I can’t fix a mistake if you’re not tellin’ me what the mistake is.
[ basilio please don’t backtalk the ominous robed figure, that’s not a great plan. he looks over at the tools and something curls unpleasantly in his stomach. that’s an immediate no, he can’t explain why but something recoils in him physically at the idea of picking up one of those tools and using them to hurt.
it’s what he needs to do, but he can’t. ”you keep making mistakes”— yeah he sure does, but the decision to leave well enough alone settles him slightly, giving him a bit of time to look at the guy tied to the chair.
he has to hurt him, he knows that. that’s what they’re asking of him. probably better to use his hands. better for him, and probably more impressive. get himself stuck in there, show how reliable he is with his own two hands, nothing else. but something pins his feet to the ground. partially, that recognition. the flutter of something that tells him not to hurt this figure.
it’s faint — real faint, but it echoes through him like a gong. he’s done messy things before, he’s sure of it. because he was told to, because he had to, because it was for the best. but this one— it doesn’t feel right.
What was it we actually wanted in the first place? Equality… or justice? ]
Your task is not to ask why, your task is to do as you're told.
[the tone brokers no argument. you can obey or you can refuse, but you will not be able to argue your way out of this. there will be consequences if you refuse, that's clear enough, but no one can force you to do this.
the figure tied to the chair begins to blink awake. you can see the shift in his expression, going from vague, groggy, confused, to horrified and furious. but he's staring not at the woman, or the implements of torture, but directly at you.]
it’s weird to see a stranger cycle through so many facial expressions, including anger and direct them right at him. he doesn’t know them. are they mad at him? or mad for him? it feels like that last one, but that doesn’t make any sense either.
and then he says ‘bas’. not basilio, but ‘bas’. that’s— ]
How’d you know my name? [ and then he’s looking over at the cloaked woman as well. ] How’d he know my name?
[ it’s concerning, watching someone that weak and drained thrash like that. like it sits wrong again, deep in his stomach just like before. like he wants to tell this stranger to settle down before he hurts himself.
maybe this is why he keeps making mistakes? but. but. ]
… [ he shakes his head, half ignoring the woman now. ] I don’t know you. Why’re you so bothered ‘bout me? Be more bothered for yourself!
[ he’s not the one tied to a chair, with two people determined (determined. yeah, determined. that’s what he is, right? he has to be…) ]
You really can't do anything right, can you, Basilio?
[basilio will feel himself freeze in place, as if by magic. he can't move. the woman takes a knife, heated hot enough to burn, and drives it into basilio's chest, to pierce not his heart but into the muscle and bone, to break the rib, and he can have a punctured lung as a treat.
basilio can hear fidelio screaming, but he can't make out any words, if there are any. the pain is too intense.]
he doesn’t get the chance to say anything in rebuttal to that— it’s kinda hard to talk around the crack of a rib and the searing pain of a punctured lung. breathing in at all to try and reply is like a lance through every part of him, and that’s not even counting the pain of the heated blade, the smell of it burning and searing flesh, hot enough to cauterise as quickly as it cuts.
of course he drops, curling into himself like an automatic, protective response, but that just hurts more. so he lets out a pained wheeze, before biting down hard on his lip to stop any more sounds coming out. ]
[despite everything, they do feel that the woman is proud of them for not yelling. it's hard to hear what's going on, but another masked individual is taking over where they left off, with the guy in the chair, who is still screaming. basilio can probably hear his name, but not what else is being said.
he's being dragged away, back through the temple, where there will be much more pain and punishment waiting for him, where he'll be hurt and then thrown into an isolated cell until he regrets not obeying.
he wakes up, gazing at a cloudy purple mirror. he doesn't remember anything. he doesn't even recall a name. only snippets of a dream where he was in danger, where that woman tried to hurt him, before he was saved. and even though he doesn't remember this place or the people, it feels familiar. it feels that he has been here for some time.
he feels as though he hasn't eaten recently, he's weak with exhaustion, and he's in pain. there are bruises and scars on his body from wounds that seem to have been healed with magic but still burn. there's also a black, circle-like wound on his chest, above his ribs.
just as before, the memories are gone, but the feelings remain behind. how was he feeling about things, as the last scene ended?]
he's felt better. he feels a lot like maybe someone broke his rib and punctured his lung but he can't really remember. it just feels like that, which is a weird thought to have really.
he feels a bit like he should've tried harder. tried to be good at something, but at the same time he feels like he might've struggled with himself, if he'd obeyed. it's a complicated feeling. wanting to do good and do right for someone you want the approval of, but feeling that sit at war with something else in you that you can't quite place. ]
[he still feels pain when he moves, and that rib doesn't feel healed, he can't breathe quite right. but more than anything, the thing that feels unhealed is that wound on his chest.
he is led back to the same room as before. the same man is still in there. the situation is a little more permanent now; he has an altar, a round, flat, stone disc, that he's been chained to with chains made with magic. the person chained is in bad shape, like he's been beaten, tortured, by people other than you. (or was it? you wouldn't remember either way). otherwise, same situation, same tools. same person in a hood and mask.
...not that basilio knows, because he doesn't remember that. he also does not know this person. there is not a flicker of recognition.]
[ he can't say he really likes being here at all, although he does stare at the altar for a moment. it feels a bit like he wants to shiver at the sight of it and the body on it, but he doesn't really know why.
he can't think much about the person though. they look like no one he knows, after all. ]
Coulda just kicked him out. Shamed him out somethin’.
[ would’ve been less messy, for one. but somehow he doesn’t seem to think that matters to the woman in the robe. he wanders over to the altar, and stares down the figure for a moment, like he’s supposed to recognise who this is. there’s just a big wave of nothing. so… it can’t matter then right?
he looks down at the tools and— a knife’s probably the neatest for this, yeah? he’s not looking to hack off an arm or a leg, but a cut or two should do it. but once he’s picked up the knife he doesn’t move. like he knows this is something he should do — has to do, even, but it sits heavy on his shoulders, makes his already laboured breathing come out heavily and deeper like it’s strained. ]
that makes it a thousand times worse actually. he cannot wrap his head around someone sounding that heartbroken he doesn’t remember him — and then not yelling? screaming for mercy? anything he’d expect from a heretic or someone trying to get out of torture. basically just telling him to get on with it and hurt them?
he can’t understand it, but it’s enough to make him lower the knife. ]
[it does feel that way, doesn't it? that somehow this complete stranger loves you in a way that none of these other people you're around are even capable of.
but as that thought occurs to you, the wound in the center of your chest flares. the main is excruciating. it feels like the pain of that knife being driven into you all over again. and as the pain of it seizes you, the person on the disc is screaming, too.
you look up and see that one of the other hooded people is burning him, using a flame to burn one of his ears off.]
like instinct, he just fucking barrels into this other figure. it's gonna hurt like absolute shite through and through, but he's moving to ram his shoulder into the figure before he can even question it. the pain's unlike anything he's felt, and it feels like he's half bitten through his lip trying to stop himself from screaming. but it doesn't stop him. ]
[maybe it does change for him, as one of the other robed figures cuts fidelio's throat. actually, that name does occur to you, for only a second, without context. del.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
holyspirits) wrote2025-02-23 02:30 pm
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I can’t fix a mistake if you’re not tellin’ me what the mistake is.
[ basilio please don’t backtalk the ominous robed figure, that’s not a great plan. he looks over at the tools and something curls unpleasantly in his stomach. that’s an immediate no, he can’t explain why but something recoils in him physically at the idea of picking up one of those tools and using them to hurt.
it’s what he needs to do, but he can’t. ”you keep making mistakes”— yeah he sure does, but the decision to leave well enough alone settles him slightly, giving him a bit of time to look at the guy tied to the chair.
he has to hurt him, he knows that. that’s what they’re asking of him. probably better to use his hands. better for him, and probably more impressive. get himself stuck in there, show how reliable he is with his own two hands, nothing else. but something pins his feet to the ground. partially, that recognition. the flutter of something that tells him not to hurt this figure.
it’s faint — real faint, but it echoes through him like a gong. he’s done messy things before, he’s sure of it. because he was told to, because he had to, because it was for the best. but this one— it doesn’t feel right.
What was it we actually wanted in the first place? Equality… or justice? ]
… Why, though? What’d he do?
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[the tone brokers no argument. you can obey or you can refuse, but you will not be able to argue your way out of this. there will be consequences if you refuse, that's clear enough, but no one can force you to do this.
the figure tied to the chair begins to blink awake. you can see the shift in his expression, going from vague, groggy, confused, to horrified and furious. but he's staring not at the woman, or the implements of torture, but directly at you.]
Bas! They got you, too?
[you don't know this person.]
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it’s weird to see a stranger cycle through so many facial expressions, including anger and direct them right at him. he doesn’t know them. are they mad at him? or mad for him? it feels like that last one, but that doesn’t make any sense either.
and then he says ‘bas’. not basilio, but ‘bas’. that’s— ]
How’d you know my name? [ and then he’s looking over at the cloaked woman as well. ] How’d he know my name?
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[it definitely seems like mad for them, especially the way he starts to struggle now, despite how weak he is, fueled by anger.]
What? Say you're kidding! You have to recognize me. Did they do something to you?
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[ it’s concerning, watching someone that weak and drained thrash like that. like it sits wrong again, deep in his stomach just like before. like he wants to tell this stranger to settle down before he hurts himself.
maybe this is why he keeps making mistakes? but. but. ]
… [ he shakes his head, half ignoring the woman now. ] I don’t know you. Why’re you so bothered ‘bout me? Be more bothered for yourself!
[ he’s not the one tied to a chair, with two people determined (determined. yeah, determined. that’s what he is, right? he has to be…) ]
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[you had better do something other than argue with this person in the next tag, bas.]
Of course I'm bothered! I'm your brother!
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dammit. ]
I’m not stallin’— but what’s he talkin’ about? He’s sayin’ I’m his brother!
[ he doesn’t have a brother, does he?? ]
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[basilio will feel himself freeze in place, as if by magic. he can't move. the woman takes a knife, heated hot enough to burn, and drives it into basilio's chest, to pierce not his heart but into the muscle and bone, to break the rib, and he can have a punctured lung as a treat.
basilio can hear fidelio screaming, but he can't make out any words, if there are any. the pain is too intense.]
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he doesn’t get the chance to say anything in rebuttal to that— it’s kinda hard to talk around the crack of a rib and the searing pain of a punctured lung. breathing in at all to try and reply is like a lance through every part of him, and that’s not even counting the pain of the heated blade, the smell of it burning and searing flesh, hot enough to cauterise as quickly as it cuts.
of course he drops, curling into himself like an automatic, protective response, but that just hurts more. so he lets out a pained wheeze, before biting down hard on his lip to stop any more sounds coming out. ]
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he's being dragged away, back through the temple, where there will be much more pain and punishment waiting for him, where he'll be hurt and then thrown into an isolated cell until he regrets not obeying.
he wakes up, gazing at a cloudy purple mirror. he doesn't remember anything. he doesn't even recall a name. only snippets of a dream where he was in danger, where that woman tried to hurt him, before he was saved. and even though he doesn't remember this place or the people, it feels familiar. it feels that he has been here for some time.
he feels as though he hasn't eaten recently, he's weak with exhaustion, and he's in pain. there are bruises and scars on his body from wounds that seem to have been healed with magic but still burn. there's also a black, circle-like wound on his chest, above his ribs.
just as before, the memories are gone, but the feelings remain behind. how was he feeling about things, as the last scene ended?]
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he's felt better. he feels a lot like maybe someone broke his rib and punctured his lung but he can't really remember. it just feels like that, which is a weird thought to have really.
he feels a bit like he should've tried harder. tried to be good at something, but at the same time he feels like he might've struggled with himself, if he'd obeyed. it's a complicated feeling. wanting to do good and do right for someone you want the approval of, but feeling that sit at war with something else in you that you can't quite place. ]
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he is led back to the same room as before. the same man is still in there. the situation is a little more permanent now; he has an altar, a round, flat, stone disc, that he's been chained to with chains made with magic. the person chained is in bad shape, like he's been beaten, tortured, by people other than you. (or was it? you wouldn't remember either way). otherwise, same situation, same tools. same person in a hood and mask.
...not that basilio knows, because he doesn't remember that. he also does not know this person. there is not a flicker of recognition.]
You'll do better this time, I know it.
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he can't think much about the person though. they look like no one he knows, after all. ]
You still didn't tell me what he did.
[ it feels important to know. ]
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[the person on the altar is still unconscious, it seems. what will he do?]
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he shakes his head. ]
Coulda just kicked him out. Shamed him out somethin’.
[ would’ve been less messy, for one. but somehow he doesn’t seem to think that matters to the woman in the robe. he wanders over to the altar, and stares down the figure for a moment, like he’s supposed to recognise who this is. there’s just a big wave of nothing. so… it can’t matter then right?
he looks down at the tools and— a knife’s probably the neatest for this, yeah? he’s not looking to hack off an arm or a leg, but a cut or two should do it. but once he’s picked up the knife he doesn’t move. like he knows this is something he should do — has to do, even, but it sits heavy on his shoulders, makes his already laboured breathing come out heavily and deeper like it’s strained. ]
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Bas?
[but that's not your name. your name is Gloomfang.]
Bas, please say you know me.
[the woman is standing behind him.]
Go ahead, Gloomfang.
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he shakes his head. it’s half like he’s trying to clear it and half an answer. ]
I don’t. Am I s’posed to…?
[ he’s still just holding this knife. ]
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[he sounds exhausted, and a little heartbroken, but it sounds like he's saying the same thing as the woman is.]
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that makes it a thousand times worse actually. he cannot wrap his head around someone sounding that heartbroken he doesn’t remember him — and then not yelling? screaming for mercy? anything he’d expect from a heretic or someone trying to get out of torture. basically just telling him to get on with it and hurt them?
he can’t understand it, but it’s enough to make him lower the knife. ]
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but as that thought occurs to you, the wound in the center of your chest flares. the main is excruciating. it feels like the pain of that knife being driven into you all over again. and as the pain of it seizes you, the person on the disc is screaming, too.
you look up and see that one of the other hooded people is burning him, using a flame to burn one of his ears off.]
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well.
like instinct, he just fucking barrels into this other figure. it's gonna hurt like absolute shite through and through, but he's moving to ram his shoulder into the figure before he can even question it. the pain's unlike anything he's felt, and it feels like he's half bitten through his lip trying to stop himself from screaming. but it doesn't stop him. ]
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This was another failure.
[the person on the table is struggling and cursing, threatening the people holding them both hostage. but you can't do anything else.]
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Del!
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