
he'd gotten out.
-
the next scenes that follow are just picturesque views of the places he disappears to - slums in foreign countries where he blends in with the junkies and the dealers; back alleys in tokyo, the wharfs at the bay; strangers' homes where he pretends to be someone else just so he can stay one night out of the streets. and interspersed between the scenery are textbooks and laptops, blackmail and extortions in exchange for information, long nights spent planning and planning and planning.
-
until finally, he returns to japan at eighteen, and promptly blows up the national government's peace summit and all of the delegates inside.
-
one name: onihigata, the son of the old man who dragged him into this mess, the man who now holds power over gakuso, and the man who won't stop until tetora is either returned to the fold, or dead.
-
and then it's over.
tetora stops there, pulls away gasping in the liminal space they currently occupy. he wants to vomit. he wants to throw up, to empty himself again like he's used to doing whenever he's in withdrawal. he doesn't have any memories from before the hostage taking; that was his birth. that was his baptism into the world.
no birthday parties, no silly hats, no candles and holy water. just gunfire and blood smeared on the cheeks.
they're back at the diner; it's as good as any place to be, now.
tetora draws his knees up to his chest, threads his hands over them. that's me, he says, toneless. that's where i come from. ]
You're a good man, Frank Castle.
it literally took me 3 days to read those tags thank
his gaze is trained down into his coffee cup. they're back at pete's. he lets out a low, rattly breath as his eyes snap back up to tetora's. you're a good man, frank castle. no he isn't. he's never been, but he can't help feeling some type of way about the words all the same. there's no pity and certainly no judgment in the way he holds the younger man's eyes. ]
You're okay too, Tetora. [ he won't use the man's other name, he won't ever use it after what he saw. for a moment he even mistakes tetora's vitriol for shinji as his own before he's able to swallow it back down. for once he isn't worried about what someone will think of who he is - what he is. he feels safe here, as fucked up as that is. ]
i deeply apologize okay
[ it hadn't been all that bad. just as the world isn't a perfect black and white, tetora accepts that there had been times when things weren't so bad. the days when he could walk down the streets of ikebukuro and shop to his heart's content. the days when, as a child, he was allowed to roam as he wanted, so long as he came back to his handlers and let them tuck him into his straitjackets for the night. the times when he could freely walk the streets, powerful with the knowledge that he's on the side of the gods, the men who made things happen.
with knowledge comes a bitter wisdom. with bitter wisdom came jadedness, and the sour, piss-colored filter that taints all future joy with the fact that all of it is as permanent as the weather.
but this - tetora can accept this for what it is.
this is a good thing, untainted even through its bruised existence. ]
I think we're ready to head back. Do you want to?
you should always apologize
Ready if you are, pal.
no subject
[ the diner fades out to white, tables and countertops being replaced with a clean white that's somehow not blinding. for a quick moment a procession of men and women, all too similar-looking to each other, appear in the spaces, each one seeming to be saying something out loud—
he let you in?
they all disappear as a low static starts to ring in both tetora's and frank's ears - the sound of their return to the waking world, where the silence is different. the sudden change of perceptions catch tetora at the throat, his own breathing sounding loud in his ears.
a blink or two grounds him to the present, and tetora sends a quick message: ]
You okay?
no subject
as his eyes come open shakily, tet's face comes into focus mere inches from his own. and slowly, he nods, tapping P-E-A-C-H-Y against the boy's wrist before breaking away as he spirals into a rattling, wheezing coughing fit. ]
no subject
sick as hotdog - frank, his name is frank - is, tetora still finds himself slumping next to him on the cot for a short moment, catching his breath. there's something about telepathic mindlinks that are exhausting beyond the sort of tiredness that the body experiences - it's an exhaustion that sits against the bones, soaking all the way to the marrow like a disease.
it was worth it, though. this experience had been several shades of fucked up shit that tetora wouldn't wish on anyone no matter how much he's come to hate them, but it's worth it. tetora reaches out to frank, touching his forehead to leech some of the head pain from his body, staying by him until he falls asleep. in the middle of it, he taps a simple, heartfelt message - thank you. ]