tentacruelest | 8th Wave

8th Wave

Th' next time this Barge feels like poking around in my head, I'll be keeping to my quarters. The lot of yeh - useless dregs not fit to scrub a floor. It's bad enough I'm locked in here with you, I don't need to call any of yeh friends.

[Private to Bush]

Was dealing with me yerself so difficult that you sought to work through less offensive channels, Captain?

[Private to Arthas]

A word, my king.

[Can you feel that heavy sarcasm, Arthas?]

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[Davy allows himself a slight smirk at the nattering comment for how true it is, before he breathes deep against his pipe, soothing his prickly nerves down]

There is nothing in my life that has meaning any longer. Life now is nothing but a long, slow trudge to the grave. Bloodshed - the suffering of men who are not myself - is one of the few pleasures I have left. It allows me to recall the days when I was feared and free.

That is why I bother.

[ Harvey indulges in a silence, tapping his thumb against his cigarette to get the ashes to fall. At this hour, with the skies above the barge in the strange darkness, the embers flicker visibly as they fall. ]

Well, to the days when we were feared and free, then.

[ He misses them too, sometime. ]

[He gives a cold nod in return; the night air is chilly, but he's unaffected. Few things rarely penetrate his thick hide, ideal for protection against the elements]

They were excellent days. The best ones. There will ne'er be a time come again for them.

[ Harvey cannot share that sentiment; he doesn't long for them. He doesn't long for anything, anymore. He's ready for it to be over. Davy has his demands, and sometimes Two-Face has his, but Harvey? He's done. ]

[ The days he misses have nothing to do with violence or rage. The latter was always present, but there was a time it didn't rule him. ]

Well. When you're ready.

It's our story.

Then you shouldn't be the only one to have your say in it.

[With an obliging scowl, Jones douses his pipe and puts it away. He gives one last look over his shoulder for any sign of casual observers, before thundering his way over to Dent]

These are all objects, aye.

I think that remains to be seen.

Guilt is his current motivator, despite what I may have said while affected by the flood.

Of course it is. And now that guilt extends to you as well, by way of me. So if he can provide for you, he will do it.

[ With a very large crabman trundling over, Dent's quick to flick his cigarette butt over the side of the barge; it's ember twinkles just a bit, before it vanishes among the pulsating, muted colors of the 'night'. ]

[ Harvey doesn't notice. He's already on the move, snagging his bundle and letting the cloth fall away; two rods, metal. Traditional yantok are made from rattan, if they're for sparring; these are the Bat's, and there is no way the rattan would hold up under the use that people like Barbara or Dick put them through. ]

[ They feel right, in the moment, in Harvey's big hands. He buys himself some space with sharp flicks, cutting the air with the tips. ]

At least ask me to dance nicely, Captain. God knows we need it much as you do.

[Davy is unsurprised that Dent brought weapons; he's only somewhat surprised that they aren't guns. He's a tough old bastard and with his heart safely tucked away in his cabin, there's little that can really kill him. He's built to withstand the crushing pressure of being leagues under the sea with no protection and a few sticks don't scare him. Blunt force is something he can appreciate.

He staggers forward, ignoring the swipes the sticks make through the air and even attempts to catch one in his claw as he comes forward]

I've given yeh enough advantage, boy. Come here and face me instead of running off like a coward.

Then don't get in the middle until you know how deep it goes.

I know.

You haven't given us anything.

[ Harvey Dent charges forward, to the side slight, to meet that mutual charge. He's not about to let the man have his weapon, not even when he has two. They're the only advantage he has against the undead monster. ]

[ The claw scrapes over the edge, the noise hideous, as Harvey yanks it free of the grip before it can solidify into something vicelike. But with Davy's focus on keeping the other stick gripped, Harvey swings the other, hard, looking to leave heavy bruises, down to the bone. ]</small

[It's still scary - scary and bewildering and bracing, like a steep drop-off and sharp winter wind. Ruin couldn't do this, couldn't see his thoughts and didn't care about them anyway, couldn't express or convey meaning. He just shouted, or pulled Marsh's strings. Bianca could do it - but then, for the most part, she didn't bother. No one shows themselves to tools. This is something that only happens with her.

He shows her something back, lurching and tentative, focusing on it and hoping his constant state of machiolation lets it through. It's just a memory, less conceptual and more vivid, a memory of himself from the Oxford breach, stumbling down an unknown road, leaning on Sedge, with chunks carved from the donkey's flanks and the last vertebra cut from her tail, and the sick soul-deep ache in his stomach and his skull and his fingertips. Missing pieces, he thinks without words, wisps of association flitting from his spikes to Zane's like a calytpra moth. He won't be mended, but Zane was, could be again. He remembers Riddick's shoulder, steady as a cold mountain under his arm. Yes, it leaves one unbalanced.]

You've got plenty of us to lean on.

[The noise irritates Jones, and his tentacles seize up in annoyance. Still, he presses on and attempts to catch hold of it but Dent rips it away before he can crack the stick in two. The second stick catches him off-guard and he juts forward with a grunt of pain. He lashes out with the tentacled hand, attempting to grasp any part of Dent to hold him still, lure him in....

Dent is at a disadvantage with no projectile weapons; he has to get close to hit with the sticks, and Jones has the longer reach]

[ Harvey has a gun; two guns, in fact. He simply hasn't drawn them, and his jacket is closed over his holsters. He didn't want to bring a gun to a duel, pistols to a brawl. It just didn't seem... right. Not for what they'd said... ]

[ It seems even more appropriate now, that he knows what bothers Davy. Now, it's less about Iris and more about... other things. ]

[ Davy's tentacles seize on him, curling down the stick and onto his hand; he's been slimed by worse. He yanks back and smacks at the offending limb, trying to pinch the muscular flesh between the two metal rods, hoping that'll dissuade him from being grabby. ]

Haven't you earned yourself a sword, yet? Or is your bloodthirsty nature keeping you from all the good toys?

[The tentacles latch on and squeeze, but it's a bit different hauling Dent around than a tiny Victor Creed, the last victim of a one-on-one with Jones. He gives a roar of pain and is forced to let go, but chases after Dent to make up lost ground, attempting to inch him to a place where his back'll be up against a wall.]

No sword, no strength, and I'll still cleave yeh to pieces.

You'll try! Oh, you'll try. But I've taken down bigger and meaner.

[ Harvey dances back, swinging when Davy comes in reach, double arcs, both rods parallel. If Davy wants to earn his retreat (though backing him into a corner may prove both difficult and dangerous; the Bat taught him to use walls to vault and launch) he'll have to pay a toll in pain. ]

C'mon, terror of the open water! Come on, Davy Jones. My father was a cop, my grandfather a farmer-- make me glad we never went to sea!

Then take me down, instead of talking me down!

[Jones continues to inch forward, hauling his head back to avoid the sticks being flung in his face and lower. He supposes he could catch one stick with his claw, but it would leave the other opening to attacking his more sensitive features. Instead he presses on, intent on wearing Dent out if he can't trap him]

Yeh want sea, Dent? I'll give yeh the sea!

[He suddenly rushes foward in a blind grab, dragging Harvey to the side of the ship]

[ That's going to leave a mark. And smart in the morning. Harvey grunts in pain-- but Two-Face shunts him aside, taking the pain and riding it, eyes wild and grin like a skull's rictus. ]

[ Trapped between the rail and Davy's weight, he has one solid option: the call it the Glasgow kiss; as Dent brings his head down sharp and hard in the general vicinity of where Davy' nose just to be. ]

[Davy doesn't have a nose, not quite; it's mainly hard, flat bone covered by soft, squishy tissue. As he attempts to haul Dent over the side, his opponent smacks him square in the face.

Stunned, he twists his head aside, temporarily blinded by the sudden flash headache]

[ Harvey can't close his eyes; at least, not one of them, and that one doesn't tear up, anyway. The other, though, that screws shut and he reels a little from his own blow; the nerves in his face are deadened mostly, after two rounds of acid and multiple bouts of plastic surgery... but that still smarts. ]

[ He doesn't need to see to bring his leg up, though, and try and stamp his foot into Davy's crablike leg, trying to drop him to a knee if he can't take him completely off balance and down to the ground. His arms work blind, now, shoving forward -- trying to get him down. ]

There's no sea here, Davy. More's the pity. I was a port town's son.

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8th Wave

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