cain. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
blyat) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
meadowlarklogs2019-02-03 11:40 am
blyat) wrote in meadowlarklogs2019-02-03 11:40 am
Entry tags:
(no subject)
WHO: Cain & Giovanni.
WHERE: Their tiny apartment.
WHEN: September 11, directly following the event.
WHAT: Getting used to living together & coming home to lick their own wounds.
NOTES OR WARNINGS: Possible descriptions of violence/injuries, blanket potential for Cain's foul mouth, prob not much else.
[The apartment is empty by the time Cain returns, sun beginning to cast its blazing hot presence across the city. A quick stride across the main room and he pulls the black-out blinders shut tight in preparation for the new day. Everything plunged into cooler shadow, he sighs, shucking off the sweat-drenched shirt overheard to leave him standing in center of the tiny kitchen in pants, boots, and gloves alone. A lucky toss hangs the shirt off the edge of his bedroom doorknob when he throws it, to be cleaned later.
There's not much space to move around: one main living area, crammed half-kitchen, two individual bedrooms without much more than a bed and dresser, narrow bathroom only large enough for a toilet, sink, and shower stall. The size doesn't bother Cain, little to his name beyond the meager possessions of daily living. With one other person, there's enough privacy for them to coexist, and in truth he's seen little of Giovanni since their initial first move-in introduction. That's fine by him. They don't get in each other's way.
Two full-sized first aid kits rest underneath the kitchen sink for either of their necessary purposes, considering the nature of their income-gathering needs. He'd learned Giovanni also participates in ring fighting, although they've yet to cross paths as opponents. Cain splits his time between fights and a new job, each relying on the physical health of his own body in its ability to perform both manual labor and take a hard hit from someone's fist. The enduring night against the UNA soldiers, at least, proved he's managed to keep himself up.
Never mind why he decided to throw his lot in with a bunch of heroes, anyway. He keeps his thoughts deliberately off that track.
At the sound of the door, Cain leans hips back against the counter, cradling a glass of whiskey with an ice pack pressed against his chest. Waiting for what is most likely his roommate to appear and curious for his condition.]
WHERE: Their tiny apartment.
WHEN: September 11, directly following the event.
WHAT: Getting used to living together & coming home to lick their own wounds.
NOTES OR WARNINGS: Possible descriptions of violence/injuries, blanket potential for Cain's foul mouth, prob not much else.
[The apartment is empty by the time Cain returns, sun beginning to cast its blazing hot presence across the city. A quick stride across the main room and he pulls the black-out blinders shut tight in preparation for the new day. Everything plunged into cooler shadow, he sighs, shucking off the sweat-drenched shirt overheard to leave him standing in center of the tiny kitchen in pants, boots, and gloves alone. A lucky toss hangs the shirt off the edge of his bedroom doorknob when he throws it, to be cleaned later.
There's not much space to move around: one main living area, crammed half-kitchen, two individual bedrooms without much more than a bed and dresser, narrow bathroom only large enough for a toilet, sink, and shower stall. The size doesn't bother Cain, little to his name beyond the meager possessions of daily living. With one other person, there's enough privacy for them to coexist, and in truth he's seen little of Giovanni since their initial first move-in introduction. That's fine by him. They don't get in each other's way.
Two full-sized first aid kits rest underneath the kitchen sink for either of their necessary purposes, considering the nature of their income-gathering needs. He'd learned Giovanni also participates in ring fighting, although they've yet to cross paths as opponents. Cain splits his time between fights and a new job, each relying on the physical health of his own body in its ability to perform both manual labor and take a hard hit from someone's fist. The enduring night against the UNA soldiers, at least, proved he's managed to keep himself up.
Never mind why he decided to throw his lot in with a bunch of heroes, anyway. He keeps his thoughts deliberately off that track.
At the sound of the door, Cain leans hips back against the counter, cradling a glass of whiskey with an ice pack pressed against his chest. Waiting for what is most likely his roommate to appear and curious for his condition.]
no subject
The problem being, with that kind of abandon, of course, is that he's been reduced, no longer has the capacity to move straight through a seemingly insurmountable object, and he's still learning how and when to go around it instead. As such, when the door opens, he's staggering, clutching one bloodied, limp-hanging arm to his chest, face banged up along one side but already there's smoke rising from him, as the smaller cuts and bruises swiftly work to heal themselves. His arm, however-- that's not something his reduced healing can address.
Oddly enough though, he's smiling, and his teeth are stained with blood.]
You're home.
[He says it flatly, with neither relief or displeasure around the edges of it. With the door closed behind him now he slumps against it, takes a long, slow breath.]
Did you have fun?
[Because he did.]
no subject
Yet, fuck. Cain comes forward, snatching a few clean cloth towels from a cabinet by the sink, wadded in a bruised fist.]
The hell happened to you?
[Voice a gravelly intonation and raked from overuse through the enduring night, he sounds irritated. Fun isn't the word Cain would choose. This is his apartment, and he's foremost concerned not with Giovanni's general health - he's here in one piece, after all - but the integrity of keeping it clean of bloodstains. Worry can come second.
One large towel's laid out on the ground.] Sit. You break anything?
no subject
As such, when that order comes, 'sit', he moves to do so, adopts a cross-legged position as he all but drops to the towel placed on the floor. Emits a brief ripple of amused laughter - sit, like a dog, hahah - before he looks up at Cain and smiles his crooked smile.]
Perhaps I had a little too much fun.
[His gaze drops to his arm when the question comes, observing it dispassionately despite the obvious injury. There's a bullet buried in his shoulder, another in the meat of his thigh, and by the grace of some god he doesn't believe in, no major arteries have been hit. He'll survive...but it hasn't even occurred to him that the bullets ought to be removed. His body usually dispels them quite on its own.]
Dislocated, I think.
[Is all he says. It really ought to just snap back on its own. It hasn't.]
no subject
That's if what's wrong with Giovanni doesn't get beyond his limited abilities.
Kneeling, dark eyes survey the damage.]
Yeah, maybe watch yourself, if you wanna come back alive next time. [A sneer shows his teeth.] I can pop your shoulder back in, but this blood's coming from somewhere else.
[Towels sop the worst of it away, until he finds the two holes - and then they get pressed in to stem the red, messy flow. Cain's face has narrowed down into severe concentration. Bullets holes. No shock, but those will be harder to deal with, and more painful for Giovanni.]
You know, could just take you to the damn hospital. Or you want me digging that shit out? I can do it, but it's gonna suck.
no subject
He raises one thin blond brow in the wake of Cain's question, his expression turning mildly quizzical, a touch - perhaps - confused.]
They usually come out on their own.
[Words that imply this is hardly his first bullet-ridden rodeo, despite his body's suspicious lack of scars, other than the obvious, vicious ones, that radiate out from the collar, that slash the length of his Spine.]
If this is what it's like to be properly, truly human, I can do without it.
[He shrugs then, grits his too-sharp teeth.]
I'm not going to a hospital.
no subject
A while, would be his guess. Those are old scars.]
Fuck. 'Course you aren't, don't wanna make it too easy on me, huh, asshole.
[Cain climbs back on his feet. He works quickly: clears off the kitchen table, turns on the spotlights above it, spreads towels across the surface.]
Get up here, lay down. I'm going to have to dig 'em out and it's not gonna be pretty. [He fetches the whisky bottle, along with the instruments he'll need - and a pair of sterile gloves from under the sink - carrying it all back to the table.] Look, I'm not a fuckin' professional. This shit could kill you. Welcome to being a normal squishy human like the rest of us. If it does, I'll time stamp it and carry you over the safehouse. So you'll just have to trust me.
no subject
Whatever keeps you on your toes, now. Complacency is akin to death. You can thank me later.
[He says it with one of those crooked-pin smiles, all teeth, which may or may not indicate that he's attempting to joke with the other man. He's moving though, at Cain's command, places his palm flat to the table and hops up with a surprising fluid grace considering the extent of his injuries. Lays flat as he turns his head, his blood-red regard falling across the other man's face with a perfect lack of concern.]
There are far worse fates than death. Particularly the kind one can come back from.
[His voice is cool and calm, quite collected.]
no subject
Washing his hands thoroughly in hot water -- and a generous swig of whiskey to follow -- Cain stands alongside the table.]
Oh yeah? Say that again when I'm digging around in your skin with a pair of pliers.
[Thankfully, the first aid kit is extensive. There's plenty of gauze to pad and stem blood flow, a clean needle, medical tape, sutures, and other necessary items. Before that, though, he takes hold of Giovanni's arm.]
Just-- [turning it at a ninety-degree angle, intent to pop the joint back into its socket.] --hold on. [The sound, a sudden click, signifies its success.]
no subject
Just as this fails to touch him-- the pain that bites down into him, the sight of Cain preparing himself to dig the bullets from his flesh, an act that may just finish him. His expression, it borders on serene. The other man takes a hold of his arm, mentally Giovanni braces himself and--
--and. It hurts. It does. A ripple of pain moves across his face, and he audibly winces, a hiss between tight-grit teeth. Sweat beading on his brow, his upper lip. But that is the biggest reaction the process elicits from him.]
Done this before, have you?
[There's an edge to his voice, the smallest hint of strain. But other than that his poise remains intact.]
no subject
[Giovanni's a tough bastard, he's already picked up on that. The brief break of pain over his expression is all that's allowed, subtle enough to be missed, breath clenched between teeth. He knows exactly what Giovanni's feeling. Dislocated shoulders weren't uncommon for soldiers who were required to pit themselves against each other, against the simulations, in tireless and unending aggression.
He's relocated his own shoulder before, too, but it's easier with someone else.]
What kinda hellhole did you come from, anyway? That thing in your neck isn't normal, and you got a brother with one too... what is it?
[Setting Giovanni's arm down on the table, he reaches next to glove his hands. There was some hydrogen peroxide under the sink; Cain uses this to soak a piece of cloth, and then he's cleaning the first entry-site of the bullet wound, gently. It's going to sting bad. Hopefully he won't have to hold Giovanni down, or find a way to get him to stay still.]
sorry this got long!
[But there's nothing in his demeanour to indicate that he'd ever been concerned with Cain's medical credentials. Cain asks his question though, and Giovanni's head tips back, lips twisted into a serrated blade of a smile. It does sting, when the hydrogen peroxide is applied to the entry-site, has his hands curling into loose fists at his sides, but in the deeper scheme of things, this pain is small, irrelevant.
Immune to all poisons and pathogens as he had been, immune to anything that could alter his capacity to be a clear-minded cold-blooded killer, anesthetic and tranquilizers, painkillers of any kind-- they'd all been quite useless on him. And yet, after it had all come down, after the eviscerated bodies of his siblings had been spread about like oversized doll-parts, after Heine had deserted him, left him to rot, he'd needed to be fine-tuned. Upgraded. The series of surgeries and experiments that had followed-- he'd endured them all, quite conscious, situated right at the centre of his pain.
This is nothing.
Still, he answers the question. Says more, perhaps, than he's said to his roommate in the entire time they've known each other. It's a distraction, if nothing else.]
One question at a time, now. Let me tell you a tale. My world consists of a city. No doubt there's more beyond that, but it's not something I know of and therefore it doesn't concern me. The city I speak of is one of three levels-- the Above, or the surface, a place I know very little about other than to say that it's rife with gang wars and prostitution, a place plunged into perpetual winter thanks to environmental crimes committed by generations past, yet presumably more salubrious than the sector immediately below it.
Then there's the Underground. A place for the diseased and the dying and the utterly depraved, for the city's dregs and those too far beyond redemption to live anywhere else. More gangs, more violence, very little interception from law enforcement, an insufficient sanctuary for the fetish mutants and other remnants from a time where genetic tampering was still unrestricted. Its a dark dirty place where survival is a daily struggle and none can thrive.
[He pauses for a moment, takes a breath around the ache in his body, the hurt Cain's ministrations are exacerbating. The last part-- some dark strange feeling twists in his chest at the thought of it, longing and fear and belonging and revulsion tangling together to form a confused whole. Home.]
Beneath that is the Below. Few know of its existence, though that was beginning to change just before I arrived here. It had begun to surface, to make itself known...but that's not important. Its a facility deep down at the rotten core of the city, a place full of flickering electric lights and white corridors where the septic stench can't hide an undertone of blood that can never be wiped clean. A place where weapons are created. Monsters, I suppose you could say. That's the kind of hellhole I'm from.
[And he smiles his bloodstained smile.]
i am here for it
The closest comparison he can draw is his time in prison, that hole in the ground where he'd lost everything: freedom, bodily autonomy, the smallest pleasures of life. Still, not the sort of experimentation that would shackle metal to his spine. Not a prison of blood. Cain's not interested in drawing diagrams for who's had a harder life - it's clear he's not dealing with an average person. It almost feels like there's something missing in Giovanni, like part of his identity's been hacked away, like there's this strange void looking back at home sometimes.
Or maybe he only sees it now in glassy red eyes because of what Giovanni's telling him.]
So, what... you telling me you're one of those weapons? A monster?
[Man. This is the last time he signs a lease agreement without a thorough background check, or at least some kind of personal interview. Something like, Anything else I should know about? Any weird hobbies? Any casual murder?
Not that he knows anything about Giovanni's murder habits. He can just smell it on the guy, through that blood-speckled grin. This is someone who's seen violence.
Cain concentrates on locating the first bullet with a sterile needle, teeth gritted in his focus.]
What about your brother? Heine.
HERE IT COMES!
[He confirms in a voice that shows no signs of his discomfort, though despite his composed exterior there's a buzzing in his head and a blackness around the edges of his vision which hints at a sly descent towards unconsciousness if he lets his guard slip. It's a new sensation for him, one he isn't strictly sure what to do with and whilst his heart beats fast and his body thrums with pain, it seems that talking keeps him grounded down inside of himself. Keeps him anchored to his body, to his bones.
And so there's only a fractional hesitation before he begins to tell the tale he's never told, has no-one to whom he can tell it. Instead just holds it deep inside himself like a burning coal that twists and blackens every part of him. It burns him still. But his tight-wound hold on himself in this moment is poor and perhaps later he'll come to regret his loose lips, but for now the words pour out of him as thick and dark as blood.]
And Heine-- in him we have the best of the best, the biggest monster of all. We're from the same series, he and I. The same make and model, if you will. The Rammsteiner series, genetically engineered specimens specifically designed to resonate with the Kerberos Spine, to be able to house the beast within it - the Dog, the entity from which it takes its name - without becoming physically warped monstrosities or mindless husks like our predecessors before us. The first implantations were tested on standard humans and the results...well, as I say. They weren't pretty.
But I digress. The Rammsteiner series, there were many of us to begin with. Child weapons who opened our eyes onto darkness, pitted against failures from the past that had taken on hulking shapes, death match after death match to prove our abilities, our usefulness. With the Spine's gifts we were a hard lot to beat, equipped with autonomic regeneration, immunity to all known poisons and pathogens, reinforced bone structure to help our bodies withstand the enhanced speed and strength and agility that were among Kerberos' gifts to us. And Heine was the best of us all, had the most control of the mad dog lodged in our backs and so, once the testing phase was complete, after he volunteered himself for the final test - linking himself to the Führer Spine, the one to control all others - it transpired that our creator needed only one.
[There's a pause, just the length of a heartbeat as he discernibly swallows, the only outward indication he gives that the story he tells has any impact on him at all.
But impact him it does. White walls running red with blood, Lily, Lily, Lily and inside of him something twists and breaks and hurts but he holds it still, swallows it down--]
And the rest of us, we were made to tear each other apart. Many tried to resist, but at Mother's command the Dog was brought to the fore in each and every one of us, bloodlust descending like a red mist and before one could blink the air was rent with screams, with shorn-off limbs scattered about like oversized doll parts, viscera like ribbons. We ripped with nails and teeth and into all that, into the midst of it all, Heine slipped the leash. Came amongst us. Eviscerated our sister before crushing her skull in his own two hands, and then. He. Fled.
I was left behind down there, amidst the bodies and that sea of blood. But of course, as you're able to discern for yourself, I lived to tell the tale. The only one that did.
[Often, he wishes he didn't.]
no subject
So he waits, listens, and struggles to understand what he's told.
Hard to connect any of it to the gaunt man on the table, blood smeared in messy red streaks, staining skin as white as a sheet. Giovanni tells him he's a monster, but it doesn't really feel like it, looking down at him on the table. He looks... human, even with the metal shackle at his throat. Almost fragile - descriptor summoned to mind as he's told about the Dog and the Spine and the children locked up in those white halls, tortured and experimented on.
If Giovanni's telling the truth, it's going to make him see Heine differently than some backalley punk stealing drunk people's clothing out of convenience. His only impression of Heine is a wild and scathing unfriendliness, almost to a point of defense.]
Wouldn't you wanna run away from a shithole like that, too?
[If it's true.
Meanwhile, Cain uses this window of opportunity to take the sterilized pliers to pry out the first located bullet (blessedly shallow), immediately packing the wound as it bubbles up with a fresh gush of blood. His gloved hands are soon shiny-pink.]
no subject
[The words come out in a sibilant hiss from between tight-clenched teeth as the pliers pull metal free of muscle and flesh. Pain flashes bright through the wound, radiates down through his arm, makes his mind lurch sickeningly sideways. What a strange feeling this is, the lightness in his head and the blackness that swims across his vision like he's holding on to consciousness by a thread. The last time he'd felt so vulnerable and broken and weak is the day he just described.
Almost, he laughs.]
Besides, he never did leave. Not really. No matter how far he runs or where he hides he's still a dog, always will be as long as the collar bites down into his flesh, pushes hard into bone. It's what we are, what we were made to be, and there is no running away from that.
[He believes it, with every particle of his being. Even here, cut adrift and unmoored and worlds away from home.]
Freedom isn't for everyone.
no subject
Giovanni's still drawling on, as if drunk on the delirium of his present state -- and after what he's described, that he's neverhad to deal with bullets before, it's... a little unbelievable. What is it like now, to be so weak? What would that feel like?
Freedom isn't for everyone. Cain's jaw clenches so hard he can feel his teeth ache.]
Look, I'm not gonna say I get it, but... who the fuck wants to live like that? [To focus his attention, he begins cleaning the pliers, plucking up the needle to locate the second (and final) bullet. He dips it into the red wound, gentle, until it reaches that lead impediment.] You really enjoy it? Acting like a wild animal, getting yourself fuckin' shot up for it? Is it like, an impulse you can't control?
[Pliers again, poised to dig in. He hunts Giovanni's face for signs he's going to pass out, any red flags that could tilt into life-threatening territory. The conversational topic certainly suits it.]
'Cause it just sounds to me like you're trying to die.
no subject
He's holding on though, the hand attached to his uninjured arm moving to grasp the edge of the table in a whiteknuckle grip as though he's clinging on to consciousness through physical effort alone. He hadn't known. Hadn't known that it could feel like this.
This time, he does laugh, a sound that bubbles up from him like the blood from his wounds.]
No one. No one wants to live like that. It isn't really living at all its a long and bloody march to the grave but monsters like us, like Heine and I, that's the very best that we could hope for. And we enjoy it because it's what we are, hammered down into bones, into blood, until its the only thing left to enjoy anymore, the only thing that transcends the horror and the knowledge that you're slowly falling apart, coming undone, piece by bloody piece.
[Drunk on pain, on loss of blood. A near-delirium is right, but he holds all the same. Doesn't scream, or cry out, or slide blank-minded into unconsciousness.]
Trying to die. You're not wrong. I hope he kills me. Kills me like he did Lily. Kills me like he should have done all those years ago. But that's why I can't die here, do you see? It wouldn't be right. Not like this.
no subject
You really want him to kill you? [That's fucked up. To say the least of it.] Try to survive this first.
[Pliers in hand, he prizes out the last bullet with one quick movement, dragging it back up the channel of flesh carved out by the lead casing. Blood gushes from the hole. He's ready to pack in another handful of cloth towels, grimacing as the red mess greases the table underneath where the other towels he laid out have begun to saturate.]
Still with me? Hold these over your wounds, I gotta get something.
no subject
[If he can do that maybe She'll see something of value in him, just the once, the one singular time, and perhaps even that doesn't matter at all, as long as he can die before his mind comes undone and everything he's ever known is ripped away from him piece by piece, like so much sand falling through spread fingers. His memories, bleak as they are, cold and fraught with terror as they may be-- they're the only thing he's ever been able to call his own.
But the bullet is dragged free of him in a hot red gush and again the darkness encroaches, swims across his vision like a rushing tide. His eyes flutter worryingly for a moment, and there's something blank and empty in his face, just a void where signs of life ought to be. But Cain asks his question, and Giovanni's eyes, the colour of his leakig blood, crack open. He flashes his razorblade smile.]
Oh yes. Still here.
[And he lifts a hand, just a little limp, to press over the wound as requested.]
no subject
[Something in what Giovanni says sticks to him, even as he tries to shake it and focus on the remaining task: stripping off the blood-soaked gloves, washing his hands again, and then beginning clean-up. He's going to have to stitch up those wounds. After fetching medical thread and needle, Cain draws up a stool and perches.
The first bullet-hole is wiped clear of blood before he hooks in the thread, working quickly to fasten skin back together. His reply takes a few moments.]
Look at you, good at surviving. Pretty impressive you didn't pass out, you're white as a fuckin' ghost. [His dark eyes glance up the length of Giovanni's body, then return to the work.] So why is getting Heine to go wild and kill you the only choice you've got? Can't just retire from that shit?
no subject
--but the other man returns with needle and thread, there's the bright biting pressure around torn flesh and he looks up into the taller man's face. Registers what he'd been saying a few moments later than he should have, but when he does, he laughs.]
It isn't a job, what I do. One can't retire from being what they are. Can a gun stop being a gun? You may as well be asking that of me.
[He lifts the shoulder Cain isn't working on in a shrug, skin sliding against the table with an ugly sound.]
Besides, I wasn't going to last that long. Broken, you see. Faulty, one experiment too far and everything was coming undone, unraveling and getting away from me. I was running out of time.
Better to die by his hand then become...something else.
[He's going to have so many regrets later.]
no subject
On his end is a dichotomous tangle: distraction, annoyance, confusion, frustration. Understanding, and a flicker of sympathy, like a flame deep beneath the well of his focus. He bites off the thread on the first wound, tied into a neat knot, and pauses before moving to the second.]
Doesn't matter here. You get that? [The contact of skin is bleeding into his words, an impulse that has him reaching up to take hold of Giovanni's hair - like seizing a dog by the loose scruff of his neck. As though the only way to get through to him is a physical message. It feels that way. There's too much blood everywhere, a grease on his thoughts, empathic connection making him too caught up in Giovanni's internal struggle.] This isn't that place you came from. Your shit affects the rest of us. Your shit affects me.
[He lets go, moving to the second wound with thread and needle.]
New house rule, I'm not gonna stitch you up the next time you're in a fight 'cause you didn't care what happened. Especially if it's from him. [Heine, he means.]
no subject
Above all else, the loneliness. The dark sick isolation of his closed-in consciousness.
Cain's feelings wash into him like a roiling wave and then the other man has his hand in his hair, leaves Giovanni vaguely stunned. He stares up at the taller man through the deep red of his animal eyes - blood on his hands, Giovanni's blood - the mixing mingling feelings acting to silence him, make him still. At any other time, he might have gone for Cain's throat, ripped it right out in clots and gouts between his very teeth, but right now he's left silenced and vaguely shaken, though by what he can't rightly say.
The violation of being inflicted with another person's feelings, maybe. Something achingly human in it, sympathy - even if it is just a flicker of it - that cuts him like a knife.
It leaves him feeling more dizzied, more sick, than the blood-loss has done.
And it's that contact, the skin on skin, the sickness of the shared bond, that makes him react in a way he would normally find unthinkable. He ought to tell Cain that he feels only vast and infinite indifference over whether what he does impacts the rest of them, that they're nothing but smoke and shadows to him, puppets pulled on strings. But when one feels another individual's emotions rattling inside of them, it makes that kind of empty dissociation momentarily hard.
And so instead--]
--this isn't the place I came from, but that place is in me now, down to the bones, whether I want it there or not. But if it's really going to leave you so ruffled then...I'll try to bear your delicate sensibilities in mind, next time.
[Because of course he can't just say 'I'll try to take care of myself', politely.]
no subject
The loneliness hits hardest of all. The force of that collision drives him into memory of his own isolation, the day to day distance from his fellow soldiers, the superficial lie of each moment. The fear of never leaving it. The fear of losing that barest connection of skin and bodies.
And then his hands withdraw, bloody and shaky, and it ends. Wounds mended and stitched, towels saturated by the mess, a heavy layer of silence painted in the air.]
Good.
[It's the only word Cain can summon to his lips. Even that sounds quiet, shaken both by what he's seen and felt in Giovanni, what he's heard, and by his own reaction to it. Like he's swallowed bits of glass, and now his throat's filling up with the blood and pain of it.
He stands and grabs the whiskey bottle, setting it down on the kitchen counter with a jostle of amber fluid. His fingers leave sticky smears on the neck. Disappearing into the bathroom, he leaves Giovanni there on the table.
Make no mistake, he'll be back soon to check on him. For now, Cain places his concentration into the efforts of clean-up -- it's going to be a long night.]