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this place needs some mind-control ~
Dec. 3rd, 2015 01:48 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
inthesinbinHe'd been drugged.
That was Kilgrave's last coherent thought.
He'd also been choking on something dense and cloying in his mouth, gagging as it was pressed down his throat with sure, quick fingers. He'd tried to yell, to say something but then a syringe was in his neck and the plunger was depressed and he'd lost all the strength in his arms to fight back. It must have been a dangerously high dose, almost on the verge of lethal, because he'd lost consciousness barely a few seconds later, when all of his writhing and screaming had eventually tapered to a stop.
He has no sense of time or distance after that.
Despite the less than ideal circumstances of his departure, Kilgrave wakes up in the Forums slowly, methodically, waiting for the very last of the drug in his system to melt away. He's in no hurry – if they'd wanted him dead he has no doubt that he would be – and he needs his ability to be in full working order before he starts addressing anything else. Regain control. That's the order of the day.
After a few minutes of groggily staring at the sky, not quite able to move, he flops onto his side, his suit jacket bunched uncomfortably underneath him, the tips of his fingers and toes still slightly numb, his extremities in general difficult to manoeuvre and too far away. He digs his hands into the grass for purchase, gritting his teeth as he draws his legs up, trying to get his feet back under him. Some stumbling, the world tilting on its axis for a moment as he squints his eyes against its lurching, and, finally, he's up, wobbling where he stands, bruised and dishevelled.
Jesus, his head hurts.
Will be for days, he imagines, as he presses the heel of his hand against his temple, rubbing in quick, sharp circles.
“This is getting old already,” he mutters, scowling as he orients himself. He turns on the spot, searching for a landmark, anything remotely familiar to clue him in on precisely where he is. There's nothing. He doesn't recognise any of it, even the air here feels different, and all he has to welcome him is the loudest sign he's ever seen in his life. If he could tell it to shut up, he would.
“Oh, good. Nice. Just leave me in the middle of nowhere. Why not? Is this your idea of stopping me, Jessica?”
His snarl melts into a more general concern – if there aren't any people here, he's more or less helpless – and he lets his hands drop limply to his sides, breathing a heavy sigh. “Bollocks.”
[ooc: the deal with kilgrave and what he can do.]
That was Kilgrave's last coherent thought.
He'd also been choking on something dense and cloying in his mouth, gagging as it was pressed down his throat with sure, quick fingers. He'd tried to yell, to say something but then a syringe was in his neck and the plunger was depressed and he'd lost all the strength in his arms to fight back. It must have been a dangerously high dose, almost on the verge of lethal, because he'd lost consciousness barely a few seconds later, when all of his writhing and screaming had eventually tapered to a stop.
He has no sense of time or distance after that.
Despite the less than ideal circumstances of his departure, Kilgrave wakes up in the Forums slowly, methodically, waiting for the very last of the drug in his system to melt away. He's in no hurry – if they'd wanted him dead he has no doubt that he would be – and he needs his ability to be in full working order before he starts addressing anything else. Regain control. That's the order of the day.
After a few minutes of groggily staring at the sky, not quite able to move, he flops onto his side, his suit jacket bunched uncomfortably underneath him, the tips of his fingers and toes still slightly numb, his extremities in general difficult to manoeuvre and too far away. He digs his hands into the grass for purchase, gritting his teeth as he draws his legs up, trying to get his feet back under him. Some stumbling, the world tilting on its axis for a moment as he squints his eyes against its lurching, and, finally, he's up, wobbling where he stands, bruised and dishevelled.
Jesus, his head hurts.
Will be for days, he imagines, as he presses the heel of his hand against his temple, rubbing in quick, sharp circles.
“This is getting old already,” he mutters, scowling as he orients himself. He turns on the spot, searching for a landmark, anything remotely familiar to clue him in on precisely where he is. There's nothing. He doesn't recognise any of it, even the air here feels different, and all he has to welcome him is the loudest sign he's ever seen in his life. If he could tell it to shut up, he would.
“Oh, good. Nice. Just leave me in the middle of nowhere. Why not? Is this your idea of stopping me, Jessica?”
His snarl melts into a more general concern – if there aren't any people here, he's more or less helpless – and he lets his hands drop limply to his sides, breathing a heavy sigh. “Bollocks.”
[ooc: the deal with kilgrave and what he can do.]
