#//laughing at giovanni telling marcos to shut up

[silvasboys]

The Hand That Feeds [part 2]

“Anything that comes to mind. Something.”

It was the fourth or fifth day… Giovanni would have to check the records to be sure. He’d still gotten little more than a characteristic “fuck you” and some acidic glares. Although very recently, since late yesterday perhaps, Marcos was largely unresponsive. Interesting. But counterproductive.

“Marcos.” They’d been trying electric shock today, a handheld prod with two charged barbs at the end. Giovanni grazed the side of Marcos’s face with it, electricity snapping loudly, smell of heat and ozone. “Are you trying to sleep? I haven’t said you could sleep.”

Kneeling before Giovanni, Marcos jolted at the touch and turned his face away, raising his swollen hands halfway before dropping them again - to block or not to block. His eyes were wide but unfocused, ringed with shadows like bruises, and except for periodic shivers, his posture was strangely relaxed. 

Don't make them angry. Don't say anything, they don't like that. Let them do what they want and they'll leave. He was so tired... he thought he remembered sleeping more than this last time. This... wait, this wasn't last time. Marcos shook his head once, rattling the chain that led from his steel collar to the ring in the ceiling, and tried to focus his weary gaze on a brownish smear of dried blood. 

"He helped me with geography," he finally said, the words fairly dragging themselves along. How's that information? Useless enough? A laugh that turned into a cough. "He told me what Europe is."

Giovanni’s eyes rolled briefly, lids fluttering. A high-profile deserter helping a failing academy student with his homework was hardly helpful. But at least it was almost relevant. He waved the prod dangerously close to Marcos’s nose, barely missing it, his intention to draw a jarring flinch out of him successful. It was a reward, whether Marcos could recognize it or not.

“Keep going. What else did you speak to him about?” Giovanni continued to move the rod around as if he were distracted, carefully within Marcos’s direct line of sight. “What did you talk about most recently? Personnel at the Academy have reported that you seemed ill during the period we know you to have spoken to Midnight on nearly a daily basis. Does anything come to mind?”

"I thought it was a country," Marcos said instead, eyes following the prod tensely for a few seconds before drifting off to the right. The question's avoidance was a sideways sort of refusal, a mental loophole that let him edge around his apprehension without acknowledging it. A shadow of a smile appeared as he blinked slowly and found he didn't have the energy to open his eyes again. "I thought it was a country." The phrase felt like a talisman. He bent forward, resting his forehead on the cool ground. "I thought it was a country. I thought it was a hhhhhk-"     

He seized as the prod was jammed against the back of his neck and held there for several agonizing seconds. When it was lifted he crumpled, the buzzing in his ears blanketing something Giovanni was saying about answers and sleeping. Residual twitches sent out jabs of pain from his broken fingers, and he mumbled a shaky and barely audible fuck you against the cement.

Smell of burnt flesh and hair with that one. Giovanni’s lip curled almost imperceptibly. He was tired, tired of standing so long, but he was also practiced at concealing that kind of thing. Not that he expected Marcos to observe anything like that, not now. Giovanni leaned down a little and slipped the rod between the floor and one of Marcos’s shoulders, heard the sharp crackle.

“Sit up, Marcos. Pay attention. Why did you call Midnight when you were ill? Sit up.”

"Stop-" the word was a sharp exhalation, the minute the current broke long enough for Marcos to twist his shoulder away. The fatigue slowed his thoughts as much as his movement, and he found it increasingly hard to focus past the pain. He scrambled blindly back, putting perhaps three feet between Giovanni and himself as the chain swung ponderously overhead; raising his left arm, he covered his head and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Stop, I don't - I don't like - or -" A moment of clarity, "I'm not gonna t-tell you, it won't - you won't stop," swallowed up almost immediately by a rush of retaliatory fear.

It was obvious that the young man was beginning to lose his grip, his capacity to even hold the question in his mind. Giovanni pursed his lips and released one sharp, cutting whistle. When he saw Marcos jolt back into (relative) lucidity, he continued.

“But I might,” Giovanni said, moving forward, not a trace of gentleness or promise in his voice to support the words. A graze of the rod on a broken finger served for punctuation. “It won’t stop for one moment if you keep refusing to cooperate. Answer my question, Marcos.” A more pointed jab at the swollen hand. Another whistle, identical to the first. He hoped he could keep Marcos running on fumes a little while longer, get another little sliver of information to justify letting him sleep tonight. If he couldn’t, Giovanni feared he might find himself a few steps behind again.

Another whistle, louder, piercing. His voice was contrastingly even. “Why did you call him when you were ill, Marcos?”

"I-" Marcos dropped his arm, shoulders hunched, and dared a few lightning-quick glances at Giovanni’s face. The whistles spooked him, largely because he couldn't for the life of him figure out their purpose - and as for reading Giovanni’s expression, he had no idea whether he could trust the man's words.

"Nnn..." Cradling his hands to his chest, Marcos stared towards the wall and let his eyes unfocus again. "H-he was - he was trying to - help me -" his breath was speeding up, the tremors in his hands more pronounced.

“Help you how?” Giovanni allowed Marcos to see the prod fall away, retreat for now to his side. “He doesn’t have a medical background, that I’m aware of. Why were you asking him for help, instead of going to the Academy’s infirmary?”

Although his purpose was only to create more noise, to dampen any distraction or lull and keep Marcos focused, as Giovanni listened to his own words he quickly recognized a possibility. Interesting.

"Cause they would've - I wasn't -" A shaky breath. A deeper fear, one Giovanni hadn't managed to touch yet, was filling him up like bile. If he kept going, it would be the end - he'd tell Giovanni what he'd done, and they'd reeducate him, and he'd never see Ade again. "I can't -" he shook his head, already flinching away from the prod though it hadn't yet risen again. "I can't, I can't-"

Giovanni’s eyes moved past Marcos, over the floor, as he remembered the draculoids standing silent in the corners. He glanced to the nearest. “Out.”

The three dracs comprising today’s entourage exchanged looks, brief enough not to irritate Giovanni, and filed out of the room wordlessly. The drac bringing up the rear paused until Giovanni nodded, then shut the door again with a metallic clang. Silent now except for Marcos’s rapid, shallow breath.

Slowly, Giovanni sank down to a crouch, almost eye level with Marcos. The prod rose again, close to Marcos’s face, not quite touching.

“Midnight was helping you get off your medication?” The room was so still, save for Marcos’s trembling. “Tell me.”

If anything, the departure of the draculoids only added to Marcos’ apprehension. Why had they left? Was he just going to be killed now? A little moan escaped him, his hands floating back up a few inches as though he wanted badly to curl up in place. A long silence, during which a tear escaped down the side of his nose. A nod.

"D-don't make me leave him-" the plea was a whisper, addressed to the prod in Giovanni's hand. "I'll take them again, I won't - I won't go off them again, I promise, just - just don't make me leave him-"

That was good enough. More than enough to earn Marcos some four or five hours of sleep. And, most importantly, it was another tool for Giovanni’s belt. He stood suddenly, clicking the prod off with a button. The electric hum they’d long since stopped being able to hear was gone, filling the room now with a heavy, penetrating quiet. Giovanni was acutely aware of his own footsteps as he moved around Marcos to the back counter. The soft clink and rattle of Marcos’s chain. The clicks and thumps as he returned the tool to its case and checked that it was firmly closed.

When he came back past Marcos, he rested his hand briefly on the crown of his head without interrupting his gait. Without a word or glance, Giovanni switched the lights off, made his exit, and left Marcos in darkness and silence.