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damned_institute2010-10-12 04:54 pm
scavengerbird.livejournal.com) wrote in damned_institute2010-10-12 04:54 pm
Night 52: M21-M30
[M22]
The History Club was a temporary solution, Zevran reassured himself.
Loyalty had never been one of his strongest traits, he had been told on multiple occasions. He already had countless betrayals under his belt, and guessed that there would be many more to come in his lifetime. They varied in significance, and Zevran typically didn't count the small ones. The small ones meaning those where he had planned to turn on the person from the very first moment he smiled at them. All of them were marks, plenty of which were quick enough to take him to bed, and that tended to fog their judgment. They didn't consider Zevran to be anything more than a silly, easy elf, and they assigned him with whichever imagined motivations suited them. Lust, greed, desperation, but rarely murder. Zevran would readily take advantage, and felt no guilt afterward. It was simply a means to an end. His own personal strategy, if you will. All killers and warriors had their own way of handling what they must. At the end of the day, death was a business, and not just for an assassin. If you wanted to survive, you needed to kill or accept those that did the killing for you. Speaking of killing, Zevran gathered his meager supplies, and hoped they would do the trick. He needed better armaments if he expected to come out of this alive. If the Maker was merciful, then Asuka and Agatha would be able to take care of themselves.
Zevran had met too many people willing to judge those who dealt in death. He could almost understand why they gave him those judging looks, but only if he took into account their assumption that he was paid handsomely for each dead soul. It was not strictly true, of course, but he would never lie and say he hadn't benefited, or even enjoyed it. But it all blurred together with time.
The betrayals that stayed with him had sometimes involved death, other times not. He regretted some and cherished others, even if they had amounted to nothing. He didn't wish to think of leaving the Crows as a pointless event, but then he had ended up here, where everything was made pointless. He knew nothing of where he was, he was apparently alone, and his surroundings were dizzily unfamiliar. Zevran was becoming convinced that he was the lone elf.
And yet still, he felt discomfort signing up with another entity, having not even had the chance to properly turn on Amell and cause him great danger and turmoil. It was bitter humor that made him think he ought to have at least quit the warden's company more memorably if he were to never return. But now that he thought about it, seducing him and then disappearing come morning was rather dramatic, in and of itself. Perhaps Zevran would not be so easily forgotten after all. He hadn't hoped for anything else from the tryst, but there was something to be said for the man's company...
And that was why he was letting someone else hold his leash, Zevran supposed. If all he wanted was to run, then there seemed to be no further place than this. But Zevran had to acknowledge that what he truly desired the shabby sort of freedom he had found previously, and then been ripped away from. It would be so much easier to call it a wash and see about running off into the woods (for all it was worth), but no. He had to make things difficult for himself. He really should have thought about how difficult this would be before he decided to let himself get comfortable back home. Zevran would need to be more careful in the future, and control his weakness for pretty faces and aching sincerity.
[To here.]
The History Club was a temporary solution, Zevran reassured himself.
Loyalty had never been one of his strongest traits, he had been told on multiple occasions. He already had countless betrayals under his belt, and guessed that there would be many more to come in his lifetime. They varied in significance, and Zevran typically didn't count the small ones. The small ones meaning those where he had planned to turn on the person from the very first moment he smiled at them. All of them were marks, plenty of which were quick enough to take him to bed, and that tended to fog their judgment. They didn't consider Zevran to be anything more than a silly, easy elf, and they assigned him with whichever imagined motivations suited them. Lust, greed, desperation, but rarely murder. Zevran would readily take advantage, and felt no guilt afterward. It was simply a means to an end. His own personal strategy, if you will. All killers and warriors had their own way of handling what they must. At the end of the day, death was a business, and not just for an assassin. If you wanted to survive, you needed to kill or accept those that did the killing for you. Speaking of killing, Zevran gathered his meager supplies, and hoped they would do the trick. He needed better armaments if he expected to come out of this alive. If the Maker was merciful, then Asuka and Agatha would be able to take care of themselves.
Zevran had met too many people willing to judge those who dealt in death. He could almost understand why they gave him those judging looks, but only if he took into account their assumption that he was paid handsomely for each dead soul. It was not strictly true, of course, but he would never lie and say he hadn't benefited, or even enjoyed it. But it all blurred together with time.
The betrayals that stayed with him had sometimes involved death, other times not. He regretted some and cherished others, even if they had amounted to nothing. He didn't wish to think of leaving the Crows as a pointless event, but then he had ended up here, where everything was made pointless. He knew nothing of where he was, he was apparently alone, and his surroundings were dizzily unfamiliar. Zevran was becoming convinced that he was the lone elf.
And yet still, he felt discomfort signing up with another entity, having not even had the chance to properly turn on Amell and cause him great danger and turmoil. It was bitter humor that made him think he ought to have at least quit the warden's company more memorably if he were to never return. But now that he thought about it, seducing him and then disappearing come morning was rather dramatic, in and of itself. Perhaps Zevran would not be so easily forgotten after all. He hadn't hoped for anything else from the tryst, but there was something to be said for the man's company...
And that was why he was letting someone else hold his leash, Zevran supposed. If all he wanted was to run, then there seemed to be no further place than this. But Zevran had to acknowledge that what he truly desired the shabby sort of freedom he had found previously, and then been ripped away from. It would be so much easier to call it a wash and see about running off into the woods (for all it was worth), but no. He had to make things difficult for himself. He really should have thought about how difficult this would be before he decided to let himself get comfortable back home. Zevran would need to be more careful in the future, and control his weakness for pretty faces and aching sincerity.
[To here.]
no subject
What he had to focus on instead was what to do with his night. He barely heard what was said over the intercom; sure, the words came through the new intercom system clearly enough, but it was almost like it was in one ear and out the other. Landel always gave his warnings, and while he'd put them through hell more than once, Peter knew he'd come out of it okay. A little rough around the edges, maybe, but he would manage. It wasn't worth hiding in his room just because there might be something horrifying in store for him.
He was mainly kicking himself over the fact that he hadn't better planned for the night. Peter knew he should have asked Javert if he wanted to head up to the pharmacy with him, but it had seemed strange to do that with someone he'd just met -- and he didn't know if the man had already made plans. But he should have bit the bullet anyway, because now he was stuck without anyone to go with.
Peter considered asking Sam, but his roommate looked like he was gearing up for something else. In other words, he was going to have to see if he could find someone out in the halls. And so he packed his bag with the same supplies from the night before, along with the syringe of Claire's blood which he handled as carefully as he could. Although this time he made sure to grab his shovel, which he'd forgotten in his rush the night before.
Tossing his radio into the pillow case along with everything else, Peter then took his flashlight last and headed for the door. "I'll see you tomorrow. Good luck," he told Sam before stepping out into the hall, which he headed down at a steady pace, his shovel over one shoulder and his bag of supplies over the other.
no subject