Players:
Summary: Quenton gets his final scar from the Handler.
Date: October 10, 2012
Log Title: Let's Turn That Frown Upside Down
Rating: R
The Handler again. He has Quenton on a table, strapped down by his wrists and legs, in that same pristine room he's been dealing with Nicholas and the red eyed rager. He wears the Purifier tactical armor, a black suit with some red plating. And in his hand is a single bowie knife. "Hello, Quenton."
Quenton's all fire and brimstone, as always, his red eyes gazing up hatefully at the man. "What?" he snarls. "You going to cut me with that? Gonna give me some scar that I'll hate you for later? Gonna sever tendons somewhere so I can't do something? What can you do that you haven't done yet? You people are nothing. Nothing. You're not breaking us, you're only making us stronger."
The Handler was expressionless. Quenton had a mouth on him, that was for sure. He had considered cutting out his tongue, or his eyes, but then, taking away one of the rager's baser parts would just make him useless for the things to come. So he just shrugs his shoulders. "There's some things we know about you, Quenton. How you like to bite into your fellow mutants. Ridicule their powers to make up for the hatred you have for your own."
"Get to the fucking point," Quenton suggests coldly, his dark eyes watching the Handler, his hands trying to jerk at his binds. "Or take my collar off again, and then we can really talk, you and me."
"Oh, please. You'd what? Get the rest of your friends killed? Grow up." The Handler shakes his head, grabbing a chair and pulling it up to the head of the bed, and then sitting down, his hand lifting, gripping his bowie knife. "Your issue, Quenton, is that you need to be happier," explains the Handler lazily. "And me, I'm willing to do that."
"By lacing my Chef with what, some happy pills?" wonders the red eyed rager, watching the Handler. "Carving a smiley face into a part of me? You -guys- carved Mutant into Nick's chest. You wanna carve me a scar, go right ahead. It's going to be a trophy when I'm stomping out your corpse."
"Ever the optimist, Mister Michaels. No. I don't want to add fluff to your cheeks, however good that idea might be," denies the Handler, before he cracks his neck from one side to the other. "Don't worry. I know your face. Even at best you don't smile all the way, and I wouldn't want you to." The bowie knife is abruptly rammed into Quenton's shoulder, the vibranium blade slipping through like butter.
"Fuck!" That's all Quenton can do. Shout. He lets out a cry of pain, and his eyes begin to well up, but he lurches for the Handler, the rage building. But it's still just a shaodw of what it usually is.
The open mouth is what the Handler wanted. He lifts his bowie knife again, grabbing onto Quenton's chin and drawling, in that deep, rumbling voice of his: "Let's turn that frown upside down." And then the blade enter's Quenton's mouth, and the hall is filled with the rager's screams.
