Jack Napier (i_jest) wrote in we_coexist, @ 2011-05-09 16:46:00 |
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Entry tags: | jack napier, jake chambers |
New Little Plaything (Log with Jake, complete)
When Jack got the boy back to the asylum, the first thing he was strap the kid down in one of the beds made to restrain more difficult patients. The second thing he did was tend to the wounds the hyenas left. He had plans for the boy, after all, and him bleeding to death didn't count among them. He then left for a little while to fix the hyenas up best he could and then return them to where he'd found them. He didn't think that he'd need them for the rest of this.
After all, he had Jake's little creature.
Which he put in a different room on a different wing and set one of the old nurses in with it to take care of it and make sure it didn't die. There were threats made in her direction along the lines of incredible pain if she ever let the thing out of her sight, or if anything happened to it. Jack couldn't pass up such a golden item. It could be used to control the boy. Keep him still. Keep him listening. Compliant.
All those chores taken care of, Jack returned to Jake's side. He had with him a straight razor. It gleamed in his right hand as he entered the room.
"Well. Look at you. Feeling better? I do hope so. We're going to have some fun together, my boy. Yes."
---
Tears had dried on Jake's face. He could still sense Oy. He was safe enough, being taken care of. But scared. In unfamiliar territory, with an unfamiliar person.
Jake was so focused on trying to comfort the billy-bumbler through their mental connection to notice whatever Jack had been doing. Up until the man returned With a razor.
He looked at the man, trying not to flinch. "I remember what you did to Barbara. Putting on her clothes, her makeup. I should have shot you then."
---
"Shoulda woulda coulda." Jack waved the hand holding the razor nonchalantly. "We all have things we regret, my boy. They haunt us until we die. The best that we can do is make sure the rest of our lives are filled wtih the things that we enjoy the most. And I did enjoy that day. I can't lie to you.Oh, Babs. What fun we did once have. It's a shame she's not here now. At least there's always Dinah. Pretty birdy."
Jack moved to the head of the bed, and stood, looking down at Jake.
"You're such a defiant thing. I really like your spunk. I think that you could do great things, boy. And I am going to help you do them."
---
Jake took a deep breath, drew back his head as much as he could against the confines of the bed, and spat at Jack's face. "I'm not doing anything with you." He tried not to look at the razor, tried not to remember the shattered husk that remained of Babs when she was brought back from Jack's control. "I've seen worse things than you. You don't even compare."
Big talk. Steel inside. Jake kept telling himself that he would be fine, he would be okay. Someone would come for him. All he had to do was last, and someone would come for him. Like they came for Babs. Like when Roland saved him from Gasher. They would come.
---
Jack wiped his face off and his lips turned down into a scowl. He shook his head. "Now. That isn't very nice, is it?"
He stood over Jake, close. The way he was looking at the boy's face made it look kind of funny. Kind of creepy and unreal. He wondered if Jake were seeing the same thing. He wondered, really, what was going on in Jake's brain. Jack knew the kid had been around when he'd done up Babs, remembered it. But did he really remember it? Really truly recall what a broken beautiful doll Babs had become?
Not using any shaving cream, or gel, or even water - because that would make this so much easier on the kid - Jack started to draw the straight razor along Jake's scalp. He knew the proper way to use the instrument, he just felt that Jake would get more out of the experience this way. Dry hair, dry skin, sharp blade. There was bound to be more than a little blood and pain.
"We'll start slow. Like getting rid of this stupid hair cut of yours. I'd give you a mohawk like mine, but you'll have to earn that. I'm sure you will, though. A boy like you. So strong."
---
Oh shit, that hurt. Jake squeezed his eyes shut and tried to shift his head, but that only caused the razor to slice against his skin, drawing a line of bright blood. He sucked in his breath, and tried not to flinch again.
It was hair, it was only hair, but the treatment was as though each one was being pulled out by the root. Jake couldn't help flinching again, a muffled sound of pain escaping his throat before he clamped down on it.
The gunslinger, he told himself. Focus on the gunslinger. He brought up the sight of Roland in his mind's eyes, willing his body to calm at the image.
---
Jack listened to the slow scrape of metal on skin as he moved the razor over Jake's scalp. The hair fell in slow flurries onto the floor around the bed. He hummed a little something while he worked, making sure now and again to pull the hair a little harder. He also wiped away the blood that was flowing, lest it become a lubricant of some kind and make all of this easier.
"What is it you want out of life, little Jakey? Aside from the things I'm sure you're thinking about right now, which are probably along the lines of escape and freedom. Somebody saving you. You're hoping that somebody out there will try a rescue, aren't you? Maybe your lovely Dinah? She'll rush in and help? She can try, my boy, she can try. But by the time she knows where you are, it'll be too late."
With a deliberate movement, Jack cut a line across the freshly bald half of Jake's head. "Oops. Sorry. Slipped."
---
The knife "slip" made Jake gasp again. The Joker's words were working their way through his mind. Ignore him, Jake told himself sternly. He's lying. They're coming for you. Someone always came.
Another sharp tear of hair and skin, and this time, the soft noise formed a name. "Roland..." It was the one thing Jake truly wanted. His father. The man who had protected him, loved him, made him safe. Roland, whom he loved and feared so much that the two burned together and grew.
Focus, Jake, said the gunslinger's voice within his mind. Fight. Use it.
Taking a shuddering breath, Jake tried to shut out the pain and focus his mind. The Touch. Maybe he could hurt Jack.
---
"Roland?" Jack thought for a moment. He'd heard that name. He remembered where. "Oh, he was here once. I think he died. His grave is in the City cemetery. You could go see it if you liked, one day. Maybe."
He finished up removing the hair on the top of Jake's head and contemplated briefly trying to remove the kid's eyebrows as well, but decided with the current amount of struggling, somebody might lose an eye. And right now, Jack wanted that somebody to have two eyes. Two eyes were useful.
Something felt weird in his head, but he shrugged it off.
"Let's get you cleaned up, shall we. Can't have you bleeding all over like this. You've gotta be strong, boy! Have all your energy. You've gotta be able to keep up with good ole Uncle Jack." He paused. "Oh wait. That sounds dirty. No. I don't want to be sounding like one of those Batfruits. Liking the boyparts or anything. Uncle just isn't going to do. Auntie isn't much better, though, is it? Hm. Maybe Father. I could get used to that."
He left the room for a moment and came back with a bowl of hot-but-not-too-hot water and towels, along with some antiseptic cream and bandages. He set them down on a wheeled table and then began to tend to the wounds that he'd caused.
---
Touching Jack was nowhere near what Touching Delirium had been like, but the effort still backfired. Jake was whimpering from the images he was seeing, trying to regain control of his own mind. But when the name of the gunslinger was spoken, Jake caught his breath. His mind's eye showed him the image of the grave. Roland Deschain, it said. Something about lobstrosities. But it was real. Roland was dead.
"No," he murmured, real tears coming from his eyes now. "No, no, no!"
He was ready for more pain when he heard Jack coming closer again, but instead there was warmth. Comfort. The pain in his skin slowly being drawn away.
"Fa..fa... Father?" That was the name he used for Roland. But Roland was gone, gone, never coming back. Who was coming for him?
---
"Sorry to say it's true, boy. But it is. Those of us that live in the City don't often die, not really. Some were dead before they got here, and they live yet. But those that do die here are dead for good." His voice was soothing, calm. Sympathetic. Jack could play the game very well. He may have even felt truly bad for Jake, there was no telling.
Jack finished putting the final bandage in place. He looked down at Jake and then left the room again. When he came back, he held a cattle prod and a cup of pudding.
"It's been a while since you've been here. I figure you've gotta be hungry. So I'm gonna place this pudding over here, I'm gonna take this table out with me, and I'm gonna loosen the straps. If you even flinch before I'm outta here, you're gonna get prodded with this thing. It packs a punch and won't feel so hot. Got it?"
He pushed the wheeled table behind him, putting the pudding on the floor where it'd been. There was a plastic spoon resting on top of it. He kicked the table out the door before moving to the bed and undoing the straps that held the boy down a little bit. He would be able to wiggle out.
"Stay. Staaayy."
Jack backed out of the room and as the door closed, watched Jake through the meshed window.
---
Roland was dead. Roland the gunslinger, the last of the line of Eld.
"Who's going to save me?" The question was softly spoken. Jake hadn't realized it was aloud. He looked at the pudding, felt the strap loosen against his wrist.
He looked sharply at the Joker, not caring about the 'don't flinch' threat. His blue eyes were cold. "Did you kill him? The gunslinger?"
---
"Nobody." Jack answered. He didn't know if the boy heard him. It didn't matter. His brain heard the word, and it would store it away. Keep it for later.
A little startled at the question, Jack opened the door enough to stick his head through. "No. I didn't kill him. His tombstone says something about lobsters. I'm not sure how a lobster can kill a guy other than through allergy, but I think I want to find out. Sounds like fun. Now eat your fucking pudding."
Jack closed the door again, but stayed to see if the kid ate. It was the only food currently in the asylum, the rest having gone bad or been eaten. He figured that if he were going to keep a pet, he was going to have to find it some real food before too long.
Even he wanted more than pudding most of the time.
---
Lobsters. Lobstrosities. The things that had eaten Roland's fingers had poisoned him, and now they had killed him.
"Did-a-chik? Did-a-chok?" He muttered the sounds, then looked down at the pudding. He was hungry, but something in his still rebelled. Lifting one hand, Jake picked up the cup of pudding, holding it carefully, then threw it, like throwing one of his plates, at the door. The pudding splattered on the wall and door and Jake shut his eyes to quietly weep.