Johannes Cabal (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
somelittleinfamy) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
taxonomites2013-02-18 06:47 pm
somelittleinfamy) wrote in taxonomites2013-02-18 06:47 pm
Entry tags:
[holo] [location: Sanctuary] a devil put aside for me
There is something stuck to Johannes Cabal’s wrist.
Oh, and it does rather appear that someone’s abducted him--again. But that’s a matter of secondary concern. There’s something stuck to his wrist and that’s annoying. It’s some sort of lady’s wristwatch and it’s fused straight through the skin of his wrist: molded seamlessly into his body like some demented surgeon’s flayed the skin off his right arm in a ring and lovingly stitched it back up with a smooth hard bracelet where his flesh had used to be. He worries at it with the fingers of his left hand but all he succeeds in doing is turning the skin around the wristwatch rash-pink: it won’t come loose. The watch is useless, too. It’s covered in pointless buttons and it hasn’t even got a face.
“Verdammt noch mal,” he mutters and resigns himself to looking around.
This is how this always works: 1. Someone abducts him. 2. They want something. 3. The something is either something to which he might assent, like creating a horrific monster for them, or something to which he won’t, like being tortured and executed. There is not usually a point in this process where someone consults Johannes. There is not even always a point in this process where someone explains to Johannes what’s going on. So finding himself in an odd room with some sort of collar fused to his wrist and not the foggiest idea of what’s happening isn’t quite as disquieting for Johannes Cabal as it might have been for other persons of his acquaintance; this sort of thing is, not to put too fine a point on it, always happening to him. He’s never been at a loss for enemies.
Usually, though, they have the decency to turn up at all. He takes inventory: he’s wearing everything he was when the ship he was on--er, crashed--and he’s got his cane, which is a trifle insulting, really, because no one ever leaves a prisoner with a weapon unless they’re making a point. And he still hasn’t seen a sign of who sent him here.
The metal room is bare, clinical, even a little laboratorial, which doesn’t surprise him: cells tend to be featureless. What they don’t tend to be is open. This room has an open doorway: waiting for him, it seems, to walk through. To Hell with the doorway. It’s clearly a trap. He ignores it: anyone who goes to the trouble of kidnapping him can damned well come and explain things to him themselves; he has no interest in running some sort of ridiculous rat maze for his captor’s or captors’ benefit.
The really irritating thing about this is--all right, all of this is the really irritating thing. This is a really irritating situation. Look, resigning yourself to this sort of thing and developing a tolerance for it are not quite the same. But the really, really irritating thing about this is he has no genuine idea of what’s happening. He hasn’t stolen any books recently. He doesn’t think this suits the modi operandi of any of the people he’s recently angered, most of whom are dead, anyway. If he didn’t know better, he’d have to say that about this whole situation, there’s something curiously--impersonal, almost.
This is stupid. Someone is going to turn up sooner or later, they’re going to tell him what they want, and either he’s going to give it to them or he isn’t. This is stupid, he tells himself and, still clad in his black waistcoat and jacket, sits down on the floor to wait.
As far as Taxon’s concerned, he’s a nondescript, yellow-haired man of about thirty wearing spectacles and a three-piece suit cut in the style of the late nineteenth century; he looks peeved, but not shocked, and like he has every idea of what’s happening and just doesn’t care for it. (In fact, he’s cultivated this expression; it’s amazing how far you can go in life simply by looking as though you aren’t surprised by anything.) As far as he’s concerned, he’s a necromancer of some little infamy and things don’t just happen to him without a distinct purpose: someone always wants something. Ergo, he’ll wait here until they tell him. The only thing that casts a shadow of doubt over his straightforward hypothesis is the open door: when he glances at it some rebellious part of his mind says, and what will you do if there is, in fact, something you haven’t accounted for?
Oh, and it does rather appear that someone’s abducted him--again. But that’s a matter of secondary concern. There’s something stuck to his wrist and that’s annoying. It’s some sort of lady’s wristwatch and it’s fused straight through the skin of his wrist: molded seamlessly into his body like some demented surgeon’s flayed the skin off his right arm in a ring and lovingly stitched it back up with a smooth hard bracelet where his flesh had used to be. He worries at it with the fingers of his left hand but all he succeeds in doing is turning the skin around the wristwatch rash-pink: it won’t come loose. The watch is useless, too. It’s covered in pointless buttons and it hasn’t even got a face.
“Verdammt noch mal,” he mutters and resigns himself to looking around.
This is how this always works: 1. Someone abducts him. 2. They want something. 3. The something is either something to which he might assent, like creating a horrific monster for them, or something to which he won’t, like being tortured and executed. There is not usually a point in this process where someone consults Johannes. There is not even always a point in this process where someone explains to Johannes what’s going on. So finding himself in an odd room with some sort of collar fused to his wrist and not the foggiest idea of what’s happening isn’t quite as disquieting for Johannes Cabal as it might have been for other persons of his acquaintance; this sort of thing is, not to put too fine a point on it, always happening to him. He’s never been at a loss for enemies.
Usually, though, they have the decency to turn up at all. He takes inventory: he’s wearing everything he was when the ship he was on--er, crashed--and he’s got his cane, which is a trifle insulting, really, because no one ever leaves a prisoner with a weapon unless they’re making a point. And he still hasn’t seen a sign of who sent him here.
The metal room is bare, clinical, even a little laboratorial, which doesn’t surprise him: cells tend to be featureless. What they don’t tend to be is open. This room has an open doorway: waiting for him, it seems, to walk through. To Hell with the doorway. It’s clearly a trap. He ignores it: anyone who goes to the trouble of kidnapping him can damned well come and explain things to him themselves; he has no interest in running some sort of ridiculous rat maze for his captor’s or captors’ benefit.
The really irritating thing about this is--all right, all of this is the really irritating thing. This is a really irritating situation. Look, resigning yourself to this sort of thing and developing a tolerance for it are not quite the same. But the really, really irritating thing about this is he has no genuine idea of what’s happening. He hasn’t stolen any books recently. He doesn’t think this suits the modi operandi of any of the people he’s recently angered, most of whom are dead, anyway. If he didn’t know better, he’d have to say that about this whole situation, there’s something curiously--impersonal, almost.
This is stupid. Someone is going to turn up sooner or later, they’re going to tell him what they want, and either he’s going to give it to them or he isn’t. This is stupid, he tells himself and, still clad in his black waistcoat and jacket, sits down on the floor to wait.
As far as Taxon’s concerned, he’s a nondescript, yellow-haired man of about thirty wearing spectacles and a three-piece suit cut in the style of the late nineteenth century; he looks peeved, but not shocked, and like he has every idea of what’s happening and just doesn’t care for it. (In fact, he’s cultivated this expression; it’s amazing how far you can go in life simply by looking as though you aren’t surprised by anything.) As far as he’s concerned, he’s a necromancer of some little infamy and things don’t just happen to him without a distinct purpose: someone always wants something. Ergo, he’ll wait here until they tell him. The only thing that casts a shadow of doubt over his straightforward hypothesis is the open door: when he glances at it some rebellious part of his mind says, and what will you do if there is, in fact, something you haven’t accounted for?