ArchivedLogs:Everyone Here

Everyone Here
Dramatis Personae Jim, Masque
In Absentia	2013-05-08 (Part of Thunderdome.)
Location Thunderdome
It's a basement, somewhere, that much is clear from the slightly musty-cool feel, the lack of windows, the stark-bare cement decor. What purpose this place originally served is hard to discern; something industrial, judging by the heavy reinforced eyelet hooks still set into the ceiling, now devoid of any loads to bear. Of late the place has been repurposed, though. Around two parallel edges of the room, sturdy cells have been constructed, heavy reinforced metal segmenting off large cage-like cells. The enclosures are largely identical: two sets of bunk beds with pillows, thin sheets, identical grey wool blankets. A pair of large covered bedpans, a bucket usually filled with fresh-ish water. The center of the room is divided in two. One half is large and open, a spacious expanse of cement floor and emptiness. The other half holds long trestle-tables, long benches, both riveted into the cement floor. The ceiling -- of the room, of the cages -- hold very noticeable dark security-camera bubbles. There is one door leading out of here, heavy steel that is securely chained and barred from the outside. Jim has a deep pit he's climbing up from; like an untended lawn, his mutation gets overgrown and ragged and /green/ when he's not awake, and he has been /extra/ not awake for a while. Pale green shoots and little spears of grass poke up through his clothes, his skin has gone dry and rough and gray, cracked and hard under a thin layer of moss. It makes the electric collar he wears look like some ancient piece of technology lost under a speed-motion encroachment of indomitable nature. His eyes have unevenly slipped the catches on his eyelids, so they're open. Not seeing much. Rising, rising awareness - and then, he breaches the surface, his pupils yank down to pindots and he's suddenly sitting up. His bare feet on the floor have extended a few sad tendrils of roots curling against the cement. You're in a cell, Jim. Surrounded by a slew of other people outside the bars, angry and often feeling and looking just as alone in their feeling displacement. Most of them have had a while, though, to get used to it. One of them is /also/ on a less than entirely comfortable bunk, now in Jim's line of sight, also in that cell. Only this someone else hasn't gotten up this morning with the rest of the people here. He's also... vaguely familiar...? Or he should be, anyway, because it's Masque. Someone's been kind enough to wash the blood he gathered last night off of his face, arm and hand, but that doesn't make it look much more favourable to look at- the already usually more crumpled up side of his face has a dark bruise smacked along his cheekbone, the bridge of his nose is swollen, and the one side he could trust to look out of properly is now temporarily halfway out of service due to a nasty case of the black eye. Something slashed open one of his upper arms and his chest, the scraps of wifebeater still present against the slowly rising and falling ribcage splotched brown with what is most likely his own blood, interspersed with more bruises from the skin below it. In sort of a typical 'I had a run in with a few batons and maybe a boot or two' pattern. Wherever his skin is broken, someone's taken the liberty to jab some stitches in. They're messy, but they'll suffice. A collar sits tightly around his neck, as well, the skin around it irritated. The red coat, much to his dismay - though he has no way of showing it at this time, his face strangely /serene/ as he sleeps - is not part of this display. Maybe someone nicked it. Jim normally has a good memory for faces; sadly, that is not the same /face/ he's used to, so he first only registers 'some guy sleeping over there' amongst his instantly guarded, narrowed sllloooow sweep of his surroundings - only his eyes move. The rest stays still, rigid. Well, that may not be accurate - he registers Masque's /wounds/ before his sleeping status; rough stitches, angry bruises, that subtle underlying smell of old blood that hangs somewhere between 'meat' and 'dirt', nostrils twitching wider - bedpan, water bucket, cells outside this one, tables, /other people/ moving quietly in the tight, sullen manner of an institution... With his head turned (door, cameras, eyelets in the cement ceiling - eyelets that sturdy implying that the ceiling itself must be /damn/ fortified to bear loads, 'chk-chk-chk', each feature is pulled in like a photographer collecting images for a collage) to look outside the cage, he slowly moves towards the man in the bunk - then jerks to a stop, staring at his face. A knot in the side of his cheek constricts. … He reaches back towards the other bed, drags off the gray blanket, wraps it /around/ his hand and arm like the world's baggiest glove. And then reaches down to serve Masque a poke to the shoulder. "'ey." As if his very consciousness is the cause of the scowl Masque's got on his face more often than not, /it/ seems to find its way to the surface before the rest of him does. His eyes open sluggishly but more or less simultaneously, although the darker one of the two is forced to halt its actions halfway. What with his lower eyelid always hanging ever so slightly looser on the other side anyway, it results in a somewhat unintentional but excellently performed stink eye at the ceiling. Then... with a painstakingly slow turn of his mangled head that sends greasy, grey strands of hair downward... his attention lands on Jim's face. He opens his mouth to speak, "Phkk--," but all he manages to voice aloud is the equivalent of rust on a tool that's been left in a damp corner for too long, unused. His chest heaves as he draws in a breath, then /hacks/ out a cough that sends a wave of discomfort through his body, visible all the way from his face to his knees, which are involuntarily pulled upward in protest. Nevertheless, it manages to scrape at least half of the roughness out, leaving his voice closer to its usual sandpapery likeness. "Please..." Masque starts again, still down on his back, his eyes briefly sliding to the improvised glove as his lips coil into an unsightly, crooked smile, "... please tell me no one's told you yet." "Dude," it's not a place for words like 'dude', but Jim dolls it out with an offhand grimness one might associate with driving a spoon through coffee grounds. His head is still turned to watch the cramped world beyond the cell, but must be observing Masque's subtle body movements through some variety of osmosis. Or environmental symbiosis - because his crouch by the side of Masque's bed clenches through the muscle lining of his abdomen and lower back like a fist when Masque coughs. "I got no idea what the fuck you're talking about." The look on Masque's face as he waits for Jim's response is like a cat's, waiting for its owner to lower a bowl of cream off the kitchen counter and to the floor. And when that response comes, his eyes just simply slide closed again. He enjoys this little moment of bliss in silence, even as his smile slips away again. He never was able to keep that up for very long. For a moment, it sort of looks like he's just drifted right back off to sleep again. Then, from under that bruised and battered and /twisted/ face, "You look like shit." "Yeah." No delicacy is striven for. Jim sits on the cement ground alongside Masque's cot like a dropped armful of mossy timber. His partially treebarked skin makes subtle wood-straining sounds for the movement. His /voice/ is flat, embodied with a kind of sharp /chuff/ of air while he... rubs his face, "I think I just got roofied by a /cop/." He could say 'you don't look so hot yourself'. Or something otherwise along that narrative. Instead, with his fingers driven into his scalp, wrists vaguely abraded amongst the treebark by handcuffs, he muffles the bluntest question, "--'s bad, isn't it." He doesn't clarify what. Maybe Masque's injuries. Maybe their situation. Maybe his /hair/. "You could use a trim." Masque replies, deadpan, having apparently chosen door number three. Movement returns to him, dragging a hand across the bunk to press it none-too-gently onto his face, swiping wide palm and pushing fingers across bruises and misshapen features alike. Pleh. Only then does he attempt to sit up, though it is met with some resistance from the rest of his body as he opens his eyes again and jerkily pulls to one side, before swinging his legs off to let a pair of boots thump lazily onto the cement below - not quite straight, not quite stable, but good enough, hands planted firmly by his sides. Then another rough /hack/, this time unexpected. He stiffens afterwards, just for a second, before lifting an arm to swipe the back of his hand toward Jim's shoulder, though the movement is one of half expectations- having grown used to people shying away from his reach, after all. "Bucket." He doesn't bother raising his voice, here, but it's even more subdued when he follows that request (command?) with, "... Check your pockets." Jim doesn't move when Masque reaches towards him; he doesn't seem to even notice, scratching at the side of his neck where a tiny pinprick and a little bruise are forming. The utter contrast in their injuries and states of health is stark; Jim large, healthy, a little dirty with smudges of charcoal on his clothes and face -- otherwise, he's fit and solid and gradually dragging in his more leafy features to a more human semblance. But not all the way - on account of laziness. His hand hooks around the side of Masque's bedframe next to where the guy sits, bareskin and part-flesh fingers and all, and uses the handhold to /hoist/ himself to his feet. He wobbles, the flat of his hand pressed to a temple until the pulsing stars of lingering sedative decide he's not going to topple over and kind of... meanders to the water bucket. Stares down at it for a long blank moment. His none face-smashing hand is clumsily shuffling through his back pockets. His front pockets. Clapping a hand against his tit where a shirt pocket hangs empty. Motor-skills are running at 70% capacity tops. Check. Also: "--took my fucking smokes." He grabs the bucket with a face that is twisted up in '/why/ am i picking up a bucket what is this shit' shape, he just goes with hit, handing it absently to Masque, "So what happened t'you." The answer is simple, Jim. As Masque demonstrates when he's got hold of the bucket and places it on the bunk beside him- though only after a look of perturbed disappointment leaves him at the news of said smokes. A hand that knows well the art of destruction and horror now reaches oh so carefully to the bottom of the bucket to scoop up some water, before bringing it to his face-- a thing harder said than done, with aching muscles and a still slightly jolty brain. All of it slips past his fingers, each of the drops receiving a look of /murder/ as they fall. Hgh. Nevermind that, then. The whole bucket is lifted up, next, and while /some/ of the water at the bottom manages to make it down his throat, the lion's share of it pours down his neck and arms instead. Once it's empty, the bucket is offered back to Jim. Like he'll refill it. Get to it. "Didn't kill someone." Is his simple answer, still dripping water down onto his front. He stares at the other man now, swollen and healthy eye narrowing alike as he studies that slowly changing shape, then focuses on his face. "You're in for a /time/, Jim." Jim takes the bucket with a deadpan expression, and then looks inside it as though checking to see if Masque left any for /him/. Frown. "Yeah," he flicks a rapid assessment of some variety or another over Masque's face, his body - he's too prone to squints and grimaces for it to communicate what he's taking in, much less concluding - and then wanders back towards the frontal wall. He'll just... put that bucket back where he found it then. With his back to Masque - when one puts their back to Masque, it's hard not to notice; it's either deliberate, or deliberately /not/ giving a shit - he wraps his hands around the bars and leans against them, looking out at the kennels of mutants beyond. Many are overtly physical. Many are also sleeping right now. "I'm getting that feeling." With this handhold of the bars, his instinct is so /rail/ against. He gives them a hard shake (rattle!)-- "Ngkh!" And his elbows jerk-slap down against his sides, hands curling in as he is introduced to his /collar/. Tssssss, there's a little smoldery sound and the not unpleasant smell of singed wet wood. "Ehehh." Any chuckle that leaves Masque's throat is, as a rule, unpleasant, but this one has the bonus trait of being unsettlingly genuine. He leans his gawky form back on bars and bruises alike, arms somewhat limply by his sides as he just watches Jim. Like an experiment that goes /just right/. How's it goin' over there, buddy? "Go on. Give it another go." He pauses, maybe to watch whether Jim /does/ dare to go for another rattle, but then continues, letting the words roll slowly off his tongue as he observes, "Ever been to a cockfight?" "-/What the hell/." Shut UP, Masque, Jim is in the middle of having a coronary, "WHAT THE HELL." The lingering drug in his system has made the collar an obsolete fact of his existence up to now. But you can probably guess where his hands go next, jumping to his neck, curling fingers around this /object/. Zzzpt! "-nrgh!" This doesn't happen /many/ times. But for a moment, Jim get stuck in that initial infinity feedback loop of OW, doubled efforts to try removing the source of pain reflexively, followed by OW again. This little display is probably about as common down amongst the kennels as lice is, the shocks low-watt for this little hazing process. Jim picks up on the trend pretty quickly, lock-jawed and panting with hands open and clawed juuuust inches from the collar. Fighting. The. URGE. To. YANK. AT. Masque is asking obscure questions that get a darted glance through one eye (the other is currently winced shut), and rasps through teeth, "--/no/. I have not. Been. To a /cockfight/." Slluuuump he leans his own back against the bars on his side. They can hold up the walls together. "You asking me out or something?" Maybe he is! Because Masque? He stays still where he is, the initial amusement brought on by schadenfreude washing from his face as seconds tick by. Maybe something's finally gone and just /given up/ in his brain, or maybe... maybe he's just staring at Jim, waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop. He's got /all day/. It's stark /contrariness/ that cycles Jim through a long open-mouth-breathing stare at Masque, soot-streaked and hard-eyed. You can /feel/ him gagging down a few acidic miles of snarking and sarcasm intended to put off the inevitable. But it's already there, his eyes raking over the shreds of Masque's body. And his head drops back - conk - against the bars. The rapid breathing develops into a kind of... hitch-jumping in his chest that savages into a laugh, "-- no." Except it's not denying anything; he says it as though it means 'of /course/.' "The /fucking COPS/. God -- /bless/ this city." His head turns to look amongst the cages, catching glimpses of bandaged bodies, haunted eyes. More collars. Amongst the panorama of different shapes and sizes and genders and forms... the collars are the consistent. "Everyone here?" As though there's only enough amusement and shock for one person to go around, Masque sinks back down onto the bunk again, facing upward, fingers weaving together over his stomach. "Everyone here." It's a bored sort of echoing, and the tone carries over into his following sentences. "They're going to expect you to fight. And to kill." He is almost the /image/ of disinterest, like it doesn't even /faze/ him in the least. By the looks of him in his current state, it'd almost be fair to assume he's lived through worse things. The only hint that he may not, actually, blink away the subject of death as being completely irrelevant is a click of his tongue that escapes him shortly afterwards. "Ain't long before a meal, now. Maybe they'll have chicken again." Jim says nothing. He's turned from the waist up, to look over his shoulder in the other direction, silently counting cages. Counting people. It's a variety of shock, perhaps; but it seems to really only make his weight gradually heavier. His tightly bound flora is slipping loose, the rough hardening of his flesh spreading out towards his extremities. One hand remains hovering just below his collar. Not touching. No sigh. No eventual sagging or sitting. He is coiled in a knot, hard-braced as he soaks it in, bright-eyed and tight-jawed. And he just stays that way for a long while. "There's kids down here." He doesn't even bother to sound scandalized. Just stating what he sees. I-Spy. "One less 'n yesterday." Make of that whatever you will, though Masque does sound a dark shade of /confident/ about this little fact. His eyes simply fall closed again, and for a moment, it's like the beaten and bruised mutilator never woke up in the first place, after his first fight. ... Though the fact that he feels the need to add just /one more thing/ shatters any semblance of that being true; in a voice much clearer and much raspier with it, he notes, "If you tell anyone what I do or what I've done, I will happily risk the penalty of being beaten to a bloody pulp in order to turn your skull inside out in your sleep." Which, speaking of sleep, he seems to be drifting off to. At least until some semblance of food. This, absurdly, also drags a laugh from Jim. Low and rough as underground cement. Fitting, really.