#weaponization

The operating room was filled with an antiseptic and copper scent. The metallic bite of blood stuck to the air no matter how many times they cleaned the floor. Henrik von Schneeplestein sat on the edge of the table, shoulders rolled in, bandages wrapped tightly around his arms. His fingers buzzed ever so slightly, though he wasn't sure if it was from exhaustion or the remains of the experiments.

In the corner of the room, Jameson Jackson stood in the doorway. His profile was sharply cut against the antiseptic light, head cocked at that questioning angle he wore so habitually—like a puppeteer inspecting his cherished marionette. He said nothing. He didn't need to. His silence was thicker than words, a heaviness that rested upon Henrik's lungs.

"Vhy do you gawk at me like zat?" Henrik's accent snapped with weariness. "You stare at me as if I am some.. something broken."

Jameson's smile faltered, soft and unshatterable. He moved, each step echoing in the room. With each step, Henrik's heart beat a little faster. When Jameson stood before him, the silence was suffocating. Slowly, He grasped Henrik's chin and pushed his head back.

"You are not broken," Jameson signed with careful deliberation, his fingers in the practiced language Henrik had taught him. His eyes flared with something fierce. "You are perfect. Stronger. Sharper. Because of me."

Henrik flinched. "You made me a weapon," he snarled, reaching for some of his old passion. "A monster to do your will."

Jameson's smile expanded, the slightest twitch of the corner of his mouth the only indication of his enjoyment. His hands ran through their agitation again, quick, urgent: "Not a monster. Mine."

The words cut into Henrik more acutely than a blade.

Jameson moved around him, pacing, drinking him in with each glance. His silence wasn't passive—it was rapt, worshipful, hungry. Henrik was more bare naked under that gaze than he liked to recall on the operating table.

"You will tire of this one day," Henrik whispered. "When the thrill wears off. When I am no longer—

He was about to get it out of his mouth when Jameson grabbed his shoulders. It was a crushing grip, but there was no malice—just desperation. His hands trembled as he signed, almost frantically now: "Never. You are mine. Every scar. Every breath. They wanted to make me into a weapon. But I made you. And I will not let anyone take you away from me."

Henrik's chest tightened, and not from the wounds. For the first time in his life, he saw it so plainly: Jameson's silence was not emptiness. It was obsession, sharpened into devotion so fierce that it seared.

The villain had not been the surgeon who stitched bodies back together into wholeness, nor the man who had been reshaped into an instrument of violence. The villain stood before him now, smiling with a lover's gentleness, a jailer's grip.

Fahrenheit 451. Dead ass.

Aloha kākou. The fallout from the ambush debate continues. ABC News is feeling the heat as the greater public that watched the three on one clown show. If you watched the debate, you could see Fake News Media bias towards Donald Trump. If you closed your eyes and listened to the debate, you’d hear aggressive questioning by ABC News moderators towards Donald trump, and softball questions for…