Fic: Justice (Mature)
Jun. 7th, 2020 11:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
deelaundryTitle: Justice
Author: Dee Laundry
Fandoms: House MD
Relationships: Greg House & James Wilson
Characters: James Wilson, Greg House, Original Character(s)
Rating: R / Mature
Summary: Brielle is even fucking worse than House said it was.
Tags: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Vampires, Alternate Universe - Space, Tension, Slavery, Mentions of Violence, Mentions of Murder, Justice, Vigilantism, Swearing, Racist Language, Dreams and Nightmares, Maybe, Hatred, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Needles
Beginning Notes: In 2008, a group of fic writers began a large-scale AU to the show House MD that might be enthusiastically described as “Vampires in Space!” This was titled Distress Call, and is available here. In the process of building the universe of the fic, the writers came up with an AU to their AU, and then I came up with an AU to that AU, which is presented here. You absolutely should read Distress Call, because it’s very good, but you don’t have to read it to read this fic. Huge thanks to the Distress Call writers, Blackmare, Perspi, Corgigirl, and our much-missed co-writer and friend, Nightdog.
Chapter 1
Wilson hates it here. Brielle is even fucking worse than House said it was. In the rest of the civilized universe (though it irks him to call Brielle civilized), haemovores and regular people co-exist. They don’t mix generally, living on separate planets, but…
Alright, he’s romanticizing; he can admit it. Most regular people don’t even know haemovores exist, thinking that “vampires” are mythical, supernatural creatures instead of the subspecies of homo sapiens they actually are.
And, as House reminds Wilson from time to time, he needs to stop saying “regular people.” The term for people who don’t need to consume blood to live is “vulgaris.” To House and his fellow haemovores, they are the regular people, and vulgaris are, overall, churls: fearful, superstitious, and prone to violence.
“Not that I think of you that way,” says House. “You’re one of the good ones. Honorary haemovore, almost.”
House is a dick.
But he’s a dick who’s also funny, loyal, bright, and interesting… and the first person to think Wilson can be all those things, too. Which is why, when the communication came in about House’s father having died on Brielle, Wilson insisted they come here so House could attend the mourning rituals. Even though House protested that “mourning” was the polar opposite of his reaction to his father’s death, Wilson wanted his best friend to have the comfort of community at this sad time.
Big mistake. Huge.
Now they’re stuck on this execrable planet until House can get the legal docs ironed out.
“Shouldn’t’ve knocked me out,” said House as they landed. “I would have told you that not only is this not where my family lives, it’s a vicious shitpot of a planet where people all take blood from vulgaris on purpose. But too fucking late now; you’d better get used to acting my slave pretty fucking fast.”
House stomped out of the ship after a growled, “Stay the fuck here,” and returned two hours later with a bulging shop tote. “Put that on and practice keeping your pie-hole shut.”
Wilson caught the tote as it was thrown at his head and drew out the ugliest suchka mustard-colored jumpsuit he’d ever seen. “Really?”
“Put it on, or every passing bell-end will think your veins are fair game. I’d say it doesn’t matter to me, but it really fucking does, so just do it. And remember the jumpsuit will ward off physical attack but does nothing for verbal. You’ll get called cloon, monkey, bitch; ignore it all. I’ll be referring to you as a gary, the least offensive of the slurs for vulgaris that I can get away with.”
The jumpsuit covered Wilson from ankle to fingertip to chin, with metal plates on his throat, biceps, wrists, inner elbows, thighs, and back of his calves, down to his achilles tendons. Each plate was stamped with House's full name. It was fucking uncomfortable.
“Is this really necessary?” Wilson asked House.
“Would I make you wear it if it wasn’t?” House replied. “Actually, I probably would because you look hella stupid, but in this particular case it is one hundred percent necessary. As fresh meat? You’d be taken down before we got off the ship-pad. Now, go get our stuff; we have to report to Customs within the next hour so I can register you with the pompinaras.”
“We’re not staying on the ship?”
“Nope, not allowed. Let’s go.”
Now they’re stuck here, House in his hotel room, Wilson in the attached pen. It’s not bad, as pens go. Wilson’s seen much worse in his treks with House around this town. Much, much worse. Worst of all is the compound of the fustilarian Dice Harper. He has a dozen vulgaris trapped as household slaves and prey, and seems to take particular glee in attacking them unaware. And it’s not just his own slaves he goes after. The “anyone might jump you” House talked about? Anyone might, but Harper will. He also has no compunction about the amount of blood he takes; the count of those he’s killed may be as high as a hundred, according to the vulgaris Wilson has talked to.
Nor does he limit his cruelty to vulgaris. It turns out Harper is the one who ruined House’s right thigh beyond repairing with an electron pistol in an “accident” that was no more than outsized revenge for a petty slight. Prick.
Wilson hates it here, and they’re stuck until House can get the legal docs ironed out, but House just got a temporary disability permit that allows his “service gary” to go on errands alone. Maybe there’s something useful Wilson can do here after all.
“House,” Wilson asks, “what would you think about me helping out at the first-aid stand that Charlie Ensign and his vulgaris set up?”
House says, “The Clinic for vulgaris? You could do that if you’re really set on being an idiot, because that is the shittiest job and the chief for the sector it’s in is Dice Harper. The bastard who fucking shot me, remember?”
“Huh,” says Wilson. “Is that so?”
Chapter 2
The cloons gathered around him look mad -- in both senses of the word -- but Harp doesn't let it bother him. He's had this dream before.
Side effect of having to handle the dumb beasts so much, to be visited in the night-time with visions of them devolving into their savage form. A lesser man might call these visions nightmares, but Harp is not and never has been a lesser man. He will handle whatever form this dream takes with equanimity, and in the morning he will bring down the first cloon he sees, swiftly and brutally.
The crowd of garies shifts, the straw-forks clutched in their hands clang against each other, and two new cloons push forward to stand at the foot of Harp's bed. Figures. Out from the mob of mute monkeys, of course it'd be two jabbering cloons that his mind would conjure up. House's pet is on the right with an ice pick in one hand and an electron pistol in the other. On the left is the violet-eyed, gray-haired desdemona Charlie Ensign keeps. He told Charlie to mute her, but Charlie insisted her warbling was too precious to be done away with.
As Harp looks at her -- typical dream; he can't move any part of himself but his eyes -- she raises the object in her hand. He expects it to come down on his ankle and then for the rest of the cloons to jump him, as it generally goes, but instead she strikes the foot of his bed. The object makes a sharp rap as it hits and the crowd of cloons goes still. A small wooden hammer, interesting. He hadn't realized Charlie had any interest in woodworking.
"Section Warder Dice DeWitt Harper," the desdemona says in passable Briellan, before switching over to the guttural grunting that passes for language among the savages, "you have been tried in absentia for multiple counts of crimes against the Credo of the Confederation of Independent Planets, as well as against the laws of the individual planets making up the Confederation and of other inhabited territories. These crimes include multiple counts of murder, attempted murder, torture, aggravated assault, aggravated sexual assault, enslavement, false imprisonment, forced sterilization, mutilation, outrages upon personal dignity, intentional withholding of medical treatment, uncompensated labor, larceny, robbery, extortion, perverting the course of justice, and attempt to incite treason."
Well. That's interesting. Monkeys dressing themselves up in the miters of civilized justice. It's almost cute in its absurdity.
The desdemona continues, "Although we joint and severally believe in the Credo's right of the accused to face his accuser, under special circumstances such right can be abrogated. The egregious nature of your crimes and the likelihood of retribution even within the course of the trial made for a compelling case for your trial to be held in absentia."
Such fancy words. Harp would smile, if he could. When he wakes up in the morning, he'll advise Charlie to have this one lobotomized. They don't need the prefrontal cortex to be able to sing.
"Interested in the verdict?" asks House's pet, mirth dancing in the thing's russet eyes. He quite obviously knows Harper can't answer. It's boring how predictable this dream is.
"Section Warder Dice DeWitt Harper," the other jabbering monkey intones, "in light of the overwhelming evidence presented against you, including but not limited to, corroborated eyewitness accounts, you have been convicted of the crimes with which you were charged. These judgments were rendered unanimously by the panel you see before you."
She nods, House's monkey fellow nods, and so do three more cloons. None who nod are from Harp's stock, although he sees all of those creatures lurking amongst the mob around his bed. It will be fun to watch their expressions of terror tomorrow, when they are made to pay for what has happened tonight. Stupid savages.
"On the question of sentencing --" Cells and corpuscles, she's a mouthy one. "The panel had to spend more time in deliberation. The standard methods of sentencing called for in the Credo, namely reformative therapy, restorative conferencing, and correctional detention, are not possible given the current circumstances, and thus we were forced to be more creative." Her little lips twitch. Harp doesn't see what's so damned amusing.
"In the end it was determined that the most appropriate sentence, given that the motivation behind your offenses was to secure human blood, is restitution to victims by giving your own blood. Although there are some among us who prefer the ancient tenet of 'an eye for an eye' --" A few expressions harden, but the gray-haired cloon and Harp both ignore them. "We did concur that one of the noblest and greatest qualities of humankind is mercy. Agreement was therefore reached that each count in the conviction would require retribution at a one-to-one hundred scale, extracted simply and humanely through syringe."
House's pet puts down the ice pick and reaches behind himself, pulling out the mentioned syringe. It's a needle contraption, but small bore. Even if they jab it into muscle, it won't hurt that much. Dull as dishwater, this dream is.
"One to one hundred for blood taken or shed," the pet says. "That's two milliliters for each biting assault and fifty milliliters for each murder. All other convictions at two milliliters each." He smiles. "We drew straws for who gets to go first."
A little dusky one from the sickbay, who's always reminded Harp of a Tibodeau grass-rat, hands his straw-fork to the tall cloon next to him. He looks at Harp with eyes filled with tears and takes the syringe from the pet. "For the first count of aggravated assault, committed against me ten days ago, I take two milliliters." The needle jab stings, but as expected, it doesn't hurt much. Less than ten seconds later, the dusky one is extracting the needle, and House's pet is pressing a square of cloth against the tiny cut.
It's nothing at all. The last dream had sucker nettles and scalding. This vision is a waste of his brain.
"For the second count of aggravated assault," says another cloon, "committed against my dear departed Roquelaire, I take two milliliters." Another momentary prick, another pressing of the cloth.
They do it over and over, each taking a turn, and the talkies speaking when a mute monkey holds the syringe... and it's horribly, horribly boring. Interminable. Worse than the dreams of endless exams he had back in school. Even when they do the first fifty-milliliter -- "murder of the unnamed teenager who looked like my son" -- the syringe pull lasts longer, but it's not any more interesting.
He is starting to feel slightly light-headed, but he assumes it's just ennui. Until the desdemona leans close to his face, her eyes freakishly unnatural in their sheen, and asks, "How are you at mathematics, Mr. Harper?"
He blinks, and she laughs. "Any good at arithmetic at all? We stopped prosecuting after the 748th count. Can you figure out why?"
Jabbering monkeys give him such headaches. Never mind how much Charlie likes this one's singing; she's got to be muted. Maybe an "accident" some time with a pain collar -- bruise her throat enough, and surgery will be the only option to save her worthless life. She'll either end up dead or muted, and either will suit Harp just fine.
"Wilson and I arm-wrestled to see who would get to administer punishment for Count 748. He lost." She looks toward the pet, who doesn't look one bit fazed by his defeat. In fact, he's grinning. They've got similar cheekbone structure, the pet and the desdemona. Harp never noticed before, but why would he? He's got no interest in animal husbandry.
Pet steadies a mute cloon who has stumbled handing back the syringe, and then turns back to Harp. "Twinlee graciously gave me a compensation for my loss, though," he says, and Harp has never wanted anything more in his life than for this stupid, ridiculous waste of his time to be over.
"We agreed," the monkey continues, "that the trial only covered crimes against our own kind, so any offense of yours against haemovores could be addressed separately."
Offense against...? His mind seems to be fading a little. The dream must be ending; he must be falling into deeper sleep; except that's not what it feels like; and now another cloon is filling another fifty milliliter syringe. There've been several of those in a row; in total about a dozen so far of the big ones, and he's lost count of the small ones, and what was the desdemona saying about arithmetic? His head's spinning and he hated Calculation class in wee school and there's another fifty milliliter and they must have taken a liter by now and if they take seven-hundred-and-whatever syringes-ful he's going to end up completely...
Completely...
Exsanguinated.
He can feel his eyes go wide, and the desdemona grins, so happy, and the cloon crowd grins grotesquely, and the pet only smiles the small stern smile of Harp's father and raises the electron pistol he's been holding all along.
"This is for House," he says and shoots the thing point-blank into Harp's thigh.
End Notes: Posted for Banned Together Bingo 2020. Prompts were "Swearing” and "Incites Racial Strife."
Author: Dee Laundry
Fandoms: House MD
Relationships: Greg House & James Wilson
Characters: James Wilson, Greg House, Original Character(s)
Rating: R / Mature
Summary: Brielle is even fucking worse than House said it was.
Tags: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Vampires, Alternate Universe - Space, Tension, Slavery, Mentions of Violence, Mentions of Murder, Justice, Vigilantism, Swearing, Racist Language, Dreams and Nightmares, Maybe, Hatred, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Needles
Beginning Notes: In 2008, a group of fic writers began a large-scale AU to the show House MD that might be enthusiastically described as “Vampires in Space!” This was titled Distress Call, and is available here. In the process of building the universe of the fic, the writers came up with an AU to their AU, and then I came up with an AU to that AU, which is presented here. You absolutely should read Distress Call, because it’s very good, but you don’t have to read it to read this fic. Huge thanks to the Distress Call writers, Blackmare, Perspi, Corgigirl, and our much-missed co-writer and friend, Nightdog.
Chapter 1
Wilson hates it here. Brielle is even fucking worse than House said it was. In the rest of the civilized universe (though it irks him to call Brielle civilized), haemovores and regular people co-exist. They don’t mix generally, living on separate planets, but…
Alright, he’s romanticizing; he can admit it. Most regular people don’t even know haemovores exist, thinking that “vampires” are mythical, supernatural creatures instead of the subspecies of homo sapiens they actually are.
And, as House reminds Wilson from time to time, he needs to stop saying “regular people.” The term for people who don’t need to consume blood to live is “vulgaris.” To House and his fellow haemovores, they are the regular people, and vulgaris are, overall, churls: fearful, superstitious, and prone to violence.
“Not that I think of you that way,” says House. “You’re one of the good ones. Honorary haemovore, almost.”
House is a dick.
But he’s a dick who’s also funny, loyal, bright, and interesting… and the first person to think Wilson can be all those things, too. Which is why, when the communication came in about House’s father having died on Brielle, Wilson insisted they come here so House could attend the mourning rituals. Even though House protested that “mourning” was the polar opposite of his reaction to his father’s death, Wilson wanted his best friend to have the comfort of community at this sad time.
Big mistake. Huge.
Now they’re stuck on this execrable planet until House can get the legal docs ironed out.
“Shouldn’t’ve knocked me out,” said House as they landed. “I would have told you that not only is this not where my family lives, it’s a vicious shitpot of a planet where people all take blood from vulgaris on purpose. But too fucking late now; you’d better get used to acting my slave pretty fucking fast.”
House stomped out of the ship after a growled, “Stay the fuck here,” and returned two hours later with a bulging shop tote. “Put that on and practice keeping your pie-hole shut.”
Wilson caught the tote as it was thrown at his head and drew out the ugliest suchka mustard-colored jumpsuit he’d ever seen. “Really?”
“Put it on, or every passing bell-end will think your veins are fair game. I’d say it doesn’t matter to me, but it really fucking does, so just do it. And remember the jumpsuit will ward off physical attack but does nothing for verbal. You’ll get called cloon, monkey, bitch; ignore it all. I’ll be referring to you as a gary, the least offensive of the slurs for vulgaris that I can get away with.”
The jumpsuit covered Wilson from ankle to fingertip to chin, with metal plates on his throat, biceps, wrists, inner elbows, thighs, and back of his calves, down to his achilles tendons. Each plate was stamped with House's full name. It was fucking uncomfortable.
“Is this really necessary?” Wilson asked House.
“Would I make you wear it if it wasn’t?” House replied. “Actually, I probably would because you look hella stupid, but in this particular case it is one hundred percent necessary. As fresh meat? You’d be taken down before we got off the ship-pad. Now, go get our stuff; we have to report to Customs within the next hour so I can register you with the pompinaras.”
“We’re not staying on the ship?”
“Nope, not allowed. Let’s go.”
Now they’re stuck here, House in his hotel room, Wilson in the attached pen. It’s not bad, as pens go. Wilson’s seen much worse in his treks with House around this town. Much, much worse. Worst of all is the compound of the fustilarian Dice Harper. He has a dozen vulgaris trapped as household slaves and prey, and seems to take particular glee in attacking them unaware. And it’s not just his own slaves he goes after. The “anyone might jump you” House talked about? Anyone might, but Harper will. He also has no compunction about the amount of blood he takes; the count of those he’s killed may be as high as a hundred, according to the vulgaris Wilson has talked to.
Nor does he limit his cruelty to vulgaris. It turns out Harper is the one who ruined House’s right thigh beyond repairing with an electron pistol in an “accident” that was no more than outsized revenge for a petty slight. Prick.
Wilson hates it here, and they’re stuck until House can get the legal docs ironed out, but House just got a temporary disability permit that allows his “service gary” to go on errands alone. Maybe there’s something useful Wilson can do here after all.
“House,” Wilson asks, “what would you think about me helping out at the first-aid stand that Charlie Ensign and his vulgaris set up?”
House says, “The Clinic for vulgaris? You could do that if you’re really set on being an idiot, because that is the shittiest job and the chief for the sector it’s in is Dice Harper. The bastard who fucking shot me, remember?”
“Huh,” says Wilson. “Is that so?”
Chapter 2
The cloons gathered around him look mad -- in both senses of the word -- but Harp doesn't let it bother him. He's had this dream before.
Side effect of having to handle the dumb beasts so much, to be visited in the night-time with visions of them devolving into their savage form. A lesser man might call these visions nightmares, but Harp is not and never has been a lesser man. He will handle whatever form this dream takes with equanimity, and in the morning he will bring down the first cloon he sees, swiftly and brutally.
The crowd of garies shifts, the straw-forks clutched in their hands clang against each other, and two new cloons push forward to stand at the foot of Harp's bed. Figures. Out from the mob of mute monkeys, of course it'd be two jabbering cloons that his mind would conjure up. House's pet is on the right with an ice pick in one hand and an electron pistol in the other. On the left is the violet-eyed, gray-haired desdemona Charlie Ensign keeps. He told Charlie to mute her, but Charlie insisted her warbling was too precious to be done away with.
As Harp looks at her -- typical dream; he can't move any part of himself but his eyes -- she raises the object in her hand. He expects it to come down on his ankle and then for the rest of the cloons to jump him, as it generally goes, but instead she strikes the foot of his bed. The object makes a sharp rap as it hits and the crowd of cloons goes still. A small wooden hammer, interesting. He hadn't realized Charlie had any interest in woodworking.
"Section Warder Dice DeWitt Harper," the desdemona says in passable Briellan, before switching over to the guttural grunting that passes for language among the savages, "you have been tried in absentia for multiple counts of crimes against the Credo of the Confederation of Independent Planets, as well as against the laws of the individual planets making up the Confederation and of other inhabited territories. These crimes include multiple counts of murder, attempted murder, torture, aggravated assault, aggravated sexual assault, enslavement, false imprisonment, forced sterilization, mutilation, outrages upon personal dignity, intentional withholding of medical treatment, uncompensated labor, larceny, robbery, extortion, perverting the course of justice, and attempt to incite treason."
Well. That's interesting. Monkeys dressing themselves up in the miters of civilized justice. It's almost cute in its absurdity.
The desdemona continues, "Although we joint and severally believe in the Credo's right of the accused to face his accuser, under special circumstances such right can be abrogated. The egregious nature of your crimes and the likelihood of retribution even within the course of the trial made for a compelling case for your trial to be held in absentia."
Such fancy words. Harp would smile, if he could. When he wakes up in the morning, he'll advise Charlie to have this one lobotomized. They don't need the prefrontal cortex to be able to sing.
"Interested in the verdict?" asks House's pet, mirth dancing in the thing's russet eyes. He quite obviously knows Harper can't answer. It's boring how predictable this dream is.
"Section Warder Dice DeWitt Harper," the other jabbering monkey intones, "in light of the overwhelming evidence presented against you, including but not limited to, corroborated eyewitness accounts, you have been convicted of the crimes with which you were charged. These judgments were rendered unanimously by the panel you see before you."
She nods, House's monkey fellow nods, and so do three more cloons. None who nod are from Harp's stock, although he sees all of those creatures lurking amongst the mob around his bed. It will be fun to watch their expressions of terror tomorrow, when they are made to pay for what has happened tonight. Stupid savages.
"On the question of sentencing --" Cells and corpuscles, she's a mouthy one. "The panel had to spend more time in deliberation. The standard methods of sentencing called for in the Credo, namely reformative therapy, restorative conferencing, and correctional detention, are not possible given the current circumstances, and thus we were forced to be more creative." Her little lips twitch. Harp doesn't see what's so damned amusing.
"In the end it was determined that the most appropriate sentence, given that the motivation behind your offenses was to secure human blood, is restitution to victims by giving your own blood. Although there are some among us who prefer the ancient tenet of 'an eye for an eye' --" A few expressions harden, but the gray-haired cloon and Harp both ignore them. "We did concur that one of the noblest and greatest qualities of humankind is mercy. Agreement was therefore reached that each count in the conviction would require retribution at a one-to-one hundred scale, extracted simply and humanely through syringe."
House's pet puts down the ice pick and reaches behind himself, pulling out the mentioned syringe. It's a needle contraption, but small bore. Even if they jab it into muscle, it won't hurt that much. Dull as dishwater, this dream is.
"One to one hundred for blood taken or shed," the pet says. "That's two milliliters for each biting assault and fifty milliliters for each murder. All other convictions at two milliliters each." He smiles. "We drew straws for who gets to go first."
A little dusky one from the sickbay, who's always reminded Harp of a Tibodeau grass-rat, hands his straw-fork to the tall cloon next to him. He looks at Harp with eyes filled with tears and takes the syringe from the pet. "For the first count of aggravated assault, committed against me ten days ago, I take two milliliters." The needle jab stings, but as expected, it doesn't hurt much. Less than ten seconds later, the dusky one is extracting the needle, and House's pet is pressing a square of cloth against the tiny cut.
It's nothing at all. The last dream had sucker nettles and scalding. This vision is a waste of his brain.
"For the second count of aggravated assault," says another cloon, "committed against my dear departed Roquelaire, I take two milliliters." Another momentary prick, another pressing of the cloth.
They do it over and over, each taking a turn, and the talkies speaking when a mute monkey holds the syringe... and it's horribly, horribly boring. Interminable. Worse than the dreams of endless exams he had back in school. Even when they do the first fifty-milliliter -- "murder of the unnamed teenager who looked like my son" -- the syringe pull lasts longer, but it's not any more interesting.
He is starting to feel slightly light-headed, but he assumes it's just ennui. Until the desdemona leans close to his face, her eyes freakishly unnatural in their sheen, and asks, "How are you at mathematics, Mr. Harper?"
He blinks, and she laughs. "Any good at arithmetic at all? We stopped prosecuting after the 748th count. Can you figure out why?"
Jabbering monkeys give him such headaches. Never mind how much Charlie likes this one's singing; she's got to be muted. Maybe an "accident" some time with a pain collar -- bruise her throat enough, and surgery will be the only option to save her worthless life. She'll either end up dead or muted, and either will suit Harp just fine.
"Wilson and I arm-wrestled to see who would get to administer punishment for Count 748. He lost." She looks toward the pet, who doesn't look one bit fazed by his defeat. In fact, he's grinning. They've got similar cheekbone structure, the pet and the desdemona. Harp never noticed before, but why would he? He's got no interest in animal husbandry.
Pet steadies a mute cloon who has stumbled handing back the syringe, and then turns back to Harp. "Twinlee graciously gave me a compensation for my loss, though," he says, and Harp has never wanted anything more in his life than for this stupid, ridiculous waste of his time to be over.
"We agreed," the monkey continues, "that the trial only covered crimes against our own kind, so any offense of yours against haemovores could be addressed separately."
Offense against...? His mind seems to be fading a little. The dream must be ending; he must be falling into deeper sleep; except that's not what it feels like; and now another cloon is filling another fifty milliliter syringe. There've been several of those in a row; in total about a dozen so far of the big ones, and he's lost count of the small ones, and what was the desdemona saying about arithmetic? His head's spinning and he hated Calculation class in wee school and there's another fifty milliliter and they must have taken a liter by now and if they take seven-hundred-and-whatever syringes-ful he's going to end up completely...
Completely...
Exsanguinated.
He can feel his eyes go wide, and the desdemona grins, so happy, and the cloon crowd grins grotesquely, and the pet only smiles the small stern smile of Harp's father and raises the electron pistol he's been holding all along.
"This is for House," he says and shoots the thing point-blank into Harp's thigh.
End Notes: Posted for Banned Together Bingo 2020. Prompts were "Swearing” and "Incites Racial Strife."
(no subject)
Date: 2020-06-09 04:39 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2020-06-09 03:12 pm (UTC)