Kevin Thompson ᴬ.ᴷ.ᴬ. Kilgrave (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
inthesinbin) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
nexus_sages2015-12-03 01:48 am
inthesinbin) wrote in nexus_sages2015-12-03 01:48 am
Entry tags:
this place needs some mind-control ~
He'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.]
no subject
He responds to it, oddly enough. As savage as he's proclaimed to be, as devoid of feeling, he tends to lap up a bit of gentleness when it's offered to him, however briefly. A bit seasick - or should that be landsick? - and still wobblier than he'd like, he stumbles over and slumps down beside her, cradling his aching head in his hand.
"Must've been on hell of a trip to get here," he mumbles, more to himself than to her, "wherever here is."
no subject
"It frequently is," she offers as... well, it's not comfort in the traditional sense, but sometimes knowing you're not alone helps too. Kind of like group therapy, this place. Everyone's got problems. "I've seen people fall out of the sky and land here. You don't look quite that bruised. I've got a first aid kit if you want it, and I can get ice."
After a moment she remembers: "I'm Verity. Yeah, my dad thought he was clever."
no subject
"But I'll take that ice, Verity, if you'd be so kind? I'm bruised in places I didn't even know existed." Thanks, Jessica. Couldn't have at least handled him a little more gently?
no subject
The request gets a nod and a little smile. "Sure thing. I won't be long, the place is just down the road here." Before she stands she takes a moment to rest a hand lightly on his arm. It's meant to be comforting and light enough to not be too bad if there's a hidden bruise under there. "You're going to be okay. This place is weird, but wonderful, and you'll be as happy here as you want to be."
Maybe someday someone will point to this moment as the proof that the Multiverse was better off before she learned to be nice to people. But for right now, she's off for supplies. The little first aid kit she carries around is left behind in her place, should he wish to avail himself of it while she's gone.
no subject
In fairness to them, he does usually punish them for it. She's only lucky that he's not inclined to draw unnecessary attention to himself. Yet.
"Suppose I'll have to take your word for it," he replies cautiously. "I'm a little underwhelmed so far."
no subject
She isn't gone long, and come back with several ice packs and bottles of water. "Here we go. Glad to see you're still upright."
no subject
There's a pause as he cradles his head, so very tired and so incredibly pissed off that he really doesn't know what to do with himself at this point. It seems a bit unfair to take it out on her. "So, I take it you've been here for some time then?"
no subject
She sits down beside him again, opening a water bottle for him and then passing him some Tylenol. The sass comes with some perks. "About six months. I moved here permanently three months ago. It's pretty fun once you get used to it."