Once again, the noise of a low battery alarm going off somewhere outside the room sounds. The corner of Trickster's eyes jumps as a muscle twitches. The hidden smile behind his mask sharpens like a razor blade. ]
Nothing gets me out of this fucking room.
[ The words are delivered with numb, vehement certainty that's rubbing up against the brittle edge of a total fucking meltdown. Krouse flicks the hat in his hands again, then spins it out carelessly to the opposite side of the room than the one Tim is on. ]
It's a loop. [ He semi-explains, tone ratcheted back to semi-calm to match. He reaches for a pouch on his belt, flipping open the fastening of the flap. ] I don't get out. I go back to the cell after I fuck it up. Then I come back here. You get out when - well. It depends. But you get out. Happened every other time someone else showed up.
[ Krouse lets out a little, shaky exhale behind his mask, a breath to psych himself up. ]
That's an interesting assumption. [ The mastermind says, steepling his fingers again. ] Do you believe that's grounded in reliable observations, or is that what you're telling your new guest to ensure his compliance with whatever it is you're planning?
[ The mastermind seems unfazed by the shift in the scene. He even seems, in a cool, distant way, mildly amused. If a pitcher plant could feel anything about the insects that fell inside of it, scrabbling weakly at slick sides as they're digested, it might feel the same way.
Krouse glances at the mastermind, then back at Tim. His smile is gone. There's a hunted, pressured look behind the impassive red mask, bleeding out through the eyes. ]
No. No, I don't think you want him dead. Because this is worse for me if he isn't.
[ With that, Krouse flicks his eyes back to where something that is and isn't Coil sits hidden in the shadows behind the desk. And on the way, with fluid, practised ease, he draws and aims his gun.
It's a gun very similar to a MP-443 Grach, a Russian military and police sidearm. There are superficial cosmetic differences built into the gun itself, not aftermarket modifications, from being manufactured in a universe where Russian industrial design turned out slightly differently. Otherwise, it's a gun. Loaded, chambered, safety flicked off as soon as Krouse lined it up. His finger sits inside the trigger guard, not laid alongside it. He's prepared to shoot in a single split-second decision. An impulse. And there's not much happening here to suggest this is a person currently mastering their impulses.
He's pointing the gun behind the desk. Not at Tim. There's that. ]
A minute. [ Krouse says, with raw, quiet desperation. He says it to Tim, to the thing behind the desk, to the universe. ] Not even five. Give me a minute.
[ The hands above the desk are as relaxed as they were before Krouse pointed the gun. The mastermind didn't so much as flinch. Didn't so much as shift back in his chair, if there is a chair in those shadows, and a body occupying it. It's not clear that there's anything there. Which also means it's not clear if Krouse is even aiming at anything. ]
I'm not trying to get you killed. [ And that's just for Tim; undertone of that not being a hypothetical fear, but one Krouse has lived through before. He's gotten people killed. ] I just - I need to ask him something.
[ And whatever the answer is going to be, or even the question, Krouse thinks it'll be worse with a witness. Which is why he's betting on Tim getting to live through this. ]
cw: gun violence threatened
Once again, the noise of a low battery alarm going off somewhere outside the room sounds. The corner of Trickster's eyes jumps as a muscle twitches. The hidden smile behind his mask sharpens like a razor blade. ]
Nothing gets me out of this fucking room.
[ The words are delivered with numb, vehement certainty that's rubbing up against the brittle edge of a total fucking meltdown. Krouse flicks the hat in his hands again, then spins it out carelessly to the opposite side of the room than the one Tim is on. ]
It's a loop. [ He semi-explains, tone ratcheted back to semi-calm to match. He reaches for a pouch on his belt, flipping open the fastening of the flap. ] I don't get out. I go back to the cell after I fuck it up. Then I come back here. You get out when - well. It depends. But you get out. Happened every other time someone else showed up.
[ Krouse lets out a little, shaky exhale behind his mask, a breath to psych himself up. ]
That's an interesting assumption. [ The mastermind says, steepling his fingers again. ] Do you believe that's grounded in reliable observations, or is that what you're telling your new guest to ensure his compliance with whatever it is you're planning?
[ The mastermind seems unfazed by the shift in the scene. He even seems, in a cool, distant way, mildly amused. If a pitcher plant could feel anything about the insects that fell inside of it, scrabbling weakly at slick sides as they're digested, it might feel the same way.
Krouse glances at the mastermind, then back at Tim. His smile is gone. There's a hunted, pressured look behind the impassive red mask, bleeding out through the eyes. ]
No. No, I don't think you want him dead. Because this is worse for me if he isn't.
[ With that, Krouse flicks his eyes back to where something that is and isn't Coil sits hidden in the shadows behind the desk. And on the way, with fluid, practised ease, he draws and aims his gun.
It's a gun very similar to a MP-443 Grach, a Russian military and police sidearm. There are superficial cosmetic differences built into the gun itself, not aftermarket modifications, from being manufactured in a universe where Russian industrial design turned out slightly differently. Otherwise, it's a gun. Loaded, chambered, safety flicked off as soon as Krouse lined it up. His finger sits inside the trigger guard, not laid alongside it. He's prepared to shoot in a single split-second decision. An impulse. And there's not much happening here to suggest this is a person currently mastering their impulses.
He's pointing the gun behind the desk. Not at Tim. There's that. ]
A minute. [ Krouse says, with raw, quiet desperation. He says it to Tim, to the thing behind the desk, to the universe. ] Not even five. Give me a minute.
[ The hands above the desk are as relaxed as they were before Krouse pointed the gun. The mastermind didn't so much as flinch. Didn't so much as shift back in his chair, if there is a chair in those shadows, and a body occupying it. It's not clear that there's anything there. Which also means it's not clear if Krouse is even aiming at anything. ]
I'm not trying to get you killed. [ And that's just for Tim; undertone of that not being a hypothetical fear, but one Krouse has lived through before. He's gotten people killed. ] I just - I need to ask him something.
[ And whatever the answer is going to be, or even the question, Krouse thinks it'll be worse with a witness. Which is why he's betting on Tim getting to live through this. ]