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"La Rosina" (1869) by Marcello (Adèle dâAffry, duchesse de Castiglione Colonna, dite); Swiss; terracotta
Born into an aristocratic family, Adèle dâAffry, who would later go by the pseudonym Marcello, decided to become an artist at the age of 14. She wrote that she found her vocation when she saw Louis I of Bavariaâs collection of statues: âFor me [art] will be a profession.â
...
In 1859 she rented an apartment in Paris and taught herself by copying the masters at the Louvre. Dressed as man, she attended Professor Sappeyâs anatomy classes at the Faculty of Medicine. She also studied animal drawing at the Natural History Museum with Antoine-Louis Barye (1795-1875), received advice from Auguste ClĂŠsinger (1814-1883) and met Eugène Delacroix (1798-1863), who shared her admiration for Michelangelo.
16, 4, and 23 (or just one of those) for Marcello, please?đĽš
Do they have an accent or a dialect? Marcello does have an accent when heâs speaking English.
Do they prefer to eat alone or with company? Heâs a very family oriented person, blood related or not. Therefore yes, he prefers to eat with the whole crew.
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Contains: Torture, Needles, Drugging, Captivity, Restraints, Interrogation, Team Whump
Marcello meets a Lawton Pharmaceuticals guard for the first time!
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The feeling of cold concrete on his skin was the first thing to register in Marcello's mind. The second was the merciless throbbing of his skull. His arms were bound behind his back, twisted at uncomfortable angles and tied at the wrist. Where was he? What had he fucked up this time?
A hand at the back of his shirt brought him back to the present, hauling him up off the floor like he barely weighed anything at all. He tried to shout, tried to curse at his unseen assailant, but the collar off his shirt pulled tight around his neck forced it to come out as a weak, strangled cough.
He was tossed haphazardly into a sturdy wooden chair, the back of his head colliding with the wall and sending more blinding shockwaves of pain. He screwed his eyes shut, blood thrumming loud in his ears as he fought to regulate himself.
The first thing he registered as his vision cleared was his own face staring back at him; a mirrored mask, cold and unyeilding, loomed over him as the guard behind it fastened a leather strap across Marcello's chest.
"What⌠what is this?" Marcello's voice came out in a quiet rasp. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Where am I? What's happening?"
The guard held up a single gloved finger in front of his mask. Hush.
"Whaâno? No, get off of me." Marcello barked back. He twisted in his seat, trying to slip free of the strap across his chest. The guard took Marcello by the hair, roughly forcing his head back to collide with the wall again.
Again, that single gloved finger. Hush.
"Freak, fuckingâasshole! Get the hell away from me!" He twisted in his seat again, driving one knee up into the guard's pelvis.
The guard staggered. Taking a moment to reel with one hand tightly gripping the arm of the chair. Marcello would have laughed, would have thought to taunt him, had he not been so focused on his escape attempt. He slipped down in his seat, trying to slide under and out of the leather restraint.
The guard grabbed him, both hands on his biceps, and forced him back into his seat.
"Fuck you." Marcello barked.
The guard fastened a second belt tight around Marcello's waist.
Marcello tried to drive his knee up again, but the guard grabbed his thigh and forced his leg down again. A third set of restraints were quickly fastened around his ankles despite his thrashing, and the guard stood up again.
He watched Marcello, either admiring his handiwork or deciding what his next move would be, before promptly limping to a table at the far end of the room.
He returned with a single sheet of paper and a small microphone. He wordlessly held both up in front of Marcello and waited.
"I, Marcello Reyes," He read slowly, "acknowledge that I give the following information of my own free will, andâOh fuck this, I'm not reading that. Just torture me."
The guard dropped his head back, motioning with the microphone to a line of text halfway down the page.
Please list any relevant personal sources relating to the distribution of confidential Lawton Pharmaceutical information and/or intellectual property.
Marcello curled his lip into a sneer, brow furrowed as he scanned the page. Further down there was a line asking for Ryder's address. Below that, one asking for Kris's aliases. One for Snow's legal name. Another for Sam's deadname.
Marcello scanned the paper silently, then looked to the hand holding the microphone; peeking out from under the uniform's sleeve, on the inside of the guard's wrist, was a tattoo of a gummy bear.
"Nice tattoo." Marcello finally said, "Are you six?"
The guard pulled his arm away and tugged his sleeve down with the opposite hand. There was a moment where he watched Marcello, staring him down from behind that mirrored mask, but he turned away again. He stalked over to the table at the edge of the room.
Trading the rumpled paper for a small syringe, he turned his attention back to Marcello.
Ice flooded Marcello's veins. For a moment his fear showed on his face, eyes locked on the capped needle as the guard stepped closer. He looked back up to the mirrored mask, and seeing his expression promptly righted himself back to anger.
"What's that?" He asked, voice wavering despite himself.
The guard stepped closer. He didn't speak.
"They don't let you talk, do they? What the fuck is in there?"
Again, the guard stepped closer, one hand tangling into Marcello's hair. He wrenched his head back and flipped the needle's cap off with his thumb.
Marcello fought, pulling against the fingers fisted in his hair, his heart was racing, eyes wide and frantic.
"Big man, huh? Not even gonna hit me? Just gonna put me down like a dog? Right, Gummy Bear?"
The hand in his hair released, and before Marcello could savor the relief, that fist connected firmly with his jaw. His world spun, his vision swam, he barely noticed those fingers curling into his hair again.
The needle was a different story. It plunged into his neck and set his skin on fire; it was like he could feel the chemicals flooding his system. He tried to gasp, but couldn't force himself to breathe until he saw the guard step away with the needle.
"Fuck. Fuck, what was in there? What did you do?"
Almost instantly, his eyes felt heavy. His heart began to slow despite the fear in his chest. The room around him began to blur and twist. Even the fist in his hair and the pain in his jaw faded into background noise. If he spoke, he wasn't conscious of it.
The last thing he remembered was slumping forward, into the guard's chest.
