amato_icon.gif rafe_icon.gif

Scene Title Tyr
Synopsis This Norse Gods motif is tough.
Date January 24, 2009

Amato's Apartment

Usually as the hands of the clock creep closer to the midnight hour, Amato Salucci is in bed, but not this night. Tonight he is awake, though it is clear by his demeanor as he sits at the singular chair at the singular table in his apartment that the man would rather not be. But rather than find solace to combat whatever it is that keeps him awake in his leather bound Bible, Amato is attempting to calm his nerves with a glass of milk.

The only light that serves the small apartment comes from various sources outside the window. Neon signs and street lamps cast their glow below, and the luminescence makes its way up to the window on the second story. This, of course, is not very efficient. Amato isn't complaining.

Unfortunately silence is not a very good adversary and is quite easily marched in on and defeated by its ever popular adversary.

Three sound knocks come at Amato Salucci's door. The man outside the door stands patiently with his package and his mission, looming in the doorway, ready to deliver at a moments notice. His resolve is firm, his purpose, clear: Deliver a pizza.

The short squat man in the blue shirt stands outside the door, the box tucked into a heating bag to keep the meal piping hot. His features are set and emotionless, lest the buyer should be looking at him through a particular peep hole.

The buyer certainly doesn't look through the peep hole, but Amato, after crossing the room does. He squints, then clears his throat and adjusts his bathrobe around his pajama-clad frame before opening the door until the chain catches. "I didn't order a pizza," he says simply in the American accent of Benjamin Sall. "It must be for someone else. Check your directions."

"Are you sure?" The little man asks, irritated. "It was very clear instructions, to come right here? And I was told to hurry." He adds, giving an agitated look to the man. "If you don't take this man, I don't know where I'm going to take it. Aren't you hungry even if you didn't order it? Fifteen bucks only, for a big pie man, come on, don't be a prick." This particular driver must have been having a hard day, he is very persistent and will continue to argue the issue until either the bathrobe man pays for the pizza or shut the door.

But amidst this conversation, a far more clandestine act is perpetrated. After a little work, the man finally is able to lift the window slowly and silently up and open. Stepping into the apartment off of the firescape the man clad in the green trench coat steps away from the window, leaving it open. His dead gaze on the back of Amato, the rather scruffy and somewhat homeless man stalks deeper into the apartment. To hide.

There is only one difference about this man in this appearance contrary to his last few encounters with human beings: His gloves aren't fingerless.

"I am not going to pay for a pie I didn't order. Now I'm sorry, but go away." Amato as Benjamin is quite stern, and as soon as he's finished he shuts and secures the door once more. He shakes his head as he turns back to his seat, pulling it out in order to sit back down again. With a sigh, Amato rests his elbows on the table and his head in his hands.

Flustered the man gives a middle finger to Amato as the door is closed. Though as he walks away from the door a triumphant smile takes the place of the scowl. He was payed three hundred dollars to deliver an empty box to that apartment. And an extra one hundred to pull the fire alarm whilst leaving. Which he most definately does. Time for an evacuation everyone.

His hand sweeps the counter lazily, spreading the black glove along the counter, his eyes languidly land on a certain frying pan. Tipping his head in acknowledgment to it, the man in the green trenchcoat takes it by the handle, testing his grip on it for a moment. With that, he goes into a crouch, peeking out and around the wall into the family room through the hall. Just one eye poking out to gaze at the Italian.

It's arguable that Amato may have been more open to such distractions had he actually been able to sleep tonight. But in his current sour state, another interruption is simply intolerable. He groans as he pushes himself to his feet and looks to the window and the fire escape beyond.

But it is then that he pauses. The window is open. Amato freezes, the soft winter wind ruffling the fabric of his robe as it blowns in from outside.

Yes. The window is open.

Placing one hand on the ground, his foot flies out in silence and like a track runner he bursts off his back foot and the tips of his fingers as he lurches through the hallway. Frying pan held like a club the man's silent footfalls lead him towards the living room.

Yes. There are discarded boots on the fire escape.

In the time that Amato freezes, the man in the green trenchcoat approaches him like a starving dog. A mongrel kept on a chain with nothing to eat, a ravenous beast only prodded and humiliated, poked at. A dog that would sink his teeth into your neck were it not for the chain around his neck.

Yes. The chain is broken.

The frying pan collides firmly with the side and back of Amato's head, most assuredly driving him to the ground. After swinging his new weapon in a powerful overhead arc, the man casually examines the back of the frying pan for blood. And then, he goes to shut the window.

It's drafty in here.

Pride cometh before the fall, and as he has recently confessed, pride is the greatest sin committed by many if not all of the Vanguard "flock." Amato's eyes roll back as he falls to the floor, spinning and landing on his stomach.
No, there is no blood, but it would appear that the intruder has solved the denizen's insomnia.


Frowning at the back of the frying pan as if it did something wrong, he tosses it and lets it land haphazardly on the ground. Crouching down the intruder lets one hand on each ankle and proceeds to drag the former insomniac across the floor and into the kitchen. The man in the green trenchcoat did not bring much for this visit, in fact he brought very little. As his use of the frying pan demonstrates. But he did bring a few things, one such item happens to be a set of handcuffs.

Handcuffs which are clipped both around Amato's left wrist and the door handle of the refrigerator. Once secured, the man goes to retrieve the frying pan. Returning to the kitchen he places the pan on top of the stove, and kicks on the burner. Then he starts rummaging through the kitchen, flinging things that are not needed on the counter and to the ground. Until he finally finds what he is seeking.

Olive oil.

Amato is tall and lanky rather than robust, but that doesn't mean he's any easier to transport when unconscious. When he is propped up against the fridge and attached to it, he starts to awaken from his stupor. Still, he is far from lucid, eyes closed and head swaying from side to side.

Sizzling is heard as the man dumps a large amount of oil into the pan, once satisfied he looks at the bottle of oil. Before with a lazy flick of his wrist tosses the half empty bottle at Amato's head. Then he walks back into the living room to retrieve that single chair all the while his frying pan cooking away.

Setting the chair down across from Amato, he puffs out a large sigh before simply plopping on it ungracefully, letting his arms dangle at his sides. Though his foot delivers a little prod to Amato's chin, his sock performing several littls jabs at the Italian's face.

Amato's head reels in the expected manner when it is met with the flying bottle of oil, which then skims across the floor, spilling the rest of it's contents. Some of it gets on Amato, of course, when the bottle initially connects, but the majority spills out over the kitchen's tile floor.

Amato's eyes flash open, blinking back oil in addition to the inevitable haze. Those same eyes squint again at the sound of the chair on the floor, which is amplified by the ache that pricks at the back of his skull, and again when the foul smelling foot is thrust into his face. Words fail him for a moment, replaced by a groan of pain. "I don't know a damned thing," he grumbles, his voice halfway between his own and Benjamin's.

A small chuckle emits from the man as he watches the man, already confessing that he knows nothing. The man in the green trench coat gives a long over exaggerated shake of his head. That isn't going to work. The pan continues to sizzle, the oil on it starting to bubble and boil. He kicks his feet out in front of him as if lounging, his arms folding over his chest. Though after a little bit of simply watching Amato, the man suddenly gets back on his feet, once again searching the kitchen.

He returns to the refrigerator with a wooden cuttingboard in both hands. The thing is brought from the side at Amato's cheek, the man putting a lot of force into the attack, following through. Once used he tosses it casually to the side before pulling a single photo from his trench coat pocket. It is dangled in front of the captive's eyes. Finally the man speaks, his voice low, with a slight British accent. Though it sounds like a guttural growl from the pits of hell.


Unlike with the bottle, Amato is able to brace himself for the strike with the cutting board, but it is also a great deal heavier. His jaw makes a noise, but it is unclear if it is broken or just popped. Amato does work it, with some wincing, before he opens his eyes to look at the intruder once more, though he is soon distracted by the picture. Already the skin that bore the brunt of the attack is reddening, and is likely to bruise.

"I don't know," he chokes out, his voice quiet out of pain. "I don't know where she is." Who knows who this man is, or why he wants to find Eileen, but Amato isn't going to break in that regard.

Lips pull back to reveal teeth. A snarl or a smile, you be the judge. He turns for a moment, his back to the other man. He stands there for a moment, completely still, not even a blink. The only sound is his breath, until he tucks the picture back into his pocket. He lets out a sigh.

The calm before the storm.

His foot crashes against the chair sending it into the wall, and after that the man continues in motion, grabbing onto cabinets and ripping, or banging them off their hinges, things are thrown everywhere as the man has suddenly become a violent whirlwind of destruction. The climax of his reign of terror on inanimate objects is him lifting the chair over his head and hurling it powerfully at the man chained to the refrigerator.

Through all of it, he makes no vocal noise…

The chair isn't the only thing that finds Amato before it finds the floor. A few dishes break against or near him, and a can of soup cracks into his shoulder before it rolls onto the tile. The chair, however, is stronger than Amato. It survives the battle, if it can be called, that, though Amato sustains what will undoubtedly become quite a few more bruises in addition to a cut along his left cheek.

"I told you," he coughs, lifting his free hand to rub at his lip, smearing blood there when he pulls it away. "I don't know where she is. She's alive. But she's also smart. You won't find her."

The man goes to his knees now, a gloved fist flying straight and powerfully at Amato's nose. Despite himself a brod smile forms after the punch is delivered, very satisfying. And then another punch, and then another, and then a few more. Finally his hand opens and flies to seize around the lanky man's neck. His eyes gaze deeply into the others as he tilts his head.

"Where are your potholders?"

Coughing sends blood from Amato's mouth and nose, the punches having broken the tender tissue in the middle of his face. His eyes are teary as a result, but he does his best to blink past it. After all, the combination of various fluids in his pharynx now desperately wanting out and the constriction of his neck don't make breathing very easy.


Standing up the man makes his way to the drawer, pulling it out slowly he grabs the potholder. With his other hand he takes the handle of the frying pan. Going into another crouch the man swiftly moves to dump the contents of the frying pan onto the man's chest. The potholder is placed on the now bottom of the pan, his socked foot pressing against the pan behind the potholder, pushing the pan and it's boiling contents harder and firmer onto Amato's chest.

He won't repeat himself.

It's probably a good thing, for the intruder, at least, that Amato - or Benjamin, rather - doesn't have any neighbors. Amato screams at the introduction of the oil into this mysterious torture, his breath catching when the pan itself is applied to his chest. The fabric between his skin and the boiling liquid, then the heated metal, is thin and serves as inconsequential against the burning liquid. The Italian grits his teeth, pressing his bony back against the appliance behind him at the same time he curls his free hand into a fist against the floor. There of course would be no point in swinging or grabbing at the foot that presses the pan to him.

It's also a good thing that the fire alarm was set off. The man continues to relentlessly press the pan into the man's chest. Finally the man lets his sock up off of the frying pan, taking a step away from the man, he lets the pan slide off the man. He then goes to take a little sweep of a kick to nudge the thing away from Amato.

Thus, Rafe takes out the last two items he brought for Amato. A very large knife and a white cloth sack. Looking down at the man, he tilts his head a little bit, as if waiting for the other man to say something, anything.

Pain is a terrible prison, and so it takes a moment for Amato to wriggle his way up to the bars and muster enough strength to speak. His hand rises to pick at his chest, but lifting the sodden fabric from his skin doesn't really offer much relief. "You've gone to a lot of trouble," he finally remarks, keeping his eyes from the man.

"She's not dead. So you'll be happy to know that. She was in considerbly better condition than I am when I last saw her." Amato pauses, braving a glance at his inquisitor's face. "But if I remember correctly, the response time for alarms is just under eight minutes these days."

Smirking a little bit the man goes to one knee, sliding the white cloth sack around the man's hand. Pulling the strings the sack is tight around Amato's wrist. The knife is tossed back and forth between each hand, as those eyes stare boredly at Amato, the metal slinking back and forth in front of his gaze. Finally his mouth opens. "Stay away from her." He says calmly, before gripping the knife firmly.

His arm is brought up then sent sailing down at the man's wrist where the little baggie cut off. The large knife is very sharp, but skin and bone is very tough. So it takes a little working to completely sever the Italian's right hand. "STAY AWAY FROM HER!" He bellows as the knife tears against the man's hand.

Such a bellow is heard over Amato's own cries, but he does kick his slippered feet while trying to pull away from the knife.

But it's no good.

Yes, it takes work, but Amato's wrist is thin. The blood vessels that are peirced and exposed as a result bleed freely, spilling their contents out over their owner and the floor, colliding with the oil which floats atop it, making the red brighter even in the dull light.

The sack is lifted up quickly, as Rafe tosses the knife to the side. The white bag turned red is swung back and forth a little bit as if teasing the man chained to the refrigerator. "Remember," He growls, "Stay away. Or I come back. You don't want me to come back, little boy." The man says quietly. And with that he turns on heel, green trenchcoat flaring as he makes his way to open the window and slink out, little present in tow.

But if this man doesn't know where Eileen is…

No. There are more important things to be thought about and dealt with. Such as getting free of the fridge and out of the building before the fire department shows up. Amato pulls at his bound hand again and again, so hard that the metal bites into his flesh before the old refrigerator finally gives, the handle cracking away from the door. He takes a moment to breathe, then wraps the stump at the end of his left arm in a bit of his robe before he tries to stand.

He slips on the oily and bloody floor, catching himself with his elbows on the counter before he finally makes it out of the kitchen. Amato practically falls into the bathroom across the hall, where he re-wraps his most grievous wound in a towel. The whole business of getting to the front room and grabbing his coat goes by in a foggy, disoriented haze, and Amato doesn't even close the door behind him as he leaves to stagger down the staircase and out the maintenance entrance to the building in order to avoid the evacuated crowd and the fire truck as it pulls up to the curb.

January 24th: Welcome To The Revolution
January 24th: To Shoot or not to Shoot
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