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| cast = [[Masque]], [[Nox]] | | cast = [[Masque]], [[Nox]] | ||
| summary = Nox proves she can play dirty. | | summary = Nox proves she can play dirty. | ||
| gamedate = 2013- | | gamedate = 2013-05-24 | ||
| gamedatename = | | gamedatename = | ||
| subtitle = | | subtitle = | ||
Line 59: | Line 59: | ||
Helpfully, she tells him, "You cannot, yet. It is being washed." | Helpfully, she tells him, "You cannot, yet. It is being washed." | ||
"Overconfidence," Again, Masque's words come quickly, this time venomously annoyed and through gritted teeth-- even in the relative darkness | "Overconfidence," Again, Masque's words come quickly, this time venomously annoyed and through gritted teeth-- even in the relative darkness, the gaps left in one side of his mouth are easy to see when a scowl pulls at his lips, "does not suit you." | ||
"This is not overconfidence, Masque," Nox murmurs. He would feel the stroke of a velvety cheek against his rougher one before she withdraws. "I am asking you. Please." The cat jumps down from the cot, shifting to a more vague shape once she's on the floor. One that slides towards the door, to open it, to throw a slice of the hallway's light into the room. Freedom, of a sort. | "This is not overconfidence, Masque," Nox murmurs. He would feel the stroke of a velvety cheek against his rougher one before she withdraws. "I am asking you. Please." The cat jumps down from the cot, shifting to a more vague shape once she's on the floor. One that slides towards the door, to open it, to throw a slice of the hallway's light into the room. Freedom, of a sort. |
Latest revision as of 10:35, 25 May 2013
Animals in Corners | |
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Dramatis Personae | |
In Absentia
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2013-05-24 Nox proves she can play dirty. |
Location
<NYC> Common Ground Clinic - Clinton | |
A dingy waiting room with a line of rickety chairs, a small glass table with a set of permanently out-of-date magazines, a set of plastic holding racks with a number of informational pamphlets about STIs and partner abuse. This place is not, to be sure, the most cheerful on earth, but for many of its clientele it is the best they have. The Common Ground Clinic's staff provides free and low-cost medical care on a sliding scale to many of Manhattan's poorest residents, without checking for insurance, immigration status or many other things that bar entry for many of them to traditional medical care. There is counselling available, too, and once a week social workers to help people find resources for getting on their feet. The wait times are long, but the volunteer staff here is dedicated (if always overworked.) A day and two nights since the raid that freed the mutants held by NYPD's Scummiest, and the clinic has cleared out quite a bit. Only the most dire cases remain, those who have needed repeated sessions with the healers, those whose bodies or minds require more attention before they're released back to their lives. Masque is among these and he is why Nox has crept back to the clinic. If she had a /choice/, she'd be hiding in a dark hole somewhere, pretending to be nothing more than a shadow. After a day and two nights of that though, it's time to check in with those she left behind. Not that she's opted to make this trip in human form. Oh no. No no no. After letting Lucien know of her intentions, she took to the sewers to make the journey to Clinton, and she remains in shadow form once there. It takes longer to travel, having to hop from dark to dark in daylight but eventually she makes it to the clinic, slides in under a door and creeps into the darkened exam room where Masque has been tucked with cot and pillow and blanket to rest. Wisely, she does not touch the man, but she does bend over him and murmur, "Masque, it is me, Nox." That cot is the most god damn comfortable thing Masque has been on in years. Perhaps this was reason enough to keep him from slipping back into consciousness since he arrived, though it may also have been the fact that his brain was in a decidedly less than desirable shape when he was teleported over. He's lying on his back, facing upward, as though he hasn't moved since he arrived. The myriad of shallow puncture wounds coutesy of Jim and stitched up gashes along his arm and chest - under the gown he's been hoisted into - have all but healed, leaving long, light scars behind. His face looks a lot closer to what it used to. No swelling, bruises a lot further along than they should be, already fading along his jawline, cheek and brow arch. All of which look about the same as they used to. Which is to say - pretty horrible, with their pressed ridges and caved in finger-wide canals. But uninjured. Healthier. Even the burns around his neck, where that collar once sat, and his hands looks like they're almost nack to normal. Though the latter does still have a light-duty cast on, juust in case he was thinking of using his hand for anything. "... Hnnh. Tell'm t'shove it." Comes a slurred answer, several seconds after Nox addresses him. It makes the man's face wrinkle in what appears to be /some/ pain left over, perhaps from what is left of his skull fractures. His eyes stay closed. "'M not... eating." His shoulder /twitches/. Comfortable. Maybe too comfortable. Nox--who has manifested as a tiger-striped haze of gloom to the side of the cot--darts down closer to the floor when Masque begins to mumble. It's a habit born of weeks of captivity. Noise means discover and if she had eyes, or a head, she'd probably nervously be looking towards the door. When she appears again, she's gone full tabby--a dark grey cat, the white streaks of her own injuries fainter now but still streaking her "fur". The black eyes betray her, however, as does the haziness at her edges when she hops up onto the center of Masque's chest and puts a paw briefly on his nose. "Masque," tabbyNox whispers. "Wake up. It is Nox. You are free." More wrinkling happens on Masque's face - just when you think the lines on his face can't deepen any more, he /scowls/. The hell is /touching/ him? Wait. Touching him? A few things happen simultaneously, then - his eyes POP open, a choked hiss leaves his throat, and in one fell swoop, his cast-clad arm lifts from the blankets and SWIPES across his torso as he jolts upward-- planting his other hand beside him to aid him in getting up, stiff as his movements might be. Thoughts too fast to process for his sleepy bleary brain, animal-brain kicks in; Unfamiliar place. Out of here. /Now/. That's...about what she'd expected would happen. Which is why Nox vanishes a second before his forearm risks shattering her. Of course, she is not so easily banished. This time the shadows collect in the doorway and--so very briefly--she adopts a face. "Masque," she stresses, "you are /not/ in danger here. We are /free/. We were freed while you were ill." Very ill. /So/ very ill in fact that the woman doesn't entirely trust that he's capable of hearing her. It is perhaps not the wisest course but... With nothing appearing to be touching it, the door swings shut. Clunk. There is a pause to Masque's actions when his name is called, but it is only brief enough for him to throw a glance at Nox and then /downward/ again, where he plans to set his feet to get up. Unfortunately, when they hit the floor and he places his weight upon them, what is left of the injury to his knee takes him by surprise, and he /sinks/ to the floor at once. His injured leg forcibly kicked out in front, it leaves him in a considerably less than graceful position (especially in that gown), hands pressed down beside him and teeth gritting in a mixture of frustration and pain. Only then does he take notice of his surroundings, eyes still wide as they scan every part of that darkness they can find. "Little. Spy." Hoarse, but clearer now, definitely so very /awake/. "I ain't /feelin'/ very free." He says this in a way that implies he would very much like to know /why that is/. "If you could walk, you would be." A reasonable argument, no? Nox slides over the floor, filmy and dark, insinuating herself beneath Masque. Clearly she has also been resting because some of her strength is back--it takes little effort to lift the man entirely to slide him onto the cot once more. Dignity somewhat intact, is her hope. Once he's settled, before he can regroup for a second escape attempt, the cat leaps up onto his chest again and Nox's large, dark eyes stare down at him unblinking. "You seem much better now, Masque." Hhrgh. Dignity. An unknown concept to Masque, though he does make sure to at least /elbow/ that darkness in protest. He never did like the sensation. The untouchable, touching. He isn't one to deny logic when it's staring him straight in the face, though. Speaking of... "Well I ain't--" He pauses, as though not quite sure how to finish the sentence, and lifts his uninjured hand to press it against his temple. Glaring at that /creature/ on his chest. Though perhaps it is the next word that drains his expression of at least part of the hatred shown. "... /There/." Then, without pause, his voice lowers to a /scrape/ unpleasantly against the inside of his throat, demanding, "What now." Nox sits and curls her tail around her toes. So composed. It's infuriating, isn't it? Felines. /Her/. Except no cat ever managed to twist its brows in a way that conveyed uncertainty and sorrow. "I...do not know. We heal. We try to...to be free. Again. Perhaps it will be easier, this time." Her little cat lips aren't moving as she speaks but it isn't until she settles down and tucks her paws under in a loaf that he can feel as well as hear her whispering. Humming, instead of purring. "James lives. Your friend. Mine." Masque's response to these claims is immediate - not one of thought so much as reflex - a sharp exhale that manages to sound condescending without even containing any words. "Makin' a lot of fucking assumptions there. I'd be careful with that." He says this not only like somehow she's put herself in danger, but like that danger might be /him/. But despite his vigor in words, he is starting to calm down, chest rising and falling at a steadier rate now, though an elevated heartbeat will still easily be felt underneath. The hand on his temple /pushes/ against his head, as he stares at that /thing/ on his chest. Disgust makes it onto his expression easily, but... then his eyes close again, and his hand lifts to drop by his side once more. And something more /thoughtful/ crosses his features, or at least on the side that allows somewhat more subtlety. Fickle and ready to be wiped right off again should that disgust be brought back. And yet she persists in spite of the warning. That is also part of her charm. Nox studies him with ears pricked forward. Their tips are a constant lazy swirling of fuzzing away, only to reform a moment later. She's still working on solidity now that she has /choice/. "Anole is free as well. Safe." There is a long, long pause while his are closed. She's silent. But only for so long. "Will you return to the Morlocks, Masque?" she hums, her voice not as easily blocked out. Gone is the thoughtful expression, replaced instantly by something harder. Guarded. Much more the old Masque that Nox knows. "You should know better 'n anyone, Nox. I'm a /guest/ to them, now." 'Guest', like it's a terrible thing to be to someone. One of the worst. His eyes open again, but not to look at Nox. Instead, to look around again. Restless. Like there may be an escape hatch in the ceiling. You never know. There is no escape hatch. There is, however, a Nox. While he wasn't looking, she'd crept closer to his face. Hi. Hello there. Weightless, it was a simple thing to do. "No, Masque. Not after I tell Callisto. How you helped. You did help, yes? I...I think I remember that. James will know better and he will speak for you." Very, very slowly and very, very carefully, her tiny black nose descends to touch his ugly one. "...would you like your coat back?" "I did not help." This reply comes without humour or attempt at scolding, or - god forbid - regret. Just plain fact. Before Nox manages to lean closer, he lifts up his arm again and /slams/ an elbow down where the shadowy feline lies- taking into account his own chest is underneath, not quite hitting down /that/ far. Just-- git away. "Hrgh." Whether or not he realises exactly what th subject of that coat does to nullify his previous answer is unclear. He does, howerver, respond with renewed /haste/ in his voice, propping himself up onto his elbows. Like this is exactly what was was waiting to hear. "/Yes/." Maybe she is only being contrary. Or possibly Nox is tired of their old game of can't touch me. Whatever the reason, this time she doesn't jump away. His arm passes through her. She continues to blink at him with that horrible, horrible catface. Helpfully, she tells him, "You cannot, yet. It is being washed." "Overconfidence," Again, Masque's words come quickly, this time venomously annoyed and through gritted teeth-- even in the relative darkness, the gaps left in one side of his mouth are easy to see when a scowl pulls at his lips, "does not suit you." "This is not overconfidence, Masque," Nox murmurs. He would feel the stroke of a velvety cheek against his rougher one before she withdraws. "I am asking you. Please." The cat jumps down from the cot, shifting to a more vague shape once she's on the floor. One that slides towards the door, to open it, to throw a slice of the hallway's light into the room. Freedom, of a sort. The cheekstroke does little to lift Masque's mood - Nox's velvety cheek may as well have been a lit torch across his skin for all the good it does him. "Asking for /what/." Hhngh. The glare he throws toward the door is only marginally less spiteful than the ones Nox had gotten. Ultimately, though, he does move. To sit, and briefly stare at his own leg, and then foot- three toes still missing, where he'd been shot. Even more stiffly than before, aware now of the extent of the injuries he has left, he stands, his back to Nox. But though it sounds like he might have wanted to tack on a witty answer to his own question, perhaps to render it rhetorical, it never quite comes. Perhaps he didn't mean for it to be. "If you and James...if you had not made me think. To...to be /there/. In my own mind. If you had not given me darkness..." If and if and if. Nox doesn't add the "then" necessary to such a statement. Instead she collects in the corners of the room. Masque is free to think he's escaped her study. Instead, she is watching him from three sides to make certain he doesn't wobble or fall. /Sneakily/ watching, because there is no way of telling until she speaks again and her voice comes from not one place but many. Around him. "I ask you to be a Morlock again. To take a place with us not as guest." There is silence, from Masque. Silence, and some staring downward. His eyes and ribcage are the only things that move for a while, attention shifting to what he can see of himself. That foot, his hands, gown... then the floor. The dark bits, in particular. The darkest corners get a /squint/ of his more functional side. His unease doesn't show as easily as his impatience with his thought process not quite cooperating. "Animals in corners, Nox," He finally answers, voice... level, "They trust what they should not. /Who/. They should not." ... Him? Her? No chance to ask, before he adds, matter-of-factly, "You need to think about this." "I knew who to trust. In there. I was not wrong. There was...there was no...no safety. In being together. At the gardens. I am sorry for that. But. There can be. Below. With us." He has known Nox long enough to tell the small signs of her presence. Those corners receiving his squinting soften in their darkness, a clue that she is withdrawing. And sure enough, her next remark comes from the door--where, if he were to look, he could see a small grey cat with white stripes slinking out into the hallway. "Come back. I will have your coat," it hums before vanishing. |