not that it particularly matters. He gets the jist of the insult. It's stupid, insipid, uninspired. A kitten backed into a corner, yowling and hissing and scratching with its little claws. Scruffing it is almost too pathetic.
Almost.
Asch presses the splinters of wood on the end of the table leg down, flush against the skin of Isaac's throat.]
You're right. I don't know anything about you. Not a single thing more than you've let on here and now.
[He pushes the leg forward further, forcing Isaac to back down, or skewer himself on its jagged points.]
And I don't care. I don't care about a single detail of your miserable, pathetic life on whatever world you've come here from. I don't think I'll ever know, and I don't care about that, either. The only thing I need to know right now is how to shut you up.
But keep pushing, brat. The last one was a warning. I'll teach you every lesson your betters should have.
Asch presses harder and harder, and Isaac resists, trying to force himself up on an arm that threatens to buckle, and he's stubborn enough that one of those jagged points draws blood.
Only then does he let himself be pushed down, but he does not go quietly. ]
You don't care? Beat me up all you want, but don't lie to me. If you didn't care you would've just opened the door and walked out. But it bothered you. I think your problem is you care too much--
[ because he knows far too well what that feels like--
abruptly his arm gives, and he topples to the floor with a gasp. Isaac lies there, aching, mentally tracking the bead of blood that slides sideways down his throat towards the floor, and stares narrowly at nothing. ]
My betters. Tch. They don't deserve that much credit.
[ It isn't a boast--it's a bitter criticism. A rejection of that "authority." ]
[Incredible. Only a child could be such a poor loser. Only a child could fail to understand what was at stake, when the blood is at their throat, when they're on the ground, lost. It was... infuriatingly, tooth-grindingly familiar.
It was the reason he hadn't beaten him down immediately, when he should have. It was definitely why he'd brought up any kind of lessons learned, given him half a chance to redeem himself after his poor attempts at taking a stand.]
No.
They clearly don't.
[All Mentors Are Bastards
As Isaac falls, the makeshift weapon follows, mere millimetres away from a repeat performance in exactly the same wound it already carved.]
It's your loss, and theirs. Spin it however you want in your wretched little head, but you had your opportunities, and you threw them away, for reasons I'm sure I don't give a damn about.
Do you understand? Is anything I'm saying making it to your afflicted brain? You lost.
Away. He obviously doesn't care in the least about the looming threat of that jagged table leg. Let it pierce him. Whatever.
You know the worst thing about it? The lesson clearly does sink in, because the more Asch talks the more Isaac's expression warps, from stoic anger to sick exhaustion to a raw, horrible loss. ]
No.
I didn't, you idiot. I didn't lose. How are you not getting that you're wrong? I didn't lose.
[ Grief adds to his shaking, there on the floor. ]
I wish I had. Maybe you're right. Maybe I would have learned something before...
Casting his eyes over the room, its scooted furniture, strewn cushions, and broken tables, Asch flicks the table leg off into the middle of it. Its job here was clearly done.]
I don't know what counts as a "loss" in your addled world's view, but I'm starting to think that killing you would be something they'd twist into the ultimate "win". [He scoffs in disgust.] Pathetic.
[ The table leg gets flung away, and the sound of that makes Isaac start, makes him look up. He seems horribly confused to be let go. Startled, even.
.... slowly, he gathers himself up. Starts to rise. ]
... maybe, [ he says, real quiet. Killing him? ... who knows. They all want him gone, after all, so wouldn't it be...? He feels sick.
After a minute he's on his feet, sniffling just like he was when this all began, rubbing at his face. But: ]
You're wrong about one other thing. I didn't lose this fight, either. Not that you'd get why or anything, but Doorman'd... he'd... he'd be proud of me, so...
whatever. They stand in stoic silence, one in front of the other. The tear stains are still wet on Isaac's cheeks, flush from the adrenalin and emotion still coloring them. The hard-headed stubborn determination, grief, rage. It's hard not to see the similarities, this close up—enough to make him want to leave, now. Forget this ever happened.
Then the damn stupid brat apologizes. He crosses his arms, fingers digging into his forearm. What the hell was he supposed to do with that? Continued defiance at least would have been more familiar territory.]
[ like dude what the fuck is your damage? you don't need isaac's permission get outta here
he's just gonna... nurse his wounds. like. rubbing at his throat and accidentally smearing the blood. nice. he doesn't look like he got the shit kicked out of him or anything. ]
Isaac probably won't be expecting to get picked up by the back of his fancy suit jacket like a naughty puppy, but that sure is what's happening right now.
Asch stalks to the door out, wrenches it open, and hucks Isaac out into the main hall area.]
[ he's squawking to high hell what the FUCK is happening right now
isaac gets tossed into the hall like a sack of potatoes and he's in PAIN because he's HURT and DOESN'T LAND ELEGANTLY actually he just kind of falls on his ass
and stares back at the door with such bald incredulity the poor thing should probably burst into flames. ]
Who's the brat here?!
[ ...............................................
eventually he and his bruised ego (and his bruised everything else) finally get up and meander off in the probable direction of seeking medical attention ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
not that it particularly matters. He gets the jist of the insult. It's stupid, insipid, uninspired. A kitten backed into a corner, yowling and hissing and scratching with its little claws. Scruffing it is almost too pathetic.
Almost.
Asch presses the splinters of wood on the end of the table leg down, flush against the skin of Isaac's throat.]
You're right. I don't know anything about you. Not a single thing more than you've let on here and now.
[He pushes the leg forward further, forcing Isaac to back down, or skewer himself on its jagged points.]
And I don't care. I don't care about a single detail of your miserable, pathetic life on whatever world you've come here from. I don't think I'll ever know, and I don't care about that, either. The only thing I need to know right now is how to shut you up.
But keep pushing, brat. The last one was a warning. I'll teach you every lesson your betters should have.
no subject
Asch presses harder and harder, and Isaac resists, trying to force himself up on an arm that threatens to buckle, and he's stubborn enough that one of those jagged points draws blood.
Only then does he let himself be pushed down, but he does not go quietly. ]
You don't care? Beat me up all you want, but don't lie to me. If you didn't care you would've just opened the door and walked out. But it bothered you. I think your problem is you care too much--
[ because he knows far too well what that feels like--
abruptly his arm gives, and he topples to the floor with a gasp. Isaac lies there, aching, mentally tracking the bead of blood that slides sideways down his throat towards the floor, and stares narrowly at nothing. ]
My betters. Tch. They don't deserve that much credit.
[ It isn't a boast--it's a bitter criticism. A rejection of that "authority." ]
no subject
It was the reason he hadn't beaten him down immediately, when he should have. It was definitely why he'd brought up any kind of lessons learned, given him half a chance to redeem himself after his poor attempts at taking a stand.]
No.
They clearly don't.
[All Mentors Are Bastards
As Isaac falls, the makeshift weapon follows, mere millimetres away from a repeat performance in exactly the same wound it already carved.]
It's your loss, and theirs. Spin it however you want in your wretched little head, but you had your opportunities, and you threw them away, for reasons I'm sure I don't give a damn about.
Do you understand? Is anything I'm saying making it to your afflicted brain? You lost.
no subject
Away. He obviously doesn't care in the least about the looming threat of that jagged table leg. Let it pierce him. Whatever.
You know the worst thing about it? The lesson clearly does sink in, because the more Asch talks the more Isaac's expression warps, from stoic anger to sick exhaustion to a raw, horrible loss. ]
No.
I didn't, you idiot. I didn't lose. How are you not getting that you're wrong? I didn't lose.
[ Grief adds to his shaking, there on the floor. ]
I wish I had. Maybe you're right. Maybe I would have learned something before...
[ ... he trails off.
He doesn't care;
he shuts his eyes. ]
no subject
Casting his eyes over the room, its scooted furniture, strewn cushions, and broken tables, Asch flicks the table leg off into the middle of it. Its job here was clearly done.]
I don't know what counts as a "loss" in your addled world's view, but I'm starting to think that killing you would be something they'd twist into the ultimate "win". [He scoffs in disgust.] Pathetic.
Get up. We're done here, you naive little fool.
no subject
.... slowly, he gathers himself up. Starts to rise. ]
... maybe, [ he says, real quiet. Killing him? ... who knows. They all want him gone, after all, so wouldn't it be...? He feels sick.
After a minute he's on his feet, sniffling just like he was when this all began, rubbing at his face. But: ]
You're wrong about one other thing. I didn't lose this fight, either. Not that you'd get why or anything, but Doorman'd... he'd... he'd be proud of me, so...
[ there's a long silence. then: ]
'm sorry.
no subject
whatever. They stand in stoic silence, one in front of the other. The tear stains are still wet on Isaac's cheeks, flush from the adrenalin and emotion still coloring them. The hard-headed stubborn determination, grief, rage. It's hard not to see the similarities, this close up—enough to make him want to leave, now. Forget this ever happened.
Then the damn stupid brat apologizes. He crosses his arms, fingers digging into his forearm. What the hell was he supposed to do with that? Continued defiance at least would have been more familiar territory.]
Tch.
It doesn't matter. I'm done in here, anyway.
[It's completely fucked??????? But okay???????]
no subject
[ like dude what the fuck is your damage? you don't need isaac's permission get outta here
he's just gonna... nurse his wounds. like. rubbing at his throat and accidentally smearing the blood. nice. he doesn't look like he got the shit kicked out of him or anything. ]
no subject
welp
Isaac probably won't be expecting to get picked up by the back of his fancy suit jacket like a naughty puppy, but that sure is what's happening right now.
Asch stalks to the door out, wrenches it open, and hucks Isaac out into the main hall area.]
Go to your room, brat!
[The door slams shut behind him.]
no subject
[ he's squawking to high hell what the FUCK is happening right now
isaac gets tossed into the hall like a sack of potatoes and he's in PAIN because he's HURT and DOESN'T LAND ELEGANTLY actually he just kind of falls on his ass
and stares back at the door with such bald incredulity the poor thing should probably burst into flames. ]
Who's the brat here?!
[ ...............................................
eventually he and his bruised ego (and his bruised everything else) finally get up and meander off in the probable direction of seeking medical attention ]