[ He grins, taking swings at the kid like he's some champion boxer and not a pathetic old man getting his thrills from an unfair fight with a half-starved civilian.
John's soft leather gloves grazing against his collarbone where his neckline ended were probably the finest thing he'd ever felt, worth more than his entire wardrobe put together. He should thank me, John thinks, for the privilege of being ended by the refined hand of a Cardinal instead of being torn apart by the beasts in the slums.
Somewhere at the back of his mind was the memory of wandering those streets, lost and alone. Of being really, truly hungry and holding out his hands for half-eaten nutrient bars.
That child is nearly a century gone and yet John still sees him in the eyes of every pathetic commoner Amos brings him. He sees what he could have been, and he hates it, and he hits harder. Every time he gets some small joy in ending what he could have become as if this one will finally be the one to end that nagging insecurity of his, but it always comes back.
The kid squeaks out something that sounds like 'why', but John cuts him off. ] Shh. It's alright. You can trust me. Don't worry about a thing.
[ It's not easy to make those words have any impact on someone who's clearly in pain. Fifty years ago he wouldn't have managed it. Now it's tiring, but it works. The kid even smiles a little, relaxing against Amos's grip as John takes a few more swings. ]
God, I'm out of shape. [ He pants, already on the threshold of being winded as he backs up a few steps to rest on the edge of a chair. He's still got enough muscle to look intimidating, but the party-every-night lifestyle he's let himself slip into these last few years hasn't done wonders for his stamina. ] I need a moment. You can take a few swings, if you want to. Just don't - you know.
[ Don't kill. He wants to be the one to land the last blow. But he won't say 'kill' out loud. That tended to scare 'em out of their stupor. ]
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John's soft leather gloves grazing against his collarbone where his neckline ended were probably the finest thing he'd ever felt, worth more than his entire wardrobe put together. He should thank me, John thinks, for the privilege of being ended by the refined hand of a Cardinal instead of being torn apart by the beasts in the slums.
Somewhere at the back of his mind was the memory of wandering those streets, lost and alone. Of being really, truly hungry and holding out his hands for half-eaten nutrient bars.
That child is nearly a century gone and yet John still sees him in the eyes of every pathetic commoner Amos brings him. He sees what he could have been, and he hates it, and he hits harder. Every time he gets some small joy in ending what he could have become as if this one will finally be the one to end that nagging insecurity of his, but it always comes back.
The kid squeaks out something that sounds like 'why', but John cuts him off. ] Shh. It's alright. You can trust me. Don't worry about a thing.
[ It's not easy to make those words have any impact on someone who's clearly in pain. Fifty years ago he wouldn't have managed it. Now it's tiring, but it works. The kid even smiles a little, relaxing against Amos's grip as John takes a few more swings. ]
God, I'm out of shape. [ He pants, already on the threshold of being winded as he backs up a few steps to rest on the edge of a chair. He's still got enough muscle to look intimidating, but the party-every-night lifestyle he's let himself slip into these last few years hasn't done wonders for his stamina. ] I need a moment. You can take a few swings, if you want to. Just don't - you know.
[ Don't kill. He wants to be the one to land the last blow. But he won't say 'kill' out loud. That tended to scare 'em out of their stupor. ]