[Above, Underground, Below. As he listens to those descriptions, he can't help reflecting it in his own mind's eyes, imagination painted by Giovanni's tone. All three sound like a bleak, apocalyptic nightmare. It's the most he's learned of anyone's home outside the barest glimpses, here and there, of places he can hardly imagine. New Volga wasn't ideal - it had its own issues, its own poverty and crime, its own frozen tundra of a landscape - but it was a home. There were warm hearths, and company, and beer, and cigarettes. There were blood ties, even splintered and scattered between factory jobs and new families.
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.]
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.