[RP] Alle warten auf das Licht, fürchtet euch fürchtet euch nicht…

[nowinprint]

On the fifth floor of an abandoned construction project, Dmitri Lang has been conscious for about fifteen minutes, now. The first seven of those minutes were spent throwing up – yeah, this is a concussion if she's ever felt one, and the fact that there's a crust of blood over most of her forehead makes her feel ever so much better about all of this – and the next five were spent cursing and spitting in an attempt to get the taste of stomach acid out of her mouth. Because Dmitri Lang is exactly that ladylike.

For the last three minutes, though, she's been taking in everything she can about this room, in exacting detail, including the layout and those there. The people cuffed up in it seem to show a distressing concentration of people she knows for one reason or another, and while she has quite the expansive social network, Chicago is a big city. Granted, there is one kid there she doesn't know except for having him smash her face into the floor, but if anything, he looks more beat-up than the rest of them.

And April is gone. She's pretty sure she saw April, last time she was conscious in here, unless it's just the concussion messing with her, and she's wondering if that might be better.

She groans. Fixes on Tosh first, because she's easier to get answers out of than the Doctor, then registers exactly how Tosh looks, now that she can see, again. "Oh, kitten, you all right?"

Comments

[techniclybrill.livejournal.com]

Tosh has been watching her since she woke up, glad to see she's conscious and that there's not any permanent damage. Yet. As Dmitri speaks, she manages a faint, worn smile that couldn't look less sincere if she tried. "I'm alive."

Could be worse. Tosh is having a hard time thinking of times it has been worse, but it could still be... much worse. Which isn't exactly comfort, when she thinks about it.

The Doctor, unlike Tosh, is not looking at Dmitri. He's staring at some point on the ceiling on the far side of the room, eyes unfocused. He might be thinking, or he might just be trying to avoid thinking about other things. Like who's next or what April's doing now or...

[nowinprint]

Dmi tugs her cuffed hand, not as though she expects there to be any give to it at all, but like she's just checking to make sure it hasn't gotten any better while she wasn't watching. Couldn't have that, now, could they?

"Life is good. Place to start, at least. While there's life, and all that." She grimaces. If this is the quality of her dazzling conversational skills, that concussion must be a bit more severe than she'd been thinking. "Someone may have to tell me what exactly I dived into head-first."

She pauses. Looks across to the Doctor. Looks up at the ceiling.

"Doc, I don't know what it's like on Gallifrey, but here on Earth, no one makes a habit of writing the meaning of life on the ceiling beams. Well. There was this one coffee shop in Coronado, but that was the exception rather than the rule, and unless you subscribe to the school of thought that happiness is a warm espresso... what are you doing?"

[thatsortofaman.livejournal.com]

Well, so much for not looking at her. The Doctor glances down, his expression still a little distant and abstracted, still half somewhere else in his head. "If you're expecting the answer to be 'formulating a brilliant escape plan', sort of ran out of those... a few days ago. Sorry."

Well, the last one could have worked. Could have worked, but it would have meant letting Thane kill Dmitri right in front of him and... well, that's not really an option, is it?

[nowinprint]

Well, that's less than encouraging. Both the fact that he's given up on escape plans and the fact that it's been a few days since he has.

"At the moment I'd settle for 'composing a scathing critical essay,' but I get the feeling that's not on the menu either," she says. She pulls herself up on the pipe she's cuffed to, holding on with her cuffed hand and putting her other hand to her head. Well, she's got one hand free, that counts for something. Some range of mobility. Not enough to really do anything, but some. "Fucker took my bag," she mutters. "Granted, I can see why he might not want to leave me access to mace and a taser, but the whole 'pen is mightier than the sword' thing is more metaphorical than tactical, and does he think I'm going to beat him over the head with the sketchpad, or what?" She tests the pipe, which is unfortunately firmly bolted into the wall. "I'm going to go out on a limb and say that Torchwood is aware of this. I'm going to go out on another limb and say that our charming being as he is, Jack is somehow or other out of the picture." She winces. "And I'm not going to poke at that too hard right now, despite the fact that I have a ream of questions for you folks, because I'm already up a tree doing the splits and trying to untangle that little knot requires a lot more coordination than I have right now. Aaaaaand– I'm sitting back down."

Which she does. Because it was that or fall over.

[thatsortofaman.livejournal.com]

"Torchwood knows," the Doctor confirms, as if Tosh being here weren't proof enough of that. "Jack's body, Jack's suppressed memories, very much not Jack." Because that explains everything.

He frowns at Dmitri for a second as she drops back to the floor, considers asking how she feels besides the obvious concussion, and decides against it. "Would've let you know about it earlier if I thought you wouldn't go charging in for an interview or something. ...Well, and if I weren't handcuffed to a wall." That kind of limits his ability to let people know of anything at all, except when the Vesmier or Donna happens to come calling.

[nowinprint]

Dmitri eyes him. "Contrary to popular belief, Доктор Дорогоиский I do have the good sense God gave a chipmunk, and when someone tells me, 'hey, there's a psychotic Jack lookalike who will shoot you and hog-tie you as soon as talk to you,' my first question is not, in fact, 'I wonder if he likes tea?'." She rubs a hand into her temples, which doesn't exactly help. "You know, the Angel of Knowledge Board of the Sciences keeps a registered list of archangels willing to do occasional security work for paychecks, and you can apply for grants which include an archangel dispatch?" She exhales. "Silly me, I didn't think I'd need one in my own hometown. I thought those were reserved for escort duty in, like, Vegas and Revoultionary Congo and the Middle East and crap."

She kicks at something. Possibly it's the floor.

[techniclybrill.livejournal.com]

Tosh glances over at Dmitri again, eyebrows raised a little. "In Chicago?" Not expecting that sort of thing in Chicago seems a little like being caught by surprise by Cardiff's occasional explosions. Except... worse.

The Doctor smirks to himself, a little amused, a little distant still. "I don't know, there are worse places to be." He pauses. "Not necessarily in this universe at this exact time, just... in general."

[nowinprint]

Dmitri glances to Toshiko. "Lived here all my life, мой красивый електрон. Wars, great, freaky Rift weather, fine, crazy behemoths who turn into spiney marmosets, super, immortal teleporting psychopaths? Whoa, there. That's not on."

She stretches out her legs, looking for a way to get comfortable on the hard floor. Then looks back up to the Doctor.

"Please tell me that whatever explanation lies behind said immortal teleporting psychopathic apparently-not-so-suppressed-as-all-that memories not-Jack is not triggered by Gary, Indiana."

[john-thane.livejournal.com]

"Gary, Indiana," comes a voice from the back room, followed shortly by a person. Thane has his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets and looks... surprisingly mellow, his posture relaxed, an expression verging on pleasant on his features. "Boring. Granted, I was only there for a half-hour, or so, but there was nothing to do and it smelled bad."

He stops in front of Dmitri, only half-turned to face her, a wan smile tugging up one corner of his mouth.

"So. You're finally awake."

[xiaomei-mei.livejournal.com]

April comes trailing in behind him, rather like a puppy who doesn't want to be left alone. She's wearing her sundress and that leather jacket still, but it would probably be better not to think about the fact that her hair's rather mussed and she's flushed.

She stops just inside the room, glancing over Tosh and Dmi and the Doctor, ascertaining that they're all okay. Hart gets a cursory "oh, you're still here?" glance and not much more. Once she's decided everyone's as okay as they could be, she beelines over to the Doctor and curls up against him.

[nowinprint]

Dmitri takes in all of that, the fact that April isn't tied up, how she looks, how she's behaving, and hits the obvious conclusion. She hauls herself up on the pipe, fingers tight to keep her balance, because goddamnit Dmitri Lang has her pride even if she is sitting next to a pool of her own vomit.

"Dmitri Lang, Angel of Knowledge," she introduces. "And you, sir, wouldn't know how to make friends if someone rammed a copy of How To Win Friends And Influence People so hard it gouged your rectum – and please, don't tell me you've tried, because there are things a girl doesn't need to know, and where you choose to stick it is one of them." She doesn't even pause. "I have a few follow-up questions for this whole arrangement, if you don't mind, and they are, in order: One, could you draw up a map to your balls so I can kick them up into your incisors; Two, would I be able to find them even with a map, or are they too small to show; Three, the last time you went to an andrologist, did they have to aim an electrn microscope between your chucks to find them; Four, whent hey did find them, was all concern about the microscope damaging healthy tissue allayed because as it turns out they were artificial anyway? See, I ask because by my count you had to call in your little fucked-up friend over there for help taking down a girl, and your other proclivities default to things which rely on a gross inequality of power for their frisson. Please understand, sir, that I'm not calling you impotent or questioning your manhood in any way other than the strictly rhetorical. I'm just making a veiled observation that there is no way, out of a very long list of ways, in which you are not abjectly failing to have any worth as a human being."

Her hand is tight enough on the pole that the skin has gone white, and in the back of her mind, she's frankly amazed that she managed to say all of that while still standing upright. That amazement is begin slowly overridden by a burgeoning sense of dread, because holy fuck is she going to get it now, but it felt damn good. She just has to keep telling herself that.

[thatsortofaman.livejournal.com]

It's hard to tell whether the look the Doctor's giving Dmitri is more impressed or horrified. Probably some mixture of the two, really. Not the brightest idea for her to say that, but in any other situation he'd be grinning at her for it.

He shakes April off gently and gets to his feet himself, much less shakily than Dmitri. "Well, to be fair, he's not a human being. Not even close. Just seven years, with a good dose of insanity to boot. Mind you... even for a construct, he's not exactly doing well at the whole... being a person thing." He glances over at Thane, considering him for a minute before asking, "How much do you even remember about your home? That family you started this crusade for?"

[john-thane.livejournal.com]

Well, that was... impressive. In a sad sort of pointless way. He gives Dmitri a look to indicate that he's not impressed, and glances back over one shoulder to the Doctor.

"For a psychic representing the master race, there, you're getting your terms a bit screwed-up," he sneers. "A construct is what happens when they put new stuff in, reorganize what's there, rebuild you. That makes your 'friend' the construct. No, there's no term for me," he says, even though there is. But he's not looking at himself as a memory packet with a generated consciousness. "I'm just a guy who had a few things stolen from me."

He turns back to Dmitri, sizing her up. Hard as she's trying to hide it, there's no small mix of anticipation and fear in her eyes. So, then.

"And you're either looking for a punch or sure I won't deck you one. Still." He takes half a step back, adjusting the space between them. "You want it, that's fine; it's still just as gratifying to me."

He smiles. Just before pulling back his hand and punching her hard in the teeth.

[nowinprint]

Dmitri brings a hand up to block, but, go figure, Thane isn't having any of that. Her head snaps down and back, an involuntary noise of pain twisting out of her throat as her vision starbursts, and she loses her footing and rattles down the pipe before she can balance.

Fucking – goddamnit. Still, it's not like she's never been punched before. Usually it's not enough to slice open both of her lips on her teeth, and usually she's more sure than she is now that her incisors aren't any looser than they were, but at least she's got the adrenaline thing going, now, and she hauls herself back up the pipe once the world's returned to the correct color-balance and sniffs.

There's enough air in her lungs to cough, at least. Which she does, with as much force as she can, directly at Thane's face, showering him with globs of spittle and blood before sagging back against the wall.

"You didn't answer my questions."

[thatsortofaman.livejournal.com]

The Doctor flinches a little, grimacing, as Thane punches Dmitri. Oh, what he wouldn't give now to have the magic words to just make her shut up, but it's Dmitri, and when does that ever actually happen?

Even knowing it probably won't get her to back down, he says slowly, "Dmitri..."

[john-thane.livejournal.com]

Thane flinches at the spit, but it's the usual defiance. The girl's got spunk. Good for her. It'll serve to highlight where she is now against where she'll be soon.

He takes her free shoulder, shoving her back against the wall. He really should et to cuffing that free hand, but it can wait.

"I broke all your little friends to submission in a session," he says. "Think you're going to last longer?"

[nowinprint]

Dmitri doesn't so much register her name. Oh, the number of times people have just tried to subtly hint that she should shut up now...

She starts laughing. It's not an especially pretty laugh, with her throat still raw from throwing up and her teeth still bloody, and it's not a terribly sensical laugh, and it fades out in a few seconds.

"Okay! Boy scout. I have concussions on top of my concussions right now thanks to you and your happy fuzzy domestic abuse partner. Hey there, by the way," she says, giving Hart a little wave. "Logical theories of cause and effect are looking a bit like chutes and ladders right now. ...you know, there was one version one of my pals back home brought me where all the chutes were snakes and the ladders – I don't even fucking know, but it's beside the point. I think I was going for a explanation where you were the snake, though."

She pauses, spits again, though toward the ground, this time.

"Long story short? I don't even know what I'm fucking saying, man, you expect me to do a thorough assessment of the situation and make predictions based on a heap of abstracts taller than the heap of shit you're spewing? Oh, and by the way. Doctor Defiance over there doesn't look too submissive, and as for the зайчикs, you couldn't have picked two sweeter kids if you tried. Beating them up so they don't hiss and spit like your angel friend is a bit like whipping a dog so it runs on four legs instead of two. One whole session? Let me say with utmost sarcasm that I'm scared, and I'm not sure how much of that sarcasm is the concussion talking and how much is pure old-fashioned organic Dmitri Lang."

She spits again, because she doesn't particularly want to swallow all this blood, and the floor's as good a place as any to put it.

[john-thane.livejournal.com]

Thane is beginning to wonder if this one just came crazy, concussions notwithstanding.

After a moment, he exhales. "You know, everyone likes to say they won't break," he says. "And if breaking were just a cerebral thing, it'd be true. It's not that hard to see a way around it. Make certain assumptions, certain dissociations – but no matter how much of an intellectual oyu are, Ms. Angel of Knowledge–"

He puts a hand out, resting it on Dmitri's chest just above her heart.

"Everything we do has a physical component or we'd all be floating consciousnesses by the time I come from. You say you're an Angel of Knowledge? Your blood's the wrong color, and it looks like your wings aren't doing shit or you right now." He knows the basics of angelic physiology, at least.

[nowinprint]

Dmitri scoffs. "But of a thing that happened when I came through the Rift, yeah. Got the same angelic brain, which is where it counts for, so don't you be getting any ideas about trying to break me through chess or something."

Not her most brilliant retort, but with a concussion, you kinda take what comes out.

Her wings are out, now that she notices them. They draw in, just a little, in defence. Though, really, what's she going to do with them? If she got out of this cuff she could jump out the hole in the wall, glide to the street, and totter unsteadily in the direction of Torchwood, but really...

"Angel of knowledge is as much a profession as a calling, toots, and I've got both, and sanction from the Board of the Sciences, which is more than I suspect you'd get even if there was a Crazy Psycho Board of the Fuckery."

[john-thane.livejournal.com]

Thane grins. He sidles forward, forcing her back toward the wall, noting the expression of revulsion on her face as she guesses – incorrectly – what's coming.

Then, quick as he can make it, his hands shoot behind her and grab the wings near the base, pulling and twisting down until he hears the double-snap of two bones breaking.

That's your identity. 'Angel of Knowledge.' And this is all the proof you have. What if I break that first? Still so cocky then?

[nowinprint]

Dmitri shrieks, falling halfway to the floor before Thane catches her by the neck, holding her up with one hand. She nearly blacks out at the shock, at the constant continued of dead weight dragging at white pain, and she can feel her pinions brushing at odd angles at the back of her calves. It's not the first time an angel has broken their wings, and they can heal right up if they're splinted well and soon, but she doesn't think that's going to happen anytime soon. Really, her mind's not even on the topic – it's too flooded with endorphins and screaming nocireceptors, and the way Thane is holding her isn't helping with that.

Really, it'd be nice just to black out, here. But then Thane is slapping her face, running quick fingers over her skull, triggering additional headaches as he coaxes bloodflow to her brain, as he holds her up above consciousness with both hands. She tempers the next yell into a stream of obscenities, not paying much attention to what it starts on or where it ends up.

[john-thane.livejournal.com]

Thane tilts his head, raising his eyebrows. "What? No snide remarks, no clever comebacks? Questions about other bits of the male anatomy?" He slaps he again, harder across the face this time, and lets her drop. "There comes a point when pain overwhelms the conscious mind. You're not there yet, but you can feel it on the horizon."

He steps around her, watches her try to get her breathing back under control. Broken bones aren't his favorite method – too brute, too easy – but, hey, for a quick and dirty fix...

"It's a matter of getting you to that point. That's elementary. The secret is to keep them there, or bring them back again and again – it's like a bone," he says, leaning down to run a hand over the breaks. "Break it enough and it doesn't heal right. Break it more than once and a weakness develops. See, when I decide to go for Sato again..."

[nowinprint]

Okay, the fucker broke his wings, and now he's gloating. And not just about the wings, but about what he's going to do to Tosh, and...

Well, fuck, he said it himself – some things, you did because they were damn gratifying, and she twists her neck when he touches her wing OW OW OW FUCKING OW and sinks her teeth into his forearms as hard as her jaw can clench.

Then yanks her head away, because the combination of teeth popping through skin, sudden pressure in her skull, and thane touching those fractures triggers a wave of nausea that leaves her bent over forward and retching.

[john-thane.livejournal.com]

Thane rips his arm back, tearing open the gash with a hiss. he gets his expression mostly under control as fast as he can, the bloody forearm pulled back.

"That," he snaps, "for an angel of knowledge, wasn't too bright. I'm going to heal this right up. You, on the other hand..."

[nowinprint]

Dmitri manages a look up at him, lips pulled back to reveal bloody teeth as she tries to tamp down the nausea and get the taste of Bastard out of her mouth. Her eyes are hard, the pain and dizziness and anger all twisted up inside them, and her head is ringing and she's not thinking very clearly in any case.

"You should wash that," she says distantly, because Dmitri default is to say whatever comes into her head, no matter how stupid it is. "...I have rabies."

She's expecting a flash of pain from the lie, though how that's going to manifest when her entire head is an echo chamber of hurt, she's not sure.

[john-thane.livejournal.com]

Thane snarls, and then, because he's rapidly approaching the point where he just wants to savage this little not-an-angel-anymore, pulls back his bloody arm and delivers a clout to the side of Dmitri's head hard enough to snap her head around and drive it back into the wall. And she goes limp.

And that brings Thane up short, because, fuck, he hadn't meant to knock her out again. He kneels, plating his knuckles on her teeth and registering the fact that she's still breathing, but....

His hand moves, patting her roughly on the cheek. "Hope it hurts just as much where you are now, darling," he says, and looks down at his forearm. Not healed yet. Goddamnit. Well, it'll get around to it. Not the first time someone's bit him, although recently – what seems recently, though everything has taken on a sort of distant edge – he's been smart enough not to let them.

He walks over to his bag, fishing out three pairs of cuffs, and walks back to her. Cuffs for the hands, cuffs for the wings, keep her spread-eagled with her wings pinioned up. She'll wake up eventually – the breathing's not right for a coma – and when she does, it won't be him with hands and fists, it'll be him with a full kit. And she won't enjoy that so much.

As soon as she's cuffed up, he turns on his heel and stalks out of the room. Once this kid is destroyed, and he means destroyed, she's going to be the first one to die. So how the rest of them like that.