THE MOJAVE WASTELAND. SOMEWHERE BETWEEN CAESAR'S LEGION AND THE NCR, OPHELIA'S DAWN BLOOMS ETERNAL.
The sun scorches, unforgiving, yet our antagonist wears leather—brahmin hide, sun-dried and dyed by a talented hand. We hear him before we see him: the heavy boots, the clink of pearls against metal, the rattle of a ghoulified rosary striking the scabbard at his hip. He appears militant—the long coat, the beret—yet religious, a pair that seldom marry with good intention. His balaclava is pushed down over his chin so that he can chew on a pre-war cigar, and though we cant see his eyes through the goggles, we know that he is watching us. His mouth snags a smile, and a silver canine shines. He doesn't speak. Doesn't have to. We get the idea that he's a very, very bad man.
UNDER CONSTRUCTION / Subject to change
Potential trigger warnings
Abduction, imprisonment, mentions of slavery, psychological/physical torment and mild torture, physical violence, mild gore + mentions of blood, religious themes, s.exual content
WE CALL HIM
Dymic, or, formally, Dymic Ernesto Reubeo II. Also known as the "executioner". Before the cult, he had been called "dog" or "mutt".
WHERE DOES HE COME FROM
Born after the great war on an island where the language may sound Spanish to an untrained ear. A place that knew peace until a new era of colonisation and a civil war saw slavery and child soldiers. When he was old enough, he did not flee, but was taken, from the island. (a/n: he has a pre-war verse I'm working on.)
WHERE CAN WE FIND HIM
A highly secured sanctuary in the Mojave, centered around an abandoned chapel. Reinforced with metal and other debris. Sat comfortably as a high-ranking cult enforcer of Ophelia's Dawn, ruled by a half-woman, half-ghoul named Ophelia. In his leisure time, he drinks and gambles on the New Vegas strip. He can also be hired as a mercenary if the price is right.
WHAT ARE THE CULT'S BELIEFS
Turning into a ghoul is a privilege. Drinking Ophelia's blood decreases chances of going feral. No cannibalism. All religious artefacts must be ghoulified (defaced). Living in opulence is a must. Heads should be shaven. Intercourse is only for reproduction, and members who may reproduce are selected by Ophelia. Low-ranking members of the cult do not venture beyond their encampment as it is 'full of terrors'. His devotion is unwavering, but his belief is private.
WHAT DOES HE LOOK LIKE /board
Early forties. Shaved head (aside from an unruly mohawk in a stripe down center skull). Ceremonial bandage across his forehead. Murky brown eyes that glint gold in the right light with a red stripe of paint across them. A small but stately mustache. Tanned with scars and burn marks littered here-and-there. Broad chest, strong, robust thighs and biceps. Not chiseled, but solid. 5'9"--6'1" in his boots. A few notable freckles: beneath his right eye, column of his throat, center of left pec, the in-between of his index finger and right thumb. Pierced nipples. Often in a military-style beret, goggles, and a half-face balaclava, and leather, straps and buckles. Wielding a ranger sequoia revolver and battered sabre.
*Words spoken in his mother tongue will be in bold lettering and single quotations (I think/for now). Some of these will have odd translations. For example, "You want your head...'boom'...over the wall, ha? 'Dogs dinner'?"
he was bred to serve
like any good dog
but never mastered how to behave
a trainer would call him food motivated
but the food was not easy to digest
or even chew on
if it smelled like blood
he thought that was fun
and he could share that appetite with someone
who told him exactly when it was time to eat
attention was a currency she had a wealth of. caps or dollars, mccarthy knew the eyes on her translated to some measure of access. if just some illusion of power. envy swirled with a genuine fear in some eyes, unfamiliar intrigue in others. a night in her glow was expensive & it kept her on the floor: the shining beacon of the dangerously unattainable. mccarthy found the feeling blurred with all other memories before the bomb.
but new anticipation buzzed along the nape of her neck just with him close. even without the odd glance from one of the higher omertàs. they were out of sight & out of mind in the vip section, away from the rush hour crowd. "one involves a little more talkin' than the other." but she'd always find a lucrative business in pleasure, in the aesthetics of desire.
mccarthy looked him over & met his eyes with the request away from prying eyes or pretenses. an eyebrow raises at the boldness but it betrays her fondness at the core. she avoided the feeling of missing anyone for being too close to remorse. but something stirred in her body to the point of her needing to look away with a light scoff. "just for you. careful ... i might assume you got a little jealous down there."
her steps towards the pole are light despite the sturdy heel grounding her to the stage. gripping the metal, she swings her body to anchor her leg & lift her higher in the spiral towards the peak. always reaching to the stars. her aura flickers brighter than the overhead lighting to show off the warmth of her skin tone. the saxophones hit a blue note as mccarthy curves her body around the pole, gaining speed with every turn.
the usual helix spin transforms into a new performance: she swings her legs over her head & hooks her knee as an anchor to invert her body. a graceful extension of her leg dramatically reveals a perfect split. upside down, the world moves slower for a full showcase of taut muscle, poise in motion. her body, her worries, they all go weightless in her orbit.
Careful—that word caught a loose thread in the tightly spun spool of his careful and calculated mind. There was a huff of air out of his nose then, like a bull might. Through the leather of his glove, his hand still buzzed with the echo of her grasp. It was a foreign thing: he remained held by it as she moved towards the stage.
Sure enough, her orbit had lured him all the way across the desert.
With every slow bend of her body, communication devoid of words, he did not feel any less patronised by her. He had seen snakes dance in tall grass and angels in his periphery but nothing quite like this. In this light, her glow left trails he’d only ever seen after drinking that venom-tinged moonshine off the isle of his homeland.
Away from prying eyes, he did not feel any less watched. The invited comfort of the cushion beneath him failed to soothe. Front and center, he bore witness to the grand parting of her legs—a sun splitting across a brilliant horizon, observed in a quick glance, before he afforded his attention elsewhere. He chose business. Everything in between was only a necessary complication.
He felt for the front of his leathers, the zipper at his clavicle chugged down in a mechanical pull. Fingers plucked the pearled chain of his ghoulified rosary from the shallow divot of skin. The medallion burned with a cold kind of heat, despite his perspiration.
"You are the one who should be careful. I think you know that."
His thumb roved over the figure that was once the beloved Mary, her ridges traced in an act of devotion. Of loyalty. His private reparations—as if he had to make them.
Robert does not smile, when the other does though is when he moves to click the collar shut around the others neck. It seems to lock in place nicely, fit the other snugly. Robert stands up tall and proud of the other now. Much easier to keep track of, and punish if he needs to.
“What did you think would happen?” Robert asked the other curiously.
“Did you think I would be merciful? Or were you hoping for a result like this?”
“Look at you now…” House tuts and shakes his head a bit. “How disappointing..”
“To go from a war dog to a chained up hound must be devastating…Would be even worse if I pulled those pretty canines from your mouth too hmm? Make you look as stupid as I see you to be.”
Robert would eventually calm down, but for now, he was pissed off and was getting joy out of the torture of his new pet.
Confronted by House's intimidation tactics—the thinly veiled threats and name-calling—our mercenary did not waver. He seldom did in the face of danger. Though his words, and their smug delivery, only further fueled the fiery pit of anger in his stomach that he was trained to quell.
He swallowed to keep an equally venomous retort down, Adam's apple tightly bobbing beneath his new collar.
Pulling out his teeth was certainly one way to do it. Within the complex inner workings of his mind, he began concocting how to spin the outcome more favourably.
"Ah, you see...I gave you a gift no one else could," he said, feeding into the billionaire's agitation with another pretty smile. "I have seen your cam-er-as." His accent bled into the last word.
Dark eyes raked down the man's clean-pressed figure, lingering mid-waist before meeting his gaze again. The pause he offered was palpable.
"You probably played them back and got off watching what I did to you."
He was just fucking with him now—antagonising the old man and wholeheartedly pushing his luck. It was even a bit sadistic.
@overmdb asked for nothing and gets something small anyways
Roberts jaw was still phantomly sore from the tasks he had been made to do. Though with the email he received and a formal apology. He feels a bit better. Still. He wasn't satisfied until his new pet arrived for him.
When the other was brought to him Robert looks unamused and almost uninterested in the other at all. Walking around him and then stopping a bit before pulling out a collar and wiggling It in front of the other. "Be a good boy. And let me put this on you" he smirks "Don't make me get the muzzle..." Robert warns.
The mercenary watched the tailored man circle him as if he were prey, and, for a moment, felt that same sort of powerlessness his counterpart may have felt during their prior engagement.
To do as he was told should have been a simple enough requirement the first time. Now, his fate teetered on an even steeper precipice: if he didn't obey, his boss would kill him herself. A lovely turn of events for our mercenary! No matter which way it was painted, his certain and inevitable death was on the horizon.
He was sardonic about the whole affair.
His hands tightened behind his back and he lifted his chin ostentatiously, lengthening his neck for the businessman—as if offering himself like the pet he was made to feel like. The tip of his tongue touched his sharp canine, mouth a performative smile of vague curiosity.
"Then do it."
like a bull in a china shop. entertainment was still such a delicate business, the dance between convention & taboo was an easy waltz in news vegas. mccarthy embraced the familiar steps of the old world in the club: down to all the tailored suits, seams threatening to unravel with age.
his uniform cut into the sea of pinstripes — the abrupt scratch of a record in the building. interrupting the air of pretense with all the stoicism of conviction. it broke through the hazy feel of mindless enjoyment in gomorrah & made her aware of the breeze flowing along her bikini line.
fear wasn't the thing making her hair stand at attention. probably should've been. denial had her so certain the church could just forget about her hitching a ride with the traveling merchant. "you never seemed like the type for all this." naivete kept her from thinking the grapevine of rumor wouldn't grow outside the city line & wind itself around the enforcer's ears. the same way her legs draped over his lap.
"but there's big business in blasphemy." another retort faded upon the gentle brush of contact before he opened the bottle for her. taking a drink gave her a moment to her thoughts. nothing was distracting her from the movement of his lips, before he mentioned payment. few bounty hunters pay to kill someone. still, an eyebrow raised at his remark. "must've been some good sundays."
no conversation worth having in the mojave was a public one. so her heels hit the ground with a soft clack. thirsty stares from the other patrons felt like an intrusion now. the walls had eyes & ears. mccarthy grinned down at the enforcer, her mind reflecting to their last haircut. "let's go, d," said as she took the hand that opened her bottle.
an omerta guard nodded them towards the brimstone rooms, as if he'd be able to do anything about it. the door closed to relative silence against the bar & casino lobby. it allowed her to hear her own heartbeat now, standing next to the bottle service table. "you here for business or pleasure?" eyeing him from a distance made it harder to decide which she wanted to expect.
She didn't change. Still that same smile she would dole out in the face of potential danger, the quips she easily fit into negative space. The familiarity of it almost made him click his tongue—sardonic, but with a private delight and an even more private fondness.
He maintained his resolve as the dancer led him through the smoke of the casino, focused not on her hips and their little clothing, but through the crowd to memorize his outs: which door led where, the faces of guards who would not test their luck, and, minutely, the establishment's somewhat tasteful design. From the glares that reflected back, it was obvious that he was making off with what seemed to be one of the Gomorrah's prized possessions. This alone would make his offering to their Leader all the more valuable.
Through the doors, the accompanying jazz of the loudspeaker was less of an afterthought and more part of any and all conversation. The temperature was cooler with less bodies and with less overhead light, the space was dingier. It was more suitable for talking business, if that's what one came to do, or further succumbing to pleasure. The line between the two wasn't much of a line at all in his line of work.
The question made him think.
"Are they not…ah, synonymous?"
He leaned his hip against the counter, booted ankle crossed easily over the other. He fished a flask of something out of his pocket and took a swig of it, letting a sigh surface when it entered his system. If she used a drink as a crutch, he would too.
"I want you to do that again," a gesture of his chin toward the doors they came from. He screwed the cap back onto his flask.
"Just for me."
give it up for gomorrah's glowing star! mccarthy's reputation before the bombs was nothing compared to her rumor mill in the mojave. the mysterious east - coast ghoul arrived blood-stained & shrouded in a stolen robe. no care for questions surrounding a face much like hers, adorning a side wall near ultra-luxe. the showgirl ensemble glittered against her skin with the house lights & her own ambient glow. her body spun around the metal pole like a vine curving, making a space its own.
the mojave's mirrorball descended slowly to everyone's delight. caps clattered in praise, hoots & hollers filled the space as she landed into a split. it took that long to recognize the eyes staring at her through dark curls. fuck. mccarthy's consequences held her gaze as she lifted onto her feet again. for a moment, she lost the concentration to stay graceful. the next introduction boomed against high ceilings & fell on deaf ears. even the envy of other patrons went over her head when she sat on his lap.
"outta all the gin joints in the world," said while taking the unopened nuka cola on the table. to hold it would hide her hand shaking from unease. "you're still pretty."
Among the quarry of patrons in the Gomorrah who thought to hide their sin beneath a suit and, for some, a stupid little hat, our Dymic stood out in militant gear—the garb he wore when hunting something or someone, and how grand he looked when he did it. Leather pants. A beret. Red paint once ceremoniously streaked over his nose bridge now smudged from the day's exertion, from the goggles. They were off, of course, when he watched the ghoul descent from the pole.
He could kill everyone in this joint.
Conversely, he could get her alone.
It was difficult for him to discern which thought was more exciting—until she sparkled towards him like a gift.
The guest pulled his half balaclava down his chin, revealing that five o'clock shadow and a mustache grown full. A small, private smile hid beneath it. Having her in his lap was the last thing he expected, and his thighs tightened under the regrettably welcome weight of her. One right angle of her knee and she would feel that he was armed, well concealed.
"...Blasphemous, ha?"
His fingers grazed hers, intimate in how he helped her handle the Nuka Cola bottle. The traction of his glove made for an easy twist-off. The resulting bottle cap made for an easy distraction. He turned it over forefinger and thumb, the performative act throwing the focus of unwanted eyes and distracting from the movement of his lips. It would also keep him from looking at her costume and all the glowing skin between it.
"Why don't we get away from these ugly fuck-ers? I have paid. Handsomely."
He couldn't be seen on the Gomorrah floor for too long. After all, he had a reputation of his own to uphold.
the enforcer really was pretty. mccarthy could appreciate it more as locks of hair fell into a delicate, expanded ring. the subtle shine of his piercings & softer details that responded to her audible train of thought. she took a small comfort in that bit of tension in his jaw at the suggestion of her being killed.
so the ghoul lives to die another day. she rolled her eyes but drew the knife back slightly as he leaned into the blade. mccarthy had the habit of spritzing her wrists with perfume before: a ritual of her own alone with importance in equal measure. the chemical sweetness of radior, sweat, & aromatic flowers. wasteland beauty was hard fought.
the tickle of his breath against her skin electrified her senses. it reminded her of lace & satin's softness, the unnerving undivided attention of religious devotion. mccarthy forced her body to push out an exhale. focus? peripheral glances caught the signs of chill on the elders. mccarthy couldn't remember the last time she actually felt the nuclear winter.
"young?" for a few moments, that was all she repeated. mccarthy took his chin in her radiation burned hands & kept his head steady. she leaned in under the guise of a closer cut on the nape of his neck. her lips brushed over his earlobe as she whispered, "don't do that if you want me to focus," breathing on her? giving absentminded compliments?
mccarthy pulled back & kept her attention on a close shave in dim lighting, rather than his scent in the chapel. her glow provided enough light for tiny shadows to cast on his skin from the stubble. satisfied with the underside of his chin, she tilted his head to the right & facing her again. "what do i call you, pretty boy?"
The Enforcer liked games. This one, in particular, was restraint, and he was not playing alone.
Restraint was denying his primary duty of taking. It was his stillness when she came that close, him not burying his nose in her hair and inhaling her into intoxication then and there. He was musk—leather, something peppery and incensal beneath the cloying copper of blood. She was floral and chemical—distinctly her own, with the salt of the day still on her skin. It was just how he liked women to smell.
Her devotion would not go unnoticed.
And so he'd put his tail between his legs like they liked him to during ritual, the elders and their distant ears that might yet still hear. He let himself be guided by her hand, turned his head where she needed him to. With the weight of expectation, the man of few words and many names would humour her tonight:
"…Executioner"
He made an effort to pronounce the next title well, clearly:
"Im-paler."
A beat for a rare adjustment in his posture. His eyes lowered beneath their dark line of lashes and he rolled his shoulders back, slowly, almost as if inviting her to look. Muscles shifted tautly beneath warm skin before settling within their broadness. With the movement, his bandages pulled and buckled. Blood bloomed beneath their dressings and stained through the white.
"Dog."
Behind his back, he released the leather-gloved grasp of his hands once noble in their unity.
"…But for you, princesa,"
He took hold of her hand then, firm but not sudden, and directed the blade back to where she'd dodged earlier, flush against the sun-kissed skin of his jugular. Indulgence was a welcome beast, and it was how he swallowed thick so she could feel the bob of his throat—how that little beauty mark dead center jumped—and how she would feel the hum of his vocal cords through the blade when he spoke:
"Anything you want."
He allowed a smile then, for his silver canine to shine. Below, at the site of his injury, a rivulet of blood trickled down his navel and pooled somewhere beneath his belt buckle.
desperate times called for a little flexibility. mccarthy kept that sentiment in the back of her mind throughout the entire day, devoted to her initiation. even for all her aversion to religion, the chapel appeared as an oasis after provo. her stomach turned with weeks of hunger worsened by her time with the children of atom. their fanaticism tasted bitter, but mccarthy prayed for it over starving.
they were the first group in the mojave not to raise a gun at the sight of her. a knot formed in her gut at the realization what she was walking into. but mccarthy would've agreed to anything to curb her hunger. their rule against unsavory consumption was a comfort & her underlying disappointment was blamed on such desperate times.
her brows furrowed in confusion at the knife, her heart began to sound an alarm in her eardrums. the rite of unburdening. mccarthy willed her face to remain still but her shoulders dropped in relief. she watched moonlight refract off the man's adornments & tried to imagine where each of the scars had come from.
the mask of indifference slipped enough to betray a smile at the compliment. "you too. hold still," mumbled as she held his hair taught with her free hand. mccarthy met his gaze with a glance before carefully taking the knife towards the first section & focusing on her work.
her voice barely rattled above a purr, in case the ritual was one of quiet contemplation. "i ain't been in a church in the last hundred years. surprised somethin' ain't catch fire. this is ... a dangerous thing to trust me with. anybody, really."
chunks of hair began to float away obediently nonetheless. the rite was a welcome distraction from how hungry she was & her glow reflected in the knife's blade. she brushed away hair from his shoulder & the rest fell to the chapel floor. "you'd tell me if y'all were gonna kill me, right? i've been glowin' for a while & nothin's happened yet."
as if she was in danger of them changing their mind. mccarthy resolved at least to consider the possibility of them behaving like any other wastelander. but why give her a knife? she picked another section of hair & tried to shrug off the ghosts watching her handiwork. "how long you been gettin' your hair cut like this?"
He watched relief drop from her shoulders. It softened her mouth into a smile and incited what would become a one-sided conversation.
The enforcer held still, as he was told, settling into the familiar rhythm of ritual. Behind his back, a gloved hand encircled a similarly gloved wrist. Just like that, he was rid of his inky curls: piece by piece, swept by a careful hand to join the blood-red sea of carpet beneath them. His eyes, honeyed-brown and gilt in the candlelight, held the new recruit all the while.
In the still of the night, and a decibel above the quiet of it, he let her rattle off her thoughts. Perhaps it had been a while since anyone heard them. Despite her leveled demeanor, fear leaked into her words like a faulty spout.
At the mention of killing her, his eyes narrowed a fraction.
"They won't," he said.
He carefully turned his jaw toward her blade-wielding hand, inviting that danger she spoke of.
"I might."
His gaze faltered for a moment, tracing the halo of glow around her. With deliberate slowness, he drew in a steady breath to inhale the faint scent of her inner wrist.
A cold Mojave chill crept through the chapel, a howl of wind lapped beneath the arched door. One of the elders drew their robes in tighter. The enforcer ran hot—his skin retained desert heat long after sundown.
Sight returning to hers, his mouth parted with quiet reprove:
"Focus, young lady."
He lifted his chin then, sharing the warm column of his throat. A shadow of stubble told of five o'clock somewhere. The beat of his pulse thrummed steady and slow.
"My neck."
She couldn't forget the neck.
"Please kneel," the low, low voice of Ophelia invited from behind him, gravely, yet soft—like butter on sandpaper. The enforcer lowered to his knees, as instructed, in front of their newly anointed member. This one happened to glow. Considerable time had passed since their last recruit, and his hair had grown curly and untamed in his wait.
There, before the throne, before the cracked water basin and small, ceremonial blade, came the final command:
"The rite of unburdening may commence. Let the blade take his hair."
She made her departure then—the Ghoul Mother and all of her black robes. The material, inky in its absence of light, moved like liquid shadow over the well-worn red rug that aisled the pews. Parallel to the doors stood the Elders, who acknowledged her passing with a deep bow of their heads. They remained wordless within their sanctum, still in their observation and duty. Outside, the quiet buzz of desert creatures bloomed. Moonlight spilled through the cracks in the chapel's foundation.
The silence left behind was palpable in its weight, as if filled by the eyes of many ghosts. It had been a long day of ritual. Surely their new recruit had been hungry by now. At the very least, restless.
The enforcer followed his practice: button by button, he removed his coat. He was a man of many medallions—golden relics that caught the flicker of candlelight and rattled with his movement. The heavy garment fell from his shoulders and pooled over his legs, revealing skin the same gold in complexion, marred with scars beyond count. Leather belts of ammunition strapped across his broad chest, a bandaged wound soon in need of changing. Two studs of jewelry shined.
He looked up at the woman, heavy-eyed with a trace of scrutiny, as if he were devouring her from the inside-out. I know what you are, said his eyes, yet it did not reach his mouth.
What he did say was loud enough to reach her ears only. @missghou1
The way he was on his knees, in front of the mercenary the whole situation felt oddly sexual. Really not something Robert was expecting. Though he must admit, it's a better tactic than just beating him up. He's apparently more likely to respond at knifepoint. Least that's what he's allowing the other to believe.
"if your going to fuck me, do get on with it"
As if it couldn't get more degrading he feels the others leather clad hand open his mouth even wider. Making a groan come from his mouth unwillingly. He wants to bite the other, but Robert was no fighter. That's why he had his automatons and securitrons for him. If he really wanted the protection, he'd of pressed a button awhile ago. And two automotons would come to aid him. But. Here he is. On his knees. And now presenting his tongue to the other like a wanton cheap whore.
His gaze sharpened, leather hand sliding from chin to throat and wrapping around it with ease. He squatted to meet the man at eye-level, combat boots finding even footing on granite floor. Closer now, imposing, he tilts his head as if to regard his 'gift' with careful consideration.
His voice did not raise above a whisper:
"I should take this out."
He slapped the blade against the man's tongue—once, twice for good measure—not enough to pierce the muscle, but enough for saliva to pool around cold steel.
In other circumstances, that comment would have warranted a backhand. He was no animal. However, our mercenary was not interested in incentivising whatever advanced defensive technology Robert House had waiting in reserve.
The knife held its position with precision: hostage in his mouth.
"Now," he started, shifting his weight, "you're not going to tell anyone about our business today, ha?"
He didn't invite an immediate answer, grasp instead tightening around the man's neck and urging his next move. That same mechanical buzz from earlier rang up his sleeve.
Call it curiosity, he doubt he would die on this day, the math just didn't add up. Thus the reason why House even bothered playing along. And the fact that the other was smart enough to see past the body double nobody else seemed to. What would the other gain by whatever he was about to do?
A soft grunt as his legs are forced wider apart, white slacks bunching a bit, older knees don't feel too good on the granite tiled floors but. He's been in worse positions. House was all prim, proper, every hair in place. Not looking afraid, but was complying to the others demands. Well, until he was told to open his mouth.
A soft huff, shocked by the lack of tact. But House presses his tongue to his cheek for a moment, his dark eyes were growing a bit more annoyed by the minilseconds that passed. However, having recently learned that he did not enjoy getting hit in the face. And condsidering that was the most prominant target. Robert House slowly opens his mouth for the other.
Not afraid, but certainly worried what was about to be inserted into it. Could be a horse bit. Or a gag. Could be a cock, could be a sucker, Or some sort of tracking device he'd be forced to swallow it realistically could be a lot of things.
If that petulant scoff wasn't enough to cause a shift in the mercenary's otherwise steely demeanor, the billionaire's compliance may have been. Their gaze remained locked, and when the man's mouth opened, almost-admiration glittered in the dark of his eyes. This amused him, and an amused mercenary was seldom a good thing.
"That's it," he crooned lowly, approval rattling in his chest.
The hand that wasn't tethering knife to skin rose, leather glove creaking as his thumb anchored the man's chin down to widen the opening he'd been granted. In doing so, he would step into Robert House's shoes for the evening: he would assume the role of the perfectionist and adjust the man as he saw fit, as if he were nothing more than a device to fine-tune. But he wasn't done with him quite yet.
"Your tongue," he began.
There was a beat as if to search for the right words. A soft, mechanical whirr sounded from up his left sleeve and punctuated his query in close proximity to House's ear. Our mercenary ignored it, pressing the blade tighter into the pinkening underflesh of the man's jaw.
"Show it to me."
